Tuesday, 15th December 2009

They're sitting at the kitchen table now to drink their tea. She'd felt the need to wash her face and get her make up sorted, choosing to just remove what remained of it and face him without any. She'd figured, he's already seen her at some of her worst moments; her tear stained, bare face isn't going to faze him. And it hadn't. He'd simply smiled at her and handed her a mug of tea with just the right amount of milk and sugar in it. It pays to be loved by a spy in certain things, she'd thought ruefully as she'd accepted it with a quiet, "Thank you." He'd already known exactly how she takes her tea, these days, mere minutes after she'd taken her place by his side again on the Grid. It had taken George weeks to remember.

"Did you sing, in Cyprus?" he asks presently.

She frowns at the conversation shift. "No," she admits. "I suppose there was probably a choir somewhere, but I didn't really think to join it. I'd figured out by then that it was easier to find new things to do, rather than be reminded..." she tails off, looking down at her tea.

"Tell me about your travels, Ruth," he whispers softly and, when she looks up, she sees genuine interest in his eyes even if they are a little uncertain. "If it's not too much to ask, that is. I'd like to know where you went, what you saw. I used to imagine..." But here he tails off and turns back to his drink, recognising that with those few words he has revealed how often he thought of her. From the moment she'd seen him again, she'd realised that he still harbours feelings for her, but she'd assumed he'd have kept thoughts of her to a minimum, tucked away in a box in a corner of his mind – a basic spying technique that she knows he employs all the time to survive in this world they inhabit. But it turns out that he hadn't. He'd kept the memory of her very much alive and thought of her often, imagining her travels, perhaps even thinking of it as her own Grand Tour without him. It saddens her to realise that. Fate has been so very cruel to them both.

So she tells him of the places she saw, the people she met, and it feels good to be talking of them, sharing her story with another human being, transforming it in her mind, from the ordeal it had been, into an adventure. He's a good listener, interested and engaged, asking pertinent questions, comparing notes when she mentions places he's been to as well, and even going so far as to encourage her to tell him about George and how she'd met him.

"I'm sorry, Ruth," he says when she finally falls silent. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect him for you."

She sighs, feeling the pain begin to build in her again and hating it. She's done enough crying for one night. She just wants it to end on a good note. Surely that's not too much to ask, is it? "It wasn't your fault, Harry. I shouldn't have brought them here. I knew they were after me. I should never have brought them to London."

He shakes his head. "You did the right things, Ruth," he says earnestly. "We should have been able to protect you. All of you. It's all my fault. If I hadn't-"

"Stop. I don't want to talk about it any more. It's not your fault. If they got you, with all your security, all your experience-"

"I gave myself up."

"You what?!" This is the first she's ever heard of this part of the story. "Why would you do that?"

"To show them Moscow was playing all of us. To get them to take the threat of a nuclear device in London seriously and help us to find and disable it. There was no other way."

"And they double-crossed you."

"Yes."

She has no words to express her feelings in this moment – her pride in him, her outrage at the Russians, her fear, her admiration, her love, above all, her love for the remarkable man he is. She had almost forgotten, while she was away and while she's been grieving for George, how fierce her admiration and love for him is. She doesn't think she ever stopped loving him. She'd just tucked that love away in a box – he'd called her a born spook, hadn't he? – but the box is cracking wide open tonight – has been slowly creaking open for several nights now, if she's honest, since Al turned up at her choir – and she's beginning to see the truth of her heart. She could have been happy with George, yes, but she knows now that she'd have always regretted Harry.

"Bloody Russians," she says in the end, delighting in his warm chuckle.

"Indeed."

For a moment, they just stare at each other in silence, but then Harry clears his throat and looks down at his drink, realising his mug is empty. "Well," he says, "it's getting late. I'd better be getting home to the wife and children." Her heart constricts and skips a beat before her mind's caught up with reality as his twinkling eyes meet hers and he smiles.

"Right," she agrees. "Last thing you need is a cross wife, furious that you've spent the evening comforting a friend instead of helping her with dinner and tucking in the children."

His smile broadens. "She'll understand, I'm sure. That's the good thing about fictional people."

That makes her laugh. "They agree with everything you say too," she suggests as they walk together to her front door.

"Yes. They're your biggest fan and nothing you do ever upsets them."

She smiles as he pulls his coat on and turns to face her. Then before she can stop herself, she says, "Shame about the cuddles though."

"Cuddles?"

"They're the thing I miss the most," she confesses softly.

His gaze softens and he smiles. "I confess, I'd quite forgotten how good they feel," he replies. "It's been years since last I had such a good one."

She hesitates but for a moment before stepping forward and into his waiting arms. "Thank you," she murmurs into his chest, overcome by gratitude and love.

"My pleasure, Ruth," he replies, voice low and warm. "Really."

She sighs. "You're a lovely man, Harry."

He chuckles self-consciously as she pulls out of his arms. "Not a sentiment most would agree with, Ruth."

"That's only because they don't appreciate how selfless you are. I honestly don't know how you manage it. In your shoes, I can't imagine being able to do this. I'd have been insanely jealous and angry." Her eyes widen in shock, unable to believe she's said that out loud, inwardly cringing and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. "God, I'm sorry, Harry. That was not..."

He smiles sadly, his hand lifting to stroke along her jaw with the back of a finger, her voice tailing away at the infinite love and sorrow in his gaze.

"You were a dream, Ruth. You're far too good, too young and beautiful for the likes of me. I've always known that." His eyes dart all over her face, and though she wants to object, to tell him that it's not true, that he's brave and honourable and sexy and wonderful, her voice has deserted her and she can barely breathe; all she can do is watch and listen. "I never intended to act on my feelings, you know, but after Collingwood and Myers and Juliet in a wheelchair telling me not to let the opportunity pass me by..." He sighs. "I confess, my self-control failed me and I dared to hope that maybe..." He drops his gaze for a moment, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then letting it drop back down to his side.

"When you left, you asked me to let you go." He pauses, giving her a small shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile before he confesses, "I couldn't. Like it or not, you're still my dream, Ruth – you and I and the Grand Tour. It's a good dream. It keeps me going. I expect it'll never come true – mostly it's my nightmares that do that – but it's a good one, as far as dreams go, and I'm holding onto it. We all need something to hold onto."

Her eyes have filled with tears. "Oh Harry. I don't-"

"It's alright, Ruth," he interrupts, reaching for her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Really. I didn't tell you this to make you feel bad. I wanted you to know that I don't have unrealistic expectations. It's okay that you've moved on. I expected nothing less. It was the right thing to do, as it is right that you grieve for him, for them now. I never want you to feel guilty on my account. I'm fine. Really. Seeing you every day, having your help and support on the Grid again is more than enough for me."

She can tell that he means it. This beautiful, noble, selfless man means every word he's just uttered. She's no idea how he manages to maintain such a positive attitude when it comes to her. He's often angry on the Grid, carries as much guilt as she does when it comes to their losses, gets annoyed and frustrated as much as the next person, even with her when they're at work, but away from that place, when they're alone, he seems to have the patience, the love, the heart of an angel.

She doesn't know what to say, so she lets her heart speak for her. She cups his cheeks with gentle hands and presses a soft kiss against his lips, and though she intends it to be over quickly, somehow she finds herself falling into him, his arms wrapping round her, cradling her against his chest as he dips his head down to kiss her with all the love and longing buried in his soul.