A/N: A big thank you to those of you who continue to read and especially to those who take the time to review. With the holidays upon us, I've not had a chance to write much, so there will probably be a bit of a delay before the next update. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very happy 2019. Cheers, S.C.

Wednesday, 16th December 2009

"Ruth?"

"Yup!" She turns to face him, fighting to keep her cheeks from colouring to be caught out daydreaming about him and that blissful kiss last night. It had been so gentle, warm, and so full of hope, of understanding, and of love, and then he'd held her for long moments in silence, both of them absorbing the magic of the moment before he'd pressed his lips against her forehead, whispered goodnight, and slipped out of her flat into the cold, December night.

She'd slept like a baby after that and has spent most of the morning reliving the moment, wondering, hoping, dreaming of more, then crossly dashing away her own hopes as the guilt resurfaces and she remembers George and Nico and how very much she doesn't deserve this when one of them is buried in the cold earth and the other is now an orphan.

"I have a meeting at Whitehall in an hour, but there's something I need to run by you. Walk with me?"

He's wearing his coat, his expression serious and carefully masked. He rarely lets his guard down on the Grid these days. In fact, she suspects even Ros can't really tell what's going on between them now, which suits her just fine. It's clear that he trusts her, but beyond that, any indication of more personal feelings could easily be feelings of guilt rather than love and she's sure Ros doesn't know what to make of it. Not that she probably spends much time thinking about it. After what happened with Jo, she has plenty of her own daemons to wrestle without worrying about theirs.

She hesitates, eyeing the kettle that's just coming to a boil. "We'll get a coffee on the way," he adds, as perceptive as ever.

So she nods and moves towards him. "I'll just get my coat then."

They amble along the embankment, stopping at a cart for a cup of coffee and continuing on, the winter chill in the air making certain that they're one of the few people braving the icy weather. At least it's not raining, she thinks somewhat ruefully as she blows across the top of her drink, wishing it would cool a bit faster so she can take more than a small sip of the hot liquid to chase away the cold. At least her hands are warm now, encased as they are in her gloves and wrapped around the hot, paper cup.

"So," she says eventually, steeling herself for his response, "what did you need to talk to me about?"

He looks down at her, then turns and comes to a stop leaning against the wall on their right, overlooking the Thames. He waits while she settles herself beside him, turning his body to shield her from the wind and making her smile inwardly at his solicitousness. Does he realise he's doing it, she wonders, or is it a habit he does without thinking – setting his own needs aside, always protecting, taking care of others.

"How well do you know Derek Marshall?" he asks, surprising her. She'd thought he needed to talk to her about work, desperately hoped it wasn't about their kiss and what it means for them, but she hadn't expected this.

She frowns. "Hardly at all. I mean, I'm sure he's told me stuff about himself, but, to be frank, I don't really pay much attention. Why?"

He purses his lips and looks out across the water, then takes a sip of his drink. "He was watching us last night."

"How d'you mean?" Suddenly, her heart is racing.

"I noted the number plate of his car. He drove past when you asked me in and was parked further down the street when I left."

"Christ," she sighs. This is all she needs.

"I confronted him."

"What?!"

"I clocked him and walked past his car, feigning surprise to see him there."

"What did he do?" She can't help being intrigued.

Harry purses his lips again. "He hedged and made up some excuse about making sure I didn't take advantage of you. He was embarrassed. I set him straight on a few things."

"Set him straight how?" She frowns, suddenly worried.

"Gently," he says, his eyes twinkling at her.

"Right."

"I've asked Section X to look into him."

"Harry!" she objects, but before she can say anything more, he cuts her off.

"I'm not having him stalking you, Ruth. If he's a threat, we need to know about it. Don't forget, he knows where you live."

She sighs, hating that he's right. "I don't know what his problem is. It's not like I encourage him or anything. Why would he even be interested?" She takes a sip of her drink, staring out across the water for a few moments, contemplating the baffling nature of men, before returning her eyes to him.

He's smiling softly at her.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, seriously. Why are you smiling?"

He purses his lips. "You're not joking?"

"Joking? About what?"

"You really have no idea why?"

"No!" she exclaims somewhat exasperated. "I've taken pains to make sure Grace is boring and uninteresting. I hardly say anything at all to anyone and they know I'm recently bereaved, so no, I've no idea why he'd be interested." She looks at him mutinously, daring him to contradict her, but he just continues to smile most infuriatingly.

"That may all be very true, Ruth," he murmurs, "but you forget one important fact."

"Oh? What's that?"

"That it's a choir and that you sing in it."

She frowns. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Everything," he replies.

She glares at him and he chuckles.

"Derek Marshall sees a beautiful, intelligent woman who has suffered great loss in her life," he explains. "Most of the time, she is reserved and shrouded in grief, but when she sings, she transforms into an angel. Her eyes light up, her cheeks flush, her whole face glows with joy." His voice is barely a whisper now, his eyes adoring as he looks at her and she can barely breathe again. She cannot fathom how someone can love her so, after everything. "He's fallen in love with that woman and he hopes he can find the key to her heart and make the transformation permanent."

She knows not how long she stares at him before she manages to snap out of it and drop her gaze self-consciously, taking a sip of her drink.

"Blimey," she says eventually, staring down at her cup. "You're wasted on the Service, Harry. You should have been a bloody poet."

The sound of his warm chuckle gives her the courage to lift her gaze to his face again, the twinkle in his eyes reassuring. "Nah," he murmurs, looking away across the river. "My poetic talents are very limited, I assure you. I'm far better suited to living in the shadows, keeping secrets, doing dirty deeds." His mood is shifting, turning dark again, as is so often the case at work; she can tell, and that, more than anything, lifts her spirits. She knows him and he knows her and that is so very reassuring and precious.

George is gone now, as is Nico, Adam, Zaf, Jo and all the rest. But Harry's not. He's still here. So is she. And she's promised herself to live life to its fullest. She's promised Jo. She's promised all of them to live the life that was taken from them. It's Christmas soon – a time for love, a time for family. What family does she have left, but Harry? She fancies, for a moment, that she sees them all – Jo, Adam with his arms round Fiona, Zaf and Colin – nodding at her encouragingly. "Go for it, Ruth," Adam's saying. "Make him happy. Make both of you as happy as we were." He winks at her then kisses Fiona, Jo smiles, Zaf grins and Colin nods encouragingly. She blinks and they're gone, but the peace they brought and the love still lingers.

"Maybe," she murmurs, reaching to rest her hand on Harry's arm, "but I'm glad I bring out the poet in you, Harry."

He looks surprised and pleased, his eyes searching her gaze.

I'm trying, Ruth. I'm trying with all my limitations, which you know better than most.

His words echo through her mind, something about the way he's looking at her triggering the memory. She'd been so angry with him then, in so much pain, but in truth neither of them are perfect. She's just as limited as he in so many ways. Maybe, after everything, they deserve each other. Maybe if she'd given them a chance, none of this would have happened. Maybe she wouldn't have had to leave, maybe George would have been safe, maybe Zaf and Jo and Adam would have lived, maybe all this suffering is a result of her stubborn refusal to embrace and act on her love for Harry.

"Why did you join the choir?" she asks softly.

He smiles a self-deprecating smile. "Because you sing and I wanted to impress you. I can't do it all year round – there's no time – but a month at Christmas is doable and it's easy to slot back into the group and explain my absence." He drops his gaze for a moment before adding, "After you left, I continued because it made it bearable. It's not the easiest time of year to be alone."

"I think I'd like to spend Christmas with you, Harry," she replies, watching the pleasure infuse his features and reaching up to kiss his cheek. "I think that would make me happy."

"Derek won't be best pleased," he jokes, perhaps unsure of how to take her sudden display of affection.

"Derek's barking up the wrong tree. I entrusted the key to my heart to someone a million times more worthy ages ago."

He smiles. "Lucky sod."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm rather high maintenance, you know. I suspect he has his work cut out for him." She smiles to hear him chuckle.

"It's only work if your heart's not in it, Ruth," he says, his gaze adoring.

She nods, silently agreeing with him as she remembers the beginning with George. Oh, she'd come to love him eventually, but those first months had been so hard, letting go of Harry, just as these last few months have been hard letting go of George. She's still not there yet. The guilt is still strong even now as she forces herself to live her promise to Jo and the others, including herself, she supposes; after all, she's sacrificed a lot too for Queen and country.

"How about we go somewhere?" he suggests softly. "For Christmas. Let's not bother with all the decorating and cooking. We could stay in a nice B&B, explore a bit along a different river, break the routine of London for a change."

She smiles, appreciating his efforts to pull her back from the dark chasm that's forever opening up before her. "That sounds lovely, actually."

"Good. Leave it with me."

She almost objects to having him choose and arrange everything without her input, but then she realises that planning a holiday with Harry might prove too much for her at present. Just thinking about it fills her heart with guilt, especially since a part of her, quite treacherously, is really quite happy that the holiday is with Harry instead of George. So she just murmurs, "Thank you," and turns away again, gazing down at the water, searching for relief, for peace, for forgiveness.

"I'll get you a room. Your own room. I mean, I'll book two – one for you and one for me," he says, and when she turns to look, he's adorably flustered and it makes her smile.

"I had no doubt."

"Good. That's good. I didn't want you to think..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

She reaches for his forearm again and squeezes gently. "I know. I don't. It's just hard to let go... of the guilt, more than anything else." She sighs and turns back to the river, taking a few more sips of her drink. He doesn't say anything, just stands beside her, still shielding her from the wind, present, here for her. She knows he understands and that brings her great comfort. "I'm not sure it'll ever go away," she whispers. "I destroyed their lives. If they'd never met me, they'd be happy now, living their lives in sunny Cyprus... together." Still he doesn't speak, but he moves to stand beside her, reaching for her hand and enveloping it in his, and despite the leather between their skins, she's glad of it – of the support, of the comfort.

She looks up to find his eyes on the river, but he senses her gaze and turns his head, their eyes meeting and holding, silently understanding. "How do you do it, Harry?"

"With difficulty," he replies, giving her a small, crooked smile. "And by soldering on, continuing to stand on the wall, paying my dues, making their sacrifices count. There's not much else I can do, to be honest." He looks away again, gazing across the water, his hand still holding onto hers.

"Jo told me it's our duty to live our lives more fully... to make up for the loss of theirs. We're living for them too, she said, that way we beat the bad guys in every way that counts," she confesses softly, watching as he turns to look at her again, a soft smile crinkling his eyes and lifting his lips.

"Is that why you joined the choir?" he asks.

"Yes. I thought I should try living like she said, in her memory. She was so full of life and hope... before."

"As were you," he murmurs softly, his eyes pools of sorrow when she looks at them.

She smiles gently up at him, wondering how long ago that had been true of him too. "No doubt we all were, once upon a time."

He nods and turns away again, perhaps remembering his younger, hopeful self, and the moment it all began to change for him.

"Do you think she's right?" she asks him.

He sighs. "I don't know, Ruth," he confesses, then turns his body towards hers. "I certainly don't think we've... forfeited the chance to live a little, love where we can, dream, and carve out a bit of happiness for ourselves, no matter what we've done. We need something if we are to keep going. We need something to remind us what we're fighting for and to keep us grounded and sane."

"And if they die too?" she asks in a whisper.

"We morn, we grieve, we soldier on."

"What if we can't?"

"Nothing lasts forever, Ruth. Everybody dies eventually. There's a beginning, a middle, and an end to everything. All we can do is enjoy the time we have together. If we do that, at least we have no regrets." He gazes at her adoringly before impulsively leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I must get to Whitehall," he says.

"Yes." She smiles. "I'll see you later."

He nods and turns, striding away from her, her eyes following him, delighting in the sureness of his step, the strength of his stride, the way he squares his shoulders, ready to face anything. He really is a remarkably attractive man, in her eyes, and the more she gives herself permission to let go of her guilt over George and Nico, the more she finds that she loves him and is ready to finally give them a chance.