A/N: Happy new year, everyone!

Tuesday, 22nd December 2009

"What are you doing for Christmas, Grace?" Sarah-Ann asks after practice is over.

"Oh. I... er..."

"She's coming round to mine," Harry volunteers.

"She is?!" They all look rather stunned.

"Yes. And she's not bringing any presents. Are you, Grace?" He gives her a pointed look, as if they've had this discussion many times before.

She wrinkles her nose. "Maybe one or two," she replies, eyes twinkling at him, "for the children."

"Children, pah!" He dismisses them with a wave of his hand. "Our youngest is fifteen! Hardly children, Grace."

"Some alcohol then," she says, determinedly.

"Nice," Simon approves. "Get him some whiskey. Al never says no to whiskey."

"But what about Ruth?" Margaret interjects, startling her, and it's only then that she realises Harry's named his fictional wife after her and she can't help the way her heart melts to hear it. "I bet she doesn't like whiskey."

"Actually, she's rather a big fan," Harry interjects, catching her eye.

"Well that's sorted then."

"Yes," she smiles, reaching for her coat and starting to pull it on.

"So does this mean you're not going away this Christmas, Al, and you'll come to the service with us? We're all dying to meet your Ruth, you know," Jemma says gleefully.

"Ah," Harry replies, clearly having failed to foresee this development. He sighs. "I'm afraid not. Ruth's aunt isn't well and she wants to go to the service at the hospice to be with her."

"Oh no. I'm so sorry. And at Christmas too!"

"Yes." He nods and smiles sadly before turning to her. "In need of a lift today, Grace?"

"Thank you," she replies, hoping it doesn't seem strange to everyone else, how much time she's spending with Harry. Then again, it's only once or twice a week that they're with the choir, so it's not really that much time in the grand scheme of things. And besides, what are they going to think? That she's having an affair with him? It's hardly likely when Harry/Al makes a point of mentioning his wife and children often. And besides, she's only left with him a handful of times now – hardly enough to rouse suspicion, surely!

"Anyone else?" Harry asks.

Thankfully, no one else takes up his offer. Derek hasn't turned up today, for which she's really very grateful. And seeing as this is their last practice before Christmas, with any luck, she won't have to see him again until after the holidays. Hopefully by then he'll be over his jealousy, especially since Harry won't be coming back until next year.

She frowns, feeling suddenly acutely disappointed by this realisation. Choir won't be nearly as much fun without Harry – or Al, she should say.

They say their good-nights and head to the car, Harry opening and holding the door for her as she gets in.

"Everything alright?" Harry asks gently as he takes his seat beside her in the car.

"Fine," she replies, smiling at him. He's so good at reading her shifting moods and it warms her heart that he knows her so well. "I'll just miss you, that's all," she tells him. "Choir isn't the same without you."

He smiles and turns his attention back to starting the engine. He doesn't say anything, but she has a feeling he might be contemplating how much he'll miss seeing her regularly on a Tuesday too and plotting a way around the problem.

When they get to her place, she doesn't hesitate before asking, "Coming in?"

He nods and kills the engine.

Once inside her flat, they take off their coats and hang them side by side, smiling at each other as they both realise how in sync are their movements. Her hands slide down the fabric of her coat as he turns to face her, his gaze searching, his right hand rising to gently tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, sliding the side of his index finger along her jaw and making her shiver and close her eyes at the frisson.

He leans in, but hesitates, his eyes searching hers, seeking permission. "Ruth?"

It takes her a moment to find her voice to utter a single word. "Yes." She doesn't think she'll survive a moment longer without his lips on hers.

The corners of his lips lift infinitesimally before he completes the motion and his soft, plump lips find hers, gentle and pliable as they kiss her. The first touch takes her breath away and, with the second, a sigh escapes her that, somehow or other, turns into a moan of bliss. She feels the heat of his hands on her hips and lifts her own hands to his sides, only to find his arms in the way, his forearms hard, strong beneath the fabric of his shirt and jumper. She's seen his forearms bare only a few times, has admired them, wished, longed to run her fingertips along them, feel them wrap around her waist, anchoring her to him, kiss them as they support his weight, suspended above her, and all those memories, those fantasies come flooding back and suddenly it's not enough – these soft, gentle kisses, tentative touches, his warm near-embrace.

She wants him.

All of him.

Now.

She moans again, her hands slipping over his arms to his belly and up his chest, fisting in the fabric over his pecs, her lips parting eagerly below his, her body pressing against his.

She feels him tense, hesitate, begin to pull back, trying as always to be the gentleman. Why can't he just be a regular, hot-blooded bloke and just take what he wants, like so many others she's known, she finds herself thinking fleetingly in frustration before she answers her own question – because he wouldn't be Harry then and she wouldn't love him.

Still. Bloody self-control.

She follows him with her body as he attempts to move back, sucking his lower lips into her mouth, her left hand tightening its grip on his jumper, her right slipping behind his neck and into the curls at the nape of it, pulling him to her as she shifts her weight back, making them almost stumble into their coats and the solid wall behind her.

"Ruth," he objects in a gravelly voice.

"More. Kiss me more," she replies and presses her lips to his again.

He does, but it's still maddeningly chaste, he's still holding the floodgates of his passion securely closed, barred and triple bolted.

She makes a frustrated, impatient sound. "Properly," she demands, raking her fingernails over the back of his head and making him shiver, her left hand rubbing circles over his right breast, looking for his nipple.

He closes his eyes, tilting his head back, breath escaping in a sudden, loud exhale as he wars with himself and she continues to try to seduce him, feeling him begin to swell against her abdomen, knowing she's winning. He won't be able to hold out much longer, but as she watches his struggle play across his face, she suddenly knows that he's right and she's the one not thinking straight. She shouldn't be doing this to him, to them – not now, not like this. The timing's all wrong for it.

Her hands still, then she pulls them back, her left hand back to his forearm, her right round to caress his face, fingers trailing along his smooth, strong jaw and down the delicate skin of his throat, her eyes following their progress until she reaches his heart, gently pressing her palm over it. "I'm sorry," she murmurs softly before lifting her gaze back to his face.

His eyes are hooded, passion smouldering in their depths as he gazes down at her, his gaze as intense as she's ever seen it. He's silent for long moments, and when eventually he does speak, she's become so lost in his gaze that she barely remembers what it is she's said.

"Never apologise for wanting me, Ruth," he growls. "You have no idea how many years I have waited for that."

She swallows. "But still, you're right. We... we should wait... until..." But here she tails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"Yes," he replies.

"Coffee?" she suggests.

"Whiskey, but first," and he leans in and kisses her again, passionately.

Her toes curl, her heart-rate trebles, her breath escapes in an inarticulate moan, but just as she's losing herself in the sensation, he suddenly pulls back.

"No," she whispers, feeling bereft and lost without him. She wasn't done with that kiss. She'll never be done with kisses like that.

He chuckles and presses his lips against her forehead, one arm wrapping around her waist, his right hand cupping her cheek and sliding into her hair. "You are wonderful, Ruth," he confesses softly.

She sighs. "You're quite wonderful yourself, Harry," she mumbles into his chest.