After the fleeting sense of liberty she'd experienced while visiting Landsby, Ruth finds the Grid confining, even dull. Worse that that, Harry is busy, having to spend much of his time away from the Grid, attending meetings. On Sunday night he'd rung her, although even now she's not sure why.

"Are you ready for work tomorrow?" he'd asked, and she had hesitated, wondering was there some hidden meaning beneath his words.

"Of course."

"I thought I'd check that -"

".. that I've remembered I have work tomorrow?"

"No, Ruth. I suppose I just wanted to ... hear your voice."

Ruth had then felt just a little bit bad. She is so used to opposing Harry, bristling whenever he moves just a little too close to her, reading her thoughts, or upsetting her equilibrium, that she is not yet used to trusting him, not when his approach is personal. It's so easy for her to overlook how Harry has been hurt, too - by her exile, her return from exile, Ros's death, and then her turning away from him when he'd sought her comfort and support.

"I'm glad you rang," she'd said quietly. "It's nice to ... hear your voice too." And then it had hit her. "You're at work? Now?"

"I came in yesterday afternoon also. I'm up to my ears in reports."

Ruth had smiled at the image. She pictured him sitting at his desk, surrounded by a mountain of manila folders, his head poking through the top.

"I'll be in early tomorrow," she continued, "but you need to take a break, Harry. You can't possibly work every day."

"Thursday and Friday wasn't like work," he'd said quietly, and she understood his message, and she'd smiled at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink, where she'd been about to clean her teeth.

"I'm glad you rang," she'd said.

"So am I," he'd said, his voice low and intimate.

Ruth had handed Tariq the job of checking the identity of Glenn Smallwood, and when that is done she plans to trace all Smallwood's movements during the last two years ... no small task. So when Beth follows her into the women's toilets, Ruth pays little attention, until on emerging from the cubicle she finds Beth still loitering beside the basins.

"I've been trying to get you on your own," Beth says, and Ruth nods, before quickly checking the other three cubicles. "I've found somewhere to live."

"You mean .. somewhere other than my flat."

Beth nods. "Do you remember Brad?" Ruth doesn't, but she nods anyway. "He's offered me his spare room. He needs help with his rent. We're no longer together, but he's a decent sort. He's coming around tonight to help me move my stuff."

And that is one more problem solved. With her and Harry drawing closer to one another, Ruth doesn't want or need a flatmate, especially when that flatmate works with them. Ruth bounces down the corridor towards the Grid, and had she developed the particular skill, she would have whistled.

It is late Thursday afternoon when Tariq calls her into the technology suite. Most of the Grid's desk staff have gone home, while both Harry and Lucas have spent the day away from the Grid.

Despite Ros's request that Ruth do the search and any resultant analysis required, Tariq, had been happy for the distraction the search for Smallwood's details would provide him.

"Glenn William Smallwood, born 4th May, 1969, in Leeds. All the usual stuff. Good school record, attended University of Leeds, where he completed a Masters in Psychology in 1994. He was recruited directly from university into the intelligence service. It's all a bit ordinary and predictable ... except for one thing."

"And what's that?"

"Glenn William Smallwood died in a motorcycle accident in 1996."

"Right," Ruth says, "so this man, whoever he is, has taken the identity of a dead man."

"It appears that way."

"Then ... that means we're back so square one."

"Not necessarily." Tariq holds up one finger, which he then theatrically places on a key on his keyboard, which opens another window. "Meet Anthony Gresham Smallwood, shady as hell, and twin brother of Glenn Smallwood."

Ruth leans closer, frowning while she examines the image of this man, his handsome face gazing down the lens, his green eyes clear and direct, his wavy brown hair falling loosely to just above his shoulders. "He's quite the looker," she says, and then Tariq's desk phone rings, so she steps away from his monitor, allowing him a little privacy while he takes his call.

Tariq answers the phone, and then quickly hangs up, before turning to Ruth. "Harry wants you in his office immediately," he says, somewhat apologetically, "and for your sake, Ruth, I hope you haven't been stealing the chocolate-covered digestives. They're Harry's favourite."

Ruth nods and smiles. "Leave Harry to me," she says, quickly leaving the technology suite, while Tariq stares after her, his mind ticking over.

Ruth dispenses with the formality of knocking on Harry's office door. Besides, he'd be shocked were she to knock. Harry is reading reports, his head propped on one hand, as if he can't hold his head up any other way. Hearing the door closing, he lifts his head and watches her cross the office floor, reaching out with one hand to point to one of the chairs across his desk.

"You look tired," she says.

Harry twists his mouth to one side. "I need to sleep, but I also need to get through some of these," he says, glancing at the pile of folders on the corner of his desk.

"They'll still be there in the morning."

Harry sighs, sitting back in his chair, his eyes following Ruth as she sits on the edge of the chair. "You wanted to see me?"

"I always want to see you, Ruth." He holds her eyes for a long moment before sitting back in his chair. "Before returning to the Grid I met Lucas for a drink. What he told me was rather revealling, and I thought it might interest you."

Ruth can't imagine being at all interested in anything Lucas had to say, but she's prepared to listen anyway. She nods.

"During the last week or so Lucas has had several meetings with a man claiming to be a former Mi6 agent. This man has been attempting to recruit Lucas into a team he is forming to head to the US with view to infiltrating the CIA."

Ruth gives a short laugh .. more of a snort. "Good luck with that. Experts have tried and failed. Even the US government hasn't managed to gain control of the CIA, and they've been trying since the Kennedy administration. Surely Lucas already knows that."

Harry nods. "He does, of course. He was gathering information ... just in case." He gets up from his chair, and pours a small whiskey into a glass tumbler. He lifts the decanter towards Ruth. "Want one?"

She shakes her head. "But you go ahead." The last thing she needs is alcohol in her system. She can't risk taking the wrong bus home.

Harry nods, taking a sip from his glass before he moves around to perch his backside on the edge of his desk, close to Ruth's chair. "I thought you might be interested in the name of this Mi6 agent."

Suddenly the penny drops for Ruth. "Glenn Smallwood, or as Tariq discovered, Anthony Smallwood, surviving twin of the long deceased Glenn Smallwood."

Harry nods slowly while he absorbs Ruth's snippet of information. "Lucas let me know just in case this Smallwood character approaches any more of my agents. I suggested he call a meeting tomorrow morning, and make the announcement. Someone like Alec White might be tempted by such an offer."

Ruth nods, looking up at him. He is out on his feet, and were he a more cooperative and malleable man, she'd suggest she drive him home, and put him to bed, but she knows that he'll spend at least another hour at his desk.

"Will you tell Ros, or would you rather I do it?"

Harry carefully places his tumbler on the edge of the desk. "Would you?" he asks. "If you leave it with me I'll most likely forget."

Ruth nods, getting to her feet, and stepping closer to Harry. "Will you promise me something?"

"Promising you anything could cost me dearly, Ruth," he says, gazing at her with open adoration.

She stands close to him, her leg resting against his leg. She finds that touching his body, even in an innocent way, provides her with comfort and much needed grounding. She reaches out to grasp one of his hands, drawing it against her stomach. Watching his face she sees a spark of something in his eyes; she is not sure if it's curiosity or desire. Perhaps it's a little of both.

"Please go home, Harry. Get some sleep. You're no good to anyone if you're exhausted."

While she'd been talking, he'd lifted one finger of the hand she holds against her, slowly stroking her stomach through the material of her blouse, sending a sudden pulse of desire deep into her body. She'd love to step between his legs and kiss him. She almost does, but the Grid is hardly the place for a snog, even late in the evening when everyone but Tariq has left.

Harry stands, retrieving his hand from her grasp so that he can pull her close, his fingers entangled in the fabric of her skirt. "I don't want you to go," he whispers, his mouth close to her ear.

Reluctantly, she pulls a little away from him, although his hands still hold her near him. "I have a bus to catch," she says. The bus timetable is one of those facts of life, and something which rules her working days.

"If you wait a while, I could -"

"No. I need to go now," and she reaches up to place a soft kiss on his cheek, before she steps from his grasp, putting distance between them.

"I was thinking," he says, gazing at her, "that we should do something together Saturday night."

"Beth has moved out of my flat," Ruth says meaningfully, meeting his gaze, "so ..."

Harry nods. "I'll call you ... before Saturday."

Ruth nods, and then leaves his office. If she misses the bus, she has to wait an hour for the next one.

It is not until Saturday lunchtime, while Ruth is part way through doing her laundry, that she remembers she hasn't contacted Ros about the Smallwood twins. She still has to change the sheets on her bed, hoover the floors, and then spruce herself up for the evening with Harry. He had rung her the evening before, confirming their date for that night. He would be bringing dinner, while she had promised to provide the wine. She hadn't yet bought the wine, but she believes she has ample time.

She dreads ringing Ros, so she makes the call, rattling off the story of the Smallwood twins. Ros replies with her usual sarcasm, and Ruth knows her well enough to recognise that her anger results from a deep core of hurt and betrayal.

"Had he told me his plan was to infiltrate the bloody CIA I'd have arranged to have him sectioned," Ros spits out.

"He'd also approached Lucas, and who knows else," Ruth adds.

"The intelligence service is a breeding ground for the mentally ill," Ros continues.

"Would you like Harry to call you?" Ruth suggests, knowing she'd rather be speaking to him.

"Only if he has the time. I'd hate to put him out."

Ruth is relieved when the call ends. Ros had always been hard work, but her injuries and her resultant disability has added another layer to whatever is eating away at her, a gnawing of rats desperate to break free from her damaged body.

Harry had promised to be at hers by nine, and so when he has not arrived by nine-thirty, Ruth tries calling him. When the call goes directly to voicemail she doesn't bother leaving a message.

By the time the front doorbell sounds it is almost nine-forty-five. Knowing how busy he has been all week, and that he would want to see her as much as she is looking forward to seeing him, Ruth is not angry, or even mildly irritated, but she is hungry. She opens to door to him, standing aside while he fills her front hallway with his presence, a bag of food in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other, a second bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

"Sorry," she says, "I forgot the wine."

"I thought you might," he says, before turning towards the open door to the living room, and the kitchen beyond that. "This way?"

Ruth is mildly surprised that he hadn't kissed her, but maybe, like her, Harry is hungry, so she hurries to catch up with him.

While Ruth gathers plates, wine glasses and cutlery, Harry takes the tubs of food from the bag, then wanders into her small kitchen in search of a bottle opener. "Where is it, Ruth?"

"The loo is upstairs."

"Not that. A corkscrew. Bottle opener."

She fusses over finding the bottle opener, only to discover it buried beneath the plastic bag in which Harry had carried the Indian takeaway. Then they have a brief discussion about which wine they should drink first - the red or the white. In the end Harry opens both, while Ruth watches him through her eyelashes, wondering whether he is irritated with her. It's just that as she sees it, which wine they drink first is unimportant. It is Saturday night, they are together in her flat, and they have agreed - somehow - to spend the night together.

Harry begins to explain why he was so late - he'd received a phone call which he'd needed to deal with straight away - and Ruth had brushed off his explanation with, "I don't have to know, Harry. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

He had seemed mildly put out, but she really didn't want or need an explanation. They were not yet a couple, so she has no right to expect explanations and excuses.

"Your things," she says, once they are sitting down, and beginning to eat, their earlier awkwardness lifting, like a fog in mid morning. "You did bring an overnight bag ... didn't you?"

Harry looks up from his lamb curry, a slight frown on his face. "Bag? I needed to bring a bag?"

"For your things. You know, toothpaste, shaving things, and ..."

"Clothes? I doubt I'll be needing clothes, Ruth. After all .."

Harry is sitting back in his chair, watching her, his gaze direct. He is sending her up, and she is determined to not be embarrassed, or put off in any way by his teasing. "You'll need a change of clothes, surely," she counters.

"It's in the car. I had to be sure we hadn't got out wires crossed."

"When have we ever got our wires crossed?" she asks, and she notices the lift of his eyebrows, although he says nothing more.

They eat in silence for some time, and Ruth wonders whether she's blown this chance with him. Something doesn't feel quite right. It's unlike Harry to be so quiet, but then he speaks, and all the skewed bricks of Ruth's shaky foundations gradually right themselves.

"I was about to leave home when my house phone rang," he begins, his attention not on her, but on his plate. "I only answered it out of curiosity, in case it was you, and you'd changed your mind." Ruth opens her mouth to speak, but he continues, ignoring her. "It was my daughter. We hadn't spoken in months, and I could hardly cut the conversation short. She wanted to talk. We haven't talked like that for .." and he glances up at her. "We haven't had a good conversation, a proper conversation for .. a very long time. It's usually a few sentences snatched between her work commitments or mine. I wanted to tell her I was having dinner with you, but ..."

When he says nothing more, moving the remains of his lamb curry around his plate, Ruth suddenly gets up, taking the empty wine bottle to the sink, placing it on the side before grasping the edge of the sink with the fingers of both hands. She needs to ask the question. She has to know.

"Harry," she says quietly, knowing he'll be listening, "why do you still love me?"

Her question hovers untethered and uncertain in the air around her, a private thought attaining form. Ruth waits, staring through the kitchen window, trusting Harry with catching her words, handling them gently, and with love.

"I don't know how not to love you, Ruth, and believe me when I say I've tried." She hears the scrape of his chair on the floorboards as he gets up, the soft fall of his footsteps as he moves closer. He is soon standing behind her, but not touching, the heat from his body like a fire at her back. "I guess that means you're stuck with me."

When she turns to him, she welcomes the softness in his eyes, and the love which shines from them, but still she drops her gaze.

"What's wrong, Ruth? Is it something I said?"

She shakes her head, and lifts her eyes to his. "It's what I did, when I stopped you speaking about why it was you were late. I'd believed the reason you were late didn't matter, when ... all along it mattered .. such a lot." Her eyes move from his face, over his shoulder, and then to the table .. anywhere but into those eyes.

"Ruth," he says gently, "please look at me."

And she does. She lifts her eyes to his face, and he can hardly bear to see the guilt there. "It's not that important. You weren't to know. I had my conversation with my daughter, and now I'm here ... where I want to be."

It is Ruth who takes a small step towards him, and he reaches out to pull her against him. When he feels her arms slide around his waist, he breathes out heavily, drawing her closer, pressing his face into her hair, surrounded by the warmth of her, the sweet smell of her.

"Why is everything with you so layered," he says, "and ... so .. bloody .. complicated? This," and he rubs his hands up and down her back, "shouldn't be this difficult."

It is only when he feels her relaxing against him that he knows they have made it through the moment. He lifts his head, pulling away slightly. He allows his gaze to move from her eyes, down her face to her mouth, where his eyes linger.

Harry has only just leaned in as if to kiss her when the moment is shattered by the ringtone of his mobile phone from inside the pocket of the jacket he'd left draped over the back of his chair. "I'm not answering that," he says, his voice tinged with irritation. "It's bound to be work."

But the phone continues to ring, and Ruth glances up. "Take it," she says, "or they'll just keep calling you."

Harry sighs heavily, squeezing Ruth's hand before he turns to answer his phone. His caller has timing infinitely worse than his own.