Get ready for a long one!

Could he have said anymore?

Of course he could.

He could have told her how he felt, how she made him feel, how the thought of her with someone else had totally overwhelmed him with feeling.

But they didn't really do that – grand emotional outburts, flowery admissions and declarations. They didn't really do anything…not well.

Only perhaps work.

They worked at work…well, they had done.

Harry stepped out of the taxi and back into the rain. He paid the cabbie and turned towards his house.

Sitting on the steps was a familiar yet somewhat bedraggled figure.

"You're wet," he said simply.

Ruth began to get up, "So are you."

"I went for a walk."

They were still standing outside and the rain was still pouring and his key was still in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, wondering if she had already thought about what he had said; wondering if that was a good thing or a bad.

Her face betrayed nothing.

"Generally I prefer house calls to kidnapping if there's something to be said, Harry."

She had decided something then. Nervously, he reached for the lock.

As they entered his house, he made a point of handing her the key.

"Just so you don't think I'm in the habit of locking you in."

She smiled. She smiled at him. And they both realised it.

She stopped, caught, not wanting to smile at him, not wanting to forget all he had said and thought, not wanting to forgive him.

"Tea?" he asked, grateful for the smile that had been. "Earl Grey or builders?"

"Builders," she answered.

He switched the kettle on and momentarily disappeared upstairs, bringing down a towel.

When he wasn't being boorish, egotistical and sexist, he could be quite thoughtful and sweet, pondered Ruth.

They sat down at the kitchen table, her damp hair falling over the towel on her shoulders, their hot mugs cradled in needy hands.

The silence was there once more. It took a while to break.

"How could you think that of me?" she asked, studying the tea rather than him.

"I don't think I was really thinking at all," he said, his tea as fascinating as hers.

She sighed, blowing the steam away from the cup.

"I'll be more than glad when this week's over," she admitted.

Harry nodded.

"I saw the hammock," he said tentatively, "… Zaf?"

"Zaf," she repeated.

"Do you want me to sack him or send him to Uzbeckistan?"

"The latter."

Harry smiled.

"…And the rest of you can go with him," she added curtly.

"I don't think the Number 52 goes that far, Ruth."

Her eyes flicked up from the mug and he wondered for a moment whether her tea would be the next thing to soak him.

She smiled.

The silence settled but this time much less heavily.

"What did you call it?" she asked suddenly, "A back seat knee trembler?"

Sheepish suited Harry, Ruth thought, as she watched him search for a suitable answer.

"Term from my youth," he finally settled on.

"Oh, you can remember that far back?"

Playful suited Ruth, Harry thought, it lit up her eyes.

"So…" he said, pretending to ignore her and cutting to the reason why she was here. "Have you thought about what I said, Ruth? Will you stay… on the grid?"

She nodded slowly.

"Good. That's good," the words were simple and yet went no way to expressing the relief he felt wash over him.

"It wouldn't be the same without you," he added, turning his attention back to the tea.

"I'm sure you'd manage."

"There's a difference between managing and having a reason to go to work in the mornings."

"You go to work to protect the country, Harry."

"I go to work to see you."

"No, you go to work and see me."

"I know what I meant, Ruth."

Both looked over the tops of their mugs, both looked at each other, both knew what he meant.

The tea was finished, the mugs cold in their hands.

But Harry didn't want to leave this moment, this space in time, this bubble of understanding.

"Glass of wine?" he asked.

Ruth raised her eyebrows.

"It's white," Harry added, "best stay away from the red if we want to keep you awake."

She tilted her head, a warning in her eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered and concentrated on opening the bottle, "Do you want to go next door?" he nodded towards the living room.

"No, this is fine."

She didn't want to move, to lose this moment, this here and now. There was something special about it, something almost otherworldy, like it was them, yet not them having this conversation.

They sat across the table from one another and raised their glasses.

"What shall we drink to?" he asked.

Why did she want to say 'to us'? Why so very much did she want to say that?

"To… my naivety and the end of your overactive imagination," she stated finally, with a mischievous smile.

He tipped his glass to hers, "You're not naïve."

She tipped her glass to his. "And you're much better company when you're thinking straight."

She raised the glass to her lips. He was watching her, his eyes soft and honeyed.

"I'm not sure I ever think straight when I'm around you, Ruth."

It was that look, the look from Havensworth and she knew it should raise the alarm in her but she stayed where she was, there was something different about tonight.

"Well, maybe that makes two of us," she admitted quietly.

They sat in near silence. A cat howled outside the back window, a wagon passed on the road, the clock ticked on the kitchen wall.

"The other day you said that you were on the bus coming here because you wanted to tell me something…" he leant back in his chair and took a sip of the wine, "…Something about how you felt? … About me," he said.

She nodded and took a long drink of wine.

"I was coming to tell you that I loved you," she stated simply.

He held himself, his movements, his words in check: both thrilled and afraid.

"I was drunk," she added.

"I see."

"Not that that meant it wasn't true and I didn't … I did … I do."

"You do?"

She nodded.

"Even after all I said?"

"Even then."

"Why?"

She looked puzzled.

"Why Ruth?"

"Because one misunderstanding doesn't –"

"No, why do you who are so full of humanity and care and life, care anything, let alone love, for a cynical, boorish, old relic like me?"

"I have a thing for cynical, boorish old relics," she smiled, "and as far as cynical, boorish old relics go, you're one of the best."

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she replied.

The clock which seemed to have stopped but hadn't, resumed its ticking.

"I don't think I've ever felt jealousy like that before," Harry admitted.

"It didn't become you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Mind you... he was quite a good looking cleaner," she teased.

"Young?"

She nodded.

"Fit?"

"Very."

"All his own hair and teeth?"

"Not sure, too busy looking at his six pack!"

Harry laughed. She loved his laugh.

"There was a night a couple of years ago…" he looked at her and wondered if she would remember, "A night you left the grid to go on a date. You said that you were only three days late for it and nothing was going to stop you. I pretended to call you back."

She smiled. She did remember the moment.

"I sat in my office afterwards," added Harry, "And I wished it was with me."

He gazed at her intently, gently, lovingly.

"That's when I knew, Ruth."

He emptied his glass of the remaining white wine.

"And I knew the rest, too. I knew I shouldn't feel like that; I knew you worked for me; that you were young and full of life and that I should step away and get a grip."

"Didn't work, did it?" she laughed.

And suddenly her hand had reached across the table and was touching his.

He smiled back, relishing the contact.

"No, it didn't."

For long, long minutes they sat, all their attention fixed on their two hands which lay between them locked in a dance: a slow, sensual dance of exploration, of acknowledgment, of discovery. And they watched transfixed as though their hands were showing them an intimacy they had only ever dreamt of.

A clock in the next room chimed and suddenly seemed to rouse them from their reverie. Ruth glanced at her watch, aghast.

"It's half twelve!"

Harry looked up at the kitchen clock, amazed.

And then they looked at each other and there was as much surprise in that as in wondering where the time had gone.

"Do you think if we get up from here, we'll break the spell," she asked in hushed tones "And then find ourselves back in our perpetual state of misunderstanding?"

"I think you and I, Ruth, have many possibilities, but somehow I imagine uselessness will be our default setting."

She laughed and stood up. He with her.

"I better go," she said.

"You better had," he replied.

She didn't want to go and he did not want to let her.

They stepped out into the hallway and she pulled the towel from her shoulders.

He opened the door. The rain was still beating down on the path. He stepped closer taking the towel from her hands.

He was very close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. His eyes never left hers. Molten, amorous eyes.

"I have a bed that's considerably more comfortable than the backseat of the number 52," he said quietly, nervously.

"Your bed?" she asked before thinking.

"My bed," he answered.

"I don't actually think the 52 runs after midnight," Ruth stated, needing to say something quickly.

"Then maybe we should listen to the signs, Ruth."

"The signs?" She raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Omens," he added unhelpfully.

"Which are…?"

Harry hesitated.

"That there's no bus service and it's raining."

"Is that it?" she asked, eyes alight with amusement.

"That's it," he said sheepishly.

He shrugged, "any sign will do for me, Ruth."

She shut the door.

"Then let's not tempt fate."

Epilogue to come