Harry awoke the next morning to find the ache in his shoulder had subsided nicely. It was early, and still dark outside. He hadn't got more then four hours sleep, but there was no time for that today. Today would be his last chance to save the service. Tomorrow he could rest.

Had the bandage held up in the night? Harry, clad in his boxers, walked across Ruth's guest bedroom to a full-length mirror tucked in the corner. He checked himself out. The bandage had indeed held tight, and it was soaked in very little blood compared to yesterday. He hoped it'd hold up all right in the shower. He'd need one; a cold one. He'd dreamt of her. Torturous, wisps of dreams, where they were downstairs in her kitchen, and she was stroking his chest, but instead of her running away when she noticed his erection, she'd simply smiled calmly, and climbed onto his lap, onto him.

Harry, still gazing at himself in the mirror, cupped himself through his boxers as he remembered the dream. What had followed was her and him, making love on every surface he could imagine; her kitchen morphed into his car, his lounge, his office chair… but she was always on top, and she ways always smiling calmly at him. And he was always teetering on the cusp of climax, but it didn't feel frustrating, just exquisite.

He hastily shoved his trousers on over his erection; it wouldn't do to frighten her as he was going to the shower. But she wasn't in the hallway, or her bedroom, so it didn't matter. In the shower, he thought about rubbing himself off to ease the tension, but decided it wasn't the time or place. Instead, he turned the tap on freezing cold.

It was only afterwards that he realised his shirt was still downstairs. And still soaked in blood, to boot. He cursed to himself, running a hand through his damply curling hair, as he realised he'd have to go downstairs shirtless to ask Ruth if she had a spare men's shirt lying about, and if she wouldn't mind him borrowing it. His gut clenched in jealousy as he irrationally hoped she didn't.

She was found in the kitchen. He saw her before she saw him. She was pouring a cup of coffee absentmindedly, biting her bottom lip. Her brown hair flicked about her shoulders; it was longer then when she first started working for him, and made her look younger. She was wearing a bright red shirt and a black skirt, and her legs were stockinged but with bare feet. When she turned around he saw the red shirt was cut into a deep vee about her chest. She smiled to great him.

Harry trundled down the stairs feeling self-conscious, dressed as he was only in his trousers. In an uncharacteristic show of nerves, he found himself crossing his hands across his naked chest defensively, before forcing himself to uncross them. She's already seen the scars, he reminded himself. And the middle aged spread.

"How's your shoulder?" Ruth hummed.

"Better, actually," Harry answered softly.

"I should change your bandages again before you get dressed, if you don't mind."

"Ah yes, about that. You wouldn't happen to have a spare shirt I could wear today, would you?"

Ruth smiled, nodding happily as she gestured him to wait one moment. Small bare feet scurried quickly down the hallway. Harry bit back his absurd disappointment at the thought that she'd had a male guest here. And one familiar enough to leave a change of clothes, too. It tasted bitter, and he was so angry at himself for tasting it.

She came back moments later holding up his white shirt.

"I put your shirt through the wash this morning with some bleach when I got up. You can barely see the blood stain. And I'm sure your suit jacket will hide the shoulder, anyway," she smiled triumphantly.

"Oh," Harry sad, befuddled.

Later that afternoon, Harry sat at his desk, rethinking his decision to leave Ruth be.

In between the constant barrage of phone calls, there were scenes that Harry just couldn't stop going over in his head. Ruth standing shoeless in her stockings that morning. The red of her blouse. Her gentle hands undoing his buttons last night, stroking his sternum. The feel of her riding him in his dream.

The phone was ringing again.

"Pearce," he barked into the receiver.

But the images wouldn't leave him. Ruth in repose next to him as he drove her into work, her hands clasped daintily in her lap. The curve of her profile, the green of her eye. Standing too close to her as they walked through the pods. The tickle of her hair, the scent of her perfume. Watching her nipples hard and straining through her shirt in the cold of her kitchen.

This was madness.

He had to find a way to stop it. He'd thought better of himself. He was a middle-aged man! He'd outgrown such childish infatuations in his twenties. One would think he'd be able to concentrate on saving Five, even saving his own skin!

But the worst had been when she had come bouncing in to his office announcing that they had not, in fact, lost their subject. The woman was rather in one of their cabs. Their cabs! Spook taxis, Ruth had called them animatedly, her eyes alight with passion. And then she had leant over him until his face was level with the deep vee of her red shirt. He'd been so befuddled by the vision he couldn't even answer her. He had to look away before he could even think, and the pause had made her nervous. Ruth thought he was angry at her initiative! If only she knew what her boss was really thinking. In truth, he couldn't answer her for wanting her. He wanted to kiss her exposed skin. Wanted to bury his head in her breasts.

What would she think if she knew?

Would she let him? Sometimes Harry thought he could detect a small frisson of attraction for him in those deep green eyes of her. It was perhaps the crush of a younger woman for a man in power. He didn't kid himself to think it was personal; he had watched her act that way with Tom, too and even Oliver Mace, to be truthful. He had watched them both be on the receiving end of her doe-eyed, gushing enthusiasm.

It was his job, as a spook, to notice such weakness and exploit them. He didn't think she had any special feelings for him as a person. And if she knew the real him- the philanderer, the liar, the murderer- which she didn't, well then she certainly wouldn't. But it had once been his particular forte, as a young officer, to seduce women who could be useful for the service into bed against their better judgement. Though he was not the same beautiful youth anymore, Harry didn't doubt his ability to convince Ruth to sleep with him, if he wanted to. But he didn't want to.

It wasn't the right thing to do. He didn't want to.

She deserved better, certainly. But he needed to stop thinking about her, somehow.

By the end of the night, Harry had killed a woman.

Yes, it was Carmen Joyce herself who had technically fired the gun. And it was Adam who had technically talked her into it. But Harry had made the decision. Had tried to stop it, then re-thought it and, like the mercenary he was, allowed it to happen when he realised it was the easiest way to save the service. Her blood was on his hands.

He flung the doors of the van open angrily. Striding down the street, Harry dialled Mace's number.

"Oliver. We have your woman. Thames House. Sixty minutes."

He hung up, and then dialled Ruth.

"Harry," she breathed down the line.

"Ruth," he said coldly. "You heard."

"Yes," Ruth replied heavily.

"I need a copy of the confession in my office immediately. Then you go home. I've ordered Mace down to Thames House. Going to hammer through some things with him."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I can't prove any concrete connection between Mace and Joyce. I can't prove he knew Tom was being set up. But I think I can force his hand a little."

"Oh, Harry, he deserves…" Ruth said, her voice thick with the injustice of it.

"Mace wasn't running this. I'll get him to turn in his co-conspirators. And see if I can't get him to leave you alone, as well," Harry said mechanically.

"No, Harry-"

"Enough. Make sure that you go home. I don't want you near him."

"Harry…" Ruth began to argue.

But he had hung up.

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