Disclaimer – Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.

A/N – Third and final part of this trilogy. Set a few days after the end of 4.5. NB: The epilogue has spoilers for 5.5.

When you reach the part where the heartaches come

The hero would be me.

Gordon Lightfoot

-x-

After the fourth circuit of her house, Ruth knows she needs to stop. Every window is secure, and the front and back doors are locked. Nobody is getting in she reassures herself. Time for a cup of tea, then a bath and bed.

She eyes the long bladed letter opener lying on the shelf in the hall as she passes. It could do a serious amount of damage to an assailant if wielded correctly, not that that is the reason it's there. Ruth stops, turns around and picks it up; it could also do her a serious amount of damage. Nothing like giving an intruder a free offensive weapon she mutters to herself as she continues into the kitchen.

She puts the letter opener in a drawer, picks up the kettle and walks over to the sink. The cold water sounds louder than usual as it gushes from the tap and when she shuts the flow off, the kitchen is rendered eerily silent. Ruth fights the urge to do another check of every lock and bolt in the house, willing herself to keep her overactive imagination under control. Gary Hicks is not lurking in the front garden waiting to pounce the moment I open the door she reminds herself. There are no armed men attempting to break in. She switches the kettle on and busies herself with deciding which packet of biscuits to open.

-x-

Harry sits in his car, silently debating whether he should be here. He knows he's been parked long enough to have be seen by at least one of Ruth's neighbours, who'd spent an inordinate amount of time putting a bag of rubbish in their dustbin. Whether Ruth has spotted him is debateable; he's a couple of doors along from her house, tucked in behind a mud splattered Land Rover. The incongruity of the vehicle's condition in comparison with its surroundings rang alarm bells until he spotted the stickers just visible in the rear window inviting fellow motorists to 'Slow down for horses!'. Not that those are enough to stop him running the registration number through the system – that would go against his old spy senses.

And his old spy senses are telling him to stop being an idiot and go and see Ruth. It's not yet ten o'clock so not too late to be calling on her. Plus the house isn't in darkness, implying she's not gone to bed so he won't be waking her. His mind fills with the image of a tousled-haired, nightwear clad Ruth opening the front door and inviting him in. It's a deliciously appealing fantasy but he pushes it from his mind.

He feels ashamed sometimes of the thoughts he has about her, the things he imagines doing with her. And whilst he understands these thoughts are quite natural, born out of his desire for her, his feelings for her, he's grateful she can't read his mind. Occasionally though, he wonders whether she does possess such a gift. He hopes not, for her sake as well as his own.

A car passes slowly from the opposite direction, its headlights illuminating him. Knowing his presence has now been clearly revealed, he quickly decides on his next move.

-x-

When the kettle has boiled, Ruth drops a teabag into a mug and adds the steaming water. The ring of the doorbell makes her jump and tea slops onto the worktop. She remains fixed to the spot, barely breathing. The second ring is longer; her visitor is getting impatient. Ruth looks at the phone on the wall and wonders whether she can make it across the kitchen without being seen by the person at her front door.

The third ring of the bell is accompanied by a familiar voice calling 'hello'.

She swears, profusely, then replies: "Just a moment!"

Ruth is neither tousled-haired or in her nightwear when she opens the door but instead looks rather annoyed. This is not a reaction Harry had factored into his plan so he's left momentarily tongue-tied.

"Hi," he eventually says.

"Harry." She looks at him, expectantly.

"I, um, I thought I'd just pop round to make sure you're OK. And to give you this," he continues, when she doesn't reply.

Ruth takes the proffered item, a paper wrapped bottle, and looks at it, confusion evident on her face.

"Seeing as I finished your whisky the last time I was here, the least I can do is replace it."

Her gaze moves from the bottle to Harry's face. "You've turned up on my doorstep at ten o'clock at night to bring me a bottle of whisky?"

"And to see if you're all right."

"You didn't have to do that."

He's tempted to ask 'which part?' but shrugs off his curiosity with a slight upward movement of his shoulders.

"I wanted to."

The night air suddenly feels less cold as a familiar warmth envelops them. Nerve-ends jangle again, but with a different kind of anticipation.

She invites him in, offers him tea. He accepts.

He stands in the kitchen doorway looking slightly lost.

"You can take your coat off if you want," Ruth comments, amused, and intrigued, by his demeanour.

Harry does as she suggests, hangs his overcoat up in the hallway and returns to the kitchen, this time making it over the threshold. Ruth is busy unwrapping his alcoholic gift.

"This is a very good single malt," she says, scrunching up the tissue paper that had hidden the whisky's provenance. "Far better than the stuff you got on your last visit. You really shouldn't have."

"I told you, I wanted to." He smiles in his familiar lop-sided way. "And to make sure you're OK."

He really does care.

The thought places itself inconveniently, and unexpectedly, at the forefront of Ruth's mind and some effort is required to stop it leaving her mouth. She takes a breath and manages a more appropriate response.

"Thanks."

There is silence for a while as she makes his tea.

"We could have a drop if you want." She nods towards the whisky. "Call it a nightcap."

"You don't have to open it on my account."

"I want to," she replies, challenging him with his own words.

He gives in, graciously. "Then who am I to argue?"

Ruth knows he's watching her as she rummages in one of the wall cupboards, seeking out her best whisky glasses, which she knows are there somewhere. She finally locates them but not without having to stand on tiptoe to reach the back of the cabinet. The action makes her feel vulnerable, exposed almost, and she keeps one hand on the edge of the worktop, gripping it firmly to maintain her balance.

Harry realises he's staring at Ruth. In particular, he's staring at the small of her back. As she stretches to reach into the cupboard, her top rides up, giving him tantalising glimpses of bare skin. Guilt vies with arousal, propriety with desire; it's an age-old battle he's fought a number of times. He moves towards her.

"Let me," he offers, propriety winning out, on this occasion at least.

She steps aside to allow him to retrieve the glasses. As he sets them down on the worktop, she opens the whisky and tries to gauge what has happened in the last few moments. Or what nearly happened.

"Not too much, I'm driving," Harry cautions, as Ruth pours their drinks.

"Cheers," he says, touching his glass against hers.

"Thank you."

He raises an eyebrow and she knows what he's asking. They spend a lot of their time speaking in code. And not speaking.

For the whisky, for being here, for caring, for…

"Everything," she says, softly.

He smiles, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. "Anytime."

Ruth savours his reply, letting the single word shuttle around her brain as she considers how best to interpret it. She's still dwelling on possible meanings when Harry speaks again.

"You're sure you've fully recovered from the last few days?"

She takes a moment to consider his question.

"Yes, I think so," she replies, with less certainty than she'd intended. "I'm fine, really, just a bit tired," she adds, hoping to deflect any concerns he may have. It seems to work.

"Zaf said you were very calm, very cool under pressure," Harry casually remarks.

Ruth blushes, surprised. "Did he?"

"Yes. He said you were ace." There's a hint of distaste in Harry's voice that he doesn't quite manage to suppress.

"Cool and ace? That must have been an interesting conversation," Ruth says, unable to hide her amusement.

"Very interesting." He takes a sip of his whisky and something changes in his expression. "You said you were tired. You're not sleeping properly are you?"

She's surprised again, and then wonders why. This is Harry's forte, after all.

"I'm…" She stops, aware she doesn't want to lie. Not to him. "No, I've not had much sleep. What with Gary turning up on my doorstep, out of the blue, then going to the safe house." She gives him a weak smile. "I'm not used to living cheek by jowl with several men."

"So even Zafar's legendary charm gets a bit wearing does it?"

For a moment she thinks he's jealous but then she realises what he's doing.

"Poor Zaf. H-he's a good man, Harry. A good officer. He knew, instinctively, that something was very wrong when the car alarms went off. He knew."

Harry remains silent but his eyes never leave Ruth.

"It was the noise…the gunshots." She takes a mouthful of her drink, coughs as it burns the back of her throat. "I-I've been on a firing range but this… No one tells you what it's like. Being in a confined space, in the dark. The noise. The flashes of light. And not knowing if…"

Her hands are trembling and the heavy tumbler starts to slide from her grip. Harry moves quickly, catching the glass just as it slips from her fingers and placing it on the worktop. Ruth isn't aware of his actions; she's caught up in the memory of that evening.

He gently grasps the tops of her arms, pulling her towards him. "It's all right, Ruth. It's all over now. You're safe."

She reaches out to him, her hands settling on his chest, her fingers twisting into the lapels of his jacket.

"I'm here and you're safe," he repeats, softly.

His words begin to permeate her fear, diluting it, and she concentrates on his voice, listening to him comforting her, soothing her.

Loving her.

She can't look at his face, not yet; she doesn't know how she'll react, what she might do. She focuses on one of the buttons on his shirt; the thread holding it to the material is starting to unravel. Like me, she thinks.

"I was so scared, Harry. I thought I was going to die." She exhales, raggedly. "You must think that's pathetic."

"No I don't, Ruth," he reassures, but her gaze remains resolutely fixed on his chest. "Ruth."

Slowly, she raises her head and looks him in the eye.

"If you're not scared of dying then you can't have anything to live for, can you?"

There's an undeniable truth in his words, and a tenderness.

"You have something to live for, don't you?" he continues, gently. "I know I do."

Ruth nods and gives him a brief smile.

Harry is content, for now. She has spoken of that evening in the safe house and confessed her fears; he has listened and, he hopes, comforted her. And they have taken a step nearer to each other.

They are both quiet for some time, still standing close together, still touching, albeit chastely. Gradually, Ruth becomes aware of the warmth of Harry's hands on her arms, and the unmistakeable look in his eyes. She knows it would be easy to fall into his embrace, succumb to the temptation of kissing him, but self-doubt holds her back once again.

"You're going to lose a button soon," she runs her finger gently over the small plastic disc, grateful for the distraction. "The thread is coming undone."

"I'll have to fix it then, won't I?" Harry replies, unwilling to let the spell be broken.

She looks sceptical.

"I am capable of sewing a button on my shirt." He pauses for a moment. "I'm capable of lots of things."

"Yes, Harry, I believe you are."

They're speaking in code again.

-x-

Harry declines Ruth's offer of another whisky but accepts a fresh cup of tea. He watches her as she pours more of the single malt into her own glass.

"Don't drink it all at once. It is good stuff but it'll still give you a hangover," he remarks, the good humoured tone not quite hiding his concern.

"I know. This is my last one. To help me sleep," she explains as she hands him his tea.

Harry contemplates telling her that alcohol isn't the answer but he knows Ruth will see the hypocrisy in his words. He's spent enough evenings drowning his sorrows, and his grief, and he's certain she knows he has. A different approach is needed.

"You'll be all right, Ruth. The memories will fade, eventually, if you let them. Try not to keep analysing what happened." He laughs, gently. "And yes, I do appreciate the irony of telling an analyst that."

"Perhaps I should follow Adam's philosophy and just let things crinkle out," she replies, thoughtfully.

"Ah, sometimes the crinkling out needs a helping hand."

It's a cryptic enough response to compel Ruth to ask something she suspects she already knows the answer to. "You knew Adam, from before, didn't you, Harry? Before he joined Section D, I mean."

"Yes, I did."

She looks at him, questioningly.

"That's a story for another day."

It's clear he won't be drawn on the matter so she lets it go, but it's not forgotten.

-x-

"Where are you parked?" Ruth asks, shivering as she peers out into the night from the front doorstep.

"Up there." Harry points in the general direction of his car. "Just behind the muddy Land Rover."

"There's no need to run any checks," Ruth says, retrieving her coat from the hook near the door.

"Checks on what?" Harry asks, guilelessly.

She gives him her unmistakeable 'Don't play the innocent with me' look but humours him. "The Land Rover, Harry. It belongs to Charlie and Debbie at number 38. They have a horse."

"I wouldn't have thought the boot was big enough," Harry deadpans.

"Funny man," she retorts. "They keep it at the stables by the Common."

"I see. Anyway," he challenges, getting back to the question he wants to ask, "what makes you think I was going to check out their car?"

She shrugs. "You're you."

Once again he wonders whether she really can read his mind. And he still can't decide whether that would be a good or bad thing.

Despite the cold, Ruth waits by the front gate until Harry drives past, returning his wave and watching the lights of his car disappear out of view. She goes to bed, warmed by a bath and malt whisky, and sleeps peacefully, dreaming of a life with Harry.

Epilogue

Harry collects the bottle of single malt when he collects Ruth's cats. He's not sure why, perhaps as a souvenir of better times. He doesn't drink any of it, not to begin with. It sits next to his other bottles of whisky, a silent reminder of when loving her held so much promise.

He has some on his birthday, raises the glass to her, says out loud the words she'd forbidden him from speaking on that dockside. He has some more on New Year's Eve, wishes her a Happy New Year, wherever she is; wishes he was with her.

In April, on her birthday, he doesn't get home till late. He picks up the bottle, looks at it, and then puts it down again. He takes Scarlett for a walk and tells her how much he misses Ruth. He finds the dog curled up, asleep, outside his bedroom door the next morning. She hadn't wanted him to be on his own.

The months pass. The level in the bottle goes down. His birthday comes around again and he drinks some more of the whisky. He wonders how long it'll last, dismisses the notion that when the bottle is empty, all hope of seeing her again will be gone. He makes a promise to himself; he and Ruth will finish the whisky, together.

The End

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, and to review. :)