A/N – Thank you for the kind reviews. The next few chapters dovetail with events from episodes 5 & 6. Just using what the writers set up and letting it "crinkle" out a bit differently. Thanks for reading!

The clock ticked and an imperceptible sigh moved through the darkened house, each room languishing in shadow but for the one at the top of the stairs. Bathed in a pool of light, head bowed over a well-worn desk, Harry sat sifting through microchips and micro secrets, unravelling the tangled threads of his life. The clock chimed signalling the hour, compounding the sensation that time was running out, that with the death of Jim Coaver he had been outmanoeuvred. There had been many times when he had backed an opponent to the edge, finishing them off with one small tap. Now it was his turn to wait for the final blow.

He sat back in his chair, brushed his hand over his eyes, and regarded his half-empty tumbler sitting on a stack of papers. He looked at it ruefully. Having navigated coups, treason, betrayal, and the loss of colleagues to staggering to measure, he now found himself in the twilight of his career with only a bottle of vodka for company. Not even a quaffable scotch. His lips curled in a wry smile as he acknowledged the maudlin hue of his thoughts. There was a time when he would have gone down swinging, papers swept from the desk, raging at the night; the sheer force of his anger cowing all those before him. Was it all lost? That sureness of purpose, the utter faith in his convictions, the drive to carry on no matter what the cost? Had they finally won? No, he told himself, it was not a defeat, but merely a strategic retreat.

The trill of the doorbell echoed throughout the house, shattering his silent contemplation. His eyes darted over the files strewn across his desk and he quickly calculated if he had time to hide the fragments of his past. The bell chimed again with a greater insistence. He heaved a sigh and held his hands up to the Fates. Let them find what they may. After Albany, after Elena, what was one more exposed secret? He reached to switch off the desk lamp and roused himself from his chair.

Moving to the top of the stairs, he spied the outline of a lone figure through the frosted glass of the door. They had not come for him yet, he surmised as he descended the stairs. What ghost would it be this time ready to point a bony finger at the ruins of his life? Inhaling a deep breath, he opened the door.

"Ruth?"

Of course, his last mistake in a litany of many. Had he ever done anything right where this woman was concerned? There had been a kiss and with it a promise of something more. A bloody date a least. The reprieve he had been granted from Albany had not extended to his past and that had come back to haunt him tenfold. Each attempt he had made to sort out the sordid mess stirred up by the appearance of Gavriks had only served to mire him deeper in infamy, consequently driving Ruth further away. He had tried, in his clumsy, inarticulate way to protect her, truly believing that the Home Office would be safer, away from the Russians, away from him, but he knew, as evidenced by the countless times that evening his fingers had ghosted over her number on his phone, he could never completely let her go.

"Harry." She waited expectantly in the doorway, her hands buried in the pockets of her dark coat. "May I come in?"

He ushered her in and closed the door. She moved through the hallway, stopping three steps in, observing the dim stillness of the house.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

He gestured with his hand to take her coat, stepping behind her to assist. Their hands met at the rise of her shoulder and he lowered his head down to her ear, conspiratorially. "Isn't that what old spies do?" She turned ever so subtly towards him, as he knew she would and he felt a tiny thrill at the nearness of her cheek. Her lips parted slightly and they shared the same pocket of air, as he knew they would. Oblique; never straight on. That was their dance. Taking her coat, he gently placed it on a hook. "We're you followed?"

"That's the least of our worries," she retorted wryly.

That's a comfort, thought Harry; if there was nothing else between them, at least, they shared worries.

They stood in the hallway. This was their milieu. Hallways, corridors, alleyways. A moment stolen and then shattered by a call, a colleague, their own inelegance. She looked up at him. He had seen that look many times. It bespoke bad news and he realized she was not going to be forthright with said bad news. She licked her lips, confirming his suspicions that she was holding something back.

"How is Towers?" he asked, playing along, willing to engage in the smallest of talk if it kept her standing beside him.

"His ears are still ringing from the bomb. Can't hear a thing I say. Rather like my old boss."

"I always listened to you, Ruth," he stated softly, imbuing the words with a weight meant only for her.

Raising her brows, she opened her mouth as if to challenge him but decided against it.

"I'm sorry about the laptop," she said, steering the topic away from them. "Sasha was waiting in my car. Somehow he knew. I think one of us is compromised."

Harry nodded in agreement. "I found a bug in my car."

"Oh." She furrowed her brow as thoughts flickered across her face. She tried to remember what words they had spoken of in the warm intimacy of Harry's car. She continued with a feigned insouciance, "Well then, it's a good thing we didn't do anything..."

Harry's eyebrows lifted innocently. "Compromising."

Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced down, the corner of her mouth lifting, not so innocently.

Couldn't he ... couldn't she ... couldn't they just...

"Come," he commanded. Catching her small hand in his, he stepped towards the stairs. He felt her hand tense in his as she resisted, wary of his motives. He turned back to find her head tilted in question. "I need to show you something," he explained, the merest hint of entreaty in his voice.

They moved softly up the stairs, Harry still holding her hand, enjoying the feel of her slender fingers in his, amazed that she was allowing such contact after the past few frosty weeks but he was not about to question it. They crossed the landing and passed his bedroom. Images flashed across his mind and he fought the urge to pull her into the room, instead finding the resolve to carry on towards his study.

He entered the dark room, certain of his path, leaving her to hover by the door. He closed the blind and turned on the lamp, spilling a soft circle of light over the desk. She looked around at the scattered files and half-opened drawers.

"Did they search your house already?" she asked.

"No. This is all my doing. House cleaning." He reached over to a small black box on the desk and flicked a switch. 'Frequency jammer." He waved a hand towards the window. "They won't be able to hear us."

"Who?"

"The Cousins. The Russians. Our own. I don't know. But I certainly know an Obo van when I see one."

He fetched a glass from a nearby cupboard and crossed back to the desk. He held up a bottle of clear liquid. "Join me?"

She nodded and walked over to his desk. He stood before her, clinking the edge of the glass as he poured. They lifted their drinks in a token salute, looking at each other directly for the first time that evening. Ruth dropped her gaze first, concentrating on her tumbler as she took a sip.

"Vodka? Not your usual poison," she observed.

Harry rolled the liquid around in his mouth. "A present from our friend, Ilya Gavrik."

"I thought it tasted a little full of itself."

Harry smiled. This woman; what an impish little mind she had. He saw the wheels of that mind turning, assessing.

"You don't think it's been ...?" she asked, leaving the rest for Harry to fill in.

"Poisoned? No," he assured her. "He was drinking it himself. He paid me a visit this afternoon."

"He was here?" The information propelled her mind into overdrive. "Why? What is he playing at?"

"He came to tell me how gloriously fulfilling his life was, in contrast to the emptiness of my own."

"Your life is not empty," she hastened to assure him.

"I rattle around this big house, alone, while he has a wife. And a son."

"You didn't tell him about Sasha?"

"It's rather hard news for a man to hear."

"But you have a family. You have children."

"But they're not here, are they? And to top it off he has a tortoise in the garden."

Her brow furrowed. "Tortoise in the garden? Is that code for something?"

Once an analyst always an analyst.

"No," he responded, "It's a reptile that lives in his garden and apparently it looks like me."

Ruth couldn't suppress a grin as she sipped her vodka. "Speaking for myself, I'd rather have a cat."

Harry chuckled, easing himself into his chair, the leather gently creaking. Ruth stepped around the desk, stretching out her legs as she leaned back against the wood. There was a strange familiarity to the scene as if they were back in his office at Thames House. With no files to hide behind or pen to occupy her fingers, she drew small circles on the side of her glass. Mirroring her actions, he rubbed his thumb along the rim of his glass, feeling the absence of a tie to smooth, or a jacket to open and close. He sat before her, shoeless, feet in argyle socks completely bereft of his Section Head armour, feeling somewhat exposed in his opened shirt and rolled up sleeves. It was all rather unsettling, watching her watching him. He took a drink and her eyes followed his arm. He looked at her over the rim as he took a sip. She shifted, crossing her ankles and he noticed how the folds of her skirt fell away, showing the outline of her thighs, the fabric flowing down to her calves, encased in knee high boots, every inch of this woman covered in material. He looked at the layers of the skirt and wondered if he had seen it before or was it for the benefit of Towers. She diverted his attention by lifting her glass to take a drink. Finding it empty, she frowned and being a good host, he obliged by reaching over to the bottle and refilling their glasses. He raised his glass and took a large swig, hoping she had eaten; vodka was not a drink to be had without food. Although maybe a drunk Ruth wasn't such a bad idea. He, on the other hand, felt nothing, acutely aware of the volume alcohol he needed to drink these days in order to feel the warm numbness he had come to rely on. He shrugged off any more self-reflection and continued with their conversation.

"The kicker is, Gavrik knew about Elena and I."

Ruth choked a fraction on her drink. "What?"

"He knew that I turned her, that she spied for us, and that we had an affair." Ruth flinched. He had touched a wound. "But, he tells me his love for her was so deep, so profound, that he was able to forgive her treachery. And because of that, he has a wife, a son, a home, a tortoise in the garden and I have nothing'

"That's not true, Harry," she murmured.

He raised his eyes to her with a look of reproach, unspoken words hanging in the air – he didn't have her.

"Why did you come here tonight?" he asked in a low voice, hoping against hope that she would lean over and kiss him.

She kept her eyes lowered to the carpet and took a deep breath. "They want to extradite you."

Harry inhaled sharply. It was a punch in the stomach. He had suspected there would be reprisals but not one so great.

Ruth looked up at him. "Of course, Towers is fighting it but the Americans aren't letting up. I'm sure there's an element of payback for all the extraditions you've thwarted in the past, as well as the Coaver debacle. Towers has run out of ammunition. He keeps asking me questions and I can only tell him so much because I don't know if you've told me everything."

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his glass, contemplating his next move. The problem was he didn't want to move, he wanted to sit there all night, watching her lean against his desk, drowning himself in the high-priced Russian vodka and forget about the whole damn mess. It would only be a temporary oblivion. All the drink in the world could not free him from his past and he knew that his thoughts had summoned her there for a different reason. Standing up, he placed his glass on the desk and opened one of the bottom draws, pulling out a soft black leather case. He walked over to the safe on the other side of the room and spun the tumblers to unlock it. He pulled out a pile of files and three flash drives and brought them over to the desk.

"Before you came I was trying to figure out a way to get these to you. You're the only one a trust. The only one I have ever completely trusted."

"What are they?"

"My secrets." He held up a thumb drive.

"That's the one I gave you," she observed.

"Very helpful in preparing my report on your value to the Service."

"You never did show me what was in that."

"I'm not dead yet. Besides, I'm sure it's one of the first things you ferreted out once you joined the Home Office."

She pursed her lips and looked away. He knew her too well. No institution was safe.

He handed her the thumb drive, wondering if she ever thought of that night in the alley. He knew he had. Many times. He halted his thoughts before they ran to dangerous ground and produced another USB stick.

"This one contains a nice sampling of information on certain members of parliament."

"We could use this as leverage to fight your extradition."

Harry ran his hand over his face, pausing to think how he could explain it all to her. "I've been using Intel as leverage my entire career and I'm tired. Tired of outwitting one enemy only to turn around and find another in a different corner. It's time for me to face the judge, to own up to everything I've done. For all the times I've asked an officer to do the deed, for the times I've done it myself."

"But Harry, you have saved countless lives."

"The things we've done in the name of national security. None of us are clean, I least of all. I've bargained with the devil too many times. There comes a time when you have to pay the price."

"But why now?"

"I have no moves left, I've come to the end." He clenched his hand into a fist, the frustration with the situation coming through in his words. "I don't even know who I'm fighting."

"We can solve this together."

"I'm not dragging you any further down with me. I told you before; the embassy was the last thing I'd ask of you. I'll deal with this myself."

"Why won't you let me help you?"

"I don't need your help," he responded tersely, his voice low and tight. "I need to make sure that you're left with enough information so they can never hurt you."

"I can look after myself," she asserted.

"You're not listening to me!" he snapped at her.

"You're not listening to me!" she snapped right back.

"Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?"

"Why must you be so impossible?"

They stood glaring at each other, eyes challenging, waiting for the other to surrender. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tried to control his growing annoyance.

"Ruth, please..."

She expelled a gust of breath and with it part of her anger. "Fine. Show me."

He rolled a third memory stick in his palm, questioning the wisdom of giving it to her, knowing full well that she had not fully capitulated to his argument. In the end it would not matter, she was all he had. "This one contains assets that I still have contact with from my time at Six. Mostly out of the country if you need to go that route. And this," he pulled out a small leather bound book.

"Your little black book?" she inquired archly.

"I'm burning that." He handed the book over to her. "This is an assortment of rogues and vagabonds."

She opened the book and scanned the pages, taking a moment to register the names. She looked up at him in wonder. "You never told me."

"I'm telling you now," he countered. "Do with this what you will. I bequeath it all to you."

"Oh, Harry..." It was a sigh, a plea, a breath of resignation.

He gathered up the files and deposited them in the black pouch. "This is a list of safe houses that were never in the database at Five." He held up the last USB stick, "These are bank accounts that I have spread money over during my time in the service." He handed her the familiar wine coloured document of a British passport. "Should anything happen, you can access them through this identity, as my widow."

"Your widow?" She levelled her gaze at him.

He turned away from her. "When you returned, I thought it wise to construct a legend for you, in case we ever found ourselves entangled in someone else's machinations again," he told her matter-of-factly, it was business after all.

"And do you have the corresponding identity as my husband?"

"I have an identity for every occasion."

"Or every wife." she murmured, sarcasm creeping into her voice.

She would never let him forget, never make things easy for him.

"Always have an exit strategy," he continued.

"And what is your exit strategy?"

She looked at him. He ignored her question. Impossible man.

"That's it. That's everything," he said, with a tinge of resignation. "I'll dispose of the rest. No doubt, they'll tear the place apart. They might search yours too, so find a secure location to store it.'

He held the case out for her to take and they stood with it between them, Harry looking down at her, wanting to say more but not knowing what, feeling it all slip away. "You should go before they realise what we're up to."

She took the case from him and slipped the book inside, slowly dragging the zipper closed. She lowered her eyes and stood before him, her thumb absently rubbing the soft leather of the case. He watched as a valley formed between her brows, the crease that never fully disappeared, not as it once did when her forehead was smooth, less lined with care. It gave the appearance that she was always thinking, which he knew she was. He knew she was trying to work through this endless puzzle, rifling through the database of her mind to come up with a solution to the problem. There was none.

He let out a sigh, his breath stirring a stray strand of hair at her temple and, as he had many times before, he suppressed the urge to tuck it back into place. All the years of control, feelings in check, hope suspended, drawn to her but never acting on it. He wondered if she still felt it, that yearning for something more, an ache deep in her chest. His eyes fell to the scoop of her neckline, revealing the one exposed part of her skin, rising and falling enticingly before him. The faint hint of what was hidden underneath the fabric causing his heart to lodge in the back of his throat. He swallowed. It would be so easy to take her, to run away with her, to lose himself deep inside her. He closed his eyes, banishing the thoughts. He couldn't. It wouldn't be fair.

She moved her head as if to speak, her lips forming words but none came out. Her eyes darted about, her lip lower trembled and she bit on it, blinking rapidly.

"I should go then," she said softly.

"Yes," he whispered.

Neither moved. They stood completely still, barely breathing, not wanting to surrender the one final moment of intimacy. The quiet of the house permeated the room. He could hear the tick of the clock from downstairs. With heightened senses, he picked out her scent through the layers of her fragrance, the hair on the back of his neck tingling, a tightness spreading through his chest, his mouth dry. He waited, not daring to move, willing her to say something, anything that would let him know she still held feelings for him. That there was a place in her heart, after what had done, all the secrets she had learned about him. He had been a fool to let her go to the Home Office; he knew that he should have told her to stay. He wanted her to stay now, but he couldn't find the words. He had no right to ask, he had nothing to offer her, she was better off without him, but at that moment, she was standing so temptingly close. His chest moved with shallow breaths, his fingers opening and closing, wanting to touch her, restraining himself. She raised her eyes to him, large and dark in the dim light. He looked at her, holding her with his eyes, a hunger burning inside. Say it, he silently pleaded, say it.

"I don't want to go," she whispered.

It was all he needed.

With a force that surprised even him, he wound his arms around her, crushing her to him. All decorum vanished and he pressed his advantage, taking all he could before she had a chance to pull away. His mouth moved over hers, demanding, opening her lips, his tongue thrusting inside, filling her completely. Eyes shut, holding her tight, touching, tasting, stealing everything from her like a thief at a banquet, waiting to be caught out. One heartbeat, two, ten, he waited for her mind to catch up with his actions, for her to end the embrace. Instead, he heard a muffled thump behind him, the leather case hitting the floor as she unceremoniously dropped it. Her hands found their way over his shoulders, pulling him closer, her tongue awaking to play with his. Lost in the kiss, intoxicated by her, he felt a warmth no drink could ever provide. His hand ran along the curve of her hips, fingers pressing into softness, playing with the layers of her skirt, certain there was a woman beneath it all. She rippled against him, the hardness of her hipbone against his groin causing him to catch his breath. She was not all softness underneath, she could be hard and challenging which he found infinitely more alluring. Her hands moved over him, chest, back, hips, her touch far bolder than he had ever imagined. Kisses warm and wet, her breast moving against him, feeling her heat. His chest expanded at the thought of having her. His heart stopped only to start up again at ten times the pace.

Could he? Dare he?

In a single step, he moved her backwards, pushing her against the desk, the impact of their bodies toppling a pile of papers, secrets falling away, fluttering to the floor. Caught between him and the desk, she rose on her toes, his hands bending her back as she arched into him. With little effort, he inched her onto the desk, sliding her across the surface, tipping over an empty glass and sending it rolling off the edge, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The heat of the moment outpaced their thoughts, reducing them to hot breaths and pounding hearts. His hand found its way under her skirt, sliding up her thigh, hitching back the material so he could stand between her legs. Fingers kneading into her flesh, he worked his way around to her back, pulling her into him. Clutching, grasping, searching for access. Warm breath in his ear, he heard her gasp. Her hand came down to still his.

"Harry," she tried to stop him through his kisses.

No, no not yet.

"Harry," she repeated.

A small voice in his head told him to slow down, to remember all the times that he had overstepped the mark that this woman would never be won in haste. It was silenced the clamour of a louder voice telling him that he that had waited for years, that this could be his last chance. His lips moved to her jaw, his tongue licking its way to her ear.

"Please don't tell me to stop."

"Not here," she panted against his cheek.

Why not here amongst the vodka and shredded pieces of his life? His hand slid up to cup her breast and she moaned softly. He found a delicious spot on her throat and paused to taste it. If this was his last meal, he was going to savour every piece of it. He would unwrap her and find the woman beneath these layers if it was the last thing he did. He tried to move her jacket out of the way but couldn't quite figure it out. His fumbling fingers slowed their pace, giving them a moment to breathe. He let out a growl of frustration, aware that she was smiling at his lack of finesse.

"What is this contraption?" he grumbled.

"It's called a belt," she answered, amused at how the simple accessory had slowed down his progress.

He moved to let her undo it as he continued to kiss her neck. "Why do you have to wear so many layers?"

"Decency."

"It's highly overrated." He smiled as he helped her slide the jacket down and over her arms. He brought his head back to look at her. "I don't think I've ever seen your arms."

"Of course you have."

His fingers encircled her wrist, so very tiny. His thumb massaged her pulse point then moving to follow the trail of veins up her inner arm. This creature of bone and sinew. This thinking, feeling woman that he had loved for so long; who existed before they met, carried on for a time without him and would continue to live after he was gone. He had only wanted to cherish her, protect her. He trailed his fingers up her to shoulder and along her beautiful collarbone, pausing to trace over a freckle and stopping at the dip where a silver necklace usually rested. He looked up and into her eyes, arrested by their blueness. Why on earth had he wanted to rush this experience? His hand slid behind her neck cradling the back of her head and he kissed her deeply, lovingly, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet stillness of the moment.

She gently disentangled herself from him and eased herself off the desk. She took his hand. "Come."

He turned off the desk lamp, cloaking them in darkness.

Picking her way through the strewn papers, she led him to the door, and out into the twilight of the hall. He followed her, enjoying how the folds of her skirt swayed at her hips. Memories flashed through his mind of all the times he had curbed his impulses, resisted the urge to touch her, kiss her. He turned her and pushed her up against the wall, capturing her with his mouth, letting his hands roam over her, under her top, over her ribs, squeezing the soft flesh of her breasts. He pulled back, breathless.

She gave him a sly smile, a hint that she knew what he had been thinking. She leant in and kissed the notch at his collarbone, brushing her tongue into the dip, trailing up his neck, and over to lick his ear, eliciting a groan from deep inside him. He would have to be careful. If anyone could make him reconsider his exit strategy, it would be her. She slipped out from between the wall and him, taking his hand one more time and carrying on towards his bedroom.

Don't let them come tonight, he silently prayed, give me a few hours with this woman.

As if in answer to his silent plea, the clock chimed, the minute hand slowed and time relented, giving over the night to them.