****SMUT WARNING: FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS 'M' RATED THEMES****

(^^^^don't blame me, its there in bold, red letters, or it was^^^^)

A/N: Just a reminder that this fiction is AU, and canon predictability is not observed, as relates characters actions, or certain events. There is smut, so if either circumstance is not in keeping with your sensibilities, I would only encourage you to turn back now. Otherwise, feel free to comment by way of review, or PM, your thoughts and opinions, as smut is reaching fairly deeply into the darkened, and largely ignored, recesses of my writing wheelhouse. I do hope you enjoy, and let me know in a manner comfortable to each, regardless.

"It isn't that hard boy to like you or love you

I'd follow you down down down,

You're unbelievable

If you're going crazy just grab me and take me

I'd follow you down down down, anywhere anywhere

One for the money, two for the show

I love you honey, I'm ready, I'm ready to go

How did you get that way? I don't know

You're screwed up and brilliant,

Look like a million dollar man,

So why is my heart broke?"

**Million Dollar Man, Lana Del Rey

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In the rare moments he allowed himself to remember her, the contours of her face, the arch of brow and intricate combination of colors combining to create that liquid blue he'd no name for that were the kaleidoscope of her eyes, the scar just to the side of one. The pulse that beat in her neck, against his lips, her skin unimaginably soft and pliant, the individual lilt of her voice as she half breathed his name aloud, the day, that day, would live in his memory as significant, taking on a life of its own, becoming part of the carefully guarded collection of memories which were set aside, special in occurrence, the after effects rumbling within him for years to come.

Most would assume it the result of an attempted coup against the Royals, or the near death of a favored Section Chief under his wing. Possibly the eventual and recorded "suicide" of Angela Wells, once a soaring beacon and trusted colleague, devolved into a vengeful, bitter, shell of her once bright and stellar existence; Or perhaps the knowledge that he had been targeted by forces unseen within their ranks, first to draw blood in their collective manipulative and duplicitous support of Angela, the collateral damage bearing the name Ruth a given, a weakness identified and catalogued.

The truth, however, was nothing to do with these things, occurrences happening within the twenty-four hours that defined one day from the next. The truth was simpler by comparison, and fundamentally personal, exempt from the fray that marked the moments of his professional life, and all the more potent to him for it. It would, despite all that had occurred, and all the damage accrued as a result, be remembered as the day wherein he experienced the single most erotically satisfying moment in his life.

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If he were honest with himself he would admit to being more than just slightly turned on while manipulating Ruth into confronting Angela. Her hesitation, discomfort, and vulnerability at the suggestion had been as much a turn on to him as if she had presented herself, stark naked, begging for him to take her. Like a virgin, she had appeared to him, venturing into the unknown, excited, scared, aroused, needing to be coaxed, needing to be instructed, flushed with experience and wonder, shame and self-doubt. It had been a heady cocktail, one which he hadn't encountered in quite some time, believed he never would again.

The shame of that self realization did nothing to temper his desire, fueling his underlying need to make her see what she could do, what she was capable of, her brilliant potential, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as it had hers. Her spoken, repeated refusals had only resolved him to push her harder. To mold her, to reach deep beyond known comforts, to trust him, only him, making her his agent exclusively, because isn't a spy really nothing more than a modern day Svengali, a hypnotist, manipulating others do their bidding?

That his decision of choice carried with it the sanction of Queen and Country did little to alter the fact that he did it because he could, because he wanted to, because he wanted her, and he selfishly wanted her to want him back, and was unwilling to abide further delay. Heartbreakingly, it was at that moment that he rather saw himself from outside himself, watched as he manipulated this delicately vulnerable creature with his eyes, his few words, his need, as Adam valiantly attempted to protect her, as she scurried to hide deep within herself, he reached in and pulled her back, exposed, shamed into doing what he wanted, knowing himself capable at the outset. Freud might conclude he raped her, if not physically, then metaphorically, mentally and emotionally, and he knows which scars last the longest. But Freud was a bed-whetter who can kindly go fuck himself. He didn't rape her, take from her what she would not offer despite their shared remit, shared duty, his need. He just...Just...Oh, to bloody hell with it.

In the hall, the anger and adrenaline was emanating from her in bursts of flame and fire as she tried to wound him with words, attempted to discount his praise, his congratulations, judging him, resenting him, and it became too much for him to dismiss, his fingers grasping at his sides, his head dizzy with his physical desire for her, and his need for her to admit he knew her, conceding both his dominance and her submission.

"You think I'm a limited man! You think I don't understand the emotional side? Self control, self denial, these are the things which keep us together in this job.

The outburst, because that is exactly what it had been in hindsight, the urge overcoming him, words bursting from him in frustration, and want, and an all powerful need for her to forgive him, understand him. He'd simply come undone, momentarily disregarding the very ideals he was breathing in lecture. He gave in, grabbing her as she moved to extricate herself, pushed her against the corridor wall, and it took every bit of restraint his unravelling mind could muster not to press his body against hers, ravage her mouth, thrust his hardening cock against her. That was the moment, one penultimate moment, when reaching blindly for her absolution in details like self control and self denial, he forced her to admit that she loved, deep inside herself, that she had accomplished her goal, talked Angela out of the room, literally diffusing a bomb, extracting from her both her shame and delight to acknowledge as the same.

"Aren't you proud you told the lie? Aren't you proud you talked Angela out of that room?"

That was the moment when he knew there would never, in whatever time remained to him, be another for him. Knew, in his heart, she would both destroy him, and reform him from the rubble remaining. She will make you bleed. Her whispered, God forgive me, became both her instant of acquiescence and his own silent prayer spoken aloud, delicious to him as their eyes locked and he could see she delighted in his approval despite herself, begging absolution for unavoidable actions they both held clasped to their chests after the fact.

Paradoxically, time accelerated, roaring towards a screeching crescendo, the sudden halting advancement equally thundering to him, and he understood himself bereft then of both his lauded self control and self denial, his heart grateful despite him. The encounter evolved quickly then, from his manipulation, and her proffered lies, into its own breathing animal, each wanting to tear the other, their individual wants forming the primary focus propelling them both forward into territory previously imagined, and only very slightly tread upon. Pupils dilating, breathing coming in quick, rasping bursts, his cock aflame and throbbing, and she, her lips and chin trembling deliciously, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, nervous and torturously aroused, he could almost feel her desire to place her hands on him, lightheaded with his own yearning for her to act. He could have stood there for the rest of time, smiling into the apocalypse when it all mercifully came to an end.

That he had succeeded in achieving his own long since established personal goal, that attempt to push her beyond what she limited herself to, initiated deliberately with Fortescue, nurtured in turns by Adam and himself, was a forgone conclusion waiting in the distance to be met, and surpassed. And when she confessed to having the missing microdot reader, her face that combination of shame and relief, he'd found himself stepping towards her, leaning in, so close, for no other reason known to him but that he wanted to be close, closer still, her lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth as she turned her head, and he could smell her excitement, he could smell her arousal, as she sagged against the wall in exhaustion, chest heaving...God help him, that was the moment, of so many moments, all of them.

Alone, a mere hair's breath separating them, it was that precise moment when he knew, instinctively, for perhaps the first time a certainty, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, on the precipice, each waiting for the other to act, drowning. Had they been alone, had they been anywhere else, had this been any other time in any other universe, he would have taken her immediately, roughly, against the wall, and his ears would have rung a chorus as she continued to pant his name in time with his furious thrusts intended to claim her, mark her his forevermore. And for the first time, he relished his new found understanding she would have let him, allowed the idea liberty to drape itself around his previous imaginative fantasies, closing his eyes as he inhaled her scent, knowing she was wet, responding to the certainty despite where they were, exposed and yearning in a darkened hallway. God, forgive me.

"You're a born spook, Ruth."

He had torn himself from her side, the action within his head sounding loudly like a ripping, her eyes bearing that combination of yearning and hesitation he so frequently saw reflected in his own, rending him without sound direction for the first foundling steps away from her. Becoming surer as he established distance between them, he reentered the Grid, the scent of her still filing his nostrils, and the certainty he could not tear himself fully from her if he'd wanted to flushing his face with a soft, seemingly post-coital glow. It was a testament to his powers of imagination that though he had not touched her, availed himself of her moist arousal, he could nevertheless smell her on his fingertips, the urge to suck one after the other proving difficult to surmount, despite present company, or circumstance.

He could not count himself surprised, then, to find their world so recently righted, turned over again as the breadth of Angela's blind became known. Double blind, in truth, and if he'd a hat, he would have doffed it in salute to her skill in duping them all so summarily. It had been Ruth, of course, as it had to be, eyes bright with churning adrenaline, cheeks still flushed and dewy, whether from their recent interaction, or the rising new threat, he couldn't guess, but it was she who had identified the continuing threat, the unspeakable becoming reality while they had foolishly assumed all was well and righted in the world.

He had been struck by the irony that it had been Jo, a veritable foundling still, her foundation of experience when compared to her colleagues best described as infantile, who had vehemently counseled against the course chosen, victim in the field, and laughably tragic that had even one of them bothered to really listen to her, instead of dismiss her objections as suffering the predictable effects of some measure of PTSD, all could have been avoided, if not altogether prevented sooner than it was. A testament, too, to both his habitual distraction and willful disregard in favor of reaching Ruth, of taking her temperature, of forcing yet another opportunity not earned to visually fondle and touch her culminating in precious time lost and nearly unspeakable consequences.

As it happened, Adam was now on leave for six weeks recuperating from a near fatal gunshot wound, Angela Wells was dispatched by way of Black Flag Order, and Ruth had become, though he was loathe to lend the idea any credence, that weakness to him identified by factions within the Security Services as yet unidentified and undisclosed. He had, he knew, fucked up, magnificently so, and his secret fear that she should come to harm for her association with him began to take well defined shape and form within the darkened corners of his more masochistic imaginings.

As they drove the unusually quiet streets towards hospital, he made a mental note to review the transcripts of her debriefing, conducted by him in the absence of Adam, and imagined the number of redactions necessary prior to it being stamped official, and filed within the stacks lining the bowels of Registry. That is, if he bothered to file it at all. He hadn't planned on it then, and certainly not now, after the fact. It was one thing to be surveilled without knowledge of such; Entirely another to provide proof for speculations suggesting they were, he and Ruth, involved personally, or spotlight her as an appropriate and effective means with which to manipulate him.

The debrief, as it remained presently unadulterated, lent truth to the gossips, each statement bearing hidden meanings, some all but announcing their intentions, desires, wants, and while he was unwilling to halt the exercise at the time, he understood the dangers it would pose should it fall into the wrong, manipulative hands. He had enjoyed it, if he were honest. He had, in his secret imaginings, fantasized any number of circumstances in which to interrogate her, and he was at a loss to stop himself when presented the opportunity in Adam's absence. The simple fact was, he'd been rock hard at the outset, and his condition only worsened the more insolent she became, gradually thawing, and finally, mercifully, allowing him the confessions he'd only dreamt about, I wanted it, as much as you.

Truth was, he'd never intended to allow criminal charges brought against her, prepared to call in any number of markers to ensure it, and the exercise of debriefing was singularly selfish on his part, that fortunate detail canopied by protocol which allowed him details he would otherwise be left to guess at. In all likelihood, the debrief would reside safely within the confines of his state of the art safe, or be destroyed entirely in an unfortunate incident involving fire. Its not the first time he'd be forced to such measures, and he doubted it the last. It remained, however, primary on the ever evolving list of items he was charged to protect at all costs, regardless however self serving that mandate could be legitimately catalogued.

At hospital, she had materialized, quiet as vapor, at his side where he sat, alone, awaiting updates on Adam's condition, a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, and cell phone in the other. Offering him the former, she quickly dialed, held the phone to her ear, and mouthed the word 'Jenny' as if he'd any reason to understand her meaning, let alone associate the name with anything relevantly obvious at that moment. He listened as she spoke to Jenny, realizing after a few moments she had remembered the nanny, the need to inform her the current circumstances a responsibility that should have fallen to him obvious, assuring her that Adam was, despite a gunshot wound, expected to make a full recovery, softly pleading with her to reassure Wes that his father was fine, and would be home in a few short days. Adam was, as he listened, the apparent victim of a mugging gone perilously wrong, and Jenny was understandably concerned. He was silently proud as he watched Ruth effortlessly spin a suitable fabrication, watching the play of her facial features as she calmly soothed Jenny's worries, and not a little grateful that she had warmed to the task in his failure.

"Yes, absolutely, I'll make arrangements for Wes to visit. Yes, tomorrow earliest, I'm afraid. He's a bit too high for the boy at the moment. No, he's in fine humor, really. Yes, thank you. Well, I could stop by if you think...Are you sure? If you...Yes, of course. Uh, yes, very unfortunate. Wrong place, wrong time, that. Thank you, Jenny, and I'll make the arrangements."

"Wrong place, wrong time?" He concentrated on the curve at the corner of her mouth, rather than the sarcasm decorating his words, his own mouth forming an impish grin of its own accord.

"Well, I couldn't very well tell her Adam was shot by a rouge agent intent on detonating the entire Royal family, now could I?"

"By Heavens no, Ruth. A mugging...That...That works. Its good, actually."

"Well, its not first date material, but it'll due, in any case."

"First date?"

"Hummm? Oh, no, I...Its just I often find myself thinking about topics in terms of dating. You know, first date, second date? I'm fairly certain detonating bombs falls somewhere in the teens. To answer your next question, that is."

"That's...well, an interesting approach, Ruth. I wonder, do the rules change if you find yourself already abreast the circumstances?"

"What?"

"I'm...What? I'm continuing on your theme. This is your theory. So, if both parties know the circumstances, does the topic become more or less approachable?"

"More. I think. No. Well, yes. Somewhat. Never mind."

He watched her as she shuffled nervously from foot to foot, peering over his shoulder, down the hallway to his right, all the while rummaging within the depths of her seemingly bottomless bag, avoiding eye contact and he knew without being told she was working up to something, her fidgeting appearing more of an attempt to muster courage which he could only assume was stockpiled somewhere in her bag. His mouth twitched into a brief smirk as he heard her huffed sigh of exasperation, and the loud thunk the contents of her bag made as she slung it over her shoulder having decided to forego further delving.

"I wonder...Do you fancy a drink, Harry? With me? A drink. At a pub, or...not? There's an off license round corner. Did you know? Not that I'm suggesting you would, um, know the locations of off licenses, that is. I just really don't fancy going home just yet...or at all...or, drinking alone-"

He rather enjoyed that moment she finally made direct eye contact, the jolt deep within him resonating as if the few minutes she had spent deliberately avoiding doing so was hours in the waiting. He couldn't imagine a time in which he would fail to be entranced by her shifting attitudes, a changeling, at once confident and nervously self conscious, effortlessly adopting one from the other, and he the intended observer attempting to keep up.

"Nor should you have to. Tell me, would this count as a first date, Ruth? I'm just trying to gage appropriate topics of discussion."

"I...Couldn't we just, um, well-"

"Ruth? As adorable as I may find your current inability to enunciate clearly, which, to be clear, I do, I must confess a likewise sudden dire need for alcohol, even better coupled with a peaceful view. So I'll save you continued verbal self flagellation and opt, first, for the off license, followed by a spot off the beaten path I think you might like, yes?"

"Yes. Please. And you can talk about whatever you want. If you want. All topics are fair game. So, more approachable, to answer your question. Earlier-"

"I'm older, Ruth, but remain, even in my deteriorating physical state, mercifully untouched by Alzheimer's, I'll thank you to know."

"I...You're hardly old, Harry. As for your physical state, its hardly what I would describe as deteriorating."

"I see. So do you spend a fair amount of time evaluating the condition of my body, or is this just a one off? Tell the truth."

He had chosen the volley deliberately, assuming a teasing tone he hoped would engage her, rather than ignite her customary skittishness, smiling openly as his efforts were quickly rewarded.

He tried not to consider how very much he wanted to know the answer.

"You really are incorrigible, Harry."

For a split second, before she'd predictably turned away, looking down, his heart danced internally for recognizing the mischievous glint in her eyes was not his imagination playing tricks, was not his desire coloring beyond the lines, was not some fantastical flight of fancy gone unchecked. His mind immediately recalled the corridor earlier, and his intuition relayed to his desperate internal yearnings that she had merged, once again, from skittish, nervous hummingbird into confident, predatory hawk in the blink of an eye. Placing his hand along her lower back, fingertips barely there, massaging the electric space between, softly, carefully, as though brushing the surface of some rare and delicate artifact whose existence was thought to be impossible, he leaned close to her ear, whispering, while expertly propelling her forward.

"And that's you avoiding answering my question, Ruth. Shall we?"

She smelled of freesia, and he thought this unexpected escapade would either prove to be the best or worst decision he had ever allowed himself to make.

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The off license was suitably bright, the lights harsh and curiously unwelcoming, and he was silently amused to note the number of security cameras present nearly rivaled the number surrounding, and placed within, Whitehall. The cooled air was dry and concentrated, reminiscent of airline travel, and within a very few short moments he found his nose uncomfortably dry, the back of his throat irritated and scratchy, the clerk behind the counter acknowledging them with a nod, and a not so subtle eyeing head to toe, dismissing them as a threat, returning his attention to the paper spread on the counter before him. Five-seconds, he thought, and then wondered if the clerk had any idea the damage that could be done in a mere five-seconds.

They had not held hands as they walked, not in the definitive sense, though they had brushed shoulders, arms, and the backs of their hands with enough frequency that she had finally wrapped her hand around the crook of his arm, leaning into him as she placed the other along the top of his forearm, squeezing intermittently, filling, by touch, the absence of conversation. He concentrated hard on not feeling the softness of her breast against him, as she leaned further into him, his focus almost entirely succumbing to her body's movements, adjustments, each of them responding to the other without hesitation. Once inside, the recycled air became frigid as she stepped away, the half of his body previously warmed by hers growing numb as it lost contact, his muscles stretching towards where she had been, now gone.

Having selected his bottle with little effort or consideration, he watched in quiet amusement as she deliberated her choice, the nail of her thumb stuck firmly between her teeth, eyes squinting as she reviewed the already chilled selections of white wines on display. She had opened and closed the refrigerated doors no less than three times, having decided inexplicably against whatever option had struck her, each door fogging repeatedly as a result of her apparent indecision.

He was, quite literally, moments away from relieving her of further indecisiveness, having immediately spied a favorite limited Spanish Rose, and experienced a moment of absolute delight when she casually reached in and selected the very vintage he'd had every intention of choosing for her had she continued to try his patience. He tried not to think about the fact that they had each chosen a bottle with the unspoken intention of consuming both separately, and rewarded his restraint by allowing himself to wonder, not without some curiosity, how soon her inhibitions would be affected as she crested, and then slid down into a languid state commonly referred to as 'skin full.'

Placing the selected bottles on the counter, establishing eye contact with the clerk briefly, squinting hard at his knowing smirk which suggested, Ah, there's a successful pull, he distracted himself by meditating the routine they had established in response to situations which were either fatal, or narrowly evaded, interrupted when she reached around him and placed an additional package on the counter, whispering, For the 'on the go' picnickers close enough to his ear that he unconsciously turned his head towards her, and felt her lips briefly brush his ear lobe.

The basket which boasted, amongst other things, two plastic glasses and a wine opener, was wrapped in cellophane, and it struck him humorous that it appeared almost comical, hermetically sealed against both infectious disease and theft, though not necessarily in that order, leaving him to wonder how long it would take to retrieve the items inside, visualizing the nightmare that releasing a CD from its casing had become in the modern age.

Throughout, his mind hummed with anticipation, his movements experiencing some measure of ten second delay, proving unintentionally fortunate for the clerk, Is this happening, forming the reverberating question his mind insisted on asking despite all evidence confirming it was happening, his reality, mercifully, alining itself briefly with his personal desire. To his equal delight and frustration, she continued to add items, ice, a mini cooler, a bottle of soda water, For when my wine in gone, and a single package of bubble gum, whose addition had him turning to look at her incredulously, So I don't smoke, her softly uttered reply. He did a fair imitation of Scarlet, head tilted to the side as if the concept were entirely unknown to him, and he were left waiting further demonstration, but she offered only a soft smile, and no further comment. Or additional items, thankfully.

If he closed one eye, he could see how this fit, the subtle alteration in pattern, diverging from the previously habitual specter of death and unexpected fatalities, and evolving into a planned Black Flag sanctioned death bringing them together, at her suggestion, and he could easily sell himself on the idea it all represented progress of a sort. Progress, viewed through one eye, squinting, and entirely disregarding of Adam's current condition, Angela's subsequent death by 'suicide,' and as yet unidentified factions holding him firmly in their sightline. Right.

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"Harry? Where are we going?"

Her voice carried with it a feeling like velvet, plush and rich, deep, and he found himself wanting to roll himself up in it, feel the texture on his skin, stretch and luxuriate within it. They had been driving further from the city, making small talk, the silences in between spoken word expanding longer in length, the weight of the past forty-eight hours beginning to take its toll on her.

"We're almost there. Its by the water, an old, abandoned silo. I come out here sometimes to, um, just be alone. Its secluded, and...If I'm honest, Ruth, I thought you might prefer...The surveillance hasn't been removed, and I'm not altogether confident mine is any, um, safer...So, I just thought somewhere on the outskirts would be the best alternative. But, we can go back if-"

"No. Its very...You're very...I'm sure it will be fine, Harry. I trust you."

She had been turned towards the passenger window, watching the landscape pass, and he risked a quick glance at her admission owing to the fact that if he were another kind of man, a better kind of man, he would turn the car around and head back towards the city, a place full of people whose presence formed the kind of impediment in population to men who shouldn't be trusted that was fantastically absent in the spot he had in mind. Because, after the past day's events he knew, in his heart, he couldn't be trusted with her anymore. Visions of the corridor materialized again and he was more resoundingly certain than any time previous he required the supervision of others to filter his urges, to maintain that boundary, however dissolving presently, which would ensure she remain unsullied by him.

He wouldn't turn around, however, an ice cube stood a better chance. He couldn't, not for any altruistic reasoning, but for the selfish fact that he wanted her alone, he wanted her without any means of viable escape. He wanted, more than anything he could ever remember wanting, to place her in that specific circumstance wherein she could do nothing but talk to him without running away, or escaping, forced by solitude to look at him, and see him. Because he was very good at manipulating his ends, just as she had said. You're exceptionally gifted at that.

"Is that it?"

Pointing towards the single fixture on the horizon, he gazed at her as she internally gaged distance, tilting her head slightly as her eyes took in his intended destination.

"That's it, yes. Completely abandoned. There's only a few of us left that know how to gain access inside. We could, if you wanted-"

"No. I mean, its not that I wouldn't. Its lovely out, is all. I feel as though we've been cooped up for an age. I just want to breathe, feel the breeze against my face...Can we just sit out? Have you a blanket, or something?"

"A blanket. A suitcase. Let's see, a hack knife, collapsable fishing pole, first-aid kit. Two bottles of wine. Uncontaminated, hermetically sealed wine key. All that's missing is a tent."

He could literally feel his devolution, the stripping of his extensive experience, his skill, his over ripe ability to reduce women in pliable mounds of yearning and need, each word spoken becoming that hallmark of nervous verbal ejaculate characteristic of a fumbling novice. Rather than feeling insubstantial, as he would have expected, he felt a keen euphoria, as though this was exactly as was intended, that those before her were merely prelude, and this, now, was what it felt like to hand yourself over to another, your years previous so much research for the main event, the appetizer to what he hoped would be the main course he would consume for the rest of his breathing days, and then some.

"We've hardly a need for a tent, Harry. I love laying under the stars. Tents just get in the way. If I'd known, I would have grabbed the ingredients for S'mores."

In the darkness of the idle car, she met his eye, the corner of her mouth curling, caught in shadow, her chin dipping towards her chest as she looked down and away, and his mind fixated on the word laying so resoundingly he was more than best pleased the interior of the car was shrouded in darkness. At the mention of S'mores, his vision literally exploded with images of Ruth lapping at sweet, melting combinations of marshmallow and chocolate, her tongue running the length of cookie, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the shudder he'd experienced deep in his chest proved a mild stroke as the images became more detailed the longer he granted them license to dance. Unaware of the tangent his thoughts had taken, she released her door, and the car was suddenly illuminated, allowing him a moment to see her smile clearly. He almost felt his pupils adjust to the sudden illumination, funneling the surrounding environment down until only she remained. He bit his tongue before giving voice to his intuition that she was, only slightly surprisingly, a bit of a tease. I don't know the half of her.

"I should warn you now, Ruth. The days of me sitting cross-legged on a rug are long gone."

"So, I'm to interpret that as you'll not join me out here?"

"I didn't say that. Just, over that ridge, we can rest our backs, or my back, and still see the stars. Okay?"

"Lead the way. I'm game."

"Are you? I'll make a note of it."

Just like that, his devolution became complete as he was reduced to a fumbling adolescent, all thumbs and urges, hard on that would cut glass, wanting to touch everything all at once, completely undone by the power women would forever hold over men, without the slightest understanding how, or why.

"I'm beginning to get the distinct impression you think me rather easy, Harry."

"Well, you did ask me if I fancied a drink-"

"And you who decided to drive us out to...to...Bloody hell, I don't know where, to consume it! So, if I'm easy, then you're doubly so."

"I'm a very easy, Ruth. Ask anybody."

"No need. I've read your file. You appear easy enough for half the population if S24's are anything to go by."

"You've...Did you just tell me you've read my file?"

They had nearly reached the ridge, and he could smell the water, reminding him how much he loved the water, craved it, and he was so distracted by the habitual desire to set sail, preferably with Ruth at his side, that he thought to have misheard her.

Almost.

"Yes, I did. And, yes, I have."

"My confidential, highly classified personnel file?"

"That's the one. Just put the ice in the cooler, Harry. But not the gum. What? It makes it too hard to chew?"

She had been shaking out the blanket, intending to release whatever hazards she thought the result of residing idle in his boot, and he had stopped unwrapping the various items they'd purchased, staring blank faced as she admitted to yet another breach of protocol within the last forty-eight hours, bringing her total, now, to approximately three.

That he knew of.

"Ruth? Stop for a second. Why...What...No, how did you get my file?"

"After all this time, Harry, you're asking that with a straight face? Really?"

Her face, if he had to describe it, bore an almost bored facade, with eyebrows raised as if meant to communicate, Oh, you silly, misguided man.

"Do you even...Can you conceive the magnitude of infraction you've just admitted to?"

"I'm guessing, by the look on your face, its shockingly spectacular, yes."

Again, she gave every indication of not simply boredom, but an offensive amount of disinterest, as if tasting something, and deciding it need more spice. Unbelievable, this woman.

"Well, you think? I mean, what would you expect me to do with that, if you were in my position?"

He concentrated deliberately on not imagining exactly the helpless picture he was certain he made as he stood there, incredulous, arms slicing the air at his sides for emphasis, inquiring as to what she thought the best course of action would be.

"Ideally? Nothing. At least not right this second. Rather a mood killer if I'm honest."

That was a smirk. She's bloody smirking. At him. Right now. And as quickly as his ire stoked red, his soul grasped at the words mood killer, and he was left floundering for words appropriate to reprimand, yet not deleterious to mood. So, of course, he lashed out, as was his way when backed into a corner at cross purposes.

And meditating the curve of her mouth.

And the resulting desire to lick it.

"I...God damn, Ruth, you-"

"No! God damn you, Harry! You just spent the better portion of twenty-four hours trolling through my bloody file! Which, of course, you've a right to do, as my boss, but its an invasion of my personal life, because that's the majority of the content when you get right down to it, and you bloody well know it! So, yes, I looked at your file, read all the sordid little details. Quite a collection of females, I'll give you that."

One moment smirking, half a second next blazing with so much fury he'd thought her so hot to the touch that if he risked trying to touch her, his fingerprints would be irretrievably altered. At least now, mercifully, he had her on the back foot, off balance, and he struck back, calmly, coating his voice in layers of honey and the melted chocolate he now desperately wished they had thought to include.

"When."

Christ, I want you.

"When, what?"

"When did you look?"

He had to admit, though it would be ill advised to state directly, she was rather adorable when riled. And she was clearly riled now, eyes like ice, face like a thundercloud because she knew he had caught her out, and left loathe to admit it. All that passion roiling within her, a better aphrodisiac he couldn't divine.

Not that he was at all inclined to search.

"Before."

"I'm sorry? Before, was it? Before what, exactly?"

"Before I left GCHQ."

"Ah, so that would be before today? In fact, that would be before I, what was it, trolled through your file?"

"Yes."

"So who invaded who first, Ruth? I suddenly feel very soiled. Just filthy."

It was all too rich for him, really. Like taking a bite out of a decadent dessert after having fasted for months, the sugar acting like an injection of adrenaline, and you can't help yourself but inhale the remaining and request another.

"Shut up."

"Oh, I do. I just feel so violated it should be considered a complete breach of protocol punishable by severe action."

Try as he might, which in truth he had to admit wasn't his best effort, he could not curb his propensity to milk her down to the dregs of her diminishing anger, enjoying the view as she maneuvered, deciding alternate tacts, discarding them, the emotions playing clearly on her face.

"I don't want to argue with you, Harry."

Ah, so its to be the velvety, cajoling, liquor-laced soft voice used to reestablish mood. It struck him as not so coincidental that it was the same tone she used to calm him when he was operating under the canopy of furious, frustrated, insolent, or any combination of the three. But it had always been her, his consciousness listing a bit as he realized what everyone had already surmised on the Grid. Had he really been that transparent?

He deliberated whether it wise to push further, the risk inherent both appealing and seductive to him, but instead concluded jocular amusement as his best option. The mood, as far as he was concerned, had only heightened during the exchange. Not for a moment had there been the slightest risk that it would diminish, or extinguish altogether, and he saw, in her bright eyes, she interpreted it in like manner.

"Oh no. No way. Not that easy, Ruth. You'd argue until the cows came home if you didn't already know you were first at fault. Admit it. Go on, I'm waiting. Just me and the stars, and the booze we've yet to open."

"I think this would all go so much soother if you would hand me that wine key."

He had to admire her tenacity. And, just as easily, her cleavage as she leaned down to clasp one of the bottles by it's neck, and he almost lost track of his thoughts as they were replaced by a variety more distinctly lurid in nature.

"While we're on the topic of personnel files of a psychiatric theme, perhaps there's a bit more you'd like to divulge concerning yours? Perhaps something along the lines of explaining the apparent end run you performed on yours sometime in the not so recent past?"

"Please, hand me the wine key."

Tenacious, this one. I absolutely adore you, Ruth. The thought, unbidden, reached the tip of his tongue before he'd managed to curb the urge to give it voice. The need to do so, nevertheless, became a throbbing ache within him.

"You know, in some countries a wine key is considered a lethal weapon. Can you be trusted? Have you had the proper training?"

He had offered it to her, palm out, retracting it quickly, ever the adolescent, before she could grasp it, and his mind conjured another moment wherein they had exchanged an item, their fingers refusing to release the others, palpating, electric. Image freshly breathing in his mind, he released the wine key to her, and again their fingers deftly probed each individual palm, extended this time, their eyes locked together, a potently heady adjustment to the image living in his head.

"I can assure you the only thing I'm planning to murder in the immediate future is the cork in my bloody wine, Harry. You? I've decided it best to kill you slowly."

"Good to know."

He saw the words uttered long ago, She will make you bleed, floating like ticker-tape across his thoughts, his mind's eye reading them as they scrolled, his single thought, Yes, please, forming a heartbeat later.

"Yes, death by paper cuts. It will be painful, but you can reconcile yourself for having earned it."

"I remain at a complete loss how I'm the one at fault here, Ruth."

"You're not. But you are terribly amusing when all wound up."

Deftly removing the corks of both bottles, she leaned across him to gather the cups, and he was mesmerized by the play of her back muscles as they worked beneath her shirt, imagining them under his hands, shuttering with the force of orgasm.

"Sooo, you're admitting fault? And that you find me amusing? Genial? Dare I say, forgivable?"

"Yes. Yes. Um, no, not genial. Against my better judgement, yes."

"Good. That's good, then. Not genial?"

"No. More, um engaging, I would say."

"But forgiven."

"Yes."

"Good."

"And me, then?"

"Oh, I find you very genial."

"Harry-"

"And forgiven. Entirely, Ruth. Always."

"Well, then I can look forward to resuming a normal sleep pattern."

"Alone?"

"What?"

"Oh, that just...Wow, I shouldn't have-"

He had been so entranced watching her as she drank from her glass, the liquid rolling down her throat, and the muscles moving in time to accommodate, imagining the feel of movement against his tongue, that he'd quite magnificently failed to realize he'd given unintended voice to his normally silent musings.

"But you want to know just the same."

"Wha-"

"If I am currently sleeping alone?"

"I don't-"

Bloody hell, yes, absolutely. It wasn't simply that he wanted to know, it was that he needed to know so that he could assuage those many insecurities railing at him that she couldn't possibly remain alone, wasn't alone presently, could pull just as easily as he could, and frequently had. The resulting vision of her in the throws with some shifting figure wearing Gary's face, or Peter's, or Fortescue's hulking mass nearly brought to the surface the wine he had moments before consumed.

"Yes. You do. You want to know."

The banter between them had been flowing at such a comfortable pace he'd quite lost track of himself finding himself dumbfounded by her assertion, desperate to reclaim the upper hand she had so deftly reasserted, and yearning to admit the accuracy of her declaration at once. Busing himself with his own bottle, he poured himself another healthy measure, distracting himself further by removing his tie and cufflinks, depositing them in his suit pocket, which he then quickly discarded, while his subconscious mind began to tick off the seconds of silence that sat heavily between them. He could feel her eyes watching him while he performed his ablutions, and when he turned to face her, unbuttoning his shirt collar, he was not just a little encouraged when her eyes flicked first to his throat, then his mouth, and finally, his eyes, her head tilting just to the left as she did so. In for a penny...

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Do you sleep alone, Ruth?"

"Yes. For now."

"That's, ah, a deliberate choice, then?"

"What other kind of choice could it be, Harry?"

"That's a good point."

"It is, isn't it."

There was that mischievous grin again. She was playing with him, forcing him to ask what he wanted to know rather than offering answers voluntarily. A bit of cat and mouse, that. She liked games, and he liked games, and the primal thrum emanating from his cock was bursting with recognition and desire, and was, apparently, also a big fan.

"Is that how you want it? I mean, choice aside, is that your preferred sleeping arrangement?"

"Its how it is right now. Preference doesn't really factor into it much, if I'm honest. The profession doesn't really...I quite like being honest if I'm to sleep with someone. I mean, if they're to be inside me, I'd rather they know my name. My real name. I'm rubbish at the whole maintaining a legend whilst in the midst of climax."

"That can be a bit of an impediment."

"Well, for me, anyway."

"By which you mean to suggest its not for everyone else? Or, just me, specifically?"

"At the risk of reigniting a hard won truce Harry, I've read your file, and I can only imagine the frequency for practice evident put you in good stead to overcome whatever impediments you met with."

"Well, actually, Ruth, all those forms you seems inordinately fixated on attest to the fact that I also prefer real names, as much as can be afforded, before I enter a woman frequently enough as to be construed as, um, well, a partner. For a time, at least."

"Well, that's all right then."

"I don't believe you think so, no."

"It's...fine. For men. Never mind the S24's. Take the basic honey trap. No doubt each successful honey trap was met with backs slaps and congratulations aplenty. For women, its not the same. It hardens us somewhere inside. Women talk, Harry, and for the most part, what it does to us, inside, it can't be undone after a while. I don't expect you to understand, but there's a part that goes missing somewhere, and when they talk, all I can hear is that part screaming to be heard. It becomes rather mind numbing, that."

"Its what we do, Ruth. Its the job-"

"Yes, I know that, but I'm trying to answer your question, I'm trying...I'm trying to explain why I need...I need my personal life to remain mine. You talked about self control and denial...No, let me finish...You were right. Well, half right, in my case. You exercise both professionally, and you have your reasons. I respect that. Its just I exercise them personally. So, if I sleep with someone, its with the intent of knowing them as much as a person can know another. Its why I changed the contents of my file. I know it was a breach, and I know its serious, but I did it anyway, even though I know that I gave up parts of myself to be in this profession, as much as I love it. Really, I do, but the services can't own all of me. Some parts are just for me, and for whomever I decide to share myself with, those parts that form the whole of me. So, I'm not sleeping with anyone now because the truth of it, Harry, is that there have been only a few who've managed to overreach that benchmark of trust, and the kind of life I lead, well, we lead really, rather requires it."

"You've...You've slept with someone since you joined the Grid?"

"Yes, Harry."

"I don't remember ever receiving an-"

"-S24. I know. How do you think I figured out the whole can't remember one's legend while climaxing thing?"

"Are there any other standard protocols I can expect you to thumb your nose at? Quite a little renegade, there, Ruth."

Bringing the overall breach of protocol count for one Miss Ruth Elizabeth Evershed to four. He couldn't know where to begin, if he were in the least bit honest about reprimanding her, which, at the moment, he found himself unsurprisingly not so inclined.

"If I'm not altogether misinterpreting, you sounded a bit amused there, Harry."

"Well, you said climax. Twice."

"You're easily amused."

"I'll not apologize for my fondness of the little things."

"So, in your estimation, the female climax is a little thing? I fear you haven't been with the right women."

"No, I said the word from your mouth amused me. The actual event is something almost indescribable in words. If your looking for my honest opinion, Ruth, I regard bringing a woman to climax vital as relates the entire process of making love. Or fucking, really. No fun with just one, and all that."

"Did you just make that up?"

"No, I've done extensive research, as you can attest. To the research. We've established that much, I think."

"We have indeed, Harry."

They sat, side by side, in companionable silence, each allowing the words exchanged to take shape and meaning. For his part, he was finding it difficult to reconcile she had slept with someone since joining the grid. He'd no right, he knew, to the festering jealousy which bloomed across his chest the moment the admission left her lips, yet he was quite helpless to curb its growing intensity. It felt, ludicrously, like a betrayal, not least because he had abstained engaging the numerous women holding themselves on offer for him to enjoy shortly after she had joined the Grid. It hadn't been difficult. Strangely, not difficult to abstain at all, very nearly unconscious in action, yet curiously contrary to his personal hardwiring, his dedication to primal release of a sexual nature treated as sport, diminished while he was otherwise occupied. She had experienced lovers, that had been made clear. It was, curiously, something about their being dated previous, resting within the mists floating that plane marked past, which made them easier to ignore, disregard, and he understood, perhaps for the first time, why the number of S24s in his file would be disheartening to a person like Ruth.

He felt, presently, as his eyes watched the moonlight flicker on the surface of the quiet waters before them, something he could only identify as similar to what she must have felt as she perused his file. Worse still, he had lied just then. Well, not entirely, but in all honesty he couldn't remember all the names of those women he'd brought to orgasm littering his file. He could, with deliberate concentration, name a few, but all were representative of nothing more than a mountain climbed, a flag sunk, and a name forgotten in search of the next. He'd little doubt that those precious few who were granted the chance to know her, her name and all the correlating aspects she had revealed as necessary and incumbent, had not forgotten it. Heartbreakingly, the only name he ever wished to utter, or scream, or moan, or whisper was hers, and he knew, in that moment, it would never be forgotten.

"Earlier, in the car, you said you trusted me."

"Yes. I did."

"You did, and now you don't? Or, you did, you did?"

"I think we might be pissed."

She had leaned her head back, and smiled as the laugh emitting had become deeper, throaty and rich with the expanse of her neck. She stayed that way, still as she watched the sky, her laugh evolving into a quiet smile, her eyes half-lidded with wine.

"It made perfect sense to me."

"Yep, we're pissed. Yes, I trust you."

"Good. Now, on the measuring scale of trust, are we talking being alone in the middle of nowhere with no decent means of escape available, or the climax kind?"

"Aren't they the same?"

"Not if he knows what he's doing."

"Fair point. And do y...I've a better idea. Now that we're both inebriated, perhaps a game of 'Tell Me' is in order?"

"I'm getting the impression you're a big fan of games, Ruth."

"You'll like this. Well, like might be too strong a word. I think you'll come to find it beneficial, even if a bit uncomfortable given your personal self control and denial code. Which is why I believe it very fortunate we are both well into our cups. And completely alone."

"Is this your circuitous route to seducing me because short of that I'll expect some manner of trophy when I win this game?"

"Would you like that?"

"Very much."

"Which?"

"Ah, yes. Apparently, I've given the impression that either would suffice in error."

"So, that is to say you would prefer one to the other? If I'm understanding you?"

"You're a bit of a cock tease, Ruth."

"Its been known to happen."

"Ruth? Where's this going?"

"Yes, obviously the rules of the game. You're quite right. Pretty simple really. Every question has to begin with the words 'tell me,' and the information can cover any subject, but must be answered truthfully."

"I think you, no, I know you know that's not what I-"

"Okay, so I'll start by default, since you seem to be having trouble with the basic premise. You're old, so I'll be gentle"

"I'm not daft for bloody sake-"

"Tell me...about the first girl you kissed."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A/N: This chapter expanded into 16, 000+ territory rather quickly, so I've bisected it here to allow a breather. Let me know when y'all would like me to provide the rest. This half was, admittedly, smut-lite. Holla at me...