A/N: This chapter is M rated, just so you know. With some fluff thrown in for good measure…

I would also like to apologise to my regular readers for the delays in posting this story recently - RL has been behaving in a most peculiar fashion so far this year, and demanding entirely too much of my time and attention as a result.

As Ruth's front door opens to admit me, I step inside, revelling in the warmth (thanks to my little bit of piracy on the National Grid, earlier this year), and walk straight into her arms; she must have just arrived home herself, for she is still wearing her long cream-coloured winter coat, and the house is in darkness except for the hall light. She kisses me hungrily, her hands already tugging at my belt and freeing my shirttails from my suit trousers, before questing further under the waistband, making me gasp involuntarily at her touch; her hands are cold, and I deduce that she must not have been wearing gloves on her homeward journey. "I think we were just about here, weren't we, sweetheart? I've been thinking about this all afternoon… let's just go straight to bed…" she whispers, and in spite of my earlier anger with her, and the utter exhaustion which always creeps up on me at the end of an operation like an unseen assailant, there is part of me which thinks this sounds like an excellent idea.

Unfortunately, it is not the part that Ruth is currently making contact with… at times like this, the cruel reality of being nearer to fifty than forty is painfully obvious. She looks up at me quizzically, and I shrug apologetically as I answer her unasked question. "I'm very tired, my love, and you have to realise, I'm not thirty any more, much less twenty…" She frowns slightly, and I feel slightly alarmed as I recognise the speculative look that passes across her face: it's the same look she wears when Harry challenges her to narrow down a field of possible suspects, or find the unlikely connection between a Persian poet and a cyber-terrorist… it's a look of pure determination, of joy in turning her ferocious intellect on a puzzle until she solves it, and I simply don't feel up to her turning it on me tonight, in any way, shape, or form. Sometimes her single-mindedness can be absolutely terrifying…

"I'm sorry, but might we have supper first, do you think?" I enquire, acutely aware that it has been a very long time since lunch, and she blinks, her mind still on the problem at – or rather, in – hand, before replying. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course…just let me change out of these work clothes…why don't you go through to the sitting room, sweetheart, and make yourself at home? I'd better feed the cats, too" – they are twining themselves insistently around our feet, and I'm grateful that I took an antihistamine before arriving at the house – "and then I think I've still got a couple of ready meals in the fridge." I give her a final kiss as she reluctantly relinquishes her hold, and then she is escorted towards the kitchen by her furry familiars as they mew imperiously. I drape my overcoat and suit jacket over the newel-post, and go into the sitting room, which is now relatively free of cat fur since I have begun spending more time here (and bought Ruth a bright orange Dyson to replace her smelly, wheezy old Hoover). I reorder my clothing as I sit down on the long sofa, and ease off my shoes with a sigh of relief, before loosening my tie and undoing the top two buttons of my shirt. I'm not quite ready to swan about her house in a state of further deshabille, seeing that I don't tend to wander through my own less than fully clad, but I have begun to keep a few necessities at Ruth's; a pair of pyjamas, more often removed before going to bed than not, but here nonetheless, a small shave kit, a couple of spare shirts, a tie, a change of underwear…pieces of Malcolm, she calls them, and I suppose they are, at that.

Ruth looks in on me before she heads upstairs to change; her eyes sparkle as she does so, and I have sudden, grave misgivings as to exactly what she might be changing into. I spend a few minutes in happy contemplation…perhaps her favourite sapphire silk pyjamas, or that long, claret-coloured negligee I like…so when she does descend to reappear in checked flannel pyjama pants (Blackwatch tartan, a tiny part of my brain notes), a singularly unexciting grey thermal top and an oversized navy wool cardigan wrapped around her small frame, I am mildly surprised to find that my initial reaction is one of disappointment, rather than relief… then my gaze reaches her feet, and my eyes fly back up to her face in sheer astonishment.

"Do you like them?" she asks, extending one foot for closer inspection. "Erm…hmmm. Well, they certainly look very…warm," I venture, uncertain of what the correct response should be. She beams at me and does a slow turn-about so I can admire her extraordinary footwear from all angles. "Mum gave them to me the last time I saw her, as an early Christmas present. She thought I needed a reminder to take life a bit less seriously." I look at them again, and smile in spite of myself. "Well, wearing oversized fluffy rabbit slippers is certainly a step in the right direction!" I say, and in the next moment Ruth has sunk down onto the sofa next to me, rocking with laughter at my unintended pun. "A…a…step! In the right d…d…direction… p…priceless…that's priceless!" she manages to get out between bouts of laughter, and seeing her so happy makes me laugh too. We slump against each other, and roar with mirth until the cats come to investigate, and stand in the doorway, regarding us with that peculiarly feline brand of disapproval, which only makes us laugh the more. I know it's partly the release of tension accumulated over the last few days, but more than that, her slippers truly are the most ridiculous things I have ever seen, complete with whiskers, eyes, ears lined in pink velvet, and a fluffy tail on each heel.

When Ruth finally stands up to return to the kitchen and retrieve our supper, now heated through in the old-fashioned cooker, the cats adopt a much more alert and intent stance, tracking the movement of these strange creatures across the carpet, and she shoots me a look of appeal. "Sweetheart, I'm worried that Fidget will make a dash for my feet, and I'll trip over him with our food. I don't think Gidget is too bothered by them, but then she's a lot older. Would you just pick him up while I go?" she asks, and I slip off the sofa and scoop the big, handsome tortoiseshell cat up and out of harm's way. He rolls over in my arms, purring – cats seem to like me well enough, even though I'm allergic to them – and then he surprises me by rubbing his head along my jaw, eyes half-closed in bliss as I return his mark of regard by scratching him gently in that special spot just behind a cat's ears as I sit back down, still holding him. Gidget, unwilling to miss out, soon jumps up on the sofa next to me and after turning around twice, curls up with her back pressed firmly against my leg, and sets up an audible purr in direct competition, it seems, with her younger compatriot. Carefully, for Gidget is of a somewhat more uncertain temperament than Fidget, I offer to rub behind her ears too. She pushes her small, delicate skull into my hand enthusiastically as I do so, and I'm unexpectedly and deeply moved at this display of trust. They must be getting used to having me around…

"Should I feel jealous?" Ruth wants to know, smiling, as she returns with two plates of food; I don't mind the odd ready meal, but I draw the line at eating it straight out of the tray it comes in. "D'you want the chicken tikka, or the shepherd's pie?" I choose the pie, and Ruth heads back to the kitchen to fetch glasses and a bottle of gaily labelled red wine, no doubt whatever was on special at Oddbins last week. Chilean, probably…but drinkable, hopefully… I make a note to bring over a few cases from my own cellar; Ruth could never afford the sort of wine I prefer on her pittance, and a nightly glass of a good vintage is a small indulgence I am unwilling to forgo simply because I am here, rather than at Hampstead. As soon as Ruth sits down beside me, both cats move to flank her on either side, sitting up tall; they know from long experience that she is a better bet when it comes to the random distribution of tidbits, and besides, she doesn't like me to feed them, lest they come to expect it whenever I'm here. We eat in companionable silence, while a new episode of Frasier plays on TV and the cats purr ever louder in anticipation of chicken, and when we are finished, Ruth pushes the cats gently off the sofa and swings her legs up and into my lap with a sigh of contentment, kicking off her ridiculous slippers and wiggling her toes at me, varnished deep red, her signature shade. I know this means, I'd like a foot massage, please, and so I wrap my hands around the foot nearest to me, and begin.

Ruth groans as I find a tight spot in the sole, near the ball of her foot, and I work out the tension with my thumbs until she begins to melt, the lines of her whole body relaxing into the softness of the sofa cushions. "Ooh, that's so good!" she mumbles, and it occurs to me that while I have only had my customary glass with dinner, the bottle we just opened is nearly empty; Ruth has had nearly all of it, and I wonder if it will have its usual amorous effect upon her. I finish with one foot and move onto the other, and Ruth's eyes slide shut; evidently, the wine is taking hold. I am still concentrating on massaging her foot, so when she lets out a little gasp of pleasure, I am not unduly surprised, until I glance up to see that her right hand has disappeared beneath the drawstring waist of her pyjama pants, now untied; I freeze in shock and confusion, and one dark blue eye opens lazily.

"Oh, don't stop…I was just getting in sync…"she says huskily, and the eye shuts again; I blush deeply, but nonetheless continue massaging her foot as directed, while my heart begins to pound and I grow lightheaded, and not from the frankly abysmal wine, either. I don't think I will ever become accustomed to Ruth's sensuality, and the unashamed way she has of expressing it and enjoying the pleasure her body both brings and gives; it is a secret side of her, one that only I know, and one I am inexpressibly grateful to her for sharing with me. I glide my knuckles to and fro along her instep, and her moans increase, her back arching and her hips beginning to rise and fall in time to her own stroking. I increase the pressure and speed on her foot, taking my cue from her, until she comes with a guttural cry, eyes still closed.

My earlier lassitude forgotten entirely now, I shift position slightly, suddenly acutely aware of the effect of the pressure of her feet in my lap; she regards me with supreme satisfaction, like a cat that has lapped up a plate of cream, and stretches luxuriously. "You have no idea how much I needed that," she murmurs, and sitting up, she makes a grab for my tie with one hand, pulling me down on top of her while she swiftly pushes her pyjama pants down with the other: practical as always, she is not wearing anything beneath them. "It seems you're not so tired after all," she teases, while I watch the want growing in her eyes, my throat too tight and dry to speak as her coal-black pupils widen, and her breathing increases, marvelling as always that I should be the cause of it, and feeling my own desire rising in response to her silent challenge: Are you up to it? Do you want me, as I want you? What are you going to do about it?

"Malcolm, now…" Ruth begs, firing my blood as I struggle out of my shirt; her hands rid me of the rest of my clothes, before lifting her grey top over her head. I feast on her full breasts, her sensuous mouth, her beautiful body, pleasuring her, stretching our shared anticipation until she wraps one leg over mine and draws me closer; she is so wet now, and I am so ready, that I slip inside her almost as if by accident, and she breathes out, hot in my ear, "Oh, yes…yes…yes…" as I begin to move, and she rolls her hips up to meet mine, and her fingers clamp hard in my back, and I brace my feet against the armrest, taking my body weight all on one elbow, and thrust deliberately and with determination. Ruth grunts rhythmically in response, one leg flung in wild abandonment along the back of the sofa; she slips her hand between us, seeking her own pleasure, her body surging against mine as I finish with a cry of my own, before collapsing, chest heaving, uttering endearments as I lie on top of her, too spent to move. Her body is soft beneath mine, as we sink into the sofa cushions, and I think we both sleep for a few moments, the TV still flickering, the sound turned down low.

I wake with Ruth pushing at my shoulder with one hand as she gropes for the remote control unit with the other, and turns off the TV. "Malcolm, Malcolm? Come on, it's late, and we've got to get to bed…" I catch sight of our semi-clad selves, reflected in the television screen; it takes my breath away. No wonder Shakespeare called it making the beast with two backs…goodness, just look at us! Ruth turns her head, following my gaze, and she glances back at me with amusement dancing in her eyes. "Oh dear, I've rumpled and crumpled you; and we're not even properly undressed… just think, if we lived together, this could be us every night…on the sofa after supper, or in the kitchen" – I frown, as this hardly seems hygienic – "or on the stairs (highly unlikely, I tell her silently), or in the bath (well, possibly); anywhere we felt like it…" She shifts beneath me, as if in illustration, and a thrill of visceral excitement ripples through me. I think over her words; when we were first together, our lovemaking was a formal ritual, as I had always imagined it should be, until she taught me that it didn't have to be so, and that women had appetites to match or rival any man's. The thought of being able to give into pleasure as the mood takes us is indeed a tempting one, but even with the post-coital clarity of thought that has descended upon me, I can't quite grasp why she is bringing this up now.

Ruth watches as I sift through my thoughts, waiting for the penny to drop. "You haven't quite worked it out yet, have you?" she says, amused, but patient. I stroke her hair back from her face, over and over, enjoying the feeling of my fingers gliding through her hair. My Ruth, you are so dear to me, and yet... "Today, in the server room, when I was angry… please, forgive me if I'm wrong, but you really meant it, didn't you? That you…wanted me, when I was like that?" She chuckles deep in her throat, her fingers moving slowly across the small of my back, making me shudder enjoyably, like a horse twitching away a fly from its withers. "And why should that be such a surprise? When you're passionate about something, and that calm façade of yours cracks to show the true man beneath… Wow, is one way of explaining what that does to me; saying that I find you devastatingly desirable at that particular moment is another…" I nod uncertainly, waiting to see where she is going with this. "Well, then…" she prompts, and my thoughts fly back to that moment, Ruth urgently asking me what I wanted as my rage and arousal fused and the only word I could find in response was her name…Oh! She grins wolfishly, seeing understanding spread across my face. "Yes, it's like that for me, too…why else do you think I would I want to tell everyone about us?" I'm not sure that there isn't another meaning flitting behind her eyes and between her words, but it is indeed very late, and I am very tired, and very much in love with her, and there are already enough secrets between us without looking for more. Not now, not tonight… Ah, Ruth, my Ruth, will I ever learn the truth you are so determined to conceal? Overwhelming, bone-deep weariness wells up in me at this thought, and Ruth pushes against my shoulders again. "Come on, we have to go to bed, I can't sleep like this all night long!"

I sit up slowly, and she rolls off the sofa, leaving her pyjama pants puddled on the floor, her bunny slippers forgotten beneath the coffee table. Her bare bottom winks at me tantalisingly beneath the edge of her cardigan as she climbs the stairs in front of me; she knows the effect she has on me so well, but there is nothing more I can do about it tonight, not if the very safety of the world itself was at stake. I change quickly while she is in the bathroom, and am almost asleep when she joins me, sliding into bed and nestling her naked body into my arms. She pushes her bottom back against me invitingly, and I smile ruefully at her optimism. "Sorry, my love, but I really am all done in now…nearly fifty, not twenty, remember?" At that, she pragmatically positions my hand, saying, "Please, just one more…" She's insatiable tonight, I think, even as I oblige her, for how can I say No to this woman who has changed my life forever? When she is finally limp and replete, I succumb to deep, dreamless sleep, and I know no more until morning arrives, trailing grey fingers of fog against the windowpanes.

Upon waking, I find myself hard and aching for her, so I take her as I have so often longed to do when I wake alone. I begin where we left off last night, kissing her neck and holding her close as she mutters sleepily, while allowing me to persist with my gentle persuasion. Awakening slowly, she eventually hooks her uppermost thigh back over my leg to allow better access, and I glide into her welcoming warmth; as always, it feels as if I have finally come home, in that first moment of joining with her. I realise that I perhaps painted too dire a picture last night, in my exhaustion, and keen to dispel any age-related doubts about my capacity to rouse to her call, or to satisfy her needs, I set to with a will, my searching fingers finding her most sensitive spots, coaxing a climax from her before I am overtaken by my own. If there is a better way to wake up, I decide, I have yet to discover it…

We are lying intertwined in the darkness, our breathing still ragged, the scent of sex hanging heavy in the sheets, my hands caressing every part of her that I can reach as she lies against my chest, when I catch sight of the luminescent green hands of the little Westminster alarm clock – she once told me it was her father's – on the bedside table, and groan. "Ruth, it's after seven o'clock…we're late!" And our transcendent start to the day becomes a mad scramble through the shower and back into our clothes, before we part ways, Ruth to walk to her usual bus stop, while I head for the Rover, prudently parked a couple of streets away. Not for nothing have I done counter-surveillance for years…

As I carefully latch the front gate, I think I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, and look round cautiously; but it is only her cats, perched on the window ledge in the sitting room and watching us depart once more, their anxious faces poking through the curtains. It is easy to picture their thoughts: Where do they go every day? When will she be back? Will he return too? Will there be food for us tonight, and a warm lap to curl in, or will we be abandoned until it suits them to remember us, we whose ancestors once were worshipped as gods in a warm land, far away? Well, at least the radiators are working now, and we're safe inside…I shake my head at my overactive imagination – what would Harry say if he knew I was making up conversations between cats? (and more to the point, what would Harry say if he knew the cats in question were Ruth's?) And then I remember that he has a little dog, Scarlett, I believe her name is, of which he is very fond (although her fondness for him is directly tied to the number of walks he takes her on every day, and the regularity with which he returns to feed her), and I decide that perhaps he might understand, after all.

Nothing extraordinary happens, for once, as we go about the routine mopping-up tasks that follow every operation; a team debriefing, a report from the Garda in Dublin to confirm that the Maliks have settled into a house off O'Connell Street within a community of other families from the Middle East and North Africa, and then comes the inevitable pile of paperwork for the rest of us, while Harry sets off for a day-long round of meetings in Whitehall, grumbling about "damned bureaucrats" and "the red tape that strangles the security services"; the rest of us have heard it all before, so we pay him scant attention, except for Jo, who listens to this litany in wide-eyed fascination as Harry stumps across the Grid and out of the pods, shoulders hunched in anticipation. He's right, of course: the general public would be horrified if they knew just how much of Five's time is taken up with report-writing, form-filling, and other statutory types of tedium; which is just one more reason why they should never, ever, be told the whole story about the work of the security services, in my view. Colin and I get more than our fair share of it, having to account for every item deployed in the field and log reams of surveillance recordings, as well as writing our own observation and field reports, but it is not unknown for Adam to outsource his reports to us too, and today, apparently, is one of those days; he approaches with his usual breezy insouciance, while I survey him warily over the top of my monitor.

"Malcolm, I'd be grateful if you could do me a huge favour and…" he proffers a sheaf of half-completed forms, and at least he has the grace to look slightly shamefaced as he explains, "It's Fi… it's just I'm a bit worried about her. She hasn't been quite herself lately. I thought I'd better take her out for lunch, lend her my ear, see what's going on…you understand?" I hear Colin sigh loudly behind me, but in Adam's eyes, there is genuine worry and concern, and so I put out my hand. "You've already signed off on them, I take it, and just need the details filled in, as per usual?" He nods both confirmation and thanks, and in the next moment is loping towards the pods, mobile phone already to his ear. "You're such a soft touch," Colin tells me, exasperated, and in his voice I hear disappointment and frustration which I know has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Jo, who has become fast friends with Zaf, exactly as Colin had feared. I do hope Jo knows what she's getting herself into…the pair of them were dispatched by Adam earlier to remove the bugs at the Liberation office, after manufacturing a suitable pretext to gain complete access: some sort of environmental hazard, judging by the look of the hazmat suits they carried, Jo giggling, through the pods. Colin has been tasked with monitoring them, and all morning he has been staring glumly at his screens.

I feel a twinge of guilt, seeing his morose face, and promise myself that I will schedule a day off with him soon, just the two of us. Perhaps we could watch the new series of Doctor Who that Colin claims to have wangled recently from the Beeb… Just as I am about to answer his charge (he's right, of course, but still…) Ruth pipes up unexpectedly from her workstation on the other side of me, "Yes, there has been something different about Fiona lately, I've noticed it too. She's preoccupied, somehow, it's as if she's not quite here with the rest of us…I thought perhaps she might be…" She stops, her cheeks mantling with a delicate blush, and I nod in understanding, my own cheeks hot. Still, it's not for us to speculate, and I return to my work, shuffling through Adam's sketchy field reports to assess the amount of time I will need to spend on them; Quite a bit, by the look of it, I note wryly; I am indeed a soft touch, but when I think of the alternative, my heart fills with dismay. Better far to be a soft touch, I remind myself, than a hard case…I am, after all, my father's son; there is no escaping this fact, and I have long since stopped trying. 'The world will never understand men like us, son, but how desperately it needs us…it needs all the masculine kindness and compassion it can get...promise me that you'll hold onto that part of you, for it's as precious and rare as gold. ' I shake my head at this unexpected recollection of a conversation long past, my father's wisdom my only consolation as a sensitive, insecure adolescent struggling to come to terms with a world that refused to come to terms with me. Oh, Father, how I miss you still… Determinedly, I pick up Adam's pile of paperwork again, and begin.

Between completing my own tasks, and doing Adam's as well, the day passes quickly, and it seems no time at all before I am collecting my overcoat and preparing to leave. I'm headed home tonight, and have called Mother to let her know. I need a night's sleep free from temptation in the form of Ruth, after my recent exertions, for one thing, and for another, a strangely uneasy feeling has been taking hold since I called Aunt Emily in my lunch break today, and she told me that she hadn't spoken to my mother since she last saw her in Bournemouth. It's time, I think, for some quality family time, a revolting phrase our cousins in the CIA are fond of bandying about whenever they are about to be posted back home (or to Hades, and I don't much care which one, Harry has been heard to growl in reply), but apt nonetheless. Ruth is very understanding when I tell her as much, during a stolen moment together in the tea room. "Malcolm, you must, if you're worried about her, and of course I don't mind: she's your mother, for heaven's sake! Besides, I've been meaning to pop out to Cheltenham and see Mum soon, so I think I'll go tonight. It's never an easy time of year for her," she replies, leaving me once more to wonder why; still, it is with a heart relatively unburdened for once, that I depart Thames House for Hampstead.