A/N: This chapter is fairly M-rated.

As I am exiting C Department, a few days into my secondment, Ruth steps out from an alcove in the corridor, as if she has been waiting for me. It is the first time she has approached me since Songbird, and at the sight of her, I am filled with conflicting emotions: tension, anger and misgivings tangle with longing, hope and anticipation. She is wearing a deep blue dress, the colour making her eyes glow with more intensity than usual, and as she moves towards me, she tucks her hair behind one ear with such a familiar gesture, my heart involuntarily skips a beat. "Ruth. To what do I owe the pleasure?" I greet her briskly, striving to keep the irony from my voice. Blushing slightly, at first she glances at me from beneath her lashes in the way I know so well; and then, with a visible effort, she looks at me directly. "Hi. Hello, Malcolm. I…I just thought I'd come and see how your first week was going. It's been odd on the Grid without you." She wraps her arms around herself tightly, and fixes her gaze on her shoes. With a little shock, I realise that she is afraid. Of me. Oh, Ruth…

I don't understand at first, and then I notice that my breathing is fast, my hands are clenched tightly, and my shoulders are so tight, I can feel each individual knot: to her, I must look furious, when in fact I am in agonies of apprehension. I remind myself to stay calm, opening my hands, rolling my shoulders back, taking deep breaths, and trying to speak normally. "It's going well, thanks. What can I do for you?" I ask, in as dispassionate and business-like a tone as I can manage. She comes closer until she is standing directly in front of me, and draws a deep breath. "I'm sorry, about the other day. I was under a lot of pressure with Songbird, and I said something stupid, something I shouldn't have. I…I wasn't thinking straight," she says, her voice high with nervousness. I say nothing as I, too, stare at my feet, striving to control the maelstrom of emotions that are swirling through me; after a tension-filled pause, Ruth adds shakily, "You must be very angry with me, if you won't even look at me when I'm trying to apologise…" I raise my eyes to meet hers, then; Ruth, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive, nearly whispers, "I'm sorry. Truly I am. It was thoughtless and unkind…and untrue. I'm just not very good at…being in-between. And I've felt that we've been in-between, for a while now…does that make any sense?" I shake my head slowly, wondering what she is trying to get at. Emboldened now, Ruth asks, "Malcolm, can we…talk? Not here, I mean."

I regard her thoughtfully, fighting for composure, even as my heart pounds and my mind fills with images and memories of her, of us. To me, she's always beautiful; and with her soft, dark hair falling loosely about her face, and those eyes beseeching me, it takes all my self-control to remember that we are still in Thames House, and that I cannot run my hands through her hair, nor do any of the other things that I so badly want to. "Please," she begs me, and her hand goes to her throat in a gesture of supplication; my heart turns over at the sight, and making up my mind, I say, "All right, but I give you fair warning, Ruth, I'm very tired. Dinner, and that's all." She blinks at that, but if she thinks that I'm going to take her home, or go back to hers, then she's very much mistaken. "How about that restaurant up in the Oxo tower?" she suggests, and I think, well, we can't get much more public than that…and I do hate to dine alone...

Dinner turns out to be very pleasant, somewhat to my surprise; I had forgotten what a good conversationalist Ruth is, and how many interests we have in common. At one point, during a debate about the case for Ovid's Metamorphoses as the genesis of much of the Western world's classic literature, I realise that we have been bantering happily in Latin for the last half hour. She's like no-one else I know, her mind as quick and bright as mercury, and yet, that ferocious intellect is tempered with gentle wit. We are chatting over port and pudding – sticky toffee for her, and a bitter chocolate soufflé for me – when I ask her, "Why did you tell Adam about Songbird?" Ruth turns pale immediately, pushing away her half-finished pudding, as if she has just lost her appetite. "How did you know about that?" she murmurs, concentrating on a wine stain on the tablecloth; I reach over, and gently put one finger beneath her chin, raising it until her eyes meet mine. "Ruth, did you know that you've got a glass face? Everything you think or feels shows on it, as clear as day. When I saw you looking so guilty during Songbird, and then Adam kept turning up everywhere like a bad penny, I knew something was wrong. And then I heard about Harry's little disciplinary talk in the briefing – never mind how – and it all made sense. That was a very risky and foolish thing to do, my love."

Her eyes widen at my gentle rebuke, and her expression becomes stubborn. "Adam had to work to save himself, and Harry couldn't see it… besides, he was needed, at the end. I knew he would be." She pours herself another glass of port, and continues, "Our boss has a great many good qualities, but understanding what makes other people tick – outside of an interrogation room, that is – isn't generally one of them. I worry about Adam and his little boy, Malcolm, I worry about us all. Sometimes, I feel as if you and I are the only ones who truly see everything clearly… and sometimes, I feel like Cassandra." I blink at that, trying to grasp what she is implying: Cassandra was the prophetess doomed by Apollo himself with the foreknowledge of the fall of her home city of Troy, and yet who was believed by none. What is she trying to tell me? I wonder, as she reaches hesitantly across the tablecloth to slip her hand into mine; my fingers close around hers instinctively, and for a few heartbeats, I feel as if I have just travelled back a year, when everything about us had been new and fresh, and for me at least, nothing short of miraculous.

"Why aren't you wearing your ring?" she asks, looking more closely at my left hand, and I sigh. "I'm sorry, Ruth, but I had to take it off. It turns out that my skin couldn't tolerate it, and I developed dermatitis. Asthmatics, you know, are often more prone to sensitivities and allergies. I've got it safely at home, though." She gently squeezes my hand. "Oh, no! I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm not a very good girlfriend, am I? I give you presents that make you come out in a rash, I'm hardly ever available, and I have so many secrets that I can't share…" She claps her other hand over her mouth, then, and my puzzled gaze travels from her face, to the almost empty bottle of Cockburn's, of which I have enjoyed only two very small glasses. I soon realise that Ruth is having difficulty focusing on the bill that the waiter has just discreetly delivered; embarrassed, I try to retrieve it from her, but she waves me away. "No-no-no, I'll get it, you're always paying for me." I demur, and she fixes me with a slightly wavering stare, slurring, "If you don' lemme pay, I'll…I'll…I don' know what I'll do, but it'll be BAD!" I decide that discretion is the better part of valour, in this instance, and when the bill has been settled, I tell her, "Come on, and we'll get a cab. I don't think I should drive, not after that wine with dinner, and port on top of it."

It is certainly not my intention to stay the night; my plan is to take Ruth home, then direct the cab onwards to Hampstead. But when we arrive at her house, she is almost asleep, slumped against my shoulder, and in no fit state to be left alone. I pay off the cab, and guide her up the front path, waiting patiently as she trawls blindly through her oversized shoulder bag for her keys. As soon as we get inside, we almost fall over her cats, who rush to greet their mistress with relieved little cries that soon become the more insistent sound of hungry felines. "Drat!" I mutter, fumbling for the light switch and nearly treading on a fluffy tail that is whipping about my shins. Its indignant owner plants itself in front of us and glares at Ruth, its luminous eyes unearthly in the darkened hallway. The other cat circles us with an expression that clearly reads, Where the hell have you been? as it tries to herd us towards the kitchen.

"Oof… I'm not feelin' the bes'," Ruth exclaims, and bolts unsteadily upstairs; I am left standing in the hall, with two hungry animals looking at me expectantly as I dig through my pockets for my antihistamines. I address them gravely, "Let this be a lesson to you both: in vino, vomitus. Now, shall I fetch you your supper?" At least her house is warmer now than it was last Winter, but her security is truly abysmal. I wish she would let me do something about it, I muse, following two very hungry cats into the kitchen, where I serve them with something called 'Sheba' (highly unlikely that Solomon's queen would ever have been presented with something so noisome, I observe in distaste) and something else called 'Whiskas', which turns out to be little biscuit-like things. At least the latter have the advantage of not reeking like a Whitby trawler after a week in the sun, but I am very glad I'm not a cat. They tuck in with a good will, though, so I leave them to it, and go up to see how Ruth is faring.

Not well, I surmise, listening to the disturbing noises from the other side of the bathroom door. "Do you want me to come in?" I offer, and she groans, "Oh God, no!" At a loss for what to do next, I fall back on what I would do if Mother were ill: I make up a hot water bottle and slip it into the foot of Ruth's bed, then turn the duvet back halfway, switch on the bedside lamp, set her ridiculous fluffy bunny slippers next to the bed, and find what seems to be a clean nightgown, in a crumpled pile of laundry on top of the dryer, before returning to my station in the hallway. At length, there is a long flush, and the door opens a crack. "I'm sick," Ruth informs me miserably, and she certainly looks it. "I know, and I'm sorry, my love. Too much port, perhaps?" She peers at me owlishly, before declaring, "I think my fish was off." I look at her doubtfully; the fish in question had been a few pieces of hot smoked salmon, baked in a vol au vent. It seems very unlikely…and then the truth dawns: Ruth doesn't want to admit that it is, indeed, the port. Far too much port…

Gently, I suggest she might feel better after a shower, and she closes the door again, leaving me to wonder uneasily if Harry isn't the only one who buries problems at the bottom of a bottle. I've never been a big drinker; at university, I had earned the reputation of being a lightweight, or 'Cadbury' – a glass and a half, and I was done – so my idea of how much is too much is, I know, a lot less than most people's. I wander back downstairs, wash up a couple of bowls and a mug sitting in the sink, then go through to the sitting room, where the cats - Fidget and Gidget – are now curled contentedly around each other, nose to tail, in a basket next to the radiator. Fifteen…Ruth must have had fifteen units of alcohol tonight, between wine with dinner and all that port…hmmm, I ponder, bending down to scratch each animal behind the ears, and feeling absurdly gratified at the loud purring that they set up in response.

Exhaustion, and a long week, is beginning to catch up with me, and I stretch out on the sofa; I must drift off for a bit, for when I next open my eyes, Ruth is standing in the doorframe, still looking green, but freshly showered, and in her dressing gown and slippers. "I've fed the cats," I inform her, seeing her tacking down the hall, and she calls back, "Oh, thankyou!" Worried, I get up, and follow her. "And you did the washing up, too. What have I done to deserve you?" she asks, turning from the sink, a glass of Eno's fizzing in one hand. "I really don't know," I tell her, smiling to show I am joking, watching as she swallows, and pulls a face at the aftertaste.

"Well, I think I'd better be going," I say, as casually as I can, and the air between us grows heavy in an instant; I can hear my heart thudding preternaturally loudly, and Ruth's sharp intake of breath. "I know things haven't been right between us since…since before Songbird, but I'd really like it if you'd stay tonight… I miss you, Malcolm. I miss us." Oh, Ruth, I have been so very lonely…how I have longed for you… "I know," I finally manage to reply, in a hoarse voice; my knees are suddenly, unaccountably unsteady. Ruth's fingers somehow become entwined in mine, and as we climb the stairs, the protective firewalls in my heart are breached at last, and all my tender feelings are released once more: God help me, but I love her, even with her faults and flaws… Cassandra, after all, was rumoured to be an enchantress as well as a soothsayer…and Guinevere held the hearts of two men in thrall for years. Who, then, am I, to resist the dark magic that is the unexplainable, the visceral, the instinctive attraction between a woman and a man?

Lying in bed, I hold Ruth in my arms once more as she nestles her bottom against me in a most distracting manner, even though it's quite clear that neither of us are up for anything of that sort. I put out the light, and she curls herself into the C-shaped curve of my body, and with a barely intelligible, "G'night," falls asleep… or falls into the arms of Morpheus, the poets would say, as she begins to snore gently. I'm not long in joining her, worn out by the rigours of the week; I enjoy a minute, perhaps less, of feeling the soft weight of her body, fitted snugly against the slow and steady beating of my heart, while bits of Ovid flit through my over-tired mind, and then I too am borne away on the outgoing tide of consciousness, and into the shadowy world of Somnus the all-conqueror.

Sometime before dawn, I waken, momentarily disoriented and confused; and then I see that Ruth is still beside me, and everything falls back into place. She rolls over with a groan, and I debate whether I ought to wake her and suggest she drinks some water, or has an aspirin …she is going to feel very under the weather, otherwise. Perhaps if I get up and make some coffee…I wonder if she has any? Or perhaps I could…"I can practically hear you thinking, you know." Ruth's voice, sleep-blurred and husky, breaks into my musings. "Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" She groans, "Bloody awful. That fish has a lot to answer for!" I frown, and she squints at me in puzzlement. "What?" I turn onto my back, and say, staring at the ceiling of the little blue bedroom, "Do you really think it was the fish?" She heaves herself upright, and flops against the pillows. "What else could it have been? I feel absolutely rotten." I lie next to her, enjoying the warmth, and wonder if I should just get up and leave now, before I do or say something that will result in her ejecting me unceremoniously from her bed and her life.

I don't really have much to go on, I tell myself; she might have drunk too much last night, but I have never seen her that far gone… "Well…" but before I can say any more, I notice that her eyes have wandered away from my face, and further down the bed. What is she looking at? Oh dear, how extremely awkward…I had gone to bed last night in only my short-sleeved vest and boxers, and now I find myself wishing most fervently for a nice sturdy pair of flannel pyjamas, as a certain part of my anatomy makes its presence known, even under the duvet. "Erm…" I blush as her eyes return to my face, and a shadow of amusement passes across her own as she observes, "Could there be a nicer compliment? Here I am, feeling like death, and yet…" She leans towards me and gives me a peck on the cheek. "Unfortunately, I think I'll be sick if I so much as sit up too fast…will it keep, d'you think?"

I hope not, is my first thought…perhaps if I just go to the bathroom and… But I can't quite bring myself to finish the rest of that thought, and so I simply roll over, away from her embrace, saying, "I think I'll sleep a while longer…unless you need anything?" She slowly slides back under the duvet next to me. "No, I'm fine. I think I'll doze, too… I'm off today, anyway. What about you?" I close my eyes. "I have to go in to check on some results, but not until this afternoon." In a voice already slurring as sleep claims her again, Ruth says, "Tha's good…will you stay, Malcolm, with me?" And even though I can still hear Harry's Game echoing in a corner of my mind, I answer with an equally sleepy, "Yes, my love…" It is very late, or early, one of the two, anyway; I am comfortable and cosy and back with Ruth, and the terrible loneliness and lassitude which has been dogging me recently has lifted. I could no more get out of bed and leave her side now than I could fly through the air.

The next time I wake, it is to the most intimately erotic sensations; I must groan, or exclaim in surprise, for Ruth emerges from beneath the bedclothes with what can only be described as a come-hither look on her face. "I rather thought that might get your attention…"she smiles, continuing operations manually, as I struggle to form a coherent thought, or even a semi-coherent one. "Ruth?!" She gives me a look so direct, my breathing hitches. "I'm feeling much, much better," she purrs in reply, her hands doing things that make me gasp; it has far been too long, and I ache for release in every cell of my being. Rolling over, I pin her arms above her head, and she arches her body towards me provocatively; she is already naked, and so, to my surprise, am I, at least from the waist down. I kiss her throat, and move down to her breasts; she pushes up, into my touch. Quickly, I pull my vest up and over my head, desperate to feel her skin against mine.

"I've missed you…this…us…so much…I…I don't think I can wait…" Her coal-black pupils glittering, she whispers, "It's all right." And then I take her, my need too great to be denied. Although she is ready, she makes an odd little noise in her throat as I enter her; but I am too far gone, lost in her heat, her slickness, her body answering mine as I move urgently, to give it much thought. Her hips press into mine, and I feel her fingernails digging into my back; her eyes challenge me, but my control is not what it would usually be. Ohhh…too soon, too soon… Ruth, beneath me, stops moving and sighs with frustration.

When I've caught my breath, I ask, abashed, "Did you…" She turns away, curling into herself. "What do you think?" I gaze at her in dismay: that has never happened before, but then I have always taken great care to make sure she was enjoying herself, first. My stomach plummets, and some of my confidence goes along with it. "Ruth?" She looks back at me. "I'm sorry." She gazes at me appraisingly, and then gives me a wry half-smile. "I know. We're a bit out of practice, that's all…besides, there's lots of ways you can make it up to me…" Oh, thank God, she's not going to hold it against me…it's queer, though, this hollow feeling, as if I have lost something, or as if the connection between us is frayed, somehow… It occurs to me that this is the first time that I have ever had sex for its own sake, or for my own sake… every other time has been about making love, the two of us joining together and finding our pleasure in each other's enjoyment. Instead of experiencing the sense of deep relaxation and well-being that I have become accustomed to (afterglow, Ruth calls it) I feel anxious and unsure, and a wholly unfamiliar guilt rushes over me, as Ruth nudges me impatiently. "Sweetheart?" I turn towards her. "Where do you go, inside that head of yours?"

I look at her, lying beside me, propped on one elbow, while the fingers of her other hand make circles lightly on my chest. "Sorry, my love. I…I was wondering, what did you mean earlier, when you spoke about being in-between?" I ask softly; a delicate flush colours her cheeks. "Well, I feel as if we're in-between, you and me, and I'm not sure how to do it. I know how to do the start of a relationship, and I know how to survive the end of one, but this is almost the longest I've ever been in one… it's hard work, and I don't know if I'm very good at it. I don't like not being very good at something." I consider this, even as I start to trace the outlines of her body with my hands, feeling the satiny softness of her skin, and the sinuous shapes of the muscle moving just beneath; she holds her breath as my palms brush down and across her belly.

"I don't know what to say, Ruth. This is my longest relationship. Perhaps I'm not very good at it, either." We stare at each other: in the year that we have been involved, we have never had a discussion like this. This is turning out to be a day of all kinds of firsts… She gasps slightly as my fingers venture lower. "I…I don't think so…Malcolm…ooh, yes…yes, just there…unhhhh!" She shudders violently, and I feel the gathered tension leaving her body as she climaxes with a cry that sets my blood racing, even though I am thoroughly spent. "Well, I've got no complaints," she says happily, flopping against my side, and my loneliness dissipates like morning mist evaporating in the sunlight. I close my eyes…just a few minutes more, I tell myself, and then we'd better get up…

When next we wake, it is to find Ruth's cats crying impatiently outside the bedroom, and a missed call on my phone: Aunt Emily. Filled with foreboding, I call her while Ruth is in the bathroom. "Malcolm! Oh, I'm so glad you rang. How are you, dear?" "I'm fine, Aunty. Better than fine, actually." "I'm pleased to hear it. Now, I can't talk for long, but it's about your mother." Of course… I clutch my mobile phone harder. "Yes?" I ask cautiously, as my aunt takes a long breath. "It seems that she insisted on checking herself out of the San this morning, but they don't know where she's gone. She told them she was coming here, but I was in town, shopping… that awful fur coat's gone, though, and some of her clothes…I'm very worried about her. She's not with you, is she?" "No, but I'm not at home at present."

Aunt Emily asks me to call her if Mother should make contact, or turn up, and rings off, anxious to keep her landline clear for incoming calls. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool surface of the hallway wall. This is exactly what I don't need right now…why now? Why would she suddenly demand to leave the San and then disappear? Recollecting something, my eyes fly open, and I check the date on my phone. Just as I had feared, it is the twenty-first of March, and the pleasure of Lady Angela Anglesey's company has been requested at seven o'clock tonight…fearing the worst, I say a very bad word indeed, and then call up the stairs to Ruth. "I'm sorry, my love, but I have to go…something's come up." I hear her voice issuing a muffled response from behind the bathroom door while I am ringing for a cab, and I let myself out, still pulling on my suit jacket as I go. Oh, Mother, where are you? And what on earth are you doing there?

I tell the cabbie to make all possible haste for Hampstead.

A/N: UK readers will no doubt recall Eno's Fruit Salts, which were taken for indigestion and other upsets of that kind. Ruth would probably have been better off with Alka-Seltzer, though…and Morpheus is the son of Somnus, the Greek god of sleep. Both appear briefly in Ovid's Metamorphoses.