A/N: Thank you, all, for continuing to follow and review this fic. I appreciate each and every one of you. This chapter is set at the beginning of 2.08, that lovely scene with the umbrella (and I've borrowed some dialogue from there). I figure this happens at least a couple of weeks before the rest of the episode, based on Tom complaining, at some point, that he's been undercover for two weeks and has discovered nothing. Hope that makes sense and that you enjoy. Oh, and this is M rated. Cheers, S.C.
Friday, 10th October 2003 – The Grid
"Would you like a lift home, Ruth?" he asks daringly, adding quickly, "It's pouring outside and, with the strikes, it's going to be exceptionally difficult for you to get home."
She'd lifted her eyes sharply to his face when he'd first spoken, her brow creasing in a frown, but he sees her expression change as she contemplates the wisdom of his words. She sighs and nods. "Thank you, Harry. I confess that would be very nice."
"Go to the bus stop as usual then and, when Charles drives past, I'll ask him to pull over and offer you a lift," he suggests. "That way it'll look spontaneous and no one will be any the wiser."
She smiles. "You're a sly one, Harry Pearce."
He tilts his chin up, his collar suddenly feeling tight at the way she's looking at him. "Perhaps later..." he ventures, then tails off, remembering her request that he not broach the subject of their arrangement again at work.
"I'd like that," she replies softly, surprising him and buoying his spirits considerably at the prospect of an evening spent in Ruth's bed. "After Charles drops you off at home though," she clarifies quickly.
"Of course," he agrees readily. He no more wants their arrangement to become common knowledge than she does. "I could bring dinner over if you like," he adds before he can think better of it.
"I'll make us something," she suggests quickly, then turns away, clearly recollecting that they shouldn't be speaking about this at work, even if the Grid is quite deserted and they're alone in his office together.
He watches her go for a moment, his mood lifting even more at the thought of what awaits him later, the quiet dinner they will have together followed by really good sex. It'll be the forth time they've been together and he cannot wait to have her again. Normally he enjoys the novelty and passion of the first encounter with a woman the most, the excitement of the unknown, the discovery, and the conquest, then things go downhill from there. In fact, it's a rare woman that he sees more than three times, and he can't even remember the last time his desire for someone actually increased with each encounter. He supposes it must have happened initially with Jane – else why would he have dated her so long and then married her? Then again, in those days, he'd been more open. He'd had friends – Jane had been one of them. He'd had hopes and dreams and ambitions. He'd wanted, had planned to have it all.
Now he knows better. The losses, the betrayals have taken their toll and he understands, now, that having it all is a pipe-dream. He doesn't believe there is a woman alive worthy of such a level of trust, one who would stand by him through thick and thin, her loyalty unshakable, her love all-forgiving. Besides, even if such a woman existed, he's sure she'd choose someone else to love. Why would she saddle herself with him – such a dark, sorry, limited bastard?
He blinks, setting aside these thoughts as he turns to ring down to the desk and let Charles know he'll be ready to go in a few minutes, the sight of Ruth collecting her things and leaving the Grid galvanising him into action. No need for regrets, he tells himself, when there is the prospect of sharing a meal with a beautiful, desirable woman tonight before making love to her.
"Don't you two have homes to go to?" he asks Danny and Zoe as he passes by them on the Grid.
"Tube strike. It's raining. No cabs," Danny explains.
"We train you to be resourceful. I'm sure you'll find a way." He smiles, unable to contain his good humour.
"Maybe we could book out a pool car on strike days?" Danny asks hopefully.
Nice try, Danny.
"Operational purposes only, I'm afraid," he replies. "I can provide you with specially designed waterproofing equipment." He lifts his umbrella, unclasping the strip of fabric holding it together. "Standard field officer issue. Press this button here." Danny and Zoe both smile, which makes him feel rather pleased. They rarely enjoy his jokes, unlike Ruth who often laughs at them, especially when they're alone and especially after sex.
He leaves them to it, whistling as he takes the lift down and crosses the garage, cheerfully greeting his driver. Then as planned, once they're level with the bus stop, he leans forward and asks Charles to pull over, rolling down the window to offer Ruth a lift. She's drenched, poor thing, and no one could blame her for not hesitating long before accepting his offer. He moves over to make room for her and they set off once more with Ruth safely buckled in beside him while they talk about the dreadful weather, the strike, and other, mostly work related matters.
He says goodnight to her and watches her get out of the car and make her way to her front door, but he doesn't get to make sure she makes it inside safely before Charles drives off again. He tries not to let that worry him. She manages to get herself inside her home every night without incident and he doesn't spend his time worrying about it then. Why should tonight be any different?
Once home, he lets Scarlet out into the back garden for a few moments, but the rain hasn't let up much, so she quickly does her business and whines to be let back in where he lovingly rubs her dry with a towel and gets her food ready before heading upstairs to have a quick shower and shave, and to change into something more comfortable.
Then he gathers a bottle of wine from his stash in the kitchen, his umbrella, and the car keys, before saying goodbye to Scarlet, who looks rather sad to see him go so soon again, and making his way to the car, having promised her that he'll make it up to her later.
The traffic is murder, but the prospect of what awaits him at Ruth's keeps his spirits up and his temper under control. By the time he gets there, it's already almost ten.
She takes a moment to answer the door, swinging it open for him and offering him a quick smile before she darts away again, saying, "Come in, Harry. Sorry. The food needs me." So he steps into the house, closing and locking the door behind him, hanging up his coat and slipping off his shoes to avoid wet footprints in her home before going in search of her in the kitchen.
She's standing over the sink, steam billowing all around her as she drains their spaghetti, her hair tied up in a ponytail, feet bare, apron strings around her waist and neck, her figure tightly clad in a knee-length, form-fitting, red dress that almost stops his heart, then sets it to pounding. What is it about the colour red on this woman?
As if sensing his presence in the doorway, she says, without looking at him, "We're eating in the dining room. Perhaps you could set the table? I dumped the forks and knives and whatnot in there, but haven't had a chance to arrange them. Sorry. I had a slight problem with the shower, so I'm running rather late."
He swallows and turns away to do her biding, setting the table automatically while his mind's still stuck on the vision she presents in that dress and the myriad of ways that exist for him to remove it. By the time she makes an appearance with their food and sets it on the mats at one end of the table, he's more than ready to forget about the food and have her first instead.
She still has the apron on, one that's covered in cats and proclaims proudly, "Crazy cat lady" – how very Ruth – but somehow that only adds to the appeal of her, making her seem more real, more desirable, more sexy. Since when is it that whimsical imperfections in a woman set his heart to racing like this? He suspects the answer is since Ruth, but he can't be worrying about that now. He wants one thing and she is standing right before him.
Christ, but he loves this arrangement. He loves that it's all about the sex, that he doesn't have to pretend to be here for any other reason, doesn't have to make small talk or slowly ease into intimacy, or pretend that he can wait because, truthfully, he can't.
"Harry?" She sounds surprised when he moves forward, pulling out one of the chairs and trapping her between the table and his body as she turns, his lips coming down on hers hungrily, her hitched breath, her hum of pleasure as she slips her arms over his shoulders and tangles her fingers in his hair, her moan as he cups her arse and squeezes, music to his ears.
"You're irresistible," he growls between kisses, his hands pulling her against him, then wrapping round her thighs, lifting her onto the table. "I want you, Ruth. Now. I want..." He licks the shell of her ear, her whimpers of pleasure, her passion and his need for her surging, intoxicating. "I want," he repeats, his hands pushing her dress up, her legs spreading wider to accommodate him as he presses himself between them. "I want."
"I want never gets," she whispers seductively, her hands drawing him closer, legs wrapping around his hips.
"Is that so?" he growls, easing his hand between them, pushing down so his fingertips can strum against her clit, over her dress, making her moan and thrust her hips forward, her legs releasing him to give him more room to manoeuvre. "I beg to differ. I want does get because you want me too. Don't you, Ruth? You're wet, and hot, and aching. You're desperate for me. Aren't you?"
She moans breathlessly, her hands grasping his head and drawing him to her for a passionate kiss, her hips undulating against him, and when she pulls back, her voice is breathless and so very sexy. "Begging gets," she says, her eyes ablaze with want. She reaches back to undo the straps, then pulls her apron off and tosses it aside before untying her hair and reaching for him again, hands fisting in his jumper as she begins to lean back onto the table – luckily there's plenty of room beside their food and place settings – gaze locked with his, the invitation in her eyes unmistakable.
"Are you begging?" he asks, the sight of her so erotic, it sets his hands to trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He can't give in to her seduction. Not yet. His ego demands that she be the one to capitulate first.
"You are," she whispers, giving him an impish smile, her hands drawing him closer, arms surprisingly strong for someone her size. "You said, I beg."
"Taking my words out of context, hmmmm? I said, I beg to differ. That's not the same thing," he murmurs, and suddenly he wants her to beg. He wants to wipe that teasing smile off her lips. He wants to give her such pleasure as to stop her brain from functioning altogether.
She's pulled his face near her own now, his hands supporting his weight on either side of her, her hips tilting below his, causing arrows of pleasure and lust to shoot through him. "I think you'll beg when you see that I'm not wearing any knickers, Harry," she whispers, then kisses him hard.
He groans and can't resist the temptation to look, and before he knows quite what he's doing, he's pulled a chair in and is sitting between her legs, tasting her, devouring her while she bucks and moans, clamps his head between her thighs, and whimpers on the table. He's not done this in years, perhaps decades, has not wanted to, but somehow now, tonight, he's not been able to hold back, has wanted more than anything else to taste her, to turn the tables on her, to make her beg, which she does, again and again as he teases her.
Soon he can hold back no more, using his left hand to unfasten his trousers and locate a condom in his pocket before he presses a soft kiss against her heat and stands, pulling his fingers out of her. She whimpers in protest, her hands reaching for purchase on him, legs wrapping around him, her eyes opening to look at him, her gaze dark and unfocused with lust.
"You're bewitching," he says, his hands making quick work of pushing down his trunks and putting on the condom before reaching for her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the table and easing himself into her, their groans of pleasure mingling and filling the room.
"Christ, Ruth," he complains as her walls flutter around him. "You feel exquisite."
He slides out and pushes back in again slowly, savouring the feel of her, the way her insides tremble and clutch at his length, the breathless pants and whimpers escaping her throat as her eyes close and her face scrunches up with pleasure, her hands reaching, grasping for purchase. He lifts her feet, one over each shoulder, his hands gliding over the smooth skin of her legs as he moves – such gorgeous, strong legs – leaning over her, pushing deeper into her, her moans of pleasure urging him on. Her questing hands have locked onto the edge of the table now, on either side of her hips, and as he picks up the tempo of his thrusts, she matches his rhythm, pushing back against him, his cock reaching deeper inside her, her heat beginning to quiver and tremble around him as she nears the edge, her breathless, "Yes. Oh God, yes!" causing him to begin to pound into her until he can hold on no more and he crashes into oblivion.
How he remains standing and does not find himself in a heap on the floor, he'll never know. When he comes back to himself, her legs are no longer over his shoulders, but dangling off the edge of the table. His face is buried in her chest, her fingers softly massaging his ears and stroking through his hair, his forearms on the table supporting most of his weight, trousers and trunks pooled around his ankles.
From her gentle touch, he deduces that she probably came with him though he has no recollection of it, so powerful had been his own release. He doesn't want to just assume, however, so he clears his throat and whispers, "Did you finish, Ruth?"
Her hands pause in their movement and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Yes, thank you. You didn't notice?"
"I... er... was a bit..." He's not quite sure how to finish that sentence.
"Preoccupied? Enthralled? Dazzled?" she offers.
"You're a minx," he mutters, lifting his head to look at her.
She smiles. "I'm better than that, Harry. I'm the best you've ever had. Admit it."
He loves this playfulness that bubbles out of her after sex and can't help smiling at her. "Well, that's a very personal question, Ruth," he says, "and I'm certain that it's not within the parameters of this arrangement that I answer it."
She laughs. He loves to make her laugh – why, he doesn't know. Maybe it's because she's the only one who does laugh at his jokes.
He stands, offering her his hand to help her up.
Their eyes are level when she sits up, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth, her lips smiling at him, but before he can turn away to get himself sorted, her hands have reached up to cup his cheeks, her gaze softening, something that looks suspiciously like tenderness welling up in her clear blue eyes as she gazes at him and whispers, "Thank you, Harry," before she brushes her lips against his and releases him, hopping off the table and almost making him lose his balance, what with the chair behind him and his trousers and trunks wrapped around his ankles.
"Christ!" he exclaims, grabbing hold of her as she simultaneously takes hold of his waist to steady him.
"Sorry."
"That's alright. I'd better..." and he nods towards the door.
"I'll serve our food," she suggests, moving out of his way so he can pull off the condom and lift his trousers and trunks before leaving the room and making his way to the loo, pleased with himself, feeling at peace and wonderfully sated.
She watches him walk back into the room, his gaze warm and relaxed, his whole being exuding a glow of contentment and satisfaction, and she can't help feeling pleased and rather proud. It's quite a wonderful feeling to inspire such lust in a man so powerful, to satisfy his need so well that he keeps coming back for more. She thinks perhaps she finally understands why some women date and marry old, rich, powerful wankers. Not that she'd ever be tempted to do such a thing herself, or that Harry's one of them. He can be a bit of a bastard sometimes, but he's alright really, once you get to know him a little.
"Better?" she asks, mischievously.
"Much," he replies, his eyes twinkling at her as he takes a seat at the table.
"Tuck in then," she suggests and turns to her food, ravenously taking a few mouthfuls. It's only a simple dish of spaghetti bolognese with some steamed green beans and carrots, but it tastes quite good, especially after their earlier exertions. She enjoys cooking. It relaxes her.
"This is good," he says around a mouthful of food, which makes her smile.
They eat in silence for a few moments, then she asks, "So what did you do to Oscar Anderson?"
"Who?" He frowns at her.
"Oscar Anderson," she repeats. "Also, Johann Schmidt, Nathan Thomas, and Alex Meijer."
He just stares at her, dumbfounded.
"The condoms, Harry. I told you I'd make them legends."
He laughs, that adorable wheezy sound he makes sometimes. "Aren't you missing two?"
"I never had a chance to make them legends before they disappeared without a trace," she laments, turning to him with a wicked grin.
He chuckles.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"What did you do with them all? Where did you hide the bodies, Harry?"
He gives her a half-amused, half-speculative look now and lifts his glass to take a sip of his wine. "They're gone."
"Yes, well, I know that. I happened to notice that they weren't in the rubbish any of the times you've been here. So... where did they go? Do you take them home in your pocket to give them a proper burial?" She jokes. For some reason this intrigues her, perhaps because it's such an unusual thing to do and he's being so evasive. He takes another mouthful of food, glancing at her again, and suddenly the answer comes to her. "You flushed them down the loo, didn't you?" He doesn't confirm or deny it. "You know that's terrible for the environment, Harry. Why would... Oh, I see. You don't trust me."
He sighs and puts down his knife and fork. "It's not you I don't trust, Ruth." Then at her sceptical look, he adds, "What's the first thing we do when monitoring a suspect?"
"Set up surveillance and-"
"After that."
"Oh. Go through their rubbish."
He lifts his eyebrows at her as if to say, "See? I rest my case," and turns back to his food.
But now she's worried. She frowns at him. "You think someone's going through my rubbish?"
"No, Ruth. I don't. But I'd rather be safe than sorry. I always flush them down the toilet – ever since DNA testing was invented. I'd rather not make it that easy for someone to come by evidence that they could use to incriminate me in all sorts of ways."
She stares at him for a moment in disbelief. "Wow! I never realised you were quite that paranoid, Harry."
"I've been a spy for twenty years, Ruth. I know what's possible. The only way you can survive in this business is if you have more on others than they have on you and if you are very, very careful. You saw what happened with the briefcase. One slip up could mean the loss, the end of everything."
She smiles at him, reaching over impulsively to squeeze his hand. "That's a whole other level of stress, Harry," she says sympathetically.
He smiles and reaches for his wine, leaning back in this chair to take a sip. "Hence my gratitude that you've agreed to this arrangement."
"Oh, is that what it is?" She laughs and reaches for her own wine.
He lifts one eyebrow. "Are you questioning the stress relief you provide for me, or me being grateful?"
"Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I'm questioning neither."
"Good." He takes another sip of his wine. He's studying her intensely again, as if he's reassessing her talents and her value to him.
"What?" she asks boldly, taking a fortifying sip of her wine.
"You're a born spook, Ruth," he murmurs, making her cheeks flush with pleasure.
"Because I figured out what you did with Oscar Anderson?" she teases.
He smiles a crooked, little smile. "Because you're good at compartmentalising your life and detaching from your emotions when necessary. Because you're good at reading people and you have good instincts, especially when it comes to extracting information. You even managed to get me to reveal more than I was willing to part with just now. That takes some skill, Ruth."
She smiles and reaches over to squeeze his hand again in gratitude. "Don't worry, Harry. I won't betray your trust."
"No," he agrees softly, looking almost surprised by the realisation. "I don't believe you will."