A/N: This chapter is set on two different days during 2.09, one in the middle and one at the end of the episode. Many thanks again for reading and reviewing. Your encouraging words really make my day.

S.C. x

Thursday, 13th November 2003 – Ruth's Place

It's odd, but she's beginning to enjoy the time she spends wrapped in Harry's arms after sex almost as much as the act itself. There's something very comforting about it, something gentle and tender, a moment of stillness and peace snatched out of the chaos that often prevails in their lives, and though she's always thought that she'd need a gentle, kind man to make her feel this way, she's rather surprised to find that perhaps she doesn't. Perhaps a man who understands how precious this peace and contentment is, for whom it's equally rare and cherished, is actually in a better place to understand her and appreciate these moments with her, rather than one for whom they're par for the course and unremarkable because his life is always peaceful and tranquil.

Is this why spies often take up with each other? Is this what Tom sees in Christine Dale? She feels sorry for him, in a way, that he has to break it off, though equally, she understands why Harry's insisting. Still, perhaps he's not in love with her, perhaps he has a similar arrangement to the one she has with Harry. She hopes so. Poor Tom doesn't need to suffer through another tricky breakup.

She tilts her head up to look at Harry, causing him to hum, perhaps in protest. He's got his eyes closed and he's relaxed, more relaxed than she's ever seen him, except for that one time he'd stayed over, for his birthday, and she'd watched his face for long moments while he'd slept. She likes that he's getting to feel so comfortable around her, that his trust in her is growing and he doesn't feel he has to be quite so careful and always on his guard. And of course, she appreciates the sex without the condoms too. It's absolutely heavenly now that she can really feel him inside her, his movements more gentle, more in tune with hers, as if he can sense, can intuit what she needs and wants to give her the utmost pleasure.

She runs her fingers over the smooth skin of his jaw – he's always freshly shaven now when he comes over – cupping his cheek, making him hum again and turn his head towards her, his eyes opening to look down at her. "Alright?" he asks, his voice gravelly and lazy, gaze as warm as honey, brimming with a contented soft of satisfaction.

"Yes," she whispers. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"Tom," she admits.

There's a pause, then he says, "He was out of line today," causing her to frown up at him, wondering what specifically he's referring to.

"How'd you mean?"

"What he said to you."

"Oh." She'd almost forgotten about that. "Right. It's fine, Harry. I'm not upset about that. I'm just... He's been... erratic lately. Every op seems to aggravate him in one way or another, every outcome leaves him – I don't know – edgy, unhappy? He's volatile and unpredictable."

"Yes," he agrees quietly, looking away, lost in deep thought for a few moments.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?"

"Yes," he confirms, turning his eyes back on hers.

"Maybe it'll blow over," she says hopefully. "This thing with Christine Dale... Do you think it's serious?"

"I hope not," he replies, his eyes slipping from her face again, a frown creasing his brow. "He should have known better than to start something with a foreign operative. He's all over the shop lately." He sighs and lifts his left hand to tub his forehead with thumb and fingers – such a Harry thing to do that it makes her smile inwardly to see it.

"Maybe he's pumping her for information," she suggests, delighted to see him smile and lower his hand to her hip.

"He was seeing someone before you joined us. Ellie Simm. She had a child – six, seven years old or so. There was a bomb in a laptop Patrick McCann, of IRA infamy, gave Tom. He took his work home – always a bad idea. Ellie and her daughter were there. Luckily the trigger was faulty and it didn't detonate, but it cost Tom the relationship. I think it hit him harder than he'd like to admit." He says all this softly, his left hand stroking her arm, and though she already knew most of it from office gossip, she's pleased to hear him share it with her. "He's not been himself since."

"It's hard to get over losing a family," she says, moving closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder again.

"I hadn't considered them as his family, but... you're right," he replies after a moment. "It's hard when children are involved." His voice sounds distant as if he's somewhere far away, and she remembers suddenly that he'd been married, a while back now, and has two adult children. He never speaks of them, of course, and no one seems to know anything about them, and she wonders suddenly if perhaps he'd lost touch with them as a result of his divorce and how much this must have hurt him.

"You have children, don't you?" she asks lightly.

"Two," he replies softly, almost reverently. "They're all grown up now."

"It must have been hard, bringing them up, with all this danger and calamity around," she ventures, feeling a sudden surge of compassion for him. "I don't know how people do it. I'm convinced I'd be an emotional wreck if I were a parent. Fretful and totally paranoid. An utter basket case really. Far better for everyone concerned – especially the children – that I stick to cats, I think."

He chuckles softly, his gaze warm as he murmurs, "All I can say is that the cats, I'm sure, are grateful."

"They'd better be. Do you have any idea how much it costs to feed them and pay the vet?"

He laughs and rolls onto his side to face her, propping his head on his right hand. "I imagine I have a pretty good idea. I have a dog at home."

"You do?"

"Hmmm," he hums and leans in to kiss her.

"What's his – her? – name?"

"It's a secret," he replies, making her smile so that his next attempt to kiss her fails. "Stop smiling, Ruth. I'm trying to kiss you."

"I can't," she protests. "I find it funny when you do that."

"Do what? Kiss you?"

"No, become all... spooky."

"Spooky?" He lifts his head to frown down at her.

"Doing your spook thing. Becoming all cagey. Hiding ridiculous little details. It's funny." She grins up at him, adoring the pout that's formed on his lips, the calculating look in his eyes as he narrows them at her.

"Spooky is my middle name," he says, then leans over her, his lips close to her ear as he adds, "Now, shut up and let me fuck you." And with that, she feels his lips and tongue find the spot that's always her undoing, sending shivers running through her and a bolt of desire straight to her core, making her whimper and close her eyes, all thought slipping away as she responds to him with equal ardour and passion.

She can't really fault him for being cautious – he's a spy and, if she's honest, she wouldn't have him any other way for, in keeping his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself, he gives her permission not to open up either. Love and intimacy and the perfect man are all very well, but in practice, she's beginning to wonder if she'll ever meet a man she could bring herself to trust enough to open up and make herself truly vulnerable.

Sunday, 16th November 2003 – The Grid

He pours a glass of whisky while he listens to Tessa talk.

"Durbeyfield or D'urberville: only a slight difference," she's saying. "Right and wrong – it's a fine line. You make your decisions and somehow the consequence of those decisions keep unravelling."

I'll say.

He takes another sip of his drink, but as he lowers his glass he feels a slight shift in the air around him. It's not hostile, but familiar and welcome like a caress from a gentle lover. In fact, he'd give just about anything right now to feel the touch of her hand against him, the exquisite softness of her kiss, for it is Ruth who has come to seek him out, he's sure of it – though he hasn't yet turned to look behind him – and he can already feel himself relaxing.

"Are you alright?" she asks softly as she stops behind his right shoulder to frown at the image of Tessa on the screen.

He sighs and purses his lips. He has no idea how to answer that. He could lie, but somehow he can't bring himself to do that right now.

"Is that Tessa?" she asks, surprising him and reminding him suddenly of how little she knows.

"Yes," he replies, feeling every year of his age.

He lifts his eyes to find her silently studying her image and listening carefully to her words, until finally she makes a huffing noise and pulls out the chair beside him to sit, reaching for his glass of whisky, taking it from his hand, and taking a fortifying sip.

"What bollocks," she says. "She's only making excuses."

He smiles and picks up the remote, pausing the video. "Sometimes, saving face is all that's left for us to do," he murmurs, revealing far more than he intended. This has been happening quite a lot around Ruth lately and, try as he might, he can't seem to stop himself from doing it.

There's a moment of silence before she presses his whisky glass back into his hand, using the opportunity to gently squeeze it with her other one, and he feels a lump of emotion lodge itself in his throat at her gentle compassion and support. He'd made the wrong decision today and that poor woman had lost her life for it.

She doesn't keep her hands round his long for, though they're alone at the moment, there's always CCTV to worry about. "You couldn't have known what would happen, Harry," she says softly, her eyes full of compassion, her words comforting and soothing.

"I should have seen it coming," he murmurs, lifting the glass to his lips again before bringing it back to the table, cradling it between his hands, tracing its patterns with his fingertips as he swallows the whisky. "I know Tessa. I should have expected her to pull something like this when cornered. Her self-interest knows no bounds."

She's silent for a few moments, then says, "Well, at least, she's out of your hair now. She'll be someone else's problem for a while and, with any luck, she'll get herself in too deep, one of these days, and won't survive the experience."

He's not sure he's ever heard Ruth speak so harshly about anyone, and he can't help but smile at the steel in her voice and clear blue eyes. "I'll drink to that," he offers, taking another sip of his scotch.

She smiles and gets up, murmuring, "You know where I am if you need me, Harry," and walking away, her hand resting for a moment on his shoulder before her fingertips graze the back of his neck and she's gone, leaving him to his dark thoughts and his whisky, and the growing realisation he can no longer ignore that he does need her and that he might very well – and in spite of his own certainty that it would never happen – be falling in love with her.

In fact, might is probably an understatement, and the more he considers his feelings and probes his heart, the more it seems to him to be too late to halt the process – he's too far gone already to escape unscathed.

For a moment, he wonders when it had began, how it had escaped his notice. At what point could he have pulled back and walked away without consequence to himself? He remembers that first stirring of emotion when he'd left her sleeping that first time and the subsequent warmth he'd felt as he'd watched her laugh at her joke about his condoms. He'd known then, had felt that this woman was very different from the ones who'd come before her, and he can't help feeling that there's probably no way he could have escaped this fate, that just working with Ruth day in and day out – her wisdom, her winsomeness, her strength, her brilliance, her courage and tenacity, her gorgeous eyes and beautiful smile – would have slipped past all his defences eventually and the result would have been the same. By sleeping with Ruth, all he'd probably done is hasten the inevitable.

It's comforting somehow to think that, at any rate, and though he briefly contemplates the wisdom of distancing himself, he quickly dismisses the notion. Far better to take and enjoy every moment she will give him of her time and her body, for as long as she allows it to last. When you're offered a good whisky, you drink the whole bottle, you don't take a sip and give it back because it might spoil your appetite for all others.

No. He will continue to see her and have her and thrill her for as long as she'll let him because, in addition to draining the whisky bottle, you also do your best to get a steady supply of it, which would mean turning several of his own rules on their heads and doing his best to: a) keep Ruth interested and seduced, and b) make sure no one finds out about it.