Saturday, 3rd April 2004 – Harry's Place

It's his groan of pain that wakes her, but it's still dark, so she can't see him clearly, just the outline of the armchair in the gloom. "Harry?" she murmurs softly, sitting up.

"Ruth?" He sounds surprised.

"I'm here. Are you alright? Can I get you anything?"

She hears him shift, then murmur in surprise, "Scarlet?"

"Woof," says Scarlet before she starts licking him – at least that's what it sounds like.

Ruth smiles into the dark. "She climbed onto your chair last night and cuddled up beside you. I got a lovely photo."

He doesn't reply to that, but she hears him murmur something to his dog affectionately and she's sure she can see Scarlet's tail wagging. "Come on. Let me up, you silly pup," he complains after a moment.

Scarlet whines in response, resisting his efforts to push her away.

"Shall I get the light?" she suggests, beginning to stand.

"That might help. Thanks. I need the loo," he replies.

Gingerly, she makes her way across the room, following the path she remembers from last night, skirting around the spot she thinks is occupied by the coffee table and walking past his armchair until she's reached the wall, running her hand along it, looking for the light-switch.

"Aha!" she says in triumph when she locates it. "Watch your eyes," she warns, scrunching up her own before flicking the light on.

Once her eyes have adjusted to the brightness, she sees that Scarlet's now on the floor before Harry, who is struggling to extricate himself from the duvet, so she crosses the room to help him, pulling it aside so he can get up, and helping him push down the recliner so he doesn't strain his shoulder.

"Thank you," he murmurs, refastening trousers and shifting forward in his seat, preparing to stand.

He almost loses his balance, but luckily she's there to catch him, steadying him with her arms round his waist as he grasps her left shoulder.

"Careful!"

"Sorry," he murmurs. "Still a bit light-headed."

"I don't know what you thought you were going to do last night all on your own here," she admonishes him lightly. "Come on. I'm coming with you."

He looks like he might argue, but he seems to think better of it and allows her to escort him out of the room without complaint, her left arm wrapped around his waist again, his right arm round her shoulders. She's just thinking how snugly she fits beside him, when he voices that very thought. "You fit very nicely there, Ruth," he murmurs softly, and when she looks up at him, she can't help but smile at the tenderness in his eyes.

"I do, don't I?" she replies happily. "Now are we going to attempt the stairs? Your clothes are up there and your bed's much more comfortable than the armchair or the sofa."

"Tried it out, have you?"

"Actually, no. I just assumed it would be. You don't look like a man who enjoys torturing himself by sleeping on a bed of nails."

He smiles. "Yes. To attempting the stairs, I mean. I think I can manage."

And that's how they end up climbing them and making their way through to Harry's en suite.

"I can manage from here, thanks," he says once they reach the doorway.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm not about to suffer the indignity of having you help me use the toilet, Ruth."

"Very well," she concedes, "but don't lock the door, and if you're about to fall over, yell and I'll come catch you. I've seen it all before, remember?"

He sighs. "I know, but that was under much more pleasant and dignified circumstances."

"Yes, well, if you go gallivanting around, taking bullets to the shoulder, you're going to have to be prepared to swallow your pride sometimes and let me help you. The last thing we want is to extend your convalescence unnecessarily by doing something stupid, like falling over because you're too stubborn to let me help."

"Stubborn, am I? I'd like to see what you would do in my position."

"I wouldn't have got myself shot in the first place."

He sighs, deflating a little. "I didn't think he'd do it," he admits.

"You'd cornered him," she says. "I'm sure he didn't want to hurt you, Harry. He just couldn't see another way out of his predicament. If it was me, I'd have listened and talked him down."

He studies her for a moment and she hopes he can see her concern for him in her eyes, realising that her words just now sounded rather critical. "Perhaps I should have taken you with me."

She smiles. "Perhaps. There's no use crying over spilt milk, however. Right now, you need rest."

"And I desperately need to empty my bladder," he concedes, turning from her towards the loo as she reaches in to pull the door closed, taking a moment to satisfy herself that he's steady enough on his feet to manage without her before closing it behind him.

They're in his bed, the two of them, with the bedside lamp on, both wide awake, her hair falling over her shoulder as she lies beside him, propping herself up on her left elbow while she smiles down at him, gazing into his eyes, and he can't help but feel moved by the experience of having her here, in his home, in his bed, wearing one of his shirts, her bare legs brushing against his own under the covers, happy and beautiful.

"You know, you're the only woman I've ever brought here," he confesses softly, feeling brave enough to test the waters after the way she's taken care of him, convinced that perhaps she too feels and wants more.

Because he does – he wants more, more of her, more of them, more than just sex every few weeks, more of a meshing of their lives even if it makes everything more complicated and unpredictable for him. He can't sit on the sidelines any longer. He has to take the risk, enter the game and, hopefully, win it because he wants her, he wants everything with her.

"Here?"

"Home."

She drops her gaze, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't know about that, Harry. You didn't exactly bringing me here. I sort of barged in."

"But I wanted to. I've wanted to bring you here since my birthday in November."

She looks surprised by that, pleased, but also a little puzzled. "Then why didn't you?" she asks.

And how exactly does he answer that? How does he explain when she's invited him, welcomed him into her home and her bed so many times?

"I'm not sure how to explain," he murmurs. "This is... it's my sanctuary. It's the place where I get to relax and be myself. I'm not a spy here. I'm not a Section Head. I'm not even a man. I'm just me, if that makes any sense – plain, old Harry."

She smiles and nods in understanding. "And you don't share plain, old Harry with many people, do you?"

"No," he admits. "Mostly, it's just Scarlet."

"I'm touched," she says, lifting her right hand to stroke his cheek. She smiles.

"What?"

"Stubble," she replies, running her fingers over his rough skin again. "You're normally freshly shaven when I touch you."

"Sorry," he murmurs, but she doesn't give him a chance to add anything more.

"Don't be. It's normal for the middle of the night. I rather like it."

"Oh?" he replies, feeling pleased. "Would you like me to grow a beard?"

It had been a teasing remark, but she gives it serious consideration before she replies, "No, I don't think so. You've got a good, strong jaw. You don't need a beard. And I suspect it would hide your lips, which happen to be one of your best features. So no, on balance, I don't think a beard's a good idea." She gives him a mischievous look. "And besides, it would tickle and scrape when you kissed me. I wouldn't like that."

He smiles, marvelling at her beautiful mind, the amount of thought she puts into everything.

"Isn't it a bit lonely for you though?" she asks after a beat, lowering her hand lightly to his chest, and it takes him a moment to catch up with the conversation shift.

"I'm used to the solitude. I like my own company. I have Scarlet. I haven't felt lonely." It's true – he doesn't – but at the same time, ever since his feelings for Ruth had blossomed into love, he's come to realise that he might be missing out on an awful lot of joy and happiness by not allowing her more fully into his life, into every one of the compartments he's spent so long constructing and keeping separate from each other – home, work, sex, intellectual stimulation, R&R, family.

"Well, I'm honoured that you trust me enough to want to bring me here." She smiles and reaches down to kiss his lips softly before pulling back. "Thank you."

He swallows and, whether because of the intimacy of the moment, the feelings of peace and joy that having her here have stirred in him, the pain or the painkillers dulling his mind or removing his inhibitions, or the way he's been forced to confront his own mortality, he can't help confessing, "It's not just trust."

"Oh?" She's still smiling, her eyes incredibly blue and beautiful.

He licks his lips. "At first it was an attraction, a purely physical thing."

"Then we became friends," she says. "I remember."

"But now..." He swallows, searching her gaze. "Now, Ruth, I find that, quite unexpectedly, I've fallen in love with you."

Her breath hitches at his declaration, the smile slipping from her lips, her gaze full of surprise, disbelief even. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, his heart pounding, palms beginning to sweat, breath laboured as he waits for her reaction, scared he's misread the situation, her feelings, his gut tightening with apprehension to have left himself so open, so vulnerable.

"You said you could never fall in love with me," she whispers, her eyes searching his, and he's not sure if she's stalling because she's scared to hope, to trust, or because she's searching for a way to let him down gently.

He clears his throat. "Actually, I didn't. What I said was I'm not about to fall in love with you," he replies, his voice rather gravelly. "I was right. It took several weeks for it to happen."

She blushes and drops her gaze, which doesn't ease his anxiety at all, and when she doesn't respond for long moments, he can't help clearing his throat again and murmuring, "I don't expect you to feel the same way, Ruth. I-"

But she doesn't let him finish, lifting her eyes to his again, her hand reaching out to brush the moisture from her cheek, then rest upon his chest again. "But I do," she whispers, her eyes alight with emotion. "I do, Harry. I just didn't dare hope..." She tails off, just staring at him, and he imagines that her emotions are similar to his own – a quiet sense of disbelief, wonder, delight.

He smiles, a big grin splitting his face, his right hand rising to cup her cheek, overcome by the joy, the euphoria of the moment, his pain, his exhaustion, his damaged body forgotten as he gazes into her eyes and murmurs, "That's good."

"Just good?" she teases, eyes alight, smiling down at him as she presses her cheek into his palm, her demeanour open and playful, something that normally only happens after sex.

"Wonderful," he amends, hand slipping round to the back of her head, drawing her to him. He kisses her softly, whispering it again, "Wonderful," his heart soaring, the joy, the jubilation like nothing he's felt before. He kisses her again, then again, each kiss more passionate, more open, more filled with emotion. "I love you," he murmurs, then kisses her again.

A breathless giggle of pure joy escapes her and she presses her lips against his ardently, her body against his right side, and he relishes it more than anything, any moment that's come before this one, all the passion they've shared so far. "I love you too," she whispers, kissing him again.

"I wish I could make love to you," he says when they eventually break apart to catch their breaths.

"I could-" she begins, her hand sliding down his body.

"No," he interrupts. "I'm afraid that's unlikely to help tonight. I'm sorry." There's not even a stirring down there despite their ardent kissing. His body has been through too much in the last 24 hours.

"Well," she smiles softly, "a cuddle then." And with that, she shuffles down and rests her head on his right shoulder, her arm wrapping around his middle, right leg hooking through his.

"This is nice," he admits, turning his head to press a kiss against her forehead and squeezing her against him with his good arm.

"It's lovely," she agrees.

He hums, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax, the contentment to blanket his heart despite the dull ache in his shoulder that's refusing to subside in spite of the painkillers he's taken.

"Harry?" she murmurs after a moment.

"Mmmm?" he hums.

"What does it mean though?"

"Mean?"

"That you love me, that I love you. What do we do about it?"

He frowns, unsure what to say. To him, it means everything. Does she fall in love so easily that to her it means nothing at all? "I'm not sure I understand your question," he says, trying not to jump to conclusions.

"I mean in practice. How does this change things? What do you want... for us?"

"I want us to be together. Properly together."

"Live together?"

He hesitates. "Eventually, yes."

But apparently, she picks up on his hesitation and lifts her head to look at him. "You don't sound very certain."

"Do you want us to live together, Ruth?" he asks, turning the tables on her.

"Eventually," she replies with a teasing smile.

His gaze softens. Christ, but he loves this woman. She makes it so easy to hold back, and by doing so, makes him want to do the exact opposite – to trust her, to jump in with both feet, to embrace the consequences. "What is it you want for us, Ruth?"

"Everything we have and more. More time together, shared experiences, companionship, love, fantastic sex," she says, then hesitates before adding, "I didn't think you could offer me all that in the beginning. You being who you are – cautious, hard to read, secretive, an experienced spy, my boss..."

"A right bastard," he suggests, reminding her of how this all began and earning him a smile.

"Yes," she admits. "I thought I could never know you well enough, that you'd never let me in. And I also thought, both of us being in the Service wasn't a good thing. Too many secrets, too many obstacles, you know?"

"Yes... And now?" he asks softly.

"Now I think, I do know you, better than I ever thought I would. I feel I know who you are deep down inside, though you've shared very little about yourself. It's like the facts of your life are irrelevant. Is that terribly naive of me?"

He smiles and threads his fingers through her hair. He loves her hair – it's so soft and long and lush and beautiful. "It can't be. I find myself thinking the same thing and I don't think anyone could accuse me of being naive."

She laughs. "That's true. And we can fix that anyway, can't we? We can share stories about our childhoods, families, university, our drunken adventures and disastrous one night stands."

"We could," he agrees, his heart almost aching with love for her as he watches her talk, her face animated, eyes dancing with pleasure. It's as if the realisation that she loves him too has unveiled the true depth of his love for her and he can no longer contain it. He's transfixed by her, by the joy, the rapture of having her near, telling him why their relationship can work, what she sees in their future. He's so besotted that he can barely follow the conversation.

"I think we can make this work if we try, and as to both of us being spies... Well, I think it makes it easier in many ways. It's easier to understand the limitations, the... baggage we each carry, and it's easier to support each other, through thick and thin."

"That's true," he agrees. "Trying to explain away an injury such as this would have been hell if you weren't in the Service, even if you had signed the official secrets act. In my experience, it's virtually impossible to relate when you're an outsider."

"And I imagine, it's hard not to feel resentful of the dedication and sacrifices the Service demands."

"Yes." She doesn't ask him about his marriage, though he suspects she's wondering about it, and it makes him love her even more for it and want to open up. "In Jane's case, it was more the unfaithfulness of her husband that tipped the balance in the end," he confesses, his cheeks heating with shame. "I was young and foolish. I was never the husband she deserved... nor the father my children deserved either."

Her gaze softens and she reaches for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry," she says.

He sighs. "Me too," he admits. "If I could do it all again, I'd do everything different."

"Have you told them that? Your children?"

"They... We don't speak often," he confesses softly, his heart breaking at the painful reminder.

"Oh Harry," she whispers, her compassionate gaze tipping him over the edge, and he has to fight to contain his tears. She must see his struggle because she quickly rests her head on his shoulder again and wraps her arm around him, squeezing him against her as the tears begin to spill over. How does she do this? How does she bring up so much emotion in him? How does she touch the best part of him and draw him into the light, make him want to do better, be better, be worthy of her? "You have so much to give, Harry," she murmurs softly, and he knows that she means it. "Don't give up hope." She lifts her head and softly kisses his lips, wiping away his tears with gentle fingers. "A reconciliation is still possible. They're still young. So are you. Don't give up. Keep trying."

He clears his throat. "I have Catherine's email somewhere. It's her birthday soon. I could send her a message."

Ruth smiles. "That's the spirit. When's her birthday?"

"Four days before yours," he says, pleased when her smile broadens. "You didn't think I'd forget, did you?" he teases gently.

"It crossed my mind." She gives him a mischievous smile. "But then I realised I could just ring you and demand you return the present I gave you for yours if you didn't remember."

He chuckles, ignoring the twinge from his shoulder. "Gladly," he replies, "though I intend to do even better than that."

"Oh good. I love presents. What are you getting me?"

"It's a surprise."

"You have no idea, have you?"

He smiles. "I have several ideas. And now that we've established what we are to each other, it'll be easier to narrow it down."

"And what are you getting Catherine?"

He frowns. He hadn't planned on getting her anything, scared she'd throw it back in his face. The last time he saw her, she was spitting nails at him.

"You've got to get her something, Harry. She's your daughter. How old is she going to be?"

"Twenty-four."

She smiles, but there's something in her gaze as she looks at him that he can't quite put his finger on. "What?" he asks. She shakes her head, but he insists. "Ruth..."

"I was just thinking that I'm only ten years older than her," she replies. "I mean, I knew your children were adults already, but I guess I never thought through the implications of that. I'm closer to their age than I am to yours."

His chest tightens in apprehension, his expression turning serious. "That's true," he concedes. "Is that going to be a problem?"

She smiles broadly and kisses him. "Only when you're ninety and I'm still in my seventies," she replies, making him smile in relief.

"You've planned that far ahead already?"

"Well, you're a spy, Harry. I need to be prepared if I'm going to hide my younger lover from you when you can no longer satisfy me." Her twinkling eyes betray her, and he knows that she's only teasing.

He narrows his eyes at her. "I knew there had to be a catch. I knew I couldn't trust you."

She smiles at him and tilts her head to the side, considering him for a moment before she leans a little closer. "And what about you, Harry? Can I trust you?"

"With your life."

"I have no doubt, but with my heart? I wonder..."

He stares at her and mutters, "Christ!" trying to figure out how he managed to walk straight into this minefield. "Ruth," he begins, but she interrupts him.

"Sorry. That wasn't fair."

"No, it was, after what I said about Jane," he admits. "I won't hurt you, Ruth, at least not in that way, not if I can help it, hurting you that is, not..." He sighs, knowing he's making a hash of this, but at least it makes her chuckle. "What I mean to say is that I'm... a serious man – some might say limited. I'm not in and out of love often, and as you've probably guessed, my marriage to Jane was a disaster, or at least it ended that way. Recovering from that took... Well, let's just say I'd planned to live out the rest of my life as a bachelor. Falling for you-"

"Was the best thing that's ever happened to you," she interrupts, grinning and making him smile.

"Quite possibly, yes," he agrees, pleased to see she's not taking this too seriously. "I'd not expected this, Ruth, but I don't intend to throw it away either. As much as is within my power, I'll do my best to love and to protect you-"

"And satisfy me," he adds, her lips twitching with amusement.

"That goes without saying." He smiles at her tiredly, feeling suddenly drained.

"You look exhausted. I'm sorry. I should let you sleep," she says, looking contrite. She leans in and presses a soft kiss against his lips before turning to switch off the light. Then she moves closer again and cuddles his side, her head resting on the pillow beside his, her hand reaching for his, threading their fingers together and allowing him to raise it to his lips where he presses a soft kiss against her knuckles.

"Good night, Ruth," he whispers.

"Good night, Harry," she replies.

He lies in the dark with her body close to his, their joined hands resting on his stomach, but despite his exhaustion, sleep does not come, their conversation bouncing around his head, stirring up emotions and memories long forgotten and making him feel restless.

"Ruth?" he murmurs after a bit.

"Mmm?"

"I'll be faithful to you. I promise." And though it's an easy promise to make now, when he's very much in love with her and hasn't even looked at another woman in months, he means to keep it, even if, years from now, their passion has cooled and he is tempted. He had loved Jane too, he remembers now, and they'd been a good match initially – before the Service had changed him – but he'd been young and foolish then, and he's determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. He knows he is wiser now and not nearly as randy, which should certainly help him stick to his word, but he also has discipline and self-control in buckets, something his younger self had been sorely lacking.

She hums in contentment and he feels her press her head closer to his shoulder, rubbing it against him like a cat. "I know you will, Harry." Her voice is warm and happy, and it lifts his heart to hear it.

"You do? I thought you were worried about that."

"No. Not about that."

"Then what?"

She's silent for long moments, but eventually she says, "The usual things – that you'll hurt me, that one day you'll not love me any more, that next time you get shot, it'll be fatal. I know there's nothing to be done about it. Life is unpredictable. It happens." She's silent for a moment more, then adds softly, "The thing that worries me the most though is... I'm scared you'll use my love and loyalty, that you'll manipulate me into doing what you think is right, even when you know I don't agree with you. We live in the grey areas, you and I, and we have different shades of grey that we find acceptable. I accept that and love you anyway, but I'm scared of the... ruthless side of you – that you'll let it take over, that you'll not be honest with me and I'll be forced to compromise who I am, my beliefs, for an op or to be with you. And I know that would break me inside. It would destroy what we have, but it would also break me to have my feelings and principles dismissed like that and trampled on."

He's silent for long moments after that, digesting her words as he squeezes her fingers with his own and turns his head to press his lips against her hair, somewhat floored by her honesty and, at the same time, in awe of her strength in sharing her fears. His first emotion is relief to know that she harbours similar fears to his own, his second gratitude and love. She's remarkable and beautiful and wonderful and he finds himself falling even more in love with her than ever.

"I don't know what to say, Ruth," he murmurs in a husky voice, full of emotion, "except that I'll do my very best never to let that happen."

"Thank you," she replies, pressing her lips against his shoulder.

"Trust is a tricky thing," he adds after a moment.

"Yes."

"I've been betrayed many times in this business," he confesses softly, the fact that they're lying in the dark and Ruth's honesty a moment ago, giving him the courage to open up a little more. "It's the nature of the work we do and, perhaps, what ultimately breaks us. I don't trust many people and... I'm afraid to trust completely. I'm afraid that, if I let you in, you'll betray me. That if something happened – someone set me up, accused me of something – you'd not stand by me. That you might help them, in a moment of anger perhaps or for revenge, or because you actually believed them. If I open up and then you turn against me..." He tails off unable to finish the thought.

She presses herself against him, her lips against his shoulder, her fingers tightening their grip on his. "I'll not betray you, Harry. I'm not a vengeful person and I know you're a good man at heart. I can't predict the future, but I promise that – no matter what – I'll never side with someone else against you, even if we're no longer together, even if you hurt me deeply and I can't stand by you, I'll not stand against you either. What is it the cousins say? I'll take the fifth?"

He smiles and squeezes her hand. "I guess we both need to learn to trust each other," he murmurs softly.

"It's not an easy or a simple thing, but we're doing quite well, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"And we don't need to rush, Harry. We can take things slowly, as we have been."

He hums in agreement and contentment, turning to press another kiss against her forehead.

"We've made lots of progress already," she babbles on. "This is the first night I've spent in your home, in your bed, the first night we've spent together that hasn't involved sex, the first time we've admitted that we're in love."

He smiles into the dark. "I'm glad my physical condition gives us something to celebrate, Ruth, because had I been match fit tonight-"

"I wouldn't have barged into your home," she interrupts, "and we'd probably still be drifting aimlessly along, wanting more, yet too scared to speak, to trust and move forward."

He smiles. "So you're saying I should be grateful that I got shot?"

"No. I'm saying there's always a silver lining."

"You're my silver lining, Ruth," he confesses softly. "I've no idea what I've done to deserve this chance with you, to deserve your love, but I'm very grateful for it. You make everything better."

She's silent for several moments but, when she speaks, he can hear the emotion in her voice. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," she says, releasing his hand to wrap her arm around him and draw closer, squeezing him against her in a fierce embrace.

"I love you," he replies, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her lips as she turns her head and tilts it up towards him, seeking out his lips with her own, pouring her emotions into the kiss, her passion rising, overflowing. Her thighs clamp around his right leg as she pushes herself against him, moaning at the shudder that runs through her when she clenches her buttocks and grinds herself against him, and he wishes more than anything that he could somehow satisfy her tonight, though he knows such wishes are futile. The pain in his shoulder is bearable with the painkillers he's taken while he's lying flat on his back, but any kind of motion is out of the question tonight, even turning on his side to face her, let alone attempting to give her an orgasm, a fact that's unfortunately illustrated quite well when she lifts her right hand to cup his cheek and inadvertently knocks his shoulder, causing an involuntary moan of pain to escape his lips and her to quickly pull back, apologising profusely.

"Sorry. God, I'm so sorry, Harry."

"I'm alright. It's alright, Ruth," he quickly reassures her. "It's just a twinge. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," he repeats. "Come back here." And he draws her closer with his right hand against her back, until she's nestled against his chest again, her head on his right shoulder.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she murmurs.

"I know. Forget it, Ruth. I'm fine. Better than fine for having you here, with me."

"I love you," she replies, making his heart soar.

He presses a kiss against her forehead again. "Sleep," he advises. "It's going to be another long day tomorrow."

"Yes," she agrees and he feels her body relax against him.

He smiles and closes his eyes, allowing himself to relax too, content in the knowledge that she loves him and the hope of many more nights like this one – of loving each other and falling asleep in each other's arms – to look forward to in the future.