A/N: Hello, all. I'm finally back from holiday and ready with an update. This one is set at the end of 3.01 and it's rather M-rated. Still trying to stick to Monday updates for this fic and, though I'm unsure how many chapters are left exactly, we are nearing the end of this story. Thanks for reading and for all your encouraging reviews. Cheers, S.C.
Monday, 5th April 2004 – Harry's Place
She hums as she cooks, putting a dash of this and a dash of that in the curry, improvising as she always does. She loves cooking. It's so relaxing, especially when she's cooking for two, and especially when that other person is Harry and he's sitting just a few feet away from her. She still can't get over the fact that he loves her and that he wants more. If it wasn't for the mess at work that's keeping her grounded, she'd be floating on a cloud of giddy jubilation, unable to stop smiling or get anything constructive done at all. It's enough to make her almost glad of the crisis for she's sure every one of their colleagues would have guessed she's in love and likely would have guessed with whom too, once their suspicions had been roused and they began to pay closer attention. As it is, however, luring Carmen Joyce to London and lifting her had required most of her and Harry's focus and attention and very little had been left over for anything else, though she's absolutely certain that he took a peek down her top when she was showing him the camera feed from the spook taxi. She grins and turns to look at him, only to find him miles away.
"You're awfully quiet," she comments.
He's frowning, the fingers of his right hand tapping gently against the table top, eyes staring into space. "Sorry," he says, refocusing his gaze on hers. Clearly he's not thinking happy thoughts like her.
"Still dwelling on what happened to Tom?" she asks lightly, setting aside the wooden spoon before she lifts her glass of wine and takes a sip, still watching him.
He sighs and she sees him open his mouth to speak before hesitating and nodding his head instead. "We misjudged him so badly, Ruth."
"Yes," she agrees, setting aside her glass and crossing the distance between them to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders gently before running her fingers through his hair, making him hum in appreciation. "But he only has himself to blame for that, Harry. If he hadn't been acting so erratic for weeks before it happened, no one would have believed him capable of it. Plus he shot you. I, for one, can't easily forgive or forget that." She leans down and presses a soft kiss against the top of his head, lowering her right hand to his shoulder where she begins to gently massage away the tension she finds there, her left hand resting by his neck, her thumb running up and down the side of his spine, careful to avoid his injured shoulder.
"You're wonderful," he murmurs, tilting his head back to look up at her.
"So are you." She smiles down at him, stilling her hands and leaning slowly down to press her lips against his, the fact that he's upside down making it a delicious challenge.
"Hardly," he replies when she pulls back and continues to rub his neck and right shoulder, his eyes closing as he rests the back of his head against her stomach. "I'm practically useless at the moment. You're doing all the work and-"
"I'm enjoying taking care of you," she interrupts. "It feels good to be needed in unusual ways."
"Unusual?" he frowns, opening his eyes again.
"Yes. Not for my body or my brains." She grins at him, making him smile.
"Well, I'm grateful for all you're doing for me, Ruth, and I'll make it up to you – I promise – just as soon as my shoulder's well on the mend."
"There's no hurry, Harry. This is the nice thing about being together: sharing the chores in life." She presses her lips against the top of his head again and moves away, going back to check on the food.
She picks up the wooden spoon, scooping up some of the curry and blowing on it to cool it as she hears him say, "I've been thinking." She turns to look at him, still cooling the food with her breath as she watches him fondly. "I thought maybe you'd like to... bring some things over – toothbrush, shampoo, and whatnot, maybe a change of clothes or two, some pyjamas..." He tails off, lifting his eyes to hers and she can't help but smile at the adorable, bashful look on his face.
Gingerly she scrapes a bit of food into her mouth with her teeth, being careful not to burn her tongue, moving it around her mouth to taste it before swallowing, sure that something's missing, but unable to put her finger on what it is.
"Taste this for me," she says, crossing the room to his side again. "I'm sure it needs something. It's not salt..."
She blows on it some more and holds the spoon out for him, watching as his lips close over the edge of it to take a mouthful, distracted by them as he chews and swallows before his tongue darts out to lick them clean. Christ, but she loves those lips.
"Bit more sweetness maybe?" he suggests, his brows furrowed pensively.
"Yes!" She snaps her fingers then leans down and kisses him, just because she can, just because she wants to, just because he's got the most perfect lips in the world. "Jam," she declares as she pulls back. "That's what I forgot to put in. Where is it?"
"Middle cupboard," he says with a smile and a fond look in his eyes.
She crosses the kitchen once more, setting the wooden spoon aside again to open the cupboard, which turns out to be pretty much chock-a-block full of jam. "Sweet tooth much, Harry? Which one is open?"
"Possibly all of them," is his dry reply.
"Raspberry, strawberry," she reads off the labels, "peach, apricot... Apricot should do nicely." She pulls it out and opens the lid, reaching into the draw for a teaspoon to add some to the sauce, closing the lid again and sticking it back in the cupboard with the teaspoon in her mouth, humming happily.
"I love you," he says out of the blue and, when she turns to him in surprise, it's to see him watching her with soft, adoring eyes and a besotted kind of look on his face.
She smiles, pulling the spoon out of her mouth and dumping it in the sink. "I love you too," she tells him. She's not felt this content, this happy in such a long time, and now that she's sure he's on the mend and can see the improvement in him over the last two nights that she's spent with him, she can't help how that happiness is overflowing and spilling out of her all over the place. She can't stop smiling at him, can't stop humming along to the music playing in her heart, can't stop touching him, kissing him, loving him. She very much wishes that he was well enough for sex, but she knows that he is not and is happy to make the best of it, to find other ways of loving him, like making him his dinner. In fact, it's probably good for them – after the way that they began – that they cannot take things to the bedroom yet. Being together is about so much more than sex and she's glad that they're getting the opportunity to discover that.
"I rather like sleeping in your shirts though," she says as she turns to stir the jam into the curry.
"And I enjoy seeing you in them," he replies and she can hear the smile in his voice. "Much better than pyjamas for easy access."
"Harry!" she protests, but it's half-hearted. She switches the ring off and turns to him, closing the distance between them and straddling his legs, sitting in his lap and reaching her hands up to cup his stubble-covered cheeks, his right hand running up from her knee, under her skirt, to cradle her left butt cheek.
"Ruth," he states, lips smirking at her.
"That was a very naughty thing to say when you're still incapacitated," she admonishes, leaning in to capture his lips with her own, sighing into his mouth as his lips mould to hers, softly kissing her back at first, then becoming more hungry, demanding more as he pulls her bum closer with his right hand and slips his fingers under the elastic of her knickers to cup and grasp it firmly.
"You love it really," he growls against them, before trailing kisses along her jaw to her neck, his lips and tongue doing delicious things to her, as his hand strokes and kneads her flesh. "You love it when I tease you."
"Maybe," she gasps, her hips jerking, a whimper escaping her as his teeth scrape against a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh Christ!"
"Besides," he murmurs between kisses, "I'll have you know that I'm not entirely incapacitated." And with that, his right hand moves round her thigh, his thumb gliding over the front of her knickers, her hips jerking as she gasps in surprise and pleasure, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt around his waist, the only place she's sure she can hold onto without hurting him.
"Harry," she moans, his touch exquisitely firm, teasing her and chasing all thought out of her head at once.
It's the first night that he's felt up to doing this for her, and though he knows he's not at all ready for her to reciprocate, he wants more than anything to watch her come, to give her that pleasure after the way she's taken such good care of him, after they've admitted their love, after she's agreed to be with him – together.
He sucks on her throat as she gasps and moan in pleasure, as her body sways towards him and away again, feels her tremble and whimper as he slips his fingers under the edge of her knickers, tracing her dripping folds, her pulse thundering under his lips, her chest heaving, her lips forming a desperate plea as her left hand grasps his forearm, pulling him towards her. "Please, Harry," she gasps, all exquisite abandon.
"I love you," he growls and licks her skin, slipping two, think fingers inside her, his thumb circling her clit, her breath hitching, insides quivering around him, her back arching away from him, connecting with the table behind her, her low moan of pleasure music to his ears.
"Harry," she breathes, hands releasing him as she pulls her arms back to support her weight with her forearms on the table, her hips lifting and driving down towards him as a breathless, "Oh God!" escapes her lips.
He wishes he could touch her, kiss her, hold her against him, wishes it was his cock that was buried inside her instead of his fingers, but he knows that this is the best he can manage at the moment. His left arm is still in a sling, his shoulder unable to cope with her weight if she slumped against him, so he contents himself with just watching, soaking in the exquisite beauty of her flushed face, her heaving chest, the hint of cleavage and her gently bouncing breasts as she lifts and lowers her hips impatiently. He wishes he could see them, wishes she were naked in his arms, but though his fingers and thumb are working hard to tease her and prolong the build up of her pleasure, he doesn't think she would forgive him if he withdrew his hand altogether to strip her naked, and besides, he's not at all sure he could manage it anyway, one-handed.
"Oh Christ," she moans, driving her hips down once more, grinding against the base of his thumb and whimpering before she sits up suddenly and deftly pulls off her top and bra, tossing them aside, as if she's read his mind. Her eyes are alight with lust as she reaches for his face, kissing him hard, passionately, her hips twitching and making her moan into his mouth and pull back to stare at him. "I love you," she says, her eyes fierce and so very blue as she looks at him, and for the first time since he's been shot, he feels a stirring in his trousers.
"I love you more," he growls, thrusting his fingers into her and making her cry out, vibrating his thumb against her clit, watching her face as her eyes slide shut and she falls back against the table once more, her mouth open in an O of surprise and pleasure, her head falling back as he continues his unrelenting onslaught, her breath escaping in pants and gasps as she begins to tremble.
He watches her neck and chest flush, her dusky nipples pebble as her knees tighten their grip on his hips, her thighs clenching together and releasing rhythmically as he drives his fingers into her, her jaw moving, neck muscles tightening as with each thrust she moans an, "Oh, oh, oh," of pleasure, the pitch of her vocalisations rising until she finally breaks with one final cry that turns into a long, drawn out moan of ecstasy.
She's glorious, dazzling, utterly enthralling, and he cannot remember a time he enjoyed her pleasure more, cannot help the way his heart takes another tumble, or the way his vision blurs with tears at this profoundly moving experience.
Her climax lasts several moments as he watches, blinking back the tears and doing his best to prolong it with the movement of his thumb and fingers, but when she finally stills, he can hold back no more, slipping his fingers out of her and reaching for her, his hand getting tangled up in her skirt a bit as he desperately tries to grasp her to him, leaning forward as far as he can without straining his shoulder to press his lips against the side of her breast, tasting the sweat on her skin, unable to speak as he finally untangles his right hand and slides it up her back, pulling her away from the table towards him.
She moans, boneless as a doll while he draws her against him, trailing kisses up her chest to her neck and the side of her face, whispering his love for her as he feels her weight shift towards him, her head resting against his right shoulder as he leans back again with her draped over him like a blanket. "I love you," he whispers again, tightening his arm around her.
She hums but doesn't move and he can't help feeling rather proud of himself in that moment – never before has he managed to reduce her to an incoherent, boneless mass. He chuckles, nuzzling her neck and making her whimper in protest, clearly displeased with the roughness of his cheeks and making his smile broaden. "You're perfect," he confesses softly, nuzzling her again. "Every day I love you more. I don't know how that's possible, but I do. Every day, every hour, every minute."
She lifts her head slowly at his confession, her eyes hooded and sated and shining with her love for him as their gazes meet and hold. She doesn't speak, just smiles gently, her gaze softening, eyes melting into liquid pools of love and devotion, and he has no doubt that she feels the same way. How can that be, he asks himself, unable to see how anyone could love him, of all people. But she does – he's sure of that – and he doesn't bother wasting time looking a gift horse in the mouth. He will just continue to love her, enjoy her, have her, and thrill her, for as long as she will allow it.
"Dinner?" he suggests, beginning to feel the weight of her and a twinge of protest from his shoulder.
"Yes," she agrees, her voice a little hoarse as she sits up in his lap and clears her throat, then sighs softly, smiling at him as she lifts her left hand to cup his cheek. "Thank you," she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.
"My pleasure."
"Later," she promises with a knowing little smile.
She doesn't miss much, his Ruth, he thinks fondly as she carefully stands, her legs somewhat wobbly, rendering her a little unsteady on her feet for a moment or two as she holds onto his right shoulder for support, leaning her body against him. And though he rather doubts the possibility of success in that department later – he's feeling far too exhausted already – he doesn't say anything now. Instead, he just turns his head and presses his lips against her naked stomach, inhaling the scent of her while she drops her right hand to stroke the side of his face.
"I love you," she says, tracing his eyebrow with her thumb, her fingers stroking the hair on the side of his face, above his ear. He hums in contentment, pressing another kiss against her stomach, feeling blissful.
"Right," she says after a moment more. "Food." And with that, she steps away, picking up her bra and blouse, draping the former over the back of a chair and donning the latter before she crosses the kitchen to get some plates and cutlery sorted, resisting his attempts to help with a frown and a command to sit that makes even Scarlet obey when she makes an appearance at the French windows, scratching to be allowed back inside.
He laughs and she joins in as she crosses the kitchen to let his little dog in, telling her, "Good girl, Scarlet," and leaning down to stoke her. Scarlet barks in delight and rushes over to his side, sniffing his legs and nuzzling his hand before she starts to lick it enthusiastically, surprising him until he remembers that he hasn't washed his hands yet after Ruth. Clearly he's not the only one who enjoys the taste of her.
He chuckles at the thought, but when Ruth asks him what he finds so amusing, he just shakes his head and gets up to wash his hands at the sink.
"I thought I told you to sit," she frowns.
"I'm only going to wash my hands, Ruth. Keep your hair on." He grins at the glare that earns him, then smiles more sedately as she walks over to his side and takes his hand in hers, washing it for him, seeing as he'd have to remove his sling and use both hands if he was going to manage on his own.
She makes a face and mutters, "I know I wanted you badly, but this can't be all from me, surely!"
And he can't help himself after that, grinning as he murmurs teasingly, "It's mostly slobber actually. Apparently, Scarlet rather enjoyed the taste."
He watches the blush spread across her cheeks, her eyes remaining resolutely downcast as she begins to wash his hand more vigorously, muttering to herself so softly, that he almost misses her stunning response. "No need for peanut butter then."
His bark of laughter, makes Scarlet visibly jump, which only adds to his amusement, especially when he sees Ruth's blush deepen and her lips twitching in mirth as she suppresses a smile.
"You are a minx and I absolutely adore you," he says, leaning down to nuzzle her neck again and making her squeal in protest.
"Stop it, Harry," she admonishes, stepping back and reaching for the towel to dry their hands. "You're not allowed to use your cheeks as a weapon."
"I am if you use cheek as yours," he counters, earning him a smile.
"You're too quick-witted by far, Harry Pearce," she complains.
"Hardly. Peanut butter?" he reminds her softly, watching with a grin or pure delight as her cheeks burn.
"Yes, well. It's something I read in a book once and it just popped into my head, as things tend to do," she says defensively, lifting her chin in defiance. "And besides," she adds quickly, her eyes suddenly shining, "I'm not the one with a dog in the house. How did you know about the peanut butter thing?"
He grins, utterly enchanted by her. She's so perfect. He just can't get enough of her.
"As it happens, I think one of the older boys in school mentioned it when I was at a rather impressionable age."
"Oh my God!" Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes suddenly huge. "Did you try it?!"
He laughs. "No," he reassures her. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. We had rather a large dog at home at the time, however, and he loved sausages, so I didn't dare risk it."
Her peal of laughter is even louder than his own had been and makes poor Scarlet jump again and whine in protest, but Ruth doesn't seem to notice, her whole body shaking with her laughter, much to his delighted amusement. In fact, she laughs so hard and for so long, that he has to reach for her hand and lead her to a chair at the table where she doubles over, clutching her stomach and gasping, "Sausages! Oh my God, I'm going to pee."
He chuckles and takes a seat beside her, quietly advising, "Breathe, Ruth. Just breathe."
Eventually she calms, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and taking herself off to the toilet while he finishes setting the table. His shoulder has began aching again, but it's too early for more painkillers, so he does his best to distract himself from the pain with thoughts of Ruth and how lucky a bastard he really is. He still can't believe how wonderfully this has all unfolded between them, how content, happy he finds himself suddenly, how much more his life feels worth living.
"I can't believe that's the first memory from your childhood that you chose to share," she says as she walks into the room and takes a seat, chuckling again and shaking her head at him before she begins serving their food while he pours some wine for each of them.
"I'd actually completely forgotten about it," he confesses, taking a sip of his drink.
"How could you possibly forget something like that? I think I probably remember most things that happened to me, especially the ones that caused me to die of embarrassment."
"Good. Because you owe me a good story," he replies with a smile.
"Yours was hardly a story, Harry, let alone a good one."
"It made you laugh so hard you almost wet yourself, Ruth. That is a hallmark of a good story."
"Okay, fine. But I'm not telling you the embarrassing ones. And you have to wait until after I've eaten. I'm famished."
And so it is that they tuck into the delicious curry Ruth's prepared for them, happy and relaxed in each other's company, and he can't help thinking that he's going to have to brush up on his culinary skills if he's going to pass muster when it's his turn to cook, and thanking his lucky stars that, if all else fails, he can at least be certain that he can make up for it in the bedroom afterwards.