A/N – Thank you once again for reading this tangled tale. You've probably guessed where this is heading and there is a wee dip into M territory. Hope you still find something to enjoy!

The rain fell in curtains; the rhythmic beating of the wipers proving ineffectual against the torrents of water. Harry's eyes darted between the road and the Satnav. He had keyed in the coordinates and headed out of the city without looking back. No evasive manoeuvres, no bait and switch. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of detection. Had he been too careless? Was there a tracker on the car, had they linked into the GPS?

The arrow on the Satnav showed an upcoming turn and he slowed down, finding himself at the mouth of a laneway. He eased his way onto the gravel track, driving until the counter indicated that he had arrived, though at that moment he could be in the middle of the sea for all he knew. He sat in the car peering into the darkness, the beam of his headlights faintly showing the outline of a house. He turned off the engine and sat listening to the rain batter his car. He had heard that this part of the country didn't receive as much rain as the rest. He must have been misinformed. It was still close to London, practically under their noses, but then hiding in plain sight had always been one of his favourite tactics.

The moment he stepped out of the car and into the deluge he was soaked through. Cold droplets seeped through his collar, sliding down the back of his neck. He didn't care, it made him feel clean, washing away everything that had gone on before. He squinted at the house; it was shrouded in complete darkness and he wondered if he was in the right place. He laughed at himself. Did he expect she would be burning a candle in the window for him?

As he walked toward the house, he observed the tattered garden, the uneven stones of the walk and the peeling paint of the front door. From what he could see, the whole cottage was in need of repair. No more worse for wear than he was, he thought grimly. He raised his hand to knock and felt a twinge of apprehension. That to walk through that door was a step into the unknown. He had come this far, he couldn't turn back. He rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood and waited. There was no answer. Stepping away from the shelter of the overhang, he scanned the upper floor. Still no lights. He wiped the rain away from his face, the water dripping off his hands and for the first time realised that he wasn't wearing any gloves. He looked down as he flexed his fingers and it dawned on him that he stood entirely bereft of his previous life. No mobile, no home, no identity. His only link to existence was the counterfeit paperwork of Geoffrey Inness. This was his only plan. It had not crossed his mind that she would not be here, waiting for him. The air was compressed from his lungs as a wave of panic washed over him, fear raising its head, that he had made the wrong decision, he had waited too long. No, no. She had to be here. Frustration rolled through him. Clenching his hand into a fist, he walked back to the door, pounding on the wood as if it were to blame for his current state.

The door opened, leaving his fist in mid-air. Ruth stood before him holding a small lantern, a look of surprise on her face. The beam of the lantern shone beacon bright in the darkness and it took him a second to adjust his eyes. He could see that she wrapped in a dark cardigan, wearing plaid pajama bottoms, her feet bare; hair tussled as if she had been sleeping.

He stood breathing heavily, the roil of panic and anger still fresh in his blood, pushing all logical thought from his mind. "The door needs a coat of paint."

The words landed like stones at her feet. She looked at him, her face cool, her posture unyielding. "Did you come all the way here to tell me that?"

She would never make it easy for him.

He looked at her, his chest heaving, a perplexed expression crossing his face as he realised what he had said. He started again. "May I come in?"

Her eyes ran over him and her look softened a fraction. Relenting, she stepped back to open the door wider, allowing him into the entryway.

"There're no lights," Harry observed.

"The storm," said Ruth, her only concession to an explanation. She closed the door and turned to face him, holding the lantern higher. "You're drenched."

"It's raining."

Having stated the obvious, the conversation halted, leaving them to stand in silence, the only sound the patter of rain. He waited for her to make an overture of welcome and seeing that none was forthcoming, he peeled off the wet anorak. He looked about for a hook and spied her grey coat hanging on the wall. He moved to place his coat next to hers and noticed the pool of water he had created. "Sorry about your floor." He looked up to see her staring at him. "What is it?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you out of a suit."

He tilted his head, an impish glint in his eye. "We both know that's not true."

She pulled the cardigan tight around her, wearing the expression he had become acquainted with over the past weeks; a hard line around her mouth, eyes narrowed, folding into herself, keeping him out. This was not the greeting he had expected. He had no he idea know to proceed. His only goal had been to get to her, the subject of any conversation after that had not been entertained. He searched his mind for something to say but she was the first to break the silence

"Why are you here, Harry?" she asked, her words barely audible. Before he could answer she continued, "You told me to go away. You said I'd be safer without you." She looked at him. "Why are you here?"

He blinked at her, thinking it was surely obvious. "You know why."

"I'm not a yo-yo that you can cast out and pull back in when you're ready."

"Neither am I, Ruth."

"When have I ever done that to you?"

"All the years we have known each other-"

"I didn't sleep with you and then tell you to go."

He closed his mouth, taken aback by her words, chastising himself for not considering the ramifications of sleeping with her. At heart, she would always be a desk spook, discreet, analytical, while he to the marrow of his bones was a field agent, daring, aggressive. A part of him would always crave the adrenaline rush of living on the edge. The night they had spent together had been fuelled by that heady concoction of living for the moment and the thought they might never see each other again. But it had meant more. So much more. Words tumbled in his head but he had no idea how to convey them.

"Ruth, that's not it at all-

"I don't think we're ever going to be in the same place, Harry."

"I'm here now."

"You said you would resign when it was all over, but it's never over, is it?"

"I have. I will."

She did not look at him, speaking to a point past his shoulder. 'You chose the Service. Like she said you would. You'll always choose the Service."

"That's not true; I gave up Albany for you."

"You had a contingency plan-

"You know me, Ruth. I couldn't leave Mace to run roughshod over everything."

"Yes, I do know you, Harry," she bit back at him. "And I know there will always be another Mace."

"You left the message in the alley for me-"

"There will always be a plot, a threat, a coup-"

"You wanted me to come here-"

She cut him off with an exasperated huff. "You don't understand."

Wrapped in frustration, she crossed in front of him, moving towards the hall. His hand whipped out and grabbed her forearm, jerking her back to him.

"Enlighten me." He fought against the anger that was coiling inside of him. He was exhausted, he had driven like a madman to get to her and it still wasn't enough. Why did everything about this woman have to be so bloody complex?

Nursing an anger of her own, she glared at him and struggled to free her arm from his grasp but he only strengthened his grip. She tried again, his fingers digging deeper into her flesh. They would battle it out, he decided, or this would be the end. He knew she would never be won over by force so he closed his eyes, trying to bring his anger under control.

He concentrated on the feel of her arm, the bone small and surprisingly hard under his hand. He could feel her warmth, radiating through the cardigan, seeping into his cold fingers and he relaxed his grip. Thinking that he was relenting, she tried to pull away, but he held on. He would never give up. He eased his fingers down her arm, his thumb finding its way under the edge of her sleeve, the calloused pad coming to rest against the delicate skin of her wrist. He pushed the wool up and rubbed his thumb over the soft flesh of her inner arm. His breathing steadied and the pulse of his anger slowed, beating to a tempo far deeper. All the tension of the past few days melted away pushed aside by thoughts of her. This is what she did for him. God, he needed her.

He swallowed and exhaled a shaky breath, opening his eyes. She was looking down at his hand on her arm, her lips slightly parted, the glow from the lantern softening her features, making her look incredibly young. His mind fell back to when she first came to him, fresh and new, how his eyes had hungrily following her about the Grid, imagining, hoping but never believing he could be with her.

"Ruth." It was all he could say. His only explanation for everything.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, coloured deep blue in the darkness. "What do you want from me?" she whispered.

"I want to kiss you." His answer was lightening quick, no thought needed.

"I mean," she closed her eyes and regrouped her thoughts, "what do you want from me in the future?"

"I want to kiss you every day of my life."

This time, she allowed a smile to ghost over her lips. She turned her head away from him, the line of her neck extending as she looked into the darkness of the house, the freckle at her collarbone exposed for him to see. He looked closer and saw a constellation of freckles running over her throat. He wanted to lean in and claim them with his mouth. His nostrils flared at the thought that her skin was a galaxy of freckles and he would discover them all.

A rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He drew her arm up to his chest, holding it there with the palm of his hand. She didn't pull away and he saw it as a sign. His free hand gravitated to her waist, sliding around her back, gently resting against her. She kept her face away, only her profile visible in the darkness. This was the way it was supposed to be. Touching but not touching. Never straight on, always oblique, somehow joined.

He bent to her ear but didn't speak, holding her in the moment, savouring her stillness, her breath suspended as she waited for him. His cheek brushed against her hair as he inhaled, the cloud of her scent enfolding him. Exhaling, he let the sigh wash over her cheek and watched in fascination as the rise and fall of her breasts quickened, as though his breath had filled her.

A fork of lightning split the sky and the air around them crackled with its latent electricity. The charge galvanised him, giving him courage and he pressed his palm into the small of her back.

"Show me your house, Ruth," he whispered.

She furrowed her brow; thoughts moving across her face. She spread her fingers over his chest, her arm tensing as if she meant to push him away. Instead, she swayed, ebbing and flowing with indecision. Let go, he silently coaxed, whatever you're holding onto let go and come to me. She tilted her head as if she had heard his thoughts.

"It was supposed to be our house," she murmured.

The words surprised him and he pondered their implication, letting their meaning sink in. A smile grew on his lips as his breath became shallow, his chest moving in time with hers.

"Show me our house."

After a moment of hesitation, she moved her fingers down his arm, and hooked onto his hand, pulling him along like a barge in the night. He followed without question; he was battered ship sorely in needed of a moor. They moved with the shadows through the living room, an empty space, barren but for a few sticks of furniture. He barely noticed, concentrating on the feel of her slender hand in his, his thumb rubbing over the small bumps of her knuckles. The muscles of her back moved sinuously under the fabric of her cardigan as she walked before him, steering him into the kitchen. A loud boom sounded and the sky was split by lightning, illuminating the room. She jumped, turning to him, her hand tightening on his. With great effort, he suppressed the desire to grab her, careen about the kitchen, knocking objects to the floor as they had done that night in his study, pushing her against the wall and take her there. If he had learned anything in the dense workings of his mind, timing was everything with this woman and they were not in the same place. Not yet.

Rounding back through the hall, they came to the bottom of the stairs. The tread creaked under their weight, his knee answering back with its own groan. The lantern moved with them, parting the darkness ahead, leaving the night below. When they arrived at the landing, she stopped at a doorway and leaned against the jamb, the lantern dangling by her side. Harry came to rest on the opposite side of the doorframe, reluctantly releasing her hand as she gestured down the hall.

"There are two bedrooms. One's rather small." She saw his quizzical expression. "I had thought it could be your office."

Harry nodded. "And what would I do in my office?"

Ruth coyly shrugged a shoulder and scrunched her lips together. "Collect stamps?" Harry looked at her with a raised eyebrow and she acknowledged the absurdity of her suggestion with the hint of a grin. She gestured into the room where they stood. "And I had thought in this one we could..." Her voice trailed off, her arm falling back to her side.

He looked into the room; it was bare but for a small table, a suitcase, and a bed. The sheets on the bed lay rumpled and inviting, and he felt a stirring deep in his belly at the thought that that they had held her warm body only a short while ago. He turned back to her, his voice low. "Indeed, we could."

He remained leaning against the doorjamb, his eyes greedily taking her in, wanting her but still unsure if it was the right time. She cleared her throat and he found himself waiting, content for her to take the lead.

"Is this the part where you tell me you missed me?" she asked.

"Is it?" he asked back, unsure of the direction of the conversation.

"Or at the very least, where you say that you love me."

His heart stopped. His lips parted but he was unable to speak. Words left unsaid all those years ago, words he had said in his head a thousand times. He swallowed, the enormity of the declaration becoming clear. She had wanted to hear the words spoken not out of desperation or last chances or goodbyes, but from a point of stillness, when they had finally arrived at the same place. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, but he could not move. Somehow, the words spilled out.

"I love you, Ruth Evershed."

She closed her eyes and smiled. "Actually, it's Susan Inness."

"You gave up your name?"

She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug as though it were of no consequence. He knew it was.

"Inness?" he mused. "Does that mean we're married?"

She nodded. "Fewer questions when the neighbours come round."

The thought that there had been a ceremony, however imaginary, where she had become his, filled him with untold joy. He smiled, feeling like a schoolboy playing a game, unwilling to let the image of their marriage out of his head. "Was it a nice wedding?"

"Very nice." She demurred, matching his mock-seriousness. "Simple. Elegant."

A solemn look came over her face, the ghost of a painful memory casting a shadow. Her expression was unguarded, a look of vulnerability that he had not witnessed in a very long time. He knew what she was remembering, the life she had lost, where he had sat helplessly by, watching as it was torn from her. He vowed to himself she would not go through such pain again. Sensing that she was drifting away, he reached out and took her hand in his.

"This is a fantasy, isn't it?" she quietly asked. '"Sooner or later they'll find us. They always do."

"We don't know that."

"Because I can't do it anymore, Harry. I can't go back."

He pulled her in, tucking her into his chest; his hand lifting to smooth her hair, fingers brushing strands over her ear. In the years past, he could not count the number of times that he had wanted to draw her close, give her strength, take away the pain, choosing instead to deny them both comfort, holding back because of his discipline or her reserve.

"I can't keep losing myself," Her voice broke as she spoke into his shirt, her arm tightening around him. "I can't keep losing you."

"We won't let them in," he whispered against her cheek.

He let her rest against him, thinking how right she felt in his arms. His lips pressed against her hair. They moved to her forehead, smoothing the lines, grazing her temple, the angle of her cheek, slow, tender. He could be patient. She tilted up to him, brushing her lips against his in answer, her hand rising to caress the nape of his neck. He knew that she was holding back, he could feel the weight of sadness in her body, the salty taste of a tear. It didn't have to be like this. All the years he had waited, chances stolen, opportunities squandered. This was their time and he could not waste it. The space between his kisses shortened and he grew more insistent, challenging her to meet him. Soon, her kisses matched his intensity and he could feel her body awakening beneath his hands. Abandoning all thoughts of patience, he crushed her to him, the force of his embrace lifting her to her toes. Opened mouthed , urgent, hungry, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, filling her up, demanding her to be present. Piece by piece she moulded into him, breasts, hips, thighs. His hands moved of their own accord, searching, needing contact, his cold fingers finding her warm flesh. Startled, she pulled back.

"You're freezing."

"You're beautiful." He grabbed her by the waist and reeled her back into him.

The lantern swayed as he spun her around, backing her into the bedroom, their shadows dancing upon the walls. Through kisses and half-closed eyes, he manoeuvred her over to the bed. Unwinding herself from his embrace, she placed the lantern on the table. His arms reached for her but she pulled back from his kiss, her hands framing his face, looking at him with concern.

"You must be tired."

He shook his head. He would not admit that he was running on fumes from his encounter with Mace. The moral failing of exhaustion would not deter him from his goal. He had come so close to losing it all; he would not let her slip away again.

Her thumb brushed along his cheek. "There's nothing here," she cautioned him. "No job, no threats, hardly any furniture. Only us."

He knew that she was hedging; giving him one last chance to bow out, but her warning meant nothing.

"All I need is you," he confessed. Her eyes searched his face, skeptical of his words, so he amended his needs. "And maybe a decent bottle of scotch, perhaps some chocolate buttons."

"Oh, well then, luckily I know a thing or two about buttons."

Her voice was low and teasing, and he drew back in fascination, revelling at this unseen side of her. One by one, she slowly released the buttons of his shirt and he stood motionless, mesmerised by her touch. The tip of her tongue flicked against her lip, and he involuntarily swallowed. How long could he stand there letting her undress him, relishing the fact that it was she who was moving toward him? Her hands slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dragging along his skin, sending a shiver down to his toes. All resistance fled and he let out a small groan, giving in to the impulse to kiss her.

The edge of the bed was closer than he anticipated and they stumbled against it. Her hand reached out, grabbing him as she fell backwards, pulling him down with her, the bed bouncing under their combined weight. He adjusted his weight, afraid that he had crushed her but in the next instant he wanted nothing more than to surround her, pin her down, anything to keep her from running away. He knew that he was heavy, his clothes were wet, his belt buckle digging into her to stomach but she wriggled underneath him, her thigh pressing into is groin and the urge to move disappeared. He vaguely heard her voice and he eased his body to one side, allowing her to breathe. He gazed down at her heaving chest rising and falling before him in temptation. He pulled aside her cardigan, his mouth claiming freckled skin that had tantalised him earlier. He tugged at her clothes, fingers slipping beneath elastic, this time, her layers would not halt him; he had learned how to unwrap her. He pulled her upright, sliding her arms out of the sleeves, her shirt over her head. The lantern light played upon her skin and he gave thanks for the reality of her as he realised his memory had not done her justice. Could he ever have worked alongside this woman if he had known what lay beneath the layers? He stopped, wondering if he had spoken aloud for she was watching him with a curious look.

"I thought I had memorised every part of you, but I was wrong," he confessed. "I was wrong about everything."

His admission elicited a grin of triumph from her and he wanted nothing more than to kiss the smile from off her face. She could have this battle; all of them if it meant he could have her, for all he cared about at that moment were the layers impeding his progress. Standing beside the bed, he fumbled with his belt, his fingers still cold and numb. She knelt in front of him, helping to strip off his damp clothes, his soaked jeans falling to the floor, her nimble fingers removing every stitch. She pulled him back into the bed, drawing the sheets around them, pressing him back into the mattress, her mouth hot on his, the heat of her body flush against the coolness of his skin. His chest swelled against her breasts at the thought of the infinite nights that lay before them, and the infinite ways that he would love her. He would never let this maddening creature go. His hands travelled the length of her and he revelled in the feel of her yielding flesh against his hardness. Surely tonight she would forgive him if they came together hard and fast and lacking in grace, for he needed her, needed to feel alive.

Her lips pressed against his jaw, moving down his throat. Feather light fingers glide across his shoulder, slipping down his back, pressing into the contours of his spine. The seductiveness of her touch changed his mind and he wanted it all to last. He had not been held this way in such a long time, at least not by a woman who held his heart. Trailing her hand across his hip, she reached for him, her slender fingers stroking, capturing him. He inhaled sharply, hovering between the intensity of her touch and the knowledge that he could not hold on for long.

In one sinuous movement, he rolled her onto her back, his thigh between her legs in an effort to capture her. Instead, he was the one who was caught, held in the spell of her eyes. She had always held him in so many different ways. He needed to tell her something but he couldn't remember what it was, all rational thought was lost, he was lost; only appetite and desire remained.

"Your hands are still incredibly cold," she said, wriggling beneath him.

Her words roused him and he smiled down at her, knowing how he will warm them. His icy fingers traced the column of her throat, moving over her flushed skin, following the swell of her breast, lingering, kneading. He found the dip of her waist, the roundness of her hips, the soft flesh of her inner thigh, still searching for the source of her heat. She gasped. He had found it. He paused, watching her face, his fingers teasing, tantalising, promising pleasures yet to come. A low moan escaped from her lips and he smiled, satisfied that he finally had her in his thrall. She sighed his name and he relented, slowly sliding his finger into her. He was entranced by the tempo of her breaths, the drum of her heart as it beat against her ribcage, that he could play her in such a way. The cadence of her breaths quickened, soft whimpers turning to ragged pants, his own breathing mirroring hers. Her skin burned against him, a sheen of perspiration glowing over her body, as she arched into him. He cannot keep from tasting her, his mouth sucking on her breast. Lips on her belly, the crest of her hipbone, tongue moving to join his fingers. He has breached the last of her defenses, she writhes beneath him, surrendering as he brings her to a plateau of stillness. She is hot, molten, melting, liquid in his hands.

Her limbs shuddered and he could feel her falling and he catches her before it ends, plunging into her. He groaned, at the edge, straining to hold back. He searched his mind for something to focus on, anything other than her. She stirred beneath him, wrapping her legs enticingly around him, pulling him down, surrounding him. Her belly pushed against his, her hips moving in slow undulation and he cannot hold on. He has travelled so far, waited such a long time, wanting to share a bed with this woman. He is cold and tired and she is wonderfully wet and warm. He expelled a breath in defeat. As in life, he is fast when she is slow, stopping when she moves to quick. They paused, breathing heavily and by silent agreement started again, slowly moving together, finding a rhythm that was theirs alone. Beat by beat, their tempo accelerated, his arms shaking under the strain and he lowered himself, burying his face in her neck, intoxicated by her fragrance. His mind fills with visions of a field, the sun warming him, the fragrance of flowers and grass and sweet earth. He has he has captured her scent. Summer. She is summer to his aging winter. Oh, how he has longed for this. A slow heat ignited in his core, spreading through his veins, coursing out to his limbs. The ends of his fingers tingle and his skin grows taut. He is young and strong and he will have all of her. All conscious thought vanished and he became instinct. Heart pounding, blood racing, pulse roaring in his ears, his mouth on hers. Panting, thrusting, breaking. Sweet, warm, release.

He let go, giving everything over to her. He was nothing, a spent shell, collapsing on her. She will fill him up making him whole.

He tried to stay awake but his eyes would not cooperate. There was something he needed to tell her but he cannot think. He had journeyed to the temple, made his offering and now he only wanted to rest.

The rain beat against the roof, lashing at the exterior, battering the windows but no matter how hard it tried, it could not get into the house.

Their house.

She stared up at the ceiling, panting, her breast rising and falling, wondering where her mind had gone. The entire time his hands had roamed her body, she had been empty but for thoughts of him. This is what he did for her. A respite from the constant churning of her mind.

She turned her head to look at him. His were eyes closed, the tension gone from his limbs, his breath coming in slow, even waves. Raising herself on her elbow, she gazed down at his face, unlined, free of care, a glimpse of the boy he once was. She only wanted to know him now; this was the man she loved. Her brow creased in thought, she had forgotten to tell him that she loved him. He must know after all these years. It will give them something to talk about in the morning. For she has no idea how they will fill the time together. She had resigned herself to the impermanence of them; the siren call of the Service would beckon him, or some catastrophe would come knocking on the door of their Eden. As she watched him sleeping, she realised how fiercely she wanted to hold onto the idea of them, that they deserved peace and she would do everything she could to protect the little life they had carved out. She would not think on worries of the future, she would be more like him, present, holding on to every moment that fate had granted them.

Trying not to wake him, she reached across to turn off the lantern switch. His arms snapped up to trap her, holding her tight against his chest.

"Just so you know, I wasn't sleeping," he murmured in her ear.

She smiled against his cheek.

His voice was low and husky with fatigue. "I forgot to thank you for saving me."

The words touched her in an unexpected way and she felt tears building within her, not of sadness, but of relief. She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered softly. "I love you, Harry Pearce."

His arms tightened around her. "Actually, it's Geoffrey Inness."

He chuckled softly and the vibration of his chest struck a chord within her. The guilt that they have carried around for years lay in a corner, back in London. Here, they will laugh, and when they speak of their colleagues, it will be to remember their lives and not their deaths.

She felt a tingling along her forearm, the place where the communication device had been, the spot where he had grabbed her and held on. He would always be imprinted on her just as the Service was. They could change their names but they could not change who they were. He was her Harry and she was his Ruth. Spy and Analyst. She had said she could not go back but she knew the lure of intelligence, the power of knowing what lay beneath the surface. She was after all only human, just like him.

She folded herself into him, letting the darkness fall about them. No one knew where they were, they didn't exist. The shadows of the room grew, overtaking them, blurring the edges of where they ended and the night began. This was their home, the world in between. Spooks until the very end.