This was not how he planned it. This was not at all how he planned it. The plan had been simple, elegant in its own way; a glass of wine, a soft smile, a small, black velvet box. A moment of privacy, a moment of peace, an invitation offered and accepted, a herald of things to come.

The plan had gone all to hell, though. Ros Meyers had died, the Home Secretary had died, Nightingale had very nearly set the whole of the western world on fire, and when the smoke cleared Ruth was as distant from him as the stars from the moon. She had asked him, just a few days (a few weeks? He couldn't remember, exactly) ago, if he wanted to meet her for a drink. He had said yes, I think I do, meaning Christ, Ruth, I would light myself on fire if you asked me to, a drink sounds lovely. But their night out had never come to be, and in all the time that had passed since that moment, they'd barely had a chance to chat, let alone sit down together.

Over the course of the last few days, as his thoughts had percolated in and around this plan, formulating a thousand possible question-and-answer scenarios, his fingertips tracing nonsense patterns on the soft velvet of the little box tucked away in his jacket pocket, it had occurred to him just how little privacy they really had. Their every conversation took place within the walls of Thames House (or atop them); and everywhere they went and every word they spoke to one another seemed to carry with it a thousand veiled meanings as they cast anxious looks around the office, mindful as ever of the constant sensation of being observed.

No more quiet moments had come their way. No moments when she was feeling brave, when he was feeling confident, when they were both of them assured of their privacy and of the wisdom of confiding their personal feelings one to the other. Until today.

Yes, it was a bloody funeral. It was Ros's bloody funeral, and it was in Harry's mind to wonder how his Section Chief might have taken it, had she ever learned how he planned to celebrate her interment. He hoped that she might approve, that she might find it somewhat macabre but also somewhat hopeful, and therefore a perfect opportunity for Harry and his lady love. He hoped, but he did not know, would not ever know, for Ros was lost to him, now and forever.

Ruth had given him this chance, though, had said I need to talk to you in that gentle, slightly nervous tone of voice that seemed to imply alone, and immediately. Harry nodded his assent, one hand slipping into his coat pocket out of habit, and coming into contact with the little box he held there. Now or never, he told himself sternly, and so he suggested a turn around the grounds, and off they set, Harry with one hand clutching a little black box, the other hand hovering just behind her back, dying to touch her, not trusting himself in the slightest.

As they walked he watched her, studied her, this woman he loved so well. He took in the curve of her cheek, the pouty fullness of her lips, the sheer radiant brilliance of her eyes. Her slender form hidden beneath a long heavy coat, her soft, dark hair caught in the breeze, her pale skin reddened and ruddy in the winter sunlight. She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman in the world. She was, he thought, the fulfillment of his every dream, his dearest wish, his greatest hope.

When would he next have cause to stand beside her thus unobserved, uninterrupted? It had been weeks, months, years since last he felt himself truly alone with this woman, truly able to open his heart to her, and it seemed to him that the very universe was whispering its encouragement. Do it now, that tiny, intrepid voice echoed in the vaults of his mind. Do it now, ask her now, before it's too late.

Still his hand hovered, not touching her, not yet, though every atom in his body trembled and shook with yearning for her, unable to break free from the longing to hold her, to pull her into his arms, crush her against his chest in a fierce embrace, and never, ever let her go.

"I feel like she's trying to tell us something, like this is what was missing from her life." Those quiet words, spoken as they stood together, staring out at grass and rolling fields and anywhere but each other, gave him the courage. Those quiet words pushed him off the edge of the cliff, ended his prevarication and made him bold. Perhaps this was what was missing from Ros's life, this quiet, this peacefulness, this solitude. That was a question he would never have an answer to. What Harry Pearce knew, though, knew for a fact, was that what his life was missing was this peace, this solitude, this woman, and he would be damned if he let this opportunity pass him by.

Finally, he gave in. His hand connected with her body, resting there on the small of her back, feeling her lithe, slender frame curving instinctively at the touch, arching towards him and then away in the same moment. He bent his head, breathing in the warm, earthy scent of her hair, his lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered, "marry me, Ruth."

The moment he touched her, she lost all sense of reason. For days, for weeks, for months, for years she had dreamt of his touch. Had longed for it, in the still darkness of many a lonely night. Had blushed, under the harsh lights of the Grid, furiously embarrassed at the turn her thoughts had taken, the way he could so easily distract her with a warm, full-lipped smile, with a single smoldering gaze. And now, now she felt the warmth of his hand, resting at the small of her back, felt his whole body curving around hers, drawing her in as a moth to a flame, felt the rush of his warm breath across her ear, her cheek, heard his words echoing inside her chest like the merry trilling of some happy little bell; marry me, Ruth.

Marry me.

She was so stunned, so completely and utterly flabbergasted that he should make such a request of her, that she remained frozen, unable to look at him, unable to move, unable to think, hardly able to breathe. Marry him? She had kissed him once in the eight years they'd known one another, and that was long ago; yet now he stood beside her, his warm breath fluttering across her cheek, asking her to marry him.

Her thoughts whirled, chaotic and unintelligible. Is this really happening? She wondered in a daze. How could he ask her such a thing, here, now? How could she even contemplate accepting such an offer after everything they'd been through, the things they'd seen, the things they'd done? An empty chasm seemed to yawn between them of late, filled with the detritus of their years of dubious decisions. There was a little orphan boy with a cherub's face, and a dead man who had once shared her bed. There were friends, lovers, foes, strangers, dead and buried, taken from the world in violence and misery, taken because of decisions they had made, together. How could two people, two people with so much blood on their hands, two people whose love had nearly damned them not once but twice, ever be allowed such happiness?

Time, I need time, she thought desperately, and with that in mind, she spoke.

"Harry, this is neither the time nor the place-"

She had hoped to make him see what an impossible position he'd placed her in, hoped to make him see the sheer foolishness of asking her to make such a momentous decision when they were both of them grieving, but he was having none of it.

"This is exactly the time and the place," he interrupted her, still standing so close to her, still holding her with one arm slung low across her waist, and even through her heavy coat the touch of his hand warmed her through and through.

Harry Pearce was a dangerous man, in more ways that one. He had killed, he had lied, he had orchestrated the downfall of many a great man, and he possessed the ability to, with no more than a few whispered words, shatter her defenses and leave her weak and breathless with longing for him.

"It's the funeral. It's made you emotional," she protested. She couldn't really remember, any more, why she was fighting him so. This happened, some times; Ruth would dig in behind an idea, a belief, and like a dog with a bone she would worry it incessantly, and refuse to release her grip on it.

Think, Ruth, think, she chided herself. Think about what you want.

What she wanted, more than anything, was to believe him. She wanted to believe that he loved her, that he wanted her, that they could survive together. She wanted to fall into his arms, and stay there forever, wanted to believe that one day she might feel something other than the endless tide of loneliness and guilt that had consumed her from the moment she floated away from him three years before. Fear gripped her, as she spoke and considered the possible truth behind her own words. What if he didn't want her, didn't love her; what if he was only flailing about, latching on to the first person who showed him some piece of kindness? She could not bear the thought of being his consolation prize, not when she loved him so fully, so deeply, so completely. She could imagine nothing worse than to finally reveal her heart to him, only to learn that he did not feel the same.

"No, it's made me see clearly. Ros gave everything to this country, and six people came to say goodbye to her. Six people, Ruth. I don't want that for myself. And I don't want that for you."

As he spoke he held her still, his voice low and earnest, beseeching, and she felt her walls beginning to crumble. The words themselves were not particularly romantic, and if she considered them too long she might well find herself growing cross with him, that he should think it appropriate to talk of their impending funerals in the midst of his marriage proposal. It was not his words that moved her; it was the tone in which he spoke, the heat of him, the passion behind the sentiment. He wanted more for himself, for her, for them, and try though she might to hold desperately to some sense of reason, she found herself swept away by his voice.

"This is madness, Harry," she whispered. She did not dare look at him, for if she did she knew she would be lost, body and soul. If she looked at him, she would not be able to formulate the words to express to him her doubt, her need, her fear. For she was afraid, afraid that they might spend a few happy days together only to crumble into nothingness. Afraid that he might want her now, but upon sharing his life with her he might learn that she was not all he had dreamed, and he might grow tired of her. Afraid that one day a reckoning would come, and they would be held accountable for their sins.

"I don't think it is, Ruth," he answered.

"Then what would you call it?" Though she knew it was folly, she looked at him. Looked into his dear, weather-beaten face, into the warmth of his hazel eyes, and she saw reflected in his features her every thought, her every dream.

"I call it hope."

Ruth laughed, a strangled noise closer to a sob than a chuckle. "I think I've forgotten what that feels like," she confessed. Such a small confession, and yet it was more than she had given him in the many months since her return. For the first time since they had sat alone together in that godforsaken warehouse, she allowed him a glimpse of the tattered remnants of her soul. And for his part, Harry did not look away.

"Then marry me, Ruth, and let me remind you."

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as he spoke those words; she wanted nothing more in this world than to marry this man, to love him, to hold him, to believe him when he told her that she was meant for more than grief and pain. She had spent so very long denying herself that it had almost become second nature, to turn away from the desires of her heart, but as he spoke her resolve withered and died. She wanted this, wanted him, too much to deny it any longer.

"God help me," she breathed.

"Ruth," he sighed, leaning back just a little, trying to get a better look at her face. That sigh was laced with such heartbreak that it loosed her tears in earnest, and she began to weep, but she did not take her eyes from his face.

"Yes, Harry," she choked out behind her veil of tears. "God help me, but yes, I will marry you."

It was not the sort of jubilant acceptance he had hoped for, but she had said yes, after all. It took a moment for her words to register, for him to realize that she was not turning him down, that she was in fact agreeing to give him, give them this chance, and now that she had said yes, he found he did not know what to do. He wanted to throw his hands up in the air and let loose a victorious shout, he wanted to produce the little box from his pocket with a flourish and slip that diamond ring on her finger, he wanted to pull her into his arms and never let her go. They could stand there by that fence entwined for all eternity, freeze to death and turn to stone, and he would still be a happy man, for Ruth had said yes.

Dimly he realized that several seconds had passed and Ruth, who was still crying, was looking at him strangely. Though he wasn't sure what the correct procedure was, for dealing with a woman who had just accepted his marriage proposal despite their having only ever gone out together on one single solitary date, he was sure that if he didn't do something, and soon, Ruth might well change her mind.

"Thank you," he breathed, and she laughed at him, and he laughed at himself as he pulled her into his arms. It was perhaps the most ridiculous thing he could have said, but he was so bloody grateful, grateful to her for giving him this chance, grateful to the universe for putting her in his path, that he felt he had to give voice to that feeling.

She nestled herself into his embrace, her head tucked safely beneath his chin, her arms snaking around his waist, her softness molding itself around the hardness of his body. He felt her hands fisting in the material of his coat, pulling him closer still, and with a heart full to bursting with love of this woman he held her, rejoicing.

There was much to be decided. Details, some practical, some more emotional and therefore more delicate in nature, would have to be discussed and poured over. He would need to find out if the ring fit her, if it suited her, if she had any desire to wear it all. They would need to discuss living arrangements, and life on the Grid, and what sort of wedding they would like to have. More than anything, he needed to take her out to dinner again.

But all of that could wait, for now he was content to hold her, content in the knowledge that he had taken a risk and that, just this once, it had paid off. She had said yes, and whatever lay in store, they would face it, together.