A/N Thank you for following along and to those of you who have kindly left a review. I enjoyed writing this story and I hope its given you a little pleasure too!

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Chapter 15

The wool fibres of her cardigan prickled against her forearm, and Ruth broke from the pace of her typing to absently rouch up the sleeve. Her arm was pink from exposure to the sun, the red marks of small lacerations standing out against her skin. She subtly moved her sleeve back into place. Tilting her head, she nudged the receiver of her phone back with her shoulder, the automated voice politely reminding her that she still had thirteen unheard messages. A notification pinged on her computer; another email added to the growing list of unread correspondence. Her gaze moved to the pod doors and the promise of freedom. There had been no question of her not returning to the Grid, if she missed another day, her inboxes would be bursting at the seams. The time difference between Baghdad and London had given her half the day to live over again and she intended to make good use of it. A folder landed on her desk, and Ruth mouthed her thanks to the junior analyst as the young woman continued on her rounds. It was as if she had never left. Phones rang incessantly, conversations overlapped, keys clacked loudly as processors whirred. With surprising ease, she had slipped back into the working cogs of the Grid, her time in Baghdad seeming nothing more than a dream. A dream of such vivid dimensions that she had thought it reality. Her fingers hovered over the keys, the font on her computer screen blurring as the static voice on her phone faded. The top of her desk became inlaid with a parquet pattern, white curtains rustled as a gentle breeze blew through an open window. It wasn't a dream, she assured herself. The glow of a sunset played beneath her eyelids, the shadowy patterns of a lattice screen, warm breath in her ear, a heated touch.

"So what happened?"

The question jolted Ruth back to the present and her eyes flew open in alarm. Casually perched on the edge of her desk, sat Jo, one leg swinging, a look of friendly curiosity on her face. A second later, Zaf rolled up in his chair.

"Yeah, tell us all about it," he prompted.

Ruth's mouth opened and then closed as she searched for an appropriately vague response. Her attention was distracted by the tap of boot heels, and her mouth drew into a grim line as Ros approached.

"What's going on?" Ros asked with cool detachment.

"We're trying to weasel information out of Ruth about her trip to Baghdad," Jo informed her.

"We might have to resort to a few pints at the George," Zaf proposed cheekily. "Get all the dirt on Harry."

Ruth's eyes became daggers, and Zaf raised his hands in surrender, slowly wheeling his chair backwards. He narrowly avoided Adam's toes. The Section Chief skirted the chair wheels and joined the crowd.

"How was it?" Adam leaned his elbows on Ruth's desk. "Did you get to see much of the city?"

"Ah, no," Ruth stammered. At this rate, she would never make it through all her messages. "I spent most of my time sequestered with other analysts, reviewing data."

"Shame," Adam continued. "I passed through Baghdad a few times when I was out in Syria. It was beautiful then."

"I only saw the Green Zone." Ruth shrugged her shoulders, hoping her lack of tantalising information would dissipate the gathering.

A commanding voice bellowed across the Grid. "Ruth!"

Heads turned and the group cleaved in two, giving Ruth a direct line of sight to Harry as he stood impatiently outside his office door.

"Where's that threat assessment?"

"Yes …I ..um…" Ruth shuffled through the pile of folders on her desk.

"I needed it an hour ago. I'm meeting the Home Secretary."

"I just have to…" Giving up her search, Ruth motioned helplessly to her computer.

Harry crossed his arms, his eyes boring into the group that hovered around Ruth's desk. "Am I to understand that the current threat level is so low that we need not bother doing our jobs?"

"It's Friday afternoon," Zaf protested.

"Ah, of course," Harry's agreement was wrapped in sarcasm. "I'm sure every bomb maker and gun smuggler will be taking the weekend off. Just ask the Georgians."

"Abkhazi's," Ruth corrected him quietly under her breath.

Adam stepped into the conversation. "We were just curious about how you made out in Iraq."

"It was a tale full of sound and fury signifying nothing." Harry waved his hand dismissively. "The usual American bravado, bluster from Six. A waste of time."

Ruth idly picked up a pen, wondering if anyone noticed the cut on Harry's bottom lip, a subtle clue that all had not been serene.

Zaf turned to Ruth. "I'll give you a hand with the assessment,"

"No, leave it to Ruth," Harry ordered. "You're a field officer, she's the analyst."

The door to Harry's office closed with a resounding thud, the force of the blow dispersing the group.

Ruth sat perfectly still, staring at his door. Analyst? She was more than an analyst, she had just spent the last four days proving as much. How dare he speak to her in his usual cursory tone? Treat her like she was merely administrative personnel. Normally, she would shrug off Harry's churlish behaviour, chalk it up to exhaustion, but her nerves were raw, and his words cut deep. On their return to Brize Norton, Harry had been whisked away to a high-level meeting with military personnel and she had been sent back to London in a separate car. There had been no opportunity to speak in private, and with those few words, Harry had reset their working relationship and pegged her right back in the same hole where she had started.

From under hooded lids, she studied his office door, methodically clicking her pen. A chill ran through her limbs, settling in her skin, the coolness of the encounter refusing to dissipate. There had been no warmth when he spoke her name, no meaningful glance; no indication that he shared with her a secret of staggering magnitude. It was just as she had predicted in his bedroom the previous evening – that once back on familiar territory they would return to their former selves. It had only taken one afternoon for them to fall back into their roles. Harry weighed down by the mantle of authority, wielding a caustic tongue, charging off to meetings. She ensconced at her desk, impenetrable behind a wall of data and electronic messaging. Where was the connection they had built together in Baghdad? She could feel it slipping through her fingers; disappearing like a mirage, too fragile to withstand the cold reality of London. With each click of her pen, she added another layer to her shell; reason reasserting itself under the harsh light of the Grid. Baghdad was an outlier, a concoction created by adrenaline and circumstance, the ingredients of the recipe now lost. There was no room in this business for personal relationships. Harry's authority rested on the respect he elicited from the team, she would only compromise him. The ribbing she had gotten from Zaf proved that.

Ruth's thumb paused on the top of her pen. She was being watched. Raising her head, she saw Ros leaning back in a chair. Arms crossed, Ros gave Ruth a knowing look; a cat having discovered a mouse.

"What really happened in Baghdad, Ruth?"

Ruth relaxed her mouth, her face becoming blank. Of all the people on the Grid, Ros was the last person to whom she would ever reveal anything.

"Nothing," Ruth stated flatly. "Nothing happened in Baghdad."

Pursing her lips, Ros rocked slightly in her chair, calculating how far she could push her interrogation. Undaunted, Ruth stared back at her. After Mani and McCaul, and every other ordeal that she had endured, dealing with Ros was child's play.

Ros opened her computer screen and clicked her mouse with feigned indifference. "You'll tell me someday."

Refusing the bait, Ruth returned to her emails, ignoring the cold kernel of loss that sat in her belly. Nothing had happened in Baghdad.

"God, she was a pain when Harry was away," Jo whispered under her breath, smiling mischievously at Ruth. She leaned across the desk. "Seriously, though, we are going to the George after if you want to join us."

"I'm pretty tired," Ruth deferred politely.

Jo's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You know, for someone who spent all her time indoors, you do have a pretty nice glow."

Ruth willed herself not to blink. Did her skin still hold the blush from her night with Harry? She mustered a smile and leaned forward, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. "Well, just between you and me," she nodded slyly, and the young woman's face lit up at the prospect of a detail meant only for her. "There was a pool."

The sound of chair wheels clattered, and Zaf appeared out of nowhere. "Did you say pool?"

With a heft of her foot, Jo pushed Zaf and his rolling chair back to his desk. Ruth quietly chuckled, relishing the tiny moment of camaraderie. This was where she belonged, this was her home. The world had righted itself and everything had returned to its preordained order.

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The numbers on the clock turned over and evening approached with no sign of Harry's return from Whitehall. The scale of second-guessing tipped towards one conclusion. What happened in Baghdad should stay in Baghdad. If she walked away now, it would be with her head held high. It would look desperate if she were to be found sitting here, waiting for him to return. She had no idea how long he would be, or even what she would say to him for that matter. She had no claim to him; there had been no discussion of a relationship. Her past was dotted with men who were able to divorce intimacy from their everyday lives. Far better to get on with her own life. Ruth slowly closed down her system, knowing that the messages would still be waiting for her Monday morning. She gathered her coat and bade goodnight to the few stalwart souls remaining on the Grid. Stepping out of the lift, she saw a familiar face.

"Hello, Charlie," she greeted the security guard with a smile.

"Evening, Miss Evershed, haven't seen you around for a few days."

"Been on a bit of a break."

"Looks like you got some sun," the security guard observed. "Don't tell me you went to Mexico without me."

"No, nothing as glamorous as that."

She set her worn handbag on the scanner belt, Charlie giving the item a perfunctory glance and waving her through. A welcome relief from the intense scrutiny of the past few days. She had not handed the USB stick over to Malcolm. It sat securely inside a zippered pocket of her purse. She loathed to relinquish it, the tiny piece of plastic the last piece of evidence that her adventure in Baghdad had actually existed.

"Good night, Charlie," she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

"Have a good weekend, Miss Evershed."

The doors of Thames House clicked behind her as she walked out onto the street. Rain drizzled on the pavement, and she raised her face to the sky, letting the drops sprinkle on her cheeks. During her entire stay in Baghdad, there had not been one drop of rain, and she begrudgingly admitted she might have missed it. As refreshing as the rain was, she pulled the collar of her coat tighter, dampness seeking into her once sun warmed bones. Was it only that morning that she had been drenched in sweat, running through the streets of Baghdad?

At the intersection, the poster that once proclaimed the splendours of Mexico had been replaced by an advert promoting a walking tour of the Hebrides. That was certainly more within her price range. Ruth grimaced as she neared the bus shelter, the confines of the glass box already bursting with people crushed together trying to avoid the rain. She found a spot on the periphery, resigning herself to stringy hair and sodden clothes. The night was descending into a murky blue; glaring headlights and flashing store signs blurred by the rain. The god of dusk did not live here. She closed her eyes, conjuring the haze of the sun as it hovered above the horizon, the heat rising from the sand. A low rumble sounded and Ruth opened her eyes as a lorry sped by, a wave of brackish water spattering her coat. Oh well, it didn't matter. There had been no time to dry clean her coat since her last encounter with a puddle.

A black sedan turned the corner and edged its way towards the spot where Ruth stood. It stopped in front of her, the tinted windows blocking the identity of the occupant. Ruth took a step back, her heart jumping to her throat. They had followed her to London and tracked her down. The window slowly lowered revealing the driver. She let out a huff of relief. It was Harry.

"Get in," he commanded bruskly.

Weathering the looks of envious commuters, Ruth thankfully climbed into the car. Harry eased into the street, the late evening traffic sedate compared to the chaos of Baghdad. Finally alone with him, she found herself at a loss for what to say. Harry tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Do you have the USB stick?"

Her shoulders slumped. He had only picked her up to collect the flash drive. She nodded and rummaged through her purse. Harry kept his attention focused on the road, one hand held out for the USB stick. Not knowing how to extract the chip from the lipstick, she handed him the entire tube. Her fingers brushed against the cool leather of his gloves, silently lamenting the lost opportunity to touch him. Harry slipped his hand under his overcoat and stowed the drive in an inner pocket. The transaction was completely devoid of ceremony. The USB stick was the summation of her time in Baghdad, every trial she had overcome, but to him, it was just another routine exchange.

"Norfolk."

"What?" Ruth shook her head in puzzlement.

"The uranium is in Norfolk. An abandoned shelter. I wanted you to know in case anything happens to me."

"I can't imagine anything happening to you," she countered instantly."You did manage to make it out of Baghdad by the skin of your teeth. Which you never bothered to explain, by the way."

The corner of his mouth tipped slightly. "Let's just say a baggage handler is going to wake up with a headache similar to Private Jensen's."

Ruth glanced at Harry's wrist, the previous watch with its chunky metal band now replaced by a more streamlined version. Evidently, Harry had no hesitation about parting with mementoes from the mission.

Their conversation had centred on business, leaving Ruth with the impression that it was more of a mission debrief than the overture to something personal. She rubbed the handles of her bag, searching the depths of her courage to say what was on her mind. Harry inhaled as if he were about to speak. She quickly turned to him. He pursed his lips. Silence. She looked out the window, a dying ember of sadness sitting in her belly. A film of moisture had condensed on the inside of her window. She drew her finger across the glass revealing the outside world. If only she could clear the mist as easily with Harry. A word; it would only take a few words. She could trek across Iraq and subvert a plot to deposit uranium, but she was incapable of conducting a simple conversation.

They drove in silence until a familiar landmark signalled that the ride was drawing to an end. The dark windows of Ruth's house appeared, staring back at her, lifeless and uninviting. The car slowed to a stop. The handles of her bag were wearing smooth from her nervous rubbing. She could ask him in for a few moments as a friendly gesture. No, better to keep it professional.

"Thank you for the lift," she murmured quietly, not meeting his eyes, her hand blindly searching for the door handle.

"I should come in."

Her head swivelled. "Oh?" she responded in surprise.

"Just to make sure everything is secure."

"Yes, of course," she stuttered, deflated that his offer was only for safety reasons. She didn't point out that she had already been in her house without incident; the previous comfort that she had felt now supplanted by the idea that someone was lurking in her closet.

As they stood on the stoop, Ruth dug through the depths of her purse searching for her keys. Wordlessly, Harry retrieved them from her hand and calmly slipped them into the lock. The door clicked open and he cautiously entered the house, Ruth following close behind. Wrapped in the evening gloom, the house was cold and foreign, and a thick layer of silence settled around them. They paused in her cluttered hallway, remaining in their coats, nothing more than travellers passing through. Glancing at her silhouette in the hall mirror, Ruth barely recognised herself. She was a stranger entering her house. With the confidence of a man who had secured sites before, Harry stepped further along the entryway. At a loss on how to proceed, Ruth glanced around and retrieved a tattered umbrella from the hall stand.

A loud bang echoed from the front room.

Ruth gave a startled gasp, half raising the umbrella in self-defence. Harry's arm shot out to protect her. He placed a finger against his lips, and gently pushed her back toward the front door. Treading silently, he peered around the entrance to her living room and then disappeared into the room. Ruth's shoulders tensed, bracing for a confrontation.

Quiet prevailed; no noise indicating a struggle. Not waiting to be summoned by Harry, she took the initiative and entered the front room. A pile of books lay scattered on the floor, dislodged from their resting place on the table, the culprit casually licking her paw.

"Fidget," Ruth scolded.

Harry bent over and picked up one of the books and examined it. It was the volume of poems he had bought for her in Baghdad. Ruth had placed it on the table before returning to the Grid, thinking that it was a safe spot.

"Don't want this to get ruined," Harry whispered.

"No," she answered breathlessly.

He held out the book to her. The cover was warm beneath her fingers as if it still held the residual heat of the sun. He did not immediately release the book, and she looked up into his face, his eyes barely visible in the dimness of the room. His lips parted and then instantly closed. She took a breath but let it go. Whatever warmth had been in the moment, it was quickly vanquished by the coolness of the unheated room. Harry brushed past her as he headed to the kitchen, focused on continuing his surveillance of the house. Unsure where to lay the book, she clutched it to her chest, protecting the last remnant of the woman she had discovered in Baghdad. She returned to the hall, silently sliding the umbrella back into the stand, feeling utterly useless, deciding that it was better to let him secure the house by himself. Harry came back into the hall.

"I'm just going to take a look upstairs."

She nodded her consent. The third step creaked as it usually did, and Harry paused before continuing his ascent up the stairs. The floorboards groaned slightly as he walked overhead, the direction of his tread indicating that he was entering her bedroom. Ruth's eyes widened; there could be any number of embarrassing accessories on display. All thoughts of an intruder left her mind and she hurriedly ran up the steps. Harry stood outside her bedroom door, a look of concern on his face.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes, I-" She took a step toward him and leaned against the door jamb, hoping to gloss over her distress that he should walk into her bedroom. "I'm just very tired."

"That's understandable." A flicker of what looked like disappointment crossed his face, but it was quickly subverted. "Everything seems in order here. I should let you get some rest."

Her lungs collapsed as the air of opportunity seeped away, words left unsaid, all signs indicating that he would leave her to an evening alone. Ruth dropped her arms, the book hanging limply in her hand. Harry pointed to it.

"I hope it was worth it."

"Yes." Her lips moved in a half smile. Every infuriatingly wonderful moment spent with him in that wretchedly beautiful country had been worth it, "Yes, it was."

Harry tilted his head. "May I see it?"

She handed him the book. He slowly flipped through the pages.

"It's all in Arabic," he observed.

"I know."

He turned the book toward her and indicated a poem. "Who wrote this one?"

"It's Rumi," she informed him. "Persian poet from the twelfth century."

Harry nodded at her explanation and pointed to a stanza in the text. "What does it say?"

Ruth eyed him warily, sensing a note of challenge in his voice. Did everything have to be a test with this man? He knew very well that she was fluent in Arabic. With a touch of annoyance, she took the book from him and placed her finger over the spot where his had rested. Her lips moved slightly as she quietly read the line to herself, taking a moment to translate it in her head.

"It says… um…" The words sat thick in her throat, and she swallowed self-consciously.

"Yes?" Harry prompted lightly.

Her voice barely audible, she softly read the text. "I whispered an offer softly in the ear of your playful heart. I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways. You know what's on my mind, you've heard my thoughts, and now, what I described to you last night, I'll do today."

The words sighed through her, fanning the latent ember in her belly, a flush of warmth creeping across her skin. She kept her eyes lowered, wondering if he had somehow known what the verse had contained. The decadence of the previous evening that she had tucked away in the corner of her mind, unravelled in all its exotic glory. Like a flower, the crux of their relationship revealed itself. They did not communicate by words; they spoke to each other in a hundred silent ways. There did not need to be a declaration of understanding for them to move forward; she need only recognise the signs. He had driven around the city to find her, he was in her house, he had given her this beautiful book. She stood silently, the revelation causing her heart to flutter wildly within her chest. Through the silence, he spoke to her in a whisper.

"Is it over?"

She raised her gaze to his. His eyes, black in the darkness, looked down on her, the line of his mouth softened by the question. The façade he had projected in Baghdad had disappeared, replaced by an air of hesitancy; he was as unsure as she about the future. What had it cost him to ask that question? The string of self-control that had allowed her to function throughout the day snapped. Book still in hand, she stumbled into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

"I didn't think I would see you again." Thoughts that had swirled in her mind, spoken aloud, released a dam. "I was all alone – there were men." Tears spilled forth; words jumbling together. "You weren't at the airport, I was on the plane, I thought they had you-"

"It's alright," he murmured against her hair, his arms rising to comfort her.

"You left me." A sob broke forth from the bottom of her being. "You left me alone on the streets of Baghdad."

"I'm sorry." Voice shaking, his arms tightened their hold, encircling her in a crushing embrace. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Her fingers grasped his lapel, simultaneously wanting to push him away and pull him in. "Why did you leave me?"

"I promise, I will never do it again," he whispered fiercely.

She shook her head, all too cognisant of the ways of the world in which they inhabited. "You can't promise me that."

He pulled his head back, and cupped her face, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "Ruth," he pleaded hoarsely, entreating her to accept what he could offer. "I will do everything in my power to protect you. But if I'm not there-"

"No, don't say that." Shaking her head, she refused to contemplate the idea that he would not always be in her life.

"You have to believe in your own strength, that no matter what, you will survive."

Overcome with a quiet desperation, she pulled him closer, her mouth claiming his, needing to know that he was real, that what had happened between them in Baghdad was not a dream. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced thoughts of the alley from her mind, losing herself in the ambrosia of his kisses. The folds of his coat enveloped her, the strength of his body promising protection. Instinctively, he knew what she needed; he needed it too. His hands slid beneath her coat, bunching the scratchy wool of her cardigan, fingers finding the smooth skin of her waist. The heat of his palm banished her fears.

"You said it was only for one night," he murmured against her lips.

"No," she countered between kisses, "You must have misheard me."

"It's only since this morning that I touched you," he murmured as his lips found her throat. "But it felt like an eternity."

At his sentiments, a tiny whimper of agreement left her lips. He backed her through the doorway of her bedroom and she willingly let him steer their course. Lost in the darkness, he stumbled, and she adjusted her step, correcting their path. He paused when they reached the edge of her bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, he carefully took the book from her hand and reverently placed it on the bedside table. He placed his palm on top of it, swearing an oath.

"Everything stays between these covers."

Ruth nodded her understanding. It was their story; it would never be shared.

Hungry hands struggled with the heavy London outerwear. Finesse abandoned them as they tore away coats and peeled off clothes, layer upon layer of restraint falling away. The bed called to them, and Harry pulled back the covers, gently lowering her onto the chilly sheets. Greedy arms tugged at him as she pulled him down, desperate to know the heat of his body. Skin finding skin, they moved against each other, roaming tongues igniting senses, flames licking over heated limbs, warmth spreading between them. Her body sang under his touch; skin tingling as she floated on a wave of contentment. She gasped into his shoulder as he groaned into her ear, joining him in the pleasure of sweet release. A smile of satisfaction played upon her lips, a tiny thrill of victory that this man was in her bed, and all her doubts about the tinder between them, unfounded. Their fire burned hot even in the dreary light of London.

Against his shoulder, under tangled sheets, she closed her eyes, looking for one last reassurance.

"Are we safe here, Harry?"

There was no answer, only the pressure of his arm as it wrapped tightly around her.

"Read to me some more from your book, Ruth," he whispered against her temple, fingers trailing over her skin.

Turning over a page in her mind, she imprinted the feel of his leg on her calf, the expanse of his rib cage under her hands, the fine hair of his chest against her cheek; treasures gathered for a new vault of memories. Raising herself on one elbow, she looked down into his face. She was about to tell him that if he yelled at her again she would make his life very difficult when he lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He slowly ran his fingers along her jaw. Perhaps she would say something at another time. She leaned in a planted a kiss on his lips. Reaching across his chest, she searched with her fingers for the book of poetry. She would read to him tonight, and if she had her way, she would read to him for a thousand more.