AN: This is just a little one-shot, inspired by a visit to my godparents a while ago. For those of you who don't know, there's an old superstition, which says that by counting the stones in a slice of plum (or cherry!) pie, you can work out what sort of person you will marry. The rhyme is, "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief." And I wondered... well, you'll see... Hope you enjoy!

It was, Ruth thought viciously, all Malcolm's fault. After all, no one had asked him to bring in that stupid plum pie. No one had asked him to visit at all. Of course, it was very nice that the inquiry was over, and that Harry was back on the Grid, minus only his knighthood, but that didn't mean that the Grid had to be turned upside down in preparation for a celebratory party. She had seen Harry's wince when Beth had excitedly suggested it, and had known that he would much prefer a few quiet drinks at the George. Well, she assumed he would. The Harry she knew would have done, in any case. However, the inquiry seemed to have changed some things about him – he was quieter, humbler, less likely to lose his temper – and Ruth was no longer sure about the rules of their almost-relationship.

And now she was trapped in the ladies', embarrassed and strangely upset, and it was all Malcolm's fault! She couldn't possibly go back onto the Grid now until the party was in full swing, with everyone too busy enjoying themselves to notice her slip out of the pods. It had promised to be such a lovely day – Harry officially returning to his rightful place as Section Head, although unofficially he had been back for a week; Malcolm coming to visit them; a chance of getting home at a decent hour to catch the re-runs of Friends (strangely, it was the only American TV show she had ever been able to stomach) on E4 and then a pleasantly relaxing weekend in the garden afterwards. And now that bloody plum pie had ruined everything!

Everyone had brought in some sort of food (or, in Alec's case, drink) for the party. Ruth herself had provided some passable cheese and pickle sandwiches, Beth crisps and cheesy biscuits, Dimitri several huge pizzas, and Tariq some samosas that his mum had made. And Malcolm had brought that bloody plum pie! Section D had moved their desks together to create a buffet table and the party-invitees (all of the Section, as well as several members from A Section and Harry's long-standing driver, Mike) had started to eat and drink, carefully negotiating their way underneath the haphazard and low-hanging banners and bunting that Beth had happily spent the previous evening putting up. Somehow they'd all ended up eating Malcolm's pie at the same time. It had been very tasty, she recalled – Malcolm had always had a way with pastry – and she had been quite enjoying herself, until Beth had grinned, "Let's play that game with the stones – you know, tinker, tailor..."

Ruth had frozen immediately, and had cast a terrified glance in Harry's direction. He had suddenly become very interested in his spoon and wouldn't meet anyone's eye. Malcolm was calmly waiting for the opinion of the rest of the group. And once the nature of the game had been explained to the others, they were more than happy to join in. So they all finished their plates of pie, Ruth growing slowly more and more anxious as her piece of pie diminished without the tiniest of stones appearing. At last, her plate was completely empty. Sneaking a look around the circle, she noticed with dismay that she was the only one to not have received any stones. It was just a stupid superstitious game, and it shouldn't have meant anything, but to Ruth, who had spent the last ten years in social Siberia as regards men, apart from her chaste affinity with Harry and her less chaste encounter with George, it was desperately important.

"Right!" Beth chirped up bossily. "Has everyone finished?" Nods of assent went round the circle. "I'll start, then. Tinker... tailor... soldier... sailor!" she added, counting the stones. At this, she cast a shy glance at Dimitri, who grinned in return. Their relationship had become the Grid's worst kept secret, and had she been a gossiping person, Ruth could have offered some very interesting information as to Beth's new home address. Tariq went next, with five stones, and thus blushingly announcing, "Rich woman!" And so it went on around the circle, until there was only Harry and Ruth left.

Ruth forced a smile. "No stones! Ruth Evershed, spinster of this parish..." And so saying, she got to her feet and walked away from the group hurriedly, sure that no one would follow.

Now in the bathroom, she stared at her reflection glumly. The only concession she had made to the party was the sporting of a navy satin dress – very different from her usual working clothes. A pale face stared back at her, bare of make up, brown hair hastily tied into a messy bun, out of her way, when an Arabic transcript from GCHQ had landed on her desk this morning, along with a note begging for its translation. Her blue eyes were pink-rimmed from the few foolish tears she had shed. "Two lips, indifferent red," she quoted dryly to herself. An utterly hopeless case. With a sigh, she blew her nose and rummaged in her handbag for the few cosmetics she kept there. A hint of mascara and a dash of eye shadow would perhaps hide the fact that she had been crying, at least until she could sneak away from the Grid.

Ten minutes later, having taken a deep breath, she left the ladies' – and crashed straight into Harry. He looked just as surprised at the occurrence as Ruth felt, and was halfway through a profuse apology by the time that Ruth had come to her senses. His arm had somehow twined its way around her waist in a valiant attempt to stop her from falling over and she could feel its warm through the material of her dress. They were very close, close enough that she could see the faint red line on his neck, where he must have nicked himself shaving that morning, and the shiver of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

They remained perfectly still for a moment, and then Harry released her, casting an appraising eye from her head to her foot. "That's a very nice dress," he commented quietly. She blushed and looked down at the floor, feeling a very girlish giggle bubbling up in her throat. All thoughts of shame had been utterly banished.

Gently, Harry tucked a hand underneath her chin and tipped it back so that he could look in her eyes. "Actually," he added, "I was coming to see if you were alright. We thought you'd gone home."

"We?" she asked. The noise from the party didn't seem like it would admit of much serious thought.

He smiled sheepishly. "Well, just me, really." He paused, and then explained awkwardly, "Beth's... a little tipsy now, and I wanted to make sure she'd be able to get home safely afterwards. If you had gone, I'd have got Mike to take her back."

Ruth's face fell. "Oh, o-of course. I'll fetch her coat. Thanks for letting me know." She prepared to walk past him, but Harry hadn't quite finished.

"Ruth? Not bothered about that stupid old wives' tale, are you?" His voice was quietly offhand. She froze on the spot and looked up at him with a glance of mingled horror and astonishment. He knew!

"No, of course not!" she burbled hastily, trying and failing to fake airy amusement. "It's just a superstition. You'd have to be really daft to get upset about that, Harry."

He shrugged, and she was uneasily aware that she had been really daft on more than one occasion over the course of their friendship. "I know," he replied after a moment. "Well, that's good... it's good that you aren't upset."

The conversation seemed to be at an end. She turned to leave again and had nearly reached the end of the corridor when she heard footsteps. "Ruth!" She halted and looked back, heart thudding. Harry hurried towards her, his face alight with a nervous smile. Behind her, she could hear Dimitri and Beth beginning to sing an off-tune rendition of some song that was currently in the charts. She lifted a quizzical brow and he took a deep breath.

"Ruth... you know – any man would be lucky to marry you." His voice was soft, and Ruth could almost imagine that she had misheard him somehow – the noise from the Grid was providing excellent cover, anyway.

But then he bent and clumsily kissed her cheek, half-brushing her ear, enveloping her in the reserved scent of his aftershave. Then he backed away. "Well, goodnight," he murmured. She smiled, a true smile for a change.

"Goodnight, Harry."

'Hopeless' was such a strong word.