Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.

A/N: Light-hearted, bit naughty and most definitely fluff, inspired by a recent(ish) trip to Regent's Park. Credit (blame) for the more random (crazy) elements of this story goes to...well, they know who they are... ;)

1

Ruth drank the last of her water and dropped the empty plastic bottle into a rubbish bin just inside the park gate. Whilst her headache had subsided to a more manageable level she still felt very dehydrated. The realisation that she was too old to spend a weekday evening consuming large quantities of Merlot was only marginally less depressing than the realisation she was too old to spend any evening consuming large quantities of Merlot. Or any other alcohol for that matter. And she was certainly too old to be led astray by her friend Frances - her partner in boozing - who had delivered some candid, if rather brutal, advice on Ruth's strained relationship with Harry.

It had started simply enough; an evening with her oldest and closest friend. A friend who hadn't judged or questioned Ruth's return from beyond the grave but had instead been delighted to see her and happy to pick up from where they'd left off. Ruth felt safe confiding in her and, in her slightly inebriated state, revealed that Harry had proposed marriage and she'd turned him down. Frances, for once, been rendered speechless although it hadn't lasted.

"Why Ruth? I thought he was the one."

"I just…it's complicated, Frances. There are things that need to be worked out."

"What things?"

"Just…things."

Frances had topped up their glasses and looked her friend in the eye and asked: "It's sex, isn't Ruth? What's the problem? Is he too demanding? Or not demanding enough?"

Ruth, horrified at the turn the conversation had taken, gabbled, "No! No, it's not that."

"Oh…so can't he manage it then? Is that it?"

Mortified, Ruth had put her head in her hands.

Taking this as confirmation she was on the right track, Frances had ploughed on. "Look, if he's having trouble getting the old chap to stand to attention, get him some little blue pills. And tell him there's no shame in it. Lots of blokes have the same problem."

"Oh God," Ruth had groaned. "Frances, really, that's not it."

"Well then what is the problem? Is he rubbish at it? Or is he more chipolata than salami?"

Ruth's response to that had been a shrieked 'How would I know? We've never had sex!'

Leaving her friend to gather her composure, Frances had retreated to the kitchen to get a fresh bottle of Merlot and ponder a plan of action to get Ruth and Harry together.

-x-

The Cow and Coffee Bean provided a welcome source of distraction for Ruth and she bought herself an ice cream and another bottle of water. She sat at one of the tables outside and contemplated texting Harry to cancel their meeting. He'd phoned her at nine-thirty that morning demanding that she meet him in Regent's Park in the afternoon. She'd been too hung-over to argue, instead settling for asking him when and where.

"Two o'clock," he'd replied. "I'll be on the bench under the gazebo. Near The Honest Sausage. You can't miss it."

Ruth had hung up the phone without another word, painfully aware that cylindrical meat products were apparently going to be haunting her thoughts for some time.

-x-

She found him sitting exactly where he'd said he'd be. He had his back to her and was watching a cricket match that was being played on the pitch a few hundred yards away.

"I was beginning to think you'd stood me up," Harry said, as Ruth sat down beside him.

"I'm not that late am I?" she asked, attempting to juggle her handbag and her bottle of water so she could look at her watch. She felt mildly guilty when she saw that it was nearly half past two. "Sorry, I got held up. You know how it is."

"Yes, I do," Harry replied, giving her a smile.

Ruth smiled back at him. He looked well; his temporary banishment to the Ministry of Defence as MI5 liaison was clearly agreeing with him, the irony of which wasn't lost on her. The Board of Inquiry, and just about everyone else who knew him, had expected Harry to go into meltdown and refuse to accept his punishment, leaving the Service with no alternative but to kick him out. Instead, he had taken their decision calmly, conducted a civilised and professional handover with his replacement on the Grid, and gone off to the MoD without complaint.

"I take it Devereux's keeping you busy," said Harry.

Ruth nodded. "Yes but he's doing an excel-...a-a good job. Not as good a job as you, obviously."

"It's all right, Ruth. I'm well aware of my failings. In all areas."

"You do know," she replied, ignoring the slightly self-pitying tone he'd adopted, "that if it hadn't been for him we wouldn't be able to liaise."

"Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"You know what I mean. We wouldn't be able to meet like this."

It was true. Sir Charles Anton Devereux, known universally as Chaz and currently keeping Harry's Thames House chair warm, had pointed out that exchanging information between MI5 and the MoD could be a bit tricky if the liaison was barred from contacting certain Security Services staff. Richard Dolby, as was his way, had wittered on about 'protocols' and 'respecting the Inquiry Board's decision'. He hadn't shut up until Chaz had helpfully pointed out that the Board had specified only that Harry was to go to the MoD for a minimum of six months; it hadn't made any ruling on who he could or couldn't contact during his 'secondment'.

"Fair point," Harry conceded. "So what would you like to liaise about today?"

"You tell me; you organised the meeting."

"How are you, Ruth?"

"I'm fine," she answered, too distracted with trying to open her bottle of water to appreciate that Harry was already taking the conversation in a personal direction.

"Are you sure? It's just that you look a little…" He stopped, the phrase 'hung-over' on the tip of his tongue. "Peaky."

"I'm fine!" Ruth snapped. "And we're supposed to be discussing work."

"Has anything changed since I spoke to Dimitri yesterday?"

"No."

"Then we don't have to talk shop, do we." He took the water from her, removed the small plastic tab holding the flip-up lid in place, and then held the bottle out to her. "Let's make the most of the opportunity to do something else."

By rights, it shouldn't have sounded as suggestive a comment as it did but Ruth's brain was still tainted with both alcohol and her conversation with Frances. Her hand faltered slightly as she reached for the bottle.

"What would you like to do?" Harry asked, watching Ruth as she took a long swig of water. He was well aware she was studiously avoiding his gaze as she attempted to formulate a response. "Anything you like," he said, determined to stop her from analysing his question and, for once, just reply instinctively, impulsively.

"Let's go to the zoo."

Perhaps the instinctive/impulsive thing wasn't such a good idea after all.

"The zoo?" Harry repeated, slowly.

"Yes," said Ruth, sensing she had him on the back foot.

"Are you sure?"

"You said 'anything' and I want to go to the zoo."

"Then that's what we'll do." Harry stood up. "We can stop off at The Honest Sausage for something to eat afterwards." His suggestion was met with a spluttering cough as Ruth almost inhaled her water. He leant down and tentatively patted her on the back. "You all right?"

"Yes, I'm OK," she managed, between coughs. "Come on, lets go."

"Like I said, we can get something to eat afterwards," Harry said, as they walked past the sign for the restaurant. "They do terrific sausage and mash."

"Oh God," Ruth muttered and pulled a face. "Mashed potato."

"What about mashed potato?"

"I can't bear the stuff."

"But it's just potato mashed up."

She shuddered. "Yuck. Horrible stuff."

"But you like boiled potatoes? And roast? And baked?"

Ruth nodded.

"I know you like chips," Harry continued, "and as for crisps, the only person I've seen get through a tube of Pringles quicker than you is Dimitri."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I'm just trying to understand why you seem to have a pathological hatred of mashed potato."

"School dinners," Ruth replied, irritated. She couldn't believe they were having a discussion about sodding potatoes.

"What about them?"

For an intelligent man, he was being particularly dense.

"My school dinners were dominated by mashed potato. Every day. Vile, lumpy, watery mash that we were forced to eat. I haven't touched the stuff since and I still can't look a shepherd's pie in the face. So to speak. Satisfied?"

Harry had had half a mind to tease her about really having an aversion to sausages but given how worked up she'd got over mash, he decided against it. He'd rather not be fed to the lions.

"Fair enough," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "You can have a bacon roll instead."

"Bloody man!" Ruth grumbled, and strode off ahead of him.

Thanks for reading. More soon...