Title: Only if for a night

Fandom: Spooks/MI5

Characters: Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed

Rating: Strictly M

Synopsis: Ruth Evershed doesn't do one night stands - but if she did...

Disclaimer: Much as the Spooks characters are in my heart, they don't belong to me, and nor do any Kudos filmed lines you may recognise... If they did, this is what would have actually happened in 5/04, World Trade. Nor do I own the style of Carlsberg adverts...

A/N: Certainly the first, and probably the last M rated fic I'll ever write - but I would love feedback nonetheless! Thanks for reading. :)

Havensworth Hotel, Day 1 of Summit, Late.

The music is blaring, thudding, and he cannot help himself but investigate. It would not be appropriate for the Head of Section D to be found bollocking out one of the summit delegates for being an offensive, noisemaking prat. It's 2am, for heaven's sake, and fair enough, Harry hasn't been sleeping - but that doesn't negate the fact that he might have been, and probably should have been, and these politicians should learn that they're not the only fish in the sea, and nor are they the only people in the hotel. He steps out into the corridor, and realises the party is going on right next to Ruth's room. No chance is she sleeping through that. True enough, her door is opening. He pauses. She looks slightly stunned to see him there, standing like a goon, staring at her.

"The...uh...music woke me... Never really gone in for Europop." She is uncomfortable, and it is clear she is not entirely telling the truth, although he doesn't doubt that she isn't a Europop fan.

"Looks like you weren't sleeping at all. Nor was I." His voice is caressingly low, almost a whisper. Although they could have a screaming row, standing here, in the corridor, and no one would hear, thanks to the noise. She ignores him. Which is pretty much what she's done every time he's brought up anything non work related, since she turned him down a couple of weeks ago. He moves towards her, gently, but unstoppably.

"It's the Italian trade minister. He's apparently a bit of a party animal. Caused a scandal at an EU conference last year by insisting on dancing to the Macarena at the last night banquet. I'll get the management to ask him to turn it down." She's already backing away, turning for her room door. It's now or never.

"Ruth!" The urgency in his tone causes her to look back, just briefly, but it is enough. "Leave your phone back in your room, and come and talk to me, please." He hopes they are the right words, he hasn't managed to think through exactly what he would say, although he has been playing out similar situations in his head all day, ever since he arranged her room to be across from his.

"Good night Harry." And she has closed the door on him. His shoulders slump, he sighs, then turns to go back to his room.

Meanwhile, back at the Grid, Malcolm quotes Shakespeare, and soon both the green and red spots are back in their respective places on the computer screen hotel plan. It's like a board game, that never quite got started.

Ruth places her phone on the dressing table. Pauses. Picks it up. Puts it down again. Can it hurt? She knows, knows for a fact, that the rooms aren't bugged. That there isn't a camera feed anywhere between her and Harry. And the last few weeks have been horribly tense between them.

Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the irritation with the music. Perhaps it's even the cheeky glass of whisky she's had from the room's minibar. She had sat and sipped it, savouring the taste, recalling the taste of his lips on hers, the night of the dinner, when he left her home and gentlemanly, gave her a chaste, soft kiss goodnight. Whatever it is, she makes a decision. Goes to the door. Opens it, ridiculously carefully. No one would hear her even if she slammed it, but she's the careful type. She pads down the carpeted hallway, pauses outside his door. Had he been serious? Her hand hovers over the wood, calculating, deciding. But the little voice in her head, the one she never, ever listens to, says "fuck it", and she gasps slightly as she knocks.

Harry has been pacing the room since he shut the door. Maybe he was too forward. Maybe this will make the tension between them worse. Maybe he would have been safer saying nothing. Perhaps he should never have brought Ruth here. Put them in such close circumstances. But. In his defence, he has spent his entire life watching people. He knows how they respond to certain... pressures. And the tension between them has been such a pressure, on both of them. He knows he is fit to break. And he has a fair idea that she is, too.

Over the dull thud of the pop, he hears a light knock at the door. It is moments before he is there, opening it - but he slows his movements as the door inches open. He does not want to seem too hasty.

"Ah, Ruth. Thank you."

"Harry." She nods slightly, as she slips in, looks him so briefly in the eye, before returning her gaze to the floor. The light in the room is dim, he only has the wall lights and the bedside lamps on. He shuts the door, carefully, quietly. Stands and looks at her, tries to take in every inch of her beauty. There is silence between them, pregnant and full of expectation. Eventually, although it is only a few minutes in reality, she breaks it, by taking a breath, and looking up at him.

"Why did you ask me here?"

He should be used to the directness of her questions by now. She can be so subtle, careful, delicate in how she suggests things, when necessary - and then she is so breathtakingly obvious. It is refreshing. He indicates the sofa, but she doesn't move, and as it is, he doesn't feel he can sit either, although he does move backwards to lean against the dressing table.

"Why did you ask me here, Harry?" She is insistent, and he has to give her an answer, now. And not the bare, blunt truth that he would like to give her. That any minute not spent with her is wasted. That he wants nothing more or less than to touch her. That her soft brown hair, her deep green eyes and her dusky, wide lips drive him crazy.

"Ruth." He whispers dangerously softly, savouring the name. "I wanted to talk with you, in a situation that is entirely safe. No one knows, therefore," his head inclines in a slight nod, acknowledging her fears, "no rumours."

"And you think it's safe, here? Me, in your room. Alone, with you." She is slightly derisive, and so forward, that it nearly shocks him. But there is a little glint in her eye, and she doesn't turn away, and that can only be positive. He wants to reassure her that he would never do anything to jeopardise her safety - mental, physical, emotional... That he would protect her over anyone else in the world. But somehow, he knows he doesn't have the words for that.

"Ruth, the last few weeks have been..."

"...difficult. Yes."

"Very much so. I'm so very sorry, Ruth. It is my fault. I have been blind to you for so long. Blind to how much you mean to me. And now I've admitted it... I don't seem able to put it away. I don't want to jeopardise our working relationship, and... I wondered if you had any ideas?" She looks a little stunned, still stuck on 'how much you mean to me', when he asks the question. Unintentionally, she takes a step forward. He fights the urge to take the three paces needed for her to be in his arms, wrapped in to him. This has to come from her, or not at all.

"Any ideas?"

"Well, you are an analyst." He smiles, cocking his head to one side, meeting her eyes and willing her to share the joke, which she does.

"So, you're saying that Pandora's box has opened, and it's up to me to close it?"

"Maybe not as definite as that. I was just opening up the floor for ideas because I can't do this alone, Ruth." The supreme sadness in this hits her more than she expected.

"Harry, I can't be talked about. I just can't. However you feel about it, I just can't." She looks so small, so lost, that he almost breaks his resolve, and moves to touch her. Almost, but not quite.

"There is no one here to talk about us, now. Believe me, I checked the room over." He tries to keep it light - although it is perfectly true. And the look in her eyes says she believes him. "Oh Ruth." It escapes him on a sigh, unplanned, unintentional, but it cannot be recaptured, and he does not dare look at her this time. He has given himself away entirely, in those two words.

"Harry." She speaks softly, and he realises she is standing so close to him. By gazing at the floor, with the Europop continuing to blare, he was blind and deaf to her quiet movements. She is at his elbow, her foot almost touching his, her face looking up in to his - those evergreen eyes meeting his gaze. Her right hand is on his cheek, splaying up towards his ear, her thumb on his lips. "Harry. We have tonight. That's the best I can do." She kisses his lips, softly, swiftly. "The best I can do. Do you understand, Harry?" The enormity of what she is saying falls over him like a waterfall. At around the same point, he realises her left hand is on his hip, fingers spread, gripping him, just slightly. The words echo, as if across a valley. Do you understand? Do you understand, Harry? A moan breaks the intensity of the silence, and, shocked, he realises it came from him. He bends his head towards her, till his lips are no more than an inch from her ears.

"Yes." It is the slightest whisper, fierce and energetic. Yes. If they have only tonight, then it will be such a night. Yes. If this is the only night in which he has the opportunity to imbue in her the love he holds her in, then he wants to be sure that neither of them ever forget it, even if it is never, ever, mentioned again. Yes. If he were to never see her again, heaven forbid, at least they will have tonight.

She's nuzzling in to his neck, he can feel her breath against his jawbone, and it makes his heart skip. Her hands have moved, round his back, fingers digging in to his back through the smooth cotton of his shirt. Only now does he dare to bring his hands in to contact with her, caressing her hips, her waist. They wrinkle the soft jersey of her top, and he cannot help but sigh when the lower edge of his little fingers meet the bare skin of her side. She arches against him. He nudges her head round with his nose, to bring their lips together again, so that this time he can respond properly to her. Worries at her bottom lip gently, before slipping his tongue in to her and is astounded by the passion with which she responds. She's pushing against him now, tight and warm, her fingernails catching his flesh. This is everything he's imagined - and oh, how he's imagined. There is a slight taste of whisky in her mouth, but it is so delicate that he knows she isn't drunk, or anywhere near it. He moves a hand up to the base of her head, cradles it and pulls her closer to him, his lips roughly against hers. One of her legs is between his, pressing against him, and he knows she can feel him, throbbing, insistently. His spare hand works its way thoroughly under her top and round to the small of her back, where he can stroke the soft skin covered in delicate little hairs. Her hands are pulling at his shirt now, releasing it from his trousers, reaching up inside, one hand up his spine, the other reaching up towards his torso. He shivers, although he is anything but cold.

"I think..." as he pulls away from her lips, the shaky sound of his voice shocks him, "I think that bed might be called for, don't you?" He kisses her cheek, softly, gently, nuzzles the spot with his nose, as she whispers a single word of approval. He would like to pick her up in his arms, carry her across the room, but somehow, he doesn't think she'll go for that. Instead, they twist round, never breaking contact, but always edging closer towards the kingsize bed. When they reach it, it is with his back to it, and her facing him, and in the orange glow of the bedside lamp her eyes gleam as she pushes him gently down. For a moment hung like silver in the night, she stands before him, breaths coming swift and shallow. Then, decisively, she takes the bottom edges of her top, and pulls it up, over her head, revealing a pale, creamy abdomen, above it her ribcage faintly showing, and perfectly proportioned breasts cupped in a simple coffee coloured bra.

Leaning in to him, Ruth approaches the buttons on Harry's shirt, and he cannot resist any longer: while she is otherwise engaged, he spreads his hands over her hips, feeling her skin flutter under his touch. Something metallic catches his finger, and upon closer inspection, he finds it is the zip to her skirt, and, greatly daring, he slowly lowers it. The material shimmies over her thighs, down her legs and falls with a whisper to the ground. He can't help but notice that her pants don't match her bra, and somehow, this reassures him. This is still his Ruth, even if it is a side of her he has never seen before and only dared dream of. She is edging his shirt off his shoulders now, and pressing his arms back a little in the process; now he can only just reach her midriff with the tips of his fingers, and she's squirming slightly, and her hands are shaking. It is painful to tear himself away from her to wriggle his arms out of the sleeves, but as he is doing so, Harry becomes aware that she is undoing his belt. In a moment of sheer, unbelievable clarity, he seems to see the whole room, the whole situation, in sharp focus.

"This is a dream." His voice is strangely hoarse, throaty, and before he can comment more, her lips are on his, sucking, nibbling, pressing. As she pushes him gently backwards on the bed, he hears her whisper.

"No...but it will give us something to dream about."

Were it any other night, any other hotel room, any other woman, Harry would have been suspicious by now. This is too perfect. But it is not. It is here, and now, and it is Ruth. His Ruth. Only if for a night. He pushes all analysis from his mind, and gives himself up to savouring each and every moment, committing it all to a sacred memory, one that will bring him through any horror he has yet to endure.

She had promised herself she wouldn't do this. Not to herself, not to him. That she would play by the rules. Her rules. God knows what the effect will be on their work. She shudders to think. But she's shuddering for a different reason too - the highly pleasurable feel of Harry's fingertips on her rib cage, working their way up towards her bra. She is straddling him now - not a position she has even considered, while wiling away the dark hours of night, alone, at home. Her hands are moving across his chest, weaving through soft, golden brown curly hair, pausing over scars that vary from pearly white to dusky rose. She wants to memorise every inch of him, the feel of him, the look of him, because this can never happen again. Will never happen again. And she needs to keep this memory safe, locked inside of her, so that, whatever might happen, she will always have him with her. Together. She lowers her head to his torso, softly kisses each scar, each war wound. They have made him the man he is. The man who is so broken, so limited - yet so sweet, underneath it all, and thoughtful. The man she loves, more than anything - although she will never admit it, for both their sakes.

He is wriggling his hips, and she realises she is in the way of his trousers coming off. Lifting herself a little, to aid the process, gives her a momentary glimpse of his face and Ruth gasps softly as she witnesses the passion written all over it. The trousers are off now, and she falls on him, lips meet hard and fast, hearts pounding, hands flying. She cannot get enough of him, nor he her. There is a rawness, a wildness, to their actions that would hurt, if she gave herself time to think of it. It is the complete opposite of the control and denial that both have practiced for so very long.

There is nothing between them now except two thin slips of cotton. Not only can she feel him; firmer, harder than she could imagine, thrusting against her; but she is aware that her own pants are damp, and that the moisture has come from her. One of his hands is moving inexorably round her buttock, her thigh, towards her inner leg, linking a finger around the material, pulling it down, out of the way. She writhes, partly at the touch, partly to aid the downward journey of the penultimate barrier between them, and moves her own hands towards the elastic of his boxers. With a gentle heave of his hips, the briefs are moving towards his knees, but it is not enough. She parts from him, just enough to pull them off, and step out of her own pants, now round her ankles. Touching his legs softly, she meets Harry's eyes and tries to read the expression there. It is not just lust, nor even passion - though that is certainly present - and it is more than adoration. Suddenly, Ruth feels as if he is holding her, tightly, all encompassing, like nothing can ever reach her or hurt her. She blinks. Almost imperceptibly nods. Trails her fingers lightly up the outside of his legs, past his knees; moving back in, towards him, touching his thighs, his hips, one hand edging under, grasping his (pleasantly firm) buttock. At this, he groans - not the first time tonight, but the sheer need in it is echoed in his eyes, and on his lips as she lowers herself just enough to kiss him, delicately, before lifting herself just a few inches off him.

Swiftly, like a move in a dance well mastered, he has snaked an arm around her waist, and turned them over, one hand still underneath her, working its way down her back, to her thigh. The other hand cups her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb, as his elbow keeps him slightly suspended above her. He looks like he is drinking in her features. And then he kisses her again, and Ruth is responding, urgently, hungrily. He lowers himself on to her, and the feel of their skin against skin, bone against bone, pulse against pulse is almost mesmerising. He is throbbing, harder, and she pushes against him, her need so intense by now that she is almost in tears. Like tearing two magnets apart, he pulls away, just enough to position himself, and, left hand still cupping her cheek, eyes locked, he enters her. Slowly, gently at first, she feels him easing himself in, and it is exquisite bliss. This is what bodies were made for. This is what her body was made for. Rhythmically, his hips twisting slightly, he thrusts, still meeting her eyes, right hand still clenching her thigh. Faster, now, and faster, and she is trying to keep looking at him, but she is starting to see stars, blocking out his liquid brown eyes, his soft, pouty lips. Her hips are moving in time with his, her hands are on his buttocks, his back, and although she cannot hear herself, she is moaning, gasping, sighing.

Afterwards, and it could be five minutes or five hours, but afterwards, Harry kisses her, gently, chastely, before edging them round, so their heads are on the pillows, and they are lying on their sides. Then, with a dint of wriggling, he brings the covers over their entwined body. His eyes have never left hers.

"Wouldn't want you to get cold." He is smiling, sweetly, and the laughter almost bubbles out of her. He strokes her cheek, and she nuzzles in to his neck, eyes finally closed, suddenly, enjoyably, tired. She is wrapped in his arms, and she could stay like this forever; in the warmth, the protection, the solid knowledge of him. The skin on his neck is wrinkled, soft, and it feels perfect against the smoothness of her nose. Hidden in the shadow of their embrace, Ruth breathes a sigh of contentment, and smiles to herself. They still have time.

Every bone in his body is at peace, and Harry could probably sleep more soundly than he has in years, but he will not lose a moment of this. She is here, safe in his arms, he has felt her heartbeat slow from racing back to normal. They are entwined, more together than they ever have been, or ever will be, and he wants to etch every touch, every sensation, every breath, in to his mind. Slowly, her pulse softens, and he realises that she is slumbering, gently, snuggled in to his skin. His head is lying slightly over hers, and he strokes the nut brown hair that lies strewn out behind her. It is silky, and delicate, just like he imagined. Her ear is just by his lips, and he cannot resist in kissing it, gently, and smiles as he feels her nose wrinkle up in return. She wriggles in tighter to him, and, unintentionally, they sigh in unison.

How long they lie like that, he doesn't know - this night has lasted as long as a lifetime - but at some point, she rubs her forehead against his jaw, and whispers to him.

"Harry, you should sleep."

"I thought you were asleep." He can feel her smile broaden, against his neck.

"Just resting."

"Then so am I."

She lies in his arms, contentedly, feeling his breathing deepen, repressing a smile as he starts to snore. His torso is warm and soft against hers, and she wants to remember everything about this feeling. How the hairs on his chest feel silky against her midriff, how the very slight stubble on his chin catches her cheek, how snugly her leg fits between his. His hands on her back have left an invisible imprint; something only she will be able to feel, after this moment.

She lets him sleep for forty minutes, but it is getting close to a quarter to five, and she knows this has to end. Slowly, carefully, she extricates herself from between his legs, from out of his arms. It is removing his hands from her back that hurts the most. She stands by the bed, watching him sleep on, like the proverbial baby, for countless minutes, before the coolness of the air on her body awakes her to the presence of her clothes, by her feet. Dressing swiftly, silently; her eyes never leave his face. She's always wondered, what he looked like sleeping. But finally, the clothes are on, and the clock reads five to, and it isn't safe to stay any longer. She leans over him, resists the urge to wrap her fingers into the little curls of hair at the nape of his neck, and whispers four words, before brushing her lips on his cheek.

Then, heart in her mouth, she leaves.

The light in the room has changed slightly, and maybe it is that which wakes Harry. He comes to quite slowly, breathing in the scent of the night before. But his arms are empty, and this awareness speeds up the process. His eye catches the clock. Which he forgot to set last night. It is six, and the dawn is breaking. The night is over, and she is gone.

Havensworth Hotel, Ops room, Day 2 of Summit. After 9pm.

"...Well done everyone, we've done everything we can." Harry pauses momentarily, as he turns away from the video link to the Grid, "In the meantime, I suggest we all...try and get some sleep." He hopes he has loaded the comment just subtly enough that Ruth will take his implication, and know that he understands that last night was what it was, and that the others will simply hear a congratulation and some boss-like advice. He does not see Ruth look after him, for just a moment, and the door is closed before Ros catches Adam's eye, and gently smirks.

Havensworth Hotel, Ops room, Day 3 of Summit. Late.

Ruth is alone in the Ops room, trying to persuade herself that work will make her free. And by work, she means staring at the live feed from the bar, where Harry is morosely finishing off a whisky. Before she knows it, the phone is in her hand, and she is about to dial the number of the bar. Self control, self denial, she reminds herself. It was she who said that two nights ago was all she could give Harry. Give herself. She has to stick to her rules. Self control. Self denial. These are the things that keep us together in this job. She puts the phone down. But she doesn't lift her eyes from the screen.

The Grid, after the end of the Summit. Late.

She is going to catch the last bus, but having heard Ros screech at Harry, she cannot help herself but stop by his office. And she needs to resolve this.

"Um, hi." She has already slid herself round the door before she thinks of knocking - but she knows he doesn't expect it by now. He pulls himself out of his reverie, and the sadness in his tone catches her off guard.

"Hi."

She walks towards him, closer, closer.

"I, er, um, just wanted to say, about Ros..." Closer, looking him directly in the eye. "That you were right." She pauses, wondering how to say this, without being too obvious, without causing any more pain to either of them. She looks down, takes a breath, "This isn't your fault Harry." It's not much. It's not the searing kiss she wants to give him. It's not the heartfelt apology for her inability to function like this. It's not even an explanation. But it is something, and he grasps that.

"Thank you." Softly, sadly. He nods just slightly. Acknowledging that it has taken courage to even say that. This is not your fault, Harry.

She looks at him again, drinking him in, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around him once more. But instead, futile little words escape.

"Good night Harry." It is not enough. Nothing will ever be enough, but those three words are not even close. Suddenly struck by the memory of him lying on his side, sleeping peacefully, she grasps his arm and leans in, kissing him softly, tenderly, on the cheek. It is the same kiss she gave him two days ago, as she left, only this time, he is awake to feel it. She turns away, unable to watch his response.

The door is closed before Harry can even begin to process what just happened. He presses his lips together, clinging to the memory of her kiss. Of the feel of her skin. Of her scent as she lay in his arms. Eventually, he smiles, just slightly, remembering something she said, that night. They do indeed have something to dream about.