A/N - Hello. Much as I enjoyed the latest season of Spooks, I, like many Harry/Ruth fans, have decided to ignore it for the purposes of fanfiction. So, this fic is set (more or less immediately) after season 9.

The chapters are set out in a 'present' and 'earlier that night' alternating scenario. Seeing as you've managed to log onto a computer, navigate to fanfiction,net and open this fic, I'm sure you have the brainpower to figure it out, so I won't bother explaining it any further. But, just a warning, there is a good reason for the M rating, especially in later chapters, so if you are offended by spies having sex, please turn away now. Anyway, thanks for reading and Happy Holidays to you all.

Silver.

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Fall away

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Lying with his back to the fire and his belly against her back, Harry thinks he might have reached a new level of contentment. Nothing else seems to matter, just the immediate; her shallow breaths, her burning skin and her back, damp against his. He breathes her in and his heart rate begins to return to normal. The heat is slowly leaving his body. He knows that, in a few minutes, it will start to grow cold and they will have to seek shelter. But a few minutes seem a long time away, right now.

They are still coupled together, his body oversensitive from the contact, still tingling from the electricity they had created between them. And it was electric; he is surprised by how naturally they worked together, especially when everything else about them is fumbling and awkward. Okay, admittedly, there had been a little fumbling and – though they started with some degree of finesse – it did devolve into a mad scramble towards the end, but the result had been exceptional. Hearts thundering, both panting wildly, they had managed to climax within seconds of one another, (more out of desperation than skill, but exceptional all the same).

Now they lie, recovering, on her living room floor. Her gas fire flickers merrily in the grate, a few feet away. It feels good, warm. They lie for a good few minutes before either of them moves. As usual, it is her who takes the step, arching her back against him, muscles contracting along the part of him still sheathed inside her. Something deep in his belly spasms. He gives a muffled groan.

She stills.

"You okay?" Her voice is a little huskier than normal, a little breathless.

"Very." His is probably no better.

After one last nudge into her, he pulls away. She stiffens against the cold but, to his surprise and tremendous delight, does not move away. Instead, she rolls back until she is flush against him. Their bodies, where they had been joined, are slick with moisture and she streaks her back with it. He smothers a laugh. She does the same, but does not move. He is glad of that. She is warm and the room around them is cold. Besides, moving is not really an option for him, at the moment. His muscles feel like water. Every inch of him just wants to lie here forever.

Her small fingers find his and slide between them.

"That was not taking things slow," she informs him, as casually as if they were back at the office and she was commenting on a status report.

He laughs, softly.

They lie together for a minute or two before the cold starts to sink in. Then, unlinking their hands, she rolls over and drags a blanket down from over the couch. The muscles dance in her back, as she stretches, her skin almost golden in the half-light. She is incredibly beautiful, but he holds himself back from telling her. She might spook, she might run, so he watches, instead. The lines of her back shift and she grabs the blanket, pulling it down over them. It smells of fabric conditioner, oranges and her perfume. He surreptitiously sniffs it as they arrange themselves underneath, trying to coordinate their tired, satisfied limbs.

Once they were covered, she turns to face him.

"I didn't mean to do this." She tells him softly.

It is not said in regret or anger, she just likes to analyse a situation. It is what makes her good at her job and what makes her Ruth. Harry does not mind, but cannot resist a little tease.

"Do what? Get me drunk and seduce me, on front of a fire?"

"No!" her cheeks redden immediately. "I mean, yes, I mean... I didn't..." she winces and starts again, slower this time. "When I let you in, tonight, I didn't have any of this in mind."

A chuckle from him.

"I know."

If Ruth had planned any of this, it would never have happened so organically, so naturally.

He squeezes her hand.

"Neither did I. Honestly, I just wanted to talk."

They lie for another while, him exploring the lines of her hand with his own. He has craved this contact for so long. Both of them have – they have watched and imagined how each part of one another feel so often that it is surreal to be touching now. At the back of his mind, however, Harry is aware that their sanctuary is temporary. Soon his actions will drag them back into the real world. It is half past five in the morning and soon his phone will start to ring.

He has a lot to answer for. Albany is a stain on his record that even the Home Secretary cannot wash out. On the phone, Towers had told him to 'start preparing for life after MI5'. This is not going to be an easy storm to weather. The powers that be are incensed by his conduct and he will be punished. There will be no public spread in the newspapers, no trial that brings disgrace on the Service. He will be asked to leave quietly, by the back door. Ritual humiliation and a quiet stripping of rank and dignity; the MI5 way.

The process will be particularly unpleasant for Ruth. Whether or not she instigated the situation, she is the reason he handed State Secrets over, to a rogue officer. She will be picked apart, before a tribunal. Her every moment with him will be analysed.

In a meagre attempt at defending her, Harry has spent the evening preparing a dossier outlining her value as an asset to State Security. He only hopes that Ruth's brilliance will, once more, be their saving grace. If he can convince the tribunal panel that Ruth was worth more to the Service than Albany, then he can justify his actions. Or, at least, he can justify keeping Ruth. He no longer really cares if he makes it through. He realised that as he sat in the confinement of his office, typing up the report. It is his turn to take one for the team.

Ruth will not see it that way, of course. She will be blaming herself, even now. That is the reason he came here, tonight. He wanted to tell her that this was his mess and not hers, wanted to tell her that he would clean it up. And, yes, maybe, at the back of his mind, he was thinking that maybe now – now that he had shown her how much he valued her, now that he was leaving MI5 – they could try and be together. He wanted another chance. He wanted it desperately.

Harry sighs. Today has been a confusing string of events - some he had been prepared for, others which had caught him very much by surprise. His lying naked, beside the woman he had loved for so many years is very much the latter. Though he can trace his actions since the previous morning exactly, he is still not sure how it came about.

His mind flickers back, trying to make sense of it all.

After the phone call from Towers, Harry had been discretely escorted from Thames House by security personnel and driven home, to get some rest. He knew that his leaving MI5 headquarters was primarily for the benefit of those planning his demise, but he was too tired to care. His own future, with the Service, had faded from importance. The only thing on his mind was Ruth. He needed to see Ruth, to check that she was okay. They had not spoken since he had left, to meet 'Lucas North' on that fated rooftop. They had only glimpsed each other, across the crowded Grid, since. She had been driven home hours ago.

Desperate for some form of contact, he had called her from the MI5 pool car. She had not answered. He had called her again, from his home phone, still she had refused contact. Faintly worried, and very irritated by caller ID, Harry had thrown common sense aside and driven over to her house. Turning up at her front door, with a bottle of wine and a bottle of spirits (in preparation for all scales of grief) he had begged her through the door to let him in. She refused at first, told him to go away, but he had not budged.

He is glad of that now.

Standing on her doorstep, he told her that they needed to talk and they could either do it through the letter box, or she could let him inside. Eventually, she let him in.

There had been tears and rage. She had shouted and cried and said a lot of things that stung a lot more, because they came from her lips. But, in the end, the argument had worn itself out and they had settled into the welcome numbness that alcohol afforded them. Sitting at her kitchen table and drank the wine. After it was finished, they moved to the sofa and drank the brandy. Then, around two in the morning, she stopped trying to fight and let him take her in his arms, to stroke her back in comfort.

Even after her tears stopped, she had not moved away. They started really talking, reminiscing over old times; days when she had been young and naive and he had been naive (she smiled at that joke, the first time he had seen her smile in a long time). As four o' clock approached, the buzz from the alcohol began to wear off. They moved back through to the kitchen, shuffling around, in a vaguely domestic and very hung-over fashion, making tea.

And then Harry had done it. In a moment of weakness, asked if they could be friends – just friends, it did not need to be more than that. Standing in her kitchen, holding onto her sink for stability, he lied and told her that he could be just friends, if it meant still knowing her.

He regretted saying it the moment it left his lips.

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