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Not bothering to knock, as per her usual habit, Ruth strides in to Harry’s office and waits for him to look up from the report in front of him.
‘Did you speak with Zaf?’ he asks, tamping down on the small thrill he feels low in his stomach as he registers his visitor. He doesn’t need to look out on to the Grid to know that she has waited until it is deserted before coming to speak with him. It’s becoming a ritual of sorts; one he’s more than happy to take part in.
‘Yes,’ she nods, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil her presence causes him. She gives him a sly little smirk as she adds, ‘he said he’s cool with it.’
His visible wince at the word cool amuses her greatly and she has to try hard not to laugh when he mutters, ‘that’s not my favourite word.’ She loves him like this, slightly old-fashioned, slightly grumpy and sexy as hell with it. Forgetting herself for a moment she smiles at him softly and sweeps her hair behind her ear as she asks, slightly breathlessly, ‘what is your favourite word?’
His gaze immediately locks on to hers and she can feel her temperature start to elevate at the liquid warmth radiating from his irises. ‘Scrumptious,’ he answers, softly, making her stomach twist pleasantly at the sound. She flushes as she wonders how he manages to make the word sound so indecent with barely any effort at all.
‘What’s yours?’ he purrs, pleased with her reaction and eager to keep her in his office, talking with him as long as he can.
She tilts her head to one side and he imagines he can almost see her brain working as she scours her mental dictionary. ‘In English?’ she clarifies, a few seconds later, amusing him no end.
‘Let’s stick to English for now.’
‘Endeavour.’
He’d expected something poetic but then, as usual, she surprises him. It’s oddly fitting he thinks, for the life they lead. His quiet contemplation unnerves her and, much to her horror, she hears herself babbling an explanation. ‘Captain Cook,’ she says, quickly, as if that explains everything and when it doesn’t lift the confusion on Harry’s face she realises that she really is going to have to explain herself. ‘My father,’ she begins, taking a deep breath…
‘I don’t think he was Captain Cook!’ Harry jokes, which earns him a look which he deciphers as a cross between a glare and an eye roll.
‘My father loved him. He used to tell me all about him and when I was little we used to spend hours pretending to be on the Endeavour, setting sail to discover Australia.’
‘Did he take you to Whitby?’
‘Yes,’ she enthuses, eyes shining at the memories, ‘it’s one of my all time favourite places. It’s so beautiful with all the gothic overtones and architecture nestled amongst the seaside setting.’
He’s enjoying the insight in to her personality and has a sudden image of whisking her away there for a weekend.
‘I always thought we’d go there on honeymoon,’ she murmurs, wistfully, causing his fantasy to come to a screeching halt only to be replaced by several more all including her and a wedding dress.
‘We?’ he asks, voice sounding strangled to his own ears. He thinks his heart might beat out of his chest if she answers affirmatively.
Ruth’s eyes widen in horror as she comes to her senses and realises what she has said and to whom. ‘M-me,’ she stammers, ‘and my husband. Whoever that might be. One day…’she trails off not willing to say any more for fear of digging herself a deeper hole.
Harry doesn’t think he's seen anyone turn that particular shade of red before and whilst he knows that she is mortified to have made such a Freudian slip he also realises that this might be his chance to develop their relationship once and for all. ‘What’s he like then, this imaginary husband?’
‘Harry,’ she says pleadingly, desperate for him to save her from herself.
‘Just so that I know who I’m competing with.’ There. He’s said it. There’s no going back now he realises as her eyes snap to his. Aware of how skittish she can be Harry opens his face and lets her read his emotions. It takes a few moments for her analysts brain to conclude that he is serious but when he does she feels the happiness start to flood her body.
‘There’s no competition,’ she says, softly, emboldened by the love in his eyes, ‘I only ever imagine it to be you.’
‘Good,’ he breathes, ineloquently, making her smile.
‘Good?,’ she counters, slightly amused and completely enamoured of him. She appears to have rendered him speechless and she feels and answering thrill at the power of it. She watches as he struggles to get himself under control and then squeaks slightly when he moves faster than she expects, enveloping her in his strong, warm arms.
‘It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard, Ruth,’ he murmurs in her ear, back on somewhat of an even keel. ‘Would you like to go on honeymoon to Whitby with me?’
She gasps loudly as the words filter through her mind and she realises exactly what he is about to ask. ‘Yes,’ she whispers, shakily, glad that he’s holding her as she feels her legs weaken beneath her.
‘Then marry me, Ruth,’ he implores, lifting one hand to stroke her cheek. ‘Please?’
She nods her assent seconds before she feels his lips brush lightly against hers. ‘Yes, Harry,’ she whispers against his bottom lip, ‘Yes please.’