She finds him exactly where she expects him to be – on the roof of Thames House, hands deep in his pockets, gazing across the familiar skyline of the city they both love. She's sure there's something bothering him today, but she's not been able to figure out what it might be. Maybe it's the approaching Christmas season – he always used to get a little more irritable and maudlin at this time of year.
Silently, she moves across the roof to stand beside him, staring out cross the familiar view as her mind floods with memories of the two of them standing here – together. Seven years they've known each other, but they've only shared this space for a fraction of that time – maybe a few times a month for only three of those years, what probably amounts to a total of twenty-four hours or so. Not a very long time, in the grand scheme of things.
"You okay?" she asks, turning her head to look at him, wondering how twenty-four hours with this man has come to mean so much to her.
He nods, but doesn't look at her, keeping his eyes trained on the horizon where the sun is setting.
"What's the matter, Harry?" she tries again. "The operation was a resounding success. The Home Secretary was practically singing our praises."
He makes a face. "The Home Secretary singing. Now there's something I hope to never see."
She smiles, watching as he turns to see her reaction. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment before he turns away again. Silence settles between them once more, but she doesn't press him for an answer. She just hopes her presence by his side is as comforting for him as it is for her.
"It's my father," he murmurs eventually. "He passed away last week."
"Oh Harry," she breathes, turning to face him. "I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn't want to be put on leave. I needed to be here."
"I meant to me," she replies softly, feeling a little hurt if she's honest though she knows she has no right to. It's only been a few weeks since they sat on their bench together, talking about Jo, and he'd told her that there will always be something else. He hasn't moved on and she doesn't know how that makes her feel exactly. Pleasure, guilt, fear, and grief are all jumbled together when she thinks about them, and she knows that until she manages to unpick it all and get it sorted in her mind, she has no right to expect anything at all from him. He's given her far more than she deserves already.
He turns to look at her, but doesn't reply, studying her with his sad, soulful eyes. God, his eyes do things to her, speak to her in a way that no other pair of eyes ever has. He smiles a sad, little smile and turns away again, saying, "He had a flat in an assisted living place, out in Wimbledon. I've arranged to go round this evening to sort out his things. Catherine was going to come with me, but she rung earlier to say she can't make it."
"I'm free this evening if you'd like..." She tails off, feeling rather foolish. If he'd wanted her sympathy or help, then surely he'd have told her about his father.
He looks at her again, his eyes softening as he murmurs, "Thank you," a note of gratitude in his voice. "But I'll be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."
"Not really," she confesses. "All that awaits me is a small, cold flat. My plans for this evening consist of a bit of telly, perhaps a glass of wine, and some beans on toast for supper." She gives him a crooked, little smile, a little embarrassed to have revealed the extent of her sad existence. Not that he'd have expected anything more really after everything that's happened recently and the life-style they lead as spies. She's sure most of his evenings are rather similar to hers though probably more luxurious – a glass of expensive whisky instead of the tea or cheap wine that usually accompany her dinners, a large, well-heated flat or house, and a proper take-away for supper, a bite at his club, or perhaps even something home-made by his housekeeper. He probably has a housekeeper with the hours he keeps, she decides, even if she's only there briefly everyday to clean and cook and take his little dog for a walk. Does he still have Scarlet, she wonders, struck by how much she really doesn't know about him now.
His eyes are full of gentle understanding as he gazes at her and murmurs softly, "In that case, I would appreciate the company. I confess, I'm finding it hard to face it alone."
She smiles in relief, her heart warming at the vulnerability he's showing her, the trust. It's funny how that hasn't changed despite her long absence and, if she's honest, it's about the only thing that's kept her going in the aftermath of losing George and Nico, paradoxical though that might be. Getting lost in her work, making a difference, protecting the innocent – atoning for not being able to protect those who'd mattered most – and being valued despite her failures, being trusted by Harry in spite of it all is, too often, the only thing that gives her the strength to get up in the morning. He's her rock – the one, fixed point in her ever-changing world, always there for her, standing tall, solid, and sure though he's constantly battered by the storms they weather everyday. There had not been a day during her exile when she hadn't thought of him, wished him safe and happy. She doubts they'll be a day in the rest of her life when she'll fail to think of him, when not even a tiny sliver of her heart will no longer belong to him.
She blinks and smiles, bringing her wandering thoughts under control again and blurting out, "I've just got a couple of things to finish downstairs and then I'm all yours." She drops her gaze, silently kicking herself for her choice of words and feeling suddenly as flustered as she used to get around him in the past, when she was young and naive and so very much in love with him. Was it only three years ago? It feels like a lifetime.
She clears her throat and adds hastily, "Twenty minutes should cover it," as she glances quickly up at him and hastily turns away, unsure of the emotion she sees lurking in his gaze and suddenly feeling a desperate need to escape him.