A/N: Some flu medicine, some whiskey, and thou …... just some HR nonsense.

I've been trying to spread out my stories, leaving plenty of space for others to post and/or read other HR fics, but am writing so much currently (and forgetting what I've written & what the fics are called) that I'm having to post quicker than I'd like. I'm waiting for the muse to leave, but so far, it hasn't.

"How much of this stuff have you taken?" Ruth asks gently, holding the bottle of over-the-counter pharmacy medicine in her hand. She squints in the dimmed light in his office in an effort to read the directions. "It says here you should be taking no more than 10ml every 4 hours."

When she receives no answer, she looks down at him. Harry's head has dropped on to his arm which covers his paperwork, and she's sure she hears soft snoring. Near his right hand, just out of his reach is a whiskey glass, and it's empty. Ruth picks it up and sniffs. Definitely whiskey. Whiskey and flu medicine ... Harry, what have you done?

It's getting on for 9 o'clock, and most have left the Grid for the day. All the admin staff left at 5 o'clock on the dot. There's only she and Harry, and two of the night shift, both of whom she'd observed heading off to the kitchen to make tea.

Ruth places her hand on Harry's shoulder, and shakes him gently. "Harry," she says, "you have to wake up. I'm taking you home."

Now, what made her say that? How would she take him home? Slung across her shoulder like a fireman? She could coax him into a taxi, and get him to his house, but what then? Then she has an idea.

"Harry, please wake up," Ruth says, this time shaking his arm – the one on which his head rests. When he grumbles something incomprehensible, she puts her face close to his ear. "Harry …... it's Nightingale. They're here."

Harry sits up suddenly, his eyes open, his pupils fully dilated, as he looks around him. "Where? Where are they?"

"Somewhere, I guess. Harry, I have to get you home."

"I've work to do," he grumbles, his words slurring slightly. "Night'ngale."

"Harry …... listen to me." He turns his head slowly to look at Ruth, clearly having difficulty focusing on her. "I'm about to call your driver, and he'll take us both to your house, where I'm putting you to bed. You're not to argue with this."

Harry slumps in his chair, his eyes still on Ruth.

"You'll co-operate with me?"

Harry nods, seeming defeated by the force of her will …... but not quite.

"One condition," he says, lifting his finger to illustrate `one'. "You have to stay wi' me."

"What? Why?" It's not that she objects to spending time with Harry in his house, but Ruth had hoped that if and when such a time arrived, Harry would be fit, healthy, and capable of more than sleeping on command.

Harry lifts his hands and rubs his face, as if trying to rub away the need for sleep. He then blinks at her, barely comprehending what is happening.

"Why do you want me to stay with you, Harry? You have to sleep."

"Just cos," he says, smiling up at her, before his eyes close.

Ruth calls the front desk, and asks Simon to call Harry's driver.

"When he gets to the foyer," she says, "can you send him up. I'll need help getting Sir Harry into the car, and then home."

"Consider it done, Ms Evershed," Simon says, before he hangs up.

For a brief moment, Ruth is grateful for the discretion of the staff at the front desk. It's just a pity that such levels of politeness hadn't made their way on to the Grid. Ruth is relieved that none of the other senior Grid staff are on duty. She suddenly recognises in herself a need to protect Harry. He protects the nation on a daily basis, but who is it protects him? Who takes care of him, ensuring he doesn't drink alcohol when he's also taking flu medicine? Well, no-one, obviously. Ruth momentarily wonders how Harry feels about this …... having to hold the hordes at bay while the nation sleeps peacefully in their beds, never aware of the sacrifice he has made to ensure their peace of mind. Ruth finds herself feeling angry on Harry's behalf. Harry needs some nurturing and protecting, and perhaps she is just the person to be doing it

In less than 20 minutes, Mike enters Harry's office. Mike is young and tall and solid, and he handles Harry with ease. Ruth sits in the back seat with Harry, while Mike drives. She sits close to Harry, and just as the car turns into his street, he grasps Ruth's hand in his own. She looks at him, and he is staring at her, his expression inscrutable. Ruth turns away, finding his gaze too direct for her.

Mike helps Harry into his house, and while Ruth punches in the security code on the alarm, Harry turns to thank Mike for his help.

"Be fine now, thanks," he says – more of a mumble, really. "Ruth'll take care o' me."

Then they are alone. And Ruth somehow has to get him up the stairs to bed. She really hasn't thought this through.

"Upstairs, Harry," she says, taking his arm, and leading him to the foot of the stairs.

In the end, getting him upstairs and into his room is easy. Perhaps it's his muscle memory that kicks in, but once Harry has put his foot on the bottom stair, the rest of him follows, and that includes his feet. Once inside his bedroom, things are not quite as simple. For a start, Harry flops on to his bed, face down and fully clothed.

Ruth sits down on the mattress, and tries to coax him out of his clothes.

"Can't, Ruth. You'll hafta take `em off."

So she begins with his shoes and socks, and then his jacket. These are easy. She can't do much else with him until he turns over.

"Turn over, Harry," Ruth says, pulling on his arm which lies by his side.

"Can't," he mumbles.

Ruth takes off her boots, and places them next to Harry's shoes beside the bed. She them climbs on to the bed from the other side, and lifts him by his shoulder. He offers no resistance, and even seems to be trying to help. Eventually, she has him on his back, and she flops down across his body, exhausted from the effort. Her head is next to Harry's, on his pillow, but while he is facing up, she is facing down. A thought flashes through Ruth's mind that lying like this, Harry and she could just have had sex, with she on top.

Not fully clothed, we couldn't have. But the thought warms her all the same. She sits up, and begins to remove Harry's tie, and then she unbuttons his shirt. His eyes are on hers the whole time.

"Are you enjoying this?" she asks him, feeling exhausted from her efforts.

He nods, smiling. "Who wouldn't?" he mumbles sleepily.

Ruth manages to pull Harry's shirt from his trousers, and then off his body, with a little bit of co-operation from him. He's wearing an undershirt, so she leaves that on. That only leaves the most difficult item of clothing – his trousers. She begins by unbuckling the belt, and then opening the buttons at his waist. She is about to undo his zip, when she stops, reality hitting her. I'm kneeling on Harry's bed, undressing Harry, and the only thing stopping this being the realisation of at least one of my fantasies is the small detail that Harry is either drunk, or has overdosed on flu medicine – perhaps both – and so is incapable of fulfilling his part in my fantasy!

We do have terrible timing!

"Harry," she says, quietly, so as not to frighten him, "can you perhaps take off your own trousers? Please?"

Harry had closed his eyes, but as she speaks, he opens them, and looks right at her, and then shakes his head. "Always wanted you taking `em off," he says, equally as quietly. "One o' my fantasies," and then he smiles broadly.

Cheeky bugger! There is a part of Ruth that wants to get off the bed, and stomp out of the room, shouting, `Do it yourself, then,' as she flings open the door, and then slams it shut behind her. She knows Harry doesn't deserve that. He's unwell, he took too much medicine, and then he had a glass of whiskey – or two, or even three. He hasn't looked after himself, and that's not reason enough for her anger and outrage.

Ruth takes a deep breath, and looking again at Harry, she notices his eyes are again closed, but he is smiling. With the greatest of delicacy, she places her hands on the front of his trousers, careful to grasp only the zipper itself, and the waistband of his trousers. Very carefully, she slides down the zipper, and begins to pull his trousers off him.

"You're no fun at all," Harry mumbles, opening his eyes to look at her.

She hopes he's out-of-it enough for him to be oblivious to her high levels of embarrassment. As she pulls his trousers off him, his trunks are exposed – Ralph Lauren, purple. Purple! She hadn't seen Harry as anything other than a black or white trunks man – perhaps navy blue. She must have stared for just that little bit too long, because Harry again speaks.

"Daughter bought `em for me. Says I need smartening up. D'you like `em?"

"Harry …..." Ruth is almost unable to speak. She'd been staring at his trunks, yes, but she'd also noticed that he's not …. quite ….. flaccid. "Y-yes, they're very …... stylish. Nice colour, too."

"Thought you'd like `em."

Thought I'd like them? What …... he wears them everyday, just in case I decide – in a fit of uncontrolled passion between the water cooler and the meeting room – to take off his trousers? Something tells Ruth that this man is not quite as under the weather as he's pretending to be.

With one last tug, Ruth pulls Harry's pants over his feet, and off his body. She then turns them the right way, and folds them, and stepping off the end of the bed, she takes his coat and his trousers, and hangs them in his wardrobe.

Back on the bed, she reaches under Harry's dead weight to grasp the edge of the duvet.

"Harry," she says, trying to not look at him, in case she looks at his trunks – and what lies inside his trunks, "can you lift your bum and legs up so I can pull back the duvet? You shouldn't get cold."

She is leaning quite close to him, when she feels both his arms grab her, and pull her towards him, so that she stumbles, letting go of the duvet, tumbling against him, her face close to his.

"Y'can keep me warm," he says, his mouth close to her ear. He then begins singing, quite out of tune, but he has a pleasant singing voice. "I've got my love to keep me warm," he sings, and then continues the tune with a da-de-da-de-dum.

"If you have your love to keep you warm, you don't need me."

Harry opens his eyes, and looks at her with sober eyes. "You are my love, Ruth. You c'n keep me warm."

Ruth is lying across Harry's body, and one of her thighs is resting on his genital area. She can feel something moving – slowly, but surely. God, this isn't how I imagined our first time would be …... Harry out of it on meds and alcohol, and me trying to put him to bed.

"Harry," she says firmly, "let me go!"

It works. Harry drops his arms to his side, his eyes wide, his expression confused. "Was just a lil' cuddle, Ruth."

"It was turning into much more than a cuddle, as you well know."

Ruth pulls away from him, kneeling beside him, while he stares at her, realisation dawning. With a great deal of effort, Harry lifts his head from the pillow, and looks down at his genital area.

"Christ," he says with disgust. "Christ on a bike!" He allows his head to fall back on to the pillow, and then makes an effort to pull the duvet to cover himself. Since much of his body is lying over the duvet, lifting it is impossible. He gives up, and covers his face with his arm.

Ruth, feeling sorry for him, grabs the duvet, and pulls it down towards the end of the bed, effectively pulling it from under Harry's body. There is a problem, however. The tug of the duvet has dragged Harry's trunks downwards, so that part of his buttocks are exposed. Had it not been for his partial erection, his whole genital area would have been exposed also.

Ruth pulls the duvet to level with Harry's underwear. Seeing that he seems oblivious to his state of almost-undress, she grasps the waistband of his trunks, and pulls them up as best she can.

"Thank you, Ruth," Harry mumbles from under his arm.

Ruth ignores him, hoping he'll remember none of this in the morning, and then lies down next to him, and very gently pulls his arm from over his eyes.

"Harry," she says, "you're embarrassed, right?"

Harry nods, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

"Don't be. For what it's worth, I'm impressed. Any man who can manage even a partial erection when he's out of it on meds and alcohol has my admiration."

Harry turns a little towards her, just enough so that he can see her. "You're just being nice to me because I'm not at my best."

"Maybe, but it doesn't mean that I'm not impressed."

"You realise I have very little control over what happens …... there."

"I have heard that, yes."

Ruth hears him mumble something which sounds like: `always ….. you're around.'

"What was that?" she said.

"I said," and before he continues, he turns his head to face her. "That always happens when you're around."

That was perhaps way too much information for Ruth. How will she ever work with him on the Grid, knowing that as he sits at his desk, his lower body will be giving away his attraction to her? Christ on a bike, indeed!

"I'm sorry," is all she can think to say.

"Don't be," he mumbles.

It is clear to Ruth that in the past few minutes, he has sobered up considerably.

"It actually feels rather nice when it happens. The downside is that it's hard to hide it."

"Impossible, I would imagine." Just like this conversation, she thinks. Here we are, in Harry's bed together, discussing his unwanted erections. I'm sure I hadn't put that on my list of things-to-do today. "Would you rather I left?"

"No!" he says quickly, his eyes dark. "Please don't leave me here on my own. I need you."

"Alright. I'm going to have to change into something more suited to sleeping in, though. Do you have a t-shirt I can wear to bed?"

Harry nods, pointing in the general direction of the chest of drawers next to his wardrobe. "In there. There should be some in there."

"Which drawer?" Ruth asks, sliding off the bed.

"Dunno. One of them."

Harry sounds more tired than inebriated, but this doesn't surprise Ruth. Ever since the discovery of the world-wide organisation called Nightingale, Harry has worked like a man possessed. To Ruth, he seems to be taking responsibility for every single person of power who has managed to squirrel away funds, which now amounts to billions of pounds. He will not rest until he has unearthed not only the members of Nightingale, but their money, as well. Harry is exhausted, and Ruth only has compassion for him.

She finds the t-shirts in the third drawer down, and chooses a faded blue one.

"Is this one alright?" she asks him, holding it up for him to see.

'It's sure to look better on you than it ever did on me."

Ruth takes the shirt to the en suite bathroom, where she prepares herself for bed. She is nervous of parading in front of Harry wearing only his t-shirt and her knickers, but back in the bedroom, Ruth is relieved that Harry has turned on to his side, and seems to be asleep. She climbs into bed, and carefully slides closer to him, eventually lying against his back. When she is certain he is asleep, she slips her hand around his waist, and holds him. She leans into his back, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades, the steady beating of his heart sending her to sleep almost immediately.

When Ruth awakes, it's still dark. It takes a moment for her to remember where she is …... in Harry's bed, but there is no Harry. She rolls on to her back, and listens. There are sounds spilling from the en suite bathroom. Ruth hopes the sound of liquid splashing on ceramic is the sound of him peeing, and not vomiting. The toilet flushes, and then she hears water running – perhaps in the hand basin. As she hears him padding back into the bedroom, she considers for a moment the wisdom of him finding her awake. Should she feign sleep? Too late, he's climbing into bed, and he sees that her eyes are open, watching him.

"Are you alright?" Ruth asks.

"Much better, thank you. You?"

"I'm fine, thank you, but it's you who are the patient here."

Harry shuffles down under the duvet, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Ruth can see details, such as where he is looking, because her eyes are accustomed to the dark. She waits for him to speak. It is clear that his intoxication from hours earlier has worn off.

"I'm sorry about …... earlier," he says quietly, and Ruth can detect his embarrassment.

"To be honest, Harry, you were quite entertaining …... but I was worried about you, all the same."

Ruth feels Harry's hand reach across under the duvet, and he grasps her hand in his. "Thank you, Ruth."

"For what?"

"For coming home with me. For putting up with me. For caring …... for everything."

Ruth waits in silence, considering the wisdom of her next question.

"Do you remember everything …... from when you were …...?"

"Off my face? Yes. I remember it all. I had little conscious control over my muscles. I'm sorry I talked rubbish, and I'm sorry you had to see me like that."

Ruth squeezes Harry's hand, and he squeezes her hand back. Neither let go as they lay side by side on their backs, hoping they can get back to sleep. After a few minutes, Ruth feels Harry let go of her hand, and then he rolls on to his side. She can feel him breathing close to her.

"Ruth," he says quietly.

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if I …... kissed you?"

Well, that's one out of left field, as the Americans say. This night is getting weirder and weirder …... but I can't complain about it having been boring.

"Alright," she says, not sure if she's just jumped into shark-infested waters.

"Are you sure, Ruth? You don't sound terribly enthusiastic."

"It's like …... is this a kiss, or is it the curtain-raiser to something much more ….. intimate?"

"If I'd wanted sex, Ruth, I would have mentioned it in the initial request."

Ruth can see the smile on Harry's face. She reaches her hand to his cheek, and she runs her fingers along his skin, the almost-day-old beard growth prickling her fingertips. She likes this, being in bed with Harry. She has even enjoyed the night, as odd as it has been. She likes it that she now has permission to touch him in a different way. She leans closer to him, and seeing her movement towards him, Harry leans further down, and their lips meet – gentle, careful, but so tender.

It is clear Harry has done this many times before. Ruth feels herself reaching closer to him, as he slides an arm around her, and pulls her against him. As their tongues meet, their legs entangle, and Ruth allows herself to lie back on the pillow with Harry leaning over her. Despite him taking the bulk of his weight on his elbows, he is warm and heavy, and his lips are smooth and soft. She could get used to this. With her arm around his neck, she draws him even closer, and then she feels it against her inner thigh – the purple underwear, and all it holds. Whoa! This goes beyond just kissing. Ruth's eyes fly open, and Harry, sensing that the moment is lost, pulls out of the kiss.

"I told you I had no control over that part of me," he says quietly, apologetically.

"It's alright, Harry, really."

And it is. Harry's not a monster, he's a man, and men …... well, men are different, and aren't we glad they are?

Harry rolls off her, and lies beside her, his arm still around her.

"I enjoyed that," he says.

"So I noticed. I enjoyed it too."

"Good. Can we sleep now?"

Ruth isn't sure how she's expected to sleep after that kiss. Since they began kissing, her skin is tingling, and her synapses have kicked into overdrive. She wants him to kiss her again, but she doesn't want him to think she's ready to jump into bed with him, after only one kiss. Oh, wait …... I already am in bed with him. He probably thinks I'm a slut.

"Harry …..."

"Mmmm?"

"Do you think of me as easy? You know, a woman who falls into bed with anyone?"

"Of course not, Ruth. You're without doubt the most difficult woman to seduce I have ever met. Can we sleep now?"

"Difficult to seduce? So, this has been some kind of grand seduction plan!"

"No, Ruth. You brought me home because you care about me, and I let you because I care for you. I have no grand plan with you, not that I …..."

"Not that you what?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep. We have a busy day today."

Once she hears Harry's light snoring, Ruth snuggles against his shoulder, and allows herself to fall asleep.

3 days later – The Grid Meeting Room:

"We can't start yet, Harry. Ruth's not here."

"It might surprise you to know, Tariq, that the world still turns, and Section D still functions, even when Ruth has the flu."

"Ruth has the flu?" Lucas asks.

"Yes. Why is that such an important piece of information?"

"Well, Harry, didn't you have the flu a few days ago? I seem to remember you coughing and complaining a lot."

"And sneezing," adds Tariq.

"Yes, sneezing, too. And now Ruth has the same condition. How is it that she has the flu, and we don't?"

"God, you two are pathetic," scoffs Ros. "Leave the poor man alone."

"I read somewhere," says Tariq, oblivious to Ros' mood, "that influenza is mostly spread by kissing."

Tariq and Lucas high-five one another, while Harry shuffles his papers in front of him, ensuring all the edges are squared off.

"Jesus wept!" says Ros, rolling her eyes.

"Have any of us here kissed Harry?" Lucas asks, earning himself a black look from the man himself. "No? That's proof, then, wouldn't you say?"

"When you two have finished playing in the sandpit, can we crack on?"

Ros had observed the exchange with interest hidden only by her usual cloak of disdain. She has known for a while that Ruth and Harry have a `thing', but perhaps that `thing' has become something more. Mmmm …... useful. She mentally files it away under `Useful Things Only I Know'. There's sure to be a time when that information could come in handy, if only to embarrass Ruth. Sometimes, I just love my job!

"Ros, are you alright?"

"Yes, Harry, I'm more than alright."

Ros looks around the table at the others, and smiles sweetly.

fin