I thought there was a bit missing from the end of the scene of those two in his bedroom that was just clamouring to be written. If you think there aren't going to be EPISODE 2 SPOLIERS in this, then you're daft, to say the least. Excuse slightly confusing title.

A Revolution.

"The world does not turn on the style of a dinner."

"My world does."

He had said that he wasn't asking for sympathy, and she truly believed that he wasn't; only you wouldn't have thought from that remark, made so instinctively, that he didn't deserve it. For a fleeting second, she tried to suppress the surge of pity that rose in her then, knowing how he would feel if he knew she was feeling sorry for him, but found that she couldn't help it. Poor man. Working himself half to death, but feeling it in more ways than the physical because the work he did was his entire life. Now wonder he'd collapsed; he'd been lucky to escape without a heart attack.

She stood there above him, blinking foolishly, caught unawares by this telling, almost disturbing, remark. Apparently, he too had been taken aback by the implications of what he had said; he looked dismayed to the point of being cross with himself, while trying to gage her reaction at the same time.

While she thought so much so quickly about his remark and what he had unwittingly meant by it; she thought comparatively little about her response to it. She gathered herself; pushing aside the waves of surprise, pity, grief that were rising within her, and sat carefully on the edge of his bed, just close enough to bump softly against his leg.

She acted decisively, before his reactions kicked in or he had the time to raise an objection. Turning her body to face his, she took his face carefully between her hands and kissed him on the lips, chastely, almost shyly, though she had knew certainly that this was what she wanted to do, and no amount of reproof from him could change her mind. Her impulse had been to comfort him and, almost selfishly save for the caring nature of the impulse, she would satisfy it.

His hair felt soft in her hands, and he gave no objection to the gentle pressure of her lips against his, so she dared offered a little more, slipping her mouth open just a fraction. From there, it turned really quite passionate. She got carried away, she supposed; the strong feelings that had been unearthed within her since the painful fear of loosing him had first surfaced over-whelmed her and made her forget that this was just meant to be a friendly gesture. But perhaps, she thought, it wasn't that at all, and never had been.

It wasn't as if she'd never considered the possibility that she loved this man very much. Considered it, and pushed it aside, because she knew all too well what the answer was.

When she pulled away from their kiss, breathless, she found that his arms were around her and had been holding her tightly to him. They slackened a little but not altogether, and she rested her head against his chest. They were silent for a good few moments, before she heard him laugh softly into her hair. She was very pleased to notice that some of his previous indignation with her seemed to have abated.

"Elsie," he asked her, "Are you trying to give me a heart attack this time?"

Her hand, resting on his chest already, stared of its own accord to sooth against him, brushing at his skin through the cloth of his pyjamas. Though his tone was light, the connotations of the remark did not escape her, and another wave of sadness threatened to engulf her.

"No," she confessed quietly, "I was just trying to make your world revolve around something else for a little while."

Please review if you have the time.