The sun beats down on Sir Harry Pearce's back; even the leaves of the the trees lining Millbank are no protection, but he doesn't mind. The heat is pleasant, comforting even. Watching the slow moving traffic on the Thames is a favoured past time, when his mind is otherwise racing. And it is racing, at the moment. The gas crisis is unravelling, Rustam Urazov, the Tazbek Secretary for Trade and Industry is being thoroughly uncooperative, the Home Secretary is breathing down his neck, his team aren't miraculously solving everything...and all he can think about is Ruth. About the anguish in her scream as they shot her common law husband; about the loathing in her eyes when she realised he would not divulge the location of the uranium; about the anger in her movement when she turned away from him on the Millennium Bridge the other morning. He has done that to her. He has done this to himself. But, he also cannot help lingering on the tone of her voice when she said his name, after Lucas shot Mani. A man has to hope.
He is just thinking he should go back inside - he told Jo he'd only be gone fifteen minutes - when a flicker of grey and brown catches his eye. He turns his head. Her hair seems to glow in the autumnal light, a warm golden brown. The very sight of her strikes panic in to his heart. What can he say? He looks away, ashamed at his inability to know the right words, to fix this awful situation. This was never how it was meant to be. Oh God, this was never how it was meant to be. Rather he hadn't ever met her, than this.
No, that's not true.
He turns back towards her, wavering; uncertain; words, useless words, running through his mind.
She's pressing her lips together just like he does. Odd, how one notices these things at the most inappropriate moment. At any other time, he's muse on the significance of that, but right now, he needs to focus. He should start this conversation. He needs to apologise. He needs her to understand how deeply sorry he is. How guilt-stricken he is. How he hasn't slept, not really, since they were freed. How he will do anything for her, even though nothing can make it better. He knows that.
He meets her eyes, and to his surprise, they no longer hold the bitterness of the last time. And before he can summon the words, the courage, she has bested him, gotten there first.
"Er, we need to talk." Can he detect a warmth to her tone? His relief is palpable. He wonders if she can feel it. Raising his eyes to meet hers, he cannot help but smile, just a little. Not so long ago, he believed he'd never see her face again.
"I'm glad you said that." I'm glad you have that courage, Ruth Evershed. I'm glad you know what to say. I'm glad you are a better person than me, by miles.
"I'm sorry. That I blamed you for what happened. It wasn't fair." Actually, he thinks, it was entirely fair. He can't meet her eyes. He wouldn't blame her if she never wanted anything to do with him again. He wouldn't blame her if she fell on him, fists flying, hair streaming, tears flowing. But she is a better person than that. She is graced, in a way that he can only be by association. She kept him honest in the past, and oh, how he longs for that honesty now.
"I'm sorry too, Ruth. I'm sorry for everything, really. Truly sorry." She accepts his words in silence, watching his eyes, his mouth, before looking down at the handrail. Is it enough? Will it breach the gash between them? Or are they broken in such a way that it can never be healed, not by words? He watches her for a response, any response. The suspense tingles up his spine.
They stand like this for what could be hours, but it is, in reality, only minutes before she looks back at him, nodding slightly.
"I know. I understand."
Silence again, this time neither breaks the gaze. Three minutes could be three years, for the unspoken conversation. It's not that everything is now better, it's not even that everything has healed, but somehow, a bridge has been remade, even if it is only the narrowest plank of a bridge, with no handrails and a crevasse beneath. She places a hand on his arm.
"So, the gas crisis. I see the Home Secretary is struggling."
"He won't be the only one, if we can't get this deal with the Tazbeks signed."
"Is it that bad?"
"It's that bad. And the Tazbek delegation are truly living up to their reputation, which is not helping."
"So, human rights and all that is good and true in the world are out the window. Can the UK really afford that?" Her tone has changed, just slightly. This is Ruth at work, this is what she is made for, this is the Ruth he knows. He just wasn't expecting to hear her, so soon.
"Can we afford the thousands of deaths that will result if we don't sign that agreement?" He becomes aware that the gentle pressure of her hand is no longer on his arm, and in the time it takes him to look down at the space where her hand had been, she turns her head back to look out at the Thames.
"Perhaps you're looking at this the wrong way. Aren't there any other options?"
"The Russians? The Home Secretary won't hear of it, and I can't say I blame him."
"It just seems wrong to give away something we hold dear, to win the friendship of someone we despise."
"If you've got a better option, I'm eager to hear it." Before the words are out of his mouth, he's regretting them. He doesn't mean to be sharp with her. Not now. Not ever, He regrets any moment in the last that he was ever sharp with her. Her lips are drawn and her eyes shadowed. "I'm sorry, Ruth. I don't mean to snap."
"I know. The rock and the hard place. It's a fairly common location for you." She turns back towards him, closing the distance by a small step. Takes a breath. "You did the right thing, Harry. With Mani. Not giving in. You did the right thing. But sometimes it is necessary to take in to account the lives of others. Not giving in is not always the right thing." He meets her eyes, momentarily, still stuck on the words 'you did the right thing'; they ring in his ears, blotting out all other sound. He looks down, the only way to mask his response. But he feels her move in closer, replacing her hand on his arm, her lips brush his cheekbone for the swiftest of moments. "I've got to go. See you, Harry." And she is gone.