The opening dialogue, firstly spoken by Ros, and then Harry and Ruth, is lifted directly from the end of Episode 5.04. I'm just using it as a springboard to a different outcome.

Just some light-hearted fluff, post-Havensworth – not very deep.

(I have needed to create my own temporary distraction while I plough through writing `Let Me Go'. This is my Distraction Piece.)

I'm thinking 2, maybe 3 chapters. Perhaps 4.

oOo

"What right do you have to make judgements on my personal life? Your own isn't exactly a shining example, is it? The fact that your own existence is a walking disaster zone does not give you the right to make judgements on other people's!"

Ros blazed out of his office and marched across the Grid to gather her belongings.

Harry, recognising the truth in her words, sat back on the edge of his desk, and passed a hand wearily across his face.

The sound of his office door sliding open – sans knocking – meant it could be only one person.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," he replied, matching her tone – one of an intimacy born out of shared experiences.

"I just wanted to say," Ruth continued, " about Ros – that you were right. It wasn't your fault, Harry."

His eyes followed her as she spoke. "Thank you," he replied.

She had never looked more beautiful, more gentle, more inviting than she did at this moment. He kept his arms folded across his chest, drinking her in with his eyes, certain that she would read the longing in them.

She said a quiet `goodnight', and then she grasped his arm with her hand and held it there for just that little bit longer than necessary, squeezing lightly. He thought about covering her hand with one of his, but then she was gone. Another opportunity lost to hesitation.

He stayed resting on the edge of his desk while Ruth gathered her things and left, not giving him another glance, although he watched her every step of the way. It was at times like these that he needed her most. Havensworth had been a success, but only just. He had taken risks, and they had paid off.

But perhaps he had baulked at taking the risk he most needed to have taken. On the first night at Havensworth they had met in the corridor outside their rooms. It was not a planned meeting, but one of those chance events which tend to tumble unannounced into people's lives when they're least expecting it, willing them to take a different pathway than the one they'd been following. They'd stood there, staring at one another – he had been drawn (again) to her eyes, her mouth, the expanse of her neck, while she appeared to be fixated on his throat, exposed by a few open shirt buttons – and so the moment passed. She had been babbling – about what he couldn't recall – but when he'd spoken her name, she had turned and almost run to her room. He knew it was not repulsion which had taken her away from him in that moment. He knows what he saw in her eyes. Ruth was afraid – but of what? In retrospect he should have followed her, knocked on her door, and insisted they have it out.

Have what out?

The state of their relationship.

What relationship?

The one they both wanted to have, but were too afraid to begin.

Harry sighed and walked around the desk to his chair. Paperwork beckoned. But so had Ruth's eyes. He'd seen something in them which she normally kept hidden. He shuffled papers from side to side, shelving some, signing others, but his mind was elsewhere.

A faint heart never won a fair maiden.

He had been anything but faint-hearted at Havensworth. He had opted to facilitate the assassination of a charismatic, but corrupt African leader, and he'd also approached Ruth in the hotel corridor at midnight. Both had required a degree of resolve, and a large dose of daring. One had ultimately been a success, while the other had failed before it even began.

There is no time like the present.

He had little idea why he was thinking in proverbs, but he was tired, and he needed her now, and yet he didn't know how to communicate his need without sending her scuttling back into her burrow. Before he was able to overthink the situation, he grabbed his phone and his coat, and headed off through the pods to his car.

He was parked outside Ruth's house, not sure what he should do next. What he should do is go home. What he wanted to do was to knock on her door and ask to be let in. Then what?

He who hesitates is not only lost, but miles from the next exit.

He could see the light from inside her house through the panels of coloured glass in the front door. If he waited much longer, she'd be heading for bed. If he waited too long, his behaviour could be classified as stalking.

Inside the house, Ruth was making herself a hot cocoa. She was feeling a little antsy. She knew that if she went to bed now, sleep would elude her. There was so much going on in her head that she could barely make head nor tail of it.

Firstly there was Havensworth, but it had been a success, despite what the Foreign Minister had implied. By fair means or foul, the right thing had been done. The books had been balanced. The right actions had been taken.

Then there was – well – there always was, wasn't there? There was Harry. Had she stayed with him in that hotel corridor, with him looking at her like... well, like that... she would have had to rip open his shirt, scattering the remaining shirt buttons across the hotel carpet. And had he in any way rejected her for that - had he hesitated, or been shocked, or even said nothing at all - she would never again have been able to leave the confines of her house, so extreme would have been her embarrassment.

The kettle boiled just as her mobile phone rang, a piercing duet in a jolly key. Ruth turned off the kettle and answered her phone. Please let the terrorists all be asleep in bed.

"Hello, Ruth," she heard, the most familiar voice of all.

"Harry," she replied. How is it he always knows when I'm thinking about him? On second thoughts, that wouldn't be hard, since there is never a time when I'm not thinking about him. "I'm just making cocoa." Now, why did she feel the need to share that detail with this man who always made her feel exposed, naked?

"You need to go to your front door."

"What...now?"

"Yes, now."

It was Harry, and she trusted him, didn't she?

"OK, but this had better not be a Gorillagram."

She heard his low, soft laugh in her ear, as she headed towards the front door.

She opened her door, and there he was, also with his phone to his ear, his tie having been discarded, and his two top shirt buttons undone. Bloody hell, Harry – don't you know what that does to me?

"You'd better come in," she said, closing her phone and then the door, as Harry stepped into her hallway. "You can hang your coat here, on this hook. Would you like some hot cocoa?"