Disclaimer: Ruth and Harry aren't mine. I promise.

Author's Note: OK, I just wrote desk!sex and managed to keep it within a T rating. Kill. Me. Now.

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X is for Xenodochy.

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He went back.

This is the part where Ruth goes do you remember that time— like what she said never happened and it's just a bad day. They both have bad days.

Harry chokes on his promise as he settles in bed. Or tries, really.

He rubs his eyes, sighs, and watches as Ruth's fingers curl around the sheets and then relax— the only clear indication of sleep. The whiskey is bitter, dust in his throat, and he shifts back onto the bed with his feet crunching against the sheets. He should've stolen the crap Adam had, knocked himself out, but even now, Harry's no longer that impulsive.

"Damn," his voice echoes, dulling with a sigh.

In theory, this is how it is now— It's easier to hate a dead man. Because Oliver Mace's a dead man walking. He did this to them, to him and Ruth, to pushing them into these— but does it really matter now? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The man was always better off living in their memories, painted in an old frame next to her mum.

Harry sits up again, restless, the bed squeaking as he turns. He casts his gaze off to the side, smirking slightly. Ruth's too tiny for his bed and it would be kind of funny if the circumstances would actually be here, whatever they are. But sleep doesn't come like it used to, like it should.

"Damn."

He leans forward because he can. His fingers skim Ruth's hip, her back, kind of like when he was a child and there were nightmares (except the nightmares are much more). The tension doesn't disappear, but it dims, for a breath and Harry looks away. His fingers linger against the sharp arch of her hip again, stilling over a soft patch of skin.

He lifts his hand.

He stops himself when Ruth shifts in the bed again, closer to the pillow. There's a rise of affection in him, and it stays when Ruth clenches her hands in the sheets. He sighs, indulging, and letting his hand start to smooth against his back again. Because he's got to be selfish sometime.

promise me. promise me. promise me.

He's not going to be able to do it. He knows. He knows Adam knew—and guesses that it was the only part of the family man that was left that really wanted to genuinely protect Ruth. Them. They were all screwed without Colin anyhow, but Harry's pretty sure that it's one of those things where he wouldn't last. Ruth's that edge of sanity for him. But that's an admission and Harry doesn't do admissions.

He gets up again, the floor creaking. He stills at the door, due for another walk around the house, to settle. Watching Ruth shift again, his gaze softens and then disappears (he doesn't need to see) as his hands slide into his pockets.

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Y is for Yearn.
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She can't breathe when he kisses her.

She can't fall to clichés, but she can't help it either. When he kisses her, everything stops moving and she forgets, she forgets why they're here and in this room, in this moment. She forgets and gives in.

Her fingers curl in his shirt— there's a pop but she's falling to sensation instead of the details. She just wants to feel him.

She moans when his tongue flicks against hers, brushing the insides of her mouth. He takes his time, tasting her and she feels a rush of heat pooling in her stomach. Her hands push his shirt off his shoulders and they stumble forward, against the desk, and she's spiralling.

"Floor," he breathes, tugging at his trousers.

She nods. And they manage, dipping into the crook behind his desk (she shouldn't be here). She spills onto the floor, her hair falling against the carpet.

He's on his knees and she doesn't give him time to think. There's no place for rationality and so she tugs him over her, marvelling at how he covers her and how they fit. (It was getting easy to believe that they never would.)

"Okay?" Her voice is soft.

He watches her, eyes dark, and a ghost of a smirk curls onto his lips. He kisses her softly and then draws back.

"Shut up."

Her laughter is muffled when he kisses her again, his intentions burning her as his hands start to move against her skin. Hers start to rise and joins his in a tentative exploration. Things are shaky, very shaky and reactions come and go— but she likes the feel of him against her, settling between her legs.

Her lips part and his mouth falls to her throat as she dips her head back, sucking on her skin.

"Jesus," she hisses.

He chuckles shakily. And then growls because her legs start to curl around his waist, urging him closer. He starts to move or maybe it's her, but a soft mew slips from her lips and she lets her head fall back. Her eyes screw shut and ohgodohgodohgod she can't think with him inside of her.

She whimpers as his mouth follows a trail against her throat, to between the undone buttons of her shirt. She arches and starts to move faster, with him, as his tongue slides against her. And she just gives up on any motion of coherency.

She fills the room with the chanting of his name.

He whispers impishly into her ear, "You like zoos? Right?"

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Z is for Zoo.

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He likes her in his shirt. He decides.

The ends brush against her legs as she walks to the side of the room, where he's sitting, and fits against him easily. They've turned the television on and stick to BBC News 24 again. Because you can't go wrong with the BBC.

"Think we can get them to bring us Fruit Loops?"

She snorts. But her lips curl and he eases against her, his fingers brushing against her thigh in slow circles.

He's not an optimist. Or a pessimist. (Yeah, he wants to laugh at that too.)

He's a realist at best, wanting the physical and visual understanding. And while he's fascinated, undoubtedly by the motivations and motions of people. This doesn't concern him a bit.

Maybe he doesn't care. Anymore.

The echo in the halls are nothing new now. Sometimes they listen. Sometimes not

Ruth jumps when the phone on the table rings.

He sighs and leans forward, brushing a kiss to her temple and reaching for it. It crashes to the floor and he snorts, grabbing the receiver and wincing when he edges back to his spot against the wall.

"Phone back later, I'm a little busy." He turns back to her, "Do you want to go to the zoo?"

She laughs tentatively, "I'm not five years old."

"I know, but still, it'll be fun."

She smiles at him, "And if I say no?"

"But you're not going to say no. Because you can never say no to me."

"Well," She sighs in mock resignation, "I guess we're going to the Zoo."

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There will be an Epilogue, where they actually go to the Zoo. But even writing that bit was torturing me. So, if you like, review and I'll have the epilogue done by Monday week.