Spoilers for 10.1, but not any further, because I'm not reading any spoilers.
At his door, they needn't say anything but 'hello'. He widens the gap and she slips into the warmth of his house, that could never seem homely, and she follows him through to the kitchen, where the sweet smell of tika masala beckons.
"Harry it's nearly eleven o' clock," she protests as she slips off her coat and he pours the rice across the chicken fresh from the microwave.
"I haven't eaten since about one," he explains, "And to be entirely honest I can't be bothered to cook. Would you like some?" He reaches for two slender wine glasses, before opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of Kaprese. Funny, she thinks; she's never been to his house, and he's already acting like they've shared this place for twenty years.
"Oh, um, no – thank you. I'm not hungry."
"Right answer," he grins, "More for me."
He gestures to the table where they sit, oblivious to how routine they would appear any passing man or woman. A married couple, one of whom is extremely hungry, who sit and talk of the days events. Who's children are at university. Who's upstairs bathroom needs re-decorating.
Who's life could have been a breath away from anyone else's. Who's love is there but buried under regret, uncertainty and secrets.
After a long but appreciated moment of silence and two mouthfuls of dinner, he says,
"You knew, didn't you."
"Knew what?"
"About Elena and I," he dips and focuses on a fork full of brightly-coloured chicken, "The fact that she was probably more than just an asset."
Her eyes are forgiving but it is unfortunate her voices claims differently. She doesn't mean it to.
"I had... an inkling, I suppose." She replies.
"Female intuition."
"A rather developed version."
She follows with a small sip of the wine, and finds his eyes halfway through the motion.
"Is that what you came over to talk about?" he asks. There is a momentary instant where her eyes reflect insult, and he stops chewing. But soon her expression softens, and he continues, "Because I think we should. And about Sasha. What we're going to do."
As if the oak table could provide a solution, she stares at it, tiredly. Defeated.
"Does Sasha know that you're his father?"
She can almost see the knife that jabs his heart.
"No."
She sighs, "Well I think he should."
"Ruth, if I told him, he'd probably kill me. Elena's obviously never told him which suggests she's never wanted to. What would it even achieve?"
She nips the wine again and sits back with a shrug, in an obvious reference to defeat, one that he mimics as he pokes chicken pieces around his place, leaning heavily on one shoulder. The reply of, 'I don't know' is left unsaid.
"He looks like you y'know," she smiles from nowhere, eyes hanging loosely on his features. "I mean I only saw him briefly at the reception, but I'm surprised Ilya hasn't had his doubts at all. Well, maybe he has. He doesn't have your eyes though."
As words fail him, he keeps silent, guiltily and takes a gulp of wine. It only leads to an obligation for her to speak and lift the gravity of the remark (none of which she intended), so she continues almost without thinking.
"Harry I actually came round to talk about the Home Secretary. And for advice. He said at the reception that I should consider promotion."
More soon, if you'd like it.