Today, 23rd December, 7 am
The incessant beeping will not stop. It stabs at his aching head with an insistence that cannot be ignored, and he groans as he fights to hold onto the blissful dream that's rapidly dissolving as he's forced into wakefulness. His hand reaches out towards the bedside table to locate his phone and turn off the bloody alarm. He feels around, but the moment his hand closes over it, someone shifts beside him and an arm collides sharply with his face. He yelps in pain and surprise, whipping his head around towards the intruder and opening his eyes for the first time. His breath catches in his throat as his gaze falls on a pair of very familiar, blue eyes that are staring at him in alarm. Oh shag, he thinks.
Three days earlier, 10 am
"So, who do you have to get a present for?" Lucas asks as he sits on the edge of her desk.
"You know the rules, Lucas. I'm not telling you," Ros replies without looking up.
"Is it me?" he grins.
"There is a twenty-five per cent chance that it's you."
"Well, just in case, I thought I'd let you know that a bottle of vodka would be very much appreciated."
"I know, Lucas. You already informed us all of that fact the moment we finished drawing names out of the hat."
Lucas shrugs and says, "Doesn't hurt to make sure." He glances around the Grid and then adds, "I envy the people who got me and Harry. All they need to get is a bottle of booze." His eyes drift over to Harry's office and catch him staring longingly through his window at Ruth's desk despite the fact that it's empty. "I hope it's Ruth who's got him. She's the only one who can give him what he really wants."
Ros finally raises her eyes from the report on her table and looks at Lucas and then at Harry. "Never going to happen, Lucas. Ruth will never agree."
"Shame really. It would be one hell of a Christmas present for him."
Today, 23rd December, 7:05 am
He's dreamt of this moment so many times, wished for it so desperately, and yet he's never once imagined that she'd be looking at him like this, with eyes full of panic and fear. He blinks slowly to hide the pain that he's sure is clearly visible in his gaze. He opens his eyes again. Try as he might, he can't remember how they ended up here, like this. They must have been really pissed last night.
"Hi," he says eventually.
"Harry?" she whispers in alarm.
He looks around him. They're in his bedroom, in his bed. He brings his hand up to his face and rubs at the stubble on his chin before bringing it up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Fuck, he thinks.
"Did we...? We didn't, did we?" she stammers eventually.
So she can't remember either then. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the pain slashing through his heart at the panic in her voice. Secretly he's always hoped that, if they ever found themselves in this position, it would bring them together like nothing else has. Making love would be a way past the awkwardness that always seems to plague the pair of them. Perhaps that would have been true if either of them could remember anything. It occurs to him suddenly that, given the state of intoxication they must have been under to have no recollection of how they got to his house, let alone into his bed together, it's more than likely that nothing has happened. After all, he's approaching sixty, is out of shape and overweight, and he has serious doubts that he would have been able to perform under the circumstances. Without thinking much about it, he lifts the covers and peers under them.
"Harry!" she exclaims, causing his head to turn towards her sharply.
"Sorry," he apologises quickly, closing his eyes but not fast enough to avoid getting a tantalizing glimpse of cream coloured flesh. She's naked then, or at least, her top half is. He clears his throat and tries to explain, "I was just trying to ascertain how much clothing I'm wearing."
There's a brief silence and then she asks tentatively, "And how much are you wearing?"
"Not much," he admits.
"No, neither am I," she sighs.
He swallows and wills his body not to react to that statement.