A/N: This fic is for three of my fellow HR fanfic writers/readers - theoofoof, NatesDate & Sparky75 - all of whom have (or had) birthdays this week. This is my gift to them. It is not entirely serious, yet not always a humorous piece.

"What's wrong with Harry?"

Ruth lifted her eyes to meet the slightly bloodshot eyes of Alec White, above which his eyebrows were drawn together in keeping with his level of concern. She lifted one side of her headphones.

"How should I know?"

"I just thought …...," and then he walked away, muttering to himself something which sounded to Ruth like: `Nobody cares.'

Ruth continued working, identifying passages of dialogue which didn't fit the rest of the conversation which came through her headphones . She was relieved that she understood the subtleties in interactions between Chinese agents, subtleties which were only evident to someone familiar with the culture. They would greet one another, followed by often long and drawn out statements of admiration for one another, something no self-respecting English person would indulge in. Ruth was paying attention to the way in which they praised one another. It was often a tone which was not quite congruent with the words spoken, or the use of a colloquialism which drew her attention. She loved language and languages, and more than that, she loved the intricies of each language, and how a culture used their language.

"Ruth?"

She was momentarily startled by the voice, and again she removed her headphones, and looked up into the dark eyes of Tariq Masood, who had left his desk to walk the two yards to stand beside her desk. "What?" she replied, as kindly as she could. Tariq was a nice lad, and to her mind he deserved the respect of his colleagues, something he didn't always get.

"Do you know what's wrong with Harry? He's -"

"Tariq!"

"Yes?"

"Contrary to what you may have heard I am not, and never have been Harry's secretary, nor am I his PA, his sister, his mother, or his wife. Nor do I follow him around asking him about the changing state of his health."

"I know that."

"So why did you ask me?"

"Because I thought you were his friend. Harry doesn't seem to have many friends. I think you might be his one and only friend."

Ruth's small balloon of outrage quickly deflated, and she sat back in her chair and sighed heavily, throwing the headphones on to her desk, where they skidded against her monitor. "That's very observant of you, Tariq."

He nodded. "I watch people, and I see more that most give me credit for. You're kind to Harry, and I can see …. he likes you …. a lot. He talks to you, tells you things. I watch his face when he talks to you, and if I didn't know better I'd say you might be more than friends."

Ruth chose to ignore his last sentence. She had no idea if she and Harry were friends, but she was certain they were no longer anything more …. if in fact they ever had been. Three months previously she'd said no to his marriage proposal, and that had left them languishing somewhere between being old friends and nowhere at all. She took a deep breath. "Why are you and Alec asking me about Harry? Is he sick?"

"I thought you might know, Ruth."

"What are his symptoms …... the ones you can see?"

Tariq took a quick look towards Harry's office, but the blinds were drawn, and it appeared the light was off. "We-ell …... were he a woman, I'd suspect he might be pregnant, but he's a man, and besides, he's too old to be pregnant."

Weirder and weirder.

"Try to describe it, Tariq. What has he been doing?"

"That's the thing, you see. He hasn't been doing anything. He's …. quiet, and he looks pale, and I think he's been vomiting."

"Vomiting?" Ruth's interest was suddenly piqued.

"Yeah. Like … I went in there a few minutes ago and he wasn't in his office, but I knew he was there because his phone was on his desk, and his jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, along with his tie."

"He might have been in the toilet."

"Yeah, he was. But then I heard a sound like him throwing up, and then he swore, and the toilet flushed, and that's when I left. I'm not very good with sick people." Tariq looked closely at Ruth, hoping she would follow his drift …. but she just stood there, waiting for him to finish his story. "But you are," he added, "and if anyone can take care of Harry, you can."

What in the name of everything Greek did that mean? "I'm not the Grid's representative for Care In The Community, Tariq."

"I know, and Harry's not disabled."

Not this week, at least. "But he may be temporarily indisposed."

"I always thought indisposed meant someone was about to be thrown away."

"Well, we can't throw Harry away."

"I know. We need him, and you need him, Ruth."

"What do you mean?"

"He's your friend. Everyone needs their friends."

"Oh, right." Ruth made a mental note to hire an interpreter for Tariq. His conversation frequently confounded her, tying her brain cells in knots.

"Tariq..." Beth Bailey emerged from the corridor, eyeballing the young techie. "I need your expertise on something. Or more correctly, Dimitri is searching for a hammer to smash his keyboard. I think you'd better hurry."

Tariq turned and rushed across the Grid floor to where Dimitri was pounding his desk with his fists."

"Was he really needed?" Ruth asked.

"Not especially. He'll confuse Dimitri with techie jargon, they'll argue, Dimitri will throw something at him, and we'll all be immensely entertained."

"That's hardly fair on Tariq."

"No, but it's better than him giving you the third degree. What did he want this time? Relationship advice?" As she spoke, Beth moved closer so that she leaned her hip against Ruth's desk. Ruth had been watching her eyes. Beth's eyes fascinated her almost as much as …... well, it hardly mattered any more, did it?

"Apparently Harry is unwell. I can't be absolutely sure what he wanted, but I think he wanted me to check on Harry."

"And have you? I saw Harry earlier, and he was awfully pale. And he didn't say good morning to me, either."

"That's not unusual."

"No. I know."

Suddenly there was a cry from across the Grid, as Dimitri – in joy or despair, one could not be sure – furiously tapped his Control key. Ruth resisted the urge to call out: `Dimitri, have some control.' She knew he'd not appreciate it.

"Well," she said, standing and stepping away from her desk, "I suppose I ought to check whether Harry is still alive."

"Good luck," Beth called as Ruth headed towards Harry's office. "If you're not back in an hour -"

The remainder of Beth's words were lost to Ruth's ears as she stood at the door to Harry's office, listening for signs of life from inside. There was nothing. If she knocked, the shock could well send Harry into cardiac arrest, so she took a breath from deep in her lungs and slid the door open. Inside the office was in darkness, so she slid the door closed behind her.

"Harry?" No answer.

"Harry?" More urgently, but still no answer.

Ruth took a couple of steps which took her further into the office, and that is when she heard it.

Ruth had never been able to stomach the sound of someone vomiting. It had always made her gag, perhaps in an empathic response, perhaps in revulsion, she could not be sure. It was when she heard Harry groaning in what sounded like pain that she acted without thinking. No matter what had happened between them in their shared past (and quite a messy and convoluted past it was, too) he was still the closest friend she had, and he needed her. She hurried across his office to the doorway which led to his private toilet and bathroom. She never gave a thought to the high probability of Harry not wanting her to witness him in distress. Very quietly she opened the door to the bathroom. Inside the room was in semi-darkness, and once her eyes had adjusted to the dimness within she could see that the door to the toilet stall was open, and Harry was on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, his hands on each side of the bowl, his head bent so that his chin rested on his chest.

"Harry?" She kept her voice low, with just enough volume for him to hear her.

He sat up then, but remained on his knees. He moved his hands from the toilet bowl to rest on his thighs. She thought she heard him sigh. "I'm alright, Ruth. I don't need you." His voice was cold … dismissive.

"You don't look alright." She took a few steps towards him. "You look a long way from alright. Are you sick?"

"I've been ….. throwing up, and it's not a pretty sight, so if you've finished gloating, you can go now." He had still not turned around. Perhaps he couldn't.

Ruth took another step closer. "If it's food poisoning you might need hospitalising. Perhaps you need an anti-emetic. I can get a doctor if you'd like." If he'd like? When has Harry Pearce ever liked having a doctor peering at, and poking and prodding his person?

Ruth was only a couple of feet from him, but when she noticed his attempts to stand she moved towards him. "Here …. let me," she said gently, as she bent to grasp him under his elbow. "I can help. I'd like to help."

Between the two of them they managed to get Harry to his feet. Once he turned to face her she could see how pale he was, and how drained and lined his face appeared. His eyes were sad, his weakness evident; Harry despised weakness, especially in himself. She longed to slide her arms around him and hold him, but she knew he'd not welcome that …. from her. While he leaned against the wall of the toilet cubicle she reached past him and flushed the toilet. Then she closed the lid, and held his arm while he very carefully turned and sat on the closed seat. He looked about to pass out.

"Was it something you ate?" she asked, knowing she was opening herself to another sarcastic response from him.

Harry's eyes were open and he was watching her closely. He very slowly nodded. "Chicken."

"Didn't you cook it properly?"

His eyes closed momentarily while he pondered her question. "Wasn't my cooking. Takeaway."

"Then the place where you bought it needs to be informed."

Harry nodded, eyes still closed. To get his attention, Ruth kneeled before him and placed her hands on his knees. For them, and with their history, this was an act of intimacy. "Harry," she began, and only continued once he'd again opened his eyes and was looking at her. "I want to help you into your office so that you can lie down. And I'm calling the section doctor. I know you don't like doctors, but you've lost a lot of fluid, and you need medical attention. But first you need to wash your face and rinse out your mouth." The words, `you smell like sick' were implied.

For once he did not object. She was sure he smiled – just a flicker of his lips and cheeks – before he again closed his eyes.

It took some coaxing and a lot of quiet talking to get Harry on his feet and out of the toilet cubicle and to the wash basin. There he leaned unsteadily against the basin while Ruth turned on the tap. She stood back a little for him to rinse his face and mouth in relative privacy. When he'd finished he looked around him for a towel. Ruth had grabbed the towel from over the shower door, and handed it to him. There were splashes of water on his shirt, but at least he had missed his clothing when he'd vomited. Small mercies. Next she had to find a way to get him into his office.

Wrapping her arm tightly around his ample waist, her hand grasping his shirt for purchase, she staggered beside him, while he leaned on her all the way, his arm a dead weight around her shoulders. Once they were level with the sofa in his office she had to turn him so that he could sit, and then she lifted his legs and lay them out along the sofa. Harry lay on the sofa like the corpse he almost was, and so she quickly headed back out of the office to her desk, where she gathered her coat. Back in the office, she folded her coat in a bundle and once she'd convinced Harry to lift his head she stuffed the coat under his head and neck. He flopped back onto the coat, his head a little to the side, and so to ensure he didn't roll off onto the floor she had to move close to him, slide her hand under his head so that she cupped his head in her hand, and very gently coax him over until his head would rest in the middle of her folded coat. To achieve this she had to lean over him, her free hand supporting his shoulder. Hearing him mumble something, she gently removed both hands, and was about to move away when she felt one of his hands grasp her forearm.

"Don't go," he whispered hoarsely. "Please stay."

His plea had her stopping in mid movement, and it was then that she realised she had been leaning close to him, her breasts almost touching him. Jesus in a manger, she thought. I've been thrusting my girls right in Harry's face, Small wonder he didn't want her to leave.

"I'm staying right here, Harry, but I have to ring the section doctor. To do that I'll have to -"

"Use my phone," he mumbled. "On my desk."

So she did, and then she pulled over a chair and sat at Harry's side. He reached out to her and so she took his hand in both of hers, resting their hands on her knee. Somehow that seemed right; it felt right, for both of them. Less than fifteen minutes later the doctor rapped on Harry's office door.

"What have you done to yourself this time, Harry? It's too early in the morning for someone to have shot you," the doctor said, in a voice which Ruth thought a little too jolly for the delicate state Harry was in. "How do you manage it? You have the prettiest girl looking after you, too."

Which was when Ruth left the office, mumbling about all the work she had to do. The doctor assured her that Harry was now in good hands. Her last image of Harry before she left was of him supine, watching her, his eyes all sadness and pleading.

With her head bowed behind her monitor Ruth missed the moment when Harry was removed from his office in a wheelchair. Tariq filled her in on the details when she ran into him in the kitchen. "He looked half dead," Tariq said. Ruth turned away and headed back to her desk. To take her mind off Harry she needed to work.

Two days later – first thing:

"Harry seems well." Tariq said as Ruth settled in her seat and turned on her monitor.

"Tariq," she said.

"Yes?"

"Do you sleep here? Its just that I get here early and leave late, and you're here when I arrive, and still here when I leave."

"Sometimes. I've talked to Harry, and he's back to his old self."

"How do you know?"

"He interrupted me and told me to get my hair cut."

Ruth smiled widely. That sounded like her Harry. Her Harry? Since when? Without meaning to, she looked up towards Harry's office to see him on the phone, but watching her. When their eyes met he motioned with his head for her to join him in his office. Ruth didn't hesitate. Anything to get away from Tariq's endless questions. She grabbed the nearest folder – empty – and a pen and then headed to Harry's office. She slid open his door, and entered quietly, her eyes watching him as she stepped into his sanctum. He ended his call, stood, and with his arm indicated she should sit on the sofa. "It's less formal," he said, lowering himself next to her, a slight smile on his lips.

"You look so much better than last time I saw you."

"I feel a lot better, although I still feel a little …. drained."

"That's to be expected, Harry. You were …. very sick."

"They made me stay in hospital overnight ….. the night before last."

"I suppose they had to tie you down."

This time his face broke into a smile. "Not exactly. I was in no state to be walking out of there. I was on a drip."

"Had I known, I would have …. visited you."

Harry nodded, watching her closely. "It's the thought that counts, Ruth. I was pretty out of it."

"On that note …... do you remember anything about …... when you were in the bathroom and I came to … get you?"

"Do you mean do I remember you helping me back into this office, and then on to this sofa? Yes, I remember it ….. bits of it. I remember the … nice bits." Ruth knew her face showed surprise. "I remember …. your touch. It was …. nice. I felt quite safe with you looking after me."

Ruth nodded, remembering how her breasts had been so close to his face. Surely he must have noticed that. "I really should go back to my desk," she said, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

"Just before you go, Ruth. I need to ask you something." Ruth again gave Harry eye contact. His eyes were warm, watching her. "I'd …. rather like it were we to ….. have a drink together after work. Just you and me, Ruth. No-one else."

"You mean, like a date?" Had there been a knife handy Ruth would have cut out her own tongue. Whatever made her say that?

"Like a date, yes. In fact, I would call it a date. Do you have a problem with that?"

Did she have a problem? Of course she had a problem. She wanted to go for a drink with him, but knew she shouldn't. But would she go with him? Hell, yes! Ruth had been saying no to Harry for far too long. It was high time she took a risk or three.

"Of course not. That would be nice, Harry. I'd like that. After work."

"After work, yes. When we both finish. I'll be free by seven, and if I'm not, I'll leave anyway … with you, of course."

She could see that Harry was nervous, and it had taken a lot of courage for him to ask her out, just as it had over four years earlier.

"What about your ...?" Ruth rubbed her abdomen in an unconscious demonstration of what she was struggling to say.

"I am still a little queasy, so I thought I might have lemonade, while you ..."

"We could always go somewhere for coffee, and leave the drinking for ... another time." May God strike me down now.

To her relief Harry smiled and nodded. "Good. I like the way you think, Ruth."

"I'd better get back to work," Ruth said at last, after they had gazed at one another for far too long. She had to leave Harry's office before she completely lost herself in his eyes.

Harry nodded and rose from the sofa, and so Ruth followed his lead. He walked her to the door and opened it for her, standing aside to allow her through. "I'll see you after work," he said gently, his voice deep and intimate. Ruth felt her skin tingling.

"You'll see me before then," she replied. "We have a meeting in forty minutes."

"So we do," he said, and then she left his office, feeling slightly light headed. Perhaps Harry should get sick more often ….. just not too sick.

As she sat at her desk, Ruth maintained focus on her monitor, waking it up with a wiggle of her mouse. She had only just opened her email account when Tariq bounced into her line of vision, a wide smile on his face.

"Dimitri just told me the best joke ever."

"Is it clean?"

"I think so. There are these three animals, right?"

"Alright." As much as she really didn't want to listen to any joke Dimitri may have told, Ruth couldn't resist Tariq's ebullience.

"You're gunna love this, Ruth." Tariq stopped and chuckled to himself. "A leopard, hyena and a giraffe all go into a bar -"

"I doubt the management would allow an hyena in their establishment, and a giraffe wouldn't even fit through the doorway. Besides, the Health and Safety Act -"

"Just go with it, Ruth. They go into a bar, sidle up to the barman, who says, "What'll it be?" and the giraffe says, "The highballs are on me." Tariq chuckled again, leaning against Ruth's desk. "Get it? The high balls are on me." As he said the words, `high balls', he pointed a finger towards his groin, something she never ever thought she'd see Tariq do, and certainly not while at work.

"Tariq …."

"Yes, Ruth?"

"Do you even know what a highball is?"

"It's …. a giraffe's testicles, Ruth."

"It's a drink. An alcoholic drink."

"Really?"

"Really. That's the joke, you see. It's a pun. The -"

"I know what a pun is."

"Good. It's an old joke, Tariq. I first heard it when I was about twelve."

"Oh." The enjoyment suddenly disappeared from Tariq's face. "You mean, everyone's heard it?"

"Possibly, and how you haven't heard it until now is a mystery to me."

"Me too."

Tariq stood and stared over Ruth's head as he contemplated the possibility that he'd been played. Suddenly Ruth's text message alert sounded. "Excuse me, Tariq," she said, quickly removing her phone from the pocket of her skirt. "This might be important."

It may not have been important, but it was very welcome. As she opened her phone, Tariq wandered off to his own desk, his earlier high spirits dampened.

Is he bothering you? I can always send him to some far flung region of the world, nay the universe. You just have to say the word.

Ruth smiled as she read it, and then quickly replied:

It's fine. He just told me a lame joke. He's quite sweet really. Thanks for asking.

She daren't look up because she knew Harry would be watching her. His reply quickly came through.

My pleasure. I'll expect you at my office door at 7 pm. If not I'll have to personally collect you from your desk. If necessary I'll carry you out the door over my shoulder.

This time Ruth glanced up to see Harry's eyes on her. Her stomach lurched but she didn't look away. She held his gaze. She couldn't help herself. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Eventually she tore her eyes away and then turned her attention to her email inbox. Only eleven hours to go.

.

A/N: And as reluctant as I am to (again) use Tariq as the fall guy, he was underused and underdeveloped in Spooks, so I feel free to do with him what I wish. Apologies to any Tariq fans.