The second time they meet, he's in the hospital getting a check up on his pacemaker and she's committing burglary and theft.

Not the best foundation for a relationship.

Until he sees her slip into a room, he'd almost convinced himself that she had just been a dream he got mixed up with a memory. After all, blonde girls don't just disappear, and they especially don't stroll around a crime scene without anyone seeing them.

Apparently, no such luck, because when he stepped out of the examination room to make a quick trip to the loo, there she was, leather jacket and all, looking around suspiciously before slipping past a door clearly marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. His aching bladder is quickly forgotten when he's presented with the chance to take her in for questioning; he'll finally get his answers. How she'd gotten away, who she is, what she was doing at the crime scene, what she's doing robbing a hospital. All of it, answered, and Miller will stop looking at him like he's gone off the deep end.

She's leaning over one of the computers, facing him so he can't see what's on the screen or what she was doing. A blue glow makes her pale as a ghost, and the station she's at is making a strange buzzing noise. Her head snaps up when he closes the door behind him, eyes widening; he lets his hand wander towards his belt, where his gun is, and she follows the motion. Good—she knows who's in charge. The blue glow and buzzing cuts off abruptly, and she shuts down whatever she was doing before he gets the chance to see.

He doesn't waste time like he did before.

"Who are you?" Hardy asks—no, demands, because he's beyond asking. The weeks of thinking he'd imagined her press in on him, and he needs to know.

She straightens, eyeing him carefully.

"I could ask you the same question," she says, and it doesn't escape Hardy the way she slips something into her jacket pocket; he is a DI, after all, and a rather competent one at that.

"What's that?"

She gives him an impish smile that does not bode well for his blood pressure—"A screwdriver."—and even though she's grinning like it's an inside joke, there's something in her eyes that Hardy recognizes as grief.

"You expect me to believe that?" Because she can't really expect him to believe that a screwdriver lights up like a torch and buzzes obnoxiously, can she?

She shakes her head and shrugs. "Believe what you want, Inspector."

She gives him a once-over, and clicks her tongue in appreciation. "You know, if you shaved and got a haircut, you'd really be something. Well," she says, "you're already something, Inspector, but I mean a gorgeous something instead of a something that pokes 'is nose where it doesn't belong."

He puffs up indignantly. "Excuse me?!" he barks. "I'm not the one hacking hospital computers and creepin' round a crime scene."

"Yeah, alright, I'll give you that one, Inspector," she says, "and something else, too, because I like you so much. I'm Rose."

He considers for a moment—Rose, he decides, suits her, because hadn't he compared her to a flower last time they met—before replying, "DI Hardy."

He isn't sure it's a good idea to tell her his name, especially since she apparently didn't know who he was until now, but he figures, in a town like Broadchurch, it would have only been a matter of time, anyway.

Rose laughs and smiles, pink tongue poking out between her teeth. "Nice to meet ya, DI Hardy."

Then there's that buzzing noise again, for a split second, and all the alarms on the hospital floor go off simultaneously. He jerks, instinctively turning towards the door and whipping back again when he realizes his mistake. And…yep, she's gone, in the split second it takes him to turn around.

Shit.

Hardy doesn't know why he bothers—he has the sneaking feeling that he's the only one who saw her, again—but he checks the security tapes anyway. Interesting, the guard on duty calls it, because no one's had access but her; Hardy doesn't know why he's surprised.

He never does find out what she was accessing on the computer.

"Who do you think could have done this?" the guard asks, and normally, Hardy would have been livid at the incompetency. In this case, he knows it isn't her fault.

"I've got a pretty good idea of who," he says, blonde hair, a cheeky grin, and a Cockney accent flashing through his mind.

"The real question is—what could have done this?"

oOoOoOo

I'll update as soon as I have a few reviews, or next Sunday-whichever comes first. Hope you enjoy, please review and let me know. Since it's un-beta'd, please let me know if you see any errors.

~Nagi