He wakes up to the worst hangover he's had in years, the pain in his head so strong that he can't even open his eyes for several minutes. He moans and lifts his hands to his face, pressing the heals of his hands against his eyes as he takes deep breaths in an attempt to control the pain long enough to find some paracetamol.

How much did he have to drink last night, he wonders as he slowly attempts to sit up. And that's when he realises that he's not in bed. He opens his eyes gingerly and blinks a couple of times in surprise. He's not in his house either. Where the fuck is he, he wonders as he takes in his surroundings, pushing the pain in his head to the back of his mind as much as possible. Did he pick someone up at the bar? He looks down and is relieved to find that he's fully clothed. He must have been really out of it last night; he probably passed out on her sofa almost immediately. Only his tie is missing and his jacket and shoes. He looks about for them and frowns as he spots them, his tie rolled up perfectly and his jacket neatly folder so neither gets creased, his shoes resting next to each other on the floor by the end of the sofa. What kind of woman cares about a man's clothes like that when said man just passes out on her settee before anything happens between them? He didn't do something stupid, did he, he thinks in alarm, like propose marriage... The thought jogs his memory and he suddenly knows where he is; he's at Ruth's. He remembers recounting to her what had happened yesterday in an unforgivably aggressive tone, he remembers the tears in her eyes as she listened, and he remembers breaking down and crying his heart out, unable to hold back as she took care of him so tenderly, making him realise all that he could have had if only he'd got his timing right and she'd said yes, and fearing that it is forever beyond his reach now.

His ears, neck and cheeks burn with embarrassment at these memories as he drops his head into his hands. She'd been so kind and he'd been so unforgivably rude. Then he remembers the bucket and how he'd been so out of it that he'd had to use it to relieve himself, and he cringes with shame. God what an utterly uncouth, selfish, bastard she must think him now. He'd even told her to leave. She'd taken him in when he'd been so pissed he couldn't even stand, she'd made sure he was all right, had tucked him in, stroked his hair and kissed his brow, emptied the bucket full of his vomit and piss, and he'd pretty much told her to bugger off! 'What the hell is wrong with you, Pearce,' he thinks in disgust.

He lifts his head again, rubbing his face a couple of times before he gingerly attempts to get up, holding onto the arm rest for support. And that's when he notices that his trousers feel rather loose, and looking down, he discovers that his fly's undone. Dear God, has he no dignity left, he thinks with shame as he buttons up his trousers and pulls the zip closed. His bladder's rather full again, however, and can no longer be ignored while he wallows in self-pity and humiliation. At least his meat and two veg had been safely tucked away inside his underwear and he's no longer feeling dizzy, he thinks grimly as he slowly moves towards the door, trying not to jar his aching head too much and hoping that he can locate the bathroom without too much trouble and without waking Ruth.

As it turns out, the bathroom's just next door, so he steps into the room to use the loo and wash his hands and face, splashing cold water all over his head in an effort to help himself feel human again. His headache seems to be a little better now that he's no longer lying down, though some painkillers are still very badly needed. He pulls open the bathroom cabinet hoping to find some there, but he's out of luck. Perhaps she has some in the kitchen, he decides as he closes it once more and quickly wipes his hands and face on the towel before exiting the bathroom and walking into the kitchen.

As soon as he takes a couple of steps into the room, however, he freezes. There, lying with her head on her folded arms, her face turned away from him, is Ruth. She doesn't move, and after watching the slow rising and falling of her chest for a few moments, he realises that she's asleep. So not only had he disrupted her sleep by coming over here last night, but when he'd so rudely sent her away, she'd come in here, clearly upset after what he'd said to her, and had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. 'God, you really are a bloody idiot, Harry,' he tells himself as he takes a few steps towards her, making no noise at all in his sock covered feet. He stops by her side, his eyes lovingly tracing her sleeping form and lingering on her soft, chestnut hair that is spread out like a fan across her right shoulder, covering her arms and spilling onto the table. 'If it takes you the rest of your life, Harry Pearce,' he thinks, 'you will make this up to her.' He lifts his right hand, unable to resist the temptation to touch her beautiful hair, and reaches forward, picking up a lock gently and rubbing it carefully between his thumb and fingers. It's soft and silky and he can't resist reaching for more, running his fingers through the strands, gently stroking her hair. After a few moments, however, she begins to stir, and he quickly moves to pull away, but then she lets out a low moan of pleasure and a sigh of contentment, making him pause for a second before he resumes the gentle motion of his fingers through her hair, wanting to hear her moan in pleasure at his touch again. She doesn't disappoint and he even thinks he hears her moan his name this time, but he can't be sure. God, if only... if only...

"Oh Ruth," he sighs softly, his voice barely a whisper as he continues to caress her hair, though his whole being's crying out for so much more. He imagines leaning forward and kissing her hair, her cheek, her lips, imagines her welcoming his touch, his kisses, his love, and he gets so lost in the fantasy that it takes him a moment to realise that she's waking up and lifting her head. He pulls his hand back quickly, letting it drop to his side as he watches her head rise and turn towards him, a groan of pain escaping her lips as she pauses and lifts her hand to her neck before twisting around at her waist to look at him.

He smiles at her and murmurs, "Good morning," as he watches her blink at him in surprise, her eyes quickly skimming over him as she takes him in, making him feel acutely self-conscious. He really must look a fright in yesterday's rumpled clothes, his face unshaven, his eyes still bloodshot and hung over.

"Good morning," she smiles as she lifts her head upwards to see him better and then winces at a sudden stab of pain.

"Stiff neck?" he asks sympathetically and wonders if she would think it completely inappropriate if he offered her a neck rub.

"Mmm," she nods and then swears under her breath at the pain, making him chuckle and then groan as he raises a hand to his head, closing his eyes against the sharp throbbing in his temple. "Not exactly how I'd pictured our first time waking up together," she says, making his eyes snap open to look at her in shock. She laughs at his expression, teasing, "What? You didn't think you were the only one who'd thought about it, did you?"

"I'd hoped I wasn't," he murmurs, his gaze softening as his eyes twinkle at her in pleasure. She's so very beautiful this morning with her hair adorably tousled, her blue-grey eyes alight with mischief, her cheeks rosy from sleep and creased into dimples, her lips soft and inviting. There isn't a trace of make-up on her face and yet he knows that he's never seen her look more beautiful or desirable than she does in this moment.

"Well, there you go; the confirmation you've been hoping for," she smiles, holding his gaze for a little longer and making his heart race. He wants her so very badly just now that he's finding it hard to breathe, and though he valiantly tries to hide it from her, he can't help the way his gaze drops to her lips for a second. It's long enough to shatter the moment, however, and she swiftly looks away and gingerly gets up, saying, "Right. Paracetamol first, I think, then tea, breakfast, shower, and when we're done with all that, we might be ready to talk."

"Talk?" he asks, his eyes guarded as he watches her turn towards the door. Of course they have to talk, he thinks with resignation. She's a woman after all, and after the way he'd behaved yesterday, it's inevitable that she'll want to talk about it.

"You did a lot of it last night, Harry," she smiles, making his heart skip several beats, "and I couldn't get a word in edgeways. So this morning, it's my turn to explain some things. Sound fair?"

He nods as the momentary hope he'd felt at her words is crushed and the butterflies take up residence in his stomach. Before he can dwell on the fact that it's apparently make-or-brake time, though he suspects it's unlikely to be the former at this stage, not after his recent behaviour, he feels his head threaten to explode at the abrupt motion and he groans as he reaches his hands up to clutch his head. "Sit," she murmurs softly, pulling out a chair for him and gently guiding him to it with her hand on his upper arm. Slowly he lowers himself into the chair, the warmth from her hand on his arm working wonders for the pain and making him wonder how much better he would feel if he could just hold her in his arms. "I'll get the painkillers," she murmurs and lets go of his arm, making him feel bereft without her warm touch. Carefully, he puts his elbows on the table and leans forward, cradling his head in his hands and calling himself all kinds of idiot for getting into this state in the first place. You'd think that after almost sixty years of life he'd know better by now.

He hears her go upstairs and come downstairs soon after, so he sits up and turns towards the doorway. She smiles at him as she steps into the kitchen and goes to the sink, filling a glass with water before opening the box of painkillers. "Here," she says as she walks over to him, placing two of the caplets into his palm and the glass of water on the table.

"Thanks," he murmurs and swallows the paracetamol, draining the glass as he figures he must be really quite dehydrated. Then he turns to watch as she moves over to the fridge and begins to pull things out for breakfast.

"Omelet, okay?" she asks without turning round.

"Yes, thank you," he replies as he struggles to control his eyes that are roaming appreciatively over her back side as she bends over in front of the fridge. "Can I help?" he asks, as much to distract himself as out of a desire to be useful.

"No, it's fine, Harry," she smiles as she turns towards him. "Onion, green and red pepper, avocado, mushrooms, tomato and celery all right?"

"Everything but the celery," he frowns. "Though I must admit I've never tried avocado in an omelet before."

"I put it in afterwards," she smiles. "You know, fold it in the middle. It's full of healthy fats. Very good for you."

"Right," he nods and groans again at the pain. She laughs and he sighs before grumbling, "You'd think I'd have learned not to do that by now."

"I don't think anyone can break a habit that fast, Harry," she soothes as she pulls out a bowl and proceeds to crack the eggs.

He watches her for a few moments as she beats the eggs with a fork before he gets up, and moves to stand next to her, saying, "Let me do something, Ruth."

"Harry, really, it's fine," she smiles up at him as she lifts a hand to push her hair out of her face and back behind her ear. "Rest. You've had a rough night."

"I'm not an invalid, Ruth. I want to help," he murmurs, her proximity and warm smile sending the butterflies in his stomach into a flurry of activity again. "It's the least I can do after..." he tails off and drops his gaze in embarrassment.

"Okay," she relents and steps back, pulling open the cupboard in front of her and reaching down for the grater. "Here," she says, handing it to him. "You could grate the cheese. There are bowls in the cupboard up there."

"Thanks," he murmurs before he turns, takes out a bowl, places it on the counter and picks up the grater and piece of cheddar. He begins to grate as Ruth cleans and chops the vegetables, adding them to the butter in the hot pan on the cooker where they sizzle and emit an aroma that has his mouth watering in seconds. He hadn't quite realised how hungry he is. Soon the cheese is grated, so he picks up the kettle and fills it up, flicking it on to make some tea. "Tea bags? Coffee?" he asks.

"I'm afraid I'm out of coffee," she frowns, giving him an apologetic look. "I ran out last week and forgot to buy some yesterday."

"It's fine," he reassures her. "Tea's probably better for me anyway."

"Tea bags and loose tea, if you prefer, are in the cupboard up there to your left," she smiles. "Sugar's there too and the teapot and tea cups are behind you."

So while she chops the last of the veggies he makes them a pot of tea and toasts some bread in the toaster, buttering it while it's hot and placing it on a plate in the middle of the table. "Is there any water left?" she asks as he puts the kettle down again after filling the teapot.

"Yes, a little. Why?" he replies.

"I need it for the eggs," she smiles, picking it up and pouring a little into the eggs as she beats them with the fork before she quickly pours the egg mixture into the pan with the veggies. "My Nana taught me this trick. It makes the omelet lighter," she explains as she puts the dirty bowl in the sink and fills it with water. He smiles and lifts the lid from the counter-top, placing it over the frying pan and turning to find her watching him.

"Thanks," she smiles, holding his gaze for several moments and making his heart race again. The way she's looking at him this morning is different, her gaze bolder and more direct than usual, and it makes him wonder what it means. His heart whispers that it's because she's finally admitted to herself that she loves him and is ready to give them a chance, but his mind is telling him that it's more likely to be because she's finally realised what a hopelessly damaged bastard he really is and she's relieved to be well shot of him. Either way, from her unusual confidence around him this morning, it's clear that she's made a decision where he is concerned, and he can't help but fervently hope that it's the former rather than the latter.

"Best set the table," she says as he looks away, scared that his feelings are clearly visible in his eyes. He nods and swears again at the pain, making her laugh as she turns away and pulls open the drawer with the cutlery. "The place-mats and napkins are in the table drawer," she says as she puts the cutlery on the table and turns to get the plates, so he steps forward and pulls open the drawer, extracting two thick cork place-mats with scenes of Devon and two cloth napkins. He smiles as he places them on the left of each place-mat and picks up the cutlery; hardly anyone bothers with cloth napkins these days, but it doesn't surprise him that Ruth does.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, and when he lifts his eyes to look at her, he finds her keenly watching him.

"You said no talking until after we've eaten," he smiles and is delighted when she laughs.

"You're quite right. So I did," she agrees, turning back to the cooker and checking the eggs before switching off the ring and flipping them over.

"That smells heavenly, Ruth," he sighs as he stops beside her and picks up the teapot, ready to carry it to the table. "I'm ravenous."

"Good job I had six eggs then, isn't it?" she smiles at him before turning back to serving their omelet.

"I'm sure my doctor would have something to say about that, Ruth," he replies as he walks back to the table and puts down the pot.

"And since when do you listen to your doctor, Harry?" she teases.

"Ouch," he winces, taking out the milk and placing it next to the sugar and teapot. "That was below the belt, Ruth."

"Well, you know what they say, Harry," she smiles.

"What?" he asks as he takes a seat and looks up at her.

"All's fair in love and war," she winks before turning back to putting the avocado slices in their omelet.

"I'm almost too scared to ask which of the two we're engaged in," he murmurs softly after a moment's hesitation.

She pauses in the act of picking up their plates to bring them over and frowns at him as she declares, "Harry, it's stupid comments like that that'll result in you getting this lovely omelet in your face rather than on a plate... and, if that happens, it really will be war."

He gives her a sheepish smile in apology and soon they're sitting down to a lovely breakfast of omelet with toast and piping hot tea. He moans in appreciation after taking his first bite, murmuring, "Ruth, this is the best breakfast I've had in years."

"Good," she smiles, taking another sip of her tea.

They eat in silence after that until their plates are empty. Then Harry leans back in his chair, and raising his eyes to hers, says, "That was delicious. Thank you, Ruth... for breakfast... and for taking care of me last night... I really appreciate it and I'm sorry about... what I might have said. I don't recollect everything, but I know I was unforgivably rude and-"

"It's fine, Harry," she smiles, reaching her hand across the table and squeezing his gently. "Really. I'm actually glad you came here last night... But listen, I really need a shower, and I'm sure you'd like one too, so how about we do that before we have this conversation. All right?"

"Yes," he murmurs, squeezing her hand gently in return as he feels hope blossom in his chest at the softness of her gaze as she looks at him.

"Right," she says, getting up and carrying her plate to the sink. "I'll go on up and get things ready; then I'll call you."

"Okay," he replies as he watches her go, struggling to push aside the images of Ruth in the shower with him that invade his mind at her words. Then shaking himself free of these tantalising thoughts, he gets up and starts to put things away before doing the washing up and cleaning up the kitchen. While he's drying the table with the tea-towel, he suddenly remembers that it's Saturday today and he needs to get to work. How could he have forgotten that, he wonders in amazement as he straightens up and glances at the kitchen clock; he can't even recall the last time work had completely slipped his mind like this. It's just gone seven he sees with relief before spreading out the tea-towel to dry on the back of a kitchen chair and pulling out his phone. Ruth has the day off, he remembers as he dials the grid and makes a quick decision to call in sick with food poisoning or something; Ruth wants to talk, and even if their conversation will quite likely spell the end of all his hopes and dreams, they have to set things straight between them for both their sakes; things can't continue like this.

He speaks to Lucas, ascertaining that everything's quiet and asking him for a brief update before giving him some directions and rather brilliantly, he thinks, asking to speak to Ruth. He's told that she's got the day off, so he sounds suitably annoyed before telling Lucas to have someone look into a couple of small things and ringing off after saying that he'll try to come in after lunch if he's feeling any better. When he's done, he slips his phone back into his pocket and goes back into the lounge to wait, sitting on the sofa and closing his eyes. His headache is much better now, the painkillers finally beginning to do their stuff, but he certainly didn't get anywhere near enough sleep last night and his eyes are tired and gritty.