Short and Harry centric.
"There's no fool like an old fool."
Had he said it out loud. No matter. There was no one present to hear.
He cradled the glass of scotch and leant against the edge of his desk.
It was true. He was being foolish. He had been for some time now… but somehow he just couldn't get past it.
He was too old for her. He was her boss. He had a …what was that newfangled HR phrase... Duty of care! He had a duty of care towards her and that shouldn't involve thoughts of bending her over his desk.
He laughed aloud at the idea.
"Get over yourself, Harry."
There was just something about her.
That vitality, that sparkle, that vibrance he felt when she was near. Or was it the smile, which promised untold mischief. Or those eyes, so sharp, crystalline, all seeing, dancing eyes. Or that expression that took hold of her when she found something: when she knew her own bloody genius. Was it the smell of her when she breezed into his office; or the compassion that never left her, that even now the service still hadn't managed to destroy.
Was he simply craving all the optimism and naivity and empathy that she had ... and he had lost.
Who was he kidding, naïve and empathic, Harry Pearce!
He found himself smiling, smiling into the whiskey glass.
Sometimes he caught her looking at him and wondered. He wondered when her hand trailed across his on the bus. He wondered when she smiled at him that night, when he returned from suspension. But she smiled at all of them. She loved all of them, ministered to them and their problems. He regularly saw her small touches of sympathy and support.
He was no different.
It was vain to think otherwise.
And yet he was doing it again. This thing he did. Drinking, thinking, loving.
And it had to stop.
He had to stop it.
He had no right to think of her this way.
No hope.