Yesterday, 11:30 pm

"Hello, Harry. How's it going?"

"Just peachy, thanks."

"Oh, stop sulking, Mate, and go ask her to dance."

He glares at Lucas's retreating back and vows to have him transferred to Uzbekistan in the morning. Then he turns around and makes a slightly awry beeline for Ruth.

"Hello, Harry," she smiles and his frown evaporates in an instant.

"Hello, Ruth," he caresses her name. "Would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to," she beams and holds out her hand. He takes it in his and squeezes it tightly as he leads her to the dance floor.

Today, 23rd December, 8:00 am

Her lips are soft and gently persuasive as they brush against his, teasing, enticing, coaxing, until he's powerless to resist. He responds, his eyelids drifting shut as he presses his mouth down on hers, his breathing becoming heavier as he loses himself in the feel of her against him, wanting him... He pulls away abruptly and stands up, taking several steps back as he struggles for control. He can't do this again. His heart can't take it. He raises his right hand to his face and rubs his eyebrows with his thumb and fingers, shielding his eyes from the look of confusion and hurt he'd glimpsed on her face. "I'm sorry. I can't," he says in a hoarse voice, and lowering his hand, he gives her an brief apologetic look and turns towards the door.

Embarrassment, hurt, and disappointment vie for dominance inside her and she takes refuge in anger. "Can't or won't?"

His step falters but he doesn't turn to face her. "Can't, won't, what's the difference?" he shrugs and walks out of the room and down the stairs.

She feels tears spring to her eyes, but she keeps them at bay by concentrating on her anger, and by the time she's got dressed, gone downstairs, and found him in the kitchen, she's fuming. "There is a big difference," she states.

He's facing away from her, and at the sound of her voice, he pauses for a moment in the act of pouring his coffee. "Tea or coffee?" he asks a few seconds later in a tightly controlled voice.

"Tea," she answers sharply.

He pours the hot water into the mug and puts a tea bag in it before turning around and placing it on the table for her.

"Toast?" he asks as he raises his eyes to look at her, his expression unreadable.

"Yes, please," she replies a little less harshly this time.

They sit down and begin to eat in silence, the only sound coming from the knives scraping against the toast and clinking against the plates.

"Well?" she says eventually.

"Ruth," he sighs, "can't we just drop it? Please?"

"Oh, sure, why not?" she answers sarcastically. "Let's just pretend that this never happened, shall we? After all, we're really good at that - pretending."

He watches her carefully as she turns back to her food, trying to work out what's going on in that complicated head of hers. It's obvious that she's spoiling for a fight, however, whether it's because she's upset about waking up in his bed, the fact that he refused to let her drag him back to it, or just because she's probably feeling as ill as he is this morning, he can't say. So he keeps quiet and concentrates on his breakfast; there's absolutely no reason why he should let her vent her frustrations out on him.

Suddenly, she gets up and rushes from the room and up the stairs. He sighs, and finishing up his breakfast, he clears away the dishes, and when she still hadn't reappeared, he goes to look for her.

"Ruth?" he says gently as he taps on the bathroom door. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Give me a minute." Her voice sounds strained but not weepy.

"I'll... um... okay. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"Okay."

A few minutes later, she appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently as he approaches her, spreading the tea towel he's just finished using over the back of a chair.

"Yes, I'm fine." He's watching her with concern again and it irritates her, reminding her of his reaction earlier, upstairs when she'd responded to it. "I'm fine," she reiterates sharply. "I shouldn't have eaten anything. That's all."

"Ah," he nods in sympathy, remembering his own stomach's revolt this morning. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she snaps. "I don't want your sympathy."

He takes a step back at her aggressive tone.

"Sorry," she murmurs, looking down at her hands and trying to rein in her temper. It's unusual for her to lose it like this, but she supposes that having a splitting headache, finding herself in Harry's bed with no recollection of how she got there, and having him reject her like that, qualify as extenuating circumstances.

"It's fine," he replies.

"I'd better go."

"I can give you a lift."

"No, thank you. I'll take the bus," she says firmly.

"Please," he insists. "It's the least I can do."

"No, Harry. The least you can do is explain," she replies as she looks up and meets his gaze.

Today, 12:30 am

"Lucas, I need your help. Take Harry home. He's absolutely wasted and I can't support his weight. I've already called a cab. It's outside."

"All right, Ros. I'll take care of it, but don't expect me to tuck him in bed."

"No tucking will be necessary, Lucas. Just shove him onto it. I'm sure he'll be fine."

He grins at her retreating back and walks up to Harry, who's slumped in a chair in the corner of the room. "Come on, Harry. I'm taking you home." Lucas gets a mumbled, unintelligible response before he pulls his boss up and shepherds him out of the room towards the waiting cab.