Ruth was asleep.

Two wired nights of adrenalin fuelled worry had taken their toll and as much as she wanted to stay conscious, her brain would not allow it and so it shut down.

But there was no escape from Harry, he was in her fragmented dreams: dreams of horror and hurt and all the things left unsaid.

She had wanted to go to Suffolk, but Lucas had persuaded her that if Harry was no longer there, then she needed to be here, to begin the search again.

When the comms sprang open, her eyes followed suit, her breath stalling in her lungs as the news began to filter through.

xx

Now it was time for his eyes to open, but his was a rather slow, more pained process. But at the end of it was the balm.

"Ruth," he whispered wearily.

She stood above him.

"How do you feel..." she asked, "... or is that a silly question?"

"How do I look?"

"You've looked better," she said gently and she would have reached out and taken his hand but both were bandaged, as were his wrists.

"Is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

He tried to smile, but felt the effort twinge across the muscles of his cheek.

"No, Ruth, I don't believe there is?"

She looked at his face, the viscous black eye, the cut across the bridge of his nose, the harsh bruising around his jaw. And then she leant in to the full, soft, unharmed lips.

And she kissed them.

It was beyond gentle, verging on the featherlight.

"Perhaps just there?" she said.

"There feels fine," he answered, overwhelmed with both surprise and elation.

She stroked a tiny bit or hair away from his forehead and he exalted and relaxed in the touch.

"The fault was never yours, Harry" she whispered. "It was mine... And for that, I'm sorry."

But when she looked back, he was asleep.


it should be simple but it's them. So a mix of angst and fluff to come.