Author's Note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. They really help motivate me to continue…I'm sorry for the delay in updating, but 'tis the season for real-life craziness…not entirely sure of this one, but here goes…
She settled in behind her desk, preparing for a late night ahead, as she tried desperately to push this morning's gaffe from her mind. The Grid was dim, and most everyone had gone home except for those few who monitored the overnight surveillance or who, like herself, were trying against all odds to catch up on their backlog. She saw a form approaching her out of the corner of her eye. Her prayers went unanswered, as she realized with horror that is was Harry. Bracing herself for the inevitable, she was shocked when her boss placed a steaming mug on her desk.
"You are in a difficult position, and I made it that much harder for you today. I'm sorry."
She was dumbstruck. Harry Pearce, the lion of the Service, was apologizing – to her. Gone were the rage and frustration and hostility, and now his eyes were only filled with something like resignation.
"I didn't mean…I shouldn't have…" she stumbled.
"No. You were right…to a point," he paused, carefully framing his next words.
"I hope that this won't change your mind, about staying, I mean. It's been awhile since we've had a decent analyst."
"But I thought…"
"If I sacked everyone who disagreed with me, it would be a very quiet around here, believe me."
There was the slightest of glimmers in his eye, but it was gone in a flash.
"Don't stay too late." He turned on his heel rather abruptly, and she could've sworn she heard a sigh as he walked away.
It was later when he was at home, glass of wine in hand, that he allowed himself to think on the day's events and his new analyst. Ruth's replacement, Debra Langham had said, and he had never wanted to strangle her more in that moment then he did then. As if anyone could replace her. He wondered idly if they chose Emma because she was the opposite of Ruth: tall and blonde and naïve. To be fair, this time they had at least sent over someone who was at least competent enough to do the job. Erin had rearranged the desks on the Grid and he had been supremely annoyed at the time, but now he was grateful. It was even money what was worse – to see her empty station or someone else working there. In the heat of this morning's argument on the Grid, she had mentioned Ruth, the first time anyone had dared to utter her name (at least in his presence) in months, and he lost his temper spectacularly.
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The weak morning light filtered through his curtains, which twitched periodically with an early spring breeze through the open window. He languidly pulled the blankets over his shoulders, steadfastly refusing to open his eyes. She haunted him always, but it was in these moments between sleep and wakefulness that he felt closest to her; a warmth beside him, an almost imperceptible softness. There were times when her voice would wash over him, and others when all was silent except for the sound of his own heartbeat.
"Let me go, Harry."
"Not while I draw breath."
Inevitably, the phone would ring and the moment would be broken. Some days were better than others. Loneliness was nothing new to him, and he had grown used to the weight of the grief that had settled into his heart. There were times when, despite reminders of her all around him on the Grid, he was so busy he rarely thought of her. Until, at least, the threat had passed and he could swear she was there, looking at him with those eyes, part admiration and part condemnation for the choices he had to make.
The weekends were the worst. There were just too many empty hours, too much time to do nothing but think. He forced himself into an uneasy routine, a pantomime of normalcy. He would briefly tidy up, do some shopping, head home for lunch and a book. Sometimes he would drive for hours with no particular destination in mind, and wonder which views would be her favourite. Other times he would go to the gym and pound punching bags until his body was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms. The, after the hottest shower he could possibly stand, he would collapse in bed, spent, hoping she would haunt his dreams again.
