"Ruth...?"
She looked up to see him standing at his office door.
"I was just about to go," she said.
He winced and leant against the frame for support.
It was enough.
"Can I get you some painkillers?" she asked, entering the office, watching him hobble back towards his chair.
"I think I've already had my share," he sighed wearily, giving up and perching on the desk.
He nodded for her to sit, which reluctantly she did.
"We need to talk about yesterday."
She stood.
"Ruth, please."
"Harry, I'm fine."
"You need to talk to someone," he persisted, "If not to me, or a councilor, then perhaps Jo?"
"There's nothing to say."
"This is not just something you can pretend didn't happen, Ruth."
"Who's pretending?!"
"You are! By insisting you're fine."
"I am fine!"
There was a hiatus where neither spoke. Ruth took a deep calm breath.
"Harry, I made the decision. It was my choice. No one forced me."
He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off.
"No, I didn't want it, of course I didn't. And yes, he was a repulsive man and I'm glad he's dead. But he did nothing to me that I didn't accede to. Trust me, I've had worse dates!"
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"Ask half the women in the country and they'll tell you they've been forced into something they didn't want."
"Not with a gun to their throats!"
"No, that was admittedly new," she conceded, "but this..." she gestured around her, "...this is what we do. What you did and what I did are no different. We both used sex for our own purposes, for the job. You for crucial information, me, to save your life. That's it. And if I had to do the same thing again I would, because I still can't think of another way to have stopped him from shooting you. And trust me, at the time it seemed like a good idea!" "
"It was and I'm thankful for it, truly I am," he acknowledged, "but I should have found a way to stop him."
"Is this about me, or your guilt, Harry?" she challenged.
He stared at her, nonplussed.
Her raised eyebrows offered up only questions. But he appeared to have no answers.
"Tell me…" she prompted, "If you could have found another way to get the information from Zofira, would you?"
"You know I would, Ruth," his voice was truly genuine, "And yes, I feel guilt," he admitted, "Guilt that because of me, she's dead. But most of all guilt that you had to make the decision you did and that I couldn't protect you."
"Protect me! You chauvinistic -"
"No, not because you're a woman," he protested before hesitating, "... because it was you."
"So it's fine for Ros?!" she exploded.
"Yes! No! You know what I mean!"
"I should be wrapped up in cotton wool and not be one of the team!?"
"You are one of the team, Ruth, of course you are."
He sighed a deep, fatigued sigh, his hand subconsciously rubbing at his leg.
"All I'm trying to say, admittedly not well, is that sometimes, and I know this from experience, when things seem fine, when you think you're okay… you're not."
"Well, on this occasion I am!" she declared defiantly.
"It's when you're alone, or at night, or even some random unexpected moment when suddenly it hits you and the panic rises in your chest and something that shouldn't affect you does," he looked at her gently, "and I just want you to be prepared for that."
Ruth was still not in the mood for gentle or sympathetic.
"So you're saying I'm just a ticking time bomb waiting to go off in the office?" she spat, "With no idea of the trigger, could be a cup of tea, the phone ringing, someone whose name begins with a 'K'?!"
"Of course not," he said, "but it might happen when you feel trapped, or when someone gets too close to you...when you're touched unexpectedly."
"Fine, touch me!" she demanded.
"What?"
"Touch me. See if I go off the deep end."
His eyes rolled to the ceiling at the stubborn, bloody mindiness of the woman. He took a calming breath and very slowly lifted his hand, his fingers delicately wrapping around hers.
"There," she said, triumphantly, "still sane. No danger to the grid!"
"Ruth, that isn't what I mean and you know it."
It was her turn to roll her eyes.
"Look, I just want the best for you, whether that's here on the grid, or personally."
"Oh, it's personal now?" she jibed, shrugging off his hand.
"It's always personal," he said quietly.
"If I don't lose it at work I might in my home life, is that what you're saying?"
"Most of what I'm saying, you're not hearing."
"So what? If I get into a relationship, I might be psychologically scarred?"
"Possibly," he acceded.
"Right, then kiss me."
"Ruth, please," he protested.
"I mean it Harry, kiss me, let's test the theory, you know, just in case I'm inundated with men at home and then freak out!"
"I don't want to kiss you like this," he said quietly.
"Kiss me," she insisted, "Please."
And there was something in the 'please': something hurt and needy; something plaintive; something that had moved beyond the belligerent; something…someone who needed treasuring.
His eyes fixed on hers, full of love and care and uncertainty but he stepped forward, his face close to hers and yet he didn't move further, letting her get used to the proximity, giving her time to stop him.
She did not stop him.
She felt the anger diminishing, replaced by a quiet desperation for comfort and safety and him.
His right hand lifted to her face, his thumb barely brushing the tiny hairs of her cheek. Eventually, slowly, delicately, his lips drifted to hers and kissed her with all the gentleness and care he could muster. A beautiful, loving kiss.
When he finally pulled away, he spoke quietly.
"If you need somewhere to run to, somewhere to hide, I am always here, Ruth…always."
Her face was suddenly a little lost. She nodded once and slowly walked towards the door.
"Could we go somewhere and talk Harry?" she said, still not turning.
"Whatever you want, Ruth."
He saw her nod again and then she crossed the grid and picked up her coat.