This is another Nicola Walker fic, again inspired by our ramblings with her. This will be a looooong and fluffyful, but gentle, fic. It's one of our favourite things we've done, so we hope you like it.

The door slides quietly to one side, just a gentle swish as it rolls across. He's so lost in sad contemplation that he doesn't even look up.

"Hi," she announces. It's gentle, and friendly and nervous all at once and, finally, he looks up.

"Hi," he sighs; the kind of sigh which comes from the depths of his soul, and lets her know, in no uncertain terms, his relief that it is her standing there, and no-one else.

"I, erm, just wanted to say…about Ros..." She slowly crosses the gap between the door and the desk, and he's too afraid - afraid that she might have come to judge him, too - to say anything. Instead, he holds his steady gaze on her and waits until she continues, "…that you were right." She swallows, trying to unstick the words from her dry mouth; there is so much more than this which needs to be said, but she can't. She just can't. "It isn't your fault Harry."

"Thank you." The words are quiet, almost swallowed by the room, and she's never heard him sound so humbled or so lost.

She nods, solemnly, and is struck by a sudden urge to protect him; to tell him it's ok. It's strange. She's normally the one feeling protected. She forces herself to smile, a melancholy upturning of her mouth in sympathy for him but, after the smile fades and falters, she's left feeling just as lost as he. There is a moment's indecision, where she fights against her compulsion to explain herself and to apologise, but she can't see how that will be of any comfort to him when he's already looking so defeated.

"Goodnight," she whispers, and her body is half-turned away before she gives into impulsiveness and gently touches her fingers to the bend of his arm, squeezing it with light reassurance. He looks up like a reflex action, their eyes meet and, for all the will in the world, she cannot break away from the gaze he holds her in; it's killing her and bringing her back to life in an instant and she doesn't know whether to fall into it or run away as fast as her legs will carry her. She draws breath, deep, clarifying breath, and with it comes a blink of her eyes. The look is broken, and she walks away while she still can, heading for the door.

"Ruth," he whispers; that tiny, lost sound again. She stops, but doesn't turn around, afraid of what she'll see, what she'll do, if she does. "Ruth."

She releases the door handle, hand dropping limply to her side in a gesture of surrender. She wonders, if she stays like this long enough, whether he'll just talk to her back so she doesn't have to face him, but she knows how unfair of her that is.

"Stay for a drink," he whispers. "Please."

Her posture sags as she turns around, weary with the effort of fighting him and fighting herself. A fragile heart and a brilliant, frightened mind trapped inside her and waiting to be healed if only she'll allow it.

"I, I ca-"

"As friends, Ruth. You're allowed to have friends," he whispers, "you need them in a business like this."

She nods, slowly, looking at some indeterminate spot between her feet and his desk.

"And we're friends, are we not?" His words are still soft, melancholy, but there is now an intimacy behind them that wasn't there before. He waits until she nods again. "A drink then," he murmurs, "between friends."

He pushes himself off the edge of his desk and slowly moves towards the drinks tray he keeps at the back of his office; he's very aware of her eyes following his every move and it both thrills and terrifies him that she has agreed to stay.

"You can come in, Ruth." She's still taking refuge by the door and he worries she will bolt at any second.

"No, it's too...too much," she whispers and grips the door tightly between her fingers when his shoulders sag. "I-I just...not here, that's all."

He smiles in understanding, just happy in the knowledge that she does want to share his company. "I know a good place."

"I'm not surprised," she says, quietly, but there is a teasing edge to her words that wasn't there before.

--

The bar is quiet as they enter and she's relieved to see that he looks as nervous as she feels when they find a table and seat themselves at it. The drinks are ordered and have arrived before either of them has actually spoken and, as he sips his whisky, Harry wonders if a hotel bar was the right place to bring her.

"It's nice here," she ventures, eventually, unable to bear the tense silence anymore. She knows what he is thinking and, for once, she isn't hung up about the implications of being in a hotel. The word 'friendship' has given her a refuge and she is gladly clinging onto it.

"Yes, it is."

"So, what do friends talk about?" she asks, after a long pause, and it makes him laugh. She is just as out of practice at this as he is.

"I'm not really sure," he admits, and they are able to share a smile. "Let's see...the weather? No, that's terribly dull and far too English, even for us..." he trails off and starts muttering different topics under his breath then discarding them just as quickly and, by the time he looks across at her, she is laughing, softly.

"You're laughing at me," he states, amused and enraptured by the way her eyes shine as she laughs. He hasn't seen that look on her face for a long time.

"Yes, I am."

His answering laugh is enough to make her feel giddy and playful, a dangerous mix around him, but she reminds herself they are just here as friends, nothing more. She's getting good at lying to herself. The ice has been broken though and they are once more able to skirt the invisible line between friendship and something indefinable. It's enough, for now.

Please review ... there is another 20,000 plus words awaiting you xx