[I don't own Spooks or anything important.]

It was their fourth date and she was late; which he knew for a fact was unusual for her. He had watched her come to work, each day 20 minutes early, for some time now. The back of his mind registered some minor worry about her whereabouts but he drowned them out by sipping on the white burgundy he had just ordered for them.

She spotted him, sat at the back, leisurely waiting for her. She rushed over, navigating herself around the full tables. He went to speak as she arrived but his moment was lost in the flurry of words that tumbled from Ruth's mouth. 'I'm, so, so sorry. I ended up at the Market… you know on Olga street, and there was this wonderful woman, next to the man who sells the spices you know on the right hand side? And there was this French woman was selling French books, and it's been such a long time since I spoke French, real French and we got talking and I'm so sorry, I-I just completely lost track of-' She managed to stop herself for long enough to see him smiling. 'George!' she admonished as he laughed freely at her flushed cheeks and book laden arms.

'Stop apologising.' He raised himself from his seat and kissed her softly on her blushing cheeks. She responded with an awkward smile and a small pat on his arm. Even after all these months, she still wasn't used to his European ease. Freeing herself of her bag she sat down.

'I hope you don't mind. I… ordered for us?' At his insistence they always spoke English when alone, her Greek needed no improvement but his English was slower and each statement seemed to end in a question. She finds his hesitancy comforting; its balances out her rambling bursts of information and gives her time to think. They can both weigh up every sentence before speaking; the tense, the grammar, the meaning, the subtext.

She raises the glass to her nose, a question playing softly across her lips. He replies; 'White burgundy.'

She felt herself trying to breathe in and out at the same time. He watched her mouth contort slightly and her hand shakily lower the wine glass. For a second she was still smiling almost, a breath escaped her like a laugh but her eyes were moist.

'Ruth? What? I - ?' But she was already standing.

'I'm – I'm so. I'm sorry. I have to… bye George.'

She knew she shouldn't just leave but somehow she was still walking out of the restaurant, into the hot town air. She knew she should take the time to explain but she didn't think she could find the words. Finally she found herself coming to a stop. She stood on the pier, looking out towards the ocean, unsure how much time was passing. Her hair danced around her face in the light wind, and she gripped on to the railing, not moving a hand to wipe her tears.

When she finally noticed his presence, she took a minute more to steady herself before turning to him, expecting anger or annoyance. His eyes instead were filled with concern, patience and understanding.

'I'm so sor-' 'No apologies Ruth.' His voice was calm and he slowly closed the gap between them without touching her.

She looks him full in the face and tries to find the words. Her face frowned by concentration. 'It was just, oh god, it's so stupid… the wine… I should explain…'

'Ruth. I know that look that you had, on your face when I said what wine.' He's speaking slowly but Ruth can tell it's not just because he's searching for the translation. She's never seen him like this, vulnerable. 'You know, about my wife. I get that look when… a woman will come into the hospital and she will be wearing same perfume, my wife wore always… I reminded you of something painful and for that, I apologise.'

She moves her hand to his arm as he speak and strokes it. He looks almost as though he might cry but there's a barrier stopping him. 'It was long ago now, so that I don't feel sad for her every day but there are moments and things; that perfume, a lemon pie she always made, I don't walk down a certain street – it is where we had our first kiss. There is a colour of nail… nail paint she wore. When I hear Frank Sinatra, times when Nico asks a question like she did… those times, it is hard for me. I saw when you began at the hospital, you were sad but I did not know why – you lost someone too Ruth?'

She considers the implication of his question, this man whose wife truly died. But he hadn't asked if he was dead, George had asked if she's lost someone; and she had. 'White burgundy was the drink we drank on our first date.' She admits smiling through her pain. 'I've managed to avoid it for a year now…'

'What else reminds you of him?' When she frowns and begins to shake her head, he steps forward and put his hands to her hips, holding her still. 'It helps, sometimes, to talk. And it will help me? To know what to… what to, τι να αποφύγετε…'

'Avoid. What to avoid.' She takes a minute to speak; she has to deconstruct walls she's built for the past year, remove the barriers that stop her from thinking of her old life, of London, of him.

'Whisky… and white burgundy. I don't read the international section in the newspapers; I can't hear about… about London. Shakespeare reminds me, he used to quote… Opera, classical music and… Europop.' She laughs at herself, at her memories. 'Persuasion, I can't read that now. Leather gloves. Charlie Chaplin films. I don't ever want a cat again… The smell of this particular brand of aftershave, I don't know which but if I ever smelt it again, I'd know. Tea… sweet tea. I can't watch cricket or rugby… not that I ever did before... Belgian chocolates; the colour, its... I don't like standing on roofs… And Paris.'

The last one is the hardest to say; the city which had always symbolised so much promise to her. But she finds that she isn't breaking down or crying after making her list. She feels as if something has opened up inside her and she smiles up at George.

'I thought… I thought I'd had been locking those things out of my life. But I've just been… locking them in.' His smile is so gentle, and he takes her hand.

'I can't promise that you will never hear europop on a radio when you walk by and feel sad. But I promise to you that I will never make you sweet tea, buy you Belgian chocolates or say Shakespeare to you.'

She takes his other hand, so relieved and desperate to comfort him as her has her. 'And I won't sing Frank Sinatra… or bake you lemon pie. But if Nico smiles like… like his mother did; and you want a moment alone, George, I won't ever hold that against you.' She is looking up into his tanned, soft face. She looks away for a second, overpowered by the openness she finds there but then she finds the strength to be brave for once.

'I know… I know you'll always love…'

'Sofia' he says her name so lovingly, the way he used to say hers.

'Sofia. I don't want to take that away from you or Nico, I just want to try to make you happy. Is that enough?' She's asking him now, baring herself more than she ever has done because she's safe in the knowledge that she'll never be everything to him; he'll never expect her to be completely honest or completely there.

'It's more, more than I should ask.' His hand strokes her face and he wants to kiss her but she's grown too still and he knows that it's too soon after talking about her lost one, so instead he holds her hands and turns with her to face the ocean. 'You don't have to forget him you know.'

And she knows that. But she knows that she will bury him again. Bury him deep and far so that she can live this simple life with George and Nico. Bury him so she can do what he asks and look after herself.

They spend some time stood there, hands entwined, very still. It grows colder and later and they know George has to get back to Nico. He takes her had to lead her away but just before she takes her eyes away from the ocean she says, very softly;

'Harry… His name was Harry.' George nods and then they turn together back to the city, back to now and to back to each other.