It feels so warm when you are near,
You are all I want to feel
Tell me now, is this for real?
It's hard to breathe,
We're all lost and travelled high, cannot find my peace of mind
When the sun will rise again, we'll fly away

Epica-Linger

A single rose. One. The red contrasts strongly with the creamy paper. He runs his thumb down the water-colour stalk. He can almost imagine her picking it out of a quaint little shop somewhere in Pisa. He can almost imagine her sitting in a café with an expresso watching the world go by. He wishes he doesn't have to imagine. He wishes he could see. He wishes she were with him. He wishes the postcard was addressed from them to Adam.

He's living in a fantasy land. And he's locked inside.

"Malcolm."

"Yes?"

"Find out what this is really about."

"I'll come back to you in half an hour."

Time has never gone so slowly. He reads and re-reads the same email countless times. He looks at the clock on his desktop, 15 minutes. He looks again. It still resolutely decides that 15 minutes have gone by since he left the card with Malcolm. 15 minutes. 900 seconds. He's counted every one inside his head. Every single bloody one.

He picks up the heavy file someone has left pointedly on his desk. He takes one look at the endless pieces of paper shoved inside and decides to leave it 'til later. Special branch can bloody well analyse it themselves, they're not stupid. He unties and reties his shoes. He kicks the waste-paper bin. He opens and closes a drawer. He looks back at the clock; 17 minutes have gone by since he saw Malcolm, 1020 seconds since the card left his grasp.

A few moments pass in silence. Him slouching in his high-backed overly expensive chair staring at the door, willing it to open and reveal Malcolm and whatever hidden message she has betrothed apon him.

"Harry."

"Yes."

Malcolm places a plane ticket and a letter in front of him. "You're scheduled for the 3pm plane to Pisa, she'll pick you up there."

"Pisa?"

"Yes, it's all in the letter."

i Harry,

If you get this message then get onto the flight. You need to check in at Gatwick at 1pm, you have a business class ticket so get into the lounge until you're called. I'll meet you at the other end.

Please come, give my thanks to Malcolm for the legend, he's a star.

Mule

XXX

/i

He smiles, 'Mule', he'll never forget her sense of humour. And three whole kisses.

"Malcolm?"

"Yes."

"She and I say thank you."

"My pleasure"

He steps into the arrivals hall. His gaze sweeping the room as he looks for the searching grey eyes he had crazed for 11 months. He wonders what her name is now, he wonders what she does, he wonders who she is.

Then he sees them, the piercing storminess of her eyes meet the calamity that was his. They lock for a moment before she whispers his name. It sends a shiver down his spine in a way that only she could.

He walks towards her, each step regulated closely, so that it wasn't too fast or too slow. He wants it to be perfect. He wants perfection.

"Ruth." He whispers, cupping her face in his hands.

She laughs, "No-one's called me that for almost a year."

"What do they call you know then?"

"Maria."

"Pretty, you'll always be Ruth to me though."

"Just make sure that you call me Maria in public, Ruth's dead."

"Don't remind me."

He tilts her head up to face his; he presses his coarse lips to her soft, glossy ones. She immediately accepts his touch, melting into him, submitting to his command. She was never that stubborn.

They walk out of the airport with their arms linked. Their feet are synching into the same gait.

"So, what do you do now?"

"I write, and help out in my aunt's shop to pay for my apartment."

"Your aunt lives here?"

"Yes, across the river from me, she brought my flat in exchange for 2 days a week in her shoe shop."

"You write as well?"

"Yes, I've had one book published, it pushed the £10 000 float Malcolm gave me up to £50 000, which is more than enough, seeing as food's so cheap and I don't have rent to pay."

"Malcolm knows about you?"

"Yes, who else could get 'Maria Beatrice Cooper' a passport and a driving licence?"

"And the £10 000?"

"He took it out of Ruth's bank account and put it into Maria's."

"And he didn't tell me."

"I told him not to."

She stops abruptly, almost knocking him over, "We're here." She smiles at him before opening the door and beckoning him into the narrow hall.

52 steps and 2 stories later she slips the key into the lock and winces as the door screeches open. He follows her into the flat. It is made out of 3 rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. He trails after her into the pastel green bedroom. It is tall; the ceiling is well above the height of any British house. It is scarcely furnished with a wrought iron bed, painted white and the mint green covers match the walls exactly, the wardrobe is held against the wall by a chain attached to the top and a computer is crammed into the corner.

She pushes open the shutters and unlatches the window. The room is suddenly flooded with light. He walks over to stand next to her.

"It's beautiful." He breaths.

"I know, it's small but the view is amazing.

The sun is dancing on the river; the historic town is bathed in a celestial glow. It is as though God himself has touched the city.

His fingers lace into hers. She doesn't resist, she simply turns to face him, to gaze into his eyes. He kisses the tip of her nose; he feels her exhale against his Adam's apple. Her fingers slip out of his and wrap themselves around him, one stroking his hair, the over working its way down his back. His hands move too, one to brush the hair behind her ear, the other dancing an intricate waltz in-between her shoulder blades.

His lips move onto hers, the faintest of groans escapes her throat and she grips him tighter. He's never seen her like this before. He's never seen her so needy, so dependant.

They sidestep towards the bed; neither of them will remember this later. They're drunk – on each other.