I very clearly and concisely do not own Spooks/MI-5. I just am one of those obsessed Netflix watchers who has had a moment of, "HOLY CRAP OMG WHAT? Why did I not watch this much earlier?" and began watching and dragging everyone down with me. This is my first fic in this 'verse, so please be kind and rewind, don't crucify me for getting it wrong (if I do, as a stupid nattering American). I've stayed with the Americanized spelling and punctuation, as it's what I know, and again, be patient. This story carries an M rating for language and adult situations (including sex, flashbacks, violence, etc.), so please don't read if this offends you in any way, shape, or form.

Our Little Piece of Heaven
by Scintillating Tart
July 2014 -

One:
A Faded Green Door

There was a moment of disconnect, of panic, when the cold was displaced by a sense of warmth and the sun shone down on her. She looked around, no longer on a battered, abandoned base on the coast in the middle of nowhere, but found herself to be standing in a tiny patch of sunshine just outside the door of the house in Suffolk that she was going to buy.

The door was green, kind of a hunter green, faded and peeling around the edges; a battered remnant of a former life, much like Ruth herself. Maybe that's why she liked it so much. Maybe that's why she could never have given up the name Evershed completely – because it was a piece of her that was battered and fading in the sunlight and the salty sea air. It was a reminder of the pieces of who she was and how far she had come.

But how far had she come, then? Farther than she'd thought, obviously. Everything here was shiny and new, bright and happy, except that door. It was tangible, this reminder that she was fallible like everyone else. That she had broken in her last task. She was the faded door, battered and weathered, her heart broken and bleeding – and the truth would not set her free.

Somehow, she knew she was dead. She had to be. But this couldn't be heaven – it had to be a waystation along the way. She couldn't be so lucky as to find her way here, the only place she'd ever actually found any peace in her life. The only place she would have given her everything to have.

She hesitated before the green door, knowing that if she went inside, it might change everything. Who knew what lay beyond? She was dead, and god knew that she had seen and performed such acts to be judged for – things that no amount of church-going and choir-singing could atone for. Which is why in the last year, she had given them up for Lent; and then some. Her prayers were for god's ears alone, a whisper of desperation to atone for her wicked deeds. It was the only way she might forgive herself, let alone be forgiven.

Her hand found the doorknob and she opened the door, breathing deeply of the musty air inside – it was like this house had been waiting for her, waiting for the point in her life that this made sense. In life, it hadn't been musty; it had had a bright, fresh smell of hydrangea and roses, sea air and softness. But in death, it was musty and dank; much like Ruth's own soul had become. It hurt to know that, in the end, she had sacrificed everything and had come away with nothing to show for it. Nothing but this.

She pushed forward, past the shuttered sitting room and into the kitchen, determined that if she had to face her devils, at least she could have a proper cuppa to fortify herself. The thought of going upstairs crossed her mind, but she couldn't do it. Not now. Not without him.

Harry Pearce: her downfall, even in death.

She stepped through into the kitchen, somehow unsurprised to see Ros sitting at the table with a pot of tea on the ready. It should have been a shock, but it wasn't. Death apparently played by different rules. "Ros," Ruth greeted quietly.

Ros looked up and smiled, but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "Hello, Ruth," she said softly, her voice smoothed by time in this place, by contemplation of a life lived and wrongs righted – or maybe it was just Ruth's imagination running away with her. After all, they were in the afterlife. Anything was possible, and god knew Ros was just as wicked and evil of a creature as Ruth had been. "So, this is your little patch of heaven? Mine is a stupid little flat in Bristol – I spent the happiest days of my life there. They razed the building when I was twelve, not that it matters." She poured a cup of tea for the both of them.

"I never thought it would come to this," Ruth said quietly. "I thought… I thought that we'd be happy. That some good would come out of everything we'd done."

"We've saved thousands of people," Ros said softly. "Thousands of people walk through their lives, ignorant of just how they managed to be alive in the first place. We played god and won them some time, Ruth."

"But at what cost?" Ruth challenged. "Our own lives?" She looked down, expecting to see a gaping wound and a patch of blood, but there was nothing. "I guess scars don't exist here."

Ros smiled ruefully. "Only the mental ones," she said. "I can tell you died in horrible confliction by the state of this house. And only you can change it." There was a long pause, and she added, "Starting with that god awful door."

Ruth glared at her for a moment, then relaxed and reached for the cup of tea. "If this place is heaven, why are we here?" she asked. "We've done enough to earn a ticket straight to hell."

"Because it's not heaven like you think heaven will be," Ros said, brushing her blonde wispy bangs back. "You think heaven is cherubs and angels and floating in the sky. But really, heaven is peace. Heaven is forgiveness and the peace that comes from it. You have to forgive yourself."

Ruth smiled, the gesture rueful and deprecating at the same time. "I cannot forgive myself for many of the things I've done, Ros – how could you?" she asked.

Ros chuckled. "I haven't yet. But my sins are many and yours, I'm sure, are much fewer."

Ruth shook her head and took a sip of her tea. It was perfect: not too hot, not too cold, not to milky or sweet or anything. It was perfect. Of course heaven would have absurdly perfect tea to go along with her litany of self-abuse. "I don't know about that, Ros – I really don't," she murmured. "I'm not the person you think I am. I'm not just mousy Ruth pining away for Harry Pearce in the corner. I've done things. Bad things. Things that I'm not sure I can forgive myself for."

Ros reached across the table and held Ruth's hand. "Tell me," she said softly. "Tell me your darkest secret, Ruth. It's the only way to set things right."

The sunshine was gone in a flash, replaced with rain. Ruth felt overwhelming sadness begin to wash over her as she contemplated her life, and she settled on the one thing she could never have shared with Ros in life. She took a deep breath and licked her lips. "My name isn't Ruth Evershed. At least not originally. I was born Catherine Newcombe and… and… Harry and I are secrets wrapped in lies wrapped in half-truths, Ros." Her hand clenched around the mug – a pretty little mug that had long since been destroyed, splintered into bits and swept into the rubbish.

Ros said, "I never thought you were mousy, Ruth," encouraging her to continue.

The story tumbled out, how Catherine had been married to a burly Irishman straight out of university – an Irishman with a temper and a love of bombs. He'd been an amazing fit in the NRA, and beating his wife senseless was just part of the fun. She had been mousy at the time, quietly spoken and terrified of invoking his wrath, scared that anything she would have done could have set him off.

And then James Mitchell had moved in across the hall of their squalid little flat and he was everything that Sean O'Connell was not – a gentleman, a sweet man, who would help her carry up her shopping bags, who would bring her sweets and small trinkets.

Sean found Catherine with James' copy of Ulysses one night – a book that he'd taken from her and burned, citing that women didn't need to fill their minds with nonsense when all that they were good for was cooking, cleaning, and fucking – and he beat her to a bloody pulp. Barely able to see out of her left eye, she had taken to the stairs, trying to escape, only to fall headlong down the flight. How long she'd been unconscious was up for debate, but James was at her side in the hospital, not Sean. Sean was off god knows where making god knew what plans to blow something up and kill people – but the damage had already been done. He had murdered his own child in his cold blooded rampage.

Nothing was the same after that. When she'd recovered enough, James took her home and tucked her away. Sean knew that to touch her again was to invite certain death – James had made that perfectly clear when he'd brought her back, going so far as to provoke Sean's temper and wave a gun in his face.

And Catherine found herself going across the hallway and confessing all kinds of things like overhearing Sean and his friends' plans. She couldn't go to the police – she knew that they would take her into custody, too, and she had nothing to do with it. Any of it. But James was safe, and he didn't judge her: he just protected her. And loved her.

My god, did he love her. In every possible way and position and – and she wasn't even slightly ashamed of fucking a man that wasn't her husband. Her husband had forfeited the right to touch her ever again. Her afternoons with James were full of passion and desire, and he made her feel like a beautiful woman who meant something to him.

Sean came home one night, took one look at her kiss-swollen lips, and grabbed her by the throat, squeezing until she couldn't fight him, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. She kicked and flailed, desperate to breathe, and the door flew open. Seven men came in, led off by James, their guns drawn and ready to fire. He released her, throwing her at James, and attempted to get away. The hail of bullets was her worst nightmare for years – choking for air, knowing that she was so close to death, the sound of gunfire pounding around her, tearing up the night.

His real name wasn't James and he wasn't in love with her. His name was Harry Pearce, he worked for MI-5, and he could hide her away from the NRA. She didn't question him, just took the name of her dead sister – Ruth – and her mother's maiden name – Overshed – and became someone else altogether. He offered her a job as an analyst in his division: Section D. She took it and never looked back.

Ruth rubbed her temples and looked up at Ros. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. For lying. For… being someone I'm not. But I can't go back."

Ros reached out and took her hand. "Look at the window, Ruth," she whispered. "The sun is back."

Did you need to sleep in heaven? Ruth asked herself, suddenly exhausted. She'd been alone a long time with her thoughts after Ros had left, and those thoughts were not stellar. Her life was a parade of mistakes and lost chances. Why would Harry want her after all of that? Why?

She'd broken them at the beginning, crippled them in a way that could never be repaired. And yet, despite all of her sins, this was the only one that meant something. A betrayal so stark she could never forgive herself, let alone hope that he would forgive her.

Ruth collapsed onto the divan and closed her eyes, wishing that the afterlife was rainbows and kittens and the happiness she'd never gotten in life, instead of this dismal hell of her own making.

END PART ONE