This is my first SPOOKS/MI5 fanfic, so a little background seems in order. I came late to the party for SPOOKS, and am bereft to find that NETFLIX will stop streaming all ten seasons on February 1, 2015. Nevertheless, I have spent countess hours watching the shortened US versions, scouring chat rooms and fanfic sites, and must confess to a rather frightening obsession with Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed. Thank you BBC for that addiction. While I do not possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the show, I have been fascinated enough to venture back into the realm of writing fanfiction. In this, I hope to explore the darker aspects of Harry's affection for Ruth, that somewhat unrealistic sainthood attributed to her, and pursue the idea that, as stated by Peter Firth himself, Harry takes unfair advantage of Ruth's vulnerability. Personally, I'll admit to feeling entirely screwed with Ruth's death, and resent the idea that the audience can watch, even embrace, Adam and Ros love scenes, while a Ruth and Harry love scene was somehow not in the cards. Furthermore, I remain irritated every time Adam watches Ros via computer, post "death," but Harry is not allowed the same suggestion of devotion after Ruth's exile. Rant over, but, seriously, just please. Shout out to all of you who continue to write because, even with the dismal series ending, they must have done something right in the end, no?

"In the Land of Gods and Monsters,

I was an Angel,

Livin' in the Garden of Evil..."

-Lana Del Rey, Gods and Monsters

GODS and MONSTERS

Chapter One

She loathed these yearly exercises. Refresher training courses that made her feel inadequate in a way that she found difficult to recover from emotionally. That she was a desk spook was irrelevant, and Ruth found the exercises as humiliating as they were yet another moment for her to shine as, somehow, less than, deficient, different, brainy rather than sexy, introverted versus enticing.

Because they are mutually exclusive, of course.

Well, maybe just for her.

One of her professors, early on at Uni, once told her that she was an old soul, a deep roller, one who is so frighteningly perceptive that she was rather intimidating in intelligence. Which, at the time, she understood to mean off-putting, unattractive, even sexless, one lonely soul without the needs of her fellow souls...connection, tenderness, love...complete in her intellectual solitude.

Gazing at her reflection, she evaluates her appearance. The long skirt is...long, and despite it's soft, silky fabric, it effectively removes even the merest hint of her legs or bum, prudishly concealing their shape and form from anyone glancing her way. And her shirt is not the least bit coordinated, a slapdash selection with long, loose sleeves, plain in color, shapeless in form, her one concession to what anyone could loosely categorize as fashion, a necklace with an eclectic collection of charms, trinkets, but costume jewelry, nevertheless.

She remembers her mother's attention to her appearance, and as a doctor's wife, Ruth rationalizes that her attention to detail in that regard was rather to be expected, and not entirely a tendency towards self-absorbed superficiality. Maybe no, maybe yes. Either way, her mother had beautiful legs, enhanced by modest knee length pencil skirts and sensible, yet attractive pumps. Her father loved her mother's legs, shapely, decidedly feminine, everything about her screamed femininity, woman. Everything about Ruth screams inhibition, rolling deep, on her own, yearning from a shadowy corner, waiting for someone to notice, for someone to unlock her, the woman underneath the layers, hiding, vulnerable and wanting, so much so she aches, the deep throb of it as familiar as breathing to her over the years.

"You're no Coco Channel, " she sighs and resolves herself to failure, as she has every year since her secondment to the grid two years ago.

Why is it that the DG and Home Offices insist on acting as though every desk spook is just waiting for the opportunity to jump into the field? Is there some unreasonable, unfounded fear that the active female field agents are somehow diminishing in numbers? Or, they've decided, en masse, that the Honey trap is somehow an unsavory reflection of the service's misogynist streak? Truth be told, aside from herself, Ruth has yet to meet a female colleague who doesn't, in some form or fashion, enjoy baiting a honey trap, the ego boost and feeling of sexual control over the male species, and on very rare occasions, female, proving to be highly tantalizing, seductive. Within the annals of past female agents, there are legends still spoken of in hushed tones, with admiration and awe. Never mind that, if she's being honest, she is just waiting to jump into the field, and she, when given the opportunity, on a very limited basis, has proven to perform...adequately. But a legend, Ruth understands, she was never meant to be. At least not a Honey Trapping legend. No, her legendary status is firmly and actively cemented as an analyst, perhaps the best the service has yet seen. If there were another category reserved for Ruth Evershed, it would likely be her legendary failures as a honey trap.

Still, she knows she is not a trained, experienced field agent. She knows this. She is not in need of the yearly reminders these exercises force on her, leaving her empty, gut punched and nervous. Every time she enters the field, leaves the security of the grid, her desk, her contacts, her routine, limited occasions they may be, someone tries to kill her. Every time. No exaggeration, there, but simple, proven fact. If Zaf were running a book on how long it takes for "Operations Involving Ruth in the Field Going Tits Up," she wouldn't be surprised. She is, in fact, already painfully aware of the book on how long this year's honey trap with take her to bring to a successful conclusion, and no one is foolish enough to bank on one hour. She's not Jo, beautiful, strong, a doe-eyed deer released amongst the wolves. Or Fiona, an exotic pixie, so sexually confident she currently holds the record for fastest trap completion. And Ros. Ruth is hard pressed to define the collection of characteristics and attributes that makes Ros, well, Ros, and perhaps it's simply enough to conclude that Ros is successful because she is Ros, a species unto herself. But these colleagues are all field agents, the top in their shared field. It is doing herself a disservice to compare herself to them.

But she can't ignore Sam, and in the comparison, Ruth is left wanting, diminished, her quiet, shy demeanor all but eclipsed by Sam's effervescence, her robust lust for life, her vim and verve. And her success rate, year after year, rivals some inasmuch as Ruth's continues to astound in it's blatant ineptitude.

And, never one to refrain from inflicting the most negative of self-depreciations, Ruth muses on the newest development; Sam is no longer required to participate as an expectation of continued employment by the services. "She's a proven commodity," Juliet announced earlier. "Her talents are multifaceted, and as such, is excused as her success rate indicates practice to be superfluous for this exercise."

"As for you, Ruth, well it seems..."

Juliet droned on, ticking off, in detail, the numerous reasons for which she was not excused, and likely, she hinted, never would be. Ruth had the fleeting vision of Juliet, snuggled on her couch, whiskey in hand, tears running down her face as she laughs at the recordings of her two previous failed attempts, provided no doubt by some eager GCHQ foundling, promised a secondment over to Thames, who has little understanding that Juliet is nothing if not a self-promoting, borderline sociopath in nature and personality. Having thus been successfully manipulated, said foundling has already doomed their chances at the promised secondment. Not trustworthy with anything more than a black market dvd of one analysts' inability to do what any red-blooded woman on Earth is capable of, pull or be pulled from a pub.

She was acutely aware of several pairs of eyes on her, her face flushing in both frustration and humiliation, and couldn't bear the thought that everyone was, at that very moment, devising a means to avoid having to be the one saddled with overseeing her portion of the exercise, knowing all along that it would be Malcolm who would volunteer, because it was always Malcolm who sat through the hours it took until, concluding with a soft whisper in her ear, "That's done now, Ruth." So gentle and quiet, his words washing over her, releasing her from the task, allowing her to escape back to the grid, back into herself, back to solitude and safety, having failed to pull her assigned target.

She supposes that if she doesn't pull this off a third year in a row, that The Powers That Be will instruct Juliet to demand she return not only her spy card, but her woman card, as well. And perhaps that is why Juliet insists that Ruth continue, despite her lack of progress and mastery, as Ruth has long suspected that Juliet would love nothing more than to transfer Ruth back to GCHQ, exile her to Cheltenham, humiliation her weapon, and, Ruth firmly believes, Harry Pearce her trophy.

They had been lovers, torrid and passionate, matched well in ruthlessness, skill, biting wit and fearless courage. Gossip of their past, their numerous couplings despite marriages, their heated and sometimes violent disagreements, both public and private, color her mind every time Ruth is forced to interact with Juliet, causing a knot in her stomach she'd rather not contemplate, and a hopeless, wanting ache for the man she can't stop herself from contemplating.

"I'm going to need your measurements, Ruth. And your shoe size, " Juliet continues, visibly impatient, waiting, expecting Ruth to simply provide this information immediately, regardless of their audience. She can feel her face heating further under scrutiny, though to their credit, all but Juliet appear to be concentrating at the table in front of them. Only Jo quickly captures Ruth's eye, offering a slight smile of encouragement, understanding intuitively how very painful this entire meeting has been for her, before looking down at her notepad in front of her.

"Yes, um, I can get those to you once we've adjourned," Ruth begins but is quickly overruled.

"Now. Please." And the please, while presumably an attempt at being polite, is nevertheless, an afterthought. This is a demand, an immediate demand, and Ruth tries valiantly not to whither before her boss' boss, while providing her personal details.

"36-29-34," she breathes, hesitantly, but manages to maintain eye contact, secretly knowing it is a deliberate act on her part to avoid gauging reactions and discomfort emanating from those present around her. She doesn't see, but rather feels Harry adjust in his chair, beginning to drum his fingers on the table before him, whether from boredom, frustration, interest she could not, dare not guess.

"Hourglass, are we Ruth? Who would have known. And shoe size?" Her eyes sharpening, an infinitesimal shift, knowing the thinly veiled insult had struck home, and Ruth is certain that Juliet is deriving a great deal of pleasure from this entire interaction, not simply because she can't seem to control her mouth's need to curl slightly with every cutting comment, but because this all could have been handled without the entire team being present, in Harry's office, just the three of them. And every single person present knows this, there is no doubt on that score.

Though, truth be told, she knows that she would have had just as much difficulty discussing this, being subject to this, with only Harry to observe. In fact, if she's honest, it quite possibly would have been worse. If she wanted Harry to know her measurements, then she would tell him herself, even better, let him know them by experience, his hands feeling their way around her flesh, her curves, the soft and pliable places she hides from everyone, but would, if given the chance, if possessing the courage, reveal to him, for him, to do with what he wishes, to touch, caress, lick...

Blood hell...

"I'm sorry, Juliet, what did you-"

"Shoe. Size. Please, Ruth, make an effort to keep up as we need to move this along at something rather faster than a glacial pace, dear," tilting her head to one side, eyebrow slightly raised, challenging a lesser animal, daring her to take issue.

"Seven and a half." And Ruth uncharacteristically decides to take the bait.

"May I ask why this is necessary? I've not had to...before we just went to the assigned pub and...performed, um, as expected..." the last verbal stumble betraying to all Ruth's vulnerability and exposure. She took comfort in the sideways glance towards her from Ros who, upon catching her eye, nodded in her direction, a discrete offer of support in Ruth choosing to question Juliet's intentions rather than remain mute, curled within herself, waiting impassively for whatever was to come.

"Yes, well, I think we can all agree that some of us performed as expected better than others, eh Ruth? And this exerci-"

"And then some of us would have the good taste not to mention it at all. Guess that's down to breeding...some of us have it." Smiling sweetly, Ros casually crosses her legs, her attention on Juliet, penetrating, and to Ruth's eyes, as deliberately provoking as unnerving. Beside her, Harry begins to strum his fingertips lightly again, and Zaf barely conceals his amusement, placing his hand over his mouth to contain his smile, though the crinkles by his eyes rather give him away.

Ruth would have hugged them all, but chose instead to bestow Ros a cautious smile, delicate and tentative, her eyes full of appreciation, never expecting she would prove willing to stand up for her, a mouse, weak and overly cautious.

And Ros, for her part, regards Ruth with equal caution, knowing that without her quiet guidance, her moral objections, more than a few of them would be lost, regardless of how annoyingly frequent those moral objections come to the fore, oftentimes undermining and distracting those same colleagues from the end game they play in the course of a work day. At cross purposes they may often find themselves, but Ros wasn't about to watch Juliet continue to dissect, with deliberate and painful precision, the psyche of a valued member of her team.

"This exercise, as I was saying, will be conducted within an active operation. In fact, your current active operation. We're thinking, " pausing, placing her index finger on her bottom lip while looking up, searching for the words, the phrase which would best suit, best harm and maim, refusing to take the bait Ros placed before her, "Well, that the lack of motivation is the problem. Specifically, Ruth's problem. And we believe, no, we know that a person of Ruth's superior focus, her attention to detail, her intellect," pronouncing the word with as much distaste as one reserves for pedophilia, "Needs motivations beyond a game, beyond fake exercises and routines."

"Ah, the royal we is it?" Speaking in a low voice, and to those attune to it, forecasting Harry's potential, brimming volatility.

"Amazing what those that sit comfortably behind desks, enjoying the security we provide them, can come up with." His focus on Juliet, eyes narrowed, prepared to spar and scar, if needs must. "The mind simply reels with awe, such a finely tuned machine the collective We are. However would the lesser of us manage without your finely tuned minds?"

"Hope that you never have to find out, Harry. Might I remind you that it is at our pleasure that you serve." Her chin at an upward angle, looking down her nose at Harry, his face the very picture of control, calm and collected. Casual in it's mockery of her. Harry Bloody Pearce.

"And may I remind you, Juliet, that it is at Her Majesty's pleasure, as well. Let us also not forget, while we trip down memory lane, that I am one of a very select few that knows where the bodies are hidden. Even a few of yours."

"That...threat, Harry, is beginning to wear thin," the uncertainty in her eyes belying the smile masking her face. I still want this man, this bloody fucking man, who made me cry out, who made me wet just by looking at me.

"If you two are done with your...pissing contest, it's a draw by the way, perhaps we could get on with the details, because, and I don't think I'm alone in this, the sooner we get this done, the better," Adam interrupts, placing his hands before him, leaning forward onto the table, reclaiming the high ground for the team at large.

Minutes pass, Ruth fidgets, Harry and Juliet continue to hold each other's stare, cold and unyielding both, but it is Malcolm, staring beyond at nothing in particular, silently praying to himself that he's not about to commit professional suicide, who unexpectedly begins.

"Perhaps, if I may, a deal might be struck? One in which everyone wins, the home office, the team, and...and Ruth," eyes settling on her gently, asking her silently to trust him in this.

Picking up the straw provided by his colleague, Adam encourages Malcolm to elaborate, "Please, what do you have in mind?"

All eyes turn as Malcolm describes his proposition, the details of which are loosely built on by the team, each contributing in turn, interjecting, adding, eliminating, altering to suit, the cohesiveness of the exercise a testament to their loyalty, their professional commitment to the other, even the most fragile of them, each doing their best to both help and protect Ruth from further assault, further humiliation.

Her love for them all, private and rarely expressed wells up in her, expanding her heart, providing the courage she needs, the belief that she can. These people, each as exceptional as they are damaged, are her family, the mirror by which she judges herself, the nest within which she finds comfort. And it occurs to her that perhaps they are all deep rollers, together, lost without.

"Do you think you can work within this, Ruth? Is this...doable to you?" Her eyes bright with the interaction, the hashing of details, Jo, whose eyes are the undoing of most, pleading with Ruth to accept their help, trust them to not let her fail, and fall, a third time, "Yes?" Nodding to emphasize her belief, her absolute confidence that Ruth can pull this off.

How could she say no? How could she possibly give voice to her nagging, yet solidly founded doubts and fears in the face of their collective onslaught of support and confidence? Their faith in her was clear, and in the deepest, darkest recesses of her subconscious, Ruth listened to the voice which whispered, Do it. Do it to prove you can. Do it to feel, if only for a few moments, in control of more than data, information. Meeting everyone's eager gaze, Ruth nodded in agreement.

She smiles as her eyes finally come to rest on Harry, his supple mouth returning her smile.

Quietly, seductively, the voice whispers,

Do it. Take what you want.

Any interest? Continue, or cut bait and lurk? Give me your thoughts if you've the time and inclination...