Saturday, 24th May 2003 – The Grid

The Grid is a disaster zone and though a full technical crew has been working on it non-stop since they left for a late lunch at the George, at first glance it appears like they've made but little progress in the gargantuan task of fixing all the damage wrought by his team during EERIE. As he wades through the wreckage to get to his office, he can't help but fume at the short-sightedness of an exercise that has resulted in such destruction to the base of operations of the Counter Terrorism department. Who needs foreign agents and terrorists when MI-5 is capable of undermining their own effectiveness like this?

It hadn't been his decision to take what should have been a routine exercise to such extremes, but though he'd voiced his objections as loudly as he could, his arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Most of the other Section Heads and members of the JIC had reacted with glee at the prospect of such a vigorous test of his officers' mettle, though he's sure that, if it had been their sections put under the microscope, they wouldn't have been nearly as keen. And though he feels great pride in the way his officers handled themselves and the situation, and the strength of Tom's leadership, he can't help but worry about the consequences. His Section Chief has not been himself lately – since that unfortunate business with the woman and the child – and he worries that the strain he's been through today might prove too much for him.

"What's done is done," he mutters to himself as he slips into his office and closes the door behind him. At least this part of the Grid has mercifully been spared from assault by his officers on their quest for a connection to the outside world. He utters a few choice words under his breath to characterise the people who came up with the parameters for this test. Destroying the Grid in an exercise, not to mention the emotional strain put on his team, seems like a particularly stupid thing to do – God only knows how long it'll take to make the space serviceable again so they can get on with the very important job of actually protecting the country, rather than just playing at it.

He purses his lips in distaste before walking over to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a good measure of whisky, needing the fortification despite the fact that he's only just returned from the pub where the last two hours have been spent snacking on pub food and drinking, while simultaneously hobnobbing with the members of the evaluation committee and touching base with each member of his team to personally convey his congratulations on a job well done and smooth any ruffled feathers. They've done him proud – all of them.

He takes a sip of the Scotch and sighs in contentment before carrying it over to his desk where he sits down at his computer to compile his report, wishing to get it done while it's still fresh in his mind, knowing that tomorrow there'll be precious little time for it. He wants to be present for his officers' debriefings and will also have the dubious pleasure of being debriefed himself by the evaluation committee, and probably in the presence of the DG.

He takes another sip of his drink and puts on some music to drown out the sound of the work happening outside his inner sanctum before he begins to type up his thoughts, his work absorbing him until, both his account of today's events and observations, and his drink are finished. He clicks save and leans back, running his hand over the back of his head to his neck when he attempts to massage away the tension as he lifts his eyes to the windows that look out upon the Grid, his hand pausing as his gaze alights on Ruth. She's sitting at her station, headphones covering her ears while she types away at her computer, seemingly oblivious to the activity around her, perhaps wishing like him to get writing her report over with, though he'd told each one of them to go home and leave it until Monday when the Grid will, hopefully, be fully functional once more.

He frowns, pursing his lips, his mind wandering over the events of the day and the way she'd responded to them. She, more than anyone else, has surprised him today. Her initial excitement at the prospect of the exercise had amused him, though he'd expected nothing less of her. She always seems so eager when she arrives in the morning, going about her job with the enthusiasm of someone for whom the novelty of being a spy has not yet worn off – she and Sam make a right pair. But once things had gotten serious and the team's certainty that this was an exercise had began to waver, she'd show a level of empathy, strength, and conviction that had, in fact, astounded him. He'd been fascinated to see her become the person Tom leant on for support, the one the rest of them deferred to for guidance when Tom's orders seemed too harsh and devoid of emotion, the one whose loyalty to their leader secured the chain of command and maintained the team's cohesion. He had not seen her value beyond her ability as a brilliant analyst before, but now he finds himself fascinated by it, by her, and he can't help wanting to learn more about her, probe her to find out what makes her tick and where her limits lie, how best he can use her talents for the good of the team and win back her loyalty to him personally after the way it was shaken today. With the way Tom's been acting lately, he worries that extreme measures might become necessary sooner or later, and he knows that, when the time comes, he will need his officers to be loyal to him, stand by him, and back him up for the good of the Section. If he can win Ruth round to his corner, he'll have more chance of success with the rest of them – he's sure of it.

He sits up, shutting down his computer and gathering his things before exiting his office and locking the door behind him, decisively picking his way across the Grid to her station.

"Ruth," he says, waiting until she looks up and removes her headphones. "Burning the midnight oil?"

She frowns. "Hardly. It's barely five o'clock, Harry."

He glances at his watch only to confirm that she's right. "So it is. It feels like the longest day ever."

"Does it?" she questions, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, glaring up at him. "Hard work, was it, sitting in your office, pretending to be dying, while the rest of us faced the end of the world together?"

Ouch! He almost winces at her words, silently plotting the demise of whichever imbecile thought it was a good idea to have him emotionally manipulate his officers to such an extent. He purses his lips and lifts his hand to rub his nose, searching for the words that'll help smooth the road towards trust between them. "It wasn't my idea, Ruth. It was too much. I know that. They took this whole thing too far, but all my objections at the planning stages were overruled. I had a part to play – we all did – but I am sorry for any distress it caused you."

"Distress?! I thought you were dying, Harry, and I had to just... leave you there. To die. Alone..." She shakes her head, sitting up and turning back to her computer screen, and he's surprised to see the sheen of tears in her eyes. Has she come to care for him that much? It's a rather gratifying thought.

"I know. I'm sorry, Ruth." His voice is soft, full of remorse, and he softens his gaze, wishing to convey his deep regret, for though in the moment he'd enjoyed the deception, the thrill of playing a part convincingly as if he were back in the field, he knows the cost has been too high for the little bit of excitement he'd experienced. He needs to win back her loyalty, her trust. He has a feeling it is imperative, or it will be very soon. He opens his mouth to say more, but one of the maintenance crew chooses that moment to start drilling into the wall, making any attempt at further conversation utterly futile. He growls in exasperation, turning to glare at the man responsible for the racket, but he doesn't pay him the least bit attention. He knows he has no authority over this crew and they're unlikely to stop even if he marches over there and demands it of them. Their orders are to get the Grid up and running as fast as possible, which is something he would very much like to happen himself, so they can get back to some real work. Trying to stop these people just to have a conversation would, therefore, be counter productive to the extreme, so he quickly dismisses any thought of the workers and turns back to Ruth who is covering her ears with her hands, her face scrunched up in a look of deep discomfort.

"Let me give you a lift home," he suggests, when there is a pause in the drilling. She looks like she might object, so he adds, "To try to make amends for being such a bastard," watching as her eyes flash daggers at him before she narrows them and lifts her chin with defiance.

"You can try," she says just before the drilling recommences and she quickly turns her attention to her computer, shutting it down and collecting her things so they can make their escape, slipping through the pods to the lifts and down to the garage where his driver is waiting for him.

"I understand what they were trying to do, Harry," she says after she's given Charles, Harry's driver, her address and the silence has stretched on for a while, "but I think it went too far. What would have happened if we'd broken under the pressure? How would that have helped Tom, the rest of us, when faced with the real thing, to know that we had failed or to be second guessing ourselves, unsure if this is just another exercise? Or if tempers had run high and things had been done or said that people could never take back? Danny and Colin... Some things cannot be unsaid, undone, Harry."

"I know," he murmurs, his eyes looking at her in a way she's not seen often, with an intensity and concentration that makes her realise he's suddenly very much interested in her, in solving her like an intriguing, new puzzle. It makes her a little uncomfortable – being the focus of his attention like this – but she tries not to show it. She knows it's an indication of admiration on his part, an acknowledgement that he's missed something at first glance and needs to reassess her. He'd had that same look in his eyes after she'd found Ibn Khaldun and after she'd identified Noah Gleeson. He's a man who likes to know his officers, the pieces on his chess-board, so he can use them as effectively as possible when he needs them. It's part of what makes him so good and effective as Head of Section – he often leads from the front and knows his people far better than most in his position, and that's part of what she's come to admire about him.

She looks away, out the window, the memory of finding him in his office, thinking he was poisoned, dying before her very eyes, suddenly leaping to the forefront of her mind, still too painful, perhaps because it seems so out of character with the boss she's come to know and respect. He'd lied to her, to all of them, pretended to be dying, and she'd called him a bastard for it to his face. Those things can't be undone either.

She'd wanted so much to join MI-5 and his section in particular, having heard good things about his team, the high standards he expects of them, and the hands on approach he uses to run it. She'd hoped to impress him enough to win a permanent transfer over from GCHQ, earn the right to remain in Section D on her own merit, to learn from him, from Tom, from all the other agents. Now though, she's not quite sure how she feels about things. She needs time, she knows. The roller coaster, that today has been, throwing her for six, and she still feels like the world is spinning too fast and wobbling on its axis.

"It's almost six o'clock," she hears him say, "and I must confess, I'm famished. There's only so much sustenance a man can get from a liquid lunch. How about you, Ruth? Would you care to join me for an early dinner?"

She turns to look at him, surprised by the suggestion, yet finding herself oddly tempted by the offer. Perhaps she's not quite ready to be alone just yet after fearing the loss of millions. "Where?" she asks.

"Anywhere. This is your side of town. I was hoping you could recommend some place."

"Ummm," she hesitates, thinking. "There's a decent Thai place not far from mine. I mean, the food's decent, I don't know if-"

"Sounds good," he interrupts, watching and waiting.

"Alright," she concedes. "I suppose I need to eat some dinner." And before long, she finds herself tucked away at the back of the restaurant, eating chicken curry and drinking rice wine while conversing with Harry about all sorts of things, from the weather to music, to philosophy and travel, and feeling herself begin to unwind from the trials of the day.

She's only known Harry three months, and while she's always known he's an intelligent man with a razor sharp mind – and tongue if one isn't too careful – and a healthy interest in many subjects, she never expected that he could be such good company, that conversation with him could flow so easily, and that his humour would be so much to her liking. As the evening has progressed, she's found herself falling more and more under his spell, helped along by the wine and the cosy atmosphere around them, not to mention the relief of surviving today, even if the situation had turned out to be a hoax rather than the real thing. And that's another thing she'd never expected – to be on the receiving end of Harry's charm. She hadn't thought he'd look at her twice, let alone take the trouble to get to know her, even if she's had a bit of a crush on him almost from the start.

By the time they've finished their leisurely meal, Harry has offered to pay to make up for deceiving her into believing he was dying, she's countered his offer by suggesting she pay to make up for calling him a bastard, they've each smiled at the other and paid for their own meal, she's feeling decidedly reluctant to part with him for the night. As soft and warm as Fidget is, he's not human, and sometimes, she finds that she needs the touch, the warmth, the contact with another person. That that person is Harry tonight, she finds quite confusing and so surreal that she decides simply not to think about it.

Harry had dismissed Charles earlier, not wanting to keep the young man waiting while they ate, so they now walk the six blocks to her home in silence, her suggestion that she can find her own way home and he should take the lone cab at the taxi rank meeting with a frown from him and a quick dismissal, followed by an assurance that he would enjoy a walk anyway, after their meal, and can she please stop trying to deprive him of it and her company. That had made her smile and almost reach for his hand to squeeze it in gratitude and maybe hold onto it all the way home.