A/N – It all belongs to Kudos and the BBC. I'm only shading in some of Harry's thoughts.
Chapter 1 - Life in a different direction
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He wondered if there had ever been a time when he had not loved her. Rationally, in the deeper recesses of his mind, he knew there had been such a time. Once, before the dawn of man. A rueful smile played upon his lips as he leant back against the unforgiving concrete. The light outside the small window grew faint, the cell growing dark along with his hopes. He shifted on the unyielding mattress of the cot, pulling his jacket tighter as the air chilled around him. Out of habit, he moved to loosen his tie, but they had relieved it from him earlier, along with his belt. Inconsequential losses compared to what was really at stake.
Should the unthinkable happen, he could carry on, he reasoned, as he had done so many times before. He had lived a life before he met her. Many lives in fact. Committed deeds that he would never tell her, could never tell anyone, locked in the darkest part of his secret soul. Atrocities that he would not even admit to himself.
It was all about the endgame, and she had become ensnared in it. Because he knew the game, he had taken a chance and called their bluff, earning a penalty and now he sat off the field. He had made the play without quite thinking through the consequences. Instinct had overridden reason - passion would do that to a man. There had been no other choice, they had covered every angle. The problem was, he had no idea what was going on. There had been no contact with the outside world except for the brief visit from Adam. He only knew that there was a murder charge laid against him, along with possible collusion of torture. He could not fight them alone. He curled his fingers in an angry fist; he would not be out manoeuvred by Oliver Mace of all people. Mace was weak, merely emboldened by the atmosphere of the club. He smiled, his fingers remembering the flute of the glass in his hand, the adrenaline rush as he broke it on the table, the utter satisfaction of the crimson slash appearing across Mace's pristine white shirt. They had assumed he would roll over to protect her, join their league of the unconscionable, but he would not go down without a fight, and if he went down he would take everyone with him. A man like Mace would never understand the higher emotions, honour, integrity, sacrifice. He had offered himself up for her. He would do it again. There had been other women in the past, decisions made under the cloud of lust, but somehow they all paled in comparison.
His heart sat heavy in his chest and he inhaled a weary breath, nostrils filling with the odour of disinfectant unable to mask the stale smell urine. Closing his eyes, he turned his head, wondering if he could still find the whisper of her scent lingering on him. Barely there, hidden in a memory, along with all the other pieces of her he had accumulated over the years and stored away.
Whatsoever is lovely, whatsoever is pure.
The only thing he could control was his mind, but he let go of it at that moment, uncorking the stopper of time, allowing thoughts of her to flow over him. The walls of his cell fell away, allowing him a sweet measure of escape. "Oh Ruth," he whispered her name to the silent stones standing guard over him. "How did it all unwind so fast?" She would know, she always knew. She would say he had only himself to blame. He lay down on the cot, muscles aching from confinement and threw his arm over his eyes. How many times had he warned others? The was nothing left but to recount every rule he had let slide. Never let it get personal, never get involved, never take work home, never get caught. He had broken all of his commandments.
With an inward looking eye, he peeled back the layers of memory, wondering if he could distill it down to one moment, one decision that he had made, the tipping point that had set his life off on a different course. For, in the beginning, she had been someone else, and so had he, and the events that had shaped them were to meant to have unfolded in a very different manner.
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The sharp tap of Harry's heels echoed off the walls of the corridor with a military elegance. Nails digging into his palm, he clenched his fist tight, his jaw held rigid in an effort not to spit out the name.
Tessa.
Oh, how he loathed that woman. A hidden corner of his mind, the darker part that thrived on intrigue and subterfuge, admired her duplicity, the sheer audacity of running fake agents and pocketing the cash. Brilliant, really. He had seen it before with George Blair, but he had never expected to see it again. Especially on his watch. As he thought of her, his anger grew, and he held onto it with a fist so tight it threatened to spill out between his fingers. Distraction had been his downfall. He had been so bloody busy blocking her manoeuvres to get his job that he had failed to notice her backroom shenanigans. Thank God for Zoe. He had pegged the young officer as a bit of a soft touch, but she had proved her metal. She had come to him and confessed Tessa's treachery showing a display of loyalty and integrity that had pleased him immensely. With uncharacteristic graciousness, he had been willing to let Tessa leave of her own accord; she was a senior officer, after all, a stellar career, once the leader of a section herself. He had been prepared to invoke the code, the special dispensation for a colleague gone astray in the field, but she had overplayed her hand, poking at his most guarded wound: Bill Crombie. Never dig up what has been buried. There had been no choice but to call Tessa's bluff, and though he had silently cheered at having her publicly dragged off the Grid, he now regretted the fallout. By outing her in such a spectacularly open fashion, he had alerted the higher ups that she had been pulling one over on him and by extension, the Service. Meetings were convened, talk of inquiry bandied about, but he had calmly met all accusations with the stoic reassurance that his section was clean. The scrutiny was the price he had to pay to get rid of Tessa once and for all.
Unfortunately, the price tag also included continued interference from upstairs.
He had been given the names of three intelligence analysts, all from GCHQ and all of them, he would wager, informants. It was, no doubt, the bright idea of some bureaucrat sitting behind a mahogany desk. Only a half-wit paper pusher would think of foisting a plant on Harry's department. You can't spy on a spy. He would play their game. He would hire one of their "analysts" and wear them down until they went running from Section D. He had only to find the weakest candidate. And once they were gone, he would replace them with an officer of his own.
A metal door came into view, and he transferred the file folder he was carrying from on hand to the other. His fingers rose to the knot in his tie, giving it a cursory straightening, after which he moved them down to tug at the bottom of his waistcoat. If anyone had ever told him in his youth that he would be wearing a waistcoat he would have laughed in their face. Now, he understood the usefulness of the sartorial veneer of civility, it bespoke a certain stodginess, lulling people into an assumption about his character, that left them defenceless when he went for the jugular. Taking a deep breath, he brought his anger under control, or as much as he could, hiding it beneath a tight smile and tilt to his head. A glimpse at his watch told him he had kept the candidate waiting twenty minutes. Enough time to instill a decent amount of dread. Alone in the confines of an austere meeting room – no company, no contact, no coffee. The corner of his mouth twitched in a crooked grin as he noted the similarities between interviews and interrogations.
He swung open the door, the handle bouncing off the wall with a resounding bang, the sudden noise having the desired effect on the occupant of the room. Startled, she sat up in her chair, turning to find out the source of the sound. Seeing Harry, she half rose from her seat struggling to determine if the situation dictated that she sand or sit. In the end, she stood up as he approached.
"Harry Pearce," he announced, the authority of his voice invading every corner of the room.
"Ruth Evershed."
A friendly smile lit up her face as she held out her hand to him. He ignored it as he stepped around the table, leaving her outstretched hand to hang in mid air, selfconsciously useless. She tried to cover up her awkwardness by brushing her hand against her skirt.
He undercut her greeting by dropping her file on the table, the volume of papers landing with a thud, the white label clearly stating her name in full view.
"I know who you are." ,
His eyes swept over her appearance, clinically sorting through and filing away details. Dark hair, medium length, short in stature, no heels, brown skirt, patterned blouse, not frumpy but not tailored either. She was young. Not young in years but radiating that youthful spirit of eagerness he so often found irritating. How he hated interviews. He had once done a stint in recruitment and had rather enjoyed the experience, but years and experience now left him little patience with the whole process. He drew a breath through his teeth and sat down.
She followed suit, her spirit slightly deflated.
"So, Miss Evershed, tell me," he opened the file, avoiding direct eye contact with her, "Why do you want to work for Five?"
"Well, I'm looking for a challenge and I think MI5 would offer that."
"Do you not enjoy your work at GCHQ?"
"Oh yes, I do. I mean, I did. I've found recently though that my assignments have become quite repetitive."
"Am I to gather then that once you are bored with us you will move on?"
"I wouldn't think that would happen."
"Why not?"
"I would think each operation would have its own unique variables. It would be more than combing through the same transcripts day in and day out."
"There isn't any glamour in this job."
"I'm well aware of that." Her seeming eagerness to please moved her to the edge of her seat.
"There is still a lot of intelligence sorting. Surveillance, monitoring, tedious stuff. Some days border on the mundane."
"Better to be bored in London than bored in Cheltenham." She gave him a nervous smile.
Ignoring her attempt at humour, he flipped through the folder. "I see from your training assessment that your intellectual scores are stellar."
"Thank you." Her spine became a little straighter, head held a little higher, her pride in her accomplishments shining through.
"But your other scores, regrettably, are quite appalling."
"Oh." Deflation. She was well aware of her shortcomings.
He tapped his finger on the page, pointing to a number. "Tell me Miss Evershed, we're you actually facing the target when you took your marksmanship test?"
She looked at him for a moment, her mouth forming into a delicate circle as she composed her thoughts. This woman had probably cruised through most of her life, and GCHQ for that matter, on her superior intelligence but that was not enough to buy her a pass in his section. He made of show of writing down a note in her file, pausing when she spoke.
"I'm not sure what opportunities I would have as an analyst to shoot a gun."
She was right but he was not about to admit it.
"Sometimes we are called upon to step outside our ordinary roles. The board is constantly shifting."
"But you just said the job involved a lot of tedium."
His tongue pressed against his teeth. Nothing got past her, she was sharp, he would give her that and not afraid to speak her mind.
"Do you consider yourself a loyal person, Miss Evershed?"
Once again, the question seemed to have caught her off guard.
"Yes, I do."
"Because that is what I value above all else." He probed her with his eyes, searching, waiting for a crack that he could exploit.
"I'm loyal to my country. I believe I have a duty to serve it."
"Good answer." He let the smile of triumph stay on her face for half a second before he finished the sentence. "If you're a politician. Those words are all very noble in the world of black and white, but here in the world of grey it could cost you your life."
"I'm not sure how my life would be endangered at a desk."
"My question is, to what lengths are you willing to go?"
"Do you mean ethically?"
There was an almost imperceptible crack to her voice, perhaps a hint that she was dealing with her own moral dilemma.
"Or personally."
"Are you asking me if I'm willing to sacrifice my life for my country?"
"Well, that's a bit much to ask of an analyst, isn't it?"
Her brow creased at his circular questioning and before she could reply, he launched into a different subject.
"You understand that this is merely a secondment. It does not necessarily mean a permanent position."
Her eyes closed as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth. "Yes, I understand.
There was no shell to this one. Everything completely open. How long would it take to break her? Four weeks? For the first time, he took a proper look at her face, running his eyes over the faint blush of her cheeks and the red bow of her mouth. Throughout his career, he had studied the faces of many women, sinners and saints and everything in between, but he couldn't quite decide if the one in front of him was beautiful or merely a collection of unique pieces. Until that was, he looked in her eyes. In the stark whiteness of the room, they stared back at him, an unnerving blue, and he found it hard to look at them directly. Out of the sheer need to dominate, he kept his eyes locked on hers and to his relief, she lowered her gaze after a few seconds. He had to admit he was intrigued - she was a bit of a puzzle. A strange combination of defiance and vulnerability. He tapped his pen thoughtfully.
"Thank you, Miss Evershed."
He straightened up the papers in the file, effectively dismissing her.
"I don't think-" She placed her hand on the table, shifting forward, trying to get his attention. "I don't think we've fully discussed all the skills that I have to offer the department." She gestured to the folder, a worried look on her face, afraid that the interview was concluding before she could fully state her case.
"I'll be making my decision shortly."
He closed the folder with a definitive slap. He stood, his motion causing her to rise at the same time, her body language still flustered and unsure, a hint of resignation to the set of her shoulders. Taking a few steps around the table, he held out his hand. There was a moment of wariness as she studied him before she held out her hand in return. Her hand was small and warm in his. He closed his fingers around hers, delicate little bones that he could easily crush. A genuine smile crossed his face. This was the one. She wouldn't be gone in four weeks. She would be gone in three.