Characters/Pairing: Juliet-centric genfic, with appearances by Harry, Ros, and Adam, among others.
Warnings and Spoilers: Contains spoilers all the way through Series 6; certain scenes and snippets of dialogue borrowed from numerous episodes scattered throughout S5 and S6. Also contains references to violence and occasional strong language.
Disclaimer and thanks: The characters and settings belong to the BBC and Kudos. Thanks to petite etoile22 for the terrific beta!
The Monster At Home, Chapter One
The first time Juliet lays eyes on Ros Myers, she mutters to Harry, "Well, she'll get the attention of the red-blooded males."
It comes out sounding envious, which thankfully Harry is gentleman enough to ignore. But it's not quite envy, is it?
She sets the question aside. There are far more pressing things to think about at the moment, like the fuel depot bombings, three men dead oozing tears of blood, a country in the grip of a media-inflamed panic, and God only knows what might happen next.
Yet as they all shake hands and make their introductions, she finds her attention oddly fixed on Ros. There's something about the woman that both attracts and repels: the white-blonde hair, the tastefully tailored grey suit, the pair of black heels that could puncture a steel plate, but most of all the rigid glaze across her face that doesn't crack even when she smiles. Juliet has a knack for making snap judgements about people, but Ros defies categorisation. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that somehow resists being filled.
Pleasantries exchanged, they all take their seats. The meeting goes nowhere, as expected. It's a pissing match between Michael Collingwood and the Home Secretary, which would be amusingly ludicrous in an overgrown schoolboy sort of way if there weren't a genuine crisis to cope with. As it is, however, there isn't time to waste with such nonsense; since Juliet's job title does, after all, contain the word "coordinator", she takes advantage of an awkward lull in the hostilities to jump in and move things along.
For her trouble, Collingwood interrupts her -- twice -- but just as she's on the verge of ripping off his testicles, she reminds herself that his real target is the Home Secretary. She just happened to get in the middle of them, figuratively, and got elbowed out of the way. Against her usual instincts, she stifles her temper while Harry and Adam finally steer the meeting onto a more productive track. As they take over, she observes Ros, who hasn't uttered a word. Ros just sits and watches, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, like she knows something the rest of them don't and finds it oh-so-comical.
Interesting. Ros is up to something, she and Collingwood both, and it's not simply taunting Cabinet Ministers for sport. Whatever it is, let them get on with it: Juliet can duel with the best of them, as can Harry Pearce, so Collingwood and his tartish blonde lackey had better watch out.
***
Juliet can scarcely believe what she's hearing.
It's disorienting enough watching Harry and Adam stalk back and forth like caged tigers across her living room carpet at two in the morning, but what they've come to tell her verges on the surreal.
Conspiracies within the government don't exactly faze her; after all, she's dabbled in one or two herself. But the scope of this one beggars belief: elements within MI6 deliberately provoking terrorist incidents, assassinating high-ranking political advisers, and now attempting to abduct the Prime Minister's son? She's tempted to summon an ambulance and have both men committed to a mental ward -- except that they've brought proof. Evidence directly implicating Michael Collingwood and Ros Myers, no less. Perched on the edge of her sofa in a dressing gown and slippers, Juliet examines the documents and photographs for several silent minutes, then looks up.
"Jesus Christ," she exclaims, unable in the initial fog of her shock to think of anything more intelligent to say.
"They've murdered one of my officers," says Harry, and his gaze fills with a volcanic loathing. If it were aimed at Juliet, her skin would blister. No, she would be incinerated. She instinctively shrinks out of the way.
"We want to confront them tomorrow," says Adam. "Once they know we're on to them, they'll be forced to advance their timetable. If they're in a hurry, they might make a mistake."
"Or they might just crush us before we can figure out their next move," counters Juliet.
"We can't let them," says Harry. As if it's as simple as that.
After they leave, she bolts the door, then leans her back against it and closes her eyes. She's dizzy, and not just from being abruptly awakened. She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, and then she heads to the kitchen and pours herself a more-than-generous serving of gin. She finishes it in one gulp. The warm flush gives her the illusion of courage, if not the reality.
What it doesn't give her is any comfort. She's always prided herself on her connections, on knowing everyone and everything, on sensing changes in the political weather before the wind can even begin to shift. But she hadn't seen this coming.
How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington, had convinced herself that the American hegemon was the source of all evil. She'd only looked outward, not inward.
She hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
***
In the depths of Whitehall, where one tries not to imagine what spectres may dwell, the military intelligence bunker smells stale from decades of accumulated must. As Juliet descends the rickety stairs with her colleagues, she doubts it's been used since the Suez crisis.
Downstairs, Collingwood, Ros Myers and Millington -- that little gnome of a so-called media mogul -- await in a menacing-looking line to greet their adversaries, like characters from a low-budget gangster film. It's all so sordid and melodramatic that she really should laugh, and yet at the same time it sets her heart pounding.
They take their seats, enemies facing off on opposite sides of the table, but the place directly across from Juliet is empty. Its occupant keeps them waiting just long enough to ratchet up the anticipation, and then makes his belated entrance: Sir Jocelyn Myers, the real driving force behind everything, the "final piece in the jigsaw puzzle" as Harry so aptly puts it.
Sir Jocelyn pats his daughter's shoulder as he claims the empty seat; Ros smiles back at him with a wisp of filial pride. Their resemblance is striking, but so are the differences. What's ambiguous in Ros is overt in Sir Jocelyn. She's guarded, a frosty enigma; in contrast, he's warm and direct. He may hide what he's up to, but never who he is. It's a sign of his power -- and the confidence that accompanies it -- that he doesn't need to bother.
Juliet, too, has always felt free to be herself, but in her case only because it's actually the best disguise. In America, she was openly contemptuous of everyone she worked with, and they merely found it charming. As long as she ticked all the right ideological boxes -- strident Cold War veteran, pro-free trade -- she could insult them to their faces and still win their adoration. "It's the accent," confessed a helmet-haired Oklahoma Congresswoman at one especially stultifying state dinner. "You can say the most outrageous things and still sound so elegant!"
She sees the same kind of contempt in the expressions of the four people across the table now. She knows better than to be charmed.
The two sides finally engage, and the verbal fencing quickly draws blood. Harry does most of the talking for her camp, but when Millington launches into a pompous speech about how their self-enriching little coup will save the country for everyone's grandchildren, Juliet finally has enough.
"That is no reason to dismantle our democracy," she protests, and she hates them for provoking her to be so embarrassingly sincere, like some earnest schoolchild delivering an oral report on the Magna Carta.
Sir Jocelyn nearly laughs aloud, and for that she hates him even more. "I wonder why we fetishise democracy so much," he says, smirking. "It's a system that's a blink in the eye of history."
No, it's not, she thinks, and she suddenly doesn't feel any shame in being sincere. Democracy is something precious. Something to be proud of. Something worth fighting for. And as long as she -- and Harry, and anyone else with even a shred of decency and principle -- can stand up to these bastards, there will be a fight.
***
The ride in the car is nervous but quiet. In the rear seat, Juliet shuffles through papers without actually reading anything. Beside her, the Home Secretary sputters in outrage for a few moments, but other than agreeing with the obvious that yes, yes, they simply must do something, Juliet doesn't know what to say. They've got one week to come up with some sort of response, but the trouble is that she doesn't trust the PM not to buckle under to Sir Jocelyn's demands. There has to be a way to outflank their opponents, but she needs time to think, to gather her wits, to plot out a strategy to strike back.
Whatever course she decides to take, she'll have to find a way to warn her Yalta colleagues. She's too high-profile to steal away unnoticed, even if she hadn't resolved to stay and fight, but the rest of them might have enough time to flee the country, or at least to--
It takes a few moments for it to register that the escort's gone missing. Just as she mentions it to the Home Secretary, her phone rings. It's Adam. "Juliet, get out of the car!" he shouts, his voice high-pitched and frantic. "Get away from the vehicle!" She freezes, unable to process what he's saying, until he yells again, "Just do it, now!"
Apprehension swells into panic. She begs the driver to stop and they all scramble out the doors. The adrenaline makes her run faster than she ever has in her life.
It's not fast enough.
***
By her hospital bedside, Harry's sombre and, God help her, kind -- which means the news is dire indeed. He makes a half-hearted effort to be optimistic, but she's having none of it. She's been rendered helpless, like a fly dangling in the strands of a spider's web, and all she can do is dwell on the worst.
"They're stronger than us. They're going to finish us off," she says, giving into her gloom, and he doesn't even try to argue otherwise. They both know she's right.
As he leaves, he pauses by the door, then makes a half-turn to look back at her over his shoulder. "By the way, it was Ros Myers who sent Adam the warning about the car bomb," he says, brow wrinkling. "I'm not sure what to make of that."
She's not sure, either. Quite the family, Ros and Sir Jocelyn Myers: the father nearly killed her; the daughter saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.
She'll never forgive either one. That much she is sure of.