When I Kissed The Teacher

June 2003

"Right, and through the pods here—we call them pods, you'll see why—is Section D. That's where you'll be. Harry Pearce is Section Head. His office is straight back there with the windows."

Ruth felt a bit lightheaded. Her tour of Thames House with a shockingly chipper administrative assistant had ended here, where her secondment would truly begin. It was quite early in the morning still. Ruth had never been much of an early riser. But all the excitement of finally being able to get away from GCHQ had made her giddy and energized when she'd arrived at the imposing white edifice hours earlier to begin her orientation. MI-5, what a thrill! Ten years being cooped up in a cubicle with a set of headphones and a barely-functional computer on which to draft dull as dishwater reports, and she'd finally made her way to London, to put her skills to real, proper use. And she couldn't wait to get started.

She went through the pods, quickly understanding why the doors to Section D had such an odd name. Around her, the light was harsh and dim, the people were busy and bustling, and the air crackled with tension. Immediately, Ruth loved it here. Her secondment was only for two months, but hopefully she could make a good impression on this Harry Pearce and he'd want to keep her on. Ruth had already put an offer in on a little house, so returning to Cheltenham was not a feasible option.

Right, first stop to see the Section Head. She'd read all about him, of course. He was an absolute legend with Five and Six, known for having a ruthless but steady manner and a bit of a reputation with women in his days as a field officer. He'd been Section Head for nearly ten years. He was, as far as Ruth had found, well-respected. She could hope for nothing more from a new boss. God, she hoped he'd like her.

Trying to steady her shaking hands, Ruth marched herself back to the windowed, red-walled office across the way. The man himself was sitting at the desk, head bent over a stack of files. All she could see of him through the window was a head of thinning sandy hair and a bulky frame wrapped in what seemed to be an extremely expensive suit.

With a deep breath to steady herself, Ruth opened the door to the office. "Good morning, sir, Ruth Evershed here, analyst seconded from GCHQ," she announced, pasting a bright smile on her face in a desperate attempt to conceal her nerves.

He looked up with a rather amused smile playing on his very full lips. "Miss Evershed," he greeted quietly. "No need for 'sir.' Call me Harry."

September 1993

"Good morning, all. Welcome to Theory of Politics. I am your lecturer, James Richardson. I'm afraid you've all drawn the short straw. This is my first course I'm teaching, but I assure you that I am perfectly qualified. And I'm sure you'll all figure your way through things. You've all been admitted to Oxford, after all." The man at the front of the lecture hall began to chuckle heartily at his own pathetic joke.

Ruth sat directly in the center, chewing on the end of her pen and watching this new lecturer with a bemused smile. He was relatively young, as far as professors came, and he had a stocky frame beneath an ill-fitting tweed jacket. But something about the way those full lips pronounced his words was rather attractive. The thought caused Ruth to smile a bit more. Always easier to learn from someone attractive. Certainly more enjoyable. This James Richardson might be new, but she'd endeavor to give him a good chance.

Quickly, however, Ruth was bitterly disappointed. He might have had a general sense of what he was talking about and he might have had a rather commanding presence, but James Richardson was absolutely butchering the nuances of Thomas Aquinas and his Treatise of Law. If Ruth were another sort of person, she might raise her hand and point out his indelicate treatment right then and there. But Ruth were not that sort of person. She would not, however, let this go.

At the end of the hour, Professor Richardson gave the time and place of his office hours, should anyone have any questions, as he had to run directly after the lecture. Ruth narrowed her eyes at this, disliking such tactics. But she had two hours before she could go berate this inept lecturer. Two hours to calm down and come to the inevitable conclusion that such a confrontation was unnecessary and wholly unproductive.

Or, in Ruth's case, two hours to stew on every minute detail mischaracterized in the lecture. Two hours to write page after page of notes so she could keep her arguments organized and have all of her support at her fingertips. Two hours to try to rehearse what she was going to say to the attractive James Richardson so she didn't end up babbling like a loon—or as her stepfather had liked to say, tripping over her tongue while it caught up to her brain. He'd always meant it as an insult, but Ruth quite liked that description.

Trying to steady her shaking hands, Ruth marched herself down the hall of Political Science department to the tiny visiting lecturer's office. The man himself was sitting at the desk, head bent over a pile of books. All she could see of him through the little window in the door was a head of thick sandy curls and a solid frame wrapped in what seemed to be an extremely cheap suit.

With a deep breath to steady herself, Ruth opened the door to the office. "Good morning, sir, Ruth Evershed here, student in your Theory of Politics class," she announced, pasting a bright smile on her face in a desperate attempt to conceal her nerves.

He looked up with a surprised look in his eyes. "Miss Evershed," he greeted quietly. "No need for 'sir.' Call me Harry."

June 2003

Ruth very nearly fainted dead on the spot. "H-Harry?" she breathed.

"Yes. We're rather informal here. No point wasting valuable time and energy on useless niceties. Now then, Ruth, you're here to be our new intelligence analyst?"

She couldn't quite find her voice. Now that he was speaking to her. Looking at her.

Harry pressed right on. "Right, well, glad to have you. You'll be at that station over there," he said, pointing to the unoccupied desk across the room from his office. "Colin will be by to give you a tutorial on the computer systems and a tour of the registry and forgery suite." He turned away from Ruth and picked up his phone, dialing the extension and speaking into the receiver. "Colin, we've got a new analyst. She's just arrived in my office. Come collect her, would you?" He hung up and returned his attention to her with a polite smile. "Get settled and you can join the team in the meeting room for the briefing in half an hour."

Right then, a tall bespectacled man with a severely receding hairline came to Harry's office. Said his name was Colin. Ruth numbly followed him out.

Harry. Harry. Ruth couldn't believe it. She hadn't thought about Harry in…well, she thought about him more frequently than she would like to admit to herself. Had he not recognized her? Had he not remembered her name? It had been a very long time and they'd both changed so much, but she'd know him anywhere. Harry. Her head was really spinning now. Suddenly everything made sense. Where they'd…how she'd…why he'd…oh there was far too much to unpick here and now.

She needed to focus. Colin was talking. She should be paying attention. Just nod and smile, Evershed, she reminded herself.

September 1993

Ruth frowned with confusion. "Harry?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, it's my middle name, and I quite prefer to use it rather than James. Though perhaps you can call me 'professor' outside this office. The other faculty don't think much of me as it is," he informed her. "Now then, Ruth, was it?" She nodded. "Why don't you have a seat and tell me what I can do for you." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to speak with a soft smile on those full lips she'd been admiring earlier.

Ruth took a seat in the chair opposite his across the desk and pulled her notebook out of her bag. "Well, I had some thoughts during your lecture today and I disagree with your interpretation of Aquinas in quite a few places, and I hoped we could discuss it."

"What is your field of study, Ruth?"

"I'll be graduating in the spring in Classics."

Harry nodded. "Alright, tell me what was wrong with my lecture."

Her eyes went wide. "Oh, I didn't mean you were wrong, merely that I disagree…"

"No, I think you're just being polite. You think I was wrong. Don't beat around the bush, Ruth. Best to get straight to the point," he interrupted bluntly.

And with that, Ruth launched into the intricacies of Saint Thomas Aquinas and medieval Christian politics, pausing only to find the proper citations in her notes.

On and on she went, often speaking far too quickly and interrupting herself and backtracking and skipping ahead in a manner that reminded Harry of a pinball machine. He sat and listened to every word she said, all the while watching and smiling gently.