A/N: Uncharacteristically, I caved, and so there are now maybe 5 more chapters of this fic. Even I could see that the one shot had potential for more, but as reluctant as I normally am to stretch out the original idea, I thought this one could do with exploration. So here is Chapter 2. And since Ros Myers makes an appearance or two, it is now set late in S8.
8 days later - Friday afternoon:
Jack Daniels stifles a yawn.
"This job is not exactly compatible with a social life," his minder says, her eyes on the road ahead.
"It's not because I've been up late," he explains, "because I haven't. I sometimes have difficulty sleeping."
It's the long working days, but he's not about to admit to that. He can't bear to be thought of as soft. He'd worked hard during his training, but even that hadn't prepared him for the long days, and unpredictable meal times.
"How did you find working with Lucas?" she asks, still not looking his way. Ros Myers is a skillful driver, and he feels safe with her, but chiefly because he's on her side. He'd hate to be her enemy.
"He's a bit .. odd," Jack says at last, deciding to be honest, but not blunt.
"Sometimes, in this business, odd is good."
Jack would like to ask Ros about Harry - what kind of boss he is, what she thinks of him - but given he's meant to be no relation to the boss, he'd best wait and watch. He'd also like to ask about the relationship Ruth has with Harry, because there's something there, some connection which frequently draws them together, but he daren't say anything to anyone. Again, he'd best just say nothing and keep his eyes open.
Harry has treated him like anyone else who'd joined his team as a new recruit; he is distant and cool. Jack, on the other hand, has been keeping his eye on Harry, assessing his role, and how he handles relationships with members of his team. On the evening of his first day, Harry had rung him, calling him Jack, and asking about his early impressions of the job. It had been a stilted and surreal exchange.
"I hope you'll enjoy your time with Section D," Harry had said, "but you'll also need to pull your weight. Being new to the job doesn't count as an excuse."
"I enjoyed today, thanks," he'd said, wondering why he felt like he was being chastised. "I like Lucas, and he was generous with his ... advice."
"Not all Lucas's advice will be useful to you. He's a risk-taker, but he's a good agent, and you can learn a lot from him."
"I'm watching and learning," Jack had replied, having to stop himself from ending the sentence with `Dad.'
"Good. If you have any questions, then both Ros and Lucas are there to help you. And ... I've not passed on to anyone other than Ruth your supposed time in Tunisia, since that would give you skills you don't yet have."
"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll be fine."
That had been about it. Harry's voice had been distant and a little cold. Jack had wanted to ask his father if he could come to him for advice, but had decided against it. Best to not open himself to rejection. Harry's mention of Ruth had intrigued him then, and his clear reliance on her still interests him. He can't understand the bond between them, after all, Ruth seems nice - friendly and warm - and Harry is still a cold bastard.
Ros's voice breaks into his thoughts.
"When we meet with Jamieson," she says, "I need you to listen to what I say and how I say it while keeping your eyes on him. Staring at an asset like Jamieson is good. It makes them uncomfortable. Remember, there'll be questions afterwards."
Jack almost laughs. He wants to ask her is she for real, but he knows she is, so he says nothing.
Todd Jamieson is a thirty-something, jeans-and-hoodie-wearing, skinny dude with a nose ring and an attitude. Ros peppers him with questions, which he avoids, giving answers which amount to nothing.
"Tell me everything you know about the Mostafa brothers," Ros says at last, while Jack keeps his eyes on Jamieson.
"Don't know nuthin'," Jamieson says, shrugging skinny shoulders.
"You've been seen in The Cartwheel with Karim Mostafa, and the two of you seemed rather friendly, so what has he told you?"
"Nuthin' much."
"You've spent a lot of time talking about nothing. Is he converting you?"
Jamieson looks at her then, clearly scandalised. "In your dreams, bitch!"
Ros steps so close to him that he steps back a little, drawing his face away from hers. "What. Has. He. Told. You. Todd?" Her words are like pistol shots.
"About what?"
"You know about what."
Jamieson's body relaxes slightly. "If I tell you, what's in it for me?"
Just like that, Ros Myers had managed to get this bloke to cave, although Jack can see that Todd Jamieson is not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Jamieson rattles off a date, place and time, and then grins.
"If you're telling the truth, I can get you a safe place to stay, and if you're lying, then Tiger here", and Ros turns to look at Jack, "will tear out your liver."
Jack recognises a parting shot when he hears one, and so he turns on his heel at the same time as Ros turns, and together they march away from Jamieson. For a brief moment, Jack feels like he's living in a scene from Reservoir Dogs; he's probably Mr Pink, while Ros is Mr - or Ms - Orange. For the time it takes them to stride along the pavement to the car, Jack feels invincible. He resists the urge to turn to check whether Jamieson is watching them.
"That was hardly a victory," Ros says, as she starts the car, and Jack experiences a moment of embarrassment. The bloody woman can read his mind! "I chose Jamieson because he's a blabbermouth, and hopeless with money. He's a gambler, so he's always short, and prepared to sell his grandmother for a few quid."
"Is he telling the truth?"
"What do you think?"
"By his change in attitude when he asked what was in it for him, then I'd say yes."
"Good call. Still, we won't know for sure until next Friday night." Ros waits only a few seconds before continuing. "I have another asset I'd like to speak to about the Mostafa brothers, and this time you might like to do the talking."
John Becker is different from Todd Jamieson in every way. For a start, he has a job. He's a barman at The Cartwheel, and although it's a working class pub, Becker likes to dress up. He's a solidly built, stocky man in his early forties, decked out in black trousers, black long-sleeved shirt, and a red bow tie. On his fingers he wears several rings, all of them showy.
"Given this is your patch, John," Jack begins, "I expect that you'd know if anything were going down here." Noting Becker standing just that little bit straighter, his eyes shining, Jack continues in the same vein. "These chaps," he says, showing Becker a photograph of the Mostafa brothers, "are known to drink here. I was wondering whether you'd overheard anything .. either from them, or from any of your staff who may have overheard them talking. I'm talking about plans they might have."
John Becker grabs a glass and pours himself a half of lager. "Want one?" he asks Jack, who shakes his head. Becker drinks from the glass before placing it on the bar. "Those two are the strangest Muslims I've ever met. They both drink orange juice, but with a splash of vodka. I keep an eye on anyone who's a foreigner. You never know with foreigners, right? Trouble, the lot of them."
And remarkably, John Becker offers similar information to that provided by Todd Jamieson.
"Is it always this easy?" Jack asks Ros as they head back to Thames House. When Ros laughs a short, snorting kind of laugh, Jack experiences a moment of discomfort. Maybe he'd asked a stupid question. In training he'd learned that the job could be dangerous, and exciting. So far it had been a trifle dull and repetitious, and he's still waiting for things to kick into a higher gear.
"Believe me," Ros says, glancing at him, "you don't want unpredictable or dangerous. Do you have a wife .. a girlfriend?"
Jack feels like he's been punched in the stomach. This is the first time anyone has asked him anything about his personal life. "Two months ago my girlfriend dumped me by email. I have no-one, other than parents who are both in Africa, and a sister whom I hardly ever see."
At least part of that is true. Holly had dumped him just before he'd begun his training with Mi5, and while he usually sees his mother around once a month, until now, he'd rarely seen his father. His sister is currently in France, and he hasn't seen her in months.
"Sorry," Ros says, in a voice which sounds anything but sorry. "It might be best that your girlfriend threw you over. Close relationships are difficult to maintain in this job."
"You're not married?"
"Christ, no."
"What about you and Lucas?"
"What about us?"
"You seem close."
"We're all quite close in Section D. To the outside world, the relationships in our section may appear somewhat incestuous. To be able to do the work we do, we have to be able to trust one another."
Against his better judgement, Jack asks the very question which has spent the best part of a week sitting on the tip of his tongue. "The boss and his analyst seem close. Is there more going on there?"
"I really wouldn't know, nor do I care, and nor should you. This isn't the university bar. It's not a place where people gather in order to hook up with someone."
Jack receives her words like a slap. He'd better toughen up if he wants to continue working at Section D. "I'm not trying to .. hook up."
"I gathered that, Jack, but neither is anyone else. We are all first and foremost professionals. Harry has to work closely with his intelligence analyst, and he trusts her. I have no idea if they are anything more than colleagues, and frankly, nor do I care."
And that is that. Subject closed.
"You did well with Becker," Ros says after a long silence. "If my instincts are correct, you're a natural."
Jack says nothing more. He's happy to be ending the afternoon on a high note.
"How do you think Jack handled his first week?" Ruth asks, having placed a folder containing her report on the corner of Harry's desk. Since the night when she'd been driven home by Harry's driver, and Harry had joined her for coffee in her flat, they had only spoken to one another about work. They had both been busy at work, and more than that, Ruth had been sensitive to how worried Harry is about having his son working in the section.
Harry sits back in his chair, lifting his eyes to her. She notices a relaxing in his body, a wave of calm which passes through him as he looks at her, and she feels a responding warmth rising from her belly, through her chest and neck to her face. She prays that he can't see how affected she is by his scrutiny. She is just about to ask: `Is it warm in here?', but manages to hold her tongue.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks, ignoring her question.
"I really shouldn't. I need to get home, and put my clothes through the wash. I've almost run out of things to wear." Noticing the surprise on Harry's face, she rattles off a ready apology. "I'm sorry. I should have edited that."
Harry smiles into her eyes. Although their brief evening together in her flat had been chaste, and careful, and rather sweet, the memory of it has remained with them in the days since, and Ruth is looking forward to when they are both free to do it again.
"I'd offer to drive you home, but the Home Secretary wants to see me at seven." Ruth nods, relieved that the Home Secretary never wants to meet with her at odd hours. "And as for Jack Daniels, Ros and Lucas have both assured me that he's shaping up well, although he hasn't yet been fully tested in the field." Harry lifts his eyes to hers. "For mine, I'm hoping he won't have to be."
Ruth nods. "I imagine this is a little like his first few days at school."
Harry's mouth twists. "With me being the gruff school principal, and Lucas and Ros the big kids."
"He'll be alright, Harry." Since she is standing beside his desk, she reaches out to place her hand on the back of his hand. It is meant as a gesture of reassurance, and he turns his hand beneath hers and grasps her fingers, his eyes on hers all the while. "We need to be discreet, Harry. The others ..."
"The others - all of them - have gone to the pub. Ros told me they're wetting the baby's head."
Ruth steps closer to him, not sure about what they should do next. She leans her hip against the desk, gazing down at him. "I overheard Ros and Lucas talking," she says, chiefly to distract her from the pull of Harry's eyes, "and they're planning to include him in the operation next Friday night."
Harry nods. "I'm not happy about it, but he needs to start somewhere, so it may as well be there."
"You have reservations?"
"We know very little about the Mostafa brothers. Their close associations are few, and yet they also mix freely in the white community. They're .. elusive."
"I have Tariq on it, Harry."
He squeezes her hand. "I know," he says, his eyes holding hers.
Ruth knows that were she to not leave for home soon, she might be convinced to stay with him and have a drink, and then who knows what might follow? She stands, and in so doing her hand slides away from his. His expression is so sad, his apparent sense of loss so profound, that Ruth finds she cannot just say goodnight and walk away. So she steps closer, leans in, and when he lifts his face to hers, she carefully places her lips on his.
The kiss doesn't last long, but it is long enough for Harry to reach out and place his hand at her waist. Ruth feels the pull of his body, warm and inviting, but the timing of the kiss is poor. She has so much to do at home, and he has a meeting. She pulls out of the kiss, and Harry drops his hand. They watch one another for the longest moment. Harry's pupils are dilated, as she's sure are hers. She wants to kiss him again - a proper kiss this time, one with passion and intent. She wants the kiss to lead them somewhere delicate, somewhere intimate, somewhere they can together create another memory just for the two of them.
They are watching each other, both of them silently urging on the other, neither of them quite brave enough to be the one to push them further. Then Harry's desk phone rings.
"Damn that phone," he breathes, turning to glare at it.
"Goodnight, Harry," she says, stepping away. "I'll see you in the morning."
Harry leans across his desk towards the phone, and while Ruth turns and slips through the door she doesn't see him lift his fingers to his lips before answering the phone. As she hurries to her desk to gather her things, she thinks that the scene in his office was an apt metaphor for their long and turbulent relationship - she'd kissed him quickly, and then she'd left. Will it ever be different?