Rather than continue to mess with this chapter, I've decided to bite it and post it despite the fact I am not terribly happy with it. Just a bit of filler/set-up, examination of motives and thoughts. Hope you enjoy, but completely understand if you don't. I haven't written any fic in some time, so, full disclosure, I think the fact that I am rusty and out of practice quite evident. Kindly allow me the time to get back into the swing of it, stick with me, and I'll try not to make a complete shit-show of it.

GODS and MONSTERS

Chapter Two

"See these eyes so green,

I can stare for a 1000 years.

Colder than the moon,

It's been so long."

-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie, Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)

"Okay, so this honey trap is going to be a two parter, Ruth; The dinner tonight, where you and Harry will make first contact, and then the gala party two days from now."

"Yes, Malcolm, I understand," Ruth sighs, but refrains from adding because performing like a trained sex monkey while being watched by the entire grid as a solitary exercise simply wouldn't be sufficient.

Opening the box in front of him, Malcolm begins to place various items on the table.

"This is your legend, and Harry already has his, so you'll need to find some time with him today to...rehearse."

Looking up, he watches as Ruth listlessly begins to examine the documents, the minutiae that comprises the imaginary life of Sophie Daniels, newly wed spouse of Henry. Picking up the wedding band, she holds it up to the light, momentarily wistful.

"Both your wedding bands contain trackers, by the way. Provided you keep them on, we'll know exactly where you are at all times."

"Humm, yes."

"Ruth, it's going to be fine. Really. Best that you simply lose yourself in your legend," Jo offers, and Ruth rather resents the simplicity with which she offers the suggestion.

Nodding her assent, Malcolm is certain Ruth is in the throws of self doubt, her internal thoughts manifesting, one after another, on her face.

"You know, it's possible Juliet is right, much as I loathe to admit it aloud," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry," her defenses immediately on alert, "Right about what, exactly?"

"Well," glancing at Jo, hoping that she will back him up if needs be, "You are too intelligent for a run of the mill honey trap exercise. There's no real risk in that exercise, so..."

"So...what? I mean, forgive me, Malcolm, but at least with the exercise, no risk also equates to no harm. This...this is an active op, failure goes hand in hand with consequences."

Switching tact, "When you were at Uni, how did you prepare for your workload?"

What in the bloody hell is he going on about?

He has to suppress the urge to laugh as his question results in a look on her face best likened to profound confusion at the conversation shift. Even Colin and Jo, if furrowed eyebrows and a wrinkled noses are anything to go by, appear equally confused. All three stare at him, with almost identical quizzical expressions, waiting.

"You know, those assignments which were almost the entirety of your grade?"

As a boy, Malcolm had a dog, Sebastian. He was a small, messy little thing, an amalgam of mixed breeds, a mutt. To him, he was the physical embodiment of a living diary. The best kind of diary, one that could never be broken into, one that would never reveal it's secrets, one that would just listen as Malcolm would pour out his innermost thoughts and boyhood dreams, fears.

He only thinks of it now as he remembers that when speaking to Sebastian, he would sit himself down, wrapping his tail around his front paws, adoring eyes ever watchful and patient, and tilt his furry head to the left. The countenance of Colin, Jo and Ruth, at this moment, is so reminiscent of Sebastian, each head tilted to the left, he can barely contain his amusement.

"Let me guess, you furiously researched, outlined, gathered, but in the end, found yourself completing the projects with only minutes to spare, despite your preparation? Am I right?"

"Yes...yes, but I fail to see what that has to do-"

"It has everything to do with this, Ruth! You, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not, cannot excel unless there is the very real possibility of failure, failure that results in consequences. Don't you see? It's what makes you such a fantastic analyst. You are literally a person perfectly suited to thrive under the gun, as it were. You were made for an exercise of this nature!"

"No," shaking her head, waving a hand in front of her as if to ward off further discussion, "That's completely different, it' s not even-"

"Listen to me, Ruth. The way your mind works is God's own mystery. Honestly, I don't know how you do what you do. My brain doesn't work that way, which is what makes you so wonderfully unique. But I promise you, on my honor, this op, you were made for it. You can't fail. You won't." Gathering all the items before him in to the box with one wide swipe of his arm, Malcolm pushes the box into her hands.

Ruth remains motionless, holding her new identity in her hands, a box full of falsified details, unsure whether to leave, stay, argue, acquiesce?

"What if...I mean, maybe you are right. It's just, what happens if-"

"Mother has a saying, if what ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh what a Christmas it would be." He offers this bit of maternal wisdom as though the reasons for doing so were perfectly self evident which, to Ruth's ear, is rather like treating her as one would a petulant child who refuses to eat her brussel sprouts.

"Okay. As it happens, mine said Don't shit where you eat. Your point, please?"

Ah, there it is; she's got some fight in her yet. He feels only slightly guilty for baiting her, but as they say, one must stoke a fire to get it to burn bright.

"I'm going to use that," responds Colin.

Laughing, Jo responds, "You can't know, Ruth. None of us ever do. But we can prepare. And we can hope. Follow your instincts, they're good whether you know it, or not. You'll be fine. Really."

"And," Colin interjects, "If you're going to have to do it with someone, wouldn't you rather it with Harry?"

Well, this isn't at all awkward.

"What? It's true, right?" Looking at each in turn, Colin, completely unaware of his unintended innuendo, blunders on, "I mean, come on, we've all heard the stories, right? He should teach a class, The Mastery and Art of Honey Traps. Though, now that I'm thinking on it, he might excel more in the advanced courses, no sense in wasting his skills on beginners..."

"Smoke," Jo quickly blurts out. "I usually smoke. Helps to wrap your mind around being someone else if you are doing something you don't normally do." Glancing at them each in turn, "So...I smoke. It's a suggestion, is all..." her thought trailing off, a slight shrug to indicate that, at least for moment, thankfully, Jo was done offering trapping tips.

Smoke. Put on a person suit, and if you're a bit uncomfortable, light up. Take care, you're in the hands of a master. Easy.

"Good. Great, yeah. That's...that's a good tip. Thanks, Jo. That'll be...um, that'll be helpful." Drawing in a deep breath, Ruth allows it to fill her before releasing it in one long exhale.

Oh, Ruth...

He has never in his life known a person so uniquely gifted, yet so insecure as Ruth Evershed, and certainly not with any present or past colleagues. Is she completely unaware of Harry's obvious affection for her? Or, alternatively, is it her instinctual understanding of that fact that gives her pause? Malcolm harbors no doubt that Harry, for his part, would eat nails before allowing any harm to come to her, though, he concedes, it is quite possible Ruth is completely unaware of that fact. Malcolm has been a spy for nearly as long as Harry, and it has not escaped his attention that they both, Harry and Ruth, watch each other, stollen glances, both first to arrive, last to leave, a delicate dance which becomes harder to conceal as time passes.

That Ruth is not Harry's well documented "type," is incidental as it is clear to him she has, however inadvertently, captured his attention, resulting in what could only be described as curiously uncharacteristic behavior. At least, he mentally amends, behavior not in evidence in some fifteen years.

The catalyst, without a doubt, was John Fortescue. The John Fortescue Incident, as he refers to it in memory, was, in a word, telling. There had been moments before that. Of course there had been, and anyone paying attention could have predicted the coming escalation. But it was Ruth's actions surrounding Fortescue that brought light to the shadows, exposure to what was previously a hidden secret between the two, a play performed within a play, the nuances as subtle as they were potentially insidious. It was alarming, in truth, the direction Harry chose to pursue. His decision to use Sam, her friend for all appearances, as a mole, a go between, betraying Ruth with every detail of information she offered, pushing her to go further, move faster, discard her tendency to hesitate, expose herself. It was his personal level of distaste that spurred Malcolm into becoming actively involved when Sam approached him.

His disappointment in Harry was so profound that his decision to accompany her, can Giles come out and play, became, in effort and intent, his meager attempt to shield Ruth, and in shielding her, an attempt to assist her in reaching the goal she so desperately yearned for, to love and be loved by another. Connection. He understood, sometimes better than most, the need for connection, that tether that keeps you tied to something beyond yourself, that life line that helps you evolve from oneself as a single, perhaps lonely entity into a greater whole, which, in turn, became part of an even larger whole. He saw the yearning, he felt it, he understood it. He had Mother, but Ruth, to his limited knowledge, had no one, estranged from her mother, her father deceased, no tether, no life line, easy pickings, really.

That the other in question was an unwitting pawn within a game of legends and lies...well, one finds ways to rationalize, and his was to conclude that Ruth losing love with Fortescue, but finding it with Harry was about the worst outcome he could possibly imagine. Harry was, is, dangerous. His escapades, both sexual and professional, were legend, the services in the UK and abroad littered with women seduced and discarded. a maverick of the first order. He felt it his gentlemanly duty to provide cover if only to prevent the inevitable destruction were Harry to pursue, and claim, Ruth. The idea that she should become yet another conquest, an empty thrill fuck for Harry Bloody Pearce was inexplicably unacceptable to him. Better to see her with this Fortescue, this likewise lonely man, who by all accounts, would, could provide her a stable and happy relationship. Well, inasmuch as one in the services can hope for from a relationship based on vetting clearances for civilians. That is, of course, assuming said person of interest wouldn't turn tail and run once it was revealed it had all been an elaborate lie, that who they thought they knew was a completely believable, and well acted, fabrication. Harry Pearce, as far as Malcolm was concerned, could trot out one of his many legends and go pull from any number of places throughout London, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow him to pursue Ruth unimpeded.

But that was, as they say, then. And this is now. New situations demand new perspectives, a fact Malcolm was most painfully aware.

Now, after having compiled the backstories, fabricating their legends, Malcolm resigns himself to the fact that, quite beyond his albeit limited control, forces have conspired to join the two of them together. Man plans, and the Gods laugh. It was always thus.

"You'll feel better once you've sat with Harry," he offers. "We've provided a rough outline, but the two of you will fill in the details. Once done, Ruth, you'll get your footing. For what it's worth, I agree with Colin; Harry really is the best person for you to do this with. Remember, you may not have a great deal of experience in the field, but Harry's thirty plus years will put you in good stead. Don't forget, we'll be right there with you, should you have the need...for anything."

Her eyes are downcast, but she nevertheless nods, and he spies a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for your help. And Jo. Colin. Thank you."

"Ruth?" She turns her head to find Adam peering in from around the doorframe, his boyish smile infectious, and so reminiscent of Wes she can't help but smile brightly in return.

"Real quick, sorry to interrupt. Harry's just returning, and I think it best you two begin work on fleshing out your legends, yeah? You've dinner shortly, and your clothes have just arrived, so hand off what you need to Sam. Thanks."

And he was gone, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

Well, that's that then.

"I guess I better..." She sighs, moving her way towards the door, turning at the last moment.

"Malcolm? You'll be on comms, yes? Please say yes, it's just that the last two..."

"Absolutely. Think of me as the welcome voice in your head. Every step of the way, not to fear."

"Me too," Jo adds.

Colin, his attention otherwise occupied, simply offers a thumbs up motion, before returning his attention to his terminal.

"Can never have too many voices in your head, right?"

Feeling slightly better, Ruth makes her way back to her desk, legend box in her arms, and prepares to replace what she knows of herself with what she knows of Sophie Daniels. Catching Zaf's eye, she winks.

"What's the book at, by the way?"

Having the good taste to blush at having been caught out, Zaf, responds in his characteristic cheeky manner.

"Which one? How long to complete, Time table for Tits Up, or odds on method by which, exactly, the intended target will attempt to kill you? I'm betting on," ticking them off his fingers, "four days to completion, three hours tits up time, and attempted murder by the clever and creative use of a midget to distract you long enough to inject you with an overdose of insulin."

"Wow," shaking her head, her mouth open in utter amazement, "that is so unbelievably wrong, however do you find the time to do some real work Zaf..."

"The midget's outfit is fantastic, by the way...King Lear, insane, twirling naked comes to mind...what's the..."

"Enough, really, I'm sorry I asked," moving quickly towards Harry's office, box in hand.

"Fantastically dressed with wild flowers is the description you're looking for, if memory serves."

"Don't let me down, Ruth! Fear the Midget!"

"Persons of short stature, if you please, Zaf," her attempt at a frown dissolving into a fit of giggles which can only be achieved through inappropriate, black humor. She adores that Zaf knows this about her, her penchant for off color jokes, knows that while she may outwardly frown and scold, she is nevertheless struggling to contain the full throated laughter just below the surface.

Which is how she finds herself sat in front of Harry, still giggling, a desecration of sorts to the tomblike quiet and solemnity of his office, preparing to become Sophie and Henry Daniels.

As an American, I don't pretend to know anything about how the British University system works, so willing suspension would be appreciated. And please excuse my weakness, but back comedies never fail to amuse me.