Starting prior to Series 2 and using the timeline provided by the Kudos book, Harry's Diary, this fic is basically a series of short missing scenes I felt like writing. The main premise is that there was something going on between Harry and Ruth from the start.

Updates will probably be annoyingly irregular. The usual disclaimers apply.

The gods throw the dice, and they don't ask whether we want to be in the game or not.

Paulo Coelho

In the Beginning

March, 2003

The meeting is an important one. It is about the intelligence strategy for post-invasion Iraq. MI6 and the Ministry of Defence want to harvest as much information as possible before the CIA start to clamp down on things. They are also eager to begin planting sleepers amid the convenient chaos of displaced Iraqi civilians.

He is there as he numbers among the very few intelligence operatives who have actually witnessed the overthrow of a despotic leader in the region before. Given the results of the Iranian Revolution, and his memories of 1979, he is not exactly filled with joy.

She has been brought to London by her boss's boss to help out. She is a politically clean skin: untainted by any connections with MoD scientists or souped-up evidence. Her body language is hopelessly transparent. When in full flow on the origins of a new Jihadist organisation being murmured about in Baghdad, her eyes gleam blue, her hands dance their emphasis and her dark hair catches the midday sunlight. The rest of the time she is far more subdued. Words like "take advantage" and "susceptible" coax little frowns out of her. He knows exactly how she feels about the whole thing and tends to agree with her.

During a brief lapse in concentration, he pictures his index finger stroking a gentle line between her eyebrows, wiping the worry away. She catches his eye just after he blinks himself free of the fantasy and it's as if he's been dropped into a sauna. He invents a cough to cover the blushing. His ears burn and his scalp glows.

The meeting breaks up and Oliver Mace thanks her for her input in faintly condescending terms. Her face goes blank. She replies in a colourless voice, with a colourless gaze, right hand clutching a Bic biro that has black ink and a blue lid.

People begin to leave the room. He rises from the table and moves away as unobtrusively as possible. He is in surveillance mode: standing absolutely still in front of a bookcase, waiting to see what happens next. She shovels an alarmingly large pile of papers into an equally large handbag and sighs loudly. Then she sticks her tongue out at Mace's retreating back and flicks him a V-sign for good measure.

'I'm Harry Pearce,' he says quickly.

'I know,' she replies, turning her head towards him without a trace of surprise. So much for making himself unobtrusive.

'I was stationed in Tehran for a little while. Your Farsi sounds excellent.'

She beams at him. He knows no other way to describe the expression that his words seem to bring to her face. He has never seen anything like it before. Is it a one-off, or can I make it happen again?

'Do you have plans?' he enquires. 'I mean for this afternoon. For lunch. Um. Now?'

'Not really,' she admits. 'Actually, I thought I might play hooky and sneak off to the National Gallery for a couple of hours.'

'Can I come?'

'Well, yes. If you'd like to.'

'I would. I've been wanting to talk to you since about five past nine this morning.'

She is beginning to flush and her eyebrows - those eyebrows - are raised. 'The meeting only started at nine.'

'I know. But I've been looking for a decent analyst for a year, and all of a sudden, here you are! What do you think my chances are of nabbing you from GCHQ?'

'Really? Seriously?'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

They make friends whilst standing in front of Botticelli's painting of Venus and Mars. Supposedly, Venus looking alert while Mars takes a post-coital nap symbolises love conquering all. This doesn't stop them speculating in whispers that the real reason Venus is awake is because Mars is crap in the sack, leaving her unsatisfied. They draw a couple of disapproving frowns from nearby art lovers. They are two children skiving off school, delighting in each other's misbehaviour.

Before parting, he gives her the details of a hotmail account he has never accessed on the Grid – both the username and password. 'I'll leave you a message in the drafts folder. Log in to pick it up and reply with another draft. Never send anything. Don't touch the account when you're at work. Pop into an internet cafe, or something.'

She is surprised. 'Terrorist tactics?'

'I'm going to start the process of poaching you, and I want to be able to let you know what's going on and only you.'

'It's a bit like being a proper spy,' she says, beaming again.

'I like to think so. I'm glad I met you, Ruth. Do stay in touch.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Draft Message

Last saved: 13/05/2003 19:55

Hi there,

You prefer Tolkien to Austen? Sacrilege! But then I suppose you are male. I bet you like Thomas Hardy. And I bet you've read all the Sherlock Holmes stories.

I watched a film called "The Recruit" last night. It's about the training of CIA agents amongst other things. Have you seen the film yet? Should I be worried about basic training if my secondment ever happens?

A colleague has a ticket for England vs. South Africa at Lords at the end of July, but he can't go. I was wondering whether to buy it off him. Do you like cricket? I listen to Test Match Special when I get the chance, but I've never been to Lords.

Oh, by the way, saw some odd email traffic today while I was running a routine keyword search of G Square activity. Someone forgot to encrypt – talk about a schoolboy error! Any reason a chap from the IIB would be meeting with the cousins and Six at Heathrow?

Bye for now,

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Draft Message

Last saved: 13/05/2003 22:12

Forgot to encrypt? For heavens sake! They are so (insert expletive of your choice here) useless, but at least it makes our lives easier. No decent reason I can think of. I intend to find out.

I do like Hardy, Holmes and cricket. I also laughed all the way through Bridget Jones's Diary but I will deny it completely if you dare tell anyone.

I don't know how you watched The Recruit as it's no longer in the cinemas and not yet out on video. Consider me to be staring at you with beady eyes whilst admitting that within three hours of reading your email I managed to get hold of a confiscated pirate copy. I will be trying it out in my brand new DVD player as soon as I finish writing this.

One of my field officers can usually get me into the cricket. He used to play for Surrey. Doesn't the test start on the 31st? I can clear an afternoon if you're around. Or dinner? Or both?

So busy at the moment. SARS monitoring, possible Chechen activity in Birmingham, Iraq, Iraq, Iraq. The case for your presence at Thames House grows by the day. You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps.

Yours, not yet nibbled by Alsatians,

H.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Draft Message

Last saved: 15/05/2003 13:10

Lunchtime foray into town. Got the ticket! First day's play and I'm in the Grandstand. I love the ticket information – I am allowed to bring one bottle of wine/champagne or two cans of beer into the ground. Grape over grain prejudice, methinks. Where is a good place to meet? I'll have to catch a train back from Paddington. Do you know anywhere decent nearby for dinner?

In case you hadn't noticed, I live in Cheltenham. We're a few weeks behind the Metropolis when it comes to the movies. The cinema here had a late night showing and I couldn't sleep. So less of the beady eyes!

Work is even horrider than usual (is that a word?). I've been taken off my usual stuff and I'm on fulltime Persian and Arabic translation, straight off the wires. The powers that be simply don't want to accept that there's more than one dialect in the Arab world. My brain is fried. I am on my way past madness and rapidly heading towards batshit insane. Is a rescue imminent?

Yours, in hope,

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Draft Message

Last saved: 15/05/2003 16:55

Something is Up with a capital U. Go off sick for a week. Chicken pox usually works well. If you've already had it, try something similar. Failing that, you've got SARS. Failing that, smallpox!

As soon as you can, buy a new pay as you go phone and call 0756 499 7667.

It's not the rescue we've been hoping for, but I really need you, and it might well grease the wheels.

Yours,

H.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

The next time he sees her, it is shopping in the Cheltenham branch of Debenhams. He patrols the ladieswear section with military precision, grabbing anything natural, loose and lengthy in a size ten or twelve. She trots behind him, arms full of an increasingly large pile of clothing and a wary expression on her face. Every now and then she surreptitiously discards something he has just handed to her. He pretends not to notice.

'Have you got walking boots?' he barks.

'Er, yes.'

'Sandals?'

'Yes.'

A headscarf?'

'Um, maybe.'

He veers off towards the accessories. 'Go and try that lot on. You need enough clothing for a week. Shoulders, arms, legs, chest all covered, okay? You'd better bring a couple of prettier things in case we're required to mix in the evenings, but otherwise be plain and practical. It'll be dusty and sweaty and you might need to run.'

An hour later, she has popped her first anti-malarials and is turning her bedroom upside down in the search for clean underwear, walking socks and her favourite embroidered top.

Three hours after that, they are taking off from RAF Brize Norton. His nose rests against her hair as the plane's engines roar and he tells her their itinerary.

Seven hours after that, they are landing at the recently renamed Baghdad International Airport.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC