I don't own Spooks, never will claim to. I write for fun (ha!) and emotional gratification (double ha!). Thanks to everyone who followed/reviewed/commented/etc. on Our Little Patch of Heaven, despite it being some kind of random, helter skelter AU: the encouragement has led me to write this, so take it as you will. Rated M for themes and language of an adult nature, and potentially spoilers for all 10 seasons. Harry/Ruth-centric, for obvious reasons like what the fresh hell, man.

Firsts
by Scintillating Tart
July 2014 – August 2014

One:
First Day

She'd found an electric tea kettle, but the coffeepot remained elusive. Ruth Evershed had been awake for over 24 hours at that point, and she was tired of the fleetingly brief buzz of milky tea and wanted a jolt from a mug of steaming hot coffee. She could hardly complain as much as anyone else on the Grid, however – she was the new girl, thrust into the middle of the operation without much fuss and fanfare after they'd all been up for 48 hours or more. Tempers were a little frayed and she'd spent most of her time unruffling feathers between the lines of data.

The adrenaline rush of nervousness was keeping her going, not anything else. Finding a distinct lack of coffee in the alcove, she settled on another tired, worn out cup of tea – but this time, no milk or sugar, and she left the bag in. Anything for that little bit extra caffeine.

When she'd gotten dressed that morning, Ruth had been in a rush to pick something that would fit in and not stand out amongst her betters. She hadn't done laundry, so she was stuck in an uncomfortable, slightly too small pair of knickers that were starting to chafe in delicate areas. She fought the maddening itch by determining that she was a bit of a twat and should just run her washing more often – especially if 24 hour shifts were going to be the norm in her new job.

She poured a second cup of tea – no milk, three sugars – and carried it back over to the analysis area. Without a word, she hovered in Malcolm's line of sight and handed it over when he glanced up. He smiled and said, "Thank you."

Ruth knew that he had been here an intolerably long time – over 72 hours if the shadow of the bags under his eyes were any indication – and his mental responses were beginning to lose their luster. She certainly couldn't claim to be alert herself, but she was concerned for him. "You're welcome – I couldn't find a coffee pot –"

Malcolm looked at her for a long moment, then said, "It went on the blink a few days ago and hasn't been replaced yet. I'm sorry, I should've – but in context, I guess a coffee pot doesn't matter, does it?" He heaved a sigh and rubbed his face. "I'll get started on the paperwork, then, and you can read over my shoulder so you know which forms go with which files for future." His voice was kind, not at all patronizing, but she got the impression he thought she wouldn't last very long.

She had to admit, in a room full of yelling, glamorously beautiful spies, she was small and insignificant, a blip of nothing in a sea of everything. She was hardly outwardly lovely, nor able to project an aura of anything other than concentration or shyness, but she had done her duty and pieced together the information the team had needed. She had done her job, and it wasn't such a bad one, was it? Collating data was a special skill she'd honed since she was a child, sifting through the unimportant details to find the one thing that didn't quite fit. But this scale of it was all new. She was slow and felt a bit thick compared to the others, but it was only her first day – all 23 hours, 14 minutes, and 7 seconds of it.

After watching over Malcolm's shoulder for a few minutes, she knew that he was entirely too exhausted to continue on with her training, and her gaze flitted across the Grid to Mr. Pearce's office. The blinds were partially open and she could just make out that he was sitting behind the desk, on the phone. She'd gotten both his praise and his censure during the operation – his praise for figuring out the location of the bioweapon, and his censure for not being more forceful insisting that she knew where it was located. He was quick to anger, she had learned, and yet quick to offer a good word as well. But she was terrified of confronting the lion in his den.

Everyone else had already left the Grid in a numb state of exhaustion, except for Malcolm, Pearce, and herself. Malcolm had explained quickly that they had to finish collating the day's data and ready it for tomorrow, and submit their initial reports on the incident so Mr. Pearce could give the Home Secretary something concrete before they could leave.

She gently patted Malcolm's shoulder and said, "I'll be right back – I just need to go to the ladies'."

He glanced at her and nodded. "All right – I'll start on this and you can collate when you get back."

She started away from him, heading toward the loo, then doubled back and knocked on the door of Mr. Pearce's office. What motivated her was concern for her colleague's physical and mental well-being, she reminded herself, not a cage match to the death with her new boss.

"Come in," Pearce snapped irritably. She pushed the door open wider and stepped through, letting him see her intrusion and finish his call. "I will call you back, Home Secretary." He hung up the phone and said, "Unctuous git." He took a deep breath and the mask slid back into place, but she'd seen how tired he was. "What can I do for you, Miss Evershed – it is Miss Evershed, isn't it? Don't tell me I've forgotten your name in the heat of the moment."

"No, that's right," Ruth said, "sir. Ruth Evershed."

"I apologize that a more formal training arrangement wasn't in place for today," Pearce said, "but I suppose that on your feet acclimatization will have to do until things calm. Did your codes work adequately?"

"Yes, sir – but that's not why I'm here." She glanced away from him, very nervous now that the adrenaline was wearing off. She felt unsteady, off, in this room – there was an air of stale cologne and expensive whiskey in the air and she was tired. Maybe that's why she thought somewhere in the back of her mind that her disheveled boss looked like he needed a good quick shag and a long shower.

He was silent for a moment, then prompted, "Why are you here, Miss Evershed?"

She licked her lips and picked a little at the edge of her left thumbnail. "I, uh – did you – were you aware that Malcolm has been awake for the last 72 hours, at least?" Her voice was soft and not accusing, though she wanted to reach out and shake the man and make a comment about rest breaks and violations of the law. "He's very weary and it's beginning to show in his paperwork."

Pearce regarded her with an unreadable gaze. "Malcolm knows his limitations, Miss Evershed," he said in a guarded tone that implied that this was not the first time that this situation had arisen. "There are things that must be done before analysts leave the Grid that cannot just be handed off to the next shift."

"I'm not suggesting an ignorance of the system," she spoke up, blushing even as her eyes flashed fire. "I'm just suggesting that you might send him home – I will finish the reports and the collation for the morning. I have fresher eyes."

He continued to give her that appraising, guarded stare. "Do you have high enough clearance to do that, Miss Evershed?"

She paused, then said, "I have B level, red division. You tell me." The flippant answer startled them both. "I'm – I'm sorry –"

"No need to apologize," he replied in a cool, even tone, attempting to unruffle her feathers. "Your work today was invaluable and I thank you for stepping up. Our last three analyst candidates have not risen to the challenge, so I hope fervently that you will fill the hole nicely, Miss Evershed."

"Ruth," she interjected. "Please – it's one syllable rather than four. I would rather you shout that, sir." Her sudden assertion of a kind of boldness under his backhanded compliment made her cheeks flush pink. "May I call Malcolm a cab or –"

"I'll get the service to drive him home," Pearce said. "Stay here." He picked up the phone and dialed the analysis desk, waiting for a beat. "Malcolm, old chap – I'll call for a car and you may leave. Miss Eversh- Ruth – Ruth has volunteered to finish. No, I don't anticipate a problem with that. Thank you, Malcolm." He hung up and went back to that appraising stare. "How long do you anticipate this to take?"

She shook her head slightly, dismissively, looking up from the corner of his desk where her gaze had been affixed. "An hour or so?" She looked him in the eyes as she said that. "Maybe less if I can condense relevant details more concisely."

Pearce had a fluffy baby-faced look about him, especially with his sparse, fluffy hair. He looked a little like the political fat cats, but she could tell that he still attempted to take care of himself and not go entirely to seed, despite the bit of fat around his belly. An irrational tug of attraction blindsided her for a moment before she pushed it back down and looked away.

"I'll get to work on that, then," she said, quietly disappearing from his office, hoping that he didn't realize that she suddenly had been struggling. She bid Malcolm good night and got to work. Forty-five minutes later, she sent Pearce a rapid succession of emails with files attached, then got her coat, scarf and purse.

She resolved to be gone before he left his office to dismiss her, and she reminded herself that she was just the new girl and on shaky ground until she'd settled in. Best not to provoke Pearce any further – he might take it as a sign that she was looking for something more than she was.

Harry had lost the thread of the Home Secretary's long, rambling conversation a long time ago. His eyes had glazed over somewhere about minute five, and it wasn't as if he hadn't stopped listening altogether. No, he was just sleeping with his eyes open.

He glanced at his watch – ten minutes past two am. If his analysts hurried up and finished their paperwork, he might get home by five and then he could manage a nap and a shower before his morning briefing with the PM. Speaking of analysts, the new one was good – immensely good, focused, and she caught tiny details that others missed.

Evershed, her name was, wasn't it? He'd have to check her file again, but that sounded right. He'd known she was due to start today, but somehow, that didn't matter in the middle of a desperate play to regain control of a WMD. She'd been thrown into their midst and survived to tell the tale with only a couple of small scars. He'd raised his voice with her once or twice, but she was maddeningly hesitant and almost coy with her responses – he would have accused her of mucking about if he hadn't correctly interpreted her reticence as shyness and a determination to be correct before leaping. The look in her eyes as he'd shouted made him wonder if he would be looking at another transfer request – or worse, resignation – in the morning.

The Home Secretary droned on and on, and Harry wondered if the bastard ever shut up – or if he just loved the sound of his own prattling so much that it was a physical impossibility. He was grateful for the knock on his door, however curt his voice was when he snapped, "Come in." Speak of the devil, and Evershed appeared, looking small and very un-spook-like. "I will call you back, Home Secretary." He hung up the phone and said, "Unctuous git." The words had left his lips before he could catch them, so his shoulders momentarily slumped in weary defeat before he slipped his neutral mask back on. He only hoped that she did not see it. "What can I do for you, Miss Evershed – it is Miss Evershed, isn't it? Don't tell me I've forgotten your name in the heat of the moment." It was a lame joke, but it fell even flatter than he'd expected – his charm was almost nonexistent after 96 hours on the Grid.

"No, that's right," Ruth said, "sir. Ruth Evershed." She looked incredibly uncomfortable in his office, and her use of the word 'sir' underscored the point that she wouldn't be there at all if it weren't important.

He had a maddening moment of what he thought might be comprehension – she was new, achingly new, and had been thrown into the lion's den without preamble or defense. She wanted to confront him about that – better head it off. "I apologize that a more formal training arrangement wasn't in place for today," Harry said, "but I suppose that on your feet acclimatization will have to do until things calm. Did your codes work adequately?" Another fear of his: that his team would not have adequate training or know how to use their tools accurately. God knows, he couldn't figure out the hand-held prototype that he was meant to be field testing.

"Yes, sir – but that's not why I'm here." She looked edgy, cagey, as she glanced away from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. Shit, he swore internally, he was going to lose another one – too much, too soon, not enough training to prepare them to be thrust in the middle of a high-end operation, not enough experience beforehand to know that this was just the way it was anymore…

His tone was guarded as he said, "Why are you here, Miss Evershed?" A million reasons tumbled about in his head, each more dire than the last, and he resolved to get on his knees and beg if it meant she would just stay. She was a good fit – an excellent fit – and he needed her, even if she was just a shy little filly of a desk spook. She had proven herself to be invaluable today and he had no doubt with proper looking after, she could become so much more.

She was picking at her thumb, a nervous tick, so he knew she wasn't comfortable speaking up about whatever it was she needed to bring up. "I, uh – did you – were you aware that Malcolm has been awake for the last 72 hours, at least?" Her voice was soft and not accusing, but he knew she was feeling defensive before she'd even spoken. "He's very weary and it's beginning to show in his paperwork."

Concern for your co-workers usually didn't factor into their lives on the Grid, so he barely forced back raised eyebrows as it sunk in that she had already fit into the hole left behind by the last analyst and made it her own. She couldn't see that, wouldn't see that, but he knew he'd made the right decision in choosing her over her colleagues.

He decided to play the hardliner boss on this one, see how it would play out. He wanted to see if she would back down meekly, or if she would fight for Malcolm's honor. "Malcolm knows his limitations, Miss Evershed. There are things that must be done before analysts leave the Grid that cannot just be handed off to the next shift."

Her body language shifted from shy to angry in a flash, her eyes sparking with well-tempered irritation. "I'm not suggesting an ignorance of the system." Evershed's tone was sharp and her face flushed even as she got angrier – angry was good, he could work with it. "I'm just suggesting that you might send him home – I will finish the reports and the collation for the morning. I have fresher eyes."

Enlightening, this little chat, Harry thought to himself. She flashed hot and cold, but her temper was collected and even. She wanted to alleviate others' suffering and do good deeds within the system. Yes, she was a good fit – especially in dealing with Tom and Danny's minor explosions of temper. "Do you have high enough clearance to do that, Miss Evershed?" It was an honest question – he didn't honestly remember how much he'd decided to trust her when he'd had Malcolm update her user profile. He had a fleeting moment of wanting to give her A level and black protocols and let her take over for him for a couple of days, but right now, they were discussing Malcolm's apparent exhaustion.

Malcolm was just getting over a virus of some persuasion – AlkaSeltzer and crackers had been his best friends as of late – or he would still have been fighting fit even after 80 hours of insanity. But Harry was determined to see the inner workings of Evershed, so he was going to play the arse and force her responses.

"I have B level, red division. You tell me." The flippant answer startled them both, if her blinking and his visceral jerk were anything to go by. "I'm – I'm sorry –"

"No need to apologize," he replied in a cool, even tone, attempting to unruffle her feathers. "Your work today was invaluable and I thank you for stepping up. Our last three analyst candidates have not risen to the challenge, so I hope fervently that you will fill the hole nicely, Miss Evershed."

It was neutral enough, not needy, carefully worded to inspire trust and he hoped to god that she understood that he was not attempting to punish her for speaking out. These games – he was getting too old to play them. He could flirt with a honeyed tongue, but coaxing Evershed out of her shell was going to be a challenge, even for him.

"Ruth," she interjected. "Please – it's one syllable rather than four. I would rather you shout that, sir." He wondered if she realized that her words had a second meaning and her choice of them had given away something very important – and he shifted in his chair, breaking the impasse before she could feel threatened by him. She stammered, "May I call Malcolm a cab or –" Her cheeks were stained pink and he had a fleeting moment of wondering if she blushed like that when she came, or if her whole body suffused pink. Oh dear god, what fresh hell of a slippery slope was that question? And where had it even come from?

He backtracked internally, trying to find the thread of the plot instead of his cock's stupid wants.

"I'll get the service to drive him home," Pearce said. "Stay here." He picked up the phone and dialed the analysis desk, waiting for a beat. "Malcolm, old chap – I'll call for a car and you may leave. Miss Eversh- Ruth – Ruth has volunteered to finish."

Malcolm's voice was guarded. "Are you sure, Harry? She's quite new – she mightn't understand everything you need in the reports. Will her clearance hold?"

" No, I don't anticipate a problem with that. Thank you, Malcolm." He hung up and went back to staring at Ruth, trying to rattle her cage without prompting an incident. "How long do you anticipate this to take?"

She'd been staring at the corner of his desk so she wouldn't have to look at him directly, clearly unsure of her place in the hierarchy at that moment, but then her steady – albeit nervous – gaze lifted to his. "An hour or so?" There was a beat – not even really a pause, just a quick inhalation of breath and a flash in her eyes that might have been something other than the cause he might attribute to it. He couldn't read her well enough yet. Yet. That simple word implied that he would know soon enough. The reality was, he was going to turn her inside out until he knew her responses as well as his own. It was the only way to effectively control his team. "Maybe less if I can condense relevant details more concisely." Her words were subtly infused with confidence, and he felt sure that she would do just that.

She was appraising him with a pointed, hard look, her eyes wandering up and down him as if sizing him up – and there was that flash in her eyes again that he almost thought could be desire, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I'll get to work on that, then," she said, quietly disappearing from his office as quickly as she'd appeared.

He took a couple of calming breaths, his nostrils flaring, trying to convince himself that she would reach her self-imposed deadline and that she wouldn't leave the Grid in a bad temper because of him. He did need her – apparently in more ways than one, he thought ruefully, trying to think of Queen and country to tame his erection. He didn't usually fancy submissive women – they were too repressed and it took far too much work to get them to open up and have a bit of fun, dearie.

There was something different about Ruth Evershed, though, as his trousers were clearly attempting to tell him as they attempted to cut off all circulation. She wasn't beautiful in a conventional sense, like most of the lovers he'd taken, but she had a good body and a gentle demeanor and clearly, he was going to have to watch himself in the future – assuming she came back to work ever again.

After his shouting earlier, she'd looked like he'd slapped her. She probably would finish her work and never come back.

He poured himself a shot of whiskey and gulped it neat, letting the liquor burn its way down his throat, relaxing him enough to calm his body and reclaim his concentration. He called the Home Secretary back, made several other calls – all equally important – and only glanced up when his email notification chimed in rapid succession.

The operation files, and tomorrow's PM briefing, were all in his inbox, neat and tidy and clean – entirely more concise and to the point than Malcolm's versions of the same reports over the last few weeks. He went to the door of his office to thank her, but Ruth was already gone and he was alone on the Grid.

He stepped out and looked around, his eyes falling on the analysis desk and seeing her coffee mug with a light imprint of her neutral lipstick – whatever had been left of it after 24 hours – on the rim.

She'd left her mug.

It was a good sign; the best possible sign he could have imagined.

END PART ONE