Harry tries to teach Ruth a lesson about truth and how close they could be. Spoilers for seasons 8 and 9 from the outset.

A few notes:

Given the tone of a lot of Spooks fic out there, it might seem to some people as if Harry is a bit out of character. However, I like to bear in mind that this is a man who occasionally decides that a few civilian deaths are necessary "for the greater good". If he decided he had to get a point across, I don't think he'd hold back. I might write more of this if I get the chance and I don't get flamed!

Set after episode 1 of series 9, with a plot that is complete nonsense, this is rated M for a number of reasons. Please don't read if you're offended by strong language or very explicit imagery. The usual disclaimers apply.

Not Close Enough

Stubbornly fighting MI5's operational target of a paperless office environment by the end of 2010, Ruth flipped open a spiral-bound notebook, clicked her pen and looked up expectantly.

'James Hackett is relatively new on the scene,' Harry explained. 'But in Whitehall, his name keeps being murmured politely. The Home Secretary is five minutes late and it's because James Hackett needed a word. The Prime Minister wasn't informed of events until lunchtime because he was in a meeting with Hackett. The man has come from nowhere, wriggled his way into Downing Street with an alarming lack of noise and is happily turning himself into some sort of Mandelson-Campbell hybrid!'

Ruth shuddered. Harry gave her an eyes-only smile of complete understanding, leant forwards and lowered his voice to seduction level.

'So tell me, who is he and what does he want?'

'I-I don't know much. Yet. He's grammar school educated and he got a first at Durham in Economics. Then he seems to have travelled a bit. Mostly southern Africa and South America. He even did a stint with Operation Raleigh.'

One blonde eyebrow shifted. 'Very Prince William. What next?'

'A Masters degree in 2001. Economic history at the LSE. His thesis is on economic wellbeing and warfare. He tracks the proportion of numerous countries' government budgets devoted to the military over time, and links those changes to their political and social contexts. He also looks at military activity and the financial markets. Essentially, he concludes that a country's historical military activity is reflected in its future economic cycles, and crucially, the way each nation responds to financial crisis. Its... well it's a really good read!'

'Oh dear.'

Ruth looked personally offended. She loved it when other people had brains and used them effectively. 'Oh dear? Why?'

'Because his opinion might legitimately carry some weight and people like that are always harder to predict and manage.'

'Manage?'

Harry frowned impatiently. 'He's unelected and could be the most powerful political animal in the UK. If he has an agenda that goes beyond maintaining the coalition of course he'll need managing.'

'Oh dear.'

'I need more than his curriculum vitae. I need to know the dirt. Loves, hates, sweet dreams and nightmares, Ruth. You've got until tomorrow lunchtime.'

She pretended to sigh about it.

At eight o'clock that evening, utterly absorbed in the life of an attractive and startlingly intelligent man, Ruth wouldn't have noticed her mobile phone ringing except for the fact that it was the special ring tone she'd set for Harry Pearce. A loud and annoying buzz that set her teeth on edge and never failed to make her chest tighten inside. 'I'm downstairs waiting for you,' he barked. 'More precisely, my driver Mike is waiting and it's his wife's birthday today. If he gets home by nine with a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of Moët he'll be okay. Otherwise, things will be rather difficult.'

'You're a ruthless bastard.'

'Currently ruthless in more ways than one. I hope you've shut down your computer by now.'

'James Hackett.'

'What about him?'

'He's not easy to pin down, Harry.'

The smirk at the other end of the call was tangible. 'Oh, Ruth. You know I have complete faith in you. Sharing Special Chow Mein with me tonight won't stop you from knowing everything there is to know about Hackett tomorrow.'

Ten minutes later, Ruth was only slightly surprised to find herself standing in a posh City off-licence, choosing a bottle of champagne. Through the window of the shop, she could see Harry across the road, sitting on a plastic chair next to a fish tank, flicking dismissively through a copy of the Sun newspaper and waiting for the takeaway he'd ordered.

Mike was waiting patiently in the car, which was parked on double yellow lines. She opened the door and climbed back in with one bottle-sized gift bag and one bottle wrapped in off-licence tissue paper.

'Here's a bottle of Moët,' she explained, passing over the paper-wrapped bottle. 'Tell your wife that your boss gave it to you as a birthday present for her.' She held up the gift bag. 'This is a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. Tell your wife that you've heard it's really nice and you wanted to get it for her.'

Mike looked slightly appalled. 'Thanks, Miss Evershed. Um, how much was it?'

'Don't worry. It's about a hundred quid, so you wouldn't be risking your mortgage. But I'm going to explain to Harry that he's paying for both bottles.'

Clearly relieved, Mike grinned. 'Rather you than me.'

She grinned back. 'And please just call me Ruth.'

Given that Ruth's flatmate was Section Nine's latest recruit, she was appalled to find that they were heading for her place and not Harry's. She lived close enough to Clapham Common to say Clapham to taxi drivers, had settled into her new home surprisingly well, and quietly resented having to share the space with a cocky blonde who was both female and incredibly nosy.

'No secrets on the Grid,' Harry said calmly as soon as he felt her tense up and turn towards him. 'It's the most truthful place for us, remember?'

'But Beth! Christ almighty, she'll have a field day!'

'Exactly. Everybody on the Grid will know everything there is to know about us. And as we're having Chinese food, not tantric sex, there's not a lot to tell.'

It wasn't fair. He'd taken her words and twisted them into something ridiculous. 'As if that'll make a difference!'

'Well if that's the case, I vote that after dinner we have a crack at expanded orgasm.'

Harry gazed at her intently. Despite the gloom of the car's interior and the brevity of street light illumination she knew his eyes had involuntarily darkened with excitement. She was speechless. Furious. Frustrated. More than slightly aroused by the thought of any orgasm, let alone one that was extended. Hers at his hands... his at hers... both together... it took a fraction of a second to picture all sorts of scenarios in her mind's eye and squeeze her thighs together reflexively.

'From now on, Ruth, our life together will be acted out on one stage,' Harry continued much less enthusiastically. 'The place you've chosen.'

She turned on him with wide eyes and tears in her voice. 'How could you miss the point so completely?'

'How could you listen to my offer of marriage and tell me you'd rather work together. Did you expect me to be pleased?'

'It's not like that! I told you. If we were married, we wouldn't be able to know each other the way we do now! I want more of you, not less!'

Harry slapped a palm down on the leather seat between them with enough force to still her completely. 'For fuck's sake, woman! I'm a section head of MI5 and you're an intelligence officer. The things I know about that you don't know about – are not allowed to know about – would fill a novel-length book. Did it ever occur to you that I want a relationship of equality? That at the moment, no matter how much we trust each other, at work I am your superior, there is a chain of command and I hate its influence on us almost as much as I love you?'

When they got to her flat it was twenty to nine. Mike dared to shoot her a single pleading glance as he opened the car door for her and waited to see if she stormed off without Harry. Absolutely horrified that he'd witnessed the entire conversation, she gazed heavenward, took a deep breath and nodded slightly to reassure him.

Dinner was uncomfortable. In Ruth's opinion, it ranked right up there with early morning boat rides and spending time in the boot of a car. Beth took one look at them, set three places at the kitchen table, opened a bottle of Chardonnay and did her best to fill in the awkward silences whilst eating most of the food. At ten-thirty, Harry called a cab and came perilously close to stomping his feet on the way out.

Bang on noon the following day, Harry opened the door of his office and snapped her name. She saved the file she'd been working on, attached it to an email entitled "Initial report JH" and clicked Send. Then she moved onto the next item on her to do list with a deliberate lack of pause.

Three minutes later, Harry opened the door of his office again and spoke with an air of long-suffering, 'A hundred and seventy-four pages? I'd like an oral summary. Now, Ruth. Please?'

'There isn't a lot to tell,' Ruth admitted grumpily as she sat down. 'He worked as a business analyst for two years after getting his Masters, but jacked it in to work for a lower salary at an NGO before being appointed as a political advisor. He isn't a member of any political party and never has been. He's never been arrested, he's never been flagged and he's never gone over his overdraft limit. He has one credit card with about three thousand pounds owing, mostly spent in shops that sell men's clothing. A tailor where he bought a decent suit and that sort of thing. He lives in Wimbledon in a one bedroom flat that he's rented for the last six years.'

'Christ, he's too normal. Too small. How the hell did he meet the PM?'

'When he was at the LSE, Hackett gave a paper at the British Economics Society annual conference. The PM was there and a newly elected MP. Probably still figuring out his political identity. They've been acquaintances ever since. They've never been close, or we probably would have looked at him before, but every now and then it seems they've met. It looks like the PM has asked for advice or information. I have no idea what about, and there's nothing written anywhere, so no means of finding out more.'

'What about his relationships?'

'He's a single child. Phone calls to and from both of his parents' mobiles as well as their home indicate that he gets on well with both of them. He's been single for over a year after splitting up with a girlfriend he'd had since his final year at Durham. They used to live together in Wimbledon and before that they lived together in various shared houses in cheaper parts of London. With teachers and newly qualified doctors. Someone in marketing, someone who is now a moderately famous clothes designer.'

'There's nothing odd at all?'

'His ex-girlfriend, Sally, is a maths teacher. She had an affair with the deputy head and left James for him. They're married now. When she moved out, James took two weeks off work and went home to his parents. I think he must have been devastated.'

'You like him.'

It wasn't a question. Ruth's eyes focussed on something far beyond the carmine wall of Harry's office.

'Yes I do. Soon after he got back to London, the PM met him. The PM was leader of the opposition and under the usual level of observation. He had James to dinner at his home. A week later, James was commissioned by the PM's at the time unofficial election campaign team to write a series of reports on both the international and domestic economic situations. The reports' contents can easily be linked to the government's current economic policy.'

'Do you think it was a personal favour? Do you think the PM felt sorry for Hackett and gave him something to occupy his mind?'

Ruth smiled wryly. 'That's the sort of thing I would do. I don't know. There's something about James Hackett that the PM wanted and now depends on. And I think there was already a decent level of trust and respect.'

Harry sat back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach and twiddled his thumbs. 'I'm going to have to meet this paragon.'

'I'd like to meet him, actually,' Ruth admitted. 'Just to see if such a person is possible in Downing Street. We've got no record of him even voting in the past!'

'You're not just interested because you fancy him a bit?'

She smiled again, not entirely sweetly. 'He's a good-looking chap. He's clever. He's single and he's potentially trustworthy and honest with the country's best interests at heart. What a lovely prospect! It's a shame I'm at least five years too old for him and not nearly beautiful enough.'

Harry's posture changed infinitesimally, but it was enough to tell Ruth that she'd riled him. 'You're entirely too beautiful,' he replied. 'Beautiful enough to make me lose my heart completely and my temper far too often.'

'Harry—'

He bent forwards and fixed her with an unavoidable gaze. 'I'm nearly 57. In my prime I dallied with top Parisian totty, and the effect it had on me was nothing compared to how I feel now!'

'Harry—'

'At your behest, there will be no secrets between us on the Grid, Ruth. We say everything we need to say right here. I had a dream last night. I dreamed you were naked in my bed and practically writhing with pleasure. I was performing cunnilingus on you and I'd already made you come twice. Jesus, Ruth. You were wet and you were begging for me.'

She jumped up from her chair and hugged herself, turning on the spot in an agony of embarrassment. 'Harry, please!'

He stood and walked towards her, the light of all out war in his eyes. 'I woke up as sticky as a teenaged boy and burst into tears when I realised it was just a dream. Don't tell me that you're not beautiful enough, and don't you dare tell me that we're closer now than we would be if we were married. We bloody well aren't close enough for me!'

The following week, James Hackett led Harry Pearce into a small and slightly grubby Whitehall office.

'I've borrowed this from the Culture Secretary,' he explained apologetically. 'I just about have a desk at Number 10 but I share it with three other people and I was told you won't visit there anyway.'

'Not I,' Harry agreed cheerfully. 'It's too well watched for the likes of me.'

'Are you really here to give me a standard security briefing? The girl who called to make the appointment told me it was perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, but you seem a bit more, um, authoritative than I was expecting.'

'I'm the head of counter-terrorism at MI5. You've found your way onto our radar and we need to know you're not planning to bring the government down from the inside.'

'Blimey. I wasn't expecting that either.'

'Really?' said Harry, affably gesturing that they sit down. 'I wonder why on earth not?'

Hackett sat down behind the desk, rested an elbow on the battered surface and his chin on his hand. He looked genuinely puzzled. 'But I'm just another political advisor. I'm not very important, you know.'

'The girl who called to make the appointment is my senior intelligence analyst. She knows more about you than your family and friends combined. She doesn't think you're unimportant. She thinks you're responsible for our current economic policy. She thinks you're the Prime Minister's sounding board. She likes you.'

'Is that bad?'

Harry snorted. 'Not if you stop playing silly buggers with me and not if you behave yourself. I don't mind if you screw up, and the government with you, as long as you think you're doing the right thing. But one whiff of sabotage and you're finished.'

All of a sudden, Hackett seemed to deflate. To open himself up for examination. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. 'Fuck me,' Hackett muttered. 'You're serious.'

'Of course.'

'I'm doing the best job I know how to and currently my only agenda is to not look like a frightened rabbit the whole time.'

'Go on.'

'I'm a rookie. A rank amateur with no political nous whatsoever. The PM asks me to research things and write an unbiased summary. He calls it an evidence base. Nowadays the Left are splitting between centre right and far left, the Centre is on the left and the Right is going further right in sheer frustration. The government is a patchwork of divided political beliefs and the Cabinet has to try and make decisions without arguing over everything for days.'

'Welcome to European-style government.'

'I know! It would be amusing if it wasn't so scary. Anyway, that's where I come in. To save time, I provide an unbiased evidence base and they all agree to work from that. The Prime Minister suggested me to the Deputy Prime Minister. He then had me checked out and interviewed. Four times. The last time he was actually on the interview panel.'

'I see.'

'Really. It's hard work, but the way I see it, somebody has to do it, and at the moment I don't know of anyone better than me.'

'Did you vote?'

'No, and I never have done. Surely there's a way of checking that?'

'There is.'

'So why did you ask?'

'I want to see what it's like when I know you're telling the truth.'

'Oh. Well, none of the major parties inspired me with confidence and none of the minor ones spoke for me either. '

'My intelligence officer thinks you're currently recovering from a broken heart. She thinks that you were very upset when Sally left.'

Hackett looked dismayed. 'You have no right! What business is that of yours?'

'You're not denying it.'

'How can I?'

'What happened?'

'I didn't ask her to marry me. We were together for more than a decade and it was apparently too long and not enough. I thought we were happy.'

Harry couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

'What the hell?' Hackett exclaimed furiously.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't. I don't usually... It's just that she won't marry me!' Harry gasped. 'Apparently there's no need to and we're fine as we are!'

'Who?' Hackett asked, head tilting with interest despite himself. Then his eyes widened in understanding. 'Oh, God. Your intelligence officer. Who likes me.'

They exchanged a glance of mutual understanding so universal as to be an utter cliché.

'I'm beginning to think it was bollocks,' Hackett said after a pause. 'I think she wanted more sex and better sex and eventually she went out and got it. I've since observed that the problems in people's relationships seem to sort themselves out much more easily when they're busy falling into bed all the time and only with each other.'

'Perhaps you're right,' Harry replied.

'Good luck with finding out.'

Harry stood up and carefully picked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. 'Thank you. It was nice to meet you, James. Just remember me when you've found your feet. When you've discovered that you're comfortable with power and even that you rather like it.'

'I can't imagine that day arriving.'

'I can. I've seen it quite a few times before, you know.'

'I don't think I'm going to forget you very easily.'

'Good. You should also remember that we know you couldn't afford a decent suit when you needed one and your mother has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. That you were one of the earlier British students to provide essays on the web for money when you were an undergraduate. Anything you do we'll find out, do you understand? Including repeating the contents of this discussion with anyone.'

James Hackett blinked and swallowed nervously. Harry liked him better for it.

She was working late again. Just to see if he could, Harry took a circuitous route about the office and tried to sneak up behind her from the shadows. Her chair spun around to face him when he was two metres away.

'You're not quiet enough,' she said smugly. 'I could hear your breathing and your shirt was rustling.'

Part of him was saddened by her words. She hadn't been so sharp when he'd first fallen for her. 'I've been told I'm too quiet when I make love,' he said softly. 'Did you know that?'

Ruth's gaze darted to multiple places before settling on his shoes. She still couldn't quite believe that Harry would put her through this, let alone himself. 'No.'

'Aspersions have been cast on my ability to communicate my enjoyment. Apparently, I might be a bit repressed.'

Grey eyes bulged slightly at the idiocy of the suggestion that Harry was repressed. How could he manage to talk dirty with the burning precision of an exocet missile if that was the case? As ever, the instinct to defend him kicked in. 'That sounds like insecurity talking to me. Or nit-picking.'

Harry smiled. He pulled out Beth's chair, sat down and rolled himself the rest of the way towards her until their knees were touching and his hands were gently drawing her jaw towards his. He let his lips skate across her cheek and up to her ear. 'I bet you're wondering, though. I bet you're pondering the fact that you might just have discovered a way to shut me up.'

'Don't be silly,' she whispered shakily.

'No?' His hands trembled and then held firm as he began to kiss her. Laughter lines, an eyebrow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. 'Perhaps I should tell you about last night's dream. You were naked and so was I. Your shoulder blade tasted of salt. We were making love and your face was buried against the pillow. I knew it was you, though. I'd know the scent of your hair anywhere—'

She tried to silence him. She succeeded temporarily.