Fic: Gifts (Spooks/MI-5; Secret Santa Fic; rated PG)
Title: Gifts
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: PG
Wordcount: Just over 2000
Characters/Pairing: Juliet, Ruth, Harry, and Oliver Mace; references to Ruth/Harry, Juliet/Harry, and maybe even Mace/Harry if you squint
Spoilers: Set during Series 4, although there are no particular spoilers aside from who the characters are.
Note: Written for green_bottles for the Spooks Secret Santa 2008 Challenge. She asked for Juliet, Lucas, Ruth, Harry, or Mace as characters (I managed 4 of the 5!) and Juliet/Harry, Ruth/Harry, Malcolm/Ros, Malcolm/Colin, or Harry/Mace as pairings (I got in 3, well, maybe 2 1/2 of 5), and her prompt was "biting piece of chocolate with dry exterior". I hope you like it!
Spooks Secret Santa Masterlist here.
The first week of Juliet's new job, Oliver Mace pays an unannounced call, carrying a box covered in shiny silver wrapping paper.
"An office-warming gift," he says, handing it to her with a pinched smile that makes him look more pleased with himself than genuinely congratulatory.
"How thoughtful." Juliet accepts the box and gives it a quick, appraising inspection. It's heavier than she would have expected, but as far as she can tell, it's not ticking. "Shall I?"
"By all means." He lowers himself into one of her chairs -- making himself far too much at home for Juliet's taste -- and watches as she pulls off the wrapping.
A crystal paperweight. Solid and well-made, it has a nice heft as she rolls it around her palm. It's even engraved with a rather attractive, abstract design. "Thank you," she says, placing it on a prominent spot on her desk. "You shouldn't have."
"You'll need it, now that you've got a comfortable desk job. Lots of paper pushing to do."
"You should know," she says, with an eyebrow arched for emphasis.
He smiles again, more broadly this time; he even shows a flash of teeth.
"It will be nice to have someone sensible in this post, at last," he says, ignoring her quip. "Someone who understands the complexity of the times we face. Someone who knows the importance of cooperation. Of compromise. Of give and take."
"Oh, you know me. I'm the very model of cooperativeness. As long as I get my way."
"Droll, as usual. I expect no less." He stands, to her relief. "Well, I must be off. Let me know if you need any help settling in."
"I'll be sure to."
"By the way," he says, pausing just short of the door, "something came to my attention that you might want to be aware of. Ruth Evershed is nosing about in records that she shouldn't."
"Ruth Evershed?" Juliet frowns.
"One of Harry Pearce's gang of buccaneers."
It takes a moment for Juliet to match the name with the person in her memory, but when she does, she bursts out in laughter. The mousy analyst who stares at the floor whenever spoken to?
"Honestly, Oliver, isn't this a bit beneath both our pay grades? If this woman's committed a security breach, there are channels to deal with that sort of thing."
"Oh, quite. But the reason I bring it up is because, apparently, one of the unauthorised files she's accessed is your personnel record."
Juliet blinks. "Is it, now?"
"I expect she's just being curious. No real harm done." He bestows one last smile, this one the broadest yet. "But you should keep a close eye on that one. She's more than what she seems."
***
Juliet pays more attention to Evershed the next time she's on the Grid. During Juliet's meeting with Harry, Ruth taps on the door and carries in a towering stack of documents that threaten to spill from her arms before she can deposit them on Harry's desk. Her demeanour seems timid, as if she expects Harry or Juliet -- or both of them -- to rip her head off for the interruption, but then there's a look in her eye that belies the surface lack of assertiveness. It's only a furtive glance Juliet's way, but it's unmistakable: hostility, mixed with suspicion, laced with what can only be described as territoriality.
Well, well. So Ruth Evershed isn't just the drab tea lady after all. She openly dislikes Juliet, in fact. And Juliet has a good idea why.
Juliet could set the woman's mind at ease if she really wanted, but what would be the fun of that?
***
Juliet doesn't give Ruth a second thought for months after that. Not until she has another encounter with Oliver Mace. He and Juliet spend an hour arguing about some secret committee or other that he wants to establish. She's not, on principle, opposed to secret committees -- they do have their uses -- but she wouldn't trust him in charge of any such thing. Not that she tells him that, of course, Instead, she makes noises about procedure and transparency and her favourite all-purpose excuse of late, accountability.
"I have to think about the PM's reputation should this leak to the press," she says, feigning concern.
"For God's sake, Juliet," he says, then sighs in exasperation. "You've been spending too much time listening to Harry Pearce. He always was a bad influence on you."
"Oh, don't blame Harry just because your idea's rubbish," she replies. "Talk to me again when you have something workable to propose."
On the way back to her office, she wonders about Oliver's absurd tendency to blame Harry for everything that doesn't go his way. It's unhealthy, really, how often Oliver brings up the other man. He'd been like that in the old days, too. Except back then it had been more of an obsequious currying of favour, as if Harry was a kind of golden boy whose charm would rub off on Oliver if only he could get close enough.
She'll never forget that time she and Harry had been in the café in Paris. Stupidly -- thanks to self-absorbed recklessness fuelled by far, far too many drinks -- they'd been holding hands across the table, when out of nowhere Oliver appeared. They snatched their hands back, but not quite fast enough. Oliver pretended that he hadn't seen what they were doing; they pretended that they didn't mind him joining them for dinner; and they all pretended like they got along wonderfully. Oliver insisted on paying for all of them; he was all smiles and jokes and chummy anecdotes about their mutual acquaintances. As the evening wore on, he wound up up leaning in so close that his cologne began to make Juliet's nose twitch with a horrible desire to sneeze.
She was saved when Oliver excused himself to visit the toilet. As soon as he was beyond earshot, Harry rolled his eyes in disgust. "I can't believe he's so blatantly chatting you up, when I'm sitting right here," he exclaimed.
"Me?" replied Juliet with a little snort of surprise. "I don't think I'm the one he fancies."
Harry turned pink, then scarlet, then a dark shade of purple, and by the time Oliver returned to the table, Juliet was wiping her eyes in hysterical laughter.
She teased Harry about that for weeks afterwards. In retrospect, that may have been the beginning of the end. Harry didn't take well to being mocked, and his growing annoyance only made Juliet perversely more inclined to do so. If they hadn't been forcibly separated shortly thereafter, she's convinced that their relationship would have died a natural -- and quite possibly acrimonious -- death anyway. Not that she ever got the chance to find out.
She's always wondered whether it was Oliver who turned them in. It seems fitting, somehow. If he had, he'd done her a favour, really. Oh, in the short run, it nearly derailed her career completely. For more years than she cares to think about, she almost lost herself to bitterness and resentment over the double standard in the way it was all handled. In the end, however, nothing could dampen her ambition. It was a setback, nothing more, and a lesson. A lesson about how to pick herself up and start over again, about how to avoid such traps in the future. She was lucky it happened when it did, when the stakes were relatively low. Yes, she had to put up with disdainful looks from her female colleagues and snide jokes from the males, but that just taught her not to care too much what people thought of her. After all, there was very little embarrassment that couldn't be lived down if one just had the nerve to brazen it out.
Ruth Evershed hasn't learnt those sorts of lessons, Juliet is quite sure. Ruth wears her emotions on the surface, where anyone who isn't either blind or named Harry Pearce can see them, plain as the Swiss Re building on the skyline. It's so utterly, so painfully obvious what's going on, Juliet's tempted to pull Ruth aside and give her some frank advice. Certainly no one else will. All Ruth's colleagues are too kind-hearted. But being kind-hearted isn't actually a kindness. Sometimes only someone who isn't a friend, someone who doesn't care about hurt feelings, can offer you the true kindness of telling you what you need to hear.
The next time Juliet gets the opportunity, that's exactly what she'll do. She can spare someone else from making the same kind of mistakes she did. Why, it can be her good deed for the year. Far better than her usual choice of tossing a few coins into a charity bucket.
***
When Juliet next happens to pay a visit to Section D, she inadvertently walks in on the middle of some sort of Christmas party. There's food; there are snowman-themed decorations strung up along the workstations; and there appears to be a punchbowl full of something bright red and no doubt alcoholic.
When they all turn to see who's passed through the pods, their expressions are crestfallen.
"Just call me the Ghost of Christmas Future," she announces. "I've come to show Harry all the dreadful things that will come to pass if he doesn't change his stubborn ways. The rest of you, do carry on with your celebration."
Harry exchanges a quick glance with a smirking Adam, then ushers Juliet into his office. As promised, she proceeds to elaborate upon all the dire scenarios that can be expected if Harry doesn't miraculously conjure up several prominent victories for the PM to impress the Americans with. He makes sour faces and grumbles about politicians; she crosses her arms and tells him she doesn't care if he likes it as long as he complies. Their usual ritual. Strangely enjoyable, although she'd never admit it.
As she takes her leave and heads towards the exit, Adam stops her, a glass of punch in his hand.
"You are welcome to join us," he says, extending the glass.
She glances towards the pods, then hesitates. "Well. It is the season, isn't it?"
After engaging in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with Adam for several minutes, she finds herself in a corner with Malcolm and that new girl who looks like she can't be any older than sixteen. Jenna? Jeana? Whoever she is, she's far too earnest and energetic for Juliet to take for much longer without another stiff drink. Juliet breaks away to pour herself a second glass of punch, and then it occurs to her: this is the perfect moment to have her little sisterly tête-à-tête with Ruth. She can grab her by the arm, steer her up to the roof, and then tell her logically and precisely why -- for her own good -- she should absolutely avoid any romantic entanglement with Harry Pearce.
She sets down her glass and looks purposefully around the room. Ruth is at her desk, talking with Harry -- but there's something in the expressions on their faces that makes Juliet stop short.
She knows what flirtation looks like. She knows what infatuation looks like, too. What she sees isn't either of those things. It's...oh, Lord, it's worse than she thought.
No. However much Ruth might need to hear some blunt advice, Juliet can't make herself go through with it. Not everyone is like her, capable of growing a thick skin. Not everyone needs to be like her, when she really thinks about it. She'll leave things be. If Ruth is to be disillusioned, Juliet won't be the cause. Besides, not everything necessarily has to turn out as disillusionment, after all.
She hopes, in this case, that it doesn't.
She turns back to Malcolm. "I'm afraid I have work to do. Thanks for the punch."
"Happy Christmas, Juliet," he answers.
"The same to you."
On her way out, she spots a box of chocolates on someone's desk. She reaches in and steals one with a powdery, coconut coating. Then she wraps her scarf around her throat and heads off into the cold winter afternoon.
As she steps out onto the street, she bites into the chocolate. It's bittersweet, just as she expected.
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: PG
Wordcount: Just over 2000
Characters/Pairing: Juliet, Ruth, Harry, and Oliver Mace; references to Ruth/Harry, Juliet/Harry, and maybe even Mace/Harry if you squint
Spoilers: Set during Series 4, although there are no particular spoilers aside from who the characters are.
Note: Written for green_bottles for the Spooks Secret Santa 2008 Challenge. She asked for Juliet, Lucas, Ruth, Harry, or Mace as characters (I managed 4 of the 5!) and Juliet/Harry, Ruth/Harry, Malcolm/Ros, Malcolm/Colin, or Harry/Mace as pairings (I got in 3, well, maybe 2 1/2 of 5), and her prompt was "biting piece of chocolate with dry exterior". I hope you like it!
Spooks Secret Santa Masterlist here.
The first week of Juliet's new job, Oliver Mace pays an unannounced call, carrying a box covered in shiny silver wrapping paper.
"An office-warming gift," he says, handing it to her with a pinched smile that makes him look more pleased with himself than genuinely congratulatory.
"How thoughtful." Juliet accepts the box and gives it a quick, appraising inspection. It's heavier than she would have expected, but as far as she can tell, it's not ticking. "Shall I?"
"By all means." He lowers himself into one of her chairs -- making himself far too much at home for Juliet's taste -- and watches as she pulls off the wrapping.
A crystal paperweight. Solid and well-made, it has a nice heft as she rolls it around her palm. It's even engraved with a rather attractive, abstract design. "Thank you," she says, placing it on a prominent spot on her desk. "You shouldn't have."
"You'll need it, now that you've got a comfortable desk job. Lots of paper pushing to do."
"You should know," she says, with an eyebrow arched for emphasis.
He smiles again, more broadly this time; he even shows a flash of teeth.
"It will be nice to have someone sensible in this post, at last," he says, ignoring her quip. "Someone who understands the complexity of the times we face. Someone who knows the importance of cooperation. Of compromise. Of give and take."
"Oh, you know me. I'm the very model of cooperativeness. As long as I get my way."
"Droll, as usual. I expect no less." He stands, to her relief. "Well, I must be off. Let me know if you need any help settling in."
"I'll be sure to."
"By the way," he says, pausing just short of the door, "something came to my attention that you might want to be aware of. Ruth Evershed is nosing about in records that she shouldn't."
"Ruth Evershed?" Juliet frowns.
"One of Harry Pearce's gang of buccaneers."
It takes a moment for Juliet to match the name with the person in her memory, but when she does, she bursts out in laughter. The mousy analyst who stares at the floor whenever spoken to?
"Honestly, Oliver, isn't this a bit beneath both our pay grades? If this woman's committed a security breach, there are channels to deal with that sort of thing."
"Oh, quite. But the reason I bring it up is because, apparently, one of the unauthorised files she's accessed is your personnel record."
Juliet blinks. "Is it, now?"
"I expect she's just being curious. No real harm done." He bestows one last smile, this one the broadest yet. "But you should keep a close eye on that one. She's more than what she seems."
***
Juliet pays more attention to Evershed the next time she's on the Grid. During Juliet's meeting with Harry, Ruth taps on the door and carries in a towering stack of documents that threaten to spill from her arms before she can deposit them on Harry's desk. Her demeanour seems timid, as if she expects Harry or Juliet -- or both of them -- to rip her head off for the interruption, but then there's a look in her eye that belies the surface lack of assertiveness. It's only a furtive glance Juliet's way, but it's unmistakable: hostility, mixed with suspicion, laced with what can only be described as territoriality.
Well, well. So Ruth Evershed isn't just the drab tea lady after all. She openly dislikes Juliet, in fact. And Juliet has a good idea why.
Juliet could set the woman's mind at ease if she really wanted, but what would be the fun of that?
***
Juliet doesn't give Ruth a second thought for months after that. Not until she has another encounter with Oliver Mace. He and Juliet spend an hour arguing about some secret committee or other that he wants to establish. She's not, on principle, opposed to secret committees -- they do have their uses -- but she wouldn't trust him in charge of any such thing. Not that she tells him that, of course, Instead, she makes noises about procedure and transparency and her favourite all-purpose excuse of late, accountability.
"I have to think about the PM's reputation should this leak to the press," she says, feigning concern.
"For God's sake, Juliet," he says, then sighs in exasperation. "You've been spending too much time listening to Harry Pearce. He always was a bad influence on you."
"Oh, don't blame Harry just because your idea's rubbish," she replies. "Talk to me again when you have something workable to propose."
On the way back to her office, she wonders about Oliver's absurd tendency to blame Harry for everything that doesn't go his way. It's unhealthy, really, how often Oliver brings up the other man. He'd been like that in the old days, too. Except back then it had been more of an obsequious currying of favour, as if Harry was a kind of golden boy whose charm would rub off on Oliver if only he could get close enough.
She'll never forget that time she and Harry had been in the café in Paris. Stupidly -- thanks to self-absorbed recklessness fuelled by far, far too many drinks -- they'd been holding hands across the table, when out of nowhere Oliver appeared. They snatched their hands back, but not quite fast enough. Oliver pretended that he hadn't seen what they were doing; they pretended that they didn't mind him joining them for dinner; and they all pretended like they got along wonderfully. Oliver insisted on paying for all of them; he was all smiles and jokes and chummy anecdotes about their mutual acquaintances. As the evening wore on, he wound up up leaning in so close that his cologne began to make Juliet's nose twitch with a horrible desire to sneeze.
She was saved when Oliver excused himself to visit the toilet. As soon as he was beyond earshot, Harry rolled his eyes in disgust. "I can't believe he's so blatantly chatting you up, when I'm sitting right here," he exclaimed.
"Me?" replied Juliet with a little snort of surprise. "I don't think I'm the one he fancies."
Harry turned pink, then scarlet, then a dark shade of purple, and by the time Oliver returned to the table, Juliet was wiping her eyes in hysterical laughter.
She teased Harry about that for weeks afterwards. In retrospect, that may have been the beginning of the end. Harry didn't take well to being mocked, and his growing annoyance only made Juliet perversely more inclined to do so. If they hadn't been forcibly separated shortly thereafter, she's convinced that their relationship would have died a natural -- and quite possibly acrimonious -- death anyway. Not that she ever got the chance to find out.
She's always wondered whether it was Oliver who turned them in. It seems fitting, somehow. If he had, he'd done her a favour, really. Oh, in the short run, it nearly derailed her career completely. For more years than she cares to think about, she almost lost herself to bitterness and resentment over the double standard in the way it was all handled. In the end, however, nothing could dampen her ambition. It was a setback, nothing more, and a lesson. A lesson about how to pick herself up and start over again, about how to avoid such traps in the future. She was lucky it happened when it did, when the stakes were relatively low. Yes, she had to put up with disdainful looks from her female colleagues and snide jokes from the males, but that just taught her not to care too much what people thought of her. After all, there was very little embarrassment that couldn't be lived down if one just had the nerve to brazen it out.
Ruth Evershed hasn't learnt those sorts of lessons, Juliet is quite sure. Ruth wears her emotions on the surface, where anyone who isn't either blind or named Harry Pearce can see them, plain as the Swiss Re building on the skyline. It's so utterly, so painfully obvious what's going on, Juliet's tempted to pull Ruth aside and give her some frank advice. Certainly no one else will. All Ruth's colleagues are too kind-hearted. But being kind-hearted isn't actually a kindness. Sometimes only someone who isn't a friend, someone who doesn't care about hurt feelings, can offer you the true kindness of telling you what you need to hear.
The next time Juliet gets the opportunity, that's exactly what she'll do. She can spare someone else from making the same kind of mistakes she did. Why, it can be her good deed for the year. Far better than her usual choice of tossing a few coins into a charity bucket.
***
When Juliet next happens to pay a visit to Section D, she inadvertently walks in on the middle of some sort of Christmas party. There's food; there are snowman-themed decorations strung up along the workstations; and there appears to be a punchbowl full of something bright red and no doubt alcoholic.
When they all turn to see who's passed through the pods, their expressions are crestfallen.
"Just call me the Ghost of Christmas Future," she announces. "I've come to show Harry all the dreadful things that will come to pass if he doesn't change his stubborn ways. The rest of you, do carry on with your celebration."
Harry exchanges a quick glance with a smirking Adam, then ushers Juliet into his office. As promised, she proceeds to elaborate upon all the dire scenarios that can be expected if Harry doesn't miraculously conjure up several prominent victories for the PM to impress the Americans with. He makes sour faces and grumbles about politicians; she crosses her arms and tells him she doesn't care if he likes it as long as he complies. Their usual ritual. Strangely enjoyable, although she'd never admit it.
As she takes her leave and heads towards the exit, Adam stops her, a glass of punch in his hand.
"You are welcome to join us," he says, extending the glass.
She glances towards the pods, then hesitates. "Well. It is the season, isn't it?"
After engaging in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with Adam for several minutes, she finds herself in a corner with Malcolm and that new girl who looks like she can't be any older than sixteen. Jenna? Jeana? Whoever she is, she's far too earnest and energetic for Juliet to take for much longer without another stiff drink. Juliet breaks away to pour herself a second glass of punch, and then it occurs to her: this is the perfect moment to have her little sisterly tête-à-tête with Ruth. She can grab her by the arm, steer her up to the roof, and then tell her logically and precisely why -- for her own good -- she should absolutely avoid any romantic entanglement with Harry Pearce.
She sets down her glass and looks purposefully around the room. Ruth is at her desk, talking with Harry -- but there's something in the expressions on their faces that makes Juliet stop short.
She knows what flirtation looks like. She knows what infatuation looks like, too. What she sees isn't either of those things. It's...oh, Lord, it's worse than she thought.
No. However much Ruth might need to hear some blunt advice, Juliet can't make herself go through with it. Not everyone is like her, capable of growing a thick skin. Not everyone needs to be like her, when she really thinks about it. She'll leave things be. If Ruth is to be disillusioned, Juliet won't be the cause. Besides, not everything necessarily has to turn out as disillusionment, after all.
She hopes, in this case, that it doesn't.
She turns back to Malcolm. "I'm afraid I have work to do. Thanks for the punch."
"Happy Christmas, Juliet," he answers.
"The same to you."
On her way out, she spots a box of chocolates on someone's desk. She reaches in and steals one with a powdery, coconut coating. Then she wraps her scarf around her throat and heads off into the cold winter afternoon.
As she steps out onto the street, she bites into the chocolate. It's bittersweet, just as she expected.