#first light

"if he fails, i take two credits from all three of you."

greenway was not the man you wanted to defy, so you had wisely kept your mouth shut from complaining until cressida, monroe and yourself were back in the common room you all shared. being the top of the class had its perks, you three were the first to head out on any training mission thrown at you, but this had you wishing you hadn't trained so hard to get to the top.

five days on, you were starting to lose your mind. james bond was the devil incarnate.

"I'M LOSING MY MIND, cress," you pulled at your hair, exasperatedly pacing back and forth.

"you're tearing holes in the carpet," monroe pointed out lazily. lounging on the back legs of his chair, his feet kicked up on the table in front of them. the poker game laid out in front of you had been to test your bluffing skills but had since been abandoned at monroe's mention of james.

"you brought him up," cressida shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. "you know how she gets about him."

huffing loudly, you stopped your pacing just long enough to glare between your friends. "why should i have to lose credit points because he's failing?" you questioned. there was no answer they could possibly give.

"there's been an improvement," cressida said, forever the more level-headed out of monroe and you. it was also no secret that james had been growing on her. "he got the flag in forty seconds today."

monroe scoffed. "still ten seconds out. no way he picks that up in a week."

"i just don't understand how—"

"effortlessly charming i am?" james bond's voice echoed as he stepped into the common room. you didn't dare turn around to face him, just rolled your eyes and watched as monroe did the same. "me neither, think i was born with it."

"and that's my cue," monroe kicked his feet off the table, set his chair back on the ground properly, and then stood up. he gathered his things, "let's go, cressida."

"mhm," she hummed absentmindedly, standing up. "i have to go meet jesse at the range now, anyway." her eyes found yours, "coming?"

"i, uh, actually wanted to steal her for a moment," james cut in before you could agree. this time you actually turned to glare at him as he sidled into the space beside you. "social engineering homework and all," he held up a stack of papers like that meant something. sadly, you couldn't disregard him when your position in the program relied on his success. you caught monroe's disbelief stare at the fact that james was coming to you of all people about social engineering. this time you rolled your eyes at him instead.

with a sigh, you gave cressida a tight-lipped smile. "i'll catch up." you watched her and monroe go with a downturned expression and a newfound resentment for the man standing beside you. he didn't seem to care, simply moving past and sitting in the chair cressida had just been occupying in the otherwise empty room.

"come on," he gestured annoyingly to the chair across from him. it had been kicked at an awkward angle in a fit of annoyance by you earlier, and you suspected he assumed as much considering he caught you mid-rant and mid-pace earlier. reluctantly, you dropped into the chair, sliding down into it like depression was swallowing you whole.

"what do you want, james?" you asked with a deep sigh. "don't bullshit me with social engineering, we both know you're good at that."

"ah, what can i say?" james shrugged, leaning back casually in his chair. "needed to get your attention somehow."

he received your pointed look and had half the brain to actually start talking. leaning forward, arms now crossed over the table in front of him, he lowered his voice just enough for it to sound like a soothingly low gravel. "i think i've found a security issue."

you blinked. "you're kidding me," immediately, you were up out of your chair. "this is a concern for M, not me."

james reached out and grabbed your wrist before you could walk away. "no, just— just listen," there was a shift in james, something more vulnerable . . . his eyes glossed over in a way that you had never seen in him before. james bond was all cocky confidence and so his sudden desperation of a kicked puppy stopped you in your tracks. "if i go to M with no proof . . . i'm in enough trouble as it is."

you couldn't fault that. you half-shrugged and sat back down at the table. there was no telling if you would still lose credit points if james was kicked out of the program . . . but there was also the spy training ingrained into you that made a potential security issue all the more exciting. "spill," you narrowed your eyes at him, snatching your wrist back. james' touch lingered a second too long before he clasped his hands in front of him.

"i overheard jesse talking to someone last night," james began, and when he saw your mouth open to comment on how vague that was, he shut you down by glaring. "on the phone. he's planning on meeting a 'contact' at the the local club . . . now it could be nothing but . . ."

he trailed off in a way that kept your interest satisfied. "damn it," you muttered under your breath. he smirked knowing that he had won over your interest; it was no secret you couldn't help yourself. you topped your class for a reason and he was using that to his advantage. "so you want to go stalk jesse in a club because you overheard a phone call?"

"no, i want us to go stalk jesse," he countered with that annoying lopsided grin. "c'mon, what do you say?"

you puffed air into your cheeks in thought. "if we find out something we tell M immediately," you stated. "and you have to not promise to piss off greenway for the next two weeks."

james made a tch sound. "four days."

you glared. "one week."

he matched your stare. "fine," he caved unwillingly. reaching out across the table to offer his hand. "do we have a deal?"

with a sigh, you shook his hand. "fine, yeah. deal."

"lovely," james stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets and tucking in the chair with his leg. "i'll pick you up at eight. dress nice."

you sunk into your chair with a huff, a frown pulling across your lips. "fun," you grumbled, glancing over at the clock hanging on the wall. four hours until eight.

"IT'S TOO SHORT," YOU couldn't help but complain, pulling the bottom of your tight dress down for the sixth time this minute. "seriously, you could've given me a little more notice. i clearly need a new dress."

"ah," james waved his hand, eyeing you up and down in the same way you had seen him do it to other women in the program. the only difference was that you were in an extremely short dress and not training clothes. "i think you look great. all eyes'll be on you tonight."

"which is what we don't want when we're meant to be undercover," you scoffed, pulling your skirt down once more from james' prying eyes. "keep your eyes to yourself, bond. walk faster, we need to find jesse."

THE CLUB WAS LOUD. it had been a while since you'd been in one, long before you were shipped out to malta and back when you were celebrating your eighteenth birthday. everything since then had been spy stuff, the kind where they didn't send you out to clubs because you hadn't looked old enough to get through the door without an ID, let alone have good enough social engineering skills to do what had to be done on the inside. you were better at it now than you once had been, but it was frustrating when james bond, without training, seemed to have it down quicker than you did.

"everyone's so touchy, christ . . ." you trailed off, letting james lead you through the crowd of dancing people on the main dance floor. it was the quickest way to get to the bar and apparently that was where jesse was most likely to be.

"we're at a club and you look incredible," james called over the noise. "can't exactly blame 'em." he caught your sharp glare. "except it's rude and they shouldn't be doing that at all, yep."

you hummed, not that he could hear it with all the noise, and sidled up alongside a tall side table that still had the glasses of the last occupants that had cleared out seemingly not long ago. "what's our move?" you asked, leaning on the table. james' eyes sparkled under the fluorescent neon lights from above.

"good ol' fashioned tailing," james fixed the collar of his jacket. "i'll get ya a drink? what do you fancy?"

a drink. it had been a while since you had allowed yourself to drink. you were one of the younger recruits, everyone else in their mid-twenties while you were stuck at twenty-two, training your ass off to prove you didn't need the same experience as everyone else to be a valuable asset to MI6. you went out with the others on occasion when you were allowed to leave the training camp, but you stayed sharp. that meant being liquorless and watching out for when random civilians tried to spike your peers' drinks. you liked being the designated driver. you liked knowing that your peers and friends could count on you.

you couldn't believe you were saying yes to james bond of all people. somehow he had been the one to break down all of your logic, especially on this secret mission. you were not a lightweight but that didn't mean your judgement wouldn't be impaired with one drink. and yet . . . "surprise me," you told him, a gentle shrug in your shoulders. you watched his lips turn upwards, his eyes scanning every inch of you that wasn't hidden behind the tall table. you were suddenly very self-conscious about the fact that your shoulders were bare save for the thin straps holding your dress up.

"mhm, that i can do," he shot you that charming wink you were pretty sure he used on everyone else and disappeared over to the bar.

when he came back minutes later, he slid a red drink across the table to you and set his martini down in front of him. it felt quite telling: a sophisticated drink for him and what looked to be a children's drink for you.

james must have caught the gears turning behind your eyes. "it's a vodka cranberry," he answered your unasked question. "pointed you out to the bartender and he said this suited you."

"mhm," you hummed, bringing the straw to your lips to take a sip. it was the perfect balance of tart and sweet with just enough vodka to warm your stomach. it wasn't overpoweringly strong with alcohol and it left you enjoying it a little more than you probably should be while you were supposed to be undercover. "'s perfect. what now?"

"now," james raised his own glass like a mini toast, bringing it closer to his lips. "we wait for jesse over there to move over to the bar." he gestured with his head, and you followed the general direction until you saw where jesse was posted up dancing on top of some girl. his eyes were peeled, scanning his surroundings for whoever he was supposed to meet. jesse was in the same program james and you were apart of — he had the same training, and that meant you needed to be cautious, but it was really no secret that jesse wasn't as strong as the other recruits.

he spent more time in the range because his aim was atrocious, and his main strength happened to be the capture the flag obstacle courses. he had skills, but his heart didn't really seem to be in it for the correct reasons. cressida had said his mother was a powerful politician that had some sort of sway with MI6, you assumed that was part of the reason why he was still around.

"he's gonna see us," you sighed, casually sipping at your drink through the straw. you had already finished half of it with how much it didn't taste like vodka — a very dangerous drink indeed.

"not to brag, but i believe i rank higher than you in social engineering," he brushed off like it was nothing. "just trust me."

"trust you?" you raised your eyebrows at him. "i trust you to talk our way into a broom closet. i do not trust you to talk our way into whatever the fuck you're planning."

"i could teach you a thing or two," james shrugged, easily downing the rest of his martini and glancing back out into the crowd. he left no room for argument, promptly straightening back up. "he's on the move . . . fuck."

you could barely hear him over the noise. "what?" you asked, discreetly turning your head to try catch a glimpse of jesse.

"he's headed into the VIP lounge," james relayed, his eyesight focused on his surroundings. "any ideas?"

scanning the room, a fair few options struck you. you were resourceful, this was the easy part . . . it was the selling it that held you back. but you needed to prove that you were better than james bond, and tonight had to be your opportunity to get it right. it was almost embarrassing how terrible at bluffing you could be.

there were a few options, but you noticed something reflecting the light in a woman's purse. "just one," you nodded, "stay here."

james didn't say anything, just slid your unfinished drink over to his side of the table, discarded the straw into his empty martini glass, and downed the rest of the red liquid.

the dance floor was significantly more dense than it was ten minutes ago. drunk bodies moved up against other drunk bodies, powdered substances leaving light traces on the skin and producing a different kind of atmosphere. it was very much unlike the clubs you had been to back home. this seemed to be a high-end establishment full of the wealthy and infamous.

in the tight, too-small black dress that had been fished from the very back of your closet, you seemed to fit right in in the crowd. smoothly dancing your way through to the centre of the floor, far enough away from jesse, you added a little stumble into your step as you tumbled straight into two unsuspecting women. you hadn't needed your Q-lens to discover the VIP passes half-hanging out of their purses, and so in your stumble, you quickly collected them and tucked them under the fabric of your tight skirt. they hadn't noticed a thing.

"god, i'm so sorry," you slurred your words with a giggle, helping straighten the women upright. they looked about the same age as you, dolled up in all glam and glitter that sparkled under the vibrant lights. you gasped quickly, derailing from the fact that they looked a little confused as to how you had bumped into them when they hadn't seen you anywhere near them moments prior. "oh! your nails are absolutely stunning, oh my gosh," you complimented the two of them, "you have to give me the name of your nail place!"

it seemed to work. james watched on with curiosity as you spoke to the women, all three of you with matching wide smiles. he couldn't make out what you were saying, but he could tell you were gushing over them and they were eating up every drop of it. eventually, you waved them goodbye, air kissing their cheeks and them doing the same back, before moving back through the crowd to reach james. "got it!" you grinned, pulling the two passes out from under the tight fabric and sliding one across the table to james.

his grin mirrored your own. it was almost frightening how light you suddenly felt in his presence. "about to top social engineering class with that little display," he shot you a wink. the room felt like it was warming up. "or maybe just thievery 101."

"mhm, funny," you drawled, "come on, bond. don't wanna lose jesse in here . . . doubt we'll find him again without alerting the entirety of Q-lab that we snuck out."

"i doubt Q would snitch," james shrugged, shoving his hands back into his pockets as the two of you made your way back through the crowd, cautiously making your way to the VIP lounge.

"oh, he'd definitely snitch on you," you chuckled lightly. "you don't get to fuck up in iceland and get away with it."

dramatically, james placed his hand on his heart and doubled over like he had been stabbed. "ouch, you wound me."

getting into the VIP lounge was easier now that you didn't have to talk your way in. pickpocketing those women had been the right move because flashing the little pass at the bouncer had let you in with a respectable nod. "over there," you whispered, moving in the opposite direction of where jesse was seated in a booth with another man. the man was older, his face rugged from scars of the past. slits were shaved into his dark eyebrows. he looked the exact opposite of the cleanly-shaven, young and professional face belonging to jesse.

james bent down as if to tie his shoe. you almost tripped over him with how sudden his movement was. "christ," you grumbled, regaining balance in your heels. he was lucky you were skilled enough to avoid falling on your face. "what are you doing?" you hissed.

he hit record on the voice memo app on his phone. "trust me," he grinned and then slid his phone across the floor. it had just enough power behind it to slide through the people mingling, not stopping until it was directly under the table jesse was sitting at.

"lucky shot," you scoffed. you snatched a glass of champagne off a tray a waitress was walking by with. james pretended to loop his shoelaces once more before standing back up. he leaned back and grabbed a flute of the same champagne off the same waitress, shooting her a charming wink that left her blushing red and beelining away.

"we can't risk getting closer than this," he took a sip and let the bubbles melt on his tongue. "if only we could hack the guy."

YOU didn't speak again, time lapsing like waves crashing ferociously into the shoreline. longshore drift dragged you so far back until throwing you back again, a constant reminder that you were stuck in a glamorous VIP lounge with the insufferable james bond every time your mind drifted away to all the fun you could be having in a club. you hoped to god that the next time you were in a club it would be because cressida wanted a night out and invited you along with her.

"fuck," you heard james mutter in the split-second pause for the song to change, breaking you from your thoughts. his hands found your hips, moving you backwards until your back hit the closest wall. his lips was so close to yours that you could the bitter botanicals of his martini intertwining with the tart sweetness of your cranberry-forward drink. "you're gonna hate me just a little more, but . . ."

he trailed off into silence when his lips met yours. you froze, your hands moving to grab at his jacket as he made gentle work massaging his fingers soothingly into your hips. he was buttering you up, wanting to make you melt under his touch and god it was tragically working.

you found yourself hesitantly kissing him back, letting your lips move against his in soft tandem. until his tongue dragged across your lips, and suddenly you were giving in and sinking your teeth into his bottom lip. he was overwhelmingly everything you hated. cocky, overconfident, mannerless and too reliant on charm as first nature. but, right here in this current moment, you were enamoured. he was everything you weren't and yet here you were, hands sliding up to rest on his chest as if you didn't hate him. as if he didn't annoy you with his insufferably irritating way of carrying himself. as if he wasn't the reason your career in the 00 program could crash and burn after all the effort you had put in.

but none of that mattered right now, and nor did it matter when you broke away to gulp down as much oxygen as you could. his hands remained firmly planted on your hips like he had claimed them as his own. you couldn't find the words to tell him to fuck off.

"you taste sweeter than i expected," he said casually. even more casually, he essentially just admitted that he had thought about kissing you prior to tonight, but you disregarded that by blinking away the trance you had just fallen under.

"what just . . . why?" was all you could spit out.

"jesse got up and started walking our way," he pointed at the booth jesse and the other man had been sitting at. it was now empty. "i'm a pretty recognisable guy, y'know? figured he wouldn't think twice if we were . . . y'know."

you crossed your arms over your chest. your lipstick had smudged off on james' lips but he clearly had no shame in displaying it, so you kept your mouth shut. he had surely kissed enough girls to know that lipstick smudged. he wore it like a badge of honour and somehow that made you feel hotter than that kiss did.

"get your phone," was all you said, shaking any james bond related thoughts away. "hopefully we got something good out of all that fuss."

james cracked a lopsided smile, "dunno," he winked again, "thought that kiss was something good."

you glared at him. a laugh tumbled past his lips as he held his hands up in surrender, backing away to go grab his phone from under the booth with a 'sorry, lads, must've dropped my phone', to the new group that had slid into the booth.

you left the VIP lounge before he had a chance to catch up.

GREENWAY WAS WAITING BY the entrance to the training camp when james and you finally made it back. it was early morning, maybe two o'clock, and he looked incredibly unhappy.

"busted," james held his hands up in surrender, much like he did back when you glared at him in a similar fashion to how greenway currently was back in the club.

It isn’t so awful, being back in London indefinitely (this is what he tells himself). London means stability (it’s been a good run, nearly five years, which is more than most agents can say), London means routine (he gets to decorate his desk, how exhilarating).

The flat sits somewhere in an upscale part of the city, nestled between a manicured park and a luxurious townhouse. Nice place, not much excitement.

James lets himself in, his days of playing guest now far behind. It’s come to a point where he practically lives here now. Leaves for work and returns here. Stocks up on groceries here — like in this instance — armed with bags from the corner shop (it’s all terribly domestic).

He kicks the door shut behind him.

The sound of bare feet against wooden flooring.

Your face, a constant these days.

“Oh, you bought groceries.”

An easy smile your way. He can’t help it. Never could.

“Told you I’d get them.”

And of course, London also means you.

London means he gets to be available, dependable (he tries, he really does) for you. It means being there in all the ordinary ways you’ve no doubt grown used to. Bit hard to make it for anything if he’s off gallivanting around the globe.

Besides, he owes you this much.

He drifts into the kitchen, busies himself with unpacking at the counter.

The space is familiar, intimate. Has been for a while.

Even before.

The dinners here, he was fondest of (almost always spent with discreet glances your way, because even then, he has always found you lovely — and back then, a line never to be crossed) — all hazy laughter, conversations that sometimes went nowhere, an endless flow of drinks (table’s only occupied by two now). Even his rare, short stays in the city at the time were sometimes passed in the guest room here instead of the flat he’d been given (an echo, somewhat, of his early days with Cressida and Monroe, the three of them under one roof). And then there was that Christmas he’d spent here, the best parts of which he’d memorised — your cheeks, flushed from all the wine, the sheer delight that lit up your face when he’d handed you your present, the playful, insistent pleas for him to play something on the piano, the card game he’d won in a three-player game.

“How was work today?”

You had followed him into the kitchen.

Yes, how was work today?

Aside from the petty theft he committed in the pantry (a sandwich, belonging to one Basil from accounting — said so on the label) and the coffee machine he broke entirely by accident (the latest casualty of a desk-bound existence — Moneypenny touched it last, mate. I’m just saying), it went … quite alright, actually. Reports filed on time (for once), an entire meeting endured (this time without contemplating various routes of escape — he’s identified three so far), and emails tactfully navigated (License not to reply?).

Nothing too shabby. Far cry from his days out in Antarctica, hanging off the edge of a cliff at minus thirty degrees, or defibrillating himself in a car park outside a Montenegrin casino, but he manages.

“Oh, you know how it goes,” he says, reaching into one of the bags. “Paperwork, staplers, post-its, the usual thrills. It’s all quite fascinating, really.”

“Exciting day then, I take it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“That’s certainly one word for it.”

He continues unpacking. You lean over to peek at the now half-empty bags.

“You bought a lot this time.”

“Enough to survive a siege, really.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

He carries on.

“Just thought I’d do a bit of doomsday prep.”

Tips out the last bag, checks it once, then folds and sets it aside.

“There,” he announces. “Crisis averted.”

The small smile on your face is reward enough.

He moves around the kitchen now, sets everything aside with a habitual ease honed from years of having been in here — though only recently, in such a manner.

Still feels treacherous at times.

Cereal goes into the cabinet.

“And you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’d you do today?”

A subtle glance in your direction (How are you, really?) just in time to see you look away.

“Nothing much,” you say, still avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing much? That sounds … suspiciously vague.”

“Just did some tidying up,” you offer.

He looks over.

“Sounds productive.”

Somewhere outside, a dog barks.

A beat.

“Went through some old boxes,” you say somewhat casually.

His hands still for a fraction of a second, then recover almost immediately.

“The ones in the guest room?” he ventures.

Tea goes next to the coffee beans.

“Sure, James. The ones in there.”

Jesus.

The groceries now lay forgotten as the words slip out.

“You alright?”

A slight shrug. Your voice, smaller now.

“They’re just things that need sorting through.”

Things. Is that what you’ve taken to calling them now?

“Right,” he says.

A strained pause.

“You don’t have to rush it,” he tells you quietly.

“They’re just things,” you repeat.

“You haven’t touched them since —”

“The room needed clearing out,” comes your abrupt response.

And now …

Silence upon silence upon silence.

You stand rigid beside the counter, gaze absent, suddenly seeming so impossibly far away.

He slowly crosses over.

Hesitates, then carefully reaches for you, voice lowering in a way it does only for you.

“Listen,” he says. “If you need the room cleared out, I’ll help.”

No answer.

A thumb gently runs across your skin.

“You don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”

His touch lingers.

“Just say the word.”

Nothing seems to register with you. He follows your gaze to a carton of milk that sits abandoned amongst the scattered contents on the counter.

“This isn’t the right one either,” you finally say in a mutter.

It takes a moment to remember what you’re referring to.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, rubbing your wrist reassuringly.

“It’s been months.”

“Then tell me which one’s the right one and I’ll go get it,” he tries.

You pull your hand away.

“I told you, I don’t know which one’s the right one. I didn’t do the grocery shopping.”

He sees it in your eyes sometimes.

Now.

Why him? Why not you?

James thinks of that Afghan compound.

Double-O-One — Alec — by the time he found him — bloodied, battered, broken.

Monroe was bad.

This was something else entirely.

Ugly. Violent. Slow. Anything but a quick death.

Closed casket. Your face gave nothing away.

Took him nearly four months to track down those responsible, but by then, it’d hardly even mattered.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been sent out as dual assets.

Only ever for exceptionally high-risk operations. The kind that required two operatives and rarely returned both. But they’d done it before. More than once.

All the more reason it should have gone right.

He had everything to lose — a wedding only months away, a life already set in place, a future that included you.

Why him? Why not you?

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

Doesn’t feel enough. Probably never will.

“I’ve upset you.”

A faint smile flits across your features.

“A lot upsets me these days.”

He reaches for you again after a moment, threads his fingers through yours.

“Tell you what. How about the both of us go down to the corner shop this Sunday and pick one out together?”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“My treat.”

You huff out a small laugh that quickly morphs into something fragile.

“God — I’m the one who should be sorry, James.”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“What for?”

“For keeping you here, for —”

“Letting me mummify from boredom?”

Another laugh. Better this time.

“For being so utterly ridiculous about the milk.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The brand of milk one prefers is a serious business, or so I’m told.”

Another squeeze.

“No harm done. Happy to be of service.”

A beat.

Your gaze wanders off again, smile slipping.

He reaches for your cheek, draws you back before you can drift away completely.

“How are you holding up?” he murmurs. “Really?”

The question lingers, and something in your expression falters.

“Just one of those days,” you manage at last.

He nods, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Been through a few.”

A long pause settles.

Your eyes flicker up to his.

He recognises that look. No words needed.

Perhaps the only comfort he has left to offer you.

James leans in, mouth finding yours.

One kiss, then another.

And another.