#first light

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.

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

“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 peek at the half-empty bags.

“You bought a lot this time.”

“Enough to survive a siege, really.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He carries on.

“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 says. “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.”

“Nothing much? That sounds … suspiciously vague.”

“Just did some tidying up.”

He looks over.

“Sounds productive.” 

Somewhere outside, a dog barks. 

“Went through some old boxes.”

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

“The ones in the guest room?” 

Tea goes next to the coffee beans.

“Sure, James. The ones in there.”

Jesus. 

The groceries, now 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 quietly.

A strained pause.

“You don’t have to rush it.”

“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, fixed on somewhere beyond the kitchen entirely, suddenly seeming so impossibly far away.

He slowly crosses over.

Hesitates, then carefully reaches for you. Lowers his voice. 

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

No answer.

He studies you.

A thumb gently runs across your wrist. 

“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 amongst the scattered contents on the counter. 

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

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

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs.

“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 — Edmund — by the time he found him — bloodied, battered, broken.

Monroe was bad.

This was something else entirely.

Ugly. Violent. Slow. 

Closed casket. Your face gave nothing away.

Took him nearly four months to track down those responsible. 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. 

It should have gone right.

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

Why him? Why not you?

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Doesn’t feel enough. Probably never will. 

“I’ve upset you.”

A faint smile. 

“A lot upsets me these days.”

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

“Tell you what. How about we both 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 abruptly turns 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 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. 

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.