Work Text:
~o~
It's late, just gone half three. The office is quiet. It's not deserted, never that. This is MI6 headquarters, after all. There are agents operating in time zones throughout the world. Someone has to mind the store and make sure that the agents have what they need.
Someone also has to mind the minders.
Eve Moneypenny pauses in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the jamb as she watches her boss. Gareth Mallory has been a revelation as M. It was hard to think of him that way, six months ago when the death of Herself was still so fresh. But six months on, he owns the job, with his confident air and no-nonsense attitude.
He's different than she was, and for that they're all grateful.
Tonight's vigil is just one more example of how seriously he takes this job. He could have gone home hours ago, had told her to leave more than once even though it was obvious he intended to stay. Instead, she'd worked away quietly at her desk in the outer office, keeping her eye on him as he keeps an eye on their wayward asset thousands of miles away.
He's turned away, gazing out at the glittering lights of London, but he must see her reflection in the window, because he gives her that ghost of a smile he often uses to such great effect, one eyebrow raised as if to ask what the bloody hell she thinks she's still doing there.
Pot, meet kettle.
Instead of answering the question he's not asking, she pushes away from the door and crosses the room, trailing her fingertips over the polished wood of his desk as she circles around to see what's captured his attention tonight. She bends over, peering into his laptop screen.
Istanbul, if she's got the landmarks correct, which can only mean one thing.
She can feel a warm hand circle her waist, gentle pressure tugging her backwards. She goes without complaint, settling into Gareth's lap as her eyes track the little blue blip on the screen.
There are voices, a quiet conversation in the background, a little tinny as they float up out of the laptop's speakers. Q, his irascible snark recognizable from anywhere as he gives 007 directions and berates him for not following them.
It's an odd little dance they do, a little flirty and a lot fond. It brings a warm smile to Eve's lips as she settles back against Gareth's chest, crossing her knees and laying her head beside his.
"Thought I told you to go home hours ago," he mumbles as he presses a kiss to her temple.
"Mmmm," she hums. "Couldn't. My boss is expecting these reports, you see. First thing in the morning."
"Sounds like a slave-driver, that one," he says.
Eve chuckles even as she settles further into his embrace. This thing with Gareth has been unexpected. It started innocently enough, in the wake of Silva's attack on the hearing. She'd driven him home after a visit to A&E; he'd invited her in, much to her astonishment—and his, she thinks, judging by the surprised yet hopeful look on his face. They'd had to be careful, mindful of his injured shoulder, so their joining hadn't been the frenzied, life-affirming romp she'd become used to in the field. Instead it had been slow and tender, connection and compassion, and a damned sight better than any ten men she'd been with before, his age and injury notwithstanding.
She plucks the tumbler of amber liquid from his hand as she lets the memories wash over her, sipping carefully, savoring the burn all the way down. She doesn't need it, and frankly neither does he, but it's something to take the edge off the worry. And she knows he's worried, even if it is James Bond careening through Istanbul, the Double-0 agent with more than nine lives. He never says, but she thinks he's taken as much of a shine to Bond as Herself did all those years ago. Must be something in the man's charm.
Now that his hand is free, Gareth caresses her leg, skimming his fingers just barely under her skirt hem. It's a touch meant to soothe and not arouse, but it's no less sensual for all that. She knows she probably shouldn't be sitting here, on his lap, in his office at MI6. Anyone could walk in, and there'd be no mistaking what they are to each other, even if it did start before he became her boss, and even if they do have the grudging permission of the Intelligence and Security Committee. No sense stirring up the gossip mill with salacious rumors. There's enough of those concerning their new Quartermaster and his top Double-0 agent.
"Think they'll ever figure it out?"
Eve barks a laugh. She hadn't thought Gareth could see what it seems the rest of the Service has figured out. She should have known better. This M is just as smart and sneaky as his predecessor.
"I'm not sure Bond can sit still long enough to see what's in front of him," she says, watching the dot on the screen dart across the map. "Why? Don't you approve?"
"I don't give a bloody fuck what they do," he says quietly, giving her knee an extra squeeze.
The message is clear: he has no leg to stand on here. He can only hope—as do they all—that when the time comes, Q and Bond don't kill each other.
The dot is headed over the isthmus now, towards the airport and presumably home. All in all, a successful mission, and relatively bloodless, if the banter between Q and Bond is to be believed.
Eve stretches, pushing herself up off her comfortable perch. She turns and leans against the desk as she sets the tumbler aside, effectively blocking Gareth's view of the laptop, not that he appears to mind. He's still leaning back in his chair, appearing unconcerned by the drama unfolding a continent away.
"You headed home tonight?" he asks.
His tone is casual, but the intent is clear. He's not asking if she's going to her apartment, and she smiles at the veiled invitation. After spending the last half-hour curled up on his lap, in his office, there really isn't a need for such subtleties. She appreciates it anyway.
"In a bit, I suppose. If my boss will go home, too."
"This is not, if you'll recall, the latest night I've had this month."
The words are testy, even if the delivery isn't. Yes, it's just turned four, but they've pulled all-nighters in the recent past when crises demanded it. And yes, they do have to be back in the office in just short of four hours. The life of a public servant is rarely glamorous, after all. And what they do with those precious four hours is entirely up to them.
She pushes away from the desk and leans over, bracing her hands on the arm rests of his chair. Barely a hair's breath away from his ear, she whispers, "And not all of those late nights were work related, Minister."
She can hear the hitch in his breathing that tells her the remark has hit home, and she smirks to herself. She pecks him on the lips before pulling back and sauntering out of the room, putting all her considerable charms into a sashay as she goes. She turns at the last moment, one hand on the door jamb, a sly smile on her lips.
"I think Bond can find his own way home now," she purrs. "Don't you?"
Gareth's chuckle follows her out of the room.
Eve sets about shutting down her system, a smile on her face as she locks up the files she'd been working on before being so thoroughly distracted. A warm body presses against her from behind, and for just a moment, she leans into that touch, closing her eyes and savoring the feel of a strong arm around her.
"Home?" he whispers into her ear.
"Mmmm," she hums. "Home."
After Silva and that whole mess, she'd wondered if life would ever be the same. Turns out, even when it isn't, it's still just right.
~Finis