Chapter Text
“I need a cat,” a woman announces. She’s tall and slim, wearing killer stilettos and an expression that brooks no argument. Bond’s ears prick at the sound of her voice, and he peers out of his cage.
“We have a lot of cats,” the volunteer on staff says. “Our kittens are this way—”
“No, I need a cat,” the woman insists. “You have any that are hard to adopt out? No one wants?”
“I—I, yes. We do.” The volunteer points at Bond. “That one.”
Bond fluffs up and hisses. Rude. Granted, it was true, but did the weasel-faced little mousedick have to say so?
“He’s mean, scarred up, bites, and did this to me earlier.” The guy holds up one hand, clumsily bandaged, with blood from some of the deeper scratches seeping through. “The last person who tried to pet him ended up with stitches. If he were a dog, he’d have been put down already. As it is, he’s on the list for euthanasia on Monday morning.”
Bond growls, and goes to the back of his small, stinking cage to curl up with his back to the entire world.
“Perfect.” The woman marches over. Bond can smell her perfume. It’s nice, a clean smell that cuts through the scents of industrial strength cleaners and despair that permeate through the kennel.
“Uh, ma’am. I do have to ask. Why him and what purpose do you possibly have for a hell-beast like that?”
There’s silence behind him, and despite himself, Bond’s ears prick up with curiosity.
“I’ll just get the paperwork, shall I?” the volunteer sounds nervous and he beats a hasty retreat.
“Hey, kitty,” the woman says. Now that the lackey is gone, the woman’s voice is softer and kinder. Bond bends a big, scarred ear back to listen. “Come here and let me look at you,” she said.
Bond ignores her. Waits for the door to open and intrusive, rough hands. Prepares to bite.
They don’t come. The volunteer returns. “Here’s his papers. And since you’re taking this demon off our hands, we’re offering you a starter kit to go with him that we usually send with kittens: a cat carrier, small bag of food, a collar, and a coupon book for litter and toys, redeemable in our pet shop.”
“Excellent. It says here that his name is James Bond?”
“His previous owner was some bigshot writer who died. Had a weird name, like Vespa? Whatever, she was the one who wrote that series about the spy? Named her cat after her main character, 007.”
The woman starts laughing. “Oh, this is perfect. Vesper Lynd?”
“Yeah, her. It’s kind of a sad story. She died of flu or pneumonia or something and was discovered by her neighbor two days later. Nobody wanted this beast, surprise, surprise, and so he ended up here.”
Bond hears the scratch of pen across paper. It was a familiar sound, and one that he remembered well from happier, softer days. He curls tighter into a ball.
“All right, Ms. Moneypenny. Congratulations, you have adopted…that. I hope you’re very happy, and if you aren’t, don’t bring him back here.”
The door to Bond’s cage swings open.
Ms. Moneypenny clicks her tongue. “Come on, Mr. Bond. Shall we go? I have a very important mission for you.”
Well, anywhere had to be better than this joint. He can always escape if he wants to. Bond waits a few long seconds, just to make a point, and then uncurls.
Ms. Moneypenny is smiling at him, an expression that lights up her dark eyes and animates her face. He twitches his whiskers and she holds up the cat carrier to the door. “Come on, handsome boy,” she says. “We’ve places to go.”
Bond gets in the cage.
***************
Bond regrets getting in the cage.
The woman drives like a fucking maniac. She loads his carrier into the middle of the backseat of her car, angled so the carrier is facing forward. It’s a Jeep, and he can see the windshield out the front of the carrier and the passenger windows beyond the ventilation side-holes of the carrier. Ms. Moneypenny straps the carrier in with the seatbelt before getting in the driver’s seat. The Jeep starts up with a roar and then they’re off.
She weaves in and out of London traffic, immune to the blaring horns and when someone cusses out the window at her she maneuvers the Jeep just right to take off the offending car’s mirror.
Bond loses his cool and yowls.
He sees her grin in the rearview mirror. “You’re a former spy’s cat, have some dignity,” she says without one trace of pity.
Bond’s next yowl is less protest and more of a catty fuck you.
Their tongues might form different language-sounds, but he’s pretty sure she gets the message. This must be what Vesper had envisioned when she wrote chase scenes. Moneypenny is like a panther chasing a herd of small rodents and Bond gets the impression that the rodents don’t win. Ever. Bond resolutely shuts up once he’s said his piece, and Moneypenny cheerfully continues terrorizing the population of London.
When she finally whips into a parking spot in a garage, Bond is either numbed to the terror, or he’s fine with it. Before he can decide, the whirling dervish that is Moneypenny is pulling his carrier out of the back of her car and marching into a building. He has the impression of people seeing her coming and getting out of her way. They get onto an elevator with another human who tries to peer into the cage and Bond hisses, swipes at the barred door of the carrier with claws extended.
The human is in no real danger, but he jumps back regardless, and Bond is pleased. He growls, gravelly and mean and all the way from his little pink toe beans. The human scuttles off at the next level. Moneypenny chortles.
Bond is a bit confused. Usually behavior like that only gets him scolded.
They’re underground. Bond smells the dampness of dark earth and the river and feels the chill through his fur. Moneypenny’s heels click as she walks the long, darkish hallway toward a man sitting at a single, cluttered desk. There are overflowing bookshelves behind him, more books and papers strewn across the desk, and a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea is at his elbow. He is illuminated by a dim overhead light fixture and a single desk lamp. He looks up as Moneypenny approaches and stands from the desk.
“Happy birthday,” Moneypenny says. She puts the carrier down on the floor and opens the door for Bond.
“You got me a cat?” the man sounds confused. Bond doesn’t come out of his carrier yet because he’s not sure what is happening. Instead he just growls from the very back of the cage.
“Not just any cat. This is Mr. Bond. Mr. James Bond. Vesper Lynd’s old cat. Bond meet Q.”
There’s silence. Bond peeks out of his carrier in curiosity. He smells books and paper and the ink of pens, and he can’t quite help being drawn toward it. It smells like home.
“Are you serious?” Q sounds a bit awed.
“Completely. He’s been a hellcat, from what they told me. He bites, scratches, and is overall a tough looking customer. I think you’ll get along with him brilliantly. After all, you’ve managed to tame the agents to your will.”
“They are easily bought with explosives,” Q says dryly.
“And you need a cat to keep you company,” Moneypenny says. “You’ve been moping since your last one died.”
Bond’s whispers twitch. He knows death and loss. Q kneels by Bond’s carrier, and Bond is taken aback. He is younger than Bond expects. With a mess of wavy black hair, a lean face, and pretty green eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, he looks like he could have been Vesper’s littermate. The jumper he’s wearing is hideous, and Bond feels the urge to take his claws to it. Q looks a bit like an academic, and he looks…sad. But he smiles kindly at Bond anyway.
“Hello, Mr. Bond,” Q says. “I admired your last owner a lot. She was one of my favorite writers, and used to be one of us, you know. I have all her books. I bet you miss her.”
Bond creeps out of the carrier. Yes, he thinks. I do miss her. She’d rescued him out of the gutter and given him a home. He went from the streets to sunny afternoons sleeping in his cat-bed while Vesper clicked along on the computer, sometimes reading him sections out loud to see how they sounded to the ear.
“Oh, aren’t you a big handsome boy,” Q croons. “Such lovely golden fur and pretty blue eyes. You must have very sharp claws, too.”
“He does,” Moneypenny says. “Tanner tried to make friends and Bond here wasn’t having it.”
“Tanner probably smells like his dogs.” Q turns back to Bond. “I’m not fond of dogs, either. Are you hungry?”
Bond stalks past Q, electing to sniff the man’s office instead. He leaps up on the desk, lands on a loose piece of paper and almost skids back off. His tail twitches side to side as he surveys the clutter. How could anyone work in this? It was a travesty. Clearly the man with the sad face needs all the help he can get. Starting with a clean workspace.
Bond huffs through his fangs and sends a shiny metal pen sailing through the air.
Q scrambles to catch it, and Moneypenny doubles over laughing.
“The first thing he goes for is an exploding pen!” Moneypenny wheezes. “This is meant to be. He is absolutely your cat. Have fun, boys.” She bends down and scratches Bond under the chin, “Look after him, Bond, he’s sweet but a bit hopeless,” she says and then she’s gone.
So that’s his mission? Well then. He does like having a job. And as much as it pains his cold, dark little cat heart to do it (living with a book-hoarding writer most of his life does rub off) he sends a heavy textbook that weighs almost as much as he does off the edge of the desk.
There. Already the desk is looking clearer.
He looks defiantly at Q, and sits in the clear space, wrapping his tail neatly around his paws.
Q sighs, picks the book up off the floor, and puts it away. On a bookshelf, with other books. Where it belongs.
“Happy?” Q asks, hands on hips.
Bond deliberately knocks a handful of drafting pencils off the desk without losing eye contact with Q.
Q finds a dusty mug and puts all his pens and pencils in it, then places it beside his computer.
Bond coughs out a rusty purr of approval and supervises his new minion in his housekeeping tasks, batting at Q’s person and things threateningly whenever he pauses. Once the office has been straightened to his satisfaction, Bond curls up on the corner of the desk for a nap.
Later, Q wakes him up with a gentle pet on the head. Bond wakes up fighting, and Q snatches his hand back, only minor scratches for his trouble.
Bond flattens his ears and waits for the yelling, but Q just looks at the scratches ruefully. “Don’t touch you while you’re sleeping. Got it. Shall we go home? I don’t expect you want to stay in my drafty underground lair all night.”
Bond slinks back into his carrier and curls up into a ball at the very back.