Chapter Text
"I think that's your phone."
James Bond broke away from the lovely set of breasts he'd been kissing, looking up at the woman's face. He couldn't remember her name - Christy? Charlie? Chantal? - but then, he'd never needed to know a woman's name in order to take her to bed. Up until now, he'd been successfully ignoring the sound of his phone. But the woman - Chandra, maybe? - was looking both annoyed and impatient, her eyes flicking meaningfully towards where his trousers had ended up. There was a very distinct chime coming from the pocket of said trousers.
"It hasn't stopped for over fifteen minutes," she went on. "Perhaps it's important?" Her mouth tugged down at the corners. "Perhaps your girlfriend is looking for you?"
"There's no girlfriend. Or wife," Bond said, anticipating her next query and deciding to cut it off at the pass. He sighed heavily and pushed him up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
It probably wouldn't help if he explained that there would never be a wife or girlfriend, thank you very much. As an aromantic man, Bond had very little interest in relationships. His sexuality worked well for his job, because he loved sex and, as a 00-agent, had more than his fair share of it in the regular course of a mission - but he'd consumed enough alcohol that he couldn't remember exactly what he'd told Charlotte(?) to get her up here, so it was entirely possible she thought this was going to go somewhere tomorrow morning.
He got up and walked over to his trousers, knowing she was watching him, and knelt to get his phone. Bond sighed as he glanced at the screen and the increasingly long list of text messages. Patience wasn't exactly high on M's list of virtues. She wanted to see him in her office immediately. He sat there for a moment, strongly contemplating chucking his phone out the window and pretending that it had been stolen. She probably wouldn't believe that excuse, but that had never stopped him before. At least it would buy him a little longer before he had to meet with her...
"Well?" Chelsea(??) demanded.
"It's my mother," Bond said shortly. "She's fallen in the bath and needs my help." He smirked to himself, grabbing his boxers and pulling them on, followed quickly by his trousers and shirt.
"Oh, how awful! Do you need help?" Chrissy(???) asked, sitting up.
Bond shook his head. "No. Enjoy the room. Have a good night." He grabbed his blazer, gave her a polite nod, and sauntered out the door.
It didn't take long for him to make his way back to MI6. Because it was after midnight, the place was fairly quiet for once. No one looked him in the eye as he made his way towards M's office, which usually meant one of two things: either his reputation was proceeding him even more strongly than normal, or M was pissed. Based on Bond's luck, he was willing to bet it was the latter. He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this, and braced him inwardly as he threw open the door to M's office and walked in. He slung himself down in the chair before her desk and stared at her.
She stared back, deadpan, and said, "Did I ruin your night?"
"Yes," Bond said.
"Good," M said, leaning back in her chair. "I have a mission for you, and I need you relatively clear-headed."
Bond narrowed his eyes slightly. "What sort of mission?"
"Boothroyd is preparing to retire," M announced. It seemed like a non sequitur, yet Bond knew better. This was M they were talking about. Her brain commonly leapt from thought to thought, leaving those who wouldn't keep up with her scrambling in the dust. He was not one of those people. His gaze dropped to the folders on M's desk. If Boothroyd was retiring, then that would leave MI6 without a Quartermaster. That would spell disaster in multiple ways.
"You need me to bring in the next Quartermaster?" Bond said sceptically. He didn't know much about computers, but that seemed like the sort of job that plenty of people who would be leaping at.
M gave a single, sharp nod. "Correct. We have someone in mind. I've given you all the information you need." She pushed the file across the desk. "This person is skilled. Very skilled. Unfortunately, he's in the hands of some less than desirable company. Your job is to remove him from that company by any means necessary and bring him back to MI6 by the end of November. Boothroyd is retiring at the end of December and insists that a transitional period will be necessary."
It was November 3rd, which meant he had just over three weeks to make this happen. That seemed unusually long for what should have been a simple retrieval mission. There was obviously more to the story that Bond was missing. He could see it in the subtle smirk on M's face: she knew something that he didn't, and she was thoroughly enjoying the moment. He glanced at the file on her desk but didn't reach for it just yet.
Instead, he said, "Should I expect that this person will cooperate?"
"Yes. I've been in touch with him personally," said M. "He's expressed a willingness to join MI6, provided we help him out. Naturally, I promised our best."
"Naturally," Bond echoed.
"This isn't one of your regular missions, 007. This person has the potential to bring MI6 to new heights. Their understanding of computers and other electronics is unparalleled. Because of that, I am fully expecting a great deal of resistance on the part of their former company. You must do whatever you can to bring them back safely," M said, her eyes boring into him.
Bond sobered slightly and nodded. At least the mission sounded interesting. And there had to be some level of difficulty to it. M was a bitch, but she wasn't the type of person to waste good resources on jobs that didn't warrant them. She wouldn't send a 00-agent unless she thought that a normal agent wouldn't be capable of handling it. Curiosity piqued, he stood and took the file from her desk. He'd look at it later, after he visited Boothroyd to be outfitted with whatever Q-branch deemed necessary for the mission.
"I'll leave tonight," he announced, turning towards the door.
"Bond," M said.
He paused. "Yes?"
"Psych tells me that you are still ignoring their recommendations."
Because he was facing the door, Bond let himself grimace. "That would be correct."
"Why?"
"Because it's a recommendation, not an order?" Bond said flippantly.
"Bond," M said again, her voice sterner this time. "You are a Caregiver, regardless of whether you want to acknowledge that fact or not."
"I know what I am," Bond said, a little more sharply than he'd intended. It had hung over him his entire life: an extra barrier that he had to fight against in order to make people see him as more than the standard stereotype. Caregivers weren’t just soft, malleable idiots good at solely caring for Littles.
In Bond’s case, he’d used his increased strength to get further in life than most people would ever dream of. More than one villain had gone down because they’d underestimated him and what he was capable of. Plus, though Bond wouldn’t have admitted it, the surge in protective instincts had been a help to his career as a 00-agent, not a hindrance. Particularly where Littles were involved.
However, there were downsides too. Caregivers had a biological need to care for someone built into them. So far, Bond had managed to assuage those needs by protecting people. Psych was of the opinion that that wasn’t enough for him, though. They insisted that he needed a Little of his own to care for to help balance him out – to keep those instincts from surging out of control and latching onto someone unsuitable, such as an enemy. Bond thought that was bullshit. He was fine the way he was.
“One would never know it from the way that you behave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up putting a mission in jeopardy,” M told him. “You need focus. Letting your instincts roam wild is asking for trouble. We can’t have a rogue 00-agent running around.”
“I am not rogue,” Bond spit out. “I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”
“For now,” M said. “It would be a pity if you could no longer be sent out on missions, 007.” Her tone, however, suggested opposite, with a clearly implied threat, and it made him bristle.
“Good thing you won’t have to,” Bond said. “I’m going to Q-branch to get suited up.” He left before she could say anything else, or before his anger could make say something that he would later regret.
He didn’t need, or want, a Little. Bond was good at his job. He lived for it. There was no space for a Little in his life. He’d tried once or twice when he was younger but had quickly realized that his job took up too much time and energy for him to even think about it. What kind of Little would be happy with a Caregiver who frequently had to leave the city for weeks, if not months, on end? What kind of Little would be okay with not even knowing what their Caregiver did for a job? What kind of Little would want a Caregiver who couldn’t make them a priority?
No one, that’s who. Bond had made his peace with that a long time ago. And so long as he could keep performing his job up to the standards that MI6 expected of him, he believed none of them, not even M, should be able to stick their noses into it. His next meeting with Psych was going to be very interesting… for him, anyway.
Bond made his way down to Q-branch, which was surprisingly quiet given the time of day. He discovered why when he poked his head into Boothroyd’s office and found a cluster of people around Boothroyd’s desk. Something from within the circle popped and then crackled loudly; there was a hum of general appreciation from the group, and then scattered clapping when the crackling increased.
“Should I come back?” Bond said loudly, and several people jumped.
“007!” Boothroyd called out. “No, please. M wanted me to have you on your way as quickly as possible. We’ll continue later, everyone.”
Everyone else filed out with surprisingly excited expressions on their faces, which made Bond think that Q-branch was up to something which was going to increase M’s blood pressure by several points. Good. He smirked to himself as he entered Boothroyd’s office, giving the old man a onceover. Boothroyd was in his mid to late seventies, but he was surprisingly spry. His mental health hadn’t suffered in the least, either.
Boothroyd gave him a knowing smile. “Trying to figure out why I’m retiring?”
“I know why. You can’t handle the headaches anymore,” Bond replied. That earned him a chuckle.
“Not at all. I like my job just fine, 007, headaches and all. But the timing of this was too fortunate on all accounts for me to pass up,” Boothroyd said with a mysterious smile. Bond narrowed his eyes slightly.
“This replacement must really be something,” he said.
“Oh yes. I’ve been monitoring his progress for several months now. He’s really something. Wasted on that current company of his, if you ask me. I’ve told M that he’ll be a real asset to the organization. Well worth the effort of extracting him, I’d say,” Boothroyd said, moving to pick up a small case.
Bond relaxed a little upon hearing those words, some of the tension from his little chat with M easing. Boothroyd was a good man, but his standards were notoriously high. Almost as high as M’s. He didn’t accept anyone who wasn’t good enough. If he thought that this new person was worth the effort, then they more than likely were, and that meant Bond wasn’t wasting his time on a wild goose chase.
“I’m heading to the airport from here,” Bond told him.
“Good, good. The sooner you bring him back, the sooner I can start training him.” Boothroyd handed over the case. “This is the future Quartermaster in your hands, 007. Some would say the future of MI6.” His brown eyes glittered knowingly. “Treat him well.”
“I always do,” Bond said, tucking the case beneath his arm. Then he bid Boothroyd goodbye and headed out.