Work Text:
Later, Joe will say it all started when he shot Nicky in Istanbul.
That's not entirely accurate, though. Andy might ask, "What it are you referring to, exactly?" When Joe gestures eloquently, she'll snort and say, "Then it started the day M was foolish enough to promote the both of you to double-oh status."
Which. She wouldn't be wrong. But if Joe's being honest, it goes back a little further than that.
It was one of Joe's first ops as a field agent, freshly recruited from his service in the Royal Marines. He'd been singled out by MI6 due to his proficiency with languages, particularly Arabic. The fact that he could effectively blend in with any urban population in North Africa or the Middle East didn't hurt, either.
So why they chose a pretty white boy with a strong Italian accent as his backup in Marrakesh, of all places, was anyone's fucking guess.
"I'm hardly the only European in Morocco," Nicky pointed out, his tone bone dry.
Joe narrowed his eyes. "Do you even speak Darija?"
"I can get by in standard Arabic, and I'm fluent in French," Nicky said in the latter language. In fairness, his accent was significantly less apparent when he wasn't speaking English. "But I should not have to do any talking."
"It would be nice to have backup who can help with the listening, though," Joe said acerbically. "We're supposed to be gathering intelligence, how exactly are you going to be helpful?"
Nicky shrugged. "Just think of me as your bodyguard, if it makes you feel better."
It didn't.
Especially not when the op went south, through no fault of theirs. They were only supposed to be passive observers, conducting surveillance on a person of interest who'd been making overtures to an arms dealer based out of Marrakesh. They couldn't really have anticipated that the meeting might go abruptly and dramatically sour, devolving into a shootout in the middle of the Jemaa el-Fnaa.
Joe's immediate instinct was to assist the civilians, try to mitigate the damage in any way he could, but a firm grip on his elbow cut him off. "We need to go," Nicky said. "Now."
Joe would have sworn that Nicky had been on the complete opposite side of the square not a minute ago; how the fuck had he manifested himself at Joe's side? No matter. "We can help—"
"Absolutely not, it will expose us both. Our orders are not to engage."
Joe tried to pull free as chaos flowed around them, but Nicky was apparently stronger than he looked. "There are innocent people in the square!"
"And when someone spots a British intelligence officer in the midst of an arms deal gone badly? Have you forgotten all of your training?"
"Fuck you."
Nicky gave him a hard-edged smile. "Not here."
He was right, though, much as Joe hated him for it. They split up and let the panicked crowds draw them away from the square. Joe didn't see him again until their debrief in the field office in Rabat, where they answered all the station chief's questions and hardly made eye contact at all. Joe was sent on directly to his next assignment from there, and certainly didn't linger to make small talk with Nicky.
Later, he looked up Nicky's file, or as much of it as he could access. Nicolò diGenova, born in Italy, immigrated to the UK as a teenager. He'd been a sniper in the SAS prior to joining MI6; he also had some training as a field medic. That somehow irritated Joe even further. Logically, he knew there wasn't much either of them could have done in Marrakesh, but it just felt wrong to flee like helpless civilians. Especially for a medic. Nicky could have done some good there, and he'd run instead. Coward.
Well, they had very different specialties, and MI6 had many field agents. It wasn't likely Joe would ever have to work with him again.
There are only a handful of double-oh agents in active service at any given time, and they hold rather mythic status within the ranks of MI6. When Joe used to imagine his career trajectory, this had never really entered his mind as a possibility. But M must have seen something in his file to recommend him.
He'd feel a lot prouder of that if she hadn't simultaneously promoted Nicky diGenova along with him. So he kind of has to question her judgement there.
They meet again for the first time since Morocco just outside of M's office in MI6 headquarters. Nicky's face is completely impassive as he looks Joe over. Joe just gapes at him.
The door opens. Copley, M's chief of staff, greets them there. "002, 009. Excellent timing. Do come in."
Joe's new designation is 002. Which means—
"You're a bloody double-oh now?"
"As are you," Nicky says, expression unreadable. "Apparently they'll issue anyone a license to kill these days."
"Gentlemen?" Copley lifts an eyebrow. "I take it you've already met?"
"We were partnered on an op a few years ago," Joe says, smiling through gritted teeth. "It...could have gone better."
"Anything I should worry about?"
"No, sir," Nicky assures him, the picture of professionalism. Joe kind of wants to punch him in the face.
"Good," Copley says firmly. "Shall we, then?"
After their meeting with M, Nicky does pull Joe aside. Joe looks pointedly at the hand on his elbow until Nicky sighs and releases him. "Listen," Nicky says. "I don't care about whatever grudge you've been nursing—"
"Oh, this is off to a great start—"
"—but from what I've heard, double-ohs tend to work solo, anyway. So I doubt you'll be stuck on another op with me, okay?"
"Inshallah," Joe agrees, folding his arms across his chest. The condescension in Nicky's tone makes him want to hiss like an affronted cat; everything about the man seems designed to rub him the wrong way. But what's Joe supposed to say? There's no grudge; I just don't like you. Instead he settles for: "Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours, yeah?"
Nicky inclines his head. "As you say."
Joe's changing in the locker room when the blond man walks in. The double-ohs have their own private gym in MI6 headquarters. They seem to have their own private everything, actually. Joe's not sure if it's meant to be a privilege or just to isolate them from the rest of the staff.
"Oh, wonderful," the blond says, with a hint of French in his accent. "Fresh meat. Maybe Andy will get off my back for a while." He proffers a hand. "Booker, 006. You must be al-Kaysani."
"Joe is fine," Joe says, shaking it. Booker has a solid grip and sad eyes; he's currently in a sweat-soaked T-shirt that shows off his arms to great advantage. "Andy's our trainer, I take it?"
Booker smiles faintly. "You could say that. She's also 007."
Joe curses fluently in several different languages. He's not yet familiar with all the other double-ohs—they are secret agents, after all—but Andromache Scythia, designation 007, is legendary even among spies.
"You got it," Booker says, amused. "She's currently torturing the new 009 in there. Put the poor man out of his misery, hmmm?"
Now this is something Joe needs to see.
He finds them sparring in the gym, where an open corner is lined with thin mats. A tall, lean woman with short black hair currently has her legs wrapped around Nicky's neck. It is viscerally satisfying to witness her take him down with nothing but the strength of her thighs.
"Good show, right?" a female voice remarks. He glances over to see their Quartermaster sitting cross-legged atop a pile of unused mats. "It's even more fun when the bloke in question is twice her weight in muscle."
Joe sits beside her, not willing to interrupt the training session. "I can imagine. They let you out of Q-branch?"
Q gives him an unimpressed look. "Yes, I'm permitted daily walkies."
"I just meant, I thought you'd have better things to do than watch 007 beat the crap out of the newbies."
"Entertainment value aside, it's actually quite informative," Q points out. "I like to see how my agents fight. Gives me insight into your characters, and helps me better supply you with appropriate gear. 009, for example." She nods at Nicky, who has actually managed to get the upper hand against Andy, albeit briefly. "From his file, I know he's a sniper, which implies patience and precision. Snipers often prefer the distance of a rifle; they don't get up close and personal with a kill, they don't get their hands dirty. But that's only part of the story." She rests her chin in her hands. "Look at the way he spars. He's economical in his movements—doesn't expend any unnecessary energy, no showboating. But he also knows his own physical strength and doesn't hesitate to bring it to bear against his opponent, despite the fact that she clearly surpasses him in skill. It took him about two minutes to figure out that sheer force was his primary advantage against Andy, and he's been using it every chance he gets to try to get an edge on her."
Joe's been watching the sparring match the whole time, but as Q speaks he finds his attention shifting from Andy to Nicky, trying to see what Q does in him. He doesn't think of Nicky as being physically imposing. Nicky's a hair shorter than him, and built on slender rather than muscular lines. He's certainly not slight, but he's very...average-looking. Inconspicuous. Which can certainly be advantageous for a spy.
But now he's suddenly aware of just how broad Nicky's shoulders are, his sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to them in a shockingly appealing manner. His hands are large and strong where they grasp Andy's waist, grappling with her. Cords of muscle stand out along his neck; Joe experiences an abrupt and unexpected desire to lick along the line of them, taste the salt of his sweat.
Where the fuck did that come from?
"Anyway," Q goes on. "That means unlike most snipers, he won't hesitate getting up close and personal if he has to, and I should prepare to outfit him for missions accordingly. Knives tucked into unexpected places, possibly a garrotte—he has the strength to make that a fairly quick kill, and I think he has the stomach for it. I'll have to ponder that."
Joe drags his gaze away from the flex of Nicky's shoulder blades in order to give Q a faint smile. "I'm a little worried what your assessment of me will be, when it's my turn."
"I'm not here to judge you," she says with a shrug. "That's Andromache. She's the one who'll be breaking you down into your component parts and then building you back up again. My job is to give you the tools you need to bring you back home alive. So believe me, you want me to be clear-eyed about your strengths and weaknesses. It's nothing personal, 002."
"Please, call me Joe."
Q just smirks. "We'll see."
Eventually, Andy flips Nicky hard onto his back, and he stays down, breathing heavily. Andy's barely even broken a sweat. "All right, take ten," she tells a prostrate Nicky with a smirk. "002, you're up."
Joe gives her a little half-bow. "Thank you for the performance; it was a balm to my soul to see this one so thoroughly destroyed."
"You could pretend not to enjoy it quite so much," Nicky grumbles from the floor, still sounding out of breath.
Joe grins down at him, sharklike. "I don't see why we should lie to one another. That's a terrible way to begin our working relationship."
"The ship has already sailed on that, I think." Nicky pulls himself to his feet, wincing. Joe pointedly does not offer him a hand up. He also does his best to not notice the lush curve of Nicky's arse in his shorts.
"Think you can do any better?" Andy demands, with an unearthly gleam in her pale eyes.
"I'm sure I cannot," Joe admits cheerfully. "But if I can survive a bout against Agent 007, it will be worth every bruise, to both my body and my ego."
From behind him, Nicky snorts. "We'll see if you still believe that when she's done with you."
He turns out to have a fair point. But as Q might say, at least it's educational.
Joe's first mission as a double-oh is practically a milk run, by his standards. MI6 is following the money being funneled into a succession of terrorist organizations, and Joe's in the Bahamas tailing a courier (who's carrying a briefcase full of cash) to see who the recipient will be. Really, he can't complain. The hotel is top-tier, the selection of non-alcoholic beverages extensive, and the ocean a shade of blue-green that poets have spent countless centuries searching for the words to describe. Joe sips a fruity mocktail as he perambulates along the beach, leaning into the utter ridiculousness of the whole experience.
Which of course is when he finds the courier gruesomely murdered in a tidal pool, very much absent the silver briefcase containing his client's funds.
So maybe not a milk run after all.
Two days and three attempts on Joe's life later, he's hastily washing blood off his arms in a janitor's sink in Miami International Airport when he hears someone picking the lock on the door. Fortunately, this gives him about half a minute to compose himself, which means he doesn't put a bullet in Nicky's forehead out of sheer panicked reflex.
"Ah, there you are," Nicky says, not at all ruffled by the gun pointed at his face. "M sent me to assist. We believe the terrorist's target is the new jet prototype in hangar twenty-nine."
"Tell me something I don't know," Joe grumbles, holstering his revolver. "I'm handling it."
Nicky's expression is as unreadable as ever. "Well, if the trail of corpses you've left across the Caribbean is your method of handling it, then it's a good thing I'm here to help."
Joe looks pointedly at the guitar case slung over Nicky's shoulder, as if it weren't a transparent cover for a sniper rifle. "Because your method doesn't involve killing anyone, huh?"
"At least I do it neatly and quietly. You apparently like to make a scene, which I have to say seems rather counterintuitive for a secret agent."
"Like has nothing to do with it," Joe snaps. Fighting, yes, there's a certain physical rush to it, but he's seen enough pointless death in his line of work. He doesn't enjoy being a killer, even when they were very much trying to kill him first. "I was forced to improvise. Fortunately, I'm capable of it, or you'd currently be cleaning up my remains."
"Dio ce ne scampi," Nicky murmurs, not quite rolling his eyes. "All right. The prototype is scheduled to launch at dawn, so if they're going to try anything, it has to be tonight. This is still your mission, so what would you suggest?"
That takes Joe aback; he'd assumed Nicky would try to take over, now that he's here. But as the night unfolds, Nicky defers to Joe's expertise without hesitation, only questioning him when he spots flaws in Joe's admittedly slapdash plan. In the end, Nicky takes down their target with a neatly placed headshot from several hundred meters away, enabling Joe to swoop in and disable the explosive device on the prototype with plenty of time to spare. It's almost anticlimactic.
Because Joe is capable of being the bigger man, he does thank Nicky politely before they go their separate ways, with a sincere compliment on his marksmanship. The barest hint of a smile flickers across Nicky's lips. It's almost as though they can stand each other's company.
Joe doesn't let himself linger on that smile, or the cool, efficient manner in which Nicky broke down his equipment, those large hands surprisingly nimble as they packed it all away.
So far, Joe hasn't had much opportunity to interact with the other agents; they're all often either out in the field on solo ops or taking their mandatory two-week leave between the higher-risk missions. Double-ohs work hard and play harder. Joe's still trying to figure out what that downtime means for him, but he rarely has the chance, since 007 is still riding his arse whenever he's in London.
"Do you ever sleep?" Joe demands, once, when she literally jumps him in an alleyway a block from his flat to 'test his reflexes.' It's the third night in a row she's managed to attack him out of fucking nowhere; he's started sleeping with one eye open, which is to say, not really sleeping at all.
"Sleep is a luxury you haven't earned yet," she replies. "Anyway, Q's been on night shifts monitoring 003's mission in Brisbane. I'm bored."
"Happy to be of service," Joe wheezes as her elbow makes contact with his solar plexus.
Some minutes later, it occurs to him to wonder aloud, "Wait, what does Q's schedule have to do with it?"
Andy gives him a very unimpressed look as she flips him over her hip. "And here I thought spies were supposed to be observant."
Joe is currently observing his own arse being handed to him on a plate. He decides not to push her further.
The next morning, he makes a point of swinging by Q-branch en route to the complete opposite end of the building and presents Q with one of the overly sweetened coffee-related beverages from their local tea shop that she pretends not to love. There's more sugar, caramel, and whipped cream involved than actual coffee. "Heard you had a late night," he says, all innocence. "How's Brisbane?"
"Still standing, which is more than can be said for most of 003's missions," Q grumbles, making grabby hands at the coffee cup until he passes it over. Joe has never met 003. He's not convinced they actually exist. "Why are you here? You're not due to ship out until Thursday, I don't have anything for you yet."
Joe brightens. "You mean you're actually giving me something more exciting than a Walther this time?"
"Don't hold your breath, I haven't decided if I like you yet." She gives him a gimlet stare. "002s have not, historically, been good for this agency."
He has heard about his predecessor, who defected from MI6 by way of attempted assassination of a fellow agent. Not the luckiest designation to inherit, perhaps. "At least I could hardly be worse than him."
"That remains to be seen," Q says severely. "So what do you want? If you're trying to impress me, you'll have to do a lot better than coffee."
"The fact that you insist on calling that abomination coffee makes my ancestors weep," Joe tells her, "so no, I have no illusions as to its virtue as a tribute gift. However, I would also like to be able to sleep through one peaceful night before I head out on my next mission."
Q narrows her eyes. "And what does that have to do with me?"
"How many more night shifts are you on this week?"
"Last night should be the last for a bit, unless Booker really cocks something up in Caracas. Why?"
Joe leans his elbows on her workbench, giving her his most charming smile and pitching his voice low. "Then I beg of you, just for this evening, don't let Andy out of your bed for even a minute, hmmm?"
He fully expected and deserved the slap, but Q is cackling to herself as he retreats, so he still counts it as a win. That night, he sleeps the sleep of the blissfully unharassed, and wakes bright and early the next morning to find his wrists and ankles bound to his own bedposts with a wickedly intricate series of knots. There's a big yellow post-it on his footboard with the message "XOXOX, 007."
It takes him the better part of two hours to wriggle free, but hey, at least he's well-rested for a change.
Nicky hadn't been entirely wrong, outside of M's office, when he'd said that double-ohs tended to work alone. Yet somehow Joe and Nicky keep getting paired together. Not quite so often that it feels intentional, but it just keeps happening. Nicky's mission in Croatia goes awry just as Joe is finishing up an op in Belgrade, so of course it makes sense that he be redirected across the border to assist. When Joe calls in for backup before throwing himself at a drug runner's fucking fortress, of course Copley sends in their best sniper—Nicky—to cover his back. And so on. These are all perfectly logical judgement calls. Somehow, their skill sets are just complementary enough that they keep having to back each other up.
It's absolutely maddening.
"I'm telling you, Aleister is desperate for cash, and fast," Joe insists, keeping his voice low. They're ostensibly idling by the baccarat table at the Casino de Monte-Carlo, watching the game; their actual person of interest is gladhanding his way around the bar in preparation for a private, high-stakes poker game later in the evening. "You can't afford to keep playing the long game; he will wipe you out and disappear. Tonight is our best chance."
"I have been laying the groundwork here for the past three weeks," Nicky grits out. "If I go all in, out of nowhere, he will become very suspicious, and I will lose all the progress I've made."
"So let him! We need to finish this, that's why I'm here. You don't have to blow your cover, use me."
Nicky gives him a hard look. "You don't know this man, these people he surrounds himself with. Copley debriefed you, what, three hours ago? You cannot possibly understand what we're dealing with."
Joe wants to throw his hands in the air. Instead, he links his arm around Nicky's elbow, as though they're the very best of friends, and all but drags him away from the games in progress. The night is young and warm, and they would hardly be the first guests to slip outside to enjoy their drinks in the moonlit garden.
There are a few other pairs or small groups chatting on the veranda, but it's easy enough to find some privacy. When Joe feels relatively confident they won't be overheard, he releases Nicky's arm. "Look," he says, low and fierce, "I know you're a good little soldier who won't take a piss without a direct order, but for fuck's sake, sometimes circumstances change, and you have got to learn to roll with the punches. I'm not trying to belittle the work you've already put into this—"
"No, you're just not listening to me," Nicky hisses back. "I am not saying I cannot adjust the plan, but just because you always—what is it, fly by the back of your pants? Make everything up as you go. Just because that is the only way you know how to do things does not make it the best way, and it is honestly amazing to me that you have survived this long in this work. But I will not watch Aleister gut you open in front of me just because Copley is getting impatient."
Joe finds himself transfixed by the way Nicky's pale eyes glint in the moonlight, how the well-tailored black tux draws attention to the broad lines of his shoulders, the quintessentially Italian way his hands move through the air when something finally pushes him out of his usual impassive mask. When Joe riles him like this. He's never seen Nicky react to anyone else with anything but unflappable calm.
It's oddly exhilarating.
Nicky huffs out a breath. "You really are not listening at all, are you?"
"No, I am," Joe says, more softly than he intended. "Look, it's still your mission, I'm just the messenger here. You want to blow your best chance at nabbing Aleister, on your head be it. Just get me into that poker game tonight, all right? You play your hand, I'll play mine."
After a long moment, Nicky presses his lips together into a thin line and nods, once. "Fine."
As it turns out, Nicky did perhaps have a deeper understanding of Aleister's character than Joe, but in fairness, Joe had deliberately set himself up as a target. He's confident that while Aleister and his goons are busy taking their anger out on Joe, Nicky will be busy cleaning up the rest of the asshole's criminal enterprise in Monte Carlo. And, really, as abductions go, this one hasn't been too bad. Joe was unconscious in the boot of a car for most of it. His back twinges a bit, and he's never appreciated being gagged, but no lasting damage. Not even much in the way of psychological trauma. It's almost disappointing. He'd expected more from his first proper kidnapping.
Aleister has a monologue prepared, of course, and he's only just moved onto the physical torture when several gunshots ring out somewhere beyond the...wherever the hell place this is, a cellar somewhere? Anyway. There are gunshots, and then some angry shouting, and then Aleister gets a bullet perfectly placed in the center of his forehead. Joe grins and continues working his wrists free of the zip ties. You can snap them entirely if you get the right angle and leverage, but these are more durable than the usual brand.
"A few more minutes and I would've had them," he calls out, voice rasping in his throat. They ditched the gag when they started in on the beating, since it's counterintuitive torturing someone to make them talk if they can't actually, you know, talk; the corners of his mouth are still bleeding a little from the chafing, though. He spits to try to get rid of the taste.
Nicky drops down to kneel in front of him, pulling a knife out of...somewhere. Q did say she would plant knives in unusual places when she outfitted him. "I'm sure," Nicky agrees, cutting carefully through the ties. His voice and hands are steady, but his very nice tuxedo is rumpled and bloodstained beyond repair, and there's a streak of blood across his cheekbone. It's an unfortunately good look on him. "Are you injured?"
"Eh, Andy's given me far worse in training," Joe scoffs, rubbing at his wrists. Nicky moves on to cut the zip ties around his ankles. "They'd barely even got started yet. You made better time than I was expecting."
"It didn't seem prudent to dawdle." Nicky hesitates, then presses his fingertips under Joe's chin, tilting his face up. Joe flinches at the unexpected touch, then realizes he's probably checking for signs of concussion.
"They didn't hit me over the head, I'm fine."
Nicky hums consideringly. "With you, it's hard to tell, anyway." His thumb brushes lightly across Joe's cheek, and Joe winces. "That's going to be a hell of a bruise."
"Yeah, my back's gonna be feeling it in the morning, too." Joe shrugs. "I'll survive. You got his dirty money, right?"
"And then some," Nicky agrees. He drops his hand from Joe's face, and maybe Joe is slightly concussed, because he immediately misses the touch. "Come on, let's get you to medical. Copley sent a chopper."
Joe accepts the hand up, and when he stumbles a little, he doesn't protest when Nicky slings an arm around his waist to brace him. "Careful there, Nicky. I might almost think you care."
"What a tragedy that would be," Nicky says, and if the words are appropriately sarcastic, his tone is...not.
Joe's not gonna unpack any of that right now, though. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he's starting to hurt in all kinds of fun places, and it takes all his mental energy just to remain upright as far as the helicopter.
Copley puts Joe on mandatory medical leave for four weeks, which is apparently standard operating procedure after an agent gets mildly tortured. Joe appreciates that in theory, but he didn't suffer any injuries worse than some bruising, and within a week he's pretty much crawling out of his skin with boredom. He buys a new sketchbook and some decent pencils for the first time in years, but can't really muster the focus to draw; what he really wants is to go a few rounds with Andy, but she's out on mission and anyway, he's not supposed to be "exerting himself."
So at the start of week two, he makes his way down to Q-branch and all but begs Q to let him test out some new prototypes or really anything that could make him feel vaguely useful. She eyes him skeptically, then sighs and sends him over to the testing grounds with one of her techies, Lykon, where they spend several pleasant hours blowing things up.
"I want to keep this," Joe informs him, after a very satisfying round with a miniaturized rocket launcher. "Why don't I ever get any of the fun toys?"
Lykon grins, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. He's aggressively handsome in a way that makes Joe wonder what the hell he's doing as a Q-branch geek. "You're still too new. Our Lady of Gadgetry does not trust easily, especially not double-ohs. It took Andy a year to cajole so much as a poison pen out of her, and you do not have the advantage of being precisely Q's type." More seriously, he adds, "But she spares no expense when it comes to mission requirements, so really, it's more that your ops haven't been quite so adventurous yet."
Joe snorts. He's been a double-oh for nearly a year himself at this point. "I shudder to imagine what you consider adventurous."
"Hopefully you won't need to learn." A shadow crosses Lykon's face, just for a moment, and his hands flex on the arms of his chair. But it soon passes. "Here, give that back to me, I want to see—actually, shit, is that the time? Hadn't realized it was so late already. Can you give me a hand packing this back up?"
"No problem," Joe says. He gives the rocket launcher one last fond pat before disassembling it to go back in storage. "Got a date tonight or something?"
Lykon laughs. "No, just grabbing dinner with another agent. You're welcome to join us if you'd like, we're heading over to the local."
"I'd gladly take you up on that, if you're sure I wouldn't be interrupting anything."
"Not at all," Lykon says. He gives Joe a wink. "Though if I were at all interested in men, I might have considered it."
"That is very disappointing to hear," Joe sighs, mock-dramatically. It really is a shame; Lykon is very good-looking, and Joe enjoys a good flirtation. Alas.
Lykon still needs to check back in with Q before heading out, so Joe follows him back to Q-branch. And that's where he realizes that he never asked which agent they were meeting for dinner.
"Nicky, hey!" Lykon calls out. "I'll be with you in a minute, just need to finish up here. Joe's gonna be joining us tonight." He wheels off before Nicky has a chance to reply.
Joe briefly considers banging his head against the nearest wall. Instead, he gives Nicky a rueful smile. "Sorry, he didn't tell me—I can make my excuses if you'd rather I didn't join you."
"No, I don't mind," Nicky says, a little too quickly. He shrugs. "I mean, if you don't. Lykon's good company."
"I didn't realize you two were friends."
Nicky smiles a little, more to himself than Joe. "Well, I did inherit his designation. It only seemed polite to reach out. And Lykon could befriend just about anyone, I think."
Joe's still stuck on the first part of that. "You—wait. Lykon was 009 before you?"
"You didn't know? It's hardly a secret. That's why he wound up in Q-branch, after."
He thinks about Lykon's charm and ease with all that weaponry, and the story of how the last 002 had very nearly killed a fellow agent before defecting. And the wheelchair. It makes an awful lot of sense. "I can't believe I never put that together."
"Some spy you are," Nicky says. His tone is light and teasing, so for once, Joe doesn't automatically take offense. "Anyway, yes, please join us, you clearly need to get to know him better."
"All right," Joe says, rubbing the back of his neck. It's just dinner, right? And Lykon will be there as a buffer between them, anyway. "I will. Thanks."
It's actually a nice evening.
Lykon is charming and, more importantly, genuinely friendly. He keeps an easy flow of conversation between the three of them, sharing anecdotes of his time as 009 and filling them in on agency gossip. The bar staff all clearly know and like him, and keep the booze flowing. Joe rarely drinks, and never while on missions—he knows this makes him an outlier among the double-ohs—but he lets himself enjoy a pint or two, just enough to get pleasantly buzzed. Lykon drinks like a fish and doesn't so much as slur a single word. The man can clearly hold his liquor.
Nicky relaxes into it, never really edging toward drunk but loosening up more than Joe's ever seen him. Which isn't saying much, but still. Those little flickering smiles appear more often, hands expressive in the air over the table, accidentally elbowing Joe in the side when he gets animated. It's not that he's a different person; more like he's always kept a pane of glass between himself and the rest of the world, and Joe only notices now that it's gone. If he were being uncharitable, he might say that the stick up Nicky's arse must have slipped out for the night.
But maybe he's made a habit of assuming the worst, when it comes to Nicky, and he should...not do that quite so often.
At some point Lykon excuses himself to go chat up a pretty tourist at the bar, who is clearly receptive to his advances. Joe leans back against the booth, feeling warm and loose from the alcohol, that faint buzz under his skin. It's nice, easy. Takes him out of his head a little.
"I'd always heard stories, before," he remarks, watching Lykon work. "About the double-ohs. Their reputation for seduction."
Nicky lifts his shoulders in what might be a shrug. "I think it's more that a few particular agents wield it as a sort of weapon in itself, and the rumors spill out from there."
Joe snorts. "Andy."
"Definitely Andy. And Lykon, though he's just like that all the time, I think. Andy…" Nicky hums under his breath, as though searching for the right words. "It's not as much a part of her true self. She turns it on and off, like a light switch. I have seen her do it."
"Yeah, so have I. 001, too. He's like a fucking panther, it's creepy."
Nicky runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass, because of course he's the sort of person who orders wine at a pub. It rings faintly. "What about you?"
"Hmm?"
Nicky glances sidelong at him, then back at his own glass. "Have you seduced anyone for a mission yet?"
He keeps his tone light, but there's something in it that makes Joe pause and look at him more closely. "A few times, yeah," he admits. "It's a...tidier way to get information than with bullets. More discreet."
Joe doesn't mind it, when it happens. He enjoys a bit of flirtation, and it rarely takes more than that to get the intel he needs in those sorts of situations. Just showing genuine interest in another human being. He's only actually bedded a mark once, and that was more pleasure than business. The man had been extraordinarily beautiful.
It's somewhat dispiriting to realize that encounter was the last time he got laid, and half a year ago at that. So much for being a sexy super-spy.
Maybe that's what prompts him to ask: "Have you?"
He's seen Nicky play charming, for the sake of his cover. That casino in Monte Carlo, at the poker game before Joe overplayed his hand and got himself kidnapped. Nicky had been sleek and elegant that night, his smile languid, eyes heavy-lidded, accent thicker than usual. Half the players at the table had wanted him, Joe could tell, women and men alike. Joe certainly had.
But maybe he always does, at least a little bit.
Nicky takes a slow sip of his wine, Adam's apple bobbing, then meets Joe's eyes. "Once or twice. When it seemed expedient. But I don't particularly like lying to people."
Joe huffs out a laugh. "You may be in the wrong line of work."
Nicky smiles too, ruefully. "Ah, I mean lying to them like that. Making someone believe you want them, when you are really just using them. It feels...cruel."
"And you are not a cruel man."
"I try not to be."
Somehow they've shifted closer together in the booth, knees bumping under the table. Nicky's gaze is steady on Joe's face. Joe recalls asking Lykon, earlier, if he were interrupting a date, and how Lykon laughed it off—though if I were at all interested in men, I might have considered it.
Joe is very much interested in men, and he is certainly considering Nicky now. "I don't think of it as lying," he murmurs. "When the situation arises, it's only because there's something there that genuinely draws me to them. I wouldn't try that particular tactic otherwise. It would be terrible strategy."
"I'm not sure I find that reassuring," Nicky sighs, but his thigh is pressed firmly against Joe's by now. "Your strategies are frequently terrible."
Joe gives him a crooked smile. "You've never appreciated my talent for improvisation."
"And how has that been working for you lately?"
"I'm not sure," Joe admits, taking one last sip of his own drink. When he sets his glass back down, he places it right beside Nicky's, his fingers brushing against the back of Nicky's hand. "You tell me."
Nicky exhales softly. His eyes are as heavy-lidded as they were in Monte Carlo, but this time, all his attention is on Joe. His gaze drops down to Joe's mouth, just for a heartbeat, but it's enough. "This is a terrible idea."
"Par for the course for me, then, right?" Joe says, and closes the remaining distance between them.
Nicky's lips feel full and soft against his, and Joe can just barely taste the wine. He presses his fingertips under Nicky's chin, tilting his head up to improve the angle, and Nicky obeys with alacrity, opening his mouth to Joe's. It's definitely been too long since Joe got laid, because this feels amazing. His whole body hums, just from the pressure of Nicky's leg against his, the rasp of his stubble against Joe's palm, the urgency of his kiss.
Joe should have tried this months ago. It's certainly more enjoyable than constantly sniping at each other.
Eventually, they pull apart for breath to just stare at each other. Nicky breaks first, ducking in to press another kiss to Joe's lips, this one hard and swift. "This is a terrible idea," he repeats, his nose still brushing against Joe's.
"Agreed," Joe says. "Want to come back to my place and try it anyway?"
Nicky swallows hard, then pulls back, shaking his head. "No. Or, rather, yes, I want to, very much, but that doesn't mean we should."
"If you don't want to, we won't," Joe says, and means it. "But why shouldn't we? There aren't any rules against it, exactly, and even if there were, double-ohs are notorious for breaking them. Andy has been shagging Q for ages, and no one cares."
Nicky's staring at him, an almost feverish light in his eyes. "You don't even like me, though."
"You don't particularly like me, either," Joe points out wryly, "but I'm not asking for a miracle. Just one good night. If you want that. Because I certainly do."
Nicky takes a deep breath, and then another. His gaze never leaves Joe's mouth. "All right, then. One good night."
It's a very good night. They go back to Joe's flat, where Joe finally has the opportunity to appreciate Nicky's broad shoulders properly. Which is to say, by clinging onto them for dear life while Nicky shags his brains out. It's hard and fast and exactly the sort of release Joe hadn't realized he needed, when he'd gone to Q-branch today begging for something to shoot. This is a much better way to blow off steam, pun absolutely intended, and he makes sure that Nicky has no complaints, either.
Nicky doesn't stay afterward. Joe doesn't ask him to, and he doesn't offer, just presses a startlingly soft kiss to Joe's cheek before slipping out of his bedroom.
They don't see each other again until Istanbul, ten days later.
Istanbul is a shitshow right from the very beginning.
Well, Joe knows that going in. His four weeks' medical leave aren't even up yet when he and Nicky ship out together, by virtue of being the only double-ohs present at MI6 headquarters when the call comes in from their station chief in Turkey. Q outfits them with as complete an armory as can be made portable in the twenty minutes' warning she received, and they're on a plane within the hour.
Nicky remains quiet the whole ride over, staring down at his hands. Joe leaves him be. There's no real plan to hash out for this one, no intel to review. They know precious little. This is an extraction, pure and simple: retrieving a hard drive that contains the identity of almost every NATO agent embedded in terrorist organizations across the globe. How it wound up in the station chief's office in Istanbul is anyone's guess; Joe suspects that any number of field agents will be following that trail for the next several months, trying to figure out how such sensitive information could have leaked. But the point is, there's a buyer for the drive who is determined to get their hands on it, and Joe and Nicky need to stop that from happening.
Somehow.
The flight lands at an airbase about twenty kilometers out from Istanbul; from there they hop aboard a chopper, which drops them on a city rooftop. No point trying to be inconspicuous this time, Joe supposes. They hit the ground running.
"He should be on the second story of the next building east of your location," Copley informs them via earpiece. "We've got Q tracking you both. M is also on the line."
"Alphabet soup," Joe mutters, low enough that only Nicky can hear him. Nicky gives him the barest suggestion of a smile. "You take the roof entrance, I take the street?"
"I take the roof, you acquire a getaway vehicle," Nicky retorts, tossing him the case containing his sniper rifle. There's a very particular gleam in his eyes. "You're better at improvisation, remember?"
Joe flashes him a grin and a wink. "You know it."
So they split up. It doesn't take long for Joe to hotwire a Jeep a couple blocks away and dump the weapons in the backseat. As he pulls around the corner, he hears Nicky cursing over the earpiece.
"Station chief's down, needs medevac. I can stabilize him—"
"The hard drive," M says, crisp and authoritative. "Is it there?"
"No, it's gone, we must have just missed them—"
"Then get after it!"
"I have to stop the bleeding," Nicky insists. Joe's rarely heard him so much as express private disapproval of an order, let alone talk back to M herself. "He won't make it otherwise."
Joe recalls that very first op, before he'd even dreamed of becoming a double-oh: gunshots ringing out across the crowded square, civilians screaming, Nicky's white-knuckled grip on his arm as he held Joe back. It must have eaten him up inside not to be able to help, to have to prioritize the mission. Joe had screamed at him, but at the time, there really hadn't been anything they could do.
Here there is, but Nicky can't. More people will die if they don't track down the hard drive.
"Nicky," Joe says, the Jeep screeching to a stop just outside the building. A white man in a suit ducks into a black Audi that's far too nice for this neighborhood. "I think I have him, we gotta move."
"That's an order, 009," Copley adds, tone dry as dust. "We're sending in an emergency evacuation squad."
Nicky swears again, a string of expletives in Italian, too low and fast for Joe to translate. "They'll be too late," he snaps, but it sounds like he's moving, and sure enough, he bursts outside a moment later. Joe leans over to pop open the passenger side door, and Nicky jumps in. Joe hits the gas before he can even pull the door shut.
Like all car chases in Joe's experience thus far, adrenaline makes every moment very sharp and precise as it's happening, but it all kind of blurs together into a chaotic jumble in his memories afterward. He remembers bickering with Nicky over the quality of his driving, but just to relieve the stress; there's no real bite to it. He knows that he managed to sideswipe the Audi and send it into a spin in the middle of the damn bazaar, and that their target emerged toting a fucking machine gun in retaliation before pulling a runner. Nicky's out of the Jeep and after him like a shot, and Joe can only follow their meandering route across rooftops as best he can from the ground, Copley's preternaturally calm voice in his ear guiding him the whole way.
Somehow, Nicky winds up chasing their target onto a moving train. Joe may never quite put together the chain of events that led to that. He follows the railroad tracks as best he can—Alhamdulillah, he picked a Jeep and not some dainty little sedan—until, well, he can't anymore. They're outside city limits at this point, nearing some kind of river. The train enters a tunnel in the hillside, and Joe just...follows a dirt track over the hump of the hill itself, driving at a speed never intended for dirt tracks on Turkish hills.
"What’s going on?" M demands. "Report!"
"Hard to explain," Joe says. "009 is still in pursuit. They're, ah, on top of a train. I've run out of road, but I think—yes!"
The tracks emerge from the other side of the hill to curve downward and then cross a long bridge, right over the river. From Joe's vantage point, he may actually be able to get a clear shot. They just need the hard drive; they don't need to bring this asshole in alive. He's already tried to gun them down out in the open where any number of civilians could have been caught in the crossfire. Joe has a license to kill, and feels no particular compunctions about using it in this instance.
He's got Nicky's sniper rifle aimed at the track by the time the train emerges. Through the scope, he can clearly see the two men fighting on the roof of one carriage. The train isn't moving at a high speed—that's how Joe was able to easily keep abreast of it—but still, it hits him, all at once, how utterly insane this is. That's Nicky, right there, in protracted hand-to-hand combat with an enemy assailant on top of a moving train.
Joe thinks this might be the sort of mission that Lykon would consider adventurous.
"I may have a shot," he informs Copley and M, thousands of kilometers away, safely ensconced in M's comfortable office overlooking the Thames. How can he possibly convey the reality of his current situation? In his scope, Nicky grapples with the target, the fight and the curve of the bridge interposing his body across the other man's. "It's not clean. Repeat, I do not have a clean shot."
It should be Nicky, here, clear-eyed behind his rifle scope. This is what he's best at. Joe's a very good shot, but he's no sniper. This is not his area of expertise. He should be the one improvising his way on top of a fucking train. Somehow, the two of them got their roles all switched around today, and he has a sinking feeling that they'll both regret it.
"Can you get into a better position?" M demands.
There's no way, Joe thinks. And he'll lose them as soon as the train passes into the next tunnel. "Negative, there's no time."
"Take the shot."
He swallows hard. "I might hit Nicky."
"Take the bloody shot!" M shouts, loudly enough to make him wince, and he just...does. He takes the shot.
He misses.
Nicky falls.
There is a certain protocol that one follows, when shit really hits the fan. The sort of rules that no one ever explains, exactly, but that years of field experience teach you anyway. Agent down, Joe should report, immediately. That brief phrase will set a whole string of events in motion. Copley will divert resources to the scene, notify local authorities in a certain manner. They'll have police dragging the river for the body within an hour. In the meantime, the nearest field agents they can mobilize will get to work cleaning up any evidence left behind.
At this point, Joe has two choices: either to continue with the mission, if possible, or to pack up and get the hell out of town before he can be identified. In this instance, he can't really pick up where Nicky left off; that train has literally left the station. There's no way he can follow their person of interest now. Back in headquarters, Q is likely doing her best to track the train and figure out where he might be headed next, and Copley will coordinate getting boots on the ground wherever that might be. It's out of Joe's hands.
"Agent down," he does manage to say aloud, but he's not following the train, and he's not packing to leave. He's running hell for leather down the steep slope of the hill, following what might generously be called a footpath directly to the riverbank. If he loses his footing, he'll likely fall the rest of the way.
Actually, that might be faster. He considers it for a split second. But knocking himself out and drowning in the process wouldn't help Nicky.
It's summer in Turkey; the water shouldn't be too cold. And Joe's a strong swimmer. He sheds the heaviest of his remaining gear and dives straight in, angling toward the current, letting it speed him along downstream. The river is relatively slow, in the dry season, and not too rocky. Survivable, Joe assesses. Nicky won't be fighting against it; he'll just float wherever the water takes him. He's a double-oh in his prime, in peak physical condition. Assuming the bullet didn't kill him, the river shouldn't, not this quickly.
Joe refuses to consider the very real possibility that he's trying to rescue a corpse.
It only takes him another minute or so to spot Nicky's head bobbing above the water; he's not sure how much more time passes before he catches up to him, grasps him under the arms and begins towing him to shore. To his great relief, Nicky is sluggish but still partly conscious, and does his best not to hinder their progress. Many drowning victims instinctively fight their would-be rescuers in their panic; Nicky remains calm throughout. Too calm, even for Nicky, Joe thinks; he would like some kind of sign that Nicky is willing to fight for his own life, at least. He can't possibly trust Joe, of all people, this completely.
Nicky passes out by the time they reach the riverbank, but he's breathing, so at least Joe didn't drown him. He still might have killed him, though. Blood soaks Nicky's left shoulder, and Joe presses his hands to the wound while he mechanically describes their position as best he can to Copley. He's too wrung out to muster any surprise that Q's earpiece survived the swim; of course she made them waterproof. That's why she's Q.
"Come on, Nicky, stay with me," he finds himself repeating over and over, even though he knows Nicky's out cold and can't hear him. "Stay with me, okay?"
And he stays with Nicky, refuses to be separated from him, when the medevac chopper arrives. He stays with him all the way back to England, and it takes three medical staffers at MI6 holding Joe back to keep him from following Nicky right into the operating room.
He's not sure what time it is when Q finds him outside of Medical. Late. His eyes feel like sandpaper every time he blinks.
"I hear 009's prognosis is good," she says, dropping down to sit beside him on the tiled floor. She grimaces to herself. "Déjà vu, ugh."
It takes him a long moment to put it together. "Lykon?"
"When he got shot, yeah. When he was still 009. I was the one sitting alone out here, then, until Andy found me."
Joe laughs hollowly. "And it was 002 who shot him, too. Fuck. I guess I'm no better than my predecessor after all, huh?"
"Don't be absurd," Q says tartly. "The situations don't even begin to compare. Yours was an accident, and you're the one who saved 009, after."
"I still took the shot."
She's quiet for a minute. "I was on the comm. It was a direct order from M herself. You had no choice."
"I did, though," he says heavily. "There's always a choice."
Q pats his cheek, painstakingly gentle. "He'll be okay. The bullet passed right through his shoulder, it's an easy surgery. Plus some taped ribs from hitting the water. A month or so of PT and he'll be back on duty like nothing happened. It wasn't even his dominant arm. Believe me," she adds, "I've watched double-ohs bounce back from far worse."
Joe hugs his knees to his chest. "I hope you're right."
"I'm always right," she informs him loftily. "That's why they made me Quartermaster."
He laughs again, the sound catching in his throat until it comes out more like a sob.
She sits with him for a while, not saying anything. This is far from the first time Q has sat vigil outside of Medical, waiting for news on one of her agents, and he knows it won't be the last, either. The only person who hasn't been through this yet is him.
And Nicky.
"Think they'll let me in to see him, once he's out of surgery?" he eventually asks. "If I promise not to shoot him again, that is."
Q gives him a small smile. "I've yet to meet anyone, MI6 or no, who's managed to keep a double-oh from getting into any place they decide to go. You'll see him, Joe."
It's not until much, much later that he realizes: that's the first time Q ever calls him by name.
Q was right: a doctor grudgingly allows Joe into Nicky's room as soon as he's been settled in, even though Nicky is still unconscious from the surgery. She points Joe to a chair and hustles back out again, leaving them.
Joe pulls the chair as close to the bedside as he can manage, then all but collapses into it. Nicky looks...well, Joe supposes he looks better than he'd feared. Too pale and still, but that's to be expected in a hospital bed. His breathing is steady in sleep. Clean white bandages swathe his shoulder. A bruise darkens the shadow of his jawline, and a cut is taped up over one eyebrow. His hand twitches on top of the bedsheet, and there's a plaster over one knuckle, the others faintly reddened. Must have been a fun fistfight on top of that train.
He's not sure how long he just sits there, watching Nicky breathe, but at some point exhaustion wins out and he drops off himself. All he knows is that when he blinks, the room is suddenly bright with sunlight, and Nicky is staring at him.
Joe does a double-take to see him awake, and Nicky smiles.
Nicky must be on some excellent painkillers, because his eyes are wide and luminous, his smile soft, his expression more open, more unguarded than Joe has ever seen it, even that night at the pub. "Hello," Nicky murmurs. "As nice as it is to watch you sleep, I'm glad you're awake."
Definitely on the good drugs. But Joe can't help but return his smile. "You, too. I'm—" His voice catches in his throat, and he coughs a little to cover it. "Nicky, I am so sorry."
Nicky blinks at him slowly. "For what?"
Joe opens his mouth, then closes it to gesture expressively at his shoulder and the bed and just...everything. "I shot you."
"Not on purpose," Nicky points out, his smile turning a little wry. "Which, actually, I appreciate, given our track record." He searches Joe's face for a long moment, and whatever he sees there sharpens him a little. He sheds some of that sleepy openness, and Joe's chest clenches faintly with its loss. "It was an impossible shot. It's not your fault."
"You would not have missed."
"You don't know that. And anyway, I heard M give the order."
It's like talking to Q all over again, only worse. "Yes," Joe says bitterly, "and I obeyed, even though I knew you might—" He swallows thickly, and tries to lighten his tone. "You improvised, and I followed an order. That's all backwards, Nicky. We should never do that again."
Nicky makes an aborted movement, like he's trying to sit up, to move closer; but he winces when it jars his shoulder and settles back. He reaches out his hand instead, palm up. "I don't intend to, believe me."
"Okay," Joe says, covering Nicky's hand with his own. "That's good."
For a long moment, Nicky just looks down at their hands clasped together on the white sheet. Then he lifts his gaze back to Joe's face, cautiously. "Careful there, Joe," he says, his tone so very soft. "I might almost think you care."
Joe's pulse races, heart hammering in his ears loudly enough he half expects that Nicky must hear it, too. He lifts Nicky's hand to brush a gentle kiss across his reddened knuckles. "Yeah," he agrees hoarsely. "You might."
There's a storm about to come down on them, on all of MI6, because of the failed mission, the lost hard drive; Joe still technically hasn't even reported in to M and Copley yet. But none of that matters, not right at this very moment. Not in comparison to the healthy flush rising into Nicky's cheeks, the smile that finally reaches his eyes, the deliberate way he laces their fingers together. Joe looks right back at him, and breathes, and holds on.