Work Text:
James Royce isn't a spy, but the distinction sometimes gets lost when his bosses get the brilliant idea to send him out in the field on what they like to call “enhanced recruitment.” This usually only happens once every few months whenever a new Bond wannabe gets promoted from productive work to upper management, a move that immediately cuts their IQ in half and doubles their ambition.
On paper, James works for a private company that professes to sell data analysis and that’s technically his job description, but they are exclusively contracted to the government, so whatever they might like to call themselves, they are a part of the defense structure of the United Kingdom. They just get paid better.
None of which explains why James is loitering to the side of the dessert buffet at a uni queer club. He hates being sent to recruit people, mostly because it means he actually has to talk to them. Ask him to find relevant data in a haystack of junk info and he'll do it with a smile - he's very, very good at it, too - but the public facing work is a special kind of torture. And just on principle he hates doing it here, among his own kind of people - the nerds and the gays.
The sad truth is that even today it is a place more likely to attract the vulnerable, people with fewer family ties and a tendency to go by assumed names. Even among friends, it's not unusual to not hear from someone for days or weeks at a time. Sometimes people just disappear. His data doesn't lie. It does make him uncomfortable how easy it is to exploit.
The tiny angry lesbian that let him in and looked at him pointedly when he gave her his name - like she could see right through him - sidles up to him and presses a glass into his hand. “You look like you need this more than me and I've been talking to a straight girl all night."
James sniffs at the glass. Whatever it is, it's almost violently alcoholic. He takes a sip and regrets it instantly. It burns all the way down.
"Thanks," he wheezes out.
The girl, Priya, is not a good candidate for the kind of work his company needs to have done, because she strikes him as someone who has long since stopped trying to be anything other than herself. Conversation tries to bubble up a few time but James is extraordinarily skilled at only one kind of murder and the only victim is small talk. A few minutes in, she pats him awkwardly on the shoulder and leaves him to his silent vigil at the snack table. It's not the worst vantage point as everyone ambles over sooner or later and James hands a few of the more promising candidates a business card. This is all he's expected to do during first contact, but it still puts him on edge.
Which is how he almost misses Priya frantically pointing at him from across the room, deep in a conversation with a man who is Very Obviously Gay. It’s the kind of camp that is designed to draw attention to itself, often hiding a more vulnerable heart underneath. He’s bright and confident and stunningly beautiful in a sea of confident, beautiful people.
For a second, James forgets everything but his name, and as their eyes catch across the room, he smiles like a lunatic. It’s like looking into the sun.
But the sun is… frowning at him, expression getting darker by the second. Priya is still talking at him as the man begins to move forward through the crush of people like an ice-breaker on a mission. He fumes like one, too.
James is trying to decide between fight or flight and ends up like any prey creature, stood still waiting for the truck to hit. And hit it does.
Quite literally, as the man throws a small collection of business cards at James’ head. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” the man hisses.
“I’m James,” he says carefully, hoping to defuse the situation. “James Royce. I-”
He wants to explain himself, but the other man pushes into his space, glaring up at him - he is essentially half James’ size, all slender and glorious, compared to James’ bulk - “No, you’re not.”
James blinks. “Uhm. What?” He looks to Priya for help, but the girl is clearly on the other man’s side, arms crossed over her chest. She shakes her head and mouths ‘don’t look at me’.
“You’re not James Royce and I’m tired of your sort invading these spaces we’ve carved out for ourselves. And the audacity to do it with a fake name. What did you think was going to happen? People here know me! You could have just pretended to be literally anyone else.”
James hears the words, but understanding escapes him. He shakes his head slowly, taking a step back and raising his arms in the universal gesture of appeasement. But the man is talking himself into a rage.
“And what are you handing out here? Tickets to some pray away the gay camp across the pond?”
James has no idea what’s going on but he’s getting the feeling that this little man is calling him an intruder and as calm as he usually is, this hits a sore spot. He’s too big and too shy and too much of a numbers guy to fit into the gay scene. He’s heard it all before, often enough that it hurts, often enough that he can fill in all the blanks in his head.
It makes him a little bit angry. Now, James is a smart man and generally doesn’t use his size to solve his problems, but when he needs to, it is a powerful tool in his arsenal. He gets out of his slouch and towers over his opponent, who - to his credit - doesn’t back down even a little.
“And who do you think you are?” He growls the words, more like a threat than a question.
The answer slaps him across the face.
“I’m James Royce.”
And that’s when James starts laughing. This will not be the story they tell their kid when he grows up, but two hours and five pints later, it is how they fall in love.