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It had been a busy, tiring day – three small global crises she needed to staff, two special and unhappy-making analyst reports Eve had to present to her M (who'd been blustery in response, including the always annoying references to his own field time in Northern Ireland), and a horrible rainstorm just as she left the newly restored Vauxhall Cross. But sometimes there were compensations – such as the sight of Commander James Bond in the Baker Street Tesco Metro staring absently at a bunch of wilted scallions.
She knew better than to sneak up behind him; 007 shooting up a Baker Street shop wouldn't look good on either of their records, and they both had flats in the neighbourhood and would be too easy to trace. She contented herself with a loud throat-clearing and “Hullo, James.”
He turned at once, watchful, not at all surprised, not quite smiling. “Hello, Miss Moneypenny.”
“I've told you not to call me that.” She ventured close enough to him to feel his body-warmth. He was wearing a lovely masculine cologne, heavy on the vetiver – which meant that yes, he considered himself off-duty. (He wore no scent in the field, unless it was part of a cover; she could still remember the good honest clean sweat of him filling the Range Rover as they'd pursued Patrice, the freshly showered smell in Macau as she'd leaned in with the razor, her hand on that taut body. Which, she told herself sternly, she didn't need to think about.) She continued, “Whatever is James Bond doing looking at greengrocers' goods?”
“Say that three times fast,” he said, a glint of amusement in those deadly blue eyes. Then, smoothly, “Just waiting for you to offer to cook me a meal this damp London evening.”
“Oh, James. Did you fall on your head whilst in Algiers Tuesday? Our esteemed superior didn't mention you were suffering post-concussion delusions.” They shared a grin at that before she went on, “Anyway, I have a previous dinner engage--”
The buzzing of her personal mobile – text-alert – interrupted her. She made some excuse and turned away to read it. Sorry, love. Can't be your plus-one tonight, working late. Another time?
“I don't think so,” Eve said to the mobile. Terence the City boy might have a lovely smile and a nice line in suits, but he was far too slippery for her taste; this latest cancellation was one too far. She sent a crisp text to acknowledge, and then clicked off, just as James's chin came to rest on her shoulder.
“Lost your plus-one, did you?” he whispered into her ear. “Want a replacement?”
She ignored the rush of....not exactly adrenaline, not exactly lust, but somewhere in that general area. “It would bore you dreadfully. Dinner with a dear friend of mine from uni and her partner, that's all.”
“Eve darling, you wouldn't condemn me to a microwaved ready meal or McDonald's, would you?”
“As if you would ever eat any of that sort of food. I still remember your tirade regarding the Golden Arches when we were walking through Heathrow.” On their way to Turkey, where she had taken the shot and hit the wrong target, where she had felt his fall as her own, a breath-stealing plunge, not as breath-stealing as this particular moment--
“Now now, Miss Moneypenny.” His mouth was almost touching her skin now. She concentrated on controlling her heart rate, on cataloging the moment. She was carrying her briefcase and the whole-grain bread she needed for tomorrow's breakfast. Whole milk was on sale at the other end of the aisle. Adele was singing something about broken hearts on the shop sound system.
And Commander James Bond, assassin, arsehole, and unapologetic flirt, was, oh fuck, kissing her neck. She could feel the tip of his tongue trace the vein. It wouldn't be at all surprising to find out he was some kind of vampire, she thought. Damn him.
“Stop,” she said firmly, “or I'll use the field-experience I do have to send you back into those scallions.”
“You're welcome to try.” His laugh tickled. “But I'd prefer the dinner invitation.”
“James.” She turned herself just enough to escape his touch. “Trust me when I say you wouldn't enjoy it.”
“Why?”
She took a deep breath. “Because my schoolfriend Anthea's partner is the only person our M reports to.”
Smiling, he rested his hands on her shoulders – which hold she in fact could break if she wanted, and she was considering it. Sort of. “Eve, you couldn't have said anything more enticing.”
Of course. Damn him twice. Still – “Oh all right,” she said crossly. “But I have to check with Anthea to make sure it's all right. Her partner can be rather secretive, I had to have Terence vetted in advance.” Over his chuckle she turned away again and sent a quick text. Anth, my plus-one backed out. James Bond wants to come instead. Please tell me he can't. E
Almost immediately she was buzzed. EVIE! Well. Let me ask my M. A
“So when and where are we going?” James breathed in her ear.
Eve sent a sharp elbow into his solar plexus and said, “Just step back.”
“I can handle it rough, Miss Moneypenny,” he said, laughing again. “In fact I prefer it.”
“Shut up, James.”
“You are so very stern,” he said. Purred. She told herself that no good could come of metaphors linking Bond and big cats, she didn't need to trade in such cliches. “I prefer that too.”
“Honestly, James, that sort of innuendo went out of style sometime in the last century.”
He put his hand on what on another man would pass for his heart, and patted solemnly. “You wound me.”
“A nuclear explosion wouldn't wound you,” she muttered, but then saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes. There were, she knew, many different kinds of wounds, and the death of the previous M had been one. Eve had seen the way he'd looked at that stupid china bulldog he'd inherited, the pleasure and pain and mourning perfectly shaken together.
James Bond could in fact be wounded, and it would make him more dangerous. She'd do well to remember it.
Her mobile went off again. M says that's fine. He's amused, I think. See you at 7:30 at our place. A And two seconds later, Oh, you're at Tesco. Could you bring me a Cadbury? A
Eve burst out laughing. Anthea was a secret chocoholic, and at uni she had always shouted that request whenever she had heard Eve's door open across the hall. They'd shared a staircase in college, shared late nights of revision and whisky-enhanced tea, shared conversations about where they'd wanted to be in ten years, the adventures, careers, men. And now look at them....
“Am I in?” James said.
She'd almost forgot he was there. “Yes, I suppose. Their flat's in St James, we're expected there in just over an hour.”
“Will I do as I am?” He opened his arms as if to invite her to critique his outfit of well-cut jacket, Turnbull and Asser shirt sans tie, and nice trousers – which was a bit more casual than Anthea's partner, a notable dandy, would likely be wearing, but would serve.
“Yes,” she said, “but I'll need to change. And I need to pick up a chocolate bar.”
Which was how it came to be that James Bond lounged for thirty minutes in her flat, drinking the last of her Lagavulin and sending even more innuendos through the open door of her bedroom, whilst she hurriedly threw on a sleek red dress and her favourite heels; which is how it came to be that she and James shared a cab, London lights transmuted into watery magic on the other side of the windows, while they exchanged barbed remarks about Q's terrible hair and restaurant recommendations for Moscow, which she knew was his next mission.
She was enjoying herself so much that she didn't bite off his head when his hand went somewhere it really shouldn't. She contented herself with resting her heel against his shoe and pressing down almost to the point of danger; he laughed but behaved himself the rest of the way.
Once they were standing outside the St James building where Anthea and her partner lived, she caught him assessing the location. “You know,” she said, “I've wondered why you don't live somewhere like this, instead of Marylebone.”
“Too stuffy,” he said. “I used to live in Chelsea, but all the Sloane Rangers drove me out.”
Eve was still chortling over the idea of 007 fleeing the incursion of floppy-haired, braying louts when the almost hidden door opened and Anthea said, “Hi.”
“Anth,” Eve said, and ceremoniously presented the Cadbury.
Anthea took it and kissed Eve's cheek. “Evie, I knew I could count on you.”
“'Evie'?” James said in a voice of unholy delight.
“Don't even think about it,” Eve said, “you haven't earned it,” and then, “Anthea, may I present Commander James Bond. Ms Anthea Matheson, one of my oldest friends.”
“Mr Bond,” Anthea said, then before James could speak, “Do come in, it's going to rain again.”
As they went up in the private lift, Eve asked Anthea how everything was at Thames House. James said, “So you work for the little-sister service?”
Anthea coolly surveyed him. “I've been seconded to 6 a time or two as well. I've heard all about you.” Then, “Evie, sorry, I meant to warn you--”
But the lift doors slid apart at that moment, and Anthea's partner on the other side of the threshold said blandly, “James, it's been a long time.”
“Mycroft.” This was in James's most dispassionate killer's voice. “I should have known.”
“You really should have,” Mycroft Holmes agreed. “But then you always were a little, shall we say, narrowly focused.”
“Would you phrase it that way?” James said dangerously. “Because Kosofsky hadn't been in your line of vision either.”
“Ah, old times,” Mycroft said, and smiled. “Anthea my dear, would you and Eve --” he kissed her cheek on her name – “like to have a drink whilst I catch up with Commander Bond in my study?”
Eve and Anthea looked at each other. “Absolutely,” they said in unison.
When they retreated to the kitchen, Anthea poured Eve a glass of her favourite white burgundy without asking. “Do you want to talk about your extremely notorious escort, darling? Or would you rather talk about the JIC report about that bloody mess in St Ives? I know you were cc-ed.”
Eve put her hand over Anthea's and squeezed. “You are the best friend ever. JIC cockup, please.”
They had eviscerated the idiot MI5 section manager named in the confidential JIC report and caught up on the latest from a now notorious Balliol classmate who'd gone on a reality television show and won tabloid fame and a million pounds before melting down in public – both Eve and Anthea held intensely negative opinions about those who sought fame rather than power – before the men returned. Eve's experienced eye noted that both Mycroft and James looked smug and at ease, so that was all right.
Or at least she thought so until during the second course, at which point James smiled at her over the roast chicken and petit pois and said, “So, Eve, I understand that at Oxford you and Anthea lived on 'the assassins' staircase'?”
“Mycroft.” Anthea shot him a censorious look. He twinkled at her and then took a drink.
Eve looked down at her plate. Yes, it had been an unpleasant joke among their male peers: Eve Moneypenny and Anthea Matheson lived on the assassins' staircase; they could cut any man down with a word, killers at heart. The two of them had laughed about the name back then and also used it ruthlessly – to get to the bar first in the buttery, to avoid the worst of the weedy gits at various parties, but more, to encourage each other before exams. They'd slip each other chocolate bars and cards signed with a stylised knife.
That was before either of them had known what assassins really were like, of course.
She was smiling when she looked back at James – and it was indeed the smile of the assassins' staircase. “Yes. We were young then, and I suppose we thought that's how power was wielded. We're wiser now.”
“Yes,” Anthea said, and she raised her glass to Eve, who mirrored the gesture. “We are.”
“And you both are achieving great things, and will achieve greater,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Shall we move on to the cheese course?”
The rest of the evening went well, although it wasn't a long one – Mycroft having an unspecified early business trip the next day, and Eve an early meeting. Eve and Anthea made quiet-voiced plans for lunch the next week, and James and Mycroft shook hands. Then Mycroft neatly edged Eve aside and said for her ears only, “You handled yourself well in there. I believe your Mallory has been needing a section head for a new counterintelligence effort, and I'll make sure he considers your name.”
“Thank you, Mycroft,” she said, as neutrally as she could manage.
“No need for thanks. I have a very good eye for talent,” he said, and edged her back to James's side. “It's been an instructive evening all around.”
“It has,” James said, and took Eve's hand.
He kept her hand as they got into a cab to go back north. Once the cab doors were shut, once they were enclosed in that rainwashed dark, he raised her hand to his lips. The kiss on her inner wrist, however, wasn't the over-the-top lasciviousness he'd treated her to before dinner. It was... respectful, she thought.
“What was that for?” she said.
He smiled against her skin. “You're clearly going to be M someday. I'm just solidifying my position now.”
“I can't quite see you doing this to Mallory,” she said. When he let out a crack of laughter, she said more softly, “And I can't quite see our M allowing this.”
“You might be surprised.” And there was that grief again, bleeding through.
They didn't say anything else during the cab ride, except her murmur about Mycroft's genius brother when they passed 221 Baker Street. But James didn't let go, either.
When they were left standing on the misty street, she tugged at that hold. “Well, James, you've had your dinner. Now it's time for you to--”
“I was wondering,” he said over her intended dismissal. “I was wondering if you wanted what your friend Anthea has. That sort of... permanent domestic arrangement.”
Not quite adrenaline, almost certainly lust. “No. I've never particularly wanted that.”
“Excellent information.” He moved closer, so she could feel his body-warmth. She thought again of hard muscle under her hands, the fresh-shower cleanness of him, the way he'd held still for her in Macau. “And do you have any objections to occasional intra-service familiarity, Miss Moneypenny?”
“Oh shut up, James,” she said, exasperated, and pulled him in.
They made it through her front door before he spun her around and pinned her against the wood. As he'd done in the shop that afternoon, he kissed her neck, following the vein with his tongue –
And she evaded him, changed positions, and pinned him against the wood. “You are not in charge,” she said firmly, her hands already at his belt. “Now do what I tell you.”
“Yes, Miss Moneypenny,” he said, and laughed until her hand gripped his cock and he caught his breath hard.
And later, when he sprawled naked in her bed, deadly blue eyes half-shut and killer body relaxed after the roughest sex she'd ever had, she rested herself against the footboard and surveyed him.
Yes. Sometimes at the end of a busy, tiring day, there were compensations.