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“My service in Northern Ireland demanded much,” Gareth Mallory explained to Eve Moneypenny while the London's Eye took the second turn. Tower Bridge slowly flew underneath, the gray buildings fitted the gray sky and M's gray coat. “Though it was an experience.”
Eve Moneypenny held her coffee before her mouth, watching Gareth closely. Boss promised her coffee if he survived when he was lying bleeding at Eve's knees and she begged him not to die, so he did it – he had bought her coffee and took her to London's Eye on Monday on the break.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Eve started cautiously. She suspected it was not the question to ask M in the face, but as she made him speak to her while the paramedics were coming just to know he was alive, she supposed she had a chance to try. “I heard you were taken hostage.”
“And?” M's look was sharp. Coffee was steaming before his face, a hand in a black glove clenching the paper cup. His hand was still in the bandage, pressed to his chest.
“I also heard,” Eve proceeded at her own risk, “that you've told them nothing. No information at all.”
“Indeed,” M nodded and sipped the coffee, watching Eve a little less sharply, but still in an exploring manner. He was no handsome man, Eve thought randomly, but still, he was stunning in his own dull way – the moment he stopped looking like a clerk always happened suddenly.
Nothing changed but the eyes. And in that moment, M was absolutely stunning.
“This worth admiration,” Eve broke the pause. “I mean, I think you are brave.”
“You didn't think so in the beginning,” M noticed, sipping the coffee once again. He had blue eyes with short pale eyelashes. He must have been a noble offspring just like Bond, just like most of the Double Zeros, thought Eve. No handsome but still attracting face, comprising ages of related marriages and consequent degradation of traits, which only belonged to the kings and counts.
“I did not,” Eve admitted. “But I do now. I think you deserve to be the head of the program more than anybody else except the first M, maybe. But the king is dead, hail to the king. I'm proud we are working together. And I am proud that you are my boss.”
While staring into M's eyes Eve had forgotten she wasn't the only one in the capsule. While she was watching M, M was watching her. The moment of realization came unexpectedly and Eve felt embarrassed – unlike Bond, M didn't play for the game; he didn't play at all; he looked at Eve with surprise, eyes wide open, and she looked at him in the same way, looking at the man she had never seen before.
“Have you ever thought of returning to the field work, miss Moneypenny?” M asked. Eve responded with no doubt, inspired by the possibility. Istanbul, Cairo, Singapore – all the places she heard of the Zeros floated before her eyes, “Yes, of course!”
“Then don't,” M cut Eve off in a manner that would seem impolite for less a gentleman than he was. “I need you as my secretary more, than operative. MI6 has a lot of good operatives, but lacks proper managers.”
“M, sir,” Eve started. She wouldn't complain or ask him to change the decision, but still she couldn't believe he got rid of her dream so easily. She saved his life, in the end. Wasn't it enough for an inquiry letter for a position of an agent?
“A proper manager, miss Moneypenny,” he repeated. The door of the capsule opened. The ride was over.
***
Eve Moneypenny stood next to M while he was watching the reports. Eyeglasses made him look like a school-teacher. Eve remembered her school-teacher, Mr. Barnes – all the girls were crazy about him and his cool dark red sweater, and his eye glasses in the tortoiseshell frame. Years ago, Mr. Barnes was sassy, in 2000-ies he would be called old-fashioned prick in Eve's school.
“Where is Bond?” asked M, not looking at Eve. Bond came to Eve's table just to bring her those Turkish sweets and the scarf she asked him about, as he would be in Switzerland in any way. Eve doubted M didn't know this.
“He dropped in just to comment on his mission and then was gone, possibly to return his equipment to Q.”
“Or the what has left of it,” M took a pen and corrected the numbers manually, so Eve would have to enter it into the system. All that M did, he did manually, mostly ignoring all the smartphones, tablets and other devices, which simplified the life of the agent. To his honor, Eve must have admitted that all M's edits were much correct than PC's.
“I will tell him you insist on accuracy and less destruction,” that was the mildest joke Eve could afford. She saw fingers on injured M's hand, still in the bandage, trembling. He recovered slowly and Eve felt like it was her concern, though it wasn't. When M tried to put on the coat with one hand bandaged, Eve wanted to help him on, but she didn't know if M consider it inappropriate or what.
“Tell him not to drop in to distract you,” M snapped. “The report is incorrect. The numbers are incorrect. This is a very low quality of work, miss Moneypenny. I would ask you to pay attention at Bond's visits less and at your work – more.”
The accusation was sudden and humiliating in the most parental way. Being scolded like a choir girl got smoking at the back door of the Church made Eve blush like no experienced, cold-blooded MI6 agent should ever blush in the presence of her superior. What made M put away the pen louder than usual, in a consent but irritated manner was still an open question.
“I am sorry for the mistakes,” Eve said, calling herself to order. “The report will be improved as soon as possible, M, sir. But I need to point out that Bond, just like the other Zeros, drops in only when he is in the need of the information I provide as your secretary, M, sir.”
***
Leaving the building, Eve felt upset. Everything was okay – Bond dropping in, Q dropping out, a lot of papers, coffee cups with the prints of Eve's lipstick on the sides, eyes tired from looking into the monitor, life passing by in analyzing reports of the agents who did their work not growing into the chair.
The rain was pouring. Eve opened her umbrella under the corner of the roof, realizing the umbrella was not enough to save her from the opened up abyss of heaven. Eve's wool skirt, her tweed jacket, the wellingtons she changed her shoes for and her blouse – they won't survive this Bible-like flood.
“Get in, miss Moneypenny,” Gareth Mallory said, opening for Eve the door of his car. “Consider it is a helping hand.”
Maybe, Eve shouldn't get it. Maybe she would choose subordination over convenience or temptation to see M in a less formal atmosphere. Maybe she should what Bond would do – and what would do Bond, by the way? Bond would doubtlessly take a ride and invited M for a drink – that why he was Bond, Eve made a silent little laugh.
“I live rather far from here,” Eve warned M, taking the front seat and putting her back in the back. Outstretching for the back sits, she bent to M, noticing he smelled good – with some classic perfume: a little boring, but still a decent choice. M said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders indifferently, and Eve told the address.
M has an F-class car, and it was no wonder. Some wonder was the fact the car was empty like a desert with not a little trace of personality. Most of the agents lived like that – no paper trash in the back seats, no family photos on the walls or memorable trinkets on the shelves. Eve knew it was reasonable. But she also regretted M was just like the other agents in that way, as it was his personality that aroused Eve's curiosity.
Eve was insatiable for the mysterious people, and M was, by all the means, mysterious. When he was driving the car gently with the radio off, in the most uncomfortable silence which was his natural habitat, Eve felt her connection with this calm sharp man, her boss, grew stronger. It was something that started on the floor when Eve was holding his hand, and he muttered – blue eyes wide open, his face a face of the man who saw God and understood he was also the Devil – why don't you want me to die, miss Moneypenny?
Why doesn't my country want me to die? What does a life of a shadow worth? And we are the shadows, miss Moneypenny – he said, and closed his eyes. Eve grabbed his shoulders, pinched his cheeks, called his name – please, please, M, please, Gareth, it is all because we need you, it is because Bond needs you, it is because I need you – don't, just don't die!
Why was it so important for Eve to keep him alive? He was just another vet to take old M's place. Why did she felt the tears trembling in the corners of her eyes than M clenched her hand? Don't worry, he said. I will make it. The Intelligence will make it, with or without us. But Eve didn't care for Intelligence – she cared for Gareth Mallory who appeared to be one of the best agents she ever saw acting.
“That must be here,” M said. The car stopped with a hardly noticeable jerk at the porch of the red four-floor building in the middle of the green hedgerow and brick-red middle-class suburbs. “I normally have a car,” Eve said, as though making excuses. “But the day I take it to the service the rain pours for days.”
“I see,” M agreed. “I am normally busy in the evenings. That must be a not quite normal day. Evening, miss Moneypenny.”
“M,” started Eve, taking the handle which opened the car door.
“Yes?”
That must have been one of those “Bond” moment everyone acquainted with James too closely sooner or later got infected with. Eve knew she would regret it, and she knew it wasn't the best idea. The fact she found M interesting didn't make an equal conclusion she found her interesting, too. But – it was one of those now or never – and in the end, what would James do? James would take the opportunity.
“If you are not busy this evening,” Eve said jauntily, as though the effort didn't cost her much, “maybe I can offer you a drink?”
“You can,” M agreed, nodding.
“And you...” Eve half-opened the door, showing him she is neither begging nor waiting for him more than the politeness required.
“I am not denying your offer, I guess.”
***
M at Eve's place was like a Victorian Era butler in the middle of Woodstock. He didn't look embarrassed or restrained, he sat on the sofa and even noticed Eve's cat and kindly asked it to leave and empty the place. But still he was a stranger to the place, and it was funny to watch him without a coat, loosening the collar.
“Whiskey or beer?” Eve asked, closing the fridge's door. “Whiskey is for the bad days, and beer is for the much less bad days.”
“How often do you have bad days, miss Moneypenny?” M asked, clasping his fingers at his stomach. Eve's cat, Shirley, watched M over the pillow with the expression of the sheer terror on her mug, and when M watched at her, he raised his brow a little.
“It depends on if you are asking me as your boss or not,” Eve said. Bond fits happened more and more often to her. Eve felt relaxed and, more or less, in the control of the situation, though the feeling was elusive – men with the field experience of Gareth's kind always won over."
“What if I ask both?”
Eve poured whiskey into two glasses and put the beer away. It didn't felt like a beer evening so it was not going to become one. She had to knock out the ice from the molds, having shoveled the cubes into the hand, she poured them into the glasses along with the ice dust.
“I didn't have a single good day till you recovered,” Eve said, giving M the glass. They fingers didn't touch each other, M took a glass lightly, but whiskey meddled before his mouth.
“Why?”
It was not a question, it was a demand, and Eve sighed. “Because I never got what I wanted. I saved your life and I wanted for an upgrade. I wanted to become an operative.”
“MI6 doesn't need operatives,” M waved his glass. “It needs managers. People who can work in an office and analyze for the ones who are not.”
“Have you spent a single day in the office?” Eve demanded fiercely. “No. I've spent about twenty years in SAS Task Force and several months as a hostage,” M smelled the whiskey and frowned. Just like Shirley, Eve thought suddenly. “You can prevent our agents from the hostage experience. That's why you are staying with me.”
“The key word is 'with me',” Eve sat on the sofa next to M. She finally got to the core of the problem, to the very heart of the conflict. “What a problem do you have with me?”
“Not a single problem, miss Moneypenny,” M answered coldly.
“I don't think it is an answer,” Eve insisted, and M gave her a look, “Do you accuse me of – of what do you actually accuse me, miss Moneypenny?”
The phone ringed. It ringed in the middle of the kitchen table, in the center of orange and apple breakout, next to the pot with the remains of yesterday curry. The name on the display was “James”, but no matter how much James there was in the city of London, at the moment Eve remembered only one.
“Does James Bond call you after work?” M turned his face to Eve. Eve got up slowly and pressed the red button on the phone. “He does,” Eve said. “Because he always wants more information. But I work for the Intelligence. Not for James Bond.”
“It's hard to believe,” M smiled with the corner of his lips. His eyes remained blue cold.
Eve leaned to M and kissed him on the lips. She waited for any reaction but M grabbing her with both his hands, kissing her with his dry, eager mouth. M's neck was as handsome as his lips, and the first thing Eve did was unbuttoning the collar.
“It was personal in the end?” she asked, when M dug his mouth into her shoulder, tearing the blouse down. “It is personal, Gareth?”
“How do you think?”