Chapter Text
"You must be joking."
"What makes you say that?"
James Bond leaned back in the seat across from his boss. Gareth Mallory, the CEO and senior editor of one of England’s most popular magazines, Sport, stared back at him, as if he hadn’t just handed Bond his career-ending assignment. And maybe he didn’t understand just how career-ending it was, what with Mallory just having taken the position not even half a year ago. His lack of experience made Bond wish for the good old days when he’d had Olivia Mansfield in charge. She’d been a righteous bitch and busted his balls, yes, but Bond had respected her much more than her nephew, this three-piece suit-wearing prat who didn’t know his own head from his arse.
“As if you don’t know.”
“Enlighten me,” Mallory said.
Bond nodded at the wall behind Mallory, where the testaments to their superiority in sports journalism hung in frame after frame. Bond’s rise to fame had begun during the Summer Olympics in London, when their magazine had gained international recognition for Bond’s in-depth coverage of the 2012 squad. Their sale numbers continued to grow over the next few years, skyrocketing after the 2015 World Cup, when Bond’s investigations into corruption had brought the company two international awards for stellar journalism. He wasn’t about to throw his promising career away, not when he’d finally climbed to the top of the ladder and gained such acclaim.
“Yes, you’re very good, Bond, which is why I’m giving you this assignment. I don’t trust anyone else to fill Severine’s shoes.”
Bond ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair, inwardly cursing Severine for leaving without much more than ten days’ notice. Although he was sure that the opportunity in Shanghai had been worth it, she could have at least found a replacement instead of leaving them high and dry for a senior columnist. And she had tackled all the niche sports, too, the ones that no one wanted to touch with a ten foot pole for how difficult it was to get access to the athletes and their coaches, not to mention understanding all the damn rules of sports like dressage and luge.
“With all due respect, sir,” Bond said, unable to keep his voice from sounding scathing, “I’ve been working the desk for almost ten years now and I’ve always covered football. Now you’re asking me to drop all of my work, my connections, everything, so that I can cover... the figure skating season?”
“Yes,” Mallory said, as if he saw nothing wrong with the situation. “And?”
It made Bond once again yearn for Mansfield, because she had never been one for roundabout conversation. It was always straight to the point with her: bad news out of the way quickly and cleanly instead of dragging out the suffering. On top of that, she always kept a decanter of something good in the high-rise office for the hard times. And for the times in between, of course. Bond remembered many a fond night sitting in this exact office, sipping brandy or scotch or some other concoction with Mansfield, talking shite, laughing at pending lawsuits, the works. But the office was bone dry, now. Mallory was one of those health freaks that didn’t drink or smoke, who liked those pricey pressed juices instead of real food. He'd gotten rid of the bar on his first day.
“If you have something to say, Bond, say it.”
Bond set his jaw.
“It’s figure skating.”
“It’s a challenge, Bond. Something to keep you from getting stale after ten years on the same desk.”
“Stale?” Bond repeated, gesturing at the wall behind Mallory. “I’ve been winning awards for this company for years now. Long before you took over, I might add"
“Yes, you have,” Mallory agreed, “but you haven't been at your best, have you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?"
Mallory sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers.
“There's no way to put this delicately, but you have a drinking problem, Bond.”
Bond could have punched him right in the face.
“Christ, what is this, an intervention?”
“My aunt told me to keep an eye on you--”
“Oh, so she quits and puts you in charge, but you’re just her puppet, doing her bidding? Tell her if she wants to run this damned company, she can get her arse back in that chair,” Bond growled.
“I’m the one making the decisions here. After Severine gave her notice, it made me reconsider assignments here in the office. I thought a change of...scenery might be a good thing for you.”
Bond got up and began pacing the room. The far wall was made of glass, and he saw Mallory’s secretary look concerned as he began moving about.
“Keeping me out of the pubs, you mean?”
“Look, I’m not saying you’re not good at your job, Bond, but it is called functioning alcoholism for a reason.”
“So you’re going to drive me to drink more by giving me this assignment? Smart move.”
Mallory’s expression turned steely.
“It’s either take this assignment and get your drinking under control on your own or you’ll be back as a subeditor and sent to AA.”
Bond stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe that this was happening.
“I dedicate ten years of my life to this company and this is how I’m repaid? I ought to quit,” Bond threatened.
“Do you think anyone else will put up with you?” Mallory asked. “You’re a great journalist, Bond, but you’ve got bad habits that would have gotten you fired anywhere else. And the number of lawsuits from your features alone--”
“So I’m not supposed to report the truth?”
“You’re supposed to not get this company sued every issue.”
“If we’re not getting sued, we’re not doing our best.”
That had been the motto, long ago, back in the day when he and Mansfield and Severine had all been just starting out. But now, where had that old guard gone? Mansfield, retired on a beach somewhere, Severine out to investigate corruption in her home country. And Bond? Where was Bond in all of this? Just some grand old warship being hauled away for scrap: becoming obsolete in this brave new world Mallory was hellbent on creating?
“Listen, I’m giving you this opportunity Bond. Turn your life around. Get back on track. Let the new boy handle the footballers.”
Bond bristled, thinking of the shiny, fresh-faced lad that just graduated uni and thought his fancy degree made him a real journalist.
“Ronson? He’s barely out of nappies.”
“And yet you’re the one who’s whingeing.”
“And for bloody good reason. I spent years building relationships with this lot. Christ, I’ve got interviews lined up for the next six months!”
“And I’m sure Ronson will be elated to be introduced to your contacts.”
Bond tried another tactic, going so far as to sit down and look a bit pleading:
“I don’t know anything about figure skating.”
“Then I suggest you learn, Bond. And I want some proof of work on my desk after the British Figure Skating Championship, understood?”
Bond didn’t trust his mouth, so he settled on nodding instead, and was not long after excused from Mallory’s office.
“How did it go?” Ronson asked, when Bond returned to their shared office cubicle.
It was a small space that Bond had come to call home, a little corner of the fifteenth floor that happened to have a window looking out over all of the South End. He sat down in his chair, looking past the awards, the signed football memorabilia, his mountain of research waiting to be put to good use, and stared out the window.
“That...bad…?” Ronson ventured.
“Yeah. That bad,” Bond said, turning his chair round to face him.
It was then that he noticed there were two cups of steaming tea laid out in preparation. It was a very British thing to do in times of strife and adversity, even though Bond hated the stuff and had told Ronson at every opportunity. Still, the gesture was nice enough, so Bond accepted the cup near his keyboard in order to not look like a complete arsehole.
"Did you...you didn’t quit, did you?”
“No,” Bond answered, and raised his cup a bit to Ronson, “but you might be getting some good news today.”
“Oh…?”
“You’re going to be taking over covering this football season.”
“But I thought you said you didn’t quit?”
“Long story. Just be happy, kid,” Bond said gruffly, putting his untouched tea on the desk.
He stood up and grabbed his coat, then began packing up his laptop.
“I’m cutting out early today,” Bond said, and then, because Ronson looked terrified of the possibility of being happy, he added: “it’s fine, Ronson. We’ll celebrate another day. I’ll buy you a round.”
“Thanks, but…are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Bond didn’t say anything else, again, not trusting himself. Ronson was too nice to be cruel to, even if he wanted, and Bond worried he might say something that would leave lasting damage. So he hurried to the lifts, out of the building, and began making his way to his favourite pub in order to drown that angry thing inside him that wanted out.
He drank and drank, had a smoke out in the alley out back once or twice with a few of the bussers, then went back to drinking. Bond lasted longer than the happy hour crowd, and by that point, he was feeling anything but, so he decided to go home.
Home wasn’t really a home in a traditional sense. Home was really just a place he went to sleep and shower and have sex. And it showed, even to Bond, because every time he came in through the front door, it was like walking in on someone else’s life: a sterile, clean life of white and chrome and absent personality. Still, it served its purpose. It kept him warm and dry and housed his liquor cabinet, which he dug into without bothering to think of the consequences.
The last time he’d had this much to drink had been almost five years ago, when he’d been lonely and hurting after his fiance, Vesper Lynd, had left him.
Bond leant back against the arm of the couch, cradling the bottle of whiskey in the crook of his elbow as he stared at the ceiling and thought about Mallory’s warning. If Bond cocked this up, there was no telling how Mallory might punish him next. And then what? What had it all been for if not for the life he’d always wanted?
A surge of anger came over him, towards Mallory, towards Ronson, towards everyone, but Bond drowned it with drink and then with cigarettes and then with sleeping pills.
His life was fine.
Just fine.
00Q00Q00Q
When Bond arrived in Sheffield the following week, he found that the venue was more crowded than he originally anticipated.
After doing research the night before, Bond knew that the British Figure Skating Championship was one of the largest in the country, but he didn’t think that there would be so many people coming to spectate. And yet, there were hundreds of thousands of people packing into the space, both young and old, male and female. Excitement buzzed in the air, but it felt different than the explosive energy at football stadiums. At football games, there was something primal, almost savage, about the celebration: the shouting, the chest-pounding, the chanting. Here, he felt something much different: something serene in the quiet hum of voices, just brimming below the surface. Bond wished he had a name for it, but couldn’t quite equate it to anything he’d ever experienced before.
He checked his watch, then his programme guide, and saw that he had enough time to get a coffee before the performances started. There were a few options on site, and queue went quickly enough, but there weren’t nearly enough stations of cream and sugar for everyone to tend to their drinks without crowding.
Bond was just thinking of taking his black to avoid the crowd when someone in a navy track jacket bumped into his elbow and nearly upended Bond’s coffee.
“Oh, excuse me,” said the person. “I am so sorry!”
Bond thought about getting upset for a moment, maybe tell the person that they ought to have been watching where they were going, but the angry words died on his tongue when a pair of very green, very apologetic eyes met his. Before him stood a young, dark-haired man who couldn’t have been a day over twenty, carrying a tray of four coffees and looking for all the world like he’d just committed an atrocity.
“I didn’t spill on you, did I?” he asked, touching Bond’s arm lightly. His fingers were long and white and very lovely, and any anger Bond had depleted immediately.
“I am unscathed,” Bond answered, and the man smiled and then let out a laugh that was absolutely delightful.
“I’m glad. I usually don’t run around without my glasses but, well, of course today...” he said, looking sheepish, before nodding at the space next to Bond. “Mind if I squeeze through there?”
He held up the crate with its four cradled drinks.
“No, go right ahead,” Bond said, making a small path for him.
“Thanks,” he answered, and wedged himself in between two other people before he began helping himself to sugar and cream.
Someone pushed past Bond, forcing him closer to the lovely stranger. He was almost of height with Bond, but seemed small in a way that had everything to do with his delicate bone structure: sharp cheeks, angular jaw, long throat, and those fingers...He was one of those people that singers wrote songs about and artists painted pictures of because everything about him seemed to draw the eye and hold its attention. Even Bond, for all his years of sleeping with beautiful men and women, could not recall having been so enamoured so quickly, and somehow it depleted his usual confidence and wit, as well as his attempts at conversation.
“It’s really packed today,” Bond commented, feeling suddenly warm under the collar.
“It is. I swear, it gets bigger every year,” he said cheerfully.
“Lots of media coverage too,” said Bond, holding up his press badge. Usually the sight of the laminated identification had men and women more interested in him right away, but this boy seemed not to care about it at all. Maybe he couldn’t see without his glasses...? So Bond added: “I write for Sport. The name’s Bond. James Bond.”
“Oh, so you must be very excited to cover it... Mr. Bond, James Bond?” he asked, his smile teasing, perhaps even flirting.
“Well…” Bond took a sip of his coffee, so he could keep from staring at the man’s perfect cheekbones, “let’s just say this isn’t my usual.”
“Ah,” he said, as he fit the lids back onto his cups. “Short straw?’
“Something like that.”
The boy laughed again, and it went all the way from his mouth to his eyes, making him all the more beautiful.
“So I take it that figure skating is not exactly a sport you’re familiar with, then?”
“Not much of a sport at all, is it?” Bond answered.
A delicate brow disappeared into dark, wavy fringe.
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
Bond shrugged.
“Just a lot of twirling about, isn’t it?”
The boy looked at him, but gone was his friendly smile from before.
“I would recommend not repeating that, especially around here,” he said, and it sounded as if he were struggling to be civil. “People dedicate their lives to this, just as other athletes do, and they train just as hard as footballers and swimmers and all the rest. Reducing figure skating to just a lot of twirling about is not only misguided, but also insulting, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for calling yourself a professional journalist. Good day.”
And with that, the boy and his coffees were gone, leaving Bond standing there, stock still, feeling as if he’d just been slapped. At first, he felt offended, but then, looking round at the crowds, felt a burn of shame. The boy had been right, of course. Just because he felt cheated out of his job, felt like the entire assignment was just cruel punishment, that didn’t make it acceptable to say what he’d said.
Bond took up his coffee and went in the direction the boy had gone, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find those dark curls anywhere in the crowd.
Eventually, he gave up and went outside to have a cigarette. One turned to two, and then three, before he decided he ought to get inside and do his job. It was the least he could do after everything.
It took him some time to find the press booth, which was situated close to the judges but behind the television cameras recording the event. He found a spot near an attractive woman with brown hair and took a seat. She gave him an appreciative glance up and down, which prompted Bond to do the same before holding out his hand to her.
“James Bond, Sport.”
“Camille Montes, The Observer.”
“What did I miss?”
“Well, all of yesterday, for one,” she said teasingly, and Bond mentally cursed for having been too hungover to catch the last train the previous day. “Today are all of the free skate programmes.”
“Can’t wait…” Bond said, trying for enthusiasm.
The acts were impressive, Bond had to admit, but he didn’t see what all the excitement was about. More interesting things happened in football. Still, he did his due diligence and got their names, their scores, and made sure to write appreciative comments in the margins of his notepad for later reference.
“The next skater is the one I’m excited for. I saw him skate two or three years ago. Absolutely fantastic. But he dropped out right before the 2014 Olympics and never made it to Sochi. Some kind of accident, I think.”
“Oh?” Bond asked, clicking his pen at the ready. Camille knew this game better than he did, and if she could give him some insight into the world of figure skating, Bond was going to take it.
“Yup. It’s his first public appearance back in the rink,” Camille shook her head. “Poor kid, though. He might be skating again, but probably not at the level he was. They never do after an injury, you know. And here I had him pegged to be the next Yuzuru Hanyu...”
Bond had absolutely no idea who that was, and said so.
“Yuzuru Hanyu? As in the guy who’s broken ten world records in figure skating? Youngest person since 1948 to take a gold medal in the Olympics? First to land a quad loop in competition? Ringing any bells?”
“Not a one.”
Camille made a face.
“And you call yourself a sports journalist.”
“In my defense, I cover football primarily.”
“Heathen,” Camille said, but it was teasing.
A skater came out on the ice and Camille nodded at him.
“There he is. Cute as a button. The girls love him. The boys, too, I’m sure.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Quentin Stirling, but he goes by ‘Q’. Just turned twenty-three last month.”
“Well that makes me feel old.”
Camille laughed.
“Tell me about it.”
The boy on the ice looked up at the crowd, and that’s when Bond recognised him.
It was the same boy from the cafe who’d gotten stroppy with him.
“Oh shit.”
“What?” Camille asked.
“I sort of. Ran into him earlier,” Bond explained. “I had no idea who he was.”
“Did you say something embarrassing?” Camille asked, waggling her eyebrows.
“Well,” Bond said, “I insulted him. Unknowingly, of course. Said that figure skating wasn’t really a sport. And then he basically told me to piss off.”
Camille laughed.
“Good for him,” she said, and then gave Bond an unapologetic look. “Sorry, Bond, but, word of advice? Never piss off a figure skater. You are aware they wear blades on their feet for fun, yes?”
Before Bond could answer, the announcer came over the loudspeaker and began introducing Q, making mention that he was back on the ice after a long hiatus. Q received a heartfelt cheer from the crowd as he moved across the ice towards the centre of the rink, going so far as to smile and even wave once at audience members.
But once the announcer stopped, Q’s expression turned into one of focus as he took a graceful standing pose on the ice.
If Bond thought he was beautiful before, seeing him on the ice was something else entirely. Q wore a form fitting outfit of royal blue and cerulean. Studded with jewels, both on his clothes and his cheeks, he glittered under the lights.
The moment the music began, Bond found himself holding his breath.
There was something ethereal about him, the way he skated as if it were as easy to him as breathing, as if it were more natural to him to be on ice than on land. He was soft with it, moving like water, like waves, but then he’d extend himself and the curves of him would become lines, drawing the eye in and along them. Bond couldn’t blink, in fear of missing that moment when his motions moved between the two states of being, as if he were two spirits inside of one body manifesting themselves to match music and breath and light.
And then it was over as quickly as it begun, to a cheering crowd and judges’ praise.
“Not his best performance, but a good technical score,” Camille said, jotting something down in her notebook.
“What do you mean?” Bond asked. “He was...very good.”
“Well, yes, but you could tell he some of his landings were off and he seemed a little fatigued at the end on that triple,” Camille explained, “but at least his footwork throughout was on point.”
“Do you think it’s due to the injury?” Bond asked.
“It’s possible. Or he needs more strength conditioning. Either way, he’ll need to work much harder over the next few months if he expects to compete at Worlds level again.”
Bond nodded as she spoke, taking notes in shorthand for himself. If there was one thing that he’d learned being a journalist, it was that people were always interested in the underdog, the human interest story, and Q sounded like just the right topic for a feature.
Many more skaters took the ice and performed, but none of them seemed at the same level of grace and beauty that Q had displayed. There were a few, of course, but none that Bond found as impressive. It was only after all the skaters had finished and the crowds were getting up to leave that Bond leaned close to Camille and asked:
“So how do you go about getting exclusives with them?”
“And by exclusives you mean…?” she asked, raising her eyebrows with a grin.
“An interview, of course,” Bond answered.
“Of course,” Camille said sarcastically. “I saw the way you looked at Quentin Sterling.”
“He is very good.”
“Very good indeed.”
Bond gave her a grin.
“You’re very good yourself,” Bond said, giving her an appreciative up-down, just so she knew he played both sides of the fence without discrimination. As long as his partner was pretty and willing, Bond was not about to argue over something as arbitrary as gender.
“I’m also very taken,” she said.
“Pity,” Bond replied.
She laughed.
“I like you, Bond.”
“Enough to help me get an exclusive with the man of my dreams?” he teased.
“Oh, as much as I’d love to see how it pans out, I’m not about to give away all my secrets to the competition.”
“Not all the secrets, just a few,” Bond said, and tried for charming, “I’ll even buy you a drink.”
“As much as I love drinks, I like favours more.”
“What sort of favour were you thinking?”
“Think you could get me in to see your boss?”
“Are you looking for a job?” Bond asked.
He refrained on commenting on The Observer, knowing it was just a Sunday run. Of course she’d be looking for something with more coverage and more opportunity. Perhaps Mallory would be interested in hiring her to replace Severine...
“Maybe,” she said, and winked. She then procured a card from her pocket and scribbled something on the back. “So, do we have a deal? My contact for yours?”
Bond thought it a fair exchange. He took her purple pen and wrote Mallory’s direct phone number on the back of his own business card before exchanging it for hers.
“See you around,” Camille said, shaking his hand.
“Maybe sooner than you think,” Bond answered.
He watched her walk away, unashamedly staring at her assets. Only when she was out of sight did Bond look at the card in his hand. In loopy, purple script, was a mobile number and the name:
Bill Tanner