Chapter Text
TIME: 0900 Hours
LOCATION: London, UK (MI6 Headquarters)
“You both passed basic training, congratulations,” M said, her voice smooth but entirely devoid of warmth. She stepped closer to her heavy mahogany desk, her sharp eyes scanning the documents before her.
She picked up a thick folder, opening it with a deliberate, slow precision. “However, there is also the matter of your performance review as a team.”
M let out a faint sigh, placing the open report back onto the desk. She leaned forward, gazing down as she started reading aloud.
“‘Bond is immature and reckless. He is guided entirely by his gut feelings and mistaken ideas of personal loyalty. Furthermore, he is a bad influence on the other recruits, who inexplicably fall victim to his apparent charm.’” M paused, lifting her eyes to fix James with a direct, unblinking stare.
Charm? You wanted to scoff out loud. More like insufferable arrogance. A full month had passed, and now you and James were standing in London, forced to report on your progress for the next stages of the Double-O program.
But every single moment spent with James at your side felt like a tactical exercise in patience.
A constant, low-grade pressure had been building in your temples for weeks. Between his constant, infuriating remarks and his casual disregard for the rules, he was driving you absolutely insane.
M flipped the page, her cold gaze shifting toward you. “Let's look at the other side of the coin, shall we? ‘Bishop, however, is resilient, highly disciplined, and lethally precise. Although she gets easily irritated by Bond’s reckless attitude, she frequently lets her personal friction with her partner break her tactical focus and stall their ability to cooperate as a unit.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your jaw tight.
You wanted to defend yourself, to tell M that cooperating with a walking loose cannon was statistically impossible, but you forced your posture to remain perfectly straight.
“John Greenway’s formal recommendation is that I cut you both from the program immediately,” M said calmly.
The words hit you like a physical blow. To James, this might just be a blow to his massive Royal Navy ego.
But to you? This meant everything. It meant the immediate revocation of your immunity deal.
It meant handcuffs, a windowless transport vehicle, and going right back to a high-security military prison. Worst of all, it meant never having the freedom to speak to Jolene ever again.
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck.
You could not, under any circumstances, let Greenway's petty review ruin your life.
Before you could gather your thoughts to speak, James tilted his head back, a casual, almost lazy shrug spreading across his broad shoulders.
“Not exactly a surprise, is it?” James murmured, his British accent dripping with a smug, entirely unbothered nonchalance. He offered M a tilt of his chin. “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Ma'am.”
Your head snapped toward him, your fury instantly eclipsing your panic. So that's it? He's just throwing his hands up and giving up? “With all due respect, Ma'am, I have to object to Greenway's assessment,” you cut in sharply, your voice ringing clear and authoritative across the quiet office. You didn't care if you were interrupting; your entire future was on the line. “Bond's methods are frustrating, yes, and his ego is an active hazard on the grid—but we didn't fail the simulations. We cleared every single physical metric ahead of schedule.”
James cut his ice-blue eyes toward you, his jaw tightening as your words hit. The easy, smug facade he wore suddenly slipped, replaced by a sharp, intensity.
“I didn't realize you cared so much about my company, Bishop,” James said softly, his tone dropping into a low, dangerous purr. “If you wanted to keep running drills with me, you only had to ask nicely.”
“Shut up, Bond,” you hissed back, not backing down an inch as you looked up to lock eyes with him, the familiar friction sparking instantly between you.
You turned your focus squarely back to M, refusing to let him throw you off. “I am here because I am the best at what I do, and I am fully prepared to execute the parameters of this program. If the problem is our cohesion, then give us the chance to fix it in the field. Don't let a retired veteran's bias predict our capability.”
M watched the two of you, her expression completely unreadable as she took in the raw, explosive energy vibrating between her two top recruits. The silence stretched out painfully in the room.
Finally, M stood up from her leather chair, smoothing the front of her tailored suit. She didn't acknowledge your plea, nor did she acknowledge James's arrogance.
Instead, she walked around the desk, heading straight toward the large, heavy red door at the back of her office.
“Listen, you two,” M stated coldly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “I want to show you something. Follow me.”
She turned the handle, leaving you and James in the room, and given no choice but to follow her into whatever she had planned.
-
As the three of you walked toward the lift, M kept a brisk pace ahead. The moment you all stepped inside and the heavy steel doors slid shut, the ambient light shifted. A subtle hum vibrated through the floorboards before a specialized lens overhead whirred to life, projecting a crisp, azure hologram that neatly scanned M’s left eye. Classic MI6 fashion.
“Neat trick,” James murmured, leaning casually against the mirrored wall of the lift. His blue eyes scanned the scan-lines with a slight spark of genuine, albeit guarded, amusement. He was always caught off guard by the division's hidden tech.
“Yes, I rather enjoy it myself,” M replied smoothly, her voice crisp as she tucked her hands firmly behind her back, her posture the absolute embodiment of military sternness.
The lift began its descent, plunging into the subterranean belly of the base. Desperate to ignore how ridiculously close James was standing to you—the faint scent of sandalwood, musk, and oakmoss radiating off him—you focused hard on the digital floor indicator tracking their downward drop.
“What’s down there? a surprise party?” James asked, tilting his head.
You couldn't help but let out a quiet, dry huff. “God, Bond, do you ever get tired of questioning Authority, or is the sound of your own voice just that comforting?”
James cast a lazy, sidelong smirk your way. “I find it keeps the mind sharp, Bishop. You should try it sometime instead of standing there like a statue rehearsing for a parade.”
“You two will see soon enough,” M cut in, her icy tone immediately silencing the friction before it could escalate.
“But first, let me give you some context.” She turned slightly, her sharp gaze locking directly onto yours. “I’ve been heading MI6 for fourteen months now. Tell me, Bishop, how many terror attacks have we suffered on British soil during that period?”
A cold bead of sweat practically ran through your memory.
Your throat tightened as the ghosts of your past threatened to break through your stoic mask. The first major catastrophe of M's command had been the stunt you had pulled in Cambridge to break away from your past.
Before you could answer, James’s eyes drifted over your form. Detecting the subtle shift in your posture, his smirk vanished, replaced by a calculating, intense look.
Trying to shield your unease, you deliberately avoided eye contact with him and cleared your throat. “As far as the public record is concerned, ma'am? Only one.”
“Well, as far as the civilian world knows, none,” James corrected smoothly, catching on to M's leading question and raising his eyebrows. “Dead agents? Blown covers?”
“Also none,” M stated flatly. “How about the number of prevented or secretly resolved conflicts?”
“Countless,” you answered this time, the word leaving your lips with a heavy, certain weight. You knew the truth from brutal, firsthand experience.
To the rest of the world, the ruthless terrorist syndicate you had once been part of had simply vanished overnight into a mystery. But you and MI6 knew exactly what you had done to tear it apart from the inside.
A heavy silence overtook the lift, the tension thick enough to cut with a combat knife. Suddenly, the doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
The space ahead was massive. Two armed agents flanked the perimeter—one stationed at a high-security monitoring desk, the other standing at absolute attention near a towering, circular blast door.
Emblazoned in stark, matte-white lettering next to the vault was a single name: THEIA.
Beside you, you could feel James how stiffened; his casual demeanor melted into that of high alert.
You both trailed closely behind M as she strode across the floor. The desk guard moved to check your security clearances, but M merely dismissed him with a sharp, impatient wave of her hand. “They’re with me, Stand down.”
Passing the second guard, M pressed her palm firmly against a sleek, biometric glass panel adjacent to the blast door. A matrix of green lasers mapped the lines of her hand.
“Never before have we maintained a success rate like the one we enjoy now,” M said, locking eyes with James as the vault gears began to grind. “Never before have we operated with this level of precision, safety...” She shifted her gaze, locking it onto yours, “...intel-quality, and conflict resolution to such high standards.”
With a resounding thud, the massive metal door dropped completely into the floor, opening a clear path. James instinctively adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket, his eyes fixated on the clearing threshold.
“Unprecedented and unrivaled by anyone else in the global intelligence community,” M continued, giving her watch a brief, practiced adjustment before stepping through.
As you and James followed her across the threshold, a succession of inner security doors opened in a blinding, synchronized spiral. You and James exchanged a quick, wide-eyed look of utter disbelief.
“And here I thought MI6 was just hiding an illegal nuclear stockpile in the basement,” you whispered under your breath, trying to process the sheer scale of the engineering.
. “Knowing the accounting department, it’s probably just a really expensive filing cabinet,” James murmured back, though the faint tremor of awe in his voice betrayed him “This is the reason for our success, Bishop. James,” M announced, gesturing out into the expansive, cavernous chamber.
In the center of the room sat a magnificent, towering machine. It pulsed with an intense, rhythmic orange light, surrounded by massive, hyper-advanced hard drive arrays that orbited the core like a beautifully complex satellite network.
“Meet THEIA,” M said, a rare, proud smile touching her lips as she walked toward the main observation platform. “The world’s first functioning, second-generation quantum computer.”
James stared at the swirling, glowing arrays, his cheeky arrogance momentarily entirely eclipsed by amusement. “I thought those things were theoretical at best. Science fiction for the tech-bloggers.”
“That is exactly what we want the rest of the world to think, Bond,” you countered, crossing your arms as you stepped up to the railing beside him, finally finding your footing. “Secrecy is the only way to maintain the upper hand.”
James glanced down at you, “Look at you, mapping out the tactical doctrine already. They really did brainwash you well, didn't they?”
“It's called basic operational awareness, Bond. You should look into it if you plan on surviving past next week.”
M ignored the bickering, stepping closer to the machine.
“THEIA synthesizes millions of data streams instantaneously. It calculates real-time predictions and statistical deductions on complex matters of national security. The system has completely wiped the floor with GCHQ.”
“Since its activation,” M continued, her eyes reflecting the powerful orange glow of the core, “we have saved more lives, lost fewer field assets, and successfully neutralized imminent terror cells before they could even deploy.”
She turned her head to look back at the two of you. “That was THEIA in Iceland, James, in case you were wondering. It was guiding your every step, manipulating the data to keep you alive. And it was THEIA that flagged your signature, Bishop, later identifying you as the sole reason of the dismantling cell months ago.”
“And yet, your machine was wrong,” James said, his voice dropping an octave.
He stepped forward, the vibrant orange light catching the sharp angles of his face and tracing the thin, rugged line of his scar.
For a fleeting second, looking at him bathed in that amber glow, you found him infuriatingly, devastatingly beautiful.
“THEIA gave you a less than one percent chance of survival in Iceland, James,” M replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
“And as for you, Bishop... the system completely denied the possibility that a single person could successfully eradicate a militant syndicate of that magnitude in a matter of hours.”
James was surprised, but as M spoke, he couldn't help but pay close attention to the things M was saying about you. ‘So she really did eradicate a terrorist syndicate....’
M let out a small, profound breath, looking between the two of you. “You two simply beat the odds.”
James let out a soft, amused chuckle, though the genuine surprise was still faintly present in his tone. “I didn't realize those were actual odds, ma'am. I just thought it was a standard Tuesday.”
“Back to being cocky as always,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of your own mouth.
“Still, James, you both prove a vital point of mine,” M said, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her face as she looked at her two most volatile, talented recruits. “I strongly believe that no matter how advanced our processors become, there will always be an absolute necessity for human flourishes in modern spycraft. Heart. Intuition. The willingness to defy logic.”
She turned back to the massive, humming quantum core. “In fact, that is the very reason why I am officially bringing back the Double-O program.”
Before either of you could respond to the gravity of her words, the rhythmic click of heels echoed against the metal catwalk behind you. James turned his head first, his face softening into a familiar, charming grin as he greeted the arrival.
“Oh, there you are,” Moneypenny said, stepping onto the platform and adjusting her glasses. She offered a warm, bright smile. “I heard you both were officially cleared for advanced training.” She then turned her attention directly to you, stepping forward with an extended hand. “Hello, Bishop. It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Moneypenny. And oh, don’t worry—I really don’t care that you used to be a terroris—”
“You have both executed the impossible,” M interrupted, her voice cutting through the air like steel, refocusing the room entirely. “I would like it if you two did it again. But this time, you do it as a team.”
James’s eyes snapped to yours. There was an intense, unreadable shine in his ice-blue gaze—a sudden, fierce spark of competition mixed with something deeper that you hadn't seen in him before.
“And if we can’t?” James asked, his eyes never leaving yours, testing your resolve. ”
M simply smiled, a cold, dangerously sharp expression. “Well, then I don't have much use for either of you, do I?”
She let out a short, dark chuckle just as a senior technician hurried over to her, immediately drawing her away with a tablet full of urgent data diagnostics.
James broke the intense eye contact and turned back to Moneypenny, flashing her a smooth, effortless smile that made your jaw clench just a bit. You turned your back to them, staring instead at the magnificent, swirling orange heart of THEIA, the weight of the reveal settling heavily onto your shoulders.
“Right then!” M’s voice barked from across the platform, her hands shooing the air aggressively. “Now the two of you get the hell out of my Faraday cage!”
Moneypenny chuckled softly, adjusting her glasses as she gestured toward the pneumatic exit doors. “Well, come on, you two... I’ll take you to Q’ lab.”
-
The elevator opened, you three went inside, and although you could feel Moneypenny poked holes at you with her gaze, you remained quiet.
It wasn't known to many that you were a girl; in fact, when Moneypenny heard from Cressida that THE bishop was being assigned to the 00’s programme as James’s partner, her mind went into complete astonishment.
There are so many rumors about you, but which one was exactly the true one?
“So what’s in Q’ lab?” James asked, You gazed at him, now taking notice of the scar on his face, it was like a slash, and instead of making him seem hideous, it somehow made him look more manlier. It reminded you of the men in the Quartel you grew up.
Strange memories.
“Apart from Q, I really don’t know where to begin. You’ll see.” Moneypenny fidgeted with her tablet. You heard James Scoff in a joking manner, “You really should work on that 'infuriating, secretive' side of yours.” He said,
“So..how’s it going having him as a partner?” Moneypenny asked, fixing her glasses.
From what you saw of her, she was a pretty woman, her dark skin making the perfect contrast with her short black hair, and the slick, stylish clothes she was wearing, showcasing her professionalism.
She somehow reminded you of someone you used to work with before the Cambridge situation.
It’s so sad how most of the days you are reminded of the people you killed. You are reminded that you killed even the one you loved.
But it was for a good reason, it was for Yolene, and the others like her.
Yet the blood on your hands—it was a heavy armor to wear, especially next to someone as loud and relentlessly perceptive as James Bond.
“It’s a masterclass in patience,” you said, your voice cool and perfectly level. You leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, crossing your arms over your chest. “Moneypenny, right? If you ever need someone to test the limits of MI6’s noise-canceling headsets, he’s your man. He doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
James let out a sharp, breathless laugh, turning his head to look at you. Up close, in the harsh, fluorescent lighting of the elevator, It gave his raw, 26-year-old face a dangerous, weathered edge that belonged more to a mercenary than a Royal Navy man.
His ice-blue eyes locked onto yours, bright with that infuriatingly confident, competitive spark.
“I merely believe in open communication, Bishop,” James countered smoothly, stepping just an inch closer into your personal space.
He looked down at you, his lazy, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Someone has to bring some life into this mandatory arrangement. You’re so stiff I’m beginning to wonder if Greenway accidentally left a broomstick up your spine.”
“I’m focused, Bond. There’s a difference,” you shot back, refusing to back down an inch.
Focus is what keeps you alive. Focus and discipline were what made you kill those people.
Focus was what made you survive.
You looked him up and down, your eyes deliberately lingering on the broad breadth of his shoulders beneath his jacket, before meeting his gaze again. “Some of us rely on skill and discipline to survive, not just sheer, reckless luck and a pretty face.”
James’s smile widened, a sudden, dangerous heat flaring in his eyes at your bite.
He liked the friction; you could feel it in the heavy, electric tension vibrating between the two of you,
“You think I have a pretty face? Why, thank you, Darling. I didn’t think you noticed.”
You rolled your eyes, though your heart gave a traitorous, sudden thump against your ribs.
‘That was the only thing he heard?’This guy was incredibly annoying, but God, he was infuriatingly attractive when he was being smug.
Moneypenny’s gaze darted between the two of you, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
She adjusted her glasses, entirely amused by the volatile, high-voltage dynamic unfolding in the small space. "Well," she remarked dryly, tapping the screen of her tablet as the elevator began to slow, "M did say she wanted cohesion. I suppose mutual antagonism is a start."
Before James could deliver another cheeky retort, the elevator chimed, and the heavy pneumatic doors slid open with a hiss.
The lab was massive, a subterranean cavern of cutting-edge technology and industrial design. Rows of sleek, illuminated workbenches stretched out into the distance, glowing with a mix of stark white and electric blue lights.
Suspended from the high, dark ceiling were intricate mechanical armatures and heavy-duty hoist systems, poised over specialized diagnostic bays.
Every workstation was a chaotic masterpiece of engineering—scattered with disassembled weapon chassis, exposed circuit boards, and glowing holographic schematics pulsing in mid-air.
Technicians and analysts in specialized gear moved like ghosts between the terminals, their murmurs swallowed by the low, omnipresent thrum of high-powered servers.
James stepped out of the elevator first, his combat boots clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor. He stopped a few paces in, hands resting casually on his hips as his ice-blue eyes scanned the expanse.
A slow, intrigued smirk spread across his face, the slash of his scar catching the harsh blue overhead lighting.
"Well," James murmured, leaning back slightly so his shoulder brushed yours as you stepped up beside him. His voice dropped to a low, teasing hum meant for your ears alone. "And here I thought we'd just be throwing rocks at targets in the dirt. It seems MI6 actually has a budget."
You didn't answer him right away; your eyes locked onto a massive holographic display floating in the center of the room.
MI6 was really heaven for nerds.
"Don't get too ahead of yourself, Bond," you replied smoothly, keeping your gaze fixed ahead but letting a dangerous, challenging edge slip into your tone. "Advanced tech won't fix your reckless judgment. Try not to break anything before we even get our briefing."
James let out a quiet, rough chuckle, turning his head to look down at you. "Is that a challenge, Bishop? Because I assure you, I'm excellent with my hands."
Before you could fire back a sharp retort, Moneypenny stepped past the two of you, her tablet already syncing with the laboratory’s main network. "If you two are quite finished measuring your egos," she said dryly, gesturing toward a central desk where a young, fiercely sharp-looking Quartermaster was tapping away at a transparent interface. "Q is waiting. Try to look like a team, even if it kills you."
James didn't stay still for long. True to form, the moment Moneypenny walked ahead, he began to drift away, his long strides carrying him toward a nearby workbench.
You watched him go, a subtle shake of your head the only outward sign of your annoyance.
He was like a child in a high-caliber toy store, utterly incapable of just keeping his hands to his sides.
Turning your attention to the surrounding lab, you walked in the opposite direction, your eyes tracing the sleek rows of advanced engineering.
The sheer level of innovation was staggering. At one station, a technician was fine-tuning a micro-drone no larger than a hornet, its wings blurring in a silent, flawless hover.
At another, a sleek, matte-black ballistic vest was being subjected to automated stress tests, absorbing high-velocity impacts with barely a ripple across its specialized fluid-armor plating.
This place truly was a playground for tactical minds.
Realizing they needed to actually get to their briefing, you caught the eye of a passing tech-ops MI6 scientist carrying a tray of optical components.
"Excuse me," you said, your tone polite but firm. "Where exactly is the Q’s primary terminal?"
The scientist blinked, slightly startled, before pointing a finger toward the elevated glass-and-steel hub at the far end of the floor. "Right up there, center desk. He's just finishing a diagnostic."
"Thank you." You turned back toward the main floor to locate your partner. Naturally, James hadn't moved closer; instead, he was half-bent over a secure display case, completely absorbed in inspecting a beautifully modified, vintage Walther PPK that looked like it belonged to a veteran MI6 operative.
"Bond," you called out, your voice cutting through the ambient hum of the servers just loud enough to snap his attention. "Stop admiring things like they are in a history exhibit. We're expected at the main desk."
James glanced up, a lazy, unbothered grin returning to his face as he slowly walked back over to join your stride. "History has character, Bishop. You could learn a thing or two from a classic."
"I prefer modern efficiency," you shot back smoothly as the two of you ascended the short metal steps to the main desk.
Q finally looked up from his transparent interface, his sharp, dark eyes sweeping over the pair of you with a mix of clinical assessment and mild exhaustion. "Ah, Mr. Bond, Miss Bishop, Marvelous. Let's make this quick, shall we? I have an entire satellite network to re-encrypt to your comms before you leave.."
He reached beneath the counter and brought out two sleek, identical cases, sliding them across the smooth surface. One stopped precisely in front of James, the other in front of you.
"Standard issue for the advanced training phase," Q explained, tapping his screen to bring up a floating holographic blueprint of the timepieces.
"Omega, Seamaster chronographs, fully armored casing, entirely scratch-resistant, and water-resistant down to three hundred meters. But more importantly, embedded with a high-frequency electromagnetic pulse emitter, able to hack nearby electronics, and has a single localized burst will short-circuit any digital security grid, camera array, or vehicle ignition within a ten-meter radius. Useful for when Bond inevitably drives into a dead end."
"Brilliant," James murmured, already snapping the heavy steel band onto his left wrist with a satisfied click. He flexed his hand, testing the weight, before casting a smug look at you. "See? Excellent with my hands."
You chose to ignore the comment, pulling your own watch from the case and securing it. The weight was solid, reassuring.
"And for you, Bishop," Q continued, turning his focus entirely to you as he reached back into a smaller, velvet-lined compartment.
He brought out a delicate, ultra-thin silver chain with a small purple gem resting at the center.
"A specialized addition requested directly by M, given your... unique history."
You blinked, staring at the piece. "A necklace?"
"Not just lovely jewelry," Q countered dryly. "The stone is a pressurized containing a sub-dermal tracking beacon and an emergency distress transponder. If you find yourself compromised, or if your biometric levels drop below a critical threshold, it transmits an encrypted signal directly to THEIA’s grid via an independent satellite relay. " Q looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the chain.
Q looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the chain.
"It requires a rather precise clasp, and my hands are currently occupied with re-calibrating these diagnostics. Mister Bond, be a gentleman and assist her."
James didn't hesitate. Before you could formulate a single word of protest, his long strides brought him directly behind you.
The sudden change in proximity was staggering.
The sheer breadth of his chest felt like a solid, warm wall at your back, completely cutting off the open space of the lab.
His hands came up, his large, heavily calloused fingers surprisingly deft as they took the delicate silver chain from Q's counter and looped it around your neck. "Hold still, Darling," James’s voice rumbled, unusually low and quiet against your ear.
His fingertips brushed against the bare, sensitive skin of your nape.
The sensation was a sudden, violent jolt to your system. In an instant, the clinical white and blue lights of the MI6 lab dissolved into a blur.
Your mind fractured, violently dragging you back to a humid, candle-lit room—back to a time when another pair of steady, heavy hands had touched you with that exact same lingering warmth. Hands that belonged to someone you trusted with your life…Someone you loved.
Someone you had to kill to protect Yolene.
The memory of the blood on your hands, the chilling finality of that dark night, and the agonizing weight of your past flooded your chest for the billionth time, making it impossible to breathe.
Your posture froze into absolute, rigid ice.
Your eyes snapped open, your pupils constricting as you dragged yourself out of the abyss of your memory and slammed your mental walls back into place. Your jaw tightened, your spine straightening instantly as you reverted to the unyielding, lethal soldier you had forced yourself to become not only for yourself but for survival.
You stepped forward, breaking the contact entirely as your hand flew up to grip the cold purple gem resting against your collarbone.
James lowered his hands slowly, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he took in the sudden, volatile shift in your energy. He had felt the precise moment your entire body went stiff beneath his fingers, had heard the slight, ragged catch in your breath.
The lazy, teasing smirk was entirely gone from his face, replaced by a calculating, intense look that tried to read straight through your defensive mask. He knew the signs of trauma. He recognized a ghost when he saw one.
His eyes drifted down to the purple gem, and then back up to lock onto yours, the competitive edge in his voice returning, but laced with a dangerous curiosity.
"Q’ did say M requested this personally," James asked, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer again, his gaze drilling into you. "Tell me, Bishop... what exactly did you do to deserve that kind of device?"
The question hung heavily in the sterile air between you, sharper than any blade. All you could remember was Alexei’s presence.
James stood close enough that you could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, his gaze absolute and unwavering.
The charming, reckless lad from the elevator had vanished, replaced by a ruthless, ex-Navy investigator scanning you for weakness.
He knew you had a past with a terrorist group, but seeing you fracture under a simple touch had given him a precise target of how much you changed to be part of that cell.
You slowly let your hand drop from the purple gem, forcing your fingers to uncurl. You met his piercing blue eyes with a look of pure, unadulterated ice.
"I survived, Bond," you said, your voice a dangerously smooth whisper. "If you're looking for a bedtime story, I suggest you look elsewhere."
James let out a low, humorless chuckle, tilting his head as his eyes tracked the subtle tension in your jaw.
Back to your cold behavior.
"Right," he murmured, his sharp British accent cutting through the hum of the laboratory servers.
He took another half-step forward, his broad shoulders blocking out Q's terminal entirely, trapping you in his line of sight. "Makes one wonder, doesn't it? Whether you're actually a bloody asset... or a liability waiting to blow up in my face."
You leaned slightly closer until you were mere inches from his face, completely ignoring the dangerous thrill that surged through your veins at his proximity, and the fact that other MI6 agents were watching.
"If I were a liability, you'd already be a memory. Don't mistake my restraint for weakness, James."
"Oh, I never mistake a lethal woman for weak, Bishop," James purred, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate register.
His competitive spark ignited in his eyes again, back to his normal behavior, yet his gaze flickered down to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours.