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Pain. Cold. The input from his body started to take over James’ consciousness as his footsteps slowed. He’d been walking throughout the night in the woods, the light of the moon his only guide around the blue-black shadows of the old trees. The warmth of the blood on his chest and side was a contrast to the permeating cold slowly seeping into his limbs. His panting breaths expelled a smoke-like mist. His lips curled in grim humor at the thought that the mist coming from his mouth and the shadows thrown onto the forest floor from his body was like the mythical beast Cernunnos, the Horned One ruling over life and death. In this case James’ life and death.

He collapsed painfully to his knees with a grunt. His left shoulder hit the trunk of an enormous tree stopping his momentum to the forest floor. He was unable to move further without a short rest. Back against the tree, James slowly straightened his legs to sit fully on the woodland floor. It seemed his tie was still tight around his belly to reduce the bleeding from the bullet wound on his right side. The bleeding from his right shoulder had slowed as well, but he’d lost a significant amount of blood. Pain from cracked ribs spiked for a moment as he twisted to check his wounds, causing a sobbing gasp to emerge to disturb the silence of the night.

He was going to die here if he didn’t find someone to help him. There was no one; he couldn’t trust MI6, MI5, or the police. He needed to find a place to lay low and heal for a time. He’d been so close to getting home and now London seemed like a dream.

Cold continued to seep into his body, his suit jacket no match for the temperature. James’ told himself he would just rest for a little while, pain and exhaustion overtaking rational thought. His eyes closed as he relaxed in the bows of the ancient tree and before the darkness came, he wondered if he would wake up.


A crack from a branch being stepped on awoke James from his stupor. Eye’s half-mast his blue gaze took in the gray dawn, ethereal fog threaded throughout the trees. He heard soft footsteps accompanied by loud rustling of something bounding across the forest floor.

“Winnie, wait!” a soft toned voice called.

Fully awake now, James was just able to pull his Walther PPK from his holster, pain spiking in his right shoulder from the movement. It only had one bullet left in the chamber, but that was all he needed if the person coming toward him was a danger. He couldn’t hold his gun in his dominant hand, so pointed it with his left toward the noise. James bleak at the sight of the tremor in his hand waited as the sounds came closer.

A large dog burst through the fog, a lab mix of some sort chocolate in color with a long feather like coat similar to an Irish setter. The dog bounded over to James, wriggling in excitement and wining at the blood coating his body. Doggy kisses were given to his face and James couldn’t defend himself with his left hand occupied pointing the gun and his right useless from his wound.

A slim figure of a bespectacled young man emerged from the fog. He couldn’t be older than his late twenties, James thought as the man froze at the sight of the gun aimed at him.

The man slowly put his hands up in the air, “Oh, hello?”

Dark flyaway locks swooped over his forehead, brows and ears. His face was pale in the gray light of the dawn with high cheekbones and straight nose above a supple mouth. A garish colored purple and pink scarf surrounded his neck under an open Anorak coat. The man’s jumper was well worn, the red and cream horizontal stripes clashing nicely with the colors of his scarf. The only things that didn’t make James’ eyes water were the slim jeans and coffee colored heavy boots.

James was silent as he continued to peruse the man. The dog had settled in next to him and continued to lick his chin and cheeks. The gun vibrated in his hand but was steady on his target.

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice a pleasing light timbre with a public school accent. He lowered his arms palms out in supplication to state, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

James couldn’t see a bulge of a weapon of any kind on the man including a knife. He was probably just a local out taking his dog for a morning walk. He slowly lowered the gun, but kept a tight grip on it as it rested on the forest floor.

The man haltingly moved toward him before slowly kneeling at his side. He gently moved his dog out of the way to look closely at James.

“Winnie, sit stay,” he ordered. The canine obeyed to sit a foot away, panting with its tail still subtly wagging.

“May I see?” he asked, elegant long fingered hands hovering over James’ suit jacket. He gave a nod of consent noting for the first time the man’s eyes were a bright Jade green. The skin of his face was a natural porcelain that many an English Rose would envy.

James sucked in a breath as the man’s hands parted his jacket. Frowning at the blood the man moved close to look at the wound on his shoulder then pulled the jacket farther away to look around his body.

“Bullet to the shoulder and a through and through on the side,” he stated. Spectacles’ was calm for someone who just had a gun trained on him by a stranger in the woods. “Any other injuries?” he asked.

“Probably some cracked ribs,” James replied. Sucking in another pained breath as hands tested the tightness of the tie around his belly.

“I don’t have my mobile with me, but I can run back home to call for help,” he said.

“No!” he yelled, a spike of alarm shot through him. “No hospitals, they’ll find and kill me.”

Spectacles looked up sharply, “Who’ll kill you?”

James winced having spoken before thinking. “Look, if you can get me some first aid I’ll be able to patch myself up and get out of your hair,” he replied, ignoring the question.

Spectacles gave him a thoughtful look for a long moment eyes bright with intelligence before sighing. “My home is just under two kilometers away, are you able to walk?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” James replied. Spectacles removed his coat and gently dislodged the gun from James’ hand. He tensed for a second ready to try and overpower the man until Spectacles place the safety on and the gun into his shoulder holster.

“Put my coat on, your cold,” Spectacles ordered. James slowly shifted forward away from the tree to put his left hand through the sleeve of the Anorak. Spectacles adjusted the coat over his injured shoulder and zipped it close his arm trapped underneath. The heat still soaked into the fabric felt wonderful on James’ numb flesh.

James painfully got his legs back under him and with the help of Spectacles supporting his good arm was able to get to his feet. He swayed for a moment bumping his back against the tree as a bout of vertigo made his vision swim. His head cleared after a short time. James felt so weak, legs trembling from blood loss and exhaustion.

“Put your arm around my shoulders,” Spectacles said. The young man was of the same height as James, but he bent his knees a bit to help with the strain. James couldn’t help but groan lowly as his body stretched to accommodate Spectacles’ support. The man grunted a bit at the additional weight.

“Winnie, come,” he called to the dog as they slowly made their way though the woods. The animal bolted on ahead of them tail circling in excitement. James couldn’t help but gasp at the pain, but was able to keep moving with the support of the young man at this side.

“Thank you for this,” he said.

“If you bloody well die on me, I’m going to bury your body in the woods and forget that this ever happened,” was Spectacles tart reply.

James didn’t disagree with the statement and a short pained giggle burst out of him as he said, “That would probably be best.”

It seemed like an age, but was probably less than thirty minutes until the woods started to clear a bit. James could see a small stone cottage through the trees. It was very old, probably eighteen century with a steep sloped slate roof highlighting the squat character of the first and only floor. The cottage was a cross gabled rectangular structure, but with an L-shaped wing projecting from the front. Two chimneys could be seen as well, one on the end of the wing side and one centered in the middle of the structure. Thick paned casement double windows surrounded by stone sills were on either side of the heavy wooden front door. It was the type of quintessential English cottage, tourists were always raving about.

There was more to see, but the pain finally became too much for James and he collapsed again to his knees.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Spectacles said as he was brought along with James, the pair of them landing in a heap on the cold ground. Blackness was starting to creep into James’ vision as he was gently straightened on the ground. The last thing he saw as the darkness overtook him was Spectacles’ concerned and irritated face above his own.


He was burning. The fire of the crash intense, pain in his body, blood, chrome and glass across his vision. He tried to escape the flames. The assassin stalked toward him as he pulled himself out of the wreck of the car. The assassin that seemed to know where he was at all times during the chase across Europe.

Cool hands on his brow, soothed the flames in his body. Soft murmurs in his ears called for him to calm, he was safe now. Like his mother’s voice, soothing him when he was sick as a child. M calling to him—keep going 007—the mission must be completed.

Fire burned in his shoulder then his side, the assassin’s aim finally true after days and nights and kilometers of pursuit. He looked down the barrel of the assassin’s gun waiting for the final shot. The cold grip of his own gun registered in his hand. His aim was true.


Cool, soft strokes against his skin. Pain. Low light, blurred vision, a demon with black hair and pale skin crouched over him. He grabbed the creature’s arm in a vice-like grip.

“Shhhh… you’re alright,” it said to pacify him the resonance of its voice reassuring. He couldn’t trust it. There were threats everywhere.

“No,” he told the creature and tried to push it away. It resisted, its strength evident compared to his weakened state. He needed to get away from it, find what he came for and finish his mission. This creature was stopping him.

The creature’s cold hand was placed on his face, the cold was pleasant taking away some of the heat. It said, “Please, just rest…just rest, you’ll be able to finish you’re mission.”

“No! Get away, I’ll kill you!” he tried to yell, but his voice was hoarse.

“You couldn’t kill a kitten right now,” it replied, a wiry humor in its tone. The cold hand moved to his chin, the voice now commanding, “Look…look at me right now!”

He tried to focus his eyes on the creature, hand relaxing its grip on the pale wrist still in its grasp. The ghostly face coalesced into focus, but still slightly blurred around the edges. Oh, it was Spectacles, from the woods.

“Spectacles,” he slurred, relaxing at the sight of the young man.

Spectacles smiled, “I guess that’s a good name for me at the moment.”

James came to himself a little bit after a time, staring into Spectacles face. The man was calm, as if there was no danger either from James or his pursuers.

“There’s danger,” he told the man seriously. “I need to go.”

Spectacles shook his head the soft-looking dark locks adorning it tufted with a slight curl at the ends over his ears. He said with a smile, “No, you have a fever and really you’re not in any condition to move right now.”

“Or argue with me,” he added.

James shook his head in the negative, which Spectacles ignored as he wiped down James face and neck with a cool wet flannel. Why wasn’t this young man concerned? James was confused, Spectacles wasn’t reacting the way the average person would at finding a strange man shot in the woods.

“You’re not right,” the words slurred from his mouth flowed slowly like Treacle.

“Of course I’m right,” he replied with another soft smile. “You’re out of your head with fever.”

“No…Spectacles you’re not acting right,” James said trying to convey the gravity of the situation.

The soft cool flannel moved down his chest, Spectacles gave a sigh, “Well, I suppose that is the correct assumption. You don’t know me very well yet.”

James was having trouble following the precise diction. He was obviously off his game, he couldn’t think clearly. It was so hot. Pain was throbbing throughout his shoulder, chest and side. Spectacles shushed him as he opened his mouth to say something, though he didn’t know what he was going to say. Chilled ice chips were placed on his tongue and he couldn’t help but moan in pleasure as the cool water eased his throat and thirst.

“I have some paracetamol if you can get it down,” Spectacles said. “It’ll help with the fever.” It took James longer than he would like to realize he was being offered some pain medication.

He nodded even as he said, “Need something stronger.”

“When you’re lucid, I’ll give you something stronger,” Spectacles replied before reaching over to pick up something on the bedside table. He showed James the little pills before insisting that he open his mouth to take them. James didn’t resist, Spectacles seemed to be a very assertive person—bossy—and James figured he wouldn’t get any peace until he complied with the young man’s request. The pills where chased down with a cool glass of water that tasted heavenly.

“Not too much, I don’t want you retching in my bed,” Spectacles smiled at him Jade eyes bright with humor at James predicament. It was odd. There was something wrong, something he needed to do. An image of the assassin sliced through his brain, the urgent need to get away remembered.

James tried to surge up from the bed only to be brought low by pain and Spectacles long-fingered hands holding him down. He grabbed the young man’s jumper in his left hand, pulling the fabric tight in panic.

“Spectacles!” though the name didn’t come out of James as forcefully as he would have liked. “If they find me, they’ll kill me.”

The smile was gone from the alabaster face, cool hands smoothed over his brow and face gently holding him down, “Who’ll kill you?”

“Betrayed… can’t trust police… government… dangerous to be here,” James replied. The words somewhat garbled with his exhaustion. Spectacles face was going in and out of focus. It was getting harder to concentrate on anything other than the pain throbbing throughout his body. He needed to get away. Spectacles was in danger every second he was with James.

Spectacles softly extradited James’ fingers from his jumper the rumpling it had received not improving its unsightly pattern at all. He sighed as he placed another cool flannel on James’ brow.

“I’ll keep you safe. You’ll be alright,” he said, voice confident.

James shook his head, “No… they’ll find accident. Look for me. Kill you.”

With an exasperated huff, Spectacles replaced the flannel again before saying, “We’ll be fine. I’ll hide you from them.”

Spectacles wasn’t listening to him! Rising waves of fatigue and failure overcame James. He was going to bring death to this lovely young man and he couldn’t do anything about it. He brought death and destruction to everyone he’d ever been close to in his life. It had followed him around like the Scottish death hound Cù-Sìth, since the death of his parents when he was a child. A harbinger of death, touching all that came into contact with him. Leaving him alone in the aftermath.

Spectacles’ face was fading and in the low light of the room he looked fae, radiant and mischievous. Perhaps he was a changeling and would be resistant to the touch of death James brought to his world.


Something wet kept touching his nose and face. James wrinkled his face in displeasure at the wetness before hot pungent breaths registered along with the sogginess. James cracked his eyes open and tried to focus. There was the snout of a brown dog in his face; chocolate colored soulful eyes stared at him. Another lick from a pink tongue was given, before James could wake fully to defend himself from the affectionate pooch.

He shifted away slightly from the dog and pain spiked throughout his chest, shoulder and side. A gasp escaped him before he could prevent it, “Fuck!”

Slowly the room came into focus. He was lying on a queen-size bed in a room with plastered cream walls and overhead a wooden tongue and groove ceiling supported by massive beams dark with age. A large stone fireplace faced the wood slatted footboard of the bed; remnants of soot from years of fires crept along the stone above the hearth to the thick wood of an inset mantle piece. A fire blazed in the hearthstone spreading warmth throughout the room. Casement windows divided the walls on the left and right of the bed. It seemed to be just coming on late morning, James thought based on the quality of the light coming in.

There was a Dalek staring at him on the bedside table under an unlit eclectic metal monstrosity of a lamp with a bright purple shade housed there. On the left bedside table, Spock was leaning against another eyesore in the form of an ugly ceramic orange lamp; its purple shade caused a garish clash of colors.

It registered after a time that the bed was vibrating a bit. The brown dog had its head on the bed and its tail—the cause of the bed shaking—was wagging nonstop as it continued to gaze into James’ eyes. Slowly he reached up with his left hand to pet the beast, trying to think back to what had happened. The dog nuzzled James’ hand and the bed vibration ratcheted up with the pace of its tail wagging.

He knew he’d been found wounded in the woods by a young man with wild black hair and atrocious taste in clothes. He remembered calm and sarcastic Spectacles and the dog. Winnie, he thought. From there he had a vague notion of fighting a demon and something about dangerous kittens. James couldn’t remember the rest of what happened only vague impressions of pain and heat. The dangerous kittens part seemed even more odd than having a Dalek and Mr. Spock keeping vigil over his sick bed.

“There you are!” Spectacles called as he came through a squat wooden door next to the fireplace a glass of ice water in hand. “You’re finally awake, I see.”

He was as wild haired, pale and lanky as James remembered him to be. This morning he was wearing a lavender colored button down under a pea green cardigan in slim dark blue jeans with fuchsia and lime green striped socks on his unshod feet. His green eyes were bright in the morning light behind his black-framed glasses.

James tried to pull himself up a bit one-handed, which had Spectacles rushing around Winnie and a comfortable looking coffee colored leather lounge chair beside the bed.

“Wait! Wait, you’ll pull your stitches,” he scolded, plunking down the water glass on the table causing Mr. Spock to flop over onto his side.

Spectacles pulled some pillows up onto the bed from the floor before assisting James to sit up a bit. His whole body was throbbing in pain by the time they were done adjusting him and he couldn’t help but swear a blue streak under his breath. James was trembling and panting like he’d run a flat out kilometer. He felt so fragile.

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “How long have I been here?”

“Five days,” Spectacles replied as he held the water up for James to drink. To his chagrin his hand was shaking so badly, Spectacles had to steady the glass. The water soothed his throat, the cold liquid ambrosia to his taste buds after the long depravation. Spectacles was quiet as he allowed James to finish the glass.

“Where am I?” he asked, his voice almost back to a normal timbre.

“Surrey near Ewhurst,” Spectacles replied sitting back in the chair, ice clinking in the glass, as he got comfortable with his long legs crossed at the knee.

He’d been just over an hour away from getting back to MI6 when he’d been found. James still wasn’t sure how far he’d been able to walk since being run off the road by the assassin. It was dangerous for him to stay here. If he’d been able to get back he could’ve at least made contact with M about the hard drive and possible mole within the service.

There had to be a mole and possibly cohorts within MI6, James concluded and most likely someone working in Q branch against him returning. The assassin had pursued him from Istanbul through Greece, the Balkan states, Italy, France to Calais and over the Channel with a high-speed chase from Dover. The threat knew where he was going to be throughout the chase and James had been running for his life at every turn. Only his skill as a double-oh had kept him one step ahead of death.

Spectacles shifting to pet Winnie at his side interrupted his thoughts. James knew the only person he could trust was M and this young man was an unknown factor and possible threat. Spectacles had been too calm when he found James and that hadn’t seemed to change. Sitting at the bedside quietly while James gathered his thoughts together. Nothing Spectacles had done or said was normal. It made James feel off kilter, like he the only one in the room of a crowd who didn’t know what was going on.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

Spectacles gave him a playful smile, “We don’t get much excitement out here in the country. You were hurt and you seemed adamant that you were in danger.”

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” James couldn’t help but glower at the man, his humor at the situation was wrong on so many levels.

“You were wounded to the point I didn’t think you could hurt me once the gun was put away,” he replied.

Alarm spiked through James, only the pain of his wounds kept him on the bed. “My gun, the tech where is it?” he demanded.

“I have them, though there is a lot of blood on the hard drive you had in your pocket,” Spectacles replied.

“Show me now!” James ordered. Spectacles gave a put upon sigh before rising from the chair. He set the empty glass down on the bedside table with a plunk and took the time to put Mr. Spock back on his feet. His movements were languid and unhurried. James figured he was stalling. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to put a gun in this stranger’s hand, but James had to see the hard drive. He’d almost died retrieving the bloody thing.

Spectacles sauntered out of the room and James could hear rummaging going on, a drawer being slammed shut. He came back into the bedroom with the gun and holster in one hand and the hard drive in the other wrapped in a dry flannel. His eyes were serious behind his glasses when he set the items on the bed. James snapped up the gun first pulling it out of its holster one handed. It still had one bullet in the chamber and didn’t seem to be tampered with. Setting it close to his hip he picked up the hard drive. Spectacles was right, he must’ve bled all over the bloody thing. The casing was covered in the stuff. Other than the gore all over it, it seemed untouched.

Setting the item next to the gun, close at hand James decided it was time to get some answers, “Who are you?”

“Wade Tate Brassington,” Spectacles replied. It was quite a mouthful and James didn’t think the name suited the ethereal look of the young man. He liked thinking of him as Spectacles; it matched the mystery surrounding his savior.

“Is it just you or are there others here?” James questioned.

“It’s just Winnie and me. I live alone here,” Spectacles—no Wade—answered his lips curling at the corners like he was fighting a smile. Wade allowed James to scrutinize him for a long moment. The calm and the humor continued to make James feel off form. Usually, his charm put people at ease, but his temper could make friend or foe quake in their shoes. It was irksome that this young man seemed to think James wasn’t a threat even with a weapon under his hand.

“Now, what’s your name? Otherwise I’ll have to keep calling you Mr. Blue Eyed Secret Agent,” he said.

“It’s a bit of a mouthful even for me,” Wade added.

Alarm shot through James’ gut. “How do you know I’m an agent and not a criminal of some sort?” voice low with temper.

“Well, you’re a bit of a talker when feverish,” Wade replied the humor still in his voice.

Damn! “How much do you know?” he pressed. He couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice. He didn’t know this young man from Adam and two minutes out of the gate he knew James was an agent.

“I think you are either a MI5 or MI6 agent who believes he’s been betrayed,” Wade replied, voice finally serious. “There was something in there about a mole, information to get back, and a person you called M. Does that about sum your situation up?”

James’ plunked his head back down on his pillow, the ceiling coming into focus. “Oh God, this is a disaster,” he voiced.

“Actually, I’d say you’re pretty lucky I found you when I did. Otherwise, most likely your corpse would have been found. Probably by me, half-eaten by woodland creatures,” was Wade’s cheeky response.

James rolled his eyes at the response then gave Wade a long searching look before asking, “Why are you so calm about all this?”

“After the stress of receiving my wonderful and perfect drafts back from my editor with revisions, I refuse to fuss about anything else,” he replied.

That statement was just as confusing to James as everything else Wade had said and done. Perhaps the Dalek and Spock figurines were an indicator that James was dead and the afterlife was a cosmic joke in the form of Spectacles and overall confusion. He wasn’t often confused about his life, work and purpose. Perhaps this situation was an indication he’d been playing the spy game too long.

“What do you do?” he asked, his tone low and grave to try and get a straight answer out of the young man. Wade had no tells that James had been able to discern. It made him wary that he couldn’t tell if the man was lying or telling the truth. He didn’t feel safe, but couldn’t do a bloody thing about it at the moment.

Wade in an equally serious tone and straightforward gaze replied, “I’m a writer.”

“A writer?” he asked. “What do you write?

“Mainly mysteries with a smattering of romantic thriller’s thrown in under a different pen name,” Wade returned. His humor again returned as he added, “Depending on how this all works out, I may have a future book in the hopper to write. With names and places changed of course.”

James snorted; the statement had caught him off guard. It was like being in a comedy club with the most posh-toned comic he’d ever experience on the stage. He was usually better at interrogation, of course often the threat of death or maiming assisted in getting to the truth. It was obvious James was at a complete disadvantage with this smart as whip young man. He’d have to employ subterfuge and general sneakiness to get the answers he was seeking once he’d recovered enough to get out of bed.

“How’s your tum feeling?” Wade asked. “Think you can handle a bit of toast and tea?”

James had to force his face to glower at being treated like a child rather than giving the young man the satisfaction of a smile. “I’d rather have coffee,” he replied.

Wade just raised an eyebrow above his glasses as he stated, “You’ll have tea or stick with water.”

The languid movement seemed to be gone as Wade abruptly got up from the chair to head into the other rooms of the cottage. James could hear water fill a kettle, rustling and clinking of crockery, and the sound of a toaster being pressed down. The dog, Winnie had abandoned the bedroom to follow its master into the kitchen. James heard Wade murmur to the mutt about having a biscuit.

The pain in his body had settled a bit, but throbbed in spikes and waves at every little motion. His right arm had been bandaged to his torso to reduce movement. Staring at the old ceiling, James reckoned for the time being that the only thing he could do was try to heal and keep a wary eye on his savior. Once he was able to move, he’d have more options for figuring out what he was going to do. Wade was the unknown factor. Was he a writer living in the country as he stated or was he something else? Those were the questions James needed answered and he wasn’t going to get any answers until he was back on his feet.

His Walther was still in good condition with a round in the chamber, so he placed the gun under his pillow leaving the empty holster at his side. The hard drive he placed in the top drawer of the bedside table for now. He needed to keep both close at hand, though he would be vulnerable with his guard down when asleep. For now, he would just have to deal with the situation at hand and trust Wade was who he said he was.

Doggie nails and paws clicked along the wooden floorboards as Winnie preceded Wade back into the bedroom. He said nothing about the lack of gun and tech on the bed when he set a breakfast tray with mugs of hot tea and toast spread with jam over James legs. There was a prescription bottle on the tray as well.

“How do you take your tea,” he asked.

“Black,” James replied. Wade moved the gun holster to the bedside table next to Mr. Spock. He put a bit of sugar into his own mug, which had an image of the scrabble tile Q10 on it. The mug he gave James however had the image of a toothless old man on it with the words, Honorary Member of the Old Man’s Four H Club: Hernia, Hiccoughs, Heartburn, and Hemorrhoids. James could only glower at his savior as he sat down primly in the chair to drink his own tea. The not so subtle poke at James’ age was not appreciated at all. He was only thirty-eight for God’s sakes!

Wade just gave him a cheeky smile before saying, “If you can keep down the toast, I’ll give you some Hydrocodone for pain. It’ll help you sleep.”

James picked up his tea; the scent of Bergamot and citrus filled his nose. “Where’d you get Hydrocodone?” he asked before taking a sip of the dark brew.

“I sprained my knee over the summer. I didn’t react well to the medication so didn’t use much of it,” he replied.

James just gave him a hum as he enjoyed the taste and feel of the hot liquid as it soothed his throat. They were quiet for a time, just perusing each other the silence comfortable between them. Wade had a look of the magical about him as he drank his tea, the Q on the mug standing out in black against the whiteness of the mug. Sunlight shown through the window at his back and James found everything about him from his clothes and home to his humor and mysterious calm fascinating. He was a very handsome young man with his lithe body and porcelain skin a contrast to his bright green eyes and dark hair.

“So, what’s your name then?” Wade asked.

“Bond, James Bond… Q,” James stated with a wiry grin. He received a sweet smile in return.