Chapter Text
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TIME: 0800 Hours
LOCATION: London, UK (MI6 Headquarters)
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When you saw that M called you, your heartbeat nearly fell out.
It could only mean two things. And both of them meant anything good to you.
It meant they found you, or that you were to be recruited for a mission that demanded your aptitudes, and if you were to decline, you were to be put in jail.
But when she told you that you were to form part of the new MI6 00's program, you for sure didn't expect it.
So there you were, in London, entering the MI6 headquarters, heading to M's office, where your fate was to be compromised.
The sleek glass-and-steel corridors felt entirely too quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic, shadowed world you had spent years navigating. Your boots clicked softly against the polished floor as you finally approached the heavy timber double doors leading to the inner sanctum.
In the outer office lobby sat Miss Ponsonby, M's longtime secretary. She was an elegant, silver-haired older lady, sitting sharp and straight behind a pristine mahogany desk.
"Good morning, Miss Ponsonby," you said softly, offering her a respectful nod as you approached. She's always been kind to you, respectful even in your arrival after your...stunt.
She looked up from her paperwork, a rare, warm smile softening her wrinkled features. "Ah, good morning, my dear. M is just finishing up some calls. Please, take a seat. She will be with you shortly."
Before you could even reply, a loud, dramatic scoff echoed from the plush leather chairs across the room. You turned your head toward the source.
"A greeting? How incredibly civilized you are, Miss Ponsonby," a smooth, low baritone voice drawled.
Sitting casually in one of the armchairs was a young man.
He had broad shoulders, a sharp, angular jaw, and an untamed, aggressive edge to his posture and the black jacket he wore. His ice-blue eyes scanned you with immediate, razor-sharp calculation.
You walked over, opting to stand near the opposite chair rather than sitting, crossing your arms over your chest. "And I didn't realize MI6 had people who never learned basic manners. Do you always make it a habit to insult the people who hold the keys to the kingdom?"
A slow, mildly amused smirk touched his lips. He tilted his head, his eyes lingering on you for a moment. "I'm Bond. James Bond. And it's not an insult, just an observation, darling. You seem a bit tense. The climate in London is dreary, but the company doesn't have to be."
'Oh..this is the bond guy, the one that pulled the stunt in Iceland..' You analysed. Yet due to his tone and almost arrogant attitude, you decided to stand your place. "That's because I'm not your company," you said, your voice level and cool. "And I don't need a lecture on tension from someone who looks like he treats a firing range like a personal playground."
Bond laughed softly, a dry, rich sound. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locking onto yours. "A playground? Please. It's an art form. But if you're looking for someone to show you the finer details of the craft, I suppose I could make some room in my schedule. Though I usually prefer to work alone. Shadows don't trip over their own feet."
"This shadow doesn't trip, lad," you replied smoothly, narrowing your eyes into a piercing stare. "And if you fly off the handle, I might just be the one holding your leash."
"Is that an invitation? Or a threat?" he countered, his smirk widening into something distinctly cheeky and dangerous.
"It's enough out of both of you!" Miss Ponsonby's digital typing abruptly stopped as her crisp, no-nonsense voice cut through the air like a knife. She didn't even look up from her desk, her posture rigid. "If you two wish to bicker like schoolchildren, do it in the courtyard. I like my office quiet. Sit in silence, please."
Bond let out a quiet sigh, leaning back into his chair with a theatrical roll of his shoulders, while you simply kept your eyes fixed ahead, your jaw subtly tightening.
An awkward, heavy silence settled over the lobby. Minutes stretched like hours. With nothing else to do, your eyes inadvertently drifted back over to this Bond guy.
You couldn't deny the obvious: he was remarkably attractive, though not in the clean-cut way of the typical politicians and high-ranking brass you usually encountered in London or in your hometown.
No, his appeal was entirely more feral, a rugged and unrefined elegance that felt completely out of place against the sterile backdrop of a government building.
Your eyes traced the unruly wave of his dark hair, which looked as though he had carelessly run his fingers through it after a brawl, framing a face that was sun-darkened and slightly weathered from the elements.
There was a dangerous magnetism to the sharp, unyielding line of his jawline, shadowed by a faint hint of five o'clock stubble. Even sitting casually in the plush leather chair, his broad frame exuded a coiled, predator-like energy—shoulders broad and heavy under his black jacket, thighs thick and relaxed but ready to spring into motion at a second's notice.
He looked less like an agent of the crown and more like beautiful, chaotic trouble wrapped in dark fabric. A total loose cannon, you thought to yourself, a faint twist of apprehension and intrigue knotting in your stomach.
'The exact kind of man who gets people killed in the field.' You thought to yourself.
Suddenly, he shifted, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. Your eyes rushed to pull away, but it was a fraction of a second too late. You caught each other's gaze.
The realization hit you instantly: he had caught you analyzing him. Instead of looking away or acting embarrassed, those piercing ice-blue eyes flared with a sudden, competitive heat.
His smirk returned—slow, heavy, and insufferably smug—as if he had just won a silent point in a game you hadn't even realized you were playing.
His gaze lingered on your lips for a fleeting heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes, a silent challenge issuing from across the room. You forced your muscles to relax, fixing your face into an icy, completely unreadable mask, utterly refusing to give him the satisfaction of a blush.
The sharp ring abruptly broke the tense standoff of the telephone on Miss Ponsonby's desk. Both of your heads snapped toward her instantly.
She picked up the receiver, listening quietly for a brief moment. "Yes, M. Right away." She placed the phone back on its cradle and looked up at the two of you, her stern expression returning. "M will see you both now. Go on in."
You exchanged a swift, surprised look with Bond. Your brow furrowed.
'M hadn't said a single word in her call about another person being present at this reunion.' You sighed. This only meant more things for the people to say about you.
You didn't know what this meant, but you moved anyway, stepping up to the heavy red door with the guy.
Suddenly, he reached out, his hand grasping the brass doorknob. He glanced at you over his shoulder, a hint of his signature arrogance returning. "Ladies first, darling."
You rolled your eyes at the smooth pet name, stepping past him into the vast, wood-paneled office.
The room overlooked a rainy, grey London skyline through massive bulletproof windows.
M sat behind her grand mahogany desk, her hands folded over a thick, physical file folder stamped with a bright red CLASSIFIED seal.
"Sit," M commanded, her voice crisp, authoritative, and completely devoid of warmth.
You sat on the leather chair directly in front of her desk, and James did the same.
The proximity between you and Bond felt entirely too charged, like two weapons sitting side-by-side waiting to detonate. And weapons? You knew them from birth.
M didn't waste any time. She opened the thick folder, her eyes scanning the pages before she slid two documents across the polished wood toward the two of you.
"I have been reviewing the evaluations sent over by Greenway regarding the Double-O program practices," M began, her icy gaze locking onto Bond first.
What does this have to do with you?
"Particularly, his reports regarding your training practices in Malta, Bond. Greenway's annotations are... deeply concerning. He notes a total lack of discipline due to a fight with recruit Monroe, a blatant disregard for standard operating protocols, and an ego that threatens to compromise every simulation you touch."
At least your theory about this guy was true. What can you say? You inherited intuition from your mother.
James didn't even flinch. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, completely at ease. "With all due respect, in Malta, I adapted greatly, ma'am. Standard protocols there don't account for real-world chaos."
"Real-world chaos is exactly what I am trying to avoid, Bond," M snapped. She slid a glossy, high-resolution satellite photograph over the desk. It showed a burning, collapsed hangar facility half-buried in ice and snow. "You are a loose cannon, operating on raw instinct and zero restraint."
Bond glanced at the photo of Iceland, completely unbothered, while you frowned. You couldn't help but look at the man sitting next to you. What exactly does he have to do with me? You questioned silently again, your irritation growing.
Why was M lecturing this man in front of you?
Suddenly, M turned her cold eyes toward you. You knew it could mean one thing.
"Which is precisely why you are here, Bishop."Hearing your call sign aloud made you sit up a fraction straight. James's head turned to gaze at you in surprise. '
'Bishop is a girl?' James' thoughts were all in the air.
His eyes were dripping with double-edged amusement as he finally learned the identity of the turncoat of MI6, who was in the mouth of everyone, or well was, before him.
"To the intelligence community, you are a rogue former asset. which is perfect for the MI6 program. "
.You felt James' gaze, and for you it only meant one thing.
He had heard what the people had been saying.
You ignored him, looking directly at M., even though she hadn't exactly said it out loud; having you here only meant that, to atone for your mistakes, MI6 was placing you as this man's partner inside a suicide program basically.
"With all due respect, ma'am, you know my track record. You know I don't work with anyone. I operate alone for a reason. Having a partner is a liability."
"You are a ghost to many, Bishop, but you are also a soldier," M countered smoothly, her gaze drifting between the two of you. "And right now, you have the exact discipline and behavior that Bond needs. Your restraint is perfect. His is non-existent. You are to be his counter-balance."
"An anchor, you mean," Bond intervened, drawing out the words with a lazy, mocking drawl as he leaned slightly into your space. "M, be reasonable. I don't need a babysitter with a check on behavioral record telling me how to handle a firearm. If I wanted a lecture on discipline, I would have stayed in the Royal Navy."
"And if you want your Double-O license, Bond, you will do exactly as you are told," you shot back smoothly, turning your head to meet his gaze with total defiance. You couldn't let this guy ruin the peace you have gathered in years.
"M brought me in because you clearly need an anchor. Try to pull another stunt, and looks like from now on, I will personally be the one to drag you back to reality." As soon as you finished speaking, Bond's eyes sparked with a sudden, dangerous flame.
He leaned in just an inch closer into your personal space, his voice dropping into a testing, intimate tone. "Careful, A leash goes both ways, lady. You might find it difficult to run when you're tied to someone who moves a little too fast for you."
Oh, that does it...He might've heard from you, but that doesn't mean crap.
This man had better change his attitude, or else you will go to jail for another reason.
You scoffed. "I don't leave a trail, " you replied, your voice dropping into a low, deadly calm. You are not allowing this guy to order you; he doesn't know you.
"I eliminate the threat before they even know. If anyone is going to be struggling to keep up, it's the ones who don't manage discipline like you." You gazed right back at him, asserting that you are not afraid of him.
"Save the sparring for the field, both of you!" M interrupted, slamming the file folder shut with a loud, final snap that echoed through the quiet office, and immediately ended your quarrel.
She picked up a heavy, securely sealed manila package from the corner of her desk and placed it firmly in front of you.
"You are being assigned to joint practices in Malta, effective immediately. You will sail back to Malta together. " M commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. M turned and looked at you, "There, you will meet the other members of the 00 program and engage in live field practices under John Greenway's direct supervision."
Greenway.
You knew that name like the back of your hand. And somehow, every time you heard it, it only reminded you of your life before you got involved with the secret service.
"Bond you will hand this package directly to Greenway upon your arrival. It contains his updated directives." M's sharp eyes locked onto both of you one last time.
"You sail together, you do everything together, and you keep each other alive. If either of your massive egos compromises this operation, your Double-O candidacies are permanently revoked. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, M," Bond murmured. The cheeky brilliance in his expression finally shifted into something deeper—a genuine, calculating respect. He stood up, smoothing his jacket, and extended a hand toward you. "Well then, Bishop... Let's see if your performance matches the word of the kingdom."
You stood up to meet him, looking down at his hand, "Don't worry, Bond," you said, you didnt give him the benefit of your hand, to make your point as you stared directly into his ice-blue eyes. "I'll be right beside you. Try not to get us killed."
"It will be you who has to be careful." Bond said, moving his hand down, and not caring if you understood it as a threat. 'Fucking British men, thinking you are blind to their accent,' you thought to yourself. And before you could reply to this abnoxious man, M stated coldly that you are both dismissed.
Bond picked up the heavy package for Greenway, and you turned around and walked out of the office. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind you, the weight of the mandatory partnership settled over your shoulders.
You couldn't let this go rogue for you. It would mean your freedom was to be jeopardized again.
If working with this man meant you didnt have to go to prison, you'd do it despite the rumors and things going around MI6 about you.
You had to do it for yourself, for Yolene.
Both you and Bond stood in the outer lobby, completely defeated, neither of you wanting to work as partners.
From behind her desk, Miss Ponsonby looked up at the pair of you. Seeing your thoroughly miserable, matched expressions, a soft, knowing chuckle escaped the elderly secretary. Bond sighed, "So, Bishop," Bond murmured, tasting the name on his tongue with a slow, dangerous smirk. "Good to know. And here I was, worried you were growing tired of darling."
Is this guy serious right now? God.