Chapter Text
Agent Lucy Beauchamp had been attempting to convince herself to eat the limp pre-packaged chicken salad in front of her (all that was left in the canteen which wasn’t deep fried, and the chips became more tempting by the second), when Tom arrived with news - and his new tablet.
“Look,” he shoved it under her nose, “they put it on the training web!”
Lucy grabbed the tablet and watched the short video entitled “Never underestimate your opponent.” It showed a young, dark haired man taking a swing at an older, blond man with one arm in a sling, immediately followed by the older one moving in a blur to take the young one down.
“Idiot,” she snorted, before asking: “do you know what’s happened to Dicky?” The Hon Richard Charles Fotherington-Grey, easily the most obnoxious creature she had ever dealt with, and there had been plenty between Roedean, Cambridge, the FCO and the SIS.
Tom, his affable appearance hiding the necessary rat-cunning for their chosen careers, shook his head. “But I’d be surprised if we see him here again.” He paused, but was clearly wanting to get the next sentence out, “what was it like, with 007?”
“He’s not 007 anymore,” Lucy corrected, as she hit replay. “And it wasn’t really ‘with’ – he was evaluating me in Hong Kong, and he was pretty nice about it.”
“Nice?”
“Considering we got into a fire fight in Mongkok, startled the Chinese Secret Service and set up a gods-awful mess with the Politburo just before the change of power, yes, he was pretty nice about it.”
Tom sat down next to her. “You mean you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Rumour has it he recommended you for the double-O feeder programme if you pass combat training. Apparently he had a fight with the Director about it, when the Director wanted to put you into Analysis.”
It took Lucy several minutes for this to sink in, food and Tom forgotten.
Unnoticed, the black and white cat that was resident in Q branch jumped up onto the table. He daintily ate the chicken off Lucy’s salad, then retreated under the table, seeking out his next course.
Startled by the heavy thud of Mr Turing returning to the floor, she shook herself like a dog caught in the rain. “The double-O programme?”
“That’s the rumour,” Tom confirmed. “Now spill. What’s he like? We all know what’s in the archives is just the tip of the iceberg and the last thing I’d want to do is piss him off when I get him.”
“He’s cool.”
“Cool?” Tom repeated with disbelief.
She shrugged, “that’s the first thing that came to my mind. He’s cool.”
Tom frowned sceptically. “He’s the most legendary agent still alive, has actually been killed several times, and all you can say is that he’s cool?”
“Yes,” Lucy stabbed at her salad, but it really did look unappetising, especially since the chicken had vanished. She settled for stealing a few chips off Tom’s plate of ‘seafood surprise.’ Tom let her, and even pushed the little packet of tartar sauce in her direction, encouraging her to continue. “He just keeps calm no matter what’s happening. It’s as though he knows exactly what to do, no matter what comes up, and he can play any role. We were pretending to be father-and-daughter on the trip and he even made bad dad jokes when we could be overheard.”
“Okay, that’s weird. That’s really weird.” Tom shook his head. “What did you do to make him sing your praise to M? You have to have some tips for dealing with him.”
She tilted her head. “I don’t know, really. I just did what they tell us to do whenever working with a senior agent. Do the reading and research first, ask questions and request clarification. I think establishing character was important. I didn’t know if he was going to be sensitive about his arm, but saying I was his daughter meant it made sense that I was fetching the luggage carts at the airport and stuff. At least until I got injured. I guess you shouldn’t make an issue about the arm, and if you’re concerned about him, concoct some sort of cover – a son, a flunky or whatever. And – if Dicky is any guide – don’t hit him.”
“I don’t think anyone needs to be concerned about him. Not after watching this video.” Tom tapped the tablet for emphasis. “But what about himself? I mean...” he hesitated, “is he gay do you think?”
Lucy blinked. “Didn’t ask. He certainly didn’t try it on with me,” she paused, “and I don’t think he’d try it with anyone he’s evaluating.”
“Did he try it on with anyone else? I mean, he’s legendary for having slept with hundreds of targets and collaterals throughout his double-O career.”
“No, not during my evaluation, but we didn’t get much of a chance. Maybe he doesn’t unless there’s a need.”
“He is together with Q, isn’t he?” Tom wasn’t sure, and neither was anyone else amongst the junior agents.
“I don’t know,” Lucy shrugged. “Q still runs Commander Bond personally so they were in contact the whole time.”
Tom looked thoughtful, while absently offering a fried prawn to the fat black and white cat that had appeared on the chair next to him. “I guess hitting on him is a sure-fire way to get your arse wiped?” he mused.
“Probably,” Lucy half-shrugged. “It’s a wonder that thing isn’t too fat to walk,” she meant the cat, which had taken the prawn and was chewing on it noisily. “Why are you so interested?”
“I’m going to have Commander Bond as my evaluator next week,” Tom heaved a sigh, “and I’m scared shitless.”
Lucy gave a low whistle. “Good luck,” she said sincerely, “he was great with me, but I can see why Dicky would have pissed him off. Just be alert, don’t do anything stupid, and practice your shooting, just in case.”
“Okay,” Tom nodded to himself, “don’t make any disparaging comments about Q-branch, let alone Q; don’t mention his or anyone else’s sexuality, and don’t bring up the arm. Ever. Anything else?”
“Don’t admit to liking cats.” She looked significantly at the creature that was licking its whiskers.
“Ah, shit, okay. What about dogs?”
“Don’t know – didn’t come up. Why are you so worried anyway? What makes him worse than any other evaluator?”
“You kidding me, right? It’s Bond! It’s 007! He’s a bloody legend.”
“He’s still human. Barely,” Lucy admitted, “but that probably makes him a better evaluator.”
“Okay, yes, but he died. Several times! And he’s still here and unbeatable.”
“Which is probably why they have him do evaluation and not paper-pushing or mouldering away in an MI6 retirement home in Brighton,” a third voice interrupted, belonging to Joseph, another of the junior agents. He took the seat on the other side of the cat. “Bond’s a bloody hard marker, did you hear what he said about Greg?”
Greg had been the very first to be evaluated by Bond. Greg, who had virtually memorised all the procedure manuals.
“No, what did he say?” Tom leaned forward eagerly.
“That he was so dull, the only chance he’d have of succeeding in a kill mission was to bore his target to death.” Joseph was as bad as any gossip.
Tom slumped. “I’m doomed,” he moaned. “I’m probably being sent to retrieve some microchip from Madagascar and I’ll make a hash of it and end up filing requisitions in Botswana for the next forty years.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Botswana,” a deep, slightly gravelly voice suddenly cut across. Sending most of the junior agents - except for Lucy - nearly sprawling. How the hell Bond had approached them so stealthily was a mystery.
“Commander Bond,” Lucy greeted him, while the young men almost cowered. “How was Monaco?”
“Not as interesting as last time.” Bond was deftly balancing a tray one-handed, carrying food that definitely hadn’t been made in the canteen; plus a cup of what smelled like proper coffee. “No motorcycle rides, I’m afraid.” He placed the tray on the table, and sat down without further ado, as if he’d been invited. “Gentlemen?” he gave a slight nod to the two juniors, before grimacing in disgust as he briefly caught sight of his evil feline arch nemesis.
“This is Joseph and this is Tom, Sir.” Lucy made the introductions as Tom looked somewhere between terror and awe. “You’ll be evaluating Tom next week.”
Bond nodded. “Tom Jacobs, twenty-three, Northern Irish, aspiring junior agent.”
Tom’s jaw dropped open but he had the presence of mind not to ask how Bond had known – considering Bond very probably had been given his file already. He settled for an awestruck: “Yes, Sir.”
Silence, before Joseph scraped up the courage to ask, “how’s the jaw, Sir?”
Bond blinked, and this was enough to send all of them into a terrified panic, even Lucy.
Bond remained absolutely still, then flashed a grin. “Less battered than Dicky’s pride.”
There was a collective exhalation of relief around the table.
“There you are!” The Quartermaster’s voice was the second surprise of the day. “Thanks for looking after him,” Q addressed Joseph, and leaned down to pick up Mr Turing. Bond directed a deadly glare at the young agent in question, who shrank into his chair.
“Are you now recruiting hapless juniors for your evil overlord?” Bond reached out, casually touching Q’s hip as he stood beside him.
“Nothing of the sort, but I need him for an experiment.”
“Who, Joseph?” Bond gave a smirk that seemed truly terrifying to the juniors.
Q looked over the muscular young man, who was still shrinking into his seat. “Too big,” he said thoughtfully, “never get a set of reliable figures.”
“Shame, you could start a new research branch.”
“Stop scaring them, Bond,” Q scolded. Mr Turing rubbed his head against Q’s shoulder, purring, while somehow managing to simultaneously cast a malevolent gaze at Bond.
“What makes you think I scare anyone? I’m only being a kind Evaluator who is socialising over lunch with some of the junior agents.” Bond smiled at each of them in turn, which terrified them even worse.
Q’s narrowed eyes made it clear he wasn’t fooled one bit, but that he would let the issue drop for the sake of lunchtime peace. “Jacobs, come to Q branch after lunch, we need to get your measurements on file.” With that he settled Mr T firmly into his arm and left.
Bond returned to his delicious looking seafood salad, taking a few bites before addressing Tom. “Looking forward to your mission?”
“Yes Sir,” Tom choked out, “anything you would like me to prepare for you, Sir?”
“I expect you to come up with a good cover story for yourself and for me, once you’ve been given the mission brief.”
Tom nodded. “Yes, Sir, I will, Sir.”
Bond nodded and started on his lunch.
* * * * *
Lucy could hear the frantic typing of keys a few days later as she walked past Tom’s cubicle. “What’s up?” she asked, sticking her head over the partition.
“I got my mission brief.” Tom’s face was a picture of pain.
“That bad? Sudan? Eritrea? Antarctica?”
“Phuket, Thailand,” Tom grimaced, “something to do with ladyboys.”
“Is one of them your informant or something? Phuket’s really nice, a bit touristy though. I went diving there last year.”
“Apparently there’s information to be exchanged. I’m there to interrupt it, and the informants are thought to be part of a travelling ladyboy show, whose main base is a gay resort.”
Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s classic. What’s your cover going to be? Remember, you have Commander Bond tagging along, too, so you need to think up a cover for him as well.”
“I don’t know yet.” The colour of Tom’s face was rapidly changing into a bright red.
“I bet you do. Ten quid it’s the same one I’m thinking of: the most obvious one.”
“Please don’t say it,” Tom cringed.
“Oh, come on, I played his daughter, surely you can play his boytoy, or whatever they are called now. Personal trainer?” She craned her head to catch a glimpse of the resort on Tom’s screen, and gave a low whistle. “That’s nice. Take advantage of the expense account, I’m told very few missions are in fab places – we seem to have both got lucky with the posh hotels.”
“But…!” Tom poked frantically at a photo of one of the lavish hotel rooms. “There’s only one bed! And it’s a gay hotel! With lots of gays!”
“So? I was in a conference hotel with lots of conference attendees who were selling state secrets. Granted, the Commander and I had a two bedroom suite, but there’s nothing stopping you from that. They really do give us a real allowance for the evaluation mission.” She paused, “and if you are worried about people hitting on you, you could always say you and the Commander are exclusive.”
“I can tell you what’s stopping me from booking a two bedroom suite,” Tom shot back, “there aren’t any in that bloody hotel, and wouldn’t it look rather suspicious if we were to go with the boytoy cover story but booked two bedrooms?”
“Fair enough,” Lucy conceded, “but it’s not as though anything would happen…well, unless…but that’s quite unlikely. Have you seen the Commander?”
“What? What are you hinting at?” Tom shuddered visibly. “Did you really just hint at Commander Bond trying to…” he shut up, staring wide-eyed and panicked.
“Do tell, what might I try?” Bond’s voice rumbled too close to them. Of course. Of bloody course.
“Nothing, nothing!” Tom spluttered, throwing himself back and getting trapped by the flimsy wall, as Lucy did the same thing on the other side. “Just doing some research, Sir, for the mission, Sir.”
“You do know that claiming ‘nothing’ in such a panicked way is indicative of the exact opposite; and you do know that displaying such extreme agitation as you are doing right now is something you need to learn to suppress at all costs – unless useful for the mission. Don’t you?”
There were frantic nods from both young agents.
“Good.” Bond gave a sharp nod back.
Tom managed to get himself back together. “I was doing some research on the location of the information exchange at the Antonius Resort, and I thought that the most effective cover would be to stay at the resort as guests. It will give us time to investigate the place and we wouldn’t be questioned if we were wandering around.”
“Good thinking,” Bond nodded. “Continue, what details for our cover have you come up with?”
“It’s a…um, specialist resort, catering for gay men,” Tom ran his words together, “I was thinking that you could go in as a wealthy executive, and I’d be, um, officially your personal trainer or masseur.” Tom was bright red with embarrassment.
“Good thinking once more.” Bond’s inscrutable facial expression helped to calm Tom’s embarrassment. “I expect you to flesh out all the details and brief me with your concept of the roles we are to play. Things such as behaviour, clothing, back story, etc. I also expect you to organise everything in advance.” Bond straightened up. “Get back to me within twenty-four hours with the complete plan.” When he took his leave, a fleeting smirk crossed his face, completely destroying the illusion of indifference.
Tom sagged back into his chair, groaning in desperation. “Oh God,” he muttered, once Bond was out of sight and sound, “he’s enjoying that.”
“And how!” Lucy echoed. “Do you want the name of my day spa and hairdresser? You’ll need a few coats of fake tan and some really obvious highlights in your hair if you’re going to be a convincing boytoy personal trainer.”
“You are kidding me, aren’t you? I’m not going to put highlights into my hair.”
“Well, you definitely have to get waxed, then. And groomed. All over.” She took obvious delight in tormenting him.
The look of horror on Tom’s face matched his tone. “You’re. Not. Serious.”
“I am deadly serious. You are fit, aren’t you? So you would show off, which makes total sense for a ‘personal trainer’. If Commander Bond is your sugar daddy, then he’d have hired you for your looks, not for your brains, and he’d want to show off his eye-and-arm candy.”
“You’re enjoying this as much as he is,” Tom accused her.
“I had to dress like Pippa Middleton for my Eval,” Lucy sniffed. “I’m just glad someone has it worse.”
“I’d rather dress like Prince William than pretend I’m gay. How the hell do I do that anyway? I’m not going to fondle Commander Bond, I’m really not.” Tom buried his face in his hands, groaning, “oh my God.”
“You’re the toy boy, you’re not the one doing the fondling,” Lucy didn’t sound at all comforting. “He isn’t really touchy from what I can tell, if that’s what you’re worried about. Too busy watching for hostiles.” She held out a hand as though to pull Tom up from his chair. “We should go, and we need to stop by the bookshop so that Commander Bond has stuff like ‘Death in Venice’ in his holiday reading material.”
“Is that some gay novel?” Tom took her hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. “I think I’m not going to enjoy the next twenty-four hours, nor any of the ones after that.” He heaved a sigh, but accepted his fate. If he wanted to become an agent, he had to prove that he would be able to handle any situation.
Even Commander Bond as a sugar daddy.