SOME LONELY NIGHT WE CAN GET TOGETHER 1/2 Bond/Eve, R
She was serious about retiring from the field, and he remembers that well-the slow heat and the booze, Turkey, the weight of Vesper’s sodden hair, the white sand-so he’s surprised to catch her running like that, like she’s running for something: driven, purposeful. He sprints across the road and cuts her off. She doesn’t stop.
“Out for a stroll?” He lengthens his stride to keep up with her. She’s moving at a 7 minute clip. Underneath the fitted black of her shirt and leggings he can see the hard lines of her quadriceps, her abdomen. It’s February, fiercely cold but not enough to snow, damp, and her breath comes in tight bursts as she follows the river. The day never got light.
“Fighting the good fight,” is all she says, but she glances at him, a little playful. She’s got a scarf tied over her hair and it makes her look young, fierce.
“Yes. Must fit into all of that illustrious office-wear,” he says, dry, then groans inwardly as she ups the pace. He can’t not follow her now.
“Keep up,” is all she says.
--
He’s caught her by the Modern, its industrial grey appropriate against the dim sky. They cross over the Millennium Bridge and he swears as he feels it move under his feet. He hates this thing.
“Really, Bond,” she says, pushing ahead again. “They have you bloody rappelling off a building most days, and this is what ruffles your feathers?”
“It’s a pointless construction,” he says, trying to keep his voice from sounding labored. “A bridge should be solid.”
She looks at him curiously, but keeps running. He’s grateful for her silence. She takes them far, down the Embankment, past Westminster and the Palace and through Hyde Park, then up to Camden before making her way back to the river. When they stop he resists the urge to double over.
She looks flushed but otherwise bright, doesn’t seem to give a shit when he checks out her ass while she stretches.
She raises an eyebrow. “Same time Saturday, then?”
--
He keeps running with her. It stays cold. With the time to train, he gets stronger. He suspects M is keeping him out of the field for that reason, but he doesn’t question it. In turn, he doesn’t ask why she keeps herself in better strength than the most of the double-0s in the field.
She runs, and he suspects she weight trains in private. He catches her practicing her shooting one night in the basement of MI-6. She hasn’t covered her ears; instead she’s got her head cocked into her shoulder. She’s using her issued weapon he wasn’t sure she still had.
Her aim’s a little to the right, but joking aside he’s got to admit that she’s a pretty good shot. He comes up behind her.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people with a loaded weapon,” she says without turning around. “You know I don’t take any chances.”
“Do you find yourself unaware of my current position?” He lays his hands on her hips. He can feel her muscles tense under his palms. “I rely somewhat heavily on the element of surprise.”
“Yes,” she says, somewhat under her breath. “You are, as I recall, the prince of subtlety.”
“I resent your implication, Moneypenny”-her name rolls off of his tongue-”you know I can be quite delicate when circumstances demand it.” He squares her shoulders, tucks his hand into her ribcage and lifts gently. “Fire when ready.”
Bond/Eve, R
She was serious about retiring from the field, and he remembers that well-the slow heat and the booze, Turkey, the weight of Vesper’s sodden hair, the white sand-so he’s surprised to catch her running like that, like she’s running for something: driven, purposeful. He sprints across the road and cuts her off. She doesn’t stop.
“Out for a stroll?” He lengthens his stride to keep up with her. She’s moving at a 7 minute clip. Underneath the fitted black of her shirt and leggings he can see the hard lines of her quadriceps, her abdomen. It’s February, fiercely cold but not enough to snow, damp, and her breath comes in tight bursts as she follows the river. The day never got light.
“Fighting the good fight,” is all she says, but she glances at him, a little playful. She’s got a scarf tied over her hair and it makes her look young, fierce.
“Yes. Must fit into all of that illustrious office-wear,” he says, dry, then groans inwardly as she ups the pace. He can’t not follow her now.
“Keep up,” is all she says.
--
He’s caught her by the Modern, its industrial grey appropriate against the dim sky. They cross over the Millennium Bridge and he swears as he feels it move under his feet. He hates this thing.
“Really, Bond,” she says, pushing ahead again. “They have you bloody rappelling off a building most days, and this is what ruffles your feathers?”
“It’s a pointless construction,” he says, trying to keep his voice from sounding labored. “A bridge should be solid.”
She looks at him curiously, but keeps running. He’s grateful for her silence. She takes them far, down the Embankment, past Westminster and the Palace and through Hyde Park, then up to Camden before making her way back to the river. When they stop he resists the urge to double over.
She looks flushed but otherwise bright, doesn’t seem to give a shit when he checks out her ass while she stretches.
She raises an eyebrow. “Same time Saturday, then?”
--
He keeps running with her. It stays cold. With the time to train, he gets stronger. He suspects M is keeping him out of the field for that reason, but he doesn’t question it. In turn, he doesn’t ask why she keeps herself in better strength than the most of the double-0s in the field.
She runs, and he suspects she weight trains in private. He catches her practicing her shooting one night in the basement of MI-6. She hasn’t covered her ears; instead she’s got her head cocked into her shoulder. She’s using her issued weapon he wasn’t sure she still had.
Her aim’s a little to the right, but joking aside he’s got to admit that she’s a pretty good shot. He comes up behind her.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people with a loaded weapon,” she says without turning around. “You know I don’t take any chances.”
“Do you find yourself unaware of my current position?” He lays his hands on her hips. He can feel her muscles tense under his palms. “I rely somewhat heavily on the element of surprise.”
“Yes,” she says, somewhat under her breath. “You are, as I recall, the prince of subtlety.”
“I resent your implication, Moneypenny”-her name rolls off of his tongue-”you know I can be quite delicate when circumstances demand it.” He squares her shoulders, tucks his hand into her ribcage and lifts gently. “Fire when ready.”
The shot goes straight between the eyes.
--
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