Fic: Hazard Pay, James Bond, PG, Bond/John Moneypenny
Fic: Hazard Pay
Fandom: James Bond
Rating: PG
Words: 1,497
Warnings: A male Moneypenny
Notes: For days 12, 13 and 14 of mini_nanowrimo . In the same John Moneypenny series as my yuletide snippet One Day. I just love the idea of Bond flirting with Moneypenny regardless of gender. You can read this fic on AO3 here, if you're so inclined.
***
John Moneypenny did not, in fact, grow up wanting to be a personal assistant (or a secretary as his father disdainfully called it).
Like most children he’d wanted something much more exciting; astronaut, football player, doctor and even, for a few months, a ballet dancer, before he’d sadly had to give up that dream because of two left feet.
He’d started on this career path the summer after his first year at university, where he’d been studying Economics and French at Cambridge, and he’d had no idea what he’d wanted to do (the astronaut, football player and doctor options all regretfully put aside by then) so he’d not planned any internships, when his grandfather had got him some temporary office work at the Houses of Parliament.
His grandfather had been a successful politician in his day - Shadow Home Secretary - and no doubt had suggested it in the hopes it would be the catalyst for some glittering political career, but John had no taste at all for political machinations.
He enjoyed organising things, to be brutally honest, creating order out of chaos (and there certainly was chaos at Whitehall) and, no, it might not be particularly manly, but John was well aware he’d done far more damaging things to the perception of his masculinity with Richard Locke in his bed, breathless and bold under crisp sheets, after school on lazy, blissful afternoons, so he really didn’t mind.
Of course, being a personal assistant for the head of MI6 was slightly manlier that for, say, the head of Anne Summers, and certainly had more hazards.
His third week on the job, John had accompanied M out to where a 00 agent had taken down four suspected terrorists and was interrogating the only one he’d left alive.
M had gone personally because there was suspicion that the terrorists were planning on planting a bomb, and may have already done so, so it was imperative that the location of any attack was divulged immediately.
John carried a file with the most pertinent facts on the cell the men were thought to be a part of, and each of the individuals. M hadn’t asked for them, and the tech guys would be setting up display screens in the building, but John knew M’s eyesight wasn’t really good enough for on-screen reading, unless the screens were the top-quality ones of headquarters.
M never asked for the papers, but John had noticed her squinting at the screens at meetings which were not in her office (where her screen was of the highest quality resolution) or in the briefing rooms with the largest screens, and so had simply begun providing her with key papers for such meetings.
The longest serving of M’s previous nine assistants (following one who had lasted five years, and who had been with M in her previous roles for a good fifteen years before that) had lasted a record eight days - and John attributed the fact that he’d made it into his third week mostly to providing paperwork that allowed M to keep her secrecy and do her job.
John followed M up the stairs to the decrepit block of flats - emptied of any residents - which the suspected terrorist was being kept in. They were met by a man John had not seen before - dark clad and sombre looking, with a cut over his eye, a rip in his jacket and blood on his knuckles.
Despite the fact that the jacket had clearly been through some distress, John could easily tell the suit was of the highest quality material and tailoring (not unlike John’s own - his father’s money was useful for something), and highlighted perfectly the man’s physique.
The man paid no more attention to John than he would have to a wall, his attention all on M, briefing her on the progress of the interrogation as they continued up the stairs.
As John followed them up the stairs, he was not surprised to hear M call him ‘Bond’. John had met 00 agents before, and this man had the same qualities he’d seen in them; intense physical fitness; a permanent, wary alertness of his surroundings - John knew that even though his eyes had passed over John in a second, he’d be able to pull him out of a line-up years from now; and an air of independence and aloofness.
The 00s were all extraordinary weapons the service had forged, and M had to be just as exceptional as she was to control them all.
“How long has he been in the country?” M was asking Bond.
“He claims to have arrived two days ago. There’s no record of him entering, and his aliases are being checked now,” Bond replied. His voice suited him, dark and smooth.
“HQ has just reported in, Ma’am,” John interrupted, having kept one eye on M’s emails as he walked. “One of his suspected aliases is reported as entering eight days ago.”
Bond’s eyes flicked over him, icy and blue, before returning to M.
“Well then, let’s find out what he’s been up to all that time,” he said, with a slight, cold smile, but it included John as well as M.
The interrogation room was dark and cold, and there was a man sitting in a chair in the middle of it, and a handful of other agents milling around.
The man was bloodied, but still unbowed, sneering at M and spitting in response to her clipped questions.
John stood unobtrusively by the wall opposite the window. It was dark, and frankly dull, so after a while John had some sympathy with the agent who twitched the curtain back to look outside.
“Don’t...” John heard Bond’s quick, sharp instruction but it was too late.
There were only a few moments for John to process the breaking glass of the window, and then the fact that the object that had flown through it had landed close to him before he was hit by a fast, heavy object, knocking him over.
There was a brief, but crystal clear, sensory overload of hard heat against John’s body, harsh breath in his ear, and a smell of spicy cologne very faint under the stronger smell of sweat and blood, before an explosion temporarily robbed him of all sensation.
There was one long beat of silence in the aftermath of the explosion, before men and guns began making a chaos of noise.
The body over him exerted more pressure for one moment, gaining leverage and pushing the air out of John, before springing off.
John pushed himself up to see Bond leaping over to the window where those other agents who hadn’t thrown themselves on M were leaning out and firing.
“The outside agents got them,” Bond said, suddenly as the firing stopped.
The noise changed from total chaos to recovery suddenly - the prisoner’s ringing curses and M’s strident chastisement of everybody in range, and lower noises as the agents checked the damage.
John sucked his lip in, tasting blood, as he reached for the sheets of papers from his files that his sudden, unexpected dive had caused to scatter to the ground.
As he stood up some of his papers were held out to him.
“Are you alright?”
It was Bond, face in a casual image of concern, which John interpreted as a standard ‘check the civilians’ pose.
John’s spine stiffened. He wasn’t a civilian.
“Perfectly fine,” he said coolly, and he was pleased (and a little surprised) to discover neither his voice nor his hands were shaking.
Bond’s eyebrows rose slightly at the edge in his voice.
“You’ve split your lip,” he said, nodding at John’s face and picking a surprisingly still pristine handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to John.
“Keep it for yourself,” John said, briskly. “You’ve split your...” the cut over Bond’s brow from earlier had opened up again and was joined by a split to his own lip, and the rip in Bond’s jacket had widened and was now accompanied by tears at his knees, “...everything.”
Bond grinned at that, a genuine smile this time that lit up his eyes, and John’s breath stuttered just a little.
John snatched the papers out of Bond’s hands. “Those are eyes only,” he snapped.
Bond’s smile only widened, “Then perhaps you should keep hold of them?”
“Then perhaps you should make sure the prisoner’s friends with explosive devices don’t know where you’re holding him before you start an interrogation, Mr Bond?” John suggested.
Bond laughed, this time, instead of taking offense.
“It’s James,” he said, smile smooth and bright. “And I’ll take that under advisement, Mr...?”
“Come along, Moneypenny,” M said, briskly, as she walked past. “We’ll leave these incompetent arses to finish up.” She gave Bond a steely look as she passed, to which Bond merely inclined his head.
“...Moneypenny.” Bond finished.
John mirrored Bond’s cool nod to M, and followed her out.
He felt Bond’s eyes on his back all the way down the corridor.
***
Fandom: James Bond
Rating: PG
Words: 1,497
Warnings: A male Moneypenny
Notes: For days 12, 13 and 14 of mini_nanowrimo . In the same John Moneypenny series as my yuletide snippet One Day. I just love the idea of Bond flirting with Moneypenny regardless of gender. You can read this fic on AO3 here, if you're so inclined.
***
John Moneypenny did not, in fact, grow up wanting to be a personal assistant (or a secretary as his father disdainfully called it).
Like most children he’d wanted something much more exciting; astronaut, football player, doctor and even, for a few months, a ballet dancer, before he’d sadly had to give up that dream because of two left feet.
He’d started on this career path the summer after his first year at university, where he’d been studying Economics and French at Cambridge, and he’d had no idea what he’d wanted to do (the astronaut, football player and doctor options all regretfully put aside by then) so he’d not planned any internships, when his grandfather had got him some temporary office work at the Houses of Parliament.
His grandfather had been a successful politician in his day - Shadow Home Secretary - and no doubt had suggested it in the hopes it would be the catalyst for some glittering political career, but John had no taste at all for political machinations.
He enjoyed organising things, to be brutally honest, creating order out of chaos (and there certainly was chaos at Whitehall) and, no, it might not be particularly manly, but John was well aware he’d done far more damaging things to the perception of his masculinity with Richard Locke in his bed, breathless and bold under crisp sheets, after school on lazy, blissful afternoons, so he really didn’t mind.
Of course, being a personal assistant for the head of MI6 was slightly manlier that for, say, the head of Anne Summers, and certainly had more hazards.
His third week on the job, John had accompanied M out to where a 00 agent had taken down four suspected terrorists and was interrogating the only one he’d left alive.
M had gone personally because there was suspicion that the terrorists were planning on planting a bomb, and may have already done so, so it was imperative that the location of any attack was divulged immediately.
John carried a file with the most pertinent facts on the cell the men were thought to be a part of, and each of the individuals. M hadn’t asked for them, and the tech guys would be setting up display screens in the building, but John knew M’s eyesight wasn’t really good enough for on-screen reading, unless the screens were the top-quality ones of headquarters.
M never asked for the papers, but John had noticed her squinting at the screens at meetings which were not in her office (where her screen was of the highest quality resolution) or in the briefing rooms with the largest screens, and so had simply begun providing her with key papers for such meetings.
The longest serving of M’s previous nine assistants (following one who had lasted five years, and who had been with M in her previous roles for a good fifteen years before that) had lasted a record eight days - and John attributed the fact that he’d made it into his third week mostly to providing paperwork that allowed M to keep her secrecy and do her job.
John followed M up the stairs to the decrepit block of flats - emptied of any residents - which the suspected terrorist was being kept in. They were met by a man John had not seen before - dark clad and sombre looking, with a cut over his eye, a rip in his jacket and blood on his knuckles.
Despite the fact that the jacket had clearly been through some distress, John could easily tell the suit was of the highest quality material and tailoring (not unlike John’s own - his father’s money was useful for something), and highlighted perfectly the man’s physique.
The man paid no more attention to John than he would have to a wall, his attention all on M, briefing her on the progress of the interrogation as they continued up the stairs.
As John followed them up the stairs, he was not surprised to hear M call him ‘Bond’. John had met 00 agents before, and this man had the same qualities he’d seen in them; intense physical fitness; a permanent, wary alertness of his surroundings - John knew that even though his eyes had passed over John in a second, he’d be able to pull him out of a line-up years from now; and an air of independence and aloofness.
The 00s were all extraordinary weapons the service had forged, and M had to be just as exceptional as she was to control them all.
“How long has he been in the country?” M was asking Bond.
“He claims to have arrived two days ago. There’s no record of him entering, and his aliases are being checked now,” Bond replied. His voice suited him, dark and smooth.
“HQ has just reported in, Ma’am,” John interrupted, having kept one eye on M’s emails as he walked. “One of his suspected aliases is reported as entering eight days ago.”
Bond’s eyes flicked over him, icy and blue, before returning to M.
“Well then, let’s find out what he’s been up to all that time,” he said, with a slight, cold smile, but it included John as well as M.
The interrogation room was dark and cold, and there was a man sitting in a chair in the middle of it, and a handful of other agents milling around.
The man was bloodied, but still unbowed, sneering at M and spitting in response to her clipped questions.
John stood unobtrusively by the wall opposite the window. It was dark, and frankly dull, so after a while John had some sympathy with the agent who twitched the curtain back to look outside.
“Don’t...” John heard Bond’s quick, sharp instruction but it was too late.
There were only a few moments for John to process the breaking glass of the window, and then the fact that the object that had flown through it had landed close to him before he was hit by a fast, heavy object, knocking him over.
There was a brief, but crystal clear, sensory overload of hard heat against John’s body, harsh breath in his ear, and a smell of spicy cologne very faint under the stronger smell of sweat and blood, before an explosion temporarily robbed him of all sensation.
There was one long beat of silence in the aftermath of the explosion, before men and guns began making a chaos of noise.
The body over him exerted more pressure for one moment, gaining leverage and pushing the air out of John, before springing off.
John pushed himself up to see Bond leaping over to the window where those other agents who hadn’t thrown themselves on M were leaning out and firing.
“The outside agents got them,” Bond said, suddenly as the firing stopped.
The noise changed from total chaos to recovery suddenly - the prisoner’s ringing curses and M’s strident chastisement of everybody in range, and lower noises as the agents checked the damage.
John sucked his lip in, tasting blood, as he reached for the sheets of papers from his files that his sudden, unexpected dive had caused to scatter to the ground.
As he stood up some of his papers were held out to him.
“Are you alright?”
It was Bond, face in a casual image of concern, which John interpreted as a standard ‘check the civilians’ pose.
John’s spine stiffened. He wasn’t a civilian.
“Perfectly fine,” he said coolly, and he was pleased (and a little surprised) to discover neither his voice nor his hands were shaking.
Bond’s eyebrows rose slightly at the edge in his voice.
“You’ve split your lip,” he said, nodding at John’s face and picking a surprisingly still pristine handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to John.
“Keep it for yourself,” John said, briskly. “You’ve split your...” the cut over Bond’s brow from earlier had opened up again and was joined by a split to his own lip, and the rip in Bond’s jacket had widened and was now accompanied by tears at his knees, “...everything.”
Bond grinned at that, a genuine smile this time that lit up his eyes, and John’s breath stuttered just a little.
John snatched the papers out of Bond’s hands. “Those are eyes only,” he snapped.
Bond’s smile only widened, “Then perhaps you should keep hold of them?”
“Then perhaps you should make sure the prisoner’s friends with explosive devices don’t know where you’re holding him before you start an interrogation, Mr Bond?” John suggested.
Bond laughed, this time, instead of taking offense.
“It’s James,” he said, smile smooth and bright. “And I’ll take that under advisement, Mr...?”
“Come along, Moneypenny,” M said, briskly, as she walked past. “We’ll leave these incompetent arses to finish up.” She gave Bond a steely look as she passed, to which Bond merely inclined his head.
“...Moneypenny.” Bond finished.
John mirrored Bond’s cool nod to M, and followed her out.
He felt Bond’s eyes on his back all the way down the corridor.
***