A Woman's Touch
Title: A Woman's Touch
Fandom: James Bond
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There are some missions for which only a woman's touch will do.
Disclaimer: James Bond was created by the inimitable Ian Fleming and is owned by the Brocoli Family. He is merely being used as the Ken doll in a Barbie world, or some such.
Quick Note: While GoldenEye is the one Bond movie I can stand to view more then once this story is firmly placed in the world of the 60's Bond movies. Think Sean Connery rather then Pierce Brosnan and you'll get the idea. =D
Bond appeared in her office, a vodka sodden force of nature. She wasn't able to stifle the soppy little grin that involuntarily appeared on her face nor did she want to. There was something hardwired into the female psyche that couldn't help but respond to James Bond's particular combination of charisma and masculinity in less than appropriate ways. It was, after all, the base of what made him the only person who could fill his own particular niche in the vast conglomeration of networks that composed the world of British Intelligence. It was his gift and she did not begrudge him a one of his very persuasive talents.
"Moneypenny," Bond drawled with that maddening little smile that made him seem so disarmingly boyish and irresistible. "Ravishing, as always."
"007, really," she sighed in mock disapproval as he took his habitual place on the corner of her desk. She carefully ignored the papers he crumpled and the clips he sent spilling over everything, there was a game to be played and she was ever scrupulously ready to fill her part.
She picked up a pen and twirled it in what she calculated to be an awkwardly flirtatious manner and carefully smiled in an abruptly coquettish way. She leaned forward into his space, eliciting a proprietarily assured smile. "When are you ever going to take me away from this place?" she sparkled.
Bond grinned, suave and assured, and reached over to cradle her cheek in his hand. "One day soon," his voice purred for her ears only. "You know you're the only woman I could ever truly love."
"Oh, James," she sighed, leaning into his hand.
The door to M's office slammed open and Bond turned, his hand slowly trailing down her cheek, the consummate player to the last.
"007, marvelous to see you," was M's ebullient greeting. He jovially clapped him on the back and directed him towards the inner office. "Right this way, I have something extremely exciting to show you." They sauntered away, making innocuous male small talk as the door closed behind them.
A few moments of organization and flattening later, the inner office doors swung open and Bond strode through on a wave of expensive cologne. He threw her an exagerrated kiss as he walked by and she made sure to giggle loudly enough to travel down the hallway.
"Moneypenny, can I see you in here, please?" M called from his office once the elevator doors had closed and Bond had disappeared once again.
"Of course, sir," she replied, efficiently gathering her things and stepping through the doors, closing them behind her.
"I've sent 007 to Russia," M remarked, his attention on the paperwork in front of him.
"Very good, sir," she commented noncomitally.
"You'll be leaving for Moscow in the morning." He looked up, catching her eyes in an implacable gaze. "I have every confidence in your capacity to complete this mission."
"Of course, sir. Thank you, sir," she replied, her eyes never leaving his.
He nodded, satisfied, his attention returning to the papers in his hand. "Q will send up the necessary supplies by the end of the day." A clear dismissal.
She nodded and quietly slipped out of the room. She returned to her desk and turned back to the typing that Bond's entrance had interrupted. She had quite a bit of work to wrap up before she left.
~~~
A bumpy military plane ride and an identity change later she found herself on the back step of the Under Minister for Foreign Affairs Sergei Petrakovitz, a paper-wrapped package in her arms. Miles away Bond was schmoozing around an illicit casino or slinking his way through the crowded Moscow Ballet, drawing the eyes and thoughts and suspcisions of every Soviet official present.
The bolt of the inconspicuous door clattered and the door opened with an abrupt tug. She smiled benignly at the frazzled maid who looked out. 'Katya Ivanova Serenov, 32, Moscow native with ambitions to marry above her station,' her mind reflexively categorized.
"Yes?" The tired maid sniped.
"A gift from General Urumovka on the joyful birth of the Minister's first son," she replied, holding out the package. She was confident and relaxed, her Muscovite accent was flawless and her story was concrete.
The maid gazed at her narrowly. "You're not the usual courier."
"Oh no," she dithered. "Mikhail stupidly forgot this most important package on his way out. The General had me run it over as soon as he discovered the oversight."
The maid glanced from her unpreposing face with its stupid grin to the innocuous package in her hands. She shrugged. "It's typical of Mikhail to make more work for the rest of us." The maid brusquely grabbed the package and turned away, slamming the door in her face.
She stepped down the street, her boots crunching in the snow. Her face wore a calm mask that disguised the racing of her mind. She could nearly see the Minister as he opened his fine gift from his political rival and she could very nearly imagine the delighted look his face would have when he pulled out one of the expensive Cuban cigars. He would smoke one, happily unaware that he would be dead by the next morning, victim of a previously undetected heart condition and a carefully constructed toxin. There would be a political uproar that would lock the Soviets in a power struggle for months to come, completely derailing certain programs that the British government felt were dangerous for the long-term safety of the West.
Five blocks away she stepped into a hidden car, finally allowing herself to give expression to a triumphant smile. Somewhere across the city Bond was sure to be enjoying some sort of glamorous misadventure. The world would always have need of a James Bond, a bright, distracting, ruthless figure who sowed chaos in his wake. There were, however, some missions where only a woman's touch would do.
Fandom: James Bond
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There are some missions for which only a woman's touch will do.
Disclaimer: James Bond was created by the inimitable Ian Fleming and is owned by the Brocoli Family. He is merely being used as the Ken doll in a Barbie world, or some such.
Quick Note: While GoldenEye is the one Bond movie I can stand to view more then once this story is firmly placed in the world of the 60's Bond movies. Think Sean Connery rather then Pierce Brosnan and you'll get the idea. =D
Bond appeared in her office, a vodka sodden force of nature. She wasn't able to stifle the soppy little grin that involuntarily appeared on her face nor did she want to. There was something hardwired into the female psyche that couldn't help but respond to James Bond's particular combination of charisma and masculinity in less than appropriate ways. It was, after all, the base of what made him the only person who could fill his own particular niche in the vast conglomeration of networks that composed the world of British Intelligence. It was his gift and she did not begrudge him a one of his very persuasive talents.
"Moneypenny," Bond drawled with that maddening little smile that made him seem so disarmingly boyish and irresistible. "Ravishing, as always."
"007, really," she sighed in mock disapproval as he took his habitual place on the corner of her desk. She carefully ignored the papers he crumpled and the clips he sent spilling over everything, there was a game to be played and she was ever scrupulously ready to fill her part.
She picked up a pen and twirled it in what she calculated to be an awkwardly flirtatious manner and carefully smiled in an abruptly coquettish way. She leaned forward into his space, eliciting a proprietarily assured smile. "When are you ever going to take me away from this place?" she sparkled.
Bond grinned, suave and assured, and reached over to cradle her cheek in his hand. "One day soon," his voice purred for her ears only. "You know you're the only woman I could ever truly love."
"Oh, James," she sighed, leaning into his hand.
The door to M's office slammed open and Bond turned, his hand slowly trailing down her cheek, the consummate player to the last.
"007, marvelous to see you," was M's ebullient greeting. He jovially clapped him on the back and directed him towards the inner office. "Right this way, I have something extremely exciting to show you." They sauntered away, making innocuous male small talk as the door closed behind them.
A few moments of organization and flattening later, the inner office doors swung open and Bond strode through on a wave of expensive cologne. He threw her an exagerrated kiss as he walked by and she made sure to giggle loudly enough to travel down the hallway.
"Moneypenny, can I see you in here, please?" M called from his office once the elevator doors had closed and Bond had disappeared once again.
"Of course, sir," she replied, efficiently gathering her things and stepping through the doors, closing them behind her.
"I've sent 007 to Russia," M remarked, his attention on the paperwork in front of him.
"Very good, sir," she commented noncomitally.
"You'll be leaving for Moscow in the morning." He looked up, catching her eyes in an implacable gaze. "I have every confidence in your capacity to complete this mission."
"Of course, sir. Thank you, sir," she replied, her eyes never leaving his.
He nodded, satisfied, his attention returning to the papers in his hand. "Q will send up the necessary supplies by the end of the day." A clear dismissal.
She nodded and quietly slipped out of the room. She returned to her desk and turned back to the typing that Bond's entrance had interrupted. She had quite a bit of work to wrap up before she left.
~~~
A bumpy military plane ride and an identity change later she found herself on the back step of the Under Minister for Foreign Affairs Sergei Petrakovitz, a paper-wrapped package in her arms. Miles away Bond was schmoozing around an illicit casino or slinking his way through the crowded Moscow Ballet, drawing the eyes and thoughts and suspcisions of every Soviet official present.
The bolt of the inconspicuous door clattered and the door opened with an abrupt tug. She smiled benignly at the frazzled maid who looked out. 'Katya Ivanova Serenov, 32, Moscow native with ambitions to marry above her station,' her mind reflexively categorized.
"Yes?" The tired maid sniped.
"A gift from General Urumovka on the joyful birth of the Minister's first son," she replied, holding out the package. She was confident and relaxed, her Muscovite accent was flawless and her story was concrete.
The maid gazed at her narrowly. "You're not the usual courier."
"Oh no," she dithered. "Mikhail stupidly forgot this most important package on his way out. The General had me run it over as soon as he discovered the oversight."
The maid glanced from her unpreposing face with its stupid grin to the innocuous package in her hands. She shrugged. "It's typical of Mikhail to make more work for the rest of us." The maid brusquely grabbed the package and turned away, slamming the door in her face.
She stepped down the street, her boots crunching in the snow. Her face wore a calm mask that disguised the racing of her mind. She could nearly see the Minister as he opened his fine gift from his political rival and she could very nearly imagine the delighted look his face would have when he pulled out one of the expensive Cuban cigars. He would smoke one, happily unaware that he would be dead by the next morning, victim of a previously undetected heart condition and a carefully constructed toxin. There would be a political uproar that would lock the Soviets in a power struggle for months to come, completely derailing certain programs that the British government felt were dangerous for the long-term safety of the West.
Five blocks away she stepped into a hidden car, finally allowing herself to give expression to a triumphant smile. Somewhere across the city Bond was sure to be enjoying some sort of glamorous misadventure. The world would always have need of a James Bond, a bright, distracting, ruthless figure who sowed chaos in his wake. There were, however, some missions where only a woman's touch would do.