The Letter Before L
Title: The Letter Before L
Description: Even secret agents deserve a chance at romance, and there's no better season for it than Christmastime. Bond/Sailor Moon crossover (but forgive me if the details are nowhere near what they should be, because I am not in any way an expert on the Bond!verse).
A/N: Apologies for the long long hiatus. This was written for the wonderful LovelyLytton for Secret Santa 2012 organized by the awesome CharlieChaplin2. If you look closely, you might be able to spot 2 Outer cameos... ;)
Present day
Paris in winter is the land of enchantments. Everyone, tourists and natives alike, falls under its spell - all but one. With his silvering hair and fitted black coat, he blends seamlessly into the backdrop of iron and snow that is one of Paris's most iconic monuments. He strides through the winding streets as if he owns the place, never once taking a wrong turn or pausing to look at the signs, and he passes the most tempting window displays without a first glance, let alone a second one.
Then again, according to the agency's (entirely too active, in his view) rumor mill, K is immune to bullets, alcohol, and seduction - from men and women alike - so perhaps it makes sense that he's wholly unmoved by the magic of the City of Lights. If you asked M, well, you weren't likely to get an answer. M isn't exactly the most talkative man around, and he's particularly closed-mouthed where K is concerned. But if you could look past those keen blue eyes and straight into that devious mind, he would say it's because K has no reason to admire the scenery in a city that's nearly been his grave twenty times over.
"So we'll be meeting K today?"
The dark-haired woman's fingers continue to fly over the keyboard as she glances up from the triple monitors. She pins the questioner with a chiding look. "His movements are supposed to be classified information, Mr. Westcroft," she says dryly. "I have no idea how you managed to get your hands on it, but I wish you would keep it to yourself."
The wall behind her monitors is covered entirely by high-definition screens, some broadcasting local and international news channels; others surveillance of various key sites in Paris, other parts of France, and all over world; and still others displaying data being generated at an obscenely fast pace. Not fast enough for her yet, though. If she has her way, this section of the Paris branch that she's recently taken command of will meet her new efficiency targets by next April, or she'll know why.
The lanky man perches on her desk, ignoring the look of annoyance that crosses her face. Popping another salty, vinegary chip into his mouth, he makes sure to crunch it extra loudly. "I wish you would call me Zan. Everyone else does."
"As your supervisor, I'll call you whatever I deem appropriate, Mr. Westcroft. After you pass the probationary period, I may take your preferences into consideration."
This would be enough to send one of his coworkers scurrying back to his own workstation, but Zan remains seated on the desk, pouting. The fact that he is meticulously adjusting his peach scarf at the same time rather ruins the effect.
Ordinarily she would consider the conversation done with, but she props her chin in her hand and studies him curiously over the rims of her glasses. He is the most promising addition to their division this year - all right, in the past five years - and his skills are perfectly suited to the challenges they'll face going forward. She wouldn't be surprised if he's transferred from Paris to the London headquarters, or perhaps the China division, within the next decade.
"Why are you so interested in K, anyway?"
His green eyes light with unchecked enthusiasm. "He's a legend. He's set the records for going the longest time without food and without sleep. Of course it's M who chooses the 00 agents, but it's common knowledge that half of them have already been vetted by K first, and those are the most successful ones. The ones he trains have been involved in nearly every major operation for the past two decades. Every agent I've talked to would kill to be handpicked by K."
"And many of them do," she says quietly, and her blue eyes are dark with even darker memories. "Is it your ambition to leave us for the 00 section, Mr. Westcroft?"
"Me? What, and risk depriving the world of the most perfect specimen of mankind born in the past half-century?"
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile.
"Besides, I like my limbs as they are - all whole and accounted for and in their proper places - and this is the kind of action that suits me best," he says, looking around them with a wry smile as he takes in the hive of activity. The room fairly hums with the shared efforts of people and machines.
"For once, I'm in agreement with you." She waits until he looks back at her, holding his gaze with her own. "We do important work here, Mr. Westcroft."
"Yes ma'am. Especially you. You've turned the whole section around." He winks at her saucily before he hops off her desk to return to his own tasks.
To conceal the flush coloring her pale cheeks, she reaches down to retrieve her wastebasket and sweeps the empty chip bag he's left on her desk into it.
K isn't entirely sure what he expected to see when he entered the headquarters of MI6 in Paris, but it's not this. He's always regarded the Paris branch as nearly as traditional and staid as the London branch, and certainly nowhere near as crazy as the American one. He may have to revise his opinion on that.
There they are, the crème de la crème, the elite of the British secret service… gathered around a woman in a Santa hat and a tight red dress that barely clears her- He stops himself before he goes there. The men and women gathered in front of her sport various types of holiday cheer: reindeer antlers, hideous green and red sweaters, snowflake earrings, and the like. At least all of them are armed, although he knows that most of them don't need a weapon in hand to deal death.
"All right, everyone! Remember, we're doing the Secret Santa draw today. Your entry must begin with 'All I want for Christmas is', and whatever you fill in there - the deepest, darkest, most secret thing your heart desires, of course - must fall within the agreed-upon price limits," she tells them.
"Any other restrictions?" a daring soul calls from the crowd.
She raises her eyebrows. "Do try to stay within the limits of legality or at least the very least, it had better be inconspicuous. None of us want to be cleaning up any messes over the holidays, and any offenders will be explaining themselves to me."
K notices the nervous ripple that runs through the crowd.
She smiles brilliantly. "Other than that, I'll leave things up to your best judgment. If you want to have any chance of receiving what you ask for, do try to write legibly - not in that chicken scratch half of you think can be called handwriting. If you'll take over from here for me?"
She plucks the Santa hat off her head and hands it to a blond man with wavy, strawberry blond hair caught up in a ponytail. As the agents swarm him, oblivious to the legend within their midst, she makes her way through the crowd to K.
"Bonsoir, K. I hope you're enjoying your stay so far?"
He ignores her question entirely. "What is going on here?" he demands.
"Oh, this?" she asks airily. "You're lucky to have arrived in time to witness our first Secret Santa exchange. Perhaps a first for all the MI6 branches. Charming idea, isn't it? I think it's excellent for morale."
He scowls at her. "I hardly think the Paris branch is lacking anything in morale if your attire is anything to judge by."
She glances down at herself in honest surprise. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing? Don't you like it?"
"It hardly looks functional," K responds stiffly.
She laughs, a sound that never fails to remind him of golden champagne bubbles rising through a crystal glass. It's a pity that he's so rarely responsible for provoking it. "I assure you, it allows for excellent maneuverability. Would you like a demonstration?"
It was just a tad chilly when he arrived, like in all the MI6 branches, but it suddenly seems to be getting quite warm. He resists the urge to reach up and adjust his shirt collar. "That won't be necessary."
She smiles and leads him to her office so she can update him on the status of the Paris branch of and so he can deliver any information from M that's important enough to convey in person.
flashback, 7 years ago
Two men sit before a roaring fire in a discreet house not far from the Thames, built in the Georgian style and tastefully renovated.
"You can't be serious, M."
"I'm entirely serious, K."
"It would be a huge mistake."
The ebony-haired man regards him with the same intense gaze that demands obedience of the notoriously independent MI6 agents. Having taught him that very trick, K is not in the least susceptible to it.
"Why are you so against her? She has an impeccable record, can outshoot half of the current 00s we have, and comes highly recommended by Arthur Gray."
If there's one person in the world that K holds in as high regard as he holds M, it's Arthur Gray, even though he's perfectly aware that that isn't his real name. He remains broodingly silent, refusing to even sip at his whisky.
"It can't be because she's a woman. You respect Sancia. And Harriet - excuse me, Harry," M reminds him.
K holds up his hand. "Don't bring up 009," he says. "I still have to smooth over her latest mishap with the Chilean ambassador."
"But you respect her."
Grudgingly, K nods. "She is possibly the most trigger-happy agent we have on staff, and she keeps Q branch busy demanding constant modifications to that intolerable motorbike of hers. But yes, I respect her."
"But you think Mina Argent will cause more trouble than Harry?"
He returns to staring moodily into his glass. "She's too flighty. It won't do, M."
"You know how highly I value your opinion, K. But unless you can give me a proper reason not to take her, I'm afraid we'll have to disagree on this one."
Two pairs of eyes, steel gray and midnight blue, meet and clash. Behind them, the sparks thrown off by the fire hiss and melt on the hearthrug, leaving behind faint black traces.
K doesn't want to admit to M that he can't understand how someone who's gone through what she has can be so…well-adjusted. Happy, really. It's never a pleasant path that leads someone to the 00 section of MI6, and K's has been particularly harsh. He carries innumerable scars from the time both prior to and following his entry, and the worst ones are the ones that can't be seen and aren't entirely healed.
"Why are you so determined to have her? You're not sleeping with her, are you?" K demands as a sudden suspicion occurs to him.
M is affronted at this accusation, a questioning of both his judgment and his character. For a time, a rift opens between them, and even though it's not fair, K can't help but lay some of the blame at Mina Argent's feet.
On her first day at MI6, Mina finds her nervousness compounded by the new tension she senses between M and K. Even the quietest agents, the ones who keep their heads down in HQ and all their secrets to themselves, remark that M and K, usually sarcastic and dour, respectively, are even more so. She doesn't remark on it, but it puts her even more on her mettle.
She doesn't think she's let it affect her performance - Art and her life experience have trained her too well for her to let that happen - but she has no idea what K is thinking . He watches her go through test after test without speaking. From their first meeting, she could tell he wasn't a talkative man, but she also sensed that complete silence from him is not only uncharacteristic, but a bad sign.
In the beginning, it makes her unhappy. By the time she finishes with an excellent round of shooting at moving targets with a variety of weapons, she's angry. She knows what the average scores of 00 agents are upon admittance, and hers are well above them.
When she's done, she holsters her gun, turns to him, and raises her eyebrows. "How did I do?"
At first she thinks he won't respond, just turn his back on her and walk away. She would have preferred that to the words that issue coolly from his mouth.
"I've seen better."
From then on, he is the invisible companion on her missions, watching and judging everything she does with those cold gray eyes that give absolutely nothing away. M and K seem to have resolved their differences, but nothing changes between K and Mina.
He splashes noiselessly through the puddles, ghosts up concrete walls, hikes over rough terrain quicker than she can. On one mission in Siberia, K's presence is so tangible that she can almost see a second pair of footsteps besides hers, making firm imprints in the packed snow. She pushes herself to excel, but even as she rises quickly through the ranks, solving disaster after disaster and earning accolade after accolade, she still isn't satisfied.
They don't cross paths often, but when they do, it invariably puts her teeth on edge. He always has some criticism to make, some imperfection to be addressed, some flaw to be corrected. What's worse is, he's always right, and they both know it.
K knows that he is harder on her than he should be, harder than he is on anyone but the best 00 agents. And she is not yet a 00 agent. He both looks forward to and fears the day when she becomes one. By now, he knows it's when, not if. He knows M and MI6 were right to take her.
Every time he swears he'll go easier on her, but each time he falls into the same routine. She always come in with her daring smile, her hair like liquid gold bound up in a bow the size of the queen's jubilee crown. He'll be damned if he'll watch her bleed out her life one day, turning the earth as bright a red as that bow. So he does everything he can to keep that from happening, even as she speeds towards 00 status, both nearer and farther away from him.
flashback, 2 years ago
K follows M into his office, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. They're bloodshot and swollen, and he hasn't slept in too many days. There's a mole somewhere in MI6, someone high up, and all that's at stake weighs heavier on his shoulders each day they fail to uncover who it is.
A third pair of footsteps follows them in, and he looks up to see Mina framed in the doorway.
"What is it, Argent?" M asks, motioning for her to close the door. "Do you have another question about the mission?"
"Not a question so much as a request. I want to handle this one on my own," she says.
K looks at her with those cool eyes. Charles Kinnear is intolerable, but he's not a fool. He should be able to keep another agent safe. "Do you have a problem working with 0013?"
M looks between the two of them, an inscrutable look on his face.
"With all due respect, 0013 is a pompous ass whose record shows that he makes no effort to minimize civilian casualties," Mina shoots back. She doesn't go so far as to add that if it comes to a choice between completing the mission and racking up more personal glory, he'll always choose the latter.
"You make a salient point, but I cannot grant your request at this time. You're in charge of the mission because you've been stationed there longer and know the context better. I have full confidence in your abilities to handle the situation, but I want a 00 agent there with you. He's the only one available right now. But in the future, I will take your preference into consideration when I make the assignments," M tells her.
She doesn't like it, but she nods her agreement. She's counting the days until she attains 00 status, when she won't need another agent at her side. On her way out, she mutters, "I'd rather have Aimée than 0013."
K grabs her shoulder, ignoring the heat that rushes through them. "Don't say that. Aimée has no field experience. You'd be putting her, not to mention yourself, in danger."
She stares up at him. "I would never do that."
His hand drops from her shoulder, and she misses the warmth right away. "I know it. Good luck, Argent."
For the first time, she suspects that his insufferable attitude may actually be a manifestation of a very archaic form of protectiveness. It doesn't make his behavior any less annoying, but it starts to make her wonder whether she should change hers.
Charles "Call Me Ace" Kinnear is a pain in the ass from start to finish, beginning with his efforts to persuade the airline hostesses to join him in the mile-high club and ending with him backhanding her in an abandoned warehouse.
She's lucky that his bone-deep arrogance and sexist attitude make him underestimate her. He only hits her instead of knocking her out fully, and that's his big mistake. While he's settling things with his unsavory partners, she pulls the knife from her hip sheath and buries it in his throat.
The microchip skids across the room and she follows, dodging bullets and taking a good number of blows and kicks before reinforcements arrive. Her last glimpse is of K standing over her, looking angrier than she's ever seen him. She tries to say something to him, show him the chip clutched in her bloodied hand, but her eyelids are too heavy.
She has no memory of how she went from being curled up on the grimy concrete floor to being tucked in a hospital bed, the machines beeping insistently all around her substituting for gunfire. She's woozy, but she remembers fighting her way to consciousness half a dozen times, only to be reassured by a gruff voice that she did fine, that the chip's safe, that she's safe and needs to rest now. If she had been able to rise and run her hand over the uncomfortable-looking chair, she would have felt the residual warmth lingering from someone's lengthy vigil at her bedside.
She turns her head, trying to locate the source of the voice, but the room is empty. A clutch of sunflowers tied with a red ribbon catches her eye, standing out like a shout against the sterile white walls. She stretches out her arm, ignoring the protests her sore muscles are making. Her reach is just far enough to touch the buttery soft petals of the nearest flower and drag out the note tucked in beside it.
Well done. Get well soon is all it reads. She doesn't recognize the hand that formed the straight, precise letters, but a wish so secret that she barely acknowledged its existence gathers strength.
When the nurse comes in to check on her patient, who must be in considerable pain in spite of the heavy dose of painkillers, she's surprised that her first question is who the flowers are from. The nurse can't give her a satisfactory answer, but she's reassured by the hopeful look in the bruised woman's eyes. Hope, after all, is the best medicine for a full recovery.
Mina Argent returns to London to high praise from M and the heady news that she has finally earned 00 status. His congratulations are followed by the news of her next assignment: she's to be semi-permanently stationed with the Paris branch of MI6. Aimée will go with her, but M and K remain behind.
Before her departure, she's swarmed by well-wishers, those genuinely sad to see her go and those envious of her new status. Sancia and Harry take her out on her last night in London, the city where she grew up and the one she loves best, but in spite of the whirlwind of jaunting around town, the excitement of finally, finally becoming a 00 agent and moving to Paris, her heart seems heavy.
Art knows she's going. M will always be the one calling the shots, and she's sure to see Sancia and Harry if not in London again, then in some other time and place. But K hasn't said a word to her all day.
She throws herself into the gaiety, flirting madly with as many gratifyingly attentive men as she can. But at the end of the night - the start of the next morning, really - she hasn't forgotten. As she walks tiredly up the steps to her empty apartment, she stops when she spots a bright burst of yellow.
Two dozen sunflowers are sitting on her doorstep, a wide scarlet ribbon holding them together. Even as she gathers them to her, her eyes search desperately for a note. At last, she finds it pinned to the ribbon. The handwriting on the note is the same as before, but this time, there's one more letter beneath the brief note:
Congratulations on your well-deserved promotion.
- K
Present day
Mina chews on her pen ambivalently, which is a rather dangerous habit given that one of the pens scattered across her desk is Q's prototype for an updated version of the bomb-concealed-in-a-pen device. Another one conceals a hypodermic needle for injecting a slow-acting anesthetic, a quick-acting anesthetic, a short-term muscle paralyzer, and any number of other useful substances, depending on her needs.
A knock sounds at her door, and she calls, "Come in!"
She smiles at the man who walks in, trying not to look at everything in the office at once. She knows who he is - she knows the age, date of birth, marital history, and scads of other information about anyone who with the remotest connection to the Paris branch.
"You're Q's, aren't you?" she asks.
"If only," he responds, rolling startlingly green eyes which then widen in dismay. "I mean, er - I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her I said that."
Mina just smiles and promises nothing.
Nervously, he explains, "I just came here to get your Secret Santa wish." He brandishes the cherry red Santa hat she'd handed to him earlier that day, and it's half-full of folded sheets of paper.
"You're going to pull Q's Secret Santa wish, aren't you?"
He grins. "Guilty as charged."
"What does she want?" When he hesitates, Mina rolls her eyes and says, "Don't try to tell me you don't know exactly which slip of paper is hers."
"A first edition-"
"Oh, never mind. A book might be what she thinks she wants, but Q has hundreds, maybe thousands, of books. What she really needs is to have more fun. A minor - very minor - distraction, to help combat the stress from her very demanding occupation." She eyes him speculatively. "Are you good at distraction, Mr. Westcroft?"
"I consider myself an expert."
"Mm. Well, don't waste your energy convincing me. You'll need all of it to convince her. Now, while it may not seem like it, Q is very much a romantic. You understand, she wants the armfuls of flowers, the moonlit walks, the sweet words that will linger in her memory. She also likes instrumental music - particularly the harp - and spicy food."
"I'm deeply indebted to you. Is there anything I can do for you in return?"
"As a matter of fact…" She gestures for him to close the door and relays her request to him.
He agrees instantly, and once he's in possession of yet another slip of paper, he turns to leave her office.
"One last thing, Mr. Westcroft. As for the other agents - about a quarter of them wrote down 'All I want for Christmas is a new gun,' didn't they?" Mina asks resignedly.
Entirely unabashed to reveal that he has gone through the entire contents of the hat, Zan confirms, "That, or some other item capable of inflicting severe harm. They're very specific about the make and model. A few of them have even requested our new exploding pen prototypes. Another quarter wrote - well, I shouldn't repeat it in polite company, but it involves companionship of the very intimate kind. The rest just put down 'a vacation.' "
She smiles wryly. "Ah. Nothing outside the bounds of what I expected, then. I think you have a good chance with Aimée, Mr. Westcroft. Make sure you don't screw it up."
K is waiting for everyone to clear out, released to find their homes in all twenty of the city's arrondissements, when an earnest young man comes up to him.
"Excuse me, sir. I don't believe you've drawn for Secret Santa yet."
He looks down at him quellingly, ignoring the proffered hat. "I am not participating."
Zan stands his ground. "I'm under orders from Agent 005, sir."
K exhales loudly. Exactly the sort of prank he'd expect her to pull. "I didn't put any request of my own in."
The man, clearly from Q branch, is undeterred. "That's all right. I'm sure you'll be receiving something you want this Christmas season."
He grits his teeth, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He shoves his hand into the red plush hat. There's just one slip of paper left.
As he unfolds it, he barely notices Zan hurrying away to catch up with Aimée on her way out.
All I want for Christmas is you.
It doesn't escape his notice that she's dotted the "i" with a heart.
"Nice view, isn't it?" she remarks as he strides up to her, his breath sending white tendrils of steam curling upwards in the frosty air.
She's wearing a navy blue pea coat, and he can't help but notice that she's pinned a single small sunflower to her collar.
"Never seen a better one," he replies, and his eyes are intent on hers instead of the snowy landscape.
She sends him a look that's anything but shy from under her eyelashes. "Do you think I'll be getting what I want for Christmas?"
"I suppose that depends on what you asked for… on what you meant."
This is K. Dangerous K, who's somehow become her colleague instead of the one she tries too hard to please, the one she's never been good enough for. K, the holder of countless secrets, the shrouded power behind MI6…and her heart's desire.
She looks away from his gray eyes, turns to look back at the two sets of footprints they've made in the soft, fresh snow, and smiles suddenly. He will never tell her all his secrets, may never step from the shadows to the light, but none of that matters to her.
"00 agents don't often retire, and neither does M. And if M ever goes…well, you'll go before he goes."
He nods, both pleased and distressed that she understands him so well.
"But before we come to those crossroads, will you walk with me?"
They stand face to face outside the park, a row of sugared pine trees to their left and a walk of tall chestnuts to their right. In front of them stands the tall iron edifice where they've both shed some of their blood.
"As long as I can. As often as I can. As long as you want me to."
He slides his fingers under her chin and kisses her lingeringly before they walk off arm-in-arm, all but indistinguishable from the other happy couples strolling through the park.
Fin