Skyfall Fic: Transition
***
Title: Transition
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Skyfall
Pairing: M/Moneypenny (potential/one-sided)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,890
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: It’s about power, of course it is. But that’s not the only reason.
Author notes: For the prompt ’03:00 generational’ in the ‘Around the Clock’ table from femslash100100. Thanks to apiphile for the idea and enabling. And to pushkin666 for proofreading duties. This is going to make little sense if you haven’t seen the movie and it will spoil it.
“Understand,” she says and there’s something in her voice that tells Eve she knows exactly how much she’s going to hate hearing this, “this is not a punishment. You did nothing wrong.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Understood, Ma’am.”
She regards her in silence for a few moments before nodding sharply. It’s a clear dismissal and Eve leaves, closing the office door behind her as soundlessly as she can. Tanner looks up from his usual perch just outside, already gathering his memos and folders, ready to shepherd M to the next committee meeting.
It’s like a sheep herding the wolf, but it keeps the MI6 ticking over.
To his credit he doesn’t say anything, just offers a sympathetic smile before disappearing into the office. Eve straightens her jacket and goes to find her new desk.
***
It’s not that she’s feeling guilty, not really. She understands all about chain of command and the necessity of difficult decisions. She doesn’t regret taking the shot, though she regrets not having better aim, impossible as that had been given the circumstances.
Still, she spends a lot of time in the firing range now. It doesn’t make anything better but it does help her think.
M has been true to her word and the new assignment doesn’t feel like a punishment at all. The work is interesting and something she’s good at; making things happen exactly where and when they should, finding out information and then applying it with precision.
Eve excels at that, it turns out, far more than she did as a field agent.
***
“Miss Moneypenny,” M says, stopping by her desk. “A word please, if you may?” It’s not a request of course, but Eve finds no harm in maintaining the illusion.
“Of course, Ma’am,” she says, getting up.
M tilts her head back, her eyebrows rising in amused commentary briefly before she turns and walks off. Eve follows, thinking how easy it is to forget just how tiny M is on account of how unimportant her physical appearance is to what makes her her.
“This report here,” M says once they are in her office, pushing a file across the desk. “Talk me through your reasoning and the steps you took to find out the information.”
Eve takes a deep breath and sits down, uninvited but feeling sure of the welcome anyway. “Juan Ortiz was last seen in Madrid three weeks ago…”
She explain the intel, her analysis of it, the further queries made, agents deployed, conclusions drawn and actions outlined. M lets her talk, listening intently, until she draws to a close. Then she starts asking questions.
They are at it for the best part of an hour. M makes her explain every decision she took and then tells her to postulate on the likely consequences of opposing decisions until they have woven a web of ‘what ifs’ so intricate that Eve feels like a fly caught in the middle of it. She’s sweating by the time they’re done, adrenalin making her heart beat faster, her lungs expand further.
Finally, M sits back, closing the file again. There’s something very much like a smile lurking on her face but Eve is smart enough not to think that’s any indication of a positive outcome.
“Ma’am?” she asks, unable and not needing to add anything to it. It’s a question that carries everything within it.
M crosses her hands in front of her, gaze straying to the window momentarily. It’s raining again. Her lined face looks tired and worn, but her eyes are sharp as ever. “Well done, Miss Moneypenny,” she says finally, turning to look at her once more. “Very well done.”
The relief that floods her makes her feel weightless. She wants to slide to the floor and kneel at M’s feet in gratitude but at the same time she feels like she could climb a mountain, fight a terrorist cell on top of it and win. She feels strong.
“Thank you,” she says, unwilling to hide her own smile.
For the shortest moment M smiles back, before her expression hardens again. “You have good intuition,” she says, “but it’s worth shit if you can’t back it up with evidence. I expect your reports to clearly outline the line of reasoning you have taken from now on, is that clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Eve says, biting down the ‘yes, yes, of course, I can be better’ that threatens to escape because there’s no point of saying what they both already know. She can be better. She will be.
***
M is old enough to be her grandmother.
Eve tells this to herself several times, with varying intonations - all inside her head of course because being an MI6 agent soon teaches you not to talk out loud to yourself, even in the privacy of your own home. You never know who’s listening.
She makes it a coolly detached observation, complete with arched eyebrows. She tries a fondly amused tone with head-shaking and eye-rolling, she tries scandalised and even outright horrified. None of it works.
She suspects it’s because age, like a small stature or a wrinkled face, is just one of those things about M only fools even notice. One of those things that has so little do with who she is that it doesn’t even register.
Besides, it’s not like she’s going ask her out on the date or try to kiss her over case files with the porcelain bulldog watching on. The mere idea succeeds where the fact about their age difference hadn’t and Eve is overcome by mortified giggles, imagining M’s reaction. Even thinking about it feels a bit like treason.
***
It’s about power, of course it is.
After all, M is one of the few people in the country who actually has it. If there’s one thing you learn rather quickly as a secret agent, it’s that people who publically wield power - politicians, celebrities, the filthy rich - are rarely more than puppets at best. It’s the hand that pulls the strings that Eve’s fascinated by. It’s the hand that she imagines shaking hers and meaning it, maybe resting on her shoulder if she’s feeling particularly daring.
The whole thing is almost clichéd enough to make her rather disgusted at herself if it wasn’t so pure. Not the power, because there’s nothing pure about power, the best you can do is be aware of the taint, the seduction. Just the fact that M has managed to keep her head above the dark surface of it is amazing on its own. That she’s still swimming with such confidence and purpose doubly so.
Eve examines herself carefully over it and is relieved to find that she doesn’t want that power for herself. Or at least she doesn’t want it just for the sake of having it, which she guesses is the second best thing. She definitely doesn’t want that power to be used on her own behalf somehow, not for bad intention, nor good ones.
But she cannot deny the thrill it gives her; watching M wield it with skill, gentle or ruthless as the situation calls for it. Eve starts finding reasons to be around to see it, witnessing discussions and decisions, warm lies and cold truths handed out like alms to grateful beggars.
She knows she’s there to see them only because M allows it and that too sends a sharp tug of excitement through her.
***
It’s not until after the explosion and the funeral, that she fully understands the consequences.
M is a solitary figure in black amidst the red-blue-white of the coffins; unmoving and unmoved, at least in the traditional sense. There will be no weeping here.
She knows Eve is there, of course, waiting with Tanner in the shadows. This too has a purpose beyond the obvious and Eve takes the lesson to heart, takes it into her very marrow where it settles like steel; heavy and enduring.
She finds that she still doesn’t much care about the power but that this is something she wants: responsibility, the strength to bear it.
And the skill to make it matter.
***
James Bond comes back from the dead and Eve almost hates him for it because she can see it hurts M more than his death had.
Death was work. Death was duty and greater good and making a tough decision and taking the responsibility for it.
This… This is a different kind of loss entirely.
‘I would’ve called’, Eve thinks, ‘I would’ve come back as soon as I could’ even though she knows it’s unfair, that she has no evidence, no comparison point, to say that she would’ve done any different in James’ position.
***
The last time she sees M is minutes after her talk with Mr Silva, although she doesn’t know it at the time of course.
M is shaken, visibly so, collecting her coat from the office while Tanner is fetching the car. Her hands fumble the hanger and the whole thing drops to the ground.
“Shit,” she says, so softly Eve almost thinks she’s imagined it but there’s no mistaking the tightly clenched fist M holds to her chest, just for a moment, like she’s trying to keep something in.
“Ma’am,” Eve says, stepping from the doorway.
“Moneypenny.” M’s head whips around and she lowers her hand, fist uncurling slowly. “Didn’t see you there.”
It’s the first time Eve believes her.
“What is it?” M asks. “I’m rather late already. A horde of political vultures are eagerly waiting to pick my old bones clean.”
“They’ve got a tough hide to get through first.”
It elicits a surprised snort which makes Eve feel like she’s done something right.
“Let me, Ma’am,” she says, picking up the fallen garment and holding it open.
M regards her for a long second but then turns around, slipping her arms into the sleeves and letting Eve help her into the coat. She smoothes the soft wool over M’s shoulders, not lingering but not too quick about it either, stepping back well before she wants to.
“There you go,” Eve says.
M buttons up the coat, her eyes on Eve the whole time, unreadable. Her hands are perfectly steady now.
“Here I go,” she agrees, with a quirk of her lips. She pauses briefly at the door, looks behind her. “Thank you,” she says.
Then she’s gone.
Afterwards, Eve thinks that even if she had known it was the last time, she wouldn’t have done anything differently.
***
Eve doesn’t cry at the funeral. She doesn’t cry at all. Nobody does.
Everyone there knows that crying accomplishes nothing. She rather thinks M would have been proud.
She doesn’t hate James, though the temptation is there. He took M away and got her killed, nobody denies that. Not even him. But then she thinks M wouldn’t have had it any other way, given a choice, so it’s not a judgement she can make.
MI6 keeps ticking over; a bit slower and out of synch to start with but gaining momentum with each passing second. Such is the nature of the organisation; bigger than the sum of its people. Even people like M.
In the end she'd been right; Mallory is not too bad and in a few years he might even be quite good. Eve will make sure of that.
After all, she still has things to learn, responsibilities to grow into, before her own turn.
***
Title: Transition
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Skyfall
Pairing: M/Moneypenny (potential/one-sided)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,890
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: It’s about power, of course it is. But that’s not the only reason.
Author notes: For the prompt ’03:00 generational’ in the ‘Around the Clock’ table from femslash100100. Thanks to apiphile for the idea and enabling. And to pushkin666 for proofreading duties. This is going to make little sense if you haven’t seen the movie and it will spoil it.
“Understand,” she says and there’s something in her voice that tells Eve she knows exactly how much she’s going to hate hearing this, “this is not a punishment. You did nothing wrong.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Understood, Ma’am.”
She regards her in silence for a few moments before nodding sharply. It’s a clear dismissal and Eve leaves, closing the office door behind her as soundlessly as she can. Tanner looks up from his usual perch just outside, already gathering his memos and folders, ready to shepherd M to the next committee meeting.
It’s like a sheep herding the wolf, but it keeps the MI6 ticking over.
To his credit he doesn’t say anything, just offers a sympathetic smile before disappearing into the office. Eve straightens her jacket and goes to find her new desk.
***
It’s not that she’s feeling guilty, not really. She understands all about chain of command and the necessity of difficult decisions. She doesn’t regret taking the shot, though she regrets not having better aim, impossible as that had been given the circumstances.
Still, she spends a lot of time in the firing range now. It doesn’t make anything better but it does help her think.
M has been true to her word and the new assignment doesn’t feel like a punishment at all. The work is interesting and something she’s good at; making things happen exactly where and when they should, finding out information and then applying it with precision.
Eve excels at that, it turns out, far more than she did as a field agent.
***
“Miss Moneypenny,” M says, stopping by her desk. “A word please, if you may?” It’s not a request of course, but Eve finds no harm in maintaining the illusion.
“Of course, Ma’am,” she says, getting up.
M tilts her head back, her eyebrows rising in amused commentary briefly before she turns and walks off. Eve follows, thinking how easy it is to forget just how tiny M is on account of how unimportant her physical appearance is to what makes her her.
“This report here,” M says once they are in her office, pushing a file across the desk. “Talk me through your reasoning and the steps you took to find out the information.”
Eve takes a deep breath and sits down, uninvited but feeling sure of the welcome anyway. “Juan Ortiz was last seen in Madrid three weeks ago…”
She explain the intel, her analysis of it, the further queries made, agents deployed, conclusions drawn and actions outlined. M lets her talk, listening intently, until she draws to a close. Then she starts asking questions.
They are at it for the best part of an hour. M makes her explain every decision she took and then tells her to postulate on the likely consequences of opposing decisions until they have woven a web of ‘what ifs’ so intricate that Eve feels like a fly caught in the middle of it. She’s sweating by the time they’re done, adrenalin making her heart beat faster, her lungs expand further.
Finally, M sits back, closing the file again. There’s something very much like a smile lurking on her face but Eve is smart enough not to think that’s any indication of a positive outcome.
“Ma’am?” she asks, unable and not needing to add anything to it. It’s a question that carries everything within it.
M crosses her hands in front of her, gaze straying to the window momentarily. It’s raining again. Her lined face looks tired and worn, but her eyes are sharp as ever. “Well done, Miss Moneypenny,” she says finally, turning to look at her once more. “Very well done.”
The relief that floods her makes her feel weightless. She wants to slide to the floor and kneel at M’s feet in gratitude but at the same time she feels like she could climb a mountain, fight a terrorist cell on top of it and win. She feels strong.
“Thank you,” she says, unwilling to hide her own smile.
For the shortest moment M smiles back, before her expression hardens again. “You have good intuition,” she says, “but it’s worth shit if you can’t back it up with evidence. I expect your reports to clearly outline the line of reasoning you have taken from now on, is that clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Eve says, biting down the ‘yes, yes, of course, I can be better’ that threatens to escape because there’s no point of saying what they both already know. She can be better. She will be.
***
M is old enough to be her grandmother.
Eve tells this to herself several times, with varying intonations - all inside her head of course because being an MI6 agent soon teaches you not to talk out loud to yourself, even in the privacy of your own home. You never know who’s listening.
She makes it a coolly detached observation, complete with arched eyebrows. She tries a fondly amused tone with head-shaking and eye-rolling, she tries scandalised and even outright horrified. None of it works.
She suspects it’s because age, like a small stature or a wrinkled face, is just one of those things about M only fools even notice. One of those things that has so little do with who she is that it doesn’t even register.
Besides, it’s not like she’s going ask her out on the date or try to kiss her over case files with the porcelain bulldog watching on. The mere idea succeeds where the fact about their age difference hadn’t and Eve is overcome by mortified giggles, imagining M’s reaction. Even thinking about it feels a bit like treason.
***
It’s about power, of course it is.
After all, M is one of the few people in the country who actually has it. If there’s one thing you learn rather quickly as a secret agent, it’s that people who publically wield power - politicians, celebrities, the filthy rich - are rarely more than puppets at best. It’s the hand that pulls the strings that Eve’s fascinated by. It’s the hand that she imagines shaking hers and meaning it, maybe resting on her shoulder if she’s feeling particularly daring.
The whole thing is almost clichéd enough to make her rather disgusted at herself if it wasn’t so pure. Not the power, because there’s nothing pure about power, the best you can do is be aware of the taint, the seduction. Just the fact that M has managed to keep her head above the dark surface of it is amazing on its own. That she’s still swimming with such confidence and purpose doubly so.
Eve examines herself carefully over it and is relieved to find that she doesn’t want that power for herself. Or at least she doesn’t want it just for the sake of having it, which she guesses is the second best thing. She definitely doesn’t want that power to be used on her own behalf somehow, not for bad intention, nor good ones.
But she cannot deny the thrill it gives her; watching M wield it with skill, gentle or ruthless as the situation calls for it. Eve starts finding reasons to be around to see it, witnessing discussions and decisions, warm lies and cold truths handed out like alms to grateful beggars.
She knows she’s there to see them only because M allows it and that too sends a sharp tug of excitement through her.
***
It’s not until after the explosion and the funeral, that she fully understands the consequences.
M is a solitary figure in black amidst the red-blue-white of the coffins; unmoving and unmoved, at least in the traditional sense. There will be no weeping here.
She knows Eve is there, of course, waiting with Tanner in the shadows. This too has a purpose beyond the obvious and Eve takes the lesson to heart, takes it into her very marrow where it settles like steel; heavy and enduring.
She finds that she still doesn’t much care about the power but that this is something she wants: responsibility, the strength to bear it.
And the skill to make it matter.
***
James Bond comes back from the dead and Eve almost hates him for it because she can see it hurts M more than his death had.
Death was work. Death was duty and greater good and making a tough decision and taking the responsibility for it.
This… This is a different kind of loss entirely.
‘I would’ve called’, Eve thinks, ‘I would’ve come back as soon as I could’ even though she knows it’s unfair, that she has no evidence, no comparison point, to say that she would’ve done any different in James’ position.
***
The last time she sees M is minutes after her talk with Mr Silva, although she doesn’t know it at the time of course.
M is shaken, visibly so, collecting her coat from the office while Tanner is fetching the car. Her hands fumble the hanger and the whole thing drops to the ground.
“Shit,” she says, so softly Eve almost thinks she’s imagined it but there’s no mistaking the tightly clenched fist M holds to her chest, just for a moment, like she’s trying to keep something in.
“Ma’am,” Eve says, stepping from the doorway.
“Moneypenny.” M’s head whips around and she lowers her hand, fist uncurling slowly. “Didn’t see you there.”
It’s the first time Eve believes her.
“What is it?” M asks. “I’m rather late already. A horde of political vultures are eagerly waiting to pick my old bones clean.”
“They’ve got a tough hide to get through first.”
It elicits a surprised snort which makes Eve feel like she’s done something right.
“Let me, Ma’am,” she says, picking up the fallen garment and holding it open.
M regards her for a long second but then turns around, slipping her arms into the sleeves and letting Eve help her into the coat. She smoothes the soft wool over M’s shoulders, not lingering but not too quick about it either, stepping back well before she wants to.
“There you go,” Eve says.
M buttons up the coat, her eyes on Eve the whole time, unreadable. Her hands are perfectly steady now.
“Here I go,” she agrees, with a quirk of her lips. She pauses briefly at the door, looks behind her. “Thank you,” she says.
Then she’s gone.
Afterwards, Eve thinks that even if she had known it was the last time, she wouldn’t have done anything differently.
***
Eve doesn’t cry at the funeral. She doesn’t cry at all. Nobody does.
Everyone there knows that crying accomplishes nothing. She rather thinks M would have been proud.
She doesn’t hate James, though the temptation is there. He took M away and got her killed, nobody denies that. Not even him. But then she thinks M wouldn’t have had it any other way, given a choice, so it’s not a judgement she can make.
MI6 keeps ticking over; a bit slower and out of synch to start with but gaining momentum with each passing second. Such is the nature of the organisation; bigger than the sum of its people. Even people like M.
In the end she'd been right; Mallory is not too bad and in a few years he might even be quite good. Eve will make sure of that.
After all, she still has things to learn, responsibilities to grow into, before her own turn.
***