Archive of Our Own ^beta

October 2012

Eve Moneypenny had finally had enough. 

She was already feeling guilty; she didn’t need the whole of MI6 whispering and giving her dirty looks whenever she walked by them.

She knew damn well that she had shot MI6’s best agent off of a bloody train on a bloody bridge into a bloody river. 

"She’s the one who killed 007.”

Eve sniffled and cursed her luck. She was currently sitting in an emergency stairwell and crying her eyes out because she just couldn’t stand it anymore. 

Two bloody months of holding her head up and pretending not to care had finally taken their toll. 

She was done. 

She’d...she’d find another job. She’d start over.

She heard a door above her open and sighed. 

Was there no privacy to be found anywhere?

“You’re not a bad agent, you know.”

The speaker was male, young. His voice was a high soft tenor, and his accent was crisp and exact -- a classic, somewhat obnoxious RP.

Eve didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. Perhaps he would leave if she failed to acknowledge him. 

“Nor do you have bad aim,” the young man went on. “Despite what rumormongers say, you are not to blame. You explicitly told M that you didn’t have a clean shot.”

That got her attention. 

“What do you know about it?” she said nastily, not liking this busybody prying into her affairs. 

She glared at the interloper through her wet eyelashes. He looked exactly like the sort of person she’d pictured: delicate-boned, floppy-haired, and dressed in a preppy-looking cardigan and glasses. And young. He looked like a uni student at Oxbridge, and not an MI6 employee.

He met her gaze without a flinch. “I was on comms. Linked to M and the senior officers, not you agents, but I could hear.”

“Why were you on comms?”

M had been Bond’s handler for this mission. She wouldn’t have allowed an intern on the job, even behind the scenes. 

“I was the computer tech for the mission.” 

Well, computers. Eve supposed that that made a bit of sense. MI6 was always looking for new blood, especially those with computer skills. 

The young man seemed to find her lack of response encouraging, for he came down a few stairs and sat on one of the steps, his knobby knees knocking against each other awkwardly.

“M gave the order,” he continued, “knowing that you could hit either man or neither. You followed her order. You delayed as long as you could, but you knew as well as anyone what was at stake and you took the chance. Bond would have done the same. I don’t believe that he would blame you, if he’s alive.”

Eve scoffed. “If he’s alive? You don’t think he’s dead, then?” What was this kid, a conspiracy nut?

He shrugged. “First of all, there was no body. Even if there was a body, there’s always a possibility of non-death in this business. Mistaken identity, body swapping, and so on. Second, he’s got a history of miraculously evading death. The luck of the 007s, so to speak.” The side of his mouth quirked up in a small, amused smile. He had a point; most of the 007s, not only Bond, historically had especially good luck in surviving their missions, compared to other designations. Lucky number seven.

Eve shook her head, and gave a weak laugh. She found herself humoring him, though she didn’t know why. “And you don’t think he’d blame me for shooting him? Really.”

He raised his chin. “I truly don’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because he knows how the system works,” was his prompt reply. “Because he heard you. You didn’t want to. That’s why. If he comes back from the dead -- as a ghost or otherwise -- you won’t be the one he’ll be haunting.”

“And how do you know that?”

The young man -- boy, really, for he looked to be around ten years younger than her -- rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth in a deliberate, calculating gesture. “I’m well-acquainted with his type. That’s how they think.”

She smiled indulgently at the cocksure young man. “You’re a bit young to know how things work around here, aren’t you?”

“That’s what they always say,” he smiled mysteriously from behind his steepled fingers, “and then they’re forced to eat their words when I turn out to be right. Besides, I’ve been working here for four years. That’s long enough to see how the waters flow, don’t you think?”

Eve raised a well-manicured eyebrow at him. “Four years? Did you start working here straight out of grammar school?”

“I find that my appearance makes people underestimate me,” he said with an indecipherable smile, not at all goaded into anger at her tease or disbelief, “It’s an annoyance most of the time, but it is often an advantage, especially in the world of espionage.” His gaze sharpened. “Now, Miss Moneypenny, are you a proper spy or aren’t you?”

She frowned. “What the bloody hell do you mean?”

“Are you going to let this one thing take you down,” he said, his consonants razor-sharp, “or are you going to get up and show them all what you’re really made of? I’ve seen your files. You were well on your way to qualifying to be a double-oh before this. You could still turn this whole thing in your favor if you’re clever enough. Double-oh might be out of reach now -- it doesn’t look good to knock off one's predecessor, even accidentally -- but one can go far in administration with the right sort of brains and enough determination. And of course, field work is not out of the question, once your suspension is lifted. You have options, Miss Moneypenny.”

Eve stared at him, perplexed at the turn the conversation had taken. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m R.”

Eve remembered that there had been some kind of bureaucratic upset a couple of years ago about hiring someone to the position of R who plainly did not have enough experience. R was meant to be the quartermaster’s backup when he was not available, and was unofficially understood to be the next Q. 

A new trainee at the time, Eve had nodded and agreed; someone too young to have enough experience under their belt was likely to be a terrible fit for the position. Now, however, she was beginning to see why the current quartermaster had picked this young man to be his successor. He was clearly highly intelligent, secure in his competence, and was sly enough to survive (and thrive in) the tangle of intrigue at MI6. He also apparently had no problem telling people that they were in the wrong, no matter who they were. 

She shut her jaw with a sharp click. “Why did you come and find me? Surely you’ve got better things to do than rescue weeping damsels in distress.”

R sat back and shrugged, looking for all the world like a schoolboy in his cardigan, tie, and slacks. “Perhaps I’ve got a thing for underdogs, being of the scrawny and nerdy variety myself. Besides, you’re a far cry from being a damsel in distress. Up until the train, you were doing extremely well, and I do love competence when I see it,” he drawled. 

It was funny; if anyone else had said it, she would have called him a pompous ass, but this young man -- this R -- somehow turned the arrogance of his manner into charm.

“Have you got a name, R?”

He tilted his head at her non sequitur. “Not anymore. Not legally, anyway.”

Eve scoffed. “Right.” 

She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks with her fingers, and sniffled, hoping that her makeup wasn’t completely ruined. She was wishing that she had thought to tuck a tissue into her pocket when a white handkerchief insinuated itself into her view. 

“A handkerchief. You must be joking. Are you eighteen or eighty, R?” She took it anyway.

“One never knows when one might need to wipe off fingerprints in this business.”

She stopped blotting at her makeup for a moment. “That is a joke, isn’t it?”

R smiled enigmatically and pointedly didn’t answer her question. “Are you feeling better, Miss Moneypenny?”

She shook her head at this whole crazy situation and had to laugh a little. “Yeah, I am. Thanks. And it’s Eve.”

The smile he gave her was brighter than any he had worn so far. “You’re welcome, Eve.”

“Do you want to go for drinks after work, R?”

R drew back and blinked for a few moments. “I...erm...You’re not really my type.”

“As friends.”

“Oh, yes.” R blinked a few more times, as though flabbergasted as to why she would want to. “Of course. Friends.”

She couldn’t help but tease him. “You’re a bit adorable when you’re flustered, did you know that?”

He turned pink. “Excuse me?”

“What do your friends call you, R?”

R recovered quickly and the expressive mouth twisted with dry humor. “‘Kid,’ mostly,” he replied with a smirk, “but what they don’t know is that a hundred pounds is taken from their accounts and donated to a children’s charity of my choosing every time they call me that. If you want to avoid unintentional donations, you can call me Robert.”

Eve laughed. “Steep price for a nickname, isn’t it?”

R -- Robert shrugged. “They can afford it. They’re double-ohs. They get paid ridiculous amounts of money.” He rolled his eyes for emphasis.

“You’re friends with double-ohs?” Eve asked, incredulous. The young man before her and the double-ohs she had met were so far apart in every way that the thought that he might be friends with them was baffling. 

“Some of them, not all. I’d never met Bond,” he clarified before she could ask. “Like I said, though, I’m well-acquainted with his type.”

Eve found herself shaking her head in disbelief again. “You are not at all what you seem, are you?”

R gave her that inscrutable smile again.

She gave in and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Robert.”

He clasped her hand in a firm grip. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Eve.”