Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For sharks to be in the ocean was, in itself, not suspicious. Seeing those sharks, from a vantage point dozens of metres above the water, was unusual. For them to be so close to the surface, in such a shallow area, was odd. But for them to be circling around one spot, and for them to still be doing that when Bond and Leiter’s plane flew over them a second time: that was certainly suspicious.

Leiter guided the aircraft to the surface of the water and expertly set her down about fifteen feet outside the circumference of the sharks’ circle. He cut the engines. Bond leaned out and squinted across at them.

“I wanted you to get closer,” he said to Leiter. He shielded his eyes from the sun.

“We’re close enough,” said Leiter.

“Get closer,” urged Bond. “I need to see what they’re swimming around.”

Silently, Leiter switched the engines back on and drove the plane forward. The nearest shark swum towards them until its nose nearly brushed one of the skids. It arced around and continued its circle.

Only two sharks were swimming on the surface. The third one had dove down and was nosing at something on the emerald shoals. Bond leaned out of the plane and looked down.

“Be careful!” hissed Leiter.

“They’re not interested in me, Felix, they’re interested in something on the bottom.” The sun was shining through the waves and illuminating a strange patch of rocks and—no, they weren’t rocks. It was a tarpaulin! A giant tarpaulin, painted to look like sand and rocks. Covering something large and lumpy. Something about the size and shape of a small plane.

“That’s it, Felix! Take a look.” Bond pulled himself back inside and climbed over the back of his seat. He fumbled with the diving equipment in the back, making sure the aqualung was filled with oxygen.

When he looked to the front of the plane, Leiter had shifted into Bond’s seat and was leaning marginally out of the plane. His hand was clutching the back of the seat in a vice grip.

“Sure looks like it, James,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“I’m going down to take a look.”

“Go down?” Leiter swung around and looked at Bond sharply. “You can’t!”

“I need to get some evidence to bring to the Police Commissioner,” said Bond absently, fiddling with the aqualung, “and I need to see if the bombs are still there.”

“Largo will have taken them,” said Leiter. “What would be the point of leaving them at the bottom of the goddamn ocean?” His voice was high and breathless, bordering on hysterical.

Bond looked at him. Leiter’s face was an unhealthy shade of grey. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. He was gripping the plane seat so hard that his knuckles had turned white, and the point of his steel hook had all but pierced the fabric seat covering.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Bond.

“Don’t go down there, James,” said Leiter, almost pleading. “The Commissioner will believe us when we tell him what we found.”

“Felix,” said Bond, unable to understand his friend’s reaction, “I’ll be perfectly all right.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll be down there for twenty minutes, maximum. We’ll shoot one of the sharks so the others will go for it and ignore me. We’ll—”

Leiter uttered a faint groan and slumped down in the seat. He brought his hand up to cover his face.

Bond, his shirt hanging half open, came back to the front of the plane. He put a hand on Leiter’s shoulder. “Felix, what’s the matter?”

Leiter was shaking. “The—the sh—” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Christ, I think I’m gonna be sick.” He hauled himself back to his original seat and leaned out of the plane, away from the circling sharks. He retched.

Bond climbed over the seat. Leiter was hanging out of the plane’s open door, holding on with his hook to keep himself from falling out. His breath was coming in short, painful-sounding bursts. He retched again, dryly. Bond put a tentative hand on his back.

Leiter pulled himself back inside the plane and bent over in his seat, burying his head in his arms. His shoulders heaved with every ragged breath.

Bond was absurdly worried that Leiter was having a heart attack. Not knowing what else to do, he reached for the radio. He had a vague idea about calling for help, although no one would be able to get there in time; they were in the middle of the ocean, for God’s sake.

As he picked up the radio, his eyes caught the glint of sunlight reflecting from Leiter’s steel hook.

Of course! His mind made the connection. Leiter’s hook—the sharks. Leiter was panicking about the sharks. It was obvious, really; Bond had seen shellshock enough times during the war, and after.

Well, it may not have been shellshock, precisely, but something a lot like it. Which was understandable. Leiter easily made jokes about his hook and his missing leg, but he never talked about the actual attack from the shark in that warehouse in Florida. Bond had never asked him how much of it he remembered, assuming that Leiter would talk about if and when he wanted to. He never had. Maybe Bond had presumed he remembered nothing, that his mind had jettisoned the memories. Maybe that wasn’t true.

Bond wasn’t sure what he could do. He’d seen people suffer these kinds of attacks before—though never Leiter—and there wasn’t much one could really do to help beyond try and convince them they were safe, that whatever images their mind was conjuring up weren’t real. But it would be difficult to do that when Leiter was literally surrounded by sharks, and when Bond was about to dive into the water with them.

He also didn’t think that Leiter would want to hear meaningless platitudes, regardless of how sincere they were. Instead, he rubbed gently between Leiter’s shoulder blades and waited for the episode to pass. They were in no rush.

After ten minutes, Leiter’s breathing began to calm. He laid his hook on Bond’s knee, and Bond took him by the arm.

“Are you all right?” said Bond.

Leiter nodded. “Other than making an ass of myself, yeah.”

“You didn’t. It’s only me here.”

Leiter sat up and looked past Bond. The sharks were still circling. “What were you saying about shooting one of them?”

“If I shoot one of them, the others will go after it and leave me alone. As long as I don’t cut myself when I’m down there, I’ll be fine.”

“Stay away from sharp objects, then,” said Leiter faintly. He grimaced. “God, I feel sick. Can you hurry up and go down there so we can leave?”

Bond smiled. “Yes, old love. Can you give me a hand with the equipment?”

Chapter Text

Bond had thought that Leiter looked uncomfortable since they had boarded the submarine. He wondered if it was because they were on the water—if he was thinking of sharks again—but that didn’t make any sense, really. Leiter had never been afraid of being near the ocean, not since Bond had known him, not even since Florida. Although, when he thought about it, he didn’t recall Leiter ever actually going on the ocean before. Not before earlier that day, when the plane had landed on the ocean’s surface.

While the submarine’s captain was talking, Bond kept one eye on Leiter. He was paler than normal, noticeable even in the dim light of the submarine. His breathing was deep and uneven. Every minute or so he would swallow.

Still, when he answered the captain’s questions, he was as earnest and articulate as ever, and when he went through the findings of his and Bond’s investigation it was impossible to tell that anything was wrong with him. It was only when he stopped talking that he started to look unwell again.

Eventually, they got up and followed Captain Pedersen through to a sort of rec room. The captain left them there, saying he would get his men up to speed before they began their pursuit of the Disco Volante.

Leiter smiled vaguely at the captain as he left, and sat down on the closest approximation to an armchair that the room had. Bond spotted a drinks cabinet on the other side of the room.

“Whisky?” he said, walking over to it.

Leiter glared at him. “No.”

Bond shrugged and poured himself half a measure. He swallowed it in one, left the glass on the sideboard, and went back over to Leiter, who was slumped over with his head resting on his hand. Bond sat on the arm of Leiter’s chair.

“What’s the matter?” he said, nudging Leiter’s leg with his foot.

Leiter answered with a noncommittal grunt.

Bond’s lips curled into a smirk. He was fairly certain he knew what was wrong, but he almost didn’t want to insult Leiter by saying it. He waited.

The heavy door which separated them from the rest of the submarine was closed, and within his eyeline so he would be able to see if it opened. He rested his hand on Leiter’s shoulder.

Leiter groaned and shrugged him off. “Leave me alone.”

Bond ignored him and ran a hand through his straw-coloured hair. “I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who gets travel sick.”

“I don’t,” said Leiter firmly. “It’s just boats. And submarines, I guess.”

“Sure you don’t want a drink? They have brandy—”

“No, I’ll be fine. As long as I keep as still as possible.”

Amused, Bond said, “We’re hardly moving. How are you going to feel when we set off?”

“I don’t know. Like I said to Pedersen, I’ve never been on a submarine before.” He looked round at Bond. “Stop smiling, you son-of-a-bitch. It isn’t funny.”

“Sorry. Do you need me to find you a bucket or something?”

Leiter’s shoulders heaved. He looked away. “No. Though, actually, I will have that brandy, if you don’t mind.”

Bond patted him on the shoulder and went back over to the drinks. He poured a generous amount of brandy for Leiter, and another whisky for himself. He returned to Leiter and handed him the glass.

After a few sips, a bit of colour returned to Leiter’s cheeks. He cradled the half-full glass to his chest. He said, “Christ, I’m tired of the ocean. Next time I get sent out here, I’m saying ‘no thanks’ and going to Arizona instead.”

“What’s in Arizona?” said Bond.

“I don’t know, James, but what’s important is what’s not there, and that’s sharks and submarines.”

Bond glanced at the door. It was still firmly shut. He leant down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the crown of Leiter’s head. “When this is over, I’ll take you on holiday to somewhere nice and landlocked. All right?”

“All right,” said Leiter distantly. He drank the rest of his brandy. “After we’ve saved the world.”

“After that,” agreed Bond.