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0.
The problem, James decides, is that he shouldn't have liked that comment.
Look, he was tired, he just came back from a week-long "trip" of running, hiding, more running, shooting—there's so much shooting his fingers felt dead at this point—and eating protein bars, because god knows they could never let him finish a nice meal whenever he's infiltrating a fancy party, they just had to stir up shit before he could finish his plate, and it's so goddamn frustrating, that grilled king prawn was going to be the highlight of the whole week, and now it was ruined, and he's just. Really. Tired.
He trekked back to his little flat, collapsed onto his bed, and opened Instagram.
It was a long week, he was exhausted, and James was only human. So when someone commented under his post and called him a real catch?
He liked it.
And boy, he shouldn't have done that.
1.
James likes to joke that he puts the "Bond" in "bondage", even though he's not into it. But everyone else seems really into tying him up, and he's used to it by now.
Right now, he's thinking that this Dr. Strong Belb (what kind of name is that?) is a bit new to the whole James Bond villain business, because those knots are definitely not professional. Only his wrists are tied behind his back, and his fingers easily brush against the loose ends of the ropes as he tests the knot's strength. It's really less "madman fixated on world domination" level of bondage, and more "uni students trying out BDSM for the first time" level.
Bless the man, he's trying his best. The tranquilizer was no joke, he'll give the villain that.
James grinds on the voice in his head that coos at a fresher. No. No feeling sorry for someone ruining his day.
"So, Mister Bond…"
Of course he's German. He's gonna gloat too, isn't he?
"…I see you've fallen into my little trap."
Yep.
James cocks his head, studying the novice strutting into the room, trying to walk in such a way that he would appear effortlessly cool. Mentally, he gives this German doctor a 5/10. Bit of a try hard, but props for trying.
More importantly, Dr. Belb carries a gun in the right pocket of his suit, but his hands are smooth, free of the callouses one would expect from a fighter. So the gun is essentially a non threat then.
"It was very well constructed," he lies. A plan has already formed in his head. "Nice drug there you used on me, you made it yourself?"
Dr. Belb perks up. "Yes! It's, um, it's my newest concotion, do you like it? It's completely tasteless, colorless, odorless—"
"—Naturally."
"—And! It doesn't show up on any drug test, so there's no testing your blood to make an antidote for it!"
James lets his eyes go wide with admiration. "Wow. That is very smart."
"You think so?" Dr. Belb asks, but the smile stretched across his face makes it very clear that he's basking in the compliment.
"Yeah, I've never seen anyone who bothers to pay attention to the drugging, and your plan of focusing sunlight to blow up the moon? Genius," he lies. Maybe he's laying it on a bit thick, but James really wants to go back to his risotto he's forced to abandon. And part of him is curious, a hunter studying its prey behind the bushes; how strong is this tiger? Where can I strike him?
"Thank you," Dr. Belb says, walking closer to James, placated, his whole body relaxed and open. James breathes out, his body going slack as well, every inch of him whispering that he's harmless, come closer, won't you?
"It's not every day I meet someone who understands me," the doctor continues, softer now, and James almost feels sorry for toying with him. Almost. "But then, I wouldn't expect anything less from the great James Bond."
Their faces are now only inches apart. James marvels at how easy this all is.
"I didn't know I have such a reputation."
"Oh yes, you do, and I've been waiting for so long to meet you too."
James spends a second going through the possible list of people who he has given a reason to be pissed at him, and then decides the list would be too long to even think about.
A ghostly touch on his face pulls him back to reality. Dr. Belb is… almost touching his face? Hand hovering over his cheeks? He fights the urge to lean back. Relax. Relax, just a bit more and you'll have him…
"It's such a shame, we could've done so much together, if only you'd join me." Dr. Belb muses, and now he's definitely caressing James' face, eyes boring down on him, drinking in the sight of him tied up and helpless. "A genius such as you… what a waste, working for the government."
James remembers his Wordle streak that never lasted to the double digits, and almost snorts.
"At least take me out to dinner first," he jokes. Tries to signal hey, back off, but Dr. Belb clearly doesn't get the memo, because now his gaze is borderline hungry. As is the hunter in James.
"Oh, we'll have dinner alright." Dr. Belb smiles, hand wandering down to his neck as James forces himself to lean into it. The German's hand is far away from his gun. Good. "You'll have a front row seat to the explosion, it'll be a sight like no one's ever seen."
"Pity I'll have to miss it then."
With that, James reveals his untied hands, ropes falling down, a lightning grip on Dr. Belb's arm. A twist, and the arm is broken, hanging limply by his side. James pulls him in, knee digging into Dr. Belb's stomach, easily reaching into the man's suit where the gun is, one hand throwing Dr. Belb into the lush chair and another clicking off the safety and pointing it at his head.
Dr. Belb gapes at him, eyes flickering between the barrel and his broken arm.
"I thought you like me!"
God, he's so naive. "That's just how it goes into this business, Strong Belb. No hard feelings."
"You lied to me! I thought– I thought—"
James is caught between disbelief and pity at the heartbroken tone. Seriously? "Yeah, this is the lying and manipulating business. If you want truth and rainbow and sunshine, go teach kindergarten."
"I'll chase you down, you'll see."
He finds Dr. Belb's phone and pockets it.
"Good luck calling your helicopter now."
Dr. Belb glares at him through tears—really?—and seethes. "You won't get away from me."
In hindsight, James should have heed that warning and shot him dead right then and there. But it's really hard to take this threat seriously when he hears it every week.
He shrugs. "Okay."
And walks out.
2.
The next time they meet, Dr. Belb has kidnapped Lydia, and what little good will James felt for him evaporates the moment he hears Lydia on the phone.
So no, he's not sorry when, hours later, Dr. Belb runs out of his underwater lair, blood dripping down his arm, screaming "She bit me!"
And no, he's not sorry to see Lydia pouncing onto the doctor, fists pummeling into the man a whole head taller than her.
And no, he's not ashamed when everyone looks at her weirdly as they walk into the MI6 headquarters to be debriefed.
"Dude, I thought your girlfriend's a Starbucks manager."
James eyes 008, who's glancing at Lydia the way one would with a shark. He almost frowns at 'girlfriend', before he remembers that, yes, he's not out at work.
He shrugs instead. "She has anger issues, what can I say. The wage at Starbucks is shit."
Lydia checks her phone, laughing quietly at something, and the sound of her laughter has the whole room feeling a few degrees colder again. God, he loves her so much. James can't help but lean against Lydia, bone deep exhaustion sinking into him as adrenaline leaves after yet another fight.
He makes an inquiring sound, and Lydia turns the screen towards him. What greets his tired eyes is a mass of squiggly lines that one might call words, if one has the faculty to interpret what the words want to convey.
Sensing that he's too tired to read, because Lydia is a godsent, a literal angel who could always read his mind, she moves the screen away from him again. "Strong Belb is bitching about you."
"Ugh."
Everyone else is conspicuously listening in, and even M has stopped typing.
"He's upset that you chose me over him."
"Ms Vesper," M clears her throat, "any evidence we have towards Dr. Belb is of utmost importance."
Lydia doesn't take the hint to hand over the phone, but only shrugs. "It's literally on Instagram. He has a public profile. He's doing another notes app story again."
"Not the notes app story!" Moneypenny groans.
M raises an eyebrow, and James can't help but laugh at how his terrifying boss—the woman who can command armies and fleets at a phone call, who dines with the King regularly and has a thick blackmail file on every prime minister, that woman—can't use Instagram.
Lydia spends the next ten minutes teaching M to navigate Instagram on a computer, find Strong Belb's profile, and pull up his Instagram story, with more and more people crowding around as well in the name of "learning the newest technology," which is the biggest lie James has ever heard, and he's a professional liar.
"It's kinda sad, actually," 012 remarks. "He's having such a crush on you, and you just rejected him like that!"
"Did you call him stupid?!" Benjamin, who works under Q, exclaims.
James gives a noncommittal hum. Technically, he told Strong Belb that he "prefers his lovers sharp and capable."
"If my crush rejects me and lets his girlfriend beat me up, I'd turn to villainy too."
James is too tired to turn and glare at whoever said that, but it must have shown on his face how much he does not like it, because Lydia shifts and lets him rest his head on her shoulder.
"If you'd kidnap someone innocent and put them in a death trap just because someone doesn't want to date you, you need help."
The dryness, the lack of any teasing or lighthearted ribbing, must have leaked out more than he intended to, because Lydia is patting his leg comfortingly, like she always does when he gets worked up over something.
"I mean, it's rough to be rejected," 008 tries. "And he's not bad looking!"
James thinks about how Strong Belb looks again. Bald, ginger beard, some muscles on him, 6'1 height, favors pink and pastels. He… sure is a human being, mhm.
"You're heartless," 008 huffs at his apparent apathy. "At least you could've let him down gently."
James curses at himself; he should really just act like he finds Strong Belb sexy or handsome or whatever and put and end to this conversation, but he's tired. And part of him thinks, spiteful and hurt, I don't owe him shit.
The other part of him frantically begs him not to choose violence again and pick another fight. You're at work, you need to be what they think you are, you can't let them know.
He crosses his legs instead, and snarks, "has he tried not kidnapping my girlfriend?"
3.
Christmas is… a complicated affair.
On one hand, he loves his parents dearly, and Ellie has just given birth, so he has a niece now, and he already adores this seven pound bundle that wakes his sister up every night (thank god she's not his child).
On the other hand, Lydia has found a new boyfriend, so that means he can't keep the charade up anymore.
"You really should start looking to settle down, Jay."
Mum frowns, fussing around in the kitchen. It's always weird to hear people call him by his real name, instead of "James". A welcome change, but strange anyway. He's got too used to being James Bond, he thinks.
James dices the onions quickly. "I'm busy with work, Ma."
"Your father wants a grandchild, you know. We're not getting any younger."
"You already have one!" James starts gesturing, before he remembers that his parents are much more stringent about knife safety than his colleagues, and he puts his hand down. "What's Natalie? Chopped liver?"
"What happened to Lydia? She was such a nice girl," Dad chimes in, watching telly in the background.
"We decided that we work better as friends," James recites the cover story, putting in just the right amount of casualness in his voice to make it real. It's not even a lie, technically. It's just that they decided that twenty years ago, instead of three months before Christmas.
"Shame."
"You know, Jay…" Mum hesitates, although her hands never stop mixing the pudding batter. He knows it when he sees it: his mother is about to have a serious conversation with him.
"Yes, Mum?"
Mum takes a deep breath, glances at Dad, and his parents both turn to him. "You can just tell us if you're gay, Jaybird. We won't judge you."
James blinks.
"But I'm not gay."
Mum wipes her hand on the kitchen towel, and pats his arm. "You don't have to hide from us, we'll always be your parents—"
"What your mother means, is that you don't have to settle down with a wife if you're not into that. We're fine with have another son-in-law too. We just want you to be happy, Jay."
Something catches in James' eyes. Must be all the onions he's dicing.
"What brought this on?"
"Well…" Mum has a glint in her eyes that promises gossips, and James prepares himself for yet another nudge about some nice single guy or girl who just moved in.
"There is this nice German lad who keeps hanging out in the bakery, says he knows you from work. He sent us a whole bunch of flowers the other day too!"
Nevermind. This is worse.
"Is this… 'nice German lad' bald with a ginger beard?"
Mum brightens up, and oh fuck, it is Strong Belb. "So you do know him from work!"
James groans. Fuck him, does he have to work on Christmas too?!
Head in hands, he breathes in. Breathes out. It's okay, James, you can always blow up at that German prick the next time you see him, because of fucking course you will. "Do you still have the flowers?"
"No, most of them wilted," and the regretful look on Mum's face just pisses him off even more. So he can blow up the moon but he can't even grow nicer flowers?! "But really, it's the thought that counts!"
"Ma, Strong Belb wants me dead."
His mother tuts at him. "Don't be dramatic, love. Mr. Belb was asking us for permission to court you!"
"Please tell me you said no."
Dad stares at him, the football match on telly nothing more than white noise now. "You don't have to deny that you like him, Jaybird. I know I've badgered you a lot about settling down with a nice girl, but you can have a German husband if you want."
And doesn't James hate it. How earnest they are.
"I don't like him! He's annoying, and petty, and his interior design is shit!"
Mum gives him a look, cutting knobs of butter into the mashed potatoes. "That's not what I heard, Jay. A little birdie told me that you keep going out of your way to have lunch with him."
'Having lunch', is that what they're calling their missions now? He's going to kill 008, after he kills Strong Belb.
"The little birdie is wrong."
"Look, honey, there's nothing wrong with liking a man! You can be with him if you want to, we're not stopping you. We just want you to be happy."
But I'm happy right now. I'm happy without him. James almost says that out loud, but he thinks better of it. It's Christmas, his parents just want the best for him, and they're old and they don't understand, and it's… it's fine. It's fine.
He takes the pot over from his mother, spatula mixing the butter into the potatoes with more force than necessary.
"I'll give him a go," he lies. And the way his parents light up at that hurts more than any wound he's endured.
4.
Strong Belb has hired some henchmen now, people to send him his meals in his luxurious, glorified prison suite.
James has decided to name the one sent to tend to him "Paris", because he's been rereading The Iliad and Paris is the most annoying person in both Troy and Greece combined.
"The doctor doesn't know if you're allergic to anything," Paris says, putting down a tray lightly. There's lobster bisque, a whole bread basket, and he has a feeling this is just the starter.
"I don't think it makes that big a difference," James says. The distinctive whiff of seafood wafts through the air; it smells delicious, he admits. "Your boss is holding me prisoner anyway."
Paris gasps. "It's a very nice suite!"
"The windows are nailed shut with wooden boards."
"He's just scared you'll know where you are and you'll try to escape!"
Something in Paris' tone irks him; he doesn't appreciate how Strong Belb and Paris and probably the rest of his henchmen all seem to think Strong Belb is on some righteous mission to… take over Bulgaria? Turn Cape Hope into Cape Despair? Or worst, wine and dine him?
"I can't understand why I'd ever do that," he deadpans. "It's not like I'm being held in a room against my will."
Paris sets down the silver spoon with more force than necessary. "You could at least show some appreciation at the doctor. He didn't have to put you in such a nice room, you know. He cares about you."
To which James rolls his eyes. If this is how Strong Belb cares about someone, he sincerely prays that Strong Belb has no family or loved ones to care for.
But… it is a very nice room. The sofa is lush and soft, the pillows fluffed, books on the shelf in case he gets bored, and the meals have all been nice, too. There isn't even a chain or cuffs restraining him. Which only unsettles him even more.
He's halfway through the soup when Strong Belb enters without a warning.
"How'd you like the food so far, Mr. Bond?"
"I prefer my lobsters poached and served with a butter sauce."
"I can have that arranged."
"And beluga caviar."
"We can do that as well."
"One tin every day."
Strong Belb's smile wavers for the briefest moment. "You ask for a lot, Mr. Bond."
"Then maybe you should let me go," James gives him the sunniest smile, and throws in a good batting eyelashes at that.
The sofa dips as Strong Belb sits down next to him, tucking a strand of hair behind James' ear.
"So hasty to leave… Am I not a good host for you, Mr. Bond?"
"I'm just not really into the being locked in a room thing," James smiles, feeling none of the amusement or lightness in his voice.
Strong Belb cocks his head, now wandering down to play with his beard, putting a finger under his chin and forcing James to look up at him. James winces at the touch; it feels like electricity under his skin in the worst way possible.
"Or the touching, either."
"You don't have to keep coming, Mr. Bond," Strong Belb muses. "Yet you come back to me every time, without fail. What gives?"
"It's my fucking job," James snipes, real frustration leaking into his words. It's a steady job, and he knows he's doing good work foiling plans of world domination (or mass destruction and death) (or both), but at the end of the day, it's just a job. He's not James Bond 24/7.
The gentle finger under his chin now turns into a firm grip. James squirms, and slaps the hand away.
"You enjoy this, admit it."
"I don't," James says, the first complete and utter truth he's told for the last five days. "I'm really not into this."
"Why do you keep denying it? Why push me away time after time?"
"Because I'm not into you!" James cries out, throwing up his hands. "You can engineer as many meetings between us as you'd like, or charm my parents and lie to them that we're colleagues, or serve me caviar every day, and I still wouldn't like you! There is nothing between us! Nothing!"
The look on Strong Belb's face darkens, and James internally sighs. Be nice, he tells himself, don't piss a madman off.
"I don't like you, and there is nothing you say, or do, that will make me change my mind. I'm just here to stop you from colonizing Bulgaria. That's it."
"I don't give a fuck about Bulgaria," Strong Belb rolls his eyes, not unlike how teenage girls on Disney Channel shows act. "I've got a high net worth than their whole GDP, anyway."
"But you said—"
James pauses. Takes in everything again, the fancy room, the admittedly delicious food, the lack of any restraint apart from a locked door…
The fact that Strong Belb somehow knew he like his lobster bisque with a dash of Tabasco. And how 008 was the one to tell him about Strong Belb's plan, instead of M or Q to brief him on the mission. And how he hangs out with all the other double-o agents all the time, so surely they all know his taste for food…
"There's no plan to take over Bulgaria. Or any other country," he says numbly. "You just wanted me to get here to… have a dinner date with me."
"I bet you work for MI6 too, don't you?" James turns to Paris sharply, catching the young man before he could slip out of the room.
Paris squeaks, and waves nervously, frozen on the spot.
"Uh, hi… I've, um, I've heard of your name, and I'm just a really huge admirer, and I'm honestly so honored to get to work under you—"
"Shut up," James says, tired. "The other double-o's are listening in, aren't they?"
"No!" Paris snaps, a beat too quick.
James looks at Strong Belb, then at Paris. "Why?"
Strong Belb shrugs. "You wouldn't have dinner with me otherwise."
"And you think I'd eat with you now?!"
"I have been told that my previous approaches were a bit too… forceful. And I was hoping that a softer approach would work," Strong Belb says slowly, looking anywhere but at James. It's almost hilarious how he has the gall to act like a shy schoolboy on his first crush, when he kidnapped James more times than he can count on one hand, and almost killed his best friend once.
"It doesn't. Nothing you do will make me fancy you. Unless you willingly go to prison for your many, many, many crimes."
He might as well stop beating around the bushes and spell it out for Strong Belb, since apparently the man can't take a fucking hint.
"But I like what we have right now! I like this—" Strong Belb gestures between him and James, "—this back and forth! The bantering, the cat and mouse, how you'd always chase after me!"
"And I don't," James' eyebrows climb higher and higher up his forehead as Strong Belb goes on. "I don't particularly love this. I'm leaving."
Strong Belb looks like he's about to burst into tears, and James hands him his handkerchief before he walks to the door. He goes through at least three every mission anyway.
Seeing this, Paris hurriedly goes to Strong Belb's side, patting him. Great, so now MI6 is working with an international criminal now. Just fucking great.
"Look, I'm– I'm sure Mr. Bond just needs some time to think about all this, it can be overwhelming, you know, a romantic dinner and a proposal—"
"I'm not overwhelmed," James cuts in, jamming his tie pin into the lock. "And it's hardly a proposal."
Paris shoots him a disapproving look—the audacity, really, "—We'll—well, probably just you now, I don't think our boss will be very happy about this—but you'll figure something out! You always do! You've given us so many headaches in the past, doctor!"
"Maybe the kidnappings were better!" Strong Belb sobs loudly.
The lock clicks into place, and James opens the door easily, leaving the ridiculous scene behind him.
He needs a drink. And then he needs a plan, but first he needs a drink.
And this time, it'll be a vodka martini without the martini.
5.
"It's done, Strong Belb will never bother us again."
James marches into the headquarter, victorious, mostly unscathed for once.
The agents exchange glances, before 008 finally pipes up. "...Congratulations?"
"Congratulations!" "I'm so happy for you guys!" "Please invite us for the wedding."
James stares at the office bursting into congratulations.
"What? No, I got my restraining order against Strong Belb."
Everyone falls silent. One could hear a pin drop. Even M is standing outside her office quietly.
"He's not allowed within five hundred feet of me starting next month," James exhales, feeling proud of himself, feeling relieved finally. "And I told him that. I honestly doubt he'll keep on with the villainy now that he knows it won't work on me anymore."
Someone in the office aww's.
"Ouch," August—his name is August, not Paris, as James has learnt—whispers. "That has got to hurt."
008 winces as well. "That's harsh, Seven."
Something about everyone's reaction, how they seem to feel more sorry for a fucking criminal than the guy being chased unrelenting, lights a fire in James. He tried so, so hard to be decent to Strong Belb, and he mostly succeeded, he thinks. But no, apparently someone just has to test his fucking limits at the end of a very long day, and an even longer six months.
"I have every right," he says slowly, trying to reign in his building anger, "to file a restraining order against someone who repeatedly held me captive, actually kidnapped my best friend once, overstepped my boundaries, and ignored my wishes," he counts on his fingers. It's almost unbelievable how much shit Strong Belb has done. "I have every right to do that. If he doesn't want one, maybe he shouldn't have kept chasing after me."
009 shrugs, "he just wants your attention, I guess."
"I don't want to pay him attention, how about that," James crosses his arms. "I'm not into him. I'm not into him when he ties me up, or when he does that finger under chin thing, or when he forces me to have dinner with him. I don't find any of it appealing, or sexy, or whatever other words you wanna shove into my mouth!"
"Awfully specific denials," someone mutters. "Defensive much?"
"Will you take me seriously for once!" James snaps, thoroughly at his wit's end. "When I say no, it means no! It was no six months ago when I first had the displeasure to meet him, and it's still no now! I don't give a fuck if he's upset that he can't harass me anymore, I give a fuck that I'm the one harassed all the time!
"And I haven't even mentioned the little 'joke' you played on me with the whole Bulgaria thing," he turns, pinning the double-o's—his friends—where they are with his glare. "I can't believe you actually lied to me and made me go on a date, without me knowing the whole time!"
008 shifts on his feet uncomfortably. "Look, man, we didn't know it was that serious, we just thought you were in denial, and we wanted to push you two along a bit."
"Try respecting me for a change next time, and trust me to know myself when I tell you all that I have no interest in him. Or in anyone else. I'm not into this whole enemies to lovers bullshit. I don't like billionaires, or criminals, or people who tie me up and almost killed my best friend."
Not that Strong Belb ended up doing any damage on Lydia. If there's any damage done between the two of them, it's purely Lydia beating the shit out of him. And James is still not sorry about it.
"Just– stay out of my personal life, okay?"
"James…"
008 reaches out to grab his arm, and James flinches, snatching his hand back. Nope. No more touches for today. All the quota for physical touches is burnt through for the whole week. This whole ordeal has been nothing but a giant upset, and between his wrists rubbed raw from the restraint, and that hug he was forced to give, and then feeling Strong Belb's erection at that, it's just… it's all too much.
"No."
"We're really sorry if we upset you, James," 008 softens. "We just thought you two were kinda cute together, and he's trying so hard to get you to look at him, and it's kinda cute, you know?"
James swallows. The nice thing to do, the right thing to do for a senior agent like him, is to wave it off and take no offense.
But it hurts. It hurts to shout on top of his lungs and have no one listen to him.
"Maybe it's cute for someone else. But not for me. I'm not into it."
He takes a deep breath; he's going to say it. He's going to confess a part of him no one else in the office has ever known, and he hopes to god that it'll be enough to put an end to any stupid notions of love once and for all.
"I'm not into anyone, before you ask. It's not because I'm still hung up on Lydia, or because I like someone else, it's nothing like that. I'm single, and I'm happy to be single. I don't– I'm not interested in dating anyone, I'm not interested in sleeping with anyone." He clears his throat, his voice getting thick now, "and when I say no, I really mean no."
James sags, exhaustion creeping into his bones after everything. "And… I guess I'm upset to see that my second family side with someone who's been very disrespectful to me."
009 reaches out, and James jerks away again. "Don't touch me. Please."
Mercifully, the other agent raises her hand in a sign of surrendering. "I'm really sorry, James, believe me. I didn't think how it'd affect you. None of us did. And that's… that was really shitty of us, especially since we're friends."
James rubs his face, at a lost what to say. He just wants to sleep now.
"I'm leaving." And then he adds, seeing all the looks of shock, "for the day. I'm not fully quitting MI6 just yet, but I'm going home now."
He walks out of the silent room, taking out his phone to text Lydia.
He needs his best friend. Lydia always has his back, if no one else does.
And her three cats don't hurt, either.
+1.
M calls him into her office when he gets back to office a week later.
"Sit down, James."
James raises an eyebrow, bracing for whatever case assigned to him. You called me James, this must be serious.
"Nuclear apocalypse?"
"No, no, nothing of that sort. I'm sure you remember Strong Belb."
James internally groans. Somewhere down the line, Strong Belb has managed to make it onto his list of every mission ranked by the size of headache it gives him, right next to "someone wants to blow up the Buckingham Palace" and slightly below "someone wants to nuke Britain".
Something must have shown on his face, because M quickly adds, "it's nothing serious, there is no evil plan this time."
"So…?"
"He sent you a letter." M takes out an envelope from under her desk, although she makes no move to slide it over to James. "We've checked it, there's no foul play of any sorts in the envelope. It is, for all intents and purposes, a letter written by an ordinary pen on an ordinary, albeit expensive, paper."
Thank god MI6 checks all their mails.
"But given your… passionate speech last week, I thought I'd give you this in private," M says quietly, still keeping the envelope with her. "And if you don't want to read it, I'll have it destroyed."
"Sorry for the outburst," James mumbles. M always has a way to make him feel like a child again. He'll never admit it out loud, but it's like he has two mothers: Mum, who's kind and well-meaning and would burn the world for him, and M, stern and disciplined and would sacrifice any one of her agents if it meant world peace. And yet, also caring.
(Lots of people seem to think he'd begrudge her for M's practicality, but he doesn't. He understands the greater good, even if he goes against them sometimes.)
"I think it's my agents who owe you an apology, James. Such tomfoolery and disrespect should not be allowed here."
James nods, not really knowing what to say. It's odd that M hand waves his hellraising ways.
"For what it's worth," she continues, taking off her glasses, "I agree with you."
He wants to politely thank her, but instead, James exhales, a shuddering breath that surprises even himself. As does the pricking feeling behind his sockets. The feeling of a burden relieved from him is unexpected. He knew this. He knew this for years, why is he acting like he needs this validation?
"I don't owe him anything."
"No."
"I don't– what he feels about me is not my concern, and I'm not obligated to– to return his affection or whatever just because he's sad about being rejected."
M looks at him with something he'd label gentleness, if she isn't M. "No."
He blinks quickly. Tucks back in the emotions welling up in him. "Right. Thank you. Sorry, I didn't mean to talk to you like you're my therapist."
She offers him a handkerchief, and looks away delicately as he wipes his eyes. "You always know this line of work will mean you can never get married, and your reputation as a heartbreaker is well known, but… you don't have to want to be married, Jay. Or be in love."
It takes years of etiquette training and reinforcement for him not to gape at M calling him by his birth name. He almost forgets that she knows it.
"I guess I'm just a really good actor," he says. And he means it. Sex and flirting are just another part of the script; if he hated them so much, he wouldn't have signed on to this job in the first place. "And no actor likes to be conflated with their characters."
"Of course not," M nods curtly. "It would be beyond foolishness to suggest that David Tennant is plotting regicide to take over the Scottish throne."
"Of course not. You'd have sent me to stop him already if he does."
His eyes fall on the cream white envelope again, "James Bond" written on it in neat handwriting.
"I can take it, I think."
M hands it over to him, and with a word of thanks, he slips out of her office.
With a flick of his letter opener, a thin sheet of paper falls out. Strong Belb's actual handwriting is much less beautiful, but it's leglible nonetheless. The man appears to be actually apologetic, although the details about his crush on James is frankly unnecessary. But at least he seems to be slowly getting over it now, or at least he understands that James does not return any of his feelings.
It is a bit weird to addressed as James in this context, although it would be far weirder and even more alarming if Strong Belb calls him Jay. But he's changing the James's to Jay's anyway. There's James Bond, and then there's Jay. James Bond flirts with anyone who can tell him anything useful, sleeps with any beautiful henchman or woman who can give him access to evil lairs; Jay would much prefer cuddling with Lydia and her three cats and watch GBBO. James Bond is flattered when people fawn over his good looks and apparently attractive body; Jay would prefer to be left alone. James Bond is unbothered by broken hearts; Jay doesn't understand why people would blame him for their feelings.
It's a world of tricks and deceit they all live in, spies and mad scientists and henchpeople alike. He doesn't even give out his actual name, much less his feelings. Why blame him for playing the game, and playing it well?
Strong Belb clearly isn't a seasoned player, but at least he knows when to fold it. Although, the promise of avenging James' "slighted honor at the hands of his colleagues who couldn't appreciate his uniqueness" is a bit overblown, kind of hypocritical, and quite suspicious—
"OH MY GOD!"
008 screams, jumping onto the chair, and as James squints, he can make out a slivering line and faint hisses around 008's desk.
"THAT FUCKER SENT ME A SNAKE?!"
James laughs. "I guess Strong Belb doesn't like you a lot."