#gareth mallory/ofc

[jomiddlemarch]

made up title: "ride it out."

you can choose Gareth (Mallory) x Vivian (the 007fest is occurring right now if we want to pop in and say hi) or Joel x Grace. Maybe Roy Kent makes an appearance. or Beard. or both. or you can be annoyingly overachieving and do some six-sentence ficlet for each pairing. while I'm still writing this shitty first draft. 😂❤️

For Joel/Grace: Grace finally agrees to let Joel give her horseback riding lessons, since it would allow them to venture further away from Jackson in scavenging missions. Ellie offers what she considers helpful concrit from the sidelines; Grace considers it teenage snark but developmentally on track, so she tries to keep from snapping or using the tone of voice she remembered Lauren’s mother employing for the majority of their adolescence. Beard keeps the brim of his ten gallon hat nearly covering his eyes and is completely silent, possibly asleep. Joel is remarkably patient, given that Grace is barely willing to climb on the horse and has no miraculous talent for riding. She is stubborn and refuses to give up once she’s on the reportedly docile Appaloosa Lulabelle, even after she manages to fall off three times in a row.

“I fell off a bicycle six times before I mastered it and that is a marvel of human engineering—I can stay on a goddamn horse,” Grace said, every word jostled out of her with every clip-clop of Lulabelle’s hooves, Joel raising his eyebrows in disbelief, though it was unclear which clause he found most dubious.

For Gareth/Vivian: There’s a heatwave in London and Vivian is dismayed to learn that neither her flat nor Gareth’s has anything that could even pretend to match an overworked window AC unit in the States, so they are forced to turn to other measures. Drawing the curtains. Filling Gareth’s refrigerator with ice to the exclusion of nearly every other foodstuff. Gareth insists that they should eat a lot of very spicy, very hot curry with some extremely unscientific explanation he ultimately agrees is an old wives’ tale and the old wife was his Great-Aunt Phyllida, who’d spent her early childhood in India and never let him, or anyone else, forget it. Lolling about in a state of undress, undress largely consisting of skimpy cotton items when it turns out Vivian hates sweating into her favorite silk negligee.

“A cool shower after this sounds blissful,” Vivian said, straddling Gareth’s narrow hips and moving as languidly as she could while trying to keep the building heat between them within the narrowest confines possible, an erotic challenge she wouldn’t have asked for but found she couldn’t entirely mind.

[tessa-quayle]

tfw the piddly amount of fanfic you’ve written is so fucking and transparently self-indulgent that you reread your own fic specifically to get the name of a restaurant you loved to recommend to a friend. cause your tired brain couldn’t remember it from 5 years ago.

(Lanzhou noodles in London in case you’re wondering)

[mi6-cafe]

There are lots of ways to do that:

Kudos something you like

A short comment (“Loved this!” or “Extra kudos!”)

A more detailed comment (“X made me laugh out loud!”)

Make a rec post

Send a creator a short anon ask about their work! (“What inspired X?”)

Send a reader who’s commented a short anon ask showing your appreciation! (“Your comments make my day!”)

Reblog this post with a rec

As part of Supportive Sundays, we’re also highlighting some fancreations with few comments that may be overlooked.

Still Q, by earlybloomingparentheses. Summary: Q has to be still. He has to be silent. Unless he wants this woman to find him, naked, cock leaking, spread-eagled and tied down, underneath the bed. Bond ties Q down and fucks somebody else. [00Q, James Bond/OFC] 

Wretched, by Dassandre. Summary: It didn’t happen often. At least not as often as it had done in his youth. [00Q, depression cw] 

The End of an Era, by Janeway69. Summary: Set right after the events Skyfall. M is unconscious in the hospital, James can't settle until he sees her. Tanner is looking out for his people! [James Bond/Dench!M] 

The Sin of Omission, by TheIskra. Summary: Another character study for Gareth Mallory. Meant sort of as a sequel or companion to Into The Valley of Death. [Gareth Mallory/Alec Trevelyan] 

[savvyblunders]

Indulgence {Mycroft/Greg/OFC}

I’m trying to write diligently away at my fic for @cumberbatchedandgatissmitten but instead of writing the next bit of scene/world-building, my brain helpfully supplied me with a cute/tender/sweet/steamy scene between the three lovers while they’re watching Skyfall. (Y’all, 00Q fic has taken over my life, send help)

They were watching Skyfall. Again, as Mycroft had sighed in a very martyred fashion. He didn’t fool his sweethearts, however, who were used to his theatrics. Mycroft loved the Bond films as much as they did, although he had a fondness for the older Connery era; Li and Greg were both quite taken with the Craig films and the three of them had watched his films more than once. 

The three of them were sprawled on the roomy sofa in the upper flat. Mycroft had a very spacious two floors, perfectly appointed and lacking no luxury, but he seemed to prefer that they spend most of their free time in the top floor residence. Li suspected he found it homier, something he wouldn’t admit to wanting, but which he very much needed. Mycroft had his head in her lap, where she had been idly threading her fingers through his hair, and his socked feet across Greg’s legs. Greg had one hand softly squeezing Mycroft’s toes, the other arm was stretched across the back of the sofa so he could play with the ends of her hair. Greg was a tactile, affectionate lover, and it was rare that he wasn’t touching them in some way. 

“Hnnng,” Greg grunted softly when Gareth Mallory appeared, looking enigmatic and deliciously rugged. 

“What is your fascination with that man?” Mycroft asked, sounding honestly puzzled.

“He’s gorgeous, for starters,” Li answered, stroking his furrowed forehead. He tipped his head back farther and looked up at her, bemused. “Powerful, in control, mature…”

“Aged like a perfect whisky,” Greg supplied. “Fucking catnip.”

“He’s...old,” Mycroft said, sounding subdued. He studied his hands, which were pulling at one of the buttons on his waistcoat. Over his head Greg and Alia’s eyes met. “Desk-bound, hide-bound...conventional.”

Oh love, Li thought, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. No matter how deep their love for him ran, his own feeling of self-worth was a wounded creature, still wary of trusting to the depth of their feelings for him.

“Bond, I can understand,” Mycroft said, a bit too briskly, obviously worried he’d revealed his hand, “He’s vigorous, fit.”

“I’d...not kick him out of bed,” Greg mused, “but for a relationship, it’d be Mallory all the way. He’s a man who knows what he wants, who respects order and tradition, but knows how to wield his power for the greater good.”

“Plus he’s just hot,” Li said with feeling, and Mycroft tipped his head back again to look at her, and when he did she leaned over and kissed him, soft, wet and open-mouthed. A soft rumble of need vibrated his throat beneath her fingertips, and she smiled against his lips. 

[ao3feed-hartwin]

You('re) Like Me

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2I3cVOU

by unevagabonde

When the MI6 was the victim of numerous virtual attacks done by a certain "specialist", in London at the same time, disappearances of Kingsman knights and secret agents of the MI5 on the British soil become more frequent, disturbing New Scotland Yard and The International Secret Services who do not know how to stop these attacks seem to come from inside as well as from outside.

In Paris, a sword of Damocles hangs above the head of Guillaume Debailly and Marina Loiseau, agents of the DGSE and the prestigious Bureau Des Légendes. The self-proclaimed and extremely dangerous sociopath consultant, chased by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Jim Moriaty would be alive and would have been seen by the two agents in Iran, Morocco, Damascus and Paris itself. The two clandestine agents then perhaps hold a hypothesis to a riddle that could be more foggy and complex to settle than expected.

Words: 4043, Chapters: 1/?, Language: Français

Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman (Movies), Le Bureau Des Légendes (TV), Mission: Impossible (Movies)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, James Bond, Q (James Bond), Mycroft Holmes, M | Gareth Mallory, Eve Moneypenny, Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Harry Hart | Galahad, Eurus Holmes, Guillaume Debailly | Malotru, Marina Loiseau | Rocambole, Bill Tanner, Alec Trevelyan, Irene Adler (Sherlock Holmes), Charlie Hesketh, Roxy Morton | Lancelot, Original Female Character(s), Merlin (Kingsman), Doctor Balmes (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Nadia El Mansour (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Vesper Lynd, Ethan Hunt, August Walker, Madeleine Swann, Marie-Jeanne Duthilleul (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Greg Lestrade

Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, James Bond/Q, Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Guillaume Debailly | Malotru/Nadia El Mansour (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-SPECTRE, Post-Season/Series 04, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Slow Build, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), One-Sided Attraction, Near Death Experiences, Character Development, Developing Friendships, Fluff and Smut, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Background Alec Trevelyan/Ethan Hunt, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Background Roxy Morton | Lancelot/OFC, Kingsman: The Golden Circle has never existed to me, Q Has a Crush, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, Eggsy Unwin Ships James Bond/Q, Merlin Is So Done (Kingsman), Eve Moneypenny & Q Friendship, Minor Irene Adler/Eve Moneypenny, I Just Added Ethan Hunt And His Friends But They Are Going To Be Minor In This Story, Eve Polastri (Killing Eve) is mentioned, James Bond Being James Bond, Protective James Bond

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2I3cVOU

[dassandre-00qpidsarrow]

Dr Emmaline Y’da -  OFC - 00QEros(Dassandre)

Emmaline Y’da currently appears as an original character in two stories: Summer to Your Heart and How Much Love Can the Weight of Water Carry by 00QEros(Dassandre). She is MI6’s Chief of Medical.  Herself a renowned surgeon, Y’da’s father had been one of the world’s leading virologists, appointed Regius Professor of Medicine at Oxford University, an academic chair founded by King Henry VIII in 1546, and though Emma’s medical career has taken a vastly different path than her father’s, she knows far more on the subject of virology than anyone else of Q’s reckoning.  

In Summer to Your Heart, Q consults with Y’da prior to debriefing M and Bond on the intel gained on the lentiviral vector Bond managed to keep from being unleashed on Frankfurt, Germany.

While Alec Trevelyan has no love for Medical, he has a great deal of respect for Dr. Y’da whom he finds to be refreshingly blunt and direct, but sincere.  James considers Y’da to be one of the true sources of female power at MI6, just behind Q and Eve Moneypenny.  He is convinced that given the proper motivation, these three along with the female Double-Os -- Three, Eight, Ten, and Twelve-- would have little trouble achieving world domination if they wanted it.

In How Much Love Can the Weight of Water Carry, it is Emmaline Y’da, along with Gareth Mallory, who inadvertently puts Q and Bond on a romantic path by housing an ill James under Q’s care in a modified quarantine:

When Q originally shoved the take-away menus into Bond’s hands, he had not realized that the invitation to share dinner would become an invitation for the agent to move into Q’s flat for the duration of his recuperation, but that had been before Bond had developed a particularly nasty case of the flu and most definitely before Q had been strong-armed by Mallory and Medical’s chief physician, Dr. Y’da, into tending 007 through his illness.

“The man knows bugger all about taking care of himself, even during the best of times,” Y’da observed while flipping through the pages of Bond’s extensive medical history. “This flu’s been wreaking havoc through Six as it stands, but add to the fact that he’s only three days past surgery; discharged himself against medical advice, again, I might add,” she tossed the file to the table that hovered over Bond’s lap as he lay in the treatment bed, hooked up to a variety of drips to rehydrate him, and glared at the, quite frankly, pathetic looking Double-O, “He either has someone look after him or he stays here for the duration.”

Bond scowled and opened his mouth, but the fuss he was no doubt ready to unleash on sum and sundry was cut short by a coughing fit that practically left Q breathless from watching it happen.

“I don’t see ‘option two’ being a particularly positive one for anyone involved, do you, Quartermaster?” Mallory interjected in that annoyingly lazy tone of voice he used when offering up choices that really weren’t choices at all.

Q raised his eyes to the ceiling, half expecting to actually see the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head in spite of the fact that he definitely wasn’t at the head of this particular power dynamic.

Bond is so unsteady on his feet from the flu and his surgically-repaired leg that Y’da insists he leaves Medical in a wheelchair.  He is vocally displeased by that requirement, and he and an exhausted Q set to bickering about it.  Snickering from the doctor and Mallory pull Q out of the argument, and he becomes suddenly protective of the Double-O.

“There’s hardly anyone here this late, but I’ll wipe the security footage so that there’s no evidence of you leaving here in that chair,” Q continued, raising his voice in a way that demanded the other two take note on what he was about to say.  “And I know that neither M nor Dr Y’da would ever think of sharing that tidbit with anyone else.”

“Indeed not.  I like my credit rating right where it is, thank you very much.  I’m refinancing my mortgage.” M said drily.

“Doctor/patient confidentiality,” Y’da added, stating the obvious.

“I should hope so,” Q said with a glare for the indignity he knew his agent was feeling and took the handles of the wheelchair from the nurse to push Bond from the room.

Y’da and Mallory watch silently until the pair is out of earshot.

“They’ll be married within a year.” Y’da decided.

“Oh, not so long as that, I think,” Mallory corrected.  “Seven months at the outside.”

Eyebrow cocked, the doctor turned to the spymaster.  “That sure are you?”

“Hundred quid.”

The eyebrow rose higher.

“Fine.  Two hundred quid.”

“Excellent.  I look forward to adding it to my holiday fund.”  

They shook hands on the wager.  Mallory nodded and headed for the door.  He did still have work to do, after all.  

“Gareth,” Y’da called after him, “They haven’t even started courting properly yet.”

“Emmaline, trust me when I say that for all their brilliance, those two men are idiots.  Not only was that courtship that was foreplay.”

[teamcivilian]

Intro Post: tessa-quayle

Name: tessa-quayle

Favorite Bond Character: Gareth Mallory/M (as a ralph fiennes enthusiast, this is kind of obvious) ;) 

Favorite James Bond: Timothy Dalton 

Shameless Self-Promotion for the Day: It goads me, like the Goblin bee and the other stories here 

Promotion of actually notable work: my friend created the OFC in our collective M/OFC fanfic - her 007 work is splendid and on Tumblr she is @jomiddlemarch

007 Fest Ultimate Goal: just getting to know people and enjoying everyone’s creativity! 

Favorite Bond Movie: Skyfall 

I’m a lurker in the bond/mi-6 fandom and just recently dove into the world of fan fiction (writing about M and an OFC with the occasional appearance by Q and Moneypenny).  thanks @a-forger-and-a-point-man and @castillon02 for including me here!  

[leavesdancing]

Now complete!

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James Bond/Q Characters: Q, James Bond, Original 00 Agent(s), Original Characters, M | Gareth Mallory, Eve Moneypenny Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Pining James, Oblivious James, Oblivious Q, Exasperated Double O Agents, Q/OFC/OMC, Making out MMF, Canon-Typical Violence, pre-00Q, Doctor Who References Series: Part 2 of Have Double O, Will Travel Summary:

James doesn't take rejection well. Q doesn't either. M has a plan, and puts it into action: assigning Bond to guard duty for Q's vacation. It should have been an easy mission - but events have a way of spiraling out of control when Bond is around.

Ch. 2: It’s just an average science fiction convention. The Quartermaster is having a great time, but his Double O bodyguard isn’t too sure about it. With some teasing and a faintly familiar face that seems out of place, Bond is definitely on edge.

Ch. 3: Joy needs to get out of her predicament, and Bond has to join forces with Q, Helen, and Zac to find her. And maybe, just maybe, Bond might learn a thing or two about his Quartermaster.

[ao3feed-sherlockfemslash]

You('re) Like Me

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2XqxqgV

by unevagabonde

When the MI6 was the victim of numerous virtual attacks done by a certain "specialist", in London at the same time, disappearances of Kingsman knights and secret agents of the MI5 on the British soil become more frequent, disturbing New Scotland Yard and The International Secret Services who do not know how to stop these attacks seem to come from inside as well as from outside.

In Paris, a sword of Damocles hangs above the head of Guillaume Debailly and Marina Loiseau, agents of the DGSE and the prestigious Bureau Des Légendes. The self-proclaimed and extremely dangerous sociopath consultant, chased by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Jim Moriaty would be alive and would have been seen by the two agents in Iran, Morocco, Damascus and Paris itself. The two clandestine agents then perhaps hold a hypothesis to a riddle that could be more foggy and complex to settle than expected.

Words: 4367, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman (Movies), Le Bureau Des Légendes (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, James Bond, Q (James Bond), Mycroft Holmes, M | Gareth Mallory, Eve Moneypenny, Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Harry Hart | Galahad, Eurus Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Guillaume Debailly | Malotru, Marina Loiseau | Rocambole, Bill Tanner, Merlin (Kingsman), Roxy Morton | Lancelot, R (James Bond), Original Female Character(s), Alec Trevelyan, Marie-Jeanne Duthilleul (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Vesper Lynd, Charlie Hesketh, Doctor Balmes (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Irene Adler (Sherlock Holmes), Nadia El Mansour (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Molly Hooper, Madeleine Swann

Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, James Bond/Q, Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Guillaume Debailly | Malotru/Nadia El Mansour (Le Bureau Des Légendes), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Freeform, Post-SPECTRE, Post-Season/Series 04, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), One-Sided Attraction, Near Death Experiences, Fluff and Smut, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Roxy Morton | Lancelot/OFC - Freeform, Irene Adler/Eve Moneypenny - Freeform, Kingsman: The Golden Circle has never existed to me, Eggsy Unwin Ships James Bond/Q, Eve Moneypenny & Q Friendship, James Bond Being James Bond, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, Past James Bond/Vesper Lynd

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2XqxqgV

[jomiddlemarch]

these aren’t characters you normally write and fandoms you don’t frequent. Only if you feel compelled :) (no pressure)!

74 (are you challenging me) - either Vivian/OFC+Mallory or Grace/OFC+Joel Miller. I’m indecisive - pick one couple 🤣

Like I was going to pick one when it's so much more fun to write for both...

“Here, tell me what you think” Gareth said, handing her a glass of red wine that had the rich depth of a cabochon ruby, though Vivian would just as happily have taken the leavings of a box of two-buck-chuck at this point in the day, the week, the year that if not from hell proper, had certainly all the hallmarks of being in the adjacent gentrifying neighborhood.

She took a sip just short of a gulp and waited a millisecond longer than she needed to, so he’d be satisfied she was really savoring it.

“It’s nice,” she said and he gave her a look that was not crestfallen as much as wryly disappointed, an expression he wore as well as his cricket whites.

“Are you challenging me? Fine, I taste pear and geranium, some cassis, some myrrh, you happy now?” she replied, knowing he wouldn’t bother answering her except to top off her glass and then taste the wine for himself—on her lips.

AND

“Are you challenging me?” Joel said, looking at Grace with an expression so shocked she had to wonder how the first few years of the apocalypse had gone for him; Ellie, who’d predicted exactly what was happening, managed to smirk at both of them, though the curl of her lip held a so-there for Joel and a see-what-I-mean for Grace.

“I’m not challenging you, Joel, but I’m saying Ellie has a point, one I happen to agree with.” 

Grace recrossed her arms in front of her, wishing briefly that she had a nicer top, that there was a nicer top left in the world that wasn’t in a mall riddled with zombies, that crossing her arms would do anything notable for her breasts such that Joel would just stop arguing already and let them move on to logistics or maybe a little light ogling.

“I’ll be safe at Alex and Peyton’s, Maria is one house over, you two deserve some time alone and if you can’t figure out what to do with that, you can always play Uno or some shit,” Ellie said.

“Fine,” Joel muttered, giving in the way they’d all known he eventually would, the smile only in his dark eyes and the set of his broad shoulders, “but there’s no way in hell we’re spending the night playing fucking Uno.”

[tessa-quayle]

Your fic, "it goads me, like the goblin bee" is so beautiful !

aw, thanks so much for the kind compliment! thank you so much for even taking the time to read it and wow, I'm especially flattered to receive such encouraging feedback from someone whose writing I admire and whose wonderful stories I've thoroughly enjoyed! ❤️

credit goes to the brilliant @jomiddlemarch who is the most thoughtful beta reader and who singlehandedly rescued that specific fic from being total cringe. 😂

thank you again! and congrats on your publishing success!

[jomiddlemarch]

Tender only to one

“Q needs to stop making cow eyes at James. That’s not going to happen,” Vivian said quietly. No one else would have heard her, she’d made sure of that, but she hadn’t whispered. She hadn’t spoken in a way to try and turn him on, so he couldn’t blame her for it.

 “Cow eyes?” Gareth repeated.

 “Don’t you know that expression? Moony? Is that better?” she said, then took a sip from her mug. Her throat was long and lovely when she swallowed, whether it was a crockery mug or a champagne flute she drank from. Whether she held a piece of painted china in her hand or his cock, her dark eyes always just as beautiful.

 “I suppose. You think it’s unrequited?” Gareth asked, watching her squint, wishing to take the pins from her carefully arranged hair to see if all fall down, black against the white silk of her blouse. It wasn’t so dark in the bed they shared, in the candlelight or at dawn; then, he saw other colors, rich and warm, lively as flames.

 “I think James can’t allow it. That’s not quite the same,” she said.

 “Can’t—or won’t?” Gareth said.

 “Splitting hairs now, are we? You know him better than I do, after all,” Vivian said.

 “He loved Vesper very much. Losing her—it broke him,” Gareth said. He hadn’t even liked the man but he couldn’t help pitying him when he’d seen him afterwards. He’d never see a man with eyes so blue, so dead. With eyes that wished so much for death and a mouth that wouldn’t let him stop consuming whatever came his way. It was around then that Moneypenny had taken to single malt Scotch.

 “I think Q likes to fix broken things. And James knows it,” Vivian said. “What would it mean to be mended?”

 “Indeed,” Gareth said, musing. And thanking the Queen’s English he could say a word like Indeed and not end the conversation but make it clear she might.

 “How English you are! I forget sometimes,” she laughed. Not loud enough to attract the attention of either man across the room.

 “I’m meant to believe you forget anything? Ever?” Gareth said.

 “You’re meant to pretend. If I want you to,” she said, finally coquettish. It was rare for her to be so flirtatious. She was usually all subtlety, all shadow and delicious, intoxicating nuance. Until she decided to cut.

 “Your wish, madam, is my command,” he said.

 “Oh, if only that were true!” she sighed. It would take him all night to decide what she meant. What she wanted. At least, unlike Q, he had a chance to discover it. And he knew, already, she wanted him to.

For @tessa-quayle. 

[jomiddlemarch]

Many happy returns

Q had left a mug-full of dark chocolate covered espresso beans and Moneypenny had disclosed the esthetician she used. James had winked at her while eating a banana very slowly—the banana-consumption, not the winking, and Gareth had woken her with a kiss on the cheek, a tray of a pot of Lady Grey tea, scones, and an obscene amount of Devonshire cream and raspberry jam. All in all, Vivian had counted it a successful birthday, well before Gareth texted her.

Reservations at Cassowary 7pm under Liu

Vivian wasn’t sure why he’d texted her and not simply told her, but the man was a spy after all and he must be forgiven his default tendency towards subterfuge. It wouldn’t have been her choice, to take a black car to the restaurant by herself, presumably to meet him, but she had to accept the gift from the giver. The solo trip did allow her to touch up her face without him watching or interrupting and if she shucked off her heels within seconds of sitting down, there was no one to tell tales.

It became clear why he’d texted when she walked into the restaurant, whose use of feathers in the décor was just this side of exuberant.

“Amy! What? How—what are you doing here?” Vivian exclaimed. Amy, her best friend from college, was fully kitted out in the latest pieces from the latest Boden catalog plus a statement necklace that Vivian would probably tell her was too chunky after their second glass of wine.

“I’m your present. From Gareth, who by the way, yum if I’m allowed to say that,” Amy said after the brief, tight hug they exchanged but before they started in on the first glass of wine.

“You are, and yes. And what?”

“He tracked me down and arranged for me to come in for the weekend. As a surprise for your birthday,” Amy said.

“I can’t believe it,” Vivian said, though it did explain the time she’d caught him fumbling with her phone and some of the appraising glances he’d been shooting her way. She had chalked those up to lust or an assessment of how she’d hold up at The Hague, if they actually had to go. Amy’s arrival was an extremely pleasant alternative.

“Seeing is believing. I’m here for the weekend, put up at Claridge’s by your knight-errant, and there are a pair of tickets to Hamilton waiting for us at the box office tomorrow night,” Amy said.

“Holy shit,” Vivian blurted out. To say he’d gone all out was an understatement.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Amy said, slugging back the last of her first glass as if it were cheap supermarket wine-in-a-box instead of a very fine 1971 Chateau Trotanoy. “Nice to know you haven’t gone full Brit. I was afraid you were going to say ‘bloody hell,’ just then.”

“No worries on that account,” Vivian laughed. “Gareth would be the first to tell you how American I am.”

“I don’t think he would. I don’t think he can find much of anything wrong with you, Vivi,” Amy said.

“Should he?”

“I’m just saying, however stiff that delicious upper lip is, the man’s bonkers for you. He’d probably say ‘besotted,’ especially if he’s fond of Peter Wimsey novels,” Amy said. Vivian smiled at what Amy said and how. She hadn’t known just how much she missed her friend, but Gareth had.

“Before I forget, he asked me to give you this. I’m going to the ladies’ room for a few minutes, so you can check it out in private, and then we can really catch up,” Amy said, handing Vivian a box wrapped in silver wrapping paper that resembled silk so closely, Vivian couldn’t help stroking a finger along the seams. The card was brief, in Gareth’s terrifyingly elegant copperplate hand.

Dearest Vivian,

Happy birthday. I felt certain you could find a use for these.

Gareth

She quickly unwrapped the box, lifted the lid and saw a half dozen utterly exquisite silk scarves from Hermès. The colors were rich, more Rubens than Vermeer. Each one would look beautiful with a suit or a well-cut wool sheath, but after touching the one that lay on top, she knew Gareth meant them for another purpose and she caught her breath at the image of each one carefully knotted at his bare wrists and ankles. Never a blindfold, not after Belfast, but as long as he could watch her…

“Do you need a moment alone?” Amy said, all the snarkiness undercut by the longest, warmest affection and the amusement of a woman married for over twelve years. Vivian huffed a little, like she was supposed to.

“Good, because I’m hungry—for food. The rest of that, that’ll keep. Though I won’t be annoyed if you want to skip dessert tonight and hurry home,” Amy added.

“Oh, you,” Vivian said happily, glad she was just as old as she was, for the benefits were clearly significant, incomparable, and utterly delightful.

A birthday drabble for the incomparable @tessa-quayle. Apologies for punting on an appropriate accompanying gif of Gareth or Vivian. Or silk scarves...

[jomiddlemarch]

or the sound of water poured in a bowl

Gareth waited to say something. Truly, he had, but after watching Vivian fuss and fret for a solid hour, picking up this ornament and that as if she were dusting them, setting them down again just so and then moving each another centimeter to the right, furrowing her brow, and scowling in the direction of the stacks of documents on her desk as well as the orchids he’d brought, he gambled and spoke,

 “What’s got you so terribly bothered?”

 Vivian stared at him and daggers were not the weapon she evoked. Scimitars perhaps. Grenade launchers and the jacked-up laser pointers Q insisted on concealing in the brushes of a make-up kit he’d tucked in James’s sponge bag (as a joke or suggestion; a conjecture Gareth and Vivian had very much enjoyed exploring…). He’d gambled—and lost it seemed.

 “I’m fine,” she said. If she’d had an ivory slatted fan, she’d have slapped it on her crinolined thigh. If she’d had a knife, she’d have thrown it at the wall.

 “That’s patently untrue, love,” he said. “You’ve been sorting through your things like they’re going in an estate sale. And you haven’t touched your tea. It’s gone quite cold.”

 “I told you I didn’t want it and you poured a cup anyway,” Vivian said sulkily. Had he ever seen her pout like that before? He had the sudden urge to kiss her, very long and very soft, until she settled in his arms. A glance at her dark eyes told him he was wisest not to.

 “I thought it would help,” he said.

 “You’re so damn British! A cup of tea is not the solution to everything—and certainly won’t help do anything to deal with the fact that my parents are arriving in an hour—and staying for a week. Here. Not at Claridge’s or the Lanesborough and definitely not at Q’s Aunt Phyllida’s digs—here. And they’re going to drive me batshit crazy,” Vivian exclaimed.

 Gareth was wise enough not to remark that Vivian seemed to have already crossed the line into madness or to comment that he’d forgotten about her parents’ imminent visit.

 “I’d like to help,” he said, taking care not to make a suggestion, however reasonable it might seem. Or to utter some trite reassurance. She had a wicked throwing arm and she’d been known to bite. He hadn’t minded the biting before, not in the least, but he’d prefer it to remain erotic.

 “You can’t,” she replied, but the acid had left her voice.

 “Oh ye of little faith,” he teased gently, finally getting a smile out of her. “I’ve stocked your pantry with every tea in creation—and half a dozen kind of a biscuits. I can get lemon curd if you like.”

 “Gareth, you…” she trailed off. It was rare she was at a loss for words. He intended to make the most of it.

 “Prince among men? Delightful rogue? Casanova?” he offered, with each answer taking a step closer to her until he could brush back the strands of hair that had gotten loose from her chignon.

 “Were very kind. And thoughtful. And have now given me an unexpected insight into your fantasy life, so thank you. For all of it,” Vivian said, resting a hand on his chest.

 “How long have we got until they get here?” he said, letting his desire show in his direct gaze, breathing her in.

 “Long enough,” she said, laughing a little before she dropped her hand to his and led him towards her bedroom. If his tie was left behind there, it wouldn’t matter so much, at least, that’s what she said as she flung it across the room, to some distant corner. He made her a fresh cup of tea afterward, Darjeeling the pale green-gold of spring time, and she drank it, already most pleasantly soothed by his prior, dedicated ministrations. Her mother wouldn’t find the tie but she found the tea-cup and eyed approvingly the loose leaves in the base.

 “Keep this one,” she said and Vivian nodded.

For @tessa-quayle

[jomiddlemarch]

Shaken, stirred

“Will wonders never cease?” Vivian said, running her finger around the rim of her wine-glass. If she’d had twenty-odd more, filled with varying amounts of the extremely dry Viognier she ordered when there was any chance they’d be working, she could drive him mad with her glass armonica. She just had the one and that manicured finger gliding around—because she was bored? Because she wanted to entice him?

 “What’s that?” Gareth said, tossing back the rest of his Scotch. They didn’t have the 32 year old Oban he preferred, but the Glenfiddich would do. Vivian said she liked how it tasted when he kissed her.

 “Bond. Q,” she said, tilting her head subtly in the direction of the two men, standing across the room near a high-top. “I didn’t think it meant anything, just a flirtation on James’s side, but now…” she trailed off, shrugged. It was even more elegant and provocative than usual in her one-shouldered dress.

 “What’s changed your mind?” Gareth asked, resisting the urge to caress her bare arm, to draw his own finger along the line of her bare throat and down her toned forearm, letting it rest on the hammered gold bangles she wore at her wrist.

 “James just finished Q’s drink. All of it. And then he grinned,” Vivian explained. Gareth wondered if Bond had put his lips where Q had, a kiss in the cup as his Nan would have called it, a romantic gesture that would have been far more demonstrative than Bond usually was in mixed company.

 “You think this is definitive?” Gareth challenged her.

 “Q was drinking a white Russian, Gareth,” she said, making a charming little moue of disgust. “It must be love—it couldn’t be anything else.”

[tessa-quayle]

The Writing’s on the Wall

thank you to @jomiddlemarch for 1) the prompt, 2) the wonderful edits (that rescued this drabble) and insightful advice, and 3) creating such a fun OFC in Vivian.  :)  thanks for inspiring me to take a spin with these characters.

rated R.

__________________________________

She was tired.  It was midnight.  Out in the hallway, the custodian pushed along a wheeled bin, its muffled rumble providing equal parts comfort and discomfort: a reminder she was not alone and the uneasy idea of another human being tasked with taking out her trash. She finally heard his footsteps fade, and a door slammed shut. There was freedom in solitude.

Kicking off her heels, Vivian rolled off her stockings, balled them up, threw them into a corner.  The glow from her laptop screen dimly lit the tiny office.  She found an Alec Guinness reading of TS Eliot’s Four Quartets, turned up the volume, and turned back to typing away furiously.  

The hard, fast tapping of the keyboard was interrupted by a loud chuckle.

“God, woman, how many words a minute can you type?”  Mallory stood at the door, his shoulder against the frame.

“Is someone in search of a secretary?”

He winked: “You filled that position last week, remember?”  He looked around and then at her expectantly: “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she replied, finding his formality curious.  And welcome.

“It’s spartan,” he said, surveying the books leaning like dominoes on the half empty shelf where a scented candle and a coffee mug collected dust.  No medical texts, just fiction.  

“Well, I was crossing an ocean, I had to pack light.”    

He leaned against her desk.  

“Careful,” she warned lightly.  “This isn’t as nice and sturdy as yours.  If you lean on it too hard, you could break it.”  

She held his glance steadily, sure of what she’d made him remember. During their first encounter, she’d tugged his tie toward her so that his head bowed and she tiptoed to meet his lips, kissing him hard until his mouth was swollen.  She let him bend her over the desk, putting her arms out along the cool, dark mahogany as he moved against her.  When he came, he reached for her hand curling her fingers under his.  She thought of his weight pressing her down, that sense of vital power, controlled, intoxicating, and she remembered wanting time to stand still.  

This was his first time in her office, her space.  Vivian watched as he fingered the spines of the novels, pulled them out and flipped them over to scan the back summaries.  Soft queries yielding simple answers.   This was not an interrogation; and yet, she felt unprepared by this rifling through thoughts.  An unannounced inspection – to what end exactly?  She was unnerved.  She felt more exposed now than in the moments he’d knelt before her, his hands circling her hips - he’d nipped her inner thigh, leaving a mark.  A shudder, a grip.  Looking up, he’d spied the rise of her chest.  He murmured a word she couldn’t understand, an answer she hadn’t thought of.

“Where is that?”  He pointed to a panoramic photo hanging on the wall behind her.  A wooden dock split a turquoise sea and stretched into the orange red horizon.  

“Tulum.”  She shrugged, rubbed her eyes.  “I know, it looks like a scene out of a motivational poster.  I borrowed a friend’s Leica and could only use it as a point and shoot.  Really - the picture takes itself with a fancy camera.”  

He grinned: “Maybe when this case is done, you can take me there.”

“I wish you wouldn’t…” muttered Vivian.  

She reddened and the room suddenly felt hot. She shifted in her chair, rolling it forward.  In the beginning, she had thought they’d be done when the case was done.  And now, she wished her feelings could be neatly compartmentalized, contained within borders squiggled on a map.  A foolish wish - hope was expectation was disappointment.  

Guinness’ baritone rang through the tinny computer speakers:

….human kind

Cannot bear very much reality

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present

Mallory gazed at her, confused, his eyes darkening.   “You wish I wouldn’t … what?”

“Never mind, sorry, it’s nothing.  I guess - I guess we’ll see.”  And offered a smile instead of an answer.