pairing: james bond x reader
author's note: bond girlies rise up‼️‼️‼️ when i tell you i devoured this game, it would be an understatement (it was soooo goood and patrick gibson as james bond was just chef's kiss 👌). i've always wanted to write something for the fandom (fun fact, the title comes from an unfinished work of mine for daniel craig's bond a few years back and it just worked so well with this piece too), and so here's my contribution!! 🫡 some context: this takes place four years after the events of 007 first light, and james is 30 in this (and desk-bound for reasons to be explored 👀) anyhoo, enjoy!!
The desk job that comes at thirty is but the inevitable end of a sequence of events that began ten months ago in a remote desert compound somewhere south of Afghanistan.
His application for transfer — reviewed, then reluctantly approved (Bond? Desk Job? He’d sooner blow up the desk than sit at it! — Clearly, Iceland’s not been forgotten).
It isn’t so awful, being back in London indefinitely (this is what he tells himself). London means stability (it’s been a good run, nearly five years, which is more than most agents can say), London means routine (he gets to decorate his desk, how exhilarating).
The flat sits somewhere in an upscale part of the city, nestled between a manicured park and a luxurious townhouse. Nice place, not much excitement.
James lets himself in, his days of playing guest now far behind. It’s come to a point where he practically lives here now. Leaves for work and returns here. Stocks up on groceries here — like in this instance — armed with bags from the corner shop (it’s all terribly domestic).
He kicks the door shut behind him.
The sound of bare feet against wooden flooring.
Your face, a constant these days.
“Oh, you bought groceries.”
An easy smile your way. He can’t help it. Never could.
“Told you I’d get them.”
And of course, London also means you.
London means he gets to be available, dependable (he tries, he really does) for you. It means being there in all the ordinary ways you’ve no doubt grown used to. Bit hard to make it for anything if he’s off gallivanting around the globe.
Besides, he owes you this much.
He drifts into the kitchen, busies himself with unpacking at the counter.
The space is familiar, intimate. Has been for a while.
Even before.
The dinners here, he was fondest of (almost always spent with discreet glances your way, because even then, he has always found you lovely — and back then, a line never to be crossed) — all hazy laughter, conversations that sometimes went nowhere, an endless flow of drinks (table’s only occupied by two now). Even his rare, short stays in the city at the time were sometimes passed in the guest room here instead of the flat he’d been given (an echo, somewhat, of his early days with Cressida and Monroe, the three of them under one roof). And then there was that Christmas he’d spent here, the best parts of which he’d memorised — your cheeks, flushed from all the wine, the sheer delight that lit up your face when he’d handed you your present, the playful, insistent pleas for him to play something on the piano, the card game he’d won in a three-player game.
“How was work today?”
You had followed him into the kitchen.
Yes, how was work today?
Aside from the petty theft he committed in the pantry (a sandwich, belonging to one Basil from accounting — said so on the label) and the coffee machine he broke entirely by accident (the latest casualty of a desk-bound existence — Moneypenny touched it last, mate. I’m just saying), it went … quite alright, actually. Reports filed on time (for once), an entire meeting endured (this time without contemplating various routes of escape — he’s identified three so far), and emails tactfully navigated (License not to reply?).
Nothing too shabby. Far cry from his days out in Antarctica, hanging off the edge of a cliff at minus thirty degrees, or defibrillating himself in a car park outside a Montenegrin casino, but he manages.
“Oh, you know how it goes,” he says, reaching into one of the bags. “Paperwork, staplers, post-its, the usual thrills. It’s all quite fascinating, really.”
“Exciting day then, I take it?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.
“That’s certainly one word for it.”
He continues unpacking. You lean over to peek at the now half-empty bags.
“You bought a lot this time.”
“Enough to survive a siege, really.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
He carries on.
“Just thought I’d do a bit of doomsday prep.”
Tips out the last bag, checks it once, then folds and sets it aside.
“There,” he announces. “Crisis averted.”
The small smile on your face is reward enough.
He moves around the kitchen now, sets everything aside with a habitual ease honed from years of having been in here — though only recently, in such a manner.
Still feels treacherous at times.
Cereal goes into the cabinet.
“And you?”
“Hmm?”
“What’d you do today?”
A subtle glance in your direction (How are you, really?) just in time to see you look away.
“Nothing much,” you say, still avoiding his gaze.
“Nothing much? That sounds … suspiciously vague.”
“Just did some tidying up,” you offer.
He looks over.
“Sounds productive.”
Somewhere outside, a dog barks.
A beat.
“Went through some old boxes,” you say somewhat casually.
His hands still for a fraction of a second, then recover almost immediately.
“The ones in the guest room?” he ventures.
Tea goes next to the coffee beans.
“Sure, James. The ones in there.”
Jesus.
The groceries now lay forgotten as the words slip out.
“You alright?”
A slight shrug. Your voice, smaller now.
“They’re just things that need sorting through.”
Things. Is that what you’ve taken to calling them now?
“Right,” he says.
A strained pause.
“You don’t have to rush it,” he tells you quietly.
“They’re just things,” you repeat.
“You haven’t touched them since —”
“The room needed clearing out,” comes your abrupt response.
And now …
Silence upon silence upon silence.
You stand rigid beside the counter, gaze absent, suddenly seeming so impossibly far away.
He slowly crosses over.
Hesitates, then carefully reaches for you, voice lowering in a way it does only for you.
“Listen,” he says. “If you need the room cleared out, I’ll help.”
No answer.
A thumb gently runs across your skin.
“You don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”
His touch lingers.
“Just say the word.”
Nothing seems to register with you. He follows your gaze to a carton of milk that sits abandoned amongst the scattered contents on the counter.
“This isn’t the right one either,” you finally say in a mutter.
It takes a moment to remember what you’re referring to.
“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, rubbing your wrist reassuringly.
“It’s been months.”
“Then tell me which one’s the right one and I’ll go get it,” he tries.
You pull your hand away.
“I told you, I don’t know which one’s the right one. I didn’t do the grocery shopping.”
He sees it in your eyes sometimes.
Now.
Why him? Why not you?
James thinks of that Afghan compound.
Double-O-One — Alec — by the time he found him — bloodied, battered, broken.
Monroe was bad.
This was something else entirely.
Ugly. Violent. Slow. Anything but a quick death.
Closed casket. Your face gave nothing away.
Took him nearly four months to track down those responsible, but by then, it’d hardly even mattered.
It wasn’t the first time they’d been sent out as dual assets.
Only ever for exceptionally high-risk operations. The kind that required two operatives and rarely returned both. But they’d done it before. More than once.
All the more reason it should have gone right.
He had everything to lose — a wedding only months away, a life already set in place, a future that included you.
Why him? Why not you?
“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.
Doesn’t feel enough. Probably never will.
“I’ve upset you.”
A faint smile flits across your features.
“A lot upsets me these days.”
He reaches for you again after a moment, threads his fingers through yours.
“Tell you what. How about the both of us go down to the corner shop this Sunday and pick one out together?”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“My treat.”
You huff out a small laugh that quickly morphs into something fragile.
“God — I’m the one who should be sorry, James.”
He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.
“What for?”
“For keeping you here, for —”
“Letting me mummify from boredom?”
Another laugh. Better this time.
“For being so utterly ridiculous about the milk.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The brand of milk one prefers is a serious business, or so I’m told.”
Another squeeze.
“No harm done. Happy to be of service.”
A beat.
Your gaze wanders off again, smile slipping.
He reaches for your cheek, draws you back before you can drift away completely.
“How are you holding up?” he murmurs. “Really?”
The question lingers, and something in your expression falters.
“Just one of those days,” you manage at last.
He nods, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Been through a few.”
A long pause settles.
Your eyes flicker up to his.
He recognises that look. No words needed.
Perhaps the only comfort he has left to offer you.
James leans in, mouth finding yours.
One kiss, then another.
And another.
And just like that — if only for a moment, he forgets too.
summary — living with cressida and monroe is a dream come true. unwanted memories pop up when james bond is sent to live with you three . . . and a lie detector brings up a lot more than it should.
pairings — first light!james bond x MI6!reader
pronouns — she/her
word count — 3.7k
note — a part two to this !! i genuinely didn't think you guys would love part 1 as much as you did so i had to think up a part 2 asap!! thank you for all the kind words <33
LONDON, DESPITE ITS OWN forms of chaos, felt more like home than malta ever could be.
malta was bunk beds and boiling sun and spending hours tending to cuts, scrapes and bruises that training on concrete with weapons and fists led to. malta was close-quarters living with unfamiliar people from different walks of life, each person so unique but so united in that everyone was apart of the same MI6 program. malta was a playground of make belief, waiting impatiently for a training mission to come up to get away from the enclosed training camp for just a few hours.
you loved malta, but london was home.
london was dreary weather and gloomy clouds overhead. london was bustling and lively with citizens and tourists, everyone so different and yet united in that they hid from the elements in coats and gloves and scarves. london was a certain type of nightlife that reminded you of childhood, of drinking variations of lemonade in pub chairs while your parents sipped at beer and wine over a plate of fish and chips with friends. london was a cosy reminder that all roads lead home, no matter where you end up in this cold world, and it would never turn its back on you.
the past few months had been overbearingly important. james bond had been cleared for advanced training. monroe, cressida and yourself hadn't lost any credits. you had managed to dig your way out of the hole greenway put you in after you were caught trying to sneak back into the camp, and a lot of it consisted of grovelling and james trying to convince greenway that it was his idea — which it was. the only good news was that M had looked past it when she found out that jesse was selling off MI6 intel to russian politicians and extremist groups thanks to the little undercover operation.
now you were trying to build back trust with greenway because you should have told him about all this before making the decision to get involved, and james' outcome was that he and greenway were still in a terrible, if not worse, spot than they had been to begin with. at least sitting in front of M in her office had given you some sort of relief that she wasn't as mad as everyone else seemed to be.
THE APARTMENT WAS LARGE but rather dull. bags were strewn across the floor, accompanied by kicked off shoes and mirrors and paintings yet hung up. two juxtaposing frames stood in the kitchen, one clearly each from cressida and monroe for you to decide on later. they had contrasting tastes that you had been in the middle of more times than you could count on one hand.
most of the bags were cressida's, each set a different colour to correspond with a specific item. light blue were her winter clothes, pastel yellow her summer clothes, and dark purple her formal attire. it had been the same colour-coding system since you and her were sharing a flat in your early days of MI6 before the resurrected 00 program stole you both away for something better.
it made your two small suitcases look like carry-on luggage in comparison. you were planning on getting some more of your belongings from storage transferred into the new apartment once you settled in, but for now the start of the six months living here would be a minimalist's dream.
"hey, there's our girl!" monroe grinned at you, moving down the hallway from the living space to greet you with a hug that crushed your spine. "cressida! she's here!"
"hello, darling!" cressida's voice rang out from up the adjoining hall. "i'm down the hall on the right!"
"she's puttin' clothes away," monroe shrugged, letting you go but keeping one arm around your shoulders as he led you through your new home. the place was a lot larger than it looked from the outside. it was all off-white and silver and brown, shelves empty and ready for personal touches to lay claim. "well, some of 'em, anyway."
his chuckle was contagious. you adored cressida to death but that girl had too much money and not enough wardrobe space. you doubted this place had enough to satisfy her sanity. "you're part of the problem, you know," you poked your finger into his chest. he stopped walking with you in one of the living spaces ( because you had just looked and somehow there was two ) and now you had noticed that the only thing he had unpacked so far was the alcohol sitting idly on the drinks trolley. priorities. "you keep telling her she looks good in everything."
"she does look good in everything, though," monroe defended.
"obviously," you rolled your eyes. they sparkled with a knowing look that he read rather easily. "but you know she values your opinions much more than anyone else . . . so at least convince her to get a bigger wardrobe first."
monroe's cheeks tinged pink. "go pick your room before bond gets here. we're leaving the worst for him." he changed the subject so fluidly it was like water.
he said it so casually it was almost insane to believe that monroe and james got along like two peas in a pod now. james had been in enough trouble after your little shared undercover stint, and that had increased tenfold when he and monroe beat the absolute shit out of each other while your little group were heading into the dining area. cressida and you had watched monroe instigate a fight while shaking your heads and headed inside, far away from the two of them. they were apparently friends after that, so there wasn't much more to it except for the fact that you still didn't like james bond but here he was now apart of your friend group.
or, you were sure you didn't like him. he was insufferably annoying and yet you could still taste his lips like you were chasing the thrill from the club, could still feel the indents on his fingers along your hips like they had been tattooed there. james bond was all mind games and it was seriously fucking with your head.
M had been cruel in deciding that james was to live with cressida, monroe and yourself. this had been your one opportunity to forget all about his stupid face for just a little bit but it was obvious that there was no other place for james. he was insanely talented, as were the rest of you; it tragically made sense.
as your group grew closer, james now included, it was getting harder to suppress the fact that you were still yet to tell at least cressida about that night in the club. your only hope was that james kept his distance and kept his big mouth shut.
"okay, okay," you laughed, bumping your shoulder into monroe's before exiting through the second living space and walking the hallway. the first room on your right was the door to the laundry. the second door on the right was the bathroom that you were certain was bigger than your childhood home. the first door on the left was the adjoined living space you had come from, and thus the second door on that side was the first bedroom. it wasn't as put-together as the third door on the right was, where 'cressida' was written on the door. you'd circle back to her after you claimed your room; knowing your luck, james would rock up and steal it right before your eyes.
the door at the very end of the hall had monroe's name on it, and so you picked the final door just before that on the left. it was a little nicer than the previous empty room looked like, with bedside tables, a large wardrobe, a desk, and a quaint little armchair for reading. it had long windows and led out to smaller balcony, which was perfect since the sun seemed to shine warmly on this side of the apartment. you set your suitcases on the floor as a silent claim of the room before walking back out down the hall.
"hey, guys!" the unmistakable sound of james bond's voice echoed throughout the empty place. accompanied with the front door being locked shut behind him, your shoulders slumped ever so slightly. you could vaguely hear monroe's voice as you slipped back into your room, not wanting to greet james out by cressida and monroe. you understood that he was part of the group, regarded him as such, but it was still awkward to pretend everything was normal. you're not sure how james pretended so well.
you heard your name be said by james as you kept busy by unpacking your things. it was late afternoon and you didn't have time to do it tomorrow. you set the book you were reading on the bedside table before flipping open the first suitcase to start hanging up your shirts. most of it was training gear, so you hung up the shirts and stuffed your shorts and tracksuit pants in the drawers. you had only just flipped open your second suitcase of nicer, non-MI6 clothes when you caught sight of james leaning against your doorframe.
"lovely dress," he said when you picked up the first one. it was a bit bigger than the one you wore in malta, but this time it was a backless black dress with intricate cobweb-like lace patterning across the front. "put it on, do a spin for me."
rolling your eyes, you slipped the dress onto a coat hanger and hung it up on the opposite end of your training shirts. you were planning on making the hanger space look like a spectrum: on one end training attire and on the other end would be classier outfits; the middle would be everything in between. "hello to you too, bond," you sighed, watching as he crossed his arms by the door. "can i help you?"
he shook his head with the ghost of a smirk across his lips. you swore that was his default face, like the world amused him to no end. "nope, just takin' in the scenery." his eyes were only on you, not the supposed scenery of your bedroom, and your eyes narrowed into a glare.
"and i'm busy," you sighed, picking up the coathanger attached to the garment bag that protected your favourite pantsuit from getting damaged. "i'm sure you are, too."
"brrr," james pretended to shiver, his teeth chattering. "you're cold." he stood up straight, now in the middle of your doorway instead of against it. "here's your keys," he tossed you a tulip keychain that contained two keys, presumably to your bedroom and front door, which you caught seamlessly. "and we've been tasked with cheating the lie detector while cress and monroe go get dinner. apparently my scores are terrible and yours . . . aren't."
you half-shrugged. it made sense: james had absolutely fumbled in front of the entire class when greenway baited him to fail the lie detector back in malta. you had moved through that portion of the lesson easily, as did cressida. greenway still wanted the three of you to assist james, even though he made it through to advanced training, and you were pretty sure that was where james' insolence was coming from. greenway was babying him and james was lashing out with weaponised incompetence.
or just straight up incompetence. sometimes it was hard to tell.
"mhm," you nodded, somewhat absently, and continued to hang up your clothes. "give me ten."
EVERYONE HAD A WEAKNESS. the point of passing the lie detector was to prove that a separation between personal life and MI6 life could be achieved. it protected agents to some degree, but it especially protected MI6 and the government. as agents, you were all expendable. no secrets, under any form of torture, could be spilled. they had to be taken to the grave.
cressida's weakness was rather simple. she was strong and she carried herself as such, and thus she had managed to have the lie detector agree that she was a fifty-four year old woman named eileen. all it had taken was a little slip of the tongue from james trying to stir the pot by asking about her and monroe, and cressida spluttered out a blatant lie about her not seeing monroe in that way. the laptop had turned an angry red and caught her in the lie, and that had been when she called it quits and wanted to go get dinner.
now it was your turn.
hooked up to cressida's laptop, you sat across from james on the couch. the coffee table was the only barrier between you, and he looked annoyingly good now that he had stripped off his jacket and was wearing a white shirt that fit snugly around his biceps. "you ready?" he asked, leaning forwards, hands resting on his knees. he watched you in a way that made you feel almost entirely self-conscious — a feeling you hadn't felt since before you were hired by MI6.
"yeah," you cleared your throat, leaning back comfortably against the cushions.
"okay. let's calibrate," james spoke, his voice level and the sparkle disappearing from his eyes. this level of seriousness from him was almost impossible to achieve. "what's your name?"
you told him your full name, and the computer beeped in agreement.
"where do you currently live?"
"bayswater, london," you answered immediately. "just moved in."
the laptop beeped again, and james. nodded this time. "we've got our baseline. think you can lie to me?"
"i know i can," you rolled your eyes, readjusting your position on the couch to cross one leg over the other. the computer agreed with you. james rolled his eyes.
"tell me about your family," james leaned back, his eyes never moving from your own. the eye contact was so intense it was clear he was trying to get you to fuck up and falter. if anything, you tilted your chin up a little higher.
"mum's a penguin accountant in antarctica," you liked rather smoothly, not moving a single bone in your body, "helps them out with their finances. my dad is a florist."
"oh, come on," his jaw dropped when the laptop agreed you were telling the truth. "how does the computer not think that penguin thing is bullshit? penguins don't have finances."
"that you know of," you shrugged, a smug smile threatening to pull across your lips.
sighing, james sat up straighter, thinking of what else he could possibly say. "why did you join MI6?"
"i stumbled across an MI6 operation in iceland and instead of doing what i was told, i almost died six times freeing MI6 prisoners and then blew up the one asset i was told not to destroy," you hardly blinked. the computer beeped affirmatively that you were telling the truth, and james huffed childishly as he sunk into the couch.
"you're kidding me," he scoffed, crossing his arms. "don't pretend to be me. you'd never be able to handle all that."
you raised an eyebrow at him. "yes, james. your diva energy is certainly too much for me," you deadpanned. "are we done here?"
"nuh uh," james quickly jumped in when he caught you about to take off the lie detector equipment. "we're not done until i trip you up in a lie."
sighing loudly, your shoulders slumped. "dear god, we'll be here all night."
james said nothing more, he just narrowed his eyes at you as if he were trying to read the thoughts rattling around in your brain.
"tell me," he started, his voice lower than it had been moments before. "tell me how you felt when i kissed you back in malta."
steadying your breathing, you kept your composure against his attempt. "i felt nothing," you shrugged, staring straight into his soul. "nothing at all."
the laptop beeped to say you were telling the truth. james, this time, really couldn't tell if you were lying or actually telling the truth, despite what the lie detector was saying. all he could see was you blinking at him like he couldn't still taste cranberries on his tongue; as if your hands hadn't gravitated to his chest like that was where they were always supposed to be.
"that's how you're gonna play it?" james rolled his eyes. he stood up sharply and walked over to the drinks trolley, where monroe had unpacked all his expensive scotch. you eyed him carefully, nothing to say in response, and watching as he picked up one of the crystal glasses. james disappeared out of the room to where you could hear him in the kitchen, and he came back moments later with some ice cubes in his glass.
cressida had no doubt filled up the ice trays earlier. james would thank her when her and monroe came back with takeaway for all of them. setting the cup back down on the tray, he picked up a twenty year old speyside scotch from the tray and filled his glass rather generously.
a speyside whiskey was very much a james bond type of scotch — the taste of apples, pears, honey and vanilla with lingering spices from being matured in old sherry casks. it wasn't peaty with smoke like the islay whiskies that monroe liked.
"fine," james sighed loudly, and certainly dramatically, before making his way back over to the couch across from you. he sipped at his scotch, eyes fluttering shut briefly to take in how perfect the taste was. "you don't wanna tell me how you felt when i backed you into a wall? when you melted into me immediately. talk about self-control . . . i think you lack it when it comes to me but you pretend to hate me because it's easier." your silence was deafening. james kept talking. "and now you're not talking because you know the lie detector will call you out on your bullshit."
you bit your tongue. he was insufferably correct. the safest bet was to hold your tongue until you knew you could compose yourself enough to answer without setting off the laptop. failing was embarrassing and you did not want james bond, of all people, to be the reason for it.
james took a large gulp of his scotch and leaned back against the couch cushions behind him. "so you're just gonna keep pretending you don't fancy me? not even a little bit . . ." he trailed off, and you bit the inside of your cheek when the ghost of a smirk suddenly appeared on his face. "you're just gonna sit there and pretend you're not in love with me?"
"shut up!" your mouth moved before you could think, sitting up impossibly straighter, your nails sinking into the armrest. "i don't even like you, let alone love you . . . christ, bond."
your heart sunk the second you heard your own voice. half a second later, the laptop chimed that tone to call you out on a lie.
james' smug look said it all.
you ripped the equipment off you and dropped your head into your hands. "don't say a fucking word."
james just shrugged. "i think it's cute. you're adorable when you don't look at me like you wanna murder me." you looked up and glared at him. "actually, i think you look adorable when you look like you wanna murder me. i take it back."
with a sigh, you held out your hand, eyes flickering between his own and the glass of scotch. he passed the glass over to you and you finished it with one gulp, the ice cubes rattling within the glass as you set it down on the table. you winced at the taste. "the lie detector is broken," you grumbled, crossing your arms. "very broken."
"mhm," james hummed. the lock clicked on the front door, and suddenly monroe and cressida's voices were echoing through the empty apartment as the door opened. "i'm sure it is." his eyes were lingering on you in that way he had been for months since malta . . . and it was so much clearer now as to why. that stupid undercover stunt the two of you had pulled had surfaced something that you refused to come to terms with. maybe james had already come to terms with it himself, or maybe he read through you in a way that you yourself couldn't do.
or maybe he was just being awful. that was also a possibility.
"we're back!" monroe called out as he kicked his shoes off by the door. "food's in the kitchen, come grab a plate, you two!"
"no need to shout, monroe," cressida whacked his arm as she followed him into the kitchen. james and you moved into the kitchen fairly quickly, with you making sure to leave space from him. she pulled boxes of chinese takeout from the bag and set them on the counter to be shared around. james got you out a plate but you ignored it to grab your own instead. "what've you lot been up to?"
"lie detector," you answered before james got a chance to. cressida eyed you with a curious expression at how down you suddenly sounded — she remembered you being in a good mood before they left not too long ago. "bond is terrible at it, by the way."
"yeah," monroe snorted, spooning a large clump of fried rice onto his plate. "tell us somethin' we don't know."
james sidled up to the island counter beside you, waiting for you to finish with the honey chicken so that he could put some on his own plate. "you heard the man," he nudged your shoulder playfully, "tell the man something he doesn't know."
your glare was like ice as you turned to look at him. the last thing you needed was monroe knowing about the whole lie detector incident. you loved him but he had a big mouth and an even bigger heart . . . he would try set you up with james before you could blink. currently, it was better being left unsaid. there was an upcoming assignment that needed your full attention, thinking about where you stood with james could wait.
"you're insufferable, james," you muttered under your breath.
