You're one of the youngest night agents at MI-6, with Jonathan Pine being slightly protective of you since he's much older and more experienced. One night, when you're coming in for your weekly round of paperwork in the office, Jonathan sees through the security footage a man in an all-black suit dropping you off. Later on, when he asks you about him, you mention that you're seeing someone named Loki.
Jonathan hesitantly goes with it, even though he knows the personal perils of having attachments as a spy,...until an opened box of condoms accidentally falls out of your purse.
Your father sold guns for a living which is how you met John Wick and Jonathan Pine; his best customers. After your father died you inherited the clandestine shop in the back of his house and continued to interact with hitmen from all over the world. John Wick was the love of your life but he married someone else and, many years later, you and Pine moved in together and he loved you like a mad man. One night, Wick showed up in need of weapons and it was the first time you saw each other in years. It was clear that he was in a rush and in danger so you had no time to talk but all it took was one look from him to get you all flustered and nostalgic. Jonathan woke up to find your side of the bed empty so he got up and was able to catch a glimpse of Wick before he left. He knew everything about him so he wasn’t surprised when he noticed how affected you were by his presence but it just made Pine hate Wick even more, so he pulled out his cell phone ready to leak his latest location to his enemies.
And so it begins for the Alphabet Soup Challenge [ Fics, segments, oneshots and everything in between can be posted in any order to fulfill the letter.]
Pine sits back in one of the cushy chairs typically reserved for guests, staring at you with the quiet bustle of the hotel lobby serving as background static. How he’s comfortable in that suit is beyond you. The simple linen material you’re wearing feels like it’s too much covering your skin.
Hard to say what the consequences will be of losing this staring contest. You’re in no rush to find out.
Then his expression changes, a subtle flicker of his eyes sending a chill through you. Maybe it’s the lighting in the lobby, maybe it’s the color of his suit, but his eyes take on a sea green hue, igniting the feeling within you that something dangerous is about to occur.
“Today is going to happen,” his words rasp across the small space established between the pair of you, “are you?”
This was your last night, and your last chance. It was now or never.
You paused at the door to your hotel room, hand on the antique-style key below the brass knob. One of things you loved about this hotel was the old-fashioned touches. The brass fittings. The high ceilings. The traditional high tea served mid afternoon.
And the attentive staff.
A translator for films and video games, you were habitually a night owl and your hours seemed to marry up well with those of the Night Manager on staff, Jonathan Pine.
When you couldn’t sleep, you threw on jeans and a loose jumper and sat in the spacious, plush lounge off the reception area, curling up on the huge chesterfield sofas with your laptop and headphones.
You’d first noticed him clearing up after a particularly amorous couple, after midnight last week. His movements were precise and grateful, his lean form outfitted perfectly in the suit - bespoke perhaps, with his height.
“I’m surprised they took a break to drink the coffee,” you observed as he stacked saucers on a silver tray.
His low chuckle told you he’d heard, and he glanced over. Your eyes met, his a clear, ocean blue. His sunkissed-gold hair, neatly combed, curled over his forehead. “Can I bring you anything, madam?”
His voice, a hearty swig of James Bond with a dash of sin, washed over you, curling low in your stomach. You let your gaze rove over his hands as he worked; wide palm, long fingers.
“Tea would be great, thanks.”
He returned five minutes later with another silver platter, holding an ornate porcelain teapot, single cup and saucer. He poured the tea like a pro, not a single drop spilled. “Milk, sugar?”
“Milk and one. Thanks.”
He stirred the steaming liquid in the dainty cup with a tiny silver spoon, setting in on the saucer.
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, madam.”
He ghosted off and you turned to see him back at the reception desk. The lighting in the reception area was low, but he was backlit by the small office behind the welcome desk, the light picking out the gold in his hair, highlighting his angular, handsome features.
He wouldn’t look out of place on a runway, but here he was, hidden away as a Night Manager in a Swiss hotel.
******
You blinked the memory away and turned the key in your door. The hallway yawned ahead of you and you could just see the beginnings of the beautiful staircase complete with huge, winding bannister, cherrywood engraved with vines.
In a moment of madness, you’d slipped on the one nice dress you’d packed, planned for the conference dinner that was cancelled last minute due to an issue with the catering. The baroque fabric fitted you well, the pattern of gold and copper diamonds interweaving. The hem came to your knees and underneath you wore plain black lace.
You’d bought it years ago, and wore it mostly for yourself, now. God knew your loser boyfriend, recently dumped, hadn’t appreciated it.
Maybe the Night Manager would.
Stupid, you thought to yourself, but you pocketed the fancy antique key and made your way down the stairs anyway. You had nothing to lose. After tonight, you’d be an ocean away from the tall man in his beautiful suit. He’d never look at your with those bottomless eyes again, never pour you tea as if you were a Duchess perched on a silk pillow instead of a geeky translator in sweatpants.
You reached the bottom of the staircase and spied him at the desk, talking to someone on the phone. He started to hang up, and you lost your nerve. No. You should run back to the safety of your room and call up your favourite film on your laptop, and go to bed.
As you hesitated, torn, Jonathan lifted his gaze and saw you.
He bobbled the handset of the phone and it was gratifying enough that you took another step down.
“Miss….” He recovered quickly. “Good evening.”
You glanced at the clock hanging above his head. “Hi.” You reached the desk and looked at him over it. His suit was black today, and the white shirt and tie he wore were impeccably neat, as usual. You’d fantasised about unlooping that tie. About unbuttoning that prim shirt and spreading your hands over his bare chest. About hearing his breath hitch as your hands dipped lower, over his taut abdomen and beyond the line of his leather belt.
“What can I do for you?”
He was the picture of professional composure and your heart pounded.
What do you think you’re doing.
Idiot.
He could be married. With children. He could be gay for all you knew.
Whatever his marital status or his sexuality, he was at work and did not have time to be seduced by an amateur like you. What had seemed like an exciting idea in the safety of your room now seemed small, and silly.
“I, er, was meant to be going to a fancy dinner, but it was cancelled,” you blurted out, for the lack of something better to say.
“That’s a shame. I’m sorry. Perhaps… some tea?”
He’d make it perfectly, you knew. “Maybe… something stronger?” Something to quell your embarrassment at thinking you could somehow seduce this man.
“Of course, madam. Take a seat?” He gestured to the area you favoured.
You sat down on your usual chesterfield, awkward as hell. You were all dressed up with nowhere to go, the lounge empty except for you.
What did you think would happen? He’d just jump you and start ripping clothes off everywhere?
The “getting to the sex part” was the part you hadn’t planned. Dumbass.
“For the lady.” Jonathan set down a cocktail in a long, tall glass. It smelled faintly fruity, with a bite. You sipped and the sweetness exploded on your tongue.
“Perfect.”
He inclined his head slightly with a smile. “We have a very talented bartender.”
“It’s my last night here,” you began as he went to move away.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
His brow furrowed momentarily. “Of course.”
You sat back, breaking eye contact. The lounge was quiet as a graveyard, you and Jonathan the only people you could see.
“I’m sorry.”
He moved to sit next to you on the Chesterfield, leaving a polite distance between your bodies. “What could you possibly need to be sorry for?”
You rolled your eyes, relaxing a little. “I don’t know. I came down here full of piss and vinegar, thinking ...”
He wet his lips and your gaze followed the lightning-quick appearance of his tongue. “Thinking...what?”
“About you.”
The words hung heavy in the air between you for a moment that stretched. You sipped at your cocktail, expecting him to leave any second,obviously disgusted by what you’d suggested.
He didn’t move.
“And…. If I may ask, what sort of thoughts did you have, madam?” he asked softly, his voice low and intimate.
Imagine spending an entire night talking to Tom. You were anticipating a more active evening, but once the two of you started talking, it just didn’t stop. You told him about your childhood, your dreams, and past relationships that were never meant to work out. He told you things he’s never told anyone - his darkest fears and deepest insecurities. Just as the sun was rising, you were sharing your visions of your ideal futures, which happened to share many similarities.
Being a new hire at MI-6 and half of Jonathan's age. Sometimes you work the night shift at a desk, while other times your job involves going underground as a party animal, dancing in the nightclubs of Soho to get information about London's criminal underground. You tend to get a little reckless on the job at times, to the point where you once had to call Jonathan - because he was the only one you knew awake at 3 AM and in London - to pick you up from an alley because calling '999' wasn't an option when you were surrounded by gangsters and vomiting nonstop.
Since then, Jonathan (or Alex Goodwin as you know him) starts to get paternal with you, bringing bags of greasy takeaway for you when you're either getting ready to go out for the night, or coming back to the office from a long night of collecting information (and all kinds of toxins). And he doesn't leave until you've washed your face, brushed your teeth, eaten some 'real food' that isn't a candy bar, and changed out of your alcohol and cocaine-stained clothing.
Being an heiress on holiday in Medellín to deal with your father's messy divorce from his fourth wife (His second wife was your mother) . On one of the nights you're at the hotel, you decide to venture downstairs to the lobby's casino. To your left at the bar is a financier named Matthew Ellis on his third glass of champagne tonight. And on your right, is a quiet Englishman sipping a vodka martini who introduces himself as Bond. James Bond.
Later in the evening, James Bond asks you to blow on his dice for good luck just before he's about to play a game of craps against Matthew Ellis (who's actually a British intelligence agent named Jonathan Pine that Bond's been sent to capture on behalf of corrupt officials at MI-6).
