Chapter Text
Friday, 07:57
Training Facility, Malta
The briefing room was unusually quiet, but not because everyone was paying attention; it was quite the opposite. The seven candidates in the room were exhausted.
The past week had been particularly harsh; relentlessly intense field exercises under the stifling Mediterranean sun had stripped away whatever enthusiasm they had at the start.
They all sat at ease in their chairs. Bond was still forcing down his morning protein. Ronson, Singh and Kingsley chatted quietly amongst themselves. Nash stared at a spinning fan on the ceiling in silence. Bright and Monroe compared statistics between two tablets.
The door opened, and an instructor, Greenway's deputy, entered carrying a tablet beneath one arm. The candidates rose from their chairs instinctively. All except one. Bond remained seated long enough to finish the last mouthfuls of his shake.
The instructor stopped beside the briefing table and regarded him calmly. "Don't let us rush you, Bond”. That got smiles from everyone, and Bright rolled her eyes.
Bond swallowed, flipped the magnetic lid onto the bottle and finally stood. "Thank you, sir, very considerate of you". Only then did the instructor continue.
"As of eight hundred hours, the scheduled weekend exercises have been suspended."
They all looked around at each other in hopeful confusion as the instructor continued.
"You are authorised leave until eighteen hundred hours on Monday."
Nobody quite believed what they'd heard. Monroe frowned. "With respect, sir, what's changed?"
The instructor glanced at him. "Need to know, only", he said, his tone said they should be grateful no matter why. "You're being given a long weekend. I suggest you enjoy it rather than investigate it."
"You're joking”, Bond chuckled in disbelief, “is this a test?"
The instructor stared at Bond for a few seconds, "It is not a test”.
Bond shook his head, "I’m sorry, I just find it hard to believe, sir.”
"Transport arrangements have been made. Vehicles will depart for the airfield at quarter to nine. You will be returned to London and are expected back in Malta no later than eighteen hundred hours on Monday." The instructor glanced around the room. "Remember who you work for, and enjoy your weekend."
As chairs scraped back and the room began to break into noise, Monroe and Bond moved at the same time. They narrowly avoided bumping into each other near the edge of the table, adjusting instinctively without acknowledging it.
Bond stepped past him first, “Try not to look too relieved”, he said quietly.
Monroe huffed a short laugh, “That’s rich coming from you, Aircrew”.
Bond didn’t respond; he just carried on walking, the amusement still on his face.
Friday, 12:15
Ruislip, Hillingdon
The journey from RAF Northolt took almost an hour, but not because of the distance. Because it was London, and it was lunch time. The moment their private vehicles joined ordinary traffic, progress slowed to a crawl.
Police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. An ambulance squeezed through stationary traffic, forcing drivers to edge onto the pavements. A young man on an e-bike shot through a red light and immediately provoked an angry chorus of horns.
"He's going to die one day", Bright muttered from the front passenger seat in front of Bond, who sat behind her.
"Probably", Bond murmured, flicking his eyes between the sights of London on his left and his Instagram feed on his phone in his lap.
The rear seats were technically designed for three passengers, but in practice, they were two large men, and there was not enough space for either of them to ignore it. Their knees brushed whenever the car turned sharply or slowed too suddenly.
At one point, Monroe shifted to adjust his seatbelt, and his shoulder lightly bumped Bond’s.
Bond didn’t react when Monroe did, briefly, as if checking whether it had registered with him. It hadn’t.
Another brake in traffic pulled them closer again. This time, their knees pressed properly together for a few seconds before the car rolled forward. Bond adjusted his posture slightly, tugging at the fabric around his crotch and thighs, just enough to be comfortable again, still absorbed in his phone.
Monroe looked away, and through the right hand window, London kept moving. Rows of terraced houses, construction sites, and roadworks cordoned off with temporary traffic lights and triangular signs, despite no visible workers. A delivery rider balancing an Uber Eats delivery bag on top of a Just Eat delivery bag on the back of his scooter. Tourists clustered around street corners, arguing loudly with maps on their phones. A taxi driver leaning out of his window, shouting something unintelligible at a bus.
London; messy, loud, chaotic... and home.
The sky was grey, and a fine drizzle drifted through the air. Not enough to qualify as rain but just enough to make everything damp and uncomfortable. The wind pushed litter along the pavement and rattled loose scaffolding somewhere nearby. After seven weeks of sunshine and the sound of the sea, it felt comforting to be back.
Their vehicles parked up outside their buildings, bags were unloaded, and everyone disappeared towards their homes after exchanging goodbyes.
Friday, 13:09
Bayswater, London
Bond and Bright entered first, complaining about the traffic; Cressida went into her room, and James went into the bathroom, both shutting the doors behind them. Monroe locked the front door behind him and kicked off his shoes next to the boxes of his other pairs.
The silence felt strange after sharing accommodation with the other recruits and nearly a hundred SAS officers.
After opening up a few windows in the kitchen and lounge, and dropping his duffel bag on the floor, Monroe collapsed onto the sofa and stretched his legs out, feet up onto the coffee table. The wind rattled the windows, and the rain tapped lightly against the glass. He heard the bathroom door open, and he recognised the sound of Bond's footsteps entering his bedroom. Within moments, he could hear the faint clicking from Bond's keyboard.
Monroe smiled to himself because, of course he would. Seven weeks without his computer and PlayStation, Bond must've been dying.
Monroe pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his family's group chat. He kept the television off and just enjoyed the sounds coming in through the windows. He didn't feel energetic enough to do anything more.
In his room, James had indeed booted up his PS5. He hadn't finished Resident Evil Requiem yet. Headset on, he adjusted his chair and leaned back, angled just right so he could look at the monitor and have his feet up on the desk, one ankle resting over the other.
Half an hour later, he heard a knock on his door, and then Cressida cracked it open and popped her head through, "You decent?" she asked, though she hadn't given him a chance to cover up if he wasn't.
"What's up?" James asked, using his shoulder to nudge the headset out of the way of the ear closest to her so he could hear her better as he continued playing, eyes entirely on the screen.
"Fancy going to Cardiff for the weekend?"
At that, he paused the game and leaned his head back on the chair, facing her, "What?"
She smiled, "Some of the others want to go, and my father is there for the weekend in preparation for some special press conference at the Senedd on Monday morning, it would be a chance for me to see him before we fly back".
"Which others?"
"Nash, Singh and Ronson, and I'll ask Monroe too, Kingsley said no".
"Ask me what?" Monroe’s voice came from the living room, though neither addressed him.
"When?" Bond asked.
"Well, if we pack up and get the next train from Paddington... leave in an hour or so? Cardiff's a fun night out".
Bond hummed noncommittally as he looked back at his monitor, Cressida tapping on his door before entering and sitting on the edge of his bed, one knee over the other. He spun around to face her, feet back on the floor and knees spread wide apart. "Why Cardiff? We can go out here, and there are way more places to go"
Cressida shrugged, "Why not Cardiff? It's lovely, amazing food and wonderful museums. And basically all the same clubs and bars".
Bond leaned his head back against his chair again, swapping the controller between his hands as he considered it whilst looking at the ceiling, "Until when?". He really wanted to finish this game before they went back to Malta.
"I want to be back by Sunday afternoon", she said, idly flattening a crease in his sheets on the bed beside her as she watched him, "come on, James, we don't often get to do something like this. You don't have to, but it would be nice if we were all together. I think you need it".
James gave up, sighing with a smile on his face, "Well, since you asked so sweetly, how could I refuse you?" he said, turning back to the computer as she stood.
"One hour", she warned him, and he waved her away so he could get ready.
She approached Monroe as he was halfway out of the lounge, "Ask me what?" Monroe asked curiously.
"Cardiff, leave in an hour, until Sunday", she said, picking a stray bit of fabric string from his shoulder and flicking it onto the floor.
"Is James going?" he asked as if he didn't care what the answer was, to which she smirked.
"Why? You wouldn't go if he wasn't going?"
Though it seemed the answer was obvious, because James walked out of his room in his Calvin Klein boxers that clung to his skin so nicely, towel in his hand as he walked into the bathroom. Monroe couldn't look away the entire time, even as the door shut and the shower turned on.
She cleared her throat, and his attention was on her again. "So, Cardiff?"
"Cardiff", he agreed, hurrying to his room to pack.
Friday, 15:10
London Paddington
They considered walking the twenty minutes to Paddington Station, but they wanted to get into Cardiff as early as possible, so they got the 2 minute Circle line tube over instead, to make it in time for the 15:16 train.
As they left the Underground, they swiped their phones or bank cards against the ticket barrier readers to get through, and the tannoy echoed through the station: 'This is a security message. If you see something that doesn’t look right, speak to staff or text the British Transport Police on 61016. We’ll sort it. See it, say it, Sorted'.
They walked up the escalators as Ronson spoke, “I always thought it was see it, say it, sort it?”, which sparked a conversation about the Mandela Effect.
As they hurried to the platform, a passenger announcement about a cancelled train, not theirs, triggered complaints about the state of public transport in England.
The six recruits made it on time, and they sat in first class of a Great Western Railway train. Both Bond and Monroe lifted their bags to put them on the rack above their seats at the same time, in the same place.
Bond stopped just a fraction before their hands made contact, and he let Monroe take the spot. "After you," he said, then adjusted his grip and put his bag just next to it.
They sat three people to a table, with each table next to each other on opposite sides of the carriage. Bond had dropped into the seat opposite Monroe before anyone else had properly settled. Singh sat next to him, leaving an empty seat next to Monroe, which they designated the jacket seat and promptly piled them on.
For the first time in nearly two months, they weren't under instruction. No schedules, assessments or instructors. They were just a group of friends out for a weekend away.
"First class," Monroe said approvingly as he plugged a charger into the socket on the wall above the table.
"Courtesy of His Majesty's Secret Service," Singh replied as he connected to the train’s wifi.
"God save the King”, Monroe grinned as he switched on his Steam Deck, both elbows on the table as he leaned forward to play something.
"God save the expense account”, Bond said as he looked out of the large window, leaning against the frame, and everyone laughed.
As the train pulled out of London, the welcome announcement came, calling out all the stops the train would be stopping at. And then came the unintelligible crew announcement from the train conductor, which no one could understand because of the quality of the microphone. Something about how many carriages there were and how long it would be before they got to Reading.
Shortly after, the conductor strolled through the aisle, greeted them and asked to see everyone’s tickets. Cressida had them all on her phone, so she handled it.
Moments after that, the catering announcement echoed through the carriage, and the mention of complimentary alcohol had them all smiling.
If they had the carriage to themselves, they might have talked about how their training in Malta was going, but there were a few other passengers, so they didn’t, but it meant they could talk about other things.
Bright, Ronson, and Nash gossiped about who was sleeping with whom in Operations, and they talked of updates about their own love lives. Nash mentioned Bond had recently slept with the receptionist, Chambers, to which he only smirked and glanced up from his phone to wiggle his eyebrows at them without saying a word.
Cressida talked about her wedding plans and showed them some of the venues she was considering. Bond could only think of how snooty she sounded at times, not wanting to marry in certain venues because of where in London they were, or how she couldn’t possibly wear a wedding dress that was off the rack; it simply had to be made in Italy. He had come to love Cressida, but she really was the epitome of posh, sometimes to a fault. Still, she was excited, and he wasn’t even in the conversation, so he felt it wasn’t right to tease her in the moment.
Bond stretched his legs out beneath the table, and his foot brushed Monroe’s briefly as the train shifted. He didn’t move immediately; he waited a few seconds before he adjusted his foot.
When the catering cart came through, the server turned to Bond’s table and smiled at them all, before her eyes landed on James, "Lager, IPA, wine, tea, coffee?"
“What lager do you have, dear?” he smiled at the attendant easily, familiar charm switching on without effort.
She glanced at her cart and then back at him, “It’s Utopian”, she said shyly.
“May we have six of them, please?” he smiled.
She giggled and served them, placing all six on the table, and Singh divvied them out between them; two each. Bond’s attention kept flicking unconsciously back across the table to Monroe, as if to check his reaction.
“Do you need cups for them?” she asked as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Oh, I think we can manage without them”, Bond said, “but I’ll be sure to find you if we change our minds”, he said as he opened the can without looking away, taking a long sip as he winked at her. Singh only smirked against the rim of the can he was sipping from during the exchange; Monroe’s face stayed behind his Steam Deck, angled slightly higher than before.
After she served the others at the other table and left the carriage, turning back to glance at Bond before the doors slid shut, Singh laughed, “mate, you’re fucking shameless”.
Monroe scoffed, “You know she’s being paid to be nice to you?”
Bond gaped innocently, wiping his chin on the back of his hand, “What?”
“Will there ever be a day when James Bond isn’t an audacious flirt?” Cressida let out a sigh of amusement. “I tell you, the number of girls that sneak out of our flat in the dead of night…”
“Excuse me”, James pointed toward her, “they are not girls. They’re women”.
“You don’t even let them stay the night?” Ronson laughed incredulously.
“They leave extremely satisfied, and that’s all that matters”, he smirked and shrugged.
Monroe knew it. He shared a wall with James. It was surely no coincidence that they all sounded like they were having the best sex they’d ever had; it couldn’t be that all of them were pretending.
Eventually, Singh and Nash swapped seats, so Singh and Ronson could talk about football. They talked about transfer fees of certain players, and how the World Cup being hosted in the USA was a terrible idea, and that they hadn’t been to Cardiff since the UEFA Champions League Final in 2017.
"What are you playing?" Bond nudged Monroe’s shoe with his own to get his attention, and he leaned across the table without thinking. He was close enough that Monroe was aware of him before the question fully landed in his head. Monroe thought he hid well how flustered he was as he angled the Steam Deck slightly so he could show him and talk about it. Bond should have leaned back, but he didn’t. He enjoyed the closeness for a while before he shifted away again, taking a long sip of his drink.
The landscape changed steadily; fields, rolling hills, and the Severn estuary appeared briefly after they passed through the tunnel.
Nash hummed, “I’ve never been to Wales, I suppose I won’t have a clue what the signs say”
“Nah, barely anyone in Wales speaks Welsh, and there’s English all over the signs”, Monroe said, looking up from his game.
“Actually”, Cressida interrupted, “the percentage of Welsh speakers has increased over the last few years” She pointed her cup of wine at him, tipsy already.
“Okay, but that doesn’t mean we’ll get lost”, he chuckled, “trust me mate, you’ll be fine”.
James, earbuds in and listening to music, simply watched the countryside pass. He felt strange. He’d grown accustomed to pressure and constant tests, and the absence of it was very odd. He felt, briefly, as though Greenway might still be evaluating him.
No, he was just ordinary James again, travelling somewhere for the weekend.
The towers of Cardiff began to appear beyond the windows, and phones emerged immediately. Cressida checked their hotel bookings, they checked maps and restaurant menus, which bars they should visit and whether certain museums were open the next day.
The train rolled into Cardiff Central just after five, and conversations rose as phones went back into pockets.
Monroe paused a moment longer than the rest, still looking at the screen in his hands. When he finally looked up, he saw Bond watching him. Monroe looked down again, told himself it meant nothing, as he locked his phone screen and stood with the others.