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~o~
He walked through the door, pulling it shut behind him in a vain effort to keep from getting thoroughly soaked. The rain had been sheeting down since breakfast, and while he didn't have a specific need to leave his home, he'd grown weary of staring at the walls around him.
He could be just as bored someplace else as he could at home, though his current residence was as far from his idea of home as he could get and still be called that.
He shook out his coat and ran a hand through his hair, spraying droplets around him while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The bar wasn't exactly a fine drinking establishment, but the liquor was of decent quality and plentiful. The barkeep liked him, so he wouldn't run dry until closing time.
Mostly likely.
The bar was nearly empty, just a few patrons who all kept their eyes averted as he crossed the room to slide onto a barstool. Yet another thing he liked about this place: no one paid him any attention, allowing him to drink in peace.
"The usual?" the barman asked as he sauntered over.
"The usual," he said.
The other man snorted but poured the scotch, neat per longstanding habit, then wandered away to do whatever it was he did when he wasn't tending to the needs of his patrons.
He took a sip of his drink, allowing the liquid to slide down his throat as he savored the slight burn. He didn't plan on getting drunk tonight—he never got drunk when he was in a bar, something he learned after his first bender when he'd been called back to the office after one too many. No one could do disdainful like Herself, and he'd do a lot to never see that disappointed look on anyone's face ever again.
James Bond didn't get drunk. He was a classy man with a reputation for seducing the ladies and drinking his martini dry, shaken, and not stirred.
He was not James Bond.
Not really, anyway. He'd worn the name for so many years that the line had become blurred so that some days he didn't really know who he was. The hell of it was that no one much cared who he'd been before he took on the mantle of James Bond, and if he were to die on his next mission, no one would mourn him. The name would simply pass to the next poor sod, and that would be the end of it.
He felt the air stir beside him and turned to watch an older gentleman with mostly white hair and a full beard settle on the stool beside him. His eyes were the thing that dragged him in, though. Dark and wizened, as though he'd seen things that no man should see.
The barkeep never spoke a single word; he just walked over and slid a glass full of amber liquid in front of the new patron. The older man flashed a smile—the edges of it were still charming, but there was a layer of tiredness over it that spoke to a soul-deep weariness that he understood intimately—and took a sip, sighing as though this were a ritual he'd performed hundreds of times.
"You know, they never teach us how to let it all go," the older man said. "She took me from a raw lump of barely competent but enthusiastic soldier and turned me into a weapon that she could point in any direction and be assured of the outcome." He frowned into his glass before he took another sip. "Some days, I'm not sure if I'm more grateful or resentful."
Recognition flashed through him. This man was… well, another James Bond. In another life, they were the same man. He suddenly felt a kinship with this man, though neither of them knew the other's name.
"She was very good at spotting potential," he agreed. "She complained that I wasn't ready, even as she was handing me my first assignment."
The other man chuckled. "We're expendable, you see. If you truly weren't ready, she'd have just promoted someone else. There's always a line of men waiting to take your place. Never forget that."
He winced. That hit a bit too close for comfort.
"So, how did you manage to reach retirement age?" James asked impertinently.
His companion chuckled. "Blind, stupid luck, my friend, and nothing more. Men like us don't usually have the option. There were many occasions where I thought I'd seen my last sunrise. Still not sure how I managed to make it this far."
"Now that I understand," James said.
"Have you ever thought about retiring?" the other James Bond asked him.
"Fuck, no," he said with a firm shake of the head. "I can't abide idleness. If I wasn't on Her Majesty's Secret Service… well, I can't see myself doing anything else." He gave his companion the side eye. "What do you do for fun now that you're not in the game anymore?"
"Ah, who says I'm not?"
James turned surprised eyes on the man, only to be rewarded with a twinkly smile and an audacious wink. He huffed. "Writing briefs can't be good for the soul."
"No, but training the next generation of spies does have its rewards," he said. "Steady hours, nobody trying to kill me. Well, at least not on purpose, anyway. My wife is grateful for that, I assure you."
"Wife?" James asked. This man—this older version of himself—was full of surprises, it seemed.
"My Moneypenny," he said wistfully. "She grew up in the service—her parents were in the game, back in the day—and while she was an exceptional agent, she much prefers to stay closer to home these days. She retired from active duty some years ago in favor of a teaching position at Sandhurst."
"And this life of domesticity appeals to you?" James asked. He had a hard time believing it, considering he'd probably kill himself inside a week if he were forced to retire.
"You'll wake up one day and realize that the world you've worked so hard to save has moved on without you," the older man said quietly. "You'll have to make a choice at that point. You can keep going until it kills you."
"Or?"
"Or you can grasp that life with both hands," he said. "You can choose to retire. Embrace the world you've kept yourself apart from all these years." He paused then, spearing James with a weighty gaze. "Live. You can choose to live."
"Don't you miss it at all?" James asked in a small voice, hating himself for how weak he sounded.
"Of course I do," the other man said. "Like a phantom limb. But I realized at some point that the cost of the job wasn't worth all I was asked to give up to do it."
"Her," he said. "It wasn't worth giving her up, you mean."
"Something like that," his companion said with a saucy wink. "Don't you have someone? Or have you given up the notion of love entirely?"
Faces flashed through his mind, a hundred different women—and a few men—who'd warmed his bed over the years. Some were more important to him than others. He'd thought, for a moment a long time ago, that he'd give it all up for Vesper. But then she'd betrayed him, and his heart had turned to stone. It was easy to see now that he'd thrown himself into work to avoid having to deal with the heartbreak.
And to avoid becoming attached to anyone ever again.
"I see I've lost you," the other man said.
"Just… remembering," James said. "Lost love. Stolen chances."
"Ah, yes, I've had plenty of those."
"And still you chose to love again," he said. "Why?"
His companion tossed back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the bar. He pulled a few bills out of his pocket and set them next to the glass with a nod at the bartender. He stood and gave his doppelganger an appraising look.
"Because love is the only power in the universe that can change the course of history," he said. "Love can move mountains, can carry you home when you're not sure you can make it. Love triumphs when all else fails. Find someone to love, and you'll find the missing piece of yourself that you've been looking for all your life."
James stared at the other man, dumbstruck at the hope he could see shining out of wizened old eyes. "How did—how could you know?"
"She looks for orphans," he said simply. "People with no connections. She's never quite understood that those of us who are missing that human connection will go looking for it. Some never find it. Some do."
"The ones who don't are the ones who never come back," James said. He knew it right down to his bones. "That'll be me, won't it?"
"Only if you choose it," he said. "Choose wisely, my friend."
James nodded but barely noticed when the other man collected his jacket and prepared to go. Just as the man turned to leave, James spoke.
"I don't believe I got your name."
The other man smiled, and it was as if the years melted away. He stood strong and tall, calculation in his eyes and danger in every muscle in his body.
"Bond," he said, smirk firmly in place. "James Bond."
~Finis