Chapter Text
Had she always looked this pale? Starched. Dry. Overcooked. She wasn’t sure which one of those words would fit best or why only cooking related terms came to mind at the moment. She had been dressing herself - or failing to do - for the last half an hour at least. It had been a good idea to wake up early. Blouses laid discarded on the ground among simple t-shirts, professional shirts and boring jumpers. A dress or two had managed to get into the ruffle and was quickly disposed of straight into the laundry bin. She was handling a tie at the moment, cursing at herself for thinking of a tie and half-wondering where she’d gotten a tie in the first place. Throwing that over the chair, she put on the same white shirt she’d turned down and sighed with great relief as she realised it did go with the third pair of pants she’d put on after all. Out of the depths of her drawers, she fished out a brown belt roughly the same colour as the leather oxfords she was planning on wearing. Roughly, she tore down her ponytail and placed each lazy wave on her shoulder just so until she was satisfied. After messing with it for another five minutes, finally, the reflection in the mirror looked enough. Enough like Jane Grey; a 007 operative.
She hailed a cab just outside her building and spent the entirety of the ride to Vauxhall Cross sitting with her back as straight as a ruler. It was mixing in her blood, coursing through the entirety of her, she could feel it. Anticipation. Excitement. Pride, even.
The one great advantage of being over-prepared and forcefully present in the moment is that there was no sinking feeling when she finally stood outside that door. She's been rigid and primed ever since she woke up. There was nothing she wasn't prepared for.
“Venice.”
“Venice?” she blurted out loud. Too quickly.
The woman sitting at the table before her raised an eyebrow. Her head dipped ever so slightly too, so that she was now watching her over the rim of her glasses. Judging the surprise on her face. Jane knew that look too well.
Swallowing the protests that were crowding inside her throat, she opted to instead set her hands on top of her lap and offer a small smile. Nothing the woman before her would eat up but enough to let her know Jane's tried.
It was M she was trying to convince. She had a sharp, attractive look that she knew how to use to pierce people clean through. Her hair was in a bob, always styled and proper and she was wearing a beautiful dress that somehow made her prepared for both a business meeting and an impromptu visit from the King was he to call. Jane had never seen her looking nothing but exquisite. And there she was now, judging the poor reaction Jane had let slip through in front of the worst person possible: the head of the entire MI6 and through all of life’s irony and wickedness: her own mother.
“Venice,” M repeated herself - something she hated to do - and continued: “You’ll join the surveillance mission Whitmore.”
All she had to do was nod. Nod, Jane Grey. Nod. For Christ’s sake.
“If I may - ma’am,” she cut in, “I was recently named a double O operative because of my involvement in the counter-terrorist efforts here. In London.”
Taking a breath, Jane tried to read her expression but there was none. M’s eyes were locked on hers. This was her chance. Jane took in a breath and set her shoulders. “I would like to remain, ma’am. I am well versed in the Homestead project. I can be of use-”
“Moneypenny’s got your travel documents,” her eyes dropped Jane like the wrapper of a candy she’d just eaten and focused back on whatever files were scattered on her desk. “Pick them up on your way out.”
There it is; the sinking feeling one gets in the pit of their stomach. Wordlessly, Jane stood up, pushed the chair back in its place and left M’s office.
The folder she picked up from Moneypenny had her passport, boarding pass and sealed instructions that were not to leave the building as per the usual protocol.
“Moneypenny, I don’t see an armoury slip anywhere?”
The most respected and feared secretary in England sighed. “The customs are a hassle when you travel with guns. We’ve got our own man in Venice. He’ll contact you and get you settled.”
Jane granted him a prying look. “Customs?”
“Oh, you haven’t looked too close yet, have you?” he smiled kindly - too kindly for an Englishman - and patted her shoulder as he walked past her. “You’re flying commercial. Coach.”
It really did feel like a punishment. Who was she trying to downplay in her own head? This definitely was a punishment. Squeezing herself into the middle seat of a commercial flight row had never been a very enjoyable experience, but it stung a bit more personal this time.
It was not exactly a secret that Jane was the daughter of M, but it was not publicly known information either. That was her one gift to Jane; the one and only act Jane could retroactively interpret in her mind as motherly love: M was silent about Jane. Allowing Jane to be independent. And independent she was: she had changed her name to Grey from the family’s Brandon and left to study abroad as soon as she could. When she came back, weighed down with lots of student debt but an eager, genius mind, Jane ended up at MI6. Not because of her mother - in spite of her.
The work fulfilled her. Finally, she felt like she was making a difference. Her honed physical abilities allowed her to excel at weapons and defence training, her kind, witty nature made her at home in every espionage situation and her medical knowledge allowed her to save a life once. After three years of intelligence work in the Homestead project, she applied for the double O licence. It was the logical next step. She had the skills needed - excelled all her tests - she deserved this role and everything that came with it. Including the Homestead project. Now, she was flying to Venice of all places - joining a mission she’s never heard of.
She wished it would all make sense but couldn’t help herself but feel bitter at her assignment. Maybe if it weren’t for the looming threat of her mother doing all this just to annoy her, she’d actually be excited about it. She’d read the file through and through a dozen times.
Intelligence gathered that a dangerous criminal organisation had been brewing in Italy for the last few months. An organisation that the mission folder code-named ‘Whitmores’; reportedly dabbling in arms dealing. The service had intercepted a message about a planned meeting during the approaching Venice Film Festival. A meeting where MI6 hoped to identify the founding fathers, some of which they assumed would be certain British scoundrels that had scattered across Europe.
It wasn’t a boring premise per say, but no matter how hard Jane attempted it, she couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. A few planted microphones and a well paid waiter or a doorman and hopefully, she could soon return back to London. Perhaps if this mission went well, M would finally see Jane for who she truly was: a capable operative with licence to kill. For Christ’s sake.
By the time the plane landed, Jane had somehow convinced herself to give this mission her all. She stepped on Italy’s soil with a clear head and an utmost devotion to the task at hand.
Warm sun was beating down on the cobblestone piazza and the sturdy sun shade sails that were wound above the gardens of restaurants and cafés. At a small table of one such restaurant sat Jane. Dressed in a green flowy top and a pair of high-waisted dark trousers, with her auburn hair in a braid, she fiddled with a pair of sunglasses that she had hooked on her neckline and absentmindedly sipped the aperol spritz in her hand.
It didn’t look it but she was working: scanning the Piazza San Marco for her contact. After about twenty minutes of this activity she wondered if MI6 had advanced in ways of interspecies communication and perhaps her contact was one of the many hundred pigeons that were meddling about. She checked her watch for the first time. The contact time was thirty-two seconds away. Impatience was one of her many virtues. She made a mental note to work on it as she counted down to a zero.
“Un altro drink, signora?”
She turned and saw the waiter - the same waiter who had served her - hovering at her table with a learned smile. He reached for her empty glass and took it, leaving a new paper napkin in its place. Jane gave him a warm smile as she slid her palm over it. “No, grazie.”
Deftly taking the napkin together with her purse, Jane hid her phone inside while opening the message. A clear instruction was written on it: “Staff room, Blue door.”
Losing no time, she made her way inside the restaurant where round tables were sparsely occupied by people enjoying coffee in tiny cups. With a knowing look, the bartender pointed her towards the bathrooms before she could ask anything and she followed his vague gesturing towards a downward spiral staircase. Once she descended, she saw herself in a wide wall-sized mirror squished in between two doors. The one leading to the ladies’ room had another one next to it labelled ‘privat’. With confidence, Jane entered the staff room. It was empty of people, only a handful of benches and lockers lining a wall. One of the lockers was painted blue. She searched through it, finding her treasure taped upside down to the ceiling: an earpiece.
Putting it in, a momentary high pitched static rang through Jane’s ears, something she quickly recovered from.
“Hello, Jane,” said a voice inside her head. It was man’s; deep and raspy but not daunting.
She didn't hide the little smile that crept into her face. The excitement of a mission sweetened nicely by a high tech gadget and secrecy. So what if she thought her work was insanely cool?
“Leave the restaurant.” She huffed as she left the room and closed the door. “Sorry to disappoint you.” She really hoped it wasn't so loud. Or obvious. She'd hoped for a secret door. Jane loved secret doors. Almost as much as secret elevators.
“With whom do I have the pleasure?” she asked no one as she scaled the stairs.
“You can call me Q.”
“I’ve met Q. He's in London and doesn't sound like you.”
“I'm the Venice edition. They've got me in a bargain bin.”
The undeniable accent told Jane her operative was not local. And his humour made him strictly British. She put on her sunglasses as she walked into the outside sun.
“Walk through the piazza. Just past the alley into the harbour.”
“Am I getting on a boat?”
“Hope you're not seasick.”
She was getting used to the voice. It had a warm quality to it as it led her through tight streets and currents of people. With no intention of her own, Jane’s mind wondered what this Q looked like.
“But no worries if you were, you're not getting on a boat.”
“Mission on a budget, is it.”
“Mission on a down-low. We won't be leaving Venice any time soon.”
That sting a little but Jane pressed on. Pushing through groups of tourists and lovesick couples, Jane followed Q’s instructions past a marina towards residential buildings and one old, white door. Next to it was a keypad hidden in a lockbox.
“You know the code, I assume?”
She punched in the digits she'd gotten with her mission report back in London. “You don't?”
“They don't let me leave. Please, set me free.”
She smirked as the lock clicked open and she could slip behind the door. At the end of a long dark hallway, there it was: an elevator. With a giddiness Jane strictly confined to the inside, she pushed open the gate and got in.
“See you soon,” said the voice and Jane half thought and half hoped she heard Q smiling at the end. A tingle ran through her spine.
With no control panel or buttons, the elevator simply began its descent as soon as Jane closed the gate. The ride was short. If it was up to her to guess, she'd say she descended two floors before the Venice branch of MI6 opened up to her: a brightly lit narrow hallway with a cellar ceiling, a door at the end. Talk about anticlimactic.
In a few strides, she was at the door and pressed her palm to the reader on its side. The door swung open. There was an empty table and a chair on her left, then an overcrowded table on her right. In the middle of the room stood a whiteboard littered with photos, scribbles and post-it notes. From behind a cabinet emerged a tall man, eyes wide open at the sight of her.
“Miss Grey! It's Jane, correct?”
She didn't recognise the voice. He closed the distance between them with an outstretched hand. An elegant dresser by the looks of it, the man was dark skinned with a closely cropped beard and short hair. His face was kind and smile was charming. Jane shook his hand and introduced herself.
“Call me Archer,” so he wasn't Q, Jane confirmed for herself, already searching her memory. Archer was the main operative of mission Whitmore. Data collection and analysis, together with some social engineering; getting contacts inside Venice. Only when the meeting was confirmed did the mission call for a double O officer; MI6 feared the possibility of failure and the risk to the public on location.
“Sorry for the mess at the moment. I've been clearing out a desk for you,” he gestured towards the empty piece of furniture in the left corner, “And I got some new intel just about an hour ago so I've been trying to put that together. Here. Please.”
“It’s fine. No worries. What's the news, Archer?”
“My contact let me know that Whitmores had a change of plans. The meeting that was supposed to happen tomorrow is happening today. Tonight. In-,” he checked his watch - an old one, analog style on a brown leather strap, “Four hours and twenty seven minutes. So we've got our work cut out for us.”
Mentally, Jane went through the initial plan she had read in London: the meeting was supposed to go down tomorrow, on the first opening night of the Festival, when everyone would be too busy photographing the incoming celebrities and getting trashed at the opening party. Whitmores were supposedly meeting in a private lounge in Ca' Vendramin Calergi, the Venice Casino. Their hastiness was not a good sign. It was a sign Jane had to hurry the fuck up. They needed the lounge bugged and accessible if they were to confirm their identities.
“No time for pleasantries then,” she stated simply. Archer nodded.
“Get your gear from Q. We’re heading right out.”
Finally, she thought and internally shunned herself for feeling excited at meeting the quartermaster. Walking through the door Archer ushered her to, Jane let her mind wander until it was effectively doing gymnastics inside her head: So what if his voice sounded pleasant? You need to focus on the task at hand, Jane. He didn’t even sound that hot. Maybe he was a prick. Maybe he smelled like a baggage claim belt. Maybe he was older than all hell and had a limp.
Maybe he was that man over there. Effectively stumped, Jane remained standing in the doorway of the lab. Slouched over a table filled with instruments and weapons stood a young man, no older than her. He was wearing a baby blue dress shirt, the sleeves of which he’d hiked up to his elbows so that they were out of his way, black jeans and a pair of well-worn leather sneakers. He was pale, a stark contrast to his rich black hair that curled into waves over his forehead. It was clipped short around his ears and neck but nothing stopped the curls from falling over his eyebrows, scraping the black rimmed glasses that were hiding his eyes - deep, wide set, dark brown eyes that now found their way to Jane as he’d heard her come inside.
He smiled, all teeth and crinkled eyes and turned to face her fully.
“Hey, Jane.”
Gentle. Deep. His voice sounded even better in person, coming out of a mouth Jane really shouldn’t be staring at. A barely there five o’clock shadow lined his wide jaw and ghosted across the dip above his upper lip. The apple of his cheeks nested perfectly at his cheekbones when he smiled, completing the whole goddamn face of his. There was something so inherently attractive about the picture; a gentle, boyish nature seemed to seep through every soft wrinkle in his face.
Hazily, Jane recognised this moment as a very special one; an opportunity to admit to herself without a fight that humans were only very advanced animals and she was no better than a lioness in heat when she saw a man this fine. Thankfully, these lapses in her professionalism were only ever temporary.
“Nice to meet you,” she answered finally, realising he had approached her and they were now shaking hands.
His lips slid into a halted smirk that was hanging on to only the left side of his face. He was watching her; studying her. She hadn’t been staring. He wasn’t looking at her weird because she had been, was he? “Venice edition of Q,” she added.
With a hiked eyebrow, he let out a little chuckle. “Right. That’s me. Glad you found our little hideout alright.”
Finally convincing herself to tear her gaze from the man, if only for the purpose to hide her red face, Jane looked around Q’s lab. What once used to be a cellar of some kind was now a high-tech laboratory equipped with everything a MI6 quartermaster could ask for; a tunnel shooting range, a workbench, cabinets upon cabinets filled with various tools and materials and an entire corner covered in monitors and various terminals that probably nobody else but Q could understand. Having examined her surroundings, Jane now felt more confident she was firmly standing on the ground and not flying on cloud 9. It didn’t help that he’d been watching her with the faint smile still stuck to his face when she finally faced him again, but it didn’t rattle her this time.
“Nice place you’ve got here. ” She looked at him through her eyelashes - two could play this game after all - and to her surprise, or disappointment, he shyly looked away.
“Thank you,” he turned back around, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve got everything you need for tonight just here.”
She wasn’t pouting, she really wasn’t, but she had to breathe in and out to relax her face before she followed him to the table. Her focus came back to her as soon as she saw the equipment laid out. Those she could recognise - surveillance camera bugs and micro microphones - she quickly glanced over, settling instead on the bangle that seemed out of place.
Following her gaze, Q picked up the bracelet and with a silent question - to which she gave a silent permission - slid it onto her wrist. So what if she shivered just a little bit.
“It’s a transmitter and replicator. You press this gem here for two seconds - it copies the signal of any receiver within the range of twenty centimetres and voilá: you open any card-locked doors with a simple swipe.” He spoke with his hands and licked his lips as he explained it and it took a lot of willpower for Jane to actually listen. “But that’s for later tonight,” he let go of her wrist, “First you’re coming with Archer as the catering crew to bug the place up, so for that I’ve got this.”
His deft hands picked up a walkie-talkie and Jane noticed how clean and strong his hands looked. So what if she watched the veins on his forearms as he flipped open the back of the small radio.
“Not only do these work as regular radios, they’re also hiding a set of lockpicks,” he popped out a sharp edged tool, “undetectable by the metal detectors they’ve got at the entrance. This compartment here will also hide the cameras and mikes. I’ve shielded it.”
Finally, she was starting to get back into her own head. She took hold of a sturdy looking clip. “What’s this one?”
“This allows me to wire into their surveillance system. You and Archer will get this baby to their server rack and I’m in. I’ll put on a loop while you set the place up. I don’t give it much they'll still be on while the meeting takes place but if they will - I’ll be there too. Watching.”
She didn’t blink when he said ‘baby’. Just as she didn’t when he almost whispered ‘watching’. She didn’t and it was ridiculous she was trying to convince her own damn self of it. Enough was enough. Jane felt the control needed to return to her.
“That’s all nice, Q,” she looked at him, not sultrily but not completely innocently either, “But I’m 007 aren’t I? What have you got for me?”
He swallowed and it felt like a small victory. With a shaky grin, he guided her to a table just before the shooting range. There laid a weapon she was familiar with. Jane took the handgun, she checked the magazine.
“A classic,” he explained. “Walther P99, 9mm.”
Jane glanced towards the target at the end of the tunnel. She slid the magazine in place and turned in one quick motion, her finger already resting on her trigger as she pulled once, twice, three times and the target’s silhouette was missing a head.
When she turned back to Q he was leaning against the wall with an impressed look that felt amazing. “I see you’re familiar.”
“I am,” she smiled and pulled the magazine out, then rested the gun on the table.
“I've modified it. It can be taken apart and reassembled in a single minute. Individual pieces can be stashed in your gear and safely carried through the metal detector.”
“A single minute?” She gave him a challenging look. “Bet you I can do it in under forty seconds.”
Q smirked and pulled a phone out of his pocket. Jane spread her palms on the table as she made a mental map of each piece of the weapon. Then she took a breath. Her hands grabbed the gun with familiarity. She clicked off the slide, took apart the grip and separated the barrel, putting each piece back in its place with confident, quick movements until the last piece - the hammer, slid into place. Her hands flew into the air and the entirety of Walther P99 was before her on the table.
With a disbelieving shake of his head, Q approached and inspected the handgun. He chuckled a little as he met her eyes and she could have sworn he winked at her as he pushed back in the magazine. With a quick turn he faced the target, took aim and two shots ran out. Lowering the gun, Q grinned at the two smoking holes where the target’s heart would have been. “I’ll be damned.”
Once again, Jane found herself quite unprepared. Unlike the insides and outs of a MI6 issued handgun, she’d never seen a Q shoot a gun before, let alone with such skill. Surely, the surprise was the main cause of her lack of speech. Or perhaps it was the sexual tension she’d felt between them that was now positively sizzling; just like the scorched paper target in the far back of the tunnel. God he looked scorching handling a gun.
“I thought Qs don’t test their weapons.” She couldn’t help herself. “ They leave it to the interns back in London.”
He laughed again, had already rested the gun back on the table and turned it towards Jane. “We’re short staffed here.”
There was something about him, wasn’t there? The way his eyes teased a reaction out of her as he studied her face in silence. She took the gun. “I won our bet.”
In a single slow movement, he leaned against the table towards her. “I admit defeat.”
She smiled slowly, accepting the challenge to lean against the other side. Their voices dropped in volume. “What’s my prize?”
He kissed his teeth. She looked at his lips. Fuck. “I don’t remember us setting any prizes I’m afraid.”
Their faces were inches apart. He had to feel it too, didn’t he? The warmth of her breath that was picking up. She stubbornly kept her eyes trained on his and felt like they were getting darker and darker. She wouldn’t lean in, would she? Would she dare?
“Jane!” Archer called out. Q and Jane both turned on their heels towards him standing in the door. The moment had passed. “You got everything?”
“Yes!” Gods she was cursing Archer all the way back to London in her head. “Got everything. I’m ready.”
With a sly side eye that she registered, Q put on an easy smile and wandered towards his computer in the corner, shooting a finger gun Archer’s way. “I’ve got eyes on you. Go for it.”