Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The meeting had run far too long, and the night promised to be even longer. Gareth Mallory was a man used to juggling appointments, but this was pushing the boundaries of what he was willing to put up with. The job would always come first, but surely he could take just an hour for this…

“…sir? Sir!”

Mallory’s eyes snapped up to lock with Bill Tanner’s. It was rare that his Chief of Staff had to repeat himself to get his attention. Oddly enough, that decided his course of action.

“Apologies Bill, please hold on a minute.” Mallory tapped the intercom to speak to their driver. “Baxter, I need you to drop me off at the address I’m sending to your phone and then take Mr. Tanner back to Vauxhill. I’ll arrange for a pickup in about an hour.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mallory sent the address to Baxter and returned his attentions to Tanner. “I have had this appointment scheduled for some time and while I could postpone it, I’d rather take care of it now and feel like I’ve gotten something positive done today. I’ll join you back at Six with some take out to go over that mess with the PM’s office.”

“Of course, sir, but if it’s only going to take an hour I could just wait in the car and save Baxter the driving.”

Before he could answer, the car pulled up in front of a tattoo shop. High end, nothing like the stereotypes one saw on the telly, but still a tattoo shop. There was no mistaking that this was his intended stop.

Mallory looked over at his Chief of Staff to gauge his reaction. Tanner was frowning, but it looked more like confusion than disapproval.

“Only an hour, sir?”

Not quite what Mallory expected, but a valid question. “Probably less. Why?”

“Well, that’s not enough time to for me to settle in and start the review, but long enough that we’ll both need a pick-me-up. How about I get the three of us coffee and meet you back here? If you don’t mind, that is.”

Gareth considered the offer. This wasn’t a part of him that he usually shared but if anyone had read the section of his personnel file about “identifying marks,” it would have been Bill. Besides, he’d need a coffee to get through the rest of the evening.

“Not at all. ‘The Art of the Bean’ is half a block up the street. I’ll let them know you’ll be coming in.”

Before he could change his mind, Mallory grabbed a small carryall from the boot of the car and entered the shop.

“Gareth!” A cheerful voice ran out from the back of the studio. A pixie of a woman appeared and raised an eyebrow at her client. “I know we’re a classy joint, but you didn’t have to doll up for me,” she teased, indicating his three-piece suit.

Mallory laughed and leaned over to kiss the tattoo artist on her cheek. “I’m afraid work tried to take over and I didn’t want to reschedule again.”

“T’wouldn’t be a problem, you know. It’s such a short sitting; I can always find a way to squeeze you in.”

“But that, my dear, would be an insult to your work and your time. Besides,” he hefted the bag, “it won’t take but a minute to change.”

“I’m almost done setting up here; you know where to find me.”

Gareth let himself into the plush changing room and closed the door behind him. There he exchanged his tailored suit trousers and jacket for a pair of knee-length athletic shorts. He paused, considering his socks, and finally decided barefoot would be his best option. He locked the door behind him (one of the many reasons he liked Jillian’s studio – the changing spaces had proper room to hang clothes and locked, allowing the user the only access to the contents.

“We’re still keeping on as we started, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Just the usual. Oh, and a coworker of mine will be in soon with coffee. Should I ask him to bring you something?”

“Ta but no. You’re my last appointment of the day. But you’re a luv for asking.”

Jillian had just settled into her work when Bill walked in with two takeout coffee cups. If the sight of his boss dressed in such an unusual manner (waist coat and shirtsleeves on top and a soft pair of gym shorts on the bottom) surprised him, he didn’t show it. He did take note of the ink already tattooed on his knee.

“When your file stated you had ink covering the scar from your knee replacement, this isn’t quite what I expected,” he said as he settled in.

Mallory considered the artwork on his leg. After the IRA had taken a variety of hammers to his knee, he had had a full knee replacement. The surgery scar was neat, covering several centimetres above and below his kneecap. A set of inked stitches covered the scar: simple, closely spaced and slightly curved horizontal lines maybe a finger-width long. Each line started and finished with a bit of a dot and with the occasional extra mark providing depth and texture. It was art holding the already healed flesh together in a visual way.

Jillian was bent over the lower portion of inking in another row of stitches, adding some shadowing to the already healed row above.

“Yes well, it was a bit too long to cover with a union jack unless I used it as a flagpole.” The cringe came from the image, not the needle piercing his skin. “You’re not going to ask?”

Tanner shook his head and sipped his drink. “Tattoos can be highly personal. I wouldn’t presume…”

“Alrigh’y there, all finished.” Jillian put down her tools and sat back. “How’s it look?”

“Marvelous as always, my dear. I do appreciate you allowing me such a late slot.”

“Tis nuthin’. Better than those drunk uni kids coming in right before closing thinking they can get anything other than a business card.”

Gareth laughed and excused himself to go change. Five minutes later, they were out the door and into Baxter’s car.

“Now that’s we’re alone, I can explain it without resorting to vague references. My time with the IRA didn’t end when I was released – there were months of surgeries and treatments and psych appointments. The doctors hadn’t even tried to save what was left of my knee; it was one of the first things they repaired once I was stable.”

Gareth paused, eyes focused somewhere just about his lap. “It’s funny… I have plenty of other scars, but this one never sat right with me. It was as if even though I had been burned, sliced open, shot… this scar was the one that felt broken.

“About five years after I decided that even if it wasn’t technically broken, I needed to do something to fix it. I booked an appointment with Jillian for a cover up but realized that none of the usual suggestions felt right. She was the one who suggested the design – simple and to the point. I agreed, but decided to have only one stitch inked in per year. It’s a timeline as much as anything.”

“And when you reach the bottom? It looked like you only have room for another one or two?”

“At that point, I’ll see if it feels complete. Jillian has mentioned other ideas for highlights or shading or even additions if I don’t feel like it’s done.”

“It’s fascinating how tattoo art is one of the most personal forms of expression there is. Sure, people get funny or silly things, but most of the time there’s a reason and meaning behind the piece that is unique to the person. Then to take that and etch it into one’s skin… it’s a statement.”

Gareth toasted his colleague with the dregs of his coffee. “I must say Bill, I never imagined your unflappable nature to extend this far.”

“Why? Because it’s a tattoo? What’s there to get upset about?”

“Spoken like someone who has seen the inside of a parlor on more than one occasion. Had a few army adventures?”

Bill snorted and shook his head. “Nah, I left that kind of rebellion to the navy lads. I had other things on my mind back in the service.”

Gareth cleared his throat. “I presume it goes without saying…”

“Sir, the only way I’d share this is if we needed it for identification. Let’s leave the insanity to the youngsters.”

“Or rather the physical insanity. Dealing with Downing Street is a beast all its own.”

Chapter Text

Eve looked at the two images on the paper in front of her.

Her conversation with Mallory had been simultaneously terrifying and exciting, something she had hoped for but never truly expected to happen. It would close a lot of doors for her future, but the ones it would open were beyond what she had ever imagined.

Yes, it was time. And she wanted to mark it in a personal way.

Mallory fully supported her idea and had even recommended an artist he had worked with for years. She knew where she wanted it and had the appointment schedule for the following week. As she stared at her final options, she found herself stuck.

She’d work out the technical details with Jillian, but she couldn't involve a civilian in this part of the process. Official Secrets Act aside, they just wouldn’t understand. Luckily, she still worked with one of the few who would.

~~~

Eve Moneypenny did not make it a habit of being nervous in front of her coworkers, but she noticed how tense she was stepping into the Chief of Staff’s office with a coffee bribe.

“Bill, I need a favour.” She held out the overpriced cup of coffee from the local café.

“Something big enough to require brining me coffee?” he grinned, took a sip, and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Pure Kona coffee was a treat.

“I was hoping that you would, perhaps, accompany me to an appointment.”

He looked up, treat forgotten. “Eve, is everything okay? What kind of appointment?”

“Oh no, I’m fine. It’s just that…” She took a deep breath. “I have an appointment for a tattoo next week, and I would feel better not going alone.”

Before Bill to say anything, she rushed on. “I accepted Mallory’s offer. I’d never have officially gone back to the field anyway and this is lifechanging and I need to acknowledge that. I know you went with M the last time.” Bill raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I keep his calendar, I know all about that, and I know you’ll see it when I update my file and I just thought that maybe you’d—”

“Eve,” Bill stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder, halting the uncharacteristic flow of chatter from the usually poised woman. “Of course I’ll go with you. I was just about to ask what you were having done.”

She visibly relaxed.

“Well, that’s part two of the favour.”

She handed her friend a piece of paper with the phrases “Take the shot” and “Take the bloody shot” written in a couple of different styles. All of them where some sort of single line of script: simple, minimalistic, almost demure. The word “bloody” was tilted on the longer phrase, making it stand out but almost looking like an afterthought.

“Those statements changed my life. I hated how they used to pop up in my nightmares. That stopped a while ago, but I still can’t entirely shake them. I even heard them in my head while talking to M. That when I decided to turn it into a command to not hold myself back, to take the chance that there are better things ahead. And a reminder that even if things go to hell, there is something after.

“Only problem is that I can’t decide which phrase I want. The shorter version feels more positive, but the longer one is that final command.”

Bill looked up from the paper and quirked his mouth into a teasing half-smile. “This isn’t a transcript or a mission report, you know.”

Eve swatted Bill on the shoulder. “Of course I know that you ninny! It’s just that… somehow it feels like I’d be disrespecting her memory if I paraphrased it.”

“Fair enough. It’s just that you’re going to have this for a long time; it should be for you, no one else.” Bill mulled over the designs again. “There must be something to make you consider both. Want to talk me through it?”

He led her to the small worktable in the corner. He cleared a space to study the page and waited for Eve to continue.

“Well, like I said, the shorter version is more positive. It’s freeing, empowering. It gives me the feeling of things moving forward.

“But the thing is, I didn’t pull the trigger until that last order. I didn’t think I could make that shot, and I froze. M’s command shook me into action. And sometimes I need that push to just do something.”

“More of a command than an inspirational quote then?”

Eve mulled that over. A command, a marching order of sorts. Maybe even a kick in the rear from herself to herself.

“Yes, I think you’re right. Okay, ‘Take the bloody shot’ it is.”

Bill was still looking at the designs. “You know, tattooing is a form of art. Not that there’s anything wrong with just text, but have you thought about any design work?”

“Yes and no. I want to put this on my hip, and I don’t want it to stand out too much when in a bikini. All that fancy lettering isn’t really my style. But” she points at a fancier ‘y’ on one of the designs, “there’s a bit of something about looping the ‘y’ that sounds appealing. Maybe a bit of a flourish there?”

“I usually see that kind of embellishment at the end of a word,” Bill hummed and reached for a pencil. “What about crossing the two ‘t’s with a single line? Bring it up from the last ‘t’ instead of the using the tail of the ‘y,’ like this?”

Eve looked at the mark and nodded. “It’s kind of like the trajectory of a bullet when you draw it like that. Could we add a bullet?”

“I like that idea, but how big did you say you wanted this? You might not have room for the detail without it turning into mush. But maybe…”

He erased a bit of the line and added two dots along the same path. It gave the design a feeling of movement.

“Something like this?”

Eve picked up the paper and tilted her head as she considered the changes. “Yes, hint at it instead of being so literal.” She grinned. “Then I’ll have more freedom to make up my cover story for nosy lovers.”

Bill laughed heartily. “Good call. I think you’re on the right track keeping it simple. And your tattoo artist will be happy to talk through it a bit with you.”

“I think you’ve already done half of her job. Honestly, I didn’t know you were such an artist, Bill. Maybe you should design something for yourself.”

“I never really thought about it,” he shrugged.

“Anyway, you’ll come with me?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll even buy drinks afterward; I know what Mallory wanted to talk with you about and it deserves a celebration.”

Chapter Text

The Queen’s Rose pub was busy for a Monday night, meaning half the tables were already taken. Some patrons called it “Mellow Mondays” due to the Lo-fi (whatever the hell that was) music that played over the speakers and the lighting tinted to cooler although soothingly muted tones. Contrasted against the old oak surfaces and polished brass fixtures, it should have felt jarring, but the overall effect conveyed a feeling of a safe rest point to gear up for the rest of the week.

It all made it easy for James Bond to spot Bill Tanner, who was already seated at their preferred booth (good view of the room, easy access to exits) with a pint of bitters. James stopped at the bar to order a Guinness before joining him.

“Sorry,” he said as he took off his jacket. “Appointment ran long.” He was dressed far more causally than his usual Tom Ford suits, although the polo shirt that sat as if it were cut for his body was definitely not something one picked up in a multi-pack from Marks & Spencer.

Bill’s eyes skimmed over the wrapping peeking out from the sleeve and raised an eyebrow at Bond’s drink. “Beer?”

“I’ve started to get some work redone.” The agent tilted his head towards his arm. “You know I was never good at following directions, but considering this is just the first sitting, it wouldn’t hurt to exercise a modicum of restraint.”

“You navy boys and your ink.”

“As if the army is any better.”

“We don’t tattoo propellers on our arses!”

Bond affected an almost offended expression, only ruined by the smile lines around his eyes. “That is a highly symbolic imagine and location. Besides, that’s nothing – I knew a guy who tattooed the soles of his feet.”

Perfectly timed as always, the comment made Bill choke a bit on his drink. “Now THAT is barmy. What was it?”

“A compass on one and a star on the other. They’re symbols meant to help find one’s way home. A rather lovely bit of tradition, if not a bloody stupid place to put them.”

“Is that what you got on your arm?” Bill asked, nodding at the plastic wrap that picked up the blue tints in the lights.

“Nope, even more traditional.” The double-oh agent pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photo library a bit before passing it to Bill. “This was my original ink; swipe right to see what’s under the dressing.”

“You do realize that’s a dating reference and I’m quite happy as I am, right?” Bill studied the first picture, a close-up of what he assumed was Bond’s upper arm from before his time with MI6, sporting a clean, thick-lined tattoo of a swallow. The artwork was simple black ink drawing from the traditional “Sailor Jerry” style but without any of the Hawaiian vibrance. It matched the man himself: traditional content but with a tasteful, modern tone.

The second image was also a swallow, but the style was completely different. It was still done in black ink, but the linework was much finer with delicate shading lending it depth, making it look more like a classy drawing in a reference book. Where the first bird was positioned like it was diving, this one was soaring up to the sky over a stylized background of lines and dots and circles.

“Swallows represent nautical miles travelled: used to be one per 5000, but that’s not as impressive a distance these days so some say 10,000. I earned mine two or three times over, but the other meanings associated with them speak more to me. Swallows are also a symbol of returning home.

“And if that isn’t what the blue depths have in store,” Bond looked contemplatively at this pint, “there are several myths about swallows carrying souls to heaven.”

“Is that why your new one is pointing up?”

James hadn’t paid any attention to that particular difference in design before. “Hadn’t thought about it that way. No, this was just the design the spoke to me.”

“Yes, I can see how that background would speak to you. It looks like an artistic rendering of a blueprint… or maybe hints at coding?” Laughing, Bill leaned back to avoid being swatted by his friend.

“So, spill – what else did you used to have? Bacon and eggs? A rose and dagger?” Bill smirked. “A propeller?”

“On my arse? Why mess with perfection? I did have a compass rose and a poppy up on my left shoulder, though. Had to have them removed when I got serious about field work at Six. It was probably the one thing I truly resented about becoming an agent.”

“As much as you resent retirement?” Bill asked carefully. While Bond’s retirement was voluntary and he was still consulting as an analyst, it was no secret that everyone – including the man himself – assumed the infamous 007 would die in the field, going out in a blaze of glory to save others.

“It was time. Things haven’t settled the way I had assumed they would, but there are benefits and I intend to reap them. Thought it was time to remember and reclaim a bit of the past. Of course, I’m a different man now, so I wasn’t looking for a carbon copy of what I had.”

“I imagine there’s plenty from your double-oh years you could add to your previous collection.”

Oh, there were plenty of options to explore. Being 007 defined a significant part of his life, bringing him both love and loss. He was proud of his service, but it didn’t lend itself to easy symbolism and his naval heart couldn’t imagine getting a non-symbolic piece.

His service number was out; too obvious. His gun was iconic, but it didn’t save Severine or his M. That winning poker hand might have been an option, but it was tied too closely to his torture at Le Chiffre’s hands. And Vesper… even now, a small trendle of ice slice down his back at the memory.

There’s a reason he avoided introspection.

“Too soon, Bill. Haven’t settled that part of me yet.” Bond took a deep drink of his beer and regrouped. “But you – I wonder just what you got up to in the army.” Bond gave Tanner a playful lookover.

“Don’t give me that look, you pillock. Went with many a mate for their pieces, though. It was fascinating – so many reasons, so many symbols. Then there’s style and placement, not to mention the color options.”

“You are far too comfortable with ink. You can’t tell me you haven’t considered it?”

“Of course I have, but I didn’t want one just to get one – no reason stood out to me, and no design was interesting enough to be permanent. I always felt there was more lore in the Navy than any other branch, water and all that. Army doesn’t have that same tradition.”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave the service with a cross or a poppy or something?”

“Nope, only scars. I had my eyes on higher positions and didn’t want to anything that would work against me. Besides,” Bill smirked, “like you said – why mess with perfection?”

“And now, would you?”

Bill shrugged. “Who knows? Fancy another round?”

Chapter Text

Genevieve could have submitted the paperwork by email. Hell, Tanner would probably need the electronic copies regardless. Still, it had been almost six weeks since she had set foot in the office, and she missed catching up with her boss. Paperwork had been an excuse for lesser reasons.

Bill Tanner had an open-door policy, and even though his door was physically open and she was expected, she rapped her knuckles against the frame. 

Bill’s face split into a warm smile as he looked up from his laptop. “Gen! It’s so good to see you! Come on in, have a seat.”

She returned the smile as she sat in the deceptively comfortable office chair across from her boss. She had worked for MI6’s Chief of Staff for the last three years, first as his “secretary” (no one liked that term) and then as his executive assistant / self-proclaimed gopher. Glamourous it was not, but Gen wouldn’t trade being part of his team for any other position.

“How are you feeling? You’re not about to drop a bombshell on me, asking to meet in person?”

“Nah, nothing like that. I just wanted to see how things were holding up around here. Make sure Susan hasn't let Accounting take over your entire calendar through next March and Randy hasn’t killed the orchid.”

Bill raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright,” she laughed. “You can take the spy out of the field, but you can’t take the field out of the spy.”

“And don’t you forget it! Now before you say anything else, you know you aren't required to divulge any personal medical information, and I can’t – I won’t – ask for details.”

Gen waved offhandedly at her shoulder bag. “You’ll already have seen the paperwork that I’ll be out for another 3-4 months. I’d rather read you in so you’ll know why I expect I’ll be going barmy within three weeks.”

Bill's mouth twitched at her mimed air quotes.

“So yes, as I emailed you last month, surgery was successful. They got the whole tumour, great margins, all stage one, blah blah blah.” Gen looked down at her lap. 

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“They want me to do a five-week course of radiation therapy—standard procedure in cases like mine. They’ve run me through the logistics and the statistics, and I’ve done my own research. It’s just that…” she tapered off. 

As was his uncanny skill, Bill seemed to know exactly what she wasn't saying. “It sounds too much like something you’d read in the AAR of some of our more interesting missions?”

Gen heaved a sigh, dropping her shoulders a bit and sinking into the chair. “Exactly! Logistically I know it’s not the same, but being positioned, needing to keep still, staying alone in that room because radiation is, well, radiation. It’s just not normal.”

“Do they need to use a cage?”

“A what?!”

Bill backtracked. “Usually that’s just for the head. They’d fit it when you go in for the mapping, but if no one has mentioned it, you probably don’t need it. Please forget I said that.”

Trying to calm her now-racing heartbeat, Gen let out a huge breath. “No, not my head; torso, lower right. And don’t scare me like that! That sounds horrifying.” 

A far-away look flashed across her boss’ face. “It’s not pleasant, no.”

A heavy silence fell on the room, the kind that usually came with bad news from the field. Acting on instinct, Gen got up, closed the door to the office, and sat back in her seat.

Bill cleared his throat. “Yes, hm, quite right.” 

Their eyes met, and Gen returned his open look. Three years working together was enough for her to know her boss was willing – maybe even needed – to talk. She just needed to give him the space.

“They found it when I came back from a mission with a badly dislocated shoulder.”

“You were a field agent?”

The look Bill gave her could have frozen vodka if it hadn’t been tempered with a slightly upturned edge of the mouth. “I didn’t say that. But out in the field, yes. No need to look so surprised – I came to Six from the army. Anyway, they did a couple of additional scans after seeing something odd on the X-ray. A biopsy later, and I found myself with a diagnosis of deep benign fibrous histiocytoma and a transfer to a desk job.”

“A non-cancerous tumour?” 

“Not malignant, but still a growth.” Bill rubbed absently at his right collarbone. “Given its rarity, they decided to target a couple of areas for radiotherapy after surgery. Apparently immobilizing the head is considered a safer course of action if there’s any concern about the patient having PTSD.”

“Sounds to me like that would cause PTSD.”

Bill hummed. “All this to say, I’m happy to offer whatever advice or insight I can.”

Acknowledging the shift in conversation, Gen pulled the paperwork out of her bag. “I’m scheduled to go in for mapping soon. Of all the silly things to worry about, I’m actually worried about the marks. They said they’re like tattoos, but I don’t have any, and I’m not fond of needles.”

“I think you’ll be alright. Those aren’t much, really. Like small pinpricks, not even a full-on injection.”

“Are they permanent?”

“They are, but they look kind of like little black freckles. Usually barely noticeable.”

Gen snorted. She wasn’t a porcelain doll, but she was quite fair and didn’t have freckles. “Great. I don’t suppose they color-match somehow.”

“No, but if they're that noticeable, you could probably have them lasered. Or if you can handle more needles, coverup is an option. I covered mine. Heck, you could even cover the surgical scars, if you wanted.”

Gen’s first thought was a definite oh hell no, but if she was going to look like a connect-the-dots puzzle, it might not be a bad idea. Take charge of an aspect of something out of her control, as her therapist would probably say. Or just creating art out of pain. Or whatever, at least she could ask her boss—

Wait a sec.

 “Bill Tanner, are you telling me you have a tattoo?”

The Chief of Staff gave away nothing more than an enigmatic smile. “I will neither confirm nor deny that statement.”