Archive of Our Own ^beta

Richard would follow Jeremy anywhere.

The big man had been their leader, their boss for nearly a decade now and the excitement of working with him still hadn’t worn off.

He’d do anything for him, and James, their Captain Slow.

Even wear a stupid suit.

The youngest member of their team, their little unit, he played a different role. Small, invisible, and very good at disappearing.

James was the planner, the advanced intelligence gatherer.

And Jeremy, with his size and strength, was the protector. A role he excelled at every single time.

Growing up, Richard had always wanted to be a spy. And from the moment he’d joined MI6, he’d been made aware of Jeremy’s reputation within the organisation.

Loud, outspoken, disliked by many of those in power, but too damn good to get rid of. Fiercely loyal too.

Richard had immediately fought to join Jeremy’s team.

……

The sleek black Jaguar, that James adored, and Jeremy complained about incessantly just to annoy him, idled with a low, impatient growl. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old leather and James’s expensive cigars.

From the front seat, a big hand reached back and gave his shoulder a firm, comforting squeeze. Jeremy. “You will have to sneak out in time for the drop, be careful.” His voice was a low rumble, familiar and steadying.

Nodding to each other, they climbed out of the car and prepared to take their places.

Richard’s role was simple: be invisible but charming and let James’s tiny listening devices do their work. Jeremy, a mountain in a tuxedo was playing the part of a wealthy, boorish industrialist. He was currently holding court by the champagne, his loud laugh cutting through the murmur of polite conversation, allowing Richard to move around the rest of the room.

It was going smoothly. Too smoothly.

The signal came, a soft chime in his ear. James’s voice, calm and precise. “Phase two. Hamster, the east balcony. Now. Jezza, keep them busy.”

The east balcony was deserted, overlooking the manicured gardens. The music from the ballroom was a distant hum. Richard leaned against the railing, the picture of a guest taking a moment of air, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. The hand-off. A micro-drive containing the blueprints for a new, silent attack submarine was supposed be passed to him here.

Footsteps behind him. Richard turned with a practiced, charming smile. It died on his lips.

The man was not who they were expecting. He was broad, with cold eyes and a suit that did little to hide the weapon holstered under his arm. Security. And he didn't look pleased.

“Enjoying the view?” the man asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

“It’s a lovely night,” Richard replied, his voice slightly higher than usual. He subtly pressed the comms button on his watch, a silent distress signal.

“I think you’ve seen enough. The host would like a word.” The man took a step forward, his hand moving towards his jacket.

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Richard. This was a black-bag situation. If he was taken inside, he’d disappear.

Then, the balcony doors burst open with a crash.

Jeremy filled the doorway, his stormy blue eyes blazing. He didn't shout, didn't bluster. He simply assessed the scene in a split second—Richard cornered; the guard, hand reaching for a weapon.

“Is there a problem here?” Jeremy’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, all pretence of the boorish industrialist gone.

The man hesitated, thrown by the sheer physical presence of the man now blocking his exit. “This is a private area. I’m escorting this guest inside.”

“No,” Jeremy said, the word simple and absolute. He took two strides onto the balcony, his size suddenly making the space feel claustrophobic. He positioned himself squarely between Richard and the threat. “He’s with me.”

The guard’s hand emerged from his jacket, holding a compact pistol. “Step aside, sir.”

Big mistake.

Jeremy moved.

It wasn't the flailing motion of a brawl; it was a precise, economical disarming technique taught on the top-floor training rooms of Vauxhall Cross. One large hand clamped around the man’s wrist, squeezing with brutal force until a gasp of pain escaped the guard’s lips and the pistol clattered to the stone floor. The other hand drove a short, powerful punch into the man’s solar plexus.

The guard folded, air whooshing out of him, and collapsed to his knees, choking.

Jeremy bent down, retrieved the pistol, and ejected the clip and round with practised ease before tossing the pieces over the balcony into a hydrangea bush. He then hauled the gasping man up by his collar and delivered a sharp, precise blow to the temple with the heel of his hand. The guard went limp.

Turning to Richard, Jeremy’s expression had softened from lethal intent to deep concern. “Alright, Hamster?” His hands came up, cupping Richard’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheeks.

James’s voice was tight in their ears. “Status. Now.”

“We’re clear,” Jeremy said, his gaze still wary. “Had a small problem to take care of.”

“I saw. That was… direct. Get to the car. Now.”

They moved quickly, Jeremy’s large form shepherding Richard’s smaller one through the building and out into the cool night air. The Jaguar was already running, James at the wheel, tense in the dashboard lights.

They piled in, Richard in the back, Jeremy filling the passenger seat. The car pulled away with a smooth, urgent acceleration.

James glanced in the rearview mirror, his bright blue eyes finding Richard’s. “What were you thinking, engaging like that?”

“I didn’t engage! He engaged me!” Richard protested, his voice still a little too high.

“Don't do anything stupid again,” James said, his tone sharp with concern.

Richard deflated. "Temporarily...?"

James sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. "I mean, permanently would be nice but I'm not going to ask too much of you." A faint, relieved smile touched his lips. "Just don't get yourself killed. Jezza wouldn’t like that.”