??? ????? ??? ????? ?? ???? ? A Collection of One-shots

Walking back into MI6 after years away felt... wrong.

(Y/N) wasn't sure what they had expected. A grand welcome? A dry remark from Q? A sharp "Didn't think we'd be seeing you two again" from M?

Instead, they were met with silence. A lot of silence.

Security had stared at them for a solid five seconds before awkwardly scanning their credentials—which, miraculously, still worked. Then, as they walked through the halls, agents they had once worked alongside stole glances, whispering like they'd just seen ghosts.

James, of course, was unbothered.

(Y/N), on the other hand, felt the weight of every glance, every hushed word. The air felt colder, the halls narrower. It wasn't hostility, not exactly—but it wasn't welcome, either.

They weren't supposed to be here. They were retired. Out. They had walked away from this life, traded in the endless interrogations, the constant danger, the long nights in briefing rooms, for something quieter. Something normal. Or at least, as normal as life could ever be with James Bond.

And yet, here they were, stepping back into a world that had already moved on without them. A world that, by all accounts, should have forgotten them. However, judging by the way people were staring, they hadn't been forgotten at all.

Of course, James strode forward like nothing had changed, as if he still belonged here and hadn't left it all behind. But (Y/N) could feel it—the gap between them and MI6 now, the unspoken you don't work here anymore.

A flicker of doubt crept in. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe they should have just stayed away.

Too late now.

As they approached M's office, Moneypenny was waiting, arms crossed, looking somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Well, well," she mused. "Retirement didn't suit you after all?"

(Y/N) sighed. "It was fine until a certain someone decided to show his face again."

"Not me," James clarified.

"Obviously."

Moneypenny smirked, tilting her head toward the office door. "M's waiting. Try not to give him an aneurysm."

James didn't hesitate. He pushed open the door without knocking, stepping inside with the same casual arrogance he carried everywhere.

(Y/N) lingered just long enough to exchange a knowing glance with Moneypenny, offering a sorry-in-advance look before following him in.

Mallory was at his desk, sifting through a report, but the moment he saw them, he pulled his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh. He set the papers down with deliberate slowness, rubbing his temples. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

James leaned against the chair opposite M's desk, looking entirely at ease. "Good to see you, too."

M ignored him, looking at (Y/N) instead. "I assumed when you left, it meant you were done causing international incidents."

(Y/N) exhaled. "We didn't plan on running into him, sir."

"Him," M repeated. "You mean the arms dealer we've spent the last six months trying to locate? The one you managed to find completely by accident?"

James shrugged. "Not our fault he chose the same restaurant."

M's jaw clenched. "And instead of calling MI6, you—" He checked his notes, eyebrows raising. "Stole a diplomatic motorcade and crashed it into a marina?"