A/N: I saw Spectre yesterday and was deeply affected by the scene where M is eating alone at a restaurant. The blank look on his face before Moneypenny and Q swoop in was so sad. As a big fan of the series Spooks (MI-5 in America), I couldn't help forming headcanons about Gareth Mallory and senior MI5 officer Ros Myers being old (slightly more than) friends. At some point, I intend to write more to flesh out the backstory to explain their dynamic in this fic.

For those unfamiliar with the character Rosalind Myers from Spooks, she is a former MI-6 intelligence officer who was seconded to MI5 counterintelligence. She is sharp-witted and not one to be taken for a fool, but ultimately loyal to her colleagues. I think she'd be a compelling match for Gareth Mallory.

Bullfight critics ranked in rows

Crowd the enormous Plaza full;

But he's the only one who knows-

And he's the man who fights the bull.

-Domingo Ortega

It was an uncommon thing to enjoy a meal in silence at the restaurant not too far from his flat. Far better, he mused, to be here rather than try to ignore the silence of his empty home. The hum of conversation from other tables was enough to quieten his churning mind.

It was easier than he expected to be invisible as M. As a politician, he'd faced his share of media intrusion in his life. He'd been harassed by protesters and political opponents alike throughout his time as a civil servant. As head of MI6, he kept a much lower profile. He supposed he was less interesting than his predecessor. Gareth Mallory appeared to be an unassuming middle-aged man without vices or dirty laundry to air, and this was enough to divert unwanted attention from the press toward more salacious targets. If ever there was a requisite characteristic for the country's top spook, wasn't it the ability to hide in plain sight?

His hands shook slightly as he sliced into his steak. The events of the past few months were catching up to him. The fact that he somehow kept his job and that the 00 program remained intact astounded him. He wouldn't have dared predict this outcome before discovering Max Denbigh's treachery. It sickened him to remember his part in Denbigh's death no matter how complicit the younger man was in Spectre's crimes. He stared balefully at his food, his appetite nonexistent.

He remembered all too well the conversation in Denbigh's sleek office after the Nine Eyes vote in Tokyo. Human intelligence. The gathering of facts, the analysis and interpretation, and the calculated actions taken from it-all of it was vital to their trade. The tech was always a means to an end, not the end in itself. What fragile system of checks and balances existed in the traditional sense would surely perish given the undiluted power Nine Eyes bestowed. He stood by his conviction, even if his younger, more savvy counterparts would condemn him as a relic for doing so.

'Have you ever killed a man? You have to look him in the eye, and be sure. All the drones, bugs, and surveillance in the world can't tell you what to do.'

He was indeed certain as he watched Denbigh plummet to his death. That sort of primitive justice was as burdensome as it was viciously satisfying. It was a side of himself he didn't care to indulge. Politics and intelligence at his clearance level insulated him from the violence he'd faced as a military officer. There was no denying that the encounter stirred memories of his army days. It slipped through his mental defences, a cold and somber reminder of his past. He closed his eyes tightly and was glad that he chose the seat facing the wood-panelled wall.

The restaurant door opened and cold air immediately blew in as someone entered. He sighed. He supposed the rare solitude couldn't last forever and resigned himself to finishing his supper and going home soon after. A quiet rustling at his side startled him out of his thoughts. His eyes flew open when a woman spoke at a distance far closer than anticipated.

"A meal alone does not a celebration make." Her familiar lilt affected him more than he cared to admit. The thrill of recognition warred with disbelief as he turned toward her. The restaurant's dull interior seemed to sharpen into focus as he took in her presence. She lowered herself onto the wooden chair from the adjacent table and moved it close in one smooth movement. Her poise was impeccable as always.

"And what should I be celebrating?" Gareth kept his tone equally light. He set down his fork and knife and sat up in his chair.

"I heard news of an arrest you made on behalf of Her Majesty's government. After the end of a rather spectacular helicopter accident on the Westminster bridge." Of course Rosalind Myers was tuned into that stream of information, no matter where she may have been in the world. Last he'd heard, she'd taken on a covert assignment in Russia. The sight of her here made him wonder if perhaps he'd gone mad or if his wine was laced with something to tamper with his faculties.

He shrugged despite his racing pulse, glancing down at the table. "You know very well who was responsible for the preceding mayhem." He then made to examine the mundane items scattered about the white tablecloth, the flickering candle and the wilting flower in the small vase next to it. After a moment he looked up and met her gaze again.

The annoyance in his remark prompted her to laugh softly. She had enough in common with her former colleague to appreciate the humour above all else. "Bond never ceases to disappoint. The fact of the matter is that under your leadership in a very challenging time, a terrible player is now off the grid."

His throat swelled with sudden emotion. Had it really been three years? In their profession, three years could feel like three decades. Her blonde hair was shorter than he remembered. She still looked like she was cut from marble, striking and cold, yet the warmth in her eyes shone past that. She was dangerous in more ways than one; he would not be deceived into thinking anything else. He studied the new lines on her face, her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. It went without saying that her stress levels on the job contributed to them. Even so, the years were far kinder to her than to him.

"Cutting off the head of the beast is one thing, dealing with what remains is another. You know this." He shifted in his seat, seized by the need to do something other than stare at her like a fool. His words applied to Spectre as well as the combined British Security Services-all massive organizations left reeling in the messy aftermath.

"So humble," Rosalind murmured. She rested her right arm on the table as she leaned in slightly. He wondered if she'd let him enfold her slim hand in his. If three years without contact was an acceptable amount of time for such a public display. Before he could become dismayed by his indecisiveness, Rosalind surprised him by clasping his hands in hers.

"I've been promoted to Chief of Section D. Counterterrorism. It's mine." She told him. Immense pride on her behalf filled him but he also knew that trite words of congratulations would irritate her. He simply turned his palms upward and pressed them into hers.

"Are you certain you'll be able to resist the call back into the field?"

Rosalind's eyes were lovely in the dim light. He expected her to smirk or to retort with the sort of snappy banter that usually defined their interactions. He realized their personal acquaintance spanned nearly two decades, their professional just a few years more than that. She did neither of those things. Instead, she let go of his hands and leaned forward over the table, his forgotten food and utensils, his pair of mobiles next to the wilting flower and candle. The earlier thrill he felt morphed into something so bright inside of him it almost hurt. Rosalind placed her hands over his cheeks, covering the small cuts from falling shards of glass during the fight with Denbigh. He found himself uncaring of who was watching. Let the world be damned.

"I've never been more certain in my life," She whispered against his lips. "I'm home, Gareth."