A/N : Excessively AU. I've always wanted to write this, but it happens. It's also extremely inspired by Aaron Sorkin, especially by the Social Network, so I'm really wanting to finish this out.

It's one of those days. I'm usually called out around 5 in the evening to Café de Plume, in a text message from an unknown number.

Café de Plume. An unusually French restaurant right smack in the middle of London. I suspect whether it is even French. Just because they have an accent on top of the e doesn't mean it's a French diner.

Another text. Seat 41. Time to move.

It's empty.

Nobody's there.

It doesn't matter. I remove my scarf, and throw it on my shoulder. Then I sit on the seat, before some wack waiter comes up to me and says, "You can't sit that way in a restaurant sir."

"I have to sit like this."

"Why?"

"Otherwise my deductive powers drop by a factor of 7 percent."

"Oh, really, sir."

"Yes, really. I'm not kidding."

"You're not kidding."

"I'm not kidding. Now, we can prolong this endless interrogation, or we can move on. Get me a cake."

"I'm sorry?"

"Strawberry flavoured. That'll get me started."

"You want a cake?"

"And ice cream. I trust you people do have ice cream?"

"I'm sorry sir, you must get out."

"Sir."

The waiter was growing impatient.

"Look, I was just being polite. Get out."

"You just called me sir."

"I was being polite."

"I was assuming, you know, being in a French diner, you'd atleast call me monsieur or something."

"Monsieur, sir, madam, I don't care. Get out before my manager kicks you out forcibly."

"Can I get my cake."

"For god sakes, you can't sit like that."

"Are you kicking me out because of cake?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I haven't heard of French cakes."

"No, I'm kicking you out because_"

"Or is it the ice cream."

"This diner is capable of serving you whatever you need, alright. I'm kicking you out, because you sit like that, the seat's going to get ruined."

"Oh," I looked away, biting my thumb. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Wha- That's what I started off with?"

"I'm sorry, why are you being so impolite?"

"Oh for fuck's sake." The waiter gave up, and walked to another customer.

I smirk. I look below, and try to think of who this mystery person might be.

There are so many people who still don't know who I am. Maybe that is the point.

Code name L, I'm an agent working for her Majesty's secret service. And maybe that's the reason why nobody suspects I'm an agent. Because I'm a secret agent.

That makes sense.

Or we'll assume that makes sense.

This restaurant is not French. This is so fake.

So the my co customers in this restaurant are quite boring. The person sitting exactly laterally from me is a really old woman. Really old woman. She's been having red tomato soup.

That tomato soup is too red for anyone's good. Either that, or it's not tomato. It's something else.

The door rings.

I look around.

Oh, not her.

Not her.

"Hi", she chirps in front of me.

"What do you want, Misa?" I reply. "I'm on an important meeting."

"Set up by me!" she chirped.

"Stop chirping."

She shuts her mouth, almost mockingly.

"How did you get my number?"

"Do you remember what you always say about emotions?"

I sigh. "What did I say?"

"About motivators. Try and remember" she says earnestly. In some attempt to get my attention, obviously.

The thing is, I clearly remember. And I can see her line of argument. I know where she's coming to. I don't like that conclusion.

"The world's most powerful motivators are jealousy, anger and…"

"…and..?"

"Love."

There was an awkward pause. The same waiter came back.

"Would you like anything madam?"

"I'll have whatever he is having."

He looked at me, stared intently.

"You'll have what he is having?" he smiles, quite uncomfortably.

"Why not? He's having cake right?"

I smile, and look out the window. And they have the same line of conversation that we had a few minutes ago.

And we kicked out.

Walking into Trafalgar Square, she starts tugging on my hand. I already walk with a hunch back, and her tugging on my hand is not a good thing.

"What do you want?"

"Do you love me?"

Not again.

"That's a question I'm not at liberty to answer."

"It's a simple yes or no."

"The answer to the question 'Is the United States of America' dropping in spies in and around Syria is also a yes or a no. Doesn't mean I'm at liberty to discuss it."

"Your feelings for me is equivalent to spying on Syria."

"In my head, yes."

"So you do have feelings for me."

"I do."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Wait."

"Whether it's a feeling of attraction or absolute repulsion, is another story."

"You're such an asshole."

"Well I'm also a freaking genius, but I'm not the one who fell in love with me."

"Really? You're 80 percent narcissistic."

"I'm talking about my other 20."

"That makes no sense."

"Or does it?"

"I've lost you."

"Well technically, you're lost in me."

And that shut her up.

A few minutes later, she says she's got a meeting at the other end of town. I raise an eyebrow. She kisses me on the cheek, and leaves immediately.

"These women…"

My phone clicks. I open and check it out. I'm wanted at the base immediately. Time for detective work again.