[Author's note: two drabbles turned out too short so they are posted in one chapter for convenience.]

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 agent Bancoran resurfaced from cozy after-lunch dozing. On a weekend, after good wine and decent lasagna he loved everything and everybody – government, department chief, armchair, mellow spring sun, a sparrow chirping at the balcony, a newspaper lying lax on his lap. And of course, Maraich, with all his looks, poses, gestures, talks… yes, even talks.

"You said you didn't like old geezers, right?" The red-head was standing in the kitchen doorway behind his lover, wiping a plate with a towel.

"Eh? Well… Sure. Why do you ask?" Bancoran dove into a newspaper to hide his confusion. Did the former assassin hint at Sanders? Sure, the department chief was making some lukewarm attempts of approaching his best agent, but Bancoran did not find it very bothersome, especially in comparison with regular brain-squashing from Patalliro.

"Once you'll have to."

"Why?" Intrigued major peeped from behind the newspaper.

"Because one day I'll be another old wreck too. Of course you'll still be ten years older than me, but will you love me then?"

"Just nine years older, mind you!" Bancoran sulked, but that was clearly not what the young man wanted to hear, right? "Silly you, I love everything you are, and even the wreck you'll be. Besides," he yawned, "Field agents don't live that long usually. Most probably you will have your own teeth and hair when you have to sweep leaves from my grave."

A porcelain-breaking clatter came from the kitchen, and instantly the agent was smothered by two slim arms and a mop of red curls.

"Don't! Even! Say that!" Fervent sobs heated his ear. "You're the best, you'll never die so silly! Promise me you won't!"

But Bancoran was not able to give such a promise – he could hardly breathe lest talk, and suspected he'd meet the ancestors right now.

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 agent Bancoran pretended he was scratching his ankle and not fetching a bottle of wine from under the table. Not that Maraich was objecting, but Bancoran had already found himself agreeing to a part-time smoking ban (so to say) and did not want to risk another his bad habit and hobby.

False alarm. The red-head did not turn from the sizzling bacon on a stove.

"Once you said I may kill Patalliro. Is it still true?"

"Why do you ask it now? As far as I know, he didn't bother us two weeks already which is an absolute record till now."

"So what? It does not mean he won't show up tomorrow. Every time I talk to him a million of my nerve cells dies. And I see you feel the same. I just want us to live happily ever after safe, sane and sound."

Bancoran sighed. It was not easy to argue with Maraich during breakfast when he had a knife in one hand and a steaming pan in the other. And it was extremely difficult to argue with a beautiful young man dressed in just an apron.

"Well, you are exaggerating a bit. Try to take him easy, he is just a kid."

"A kid, shoot!" Maraich was nearly steaming harder than the bacon on his pan. "He's almost 14, a blotchy lard-ass with fork-tongue and foul mind of an oversated old pervert!"

"You're so lyrical today, my dear. I would not call him fat, he's just short and… thickset. And many teenagers have skin problems, it's not necessarily a sign of evil–"

"HE-IS-EVIL!"

"Calm down, Maraich. Just don't feed the animal. Consider it a psychological endurance training. I do. And, for example, I notice I do not feel irritated with grammar mistakes of typists in our secretarial department, or by slow waiters, or–"

"Why do you object, I wonder." Now the red-head squinted suspiciously. "You're just as sick of him as I am, ain't you? Then, just overlook some my adventure. It won't raise any political ruckus, if you're afraid of an international scandal. Malynera king has enough enemies, and I can feign an attack of the Diamond Syndicate or ETs, and shift suspicions from the UK."

Bancoran sighed.

"Right you are. But he did one really good thing, which justifies his existence to me."

Maraich snorted and slammed the pan on a table-mat.

"You know… If not for him, I would have never met you."

"Oh."

This time the pretty killer had nothing to say.