That night in the pub reveals two things.
One: James has found himself a new favorite drink, albeit one with an alcohol content high enough that he's distantly concerned about smoking while drinking.
Two: He won't sleep his way to the middle.
It takes almost three months for James to find his bearings. A disturbingly long time given the nature of the field in which he has found himself employed, but he finds himself reassigned as a probationary field operative and the world rights itself.
He has a new desk, a new security clearance and a new direct supervisor, a man twenty years his senior called Rawlins, who immediately takes a shine to James over their shared military background.
James is not above exploitation, and it isn't difficult to take advantage of the one positive relationship he seems to have cultivated since the military left him on his arse. So before he knows it he's in the back of an RAF transport plane destined for god knows where, and if all the experience has cost him is a few dozen pounds and several losing poker hands, well, it's not a high price to pay for experience.
Rawlins sets him up on a series of escort operations, claims that James' youth and good looks will serve him well, and the man is not wrong on either count.
He receives a phone number and a commendation for his trouble.
Even his too-small cubicle can't bother him anymore, because it's temporary. Everything is temporary.
James doesn't realize how much time has passed until one morning when he bumps into Rodriguez in the commissary, and he's confronted with the knowledge that his once seething rage is now only a dull ember.
"Ah, Bond! A little bird tells me you've been busy."
James can't find it in him to be irritated so he politely affirms the statement and attempts to inch past the senior agent, but Rodriguez stops him with a firm hand.
"Tomorrow, 0530, there is a transport flying out from Heathrow. A simple escort, nothing too dicey. You are with me."
James balks slightly, but nods and Rodriguez smiles broadly, pulling away to clasp his hands together cheerfully.
"Excellent. Dress for the tropics."
The man is gone as quickly as he had come.
He questions Rawlins about the assignment and the analyst gives him a sideways look.
"You think everyone is out to get you, Bond. That's your problem, really, but you're missing the big picture,"
The Rawlins leans on his cane heavily like the conversation is as painful as his bad hip and James almost feels guilty for constantly looking to the man for positive criticism.
"No one here wants to see you fail. Not the least of whom being Agent Rodriguez. So you were the best in your class and he passed you over for some half-arsed mission guarding a chocolate factory from the 'Red-Headed League' or some such nonsense. Big whoop! What's the point of giving you something easy when there are a half dozen agents who need that kind of experience just to measure up to what you already are."
Rawlins coughs wetly and James moves for a tissue, but the man ignores him and spits into a trash bin before continuing.
"Stop pitying yourself because you think no one likes you. I swear, you'd think you two were having a lover's quarrel the way you prattle on. Now get out of here so I can get some work done."
James retreats feeling slightly less morose, and Rawlins yells distantly "Don't forget the whiskey you owe me!"
He drops heavily into a seat across from Rodriguez and the dark-haired man smiles indulgently at him over the report he's reading.
"So glad you could make it, James, for a moment I was worried."
He bristles slightly at the flighty use of his name, but he quells the feeling and smiles coyly in response, still unable to keep from baring his teeth.
"I'm happy to be here."
Rodriguez laughs, drawing looks from the other agents on the flight, and points at James with a pen.
"We're going to have fun, you and I. I can tell."
Rodriguez tosses the file in his lap to James suddenly and he thanks God for his sharp reflexes.
"Read up, Agent. Twelve hours to Colombia, and we have quite a bit of ground to cover."
Things go south and Rodriguez almost dies pulling James out of a firefight.
"Thanks, Agent Rodriguez." He pants, his back pressed firm against one of the empty oil drums they've taken cover behind.
"I have a name," Rodriguez starts, sliding a fresh magazine into his Beretta. "I have a name, and if we live through this you will call me by that name. Yes?"
James spits a mouthful of blood onto the dirt, cheek already swelling from where he'd bitten down too hard taking a punch, and nods, fumbling for his own gun.
Rodriguez smiles, his teeth too white in a face covered in dirt and muck.
There's a part of James, one that is getting smaller by the minute, that hopes they doesn't make it out of the warehouse.
But it's a very small part.
Negligible, even.