Author's note: This story was originally a oneshot, but have a ficlet or two. :) These are all from the same universe.

July 12

When Alfred first started working for the CIA, he knew exactly where he wanted to go. He was given a lot of paperwork, but he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life checking reports and filing information on the mortgages of high-profile citizens. No, he was going to be a secret agent.

It didn't take all that long, really. The basics came first: learning how to parse information, some weapons training, how to deal with uncooperative people. A lot of it he had learned already; calling the CIA "the agency" was second-nature, and never telling the whole truth unless prompted was something even he was able to master. By the time he was cleared as a field agent, he had gone through so many background checks he had stopped worrying about them, and he had also stopped bothering with a social life. His background was as clean as could be, and he didn't like worrying all the time about how his relationships fit into the picture. His time was rapidly becoming devoted to the agency and sleeping, anyway; he didn't have space in his life for anything else.

He wasn't expecting to be lonely. He had his coworkers, after all, who were fun to work with (for the most part). He and his friends outside of work had been drifting away since college. He'd dated a little since then, but none of it had gotten very serious. He wasn't really going to be losing all that much. Being a field agent made him glad he didn't have anyone waiting for him. He never knew when he was going to get called in and he often collected odd injuries that would have been difficult to explain away. As he got better, the missions got harder and required all of his attention. But after a couple years, he discovered that he was lonely. Not horribly lonely, but he needed someone in his life he could connect with, someone to really talk to. He didn't realize this until the first time he heard Arthur's voice.

"Alfred, you're making to be a fine field agent, but we have another job we need you to do. You've shown yourself to be loyal and good at working with others, even when you don't agree with them. I'm making you an intelligence communications officer."

Alfred stared at his boss. He licked his lips carefully. "Uh, what does that entail? Sir."

"Well, you'll sit at a desk and talk to an agent from MI6. We've been engineering a lot of cooperative missions lately, and we need a more direct line of communication than the bureaucratic bullshit we've been dealing with." His boss smiled, inviting Alfred to join in the joke.

Alfred smiled back weakly, trying to hide his disappointment. A desk job? Hadn't he worked this hard to escape from that? "Are you sure . . . this is best for me, sir?"

"Agent Jones, you can decide that for yourself. Come on, I'll show you to your desk."

Alfred got his own room, with a door that locked. It was empty except for a desk, a chair, an empty bookshelf, and a black telephone. His boss threw a file on the desk before sitting down and picking up the telephone. Before he dialed, however, he looked at Alfred. "Now, you'll be known only as 'Alfred,' and don't reveal any personal information, you hear? Same goes for your contact, so don't ask." Alfred nodded and his boss dialed the number.

"Hello. Yes. Yes, he's here." His boss gestured Alfred over. "Alright. You too. Yes, hello agent. I'm about to introduce you to him right now. Just wanted to check everything was okay on your end. Alright. Here he is." His boss thrust the phone at Alfred, who cradled it against his chest. His boss stood and patted the file. "Check with him if we've got the same info on that case. Oh, and you'll need to get your own writing implement. Sorry, don't have the money for them at the moment." He laughed and clapped Alfred on the back. "See you in an hour, agent."

"Yessir," Alfred replied. When his boss had closed the door, Alfred sat down and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Ah, hello. Is this Alfred?"

"Yup." Alfred didn't know why he was surprised to hear a British accent on the other end of the line; his boss had said MI6, after all. "Uh, sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The man cleared his throat awkwardly. "It's Arthur."

Alfred smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Arthur."

"Yes." The word was short and clipped, as though he didn't know what to say. There was the rustling sound of papers being moved. "So, do you have your file on the Hilbrooke case?"

"Uh, yeah, right here." Alfred looked at the manilla folder and saw that there was a sticky note on the front. It said "Burn after memorized," followed by a phone number. Alfred read it through a few times. So that was where he could reach Arthur.

"So, I have here a list of known safe houses . . ."

"Okay." Alfred flipped open the folder and skimmed the first page. Arthur read the list out to him and he compared it to his own. Ruzomberok, Slovakia . . . Miskolc, Hungary . . . Arthur's voice rolled over him, turning the names of the foreign cities into something almost familiar. An hour and a half later, when they had gone through both their files, Alfred didn't find himself missing his field job in the least. In fact, when he walked out of his new office, he felt happier than he had in weeks. He had no idea why, since he and Arthur hadn't exchanged more than a few words that weren't strictly related to business.

"So, it's like dinnertime over there, right? Are you going home for dinner?" Alfred asked, not just wanting to hang up.

"Oh no, my dinner break isn't for a few hours yet. I have – well, things to do." A sigh.

Alfred smiled. "Well, good luck with whatever it is."

"Thanks. Have – well, a nice rest of your day, I suppose."

Alfred grinned. "Will do. You too, Arthur. I'll talk to you later."