Seven thousand miles southwest of London, James Bond was having his own problems, and he knew he was on his own to get out of the mess someone else had made. It was a predicament that could have been prevented, but as it was, he was right in the middle of it.

His contact, a very beautiful woman by the name of Angel Alexandria, who also hadn't been immune to his charm, was probably dead. If not, she would soon be. The man he was after didn't appreciate betrayal, and Angel had been his mistress. She had also been Bond's way in. That he had slept with her had had nothing to do with her change of heart; it had been more of a rise of conscience after seeing several of her town's people getting killed by an experimental virus.

Now she was probably among the casualties.

He mourned her death to a degree. She had been an intelligent, beautiful and educated woman. She had had a degree in biology, which had been her ticket into the insane operation of Daniel Marshfield, former CIA agent, now a traitor to his own country and as insane as they got.

She had also been a tool for him, a key into the place where Marshfield resided. She had meant nothing to him, though the night with her had been pleasurable.

Now Angel was dead.

Life went on.

Maybe it had also been a dumb idea to go up against his captors, who were numerous and well-armed, and one of them was pretty much the epitome of steroid muscle treatments.

But it was better than dying.

That was usually a mess and Bond had decided not to tempt fate. After the latest resurrections and what that had changed with him and Q, he really wasn't looking for another death experience. While the phoenix loved the thrill of a fight, the exhilaration of near-death, lusting for the blood of the enemy, Bond would try to rein in those instincts if he could.

Sometimes he couldn't.

Sometimes it wasn't advisable to go against his basic instincts, mainly because they insured he lived to fight another day.

Sometimes it was better not to test the limits of his rebirthing powers because the moment he died, he would have no control over where his body would end up. That had backfired in an amazingly bad way in Kazakhstan.

He landed a kick in the mid-section of Mr. Steroids, but it was like hitting a pillar of stone. His foot exploded into pain and he gasped, falling backwards. The goon grunted and flexed his fingers, the muscles in his meaty arms jumping. The grin on his face was downright nasty and might have a little bit too much fang to be human.

Oh great.

A supernatural thug.

Just his luck.

Bond evaded him as he lunged for the Double-Oh, but as he turned, the huge fist clipped him at the temple and he briefly saw stars explode in front of his eyes.

Mr. Steroids wasn't a werewolf and he probably wasn't a hellhound either. His eyes were the wrong color – some greenish-orange – and the wrong shape – slitted. The fangs were not those of a wolf either. Bond wasn't a book on supernatural creatures, but if he had to make a guess, this guy was something reptilian.

Right now he wasn't really interested in the name or species. He just wanted to survive.

As an agent, he knew hand-to-hand combat; he knew how to move and where to hit; but this guy was like made of granite. Probably something to do with what he was. And those teeth were nasty. Very, very nasty. Dodging more blows and landing a few of his own, Bond danced around his opponent..

The rain pelted him, growing more dense by the second, and it was like standing in a lukewarm shower. Mr. Steroids made another run for him and Bond moved.

He evaded a few blows, then his foot caught on something in the mud. The ground was sloping sharply away from him and he dug his feet into the mud, trying to slow down.

Something hit him from behind with the force of a sledge hammer and the air was driven out of his lungs as he fell forward. His back exploded into anguish and for a second there was nothing but the bright white lights of pain. Then his whole world tilted as he was thrown down the hill, sliding through the mud with an ever-increasing speed. Bushes and undergrowth brushed by, slowing him slightly. It was a massive tree that actually stopped the hapless agent.

Bond didn't feel all that much after hitting the tree. He just lay in the mud, the rain washing away some of the stains, soaking him even more if that was possible.

The world around him was a blur, growing smaller and smaller as darkness claimed him.

x X XX xx X

Seven thousand miles northeast, Q was working, looking for any sign of his agent. He was aware that Bond had gone undercover, had gone silent and deep, but there was a distinct lack of any sign of his whereabouts.

Q only sighed and logged the last position into his network, then turned to the next report to review.

The frequency was staying open, just in case, and he had his eyes and ears everywhere to catch even the slightest twitch should Bond resurface.

He would.

He always did.

x X XX xx X

Even if it took three days for the next life sign to come through and confirm that the Double-Oh was still operative.

x X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx X

It was coincidence that Bond had a one-day layover in New York on his way back from South America. Chile, to be exact. He was in moderately good physical condition, though Q would disagree with his assessment.

As would Medical.

Bloody idiots.

Well, Medical were idiots; Q was simply concerned and he had every right to be, seeing as who he was dealing with.

No, James Bond didn't see a bullet scrape across his left bicep, a shallow knife wound to his left thigh, various deep bruises all over his back, scraped and bruised knuckles, as well as a cracked rib as serious. He knew his body best and he knew when he reached his limits; most of the time anyway.

Getting beat up by some supernatural thug and thrown down a ravine hadn't been exactly his plan. Nor had the mudslide, the rain, the whole mess of finding his way back again been pre-planned.

He had been lucky to stumble across some very helpful people.

He had also been lucky to get a whiff of his target again.

His target hadn't been so lucky in the end, since he was now dead and buried in an anonymous plot somewhere in the middle of nowhere, his operation blown to pieces, just like most of his base, and the biological agents had been secured.

Bond decided he was even more than lucky that he had lost the comm. device – again, by choice, fully aware he wouldn't be able to call for any kind of help or assistance. At the time it had been the only way to insure his cover.

Q would definitely give him that Look when he was back home anyway, force him to go down to get checked out by Medical, then berate him on the loss of valuable equipment.

It was their game.

Bond enjoyed it immensely.

And he would deny destroying, losing or badly damaging equipment just to get a rise out of his handler to the very end.

The Double-Oh grinned, perfectly able to imagine Q's expression when he told him about that. Right down to the last frown creasing the youthful face, the brows lowering a fraction of an inch, the lips forming a thin line of aggravation.

The layover was convenient. It gave him a night in a luxurious hotel to heal in peace, as well as the possibility to talk to Reese.

Checking in, presenting the credit card issued to him for this mission – with a good-sized fund on the account – Bond was quickly given a suite. It gave him a nice view over Central Park. He didn't really have eyes for the view, though. He simply showered, checked his wounds, then changed into cleaner clothes.

A brief message to his phone told him that Reese was on his way, probably already around to stake out the area – something Bond would have done as well.

x X XX xx X

They had agreed to meet in the hotel bar. At six it wasn't that busy and most patrons were hotel guests having an early drink or a snack.

Reese ordered himself a beer and Bond chose the same, settling down comfortably. Their table was slightly out of the way and the position gave them a good view of the entire bar and the entrance, as well as the exit.

"Q called before we were so unfortunately disconnected," Bond only remarked.

Reese's mouth twisted into a brief smile. He knew all about unfortunate disconnections on a mission.

"He briefed me on his conversation with Mr. Finch."

"Quite a ride," Reese agreed.

"Quite some information he was entrusted with," the Double-Oh clarified evenly.

"Which you were told?"

The wintery blue eyes reflected amusement. "Only if I asked. What your little machine left him with is a load of information and it's nothing to share over a cup of tea."

"I would think so."

Conversation was easy between them, two men who were a lot more alike than one might think. Reese found that trusting Bond wasn't as difficult as it had been when he had still been with the pack. Maybe because of who they were, how they worked, what made them tick. They had a background that was as different as it was the same. They had a connection to a man who was their handler, the most trusted individual in their lives, who balanced them, who was part of them, and who they related to on more than a professional level.

Yes, they were so very much alike.

And somehow the hellhound wasn't put off by the darker nature of the phoenix. He was fascinated by the power. Finch had tried to explain to Reese what it meant, what being a phoenix entailed, but it was very hard to understand and even harder to process.

John simply accepted it, that this was a creature he wouldn't be able to kill for long, that Bond was something out of nightmares, and that it surpassed him or a werewolf when it came to viciousness and cold, calculating blood-lust.

Bond ordered a Scotch to wash down his beer. Reese kept nursing the one he still had.

"Q calls it a safeguard measure from your machine," the MI6 agent remarked casually. "Like a back-up."

Reese cocked an eyebrow. "Back-up?"

"Who knows? You might need us one day."

Well, they already had. And maybe Q would call on their help one day. Reese didn't mind.

The hellhound knew that Finch had offered the other man a job should Bond ever want to retire from the spy game. And Reese would smoothly adjust to another operative, especially this one, as he had already adjusted to Shaw's presence. He doubted that the move would be made any time soon, though. He doubted that Q would simply pull up stakes and move.

Contingency.

He almost laughed.

The Machine was a devious program and it showed who had programmed it. Finch could be proud of his creation. It was as paranoid as the cipher himself.

x X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx Xx X XX xx X

They called it a night two hours and a good meal later. Bond would have to catch his plane in the morning and he looked like he needed some rest. Reese had noticed the injuries, though he hadn't broached that subject. He knew about battle wounds only too well. From Bond's general appearance he had probably been up with not even an hour of sleep for more than twenty-four hours, and he would keep going if he had to.

He didn't have to.

Reese walked away from the hotel, all senses alert, as always. Eyes automatically scanning the surrounding area and taking in everything, the former CIA operative headed home. It was only a little past eight and the people out on the streets were shoppers, tourists, late night workers.

"You there, Finch?" he asked quietly as he tapped his earpiece.

"Where else would I be, Mr. Reese?" came the reassuring voice.

"Well, I don't know. Having a late dinner? Watching the game on TV? Playing cards at a gentlemen' club? Or maybe calling it an early night and catching up on your beauty sleep?" Reese listed, voice low and teasing.

Finch scoffed. "Hardly, Mr. Reese. How did your meeting with Mr. Bond go?"

Reese wasn't surprised that the cipher knew about it. He was aware of how little passed Harold by. Sometimes he even left the ear piece on, an act of clear deliberation. Finch had told Reese before that he was always there, just like Reese always listened in. If Finch didn't want him to do so, he could block the line, but he didn't. He hadn't.

Because he wanted it this way.

"It went," Reese replied. "We had a little chat."

He could almost imagine the raised eyebrows. Reese and Bond were men of little words.

"We could still catch the rest of the game," Reese offered.

There was a moment of contemplative silence. "That would be… acceptable," Finch answered.

John allowed a faint smile to come to his lips. "I'll see you then, Harold."

It amused him sometimes, how they still did this little dance, despite how much they had shared personally, privately, very intimately. It was a game, one he enjoyed, one he liked playing again and again. It was something so very them.

Finch was getting more and more comfortable with their closeness, with being who he really was, dropping the masks, the pretense, the shields. And John liked seeing the man underneath, the man he had caught glimpses of before. This was the man the hellhound desired, who he was so incredibly attracted to. This was the man he had pledged his loyalty to.

One and the same.

tbc...