The tea was ready, and Vesper entered to see James filling two china teacups on saucers. They were plain, white round cups, completely unembellished, but it still made her smile nonetheless. Drinking tea out of mugs would simply not do for James Bond.

He looked up to see her smiling at him but didn't comment, simply handing her the cup and sitting down on one of the stools. Vesper followed suit, glancing down at the amber liquid in her cup. She looked back up at him, surprised.

"You remembered," she said, "after all these years." James shrugged, sipping his own tea, gracefully.

"You're the only person I've ever met who drinks their tea black," he said, screwing up his face in mock disgust. "It's un-English."

Vesper shook her head. "I'm sorry, I actually like to taste the tea," she replied, catching the twinkle in his eye and smiling in spite of herself.

They sat that way for some time, in an almost companionable silence, sipping from their respective cups. Vesper's mind flashed back to the last time she'd sat over tea with a member of MI-6; nearly six years ago in a tiny flat in Croydon. Her son, now sleeping peacefully on James's sofa, a healthy, robust boy of nearly five, had been a tiny infant small enough to fit in the crook of her arm.

It was hard to believe that the woman who had sat across from her that day, meting out what felt like punishment and changing Vesper's life forever, was no longer with them. She'd been such a formidable force, such a tireless advocate. It'd seemed like nothing could have brought her down.

She looked back up at James, who was, predictably, watching her closely. They both shared a grin, Vesper still just so glad to be in his presence.

James's voice was soft as he spoke, breaking the silence.

"So," he said, "why Henry?"

She looked up, momentarily confused, and saw that James was looking over at the sleeping boy. Then it made sense.

"Oh," she said, "it was my father's name."

He nodded, tearing his eyes away from the boy and looking back at her.

"How old were you when he died?" James asked after a few seconds, his voice still soft and low.

Vesper sighed, the memory of finding Henry Lynd dead all those years ago one she rarely went back to. How cold his body had been, how she'd known right away. The ambulance; the coroner, taking him away on a stretcher. Her precious father now a nameless corpse, wrapped in a sheet as they wheeled him out of the house.

"Fifteen," she told him. She hazarded a glance up at James and saw understanding there, true sympathy, and she knew that her presumptions on that train to Montenegro had been correct, as his had been. "I loved him very much," she said, sighing heavily, "but I couldn't keep him from his drink."

She looked up to see James's bright eyes watching her with a mix of concern and curiosity.

"But you don't blame yourself," James said, a statement, not a question.

"No," Vesper said. It was true. She had watched her father as the drink consumed him and tried her hardest to keep it away from him. But the alcoholic is adept at hiding bottles and at hiding the empties in places that one wouldn't think to look. It had been the liquor that destroyed him, and though she had tried nobly to keep it from him, in the end it had been fruitless. "No," she said again, "it was the drink, James," she looked up at him from her tea. "There was nothing I could have done."

He was watching her curiously, over the rim of his raised teacup, and seemed to be contemplating her words. Then cleared his throat and took another sip of tea.

"What about your mother?" he asked.

"I barely remember her," she said, thinking back on those few misty memories she had of her, just images, really, and her soft voice, and that musical laugh she had. Solange Lynd had been a beautiful woman, and Vesper had idolised her in the few short years they'd had together. Her death had devastated the little girl, but the resiliency of childhood meant that she'd gotten over it quicker than her father had. If he, of course, ever had. "She died when I was five," she went on, and James nodded silently. "She was French," Vesper said, and James looked over at her.

"Really?" he said, "so was mine. Well, she spoke French." Vesper looked at him curiously. "She was Swiss."

Vesper could not help raising her eyebrows at such an intimate revelation, despite the easy repartee they'd begun to have this evening. He'd never spoken of his mother, not once in the admittedly short time they'd spent together.

"How old were you when she died?" she asked softly.

"They died together, actually, my mother and my father. I was eleven," James told her, surprising her. Eleven, Vesper thought sadly. On the cusp of adolescence, still very much a child, craving one's parents' attention and approval, but yet becoming more self-aware and self-conscious. It was a very delicate age, and Vesper could tell that losing his parents had been one of the key events in young James Bond's life. It was one that had shaped him into the man he was today.

"How did they die?" she asked, softly.

"Some stupid accident," James told her, his voice tinted with derision, "rock-climbing or something. They were always away doing things like that; skiing, partying, keeping up appearances."

"And you? Where would you stay?" Vesper asked, her voice almost a whisper. It was as if the mystery that was James Bond was unfurling in front of her, very slowly, and it felt like puzzle pieces falling into place. Each revelation brought a deeper understanding of the man in front of her and she was eager to hear more.

James smiled humourlessly at this question. "I would be at home, left with Kincade, our gamekeeper, or one of the many women they'd hired to attempt to educate me. They never stayed long, the teachers. No one wanted to teach a sullen little boy in a big, draughty manor on the moors of Scotland."

Scotland? Vesper was surprised. She'd expected the austere childhood, the wealthy parents and the big house, but not out in the country, and certainly not so far north. She had expected him to have gone to Harrow or Eton, the proper little prep school prig that she had imagined him to be the first time they'd met.

But, she supposed, this rural, lonely, harsh upbringing explained the enigma that was James Bond much more fittingly than the one she'd envisioned previously. She glanced up at him. He was watching her think, of course.

"You look surprised," he said, and she smiled.

"I'm sorry, James," she started, "it must have been difficult to lose them at that age."

"It bloody was," he replied, smiling a little. She couldn't think of anything to say, James, it seemed couldn't either. So they sat, sipping the last dregs of tea in the nearly silent flat, their son's soft snores the only sound.

They had reached a sort of détente, she supposed. Henry had been sleeping for almost twenty minutes, and would have to be woken soon if she had any hope of getting him to bed tonight. She wanted to stay, wanted to sit here with him like this forever, their son sleeping nearby, the two of them finally having the time to talk about everything they hadn't had the time for years ago.

But she knew the longer they stayed the more likely she was not to leave. And that would be a mistake.

She looked up at James to see that he was gazing over at the boy again in that same significant way. She watched him for a few seconds before he turned to her, his face so guileless and open that it took her breath away.

"Stay here tonight," James told her, "both of you." Vesper was startled, but not particularly surprised.

"James," she started, breathlessly incredulous. How could he ask her this? After what she'd told him earlier, about his world and their impressionable son. And when he knew she was helpless to resist him? She sighed deeply as his gaze strayed back to the boy.

She watched him carefully, the emotion she saw there heartening her just as much as it unnerved her. He had been alone for a long time, she supposed, just as she had. He was still grieving, was physically disabled and clearly despondent over his enforced leave from MI-6. And she had decided to bring this boy into his life. Now she was taking his son away from him. She sighed, deeply. It wasn't fair, what either of them had done, she supposed, but then she hadn't expected to find him so quickly, or the circumstances that had led them here.

But, she couldn't stay. She couldn't. Not tonight. She had wanted to take this slowly. She had wanted to acclimatise her son to this new man in his life over the course of days and weeks. Give him a chance to adjust to the change. Henry had never spent much time around men in his short life and now there was this wonderful, attentive, older man who looked just like him and cared about what the boy thought.

Her son was only four, nearly five, still too young to start asking questions about the absence of a father in his life. She knew he'd probably had classmates in his preschool with two-parent families, little girls and boys who'd openly boasted about the things they'd done with their fathers, but if it had bothered Henry, he'd never brought it up with his mother.

But she knew as soon as kindergarten started, it would be an entirely different story. The children would be older, still innocent, but much more observant. It was unlikely her son would be teased for only having his mother in his life; there were a lot of single mothers in New York City, but there was no doubt other children would point it out.

He would become aware of the fact that in other homes, there was a mother and a father, and even siblings sometimes, brothers and sisters to play and squabble with. And then the questions would start. And Vesper didn't think she could bear to deal with them.

But as yet, her son had never asked her about his father. He hadn't even intimated or hinted that he'd like to know. They would have to take this slowly, allow Henry to become used to James first as a friend, and then, once they had set up a routine and things became more stable, explain his relationship to the boy.

But she knew James was not fond that type of thing. She knew that he would be loath to let them out of his sight now, and would find caution and prudence to be unnecessary.

"James, I—" she started.

"A boy should have a father," James said, his eyes resolute.

"I'm not going to keep him from you," Vesper told him. "I would never do that, you know that." James looked up at her with a stormy mix of steel and need. She held his gaze, not wavering.

"I need some time, James. He needs time," she told him. "To get used to the fact that there is someone else in his life now," she said.

James, his eyes still cold, looked down at his empty teacup before looking back up at her.

"Just for the night," he said, and she could hear the fear there, along with the need. Vesper sighed. She needed space.

She slipped down off her stool, striding over to the window to peer down into the dark courtyard and the lights of Kensington in the distance.

She stood there, watching the lights of the cars driving past and the people in the building across the street. She couldn't help but feel that James very well knew the effect he had on her, and was shamelessly manipulating her for his own need. He had given her a glimpse into his past in order to establish trust, and was using his recent personal losses to make her feel guilty for not bending to his will. She wasn't suggesting anything sinister, she knew him that well, but he was in his hour of need right now, and she knew he'd be loath to spend the night alone.

But how could he not understand that this was not what she wanted? How could he not see how diligently she'd worked to keep her son's life as free from heartache as possible? She sighed again, dropping her head into her hand and kneading her temples, trying to stave off the massive headache that was threatening to strike.

She heard him get down off the stool, his sock feet padding across the hardwood floors slowly, then he joined her at the window. He didn't speak, but she could hear his breaths echoing through the quiet flat. She hazarded a glance at him in the near-darkness.

"You never do anything halfway, do you?" she asked him. He turned to face her slowly, obstinate and determined.

"No, I don't," he replied, simply, unapologetically.

Vesper smiled in spite of herself, expecting nothing else. She turned to look back out the window, out at the city of her birth, of her early years. She had missed it so completely she had almost forgotten. New York had been such a busy wonderful distraction. She had had almost five good years there with her son. He had grown from a newborn to a preschooler there. But, God she had missed this city.

She had known this would be difficult. James was a stubborn man. And, as she had said, he went all in whenever she entered into anything. And the second he had glimpsed Henry's blonde hair and large ears and that way that he held his mouth sometimes, which was so very much like James, she should have known that he wasn't going to go away now without a fight.

She reminded herself that he had believed her to dead until mere hours before. Six years was a long time, long enough to grieve and bargain and rage and then finally come to terms with a loss. And now she was back, appearing in front of him on the street like something from a dream.

She looked over at him, catching him in a moment of quiet reflection, his face blank but tired. He looked up at her.

"I'm not going anywhere, James," she told him softly, "I promise you that. I'm back in London and I'm not leaving. You're not going to wake up tomorrow and find out this is all a dream, you know?"

He smiled at this, a lopsided smirk, before taking a couple of dangerous steps toward her. Her heart rate quickened instantly at his proximity, but she held her ground, looking up at him impassively. He reached forward and she felt his rough hand move over the delicate skin of her cheek, his palm cradling her face. Her eyes closed at the touch and she leaned into his warm hand in spite of herself.

"You are real," he said, his voice low and quiet. He said the words so uncertainly that it was almost a question.

Vesper opened her eyes and smiled at him, nodding against his hand.

"I'm real," she told him. He dropped his hand from her face slowly, and she reached out to grab his hand as it fell, slipping her small fingers around it.

"You'll stay?" he asked, hope brimming from him. She sighed, looking down at their entwined hands.

"Am I going to have a problem with you, Bond?" she asked, unable to keep a straight face as he smiled at her familiar line. She thought of all that had happened since she'd first said it, riding with James through Montenegro, confident, but terrified and so, so young.

"No," he said, seriously, "even if you are my type." They both smiled at that and she leaned towards him, his broad expanse of chest looking very inviting indeed, and he welcomed her against him, dropping her hand and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"We need to take this slowly, James," she said, savouring the warmth his body afforded her. "You do understand that?"

"I understand," he told her, and she could hear no deceit or even jesting in his tone. This, she supposed, was a much more mature James Bond than she was used to, and she was surprised that she believed him right away. Perhaps he truly did understand her need for caution in their present situation, in his own way. She sighed, listening to his heart beat and hoping she was making the right decision.

"I'll stay, James," she told him, "just for tonight."

A/N: I am so sorry for the long wait between chapters, work and health have gotten in the way, but I've had most of this chapter unfinished on my computer for months, so I figured what better day to finally hunker down and finish it than the one-year anniversary of when I first published it? It's not perfect, but I'm hoping you all like it.