A/N: So! I have come back to life thanks to the glory that is SpyFest. I literally have zero excuses for my absence. I'm not even going to try to justify it; instead I'm going to try to distract you all with my prompt fill for SpyFest week one! Here's the prompt for your viewing pleasure: "An SAS soldier meets the animal he was named for." Consider this an exceedingly loose interpretation. Major poetic licence taken.

Before we start, a disclaimer: not mine. Well, mostly mine, because I made up ninety percent of this, but the other ten percent isn't mine. I think. I'd probable notice if it were. Probably.

OK! Let's get going!

No one has ever asked the sergeant of Brecon Beacons exactly how he names his soldiers, because if a man doesn't know where his name comes from, he doesn't deserve his place among Britain's special forces. And Ben is no exception—the fact that his unitname fits him has been evident from the first day of selection when he stood in front of the sergeant he would come to hate and admire in equal parts.

"Welcome to the Special Air Service," the man had said, and while some of the other recruits murmured a response, Ben was silent, watchful. That silence becomes his trademark—Wolf learns to be brash, Snake thoughtful, Eagle indifferent—but Ben just says nothing, observes everything.

Subtle, the agent says when they come to recruit him.

"Foxy," Alex corrects one night when they're on a job.

"What?" Ben blinks back. They'd been talking about history, and Ben had wondered aloud what had become of their old SAS unit, because those were the conversations they had during that strange time between night and morning when reality blurs.

"Foxy," Alex repeats. "Is that what the sergeant thought when he named you?" He drags his eyes shamelessly up Ben's body and down again, and Ben grins the way he's meant to, because both of them would have gone mad years back without their senses of humour. But beneath the laughter in Alex's eyes lie understanding and the reason they work so well together, because Ben had recognised those same traits in Alex from the very beginning.

Wolf had raged, making his dislike plain, and Snake and Eagle had been their usual silent selves—but Ben had watched and understood, because Alex had already had that edge—not quite as honed as it was now, but still present. Later, he'd think that was what had set Wolf off, back then, that it had rubbed them all the wrong way to see such hardness on that young face.

So Ben smiles at his partner, to show that he's understood.

"Foxy," he agrees. Just like you, he wants to say, and it makes his heart ache just a little, because Cub had been a reminder—that Alex was too young to be slogging through muddy Wales with the rest of them. The name, he muses wearily, had never particularly suited his partner.

"Don't suppose Cub fits me all that well anymore," Alex murmurs, voicing his thoughts, and Ben would be surprised if he weren't already so used to their dynamic.

It never really did, he almost says, but instead he murmurs back, "All grown up now…but into what? A wolf, maybe?"

Alex wrinkles his nose and protests the way Ben knew he would—

"Compare me to that arsehole one more time and I'll show you what SCORPIA taught me," the other man retorts, and Ben ignores the sting of the organisation's name in favour of elbowing him.

"Didn't he send you a card once?"

"For appendicitis," Alex counters instantly, batting his elbow away. "I was shot!"

Ben grimaces at the reminder—it hadn't been pretty when Alex had told him that story, and he still didn't like thinking about it—and is just about to reply when the woman they've been tailing slips into a house carrying a rather suspicious-looking case.

Their conversation is put aside in favour of their mission, as it always is, but when the mission's over and they're still high on adrenaline, it becomes a joke between them—when Ben is tugging at a ghastly, red-spotted bowtie, Alex mutters 'foxy' in his ear as he passes, waiter's uniform unfairly low-profile. The word passes between them off and on, outwardly humorous, but they both know it's a reminder—that Ben has always, always been this way, even before he was trained into it, that sly cunning and quiet vigilance are burnt into his bones and blood.

No one has ever asked the sergeant of Brecon Beacons exactly how he names his soldiers, and Ben will not be the first. But if he had asked, the sergeant couldn't have answered, because it isn't science or logic, it's seeing into the heart of men and knowing their measure. It's knowing somehow that somewhere, somewhen, a ten-year-old boy named Ben Daniels is standing in the freezing air of his aunt's yard in a tiny Welsh town, watching the woods. In seconds, or maybe hours, his patience will be rewarded when he sees a red-brown fox stalking soundlessly through the snow, dark eyes sharp and quick and sly. It stops just at the other edge of the yard, within easy reach of the safety of the woods. Ben doesn't make any sudden movements—he doesn't even approach, really. The two of them just watch each other, boy and animal, fearless.

And it doesn't mean anything, for years it doesn't mean anything—it's just another memory, something to think about on a rainy day—but one day it does. Someday. Someday when his uniform is new and still creased from a starching, or when it's muddy from weeks of training, or even torn from a particularly vicious knife-swipe—someday, a sergeant looks at him, fresh-faced and young, and sees something in him, and that ten-year-old boy, now grown up, stops being Ben Daniels.

On that day—one of the proudest of his life, and also the most serious—on that day, he remembers. He calls that single, silent moment up from his memory, blurred with age but still legible. He thinks of the animal's dark eyes, made intelligent by the way they swept from side to side, seeking danger. He thinks of the swift grace of that lithe, red-furred body, of the yearning he'd felt so keenly even at ten years old. Quick. Sly. Vicious.

"Fox!" the sergeant barks, and Ben's lips curl into a secret, wicked smile.

"Yes, sir," he agrees.

Fox.

As I'm sure you've noticed, I really, really wasn't kidding about the poetic licence. Be sure to check out the rest of the SpyFest week one fics - you can find a list of who's posted what over on the forum page - there are some ridiculously talented people writing on this site.

Thanks for reading!

- mara

Edit: forgot to mention. The title comes from the pangram 'the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.' This sentence is best known as a writing exercise because it contains every letter in the alphabet at least once. OK, bye for real this time!