I couldn't help myself with the title when I was reminded of the similarities, okay? 8( Also, I ended up making Birch M! I hope that's okay. I'm thinking this thing will be three parts, but we shall see. Enjoy!
***
The first time they met was in Santiago, but saying that they actually met would be rather... inaccurate. The truth of the matter was that she stole his kill. It bothered him more than he let on, even if the overall objective of his mission was now completed--at the end of the day, a dead target was still a dead target--but his ego was a little bruised. (There was also the problem that he’d have more paperwork to fill out upon returning to London because of her interference.) Haytham had been planning the assassination for the better part of a month, and there she was, smirking at him from the adjacent rooftop.
Oh, yes, he could definitely confirm the smirking: Haytham had checked through the scope of his sniper rifle.
M hadn’t really cared for that minute detail about his mission, hadn’t really done anything but cock an eyebrow at him, and then politely asked him to submit a report on the situation--a report that would detail how a foreign spy had not only managed to edge her way into the detailed workings of his operation but also on how she managed to best one of the finest agents they’d ever had. The man never said a word on his failings, but the disappointment in his expression spoke volumes. Haytham had, of course, done as his superior asked without any protest and not another word about the woman he’d seen in Chile, even if his mind was abuzz with thoughts of her. No, he could control himself--after all, Agent 007 was a responsible adult who always placed work before any personal endeavors.
(His coworkers at the agency would say otherwise, but Haytham had long ago developed a rather deaf ear toward such gossip.)
Several jobs later, he’d all but forgotten about the foreign agent. Haytham was all too busy pursuing his next target in Johannesburg, the hunt ending with a rather spectacular gunfight in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Well, it would have been rather spectacular if Haytham wasn’t down to his last magazine and surrounded by about ten men with semi-automatic machine guns. When (yes, when, not if) he got out of the situation, he was going to have a very stern talk with Q about the importance of developing a weapon that had infinite ammunition instead of spending all of his time trying to impress the 00 agents with exploding pens, grappling suspenders, and pictures of his Pomeranians.
(Spado, he would grudgingly admit, was a very lovely looking dog, but pets were always an awkward--or rather, a very charged--topic of conversation with the MI6 quartermaster. Haytham tried to avoid them at all costs lest he inadvertently upset the man and ended up with some faulty equipment.)
The concrete pillar at his back shook as his enemies continued to riddle it with bullets, and then, quite suddenly, there was a shout and a loud clatter--the sound not unlike a gun hitting the floor. A smattering of English was quick to follow before Haytham heard a gurgle and then panicked shouts.
Curiosity made him want to look, but instincts told him to stay put and wait. After all, whatever was going on was making the gunmen fire rather indiscriminately, if the messy spray of bullets against the walls was anything to go by. Hands closed around the grip of his gun, Haytham calmly waited until the last of the screaming had come to a stop, soon followed by the thunk of dead weight hitting the floor.
“Afraid to get your hands dirty?” came a female voice, and Haytham canted his head slightly, eyebrows lifting; she had a distinctly American accent. Without even seeing who was on the other side, he was positive it was the woman from before--the one who’d stolen his kill back in Santiago.
“I was merely waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but you do have a certain talent for stealing a man’s thunder,” he replied, leaning back against the column. Haytham likely could have stepped out now that she was done, but he was still a spy and she an unknown. She’d acted like an ally up to this point, and yet, one never knew in this game... “Is this a hobby of yours?”
“Saving lousy English agents?” He could definitely hear the amusement in her voice and the smugness in her tone. “I’m thinking of making it one.”
By all rights, Haytham should have felt insulted. After all, this would be the second time she would make a fool out of him, and M would not be all that pleased to hear that his mission had, once again, been a success due to the interference of another. On top of that, the agent was American from the sound of it--news that was sure to make M’s scowl even darker. (The man seemed to have a rather personal grudge against the nation. Something about an old rivalry against a CIA agent named Davenport? Haytham wasn’t entirely clear on the story, but he seemed to recall that the collection of ancient artifacts was somehow involved.)
Despite all of the problems that could and would crop up because of her, Haytham could not bring himself to care. He was, to put it simply, enchanted by this woman. “I’ll have to set up future opportunities for you,” he called out. “I can’t stand the thought of depriving you of enjoyable material to work with.”
Haytham waited for a response, but the only one he got was silence. At last removing himself from the cover of the pillar, he discovered, with chagrin, that she was long gone; there was nothing to show that she’d even been here--save for the bodies that she’d left behind.
To say that her method of killing was... elegant would probably be wrong, but he couldn’t really think of another way to describe it. After all, for someone to be using knives (and rope darts, of all things!) in this day in age was almost laughable, and yet, here was proof that, in the right hands, such methods were still completely and utterly viable.
Either way, Haytham left his awe out of his report to M and listened with half an ear as the man berated him. The droning went on and on, but when he heard the words, “You’ll be working with a CIA operative this time around,” his attention shot right back into focus--perhaps a little too suddenly, seeing as M gave him a rather sharp look.
“As I was saying, 007, you’ll be working with a CIA operative on this mission,” the man continued, pushing a folder across the desk; Haytham picked it up and flipped through its contents. “Pay a visit to Q, and then be on your way. You are dismissed.”
“Sir.”
“Oh, one more thing, Kenway.”
Haytham had just turned on his heel, and he glanced over his shoulder at his commanding officer. “Sir?”
“Be careful when speaking to Q. He’s rather upset that the Pomeranian did not win best in show at Crufts.”
His lips quirked a little in amusement. “Duly noted. Good day to you, sir.”
The Spy Who Enchanted Me [ 1 / ? ]
***
The first time they met was in Santiago, but saying that they actually met would be rather... inaccurate. The truth of the matter was that she stole his kill. It bothered him more than he let on, even if the overall objective of his mission was now completed--at the end of the day, a dead target was still a dead target--but his ego was a little bruised. (There was also the problem that he’d have more paperwork to fill out upon returning to London because of her interference.) Haytham had been planning the assassination for the better part of a month, and there she was, smirking at him from the adjacent rooftop.
Oh, yes, he could definitely confirm the smirking: Haytham had checked through the scope of his sniper rifle.
M hadn’t really cared for that minute detail about his mission, hadn’t really done anything but cock an eyebrow at him, and then politely asked him to submit a report on the situation--a report that would detail how a foreign spy had not only managed to edge her way into the detailed workings of his operation but also on how she managed to best one of the finest agents they’d ever had. The man never said a word on his failings, but the disappointment in his expression spoke volumes. Haytham had, of course, done as his superior asked without any protest and not another word about the woman he’d seen in Chile, even if his mind was abuzz with thoughts of her. No, he could control himself--after all, Agent 007 was a responsible adult who always placed work before any personal endeavors.
(His coworkers at the agency would say otherwise, but Haytham had long ago developed a rather deaf ear toward such gossip.)
Several jobs later, he’d all but forgotten about the foreign agent. Haytham was all too busy pursuing his next target in Johannesburg, the hunt ending with a rather spectacular gunfight in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Well, it would have been rather spectacular if Haytham wasn’t down to his last magazine and surrounded by about ten men with semi-automatic machine guns. When (yes, when, not if) he got out of the situation, he was going to have a very stern talk with Q about the importance of developing a weapon that had infinite ammunition instead of spending all of his time trying to impress the 00 agents with exploding pens, grappling suspenders, and pictures of his Pomeranians.
(Spado, he would grudgingly admit, was a very lovely looking dog, but pets were always an awkward--or rather, a very charged--topic of conversation with the MI6 quartermaster. Haytham tried to avoid them at all costs lest he inadvertently upset the man and ended up with some faulty equipment.)
The concrete pillar at his back shook as his enemies continued to riddle it with bullets, and then, quite suddenly, there was a shout and a loud clatter--the sound not unlike a gun hitting the floor. A smattering of English was quick to follow before Haytham heard a gurgle and then panicked shouts.
Curiosity made him want to look, but instincts told him to stay put and wait. After all, whatever was going on was making the gunmen fire rather indiscriminately, if the messy spray of bullets against the walls was anything to go by. Hands closed around the grip of his gun, Haytham calmly waited until the last of the screaming had come to a stop, soon followed by the thunk of dead weight hitting the floor.
“Afraid to get your hands dirty?” came a female voice, and Haytham canted his head slightly, eyebrows lifting; she had a distinctly American accent. Without even seeing who was on the other side, he was positive it was the woman from before--the one who’d stolen his kill back in Santiago.
“I was merely waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but you do have a certain talent for stealing a man’s thunder,” he replied, leaning back against the column. Haytham likely could have stepped out now that she was done, but he was still a spy and she an unknown. She’d acted like an ally up to this point, and yet, one never knew in this game... “Is this a hobby of yours?”
“Saving lousy English agents?” He could definitely hear the amusement in her voice and the smugness in her tone. “I’m thinking of making it one.”
By all rights, Haytham should have felt insulted. After all, this would be the second time she would make a fool out of him, and M would not be all that pleased to hear that his mission had, once again, been a success due to the interference of another. On top of that, the agent was American from the sound of it--news that was sure to make M’s scowl even darker. (The man seemed to have a rather personal grudge against the nation. Something about an old rivalry against a CIA agent named Davenport? Haytham wasn’t entirely clear on the story, but he seemed to recall that the collection of ancient artifacts was somehow involved.)
Despite all of the problems that could and would crop up because of her, Haytham could not bring himself to care. He was, to put it simply, enchanted by this woman. “I’ll have to set up future opportunities for you,” he called out. “I can’t stand the thought of depriving you of enjoyable material to work with.”
Haytham waited for a response, but the only one he got was silence. At last removing himself from the cover of the pillar, he discovered, with chagrin, that she was long gone; there was nothing to show that she’d even been here--save for the bodies that she’d left behind.
To say that her method of killing was... elegant would probably be wrong, but he couldn’t really think of another way to describe it. After all, for someone to be using knives (and rope darts, of all things!) in this day in age was almost laughable, and yet, here was proof that, in the right hands, such methods were still completely and utterly viable.
Either way, Haytham left his awe out of his report to M and listened with half an ear as the man berated him. The droning went on and on, but when he heard the words, “You’ll be working with a CIA operative this time around,” his attention shot right back into focus--perhaps a little too suddenly, seeing as M gave him a rather sharp look.
“As I was saying, 007, you’ll be working with a CIA operative on this mission,” the man continued, pushing a folder across the desk; Haytham picked it up and flipped through its contents. “Pay a visit to Q, and then be on your way. You are dismissed.”
“Sir.”
“Oh, one more thing, Kenway.”
Haytham had just turned on his heel, and he glanced over his shoulder at his commanding officer. “Sir?”
“Be careful when speaking to Q. He’s rather upset that the Pomeranian did not win best in show at Crufts.”
His lips quirked a little in amusement. “Duly noted. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day, 007.”