The Spy Who Pegged Me: A Bond x Wick Romance

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📁 MI6 SPECIAL OPERATIONS CASE FILE — EYES ONLY

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CASE NO.: 009-WX1

FILE STATUS: DECLASSIFIED (LEVEL 7 OVERRIDE)  

AGENT(S) OF INTEREST:  

    • 007 — BOND, JAMES // STATUS: AWOL 

    • WICK, JOHN (UNAFFILIATED) // STATUS: EXCOMMUNICADO, CONTINENTAL REGISTER  

LAST KNOWN LOCATION(S): SEE ADDENDUM B [REDACTED]  

FILE ORIGIN: INTERNAL THREAT RESPONSE, MI6 SPECIAL OPERATIONS  

AUTHORIZED ACCESS: DIR. SCHMIDT, M.A., SECTION CHIEF BOBINSKI, C.

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**MISSION RELEVANCY OVERVIEW**:

Following the unauthorized disappearance of Agent 007 from Her Majesty’s intelligence grid on ██/██/████, coinciding with the global excommunication of freelance assassin John Wick, this document was assembled to chronicle the subsequent events, encounters, and consequences involving these two individuals.

Evidence recovered suggests a prolonged, multi-national pursuit that does not match any official directive, and bears signs of deeply personal motivation. Given the sensitive nature of this content, it has been prepared for internal review only, under the stipulation of Operation CLOAKED SUNSET.

This file includes:

1. A compiled and redacted testimonial (APPENDIX A)

2. Final intelligence recommendation (APPENDIX C)

*NOTE: The following narrative was recovered from an off-the-record source. It is included here as context. Its contents are unverified but... illuminating.*

⚠️ WARNING: PORTIONS OF THIS DOCUMENT HAVE BEEN REDACTED DUE TO REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY, VIOLATIONS OF THE GENEVA CONVENTION, AND HUMAN RESOURCES POLICY 6B.

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BEGIN RECORD: TESTIMONY FRAGMENT 009.11-A  

[REDACTED SOURCE // INTERVIEW DATE: ██/██/████]  

TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS:  

Technically, this violates at least three confidentiality agreements, a blood-cosigned NDA, and possibly the Geneva Convention — though I’ll admit I’ve never read the fine print on that last one. What I’m saying is: this story was meant to be buried. Like most things involving them.

The point is: I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.

But they told me — eventually. Not all at once. Never in order. There were gaps, and silences, and the occasional [REDACTED] when things got... well, anatomical. But the shape of it was there. I just had to listen. Piece it together. Pretend I wasn’t completely, hopelessly, emotionally compromised — professionally speaking.

The truth is — and I say this as someone who has sat across from war criminals, dictators, and — did you know some people think ██████ ███████’s father was Fidel Castro? Anyway, not my story to tell — I’ve never seen anything quite like them.

Not on the field. Not in the file. Not in love.

I know, I know. Some people see it differently. Cold professionalism. Mutual respect. Strategic cooperation. Yada yada yada. You can dress it up however you like. But I’ve seen the way they talk about each other when they think no one’s listening. And I’m telling you now — it was love.

It started — as these things always do — with a lie. They told each other they could walk away. That was the deal. They’d both done it before. One night, maybe two. A shared city, a shared bed. Then gone. Like they were supposed to. Like they always had. But you don't get far in this line of work without developing a taste for beautiful mistakes. And these men had quite the refined palette.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

But John called him "James."

And James remembered that.

It happened in Prague. Or Berlin. Or maybe it was Buenos Aires? — they were never quite consistent on that. The dates and coordinates changed every time they told it. What didn’t change was the hotel: high-ceilinged, curtains drawn, too many mirrors, lamps everywhere, an emptied minibar.

James was there first. Laying there in the dark, shirtless, eyes full of something he hadn’t named yet.

"You came," he said.

"I always do," John replied — and then… [REDACTED]… and again, albeit more quietly.

They didn’t talk much. Glasses clinked. The sound of something leather sliding against a buckle. Something very expensive fell and shattered and was never spoken of again. 

Someone knocked on the door to deliver a formal noise complaint. James answered it without any clothes on. John laughed so hard he ██████ on his own ████.

They ordered room service, but ate nothing. Fell asleep with the telly on — volume low. A French-dubbed documentary about octopi. James told me, later, that’s when he first realised he was in trouble.

John said it was the way James ███████ the ██████ of his ████████, like he didn’t know what he was doing. But he knew.

They parted ways in the morning.

“Too dangerous,” John said.

“Too complicated,” James agreed.

The truth was simpler than either of them could admit. If they stayed, it would’ve been real. And men like them don't survive real. At least, that's what they told themselves.

They dressed in silence. Poured one last drink. James left first — while John was still in the shower. Of course he did. There was no goodbye. Just a quiet “Take care.”

And James did. For a while. Until the call came. Until he heard the words.

John Wick.

Excommunicado.

Open contract.

Global.

James packed a bag. Took a weapon. Said nothing to no one. He wasn’t sent. He wasn’t cleared. He wasn’t following orders.

He was on his own mission.  

A mission to see him. One last time.

He called it a life debt. He told me that — dead serious. But I’ve been doing this too long not to hear what someone’s not saying.

The biggest [REDACTED] in this whole story? Is that James Bond ever thought he wasn’t in love.

The first time he missed John by minutes, it was in ██████. The hotel was ash and bloodstains. 

Cigarette stub still burning in the sink. The kind John smoked only when he was thinking about dying. 

John was gone — the people hunting him were not, but James made quick work of them.

James walked through the hotel room like someone tracing a ghost. Cleaned up. Took the last chocolate. The minibar was already empty. He left out the window.

[REDACTED]

The next time was ███████. A rooftop dance party gone sideways.

Three dead, and a glass of scotch still sweating in the summer heat. John’s brand — ████████. He was too late — again.

They never spoke — not directly. But James checked the channels.

One photo. West ██████. Grainy security cam. John with a coffee cup. Heart on the lid. James downloaded it. Saved it to a folder he never named.

[REDACTED]

The train scene nearly broke him. James raced through the station — following the sounds of a commotion at the end of the tunnel.

John was fighting. James was watching.

Two subway cars apart — close enough to see the flicker of movement through the windows, but too far to reach before the doors slammed shut.

James ran. Shoulder-checked a tourist. Nearly dropped his gun. But there were too many bodies in front of him.

The train pulled away.

Through the glass, for half a second, John looked back. James swore he saw something in his face.

Recognition. Regret. Hope. Maybe.

But the moment passed. The train was gone.

[REDACTED]

█████ █████ came next. One of those high society bloodbaths. Too many mirrors. Too many guns. 

They were both there. Twelve feet apart. Didn’t see each other.

Gunfire broke the spell.

By the time the smoke cleared, James found a single calling card on the edge of the pool: a white poker chip with the year ████ scratched into it. The year they met.

He kept it in his jacket pocket. Didn’t speak for the next two days.

[REDACTED]

And then the mark. In the █████. On the bark of a dying tree. A queen of hearts. Bullet through the centre. Only two people alive would know what it meant.

One was dying of thirst in the desert.

The other was about to find him.

James drove through the dunes with no map, no intel, no plan — just instinct. 

And when he saw the body collapsed in the sand, his heart stopped.

But then the fingers moved. Just barely, but enough to zap James' heart back into rhythm.

It was him.

John.

His eyes cracked open, half-blind from the sun.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he rasped.

“I never stopped,” James said, and gave him the last of the water.

They didn’t say the other thing, but I think the desert heard it anyway.

They didn’t kiss. Not at first. That’s not how men like that operate. At least, not with each other.

James sat beside him. Let him come back slowly. Waited until his hands stopped shaking.

“You're real,” John said.

“Unfortunately,” James replied.

John laughed, weak but sharp-edged. “What took you so long?”

James looked out over the endless dunes. “Customs.”

[REDACTED]

They found a hotel that wasn’t on any map. Paid in cash. Checked in under fake names.

John laughed when he saw it on the keycard. “Mr. ██████?”

“I panicked,” James said. “And I was trying not to use anything phallic.”

“You failed,” John replied.

They undressed without a word. No weapons. No pretence. Just… Contact.

John touched James like he was trying to memorise him. James didn’t stop him.

There were scars. A few new ones. Some of them from each other.

At some point, James whispered something. John smiled.

And then —

James ███ ████ on ███ █████, and ███ ███ ██████ him.

James ███ his ███ as John ████ ███████ ████ ███, slowly.

Next, ██ ███ ██████ ███, but James ██████ as ██████ because ██████ ███ ████.

James █████ ███ ████, just ███ ███ he knew ████ █████ ██ coconut oil.

Now that they were both warmed up, ███ █████████ door knob ███, John ████ ████ for ███████.

James ████ ██ ████ a █████. It ███ ████ a while since ███ ███ ███████.

John’s ████ ███████ into ███████████ as █████ ████ headboard ███████ ███ to a █████-████ ██████ Pringles can.

█████ ████ his ████ ████ into ███, and it ████ ████ his ████ ████ ██████ to ██████.

[THE FULL DETAILS OF WHAT OCCURRED BETWEEN 23:06 AND 03:31 HAVE BEEN REDACTED FOR REASONS INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: NATIONAL SECURITY, TASTE, H.R. REGULATIONS, AND PROBABLE SPINAL MISALIGNMENT.]

When it was over, they stayed still. Breathing. Tangled. More alive than they'd felt in years.

It wasn’t a happy ending. Not yet.

But it was the moment they stopped pretending they didn’t want one.

And that changed everything.

[REDACTED]

The thing about peace — real peace — is that you have to earn it. And unfortunately for everyone involved, those two decided to earn it the only way they knew how:

By killing everything that got in their way.

Not that they had much of a choice.

It started with a knock at the door.

Shave and a haircut.

James had a knife in hand before “two bits." John pulled a Walther from under the mattress. They didn’t need to speak.

The first wave was quiet.

The second wasn’t.

James killed a man with a towel and a bottle of red. John killed three in his underwear.

It got louder after that.

There was a car chase. Don’t ask. It involved a dog. And a wedding.

John caught the bouquet. James refused to acknowledge it.

[REDACTED]

The high-rise came next. ██████. North of █████ ████. ███████-█████ floors of bulletproof ego and blinding neon. 

Glass walls. Mirror traps. Nothing they hadn't both seen a million times before.

By the end, they were bleeding and laughing and using each other as cover.

On the ██rd floor — wounded and running out of ammo — John said, “We’re not going to make it.”

James said, “Speak for yourself,” and threw him out a window. Onto a ledge. With a harness. Probably.

[REDACTED]

Then it rained.

Their last fight. A ballet of bullets. Knives slicing through suit and skin. 

Flurries of fists — thunderous as the clouds above them.

They moved like one thing split in half.

At the end, James was breathing hard. Rain in his mouth. John beside him.

"Are you hurt?"

"Only in the ways that matter."

[REDACTED]

They didn’t leave a note.

Just a smashed Omega watch. A pair of ███ ████. A body no one could identify.

MI6 declared Bond dead. The Continental buried the file.

Everyone moved on.

Or pretended to.

But I know better. I know what peace looks like. And it doesn’t look like ashes. It looks like this —

Two men. On a beach. 

Shirtless, sunburned, and arguing about the best way to grill a fish. One of them has a limp. The other keeps reading a spy novel like it’s a joke only he gets. 

There’s a dog, of course. There’s always a dog.

They live in a cabana with no electricity. They keep the blinds drawn, not because they’re hiding — but because they’re tired of the world watching.

Every now and then, they fight. Sometimes with fists. Sometimes with words.

And sometimes — █████ ███████ ████.

But they always make up, and they always wake up next to each other.

Alive. Free. Finally at home.

Spies don’t keep secrets. They hide them. But hiding wears on you. Eventually, something cracks. A look. A slip. A moment of silence held too long.

I saw the way James touched his shoulder. Like he didn’t know he still needed to. I heard the way John said “James” like it hurt to say anything else.

[REDACTED]

That’s how I knew.

That they made it. That it mattered.

I met them during what I believe was their third fake death. Fourth, if you count the █████ thing. I don’t. But John does.

They didn’t introduce themselves. They didn’t need to.

I was their couples counsellor for █████ weeks. They told me everything. Eventually.

Not in order, not all at once, but enough to piece it all together. And the rest...?

[REDACTED]

END TRANSMISSION

TRANSCRIPT ATTACHED TO CASE FILE 009-WX1

CLEARANCE NOTE: SUBMITTED TO INTERNAL REVIEW COMMITTEE BY DIR. M.A. SCHMIDT (MI6)

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📁 AGENCY DEBRIEF // FINAL SUMMARY

CASE NO.: 009-WX1-AWOL  

DATE: ██/██/████

FILE STATUS: CLOSED

AGENT STATUS:

007 — PRESUMED KIA

WICK, JOHN — PRESUMED KIA

AGENCY RECOMMENDATION: 009.11-C 

After extensive review, MI6 intelligence has concluded that pursuit of Subjects 007 and WICK is no longer operationally justified.

No credible sightings in 18 months.

No open contracts.

No new kills linked to either operative.

And, according to one source: “They’ve earned this.”

In deference to their service and to the frankly ridiculous body count accumulated in their mutual defense, the agency recommends all further investigations be quietly shelved.

The world thinks they’re dead.

Let it.

END CASE FILE.

OPERATION CLOAKED SUNSET: ARCHIVED.

[REDACTED]