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Chapter Text

[Excerpt translated from Greek]

Perisa Medical College Hospital

Perisa, Thira Island (Santorini), Greece (Hellenic Republic)

Name of Deceased: Sheridan-Carmichael, Donna 

Date and Time of Admission: 15 July 2016 12:49

Date and Time of Death: 15 July 2016 15:25

Age of Deceased: 51

Cause of Death: Subarachnoid hemorrhage resulting from ruptured intracranial aneurysm.

Case notes: The patient was admitted with a sudden severe headache, seizure, confusion, and loss of consciousness. CT scan showed ruptured and bleeding intracranial aneurysm…

. . . . .

New text message from Sam

15 July 2016 16:34 EST (20:34 GMT) (22:34 EEST)

To: Victoria 

‘Donna died today at 1525. Brain aneurysm. Do me a favor and tell everyone? Thanks.’

. . . . .

New text message from Dad

15 July 2016 20:58 GMT

To: Danny

‘Call me when you can. Family emergency.’

. . . . . 

“Dad? What happened?”

Danny Drake had shed his Q work-persona as soon as he could after he’d gotten his father’s message. There had been, of course, a bit of trouble with getting 008 to cooperate and wrap the mission up as quickly as Q wanted, but a terse word did the trick. Q was thankful that his agents were attuned to his many moods and knew when to shut up and do as they were told. 

Danny’s father was obviously on the road when Q called him, at last able to get away and shut himself up in the privacy of his office, a sick feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t have any biological family apart from each other, but their found family, made up of Damien Drake’s old work-friends, were a close-knit bunch.

“Dad?” 

“Donna passed away this afternoon.” 

The ex-007’s voice was flat and devoid of emotion. The elite and efficient killing machines that made up the double-oh section, both current and retired, didn’t generally deal well with situations charged with emotional upheaval and instead tended to shut the pain away behind steel walls. Even retired for decades, old habits die hard, and Danny knew instinctively that his father had reverted to the tendency, likely reminded unpleasantly of his own wife’s long-ago death. 

“Christ,” Danny muttered, feeling as though he’d been punched in the chest. “How? What happened? Is Sam alright?”

Donna was the wife of another former 007, Damien Drake’s successor and James Bond’s immediate predecessor to the position, Sam Carmichael. Sam and Donna had been married for seven years, having found their way back to each other after over twenty years apart and whole lives lived in between. 

Sam had settled into his retirement with gusto after his marriage, easily finding his own niche in the odd little family that was made up of Donna, her adult daughter Sophie, Sophie’s husband Sky, and the girl’s two other possible biological fathers. 

What had happened? Had enemies from Sam’s past as an agent found him?

“Brain aneurysm. That’s all Victoria knows. He sent her a text to tell everyone.”

Victoria Winslow was also ex-MI6. She had been 003 back in the day. Danny knew immediately that the reason Sam had chosen her to be his mouthpiece to the rest of the family was that she was the most efficient of the ex-agents in the family and also the least likely to make a fuss. It wasn’t that she lacked compassion, but more that she held back in showing her affection.

“Sounds like he didn’t want to talk to any of us.”

Car sounds filled the silence that hung over father and son, miles apart. “Can you check to see if he’s called her side of the family or if we need to do it?” Damien asked at last. 

Danny nodded, though he knew that his father couldn’t see it. “Already on it,” he said, his nimble fingers flying, hacking and slipping into streams of data. He’d known immediately what was needed as soon as he’d heard the news. “He’s called Rosie, Tanya, Harry, and Bill. And her mother. Looks like he had to leave a voicemail. The ladies haven’t booked their flights yet. Neither has Bill.”

“Probably too broken up to see straight.”

Rosie Mulligan and Tanya Chesham-Leigh were Donna’s oldest friends and had formed the other two-thirds of Donna’s band, Donna and the Dynamos, back in their school days. 

Rosie, Danny found, was in Peru, doing research on traditional Incan-Peruvian cooking for her new book. Tanya was on the sunny Caribbean island of Antigua, probably on the hunt for husband number four. Or five. Danny wasn’t entirely sure which one she was on now and didn’t fancy taking the time to look it up. 

Harry Bright and Bill Anderson were Sophie’s other two dads. Donna had, in her youth, spent time with all three men – Harry, Bill, and Sam – and in the end wasn’t sure which one of them was Sophie’s biological father. In a comedic turn of events involving a staged accidental reunion, a wedding that wasn’t (Sophie’s) and an impromptu engagement and wedding (Donna’s, to Sam), the three men had decided that they would all be fathers to Sophie, convention and DNA testing be damned. 

Harry was a banker in London, and Bill, who wrote travel-adventure books, was currently in the Philippines. 

Donna and her mother, a world-famous singer, were estranged and hadn’t been in touch in years.

“Sending them their flight info now,” Danny said, making quick work of purchasing the tickets and sending them to Rosie and Tanya. “I’ll give them a call to tell them all they have to do is make it to the airport.”

“Be gentle, Danny,” Damien reminded his son, who made a face. He was well aware that he was sometimes lacking when it came to social niceties, but he did know well enough to not be impatient when dealing with grieving individuals. He chose to ignore his nagging father.

“Harry’s assistant booked his flight, and I just sent Bill a notification for his. Donna’s mum has assistants to take care of her arrangements for her. I’ll put us on the same flight as Harry. Flying out of Heathrow in two hours. Can you make it?”

“I’m twenty minutes from Six. Pick you up?”

“Thanks.” Danny shot off some emails to ensure that he would not be missed while he was away on his unplanned trip. “Has anyone checked on Sam and Sophie yet?”

“Neither of them is picking up. Sky told Stuart that Sophie cried herself to sleep, but Sam’s gone AWOL.”

“Shit.” Danny’s fingers paused, suspended in dread at what he might find if he dug into this. Then he shook his head – he faced worse than this on a daily basis, although a grief-maddened ex-double-oh wasn’t anything to sniff at – and marched on. 

“Bloody North Koreans,” he muttered vindictively as he hijacked one of their satellites with more force than he might otherwise have used had he had more time. “Ah, there he is. I think. Infrared’s not clear, but he seems to be sitting on the beach.”

“How does he look?”

Danny took his eyes off of the screen momentarily to roll them. “Dad, I know you think I have magical powers, but I can’t zoom in that far and change the angle of the satellite view. And besides, infrared doesn’t do much to show facial expressions. I can’t even make a positive ID. It’s dark over there, remember?”

“Wrap up and arrange for your cat sitter. I’m nearly there.”

“I know, I know. And slow down, Dad. The last thing we need is an accident. Please keep in mind that you don’t have the reflexes of a thirty-five-year-old anymore.”

Whoosh. Clunk.

He knew that sound rather better than most people would. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You threw the bloody mobile out the window. Very mature.”

. . . . .

Harry Bright had been trying very hard to keep a stiff upper lip, as was proper among British gentlemen even in times of great duress. He envied the way Damien Drake had managed to do so with such confidence. Then again, Damien Drake had never loved Donna Sheridan the way Harry had. 

The only woman he’d ever loved, wasn’t she? He just wasn’t in love as he thought he’d been, back in his youth. After reuniting at Sophie’s wedding-that-wasn’t, he and Donna had decided on more of a fraternal relationship instead, rather than the deep, passionate romance that burned between her and Sam. 

Poor Sam. Poor Sophie.

He wondered how they were holding up. 

Oh, Donna. Why her? She’d always been so young and bright and vivacious. It was impossible to think of her as…gone.

Harry lost control of his bottom lip for a moment before he managed to still it, but he was powerless to stop the misting of his eyes. 

Dammit. ‘Get a hold of yourself, Harry, old boy,’ he thought to himself, sniffling surreptitiously. ‘Not on the airplane, for heaven’s sake.’

He slid a glance over to the Drakes. They’d joined him at Heathrow and the three of them were all flying to Greece, first class of course. 

Danny – How old was he now? A year younger than Sophie, wasn’t he? Twenty-six, then – had started out sitting next to his father, but had grown increasingly irritated at what seemed to Harry like minor inconveniences. 

“Dad, I’m fine. Stop fussing at me!” he’d heard him hiss, and finally, Danny had stood up and taken another seat. Harry hadn’t noticed Damien doing anything that could be defined as fussing, but he was admittedly distracted by his own woes. 

Perhaps Danny was a nervous flier. It would explain his uncharacteristic irascibility. 

In any case, the flight was over in about three hours, then came another much shorter flight from Athens to Santorini, then a cab ride, and then – miracle of miracles – they made it to the ferry on time. 

(As a matter of fact, that was a little odd, since there weren’t supposed to be any trips out to Kalokairi at that time of night – it was close to dawn, actually – and they were the only passengers, but the Drakes didn’t seem to take much notice of the little oddity, even when Harry pointed it out. Maybe they were more affected by Donna’s passing than Harry had thought.)

Sam ran down the little wooded hill overlooking the dock when the ferry arrived. 

He looked – to put it nicely – like a madman, especially in the eerie glow of the lights on the pier and the dim twilight of the pre-dawn on the water. His hair was in disarray and his clothes were sopping wet and covered in sand as though he’d decided to go for a midnight swim fully clothed and then had rolled about on the beach afterward.

There was a soft thump behind Harry, and he turned to see Danny had put his things down right there on the pier and was running out to Sam, falling into his outstretched arms. 

Or maybe it was Sam who had fallen. It was rather difficult to see who had stumbled first in the dark. 

The two men had righted themselves and were hugging tightly by the time Harry and Damien made it over to them at a more sedate pace. 

Harry caught the gleam of tears on Sam’s face over Danny’s shoulder, and he was shaking with silent, wrenching sobs. Now that they were closer, Harry could see that it was Danny who was holding them both up in his skinny arms that were evidently stronger than they looked. Sam’s hands, curved into claws, gripped the young man’s back like a lifeline, and he shivered – maybe with cold or maybe with something else. 

Gradually, Sam’s tense body relaxed, and he loosened his deathgrip on Danny. 

He stood back and held the younger man at arms length, his hands on the thin shoulders, silently looking at him, just looking, dead-faced and wild-eyed. 

“Did you fly here, Danny?” he finally asked, his voice a hoarse croak. 

Harry couldn’t see Danny’s face, as it was in shadow, but he sounded as though he wanted to come across as flippant and couldn’t quite manage it. “As I have yet to invent teleportation, I was obliged to board an airplane. Two, in fact.”

Sam looked worried, or rather, perhaps he was relieved to be able to focus on something else for the moment. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I would have flown on a dozen planes for you, and you know it, Sam.” Danny’s voice was firm. “Besides, this wasn’t how I wanted to tell you, but really, I’ve gotten over it. Therapy isn’t as terrible as you all make it out to be. Quite preferable to panic attacks, actually. Anyway, even if that hadn’t been the case, I would have gotten on that plane without a second thought. You need us, so we’re here.”

Ah, so Harry had been right; Danny was scared of flying, or at least, he had been. No wonder Damien had allegedly been ‘fussing’ at him.

Sam’s face wavered dangerously. “Thank you anyway, Danny.”

Damien shifted and handed his son his bags. “We’d best get Sam into some dry clothes. You too, Danny. I don’t want you catching pneumonia again.”

Harry looked over at Danny to see that his clothes looked slightly damp from where Sam had pressed up against him in his wet things, though it was hard to see in the dark. 

The young man rolled his eyes. “Yes, let’s use Danny’s so-called delicate health to manipulate Sam into getting dry. He’s not so much of a masochist that he would deliberately make himself uncomfortable to punish himself.” 

Harry didn’t know what Danny saw when he glanced over at Sam to confirm his point, but he immediately groaned, “Oh, god, you are, aren’t you?”

And with that, Harry was treated to a front-row seat of what he didn’t know was the current quartermaster of MI6 scolding an ex-double-oh agent. All he knew was that the dressing-down continued long after Harry himself was out of breath from climbing that hill, and that Sam gave Damien a thankful sidelong glance as he listened serenely to the comforting litany of what could only be called fussing, Danny-style. 

. . . . .

It was a long walk up to the house. Harry winced at the sight of Sam’s bare feet. The gravel on the path wasn’t sharp, but it couldn’t be easy on them either. Maybe Danny did have a point about Sam’s masochism, especially since Sam had waved off the pair of slippers that the younger man had tried to force on him. 

The house felt…empty when they arrived, in a way it never had in the past when Harry had come to visit. It had, on the contrary, felt full of life, full of happiness and…Donna. 

And now Donna was gone, leaving only the ghost of her touch and smile…

Now he’d done it. One more thought about Donna and he’d be blubbering like a baby. 

Beside him, the Drakes went straight to work. Damien silently maneuvered Sam, who had gone mute and pliant, into a chair, and Danny put the kettle on. 

Harry felt useless, so he sat down.

Sam looked worse in the harsh artificial light of the kitchen. His eyes were dark holes in his pale, gray face, and he looked haggard…old. 

Now, Harry couldn’t very well judge. After all, he was getting up there in years, too, and of course, Donna had just died (don’t cry, don’t cry), but he had never thought of Sam as old before. He was always so suave, so collected and charming. Never old.

But now, sitting here at the scarred kitchen table with him, Harry saw just how much Donna had meant to Sam. The man looked like an empty shell, hollowed-out and haunted.

Harry cleared his throat. If no one was stepping up to break the awkward silence, then it was up to him. “Well, gentlemen, I don’t know about you, but I could use a stiff drink.”

Damien and Danny exchanged meaningful looks over Sam’s head, but Harry didn’t know what they meant by it. Had he said something…?

Sam pushed back from his seat and grabbed a bottle from a shelf. He plunked down four mismatched glasses on the table and poured the amber liquid sloppily into them. 

Harry took his glass uneasily. There was something in the air, something he wasn’t quite privy to. The Drakes were having another silent conversation, while Sam blatantly ignored them all as he emptied his glass with enviable ease.

Sam reached for the bottle to refill his glass, but Danny slid it out of his grasp with a stern look. “I think that’s enough for now, Sam.”

The sudden hard, almost mad gleam in Sam’s eyes made Harry extremely uncomfortable for a moment before it subsided. Although Danny had been the focus of the murderous glare, he didn’t bat an eye. In fact, Sam was the one who looked away, deflating.

“I suppose you’re right. Dan. Wouldn’t do to climb into the bottle. Sophie needs me sober.”

Harry hadn’t known that Sam might have had a bit of trouble with alcohol. After all, he’d partaken, the same as the rest of them, when they’d all gotten together. The Drakes knew him best, though, and evidently knew that letting him have it now in this situation wouldn’t be the best for him. 

“You’re absolutely right, Sam,” Harry said, putting his glass to the side, even though he’d only had a taste. “Sophie needs us, as her dads, and we won’t be of any use to her if we’re drunk. I wonder when Bill’s going to get here. And I suppose someone’d better phone Rosie and Tanya. Do they know?”

It had occurred to him for the first time that Donna’s best friends might not have been notified of her death yet. Oh dear. They’d be sure to take it badly.

“Everyone is on their way, according to plan. No major flight delays, for once,” Danny said, sounding glad to change the subject. “They should all be here by the end of the day. Rosie’s the farthest, in Peru. Flight to Athens takes roughly 15 hours. I’ve arranged for transport here so they won’t have to wait for scheduled ferry crossings.”

Oh. Perhaps Danny had had something to do with their crossing at that unusual time of night. After all, Sam did always say there was something magical about what the younger man could do with computers. 

A door closed quietly somewhere in the house, and presently, Sky came down the stairs, looking drained. 

“Sam, thank god,” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. “I didn’t know where you’d gone, you didn’t take your mobile, and I couldn’t leave Sophie alone, and–”

“It’s alright, Sky,” Damien said softly, firmly stopping the flood of worried words. “We’re here now. How’s Sophie?”

“She cried again and then she went back to sleep. I- god, I can’t imagine what she must be feeling. They were so close, and it was so sudden.”

The kettle whistled, and they jumped. Or rather, Harry and Sky jumped. The other men merely tensed. 

“Tea, Sky?” Danny asked, busying himself with mugs and tea bags. 

“Tea would be brilliant,” the other man said, seating himself with a tired sigh and cradling his head in his hands. “I can’t wait for this nightmare to end.”

Harry and Sky jumped again when Sam pushed his chair back and left the room, muttering something under his breath. 

“Was it something I said?” Sky asked worriedly, craning his head after him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Damien said, “He’s only gone to shower.”

“You caught that?” Harry said, surprised. “Your hearing must be a damned sight better than mine.”

“I suppose he’ll be in the other bathroom. I’d better get a change of clothes for him,” Danny said quietly, setting the mugs down. “He won’t want to go into their bedroom for a while, I think.”

Damien met his eyes and nodded. Harry again had the sense that he had missed something. 

“Sky,” the other man said in a businesslike manner, “What happened?”

Sky sniffed and rubbed his tired eyes. “Well. It was a day like any other. Fixing up the place. You know how Donna is. Was. Sam wanted to pay people to do it proper, but Donna wanted to do it all on her own. Sam didn’t approve, of course. Said she was working too hard. Maybe he was right.”

He stopped, sighed, sipped his scalding tea. “Maybe she overdid it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we were helping her redo the paving out there. Then all of a sudden, she sat down and put a hand to her head and said she had a headache. She went all funny from there. Sophie and I thought it might be the heat, but Sam…Sam knew something was wrong. He got her on the boat fast and took her to the mainland, and they flew her out to the big hospital. Doctors said later that it was the best thing he could’ve done for her, getting her out there straight away, but it wasn’t fast enough. She had a seizure, and then…Well, she didn’t wake up after that. They did all sorts of tests and then they said there wasn’t anything to be done. Bleeding in her brain that they couldn’t stop.”

He sniffed again, and wiped at his wet eyes. “So we said our goodbyes and that was it. She just slipped away, like she hadn’t been laughing and dancing about with Sam just that morning.”

Harry, having lost his battle against his tears ages ago, startled when he felt something nudge against his arm. It was a box of tissues, proffered silently by a stoic Damien Drake. 

He took several and passed the box to Sky, who blew his nose. 

“Sophie,” Sky continued, “Sophie was a mess. I didn’t know what to do. She just cried and cried. And Sam. He held it all together. Did all the paperwork. Took care of everything. Got us home and put Sophie to bed. Called all of you, I guess. And then he left. He just left. Dunno where. He was gone so long I got worried, but I didn’t know where he’d gone.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I thought maybe he might’ve walked right into the water. I-” He looked at Damien. “I have the feeling sometimes, he isn’t always…” He broke off, uncertain. “He does a damned good job hiding it, but I think…”

“Depression. PTSD. He’s struggled with it for years.” Damien’s voice was quiet, emotionless. “He’s been happy these last seven years with Donna and all of you. But it’s not something that leaves you just because you’re happy. He’ll stay, for Sophie’s sake, but…keep an eye on him when we’re all gone. Call me if he seems…odd.”

“Yeah,” Sky agreed, looking relieved to have someone to turn to. “I’ll do that.

Danny slipped silently into the kitchen. “I’ve put him to bed in one of the guest rooms. I think he’ll sleep.”

“I’ll stay up,” Damien said. “You go ahead and rest. You, too, Sky, Harry. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

Danny nodded, his face tightening. “Hopefully, Tanya and Rosie will be able to help Sophie. The rest of us aren’t going to be much comfort to her, and I don’t know if Sam would be able to– you know.” 

His father’s smile was grim. “Emotionally constipated, our lot, aren’t we?” he joked darkly. “She’ll be alright, between the ladies and Sky. It’ll take time, but she’ll be alright.”

“And Sam?” Danny said softly.

“We’ll look after him.”

Chapter Text

Damien was right. The day started too early, with locals streaming in and out with tears and lamenting and big platters of food that mostly went uneaten – the news had already spread. 

Sophie remained upstairs, curled up in bed with Sky hovering over her protectively, while Sam, gray-faced and silent, managed only a grim shadow of hospitality. 

The Drakes, despite the father’s lack of sleep, directed matters beautifully. Harry would have admired their skills in choreographing things if it hadn’t all been so horrible. He noted with surprise (but not much) that they both spoke Greek fluently. 

The family began trickling in from across the world; first Sam’s friends Victoria Woodslow and Ivar Bryce from the States, and Stuart Thomas from somewhere Harry hadn’t quite caught. Bill and Tanya came on the same ferry trip, and then Rosie finally arrived, eyes so puffed up and red that her glasses were of absolutely no use to her. 

Harry noted with resigned disapproval that Donna’s mother was yet again absent. Theirs had never been a close relationship in any sense of the word, but he had thought that Donna’s death would prompt her mother to at least call.

In any case, Rosie and Tanya more than made up for her absence. The women fell sobbing into each other’s arms, Tanya for once not caring that her make-up was getting smudged and her face inflamed. Thankfully, they managed to collect themselves enough to storm upstairs to smother Sophie with their shared grief. 

Harry felt that he wasn’t the only one glad that the twin hurricanes of intense emotion had cleared out of the room. They weren’t called the Dynamos for nothing. Sam’s side of the family wasn’t prone to loud displays of sentiment, which left Sky and Harry to grieve quietly in their Very British way…or at least try to. Bill, unabashedly shedding tears, kept setting them off every time they’d gotten control of their emotions. 

He hated it; the way he felt so useless, sitting there like a great lump, but not knowing what to do except to cry and talk about how wonderful Donna had been. Well, him and Bill and Sky, anyway. Sam had checked out of the conversation hours ago. 

Harry wasn’t too far gone to notice how Sam’s family all kept a close watch on him, as though waiting for him to combust. Danny even sat next to him on the couch, rather closer than strictly necessary. 

When the explosion came, it was only a laugh, a dry, bitter laugh completely devoid of humor. 

“I guess this qualifies me for membership into the Old Widowers’ Club now.”

Sam’s family exchanged looks again. 

“Oh?” Harry leapt at the chance to fill the oppressing silence. “Is- is there a club? I wasn’t aware that there were…erm…that many widowers among us?” Not that he really wanted to know, but it seemed like he ought to ask. Perhaps it wasn’t quite the right thing to say; one never knew the right thing to say in sad situations like this. Oh dear.

“Ivar and Damien,” Victoria said with a languid puff of her cigarette. “And me, I suppose. Do I count?” she asked the room in general.

Sam snorted, but it wasn’t quite…right. “Sure you do. Your husbands are dead, aren’t they?”

Harry glanced between them. “You were married?” He tried to carry on the conversation, albeit a bit weakly. “Sorry to hear he– they passed. Always a shame.”

“Three times.” Smoke obscured Victoria’s low-lidded eyes. “And they were bastards.”

“All dead under…mysterious circumstances,” Sam clarified, and the sick grin that stretched across his lips looked all wrong.

Harry felt something tickle the back of his neck, which was ridiculous. 

Sam’s family again exchanged significant glances.

Bill laughed nervously. “How mysterious?”

“Very.”

Seeing Bill gulp, and Sky glance wildly about, goggle-eyed, at Sam’s grim-faced family, Harry suddenly slapped his hands on his thighs. 

“Dammit!” he exclaimed. “I’m missing something here, aren’t I? What are you all looking at each other and having all these– these silent conversations about? It’s not even Sam’s side of the family; it’s Bill and Sky, too! What am I missing?”

Sam burst out laughing again, a horrid, cringing sort of noise. 

“You’re in a room full of killers, Harry. Didn’t even suspect, did you?”

Harry stared at his friend and co-parent, aghast. Had he finally cracked?

“No, he’s not crazy,” Bill said with a gusty sigh. “Trained assassins, every one of them. Except for him, I think,” he said, gesturing at Danny, who looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “From what I hear, though, the things he can do with a computer are enough to qualify him as one.”

Danny suddenly materialized next to Harry and shoved a tablet under his nose. “Sign here,” he said tersely, handing him a stylus pen. 

“Er?”

“Confidentiality agreement. Please sign before Sam spills any more beans.” He leveled a glare at Sam, then looked over at Bill and Sky. “You two are signing, too. Might as well get you all in one go.”

“Leave Sophie alone, Danny,” Damien said wearily. “She knows to keep quiet about this.”

“Definitely,” Sky said, bristling a little, “Neither of us has said a word about it since we found out. I mean, other than to each other and Sam and Donna.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?” Harry asked, wounded. “If Bill knows, and all of you know, then I’m the odd man out.” Again.

“Well…” Bill looked around at the others and leaned forward. “Let’s put it this way. How good are you at keeping secrets? Be honest here, Harry.”

Harry drew back, offended. Then he thought about it a bit and conceded the point. But only a little. 

“But you’re a good, honest businessman, eh?” Bill continued, nodding. “When you’ve signed something promising to keep quiet about it, you’re damn well gonna keep that promise, aren’t you? So it’s not fair for you to have to sign the thing and not us too, is it? So we’ll all sign it and then we’ll all know, and it’ll be alright.”

“Well. Alright,” Harry said, mollified. When it was put that way… “But I still don’t know why I had to be the last to know. Do Tanya and Rosie?”

Bill shook his head. “No, and they’re not going to. I only knew because I’ve run into their like before, and the others knew because they live with the man, so they’d better, hadn’t they? We didn’t leave you out on purpose, Harry.”

“Well. I guess that’s alright. Here, I’ll sign this thing,” he said, flicking through the pages of the agreement to read what he was signing. “Why didn’t you have to sign this before, when you found out?”

“Because spies are some of the loosest-lipped gossips you’ll ever meet, despite popular opinion to the contrary,” Danny said, still glaring daggers at Sam. “They’ll tell a pretty face that they’re MI6 without even bothering to introduce themselves properly, and damn the paperwork. If we had to track down everyone they blabbed to, there'd be no end to it.”

Bill snorted. “Guess you weren’t pretty enough to tell, Harry.”

Harry made a face of mock outrage at him as he handed Danny the signed document. 

Danny tapped at the tablet a few more times and presented it to Bill, who signed it without bothering to read it. 

“Aren’t you a spy, too, Danny?” Sky teased, snatching at the small bit of levity in the air as he waited for the tablet to be passed to him. “Aren’t you just as susceptible to pretty faces?”

“Nah,” Stuart snorted, “Danny’s attracted to brains. Technobabble’s like poetry to his ears. An ode to the scientific method in binary code is a surefire way to make him fall in love–”

“Or lust!” cut in Ivar with a snigger. 

“Right, that’s all the paperwork done,” Danny said loudly with a look fit to kill. “Any questions, Harry?”

He thought for a moment, then came out with: “Why did you decide to tell me now?” He looked at Sam, not hurt, exactly, but dammit, he thought they were friends!

Once again, Danny was the one who answered, however, his face deadpan as he checked over the signatures he’d collected. “Other than the fact that you deduced that something was up? Sam felt guilty that you were the only one who didn’t know, despite the fact that you’re here in solidarity with him and Bill, so he impulsively decided to tell you in the most dramatic way possible. Par for the course.” Intelligent green eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s. “Any other questions?”

“Er.”

“Well I’ve got one,” Sky said eagerly, now that he had free rein to ask. “How many’ve you guys killed?”

“Sky!” Bill looked aghast, as the only one of the civilians who had seen one of them in action before (although not any of those present), and therefore the only one of them sensible enough to be a little terrified. “You can’t ask them that.”

Stuart leaned back in his seat with a sharp, wolflike grin. “You want official kills, or…?”

“Don’t listen to any of them,” Danny again moderated in a clipped voice. “Any number they’ll give you will be vastly over or under the actual count, depending on what they feel like that day. There’s no assassin who’ll ever give you the real number. First, because their reputations are built on rumors and second, because they’re arseholes who like to play with their food. Suffice it to say that the number is at least two, as that is the minimum required to qualify for what they were.”

The three civilians digested that and each suddenly felt the need to squirm a little.

Danny waited a minute for more questions, but seeing that none were forthcoming, he huffed a sigh and crossed his arms. “Welcome to the family that you’ll wish you’d never heard of. You’re in for all the assassin jokes now.”

“Like what?”

The assassins grinned toothily. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Danny groaned, as though that had not been his plan from the start.

. . . . .

He’d always liked the sea. The calming crash of the waves, the water rushing in and out…

“You know, I met my wife trying to drown herself in the ocean.” 

Damien walked up from behind him, holding his shoes in his hand. The sand shifted under his bare feet – shh shh shh.

Sam nodded, knowing what he was asking. “I won’t. Nor any other way.”

“Good.”

Sam sighed. They watched the waves advancing and receding, back and forth…“How long did you have with her? Married less than a day, wasn’t it?”

“Not long enough to know if we would have split up or stayed together in the end.”

“But it matters that you let enough of yourself go to do it. Even a day is long enough for it to hurt.” Sam wasn’t sure if he was speaking of Damien or himself. “I’ve got no right to complain. I had seven years with her! Seven years. We were happy. We fought and we made up and…I can’t believe she’s gone. It was so sudden. I should be used to this. I’m not exactly a stranger to sudden death. So why does it hurt so goddamn much?” 

He looked pleadingly at his friend with wild eyes, kicking up the sand around them in his frenzy. “Was it because I got too complacent? Maybe I shouldn’t have married her after all. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much then.”

Damien, damn him, remained as calm as always. “Do you regret it?”

Sam sighed and sagged against a boulder on the beach. “No. Not a day of it.” His voice broke.

“It hurts because you loved her. You loved her enough that the pain you feel now doesn’t matter because the time you had with her was enough.”

“Not enough. Never enough.” He knew he was being selfish; his friend hadn’t had nearly as long with his wife. Just the one day. Less than a day. Ivar, too, had had less than a day with his new wife before she’d been killed. Unlucky, the pair of them. 

“It gets better, Sam.”

“Does it?” He was an asshole for lashing out over and over again like this, and he knew it, but he was too raw to care.

“Ask Ivar, if you don’t believe me.” 

Damn Damien and his perpetual calmness.

After several steadying breaths, Sam took the metaphorical hand his friend was offering him and decided the serious conversation was over. “Maybe I’d better ask Victoria, too, while I’m at it,” he said lightly.

Damien followed his lead and joked, “God. I’d hate to be married to her.”

“Same here. It’s a brave man who’d jump in with his eyes wide open.”

His companion chuckled. “Who knows. Maybe there’s a masochist out there who’d do it. Remember Simanov? Heard he’s still in love with her.”

“You mean Ivan Simanov, Russian madman? Didn’t she shoot him?”

“Three times. But not to kill.” In their line of work, that meant something. 

“Brave, and mad.”

“You’re telling me.” Damien bent down and picked up a pebble, which he tossed absentmindedly at the waves. “She’d gotten mellow by the time you came along. When I first met her, she was an absolute spitting viper of a woman.”

Sam snorted. “She isn’t still?”

“Talking about me?”

Neither man jumped, per se, but it was a close call. Damn Victoria. 

“Absolutely not.” Sam said hurriedly. 

Damien sent her a half-annoyed glare. “Where did you even come from?”

The ex-003 smiled mysteriously. “If you’re done sulking, Sam, your daughter wants you.” 

“I’m not sulking; I’m grieving, you cold-hearted bitch!” he exclaimed, seriously stung.

Victoria lit a cigarette and raised a brow at his outburst. “Feel better?” 

He huffed, and took a moment to evaluate. “Much.”

. . .

They listened to the squish-squish sound of Sam’s footsteps in the sand fade, both of them facing the sun setting over the pink ocean. 

Victoria let out a plume of smoke. “So I’m a spitting viper of a woman?”

“You were. Past tense. And it’s a compliment.” Spies of Damien’s caliber didn’t act so gracelessly as to backpedal, but…maybe he did a little. 

“Hm.” She was silent for a moment. “I wouldn’t want to be married to me, either, to be completely honest.”

“You're never completely honest, Victoria.”

“I’d love to be married to me, then.” Her blue eyes, dark in the light of the setting sun, twinkled. 

He chuckled. “And that’s an outright lie.”

She took another slow puff of her cancer-stick. “Would you ever do it again?”

“Get married?” He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe,” he said truthfully, “If the right woman came along.”

She gave him a mildly curious look. “Would you have said that thirty years ago?”

“It would have been an unequivocal negative.”

She harrumphed, amused. “I’m not the only one who’s mellowed out over the years.”

“And you?”

“Hm.” Another mysterious smile. 

“Hm?” he prompted.

“Mm-hm.”

“Simanov?”

“Mad Russian.” She dropped her cigarette on the sand. The tip of it glowed red before she covered it up.

“And?”

“Hm.” The smile now had a touch of warmth to it that only decades of knowing her could untangle. 

“I expect to be invited to the wedding. Don’t pull an elopement like Sam or the rest of us will be very put out.”

“Hm.”

. . . . .

“I want,” Sophie said, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, “I want to make my mom’s dream come true. I want to build her the best hotel she ever dreamed of. A real hotel, more than what we already have now. I’m going to do it. For her.”

“We’ll do it, baby.” Sky squeezed her hand, relieved that she had stopped weeping and started talking.

“We’ll do it,” Tanya said, nodding. 

Rosie agreed. “Of course we will, sweetie.”

“We’ll need help.” Sam said quietly. “She wanted to do it all on her own, but she’d never really managed a hotel before. What she’s had until now was more a bed-and-breakfast than anything. She didn't know what was needed for a larger operation.” 

He paused, seeing the frowns and pursed lips directed toward him. “You all know how she was. Not much for thinking of the future and planning. All in the now, was our Donna.” His voice broke. “I loved that about her. But it won’t build that hotel.”

“Who do we ask?” Sophie’s voice shook, but in her question was her agreement to Sam’s proposition. “I don’t know anyone. And if we hire someone, it’ll take a lot of money, won’t it?”

“Don’t worry about the money, Sophie,” Harry said, glad to finally be able to be of use. “Er…I suppose I could ask my assistant to look up some hotel management firms…”

“I know someone,” Sam said firmly. “He’s the perfect man for us. But first, the building needs to be fixed up.”

Bill wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Donna’s hotel is gonna need a name.”

Harry nodded. “How about that? Donna’s Hotel. Straightforward, just like Donna.”

“Bella Donna,” Sam sighed, “Hotel Bella Donna. My beautiful Donna.”

Sophie stood up to kiss her father’s cheek and hugged him tightly. “It’s perfect, Dad. Hotel Bella Donna. We’ll do it for Mom.”

Sam put his arm around his girl and pressed his lips to her shining hair. “We’ll do it for her.” He leaned his head against hers and closed his wet eyes. “Our Donna.”

Bill raised his glass of mint tea. “To our Donna.”

“To Donna.”