“No, she’s not. And that’s truth, James— 
                       —much as you might like to pretend otherwise.”

      no one’s ever accused ALEC TREVELYAN of being nice.
      charming? oh, yes, always that, and clever as the devil, but 
      he is not nice; that has never been  ( and never will be ) part
      of the description. sociable but in a class of his own; simulation
      scores and a field record like no one’s seen in years — but still
      incompatible with even some of the best ranked rangers in the
      program. an exceptional pilot with no lasting drift partner to match. 

                   his file probably reads:
                        does not play well with others.  

      and it’s true. or was. until JAMES BOND stalked into the kwoon
      with eyes like frozen flint and a careless smile that dared anyone
      to do their worst.

                   it only took three matches for alec to consider it,
                   to really consider it, the possibility; by the fifth
                   match he was nearly sure.            

                 ( by the seventh, he knew. could feel it in his bones. 
                   could tell by the weight of a dozen gazes on them,
                   by the hush of the room, by the way his breathing
                   synced to bond’s as they circled one another. they
                   moved around each other like predators, so careful,
                   so devastatingly well-matched. )

                                 he wonders, after, how they could
                                 have missed each other, how it had
                                 been this long without a connection.

                                 he gets an answer, in the form of a
                                 level look of ( calculated ) distaste
                                 and a flat refusal to acknowledge the
                                 obvious compatibility between them.

      it’s so laughably transparent ( to him, if not to anyone else ) that
      alec very nearly thinks bond’s joking. but no, there’s a steely cool
      in those eyes that says ( or tries to ) that alec—and whatever spark
      he senses between them—is not welcome.

                                 a nicer man would let it lie;
                                 but alec is not the nicer sort.

      "Pathological avoidance of attachment.
                    We see it sometimes, in the ones who’ve lost a partner—
                            —like you. Italy, wasn’t it?”

                    "What was her name?
                            Vesper——?”