The first and the last.
He’s broad and dark-haired and has a Scottish accent, and despite all the things he used to say about Scotland, Bond does love a Scottish accent.
Even more so when that Scottish accent belongs to a beautiful man saying that he would like to see more of him. Bond replies that he hopes he will.
And he does.
There’s something so quaint about London teashops. Even when they’re commercialized and crowded, or tiny with peeling paint on the walls and a bad food hygiene rating, there’s still something nice about sharing a pot of tea with someone on a November afternoon, with your phone off, feeling like a normal person. Just for that hour.
“James?”
“Yes?”
“I wondered if, maybe if you aren’t busy on Friday night… if you’d like to go for dinner?”
His smile is so charming, slightly lopsided, and his lower lip is redder than the top one from nervous biting.
Bond says that yes, he would like that very much, and returns a version of that wonky smile.
*
One dinner becomes two, becomes the night back at his flat for coffee. And when the coffee sits steaming on a tray, and Bond has finished looking around the possessions the room holds, somehow Bond’s wandering hand gets lost on the pale expanse of the skin of his chest, another in his hair, tongue between his teeth. Tenting tight suit trousers as his fingers spider up Bond’s thigh, and stumbling to the queen-size bed to do this properly, because Bond firmly believes that anything worth doing is worth doing properly.
Bond sleeps through the night without a single disturbance from the things that come out to play when he dreams, and when he is still there in the morning, the space next to him still warm from body heat and he can smell coffee and-are those scotch pancakes?I-he thinks, well this is new. He doesn’t report that day, and gets an earful from M the next morning, but he just casually observes that the world didn’t end, and by God the sex was worth it.
*
After a few months, they move in together. Bond doesn’t have much-a few DVDs, a few more books, few things that hold any sentimental value.
“God, what did you do in your spare time before you met me?” he asks with a laugh.
“Why would I want to do anything other than you?” Bond smirks in reply, and soon every room has been christened. Loudly. Some twice. Exactly Bond’s intention.
*
“Boyfriend” is an experimental term, and it goes through a lot of preliminary testing before they can consider bringing it into use. It is certainly favoured over “lover” “partner” and “significant other”, all of which Bond despises. But he isn’t a fan of “boyfriend” either and not, he is eager to explain, because of something internalized and not dealt with over his own sexuality-he would never call a woman his “girlfriend” either.
“What do I call you?” he asks.
“Call me James,” Bond replies. The first name is enough of a privilege, he thinks.
“But what do I call you in terms of-us?”
Bond looks at him. His stomach swirls. It’s a good feeling.
“If you must call me anything… call me yours.”
He curls a finger gently under Bond’s earlobe.
“And are you? Mine?”
“Yes,” Bond replies, and kisses him before he can taste the lie that the existence of MI6 puts into his mouth.
*
Bond can’t tell him what he does. He says he is involved with the police. Special operations. Top secret. He says officers have gone to their graves having never been able to tell their wives what their job really entailed.
“And is that what I am?” he flirts, sliding his hands up Bond’s thighs, “Your wife?”
“Absolutely,” Bond replies, smacking him lightly on the arm. He places a hand on the side of Bond’s face, and is suddenly serious.
“You are safe, aren’t you, James? You’re not in danger?”
“Of course not,” Bond replies. Of course I’m not safe. A finger is trailed down his cheekbone.
“Good,” he replies, “I like you in one piece.”
Bond quirks an eyebrow and makes a joke about keeping himself together, and laughs along with him.
*
Sometimes it’s very difficult. When Bond’s leaning over the sink spitting blood into the basin, bent from the bruised ribs and squinting through one swollen eye, and “I was mugged” just isn’t enough of an explanation anymore.
“What did they take? What did they take?” he asks. Bond holds the blood in his mouth for a while before spitting, so he doesn’t have to reply.
“You weren’t mugged,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry, just sad. “Why can’t you tell me what happened to you? Where do you go?”
“I was mugged,” Bond repeats, hating himself. He sees the other man’s look of disgust in the mirror, before he is left alone in the bathroom. He balls a hand into a fist and beats himself sharply on the thigh, gripping onto the sink tightly with the other hand, teeth gritted in pain and remorse.
*
Bond has been sleeping on his front, because his back has been aching, from physical exertion or the weight of the stress of the secrets, he isn’t sure which. He wakes up one night feeling fingers on his back, tracing the outline of a scar on his shoulder.
“How did you get this?” the other man asks softly. It’s a stab wound. It’s millions of pounds worth of tech, it’s two months of physical therapy, it’s a constant reminder that sometimes, still, he’s just not good enough.
“I fell out of a tree when I was a kid,” Bond replies. Lips brush the twisted tissue soothingly.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Knowing that this is the truth hurts more than every lie.
*
Bond kisses him on the forehead before he leaves.
“Stay safe,”
“Says you,” is the scoffed reply. His eyes break Bond’s heart. It’s getting harder every day. “Please. Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is, whatever you’ve gotten yourself involved in-God, James, it’s drugs, if you’re fucking other men, whatever it is, I don’t care! Let me help you!”
“Is that what you think?” Bond yells in a flash of anger at him, at himself, at everyone else. He looks shocked at the outburst, and Bond instantly regrets it, “God. Fuck. I’m sorry. Look-” He pauses, and in an instant makes a decision that he has no right to make, “Tonight. I will tell you everything tonight. I promise.”
“I really do love you, James,” he says quietly, “And I really… really worry about you.”
Bond nods his head, to acknowledge this, but doesn’t know what else to say, not yet. He leaves, reaching down under his suit jacket to wrap his hand around his concealed gun, like it’ll sooth him somehow.
*
He watches in horror in the second of silence before the explosion. And then the whole block of flats goes up in flames, spreading hungrily up the structure, merciless.
“NO!” he screams out, forgetting all procedure and protocol, “PLEASE, GOD, NO!”
God does not listen. He has never listened to James Bond.
*
The day of the funeral is sunny. He hates that. He feels like it should be raining, like a grey sky and black umbrellas would numb him. He feels like the entire world should be mourning with him, or London at the very least. He can’t sleep, because every time he shuts his eyes he plays out every different scenario. Sometimes he wishes he’d taken him with him. Other times he wishes that he’d stay, and the flames could have taken him together. He curls into a ball in a bed that is far too big and longs for absolute darkness.
*
M’s hand is on his arm, just for a few moments, and he knows this is it. Weakness over, no more mourning, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, what’s past is past, the sun will come over the hill; every fucking little saying that doesn’t help a bit when you’re the one it’s happening to. And he knows he can’t carry on this job as long as he lets himself remember. So he packs it all away in a corner of his mind, something that’s there but isn’t look at, like a misplaced photo album.
He craves something to make him forget. Next mission. Istanbul. He’s ready.
*
Silva slides his hands up Bond’s thighs, and whilst it’s reminiscent, it’s not the same, not at all.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Bond lets himself remember, and finds himself smiling.
”What makes you think this is my first time?”
*