Fanfiction: Beat A Frantic Pace (James Bond - Skyfall)
Title: "Beat A Frantic Pace"
Status: Drabble; Complete
Fandom: James Bond (Craig!Bond; Movieverse)
Pairing(s)/Character(s): James Bond/Q
Disclaimer: The James Bond Franchise belongs to MGM and Ian Fleming, not mine, no claim.
Rating: PG
Genre: Established Relationship, H/C, angst, slash, 00Q
Warnings: unbeta'ed
Summary: Q's body is softer to the pain of torture, but James is the one who cannot sleep.
AN: This was supposed to be fluff >_< Oh well...
Beat A Frantic Pace
He kept his eyes closed and breath even, inhaling slow and pain-deep, before letting the air rush back out of his lungs. His body under the sheets pretended to be relaxed, yet his heart would not stop racing. Neither did the flashbacks in the darkness behind his lids.
Sleep was as far off now as it had been three hours ago.
He heard the sound of uneven footsteps coming closer, a soft tapping noise on carpet, the shuffling of weight that came with a swollen ankle and blooming bruises. He heard another persons breathing, right at the doorstep of the bedroom.
“James, you need to sleep.”
He didn't answer, it was the statement of a fact they both knew, a soft exhalation. Here in the illusion of safety, the flat they shared, there was no need for witty banter or pretence, though James found certain habits hard to break.
Q made a small noise deep in his throat and turned away. He traced his steps, down the floor and into the living room; doubling as Q's office. The noise of deft fingers on a keyboard rose and stopped abruptly; the whirr of the computer terminal faded to the quiet hum of stand-by.
James shifted, turned on his side, careful not to put pressure on his fractured ribs. He waited and Q came back, hissing as he undressed; clothes falling on the ground in a pile.
Q slipped under the covers gracelessly, softer to the pain that came with torture, skin no longer unblemished by needle and thread; white bandages over tomorrows scars. James will trace them with gentle fingertips, burning with regret.
He felt the heat of Q's slender body shifting until his chest was flush to James' back, one arm sneaking around his waist to pull him closer. He went, didn't flinch as a cold nose pressed in between his shoulder blades.
They smelled of antiseptics, like prodding doctors and nurses, like prone bodies being handled, like sharp lemon and the hint of dried blood and James wondered if there was something of himself left underneath it all.
“You're just tired,” Q mouthed into his skin with chapped lips, following his thoughts with uncanny precision. His hand tried to soothe muscles twitching with the ashes of anger and violence. “We have tomorrow.”
James nodded, unshaven cheek catching on the pillow, and reached for Q's hand. Before he could twine their fingers together, Q tugged gently and he followed, until his head rested on Q's chest.
Counting the wet thumping that had nearly stopped yesterday came as natural as not thinking about what had happened, because it had proven that he couldn't hold on to a live, no matter how hard he tried.
“Never stop trying,” Q whispered into his ear, breath ruffling short hair.
James hummed an affirmative, distracted, counting. He never realized it when his shallow breaths began to even out, matching Q's rhythm.
They slept on borrowed time.
[The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep. ~ E. Joseph Cossman]
The End
Status: Drabble; Complete
Fandom: James Bond (Craig!Bond; Movieverse)
Pairing(s)/Character(s): James Bond/Q
Disclaimer: The James Bond Franchise belongs to MGM and Ian Fleming, not mine, no claim.
Rating: PG
Genre: Established Relationship, H/C, angst, slash, 00Q
Warnings: unbeta'ed
Summary: Q's body is softer to the pain of torture, but James is the one who cannot sleep.
AN: This was supposed to be fluff >_< Oh well...
Beat A Frantic Pace
He kept his eyes closed and breath even, inhaling slow and pain-deep, before letting the air rush back out of his lungs. His body under the sheets pretended to be relaxed, yet his heart would not stop racing. Neither did the flashbacks in the darkness behind his lids.
Sleep was as far off now as it had been three hours ago.
He heard the sound of uneven footsteps coming closer, a soft tapping noise on carpet, the shuffling of weight that came with a swollen ankle and blooming bruises. He heard another persons breathing, right at the doorstep of the bedroom.
“James, you need to sleep.”
He didn't answer, it was the statement of a fact they both knew, a soft exhalation. Here in the illusion of safety, the flat they shared, there was no need for witty banter or pretence, though James found certain habits hard to break.
Q made a small noise deep in his throat and turned away. He traced his steps, down the floor and into the living room; doubling as Q's office. The noise of deft fingers on a keyboard rose and stopped abruptly; the whirr of the computer terminal faded to the quiet hum of stand-by.
James shifted, turned on his side, careful not to put pressure on his fractured ribs. He waited and Q came back, hissing as he undressed; clothes falling on the ground in a pile.
Q slipped under the covers gracelessly, softer to the pain that came with torture, skin no longer unblemished by needle and thread; white bandages over tomorrows scars. James will trace them with gentle fingertips, burning with regret.
He felt the heat of Q's slender body shifting until his chest was flush to James' back, one arm sneaking around his waist to pull him closer. He went, didn't flinch as a cold nose pressed in between his shoulder blades.
They smelled of antiseptics, like prodding doctors and nurses, like prone bodies being handled, like sharp lemon and the hint of dried blood and James wondered if there was something of himself left underneath it all.
“You're just tired,” Q mouthed into his skin with chapped lips, following his thoughts with uncanny precision. His hand tried to soothe muscles twitching with the ashes of anger and violence. “We have tomorrow.”
James nodded, unshaven cheek catching on the pillow, and reached for Q's hand. Before he could twine their fingers together, Q tugged gently and he followed, until his head rested on Q's chest.
Counting the wet thumping that had nearly stopped yesterday came as natural as not thinking about what had happened, because it had proven that he couldn't hold on to a live, no matter how hard he tried.
“Never stop trying,” Q whispered into his ear, breath ruffling short hair.
James hummed an affirmative, distracted, counting. He never realized it when his shallow breaths began to even out, matching Q's rhythm.
They slept on borrowed time.
[The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep. ~ E. Joseph Cossman]
The End