Inside (J/A) (14/?)
This fic is rated:
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James/Alec (plus one sensible)
Summary: Where Alec's been all this time.
Warnings: Borders on the nonconsensual.
This series contains sex that, while nominally consensual, takes place during and after brainwashing. As the character is incapable of giving any meaningful consent, the sex in the story would legally and ethically be considered rape. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Word Count: 1,548
Feedback: yes, please!
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Series Master List
Chapter One
Previous Chapter
Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond. I don't own Alec Trevelyan either (alas), nor any other characters mentioned in this fic. James, Alec, etc. are all property of Ian Fleming and MGM. I'm just playing with them for a while. Not making any money, don't have any money, please don't sue!
Author's Note: I was seriously tempted to write "The End" at the conclusion of Chapter Thirteen and let it sit for a week or two before posting this. But I decided that would be too mean.
For a long time, everything was quiet. Not complete silence, just a restful trickle of sound, like listening to voices from another room.
He could hear James talking to him; could even make out the words, if he listened. But most of the time, he didn't bother. It was all the same; apologies, pleas for him to wake up -- promises to make things better.
Sometimes, though, he asked a question; did he want ice? Morphine?
Usually, he said yes. It was easier than trying to decide what he wanted.
Other times, it was an order. These he obeyed; he didn't want to make James angry.
But mostly, he just ignored the voice. It was just so much background noise.
One day, though, he heard a different voice. A stranger's voice; a woman's voice.
What the hell was James thinking, bringing a woman here?
His wanted to open his eyes, to see the competition, but the lids felt too heavy. He remembered the pinprick in his arm, he'd been given morphine -- but was it just now, or hours before? Yesterday?
Something cold pressed against his chest. The woman said, "Take a deep breath."
Things fell into place. Doctor. Stethoscope. Which still didn't eliminate the possibility that she was one of James's girlfriends. Considering that he'd fucked his way through half of London.
"Alec, wake up," James said. "Take a deep breath."
He obeyed. The stethoscope moved, and the woman -- the doctor -- told him to take a breath. He obeyed; the whole process repeated itself a few more times.
"He should be in hospital," the doctor said. Her accent wasn't quite British; Indian, he thought, or Pakistani.
"I told you before; that's not feasible." James sounded irritated. Not at him, though. That was good.
"He needs to be monitored. Especially in his current condition. He should be in a hospital, where he would have access to not only medical care, but psychological experts. Please. Before you do manage to kill him."
"How's your brother, Doctor Singh? Staying out of trouble, I trust? I'd hate for the authorities to find out -- "
"You've made your point, Mr. Smith." Her voice was crisp and cold. So she wasn't one of his women.
Why should he care? James hurt him.
But James loved him.
But James hurt him.
But --
That train of thought led to madness. Easier just to let go, fall back into sleep. Let James and the doctor poke at him in his absence.
* * *
Sometimes, things would intrude at the edge of his consciousness. Sensation, sometimes pain. Sometimes even distant hints of pleasure; James would touch him, kiss him. But more often, he was just left to drift in the dark.
He didn't mind. It was peaceful.
* * *
Warm, wet washcloth. Sponge bath. This is good, if a bit humiliating; he's been filthy for so long. It would be so nice to be clean, really clean. He won't be, even after this. But it's a start.
And it feels good. The moist warmth. The soft-rough feel of the washcloth on his skin. James is taking his time, too. Sliding the washcloth across his shoulders, down his chest -- there is something significant, but he can't grasp it, so he lets the thought drift away, and just enjoys the sensations as they trickle slowly into his brain.
Hot, wet mouth. Lips sliding against his. Tongue probing inside. The taste of toothpaste and vodka.
What is James up to now?
And then the mouth is gone; he's vaguely disappointed.
"Come on, Alec -- it's time to wake up."
Why should he, he wonders, when he can stay down here in the dark and be safe?
As if in answer to his question, the lips are back. Insistent, demanding -- he yields to the implied order, letting James in. Letting himself be kissed, caressed; there is a hand on his chest, fingers sliding to one nipple, to tweak it. Then the mouth, trailing down chin, neck, chest to join the hand.
Even after nine years, James remembers exactly how to touch him.
If he wanted to, he could raise his hand, tangle it in James's hair, and tell him "don't stop." But that will mean coming out of the dark, breaking cover, and taking the chance that this isn't just the bait in another of James's traps.
Easier not to decide.
Then James pulls back. "Damn you, Alec," he whispers, in a voice that cuts like ice.
* * *
He knew, in theory, that time passed. Time always did, be it three minutes or nine years. But from where he lay, wrapped in the cocoon of his own body, he couldn't see any visible evidence. It was always the same view, when he looked out; white acoustic tiles, two strips of fluorescent lights, unadorned walls.
James was always around somewhere; even if he was not in sight, Alec could hear his breathing or catch a whiff of his aftershave. James would always be here; there was a certain comfort to that.
* * *
James's pain was almost enough to pull him out of the dark. The sound of his sobs, wretched, despairing. Even after everything, he still loved James.
But he couldn't forget the anger in James's eyes. The way James had looked, when he'd kicked the gurney over.
And worse yet, the coldness in his eyes, when he'd let go.
It's cold here now, too; the view has changed. They're outside, he's lying under a blue sky.
The sky was blue in Cuba, too, when he fell through it. He remembered looking up at James, silhouetted against that sky. The agony of shattered bones dull in comparison to the knowledge that James had done it to him.
James had killed him.
And then James had come for him. Saved him from dying in fire, carried him away from the death he'd earned, and brought him to a hell of his own making.
Love? Revenge? He still wasn't sure of James's motives. How could he be; he couldn't even comprehend his own. Why he'd betrayed James, why he'd tried to kill him.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Trying to sort it out was only making things more confused. James seemed to have fallen asleep; he decided that that was probably the smartest thing to do under the circumstances.
* * *
When he came to the surface again, it was dark. It seemed that he'd been sleeping for a long time, or maybe he'd never truly woken.
He was back inside, safe and warm.
But he missed the sky.
He heard a snore, one he would recognize anywhere. How many times had he sat alert on watch and listened to that snore, or drifted off to sleep listening to it?
He could do that again now, and pretend that the discomfort that traced his spine and wrapped his lower body was because he was sleeping on hard rock.
The snoring stopped, and James moaned in his sleep.
Good. He deserved a few nightmares.
He skittered away, toward the dark, spooked by the strength of his own anger. It wasn't safe. Rage, love, need -- they had no place here. They belonged outside, with James.
It's not safe out there.
James is out of control.
James -- the James he knew, worked with, fucked, loved, hated, and could never defeat -- was always in control. Even -- especially -- when the situation was out of control, he never was. He was always at the wheel, turning in the direction of the skid, and getting the situation in hand just before it went off the cliff.
James out of control is like a failure of gravity. Up is down, or maybe sideways. He has no direction, no way to orient himself.
He closed his eyes, retreating back inside himself. At least if he's hiding, maybe it won't hurt as badly when James finally snaps, and --
-- and he can't do anything about it, because --
-- because he's hiding in a cave somewhere in the back of his mind, a primitive, an animal, an abused puppy waiting for the next kick.
Fuck that.
He's spent the last god-knows-how-long living in fear, hiding from James. Afraid of what James will do to him.
And why?
James has already defeated him, destroyed his plans. Left his body a shattered wreck. Denied him morphine as he screamed in agony. Fucked with his mind in a thousand different ways. Kicked his bed over when he tried to fight. Sent him hiding in the recesses of his mind, and then molested him as he lay helpless.
And after all of this -- or maybe, in some twisted way, because of it -- he still loves James.
So. James has lost control. He's got the pedal pushed all the way to the floor, and he's heading toward a cliff. This leaves him with two choices; he can huddle in the back seat and pray it won't hurt too much when they hit bottom -- or he can make a grab for the wheel and try to save both of them.
Ready to save the world again?
Alec took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.
Next Chapter
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James/Alec (plus one sensible)
Summary: Where Alec's been all this time.
Warnings: Borders on the nonconsensual.
This series contains sex that, while nominally consensual, takes place during and after brainwashing. As the character is incapable of giving any meaningful consent, the sex in the story would legally and ethically be considered rape. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Word Count: 1,548
Feedback: yes, please!
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Series Master List
Chapter One
Previous Chapter
Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond. I don't own Alec Trevelyan either (alas), nor any other characters mentioned in this fic. James, Alec, etc. are all property of Ian Fleming and MGM. I'm just playing with them for a while. Not making any money, don't have any money, please don't sue!
Author's Note: I was seriously tempted to write "The End" at the conclusion of Chapter Thirteen and let it sit for a week or two before posting this. But I decided that would be too mean.
For a long time, everything was quiet. Not complete silence, just a restful trickle of sound, like listening to voices from another room.
He could hear James talking to him; could even make out the words, if he listened. But most of the time, he didn't bother. It was all the same; apologies, pleas for him to wake up -- promises to make things better.
Sometimes, though, he asked a question; did he want ice? Morphine?
Usually, he said yes. It was easier than trying to decide what he wanted.
Other times, it was an order. These he obeyed; he didn't want to make James angry.
But mostly, he just ignored the voice. It was just so much background noise.
One day, though, he heard a different voice. A stranger's voice; a woman's voice.
What the hell was James thinking, bringing a woman here?
His wanted to open his eyes, to see the competition, but the lids felt too heavy. He remembered the pinprick in his arm, he'd been given morphine -- but was it just now, or hours before? Yesterday?
Something cold pressed against his chest. The woman said, "Take a deep breath."
Things fell into place. Doctor. Stethoscope. Which still didn't eliminate the possibility that she was one of James's girlfriends. Considering that he'd fucked his way through half of London.
"Alec, wake up," James said. "Take a deep breath."
He obeyed. The stethoscope moved, and the woman -- the doctor -- told him to take a breath. He obeyed; the whole process repeated itself a few more times.
"He should be in hospital," the doctor said. Her accent wasn't quite British; Indian, he thought, or Pakistani.
"I told you before; that's not feasible." James sounded irritated. Not at him, though. That was good.
"He needs to be monitored. Especially in his current condition. He should be in a hospital, where he would have access to not only medical care, but psychological experts. Please. Before you do manage to kill him."
"How's your brother, Doctor Singh? Staying out of trouble, I trust? I'd hate for the authorities to find out -- "
"You've made your point, Mr. Smith." Her voice was crisp and cold. So she wasn't one of his women.
Why should he care? James hurt him.
But James loved him.
But James hurt him.
But --
That train of thought led to madness. Easier just to let go, fall back into sleep. Let James and the doctor poke at him in his absence.
* * *
Sometimes, things would intrude at the edge of his consciousness. Sensation, sometimes pain. Sometimes even distant hints of pleasure; James would touch him, kiss him. But more often, he was just left to drift in the dark.
He didn't mind. It was peaceful.
* * *
Warm, wet washcloth. Sponge bath. This is good, if a bit humiliating; he's been filthy for so long. It would be so nice to be clean, really clean. He won't be, even after this. But it's a start.
And it feels good. The moist warmth. The soft-rough feel of the washcloth on his skin. James is taking his time, too. Sliding the washcloth across his shoulders, down his chest -- there is something significant, but he can't grasp it, so he lets the thought drift away, and just enjoys the sensations as they trickle slowly into his brain.
Hot, wet mouth. Lips sliding against his. Tongue probing inside. The taste of toothpaste and vodka.
What is James up to now?
And then the mouth is gone; he's vaguely disappointed.
"Come on, Alec -- it's time to wake up."
Why should he, he wonders, when he can stay down here in the dark and be safe?
As if in answer to his question, the lips are back. Insistent, demanding -- he yields to the implied order, letting James in. Letting himself be kissed, caressed; there is a hand on his chest, fingers sliding to one nipple, to tweak it. Then the mouth, trailing down chin, neck, chest to join the hand.
Even after nine years, James remembers exactly how to touch him.
If he wanted to, he could raise his hand, tangle it in James's hair, and tell him "don't stop." But that will mean coming out of the dark, breaking cover, and taking the chance that this isn't just the bait in another of James's traps.
Easier not to decide.
Then James pulls back. "Damn you, Alec," he whispers, in a voice that cuts like ice.
* * *
He knew, in theory, that time passed. Time always did, be it three minutes or nine years. But from where he lay, wrapped in the cocoon of his own body, he couldn't see any visible evidence. It was always the same view, when he looked out; white acoustic tiles, two strips of fluorescent lights, unadorned walls.
James was always around somewhere; even if he was not in sight, Alec could hear his breathing or catch a whiff of his aftershave. James would always be here; there was a certain comfort to that.
* * *
James's pain was almost enough to pull him out of the dark. The sound of his sobs, wretched, despairing. Even after everything, he still loved James.
But he couldn't forget the anger in James's eyes. The way James had looked, when he'd kicked the gurney over.
And worse yet, the coldness in his eyes, when he'd let go.
It's cold here now, too; the view has changed. They're outside, he's lying under a blue sky.
The sky was blue in Cuba, too, when he fell through it. He remembered looking up at James, silhouetted against that sky. The agony of shattered bones dull in comparison to the knowledge that James had done it to him.
James had killed him.
And then James had come for him. Saved him from dying in fire, carried him away from the death he'd earned, and brought him to a hell of his own making.
Love? Revenge? He still wasn't sure of James's motives. How could he be; he couldn't even comprehend his own. Why he'd betrayed James, why he'd tried to kill him.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Trying to sort it out was only making things more confused. James seemed to have fallen asleep; he decided that that was probably the smartest thing to do under the circumstances.
* * *
When he came to the surface again, it was dark. It seemed that he'd been sleeping for a long time, or maybe he'd never truly woken.
He was back inside, safe and warm.
But he missed the sky.
He heard a snore, one he would recognize anywhere. How many times had he sat alert on watch and listened to that snore, or drifted off to sleep listening to it?
He could do that again now, and pretend that the discomfort that traced his spine and wrapped his lower body was because he was sleeping on hard rock.
The snoring stopped, and James moaned in his sleep.
Good. He deserved a few nightmares.
He skittered away, toward the dark, spooked by the strength of his own anger. It wasn't safe. Rage, love, need -- they had no place here. They belonged outside, with James.
It's not safe out there.
James is out of control.
James -- the James he knew, worked with, fucked, loved, hated, and could never defeat -- was always in control. Even -- especially -- when the situation was out of control, he never was. He was always at the wheel, turning in the direction of the skid, and getting the situation in hand just before it went off the cliff.
James out of control is like a failure of gravity. Up is down, or maybe sideways. He has no direction, no way to orient himself.
He closed his eyes, retreating back inside himself. At least if he's hiding, maybe it won't hurt as badly when James finally snaps, and --
-- and he can't do anything about it, because --
-- because he's hiding in a cave somewhere in the back of his mind, a primitive, an animal, an abused puppy waiting for the next kick.
Fuck that.
He's spent the last god-knows-how-long living in fear, hiding from James. Afraid of what James will do to him.
And why?
James has already defeated him, destroyed his plans. Left his body a shattered wreck. Denied him morphine as he screamed in agony. Fucked with his mind in a thousand different ways. Kicked his bed over when he tried to fight. Sent him hiding in the recesses of his mind, and then molested him as he lay helpless.
And after all of this -- or maybe, in some twisted way, because of it -- he still loves James.
So. James has lost control. He's got the pedal pushed all the way to the floor, and he's heading toward a cliff. This leaves him with two choices; he can huddle in the back seat and pray it won't hurt too much when they hit bottom -- or he can make a grab for the wheel and try to save both of them.
Ready to save the world again?
Alec took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.
Next Chapter