Field Trip (J/A) (38/?)
This fic is rated: F for Foody
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan
Summary: Alec finally gets out.
Warnings: Alec's breakfast might be heat attack-inducing.
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: 1,020
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Feedback: yes, please!
My FanFic Masterlist
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 recognizable 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!
Blindfolded, buckled into the passenger's seat of James's car, Alec had to fight not to let the trickle of doubt turn into raw panic -- did he really know that they weren't heading to MI-6 headquarters right now?
After all, if James had wanted to betray him, he would have done so months before -- wouldn't he?
Unless he's changed his mind.
He knew that he hadn't given James much reason to enjoy his company in the past few days. He'd been snappy, grouchy, uncommunicative ...
Maybe he's finally figured out that his brainwashing didn't take.
Except that Alec was fairly certain that it had. Otherwise why was he more worried that James might have betrayed him, than by the fact that said betrayal would more than likely lead to his death?
He'd already decided that he wouldn't fight. What would be the point?
But what if they didn't plan on executing him? What if they preferred a live prisoner? Obligingly, his mind conjured up a scenario. They needed his information, his knowledge of the Russian criminal underworld. They'd lock him in a bare cell -- a camera on him all the time so he'd have no chance to suicide.
Would they beat him, he wondered? Torture him?
Though surely all they would need was to have James ask the questions. Softly. Gently. "The cameras are off," he'd say, one hand sliding up Alec's thigh -- and though they both would know it was a lie, after even a few days without his touch, Alec needed it so badly that it didn't matter ...
"Alec?"
He blinked behind the blindfold, caught between nightmare and reality.
"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. We're here."
He swallowed, his throat gone dry. "Well," he said, feigning an impatience he did not at all feel, "are you going to show me? Or is it going to be like one of our old training exercises -- determine as much about the location as possible without using sight?"
If so, he was destined to fail; his senses were overwhelmed by James -- the scent of his aftershave, the heat radiating from his body -- to sense anything beyond that.
And then James pulled the blindfold off. Dazzled, Alec blinked in the light.
How long had it been since he'd been outside -- since there had been anything above him but white acoustic tile? He craned his neck to look beyond James, to see the sky.
Gray, of course -- if he hadn't known they were in England, that would have convinced him. He inhaled. The air smelled like rain.
"Do you like your surprise?" James asked.
"Rain in England? Hardly what I'd call a surprise." He looked beyond James, and saw that they were in a parking lot. The Fettered Frog, the sign said -- they were at a pub.
"Since you've been complaining about my cooking skills -- "
"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to call them skills, James."
James let out a soft chuckle, and slid his arm behind Alec's shoulders. Gently, carefully, he pulled Alec out of the seat. Alec got his feet on the ground -- he could do that much to help the transfer to the wheelchair easier, even if he still couldn't support his full weight.
Finally, he was settled. He relaxed into the wheelchair, in equal parts grateful for James's strong arms and annoyed at his own continued weakness.
James pushed the chair across the gravel. Any other man, Alec thought, would have had trouble. But for James, it was easy. Alec imagined him for a moment, steel-cable muscles tensed and straining beneath his custom-tailored shirt. Then they came to the steps, but they were low and broad. James simply tilted the chair back, and pushed harder.
Inside it was cool. Not so quiet as home -- it was filled with the clink of silverware against plates, the low murmur of conversation.
Alec found himself shrinking back, against the seat of the wheelchair.
If James noticed his distress, he said nothing.
When the hostess saw James, her professional smile became a bit more real. She pulled the chair away from one of the tables, so James could push in the wheelchair. She'd barely left them with the menus, when the waitress approached. "Hello, love," she said, apparently determined to dote on him. "Will you have tea?"
"Coffee, thanks."
Alec wished he had a gun.
"Do you need a minute?"
"No, thank you. I'd like orange juice, three eggs, lightly scrambled, bacon, and toast with marmalade."
"Very good, sir. And him?"
I can answer for myself, he wanted to say. But he found himself keeping silent. It was easier just to let James order his fry-up for him.
When he thought about it, it made sense. He'd been isolated for close to six months. Except for his brief conversation with the doctor, he'd had no contact with anyone but James. Was it any wonder, then, that his social skills had atrophied as well as his muscles.
To his surprise, he found himself longing for home. For the clean quiet and the white-painted walls. Failing that, he wanted to press himself into James's arms and hide there.
But then the waitress was back, bringing with her a plate of heavenly-smelling food.
"Do you need help cutting that?" James asked.
"No, I think I can manage." He scooped a forkful of bacon, egg, sharp cheddar, and pan-fried tomato into his mouth. After months of living on energy gels and James's cooking, the taste was nearly orgasmic.
It must have shown on his face, because James said "It looks like I should take you out more often."
A bolt of fear went through him, at that, but he controlled it. He'd get over his fear. And then he'd break the brainwashing.
And then?
That was an even darker fear -- that once he'd gotten through whatever James had done to him, there'd be nothing of himself left.
Rather than think about it, he took another bite of food.
Whatever he found -- whatever he decided to do -- he'd definitely need his strength.
Next Chapter
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan
Summary: Alec finally gets out.
Warnings: Alec's breakfast might be heat attack-inducing.
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: 1,020
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Feedback: yes, please!
My FanFic Masterlist
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 recognizable 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!
Blindfolded, buckled into the passenger's seat of James's car, Alec had to fight not to let the trickle of doubt turn into raw panic -- did he really know that they weren't heading to MI-6 headquarters right now?
After all, if James had wanted to betray him, he would have done so months before -- wouldn't he?
Unless he's changed his mind.
He knew that he hadn't given James much reason to enjoy his company in the past few days. He'd been snappy, grouchy, uncommunicative ...
Maybe he's finally figured out that his brainwashing didn't take.
Except that Alec was fairly certain that it had. Otherwise why was he more worried that James might have betrayed him, than by the fact that said betrayal would more than likely lead to his death?
He'd already decided that he wouldn't fight. What would be the point?
But what if they didn't plan on executing him? What if they preferred a live prisoner? Obligingly, his mind conjured up a scenario. They needed his information, his knowledge of the Russian criminal underworld. They'd lock him in a bare cell -- a camera on him all the time so he'd have no chance to suicide.
Would they beat him, he wondered? Torture him?
Though surely all they would need was to have James ask the questions. Softly. Gently. "The cameras are off," he'd say, one hand sliding up Alec's thigh -- and though they both would know it was a lie, after even a few days without his touch, Alec needed it so badly that it didn't matter ...
"Alec?"
He blinked behind the blindfold, caught between nightmare and reality.
"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. We're here."
He swallowed, his throat gone dry. "Well," he said, feigning an impatience he did not at all feel, "are you going to show me? Or is it going to be like one of our old training exercises -- determine as much about the location as possible without using sight?"
If so, he was destined to fail; his senses were overwhelmed by James -- the scent of his aftershave, the heat radiating from his body -- to sense anything beyond that.
And then James pulled the blindfold off. Dazzled, Alec blinked in the light.
How long had it been since he'd been outside -- since there had been anything above him but white acoustic tile? He craned his neck to look beyond James, to see the sky.
Gray, of course -- if he hadn't known they were in England, that would have convinced him. He inhaled. The air smelled like rain.
"Do you like your surprise?" James asked.
"Rain in England? Hardly what I'd call a surprise." He looked beyond James, and saw that they were in a parking lot. The Fettered Frog, the sign said -- they were at a pub.
"Since you've been complaining about my cooking skills -- "
"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to call them skills, James."
James let out a soft chuckle, and slid his arm behind Alec's shoulders. Gently, carefully, he pulled Alec out of the seat. Alec got his feet on the ground -- he could do that much to help the transfer to the wheelchair easier, even if he still couldn't support his full weight.
Finally, he was settled. He relaxed into the wheelchair, in equal parts grateful for James's strong arms and annoyed at his own continued weakness.
James pushed the chair across the gravel. Any other man, Alec thought, would have had trouble. But for James, it was easy. Alec imagined him for a moment, steel-cable muscles tensed and straining beneath his custom-tailored shirt. Then they came to the steps, but they were low and broad. James simply tilted the chair back, and pushed harder.
Inside it was cool. Not so quiet as home -- it was filled with the clink of silverware against plates, the low murmur of conversation.
Alec found himself shrinking back, against the seat of the wheelchair.
If James noticed his distress, he said nothing.
When the hostess saw James, her professional smile became a bit more real. She pulled the chair away from one of the tables, so James could push in the wheelchair. She'd barely left them with the menus, when the waitress approached. "Hello, love," she said, apparently determined to dote on him. "Will you have tea?"
"Coffee, thanks."
Alec wished he had a gun.
"Do you need a minute?"
"No, thank you. I'd like orange juice, three eggs, lightly scrambled, bacon, and toast with marmalade."
"Very good, sir. And him?"
I can answer for myself, he wanted to say. But he found himself keeping silent. It was easier just to let James order his fry-up for him.
When he thought about it, it made sense. He'd been isolated for close to six months. Except for his brief conversation with the doctor, he'd had no contact with anyone but James. Was it any wonder, then, that his social skills had atrophied as well as his muscles.
To his surprise, he found himself longing for home. For the clean quiet and the white-painted walls. Failing that, he wanted to press himself into James's arms and hide there.
But then the waitress was back, bringing with her a plate of heavenly-smelling food.
"Do you need help cutting that?" James asked.
"No, I think I can manage." He scooped a forkful of bacon, egg, sharp cheddar, and pan-fried tomato into his mouth. After months of living on energy gels and James's cooking, the taste was nearly orgasmic.
It must have shown on his face, because James said "It looks like I should take you out more often."
A bolt of fear went through him, at that, but he controlled it. He'd get over his fear. And then he'd break the brainwashing.
And then?
That was an even darker fear -- that once he'd gotten through whatever James had done to him, there'd be nothing of himself left.
Rather than think about it, he took another bite of food.
Whatever he found -- whatever he decided to do -- he'd definitely need his strength.
Next Chapter