08 A little Night Music

a/n: zz. Posting on fanficnet is a bloody pain. -- there's still something wrong with the ISP (though I think it's really SingNet and not Singapore in general… StarHub seems fine) and I can't upload anything properly, so I get bored and then before I know it I have two huge FFXII fics that I want to post up on for the record but am too lazy. -- Diplomacy and Primary Feathers, to be precise. Also, in a random unrelated FYI, I finally succumbed to curiosity and looked up what oubliette means, having seen it in the titles/descriptions of various fanfics. A dungeon with a trapdoor as an exit, indeed:3 As to 006, I liked Alec Trevelyan and do not intend to tie in anything further with Goldeneye.

Counting games

1 Injury

James secretly rather liked being injured in the course of action, and that wasn't in a masochistic sense. He supposed that there was really something a little of a Munchausen in him, that enjoyed all the attention from doctors, pretty nurses, and any number of sympathetic expensive female beauties, in lazy expensive private hospitals hidden away in the sprawling countryside. So long as the injury wasn't in any way overly crippling, permanent or humiliating, of course, and he knew that at least two of the other double-0s were the same way: 006 had even once attempted to submit a list of favored rehabilitation centres to M (and burned his fingers, naturally, on her acerbic tongue. The whole point, 006, is for you to endeavor to escape unscathed.).

This time, with one leg and an arm broken (terrible fall from a low-flying helicopter, but the job had been done, even if the assassination had been accidentally messy), as well as any number of abrasions and bruises, he was a little annoyed when M decided that because his injury did not require specialized supervision, and because all the other double-0s were either on leave or occupied, that a thorough sweep of the remaining small fish was impossible, and therefore he would have to be kept close to home, under watch, and out of an accessible public area. James found himself with an frustrating choice: either have MI6 assign him a nurse, stay with 004 (good Gods) or submit a better idea to be vetted.

The thought of having an assigned nurse pottering about in the privacy of his bachelor's Chelsea apartment made him feel slightly ill, even though the apartment was new and had yet to be thought of as home. Moving from the West End place hadn't been necessary, since the one who had traced him there had been employed by MI6 (004), but his inbuilt and very developed paranoia had insisted upon it.

As to the second suggestion by M, 004 shot it down rather quickly, when called. "One of my kids is studying for O's." He paused. "Why don't you try Villiers?"

James hesitated. "I didn't think about it."

"Yes," 004 said patiently, and there was a background yell of "Dad! I don't understand this question!" to which by the suddenly muffled tone of 004's voice in instructing the child that he would help him in a moment James guessed that he had clapped a hand over the receiver. The interference cleared. "That's why I suggested it."

"I don't think he'll agree."

"Why?"

James wasn't sure how to describe his intuition to 004. The few times he had actually been invited to Villier's apartment, the man had been at least slightly drunk, and skittish in the mornings, giving the feeling that he couldn't quite hide his relief when James did leave, for work or whatever business he would give as an excuse. At the long pause, 004 finally added, "Or if you have any other… friends in London?"

"006 is on leave in New York. 008's mother hates me."

Another long pause, then, dryly, "Which 'phone are you using?"

"The one in the office, why?" The four surviving double-0s shared a set of offices and a secretary; given the low life expectancy, few of the desks save 004's tended to have any amount of personal effects, only dossiers and several reports that MI6 thought it necessary for their double-0s to read. Time spent in between leaves and the few missions that required assassins was slow and measured in esoteric topics.

"Be nice to visitors," 004 said mysteriously, in his 'Asian master' tone, and hung up.

Suddenly irritated, James slammed the phone down on the receiver, and sunk as deep into the wheelchair as he could to indulge himself briefly in a self-pitying sulk. Sympathetically, the current pretty secretary brought him a terribly maternal cup of tea and biscuits, and bustled back out to her desk (the secretaries allocated to the double-0s were always pretty and maternal and firmly disinterested, despite any attempts made on their virtues; James always thought it a device by MI6 to prevent their most dangerous spies from growing too bored in between missions).

Just before six, while reading a very long and needlessly detailed report on polonium (really, this polonium poisoning incident was blown out of proportion), the secretary's cheerful voice warbled through the intercom, "A visitor for you, Mister Bond."

"All right," James said, wondering who it could be. The double-0s tended not to have visitors; if needed, they would be summoned up to M's office, or to training. He blinked, when Villiers let himself into the office.

The aide smiled faintly when he saw James with the stack of papers in his lap. "Every time I see you actually working I feel surprised, somehow."

"There's a camera in here," James shrugged, still in a poor mood and therefore snappish, then remembered 004's last words, and their context. Bugged communications lines, a welcome visitor, and annoyingly sensible advice, come to think of it. He moderated his tone. "Head of S is making the most of this case."

"Very little from Mother Russia lately to occupy him, otherwise." Villiers pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, under his office jacket, a sure sign of uncertainty. James bit down on his tongue before it could say anything sarcastic or acerbic, and gathered his patience, reminding himself that if Villiers was to offer what he thought he was going to, it would prove to be an elegant solution. "Look, I heard you need to stay with someone trusted, when not at work. As much as I think you'll end up driving me up the wall by the end of the week…"

"I could kiss you," James laughed, with genuine pleasure, "But I think you'll have to walk over here for that."

2 Relief

The conviction that it was an elegant solution was short-lived. Villiers was skittish again, after having helped move James' luggage into the spare room; he picked at silver cufflinks and talked too much. He changed the subject whenever James attempted to insinuate a question as to reasons into the conversation, and eventually installed James in front of the modest television before retreating to shower.

Slightly confused, James resisted the urge to call 004 or 006, patted the old Burmese cat Colonel, which had taken up residence in his lap, and flicked distractedly through the various cable channels. Weather. Soccer. Gunslinging.

He would have enjoyed the expression of mixed irritation and amusement that darted over Villiers' face, when the aide later saw him, Her Majesty's Secret Service's best double-0, sound asleep in front of a panda documentary with an ancient cat grumbling over his knees.

3 Water

An assisted shower was sadly clinical despite attempts that grew increasingly halfhearted due to efficient rebuffs. Eventually James gave up and sat still on the edge of the tub under warm hands that massaged shampoo into his scalp. It was sensual, despite Villiers' obvious best efforts, and he was purring, in an absentminded hum, subconsciously, before he was even finished. Soap rubbed over old scars, on his back, down his spine, economical and non-exploratory and gentle over bruises and healing scrapes. An invitation to do the same to the front was dryly refused; with the pointed reminder that James had one hand free and certainly wasn't a baby.

A suitably forlorn look when Villiers stepped out of the tub behind him to grab a towel made the aide pause and exhale in exasperation. The towel was left in the sink, and James spread his thighs a little too eagerly when Villiers knelt down between them, white shirt and khaki shorts soaked from spray and clinging to his lanky form most indecently. Lust and pleasant surprise: the other man had never done this for him before, when sober, and the tongue that ran over hardening flesh was hesitant, fingers butterfly-light over hips and thighs.

When he purred, deeper now, Villiers muttered, "I hope you fall back and crack your skull."

4 Wrong

No sex in any form since that shower put James in a snappish mood after four days; any attempt at all to hint (sometimes heavily) that just because he was temporarily crippled didn't mean that he couldn't perform with some ingenuity was either sidestepped or shredded. He didn't push the issue about not sharing a bed. Unable to go to clubs and/or gamble without great inconvenience made him feel confined, especially how Villiers' apparent notion of things-to-do-after-work involved cooking, visiting his mother or reading quietly on the couch.

Finally, he asked, over a dinner of butter-tossed chicken pesto spaghetti, "Am I being an inconvenience?"

Villiers looked startled; the hunted impression crept into his eyes, however, even as he schooled his features quickly. "What makes you think so?"

"You don't want me here," James said, then added, when Villiers opened his mouth, "I know the feeling. I'm intruding on your privacy, and I didn't want a nurse for the same reason."

"Correct conclusion, wrong reason," Villiers said, and smiled. James stared at him until the smile wavered and disappeared.

"See, that was the first time you smiled since I moved in. What's the reason, then?"

Villiers looked down at his pasta, and prodded at it for a long moment. "You don't like commitment or complicated sentimentality. Our relationship had little of that, because it didn't have real intimacy. Now that's been more or less forced on us."

"Feels wrong?" James asked, more as a way to buy more time to think. He had not quite thought of it that way, but it was true. Something that rose out of nebulous convenience had stabilized into something comfortable, without intimacy, without complexities. Something warm and constant to retreat to when in London, England.

"No," Villiers said flatly, but refused to discuss it further.

5 Work

004 bustled back into the office on the fifth day, looking so tired with the dark rings under his eyes that the current pretty secretary (James was fairly sure her name was Miss Hacksbury, and maybe even a Jessica) pushed a cup of coffee into his hands and commiserated over the problems of having kids and leaving-school exams. After that, 004 stumbled over into his own office and promptly fell asleep on the desk, atop the files that James had (with an admitted degree of spitefulness) allocated to him to read from his own pile.

The stocky Londoner-Chinese spy woke up blearily for lunch and graciously accepted James' rather grudging offer to pay. He needed to talk to someone and he'd be damned if he would have to confide in the secretary; it'd be all over the powder vine in less than a day. MI6's only leak, he'd heard the Chief of Staff complain furiously to M over and over; it was one of his favorite topics, how the women gossiped happily amongst each other in the ladies' washrooms. M never paid much attention to his discontent: the information had never gotten out of the building, at least as far as they knew, and besides, she herself was privy to it, oddly enough, given her rank.

The canteen was relatively secluded. The double-0s tended to eat lunch later than the rest, to avoid the uncomfortable business of unavailable office girls fawning on their every word (at least, some days. 006 was known for enjoying it, when he was in a dark mood). James, not being particularly hungry, settled for toasted thick-sliced ham, butter lettuce and brie focaccia with coffee, while 004 reportedly ate the same thing every day: some sort of fried beef, egg and onion with flat rice noodles, today with the added extravagance of tea since he wasn't paying.

"What did you do wrong?" 004 started by asking.

"Why do you assume it was my fault?" James complained, realized he was sounding petulant, which would only amuse 004, and reined in the next biting remark. "Nothing. I just make him uncomfortable."

"He's probably just not used to living with someone," 004 shrugged. "Happens to us. I was that way when I first had to live with Maisy. Drove her crazy. After fighting on and off for a few months we talked about it and worked it out."

"Worked it out?" James repeated.

"It's all about space. Harmony. Like feng shui," 004 expanded, and James hid a wince. That was one of 004's favorite topics, but thankfully the man didn't seem intent on launching into one of his lectures. "You just need to find out how much space the other one needs, and respect it. Eventually it works out." He let out a low, dry chuff that was 004's version of a laugh. "Of course, it changes again once you have kids."

"I don't think that's it," James said doubtfully, thinking events over. "Seems more like he's afraid of something I might do." He related to 004 the awkward pasta conversation.

"You would really be better off discussing this with a woman," 004 muttered, eating delicately with chopsticks. "Jessica or Moneypenny."

"You know why I can't."

"Powder vine," 004 nodded, sounding a little aggrieved. News of his engagement, years ago, to Maisy, had spread across the vine like wildfire, and even the notoriously maternal double-0 secretary (at that time) had been engaged by the women to dig for details. James hadn't earned the double-0 number yet, at that point, and so hadn't known what 004 looked like (nor cared). Even when he had moved into the new office, he had never even seen 004 until the tracing issue, having always missed each other on different missions or leave times. "It's not much of a coincidence, by the way, how most of MI6's legal team is female. Hm."

"Besides, Villiers isn't a woman." James disliked Villiers' first name, and used it only where necessary.

"True," 004 conceded. "I've always thought that same-sex relationships have always had that bonus. In that case, he's probably just worried that you moving in with him, however temporary, might be changing something comfortable into the unknown. That's all. It can't be something unnecessarily complicated."

6 Words

James tried being uncharacteristically submissive and quiet all the way from the drive to Villiers' apartment, even through the shower and the eventual installation in front of the television. Eventually, as he'd thought, he unnerved Villiers enough for the man to walk over to him from where the aide had been shooting glances at him all evening from the couch, and ask, "Something happened at work?"

James shook his head, and changed channel. Villiers took the remote from him and stared at him, then added dryly, "Either that or you're trying to be childish by giving me the cold shoulder."

James returned the stare evenly, until Villiers looked away, then he said, quietly, "No." And grabbed the remote. The next channel was CNN, discussing the interminable exchange of slightly ludicrous American pre-election politics. When Villiers sighed noisily and made as though to return to the couch, he added, "I'm bored."

That brought out a faint, fleeting grin, which James didn't expect, having intended to push Villiers into something resembling anger. His next words were in a playfully patronizing drawl over the coarse Texan slang in the background; it annoyed James (backfiring plans, there). "Want some warm milk?"

The only graceful way out of this was an excuse and an apology, as much as it rankled. James forced a smile. "Sorry. I'm used to routine games of bridge or poker every week at Blades or Brook's. I'm not much of a television person."

Villiers visibly relaxed, and looked apologetic. "Oh. You could have said something, I would drive you."

"I can't play properly with one hand," James brushed it off brusquely, already a little guilty about the lie, but couldn't really bring himself, as a gentleman and as a matter of pride, to say anything about being frustrated (with Villiers' odd attitude, as well as sexually).

Perhaps too brusquely. Villiers shook his head, wrapped arms tentatively around James' shoulders, and pushed his nose into the drying crop of tawny hair. "I'm sorry to say this, James, but I don't want to get too involved, with a double-0."

Of course. James glanced down, at curling fingers, and remembered 004's words. It couldn't have been anything too complex. This was a refrain, 006 had told him, a few days upon gaining double-0 status, that would haunt him throughout the few scattered and mostly emotionless affairs that were the only comfort he could afford throughout his career as a double-0 until his eventual early death. Besides, he had never thought more of this particular relationship, had he? Even the ugly, jealous anger he had felt in Paris was an incident that they never referred to afterwards.

He was silent too long; the circle of arms tightened a little. I've hurt you: I'm sorry.

But not sorry enough to unsay the words, only to wish him healed as quickly as possible so that they could both escape this enforced intimacy. James tapped fingers in a broken impatient staccato on the metal curve of his wheelchair. "I understand."

7 Friend

M hadn't looked surprised at all when James tendered a change of plans with a request for a nurse to his Chelsea flat. Behind her, Villiers' eyes flickered, but that was all that changed in his expression.

Upon his return to his flat, he was deeply annoyed to realize that the 'nurse' looked familiar, and it took him a moment to place her name. Zhiyi. The pretty Indonesian Chinese who had been part of the two-step lure that had drawn him so well away from the scene, in Paris. She smiled quickly and efficiently and gave a short brief of her qualifications, advised him that she had security covered, invited him to check, then bustled off to continue cooking, all the while unperturbed by his irritable and undoubtedly rude silence.

Dinner thawed him a little despite his best efforts. Melt-in-the-mouth oven-baked lamb cutlets with a delicate herb-lemon sauce, buttered asparagus and creamy mash. On his startled surprise at the quality, Zhiyi grinned. "My hobby," she admitted. "Also, when I was a child my mother forced me to learn. Part of a necessary set of wife-skills, it seems."

"Relegated to nurse-skills?" James drawled, and her grin widened.

"A favor for an old friend, why not," Zhiyi said, and winked, when James arched an eyebrow. "I'm even being paid my normal salary. You double-0s must be like celebrities."

The reminder of his double-0 status and its accompanied effect on his personal life, as well as the 'old friend' comment diffused his good-humor at the fare; he nodded curtly and bent his head to the asparagus. Zhiyi sensed the change in mood, connected it with a woman's annoyingly quick perception to James' change in living arrangements, and apologized. He accepted. They ate. During the bath, James, not possessing any real sense of shame, wasn't uncomfortable with feminine aid, though he didn't purr, and Zhiyi was professional in her caregiver role. No desire. James considered that when he was dressing, looking so distracted that Zhiyi giggled, when she helped him into the wheelchair.

"Maybe I should be insulted," she suggested, with a wink, as she wheeled him into the study. "Though I guess maybe you can somehow sense that I'm single."

"Not my type," James agreed, relieved at her easy humor and the proffered way out. It would have been difficult for his masculine pride to accept any other reason, such as 'conditioning', or 'sentiment'.

8 Wish

Zhiyi was a godsend. With good food, conversation and an introduction to the joys of online poker (how crass, but one didn't need two hands to click a mouse), being an invalid in London didn't feel quite so much of an inconvenience, especially when the bruises and scrapes healed. Soon even the unexpected sting of Villiers' words faded, and then 006 was back in the office, brash and chatty and attempting to steal kisses from Jessica-the-secretary. He was closest to 006, the other blond spy, who had Cossack blood in his veins (Head of S disliked 006 on principle, but had to concede his loyalty, at least for now).

"Not dead yet?" was Alec's characteristic greeting, as he was clapped on his shoulder roughly enough to jar the final remnants of bruises.

"Neither are you," James retorted. The inconvenience and indignity of the wheelchair was duly laughed at, and then he asked, "How was New York?"

"Great. I love the city. So many different types of people packed together like sardines. Biggest atomic bomb capitalist target on this earth," Alec said, and smirked at Jessica's ladylike squeak of indulgent horror. "Don't tell Head of S, he'll throw me out on my ear."

"Let me guess. You got bored of breaking hearts."

"It got to the angry telephone stage, then I decided to jet and come back to help you with the work," 006 agreed, and glanced over at 004's disapproving stare. "Good morning to you too, 004. Good Gods, there are three of us in the office at the same time. The world must indeed be nearing global harmony."

"The reports you must read are on your desk," 004 said flatly, and closed his office door with a critical snap.

006 stuck his tongue out at it, to another squeak of laughter from Jessica and a rueful shake of the head from James. "I'll buy you lunch," he told James, heading obediently towards the stack of folders, "And then you can give me the details about the pretty nurse you're living with." He winked. 006 knew all about Villiers and what he called his English Totalitarian Regime. James threw him a mock-scowl.

9 Week

As he had thought, 006 insisted on following him back to the apartment, ostensibly to see the new place but really to check out the 'pretty nurse'. Who he then proceeded to flirt with, outrageously, throughout dinner. Zhiyi was amused, unreceptive, and proceeded to shoot down Alec's suggestion that he would also like an assisted bath. Alec duly retreated to lick his wounds, professed undying love that would probably last, James calculated, for perhaps a month or so, give and take missions, and went home. Zhiyi breathed a sigh of relief.

Around mid-week, for no reason at all that he could fathom, Zhiyi abruptly insisted that he call Villiers, to 'talk', glowered when he refused, pouted when he refused again, and then, in a show of remarkable childishness, threatened to cry. He caved, to his profound inner annoyance.

Villiers picked up with a cautious, "James?"

"Uh. Yes," James glared at the triumphant Zhiyi, curled in his new patent leather armchair with a thick novel, and she grinned at him with a thumbs-up sign.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," James wondered exactly how he was supposed to 'talk'. It was rather difficult to think of anything but how the line was probably not secure. In a rather knee-jerk reaction, he settled for the easy, very male way out of an awkward forced telephone call of which he had no idea how to lengthen. "Are you free tomorrow for dinner?"

By the widening of Zhiyi's grin, he realized to his irritation that she had certainly planned for that all along. Women.

Villiers hesitated, then said, very wryly, "Please pass me to Zhiyi."

James wordlessly held out the handset. The grin vanished, turned into a pout, and she took it with little grace. "Hello, Amherst. Yes, I did. No, I had to threaten to… yes. Yes, I know, but it was the only way. No, that was his doing. No, seriously, Amherst, I heard that you were moping about the office. Yes, the powder vine. Why, such language from you, of all people! All right, I'll pass you back." The handset was pushed back into James' hands, before he could properly absorb the tidbits.

"James?" Villiers sounded a little more tired now. "All right. Tomorrow. After work." He hung up before James could respond. Zhiyi gleefully ignored him for the rest of the night.

10 Music

The muted elegance of Gordon Ramsay on the Royal Hospital Road complimented its exceptional if pricey fare. After a salad of red mullet with aubergine caviar, then lobster ravioli and a dessert of Crème Brûlée, linked by slow jazz, the uncomfortable silence melted to a mellow wine-enhanced good-humor, and Villiers slouched out of his perfect posture on the cushioned chairs. "How do you find Zhiyi?"

"Fine," James said, then added, "Though you might want to warn her about Alec."

"She knows," Villiers said, with a wry smile. "I'm afraid to say that you… lot tend to have a traditionally notorious history with women." Habitually cautious in public.

"I wouldn't exclude men," James said, as offhandedly as he could, then added, when Villiers stilled, "Of course, Bill's mother already hates me enough, so I wouldn't go telling her about my suspicions of her precious son." 008's true name, of course, wasn't 'Bill', but it was his conventionally accepted one, over his slightly more unpronounceable Italian first name.

"James," Villiers said quietly, "I wanted to apologize for the… last few days, when you were staying with me. It was unprofessional and likely very uncomfortable for you."

James considered his reply carefully. He wasn't even upset about Villiers' response any longer, that time; he had wryly accepted it as a fairly inexorable one, given his notorious weakness for women, which he would find near impossible to give up. Even if Villiers had been willing to commit to the low life expectancy, he had to know that like all other double-0s, James' heart was irrevocably cold. A killer's ruthless heart, that had no real space for any real sort of profound sentiment. So he smiled, and said, in a gentle tone that implied forgiveness, "I was rather hoping you would be more unprofessional, actually."

"That much was obvious," Villiers relaxed further. "And will have to wait till you've recovered."

"It doesn't have to," James suggested, with a little purr.

Villiers shook his head, with a chuckle. "Serves you right today, James, for treating me to this extravagance. I'm so full I only want to sleep."

"There's always tomorrow morning."

"You're oversexed," Villiers said, in a tone of maidish irritation, but the speculative gleam in his eyes (so quickly hooded) was certainly promising.

11 Night

Watching Villiers, with his odd lanky grace (the juxtaposition of words quickly forgotten, within the next moan) lower himself down with his head thrown back on James (swallowing heat) was, he decided, the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life. Long fingers curled in the sheets, his lip bitten under white teeth, pale skin flushed in the dim light of the reading lamp, thighs carefully arranged to avoid casts and the greenish echoes of bruises. The low sigh of relief and pulsing heat caught in the curled fingers of his good hand told James that the enforced celibacy has not been particularly easy for the aide, either, and that was balm to his pride, at least.

He leant forward to tongue the column of neck to jaw, and the developing bristle of stubble, nibbled, smirked as Villiers (trying so hard not to touch him any more than necessary, for fear of accidentally brushing healing scrapes), writhed, gasped a protest when James marked his neck with liberal bites (a scarf tomorrow would be hard to explain, hah) and whimpered again. James was familiar with this particular primal rhythm, as he braced legs, ignoring the jolt of pain from the injured limb, and rolled his hips roughly upwards, to fingers raking through his hair and his back and a delicious, hungry cry from the man impaled in his lap.

"When I recover," he growled, against the hollow of the rippling neck, rolled his hips again, then proceeded to describe, in explicit detail, exactly what he wanted to do once he had use of his arm and leg again. Villiers stopped him somewhere amidst his description of exactly what he wanted to do to the aide on the kitchen counter with the press of lips hard against his mouth (a man's kiss, and he responded with another growl, wresting dominance).

He revised his opinion about 'most erotic thing' when Villiers began to move above him, shy at first, with the novel position, then with building confidence.

Afterwards, he caught the heavily breathing body in the curve of his good arm, and played with fingers, sucking deliberately at each digit as he held Villiers' dazed eyes with his gray-blue ones. All these little games, with needless meaning, against the warmth of uncomplicated need. Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy.

-fin-