Enough

His orders had been very clear. He had to infiltrate the headquarters of the Russian terrorist organisation. He had to find 004, who had been held captive there for twelve days, after his mission had gone badly wrong. He had to make sure 004 didn't reveal any more sensitive information that could potentially risk their national security.

James Bond trodded carefully through the deserted hallways. The guards had been eliminated soundlessly and if his information was correct, he had thirty minutes before the next round arrived. The last guard had quickly revealed the location of 004 before Bond had silenced him and 007 arrived at the cell block shortly afterwards, where all was quiet.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and Bond answered it.

"Tanner?"

"Bond. Where are you?"

"I'm at the cell."

"You know the code?"

"Yes."

Bond stood before the electric lock and confidently punched in the numbers. The lock clicked once and he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Slowly, he pushed open the door. The cell was dark and damp. In the far corner, a still figure lay on a rudimentary bed. Bond approached quietly. 004 had been badly beaten and his thin, broken body lay uncontiousness on his side. Bond felt for a pulse. He found one, but it was weak.

"I got him."

"What's his status?"

"It's ... bad. He's been tortured. Uncontiousness, but still breathing."

"Can you get him out?"

"I don't know, I-" Bond halted suddenly. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and now flew towards 004's ankles. Heavy shackles held him into place. Bond put down the phone and pulled on one of the shackles. 004 moaned softly, but did not stir. The chains were built in in the concrete of the wall.

Bond grabbed his gun, equiped with a silencer. He had one magazine left. Six bullets. He aimed for the chain and shot. He heard the bullet hit the steel of the chain and worried slightly at the noise it produced. However, the shackles did not budge and 004 did not react. Bond knew he couldn't afford to lose any more bullets. Chances were that he'd need them for the return journey. His eyes travelled to 004. Bond ignored the voice of reason in the back of his mind and took another shot. Then he fired rapidly several times to no avail.

"Bond, what's happening?"

"He's chained to the wall. I can't take him with me," Bond's breathing grew ragged, his voice became stressed.

Tanner was silent for a moment. "You can't leave him there. He knows too much. James, you know the rules. One shot."

"Make it kill," Bond whispered. He closed his phone.

He looked down at 004, who was a few years his senior. They had worked together before and Bond had always respected him. They had gone out for a pint a few times. The older man had once taken quite a lot of money from him in a friendly game of poker.

Bond sat down on the bed next to 004's head and placed his left hand on the other man's shoulder, without putting any pressure on the his abused body. His own right hand was shaking, but still held the gun.

He pressed the tip of the silencer against his friend's temple. 004 whimpered, but did not open his eyes.

"It's okay," James Bond whispered. "It's okay."

He closed his own eyes and pulled the trigger. 004 sighed once, letting out a final breath. Bond knew it was a sigh of relief, not one of agony.

He opened his eyes and calmly got up. He placed his empty gun back in the holster and closed the door of the cell behind him. The explosives he placed earlier would give him another ten minutes, before levelling this building with the ground. The next round of guards had not arrived yet. The hallway was still deserted.

Bond walked away. He did not run, not even when they saw him, not even when the bullets started flying past. He kept walking calmly, putting one foot in front of the other, even when he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder that told him he had been hit.

When the explosives finally reached their time limit, he did not dive for cover. The shockwave threw him to the ground and he remained there, resting in the dust, waiting for the ashes to cover him entirely.

~ - ~

James Bond winced as the first fireworks of the evening hit the sky. He took another swing from the bottle of Champagne from his desk drawer. He did not usually attempt to get drunk at MI6 headquarters, nor was Champagne his normal drink of choice, but tonight he was willing to make exceptions. Afterall, it was New Year's and at New Year's you drank Champagne. That, and he still had the report on his last mission to finish.

He ran his right hand through his short, blond hair and grimaced as he moved his left shoulder just slightly. The bullet wound was still fresh, but Bond refused to wear a sling.

More loud noises from outside and Bond looked behind him through the window at the spectacle. The fireworks sounded like gunfire and the smell of gunpowder that floated in through the slightly opened window reminded him of combat. He closed the window and sat down again.

Moments later, the door opened and Bond looked up to see M entering the room. It was the first time he saw her since his mission and he wasn't looking forward to the meeting. Her measured pace did little to disguise her fury.

"Ma'am."

"Are you suicidal, Bond? Or simply incompetent?" M started her tirade. She knew she was being cruel, but Bond had never been one for sentimental talks filled with pitying sympathy. She needed to know he was still the same person, the same agent, as he had been before this mission. She needed to know he wasn't broken.

Bond's eyes flashed dangerously at her words, but he didn't answer.

"You didn't use your gun while trying to get out."

"It was empty," Bond said quietly.

M ignored him. "You walked, instead of running. Do you have a death wish, James?" Her voice was rising in volume. She couldn't help it. She used her anger as a shield to disguise the outright fear she felt at the thought of losing this man. If her anger could prevent the situation from repeating itself, then so be it.

Bond turned his eyes back to the computer and started typing without sparing her another glance.

"Bond! Look at me," she ordered, before her tone grew soft. "Did you want to die?"

He looked at her with steely blue eyes. "I'm not suicidal."

"But you wouldn't mind dying either."

He acknowledged her insight with a slight nod, but refused to comment. He wondered if she also saw that he thought he didn't deserve to live after he had sacrificed his last piece of his soul. After he'd killed a friend. Did she know that he was so disgusted with himself that he regretted that the explosion didn't kill him?

"Well, that's rather selfish, isn't it?" M said harshly.

"Because you'd lose an agent?" He replied sarcastically. "I'm sure I am dispensable."

"Do your friends and family hold that same opinion?"

Bond clenched his fist and considered reaching for the Champagne again, but realised that would really send M over the edge.

"I have no one who gives a shit, ma'am."

"Language, Bond." She immediately knew it was the wrong response. He was looking for something, some indication that he wasn't worthless and she had refused to give it to him.

A particular loud piece of firework exploded just outside the window and Bond turned around in a reflex movement, regretting that a moment later as he felt a flash of pain in his shoulder.

M studied him for a moment, taking in the few bloody cuts on his forehead, his slightly slacking shoulder, the bags under his eyes and made a decision.

"Come on. You're coming with me."

Bond raised his eyebrows at the sudden turn in the conversation. "And where exactly are we going, ma'am?"

"My house. The guest room is set up for you."

"But your husband-"

"Helped me set it up. He's waiting in the car outside for us, directly in front of the building."

That last bit might have seemed like useless information to a casual observer, but Bond knew she was trying to tell him that he didn't have to spend more than a few seconds among the fireworks and the smell of gunpowder. He also knew it was an order and he was too tired to fight it. He shut down his computer and got up slowly.

M had almost reached the door when he spoke again.

"Why?"

It was a question that had been on his lips all evening. It went right through the heart of their relationship and carefully explored what meaning his life had left. M considered her answer for a moment. Did she take him home because she knew he wouldn't come out on his own until the fireworks had stopped and was therefore going to get drunk here all night? Was it because she knew he was hurting and needed someone to take care of him? Because she liked being, in a curious way, a mother to him? She eventually settled for the answer she knew he would understand:

"Because I give a shit, James. And you damn well know it."

He hesitated and then nodded with that slight smile of his and followed her out of the door. It was enough.