Warnings: This story contains dark themes including violence, imprisonment, rape, sexual abuse, torture, smut, and spoilers for Skyfall, of course.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bond franchise and this story is for recreational purposes only.

Chapter 3:

The shaving cream was left untouched as Bond reached for his gun. He crept across his Macau hotel room and took up a defensive firing position at the door. Three more knocks came from whoever was standing on the other side.

Bond wasn't expecting anyone. Anyone unexpected was usually bad news.

He unclicked the safety.

"Bond, open the door," came the muffled, irritated voice of Q from the corridor. "It's me."

An unstoppable smile crept across Bond's face, the way Scotch usually warms its way down his throat, but it was quickly replaced by a sort of muted horror at the thought of Q so close to the lion's den, away from the safety of London headquarters. But he let none of that show on his face as he opened the door to reveal a disheveled and queasy-looking Q.

"Where's the loo?" Q demanded by way of greeting

He dropped his bag and headed for the direction that Bond pointed with his sidearm. The door slammed behind him. Bond heard the tap turn on and the toilet cover being raised, Q's knees hitting the tiles, and a familiar hurk noise.

Bond couldn't help himself from chuckling softly, even as his mind whirled with ways to get Q out of the country.

"Still haven't gotten over flying?" he called. The toilet flushed in response.

Still smiling, Bond closed and latched the door. He unzipped the left side pocket of Q's bag and took out the tin of tea he knew Q always carried.

By the time Q emerged from the bathroom, face shiny with scrubbing, Bond had hot tea ready in a steaming pewter cup carved with a delicate bamboo motif.

"Thanks," Q murmured, and took the cup with slightly shaking hands.

"You hate airplanes," said Bond. "Takes quite a bit of… persuasion for you to even set foot in one, if I recall correctly."

"Blunt force trauma to the subclavian artery, if I recall correctly," said Q. "Very clever, James. Nearly killed me."

Bond made a small tsk sound and smiled in spite of himself. Seven years in a Siberian gulag hadn't diminished the innocence in John Reilly's eyes, though it had given him a rather severe expression around the mouth and chin. The eight years they spent apart afterwards, in which John had gotten two PhD's and worked his way up MI6 to become head of the Q branch, hadn't changed him much either. The boy Bond had taken into his arms in Siberia had now become a man, but he was still the same in spirit.

And Q, painfully endearing with his floppy hair and skewed glasses, was a more welcoming sight than any femme fatale showing up at his door in a slinky dress silhouetted by Macau's nighttime glow.

You have no idea how much I missed you, Bond wanted to say but couldn't afford to say.

"Nearly killed is better than killed," he said instead.

"Well, that was a long time ago and I…" Q trailed off and started slightly, as if just realizing that Bond was nearly naked, and that his toned torso was still warm and damp from a recent shower. The towel around his waist also left little to the imagination. Q's color rose and he cleared his throat. "I, um… I used your toothbrush. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"I also have new information," Q said quickly. "Whoever's stolen the list has already decrypted it. They've posted the first five names on the web and they'll post five more next week, and the week after."

Beneath Bond's smooth exterior, an idea was forming in his mind. I need to get him out of Macau before things get ugly. And things will get ugly, very soon.

Q's voice died in his throat when Bond gently touched the collar of his shirt, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger, letting Q feel the heat of his hand against a sensitive neck. "M's already briefed me on the list," Bond said softly. "So why are you really here?"

Q gulped and took a step back from Bond's devouring gaze. He reached for his bag, fumbled, and took out two sleek black cases from the Q branch.

"This," said Q, thrusting the first case between like a shield. He opened it to reveal two flesh-colored earbuds the size of peas. "Standard issue earpieces for when we reconnoiter the casino."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Well of course I'm going with you," Q said defensively.

"Of course," Bond relented. He nodded at the other case. "And what else have you got for me?"

The second case revealed a pair of handcuffs and key. "If you ever need to detain someone, or swap them for someone who is about to detain you," explained Q. He dangled them in front of Bond. "This has all the appearance of an ordinary pair of hinged handcuffs. But the ratchets are titanium alloy, virtually unbreakable, and the key is a dummy. There are two ways to unlock them. One is with your thumbprint, easily accessible if you're hands are behind your back. The other way is to program in a passcode that releases… erm… what are you doing?"

Q stared, bewildered, as Bond clicked the cuff around his right wrist. Bond clicked the other half around his own left wrist.

"Would you mind demonstrating?" Bond said softly. "I prefer my training to be hands-on."

"R-right," stammered Q. He leaned in awkwardly, connected to Bond by the wrist, and maneuvered the cuffs to reveal the tiny digital panel. "See h-here. You can use the digital readout to randomly generate a four-digit passcode. Once you've got it, you can use the code to release the lock. Like so."

He fumbled it, frowning when it didn't work. Maybe he was distracted by Bond's naked nearness, or the smell of his shower gel.

"Give me a second, I've got it…" muttered Q, determinedly not noticing that Bond's face was very close to his own, lips just short of grazing his ear.

"Maybe you should reread the manual," Bond teased.

"I wrote the bloody manual," Q snapped. He twisted around as far as the cuffs would allow and snatched up the instructions manual from the box. He was halfway through them when Bond sidled up behind him, looping his trapped left arm around and across Q's chest.

Q gulped audibly when he felt the length of Bond's body flush against his back, the toweled hips pressing insistently against his backside.

"James," Q breathed, as Bond kissed up the side of his neck and his ear. He tried to raise his arm, either to swat Bond away or pull him closer, he couldn't tell, but found himself trapped by the blasted cuffs. He settled for grasping the hand he was attached to in a helpless sort of gesture. "What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Bond whispered into Q's ear. "I'm about to lay you down on silk sheets…" He kissed Q's jawline, grazing soft skin with his teeth. "…and make love to until you see fireworks…." With his other hand, he stroked down Q's shivering flank, over the curve of his hip, down to his thigh. "…so that you'll never forget your first night in Macau."

Q turned his head halfway and Bond caught his lips in a knees-weakening kiss. With a little coaxing, Q parted his lips and let Bond slip his hot, slick tongue in and out, a gentle and intimate caress that left him gasping for more.

"Bond," Q protested weakly. "This this isn't what I came for." He gasped and arched backwards when Bond's hand crept up the inside of his thigh and cupped his groin, stroking his most private place.

"I know," said Bond, in a voice that was almost a growl. "But it's what you want." His voice softened. "It's what I want too."

"Oh, James," moaned Q. He was almost a puddle now, completely lax, caught between Bond's arm and an unyielding body. "It's… it's been such a long time for me."

"Then I'll be gentle," said Bond.

"No," said Q. His eyes were dark with desire and his lips were kiss-bruised and red. "I want you to ravish me."

Bond smiled. "As you wish."

X

John tried not to wince as the man known as Kirill Zukovsky dabbed lightly at the cuts on his face with a wet towel. He lay on his side on Kirill's cot and breathed gingerly through his battered nose as the man, with the blood of a gang of prison thugs still on his knuckles, tended to his wounds. His bare legs were curled up, knees to his chest, in an attempt to preserve his modesty, as he wore nothing except Kirill's jacket around his shoulders like a blanket.

"You're scared," said Kirill. "Don't be. I promise I won't hurt you." He was surprisingly gentle. Each dab of ointment, each wipe of the cloth, felt like a caress.

"Why did you help me?" said John.

No one helped each other out of kindness in a place like this. No one looked out for each other. Men ganged together, sure, but only out of mutual desire to harm or be harmed, to conquer and invade and overpower. No one had been tender to John for seven years… until now.

Kirill stared down at him a long time before answering. "Because I know you don't belong here."

"What do you mean?"

Kirill wiped at the crusted blood on the bridge of John's nose. He flinched and shifted on the rough pillow.

"Ow!"

"Hold still. I mean you're a pure Englishman, most likely from London. You weren't raised speaking this language, you learned it after you came to this place. By your accent, I'd say…" Kirill's face was a blur to John without his spectacles, but he could tell that those blue eyes were scrutinizing him. "…twelve or thirteen years of age. Am I wrong?"

"No," said John. The Stranger and his knowing blue gaze made him feel ill at ease. But the light, healing touches felt so good. His first month at the Complex had taught him to hate being touched, to loathe the rough hands that would grab his arm or hair or force themselves down his trousers. But now, for the first time in seven years, he was accepting the touch of human skin instead of shying away from it.

But he still found himself instinctively flinching backwards when Kirill tried to remove the jacket. Mortified, he shook his head. "Niet."

"Just checking for broken ribs," the Stranger explained. He handed John a cold compress. "Do it yourself, then."

His ribs weren't broken, only bruised. John hissed in pain as he pressed the compress to his black and blue ribs.

"So who are you?" said Kirill. "Why are you here?"

"I'm a programmer," replied John.

"For what?"

"I… I don't know." That was mostly true.

Kirill looked skeptical, but he didn't press John for more information. "I see." He stood to leave. "Rest, for now."

"Wait," John called out. Kirill paused at the threshold, a hand on the rusted iron bars of the cell.

John sat up awkwardly, trying not to aggravate his ribs. Shyly, he let one side of the jacket fall to reveal a pale shoulder, a glimpse of a slim back, a nipple that was stiff from the cold. It was a gesture he was sure the man would understand, almost an open invitation.

Though Kirill had yet to harm him, John had learned the hard way that there was no kindness without consequence, no service without payment. And this was the only payment he knew how to give.

He couldn't read the man's expression, but the desire in Kirill's blue eyes was unmistakable. The man approached the cot with the eager inhale that John was all too familiar with. John closed his eyes and waited to be pushed back down onto the cot, expected the weight of the other man on top of him.

He was very surprised. Kirill caught the trailing collar of the jacket and replaced it around John's shoulder.

"Keep the jacket," he said, his voice as warm as a kiss. "You need it more than I do."

He turned around and left John with an open jaw, and a very strange flutter of desire in the pit of his sunken stomach. He almost wished Kirill had stayed. He touched the skin of his shoulder and almost wished that he could feel the Stranger's lips there.

X

Q moaned as his back was slammed into the wooden lattice. He was half-naked, his shirt and cardigan bunched up around his waist, his shoulders bruising against the intricate designs in the wood. He had his legs wrapped around Bond's waist as they kissed each other breathless, sucking and biting at exposed skin.

His fair skin would be black and blue and strawberry red in the morning, but he didn't care. He felt wild. He gulped in the salty, spicy air of Macau and felt the years apart melting away. He was no longer the brilliant but ordinary university student who wore cardigans and heavy glasses and never went to parties. The heat of Bond's body melted an even deeper lump of ice, and he was no longer the scared, abused, too-skinny teenager that cried himself to sleep every night on a stinking mattress in a prison cell. He felt beautiful and sleek and adventurous. He felt sexy and dangerous with his wrist cuffed to Bond's with a pair of titanium handcuffs. He felt like someone James Bond would want, did want.

With a grunt, Bond lifted him bodily into the air and spun him about, depositing him on the lush, silky bed. He pressed Q's handcuffed wrist into the mattress with his own, and undressed him from the waist down one-handed. Q unknotted Bond's towel and tossed it aside and arched upwards with a gasp as their naked erections pressed against each other.

He gripped the back of Bond's head and brought him down for another kiss.

"Thumbprint!" he gasped, and sighed with relief when Bond finally got the handcuffs to come off. His shirt and cardigan were quickly disposed of and he was wrapping his legs around Bond's waist and straining, straining to feel more, touch more. He ran his hands up and down Bond's toned body, loving every scar and imperfection.

And then Bond's slick fingers were at his opening and he was gasping into Bond's mouth, mewling against Bond's tongue as he was breached and stretched. When Bond entered him in a sweetly sharp thrust, he moaned brokenly and welcomed every burn, every pain, and every pleasure.

Bond, true to Q's demand, pounded mercilessly into him. They rocked the bed until Q was sure there'd be scratches on the floor. Bond sweated and grunted above him, arm braced against the headboard for support as he pistoned his hips in and out, until they both were brought to a shuddering orgasm that seemed to rip through Q's body like a wound.

He was boneless afterwards, lying spread-eagled on the sweaty sheets as Bond kissed him back to wakefulness.

"How are you feeling?" asked Bond, tender, now that their hunger had been sated. He kissed Q's quivering side, then his hip and his stomach.

"Ravished," breathed Q.

Bond smiled against his skin. "Good." He continued his gentle, comforting kisses down the length of a thigh, to the kneecap and the calf. The warm, humid air stirred the curtains and cooled them, bringing them down from a frenzied coupling to a more playful, satiated, lovemaking.

"Did you know," Q whispered, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the feel of silk against his cheek, "I used to be absolutely terrified of you?"

"Used to be?" teased Bond. He kissed his way back up Q's body, pausing over a nipple.

"I still am, sometimes," said Q, and ran his fingers through Bond's hair. Bond raised an eyebrow at him. "But not for myself. I'm terrified that you'll be the end of you. That you'll take too big of a risk one day and I'll never see you again. That you won't know your own limits. That you'll die."

Q turned to look at Bond, who was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow. "James…" He bit his lip briefly. "If you don't love me, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me word for word. If I'm just some stupid kid chasing after you…. If that's all I ever was… Tell me, and I'll stay away. And after tonight, our relationship will be purely professional. After tonight, I'll never be terrified of you again."

Bond was silent for a moment. He seemed sadly pensive. But then he smiled with his usual easy charm and said, "But you're awfully lively when you're terrified. I think I'd like to keep you that way."

"You didn't answer me," Q protested, and was cut off by a deep, lingering kiss.

"I've had enough talk," Bond whispered against his lips. Q felt the curve of his smile. "I'd rather go another round."

And Q didn't protest anymore, or even have the breath to, had he wanted to. The rest of the evening was spent in a noisy, pleasure-filled haze, all stickiness and wonderful soreness and warmth in all the right places.

But he woke later to the hard cold feeling of chain around his wrist, and the distinct dizziness that he recognized as being drugged. He even recognized the drug: a slight overdose of his own sedatives that he carried with him on plane trips.

"What…?"

He tried to sit up and realized that he was handcuffed to the bedpost. Bond was nowhere to be seen. Yanking on the cuffs only rewarded him with a scraped wrist.

There was a note on the nightstand.

Q, I read the manual. Should take you an hour to get free. Go back to London.

Under the note was a first-class ticket back to London. Next to the note was another cup of tea.

It took Q two minutes to break out of the cuffs, and 90 seconds to whip out his laptop and track down where Bond had gone. But by then, Bond had already left the casino and was on a boat, headed to an uncharted island off the coast of Macau.

He felt like a massive fool. His face burned, with mortification and anger, as he realized that Bond had seduced and drugged him to keep him from joining the agent on the mission.

"Damn it," Q hissed, slamming a fist into the table. "James Bond, you complete bastard."

X

"Why are you here?" asked John Reilly.

"Excuse me?" replied Kirill Zukovsky.

It was a day later and they were in the canteen for the evening meal. John had worked up the courage to take his tray and approach the enigmatic man who had saved him from a gang rape. He noticed, not without some trepidation, that no one sat near Kirill after that first violent display. John had felt eyes on him all the way across the canteen as he went to sit next to the man. He also had the feeling that this could be used to his advantage. If the gangs were afraid of Kirill, then perhaps some of the nastier men would leave him alone if he hung around the newcomer.

John stared into his sludgy oatmeal. No meat. No protein. The good things, like herring and soup and toast, usually ended up on the trays of tougher, more dangerous men. John was usually left with the dregs. "You asked me the same question yesterday. Why are you here?"

Kirill stared coolly at him a moment. "What are you talking about-"

"I know you have a GPS receiver and RTLS tracking device embedded in your right wrist," said John, his voice so low that his lips barely moved. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap. His next words were spoken in flowing Oxford English, instead of his usual Russian stammer. "I know, because I helped design that particular model when I was eleven, at Middlesex University. I recognize my own work, even if it's below the flesh. I'm guessing that your organization stole and misappropriated that technology. You're no POW, or convict, or common thug. You're here because you want to be here, because you're being paid to be here, by the same people who are monitoring you."

John took a deep breath and held it. Kirill hadn't spoken a word so far, but also hadn't made any death threats yet. John forged ahead.

"You're an Englishman too, aren't you? You picked me out as a Londoner, so that means you're most likely the same. But I knew something was off before then. Your Russian is flawless, so much so that it reminds me of Cambridge."

He jumped slightly when a chuckle came from Kirill's throat. "Impressive. What else?"

John glanced around surreptitiously before answering. "I'm not looking to blow your cover. I don't know what illegal militant group you're working for, and I won't ask. I'm no more innocent than you are, of course. No one in this place is. I just…" He bit his lip. "I wanted to know your real name."

John turned to look at the other man. To his surprise, "Kirill" was wearing a rather amused smile.

"My name is Bond. James Bond."

"James Bond," John repeated. "Thank you for saving me yesterday."

X

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