Disclaimer: Characters from the James Bond owned by Glidrose.
This is a work of non-profit fanfiction
written for lasergirl in Yuletide 2009.

Even Tough Guys Need Some R & R
Jay Tryfanstone
November 2008


"Bond, report."

The voice in his ear was immediately recognisable, but at that instant one of the terrorists showed in the bay window, backlit and profiled. A single shot, and the man vanished. Bullseye.

Behind a parked car another terrorist held a hostage, both of them seen momentarily. Bond aimed and fired, the special edition Walther P99's heavy recoil stinging his right hand and shocking the muscle of his forearm. Another in the window of a shop -


- seen for seconds in silhouette. Identification in the low light was impossible, but he took the shot. Two target women spun round the street corner - aim, fire, aim, fire: the cordite stung his eyes and he could feel the sweat start in his armpits.

"Bond, I know where you are."

Squeeze the trigger gently. The gun was an extension of his will, had been since he picked up his first rifle at Eton, a twelve year old on a recruitment weekend with the OTC. He'd come a long way.

Two men in a car. A group of hostages - he had to pull the shot at the last minute when one of them moved. Instinct warned him seconds before another showed over his left shoulder -


"M, I'm engaged."

"Do you have to decimate the population again, James? It's expensive,"

He drew a bead on a woman glimpsed in a car window, fired. He was tiring. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his skin.

"When was the last time you took leave?" M's cool voice.

"I had a week on Antigua." Bond said. He could feel the lactic acid build-up weakening his right arm, changed hands. His left was the weaker of his gun hands but his aim was still excellent and his rate of fire unimpaired.

"That doesn't count," M said. "You spent it with the KGB agent, Svetlana Jones."

"There was sunbathing," Bond said. He could feel an involuntary grin start to stretch the muscles of his mouth and quelled it. Svetlana had red hair and the figure of a Slovakian super-model.

"You were meant to be debriefing, James."

"M, I was," Bond said.

"Finish it," M said.

He let off four more shots in quick succession, grateful for the P99's semi- automatic loader, and put the gun up. Silence fell. The street was devastated, bullet holes shredding buildings and cars. After a moment, the tattered remains of the target faces rattled back into position.

"How did I do?" Bond asked.

"Hit rate 97.5% accurate. Rate of fire 94%. You winged a group 2 hostage. 007, you're getting old."

He let the empty clip fall and holstered the gun. "M was talking to me."

"There is no was about it, James," M said. "Get packed. Your secretary has the tickets and your flight leaves Heathrow in three hours. Entry has been expedited with customs and our friends at the Pentagon. And, James - take a tie."


"Felix's daughter is getting married."

Three and a half hours later, he was above the Atlantic.


At JFK he was met by a woman from Langley with an American build hire car and a set of documentation not under his own name. The CIA's attitude towards foreign nationals carrying firearms had hardened with 9/11, and the operative's face was disapproving as she handed across a standard issue Glock with two spare clips.

"Permit?" Bond said.

"Sign here."

He was amused to note that the CIA used google maps.

The wedding was at three, which gave him time to check into the designated hotel - with a prearranged upgrade to a corner suite - and set up a secure line for his laptop. M sent her regards to Felix. An informer in Afghanistan required supplies. Amazon recommended the DVD of the Da Vinci Code. Katrina from Moscow wanted to be his friend, and showed her vital statistics to prove it.

Bond logged off and slipped his Teach Youself Arabic CD into the drive.

"Hal tatakallam al-ingliziyyah."

"Hal hunaa ayy shakhs yatakallam al-ingliziyya?" he said, stripping off.

"Momken kaset maa'."

"Momken kaset Johnny Walker?"

He started the shower.


The wedding was at one of the interdenominational American churches that bore no resemblance to Bond's school chapel. ID was required. The ushers had suits cut to accommodate a shoulder holster. Bond took a seat by the wall with an excellent field of vision and gave a cautious acknowledgment to a couple of acquaintances from fact sharing missions. The Middle Eastern Controller gave a frosty nod in return: an incident in Tunisia three months prior had required rather more cover than the CIA had specified, although the bodies had been buried before sundown.

Bond studied his watch. The music started. He stood.


There was a reception line going into the banqueting suite. Bond shock hands with the best man and then the groom, kissed all the bridesmaids with egalitarian enthusiasm and the bride, beautiful in ivory satin, with the respect due to a friend's daughter nicely mixed with regret that such beauty was off the market. "Meet me later?" he whispered in her ear, but Cedar gave him a grin that said she knew exactly who he was. He kissed the bride's mother, very slightly heavier than she had been the last time he had seen her, and then Felix gave him a sharp look as they clasped hands.

"Good to see you, James." Felix wore Armani. He looked happy.

"Glad I could make it."

"I called M," Felix said.

"She sends her regards." He moved on.


The band played country and western and the hotel served gumbo and crawfish at the buffet bar. One of the Associates wanted to discuss the Taliban. The bride and groom took the floor. The bridge and her father took the floor. The bride's mother made a speech of thanks. The best man, sweating, managed to make every man in the room cringe. The cake was cut.

"- Martini," Bond said. "Please."

The bouquet was thrown. The bride's uncle had to be taken home. A small child was lost and found under a table, asleep. One of Felix's staff became indiscreet over cocktails and was escorted outside. Bond considered the bridesmaids with unusual dispassion, for one of them was quite lovely, with the kind of thick cream skin that looked best against navy sheets.

"- Scotch," Bond said.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled: he turned away from the bar. "That's straight up for the Englishman," Felix said. "No ice."

"Good wedding," Bond said.

"What can I say? It's her first husband. Cheers."

"Cheers," Bond said.

Crystal sang between them. Felix looked him in the eyes.


Bond was used to it. "A little."

"I'll drop by later. I've got something that might help. Your suite?" Bond left a passkey at the desk.


It was after one when he heard the discreet tap on the door and then the slide of the lock. He was lying on the bed with his kimono jacket belted across the muscles of his abdomen and his feet bare. The air conditioning was on, and the television lent the room white noise and flickering shadows.

"-James?" Felix asked. He smelt of marzipan and bourbon. Bond had showered and put on fresh cologne. The Dunhill bottle was not standard.

He sat up. "Felix."

Felix had taken off his jacket. His shirt was rumpled and the sleeves rolled up. In the light from the television, the white of it was almost fluorescent. Over the summer, he had tanned.

When their flesh met, the collision was incandescent.

They slammed into each other open mouthed, not a kiss but a fierce, wet clash of tongues and teeth feeding with voracious appetite. The force of Felix's hands on Bond's shoulders, biceps, ribs - his thighs, his buttocks - was bruising. Against his stomach, Felix's cock burned. The blood had rushed so quickly from his skin to the tender veins of his own erection that Bond saw stars against his closed eyelids.

He could hardly recognise his own voice, the tone of it an octave lower and cracked.


His clothing was binding.

"Get this off," Felix said between his teeth. The kimono tore open, the belt of it burning as it whipped free. Bond's hands had ripped their way into Felix's shirt unnoticed.

"Jesus fuck," Felix said when their cocks hit naked. He still had his shoes on.

"You," Bond said. "You."

He had to think about breathing and his air came in gasps. He could feel the heavy shock of it in the jump of Felix's cock against his. The man's hands loosened.

"I've always been a fan," Felix said, shaken, "of the advantages of prior intelligence."

"I've always been a fan of equal opportunities," Bond said. His grin was feral. He was backing up.

Felix did something with his shoes. "What do you need?"

"I'm always prepared," Bond said. He hit the wall. It was a good wall, a clear space, plastered.

Straightening, Felix picked up the belt. Bond's heartbeat stuttered. The sweat stung in his armpits, his crotch: he was massively hard.

Something ripped in Felix's hands. Smell of latex. Bond turned, braced his hands against the wall. Set his teeth. Felix slammed him flat, muscled forearm at his throat, cock hard and hot against his backside.

"Give me your hands."

It left him helpless. Two turns of the belt, and then Felix closed his bound fist around the ends.

"Don't let go." He'd been in rougher places than this, Felix: the knowledge of it warped through his voice.

Seconds later, Felix thrust home. Hot and hard as an Exocet missile, solid as a tank, merciless. Bond would have screamed if there'd been enough air in him. Pain cracked through him like a whip. His toes curled.

"More." It was a groan.

Hammer strokes, too quick to catch a breath, aimed right where he needed. He'd have bruises on his hips in the morning the size of dessert plates, and he was starting to come already. Untouched and rubbed raw against the plaster, his cock wept fluid.


"Fuck," Bond may have said.

Felix's laugh was half howl, his thrusts deeper and harder.

"Come for me James. Come on."

Orgasm hit like an A bomb. His vision whited out, struck senseless. His skin peeled down with sensation, his cock exploded: he was going to die from it and Felix with him, the jack rabbit jerk of the final thrusts faint familiarity. Supernova. The world ended.

For twenty seconds.

He was heaving for air.

His hands hurt. He'd run his nails through his skin, holding the belt. He was never going to come again.

He'd never been so thankful for a wall. Against his back, Felix was warm dead weight.

Bond hoped, then, that the sweep really had picked up all the bugs.

An awkward slippery pressure, Felix's cock slid free. Even Bond's thighs were sore. He could sleep for hours, but the bed was ten feet away.


He could feel the effort it took Felix to get himself upright, used the friendly wall to tip himself round, and lent against it. Amusement ran through him.

"Bond," he said.


In the morning, Felix saw him off with a handshake.