the hand beneath your head
15 Nov 2012
Q sobs and swears and thrashes against the ground until he can move no more, cheek pressed against the warm floor. Breathe, breathe. There are tears running down his cheeks and Q needs to tell himself to just breathe. O2 molecules, alveoli, deoxygenated blood, the biology of being alive. Fourth form basics of respiration. Q pulls up notes from the dregs of his memory and recites them backwards in his head.
(Or, what happens in New Orleans)
- Part 1 of the hand beneath your head
21 Nov 2012
“What else did you do to him?” Bond asks in a conversational tone and twists the knife in a little deeper into the first man’s thigh, working it in until it scrapes against bone. “I’ve seen the injuries, so don’t think I won’t know if you’re leaving something out.”
“There was–“ A gasp and the man is screaming again, a high, panicked sound. Bond slaps him across the face to make him shut up.
“Enough of that. Answer the question.”
- Part 2 of the hand beneath your head
2 Dec 2012
Q does not cry. Does not eat, does not sleep, does not even move. He thinks of broken lines of code in the afternoon light and sometimes, Bond’s palm is there pressed against his, a warm anchor in the midst of somewhere cold. Cold. So, so cold all the time, unless it’s the hours he burns from the inside out and Q is screaming for air, for reprieve, for Bond to please, don’t be late again. Anything at all, as long as it makes things stop.
(or, what happens after New Orleans)
- Part 3 of the hand beneath your head