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License to Kill

Blood splatters over his hand as he rips at the gaping wound, drawing out the bullet. Sucks gently to draw the poison and then spits, colouring the floor. Brings the brand close, cauterizing the wound. Five hours from a hospital and no way he can count on the bloody French to provide transportation. James thanks God that he is proficient in field medication.

"I won't lose you," he whispers to Alec, who groans a response. It sounds nothing like the sounds he makes in pleasure, as he fucks James hard, the way both of them like it. Only like pain.


License to Fuck

Alec throws his gun belt onto the floor and then James against the wall. He hates watching his partner flitter away time, precious time, with whores. Alec, like all field agents, lives with an clock counting down his doom, but his is louder than most, counting down until the day he will have to go. Leave James.

Alec growls and strips James while invading his mouth, claiming it the way his ancestors claimed their whores, rough, with nothing that could reflect weakness. Only pain, and growls echoing in his loins as he rubs against 007 and then fucks him bloody.


License to Love

James' hair is black against Alec's pillow, contrasting nicely, he thinks, with his own. Both grown long for their mission, both tangled, both curling slightly. Alec decides that he likes it like this, unpractical as it is. Long enough to get tangled in a fight, short enough to elude any tie. Alec curses it while he praises it.

James sleeps silently under his hand, an important field skill, an annoying bed one. Alec wants James to roll on top of him, murmur his name in his sleep, anything. Anything to show he's still alive. Anything to show he's still beloved.


License to Leave

Alec knows it will be his last time with James and he wants to make it special. But undercover, surrounded by danger, is not conclusive to proper loving. Not even proper fucking.

But he tries. The wine is the best he could find, the silk the finest in London. He's brought it for this moment. For his last time.

James comes in from patrol, looks around, brow creased. "Alec...?"

But Alec won't let him say it, won't let him comment on how sudden it is. Instead he takes off his clothes one by one and leads James gently to bed.


License to Hate

James' mouth makes a beautiful 'o' as Alec approaches slowly from the shadows. "Hello, James," and Alec can't help but grin at his friend. He had planned this from the moment Xenia had mentioned the name 'Bond'. Planned this meeting. Finally to see his James again.

But then James spits and Alec falters. He can't...he couldn't hate him. Could he? For leaving. For-for betraying. But betraying what? He left for a good reason, surely James can see that. Surely James could forgive him for leaving.

But the pistol raises, good old Walther PPK and Alec's heart snaps. Closing time, lover.


License to Die

James clutches Alec to himself, wanting to feel the damned Cossack warm and alive again against his chest. The friend, or the mission, and James had chosen the mission. Twice. To sin once is fine, his parish priest had taught him as a child. But to sin twice, unforgivable. And James had sinned against Alec. Betrayed him. Killed him.

Only one way to rationalize it and it had to be Alec's favorite phrase. 'For England, James', he would love to say before fucking his partner senseless. For England, 007. For England.

Alec's body is bloody against James' chest. For England.