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From Russia With Love

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Krasnaya Pakhra, Moscow outskirts, 2008

It's marginally less freezing in the small bar where Bond takes refuge from the snow storm battering the city and most of the surrounding countryside, as far out as the country's Eastern border, where Bond ought to be headed even now. Bond clutches at his vodka, too tired and worn out to bother hiding it. Besides, if they think he's weak, not a danger to them, they might let their tongues flap easier around him. There's more than one way to gather intel, and he should know.

Quantum are proving elusive, frustratingly so. He'd hoped that he'd be able to track down some leads, shake down a couple of informants who still owed him a favour -- but he hadn't bargained on said informants getting themselves killed just a couple of months ago in a coup gone wrong. And so he's right where he started, on his own, out of leads, and freezing his bollocks off in the middle of nowhere, far from the lights of Moscow city centre. Damn, is he getting too old for this? He can feel the trail go cold, slip through his fingers. Even with Greene's grudging helpfulness in the face of certain death otherwise, he feels stranded, out of touch. Maybe M is right. Maybe he needs to leave all of this behind. After all, Vesper is... avenged, yes, that has a nice ring to it. It's done. Finished. Quantum can wait another day -- and Bond has no doubts whatsoever that they will cross paths again. It's just the kind of organisation Quantum is; they can never leave well enough alone, not when there are pies to stick their fingers in.

He nurses his Grey Goose and ponders moodily the email sitting pretty in his inbox: "Come home, now. We have an assignment for you. This isn't a suggestion, 007." Yes. It's time. Besides, dead ends make him restless, make his trigger finger itch.

"Buy you a drink?" a heavily accented, slightly husky voice says from behind him, a little to his left. A sturdy, muscled arm comes to rest on the bar, close to Bond's elbow. Bond drags his eyes up the length of it, noticing the strange way the heavy fabric of the man's coat catches a little when the arm shifts to bend at the elbow. Armed? Possibly. But there's no menace in his stance, no warning in his voice. Perhaps the guy just likes the look of him. Wouldn't be the first, and Bond has always been an equal opportunities kind of guy. This man looks... promising, eyes a light, icy blue that makes something dig sharply in Bond's gut. He knows that look, has seen it a few times in the mirror himself. This is a soldier, and not one with a particularly happy past. (Then again, few soldiers are these days.)

"How did you know I wasn't Russian?" Bond asks, just to keep the conversation going. The man has a nice voice. Bond finds that he wouldn't mind hearing more of it.

The man shrugs, gives him a slow once-over, mouth quirking wryly in one corner. "Truth? You smell too good. No one around here bothers with that kind of aftershave. Also, I heard you talking to the barman. You're good, your Russian is near-perfect, but your voice, it tries too hard. Still, good try for a foreigner -- but you're drinking French vodka in Russia. A bold choice, my friend. There are those who might take offence."

O-kay then. Bond isn't stupid. He knows another spy when he sees them. For some reason, though, this one is far from hostile. Bond wonders absently what this one is looking for.

"Not you, though."

"Nah, not me. I'm an easygoing guy, me."

Bond stifles a snort. Somehow, he very much doubts that.

"So?" the man asks, challenge sparking in his eyes.

Bond blinks. It takes a moment for the conversation to come back from where his lizard brain had tried to take over. He shrugs. "Sure. A drink would be good."

The man smirks. It's stunningly attractive on him, drives a spike of lust through Bond's gut. Fuck it. He's made stupider decisions on the promise of less.

"Эй, Рëжа, двe водки," the man drawls, tapping his left forefinger on the bar. It lands heavily, too heavily. It makes Bond wonder -- but frankly, not enough to stop. The man's mouth is lush and generous when he speaks, and yes. It's certainly time he moved on, left Vesper behind. Strawberry didn't cut it, not really; she was a delight, but she wasn't Vesper, and it had hurt to pretend. Maybe a man will do a better job of getting Bond back in the game.

He downs the vodka when it comes, and the man does the same, long, strong neck bobbing as he swallows. The unbidden image of pushing his cock through those lips and down that throat blindsides Bond enough that the man catches him staring and smirks again, but says nothing.

Bond smiles ruefully to himself. Apparently he's more rusty than he thought. "You have a name?" he says, letting his voice deepen and his eyes drift to half-mast, a position other parts of his body are assuming right now, thanks to the way the man flexes his shoulders in a shrug and returns the smouldering look.

"You can call me James," he says, startling a laugh out of Bond.

"Is that right," Bond murmurs, letting a hint of amusement through. "You know what, James? Something tells me you have hidden talents."

"Oh, you have no idea," James says, flicking his tongue over his lower lip, and fuck, but Bond wants to suck it into his own mouth and hold James down and fuck him through the mattress.

"Would those talents happen to include getting hold of a key to a place at least marginally warmer than this hole in the ice?"

James's mouth twists a little in thought, and his eyes narrow. "Possibly," he draws out. Bond can hear the 'if' plain as day. He shrugs to himself. So this is a bargain, same as any. Sure enough, a moment later James lifts his right hand, flicks a forefinger over Bond's arm sheathed in the thick sweater he had found in a surprisingly decent shop the day before. "A friend of mine is in town, though. She's staying with me. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"

Bond smirks. "She can even join us, if that's what she goes for."

James's eyes flash, and he bites at his lower lip, just for a moment but hard enough that it flushes an enticing pink. Bond wants to bite it some more, worry and lick at it until it's wet and red and gorgeous. Has it really been this long since he's wanted someone like this, uncomplicated but for the need to fuck them until they scream and come all over themselves?

"In that case, my English friend, come with me."

Bond follows, noting absently the way the eyes of the other patrons dart to him and away again, uninterested. Maybe it's a good thing that he's hit a dead end here. At least he'll get a good fuck out of it, let go of some of the awful tension clinging to his shoulders of late. James leads the way down the street for a couple of blocks, before turning left and disappearing through a short tunnel between two concrete monstrosities housing dilapidated flats. Bond just hopes James keeps up his end of the 'warmth' bargain -- though he imagines they could warm each other up quite admirably if necessary.

The flat, when they make it across the snow-covered quad and into the building on the other side, is small but surprisingly tidy. No sign of any personal items, though there is a thin rectangular container in the far corner that looks suspiciously like a sniper rifle case. Huh. Bond has never been particularly afraid of dying, regards it more as a nuisance than anything -- M frequently informs him that the paperwork would be horrendous (that might even be the only reason he's still alive). Besides, if he's honest (and he tries to be as a rule, at least with himself -- lying for a living can get tedious after a while), it winds the knot of lust in his gut all the tighter. Nothing like a bit of danger to get him hard as a rock.

Anyway, he doesn't have more time to think on that, because the second after the door is closed behind him he's got an armful of tautly muscled body plastering him to the adjacent wall, and the tongue he'd been obsessing over earlier is in his mouth, tasting of Stolichnaya, a faint hint of tobacco, and intent. James lets out a faint whine, fingers working Bond's coat undone and worming under his sweater, pushing it up over his stomach. His fingers are cold, freezingly so even though he'd been wearing gloves; Bond can't help his muscles twitching, trying to get away from the chill.

"Sorry," James muffles in his mouth, and the touch disappears.

“Fuck that.” Bond snaps in his head, and catches James's wrist.

"Put your hand back under my shirt," he grinds out, punctuating the order by shoving a thigh between both of James's and letting it ride up, parting James's legs to get to the heat of his groin, the lard line of his cock bucking into the pressure.

James smirks again, and obeys. It's still cold, but so fucking good, too good to miss out on. Bond gives in to the urge to bite that delicious smirk off of James's face. James makes a dark, needy sound that has Bond surging forward, flipping them neatly until James is the one pinned to the wall and Bond has his hands free to roam, to push back James's coat until it thumps to the floor, to busy his fingers with the infuriating buttons on James's shirt while James scrapes his teeth over his neck and pants wetly against his skin.

Just as he's about to shove the shirt down James's arms, James catches his right wrist, the first hint of uncertainty nipping around the edges of his confidence.

"There's something I should probably warn you about," James says. Frankly, Bond doesn't give a damn. He's seen his fair share of scars in his time, has a few not so pretty ones himself. Whatever it is, he's too far down the path to back off now -- unless James tells him in no uncertain terms that he has changed his mind, but something tells Bond this isn't it.

"Do it if you must, but I should tell you that it isn't likely to stop me wanting to see that damn mouth of yours wrapped around my cock as soon as bloody possible."

James shudders, hard; for a long moment, his eyes drift down to Bond's mouth and cling. He licks his lips.

"My left arm, there was an accident. It's -- well, it's not my arm anymore."


"All right. Noted. Now can I get your shirt off?"

The hand around his wrist falls, and Bond keeps going because, to be honest, he has never been too good at knowing when to stop. And anyway, sure, the place where the metal meets the skin is ugly, distorted, a hack job if Bond ever saw one, but the metal itself is smooth and clean and surprisingly erotic. Bond thinks of those metal fingers wrapped tight around his cock, and can't hold back his shudder, the way his eyes flutter shut.

"Oh," James says, sounding delighted.

"Indeed. Have I assuaged your doubts?"

"Fuck you, asshole. Are you gonna stand there all day, or get my pants off? There seems to be a lot of talk going on, not so much action."

"I'll give you action," Bond growls, and tackles him to the floor.

They do actually make it to the bed, in the end. It's rather narrow, but Bond isn't planning on doing a lot of stretching -- well, not until later. He's got two fingers inside James's arse, and don't think this isn't doing a few things for him, telling 'James' to open his legs wider, or suck his fingers like he means it. James is incredibly intuitive, needs few directions, seems determined to do things his way or not at all. It's... good. Vesper had been a little reserved, that little bit more sedate, a shade more willing to let him take the wheel, letting his emotions guide her. James is nothing but defiant, daring him to do better with eyes that flash fire and mouth that spits brimstone. It's exhilarating, but Bond can already tell that it would be exhausting to sustain. A one-night assignation seems like just the ticket.

He's hunting for a condom, and debating having a go at rolling it on with one hand so he doesn't have to remove the other one from its task, when he hears the unmistakable sound of a key sliding in the lock. James blinks, and cocks his head to the side, but then relaxes again and fixes Bond with a glare.

"If you stop right now, I'll fucking gut you," he rasps, snatching the condom out of Bond's hand and rolling it on in the space of a blink. "Get on with it."

Someone is definitely approaching, but Bond trusts James to know the sound of his friend's footsteps. The guy's been through enough that Bond can see he doesn't trust easily. He shrugs mentally and pulls out his fingers, slicks up his cock with the remaining lube and guides himself in. They both groan, hard. James is tight, and scorching hot around him; for the first time in days, Bond is relieved to have solid evidence that that his cock hadn't got frostbite in this awful weather.

The footsteps falter, and Bond spares a second for what he's quite certain is an extremely filthy smirk. Oh, but he hopes James's friend comes in, if only to see the look on her face. It may be a cheap thrill, but Bond enjoys expanding women's horizons, in all aspects of pleasure. James cocks an eyebrow at him, looking amused. Bond files that away for later consideration.

He doesn't pause after he's seated all the way, just starts moving, and James moves with him, hips tilting just so, dragging him that last inch in and taking his mouth in a kiss full of urgency and teeth. Bond can't help the flex of his hips, driving himself in, making James break the kiss and gnash his teeth, a low growl deep in his throat that sets Bond's blood on fire.

"Wow," says a voice from the open doorway, lazy and insolent and suddenly, strangely familiar. Bond stops moving, ignoring James's threats of bloody murder, and turns his head.

"Well, well, Ms Romanova. Who would have thought we'd run into each other like this again?"

Romanova rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her magnificent breasts. "I see you've lost none of your charm, James."

Below him, James looks from her to Bond and back again, eyes wide and dancing with mischief. "Your first name is James," he says, voice rich with amused delight. "Seriously. Seriously."

And then he starts laughing, and does. Not. Stop. Bond has his cock stretching James's arse wide open, balls-deep inside him, and the bastard is laughing. Bond rolls his hips into a sharp jab, more to make a point than because he can't wait another second (well, okay, maybe that too, a little), but James just groans, eyes rolling back, and keeps chuckling. "Oh, James," he moans, rather more flippant than Bond appreciates at this stage in the game. For a long second, he seriously considers pulling out and stalking away until James can be reasonable and take this seriously.

But then James tightens around him, and bites his lip again, says, "James," voice low and throaty and husky and, above all, drunk on pleasure, and something coils inside Bond, white-hot and urgent. All thoughts of leaving are forgotten.

"You are such a wanker," Bond growls, bending down and giving James' nipple a sharp, vicious bite. James arches into him, spine bending so far that for a surreal moment Bond worries it might snap. The sound coming out of James's throat is feral; his cock jumps against Bond's stomach, once, twice. James curls a leg around Bond's waist, drags him in; his metal hand fists in Bond's hair and tugs him up into a violent, biting kiss, while his other hand slides between their stomachs and curls around his own cock, then starts to jerk it off with quick, sure strokes of his fingers.

"Fuck, James," James says -- whines, more like, and then, what feels like mere seconds later his arse pulses around Bond's cock, and Bond blanks out the rest of it altogether, knows nothing but the hard yanks of pleasure in his gut, the tight squeeze of muscle around his cock.

When he recovers enough to regain most of his faculties, Romanova is sitting in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair next to the door, somehow making it look like the most comfortable perch in the world. Bond had plain forgotten she was there -- credit where credit's due, James is hellishly distracting. Romanova is flushed a little, a healthy pink that highlights the brightness of her eyes, the dusky rose of her full lips. Bond remembers that look. Admittedly, the last time he'd seen it, she had been writhing under him and making him come so hard he'd blacked out (not a common occurrence by a long shot, present company excepted); by the time he'd come to she'd been out of the door, along with a folder of rather important (and also fake, he isn't an idiot) paperwork. Still. Bond has a memory for these things.

"Enjoyed the show?" he asks her from his sprawl on the bed, James's metal arm and one leg thrown across him, his head tucked under Bond's chin. Bond curls an arm around his sweaty shoulders with a surprising surge of fondness. He finds he likes this. It's... soothing. Strange, when he's usually the one to hit the ground running after a tryst. Then again, he doesn't usually fuck spies as competent as himself. He might as well let his guard down for a moment or two -- he's amongst his kind here.

"I did," Romanova replies, with a cheeky hint of a smirk on her mobile mouth. Bond remembers what kissing her had been like, a fiery battle for dominance. It had been delicious, especially making her submit -- for a change, he had felt like he'd earned it, rather than just been given it as his due. Might have been what made the resulting fuck so spectacular, and memorable.

"I don't suppose you fancy a round?" Bond asks, allowing his lips to twitch a little.

Romanova lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. "I don't suppose that I do. James, are you alive over there? We've got a client. I need to go over some specifics with you."

James stirs, stretching languidly, rubbing the inside of his thigh over Bond's cock -- on purpose, Bond is quite sure.

"I'm up," he says with an incredibly self-satisfied smile.

"I can see that," Romanova says meaningfully. Bond looks down.

"Oh, would you look at that," James says. There's nothing even approaching innocent in that tone. Bond is almost impressed.

Romanova sighs. "Are you going to be professional, or do I need to fuck the distraction out of you?"

Bond's eyebrows lift of their own accord. He'd thought he'd done a good job of that.

"Oh, keep your pants on -- or off, as the case might be," Romanova says dismissively. "James's libido is quite difficult to exhaust."

"I'd be more than happy to assist," Bond hurries to say, because he isn't fool enough to miss out on something that is promising to end up being one of the highlights of his sex life. "Just give me a few minutes."

"A few?" Romanova mocks.

James slides against his side, all bare skin and leashed power, and Bond's breath catches. "Five minutes tops," he promises, and wills his cock to man up.

By the time Romanova has removed all her clothes and is kissing James, deep and filthy and like she's making a point, Bond discovers something he never knew before: that his refractory period can in fact be circumnavigated, if enough incentive is provided.

Well, you never know what kind of information you might stumble upon in Russia, he thinks smugly as he insinuates himself between the two of them.