Chapter Text
Now
Grey fades with reluctant flickers to black and white before red intercedes. It is a stark, vibrant red; bright sun behind closed eyelids. It is a red like blood, he thinks, a red like pain. James shifts and tries to remember why his memories are superimposed with Farsi newspaper print; why his mouth tastes like copper and his senses are soured and slow. He recalls the airport in Kandahar, the hotel room, the roar of artillery fire and the white shower of exploding plaster walls. Alec had been shot. He had been shot. Oh God. His entire body aches.
“James?”
He opens his eyes.
Alec. Alive. Good. Handcuffs and raw wrists. Bad. Metal chair. Dirt floor and concrete walls. Also bad. Blood. A lot of blood. Alec’s face is pale beneath it.
“You alright?” Alec asks.
He breathes. He considers. Also handcuffed. Also metal chair. Broken fingers: three. Bullet wound to left thigh. Bruising on face and torso. Possible concussion. Loose teeth.
“Fine,” he answers. “You?”
“Been better,” Alec admits. “Any idea where we are?”
“Pakistan.”
“Fuck. Seriously?”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters. He tries to pull at the handcuffs and immediately stills. Dislocated left shoulder, he adds to his mental list of injuries.
Alec’s breathing is wrong. James considers asking for Alec’s own assessment of his injuries but is afraid of what the answer might be.
“How do you know we’re in Pakistan?” Alec says.
James nods to his red-stained wrist. “Because. It’s been six hours. If we were still in Kandahar M would have saved our arses by now. Our radios are gone but you’ve still got your watch. I still have my satellite phone in my pocket. Which means they’re confident that even if we’re being tracked no one is coming for us. Which means Pakistan. I guarantee you M knows exactly where we are, she just can’t do anything about it.” He breathes for a moment. “If we survive this she’s going to kill me.”
“I’d be more worried about Q if I were you,” Alec says, spitting blood.
“Fuck. I bet he was on comms when we were taken.”
“Probably,” Alec manages something that may be a laugh.
“Fuck,” James says again, immediately followed by, “incoming.”
A car—no—Jeep. And a motorcycle—shrill whine. Four stroke engine. Probably a Honda. Brief silence. Men speaking Pashto.
“James,” Alex says. His breathing is wrong again.
“I know,” he answers.
There is a continent of unsaid thought in the blink that passes between them.
Two men and a boy enter. A boy?—late teens. Ragged. Bare foot and dirty—the motorcycle rider then. He looks vaguely apologetic as he uncuffs James. He puts his shoulder to James’ stomach. He carries him away with a grunt. For a while things go black and white and red again.
Smaller room now, but bright. Windows and blue sky. Cheerful if not for the knowledge of imminent torture.
He closes his eyes as the questions start.
“Who are you working for?”
“Who is in charge?”
“What is your designation?”
“Do you communicate with the others?”
“How do you communicate with the others?”
A tightening of calloused fingers on strained shoulder ligaments. A press of weight to broken metacarpals. A breath of pain before he can stop it.
“Don’t be difficult,” his interviewer says, “I promise, I can make you talk.”
No, he thinks, you can make me scream. There is a difference.
****
Then
James Bond met Quentin Holmes for the first time at ten AM on a Thursday. Quentin was thirteen; James, twenty. The meeting was an accident.
James had entered Her Majesty's Young Offender's Institute fifteen minutes earlier, endured a pat down, and then a more thorough search when he still set off the metal detector (“surgical screws,” he had used as an explanation, he figured “bullet remnants” wasn’t something he should share). The facility was more like a dormitory than a prison, the only differences being the cameras, security, and the fact that the tenant’s doors all locked from the outside. He felt oddly naked walking the halls without a gun.
James had been informed he would find the boy he was looking for in room 311, had been buzzed in by the floor officer, and pointed in the right direction.
On first glance however, it seemed the room was empty.
There was a bunk bed, a desk beneath a double-barred window, a sink, and a toilet. He leaned back into the hall, checked the number, and crossed his arms, giving the room another slow sweep. And then the blanket on the top bunk moved.
James stepped further inside automatically, wanting to get a better look at his target, and then stilled purely because he couldn’t believe a child so small could be in a juvenile detention center. The boy on the bed could have been called cherubic if he wasn’t so thin: Grey eyes, black curls, and pale fingers clutching the blanket he had been curled under.
“Hello,” James said.
The boy just blinked at him.
“How old are you?” James asked, because he had to know. “I didn’t think they let actual children in here.”
“I’m nearly fourteen,” the boy said, looking somewhat annoyed. “Hardly a child.”
James snorted. “You’re not thirteen.”
“I am. I can’t help it if I’m small for my age.”
“Seriously.”
“Yes. Seriously,” his soprano voice was soft but sharp.
“What did you do?”
The boy’s mouth twitched. “I made some important people look foolish. They don’t take kindly to that.”
James grinned. “No. They usually don’t. I meant what were you charged with?”
“Cyber Crimes. Embezzlement,” he waved a careless hand, “some other things.”
“Seriously?”
The kid sighed, sitting up straighter. “Are you here to actually serve a purpose, or just ask me questions you don't like my answers to?”
James found the impertinence endearing. “I’m looking for Eric Jones.”
“Ah. The impossible Meat That Thinks. He’ll be in the yard. Special dispensation because he’s charming when he’s not punching you. And apparently some sort of athletics star at his school. Complete idiot though. You don’t want him.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know why I’m here,” James pointed out.
The boy squinted at him. “I know enough. You’re recruiting, possibly MI5, more probably MI6. You like Jones because he’s a fighter and an orphan and he most likely has good results in school. But the marks are either from charm or threats. His only intelligence is in his cruelty. He’d be a terrible agent.”
James leaned back on his heels with a whistle. “Good to know.”
“Just doing my civic duty.”
“You’re smart, though,” James said. “To have figured all that out.”
“Yes.”
“Humble too.”
“No, not really.”
“Would you make a good agent?” James asked.
The boy snorted. “Of course not. Look at me. I’d be useless in the field, even when I’m grown.”
“And behind the scenes? Doing research and tech development, running ops. Think you’d be any good at that?”
The kid stilled, his eyes going sharp in a way that made James want to reach for his weapon. He remembered he didn’t have one, then remembered he was talking to a 13-year-old the size of a cocker spaniel and he didn’t need a weapon anyway.
“Give me access to MI6’s computers and I could take over the world,” the boy said softly.
“Not exactly what we’re trying to accomplish, but an interesting option all the same.” James said, pursing his lips. “What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Because, if I’m going to recruit you that’s something I’ll need to know.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“There are child labor laws. I’ll be useless to you for two more years.”
“Name,” James repeated.
“Quentin,” the boy said. “Quentin Holmes.”
“Good. Let me go speak to someone about getting your file. My employer likes to move quickly, so if she approves of you I may be back as early as tomorrow to start your discharge.”
“I don’t—you’re serious.” Quentin looked suddenly lost. “Could you really get me out of here?”
“It’s definitely a possibility.”
The boy dropped his blanket and with careful movements climbed down the ladder. Standing, he was even more pathetic looking. The grey trousers and blue sweater with the detention center’s insignia on it were several sizes too large. He pushed up the overlong sleeves of the jumper as he walked forward and James caught one of his wrists before the sleeve could fall back down again.
Quentin flinched, then bared his teeth in annoyance.
“Let go.”
“What happened to your arm?” James asked.
It was obvious, actually. There was a distinctly hand-shaped bruise ringing his forearm. And James was suddenly certain there were several more bruises beneath the overlarge clothing.
“What do you think happened,” Quentin snapped, pulling uselessly away. “I’m the smallest one here and apparently I’m pretty. Let go.”
James let go.
And found himself, for the first time in very long while, completely at a loss as to what he should say.
“Look, I’m not good with kids,” he said finally.
“Neither am I,” Quentin answered, taking two steps back, enough to no longer be in grabbing distance. “Not sure what that has to do with anything.”
“You are a kid.”
“No, I’ve never been afforded that luxury.”
James swallowed. “Hold still,” he said, pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture of you. I’m about to go present a case for recruiting you. I’ll need a visual for the file and I’d rather it not be your intake photo. Smile.”
Quentin didn’t smile. Quentin stared at the camera like it was his worst enemy.
James took the picture and sighed. It was still better than an intake photo. Probably.
He turned toward the door, then paused, pivoting on one heel.
“Did you want something?” James asked. “I mean, did you get down for a reason or…”
The boy shrugged. “I just—I wanted to see what your face looked like. The others took my glasses so I can’t—I can’t see very well right now, actually.”
For some reason that infuriated him in a way that none of the prior references to abuse had.
“Quentin,” James said quietly.
“Yes?
“I’m going to go now, but I’m coming back for you. Today.”
Warring expressions of hope and pessimism twisted the boy’s face for several seconds.
“You promise?” He said finally, sounding every bit his age.
“I promise.”