They were loud and noisy, couldn’t understand where boundaries were and how to behave in society, and also they left dirt wherever they went. He didn’t think he was a bastard just because he wasn’t too fond of the idea of having a child run around his mansion, but he couldn’t impregnate women because of an old injury he got in his Navy time, and the child he was worrying about was more like an adult in a tiny, scrawny body.
Q.
Of course he was talking about Q, the little whore he won in a stupid game of poker. He had no idea how old he was, given the fact that Q’s face made him look like he was maybe sixteen, maybe even younger, and that Q knew things a child shouldn’t.
James had expected him to try and force himself on the billionaire, just because he probably was used to being a sex toy and not treated like a human being with sexual desires, rights and dreams. Sympathy was a new feeling for James, the urge to comfort, help, soothe almost overwhelming whenever it washed over him, caught him off guard every single time.
Q made him confront things he had never even noticed before, how corrupt the system was, how bad forced prostitution was for children as young as he probably, most likely, was. He felt like a monster. He had seen young women being led away by older men after they were won in all kinds of gambling games, had seen whores with scars all over their bodies, with tired, faked smiles and accents not from around here.
“Do you remember how you were sold?” He asked Q one evening when they sat together in the living room, the boy on the couch with a cup of tea in his hands. It seemed to be his favourite; James hadn’t dared asking any questions, fearing he could trigger a reaction he wouldn’t know how to deal with, but Q, always after asking if he was allowed to, made himself Earl Grey with just a bit of honey and sugar.
His happiness about something so simple, so normal, nearly broke James’ heart.
The boy shook his head, inhaling the steam rising from the cup with a smile on his features. It was a small smile, barely visible; it reached his eyes, the corners of his lips just twitching up, not remaining.
James had seen a lot of poker faces in his life, but not one so perfect, so calculated. Every glimpse of an emotion was one Q wanted to display, slowly growing more and more comfortable with the whole situation, with the fact that James didn’t want to turn him around and fuck him against the couch.
He was many things – a pervert, yes, a bastard, also – but not a paedophile.
“I don’t, sir,” Q said, lifting his head to look at James, not daring to make eye contact, but also not daring to keep his face turned away when holding a conversation. “I remember the faces of my parents, but I don’t know whether it’s an imagination of mine or the truth.”
James frowned. “Why would you imagine a memory?”
“There are scientific studies showing that, the more often we think about a memory from our past, the more we change it unconsciously until it is far away from the truth.”
James blinked. “How do you know such things?”
Q shifted around on the couch, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. James almost regretted asking, thought he gave Q the feeling that he was supposed to be dumb, with no knowledge of what was happening around him, but then Q already opened his mouth to reply. “My old owners sometimes had newspapers and magazines lying around. One was a scientist I think. His table was covered in papers full with ideas and machines he wanted to build.”
Owners.James winced.
Q wasn’t an animal, not a pet to keep and give away when it started to misbehave or grow a nuisance, he was a human being and the way he was treated made James sick.
So many years, a life wasted, just because some pervert scientists couldn’t keep their arousal under control, were lonely, couldn’t get a girl- or boyfriend, what did James know? All he knew was that he would never, ever do something like that to the boy, whose eyes were resting on James almost fearfully.
Did he fear that James would finally use him the way the men who gave the boy to him intended? Did he worry about being punished for seeking knowledge, for reading and informing himself?
James let out a long breath, ran a hand through his hair and wondered, not for the first time, why all bad things happened to him.
“What kind of machines?” He heard himself asking and blinked. Q seemed to be taken back, paling visibly. “You said one was a scientist. What kind of machines did he build?”
It seemed Q was interested in technology, engineering and science, because his eyes lit up a bit and he weakened his grip around the cup, a little Q drawn on it with a marker pen.
“He wanted to make an exploding pen, for one. His concept was really nice and he had all those ideas how to make it as small and inconspicuous as possible, but I think he didn’t have any powder or any explosives he could use without blowing the house up.” Q said, sipping on his now-cold tea as if he didn’t even notice that it didn’t taste well when cold. “He also had this idea of an... um... it was a little box which you could open several times and it would get smaller and smaller until you only have one little cube left, and he planned on putting a memory stick inside a hole.”
“Like matreshki?“ James asked. Q just stared at him with a blank face, confusion visibly written in his eyes. Of course he wouldn’t know what a matryoshka was, he doubted any of the perverts who fucked him had the patience to give him a doll and explain how it worked. “Do you know those puppets who are stocked together, and the more you take away the smaller it gets?”
Q shook his head almost shyly, biting into his lower lip.
James got on his feet and offered him a hand. “Well, we’re going shopping. I’ll show you one.”
His private jet just came back from repair; Russia at this time of the year was very, very lovely. He was sure Q would like it.
The boy was the skinniest one James had ever seen, with his collarbones and ribs prominent; his eyes bright, green and dull without any enthusiasm visible in them, fixed on James as he was led inside by an inconspicuous man with black hair and sunglasses. The air was chilly, cold; James was glad about the jacket he was wearing, but the boy had nothing on. Not even anything to cover him, nothing to hide the fine lines of scars on his skin.
When their eyes met, the boy looked down at his hands, shaking lightly where they rested on his knees. James had a very, very bad feeling about this; wanted to turn around, tell them that he wanted money, wanted women or another house on an island without a name, but not a boy.
What was he going to do with him?
He was too skinny to do any work, James didn't know how much education he received - hell, he didn't even know if the whore spoke English.
James exhaled sharply and turned to look at the man waiting there, trying not to show just how helpless he felt. His poker face was famous, well-known; without it, he wouldn't have managed to win the money he wasted in alcohol, in cheap women and classy ones whenever he felt like it.
Money meant nothing to James, it was paper, could be burnt, shred and torn and it was worth nothing in a world where it created more problems than it solved. Wars, people lurking in the shadows, James had seen it all, had been in situations most people wouldn't survive, and he still was here.
And wasn't that just fucking sad?
He ran a hand through his hair and gestured to the door, waiting for the boy to get on his feet. There was nothing legal about this; the boy looked like he was underage or too young to be in a system like this, far too innocent to be a hooker.
The stakes had been high, almost abnormal considering that it had just been a game for fun. Nothing to gain, nothing to loose, just a little bit of entertainment for men who searched for something to distract themselves from all the boredom of their lives.
James put a hand on the boy's back and led him out of the room, away from the other men on the table, their eyes following them as they stepped into the lobby. No one was here; it was past midnight, most people in the bars and clubs of the city. Without a special license, they wouldn't have been able to gamble this night.
What a little bit of money could do, he thought, taking his coat and wrapping it around the boy's shoulders, making him button it up. The shaking didn't stop, the trembling still visible, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before, not as drastic.
James felt strangely protective of the young man; he had won the game, had agreed on playing for the boy and now he was here, guiding him to his Aston Martin. A driver had never been his style, the car too expensive to let anyone drive.
It was his baby, his favourite car amongst the dozen ones he owned.
"What's your name?" James asked after minutes of silent driving, the city and its lights passing in a rapid speed; blurred, a mess of little dots, shining bright enough to distract but he kept his gaze on the street in front of them, safely driving towards his villa at the other end of the city.
He had two, but the one he was heading to had a bigger bath and the boy looked like he needed one.
"Q, Mister Bond."
So he spoke English, or at least understood it; that was a good sign, given the country they were in. Not every Asian knew how to.
"I asked for your real name," James turned his head and frowned, staring at the boy until he lowered his gaze almost in a submissive motion, eyes fluttering closed and tension rushing down his spine like a shiver. The older man gave a long, annoyed sigh and reached out, squeezing the boy's shoulder.
"I cannot remember it, Mister Bond."
Choosing not to comment, James stopped the car and held the door open for Q to come out, once again putting a hand on the small of his back. This was a safe area, separated from the mess and the noise of the city; however, it wasn't as safe as James would have liked it to be. No one had promised to him that Q wouldn't try to run, wouldn't make an attempt of fleeing.
Something told James that this behaviour had been beaten into him, though; no one who had felt a whip or who had been punched so hard that instead of air they breathed blood would act out of disobedience.
"How old are you, Q?"
"I can't remember, Mister Bond."
James frowned. "How long have you been passed around like this?"
"For as long as I remember, Mister Bond," Q replied, looking down at his bare feet as he curled his toes into the carpet in the entrance hall, eyes widening slightly; James figured he hadn't been in contact with anything as soft as this in a long while.
"Are you tired? Hungry?" James paused, feeling a bit overwhelmed and helpless in a situation like this. With the average whore he could deal, but this boy... he was different. He made James want to protect him, wrap his arms around him and just keep him safe, away from everyone who meant harm. "Do you want to bathe? Sleep? Clothes?"
Q blinked at him and tilted his head, looking both curious and confused. His expression reminded of a deer about to be run over by a car, or a young animal facing its new owner. Somehow, this fit far too well, and James cringed before he turned around and walked to his liquor storage, taking a bottle of scotch and pouring a glass.
As he caught Q's gaze on it, he poured a second, expecting him to cough or have problems swallowing.
Q, however, took the glass with a muttered thanks, lifted it to his lips and gulped it down. James just stared; put the glass away and drank straight from the bottle.
Q didn’t see Bond in the restaurant from that argument on. It shouldn’t bother him, but after three days of staring at Bond’s usual spot, seeing other people with other faces and a horrible taste in music comfortably sitting there, or sometimes the chair was empty and he could try to imagine that Bond was there. With his usual sour, cold expression slowly lighting up as he listened to Q playing; with his icy blue eyes fixed on Q’s fingers which were nimbly flying over the keys with no sense of time or space. His blonde, flaxen, hair as neatly combed back as usually and with a glass of martini in his hands. Shaken, not stirred, he had told Q after one of their encounters, it’s very nice. It distinctly had burnt Q’s throat as he had tried a sip once, standing naked in James’ penthouse with his toes curling into the expensive carpet, feeling like a splash of colour on the canvas of an empty, wasted life. The rooms were empty except for the absolutely necessary, a couch in the living room in front of a fireside, a shelf for books; no pictures, nothing from Bond’s personal life, and Q had wanted to ask but he hadn’t found the courage to. James’ life lay in the shadows, hidden behind wall after wall he had built in the desperate attempt of enshrouding everything and creating a new, wrong self. The person Q had met wasn’t James Bond, as much as Q’s real name wasn’t just a letter, but more. There was so much more to Bond, and now Q would never have the chance to find out. He refused to think of it as his own mistake, it was Bond’s and no one else’s. Maybe Q’s too, but if then only by a little, and nothing compared to Bond’s fault. Q stood in front of his mirror and told himself that four times, hoping that maybe a demon would appear behind him and smash his head on the wall only to chew on his mind and nibble on his bones. “His fault, his fault, his fault, his fault,” Q mumbled and opened his eyes, looking at his reflection with hope. No demon behind him, no woman in black with huge white eyes staring at him, and no hand on his shoulder. He groaned in annoyance, threw his razor against the mirror and turned around to search for some clothes. It shouldn’t be hard, it wasn’t as if he had a lot or enough to choose, but he liked to think that he had. That there was a closet waiting for him, and he had to spend ten minutes deciding whether he wanted the black shirt or the white one, and ten more minutes for trousers. Since he was on his way to work, he’d have to pick a nice, expensive jacket, black maybe, and a fitting shirt. He had been told violet or red would suit him, but he’d take a white one with white suspenders, cufflinks, and a black bowtie. He would put on some cologne, and comb his hair, smile at the reflection and it would smile back with a confidence only someone with enough money to pay for all the bills. But this was real life, and it wasn’t fair. It was cruel, horrible, and he walked into his bedroom with a numb sensation, a shiver running down his spine. There hadn’t been enough money to pay for the heater, so it was cold, but there was little he could do. Sometimes he wished he would have listened to his parents and taken a job with a salary higher than his current, with which he hardly was able to live. There wasn’t enough food in the fridge, the curtains had holes and the ground was dirty. Sometimes, Q thought, taking his far too big, old suit, he thought about ending it, but the music kept him going – or rather, crawling, under the shoes of those who had enough money to get everything they wanted; and for once Q had done what was right and had pushed one of those people away. James Bond had entered his life with warmth and had left it with ice, a big, black hole in Q’s chest where his heart used to be. Bond had taken it, and he had spit on it, and if there were tears rushing into Q’s eyes then it was because of the dust in the air as he tried to clean his jacket, and if the pain in his chest came from a broken heart then Bond wasn’t the reason. Q considered going back into the bathroom and try this ‘Bloody Mary’ thing, but he would be late for work and couldn’t risk that. The jacket wasn’t much cleaner as he put it on and his shirt had a coffee spot right on his chest, but would he keep the jacket close no one would notice. At least his trousers were presentable, and he had bought new shoes from the salary of this month, so it was alright. Throwing a pill into his mouth, Q hoped the anti-depressants would work before he was in the restaurant, and made his way towards hours spent playing the same melodies over and over again. No one was inside yet but that was normal. Q was always the first to come and the last to go, but this way he could prepare himself and flex his fingers, greet the piano which somehow was the only friend left. He could understand it, he wouldn’t want to be an acquaintance of himself either. As he approached the piano, he noticed a white envelope on the bench, no name or anything written on it, and his curiosity got the better of him. The paper was soft under his fingers, smelled of a cologne which made his stomach fill with warmth and his heart flutter, fingers shaking as he opened it while trying not to break out crying. There was a piece of paper inside, and on it there was an address, a number, and some words in the neat handwriting he had always imagined him to have. He lifted a hand to his mouth to mute any noises he might make and sunk down, eyes watering and a few single tears running down his cheeks, dropping onto the paper and he quickly held it out of reach so the ink wouldn’t get wet and the words destroyed. Q caught himself smiling and pressed the paper against his heart, feeling it race and beat rapidly. ‘Call this number and tell them your size, your suit is horrible. Seven pm tomorrow, I’ll pick you up.’
