Jul 4, 2019
seen from South Korea
seen from Czechia
seen from South Korea
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Korea
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from France
seen from Ukraine
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
The beginning of a Bond 25/Spectre Fix-It.
Massage Therapy
Alec Trevelyan is a licensed massage therapist.
He has only one client: Q.
Alec was always going to have only one client. Q’s why he took the course, after all.
He took classes for six months during an enforced medical leave, and it was the only time in his career he wasn’t clawing at the walls and driving everyone spare with his inactivity. He had a purpose. He was doing something that would benefit someone else. Ultimately, that’s what all agents are about. Service. He’d been thinking about doing it for nearly a year, but when does an MI6 operations officer on long-term assignments find the time?
Q was in need of loosening up. He had never had a massage. He wanted to have a massage. Desperately. He couldn’t have a massage for two reasons.
One, as the Quartermaster of MI6, it was deemed too risky for him to seek a therapist outside of the intelligence services, but he certainly wasn’t going to allow anyone inside the services see him in his altogether, thank you very much.
Two, it didn’t matter much anyway because Q loathes being touched by people he doesn’t know and trust.
I know, I know, Alec. It makes no sense. I want one. Can’t have one. It’s a sodding nightmare! It’s hell!
So Alec did what all good, capable agents do.
He solved the problem and turned Hell into Heaven, or so Q insists in melty, contented, blissful tones after every session.
There’s a full massage studio set up in what used to be their guest bedroom where Alec has everything he needs: table, lotions, aromatherapy oils, towel warmer, bolsters. It’s entirely professional. Inside that room, Q is his client. Not his lover. Erotic is for the bedroom … or the kitchen … or the garden … or, or, or ...
Q is on his table at least twice a fortnight when Alec’s on home soil, which is more common now. Per his request, he’s no longer sent out on deep cover assignments. Someday soon, if he’s not killed in the field, no assignments at all.
Will you take on other clients? Q asks. Make it a second career? You could, you know. Nobody does it better.
You’ve no basis for comparison, malyutka.
It stands to reason. There’s not much you don’t excel at. Except Scrabble. You’re awful at Scrabble. And darts. How is that possible, anyway? You’re an expert marksman with any weapon I put in your hands, but you’re absolute shite at darts.
No. No other clients. Just Q.
If Alec lets the little shite live that long.