Chapter Text
XII.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Tiago drawled, ticklish and intimate against his ear, and even as James relaxed instinctively against his confident touch, he scowled.
"Sir."
"We're off duty. Use my name." Tiago glanced at his glass as he pulled himself up on the bar stool beside him, the brush of his thigh against James' warm and inviting. "Not drinking scotch?"
"No stomach for it today." James admitted. Not after seeing Alec's guard balance that fucking shot glass on Tiago's head, seeing Q's pistol shake as he pointed it in Tiago's direction. It had been painfully obvious that Q had never used a gun before, and James had forced himself to gamble when instinct and training had told him to wait for a better opportunity.
"I suppose not," Tiago glanced at him soberly, for a long moment. "The decisions I made today were my right to make, James."
"They were fucking stupid ones, Tiago."
"Ah, well, now and then, I like to gamble," Tiago lifted a shoulder, clearly unrepentant about it all. "That photograph of John... it made me so angry. I did not know that Benjamin would be there. Maybe I would have done things differently."
"Called backup, at the very least?"
"Oh," Tiago bared his teeth slightly, "You know about us and our dislike for backup."
James knew all very well - Alec was probably the only other 00 he could ever tolerate hunting together with - and the thought of that soured him further. He drank, staring at his glass, and Tiago added, soberly, "I am sorry about Alec."
"Why?" James asked, startled, glancing at Tiago. "He's a traitor. He tried to kill you."
"I am not sorry for him," Tiago pointed out. "I'm sorry that you lost a friend."
James wanted to snap at that, to sneer, but he drank instead, slowly, this time, rolling the taste of the wine in his mouth. This had felt worse than Vesper, in a way, or maybe because the betrayal was still raw, still so unexpected. Alec had been with him since Eton. James had always felt as though he would know Alec forever, that they'll end up dying someday when they were older and slower, in a ditch in Siberia or somewhere hopefully more exotic, still bickering even with their last breaths; or somehow miraculously survive to retirement, and become two crabby old men lingering around MI6, annoying the newer and newer generations of 00s.
"Are you going to send me after him?" James asked, instead, annoyed that his voice came out unsteady, and Tiago glanced at him, as though startled.
"No. Not you. If I have to, one of the other 00s. But I think for now we have better things to do."
That sounded far too much like pity for James' liking, but he said nothing, until Tiago added, "He could have killed us if he really wanted to. Before you even reached the island."
That much had been obvious. "He killed three of the Q-branch operatives."
"His men did, under Grishenko's orders. Which," Tiago admitted, "Doesn't change the fact that I'll shoot him for it if I see him again, but the hatred in all those murders, that was Grishenko's. Guantanamo broke much of him. He hated not only me - but the ones that I spared. Benjamin and the others. He wanted to destroy it all. Revenge himself on me while helping those who had helped him."
"Alec's still a traitor."
"That he is." Tiago hooked James' wineglass away from him, draining it and placing the glass back on the counter, "But there are big problems, and there are small problems, and I think for now I wouldn't be too concerned about Alec. Get up, James. Let's get you home."
The sharp cold of the London night sobered James up by the time he reached his apartment, made him far too aware of Tiago's warm presence beside him, a step too close to be anything but intimate, ignoring the occasional glances of passers-by. James found that he didn't quite care, curious instead of wary, then hungry by the time he was fumbling his key into the apartment door, when he felt Tiago press a palm against the small of his back again, stroking up lightly over his spine.
Growing impatiently, James pinned Tiago against the door the moment they were alone in the apartment, demanding a kiss, and it was all teeth and clawing fingers, the violence of it all in a heady thrum under his growing lust. He kissed Tiago until he had the older man squirming under his hands, moaning and breathless, his sleek clothes rumpled, rucking his hands up under Tiago's pale blue shirt to greedily rub his palms up lean muscle.
"James, wait," Tiago gasped, then growled, "No, no, no, don't you dare-" when James set his fists in Tiago's shirt and pulled, buttons pinging free against the wall to lose themselves in the carpet. Tiago bit him hard enough to draw blood when James kissed him again, but James merely licked the coppery taste deep into Tiago's mouth until long fingers clenched over the back of his neck, a mewl worming loose between abused lips.
"Puta madre," Tiago muttered, trying to inspect his shirt, only to yelp and buck against James as teeth closed over his neck, under his collar.
"Pay attention, Tiago."
"You'll regret that," Tiago retorted instead, though he stiffened with a low gasp as James worried an old scar that ran just over his collarbone to his ribs. James hissed as warm hands squeezed his arse appreciatively, then Tiago purred, velvet again, "Bedroom?"
James squinted briefly over his shoulder. "Too far."
"James," Tiago scowled, but James was licking back into his mouth, swallowing the protests, stumbling them both back, trying to at least aim for the couch, only to yelp as Tiago kicked a heel against his knees, forcing him off balance. He rolled with the fall, instinctively, jerked out of the hand that went for his arm, and they ended up wrestling on the carpet, growling, their kisses growing bruising again and bloody, intoxicating. Eventually, Tiago managed to pin James under him, his grin sharp with triumph as he shrugged off his ruined shirt and coat, gritting his teeth as James merely answered with a filthy smile and a roll of his hips. Under his sleek clothes, Tiago evidently kept himself fit - probably also force of habit - his frame marked here and there with scars that James was eager to learn.
"How do you want this to go?" James asked roughly, setting his palms over Tiago's hips, watching greedily as long fingers worked first on Tiago's belt, then James', tossing the leather aside.
"Mm." Tiago raked him with a searing, possessive glance, "I'm still thinking."
"Hurry up," James advised breathlessly, as Tiago unbuttoned his shirt, batting away James' hands when he tried to help; eventually, he lay back and waited, feeling as though he was being unravelled, inch by inch, under a stare that seemed to burn by the time his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, and when they kissed this time it was more like marking, sore and sharp with copper and wine, God, James was dizzy and panting for it, almost ready to beg, and they weren't even naked.
"I want to fuck all that arrogance out of you," Tiago whispered into his ear, following it with a lingering, slow lap over the shell, "You can lie back and think of England, if you like."
"What makes you think that I won't enjoy that?"
"Oh, Mister Bond," Tiago drawled, though his eyes were gleaming and hard with lust as he leaned back up to take his mouth again, fumbling with James' pants and his boxers just as James reached back down, and somehow they managed to kick off the rest of their clothes, Tiago's back arching greedily under James' hands as they clawed down his back, digging new scars over old ones.
Tiago had come prepared - and as much as James smirked when Tiago dug the packet of lube and a condom out of his jacket pocket, he was relieved - there was really no way they would have made it to the bedroom, not with the violence in James' mood and the answering echo in Tiago's, and he merely clenched his teeth over a hiss as the first slicked finger pushed confidently into him.
It had been a long time since he had done this, if only because women were easier in many ways, less troublesome in some countries to explain, and he forced himself to calm down, to relax, even as lips trailed distracting kisses over his pulse, less so like a lover's caress than a predator having a taste, and his heart was quickening, his blood felt hot in his veins, and this time, when he dug his nails into Tiago's back, there was a low, liquid snarl against his jaw. The second finger hurt, and James moaned, already wanting more.
Tiago was cursing in Spanish by the time he rolled on the condom, and James laughed, harsh and low, drunk on the violence as Tiago unceremoniously balled up James' suit jacket and shoved it under his hips, clenching fingers into hip bones as he pushed into James in a gritty, hot shove that had more of pain than pleasure. James pushed his heels against Tiago's back, trying to force him deeper, teeth bared, hands clenched on the carpet, and he shuddered and groaned when Tiago finally pushed all the way in, his body wild with pain and wanting more, their gasps hoarse and filthy in the space between them as Tiago started marking a trail up James' bicep to the arch of his neck.
Pain ebbed far too slowly into the deliciously uncertain ebb of pleasure, the sense of fullness growing satisfying rather than intrusive, and when James rolled his hips, Tiago tensed above him. "Well?" James challenged, his voice rusty from want, and he could barely pick out the hard gleam of Tiago's answering glance and the brilliant arc of bared teeth before Tiago pulled back and thrust back deep, the sound of their bodies arching to meet obscene and lewd, God; Tiago's measured thrusts lasted until he pushed against something in James that coloured his voice desperate, and then his pace grew savage.
James knew he was going to bruise in the morning, his shoulders and back scraped raw from the carpet even as he kicked his heels against Tiago's back to urge him faster, snarling as Tiago merely laughed and bent to brace a palm against his shoulder, his free hand reaching down to form a tight fist over James' cock, a touch too dry, almost painful as he pulled, and James was shouting, his head snapping back, spilling thickly over Tiago's elegant fingers.
Tiago growled in response, muttering something rough and incoherent, rolling his hips shallowly and waiting until James was boneless, then he cant his hips forward, shaky and out of rhythm, before stiffening and clenching his free hand tight over James' shoulder.
"I liked that shirt," Tiago complained later, when James managed to get them cleaned up and into bed, even on shaky legs, pleasantly sore. "It was Prada, you savage."
"I'll get you another one."
Tiago eyed him suspiciously, but he conceded a kiss easily enough when James licked into his mouth, relaxing when James swept a palm lazily over his waist, over the oldest scar, a pale line that rode over his hip to the curve of his thigh, and as he traced it, Tiago made a low, rumbling sound in his throat, not quite challenge, not quite contentment, and pulled James over for another kiss.
12.0.
"Where did all those roses come from?" Tiago asked by way of retort, and smirked when Q reddened.
"It seems that I'm getting stalked by my kidnapper."
"Still being stalked," Tiago corrected absently.
"His mercenaries killed John and the others," Q glowered, "Once I triangulate his location I'm going to order a nuclear strike on him. I'll hack into the United States High Command if I have to."
Tiago grimaced, unable to tell whether Q was exaggerating or truly that furious. "As much as I'll like to get my hands on the Black Dogs, that's probably disproportionate."
Q seemed to give this some due thought. "What about a drone strike? A small one?"
"You can have a small drone strike?"
"Also," Q added mulishly, "His minions destroyed MANDALA. We have a backup in cloud storage, but we're still going to need a new rig, and that battered thing that 007 threw a tank at isn't going to work. I refuse to work on anything store bought. No Dells."
"I'll talk to the Minister later this afternoon," Tiago said soothingly, just as James sauntered into his office, nodding at Q as he made a face at the matching damage on James' lush mouth.
"Good God, what were the both of you trying to do? Eat each other?"
"Well," James drawled, just as Q realized what he had just said and flushed in irritation.
"Honestly, M. You have no taste whatsoever. Haven't you read his file? 007 has a penchant for women with names like 'Honey Goodhead' and 'Pussy Galore'. I'm surprised that he doesn't have diseases."
"I could introduce you to some of them if you like," James suggested mildly, and Q shot him a look of horrified disdain.
"At least try not to do anything in the office."
"Seems to be a shame not to use a soundproof office with opaque glass," Tiago said innocently, if only to watch Q sputter and storm out. At least the boys seemed to be recovering well, even if they were more subdued than usual - and it was good to see that Q seemed to be visibly calmer than he was yesterday, refusing to take medical leave. Something about having to make sure that Tiago didn't try to 'foist off' a 'sub-par' rig on Q-branch, apparently. The boys had no faith sometimes.
It had taken hours to settle the residual chaos at MI6, chase out the CIA agents lingering around the rigs, convince Q and the others to take the mandatory psych testing and counselling seriously, talk to Downing Street and the Chairman, and it was at some unholy hour in the morning by the time Tiago finally got around to looking for James, in a foul mood and still too buzzed from adrenaline to rest. It had been... educational. Exhilarating, certainly. He'd certainly forgotten what it was like to dance with another hunter.
"You asked for me?" James noted, his tone neutral, although there was still that lovely lazy curiosity in his eyes, and Tiago picked up the mission folder marked Confidential on his desk, circling over to tap the flat of it against James' chest.
"Ready to get to work, 007?"
"With pleasure, M," James purred now, the heat ebbing into velvet, as he leaned over to brush a kiss with just enough hunger in it to tease against Tiago's lips, "With pleasure."