Disclaimer: I do not own the Bond movies or books.
Warnings: Only for those with really dramatic triggers. Some completely vague references to torture (basically, Bond thinks the word) and unpleasant other ways of harming spies. All such notions are through with very quickly.
I hope you will enjoy this story!
James Bond awoke accompanied by the tell-tale feeling of restraints around his wrists, and he held back a wince in case he was being watched. The room was almost painfully bright, lit by what seemed to his closed eyes to be electronic devices by the sharp light. He had been chasing someone on the wanted list, looking for information on who he worked for in order to stop a possible tragedy which threatened to occur later in the week.
Had they caught him? If so, he better take advantage of this no doubt short respite to clear his head, because torture was usually how these things went. If not? Well, judging by how his career had been going, and the number of enemies he had acquired, it probably didn't matter who it was who was holding him. This was bound to hurt.
Then there was a hand cradling his head, and he opened his eyes with a snap. They obviously knew he was awake, anyway.
What he saw was a young man with longish dark hair and thick glasses. The room was not what he expected either; large, comfortable, almost lavish. Not the darkish, lonely dungeon you usually beat people to a pulp in. That was about when it dawned on him that what he was lying on wasn't typical either, and he looked down; noting the soft quilts, cushions and covers over a very comfortable, kingsize bed.
Bond had to force himself to look back up at his kidnapper at that. Torture was one thing. Not even he wanted to contemplate what this might become, especially as there was still a hand by his head. But this suspicion was allayed almost immediately, as the hand moved to properly stroke his head, but paused. "May I?" the kidnapper asked, voice kind and eyes intelligent, not putting any pressure on him. Slowly, Bond gave a nod.
The man immediately moved his hand, almost petting him, caressing both the skin by his jaw and his short hair, touch decidedly gentle; careful, even. "I know what you were after," the voice was only a soft murmur, "I can get it for you. I can get anything. And I will warn you immediately: I have failsafes in place that will bring the economy of thirty countries down if you hurt me at all."
Listening to this, Bond titled his head back slightly, giving the man better access and putting himself in a position where his windpipes would protect the arteries of his throat somewhat from a blade at the same time. Not that he really thought hurting him was this young man's intention. No doubt, he would give his intentions away sooner or later. Until then, Bond was ready to listen and bide his time. And seeming cooperative certainly wouldn't hurt in the meantime.