Title: Breaking The Fall
Rating: Big 'M', little 'm', what begins with M? Mads, MI6, and Mature! M, M, M! (Yes, I just bastardized Dr. Seuss. I regret nothing.)
Disclaimer: I don't even own an ejector seat. Darn.
Summary: The mission's not over until he's back with her.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to "When We Fall" but can work as a stand-alone.
The flat is dark except for a single lamp. It's in the bedroom by the nightstand, casting enough buttery light to give the window a slight glow but not enough to reveal the interior.
He knows she's awake.
The key slides into the lock noiselessly and he pads through the space. He can barely make out fuzzy shapes and lines, all blurred and indistinct, but he doesn't need light. He knows this place by heart. He shucks his coat, scarf and shoes as he goes, letting them lie where they fall on the floor. He'll pick them up later.
She's in the bedroom, her back to the doorway, and she's in the process of unhooking her bra. His lips twitch up into a half-smile that might not change the hard lines of his face but still manages to reach his eyes, warming up the blue ice within.
She knows he's there – she works at a desk but she's far from stupid – but she doesn't acknowledge him until he moves forward, wrapping his arms around her and skimming his lips over the side of her neck.
"Mallory sent you home." It is a statement, not a question.
"I couldn't think up an excuse to stay." While not exactly against policy, their relationship would undoubtedly be frowned upon by the new head of MI6.
He runs his hands over her curves, smoother than finely carved wood and as whisper-soft as still water when the palm of a hand is barely pressed to the surface. She presses back against him, silent but pleading, their bodies aching for the warmth the other provides.
"He at least let you know I was back?"
"Q did. Bugger text me the moment you stepped through the door, grumbling about how you blew up the yacht he gave you."
"He shouldn't have let me have a yacht, then."
"It fired torpedoes, Eve! It was gorgeous!" She mimics the young head of the Q Department with startling accuracy.
Bond chuckles against her skin. "I'll be sure to send him an apology letter." He jokes.
Her response is merely a hum. He can feel it fill up her body, the vibrations passing from her to him, making him ache and tremble.
He's spoken (argued with) Mallory, met up with (gotten yelled at by) Q, and turned in his report, but she is his last stop and the most important one, because the mission's not over until he's back with her. When she's in his arms and he's in hers, everything can finally fall away. He can tumble over the edge and let himself be free, relax and release all of the tension and death and split-second decisions he's had to make over the past few days or weeks.
When it's in between or before missions, it's different. She's at her desk, and there's witty banter and shameless flirting and sentences laced with double meanings. They go out, dancing and drinking and laughing, and the sex is everything from fun to filthy to torturously slow. It's almost normal.
But this is after the mission. This is immeasurably different.
He's killed people. She knows this. He's slept with a few women. She knows that. He's nearly died at least three times. She understands. But she never worries, never frets or fusses. She knows he'll tell her everything, relieve himself and burden her in one fell swoop as he lays his deeds down at her feet, offerings to the alter he worships at.
She turns in his arms, kissing him like there's something on his lips she wants to erase. She never gets jealous, no matter how hard he's tried, but she's just possessive enough to match him in ferocity in the bedroom. The lines of their bodies match up for a bare second, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, the brushstrokes and outlines meeting like mirror images, opposite and equal. But then she widens her stance so that he can slide his hands around to grip the back of her thighs and lift her up, and the moment of symmetry is gone.
"Next time, I'm coming straight here." He growls, carrying her over to the bed and wondering why the fuck they still have clothes on.
"Yes, and stay officially MIA for an extra day. Mallory will love that." She replies, tugging at his belt like it's personally offended her.
"If you could not mention our boss when we're like this, I'd take it as a kindness." He mutters, trying to rid her of her underwear and wincing when there's an audible rip.
"You're paying for that."
"I never liked that pair, anyway."
"Bastard." The word becomes a groan as he presses against her, feeling the wet, slick heat between her thighs.
They don't have pet names, nicknames, or terms of endearment. And they will certainly never say 'I love you'. Those are the words of permanence, of normalcy, and they have neither in this shadowy side world. But it's said anyway, in the curses they push out through clenched teeth, the teasing way they say each other's last names, more a caress than a word, and in the whispered, broken cries they release in the other's skin. It's there, lurking under the surface, and it's a terrible vice but it's the only thing breaking his fall at the end of each mission. It's the only thing saving him from drowning.
Ironic, that the woman who nearly killed him is the one keeping him alive.
She traces the scar on his shoulder with her tongue, soothing any imagined pain even as her fingernails dig into his back. There are times when he comes back (he won't let himself think 'home') and she pins him, riding him with a desperation that rivals his own, but this time she knows he needs to be in control. She can always tell. She reads him like she's got x-ray vision for his heart (which reminds him, he needs to talk to Q about those goggles…) and he doesn't even try hiding anything from her because she'll just figure it out anyway, with little or no effort on her part.
But he doesn't focus on that. Not right now. He lets everything fall, and himself as well, into these precious few moments. These moments, filled with nothing but her and him and the sensations they're creating together. He has to savor them. He has to, for they are his salvation. They are the only things stopping him from crashing or, worse yet, falling forever into darkness.
Afterwards, he traces the mounds of her breasts and dips in her hips and stomach, watching the shadows and orange glow of the streetlamp play over the midnight caramel of her skin. Most women are the opposite, clinging to him in a futile attempt to keep him, but she lays there and lets him do as he wills.
He thinks that if M (M for Mother, for Maternal, for Motherfucking Bitch) were alive she'd approve of their relationship. She'd act annoyed and slightly disgusted and constantly make quips about it, but she'd approve. She understood about Vesper, after all.
He can feel himself falling again, this time into slumber, and knows that his body is finally giving in to exhaustion. He pulls her closer and she slips an arm around him, nuzzling into his shoulder like a sleek black jaguar. Which reminds him, he needs to…
"Q also said if you mess up that car again he'll kill you himself." She mutters, sleep trailing at the edges of her voice like the heavy tail of a kite.
He gives up trying to remember anything (she'll remember it all for him, anyway) and lets the feel of her body and her warm breath on his neck call him into sleep.
"Eve." He breathes into her hair as he drifts off.
He's a heavy sleeper despite his ability to jump awake the instant there's danger, and he feels utterly safe here so he never stirs when she moves. He never feels her press a kiss to his temple, or hears her whisper a sentence that includes his first name.
Nevertheless, he smiles in his slumber. Because one way or another, she'll always break his fall.
I hope that you all enjoyed that! It was slightly shorter than I originally intended but no matter. Reviews are as valued as a gun and enjoyed like a good martini!