Disclaimer: I do not own the Bond movies or books.
This is an AU character study of Bond, where Q is a massage therapist called Quillian, and Bond is just the same stubborn bastard he always is.
James Bond had successfully avoided Medical and their injunctions against him for months now. He had been injured a a lot recently; stabbed a few weeks ago as well as shot twice and tortured five times in six months. He just wanted some peace and quiet after all of that, was that too much to ask for? Apparently, it was.
Now the double agent found himself being forcibly restrained (it took six or eight people, he wasn't, after all, actively counting them considering the circumstances, all of them experts in the field) and tightly tied to a massage table. He assumed he would have known why, had he not refused to read any and all notes Medical sent him.
He looked up as much as he was able (which honestly wasn't much in his position) as someone with much softer steps, compared to agents and security, entered. It was a young man with unruly dark hair, his clothing hinting at that he was perhaps tied to medical; definitely not a field agent.
The young man entered with a raised eyebrow, speaking quietly to the agents by the door before going towards Bond, introducing himself as his massage therapist, Quillian Trevor.
Knowing that there was no way even he could get out of this, and he'd be damned if he'd cooperate with such high-handed measures as capturing him, Bond tensed his muscles minutely and let his thoughts drift into a neutral space, same as he would during torture.
The young man, Quillian, apparently, did not seem to be surprised by this. He had been briefed on what to expect, and this was not his first double oh, either. He started out by gently feeling across the well-defined muscles of 007's back, noting their deliberate but subtle tension, and holding back a sigh. This was going to be tricky, and energy-consuming, and frustrating, on his part; and likely highly painful for his clearly unwilling patient.
Bond had several minutes of careful movements and the younger man judging his muscle damage to prepare himself mentally, as well as several kind-hearted warnings, all spoken with a soft tone of voice; about how it'd really be much easier on both of them if he relaxed. Even then, he was surprised at how much it hurt. His muscles clearly weren't in the greatest of shape, when it came to knots and rehabilitation. "Holy moly," the massage therapist's voice made Bond look up again, many agonizing minutes later.
"Something wrong?" Bond would never admit it, but he prided himself on how unaffected he sounded at this point.
The man merely shook his head, his expression slightly disbelieving. "No. No, I just haven't seen..." the young man cut himself short, then smiled, cupping some mucles between Bond's shoulders gently instead to demonstrate what he meant, "these muscle groups, here, like yours before. I cannot work through them while you're this tense. I mean, I see that often with biceps, triceps, that kind of thing, rock solid, really, but never with these shoulder muscle groups," the massage therapist shrugged again. "You clearly put your body through things my usual patients doesn't do."
"It would seem like it." Bond held back a wince and turned his head away again. It really was getting excruciating, as those strong hands attacked his muscles. He tensed some more against the pain and tried to hold back a hiss. He succeeded. He was, after all, a professional.
Bond was letting a shudder through in fatigue not ten minutes later, and felt relief as those strong, painful hands stilled. He would almost want to ask what it was the man did just below his injured shoulder; the agent was sure it could be used in interrogation.
"You're tiring." The younger man noted. "And I am not through, not by a long shot." Bond sighed internally to hear that. "We could make a deal, you know. I don't enjoy torturing you, and this isn't necessary."
"No? What do you propose, then?" Much as he was loathed to admit it, making it stop was starting to sound attractive.
"Don't make me continue with these muscles today; you soon cannot take it anymore, I can tell, and then have them drag you back here in a few weeks or a month. Come next week, for your actual appointment. Stop fighting me. I can make this much nicer, you know."
"Oh?" Bond quipped back in a sceptical voice, only to the next moment be flooded with an intense sensation of pleasure, innocent, yes, but strong, from something Quillian did with his hands.
"Quite," the man confirmed. "What about I help you relax a bit, ease up the muscles for you; you simply must be closing in on cramps by now, and we'll see each other again next week? It won't be nearly as painful if you cooperate, you know. And I always prefer to work on a willing victim." Bond turned around, studied the young face, which was smiling, not unkindly, at him and then he nodded.
The next few minutes were as relaxing and unthreatening as the previous half-hour had been trying and painful. Quillian was taking great care to soothe and work through some smaller knots, not even coming close to the injured or painful areas again, and James found himself closing his eyes, finally, knowing that there was no direct threat here; and finding himself actually liking it, there was no reason not to indulge a bit, and relax.