James Bond heard his Voice for the first time at just 11 years old. The unusualness of hearing his Voice at such a young age, combined with the devastating loss of his parents just a few months earlier meant that the quiet gurgle of "maman" was passed off as a hallucination by the young boy. No one ever hears their Voice that young.
The month after that, he reassessed this idea when a soft whisper of "papa" woke him one morning. He had a soulmate.
It was not as common as it once was, but it was a well-loved theme in many romance films and novels. If your soul had a mate, a match so profound that it connected two people at the deepest level, you could hear their Voice in your head.
Scientists had gathered and worked to explain the phenomenon into objective chemical signals and chromosomal mutations, desperate to assign reason to that which many claimed as divine intervention. Others viewed the connection as a cosmic event that re-connected a soul that had accidentally split during one reincarnation, attempting to restore balance.
James Bond did not have an opinion on the 'why' or 'how' of his new-found connection, he was just overwhelmed by the thought that he wouldn't be faced with this loneliness any longer. He had a soulmate.
A very young soulmate. Easily ten years his junior. James followed the rapid progression of his Voice's accomplishments – moving quickly from 'maman' and 'papa' to "non", and "chat" within mere weeks. James decided it was some sort of cruel irony that his Voice was French, and was cycling through the very same first words James' mother had said were his first words. His mother had always wanted him to learn French fluently, and now he wished desperately he had spent more time with her learning. He wished he had more time with her in general.
Each time he felt himself sinking into despair, he'd hear his Voice again, happily pronouncing "non!" with childish glee. So he kept on.
-:-
At 13, James Bond was angry. No one else ever heard their Voice until adulthood, and here he was with a baby in his head. Why did he have to have a soulmate who could do nothing for him? Why did he have to be teased with the potential of the perfect best friend, but keep them separate? The small pool of warmth in his chest taunted him as he sat in the Headmaster's chair, receiving a tongue-lashing for the third time this week.
He wasn't supposed to be this lonely with a soulmate.
-:-
At 15, James Bond stood alone before the empty grave of Hannes Oberauser. He'd lost his second father in just four years, and he was furious. Where was his soulmate now? He clenched his fists, blinking back tears of equal parts frustration and soul-crushing longing. He was so alone. His Voice had progressed over the years, and he barely heard him now. Occasionally, he'd hear his Voice babbling happily about trains and the sky. But nothing useful - nothing to warm the icy chill that had settled over his heart. What were soulmates for, if not to be there when he needed them? Why did he have to listen to a happy, giggly, and loved child as he buried his last chance for a family?
He didn't.
Eyes tracing the newly engraved tombstone, James Bond decided he would no longer listen. He had no soulmate.
So he did all he could to drown out the Voice. It wasn't hard most of the time. For whatever reason, he only heard his Voice every few months – a gleeful giggle, an awed 'wow', or a quiet whimper of pain. The last had stopped him dead in his tracks, sending a cold trickle of fear down his spine. For the first time in years he floundered around his mind, seeking out more connection with his Voice, needing to know – are you alright?
And was promptly punched in the nose. His head shot back, the force of the blow breaking bone, and he shook his head. Blinking back the automatic tears, he focused on his opponent, belatedly chastising himself for losing focus in the middle of a sparring.
"Getch'r head outta' yer' arse, Bond!" his coach snapped, coming to stand before him, tossing a towel into his hands. James wiped at his bloody face in a daze, shaken by the swell of concern and fear that accompanied the small whimper.
"Bond!"
He blinked again to focus on his coach. The man snorted, and then promptly removed his gloves for him. "Hit the showers," he commanded. "An' next time, focus!"
James mentally shook himself, gritting his teeth at his own slip. He turned and stalked off toward the showers, resolutely not thinking about his Voice. He had no soulmate.
-:-
At 17 he graduated and moved on to the Royal Naval College, determined more than ever to occupy his mind with adrenaline and strategy – finding he heard his Voice less when overcome with the thrill of the chase and surge of endorphins. And it was becoming more difficult to tune out his Voice.
The child couldn't be more than 7, and yet the few times Bond heard him, the child was prattling on about maths – maths. With honest-to-god excitement. English was spoken just as often as French, and the child projected a general feel of inexhaustible curiosity. It was in no way, at all, adorable.
-:-
At 20, he took a year at Sea Service, giving him his first taste of espionage, and he was immediately hooked. Nothing drove away the Voice like the adrenaline-fueled underwater tactical training – the water seeming to drown out the now older Voice, obsessed with creating and inventing. At no more than 10 years old, his Voice shone with intelligence and a thirst for knowledge. It absolutely did not fill him with a glimmer of pride.
He received his big promotion to Naval Intelligence at only 22, an exciting opportunity that he was determined not to waste. He had a goal, and he was damn sure going to reach it. The greatest passion he'd felt, the energy that finally lifted him from his surly downward spiral, was service to his country. He didn't need a family if he could work to protect Queen and Country, and in fact, it worked better that way. He quickly moved up through the ranks, moving first to submarine service, then onto the Special Boat Service, leaving behind a trail of recommendations.
It was late in the evening during the spring of 1993 when it happened. He was free-diving, scouting a location for an assignment, when his Voice uttered a terrible, gut-wrenching, horrifying, cry. Bond jerked to a stop, unable to stop the deep intake of breath as alien feelings of shock, despair, and absolute terror washed over him.
He kicked hard to reach the surface, lungs burning from the sudden intake of cold water, and breached with a gasp.
"Mamman! Papa! No!"
His Voice sobbed out the words, pain and loss nearly suffocating Bond. For a moment, alone and bobbing in the waves, James Bond was an eleven-year-old boy standing at his front door listening as a police officer informed him of his parent's deaths. His chest tightened, and for the first time in more years that he could count, he felt his eyes burn with tears.
"Come back," his Voice whispered, the words breaking. "Don't leave me."
You're not alone. If thoughts could whisper, that's what Bond's sounded like. His Voice wouldn't be able to hear him.
He knew, as only a child who had lost his parents could know, that the sudden loneliness was the most crushing feeling in the world. He knew he should say something.
You're not alone.
He couldn't. He opened his mouth to form the words of comfort he knew would give something to the grieving boy. And yet.
The cacophony of pain and overwhelming loss seemed to crest in the long minutes Bond waited, treading water and struggling with himself. The feelings ebbed away eventually, leaving James feeling empty and cold. Only his own sadness filling his chest.
He waited minutes that felt like hours, waiting for something, anything really. For the first time in years, he desperately wanted to hear his Voice. Nothing came.
James tried to burry the sudden anger that gripped him, because no one should have such an effect on him. But he could do little to stop the onslaught. He didn't want to feel these things, didn't want to be reminded of his loss.
He recognized the childish, petty part of him that was sadistically glad that his Voice suffered as he did. Misery loves company, and while he knew it wouldn't make things any better, he was glad to know his loss was shared.
Bitter anger fueled him as he swam off toward his small boat, and grim determination spurred his renewed sentiments. He had no soulmate.
-:-
Two years went by and James Bond created a name for himself. Though rarely following standard protocol, Bond finished every job not only in record time, but with strategies that had previously gone overlooked. Each mission brought him the adrenaline high he craved to push away his Voice. His growing Voice.
He could not help but hear the deepening of his Voice's tone, nor the edge of polite aloofness in the crisp, posh accent. Despite his best efforts, his traitorous thoughts strayed at night as he tossed and turned. Where had the bright, giggling child gone? After pushing the Voice away, it seemed that one day his Voice was suddenly older. Where had the childhood gone?
"Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me?"
His Voice sounded dry and unimpressed at only 16. On the rare occurrence that Bond could actually hear him, his Voice sounded tightly controlled and cool. Once, during the darkest part of night, Bond contemplated for the first time how his Voice sounded.
What do you hear when you hear me?
A sudden, rather overwhelming thought flooded him then. His own voice was cold and emotionless. The only words his Voice would be able to hear of him would be the efficient, tightly controlled responses to commanders, or else his quick bark of orders to his team. Worse, Bond thought, the honey smooth, sultry words that he used to ensnare his female prey before using them and leaving.
What must you think of me?
It did not matter, he reminded himself gruffly, turning over to lie on his stomach. He had a well-established routine of ignoring his Voice, and a determined resolution to live out his life without ever hearing his Voice with his own ears. He had no soulmate.
Not one that would want him.
-:-
After eleven years serving in the Navy, the 28-year-old found himself walking through the doors of MI6, a swagger in his step and a wry smile on his face. This was where he would make a difference. This was where he could best serve his country.
He felt nothing as he checked the 'NO' box next to the question, "Do you have a Voice?" After all, he had no soulmate.
Bond gritted his teeth and muddled through the seemingly endless menial tasks assigned to lower-level agents, mind ever focused on the end goal. Double-oh status.
Working behind a desk meant more than just mind-numbing, dull tasks, however. It meant no heart-pumping distractions from his Voice.
He could hear him ever day now, the crisp accent filling his head while Bond gripped his pen with crushing strength.
"If you'd rather it be done in a week instead of a day, then by all means, continue."
"That level of malware is simply not going to achieve what you want, if you'd just…"
His Voice was skilled in computers, that much Bond could understand. He figured the boy worked in computer securities, as he often would bemoan the anti-virus technology he had to work with. He sounded like a right little shit.
"One cup of Earl Grey, please. Dash of milk, no sugar."
Bond snorted. Without fail, his Voice would order tea in the mid afternoon, and occasionally, he'd hear a very soft sigh of contentment. It was not adorable in the least.
At the end of a long day, Bond leaned back in his chair to stretch his arms. He hated desk work.
"Stop."
Bond froze mid-stretch.
A slight prickling of fear drifted into his mind, but so subtle, Bond doubted he'd have noticed had he not been silent.
"Let go."
Bond straightened in his chair, senses on high-alert as he felt the sliver of fear increase almost minutely. It was almost as if it was being pushed down by something, muted somehow.
He strained to hear more, anything, reaching out blindly to that part of his mind he'd spent a decade pushing to the side. His efforts were met with little success, only serving to sharpen the tang of fear.
Then abruptly, resignation. That did not stay for long either, despite Bond's desperate attempts to seek out more emotion or words from his Voice. He was suddenly very afraid.
"Tell me what's wrong," he growled into the empty office, feeling foolish. He didn't know how to do this.
Nothing. Just a dull sense of numbness.
"Where are you?" he tried again, standing despite the utterly uselessness of the action. "What's wrong?"
"Go away."
Bond sunk down into his chair. The whispered words were meant for him, he was absolutely sure of it. The prickle of fear had returned, along with a simmering of indignant anger, before smoothing over into bland numbness.
He sat in his office, staring straight ahead for thirty minutes, hoping for anything, but nothing came. He hates me, he thought, surprised at the disappointment he felt at the revelation. Why shouldn't he? I've pushed him away.
After an hour of silence, both inside the office and inside his mind, Bond stood. Fixing the lapels of his suit, he mentally shook himself, then walked away.
-:-
Thankfully, his superiors agreed with his assessment that he was being wasted pushing paper, and he was promoted to field work. This he could do.
Gradually his Voice faded as Bond took mission after mission, throwing himself into the heat of Afghani deserts, the muddy swamps of Indonesia, and the crowded streets of South America. He travelled and worked with a single-minded determination to protect Queen and Country and climb the ranks, each passing year bringing him closer to Double-oh status.
-:-
At 35, he finally learned French in the blistering heat of Port-au Prince, working to dismantle a human trafficking organization.
"Je trouve qu'il n'y a pas assez de fumee ici. Et si on sortait fumer une clope?" There's not enough smoke in here, let's go outside.
Bond whispered the admittedly rather clichéd pick-up line into his companion's ear, letting his lips graze the woman's neck before meeting her gaze with his own.
"Tu saurais m'indiquer ou se trouve le vestiaire, cherie?" she replied with a smirk. Where is the coat check, darling?
"Vous ne devrez pas votre manteaux où nous allons. Vous ne devrez pas les vêtements, en fait," he purred, his voice husky. You won't need your coat where we're going. You won't need any clothes, in fact.
As he received a tantalizing arched brow and a quirk of blood red lips, Bond was distracted by the sudden gasp he heard in his head. He froze. There was silence in his head, but he was sure he had heard his Voice.
"Monsieur Bond?"
He blinked, coming out of his mind to meet pretty hazel eyes.
"Je suis désolé," he apologized, giving her a suggestive grin.
They left quickly, and indeed, she needed no clothing when they reached his hotel. Bond whispered the dirtiest things he could think of into the woman's ear as he thrust into her from behind, purring out the silken French words. Not so much for his companion's enjoyment, though indeed it seemed to do the trick, but to test his theory.
Sure enough, mere moments after he'd started his litany of downright filthy French, he heard another small gasp in his head. Bond smirked, feeling somehow like he had won a game he didn't realize he'd been playing.
After sneaking out of the room in the early hours of the morning, Bond contemplated this new thought. His Voice was nearing 22 now, and was clearly no longer a child. He smirked again remembering the quiet intake of breath he'd heard. But then paused.
He'd never heard his Voice during any intimate moments, he realized. Turning on his shower, Bond mulled this over, conceding that there were many times he had been occupied by missions, and he could have simply missed his Voice's first time. There was also the chance that his Voice had yet to partake, how ever strange the thought may be to Bond-there were some who refrained.
He snorted. No soulmate of his would be the kind to refrain.
Bond froze. He hadn't thought of his Voice as his soulmate in over two decades.
Stop this, he told himself sternly, scrubbing his hair vigorously. You have no soulmate.
-:-
At the age of 38, James Bond fulfilled his goal in achieving Double-oh status. He then promptly lost his status after destroying an Embassy in Madagascar.
The slip-up wouldn't deter him, though, and M returned his title so that he could chase down the mastermind of a series of organized – and thwarted, thanks to Bond – terrorist attacks.
Le Chiffre was a worthy target, and Bond relished the complexity and high-stake activity that drove his Voice from his mind.
And then Vesper.
He stared into her vibrant dark eyes and how he wished so desperately that she was his soulmate. He threaded his fingers through hers. Reveling in the smoothness compared to his gruff skin, he felt renewed anger toward his Voice.
But then, she betrayed him.
"The bitch is dead," he told M, fighting like hell to keep his tone brusque and businesslike. Inside, he was screaming. Every breath hurt, his chest reduced in size as if Vesper had taken his heart with her into her watery grave. He wanted to scream, he wanted to destroy. More than anything - and absolutely not something he was willing to admit even to himself - he wanted to cry.
He hung up the phone and stared at what was supposed to be one of the most beautiful and romantic cities in the world. Venice seemed to mock him now with its stunning architecture and weathered cobble stone streets. Couples walked hand-in-hand, oblivious to the crushing weight of despair gripping him. He felt so alone.
"You're not alone."
Bond actually startled at the whispered words in his head.
"I'm still here."
He tightened his hands into fists, fighting to gain control over his swirling emotions.
"Go away," he growled through clenched teeth, bitter and angry. He didn't want the boy, it wasn't his voice he so desperately wanted to hear. And he hated himself for wanting to hear her traitorous voice. Hated the weakness that love provided him. He should hate her, and yet, he could only hate himself for not being able to.
-:-
Bond continued his work, because that was what he did best. Work drove away the Voice. Killing provided him an outlet for his self-loathing, and sleeping with countless women drove away from the dark spiral of his thoughts, allowing him to fall asleep almost instantly. It worked for him.
He once again lost his Double-oh status after being framed in Bolivia, but even that didn't stop him. The Quantum provided him with ample distraction from everything, his body working past its breaking point and allowing him his coveted dreamless sleep.
Predictably, he regained his title, and M granted him his greatest wish, allowing him to track down Vesper's former lover.
As he tossed Vesper's necklace into the snow, he breathed out a sigh that somehow took with it much of the darkness that had taken root in his chest. He felt lighter.
-:-
Three years passed, and without James noticing it, he heard his Voice more often. More surprising than this sudden realization was the insight that came along with it. He didn't mind it.
His Voice had a smooth cadence of speech that sounded almost elegant. What was once a frustratingly posh accent was now a comforting sound that spoke to his Voice's intelligence and calming disposition.
For the very first time, James wondered what his Voice looked like.
He shut down that train of thought quickly, but it never quite went away.
-:-
At 41 years old, James Bond died.
The sudden burst of pain in his right shoulder pulled a pained grunt from him. Then he fell.
He felt the air forced from his lungs as he hit the water at bone-breaking speeds. His mind was suddenly filled with a loud, desperate cry of "No!"
The weight of tranquility settled around him, and he felt himself go limp as the rushing river carried his body along. Darkness fell, accompanied by a litany of quiet pleas, "No, no, no…"
He couldn't gather the strength to respond with words, so he hoped his Voice could hear his thoughts.
I'm sorry.
-:-
He survived.
James Bond opened his eyes to blinding pain across his entire body.
"Do not move," a voice croaked, raspy with age and disuse. "You are healing."
An old woman came into his view and she gave him a superbly stern and unimpressed stare.
He tried to respond, but winced at the horrendous pain in his throat.
"No speaking, either," she admonished him before turning her back and gathering wet clothes.
"Heal," she said, laying the cloth across his chest, as if she could command his body to her will. Maybe she could.
He let his eyes close, the warm air leaving his pleasantly drowsy.
"Heal, so you can find your Voice."
Her voice was far away as Bond slipped into unconsciousness, his mind not quite sure if she had truly said anything. He fell asleep accompanied by a soft sigh of relief echoing through his mind.
Three weeks later found Bond absolutely sloshed at a rickety bar, surrounded by scantily clad women and sweaty men.
"Another!" he commanded, turning his shot glass and slamming it on the bar top.
"Very classy," the snide Voice in his head remarked.
"Sod off," he growled as he received yet another shot. He'd lost count at ten.
"Truly a paradigm of strength and masculinity," his Voice continued, dry as the Sahara desert.
"You're not real," Bond slurred, earning several wide, nervous stares. "Get outta m'head."
The Voice let out an audible sigh. "Tis my dearest desire, I assure you," he said, a hint of bitterness creeping into the otherwise dry tone. "Having you in my head is truly horrible."
Bond snorted, gesturing for one more. The bartender paused for a second before Bond tossed a few notes at him. Another shot was poured.
"Cheers to that, mate," he slurred, tossing back another shot. He stood from his stool and swayed heavily. He managed to make it out to the beach, stumbling along the still sun-warmed sand, before he collapsed.
Eyes closing, he heard a final sigh.
"What did I do to deserve a soulmate like you?"
Bond slipped into unconsciousness, but not even the wealth of alcohol flooding his system could prevent the overwhelming wave of self-loathing.
Bright sunlight burning his face woke him in what felt like minutes. Bond sat up slowly, groaning and lowering his head into his hands.
Stuck there on the beach, unable to move for fear of losing the little he had in his stomach, James Bond was finally forced into some introspection.
He'd awoken from near death in the small, dusty hut of an elderly woman. She'd told him of how she found him, floating in the river near her preferred washing spot. After finding a weak pulse and watery breaths, she and several men from the town carried him to her hut, where he had recovered for a week before waking.
He'd thanked her, but refused any more help, desperately desiring to leave the small space.
"Go," she said, shooing him out the door. "Go and find what you seek."
He'd looked over his shoulder at the woman before heading down the beach.
He had then spent the next three weeks drowning out his Voice and his own thoughts in the only way he could – sex and alcohol.
His agency had abandoned him. They'd shot him from the train, not trusting him to finish the job on his own. Then, they hadn't even looked for his body.
Bond thumped a fist into the sand. He'd willingly given his body to serve his country - he truly and deeply felt pride in his work for the Crown. England was the only family he had left, and he would fight for her to his death.
And how had his country repaid him?
He spat down in the sand, hoping to rid himself of the horrible taste in his mouth. He was unsuccessful.
So he drank to ignore the bitter resentment and pain. And he fucked to drive his thoughts away from his Voice.
A day after he'd awoken and left the old woman's house, he'd stopped by a small convenience store.
"Water?" he had croaked, throat on fire, feeling rubbed completely raw. The man had taken pity on him, handing him his own plastic bottle. Bond couldn't have cared less that the water was slightly murky – it was glorious.
He had nearly chocked on it, however, when he heard a sharp gasp from inside his mind.
"You're alive."
His Voice had sounded hesitant and so very small. Bond had hesitated in taking another sip, mind occupied by the slow swirl of hope that appeared inside his head.
"Thank you," he'd said to the man, handing him back the bottle. The man nodded, and Bond had left.
Conflicted, Bond had walked back toward the river, feeling the burgeoning hope that grew stronger each moment.
For a precious few moments, Bond contemplated the idea of going to him. This boy who had turned into a man without Bond really noticing. The boy who had been in his head for thirty years, but never reaching into his heart.
He had looked down at his tanned, weathered, and scarred hands, noting each imperfection. He'd created a perfect weapon out of his body. He had spent his entire life throwing away that which made him his own person.
If he had a soulmate, the one person in the world who completed him, he had destroyed that.
He wasn't the person he was meant to be. He was now simply a weapon for his country to wield against threats. Whoever was meant to belong to this boy, this calm, soothing, intelligent Voice, it wasn't him. The boy's soulmate did not exist anymore.
And he wouldn't be satisfied with what remained.
He had stood, stared into the water that very well should have been his grave, and turned away.
Three weeks later, and here he sat. Somewhere along the coast of the Caribbean, James Bond looked up from the sand, fighting against his massive headache, and stood.
Walking along the beach to his small shack, he rubbed his eyes, trying to push away the growing feelings of doubt and guilt. His Voice had actually shouted at him after that day, three weeks ago. But Bond had resolutely ignored him. He had nothing to give the boy.
One more week passed, Bond's days revolving around the bottom of a bottle, and his nights on top of a woman.
Then, just before sunrise, he awoke to a shout in his head.
He bolted upright, adrenaline pumping away the headache that usually accompanied his hangover, and stood.
"Everyone, calmly proceed to the emergency exists," his Voice instructed, cool and collected. The only perceptible anxiety was kept hidden, but not from Bond.
"What's happened?" he asked, ignoring the indignant muttering from his slumbering bedmate.
His Voice ignored him. Even the twinge of anxiety was starting to fade, leaving Bond with only his own pounding heart. But Bond knew this trick.
"Do not shut me out," he growled, throwing on his trousers as he left the bedroom. As the years had passed, he realized his Voice had an uncanny ability to hide himself away. In the last year, he'd heard less and less the day-to-day activity of his Voice, only becoming privy to words spoken when the boy experienced extreme emotion. He'd witnessed ecstatic joy, pain, terror, and extreme irritation. And now, his boy was forcing down his anxiety and fear, bottling up the emotion in the hopes that Bond wouldn't hear him.
"No, go on, I'll stay behind to power down the network and tech."
His Voice came much more quietly now, mere whispers in the back of his head. Bond paced the beach, fists clenched. He growled at the command. Of bloody course the boy would be noble.
He's my soulmate, after all.
Bond shook the thought away. "Talk to me," he barked, using his Commander Voice.
"Go away."
It stung. Bond paused his pacing and sat down in the sand. Fine, he thought. If his Voice was hurt, he'd know, he was sure of it. And what would you do if he was hurt? Nothing. He wouldn't be able to do anything.
The thought sent his palms itching and his heart racing.
I need to go back.
He sat on the beach until the sun rose, contemplating the crystal blue waves that lapped lightly at his feet. Finally, he rose and moved toward the small restaurant and bar. He'd be able to catch a boat off the island to somewhere he could take out money from one of his accounts, then find a flight back to England.
He grabbed a barstool and signaled for the bar tender. He'd need a few drinks in him before the day began. With one glass of cheap tequila now making its way into his system, Bond turned to the television.
And felt his heart stop.
"BREAKING NEWS: MI6 TERRORIST ATTACK"
"…early reports from the scene indicate six dead, many more injured, with victims being evacuated to hospitals within minutes of the explosion."
He shot up from his stool to get closer to the television, heart hammering. The explosion happened at 0900 England time, meaning 0400 for Bond.
0400.
You're MI6, he thought, mind struggling to wrap around the sheer ridiculousness of the fact. But there it was, staring at him in the face. His Voice worked for MI6. Buggering shite.
He was going back.