Disclaimer: I don't own "James Bond" or any of the 007 characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I wanted to do a little OOQ wing fic and got carried away. Inspired by the following prompt: "Humans can not fix the problem because humans are the problem."
Warnings: angel!Q, mild language, canon appropriate violence, drama, angst, romance, pining, wing fic, religious themes and references, angels and demons. - Told in Bond's point of view.
Suspire
Chapter Two
The pail of freezing water hit him like a slap. Snapping his eyes open as the humid-dark of an unfinished room took shape around him.
But it hadn't woke him.
He'd been awake for close to two hours.
Listening.
Trying to loosen the restraints they had him in.
He still put on a show though. Making a production of spluttering and gasping as stale water rolled down his chin. Shaking his head, as if to clear it, as cruel laughter rebounded off the crumbling concrete and exposed rebar.
There were five of them.
He'd heard them talking.
Four distinct voices.
The fifth hadn't spoken a word.
He'd already pegged him as the leader.
That arsehole was noticeable by the way his expensive leather shoes creaked. That and the smell. A sickly undercurrent of burned flesh and old blood. It was a stomach-churning combination he was admittedly familiar with, but not to this extent. It was like the bastard had taken a bath in the stuff.
What he didn't get was why they'd grabbed him.
The mission had been over.
The Ambassador and his family were safe, bundled in with the extraction team.
Then this mess happened.
And he had no sodding clue if it was related.
So far, all he knew was they were waiting for something.
"Awake are we?" one of them taunted. Blond and balding with a missing front tooth and a sour looking wife-beater. The same one who'd rattled off the latest cricket scores from his mobile an hour earlier. Whining about the shit reception. "Had enough beauty rest? Hmm?"
He let a loose smirk roll across his face. Getting the desired effect a moment later when a fist connected with his cheek. Snapping his head back. Giving him the opportunity to go limp again, feigning unconsciousness. He wanted to do more recon before he put effort into escaping.
"Great work, dipshit! The boss wanted to talk to him!"
The second voice had an asthmatic wheeze to it. He'd already decided how he was going to kill him. An upper-cut to the throat, then solar plexus. Cracking the windpipe as the bastard choked, then went still. It gave him something to look forward to.
"How'd I know he'd go down like a pile of soggy bread?! Ain't my fault he can't take a-"
The sickly-sweet smell was back. Rolling into the room in a single, affronting wave that made his throat itch.
"Wake him."
The voice was disembodied. Rough. Smooth. And completely inhuman in a way he'd never be able to explain. Even if someone was holding a gun to his head. Especially if they were, because he was contrary like that.
Either way, the second pail of water was just as unpleasant as the first. Followed by a hand that wrenched his chin up, forcing him level with the owner of the smell as something in his gut clenched tight. Alarm bells going off like klaxons in his hind brain. Every instinct screaming that he'd never been in more danger than he was now.
But before he could say or do anything, the man - because it was a man - was suddenly inches from him. Leaning in with an animal hiss and slitted eyes. Inhaling deeply before stopping mid-pull, pupils impossibly fat.
"I can smell him on you," the man rasped. Face a mess of sharp, conflicting features. Too predatory to be handsome, but too prominent to be forgettable. "You're dripping with him."
He blinked, trying to clear his vision when it appeared as though the man had blinked with a second set of lids. Eyes red. Then black. Then normal again.
Water must have gotten into his eyes.
"What are you talking about?" he spat, realizing he was missing something incredibly important as the man leaned close again. Scenting the air like some kind of animal as the others shifted uncertainly behind him. Body language awkward and stiff with fear. Like they had no idea what was going on, but had learned the hard way not to ask questions.
"So hypocritical...and they say we interfere. He's practically marked you," the boss continued, acting like he hadn't spoken as his hand shot out behind him. Lips twitching, annoyed, until his gun - the custom model Q had given him before he left - was slapped into his hand. "I thought I smelled the stench of light on you. I never thought one of them would let themselves become so tainted. He gave this to you, didn't he? Spent hours on it, if the stench of grace is anything to go by. ...Disgusting."
This time he didn't have water in his eyes when the man's eyes flashed red. Spine stiffening as he watched it happen. Only looking away when pain blossomed down his chin. Eyes fixed on the animal curl as the man's fingers moved away from his face to caress the gun. Jaw working a claw-like nails scratched long, dirty furrows down the finish.
What the bloody-
The man grinned with unnaturally sharp teeth. Able to watch his reflection twist in the red pupils before they blinked back to normal and he turned to his cronies.
"Gag him."
He killed and re-killed all of them with his eyes as he struggled against the thick leather strap they shoved between his teeth. Eyes flicking from the leader's retreating back to the gun he'd left on the medical tray beside him. A sickening suspicion trickling in.
Q?
He couldn't have meant Q.
That was impossible.
Still, something about the phrasing itched at him.
He sank his teeth into the leather bit as he carefully worked against the bindings that tied him to the chair.
If they were after Q he had to warn MI6.
"He's gonna kill 'ya, understand? He's nuts, mate. Completely off his top," one of them sing-songed, snapping up the gun and pointing it at him with a sloppy flick. Something that would have driven Q mental if he'd been around to see it. "You got mixed up in the wrong job, boyo. Make no bloody mistake."
His left eyebrow flicked, unimpressed as the first voice smirked down at him. Securing the gag behind his head before dealing out a brutal slap that made his ears ring with startled frequencies.
He'd heard as much before.
More times than he could count, actually.
Death often made plans for him.
But he'd made a habit of getting out of them.
He told himself, as he studied the layout of the room, that this time would be no different.
He'd figure it out.
He always did.
Besides, he had a few questions for his Quartermaster.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. There will be more to come.