Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God
Dec. 6th, 2017 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwyllionTitle: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: 00QAD (James Bond/Q/Alex Turner/Danny Holt)
Rating: R
Words: 50K
Warnings: Minor character death
A/N: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was written for NaNoWriMo 2017. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
One year later…
“Good evening, sir,” Diane greeted Bond when he entered the restaurant.
Bond gave Diane a friendly nod and checked his Omega. Twenty minutes early, uncharacteristic for Bond, but he had been planning this gathering for a fortnight. None of his partners had dined at Sartoria yet, despite his many promises to take them there. He hoped the ambiance would appeal to the three of them.
Alex had cultivated an appreciation for the finer restaurants in London. When they were on mission abroad together, he didn’t hesitate to try something new, as long as it was expensive.
“The adage that you get what you pay for is often true,” Alex said on more than one occasion as he set his menu aside to address Bond directly.
Bond tended to agree.
Q preferred foods with a more exotic flavour, so Bond fretted minimally that Sartoria might not appeal to him. Fragrant curries and hot peppers appealed to Q’s senses the most. Bond had checked the menu before making reservations. Certain that Q would find something to his liking, Bond pulled the trigger and made the call.
At least he didn’t have to worry about Danny. Danny would bite into a Hot Pocket with the same fervour as he would a filet mignon. Bond smiled, knowing that Danny would approve of almost all the culinary selections that his three lovers would choose. Easy to please, Danny would take the time to nibble the food off his fork, an expression of pure joy on his face. Bond was certain that he would approve of the restaurant.
If his companions didn’t arrive soon, Bond decided that he would start on a martini without them.
“Bond, James Bond,” he informed Diane, “I have reservations.”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Diane said. “A table for four. It will be ready in a moment.”
Bond took a step backwards and straightened his tie. With his eyes on the door, he waited patiently. Walther in its holster, a knife strapped to his ankle, a bomb around his wrist, he had dressed down for his evening out. He wondered if, in the future, he would ever be able to get used to being unarmed. Probably not.
Diane would never suspect the weapons. Besides, what would she think if she learned that the men dining in her restaurant worked for MI6? Well, three of them, anyway. But after spending so much time with the agents and the Quartermaster, Danny was as knowledgeable about MI6 operations as a rookie agent, although he lacked the ability to hurt a fly.
Bond grinned, thinking of how Danny fit into their group of lovers who were licensed to kill. He was a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit. He was the odd man out. But, of course, it was Danny who served as the glue that held the four of them together. If he hadn’t inherited Scottie’s beautiful home on Hampstead Heath, the four of them may have gone their separate ways.
“Mr. Bond, your table is ready,” Diane said. “If you will follow me, I will seat your dining companions when they arrive.”
Bond let Diane show him to his table. He ordered a martini, shaken not stirred, when he saw Danny enter the room. “And bring my partner a Neroli Tonic.”
“What’s that?” Danny asked, kissing Bond on the cheek.
“You’ll like it,” Bond said, “It’s fizzy.”
“Thanks, love,” Danny said, taking his seat across from him. “I took the Tube over so Q didn’t have to go out of his way to pick me up at home.”
“That was nice of you to think of him, but you shouldn’t let him keep the Jensen all to himself.”
Danny surveyed the room. He looked like he was checking to make sure no one could overhear, “I know, but he and Alex were so engrossed in that EM50 Project that I didn’t have the heart to make them stop work to come get me,” he whispered.
Bond shook his head. Danny was always so thoughtful. An outsider would never guess that sweet Danny fuelled Q’s fascination with sex that included a little bondage on the side.
Bond remembered Q’s grin when he and Alex opened the container that was labelled “UNCLAIMED PROPERTY” when Alex’s old flat was sold to a new owner. Bond had simply rolled his eyes when Danny chased them around the house wielding all manner of stainless steel implements of sexual delight.
Poor Alex was scandalized so badly that, even to this day, the mere mention of the term “unclaimed property” turns his cheeks crimson. He never investigated the implements from the box. The closest he came to indulging Q, was when he used his strength to pin him to the bed while Bond and Danny ravished him. It was good enough for Alex. And it was good enough for Bond. In fact, Bond was relieved that Danny and Q left him out of their bondage play. He had been tied up and restrained too many times in his career as an agent to enjoy such shenanigans. He was satisfied to remain Q’s tender bed partner, while giving his full approval for Q’s experimentation with Danny. The four men’s willingness to cooperate with each other made their relationship work like no other Bond had ever experienced.
At last, Alex and Q arrived together, right on time. Diane showed them to the table, where Bond and Danny stood and greeted them.
Bond could not have been more nervous than if he was proposing marriage between the four of them. Before Diane left, he ordered a bottle of Sartoria’s finest champagne.
“Champagne?” Alex asked. “Is it a special occasion that I don’t know about?”
“You’ll know soon enough, my lovely,” Bond said.
Bond noticed immediately that Q looked panicked. He reached under the table to give his thigh an affectionate squeeze. “Nothing to worry about, dear,” he whispered.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Q said with a huff.
“I want to know what the surprise is,” Danny giggled. “I hope we’re getting a puppy.”
“No,” Q scowled.
“Pampuria and Turing would not appreciate that,” Alex said.
“Not even a little bit,” Bond said, hating to burst Danny’s bubble.
Diane arrived and opened the bottle of champagne, pouring four delicate glasses with the sparkling liquid. “I would like to propose a toast,” Bond said.
“You’re not proposing,” Q said with a look that could kill.
“I’m not proposing,” Bond assured him.
“What is it, then?” Danny asked.
“Danny,” Bond began.
“You’re proposing to Danny?” Q asked, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
“Will you stop,” Alex laughed.
Bond cleared his throat. “Danny,” he began again. “I love you dearly, but it has come to my attention that you do not possess a green thumb.”
Danny looked down and shrugged.
“And Scottie’s gardens are going to need tending when the warmer weather arrives,” Bond said.
“I told you that you should have hired a gardener last year,” Alex said, elbowing Danny.
“But there’s so much work to do to keep them up,” Danny complained. “It would cost a fortune.”
“You might say they need a constant gardener,” Q said before bursting into a fit of laughter.
Danny, Alex, and Bond simply stared at him until he finished.
“It should be no secret to any of you that I will age out of the Double-oh Program in two years,” Bond continued.
“Here, here,” said Q.
“Seeing the state of Scottie’s gardens, at the end of last summer, has made reconsider my retirement,” Bond said, raising his glass of champagne. “I want more time to enjoy the gift of your company that I have done nothing to deserve. I hope you will all support my decision to retire from active duty, effective immediately.”
Danny leaped out of his seat to hug Bond, plastering kisses to his face. “No more getting sent to far off places where you’ll be shot,” he exclaimed.
“Of course we support you,” Alex said, clapping Bond on the shoulder. “Have you told M already?”
“She’s going to have kittens,” Q said, wiping a tear from his eye.
~
Ten years later…
Before her retirement party began, Eve stepped into the ladies’ room. She stood in front of the mirror and checked her appearance. The antique frame surrounded the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the room. Eve was no longer the young woman who had first arrived at MI6 orientation in hopes of getting a job, a career. The same mirror that she had glanced at, in her youth, hung from the same screws and bolts. It may have been taken down when the room was repainted, years ago, but it had been reattached on the same wall, using the same drilled holes that caught the bolts. Some things never change.
Eve had aged considerably well, despite the years of MI6 service that threatened to give her wrinkles around her eyes and a fat belly from dining with dignitaries who wanted something from the organization she helmed. It was a fair irony that her colleagues had chosen Elements as the restaurant for her retirement party.
Of course the restaurant was quite different from when it was called Le Papillon, in the days when Eve first visited with the lunch crowd from MI6. Sometimes the newer MI6 operatives who Eve commanded ate here five days a week. They couldn’t know how many times Eve herself had stood in front of this very mirror as a young woman, new to the spy game. If these walls could talk, indeed.
She ran her hand along the marble stand on which the sink basin perched. Such a new-age design would have been frowned upon by Ingmar when he owned the building. He preferred the art nouveau designs more than anything that could be considered mid twenty-first century contemporary.
Eve turned on the water and washed her hands before wiping them on a soft towel. Despite the closure of the Le Papillon that she knew, Eve thought that the owners who took Ingmar’s place did a good job of keeping the upscale ambiance. There were no paper towel dispensers like in the days of old. There was not even an electronic hand dryer that promised to obliterate any germs that the rush of purified air would meet. No, now an open cupboard of artfully rolled towels greeted the ladies.
Eve tossed her used towel into the small hamper. She took her lipstick from her purse and carefully re-applied the shade to her lips.
As she checked her reflection, Eve wondered what had happened to the beautiful sugar bowls, an Irish crystal with a hinged lid on each one that used to grace the tables at Le Papillon. She had heard Barbara catching hell one day for accidentally breaking one when she was too rough with bussing a table.
She stored her lipstick back in her purse and sighed. The sugar bowls were beautiful. A tiny half-circle interrupted the silver rim, so that the tiniest of sugar spoons could nestle there in the bowl, just waiting for someone to use it. They had all been smashed to pieces by now, no doubt.
The door of the ladies’ room opened, stopping Eve’s reminiscence. She turned so she could see who had interrupted her thoughts.
“Sorry,” I didn’t mean to startle you,” the intruder said.
“Not at all,” Eve said with a wave of her hand.
The woman stood beside Eve while she tidied the springs of hair that she had pulled back with a tasteful headpiece. It seemed like only yesterday that her hair had no grey. She could walk effortlessly in her stilettos. Now her hair was streaked with silver and she had traded her stilettos for a pair of sensible flats, not unlike the ones that the woman beside her wore.
“It’s a fine day for a party,” the woman said.
Eve’s eyes met hers and dawned with recognition.
“Barbara?” Eve felt her heart rate increase.
“I’m here with friend, I’m not… I don’t work here,” Barbara said.
Eve was torn between greeting Barbara as an old friend or as the head of MI6 who should exercise extreme caution around a woman who once caused so much grief among her colleagues.
“No, I didn’t think you did,” Eve said.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the woman who had the talent to be so much more than a server in a restaurant. Surely there was something to be said for being able to identify cat breeds as she could.
Eve had drawn on her own talents and powers of observation to build a life. She may have started her career as a budding field agent in training, but because of her excellent attention to detail and her powers of observation, she had risen to the top of her field.
The government saw to the rest.
Eve had moved her way up the ranks, identifying problems and making the decisions that would guide all MI6 operations until eventually, there was only one more step to go. On a bright sunny day, a few weeks after Mallory resigned, she was named the head of MI6… M. And now she would retire from that position with honour.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry about what happened all those years ago. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done the things I did to befriend Mr. Blofeld.”
Eve felt some small measure of relief that Barbara had recognised the need to apologise, although it was barely enough to give her a momentary pass.
Eve steadied herself. “We are all sinners in the hands of an angry god,” she said. “But sometimes his anger wanes. Sometimes there is peace to be found among the ruins of the lives you’ve changed, the havoc you’ve wreaked, or the missions you’ve completed.”
“I think I’ve found some of that peace, finally,” Barbara said.
Eve struggled to sound sincere, but she managed better than she would have years ago. “It was good to see you again,” she said.
“It was good to see you again, too,” Barbara said before leaving Eve with her reflection.
Eve waited until the door closed before she checked her lipstick one last time. “Well, this will have to do,” she said.
Eve emerged from the ladies’ room and entered the restaurant. She was delighted to see so many faces of those with whom she had risen in the ranks, her colleagues, and those who she had commanded during her tenure. Even Bond and his scrappy boy toy made a rare appearance as Q and Double-oh Nine’s plus ones.
This was going to be one hell of a retirement party. Her friends applauded as if she were their long lost mother.
~ The end ~
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: 00QAD (James Bond/Q/Alex Turner/Danny Holt)
Rating: R
Words: 50K
Warnings: Minor character death
A/N: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was written for NaNoWriMo 2017. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
One year later…
“Good evening, sir,” Diane greeted Bond when he entered the restaurant.
Bond gave Diane a friendly nod and checked his Omega. Twenty minutes early, uncharacteristic for Bond, but he had been planning this gathering for a fortnight. None of his partners had dined at Sartoria yet, despite his many promises to take them there. He hoped the ambiance would appeal to the three of them.
Alex had cultivated an appreciation for the finer restaurants in London. When they were on mission abroad together, he didn’t hesitate to try something new, as long as it was expensive.
“The adage that you get what you pay for is often true,” Alex said on more than one occasion as he set his menu aside to address Bond directly.
Bond tended to agree.
Q preferred foods with a more exotic flavour, so Bond fretted minimally that Sartoria might not appeal to him. Fragrant curries and hot peppers appealed to Q’s senses the most. Bond had checked the menu before making reservations. Certain that Q would find something to his liking, Bond pulled the trigger and made the call.
At least he didn’t have to worry about Danny. Danny would bite into a Hot Pocket with the same fervour as he would a filet mignon. Bond smiled, knowing that Danny would approve of almost all the culinary selections that his three lovers would choose. Easy to please, Danny would take the time to nibble the food off his fork, an expression of pure joy on his face. Bond was certain that he would approve of the restaurant.
If his companions didn’t arrive soon, Bond decided that he would start on a martini without them.
“Bond, James Bond,” he informed Diane, “I have reservations.”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Diane said. “A table for four. It will be ready in a moment.”
Bond took a step backwards and straightened his tie. With his eyes on the door, he waited patiently. Walther in its holster, a knife strapped to his ankle, a bomb around his wrist, he had dressed down for his evening out. He wondered if, in the future, he would ever be able to get used to being unarmed. Probably not.
Diane would never suspect the weapons. Besides, what would she think if she learned that the men dining in her restaurant worked for MI6? Well, three of them, anyway. But after spending so much time with the agents and the Quartermaster, Danny was as knowledgeable about MI6 operations as a rookie agent, although he lacked the ability to hurt a fly.
Bond grinned, thinking of how Danny fit into their group of lovers who were licensed to kill. He was a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit. He was the odd man out. But, of course, it was Danny who served as the glue that held the four of them together. If he hadn’t inherited Scottie’s beautiful home on Hampstead Heath, the four of them may have gone their separate ways.
“Mr. Bond, your table is ready,” Diane said. “If you will follow me, I will seat your dining companions when they arrive.”
Bond let Diane show him to his table. He ordered a martini, shaken not stirred, when he saw Danny enter the room. “And bring my partner a Neroli Tonic.”
“What’s that?” Danny asked, kissing Bond on the cheek.
“You’ll like it,” Bond said, “It’s fizzy.”
“Thanks, love,” Danny said, taking his seat across from him. “I took the Tube over so Q didn’t have to go out of his way to pick me up at home.”
“That was nice of you to think of him, but you shouldn’t let him keep the Jensen all to himself.”
Danny surveyed the room. He looked like he was checking to make sure no one could overhear, “I know, but he and Alex were so engrossed in that EM50 Project that I didn’t have the heart to make them stop work to come get me,” he whispered.
Bond shook his head. Danny was always so thoughtful. An outsider would never guess that sweet Danny fuelled Q’s fascination with sex that included a little bondage on the side.
Bond remembered Q’s grin when he and Alex opened the container that was labelled “UNCLAIMED PROPERTY” when Alex’s old flat was sold to a new owner. Bond had simply rolled his eyes when Danny chased them around the house wielding all manner of stainless steel implements of sexual delight.
Poor Alex was scandalized so badly that, even to this day, the mere mention of the term “unclaimed property” turns his cheeks crimson. He never investigated the implements from the box. The closest he came to indulging Q, was when he used his strength to pin him to the bed while Bond and Danny ravished him. It was good enough for Alex. And it was good enough for Bond. In fact, Bond was relieved that Danny and Q left him out of their bondage play. He had been tied up and restrained too many times in his career as an agent to enjoy such shenanigans. He was satisfied to remain Q’s tender bed partner, while giving his full approval for Q’s experimentation with Danny. The four men’s willingness to cooperate with each other made their relationship work like no other Bond had ever experienced.
At last, Alex and Q arrived together, right on time. Diane showed them to the table, where Bond and Danny stood and greeted them.
Bond could not have been more nervous than if he was proposing marriage between the four of them. Before Diane left, he ordered a bottle of Sartoria’s finest champagne.
“Champagne?” Alex asked. “Is it a special occasion that I don’t know about?”
“You’ll know soon enough, my lovely,” Bond said.
Bond noticed immediately that Q looked panicked. He reached under the table to give his thigh an affectionate squeeze. “Nothing to worry about, dear,” he whispered.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Q said with a huff.
“I want to know what the surprise is,” Danny giggled. “I hope we’re getting a puppy.”
“No,” Q scowled.
“Pampuria and Turing would not appreciate that,” Alex said.
“Not even a little bit,” Bond said, hating to burst Danny’s bubble.
Diane arrived and opened the bottle of champagne, pouring four delicate glasses with the sparkling liquid. “I would like to propose a toast,” Bond said.
“You’re not proposing,” Q said with a look that could kill.
“I’m not proposing,” Bond assured him.
“What is it, then?” Danny asked.
“Danny,” Bond began.
“You’re proposing to Danny?” Q asked, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
“Will you stop,” Alex laughed.
Bond cleared his throat. “Danny,” he began again. “I love you dearly, but it has come to my attention that you do not possess a green thumb.”
Danny looked down and shrugged.
“And Scottie’s gardens are going to need tending when the warmer weather arrives,” Bond said.
“I told you that you should have hired a gardener last year,” Alex said, elbowing Danny.
“But there’s so much work to do to keep them up,” Danny complained. “It would cost a fortune.”
“You might say they need a constant gardener,” Q said before bursting into a fit of laughter.
Danny, Alex, and Bond simply stared at him until he finished.
“It should be no secret to any of you that I will age out of the Double-oh Program in two years,” Bond continued.
“Here, here,” said Q.
“Seeing the state of Scottie’s gardens, at the end of last summer, has made reconsider my retirement,” Bond said, raising his glass of champagne. “I want more time to enjoy the gift of your company that I have done nothing to deserve. I hope you will all support my decision to retire from active duty, effective immediately.”
Danny leaped out of his seat to hug Bond, plastering kisses to his face. “No more getting sent to far off places where you’ll be shot,” he exclaimed.
“Of course we support you,” Alex said, clapping Bond on the shoulder. “Have you told M already?”
“She’s going to have kittens,” Q said, wiping a tear from his eye.
~
Ten years later…
Before her retirement party began, Eve stepped into the ladies’ room. She stood in front of the mirror and checked her appearance. The antique frame surrounded the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the room. Eve was no longer the young woman who had first arrived at MI6 orientation in hopes of getting a job, a career. The same mirror that she had glanced at, in her youth, hung from the same screws and bolts. It may have been taken down when the room was repainted, years ago, but it had been reattached on the same wall, using the same drilled holes that caught the bolts. Some things never change.
Eve had aged considerably well, despite the years of MI6 service that threatened to give her wrinkles around her eyes and a fat belly from dining with dignitaries who wanted something from the organization she helmed. It was a fair irony that her colleagues had chosen Elements as the restaurant for her retirement party.
Of course the restaurant was quite different from when it was called Le Papillon, in the days when Eve first visited with the lunch crowd from MI6. Sometimes the newer MI6 operatives who Eve commanded ate here five days a week. They couldn’t know how many times Eve herself had stood in front of this very mirror as a young woman, new to the spy game. If these walls could talk, indeed.
She ran her hand along the marble stand on which the sink basin perched. Such a new-age design would have been frowned upon by Ingmar when he owned the building. He preferred the art nouveau designs more than anything that could be considered mid twenty-first century contemporary.
Eve turned on the water and washed her hands before wiping them on a soft towel. Despite the closure of the Le Papillon that she knew, Eve thought that the owners who took Ingmar’s place did a good job of keeping the upscale ambiance. There were no paper towel dispensers like in the days of old. There was not even an electronic hand dryer that promised to obliterate any germs that the rush of purified air would meet. No, now an open cupboard of artfully rolled towels greeted the ladies.
Eve tossed her used towel into the small hamper. She took her lipstick from her purse and carefully re-applied the shade to her lips.
As she checked her reflection, Eve wondered what had happened to the beautiful sugar bowls, an Irish crystal with a hinged lid on each one that used to grace the tables at Le Papillon. She had heard Barbara catching hell one day for accidentally breaking one when she was too rough with bussing a table.
She stored her lipstick back in her purse and sighed. The sugar bowls were beautiful. A tiny half-circle interrupted the silver rim, so that the tiniest of sugar spoons could nestle there in the bowl, just waiting for someone to use it. They had all been smashed to pieces by now, no doubt.
The door of the ladies’ room opened, stopping Eve’s reminiscence. She turned so she could see who had interrupted her thoughts.
“Sorry,” I didn’t mean to startle you,” the intruder said.
“Not at all,” Eve said with a wave of her hand.
The woman stood beside Eve while she tidied the springs of hair that she had pulled back with a tasteful headpiece. It seemed like only yesterday that her hair had no grey. She could walk effortlessly in her stilettos. Now her hair was streaked with silver and she had traded her stilettos for a pair of sensible flats, not unlike the ones that the woman beside her wore.
“It’s a fine day for a party,” the woman said.
Eve’s eyes met hers and dawned with recognition.
“Barbara?” Eve felt her heart rate increase.
“I’m here with friend, I’m not… I don’t work here,” Barbara said.
Eve was torn between greeting Barbara as an old friend or as the head of MI6 who should exercise extreme caution around a woman who once caused so much grief among her colleagues.
“No, I didn’t think you did,” Eve said.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the woman who had the talent to be so much more than a server in a restaurant. Surely there was something to be said for being able to identify cat breeds as she could.
Eve had drawn on her own talents and powers of observation to build a life. She may have started her career as a budding field agent in training, but because of her excellent attention to detail and her powers of observation, she had risen to the top of her field.
The government saw to the rest.
Eve had moved her way up the ranks, identifying problems and making the decisions that would guide all MI6 operations until eventually, there was only one more step to go. On a bright sunny day, a few weeks after Mallory resigned, she was named the head of MI6… M. And now she would retire from that position with honour.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry about what happened all those years ago. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done the things I did to befriend Mr. Blofeld.”
Eve felt some small measure of relief that Barbara had recognised the need to apologise, although it was barely enough to give her a momentary pass.
Eve steadied herself. “We are all sinners in the hands of an angry god,” she said. “But sometimes his anger wanes. Sometimes there is peace to be found among the ruins of the lives you’ve changed, the havoc you’ve wreaked, or the missions you’ve completed.”
“I think I’ve found some of that peace, finally,” Barbara said.
Eve struggled to sound sincere, but she managed better than she would have years ago. “It was good to see you again,” she said.
“It was good to see you again, too,” Barbara said before leaving Eve with her reflection.
Eve waited until the door closed before she checked her lipstick one last time. “Well, this will have to do,” she said.
Eve emerged from the ladies’ room and entered the restaurant. She was delighted to see so many faces of those with whom she had risen in the ranks, her colleagues, and those who she had commanded during her tenure. Even Bond and his scrappy boy toy made a rare appearance as Q and Double-oh Nine’s plus ones.
This was going to be one hell of a retirement party. Her friends applauded as if she were their long lost mother.
