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Vijay leaned into Bond’s personal space. “Just because you’re British and I'm Indian doesn't mean I’m going to be your subservient little sepoy.” Bond shuddered and let out what almost sounded like a sigh. “That's not how this will play out, 007. I'm not one of your infamous Bond Girls, willing to spread her legs the moment you say how wide,” Vijay whispered, pressing his front into Bond’s back as his strong hands massaged his shoulders.
Bond shut his eyes, willing himself not to react, not right here in Q branch, not in front Q; he'd never live it down. It wasn't that Vijay was a man that was concerning him; nor was it that he was Indian nor a junior agent. No, it's that Vijay was a top and had read Bond like an open book. It had been so long since he'd let this part of himself have free reign. He’d buried it in service for Queen and Country, beneath the Mystique of 007 and his licence to kill. Now here was a man with the quiet inner strength and calm he craved, the kind of man that he could let go for.
Q approached, returning from his workbench, proudly holding his brand new gadget.
“Not now,” James protested to Vijay. “Please,” he almost begged, hiding it with a cough. “Later.”
“I understand.” Vijay stepped back and interested himself in Q's acid spitting fountain pen. When Q’s back was turned, Vijay looked hopefully at Bond. “After the mission maybe?” Bond nodded and smiled, and Vijay tried to suppress his beaming grin.
All the way through his mission, Bond found Vijay’s presence calming. He was a competent agent and an easy man to get along with, though he never pushed any further, keeping it professional.
Bond, however, secretly fantasised about what it would be like to surrender himself. To truly trust someone enough. He’d asked Q for Vijay’s file, leafing through it in bed that first sweltering night on the Indian subcontinent.
Alas, Bond never got that promised night with Vijay. On his return from Germany, Bond learned he'd been killed by one of Prince Kamal Khan’s henchmen. He pulled a cigarette from the pack, poured himself a large glass of whiskey, and thought about those large dark hands, those beautiful deep brown eyes, and that infectious smile. “Fuck this job,” he exclaimed, throwing the glass at the wall. He picked up the bottle. “To Vijay.” He raised the bottle in salute, bringing it to his lips, letting the burn take away the longing.