FIC 007 - Doppelganger

Title: Doppelganger
Author: Juonetar
Pairing: Sean Miller, James Bond, Alec Trevelyan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: heavy drinking, angst, love is not pretty
Summary: After Alec Trevelyan’s first death in Archangel in 1986 two men meet in his apartment.
Disclaimer: I do not own them. Characters are borrowed from the movies “Patriot Games” (based on Tom Clancy’s thriller) and “Goldeneye” (James Bond based on Ian Fleming’s novels). The poems are by Anna Akhmatova and are called "The Last Toast" and "The Sentence", respectively.
Notes: Drunk as a skunk, I posted an early version of this to bean_squee on Sean Bean's birthday 2004. This is a longer version: rewritten, betaed and NC-17. captsparrow4evr and empy did beta reading, for which I am grateful! However, I may have accidentally ignored some of their corrections and even added some new errors, so feel free to point out possible mistakes -- I'll fix them.



The reality of it started to sink in when James Bond inspected his friend’s drinks cupboard. He was smiling at whiskey bottles: he almost anticipated drinking those together with Alec -- and there and then the memory of the murder connected to now, and the death became true. There would be no "together" anymore. No Alec Trevelyan.

Bond mechanically opened the bottle of Stolichnaya he had once bought Alec, intending for it to be consumed at one of their somewhat immature drinking competitions. Alec had told outrageous tales about those male bonding rituals when he flirted with secretaries. One of those pretty things had once asked Bond -- who was trying his best to get said prettiness into bed -- if he had really forced her poor dear Alec to dress up as a leather dyke at a transvestite nightclub. As if one could force Alec to do anything.

Since his return from Archangel Bond had avoided the teary MI6 secretaries, whose collective crush on 006 had always been obvious. Oh, they flirted with Bond, and they slept with him, of course. Bond hunted the secretaries, fought over them with Alec and they shared the prize. But it was only with Alec that the girls were affectionately friendly. It was only with Alec that they acted as if sex and friendship weren't mutually exclusive. Bond took a swig from the full Stolichnaya bottle. No one made him hurt like Alec, making the inconceivable seem possible. Like friendship mingling with lust.

Bond had actually avoided all the MI6 people lately. They had known Alec, but still hadn't known him like Bond had, and so they could not relate to his... longing. It was a shock to realize that without Alec he didn't have anyone he could just be silent with and be understood. Now he was reminded that a spy's life was lonely, and he shouldn't expect anything else. Only Alec had made the impossible seem just cowardly.

Bond stood up and swallowed. He wanted to mourn in peace and so he had escaped here -- Alec’s apartment, his private safe house. Bond had been there before, usually uninvited and almost always alone. As he was now. Uninvited and alone. Alec Trevelyan had been very cautious about inviting anyone in -- a spy's occupational paranoia. Bond felt a lonely teardrop run down his cheek. He bit his lip, ashamed and angry at himself. This was so absurd. He imagined Alec's voice, Getting in touch with your tender emotions, James? Being slightly drunk never excused such effeminate sentimentality.

Trevelyan’s suit was crumpled on the bed. Alec had left in a hurry, no time to drop clothes in the laundry basket. Bond sat on the bed, touched the fine texture of Alec's trousers, and trembled a bit. He lay down and buried his face against the collar, inhaled the scent of Alec. It was exciting, spicy, intoxicating. Coffee, ink, gun-oil, aftershave -- and cloves? Bond was all goose pimples, his senses suddenly very alert. Oh, Alec. Too late to touch you. Wanted to save you... protect you... Wanted you. No matter now. Time’s up.

"Closing time, James! Last call!"

“Buy me a pint,” Bond whispered against the suit.

It would be so good to die like this, smelling and touching Trevelyan. His head in Alec’s lap, Alec’s hands around him, Alec’s voice telling him it would be all right. Bond swallowed, fearing he would start sobbing. He didn’t. He sniffed and sat up. No time for this. There never had been. He looked around the flat. Trevelyan hadn't spent a lot of time here, but it was still a place dominated by his presence. Bond had broken in a couple of times when Trevelyan had been on missions. Bond had found peace here then. He had lain on the sofa and told the empty rooms that he was in love...

“For God’s sake, get over it!” Bond suddenly yelled at himself, leaping to his feet.

He was abrupt in his movement and succeeded in knocking over the bedside table. Christ! I'm a bloody nervous wreck. He felt downright unbalanced. He needed more vodka.

"Na zdarovye," Bond said.

Alec would have scolded at him for a toast like that. "No one says 'na zdarovye', except the sorry excuses for Russians in the movies!" Alec could give an elaborate toast in Russian at any time, and more often than not he liked to spice them up with poetry quotes. Alec had always liked Akhmatova. Bond tried to remember the exact verse his friend had been so keen on.

"I drink to you, and to loneliness in which we're both," he tried to translate Alec's favourite toast from Russian, knowing he got it wrong somehow.

He drank, shuddered, and drank some more. Stolichnaya. Alec had liked his vodka raw and cold, he couldn’t stand the vodka-martinis Bond preferred.

"Za tebya," Bond whispered, gulped down his sixth shot -- perhaps his seventh, he didn't keep tally. To you.

A noise from the door alerted him. Someone was coming in.

* * * *

Sean Miller was smiling broadly as he stepped into his lover’s apartment, whistling an Irish Republican song aloud.

I don't mind a bit if
I shoot down the police,
They're lackies for war
Never guardians of peace.
But yet at deserters
I'm never let aim
Those rebels who sold out
The Patriot Game.

Sean grinned. What would the Army Council think if they knew their top hitman was protected by a British government official? He sneered at the tradionalists. At least his CO wasn't like that bunch of old women who read their rosaries and feared priests. Kevin would probably congratulate him for utilizing the weakness of the enemy in this ingenious way. Which was what he was doing, of course. Seizing the opportunity. Nothing more. Getting close so he could find a way to hurt the enemy.

“Alec?” Sean called softly.

No one answered. Sean shrugged. Usually they didn’t really arrange to meet each other, as Sean’s life was extremely irregular and Trevelyan was abroad a lot. Alec had given Sean the keys to the apartment and promised Sean could stay there anytime he so wished, were he at home or not. This time Sean had hoped Alec would be here. He had missed the man -- more than one should miss a future chance of a high profile assassination.

“Don’t move”, the voice came from behind him, cold as steel, and Sean felt a gun against his neck.

So he didn’t move. The voice was very upper-class, even worse than Alec’s. The man was tall, and his breath smelled of vodka. He searched Sean for weapons -- very professionally -- and took away his Glock.

“Who the hell are you?” Sean decided to act tough and indignant. “And where’s Alec?”

“You know Alec?” now the voice was incredulous.

“What do you think? I have the keys to his flat.”

“And you have a Glock, but no ID.”

Sean tried to stop himself from panicking. Police? Special Branch of Scotland Yard? It didn’t seem likely. And clearly the man hadn’t expected him here. A friend? Would Alec have a friend who carried a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer? Hell, the guy could be a criminal.

“Now, turn,” his attacker ordered.

Sean turned to face the man. Dark hair, blue eyes, an expensive suit. Handsome in a somehow cruel way. And obviously seeing Sean Miller’s face had shocked him out of his mind. Yeah, this man knew Alec Tevelyan.

“I do look like him”, Sean said.

Their resemblance to each other was so clear they had simply frozen to glare when they first crossed paths. It had been in Dublin. Sean had cautiously touched Alec’s arm, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Alec had spoken first. “I have heard that seeing one’s doppelgänger means death.”

Sean Miller looked at the dark-haired stranger, suddenly nervous. He noticed red-rimmed eyes, pain behind the emptiness. And he just knew.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he asked in a thin voice.

“Yes,” the man said.

Dead. For a moment Sean Miller heard only his own heartbeat. Alec with his warm hands and hot mouth. Alec dressed in Sean’s black leather jacket, leaving the apartment, going to work.

“I want more, Sean.”

“What do you want? Should I buy a ring?”

“I want your essence in my soul. I want to tattoo you on my skin, I want your blood in my veins.”

“I love you too, you crazy British bastard.”

Love. Just a word, but it shouldn’t have been so easy to say. It wasn’t a word either of them was comfortable with. They weren’t comfortable with any words, really. They had touched before they had talked. From the very first meeting they had been desperate to get more of each other. Perhaps at first it had been about fascination for a stranger who was almost a twin. Their bodies had become familiar to each other before their minds and hearts. They measured differences and distances with words and thoughts, hungry for each other. Alec, an orphan, had envied Sean’s roots: the connection and love Sean had for Ireland, for his family, for his brother. Sean had been drawn to Alec’s seemingly infinite imagination and faith in himself: anything was possible to achieve if you were willing to pay the price.

The affair had become more important than Sean first intended, but he had kept the secrets that mattered. He hadn't told anything about his involvement with the organization. Sometimes he suspected Alec already knew, though. The talk about the past injustice, the wronged people, the British guilt and revenge for the family -- surely Alec had meant it as a sign of understanding? He could have trusted Alec in this, Sean just knew it.

Dead.

“Who are you?” the stranger asked Sean.

“My name is Sean Miller. I am -- I was -- Alec’s lover.”

He wouldn’t have said that if he had been coherent. Hell, who cared? He wiped away his tears. Lover. Just a word. A drop in an ocean. A grain of sand in a desert. A word that would fade from memory.

“My name is Bond, James Bond. I worked with Alec.”

* * * *

The Irishman who looked like Alec and was dressed in Alec’s shirt wasn’t about to cause trouble, or at least not just now, so James Bond finally put his Walther away. Alec had a lover? Bond was shocked. He sat on Alec’s couch and drank Alec’s vodka with Alec’s lover. Well, he drank vodka. The lover drank whiskey.

“I didn’t know Alec had a lover,” Bond said morosely; he was upset over that someone else had the keys to Alec's rooms.

“Alec may have thought it would make things difficult at work,” Miller suggested and Bond almost laughed aloud.

They drank and they talked. Miller was very careful about what he told about himself, but then so was Bond. Quite honestly, Bond didn’t care overmuch about who Miller was. It was obvious he had been close to Alec, and that was enough information for this night. There weren’t many people Bond could mourn Alec with. There weren’t many people who knew Alec Trevelyan at all.

“You were his friend, then?” Miller inquired. “It’s good to know he had one. He was always very lonely.”

“We shared everything,” Bond said. “Even loneliness, I think.”

That was the toast Alec liked. To our shared loneliness, to you. Though Bond still wasn't sure if he remembered the line right. I drink to home, that is lost, to the evil of my life. The bottle was empty and Bond realized he was very drunk. That was why he barely batted an eye at Miller’s next question.

“Did you love him?”

“More than he loved me,” Bond admitted freely. “Like a brother. And for an orphan that kind of love is precious.”

“I have a younger brother. I would do anything for him,” Miller said and opened another bottle, handed it over to Bond.

Brother. Bond contemplated the word. Could an orphan and an only child ever grasp the concept? He wasn't sure how one loved a brother, but he did know he loved Alec. Bond stroked the bottle fondly. He had been so pleased Alec had Jameson in his cupboard. Now he suspected that Sean Miller’s Irish accent had more to do with Alec’s choice of liquor than the name of a colleague. Of course, there was also a possibility that Alec drank whiskey because he wanted a drink –- and not for the vague symbolic value.

Bond drank, and he remembered. Alec's lips so close to his that he had half expected to be kissed. Their arms and legs had been effortlessly entwined. They had been drunk together, dull and confused, him eager to feel something, anything, and Alec's cultured voice whispering one toast after another.

To the lie of lips that betrayed me,
To the deadly coldness of the eyes,
To the fact that the world is cruel and depraved,
To the fact that God did not save.

“I didn’t do enough to save him,” Bond mumbled.

Before he could prevent the impulse, the whole story of Alec’s death had somehow bubbled out of his mouth. Sean Miller just looked at him, and Bond couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I thought he could be a military man,” Miller finally said.

“I shouldn’t have told you that, any of it,” Bond said contemplating the means to ensure Miller’s silence.

“If I drink enough, I won’t remember a thing in the morning,” Miller promised -- probably reading the other man’s thoughts.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

“It’s not your fault,” Miller said. “Things can go wrong on a mission.”

Bond was about to ask what Miller knew about it, but the Irishman grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. Their lips locked, and Bond had an absurd feeling that he was being kissed for the first time in his life. It was awkward, tongues licking the lips, nervous breathing. Disoriented and confused, Bond stood up and started to move away. Miller followed. There was a predatory gleam in Miller’s eyes that Bond had never seen in Alec’s. He shivered.

Sean Miller walked Bond backwards until he was backed up against the wall. Bond realized his lips parted and Miller slipped his tongue in again. This was wrong. Not the sex, not even the kissing, even if Alec had never kissed him. He desperately wanted sex and he wanted kisses. He wanted to share one more lover with Alec. He had never forgotten the excitement that made his hair curl as he saw Alec kissing the same nurse Bond had seduced in previous week. Alec licking the same lips Bond knew thoroughly, and Alec's knowing smirk when he caught Bond watching. But it was too late. He had forever lost the one he really wanted to kiss. It was too late to share anything.

“No,” Bond said. “Stop. Not like this!”

Miller watched him intently. The green eyes demanded Bond to continue.

“Hurt me,” he managed to say, choking, dropping to his knees. “I want you to hurt me.”

Too late for anything but pain.

* * * *

There was something in that voice that went straight to Sean Miller’s prick. That public school accent. Hurt me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Sean had started to desire the Brit on the second he had revealed himself as an enemy. The bloody SAS, or whatever Bond was. On his knees now begging to be hurt.

Sean yanked Bond to his feet, and slammed him roughly against the wall with a hand around his throat. Sean watched him closely, trying to decide what he meant by hurting. Just a masochist?

"Crazy bugger," Sean said almost kindly.

Not that the motivation mattered too much. He would be happy to oblige. But something held him back. Neither of them was sober. He didn't know the other man, and what little he knew should have been a sign to run -- far and fast.

"I wonder," Bond whispered. "Did you steal your eyes from a cautious cat?"

It was probably a quote. And disturbingly just like something Alec could have said. Sean reached down and jabbed a fist into Bond's ribs. The Brit gasped and doubled over in pain. Sean waited for a reaction. Bond raised his head slowly. His eyes were flat, his expression calm. That gaze thrilled Sean strangely.

"Take your shirt off," Sean said.

Bond undressed, matter-of-factly, without any indication of trying to please him. Sean watched his torso with a curious eye. Old scars, some of them rather exotic. Either the Brit had been tortured for real or then he was into the unhealthy sort of BDSM.

"What is the point of it?" Sean asked.

Bond did not answer. Sean backhanded him, and the dark-haired head hit the wall with a thud that excited Sean.

"Why you need to be hurt?" His Belfast accent had become more distinct.

"I must get accustomed to pain," Bond said slowly. "I must learn to endure it without breaking."

The words made Sean to remember a secret SAS interrogation base in Armagh, cold rooms, hard floor, taste of blood in his mouth, pain in his upper arms, bruises on his wrists and ankles. To endure without breaking. He shivered. This was not about the Cause, of course, this was personal. But there was no denying that he enjoyed getting his hands on this dangerous, arrogant British bastard for a reason.

"Undress," he commanded, his voice suddenly tight.

Bond took the rest of his clothes off. He was very comfortable in his complete nudity. Experienced when it came to sex, Sean guessed, and watched Bond's penis closely. There was light scarring around his groin.

"A carpet beater," Bond answered as if to answer Sean's questioning glance.

Sean decided not to ask more about it. He took off his belt: about two inches wide, brown leather.

"Bend across that table."

Bond obeyed instantly. Sean smiled at the sight and waited until Bond uneasily moved to change his position, and smacked with his leather belt for the first time. An angry pink streak appeared on Bond's buttocks. The Brit's posture was tense, he fought to keep still. Sean hit again, this time the belt slapped against Bond's shoulders.

Sean kept a slow, steady rhythm, and changed the place where the belt hit so that Bond could not anticipate the lashes. The Brit's naked body squirmed under the torture. The white skin of his bottom turned pink, then an angry red. His back was striped -- some marks drew blood. It was the noises that made Sean hard like nothing else. Leather slapping the skin. Bond breathing unsteadily -- you couldn't quite call it whimpering.

It was enticing to see the calm disappear and the bothered need take its place. Bond had given in. Sean stopped to touch the sore skin of the other man's back. Bond trembled, and Sean proceeded with brushing his hands against the red arse cheeks, pushing the legs wide open. Bond moaned. Sean let the belt drop onto the floor. He hadn't fucked any other man than Alec, ever.

Sean bent over Bond. The swollen, bleeding skin contacted with rough materials of Sean's clothing, and the Brit stifled a gasp. Sean moved his mouth down to Bond’s neck and sucked. Bond groaned, and Sean buried his face against the back of his neck. Drunken fumbling with his trousers, and Sean's cock sprang free, hard and weeping. He teasingly rubbed himself against Bond's arse, which was radiating heat after the whipping. Bond responded to his touch.

"Please." Bond was reluctant, desperate.

Sean reached around Bond's waist and wrapped his fingers around the Brit's hard cock. Bond stopped breathing. Sean had a firm grip just at the base of the head. He didn't knead or pump -- he just squeezed gently, and Bond came, sobbing and shuddering.

There was a moment of silence, and neither of them moved right away. Then Bond straightened up. He briefly met Sean's eyes, and then went down on him without the slightest hesitation. Sean yelped in surprise as the willing mouth engulfed his penis. Alec had never sucked him off – never. Bond sucked and licked; he threw himself completely into the act. Sean quivered against the Brit's warm, wet mouth, clever tongue and freely flowing saliva. Bond's right hand began fondling the Irishman's balls, and that was too much for Sean. As a reflex, he gripped Bond's hair with both hands, not caring that the Brit gagged on his cock. Sean forced himself down his throat, and Bond accepted it.

It was ugly and violent, and Sean came harder than ever before.

* * * *

Bond woke up on his stomach on the floor. The Irishman slept beside him, almost but not quite touching him. Bond didn't remember passing out, but all evidence told him they had quite concretely screwed themselves unconscious. He was still drunk, not feeling queasy yet, for what he was grateful. Remembering all the booze he had consumed there was reason to suspect the hangover would be deadly. Bond just felt strange and detached. He raised his head enough to see Miller better.

Miller was holding a pillow against his chest –- where that had come from? –- but otherwise they were naked and bare. The lights of the city made Miller's skin glow in orange and blue colors. He looked just like Alec, but even in sleep there were differences. Miller's face was more angular and his skin not as smooth as Alec's. Sean Miller was rough and straightforward in his actions, too, lacking Alec's teasing drawl and his sense of irony. Bond slumped against the floor again, limp and depressed.

Thinking Alec hurt, but intoxication helped remarkably -- pain was dull, pain didn’t matter. Bond didn't move a muscle. If he didn't move perhaps pain would ignore him. His eyes caught a small book under a couch. It would have remained unseen if not spotted while lying on the floor. Bond half-heartedly tried to reach it, but it was too far away.

He did not realize Miller was awake until he felt the Irishman's hand in his hair. Bond turned to face Miller, and Miller pulled Bond towards him. They looked at each other, more baffled than anything else.

"Our people are coming to clean up this place today," said Bond, and found out his voice was hoarse and subdued; no doubt having had a penis in the throat irritated one's vocal cords. "You probably want to get away before that."

"Aye," Miller said.

Miller's lips wandered along Bond's throat as his hands caressed the Brit's pelvis. Bond wasn't sure if he wanted another round, but his cock was instantly interested, so he rolled onto his back and spread his legs. His back and buttocks were painfully tender, and he couldn't help groaning when the abused skin met the floor.

Miller grinned and kneeled in front of him, his cock red and hard. He gave the pillow to Bond.

"Put that under your arse," Miller said.

While Bond wiggled to arrange the relief for his burning backside, Miller took a tube of KY jelly from the pockets of his jacket lying on the floor nearby, and started to lubricate his cock. Bond looked at the procedure, suddenly nervous. No one had ever fucked him. But he'd be damned if he backed out now.

This was contrary to everything Bond had learned to think of himself as a sexual performer. He was passive, accepting, eager to submit, revelling in pain. He didn't want to think about his motivation too much. His or Miller's, for that matter.

When Miller lifted Bond's legs over his shoulders and started to lube the Brit's ass, Bond spread his arms and had a vague mental image of himself being crucified. He closed his eyes as the Irishman slowly slid in. Bond didn't need to struggle to stay relaxed: he accepted, he submitted, and he was surprised at how right and good it felt to be filled.

“Touch yourself,” Miller said roughly.

The Irishman didn't move, he just kept his own hands on Bond's hips, his cock deep in Bond's arse, calmly waiting for Bond to obey. Bond was slightly uncomfortable, his legs high over Miller's shoulders, and with only his head and shoulders touching the floor. Bond started to knead his penis, strangely excited by Miller's rapt attention.

Impaled by another man's cock, in an awkward position and his buttocks still raw and bruised from the beating, Bond masturbated. His hands knew the task, and he was proud to show off his talents. He made love to himself with all the skill he had gathered through zealous exercise during the years. Miller watched him, eyes half-closed, trembling with lust.

"Please, move," Bond gasped, slowing down, fighting not to go over the edge yet. "Fuck me."

"Not before you have come."

Miller's voice was strained, but his expression was determined. He thrust once into Bond, just a gently nudge, but it made Bond's nerve-endings overload. Bond convulsed, thinking for a second he was going to throw up. His hands kept working on his cock, caressing and stroking, delaying the explosion.

"Hurry up, wanker," Miller said and nudged him again.

Bond moaned and accelerated his fondling into a furious staccato. He had no control over anything when he ejaculated. He was squirting his semen all over the place, on Miller's chest and stomach and hair. He was just a trembling heap after the melt-down.

He realized that Miller was now ramming his cock up his ass, but he really wasn't really participating. He felt like floating, flying, falling through the air. Miller thrust, thrust again. Bond just lay there, limp and completely still: he was sated, and had a ethereal, good, warm feeling. It was not physical, it was an all-inclusive experience, perfected by Miller's shuddering climax.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but finally Bond felt Miller moving away. The zap of a lighter and the smell of tobacco connected Bond to the moment again. He made a vague gesture touching his lips, and Miller politely gave the already lighted cigarette to him, and lit another one for himself.

"You really should leave soon," Bond said. "And if there is anything of yours in this apartment, take it with you. The place will be as clean and empty tomorrow as if no one ever lived here."

"Who the hell are you working for?" Miller asked.

"I can't tell, but you can guess," Bond said.

His placid euphoria was inevitably transforming into alcohol-induced depression. Alec's face on a stranger made him uneasy. He was sore and bruised, and he was beginning to regret the sex. The first inklings of the headache and nausea made him remember he wasn't young anymore. Things that had been beautiful, exotic and interesting just a moment ago in the realms of ecstasy, now seemed foul and tedious.

"I don't want to see you again," he told to Miller.

Alec's lover stumped his cigarette and nodded.

He disappeared from the apartment while Bond was in shower.

Bond looked at the empty apartment in the dawn light, wanting to believe he had imagined everything. The small book under the couch had vanished. He could have imagined the book, so perhaps everything else was unreal, too?

An obscene number of empty bottles lay scattered about: whiskey, vodka, brandy. There was gnawing pain left, not unbearable but constant. Bond ached, body and soul all raw and tender. He had come here hoping to find something -- something of Alec’s that he could have. A ring. A gun. Anything. A memento of some sort.

It was morning and there was nothing. Bond thought of Alec, his friend, his brother, the only man he had ever loved. It was like it had always been -– he was alone. And he imagined Alec’s drawl, “Aren’t we all? You’re late, 007.”

* * * *

Sean Miller read poetry on the train. He had snatched the book at random, partly to have a reminder of Alec, partly just to annoy Bond. He felt stupid -- the book was in Russian, and he couldn't read it. But there was one poem Alec probably had translated. There was writing in the margins.

* * * *

And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.

Today I have so much to do:
I must kill memory once and for all,
I must turn my soul to stone,
I must learn to live again—

Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.




The End