#bond boy

The first thing he did once he completely opened his baby blue eyes was take out a cigarette from the box in his nightstand, lighting it with a silver lighter.  He let out a long sigh, temporarily relieved from the soreness. No idea if the pain came from last night, the night before that, or…from right now. The tent between his legs pointed towards the latter. He decided to let the pain numb the rest of his senses, tapping the cigarette into a glass ashtray that sat on his nightstand next to a poorly-closed bottle of prescription sleeping pills. 

Returning the cigarette to his lips, the gentleman climbed out of bed and made his way to the vinyl player across the room. He lifted the needle and carefully placed a vinyl by Caro Emerald underneath it, With the first notes of the synthesized beat and the orchestral hits in the intro, he leaned back with his buttocks pressed against the bedroom door, and let out a long, thin trail of smoke. 

By the end of the first verse, the cigarette wasn’t giving him enough of a high to satisfy the need between his legs. He discarded it in the ashtray and went to his shower straightaway. Under the streams of cool water, the gentleman exfoliated his sinewy alabaster arms with an almond oil and shea butter body scrub from Brickell, which was followed by the Dior Sauvage body wash. Then he adjusted the shower settings from cold to hot, surrounding himself with steam after a few seconds. As he massaged the Augustinus Bader shampoo - made with baobab and pomegranate seed oils - through his fair curls, he sang along with the Dutch singer to the chorus under his breath.

'Cause I belong to you

That endless nights so far away are gone, and you

Could never love another

And I love you too

I see it up above and now I feel the truth

I belong to you

The soapy bubbles rinsed down his toned body and sculpted torso, gathering around his feet. He continued in his soft baritone with the Dutch performer until the end of the song. Then he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wiping the condensation from the mirror. The gentleman reached for the bottle of leave-in hair treatment, also from Augustinus Bader, and applied a small amount to the ends of his hair, pushing them back. His hands lowered to his hips and he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. At all of him. 

He always knew that he was beautiful. He knew that anytime he walked into a room, all eyes would go to him before he even spoke a word. He knew that whenever he took off his blazer or removed his shoes in public, someone - if not everyone - would be mentally undressing the rest of him, picturing him the way he looked right now. 

The gentleman’s gaze fell to the left side of his body, where his waist was marred with the purple-red bruises, from the fingers of many a lustful soul pressing into his skin while they pleasured him, or vice versa. His left shoulder had the remains of a gunshot wound from five years ago. On the inner skin of his thighs, now free of pain thanks to the cold part of his shower, were reddish bite marks that mirrored the ones found on his rear and his right earlobe. 

His middle finger gently grazed his hip bone, right along his V-line, along the only tattoo on his body  - the words ‘mi vida’ written in tiny cursive. And for a moment, he was back in Medellin, five years younger and full of champagne. Full of love that he didn’t know he had until it was taken away from him. The gentleman sighed deeply, facing his reflection again, now seeing a tired, battle-hardened middle-aged man instead of the charming Adonis from a minute ago. The lines on his face were now conspicuous, along with the dipped circles under his eyes.

He drew himself out of unwilling nostalgia by splashing cold water onto his face, washing himself with a facial cleanser from Acqua di Parma and using a vitamin C serum from Typology afterwards. While the serum set into his skin, he brushed his teeth and absent-mindedly held a towel at his waist. Who was he covering himself for anyway? It’s not like there was anyone in his flat who might walk in and see him. The towel immediately returned to the rack. 

He always began his day alone, in his own bed, no matter whose lap or whose arms he was in the night before. Whose lips he tasted, whose touch he savored, and whose flattery he swallowed. He didn’t care whom he slept with, so as long as they didn’t try to kill him. 

There was Eduardo, Edith, Jed, Charlotte, Cora, Eve, Emma, Mobius, Hester, Tullus, Sylvie, Beatrice…How could he forget about Princess Kate? Those were just the ones whom he actually loved. And lost. The mercurial nature of his heart never failed to surprise him time and time again. At this point, he was convinced that were he to fall in love again in this lifetime, he wouldn’t know it until he’d cradled their corpse in his lap. Or until he watched them have their happily-ever-after with another man, a man that he could never be. 

But maybe that life - the normal one with a long-term partner and an honest job - was never meant for him. He moisturized his face with a cream from Typology made with hyaluronic acid, and slowly moved a jade roller along his base of his neck, upwards to the base of his skull. 

By now, the record player moved onto another song with a brassy introduction reminiscent of the nineteen-twenties. When he’d finished moving the jade roller along his forehead and his under eyes, the gentleman returned to the bedroom and threw one leg onto his bed. Lunging forward, he narrowed his eyes in focus while lathering bergamot and cardamom oil-scented lotion from Tom Ford onto his thighs and calves, switching legs in between. 

He looked over at the view from his bedroom window, rubbing the lotion into his arms and wincing briefly when he touched the gunshot wound. A perfect view of the Thames, the London skyline just as it was stumbling into another day, dog-walkers in athletic wear in the streets below, and a group of ladies pointing in his general direction before they scribbled into their notebooks and continued moving. 

Finally, he dressed himself, starting with a pair of black CDLP boxer briefs, and a cotton white undershirt from Fruit of the Loom. He chose an Oxford shirt from Ralph Lauren’s Spring and Summer 2026 collection in the shade called ‘basic sand’, and paired it with navy linen Carlo trousers from Loro Piana. He remembered the time he bought those trousers. It was shortly after his return to London from a business trip in Kathmandu, and he also bought cotton Carlo trousers from that same Loro Piana pop-up shop in three different colors: baby light blue (which despite the name, looked more like adult dark blue), optical white (which in hindsight, looked like the sort of pants you’d wear just to have them ruined with blood or something worse), and tidal foam (which his boss said hugged his bum “just like a good squeeze”). That afternoon, he remained in Harrods for another three hours and racked up a bill of five thousand pounds, shopping until tailored garments and expensive grooming products replaced the memories of gunshots, torture rooms, and bleeding corpses. 

Perhaps that was the one thing that consoled him through every job of his, he thought as he looped a brown Luca Faloni belt through the his trousers. He could always count on having enough money to spoil himself afterward, provided he made it out alive. But he always made sure of that. He wouldn’t be very good at his line of work otherwise. Come to think of it, if money was the only thing that kept him in this line of work, he may as well be nothing but…

“A dirty whore,” he spoke aloud to himself.

A whore who had no business losing himself in love, let alone hoping to find it. He was there for a reason - to serve, to please, and to occasionally tease. His upper lip curved into a half-smirk, catching another reflection in the window. The gentleman sprayed the Tom Ford Soleil Blanc cologne twice onto his wrists and nape before finishing his look with a pair of dark brown calfskin loafers from Ralph Lauren. 

Picking up the leather chestnut brown Ralph Lauren Heritage Messenger bag from the foot of the bed, the gentleman locked the doors of his flat behind him. He didn’t give a damn if he left the record player on while he went work. At least for the next hour, his entire floor would have good taste in music. He looked at his silver iPhone 15 for the time. Five minutes past eight, and five minutes past the end of quiet hours in his building.

The gentleman decided to detour from his commute to a London café called Teddy’s. Especially since the baristas had a habit of giving him free cinnamon Danishes with his Americano. He would pretend to be astonished every time - gasp, place his hand over his heart, and clamor about how he didn’t deserve it at all - even though he knew it was all because he looked at them a second too long than a regular customer should. And with two of the baristas, he reached over to tie their loosened aprons. Those times, he left Teddy’s with a fudge brownie on the house, along with his usuals. 

Today, he took a bite of cinnamon filling, icing sugar glaze, and flaky pastry after paying six quid for the coffee, and calmly descended the stairs into the station. Inside the tube, he polished off his breakfast while swiping through a historical romance on his Kindle. It entertained his mind much more than his former habit of listening to BBC Newshour podcasts on Spotify. 

But the best part of choosing a work of fiction while riding the tube? Knowing that anyone sitting near him would start to paint the most elaborate pictures of him in their mind as the dream guy. The one who’s “different”, made entirely of husband material or daddy material depending on their age. They’d picture him making breakfast on Sunday mornings and bringing it to them in bed. They’d imagine him sweeping the house while they relaxed on the sofa with a glass of wine after a hard day’s work. He’d insist on it, pausing to rub their feet. They’d fantasize about him surprising them with champagne, boatloads of chocolates, and designer lingerie on Valentine’s Day, and then either scowl in real life at their partners or their singledom. 

Nothing tasted quite as good as power, even cinnamon Danishes, and he had it in spades. Even if his only power was being able to read in real time exactly what someone wanted, when they wanted, and how much they wanted it. He swiped to the end of chapter nineteen and snickered when the baronet referenced in the title pinned the heroine onto her own bed and growled something delicious into her ear.  All while her family drank champagne with her intended suitor, oblivious to the rakish baronet’s successful conquest.

A voice overhead called, “The next stop is Vauxhall.” That was his cue to tuck away his Kindle and carefully pass by a line of passengers texting and swirling their overpriced Costa and Starbucks orders. He crossed the street and waved to two cars - a black Jaguar and a pastel blue Corvette - before entering the sandstone building on 85 Albert Embankment. 

Inside, the receptionist tipped their hat to him, just as the gentleman blew them a kiss and disappeared into a lift going upwards. Once the double doors of the lift closed, he pressed the button for the twelfth floor and lifted his vibrating phone to his ear. 

“Agent Fitty McCrotch. At your service, ma’am.” 

With his gun drawn, Derek moves along the wall towards the first door. It opens just as soundlessly as the front door, showing him a tiny room with bare walls and a single desk with an oversized desk chair. Or perhaps the chair has a normal size, but seems bigger because of the tiny room. Derek can tell he’s running on fumes because of the way his brain stalls on silly details like that. The next room is the bathroom, decently sized and fitted with a glass walled shower, a toilet and a sink with cabinets underneath. There’s a toilet bag sitting next to the sink, navy blue with a white stripe across. The third room is a bedroom. There’s a window in the left wall, hidden by floor length black out curtains. In the middle is a bed, with a nightstand on each side. The lamp on the right side is on, illuminating the silhouette of a man in the bed. He’s sitting up, one arm resting on his drawn up knees. Derek draws a little further into the doorway, his gun the main point of focus for the other man.

The young man doesn’t move. He just takes a breath, the sound and movement of it clearly telegraphing the words that will follow. Derek is still taken aback by them: “There’s chili in the fridge for you. And bread in the cupboard.”

“Who are you?”

“Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

Derek frowns, his gun unwaveringly pointed at the unknown factor in the room with him. “Stiles? What kind of name is that? A code name?”

“Nah.” The young man waves his hand in dismissal. “That honour is reserved for you guys, the Double-O’s and the single letters.” When Derek doesn’t react, he gestures with his hand somewhere to the other side of the door. “There’s a chair there. My wallet is in my back pocket.”

Without losing sight of the young man, Derek pushes the door further open until the chair comes into sight. There’s clothes on it, a pair of jeans on top. As promised, there’s a wallet in the back pocket and Derek flips it open to check the ID. “You’re with the agency.”

The young man, M. Stilinski as his ID says, nods. “There’s food in the fridge,” he repeats. “Clean towels and toiletries in the bathroom. Help yourself.”

Derek stares at him for another minute, weighing the pros and cons of sharing this safe house with another agent. His empty stomach settles the matter and he lowers his gun with a simple nod of his head. When he turns to leave the room, he sees how Stiles takes his gun from where it was hidden between the folds of the blanket and puts it on the nightstand, clicking the safety back on. Derek hums in approval, making his way towards the fridge.

The chili is amazing, though it barely trumps the hot shower Derek takes afterwards.

When he emerges from the bathroom, he sees that Stiles has set up camp on the couch with a pillow and a spare blanket. “Bed is all yours, dude,” he says, pulling the blanket over his lap.

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek harrumps, though he doubts that his words hold any value to someone who wears a T-shirt that says ‘stud muffin’.

Despite not being alone in the apartment, Derek sleeps well. When he wakes, somewhere around noon and well rested for the first time that week, Stiles is sitting on the couch with a laptop. He greets Derek with a cheerful ‘good morning’ and again a directive towards the kitchen.

“Fruit loops, really?” Derek arches an unimpressed eyebrow, but Stiles is equally unimpressed.