spam; cw child abuse

[It's the kind of touch that has him instinctively going still. It still makes him a little afraid, a bare hand on the back of his neck, his mind travelling quickly to his mother's touch, the steadying hand before the strike.]

[But this is not Shandra. This is Bond, who's never hurt him. Restrained him, sometimes, made him cry, made him feel weak, but never on purpose, not like that.]

[He leans back hard into Bond's gun-callused hand and closes his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. He whispers, in boozy, tired breaths:]

I could make you come back.

I could. I could find a way. I could make you stay.