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Chapter Text

I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow
glass, but that comes later.
And the part where I push you
flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks

James Bond has lived many lives; He’s been a child at Skyfall, he’s been various business men and bankers while being undercover. He’s been 007, he’s been Bond. He’s been a skilful lover more often than anything else. But sometimes, just sometimes, he’s simply been James; himself.

For a moment, with Vesper, he thought he could spend the rest of his life being James. Afterwards he goes to back to being the womanizing Bond, and even later, when that isn’t enough, he goes back to the men, too.

They’re different, the men; they fuck harder and rougher, like their souls as well as their fingers are calloused. They’re less inclined to let Bond kiss the breath out of them.

Q is like none of the above; he walks right into Bond’s life, and settles in comfortably at the corner of it, with his unruly hair and endless cups of tea, his soft smiles, banter and dangerous, lethal weapons. He lets Bond get away with exactly nothing, and somewhere along the way Bond finds that all of his carefully planted defences are slowly crumbling.

__

Bond kisses him on a sunny day in July some time after Skyfall, and Q just smiles. He lets it happen without an ounce of complaint, but he also doesn’t kiss back. This is rather confusing.

When Bond pulls away from where he is bent over Q’s desk to kiss him, Q goes right back to work.

“As I was saying,” he says, “M has promised me that he’ll start drawing the money it costs to constantly resupply you with weapons from your own pay check, so you might consider actually beginning to bring them back.”

His hair is its usual mess of curls and knots and, possibly, all kinds of lethal weapons hidden inside of it. His grin is wider than usual, though. In fact, it’s almost a smirk.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Bond asks. Q purses his lips, as if in thought.

“They warned me about you,” he says. “What you might do.”

“Murder?” Bond asks.

“Seduction.”

“Ah.” Bond leans against the desk, supporting himself with one hand, in a manner that usually lets people know what his intentions are. Q looks him up and down and raises his brows.

“Exhibit A,” Q says, and looks pointedly at Bond’s hips.

“You can’t say it isn’t working,” Bond says.

“No. I can’t.”

Bond decides to take this as a hint that he’s allowed to kiss Q again. He does but, in a replica of last time, Q lets it happen but doesn’t do anything else. Bond frowns at him when he pulls back.

“Been told not to encourage you,” Q says.

“It’s not often you do as you’re told.”

At this Q’s smirk turns into a wide beam. “True,” he says. Then: “You can come back before I leave tonight. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out when that is.”

“And then what?” Bond asks. Q laughs out loud, although Bond isn’t sure at what.

“You didn’t–?“ Q asks, but sees Bond’s look of confusion, so stops in his tracks. “Well,” he says. “It’s just that that’s a line, James. I pegged you out to be more original than that.” Bond honestly didn’t know. Also, ‘James’.

“Shut up,” he says. Q laughs again, and he’s still laughing when Bond exits the room.

__

Bond watches the CCTV footage of the insides of Q branch, and can see the silhouette of Q at his desk, in his glass-wall office, in the corner of it. He must not have been too original, or perhaps Q has just tracked Bond’s hacking, because when the clock strikes eight pm, he exits his office and holds up his empty cup of tea in request to the surveillance camera. Bond sighs.

“Listen,” he says, when he enters Q’s office some seven minutes later. “I think you might have an obsession.” Q ignores him in favour of the cup of tea he’s holding.

“Aren’t you supposed to be wooing me?” he asks, and takes a sip of the tea. His eyes close in something that looks close to ecstasy at the brew; Bond fully expects to hold this against him at a later date.

“You wouldn’t want that,” he says. He might not know Q intimately yet, but he’s good at reading people’s desires. Thoughts, those are the difficult ones.

“Why not?” Q asks, but smiles like he’s pleased. Or amused.

“Because it’d be insincere, and you don’t want that. You value honesty.” When Bond says it, he is given a small frown by Q, situating itself between his eyebrows. Bond almost reaches out to touch it, but stops himself. Then it turns into a smirk.

“I thought we were supposed to be doing things other than talking?” Q asks. Bond doesn’t have to be told twice.

He leans in swiftly, but still slowly enough for Q to refuse. He doesn’t, so then they are kissing, and this time Q doesn’t just allow it to happen; he gives back. When Bond backs him up against the brick wall and presses him against it, Q responds by jumping up and attaching himself to Bond’s hips with his legs snaked around them. When Bond bites at Q’s lower lip, Q tugs harshly at his hair. When Bond thrusts into Q’s groin and makes Q throw his head back in a groan so it hits the brick wall behind them, Q only chuckles and digs his heels into Bond’s lower back.

“Mm,” Q moans. “Maybe we should find a bed.”

Bond takes him home. Well, ‘home’, is the newest hotel room, but it has lube and condoms, and the requested bed, so for this it is certainly good enough. They drive in Bond’s car, and Q puts his legs up on the dashboard in front of him. He laughs again when Bond puts his hand to his thigh.

“You’re something,” he says, but Bond doesn’t know what that means.

In the elevator Q places himself on the handrail – he has an affinity for sitting in weird places, Bond quickly finds out. Or maybe just for sitting – and beckons Bond over, so he can twist his legs around Bond’s hips again and use him as a support to be held up against the large mirror behind him.

Bond leans in to kiss him, and Q hums into it, before he lets his fingers play with the hair at the nape of Bond’s neck. It feels strange, to have this sort of touch during this sort of encounter. Perhaps Q is just something entirely of his own. Bond hasn’t quite decided yet.

Once inside the room, Bond kisses Q again, this time against the front door closed behind them; he’s good at this part, too, he knows. He kisses and licks and bites in an uneven rhythm, so Q never has time to get used to it, so Q ends up panting and pressed up against him, so Q spreads his legs as soon as Bond searches for a place to place his thigh. Q groans as he ruts up against him. Then he hums again. It makes Bond want to take him apart.

“Bed?” he asks. Q lets himself be manhandled there. He waits by the bed while Bond bends down to get the lube and condoms from his bedside drawer; they’re both a bit tricky to open, which is the causation of a lot of frankly annoying interruption time.

“Wait,” Q says, when Bond tries to kiss him again, but he sighs with content when Bond walks up to him so they’re closely pressed together.

“What?” Bond places his splayed-out hands on Q’s lower back.

“You’ll have to see me tomorrow,” Q says. When Bond realises that it’s just that, he dips his hands below the waistband on Q’s trousers and grab onto his buttocks. Q jumps but then smirks, so Bond kneads him a little.

“Indeed.”

“Good. Well. And you know that, if you’re a dick, I could quite literally murder you and make it look like an accident.”

Bond dips his index finger between Q’s buttocks and gently runs it along Q’s entrance, making him gasp below his breath. Bond smiles; he likes knowing what he can do to him.

“You wouldn’t,” he says. Q smiles mischievously, but says nothing, so Bond pushes him gently onto the bed and feels himself smiling when Q tugs Bond with him and on top of him, before spreading his legs for him.

“I do this with socks on,” he murmurs into Bond’s hair, as Bond is kissing down his neck. For a moment Bond lets himself be distracted by the pulse-point he finds there, as he licks it and presses a hard kiss to it. Then he realises what Q said.

“That’s really weird,” is his reply. Q laughs.

“I have poor blood circulation.”

“Hm.” Bond finds Q’s protruding collarbone through his shirt and attaches his mouth to it. “That’s because you’re so skinny. I could break you in half.” He finds Q’s wrist and presses his thumb to the bone there.

“Actually it’s because I’m tall,” Q says. Bond shrugs and lets Q’s wrist go in favour of pulling off his trousers. Not long after they’re both naked, and Q is trying to look down Bond’s body to see him. Bond raises Q’s chin with his finger, so he can’t, and their eyes meet instead. Q’s are glinting with mischief.

Q’s body is tight around Bond’s first finger, but his legs spread easily for Bond to crawl between, and his hums sound rather pleased as Bond slowly coaxes him open. It takes a long time though, and it’s a while before Bond can even enter his second finger.

“You don’t do this a lot,” he says to Q, who interrupts his own slight gasping to look down at him. “But you’ve done it before.”

“Hm,” Q confirms, and then gasps and throws his head back when Bond crooks his fingers to hit his prostate. He finds Bond’s eyes then, and raises his eyebrows in a signal that says ‘again’, so Bond repeats the gesture while Q is locking eyes with his and groaning deeply.

“You do,” Q pants. “Do this a lot.” Bond doesn’t bother replying.

What he learns during the next half hour is this: He, himself, is good at sex. He’s good at figuring out what the other person wants, and then giving it to them. He’s good at finding pressure points, and the exactly right buttons to press to send someone off the edge.

But Q likes sex; Not just the endgame of it, but the entire process. Throughout the entire thing he’s pushing himself into Bond’s hands, much like a cat requesting petting, and he’s humming and sighing and moaning with pleasure, but also with laughter and with content. He buries his head in Bond’s neck, and smiles into Bond’s hair when Bond is thrusting into him hard enough for him to clench his legs around Bond’s waist where they are once again placed. And he doesn’t stop when it’s over – well; what Bond would call over – he simply continues kissing Bond’s neck and touching his back for another five minutes.

When Q stops these ministrations, it takes a moment for Bond to realise that it’s because he’s sleeping. When he looks at the watch hanging over the hallway door he sees that it’s only a little past ten, but apparently orgasms work like a sedative on Q, because he’s quite literally snoring softly into Bond’s cheek.

Bond sighs, but decides to leave him be. He’ll have to face this mess at some point anyway; might as well face it in his own bed. He pulls out of Q gently, and grabs his own pants from the floor to clean them off with; Q doesn’t even stir.

Bond is not about to go to sleep at ten pm, and certainly not with one dozing quartermaster in his bed with him, so instead he grabs some unread files off his kitchen counter – what would SIS say if they knew top secret files concerning the national security were just lying around his hotel room for everyone to see? – and something golden and mahogany, and settles in on the couch instead.

He doesn’t really mind Q’s snoring.

__

It’s a little past 3 am before Q stirs and wakes again. Bond is still not sleeping, but now he has his computer open and is researching the terrorist organisation that his newest target belongs to. He isn’t supposed to, really. He’s supposed to simply be a killing machine; do what he’s told, and not question the morals of it. Otherwise, he might go insane.

Maybe he is going insane.

“What time is it?” Q asks from the bed. His voice is groggy with sleep, and he sounds the opposite of awake.

“Three,” Bond says. He watches as Q turns and struggles to settle on his side, hogging the pillow under his cheek, before he opens his eyes and theirs meet.

“You didn’t wake me to throw me out,” Q says. It’s not a question of why; it’s simply a statement.

“No,” Bond agrees. “It’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine,” Q says. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Bond, despite himself, smiles. “Besides, you were dead to the world,” he says.

Q hums in agreement. “Yeah,” he says. “Sex does that to me.” Bond smirks, but doesn’t comment. He watches Q for another second, but then he returns to his laptop screen. They share a silence for a while, and it’s actually quite comfortable.

Q gets out of bed, but Bond is only vaguely aware of his movements. He trusts Q, in the this-entity-will-not-try-to-kill-me-so-I-don’t-have-to-be-concious-of-their-every-move-way. He does look up, however, when Q starts opening his fridge.

Bond goes back over the day and realises that, while he himself had leftover takeaway curry at about one am, Q probably hasn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday. Also Q, despite having slept for five hours, still looks thoroughly and well fucked; His hair is sticking up all over the place, even more than usual, his lips are plump and red from being well kissed and bitten and, well – he’s naked. Except for his socks, of course.

Bond takes this opportunity to watch Q’s full body up and down, while his back is turned and he’s in the kitchen lights. He’s slim – more just outright skinny, really, but somehow he still looks fresh and healthy. Maybe it’s the way he’s bouncing slightly on his toes. Bond also notices the moles covering Q’s back; he’s surprised when his immediate desire is to trace them with his tongue and lips.

“The hotel has a twenty-four-hour room service,” he calls to Q then. He points to the menu when Q turns to look at him.

Before he knows it, Q has ordered a hamburger with chips and two different kinds of pudding, used his shower for ten minutes, and borrowed one of his old band tees that he still keeps from his uni days. He steals some chips and one or two spoons of pudding, and Q eats the rest of it up until the plates are nearly licked clean. Apparently sleep isn’t the only bodily need that sex makes his body crave.

When Q, after eating, crawls into Bond’s lap on the couch and presses himself into Bond’s hands, Bond can’t really reasonably be expected to do anything but to kiss him back.

Q fucks himself on Bond on the couch, and kisses him sweetly throughout the whole thing, and afterwards he takes a half hour nap, before they shower again, drink a cup of tea each, and leave for work together in Bond’s car.

Chapter Text

So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog
of non-definitive acts,
something other than the desperation.

Two days later M calls Bond into his office, but it isn’t for a debriefing, it’s for, “Q is our finest asset. Even more valuable than you. Don’t do anything to hinder his abilities to do his work.” Bond doesn’t know how he knows, but he isn’t surprised that he does.

“You’re his boss, sir,” Bond says. “Surely you more than anyone knows that his age is no reflection of his capabilities. I would imagine this is replicated in his ability to handle his personal life.”

M simply sighs, but some minutes later a Q-branch minion finds him in the hallway and hands him the American sour-patches he likes. Bond finds a surveillance camera and smirks in its direction.

__

Moneypenny is less worried, although she still eyes him suspiciously in the rear-view mirror the next time she’s forced to drive him somewhere.

“He can handle himself,” Bond tells her, to get her to back off. It’s incredible how much of a show has been set in the works for just one night; it hasn’t been more. They aren’t ‘friendly’ with each other, but they weren’t before; they’re sharing banter and rolling of eyes, but also barks of laughter. Everything is as it was.

“I know he can,” she says. “He knows who you are. But he trusts you to know who he is, too.”

Bond is not entirely certain what she means, so he just snorts and leans back in his seat, ignoring her for the rest of the ride.

__

009, 003, 006 and 004 are all going out on mission within the same two weeks, and in result everyone in Q-branch are stressed out to the tips of their fingers, and Tanner spends a lot of time walking frantically between the desks of the branch and hovering right outside Q’s door, which is rather stressing them all out, because the doors are made of glass so it’s not like Q can’t see him.

Bond gets used to hearing the phrase “Not right now, 007,” a lot, and makes a lot of tea for the minions, which they seem to find rather frightening, because he hasn’t been assigned to a new mission yet. Such is the life of a double-oh. Sometimes you aren’t home for months, simply moving from case to case, and sometimes you have two months of downtime. If Bond’s downtime lasts for more than two weeks he starts getting twitchy and irritable. It’s a bad time for almost everyone.

The long stretch is almost finished, with just 004 to go, when Bond enters Q-branch one afternoon and finds most of the minions snickering and standing around Q’s office. When he is able to look inside, Bond finds Moneypenny standing besides a sleeping-and-drooling-over-his-desk-Q, balancing various objects on top of his unruly curls.

Bond finds that this is a marvellous idea, and joins her. They’ve made quite a tower, before Q starts stirring in his seat. He is not a jolty awakener like Bond; he is the kind of person who just sort of comes into consciousness.

“Eve,” he warns when he must have regained enough to gather what is going on. She giggles – and reveals her position, because as soon as she makes a sound, Q reaches out to slap her across her upper thigh.

“Wait,” she calls, when he stirs again and, to Bonds surprise, he does. She takes out her phone and snaps a few photos of the tower they’ve created, before Q moves.

“Oh,” he says in Bond’s direction, when he’s sitting up and all of the various trinkets that were once on his head are now on the floor. “You’re here.”

“Does this happen often?” Bond asks, gesturing to the mess on the floor. Q rubs his eyes. Bond wishes he had some tea for him, and then realises the absurdity of that thought.

“Eve has an iPhone folder. And a real, printed-out, one, in case I hack her phone and delete them all,” Q says. Moneypenny smirks. Q runs a hand trough his hair, and sits up straighter, looking at the mess on his desk.

“How long do I have left?” he asks Moneypenny. She looks at her watch.

“Two hours and seventeen minutes,” she says. Q smiles, and though it looks a little manic, it must mean he’ll be able to make it. He then turns to Bond.

“Tea?” he asks, and places his hand sweetly on the back of Bond’s thigh. Bond knows what he’s doing, and feels the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of his suit trousers.

“I am not this easily persuaded,” he says. Q just smiles and squeezes him.

“Yes, you are,” he says.

Yes, he is.

__

That evening after 004 has been sent off, and all of the paperwork is getting finished up, Bond invites himself into Q’s office, where he is sitting by the light of his desk lamp, bent over his papers, looking like he’s just about ready to drop back off to sleep.

“Invite me to your place tonight,” Bond suggests. He watches as Q looks up at him in mild surprise, before the expression gives way to simple exhaustion again.

“I am, as I am sure you can see, very tired,” he says.

“I know,” Bond says. “You sleep the best after sex. I’ll just give you an orgasm and be off.”

Q eyes him with what is simple incredulousness, before he bursts into laughter so hard tears appear in his eyes. Bond smiles, because it is rather sweet, and also because he made that happen. Well, and what he calculates to be about three sleepless nights in a row for Q.

“You say the sweetest things,” Q says, but he’s smiling. Then: “Okay, then.”

*

Bond texts Tanner and asks him to make sure Q is off work the next day. He needs the sleep, Bond tells himself.

*

Q gives Bond his address, and nearly dozes off in the passenger seat of Bond’s car.

The apartment complex that Bond pulls over at isn’t exactly flashy or extravagant like Bond’s usual hotels, but it’s within a neighbourhood that’s relatively good. Bond supposed it’s typical Q behaviour, wanting to preserve some sense of normalness by living amongst the ‘commoners’ if you were to use that kind of language.

Q wakes up from his almost-sleep and walks Bond up to the elevator, from where they reach the third floor and get out. Q lives on the left.

“Beware of the cat,” he says, before he opens the door, which only registers with Bond as an actual warning for an actual cat once he lays eyes on the creature; The idea of household pets and someone within MI6 being able to have them and keep them alive is so far from his understanding of the world, he hadn’t even considered that as the intended meaning.

“My neighbour keeps her alive when I can’t,” Q says, and bends down to pick up the cat. Bond is thrown so much off his footing he just looks. “I have done background check to be sure, but she’s really just an old lady,” Q continues.

The flat isn’t very large, and the hallway, living room and kitchen are all one giant room, so Q’s able to check the cat’s food and water supply from where he’s standing, before he pets her again and then lets her back down.

“Well,” Q says, and then Bond is being kissed by him. Not that he’s complaining. He’s not even complaining when Q pulls him towards the bedroom and into it. Once inside he lets go of Bond and instantly throws his jacket and jumper onto the floor. Bond tries not to wince, but Q sees, of course he does.

“Posh idiot,” he says, but it’s fond. “I’ll clean it up later, when I’m not about to pass out.”

“Are you about to pass out?” Bond asks, as he takes his own coat off. Q smiles.

“Are you asking for consent or for how to nurse me back to consciousness?”

“Both?”

Q smiles again, and replies to neither question, but simply gets himself out of his trousers un-ceremonially. Bond tries to help him gently over to the bed, but Q is rather occupied with getting Bond’s trousers off as well. Bond lets him, and tries to push away the fondness lurking at the corner of his mind.

“Q,” he says.

“Hm?”

Bond grabs Q’s hands to stop them, but steps out of his trousers, so his work was fruitful in some way. “Let me take care of you,” he says.

Q steps into his space. “Okay,” he says, so this time Bond is successful when he pushes Q down onto the bed. He gets his own button-down off, but keeps his pants on, before he pulls the last of Q’s clothes off. Q just lies back and watches him, but he has that pleased look on his face that Bond is already starting to recognise.

As Bond watches Q’s naked, splayed-out body, Q smirks at him and demonstrably spreads his legs as he lets his eyes fall to Bond’s lips: The message is clear. Bond leans up and kisses Q’s navel, before looking up at him through his lashes. Q raises his brows, and hooks his legs over Bond’s shoulders, so Bond gets to work.

Q’s hands end up in Bond’s hair, but he isn’t tugging or pulling, he’s just there, like he wants contact between things other than his own cock and Bond’s mouth. Bond could almost be lured into thinking Q is too good for MI6; in the morals and innocence kind of way. He’d be wrong about the last part at least, he knows.

Q’s eyes are closed, like he’s ready to drop off as soon as Bond is done. Bond isn’t even offended.

He must do something particularly nice with his fingers and tongue, though, because Q gasps and then moans and scuttles down further on the mattress, chasing the closeness in the least harsh way available.

“Mmm,” he hums. “’S nice.”

Bond moves away, and dries his mouth on the back of his hand. “Nice?” he says, only halfway mock-offended. Q just smiles sweetly, and tugs at his hair a little. Damn him.

“Better than if I’d masturbated,” Q says. Bond scoffs, because he isn’t sure that’s much of a compliment.

“That’s a high bar,” Q protests. Somehow he’s the one who ends up looking put out, so Bond takes mercy on him and smiles into his hip.

“You should show me that sometime, then,” he says.

Q settles back into the mattress and makes a content sound. He closes his eyes, and looks close to sleeping already. “Me masturbating?” he says. “Hm. Kinky.”

Bond moves up to press a kiss to Q’s lips, and Q turns his head to press himself into it properly. His face stays intimately close to Bond’s even as their lips pull apart. Q runs his nose over Bond’s cheek. Bond is sure he’s almost sleeping, with how clingy he is; it seems more like he’s just seeking warmth and a body, than anything supposed to be sweet or sexy.

“Hm,” Q hums then though, before he mumbles, “I’d like to tie you up.”

Bond can’t help but to smile. Only Q could suggest something like that while nearly drooling on the requested partner in a rather unsexy way.

“Okay,” he says, because why not?

“Really? You’d let me?” Q doesn’t really sound surprised, he just sounds tired.

“Yeah,” Bond says, and kisses the nearest piece of Q’s face he can find; it’s his eyebrow. “You’d laugh the whole time, but sure.” Q laughs at that, too.

“Don’t you want me to finish the job?” Bond asks when Q starts kissing him. Q continues anyway.

“Stay up here,” he mumbles. His words are barely understandable. “Use your hand.”

Bond shrugs and does, and it’s really rather alright, because that means he has Q breathing heavily against his face and rutting into Bond’s hand as his arousal builds, and it means he gets to hear Q’s small whimper when he comes all over Bond’s hand. Bond can’t remember the last time he was this hard and straining over so little.

“I think you have a vulnerability kink,” Q tells him when he grabs him, despite Bond’s protests that Q should really sleep. He’s probably right.

Chapter Text

Actually, you said Love, for you,
is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s
terrifying. No one
will ever want to sleep with you.
Okay, if you’re so great, you do it—

Everyone in SIS knows, of course. Bond gets the distinct impression that they’re all waiting to see what will happen the first time Bond gets hurt or goes MIA.

Q, the terrible idiot that he is, get himself hurt first.

__

He’s not supposed to be out on missions or in the field; his skill is best applied from the office, from behind-the-scenes, and there he is deadly. But something goes wrong on 009’s mission, and he’s on a plane to Taiwan.

He’s already shaking when Bond drives him to the airport in his own car, so Bond offers to wank him off, hoping this will take the edge off him. Q responds by crawling into his lap and sighing into his temple as Bond’s hand move on him, the other one placed in support on Q’s lower back.

“And who says you aren’t sweet?” Q says afterwards, before he cleans himself off. He presses a kiss to Bond’s temple, and gets out of the car. When he gestures for Bond to roll down the window, Bond does.

“You don’t need to take care of me, though. I’m a big boy,” Q says, and then he is off before Bond can comment. Bond watches his back as he disappears into the airport, and tries to push away the feeling of paranoia that is settling within him as he watches Q go.

He shouldn’t have ignored it, because three days later Q is shot.

Bond watches the footage of 009 and Q sitting in a hotel room, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction when he watches 009 instantly kill the person who shot Q, and the following three people entering the room as well. When she starts pressing her hands against Q’s shot-wound and her fingers get covered in blood, Bond shuts it off.

*

It’s three in the morning four days after when Moneypenny calls his phone.

“He’s back,” she says. “And about to wake up.”

“Okay,” Bond says, and hangs up. He doesn’t go to see him.

__

When he thinks about Vesper, what is most prevalent is not Venice. It’s not even the elevator and her last breath; it’s the hospital room, and everything that comes after, when she is gone and he is betrayed.

When he thinks about M, he thinks about how everything he touches seems to break. He never thinks of his parents.

Q reminds him of a miniaturist; carving out models of himself, of warm smiles, of fond laughs, and making Bond swallow them all until they take residence inside of him. It happens without him noticing, so he doesn’t have time to stop it; He just gulps it down, like he does everything else.

He doesn’t go to see him because he still has empty buildings and futures inside of him, and letting Q’s miniature figures become the same, is too painful. He doesn’t go see him because he wasn’t there to save him, because he never will be; he’s the one who steals the breath from Q’s lungs, not the one who gives it to him.

__

Moneypenny finds him on the roof again, a week into Q’s being back. Bond has avoided medical at all costs until then.

She stands next to him, and they watch the London rooftops in silence.

“He can take care of himself,” she says. Bond snorts, because evidently, he can’t.

__

Bond is a lot of things but, perhaps most pressingly, he is a person who cannot keep his resolve.

*

He goes to see Q.

When he sees him, it’s ten pm, and Q is lying in the hospital bed, propped up against the pillows behind him. He’s surrounded by flowers and presents; everyone in MI6, and across the rest of the agencies, like him. A book is in his hands, but he doesn’t seem to be reading it.

Bond steps inside, and Q breathes a small “Oh,” when he looks up and sees him. Bond attempts to smile, which causes a frown to appear on Q’s face – he seems to always frown when Bond is lying.

Bond doesn’t say anything, but pulls up the chair from the corner of the room, and sits on it next to Q’s head. He tugs down the duvet enough to be able to see the dressing covering Q‘s wound, and Q’s expression turns pleased.

“I figured the odds were about fifty-fifty,” Q says, and is referring to the odds of Bond coming back or staying away. Q moves to sit a bit straighter, and winces with pain when it must irritate his wound. Bond frowns in worry, but doesn’t offer him a hand. “Now that I’ve revealed my fragile human nature, and all,” Q continues.

Bond puts his head in Q’s lap instead of replying, and only a second later Q’s fingers are running through his hair. The quiet between them is thoughtful. Bond breathes in Q’s scent, but it’s disguised by the smell of hospital linen, disinfection chemicals and the rusty tone of blood. Bond wants to wash all of it off of him.

“Let me take you home,” Bond says. “I’ll drive you.”

Q keeps running his hand through Bond’s hair. “How’s Luce?” he asks. Lucy is his cat’s name. Bond almost smiles.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Hm.” Q fists his hand in the hair and tugs a little at it. Bond runs his head against the soft skin of Q’s stomach, which is the only place he has any soft at all. “You’re really a terrible friend,” Q says.

Bond chuckles softly. “I know,” he says. It’s not exactly an apology, but maybe Q isn’t looking for one, because he pats Bond’s head and says, “Take me home then.”

__

The drive to Q’s flat is filled with Q’s strained breathing and the smell of his sweat, which breaks on his forehead as Q grits his teeth against the pain he must be feeling.

“Sorry,” Bond says when he drives over a bump, and Q gasps loudly. He reaches out for some part of Q’s body, but Q takes his hand and squeezes it so hard crescent-moon nail-marks appear on the back of Bond’s hand. He doesn’t mind.

Inside the flat Bond feeds Lucy while Q goes to the bathroom. Bond finds him there, ten minutes later, lying in the bathtub with his hospital gown still on. His eyes are closed, but his breathing is calming down and becoming less shallow. Bond sighs.

He finds a cup on the side of the sink, and turns on the tub’s tap over it, so that he can adjust the temperature of the water without hitting Q. When it’s acceptable, he reaches down to untie the gown behind Q’s neck. Q lets him take it off, so Bond turns on the water. Q’s sigh sounds relieved.

They don’t talk until Q has dipped his head under the water of the now full tub to wet his hair. Bond dips his hand into the water and presses his fingertips against the right side of Q’s chest; Q doesn’t jolt in surprise; perhaps he expected the movement. He simply moves back a little and resurfaces from the water, pushing his wet, dripping hair away from his forehead. Bond touches his chest and neck under the water, and watches his hand being morphed into weird shapes.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Q observes then. Bond chuckles, but it’s sad and confirming instead of filled with humour.

“No,” he agrees. “But I think it might be the lesser of two evils.”

“What’s the bigger of two evils?”

Bond doesn’t say anything, but he finds Q’s hand under the water and moves it to his lips, wet and all, where he presses a kiss to the knuckles of it. Q looks at him, and his expression tells Bond he might understand. At least he lets his hand stay near Bond’s face when Bond lets go of it, and instead uses it to touch the back of Bond’s neck.

“I know about Vesper,” Q says. Bond isn’t sure if he’s surprised or not. “I mean, I know.” Their eyes are locked, so Bond sees that he does.

He runs his fingers over Q’s collarbones under the water. They seem so fragile beneath his touch. “I don’t know what to say to that,” he says. Q squeezes his neck, and for a while neither of them say anything.

“I’m not her,” Q says then.

“You’re not a double agent sent out specifically to target me?”

“She wasn’t really a double agent,” Q says, but he must see Bond’s expression hardening, because then he puts his hand up to run it through Bond’s hair, and says, “We don’t have to talk about that.”

Bond sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. He rests his head on the edge of the bathtub, using his lower arm as a cushion for his chin. He’s not good at this talking thing. He’s better when communicating is done through bodies and expressions. Words leave too little up for interpretation; if he’s wrong, he’s wrong. “Everything comes out wrong.”

Q sighs again, but then smiles, and it’s almost fond albeit small.

“What if you’re hurt,” Bond asks. Q’s hand scratches his head, and Bond splays out his fingers on Q’s chest. His wound is covered with plastic to keep it dry, but the dressing needs changing.

“I can take care of myself,” Q says then. This time Bond doesn’t snort; it already feels like Q is just one wrong word away from not ever coming back.

“Besides, if I’m hurt – when I’m hurt – it’s because of MI6. Not you. I’m not your responsibility.”

“Aren’t you?” Bond asks. “Isn’t that what this entails?” Now his fingers are touching the pulse in Q’s neck. It’s back to being calm and steady. Q’s hair is drying at the edges.

Q’s smile is soft. “No,” he says. “That’s not what I’m signing up for. I don’t want that.”

“Then what changes?” Bond asks. He’s talking about love; what happens if, when it arrives – what happens if it already has?

“Nothing,” Q says. “Just the knowledge that it has.”

Bond doesn’t quite know what to say to that – this isn’t what he’s used to, what he knows – but when Q then holds up his shampoo in request, Bond washes his hair for him, and maybe that’s what makes the difference.

Chapter Text

Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?
Let me do it right for once

Half a year passes between the time Q first suggests tying Bond up, and the time they actually do it.

It’s December, so Bond buys real handcuffs from a real sex-shop, and gives them to him the first Advent Sunday of the month. They’re in Q’s flat, it’s snowing outside, and the Christmas tree is already up. Bond is on the couch; Lucy and Q’s feet are in his lap.

Q scowls at the present. “You’ve got to stop buying me stuff,” he says.

“No more,” Bond promises. Q frowns because he’s lying. Bond just smiles. “Open it.”

Q does, and then he’s laughing so hard his heels are digging into the muscle of Bond’s thighs and Lucy jumps to the floor with an indignant sound. Bond holds his ankles, and chuckles, too.

“These look like they cost a hundred pounds,” Q says. Bond resettles so he’s leaning over Q’s face and can dip down to kiss him.

“I am not taking chances with my own wrists. I need to be able to fire your weapons, don’t I?”

Q moans at that, and Bond is being kissed with passionate fever, hands are cupping his head, and legs are snaking themselves around his waist. Q puts his hand down under Bond’s jeans and squeezes him closer.

“This is such a good idea,” he mumbles into Bond’s mouth.

“So you’re okay with presents?” Bond asks.

“Shut up.” Bond laughs. Then he grabs Q, and carries him into the bedroom, where he sits on the edge of the bed with Q still in his lap.

It doesn’t take long before Bond finds that his clothes are off and on the floor, and his wrists are being handcuffed to the bed above his head.

“Safeword?” Q asks. He seems rather occupied with kissing down Bond’s neck and chest. Bond doesn’t suppose they’ll need one, but he’d damn well never do this the other way around without a word, so he supposes he should give that to Q, too.

“Red,” he says.

“Simple. I like it,” Q says, and kisses him. Bond smiles.

Q likes sex, so it really shouldn’t be a surprise that, given an opportunity like this, he takes his time. He bites down Bond’s neck, licks up his inner thigh, and mouths kisses on his stomach. He spends ages on Bond’s nipples, and then he takes Bond into his mouth and sucks until Bond is so nearly there, but then he stops again.

Q laughs when he sees Bond’s face. “I’m going to pay for that,” he says, and he sounds delighted. Bond tugs involuntarily at the handcuffs, which makes Q’s eyes go dark with desire. Bond just wants Q to give him some release.

“You said,” Q starts, “that you’d like to see me masturbate. Well. How about–” he reaches out for his bedside drawer, and pulls out the lube, “I do something a little different?”

When Q starts slicking up his own fingers, before he inserts the first one into himself, all the while keeping eye-contact with Bond, Bond thinks he might black out. Q must find his expression amusing, because he laughs again.

“You like this a bit too much,” Bond says. “Being in control.”

Q snorts and smiles. “I’m almost always in control,” he says, before he inserts another finger. Bond watches as Q’s face turns into ecstasy, and tries again to reach for him, to no avail. He’s getting desperate. Q crooks his own fingers and, judging by his expression, hits his own prostate again.

“I get what I want, don’t I?” he says. By now his voice is strained with the pleasure of it. It goes straight to Bond’s cock. “Often even when that’s a specific type of sex. You’re just often more in charge of giving it to me.”

Bond hears the words, but they honestly don’t make much sense to him, because as he says them, Q inserts a third finger, and looks just about gone. “I want you,” Bond pants.

Q’s smile is smug. “I know,” he says. Bond can’t hit him over the head, so he rolls his eyes instead. Q laughs. Then: “You know, for someone who has had this much sex, you know very little about the dynamics of it.”

“The dynamics?”

Q pulls out his fingers and dries them off on the sheets. As he finds a condom, he says, “Just because you’re the one doing the penetration doesn’t mean you’re the one controlling the encounter.”

Q rolls the condom onto Bond, and then grabs the lube. Bond chases the friction of his hands helplessly.

Q smirks. “Exhibit A,” he says, and applies the lube, before he positions himself and sinks down on Bond’s cock. Bond honestly sees stars, and he fists his hands tightly against the pleasure of it, so as not to come right there and then.

Q starts moving, but it’s so slow, so torturously languid that Bond tugs against the handcuffs several times.

“Example:” Q says. “In a moment I’m going to let you out of these handcuffs, and you’re going to fuck me into the mattress so hard that I’ll be able to feel it tomorrow. Because that’s how you deal with too much desire: You get rough.” Bond, embarrassingly, whimpers. “I want that, so I’m making sure you give me that. Conclusion: I’m in control.”

He leans down to press a kiss to the corner of Bond’s mouth. Bond tries to turn his head to catch it, but Q moves just too far away. He smirks. “You’re not,” he says.

He waits until Bond nod. Then he unlocks the handcuffs.

*

Afterwards, when they’re somewhat done panting, and have changed positions again, so Q can lie on top of Bond and kiss him while pushing his hair back, Bond says, “And here I thought I was slowly corruption you and your innocence shag by shag.”

“I know,” Q says. He’s smiling fondly. “Sometimes you really are disastrously wrong.”

Bond lets the thought go, but when Q is fast asleep and snoring a mere ten minutes later, he picks it back up. He’s always seen their first encounter in the light of his own initiation, and felt like he’d been the one to persuade and sweet-talk Q into his bed. Upon re-evaluation, he realises how, maybe, Q played just as big a part in talking himself into it.

He can’t exactly pinpoint why that means something, but it does.

__

Letting someone in to your bed for something other than shagging, also means letting them into your life and, even worse, your subconscious thoughts.

The fifth time they both share Bond’s bed and it’s just for sleeping, Bond wakes from nightmare.

If Q is the slowly-coming-into-consciousness-awakener, Bond is the jolt-and-grab-for-the-gun-before-you’re-even-remotely-awake type. The gun part usually excluded, but not today.

Bond is sitting up before he’s even out of sleep, and his gun is loaded and ready to fire in his grasp, pointed at the silhouette standing by Q’s side of the bed. This phrase, ‘Q’s side’, stirs something in Bond, and his instincts can fall away enough for him to be able to recognise the figure. His arm drops, but only slightly.

The figure that Bond now realises is Q has been standing frozen on the spot, but when Bond’s eyes get used enough to the darkness, he sees that Q’s expression is not one of fear, but one of assessing the situation. Bond would never want to hurt Q, but the adrenalin pumping through his body is telling him to fight, and the PTSD of his mind is telling him to shoot anything that moves.

Q moves to rest his knee on the bed, as if wanting to move in closer to Bond, and Bond hates how his grip involuntarily tightens, and the gun is raised again. Q stops in his tracks, but, to Bond’s relief, simply looks awaiting. Q isn’t saying anything; Maybe he’s afraid a too-loud voice will startle a response out of Bond.

Q reaches out for the barrel of the gun then; Bond watches his hand move, and isn’t sure what his own will do. Q’s fingers wrap around the barrel, before his other hand comes up and fists around the end of the gun, so Bond would be shooting his fingers off as well as his brains out if he were to pull the trigger; this is a deliberate action on Q’s part, Bond registers somewhere in the back of his mind.

Q finds Bond’s eyes, and locks onto them. He’s wearing his serious, competent expression that he will most often get at work. The one he wears when he calls Bond ‘007’.

He attempts to remove the gun from Bond’s grip; Bond feels his fingers slackening and himself giving over the weapon and the control.

None of them have spoken yet, but then Q says, quietly, “Thank you,” and Bond lets the gun go entirely. The tech recognising his handprint shuts off. Q puts it on the bedside table behind him. Relief surges through Bond, as the veil of the nightmare and adrenalin lifts.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Q checks the pulse in Bond’s wrist. Bond knows his heart is pounding, but adrenalin will do that to you; Q doesn’t seem concerned, so he isn’t either.

“It’s okay,” Q says, using the voice that goes with the competent expression. He puts his hand to Bond’s cheek shortly, but then he’s out of the bed and inside Bond’s kitchen.

He’s quick and methodical as he checks the cupboards for a glass, fills it with water, and walks back over to hand it wordlessly to Bond. Bond takes it; he’s never seen Q like this outside of work. Normally, when they’re in one of their own flats, Q is soft and carefree – to Bond this has meant that he has seen Q’s competence only in work situations. Seeing it applied here is strangely comforting to him.

Q leaves again, and next he comes back with Bond’s expensive whiskey and two glasses. He hands one to Bond, sits on the bed with him, and fills them both up generously. Bond doesn’t drink before he catches Q’s eye with his own, and sees the serious, tense look fall of his face and give way to the tenderness. Then he up-ends the glass and swallows. Q does too, but scrunches up his nose in displeasure at the taste. Bond smiles.

“Do you believe me?” Q asks then. Bond raises his brows in question.

“That it’s okay?”

Bond thinks; he pointed a gun at Q. He could have pulled the trigger, unintentionally, and Q would be dead. He can be dangerous, even when he doesn’t want to be.

But: Q took care of it. Bond didn’t pull it. Maybe, by now, Bond understands what Moneypenny meant when she said Q trusts him to know who he is, too.

“I believe you,” he says. Q doesn’t frown, so it must be true.

__

Bond comes back from a successful mission and finds Q in his office, laughing at something Moneypenny has said. He notices Bond, and smiles impossibly wider.

“Look who’s still alive,” he says. Bond poses in joke, just to see Q’s eyes go affectionate. Moneypenny rolls her eyes, but the she looks rather pleased, as well.

“If you’re not here to woo me, I don’t have time,” Q says. It’s probably true; His desk is even more scattered with papers than usual, and Bond sees the tell-tale dark circles forming under Q’s eyes, so he probably hasn’t slept for a few days.

“I am here to woo you,” Bond says, and leans over the desk for Q to kiss him. Q gives that pleased hum of his, before he presses his lips to Bond’s. Bond hears Moneypenny sighing.

“Shame,” Q mumbles into it, but lingers. “I still don’t have time.”

“Come away with me this weekend,” Bond says instead. “Or when you’re done with all of this.” He nods towards the many papers. Q rests his head in his palm, with his elbow on the table, and watches him. Bond reaches out to hold his wrist, just because he can.

“Why?” Q says. “Is my hot body not enough to entertain you anymore?”

Bond laughs. Moneypenny leaves the room, and when Q breaks eye-contact to look after her, Bond uses the opportunity to kiss him again.

“I want to show you something,” he says afterwards. Q runs his nose down along Bond’s, but then breaks contact and sits up straighter, going back into professional mode.

“Okay,” he agrees. “005 is going out this Monday, but I’ll probably be able to take the whole Thursday and Friday morning off.”

Bond touches Q’s fingertips on the table one last time, but then straightens too. “Deal,” he says. He starts to turn around to leave the room, but then Q exclaims, “Wait, hold on,” so he turns back around.

Q’s smile is stupidly mischievous and gleeful as he reaches over the table to put his hand on the back of Bond’s thigh, just below his arse, in a replica of a movement he’s done many times. Bond knows what’s coming:

“Tea?”

He hits Q over the head with one of his files, but smiles when Q laughs loudly. Then he goes to make tea.

__

That Thursday they drive up north in Bond’s car, with the radio filling the comfortable silence between them. Q has his feet on the dash, like he did the first time he was here, but this time he smiles fondly when Bond places his hand on Q’s thigh.

The drive takes two and a half hours, and when they finally park, it’s by a looming building, with it’s front turned towards a beach. Q has been napping, but when he wakes he looks around, and then finds Bond’s eyes. He might already know what this is. He doesn’t say anything though; he just gets out with Bond, and lets Bond lead the way.

“I lived here,” Bond starts, as they move towards the building. “”While I was an orphan.” He knows Q will understand what he means; he’s still an orphan, but back then it was his prime characteristic. Now that is taken by “double-oh agent” (Or maybe even “Q’s partner.” No one needs to know that though, Q especially).

“I spent two years here. Before M found me. The old M.” Bond feels Q watching him, but there’s no comment.

“This is … the most lonely place I’ve ever been,” Bond says. Then: “It’s the part of my childhood that I remember most clearly.”

Those are words, but they aren’t what he’s really saying. What he’s really saying is this: ‘This is who I am. It’s why I am who I am. This is what you’re signing up for.’

When he turns his head, Q is watching him with a melancholy expression, but it’s not pity. Bond is thankful. Then Q puts his hand to Bond’s shoulder.

“I knew all of this the first time you kissed me,” he says. Bond watches him, but he’s watching the house. Only when he says, “I still kissed you back,” does he look back at Bond. Now he’s tender.

“I know,” Bond says. “I’ve realised.”

It means: ‘You know me.’ It means: ‘I’m not scared anymore.’

Q kisses him, and it’s sweet. Bond lets the house, the other one, the one Q lives in, take form within him.

__

A little over two weeks later Bond comes home to Q’s flat from another mission, and finds him cooking dinner and humming to the tune of some popular song on the radio. There are two glasses on the counter, and one of them is filled with red-wine. Q takes a sip from it.

“Hey, you,” he calls, when he notices Bond. He looks up to smile softly in Bond’s direction, before he pours wine into the other glass and holds it out in offer. Bond takes it, and leans in to kiss Q’s temple. Q smiles.

“Are you wining and dining me?” Bond asks.

“Yep,” Q says. He adds some spices to the chicken and vegetables in the pan. “I thought you might be coming home tonight.”

‘Home’, the back of Bond’s mind tells him. For once in his life, he doesn’t tell it to shut up. Instead he watches as Q bounces lightly on his toes with the music, and reaches into the pan to steal a bite of chicken, like Bond isn’t standing right there beside him and can see it.

He has him, Bond realises. Q has said that in enough ways by now. He’s happy to let himself be Bond’s, and to take what he can get. He wants Bond to be his, too, even with everything that he knows; all of it. He’s still there; in the bed, at work, by Bond’s side; snuggled into the chest of him and staying.

“What?” Q asks when he catches Bond staring. His curls are a mess; Bond reaches out to push them off his forehead.

“I want to do it right this time,” Bond says. His voice is soft, and he can hear the tenderness of it. “For once.”

At the words, Q’s expression grows earnest, and he turns to fully face Bond. He’s smiling; wide and affectionate at the same time. For Bond, this is almost a confession of love. It is a confession of love; Bond loves him.

Q cups Bond’s head between his hands, and leans in to press a soft and sweet kiss to Bond’s lips. He lingers by Bond’s face for a long time, the two of them just breathing with each other. Bond touches his lower back beneath his shirt.

“Me, too,” Q says then. “For once.”

Bond kisses him again, and then he lets himself be held tightly.

Chapter Text

Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.
Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

Three months later Bond finds himself alone in a graveyard, but the feeling that’s accompanying him isn’t grief; it’s relief.

The grave is Vesper’s. He hasn’t been here before; hasn’t wanted to. Holding on to anger was easier.

Easy is not always best, though.

He doesn’t have flowers, feels it would be redundant. They’ll die, and then they’ll simply be detritus. No one comes here and he’s not planning to return. What he places with her is Venice. It’s the elevator. It’s the hospital. It’s all of the memories he doesn’t want to haunt him anymore.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” he says to her grave. “I’m sorry about what you were forced to do. I’m not angry anymore.”

He doesn’t say ‘I forgive you,’ to her grave, but he says it to M’s, and later Q says it to him, when he wakes up from another nightmare of murdering and pulling triggers.

He leaves the past behind him. He forgives. Then he moves in to Q’s flat, and into his closet and his bathroom. He moves in to Q’s life, too; He settles there, like Q settled in his. He doesn’t buy a ring, but he thinks about it.

He’s happy. He’s almost forgotten what that felt like. But also: He has someone to trust.

__

Bond wakes one Saturday morning where he doesn’t have anything on, and Q is awake, but still in the bed. Once he notices Bond’s awakening jolt, he buries his hand in Bond’s hair. Bond moves in closer, so he’s lying next to Q’s hip.

“Morning,” Q mumbles. “I love you.”

It’s the first time he says it. It’s not that Bond doesn’t know; they’re not exactly trying to hide it, but hearing it said out loud still makes a difference. He feels himself smiling against the skin of Q’s hip. When he looks up, Q is smiling widely too.

“Say it again?” Bond requests. Q’s smile gets wider.

“I love you,” he repeats. His voice is dripping with fondness.

“Hm.” Bond kisses the hip he’s lying by. “Thank you.” He hears Q laughing.

“You’re welcome.”

Bond intertwines his legs with Q’s. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Q says. Bond says it again anyway, and then leans up to kiss him.

“James,” Q says into the kiss. Bond scoffs. It’s not true anymore that James is who he really is; maybe it never was. Bond is who he is when he’s at work, and when he’s with Q. The thing is, those two parts don’t have to be separate anymore.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, and Q laughs. Then he kisses him again.