Summary: When Q kisses him he knows he’s in trouble.
When Q kisses him he knows he’s in trouble.
The air is chilled and the two are twined together for warmth. Bond’s nose is red and they both had grins plastered to their faces from a stupid joke he had cracked. There are Christmas lights up in the shop windows even though they aren’t out of November yet, he had been complaining about that earlier.
His lips taste like the coffee he had just had at that café and Q knows his own must be flavored something along the lines of the Earl Grey he had been sipping across from him. A hand rests on his lower back, pulling them even closer than before and when they breathe out there are heavy clouds in place. There’s something in his chest and it’s terrible, this intense burning like he was being branded and Q knows that maybe this is what it feels like to be falling in love. They pull apart and he stares at 007 for a few moments, blindsided, because he swears when he agreed to this outing he didn’t look half as beautiful as he does now.
Bond’s got some stitches on the side of his face at the moment, he had just gotten back from an assignment and they had to stitch him up. Q had told him he was beginning to look like he had more scars than skin and 007 had scowled in reply. His left eye was a little bruised and the Quartermaster could only stare. What can he do? How do you stop this?
Love was not part of the plan, James Bond was not part of the plan. Sure a quick shag, noncommittal warmth in the night to curl up against, no strings no problem. He can still do his job and not worry about having to get emotionally invested. He is falling off the edge of a cliff and there’s nothing he can do about it, grasping at the threads as he continues to gawk in a very un-Q-like manner.
“Are you alright?” this isn’t the Bond he knows, the words murmured to him are low and their faces are too close. He doesn’t want Bond touching him right now, he wants to say something nasty so he knows where they stand. They aren’t lovers, they aren’t even friends. What is happening why is this happening. So many questions are running through his mind and he has no answers because you can’t hack a human brain and that is maddening.
He is completely at a loss, so he does the only thing he thinks he can, he pulls away, shoving the man away from him. They don’t say anything for a few minutes and Q shakes his head, he says something, he isn’t sure what but suddenly Bond’s jaw clenches and he goes rigid. He leaves him there, walking the other way, the agent standing in the cold by himself.
Bond knows there will be a problem the minutes they hold hands.
They are in his flat, takeout laying half eaten in their cartons with chopsticks poking out. The telly is on and Q has his laptop out, eyes flickering between the screen and CNN, his fingers flicking over the keys absentmindedly. He’s leaning slightly against 007, their shoulders bumping as the agent teases some noodles out of their bowl and into his mouth.
Q’s flat was much like Q himself, modern, progressive and just a little bit cold. The rug under his feet was protecting him from the chill of the hardwood. The Quartermaster was combating the cold with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Bond wasn’t sure when this had happened but he had started spending the night, neither commented on it.
Then, as easy as breathing, Q shut his laptop and leaned his head back, letting it rest against Bond’s and the agent felt fingers twine against his. Without thinking he tightened his hold and the man beside him sighed so contentedly he felt icy panic grip his chest. What was he doing? What was going on right now?
They were on the brink of a relationship and if there was one thing James Bond didn’t do it was relationships, self-conscious he extracted his hand and sat up a little straighter to shake Q off. The other man didn’t say anything but the rejection was seen clearly on his features as he shifted away immediately and opened his laptop again to bury himself in.
He didn’t stay the night again.
Q doesn’t like the way seeing 007 flirt makes him feel.
He’s working a few ways away and Bond has drifted in as he normally does, but this time instead of tormenting him he’s now leaning over the edge of a pretty intern’s desk laughing away as she turns an infuriating red. Q knows it’s possibly to kindle jealousy on his part and despite his best efforts not to play into it he can’t stop himself.
Their eyes meet only once before Q forces his gaze back down to his computer, 007 will lose interest eventually and have to leave.
He doesn’t. No, instead he says good-bye to the intern, Q can’t help but notice that she has written her phone number on a slip of paper and given it to him and Bond has put it in his pocket, and moves onto the next desk. It’s a painful process, he strikes up conversation once more and then the pretty intern he began with gets envious and so both women begin competing. When Q looks back up he finds James sitting there smirking at him, like this is some kind of game.
“007, if you don’t mind we have a branch to run here.” he snaps.
“Oh of course, my apologies.” The other replies easily, but doesn’t move.
He leaves only after he’s extracted phone numbers from six out of his ten underlings. Q doesn’t like that he feels sick when he thinks about Bond sleeping with any of them, not after they’ve slept together. The idea of someone else laying in the side of the bed he has come to call his makes him want to pitch his mug at that smug bastard’s head. Those images hang over his head the whole day until he goes home and finds the phone numbers taped to his door. He doesn’t know what this means, but hopefully it hints that no one is sharing the agent’s bed tonight.
Bond knows something has started that can’t easily be stopped the day they eat breakfast together.
Q is wearing Bond’s shirt from the night before, sitting on the agent’s countertop with a bowl of cereal in his hands, crunching away as he readjusts his glasses to watch the TV closer. He doesn’t look nearly as severe when Bond can see all those lovely bite marks and bruises blooming on his pale skin. In fact the sight makes him smile a little but Q doesn’t appear to notice. 007’s own bowl is forgotten momentarily as he watches the other man’s behavior.
Affection swells in his chest for a moment, catching him off guard and he doesn’t see anything wrong with acting on it, he tugs on the coattails of the shirt and Q glances away to stare at him with a raised eyebrow. “Can I help you?” he asks, mouth half full. Bond doesn’t reply instead he takes the cereal from his counterpart and sets it down, tilting his head up to snag their mouths.
Q makes a lovely noise between a sigh and a moan and his legs tighten around his waist. Hands begin to wander and he feels gentle friction that sets his teeth on edge, there’s a sinful smirk that Bond can feel against his mouth and suddenly the game is on. One he doesn’t mind losing, because even if he comes out as number two he can count the experience overall as a win. Besides, Q looks good in his rumpled clothing. Lips catch the sensitive skin between the Quartermaster’s neck and collarbone and he trails his teeth against it, eliciting a shiver that makes him go hard all over again.
“James,” it was meant to sound annoyed, Bond can tell but it sounds too gentle and holding far too much emotion to be interpreted any other way than one. He can’t form words, he maps out his response with his movements, the arch of his back and the feel of their hips pressed together in the morning light.
Q ponders where they stand when they show up to a party together.
Neither are touching, the suit resting on his shoulders itches and he wonders how Bond makes it look so easy and effortless. Everyone welcomes them, offering drinks and Q smiles tightly as he normally does, seeking out a corner to stand in until the evening is over.
Bond is in his element, he wanders, talking and laughing like he was old friends with every single person here. Moneypenny’s eyes are boring a hole in his skull and Q glares back until a knowing smile curls on her lips that he finds frustrating. Women and their intuition. She looks over at Bond and her lips set into a thin line before she begins to sidestep towards Q. He doesn’t want this, he just wants to be left in peace but that apparently isn’t an option.
She comes over and drapes an arm over his shoulder, leaning in so her dress exposes more than he cares to see, giving off the appearance of someone whose had one too many drinks but Q knows her game for the glint in her eye is that of a plotting hag’s. She whispers something in his ear that makes his cheeks flood with heat against his will and Bond isn’t laughing anymore from across the room, he’s staring at them with a dangerous expression on his face.
Q will have to save this for later reference because to be honest he has to tolerate him flirting with anything with a pulse but the moment someone comes onto him it’s serious. This double standard makes him raise his chin in challenge and he turns his attention to Moneypenny who is all too happy to play along.
He wraps an arm around her waist and they speak for a few moments until she untangles herself, giggling like a drunken schoolgirl, Bond is beside him in less than a second, as if he teleported. His jealousy makes Q’s stomach flip especially since he looks pointedly at the secretary and grabs Q’s hand and presses a kiss to it. “Alright dear?” he asks.
“Positively lovely.” The Quartermaster doesn’t miss a beat and Bond doesn’t realize he’s been played for fool until Eve sobers up immediately and rolls her eyes.
“I knew you two were together.” And then she’s gone, talking to M like nothing has happened. Bond glowers, but Q notices he doesn’t let go.
He also notices he doesn’t deny the claim that they are together.
Bond knows he’s a goner when he wakes up before he does.
He’s snuggled into the bed against James like the mattress was made for this, face pressed against the pillow and hair standing on edge from a rough night. The blanket falls to his lower back, exposing the white skin bleached grey in the light of the bedroom. Their clothes are scattered all over the floor, they had been desperately ripping them off of each other and they now lay forgotten. Q’s delicate hand is pressed against Bond’s chest, lax with sleep.
Q’s an early riser and always wakes before him, so this is a rare treat. He has never really admired the man beside him until now, the long lashes and boyish charm that was usually absent when he was awake. It made Bond choke on some kind of emotion he wasn’t familiar with.
He tries to get out of bed without waking him and fails, Q’s eyes flutter open and time stops. He rubs the sleep away, stretching slowly before propping himself up on his elbow, managing a muddled grin. “You’re up early.” He remarks, voice gravelly.
Well fuck, Bond thinks to himself. There’s no going back now.
Q accepts his fate when they spend his last night together before he goes out on a mission.
The lights are off and their breathing is even, foreheads pressed together. Neither want to admit that they know he might not be coming back, it’s too heavy a conversation for the feather light kisses trailing down each others’ shoulders. Bond hasn’t said a word since he got home and the pair would rather not dwell on what’s ahead for them.
They have sex three times that night and when it’s done all they can do is lay in the ruined sheets and stare at the ceiling. The lights don’t come on, Bond lights a cigarette and the ember glows lazily in the night, the smoke barely visible as it curls heavenward. Each are thinking of what to say but neither can salvage the words and that seems to be a pretty sad excuse but it’ll have to do for now.
Q wonders if there’s anything to say, if this is just being blown out of proportion but then he realizes for once how dangerous a life this is. How sometimes he will stay awake through the late hours and worry, wonder whether or not Bond’s still breathing. How some days things won’t be alright and that he might have to deal with seeing a broken body carted in by the medical evac. How one day he might just die and Q would have no say in the matter.
The cigarette is still burning and Bond hasn’t spoken. Q decides maybe he should. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat like a rock. “What time do you leave?”
“Six.” Comes the steadfast reply. It’s three o’clock now, only three more hours to spend before he’s gone. A callused hand finds his in the dark and a thumb rubs along his knuckles. “You worry too much.” It’s not meant to be waspish, only amused.
Q snorts. “Hardly.”
All the lust has burned down, it’s just them together naked in a too warm room and the Quartermaster closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep and when he wakes up Bond is gone, his side of the bed made up. There’s a note in hasty handwriting telling him to take care of himself while he’s gone and to remember to eat and sleep at some point.
He reads it five times and knows that he’s lost the fight and he’s okay with this.
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