Written for the prompt: "I work at home and I haven't left my house in a while and you think I'm dead in my house." I found this on tumblr (onetruepairingideas) by cxptains-imagines (I think)?

It's my first story, but don't let that bias you. Reviews and critiques are appreciated.

James Bond wasn't a man who worried about other people. After his experience of things he touched dying – read: his plants, his ex-lover, and, in one spectacular case, a fish he had to babysit for a day – he kept himself as far as he could from people and anything close to a relationship. This, however, didn't mean that he was completely immune.

The building James lived in – or rarely lived in, seeing as he was out no mission most of the time – was large, imposing, and mostly quiet. His neighbours were, despite his best attempts at not talking to them, an elderly couple who enjoyed his company and occasionally sent food and invited him for dinner, and a man who he hadn't seen much. The man's name was Quinn Darcy and sometimes James saw him when he was leaving his house. Quinn was always haggard and tired looking, leaning at his door and chatting to old Mrs Smith and looking generally docile. Sometimes, he had dark bruises under his eyes which made James irrationally angry before he realised they were dark circles.

It was a dark and stormy Tuesday afternoon, the sky outside pitch black as the clouds beat people into submission. James lounged blankly in front of his window, idly swirling a tumbler of orange juice – yes, orange juice, because the harpies at Medical banned him from anything that would interfere with his new medication – and staring at the sky. The clouds roiled like a particularly upset stomach. Quinn Darcy. James knew next to nothing about his elusive neighbour and it damn near clawed under his skin to not know. He was a spy. Spies knew everything. Yet, somehow, there never seemed to be anything with which to identify Quinn Darcy with. There were only generic bills – no, he did not snoop around in the mailboxes – and only a few magazines of the technological kind. The man didn't have many visitors or friends. He didn't go for work either, seeing as James never saw him leave his apartment for anything. It was downright bizarre. If Bond didn't know any better, he would say the man was a spy. As it was, the only reason he didn't think that was because the man looked about as powerful as a kitten on catnip. Before he knew it, the blond realised that he had spent a good half hour focussed on his shifty neighbour.

I don't think I've seen him around in few days, he mused, standing up and going to put his glass away. Thunder crackled outside agreeingly. He isn't dead is he? The thought brought with it a startling amount of dread and worry. He didn't think he'd worried about the man so much. For a person he hardly saw, the idea of Quinn made his stomach light up in a way that he didn't want to look at too closely. The man was the opposite of Bond. Where he was blonde, muscular, and more aggressive, the other was dark, pale, skinny as a twig, and docile. It was odd. The small smiles he'd glimpsed bestowed onto Mrs Smith were like ornaments on the horrifying Christmas tree of his crush. Pausing for a moment and giving himself an appalled look, he decided not to think about the details for now. His...interest may be dead for all he knew since the man had yet to emerge from his mission. And Mrs Smith hadn't told him any anecdotes about 'the lovely boy next door really James you should talk to the poor thing more, lord knows he needs a stable man as yourself to look after him'.

Leaving his flat quietly, the agent went to stand in front of the door of the man who he hardly talked to. It looked intimidating and silent all of a sudden. It was also, he noted with mild annoyance, not possible for a door to be intimidating and silent. And for gods sake he danced with death too often to bee scared of a door. Glancing around himself once to make sure he didn't look suspicious, James carefully put his head near the door and listened intently for a few seconds. Apart from his own masked breathing, he couldn't hear another sound. Now slightly more worried that the man may actually be dead, he knocked on the door sharply twice, ringing the bell once for good measure.

No response.

The door continued giving him an unimpressed vibe, no sound coming from behind it. James was getting, disturbingly enough, genuinely concerned for the inhabitant of the flat. When no sounds were forthcoming, he took out his lock-picking kit and set to breaking into the flat. It was eerily silent inside, everything covered in a fine layer of dust. Trepidation made his stomach clench, breath automatically falling near silent and eyes flickering around in search of a hidden enemy. It was dark in the flat, the only light coming from the occasional flashes of thunder and a small pool of orange that leaked from under a closed door. Gathering up some level of annoyance at the fact a light had been left on, he carefully made his way towards where it was coming from, freezing when he noticed a dried puddle of red. His stomach plummeted to his feet, trying to drill past the soles to bury itself into the ground. Swallowing, he carefully opened the door, blinking when he came face to face with a gun pointed to his face. Only sheer willpower stopped him from immediately eliminating the threat. The threat which, in this case, was Quinn Darcy.

"I have a gun," the lanky man said unnecessarily, blinking sleep out of his eyes and looking woefully unprepared to shoot. Bond didn't know if he should be thankful for that or irked. Instead, he stared blankly at the dark haired man, one hand clenching the door tightly as if ready to slam it into the other's face. Quinn blinked a few more times, slowly lowering the gun hand.

"How the hell did you get in?"

James blinked once more, heaving in a relieved and aggravated breath, turning his head slightly to the side and running a hand over his face in frustration. Little lights were going off in his heart, happy to see the other alive. It was ridiculous. He was a secret agent who worked for Her Majesty the Queen and he should be well over feeling rather like an eight-year-old with his first crush. It was horrendous. Ridiculous. Appalling. Quinn apparently agreed, letting out a horrified gasp as he jumped off his lumpy sofa bed – which was disturbing on so many levels because James just realised that it was the only proper sleeping surface in what must've been the bedroom – and was pulling away electronic devices from the floor while swearing under his breath.

"Shit, shit, shit. Oh please work, please work! I swear I love you so much I didn't mean to drop the drink all over you – oh my god, I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"

He sounded more than a little hysterical. The blonde stared with little understanding. Quinn chose that moment to look up, swiping at his soaked electronics ineffectually with a microfiber cloth and cradling them in his arms gently. A wire dangled from his arm, the metal bits exposed and looking rather dangerous.

"I thought you were dead," James finally said, voice flat and feeling more than a little murderous. "Which I almost wish you were right now."

Quinn frowned rather attractively. James began hacking at his Christmas tree crush with a blunt axe.

"That's rather rude, don't you think? Why would I be dead? I work from home."

He seemed genuinely confused, which made the agent pause for a moment, tamping down on the incredulous look which wanted to take over his face. He finally let the look trek across his face, setting camp in the frown on his forehead and the slight gape of his mouth. Quinn shifted at that, looking embarrassed in a manner that meant he honestly didn't understand what was going on but he knew he should have some modicum of shame. It was unexpectedly charming. James wanted to slap himself a little bit.

"Mrs Smith didn't say anything about you and she usually does. I came to check up on you but you didn't answer the door and there's a puddle of something that looks oddly like blood on the ground. Excuse me for jumping to that conclusion," he said, voice becoming sarcastic as he neared the end.

"Oh."

There was silence for a few seconds before a particularly large bout of thunder made Quinn flinch. He dropped his electronics hastily, seeming to remember something else as he dashed out of the bedroom. James could only follow with a bewildered look on his face and a fond smile trying to sit on his lips. He defenestrated the fond smile with immense satisfaction.

"Fuck." The brunet was standing at the door to his balcony, looking despondently at the device that seemed to be gurgling out little spouts of water every once in a while. "I've fucked everything up. Goddamit. This is what happens when I sleep!" Very much into a strop, he stomped about grumpily, and went to make tea. Bond watched him for a second before awkwardly clearing his throat and making to leave.

"Well now that I know you're alright - "

"Where the fuck do you think you're going? I haven't been able to talk myself into inviting you over, and now that you're here you're going to stay for a cuppa. You're the only good thing that's happened today."

Invariably charmed, the older man drifted to lean against the kitchen counter and watch Quinn as he went through making tea, his eyes sharp in their focus and glasses slightly smudged with fingerprints when they caught the faint light of the fire.

"Not really what I had in mind for a first date," James idly said, immediately snapping his mouth shut afterwards and looking scandalised as if the orifice had spoken without his command. Quinn gave him a grin, pushing a tea mug at him.

"I know. But I don't think I'd change it for anything, James. Now, what do you think of a proper dinner? I'll even promise to not be dead."