Q heard the angry beeping of a computer in distress before he'd even opened the office door. Alarmed, he didn't bother to knock; he entered the office, taking in the situation in one quick glance, noting the telltale blue glow radiating from the monitor. The man behind the desk was prodding at his keyboard as if expecting it to bite, dark blue eyes glaring ferociously at the monitor.
"Please don't," Q said, actually flinching every time another keypress overloaded the buffer and caused another beep.
"Oh, thank god," the man said, mercifully wheeling his executive chair back from the keyboard tray. "Are you from the Help Desk?"
"Not in the least," Q admitted, surprised at how the man's face changed when his glare melted into a relieved smile. Smiling in return, Q said, "I was on the way to collect someone when I heard the distress call. May I?"
"Be my guest." He got up, chair banging into the sideboard behind the desk, startling him. He wheeled around abruptly, with reflexes too sharp for most Medical personnel, making Q wonder. The office had that new carpet smell that implied the man was either a recent promotion or a new hire.
Curious — and honestly happy for the distraction — Q circled around the desk, just as the man backed away from the computer when it let out another petulant beep.
"I didn't touch — Bugger, sorry," he said, bumping a surprisingly solid, strong body into Q. Two inches shorter than Q, cropped dirty blond hair going to grey in spots, a weathered face... God, he was even more handsome close-up, especially when he smiled, as if the smile lit up his whole face from within.
Some tense, tight coil inside Q untwisted as he smiled back, drawn to the man's quiet charisma. This was precisely the soothing antidote he needed to help him find his balance before going to retrieve the wayward, irritating, infuriating 007. "Quite all right," Q assured him, heart starting to pound at the way their eyes stayed locked. "I'm Q. Well, they call me —"
"Oh! The Quartermaster?" the man asked, his smile turning to a delighted grin. "Bloody genius, I've heard, though you look perfectly sane to me."
Maybe Q should have been offended, but he laughed. "Not entirely, but close enough to function in polite society," Q teased.
"That's a relief. And god, obviously I'm the impolite one. Sorry, Doctor John Watson. Please, call me John," he said, reaching out to take Q's hand in a strong, steady handshake that lasted for a deliriously long stretch of seconds that stole Q's breath.
"You're new here," Q said, somewhat stupidly. His fingers twitched in John's small, strong hand.
John nodded, looking up into Q's eyes. "And because I haven't gone through any workplace harassment training, I'm hoping I can get away with asking you out to dinner without getting fired."
Q's heart skipped, and the calmness inside him shattered in a sudden, hot flare of anticipation and interest. Weeks of agonising and self-loathing and uncertainty melted away under the force of John's charismatic, engaging smile. John's open, honest interest felt like sunlight after months of darkness, and Q basked in that warmth.
He tightened his grip on John's hand and lowered his voice. "I won't tell if you won't."
And then he learned, to his delight, that John's laugh was even more beautiful than his smile.
Q was an hour late to the exam room where Bond was being held captive by a team of doctors who were apparently removing self-inflicted stitches in his left arm to replace them with something other than dental floss. "What have you got for me this time, 007?" Q asked, delighted to feel only the slightest twinge of anxiety (and, yes, lust) as he glanced at Bond's half-naked body.
"You're late," Bond complained.
"Yes, contrary to what you may believe, I do have other priorities," Q said, grinning as he recalled the reaction of the Help Desk tech — Tyler, Taylor, something like that — who'd found the Quartermaster and MI6's newest doctor laughing and flirting over the open computer case as Q unnecessarily checked every fan wire, though he'd long since solved the overheating issue.
Suspicious, Bond narrowed his bright blue eyes and levelled an assessing stare that once would've silenced Q with a queasy combination of desire and nervousness. Now, Q simply met Bond's gaze with a steady, expectant look.
"Well?" Q finally prompted. "You said it was important."
Bond's glare turned petulant — a frankly ridiculous expression for a man of his age and station. He picked up the stainless steel basin that was beside him on the exam table and offered it to Q. "You're welcome."
Q tipped the basin and looked at the small, bloody thing rolling around at the bottom. "You brought me —"
"It's a bullet, Q." Bond frowned, demanding, "Are you all right? You're not ill, are you?"
"Not in the least. Why did you bring me a bullet?"
Bond sighed. "So you can analyse it?" he hinted. "So you can track down the bloody manufacturer and I can go break kneecaps and rip off fingernails until someone tells me who the fuck purchased that lot of ammunition so they could shoot me with the bloody thing."
"You could have called any one of my techs for this," Q scolded, meeting Bond's eyes. His stomach gave a little flip, but it wasn't the usual jittery, helpless, desperate sort of feeling. This time, it came with a certain measure of strength. Someone wanted him, even if that someone wasn't James Bond.
Bond gave him a hurt look. The medics were all being absolutely silent.
Q's guilt was tempered by weeks of rejections in one form or another. James Bond had played dumb, ignoring Q's interest. He'd avoided Q for two straight weeks. He'd pointedly flirted with every single technician, inventory specialist, armourer, and ops coordinator in Q Branch, all the while absolutely ignoring Q himself.
Q gave a forced, cold smile. "I'll have someone send you a report. Welcome back, 007," he said, and turned on his heel and left before Bond could say another word. And though something inside him slowly bled with each step he took, he told himself again that he didn't need James fucking Bond. Not at all.
John had removed his coat and tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his sleeves were rolled up. As Q walked towards where MI6's newest doctor waited by the doors, he studied John's broad shoulders, wondering what was out of place.
John hadn't been wearing a holster, Q realised. His shirt wasn't even creased. Q wondered if the fact that he noticed such things was a measure of just how pathetically obsessed he'd become. James Bond always wore a concealed weapon. Probably even figured out how to carry a gun in the damned shower — and that image made him burst out laughing.
John turned at the sound, and there was that heart-stopping grin again. "Tell me there's not some bloody giant scorpion on my back or something."
"What?" Q choked out.
"My life before MI6 was a bit strange." John pushed open the door for Q.
"I believe it's customary to say life after MI6 is strange," Q said, skin tingling as he passed close enough to touch, though they didn't. Not yet.
"Oh, this is paradise by comparison. You've no idea. So, where do you want to go?"
Q blinked in surprise, trying to catch his breath as he and John walked out into the choking summer heat. Late afternoon in August was brutal in London. He shrugged out of his own jacket, pleased that John wasn't being a stickler about formality, and asked, "Don't you have a plan?"
"God, no. I'm a soldier. I improvise."
After weeks and months of MI6 operations and missions and plans, the thought that John was perfectly willing to improvise was just... delightful. No plan meant no expectations. No expectations meant they were both free to surprise one another.
No bloody fucking plan meant no bitching if something went wrong.
Q folded his coat over his arm and used the motion to cover removing his mobile from his pocket. He thumbed the power button and held it to turn the thing off. "There's a good steakhouse not far," he said, remembering some of the field agents mentioning it.
John gave him a speculative look, his grin turning mischievous. "Do you like Indian? The authentic, spicy stuff?"
"Love it."
John touched his arm, a brush of fingers, quick and subtle; it sent tingles up to Q's shoulder. "Let's get a taxi."
The restaurant was a dive. The seats were plastic, the table cracked, the serviette dispenser empty.
The food was heaven.
No one behind the counter spoke English, which didn't seem to stop John. He greeted the woman behind the counter cheerfully before telling Q, "I usually just let them bring out whatever they've got prepared. I've never been disappointed."
"I'll trust your judgement," Q agreed.
They ended up sitting side-by-side, sharing little sample plates of everything the kitchen had to offer, washing it down with beer. It was casual and relaxed and Q couldn't even begin to imagine Special Bloody Agent Bond setting foot in the place.
"My first day," Q said, spearing a piece of what he thought was chicken. "I hadn't been there three hours, doing a network audit, and suddenly the bloody building blows up."
"So you took the job straight away," John said, lifting his beer to his lips. He drank, never looking away from Q's eyes, unable to entirely hide a grin.
Q laughed. "Of course I did, once I found out — Oh Christ, I shouldn't be saying this here," he realised, thinking he'd only had one and a half beers. "You're too easy to talk to."
"It's nice to be talked to," John said earnestly. "The last genius —" He shook his head, a flash of sadness darkening his expression.
Q leaned against John's shoulder, nudging at him. "The last genius?" he prompted gently.
John shook his head again, resolutely. He smiled softly at Q, saying, "Sorry. An old friend."
"Oh." Though John hadn't said so, Q heard the loss in his voice. "Were you two..."
To Q's surprise, John laughed. "God no. There wasn't any room for people in his life. He died last year."
"I'm sorry." Q put down his fork, leaving the chicken untouched, and set a hand on John's arm.
John turned, careful not to dislodge Q's hand, and said, "Don't be. He did it to himself. I would have done — No. I'm sorry. I'm not —"
"He was important to you," Q interrupted. He thought about asking if 'he did it to himself' meant suicide or drugs or simply living a risky life (like an agent, a treacherous voice in Q's head whispered), but he refrained from prying. Instead, he said, "It's all right. Would you like to tell me about him?"
John's laugh sounded surprised and a bit rusty. "No." His hand tightened and he turned sideways on the bench, facing Q. "God, no."
Q licked his lips and watched John's gaze dart down and back up. A little thrill shot through him as he realised that the dark turn of the evening was nothing more than a little bump — that John was still interested, despite the sad memory.
John's free hand moved up over Q's. His thumb swept down, drawing a shivery path over the inside of Q's wrist. His fingers were short and strong and free of calluses. Sparks seemed to snap through the air between them. The anticipation fluttering through Q's stomach was so strong, it was almost painful.
"John?" he asked softly.
"Hm?"
"Will anyone in this restaurant mind if I kiss you?" Q dared to ask.
John's grin chased away the shadow in his eyes. "I might mind if you don't."
Heart pounding with renewed anticipation, Q leaned in, brushing his lips against John's. His mouth was wide and soft, lips chapped from where he'd bitten them, a habit Q had noticed in their short time together. The kiss was easy and gentle, without the rough, driving passion Q had always imagined he would feel when — if — he ever kissed Bond. He felt wanted, needed, not as a conquest but for himself, and something inside him broke free of his own fears and soared.
When he opened his eyes, he felt breathless and dizzy. He leaned his forehead against John's, trying to find words to express himself, but there weren't any. Not for this.
John let out a quiet breath and lifted his hand to brush his fingers gently, almost reverently, over Q's mouth. "God."
Q laughed softly. He swallowed and nodded.
"So, ah... I know it's only been a few hours," John said tentatively, sounding equally breathless, "but would you care to come home with me?"
Any other night, Q would have refused. Before Bond, he had always preferred long, slow relationships full of comfortable dates and the slow, easy delight of holding hands and stealing kisses. He had no interest in casual sex, which made his obsession with Bond that much more peculiar. The man embodied casual sex.
But now, with John, Q knew that fast wouldn't be casual. The connection between them felt warm and solid, more like a foundation to be built upon, rather than a searing thread of lust that would flare bright and brittle like the filament in a dying light.
Nervously, not wanting to seem overeager, Q nodded. "I would love to."
John loved just as Q imagined he would. He undressed Q with care, hands stroking slowly over each bared inch of skin, followed by trailing kisses that left Q's skin tingling. He listened to every gasp, noted every twitch, and kept crawling back up Q's body to kiss his mouth. He was utterly sincere when he whispered, "You're beautiful," in Q's ear.
Not one to particularly concern himself with his body, Q felt as if he were being introduced to his own skin for the very first time. He'd never even imagined that a touch behind his knee could send shocks of electric pleasure through him, or that the slow swipe of a tongue over his abdomen could make his hips buck embarrassingly.
"How?" he asked as he rolled John onto his back solely for the pleasure of feeling that powerful body beneath his own. "How do you know?"
John gave him a baffled look, though his smile was utterly charmed. "Only one of us is the genius here, Q, and it isn't me," he said, combing his fingers through Q's hair.
"Liar," Q accused, and bent to kiss him again.
He took his turn to favour John with the same slow, sweet searching. John wore his scars openly — a gunshot wound, the thin line of a knife-cut, the scars of an active childhood at his knees and elbows — and he didn't flinch when Q kissed them. He was ticklish, letting out a startling, high giggle when Q's breath feathered over the trail of hair down his abdomen. And he was polite, not grabbing for Q's hair to guide him, letting Q sate his curiosity before looking to his own pleasure.
After, they laid together in John's bed, Q's back pressed to John's chest, their bodies fitted as if they'd always been together this way. Q felt warm and safe and right, and he knew that there wouldn't be an awkward morning departure, slinking out of the flat as though he'd done something dirty.
"So, can I admit something a bit awkward here?" John asked, speaking into Q's nape.
Tension cut through the pleasant haze that filled Q's body and mind.
John's arm went tight, and he immediately said, "No, nothing bad. Just embarrassing."
Q let out a breath. "Embarrassing?" he asked, voice a bit strained.
"I can't cook. I can barely offer you toast. But if you stay, I'll pop out to the nearest Pret to pick up whatever you want."
There was no way Q could hold back his relieved laugh. He twisted in John's arms and cupped his face to steal another kiss, this one full of wonder. "I thought you were going to say —"
"Married? Not gay? Serial killer?" John asked with a laugh of his own.
"Serial killer?" Q blinked, leaning back a bit to get a clearer view of John's expression. Without his glasses, he had a very limited field of vision.
"Sorry. Remnant of the old life. I... worked with a detective for a while." John put his arm around Q and pulled him close again. "I promise, I'm not a serial killer — though I was a soldier, and I have killed, both in self-defence and in defence of others," he added gravely.
Q put an arm around John's body and wriggled closer, pressing a kiss to the scar beneath his left collarbone. "And you can't cook."
John laughed. "I'm sorry. No."
"I can be persuaded to forgive the lack," Q teased, closing his eyes. John's arms were strong and solid and real, holding Q as if he'd be content to stay here for the rest of the night, just like this. "Let me cook dinner for you."
John's smile was delighted. "You can cook?"
"Yes, but I have someone who helps me," Q said gravely.
"A flatmate?"
Q smiled. "Not precisely."