'Baby' Holmes is not a particularly demonstrative soul; it runneth in the gene pool, as his elder brothers would say…if he let them. He doesn't. He has found it expedient to wear his earbuds all through Mummy's mandatory Christmas dinners, working within the sound principle that if he cannot actually physically hear the wankers, they cannot actually have said it. As with the adage 'if a tree falls in a forest and no witness: is silent', right?
Also, he feels it is quite objectionable of them, lumping him in them, when he is clearly a different breed of Holmes altogether.
Which does nothing and also everything to explain why he's in Sydney, when he despises flying, but there has arisen a certain question in his life and he needs an answer. There is a man who can provide that.
James, as Q prefers to think of him (referring to people by their surnames or their numbers is impolite, he feels, when they've been properly introduced and a bloke is actually attracted to them) is the man to see about this cur of a quandary Q's got nipping at his mental ankles. Accordingly, he adjusts his magnetic bands he wears at his wrists to combat airsickness and settles into wait patiently, passing the time pleasantly enough by sampling the hotel's minibar and having a tweaking go at the updated, highly-dimensional version of Solitaire he's invented. And he'd chosen to fuck around with the deceptively simple game of Solitaire, obviously, as Q's come recently to truly appreciate the classics, all manner of them.
"Q?"
Sadly, like his brothers, Q is not overly fond of people stating the obvious. Of course it is he; who else would it be? However, it is a human enough reaction, he supposes, to express surprise, even if one is 007. James is instantly forgiven.
James, who looks very dashing in his jogger's garb, his pecs and abs and all that manly fit goodness outlined in skin-tight dark spandex, has somehow magically managed to conceal his PPK despite the lack of pockets or a holster. He drops his arm down and re-conceals his government-issued weapon, possibly tucking it away up his ramrod straight back—or between the magnificent pair of arse cheeks his tog displays to such perfection—and turns completely away, presenting his visitor with a eye-widening view of his backside. Q thinks that's rather magical, too.
The trick with the pistol and the backside, that is. But that's not at all why Q is in Sydney, or rather, it's a tiny part of it.
If Q differs from his elder brothers, it's perhaps due to the fact he, alone, possesses a highly active, extremely vivid imagination. And he's not afraid to use it, and for that the tossers call him a dizzy dreamer.
"What are you doing here, Q?" James asks of him, easing into the hotel room's open-ended sitting area like a smooth flow of fine Bombay gin down a parched throat, door firmly secured at his back. "Is there a development?"
Q wobbles a bit. He's perched cross-legged on the bed, right in the centre of its massive expanse, and it's possible he should've eaten something more substantial before opening up the little coolbox containing complimentary alcohol and diving in.
"No. Not that. Isn't it obvious?"
But he'd rather wanted the Dutch courage. James has exhibited only a very few slight signs of physical interest in Q thus far. A very subtle tail-sniffing, in fact, if one continues the metaphor. Sufficient, naturally, for Q to overcome his reluctance to climb aboard a giant metal box and fling himself into the air with it; enough, also, to cast aside his innate dread of rejection and have a stumbling bow at a venture.
Q works under the postulation that if he can envision it—or if someone can—it is entirely possible, whatever 'it' is.
"You're stalled, aren't you?" he adds after a little pause, doing his best to enunciate his 'esses' clearly. "Waiting for intel. As are we."
Just like bloody Sherlock, 'Baby', as his siblings disgustingly refer to him all too often, owns up to the Holmes's family tendency slip towards lisping when nervous.
"More, I'm here to s-stave off your inevitable boredom. A favour."
"My…boredom?" James's eyebrows go way up as he goes about casually stripping off, flinging his gear over a convenient chair back as he does it. "Why would you think I was dull, Q? Or care."
Q blinks at him, feeling his mouth fill with an uncomfortable gush of saliva. He's lovely, is James Bond, and Q would have to be utterly mental to deny it. And he's clearly on his way to the suite's luxe lavatory for a refreshing shower, and there is nothing more in the wide world Q would fancy than being invited to join him.
"Well, you're not, yet, no," Q replies, his hands already upon his own shirt buttons, his laptop neatly set aside and out of harm's way. He fumbles down the series, undoing them, his eyes on James's inquisitive features. "But you will be. You've not exactly been on your usual trolling session for the birds, have you? No time to spare. Tedious."
"Au contraire, my dear Q." James pauses at the loo door, and Q can plainly see his prick is half-erect and therefore may be deduced to be in that condition called 'interested'. "I don't require extra time."
There's no one else in the suite but James and Q, and Q also knows for certain James hasn't arranged an assignation for later. The upwards jerk to that brilliant cock must therefore exist solely for his benefit.
"…No?"
Q finds that so encouraging he scrabbles off the bed entirely, shucking his trousers and pants hurriedly as he goes, leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned.
"Not for that," James replies, quite, quite simply, as to a mere infant, but nodding in an approving manner at Q's progress in discarding his clothing. Q's already bare-footed, so he only stumbles only a little over the coil of his own belt as he makes his way towards this very lethal Crown's agent who has got him so damned flustered. "They seem to rather want to come to me, don't they?"
He smiles, and the burning in Q's veins is far more intoxicating than the alcohol he's ingested.
"Birds and blokes both, really."
"Urr," Q grunts his agreement, a hot-palmed hand already fast on that bloody gorgeous dick wagging as he drops to his knees on the carpet. Thank god for the padding; he's young and spry but the joints of a man's legs are a known weak area. "Auh-ummmm….hhngh!"
Q wastes no further time in the happy task of alleviating James's potential fit of the doldrums.
He's purring, Q is. Or at least that's the low gargling sound he hears coming from his own throat, over the thud of his own heart beat—very daring, this—and the faintest whispery brush-sweep of neatly trimmed pubes against his nose and questing lips. And he's making that other godawful whingey noise he knows he issues sometimes: high-pitched, nasal and needy, and all about the fact he's swallowing down James's cock as fast as he can manage.
"Auuungh."
"Oh," he hears above his head, and if he's purring, then James is most definitely begun growling, in a deep sexy rumble. A satisfied sort of sound, like a giant cat having a bit of a surprise petting. "You're rather good at that, Q; thank you."
Q declines to answer. James is a mouthful and then also requires a grip below that, just to prevent Q from gagging to death on his girth. He doesn't fumble it, though.
"But. That'll do, I think."
Two hands settle into Q's hair, fingertips spreading gently across his scalp as they prise his greedy lips away and tilt up his jaw sufficient so James can glint a brilliant blue gaze at him, teasing. Always teasing, damn the blighter.
"Now, now, ease off now if you want more of that later, young man. I'm not some spring chicken, you know. Patience."
"Err-ooop?"
Q peeps up, realizing vaguely he's had his eyes shut tight for several minutes, whilst sucking, so the electric blue stare is a bit dazzling, if warm in nature. Still, he gulps hard, disappointed. James's tone is vastly encouraging, yes, but there's more to this than a fling in a foreign hotel room. For Q, at least. Again, Q does not set foot in Heathrow on a whim, ever.
"James. You…?" he ventures, warily, worried gaze on the twist of a firm mouth several feet above his rumpled head and his slightly askew specs. They're smudged by his own saliva and the perspiration caught in James's pubes; it's a bit unnerving but also very…good, seeing James through a haze of bodily fluids. "…Um. You."
There's a wealth of fretful fore-thinking, and perhaps a giant jot of over-thinking, pre-thinking and free-thinking, all jammed tight into that one syllable.
"I?" James smiles down at Q. "Am amply flattered, Charlemagne Holmes. Come."
Q goes, hastily. And wincing in trepidation. If James should call him 'Charlie' or—god forbid!—'Chaz', he'll simply commit seppuku, shag or no shag on the horizon.
But no such thing. James can also manage tactful, it seems. Just one more reason among many.
Q sighs, his wrist caught in James's hard grasp.
"Q, come."
The shower enclosure is indeed appropriate for the calibre of the hotel he'd booked James into, days before. Seven different metal heads produce rainfalls of water, jets, sauna steam and sprinkley trickles. There's dispensers of a bewilderingly unnecessary abundance. And a tiled bench seat, which James pushes Q down on, albeit gently.
"Sorry about your shirt, then," he murmurs and, when Q hesitantly reaches to undo his final button, his hand comes up to stay Q's trembling fingers. "No—leave it. I like you like this, Q. Debauched is a good look on you, little one."
"I—I! I am not little!"
Q's is momentarily outraged. All the Holmes boys are tallish, certainly not at all shrimpy or wee like that cut-off ex-Army bloke Sherly fancies. Of all things, he is certainly not vertically challenged and he's pretty certain he's got an inch or more on James. He is a bit brain-dead, though, and that he'll admit, as there's that cock of 007's, fully armed, no safety, and aimed straight at his face.
"Not what I meant, Q."
"Um." Q ignores that. He is so seldom at loss for words, he can't afford to be, really, but this is shattering, being so near that fine piece of succulence and also so far. He licks his lips, missing the saline taste rather fiercely. "Ah, m-may I?"
He means to add 'continue', but words really do fail him.
"No. Not yet." James is dreadfully calm, but he's also grinning as he tugs an errant dark curl. Q suffers a little aneurysm of love over that grin, and curses himself roundly for it, flushing. "But soon enough, yes. You may."
"…Okay."
"Down we go then. Hold still, will you, Q?"
James never wastes a moment. Q has noticed this phenomenon. He goes down on Q's cock like a very high-priced escort in the time it takes Q to gulp, swallow and forcibly remind himself he's the culpable one in this shower.
Well…Q may guilty of deliberately pulling a co-worker, flouting all the new M's unspoken directives, but James's mouth is as sinful as Hades a'fire—and as capable. How unexpected—oh, no, not. Not. Q should've known better, but oddly enough it hadn't really struck him, not to stick.
He's realizing the error of his ways in a matter of mere seconds.
"You—y-you've?" Q gasps stupidly, knowing he's gone all unattractively red, like a sour beet relish, but well beyond caring. "Done thith before, J-Jame'th?"
"Mmm."
Which isn't really an answer, not a proper one. Q slouches back against tile warmed by the insistent splash of hot water and blinks up at the cascade, blinded. If he looks at James's lips at work, he'll simply ejaculate in the instant and that would be a damned shame, wouldn't it?
"E'hem. I mean—James? James!"
This is fantastic, indeed, this unsuspected facility James possesses with both genders (maybe it's all genders; who'd have guessed?) but Q's not had his one prime query satsfied. He knows no more than before, really. He lacks data. For a purposeful man this is shaming, how little he's actually managed to deduce up to this point.
He'd be mocked for sure, by both the gits, if ever they were to deduce the manner of their baby brother's willing seduction.
Not that Q's really giving a sodding fuck at the moment about deduction. Evidence is very good, too.
The part of his mind that's spinning, spinning, spinning, at a velocity absolutely unimaginable by regular sorts, that specific part that eldest brother Mycroft smiles over, a bit tiredly, it knows this small hiccough of logical process Q is experiencing and shrinks back and away, stymied. The remainder of Q has no such compunction. He angles his hips forward and wide and groans as James grasps his knees, jerking his desperately swollen prick forward and urgently onward and probably poking at the very back of James's gullet uncomfortably.
"Oh, god, Jame'th, oh, pleathhhh, Jame'th!"
He's no idiot and Q knows for a fact James is forty-three years, six months plus several days swimming the time stream, predating Q's own birth marker by some not inconsequential amount. This man has not only just fucked the women, clearly, in all his time inhabiting the planet. He's shagged everyone and quite possibly every thing that's been expedient or of interest, or just possibly in the right place at the right time. And James's experience with men must've been cataclysmically orgiastic, at least for the receivers: the bloody man gives head like a very naughty Santa. He's both generous and sly, with a hint of that urbane smile. And he's furiously efficient as well.
Q goes stiff where he sits and comes quick enough to be ludicrously indecent, with eyes rolled back far in his head, a blustering sigh and a final shuddering jerk.
"Ohhh…." He can't breathe properly, not yet, but something verbal is required. "Oh, James!"
It strikes Q that if this is all he ever gets out of this impulsive interlude, this sucking off? He can expire happily, absolutely.. He may actually expire—this shower stall is decadently filled with water and steam and there's so much humidity in the air and so much blood banging through his arteries, he's most definitely light-headed.
"Time, I think," that smoked whisky voice groans into Q's fuzzy ear, the one with all the soggy hair covering it, never minding the drip-drip-drip or the tremours still coursing through Q's slim body. "Time, yes, for the next act. Up now, pet."
The hotel is high quality. One of the dispensers must dispense a lubrication substitute, and James has their positions deftly switched about, Q's aching bum balanced groggily across James's spread thighs, and has shoved a fingerful up Q's flinching hole in a matter of only a few damp, sweaty moments. Q's still shaking the water out his eyelashes when he jolts bolt upright, inhaling so hard his nostrils pinch.
"Ohgod."
"Allow me the favour."