"... Budgetary considerations aside, our projections for the escalating situation in Southeast Asia..."
Q's attention was wholly focused on the tablet leaning against the conference table. Strategically, he'd chosen the darkest corner of the room, well away from the glowing LED screen that took up the bulk of the far wall. His tablet was on its lowest brightness setting, though he barely needed to look. He could type with one hand while toying with his pen — How old-fashioned, he'd thought upon seeing it and its matching notepad — and no one would be the wiser.
Fantastic characterization! The descriptions are really good. My only criticism is that the sex wasn't really realistic. Have you read the meta on writing gay sex?
He blinked at the latest response that came to his personal email and resisted the temptation to respond with far too much detail. God, he hated reader feedback sometimes. Why he bothered posting any of his writing, he had no idea.
Not that he'd ever intended this for a hobby. He actually preferred writing technical documentation. But late at night, after a stressful day (or days) of running missions and dealing with executives and oversight committees, he needed to unwind. He and James had argued more than once over Q's habit of taking work home with him, and he'd finally agreed to find something else to do.
After the mishap with the prototype Dalek he'd built, he agreed to keep his robotics experiments in the lab as well. That left him to fall back on his old hobby of writing, except that science fiction — his true love — was too close to work.
Then, after seeing The Avengers for the fifth time, he'd accidentally stumbled upon fanfiction. It turned out to be the perfect, creative, very-non-work-related outlet. He'd posted a few stories, acquired a coveted invitation to AO3, and was now developing something of a following.
James thought he had an addiction to Angry Birds. Q couldn't quite figure out how to explain the truth.
He glanced up at the speaker, estimated that he had at least twenty minutes before the Q&A part of the presentation, and started composing a response to his commenter — though he did remind himself to tone down his ire. There was no sense in being cruel to what was probably a teenage girl.
Bond didn't exactly know how he had ended up on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It certainly wasn't the result of too much alcohol, or not enough sleep, or the after-effects of being drugged or losing too much blood on a mission. Not only was it ten in the morning; he'd been home for six fucking days straight, and all of the more interesting reasons for being on the floor, staring at the ceiling, didn't apply.
He dragged his heels up and put his hands under his head to start doing sit-ups. Since he was here, he figured he might as well take advantage of the situation to keep his stomach muscles in prime condition.
Had he done it on purpose, this meaningless collapse on the floor? Had his back been hurting? Had he dropped something? Bond huffed as he sat up, feeling the burn of exertion, trying to remember.
Oh. Oh. He wanted to use Q's shiny silver computer in their office, and had been looking under the desk for a tower so he could turn it on. When no tower had revealed itself, he'd rolled onto his back in frustration, and, thanks to excruciating boredom, had starting counting cracks in the ceiling.
Apparently, that sort of mindless distraction was just the sort of thing to "bluescreen" (as Q called the act of staring into space) even James Bond.
Silver computer. Wireless keyboard and mouse. No tower. Single white cord leading to the wall's power outlet from the back of the monitor.
Seven sit-ups later, he remembered it was a Mac. No tower. All-in-one.
Bloody things.
On principle, he didn't actually stand up just yet. He gave himself another fourteen sit-ups before he felt he'd more than justified his accidental prone position, and he rolled up to his feet. He pulled out the ridiculous chair that Q favoured for his home workstation — a curved, backless thing that was supposed to help keep the user in good posture — and wrestled with it for a few minutes before he finally sent it across the room in annoyance. He went to the kitchen table to fetch a chair and then returned more determined than ever to find something interesting to stave off the murderous boredom that came from being stuck in the flat for too-bloody-many days in a row.
After extensive searching, Bond finally found the power button on the back of the screen. The computer took only a second to come alive, and Bond realised it must have been sleeping instead of powered down. He stared at the lock screen for only a second before he started typing in Q's most likely usernames and passwords.
It took less than thirty seconds to find the right combination. Bond might not have been a proper genius with computers — not like Q — but he knew people.
Q's Stark Industries wallpaper appeared, which made Bond grin. He had a moment of frustrated, random clicking before an accidental swipe of the mouse revealed a taskbar that had been hidden on the left side of the screen.
Hidden among more esoteric icons, Bond spotted the Chrome logo, and clicked it. Immediately, the web browser filled the giant screen, pre-loading with almost a dozen tabs.
Bond grinned wickedly and started clicking through them. His lover wouldn't settle for anything nearly so boring as news feeds, weather reports, or recipe websites, and Bond hadn't had anything in particular in mind. He was just killing time; exploring Q's pre-opened tabs was an excellent potential diversion.
He had an array of colourful places to visit, including, Bond read as he scanned, Google Docs, an unfamiliar Gmail account, .uk, Archive of Our Own, and Tumblr.
He skipped the docs and gmail accounts for now and instead started with London Gay Man, curious about the site. He knew better than to think Q was looking for opportunities for, or indulging in, cheating — not only did Q lack the free time for that sort of thing, Bond trusted him. His faith was rewarded when he discovered that the site was dedicated mostly to a broader and more news-like approach to being LGBT while living in London. That was curious; Bond had no idea that Q was interested in political issues, outside the international politics of MI6.
Bond clicked on the next tab, which was the profile page of someone called JARVIS-2.0. Curious, he scanned the list of what appeared to be stories, all of them about Avengers characters engaging in high adventure and, apparently, lots of gay sex. It took Bond a bit of exploration to understand that these were unauthorised stories about the characters — obviously, given some of the story descriptions. He couldn't quite see the children's comic industry approving of some of the more interesting, esoteric things he found.
While he wouldn't have guessed Q the type to read self-published work like this, he wasn't surprised at all. It was a little like hacking stories instead of tech.
It took him a deplorably long moment to notice the login information in the upper right hand corner, welcoming JARVIS-2.0 to the site. Apparently Q wasn't just a consumer of the stories; he was actually writing them.
Bond sat back in surprise, staring at the screen for a moment. The initial shock of the discovery passed very quickly, however, and Bond realised that he really wasn't surprised. It was kind of cute, actually.
Deciding he'd come back to explore the reading list more thoroughly, after he'd had more time to process, Bond clicked on the next tab: Tumblr.
Then the first image loaded, and once again, Bond couldn't do anything but sit back in surprise and stare.
Q was nearly an hour late, soaked to the bone, and carrying a bag of what had, thirty-five minutes ago, been lovely Indian takeaway and was now probably congealed into something better suited for chemical experimentation. He let himself into the flat, dropped the bag on the foyer floor, and started to extract himself from acres of wet wool. Much as he loved James, he didn't understand what was wrong with his old parka; it was waterproof, windproof, warm, and light. Who cared if he looked like a stray twelve-year-old? The overcoat James had bought him was a glorious tribute to centuries of classic English tailoring that felt like it weighed a hundred kilos when wet. And it smelled like sheep. Wet sheep.
"I brought dinner!" he yelled, trying to confine the drips to the mat. "It's horrid, but it used to be food!"
Bond came out from their bedroom, an oddly puckish grin on his face. He'd been discontent since the end of his last mission, and while he hadn't been in a foul mood, a bored Bond was a dangerous one — to anyone but Q.
Now, Bond walked right to Q to help free him from the peacoat, though his efficiency was somewhat hampered by the way he kept pausing to slide his hands over Q's clothes as he pulled the wool away. "I'm sure the microwave can give the takeaway new life," he said in a voice that indicated that Bond's mind was, in fact, far away from dinner. He hung up the coat and stepped back with the same grin. "I'll get a towel for you while you reheat?"
"Please," Q said, relieved. He still felt half-drowned, but he could breathe easier without the coat. As Bond walked away, Q picked up the bag and called, "You'd give me a discount if I asked you to eliminate the management efficiency contractor who's in this week, wouldn't you? You could do a bit of freelance work on the side!"
"You'd know I'd be happy to, Q, but the sad fact is that those people are like ants at a picnic. Squash one, and the rest overwhelm you," Bond called from the bathroom. He returned a moment later, towel in hand, as Q was unpacking boxes onto the counter. "They make good target practice, though."
"See? Target-rich environment," Q said, smiling. "And it's job security. Help fill the boring downtime between missions." He hesitated, debating the merits of plates versus the towel, and finally chose the towel, mostly because eliminating the water dripping from his hair meant he could steal a kiss. The idea of that kiss, in fact, had kept him sane through much of the interminable presentation on operational synergy and inter-departmental cooperation and focus groups. God, he hated consultants.
Bond dropped the towel over Q's head and proceeded to ruffle his hair with it, chuckling affectionately. Once he'd managed to absorb most of the water from Q's hair, he pulled away the towel with a flourish and dropped it on the counter. "Would you be offended if I said you're absolutely adorable like this?" he said, pulling Q into his arms.
Q got rid of his glasses — the rain had spotted the lenses, and he needed to clean them anyway — and buried his face against Bond's neck, feeling the tension start to ease from his back and shoulders. "I will happily go stand out in the rain with you for hours, if that's what you'd like," he offered, taking advantage of proximity to press a kiss under Bond's ear. "God, I missed you. I kept thinking of ways you could end the presentation early. I know how you love explosives."
Bond held Q close and hummed deeply enough that Q could feel the vibration in his chest. "You should have called or texted. I'm sure I could have arranged something for you," he said with another quiet laugh. Then he tipped up Q's face to give him the kiss he so desperately needed.
Selfishly, Q couldn't help but feel relief that another day had passed without a critical emergency that required Bond to go out in the field. He gave in to the kiss, toes curling in his wet dress shoes, thinking that he'd need to find a creative way to help Bond forget all about being trapped in London between jobs.
"It's Thursday," he said a bit breathlessly when Bond finally let the kiss end. "We can leave town tomorrow. Go away for the weekend."
"Absolutely," Bond said in a deliciously low voice. "Any preferences for a destination? Somewhere with internet, I'm sure." He released Q with one last ruffle of his hair. "Wine, beer, or something stronger with dinner?"
"Do vodka and curry mix well?" Q asked hopefully, hiding his sigh as Bond released his strong embrace. If they didn't get the food into the microwave, they'd end up eating crisps for dinner, so Q turned back to getting plates. "And we can go anywhere. I won't die without internet, if you keep me sufficiently distracted."
Bond opened the freezer to retrieve the Stoli Elit that Alec had brought back with him from his latest trip to Russia. "Vodka goes with anything," Bond assured him. He set the bottle on the kitchen table and went to stand behind Q, who was opening the cupboard for dishes. Bond pressed himself, from instep to temple, along Q's body. Under the pretence of reaching for a glass, Bond applied just enough pressure to send Q's thoughts scattering in wicked directions. "I think I can keep you distracted, don't you?"
Giving up on the plates — they did, after all, have a perfectly good bag of crisps in the cupboard — Q leaned back against Bond, loving the strength in his body. "I think you can, yes. In fact, I think you should find a way to... oh, arrange a toxic chemical accident, requiring me to take off work tomorrow."
"The best part of that plan is that absolutely no one would be surprised or dare question what the hell I was doing. It's their own damn fault for not starting a land war somewhere just to give me something productive to do." Bond turned Q and lifted him up onto the counter.
Q kicked Bond — not hard enough to hurt, though he privately doubted he was even capable of kicking that hard. "We've talked about sex on the counters," he mock-complained. Secretly, one of his favourite memories was of the kitchen at his tiny old flat, even if it had ended with Q getting three stitches in his scalp when Bond got a little too enthusiastic.
This kitchen had an island. With no upper cupboards. Clever Bond.
Bond hummed again but didn't reply, apparently too busy with Q's neck to bother. He kissed and licked and bit and sucked, hands carefully wrapped around Q's head to prevent any accidental cupboard encounters. Bond's thumb rubbed against the scar, either to remind himself to be careful, or to recapture the memory of that frankly fantastic evening. Well, fantastic before the stitches, of course. Though Bond had been ridiculously attentive afterward, not allowing Q out of bed for anything more than a bathroom run.
But before Q could propose switching over to the island, his stomach let out a growling protest that set off Bond's deeply hidden protect-and-provide instincts, ending the kiss far too soon. As Bond murmured something about reheating dinner, Q hid his sigh and dropped down off the counter, wet shoes splatting against the tile floor. Six months ago, he would never have guessed Bond to even acknowledge such human weaknesses as hunger and fatigue, but more often than not, he was the one herding Q to bed or trying to feed him every time his stomach so much as rumbled. He was like a particularly murderous lion, protecting his pride. Or lioness, Q thought with a grin, remembering a nature documentary that stated the male lions were the lazy ones, leaving all the real work to the females.
Instead of complaining, Q poured two generous measures of vodka while Bond handled microwaving the curry into something edible. "I'll change into something dry," Q said, pausing to kiss Bond one last time before he picked up his glass and went into the bedroom. Outside, rain was lashing the windows with brutal force, and Q shivered just hearing it. Before Bond, this would've been a night for flannel pyjamas, thick blankets, and a laptop on the sofa. Now, Q decided pants and a T-shirt would be more than enough to encourage cuddling for warmth.
After all, Bond wasn't the only manipulative bastard in the relationship. Q could hold his own.
Bond smiled to himself as he heated the food. He'd never thought himself the type for a long-term relationship, given his lifestyle and the spectacularly insane weight of issues that had him waking up screaming far too many nights in a row. Even if a potential partner managed to weather Bond's near constant absence, the PTSD nightmares usually were the final straw.
But somehow, beyond all expectation, Q had managed to sneak past all of Bond's defences. He never complained about Bond's sometimes months-long missions, and — even more telling — never chastised Bond for complaining when he was stuck in London too long.
But now Bond had some idea of how Q passed his time when he was alone and bored. He thought about the explicit sex scenes that Q had written and chuckled to himself as he recognised some of his own better moves beautifully recreated with Q's own words. Oddly enough, however, it wasn't the sex that Bond found most interesting. It was the relationship development.
Bond had seen The Avengers enough times, snuggled next to Q on the couch or in bed, that he knew the characters well. But Q hadn't chosen the fantasy relationship Bond might have expected him to: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers — the technical genius and the soldier. That would have made sense to Bond, at least. Instead, Q favoured Tony Stark and Bruce Banner — the technical genius and his intellectual match.
It stung a little, though Bond refused to let himself think of it as a twinge of insecurity. Bond was nothing like Banner; he was proficient in chemicals insofar as he could blow up things without having to think about it too hard. But that was where his knowledge ended. As much as he didn't want to wonder if that was really what Q wanted in a relationship — an intellectual equal — he couldn't help but feel a slowly growing tide of uneasiness at the thought.
He should just ask about it, he decided. Admit that he'd discovered Q's secret hobby and ask what it was about the Stark/Banner relationship that had him favouring it over the Stark/Rogers one that made more sense to Bond.
As he set the heated plates down on the table, Bond admitted to himself that he probably wouldn't.
Q came out of the bedroom, glass in hand — not much diminished — in just a T-shirt and boxer-briefs. He smiled, and though Bond searched, he could see no reticence or dissatisfaction at all in the expression. Instead of going to his chair, he walked around to Bond's and leaned in to brush a kiss over his ear, feather-light. "Why don't we take this to the couch?" he proposed softly. "You don't want me to freeze, do you?"
"That would be remiss of me, wouldn't it?" Bond replied, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. He stood and picked up the plates, careful to balance them so the silverware wouldn't fall on the way to the living room. He'd come back for his drink in a minute — or not at all, if Q decided to hang on tight the moment Bond sat down. It was, he decided, a fair trade. "Grab the quilt?"
With a wicked grin that implied Bond wouldn't be seeing his drink any time soon, Q went to the living room long enough to set his drink — or theirs, now — down on the endtable. Then he ran to the bedroom, bare feet loud on the hardwood floor.
Five minutes later, they were wrapped around one another, quilt tangled over their legs, both of them eating off Bond's plate only because he insisted on feeding Q between kisses. Shared meals had the effect of keeping Bond's weight steady between missions and ensuring that Q got some food. He couldn't live on sex and computers alone, despite his efforts. And writing, Bond added mentally.
"Did you want to watch something, or is the telly just on for noise?" Q asked. He took advantage of Bond's new freedom after his plate, now empty, went onto the coffee table, and swarmed over Bond, long limbs flailing to keep from dislodging the blanket.
Bond caught Q's leg by the knee before it had the chance to land somewhere that would cut his plans for the evening painfully short and tugged Q into a more comfortable sprawl over him and under the blanket. "You know I don't particularly care," Bond said with amusement as he ran his hands up Q's back. "You can watch anything you like, so long as it doesn't require you getting up." He tightened his arms pre-emptively, and wondered if he was a coward for not suggesting The Avengers as an opening gambit for the conversation he wasn't particularly inclined to have.
Q's eyes took on a sharp, sly light. He reached out for a remote control that was only marginally less complex than a submarine's conn and set it in Bond's hand. "Find us something, love, will you?" he asked in that sweet, innocent voice of his as he curled up against Bond's body, head resting suspiciously low on his chest. One hand 'happened' to curl over Bond's thigh, just high enough to be distracting.
Bond knew that buffering issues, accompanied by sudden silence and a glaring red screen, had the unfortunate side-effect of distracting Q, so Bond chose to navigate to their movie server instead of Netflix.
As soon as he started paging through the file menu, Q's hand slid up as he curled up into an even tighter ball — sliding down Bond's body as he did, until his head was pillowed against Bond's hip. There was nothing innocent at all at the way he writhed, like a cat trying to get comfortable, and ended up pushing up Bond's T-shirt so long strands of slightly damp hair tickled over his abdomen.
"Sorry, love," Q apologised sweetly, turning to replace the silken touch of hair with the slight rasp of stubble before he pressed his lips to Bond's skin.
Bond had no idea what submenu he managed to select, as his eyes had been securely shut so he could focus on the feeling of Q's warm mouth and breath on his skin. He reached down to slide a hand through Q's hair, focusing on not rolling his hips suggestively. He dropped the remote by Q's hand on his hip, and let his newly free fingers guide Q's face into being tipped up enough for eye contact. "I can't kiss you when you're down there," he said in what he hoped was a convincing voice.
"Strange," Q mused, twisting a bit more. For someone who considered typing to be strenuous physical exercise, he was in very good shape — and very flexible. He managed to turn around completely, knees against the back of the couch, head now pillowed on Bond's thigh, all without dumping the blankets. He nudged Bond's shirt up with his nose and flicked his tongue over bare skin before he shot Bond another of his innocent, angelic smiles and kissed — chastely — right where he'd licked. "I don't seem to be having that problem at all."
Bond let his hand fall from Q's face just long enough to reach down and stab at the remote. When no sound came from the telly as proof of success, he picked up the remote and turned to look at the menu long enough to locate the "Resume Last Movie Played" option. He pressed the enter button perhaps a bit harder than was actually necessary, and tossed the remote on the table when he was rewarded with the screen coming to life.
Of course, it had to be the bloody Avengers movie, about halfway through, when Stark was poking at Banner in the lab on the helicarrier. Bond groaned and let his head fall back, knowing that Q would interpret it as a sign of lust brought on by Q's actions.
Sure enough, Q laughed, breath warm against Bond's skin, and Bond couldn't help but feel a vindictive sense of triumph when Q nudged his shirt up a bit more and started tracing lines with his tongue, rather than twisting around to watch his pairing of choice. He inched over a bit more, got one arm around Bond's waist, and let out a thoughtful, "Hmm."
As soon as Bond looked down, and they made eye-contact, Q deliberately licked again, pressing his tongue flat to Bond's abdomen before he pulled up, curling the tip back to draw out the touch.
"Aren't you overdressed?" Q hinted, no longer playing at false innocence.
Glad that he'd got rid of the ridiculously over-engineered bit of plastic that was the remote control so it wouldn't be sent flying, Bond pulled off his shirt. "So picky about states of dress," he said with mock exasperation. He unbuckled his belt and carefully pulled it free from his trousers. "I hope you plan on keeping me warm to compensate."
Q propped up his weight on his hand, giving Bond enough room to undo his trousers. "And entertained," he said, breaking eye-contact to scan Bond's chest with every sign of admiration and desire. "I wouldn't want you associating being home in London with the sort of crushing boredom you endured before I found you."
"Such a noble sacrifice for queen and country," Bond said with a chuckle. He unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and lifted to slide them down. As soon as his trousers were at thigh-level, Q ducked his head and licked right along the waistband of Bond's pants, exhaling warm breath through the fabric.
This time Bond's groan had nothing to do with fictional characters and everything to do with Q's patented ability to distract. His hand tightened in Q's hair without conscious direction. "Fuck, Q."
Q laughed, backing up with a smile that barely pretended to be innocent. "Sorry. Did I interrupt?" he asked, twisting to look over his shoulder. After watching the telly for a moment, he huffed and muttered, "Bureaucracy. See?"
"Bureaucracy," Bond repeated. He cast a glance at the screen where Steve, Tony, and Bruce were bantering. "Right." He didn't care if the characters on screen started to strip and dance — there wasn't anything that could happen on the screen right now that could take his eyes away from Q.
With a nod, Q turned back to face Bond and trailed his free hand down Bond's chest. He seemed suddenly distracted; his playful smile faded. "You have no idea what I've found in some of our archives, James..." He hooked his finger in the waistband of Bond's pants. Instead of pulling them down, though, he slid his finger to the side, toying with the elastic.
Suddenly, the electricity between them seemed to dissipate, like a flash of lightning without the thunder. Q had been in meetings all day today. He hadn't been poking around in the archives. So he'd found something — previous Q Branch projects, most likely — earlier this week or last week or last bloody month, and hadn't said a word to Bond about it. Because Q didn't think he was smart enough to understand?
The dissonance between Q's life with Bond and his fantasy of writing — genius-and-genius — froze the last of Bond's interest.
"Oh?" Bond asked, the sensual slide of his hand through Q's hair turning into an affectionate ruffle. He swallowed back a sigh and traced his thumb along Q's jaw. "What did you find?"
Q's hesitation was like a knife in the gut. Frowning, Q shook his head and said, "I can't — Your security clearance..." He closed his eyes for a moment before he sat up a bit, to rest his cheek against Bond's chest. He worked his hands between the cushions and Bond's back to hold him close. "It's very complicated."
Bond nodded, trying to hide his reaction. He shifted so he could lean towards the table and pick up the previously abandoned glass. "Well, I'm sure Danielle or TJ will be excellent to have the conversation with." He took a drink and looked away from Q's odd expression and towards the telly.
"Your clearance is higher than theirs," Q said, sounding baffled. Awkwardly, he let go of Bond. His previous grace appeared to have abandoned him; he kicked and thrashed, fighting the blanket as he twisted around to sit up. "Unless you go into the executive programme — and no, I'm not saying you should, though god knows the meetings would be less boring..." He shook his head and pulled up his legs, wrapping one arm around them. With the other, he tugged the blanket over Bond's lap as though hiding the fact that he'd stopped in the middle of undressing.
"Well, perhaps there is a Bruce Banner out there to your Tony Stark," Bond said with a chuckle that wasn't even slightly honest. Q flinched, turning to give Bond a shocked look. "Perhaps your MI5 counterpart. Though I doubt their labs are anywhere near as impressive as Q Branch."
"What?" Q asked, his voice quiet and tight. He drew in on himself even more, in a way he hadn't done since their earliest days together, when he was still tense and anxious about his age and the pressures of his job and the disbelief that Bond would want anything to do with him.
"Another genius more suitable to participating in your plans for whatever you learned about in the archives." Bond was sinking into detachment now as he struggled with the incredibly painful notion that Q could leave him. Would leave him, for someone closer to his intellectual level. He finished off the last of the vodka and stood to refill it, tugging his trousers back up.
He could feel Q staring at him in silence as he left the living room to go back to the kitchen, but he couldn't bring himself to turn back and offer reassurances he didn't feel.
Yes, it was definitely time for more vodka.