For the prompt on the kinkmeme: Q gets a boyfriend that Bond doesn't like for some unknown reason, and he starts to understand why when he sees things at work that give him the impression that Q's boyfriend is abusive (physically, mentally, etc). And Bond gets possessive as hell. Then they end up together at the end.

My first time writing for the fandom and I must say I found these two rather difficult. I would really appreciate your opinions on how I could improve.

-for you

It takes him so long to realise that he wonders if he might be losing his touch.

He doesn't like to concern himself with office gossip, of course, but he can't avoid the offices down at Q-branch forever – especially when M seems to have assigned their young leader responsibility as some kind of handler for him. The cellphone they insisted on giving him chimes at least twice a day with a request that he make his way downstairs to test something or answer some questions or fill out some form or other, which has turned almost alarmingly quickly into a regular-as-clockwork cup of tea in Q's office.

The unspoken rule that neither of them will ask any questions about the other's personal life is shattered when Bond wanders in with two handfuls of Earl Grey to find that he's one short, because there's a burly, tanned man sitting in the seat that Q usually keeps for him. Q's been giggling, and his face is flushed and a little lock of hair has fallen over his glasses, and he looks up at Bond and smiles like he'd forgotten all about him.

"007," he says, his voice slightly breathless. "This is Terry, my boyfriend."

Terry stands up and smiles, and shakes Bond's hand, and says something in rather poor taste about having heard a lot about him and hoping that gadgets are the only things that Q is supplying him with. Bond dislikes him immediately, and maybe that should be the first thing that clues him in.

Instead, he smiles uneasily, hands Q the Scrabble mug of strong black tea and backs out of the office.

There are little things that change immediately, like the times he comes back from field jobs late at night and has to hand his equipment back to some corpulent blond fortysomething instead of a familiar face, but otherwise everything's the same: they still meet for tea at precisely 10:30am every morning, and Q still comments in his clipped drawl when Bond is even a minute late, but for a while at least Terry stays out of their conversation.

Then Bond makes the mistake of calling the Quartermaster uptight.

He does it in fun, of course, about a month after he first became aware of Terry's existence. Q made a pointed statement about the number of gadgets that actually returned from Bond's assignments when compared to the number he was issued, and really it seemed the only valid response to such an accusation. He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth and the young Quartermaster stiffens and turns his face away, that warm and open expression closing off into cool professionalism.

Bond apologises. Q waves him away.

"I know I am," he says softly. "Terry says so too."

He puts down his cup of tea and tries to chase the Quartermaster's eyes around the side of the desk by craning his head. "He says what?" he asks, trying to keep his voice soft rather than let the sudden bitter, hot something in his stomach escape through his throat.

Q shrugs. "I've had to fight so hard to get where I am that it's hard for me to let go, even just at home. I know it's… I mean… I am working on it. I don't mean to be uptight."

"You know I was just joking," he feels compelled to check. "It's your job, not a personal insult. I know I don't take particularly good care of the Q-branch gadgets, and that's my fault, not yours."

The lanky man raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Did James Bond just admit to having a personality flaw?" he asks wryly.

Bond laughs it away. "Remember it, Q, because it won't happen again," he rejoins sharply. But as they fall back into their teacups, the self-satisfied smile falls away from Q's face, leaving him the youngest Bond has ever seen him look. "Are you all right, though?" he asks quietly, feeling like he should reach out for the other man's hand but not quite being able to. He's rubbish at this personal stuff, always has been.

Q nods and smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing momentarily before resettling into youthfulness. "Of course," he replies, draining the last of his Earl Grey. "I'm fine."

Bond knows fake smiles. He should have known this one.

He notices about a week later that his friend – although he doesn't notice the exact moment when the young Quartermaster stops being just a colleague and joins the extremely elite group he calls 'friends' – has become unusually jumpy.

It's a Tuesday when he walks into the office with the traditional offering of Earl Grey to find the man sitting at his desk with his head in his hands; at the sound of the door, Q gives an almighty jump and immediately tries to act like nothing's wrong, stammering slightly over his customary greeting.

"I'm sorry," he says when Bond mentions it. "I'm just tired, I keep switching off."

Once again, Bond knows when someone is lying about being okay, but he just watches Q for another moment before nodding shortly and changing the subject. It's none of his business, really, if Q doesn't want to tell him – no matter if there's a part of him he hasn't dared explore yet that wants to keep the brunette in a cave somewhere and rip out the intestines of anything that tries to hurt him. That's just natural, really, because Q is his friend, and Bond isn't used to having friends.

Only it happens again, and then again – every time Bond gets too close, or touches him by accident, when their fingers brush together or their shoulders bump as they pass, the younger man flinches as though he's expecting to be hit. Those are the exact words Bond uses in his head: it's like he expects me to hit him. And yet he still doesn't get it.

Maybe it's because he's trying so hard not to think about Q's home life, because he hasn't quite come to terms with the fact that every time the name Terry floats into his head he feels ill and wants to skin the burly man with a potato peeler and feed him bit by bit to a honey badger. But whatever the reason, it takes breaking his ankle and being suspended from field work before he manages to piece everything together.

He spends the entire week in Q's office, mostly because he has nowhere else to go – although he suspects that even if he did, he'd prefer to be here anyway – and has the opportunity to observe the Quartermaster all day. And that's when he notices.

Q doesn't play the theme music to The Pink Panther and make surreptitious little sneaking movements with his shoulders anymore. He's stopped bringing a packed lunch to work and waving celery sticks in Bond's face. The cups of tea he's still brought from various people throughout the day have stopped being greeted by positively sexual groans of relief as though without the drink he would have perished. It seems like all the little personality quirks that used to make Bond smile have vanished somehow, and the person sitting behind the VIAO laptop with his fingers constantly tapping is barely recognisable from the horde of drones outside the door at all.

In short, it takes Bond almost three months before he notices that something is very wrong with his Quartermaster, and that he himself really, really misses the old Q.

"How's Terry?" he asks suddenly, cutting off something that almost resembled a game of Twenty Questions that Q wasn't really committing to.

The younger man looks up from his screen for a moment, his eyes sharp. "He's fine," he says shortly, and then turns back to his work and studiously doesn't look up for the next few minutes.

Bond frowns. "I'm not stupid, you know," he says after a pause.

Q shoots him a wry look, his lips turning up in a rare sardonic smile. "Really?" he drawls. "The strangest thing you ever killed someone with," he says, changing the subject smoothly back to the game they had been playing.

But he isn't quite ready to give up the subject yet, and so he doesn't tell the story about the leaf-blower or the plastic colander; after a moment's heavy silence the Quartermaster sighs. "I'd rather not discuss my personal life with you, 007." He stands up and picks up a pile of forms one of the other 00 agents had dropped in earlier, clearly intending to leave the room. The last thing Bond wants is for him to leave angry, so he ploughs on.

"I'm just –"

Q snaps. "For fuck's sake, 007!" he shouts, slamming the files down on his desk with a resounding crunch that suggests one of the other 00s is considerably better at handing in their gadgetry than he is. At the noise, the Quartermaster seems to realise how uncharacteristic the outburst was, and that even Bond was so shocked by it that he's sitting bolt upright instead of lounging across three chairs with his foot up. He straightens slowly, massaging a temple with one hand. "Sorry," he says after a moment. The silence between them is heavy as Bond just watches him; for a moment Q looks as though he's about to cry. "I'm sorry," he repeats after a pause. "I'm a bit stressed."

Bond nods perfunctorily. "I know," he replies. The not that it answers anything is implied. "If…" he has to stop and swallow before continuing, because the words are thick in his throat, congealing because he never says them. "If you need anything, you know. I think I've proven that I'm no use with relationship advice, but if you ever need anyone killed, I'm your man."

It's perfectly obvious what he's offering, and after a heart-stopping moment when it looks like Q might actually accept it, the lanky genius gives him a weak but genuine smile. "I'll think about it," he says.

Bond smiles. "Do."

But if Q does, he doesn't say anything, and it's not until weeks later when Bond's been cleared for field-work again that things come to a head.

They're in Q's office again, along with M and a few other people from Q-branch scrambling around and attempting to find a small piece of breakthrough electronics that's somehow fallen through the cracks of the tracking system. It's a rare thing nowadays to see the Quartermaster's eyes light up with the excitement of a challenge or a chase, but they're doing it now and Bond knows he shouldn't be watching them instead of the screen but he's doing it anyway.

"There are about fifty conflicting signals in that room," Q is saying, and Bond is sort of half-listening. "I'll have to scan each of them individually and hope that they don't leave with it while I'm doing it."

M fidgets. "How long will that take?" he asks irritably, and Q gives a sudden bright grin, caught up in the excitement and the joy of being able to do something that everyone else in the room would believe impossible.

"About thirty seconds," he says brightly, stretching out his arms and starting to roll up his sleeves.

Bond gasps. "Are those fingerprints?" he yelps, his eyes fixed on Q's stark white forearm.

The Quartermaster bites his lip as though kicking himself under the table and pushes the sleeve back down. "Yes," he says through gritted teeth. Bond opens his mouth to say something else, though he's not quite sure what exactly yet because he's still a bit shocked, but Q cuts him off. "Can we find this thing first? We can talk about the fingerprints later."

Bond looks at M, who looks irritated at the interruption more than concerned about a few bruises on his Quartermaster's arm. "All right," he says reluctantly. "But we will talk about them."

For all his stubbornness that he doesn't want Bond nosing in his personal life, Q only hesitates for a moment before he agrees – although it's possible he only said it because the laptop had beeped, isolating the piece of technology they're looking for so that Q can shut it down and dispatch someone to recover it. In the end they don't need Bond to go in and clean up, so he's still in the office when the hordes disband and trickle out one by one until it's just the two of them. It's late, so the Quartermaster packs up his laptop into its usual bag and picks up his jacket.

"Fingerprints, Q," Bond says softly.

The younger man looks at him as though he'd forgotten he was there and then gives a puzzled frown. "It's my office," he says. "I'm allowed to leave fingerprints."

Bond raises a cool eyebrow. "No, I mean let's talk about the fingerprint-shaped bruises on your arm," he clarifies calmly.

Q's body slumps, but he puts down the laptop and comes to sit in the chair that had until a few weeks ago housed Bond's broken ankle. "I've always bruised easily, you know," he says offhandedly, but he looks exhausted and so young that Bond wants to scoop him up, shelter him with his body and arms so that no-one ever hurts him again. "He didn't really grab me that hard."

This oddly protective, primal urge catches Bond a little off-guard, so he shifts in his chair uneasily. "He didn't hit you?" he checks.

Q swallows, and Bond finds his eyes tracking the movement of his Adam's apple carefully. "I thought he was going to, for a moment," he admits. "But he's never hit me." And then once that flood-gate is open, the young man sighs and seems to relax into the chair, his mouth opening with everything he's kept behind locked doors for so long tumbling out. "He's just… he does it so gently that I almost didn't realise at first. He'd just slip it into conversation, don't you think you're working too much and you should relax a bit, you're no fun and then he'd try to make me…"

Looking at the wrecked expression on the Quartermaster's face, Bond stands up abruptly. "Will he be at home now?" he asks, noticing vaguely that his voice has gone all growly and he even sounds possessive and maybe there's something wrong with that because Q isn't his no matter how much his body suddenly thinks he should be.

The Quartermaster frowns up at him. "Don't hurt him, 007, it's more trouble than he's worth," he says wearily.

Bond just holds out a hand to help him up. "It's not more trouble than you're worth," he replies, but when Q doesn't move he hesitates. "I won't hurt him," he says reluctantly. "I'll just make sure he's too scared to come near you again. That's what you want, isn't it?"

For a moment he thinks Q will decline, but then the lanky genius takes the proffered hand and hauls himself to his feet. "Yes," he says tiredly. "Thank you."

Bond drives, and Q slumps in the passenger seat picking absently at his cardigan. They don't speak, but there's an air of trust between them, of barriers dropped. Bond's hands clench on the steering wheel in front of him and his heart makes strange noises at the thought of all the things he'd do to Terry if he actually had hit Q and the way he wants to stroke the frowny lines on the younger man's forehead until they fade away into giggles.

Q drops his keys in the hallway because his hands are shaking, and the noise elicits a low shout of "There you are, finally!" from the kitchen. Bond notices the lanky genius flinching at the sound and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to be here for this," he says quietly.

The younger man straightens, forcing his shoulders back. "Yes, I do," he replies.

Terry comes out of the kitchen then, barges out like a bull on the rampage; then he catches sight of Bond, standing calmly beside the smaller figure with his hands in his pockets, and he stops. "007, isn't it?" he asks, plainly surprised. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," Bond says in an over-the-top cheerful voice. "I simply couldn't help but notice that my Quartermaster has a number of fingerprint-shaped bruises on his arm and thought I'd just check to see that everything is all right."

The implication is plain, but apparently Terry is too thick to catch the undertone of quiet menace in the words. He frowns angrily at Q. "You told him?"

"He didn't have to," Bond answers for him. "In my line of work I spend a lot of time around lowlifes like you." The burly man looks indignant, but has the brains not to say anything until Bond has delivered his final line. "I'm not particularly used to leaving them alive."

Terry's piggy brown eyes narrow. "Are you threatening me?"

He could say something hugely sarcastic, but instead opts for an exaggerated look of concentration as though he has to think about the response. "Yes," he says firmly.

And still the other man hangs on, insisting that it wasn't as bad as whatever Q had said, that they had had an argument but they were fine really, and Bond's fists are clenching with the tremendous effort not to just strangle the man already because the excuses go on and on until –

"Terry," Q says loudly. Both men turn to face him, Bond's fists still clenched, Terry cutting off mid-sentence. "Get out," the young Quartermaster orders.

The burly man's mouth opens in shock. "But I –"

"Now," Q insists. "007's right, I don't have to put up with you. You can come back tomorrow when I'm at work for the rest of your things and leave your key on the table."

Terry looks from Q to Bond and back again. Bond smiles tightly and gestures to the door. The burly man rounds on him, his red face rapidly turning the colour of tinned beetroot. "I know why you're doing this," he spits out. Bond raises an innocuous eyebrow. "I saw the look on your face when you saw me with him. I know you want him, know you've thought about touching him and having him. He won't let you, he's too cold and uptight and he's smart enough to know that you're just as bad as I am."

He stays still, even though he wants to scream and spit and punch because doesn't he see that Q is precious and needs to be treated with respect? He stays still, looking the other man in the eyes calmly. "You're pathetic," he says, keeping his voice quiet and even. "You heard the man, get out."

So with a final glare at the two of them, Terry yanks his jacket off the hook by the door and storms out of the flat.

Q sags, blowing out his cheeks in relief and leaning against the wall. Bond tries to smile at him, but it comes out hollow and he's glad the younger man isn't looking. "Where do you keep your tea?" he asks instead, patting the Quartermaster on the shoulder as he walks past.

"The cupboard directly above the sink," Q replies, following him into the kitchen and flopping into a chair at the table, immediately sinking into what's become his default pose, looking defeated with his head in his hands. Bond locates the kettle, fills it, turns it on, and lifts the Quartermaster's hands away from his face.

"Hey," he says gently. "You're okay now."

The lanky youth takes his hands, just holding them gently between his own, and smiles weakly. "Yeah," he agrees. "Thank you."

Bond makes tea and lets Q hold his hand, and somehow taking care of him seems so natural that he does it all the way to the bedroom, until the young Quartermaster is in his pyjamas and sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up around his ankles, wiggling his toes awkwardly.

He has the strangest urge to physically tuck the younger man into bed, to smooth the dark curls away from his forehead and press a gentle goodnight kiss there instead, and that, stupidly, is when it hits him, the full glorious truth of it. He wants to be the one to make Q smile, the reason that he hums The Merry Old Land of Oz while he taps away at his computer, the one who makes him giggle and flush. And deplorable as it is, Terry was right – well, half-right: he does want Q, so much that there's suddenly not enough air in the room for the both of them and Bond has to get out.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Q," he says quickly, and as soon as the lanky genius smiles at him in acknowledgment he turns and flees.

As such, he almost misses the tiny voice that calls him back from the door. "007?"

He turns back immediately because there's something in that voice he can't refuse, and when he gets there the Quartermaster is fiddling nervously with a corner of his bedspread. "Would you stay?" he asks quietly, his eyes carefully downcast.

Bond knows he shouldn't, not with everything he can't believe he only just realised, but the younger man looks tired and wary and so vulnerable that he doesn't have the heart to do the right thing.

He falls asleep to the sound of Q's heavy, steady breathing with a keyboard-calloused hand resting gently on his bicep as though making sure he's still there.

A/N: I may possibly write another chapter to cement the getting together at the end side of things. Please do review or I'll never get better :)

-for you!