Dancing Boy
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've been sitting on this fic for a while, and finally after watching Matthew Bourne's version of Swan Lake I've managed to muster enough inspiration to write it. There shall be little to no angst – just fluff, sex, and 00Q goodness. Please leave a comment if you like it!
Chapter One
James had just ushered the last of his students – an persistently vivacious girl who seemed intent on stretching his last nerve by flirting outrageously with him under the pretence of questions about the lesson – out of the classroom door when he felt his phone buzz inside his back pocket. He glanced at the name on the screen and slid the answer icon across.
"Mr. Bond?" a cool, female voice greeted him.
"Miss Moneypenny," he responded, starting to file his various papers into his briefcase. "How may I serve you?"
Eve, his only female friend with whom he shared a purely platonic relationship, sighed heavily. "Find me an ex-husband who won't flake out on me at the last minute."
"An ex-husband?" James grinned and nudged the stack of reports into a neat pile, ready to be read and marked when he got home. "Might take a while."
"Well, in the meantime, you're my only reserve."
"What for?"
"I need someone to pick Ella up from ballet."
James masked an exasperated sigh – the sports hall was halfway across town, and it had been a very long day. But then, how many times had Eve ever asked for his help when, as a working single mother, she must have gone out of her own way many times for her daughter.
"James?" Eve said, her voice hopeful.
"Sorry," he said, returning from his reverie. "Yes, of course I'll get her."
She released a long breath, the sound hissing down the line. "Thank you."
"No problem," James switched off the lights and electronics in the classroom, folding his old brown leather jacket and blue scarf over his arm. "What time does she finish?"
"5:30."
James glanced at his watch – if he set out now he'd only have to wait ten minutes until Ella's lesson ended. "Right. I'll see you later."
"Thanks again."
"Anything for you, sweetheart," James terminated the call and slipped the phone inside his pocket. Picking up his briefcase, he gave the room one last sweep before leaving it, locking the door behind him. The corridor was almost deserted, save for a few last stragglers and Gareth Mallory, the languages night class instructor, setting up for his evening group.
"Evening, double-oh seven," Gareth said as James passed by. Claiming to have a terrible memory for names, he referred to the school day teachers simply by their room numbers, despite having been friends with most of them for going on seven years. In kind, James referred to Gareth in a similarly formal manner – by just the initial of his surname.
"Evening, M," he said, pausing in the doorway of the language lab, glancing at the Italian phrases the other man was inscribing on the whiteboard.
"Managing to fend off those little girls?" Gareth smirked over his shoulder at James, who returned a mirthless grimace.
It was an ongoing joke between the two friends that James's female students had always deeply enamoured of him since he'd started at the school when he was twenty-three, during which time he had ranged from 'hot guy' to 'hot older guy' – their own words, he hastened to remind himself. Thirteen years later, he was still maintaining his efforts to ignoring their love-struck gazes and blatant flirtation. Truthfully, when he was younger it had been amusing, almost flattering, but now it was tiresome, awkward. He was almost thirty-seven years old, and these were sixteen year old girls, fuelled by their emotions, with no concern of how inappropriate their behaviour might be.
He glanced at his watch. "Got to dash," he said. "See you Monday."
"Fight the good fight, double-oh seven!" Gareth called after him, laughter etched into each word.
As James crossed the school playing field to the faculty car park, he noticed the people arriving for that evening's Italian class – mostly women of around his age, though there were a couple of men as well. A few of the women gave him flirty looks, but he ignored them. He just wanted to pick up Ella and get home to a hot shower, some supper and perhaps a few chapters of a book before bed. A rather tedious agenda for a Friday night, he knew, but he wasn't in the mood for company.
He backed his silver Aston Martin DB5 out of the car park, pulling out onto the main road. The car had been willed to him by his father three years ago, and it was his pride and joy, kept in immaculate condition with nothing to mar its original classic beauty, with not even a stereo to update it to modern standards.
He arrived at the sports hall with five minutes to spare, and parked up some feet from the entrance. He could faintly hear the sound of piano music from an open window, and a young male voice calling instructions. He locked the car and wandered down the road to the front. He pushed open the door and joined the group of waiting parents just inside the dance studio, all watching the little girls balancing at the barre along the opposite wall.
"Alright, one last run before home-time. Now, position first. . ."
James glanced over to the instructor – a young man in his twenties with dark wavy hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a close black T-shirt and long grey sweatpants, his arms folded as he walked slowly down the line of children, checking their poses. James spotted Ella fourth from the left, her face straight with concentration, a look he recognised all too easily in her mother.
"Position second."
The girls parted their feet and extended their arms out to their sides.
"Position third. Olivia, that's fourth. Remember, feet crossed, left arm in."
Olivia corrected her position and he nodded approvingly. James had to admit he was surprised. If he'd ever given it thought, he would have envisioned a kids' ballet classes being taught by a middle aged housewife like Julie Walters in Billy Elliot. Certainly not a young and relatively attractive man. This guy was lucky – at least his students were too young to realise he was attractive, too busy ensuring their fifth position was on point.
"And rest," the teacher grinned broadly and clapped his hands. "Well done girls, give yourselves a round of applause."
The little girls clapped happily and began running over to their respective parents. James smiled at Ella as she reached him, hugging his knees.
"Hello sweetheart," he said. "Beautiful dancing."
"Thank you, Uncle James," she smiled widely, her dark brown eyes twinkling. James felt a rush of affection for her – there was no doubt she would be a beauty like her mother.
"Ready to go?"
"Need the toilet first," she said.
"Off you go then," James gave her curly head a pat and she skipped off towards the ladies' room. While awaiting her return, he leaned against the wall, his eyes falling on the instructor, who had switched off the music and was busying himself with packing up the portable CD stereo it had been playing on. His hips and waist were very narrow, James noted, but his arms and shoulders through his shirt were toned with muscle. His facial features, although not feminine per se, possessed a certain elegance and ethereality that James couldn't say he'd come across before. He could almost say it intrigued him.
"Ready," a small voice piped up from his side, and he felt Ella tugging on his hand, half-in, half-out of her coat. James buttoned her up and took her small hand in his as they headed out of the front door. He didn't look back at the instructor, whom he could hear talking with a couple of parents about their respective daughters' progress, although there was a part of him that greatly wanted to.
While Ella chattered brightly the whole journey home, James found he was only partly listening, though he made sure to nod, smile and make affirming noises in what he hoped were the right places. Eventually, he cleared his throat and looked at her.
"What's your teacher's name, Ellie?" He felt no need to be subtle about it since, at six years old, she was hardly going to suspect any alternate motives in his questioning.
"Q," she replied.
"Q?" James said, not sure he'd heard her right.
"Mm-hmm," she nodded, her dark curls bouncing.
"What's his real name?"
"Dunno."
"Q. . ." Short for something – Quentin, maybe?
As he pulled up outside Eve's house, he saw her through the kitchen window, cutting vegetables at the sink. She glanced around the curtain and waved. James accompanied Ella to the door, where Eve greeted them with a smile, wiping her fingers on the apron tied around her slim waist. James looked at her pensively for a moment. It seemed so strange to him now that he had not once made an aim for her – he, James Bond, who had seduced more women than any other man in town. Eve was intelligent and witty and extremely attractive – it would seem odd for any man to not even entertain the idea of at least asking her out for a drink. But her ex-husband had been fool enough to seek comfort between the legs of another woman of only half Eve's calibre, and James knew she wasn't in a rush to seek the company of another man in a hurry, instead choosing to focus all her energies on being a good mother. James happily confessed that his admiration for her knew no bounds, and yet there was still something missing that prevented him from feeling anything more than mere friendship. Indeed, it seemed there was something more, now. Eve gestured for him to come inside and he followed her through to the kitchen – a cheery room with yellow walls, pale wood cupboards and many of Ella's school paintings and drawings stuck to the fridge door. Eve went to pour James a glass of wine, but he shook his head and she went back to chopping the carrots.
"I was going to give you a few more minutes to tell me yourself," she said after a moment, turning to lean against the sink and fixing James with a gaze that he knew meant he was in for an interrogation. "But you must tell me now."
"I don't know what you're talking about," James bluffed. Eve had always been able to read him like a book.
She gave a short laugh and picked up a glass of red wine from the counter-top, swirling the contents before taking a sip. "Come along, James. I haven't seen you look so distracted since that awful Annabel creature."
"She wasn't that bad," James protesting, his mind casting back to the young barmaid he'd set his fancies on some three years before.
"James, she was a psychopath," Eve said dryly, and James snorted.
"Maybe," he smiled wanly.
"So," she prompted. "Who is it this time? Just please tell me it's someone even slightly capable of holding a decent conversation."
James knew it was hopeless to try and conceal anything from her – she'd worm it out of him eventually, anyway.
"I've yet to find out," he said.
"Oh, admiring from afar this time?" she said, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "Haven't seen you do that in a while."
"No," James agreed. "Rather refreshing, really."
"Mmm," Eve nodded. "It'll be interesting to see how it pans out. From my view, anyway."
"My love-life's not a soap opera, Eve," James said.
"Maybe not," she laughed. "But it's certainly more exciting than mine."
James shrugged and straightened up. "I'd best be off," he said. "I've got twenty bloody ten-page essays to mark before Monday."
"Alright," Eve said, picking up the chopping board and piling the diced carrots into a pan of water on the oven hob. "But promise you'll let me know if there's any change."
"Sure," he said, giving her cheek a quick kiss before heading towards the door. "You can be my avid audience. Night, sweetheart."
"Goodnight, James."
As he drove home, James tried to ignore the newly developed nagging in the pit of his stomach, though it was not unfamiliar with it. He almost greeted it as an old friend, as it had always acted as a prelude to his most passionate affairs. Whether this chance encounter would lead to such a similar occurrence, however, he was uncertain.
The first had been a boy James had befriended in their last year of secondary school. Michael. He'd been a bookish type – quiet and not at all the sort most people would expect would attract a boy such as James Bond. Even in his youth, James had never been what one might call a wallflower – popular amongst the girls in his classes as well as his peers. Thinking back on it, perhaps it was Michael's indifference towards James's initial advances that had drawn him to him steadily further – so difference from the sycophantic simpering he was used to from all the others. In the end, nothing had come of it – at least not physically – but it was the opening to a side of James's heart that had been thus far closed off to him.
Of course, this did not quite end his reputation as a 'ladies man'. He never revealed that particular side of his romantic preferences to anyone, until he started university. With an entirely new scope of people, in a town where no-one had any knowledge of his background or past experiences, this seemed to James to be an open invitation to explore new pleasures to his heart's content. It shamed him a little that he could not quite remember all of the names of his various conquests – men and women alike – but the realisation that there was more than just one option was really quite liberating at the time.
It had been a good few years since his last male sexual interaction – a bar-worker called Alec Trevelyan whom he had met in similar circumstances to Annabel the Psychopath, and with a similar disastrous outcome. While he'd known from the start that Alec was a quick-tempered man – passionate, he'd romantically thought it back then – it soon became apparent that his nature leaned more towards that of a violent disposition. Enamoured as he was with the handsome man, he'd felt it wholly necessary to cut himself off after being on the receiving end of Alec's fist.
Since then, he'd found himself almost nervous to get involved with another man, especially as that most recent experience had broken not just his nose but also another part of him that he now tried to keep better protected. Tonight, it seemed, his will was trying to break through that.
He arrived back at his apartment just after six, carelessly discarding his briefcase, scarf and jacket on the sofa before heading straight to the kitchen and pouring himself a dram of whiskey, knocking it back before pouring himself another, which he took back to the lounge and sipped slowly, laying back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling. Just another evening of drink and bad television. He could have stayed longer at Eve's, he supposed, but he wasn't in the mood to be nit-picked at until he revealed the torch he now feared he was tentatively burning for a primary school ballet instructor. Even if he did have slim hips and the face of a Shakespearean prince.
Eventually, he summoned enough will to get up and fashion himself a makeshift dinner of pre-sliced cheese on toast, settling down to watch whatever drama/chat show/news broadcast his channel-hopping happened to land on, until the clock struck eleven and he hauled himself off to bed.
The next morning, at seven o'clock, he awoke with the slight threat of a hangover, but at least, it being a Saturday, he didn't have to drag himself into work. Silver linings and all that. He shuffled to the kitchen and faced the sadly bare shelves of his fridge in vain attempt to find something resembling a nutritious breakfast. Not much he could make with cheese slices, cocktail olives and a quarter-pint of milk, so he decided to head out to the coffee shop just a street over from his apartment building. He quickly washed, shaved, and pulled on a pair of clean jeans, a navy sweater and his jacket, before heading out. The streets were still fairly quiet, mostly joggers and a couple of other early risers like himself, and he certainly didn't expect there to be much of a queue in the coffee shop. There was only one person standing in line when he arrived, a few other people scattered around the circular table with chequered tablecloths, mismatched chairs and jam-jars of flowers. The place might have been rather what the youth of the internet might call 'hipster', but it was peaceful and the coffee was good. The little bell above the door rang as he entered, and he took his place in line behind the first customer, a dark-haired boy wearing a black overcoat and what looked like a home-made wool scarf that was at least two feet too long. James smirked and busied himself with the specials board until the boy in front paid for his Earl Grey to-go and turned around.
He should have expected it, really. Other people may have recognised the object of their interest immediately, no matter the angle, but to James it would have seemed too much of a coincidence. Plus it was only seven forty-five in the morning. He caught but a glimpse of pale skin, thick-rimmed glasses, and a polite smile before he was gone – the person James's mind had been brewing over for the past twelve hours. The bell above the door jingled happily and James was left just standing there not knowing what to think. Well, the way his stomach had jumped certainly proved he hadn't been imagining this new attraction. God, his face still felt red as the girl behind the counter tried to attract his attention to take his order. Eventually, he took his Americano and bacon sandwich to a table at the back of the shop and contemplated. So it would make sense that his mysterious new addition to his life must live somewhere around here, though he'd certainly never seen him around before. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was the make his acquaintance, and to at least find out what his real name was.
After six days of frequenting the coffee shop every morning before work, driving home via the sports hall, and even doing an internet search on local children's ballet groups for even the slightest hint of a name, James was starting to feel less like a romantic and more of a stalker. How could it be so bloody difficult to find someone in such a small area? He had hoped to track down at least a little more information before putting his Friday plan into action. But since he hadn't, there was nothing else for it.
The sports hall clock had just struck 5:25 as James arrived. He'd walked rather than driven, which had taken a good forty-five minutes, but his car was so recognisable that Eve would have spotted him in a second if he'd driven down. As he waited until she and Ella had pulled away in Eve's little Toyota, James rather felt like an espionage agent. He had it perfectly planned out in his head what he was going to say when he went in. 'Oh, Eve picked Ella up? She must have forgotten she asked me to. I'm James, by the way.' Couldn't go wrong.
He pushed the doors open with a burst of confidence he hoped would last, and was about to step inside the dance studio when he paused, staring through the glass panel. All the rest of the kids and parents had already gone, and the mysterious 'Q' was standing along beside the barre. Instead of unplugging and packing up the stereo, he seemed to be replacing the CD with a difference one, one long forefinger pressing play. Quickly, he removed his glasses and pulled off his T-shirt, so he was standing in just the black shorts he was wearing this week. James appreciated the spectacle – the guy looked skinny but his torso and arms were beautifully muscular. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, and James didn't think he'd ever seen anyone at this level of physical fitness. Q took his place in the centre of the room in a casual stance as the gentle sound of violins started to play from the stereo. It was a tune James thought he may have heard somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place it. Not that he cared one jot about that at that moment, as Q had started to dance.
If 'dance' was even the word he would use – 'fly' might have been more appropriate. He seemed to weigh nothing as he sprung from the floor, his body in a graceful arch, his arms outstretched like wings, his feet stretched in perfect points to land again almost soundlessly. James didn't think he'd ever seen anything more perfect in his entire life – the effortless elegance, the passion in every movement, the look of ecstasy etched into Q's expression, eyes closed, lips parted. James briefly experienced a string of deeply impure thoughts of ways he might recreate those expressions with more than just music. Ways mostly involving his tongue.
The track was only about three minutes long, but James could honestly say he'd never had another three minutes like them. Q danced in a way that made him almost wish he could dance that way as well, if only for an excuse to touch him in the most intimate pas de deux possible. He wondered how it must feel – all that talent just flowing through his body, turning him into something more ethereal than just a person, more graceful than a swan.
That was it – Swan Lake. That was the music he thought he recognised. As it came to an end, Q struck one final position, before easing back into a normal stance. The CD skipped to the next track just before he switched it off, picking up his shirt and pulling it back over his head, placing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. That's when he turned and saw James. Now or never.
James pushed the door open, his eyes fixed on Q, as though he never wanted to look at anything else again.
"Can I help you?" Q asked. James had forgotten how sweet his voice sounded – light and mellow, boyish.
"Uhh. . ." all James's famous smooth-talking seemed to have failed him in that moment. Start again. "I came to collect Ella."
Q raised an eyebrow. "The class is over," he said.
"Yeah," James looked around the empty room. "Guess her mum forgot."
Q nodded and began packing away his things, not seeming that interested in James's company. James had to confess he wasn't entirely used to this – and had a flash-back of desperately trying to win Michael's attention the corner of the school Library. He'd never conquered that challenge – was this a second chance to do so?
"You're remarkable," he said, adopting what he knew to be his most attractive half-smile.
Q turned. "Excuse me?"
"I said you're a remarkable dancer," James continued. "Swan Lake, right?"
"Yes," Q said. "Op. 20."
"Can't say I've seen anything like it," James said, moving a little closer.
"Can't say I'd peg you for a ballet enthusiast," Q replied.
"You'd be right, but I've been developing an interest lately."
Q narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be gauging whether or not James was having him on. Then he opened up his messenger bag and pulled out a small paper flyer displaying the words 'A Night of Tchaikovsky: Music and Dance'.
"If you're so interested," Q said. "Would I see you there?"
James looked up and smiled. "I think you'll find you might."
Q tugged his bag further up his shoulder and nudged open the door with his hip. At the last moment, he turned and asked, "What's your name?"
"Bond," James said, too quickly. Why had he said his surname first? "James Bond," he corrected himself.
"Goodnight, Mr. Bond," Q said, before he left, closing the door behind him.
