"It's just a test of the programming," Q said, waving his free hand at the fresh bowl of powdered chalk. "I need sufficient error correction for field circumstances without compromising the —"
"He's giving details again," John said, glancing across the dining table at Bond.
"Can't you keep him quiet?" Bond challenged as he scooped up some of the chalk and rubbed it over his hands.
Grinning, John put a hand on Q's nape and pulled him close for a kiss. Q's muffled not-so-sincere protest turned into a yelp as the cat — unhappy at finding she was no longer the centre of attention — sank her teeth into his thumb. "Ow!"
"Medic." Bond laughed and reached for the cat, scattering chalk all over the guns and components. "Give her here."
"You'll get her all dusty," Q protested, trying to transfer the angry cat to his unharmed hand.
"Yes, because she never gets dusty, dirty, covered with potting soil — the incident with the bag of sugar..." John said, extracting the cat from Q's hand. He dumped her in Bond's cupped hands, and she immediately started purring like an out-of-tune transmission, the little traitoress.
"Poor girl," Bond said, lifting her to his chest. He wasn't met with claws or fangs or even a hiss; she put her paws on his throat — bloodlessly — and butted her head into his chin.
"He's subverting our cat," Q complained as John took his injured hand to look at the puncture wounds.
"That seems his style," John agreed. He rubbed gently at the wound and said, "I think you'll live. Want a plaster?"
"No." Q glared at Bond and the cat, earning a rather smug smirk that made his breath catch just a bit. "If we can get back to the task at hand?" he prompted.
"Here, you take her," Bond said, offering the cat to John.
"Only if you both swear not to stitch me up if she gets me somewhere vital," John said, taking her carefully. He pointed at Bond and added, "Especially not you. There are photos of your stitching in the break room, you know."
"Not all of us can have our own pet doctor," Bond said, shooting Q another smirk before he reapplied the chalk to his hands. "I'll have to settle for a pet technician."
"Be glad I'm willing to share," John said, fixing Bond with a mock-glare.
Q's breath hitched at the way Bond's look turned momentarily heated, and suddenly the word share took on meanings Q had never allowed himself to imagine. Hastily, he looked down and picked up one of the circuit mock-ups, which he promptly fumbled and dropped again.
"I believe I'm supposed to test it before you break it," Bond said, reaching over with one dusty white hand to pick up the sensor prototype.
Q knew he was blushing, but there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He yanked at the wires trailing from the circuit, picked up his multimeter, and started reading off numbers.
"Bugger," John said, switching the cat to his free hand. He picked up his pencil and leaned down to start writing, only to end up with claws in his hand. Startled, he poured five pounds of angry cat onto the dining table, where she immediately went for the multimeter wires. Her tiny paws scattered the mock-ups of weapon grips that Q had so carefully built, sending them flying onto the dining room floor.
"No!" Q yelped, dropping the multimeter to catch the cat before she could follow everything off the edge of the polished table. With a hiss like a blacksmith quenching a sword, she landed in his hands, claws out.
Bond rescued him, coughing with the effort to restrain his laughter over John's apologies and Q's vicious cursing in Pashto. Extracting the cat from Q's newly wounded palms, Bond scolded, "Language, Quartermaster. Are you the bad influence on him, John?"
"He's learned most of my bad habits," John said, taking hold of Q's scored hands. "Come on, love. Let's run these under cold water."
"Your cat's a national hazard," Bond accused, twisting to look over his shoulder at the cat in question. She was sprawled half on his shoulder and half on the sofa cushion, head and front paws hanging down his chest, dead asleep.
"She's sweet," Q said, despite the plasters covering his hands. "Red wire next, love?"
"Right," John answered, switching the multimeter probe to the red lead. "Looks like a hair over eighteen."
"It's digital," Q complained, wincing as he picked up his glass. How such tiny claws had managed to get him everywhere, he had no idea. He took a fair swallow of whisky, having long since stopped bothering to sip at it, since it hurt too much to hold the glass for long. It seemed more efficient to just drink. He put the glass down and said, "It's digital for a reason."
"Fine. Point one. Does the point-one even count?"
"It's a tenth of a millivolt!"
"That's a no for most people," Bond murmured to John.
"I would kick you, but it would upset the cat," Q said, and settled for prodding at Bond's leg. With Bond sitting on the floor, legs stretched out under the coffee table, it was Q's easiest target.
"God, don't do that," John said. "If she wakes up startled, she'll rip off half his face."
"Do you hear how they talk about you, sweetheart?" Bond asked, working a finger under the cat's chin. He lifted a quarter-inch, and when he let go, her head just flopped back down. When she landed, she started snoring. "Is that normal?"
"She's perfectly healthy," John assured him.
"You're not a veterinarian," Q pointed out. "Besides, she's always snored. It's endearing."
"It's bloody loud," Bond said.
"What's the next wire, Q?" John asked.
"What? Oh, we're done," he answered after a moment's consideration. "Red, black, green, blue, left and right, with and without chalk?"
"How many should that be?" John picked up the notebook, frowning.
"Um..." Q closed his eyes, trying to remember the configuration of the data table he'd built, only everything was a bit fuzzy. He probably should've waited on the third glass of whisky.
"Sixteen," Bond said.
Q blinked at him. "I didn't know you could do maths!"
Bond's brows shot up. "You —"
"You're drunk, love," John said, reaching out to take away Q's glass.
"I'm not," Q protested, even though he knew that was a drunken sort of thing to say. "But really, no one expects you to have actually taken maths, James."
"You have no tolerance for good whisky, do you?" Bond asked.
Q glared at him and pulled his legs up onto the sofa. When John had moved in, he'd brought an old Union Jack pillow that Q had promptly claimed. He hugged it to his chest as he sank down a little, until his shoulder was resting against the arm of the sofa. He kept a careful six-inch distance between his vulnerable bare toes and the cat.
"It's the bad whisky we have to watch out for," John said as he coiled up the multimeter leads. "Sorry you seem to have wasted your day off."
"I wouldn't call this a waste," Bond said, throwing a grin Q's way. "I've never been witness to a cat terrorising two ex-Special Forces and a genius before. I think we should bring her to the office, maybe for the next executive-branch meeting."
Q choked out a laugh. "Oh, no. You two don't have to actually attend those things. I do. I'd be caught."
"I'm an assassin. I'm fully capable of infiltrating a cat into a secure environment."
"Smuggling," John corrected.
Bond nodded. "Right. Smuggling a cat."
Q buried his face against the pillow. "Next you'll say you use them for gambling currency."
"What?" John asked.
"He cheats at cards! Of course he'd cheat at kitten poker, too," Q said, pointing at Bond. "You wouldn't believe the things I've heard him do. I should download some of the audio files."
"Careful," Bond advised. "John's not the only bad influence here."
"Kitten poker?" John asked.
"No idea."
"Both of you are awful people," Q declared, sitting up enough to hold out one bandaged hand. "Remote, 007."
"I'm not certain you're in any shape to be operating complicated technological equipment," Bond protested.
"Well, I certainly can't. It's got more bloody buttons than a submarine," John said, picking up the media centre remote. He brought it over to Q, saying, "Budge over." As soon as John sat down in the corner, Q dropped the pillow on his lap and curled up, aiming the remote at the telly.
"I'm qualified on submarines," Bond said.
"None of you people are qualified for my media system," Q insisted. Drunk or not, he knew how to open the right device menus and access his stored files. It was only another minute before the opening scene of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer appeared on the telly that had taken up most of his budget the very first month after he'd been promoted to Quartermaster.
"Are you... suggesting we watch an American sitcom?" Bond asked Q in mild horror.
"No," he quipped. "It's a documentary."
"About vampires?"
"Yes. Now do be quiet, 007. This first bit establishes the mythos."
Q woke up to the very fuzzy sight of dark blue eyes watching him and the sound of screaming teenage girls. It would have been alarming if a part of his mind couldn't picture the precise scene.
"Still season one?" he asked, looking up at John.
John nodded, brushing a hand through Q's hair. "Feel better? We lost you for a while there."
Q closed his eyes, taking stock of his condition. His hands stung and he was hungry, but he felt surprisingly well-rested. Not hung-over in the least, which was nice, given that he recalled being very intent on drinking whisky.
"I'm fine. What's for dinner?" he asked, twisting to roll over onto his back.
"Since neither of us has been able to get up, no one's decided," said a voice that was most definitely not John.
Startled, Q lifted his head and blinked at Bond, who was sprawled at the other end of the couch, Q's bare feet resting in his lap.
For once, Q's intellect entirely failed him. He tore his eyes from Bond and looked back at John, braced for... he didn't know what. Anger. Hurt. Resentment.
He wasn't prepared for amusement.
"I can call for a pizza if —"
"Two," Bond interrupted.
John threw a grin at him. "Two pizzas," he continued, "if you let me get up."
"I can get it," Q insisted, thinking it the perfect excuse. He could move his feet off Bond's lap and they could all have an easier time of pretending this hadn't happened.
"I'll get it," Bond offered. "There's a cat roaming free out there, and she seems to like me."
Good enough. Q tried to act casual about pulling his feet away, curling up to pointedly snuggle closer to John, though he didn't seem to need any reassurance from Q. Bond got up, pausing the show.
"Menu's in the kitchen, last drawer on the left," John said. He ruffled at Q's hair, saying, "This one likes his pizza plain. I'm good with whatever."
"Very accommodating of you," Bond said, and something in his voice made Q twist to look at him, but he'd already turned his back to go for the kitchen.
Q turned back, looking worriedly up at John. "I'm sorry. I didn't —"
"It's fine, love." John leaned down a bit awkwardly to kiss him. "I know how little you've been sleeping since you pulled those readers out of field issue. You'll solve the problem."
"I have solved it, I think." Q shifted to get a better angle to see John's face. "I meant for falling asleep on you. Both of you."
"Ah. That," John said, nodding. He moved his hand to Q's chest. "We should —"
"I won't —"
John smiled. "It's fine."
"You said that before"
John shook his head. "I like him," he said quietly.
Q propped up on his elbow. "The way you just said that... means something."
"It means I like him." John shrugged, smiling. "He reminds me of some of my army mates. Like Bill."
"Bill —" Q began, before he felt his eyes widen. "Corporal Murray?" he asked, naming John's on-and-off boyfriend from Camp Bastion.
"Mmm. Though James is much nicer to look at."
The idea that crept into Q's mind was absolutely inappropriate. There was no way he would ever suggest it, even if it turned his blood to liquid fire and made him forget how to think and speak and breathe.
John slid his hand up from Q's chest to his hair. He cupped the back of Q's head and held him still for a kiss that did nothing to help Q's state of mind. When it ended, leaving Q tingling all the way down to his fingertips and toes, John quietly said, "I love you."
"I —"
"Not done here," John scolded with another quick kiss. "I love you, and if you're the only person in my arms for the rest of my life, I'll die happy. But if you also wanted James —"
"Oh, god," Q said, his voice tight.
"— that's all right, too"
Q twisted to get his arms around John, burying his face against his shoulder. "No. God, no. I couldn't cheat —"
"I wasn't — Oh, no, love," John protested, holding him. "No, no. I know you wouldn't."
"Then —"
"But it wouldn't be cheating if I was there, too, would it?"
The pizza place wasn't the nearest or the cheapest, but it was Q's favourite. The crust was always perfectly done, crispy on the bottom and fluffy in the middle. The sauce was spicy and rich. The cheese was always suspended in a semi-melted state without ever being greasy or rubbery.
Q didn't taste a single bite of it. He could barely go through the mechanics of chewing and swallowing, and the half-slice he managed to eat fell into his stomach like lead shot.
"Is that how he stays so thin?" Bond asked, leaning back to look across Q, sitting on the sofa between them, shoulders hunched.
John sighed and ran a hand up Q's back, rubbing gently. "Q..."
It took a long drink of Coke — not whisky, despite thinking it might've helped — for him to find his voice. "No."
"Should I go?" Bond offered hesitantly.
"No," Q repeated, this time to Bond. He glanced back at John, whose fingers pressed reassuringly against his shoulder, so he turned back to Bond. "In fact, we — John and I, that is — we want you to stay. If you'd like."
Bond's brows rose, and he tipped his head to look at John. "Is he all right?"
Deliberately, Q dropped the remains of his pizza back onto his plate and sat back, catching Bond's eyes. "I'm fine. We're both fine. We... discussed this, and we want you to stay. Tonight. If you want to."
John slid closer to Q and put an arm around his shoulders. "He means with us, James," he explained.
He was interested. Thank god he was interested. Q could see it in the way his eyes went wide and dark and sharp. Carefully, Bond said, "I never intended to interfere."
"You aren't," Q reassured him.
"I'm not going to interfere," Bond insisted. "You two — God, I've never seen two people better suited..." He trailed off, watching as John set down his pizza and stood.
"Excuse me, love," John said, brushing his fingers through Q's hair as he stepped over Q's legs to stand in front of Bond. He leaned over and moved Bond's plate and beer aside so he could sit on the corner of the coffee table. Unlike most of the furniture in their apartment, the coffee table was scratched and scored and charred in places from soldering iron accidents.
Heart pounding, Q turned, meeting John's eyes for a moment. Q was too nervous to smile, but John seemed utterly calm and confident. He leaned forward, turning to meet Bond's gaze, and said, "We would both like you to spend the night with us. We're all adults long out of uni. If you say no, that's fine. But we hope you say yes."
Slowly, questioningly, Bond turned to look into Q's eyes. The desire he saw there was captivating, and he reached out to put a hand on Bond's arm. Bond had rolled up the sleeves of his casual dark blue button-down, and the feel of his forearm — impossibly strong, impossibly solid — was unimaginable. Though Q had always been eloquent, the only words he could think of were killing words. Bond was a perfect weapon, deadly and efficient, like an avenging angel, terrible and beautiful.
Then John drew Bond's attention with a touch to his jaw. Released from that electric gaze, Q took a deep, shaky breath and watched as John leaned forward, guiding Bond to do the same, though he stopped when their lips were an inch apart.
"If you want," John said quietly.
Bond pulled his arm back and tentatively took Q's hand as he closed that last inch.
Q stopped breathing all over again as he watched their kiss go from tentative to blazing in a heartbeat. John's hand moved to the back of Bond's neck, holding him still as he licked at Bond's lips. Bond's hand clenched around Q's as his mouth opened, and he made a low, intent sound, almost a growl deep in his chest.
Q had no idea how long he watched, claw-scored fingers stinging from the press of Bond's hand, but he made no effort to pull free. Slowly, he allowed himself to believe that this could work. That maybe, just maybe, they could find some way to make something unimaginably wonderful between the three of them. Something new.
The kiss broke, leaving a heavy, tenuous electricity crackling in the air. Q squeezed Bond's hand, meeting John's eyes for a moment. And god, he was calm and composed and not at all nervous or upset or in any way tentative. Q took heart from that, and turned to face Bond.
"Q?" Bond breathed.
Q reached towards John with his free hand. As their hands touched, Q turned back to Bond. "Yes," he whispered, and leaned forward for their first kiss.