To begin with, a million thousand apologies to my lovely readers. I am so so so very sorry for the unforgivably long amount of time that this chapter has taken. I grovel at your knees. My excuses are few. School of course takes precedence, as does my activities in theatre, but mostly it was the laziness monster and pretty terrible writer's block. Again, I apologize many times.

Next on the agenda, a million thousand thank yous to my lovely comment-writers and feedback-givers. You all are the reason I ever actually write anything. The best and most inspiring go up on my white-board to give me confidence on bad days. So thank you so much!

Thanks to my dearest Ryenan for her support and butt-kicking. Love you darling.

Finally I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's the longest at around 2,000 words. Still a baby I know but quite a lot for me. As always, feedback is very much appreciated!


After a while, much longer than Q ever took when he was alone, they climbed out and stood dripping on the tile. Q retrieved a second towel and when he returned James took it from him. But he didn't apply it to his own soaked skin, instead he took the Quartermaster's head in his hands and toweled off the mop of black hair before he moved on to his own shorter blonde. Soon they were both dry, though Q's hair still stuck to his brow.

Silently they moved back into the master bedroom and the technician glanced around him in unease, suddenly feeling the awkwardness of the situation. When he had gone through before, he had only noted the mess in an absent, back of his mind sort of way. But now he saw in vivid detail the colony of mugs half-full of Earl Grey that were rapidly multiplying and forming a civilization on his bedside table. He took in the piles of spy novels and theoretical weapon concepts covering the floor and the pure clutter that covered every surface in a film of orphan socks and bullet casings lying among pen caps and flash drives.

Flushing red in acute embarrassment, he set about scooping mounds of clothing up and dumping them in the hamper before scrambling to clean the deconstructed laptop pieces from his unmade bed. James didn't allow him to get very far.

James was observant. His job forced him to be. So, it wasn't difficult to notice Q's sudden discomfort, even before the cleaning spree began. During their time together, the agent had had ample time to study the Quartermaster's various emotions and reactions. Therefore, it wasn't a surprise that he took note when all of the muscles in Q's back tensed the second he laid eyes on the room as he walked in ahead of James. He saw as well the hurried almost reckless movement in Q's arms that lacked the clam precise energy he usually carried. Of course this sort of unrest could not be allowed. The agent couldn't stand to see the man that had become his rock looking so worried, so…awkward in his presence. Hadn't they moved past all this somewhere in the dark hours of many long nights?

In his usual unapologetic manner, James simply grabbed Q about the waist and held him firmly in one arm as he cleared a space for them on the bed with the other. Sitting down, he pulled Q with him and onto his lap till he could get at the smaller man's white slender neck. For whatever reason, he held back from a proper kiss. The agent just breathed. He watched as goose bumps rose along his Quartermaster's collarbone and up towards his protruding Adam's apple. When he pressed his ear to the pulse point he could see beating he felt the smaller man finally relax into his chest, resting a pointed chin in the curve of Bond's shoulder. For a small eternity that was reminiscent of the morning's escapade they sat. It was a pause that allowed both men to gather themselves for whatever change was coming between them.

Q was first to disengage. Pulling away he sat across James's long legs. With a sigh he started the speech he had been dreading all evening, "James, I told you this morning that you wanted an escape, and that I could be that escape if you still wanted it. And I will. But first you have to talk to me, James. We both need to know what we're getting into. So I suppose I'm asking what you want from me."

Now it was James's turn to search the eyes that met his. The color of beach rocks in the morning, he noted absently. What did he want? To begin with he wanted to kiss the man in his lap. And he wanted him the way he wanted all the beautiful women that ended up his bed. But he was surprised to find that it didn't end with a single night. He wanted to wake up with Q in his bed and have no worries about how to sneak away without rousing him. He wanted to spend evenings in this tiny flat with no thoughts of how drunk he would have to be to forget. Mostly he plain wanted.

These revelations were lovely, but never let it be said that Bond could not learn from his mistakes. Love had broken him before and he was not overeager jump back onto that particular grenade. Better to wait and see if the pin had been pulled.

He started slowly, not really his style but the boffin really had changed him. His voice was low and gruff but James didn't break eye contact as he spoke. "Tonight I want to sleep next to you in this bed, for as long as I like. In the morning I want to get up at noon and cook you breakfast and fuck MI6 for once. After that I don't know. But I want you."

Q let out a barely audible gasp of shock at the words but he was careful to keep his expression unchanged. Mentally he had prepared himself for a one-night stand or even a short spell in which he was the pretty thing in Bond's bed. Despite himself he had started to believe the rumors that filled the mouths of the British secret service. He hadn't in his wildest fantasies expected such an innocent and heart-felt request from the most dangerous man known to Europe. He was quiet for only a moment because he could see the hesitation gleaming deep in the ice chips that were James's eyes.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Of course I can do that, James." The spy's dry, cracked lips pressed against his forehead in gratitude and fondness.

Things became quite easy between them after that. Q climbed down to pull on the softest t-shirt he had stolen from James. The spy's joints popped as he put on the old sweats he kept in a drawer. The silence was companionable as they slipped between the sheets and Q took hold of James's arm till they were pressed chest to chest. The technician had chuckled to himself when he had first noticed that they preferred opposite sides of the bed. What an odd couple, indeed.


Q woke with the sun full on his face and rough fingertips on his arm. Blinking he watched as James's hand danced from the flat of his palm to the milky delicate skin that covered the inside of his wrist and back. He let out a little puff of breath. For once here was Bond. It was daylight and the ring of a latch clicking didn't assault his ears. He wasn't rolling over into already-cool sheets and dreading the day ahead. Instead, to his right he found an almost painfully warm agent and the promise of a slow morning that would leak into a lazy afternoon. It was almost enough to convince him Bond cared.

It was with reluctance that he met the yes he could feel on him. Would the damning daylight prove too much for whatever had gentled the double-oh the evening before? But no, the blue he saw was gentle. A pond rather than a glacier. He allowed a sliver of hope to crack his resolve.


True to his word, James made breakfast. It was quite possibly the strangest thing the apartment had ever seen, and Q had once set out to build the ultimate gaming system from the electronic guts of several models. The boffin sat sipping tea at the breakfast bar, which in the cramped quarters was more of a breakfast side table. He made a valiant effort, truly he did, not to admire the agent's sculpted back as he flipped French toast and sausage with the air of long practice. Low-slung sweat pants and a tee that was forever riding up weren't much helping his struggle.

The scent alone had the younger man practically drooling. It was unfortunate that in this area Bond was strict. There was to be no tasting until everything was finished. Q had made to his perch with his Earl Grey. He let out a little sigh; his hard-won patience did not extend to food. Since he so rarely had a proper meal it was a bit of an occasion. Usually it was snacks picked at with one hand as the other manned a mouse or dinners half-noticed during department meetings.

The wait was almost worthwhile for the show that had come before. The overworked men really handed left the bed before noon for anything other than glasses and coffee. When Q had eventually stretched and rolled cat-like onto the floor James had followed. It took him one moment to notice the double-oh shrugging on his day old button down and trousers, and another to feel his heart almost break. This time though his fears were unfounded. Bond had simply marched down to the corner store with his usual swagger to gather supplies, gamely ignoring the sniggers and whispers directed his way.

James's dramatic flourish snapped him from his thoughts. He stared in amazement at the plate thunked down in front of him. Piled high were two stacks of French toast slathered and dripping in warm strawberries and jam, dusted over with sugar. The amount of sausage that accompanied it was almost obscene, as was the involuntary whine of pleasure Q let out at the sight. Yes, he reflected with his mouth full as he met laughing blue eyed, good things were worth waiting for. This might turn out alright after all.


And it was all right for a while. Weeks were fast on the heels of days that clung tight to hours. Time moved faster than ever and Q was surprised most nights to come back his flat no more morose or tired than he left it. Of course there were always the harrowing days, and sometimes months, when Bond or another trained killer got himself into a bit more trouble than the British had planned for. But thus far 007 had always returned to Q's bed, dropping the demeanor and just…being.

Their relationship progressed slowly. Almost immediately James moved in. it wasn't something they talked over since he had basically lived with the young Quartermaster when he was in London after the episodes at Skyfall. It was both a new and somewhat unsurprising venture for Q. His secure little MI6-issused flat became a little strange and a little not his own and a little more homey all at once.

The neatness was the first development, but he had expected that. Anyone seeing Bond on one of his better days could instantly guess that he was a put-together sort of man. Anyone who knew him was sure of it. So the shared rooms got cleaner and more polished.

Then it wasn't long till Q started to notice James's touches. There in a previously blank corner was a tastefully black and white print of the anatomy of an automatic gun, taken apart and laid bare to the observer. In the shower and on the dresser stood undoubtedly expensive products with brand names that Q had never heard of. A formerly untouched leather chair developed a dent the exact shape and size of James's reclining back. Novels with broken spines took up residence on the table next to it.

And it wasn't only at home that quirks manifested. Just as the technician had been doing-rather sneakily he had thought-things appeared on his desk throughout the day. His favorite mug refilled itself with perfectly sweetened tea as he became too engrossed to notice. Food collected at mealtimes; the young genius quite often forgot to eat on a normal schedule. Once it had been the most beautiful bowl of raspberries he had ever seen, in the middle of January no less. Often it was fish and chips from his favorite out-of-the-way vendor. The grease helped him think and gave him much-needed calories.

The most perplexing part of the gifts was not how they appeared without notice, Bond was a spy after all, but the manner in which they got there. It began with a bottle of Q's favorite cologne that found its way into his bag one afternoon. A shiny black ribbon held on a card that simply read 'You were almost out.' The Quartermaster had looked about in amazement. He was quite sure that 007 was occupied with a terrorist cell deep in Madrid; he had just handed the headset to one of his more competent underlings. Chuckling under his breath he had simply accepted the strange parameters of whatever relationship they now had and continued to pack for home.

But not before making a mental note to find out who James had bribed, and with how much.