Friday, 25 January 2013
The dinner started with a somewhat flamboyant show of mixing strong, fragrant red wine with water. The clay pitcher obscured Bond's sight of how strong the mix was, and he resolved to drink lightly.
Poacher began filling the drinking horns, offering one to each couple. Bond took it, examining the horn curiously. It was an actual horn, and Bond frowned; he would have much preferred plastic.
The other chef, who hadn't been introduced, worked around Poacher as he used tongs to set an array of what looked like oak leaves and mushroom slices, coated with a faint sheen of oil and dusting of rock salt, onto each plate. When he reached Bond and Q, he offered the plate to Q, who took it with a quizzical smile before he glanced at Bond.
Forks? he mouthed silently at Bond.
Bond shrugged. "Excuse me, Poacher. We seem to be lacking utensils here," he called to the chef. He suspected that the answer was that there weren't any.
The answer — a laugh — confirmed that.
Q let out a huff but didn't pull away. He picked up one of the leaves and gave it a tentative nibble before blinking in surprise. He folded the rest of the leaf and ate it with a little smile before looking at his hand. Forced to choose between cleaning his hand on his parka or digging out a handkerchief, if he even had one, he expediently licked his fingers clean. Bond valiantly tried not to watch, finding the sight perhaps more evocative than he had any right to.
Quietly, over the soft murmur of the other diners and what sounded like the scrape of metal cooking utensils, Q asked, "Is there something I should know about Alec and food? Here, pass that over so you can eat."
Bond chuckled as he traded the horn for the plate. "Aside from his appreciation for it, and how much he would enjoy, uh, serving you?" Bond picked up one of the leaves and bit into it without hesitation; leaves, mushrooms, oil, and salt didn't present any sort of challenge for his tastes. It was surprisingly good.
Q shot him another look, this one startled. It was too dark for Bond to see if he was blushing, but he suspected so. "Is — Oh," he said, glancing away as he took a sip of the mixed wine.
The image of Q, laid out naked on his bed, being fed strawberries and chocolate, came unbidden to his imagination. He coughed to hide his reaction, trying to find something to focus on other than Q's fingers. He passed the plate back, taking the horn in exchange, and smiled. "He's a sensualist, our Alec. Just something to keep in mind."
"That's — I will," Q murmured, picking up a slice of the mushroom. He lifted it, took an experimental bite, and licked his lips. Then he traded the plate for the drinking horn again. "I'm sorry. I know this can't have been what you were expecting tonight," he said as he switched the horn to his other hand so he could lick his fingers clean.
"True. I didn't have high hopes for excellent company given the short notice, so I'm exceptionally glad to have you here," Bond said truthfully with a fond smile. "The restaurant is different, but not in a bad way. You must be enjoying it, being a fan of urban ruins exploration."
Q grinned and whispered in Bond's ear, "Would you like to see the tower for dessert? I have my lockpicks."
"Absolutely," Bond replied, knowing full well he wouldn't be able resist any suggestion Q made with that spark of mischievousness. "I don't have a torch on me, but I'm sure we can improvise something." Then he paused. "Do you always carry your lockpicks?" he asked curiously.
"And a torch," Q said, stealing back the plate, which left his hands full. He looked down at the plate and horn and took another sip before giving Bond a do something look.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Bond reached for a leaf instead of for the plate or horn. "A torch and lockpicks? You're an absolute delight, you know that?" He grinned as he offered the leaf to Q, who gave only a moment's pause before he took it in his teeth. He ate it, tipping his head back slightly, and swiped his tongue over his lower lip to catch a trace of salt.
Bond watched the quick flick of Q's tongue with more fascination than he strictly should have allowed himself. A faint sheen of oil clung to the corner of Q's mouth, and Bond wiped at it with his thumb before turning back to the plate. "Most of the restaurant's profits go to help support preservation efforts, you know. It's one of the reasons they move from place to place — they raise money for charities all over London." He offered another leaf to Q.
"That's lovely, but you're going to starve like this," Q teased, leaning forward a bit to take the leaf from Bond's fingers. In the quiet darkness, Bond's sense of touch was hyper-aware, and he could feel Q's warm breath tingle over his cold hand. "I know your type."
"Do you?" Bond asked with quiet amusement. "And here I thought I was a relatively unique sort of person." He let his hand trace along Q's jaw, down his shoulder, before withdrawing it. He took the plate from Q, giving him a chance to wash away some of the salt — and to help remove temptation.
Q took a breath that felt loud and sharp in the silence. "There's a reason I asked Mr Siegel to keep the cafe open. Hackers without a convenient food source will starve in the name of soldering one more connection. You've just raised self-neglect to an art form," he accused, taking the plate back so he could expectantly offer the last few morsels to Bond.
Bond couldn't help the quiet laugh that slipped free. "Not many have accused me of self-neglect, Q. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that's a first." He took the horn back from Q when he was finished drinking and offered another leaf.
"Self-neglect." Q made another expectant gesture with the plate. "I'm not going to let one of my hackers starve, James."
"One of your hackers?" Bond asked with a crooked grin, holding the offered leaf expectantly, brushing the soft edge along Q's lips.
Maybe he imagined Q's shiver; it was difficult to tell, wrapped as he was in his heavy parka. Q took the leaf and crunched through it, pointedly pushing the drinking horn into Bond's hands. "I'm going to come downstairs one morning and find you barely conscious, twitching from a caffeine overdose, a half-finished LED cube on the table in front of you, aren't I?" he asked, picking up the last leaf as soon as he had a free hand. He held it up to Bond, ordering, "Eat."
"Not likely," Bond said before biting halfway through the leaf and chewing thoughtfully. "The cube would be finished before I allowed myself to fall into uselessness." He nipped the rest of the entree out of Q's hand, letting his teeth drag very lightly over Q's fingertips.
Q went still, though for once, it wasn't in a bad way. He looked down at the plate, licked his lips, and lifted one of the remaining mushroom slices to Bond's mouth. Bond took it, studying Q's expression. He seemed to be clinging to his calm, quiet self-control to hide what was going on underneath it.
"What do you think so far?" Bond asked, taking a drink from the horn before offering it back to Q. "The lack of forks and knives isn't too much of a problem after all, I hope?" Bond was tempted to tug Q closer, but his guess about the temperature in the room had been accurate — the increasing heat didn't leave him with an excuse to seek closer contact.
"I've never even imagined anything like it," he said with a smile. He ignored the drinking horn and picked up one of the last two pieces of mushroom, holding it out to Bond. "I tend to treat food as an essential nuisance. I've never actually enjoyed eating."
Bond leaned in, licking a light drip of oil from Q's thumb before taking the mushroom. "There are ways to improve the experience. The act of preparation can be incredible, if done with an eye to entertainment and enjoying your company. The dining experience itself, with the proper ambience, can also be marvellous. And this part..." Bond held the horn up to Q's lips, tipping it to encourage Q to drink. He chuckled as Q sipped and then pulled back, licking his lips again.
"Traditional restaurants provide silverware," Q answered, holding up the last piece of mushroom for Bond to take. "Though I can't say I mind the lack."
"I wasn't talking about traditional restaurants," Bond said with a smirk before he took the last mushroom. "I take it that means you don't like to cook, then."
"I keep dead mice in my freezer. I'm not entirely certain I can be trusted to cook." Q set down his plate and licked his fingers clean with an absent, innocent expression. "I'm very good at ordering takeaway."
"Even people like us can cook, Q," Bond said, watching Q's hands, tempted to take them in his own. "Experimentation with blowtorches and rocket fuel and Twitter-activated frying pans may be unusual, but not inherently bad. Particularly if it has the effect of making the dining experience more pleasant. Even if it means eating takeaway beside the charred and inedible remains of a roast — at least we'd be laughing over the noodles."
"Perhaps." Q gave a little shrug, his smile flickering. He leaned over and set the plate on the floor in front of the shared pillow. "I'll give it consideration. I try to be productive with my time — or at least to pursue my interests. I'm not accustomed to thinking in terms of 'we'. It's caused difficulties in the past."
Bond swallowed, looking down at the plate. He absolutely wasn't one who could even idly encourage that sort of trust — no matter how much he wanted to. "I understand," he said lightly, watching for the reappearance of the chefs. "But if you change your mind, I'm very handy with a blowtorch and beef. And I promise not to use an antifreeze marinade."
Having no idea what to say or do in a social situation was nothing new for Q. Usually, he mimicked the behaviour of others around him. This time, though, he was at a loss. The three other couples were just that — couples — and James seemed to be pushing in that direction, though there was something tenuous about it, like a thin sheet of ice over a pond, just waiting to shatter under Q's feet. Was Q mistakenly reading some deeper meaning behind James' teasing, affectionate actions and the dissonance of his too-casual words? Without asking, Q had no way to tell.
Part of the problem was the lack of safe topics of conversation. Q didn't speak of his past, and he didn't actually do anything for a living, so the default options were out of the question. He couldn't ask James questions about his job, for obvious reasons, and asking about his childhood seemed too intimate for 'just friends', especially in this situation.
The first course was followed by a similar second course of charred vegetables — again, served without silverware. Somewhat at a loss, Q decided it was safest to just follow James' lead and enjoy the experience without expectations.
The third course was what looked like half of a barbecued rabbit, crusted in pepper and herbs. It was served with a small bowl for the bones.
Q, who'd ended up with the plate again, gave James a questioning look. He was accustomed to feeding his carnivorous pets, and he doubted James would take issue, but it was best not to assume. That seemed to be the general rule with James, in fact, because Q's unreliable, untrained instincts were trying to tell him that there was actual interest sparking between them, rather than the predictable, meaningless physical response caused by their intimate surroundings.
"I wonder if it was farm-raised, or if it was caught right here in the park?" James mused, eyeing the rabbit. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter, with these people. Not that I have a preference, of course." He gave Q the drinking horn to free his hands. He pulled a skinny thigh free from the rabbit and held it up speculatively. He nibbled at the meat and chewed before nodding approvingly. "Not bad."
Trapped with his hands full, Q wasn't about to ask for his own taste. Instead, he glanced around the tent — now quite warm, though the oil lamps were burning down, leaving the interior dim. "And in keeping with the theme of the night," he said, wondering if the other diners were getting an illicit, criminal thrill of playing at trespassing and poaching wild game. The thought amused him, even if he couldn't share the feeling. This was the tour-guide version of urban exploration, after all.
"I wonder if the community support officers are paid in money or food to leave us alone?" James asked before stripping off the rest of the meat in a quick bite. He dropped the bone into the bowl and pulled another piece off the rabbit, this time offering it to Q. "It's a bit spicy," he warned.
"I never considered paying them off in food," Q said, tearing a sliver of meat free from the bone. It didn't work as well as he'd hoped, leaving him licking at the piece of crusted, peppery herbs and thinking there had to be a better way to do this.
He was about to propose that they trade off, with James eating his fill while Q held the plate and then switching, before James murmured, "Sorry," and took the piece back. He stripped the meat off with an efficient pull of his fingers, leaving him holding a small, messy bit of meat and spices, which he held up to Q's mouth.
There was no neat way to bite without touching. He ducked his head to hide his face as he took James' fingers into his mouth, licking to catch as much of the rabbit as he could. James let out a low breath, holding still until Q had licked his fingers mostly clean. Realising what he was doing, Q stopped and backed away, meeting James' eyes for a moment.
There was no mistaking James' gaze as anything but lustful as he watched Q. He leaned closer, breathing heavily, eyes moving between Q's eyes and his mouth, until he was mere millimetres away. "Q..." he said quietly, before brushing his lips, slightly greasy from the food, over Q's own.
Q's hands tightened around the plate and drinking horn. For one brief, glorious instant, he pressed into the kiss, tongue darting out to touch James' lips, before common sense crashed down on him. "James," he protested in a tight whisper, though he couldn't pull away. "You don't want — You don't need to do —"
But apparently James was done hesitating. He caught Q's mouth with his own again, silencing his protests. The plate was caught between them, but James ignored it in favour of winding a hand through Q's hair and pulling him closer. It wasn't quite the slow, sensual kiss from the hackerspace — there was an almost desperate edge to it that left them both gasping when it was over. James didn't pull away as he caught his breath, but kept their foreheads tipped together, hand still tight in Q's hair.
"Stop bloody protesting unless you don't actually want me," James said in a rough almost-whisper.
Q considered pointing out that it was James who didn't want him, but apparently he'd miscalculated somewhere along the line, and the temptation of another kiss was too strong for him to ignore. So for once he kept quiet, and instead leaned forward, trying to seize control with a kiss of his own. If James suddenly wanted him, that was fine. That was absolutely fucking fantastic. And Q was going to take advantage of it before he changed his mind again.
The spike of irritation made him bite at James' lip. When he opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, Q licked inside, over his tongue and teeth, refusing to cede one breath until he'd satisfied every last curiosity. James was as good at taking as he was giving, though it wasn't so much a battle for dominance as a dance. He pressed forward to kiss without crushing, nipped back without hurting, and kept his hand in Q's hair without tugging or pulling. When Q would pull back for a breath, James would give him only a moment before chasing him, exploring Q's mouth without reserve.
Finally, Q remembered their surroundings. He backed up with a whispered, "James," and looked down, trying to catch his breath. He told himself not to compare — not to even think about Alec — because comparing was wrong and thinking about Alec would lead to unreasonable, unnecessary guilt. Alec was fine with this. Q was fine with this. Apparently James was, too. And Q wasn't about to let anything get in the way like last time.
Bond spent the rest of the dinner actively trying to avoid thinking about anything but the food, the setting, and Q. He wasn't entirely successful, of course — he still had brief moments of panic, of questioning, of feeling absurd for caving in to temptation like this. But then he would kiss Q, or Q would kiss him, and he'd let it pass in the face of getting lost in the feeling of someone wanting him.
And it was becoming obvious that Q really did want him, absurd as the thought might be. Bond kept backing off, pulling away, trying to get some distance to examine and rationalise, only to have Q do something — another kiss, an offered morsel of food, even just a smile — that would completely rob Bond of his determination. And it didn't feel like manipulation, for once; it didn't feel like the practised dance of two people who knew how to use sensuality and sex to get something from the other person. It felt like Q was determinedly hanging on to Bond's attention, refusing to let him step backward instead of forward.
For his part, Bond had no idea what forward was. He knew that Alec wasn't going to be anything but delighted, and probably smug, the bastard. But what would happen from here? Q was such a skittish man that Bond worried about the ride back to the hotel: forty minutes of silence was a long time to have second thoughts without the opportunity of physical closeness to keep them grounded in their decision.
But it wouldn't be him, Bond decided. It wouldn't be Bond who stepped back again, who tried to call everything off again. That would be both disingenuous and cruel. Bond wanted connection, and had an opportunity with Q that he'd never had before. Q knew him — not just as a city businessman, but as an agent of MI6. Q shared his hobbies and interests. And Bond wasn't completely alone in this, single-handedly responsible for Q's safety and happiness. They had Alec.
He chuckled at the thought of what Psych would say if (when) they found out.
They didn't speak much, but this time the silence was comfortable, not tense with Q's fear or Bond's apprehension. Their awkward date had turned into a lover's meal, and by the time the oil lamps had burned down and the dessert of chocolate covered wild strawberries had been served and eaten, Bond had something of a plan.
Q and Bond weren't the only ones affected by the dark, intimate atmosphere. None of the other couples tried to socialise beyond polite farewells and thanks to Poacher and his unnamed assistant. Bond held Q back, almost in his lap, to let the others leave first.
"Torch at the ready," he said quietly in Q's ear as he watched the others go. "I'll take the picks, since I have no gloves to fuss with."
Q smirked. "I could teach you to pick locks faster," he challenged just as softly, and tugged on the scarf still wrapped around Bond's throat. "I studied it at uni. You're a talented amateur by comparison."
"Indeed?" Bond replied with a raised eyebrow before leaning in to nip at Q's bottom lip in retaliation for the teasing. "I suppose it might be true, given that I prefer kicking or shooting my way in whenever possible." He gave Q a gentle shove, then started tugging his overcoat into place.
"Were you ever a civilised guest?" Q asked, twisting up to a crouch to make his way out of the makeshift tunnel, zipping his parka halfway as he went.
Bond caught Q by the hips and leaned in to press a kiss to his nape before allowing him to straighten again. "What do you think?" he asked with a low laugh that wasn't amused as much as promising.
Q's answering huff was unsteady. He looked up at the snowy, cloudy sky and tugged up his hood. One bare hand dipped into his open parka, emerging with a thin, battered leather case. He grinned at Bond and tossed him a small black torch. As soon as Bond caught it, Q took hold of his hand and started walking casually towards the gate, looking around.
"Are they gone?" he asked quietly.
"Poacher and his assistant aren't, but the rest of them are," Bond responded in the same quiet voice. "I think the other couples are a bit too afraid of the deep dark woods to do any exploring on their own."
"Or too bloody distracted," Q muttered, and turned, walking quickly but calmly back towards the base of the tower.
The ground storey was a squat utilitarian building at odds with the angular clay brick tower rising from its roof. Though the exterior had traces of graffiti, the wooden door looked solid. A padlocked chain ran through the old doorknob holes.
"Cover us with your coat," Q said, kneeling down by the door. Bond opened his coat and draped one corner over Q, hiding the light of the torch. Q put the case on his leg and tugged at the leather tabs to let it fall open. Instead of a half-dozen picks and torque tools, he had twenty or more, each slotted into an individual pocket.
Bond had to hand it to Q — he was good. He used quick and efficient movements that had the lock opened in quick order. Despite what he seemed to think, he wasn't any better than Bond or Alec, but Bond forgave him the assumption.
He took the padlock from Q and tucked it into his coat pocket for safekeeping, saying, "Nicely done."
Grinning, Q put away his lockpicks and quietly, link-by-link, fed one end of the chain back into the door. "You don't have any oil, do you?"
"No," Bond said regretfully, thinking of the gun kit in his own car. He moved away from Q to inspect the hinges. "If you had said something earlier, I could have used my sleeve to mop some of the grease left over from the rabbit. There was enough left on the platter to be of use."
Q shot him a puzzled look. "I thought you didn't do this sort of thing."
"Not for fun," Bond said with a shrug. He examined the hinges to see how badly they would shriek when Q tried to open the door — they were thoroughly rusted and were sure to make a noise. "I can run back and ask for oil from Poacher if you like. Tell him it's for a more... fun purpose than breaking and entering." He shot a wicked grin Q's way. "They won't question me."
"Oh, god. No!" Q whispered, voice strangled. "Alec will probably want to try to do this" — he waved a hand towards the camouflaged tunnel — "whenever he's back in London."
"True. Perhaps next time they won't even wait for Alec to ask — they'll just offer it at the end of the meal."
Q snatched at Bond's sleeve. "Don't you dare!" he insisted, trying to glare fiercely and failing miserably.
Bond laughed, imagining Q's face gone red and blotchy at the knowing looks Poacher would give him when he came back with Alec. He gave Q a quick kiss before tugging him away from the door. "Very well then. I doubt anyone will hear it anyway." With a smooth, practised movement, Bond lifted and pulled, ignoring the strain on his injured shoulder, trying his best to keep the weight of the door off the hinges. It swung open with only the slightest creak, and Bond let it settle again slowly before releasing it.
He shot a triumphant look at Q, who was staring at him. "You are useful, aren't you?" he murmured, slipping past Bond and into the building.
"You have no idea," Bond replied with a smirk, casting one last look at the worn, creepy stone Victorian face on the side of building before following Q inside. He lifted again and pulled the door not-quite shut behind them. Bond wanted the warning of rusty hinges if someone were to follow behind them.
Then he turned and swept the torchlight through the interior, and he automatically caught Q's arm to hold him still when he saw the rubble piled in the middle of the floor. He looked up to see the ceiling had collapsed beneath the tower.
"Oh, that's a disappointment," Q whispered, leaning against Bond as he stared up at the ruined tower. "We wouldn't make it up safely, even if we had climbing gear."
"There are alternatives, but none of them are discreet," Bond said, considering. "We could scale the outside wall and climb down that way. But I'd have to get permission and call it something interesting, like a field exercise or an investigation of some kind." He looked over Q, whose breath was fogging in the air next to him. Bond wondered if Q would be nearly as interested in his explorations if they were legal and blatant.
"Blackout night," Q said, throwing a grin at Bond. "Whenever there's a blackout in any district, I get a text alert."
Bond sighed, question answered. "You know that I'd prefer to do it my way, in the daylight. Much safer and more opportunity for seeing things clearly. But I suspect the illicit part of it is what makes you happiest."
"It's exploration versus tourism." Q turned back and gently reclaimed the torch. When he turned it off, the darkness inside the ruined building was absolute. Cold breezes came in through cracked windows, but the snow obscured the light of the low-hanging moon.
Bond had a moment's worry that the absolute lack of light might set off Q's fears, before he remembered how enthusiastically Q had climbed down into the coal cellar. And then Q was on him, and he forgot his worries entirely under Q's insistent, demanding kiss.
Apparently Bond wasn't the only one with plans, he realised happily as Q pressed him into the wall. Bond had left his coat open for easier access to his gun, but Q took full advantage, sliding his hands around Bond's waist. When his fingertips found the gun, he hesitated, but then just drew back enough to ask, "Is that secure?" as he tugged carefully on the back of Bond's shirt.
"Obviously," Bond said, unable to completely hide the slightly reprimanding tone of his voice. As if Bond would carry a gun in London that wasn't secure. Bond pulled him forward, pushing his own cold hands under Q's parka. "You're not armed, are you?" he said with a grin.
Q tugged Bond's shirt up and made him hiss in surprise as cold fingers touched the small of his back. "I don't like guns."
"And you're dating not one, but two Double O's," Bond said with a shake of his head.
Q went still, pulling back a bit, though he didn't let go. "Are we?" he asked quietly.
Bond pulled one hand free to stroke it through Q's hair. "As long as you're fully aware of the risks, and you understand what you're getting yourself into. I don't have the best track record, Q. I wasn't lying about that."
"I broke up with my last girlfriend because she wanted 'normal'. I'm intolerant, impatient, easily distracted, and miss the most blatant social clues unless they're spelled out for me. Literally spelled out, in print. I would be more upset finding out you'd rearranged my office than finding out how many people you and Alec have killed for England — which I already know."
"That's not what I'm talking about, Q," Bond said with a sigh. He looked around, thinking that it was appropriate that this conversation take place here, in a derelict building, far enough removed from safer buildings to make the sorts of threats he was trying to convince Q of seem more real. "Yes, we're basically assassins. But that means we have enemies. People who want to kill us." He sighed and shook his head. "Death or worse is a very real possibility for you because of your association with me."
Q let out a sharp breath. He let go of Bond to pull off his glasses. He carefully reached past Bond to set them on the broken windowsill nearby. Then he put his hands on Bond's chest. "Have you changed your mind?"
Bond sighed and tipped his forehead to rest on Q's. "I haven't changed my mind," he confessed.
"Then stop trying to scare me away," Q insisted, shoving Bond back against the wall to kiss him again. His hands slid up to hold Bond's face and he fitted their bodies together perfectly, one leg between Bond's.
"Call it a disclaimer," Bond offered, letting Q take control of their encounter for the moment. As much as he wanted to twist and push Q up against the wall, he wasn't ready to take his hand from Q's hair yet. "Just say you understand," he insisted.
"I understand," Q insisted, moving to kiss along Bond's jaw. "More than you know, I understand."
Bond nodded, and though he didn't feel relief, exactly, a knot in his chest loosened just a little. Q did actually know what it was like to be in danger, so the thought that Bond could put him in that position (again) wasn't an abstract one. He didn't bother to hide his it as he relaxed at Q's consent.
"Thank you," he said quietly.