Arthur Clifton knew many things.

He knew his job. Inside out, upside down and in that way Neo Anderson could read streams of code and see a woman in a red dress. Or in his personal preferential case, an MI6 agent in a bespoke suit.

He knew cats. Furry masters of manipulation that they were. Completely bogging deaf to the sound of their own name. Yet, capable of hearing the rustle of a treat bag opened underwater from 500 yards away.

And, he was getting to know, rather well, one James Herbert Bond.

While Q knew Bond wasn't lying to him per se, he did know without a shadow of a doubt that the man was concealing information from him. His second nature forte so Q could hardly hold against him the ease with which such behaviour came to the man. What James Bond was about to learn, in a very civilised manner of course, was that your Quartermaster was not to be underestimated and when he wanted to know something, short of time-travelling said something back to the stone age, it couldn't be hidden from him very long.

And so it was with great pleasure, Arthur Clifton put the man in his place. Or at least took a bloody good shot at it. Q may be an expert at breaking down firewalls, deconstructing code and decryption of secure data, but James Bond was an expert in breaking down people. And when those two elements clash, well, fireworks are an inevitable side effect…

"Arthur?" James called from the bedroom. "Remind me your wi-fi password again?"

Q smiled and obliged, popping cat bowls down to keep the monsters occupied while he opened his own laptop and proceeded to download the contents of James laptop onto his own. Possibly the last thing he expected to see, however, when his mouse gravitated towards the video file and he clicked, was an image of their former Head of MI6 staring back at him.

A brief message. And a name. Marco Sciarra.

Q closed the laptop thoughtfully. Why wouldn't Bond bring this to Mallory? What possible motive could he have for acting solo on a message from the grave?

Love and guilt are powerful motivations in our actions, Q supposed, walking back towards the bedroom.

Bond was in the bathroom, shaving. His weapon of choice, a cutthroat razor. Q joined him, watched the glide of the blade in the reflection of the mirror, wondered if he was about to take his life into his hands.

"Let's play a game…" he began softly. Bond briefly paused in mid-upward motion and looked at Q. "A bit like word association?"

Bond sighed. "Personally, not so fond of those," he replied, tapping the edge of the blade against the sink to knock off the excess foam. "Having been on the receiving end of something similar in psych evals."

"Oh this one is slightly different," replied Q, easy nonchalance punctuating his light tone. A disarming smile. "It's called Snog, Shag, Kill."

Bond stopped his shaving and trained a piercing gaze on Q, completely focussed on the man as he lathered up his own jawline. He adopted a bemused smile, evidently intrigued by what Q was up to and happy to play along. For now. "Alright."

Q brought the razor to his cheek. "So I say a name and you respond with…"

"Please. Carry on," said James, folding his arms and facing Q while resting a hip against the sink. They were standing close side by side, but not in each other's immediate space.

"Eve Moneypenny."

"Oh shag definitely." Q's eyes narrowed."You could have at least pretended to think about it." Bond said nothing. Unapologetic as ever.

Q continued shaving. "Bill Tanner."

"Snog." No hesitation there either.

"Really." Q stated.

Bond shrugged. "It's your game, Arthur."

"And I find it a most effective method employed if the intent is to shut someone up," Bond responded coolly.

"Mmm." Q didn't pause, finishing off with the blade before grabbing a towel and rubbing his face. He watched in the mirror, Bond reciprocating his gaze intently in return. If Q didn't know better, he would think James knew what was coming…

"Marco Sciarra."

It was the most imperceptible of twitches that gave Bond away at the sound of the name from Q's lips. His talent for recovery didn't fail him however. Q wondered if he relished the test and took a lot of pride in his abilities to remain unflappable in the face of surprising information.

He turned from the mirror to look directly at Bond who's gaze was roaming his face. Without looking down, Bond picked up the cutthroat. "You missed a bit, Arthur," he said, low and soft.

Q felt his mouth go dry. Not with fear. It was anticipation.

Bond stepped behind him and reached around to take his chin in hand, tilting his head to the side and glancing the blade gently up the side of his neck. "There."

Keeping the moves fluid, he took a small step forward and pinned Q's thighs against the marble ledge. Q didn't resist.

He closed his eyes as James' lips replaced the blade and a hand slipped beneath his robe. The full prelude to the 007 method of information extraction.

Q was powerless under the singular force of Bond's attentions.

"And how do you know that name, Quartermaster?" he whispered in his ear.

"I— I— may have— have hacked your computer."

"Oh really? That was rather naughty of you…" His eyes were hard as diamonds, the blue seemed even more so if that were possible. Q could only shut his eyes, the intensity was so overwhelmingly delicious. James Bond was never more dangerous than when in complete control.

He gripped the edge of the marble top. His legs buckled as his body surrendered to the agent's ruthless and unrelenting attentions.

Bond stepped away, calmly picking up the hand towel and wiping his hands and the remnants of the shaving cream from his face. He looked at Q then in the mirror. Dishevelled and gorgeous he may well be, thought Bond, but a nosy bastard nonetheless. Still, Bond could forgive once. Inquisitive was one of the many attributes that made him so damn good as Quartermaster.

"I'm going to say it only once, Q," he said levelly, tossing the towel towards the basket in the corner. "Stay out of this." He walked out.

Q looked at himself then. Torn between taking another shower and wondering if that little interlude boded really well, or really badly for him. One thing he didn't have to wonder about though.

He wasn't going to allow the man he loved to commit career suicide. Not on his watch.