"I thought you didn't like flying."
"I don't," said Q, adjusting his seatbelt for the third time, sparing his flight companion a disapproving look over the rim of his glasses. "But apparently, in recent times, I've become more prone to stepping out of my comfort zone. Thanks to the singularly bad influence of a certain Double-O."
"Comfort zones are overrated," replied Bond.
"I happen to like my comfort zones, thank you very much, James," Q huffed, fidgeting in an effort to make himself comfortable.
"Oh I'm not saying I don't enjoy them." Bond dropped his voice and leaned sideways towards him. "Especially when that comfort zone happens to be somewhere in the nether regions of Section Q…" he whispered mock seductively.
The stifled guffaw that erupted from Q took a few of the neighbouring passengers by surprise. Q reddened, mumbling an apology in his quintessential British manner for the disruption, while Bond just chuckled away, smugly proud of his ability to so effectively distract the man.
"Don't suppose you'd be up for joining the Mile High Club en route, Arthur?"
Oh for buggering heaven's sake… thought Q. "If you don't shut up, Bond, I'm going to rig the plane to crash and ensure you are the only passenger without a parachute," he mumbled.
Bond smiled and shrugged. He'd gotten out of trickier situations than that.
So absorbed in their shared banter, neither man noticed they were being watched from a few rows back.
Tangier, Morocco.
James and Q stepped out of the taxi to be greeted by the sight of a quaint little hotel, evidently a romantic getaway that seemed part of and yet apart from the city.
"You're sure this is it, Q?" Bond surveyed the building, recalling the last words spoken to him from the dying lips of Madeleine Swann.
L'Américain. Tangier. Room 314. Spectre.
"Quite," he said confidently.
Bond nodded, trusting his assessment without further question. "Let's find out what's so special about this little hideaway then."
They requested the room, the concierge not sparing them or their request further question, accepting the charm laid on thick and hard by James about their wonderful hotel being recommended by a couple who holidayed here every year and raved about the place. He accepted the compliment and knew immediately the couple to whom Bond was referring though commented on the fact that in recent years the husband had come alone and last year not at all. Marriage troubles, he was led to believe. Bond nodded, relaying an understanding smile before accepting the key and leading them to the elevator that would take them to the third floor.
"What do we expect to find?" asked Q, entering the elevator ahead of Bond. The doors slid shut before he replied.
"Answers."
Two hours and an extensive search of the room later and they hadn't found any answers. Q, however, had helped himself to a complimentary bottle of champagne and was well and truly through that when James pulled a bottle of something that was suspiciously clear from an concealed compartment in the wall opposite the bed.
They gave up on the search - temporarily - in favour of getting drunk.
James was laughing softly. Not quite as inebriated as Q, he had after all, had much more practice at holding his liquor than the bolshy boffin. "I don't think I've ever seen you quite this drunk before," he said before supping another draft directly from the bottle.
"Really?" Q frowned whilst allowing his body a gentle sway against James, both sitting side-by-side on the floor at the bottom of the bed. "Not even that time you rescued me from the bottom of that bottle of Scotch I was determined to drown in the day of Charles' funeral?"
"Not even…" sighed James, closing his eyes and allowing his head to slump back to rest on the edge of the bed. Q snagged the bottle away from Bond and rose it to no one in particular.
"To the dead!" he said sardonically and downed a mouthful of the sweet liquid. "They did after all, bring us together…"
Bond frowned at the toast. "What does that mean?"
"Think about it," said Q, his mouth running away with him. "If Charles were still alive, if Vesper were still alive. We wouldn't be together. M recruited me, she recruited you. She brought us into each other's world." Bond grabbed the bottle from him. "Enough," he gritted out angrily. Q immediately looked chastised. "I'm sorry, James." He ran his fingers through his hair, dampened from the city's close, almost stifling humidity. "Sometimes, just… when I step outside and look back in at myself and what I've become… it's just all so fucking surreal."
The sun was just beginning to set over the city. It cast a warm glow around the room. Despite everything, Bond felt himself relax again. It never failed to amaze him the sense of peace he felt when in proximity to Q. Yet, though he felt he barely knew the man, his past as closed a book to him as Bond's own was to Q, the sense that he could trust him with his life never faltered. Maybe that's why he felt comfortable saying the next words. Though a relaxing of his tongue was likely assisted by their shared bottle of liquor.
"I don't want to lose you too, Arthur."
Q raised his head to look at the agent. "I have no intention of being lost, James."
Q intended to ease his concern by making light of the comment. "Very good with maps me," he giggled. "One of my many hidd—"
Bond reached over to take hold of his chin so their gazes locked. "I mean it," he stated, sounding more sober than he had a right to be.
James watched Q's features soften in the light, an expressive thoughtfulness descend on them as though he was about to launch them into some profound discussion. Bond was having none of that. He reached with his free hand to remove Q's glasses.
"James. There's something I have to tell you…"
"Later. Right now, my immediate agenda does not require words. Unless they consist of "now, me, James and fuck". And not necessarily in that order," he growled, pulling Q to his feet. He looked at the bed thoughtfully, considering his options. "Forget the bed," he said, hoisting Q up to wrap his legs around his waist, turning them towards the undamaged wall. "I have a better idea involving christening a wall on every continent with the imprint of your back…" Just as he finished his sentence, Bond thrust Q's pliant body against it, hard enough that it gave way and both men went crashing through.