Interlude

They go to Q's flat because it's closer and take a taxi because it's quicker and Bond wants nothing more than to get them both out of their clothes and into bed as soon as humanly possible. The night is cool and raining and the steps are slippery just outside of Q's building. Q nearly slips, but Bond steadies him by putting his hands on his hips. They are narrow and perfect under his palms and Bond cannot resist digging his fingers in, curling the tips hard into the wool of Q's trousers. He does not miss the stuttered breath that escapes Q as he fiddles with the door key and Bond likes it so much that he presses in a bit harder, until Q gasps. He drops kisses along the shell of Q's ear as they fumble down the hallway to the lifts, and they stay intertwined for the entire journey to the top floor.

Q barely disengages his rather formidable-looking door before Bond all but pushes him inside and presses him against it. The door locks automatically with a hiss, but Bond is too focused on kissing Q and getting them out of their coats that he does not pay it much mind. Q drops his bag carelessly and the two of them toe out of their shoes one at a time as they escape the foyer.

Bond takes in nothing about the flat, intent on following Q's lips to the bedroom. The room is small, dominated by the queen-sized mattress, and the curtains are open to let in the light of the city beyond the windows. It's probably dangerous, but Q pulls him down onto the bed with an insistent kiss and Bond forgets all about his concerns regarding snipers. He is too busy divesting Q of his cardigan and shirt, carelessly throwing both onto the floor. Q huffs against his mouth, as if annoyed at the treatment of his clothes, but Bond does not pull away to let him vocalise his displeasure, and goes so far as to remove his glasses and toss them onto the nightstand. Q's tongue tastes like tea and oranges and it somehow makes Bond think about soulmates again, a niggling thought at the back of his mind that will not go away. He moves back and slides his hands down Q's body to focus on something else. He commits the feel of Q to memory: the way his breath hitches when Bond caresses his fingers over his chest, brushes over his nipples, then drags them down over his ribs. Just as Bond had thought, Q is nothing but lines and bones beneath soft, pale planes of skin, but he is captivated all the same.

Panting, Q looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. Even in the dark, Bond can see his lips are deliciously red. Bond reclaims them again, feeling something in his spine tingle at the low keen Q makes when they press their hips together.

"How long have you wanted this?" Bond asks, as he kisses his way drown Q's throat. Q tips his head back and laughs as his fingers deftly begin undoing the buttons of Bond's shirt, until he's pushing the fabric down over Bond's arms.

"Forever," Q says, and the way he says forever is like a sigh, as if he has been waiting an eternity for this one moment.

"I'll make it worth the wait," Bond promises, and gently bites at the place where his neck and shoulder meet. Q arches under him like a bow, and its so beautiful that Bond cannot help but move his arm around Q's waist to hold him in that position.

"I'm counting on it," Q says, and Bond feels the light touch of his fingers as they move down his sides toward his hips. Bond grins and eases Q back down onto the duvet so that he can begin kissing his way downward. He revels in the sounds Q makes and the way gooseflesh rises on his skin with each caress. Bond feels intoxicated that he is doing this to Q of all people, who is actually quite beautiful now that Bond is really looking. And he is definitely looking closely as he undoes the button and flies of Q's trousers.

That is when he sees it.

"You have a tattoo," Bond says, pausing in his expedition to drag his fingers over the mark. It extends from just under Q's ribs to the curve of his right pelvic bone. It is not done in dark ink, but something light, like red or purple or pink, Bond cannot say for certain without better light. The design is some sort of flora: beautiful and sprawling, detailed to the point that just looking at it, Bond can almost feel the silken texture of leaves and petals.

"What is it?" he asks and Q props himself up on his elbows to look down at Bond. His hair is a riot of curls and his eyes are gorgeous, midnight dark.

"It's an amaranth," Q says, as Bond traces the flowers upon his hipbone. "It's a flower that was said to have grown on Mount Olympus. And like the immortal Gods, it would never wither or die."

"An amaranth," Bond murmurs the familiar word into Q's skin. He wonders why he knows it and why it seems to make him feel an indescribable sadness.

"James," Q says, like he knows what Bond is thinking, feeling, and it's almost too much to be known by Q like that, even more intimate than sex.

"You've never called me that before," Bond says, and then kisses at raised lines of magenta ink. Q makes a sound deep in his throat at the attention, at the light drag of stubble over his skin.

"I think the situation warrants it," Q replies, and his fingers come up to Bond's short hair to caress through it. The comforting gesture makes Bond's heart crawl into his throat, but he does not know why. "Unless you'd rather me call you 007?"

"No. James is perfect," Bond replies, and laps his tongue at the petite indent of Q's navel. Q's fingers curl in his hair and tug at the strands. "What should I call you?"

"Q," he says.

"But that's not your real name," Bond says, brushing his cheek against the fine trail of hair above Q's waistband. Q sighs in delight at the feeling and the sound of it goes right to Bond's cock.

"No, but I like it more than my real name," Q replies.

"Tell me," Bond implores, as he hooks his thumbs into Q's belt loops. Q smiles that mysterious smile of his. Even stripped down to almost nothing, Q is not even close to being revealed.

"Later," he promises, and cants his hips towards Bond. He takes that as a hint and pulls Q's trousers and pants down. Just like the rest of him, Q's cock is long and thin, curving toward his belly, and when Bond takes him in hand, Q fits into his palm perfectly. Bond strokes him slowly, watching as Q trembles and falls back against the duvet, unable to keep himself up of his own strength. He makes a sweet sound that makes Bond's mouth go dry and he suddenly wants nothing more than to taste Q. But they never had that sort of conversation, and Bond does not want to overstep, so he nips at the sensitive skin of Q's inner thigh and asks:

"Condom?"

"I'm clean," Q says, immediately catching onto Bond's train of thought, "but if you want…"

"What do you want?" Bond asks, cradling Q's prick in his hand as he drags his tongue along the underside of his shaft. Q whines and grips at his shoulders, little half-moons of prickling pain from where his nails dig into Bond's flesh.

"You," Q replies, and when Bond looks up, he meets Q's dark gaze. "Your hands, your mouth. You, inside of me."

There is something about the way Q says it that steals his breath, and Bond wants nothing more than to give him everything he asked for. It goes above and beyond anything Bond has ever felt with a partner and it leaves him flushed and so very hard against his the placket of his trousers. Q must understand this, because he's smiling again as he raises himself up to a sitting position. He kisses Bond fully, but there is no rush in it, like he is content with a slow exploration of hands and mouths and tongues, at odds with the way they started, and certainly at odds with the way Bond is familiar. But it's nice, because when Bond thinks about it, sex is for work or for release and rarely for the simple pleasure. It is a means to an end, for information, for something to kick the vestiges of his adrenaline, but rarely for the sake of engaging because he needed to be close to someone. There was always too much trust involved-trust Bond was not willing to give-but somehow things are different with Q, whom he trusts without a second thought and with whom he feels complete without knowing how.

"Well, what do you think?" Q asks, pulling away only so there is a space of a breath between him. Q's fingers work quickly, divest Bond completely of his shirt, his belt following shortly thereafter.

"I think I must be mad," Bond says against his mouth, groaning softly when Q undoes the top button of his trousers, then opens the flies.

"Mm, good. Being sane is overrated," Q replies, and nips at his lips. Bond laughs, and knows it has been far too long since a lover has legitimately made him feel so at ease. He falls back onto the bed, pulling Q down on top of him, and the other man makes a pleased sound at the change of position. Q adjusts himself to straddle Bond and then his mouth and hands are all over him, fingers caressing, pinching, scratching in just the right way, in all the right places. If Bond did not know any different, he might believe that he and Q have done this before, because the other man seems to know every single thing about him.

"Q…" Bond breathes, as Q strips him the rest of the way so there is nothing between them but skin. Q shifts down along his body until his pretty mouth is on Bond's cock. The heat of his mouth and tongue is delicious; Bond cannot help but move his hands to Q's hair, burying his fingers in the thick curls, which he tugs at gently in encouragement. Q groans around him and the vibrations take root in Bond's spine, tingling all the way up to his ribs and down to his toes. He grips a bit harder and Q looks up at him. His lips are red, stretched wide around Bond's girth. With an obscene sound, Q releases him, then laps at the head of his prick, smearing spit and precome at the crown.

Wordlessly, Bond pulls Q up to kiss him; he tastes himself on Q's tongue. Between their bodies, Bond feels Q's cock press insistently against his and decides that it is time to move things along. The thought of being inside of Q is borderline maddening, and when Bond puts Q under him and whispers in his ear, his voice is rough with lust.

"Lube?"

Q gestures to the bedside table, too busy sucking little marks onto Bond's chest to answer verbally. The pleasurable bit of pain almost distracts Bond from his mission, but only just, and he blindly yanks the cabinet door open to root around for the item in question. Bond finds a strip of condoms first, then a bottle of lubricant, and he drops both onto the bed beside them.

The first slick finger meets barely any resistance; Q rocks against it with shuddering little motions that Bond can feel all the way to his elbow. He kisses and nips at Q's belly and traces the tattoo's raised lines with his tongue until Q makes a frustrated sound and Bond gives him what he wants. The second finger makes something cut short in Q's breaths, like pain, and Bond slows the motion with his hand considerably when he sees his erection beginning to flag.

"Alright?" Bond asks, lips brushing over the petals on Q's hip.

"Fine-ah!" Q replies, gasping softly when Bond begins to stretch him a bit more. "It's just...been a long time…"

"Tell me if-"

"You're fine," Q interrupts him, and slides his fingers into Bond's hair. "Please, keep going."

Bond does, but takes extra care to ensure that he does it properly. It is only when Q is half-hard again and rocking against three of his fingers that Bond knows he is ready. He grabs a pillow from near the headboard and tucks it under Q's lower back; Q immediately hooks his legs around Bond's waist and pulls him closer.

"Eager, aren't you?" Bond asks, grinning as he rolls on a condom and slicks it adequately.

"You have no idea," Q says, digging his heels into Bond's buttocks. "Now stop talking and get in me."

"Bossy thing," Bond says, and it's with nothing but fondness, he realises a second too late. Q just smirks at him and grips tightly at Bond's sides with his thighs. In response, Bond presses the tip of his cock at Q's entrance and slowly breaches him. Immediately, Q tenses, and Bond leans over, reminding him in between kisses to relax. Q looks at him, and in the half light, he appears very young and vulnerable, so much so that if Bond did not know any better, he might say that this is Q's first time.

"Relax," Bond tells him again.

Marginally, Q does, and Bond inches his way inside. By the time Bond is fully sheathed, Q is trembling beneath him. There is moisture at the corners of his eyes and his lashes are wet. It feels like Bond is invading a private moment, because Q is one of those strong, stoic, independent people that he cannot imagine crying, especially in front of someone else. Bond feels a pang of guilt at having caused it, but it is accompanied by something else that he cannot identify right away: some sort of pride at being the one person privy to such a sight. And in a moment of tenderness that he did not think himself capable of, Bond kisses his tears away. Q's arms wind around his shoulders, and in a moment of stillness, they are simply two people in the most intimate of embraces.

"Alright?" Bond asks again, face buried in Q's neck, his lips brushing over the rapid beat of his pulse. Q nods, grips at his hair, and moves his hips against Bond's. The tight heat is stupendous, and Bond bites on his lower lip to keep from thrusting into Q. Instead, he lets the other man set the pace, until he is comfortable with a tempo that is satisfying for both of them. Bond changes the angle a bit, pulls Q up onto his lap so that they are chest to chest, and kisses him. His mouth is hot and sweet and Bond knows exactly how to elicit the most pleasurable sounds out of Q with just the sweep of his tongue and the shift of his hips. It's strangely like a memory instead of action, like they have done this a thousand times before, and Bond cannot say for sure why everything feels as if he had been only half a person until this very moment. The feeling of rightness, completeness is almost overwhelming, and Bond is heady with it, a feeling of lightness in his body and all his senses combined. He wonders if Q feels it too, because the man in his arms arches against Bond with a breathy moan that threatens to make his heart stop beating. He feels connected with Q on a level that he cannot describe, like he may finally be beginning to understand a small fraction of the infinite mystery that comprises Q's very existence.

Q comes without a hand on him and Bond follows almost immediately. They fall into a tangle of limbs atop the duvet, breathing in unison. If Bond believed in such things, he might think their hearts beat in time, but it is a silly notion that he blames on the euphoria still running through his veins. Q pets at his hair, humming sweetly as Bond kisses his neck, leaving small, proprietary marks behind. It takes a while before either of them can move, and it is with something like regret that Bond disentangles himself from Q to get cleaned up. He goes to the ensuite bathroom and bins the condom, then returns to the bedroom with a damp flannel. Q takes it silently and Bond can feel his eyes on him as he begins to pick up his clothes from the floor.

"You don't have to run off," Q says, and even though Bond wants nothing more than to climb back into bed and hold him, he cannot. He does not do that sort of thing; Q should know better than to expect it. Bond only wishes that it did not feel so wrong, like his heart is being slowly crushed at the thought of leaving.

"James," Q says, and Bond looks back to see him sitting up amongst the tangled bedsheets, regarding him with an expression that's guarded to the point that it borders on lonely. "You can stay."

"That's not what this is," Bond says, because Q has to understand.

"I know," Q replies. "But you can stay."

Bond has his trousers in one hand and shirt in the other and he can very easily get dressed in a hurry. But Q understands what he means when he says that's not what this is because even though what they did was more like lovemaking instead of fucking, they both know there is no possible way they can be anything to one another. Bond's lifestyle does not allow it, even if he wants it, he can never keep it. He's conceited and self-destructive and ruins things just by touching them. Q can never be anything more than a good fuck and a warm body, because that's all that Bond can give him, even though he deserves much, much better.

But Q looks at him like he knows, like he is willing to take on such an arrangement despite how degrading it is, like he loves Bond regardless. It's complete faith and trust in him and Bond hates himself for being so cruel, but then again, he never really has been kind.

"Just this time," he says, dropping his clothes back onto the floor. Q scoots over and pulls back the blankets in invitation, which Bond accepts. He lays on his side facing Q, who smiles at him. It's very different from all the times before, because there's no secrecy or mystery in it, just a happiness that softens the greyish green in his eyes, that somehow makes him more beautiful. Just the sight of it makes it feel like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Bond feels his heart skip a few beats, replaced by something light and warm, and he knows he's in trouble because all he wants to do is kiss Q until the sun comes up.

"I'm going to hurt you," Bond says, and he can feel it in his bones that he will undoubtedly make Q cry.

"I know," Q replies against his lips, and kisses him with no remorse.

They at least have a few hours left before daybreak, which gives them some time to pretend like they are two very different people, like Bond can actually love without limits or fear and like there are no secrets behind Q's smile. Q must understand the circumstances and what it all means, because when he slides on top of Bond, there is something soft in his expression, in his dark eyes, and Bond holds onto his hips like he'll fall off the edge of the earth if he lets go.

For the first time in a long time, Bond does not feel empty or lost or lonely, and he never wants to be anywhere else.