A/N: I know absolutely nothing about computer-hacking (I've done some coding, but only HTML, SQL and some PHP-code). I'm being deliberately vague in an attempt to pull this chapter off anyway. And now I've gone and blown it by admitting this to you...
"Use me, take me home and use me
Press your hands into my body
You'll be my sorrow
We both know it shows
Push me, make me feel I'm weightless
Running, we will not escape this
shake this"
- Paloma Faith, Agony
The Waiting Game
Q feels jittery for several reasons when the meeting with Jeunet begins. Number one is that he's been hyperaware of Bond's presence all morning. Every time Bond is within two feet of him, little shivers crawl across his skin. The fact that Vauxhall is now back on the line with them is not helping; Q is constantly afraid Bond will utter some damning remark. The second and third reasons are the obvious ones: the anxiety to finish the mission now that it is within their reach, and the clear and present danger of trying to pull it off right under the noses of Jeunet and his bodyguard. The fourth reason is the almost giddy anticipation he feels at the thought of getting to hack into the laptop of Michel Jeunet himself.
Bond and Jeunet sit opposite each other in leather armchairs. Jeunet's laptop rests on the low table between them; Q is holding his. The only other people in the room are Chabrier and the bodyguard.
The charade of an actual business discussion begins, and goes on for about fifteen minutes before there's a knock on the door. Henri, their man from the Deuxième Bureau, steps in. He apologises profusely for the interruption and tells Jeunet there's an urgent phone call for him in the reception.
Jeunet scowls.
"Who in this day and age would call the hotel to find me?" he asks in French, but Henri only murmurs something apologetic with a barely perceptible shrug.
Clearly suspicious, Jeunet looks to his bodyguard. The man nods. Jeunet makes his excuses to Bond, saying he's sure he'll be back momentarily, and shuts his laptop. For one soul crushing moment Q thinks he'll take it with him and all this will have been in vain, but then Jeunet gets up, whispers something to Chabrier, and leaves the room with his bodyguard in tow. The laptop remains on the table.
For Q, it is Christmas.
He sits down in the now vacant chair, puts down his laptop and opens Jeunet's.
"How long will it take, what you want to do?" Chabrier asks nervously. Her accent is stronger than her employer's.
"Not long," Q says and spares her a quick smile. He connects the two computers and goes to work. The truth is that he has no idea how long it might take before he can see what he's dealing with, but they haven't got long, ergo, whatever he'll achieve, it can't take long.
00Q00Q00Q00
Q's fingers fly over the keyboard. Problems and solutions follow each other in quick succession on the screen; dead ends and traps are fallen into, avoided and conquered. The memory of the last time he hacked Jeunet's coding, years ago, rises to the surface in his mind as he taps the keys, and he draws on what he learned from trying to crack the lock to Jeunet's hotel suite. His brain is flooded with endorphins. Focusing on the screen, Q feels like someone who has been indoors for days, perhaps trapped in a sickbed, finally being allowed to go outside: it feels as if the world expands around him, as if the air is purer and the sky bluer than it used to be. At last, he's back in his element.
He is dimly aware that Bond is watching him from across the table, looking down at his watch from time to time. They have calculated the time it will take Jeunet to get to the lobby and back. It's not long. The hope is that the faked phone call will fool him long enough. Something mundane about a car that has been towed away – Q doesn't remember the details.
Q has just gained the upper hand in his digital wrestling match when Bond's phone signals that a text has been received.
"It's Henri. They're heading back."
"Almost there," Q says absently.
"Time is up, Q. Close it down."
Q doesn't even pause.
"I've got through most of the defences. I'm downloading what I've accessed now," he says to HQ, not to Bond. Q-branch is on the other end, and he's talking to Cook, but he's pretty sure Jenkinson will be standing over his shoulder.
"He'll be back in ninety seconds," Bond points out, as if this had escaped Q. "I'm telling you to close it down."
Q keeps his eyes on the unfolding code in front of him when he replies:
"I'm sure I don't have to remind you of all people that, as your quartermaster, I outrank you. Also, I can finish this in less than sixty seconds."
"Well, I guess there are times when finishing quickly is a virtue."
Q won't dignify that with an answer.
"I'm sending this over to you now," he tells Cook instead. "Please confirm."
"No witty comeback? I'm disappointed," Bond says.
Q ignores him again, turns around to Chabrier and thanks her.
"We're receiving the information now, sir," Cook confirms.
"Good," Q says, disconnects his own laptop and quickly hides the last of his traces on Jeunet's before snapping it shut. His pulse is racing. At the other end of the table Bond is smiling at him, that smug smile of his that wasn't so much on his lips as in his eyes.
"I can't help but be fascinated that there's a whole department full of people who call you Sir."
Q glares a bit at him, more for the earlier remark than this one. He collects his belongings and stands up, projecting a calm exterior to cover the raging chaos of stress, annoyance, passion and excitement inside.
"Actually, with the exception of the ten or so people whose rank doesn't require them to, everyone calls me Sir. But don't worry, I'm sure we'll have you trained in no time, too – old dog or no."
"Is that a promise?"
The note of seduction in Bond's voice is so intoxicating to the mind already drunk on triumph and success that Q doesn't care that Vauxhall is listening. In a moment of boldness he takes the three steps over to Bond's chair and sits down on the armrest, close enough that he feels the warmth of Bond's body through the sliver of air between them.
"I thought of it more as a threat, but I suppose it all depends on your personal preferences."
Q keeps his voice cold, and hopefully it sounds like a sarcastic rebuttal in the ears of Cook and anyone else who might be listening but not watching.
Bond's smile turns just a little bit predatory.
"Trust me, Q: you're no one's idea of a threat."
Q taps his fingers against his laptop and smiles.
"Which clearly is just one of the things that work to my advantage."
Bond is about to reply, but with a soft click the door opens and Jeunet returns. Q flies up from where he's been sitting almost in Bond's lap and resumes his place standing one step behind Bond, awkwardly studying the carpet. It all looks very suspicious in all the right ways.
Jeunet looks between them, smiles as he says something about how he hopes his absence didn't bore them, and soon the conversation picks up where it left off. For the remainder of the meeting, Q feels like his insides are made of helium and he's about to drift away into the clouds.
00Q00Q00Q00
He should have known it wouldn't be as easy as that.
Q-branch takes their sweet time analysing the material Q's brought them, even with the sporadic support of Q, who also has to keep up their cover by participating in the last day of the conference. He catches Bond looking at him every now and then, and each time it seems to elevate Q's body temperature by another degree, but they don't continue their flirting. If that's what they're doing – Q still can't wrap his head around it. The restlessness Q felt at the beginning of the day has only increased, and continues to do so as the day wears on.
They're having dinner when Vauxhall finally decides to let them know how things are going on that end. By then the earpieces have transmitted nothing but silence for so long that Q almost jumps in surprise at the voice in his ear. Bond's only sign of surprise is turning to give Q a look – meeting his eyes this time.
"We've found references to a meeting taking place tonight," they're told. "We don't have enough evidence to verify beyond a doubt that it's the one we've been trying to prevent, but it's good enough. The Deuxième Bureau will be moving in on Jeunet's organisation on four different locations tonight thanks to the information you gathered, including the site of the trade. We want the two of you to stay where you are until we can confirm that Jeunet has left for one of the locations. We don't need him to be alarmed by your absence."
Q realises this last explanation is made for his benefit, even though it is nearly as obvious to him as he imagines it is to Bond.
"We'll contact you again when it's safe to end the operation. Thank you for your work."
With that the lines go silent again.
Q's appetite is mysteriously gone. He looks down on the half-finished meal on his plate and feels queasy at the thought of another bite. He supposes he should be happy, but he can't escape the feeling that he was just told that he's been a good boy, but now he should sit back and be quiet until the grownups finish the job. Everything still hangs in the balance, and Q is back to having no influence over the course of events. He sits through the rest of the meal in silence.
00Q00Q00Q00
Q makes his escape from the extravagant crowd downstairs to the silence of the suite as soon as it is safe to do so. For a while he busies himself by packing his bags, getting ready to leave without delay when the call comes. When he's done, he picks up his laptop by reflex, but decides he doesn't feel like working and replaces it unopened. Instead he pulls out a book, lies down on the bed and leans back against the headboard to read it.
That is how Bond finds him, not twenty minutes later.
Q doesn't hear him come in, which should be worrying. He just looks up suddenly – alerted by something, at least, though he's not sure what – and there Bond is, leaning against the doorframe like a lion at rest.
"Hasn't anyone taught you to knock?" Q asks.
"Hasn't anyone taught you not to leave your bedroom door open unless you want company?" Bond retorts and takes a few steps into the room, hands in his trouser pockets, suit jacket already gone. Q hastily looks back down at the book; to avoid the look in Bond's eyes, and to be able to ignore the thrill that look sends through his body.
"Your last night on the field and you spend it reading," Bond says with a tone of disapproval.
"Why not? Nothing more to do, my team have their instructions, my bag is packed, and there might be hours left before we can leave – maybe all night."
"And reading a book was the best way you could think of to pass the time."
Q can almost sense Bond moving closer, like the thrumming in the air that signals the approach of a thunder storm.
"Yes," Q says and turns the page even though he hasn't read it. "But I'm aware it's not how you usually spend the dead hours after a mission, so feel free to head down to the hotel bar and pick up some mysterious beauty or whatever it is you do. Just make sure you go to her room and not yours, please."
A part of Q actually hopes Bond will follow this advice – it would prevent so many complications.
The bed dips as Bond sits down.
"And risk ruining our cover at the last minute when I have someone who's both mysterious and beautiful right here? I'm shocked you think me so unprofessional, Q."
Maybe it's just because the words sound a bit smarmy, but the line feels like a slap to the face. And like a slap on the face, it wakes him up and makes him wonder what the hell has got into him. He's been flirting with a Double O for days. Maybe longer.
"Yes, how could I possibly have got that impression?" Q says. He means it to be a taunt, but his belated anxiety drains the humour from his voice and leaves only sarcasm.
Bond gently removes the book from Q's hands, forcing him to look up.
"Come on Q. You haven't read a page in that book."
Bond looks positively mischievous – there's no other word for it. Q's heart beats against his ribs, and the sound of it echoes in his head. Bond closes the book and puts it on the bedside table. Q reaches for it, but Bond grabs his wrist.
"This is a bad idea, 007."
Bond brings Q's wrist to his mouth and kisses it, never breaking eye contact. Q wonders if the skin under Bond's lips is warmer than it ought to be, the way his blood rushes through his veins. He wonders if Bond can tell.
"You flirted with me earlier today," Bond says. "You all but crawled into my lap. Not to mention what you let me do to you yesterday."
"Yes, well, I probably shouldn't have. But that's no reason to ..."
Q trails off as Bond leans forward and kisses Q's lips instead. The kiss is light as a feather and is followed by another one like it, then another on his jaw, and another on his neck. They're almost innocent in their gentleness, and more arousing than Q will ever admit. Bond's hands begin to pull Q's shirt out of his trousers.
"This would be really inappropriate," Q says and tries to pull back. He's stopped by the headboard.
"You're not a child, Q, even if I call you one sometimes."
Q fights down the urge to wrestle Bond down on the bed and wipe that smug grin off his face. It's not as if Q would win a wrestling match with Bond, anyway, but the images in his head are enough to make his skin burn.
"No, I'm your superior, which is why this will look considerably worse on my resume than on yours. Theoretically, if anyone in Vauxhall found out I could get charged with sexual harassment."
Bond laughs, the bastard, an honest, out loud, laugh.
"I won't tell if you won't, sir."
The thrill that runs through Q's body at being called "sir" by Bond in that tone is as powerful as it is unexpected, and the way Bond's eyes widen for a second shows that Q's reaction is not lost on him. Bond's hands come up to Q's collar, touching the button there, and then they go still. It takes Q a few flustered moments before he realises that Bond is waiting for permission. Q wonders if the heat in his face means he's actually blushing.
"Alright then."
Bond gives him an odd look, but begins to unbutton Q's shirt. Q watches. It strikes him how odd it is that when he does this himself, his body barely registers that his fingers brush the chest underneath, yet when Bond does it every single touch of his fingers sets off little fireworks under Q's skin. How do the nerve endings know when it's someone else's fingers and when it's one's own, he wonders?
He is taken out of his musings on how well-programmed the human brain is by Bond's amused voice.
"Am I boring you, Q?"
"No." The answer comes out a bit too quickly, but at least he manages to keep his voice level, detached. He has the strangest feelings that he is playing chess and having sex at the same time.
"Good," Bond replies and leans in to kiss Q's neck, more passionately this time, and Q instinctively tilts his head to the other side. Bond somehow manages to pull Q's shirt off at the same time, in a move that tells Q, if he needed to be told, that Bond has done this many, many times before. Perhaps not with another man (although Q hardly thinks Bond is a complete beginner in any field) but in general. Like Bond has just hinted, the fact that Q is a man doesn't mean he doesn't tick some of the other boxes on Bond's list.
Bond on the other hand certainly doesn't fit into any line-up of Q's lovers. This won't be the first time Q goes to bed with a man, but he can count the previous occasions on one hand, and none of those men were quite so ... alpha-male, for lack of a better word. Q has never been drawn to the type. Except, apparently, when he is high as a kite on adrenaline. The things you learn about yourself in the field.
Q reaches for Bond's shirt and unbuttons it, trying to match the grace and patience that Bond had. When he carefully runs his hands over Bond's body he realises this is the first time he's really been able to look at Bond like this. He can feel Bond's muscles moving underneath his fingers, he can feel Bond's body heat through the palms of his hands, he can feel Bond shift in response to his touch. It is an intoxicating feeling, watching Bond's body, larger and stronger than his own, and thinking of the hundred little ways he could make it do exactly what he wants. Bond might be taking charge of the proceedings, but he is surprisingly responsive. Every movement from Q is matched by a countermove from Bond, either to let Q follow the motion through or to push him back: as they kiss, as they shed the rest of their clothes, as their bodies align. It's like a dance.
Bond kisses an already tender piece of skin on Q's neck – there will be a hickey there tomorrow, just beneath his collar – and Q leans in to nibble at the nearest part of Bond he can reach, which happens to be his ear. Bond seems amused by that, and chuckles against Q's neck. The irregular puffs of air tickle.
"Do you always find sex this amusing, 007?" Q asks, pleased to find his voice still isn't betraying any sign of dwindling self-control.
"Not always," Bond admits, and looks up at Q. There's that keen intelligence in his eyes, the one Q was so embarrassingly late to recognise that Bond possesses. "Sometimes it's just a chore," he says and kisses Q's collarbone. "Sometimes it's aggressive, or animalistic, a release." He swirls his tongue around Q's left nipple, and Q arches up into it with a gasp. "And sometimes it's a mix of pleasure and curiosity." Bond smiles at him. "I was wondering when you were going to show some sign of being affected, Quartermaster. I was almost beginning to feel offended."
Q fears he will no longer be able to keep desire out of his voice, so he shuts up. Bond doesn't remark on it.
Once the banter is over, Bond is so silent it's like making love to a ghost. Q has never been the loud type, but now he is painfully aware of all the quiet little gasps and moans he can't hold back. They seem to echo in the room around him, seem loud enough for the neighbours must hear him, even though he's aware he probably couldn't be heard in the next room over even if the door was open.
Bond must like the sounds he makes though, because he is quick to find every little spot that gives him an extra reaction and work at it with his fingers, or his lips, or his tongue, until Q feels like it's all he can do not to explode into a thousand little pieces. His breastbone, the inside of his elbow, and a spot right below his bottom left rib all get this treatment. When Bond's mouth finds a spot just where Q's torso meets his thigh and sucks at the skin there, Q actually gives a little shout of surprise at the fire and hunger that rushes through his body. Bond makes a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a moan and an animal growl. Q's legs kick and stretch reflexively as if he is having a seizure, his body trying to shake off the tension building up inside. Bond's grip on his hips tightens in response, until Q can tell he'll have bruises tomorrow just from this. Q brings a hand to Bond's head. He doesn't know why he pulls upward – he wouldn't mind if Bond moved his mouth a couple of inches downwards instead – but he does, or tries to, not quite getting a grip in that short, blond hair. Bond still gets the message. Without further warning he pulls Q down by the hips so that his head slips off the pillows. It has barely hit the mattress below before Bond's lips are on his cheek, on his neck, under his ear. One of Bond's hands wraps around both their erections and sets up a killing pace from the start, and then Bond's mouth is on his again, cutting off even more of Q's oxygen, making his head spin and his heart beat twice as fast to keep up. There's no teeth in Bond's kisses, just lips and tongue, and still Q feels as if he's being devoured. Sex hasn't felt like this in a long time – maybe never. The adrenaline rush is so powerful that Q feels as if he's weightless, as if might float away like a helium balloon at any second. He wraps both arms around Bond's torso and pulls them together until Bond reluctantly puts his entire weight on Q. It feels even better. He feels grounded, like a kite tied to a rock.
00Q00Q00Q00
Once again, Q comes quicker than he has since he was in his teens, gasping into Bond's mouth. He has a moment when he's overcome by bliss, and then one when he's equally overcome by shame – not just because of how easily Bond makes him come undone, but because he just slept with a co-worker for Pete's sake – before the two feelings mingle and begin to slowly wear off. He opens his eyes to see Bond's icy blue ones look back.
"Hm," Bond says with a smile, as if he was not at all affected by the previous activities. "I guess age might be a guarantee of efficiency after all."
The smug bastard. Q can't have that.
He flips them over so that he's straddling Bond, in a manoeuvre he's sure he wouldn't have been able to pull off if the other man had been even the least bit prepared for it. He revels in the little hitch in Bond's breath that is the only sign of his surprise, and replaces Bond's hand with his own, slowing down the pace considerably from what Bond did before. Bond looks a bit displeased for a moment, but while Q might not have had many partners, well, that's not a requirement to know how to do this, is it? And he's always been quite good with his fingers.
He busies himself with placing kisses along Bond's collarbone, on the scarred shoulder, on the skin stretched over muscles a man half Bond's age would kill for. Bond's fingers tread into Q's curls and ball into a fist, pulling at Q's hair in a way that's probably not meant to hurt but does a bit. Q bites down lightly on the skin underneath his mouth in retaliation. To his surprise, Bond jolts as if he just touched a live wire. Q repeats the action, timing it to the movements of his hand and fingers. The result is more than pleasing.
Q doesn't expect to hear his title gasped out when Bond comes, but there it is:
"Q."
It's conscious, it has to be. Bond has to know what it does to Q to hear that. Bond's voice has gone so low that Q almost feels his bones vibrate to the base notes in it.
He slips partially off of Bond, and rests his head on Bond's chest. The hand that was tangled in his hair slips down to his neck, and the fingers stroke up and down in soothing motions. To soothe whom, he's not quite sure.
Exhaustion comes over him like a wave, and Q is almost asleep by the time Bond tries to extricate himself from his arms. He's tired and lightheaded enough to groan in disappointment and say:
"Stay here, 007."
Bond freezes. He goes so utterly still in Q's arms that Q really wouldn't have been surprised to find the agent's heart had stopped. He wonders why. Is it the title? Had Bond forgotten for a moment that he was sleeping with a co-worker and not a mark?
"I have to go to my room," Bond says after a few seconds of pause.
"No, you don't. Unless you have to go to the bathroom you don't have to go anywhere at all, and I rather prefer you where you are, actually."
So he's regained the power of calm, coherent speech. What a pity he hasn't also regained the ability to censor himself.
"Q ..."
Now Bond sounds hesitant and regretful. Amazing how much can be crammed into one letter. Q predicts a speech of some sort about how this was a one-time thing is about to follow, and decides to show mercy by cutting it off before it starts.
"Relax, 007. No need to react as if I was asking you to move in with me. God knows I wouldn't let you anywhere near my flat; it's bad enough to let you run around with my tech. I like my life the way it is; I'm not looking to change it to accommodate someone else. All I want is for your nice, warm body to stay in this bed, because it is delightfully comfortable."
Q is a bit surprised to hear the words coming out of his own mouth. Is he always this talkative after sex? Good god, he's a security risk. Easiest mark in the world, just sleep with him and he gives everything away. Did he just tell Bond he doesn't do relationships? Is that true? Is that why none of his relationships have led anywhere? He's not sure. He's never thought about it like that.
But he must have stumbled upon the right thing to say, because Bond relaxes, reaches for something and wipes away the worst of the stickiness from their bodies. Q's too tired to open his eyes and see what it is Bond is using, but at the touch of Bond's surprisingly gentle fingers against his stomach, he risks everything by blurting out:
"I wouldn't mind doing this again though."
Thankfully Bond just chuckles, perhaps at the implied compliment to his abilities.
"I thought you didn't want me in your flat".
Q doesn't comment on the odd fact that Bond's mind immediately went to a scenario after the mission.
"God no! You'd be moving things around and leaving your things everywhere and just make a mess." Q says it in a joking tone, but he means it, too, and he thinks Bond can hear that. "Besides, I'm not telling you where I live. It's classified."
"What makes you think I don't already know where you live?"
Q doesn't know what to say to that, at first. He is reminded again that Bond is smarter than Q first gave him credit for – much smarter.
"If you do, I might have to kill you," is the answer he settles for.
It earns him not only another honest-to-god laugh, but Bond wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him closer, as well.
"I'll bear that in mind," he whispers, and now a note of drowsiness has crept into Bond's voice, too.