Q grabbed an Evening Standard from one of the stands in the tube station. It was quiet this time of morning, not long after midnight. Only government employees At Her Majesty's behest were foolish enough to be working so late.
He looked at the headline as he mounted the escalator to descend beneath London. He sighed. Bond just seemed to attract trouble. It was like it stalked him like a desperate, possessed lover, helpless for his attention and willing to tear the world apart in an effort to get it. The shooting in Paris had only been a few miles away. A pure coincidence, but in a world where terrorism appeared to be on the increase with every passing day, coincidences of that particular nature were wholly unwelcome. Any closer and Bond probably would have run into the thick of it, gun blazing, to save the day and cause yet another diplomatic mess for M to clean up.
He checked his timepiece. Less than four hours and Bond would be back in London. He would be angry and frustrated. A volcano poised to erupt, forever the coiled spring. Q had been on the receiving end of that version of Bond several times now, the version just off mission and desperate to wind down by whatever means necessary. He had also seen the other Bond, moody and dark, burying himself in a trench of anger, muddied up to his neck with the thought that he could have done more, yet knowing without doubt that more would never be enough.
As he boarded one of the last trains, he patted the pocket of his jacket running his fingers along the unfamiliar lines of the keys to Bond's house. It was still all so new and so unfamiliar. He never thought he would be happy in another relationship after Charles. They had been everything and more to each other. He guessed what he and Bond had wasn't love, it couldn't be. Q knew a large part of his heart had been occupied by Vesper and torn out with her betrayal and death. Q himself had only ever known the passion and love of one person. Bond went through relationships like a dog went through tennis balls. Q caught himself staring into the distance again and gave himself a mental shake. I really must save these little meanders for when I'm not wandering about in the depths of London, he thought to himself. Best not to be thinking how so many of Bond's relationships ended up in the obituary section while at the mercy of dark-drenched streets.
As he disembarked the train, he considered how lucky they were to have found each other. For however long, he'd take it. Both of them had loved and lost, they knew what to expect. It would not be easier but at least both men were walking towards each other eyes wide open. Whatever the consequences, even if it was nothing more than two people finding the solace and respite they needed from a world seemingly hell bent on its own self destruction, Arthur Clifton would take it. And gladly give it to James Bond in return.
By the time Q had reached Bond's home (for want of a better word) or perhaps better defined as his recuperation zone, he had contemplated enough their status of friends, lovers and colleagues. He smiled as he slipped the key into the lock. It had been a long time since he had warmed the bed of another, waiting and welcome for a body he hoped wanted to do nothing more than sink into the warmth he was offering and find the needed release from the demons that shadowed him through his daily life.
He grabbed a glass of water from Bond's rather lavish kitchen and headed in the direction he assumed was the bedroom. As he stripped to climb under the soft duvet he looked at his still-socked feet. He smiled, deciding to keep them on. If Bond wanted to litter his bedroom floor with his colourful foot apparel, the least he could do was afford him the privilege.
Sleep came. Q dreamed. So too did the agent on his flight home. Home to London. Home to bed. Home to his Quartermaster…