James isn't waiting about for permission, though, and that's quite unmanning. And thrilling—and exhilarating. The water sprays on, endlessly warm, endlessly forgiving, and Q nearly swallows a gallon or two before he tucks his recently aired-out head upon James's scarred shoulder, nodding feebly. There's no words for this or to accurately express his deep gratification it's happening to him of all people; Q doesn't even bother himself over trying.
"Oh, thank you, little one," James chuckles. "Much obliged."
"I want…oh, I want?" Q thinks he might plead after a moment more, but the fingers—two, then three, just like that—are already twisting about, most effectively and much farther in. In a swirl and not as a scissors, and god fuck a bloody nun, but that's an exquisite adaptation, at least from Q's perspective. "…James…please?"
Fingers up his arse and a blowie aren't near enough, though. Not to justify the excruciatingly high altitude Q achieved for ghastly hours on end in the metal box-'o-doom simply to arrive unbesmirched in James's decadent shower.
"Mm?"
Q's trigger-ready again and he's only just come. It's a struggle to fashion anything coherent, what with his jaw gone all slack and James's lips sucking intently upon the sensitive skin of his neck, right 'neath his earlobe like that.
"…James?"
Now, how to put it politely? 'Oh, shag me, will you? Yesterday, damn it.' Or, 'Would you please get on with the fucking?' Possibly "If you don't stick your giant cock up my achy arse in the next three nanoseconds, I shall implode into a shower of enraged Q-particles?'
At least, Q thinks dizzily, he's got the full use of his consonants back, if only in his head. Then again, he'd always been damned brilliant when under pressure.
"Me," he says aloud, taking a passable stab at pointing in the right direction. "You." Giving that up for a bad job, he lays one trembling hand across James's chest and his other grips at James's thigh, rather frantically. "Now? Ugh!"
"Yes, of course, love," comes the murmuring reply of Q's midnight fantasies, and that's enough to have Q's well-sucked dick rousing forcefully to full mast. "Just a moment more."
And here he'd thought his personal recovery time was twenty minutes or more; how super to learn it could be considerably less—with the proper motivation.
Q is all about motivation, but James is steadily undermining his ability to recall his purpose.
"Mmm, good, sweet," he hums away in Q's ear, shifting about and providing more than enough incendiary motivation, the rat bastard. "You are a pretty little one, aren't you?" he adds, adjusting the fingers that insist on taking Q straight down to his naked component parts. "Look at you, with that perfect little arse, all ready for me. It's as if you were born for this, love. Amazing."
"Oh?" Praise has Q flushing, twinned high spots of colour staining the slash of his cheekbones. He squirms about, attempting to have a look at James's face. "Do you think s-so? Really?"
"Hmhm…"
Q decides he'll accept the pleased groan the murmur becomes as a 'yes'. He smirks, just briefly, and at nothing in particular before James has him rendered slack-jawed once more. It occurs to Q—on the very outer periphery of his brain—that James is both shaking and stirring him, and it's beyond brilliant.
But…enough.
"Right, then."
Charlemagne Holmes is the 'Baby'. And he's not above a little manipulation if it comes to getting his way in matters. Sherly and My have always been such a unit, those few years they have on Q making all the difference; they're pretty much immune and they leave him be well enough excepting the occasional carping. And although Mummy has said time and again his elder brothers adore him, and that it is perfectly acceptable to feel a little lagging, a little odd-man-out, in a whole Venn Diagram of Increasingly Unusually Odd, Q has felt it, the lonely.
He's the youngest, okay, yes, and he's a Bright Young Thing, by definition; MI6 and his personal recruiter had certainly seemed to think so. Tea is lovely, his flat is lovely, his brain is lovely, he has caused no (all right, very few!) security breaches and My has been pleased with him, overall. Sherly loves him, Q knows, when he remembers Q's existence at all (he sometimes deletes it), and the taggers-along, those so-important Significant Others of his elder siblings, the DI and the foreshortened ex-Army, they are…well, they are similarly kind to Q, when they recall who it is they are being kind to. And why. And Q, in general. Christmas dinners, yes, those. So awkward. Abominable.
And Mummy, being what she is, and what position she holds (until recently), she seldom recalls to remind them. Nor feels she needs to. Q's certainly proved himself a Holmes and then some. And Papa just plays with his bees, chuckling all the while. Darling Papa, best of the lot, really, by far. He's the one said Q was a late-come blessing, and read him Dickens and Doyle, Farmer and Myers Myers. And Alice. Papa really is the very best of the lot.
Q's never been bothered by it, really.
He's the new breed, the surprise child, the one his parents didn't ever expect and got blessed with, anyway. They adore him, he adores them, but it's not the same…not ever the same. They've each other, his parents, as his siblings have their own people, now. And he's been so blissfully, blessedly all right with that, all these years. Q's been just brilliant, playing Solitaire.
But, this one? This one man: James Bond, Agent 007? Twenty years Q's elder and remarking dryly upon his complexion first meeting, and then somehow hooking Q in? So much so Q wagers his own spotless career, and his brilliant future, and all for?
All for what, exactly? Only James knows the answer.
Only James.
When that dick, that ripe cock, when it enters Q the first time, he thinks he might be able to discern it, this truth he seeks, the answer to life's immutable questions. His, at least.
When it seats full deep within him, nudging organs, brushing prostate gland just right, and James rolls his hips at an upwards angle off the tiled bench seat, Q's fairly sure he may've found it—his grand '42'. But appearances are vastly deceptive; so are secret agent men.
"James." Q says this as sternly as he can, which is not so much. "James!"
Uh-oh. The question Q had brought with him is not, sadly, dying on the vine; it's not greying out, not a bit. It nags away at him even as he's being pumped into a state of near-bliss. Bliss, bliss, bliss. Does he not own another word for it, in all his grand vocabulary? NO. All right, fine, okay—'bliss', it is. Yes, that was what this is. Bliss-onna-stick and Q's skewered, right between an emotional rock and a romantical hard place.
"If you—could you see your way—I would like it very much if." Q's so breathless, he can barely manage the requisite syllables. Frustrated, he gives up in it as a bad job, and jabs at James's broad wet chest instead, batting at scarred rock-hard flesh furiously. "You. Do you?"
"Nnnh?"
Q snorts, intensely nervous and suddenly. He absolutely despises not being able to speak properly, this is all just very Neanderthal of him, but he's not exactly protesting why that's so, either. But it doesn't sit well, and a Holmes does not, on principle, accept non-answers to their questions. Even when grunted and yelped.
"James, do you?"
"Shhh, pet," James croons in Q's ear, and nuzzles his roughened chin against Q's soaked scalp, just as he's also ramming that thick joint of luscious meat well up into Q's arse, gaining leverage, increasing momentum. "I wouldn't, if I didn't want it. No fear. No fear. Relax, now. I've got you."
James does indeed, and he has had, there's no denying, and Q's heart takes a flurried tumble behind his heaving ribcage. That's utterly brilliant, he's terribly pleased, yes, but—but! That. Wasn't. The. Question.
"All mine for the taking, aren't you?" James mutters deep-voiced, petting him, fucking him, and generally sending Q's brain cells into numerous disparate directions. "Good boy, Q—beautiful boy. Mmmm…"
"Oh, god."
"No. Just James."
It's when their lips meet, when their mouths are joined sweetly above the lusty connection below, that Q accepts his fate, finally.
If there is indeed only one true answer to that fucking horridly nude and begging question Q simply cannot spur himself on to ask of James aloud, he realizes abruptly he may never have the chance to hear it, not again in this lifetime. It might be lost to fire burning up through his loins, to the steam and the pressure consuming him from within, to the encouraging mutter of James's grunts and growls in his buzzy, fuzzy ears and the overwhelming desire to just say utter 'Sod it—only just fuck me, 007', and become a cog part of the common masses without so much as a quibble.
And? Pitifully enough, Q may end up not fucking caring, either. Not caring—and that is emphatically not what a Holmes does. Q has his pride, but this isn't about that—it never was, either.
Damn James, Q thinks, and goes with it, all of it. Sometimes age and guile will indeed win out over youth, (relative) innocence and a (trendy) bad haircut.
Q can only hope he's winsome enough in the morning.