"Yes, of course. Don't be dull, 007."
Q has a return flight scheduled at three; it's already half one. James has a contact meeting set up for quarter past two. Q should hand over the newest devices in MI6's arsenal and just be done with it. As Moneypenny was. At the end. Fond and forgiving, and still vaguely in love-and-awe, after. Perhaps she had believed Q wasn't fully aware of what transpired between them, but he was. That straight razor haunted his dreams, still. He'd played the video feed a few too many times over to be considered quite sane.
"As it happens, that's why I am actually here. In Sydney." Q sniffs disdainfully, jerking up his chin. "All along, and never doubt it. Officially, 007." Though to be fair, poor Sydney had never done a thing to offend Q's sensibilities e're now but it seemed it was newly destined to be recalled always as the sorry site of his personal failure.
To be brutal, Q had suffered a bit more failure than he cared to swallow, lately.
Q was terribly aware, and it had nearly foundered him, of that horrid surge of improbable jealousy, the one he'd felt when first watching Moneypenny and 007 together. It had been the final clue, that one single damning event, in a long trail of them. And, to add even more fuel to the fire, that time when Silva had handled James in that nasty manner, running his hands all over him, touching him to seduce? And when he'd snaked his way through every one of Q's carefully engineered defenses and humiliated him right under James's very nose? Even 'clever boys' can be left with egg on their faces and bruised egos and—oh, fuck yes—burning breadcrumbs, all the way along; that was the way of it. And Q did not enter a flying device lightly, not even remotely. Even M wasn't enough to induce his cooperation—but James was. Cancel that: the real possibility of James was.
Was. Had been. No longer.
Losses—cut them. Connections—disable a.s.a.p.
"This?" Q flaps a long, lean hand, indicating the disturbed bedding and all the attendant nakedness. "Was just a little extra service. Since you were bored to tears, or about to be, and not a one of us back at HQ wants to see you off hunting down yet more trouble, Bond. A precautionary diversion, nothing more, and fully initiated on my part, keeping you with the programme. Fortunate I'm sufficiently queer, isn't it? Convenient."
"Oh, really?" James remarks again as he hovers over Q, weight supported on his forearms, his face admirably blank and calm. "I rather thought as much, Q. You're all about efficacious application of resources, aren't you." He states this flatly, as if it's a fault and not a trait key to Q's job, Q's very method. "Hmm." Q is treated to a long cool blink, thoroughly assessing, through sandy lashes. "Still, on the whole it's disappointing of you, Quartermaster. I had thought this meant more to you."
Q is miffed further by the comment; more than that, he's still horrendously jealous of Moneypenny, and of all of the ones before him, all the ones who seemed to have counted where he has not. With all due respect to M's directives, he'd quite like to murder James for it, the outrages visited upon his most tender feelings—and his pride. Sometimes.
"Of course I am efficient," he shoots back, warily. He doesn't quite understand why James should be 'disappointed' or looking for more. It made far more sense for him to be relieved. "I don't care to waste anything much less valuable time, 007. You know that. Or…or a single one of the resources you mention. And why would I ever come looking for this mythical 'more'? You mistake me; I think you always have."
"Little liar." James laughs, just softly, and drops a sucking filthy kiss square in the middle of Q's chest. "Q, I think we both realize what's just happened here."
A hand is insinuated beneath his spine, the fingers spreading wide and warm as James drops down to one propping elbow and lands a whole trail of tiny kisses right up Q's quivering skin, only to stop at the swallowing hollow at the base of Q's throat.
"No." That hand is gentle on his spine, the palm of his rubbing up and down, oh, slowly. Q shudders. That old adage suits his state perfectly: 'once, twice, but three times? No!' He will not be fooled again.
"No. I know precisely what happened here, 007. Shagging happened; very nice it was, too. But now it's over."
"Not over."
"Yes—er, no, 007!" But that's not how Q operates. That's not what James needs, as per Q's observations. He needs real, this old dog of a spy. Something to get his back teeth into. Oh sod it all, yes, it's a bloody revelation. James-the-man-and-not-the-agent requires real like he requires oxygen but he's never going to believe he can get that from a mere kid. And he patently believes that Q is little more than that, a jumped up child faffing about in a man's world—the merest infant. "No. Trust me, it's over. It never even began."
"Baby. Tch!"
"Don't call me that; I hardly am." Q flinches. "It was only just the sex, Bond. Don't read more into it."
And Q is gagging for 'honest' as well; he emphatically needs not to be addressed as 'Baby' by a git double his age and he craves…he needs unicorns and Hogwarts, and the Once and Future, and Alice, too, but he's not going to get any of that, not from this man here, and really? No one is.
He shouldn't have presumed, not on the basis of some not-so-furtive interest back at the offices and certainly not on the events of the previous night and morning. This was all simply SOP for 007, his normal modus operandi. Most importantly, and even more crucial than pride or his dignity is that the James he sees through his stupidly adoring rose-hued specs needs a reason to come back home to, if MI6 counts as 'home', and Q knows James has very few of those, the reasons. If they even exist yet they've been shoved well down into the man's deepest darkest levels of consciousness—and now he'd gone and disturbed them, those murky layers, and thrust his oar in where it didn't belong.
And it had been maybe a bit presumptive, but Q's not a bad catch, not bad a'tall. And he'd rather thought…he'd rather hoped. But that was a hope dead in the water. Time to face up to it, then: been there, done that, owned the—
"Oh, no, no, no, Q." White teeth flash in his face, there and gone again. "Who is the bald-faced fibber now?" Bastarding Bond even has the innate gall press down and to nip sharply at Q's chin, chivvying him. "Pot, kettle, pet. And don't fool yourself I'm letting you off the hook this easily but duty really does call. What did you bring me, then?"
Bastarding James Bond has slid that soothing palm at Q's back down the curve of his bum and has thrust a thumb into Q's bottom.
He jolts, electrified and appalled at what even the slow circle of fleshy pad of skin does to his equilibrium. Then clamps down instantly, belting the fuck up, and not being a 'baby', cheers ever so much.
"I—I…" Oh, fuck. "…Fine."
Q's attempts to set what happened aside gracefully were clearly insufficient. Galling as it was, the lines of James's face were dialed up to 'affectionate but absolutely not listening,' but his gaze was the dead cold of an agent's roving stare and was affixed narrowly on all of Q's darting glances and small blushes. No matter what his thumb's doing, which should just be called 'lethal' and be done with it.
"Fine!" Q flinches again and lifts up his abused chin, abruptly contrary. He had tried, really he had, and blast the perceptive old arse and his supersensitive spy goggles for seeing straight through Q's shabby measures. "Right, then. To business."
Absolutely galling, this whole matter. As Q, not unlike his brothers, can be all that is 'real' when called upon, when moved to. As real as the next bloke or bint turning up in 007's bed, and probably whole degrees improved over that abysmally low bar. He's a Holmes, so he's bound to be better at it.
"…Finally." The dry-as-dust of James's response could strip the sand off the Sahara; Q flinches. "Let's begin. Talk to me, Q. What do you have for me?"
"Right, yes," Q repeats sharply, reining in and eying his bedmate for the briefest of instants to ensure James is paying his professional position due attention. He is Q, and Q is what he is, in the end. Then he looks away immediately, because he must if he's to continue talking a'tall. It's too hard to not; they both know what 007's 'business' will lead to. "You've a newly issued handgun, same sort as last time. You've the radio, a replacement, and much improved."
This is information that Q patently advises the eminently bland bedside table, manfully resisting the urge to press his arse against that broad warm hand still insistently caressing it, even as 'James' is gone away and only '007' remains. Why will it not stop moving, that thumb violating Q, messing up his trajectory? When will daring Mr Bond give up on the old seduction maneuver?
"Go on."
"The full work up, this time. Wide-ranging satellite coverage, global. So you can run off to the Antarctic next, if you like or the spirit moves you, and we'll always find you."
The answer to that speciousness is likely 'never'. Q swallows down stupid saliva collected in his mouth and rushes on—this is only nerves; he knows it. It will pass.
"You have also been supplied a lovely new car for your use. A Jaguar coupe model, suitably equipped; just glance over the manual—or simply push buttons and pull levers as you always do. I'm certain you'll sort it; you'll die if you don't and I can't see that happening. Right—yes! That's situated down the hotel garage, slot B-221. And…and."
The old seduction maneuver? It's old hat, it's antiquated, and yet it is still very effective, god help him. Q holds his breath again; his chest is very tight as the horribly caressing hand sweeps upward and then downward once more, prodding gently. He's fucking being petted, isn't he? And this may be it, the last instance 007 touches Q, or it may herald the first of many; he doesn't know, and cannot even begin to guess the odds. Oh, but it hurts and in myriad ways that feel so good. Q can't bear it cease, but it must—it must.
"…And? Quartermaster? What else, then?"
Q narrows his eyes, mean and lean and maybe even a tad bit snarky. He's sodded off. He really hates this bit, having it dragged out of him. But duty calls.
"You've one of those bloody fountain pens, the ones you like so much, the exploding ones. I made it myself. Murdered a perfectly lovely Caran D'Ashe to do it, too; wish you joy of the thing. I can't see the use, but whatever—your funeral, 007. It's in a special carry case, on the entry table. Right next to your departmentally approved weapon, the passkey for the car and the radio."
"Mm." James stares at him, long and with a dark blue consideration, his chin lowered. "…Q."
It's as the sea, the blue, the lovely sea he'd glimpsed during the nightmare flight to Sydney; Q could drown in that regard; that is, if he doesn't resist and simply keep on swimming.
"What, now?" he snipes, glaring.
"You know? I've changed my mind, Q. Full stop, I'm afraid. You may stay, but you have to take yourself off to the safe house or the embassy if you do, and keep under lockdown. I'm not leaving you here on your own."
"No—I can't. You can't. It's late." Q swallows, and starts the horrible process of withdrawing. He'd had his fun, and now it's over. "Far too late, 007. Excuse me. Pardon." Time is growing so short; his time with James is already passed. It was over at the word 'go'. And he's not about to hunker down and hide away. HQ has the better systems. "I must leave. Good luck, then, Bond. And take your bloody thumb out of me—that's highly unnecessary."
"Hm." James ignores him and only presses deeper, till Q sees nothing but red-and-black behind his squinched shut eyelids. "Q?"
And why in heaven's name is there a hand in his hair, at his nape, the fingers tapping down in a rhythm? Does 007 require his Quartermaster completely spineless and daft, like a mooncalf?
"My dear Q."
"Y-Yeth?" Q pauses in the midst of an involuntary arch of spine, a twitch of long legs, because he really would like to be persuaded, actually. "Um." He clears his throat. "Ah. Yes?"
"Let's…have dinner."
"Wh-what?"
"Dinner. Two weeks from now, so end month, or beginning next. December 1st, that's it."
Q might have been attempting strategic retreat but two very nicely muscled arms moving like lightning restrain him neatly. He doesn't struggle.
"D-dinner?"
His privates are private again; Q can maybe re-attempt cogitation. Sort of.
"Hmm," James nods, decisively, as if agreeing with himself this mad idea is the very best one. "Yes. A nice outing. A proper date, since I owe you that, I think." The voice in his ear is reflective, almost considering. "For services rendered me and not in the line of duty. You're a very pretty boy, little one, and—"
Q doesn't even bother to protest the 'little'. This is a knife-sharp turnaround in the path he's seen laid out before him. Even he needs some processing time.
"And. And?"
"I find you—ah?" Q has no idea if James is joking with him or not. He can only stare, gawping. "Ah, a'hem. Loveable. That's the word I'm seeking."
James leans in and pecks at Q's nose, the tip of it, minty breath and all.
"More, cannot seem to be quite able stop myself, thinking that, all odd hours. Odd…but it is what it is." He shrugs, and Q boggles at Bond doing the 'que sera, que sera' over his own gangly long difficult self.
"Ng..geh?"
So much for articulate; that's another lost hope.
"Hmm…yes, perfect. Dinner, then. Put it on your calendar, Q. Or your whatever it is you use to track you. Smartphone?"
Q jerks his head about to stare up at this cogitative stranger's face, so fast he nearly breaks his own neck doing it. "Sma...ah?"
But it really is James Bond who is smiling at him, fondly, and no other, but then again not in any way demeaning or dismissive, and Q's wavering heart is sunk again, just that soon.
"You. You can't mean that."
"More than I should do, perhaps," James replies simply enough, and the killer charming Bond-patented smile gains a quick teasing wink to go with it. "Politically, it's a bit of a suicide run, this. Frowned upon, is close fraternization. M will have his kittens. Moneypenny will—ah, well, enough speculation. I don't even want to consider the PM's read on it. But, as to that, though, not certain I've a damn left to give, but, hey?"
"Hey?" Q echoes faintly, blinking fast. "Hey?" This is not the James Bond he'd been expecting, the one he'd pegged to gracefully reject him. His jaw drops open; he's a bit mashed flat. "…Hey…"
James says 'hey'? James thinks of kittens? James uses words such as 'loveable'? In regards him? Heavens, but Q learns something new about this intriguing old goat every day, doesn't he? Kittens!
"Yes. M—my M?"
A hard hand captures Q's pointy chin and forces it up so their eyes meet. The fingers smell of Q's well-loved arse, of come, of shower gel and of James's sweat, and it's more than comforting, somehow. It helps Q focus, when everything else has gone conkers and all swimmy with fucking weird.
"Er. Yes, James?"
"The previous M." James blinks at Q, once, quite significantly, and is dead cold serious in a flash. "She'd approve. Of you, and of me, and of us, together. Rather a lot, I think. She'd probably ask me what took me so long. No, she'd definitely ask, and well…I think."
"You…think?" Q can't help but prompt. "Think…think, James? Think?!"
Q realizes he sounds exactly like a parrot, a particularly numbskulled one, reduced to repeating mindlessly whatever next weird words fall out that beautifully firm mouth. Possible shrieking them back verbatim. He realizes vaguely he's been completely caught up again by this glimpse into the inner fastnesses of Agent 007, the best MI6 has, and the one who is known to be the most unknowable. It's a worse situation that he'd thought he was in. Now he's completely unrecoverable.
"You think." He repeats it flatly. The previous M? Oh, god. Oh, god no. Not this—and not this now, please?
"Oh, yes, sorry about that," James teases for an instant before sobering again, just as quickly. "But…Her. Herself."
James is gone uncharacteristically flushed, his usual suave teasing smile gone all a'kilter, faltering. He drags Q back down on the pillows and wraps two strong legs about Q's chilled bare ones, planting a drift of kisses across Q's blanched lips and taut jaw and then upwards, ending only at the petulant scowl Q knows is creasing his forehead. Then back down again, and there's a moist warmth obliterating the bewildered disbelieving frown straight to oblivion. His pelvis presses down and Q has a very difficult time paying attention, but then again he really must—he really must. This is pivotal.
"She'd say to me, I'm certain," James purrs, almost inaudibly, lips dipping down to caress Q's ear. "She'd say 'James, everyone deserves some reasonable measure of happiness. Even double-oh's.' Or maybe she'd just tell me to man up and get with the programme. I never knew, with her."
Q swallows, his throat absolutely arid, and waits the longest single second he's ever had to endure. Only simply waits, because people—even seasoned spies—will oft'times tell a person vastly important things if one just allows them to continue nattering on. And Q is terribly good at listening.
"Love," James says, or rather whispers, right into his ear canal, straight to his brain, and Q's gone a little catatonic, assimilating that word, in this context, from those lips to his own synapses. "That's what M would say." James can't possibly mean it, but then again, he clearly does. James, for all his faults, is still brutally honest, upon occasion. "And, love, you're a treat to look forward to, a bit of Christmas for me. A gift, and one I didn't look for, really. And I need this…this something, this, what we've started. I need you. Don't go; not yet. Stay. Fifteen more minutes, Q."
"Yes?"
"Oh, yes."
"Right." Like there was ever a question? Q sets his jaw and tense his limbs, ready for action—any action. "Shan't go, then."
He still makes sure to roll his eyeballs at James, huffing slightly as if he's very much put upon. Which he is profoundly not, but someone has to lighten up this conversation, or he'll simply melt into the counterpane and cry all over the amazing man he's just ejaculated on. No...with.
"Just yet." James blathers on, convincing Q when there's no need of it. The bird's already well in hand. "There's time. A full fifteen minutes, you say? Much can be managed in a mere fifteen minutes."
"You don't say."
"So it can." James is terribly smug, the bastard. "I know it can. Let me show you?"
He knows he's won, if by winning Q over again he means 'winning' in the purest sense of the word. Well, to be accurate, he's never lost Q, but Q doesn't need to tell him that, either, does he?
Q, a bit giddy, allows himself the pleasure of a peculiarly quirky, somewhat feline grin, and narrows his gaze on the utterly splendid man who has casually just handed over the entirety of the crucial data Q's been seeking. He's got an answer then. Well.. a sort of an answer, a stab at a reply…but good enough to work with, and Q's worked with far less. That doesn't stop him from working it, though; no, not at all.
"If… I'm truly needed here, that is," Q flirts, wriggling. "And that's twelve now—and counting."
"You are," James nods, thumb right up the ring of Q's anus in a heartbeat and poking. "Brilliant—we can make this work. Come here, baby."
"Oh, yes—pleath now—good, Jameth!"
It is brilliant.
"Baby…oh, babe!"
And it does work—by the skin of their teeth, the fact Q is already loose from prior good use, and the grace of James Bond's mad driving skills. Q barely makes his return flight, he quite forgets his soothing metal wrist bands and nearly also his own pants in his insane scramble, but it's been worth it. And the Jag is appalling fast, especially when handled by an expert.
Never mind his bloody pants; Q's a bit glad he's been handled by an expert, too.