Bond woke slowly, fuzzily, the way he only did when he was in his own flat. He turned over, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He had been dreaming — running his hands over pale slender limbs...kissing his way gently into a red, sweet, mobile mouth...twining his fingers into the beautiful chaos of dark hair...watching luminous green eyes grow dark with pleasure...

"Mmmnnngh..." Bond pulled the images from the dream in around him, reluctant to let go. He rutted slowly into his mattress, half-hard already and growing harder by the moment.

He felt himself sink back into a hazy dreamspace...not quite asleep but not quite awake. He imagined pulling that sweet body closer — nuzzling into the tender expanse of that pale neck, pressing his tongue warm and soft against the pulse point and feeling it grow more rapid beneath his mouth.

He drew his fingertips down the taut, flat expanse of his own abdomen, imagining slim, elegant fingers tracing that path instead. He lazily palmed his cock, feeling his arousal pool and surge, honey-thick in his spine and belly. In his mind he was sucking bites down an alabaster neck, marking and licking his way across a pale chest, feeling the slender body underneath him arch and groan in pleasure.

He pushed harder and faster into his own fist, rumbling another deep groan, as the images flashed more rapidly, blurring together. A soft gasp of pleasure in his ear as he pushed in, tight and hot and slick. The feel of a sharp collarbone beneath his tongue, the huff of soft breath against his neck as he thrust into that sweetness, hard and deep, making the body beneath his moan and shudder. Wordless little gasps of entreaty that he smothered with his mouth, invading and possessing, surrounding and owning...

"James," the voice breathed into his ear, posh and rich and thick with desire. "James."

"Q," Bond said aloud. His eyes flew open in surprise just as the first thick pulses of pleasure started and then he was coming hard, hips stuttering and churning as he bucked into his own damp fist, breath rasping in his chest until he felt almost light-headed and weak.

"Christ," he breathed into his pillow, still twitching with aftershocks. He distantly thought that he should feel guilty, but all he felt was satisfied and replete. He wallowed in the sensation, in the last traces of the fantasy. Bloody hell, imagined sex with Q was better than most of the real sex Bond had experienced.

He lay, thinking idly of Q's many delightful attributes, until the damp and sticky feeling became irritating. Then he forced himself out of bed, pulling open the blackout curtains, letting the late afternoon sunlight filter into the flat. He checked the time, surprised to find that he had slept for thirteen hours. He took a long hot shower before turning the water icy cold in the last few minutes to bring himself to full awareness.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel around his waist, absently lathering up his weathered face with shaving soap. His body still felt loose-limbed and lazy from the truly indulgent amount of sleep and the even more luxurious orgasm. As he scraped the straight razor over his stubbled skin, his thoughts returned inexorably to Q.

Friends, he had told Q. Should he feel guilty about feeling such sexual desire for a friend? Bond had few real friends in his life. Alec, although they were rarely in the same city at the same time. Perhaps M had been his friend, despite her caustic manner. He certainly had grieved for her in a way he had for few in his life. And yet certainly he had lusted after neither, with the undeniable attraction he felt for Q.

Vesper? Bond froze, the ice-blue eyes in the mirror looking back at him in startlement. Vesper had been his lover, and his love, but had she been his friend? He had never really thought of it before, and something about it made him uncomfortable. There had always been a part of Vesper that she kept from him. She was free with her affection, but she held her secrets close. At the time, Bond hadn't minded — had found it intriguing, even. And yet those secrets had betrayed them both, burying their love in Vesper's watery grave.

Maybe this was the central flaw in Bond's character, the one that made him a good operative and absolute shit at just about any other relationship in his life. He had no real memories of being a son, he had never been a brother, he would never be a father. Friends could be counted on one hand. He had only had one love, and she had been a construct, a false creation designed to manipulate Bond. And lovers had been legion, sex simply just another bodily function for Bond — a release of tension, a cold comfort, a means to an end.

And then there was Q, a law unto himself, flitting back and forth between both categories and neither. An object of desire, but untouchable. A friend, but with secrets buried deep. It should make Bond unsettled, knowing there were things Q wasn't telling him, but there was one important difference.

"I've never lied to you, 007. Not about anything." Q's soft voice echoed in Bond's mind.

Bond nodded to himself, starting to scrape the razor across his skin again. That was the difference, and it was a vital one.

"Skeletons abound in everyone's closets at MI6, and I am not giving you carte blanche to look in mine."

Q acknowledged his secrets, told Bond openly that they existed and trusted Bond not to pry. Bitter and suspicious as Bond was, that soothed him even more than believing someone had a spotless past. Now that he thought of it, something else Q had said niggled at his brain.

"My story is no more nor less tragic than yours, or anyone else's at MI6 for that matter."

It hadn't struck him at the time, but now Bond took note of that careful wording, and the considerable amount of latitude implied within. Bond's story had plenty of tragedy, starting with the accidental death of his parents. Alec's story was even worse, losing his parents through murder-suicide. Although he rarely spoke about it, Tanner had lost one of his children to leukemia. Hell, Mallory himself had spent three months in the hands of the IRA, and those were just the ones he knew about.

Now that he thought of it, as far as tragic stories went they were all a sorry lot. As M had said, orphans made the best recruits, and the all-consuming lifestyle a career in espionage required was hardly attractive to the well-adjusted. Yet, they had one other thing in common. They had all made the decision to put the past behind them. To learn from it and to move on, undeniably damaged but not completely broken.

Q's past obviously affected him, but he didn't let it consume him. He was still brilliant, and lively, and caring. And if something had happened in his past that had made him dislike touch, then Bond couldn't help wondering if it could be undone. Bond grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, forcing the thought out of his mind. If Q wanted to let his past lie buried, Bond could understand that. God knows he had things in his past that were better left unexamined.

Bond scrubbed his face with a warm, wet towel, throwing it carelessly on the counter before starting to dress. As convenient as it would be for Bond's past sins to stay buried, that was never the case. And yet Q was privy to more information about Bond than anyone else still living. Q had read Bond's file, he had made no secrets about that.

"Trust issues," he had said. "That's plastered all over your file. I suppose I've just never seen it before"

Bond knew that his file was brutally, mercilessly comprehensive, and everything that was documented Q now knew. The string of broken hearts and broken bodies Bond had left in his wake, friends and enemies alike. The humiliation of Vesper's betrayal. Q knew what Bond was, and yet, inexplicably, he wanted to be Bond's friend anyway. Even more than that — he had fought for that friendship. Had sought Bond out when Bond would have pulled away, had shared with Bond something he rarely discussed, if ever — just to keep Bond's friendship. It was...unprecedented.

Bond poked around in his refrigerator, ultimately deciding there was nothing edible and he would have to go out. He usually loathed self-reflection — it always left him feeling unsatisfied and despondent. Now, however, he felt better than he had since this mission started. Settled, somehow. Grounded.

He would be the friend he had promised to Q. Even in the short time they had spent traveling home Q had seemed much more relaxed around Bond, trusting him implicitly not to touch now that he had given his vow. And if he surreptitiously continued to desire Q? Well, what happened in the privacy of his own mind would be none of Q's concern. Life was short and brutal for a double-oh, and Bond had never been one to begrudge himself from taking his pleasures where he could.

On that note, Bond wondered if Q was still snug in his bed, or if he had already made it in to MI6. There was an excellent patisserie just down the street from the new building. Perhaps Bond would indulge in a chocolate croissant, and pick one up for Q as well. The man needed feeding up.

This is the kind of thing friends do, Bond thought, rather pleased with himself for the idea. And, if he passed the time during the short walk with idle speculation about what it would be like to lick chocolate from Q's clever lips...well, that would remain his secret.

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