Bond hauled himself up from Q's bed, every sore muscle screaming in protest, and hobbled toward his suitcase. He snagged his bag of toiletries and made his way to the en suite, still puzzling over Q's reaction.
He peeled the dirty bandage from his shoulder wound and threw it in the bin, grimacing at his battered reflection. He turned the shower up as hot as he thought he could stand, brushing his teeth as he waited for it to heat up. He stepped in, grateful to feel the hot water pound into his aching body despite the stinging of his scrapes and wounds.
Bond perfunctorily scrubbed himself, immediately feeling better as he washed the fever-sweat from his body. He had already used Q's toothpaste and now he unabashedly used Q's lemongrass shampoo, lifting his face to the spray of the shower and letting the trickles of water clear his fuzzy head.
The humid mist settled around Bond, intensifying the scent of Q in the air. Bond breathed it in, his mind suddenly inundated with images of Q — the salty tang of Q's skin as he knelt beside Bond in quiet concentration, the feel of Q's slender wrist underneath Bond's fingertips, the gentle touch of Q's hand on Bond's cheek.
There was something so intimate about being here, in such close quarters to Q. Bond's lovers were typically casual encounters or marks. He would take them to a hotel, or at the most follow them to their place for a quick shag and an equally quick departure. When was the last time he had lounged around in sheets that smelled of someone else, or showered surrounded by the scent of someone else's body?
Bond was half-hard already, his hand drifting down to palm his cock before he even realized what he was doing. He should stop, he told himself. Turn the water cold and get dressed. But, his traitorous mind argued, perhaps it might help to take the edge off just a bit, before spending the rest of the evening with Q. It was hard enough keeping his promise not to touch Q before. Now that he knew Q did not mind his touch, that he might even welcome it...
Do it again, Q had said. Bond unconsciously licked his lips, tasting the toothpaste and wondering if Q's clever pink tongue would taste the same. Finally, he gave up, resting his head against the cool tiles and letting the images flood his mind. I have a perfectly functioning libido, Q had said. Did Q ever stand here like this — his alabaster skin flushed with the heat of the water, thinking lustful thoughts? Would he run those elegant hands over his own body, imagining the touch of another?
Bond envisioned Q tracing his fingertips along that long pale throat, the narrow width of his chest, the tender expanse of his belly. He imagined Q's hand sliding down to tease at first, fondling leisurely, and then stroking in earnest, his deft hands growing fumbling with arousal, his breath gasping in the steamy air.
Did Q bite his lip, stifling the sounds of of his arousal? Or, here in his little fortress, did he let himself go, breathy sighs and rough groans turning into harsh little pants of entreaty? Bond's hand moved faster, working himself ruthlessly towards orgasm, imagining himself now — his larger body entwined with Q's slender form under the spray of the water. He would bite the sounds of pleasure from those red lips, suck pink marks of ownership into that flushed skin, swallow down Q's cock and watch those beautiful eyes haze with lust as they watched him.
Did Q think these same thoughts, touching himself in his lonely fortress? Did he close his eyes and imagine the trickling water was Bond's hands on his body, envision the feel of Bond's mouth around his cock as he stroked himself to completion? Did he shudder and shake, here in the shower, biting back Bond's name on his lips as he came?
The thought of it was enough to send Bond over, the pleasure gathering at the base of his spine and cresting as he came hard and fast, biting into the heel of his other hand to stifle the sounds of his release. His head spun for a moment as he worked himself through the jolts of pleasure and twitching aftershocks. He breathed in the steamy air, legs wobbly, for a few moments before turning the tap to cold, jolting himself back into crystalline clarity.
He stood in front of the mirror, shaving with his straight razor, remorse creeping in as he scraped the stubble from his weathered face. Q had saved Bond's life, had invited him into his home, and in exchange Bond was lusting after him like a hormonal teenager. It was ridiculous.
Bond heard a gentle knock at the door.
"Bond? Dinner is ready."
Bond opened the door a few inches, shaving lather on half his face. "I'm almost done in here, I'll be out in a few minutes."
He smothered his smile as Q's eyes darted over his bare torso, down to the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, before settling on his shoulder wound.
"Do you need help re-bandaging that?"
Bond imagined Q stepping into the steamy bathroom, standing close to him, his gentle hands on Bond's bare skin as he replaced the bandage.
"I think I can handle it," he said.
"You have hidden depths," Bond commented. "I didn't know you ate, let alone cooked."
"I have a high metabolism," Q said indignantly. "But you're right, I don't have the opportunity to cook often, but I try to make the effort at least once a week. It's just chemistry, after all."
Bond took another bite of the lamb stew. The flavors were rich and subtle — tomato and onion, pistachio and even cinnamon. The accompanying flatbread was both chewy and crisp, seasoned with a hint of rosemary. Bond mentally added an appreciation of good food to his list of Q's sensualist tendencies.
"It's wonderful," he said sincerely, watching with amusement as the tips of Q's ears turned pink with the compliment.
"This recipe was my grand-mère's," Q said.
Q seemed more at ease now. He had apologized somewhat self-consciously for the lack of a dining table but they were more than comfortable eating at the wide coffee table, Bond on the sofa and Q cross-legged on the floor.
"That's right, you said she was Lebanese."
Q nodded. "My grandfather was British, but I never knew him. He was a minor official in the British Embassy in Beirut, after independence but before the Civil War. He met grand-mère there, but they were living here when my mother was born."
"And you said that you lived with your grandmother off and on?"
Q nodded. The moment of hesitation would likely not have been apparent to anyone else, but Bond saw it clearly. There were obviously still parts of his past that Q felt uncomfortable sharing.
"I was an accidental pregnancy," Q admitted. "My mother was still in Sixth Form at the time. It was...a big scandal apparently. My grandparents weren't rich — quite the opposite — but my mother managed to get into Roedean on scholarship."
Bond's eyebrows raised. Roedean was perhaps the poshest public school for girls in all of Great Britain.
Q nodded, his mouth twisting wryly. "I don't believe they were too nice to her there. She was one of only three local girls on scholarship in the whole school. She tried to talk like them, and dress like them, but I don't think she was ever truly accepted. Then she met a posh boy, and — I suppose she was vulnerable."
"Your father?"
"Yes." Q shrugged. "Any soap opera should have told her how that would go," he said bitterly. "She asked him to run away with her; he accused her of entrapping him and offered to pay for the abortion. His family got involved, and agreed to pay for my education on the condition that my mother never contact any of them again."
Q's eyes were distant now, his voice meditative. "I don't think she ever really recovered from having her heart broken. She always did have a weakness for sweet-talking men. A family failing, I suppose."
Bond felt a jolt of awareness, his pulse suddenly kicking into a higher gear. "Is it?"
Q looked up, startled, a slow flush creeping up his neck as if he had just now realized what he had said. His grey-green eyes widened but remained locked on Bond's, as if trapped there. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I suppose it is."
"You let me touch you," Bond said, the words leaving his mouth without forethought.
"Yes." Q finally tore his eyes free, looking down at his forearm as if he could still see the imprint of Bond's palm there.
Bond could still backpedal. Could make a joke, or a sarcastic comment. "Let me touch you again," he said instead.
Q's lips parted in surprise. His pulse jumped in his neck, but he said nothing.
Bond pushed the coffee table back with his foot, slowly scraping it across the thick rug. Equally slowly he slid to the floor beside Q, ignoring the stabbing complaint from his fractured ribs.
The air seemed charged and heavy between them. Q was breathing fast, his eyes wide behind his glasses, his body unnaturally still.
"Just. Let me..." Bond reached out, pausing with his hand the barest inch away from Q's cheek. "Q?" he asked. He wanted to — god he wanted to — but he was damned if he would do it until Q said.
Q nodded once, tightly. Bond's breath sighed out in relief as he moved that last inch, feeling the silken skin and scratch of stubble against his palm, the curve of Q's cheekbone fitting into his hand as if it were made for it.
Q watched Bond intently, his expression wary. Bond traced his fingers down, sliding his hand to cup the nape of Q's neck before delving into that riot of hair. Q let out a soft, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, leaning into Bond's touch.
Bond carded his hand through Q's hair soothingly. He traced his fingers down again, skimming under Q's ear, feeling his pulse thrumming hard against the pad of his thumb. He gentled Q with his hands, reeling him in slowly, leaning their bodies together until Q was resting with his cheek against Bond's shoulder.
Q's body was still tense, his breath coming in fast pants against Bond's shoulder, even as he seemed to nuzzle in closer. Bond wrapped an arm around his shoulders, resting his chin against Q's hair.
"Just this," he said, his voice a near-whisper. "I don't even know what I'm asking for, but this...this is enough for now."
He felt Q's body ease, relaxing into the curve of his chest. "I don't know what else I can give," Q said, just as softly.
Bond took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the closeness. "We start here."
They sat in silence for several minutes, Bond gently touching Q's face, his neck, his wrist, feeling Q grow accustomed to his touch. Finally Bond laughed softly. "I'm too old to sit on the floor. Come sit on the couch with me."
He smiled down at Q. "Don't think I didn't notice that Dalek on your bookshelf. There must be some horrible sci-fi show you're just dying to make me watch on the telly."
Q's smile was intoxicating, warm and relaxed. "Have you ever seen Battlestar Galactica?"
Bond eased himself up onto the couch. "No. Does it have robots?"
Q followed Bond up on to the couch, curling back into his body almost naturally. It seemed almost like he had no moderation, sliding from completely aloof to incredibly tactile in one step. Not that Bond was complaining, as he pulled Q in even closer to his left side.
"Better than robots. Cylons. And I have the box set."
Bond snickered. "Of course you do."
Bond woke up from his doze, not sure how long he had been asleep. He felt Q's fingers in his hair, stroking gently. Bond must have tipped over at some point; his head was pillowed on Q's thigh. The telly was still on but Q had retrieved his laptop and had it balanced on the arm of the sofa.
"Q?" Bond said in confusion, his voice sleep-slurred. Q's hand paused for a moment, still tangled in Bond's close-cropped hair.
"Is this all right?" Q asked hesitantly.
"Yeah," Bond managed. He relaxed back, trying not to nuzzle into Q's leg. He should get up, he really should. In a moment, however, Q resumed the gentle touch, and it was so much easier just to stay where he was, basking in the simple affection.
This, he thought as he slid back into sleep. Just this.
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