Bond started in on the dinner dishes, smiling to himself at the thought of what anyone at MI6 would say if they saw him like this. James Bond, domesticated, and not minding it a bit.
Bond had been at Q's house for four days now. He had finished his course of antibiotics that morning, and after a great deal of persuasion Q had actually unbent enough to allow a bottle of wine with dinner. Three-quarters of a bottle in and Bond was in ridiculously good spirits, his mind wandering aimlessly as he set about his task.
In such a short time Q and Bond had already established more or less of a routine. Breakfast together in the morning and dinner together in the evening, Q cooking while Bond did the washing up. In between Q worked from home in his high-tech study while Bond puttered around watching telly, easing gently into what exercise he could manage, or tinkering in Q's frankly alarmingly well-equipped workshop.
Bond smirked. Now that the secret was out — Q was a closet gearhead — Bond was almost certain he could convince him to modify another Aston Martin for him. Q still even had the auto lift in place from when the house had been a motorworks.
In the meantime, Bond had been drooling over the little Triumph T595 motorbike Q had parked in the corner of his garage workshop. Q had told Bond with no little pride that it would go from a standing start to 200 kph in 10.5 seconds, and that was before Q's modifications. He wondered if Q would ever feel comfortable enough with touch to ride with Bond. Bond imagined Q behind him, arms tight around his waist, long legs pressed to the length of Bond's thighs. How Q would lean into the curves with him, the engine growling between their legs.
Even a week ago, Bond would have thought it to be an impossibility. Now, however...
Bond couldn't say for certain exactly what he and Q were doing. To be honest, he had been steadfastly refusing to think about exactly what he and Q were doing. This exchange of touches they had initiated seemed as novel to Bond as it was to Q.
Bond was a very sexual person — he had been even before the job required it. Touching came naturally, but always as a prelude to something. A testing of the waters. The start of a seduction, with both parties knowing exactly where it would end. Using his body, his voice, his eyes, in deliberate and calculated ways — first to pull someone just for sex, and then later as another weapon in his arsenal, another means to an end. In his off-time he fucked for physical release — to occupy his mind, to relieve stress after a mission, to remind himself that he was still alive despite the odds.
The type of touching he was doing with Q was completely different. Gentle. Affectionate. Touching just for the simple pleasure of it, rather than as a prelude to sexual gratification. The way Q sleepily pressed a cup of coffee into Bond's hands in the morning, before the Quartermaster's coordination had fully kicked in. The way Bond reached out, ruffling Q's hair when he said something amusing. The curve of Q's spine as he leaned into Bond's body on the sofa, watching telly.
Together they had discovered that it was much easier for Q to touch than to be touched, and he still startled at times. If Q's back was turned or if he was engrossed in a task Bond had learned to speak aloud, reminding Q that he was there before touching him. Despite how cuddly Q was in general, if he felt crowded he would wriggle free immediately, tense and jumpy for the next few hours before finding his way back to Bond. Bond had learned not to apologize and Q had learned not to explain. They both simply waited it out and then started again.
As a result, each touch of their fingers to skin, each press of their bodies together seemed significant and charged. Affectionate but just shy of openly erotic. Sensual, but somehow just short of overtly sexual. Now that Bond thought of it, the most accurate term would be...romantic.
Was Bond actually romancing his Quartermaster? The idea seemed ludicrous, and yet...
Bond realized that the tapping on the computer had stopped. He heard Q's soft footsteps behind him and couldn't help smiling as Q lay his palms flat against Bond's waist, resting his forehead between Bond's shoulder blades.
"You've been washing one pot for ten minutes," Q observed. "It wasn't that dirty, was it?"
Bond hummed noncommittally, putting the pot in the drainer and drying his hands on the dishtowel. He put his hands over Q's and squeezed.
Q stepped back, leaning against the counter. "Deep thoughts?" he asked.
Bond shrugged, a little uncomfortable with where his train of thought had been headed. "More wine?" he suggested.
"Alcohol is your solution to everything," Q laughed, but followed Bond into the living room all the same, accepting the refilled glass Bond pressed into his hand. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.
Bond looked Q over. He was slouched languidly on the sofa, his eyes heavy-lidded, a slight flush to his cheeks from the small amount wine he had already had. He looked delicious.
"I wouldn't put it past myself," Bond said wryly.
Bond lifted Q's laptop, making room for himself on the sofa, holding it out of reach as Q made a frantic grab for it.
"Worried I'll find your porn?" he teased.
Q rolled his eyes. "I'm a professional hacker, Bond. Silva couldn't find the porn on my computer." His mouth quirked, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Besides, the best stuff is on the bookshelves."
"Oh really?" Bond was up in moments, making his way to the two large built-in bookshelves flanking Q's flatscreen television.
"Honestly, Bond!" Q's voice was still amused, but when Bond cast a glance at him he was blushing, his nose buried in his wine glass.
Bond surveyed the intimidating bookcases. Each one was at least six feet wide, stretching to the high ceiling, and packed with books. "I think I may need a hint."
Q took a hearty gulp of wine. "French is a much more...evocative language."
Bond smiled wolfishly. "I've been meaning to brush up on my French."
The lefthand bookshelf was all English-language. The righthand bookshelf was a mix of mostly French and Arabic, with a few other languages thrown in. Bond started pulling titles from the shelves, paging through at random and then putting them back.
Finally he reached one that raised his eyebrow. "Erotic poetry?"
Q's eyes were bright, his smile somehow both wicked and abashed. "I have a vivid imagination."
"Do tell." Bond flipped through a few pages. "I need to improve my vocabulary," he grumbled.
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to offer you private lessons?"
Christ. A jolt of arousal speeded Bond's pulse and made his mouth run dry. His brain stalled out momentarily at the image of Q in bed — his lithe body twisting under Bond's, that decadent voice murmuring erotic French words into Bond's ear. Bond must still be recovering from the blood loss, because he could have sworn his knees weakened there for a moment.
Hoping that keeping his back turned hid his reaction, Bond knelt down, looking at the bigger books on the bottom shelf.
"Aha!" He pulled a heavy coffee table-sized book out. "Dirty photographs. No translation required."
"They're...artistic!" Q protested weakly, his cheeks quite adorably pink now.
Bond brought the book back to the sofa, settling in to flip through the pages. The photographs actually were very artistic. Some were richly colored but most were black and white, studies in light and shadow. Nothing so crude as a full-frontal nude, but rather each shot seemed like a celebration of male beauty. Several were extreme close-ups, the camera seeming to linger lovingly on the graceful sweep of a shoulder blade, the curve of a buttock, the tender valley between jaw and neck. Others were portraits, a single nude man or the occasional couple in a close embrace.
Bond quirked an eyebrow at Q mischievously. "Let's see who your favorite is, then." He balanced the book spine-down in one palm and loosened his grip on the covers, letting the book naturally fall open to the most frequently-viewed page.
"Damn you and your...secret spy tricks!" Q grumbled good-naturedly.
"Now...which one is it?" Bond mused aloud. Both portraits were intensely erotic and yet somehow...almost tender. One was a fair-haired man in a bathtub, his arm and shoulder draped over the edge, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. His head was thrown back, his face in profile as he blew a stream of smoke into the air. A droplet of water trickled down the elongated line of his throat, over the jut of his adam's apple.
"It would be cheating to tell...you have to guess."
Bond examined both pages carefully. "This one," he said with certainty. He pointed to the portrait on the opposite page. The man was dark-haired, not quite as slender as Q but still long and lithe. His knees were folded under him and he was draped over them, the curve of his spine breathtaking. His arms were above his head, emphasizing the graceful sweep of his body, obscuring his face from the camera.
"So...this is your type? Tall and dark?" Bond asked, strangely displeased by the thought.
Q shook his head. "It's nothing about the physical type. It's just — the way he is —" Q seemed to censor whatever else he was going to say. He shrugged, taking another gulp of wine.
Almost unconsciously Bond ran his fingertip over the picture, tracing the supple arch of the man's spine with his callused fingertip. Beside him Q made a small, shocked noise.
"He's waiting," Bond said, his voice low and soft as he considered the picture again. "He's not alone, not like the man in the bathtub. He knows someone else is there, watching him, and he's...anticipating. Waiting for that first touch."
Q's eyes were almost hazel, darkened by his response to Bond's words. His pink tongue flickered out, licking at his lips nervously.
"Which do you imagine?" Bond asked, his voice growing husky with the thought of it. "In that...vivid imagination of yours. Are you the man watching him, or are you him...the one waiting to be touched?"
Q swallowed. The moment spun out, and just when Bond thought that Q wouldn't answer he finally spoke. "Him," he said, his voice rough and uneven. "Waiting to be touched. He's..." Q inhaled sharply, as if he had forgotten to breathe until now. "He's not even looking. It's all his back, so vulnerable. He — "
Q seemed to lose his nerve, suddenly looking away from Bond. "There's trust there." Q's mouth twisted bitterly, and Bond could almost feel the wall going up between them. "You always want what you can't have. Isn't that what they say?"
Bond felt unfocused anger flare low in his belly. "Who says that you can't have that?"
Q jumped to his feet, his movements edgy. He moved restlessly to the bookshelf, straightening up some of the books Bond had displaced. Bond saw his narrow chest swell as he took in a deep breath and then released it slowly.
"I have to go in tomorrow," Q said, still staring at the neat rows of books.
"Pardon?" Bond blinked at the abrupt change in subject.
Q kept his back to Bond. His voice was cool and crisp now, all the husky warmth gone. "You are no longer on the verge of death, and so my dispensation to work from home is at an end. And you have to report in to Medical tomorrow as well, even Dr. Ross and I together can't fend them off any longer."
"I see." Bond did, in fact see. To tell the truth he had been stubbornly refusing to think beyond the present, determined to enjoy this interlude with Q for whatever it was. Now, it seemed, the outside world could no longer be held at bay.
So, tomorrow then, Bond would report to HQ and resume his usual post-injury routine. Medical would no doubt start him on a more intensive physiotherapy program, and in the evenings he would return to that soulless, empty flat of his. His mind revolted at the very thought of it, and yet what was the alternative?
Bond put his own wineglass down, coming to stand behind Q, staying a pace away so as not to crowd him. He studied Q's stiff back, the restless movements of those clever hands as they touched the spines of the books.
"I could cook for a change," he found himself saying. "If you trust me with your kitchen that is."
Q's head whipped around, his eyes wide with surprise before he schooled his features into a more composed expression. "Pardon?"
Bond stepped closer. "I could make us dinner tomorrow." His mouth quirked. "To celebrate me surviving whatever reprimands M has in store."
Q turned as well, leaning back against the bookcase. "All this time — you can cook and you never said? Lazy bastard." His smile started slowly, spreading across his face and lighting his eyes in that way that made him look achingly young and beautiful.
Bond couldn't help reaching out, his thumb caressing that little half-dimple that only showed when Q, honestly, genuinely smiled. "After that is the week-end..."
Q's smile faltered for a moment and Bond's hand dropped to his side. "I didn't mean to — "
"No," Q said emphatically, reaching out for Bond's hand. "I want you here. That would be...lovely."
The sudden tightness in Bond's chest eased. "I'm not going to invade your home indefinitely, Q, I just..."
"Stay as long as you like." Q's eyes were bright behind his glasses, his voice painfully earnest. "I like having you here."
Bond smiled. "Good. Your sofa is very comfortable."
Q smirked. "And your flat is depressing beyond belief. Honestly, Bond, Huntercombe had more warmth and personality than your place. After five minutes there even I wanted to drink myself into oblivion."
Bond chuckled. It was a measure of Q's comfort with him, he thought warmly, that he could joke about Huntercombe. He had even joked about Silva earlier. They may not know exactly where this was going, but it was undeniable how much had changed between them since that first tense evening in Q-Branch when he had inadvertently touched Q.
"Smartarse," Bond said. "But you're not wrong. They sold everything in my flat when I was presumed dead. It didn't seem worth the effort, somehow, to rebuild. I'm hardly ever there."
He was trying to make a joke of it but Q seemed chastened, his eyes serious now. "You shouldn't let that happen, Bond. Everyone needs a place where they belong."
The poignancy of Q's words struck Bond anew. After a life that seemed fairly hellish, Q had created this place for himself, a place where he finally belonged, and now he was giving Bond an open invitation to it as well. "And this is yours," Bond replied soberly. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
"Well...here and Q-Branch. It took me a while to acknowledge it, but that's another place I belong."
Bond nodded. Q seemed truly alive in Q branch. The same way...
"In the field," Bond admitted. "That's where I belong. Where I come alive." He realized he still held Q's hand, looking down at their entwined fingers. "Where I'll die," he finished thoughtfully. Q flinched and only then did Bond realise that he had said it aloud. To him it was the simple truth, but when he looked up Q seemed — wounded, almost, before he composed his features into calm detachment.
"Not if I can help it," Q said firmly, stepping to the side, away from Bond, moving to gather up the wineglasses.
"Q, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
"Don't worry about it, Bond." Q was busying himself in the kitchen, quite pointedly avoiding Bond's gaze. "Get some rest. Can't have Medical coming after me if you look tired tomorrow. As it is they'll probably give me hell for letting you sleep on the sofa with fractured ribs. I don't think they realise how insistent a crotchety double-oh can be."
Christ. Bond had screwed up again. No surprise there.
"Trust me, they know," he said wryly. Double-ohs were notoriously bad patients, just as they were notoriously pants at relationships. Bond was clearly both.
Q set the wineglasses on a dishtowel to dry as Bond pulled the pillow and blanket he had using from a storage ottoman, tossing it on the sofa.
Q paused at the door to his bedroom. "Sleep well."
"Goodnight, Q. Sleep well."
Bond lay on the sofa, listening to the little domestic sounds of Q changing, washing his face, brushing his teeth. Intimate, personal sounds. He and Q had become so close over the past few days, and yet it still felt temporary, fleeting. Every time the tension seemed to build between them one or the other of them would back off.
You always want what you can't have, Q had said.
Bond lay on Q's sofa, listening to the sounds of Q just on the other side of a closed door and wanting.
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