[Author's Note: So, naturally what was meant to be one chapter became three. This was just meant to be an opening scene, but of course it grew. Sorry if this chapter seems short and uneventful, the next two chapters are longer and chock-full of answers and development. And if you feel like complaining about the length of this one, keep in mind I posted on Sunday, this is going up on Tuesday, and the next one will be up on Friday at the latest, so you're getting three updates in one week. :-D]
Bond returned from his run, smiling as he pulled the new palmprint-encoded digital lockpick from his pack. Q had presented him with it within two hours of their return to HQ, apparently (and quite accurately) doubting Bond's ability to calculate the shifting algorithm required to open Q's gate.
And that was more or less the last time he had spoken to Q. By that afternoon 009 had gotten himself embroiled in some disaster of an op in Bhutan, and Q had finally chased Bond out of Q-Branch at midnight, promising to take the car service home. If he wasn't back by tonight Bond might consider some light kidnapping. He did owe Q a dinner, after all.
Bond closed the door to the house behind him and toed off his trainers. He padded into the living room in his socks, smiling at what he found. Q was draped bonelessly across the length of the sofa, snoring gently into Bond's pillow. His glasses were askew, and Bond carefully removed them, placing them on the coffee table. He resisted the urge to run a hand through Q's riotous hair and left him in peace, heading into the en suite for a shower.
He was just pulling on some jeans when he heard muffled noises from the living area. He burst through the door, skidding to a relieved stop in front of the sofa. Q was just dreaming — a nightmare by the looks of it.
"Q...wake up..." Unthinking, he reached out to touch Q's shoulder.
Q burst into motion, jolting upright, throwing an elbow that caught Bond smack across the jaw. Bond instinctively grabbed at his wrist, trying to restrain him, and Q bit viciously at his forearm. Bond grunted in pain, trying to call Q's name. Lightning-fast Q kicked at Bond's legs and head-butted his chin, sending him tumbling backwards over the coffee table with a violent crash.
Bond had the presence of mind to scramble backwards this time as Q stood, his whole body tense as a wire, his head whipping around to find the next threat, his eyes wide and unseeing.
"Q," Bond finally managed to wheeze. "It's Bond. You're safe. You were dreaming."
Q froze, his blood-smeared mouth working noiselessly for a moment before he appeared able to speak. "Bond?" he said, his brow furrowing.
"Yeah." Bond curled upright, ignoring the protest of his still-healing ribs.
Q's whole body was shaking. His knees appeared to give out and he sank abruptly to the sofa. "I can't see," he said, sounding confused and plaintive now.
Fuck. It came back to Bond in a flash, Q's confession as they had shared a bottle of whiskey on the anniversary of Vesper's death.
The worst part was when one little bastard figured out to take my glasses, Q had said. I don't dream of it often, but when I do, that's what I dream. Being blind. Everything just a blur of color and noise, not being able to see where the next touch was coming from. Not being able to defend myself against it.
"Jesus, Q, I'm sorry," Bond rasped. "Your glasses are on the coffee table. Here..." He picked them up and touched them to Q's hand. Q flinched away — Christ, he really was blind without them — but then grasped them almost frantically, unfolding them and settling them on his face.
"Oh, bloody hell," he said, blinking once at his now-clear view of Bond. "What did I do to you?" He rounded the coffee table, kneeling at Bond's side.
"Not nearly as much as I deserve," Bond said wryly. "I'm sorry, Q, I didn't even think...your glasses looked like they might break..."
"Never mind that," Q said, his voice growing steadier. "I — I bit you?" His eyes were on Bond's forearm, where an undeniable bite mark was slowly seeping blood. Q wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, looking at the resulting smear of blood on his pale flesh with horror.
"I'm clean. You don't have to worry —"
"I know that," Q interrupted curtly. "Christ, Bond, I bit you, and — what else did I do? Your ribs?"
Q reached a hand forward as if to touch Bond's bare chest and then pulled it back abruptly.
"I'm fine, Q. Really. Are you? That was a bloody good Glasgow kiss you gave me."
Q rubbed his forehead bashfully, as if just now realizing what he had done. "I'm fine. I'll get the medical kit."
Bond could hear Q quickly washing his hands and face before returning with the medical kit from the bathroom.
Q sat next to Bond on the sofa, opening the kit with quick deft movements, but when he reached out to dab antiseptic on the wound his hand was shaking noticeably.
"Here," Bond said, carefully taking the gauze pad from him without touching his fingers. "I can do it." He didn't want to force Q into close proximity if he needed some space.
Q put his head in his hands, staring down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he said tightly.
"Nothing to apologise for." Bond said firmly. "God knows I have nightmares often enough, I should have known better." He smirked. "Just think how it will improve your reputation at work when word gets around that you gave a double-oh a thrashing. The return rates for your tech will skyrocket."
Q glanced up sharply. "It's not funny."
"No," Bond agreed. But he would rather have Q angry than on the verge of tears as he seemed a moment ago. "Q, you're exhausted. I'm fine. Go get some rest. I still owe you a dinner, and I'd rather that you were conscious for it."
"Yes. Right." Q was still shaking and sweating, and Bond was almost consumed by the urge to gather him close. Instead he returned Q's curt nod and watched him go into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Dinner was a study in things left unsaid. Q emerged shortly before dinnertime, freshly-showered but still sleepy-eyed, his eyes skittering away nervously from Bond's every time their glances happened to meet.
Bond knew exactly why Q had reacted the way he had, and Q knew that Bond knew. Q's eyes lingered on Bond's developing bruises and the patch of gauze covering his forearm, but he said nothing.
Instead they talked about where Bond had learned to cook curry, and about 009's disastrous mission. They traded tidbits of information about Mallory and Tanner and Moneypenney, swapping stories about the various improbable escapades of the other double-ohs.
Q did the washing up this time, and Bond suddenly realized that they hadn't touched all evening. Was that Q's doing, or Bond's? Bond honestly didn't know. Q had kept his distance as Bond finished the final steps of the cooking, and Bond hadn't reached out either, not sure how physical contact would be received.
He leaned against the counter, watching Q for some sign of what he should do, and finding nothing.
"You must be tired," Q said over his shoulder. "You can go ahead if you like, I'll finish up here."
Was that a rejection? It certainly sounded like one, and yet there was something a little too alert in Q's posture. Not so much wariness, as it was...awareness.
Sod this, Bond thought. Subtlety was never his forte, he might as well live up to his reputation.
"What do I do?" he asked abruptly. Q turned the water off and dried his hands carefully.
"About what?" Q was trying for a casual tone of voice, and failing miserably.
"About...this." Bond's curt hand gesture encompassed all the empty space between them. "Q, I don't give a single fuck about what happened earlier, except for feeling like a bloody fool for not knowing better and worrying about what it's done to you. So just tell me...are you angry, or upset, or sick of me, or what? Because I sure as hell don't need to go to bed at ten o'clock unless you're just trying to get rid of me."
Q's whole body seemed to sag, the stiff tension easing from his spine. "I'm not trying to get rid of you at all. I just..." He met Bond's eyes, managing to hold his gaze for the first time all evening. "I'm embarrassed, I suppose. And I hurt you."
Bond felt something unknot in his chest. He moved closer. "I'm a bloody awful double-oh if I can't take a few thumps, Q. And you have nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, I was impressed. You're quite...scrappy."
"Don't patronize me," Q said sharply. "You've been through things infinitely worse. Actual torture. And you're — you're not broken by it."
"Neither are you," Bond said firmly. Q stared down at his hands as Bond took a final step closer, standing within a pace of him. "Can I still touch you?"
Q's head jerked up in surprise. "Of course," he said. "I hadn't meant to imply that you couldn't. I thought perhaps you didn't want to after — "
"Q," Bond interrupted. "Shut up for a moment." He reached out slowly, pulling Q into his arms, feeling his momentary startlement before he settled into the embrace. Even though they were almost of a height, Q managed to fit in against Bond's body perfectly, resting his forehead into the lee of Bond's neck with a sigh.
Bond's hands moved gently, soothingly over Q's back. They stood there, silent except for the sound of their quiet breathing, for long moments. Bond let his mind empty of everything except the feeling of Q in his arms, leaning trustingly against him as the last of the tension bled away from them both — the warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, the soft humid puff of his breath against Bond's throat.
"C'mon," Bond finally murmured. "Watch telly with me. I've discovered all the Top Gear on your DVR that you've been hiding from me."
Q laughed, shaking his head against Bond's neck. "How do you just..."
He pulled back, searching Bond's face. His beautiful grey-green eyes were bright and damp, his soft mobile mouth perfectly pink. Bond suddenly, achingly, wanted to kiss him more than anything else in the world.
Q's eyes widened for a quick moment and he ducked his head, stepping back. "Okay," he said. "Telly it is."
Three episodes later Bond was halfway to asleep, his head once again on Q's thigh, Q's left hand carding through his hair absent-mindedly while his right hand tapped at his laptop. The tapping stopped for a moment, and Bond moved his eyes from the screen to find Q watching him, his head tipped down, glasses pushed slightly askew where his cheek pressed against the back of the sofa.
Bond smiled up at Q, straightening his glasses with a gentle fingertip. "You sleep with them on, then?" he asked drowsily.
Q flushed a little, but held Bond's gaze, nodding. "It's ridiculous, I know. But the frames are my own design. A titanium core, surrounded by shape-memory polymer. They're stronger than they look. They bend, but they won't break."
Bond's smile widened. "Just like you."
Q's flush deepened, but his mouth quirked into a smile. "Go to sleep. You're talking nonsense."
Bond hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes again, luxuriating in Q's touch. Nonsense indeed. Each of Q's inventions was a reflection of the man himself. Ingenious. Resilient. Bond smiled to himself. Desirable.
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