Insomnia.
It didn't happen often. Bond usually had a soldier's knack of falling asleep whenever and wherever he could, in the same way that he could spring out of the deepest sleep fully awake and alert at the slightest unexpected noise or movement. When insomnia struck, however, it was insidious and unrelenting, having no respect for mission status or time zone.
Now Bond lay in bed next to Q, listening to his soft, even breathing. A long bolster pillow separated them, a hopefully temporary measure they had adopted to keep Bond from instinctively smothering Q in his sleep and triggering his panic. Funny — Bond had never found himself to be particularly cuddly with his other lovers. As it turned out, however, for some reason he instinctively gravitated closer to Q in the night, wrapping around him as if trying to surround and protect him with his own body. It probably had some deep subconscious meaning, but for now it was simply a bloody nuisance for them both.
Even with the barrier in place, however, Q was compelled to have some tactile contact with James as he slept. Right now Q was snuggled up to the bolster, one long arm thrown over it so that his palm could rest flat on Bond's chest. It was part of the contradiction of Q — as much as he was in danger of becoming overwhelmed by physical contact, he craved it nonetheless.
Bond concentrated on the warmth of that hand on his chest, turning his head to watch Q sleep. Q in sleep was mesmerizing — the strange quick grace of his slender body now still, his brilliant intriguing mind finally at rest. When awake, Q projected strength and competence, but asleep like this he was all youth and fragile vulnerability. The night was clear, and starlight shone down through the skylight, highlighting Q's ethereal pale skin, casting his hair and eyelashes into dusky velvet shadow. He was so fucking beautiful it hurt just to look at him.
He remembered the way Q had looked earlier that evening, laughing about some quip Bond had made. Bond had already forgotten what he had said, but the image of Q was crystal-clear. The way he laughed — sudden and abrupt, as if it surprised even himself. The way he looked at Bond, eyes shining, crinkled with amusement at the corners. He looked at Bond as if he were something new and beautiful and miraculous, instead of the jaded and broken-down old agent that he was. Even the recollection of it made Bond's breath hitch, some unnamed emotion burning in his chest until it felt like he was choking with it.
Bond used to think that caring for a woman was like having an extra heart — an additional soft point of vulnerability, difficult to protect. What Bond felt for Q went so far beyond that. Q was his heart now, everything bright and beautiful in his life. If something happened to Q, Bond did not think that he could survive it. Which he recognized as being pathetic, overly dramatic, and a completely unfair burden to put on Q, but true nonetheless.
Even lying still like this, Bond could feel his breath growing increasingly quick and shallow, his gut roiling with some nameless, unfocused panic. Bond had always been prone to this — after all, the black dog of depression nipped at his heels after every mission — but having Q in his life seemed to have added an extra, razor-sharp edge to every emotion. At times he wished for that frozen numbness back, the dull blankness that had settled in his heart after Vesper. For every daytime moment of joy with Q in his arms came the bitter nighttime fear clawing at his chest. He had something to lose now.
His nerves scraped raw by the third sleepless night in a row, Bond's thoughts now turned from nebulous, imagined future threats to Q and toward the nameless and faceless individuals who had hurt the vulnerable young man Q had been. When he closed his eyes, sleep just beyond his reach, the visions of what Q might have endured rose from the shadows like half-formed demons, intent on tormenting him. Behind his closed eyelids Bond saw strange hands holding Q down; his ear against the pillow heard the echo of Q's muffled cries. Q had never spoken further of exactly what had occurred at Huntercombe, and in the dark hours of another sleepless night Bond's traitorous mind — all too familiar with every iteration and nuance of psychological and sexual terrorism — filled in the gaps.
Finally Bond gave up on sleep, sliding carefully out from underneath Q's palm, making his way to the kitchen. He would prefer to down Scotch until his mind turned numb, but he knew from experience that would only feed the darkness growing within him. He settled for putting the kettle on, digging up some brandy from one of Q's cabinets and pouring a measure into his teacup.
He didn't know how long he had been standing over the electric kettle, watching the bubbles roil, before Q's soft footsteps jolted him out of his dark thoughts. He tried to hide some of the tension in his posture. He doubted he was successful, given how Q wound his arms around Bond's waist, pressing his forehead between Bond's shoulderblades in silent sympathy for a moment before reaching for a teacup of his own.
Bond rubbed a hand over his face. "You should go back to sleep, Q. No need for both of us to be up."
As if he hadn't spoken, Q fixed his own tea and settled on the sofa, raising an expectant eyebrow at Bond. Finally Bond gave into the inevitable. He poured his own tea, adding a little more brandy for good measure, and joined him.
They sipped in silence for awhile, shoulders pressed companionably close. Eventually Q took the empty cup out of Bond's hand, setting both aside before snuggling in under Bond's arm.
Bond rested his chin on Q's shaggy head, breathing in his scent and closeness.
"It's more than just insomnia, isn't it?" Q asked gently. "Something's on your mind."
Bond could feel his own jaw tic with tension. He wouldn't put this on Q. He couldn't. Q had been through enough without Bond dragging it all up again just to set his own uncertainties to rest.
The soft, sleepy curve of Q's body suddenly stiffened. "Is it not enough...what we do?" he asked hesitantly. "You can tell me if it isn't, James. You don't have to — to coddle me..."
"Christ, Q," Bond interrupted roughly, squeezing Q against his side. "That's not it at all."
He could feel Q relax incrementally, but his voice was still sharp. "What then? It's obviously not about the job, your last mission couldn't have gone better."
This time the silence was oppressive. Finally Bond couldn't stand it anymore. He slid out of Q's embrace and stood up, moving restlessly to the kitchen again. He refilled the kettle and plugged it in, conscious of how flimsy of an excuse it seemed.
"Go to bed, Q," he said without turning around. "I'll be in later." He heard Q come closer, hesitating at the archway to the kitchen. Bond stared stubbornly straight ahead at the cabinet until he heard Q's soft footsteps turn around and go back into the bedroom.
The sky was lightening to grey by the time Bond made his way wearily back to the bedroom. Q was curled with his back to the door, his eyes closed, but Bond could see the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed and knew he was awake.
Christ, he hadn't thought it was possible to feel worse, but he did. He lay down on what had become his side of the bed, unsure if he was allowed to reach over the distance between them.
He finally took in a deep breath, making up his mind. His voice was low and raspy when he finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind.
"Have you ever spoken about it?"
Q's body went unnaturally still for a moment, before he slowly uncurled, rolling to his back. He stared up at the ceiling, his red-rimmed eyes sending a pang through Bond's chest.
"You mean Huntercombe," Q said flatly. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Bond said anyway.
Q swallowed thickly. "Is that what you're hoping? That if I talk about it I'll — I'll get just get over it somehow, and all my — my issues will just disappear?" His voice curdled with bitterness. "Are you hoping we'll have a little chat about it all and then I'll magically become some kind of — some kind of porn star in your bed, like all those women who moan and squeal over the comms when you fuck them?"
"Goddammit, Q!" Bond barked. Q flinched and Bond lowered his voice to a growl. "Don't fucking put words in my mouth, especially when you're dead wrong. I don't want any damn thing in my bed except you, exactly as you are."
Q turned his head finally, wide grey-green eyes blinking behind the lenses of his glasses.
Bond's anger sputtered out as quickly as it had flared. "You're perfect, Q," he said gently. "I only wish I was thinking about helping you. It would be less fucking selfish than the truth."
"Which is what exactly?" Q rolled fully onto his side, facing Bond across the barrier of the bolster pillow. His face was intent now, his eyes searching Bond's expression.
Bond tried to put his tangled motives into some coherent form. "I know you don't want to talk about it," he finally ground out. "I don't want to make you, to put you through thinking about it again. But I can't help — I can't stop imagining it. Wondering how they hurt you. It's bloody intrusive of me, I know, and selfish to even think about asking, but not knowing — Q, it's eating me up inside, not to know."
Q blinked again, slowly. "You're asking for — for you," he said, surprise clear in his voice.
Bond shrugged. "I touch you sometimes, and I wonder — is this one of the things they did?" he admitted bitterly.
Q was silent. Bond draped his forearm over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Q. Just forget it. I'm sorry I brought it up."
"I'm not." Q's voice was steady and firm.
Bond lifted his arm, looking at Q in surprise. Q pushed the bolster pillow to the floor, scooting in closer. Bond gathered him in with a sigh of relief.
"I never really thought about that part of it," Q conceded softly. "What it would be like for you, not knowing. If I can make it better for you, I want to. It's obviously affecting us both."
"The last thing I want to do is cause you more pain," Bond rasped.
"You won't. You don't," Q said decisively. "James, I've — I've never been so happy. It's almost — almost nerve-wracking, how happy you make me."
Bond couldn't help huffing with laughter. "I thought I was the only one who felt that way. Shit-scared of how happy I am right now."
"No," Q said solemnly. "Not the only one."
Bond pulled Q even closer and Q came willingly, nuzzling into Bond's shoulder. He reached out with his right hand, taking Bond's fingers in his, rubbing an absent-minded circle in the palm of Bond's hand.
"Right, then," he said. He took a deep breath, and let it out with just the slightest hitch. "The first time, it was three of them. They caught me in the hallway, on the way to canteen..."
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