[Author's Note: Sorry this update took a little longer than most. This chapter is super sized, if that helps. Huge thanks to mygoldfishsavedmylife on Tumblr for the French translations. And, if you want to stalk me on Tumblr as well, I am drgrlfriend on there (the first I is missing for "I was too slow to get the url I really wanted.")
Bond woke up slowly, the smile spreading across his face even before he was fully aware. Q was a soft, soothing weight draped bonelessly over half of his body, his dark mop of hair puddled on Bond's bare chest, the edge of his glasses sharp against Bond's upper ribs. This was something new Q had started in recent weeks, crawling over the bolster and into Bond's arms in the early morning, still half-asleep but aware enough to enjoy the closeness without waking in a panic.
Bond drowsily delved his fingers into that mess of hair, feeling the warmth of Q's scalp before tracing down to the nape of Q's neck. Q hummed contentedly into Bond's chest, nuzzling incrementally closer.
I like waking up with you in my arms, Bond thought, but couldn't quite bring himself to say out loud. Instead he snuck his hand up under the hem of Q's soft t-shirt, tracing his fingertips upwards over the bumps of his spine. Bond knew Q's wiry strength, but at times like this Q felt so fragile — so precious — his bones poignantly fine and delicate under Bond's blunt and scarred fingers.
Just a few days ago Bond had woken up alone in the smothering heat of a hotel room in Chennai, muscles seized up with stiffness and bones aching from the last desperate throes of his mission. He had lain on the thin mattress and comforted himself with thoughts of Q like this — drowsy and pliant in his arms on the rare mornings they both had a day off and could wake up lazily. Now he had the real thing, and he was determined to take full advantage.
Q hummed again, shifting even closer until he was fully on top of Bond. Bond bent his knees and they both sighed as Q's weight settled fully into the cradle of Bond's hips.
Q skimmed his lips up Bond's neck — barely-there kisses and the scrape of stubble — until their mouths met and clung. They kissed languidly, still only half-awake, for long moments. Q broke first, rocking up against Bond almost imperceptibly, his cock now a firm ridge in his pajama bottoms. Bond smiled, skimming his hands down Q's back to slide under his waistband. He cupped the swell of Q's arse to grind them together harder but controlled the pace, keeping it achingly slow.
"James," Q mumbled plaintively against Bond's neck.
Bond smiled. "Patience, love."
Q made a little huff of frustration, the lean muscles of his back shifting under Bond's palm, but Bond was inexorable. He wanted a slow burn, wanted Q to feel it building, hot and deep and — fuck, but that was good as Q managed to worm his hands in between them and tug down on their pajama bottoms, freeing both their cocks.
"Diabolical," Bond growled, the first slide of bare skin against bare skin sending a shudder through him.
He could feel Q rummaging under his pillow for something, before he finally held the bottle of lube up triumphantly. "What was that you called me again?" he teased. His eyes were bright and green in the soft morning light, crinkles of amusement gathering at the corners.
"Diabolical genius," Bond amended.
Q snapped open the lid of the bottle and just as quickly Bond snatched it out of his hand, flipping it to slick his own palm instead. "Still not letting you rush this," he purred, capping the bottle and tossing it to the ground.
Q's protest dissolved into a soft moan as Bond wrapped his hand around them both, slick and warm, stubbornly anchoring Q with his other arm as Q tried to push faster into Bond's fist.
"James," Q complained again. Bond felt the sharp scrape of Q's teeth over his earlobe before Q pulled back. A flush of pink colored his cheeks. His grey-green eyes met Bond's, bright with mischief now, before the lids lowered and Q bit his lower lip in the way he knew drove Bond insane.
"C'est si bon, James," Q murmured, and god, it was Bond's Achilles' heel, hearing Q's posh voice turn throaty and fluid when he spoke French. Q leaned back in, placing little sucking bites up Bond's neck. "J'aime ta manière de faire ça."
"Fuck, Q," Bond groaned, his hand moving incrementally faster. He could feel Q smile against his skin.
"J'en veux plus," Q whispered into Bond's ear. "S'il te plait, James. Plus fort maintenant. Plus rapide."
That bloody voice. It seemed to curl around Bond, sending tingles down his spine. Bond threw his head back, staring up at the cloudy sky through the skylight before his eyes closed in bliss. It felt like heaven — having Q here in his arms, their bodies pressed close, Q's silky voice in his ear. Pleasure wound tighter in them both with every stroke of Bond's hand, Q's voice growing more frantic, rougher. "N'arrête jamais de me toucher. Tu me rends dingue. Je te veux tellement."
Bond growled, taking Q's mouth again, kissing him hot and deep, sucking on that clever, clever tongue until they broke apart with a gasp. Q was making soft little noises of entreaty with every stroke of Bond's hand, pushing shamelessly up into his fist.
"S'il te plait, James," he murmured frantically. "Fais moi venir."
Bond inhaled deeply through his nose, fighting for control. "Easy, love," he purred, slowing Q's movements again. Q was so close — lips pressed against Bond's neck now to smother every soft little noise that was trying to escape him. "That's it, love," Bond crooned. "So good for me."
Q made a choked, desperate little noise, shaking his head against Bond's skin.
Bond smiled. "Just like this, love. I'm going to make you come, soft and slow. Just like this."
And he did, keeping it leisurely and languid, an indulgent slick slide of skin against skin until finally he heard Q's sharp gasp as he tipped over the edge. Q shuddered and then sighed, his warmth spilling between them in endless shivering pulses. Finally his whole body relaxed, melting against Bond's.
Bond's own orgasm was lazy and delicious, a slow unspooling that left him breathless and lightheaded, every muscle in his body seemingly suffused with liquid warmth.
They lay in the soft sunlight in a drowsy, spent heap as their heartbeats slowed and their breaths evened out.
"I refuse to get dressed at all today," Bond finally murmured lazily, wiping his hand on the sheet.
"Mmmm," Q hummed into his neck. "Not practical. Alec is coming by this afternoon with the last few boxes."
With tacit understanding Bond had been slowly moving his few possessions — primarily consisting of his wardrobe — to Q's house. When Alec managed to burn his most recent flat down in a fit of boredom (he claimed it was accidental, but Bond knew him too well to believe it) Bond had given in to the inevitable and turned over the lease to his flat. Neither Bond nor Q had actually acknowledged the fact that they were officially living together, but Bond had come back from his last mission to find a wardrobe of his very own in the bedroom, and somehow everything Bond brought over found a place of honor in Q's house.
"Alec has seen worse." Bond smirked. "Although I'll be damned if I'll let him get a glimpse of you naked," he growled after a moment's thought.
"Possessive bastard," Q said fondly. "Also, not a concern in the least. I'm going to be machining parts today. Not quite the task to be undertaking naked."
Bond grunted in acknowledgement, his hand sneaking under Q's shirt again to spread out against his sweat-damp back. "Working on the garrote buckle?" Q had an idea for a belt buckle that with the flick of a switch would only tighten and not loosen.
"The tourniquet buckle," Q corrected automatically, making Bond grin. Q was always looking for ways his inventions could save the lives of his operatives, while Bond saw the killing purpose in each one. It was quite an effective combination, actually.
"Besides, we're out of milk," Q murmured.
Bond groaned dramatically. "I'm not going bloody shopping."
Q smiled against his chest. "I'll get it, you lazy bastard. I want to cook tonight. And I'll pick up your coffee on the way."
"You just want to get that ridiculous hot chocolate you like." Q's rare indulgence on mornings like this was a truly extravagant hot chocolate from the coffee shop nearby, piled high with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. "I could make that for you at home, you know. I'm sure we could find some lovely uses for any leftover whipped cream."
Q bit gently at Bond's collarbone. "Incorrigible."
True to his word, Bond was standing at the sink in only a fresh pair of pajama bottoms, shaving, when he heard the scrape of the gate and then the front door opening and closing. He half expected Q to wander in to the bathroom to deliver his coffee personally — the man seemed to have a particular affinity for watching Bond shave — but Bond was left to scrape the straight razor up his jaw in solitude.
He wet a flannel and wiped the last of the shaving soap from his face. Only then did it strike him how silent the house had been. Q hated drinking from takeout cups, he always transferred his hot chocolate to a ceramic mug — usually his favorite, the one with the Aperture Industries logo. Bond hadn't heard the clink of the mugs, or even the rustle of shopping bags and the opening and closing of the refrigerator as Q put the shopping away.
Bond threw the flannel aside, his pulse kicking up a notch. He moved silently into the bedroom, snagging his Walther from the bedside cabinet on his way. In three paces he could see every corner of the living space. Q was alone in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop.
Bond lowered his gun, feeling foolish, but something about the situation still didn't feel quite right. Q seemed small and hunched, his back turned to Bond, his body unnaturally still for long moments as Bond studied him. There was no sign of any takeaway cups or shopping bags.
"Q?" he said.
Q seemed to startle, wheeling around suddenly and taking a faltering step back. Bond felt the cold clarity that came with a surge of adrenaline.
"What's happened?" he asked.
Q's eyes slid aside evasively, his hand running nervously through his hair before fluttering to his side. "Nothing. It's...it's nothing."
Bond narrowed his eyes. Q knew better than to try to lie to him, especially so poorly. His grip tightened unconsciously on the gun as he tried to assess the threat and came up at a loss.
Q's sharp eyes caught the incremental movement, flicking down to the Walther and then away again.
"You don't need the weapon, James," he said, his voice sounding brittle. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't have it right now, if you don't mind."
Bond's confusion increased, and with it a jittery sense of concern. Despite his history, Q was unquestionably comfortable with weapons. He had never before expressed any uneasiness about Bond being armed.
Bond immediately flipped the gun around in his hand, holding it by the barrel before placing it on the coffee table, broadcasting every slow movement as he would in a hostage situation.
Q had partially turned his back again but Bond could see the tension in his thin shoulders. His breath was coming in uneven pants, his throat working as if he were struggling with some strong emotion.
Bond stifled the urge to run to him, instead circumscribing a slow half-circle into Q's field of vision and then moving forward, stopping a few paces away.
"Tell me," he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite the tension running through him like a wire.
Q's eyes flicked up, his mouth twisting. Both hands clenched the edge of the counter, white-knuckled.
"It's stupid," he said, his voice oddly flat. "I'm being stupid."
"You're anything but stupid," Bond said impatiently. "Tell me."
Q squeezed his eyes shut. "I saw...him." He shook his head as if realizing that he wasn't making sense. "One of them," he amended.
Bond felt it physically — his fear for Q turning to rage in a white-hot flash. He looked toward his gun reflexively.
"Don't," Q said tightly. He was looking at Bond now, his beautiful grey-green eyes damp behind the lenses of his glasses.
"Why not?" Bond barely recognized his own voice in the icy growl.
"Because I don't fucking need you to!" Q spat.
Q forcibly unclenched his hands from the counter, pacing a few steps, his movement uncoordinated and jerky.
"Do you think that's what I need from you? To pull a fucking trigger for me?"
Bond shook his head, trying to control his anger. "I would. Anyone. No questions asked."
Q paused, rubbing his forehead. Some of the frantic tension seemed to leave him. "I know that," he said quietly.
He slumped back against the counter, looking at his feet for long moments. When he finally lifted his eyes to Bond's, shadows lurked in the grey-green depths.
"It's been ten years, James. Don't you think if that's what I wanted I would have done it by now? I may not have known all their names, but I'll never forget their faces. Do you know how many keystrokes it would take me to find out everything?" Q's eyes were still fixed on Bond's face but the cold distance in them sent a chill down Bond's spine. "A negligible amount. Minutes of my time, at the most. Where they are now, what they are doing."
Q shrugged, his voice dropping to a low rasp. "And then how many keystrokes more to send a bug down the wire? To overload their gas heaters, to remotely disable the brakes on their cars, to drop an elevator ten stories? Don't think I haven't thought of it. I could do it without collateral damage. I could do it with my eyes closed. I'm that good."
Bond believed it, unequivocally. "You are. You could." His words were more than an acknowledgement. They were an offer.
Q's mouth twisted again. "That's how Silva started, I expect." He pulled the electric kettle from the base and started to fill it, his movements automatic. Bond watched, helpless, staying a deliberate distance away. Careful not to touch, much as he wanted to. Christ, but he wanted Q in his arms or his gun in his hand, preferably both. He needed to do something. He needed a target.
"Could he have followed you?" he finally asked as Q reached for a mug.
Q dropped his head. The sound that escaped him was halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob. "He didn't even recognize me." He put the mug down, tilting his glasses up and scrubbing the heel of his hand across his eyes angrily before he picked it up again.
"I'm the fucking Quartermaster of MI6. I'm responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. I am calm in any crisis. And yet I froze like a fucking rabbit." His voice was thick with self-recrimination. "One look at him and I was a kid again, weak and terrified, and he — he fucking looked right past me." So quickly Bond barely saw it, his arm whipped out, hurling the mug to the floor, both of them flinching as it shattered violently to pieces against the slate tiles.
Q stared down at the shards of his favorite mug, his chest heaving. "That didn't make me feel better at all," he finally said, his voice wobbly now.
"Q," Bond said helplessly.
Q took one halting step forward, and then another. Each step took him closer to Bond, until finally he was in front of him. He leaned in slowly, resting his forehead to Bond's bare chest. Slowly, so that Q could pull away at any time, Bond raised his arms, looping them loosely around Q's shoulders.
Q sighed and shuffled in closer, his arms coming around Bond's waist, his chin settling in the crook of Bond's neck. Bond slowly tightened his grip, uncaring as the frames of Q's glasses dug into his cheek.
"I should have said something, or done something," Q whispered. His soft laugh was a horrible sound, bitter and broken. "Pardon me, sir, but do you remember forcing me to suck your cock while your friends held me down?"
Bond couldn't help his flinch, and Q must have felt it.
"Sorry," Q whispered contritely.
"Don't..." That Q would apologize to him, worrying about his feelings right now. "Just...tell me what to do."
Q let out a shuddering breath. His voice was weary, tinged with fondness. "There's nothing to do, James. Just...this. This is good."
Bond held Q tightly, rubbing his cheek against Q's temple. "There has to be more."
"Like what?" Q pulled back, searching Bond's face. "Revenge? Justice?" He seemed calmer now, resigned. "Half of them are probably dead by now already, by their own or someone else's hand. A good lot of them were probably doing things that had been done to them by others. There's no solution to that — no magic fix."
Q stepped in close again, his arms squeezing Bond a little too tightly. "I survived. I got out," he murmured. "I have a good life now."
Bond held Q tighter. After all the horrors he had seen, across the years and bloody missions and dirt-poor nations — he knew better than most that life wasn't fair. That innocents were hurt for no reason, that good people suffered and monsters triumphed. When it came to Q, though, he couldn't quite manage to come to terms with that. He wanted to pay back those who had hurt Q with blood and pain, but he knew that if he did so would be for his own sake, and not for Q's. He took in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly, feeling Q relax incrementally as some of the tension left Bond's body.
Bond felt the barest brush of Q's lips against his neck. "I have you," Q murmured against Bond's skin. "That's — that's all the justice to be had."
Translation:
C'est si bon, James. = That feels so good, James.
J'aime ta manière de faire ça. = I love how you touch me.
J'en veux plus. = I want more.
S'il te plait, James. Plus fort maintenant. Plus vite. = Please, James. Harder now. Faster.
N'arrête jamais de me toucher. Tu me rends dingue. Je te veux tellement or J'ai tellement envie de toi = Never stop touching me. You make me crazy. I want you so much.
Fais moi venir. = Make me come.
[Author's Footnote: Sorry for the emotional whiplash in this one. I thought about breaking it up into two chapters, but I kind of liked the contrast, hoping the reader might feel something along the lines of what Q and Bond felt — that sometimes things can be going along swimmingly and the ground drops out from under your feet. I think this story is nearing its end — just two chapter to go, probably. Thanks so much for sticking with it! Please drop me a review if you're still with me. :-D Or, even better, go to Archive of Our Own and comment there — it's a much better site, and I'm better at responding to reviews over there since I can actually *track* which ones I have responded to already!]