[Author's Note: Here it is, dear readers, the last full chapter of this fic. There will be a short (400-ish word) epilogue posted tomorrow, to avoid confusion. Thanks for reading!]

When the mission went to shit it went truly, undeniably, spectacularly to shit. As often as Q tried to run through it in his head — tried to determine how it could have been avoided if they had just done something differently — there really was no answer.

It all came down to simple, unforeseeable human failing — the petty greed and unbelievable idiocy of a local guide. He led Bond and his asset into a trap, hoping to make his fortune, and ended up being repaid with a bullet to the head in the ensuing firefight.

The jungle was dense and Q's satellites were blind. He was impotent — there was no tech to hack, no tactical support to give. The retrieval team had been scrambled, and now all Q could do was listen in silent dread to the panting breaths and rapid gunfire and screams of pain as Bond struggled to protect the asset and fight his way through.

The thud of a bullet hitting flesh and the low gurgle of pain was crystal clear in Q's earpiece, causing him to grip his desk with white-knuckled hands, cold sweat prickling all over his body as his heart seemed to seize up in his chest.

"Fuck," Bond said, low and fierce, and Q's heart started again. "Asset is down," Bond gritted out. A few more gunshots and the only sounds that could be heard were Bond's rasping breaths and the stifled sobs of the injured asset.

He was a good man, the asset. Bond had been traveling with him for two days now, and Q had been monitoring them the whole time. Q felt like he knew the asset. He liked him, dammit. He was brave, and pragmatic, and witty, and he had done absolutely nothing to deserve the utter shit of the situation he was in except to be brilliant in a field of research that made him highly desirable to very bad people.

And now, Q leaned unsteadily against his desk and listened to Bond's grunts and harsh breaths, the asset's stifled sobs and moans.

"I don't want to die," the asset kept repeating between sputtering coughs and groans. "I don't want to die."

"You'll be fine," Bond said, his voice utterly certain and completely reassuring, and Q knew instantly that it was a lie.

Q flipped a switch, turning off the audio feed to the rest of the branch to spare the minions. He moved to his office and sat in silence, head in his hands, able to do nothing but listen as the asset died excruciatingly slowly, in pain and terror. It was more than twenty minutes until the asset gasped his last shuddering breath and Bond's murmured reassurances faded into grim silence.

Q waited as long as he could, his stomach churning, listening to Bond's uneven breaths in his ear. "James?" he finally asked quietly.

"Asset is dead," Bond said, his voice detached and professional. "ETA for retrieval team?"

Q fumbled for the nearest tablet with shaky hands, pulling up the retrieval team's location in a few taps. "Two hours still. I'm sorry, it'll take a helicopter to get in there, and Bangkok was the closest..."

"It's fine," Bond interrupted brusquely. "All the hostiles are neutralized. Send me the coordinates of the landing site and I'll be there."

"Uploading to you now." Q hesitated. "James. I'm sorry about..."

"007 signing off."

Q closed his eyes as the earpiece went dead. After two days of having Bond in his ear, the silence was deafening.

Bond drained the last of his scotch before the ice had even started to melt and signaled for another. He saw the momentary hesitation in the bartender's eyes before the man wisely decided not to push the issue.

Bond knew how he probably looked — scruffy and bruised and jet-lagged, in a mismatched combination of mud-caked grey suit trousers and the camo shirt someone from the retrieval team had thrown him to replace his blood-soaked dress shirt and suit jacket.

He pulled at the too-short cuffs a little before finally giving it up as a bad job. He distractedly started to tuck in the tails, and with a sick jolt suddenly realized that his belt was still wrapped around the corpse of the asset. He had tried to staunch the bleeding, but in the end he had only managed to prolong the man's suffering. Q's clever buckle — ironically now Bond would never be able to think of it as anything except 'the tourniquet buckle' — hadn't stood a chance against a collapsed lung and internal bleeding.

Q. Bond's thoughts shied away from Q again as he took another long swallow of his scotch. The asset had reminded Bond of Q in too many ways. Not physically, and there had not been even a shadow of the attraction Bond felt for Q, but there was no denying the other similarities. Unabashedly brilliant. Quick-witted and sarcastic. Courageous. Bond had fought tooth and nail to save him, and in the end it hadn't mattered. He had died in Bond's arms as so very many others had before.

The bite of the scotch did nothing to numb Bond's self-loathing or the inchoate rage that churned within him, just looking for a target. Christ, he hadn't even been the one to kill that fucking guide who had betrayed them. He had failed, in every way possible. Once again, everything he touched had turned to shit, and another bright young person — worth ten of him, no doubt — was dead.

He was fucking cursed, there was no escaping it, and the thought that someday that curse might extend to Q — that it could be Q's life bleeding away as Bond held him in his arms, helpless to stop it...

For a moment the fear was so paralyzing, so real, that Bond's mind blanked out, his throat closing up in panic. He carefully set the scotch down on the bar and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose.

Q was safe. Q was probably at home right this minute, wondering where in the hell he was. Bond knew that Q would have been monitoring the moment his plane touched down, the moment his passport was scanned. Hell, he had probably watched Bond getting into the taxi on the CCTV cameras, thinking that he was on his way home. And Bond had panicked, asking the taxi to take him to this shit pub instead.

He couldn't come home to Q, not in the state of mind he was in right now. Q deserved gentleness, and caring, and right now Bond had nothing within him but rage and bitterness. He was in the mood to smash, to destroy. He would get a hotel for tonight, drink himself into a stupor, and try to explain it to Q in the morning.

He was still staring down at the grotty floor, trying to convince himself that he was making the right decision, when as if to mock him a pair of chequered trousers hove into view. Bond cursed, heartfelt and low, as Q settled himself on the barstool next to him and ordered a scotch of his own.

The bartender eyed them both suspiciously but fetched Q's drink and then diplomatically left them alone. Bond sat in stubborn silence, refusing to acknowledge Q's presence, and Q seemed content to wait indefinitely. The silence dragged on as they sipped their drinks.

"I think you're quite giving me a taste for the stuff," Q finally remarked, swirling the remaining amber liquid in his glass.

Bond brushed off Q's attempt at casualness with irritation. "How did you find me?" he snapped. "I thought you only activate my trackers when I'm on mission."

He could see Q tense instinctively at his tone, but his voice when he spoke was carefully bland. "As if I need your trackers. Your taxi had GPS."

Bond grunted his acknowledgement. Christ, he was acting like an arse and he knew it, but Q should know better than to seek him out when he was like this.

"I'm going to burn those damned trousers of yours," he said pettily.

"Mmmm. Are you going to strip them from me right now, or wait until we get home?"

The combined shock of arousal and anger had Bond gritting his teeth, knocking back the last of his drink before slamming the glass on the bar. "What in the hell are you playing at, Q?"

Q took a careful sip of his drink, his tongue flickering out to lap a drip from the rim of the glass.

"Not playing," he finally said, his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion. "Let's call it investigating. Are you in this frankly depressing hole because you actually need some time to yourself, or is this your completely misguided attempt to protect me from something you think I can't handle?"

Bond couldn't help it — his hand tightened convulsively on his empty glass, and Q tracked the movement with his sharp grey-green eyes.

"The latter, then," he said. "Interesting."

Bond forcibly loosened his fingers from the glass before he cracked it. "You don't want to see me like this, Q," he warned.

"No." Q's voice was sharp, and he took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. "You don't want to be seen like this. There's a difference." His slim fingers reached out, capturing Bond's hand. "Is that how it will be between us? Only showing each other the parts we think we should? I don't think so."

Q's hand was small and soft and warm, so warm, and the tenderness of his touch pierced Bond like a thorn. It made Bond want to crush Q to him, to consume him and leave nothing behind. He wanted to grind their bodies together until Q felt the imprint of Bond on his very bones, so that Q could never leave him, could never forget him. Violence roiled and snarled just under the surface of Bond's skin, and he yanked his hand away from Q's.

"I'm going to go wash up. Settle your tab and go home." He refused to meet Q's eyes. "I'll see you later."

He strode down the narrow passageway toward the kitchen, picking one of the small single washrooms at random, slamming and locking the door behind him. He washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, refusing to even meet his own eyes in the mirror.

He carefully dried his hands and face before leaning back against the sink counter, staring blankly at the scarred wooden door. He took in a deep breath and let it out in a slow exhale, trying to steady himself. Hoping for Q's sake that Q would be gone when he returned to the bar, and yet somehow bitterly disappointed at the thought that he might be.

Bond turned the latch and started to open the washroom door. Q immediately slid inside the narrow gap in that quicksilver way of his, locking the door behind himself with a loud click.

"Bloody hell," Bond gritted out, barely controlling his natural defensive reaction in time. He backed up a step, the counter biting hard into the back of his thighs.

Q silently pulled a bottle of lube from his pocket and placed it carefully on the chipped formica counter, an open dare.

"You're mad if you think —"

That was as far as he got before Q was on him, the full strength of his wiry body pressed against the length of Bond's. Their teeth crashed together and Q bit hard on Bond's lower lip for a searing moment, before licking the wound.

Bond's whole body stiffened in surprise, his hands gripping Q reflexively, and then Q was pushing forward with a low wordless sound, hands sliding under Bond's untucked shirt to scratch up his back as his mouth covered Bond's in a devouring, conquering kiss.

Bond growled into the kiss, blood singing with the taste of Q again after so long, hands pulling Q greedily forward until he caught himself. He pushed Q roughly away, breathing heavily.

"What in the fuck..." he started to say, but the words clogged up in his throat as Q started flicking the buttons of his own shirt open one by one, his grey-green eyes bright with challenge.

"You still think of me as weak, James. Something to be protected." He shrugged the shirt off, his narrow shoulders glowing pale in the harsh washroom light. "I'm not, and it's time I proved it to you."

Bond turned his back, his thoughts and words hopelessly tangled, aided not at all by the lust gathering hotly in his belly. "It's not — Q, you don't want..." He scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration.

He turned around again, determined to push past Q and be done with this, and froze, his hands reaching behind him to grip the edge of the counter as his legs seemed to go unsteady beneath him. Q was just kicking his pants free, the rest of his clothes already in a careless puddle at his feet.

As Bond watched, his mouth dry, Q leaned his head back against the bathroom door. He watched Bond through hooded eyes as his hand wandered down to stroke himself confidently. Fuck, he looked positively decadent — an endless stretch of flushed skin gleaming in the dingy little washroom. Bond had seen Q playful and shy and even wanton, but this aggressive, almost predatory Q was riveting, instantly transmuting Bond's turmoil and frustration into raw, ungovernable lust.

He was in motion before he even realized it, moving to crowd Q back against the door. Q's languid demeanor disappeared instantly. He sprang forward with surprising quickness, knocking Bond off balance and shoving him back against the counter in turn. Bond grunted as his hands grasped Q, supple strength and warm skin flexing under his fingers as Q shoved again, hard, sending Bond crashing back onto the sink counter in an awkward sprawl.

Then Q was practically climbing Bond, his teeth scraping across Bond's collarbone, his long limbs everywhere. Bond barely had time to push himself fully up on the counter, the wooden base cabinet creaking under his weight, before Q was straddling Bond's lap. He pulled at Bond's shirt roughly, punctuating each popped button with stinging little bites to the tendons of Bond's neck.

Bond's hands grasped at Q's skin, greedy for the feel of him, and he growled his frustration as Q tugged down on his shirt, tangling his arms in the sleeves. He heaved and wriggled, freeing himself impatiently, as Q scrabbled at the flies of his trousers.

Finally Bond's hands were free and he wound them into Q's hair, pulling fiercely until Q's mouth met his in a clash of teeth and tongues. They vied for dominance, straining against each other, until Q pulled back. With an almost feral noise he slid off the counter, landing lightly on his feet. He pulled on Bond's hips, sliding him forward on the counter so abruptly that his head hit the mirror with a crack, before muscling in between his thighs. Then Q was biting his way down Bond's torso, muttering intermingled imprecations and endearments as his deft fingers pulled Bond's cock free of his pants and unfastened trousers.

Q's head dipped down and Bond felt a cold shock of sanity drag him back from the edge. Knowing Q's past there were some lines he wouldn't cross, even if Q were willing, and especially not like this.

"No," he snapped. He wound his fingers in Q's hair, pulling his head up as Bond slid off the counter. With a quick twist he turned them both, pressing Q forward against the sink counter, Bond hard at his back. Bond felt Q's body instinctively freeze up for a moment, his back taut with tension against Bond's chest, both of them panting.

"Look," Bond rasped into Q's ear. Q raised his head and Bond felt his body ease as he took in the sight of them both, Bond's face clearly visible over Q's shoulder in the reflection. Bond tugged back on Q's hips, guiding his hands to the counter until he was half-bent, facing the mirror. "Keep watching," he growled. "I'm going to take you apart."

Q's eyes were pinned to Bond's as he seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then he nodded, a curt jerk of his chin.

"Good boy," Bond purred. He smiled inwardly as Q's huff of protest turned into a high whine as Bond deliberately set his teeth to Q's shoulder, biting firmly as his sweat-damp palm surrounded Q's cock.

Q rolled his hips into Bond's hand, his eyes squeezing shut with pleasure.

"No." Bond's hand stilled. "You watch, or I stop."

Q's eyes snapped open again to meet Bond's gaze in the mirror, the grey-green eyes sharp with ire behind his thick-rimmed glasses. "Dammit, James..."

"Just like that." Bond bared his teeth in a humorless smile, pressing his cock up against Q's plush arse as his hand started moving again. He ground up against Q, hard enough so that Q was forced to brace his arms more firmly against the counter, pushing back against Bond's weight. Christ, Q was beautiful, the reflection of his torso in the mirror a pale, sinuous curve against the tanned and scarred skin of Bond's chest.

"Bloody hell," Q groaned. His arms were wiry with tension, tendons and muscles shifting beneath the luminous skin, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades pushed into even greater prominence by this position. Bond's eyes flicked back to the mirror, watching a soft pink flush creep slowly up Q's chest as he twisted and writhed against Bond, torn between pushing forward into Bond's hand or back to rub against Bond's cock.

"Gorgeous," Bond murmured into the nape of Q's neck, placing another deliberate bite just there, tasting the velvety nap of Q's skin. "You wanted to see every part of me?" he rasped. "You wanted to know what I'm like when I feel this way? When I want to use you up, to crush you, to fucking devour you?"

"Yes."

Bond froze in surprise, his head lifting to meet Q's eyes in the mirror. The question had been rhetorical — merely a taunt — but Q's response was utterly heartfelt, his stormy green eyes direct and sincere.

There was such strength in Q's vulnerability, such power in the way he laid himself open to whatever Bond wanted and needed. It pierced Bond like an arrow to the heart, and he had to hide his face, ducking his head to press his forehead between Q's shoulder blades. No one had ever trusted Bond like this, with everything they had. It did strange things to Bond, tugging him in every direction at once. Bond wanted to revere Q and to ravage him, wanted to cuddle him and corrupt him.

Bond swallowed thickly, pushing down the sudden upswell of emotion. When he finally lifted his head again, Q's eyes in the mirror were knowing, his smile tender. "Come on, James," he goaded in a low whisper, stirring his hips again. "Make me scream."

And Christ, Bond did his best, licking down the knobs of Q's spine, nipping at the swell of his arse and the tender skin at the top of his thigh before spreading him open and licking into him, teasing him with fingers and tongue until he was writhing, begging for release. Then he straightened up, curling his body around Q's, bracing one hand on the counter.

He reached for the lube with the other hand, watching Q's eyes follow the movement in the mirror even as his expression remained open and trusting. Bond shook his head, answering the unasked question. "No" he gritted out. "Not now, not like this."

Q pressed back against him, curving his spine in wanton invitation. "You could." His face was flushed, tendrils of hair stuck to his damp forehead.

"I know," Bond gritted into Q's shoulder. Then he was slicking his cock, pushing up against Q's legs as his slippery hand took hold of Q again. He watched in the mirror as Q's mouth parted, his eyes fluttering closed with sensation before he snapped them open again. The head of Q's cock was swollen and dark where it emerged from Bond's fist. Bond thrust slowly forward into the warm, close space between Q's thighs, feeling Q's muscles squeezing him tight, the curve of Q's arse nestling snugly against Bond's hips.

Christ it felt good, it felt like coming home, and Bond felt the pleasure building all too quickly, sharp and hot in his belly, spiking higher with every thrust. Bond matched the hand on Q's cock to the movement of his hips, working Q hard and fast, both of them watching raptly in the mirror until Q finally broke apart in Bond's arms, his face suffused in ecstasy, shuddering and gasping as he spilled into Bond's hand.

Bloody hell, Q was beautiful, and Q was his. Bond braced his arm as he felt Q's body go pliant, holding Q steady with an arm around his chest as he put the full force of his weight into each snap of his hips — delicious friction and warmth and the smell and feel and taste of Q all around and against him. Christ, it was good, so achingly good, and Bond felt a deep swell of pleasure gather low in his belly, his ice-blue eyes watching them both in the mirror until he finally pushed forward with a final grunt and growled his own orgasm into the damp skin of Q's shoulder.

They leaned together, gasping for breath for a moment. Then Q was all supple sweetness as Bond turned him around, lifting him up to the counter and depositing him on Bond's crumpled shirt before he leaned in to capture his mouth again. Q hummed a happy noise into Bond's mouth and Bond chased it with his tongue, pressing closer between Q's spread legs.

They kissed lazily for long minutes. Bond could feel the dark compulsion within himself banked — less urgent but not fully extinguished. He still needed more — more of Q, enough to drown both of them in sensation, until they had forgotten everything else but this. Bond's hands wandered greedily over Q's skin — thumb rubbing at a dusky nipple, fingertips tracing the long line of Q's flank, palm smoothing over the soft expanse of Q's belly. Still, Q made a surprised squeak when Bond's hand traced downward, fingertips sliding in a soft caress over Q's oversensitized cock.

"James," Q said, the slightest edge of a question in his voice as Bond cupped his bollocks. Bond gently kneaded the velvety skin before pressing his knuckles firmly against Q's perineum, smiling into Q's mouth as Q started to squirm underneath his touch.

"Yes, Q?" he purred, nipping at Q's slightly pouting lower lip.

"You know what," Q grumbled, as Bond began to palm his cock more firmly. "You — ah! — you can't possibly think, think that..."

"I absolutely can," Bond said with confidence.

"But..." Q seemed to lose his train of thought, tilting his head further to expose more of his neck as Bond sucked a trail of kisses down the length of his throat, watching with satisfaction the little string of pink marks he left behind. He wanted to mark every inch of Q's body — with his teeth and with his tongue, with the press of his fingertips, with the scrape of his stubbled jaw over tender skin.

He ducked his head, lapping at Q's nipple. Q hissed with pleasure, scrabbling briefly for a handhold on the edge of the counter as his back arched into the sensation.

"It's incredibly optimistic of you," he began, "But I don't think —"

Bond stopped Q's words with his mouth, kissing him hard and deep as his still-slick fingers traced back behind his bollocks, circling teasingly.

"Oh!" Q's surprise was delicious as he braced his arms, pressing seemingly unconsciously into Bond's teasing touch. "Oh, fuck — fucking hell," he muttered open-mouthed against Bond's lips as Bond pushed in easily with two fingers. Q's eyes went wide and unfocused, his spine seeming to melt as Bond began a slow rhythm, fingertips gliding just shy of Q's prostate.

"That's it, love," Bond murmured, licking the shell of Q's ear. "It's almost too much, isn't it? A little too sensitive, a little too raw...just on the edge of too much, until suddenly —" he let his fingertips slide gently over Q's prostate, catching Q's breathy exclamation with his mouth "— it's not enough."

He was pressed in close enough that he could feel Q's cock hardening against his hip as he worked his fingers in the tight space between their bodies. Q was pushing forward now, breath coming in harsh pants against Bond's neck as his hips stirred in little seeking thrusts, trying to draw Bond's fingers deeper. Bond kept his touch gentle but inexorable, a leisurely slide into the sweet warmth of Q's body.

"James." Bond brushed Q's prostate again and Q pressed his lips into Bond's neck with a harsh, almost desperate sound. "How do you know?"

Bond felt something welling up inside him, dark and primal and impossible to suppress. "Because you're mine," he growled. "Everything, all of you." He wound his left arm around Q's lower back, lifting his slim hips up into the next thrust of his fingers. "I'm going to take it all."

Suddenly Q's hand was tight in Bond's hair, pulling his head down fiercely into Q's kiss. Q was almost frantic, licking and biting at Bond's lips, devouring his mouth until Bond finally tore away on a gasping breath.

Bond fell to his knees, hearing the breath punch out of Q's lungs as Bond swallowed him down to the root. Q was twisting and writhing, his thighs heavy on Bond's shoulders, unable to get leverage as Bond worked him mercilessly with his fingers and his mouth.

"I cant...I can't..." Q was practically sobbing.

Bond pulled off. His voice was harsh. "You can. You're so close." He couldn't look away from Q's face, brow scrunched up as if in pain, his lips red and kiss-swollen, the marks of Bond's kisses marring the stretch of his pale neck. Christ, but he was so beautiful, looking at him sent a jolt of pleasure through Bond so keen that it bordered on pain. "Give it to me," Bond muttered, his teeth pressed to the inside of Q's thigh. "Give it to me."

He sucked the head of Q's cock back into his mouth as Q cried out, his whole body arching with tension. Bond swirled his tongue, pumping his fingers mercilessly. There was none of his usual finesse, nothing but the driving need to possess Q, completely and totally. A few more rough thrusts and he felt Q start to contract around his fingers, his cock hardening impossibly more in Bond's mouth before the first spasms washed over him.

Bond fucked him through it with his hands and mouth, wringing shudder after shudder from Q's exhausted body, only stopping when Q placed a clumsy hand in his hair, whining at the oversensitivity. Bond finally drew off, resting his forehead against Q's belly, gasping in rough breaths against the tender skin.

Q's eyes were closed now. He was slumped against the corner, his trembling legs dangling where they had fallen off Bond's shoulders. Slowly, achingly, Bond rose to his feet, feeling every rough year and brutal mission in the creak of his joints. He skimmed his hand from Q's knee up the length of his thigh before sliding it up his back, pulling Q somewhat upright and then forward.

With a soft hum Q slumped forward into Bond's arms, his own arms winding against Bond's waist, his face against Bond's collarbone. Bond buried his face in Q's hair and concentrated on breathing. He felt lightheaded, his legs shaky, but Q's soft warm scent soothed him. The failure of the mission still rankled, but something about what they had done had exorcised the sharp edge of darkness that had threatened to consume him, leaving him feeling light and empty.

He felt the pull of exhaustion now, his body swaying for a moment as his eyes started to fall closed, and he forced his eyes open.

He wanted to ask if Q was all right, but suspected he'd get an earful if he did. Instead he placed a gentle kiss on top of Q's head, squeezing him tight one last time before reluctantly loosening his arms.

"Do you think the Met is waiting out there for us?" he murmured.

He could feel Q smile against his skin. "Mmmm. When I settled our tab I slid the bartender an extra two hundred quid to leave us alone."

Bond shook his head, huffing with laughter. "Sodding genius."

Q finally lifted his head, flexing his spine in a sinuous movement before leaning back on his arms. His smile was soft and lazy. "You can't say you haven't been warned."

Bond made a noise of agreement, leaning forward for another soft kiss to that utterly decadent mouth. When he pulled back again, Q's smile had faded, his eyes serious now as they searched Bond's expression. "Home?" he asked.

Bond drew Q forward off the counter and into his arms, holding him tight as he found his footing on shaking legs. "Home," he agreed.

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