Q had thrown himself into work, now even more than before. Tanner was the only one who seemed to notice something was off. On several occasions he tried to strike a conversation, going as far as serving Q his beloved Earl Grey tea. A small smile and polite but bland replies were all he got for his troubles. After a few days, Tanner's attention was drawn to other matters and Q felt some kind of hollow satisfaction, being once again alone with his tinkering and gadgets. Q-branch had to be rebuilt from the very bottom and Q had to find the right people filling the void after C had torn down every bit of Q's organisation. It would take time and Q needed time. Time to once again reach that fragile balance between repressed needs and satisfaction found in his work; staying on his feet until exhaustion drove him home to an uneasy sleep.

As the days went by, Q regained some of his composure. He began to plan for the recruitment of his new minions. Some would come from other parts of MI6, but most would have to be found outside of the organisation; a tedious process of vetting and security protocols. Stuff which had to be implemented before any new employee was to set foot in the halls of Q-branch.

Almost two weeks had gone by since the day Bond went away. Q heaved a deep sigh, once more looking through an application, taking a few notes. He was about to get up and make a fresh cup of tea when he heard the faint ping of one of his mobiles. With a frown he started to sort through a pile of papers, then looked through the top drawer, before returning to the pile of papers on the desk. Surprised, he eventually found the mobile he had used to track Bond by the smart-blood outside of Q-branch. He looked at the screen.

One new message.

Swiping it open single-handedly, while finding a charger with the other, Q's frown deepened.

Turn me on.

And a time, date, and place.

"You bloody bastard," Q muttered under his breath.

He turned to his computer and started the smart-blood program. Bond was still the only one with the nanotechnology flowing through his veins. Since the disaster with Nine Eyes, MI6 had expressed severe doubts about any kind of tracking technology used on its agents.

The computer screen showed a rural area in the north of England, a red dot blinking in the middle of nowhere. Zooming in, Q could make out a small village, the red dot hovering over a large building just on the outskirts of the village. Before he could stop himself, he reached for the screen and his finger touched the blinking dot softly.

"Bond," he whispered.

The rest of the day went by uneventfully. As much as Q wanted to leave right away, buzzing with anticipation and dread, he had become an expert in hiding his emotions at work. As mind-numbing as he found paperwork, reading through the application forms of wannabe minions at Q-branch kept him fully occupied.

Q had recognised the address. It was a gay club right across Lambeth Bridge. A place Q had visited a few times before he got recruited by MI6. He briefly wondered if Bond knew about his — predicament, as he preferred to call it. Being gay was problematic no matter where he had worked in the past, but when he had started at the agency the threat of blackmail or worse amplified. Moreover the macho culture among his agents didn't help Q's insecurities. Was Bond mocking him by having them meeting up in the club? Was it his way of telling him off for good? Q briefly considered not going. In the end, he had to admit to himself that he would never pass any chance to meet Bond. If he wanted to ridicule him, well, Q would survive as he had survived school and university.

Q prepared for the meeting with Bond as meticulously as possible. Skinny jeans, torn all the right places, glasses replaced with hip ones as contacts just didn't work for him, leather jacket and hair tousled artfully. Or what Q thought might pass as artful, having the cats playing with it, before he had been able to extract himself from the sofa. The feeling of dread had returned full force. The what-ifs were piling up, doubling in number every time he had dispelled one of them. Gnashing his teeth, Q forced himself through the final steps until he was ready to leave. He knew he was turning this into something it most definitely wasn't. Bond just needed his help with something mundane — something like forging a birth certificate or erasing a bunch of speeding tickets. And the club was just for the fun of it. It was not a hidden clue for Bond's undying love for Q. The club was a way to avoid prying eyes or having people wondering about two men talking intimately with each other. Then again, Bond could have chosen a business meeting as the setting or a coincidental meeting on a park bench.

Stop it , Q muttered. Stop fretting and get a move on.

He snuck out of the house, making sure to avoid his landlady. He drew glances from the right kind of guys, even got the odd invitation from a few of them. Nervously declining the first, he became bolder as he neared his destination. He even went for a few flirtatious exchanges before he entered the club. The place was exactly how he remembered it. Loud music setting the beat, sweaty, half-dressed men on the dance floor. He fought his way through the moving and grinding bodies, towards the bar, away from grabby hands, kisses blown his way. Lightheaded, he relished the attention. It took him back to the years of discovery and revelation, experimenting with his sexuality in a place that felt safe and inclusive. He knew about the drugs, about unsafe sex, psychopathic doms and irresponsible subs. But he had been lucky or just conscientious, avoiding the worst pitfalls and somehow always ended up in the warm and comforting embrace of caring men, even if it just was a one night stand. He never managed to get into a relationship. And later it became too dangerous; for him, for the men he slept with; too dangerous to let anyone into his life.

Q had almost forgotten the reason for him being here. That was until he saw the well-remembered back of Bond, lounging at the bar, emanating luxurious comfort and a certain kind of boredom. Q swallowed, feeling heat pooling in his groin. Slowly, he walked closer. Bond turned around, greeting Q with a small smile and an appreciative nod, his predatory gaze assessing Q hungrily. Defiantly, Q lifted his chin. Challenging. He was not going to play the inexperienced virgin or the acquiescent sub. He never did.

Bond's surprise turned into a pleased smile, which Q returned. Q sat down beside Bond at the bar, letting him pick his drink. They drank in silence, every now and then casting a glance at the other amid people-watching. When they had finished their drinks, Bond bent over and whispered into Q's ear, receiving an affirmative nod. He paid up and led Q out of the club, receiving longing glances on his way.

The hand on the small of his back had Q squirming, his anxiety returning. They were both playing roles; Bond the wealthy old man wanting for some fun for the night; Q the young twink ready to provide the said fun, maybe earning a little something on the side. Yet, as much as he was aware of this being a game, his fantasy was running wild. Bond did not say a word as they left the club, only pulling Q closer to his side, holding him tight while he walked purposefully towards a hotel further down the road. Q let him lead the way.

In the lobby, Bond was greeted by the night manager who looked between Bond and Q with a slight frown on his face. Q believed him to be judgemental, until the manager with a low voice asked Q if he was all right while looking daggers at Bond. When Q answered that everything was okay, Bond had a small smile on his face.

"Always on the lookout for damsels in distress, Jonathan?" Bond asked with a smirk.

"Jonathan Pine, the night manager," Bond turned towards Q introducing the two of them.

Jonathan did not answer right away.

"Well, Bond, he looks awfully young in this outfit — and he is way out of your league, if you ask me," Jonathan returned with a mischievous wink at Q who actually blushed.

"Oi, hands to yourself, mate!"

Bond kept up the playful banter between the two of them, while filling out the registration form.

"Your room is ready — and clean ," Jonathan said when he gave the keys to Bond.

Q looked between them then shrugged. Whatever Bond had been planning, this Jonathan seemed to be on it. Q had never heard of the man. And this hotel was not on any list of safe places known to him. Then again, Bond had been in this game for so many years, Q wasn't in the least surprised to find connections and people, that had been left out of MI6's files.

Again, Bond placed a hand on Q's back, gently leading him towards the lift. Q was unsure as to carry on their charade or if these latest actions of Bond actually meant something. He stopped his mind in unfolding the possibilities before they both went into the enclosed, rather small space of the lift.

Bond kept silent, but held Q nonetheless close the whole way up. When they eventually entered the room, he checked the room thoroughly. Q was left standing at the door, fascinatedly watching Bond move silently around the room. When Bond's attention turned back at Q, the humorous mood was gone. He indicated the sofa and went to pour a scotch from the minibar for them.

When he returned with the two glasses, Q was looking expectantly at him. Bond sat down, leaving a few inches of space between them. He looked at his drink, turned it in his hand, before he spoke.

"I need your help, Q."

Bond looked at Q who stayed silent.

"Madeleine is the head of Spectre."

Q almost dropped the glass of whiskey, his eyebrows shot up and he mouthed a 'what'. He refrained from pinching himself, but he scrutinised the liquid in his glass before he looked back up at Bond beckoning him to continue. It all felt surreal.

Bond told him how Madeleine in fact had been the leader for some time now, hidden in the shadows. She seemed to honestly believe that she could turn the organisation into some kind of charity, using assassinations and blackmail for doing good. Q met his tale with a wry smile.

"There is a tyranny in the womb of every Utopia."

He had whispered the quote. Surprised, Bond paused abruptly.

"I do need your help, Q. I don't know who else I can trust. Nine Eyes has been destroyed, but I know Spectre has people still working in MI6. That's why I —" He waved at the room at large then indicating the two of them. "Best bet not to be recognised. Jonathan keeps an eye out."

They both fell silent. Q was trying to process the information, again looking at the amber fluid in his glass. He couldn't help the deeply-felt sigh from escaping him. Just as he had feared. It was a game, nothing else. Not that Bond's disclosure didn't warrant a charade like this. But deep down, Q had hoped—

Bond closed the gap between them. When Q looked up from his glass, a bit disoriented by Bond's sudden proximity, Bond leaned forward and kissed him, gently, probing. Q tensed, his mind turning into a void filled with white noise. Frowning, Bond backed away.

"Q, I'm sorry. I thought —"

Q pounced before Bond could finish the sentence. Pushing him back against the sofa, he straddled him and attacked Bond's mouth with a vengeance. Bond let him have his way, his own mouth opening in a wide smile. His arms gathered Q closer, his fingers finding their way into unruly hair. There was no finesse, no subtle teasing or gentle nudging. Months of repressed emotions were throbbing through Q's body; with the desperation of a drowning man he took what was offered so freely to him. When Bond calmly but firmly pushed Q back, small needy sounds filled the room between them. Bond's eyes were blown black; he blinked several times to be able to focus again.

Q's eyes were seeking Bond's, his renewed despair and anxiousness all too obvious. Bond's grip was anchoring, secure. Q felt safe, despite the loss of contact and the need for closeness.

Bond seemed to contemplate Q, the situation. He drew a deep breath, closing his eyes, before he finally made up his mind.

"Q," the serious tone in Bond's voice had Q squirming, "I want you. I want to be with you — but not like this."

Q turned away. He couldn't deal with this. The tender touch of Bond's fingers on his chin turned him back to face Bond.

"No, Q. It's not like that."

The serious tone had Q listening, not knowing what to expect next.

"I need to focus on Madeleine. And I don't want this to be a one night stand."

Bond fell silent and Q wondered if he had heard right. The white noise in his head turned back on and he couldn't find words. This time though Bond understood. The lopsided grin and exasperating smugness was back and Q's response was an embarrassing 'ugh'. Bond caressed Q's face, tracing an errant tear over his cheekbone. Grounding Q, who nuzzled into the touch. They stayed like this for a little while. Then, Q could feel Bond becoming restless.

"I need to go. Can't have Madeleine become suspicious."

He pulled Q back into a tight embrace before Bond found a small USB stick in one of his pockets.

"Here is everything I've been able to retrieve from Spectre's system so far."

Q took the stick and looked at Bond.

"I'll have to go — be back at the club next week at the same time, okay?"

Q rose from the sofa when Bond turned to go.

"Kiss me," Q said, "please."

Bond stopped and hesitated before he turned around and went back to Q. This time, the kiss was gentle at first, slowly becoming deeper, tongues seeking to lick, touch, and taste. Reluctantly, Bond drew back and took one last drawn out look at Q's flushed face.

"Next week," he mumbled and left.