Room Twelve
Title: Room Twelve
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG
Words: 2211
Warnings: None
Summary: What if that bit with Madeleine and the bad guys never happened?
A/N: Room Twelve was written for the Hurt/Comfort Bingo Challenge. My prompts were: Taking care of somebody, Hostile environment, Backrubs/massages, and Phobias (Wild Card). Thanks so much to my beta and cheer-reader gilli_ann and to the mod of this fun challenge.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
Q paced back and forth across the bathroom floor. He scrubbed his fingers over his scalp. His woollen hat had matted his hair, so he looked like a stray cat that had spent the night in the rain. In the mirror, his eyebrows shot up as he tamed the tendrils that fell into his eyes. He huffed out a breath, deciding that this would have to do.
More than an hour had passed since he escaped the thugs on the ski lift.
They were thugs, weren’t they?
He hadn’t expected the exclusive resort to be a hostile environment, but when chasing after double-oh agents, one never knew where trouble would manifest. Since the “thugs,” as Q came to think of them, hadn’t beaten down his hotel room door yet, he wondered whether they were real thugs at all, or simply the product of his overactive imagination. After all, it wasn't the thugs who made him nervous.
He looked at his watch. Bond had promised to be here ten minutes ago. He was known for being late. Nothing to panic about, Q told his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Unless very real thugs had gotten to him.
If that were the case, Bond wouldn’t make it to room twelve, where Q hoped he’d finally get a chance to spend a little private time with him. Q bit his lip to quash his anticipation.
Back in the mirror, he fussed with his hair again. Eve’s tales of using a straight-razor in Macau swam through Q’s dreams, where he spent too few hours sleeping in his lonely bed. Despite the loss of equipment to a Komodo dragon, Eve’s report on the Macau trip brought satisfying fodder for Q’s adventures with his right hand.
But tonight, this was no dream. Bond had stopped him and asked him outright where he was staying. “The Pevsner, room twelve,” Q had said, making sure to enunciate each word so there could be no mistake of Bond mis-hearing the mountainside hotel’s name or the room number. Bond definitely planned to meet with him in his hotel room. Q hoped Bond’s little visit meant the same thing to Bond as it meant to him.
And where the hell was Bond?
Q took a deep breath, but his heart still pounded like the resounding explosion of fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day. Turning on the tap, he splashed cold water onto his face. He wasn't going to let Bond see him like this. Besides, there should be no need for him to act like a virgin on his wedding night as he waited for Bond to arrive.
Q had balls, or so he told himself.
He had already survived a flight from Heathrow to Austria. He had put on his best poker face when he stared down Mallory who questioned the wisdom of taking a few vacation days when MI6 was in the midst of a crisis with C's demands and the upcoming Nine Eyes merger. He successfully evaded the aforementioned thugs, real or not, who chased him through the ski resort. He showed so much cunning when he evaded them by ducking behind a supply room door, he may as well be a field agent, Q reminded himself, jutting his chin out to defy his nerves. He wasn’t going to let James Bond turn him into a skittish little nerd who had to change his underwear when he arrived back at room twelve after evading the knife-wielding thugs.
They surely had weapons of some kind, didn’t they? Knives? Guns? What difference did it make?
When Bond arrived, Q would tell him what he discovered about the DNA traces on the ring. Bond would be grateful. He had bloody well be. This wasn’t the first time Q had stuck out his neck for Bond, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Q deserved some amorous payback for all his efforts, didn’t he?
A door slammed shut in the hallway outside room twelve. In front of the mirror, Q startled so violently that he knocked his styling mousse into the sink. The clink of metal on porcelain echoed off the marble walls of the bathroom.
Q smoothed his hands down the front of his jumper before jogging to the door to anticipate Bond’s knock. When it came, he undid the triple-bolted door and opened it a crack.
Bond sauntered past him into the room, all suave and smelling as delicious as Q had imagined.
“It’s about time,” Q said, peeking into the hallway to verify that Bond was alone. It would be just like him to stop and rescue some damsel in distress on his way to meet with him. But it must have been Q’s lucky day as Bond had no companion to distract him.
“Sorry, Q,” Bond said, “I’ve been busy.”
“I’m not sure how busy you could be in the poshest ski resort in Austria, but I’ll take your word for it,” Q said. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual, but it was useless. His heart felt like it would thump out of his chest.
“If you only knew,” Bond said, stooping to rummage through the small refrigerator that was tucked beneath the wet bar.
“It needn’t concern you that I thought I was being followed off the ski lift,” Q said nonchalantly. “By thugs,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“Thugs, you say?” Bond grunted.
“I evaded them by ducking into a supply closet and waiting until they were out of sight,” Q said, puffing out his chest as much as he dared.
“Hmmm... impressive,” Bond chuckled, still hunting.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for in there,” Q said, walking across the room toward his suitcase which was perched atop the caddy.
Bond closed the refrigerator door and scowled.
“Well, what have you got?” Bond asked.
“I owe you an apology, Double-oh seven,” Q said, pulling out the bottle of wine he had purchased at the duty-free shop at the airport.
“Whatever for?” Bond asked, taking the bottle from Q’s hands and examining the label.
“You are onto something. Oberhauser is still alive-the ring proves it.”
Well, that certainly got Bond’s attention, even if Q's perfectly coiffed locks didn't. Bond put the bottle aside and followed Q as he sat behind his laptop and brought up the files he had saved from his research.
“And it seems they were all part of one organization,” Q said as the images of the men whose DNA was left on the ring scrolled across the screen. “Le Chiffre, Quantum, Sciarra… your friend Mr. Silva. And do you know who links them all?”
“Him,” Bond said, leaving a smudgy fingerprint on the laptop screen.
“Exactly,” Q said.
“This organization… do you know what it’s called?” Bond asked as he pulled a pocketknife from his trousers.
“It could be called the super private establishment concerning thug recruiting employers, for all I care,” Q said. “What’s important is that they may have followed you here.”
“You’re too worried about these alleged thugs,” Bond said, his voice low and sultry. In one swift movement, he used his pocketknife to uncork the wine.
“Aren’t you?” Q asked. He expected Bond to be at least a little concerned for the Quartermaster’s welfare.
Bond grinned and took a long swig from the bottle.
“Why do I get the feeling that I've missed something?” Q asked.
“You have,” Bond said. “Associates of your so-called thugs tried to kidnap Doctor Swann. They almost succeeded, too.”
“Who’s Doctor Swann?” It was just the sort of name a damsel would have. Probably some woman with a long white neck and a sharp beak. Q had never met the woman, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was scheming to ruin Q’s plans by flirting with Bond.
“Never mind her,” Bond said, offering Q the bottle. “I followed her captors and dispatched them. They won’t be bothering her any longer.”
“Dispatched?” Q rose from his chair and walked to the wet bar.
“I killed them and flung their bodies into a ravine.”
Q raised an eyebrow at that. He was only gone for an hour, for God’s sake. “Efficient. But what about Doctor Swann?” Q took two glasses from the wet bar and filled them halfway with wine.
“She wants nothing to do with me.”
“Not for lack of trying, I'm sure,” Q said, silently relieved. He handed Bond a glass and took a sip from his own while he planned his next move.
“After I crashed the plane, I persuaded her to give me the information about-”
“Plane?” Q sputtered, his mouthful of wine. Suddenly, it became clear how Bond was capable of destroying so much equipment. If he could crash a plane in less than an hour, it was no longer a surprise to see how much damage he could cause in a week-long mission.
Bond drank down his wine with one gulp. “She told me about L’Americain.”
Q came back to his senses at the mention of this mysterious American. “Do you know where you can find him? He’s our only link to Oberhauser.”
“It’s not a person. It’s a place,” Bond said.
“Is it in America?” Q asked.
“Tangier,” Bond said. “How do you feel about covering for me while I fly there?”
Q sighed, dreading the end of his promising career. He turned his back on Bond and walked to the window. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he thought as he pushed the curtain aside so he could gaze out onto the snow-covered slopes of the ski area. He was supposed to have his mortgage paid off, a retirement account, hobbies to occupy his copious amounts of free time.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said, utterly regretting his life choices as the words left his mouth.
“You’re worried,” Bond said, taking a few steps closer to where Q stood.
“Of course, I’m worried,” Q said. “I came here to convince you to come back to London. M is going to string me up by my balls when he learns that I’ve lied to him and disobeyed his orders.”
Q felt Bond’s hands on his shoulders. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but no, these were definitely Bond’s hands squeezing away the tension that Q had been fighting ever since he got on a plane at Heathrow.
Q’s throat made an involuntary murmur as Bond’s strong hands massaged the stress away. Another kind of stress formed in the depth of Q’s stomach, a deep aching wish that was only diminished by the rapid pounding of his heart.
Bond’s breath caressed Q’s cheek. He smelled of wine. Q doubted that he drank the proteolytic digestive enzyme shake he ordered for him. It would be just like Bond to toss the thing, rather than experience its many healthful benefits.
“Better?” Bond asked, a whisper in his ear.
It suddenly became clear to Q how Bond was able to seduce his way across the world of international espionage. The man was a God with his hands and his cool charm.
“A bit,” Q said.
“You’re still tense,” Bond said as he kneaded at the muscles that bunched Q’s shoulders. “I can take care of you, if only you’ll let me.”
Q watched the snowflakes fall outside. “What’s that, some kind of double-oh pick-up line?” he blurted out, meaning to inject some humour into the conversation.
“If you want to look at it that way,” Bond said.
Q felt Bond’s hands leave his shoulders. He closed the curtain and turned around.
Bond lay on the bed, his arms folded behind his head. Legs crossed, he looked unspeakably relaxed, considering that Q’s nerves were making the blood rush to his ears.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Q asked.
“No more rooms available at the Pevsner,” Bond said.
“Did you even bother to check?” Q asked.
Bond gave him a lopsided smile.
“You should know sleeping in the rough is a hazard of field work.” Q stepped toward the bed. Before his courage left him, he said, “Now, budge up.”
Bond did better than that. He opened his arms and before Q knew it, he was pulled into them. He fell onto the mattress beside Bond.
Bond’s hands roamed over his back, rucking up the striped sweater he had bought only an hour after he had booked his flight to Austria. Q knew it would be cold there, but now he felt nothing but warmth as Bond pressed kisses onto his neck, his jawline, and finally his mouth.
Somewhere in the back of Q’s mind, he urged himself to remember every detail, so he could share it with Eve when he returned to Q-Branch. He smiled against Bond’s lips when he realized how ludicrous it was for him to be one to kiss and tell.
Q’s worries vanished in the chaos of clothing haphazardly removed, and skin, all that naked skin, pleading to be touched. All thoughts of thugs and the flight back to London left Q’s brain as Bond kissed him soundly.
Q didn’t know what he was thinking when he gave Bond his room number, but he has secretly hoped it would be exactly this.
The end
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG
Words: 2211
Warnings: None
Summary: What if that bit with Madeleine and the bad guys never happened?
A/N: Room Twelve was written for the Hurt/Comfort Bingo Challenge. My prompts were: Taking care of somebody, Hostile environment, Backrubs/massages, and Phobias (Wild Card). Thanks so much to my beta and cheer-reader gilli_ann and to the mod of this fun challenge.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
Q paced back and forth across the bathroom floor. He scrubbed his fingers over his scalp. His woollen hat had matted his hair, so he looked like a stray cat that had spent the night in the rain. In the mirror, his eyebrows shot up as he tamed the tendrils that fell into his eyes. He huffed out a breath, deciding that this would have to do.
More than an hour had passed since he escaped the thugs on the ski lift.
They were thugs, weren’t they?
He hadn’t expected the exclusive resort to be a hostile environment, but when chasing after double-oh agents, one never knew where trouble would manifest. Since the “thugs,” as Q came to think of them, hadn’t beaten down his hotel room door yet, he wondered whether they were real thugs at all, or simply the product of his overactive imagination. After all, it wasn't the thugs who made him nervous.
He looked at his watch. Bond had promised to be here ten minutes ago. He was known for being late. Nothing to panic about, Q told his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Unless very real thugs had gotten to him.
If that were the case, Bond wouldn’t make it to room twelve, where Q hoped he’d finally get a chance to spend a little private time with him. Q bit his lip to quash his anticipation.
Back in the mirror, he fussed with his hair again. Eve’s tales of using a straight-razor in Macau swam through Q’s dreams, where he spent too few hours sleeping in his lonely bed. Despite the loss of equipment to a Komodo dragon, Eve’s report on the Macau trip brought satisfying fodder for Q’s adventures with his right hand.
But tonight, this was no dream. Bond had stopped him and asked him outright where he was staying. “The Pevsner, room twelve,” Q had said, making sure to enunciate each word so there could be no mistake of Bond mis-hearing the mountainside hotel’s name or the room number. Bond definitely planned to meet with him in his hotel room. Q hoped Bond’s little visit meant the same thing to Bond as it meant to him.
And where the hell was Bond?
Q took a deep breath, but his heart still pounded like the resounding explosion of fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day. Turning on the tap, he splashed cold water onto his face. He wasn't going to let Bond see him like this. Besides, there should be no need for him to act like a virgin on his wedding night as he waited for Bond to arrive.
Q had balls, or so he told himself.
He had already survived a flight from Heathrow to Austria. He had put on his best poker face when he stared down Mallory who questioned the wisdom of taking a few vacation days when MI6 was in the midst of a crisis with C's demands and the upcoming Nine Eyes merger. He successfully evaded the aforementioned thugs, real or not, who chased him through the ski resort. He showed so much cunning when he evaded them by ducking behind a supply room door, he may as well be a field agent, Q reminded himself, jutting his chin out to defy his nerves. He wasn’t going to let James Bond turn him into a skittish little nerd who had to change his underwear when he arrived back at room twelve after evading the knife-wielding thugs.
They surely had weapons of some kind, didn’t they? Knives? Guns? What difference did it make?
When Bond arrived, Q would tell him what he discovered about the DNA traces on the ring. Bond would be grateful. He had bloody well be. This wasn’t the first time Q had stuck out his neck for Bond, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Q deserved some amorous payback for all his efforts, didn’t he?
A door slammed shut in the hallway outside room twelve. In front of the mirror, Q startled so violently that he knocked his styling mousse into the sink. The clink of metal on porcelain echoed off the marble walls of the bathroom.
Q smoothed his hands down the front of his jumper before jogging to the door to anticipate Bond’s knock. When it came, he undid the triple-bolted door and opened it a crack.
Bond sauntered past him into the room, all suave and smelling as delicious as Q had imagined.
“It’s about time,” Q said, peeking into the hallway to verify that Bond was alone. It would be just like him to stop and rescue some damsel in distress on his way to meet with him. But it must have been Q’s lucky day as Bond had no companion to distract him.
“Sorry, Q,” Bond said, “I’ve been busy.”
“I’m not sure how busy you could be in the poshest ski resort in Austria, but I’ll take your word for it,” Q said. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual, but it was useless. His heart felt like it would thump out of his chest.
“If you only knew,” Bond said, stooping to rummage through the small refrigerator that was tucked beneath the wet bar.
“It needn’t concern you that I thought I was being followed off the ski lift,” Q said nonchalantly. “By thugs,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“Thugs, you say?” Bond grunted.
“I evaded them by ducking into a supply closet and waiting until they were out of sight,” Q said, puffing out his chest as much as he dared.
“Hmmm... impressive,” Bond chuckled, still hunting.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for in there,” Q said, walking across the room toward his suitcase which was perched atop the caddy.
Bond closed the refrigerator door and scowled.
“Well, what have you got?” Bond asked.
“I owe you an apology, Double-oh seven,” Q said, pulling out the bottle of wine he had purchased at the duty-free shop at the airport.
“Whatever for?” Bond asked, taking the bottle from Q’s hands and examining the label.
“You are onto something. Oberhauser is still alive-the ring proves it.”
Well, that certainly got Bond’s attention, even if Q's perfectly coiffed locks didn't. Bond put the bottle aside and followed Q as he sat behind his laptop and brought up the files he had saved from his research.
“And it seems they were all part of one organization,” Q said as the images of the men whose DNA was left on the ring scrolled across the screen. “Le Chiffre, Quantum, Sciarra… your friend Mr. Silva. And do you know who links them all?”
“Him,” Bond said, leaving a smudgy fingerprint on the laptop screen.
“Exactly,” Q said.
“This organization… do you know what it’s called?” Bond asked as he pulled a pocketknife from his trousers.
“It could be called the super private establishment concerning thug recruiting employers, for all I care,” Q said. “What’s important is that they may have followed you here.”
“You’re too worried about these alleged thugs,” Bond said, his voice low and sultry. In one swift movement, he used his pocketknife to uncork the wine.
“Aren’t you?” Q asked. He expected Bond to be at least a little concerned for the Quartermaster’s welfare.
Bond grinned and took a long swig from the bottle.
“Why do I get the feeling that I've missed something?” Q asked.
“You have,” Bond said. “Associates of your so-called thugs tried to kidnap Doctor Swann. They almost succeeded, too.”
“Who’s Doctor Swann?” It was just the sort of name a damsel would have. Probably some woman with a long white neck and a sharp beak. Q had never met the woman, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was scheming to ruin Q’s plans by flirting with Bond.
“Never mind her,” Bond said, offering Q the bottle. “I followed her captors and dispatched them. They won’t be bothering her any longer.”
“Dispatched?” Q rose from his chair and walked to the wet bar.
“I killed them and flung their bodies into a ravine.”
Q raised an eyebrow at that. He was only gone for an hour, for God’s sake. “Efficient. But what about Doctor Swann?” Q took two glasses from the wet bar and filled them halfway with wine.
“She wants nothing to do with me.”
“Not for lack of trying, I'm sure,” Q said, silently relieved. He handed Bond a glass and took a sip from his own while he planned his next move.
“After I crashed the plane, I persuaded her to give me the information about-”
“Plane?” Q sputtered, his mouthful of wine. Suddenly, it became clear how Bond was capable of destroying so much equipment. If he could crash a plane in less than an hour, it was no longer a surprise to see how much damage he could cause in a week-long mission.
Bond drank down his wine with one gulp. “She told me about L’Americain.”
Q came back to his senses at the mention of this mysterious American. “Do you know where you can find him? He’s our only link to Oberhauser.”
“It’s not a person. It’s a place,” Bond said.
“Is it in America?” Q asked.
“Tangier,” Bond said. “How do you feel about covering for me while I fly there?”
Q sighed, dreading the end of his promising career. He turned his back on Bond and walked to the window. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he thought as he pushed the curtain aside so he could gaze out onto the snow-covered slopes of the ski area. He was supposed to have his mortgage paid off, a retirement account, hobbies to occupy his copious amounts of free time.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said, utterly regretting his life choices as the words left his mouth.
“You’re worried,” Bond said, taking a few steps closer to where Q stood.
“Of course, I’m worried,” Q said. “I came here to convince you to come back to London. M is going to string me up by my balls when he learns that I’ve lied to him and disobeyed his orders.”
Q felt Bond’s hands on his shoulders. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but no, these were definitely Bond’s hands squeezing away the tension that Q had been fighting ever since he got on a plane at Heathrow.
Q’s throat made an involuntary murmur as Bond’s strong hands massaged the stress away. Another kind of stress formed in the depth of Q’s stomach, a deep aching wish that was only diminished by the rapid pounding of his heart.
Bond’s breath caressed Q’s cheek. He smelled of wine. Q doubted that he drank the proteolytic digestive enzyme shake he ordered for him. It would be just like Bond to toss the thing, rather than experience its many healthful benefits.
“Better?” Bond asked, a whisper in his ear.
It suddenly became clear to Q how Bond was able to seduce his way across the world of international espionage. The man was a God with his hands and his cool charm.
“A bit,” Q said.
“You’re still tense,” Bond said as he kneaded at the muscles that bunched Q’s shoulders. “I can take care of you, if only you’ll let me.”
Q watched the snowflakes fall outside. “What’s that, some kind of double-oh pick-up line?” he blurted out, meaning to inject some humour into the conversation.
“If you want to look at it that way,” Bond said.
Q felt Bond’s hands leave his shoulders. He closed the curtain and turned around.
Bond lay on the bed, his arms folded behind his head. Legs crossed, he looked unspeakably relaxed, considering that Q’s nerves were making the blood rush to his ears.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Q asked.
“No more rooms available at the Pevsner,” Bond said.
“Did you even bother to check?” Q asked.
Bond gave him a lopsided smile.
“You should know sleeping in the rough is a hazard of field work.” Q stepped toward the bed. Before his courage left him, he said, “Now, budge up.”
Bond did better than that. He opened his arms and before Q knew it, he was pulled into them. He fell onto the mattress beside Bond.
Bond’s hands roamed over his back, rucking up the striped sweater he had bought only an hour after he had booked his flight to Austria. Q knew it would be cold there, but now he felt nothing but warmth as Bond pressed kisses onto his neck, his jawline, and finally his mouth.
Somewhere in the back of Q’s mind, he urged himself to remember every detail, so he could share it with Eve when he returned to Q-Branch. He smiled against Bond’s lips when he realized how ludicrous it was for him to be one to kiss and tell.
Q’s worries vanished in the chaos of clothing haphazardly removed, and skin, all that naked skin, pleading to be touched. All thoughts of thugs and the flight back to London left Q’s brain as Bond kissed him soundly.
Q didn’t know what he was thinking when he gave Bond his room number, but he has secretly hoped it would be exactly this.
The end