Fic: Slow Dancing In a Burning Room (2/9)
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room, 2/9
Fandom: Skyfall (James Bond)
Characters: James Bond/Q, Eve Moneypenny, Gareth Mallory, Bill Tanner, OCs
Rating: Mature. Explicit in sections; depictions of canon-typical violence.
Word-Count: ~56,000. Complete, but chapters will be posted as they are returned from beta and undergo final edits.
Notes: This fic was Brit-picked by the lovely and patient starsandgraces, who isn't even in this fandom but still put up with my badgering. I was encouraged by multiple enablers, including jou and flatbear, but all credit and gratitude goes to circ_bamboo, who held my hand, cheered me on, read over every inch of this fic, plotted endlessly with me, and is hands-down the best writing partner in crime a fangirl could ask for. THANK YOU SO MUCH, BABY, ALL THE SCONES ARE FOR YOU. ♥
Summary: Q has a past, a cat, and a dangerous new boyfriend. Two of these things keep him up nights, the other pees in a box. Espionage, plot with porn, decoy flats, suit porn, scones for the Queen, invention porn, secret identities, snark, canon-typical violence, dysfunctional flirting by dysfunctional people, and Eve Moneypenny is HBIC.
You can also read here at the AO3. Part one of this fic posted here on LJ.
What followed was the most bizarre courtship Q had ever-well, heard of, certainly. He didn’t have much to compare it to, but Moneypenny confirmed that normal people didn’t flirt like this. Not that he was normal. Not that any of them were.
* * * * *
Q managed to keep himself awake for a full hour after he arrived home, half-expecting to see Bond at his front door despite all the precautions he’d taken en route home to evade him, only to pass out cold before making it to bed, sprawled on his couch by his work-table. He woke around 3 am to a warm weight on his chest, blinking stupidly as a small white cat maowed in his face.
“Oh, you’ve come back, have you,” he croaked out. Carly responded by licking one of his glasses lenses. Carly was technically a stray, but after Q had installed the cat-door for her (most expensive cat door in England, since it opened only to her vocal signature) she’d taken to staying at his flat as often as not, even submitting to being taken to the vet for a full work-up. He’d gotten a collar for her the last time he saw her, but it appeared to be missing. “Got hungry, I expect.” He sat up with a grunt, and she jumped lightly down to the floor, white puff of a tail twitching as she headed towards the kitchen. Q groaned and hauled himself off the couch, shuffling tiredly after her. It was only after he’d finished spooning some wet cat food into a dish for her that he thought to check whether anyone had gotten into his flat.
A quick walk-through of his home yielded nothing; security camera videos came up equally dry. Q drank down two glasses of water and an aspirin and called it a night, and didn’t even bother shoving Carly away when she came and curled up under the covers with him, purring like a little engine. It wasn’t as if he was expecting Bond to break in and mug him, after all. And he’d have plenty of time to hate himself come morning.
* * * * *
As it happened, Q had very little time for self-recrimination the next morning. His mobile rang at 6:34 am with an urgent message from M telling him he was needed at HQ as soon as possible, as some absolute git had managed to download a (thankfully less dangerous) version of the HAL-2012 virus onto MI6’s servers. Q cursed a blue streak that sent Carly bolting for her cat-door, insulting every one of his jumped-up script monkey idiots who might have done this, with some barbs for his wretched coworkers who’d blessed him with this hangover thrown in for spice. He showered in record time and shoved a muffin in his face before bolting for the nearest tube station, clattering down the rickety iron steps from his block of flats and nearly killing a gran out for an early-morning walk with her corgi in his haste. He was at the labyrinthine crypt that was still substituting for HQ by 7:15, and was eyeball-deep in code for the entirety of his morning, save for the few brave souls who stopped by in order to bring him tea or to get updates for Mallory.
He finally managed to contain the damage around 1 pm. Q sat back, swiping an arm over his face with a low growl of annoyance. He’d had so much he’d planned to work on this morning, no less than three works-in-progress he needed to coordinate in order to reach his agents in the field on time, and here he was, a full half-day behind at best due to having spent his morning on damage control, and that was only if the virus hadn’t totally bollocksed up any of the projects he had in the works, he was going to bloody murder Carter when he got his hands on the idiot-
“Don’t lose your head,” said an all-too-cheerful voice from his right: Moneypenny, standing by looking unfairly posh in her blue frock and heels. “I brought you lunch, compliments of M. Congrats on all your hard work taming the beast.”
“I don’t want lunch, I want the person who did this drug out into the street and shot,” said Q peevishly, but he reached over and snagged the box from Wagamama she was holding out anyway.
“Carter swears up and down he didn’t download anything and he has no idea how the virus got in,” said Moneypenny, leaning against the desk as Q ripped open the box and attacked his noodles. “Records show he didn’t log into his computer this morning until after you did, and he left work well before you last night. It’s a great mystery.”
“The only mystery is why he was ever hired in the first place,” muttered Q. “What’s that folder you’ve got? Are you here to brief me on the next mission I am to outfit 007 for?”
“So long as ‘outfitting’ is all you’re planning on doing to Bond,” observed Moneypenny, and Q choked on his soba noodles, shooting Moneypenny a glare that could have set half of Q branch on fire.
“Moneypants,” he said warningly, around a mouthful of food. Moneypenny smirked at him. “There is nothing going on, alright? Nothing squared. Nothing to the nth power.”
“Alright, alright!” Moneypenny raised her hands in surrender, but she didn’t stop smirking. “All I know is that’s the first time I’ve seen Bond out consorting with us peasants since I’ve started working here. And he was sitting awfully close to you.”
“Rubbish,” said Q. “That’s the real reason you volunteered to bring me lunch, isn’t it. So you could try to pry some gossip out of me.” Moneypenny winked at him, and Q sighed. “Leave the folder on the desk, please, and I’ll see what I can dig up for our resident psychopath to take with him.” Moneypenny deposited the manila envelope on Q’s desk and flicked him a cheerful two-finger salute before turning on a heel and marching back towards M’s offices. Q exhaled heavily, hunching over his bowl of yakisoba with the air of the much put-upon.
You’d have thought that being in computer programming would be one of the quieter career paths one could choose, but apparently, you’d be wrong. At this rate Q was actually going to have to relocate his office to the arse-end of Scotland just to get any fucking work done.
* * * * *
It was another week before Q saw Bond again. Working off-site at weapons testing facilities had its occasional perks, and truth be told Q needed the space. After the virus debacle passed, he found himself replaying his and Bond’s kiss in front of the pub over and over in his head, like one of those bloody GIFs with cats his interns so adored. It was enough to drive him to distraction, and distraction from his huge workload was the very last thing Q needed. So he lost himself gratefully in the minutiae of his job, willing himself to not think beyond the firing range with his armsmaster, observing the kickback of a new compact handgun or measuring the amount of force expended in a bomb-blast. There were few things more satisfying than watching an explosive the size of an apple take out the equivalent of four titanium-reinforced iron walls.
Never let it be said that Q didn’t love his work. He might not be the one to pullthe trigger, but not all the waters of Arabia could wash the blood of Her Majesty’s enemies from his hands. Not that he even wanted to.
He lost himself in handguns and heavy artillery, wrapped himself around miniature poison pens and remote-operated smart bombs. Q spent whole days without thinking of Bond, and if he dreamed of piercing blue eyes and heavy, callused hands at night, well, that was nobody’s business.
* * * * *
Q was just beginning to think he might have a hold on this unreasonable crush when he returned to HQ seven days later, but that particular illusion cracked and blew away in the wind like a thoroughly vaporized building husk the minute he laid eyes on 007. Bond leaned against the wall of Q’s private workstation in a lethally sharp suit, his arms crossed across his broad chest, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Q. It was fucking unnerving.
“Hello, Q,” said Bond. “What’ve you got for me today?” He sounded almost bored. Q was glad he’d been spared the gene that turned him red at the drop of a hat. He would hate to come over all hot and splotchy like his dad used to when his fury got the better of him, looking like he would burn you if you touched him.
Q was always one of those for whom the world would end in ice.
“Well if it’s that tedious for you, Mr. Bond, there’s no need to bother,” Q said calmly. “I’m sure one of the other agents would love this Jaguar convertible that comes when you call it.”
Bond cocked his head, his expression barely changing. “And here I thought I’d run the budget into the ground so badly that you’d barely be able to afford a squirt-gun for me,” he said, but now at least he sounded like he was paying attention.
“Yes, well.” Q pursed his lips at his computer screen, then reached for the slim black case sitting on his desk, flicking the silver clasps open and pulling out a deceptively simple-looking remote control, approximately the size and weight of a compact mp3 player. “If all goes as planned in this mission, you are going to find yourself a singularly unpopular person in a very remote location, and removing you expeditiously benefits everyone. So.” He glanced at Bond. “Don’t get used to it. Break this and I’ll send you with thumb tacks for the rest of the year.”
The glint in Bond’s eye was unmistakable. “Thank you, dearest Q,” he said. “I promise to take the very best care of our Jag.”
Q grimaced. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
* * * * *
As it turned out, the Jaguar not only GPS-located the transponder Q had given Bond, but it also navigated using an aggressively upgraded version of Google maps, and came equipped with a pair of modified M134 mini-machine guns armed with 7.62 NATO cartridges that blasted everything blocking the way to its owner to smithereens; then there was the further arsenal of projectiles, miniature flame-throwers, and other weaponry at the driver’s command once he or she was actually behind the wheel. And that was all in addition to the fact that the car Q had modded was one of the new F-type V8 S convertibles that could go from 0-60 mph in 4.2 seconds that wouldn’t even be commercially available until mid-2013. Bond was in a transport of glee.
“You know, Bond could easily have stolen a car from the Yakuza complex and gotten out on his own,” pointed out Tanner. As was becoming the norm for the more spectacular of Bond’s missions, Q had drawn an audience, situated as he currently was in the center of Q Branch’s main workspace in order to most effectively use the wall projector screen and its various surrounding surfaces to coordinate 007’s mission. Tanner was at his left elbow, and unless Q was very wrong, M and Moneypenny had wandered in at some point and were watching from somewhere in the back right of the room.
“Well of course he could have, he’s quite effective at breaking, perhaps even at entering,” said Q. He tapped out a line of code, sending a message to the waiting private jet at the edge of Yakuza air space. “But I’m testing a personal theory of mine that happens to dovetail nicely with better achieving our mission objectives.” He adjusted his head-piece, wincing slightly at the crump of combustible material going up in glorious flames at the other end. “007, was it really necessary to implode that armory?”
“Of course,” said the smug voice in Q’s ear-well everyone’s ear, now that Q was playing him on speaker. “Robbing Yakuza of weaponry is hardly a bad thing. And your Jag does the job so effectively.”
“That it does,” said Q comfortably. “Tanner, if you’re going to make that face, could you at least stand out of my line of sight, you’re going to put me off my lunch.”
Tanner cleared his throat. “Is it really necessary to encourage that kind of destructiveness?” he asked after a moment.
“All work and no play makes Bond a dull boy,” said Q. “And we do so appreciate an agent who loves his work.”
“Q, I’m blushing,” said Bond, and Q’s stomach twisted into a shape worthy of H.R. Geiger. Out of the corner of his eye, Q could see Tanner shaking his head.
* * * * *
The box was on his desk when he came back from lunch the next day. Bond was at his desk, too, sitting against one edge.
Q stopped in the doorway, Scrabble mug of Earl Grey in his hand, blinking at the unfamiliar object. “Please tell me that doesn’t have a piece of someone’s hand in it or somesuch equally gruesome memento of your trip to Nihon,” he said.
Bond smiled faintly. “It’s a present,” he said. “And no, there’s no body parts inside.”
Q crossed the room, setting his mug down on the desk and picking up the mystery object instead, finding himself speechless for several seconds. It was actually three boxes, seemingly glued together at one corner each, made of delicately-carved dark cherry wood, with pastoral paintings of Japanese rural life on several of the sides. It was beautiful. “What is this?” he asked. “You didn’t find this at the Yakuza compound.”
“No,” murmured Bond. “I got it before then.” Q glanced over at Bond and abruptly lost whatever he’d been planning to say next, arrested by the look in Bond’s eyes.
“Arigatou gozaimasu,” said Q finally. “May I ask the occasion?”
“All work and no play makes the quartermaster a dull boy,” said Bond. “Open it.” He straightened, pushing off the desk and reaching out to rest a hand on Q’s shoulder, giving him a soft squeeze. “I brought you back your Jaguar, by the way.”
“Yes, I saw that,” said Q faintly. Even the warmth of Bond’s hand was not enough to distract him, and he did not notice when it fell away. He was already turning the box over and over in his hands, pressing against a panel here and noting with delight that it did not immediately gave way. “You brought me a puzzle-box? ….Bond?” Q looked up again, but Bond was already gone.
* * * * *
Realistically speaking, on any given day Q could work 12 hours straight without even a break for lunch and still never catch up, so it was rare for him to justify taking time off. All the same, he couldn’t resist leaving work early that day, dispensing only with the necessary from 007’s mission to Japan before heading back to his flat (and taking one of his six usual roundabout methods of getting there). To his great joy, it took Q almost four hours to get the wooden puzzle-box open. He quickly discovered that the three smaller boxes had to be opened in a specific pattern, their panels manipulated in exactly the right order or else you would be locked out. Q hummed to himself as he worked, absent-mindedly petting Carly and losing himself in the same space he went to when he coded or got extensive time alone in his workshop with a new piece of equipment. It was almost a physical blow when the last panel finally slid open (38 correct movements in a row) and a piece of paper fell out.
He leaned over, retrieving the folded scrap of paper from the floor before Carly could make off with it, unfolding it and scanning the message written there. Color flooded his face now that he was alone, now that he could let himself be flustered by James Bond’s neat handwriting and cavalier presumption. He glanced at his watch, and scrambled to his feet so quickly that Carly let fly a disapproving yowl and fled under the coffee table. He had to go, he had to hurry or he would be late-but he couldn’t go in his bloody pyjamas, he had to change first, fucking hell he’d have to cab it or he wouldn’t make it in time-
Five minutes later, Q threw himself into the back of the cab, huffing out the address to the driver, his hand still in the pocket of his suit coat. He tugged out the little scrap of paper and re-read its message, his face burning.
Bella Italiano, 1930 hours. See you there. -James
* * * * *
Bella Italiano was done in classic Roman styling, with lots of draping white tapestries and marble pillars and sweeping ceiling glass. Q found Bond near the back of the restaurant, in one of the booths that offered a commanding view of the rest of the room. Bond reclined slightly in the seat, a snifter with a finger of some amber liquor on the table in front of him, wearing yet another of his impeccable suits. He was in full-on black tie, a dinner jacket with silk lapels, a pleated white shirt, and mother-of-pearl studs with matching cuff links; a black silk waistcoast peeked out just above where the table disappeared Bond’s midsection. Q’s gut twisted at the sight of him, how painfully attractive he was, as quintessentially 007 as Q had ever seen him.
Q slowed as he crossed the monolithic room, feeling suddenly massively under-dressed and under-qualified for the engagement ahead of him; his 3-button grey suit over a white shirt and paisley tie looked excellent on him, actually, but it was the suit he wore to important meetings and formal functions, as he had nothing in his arsenal for ‘dinner and conversation with James fucking Bond at 5-star restaurant.’ He was seriously considering bolting for the door when Bond saw him. Bond straightened in the booth, a light coming into his face, and Q found himself crossing the last few meters and sinking into his seat, drawn irresistibly by the magnetism of that gaze.
He’d have better luck resisting gravity.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Q, since Take me now and Say you’re having me for dinner were both unacceptable on a number of levels and he was better than that. Mostly. “Traffic was murder.” He wasn’t going to apologize for being under-dressed. It wasn’t as though Bond had given him much warning.
“Fashionably late,” said Bond. James. James, Q decided. Bond was for work, and whatever this was, it was decidedly not work. “I expected as much. You found my note.” He was smiling again, watching Q steadily, as if he was the most captivating thing in the room, as if no one else was in the room at all. Q was finding it hard to breathe.
“I did,” said Q, unable to keep from smiling back. “The box is excellent. Perhaps not as complex as the hard drives you brought me back from Moaveni’s computers, but just as rewarding, in its way.”
“Good.” James leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table top, and Q tried not to notice the way the cut of James’ suit accented his broad shoulders, the tracery of scars that licked up his neck (that he wanted to follow with his fingers, with his tongue). “Would you like a drink? “
“Are you going to try to get me drunk? James, for shame.”
“Nothing of the sort. I just want you to enjoy yourself. You get away from the office so rarely. At least I get out and see the world.”
“I like my work,” noted Q, “and it’s a good thing I do, or else I’d have gone half-mad within a week of starting and then you would have finished the job.” James, Q decided, was going to an awful lot of trouble for a roll in the hay. He didn’t know what to make of it, and after a few moments of mentally grappling with it, decided to put it away again.
“Mmm.” James paused for a moment as their server materialized out of the aether, lingering long enough to take their drink and appetizer order before vanishing (Q had no head for wine and would eat probably anything put in front of him, but if James wanted to show off, Q was more than happy to let him), and then James pinned Q with another one of his megawatt stares. “I need something to call you outside of work,” he said.
“Just not ‘Quentin,’ please,” said Q. “The intensity of my loathing for that name burns hotter than the surface of the sun.”
James snorted, but his smile was undiminished. He seemed to think for a moment. “How about Elliot?” he said, the way a chess-master would say check.
Q stared at him, the blood draining from his face. “How did you-”
“You told me to try harder,” James pointed out. “Which, by the way, is harder than I had to try to get Mawdsley’s file, so congratulations on that.”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” said Q faintly. He reached out for his glass of wine, a pinot gris the color of straw that supposedly had floral notes and a crisp head to it; it might as well have been water for all that Q tasted it. “So now I suppose you know all about Elliot Marsh.”
“Not nearly as much as I was hoping to learn,” admitted James, and Q smiled into his wine in vindication. “Just that he has the same national insurance number and birthday as you.”
“Yes, well. That was sloppy of me, but I admit I wasn’t working very hard.” Q considered. No one but Moneypenny knew about Elliot Marsh, or what Elliot did with his time, but the urge to show off a little was very strong. Especially with James watching him from across the table with that pluripotent smile hovering around his lips, that said the night could yet go anywhere. Q cleared his throat. “Very well. Have you a piece of paper?”
James raised his eyebrows, and then reached inside his jacket, pulling out a business card and sliding it across the table to Q. Q brought out a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled a string of digits onto it, before pushing the card back across the table to James, who took it and glanced at it before giving Q a questioning look.
“A week from Saturday,” said Q. “That’s all I’m giving you. Find me and I’ll show you Elliot.”
James lifted his head, a belligerent edge to the angle of his jaw. He tucked the card back into his jacket pocket as he studied Q. “I leave for another mission day after tomorrow,” he pointed out.
“Then you had best make sure you finish it quickly, because I’m not sure when Elliot will be around next,” Q said primly, and James gave him a wolfish grin that made all the hair on Q’s body curl and his balls draw up, as though he’d been stripped naked there in the middle of the restaurant.
“Making me work for it, are you,” James murmured, and Q mm-hrmmed into his drink.
* * * * *
The rest of their dinner broke over him like the ocean, washing the outside world away. Q remembered thinking that, at the time, everything tasted amazing, like the angels themselves were hiding in the kitchen preparing their food and drink, but if he’d been quizzed on it later he wouldn’t have been able to name a single thing they ate. What stuck in his mind, instead, was the delightful discovery of exactly how charming James Bond could be when the full force of his regard was turned on you-and how terrifyingly smart he was. The fucking bastard. It made sense; 007 wouldn’t be nearly as effective a killing machine if it weren’t for how agile and cunning he was, as deadly and swift as a venomous snake.
Their conversation ranged far and wide, from the mundane to the sublime; sure, it was hot that James could recognize Rumi, but when the first bite of tiramisu melted in his mouth and Q shut his eyes in bliss, only to hear James murmur, “Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you,” Q could have leapt over the table and kissed him right there in front of God and everyone, because Keats was for lovers but Mel Brooks had his heart. He’d seen pieces of this sweet and painful lightness the other night at the pub, but the sharpened weapon of James’ mind hadn’t been pointed directly at him, then, and he could admit to himself now that he was too drunk at the pub to properly appreciate the man in front of him.
They didn’t talk about work, at least not directly. Doing what they did, it was hard to cultivate much of a life outside of MI6, but their words filled up the minutes filled up the hours and Q was drunk, and not on wine. He didn’t even see James pay for the check but suddenly James was standing, had come around to Q’s side and was offering him a hand out of his chair.
“I’m not that gone, James,” said Q, and stood pointedly under his own power. “As delightful as this evening has been, you are not so powerful an intoxicant that I have lost my head.”
“Clearly I need to work harder, then,” said James into the space between them, his voice very quiet. Q bit his lip, swallowing the catty reply before it could fall out of his mouth, and followed James through the crowded restaurant back to the lobby. He gazed past James’ shoulder to the grey city outside; it had started to snow while they ate dinner, and he half-wished he’d grabbed his peacoat on the way out the door.
“So.” James had turned around, was watching him from just inches away. He smelled of cognac and some nameless, expensive aftershave. “Do I pass muster, quartermaster? Will you reconsider my offer from before?”
For several seconds, Q could only stare at him. It hit him then that his boyish crush on 007 had metastasized into utter infatuation, and for all his intellect and webs and clever games, the promises he’d made himself, he’d still wound up in the same spot he’d hoped to avoid. “You can be very persuasive when you want to be,” he said at last, and James smiled, deep and drowning as the sea.
* * * * *
They went to James’ flat.
They walked to James’ flat, actually, which was a stupid idea considering how the temperature had plummeted during dinner. Every cab was jammed, and James seemed perfectly willing to take the tube, but moments away from descending the steps Q decided that he couldn’t deny himself for even twenty minutes longer, cold be damned, so he grabbed James by the lapels of his dinner jacket and yanked him onward past the entrance to the underground. He felt James stumble behind him, heard a bemused what are you doing, Q, but he ignored it till they’d fast-marched to the end of the block and Q had dragged James into the shadow of a statue of Oliver Cromwell, digging his fingers under Bond’s waistcoat as he pulled Bond against him. This close Q could now see it was actually dark blue, not black, but he hardly gave a damn in that moment.
“That waistcoat cost more than your month’s salary,” murmured James, leaning in.
“Oh, now you start caring about the cost of things,” hissed Q, and dragged James down to kiss him, hard. James’ hand came up, caught Q’s shoulder and squeezed, and then James was crowding him against the brick wall, the uneven mortar catching Q’s coat and hiking it up his back as James pinned him, Q moaning into his mouth. Cold bit at his lower back but Q couldn’t give a damn past the press of James’ sturdy chest against his.
A bomb was going off inside his head, a fire was burning through his stomach. Q slid his mouth along James’ full lips, sucking at the bottom of his pout, eliciting a grunt. James’ hand came up to Q’s hair, fingernails scraping against Q’s scalp as he got a good hand-full and pulled, sharp enough to make Q’s eyes water. “I am going to wreck you,” James breathed, and Q’s cock jumped in his trousers.
“You should’ve picked a restaurant closer to your bloody flat,” Q ground out between kisses. He let out a whine that he’d deny to his dying breath when James pulled back and grinned at him, eyes bright. “Hello, less smirking, more kissing!”
“Excuse me, who was the one who managed to walk us straight past the tube stop? What would you like me to do, carry you back?”
“That’d be a nice start,” snapped Q. He couldn’t seem to help himself; he wanted James so bad it was like he’d lost control of his ability to not be a total pea-brained arsehole. Manners were the first thing overboard, apparently. “Isn’t that what you do?” James laughed, pulling back and letting Q up from his crouch against the wall, tugging Q to his newly-unsteady feet.
Walking home was an exercise in frustration. They’d make it a block, two at most, and then they’d come across a dark patch of sidewalk and James would drag Q off to kiss him breathless against a brick wall or under a shivering leafless tree, and if James somehow managed to rein himself in it was Q doing the dragging. It took ages to get to the walk-up that housed James’ flat, at once posh and painfully uninteresting, as the newer high-end places tended towards. Q’s nose was stinging from the cold, his mouth was already kiss-chapped and swollen, and both their coats had a fine dusting of white snow. Q imagined his hair wasn’t any better off.
They got in the first lift that came with a very properly-dressed older woman, her hair the color of blue cotton candy and her glasses thick enough to qualify as binoculars. “Hello, James,” she said amiably as the doors slid shut. “Who is your young man here? Nice to see you finally bringing someone round, I was beginning to think I’d have to stage an intervention.”
Q coughed into his hand, eyes wide. “Ah, Margaret,” James said, abruptly awkward, and Q wished he could record this, to cherish for ever and ever; he didn’t know 00s came with an “embarrassed” setting. “This is, ah, we aren’t-”
“Oh, my mistake,” said Margaret blandly. “Still, good to see you have some company over, you spend too much time alone.” She laced long, spindly fingers together and smiled; Q fought the urge to exchange glances with James, diligently staring at the floor display above the facade of buttons on the wall.
The lift slowed, pinging as the door opened, and James and Q waited politely for Margaret to exit first, James holding the door of the lift open for her. “Careful of that waistcoat when you get him alone, dear,” said Margaret, turning to smile dazzlingly at Q as she pulled out a pair of keys from her purse and fitted them to her lock. “I gave him it as a house-warming gift, it was my husband’s. Wouldn’t do for it to get all dirtied up. It looks quite nice on him though, doesn’t it? Brings out his eyes. Well, enjoy yourselves!” She gave them a little wave with one of her bird-like hands, and vanished into her apartment.
Q whirled on James, eyes bulging in their sockets, but before he could say a word James had grabbed him by the arm and was hustling him down the hall and into the flat three doors down. “You-’More expensive than a month’s pay!’” Laughter bubbled up in his throat as James man-handled him through the doorway and shut the door behind them with more force than strictly necessary. “Oh my god, you wanker, you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend! How can I compete with Grandma Moses?” Q sank weak-kneed against the wall, head thumping against plaster as he dissolved into actual fucking giggles like he was at uni again and drunk off his arse on sparkling wine.
“Stop laughing at me, you cheeky fucking tart.” James loomed in front Q, grinning at him as he slid hands up under Q’s suit coat, digging his shirt out of his trousers, fingers finding bare skin like heat-seeking missiles. Q sighed and arched into the touch, reaching up to undo the dapper bow-tie at James’ neck, which he now saw was a midnight blue to match the waistcoat.
“It really does bring out your eyes,” he said lightly, and James rolled his eyes. He couldn’t banish his smile, though, and Q couldn’t resist, leaning in to kiss at the corner of that dangerous mouth, fumbling to pull the tie away from James’ throat even as James shoved Q’s jacket off his shoulders, tangling his arms in them. “Slow down a little, you’re an animal, I’m-busy here-”
“Mmm, I hope you’re not expecting sympathy.”
Q dropped his arms, letting his suit coat fall to the floor, and then James was tugging Q’s button-down and undershirt over his head both at once. “Glasses! Glasses, hello-” His glasses lifted abruptly from his nose, and Q found himself blinking at the now-fuzzy form of James Bond right in front of him.
“Might want to set them aside for a bit,” James observed. “Wouldn’t want them to get dirtied up.” Q’s gut clenched as desire spiked right in the pit of his stomach, even as he reached to take his glasses back from James. There should be a tax on sounding like that, he thought stupidly.
“If you will remember from my file, which I know for a fact you have read-” Q neatly retrieved his glasses and replaced them on his face, James’ quizzical expression coming back into focus, “I am all but blind without my glasses. So if you don’t want this to be far more hilarious than strictly necessary…”
James just smiled, and leaned in to kiss him again by way of assent. Q was only dimly aware of their journey to the bedroom, too busy being distracted by James’ mouth and wandering hands, and by the various pieces of clothing they shed en route, like the trail of bread crumbs left by a perverted Hansel & Gretel. Then he was naked and James was naked and James was laying him out on the king-size bed, sliding hands up Q’s arms to catch each of his wrists and pin them against the sheets.
“Well hello there,” James said, pausing for a moment, bent over Q. He was giving his attention to the bright splashes of ink that adorned Q’s bicep and shoulder, his half-sleeve of tattoos visible to James now for… probably the first time, Q realized. He hadn’t been thinking about it; he was sort of busy with staring at the glory that was James’ torso. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Yes, I got them just to impress you, obviously,” said Q, and lifted his hips impatiently, his erection bobbing lewdly over his stomach by way of greeting. “Are we going to classify them right now, or are you going to get down here?” James’ eyes darkened, and he leaned forward to press the length of his body against Q’s with a low groan that vibrated against the hollow of Q’s throat. Q could feel James’ stiff cock sliding against his belly, and he shuddered, arching up against the hands that still pinned him to the bed, tipping his head back in supplication.
James took the invitation immediately, releasing one of Q's thin wrists to catch him by the hair instead, tugging Q's head back yet further to elongate the arch of his white neck; Q felt not unlike a small rabbit about to have its throat torn out. James exhaled hot air against his skin, brushing his lips over Q's trembling Adam's apple, and Q moaned, grabbing blindly for one of James' shoulders. His glasses were attempting a backwards slide off his face, but Q wasn't yet ready to give up what might well be his only chance to see James Bond naked. He'd sooner take a year of migraines than miss that sight.
The heat of him was unreal. Q twisted his other wrist in James' grip, wriggling it free so that he could wrap his other arm around the furnace on top of him. James mouthed wetly against Q's throat up to the spot under his ear, scraping teeth teasingly light over Q's skin. Q moaned encouragingly, gathering great palmfuls of the muscles of James' back. The man's deltoids were a national treasure, he thought dizzily.
Q wriggled his legs slightly out from under James, planting his feet on the bed to get some leverage and rolling his hips suggestively up against the blunt weapon of James' pelvis, biting his lip as the catch and rub of their erections against each other sent a jolt of pleasure through his stomach. James made a noise in his throat and bit down on Q's neck, and Q hissed, twitching in sharp and immediate response.
James pulled back at that, peering down at him with a smirk that Q could see even through the lenses sitting askew on his face. "Liked that, did you," he murmured. Q blinked up at him, glassy-eyed.
"What do you want, a fucking medal?" he demanded. "Do it again."
"Bossy." James ducked his head again and sank teeth into Q's throat on the opposite side, and Q moaned, digging fingernails into James' back deep enough that later he would find marks, little half-moon crescents. His noises seemed to energize James, who started biting all up and down his throat, stopping here and there to suck and lick a mark into Q's skin until Q was squirming and panting against James' weight.
"Fuck, James." His cock ached, beads of pre-ejaculate leaking from the tip, leaving a sticky trail along James' taut stomach. Q twisted his arm until he could grab the hand that wasn't still in his hair, pulling it up to his face. He lick flat-tongued up the first blunt finger before sucking it messily into his mouth. James stilled, face against Q's chest, and let out a noise low and full of gravel that made Q's stomach twist with lust.
Q hummed around the digit in his mouth, letting his eyes shut again as he set up a rhythm, sucking on James' finger like he so wanted to his cock, cheeks hollowing as he soaked it in spit, laving it with his tongue. James groaned, and the hand in Q's hair tightened, yanking hard enough to make Q's eyes water and his cock jerk. A second finger pushed into his mouth, and Q moaned as James pressed the pads of both fingers against the back of Q's tongue, close to gagging for it.
"I had no idea you were so filthy, Q," James breathed, right in his ear. Q whined in the back of his throat; he'd never had that particular dark edge in James' voice directed at him before, hot like the touch of his skin was hot. Q sucked down those two fingers into his mouth as deep as he could take them, rolling his hips up against James again, one arm lashed around James' study shoulders, wanting more, now.
Evidently James did, too, because he pulled his fingers out of Q's mouth and pushed himself up on the bed over Q, grinding down against him, matching the rhythm of his hips. Their cocks slid together, already slick with pre-come and the sweat pooling in the hollow grooves of Q's hip. Q moaned, grabbing for James' side, fingers sliding against flat planes of muscle, laced here and there with fine ridges he knew were scar tissue.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you sodding bastard, fuck--" Q wasn't going to last much longer. His breath rattled in his throat, his heart pounded like a freight train, his balls drawn up tight as he fucked up against James, craning his neck for a messy crash of lips and teeth as James tried to kiss him, moaning open-mouthed against the corner of Q's lips.
Q shoved a hand down between them, catching James' thick length against his arched fingers and rolling his hips up against it, rubbing their cocks together in the curve of his hand. James let out a stuttering groan against his temple, and out of the corner of his eye Q watched the muscles of his arms bunching under his skin as James rocked down against him, thrusting into Q's hand.
"James," Q panted, voice high, fractured from need, "I'm--fuck I'm going to--" James went down onto one elbow, lowering himself enough to press his face to Q's throat again as he caught the back of Q's neck in the other hand, and then he bit down hard on the side of Q's throat. Q gasped, coming hard and fast, shuddering through it as he emptied himself out.
James kept rocking down against him, and Q retained enough presence of mind to keep his hand where it was, to grab James by the shoulder and pull him closer. James' thrusts went jerky and rough, grunting against Q's neck, and then Q felt him shudder to a halt, felt the heat of his seed spilling across Q's stomach, and then James sagged against him and went still.
Q let himself drift for a moment, basking in the post-coital glow. His hand rested on the back of James’ shoulder; James face stayed where it was, tucked into the crook of Q’s neck. He was going to have to wear a scarf tomorrow, Q thought distractedly. Or a neck-brace. Bastard.
James mumbled something into his neck. “Pardon? I don’t speak tree-sloth, James.”
James snorted and lifted his head. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
Q rolled his eyes, but it was hard to manage the proper level of disdain when he felt this blasted. “I’ll have you know-” he began, and then stopped as a hand came up and plucked his glasses from his face. The world in front of his eyes was suddenly unfocused. And dark.
“Taking my glasses off isn’t going to make me stop,” he pointed out after a moment.
James smiled against his neck. “It was worth a shot,” he murmured, barely audible.
Q wrinkled his nose, and kissed the nearest part of James that was handy, which happened to be his (extremely sweaty) temple. “Git.”
“Trollop.”
“Relic.”
“Brat,” James said, and bit down gently on Q’s neck. Q made a noise in his throat, and wrapped both arms around James’ shoulders, and shut his eyes. “I am going to, you know,” James said lazily, after a few more moments of quiet breathing.
“What, take a remedial language course?”
“Classify all your tattoos.” Q blinked. He lifted a hand, stroking his fingers lightly through James’ sweaty hair. “They look good on you,” James murmured.
“Oh,” was all Q could think of to say, and James chuckled against his neck before dropping another kiss under Q’s ear.
* * * * *
Bond's Jaguar F-type. The basis for Q's puzzle-box. Bond's dinner outfit. Q's dinner outfit.
Fandom: Skyfall (James Bond)
Characters: James Bond/Q, Eve Moneypenny, Gareth Mallory, Bill Tanner, OCs
Rating: Mature. Explicit in sections; depictions of canon-typical violence.
Word-Count: ~56,000. Complete, but chapters will be posted as they are returned from beta and undergo final edits.
Notes: This fic was Brit-picked by the lovely and patient starsandgraces, who isn't even in this fandom but still put up with my badgering. I was encouraged by multiple enablers, including jou and flatbear, but all credit and gratitude goes to circ_bamboo, who held my hand, cheered me on, read over every inch of this fic, plotted endlessly with me, and is hands-down the best writing partner in crime a fangirl could ask for. THANK YOU SO MUCH, BABY, ALL THE SCONES ARE FOR YOU. ♥
Summary: Q has a past, a cat, and a dangerous new boyfriend. Two of these things keep him up nights, the other pees in a box. Espionage, plot with porn, decoy flats, suit porn, scones for the Queen, invention porn, secret identities, snark, canon-typical violence, dysfunctional flirting by dysfunctional people, and Eve Moneypenny is HBIC.
You can also read here at the AO3. Part one of this fic posted here on LJ.
What followed was the most bizarre courtship Q had ever-well, heard of, certainly. He didn’t have much to compare it to, but Moneypenny confirmed that normal people didn’t flirt like this. Not that he was normal. Not that any of them were.
* * * * *
Q managed to keep himself awake for a full hour after he arrived home, half-expecting to see Bond at his front door despite all the precautions he’d taken en route home to evade him, only to pass out cold before making it to bed, sprawled on his couch by his work-table. He woke around 3 am to a warm weight on his chest, blinking stupidly as a small white cat maowed in his face.
“Oh, you’ve come back, have you,” he croaked out. Carly responded by licking one of his glasses lenses. Carly was technically a stray, but after Q had installed the cat-door for her (most expensive cat door in England, since it opened only to her vocal signature) she’d taken to staying at his flat as often as not, even submitting to being taken to the vet for a full work-up. He’d gotten a collar for her the last time he saw her, but it appeared to be missing. “Got hungry, I expect.” He sat up with a grunt, and she jumped lightly down to the floor, white puff of a tail twitching as she headed towards the kitchen. Q groaned and hauled himself off the couch, shuffling tiredly after her. It was only after he’d finished spooning some wet cat food into a dish for her that he thought to check whether anyone had gotten into his flat.
A quick walk-through of his home yielded nothing; security camera videos came up equally dry. Q drank down two glasses of water and an aspirin and called it a night, and didn’t even bother shoving Carly away when she came and curled up under the covers with him, purring like a little engine. It wasn’t as if he was expecting Bond to break in and mug him, after all. And he’d have plenty of time to hate himself come morning.
* * * * *
As it happened, Q had very little time for self-recrimination the next morning. His mobile rang at 6:34 am with an urgent message from M telling him he was needed at HQ as soon as possible, as some absolute git had managed to download a (thankfully less dangerous) version of the HAL-2012 virus onto MI6’s servers. Q cursed a blue streak that sent Carly bolting for her cat-door, insulting every one of his jumped-up script monkey idiots who might have done this, with some barbs for his wretched coworkers who’d blessed him with this hangover thrown in for spice. He showered in record time and shoved a muffin in his face before bolting for the nearest tube station, clattering down the rickety iron steps from his block of flats and nearly killing a gran out for an early-morning walk with her corgi in his haste. He was at the labyrinthine crypt that was still substituting for HQ by 7:15, and was eyeball-deep in code for the entirety of his morning, save for the few brave souls who stopped by in order to bring him tea or to get updates for Mallory.
He finally managed to contain the damage around 1 pm. Q sat back, swiping an arm over his face with a low growl of annoyance. He’d had so much he’d planned to work on this morning, no less than three works-in-progress he needed to coordinate in order to reach his agents in the field on time, and here he was, a full half-day behind at best due to having spent his morning on damage control, and that was only if the virus hadn’t totally bollocksed up any of the projects he had in the works, he was going to bloody murder Carter when he got his hands on the idiot-
“Don’t lose your head,” said an all-too-cheerful voice from his right: Moneypenny, standing by looking unfairly posh in her blue frock and heels. “I brought you lunch, compliments of M. Congrats on all your hard work taming the beast.”
“I don’t want lunch, I want the person who did this drug out into the street and shot,” said Q peevishly, but he reached over and snagged the box from Wagamama she was holding out anyway.
“Carter swears up and down he didn’t download anything and he has no idea how the virus got in,” said Moneypenny, leaning against the desk as Q ripped open the box and attacked his noodles. “Records show he didn’t log into his computer this morning until after you did, and he left work well before you last night. It’s a great mystery.”
“The only mystery is why he was ever hired in the first place,” muttered Q. “What’s that folder you’ve got? Are you here to brief me on the next mission I am to outfit 007 for?”
“So long as ‘outfitting’ is all you’re planning on doing to Bond,” observed Moneypenny, and Q choked on his soba noodles, shooting Moneypenny a glare that could have set half of Q branch on fire.
“Moneypants,” he said warningly, around a mouthful of food. Moneypenny smirked at him. “There is nothing going on, alright? Nothing squared. Nothing to the nth power.”
“Alright, alright!” Moneypenny raised her hands in surrender, but she didn’t stop smirking. “All I know is that’s the first time I’ve seen Bond out consorting with us peasants since I’ve started working here. And he was sitting awfully close to you.”
“Rubbish,” said Q. “That’s the real reason you volunteered to bring me lunch, isn’t it. So you could try to pry some gossip out of me.” Moneypenny winked at him, and Q sighed. “Leave the folder on the desk, please, and I’ll see what I can dig up for our resident psychopath to take with him.” Moneypenny deposited the manila envelope on Q’s desk and flicked him a cheerful two-finger salute before turning on a heel and marching back towards M’s offices. Q exhaled heavily, hunching over his bowl of yakisoba with the air of the much put-upon.
You’d have thought that being in computer programming would be one of the quieter career paths one could choose, but apparently, you’d be wrong. At this rate Q was actually going to have to relocate his office to the arse-end of Scotland just to get any fucking work done.
* * * * *
It was another week before Q saw Bond again. Working off-site at weapons testing facilities had its occasional perks, and truth be told Q needed the space. After the virus debacle passed, he found himself replaying his and Bond’s kiss in front of the pub over and over in his head, like one of those bloody GIFs with cats his interns so adored. It was enough to drive him to distraction, and distraction from his huge workload was the very last thing Q needed. So he lost himself gratefully in the minutiae of his job, willing himself to not think beyond the firing range with his armsmaster, observing the kickback of a new compact handgun or measuring the amount of force expended in a bomb-blast. There were few things more satisfying than watching an explosive the size of an apple take out the equivalent of four titanium-reinforced iron walls.
Never let it be said that Q didn’t love his work. He might not be the one to pullthe trigger, but not all the waters of Arabia could wash the blood of Her Majesty’s enemies from his hands. Not that he even wanted to.
He lost himself in handguns and heavy artillery, wrapped himself around miniature poison pens and remote-operated smart bombs. Q spent whole days without thinking of Bond, and if he dreamed of piercing blue eyes and heavy, callused hands at night, well, that was nobody’s business.
* * * * *
Q was just beginning to think he might have a hold on this unreasonable crush when he returned to HQ seven days later, but that particular illusion cracked and blew away in the wind like a thoroughly vaporized building husk the minute he laid eyes on 007. Bond leaned against the wall of Q’s private workstation in a lethally sharp suit, his arms crossed across his broad chest, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Q. It was fucking unnerving.
“Hello, Q,” said Bond. “What’ve you got for me today?” He sounded almost bored. Q was glad he’d been spared the gene that turned him red at the drop of a hat. He would hate to come over all hot and splotchy like his dad used to when his fury got the better of him, looking like he would burn you if you touched him.
Q was always one of those for whom the world would end in ice.
“Well if it’s that tedious for you, Mr. Bond, there’s no need to bother,” Q said calmly. “I’m sure one of the other agents would love this Jaguar convertible that comes when you call it.”
Bond cocked his head, his expression barely changing. “And here I thought I’d run the budget into the ground so badly that you’d barely be able to afford a squirt-gun for me,” he said, but now at least he sounded like he was paying attention.
“Yes, well.” Q pursed his lips at his computer screen, then reached for the slim black case sitting on his desk, flicking the silver clasps open and pulling out a deceptively simple-looking remote control, approximately the size and weight of a compact mp3 player. “If all goes as planned in this mission, you are going to find yourself a singularly unpopular person in a very remote location, and removing you expeditiously benefits everyone. So.” He glanced at Bond. “Don’t get used to it. Break this and I’ll send you with thumb tacks for the rest of the year.”
The glint in Bond’s eye was unmistakable. “Thank you, dearest Q,” he said. “I promise to take the very best care of our Jag.”
Q grimaced. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
* * * * *
As it turned out, the Jaguar not only GPS-located the transponder Q had given Bond, but it also navigated using an aggressively upgraded version of Google maps, and came equipped with a pair of modified M134 mini-machine guns armed with 7.62 NATO cartridges that blasted everything blocking the way to its owner to smithereens; then there was the further arsenal of projectiles, miniature flame-throwers, and other weaponry at the driver’s command once he or she was actually behind the wheel. And that was all in addition to the fact that the car Q had modded was one of the new F-type V8 S convertibles that could go from 0-60 mph in 4.2 seconds that wouldn’t even be commercially available until mid-2013. Bond was in a transport of glee.
“You know, Bond could easily have stolen a car from the Yakuza complex and gotten out on his own,” pointed out Tanner. As was becoming the norm for the more spectacular of Bond’s missions, Q had drawn an audience, situated as he currently was in the center of Q Branch’s main workspace in order to most effectively use the wall projector screen and its various surrounding surfaces to coordinate 007’s mission. Tanner was at his left elbow, and unless Q was very wrong, M and Moneypenny had wandered in at some point and were watching from somewhere in the back right of the room.
“Well of course he could have, he’s quite effective at breaking, perhaps even at entering,” said Q. He tapped out a line of code, sending a message to the waiting private jet at the edge of Yakuza air space. “But I’m testing a personal theory of mine that happens to dovetail nicely with better achieving our mission objectives.” He adjusted his head-piece, wincing slightly at the crump of combustible material going up in glorious flames at the other end. “007, was it really necessary to implode that armory?”
“Of course,” said the smug voice in Q’s ear-well everyone’s ear, now that Q was playing him on speaker. “Robbing Yakuza of weaponry is hardly a bad thing. And your Jag does the job so effectively.”
“That it does,” said Q comfortably. “Tanner, if you’re going to make that face, could you at least stand out of my line of sight, you’re going to put me off my lunch.”
Tanner cleared his throat. “Is it really necessary to encourage that kind of destructiveness?” he asked after a moment.
“All work and no play makes Bond a dull boy,” said Q. “And we do so appreciate an agent who loves his work.”
“Q, I’m blushing,” said Bond, and Q’s stomach twisted into a shape worthy of H.R. Geiger. Out of the corner of his eye, Q could see Tanner shaking his head.
* * * * *
The box was on his desk when he came back from lunch the next day. Bond was at his desk, too, sitting against one edge.
Q stopped in the doorway, Scrabble mug of Earl Grey in his hand, blinking at the unfamiliar object. “Please tell me that doesn’t have a piece of someone’s hand in it or somesuch equally gruesome memento of your trip to Nihon,” he said.
Bond smiled faintly. “It’s a present,” he said. “And no, there’s no body parts inside.”
Q crossed the room, setting his mug down on the desk and picking up the mystery object instead, finding himself speechless for several seconds. It was actually three boxes, seemingly glued together at one corner each, made of delicately-carved dark cherry wood, with pastoral paintings of Japanese rural life on several of the sides. It was beautiful. “What is this?” he asked. “You didn’t find this at the Yakuza compound.”
“No,” murmured Bond. “I got it before then.” Q glanced over at Bond and abruptly lost whatever he’d been planning to say next, arrested by the look in Bond’s eyes.
“Arigatou gozaimasu,” said Q finally. “May I ask the occasion?”
“All work and no play makes the quartermaster a dull boy,” said Bond. “Open it.” He straightened, pushing off the desk and reaching out to rest a hand on Q’s shoulder, giving him a soft squeeze. “I brought you back your Jaguar, by the way.”
“Yes, I saw that,” said Q faintly. Even the warmth of Bond’s hand was not enough to distract him, and he did not notice when it fell away. He was already turning the box over and over in his hands, pressing against a panel here and noting with delight that it did not immediately gave way. “You brought me a puzzle-box? ….Bond?” Q looked up again, but Bond was already gone.
* * * * *
Realistically speaking, on any given day Q could work 12 hours straight without even a break for lunch and still never catch up, so it was rare for him to justify taking time off. All the same, he couldn’t resist leaving work early that day, dispensing only with the necessary from 007’s mission to Japan before heading back to his flat (and taking one of his six usual roundabout methods of getting there). To his great joy, it took Q almost four hours to get the wooden puzzle-box open. He quickly discovered that the three smaller boxes had to be opened in a specific pattern, their panels manipulated in exactly the right order or else you would be locked out. Q hummed to himself as he worked, absent-mindedly petting Carly and losing himself in the same space he went to when he coded or got extensive time alone in his workshop with a new piece of equipment. It was almost a physical blow when the last panel finally slid open (38 correct movements in a row) and a piece of paper fell out.
He leaned over, retrieving the folded scrap of paper from the floor before Carly could make off with it, unfolding it and scanning the message written there. Color flooded his face now that he was alone, now that he could let himself be flustered by James Bond’s neat handwriting and cavalier presumption. He glanced at his watch, and scrambled to his feet so quickly that Carly let fly a disapproving yowl and fled under the coffee table. He had to go, he had to hurry or he would be late-but he couldn’t go in his bloody pyjamas, he had to change first, fucking hell he’d have to cab it or he wouldn’t make it in time-
Five minutes later, Q threw himself into the back of the cab, huffing out the address to the driver, his hand still in the pocket of his suit coat. He tugged out the little scrap of paper and re-read its message, his face burning.
Bella Italiano, 1930 hours. See you there. -James
* * * * *
Bella Italiano was done in classic Roman styling, with lots of draping white tapestries and marble pillars and sweeping ceiling glass. Q found Bond near the back of the restaurant, in one of the booths that offered a commanding view of the rest of the room. Bond reclined slightly in the seat, a snifter with a finger of some amber liquor on the table in front of him, wearing yet another of his impeccable suits. He was in full-on black tie, a dinner jacket with silk lapels, a pleated white shirt, and mother-of-pearl studs with matching cuff links; a black silk waistcoast peeked out just above where the table disappeared Bond’s midsection. Q’s gut twisted at the sight of him, how painfully attractive he was, as quintessentially 007 as Q had ever seen him.
Q slowed as he crossed the monolithic room, feeling suddenly massively under-dressed and under-qualified for the engagement ahead of him; his 3-button grey suit over a white shirt and paisley tie looked excellent on him, actually, but it was the suit he wore to important meetings and formal functions, as he had nothing in his arsenal for ‘dinner and conversation with James fucking Bond at 5-star restaurant.’ He was seriously considering bolting for the door when Bond saw him. Bond straightened in the booth, a light coming into his face, and Q found himself crossing the last few meters and sinking into his seat, drawn irresistibly by the magnetism of that gaze.
He’d have better luck resisting gravity.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Q, since Take me now and Say you’re having me for dinner were both unacceptable on a number of levels and he was better than that. Mostly. “Traffic was murder.” He wasn’t going to apologize for being under-dressed. It wasn’t as though Bond had given him much warning.
“Fashionably late,” said Bond. James. James, Q decided. Bond was for work, and whatever this was, it was decidedly not work. “I expected as much. You found my note.” He was smiling again, watching Q steadily, as if he was the most captivating thing in the room, as if no one else was in the room at all. Q was finding it hard to breathe.
“I did,” said Q, unable to keep from smiling back. “The box is excellent. Perhaps not as complex as the hard drives you brought me back from Moaveni’s computers, but just as rewarding, in its way.”
“Good.” James leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table top, and Q tried not to notice the way the cut of James’ suit accented his broad shoulders, the tracery of scars that licked up his neck (that he wanted to follow with his fingers, with his tongue). “Would you like a drink? “
“Are you going to try to get me drunk? James, for shame.”
“Nothing of the sort. I just want you to enjoy yourself. You get away from the office so rarely. At least I get out and see the world.”
“I like my work,” noted Q, “and it’s a good thing I do, or else I’d have gone half-mad within a week of starting and then you would have finished the job.” James, Q decided, was going to an awful lot of trouble for a roll in the hay. He didn’t know what to make of it, and after a few moments of mentally grappling with it, decided to put it away again.
“Mmm.” James paused for a moment as their server materialized out of the aether, lingering long enough to take their drink and appetizer order before vanishing (Q had no head for wine and would eat probably anything put in front of him, but if James wanted to show off, Q was more than happy to let him), and then James pinned Q with another one of his megawatt stares. “I need something to call you outside of work,” he said.
“Just not ‘Quentin,’ please,” said Q. “The intensity of my loathing for that name burns hotter than the surface of the sun.”
James snorted, but his smile was undiminished. He seemed to think for a moment. “How about Elliot?” he said, the way a chess-master would say check.
Q stared at him, the blood draining from his face. “How did you-”
“You told me to try harder,” James pointed out. “Which, by the way, is harder than I had to try to get Mawdsley’s file, so congratulations on that.”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” said Q faintly. He reached out for his glass of wine, a pinot gris the color of straw that supposedly had floral notes and a crisp head to it; it might as well have been water for all that Q tasted it. “So now I suppose you know all about Elliot Marsh.”
“Not nearly as much as I was hoping to learn,” admitted James, and Q smiled into his wine in vindication. “Just that he has the same national insurance number and birthday as you.”
“Yes, well. That was sloppy of me, but I admit I wasn’t working very hard.” Q considered. No one but Moneypenny knew about Elliot Marsh, or what Elliot did with his time, but the urge to show off a little was very strong. Especially with James watching him from across the table with that pluripotent smile hovering around his lips, that said the night could yet go anywhere. Q cleared his throat. “Very well. Have you a piece of paper?”
James raised his eyebrows, and then reached inside his jacket, pulling out a business card and sliding it across the table to Q. Q brought out a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled a string of digits onto it, before pushing the card back across the table to James, who took it and glanced at it before giving Q a questioning look.
“A week from Saturday,” said Q. “That’s all I’m giving you. Find me and I’ll show you Elliot.”
James lifted his head, a belligerent edge to the angle of his jaw. He tucked the card back into his jacket pocket as he studied Q. “I leave for another mission day after tomorrow,” he pointed out.
“Then you had best make sure you finish it quickly, because I’m not sure when Elliot will be around next,” Q said primly, and James gave him a wolfish grin that made all the hair on Q’s body curl and his balls draw up, as though he’d been stripped naked there in the middle of the restaurant.
“Making me work for it, are you,” James murmured, and Q mm-hrmmed into his drink.
* * * * *
The rest of their dinner broke over him like the ocean, washing the outside world away. Q remembered thinking that, at the time, everything tasted amazing, like the angels themselves were hiding in the kitchen preparing their food and drink, but if he’d been quizzed on it later he wouldn’t have been able to name a single thing they ate. What stuck in his mind, instead, was the delightful discovery of exactly how charming James Bond could be when the full force of his regard was turned on you-and how terrifyingly smart he was. The fucking bastard. It made sense; 007 wouldn’t be nearly as effective a killing machine if it weren’t for how agile and cunning he was, as deadly and swift as a venomous snake.
Their conversation ranged far and wide, from the mundane to the sublime; sure, it was hot that James could recognize Rumi, but when the first bite of tiramisu melted in his mouth and Q shut his eyes in bliss, only to hear James murmur, “Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you,” Q could have leapt over the table and kissed him right there in front of God and everyone, because Keats was for lovers but Mel Brooks had his heart. He’d seen pieces of this sweet and painful lightness the other night at the pub, but the sharpened weapon of James’ mind hadn’t been pointed directly at him, then, and he could admit to himself now that he was too drunk at the pub to properly appreciate the man in front of him.
They didn’t talk about work, at least not directly. Doing what they did, it was hard to cultivate much of a life outside of MI6, but their words filled up the minutes filled up the hours and Q was drunk, and not on wine. He didn’t even see James pay for the check but suddenly James was standing, had come around to Q’s side and was offering him a hand out of his chair.
“I’m not that gone, James,” said Q, and stood pointedly under his own power. “As delightful as this evening has been, you are not so powerful an intoxicant that I have lost my head.”
“Clearly I need to work harder, then,” said James into the space between them, his voice very quiet. Q bit his lip, swallowing the catty reply before it could fall out of his mouth, and followed James through the crowded restaurant back to the lobby. He gazed past James’ shoulder to the grey city outside; it had started to snow while they ate dinner, and he half-wished he’d grabbed his peacoat on the way out the door.
“So.” James had turned around, was watching him from just inches away. He smelled of cognac and some nameless, expensive aftershave. “Do I pass muster, quartermaster? Will you reconsider my offer from before?”
For several seconds, Q could only stare at him. It hit him then that his boyish crush on 007 had metastasized into utter infatuation, and for all his intellect and webs and clever games, the promises he’d made himself, he’d still wound up in the same spot he’d hoped to avoid. “You can be very persuasive when you want to be,” he said at last, and James smiled, deep and drowning as the sea.
* * * * *
They went to James’ flat.
They walked to James’ flat, actually, which was a stupid idea considering how the temperature had plummeted during dinner. Every cab was jammed, and James seemed perfectly willing to take the tube, but moments away from descending the steps Q decided that he couldn’t deny himself for even twenty minutes longer, cold be damned, so he grabbed James by the lapels of his dinner jacket and yanked him onward past the entrance to the underground. He felt James stumble behind him, heard a bemused what are you doing, Q, but he ignored it till they’d fast-marched to the end of the block and Q had dragged James into the shadow of a statue of Oliver Cromwell, digging his fingers under Bond’s waistcoat as he pulled Bond against him. This close Q could now see it was actually dark blue, not black, but he hardly gave a damn in that moment.
“That waistcoat cost more than your month’s salary,” murmured James, leaning in.
“Oh, now you start caring about the cost of things,” hissed Q, and dragged James down to kiss him, hard. James’ hand came up, caught Q’s shoulder and squeezed, and then James was crowding him against the brick wall, the uneven mortar catching Q’s coat and hiking it up his back as James pinned him, Q moaning into his mouth. Cold bit at his lower back but Q couldn’t give a damn past the press of James’ sturdy chest against his.
A bomb was going off inside his head, a fire was burning through his stomach. Q slid his mouth along James’ full lips, sucking at the bottom of his pout, eliciting a grunt. James’ hand came up to Q’s hair, fingernails scraping against Q’s scalp as he got a good hand-full and pulled, sharp enough to make Q’s eyes water. “I am going to wreck you,” James breathed, and Q’s cock jumped in his trousers.
“You should’ve picked a restaurant closer to your bloody flat,” Q ground out between kisses. He let out a whine that he’d deny to his dying breath when James pulled back and grinned at him, eyes bright. “Hello, less smirking, more kissing!”
“Excuse me, who was the one who managed to walk us straight past the tube stop? What would you like me to do, carry you back?”
“That’d be a nice start,” snapped Q. He couldn’t seem to help himself; he wanted James so bad it was like he’d lost control of his ability to not be a total pea-brained arsehole. Manners were the first thing overboard, apparently. “Isn’t that what you do?” James laughed, pulling back and letting Q up from his crouch against the wall, tugging Q to his newly-unsteady feet.
Walking home was an exercise in frustration. They’d make it a block, two at most, and then they’d come across a dark patch of sidewalk and James would drag Q off to kiss him breathless against a brick wall or under a shivering leafless tree, and if James somehow managed to rein himself in it was Q doing the dragging. It took ages to get to the walk-up that housed James’ flat, at once posh and painfully uninteresting, as the newer high-end places tended towards. Q’s nose was stinging from the cold, his mouth was already kiss-chapped and swollen, and both their coats had a fine dusting of white snow. Q imagined his hair wasn’t any better off.
They got in the first lift that came with a very properly-dressed older woman, her hair the color of blue cotton candy and her glasses thick enough to qualify as binoculars. “Hello, James,” she said amiably as the doors slid shut. “Who is your young man here? Nice to see you finally bringing someone round, I was beginning to think I’d have to stage an intervention.”
Q coughed into his hand, eyes wide. “Ah, Margaret,” James said, abruptly awkward, and Q wished he could record this, to cherish for ever and ever; he didn’t know 00s came with an “embarrassed” setting. “This is, ah, we aren’t-”
“Oh, my mistake,” said Margaret blandly. “Still, good to see you have some company over, you spend too much time alone.” She laced long, spindly fingers together and smiled; Q fought the urge to exchange glances with James, diligently staring at the floor display above the facade of buttons on the wall.
The lift slowed, pinging as the door opened, and James and Q waited politely for Margaret to exit first, James holding the door of the lift open for her. “Careful of that waistcoat when you get him alone, dear,” said Margaret, turning to smile dazzlingly at Q as she pulled out a pair of keys from her purse and fitted them to her lock. “I gave him it as a house-warming gift, it was my husband’s. Wouldn’t do for it to get all dirtied up. It looks quite nice on him though, doesn’t it? Brings out his eyes. Well, enjoy yourselves!” She gave them a little wave with one of her bird-like hands, and vanished into her apartment.
Q whirled on James, eyes bulging in their sockets, but before he could say a word James had grabbed him by the arm and was hustling him down the hall and into the flat three doors down. “You-’More expensive than a month’s pay!’” Laughter bubbled up in his throat as James man-handled him through the doorway and shut the door behind them with more force than strictly necessary. “Oh my god, you wanker, you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend! How can I compete with Grandma Moses?” Q sank weak-kneed against the wall, head thumping against plaster as he dissolved into actual fucking giggles like he was at uni again and drunk off his arse on sparkling wine.
“Stop laughing at me, you cheeky fucking tart.” James loomed in front Q, grinning at him as he slid hands up under Q’s suit coat, digging his shirt out of his trousers, fingers finding bare skin like heat-seeking missiles. Q sighed and arched into the touch, reaching up to undo the dapper bow-tie at James’ neck, which he now saw was a midnight blue to match the waistcoat.
“It really does bring out your eyes,” he said lightly, and James rolled his eyes. He couldn’t banish his smile, though, and Q couldn’t resist, leaning in to kiss at the corner of that dangerous mouth, fumbling to pull the tie away from James’ throat even as James shoved Q’s jacket off his shoulders, tangling his arms in them. “Slow down a little, you’re an animal, I’m-busy here-”
“Mmm, I hope you’re not expecting sympathy.”
Q dropped his arms, letting his suit coat fall to the floor, and then James was tugging Q’s button-down and undershirt over his head both at once. “Glasses! Glasses, hello-” His glasses lifted abruptly from his nose, and Q found himself blinking at the now-fuzzy form of James Bond right in front of him.
“Might want to set them aside for a bit,” James observed. “Wouldn’t want them to get dirtied up.” Q’s gut clenched as desire spiked right in the pit of his stomach, even as he reached to take his glasses back from James. There should be a tax on sounding like that, he thought stupidly.
“If you will remember from my file, which I know for a fact you have read-” Q neatly retrieved his glasses and replaced them on his face, James’ quizzical expression coming back into focus, “I am all but blind without my glasses. So if you don’t want this to be far more hilarious than strictly necessary…”
James just smiled, and leaned in to kiss him again by way of assent. Q was only dimly aware of their journey to the bedroom, too busy being distracted by James’ mouth and wandering hands, and by the various pieces of clothing they shed en route, like the trail of bread crumbs left by a perverted Hansel & Gretel. Then he was naked and James was naked and James was laying him out on the king-size bed, sliding hands up Q’s arms to catch each of his wrists and pin them against the sheets.
“Well hello there,” James said, pausing for a moment, bent over Q. He was giving his attention to the bright splashes of ink that adorned Q’s bicep and shoulder, his half-sleeve of tattoos visible to James now for… probably the first time, Q realized. He hadn’t been thinking about it; he was sort of busy with staring at the glory that was James’ torso. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Yes, I got them just to impress you, obviously,” said Q, and lifted his hips impatiently, his erection bobbing lewdly over his stomach by way of greeting. “Are we going to classify them right now, or are you going to get down here?” James’ eyes darkened, and he leaned forward to press the length of his body against Q’s with a low groan that vibrated against the hollow of Q’s throat. Q could feel James’ stiff cock sliding against his belly, and he shuddered, arching up against the hands that still pinned him to the bed, tipping his head back in supplication.
James took the invitation immediately, releasing one of Q's thin wrists to catch him by the hair instead, tugging Q's head back yet further to elongate the arch of his white neck; Q felt not unlike a small rabbit about to have its throat torn out. James exhaled hot air against his skin, brushing his lips over Q's trembling Adam's apple, and Q moaned, grabbing blindly for one of James' shoulders. His glasses were attempting a backwards slide off his face, but Q wasn't yet ready to give up what might well be his only chance to see James Bond naked. He'd sooner take a year of migraines than miss that sight.
The heat of him was unreal. Q twisted his other wrist in James' grip, wriggling it free so that he could wrap his other arm around the furnace on top of him. James mouthed wetly against Q's throat up to the spot under his ear, scraping teeth teasingly light over Q's skin. Q moaned encouragingly, gathering great palmfuls of the muscles of James' back. The man's deltoids were a national treasure, he thought dizzily.
Q wriggled his legs slightly out from under James, planting his feet on the bed to get some leverage and rolling his hips suggestively up against the blunt weapon of James' pelvis, biting his lip as the catch and rub of their erections against each other sent a jolt of pleasure through his stomach. James made a noise in his throat and bit down on Q's neck, and Q hissed, twitching in sharp and immediate response.
James pulled back at that, peering down at him with a smirk that Q could see even through the lenses sitting askew on his face. "Liked that, did you," he murmured. Q blinked up at him, glassy-eyed.
"What do you want, a fucking medal?" he demanded. "Do it again."
"Bossy." James ducked his head again and sank teeth into Q's throat on the opposite side, and Q moaned, digging fingernails into James' back deep enough that later he would find marks, little half-moon crescents. His noises seemed to energize James, who started biting all up and down his throat, stopping here and there to suck and lick a mark into Q's skin until Q was squirming and panting against James' weight.
"Fuck, James." His cock ached, beads of pre-ejaculate leaking from the tip, leaving a sticky trail along James' taut stomach. Q twisted his arm until he could grab the hand that wasn't still in his hair, pulling it up to his face. He lick flat-tongued up the first blunt finger before sucking it messily into his mouth. James stilled, face against Q's chest, and let out a noise low and full of gravel that made Q's stomach twist with lust.
Q hummed around the digit in his mouth, letting his eyes shut again as he set up a rhythm, sucking on James' finger like he so wanted to his cock, cheeks hollowing as he soaked it in spit, laving it with his tongue. James groaned, and the hand in Q's hair tightened, yanking hard enough to make Q's eyes water and his cock jerk. A second finger pushed into his mouth, and Q moaned as James pressed the pads of both fingers against the back of Q's tongue, close to gagging for it.
"I had no idea you were so filthy, Q," James breathed, right in his ear. Q whined in the back of his throat; he'd never had that particular dark edge in James' voice directed at him before, hot like the touch of his skin was hot. Q sucked down those two fingers into his mouth as deep as he could take them, rolling his hips up against James again, one arm lashed around James' study shoulders, wanting more, now.
Evidently James did, too, because he pulled his fingers out of Q's mouth and pushed himself up on the bed over Q, grinding down against him, matching the rhythm of his hips. Their cocks slid together, already slick with pre-come and the sweat pooling in the hollow grooves of Q's hip. Q moaned, grabbing for James' side, fingers sliding against flat planes of muscle, laced here and there with fine ridges he knew were scar tissue.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you sodding bastard, fuck--" Q wasn't going to last much longer. His breath rattled in his throat, his heart pounded like a freight train, his balls drawn up tight as he fucked up against James, craning his neck for a messy crash of lips and teeth as James tried to kiss him, moaning open-mouthed against the corner of Q's lips.
Q shoved a hand down between them, catching James' thick length against his arched fingers and rolling his hips up against it, rubbing their cocks together in the curve of his hand. James let out a stuttering groan against his temple, and out of the corner of his eye Q watched the muscles of his arms bunching under his skin as James rocked down against him, thrusting into Q's hand.
"James," Q panted, voice high, fractured from need, "I'm--fuck I'm going to--" James went down onto one elbow, lowering himself enough to press his face to Q's throat again as he caught the back of Q's neck in the other hand, and then he bit down hard on the side of Q's throat. Q gasped, coming hard and fast, shuddering through it as he emptied himself out.
James kept rocking down against him, and Q retained enough presence of mind to keep his hand where it was, to grab James by the shoulder and pull him closer. James' thrusts went jerky and rough, grunting against Q's neck, and then Q felt him shudder to a halt, felt the heat of his seed spilling across Q's stomach, and then James sagged against him and went still.
Q let himself drift for a moment, basking in the post-coital glow. His hand rested on the back of James’ shoulder; James face stayed where it was, tucked into the crook of Q’s neck. He was going to have to wear a scarf tomorrow, Q thought distractedly. Or a neck-brace. Bastard.
James mumbled something into his neck. “Pardon? I don’t speak tree-sloth, James.”
James snorted and lifted his head. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
Q rolled his eyes, but it was hard to manage the proper level of disdain when he felt this blasted. “I’ll have you know-” he began, and then stopped as a hand came up and plucked his glasses from his face. The world in front of his eyes was suddenly unfocused. And dark.
“Taking my glasses off isn’t going to make me stop,” he pointed out after a moment.
James smiled against his neck. “It was worth a shot,” he murmured, barely audible.
Q wrinkled his nose, and kissed the nearest part of James that was handy, which happened to be his (extremely sweaty) temple. “Git.”
“Trollop.”
“Relic.”
“Brat,” James said, and bit down gently on Q’s neck. Q made a noise in his throat, and wrapped both arms around James’ shoulders, and shut his eyes. “I am going to, you know,” James said lazily, after a few more moments of quiet breathing.
“What, take a remedial language course?”
“Classify all your tattoos.” Q blinked. He lifted a hand, stroking his fingers lightly through James’ sweaty hair. “They look good on you,” James murmured.
“Oh,” was all Q could think of to say, and James chuckled against his neck before dropping another kiss under Q’s ear.
* * * * *
Bond's Jaguar F-type. The basis for Q's puzzle-box. Bond's dinner outfit. Q's dinner outfit.
