If Night Falls, Use Stars for Streetlights | CODA
Title: If Night Falls, Use Stars for Streetlights
By: revenant_scribe
CODA:
Fandom: Bond Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG-13 | Word Count: 5,968
Moscow woke today to the forgotten sensation of warmth as millions of gallons of heating oil flowed from a storage depot beneath billionaire industrialist Ivan Tretiak's riverside mansion. This once-oil magnate and his son, Ilya, were arrested yesterday and taken to the infamous Lubyanka prison where they await trial, along with fellow conspirator General Leo Sklarov. The three are being held on multiple charges including plotting to overthrow the government, treason and theft. A spokesperson for the president promises that the trials will be as thorough and unbiased as possible, but sympathies for the conspirators is low, and many are demanding the men be stripped of their wealth and sentenced to life imprisonment.
-BBC World News
The chairs at New Scotland Yard are scratchy and uncomfortable. Q doesn't know how he is just noticing this but can only reason that the last time he had found himself seated at this particular desk he hadn't been in the best frame of mind: his formula had just been stolen, his optimism and naiveté had been smashed and yes, maybe his heart had even been broken. He had other things to think about beyond the furniture but now that he's here and trying to look honest and convincing and not at all suspicious the fact that the uncomfortable chair is making him dearly wish to squirm is off-putting.
The way inspectors Mallory and Moneypenny are eyeballing him is certainly not helping.
"You mean to say," Mallory says, frustration evident in his tone. "That he made no threat to contact you again in the future?"
Q shakes his head. "He never had the opportunity, to be honest. Most of our time together was spent running for our lives."
"Of course." Mallory’s brows pinch together.
It's the second time Q has recounted his story to the Yard, the first being his phone conversation with Moneypenny when he’d still been in Moscow. When she'd rung him after he had returned to Oxford she had called this meeting a 'follow-up', so far they aren’t exactly breaking any new ground. At any rate, the story he has been sticking to avoids a lot of the complicated moments such as when he had been forced to eat his heart medication from out of Bond’s hand, or when they had spent quite a bit of time coiled around each other behind a dresser in a hidden alcove in an effort to prevent Bond freezing to death.
Actually, now that Q thinks about it, any point at which he and Bond were not running is apparently complicated, which might be why the inspectors are looking at him with such perplexed expressions. Quite possibly to hear him tell it, he began running once the wheels of his plane touched ground and never stopped until he’d reached the British Embassy. It was a hellish few days but everyone knows about cold fusion now, that it works and who discovered it and there's no reason for anyone to try and come after him. Certainly not Bond, anyway. What else is there left for him to steal? Possibly Q’s fish, or his favorite mug.
That's all that the Yard needs to know: that it's over and it's done. The end. Move on, because Q intends to.
Moneypenny flashes an awkward smile as if she is uncertain whether to look sympathetic or relieved on his behalf. "It’s good that you’re safe,” she says again. “You'll tell us if he tries to contact you?"
"Of course." Q nods his head and does his best to look reassuring and trustworthy.
"Which he may well do," Mallory points out sternly, his gaze is shrewd and piercing. "He's a proper rogue this so-called 'saint'. He charms men and women and takes what he wants from them. It's his stock and trade."
"No offense," Moneypenny hastily placates.
"I understand absolutely, inspectors," Q says, keeping his tone modulated. "But I'm certain you will understand that I am offended. I was neither charmed nor seduced. The only thing I received from this 'saint' was a series of near-death experiences."
"Count yourself lucky," Mallory mutters.
Q picks up his scarf, wrapping it swiftly about his neck as he stands. "If that's all, I have to get back to Oxford."
Moneypenny smiles. "Oh yes, the conference. Is that tomorrow then?"
"The first of many, I fear." Q is unable to mask his exasperation. The downside to completing a project as massive as cold fusion is that there are a good number of people who want it explained to them. In depth. "I'm not much of a public speaker."
"I'm sure you'll be brilliant." Moneypenny offers him a smile, and shakes his hand.
"Yes." Mallory clears his throat, far less sociable that his partner. "We appreciate you taking the time."
"Of course. Anything I can do to help." Then he turns on his heel and tries not to seem as if he running out of the building, even though it feels like that’s precisely what he’s doing.
_______________________________________________________
There’s a piece of paper tucked beneath the wiper blade of his Volvo. For a moment Q thinks that he’s been ticketed, which fills him with so much outraged indignation that he almost turns on his heel and walks right back into the Yard to protest. Vociferously. This is a proper parking spot, there's no reason whatever that he should be fined!
As he approaches his car, however, it occurs to him that while it has been a rather long time since he has received a parking ticket, usually they are not left inside sealed envelopes. He plucks it from its place as he unlocks his car, and then settles behind the wheel, putting the keys in the ignition but not starting it.
The seal on the envelope comes apart easily and inside he finds a folded piece of paper covered in precise black hand-printed lettering. After a shameful amount of time it occurs to him that the message is not actually gibberish, but rather coded. He makes a mental note to endeavor to actually get some sleep at some point, the sooner the better, and briefly entertains the fantasy of falling asleep mid-lecture and then wonders if it might be possible to deliver an entire lecture in his sleep. He certainly knows the material well enough.
The code isn’t simple but he solves it quickly enough, bracing the page against the flat of the steering wheel and scribbling notes with the nub of a pencil. When it’s solved he finds himself looking at the little map, feeling a sort of self-satisfied pride that he associates with a good puzzle well solved. Then it occurs to him that he is still sitting in the parking lot at the Yard.
Glancing over his shoulder, Q sees no one suspicious milling about and, more importantly, no officers taking a particular interest in either his vehicle or what he is doing. Still, there is no reason to linger. Twisting the key in the ignition, he makes quick work of navigating out onto the main street.
The further he gets from London, the more it feels as if a weight is easing off his shoulders. It’s not in his nature to lie to the authorities and he’d been dreading that meeting from the moment he’d jotted down the date and time on a post-it by his telephone. Now it’s done and he can pretend, at least for a little while, that he will no longer be of any interest to the inspectors. Certainly he doesn’t plan on being of any use to them.
Periodically, Q consults the map as he drives, but mostly the route it seems to be directing him on takes him up to Oxford along familiar roads. He checks his rearview mirror frequently because he can think of only one person who might go about sticking ridiculous coded maps on his car and Q has no wish to lead the police anywhere near his destination.
It's a little over an hour to get from London to Oxford, and a little longer than that to navigate the narrower, tree-lined roads. He spends several minutes idling his car in the middle of a drive marked by two stone columns supporting a wrought-iron gate that has been left open in silent invitation. "What the hell?" he whispers to himself, and then finally manages to press his foot gently to the gas pedal and inch his way up to the two story stone manor house.
Of course, Q should have known better than to suspect Bond capable of anything remotely subtle. The silver Astin Martin DB5 parked out front of the stately house convinces him that yes, he is in the right place. "Unbelievable bastard."
The front door, heavy aged wood on creaking hinges, has also been left standing open. Q briefly considers whether a lecture on appropriate security measures might be in order, then dismisses the idea. Bond will undoubtedly smile obligingly and then promptly proceed to do whatever he pleased anyway.
Despite the fact that the place is clearly old it has also clearly been well maintained. The wood floors in the front hall are stained dark and positively gleaming, and there’s a chandelier glowing softly overhead. The front hall, though vast, feels welcoming, and the overall space of the house strikes Q as comfortable, cozy and lived-in, which makes him wonder suspiciously if this is simply the effect of soft lighting and sound interior decorating, or if Bond has possibly been in Oxford all this time.
Any desire he might have had to snoop is quelled when he hears a faint crackling sound, Q makes his way to the foyer where a fire has been set in the fireplace. There, he finds a glass of scotch waiting for him on a side table near a collection of familiar folded square pieces of paper. His cold fusion notes. The formula is complete and recorded on a computer, safely protected by every trap and trick that he knows but he still finds himself checking each card carefully, making certain they are all accounted for.
Folding them together, Q tucks the cards into his pocket and then stops. There’s a prickle along the back of his neck, as if he is being watched. He picks up the glass of scotch and tries to appear unruffled and entirely casual as he slowly turns around, even though his heart is double stepping in his chest. "Don't you think this is a bit much?" he asks, gesturing with his glass to indicate not only the bear-skin rug in front of the burning fire and the scotch and the cards but also the whole house and the ridiculous car.
Bond stands there, perfectly intact and impeccably dressed, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Q raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What is this?"
"Home? At least temporarily."
Scoffing, Q takes a drink of scotch. "You don't buy a place like this to be temporary."
Bond shrugs carelessly. "There is the chance that I might move to London. Or Scotland. Or maybe I'll leave the UK altogether."
The phrasing is all too familiar, part of the monologue he had kept up as he had struggled to get Bond into dry clothes in the crawl space back in Russia. At the time, he’d been positing how his life might change, should he ever retrieve his formula and complete his work. With a shiver, Q realizes what it is that Bond is saying and drops the other man's gaze.
For a brief moment, a very brief moment, he considers staying annoyed with this man, but Q dismisses that in favor of stepping forward until his body is pressed to Bond's. "Your car is giving my Volvo a complex. If this is going to work, you'll have to keep it in the garage."
Instead of answering Bond presses their mouthes together. "I missed you," Bond admits, his voice hushed as if he is surprised to realize it, or perhaps he is simply surprised to have admitted it.
It makes Q giddy, makes him want to grin like an idiot but since he knows anything he says in response will likely only embarrass Bond he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of the man's mouth and does his best to muster up his previous irritation. "You couldn't have called?"
"It hasn't been safe."
Bond's hands are moving as he says this and when Q glances over to see what Bond is doing he realizes his own scarf and coat are in the process of being tossed in the general direction of the sofa. "Christ, when did you manage to get those off me?"
"I suppose now would be the appropriate moment to mention my being a thief?" Bond frames Q's face with his hands and they're kissing again, deeper and longer until Q feels breathless and ecstatic. He keeps thinking: 'yes' and 'he's here', one thought chasing the other round and round as he allows Bond to maneuver them backward. "I'm going to make love to you on that fur rug."
Q's efforts to work the other man free of his clothes are momentarily halted. "Alright," he says confidently, though he swallows thickly.
It's an awkward commotion of movement, hands push-pulling, tugging belts loose and shirts off, kicking out of shoes and stumbling over socks that are almost though not quite off. By the time Q's naked skin presses into the soft fur of the rug, his glasses cast aside somewhere, gasping and more than a little disheveled he has succeeded in his task of ridding Bond of every inch of that rather stunning suit ensemble and also managed to mark that place just beneath the man's left collarbone that Q has become fond of if only because it makes Bond moan so achingly.
"I'm not just a thief, Q…" Bond's arms bracket Q's head, bracing him atop Q's sprawled limbs. Bond's face is raw and open, his breaths coming heavily, and his expression raw and open, so much conflict lurking in the depths of his bright blue eyes that instinctively Q reaches up, pressing the flat of his palm against the other man's chest not to push him away but to remind him that he is not alone. "My life is strange. I don't do things normally..." he pauses when Q can't contain a bright burst of laughter at what seems to him to be a gross understatement as well as a completely shared character trait. "I can't…"
"Bond," Q interrupts, shaking his head and smiling. "I know you." He finds himself pinned beneath a searching blue-eyed gaze for a moment before Bond's expression shifts, disbelieving that the answer could be so simple. Q meets the gaze steadily because he knows precisely what he's getting himself into and none of it matters. It stopped mattering a long time ago.
"Right." A fond smile creeps across Bond's mouth. Q catches only a fleeting glimpse of it before the other man lowers his head, tracing leisurely kisses along Q's neck. "And I know you."
"Mm. So you do." Q lets his eyes fall closed and moans when a hot mouth ghosts across that place behind his ear, first gently and then more deliberately, a press of tongue and lips just there.
When Bond speaks again his voice is different, strange in a way that Q's lust-fogged brain has trouble making sense of. "You know you're a very pretty young man."
"…what?" Q gasps, his eyes opening to stare at the ceiling overhead. There's the barest whisper of a memory lurking somewhere just out of reach, he's torn between puzzling it out and telling Bond to get to it already.
Bond cocks his head to the side sharply, almost birdlike; the movement so completely unlike what Q has come to associate with this man. His voice is nasal and sounds strangely American. "You don't believe in all this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo, do ya?"
"Oh Christ." Q recognizes that voice and knows exactly where he's heard it before. Popping up onto his elbows he raises an eyebrow as his eyes narrow accusingly. "That was you?"
Even without his glasses he can see the smirk on Bond's face. The amusement is evident in the quality of his tone as he says, "It's what I thought Doctor Quentin Russell would like," interspersed with a soft appeasing kissed to Q's bare skin.
"You had terrifyingly yellow teeth," Q exclaims. "And you were balding!"
"And I wore the same glasses as you."
He hadn't realized that, actually. "You were going to seduce me by being ignorant, American, and rude?"
"I wasn't going to seduce you," Bond says solemnly, meeting his eyes. "That came later."
"A spur of the moment thing."
"As I recall," Bond says, groping for something beneath the sofa. "You weren't complaining." He emerges from his exploration of the dust bunnies lurking in the shadows holding up a bottle of lubricant. Clearly he has planned this entire night thoroughly.
Q considers the argument, and then the tube of lubricant. He spreads his legs apart, allowing Bond to scoot between them as he slicks his fingers. "Of course I wasn't complaining," Q says reasonably as Bond pushes two fingers into him, he has to pause to groan and shift his hips into a more comfortable position, and then Bond shifts up to share a slow kiss while his fingers work Q open. When they break apart Q lets his head drop back. "Until the next morning when I realized you were gone, along with my formula."
Bond's fingers stop scissoring for a moment. "Are you never going to forgive me for that? I did give them back to you."
"To be honest. I don't feel much like talking right now."
Bond grins all too devilishly for a man that Scotland Yard has dubbed 'The Saint'. "What do you want?" he asks with a smirk as his fingers brush tantalizingly so close to Q's prostate, back and forth but never enough, dammit.
"You already know what I want."
"Tell me."
Locking his heels behind Bond's back, Q pushes and twists until the other man is pinned to the rug beneath him. "I want you." He lifts up, Bond's hands bracing his hips as Q reaches for Bond's cock, rubs it once with a hand slicked with lubricant and shifts forward, settling into position and letting his weight guide Bond into his body. "I want you," he repeats on a sigh when Bond is sheathed fully inside him.
Bond's hands drag against Q's skin from his hips to his nipples, moving to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he is dragged forward into a searing kiss. He rocks, Bond's cock slipping against his prostate and his entire body tense with pleasure.
"For how long?" Bond asks, his voice wrecked, growling into Q's mouth.
It's sex, fucking brilliant sex. It's more than that, too: homecoming, a reunion, a vow, Q can hardly put words to everything that he's feeling. The simple question masks layers of meaning, multifarious and complex and Q answers as honestly as he can: "It doesn't matter."
What seems like centuries ago, when they had first met, Q had wanted a moment of romance. A sweet memory, something perfect that he could hold onto and look back on fondly. Thomas Moore had been that sweet memory.
James Bond, however, is something else entirely, and Q has no delusions that this might be simple, or easy. It doesn't matter, he'll be happy with every complicated, undoubtedly infuriating moment of it. "It doesn't matter," he repeats, his hips falling into an instinctive rhythm that Bond rises to meet.
It's enough. It’s everything.
_______________________________________________________
They fuck on the rug: Q braced above him and it's slow and deep and deliberate. On his hands and knees demanding more, harder, now now now. On his back, legs splayed apart for Bond, skin sheened with sweat, hot from their exertion and from the fire, breathless and not fully recovered, running his hands over his face and through his hair, unable to form words until afterwards, collapsed and spent and intertwined: "Do you think this rug has been ruined yet?"
"I'll buy another one," Bond answers flippantly because he couldn't care less about the rug. As far as he is concerned it has more than served its purpose.
Q shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Unbelievable."
They move to the sofa because they mistakenly think it might be cooler there. It isn't. Q braces himself over the armrest as Bond pushes into him, hard and fast and then slow and deep because he wants this to go on and on, for the rest of time. This perfect moment.
The fire dies out but they've generated so much heat between them that the steadily cooling air is a welcome relief. They lie, a mess of tangled limbs and skin that is stuck together in places, too tired to seek out one of the many bedrooms because at this precise moment the sofa is as good a place as any.
"I love you," Q says in the darkness, his breath ghosting against Bond's neck as he murmurs the words.
Miracle three.
_______________________________________________________
There's a crick in his neck and Bond's limbs are aching. Diffuse morning light has filled the room and the fire has long since burnt out, though the scent of it lingers. There's a note on the coffee table, folded and waiting between the lamp and an empty glass. It begins: "Dear James." As Bond has never received a letter that bore good news he puts it aside and gets up to pour himself a glass of straight scotch. When he returns to the note he catches a glint of metal that he hadn't noticed earlier, as pushes the paper aside with a finger so he can better inspect it.
It's a pin, that much he ascertains the moment he picks it up. The design is simplistic: a little stick-figure man with one hand on his hip. The figure is silver, or maybe white gold, but the round circular disc that hovers above its head is shiny and golden. A halo.
Downing the rest of his glass Bond returns to the note skimming it through quickly, as if reading it quickly will somehow lessen the anticipated pain. Then he reads it again, slower.
It's short because clearly Q was in a hurry, and there are no flowery prose because as romantic as he is Q can only ever express himself straightforwardly and honestly. After a brief explanation for the pin (an heirloom he is passing on because he wants Bond to have something of his) and an allusion to an epiphany Q somehow managed to have between all the sex last night, Bond reads the simplest explanation for the younger man's absence: "I'm going to give cold fusion to the world."
Tossing the note aside, Bond grabs his keys and heads for the door.
_______________________________________________________
Q spends the better part of the morning camped out in a shadowed corner of The Missing Bean, downing a truly terrifying amount of coffee and filling in the margins of his typed speech with jotted notes. The coffee is meant to wake him up and soothe his nerves but it hasn't worked. Well, he is admittedly more alert but most of his energy is being directed toward fretting over a diverse range of issues beginning with the rational but quickly deteriorating to the absurd. When he starts imagining Russian mobsters invading the lecture hall with automatic rifles while he, blinded after having broken his glasses tripping over the steps to the podium, suddenly begins to speak in some horrifying version of pig-Latin in order to disguise the fact that he has suddenly forgotten how cold fusion even works, Q switches to drinking water and vows from this day forward to only ever drink tea. Why had he ever strayed?
The revising of his speech is supposed to make him feel better prepared, and also to distract him from thoughts of Bond and whether or not the thief will be angry or more disappointed by Q's plan.
Maybe he'll come to the conference in that soft grey suit Q is particularly fond of. Maybe he'll actually be pleased.
In short, Q's morning spent admittedly hiding in a coffee shop has been a failure on every point and his lecture time is rapidly approaching. He finds himself temporarily blinded by an especially bright winter midday sun, bundled in his coat and scarf and rifling through the crumpled draft of his speech made illegible for all his careful notations. He sets out in the direction of the Sheldonian Theater.
He's just coming up to the gate when a hand closes tightly around his upper arm, dragging him backward towards the street and then further, until his back is pressed to the slate wall of the corner building. It happens so quickly that he doesn't have the opportunity to shout, and when his brain has finally caught-up with him he's looking into a very familiar face.
"Bond! What are you doing here?" After Russia, Q has come to the conclusion that he is not at all fond of surprises.
"You could make an inconceivable amount of money," is what Bond says. He releases his grip on Q's upper arm but he's standing close enough that Q can feel the heat from the other man's body. "This experiment that you have been working on for years. Q…" His bright blue eyes shift to the right for a moment before meeting Q's again. "Are you honestly prepared to give it up?"
In the beginning, when he was idealistic and yes, maybe a little naïve and certainly very stubborn, Q had begun his research because people had told him that it was ridiculous. Impossible. He has made a habit of always believing in impossible things. His interest in it was purely scientific, to prove that it could be done and he had thought his involvement with cold fusion would end with the discovery itself. Whatever happened afterward would be beyond his control, and not really his concern.
The more he worked on it, however, the more his faith in cold fusion grew. The more he began to imagine its possibilities, the ramifications it would have for the world. After that, he always thought that if he ever managed to succeed, cold fusion could only ever belong to the everyone because to give it to one country, one organization would be wrong, unfair and shortsighted.
Now there is so much more riding on his choice, so much enticing him to change his mind, not the least of which is this man standing in front of him. "I…"
"Do you think," Bond interrupts, crowding him even further into the wall. "That giving cold fusion to the world, preventing us from making a genuinely ridiculous fortune will accomplish anything?"
Q says, "I…" because yes, he does believe all of that, but suddenly his confidence is shaken with Bond here, leaning into him, positively thrumming with intensity.
Then, because Bond is mercurial and also because his goal in life is apparently to give Q a heart attack, he closes the last bit of distance between them and presses their mouths together. Q's first thought is that perhaps someone from Yard has just passed them and then he realizes that no, Bond actually just wants to kiss him, so he lets his eyes fall closed and gives in.
It feels like an age but when Bond breaks the kiss he doesn't step back, just rests their foreheads together, cupping Q's face gently as he says, "You're absolutely right."
"I am?" Of he's right. Q knows all of the reasons supporting his choice, but he has no idea why Bond is agreeing with him. Carefully he searches the other man's face for any trace of resentment, regret or hesitancy. At some point during their kiss Q's hands have caught hold of the lapels on Bond's coat and he tightens his grasp, shoves Bond backward and then tugs him close again. "You bloody bastard," he accuses. "I thought you were angry with me!" There's something pressing uncomfortably into his right palm. When he glances down, Q what is it. "You wore the pin."
The right corner of Bond's mouth twitches upward. "Mm. I'm considering the possibility of making it my calling card. Or rather," he corrects, "The Saint's calling card."
"Oh no. Now that you've retired from common thievery you're taking-up robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Righting the world's problems one theft at a time?"
"I'm taking a page from your book."
"I've never stolen anything in my entire life," Q protests. Then he has to hastily correct this statement because Bond is already opening his mouth to disagree, "Once," he says. "That time in North Hampton doesn't count. I was barely six years old."
"So you started even earlier than I did. I was actually referring to how you stabilized the political climate of an entire country not even a week ago."
"Oh, that." He shrugs flippantly, as if he did that sort of thing every day. "That was a group effort."
Bond's amusement has a teasing quality to it. "How many miracles does that put you at?"
Tilting his head, Q considers this. "Including solving the world's energy crisis and stealing your heart? It must be over eleven now, surely."
Bond's laugh takes Q by surprise, it's full and loud and carefree. "I was right," Bond says, shaking his head. "You are an irascible, idealistic and sentimental scientist, too stubborn for his own good. God only knows how I love you."
It's the first time he has ever heard the words from Bond and he has to fight the impulse to grin like a lunatic, and accompany his manic expression with a dance and perhaps a whistled tune. Instead, Q schools his expression into a frown. "You didn't mention my genius intellect, or how I've accomplished what so many others have failed to do, and I refer here both to my scientific achievement as well as my romantic accomplishment. Also you haven't even alluded to my considerable skills in the bedroom."
"How remiss of me." Bond leans forward again and this time the kiss is far too brief for Q's liking. "You better go. You'll be late."
Abruptly Q is reminded of his damnable lecture, of the illegible speech notes he is still clutching in his left hand. "How will I find you?" he blurts, and then feels foolish. He knows where Bond lives: a ridiculous estate not at all far from the university. He knows Bond's tricks now, his habits and history.
"I'll find you," Bond answers, not taking the opportunity to tease Q at all. Then his expression softens. "You found me."
It's the simple truth of them, and it's good enough. Grinning, Q pushes off from the wall and turns toward the gate.
_______________________________________________________
He enters the amphitheater just as the woman tasked with the introductory speech finishes listing Q's many accomplishments and, with an excited smile on her face, gestures to her left and says, "Doctor Quentin Russell." Bond's timing is never anything less than impeccable.
As the applause fills the hall, he makes his down the steps in search of an empty seat. There aren't many, but Bond's eye falls on one beside a familiar figure. He knows the man's name now: Inspector Mallory, Q had given quite a long description of the man as part of his recounting of his ordeal with Scotland Yard: "Which is all your fault," he had pointed out, fixing Bond with an accusatory look.
Of course, Bond is in disguise. Whatever Q might have said to the Yard about his willingness to cooperate, he is the only promising lead in the case against Bond and the inspectors tasked with his arrest will not be so easily appeased. The particular disguise, however, Bond selected purely for sentimental reasons, yellow teeth and all.
With a smirk, he licks his palm and smooths the gray hairs of his wig, combed over the wide-expanse of his makeshift balding scalp. "Excuse me," he says in a nasal voice, American accent in place as he leans down, just slightly. "Is this seat taken?"
Mallory stops eyeballing the audience suspiciously and, somewhat distractedly, glances at Bond. "Pardon?" he asks, and then glances over to the vacant seat that Bond is looking at rather pointedly. "Oh, no. Please."
"Thank-you." He settles into the chair, looking at the stage where Q has taken his place behind the podium and begun to his own introduction of cold fusion. Bond drops his voice to hushed whisper and leans into Mallory's space. "Do you believe in this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo?"
Mallory looks uncomfortable for a moment, and then admits, "No. Not really."
It makes Bond grin, flashing his brilliantly hideous teeth. "I'm his biggest fan," he says, with a gesture toward the stage. "I think he's a fox."
"Excuse me?" Mallory blurts, goggling at the unexpected declaration. Bond ignores him in favor of Q.
"I'm certain everyone here is aware that cold fusion has had a…" At the podium, Q stutters, his eyes catching sight of Bond who grins and wriggles his fingers in inconspicuous greeting. Q catches himself quickly, continuing with a notable warmth to his voice, "…a difficult childhood. Those of us working in the field are orphans…" He narrows his eyes pointedly at Bond as he adds, "Bastards, at best. But difficult childhoods, I believe, make the most interesting adults."
Bond waggles his bushy eyebrows lasciviously and is rewarded when Q turns away from the microphone and raises a hand to his mouth, a laugh disguised as a cough. As he pauses for a sip of water Bond notices Mallory's partner, Moneypenny, seated in the front row close to the stage. She's there as much to find Bond as she is to protect Q from the 'dangerous criminal', which Bond supposes is a comforting thought. He can only be so grateful, however, when she shifts in her seat, scanning the audience behind her.
Her eyes land directly on Bond.
As Q continues with his presentation, Bond keeps an eye on Moneypenny as she squints at him, peering at something clasped in her hand and then over at her partner. Even at this distance Bond can make-out that the picture she holds up is his own face, a close-up from the Moscow rally where Bond had been without a disguise, without a hat or scarf even, and standing in front of dozens of cameras.
"Is it him?" she mouthes soundlessly when she catches Mallory's eye.
Mallory looks at his partner as if she has gone insane, glances dubiously at Bond before mouthing back: "Who?" Bond tries not to laugh at the incredibly unsubtle action of the Yard. Honestly, he thinks, it's a wonder they ever catch anyone at all.
"Is it him?" Moneypenny is repeating, her mouth exaggerating the shape of each syllable, and this time she adds a gesture that clearly indicates Bond.
On the stage Q is raising a rather judgmental eyebrow at Bond, which rather eloquently expresses his thoughts on Bond's antics, his intentional taunting of the poor inspectors who are merely trying to do their job. He does all of this while continuing his lecture: "Even though some of you may still believe that cold fusion's practical application is still speculative, I've come here to share with you today how that dream is slowly being made a reality. While it is true that it may take years to…"
Mallory shifts in his seat to get a better look at Bond, and then turns back to his partner. "Him?" is the word his mouth silently shapes.
"I'll just be off," Bond says to no one in particular, offering a wave over his shoulder to Q as he makes his way to the door of the theater, removing his disguise as he steps out into the crisp winter air, walking in the direction of his Astin Martin, Scotland Yard still sitting, oblivious, behind him.
Donations totaling four billion pounds were made to the Red Cross Society, the Salvation Army, and the United Nations Children Fund. The money was reportedly wired from jailed Russian tycoon Ivan Tretiak's personal account. No word yet as to the reasoning behind Mister Tretiak's sudden good will, but a spokesperson for the Salvation Army affirmed that the funds were legitimate.
In other philanthropic news, a non-profit research foundation has been established to develop cold fusion technology. Funded with an anonymous donation and to be headed by Russian physicist Doctor Lev Botvin, The Q-Branch foundation is charged to develop this new inexpensive, abundant and clean energy source.
-BBC Radio 1
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|<< THE END ||
MASTERPOST
By: revenant_scribe
CODA:
Fandom: Bond Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG-13 | Word Count: 5,968
Moscow woke today to the forgotten sensation of warmth as millions of gallons of heating oil flowed from a storage depot beneath billionaire industrialist Ivan Tretiak's riverside mansion. This once-oil magnate and his son, Ilya, were arrested yesterday and taken to the infamous Lubyanka prison where they await trial, along with fellow conspirator General Leo Sklarov. The three are being held on multiple charges including plotting to overthrow the government, treason and theft. A spokesperson for the president promises that the trials will be as thorough and unbiased as possible, but sympathies for the conspirators is low, and many are demanding the men be stripped of their wealth and sentenced to life imprisonment.
-BBC World News
The chairs at New Scotland Yard are scratchy and uncomfortable. Q doesn't know how he is just noticing this but can only reason that the last time he had found himself seated at this particular desk he hadn't been in the best frame of mind: his formula had just been stolen, his optimism and naiveté had been smashed and yes, maybe his heart had even been broken. He had other things to think about beyond the furniture but now that he's here and trying to look honest and convincing and not at all suspicious the fact that the uncomfortable chair is making him dearly wish to squirm is off-putting.
The way inspectors Mallory and Moneypenny are eyeballing him is certainly not helping.
"You mean to say," Mallory says, frustration evident in his tone. "That he made no threat to contact you again in the future?"
Q shakes his head. "He never had the opportunity, to be honest. Most of our time together was spent running for our lives."
"Of course." Mallory’s brows pinch together.
It's the second time Q has recounted his story to the Yard, the first being his phone conversation with Moneypenny when he’d still been in Moscow. When she'd rung him after he had returned to Oxford she had called this meeting a 'follow-up', so far they aren’t exactly breaking any new ground. At any rate, the story he has been sticking to avoids a lot of the complicated moments such as when he had been forced to eat his heart medication from out of Bond’s hand, or when they had spent quite a bit of time coiled around each other behind a dresser in a hidden alcove in an effort to prevent Bond freezing to death.
Actually, now that Q thinks about it, any point at which he and Bond were not running is apparently complicated, which might be why the inspectors are looking at him with such perplexed expressions. Quite possibly to hear him tell it, he began running once the wheels of his plane touched ground and never stopped until he’d reached the British Embassy. It was a hellish few days but everyone knows about cold fusion now, that it works and who discovered it and there's no reason for anyone to try and come after him. Certainly not Bond, anyway. What else is there left for him to steal? Possibly Q’s fish, or his favorite mug.
That's all that the Yard needs to know: that it's over and it's done. The end. Move on, because Q intends to.
Moneypenny flashes an awkward smile as if she is uncertain whether to look sympathetic or relieved on his behalf. "It’s good that you’re safe,” she says again. “You'll tell us if he tries to contact you?"
"Of course." Q nods his head and does his best to look reassuring and trustworthy.
"Which he may well do," Mallory points out sternly, his gaze is shrewd and piercing. "He's a proper rogue this so-called 'saint'. He charms men and women and takes what he wants from them. It's his stock and trade."
"No offense," Moneypenny hastily placates.
"I understand absolutely, inspectors," Q says, keeping his tone modulated. "But I'm certain you will understand that I am offended. I was neither charmed nor seduced. The only thing I received from this 'saint' was a series of near-death experiences."
"Count yourself lucky," Mallory mutters.
Q picks up his scarf, wrapping it swiftly about his neck as he stands. "If that's all, I have to get back to Oxford."
Moneypenny smiles. "Oh yes, the conference. Is that tomorrow then?"
"The first of many, I fear." Q is unable to mask his exasperation. The downside to completing a project as massive as cold fusion is that there are a good number of people who want it explained to them. In depth. "I'm not much of a public speaker."
"I'm sure you'll be brilliant." Moneypenny offers him a smile, and shakes his hand.
"Yes." Mallory clears his throat, far less sociable that his partner. "We appreciate you taking the time."
"Of course. Anything I can do to help." Then he turns on his heel and tries not to seem as if he running out of the building, even though it feels like that’s precisely what he’s doing.
_______________________________________________________
There’s a piece of paper tucked beneath the wiper blade of his Volvo. For a moment Q thinks that he’s been ticketed, which fills him with so much outraged indignation that he almost turns on his heel and walks right back into the Yard to protest. Vociferously. This is a proper parking spot, there's no reason whatever that he should be fined!
As he approaches his car, however, it occurs to him that while it has been a rather long time since he has received a parking ticket, usually they are not left inside sealed envelopes. He plucks it from its place as he unlocks his car, and then settles behind the wheel, putting the keys in the ignition but not starting it.
The seal on the envelope comes apart easily and inside he finds a folded piece of paper covered in precise black hand-printed lettering. After a shameful amount of time it occurs to him that the message is not actually gibberish, but rather coded. He makes a mental note to endeavor to actually get some sleep at some point, the sooner the better, and briefly entertains the fantasy of falling asleep mid-lecture and then wonders if it might be possible to deliver an entire lecture in his sleep. He certainly knows the material well enough.
The code isn’t simple but he solves it quickly enough, bracing the page against the flat of the steering wheel and scribbling notes with the nub of a pencil. When it’s solved he finds himself looking at the little map, feeling a sort of self-satisfied pride that he associates with a good puzzle well solved. Then it occurs to him that he is still sitting in the parking lot at the Yard.
Glancing over his shoulder, Q sees no one suspicious milling about and, more importantly, no officers taking a particular interest in either his vehicle or what he is doing. Still, there is no reason to linger. Twisting the key in the ignition, he makes quick work of navigating out onto the main street.
The further he gets from London, the more it feels as if a weight is easing off his shoulders. It’s not in his nature to lie to the authorities and he’d been dreading that meeting from the moment he’d jotted down the date and time on a post-it by his telephone. Now it’s done and he can pretend, at least for a little while, that he will no longer be of any interest to the inspectors. Certainly he doesn’t plan on being of any use to them.
Periodically, Q consults the map as he drives, but mostly the route it seems to be directing him on takes him up to Oxford along familiar roads. He checks his rearview mirror frequently because he can think of only one person who might go about sticking ridiculous coded maps on his car and Q has no wish to lead the police anywhere near his destination.
It's a little over an hour to get from London to Oxford, and a little longer than that to navigate the narrower, tree-lined roads. He spends several minutes idling his car in the middle of a drive marked by two stone columns supporting a wrought-iron gate that has been left open in silent invitation. "What the hell?" he whispers to himself, and then finally manages to press his foot gently to the gas pedal and inch his way up to the two story stone manor house.
Of course, Q should have known better than to suspect Bond capable of anything remotely subtle. The silver Astin Martin DB5 parked out front of the stately house convinces him that yes, he is in the right place. "Unbelievable bastard."
The front door, heavy aged wood on creaking hinges, has also been left standing open. Q briefly considers whether a lecture on appropriate security measures might be in order, then dismisses the idea. Bond will undoubtedly smile obligingly and then promptly proceed to do whatever he pleased anyway.
Despite the fact that the place is clearly old it has also clearly been well maintained. The wood floors in the front hall are stained dark and positively gleaming, and there’s a chandelier glowing softly overhead. The front hall, though vast, feels welcoming, and the overall space of the house strikes Q as comfortable, cozy and lived-in, which makes him wonder suspiciously if this is simply the effect of soft lighting and sound interior decorating, or if Bond has possibly been in Oxford all this time.
Any desire he might have had to snoop is quelled when he hears a faint crackling sound, Q makes his way to the foyer where a fire has been set in the fireplace. There, he finds a glass of scotch waiting for him on a side table near a collection of familiar folded square pieces of paper. His cold fusion notes. The formula is complete and recorded on a computer, safely protected by every trap and trick that he knows but he still finds himself checking each card carefully, making certain they are all accounted for.
Folding them together, Q tucks the cards into his pocket and then stops. There’s a prickle along the back of his neck, as if he is being watched. He picks up the glass of scotch and tries to appear unruffled and entirely casual as he slowly turns around, even though his heart is double stepping in his chest. "Don't you think this is a bit much?" he asks, gesturing with his glass to indicate not only the bear-skin rug in front of the burning fire and the scotch and the cards but also the whole house and the ridiculous car.
Bond stands there, perfectly intact and impeccably dressed, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Q raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What is this?"
"Home? At least temporarily."
Scoffing, Q takes a drink of scotch. "You don't buy a place like this to be temporary."
Bond shrugs carelessly. "There is the chance that I might move to London. Or Scotland. Or maybe I'll leave the UK altogether."
The phrasing is all too familiar, part of the monologue he had kept up as he had struggled to get Bond into dry clothes in the crawl space back in Russia. At the time, he’d been positing how his life might change, should he ever retrieve his formula and complete his work. With a shiver, Q realizes what it is that Bond is saying and drops the other man's gaze.
For a brief moment, a very brief moment, he considers staying annoyed with this man, but Q dismisses that in favor of stepping forward until his body is pressed to Bond's. "Your car is giving my Volvo a complex. If this is going to work, you'll have to keep it in the garage."
Instead of answering Bond presses their mouthes together. "I missed you," Bond admits, his voice hushed as if he is surprised to realize it, or perhaps he is simply surprised to have admitted it.
It makes Q giddy, makes him want to grin like an idiot but since he knows anything he says in response will likely only embarrass Bond he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of the man's mouth and does his best to muster up his previous irritation. "You couldn't have called?"
"It hasn't been safe."
Bond's hands are moving as he says this and when Q glances over to see what Bond is doing he realizes his own scarf and coat are in the process of being tossed in the general direction of the sofa. "Christ, when did you manage to get those off me?"
"I suppose now would be the appropriate moment to mention my being a thief?" Bond frames Q's face with his hands and they're kissing again, deeper and longer until Q feels breathless and ecstatic. He keeps thinking: 'yes' and 'he's here', one thought chasing the other round and round as he allows Bond to maneuver them backward. "I'm going to make love to you on that fur rug."
Q's efforts to work the other man free of his clothes are momentarily halted. "Alright," he says confidently, though he swallows thickly.
It's an awkward commotion of movement, hands push-pulling, tugging belts loose and shirts off, kicking out of shoes and stumbling over socks that are almost though not quite off. By the time Q's naked skin presses into the soft fur of the rug, his glasses cast aside somewhere, gasping and more than a little disheveled he has succeeded in his task of ridding Bond of every inch of that rather stunning suit ensemble and also managed to mark that place just beneath the man's left collarbone that Q has become fond of if only because it makes Bond moan so achingly.
"I'm not just a thief, Q…" Bond's arms bracket Q's head, bracing him atop Q's sprawled limbs. Bond's face is raw and open, his breaths coming heavily, and his expression raw and open, so much conflict lurking in the depths of his bright blue eyes that instinctively Q reaches up, pressing the flat of his palm against the other man's chest not to push him away but to remind him that he is not alone. "My life is strange. I don't do things normally..." he pauses when Q can't contain a bright burst of laughter at what seems to him to be a gross understatement as well as a completely shared character trait. "I can't…"
"Bond," Q interrupts, shaking his head and smiling. "I know you." He finds himself pinned beneath a searching blue-eyed gaze for a moment before Bond's expression shifts, disbelieving that the answer could be so simple. Q meets the gaze steadily because he knows precisely what he's getting himself into and none of it matters. It stopped mattering a long time ago.
"Right." A fond smile creeps across Bond's mouth. Q catches only a fleeting glimpse of it before the other man lowers his head, tracing leisurely kisses along Q's neck. "And I know you."
"Mm. So you do." Q lets his eyes fall closed and moans when a hot mouth ghosts across that place behind his ear, first gently and then more deliberately, a press of tongue and lips just there.
When Bond speaks again his voice is different, strange in a way that Q's lust-fogged brain has trouble making sense of. "You know you're a very pretty young man."
"…what?" Q gasps, his eyes opening to stare at the ceiling overhead. There's the barest whisper of a memory lurking somewhere just out of reach, he's torn between puzzling it out and telling Bond to get to it already.
Bond cocks his head to the side sharply, almost birdlike; the movement so completely unlike what Q has come to associate with this man. His voice is nasal and sounds strangely American. "You don't believe in all this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo, do ya?"
"Oh Christ." Q recognizes that voice and knows exactly where he's heard it before. Popping up onto his elbows he raises an eyebrow as his eyes narrow accusingly. "That was you?"
Even without his glasses he can see the smirk on Bond's face. The amusement is evident in the quality of his tone as he says, "It's what I thought Doctor Quentin Russell would like," interspersed with a soft appeasing kissed to Q's bare skin.
"You had terrifyingly yellow teeth," Q exclaims. "And you were balding!"
"And I wore the same glasses as you."
He hadn't realized that, actually. "You were going to seduce me by being ignorant, American, and rude?"
"I wasn't going to seduce you," Bond says solemnly, meeting his eyes. "That came later."
"A spur of the moment thing."
"As I recall," Bond says, groping for something beneath the sofa. "You weren't complaining." He emerges from his exploration of the dust bunnies lurking in the shadows holding up a bottle of lubricant. Clearly he has planned this entire night thoroughly.
Q considers the argument, and then the tube of lubricant. He spreads his legs apart, allowing Bond to scoot between them as he slicks his fingers. "Of course I wasn't complaining," Q says reasonably as Bond pushes two fingers into him, he has to pause to groan and shift his hips into a more comfortable position, and then Bond shifts up to share a slow kiss while his fingers work Q open. When they break apart Q lets his head drop back. "Until the next morning when I realized you were gone, along with my formula."
Bond's fingers stop scissoring for a moment. "Are you never going to forgive me for that? I did give them back to you."
"To be honest. I don't feel much like talking right now."
Bond grins all too devilishly for a man that Scotland Yard has dubbed 'The Saint'. "What do you want?" he asks with a smirk as his fingers brush tantalizingly so close to Q's prostate, back and forth but never enough, dammit.
"You already know what I want."
"Tell me."
Locking his heels behind Bond's back, Q pushes and twists until the other man is pinned to the rug beneath him. "I want you." He lifts up, Bond's hands bracing his hips as Q reaches for Bond's cock, rubs it once with a hand slicked with lubricant and shifts forward, settling into position and letting his weight guide Bond into his body. "I want you," he repeats on a sigh when Bond is sheathed fully inside him.
Bond's hands drag against Q's skin from his hips to his nipples, moving to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he is dragged forward into a searing kiss. He rocks, Bond's cock slipping against his prostate and his entire body tense with pleasure.
"For how long?" Bond asks, his voice wrecked, growling into Q's mouth.
It's sex, fucking brilliant sex. It's more than that, too: homecoming, a reunion, a vow, Q can hardly put words to everything that he's feeling. The simple question masks layers of meaning, multifarious and complex and Q answers as honestly as he can: "It doesn't matter."
What seems like centuries ago, when they had first met, Q had wanted a moment of romance. A sweet memory, something perfect that he could hold onto and look back on fondly. Thomas Moore had been that sweet memory.
James Bond, however, is something else entirely, and Q has no delusions that this might be simple, or easy. It doesn't matter, he'll be happy with every complicated, undoubtedly infuriating moment of it. "It doesn't matter," he repeats, his hips falling into an instinctive rhythm that Bond rises to meet.
It's enough. It’s everything.
_______________________________________________________
They fuck on the rug: Q braced above him and it's slow and deep and deliberate. On his hands and knees demanding more, harder, now now now. On his back, legs splayed apart for Bond, skin sheened with sweat, hot from their exertion and from the fire, breathless and not fully recovered, running his hands over his face and through his hair, unable to form words until afterwards, collapsed and spent and intertwined: "Do you think this rug has been ruined yet?"
"I'll buy another one," Bond answers flippantly because he couldn't care less about the rug. As far as he is concerned it has more than served its purpose.
Q shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Unbelievable."
They move to the sofa because they mistakenly think it might be cooler there. It isn't. Q braces himself over the armrest as Bond pushes into him, hard and fast and then slow and deep because he wants this to go on and on, for the rest of time. This perfect moment.
The fire dies out but they've generated so much heat between them that the steadily cooling air is a welcome relief. They lie, a mess of tangled limbs and skin that is stuck together in places, too tired to seek out one of the many bedrooms because at this precise moment the sofa is as good a place as any.
"I love you," Q says in the darkness, his breath ghosting against Bond's neck as he murmurs the words.
Miracle three.
_______________________________________________________
There's a crick in his neck and Bond's limbs are aching. Diffuse morning light has filled the room and the fire has long since burnt out, though the scent of it lingers. There's a note on the coffee table, folded and waiting between the lamp and an empty glass. It begins: "Dear James." As Bond has never received a letter that bore good news he puts it aside and gets up to pour himself a glass of straight scotch. When he returns to the note he catches a glint of metal that he hadn't noticed earlier, as pushes the paper aside with a finger so he can better inspect it.
It's a pin, that much he ascertains the moment he picks it up. The design is simplistic: a little stick-figure man with one hand on his hip. The figure is silver, or maybe white gold, but the round circular disc that hovers above its head is shiny and golden. A halo.
Downing the rest of his glass Bond returns to the note skimming it through quickly, as if reading it quickly will somehow lessen the anticipated pain. Then he reads it again, slower.
It's short because clearly Q was in a hurry, and there are no flowery prose because as romantic as he is Q can only ever express himself straightforwardly and honestly. After a brief explanation for the pin (an heirloom he is passing on because he wants Bond to have something of his) and an allusion to an epiphany Q somehow managed to have between all the sex last night, Bond reads the simplest explanation for the younger man's absence: "I'm going to give cold fusion to the world."
Tossing the note aside, Bond grabs his keys and heads for the door.
_______________________________________________________
Q spends the better part of the morning camped out in a shadowed corner of The Missing Bean, downing a truly terrifying amount of coffee and filling in the margins of his typed speech with jotted notes. The coffee is meant to wake him up and soothe his nerves but it hasn't worked. Well, he is admittedly more alert but most of his energy is being directed toward fretting over a diverse range of issues beginning with the rational but quickly deteriorating to the absurd. When he starts imagining Russian mobsters invading the lecture hall with automatic rifles while he, blinded after having broken his glasses tripping over the steps to the podium, suddenly begins to speak in some horrifying version of pig-Latin in order to disguise the fact that he has suddenly forgotten how cold fusion even works, Q switches to drinking water and vows from this day forward to only ever drink tea. Why had he ever strayed?
The revising of his speech is supposed to make him feel better prepared, and also to distract him from thoughts of Bond and whether or not the thief will be angry or more disappointed by Q's plan.
Maybe he'll come to the conference in that soft grey suit Q is particularly fond of. Maybe he'll actually be pleased.
In short, Q's morning spent admittedly hiding in a coffee shop has been a failure on every point and his lecture time is rapidly approaching. He finds himself temporarily blinded by an especially bright winter midday sun, bundled in his coat and scarf and rifling through the crumpled draft of his speech made illegible for all his careful notations. He sets out in the direction of the Sheldonian Theater.
He's just coming up to the gate when a hand closes tightly around his upper arm, dragging him backward towards the street and then further, until his back is pressed to the slate wall of the corner building. It happens so quickly that he doesn't have the opportunity to shout, and when his brain has finally caught-up with him he's looking into a very familiar face.
"Bond! What are you doing here?" After Russia, Q has come to the conclusion that he is not at all fond of surprises.
"You could make an inconceivable amount of money," is what Bond says. He releases his grip on Q's upper arm but he's standing close enough that Q can feel the heat from the other man's body. "This experiment that you have been working on for years. Q…" His bright blue eyes shift to the right for a moment before meeting Q's again. "Are you honestly prepared to give it up?"
In the beginning, when he was idealistic and yes, maybe a little naïve and certainly very stubborn, Q had begun his research because people had told him that it was ridiculous. Impossible. He has made a habit of always believing in impossible things. His interest in it was purely scientific, to prove that it could be done and he had thought his involvement with cold fusion would end with the discovery itself. Whatever happened afterward would be beyond his control, and not really his concern.
The more he worked on it, however, the more his faith in cold fusion grew. The more he began to imagine its possibilities, the ramifications it would have for the world. After that, he always thought that if he ever managed to succeed, cold fusion could only ever belong to the everyone because to give it to one country, one organization would be wrong, unfair and shortsighted.
Now there is so much more riding on his choice, so much enticing him to change his mind, not the least of which is this man standing in front of him. "I…"
"Do you think," Bond interrupts, crowding him even further into the wall. "That giving cold fusion to the world, preventing us from making a genuinely ridiculous fortune will accomplish anything?"
Q says, "I…" because yes, he does believe all of that, but suddenly his confidence is shaken with Bond here, leaning into him, positively thrumming with intensity.
Then, because Bond is mercurial and also because his goal in life is apparently to give Q a heart attack, he closes the last bit of distance between them and presses their mouths together. Q's first thought is that perhaps someone from Yard has just passed them and then he realizes that no, Bond actually just wants to kiss him, so he lets his eyes fall closed and gives in.
It feels like an age but when Bond breaks the kiss he doesn't step back, just rests their foreheads together, cupping Q's face gently as he says, "You're absolutely right."
"I am?" Of he's right. Q knows all of the reasons supporting his choice, but he has no idea why Bond is agreeing with him. Carefully he searches the other man's face for any trace of resentment, regret or hesitancy. At some point during their kiss Q's hands have caught hold of the lapels on Bond's coat and he tightens his grasp, shoves Bond backward and then tugs him close again. "You bloody bastard," he accuses. "I thought you were angry with me!" There's something pressing uncomfortably into his right palm. When he glances down, Q what is it. "You wore the pin."
The right corner of Bond's mouth twitches upward. "Mm. I'm considering the possibility of making it my calling card. Or rather," he corrects, "The Saint's calling card."
"Oh no. Now that you've retired from common thievery you're taking-up robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Righting the world's problems one theft at a time?"
"I'm taking a page from your book."
"I've never stolen anything in my entire life," Q protests. Then he has to hastily correct this statement because Bond is already opening his mouth to disagree, "Once," he says. "That time in North Hampton doesn't count. I was barely six years old."
"So you started even earlier than I did. I was actually referring to how you stabilized the political climate of an entire country not even a week ago."
"Oh, that." He shrugs flippantly, as if he did that sort of thing every day. "That was a group effort."
Bond's amusement has a teasing quality to it. "How many miracles does that put you at?"
Tilting his head, Q considers this. "Including solving the world's energy crisis and stealing your heart? It must be over eleven now, surely."
Bond's laugh takes Q by surprise, it's full and loud and carefree. "I was right," Bond says, shaking his head. "You are an irascible, idealistic and sentimental scientist, too stubborn for his own good. God only knows how I love you."
It's the first time he has ever heard the words from Bond and he has to fight the impulse to grin like a lunatic, and accompany his manic expression with a dance and perhaps a whistled tune. Instead, Q schools his expression into a frown. "You didn't mention my genius intellect, or how I've accomplished what so many others have failed to do, and I refer here both to my scientific achievement as well as my romantic accomplishment. Also you haven't even alluded to my considerable skills in the bedroom."
"How remiss of me." Bond leans forward again and this time the kiss is far too brief for Q's liking. "You better go. You'll be late."
Abruptly Q is reminded of his damnable lecture, of the illegible speech notes he is still clutching in his left hand. "How will I find you?" he blurts, and then feels foolish. He knows where Bond lives: a ridiculous estate not at all far from the university. He knows Bond's tricks now, his habits and history.
"I'll find you," Bond answers, not taking the opportunity to tease Q at all. Then his expression softens. "You found me."
It's the simple truth of them, and it's good enough. Grinning, Q pushes off from the wall and turns toward the gate.
_______________________________________________________
He enters the amphitheater just as the woman tasked with the introductory speech finishes listing Q's many accomplishments and, with an excited smile on her face, gestures to her left and says, "Doctor Quentin Russell." Bond's timing is never anything less than impeccable.
As the applause fills the hall, he makes his down the steps in search of an empty seat. There aren't many, but Bond's eye falls on one beside a familiar figure. He knows the man's name now: Inspector Mallory, Q had given quite a long description of the man as part of his recounting of his ordeal with Scotland Yard: "Which is all your fault," he had pointed out, fixing Bond with an accusatory look.
Of course, Bond is in disguise. Whatever Q might have said to the Yard about his willingness to cooperate, he is the only promising lead in the case against Bond and the inspectors tasked with his arrest will not be so easily appeased. The particular disguise, however, Bond selected purely for sentimental reasons, yellow teeth and all.
With a smirk, he licks his palm and smooths the gray hairs of his wig, combed over the wide-expanse of his makeshift balding scalp. "Excuse me," he says in a nasal voice, American accent in place as he leans down, just slightly. "Is this seat taken?"
Mallory stops eyeballing the audience suspiciously and, somewhat distractedly, glances at Bond. "Pardon?" he asks, and then glances over to the vacant seat that Bond is looking at rather pointedly. "Oh, no. Please."
"Thank-you." He settles into the chair, looking at the stage where Q has taken his place behind the podium and begun to his own introduction of cold fusion. Bond drops his voice to hushed whisper and leans into Mallory's space. "Do you believe in this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo?"
Mallory looks uncomfortable for a moment, and then admits, "No. Not really."
It makes Bond grin, flashing his brilliantly hideous teeth. "I'm his biggest fan," he says, with a gesture toward the stage. "I think he's a fox."
"Excuse me?" Mallory blurts, goggling at the unexpected declaration. Bond ignores him in favor of Q.
"I'm certain everyone here is aware that cold fusion has had a…" At the podium, Q stutters, his eyes catching sight of Bond who grins and wriggles his fingers in inconspicuous greeting. Q catches himself quickly, continuing with a notable warmth to his voice, "…a difficult childhood. Those of us working in the field are orphans…" He narrows his eyes pointedly at Bond as he adds, "Bastards, at best. But difficult childhoods, I believe, make the most interesting adults."
Bond waggles his bushy eyebrows lasciviously and is rewarded when Q turns away from the microphone and raises a hand to his mouth, a laugh disguised as a cough. As he pauses for a sip of water Bond notices Mallory's partner, Moneypenny, seated in the front row close to the stage. She's there as much to find Bond as she is to protect Q from the 'dangerous criminal', which Bond supposes is a comforting thought. He can only be so grateful, however, when she shifts in her seat, scanning the audience behind her.
Her eyes land directly on Bond.
As Q continues with his presentation, Bond keeps an eye on Moneypenny as she squints at him, peering at something clasped in her hand and then over at her partner. Even at this distance Bond can make-out that the picture she holds up is his own face, a close-up from the Moscow rally where Bond had been without a disguise, without a hat or scarf even, and standing in front of dozens of cameras.
"Is it him?" she mouthes soundlessly when she catches Mallory's eye.
Mallory looks at his partner as if she has gone insane, glances dubiously at Bond before mouthing back: "Who?" Bond tries not to laugh at the incredibly unsubtle action of the Yard. Honestly, he thinks, it's a wonder they ever catch anyone at all.
"Is it him?" Moneypenny is repeating, her mouth exaggerating the shape of each syllable, and this time she adds a gesture that clearly indicates Bond.
On the stage Q is raising a rather judgmental eyebrow at Bond, which rather eloquently expresses his thoughts on Bond's antics, his intentional taunting of the poor inspectors who are merely trying to do their job. He does all of this while continuing his lecture: "Even though some of you may still believe that cold fusion's practical application is still speculative, I've come here to share with you today how that dream is slowly being made a reality. While it is true that it may take years to…"
Mallory shifts in his seat to get a better look at Bond, and then turns back to his partner. "Him?" is the word his mouth silently shapes.
"I'll just be off," Bond says to no one in particular, offering a wave over his shoulder to Q as he makes his way to the door of the theater, removing his disguise as he steps out into the crisp winter air, walking in the direction of his Astin Martin, Scotland Yard still sitting, oblivious, behind him.
Donations totaling four billion pounds were made to the Red Cross Society, the Salvation Army, and the United Nations Children Fund. The money was reportedly wired from jailed Russian tycoon Ivan Tretiak's personal account. No word yet as to the reasoning behind Mister Tretiak's sudden good will, but a spokesperson for the Salvation Army affirmed that the funds were legitimate.
In other philanthropic news, a non-profit research foundation has been established to develop cold fusion technology. Funded with an anonymous donation and to be headed by Russian physicist Doctor Lev Botvin, The Q-Branch foundation is charged to develop this new inexpensive, abundant and clean energy source.
-BBC Radio 1
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