Fic: Slow Dancing In a Burning Room (4/9)
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room, 4/9
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.
Chapter Four. Sometimes the only thing left to do was give up. Especially when it wasn't a fight he really wanted to win. (Or: suit porn, art porn, apartment porn, and actual porn.)
You can also read here at the AO3. Part one of this fic posted here on LJ, part two is here, and part three is here.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Q blinked, glancing at the man who’d suddenly appeared at his elbow. Or maybe he’d been there a few minutes and Q simply hadn’t noticed him. “Er,” he said intelligently, and glanced automatically towards the entrance to the gallery, as he had a half-dozen times or so in the past hour. As in each of those previous times, no one was there. No one Q wanted to see, anyway.
The man at his elbow smiled. “Someone keeping you waiting?” he asked. He was a nice-looking man, Q thought to himself, with a rugby player’s build but a face that softened him, green eyes over a clean-cut smile he was leveling at Q right now.
“Yeah, actually,” Q said slowly. He straightened, pushing the swell of hurt away for a moment. “Sure, go on, I’ll have a drink.”
“Brilliant,” said the man, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Steven, by the way. What’re you having?”
“Elliot,” said Q, shaking the hand. “And I’ll have a cider, please.”
“Right,” said Steven, and turned to lean over the bar, now standing considerably closer to Q than he had before. Q couldn’t help the stab of satisfaction at the obvious flirtation. He’d gone to all the trouble to dress up for tonight, after all, wearing one of the few fancy-dress outfits he owned: thick-and-thin navy pinstripe suit with narrow lapels, stovepipe trousers, a paisley tie, and improbably-turquoise shoes pressed on him by an absolutely-correct salesperson. He might not fill out the shirt and suit coat the way Bond could, but Q wasn’t oblivious to the stares he was getting, either.
If Bond wasn’t going to be here to appreciate him, someone else might as well.
“Thanks,” Q said, summoning a smile as Steven turned back to him with a cider held out, the ice clinking softly in its glass as Q took it. He scooted down the bar a bit with Steven to make room for another cluster of people moving in to order drinks, but balked as Steven headed for a booth towards the back of the room. “Let’s stay here a moment,” he said, feeling the smile on his face slide from real to merely polite. “So, what brought you here? A fan of art?”
“Oh, a bit, I suppose.” Steven grinned, bright and easy, scooting in close again. “I’ve never seen art like this before though, it’s fascinating. I came here with my mate because he’s into new art, you know, very avant-garde, but I didn’t actually expect to like the work as much as I do.” Steven paused, his eyes tracking past Q’s face to something over his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” said a voice in Q’s ear, the voice, dark and rich and dangerously polite. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”
Steven’s eyes flickered back to Q, and whatever he saw there made him smile, raising his glass. “Your friend turned up after all,” he said. “Cheers, Elliot.” Q watched him turn away and slip into the growing crowd, and then he turned around, staring up into James’ face, feeling like someone had turned the volume in the room all the way down. James looked perfect, like he’d stepped out of the pages of an expensive menswear ad, clad in a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit with a perfect centimeter of snowy white cuff showing, and a white-and-black regimental-striped tie. A white pocket square and a silver watch (that Q recognized as MI6-issue) completed his look. If he still had bruises from his mysterious 10-day vanishing act, they weren’t visible.
Now he knew what an addict trying to get clean felt like. He’d gone almost two weeks without a hit, just to have it all swirl down the drain.
“You’re late,” he said. James’ mouth quirked slightly. On someone else, it would have been a smile.
“Your directions left something to be desired,” said James. “And I was a bit short on time.”
“Have you even checked back in with M?” Q demanded.
“That can wait,” James said. “This couldn’t.”
Q bit the inside of his cheek, hard. If he stopped to contemplate that at all, he’d come untethered right here. “Yes, well. Tell me how you found it. Did you actually sort out the numbers I gave you or did you find some other thread I forgot to tie up?”
James did smile then, coming past Q to lean over the bar and catch the bartender’s eye. “Some of both,” he said. “I could tell it was a Fibonacci sequence, but not much else. I didn’t remember the spiral aspect of it until I was in deep cover and killing time in a mosque. Then I had a job sorting out where on the spiral you would be, the scale, which end of London was north and whatnot.”
“I half-expected you to track me down on Google,” Q said mildly. He was trying his best to hide his glee, but from the look James gave him at the comment Q could tell that he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“I did try that,” James said. “Not that it did any good. There’s almost as many Elliot Marshes as there are John Smiths.” He paused to order his drink, and Q took a sip of his cider, fighting twin urges to drag James into a dark corner of the gallery to snog him stupid and to run out into the street and hail the first cab home to hide from how desperately pleased he was to see James here. James finally turned around again, martini in hand, and Q pushed off the bar with him as they headed into the actual gallery. “I have to ask, though; how did you happen to pick a gallery that would be on a bloody Fibonacci spiral off the geographic center of London? You can’t tell me you came up with that on the spot in Bella Italiano.”
Q grinned, flushing a little bit. “I came up with that way beforehand,” he admitted. “You saw the theme of the gallery showing.”
“Mmm. Math in Art.” James was watching him, pacing along side him like some kind of feral jungle cat. Q felt James’ hand settle at the small of his back, and sternly reminded himself that tenting one’s trousers in public was frowned upon.
“Well, yes. So I persuaded the organizer of the event that it would be, ah… fitting to pick a gallery that had a location that matched the theme of the show. Form suited to function and all that.”
“You persuaded him? And why would he listen to you? As I’m quite sure he doesn’t know what you really do.”
Q smiled, and avoided James’ questioning look, drawing even with one of the paintings on the wall. James stopped beside him, and out of the corner of his eye saw James glance from Q up to the painting and back. “I’m one of the exhibitors,” he said quietly, and gestured with the hand holding his drink at the wood frame on the wall.
The painting was abstract, all reds and oranges and golds, licking around each other in concentric circles like the epicenter of an inferno. The edges and center melted away to impossibly fine detail, but if you looked close, you found the pattern repeating itself over and over again, replication upon replication. In the bottom right-hand corner, writ very small, were the initials E.M.
“You painted this,” James said slowly. “You paint?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Q said. “It’s a flame fractal. Fractals are impossible to do by hand, or close enough to be phenomenally difficult. But I built a machine to lay down the paint for me.” He hesitated, and then dropped his eyes, staring at the floor, face hot. “It’s math, James. I write the equations describing the picture I want… this is the product.”
James was silent. Q kept staring at the ground, gone hot all over, itching inside his fine suit and wishing he had a gauge for where on the scale from “idiotic” to “gold-medal in failure” this particular idea of his was. Here, let me show you my incredibly geeky hobby right when you’ve come back from risking your life--oh, you have to go wash your hair? I understand completely…
“Does anyone else know?” James asked finally. Q looked up before he could think not to, and found James staring at him.
“Just Moneypants.” Q reached up to push his glasses up his nose, trying hard to stay stoic.
“You’re fucking brilliant, did you know that?” Before Q could even begin processing that, James had leaned over and was kissing him, momentarily liquefying what remained of Q’s ability to think straight. Q allowed himself to lean into the kiss for several seconds, because he only had so much willpower, and then he pulled back, punch-drunk and lighter than air.
“It’s about time you cottoned on to that,” he said, and James snorted and squeezed his hip under his suit-jacket.
* * * * *
It was the first (and possibly only) time Q had ever been in the same room as James Bond and found himself the one receiving the most attention of the two of them. A red-letter day, as those went.
They floated from room to room, admiring the art on display and pausing to stop and chat when people came up to talk to Q about his work. Some people were simply admirers, while others were fellow exhibitors, and more than once Q got drawn into discussions about fractal mathematics, obscure arguments about null sets and expression of nowhere differentiables that made most normal people’s eyes glaze over. But if James was bored, he was doing a stand-up job of not showing it. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, rewarding Q with a small smile and a raised eyebrow every time Q glanced at him.
Of course, it helped that Q had to politely turn down more than one offer of can I buy you a drink? And while James wasn’t quite brazen enough to try to parade Q around on his arm, Q was keenly aware of the hand that never floated far from the small of his back. At one point it got so distracting that Q had to excuse himself, slipping away to the loo to lock himself in a stall and have a quick, lip-bitingly dirty wank, because the exhibition didn’t end for another few hours and Q wasn’t going to keep walking around with an increasingly noticeable bulge in his trousers, god dammit.
He emerged a few minutes later, feeling at once embarrassed and more clear-headed. James chose that moment to appear at his elbow out of nowhere, murmuring into his ear, “You know, I could have helped you with that.”
Q shivered, turning to glare at James from just inches away, finding it at best only moderately effective. James smirked at him. “You’re talking nonsense,” Q said frostily.
“Mmm. I’m sure.” James kissed the corner of Q’s mouth, like the passing press of a hot ember. “I’m also sure you’ll just have to make it up to me later.”
“Self-righteous prick,” Q muttered. He was dead, he was so dead, if he survived the night then Moneypenny would destroy him with the force of her wrath tomorrow morning.
“Too right.”
They spent another hour at the gallery before Q started making polite excuses to the other artists at the show, who had been talking about going out to a nearby pub and wanted Q and his “date” to come along. Q debated the merits of it for all of ten seconds, and then decided that tormenting himself for another hour or two was only going to delay the inevitable, not change it. James followed him out the front door, their breath puffing into blue smoke in the night air.
“So, you’re still MIA,” Q said, soft enough to keep from carrying beyond James. He turned and started walking down the street, and James fell into step beside him, ice and grit crunching under their dress shoes. “As such, I wouldn’t put it past someone at HQ to have a bead on your flat.” He caught the significant look James cast him, and grinned. “Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that?”
“Oh, none at all,” James said, lip curling. “I’m sure the head of Q Branch has zero to do with surveillance on my flat.” Q laughed, and found himself slowing, then stopping altogether, tipping his head back to look skyward, eyes tracking the thin sliver of the moon. He wasn’t sure if it was the two drinks he’d had at the gallery or the growing awareness of how neatly he’d backed himself into a corner, but he was suddenly overcome with a sense of-
Freefall.
Maybe this was inevitable. Maybe he should just stop trying to avoid the crash. Or at least accept the fact that he was no longer capable of walking away, since he could no longer fool even himself on that account.
“Q?” Q shut his eyes, and then opened them, looking over at James. “Still with me?”
“Mmm.” Q smiled, and leaned in to return James’ kiss from earlier, just barely brushing his lips across James’ mouth. “I think we ought to hail a cab.”
James’ eyebrow went up, sliding an arm around Q’s waist. “And take it where?”
“We can’t go to your flat, so we’ll go to mine. No ink explosions, I promise.” Q leaned into James, felt the solidity of him, his unshakable reality pulling Q in like a magnet. “You’re going down the rabbit hole, James.”
* * * * *
“Do you always take three cab rides home?” James asked. He sounded unfairly composed, considering how hard he’d just been snogging Q in the back of the most recent cab.
“If I cab it, then yes,” said Q. He shoved his wallet back into his trousers, fumbling with his glasses. “Usually I just mix it up on the tube, though.”
“That must get obnoxious,” observed James. He wasn’t looking at Q, he was staring up at the honestly embarrassing building that housed Q’s flat. “You can’t tell me you can’t afford something better than this, Q.”
Q only smiled, walking smoothly past James and heading around the back of the building, leading James up the rickety iron staircase to a heavy metal door. He got his security card out of his wallet and beeped them inside to the hallway. “Come on, James,” he said reprovingly, as he led them to an elevator at the end of the hall. “You really ought to know me better by now.”
They got off at the eighth floor, stopping at a door identical in all ways to its mates along the hall. James watched silently as Q waved his card over another electric panel and then fit his key in the lock, fiddling the door open and letting James inside. He smiled to himself as he let James go ahead of him, glancing around the unobtrusive flat, taking in the hardwood floors and the modern art prints on the walls, the sterile kitchen.
“Is this another decoy flat?” he asked finally, turning to Q with a faint frown.
“Almost,” said Q. He brushed past James, going to the tiny kitchen nook. He leaned down slightly in front of the sink, opening the cupboard underneath and feeling around until he found the small depression, pressing hard with the pad of his finger until it gave an audible beep, accepting his fingerprint. James’ head turned as one of the small art prints swung off the wall to reveal a smooth metal keypad. Q’s fingers moved lightly over the numbers, stepping back as a light above the keypad flashed green before Q swung the art print closed again and turned to the opposite wall.
Q had to give James credit: the agent didn’t even bat an eyelash as the fridge glided smoothly away from the wall, the piece of floor it was affixed to swiveling out of the way as a panel on the wall behind it slid open, revealing a staircase. Q went first, making sure James was following closely and pausing halfway up the stairs to press the wall-panel that slid the wall and fridge back into place behind them.
“I’m guessing the code changes frequently,” James said, following Q into the foyer at the top of the stairs.
“Every twelve hours,” said Q. “There’s an algorithm, it’s all very complicated.” He paused in the middle of the foyer, and gestured with his hand, a wide arc that indicated the whole of his honestly bloody fantastic flat. “So, here we are.”
James was staring, taking in the high windows, the length of the hallway. “You little shit,” he said incredulously. “You’ve got this entire floor to yourself?” Q grinned as James turned around, sweeping him into a rib-crushing embrace and kissing him so hard that he went light-headed for a few moments before James finally let him up for air.
“I had it converted,” Q managed, which was the understatement of the year. “I faked a vermin infestation to get everyone out of the building for a week.” He pulled away from James long enough to collect himself a little before leading James down the hallway. Q took the circuitous route, unable to resist showing off a bit. They passed a large, tastefully-modern kitchen done in wood and dark marbled stone with gleaming metal appliances; past a bathroom done in more wood and stone with a huge shower with foamed glass doors and a separate, massive bath, complete with two marble sinks and a pile of reading material in a basket next to the toilet; past a cozy reading room with built-in bookshelves (all full) and overstuffed chairs, newspapers and magazines spilling from the coffee table to the floor; stopping finally at a room that was very obviously an art studio. Blank canvas stretched across wood frames were stacked against one wall, with a variety of art hung all around the room, some Q’s and some by other artists, almost all of them abstract. A massive, complicated machine that mostly resembled an automated printing-press with an attached monitor and keyboard took up most of the space in the center of the room, stained here and there with acrylic paint.
“Now is the part where you explain how this came about on a governmental salary,” said James. He was staring around, taking everything in; Q couldn’t help but note that his eyes lingered on several of the fractal paintings Q had done.
“It didn’t, really,” Q said. “I came into a sum of money when my father died a few years ago; I simply sat on it till I had the opportunity and means to…” He trailed off, balking at what he’d been going to say, and James looked at him sharply. “To make a home I actually wanted,” he finished. To make a home where I would be safe, he did not say; perhaps he should have, but some habits were too heavily ingrained to be overcome so easily. Not when the lessons that instilled them were so harsh.
“Q…”
“Let’s not,” Q said quickly. He turned back to James, pushing the thought resolutely away as he hooked two fingers around James’ tie and tugged him close, letting James catch him by the hips again, feeling the weight of that steady regard up close. “I don’t want to talk about my father. And I don’t want to hear about your time in Mozambique, either, although I don’t think it would have killed you to give me a hint that you were alive before showing up at my gallery showing.”
James smirked. “Didn’t mean to worry you,” he murmured, and Q dug his knuckles into James’ ribs, making him squirm. He leaned in to kiss Q, and Q stilled, the ache in his chest too sweet and longed-for to deny. “I could have accomplished things the long way and stayed on schedule, but I would have missed tonight. So I did things the short way.”
“Are you using me to justify taking unnecessary risks with Her Majesty’s property again?” Q slipped both his arms around James’ neck, sliding the fingers of one hand through James short-cropped hair. James make a noise in his throat, and to Q’s shock and everlasting delight, James crouched slightly and hoisted Q against him in one move, sliding an arm under Q’s arse as Q let out an undignified squeak. Q wrapped both legs around James’ waist, clutching at his shoulders. “What are you doing.”
“Bedroom,” said James shortly, and Q exhaled.
“Last room at the end of the hall,” he said shakily, and when James tilted his face up Q obliged him, kissing his lips, his crooked nose, the strong lines of his jaw, his cheekbones. He would never admit it, but he was glad to not have to rely on his own legs, which had gone traitorously weak in the knees.
The lights came up of their own accord as James carried him into the room. Q’s bed-king-sized and pushed into a corner-was still an unmade mess of blankets and pillows, because why bother making it when no one ever saw it but him. It was flanked on one side by more built-in bookshelves, which had a little nook cut out with a small lamp and a place for a mug or plate. The wall behind it was wood paneling on which was mounted a huge Pollock print that Q had paid dearly for, one of his few mementos from before he worked at MI6. Against the other wall was the massive wooden desk that housed Q’s home workstation, multiple monitors and keyboards all connected to one sleek tower computer that clocked in a top processing speed faster than anything the aerospace industry could dream of. And against the remaining wall was set a huge flat-screen television, from which a number of cables and cords snaked out, connected to various games and entertainment systems. In front of the TV was a couch, and on the couch were strewn various articles of clothing. The whole room was done in various shades of wood and a muted moss green, save for the ceiling, which was white, and the floor, which was hardwood and covered in a thick area rug, shag in rich hunter.
“I think I should be offended that your flat is nicer than mine,” said James, muffled into Q’s neck, and Q laughed, was still laughing as he tumbled onto the bed, letting his arms fall back over his head as he sprawled out on the mattress.
“How dare I have nice things.” Q peered up at James, who was bent over him, watching him with a hot, appreciative glint in his eyes. Q smiled and James reached out, cupped Q’s face in his hand.
“You deserve nothing but nice things,” James said very quietly, and kissed Q before he could formulate a response. “Mmm. Speaking of nice things… this suit was a pleasant surprise.”
Q arched an eyebrow. “More pleasant than the suit from dinner at Bella Italiano?” he asked, smirking. “I do actually know how to dress myself. Hard to believe, I know.”
“That seems to be your M.O.,” said James agreeably, his fingers already loosening Q’s tie. “I did wonder if you were out to test my self-control when I showed up to find you dressed like this, though.”
“Because it’s all about you, 007.” Q had never learned how to take a compliment gracefully, and as far gone as he now was for James he took refuge in stupidity.
“James,” came the breath against his neck, and Q shuddered, clutching at James’ thick arms. He shoved his hands under James’ own finely-tailored suit and pushed it back, trying to get it off his shoulders, and for a moment there was a lot of fumbling and Q was certain several hundred quid’s worth of fine clothes were going to need mending. Then Q pulled back, grabbing James’ hands with his own and squeezing them.
“James,” he said, and swallowed hard. “Let me. Please.” James stilled, watching Q with an unreadable expression on his face. He let Q sit up and reach for James’ tie, undoing the stern four-in-hand knot and pulling; the tie came slithering out of James’ collar to puddle in Q’s lap. He dropped it and then pushed James’ suit-coat off his arms, before undoing each individual button on his shirt, and James would have to be blind to miss the way Q’s hands trembled.
He didn’t trust himself to speak. So he kept his mouth shut, and he peeled James’ clothes off him until this dangerous weapon of a man was shirtless in his bed, trousers undone and shoes kicked over the edge, presenting about as mouth-watering a picture as Q could possibly imagine. James arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not going to break, Q,” he murmured, and this close his voice was deep enough to drown in, twisting something in Q’s stomach.
“Yes, well, you’re careless with everything else I send you with; it should come as no surprise to me you’re just as careless with yourself,” said Q, because he couldn’t stop himself, really. James’ other eyebrow went up, and he reached out, caught Q’s jaw in his hand.
“Do I need fixing, quartermaster?” James’ voice had a husky note in it that Q hadn’t heard before, almost like he was asking something else altogether.
Q’s face burned. “You will once I’m done with you,” he said hotly, and shoved at James’ chest, pushing him down onto his back on the bed as he climbed on top. James growled, pawing greedily up Q’s sides to yank his shirt out of his trousers, and Q moaned as he straddled James’ hips and ground down against James’ erection through their trousers.
“Careful,” said James hoarsely. He was gripping Q’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Dangerous weapon. You don’t want to set it off.” Q let out a bark of laughter; in the moment of distraction James flipped him over, and then James was done holding back.
Over the next few hours, Q reaffirmed a few previous observations and discovered a number of other things-for science, of course:
James Bond had earned his reputation as a lover enough times over to qualify for some kind of world record, and while he’d weaponized all parts of his body, Q felt that his aptitude for kissing was one that was not praised highly enough, because it took real work to be able to melt someone into a puddle without even touching anything south of one’s collarbone;
James really liked Q’s tattoos, making Q turn over and over so he could examine each of them with enough attention to make Q want to squirm, because although he wasn’t the least bit body-conscious (he took care of himself, alright, just not to the extent of a 00 agent), several of the tattoos had very personal stories that Q still wasn’t ready to share, but at least James asked no questions Q didn’t want to answer;
James had not forgotten that Q loved to be bitten, and was not above a little experimentation in pursuit of finding out exactly how much Q got off on it, to the point of holding him down and leaving bite-marks over every inch of Q’s body until Q was babbling and shaking and rutting into the sheets;
James was bad at laying back and receiving any sort of attention himself, but when Q finally threatened to taser him if he didn’t hold still, it earned him a laugh and the chance to explore the temple of muscle and sharp angles that was James’ body, scars and all, which led smoothly to his next discovery;
James could curse in no less than eleven languages, but defaulted back to the stumbling sussurus of English when on his stomach while Q licked him open, spit dribbling down his chin as he worked tongue and fingers into James’ arse, James’ hips propped up on a pillow for a better angle and to allow Q’s hand under James’ pelvis to slowly, maddeningly stroke James’ fat and leaking cock until James came with a shuddering groan into Q’s hand, all his muscles clenching against Q’s face and fingers;
James Bond was a vengeful shit when he wanted to be, and quick too, surprising Q in the bathroom after he went to gargle and brush his teeth, a situation that ended with Q sobbing into his arm on the bathroom rug while James sucked him through two bone-shattering orgasms, the second worse (and better) than the first for how oversensitive Q’s cock was, until Q was limp and wrung-out as a wet noodle, his face a mess of sweat and tears;
James was well-built enough to resort to physically moving other people entirely too often, and Q had been taken by surprise the first time but was not about to be bridal-carried to his bedroom twice in one night, so when James started to scoop him up off the floor, Q batted him away like an irritable kitten until James relented and gave him a hand up instead, and they both managed to get back to Q’s bed under their own power, if just barely, at least in Q’s case.
“Going to need to change the sheets,” said James lazily. He had apparently regained enough brainpower to arrange Q against him and drag a comforter up over them.
“Thanks for that brilliant observation.” Q was mumbling, his face mashed against James’ chest (pectoral, his scrambled brain supplied), his glasses having been lost in the bathroom when James assaulted him like some kind of sex-powered SCUD missile. “You’re welcome to have a go at it if you like.”
“Oh, are you tired? Which of us is the relic, again?” James made a noise as Q jammed his thumb against James’ floating rib, or tried to; his aim was off, for some reason. James caught his hand and squeezed it gently before releasing it, then moved to stroke his fingers through Q’s sweat-sticky hair.
“Shut it,” said Q. “Don’t make me gag you. I have one somewhere.” The hand in his hair paused for a moment before resuming, nails scratching lazily at Q’s scalp.
“Maybe later.”
“If you’re lucky,” said Q, and then James said something else but Q was dozing off. His last thought before slipping away was that he really ought to have mentioned to James sooner that the entire apartment was on camera.
* * * * *
Turned out that James didn’t care much about the cameras.
It also turned out that 00s were used to functioning on less sleep than normal humans, especially if something more interesting presented itself.
So much for going in on Sunday to catch up on the work he was behind on.
* * * * *
“Q.”
Q rolled onto his back, blinking sleepily at the ceiling. “Ngh,” he said intelligently, and then realized that someone had said his name, followed in short order by the realizations that the someone was James and that his voice sounded strange. Q turned his head, squinting valiantly to make something out through his myopia and the fog of sleep, and then started laughing.
“Q, if you don’t get this cat off my face, I am going to teach it how to fly.” Carly purred, the tip of her fluffy white tail twitching back and forth, the rest of her curled contentedly up on her new perch.
“Just sit up! She’s a cat, for fuck’s sake.”
“A cat with her paw on my eye, Q so help me God-”
“Alright, alright!” Q sat up, still chuckling, and reached out for Carly, who gave a put-out yowl when Q picked her up but still let him cradle her against his chest like an infant, her steady purring giving the lie to her protest at being moved. James sat up, propping his chin in one hand as he gave Q and Carly a surly look.
“Oh, right, now you’re grumpy at a rude awakening, that’s rich,” said Q, scratching Carly behind the ears. The purring increased, tail twitching back and forth like a little flag. James rolled his eyes, but Q thought he detected a faint smile anyway.
“What’s her name?”
“Carly. I haven’t the faintest idea how old she is, she just started showing up one day and asking for hand-outs.” James reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers along Carly’s head and neck, and she purred louder, arching happily against Q’s chest. Q grinned.
“Mm. She seems quite taken with you for a stray.” Out of the corner of his eye, Q could see James’ gaze flick back up to his face. Q shrugged.
“It’s because I give her nice things and don’t ask too many questions.” James smiled, ever so slightly, and Q caught his breath as the hand in Carly’s fur slipped down to press against Q’s stomach instead. “James, please, there are children present.”
“Don’t you start,” rumbled James, and Carly let out a plaintive yowl as she was abruptly deposited on the floor, but no one was paying her any attention.
* * * * *
It turned out that Carly, like most cats, disliked being ignored. It also turned out that she was not averse to inserting herself into situations where she was not particularly wanted.
After the fifth time, Q managed to catch her and shut her in the hallway, and then marched back to the bed to wipe that smirk off James’ face.
* * * * *
As far as Q’s list of things he’d done that weren’t strictly By The Books, monopolizing an MIA 00 agent for an entire 36 hours instead of directing him to report in for debriefing was still several slots from the top, but it definitely ranked as one of the most fun. They did next to nothing but eat and fuck, eventually winding up on the couch, James in a pair of Q’s pyjama bottoms that showed off his obliques to unfair advantage, Q in a variation of the same plus a jumper with his legs draped across James’ lap.
“This is what you do in your free time,” said James. He sounded unconvinced. His hand not holding a controller was doing a slow lap up and down Q’s thigh, fingers light through the fabric of Q’s pyjamas.
“A man has only got time for so many cerebral or time-consuming hobbies, James,” said Q lazily. “Besides, I would have thought Halo was right up your alley. We can go and run a few miles if you prefer.” James snorted, fingers curling under the meat of Q’s thigh and squeezing.
“I’ll stick to other kinds of calisthenics, thanks.”
“Right after I kick your arse,” said Q, as the game finished loading. Five minutes later Q was squawking and kicking in a mad attempt to remove himself from the cheater who’d just shoved a pillow in his face at a critical moment, emerging just in time to watch Master Chief vanish in an explosion of shrapnel.
“YOU ARE A FUCKING BASTARD-”
“I’ve got carte blanche, Q,” said James, neatly deflecting an elbow to the stomach. “Whatever means necessary.”
“I will end you,” said Q, and kicked James in the hip until he went to the other end of the couch for the rematch.
It was so easy not to think past today, not to pry or ask questions or wonder what would be coming tomorrow, or the following week. Q-knew, realistically, that James Bond did not do relationships, that Moneypenny was right about what a bad idea this fixation was, but the truth was that Q had not brought anyone back to his flat (except Moneypenny) for years. It wasn’t safe, for so many reasons. His own track record in this area would have been reason enough to avoid this entanglement, to say nothing of James’, but Q still couldn’t seem to stop himself, and James did not seem inclined to either leave or talk about anything of substance.
He wondered how long it’d be before Moneypenny got wise to what he’d done. Three days, he guessed, give or take.
* * * * *
Technically, it was five days. But three of those days, Moneypenny was out of town on a personal mission from M, and so Q felt that she was due full credit for sorting him in 48 hours. It was made all the more impressive for the fact that by the time she came back, most of Q’s obvious bite marks had faded into obscurity beneath his turtleneck.
Well, most of the initial ones. The next set James gave him were in more discreet locations.
“You’re a moron,” she announced, appearing by his desk with yet another stack of clipboards. Q exhaled through his nose, gesturing for her to add the new forms to the ever-growing pile at the end of his desk. James Bond was going to drown him in paperwork.
“I’m aware of that,” he said, and paused to finish the line of code on the screen in front of him. It took him a few moments to realize that Moneypenny was still standing by, and he glanced up at her with a frown. Don’t you have something better to be doing was on his lips, but it died when he saw the tightness in her jaw, and the way she was actually glaring at him. “Moneypants-”
“Don’t,” she said curtly. “Just-” Moneypenny took a deep breath, and then, in a low, tight voice, she continued: “It’s none of my damn business who you’re shagging, and I don’t know what the hell happened that’s had you holding the whole world at arm’s length for years, but of all the people to finally let in, why does it have to be-him. When he’s just going to hurt you because he’s too hurt himself to do otherwise.”
Q stared. All the blood had drained from his brain, leaving him dumbstruck and vaguely ill. It must have shown in his face, because some of the tightness left Moneypenny’s shoulders as she looked back at him. “I let you in,” Q said, allowing a bit of injury to creep in. She sighed.
“A bit,” she muttered.
“More than a bit. You were the first person to meet Elliot.”
Moneypenny arched an eyebrow. “The first?” Q cleared his throat. “Did you show him?”
“He was clever enough to get some of it on his own,” Q allowed. “But… yes, I did.”
Moneypenny’s eyes narrowed. “And what did he say?”The threat was back, but at least it was no longer directed at Q.
“He was surprised. But appreciative.” Q hesitated, before adding quietly, “I wasn’t sorry to have introduced him.”
Moneypenny considered this for a few moments before finally nodding, and Q realized how much this must have bothered her, that she couldn’t save the conversation until after work. “Good,” she said, and rubbed at her temple. “Christ, what do I do with the two of you.”
“Take us out for drinks and get us both wankered for blackmail material,” suggested Q, and she laughed.
“I’m already lousy with blackmail on both of you, I hardly need more,” she shot back. “And get those forms done quick as you can; Vicky’s clawing at the walls to have the mission accounts sorted.”
“Piss off,” Q said, and Moneypenny smirked, turning on a heel and sauntering out of his office. Q picked up his tea and took a sip, taking a few moments to just breathe before shoving the conversation as far from his mind as he could. He could have a meltdown about the guilty parties later.
* * * * *
Bond's gallery outfit. Q's gallery outfit. The inspiration for Q's flame fractals come from here.
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.
Chapter Four. Sometimes the only thing left to do was give up. Especially when it wasn't a fight he really wanted to win. (Or: suit porn, art porn, apartment porn, and actual porn.)
You can also read here at the AO3. Part one of this fic posted here on LJ, part two is here, and part three is here.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Q blinked, glancing at the man who’d suddenly appeared at his elbow. Or maybe he’d been there a few minutes and Q simply hadn’t noticed him. “Er,” he said intelligently, and glanced automatically towards the entrance to the gallery, as he had a half-dozen times or so in the past hour. As in each of those previous times, no one was there. No one Q wanted to see, anyway.
The man at his elbow smiled. “Someone keeping you waiting?” he asked. He was a nice-looking man, Q thought to himself, with a rugby player’s build but a face that softened him, green eyes over a clean-cut smile he was leveling at Q right now.
“Yeah, actually,” Q said slowly. He straightened, pushing the swell of hurt away for a moment. “Sure, go on, I’ll have a drink.”
“Brilliant,” said the man, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Steven, by the way. What’re you having?”
“Elliot,” said Q, shaking the hand. “And I’ll have a cider, please.”
“Right,” said Steven, and turned to lean over the bar, now standing considerably closer to Q than he had before. Q couldn’t help the stab of satisfaction at the obvious flirtation. He’d gone to all the trouble to dress up for tonight, after all, wearing one of the few fancy-dress outfits he owned: thick-and-thin navy pinstripe suit with narrow lapels, stovepipe trousers, a paisley tie, and improbably-turquoise shoes pressed on him by an absolutely-correct salesperson. He might not fill out the shirt and suit coat the way Bond could, but Q wasn’t oblivious to the stares he was getting, either.
If Bond wasn’t going to be here to appreciate him, someone else might as well.
“Thanks,” Q said, summoning a smile as Steven turned back to him with a cider held out, the ice clinking softly in its glass as Q took it. He scooted down the bar a bit with Steven to make room for another cluster of people moving in to order drinks, but balked as Steven headed for a booth towards the back of the room. “Let’s stay here a moment,” he said, feeling the smile on his face slide from real to merely polite. “So, what brought you here? A fan of art?”
“Oh, a bit, I suppose.” Steven grinned, bright and easy, scooting in close again. “I’ve never seen art like this before though, it’s fascinating. I came here with my mate because he’s into new art, you know, very avant-garde, but I didn’t actually expect to like the work as much as I do.” Steven paused, his eyes tracking past Q’s face to something over his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” said a voice in Q’s ear, the voice, dark and rich and dangerously polite. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”
Steven’s eyes flickered back to Q, and whatever he saw there made him smile, raising his glass. “Your friend turned up after all,” he said. “Cheers, Elliot.” Q watched him turn away and slip into the growing crowd, and then he turned around, staring up into James’ face, feeling like someone had turned the volume in the room all the way down. James looked perfect, like he’d stepped out of the pages of an expensive menswear ad, clad in a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit with a perfect centimeter of snowy white cuff showing, and a white-and-black regimental-striped tie. A white pocket square and a silver watch (that Q recognized as MI6-issue) completed his look. If he still had bruises from his mysterious 10-day vanishing act, they weren’t visible.
Now he knew what an addict trying to get clean felt like. He’d gone almost two weeks without a hit, just to have it all swirl down the drain.
“You’re late,” he said. James’ mouth quirked slightly. On someone else, it would have been a smile.
“Your directions left something to be desired,” said James. “And I was a bit short on time.”
“Have you even checked back in with M?” Q demanded.
“That can wait,” James said. “This couldn’t.”
Q bit the inside of his cheek, hard. If he stopped to contemplate that at all, he’d come untethered right here. “Yes, well. Tell me how you found it. Did you actually sort out the numbers I gave you or did you find some other thread I forgot to tie up?”
James did smile then, coming past Q to lean over the bar and catch the bartender’s eye. “Some of both,” he said. “I could tell it was a Fibonacci sequence, but not much else. I didn’t remember the spiral aspect of it until I was in deep cover and killing time in a mosque. Then I had a job sorting out where on the spiral you would be, the scale, which end of London was north and whatnot.”
“I half-expected you to track me down on Google,” Q said mildly. He was trying his best to hide his glee, but from the look James gave him at the comment Q could tell that he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“I did try that,” James said. “Not that it did any good. There’s almost as many Elliot Marshes as there are John Smiths.” He paused to order his drink, and Q took a sip of his cider, fighting twin urges to drag James into a dark corner of the gallery to snog him stupid and to run out into the street and hail the first cab home to hide from how desperately pleased he was to see James here. James finally turned around again, martini in hand, and Q pushed off the bar with him as they headed into the actual gallery. “I have to ask, though; how did you happen to pick a gallery that would be on a bloody Fibonacci spiral off the geographic center of London? You can’t tell me you came up with that on the spot in Bella Italiano.”
Q grinned, flushing a little bit. “I came up with that way beforehand,” he admitted. “You saw the theme of the gallery showing.”
“Mmm. Math in Art.” James was watching him, pacing along side him like some kind of feral jungle cat. Q felt James’ hand settle at the small of his back, and sternly reminded himself that tenting one’s trousers in public was frowned upon.
“Well, yes. So I persuaded the organizer of the event that it would be, ah… fitting to pick a gallery that had a location that matched the theme of the show. Form suited to function and all that.”
“You persuaded him? And why would he listen to you? As I’m quite sure he doesn’t know what you really do.”
Q smiled, and avoided James’ questioning look, drawing even with one of the paintings on the wall. James stopped beside him, and out of the corner of his eye saw James glance from Q up to the painting and back. “I’m one of the exhibitors,” he said quietly, and gestured with the hand holding his drink at the wood frame on the wall.
The painting was abstract, all reds and oranges and golds, licking around each other in concentric circles like the epicenter of an inferno. The edges and center melted away to impossibly fine detail, but if you looked close, you found the pattern repeating itself over and over again, replication upon replication. In the bottom right-hand corner, writ very small, were the initials E.M.
“You painted this,” James said slowly. “You paint?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Q said. “It’s a flame fractal. Fractals are impossible to do by hand, or close enough to be phenomenally difficult. But I built a machine to lay down the paint for me.” He hesitated, and then dropped his eyes, staring at the floor, face hot. “It’s math, James. I write the equations describing the picture I want… this is the product.”
James was silent. Q kept staring at the ground, gone hot all over, itching inside his fine suit and wishing he had a gauge for where on the scale from “idiotic” to “gold-medal in failure” this particular idea of his was. Here, let me show you my incredibly geeky hobby right when you’ve come back from risking your life--oh, you have to go wash your hair? I understand completely…
“Does anyone else know?” James asked finally. Q looked up before he could think not to, and found James staring at him.
“Just Moneypants.” Q reached up to push his glasses up his nose, trying hard to stay stoic.
“You’re fucking brilliant, did you know that?” Before Q could even begin processing that, James had leaned over and was kissing him, momentarily liquefying what remained of Q’s ability to think straight. Q allowed himself to lean into the kiss for several seconds, because he only had so much willpower, and then he pulled back, punch-drunk and lighter than air.
“It’s about time you cottoned on to that,” he said, and James snorted and squeezed his hip under his suit-jacket.
* * * * *
It was the first (and possibly only) time Q had ever been in the same room as James Bond and found himself the one receiving the most attention of the two of them. A red-letter day, as those went.
They floated from room to room, admiring the art on display and pausing to stop and chat when people came up to talk to Q about his work. Some people were simply admirers, while others were fellow exhibitors, and more than once Q got drawn into discussions about fractal mathematics, obscure arguments about null sets and expression of nowhere differentiables that made most normal people’s eyes glaze over. But if James was bored, he was doing a stand-up job of not showing it. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, rewarding Q with a small smile and a raised eyebrow every time Q glanced at him.
Of course, it helped that Q had to politely turn down more than one offer of can I buy you a drink? And while James wasn’t quite brazen enough to try to parade Q around on his arm, Q was keenly aware of the hand that never floated far from the small of his back. At one point it got so distracting that Q had to excuse himself, slipping away to the loo to lock himself in a stall and have a quick, lip-bitingly dirty wank, because the exhibition didn’t end for another few hours and Q wasn’t going to keep walking around with an increasingly noticeable bulge in his trousers, god dammit.
He emerged a few minutes later, feeling at once embarrassed and more clear-headed. James chose that moment to appear at his elbow out of nowhere, murmuring into his ear, “You know, I could have helped you with that.”
Q shivered, turning to glare at James from just inches away, finding it at best only moderately effective. James smirked at him. “You’re talking nonsense,” Q said frostily.
“Mmm. I’m sure.” James kissed the corner of Q’s mouth, like the passing press of a hot ember. “I’m also sure you’ll just have to make it up to me later.”
“Self-righteous prick,” Q muttered. He was dead, he was so dead, if he survived the night then Moneypenny would destroy him with the force of her wrath tomorrow morning.
“Too right.”
They spent another hour at the gallery before Q started making polite excuses to the other artists at the show, who had been talking about going out to a nearby pub and wanted Q and his “date” to come along. Q debated the merits of it for all of ten seconds, and then decided that tormenting himself for another hour or two was only going to delay the inevitable, not change it. James followed him out the front door, their breath puffing into blue smoke in the night air.
“So, you’re still MIA,” Q said, soft enough to keep from carrying beyond James. He turned and started walking down the street, and James fell into step beside him, ice and grit crunching under their dress shoes. “As such, I wouldn’t put it past someone at HQ to have a bead on your flat.” He caught the significant look James cast him, and grinned. “Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that?”
“Oh, none at all,” James said, lip curling. “I’m sure the head of Q Branch has zero to do with surveillance on my flat.” Q laughed, and found himself slowing, then stopping altogether, tipping his head back to look skyward, eyes tracking the thin sliver of the moon. He wasn’t sure if it was the two drinks he’d had at the gallery or the growing awareness of how neatly he’d backed himself into a corner, but he was suddenly overcome with a sense of-
Freefall.
Maybe this was inevitable. Maybe he should just stop trying to avoid the crash. Or at least accept the fact that he was no longer capable of walking away, since he could no longer fool even himself on that account.
“Q?” Q shut his eyes, and then opened them, looking over at James. “Still with me?”
“Mmm.” Q smiled, and leaned in to return James’ kiss from earlier, just barely brushing his lips across James’ mouth. “I think we ought to hail a cab.”
James’ eyebrow went up, sliding an arm around Q’s waist. “And take it where?”
“We can’t go to your flat, so we’ll go to mine. No ink explosions, I promise.” Q leaned into James, felt the solidity of him, his unshakable reality pulling Q in like a magnet. “You’re going down the rabbit hole, James.”
* * * * *
“Do you always take three cab rides home?” James asked. He sounded unfairly composed, considering how hard he’d just been snogging Q in the back of the most recent cab.
“If I cab it, then yes,” said Q. He shoved his wallet back into his trousers, fumbling with his glasses. “Usually I just mix it up on the tube, though.”
“That must get obnoxious,” observed James. He wasn’t looking at Q, he was staring up at the honestly embarrassing building that housed Q’s flat. “You can’t tell me you can’t afford something better than this, Q.”
Q only smiled, walking smoothly past James and heading around the back of the building, leading James up the rickety iron staircase to a heavy metal door. He got his security card out of his wallet and beeped them inside to the hallway. “Come on, James,” he said reprovingly, as he led them to an elevator at the end of the hall. “You really ought to know me better by now.”
They got off at the eighth floor, stopping at a door identical in all ways to its mates along the hall. James watched silently as Q waved his card over another electric panel and then fit his key in the lock, fiddling the door open and letting James inside. He smiled to himself as he let James go ahead of him, glancing around the unobtrusive flat, taking in the hardwood floors and the modern art prints on the walls, the sterile kitchen.
“Is this another decoy flat?” he asked finally, turning to Q with a faint frown.
“Almost,” said Q. He brushed past James, going to the tiny kitchen nook. He leaned down slightly in front of the sink, opening the cupboard underneath and feeling around until he found the small depression, pressing hard with the pad of his finger until it gave an audible beep, accepting his fingerprint. James’ head turned as one of the small art prints swung off the wall to reveal a smooth metal keypad. Q’s fingers moved lightly over the numbers, stepping back as a light above the keypad flashed green before Q swung the art print closed again and turned to the opposite wall.
Q had to give James credit: the agent didn’t even bat an eyelash as the fridge glided smoothly away from the wall, the piece of floor it was affixed to swiveling out of the way as a panel on the wall behind it slid open, revealing a staircase. Q went first, making sure James was following closely and pausing halfway up the stairs to press the wall-panel that slid the wall and fridge back into place behind them.
“I’m guessing the code changes frequently,” James said, following Q into the foyer at the top of the stairs.
“Every twelve hours,” said Q. “There’s an algorithm, it’s all very complicated.” He paused in the middle of the foyer, and gestured with his hand, a wide arc that indicated the whole of his honestly bloody fantastic flat. “So, here we are.”
James was staring, taking in the high windows, the length of the hallway. “You little shit,” he said incredulously. “You’ve got this entire floor to yourself?” Q grinned as James turned around, sweeping him into a rib-crushing embrace and kissing him so hard that he went light-headed for a few moments before James finally let him up for air.
“I had it converted,” Q managed, which was the understatement of the year. “I faked a vermin infestation to get everyone out of the building for a week.” He pulled away from James long enough to collect himself a little before leading James down the hallway. Q took the circuitous route, unable to resist showing off a bit. They passed a large, tastefully-modern kitchen done in wood and dark marbled stone with gleaming metal appliances; past a bathroom done in more wood and stone with a huge shower with foamed glass doors and a separate, massive bath, complete with two marble sinks and a pile of reading material in a basket next to the toilet; past a cozy reading room with built-in bookshelves (all full) and overstuffed chairs, newspapers and magazines spilling from the coffee table to the floor; stopping finally at a room that was very obviously an art studio. Blank canvas stretched across wood frames were stacked against one wall, with a variety of art hung all around the room, some Q’s and some by other artists, almost all of them abstract. A massive, complicated machine that mostly resembled an automated printing-press with an attached monitor and keyboard took up most of the space in the center of the room, stained here and there with acrylic paint.
“Now is the part where you explain how this came about on a governmental salary,” said James. He was staring around, taking everything in; Q couldn’t help but note that his eyes lingered on several of the fractal paintings Q had done.
“It didn’t, really,” Q said. “I came into a sum of money when my father died a few years ago; I simply sat on it till I had the opportunity and means to…” He trailed off, balking at what he’d been going to say, and James looked at him sharply. “To make a home I actually wanted,” he finished. To make a home where I would be safe, he did not say; perhaps he should have, but some habits were too heavily ingrained to be overcome so easily. Not when the lessons that instilled them were so harsh.
“Q…”
“Let’s not,” Q said quickly. He turned back to James, pushing the thought resolutely away as he hooked two fingers around James’ tie and tugged him close, letting James catch him by the hips again, feeling the weight of that steady regard up close. “I don’t want to talk about my father. And I don’t want to hear about your time in Mozambique, either, although I don’t think it would have killed you to give me a hint that you were alive before showing up at my gallery showing.”
James smirked. “Didn’t mean to worry you,” he murmured, and Q dug his knuckles into James’ ribs, making him squirm. He leaned in to kiss Q, and Q stilled, the ache in his chest too sweet and longed-for to deny. “I could have accomplished things the long way and stayed on schedule, but I would have missed tonight. So I did things the short way.”
“Are you using me to justify taking unnecessary risks with Her Majesty’s property again?” Q slipped both his arms around James’ neck, sliding the fingers of one hand through James short-cropped hair. James make a noise in his throat, and to Q’s shock and everlasting delight, James crouched slightly and hoisted Q against him in one move, sliding an arm under Q’s arse as Q let out an undignified squeak. Q wrapped both legs around James’ waist, clutching at his shoulders. “What are you doing.”
“Bedroom,” said James shortly, and Q exhaled.
“Last room at the end of the hall,” he said shakily, and when James tilted his face up Q obliged him, kissing his lips, his crooked nose, the strong lines of his jaw, his cheekbones. He would never admit it, but he was glad to not have to rely on his own legs, which had gone traitorously weak in the knees.
The lights came up of their own accord as James carried him into the room. Q’s bed-king-sized and pushed into a corner-was still an unmade mess of blankets and pillows, because why bother making it when no one ever saw it but him. It was flanked on one side by more built-in bookshelves, which had a little nook cut out with a small lamp and a place for a mug or plate. The wall behind it was wood paneling on which was mounted a huge Pollock print that Q had paid dearly for, one of his few mementos from before he worked at MI6. Against the other wall was the massive wooden desk that housed Q’s home workstation, multiple monitors and keyboards all connected to one sleek tower computer that clocked in a top processing speed faster than anything the aerospace industry could dream of. And against the remaining wall was set a huge flat-screen television, from which a number of cables and cords snaked out, connected to various games and entertainment systems. In front of the TV was a couch, and on the couch were strewn various articles of clothing. The whole room was done in various shades of wood and a muted moss green, save for the ceiling, which was white, and the floor, which was hardwood and covered in a thick area rug, shag in rich hunter.
“I think I should be offended that your flat is nicer than mine,” said James, muffled into Q’s neck, and Q laughed, was still laughing as he tumbled onto the bed, letting his arms fall back over his head as he sprawled out on the mattress.
“How dare I have nice things.” Q peered up at James, who was bent over him, watching him with a hot, appreciative glint in his eyes. Q smiled and James reached out, cupped Q’s face in his hand.
“You deserve nothing but nice things,” James said very quietly, and kissed Q before he could formulate a response. “Mmm. Speaking of nice things… this suit was a pleasant surprise.”
Q arched an eyebrow. “More pleasant than the suit from dinner at Bella Italiano?” he asked, smirking. “I do actually know how to dress myself. Hard to believe, I know.”
“That seems to be your M.O.,” said James agreeably, his fingers already loosening Q’s tie. “I did wonder if you were out to test my self-control when I showed up to find you dressed like this, though.”
“Because it’s all about you, 007.” Q had never learned how to take a compliment gracefully, and as far gone as he now was for James he took refuge in stupidity.
“James,” came the breath against his neck, and Q shuddered, clutching at James’ thick arms. He shoved his hands under James’ own finely-tailored suit and pushed it back, trying to get it off his shoulders, and for a moment there was a lot of fumbling and Q was certain several hundred quid’s worth of fine clothes were going to need mending. Then Q pulled back, grabbing James’ hands with his own and squeezing them.
“James,” he said, and swallowed hard. “Let me. Please.” James stilled, watching Q with an unreadable expression on his face. He let Q sit up and reach for James’ tie, undoing the stern four-in-hand knot and pulling; the tie came slithering out of James’ collar to puddle in Q’s lap. He dropped it and then pushed James’ suit-coat off his arms, before undoing each individual button on his shirt, and James would have to be blind to miss the way Q’s hands trembled.
He didn’t trust himself to speak. So he kept his mouth shut, and he peeled James’ clothes off him until this dangerous weapon of a man was shirtless in his bed, trousers undone and shoes kicked over the edge, presenting about as mouth-watering a picture as Q could possibly imagine. James arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not going to break, Q,” he murmured, and this close his voice was deep enough to drown in, twisting something in Q’s stomach.
“Yes, well, you’re careless with everything else I send you with; it should come as no surprise to me you’re just as careless with yourself,” said Q, because he couldn’t stop himself, really. James’ other eyebrow went up, and he reached out, caught Q’s jaw in his hand.
“Do I need fixing, quartermaster?” James’ voice had a husky note in it that Q hadn’t heard before, almost like he was asking something else altogether.
Q’s face burned. “You will once I’m done with you,” he said hotly, and shoved at James’ chest, pushing him down onto his back on the bed as he climbed on top. James growled, pawing greedily up Q’s sides to yank his shirt out of his trousers, and Q moaned as he straddled James’ hips and ground down against James’ erection through their trousers.
“Careful,” said James hoarsely. He was gripping Q’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Dangerous weapon. You don’t want to set it off.” Q let out a bark of laughter; in the moment of distraction James flipped him over, and then James was done holding back.
Over the next few hours, Q reaffirmed a few previous observations and discovered a number of other things-for science, of course:
James Bond had earned his reputation as a lover enough times over to qualify for some kind of world record, and while he’d weaponized all parts of his body, Q felt that his aptitude for kissing was one that was not praised highly enough, because it took real work to be able to melt someone into a puddle without even touching anything south of one’s collarbone;
James really liked Q’s tattoos, making Q turn over and over so he could examine each of them with enough attention to make Q want to squirm, because although he wasn’t the least bit body-conscious (he took care of himself, alright, just not to the extent of a 00 agent), several of the tattoos had very personal stories that Q still wasn’t ready to share, but at least James asked no questions Q didn’t want to answer;
James had not forgotten that Q loved to be bitten, and was not above a little experimentation in pursuit of finding out exactly how much Q got off on it, to the point of holding him down and leaving bite-marks over every inch of Q’s body until Q was babbling and shaking and rutting into the sheets;
James was bad at laying back and receiving any sort of attention himself, but when Q finally threatened to taser him if he didn’t hold still, it earned him a laugh and the chance to explore the temple of muscle and sharp angles that was James’ body, scars and all, which led smoothly to his next discovery;
James could curse in no less than eleven languages, but defaulted back to the stumbling sussurus of English when on his stomach while Q licked him open, spit dribbling down his chin as he worked tongue and fingers into James’ arse, James’ hips propped up on a pillow for a better angle and to allow Q’s hand under James’ pelvis to slowly, maddeningly stroke James’ fat and leaking cock until James came with a shuddering groan into Q’s hand, all his muscles clenching against Q’s face and fingers;
James Bond was a vengeful shit when he wanted to be, and quick too, surprising Q in the bathroom after he went to gargle and brush his teeth, a situation that ended with Q sobbing into his arm on the bathroom rug while James sucked him through two bone-shattering orgasms, the second worse (and better) than the first for how oversensitive Q’s cock was, until Q was limp and wrung-out as a wet noodle, his face a mess of sweat and tears;
James was well-built enough to resort to physically moving other people entirely too often, and Q had been taken by surprise the first time but was not about to be bridal-carried to his bedroom twice in one night, so when James started to scoop him up off the floor, Q batted him away like an irritable kitten until James relented and gave him a hand up instead, and they both managed to get back to Q’s bed under their own power, if just barely, at least in Q’s case.
“Going to need to change the sheets,” said James lazily. He had apparently regained enough brainpower to arrange Q against him and drag a comforter up over them.
“Thanks for that brilliant observation.” Q was mumbling, his face mashed against James’ chest (pectoral, his scrambled brain supplied), his glasses having been lost in the bathroom when James assaulted him like some kind of sex-powered SCUD missile. “You’re welcome to have a go at it if you like.”
“Oh, are you tired? Which of us is the relic, again?” James made a noise as Q jammed his thumb against James’ floating rib, or tried to; his aim was off, for some reason. James caught his hand and squeezed it gently before releasing it, then moved to stroke his fingers through Q’s sweat-sticky hair.
“Shut it,” said Q. “Don’t make me gag you. I have one somewhere.” The hand in his hair paused for a moment before resuming, nails scratching lazily at Q’s scalp.
“Maybe later.”
“If you’re lucky,” said Q, and then James said something else but Q was dozing off. His last thought before slipping away was that he really ought to have mentioned to James sooner that the entire apartment was on camera.
* * * * *
Turned out that James didn’t care much about the cameras.
It also turned out that 00s were used to functioning on less sleep than normal humans, especially if something more interesting presented itself.
So much for going in on Sunday to catch up on the work he was behind on.
* * * * *
“Q.”
Q rolled onto his back, blinking sleepily at the ceiling. “Ngh,” he said intelligently, and then realized that someone had said his name, followed in short order by the realizations that the someone was James and that his voice sounded strange. Q turned his head, squinting valiantly to make something out through his myopia and the fog of sleep, and then started laughing.
“Q, if you don’t get this cat off my face, I am going to teach it how to fly.” Carly purred, the tip of her fluffy white tail twitching back and forth, the rest of her curled contentedly up on her new perch.
“Just sit up! She’s a cat, for fuck’s sake.”
“A cat with her paw on my eye, Q so help me God-”
“Alright, alright!” Q sat up, still chuckling, and reached out for Carly, who gave a put-out yowl when Q picked her up but still let him cradle her against his chest like an infant, her steady purring giving the lie to her protest at being moved. James sat up, propping his chin in one hand as he gave Q and Carly a surly look.
“Oh, right, now you’re grumpy at a rude awakening, that’s rich,” said Q, scratching Carly behind the ears. The purring increased, tail twitching back and forth like a little flag. James rolled his eyes, but Q thought he detected a faint smile anyway.
“What’s her name?”
“Carly. I haven’t the faintest idea how old she is, she just started showing up one day and asking for hand-outs.” James reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers along Carly’s head and neck, and she purred louder, arching happily against Q’s chest. Q grinned.
“Mm. She seems quite taken with you for a stray.” Out of the corner of his eye, Q could see James’ gaze flick back up to his face. Q shrugged.
“It’s because I give her nice things and don’t ask too many questions.” James smiled, ever so slightly, and Q caught his breath as the hand in Carly’s fur slipped down to press against Q’s stomach instead. “James, please, there are children present.”
“Don’t you start,” rumbled James, and Carly let out a plaintive yowl as she was abruptly deposited on the floor, but no one was paying her any attention.
* * * * *
It turned out that Carly, like most cats, disliked being ignored. It also turned out that she was not averse to inserting herself into situations where she was not particularly wanted.
After the fifth time, Q managed to catch her and shut her in the hallway, and then marched back to the bed to wipe that smirk off James’ face.
* * * * *
As far as Q’s list of things he’d done that weren’t strictly By The Books, monopolizing an MIA 00 agent for an entire 36 hours instead of directing him to report in for debriefing was still several slots from the top, but it definitely ranked as one of the most fun. They did next to nothing but eat and fuck, eventually winding up on the couch, James in a pair of Q’s pyjama bottoms that showed off his obliques to unfair advantage, Q in a variation of the same plus a jumper with his legs draped across James’ lap.
“This is what you do in your free time,” said James. He sounded unconvinced. His hand not holding a controller was doing a slow lap up and down Q’s thigh, fingers light through the fabric of Q’s pyjamas.
“A man has only got time for so many cerebral or time-consuming hobbies, James,” said Q lazily. “Besides, I would have thought Halo was right up your alley. We can go and run a few miles if you prefer.” James snorted, fingers curling under the meat of Q’s thigh and squeezing.
“I’ll stick to other kinds of calisthenics, thanks.”
“Right after I kick your arse,” said Q, as the game finished loading. Five minutes later Q was squawking and kicking in a mad attempt to remove himself from the cheater who’d just shoved a pillow in his face at a critical moment, emerging just in time to watch Master Chief vanish in an explosion of shrapnel.
“YOU ARE A FUCKING BASTARD-”
“I’ve got carte blanche, Q,” said James, neatly deflecting an elbow to the stomach. “Whatever means necessary.”
“I will end you,” said Q, and kicked James in the hip until he went to the other end of the couch for the rematch.
It was so easy not to think past today, not to pry or ask questions or wonder what would be coming tomorrow, or the following week. Q-knew, realistically, that James Bond did not do relationships, that Moneypenny was right about what a bad idea this fixation was, but the truth was that Q had not brought anyone back to his flat (except Moneypenny) for years. It wasn’t safe, for so many reasons. His own track record in this area would have been reason enough to avoid this entanglement, to say nothing of James’, but Q still couldn’t seem to stop himself, and James did not seem inclined to either leave or talk about anything of substance.
He wondered how long it’d be before Moneypenny got wise to what he’d done. Three days, he guessed, give or take.
* * * * *
Technically, it was five days. But three of those days, Moneypenny was out of town on a personal mission from M, and so Q felt that she was due full credit for sorting him in 48 hours. It was made all the more impressive for the fact that by the time she came back, most of Q’s obvious bite marks had faded into obscurity beneath his turtleneck.
Well, most of the initial ones. The next set James gave him were in more discreet locations.
“You’re a moron,” she announced, appearing by his desk with yet another stack of clipboards. Q exhaled through his nose, gesturing for her to add the new forms to the ever-growing pile at the end of his desk. James Bond was going to drown him in paperwork.
“I’m aware of that,” he said, and paused to finish the line of code on the screen in front of him. It took him a few moments to realize that Moneypenny was still standing by, and he glanced up at her with a frown. Don’t you have something better to be doing was on his lips, but it died when he saw the tightness in her jaw, and the way she was actually glaring at him. “Moneypants-”
“Don’t,” she said curtly. “Just-” Moneypenny took a deep breath, and then, in a low, tight voice, she continued: “It’s none of my damn business who you’re shagging, and I don’t know what the hell happened that’s had you holding the whole world at arm’s length for years, but of all the people to finally let in, why does it have to be-him. When he’s just going to hurt you because he’s too hurt himself to do otherwise.”
Q stared. All the blood had drained from his brain, leaving him dumbstruck and vaguely ill. It must have shown in his face, because some of the tightness left Moneypenny’s shoulders as she looked back at him. “I let you in,” Q said, allowing a bit of injury to creep in. She sighed.
“A bit,” she muttered.
“More than a bit. You were the first person to meet Elliot.”
Moneypenny arched an eyebrow. “The first?” Q cleared his throat. “Did you show him?”
“He was clever enough to get some of it on his own,” Q allowed. “But… yes, I did.”
Moneypenny’s eyes narrowed. “And what did he say?”The threat was back, but at least it was no longer directed at Q.
“He was surprised. But appreciative.” Q hesitated, before adding quietly, “I wasn’t sorry to have introduced him.”
Moneypenny considered this for a few moments before finally nodding, and Q realized how much this must have bothered her, that she couldn’t save the conversation until after work. “Good,” she said, and rubbed at her temple. “Christ, what do I do with the two of you.”
“Take us out for drinks and get us both wankered for blackmail material,” suggested Q, and she laughed.
“I’m already lousy with blackmail on both of you, I hardly need more,” she shot back. “And get those forms done quick as you can; Vicky’s clawing at the walls to have the mission accounts sorted.”
“Piss off,” Q said, and Moneypenny smirked, turning on a heel and sauntering out of his office. Q picked up his tea and took a sip, taking a few moments to just breathe before shoving the conversation as far from his mind as he could. He could have a meltdown about the guilty parties later.
* * * * *
Bond's gallery outfit. Q's gallery outfit. The inspiration for Q's flame fractals come from here.