The domestic quandaries of a New God and and Old God being lovers were somewhat atypical, but Q thought that he and Bond were doing rather well.
006 and 7 still clearly disliked Q-branch, Bond’s terrifying brush with death aside. After Q had torn apart and mentally ‘rewired’ a whirlpool of technological energy in the middle of his branch, however, for the purposes of keeping 007 alive, it turned out that the two Old Gods rather liked the place now - or at least tolerated it - and Q’s systems continued to work just as well. Things were a bit more organic than linear in places, but Q acquiesced to let a bit of chaos live in his sterile, strictly controlled world. When he closed his eyes and stroked his fingers through the waves upon waves of energy, it was like following the straight lines and right angles on a motherboard chip, until they suddenly morphed into wires that coiled like tree roots. When Q tried to describe it one night, stretched out on Bond’s chest with both of them crashed on the futon in Q’s office, Bond had chuckled and said only, “Yggdrasil?”
It had taken two days for Q to realize that Bond was making Norse mythological references.
It took another day for him to realize that he had a giant fucking data tree rooted in his branch, centered on his office. No one else could see it (not even James or Alec, although the two of them could have been lying on purpose to mess with him) - perhaps maybe another New God could have, but Q found himself fiercely territorial of late, and had a very real worry that others of his ilk might not understand his life decisions, which included frequent and rather personal associations with Old Gods. This was what his life was coming to. 006 and 7 now liked to weave their way as deftly and quickly as possible through the rest of Q-branch, pick the lock on Q’s office door when he wouldn’t let them in (or wasn’t around to give them permission), and lounge about on his chair and couch.
To be fair, 007 had made concessions, too. He didn’t say it in so many words, but he liked having Q around, and expressed it by allowing Q to update his flat to the modern age: electrical alarm system, high-speed wifi, etcetera. It made Q feel more comfortable, and after living so long in a world growing increasingly progressive and technological anyway, 007 was hardly put out.
Q was coming to learn something else, too: one could hardly have 007 without realizing that they’d de facto adopted 006 into their life as well. It was like making the mistake of feeding one stray dog and having it follow you home, only to realize that it had a brother - another dog that was equally rough around the edges, and contained the same destructive bad habits. He was growing on Q with the steady, disturbing voracity of a radioactive mold.
And so, that was how all three of them came to be at 007’s flat on a Friday night. By this point, it was safe to say that it was a flat shared by 006 and 7, although they rarely had the opportunity to both occupy it at the same time. No missions had them running across the world for once, and a lull in the activity of Q-branch that allowed Q to slip away for some much needed R&R. Bond joked often about Q’s workaholic nature, but even a technophilic New God like Q needed to step away from his job for a bit to just close his eyes and breathe.
Having a handsome war-god breathing next to him was an added bonus.
Alec was shuffling around in the background, complaining at the microwave as if it might talk back. “Threatening it won’t help,” 007 supplied unhelpfully as he and Q lounged on the couch, idly watching the news on the telly. Q was cuddled up under 007’s arm, trying to pay attention to the breaking news happening in New York. Bond was making concentration difficult as he slipped his palm up under the hem of Q’s worn tee to tease the warm skin of his stomach.
The other Old God muttered something in vicious Russian, before switching to another tongue that Q couldn’t identify, but sounded ancient. Finally, Alec shifted back to irritated English as he approached the couch, “Maybe your boffin could threaten it. The damn thing keeps burning the outsides of everything while leaving the inside a bloody ice-cube.”
Q had actually gotten that microwave for them. Trying to ignore 007’s distracting physical presence, the Quartermaster twisted around, bracing himself a bit on Bond’s shoulder to look back over the couch in the direction of Alec and the kitchen. The microwave was open, and either smoke or steam was coming out of it. There was a distinct, ratted tangle in the ambient energy waves in that corner, but Alec naturally trailed chaos like a plane left a jet-trail, so it was hard what to attribute the problem to. “It was working just fine when I brought it here,” Q defended his kitchen appliance in a peeved tone, shooting an accusing look Alec’s way before also glancing at 007. 007 was staring resolutely at the television, eyes half-lidded as if he were bored and deaf at the same time. “You two have only yourselves to blame if you’ve broken it.”
Before Alec could start to either argue or wheedle the New God into fixing it, something on the television screen caught his eye. Alec’s rugged face twitched in bemusement for a second before the humor bled right out of it. “What the bloody fuck?” he exclaimed under his breath, rounding the couch to stand beside it. 007 hadn’t so much as turned his head, continuing the watch the screen with untroubled eyes - those same eyes had seen kingdoms collapse and wars wipe out cities, though, so his reactions were biased.
When Q sat back down again to face forward, the destruction of a city did indeed seem to be on the horizon.
“...Happening right now in New York…” the newswoman was saying in a hurried tone that bled tension, befitting the scene of destruction behind her. “Iron Man seems to have teamed up with…”
“What the devil is an ‘Iron Man’?” Q asked, already stretching out his senses to dig into other data sources, wanting to hunt up more information but not presently having his laptop with him - that was one piece of tech he definitely didn’t trust to remain undamaged in the presence of both 007 and his destructive partner.
Bond distracted him before he could truly bring his auxiliary senses to bare, the hand sliding further under his shirt effectively keeping Q focused in the physical world instead of the technological one. “One of the New Gods in the United States. They build everything rather flashy there,” 007 explained what he knew dismissively, while Alec fixedly watched the story on the television unfold and Q tried his damnedest to do the same.
There seemed to be other characters of various description featured on the screen, and Q was just starting to admit that Bond was quite right - those Americans were definitely flashy, at least if the suits and capes were to be believed - when another face was put up on screen. Black hair and a manic grin featured prominently, and immediately Alec was dropping his shoulders in resignation and growling up towards the ceiling, “Oh, for the love of…! I’m not going to get to enjoy my days off, am I?”
Thumb beginning to stroke rhythmically against the curve of Q’s hipbone, 007 merely shook his head. The New God in his grip wriggled a bit, no doubt recalling the trouble that came from Bond and repetitive motions, but his attempts to push the agent’s hand away were halfhearted at best. On screen, the black-haired fellow began laying waste to what were presumably the Gods of New York city.
“Damn it all to hell,” Alec muttered, but apparently meant quite the opposite, because he turned and began hunting up his shoes and the plethora of weapons stashed around the flat. “Call M for me, will you, Jamesy? Tell her I’ll be out of touch for just a bit.”
“She’ll skin you just as badly for going AWOL regardless of which one of us tells her,” 007 called back negligently over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but this way she’ll have to wait until later to yell at me.” 006 looked up from tying his shoes, flashing a broad, unrepentant grin. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission and all that.”
“Fine,” 007 shrugged, hiding a smirk by keeping his head forward, ostensibly watching as what looked like vaguely reptilian monsters began pouring out of the sky. Q was utterly bemused by now - both as to what was unfolding in New York and what 006 was going on about. Before the Quartermaster’s opening mouth could sprout words, however, 007 interrupted to ask the other 00-agent, “Do you want help?”
Watching everything closely, Q noted the way that Alec glowered at the figure on-screen: the villain in green again. “No, you’ll only make things worse, and you know it,” Alec accused Bond, who - being the imp that he was - just smirked. As Alec turned away to load up a duffel-bag, he could be heard muttering, “Fucking war-gods.” Bond’s smirk became a full-fledged, smug grin. Q sucked in a sharp breath as he felt a mark suddenly come to life on his skin - 007 had taken advantage of his divided attention and etched a pattern with whispers of power and gentle, calloused fingertips just inside the wing of Q’s hipbone. Q could sense that the mark wasn’t quite fully powered yet, like warm skin that hadn’t quite blossomed into a sunburn, but he couldn’t think of a pressing reason that made it worth his while to make the Old God stop. Even the news unfolding didn’t seem quite as important as it had a moment ago, before Q had realized where Bond’s interest was.
When Alec left the room to pack up clothes, however, Q kept his head - drawing on the cold swirl of logic and numbers never far from his grasp, using geometric patterns and frigid data to temporarily push aside the tempting burn of Old power starting to sink into his skin. “Who is that?” he demanded, pointing at the villain on the screen.
007 heaved a sigh, easing up on his seduction tactics for a moment and merely sitting at Q’s side, arm around him in a familiar, comfortable way. “That’s Loki. He’s a trickster-god like Alec is. Or a chaos-god, depending on how broadly you want to describe the two of them.”
Confirming that, but also cutting off further explanation, 006 came storming back through the room again - this time with a packed duffel bag over his shoulder, his leather jacket on (at least one bullet-hole visible in the dark, worn material), and a put-out glower on his rugged face - and bit out, “I’m just going to remind the prissy little bastard that he’s not exactly the only chaotic god in existence. Should be fun.” He rolled his eyes to show that it would most likely be the opposite. And then he was slamming the door behind him.
Bond had changed the channel to sports, as if there wasn’t anything particularly interesting happening, but Q still felt the need to glance back to where 006 had been moments ago, feeling conflicted. “007, please tell me he’s not going to go wage war on the megalomaniac we just saw making a warzone out of New York City.”
“Making war is really more my cup of tea,” 007 reminded, but finally turned his attention to Q, meeting his eyes squarely and speaking with frank clarity, “He’ll be fine, Q. Technically Loki is older than he is, but the two of them have tangled before - they usually butt heads at least once a century. Alec says that it’s because Loki’s terribly bored.”
“Bored?” Q repeated, scandalized. He jumped and frowned as he felt 007’s fingertips starting up their tricksome business again. It would be good to remember, he realized suddenly, that 007 was for once at the top of his game: he’d been off-mission for two days, and hadn’t even been injured in his last excursion. He veritably crackled with energy, and the thought of that energy getting under Q’s skin… The promise of that was terrifying and something of a turn-on all at once, and Q shivered.
Blue gaze heating up beneath thoughtfully lowered lids, 007 continued speaking with his attention wandering more to Q’s mouth than his eyes, “We all have coping mechanisms. Immortality, no matter how tenuous it’s been of late, can be damn trying.” The Old God finally just closed the distance between them, and captured Q’s mouth in a kiss that started out fierce but then mellowed out, like the initial flair of a spark catching on a piece of paper. When Bond pulled back, he said with a more sympathetic tone, “Don’t worry, Q. They’ll meet up, probably cause a bit of chaos like they’re both good at, and maybe beat the living daylights out of each other until they get it out of their system - but when it’s all said and done, they’ll probably laugh about it over drinks.”
“Are you serious?” Q couldn’t quite believe it. He hand his hands up against 007’s chest, ostensibly holding him back, but his mind was terribly torn between worrying about the other 00-agent and the growing desire to make good use of his alone-time with the agent he still had at his disposal. If Alec wasn’t really about to get into mortal danger…
“Totally serious. Trickster gods are easily bored, but in the end - death isn’t their goal.” Bond kissed Q again, and there was some of that fire again, roaring hot enough to burn even as 007 pressed his fingertips down hard against the skin above Q’s waist-band, and the mark flared into full life like a brand. Q gasped loudly into 007’s mouth, both points of skin-on-skin contact lighting up. Bond’s eyes were jovial and impossibly blue at close range as he pulled back just far enough to finish his sentence against Q’s mouth, “It’s those pesky war-gods that you have to worry about in situations like that.”
It should have been a terrifying sentence, but Q had been growing accustomed to the mixture of excitement and danger that swirled around both 006 and 7 - it felt a lot like when he’d first been developing a taste and tolerance for alcohol. The heady rush and the delicious burn were definitely the same… Q decided to trust in the judgment of both Old Gods, and forgot about Alec, and Loki, and the chaos about to reign on New York, and instead just opened his mouth when James surged forwards again.
“You fucking shit - I liked this coat.”
“And I rather liked this one, too, but look at the holes you burned in it. I figured that turnabout was fair play.”
“If turnabout was fair play, I should get you back for that trick in Belize.”
Loki’s grin was a scalpel’s slash: quick and sharp across his refined (if slightly bloodied) features. He lifted up his drink and sipped delicately, as if to hide his smirk behind the glass. “It’s hardly my fault that you didn’t see that coming.”
One stool over in the quiet, empty bar, Alec’s left incisor flashed as he gave in and smiled, too. His eyes had been more reminiscent than angry anyway. He glanced at Loki's drink and curled his lip before lifting up his own. “You and James, always drinking that piss.”
“I'll have you know that this stuff is the finest.” Loki lifted up his glass, a toast to nothing but their reflections in the mirror. They’d lost the Avengers ages ago. Or, more accurately, had left them to clean up the mess - no respectable chaos-god cleaned up their own wreckage. “Where is your warlike friend anyway? Do you think he would get along with Thor?”
“Do not try to pawn your brother off on my friend,” Alec retorted, leveling a finger in Loki’s face that was brushed aside with Loki’s free hand. 006 went back to drinking. “That would go terribly,” he also opined, between mouthfuls, wincing as some of the alcohol got to a cut at the very edge of his lip.
Loki was presently tipping his head this way and that, inspecting a nasty scrape across one temple. Without turning his attention from his reflection in the wall-length mirror, he flashed a mad little grin, “That’s why I suggested it.”
“You’re a git.”
“And you’re a poor liar. Tell me you wouldn’t want to see those two get on each other’s nerves.”
“Maybe they’d get along. Ever thought of that, Silvertongue?” Alec retorted, but one side of his mouth was pulling up wryly.
“Hmm, you might have a point. Tell me, Alec…” Loki said the name with the same taunting inflection that 006 had said ‘Silvertongue,’ each reminding the other how far they’d come from their First Names, created so very long, long, long ago. The dark-haired man turned in his seat and propped a forearm on the bar, tatters of his coat still showing sections of green in contrast to the old, mahogany wood. “Why didn’t you bring your old friend along this time?” Even, white teeth flashed. “To contain me?”
Alec merely snorted into the last dregs of his drink. “Does it look like I’m containing you?”
Something in Loki’s smile softened. It would probably always be made of broken mirrors and fickle things, but after throwing everything he had at another chaos-god… he looked contented, and some of the sharper edges were at least sheathed if never softened. “That’s why I like you. But you didn’t answer my question. Chaos breeds war, and you’re rarely without your blue-eyed shadow.” Long, elegant, pale fingers traced patterns in the wood, and in places the mahogany burned a deeper red and sizzled beneath the glaze of power. The light reflected in Alec’s eyes, and for a second, both men were looking at one another with gazes of inhumanly vibrant green, like the power of supernovae contained beneath a thin veneer of green glass.
Alec grinned a vulpine, toothy grin, and answered, “He’s a bit busy with a new friend of his.”
At the moment, Bond and Q were indeed quite busy.
They’d made it to the bed - a minor miracle when they so caught up in each other. Q was already divested of his shirt, and thanks to Bond, a storm of Old power was locked under his skin. The smaller man was already starting to lose his mind with the constant sensation of that power trying to escape and get back to its intended vessel, a fact that 007 took full advantage of by staying close and touching Q’s skin teasingly but constantly. It all created a barrage against Q’s senses, so that he was strung like a violin by almost before James back him into the bed and they tumbled artlessly onto it.
“Say my name,” 007 whispered, blanketed Q but keeping his body off him by mere inches - all heat but barely enough contact to keep Q’s body humming. He trapped one of Q’s wrists and pinned it lazily next to the Quartermaster’s hair, while nuzzling at the other as it came up near his face.
Q was pretty sure he’d say anything, if Bond kept making him feel like this. The knowledge that Old Gods fed on worship was an old fact floating at the back of his mind, long ago memorized and accepted, along with the fact that Q would always give that praise freely when the 00-agent needed it. “James,” Q breathed, even as he wriggled against the continuous sensation of foreign power at his core. It was like having a stomach full of butterflies and brimstone; utterly alien and yet so perfect Q wanted to scream.
He did let out a choked noise of delight as 007 showed his appreciation physically, taking the distracted hand Q had raised and sucking two of Q’s digits into his mouth. The agent scraped his teeth lightly against the pads, laving lazily with his tongue, and all the while pale-blue eyes watched Q’s reaction with clear and obvious pleasure. When Q curled his fingers down against Bond’s tongue, the agent moaned softly, and finally acquiesced to lower his body, Q’s skin growing hypersensitive in an instant at the contact.
“I love being inside of you like this,” 007 purred, burying his head against Q’s neck when Q’s hand reached up for a handhold on a tanned, broad shoulder marred by paler scars. Sometimes Q wondered what could hurt an Old God enough to leave a permanent mark. Q’s other hand twitched and quivered where it was still trapped against the bed, replete in the knowledge that 007 - scarred or not - was strong enough to keep and hold it there as long as 007 wished. The reminder of Bond’s strength was a heady thought, and Q closed his eyes with a shuddering breath even as the larger man continued to murmur in his ear, “I love knowing that my power is under your skin, and you’re mad for it.” Bond proved his point before Q could even consider arguing, by deliberately stroking his thumb down across the chaotic mark he’d placed at the start of this. The pleasure that roared to life at something so benign was unfair, but Q was too busy arching and crying out to think about it. Bond’s body so close above him kept most of the Quartermaster’s frame pinned frustratingly to the bed.
James’s hand curled around Q’s hip, fingertips splaying out around the curve of Q’s arse, starting to push down the sweatpants that Q had decided to wear on his day off. All the while, Bond’s thumb remained tauntingly close to the sensitive mark, making Q squirm. “Yes… Bond, yes… that… please,” Q strung words together as best he could, trusting that his partner knew what he wanted.
Of course, the man had to be smug about it, first. When he lifted his head to hover over Q’s face with a grin, Q mustered the power to glare, and then angled upwards for a quick and hungry kiss. Bond’s noise of surprise was faint but lovely on Q’s tongue, and he felt secretly accomplished himself even as Bond grunted became a growl, and he was pushing Q’s pants and trousers down with one impatient movement. Q was left to kick them off his bare feet while 007 likewise made short work of his own clothing, and then there was just skin.
There was something powerful about feeling Bond beneath his hands. While they momentarily focused simply on making out like teenagers on the bed, Q’s hands roamed and strayed across the broad planes of 007’s back, feeling toned muscle and tangible strength. Even without taking into account the fact that Bond was actually an ancient deity of war, Q was forever a bit in awe. His own limbs were lithe and slim, reflecting a world where brute strength was less of a necessity, although 007 had worshiped Q’s form dutifully enough to show that he appreciated it. Right now, Q wanted Bond to direct a bit of that worshipping either to his cock or to the damned lovely mark buzzing against Q’s skin, because he was quite sure he’d go insane otherwise.
“Stop being a tease,” Q panted when they both had to break for air.
007’s chuckle radiated right through both of them, and when he stroked a hand down Q’s side, it felt like a mirror image were doing the same on the inside of Q’s skin, touching intimate places with a moth-light touch. “Oh, that’s what I’m being?” The lower Bond’s hand wondered, the more Q found himself thinking about something else filling him, and the promise alone had him rutting upwards. Bond groaned along with him at the friction that caused, and he perhaps decided that teasing was not the best plan of attack now, after all. Bond moved a hand to curl it over Q’s knee, pushing his legs aside to give himself more room between them, even as he placed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down one side of Q’s ribcage and over across to his naval. “Can you reach the lube?”
The logical question, surprisingly, centered Q’s mind a bit - it briefly woke up his New God sensibilities, which had been steadily going to sleep in the background like a sun setting when the night rolled in. 007 was a sultry sort of night, and Q had long since stopped being afraid of that moment when he became powerless. He knew that 007 would protect him with the same senseless stubbornness that he (and Alec) applied to all things they truly set their minds to. Bond’s arms had trapped Q’s legs rather well, but the Quartermaster still managed to twist and reach, finding the container of lube where it had been wisely left on the bedside table, within easy reach. When he’d asked, at the start of all this, whether Alec would be bothered or embarrassed by the reminder of his best friend and coworker shagging, 007 had merely laughed.
Q sucked in a breath that was let out as a keen, and nearly dropped the half-used little container as he felt Bond’s teeth latch onto the skin next to his hipbone - right over the mark. Q had been wondering what that would feel like from the moment he’d looked down to see the shifting, ember-red sigil winking up at him from its place on his pale skin, and now he knew that his wildest fantasies were doomed to fall short in circumstances like this. The Old power inside of Q’s skin ignited with the scrape of Bond’s teeth, and suddenly Q wondered if he actually make it to the part where 007 fucked him, because he was already filled to the brim and ready to snap.
It took an amazing amount of effort to hold himself off as want and need consumed his thoughts, and Q didn’t even realize why he was trying until he felt himself coming back from the edge again, Bond’s voice becoming audible above the pounding of his blood in his ears and the nonsensible pleas and noises he hadn’t realized were coming out of his mouth. “...Not yet, Q. Not yet. Just hold on a bit - for me. You’re beautiful, Q, just stay this way.” A broad, calloused hand was stroking Q’s stomach, only barely riling up the Old power lurking beneath - like a bellows gently tending a fire, keeping it burning, but only a steady flame. “God, Q, I love it when I can make you like this. I love that you let me in.”
The praises did as they always did, warming up something intangible in the dark-haired man’s soul, rounding out the pleasure he was already feeling and making him smile without thinking. He began to relax, even though desire still had his cock painfully hard and the muscles low on his belly were quivering. Bond always sounded a lot like the Big Bad Wolf of childhood stories when he talked like that, but Q had yet to regret ‘letting Bond in.’
When he was sure that he’d quieted Q enough for the moment, 007 reached over and took the bottle of lube, getting just enough on his fingers to slick himself. They’d been doing this often enough that extended preparation wasn’t necessary, especially when the Old God could bring Q this close to the edge merely with a mark. The illogical little sigil seemed to shift and change shape like a mirage only seen out of the corner of the eye, and right now it was a conduit for so much power that Bond merely had to focus, and more tendrils of its leached further into his partner’s frame. Q could feel it, and quivered at the invasion, aware that he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to, but thrilled by the knowledge that 007, for all that he could be terribly amoral, seemed to follow a rigid code of honor when it came to Q.
Perhaps that reflected on war itself: great evil could be done in the name of it, but great honor could be found in it as well, especially in the past when the respect of your enemies kept you alive almost as often as your brethren’s shield.
Starting with torturously shallow nudges, 007 began to push his ready cock into Q, and the combination of physical presence and wild, fiery energy had Q’s head tipping back and his spine bowing. Wordless little gasps tipped past his parted lips.
When Bond was fully inside of him, both took a moment to adjust, the panting of their breaths the only sounds for a moment. Then Bond murmured in a lust-roughened voice one more time, “Gorgeous, Q,” before he slid out and then back in one one smooth, perfect motion, beginning a pounding rhythm that had him striking against Q’s prostate almost immediately. At that point, Q suddenly realized what it meant to have this much Old energy tangled up inside of him: it suddenly felt as if every sensation in him was connected, and the pleasure of Bond’s cock finding and hitting his prostate ricocheted all around inside until Q’s very fingertips were tingling. Like a conductive fluid suffused through Q’s every inch, the pleasure was transmitted and tripled, and if Q’s eyes had been open they would have seen Bond’s fierce grin of pride in his work.
Q screamed, and he was pretty sure that he screamed James’s name.
It was already a proven fact that 007 had the physical power to rock the whole bed when he and Q were feeling particularly enthusiastic, but this exhibition of ephemeral power was something else entirely. The Old Gods were fading, popular opinion stated; even if war-gods like Bond were able to find fights and battles to get caught up in, no one was praying to them anymore, no one said their name like it was a invocation, no one laid something at their feet like a sacrifice. That just wasn’t how the world worked, so clearly Old Gods were weakening.
Well, 007 wasn’t.
He had enough power that his eyes were already burning sapphires, watching Q like he was the only thing that existed on the entire planet; he had enough energy that he’d filled Q up like a river poised to overflow its banks; he had enough inner fire to devour Q and remake him again, with nothing but an idle little mark to throw down all of Q’s walls and defenses and let him in.
This wasn’t about Bond making himself Q’s god for tonight - not this time. But Q was pretty sure that he did it anyway, blaspheming himself right through a climax that left his world white and beautiful and complete.
When Q’s brain came back online again, it was to a hot body at his back, and arms tucked smugly around him. Bond was giving back some of those praises in little kisses and reverent words against the back of Q’s head and neck, and Q stopped trying to be alert and awake and instead let himself drift into a downy-soft sleep. He found the hand looped over his belly - just high of the mark, which still tingled, the fire slower to fade this time - and intertwined his slim digits with scarred, gun-calloused ones.
Bond was humming some old tune in a language Q didn’t know when he went to sleep.
“A New God? You must be joking with me,” Loki scoffed, having finally gotten an entire bottle of scotch - he was now working his way through it. Alec had done likewise with a container of vodka, so that both men looked well on their way to packing away a large portion of the little bar’s revenue. Fortunately, no one was around to watch.
“God's honest truth,” Alec shook his head, placing a hand over his heart in a parody of honesty that was, for once, actually the truth. “New as they come. Nerdy little thing.” Alec prodded at the healing bruise on his jaw while looking into the middle distance thoughtfully. “Don’t know how a New God ever ended up with such chaotic hair, though. James adores him.”
Loki still looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and his grin was wide like a surprised shark’s. “You’re besotted.”
Instead of denying his interest in his best friend’s lover, Alec merely downed another mouthful of vodka and replied with all solemnity, “You’d be besotted, too, if you’d seen James after just one night with the boffin.”
Something like wary interest sparked in Loki’s eyes, and he watched Alec from behind his glass as he sipped. “Your vagueness has gotten my attention. There. Do you want a medal?” he finally said.
Alec merely flashed a broad, Cheshire smile that made his eyes look even more mischievous than usual. “Apparently there’s nothing like taking a New God apart - and getting them to praise you for it.”
At the mention of praise, Loki’s eyes lit up, and Alec had known the other god for far too long not to know that he’d well and truly gotten Loki’s interest. So, because Alec was a berk before all else - and because chaos was his bread and butter - he turned his head away and stated pugnaciously, “And before you ask, he’s off-limits. If you don’t think that I’ll burn your arse from here to kingdom fucking come, you know that James will, if you decide I’m joking.”
Trickster-gods loved to disobey rules and deny order, but they also liked living, like any sensible predator did - and Bond had a bigger reputation than he often let on. A faint shadow across Loki’s otherwise unreadable face proved that he’d accepted the warning, for his own good.
But Alec wasn’t finished. He added, with pointed disinterest, “Find your own.” There had, after all, been another New God on the field today. It lit Alec’s heart up with glee to think that he’d just made life more… interesting… for the great scion of the house of Stark.
Old Gods had to do what they had to do, nowadays, to get a decent meal. Alec was merely ensuring that he had enough chaos to survive on for years to come. He pretended not to watch the thoughtful, frowning look on Loki’s aristocratic features, and instead passed the man another bottle of alcohol while all of their wounds swiftly healed up.