Of all the gin joints in all the world...
Casablanca. He's quoting bloody Casablanca in his head while he's got Q pressed up against the wall, his palms flat on either side of Q's head to corner him, though mostly to hold himself up, if he were honest. Pathetic. Meanwhile, Q's hands had been roaming inside his shirt for at least five minutes now, too rough for someone who spends all day handling delicate equipment. Delicate. He used that word for Q once, fleetingly, when they first met, to describe his rail-thin frame and floppy hair, eyes that wouldn't stop smiling. He'd go back in time to punch himself if he could.
It's slightly intriguing, mostly alarming when he realizes Q is unafraid to press down on his bruises, even looks delighted when he finds them. Since they haven't taken off their clothes yet he possibly can't see where they are, so Bond's increasingly suspicious that he could tell by sound, kissing even harder when Bond jolts and swallowing down the groan that follows.
"I'm sorry," he says for a respite from Q's mouth, not that he isn't enjoying it. "I seem to have stumbled in bed with a hyena."
"We're not in bed," Q says, and Bond only gets a glimpse of glasses askew on his face before Q's lips find his again, this time accompanied by teeth. His tongue flicks over a cut on Bond's lip -- which had scabbed over on the flight back -- and promptly bites it open again. Bond nearly pulls back and settles for the opposite, tugging Q ever closer by his hips, rucking up his vest and button down.
Q whispers his approval, rocking against him and not even giving him time to respond. "That's more like it."
"Christ," he swears, digging his fingertips into the grooves of Q's back as Q continues to lap at his bottom lip. It gives a slightly metallic flavor to the next kiss, which he can't really complain about.
He does, however, still have qualms about the timing of the... situation. It was a grueling assignment, and he hadn't walked away from it without a single bone in his body aching, bloody screaming for his attention every time he moved. Then he arrived at Mi6 at some ungodly hour -- much too ungodly even for the employees who only left well into primetime, at the very least -- and only Q remained, typing away into the dark. Now, he knew Q owned pajamas, but that wasn't proof that the man ever slept.
"Evening," he said, and Q turned, the blue glow from the screen made it seem like they were both underwater. Even more surreal, Q cocked his head at him, long fingers pausing where they were above the keys. Bond was about to make some quip about sleepwalking when Q crossed the distance between them in less than five strides and lunged. Every muscle he had creaked in protest like stairs in old houses, but when Q draped his arms over his shoulders he welcomed the weight as if it were an old friend.
Q kissed like a punch to the mouth. He supposes that if there was anything in particular that sealed it, it was that.
After a while Q seems to have given up control to him, and he has settled into it long enough to take advantage of it. He squeezes his thumbs into Q's waistband, knuckles brushing over the sharpest hipbones he's ever had the pleasure to touch. He pushes down to see how far they'd go without having to undo the fastenings.
"You're in need of a belt," he says as the trousers halt to Q's mid-thigh without resistance, which earns him a snort. The sight of Q's cock under his briefs makes his own cock twitch, though he intends to address that later.
"It's not exactly something you have to dwell on, 007," Q says, almost convincingly unfazed if it weren't for his lips, redder than Bond's ever seen them. He licks his own, still tasting blood, and reaches in, pulling out Q's cock, curved towards him. Q's eyes flicker shut behind his glasses and suddenly Bond's more than a little irritated at the obstructed view. He lifts his free hand from the wall and pulls them off in one swift movement, tosses them several yards away the next.
"You'll need a new pair of those too."
Q scowls at that, so Bond squeezes him to shut him up, and it works. Q's jaw drops open as he exhales; he looks barely a day over twenty-one without the glasses, innocent, though Bond wouldn't be fooled by that anymore. He jerks him off torturously slow, petty revenge from being attacked earlier, but his plan worked a little too well, since Q has been quiet since it started.
He presses even closer then, pinning Q to the wall with his bulk to see if it'd do the trick. Q only drapes himself against it even more, sighing and rocking into Bond's fist, and it riles him up.
"Cat got your tongue, Q?" he says, biting down Q's collarbone in frustration, and the unguarded moan that escapes is the best part so far. Q looks genuinely appalled by it, but it hardens Bond's cock against his thigh.
"Take these off," Bond tells him, tugging his trousers to his knees. While Q leans down and steps out of them, trying for all the world to make it graceful and ending up with newborn fawn instead, Bond steps back and watches, unbuckling his own belt and zipping down. Q glanced at Bond's face, then downwards, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
"Some lubrication is in order."
"And where do you suppose--?" Bond trails off in a groan, surprised yet again by Q's mouth, this time as he trails the hot wetness of it along his shaft, Q's pliant tongue licking up and down the sides. He cradles the base of it with his fingers to keep it in place, stroking to distribute the spit. He never takes him in, which is why Bond restrained himself from pulling at Q's hair and fucking his mouth as he liked. There'll be a place for that next time.
Next time, and suddenly Bond's eager to finish. "Enough," he says, pushing Q's head away gently and hauling him up against the wall.
"You know what to do?" he asks, summoning strength into his tired arms before sweeping under to grab Q's thighs, lifting him up. He's thankful for the adrenaline rush, or he might've asked Q to carry him.
"I have the gist," Q replies, voice gone soft and breathy as he wraps a hand around both of their cocks. Bond doesn't linger, grinding into the tightness of Q's hand and Q rubbing against him. Q brings up a his free hand to his nape to kiss him, and it's the slightest hint of teeth that makes him slam Q up against the wall, going faster.
Neither of them are overtly vocal, though Q is prone to muttering filthy litanies under his breath as he strokes them both, in time with Bond's thrusts. At some point he wraps his bony legs around Bond's hips, heels digging into his bottom; he only kneads Q's arse in return.
Bond doesn't recall which of them came first, though he distinctly remembers that it was Q pressing down on one of his bruises again that tipped him over the edge. When he lowers a gasping Q to the floor, he can feel his own arms trembling.
"Shit," Q says, taking a deep breath before bending over to retrieve his trousers. Like he did when they were being slipped off, Bond watches him redress, his own belt and zip still undone.
"Care to explain?"
"Explain?" Q parrots, with that rare brow-knitted look he uses on things he doesn't understand.
Bond stares at him pointedly, motioning with a finger. "This."
"Ah. It was inevitable."
"Is that so," Bond says, tucking himself back inside, shameless as ever.
"I thought it best to get it out of the way before tensions mount. That wouldn't have led to any good." Q is frowning now as he picks up his glasses from where they were carelessly thrown, looking exactly the way Bond found him.
"And why today?"
Q shrugs. His glasses are missing one of the lenses, but he still wears them, nonchalant. "I wanted some kind of equal footing, between you and me. I saw you earlier and thought I might have the upper hand. Perhaps I did, in the beginning, but towards the end, I... suppose I thought wrong.
"I do hate it when I'm wrong."
Bond pulls out a smirk. With Q's ego matched only by his own, he can easily believe that. "Not such a clever boy after all."
"Shut up or I'll rip out your tongue."
After what just happened, Bond can believe that too.