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It had been years since Q had lost his wings.  It had been a deliriously wonderful two months since gotten them back again .  

Nightmares still plagued Q - memories of the mission-gone-wrong that had ended in blood, agony, and the sensation of severed sinews and snapped feathers - but now he could wake up and immediately look over his shoulders, or even reach back to touch the solid, real, unsullied feathers curled against his back.  The relief was always like a brand new tide rushing through him and cleaning all doubts and loss from his shores.  

Other little changes reminded Q constantly that the nightmare was over, and that fate had seen fit to make him a proper Angel again.  For one, mornings were easier, even if it was a toss-up whether he’d been an early-bird or a drowsy owl of a person until noon.  His eyesight was improving, too, although glasses were still a necessity - he’d gotten used to the feel of them anyway.  Medical still didn’t know what to make of him, but so far, his body was starting to remember what it had lost, and if he didn’t get injured or sick, then he didn’t have to figure out whether he could take regular medication again.  

Another change, of course, was the frequent partner in his bed - or Q in his.  

This morning was one of those early-bird mornings, and Q woke up to only the faintest glimmers of pre-dawn light through closed blinds.  The fact that the window was on the south side of the room oriented Q to the fact that he was at Bond’s flat, and the sound of deep breathing next to said that James was still there, too.  007 was sleeping off his last mission, which had gone well for a change, with no injuries that Bond’s Angel healing couldn’t make short work of.   Q slipped out from under one laxly curved, smoke-and-shadow-grey wing, smiling at the possessiveness that showed even when Bond was dead asleep.  The 00-agent shifted, of course, his instincts too honed not to notice someone awake next to him, but right about then Q’s own wings got tangled in the blankets and he almost fell off the bed, instead of sneaking away adroitly as planned.  007 was still on his stomach, arms under his pillow, but one eye had opened to fix in Q’s direction by the time the Quartermaster’s head popped above the level of the bed again.  Otherwise, the agent didn’t move except to go as still as a watchful lion beneath the covers.  

There were few things in life, Q had decided, that were better than taking a day off at Bond’s new flat, with its bed big enough for two winged Angels and James’s naked heat to chase away even the worst nightmares - but sometimes it was best if Q kept his clumsy wings to himself.  “Sorry,” Q half-mouthed, half-whispered, before pointing off in the vague direction of the full-sized bathroom and shower.  007 didn’t reply beyond letting both wings stretched out to spread across the whole bed like a second set of sheets, turning his face back into the pillow.  

Indeed, there were few things better than waking up beside James Bond .

A close second in Q’s list of favorite things was Bond’s shower, however.  Focusing on keeping his white-tipped, black wings tucked out of the way where they wouldn’t knock anything over, the Quartermaster padded out of the room and into the en suite bath.  Angels had a love-hate relationship with water, because as nice as it was to be cleaned, their wings were water-resistant at best - not water -proof .  Drying them out after even getting them a bit wet was a hassle, and for Q even more so, since two months apparently wasn’t long enough to entirely learn how to reuse them.  As evidenced by his earlier klutziness, they had a mind of their own, and his own shower always felt cramped with his wings shuffling and twitching.  

Bond’s shower was made for Angels, however: a standing shower, big enough to either host a party or an Angel with half-spread wings.  The water fell directly from the ceiling, and was (in Q’s opinion) the pride of Bond’s entire flat.  It had probably cost more than anything else in it, too.  

Glass doors bound the two sides of the shower not occupied by the walls, and Q didn’t bother to close them all the way, knowing that the room trapped heat perfectly and 007 had never minded a bit of stray water in the past.  Q turned the water on and almost purred at how fast it heated from tepid to perfect .  All thoughts of past, shared showers warmed Q to his core, but soon he was simply standing beneath the fall of water and letting his thoughts drift away.  If there was no heaven, then surely this was the closest thing.  

In here, Q could hold his wings out, keeping them well out of the way of the man-made little waterfall.  However, even after all these weeks, Q was still getting used to all of the new sensations that came with having wings again, so with a childish sort of glee, he twisted his body slightly, curling a wing in and watching as water splashed off its convex curve.  The feeling was delightful.  Water was also swiftly soaking in between his feathers, getting past the oilier outer ones and sinking into the down closer to his skin.  Instead of shaking it dry and getting it out of the water, however, Q threw convention to the wind and ruffled his feathers up right then and there.  The feeling of warm water immediately rushing in between fluffed-up feathers made him gasp and then chuckle, repeating the process with his other wing before grinning wryly at how bedraggled he was getting.  In for a pence, in for a pound…  The textured tile giving him firm footing, Q danced around under the falling shower of water until he was wet absolutely everywhere, giving his wings brief, aborted flaps just to feel the extra weight of water in them and to see water spatter against the one closed glass door and the two tiled walls

“Are you always such a hedonist,” 007’s cultured but undeniably amused voice had Q turning around suddenly, droplets running from the ringlets of his soaked hair, “or only in my shower?”

Q smiled, determined not to be embarrassed this morning and able to tell even without his glasses that Bond was half-dressed and lazily posed, leaning against the bathroom doorway in a way that said he’d been watching for awhile now.  “Your shower is better than mine,” Q defended archly, stubbornly turning back into the fall of water again, arching his wings like a cormorant (although a cormorant would have been shedding water instead of soaking it up like a feathery sponge).  The dark-haired man luxuriated in the waterfall of the shower’s spray as it rolled off his skin, warming it, even as it sank into his feathers.  Even though Q’s eyesight without his glasses was still far from perfect, he knew that James could see just fine, and was probably watching his arse, so Q turned a coquettish look over his shoulder to add as an afterthought, “Or maybe I’ve always been a hedonist.”

The low growl from Bond was more of a purr, and had Q smirking proudly even as he watched the 00-agent strip out of his sweatpants - the only thing he was wearing, apparently.  Bond’s ash-grey wings arched gloriously, touching either wall before the Angel drew them back in and stepped through the open side of the shower-stall.  There was definitely room for two even with James presently avoiding the falling cascade of water, instead standing on the verge of the darker tiles and drawing his fingertips over the nearest edges of Q’s flight-feathers.  The Quartermaster shivered at the sensation; it always felt brand-new.  “You’re not a duck, you know. It’s going to take you ages to get these all dry again.”

“Hm,” Q considered that, but remained firmly planted under the shower, even rocking forward a bit so that the water fell all over his scapulars and coverts again.  It tickled as droplets rolled off his secondaries.  Neither of them mentioned that this was hardly the first time he’d done this - Q with his wings again apparently loved water.  “Then I’m lucky that you have a big, east-facing window, aren’t I?”   Because he’d been doing so since he’d started his shower, and didn’t plan to stop now that he had company, Q ruffled up his feathers again with a loose shake of his wings.  This immediately sent water spraying everywhere.  

Even double-oh reflexes couldn’t save James from getting wet, and he barked out a noise of surprise before reflexively gripping a handful of soaked primaries to hold Q’s port wing still.  With less distance between them, Q could see when James was looking at him, and the smaller man was helpless to stop his impish grin.  Bond returned it, but with something more wicked all through his gaze.  “Oh, you want to play then, do you?” he rumbled, and Q barely had time to yelp before he was being subjected to a skilled assault by a playful 00-agent.  

It was a simple fact that James’s combat training was far more up-to-date than Q’s, and he was quick for all of his muscular size - and his wings were decidedly more coordinated.  So their grappling ended with Q bundled up, wet, laughing, and naked, his wings and arms pinned to his torso within a familiar, iron grip.  While Q was unable to stop giggling at the pure joy of it all, he found himself shoved fully under the water, and squeaked and squirmed quite inelegantly as water fell all over his head, shoulders, and tucked wings.  

That was, until James surged forward in a kiss.  Water like a warm summer storm pattering gently on both of their heads, all motion stopped for a moment except the slow, exploratory movements of their mouths.  James kept his wings well back - not as fond of wetting them as Q - but he released Q’s, instead shifting to gently curve his scarred palms around the arc of Q’s lower ribs.  Soaking and disheveled, but unable to find anything wrong with anything right now, Q let his wings relax until the white tips of his longest flight-feathers trailed against the tiled floor.  Water ran in free little rivers down each barb and groove, and Q’s hands traced similar rivulets as they made their way down James’s hot skin.  

An hour later found Q dressed in sweats and towel-dried, sitting in front of the bay window as promised, the London weather for once cooperating and letting the morning sun fall onto him.  Towels spread across the floor would account for excess dripping, but despite how disheveled his wings looked Q was content, sitting on a few pillows on the floor with his laptop open before him.  

He saw James out of the corner of his eye, no more dressed than Q was, but equally relaxed.  The Quartermaster only diverted his attention from his work as he felt skilled fingers stroke the back of one wing, straightening the feathers.  “Have I mentioned that I like it when our days off coincide?” Q turned his head and asked.

He received a kiss to the tip of his nose in return, a brush of lips that made his eyes close and an involuntary warmth spread across the inside of his chest like paint splashed gloriously across a canvas.  Bond's wings, built all of shadows and soot, arched seemingly of their own accord to touch down on Q’s at a dozen points, long primaries stroking Q’s with the same velvet touch that the man’s mouth had.  “Have I mentioned that I like most all of you?” James murmured back, low and private, a smile just for Q.