“Look, I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else,” Bond tells him, brows furrowed and expression a strange mix of put-upon and exhausted. Sure, Q could call him out on being a cad, on being deliberately annoying and disruptive, but as there is quite literally no one else at headquarters at present, he is, at least, entirely earnest in his request.
The fact that he’s asking at all, though, is what has Q tense with preemptive displeasure.
Surely, surely 007 - swanky, flirty, clever, wily 007 - knows how to shave without incident. Surely he doesn’t need the help. Surely he has some high-tech gizmo to plug in and exploit. Surely.
“I haven’t slept in three days, Q,” Bond continues. “And I’d rather not cut my own bloody head off before an assignment. M would only complain about the mess.”
With a sigh, Bond steps further into the office and holds out a thing Q hasn’t seen actually used for decades. Of course. Of course James Bond would be the pretentious twat who owns a straight razor.
“You didn’t think I’d have some terrible vibrating horror on hand for this, did you?” Bond snorts, seeing the surprise. “You wound me.”
“I’m certain I will, whether I mean to do so or not,” Q answers, accepting the implement with far more care than he handles weapons, explosives, or corrosive chemical compounds.
“Would you mean to do so?”
Q answers with only a wry look and a lifted brow, stepping aside as Bond sets a well-worn leather dopp kit to one of the few empty spots on Q’s desk. The razor held gingerly aloft, its weight surprisingly heavy in Q’s hand, he observes the revelation of a brush and pot of cream, and a dainty little towel neatly folded.
“The nerve,” Q whispers. “The nerve to show me that you can actually maintain things that matter to you, and keep them tidy and together.”
Bond laughs, a dry and tired thing, and Q notices that his dimples show more clearly against the greying stubble there. Then Q turns away and refuses to notice that anymore.
“I have to admit, this thing’s saved me many times in a pinch,” he says, careful to move some of Q’s work out of the way and set it so it can be found again without issue or incident.
“The razor? I would assume so.”
“Not just her,” James says, flashing Q a look when he responds - predictably - to the gendering. “Towels make for great improvised cuffs, in a bind.”
“Or a particularly fluffy garrote,” he offers. “Or a gag.”
Q doesn’t let himself think about that anymore, either. He casts a gaze around his space, office and engineering workshop combined, looking for a mirror that he knows he doesn’t have. It occurs to him that Bond doesn’t need one, already dipping his little wooden-handled brush in the cream to lather it.
He doesn’t need one because Q is meant to be his mirror, and his hand alike.
“Is this a terrible time to tell you that I’ve never used one of these?”
Another of those dry laughs, and Bond cocks his hip as he continues to lather up the cream.
“I trust you with my life often enough, Q,” he reminds him, winking - winking - before passing the pot and brush to his quartermaster next. “Trusting you with my appearance is only the next logical step.”
“You don’t need me to do that,” Q tells him, wary already of - hell, Q doesn’t even know why he’s so bloody nervous. Maybe he’ll drop a spot of it on Bond’s shirt, though thankfully he’s already shed his jacket. Maybe he’ll do it wrong and it’ll go up his nose. Maybe their fingers will brush and Q will find himself…
Well, breathless, and furious at himself for it, because that’s precisely what happens when Bond removes the razor from his hand and replaces it with the brush and lather.
But there was something more. Not only the nearness - unnecessary, unprofessional, unfairly welcome despite how badly Q wants to reject it - but there, again, as Bond lays the razor to the desk atop the towel. A tremor, subtle, but there despite how Bond tries to suppress it. They’ve worked together enough months now, and in such tight psychological confines, that Q can feel a change in Bond as one tastes the promise of snow upon chill air.
He doesn’t comment on it, but he doesn’t argue again with the duty he’s been tasked with at far too late in the night.
“Sit in my chair,” he says. “So that I can reach your things on the desk.”
Bond does, without argument or clever commentary. He sits and rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes and turns his neck until there’s a click and he groans in relief from it. Licking his lips, Bond sits up straight and forward and opens his eyes to meet Q’s.
His smile sends a shiver through the quartermaster he wishes he could hide better. It’s strangely endearing to see such a powerful and very dangerous man be so entirely open and vulnerable. He’s almost lovely. He’s almost human, here, enough for Q to perhaps relax and ease his breathing and -
“You know, I was wrong before. You haven’t any spots, you have lovely freckles.”
And he’s a shit.
“I’m certain they’re spots,” Q declares, before he can actually think about the absurdity of his words.
“No,” James replies, placid - damn near serene. “They’re freckles, pale ones, just under your eyes. And you’re being a brat even though you know it’s true.”
“Bold words for a man about to have a razor set against his throat.”
Q settles his bottom to the desk in front of Bond, whisking the brush as he saw James do moments before. He sits back, rumpling blueprints beneath his bum, and pays them no mind. There is a moment, when he spreads his legs to allow Bond closer, cut quickly short and with a dizzying headrush. Instead, Q sets his feet to the chair on either side of Bond, so that he can push him away if necessary.
He will, he lies to himself. He will do that.
“I should ask for a raise if I’m meant to be the bloody barber,” he murmurs, leaning in to swipe a daub of lather over Bond’s cheek. “Beyond the pale, really. As if building beautiful machinery for you to destroy on a whim wasn’t enough.”
Bond just watches him, turns for Q to lather the cream against his face, under his nose, over his chin, under his jaw to his throat, up near his ears… it’s clear Q has never done this to someone else before, clear that when he shaves it is with some mechanical contraption that he will never admit to touching. Or, more likely, one he has built himself to save the trouble of scoffing at others’ attempts.
“I’m a terrible attention seeker, Q,” Bond reminds him, amused. “You know that.”
His eyes are too close, watching too closely, narrowed just enough to be a smile and it’s infuriating.
“You’re terrible in more ways than just that,” Q allows, almost prim as he briskly brushes a bit of lather over a spot he missed. He taps beneath James’ chin with the brush and only thanks to the grace of God does Q not make a sound when Bond obediently lifts his chin.
“I’d settle on ‘terrible’ and leave it at that,” adds Q. He taps the brush a bit to make sure there’s lather covering all of the fine, greying scruff beneath the agent’s jaw, and struggles as if he were Sisyphus himself not to imagine that same angle held but with Q above him.
Reprimanding him for destroying another prototype.
Scolding him for his negligence.
Raising his chin with fingers instead of a silly shaving brush, and with his other hand unzipping -
“Right,” Q says, clearing his throat sharply. “That’s enough of that.”
“I would hope so,” Bond points out, amused. “You’ve used all that was in the pot.”
Q says nothing as he opens the razor and carefully adjusts his grip on it. Bond reaches forward and for a moment Q wonders if he’s going to displace him from the table. But instead, all he does is gather the towel and drape it over his shoulder. It will be much easier, Q realizes, to clean it there than having to sit back and reach it on the table every time.
“Pleasure,” 007 purrs, and Q has to take a moment so as not to immediately draw blood when he leans in to scrape the razor against Bond’s cheek.
The rasp sends a shiver up his spine, raises the hairs at the back of his neck, and spills goosebumps down his arms. Bond sits unmoving, consummately patient, his eyes hooded and his breath steady. Of course he does, because while Q fears a nervous slip that opens an artery, Bond regularly faces having his arteries opened. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t nervous. He’s calm in a way that’s almost infuriating, if it weren’t so exhilarating to see how dark his eyes become when he watches Q this way.
Q wipes the razor clean, drawing it slowly down the towel laid over Bond’s shoulder. He licks his lips apart and then closes them firmly between his teeth as he leans in again. Though Bond turns his head, the position is awkward, already twinging pangs of pain in the small of Q’s back. His posture is poor on a good day, but leaning so far, as tense as he is, proves trying.
He lifts his free hand, fingers curling into a fist and then unfurling again, and sets it to Bond’s other shoulder to brace himself.
Blue eyes don't even blink, don't even move from Q's, where they hold a lazy and lovely gaze. He is too handsome, goddamn him. He knows he is, which makes it worse.
His skin is too warm beneath Q’s hand, beneath the thin shirt he wears. His quartermaster huffs a sigh of mild displeasure and frowns as he sets the razor to Bond's skin again.
“Can't be harder than creating your meticulous structures, can it?” He murmurs when the blade is well clear of his skin again. The comment is soft, playful, hardly offensive.
“You break my meticulous structures.”
“And I am sure your handiwork here will see a beating within a day or two,” Bond assures him, smug and pleased, tilting his head when Q sets his fingers beneath his chin, obediently turning where he wants it.
Q doesn’t smile at the remark, though. His eyes narrow, as if to scold Bond, but he holds his tongue. The idea doesn’t please him, even less than the idea of seeing his machinery brought to wreckage. Biting his lips between his teeth as he scrapes away another swath of stubble and lather, Q tries - he tries valiantly - to let the comment slide.
He can’t, and as he wipes the blade clean, he shakes his head.
“I hope not,” Q says, softer than he means to sound, and quick to return the blade to its work before Bond can respond.
Bond patiently sits silent and still, but his eyes say enough. Damn verbose considering they're organs for viewing, not speaking. He's expressive and gentle, surprisingly so, hauntingly so, and when he blinks Q damn near makes a sound. When Bond is again free to move his lips his voice is as soft as Q's had been.
“Why are you in so late? I don't go out for two more days.”
Q hums, smiling a little despite himself. “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” James says, quieting as Q tilts his jaw gently to the left and follows carefully across the bone. When he wipes, Q settles his feet a little further into the chair, through the holes beneath the armrests, letting his legs spread lax to either side of the agent before him.
“Preparation,” he says after a moment of thought. “M would rather me rest but with so little time before you’re deployed, it isn’t possible for me to do so. My work begins before yours, so there’s less for you to do when you’re afield. If I want to smooth things out, I have to start early.”
Bond waits for Q to wipe the blade clean and sweep it over his skin again, falling into a rhythm now, with graceful movements and a gentle touch.
“What are you smoothing? I’ve already gotten my dossier,” he says.
“Monitoring, mostly,” Q says. “Keeping tabs on your targets, so I know they’re where they’re meant to be - or where they’ve gone, if they’re not. Checking over ballistics results - again,” he says with a snort and a grin, “to ensure that I haven’t missed anything and your new toy isn’t going to miss its mark.”
James hums appreciation at that, and as Q leans to swipe the blade once more against tanned skin and wipe it on the towel, Bond sets a hand against Q’s ankle where it rests near him.
There is a pause, stunned and filled with a panic that Q tries to hide and quiet with soft breaths and a little noise. He presses his lips together for Bond to mimic, and carefully shaves next beneath the man's nose.
Q is careful, as careful as he’s ever been with anything. He focuses on the depth of the furrow beneath Bond’s septum rather than how very warm his hand feels against Q’s ankle. He focuses on the rises of his upper lip and the long slope to either side rather than how suddenly his heart jogs when Bond’s finger moves in a miniscule twitch.
Leaning close, he wipes the blade clean and brings it back. Cautious, he tends the corners of Bond’s lips, and using only the smallest part of the blade, strokes it upward beneath his bottom lip. They’re so near that if Q came any closer, the tips of their noses would brush. They’re so near that he can taste the scotch on Bond’s breath that he drank before coming down to Q Branch.
To find him, out of everyone, anyone. He might have waited until morning. He could have asked another, or simply let his beard grow out a bit. But he came to Q, knowing he was there. He came to Q instead of any other option.
“When you go out,” Q says, his voice hardly above a whisper, “please don’t make my work here worth nothing.”
Bond blinks, slow and deliberate understanding. He says nothing until Q is wiping the blade again.
There is quiet again between them. Trembling silence teeming with unspoken things. James squeezes gently against Q’s ankle again and spreads his fingers for just a moment.
“Won't you sit closer?” He asks.
Q nearly falls off the table. “Beg your pardon?”
“The throat may be easier to reach,” Bond adds, smiling with his eyes only, “if you needn't contort yourself.”
Q pleads with Bond, wide-eyed and suddenly silent. He doesn’t need this. Neither of them do. Through all their months of work together, the intimacy that their jobs entail braiding tightly, there has been beneath it a rumbling like thunder, a storm approaching steadily and inexorably towards them both.
They do not need this complication, because it is that entirely.
But they want it, from the tensing of Bond’s fingers against Q’s ankle to the soft sound that Q makes in response.
Swallowing so hard his throat clicks, Q sets his hands against James’ shoulders. He inches off the desk and firm hands catch his narrow waist to bring him near. He lowers himself to Bond’s lap, legs slotted beneath the chair’s arms, and settles heavy against the agent’s thick thighs.
Without a word, because even verbose Q is rendered to sudden silence by this, he raises Bond’s chin with two fingers, and sets the razor to his throat.
Then, only then, does Bond purr a soft sound of pleasure.
Despite the obvious teasing and goading, despite this being every bit as dangerous as they both know it to be, Bond's hands remain careful and respectful against Q’s waist. He does not grope or grab, he doesn't distract Q from the task at hand.
He holds him, nothing more.
And honestly, that is quite enough.
James swallows when the razor skims just to the side of his Adam's apple, and licks his lips softly, but still he says nothing. Q leaves his hand against James’ cheek as he leans near, squinting through his thick lenses to measure by sight the closeness of his shave. Bond can feel, beneath his hands, the rising tempo of Q’s breath. He presses softly with his thumbs to ease him to peace but finds that Q’s breath stops entirely when he does.
“Only a little more,” Q whispers, and Bond settles his grasp to stillness again.
There have been crude innuendos passed from one of their comms to the other. There have been suggestive drops of the camera that Q pretended not to watch. They have been combative in meetings, snapping quick at the other, but always with a playfulness that no one else on their opposing but allied sides receives.
Q has relished scolding his agent for his misdeeds and mistakes. Bond has reveled in teasing Q with undercurrents of insinuation that he knew only Q would hear. They have played at this, batting it about but with their priorities always focused on whatever task was at hand.
There is no task now but this closeness. There is no assignment now but for Q to wipe clean his blade of the last bit of lather, and set aside the blade. He takes up the towel from Bond’s shoulder, and folds it to a clean side. Pressing it carefully to Bond’s cheeks, his jaw, his throat and finally his mouth, Q holds it at its last station and shakes his head.
“You have a tremor,” he says softly. Brows creasing, he sucks his lips between his teeth and then licks them apart again. “How can I help?”
Bond sighs and closes his eyes in a long blink. He says nothing. He lets his hands stay against Q's waist before moving slowly to spread up his back, hands large enough that just one can span from one of the quartermaster’s sides to the other. As the towel is taken away and set aside, the agent ducks his head to press his forehead to the center of Q’s chest.
“It will pass,” he murmurs after a while. “Just a residual lingering irritation. Once in a while they play up for nerves or lack of sleep.”
“It could be serious.”
“My hand is always steady on my gun, Q,” 007 assures him, and when the quartermaster in his lap sighs, James sits back enough to see him, eyes narrowed in a smile. “Are you fretting?”
“I’m not fretting.”
“You're fretting,” Bond grins, squeezing his fingers against Q just gently to feel him respond to the touch by pressing back into it, not away. “Darling, are you worried?”
“I’m…” Q’s protest, stroppy and stubborn, dies on his lips. He licks them apart again to try and free it, or stir his breath to movement that seems impossible with how very close they sit. “I wouldn’t be a very good quartermaster if I were unconcerned with the welfare of the agents in my keeping.”
“I’m the only agent in your keeping,” James reminds him, amusement pulling wrinkles into the corners of his eyes. “And you’re concerned for me.”
“Nerve damage isn’t funny,” says Q. “Even if there is a nerve colloquially named as such.”
It helps to focus on terrible things sometimes, especially when his recursive thoughts pipe back over and over to firm Bond’s thighs feel between his own, or how badly Q wanted to run his fingers through Bond’s hair when he rested against his chest, or how hot his hands feel as they squeeze him again. He twists as if to escape and spreads his legs wider.
“You need to rest,” Q tells him, almost pleading. “And I’m sending you to have it looked at when you’re back. Electrotherapy, or acupuncture, or exercising with weights to strengthen - 007,” he exclaims, when Bond’s fingers begin to slide up across his ribs. Q’s cheeks blaze bright and his body tenses, hands on James’ wrists. Their gazes hold as with a soft, pained sound Q tries to stir himself from this unreality.
Surely he’s dreaming again. Surely he’ll awaken now, as he has so many mornings, painfully hard and desperately lonely. He’ll tell himself that working in close quarters with someone can have this effect. That it’s the tired fumbling of an overworked brain. That it means nothing.
“Alright, Q,” his agent whispers, eyes moving slowly and deliberately over his face. It's strangely sweet, this study. Q has felt James look at him before, and even when it was hardly prurient it felt different than this.
This feels like a discovery.
It feels like a grounding.
Then, softly, Bond laughs, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to his face to rub them.
“This is usually where I wake up,” he admits. “Alone and in a country it takes me several moments to remember.” He drops his hand from his face and looks at Q again, who watches him just as surprised. His cheeks are pink with blush. His heart hammers so loudly he is certain James can feel it.
The agent spreads the hand against Q’s back to hold him closer, and with his other draws his knuckles down his cheek.
“There they are,” he murmurs.
Q makes a little noise, cheeks warming more as they lift in a small smile. He turns his head away, strangely shy in being seen by Bond with such nearness and intensity of attention. His fingers curl in the front of James’ shirt as rough knuckles, swollen from years of violence, brush his jaw.
And when warm lips touch softly to the other cheek, Q closes his eyes and laughs.
It’s a weak sound, unsteady and swaying as much as he himself would be were Bond not holding him close with an arm around his waist. Another kiss jerks his voice into a whimper. Another splinters his sigh into a shiver.
“What are you doing,” Q breathes, hands tightening to keep James close. “What are we doing?”
“Chasing dreams maybe,” James replies, his breath warm and tickling against Q’s cheek before he kisses there again. “Being fools.”
“This isn't appropriate.”
“No,” Bond agrees, eyes closed as he nuzzles against Q before him.
“We should -” The swell of Q's lip slips between his teeth and he hums, bringing one hand up to splay over Bond’s throat, feeling his pulse quicken there.
“No,” Q laughs. “No. But can we?”
“God yes,” James sighs, cupping Q's cheek and turning him just enough for their lips to meet, kissing him properly as the younger man in his lap squirms and blushes and then sets his own hands to Bond's cheeks and kisses him back. They tangle hot in this as they have in every other assignment or argument, debate or discussion. Lips twisting firm together then uncoil soft with sighs, before twining tight again.
Bond is an exceptional kisser, and though Q is little surprised by his possession of this particular skill, to feel it himself is something else entirely.
He pushes his hands across James’ cheeks, made velvet soft by his own careful work, and shoves his fingers roughly through his hair. He fists them, gathering handfuls of sleek silver-gold strands between his fingers, and bends Bond back to the chair. His agent moans against his mouth and Q catches it in a kiss, tongue pressing past his teeth to trace against his and savor the heat of his mouth.
They shouldn’t do this. They know better. M will lay them out bare for this kind of fraternization.
“This is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” Q whispers, when he relents enough to gasp down air.
“That’s saying something,” agrees Bond, before he catches Q by the thighs to drag him close again.
Q pushes up on his knees, ducks his head and raises Bond’s as they kiss again. Despite the power Q has seen in action, the strength can feel humming beneath him, Bond is an incredibly gentle lover. He kisses with consideration and holds Q close, secure, safe against him. Of course, it hardly stops his fingers from pressing and spreading against him, or his chest arching forward to brush against Q’s own.
He’s larger, much larger.
He’s more experienced - though that much Q could argue.
This really is the worst idea they’ve ever had.
“Some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten,” James manages, breathless, eyes closed and lips parted wet. “Has been that if one were to decide to ride a wheelie bin down a slope, they should start at the very top of it.”
Q snorts and shakes his head, trembling from holding himself up. James smiles and opens his eyes.
“If we are to make the worst decision of our collective intelligence, perhaps we should take it further up the hill.”
Q lacks his resolve, his willpower - his ability to manifest a thousand faces and call them up in a moment’s notice. He tries not to respond. He tries valiantly.
He makes a sound, akin to a bloody whimper, as he rocks a kiss against Bond’s mouth again. Reaching back to grasp Bond’s wrists, he slides his firm hands - big, strong hands - around his thighs. With hooded eyes and parted lips and a moan inching into every breath he takes, Q presses Bond’s hands between his legs, pushing them firm against his hardening cock, and his eyes finally flutter closed as he lets his head loll back.
“This can’t happen again,” Q whispers. “This won’t happen again.”
“Not here,” James agrees, nipping Q’s throat and sucking a soft kiss against it. “Never here.”
James rubs his hands against the insides of Q’s trembling thighs. He teases against the bulge between his legs and imagines the lovely lithe quartermaster spread in his bed, legs wide and chest heaving. He would look lovely. He would be a very welcome addition to it, as often as both could get around their stubbornness and let it happen.
At Q’s plaintive whine for attention, James allows himself to cup his cock and stroke, deliberate and slow, as his lips make pilgrimage down to the hammering heart against his ribs and kiss there next.
“We should go, then,” he mumbles, drawing his tongue wet against the thin fabric of Q’s shirt.
Q’s spine straightens, bending back with a hard shove against Bond’s hands and a moan let loose toward the ceiling. He reaches back to grab the desk with one hand, and snares James’ jaw with the other. Breath held, he kisses him. Brows knit, he kisses him again, holding as long as he can before his lungs burn for air.
“Not again,” he repeats, with emphasis, the words choked past the knot in his throat. “Once, now - tonight,” he says, shaking his head and licking the taste of Bond from his bottom lip. “Once, and then we can’t do this again. It’s a distraction. It’s dangerous.”
He kisses Bond before he can answer, before he can agree. He kisses Bond so hard he’s sure their mouths will bruise and two days from now when Bond goes afield, they will still feel the ache the other caused them. Through force and need, Q lets his declarations stand and hopes that Bond ignores them as he ignores everything else Q tells him.
“Take me home,” Q whispers when they part again, trembling.
Bond hums and presses a worshipful kiss against Q’s fingers when they slip from his chin. Home. Take. Absolutely.
Setting his feet to the ground more carefully, James pushes back the chair they share, and eases Q from it to stand before him. He follows him up, taller when he stands, and smiles as he flips his towel to the table on top of the rest of his shaving kit. He can wash it at home, he can give it the attention it needs when the man before him is sleeping spent and sated in his bed, hair mussed and lips parted.
Lord, he’s lovely.
James leans past Q, against him, to messily gather up his kit and press it to his side, turning his head to whisper as he moves away, “Keep up, quartermaster.”
Then he takes a step back, another, and turns to leave the office.
“I can’t really walk right now,” Q exclaims, with a nervous glance to the camera in the corner, and a quick step after Bond.
Then he stops, and limps back to actually gather his things, stuffing his laptop and sundry papers into his bag. He snatches up his jacket but doesn’t put it on, and with his back to where James’ footsteps have slowed to a stop, Q grinds his palm once down the front of his trousers and ducks his head with a moan. This is a mistake of monumental proportions.
But even quartermasters should be allowed to err now and again.
He follows James through the River House, and out to the garage. He follows him into his car, and by then at least, his cock has softened enough that he can sit with only a miniscule wince. They are quiet, as Bond pulls out of the garage and into the streets. Q’s not sure anyway that there’s any conversation they could have that would be enough to drown out the humming in his ears.
Bond’s car purrs beneath him, and Q - grimacing - crosses his legs.
The agent says nothing, but Q can see the way the little cobweb wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen in his pleasure. Prick. It can’t be much easier for him, sitting bang above the motor, but he shows no discomfort whatsoever. His silhouette is Grecian, once in a while illuminated by the passing streetlights.
They get to the apartment faster than Q had expected. Perhaps because he’d spent the entire ride studying the man beside him and trying to keep down his boner. When James kills the engine, both exhale with a warm hum, before the agent gives Q a long sideways glance.
“No,” Q stubbornly tells him, snorting when he can’t keep his face straight. No, they shouldn’t. But they will. And he bloody well wants to.
“Follow me, then,” his agent tells him, before pulling open the door and levering himself out. Q, with a sigh, does the same, far less gracefully.
To the elevator and up to the third floor, over the carpeted corridor and through a door Q can swear is steel masquerading as wood and leather. Into the entryway, and against a wall as the door closes with a click and James’ lips are on Q’s again, his knee deliberately between the quartermaster’s legs.
“Christ,” Q exclaims, as he melts heavy in his agent’s ardent grip. He wraps his arms beneath Bond’s, hands hooked over his shoulders, and digs his cock down against the hard thigh spreading his legs apart. A moan manifests muffled between their mouths. Q drops a hand just long enough to drop his jacket and bag to the floor, only to find himself snared from his feet.
Hoisted against the wall, he wraps his legs tight over Bond’s narrow hips - the bastard - and hooks his heels. He pulls Bond’s hair to give space to breathe. He scrapes his scalp with fingernails as their kiss collides again.
How many months they resisted the undercurrent of flirtation in their communications. How many months they chided and teased and looked for too long and imagined.
“I dreamt about this,” Q confides, yelping high as James’ hipbones dig against his thighs and their cocks shove stiffly together. “I came in my bloody sleep dreaming about this.”
His agent purrs against him and kisses against his jaw, sucks hard just beneath it where Q knows - knows - there will be a bruise the next morning. “Did you dream of it just like this?” He asks.
“Against a wall?”
James laughs, snares Q nearer and steps away from the wall, still comfortably holding him close. “Did you?” Q shakes his head, grinning. James smiles back. “Tell me what you dreamed.”
Q resists with his bottom lip bent between his teeth. He resists with the attempt to seek a kiss, denied as Bond leans back with a rakish grin. He resists with a squint, and then wonders why he’s resisting at all.
They have this, now.
If his insistence stands, they will only ever have this now.
“Many things,” Q whispers, aware that here too they’re being monitored. “That I was one of your marks, unwitting as to your intentions - meeting at a pub, or a museum,” he adds with a wry smile, “and finding ourselves drawn together by your doing.”
“What else,” James asks, turning his lips against Q’s palm as his quartermaster frames his cheek with work-rough fingers.
“That I was the agent, and you the mark, and it was my job to drape myself across you and make you want me,” Q says. “That you came to me in the River House, in the middle of the night, and pulled me against you as if we were of opposite polarities, inexorably attracted.”
James pulls him near in just such a way, and kisses him again. They're in the middle of the flat, now, James Bond holding up his quartermaster as though he weighs nothing at all, just as he had so often seen in his own dreams. He imagines Q - beautiful as he is, dangerous as he is - in James’ position and himself in Q’s. He imagines the clever eyes barely giving him a glance, the elegant brows raising in curiosity and feigned indifference.
“I imagined you here,” he admits softly, taking a few more steps towards the bedroom. “With me. Beneath my hands and mouth and weight.”
“Always the conqueror,” Q teases, holding against the back of his head. Bond just smiles, slowly shakes his head.
“Not at all,” he purrs. “I did nothing without your explicit instruction, nothing without your clever and soft words against me. Yours, entirely, Q, from beginning to the very end.”
Q lets loose a gentle oh that tilts high, his voice aching sweet. He brings James’ mouth against his neck again, squirming flush against the hard body that holds his own, when another bruise is suckled hot against his throat. When they fall, they fall together, collapsing atop the bed with Q atop, pulling his legs free to splay them wide across Bond’s hips. He has no time for buttons, no mind for them at all, shoving the hem of James’ shirt out of his trousers and pushing his hands beneath.
“As it should be,” he finally manages, nose wrinkling as he laughs and Bond’s hand in his hair brings their kiss together again. Q’s fingers splay over the wall of muscle that tightens Bond’s stomach, seeking up to a fine dusting of hair and nipples pebbled hard when he pinches them. Bond bucks upward, cursing breathless.
“How,” Q demands, between the clicks of their lips together and rough sighs snarled low. “How did you know I would? I didn’t think you were actually...”
Bond’s hands snare in his hair and tug, just enough to feel, before he arches up to rub their cocks together again, sighing warm and very pleased at the sensation.
“Just a feeling.”
Bond grins at the curse and rolls his body, hips to shoulders, to allow for Q to slip his shirt higher up against him, finally relenting to work at least a few buttons off beneath his tie to get it off over his head.
“Like begets like, darling,” he tells him.
“But you’re not -”
“I enjoy both,” Bond points out, a pointed look down between his legs where he’s rock hard from this alone before meeting Q’s eyes again. “Though you may not share all of my proclivities, you certainly share some. There is no mistaking certain looks, Q, no mistaking certain gestures. I hoped, if I’m honest. Very, very glad I wasn’t wrong.”
Q tries not to panic internally at the suggestion of telling looks and gestures, and Bond’s tongue in his mouth does wonders to distract him from fretting. Free of his shirt, bare-chested beneath, Q plants his palms against Bond’s shoulders and arches upward, groaning as he rocks his hips down and presses back slowly to grind their lengths together.
He’d imagined it was a function for his agent, when he was required to seduce a man rather than a woman. He hadn’t let himself consider that Bond - outside of missions - would genuinely prefer the company of anyone regardless of their sex. Of course he does, the charming bastard. Of course he doesn’t care who’s atop or beneath him.
He’s bloody extraordinary.
Q reaches between their heaving bodies and catches Bond by the belt. Quick flingers flick the buckled apart and he jerks the leather strap free in a slow tug, coiling it around his fist. Each hiss of leather against fabric snaps Bond’s hips upward and Q’s brow raises in turn. When the tail slips free, Q slaps the belt to the bed beside Bond and meets his eyes above the rim of his glasses. His smile curves wide.
“You like being told what to do,” he challenges.
Bond smiles. “It’s my favourite part of the day, being told off by you,” he admits. And Q knows, genuinely knows, that Bond means it. There is something hard-wired within him to obey. It makes him an exemplary agent, even when he doesn’t return all of his equipment. And here… of course he would enjoy it here.
Q’s hardly complaining.
He lets the belt unspiral from his hand and fall with a clatter to the floor. With thrusts and kisses, low moans and eager gasps, they find the center of the bed together. Q slips his hand between them, a thumb tracing the ridge of his own cock as he opens Bond’s trousers.
“Good thing you give me so many opportunities to tell you off,” Q murmurs. “It’s the best part of my day, too.”
Palm pressed flat, he slips it beneath James’ pants and into the hot, humid space between his legs, He curls his fingers around the thick cock he’s seen in his dreams and glimpses of surveillance, tightly gripping the dense weight of it. He thumbs up over the delicate foreskin and tugs it back, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the taut bridge of skin between foreskin and cock instead. Bond’s catlike rumbling resonates through him as Q ducks his head to watch his hand work within James’ pants.
He would gladly take a cock like this inside him. He would gladly go to his knees for it. But this isn’t just someone he picked up in a pub - this is Bond, James Bond, and Q wants more.
“Turn over,” he whispers, grinning as James tries to kiss him again.
A grunt and a grin, and the agent cocks his head. “You’ll need to let me go for that,” he points out, though it’s hardly a complaint. He bites his lip and endures - enjoys - a few more moments of Q’s clever and very skilled fingers against them before they deliberately peel away, one by one, and leave him bereft.
As Q eases his weight up off of James, the man turns, a brief motion that gets him where they both want him to be. When Q settles against him again, the agent groans in pleasure and rolls his shoulders.
So often he had imagined such lovely explicit things between them. A sharp word in play in Q’s office and he would have gone to his knees for him, then and there. He would obey, sit still, open his mouth, keep his hands still… anything. He turns his head just enough to see Q sitting astride him and arches his back to lift his hips in invitation.
With fingers hooked beneath the waistband of trousers and pants, Q strips him slowly. His breath shortens with every inch of plush bottom bared beneath his hands. Straddling James’ thighs, Q moans low and wavering as he lets James’ clothes come to rest just against his legs.
He grabs and squeezes with his whole hand and nails scraping. Spreading James’ cheeks, Q’s lips part with a wanton whimper as he holds Bond open beneath. Fine hairs curl against wrinkled, dark skin. The promise, the presentation… it’s intoxicating. He imagined always that it would be himself held open beneath Bond and fucked against desk or floor or sofa. He hadn’t ever considered that the opposite would be possible.
“If you saw me so clearly,” Q asks, dipping his fingers between his lips to wet them copiously with spit. “If you could tell, with such certainty,” he says, as he slips them between Bond’s cheeks. “Then you should know that I never bottom, Bond.”
His agent moans, then, a low and deliberate thing, and tilts his hips even higher to accommodate for the penetration.
“Never once did I dream that you would, for me,” James admits, pleased and warm with the thought. “Nor would I ever want to ask you to, when I could have you like this.” He draws a breath and holds it, humming free a sound on a sigh, fingers turning against the sheets. Beautiful, prideful, elegant, stubborn, coltish thing. He wouldn’t dream of pulling such a wonder beneath him in bed, it would be an honor to be told by him that he’s allowed anywhere near him.
Q tugs, and has tugged, at the most wonderful primal part of James since he met him in that enormous coat in that damned gallery in front of the stupid big ship.
Q turns his fingers and James hisses in pleasure, seeking to spread his legs as much as he’s allowed, trapped as he is in his pants still. Q makes no effort to free him, instead twisting two fingers deep before rolling them free again. Bond tries to relax, to allow it, but too taut with anticipation, his body refuses to cooperate and Q’s fingers make him ache.
He moans his thanks against the sheets underneath.
Planting his free hand to the center James’ shoulders, Q watches as twitching muscle tugs his fingers back again. He spreads them, suddenly, almost cruelly were it not made clear by the roiling body beneath his own that James wants all that Q is giving him and more.
“Up,” Q instructs him. “On your knees, Bond.”
Bond laughs, but obeys, careful to keep his balance and to hold his shoulders down as Q has them when he moves. He sets his knees apart, pants caught against his calves, and arches his back in a lovely curve to present himself higher and more beautifully for the man behind him.
This. This is what he would wake up imagining, his cock hard against the sheets, leaking to them, and shivering his body to motion in the mornings.
This, just like this.
“I always pegged you for a tease,” he murmurs, turning just enough to see Q prideful behind him, still clothed. James smiles.
“Quiet,” Q says, settling over James’ legs. “You’re not pegging anything tonight, 007.”
Bond’s laugh breaks low when Q runs his tongue flat from the back of James’ balls to his twitching hole. One hand keeps his cheeks spread. The other rubs soothing over the dimples at the small of his back. Q curls his lips against crenulated muscle and sucks, moaning. Bond tastes of clean sweat, of masculine musk and warmth. Drawing the tip of his nose up the curve of one cheek, Q kisses his hole, a touch so gentle as to be almost sweet. He teases the tip of his tongue, and sighs to cool wet skin and watch James tremble.
“Maybe a bit of a tease,” Q agrees, snorting a soft laugh before he closes his eyes and kisses him open-mouthed again.
James curses and buries his face in the sheets, toes curling in his shoes and socks, sweat breaking out thin and cool against his back in his pleasure. He had imagined, but he had never dared hope. This… this is the stuff of wet dreams.
“Intolerable,” he chastens him, words smeared into the pillow. “Incredible, impossible...”
Q hums his pleasure at the words and Bond bucks forward, cock hanging heavy and thick between his legs, twitching with every wet click of tongue and lips against him. He sighs, relaxes further, spreads wider for Q as he can.
“Terrible, tempting boy,” he adds.
With a snorted laugh, Q squeezes another kiss against him and rolls to the bed. To his credit, Bond doesn’t move - he waits, watching with dark eyes gathered narrow with amusement, as his quartermaster lolls beside him. He’s beautiful like this, bent and arched with his hips presented high and his cock pointed full and fat between his legs. He’s beautiful in the genuine affection that curves his smile from simply watching Q.
Q tilts his cheek against the bed and breathes in the scent of Bond from the sheets. Cologne, scented citrus bright, and sandalwood soap. A distant trace of tobacco and earthy sweat. When Q breathes out again, it’s with a moan, and he reaches up to tug his tie loose in lazy inches. His eyes lift from beneath his tousled mop of hair, holding Bond’s gaze through skewed glasses. Smile spreading, he slips the tie loose and flicks it over the back of Bond’s neck before reaching down to the buttons of his cardigan.
“Maybe I’ll make an exception to the rule,” he muses as the first button slips free of its mooring. “But only once I’m done.”
James considers him, eyes narrowed and expression warm as he remains half-naked and bent over for Q’s pleasure. He allows himself to skim his eyes over the young body before him, still covered in far too many clothes but slowly divesting of them. He can see how hard Q is between his legs, can gauge with pleasure the size of him. When his eyes meet Q’s again, he’s smiling.
“Maybe I’ll let you, when you are,” he replies, quirking a brow in pleasure and laughing when Q snorts. He reaches with one hand, position still held comfortably with the other still folded, to draw his fingertips against Q’s cheek. Q’s squirming settles, for a moment. The touch is grounding, still scented of shaving cream, and Q parts his lips when Bond’s fingers find them.
Q kisses his fingertips as he leans up enough to shrug out of his shirt and cardigan, his blush spilling wine-dark down his cheeks and neck and shoulders. Against freckled cheeks, his long lashes rest. He holds James’ hand against his mouth and with his other hand, works his bottom half bare.
“I’m glad,” he confides, from within the confessional of James’ fingers. “I’m glad we have this, even once.”
James curls his hand and gently takes Q’s glasses from him, setting them aside well out of the way of their shifting and squirming that will certainly come. Just the once? Perhaps. Bond doesn’t voice his confidence that this will happen again. Perhaps Q doesn’t want it to. Perhaps this is all they have, truly.
He hopes not, but he’s hardly one to push upon another.
When Bond returns his hand to Q’s body again, he touches him softly, drawing his palm over flat hairless chest and peaked little nipples. He smiles when Q sucks his stomach in, he strokes his knuckles there in tickling caress. And then he slips his hand down far enough to grasp Q in his hand and stroke him, humming along with the lovely man he touches when he sighs his pleasure.
“Let’s make the most of it then.”
Q bites his bottom lip and grins, nose wrinkling in delight. It’s been far too long since he’s shared a bed with anyone. Longer still since he shared a bed with someone whose name he’d bother to remember once he left. He takes Bond’s hand beneath both of his own and squeezes around his cock, hips rising from the bed in a lazy thrust as Bond strokes slowly upward.
“I want to kiss you,” Q says. Bond turns his cheek against the bed in a little nuzzle, and hums.
“You can. You should.”
“I will,” Q decides, allowing James to stroke him for a moment more, savoring the scrape of work-worn callouses and firm fingers rubbing rough across sensitive skin. He guides James’ hand off of him, though, and pushes to sit up, grasping James’ jaw to coax him upward. They sit together, both hard, both aching, both willing to slow for a moment more to relish how perfectly their lips press flush together.
“On your back,” Q whispers, nuzzling alongside James’ nose. “Where do you keep your protection?”
“Holstered beneath the bed.”
A laugh startles loud from Q and he draws a foot to the bed, snorting a giggle into his hand. “Not that kind, 007. Do try and keep up.”
James smiles, delighted, and kisses Q again. They rock against each other here, both helping the other balance as they divest James of the last of his clothes, all but his socks, which Q finds are tethered to him by sock garters, of all bloody things.
“In the bathroom,” James tells him at last. “And I will go get it, if you let me.”
“Keep the socks on,” Q warns him, and James smiles.
“And walk slowly.”
“As you wish.”
“Will you honestly do anything I tell you?”
“Would you like to test me, quartermaster?” Bond asks him, cocking his hips when he stands, one hand against them. His cock juts proud between his legs. “I follow your word on the job. Doing so in bed will be a privilege and a pleasure both. What else would you have me do, you terrible thing?”
Q’s lips twitch, unable to truly restrain his smile at this delightful temptation. Before him stands a man, an egotistical braggart and bull-headed prat more often than not, who now awaits a humbling. He aches for it, as Q aches to knock down those stubborn walls again and again, to reveal the devoted agent and passionate, clever person beneath.
“Bring it back to me,” Q says, clipping his words a little short, though his voice doesn’t raise. “In your teeth.”
Bond’s eyes narrow and he inclines his head, but as he starts to turn and Q draws himself up to rest against the headboard, his quartermaster adds:
“And on your knees.”
“You’re a shit, Q,” James declares, delighted, but he goes to the bathroom without hesitation regardless, hips tilting just enough to be entirely enticing as he does. He doesn’t turn on the light, he knows exactly what he’s looking for. After a few moments of quiet shuffling, a smoothly closed drawer, Q hears the sigh and shift of Bond’s body beyond the door.
He bites his lip.
And then Bond is crawling to him, eyes narrowed in amusement and some other hidden pleasure, cheeks warm with the fact that he has to do this, and that he’s doing it because he challenged his quartermaster himself to make him. He takes his time at a languid pace, but when he reaches the bed he sets his chin against it and gazes up at Q as a pup would at its owner.
He relinquishes the condoms to him and smiles when Q slips down the bed to rest face to face with him.
“You did it.”
“You asked me to,” Bond points out, resting one arm up against the bed as well as he kneels, turning his head a little to brush their noses together affectionately. Q kisses him. He laughs a little and kisses him again, and after a third time sets the foil packet between his own teeth and slinks back up to his own hands and knees, beckoning James to follow with no more than a lifted brow.
Instructions don’t always have to be spoken, after all.
Bond follows up to the bed and Q sits up onto his knees. Q brings Bond upward with a hand in his hair, held at the back of his neck, and removing the condom from between his teeth he kisses him roughly. Their respite, their play ebbs to give way to the crashing need that finds them here in the first place, and when Bond turns to lay back on the bed, Q follows, lithe body pressed atop him and foil crinkling between his fingers.
“Should I ask if you’ve done this before?” Bond says, grinning when Q gives him a dry look from beneath his hair. “Should I ask how often you’ve done this before?”
“Do all questions need to be answered with words, 007?” Q counters, taking the condom from its packet and holding it between his lips as he strokes himself and watches Bond settle comfortably. He smiles when his agent draws his knees up around him to cradle him near and spread his legs at the same time, welcoming and open.
“I shall endeavor to make it well worth your while, then,” Bond sighs, lifting his eyes to the ceiling as though the comment is not implying anything at all.
“Do try,” Q agrees, grinning as he tucks a kiss against Bond’s cheek - shaven smooth, perfectly soft. He takes his cock in hand, fingers slick with lubricant from the condom, and his hips roll forward. Many times, Q has done this. Many times with many partners, but Q can scarcely recall a single one with whom the first breach has tilted his moan so high as now.
James gathers a handful of Q’s curls and pulls him back, just enough that when Q rocks inward again the little noise he makes spreads warm across Bond’s mouth. They are fools to do this. They are careless.
They are smiling so hard they can barely kiss, snorting laughter against the other’s cheek and touching, touching everywhere. Hands in hair and cupping cheeks, chests rubbing with every languid thrust. Their legs bump, as Q draws up his knee beneath Bond’s thigh. He grasps the headboard and gently butts their brows together, noses touching, eyes scarcely open.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Q whispers. “It’ll go straight to your head…”
“I feel incredible?” Bond asks, and Q laughs loud.
“Piss off, 007.”
James grins and sets his hands to Q’s hips, up over his back, against his ribs, one thumb rubbing a nipple in teasing juxtaposition to their thrusting. “You feel so good I could moan for it,” Bond offers back, parting his lips on a hum of pleasure as he says it.
“You should, I think,” Q tells him.
James grins, pressing his spread toes to the bed as he tugs Q closer against him and kisses his nose. “Make me, then.”
For a moment Q goes still, an instant held between them in delight and challenge both. Little shifts of hips coil and release, as Q lowers himself to touch their lips together. He doesn’t kiss, he simply keeps contact. Until finally the soft little movements stop, Q’s smile widens to a grin, and his eyes narrow in pleasure.
“There we are. Bit out of practice, it seems.”
When his body curves down to a sinuous whipcrack of hips, his cock strokes firm against Bond’s prostate. Just the head, brushing hard with every thrust, drawing from Bond’s body a resonant moan and a bead of slick dripping thick to his belly. Q kisses him properly then, laughing when they part only long enough to breathe, before they tangle together again with bodies pressed flushed.
It is a thoroughly enjoyable fucking, a thoroughly welcome one. James has had men be cautious with him, because of his bearing or size of both. He has had men be unduly rough with him, with no pleasure behind it for either of them, when the experience is over. But this is a shared pleasure, a give and take, mutual and wanted and enjoyed.
Adored, in fact.
Bond whispers Q’s title against him and arches up to kiss him again, fisting his own cock between them when the pleasure grows tantalizingly close with every rub and shiver. He doesn’t want this to be just tonight. He doesn’t want this to be an experience done and forgotten. He wants this again. He wants it often. He wants it with Q.
His quartermaster stills his hand, gripping firm, his moan a pleading, delicate thing poured hot against James’ mouth. They bend together, mouths meeting, chests meeting, their hands caught between but Q’s cock plunging deep. The bed rattles with every thrust, headboard tapping the wall as the clap of their skin keeps matching rhythm.
Q whispers his name as the rhythm breaks, a crease in his brow and a bloom on his lips. His fingers tighten, mouth parted wide as Bond strokes back his hair and watches pleasure course in waves through his quartermaster. He’s beautiful, always. Bond has always thought so, even when he said he had spots.
But now, like this, young and ferocious and for a moment free of anything but exceptional bliss, James is certain he’s never seen anyone look so particularly lovely.
“Stand down, 007,” Q whispers when his breath returns to him again, throat clicking when he swallows and manages a laugh. He peels James’ fingers from his own still-hard length, and smears a clumsy kiss against the corner of his mouth. “My turn, now.”
“Greedy,” James murmurs against him, eyes barely open. “Greedy boy.” He smiles when Q grins against him, he gasps and groans, lip between his teeth when Q pulls out of him and ties the condom off, reaching for another from the box to fumble it open next.
He is extraordinary.
He is youthful and shameless and alive.
Q rolls James’ condom onto him with his mouth and the agent nearly comes then and there. He grasps against Q’s shoulders when he moves to lie on the bed beside him and shakes his head, eyes narrowed and lips tilted in a smirk.
“Despite my being a welcome exception,” he says. “I want you on top of me for this.”
Q laughs, ducking his head against James’ chest. He kisses above his heart, and teases the tip of his nose through the downy blonde hair. He seeks out a dark nipple to suckle softly, releasing it with a sigh and his hands planted against Bond’s shoulders. With a stretch and a shiver, Q slides his thigh over James’ hip and rolls his agent to his back. His cock beads and drips soft against his stomach as he curls his hips forward with a lazy thrust and a sleepy smile, teasing and warm.
“Lay still, 007,” Q whispers, as his nose wrinkles with a grin that wonderfully wrecks his attempt at somber instruction. “I’m going to need you to wait for my signal.”
“You’re terrible,” Bond praises him.
“Didn’t quite catch that, I’m afraid.” Q lifts himself to his knees and reaches behind himself, back deeply arched, to grasp Bond’s cock. He aligns it against himself, brows knitted, and allows a single little oh past his lips.
“I said - Christ,” sighs Bond. “Yes, Q.”
“That's better,” he whispers. Brows drawn tight and teeth gritted in pleasure and pain, Q sinks further and further down against Bond’s cock. It's spectacular. No prep or lubrication, beyond what the condom itself offers. Nothing but his ache for this, the need that drives Q damn near insane with impatience.
“Easy,” James whispers, holding Q’s hips and smiling at the lovely flushed young thing against him. He can barely keep himself together. “Beautiful, Q, you are bloody beautiful.”
“Shut up,” Q mutters, before he’s caught by the back of his neck and brought down into a kiss. James breath spreads cool against flushed cheeks, as Q occupies their mouths with tongues and teeth and moaning kisses rather than words.
There are too many of them to speak now. Too many if they had all night, or if they had every night until Bond's departure, and more beyond that. Q twists his hips and tenses as he lowers again, to fill himself with Bond's body and leave no room for the words that claw from inside his throat. He wants to tell him that he worries when Bond is away. Yes, he frets. Yes, he's concerned. Yes, he spends those nights that they're countries away in sleeplessness that becomes as devout as prayer.
He wants to tell him, but whimpers instead, that every bip on Bond’s trackers is what marks the rhythm that his own heart follows.
He wants to tell him, but moans wanton as he rides back on Bond's cock, that when he chides Bond upon his return, it will be to mask his own desperate relief.
He wants to tell him that he's a shit, he's stubborn, he's a cad and a bravado and too risky for his own good and that he's developing a problem with drink. He wants to ask if he can stay the night and learn his body by touch, the way he knows it by sight already.
Bond's fingernails curved against his thighs break Q's reverie. He teases a kiss away from his agent, grinning, barely allowing a brush of lips before he tilts his head away again. Rumbling, James snares him by the curls and turns him to the bed, Q's skinny legs folding over his hips and slender fingers pressed against his cheeks.
James murmurs against him, a soft susurrus of words that Q realizes aren’t actually in English. They sound like praise and wonder and adoration, they feel like kisses. Q shivers and makes a sweet noise and James kisses against his jaw, nosing the spot after as though to rub the sensation into him to remember.
“You feel,” James’ fingers curls in Q’s hair and tug just enough to arch his back. “Incredible.”
Q laughs, shaking his head and accepting the kiss bestowed upon him. James slows his thrusts, enough to tease against Q’s prostate and draw helpless needy sounds from him until his breath hitches and he tenses, shaking, against him. Rough hands slip against his cheek and turn him, gentle against the other and whisper in his ear for him to stay. Stay just the night if nothing else.
Q knows, he can feel, how much deeper those words run, how heavy they lay against them both like a blanket. Exhausted, sated, for now sedate, Q wraps himself in those words and Bond’s arms alike. The sensation of Bond’s cock softening inside him is as satisfying as his release had been. Though slowing, their kisses meet and touch and part and meet again as if by allowing sleep to make their bodies lax, they will awaken from the dreams they’ve shared about the other and find themselves alone again.
Q doesn’t want to wake up alone again. He doesn’t want to wake up with sheets sticking cold against his thighs and too much empty space around him. In answer, then, he tucks himself closer in Bond’s embrace, nosing against the hollow of his throat, head beneath his agent’s chin.
“Just tonight,” Q says. “Just this once.”
He hopes Bond can hear how little he means it.