Chapter Text
Epilogue
~^~
“And that,” Sherlock sighed, expression long-suffering, “is the story of how there is now another idiot in my house.”
The youth next to him replied automatically, “You think everyone is an idiot, Sherlock.”
“Yes, but I didn’t need another one living with me, John!”
Watson couldn’t contain the little snort of laughter this time, but resisted the urge to laugh outright - Sherlock’s ego could be quite fragile and bruised easily. “At least your little brother is back. Is he remembering everything?”
Already well aware of the fact that John would be going into the medical profession (even if John himself didn’t seem to see that pathway yet, blind as he was), Sherlock was quick to supply an answer, “Memory is an inexact science, but being in his usual environment for a week seems to have eroded the worst of Q’s amnesia. The doctors also claim that he will have no ill-effects.” This last bit Sherlock said with heavy skepticism; he was already certain that the doctors had missed something. Thinking about this, Sherlock added with a scowl, “I worry that some part of Q’s brain might still be damaged.”
The two boys were walking down by the park, and John paused next to a bench to cast Sherlock a transparently worried look. John’s face really was an open book. “What do you mean?”
“He keeps hugging people.”
This time, John broke out into guffaws of laughter, and it took a good minute or two of Sherlock frowning and protesting to get the shorter youth to stop. Still not entirely serious, face warped in a smile, John collected himself enough to say, “Good god, Sherlock, and here I thought you were going to name some sort of terrible symptom.”
“It is terrible! He’s overly emotional.”
“I’m pretty sure that your baby brother has always been the least emotionally constipated one of your entire family. Maybe his time away made him realize that emotions aren’t going to kill him,” John opined, still grinning unhelpfully.
Sherlock huffed and started strutting off again, making John trot to keep up. “Or maybe Bond is to blame for all this,” he seethed grumpily.
“I think I saw him when I came round to hang out with you,” John replied once he was back by Sherlock’s side. He kept up determinedly, not minding that he had to work a bit to keep up with Sherlock’s longer stride - after all, John had two working legs. Why not use them? “He didn’t look like an emotional fellow.”
“Oh, you should see him.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, always dramatic. “Did you know that he has my parents completely charmed? It’s an utter farce, though. He’s like…” Sherlock waved his hands, momentarily at a loss for words, which was what really had John paying attention - Sherlock always had words. Far too many of them, and often with far too many sharp edges. Eventually, though, Sherlock settled on a frustrated description of, “...Like one of those cats that purrs and rubs up against you when it wants to, but deep down just wants to scratch you!”
“You’ve never forgiven Moran’s cat for that one time, have you?”
“Moran’s cat was giving me every indication that it wanted its belly scratched. I was merely following social cues, like everyone tells me to.”
John decided not to mention that Sherlock was pants at following social cues, and this episode with the cat only drove home that point. Surprisingly, though, before John could come up with some sort of mollifying reply, Sherlock’s temper vacillated into something more amused. The glower became a bit of a smirk. “I suppose Q’s new shadow isn’t entirely irredeemable, though. He did drive Mycroft a little spare yesterday.”
Since John also couldn’t stand Mycroft most of the time, he perked up at this. “Do tell.”
“Well,” Sherlock puffed up, clearly realizing that he had an interested audience now and loving it, “Q was being weird again, and Bond was letting him.” Based on John’s sigh, more elaboration was needed, so Sherlock acquiesced to paint a clearer picture for his mentally deficient acquaintance, “Bond had been reading a book on the sofa, and Q had decided to take a nap on him, and for some reason James doesn’t see any problem with having almost an entire boy on his lap.”
“Oh,” John said, in a notably droll voice, “the horror.”
“Exactly!” Sherlock gave an excited nod that tossed his dark curls, forcing him to sweep them back from his forehead. He then continued to wave his hands about, “But thankfully I was just in the other room when Mycroft decided that he had to come out and ask Q something. It was immensely gratifying to watch Mycroft waltz up like the poncy prince he is, and have Q’s new guard dog just stare him down.” Sherlock dropped his hands, canting his head and grinning as he cast back in his memory, “I think Bond actually growled at him. Mycroft didn't know what to do, so he just slowly backed away again without waking Q up. Bond went back to his book.”
This whole time, John had been silently shaking with internalized laughter. He did pipe up, though, “Good to know Bond can read.” He was careful to keep the sarcasm hidden, and maybe it was a little bit fond. Sherlock was an insufferable prat, but he was John’s insufferable prat.
Sherlock gave his head a toss and declined archly, “Oh, I imagine he was just looking at the pictures.”
However, for the rest of their walk, nothing bad was said of James Bond, because no matter how oafish he appeared, or how he might be affecting Q’s emotional status, he had brought the youngest Holmes back. And even Sherlock had the emotional aptitude to be deeply grateful for that.
~^~
Mycroft did not like this interloper in his house. This Bond character certainly had Mother and Father fooled, but Mycroft knew that this was no genteel soul that had come home attached to Siger - James Bond had growled at him, after all.
“Anthea, you would be surprised how stupid my parents are sometimes.” Mycroft gave his head a shake. He and Anthea were at the local coffee shop, but at his table, off in a perfectly lit corner. Mycroft always talked with the wait-staff to be sure that they left the table open for him at certain times on certain days. He was sure they listened to him. He was also sure that Anthea was listening, even as she sucked on a lollipop and scrolled through her phone. “They’re just too trusting, sadly. I’ll have to keep a close eye out, and be sure that Bond isn’t just here to con them out of our money.” He shook his head again, tutting. “Siger would give it to him in a heartbeat. My youngest brother is like a puppy, you know. He hasn’t yet mastered his emotions. I dare say even Sherlock has more self-control. A shame, really.”
Anthea acknowledged this by moving the lollipop to the other side of her mouth.
“Did you know he prevented me from having a serious chat with my baby brother just yesterday?” Mycroft exclaimed, but without raising his voice. Raising one’s voice was uncouth and a sign that you were too uncivilized to discuss matters at a normal volume. Sherlock yelled all the time (loud violin screeching counted as yelling); Sherlock was uncivilized. “Bond had Siger’s head in his lap like my brother was some sort of kitten, and when I came up to have a word, that blue-eyed heathen had the nerve to growl at me.” Anthea tapped at something on her phone. Mycroft nodded in response, feeling vindicated. He finished the story, “Knowing that there could be no sensible discussion there, I wisely retreated. I’m beginning to notice some unhealthy codependency with those two.” Drumming the fingertips of one hand on one knee, Mycroft gave his head a third, resigned shake. “As a Holmes, Siger needs to learn that it is unwise to ever become attached to a single person.”
Without warning, Anthea snorted. When Mycroft whipped his head around to look at her, though, she wasn’t looking at him - merely smirking a little at her phone. She must have read something very funny.
~^~
It was Mr. Holmes who looked into St. Joseph’s Home. He did it the day after getting his boy settled, and the boy his boy had brought home settled with him. James Bond was a strange boy, but one with good manners, and Mr. Holmes had always been a good judge of such characters. Of course, after getting the entire story out of both Siger and James, it had seemed that the situation was quite disturbing indeed - so when Mrs. Holmes had delicately suggested, that first night, that some of the story had perhaps been sugarcoated, Mr. Holmes had made his way to the an old friend’s house. Boothroyd was a trustworthy man who also had good manners, but who also had a computer.
Together, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Boothroyd did a bit of ‘web browsing’ (what a strange phrase), and found out some truly unsettling things indeed. A call home revealed that, meanwhile, Mrs. Holmes (what a smart woman he’d married) had been making quite a lot of phonecalls, and together the three adults assembled a rather darker story than Siger and James had outlined. Those poor little chaps. Boothroyd had even found the recent police report, apparently all started by some family involved in the situation (the Trevelyans, yes, that was it) - they’d called in the police at some point after Siger and James had taken their leave. The police had found a little room with no windows and barely any space, and it had had blood smeared all over the inside of the door. It was causing quite a scandal, although no one was quite sure how the Trevelyans had known to send the police looking for that little room.
After lots of internet searches (assisted by Mr. Boothroyd, who was very invested now, as he’d always loved Siger like a son himself) and phonecalls, Mrs. Holmes decided that this St. Joseph’s Home was a lamentable place that simply didn’t deserve to exist anymore. Mr. Holmes agreed and also decided that he rather liked this Trevelyan family - they even had a boy about James’ age. He’d have to invite them over sometime soon. Perhaps for tea. Or else he and Mrs. Holmes could go visit them, and maybe have a long talk about the people running St. Joseph’s home.
The boys could play while the parents talked.
When Mr. Holmes got his coat on to go home again, Mr. Boothroyd saw him out, asking some questions about James. He was politely curious about the older boy, and when Mr. Holmes got home, his wife made a few hints about James perhaps living with Mr. Boothroyd - after all, their own house was already full of boys, and Boothroyd’s was so sad and empty since the passing of his wife. And besides, Mr. Boothroyd lived just down the street, so there’d be no harm in frequent visits - since Siger seemed so adorably attached.
~^~
Siger Q. Holmes was Boothroyd’s favorite of the Holmes boys. It wasn’t that Boothroyd disliked the other two… no, actually, he did. He disliked them. They weren’t his cup of tea, no matter how you honeyed it. So when Q had gone missing, it had hit Boothroyd hard, and he’d likewise been overjoyed when he’d heard that the boy had miraculously returned.
And not long after, Boothroyd had gotten to meet the boy who had returned with Q.
It took a number of days, of course, before the Holmes family was willing to let their youngest child out of their sight, but after that, the next approved visiting location was the Boothroyd residence down the street. By then, it seemed that perhaps Q was getting a bit smothered by his family, because just Q turned up at Boothroyd’s door - but with a blond-haired boy in tow that reminded Boothroyd at first of Sherlock’s friend, John Watson, until he saw the shockingly pale blue eyes. Clearly an unforgettable sort of boy. Boothroyd let them both in happily, and introductions were made with minimal awkwardness. Honestly, all Boothroyd needed to know what that Q trusted this boy, James - after that, everything was immaterial. Mycroft had a penchant for manipulating people; Sherlock liked to hunt out their secrets; but Q was actually a decent judge of character on an emotional level, Boothroyd had decided. So if Q thought Bond was worthwhile, then Boothroyd did, too.
The three of them quickly ended up in Boothroyd’s garage. His home was not large, but the garage space was, and even since the death of his wife, Boothroyd had honestly spent more time in the latter locations, tinkering with whatever came his way. He had an old car in the garage now, with more things wrong with it than right. Another reason that Boothroyd preferred the youngest Holmes to his more analytical older brothers was that of all the Holmes, only Q seemed to love tech like Boothroyd did - so when he came over, it was like having a minute, voraciously interested assistant. James was perhaps less voracious, but it was soon clear that he was no less interested, and the three of them had quite a fun evening. Sure, Q got so much engine grease on him that his clothes would probably give Mrs. Holmes a migraine - sure, Boothroyd suspected that James somehow knew how to hotwire a car - and sure, Boothroyd probably prattled on about his late wife too much, but no one complained in the four hours that they spent working on the car. One thing that Boothroyd noticed but didn’t comment on, however, was the fact that he didn’t see James smile until about the third hour, and even then it was a secret sort of smile, entirely caused by something Q had said. By the fourth hour, the smiles were becoming a bit more common, and Boothroyd sensed a relaxing in the older boy that reminded him of a cat settling down in a new home.
Now it was hour five, and Boothroyd had called back to the Holmes place to reassure them that the boys were still at his place - he’d return them for supper. Said boys had played themselves out, and had both crashed on the dusty old sofa Boothroyd had stashed in the back of the garage, meaning to get rid of it for years. Despite the fact that James had been a bit reserved all evening, he was out cold now, one arm hanging off the side of the sofa - and despite the fact that Q was utterly messy, he was sprawled right on top of the other boy, ensuring now that they were both equally covered in grease. It all made Boothroyd smile, even as he felt a little twinge in his heart at the memory of how he and his wife had never had the kids they’d wanted.
He shuffled back into the house (leaving the door to the garage open so he’d hear if anyone called for him), letting the boys get a well-deserved nap. He went to call the Holmes again, to ask if anyone had decided where James (whom he’d been told was an orphan, although why no one had adopted him Boothroyd couldn’t imagine) would be staying long-term.
~^~
The story after that was simple in some ways, complicated in others.
The simple parts were the most wonderful and the most deserved, in Q’s opinion. In light of recent events, St. Joseph’s Home didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of staying in operation - at least, not with its current faculty, and certainly not with the Holmes family and the Trevelyans teaming up against it. Q was elated when his family got along with Alec’s… although Mother did tend to delicately complain about Mrs. Trevelyan’s tea behind her back. Still, it was worth it to get to see Alec regularly, who had gotten into some minor trouble for his part in all this, but had only been punished with community service.
That first trip to visit Alec was also a bit tangled up with legal stuff, and there was where the ‘complicated’ side of things came in. Yes, St. Joseph’s Home was absolutely atrocious, but also Alec had attacked a young woman and started a fire (Q was quite shocked to hear that but James wasn’t), and James had run off with an underage boy in tow. Being the underage boy in question, Q was more than willing to testify to his willingness to follow James, but that still involved polite statements, apparently. It was all very inconvenient, and it made James anxious and tense in a way that apparently only Q could see. Well, Sherlock could probably see it, too, but he just wanted to be an arse about it, so Q spent the entire car-ride to the Trevelyan’s place trying to guard his best friend from his two brothers. They somehow arrived without a brawl breaking out. Perhaps there would have been a fight, but instead of reacting to Sherlock’s sly teasing and Mycroft’s snooty comments, James was quiet and withdrawn, looking out the window whenever they passed wild, open spaces. Q suddenly wanted to take James out onto the moors again - or at least wished he’d taken James to the little acre of park near their house before they’d left.
By the time they parked on the Trevelyan’s street, Q was leaning hard against James’ shoulder as if he could soak up his silent, hidden distress like a sponge. He wasn’t sure how successful he was.
Fortunately, soon afterwards they were getting out of the car and seeing a familiar face appearing from a familiar house - and Alec was more than willing to help Q brighten James’ day.
It quickly became apparent that Mycroft and Sherlock were going to pay dearly for being smarmy ponces the entire ride here. Then again, even if they had been nice, chances were high that Alec would have made their lives hellish, because clearly Alec’s personality did not mesh with theirs in any way, shape, or form. It was like sticking two Persian housecats into a house with an Australian shepherd dog. Alec was tenacious, energetic, and didn’t really care if he dragged anyone else through the metaphorical mud with him.
What followed was honestly scarily impressive. Sherlock and Mycroft immediately puffed up and postured a bit, the moment they saw Alec’s broad smile and no doubt realized that an element of chaos had entered their ordered, logical lives. Sherlock’s next move was to psychoanalyze a few things about Alec, just as soon as the parents had wandered to the next room, leaving the kiddies alone. The problem was… Alec didn’t care. Sure, Sherlock pulled stuff out of thin air that no one had any right knowing about a person (something that still shocked and unsettled Q from time to time), but Alec was ashamed of exactly zero things about himself, and just replied by saying, “Well spotted. Do you do parties?” Mycroft then stepped in to try and be intimidating, but even Q could see that that was failed from the start, because no amount of vague, threatening insinuations could stop Alec from grinning like he was about to eat Mycroft whole. By the time Mycroft and Sherlock backed down a bit, it was hard to tell if Alec liked Q’s older brothers or hated them, although it was clear that Sherlock and Mycroft were reevaluating James as the lesser of two evils. Q was sort of stunned and horrified, and had long-since slid down to sit against the wall, watching the proceedings as one watched a very slow but inevitable train-wreck.
James had come up and somehow managed to stand over him, so that the youngest Holmes got to sit on James’ feet and lean back against his shins - one glance upwards, however, showed that James was smiling a bit for the first time all day. Upon seeing that look, and James’ increasingly relaxed posture, Q decided that Sherlock and Mycroft’s discomfort was for a good cause.
It all ended with Mycroft declaring that he was going to rejoin “the adults!” and Sherlock wandering off to explore the house on is own, no doubt intent on occupying his mind with other people’s secrets. Only then did Alec turn and soften his smile to something less toothy. “Hey, Jamesy, Q.” Turning his attention downwards to Q as he walked up to them, the Trevelyan boy asked more pointedly, “Those are your older brothers, huh?” Still sitting a bit possessively on James’ feet, Q nodded. “They’re sort of arseholes. How did you end up so likable and adorable?”
The three retired with much laughing to Alec’s room, where they were all able to share tales of what had happened since they’d last parted - from Alec’s fight with Vesper and the ensuing fire he started to Q and James’ ultimately uneventful trek through the moors. Alec liked it when the story reached Q’s family reunion, and especially liked hearing about Boothroyd. Something surprised lit Alec’s green eyes when James started speaking of the older engineer, and Q thought he understood that look: Alec was surprised because James’ words were complimentary, and maybe even held a bit of genuine fondness in them. When Q met Alec’s gaze, the smaller boy smiled and nodded very slightly, and an understanding flowed between them.
It would be not long after that day that Boothroyd would offer to let James stay at his place - more room than at the Holmes’ house, after all, and Boothroyd was honestly incapable of being as nosy as Sherlock and Mycroft. Eventually, staying over would evolve into adoption, even though James would protest that it wasn't necessary, that he was just about old enough to be on his own legally anyway. Boothroyd would insist that this didn’t have anything to do with legality, and he just wanted James in his family. The night Boothroyd declared this, James would go back to the Holmes for the night (Boothroyd said that they both deserved some space to think about this), sleeping in the guest bedroom. Q would sneak in after everyone else was asleep.
Unsurprisingly, he’d find James laying awake, still atop the blankets with one arm behind his head and the other with his fingers drumming restlessly on his trim stomach. The look he was casting at the ceiling was full of more uncertainty than he let the rest of the world see. Therefore, Q felt obliged to crawl up on the bed and sit next to him.
“Nighttime is for sleeping,” Q felt the need to point out.
James snorted but didn’t stop staring into the middle distance. “I’m staying awake doing what Boothroyd told me to do: thinking about all of this.” He gave the hand on his stomach a vague little wave then let it drop again. To the casual observer, his body was lax, but Q could see the tension in it, the readiness to run or fight: the slightly flexed muscles, the closeness to one side of the bed, the way James still dressed in his day-clothes, minus only shoes and socks.
Q nodded acceptingly and rustled around until he could get himself under the covers. Only once he was tucked beneath blankets and wedged up against James’ right shoulder did he comment, “That’s a wise thing to do.”
“And what if he thinks about it, too, and changes his mind?”
Thankfully, Q had been there when Boothroyd had stated his offer, so he was able to press his cheek against James’ near shoulder and reassure, “He promised he wouldn’t.”
James didn’t sleep that night and neither did Q, but it turned out okay in the morning. James went back to Boothroyd’s the next day (with Q, always with Q) and said yes, and paperwork was signed that day, making James part of a family again.
~^~
Much later, in a familiar art gallery…
~^~
It had been too long, but somehow Q still recognized James - even if it was the back of the man’s head, and even if it was in an incongruous place like the National Gallery, where Q would otherwise never have been able to imagine him. Shaking his head but fighting a little smile, Q circled the benches to sit down next to James. They both kept their eyes forward. They both pretended like this was just work, just MI6 business.
But instead of greeting James as 007 like he was supposed to, and professionally handing off the agent’s kit before heading back to Q-branch, the youngest Holmes boy found himself saying, “Did you really have to run off to the Navy just because I kissed you? If anyone knew you could be scared off so easily, I dare say it would ruin your reputation.”
Q kept staring forward, but next to him he heard a small noise that could have been a choke or a stifled chuckle. “I’d like to point out that Alec ran away with me - and you didn’t even kiss him,” the agent rejoined. It was so good to hear that voice again; it had settled onto an accent that was somewhere between old Boothroyd’s and the Holmes family and the Trevelyans. Only Q could probably pick up the many tiny ways in which the accent was so uniquely James’. “And even that Moran kid down the street. Don’t tell me you scared him off with a kiss, too?”
“Unlikely,” Q scoffed, and dared to lean his shoulder over, butting it briefly against Bond’s. He then dared to place on hand on the seat between them, trying to deny that he was quivering with anticipation, with uncertainty.
James hummed as if truly appreciating that answer, although he kept up the facade of looking forward. To all the world, they were simply two colleagues discussing and appreciating a painting of an old warship. “You’re conveniently forgetting that I came back whenever I had shore leave,” James leaned just a bit closer to say. The quickest of glances showed Q that there were playful crows’-feet at the edges of the blue eye he could see; James’ profile revealed the tiniest glimpses of good humor to those who knew where to look for it. James still didn’t smile often or broadly, but Q knew where to look for his laughter even after all these years. Just as James added, “Rather often, if I recall,” the blond-haired agent also put his hand on the bench. Their smallest fingers overlapped, James’ over Q’s.
Relaxing as if the tiny touch were a whole speech of assurances, Q chuffed a little laugh and admitted in a low undertone, “Oh, I do remember. Thoroughly.” He dared lift his pinky finger a little bit, so that it hooked over James’ from underneath. Bond’s hands were more scarred than before, but still utterly familiar.
Now Q could definitely hear the quiet laughter rumbling in James’ chest. “I do my best to be thorough with all my lovers,” he replied cheekily, bringing up all manner of inappropriate memories that had absolutely nothing to do with work. As Q felt his ears heating up, however, James shifted his hand so that it was suddenly covering all of Q’s - no hesitation, no shyness, just a warm squeeze of a calloused palm. When James spoke again it was at a murmur, no teasing to be found, “I do more than my best just for you, though.”
Ah, the fluttering in Q’s chest would never get old. He felt the blush pinking his cheeks further, and fought a very un-Quartermaster-like giggle as he kept staring forward and said, “If I turn my head, you’re going to kiss me in public, aren’t you?”
“Most likely.” James was definitely looking at him now, no longer pretending to inspect the painting. “Everyone tells me that I’ve become quite a shameless cad that way.”
Q snorted, “If they knew you like I do, they’d know that you have always been a shameless cad.” The hand around Q’s gave another squeeze, and gave in quickly when Q wriggled his fingers, wanting to intertwine them instead. “I’m supposed to be giving you your kit, you know - swiftly and efficiently, so that we can both get back to work,” Q remindered, even as he felt a tantalizing warm brush of breath against his left cheek.
“Well, if anyone wanted this to go efficiently, they should have sent Alec to see you instead of me.”
“Alec is about as efficient as a ferret in a box of packing peanuts.”
“That… is a very unexpected yet weirdly accurate metaphor.”
“I aim to surprise and please,” Q drawled, and was then caught by surprise by James’ free hand snaking up and catching his chin. God, but James had gotten quick since entering MI6. In an instant, Q’s mouth was melting into a kiss that he’d been wanting for over a month now - sometimes he missed the days when he and James had lived in the same little town, with such easy access to each other. In full view of anyone at the gallery, the two shared a brief yet unhurried kiss, a space of ten seconds in which they nonetheless managed to reacquaint themselves with old sensations. Thankfully, no one was walking through the room at the time.
When they pulled back, James’ kept his hand on Q’s face, fingers lightly brushing Q’s jaw while blue eyes watched Q attentively. “I aim to surprise and please, too,” James belatedly confirmed, voice perhaps a bit more intimate than before, and a smile perhaps hidden at one corner of his mouth, “But only for people I know are worth it.”
Because Q of all people knew how short a list that was (some parts of James still hadn’t changed, specifically the parts of him that let people in close), the Quartermaster knew the depth of the compliment he was being given. It made his heart squeeze a bit in his chest, and he likewise squeezed the fingers still twined in his left hand. “Come on,” Q said, hushed and still not quite professional, “How about I give you your kit somewhere more private?”
“I thought you and I both had to get back to work.”
“Work can wait.” Q gave James a quick peck on the lips and then stood. “And you’re right - Alec can handle things.”
As James allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, he barely held back laughter, commenting, “That is most definitely not what I said. Alec handles things like kerosine handles a house fire.”
“Another odd but fitting metaphor.”
“Anything to keep up with the wit of my Quartermaster.” James winked. Q still remembered when he’d gone from liking James as a friend to realize that he wanted to do more with him; he was pretty sure it had started with a wink like that.
“Oh, you think you can keep up with me now, do you?” The fact that no one was within hearing range at the moment made Q daring, and he waggled his eyebrows to make the innuendo clear.
“You’re a menace,” James chortled.
“I’m a force of nature,” Q countered, purposefully acting a little bit like his brothers by tipping his head back archly, nose in the air. “There’s a difference.”
Surprisingly, James didn’t argue, and surprised Q again by turning their banter into something soft and intimate. They’d just entered a long, empty hallway, and although one of Q’s hands was occupied by the briefcase containing James’ mission supplies, James reeled him in close. One of Q’s hands still tangled in James’, and the agent’s other hand curled around Q’s back in a hug that brought back memories (although it was less desperate than before, more trusting that this intimacy would last), James looked at Q softly and agreed, “You’re definitely a storm, Q, a force to be reckoned with.” Voice going quieter, so that even Q had to strain to hear in the silence of the gallery hallway, James admitted, “I think all I ever wanted was to be the eye of that storm.”
Q had always known, even when they were younger, that James was too wild, too sharp-edged, to ever be the apple of someone’s eye, the pretty song in their heart, the blithe spring in their step. So somehow, this was only kind of declaration that would have felt real - and, coincidentally, it was the kind of declaration that would survive the best in their shared lives at MI6. There would be storms ahead for sure.
Q leaned in, as he once had, and pressed his cheek against James’ stubbled jaw, shivering as he felt and heard James’ surprised little exhale - this from a man trained not to be surprised, not to reveal anything. “You always were,” Q assured, “and I always want you to be.”
They just stood there like that for a long time, half-hugging, half just leaning into each other, and even though people walked by, everyone was smart enough not to say a word.
~^~
The End