Chapter Text
It seemed long ago that Sir James Bond swore his oath to Queen and Country. He had been so very young when he knelt before the throne, taken Queen Olivia’s hand in his, and kissed her ring in a public promise of loyalty. Not even twenty, he had bowed his head and taken the duty of an honourable Knight of her Court. He had gone on to serve her in combat for ten years, protecting the borders from enemies. After an injury on the battlefield weakened his ability with a sword, Bond then returned to the Highlands to act as head of her royal guard for another decade. She was a fierce, firm leader, carved from ice and stone, and although she could be unkind, she was never cruel. Everything she did was for her people, who loved her, just as her Knights loved her, just as Bond loved her as the mother he never had.
And then, in less than a fortnight, he had lost her.
An illness came with the summer and took her away, just as it had done the King not even two years previous. The apothecary had been helpless to stop it, the fever that ravaged her for days before she finally succumbed. Stubborn to the end.
With no immediate Mansfield heir--illegitimate or otherwise--the Court had no choice but to reach for the closest bloodline within the Queen’s extended family.
That was when Q came.
00Q00Q00Q
His name was Quillian Gaskell, the only son of Queen Olivia’s long deceased sister. She had been married off to a Duke of England, dying soon after Quillian was born. The Duke passed on only a few years after, leaving the boy to be raised by estranged family, house staff, and tutors. He had never been informed that he had a ruling monarch for an aunt in Scotland until her death. Other than those facts, Bond knew very little of the man, only glimpsing him momentarily at the funeral. He seemed far, far too young for the role of king, face pale and body waif-like in his mourning clothes. Two weeks later, when Bond attended his coronation--a happy occasion filled with visitors, a tournament, and a lavish feast--he looked just as fragile.
Throughout the proceedings, the King was quite reserved. His words were soft spoken, but concise, very much like the Queen’s had been. But where she commanded a room, he disappeared in it, and Bond worried for the kingdom. With such a ruler, how would they ever survive against their enemies?
“He seems frail,” Sir Trevelyan commented, as they took their rounds one evening. The partygoers had long since gone and many had worked in the fields all day reaping their harvests, so the streets were all but deserted. Still, Bond preferred to err on the side of caution.
“You shouldn’t say such things where so many ears can hear you,” Bond warned him.
“But he does, doesn’t he?” Trevelyan continued. “Not at all like the Queen. He probably won’t last the winter here.”
Bond refrained from comment, not wanting to utter his true thoughts, for they might be misconstrued as treason.
00Q00Q00Q
Bond had very little contact with the king, who he always seemed to catch out of the corner of his eye in corridors or sideways through angled windows. He saw him at court, of course, and the day the knights of the realm took their oath to serve him. But otherwise, the King remained elusive and out of sight, the complete opposite of his predecessor, who always had her finger in every metaphorical (and sometimes, actual) pie, when she was not attending to royal matters.
So it was a surprise when Bond came across him one rainy afternoon in a less-travelled corridor on the southeast side of the castle. Bond had cut through to avoid the rain en route to his rooms, and it was there that he discovered the King in all his finery, tucked into a stone alcove with his knees to his chest as if a child.
He seemed to take no notice of Bond, looking out the window at the rain, but then he asked:
“What do you see?”
There was something striking about the question, something that went straight to Bond’s core with an indescribable yearning and sorrow. It left him with barely enough breath, no control over the words that gracelessly tumbled from his lips.
“Nothing but rain, I’m afraid,” Bond replied, then hastily bowed his head respectfully when he realised he hadn’t done so, “your majesty.”
But the King seemed not to pay him any mind, still focussed on the foliage beyond the window.
“It rains here often, does it not?”
His voice was so soft that Bond barely heard him. It was not the voice of the king, but someone who might be mistaken as infirmed. Looking at him, Bond thought a stiff breeze might carry him away, and wondered if he were ill.
“It does indeed, your majesty,” Bond answered.
Something crossed the man’s expression that seemed to border between fatigued and annoyed.
“Please, no need for that.”
“Then what should I call you, your majesty?”
“Q is fine,” he replied. “I’m not used to such...formalities.”
Bond kept his expression neutral, not wanting his confusion to show. Certainly the son of a Duke would have a title and be accustomed to the lifestyle that came with it? An abundance of servants and lavish parties and gilted finery, all those things that Queen Olivia took in small doses and self-restraint. But it seemed that his king was more than he appeared, as mysterious as the single letter he preferred over his given name.
“It’s...surely not appropriate…?” Bond ventured, striving for some propriety.
“I am the King, am I not? Certainly I should be permitted to decide what is appropriate and what isn’t?” Q inquired.
“Of course…” Bond replied, still slightly unsure.
“Go on, say it.”
“Of course... Q.”
Q smiled, as if they were friends, and there was something about it that made Bond both giddy and nervous.
“Thank you. And what might I call you?”
“I am Bond. Lord James Bond of Skyfall.”
“Skyfall,” Q repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now that’s a melancholy name. Skyfall.”
“I suppose so.”
“Might I call you James? Or is that inappropriate?”
Q grinned, and Bond had to wonder if he imagined a bit of mischief beneath the playfulness he saw there.
“You may call me whatever you wish.”
“James,” he said, and smiled that smile again before turning back to look out the window. “You were close with my aunt, were you not?”
“I served her for many years,” Bond answered.
“What was she like?” Q asked, his voice almost childlike in its inquiry.
“A remarkable Queen,” Bond replied.
“But what was she like?” Q pressed.
“Stubborn, but fair. Even-tempered, always well-spoken. She could be harsh, but only when the situation called for it.”
Q nodded, expression unreadable, but Bond had a feeling he had not answered the question to his satisfaction.
“Would you mind?” Q asked, holding out his hand to Bond. His fingers were long and pale, his wrists so small that Bond did not doubt he could easily break the bones with a single squeeze. When Bond took hold of his hand, the flesh felt cool and dry, as if he had been sitting in the window seat for hours in the chill of the unlit corridor.
Q stood with his aid, almost as tall as Bond when they were side by side. So close, Bond could not help but observe the King’s beauty; he had skin as smooth and pale as any maiden and thick, dark waves of hair. But most stunning were his eyes, a green deeper and richer than any forest Bond had ever seen. The king turned his face toward Bond, slightly angled to the left so that his gaze fell just short of Bond’s, resting at his shoulder, just below his ear.
And that was when Bond realised that his king was as beautiful as he was afflicted.
Q was blind.
00Q00Q00Q
After that day, the King began requesting Bond for escort and consul. These meetings were stiff and formal at first, but soon turned into enjoyable, relaxing occasions that Bond most looked forward to in between his other duties. They reminded him of his days with Queen Olivia, who would often call on him for a verbal spar or two about literature or war tactics. But with Q, there was only passionate discussion and lighthearted disagreement. Their topics varied from science and philosophy to mythology and their time together could stretch for hours without either of them noticing.
“Have you read it?” Q asked.
It was the first day without rain, so they had taken the opportunity to walk out of doors that afternoon. With the garden paths too muddy, Bond kept them contained to the courtyard, a steadying arm supporting Q as they tread over rain slick cobblestones. Bond had been too busy watching Q’s footing to have been paying much mind to the question.
“Read what?” Bond inquired.
“Was I boring you with my conversation?” Q replied, raising an eyebrow in Bond’s general direction.
“Not at all, your majesty. Just making sure you don’t break your royal neck.”
Q laughed, as light and clear as a spring day.
“Very considerate of you.”
They walked a few more steps without incident, and then Bond said:
“Wait, you can read?”
“Of course I can.”
“Even with…” Bond trailed off uncertainly.
They had never outright spoken of Q’s affliction. From afar, Q seemed capable as anyone, but sometimes Bond saw him stumble, saw him reach out to steady himself in a corridor, noticed that he sometimes used a cane that he tapped on nearby objects to avoid running into them. The court knew, of course, but did a good job of hiding it from others, not wanting it to be a known fact that their new king had such a weakness.
“I’m not blind, you know,” Q said, pressing his fingers against Bond’s wrist lightly. The simple touch had Bond’s blood singing a chorus of inappropriate desire, which he wrestled down out of sheer willpower.
“I take it from your silence that you doubt me?”
“You nearly toppled down the stairs the other day,” Bond reminded him. If it hadn’t been for Bond’s quick reflexes, he might not have caught Q’s arm just in time, pulled him to his chest just so to feel the brush of a silken curl against his chin. Bond would not admit to the traitorous thoughts that entered his mind in that moment, and later that evening when he was alone. Although the Knights sometimes engaged in such activities when on the war front, they were quiet, unspoken of affairs between men of equal standing. Thinking of Q that way would be dishonourable. Bond glanced away from Q and looked in the other direction, despite his king’s inability to see his flush. He cleared his throat. “And you walked into a door less than a fortnight ago.”
“Gracefully,” Q corrected him. “I walked into that door gracefully, like a King would, of course.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t injure yourself,” Bond said.
“Oh, yes. A true tragedy if I ruined this pretty face?” Q answered, with nothing but humour.
“The worst sort,” Bond agreed.
They turned round the edge of the courtyard, passing by a group of knights on patrol. Bond’s men glanced at them curiously, but continued on their way. It wasn’t until they were out of range that Q continued their conversation.
“No, but not blind. Not completely. I can see, just a bit,” Q explained. “Distance is impossible for me, but I can see some shapes. Colours mostly. Some detail up close, too. I can read, too, it just takes some time. I get headaches if I force myself, so I often times find myself imploring someone to read to me.”
“Would you like that?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself.
“Like what?” Q asked.
“Someone to read to you. I could, I, that is, if you would like,” Bond offered, doing his best not to jumble his words.
Q smiled and the tips of his cool fingers brushed the back of Bond’s hand.
“I would like that very much.”
00Q00Q00Q
With the beginning of autumn came the final harvest, a pressing time for the kingdom as winter approached. The window between the start of the season and the first frost seemed to shorten every year.
The King was undoubtedly busy at this time, and Bond rarely saw him. When their paths crossed, Bond referred to him as your majesty and bowed as he was expected, but they did not converse more than a few words at a time. It was customary, for although the knights were Lords in their own right, their noble blood was there for service of royalty and nothing more.
But although Q was kingly in public, he was never unkind. Much like his aunt, he listened more than he spoke, regardless of class differences, and Bond heard much praise of him in the streets and taverns as the weeks passed.
“They’re my people now. You all are. And a King is nothing without his people,” Q said, when Bond brought it up. They were in Q’s private chambers, where Q was Q and Bond was James and the book they had been reading together had been long forgotten.
“That’s wise from someone so young,” Bond commented, as he stood up to stretch his legs.
“I am not that young,” Q replied, frowning as he always did when Bond quipped about his age.
“Younger than me.”
“Of course. You’re ancient.”
Bond picked up a tasseled pillow from Q’s bed and tossed it at him. It hit Q on the side of the head, knocking his crown askew. Q gave him a long-suffering look as he righted the crown, but Bond could tell he was trying for sternness, when in reality he was doing his best to not smile.
“You just threw a pillow at a blind man.”
“You called me old.”
“A blind man who is also your King.”
“Don’t pull the blind card. You said you’re not blind.”
“You threw a pillow at your King.”
Bond should have been horrified at his behaviour, but something about Q brought out a playfulness in him he thought had abandoned him long ago.
“You called me old,” Bond said again.
“You called yourself old,” Q replied.
Bond felt his mouth quirking in a grin, something that he couldn’t quite help.
“You know I’m right, so stop smiling,” Q warned him.
“I’m not smiling.”
“I can hear you smiling.”
“I am not smiling.”
Q threw the pillow back at him with surprisingly good aim. Bond leant to the side, sending the offending object whizzing past his ear.
“You almost had me,” Bond said.
“One of these days, I will,” Q answered.
There was something about the way he said it that made Bond take pause. Q cleared his throat and began touching the things on his desk unnecessarily, trying to look busy.
“Don’t you have something to do?” Q asked.
“I was reading to you,” Bond reminded him, returning to the chair next to Q’s desk. He picked up the neglected book and tried to find the paragraph where they had left off. “Did we talk about how sinful it is to lie with goats?”
“No, so now I think you’ve gone and spoiled the ending,” Q said, and he was smiling now, though Bond wished it was at him instead of his right elbow.
He closed the book and placed it on the desk.
“Q,” Bond began, but stopped when there was a light tapping on the door.
“Come in,” Q called, and the door opened. A man appeared, one of the servants that had come with Q on his journey from the south. He bowed his head respectfully to Q and to Bond, but his eyes looked uneasy. He shifted something in his hands, as if trying to hide it from Bond’s gaze.
“Apologies to disrupt you, your majesty,” the man began, and glanced again at Bond as if nervous, “but I’ve brought, ah, what you requested.”
“It’s alright. Sir Bond is aware of my condition. There is no need for such delicacy,” Q replied, and the man breathed a sigh of quiet relief. His hands revealed a small bottle of yellow liquid with a crystal stopper, which he placed into Q’s outstretched palm. “Thank you, Dreyfus. And goodnight.”
“Goodnight your majesty,” he said, and was gone as quickly as he came.
Q placed the bottle on the table, his fingers tracing over the smooth edges, pensive.
“It’s getting late. Perhaps we should retire,” Q said, more like a king and less like the man Bond had come to know in the past months.
“What is it?” Bond asked, and when Q did not answer, he stretched his hand across the desk, tracing the tips of his fingers along the side of Q’s. The skin was soft beneath his calluses.
“An elixir,” Q answered, without pulling away, “for my health. I take it every evening.”
Bond couldn’t control the jerk of his fingers at the words, at the thought of Q being ill and needing potions from the apothecary on a daily basis.
“I’m fine,” Q said, as if reading his thoughts, “it’s for my eyes. A fever took my sight when I was young, but this has enabled me to retain a small portion of vision.”
“Oh,” Bond said, feeling foolish. “Do you...need help?”
He thought Q might become sullen with stubbornness, as he sometimes did when Bond offered to do something that Q thought he could do himself. But there was only a bit of vulnerability in Q when he said:
“If you would, please.”
Q instructed him from there, directing him towards flannels and a wash basin filled with cool water.
“You have to use it all, even if I tell you I don’t want it,” Q explained, when Bond returned with the items.
“Does it hurt?” Bond asked, and Q smiled something sad at him.
“Doesn’t everything?”
Bond did not answer, not wanting to think about the injury to his shoulder that had taken him from the battlefields, not wanting to think about losing Queen Olivia before her time, not wanting to think any sad thoughts when he felt the strands of Q’s silken hair against his palm as he tipped his head back gently.
He then reached for the vial. The stopper doubled as an instrument for dropping solution into the eyes, mouth, or nose, something Bond had become familiar with on the battlefield. But here, in Q’s room, Bond was not prepared for the way Q hissed as the liquid blossomed goldenrod in his unseeing eyes. The excess medicine trickled from the corners of his eyes, diluted with tears, and Bond hurried to blot it away with a damp cloth.
He did this until the vial was empty, two more times, all while telling himself that Q wasn’t crying, not really, not even when the liquid coming from his eyes began to run clear. Bond knelt before Q’s chair, pressing the cool fabric to his trembling lids until the discharge stopped.
“Alright?” Bond asked, as Q blinked and squinted in discomfort.
Bond leant in closer, cloth at the ready should he find any lingering solution. But all he saw was the deep green of Q’s irises, remarkably clear and unclouded despite his condition. And so very, very beautiful. It took him a moment too long to realise how inappropriate his thoughts were, and regretfully Bond began to withdraw, but a gentle hand stilled him before he could move too far.
“Your eyes are blue.”
“Hm?” Bond asked, dabbing at Q’s cheek with the flannel, anything to distract himself from the feelings he knew he ought not to feel. And it was difficult when Q had his hand on Bond’s arm, when they were close enough that Bond could see the residual droplets of golden elixir in Q’s eyelashes.
“They’re beautiful.”
Bond didn’t know what to say, because Q was looking at him, really looking and he felt it again: that rush of something so striking that Bond forgot how to breathe, like he had the day they met and Q had asked what do you see?
“I’m sorry,” Q said, averting his eyes, “you must forgive me. It’s not often that someone comes close enough for me to see them clearly.”
There was desire there, Bond could tell, even if the words were not uttered. Bond could read it in Q’s body, the flush of his skin, the redness to his lips, and it was very, very wrong, but.
Instead of retreating, Bond moved closer, brushing his lips against Q’s. It was the epitome of impropriety, but Bond could not resist, not when his days had been filled with Q’s voice and laughter and his nights were nothing but loneliness and desire for the next accidental brush of hands and fingers and skin.
“I’m sorry,” Bond said when he pulled back, bowing his head. The heat of his skin abated somewhat, clearing his thoughts. Despite their apparently mutual feelings they could be nothing more than what they were. Society would not stand for it; even a private union between them would be shameful, especially if ever exposed. It could ruin Q, which was the last thing Bond could ever wish. “It was inappropriate.”
“It was,” Q said.
His fingers came to Bond’s hair and moved through the short strands, as gentle as a lover’s caress. Bond shivered under the touch, which trailed from temple to jaw to chin, and before he could stop himself, Bond reached for Q’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed the peaks of Q’s knuckles, close, yet so far from where the king’s signet ring rested on his second to last finger. It was dangerous, yes, but Bond could think of no worse punishment than not ever having placed his lips to the sweet, pale flesh of such beautiful hands.
“I can forgive you,” Q continued, and turned his hand to brush his thumb across Bond’s lips, “but only if you promise me one thing.”
Bond looked up at Q, whose expression was unreadable.
“Anything,” Bond replied.
“You must promise me,” Q began, with a sternness that only a king could possess, “that these lips are mine and mine alone.”
And then Q smiled, easing the stitch of doubt and fear in Bond’s chest. It would be dangerous, yes, but a happiness that Bond knew would be worth it.
So the knight took his king’s hand and pressed those pale fingers to his mouth, where he kissed the very tips of them as he smiled, too.
“I can think of no higher honour, your majesty.”