Chapter Text
While things at Six are still getting sorted, Bond spends his time getting acclimated to his new living situation.
But after almost two weeks, Bond thinks he’s got it mostly figured out.
There’s the basics, of course:
- Keep the curtains closed during the day (an easy one, what with
- both of them biologically predisposed to being nocturnal and
- the fact that it’s integral to Q’s safety, lest he possibly, probably[?] combust in full sun);
- Remember to take rubbish out on Thursday nights and bring the bins the following morning (Q had actually been serious about this one, but perhaps not as serious as the neighbours, who, judging from the meticulous states of their front gardens, would absolutely come round if the bins were not off the kerb by the appropriate hour on Friday mornings); and
- Do not feed the cats, even if they are begging (because, as Bond learned quickly: they are not starving, they have eaten, they are just being manipulative).
Then there’s the advanced courses:
- The thermostat (set to a crisp 66 degrees) should never be touched under any circumstances; in fact, don’t even look at it; pretend it doesn’t exist at all;
- Some very human essentials (such as coffee and toilet paper) are not things that Q keeps in the house, which had come as a bit of a nasty shock to Bond one morning (actually, the same morning) which lead to a very hasty shower and an even hastier trip to the shops; and
- To respect the very pointed warning from Q that Bond should never, ever (barring matters of national security classed at or above JTAC’s threat level CRITICAL) wake Q up from the deepest part of his sleep, which falls sometime between 1200 and 1500 hours, unless he wanted to lose an eye or a limb.
So even though it’s been a long while since he’s cohabitated with someone–the last being Alec, who Bond would die for, but never, ever live with again, for the sake of his own sanity–and even longer since that person had not been one of his own species, he thinks that he’s learned the most important things about Q and this place he now calls his home.
Or at least, this is what he believes, until Bond walks into the kitchen one evening and finds Q drinking a cup of tea and having a bite of toast with butter and jam.
It’s so ordinary, so pedestrian, that Bond has to do a double take. And when he does, Q is still there with a half-eaten bit of toast in one hand and a steaming mug of tea in the other. The mug has the Scrabble letter Q emblazoned on the front. It would be charmingly domestic if it wasn’t so jarring.
“Good morning,” Q says, sounding half-asleep, before he takes another bite of toast. “I put the coffee on for you.”
Bond watches him, agape. He’d seen Q occasionally partake in a beverage–a tumbler of scotch, a cup of tea that he sipped at more than drank, and never finished–but Bond had never, ever seen him consume actual human food.
“You can eat?” Bond asks, and then, to clarify: “Real food, I mean.”
Q blinks sleepily at him as he chews, then swallows.
“Yes,” Q says, very matter-of-fact, like it’s common knowledge that vampires can go about snacking on buttered toast by day and human blood by night. “I hope you don’t mind. I helped myself to some of your bread and milk.”
Still in disbelief, Bond looks at the loaf of bread in its bag next to the toaster and at the opened carton of milk beside it, then back at the toast in Q’s hand, the steaming cup of tea at his elbow. It’s not so much that he’s bothered by Q helping himself to his recently-purchased groceries, but the fact that he didn’t think vampires could physically consume human food. He had certainly never seen his vampire targets partaking in any meal that did not involve fresh blood.
“Do you...need to?” Bond asks. “Eat food, I mean.”
“No,” Q replies, and then, as if sensing Bond’s confusion: “I don’t require any sort of caloric intake to survive. I just like the taste.”
“Of…toast and jam?”
Q regards his pink, glistening toast.
“It’s strawberry.”
He offers the toast to Bond, as if to prove his point that the food is delicious and worth consuming. To Bond, the gesture means something more. It’s intimate, among wolves, to share food so readily, and Bond wants to accept, to show that he appreciates this level of trust, but the scent of sugar is almost overwhelming, and Bond turns his nose away.
“Too sweet.”
“Your loss,” Q says, and continues eating.
Bond watches, waits until he’s done. There’s a smudge of jam on his upper lip, but before Bond can get to it, Q licks it away with his tongue. Bond watches, transfixed. Q notices, of course.
“What?”
“You like sweet things?” he asks.
“Hm, I suppose,” Q says, and then leans on the counter with his tea in one hand. “Why?”
“Your tea is sweet too,” Bond says, nodding at the cup. He can smell the sweetness from where he stands, see how the liquid is pale from cream and sugar. “Do you only like sweets?”
Q hums thoughtfully.
“My sense of smell, when it comes to human food, is very weak,” Q says, and then, at Bond’s blank look, continues: “Sense of smell is related to taste. Because vampires don’t need to eat food, our enhanced senses lie elsewhere. So if I want to enjoy food, it has to smell very sweet, or very spicy, so I can taste it.”
It makes sense, Bond supposes. Most animals rely on scent to determine if something is food, if it is suitable to eat, and if it is pleasing enough to eat again.
“Sweetness is probably my favourite, though. I think it’s the best tasting thing for the least amount of effort,” Q says.
“Lazy,” Bond teases.
Q shrugs and drinks his tea. When he finishes, he sets the cup in the sink, then puts the bread and milk away. Bond watches from the doorway as he washes the cup, then the empty jar of jam. After both have been put on the drying rack, Q goes to the pantry and produces another jar of strawberry jam.
Bond blinks.
“You have a stash?” he asks.
“You make it sound like I’m a hoarder,” Q says, amused, as he puts the jar into the fridge.
Bond wonders why he does this, as it would be fine at room temperature, but perhaps it tastes better to Q when it’s cold.
“How much more do you have?” Bond asks.
Distracted by the excitement of learning the body and pleasures of a new lover–and believing that Q didn’t use the room for much of anything except the icebox–Bond hadn’t looked too closely at the kitchen in all his time here. He’d only recently purchased the coffee maker and some groceries to save himself from having to put trousers on and walk down the street to the nearest cafe or grocery to pick up something to eat. It’s silly, in retrospect, to think that he had done this for so long, but Bond was still learning the etiquette of it all, and wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to eat food in front of someone who couldn’t.
Bond wonders how many other misconceptions he harboured.
When he goes to look in the pantry cabinet, he finds that it’s rather bare. There are some extra boxes of cleaning supplies on the top shelves–sponges, disinfectant towels, garbage bags–and a few things on the middle shelves: clear containers of cat food and treats; an entire shelf is dedicated to tins of wet food. But there on the bottom two shelves are discrete little bamboo bins filled with sweets. There are glass jars of spreads--various marmalades and butters made from fruit or nuts or chocolate--alongside brightly-coloured boxes of biscuits; rainbow-shimmering bags of candied fruits tucked neatly next to stacks of silver-wrapped bars of chocolate. It’s like a child had been given the family spending card to buy groceries, and this is what they thought was suitable sustenance.
“You’re telling me you actually eat this stuff?” Bond asks, picking up a sleeve of frosted biscuits to look at the sugar content on the back. His eyebrows raise at the triple digits printed there. “You’re going to rot your teeth out.”
Q makes a face.
“I won’t,” he says, but sounds a little uncertain.
“You can’t just eat sweets,” Bond says.
“I don’t need to eat, I just like to,” Q reminds him. “Nutritional value is irrelevant.”
“Please tell me you actually eat real food,” Bond says, turning over a bar of white chocolate in his hands. He doesn’t even think that this is real eating chocolate, but rather baking chocolate, which makes it all somehow worse. “Something that isn’t processed sugar?”
Q sniffs.
“I sometimes order from this Indian place round the corner,” Q offers.
Wondering what else he’s missed, Bond opens a few more cabinets, only finding the barest of necessities: a few bowls, mugs, and plates. The drawers are relatively empty aside from Q’s collection of hand lotions, some mismatched flatware, and a lone spatula. Outside of an old pack of batteries and the few things that Bond had purchased, the fridge and icebox are in a similar state of emptiness. The only thing on the counter is the kettle, a toaster oven, and Bond’s newly purchased coffee maker. Q doesn’t even have condiments or spices. He doesn’t even have table salt. Bond realises now he should have added a lot more things to the grocery list. In his defence, he’d really only been thinking about coffee the last time he’d gone out.
“You don’t cook,” Bond says, not asks, as he looks in the lower cabinets for a frying pan, a pot to boil water, but there is nothing.
“No,” Q says, and then: “it’s hard for me to cook. All of the different ingredients, when they’re separate, don’t smell like food to me. So if I want something, I just eat biscuits. Or order out.”
That settles it for Bond. He closes the cabinet doors and stands up determinedly.
“I’m going to make you something,” Bond says. “Real food.”
Q blinks. He is sitting on the edge of the counter in his dressing gown, looking at Bond quizzically.
“You like to cook?”
“I do,” Bond says, and meets Q’s grey-green gaze purposefully when he adds: “when it’s for two.”
The corner of Q’s mouth quirks, and then he’s smiling, in the way that reaches all the way to his eyes.
“Well, what are you going to make me?”
“Well, first, I’m going to need some equipment,” Bond says.
Q grins now.
“Luckily, that’s my specialty.”
The investigatory period continues to drag on at Six, leaving Bond in that nebulous in-between where he’s still a Double-Oh agent, but in title only. Mallory’s keeping him grounded, which Bond knows is warranted--what with his involvement in the entire ordeal now codenamed, to his distaste, Skyfall--but that doesn’t mean he’s thrilled about it. Not only is he stuck waiting for the green light to return to duty, but he also has to make himself available at any hour to Six’s legal team, answering the same series of questions again and again.
Every time Bond meets them in the tiny, windowless room, it seems like they are trying to catch him in a lie. The truth is, there are no lies to tell, and if there were, Bond is skilled enough that they would never know. What irks him about all of it are two things: the first, that his future lies in the hands of a bunch of civilians and bureaucrats with no understanding of the job or its risks; and the second: that Q is also tangled up in it.
At the start of the investigation, Q had been stripped of his official title of Quartermaster, but then, not even two weeks later, been backhandedly reinstated in a peripheral “consultant” capacity to help with the deluge of work in TSS after the Silva hack.
Despite what Bond considers to be an insulting demotion, no one seems to pay it any mind. No one said anything contrary when Q kept his corner office, reserved for the Quartermaster, or reported him to the higher ups for retaining access to servers, facilities, and communications channels that he didn’t have clearance for. The staff also continued to call him Q, even though his temporary work badge didn’t bother with a name or photo, and simply read TSS CONSULTANT 017.
“It’s insulting,” Bond says, as he’s said dozens of times before in the past few days since this has been official.
“It’s very noble that you’re so concerned,” Q tells him, typing away on his computer without pausing, “but don’t waste your energy, especially with this bunch. Everything passes in time, one way or another.”
Bond knows that this is meant to be reassuring, coming from a lifetime experience that stretches almost double of his own, but it sits wrong with him all the same. He glares at the offending red badge clipped to the pocket of Q’s cardigan.
“They’re going to try to place the blame on you,” Bond says, and then, angrily: “It’s not fair.”
Q stops now, and turns in his chair to regard Bond, who is leaning in the doorway to his office with a paper bag of takeaway in one hand.
“Ah, so is this a last meal, then?” Q asks.
Bond looks down at the bag. If he’s learned anything since discovering that Q can eat, it's that Q likes spicy food almost as much as sweets. With nothing much to do while stuck in this endless holding pattern–other than run the treadmill in the gym and lurk around the upper management offices to make Mallory’s staff uncomfortable–Bond has made it his mission to find the hottest curry in London. He thinks he might have succeeded; he hasn’t even put the food in his mouth and the heat already chafes at his tongue.
“Don’t say that,” Bond says.
Q smiles, and Bond feels some of the tension release from his shoulders. But some of the worry remains, coiled under his sternum. He’s finally started to feel like he’s gotten his feet back under him after M’s death, and Q has been that steady, guiding presence that’s gotten him here. Bond doesn’t want to think about what life will be like, going back out into the field, but Q not at the other end of the comms.
“You’re the one who looks so morose,” Q tells him.
Bond comes into the office and closes the door behind him.
“I just don’t like seeing good people get fucked over,” Bond says.
“Are you saying I’m good people?”
“Jury’s out on that one.”
Q frowns adorably at him.
“Rude.”
Bond laughs.
“I think you’re alright.”
Q tilts his head in Bond’s direction with a raised brow.
“Just alright?”
Bond smiles out of the corner of his mouth.
“Better than most.”
Q smiles back.
“Hm, I suppose that’ll have to do,” Q says.
He leans his chin on his palm and looks pointedly at the bag. Bond gets the memo and begins unpacking it. Even ensconced in plastic and styrofoam, the spices are so strong that Bond feels his eyes watering.
“It makes sense though,” Q replies, making a grabby hands motion at one of the takeaway containers: “I am the newest acquisition, liable to make mistakes. What’s curious is that our sandbox system failed.”
“What do you mean?” Bond asks, handing over the container.
“Well, the whole point of the sandbox was that Silva’s computer couldn’t get onto the network. But somehow, it did.” Q looks at his monitor, suddenly deep in thought. “It’s convenient, is all. I’m doing a little bit of digging myself.”
Bond hands him a sleeve of plastic cutlery.
“Anything, yet?” Bond asks.
“Nothing concrete,” Q frowns at his screen, tapping the packet against the top of his takeaway box thoughtfully, “but I’m chasing a few leads.”
“Well, when you find the person responsible,” Bond says, with enough emphasis that the rest of the words don’t have to be spoken aloud.
Q turns away from the screen to regard him; he looks exceptionally pleased.
“My hero,” Q says.
“I’m serious,” Bond says.
“I am, too.”
Bond blames the heat in his face on the bite of curry he’s just shovelled into his mouth.
“Regardless of the lead, what do you think they’ll do to you?” Bond asks.
“Well, they’ve got two choices, don’t they?”
Bond hums. He had said the same thing not so long ago to M. Hire me or fire me.
“Do you think they’ll fire you?” he asks.
Q smiles, and it’s so soft that Bond feels his heart stutter.
“Are you really that worried about me?”
“I think it would be a waste of time to worry about you,” Bond says.
Q smirks now, and opens the lid of his curry, which had been marked with the words DEATH SPICY!!! on the lid in red ink. The entire room suddenly smells a few degrees hotter. It assaults Bond’s nose, right at the border of almost too much.
“Well, I suppose we’ll see what happens,” Q says, spooning a healthy amount of curry on top of an equally healthy helping of rice.
“What will you do?” Bond asks, hating that he’s even entertaining the thought, “if they don’t keep you?”
“What happened to it being a waste of time to worry about me?” Q asks.
Bond feels like he’s been caught in a trap, but Q’s smiling in a way that is soft, and pleased, and Bond feels some of the tension leave him.
“Maybe I’m worrying about me?” Bond suggests.
“Oh?” Q replies, sounding amused.
“Who’s going to take care of me out in the field if you’re gone?”
Q hums.
“Well, I suppose it is best if I stay on then,” Q says, “to make sure you return in one piece.” And then he adds, quite perfunctory: “Unlike your equipment.”
Bond groans at the verbal jab.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Bond asks.
“If you could help yourself, I wouldn’t have to,” Q points out.
Bond shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“I’ll do better,” Bond says.
“No you won’t,” Q says.
“I’ll try to do better,” Bond amends.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Bond leans his chin on his hand.
“Am I still your favourite?”
“I don’t play favourites,” Q says, but he’s smiling in that way that goes all the way to his eyes, turning them brilliant green. “Though if you do bring more of this curry round, I might revisit the concept.”
Bond smiles too.
“Noted.”
The only benefit to being grounded is that Bond’s schedule becomes more consistent. He thought he might resent it, the never-changing, pedestrian nature of an ordinary routine–grocery shopping and folding laundry and sorting the recycling–but there’s something reassuring knowing that he can make plans without hesitating, because he knows he’ll be in the same place come dinner time.
It’s different than before, when his life had been a series of missions abroad that always ended in the same dark London flat: alone and with nothing to do except drink until he couldn’t see straight and sleep until the resulting headache went away.
With Q, it’s coming back to a place where two cats greet them at the door–well perhaps more accurately stated is one and a half, as Silas has warmed to him and comes readily, but the other remains a safe distance away, watching from the tops of bookshelves or beneath the legs of tables--and where the two of them share a meal, a bed. As the sun rises, Bond falls asleep with his arms round Q, and when the sun sets, he wakes to the cool wing of a pale shoulder beneath his lips, a riot of dark hair against his cheek, and the soothing, soft scent of winter.
What’s also different is that Bond cooks.
Having been on his own for so long, Bond hadn’t cooked seriously in a long while. He considered it too much effort to shop and clean when it was just himself, choosing simple staple foods: eggs, rice, and pasta. But now that he has the opportunity to cook for two, he finds himself looking forward to getting back into the kitchen.
At first, he worried that he might have forgotten how, after years of not having practised. But it comes back like muscle memory, like riding a bike, and Bond starts filling the empty parts of his day finding new recipes online or thinking about new, exciting dishes to create to meet Q’s curiously strange palate.
This excitement may also be attributed to the fact that he usually has a very rapt and attentive audience, as Q likes to stand in the doorway to the kitchen and watch Bond work. Sometimes he’ll taste, but only sometimes: cheeses, mostly, and sauces. Bond learns quickly that he has no interest in bread or raw fruits or vegetables. The one time Bond convinced him to try a raw mushroom, he’d eaten it with the saddest sort of expression, as if Bond had betrayed his trust.
“What’s the face for?” Bond asked.
“It doesn’t taste like anything,” Q mourned. “It’s just…spongy.”
“They’ll taste better with this sauce,” Bond assured him.
He redeemed himself with the sauce, and Q always ate his cooking afterwards, but a raw vegetable, never again.
“What do you think?” Bond asks.
Tonight, they are seated at the table outside of the kitchen, tucking into their dinner of wasabi salmon with miso glazed bok choy and caramelised shiitake mushrooms. Q has tasted everything, as he usually does: one bite of each part of the dish separately, and each time, he savours it, closes his eyes, and hums.
“I think you missed your calling,” Q says.
“That’s what you said last night,” Bond reminds him.
Last night had been a ginger marinated steak, baked brussels sprouts with garlic aioli, and butternut squash risotto. A little sweet on the risotto, in Bond’s opinion, but Q had eaten every bite.
“Well, it bears repeating,” Q says, spearing a mushroom onto his fork. “I’m constantly amazed that you can make these tasteless, spongy things so delicious.”
Bond’s not used to praise, and doesn’t know what to do with it, that warm feeling it elicits.
“I should learn to make something,” Q says, “for you.”
Somehow, that makes him even warmer than the compliment.
“You don’t have to do that,” Bond says.
“I want to,” Q says. “I probably won’t be very good at it, but I’d like to try. For you.”
Bond wonders if Q knows how his words affect him sometimes, his clear, unfiltered honesty, and how it makes something hard stick in his throat with affection.
“I’d like that,” Bond says.
“Really?” Q asks.
Bond smiles.
“Really.”
Their domestic routine ends after a few weeks, when the investigation concludes. Both Bond and Q are exonerated, their official titles returned, and not even a few hours later, Bond has a file folder in his hand and boarding passes printed in his cover name.
“Will you miss me?” Bond asks, as Q hands over his kit.
“I can’t miss you if you don’t leave,” Q says.
Bond leans in closer. They are at the front of the branch, where anyone can see them. But the night shift seems somehow even less curious than the day shift, their attention solely focussed on their computers and headsets, and that emboldens Bond. He brushes the back of Q’s hand with his own.
“Say you’ll miss me,” Bond says.
“Say you’ll bring your equipment back in one piece and not give me some story about how a komodo dragon ate it,” Q replies.
“It’s the truth,” Bond says, somewhat petulantly. “Ask Moneypenny. She was there. Saw the whole thing.”
Q hums doubtfully, but his pointer finger grazes the inside of Bond’s wrist. The gesture is so soft, so tender, that Bond feels something catch in his throat. He feels undeserving of it when he is off to kill a man, but here Q is, giving this to him, this softness, like he’s a person instead of a weapon, and Bond feels adored, even if Q doesn’t say it aloud.
“Fine,” Bond says, leaning in close, so that all he can smell is Q’s bright winter scent, “I’ll bring my equipment back. But only if you promise to try to eat something other than garbage while I’m gone.”
Q gives Bond a defiant look.
“I’ll do what I want,” he says, “but if you don’t bring that equipment back, the next time you go out into the field, it’ll be with thumbtacks and a fidget spinner.”
Bond huffs a laugh, and pulls back, boarding passes in one hand and kit in the other.
“See you, then,” Bond says, and makes towards the exit.
But he’s just out the door, two steps to the lift, and finds that he can’t leave, not just yet. Turning on his heel, he returns to Q-Branch. A few heads turn, some curious glances follow, and Q is among them, still at the front of the room, working on putting all of the empty equipment cases away. Bond glances at him briefly, then makes for Q’s office with an over-exaggerated gesture that he is searching his pockets. The techs go back to their work, uninterested now that it seems the great Double-Oh Seven has misplaced his wallet.
Bond is only in the office for a moment before Q joins him. Before Q can ask, Bond reaches out and pushes the door closed behind him. Q’s expression goes from questioning to amused.
“Really?” he asks.
“It’s dangerous out there,” Bond says, leaning in close. “Can’t I get a kiss for good luck?”
“You don’t need luck, remember?” Q asks, smoothing his palms over Bond’s lapels. “It’s all skill.”
“A little good luck kiss can’t hurt,” Bond reasons.
“What would HR say? If they knew I was kissing a subordinate on company time?” Q asks.
Bond leans in for a kiss, but Q turns his face away. At first, Bond wonders if Q might be upset with him in some way, but then he sees that Q’s eyes are playful, the ghost of a teasing grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Bond frowns.
“Stingy.”
“Mongrel.”
Bond growls softly. Q grins fully, wicked now, and tugs at his tie.
“So is this your way of saying you’ll miss me?” Q asks.
Bond breathes in, then out. He could lie, but there’s no point. Not with Q.
“Yes,” Bond says, and he’s rewarded when Q’s eyelashes flutter at the admission.
Bond cups his cheek in his palm, and Q leans into it.
“Romantic,” Q says.
The kiss is chaste, at first, but Bond deepens it, not knowing how long he’ll be gone, if he will come back. Part of being a Double-Oh is to always acknowledge that every mission holds that weight, that it could be the last, and if this is the last kiss, Bond wants it to be one that they both remember.
“Don’t,” Q says against his lips.
“Don’t what?” Bond asks.
Q touches the back of his neck. His fingers feel like the cool caress of an autumn morning. But somehow, it’s his eyes that Bond feels the most. In the half light, they’re grey instead of green, and it’s like looking into a placid lake before a cold frost: deep and clear and still. Bond suddenly feels like he’s not being looked at, he’s being looked inside of, and it’s discomforting as much as it is a welcome relief. Is this what it’s like to be seen? To have someone truly see you?
“Don’t what?” Bond asks again, breathy, this time, as if he’s been running.
Q blinks, and the spell is broken. A cool thumb skips over Bond’s bottom lip.
“Don’t kiss me like you’re saying goodbye,” Q says.
“You never know,” Bond says.
Grey eyes regard him very seriously.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Q tells him, in that certain, matter-of-fact way that makes Bond believe him.
They kiss again, and it’s more of an I’ll miss you than a goodbye this time, and Bond can’t help but to touch all that he can reach: hands slipping up and under that horrible, herringbone cardigan, beneath the cotton button up where he reverently follows the curve of Q’s waist with his fingertips, thumbs tracing the path of his hips. He feels Q shiver beneath him, his body warming with Bond’s touch, his desire, but when Bond goes for Q’s belt, there’s a sudden, sharp pinch at the back of his hand.
“Ow, what the hell, Q?” Bond growls, withdrawing his hand.
Q seems unbothered by the assault, and straightens his clothes. Aside from the bit of colour in his lips, he looks completely normal, as if he had not been on the receiving end of a satisfying snog-and-fondle just moments before.
“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” Q asks, all business.
Bond crowds him up against the door and pins both of his hands above his head to avoid another vicious pinch. But when he kisses Q again, there’s no aggression in it, no dominance, despite their position. It’s soft, and Q hums sweetly into it.
“I’ll see you soon,” Bond promises.
“I’ll be waiting,” Q says.
Bond lets go of his wrists and steps back. Q follows, straightening Bond’s collar and tie and suit jacket as he goes. When Bond is presentable, Q places one final kiss to the hinge of Bond’s jaw and steps back.
He’s not even out the office door when Q says:
“Oh, and Bond.”
He turns. Q is there, leaning against the side of his desk with a pretty grin.
“Have fun.”
Bond grins too.
The assignment is simple: quick and clean and a little dull, but overall successful, and Bond is in and out of Prague within the week.
During his time away, he’s had minimal contact with Six, not needing any additional intel or assistance on what some might consider a milk run. That doesn’t mean, during those hours of downtime, that he hadn’t looked at his phone, hadn’t wondered if Q might have reached out to him, and that he didn’t feel a rush of disappointment every time he saw there were no messages or voicemails.
When he arrives back in London, it’s early afternoon, and the sky is overcast, promising rain. Bond considers going to Six, but instead takes a cab to the house. It’s drizzling when he arrives on the doorstep, presses his thumb to the doorknob for his authentication scan, and steps inside.
The house is cool and dark. Two pairs of glowing eyes regard him from the sofa. He sets his bag down, slips out of his jacket and shoes, and walks to the bedroom.
This room is even darker than the others, the curtains blocking out any trace of light. Bond can only see the outlines of the room, the furniture, the figure curled up beneath the duvet. He puts his gun and holster on the bedside, then slips under the blankets. The sheets smell like them, the faded echo of their last lovemaking from a week previous. Q must have not washed them while he was away. Bond wonders if that means he missed him.
Because it’s the middle of the day, Bond knows that Q is in the deepest part of his sleep cycle. As much as he wants to wake him, to bring their bodies as close as two physical bodies can be, Bond knows better. Instead, he curls round Q and breathes in, out.
Home Bond thinks.
He’s home.
It’s only later, when the sun is close to setting, that Q stirs beneath his arm.
“James,” he says sleepily.
He’s soft and pliant with sleep and warm from Bond’s body heat trapped beneath the sheets and blankets. In this moment, Bond wants nothing more than to kiss him, to make love to him, to show Q how much he missed him, missed this but his mouth moves before his body, and the words that come are ones that have been in his thoughts non-stop for six days:
“You didn’t call,” Bond says.
Q shifts under his arm.
“Did you want me to?” Q asks.
Bond stares into the dark, at the place where he knows Q’s shoulder is.
“I don’t know,” Bond admits, and then, after a moment of recalling that hard, aching disappointment every time he glanced at his phone: “I think so, yes.”
“Oh,” Q says.
Cool fingers twine with his.
“I thought it might bother you,” Q says. “If I called.”
“Why?”
The shoulder shrugs, brushing against Bond’s lips.
“I don’t know what to say, when it’s not for the assignment,” Q says.
“What would you say if I was with you?” Bond asks.
Q doesn’t say anything for a time, and Bond wonders, perhaps, if he’s fallen back asleep, but then the words come. They are quiet, but seem to fill the room.
“That it’s strange not having you here. That even though you’ve only been here for a short time, your presence fills this place now. That I kept thinking I’d wake up and you’d be here like this, or that I’d go into the kitchen and you’d be there making breakfast. And that when you weren’t there, it was…”
Q stops here, as if he’s thinking, and Bond holds his breath, waiting.
“Lonely,” Q finally says. “It was lonely. I was lonely.”
The admission feels fragile, like something that can only happen in the dark. Bond wonders when it will come easily between them, if it ever will. He hopes so, one day.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Bond tells him, “if you called and said that.”
“I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to tell you,” Q says.
“Why not?”
“You’re working, doing something you love. I don’t want you to feel conflicted or guilty about leaving, just because I’m a little lonely.”
“That’s not how I’d take it.”
“Oh?”
“No,” Bond says, with certainty. “It would make me happy... to know someone missed me. To know someone was waiting for me to come home. That I can do my job, that I love, and come back to someone who--”
Bond stops here, because he doesn’t know if it’s true: that Q loves him. He doesn’t even know himself if that’s how he feels about Q. All he knows is that this thing between them is the best thing he’s felt in a long time, and he doesn’t want to let it go.
“Someone who wants me to come home.”
Q turns under his arm so they are facing one another. It’s so dark that Bond can’t see him, but can feel all the places where they touch. Q presses his lips to Bond’s throat. It makes his heart beat faster. Not in fear; not anymore.
“I’m glad you’re home,” he says.
“I am, too.”
The second time Bond goes out on assignment, he comes back a little worse for wear.
In all honesty, it’s not even close to the worst he’s had over the years, but broken ribs and stab wounds still hurt as they mend, even with his advanced healing. The worst is a slash along the length of his left arm, which refuses to close. It bleeds sluggishly under the cheap gauze he’s wrapped haphazardly from his wrist to his elbow. At least the cut through his eyebrow and the bruise on his right cheek has mostly healed, or else Bond doubts he would have been allowed on the aeroplane.
It’s terribly early in London when he arrives–just past three in the morning, four hours after he was supposed to land due to delays getting off the ground due to weather–and Bond knows that Q will be on shift for another few hours before he gets off at 0600. As much as he wants Q to be the first thing he sees, his body has other needs: a shower, maybe some painkillers, definitely something to eat, so Bond takes a cab home instead of going to Six.
The streets are silent this early; even the taxi driving away seems obscenely loud. The neighbourhood is dark, save for the lights illuminating front doors and walkways. Theirs is lit, too, and Bond is drawn to it, that warm light, calling him home.
When he steps inside, it is quiet and still. Q is not home. Silas comes to greet him, his black tail high and twitching with excitement. Further down the hallway, the orange cat–whose name Bond has learned is Aria–regards him from a safe distance. She’s done better coming out of late, but still hasn’t come close enough for him to touch.
“I’m home,” Bond says, testing the way the words feel on his tongue, when there’s no one to hear him except himself, and two cats that will never tell.
It feels good to say it, even better to come inside and put his things away in their respective places: suitcase by the wardrobe, gun in the bottom bedside drawer, mobile phone on the sleek charger on the nightstand. The bed is neatly made and crisp and clean. It calls to him, a siren’s song, but he is dirty in places he doesn’t want to think about, and goes to the bathroom instead. There, he strips from his clothes and bandages and takes a scalding shower. His healing wounds smart, especially his arm, and the water runs coppery brown down the drain.
When he’s through, he steps out of the shower and reaches for a fresh towel in the little closet above the toilet. The towels are soft and smell like the fabric softener Q likes. It comes in a blue box. Bond forgets the name, but he would know that smell anywhere. He brings it to his nose and inhales. Home he thinks, as he uses the towel to dry off. His left arm aches with the motion, and blood beads at the edges of his poorly done up stitches. Bond dabs at it with the edge of the towel, then ties it off around his waist.
The room is steamy, so Bond opens the door to let the moisture out. It’s then that he notices a light in the bedroom is on, and immediately the soft, comfortable feeling at the edges of Bond’s consciousness sharpens with a rush of adrenaline.
He hadn’t turned on any lights.
Someone else is in the house.
He’s just thinking about reaching for his straight razor in the top right hand drawer, but then Silas pokes his head into the bathroom and meows at him, his tail vibrating, and Bond knows there is no intruder.
Relaxing, Bond pushes the door open a little wider and sees Q there, shrugging out of a horribly chequered cardigan.
“You’re home early,” Bond says.
“Saw your flight came in and thought I’d leave a bit early,” Q says.
Q turns to regard him, and Bond watches as his expression changes from relieved to worried almost instantly.
“You’re hurt.”
Bond glances down at himself. He’s bruised around the waist, at the shoulder, and along his lower right leg, but the colours are softening now from blue and purple to yellow-green as they heal. The worst part of him is his left arm, which has resumed its bloody oozing. Bond dabs at it again with the edge of the towel and Q makes a sound in his throat, something that Bond has never heard before. Something like pain, or distress; he’s not entirely sure. Bond immediately moves his arm behind him so it is out of his sight. He wonders if this is hard for Q, if it stirs something in him to be around fresh blood.
“Hazard of the job,” Bond replies, and then, reassuringly, “I’ll take care of it.”
Q gives him a look that Bond can’t quite decipher. He wonders if he should be afraid.
“You ought to have gone to Medical.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Bond says, and then, to try and lighten the mood: “You should see the other guys.”
But Q tilts his head, just slightly, and sniffs, just once. Then he makes a face.
“It’s getting infected,” Q says.
“You can smell that?”
Q grimaces.
“Unfortunately,” he says, and then, “if you’re not going to Medical, at least let me take a look.”
Bond hesitates, just slightly, in the doorframe, and, of course, Q notices.
“Oh, come on, I don’t bite,” he says.
It draws a surprised laugh from Bond, and diffuses some of the tension in the room.
“There are worse ways to go,” Bond says.
“Like septicaemia,” Q says, and gestures back towards the bathroom.
Bond gets the message and goes to sit on the closed toilet lid as Q retrieves a first aid kit from beneath the sink. Then he washes his hands in hot water and puts on a pair of surgical gloves. They snap as he fits them to his wrists.
“Should I call you Doctor?” Bond asks.
“I’ll sew your lips shut,” Q replies.
“Kinky,” Bond says, and waggles his eyebrows, feeling the pull of newly-healed skin just above the right one. “Though I think I’d look better in a ball gag.”
The corner of Q’s mouth quirks in amusement.
“Don’t give me ideas.”
“Maybe I want to give you ideas.”
“Amazing how you can even think about shagging when you’ve just been on the bad end of a brawl,” Q says, shaking his head. “They should study your libido for the sake of science.”
“You can study my libido any time.”
“Keep coming at me with poor pick-ups like that and I will have to seriously consider the ball gag.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Hush,” Q says, but Bond can tell he’s trying not to smile.
He sits on the edge of the tub and takes Bond’s arm gently in his hands. He leans close to the wound, and Bond hates that his heart gives a little quiver of fear.
“Is this dental floss?” Q asks.
“You work with what you have,” Bond explains.
“It’s unsanitary,” Q tells him, as he opens an alcohol pad and begins to sanitise the area.
“It tastes like mint.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get gangrene.”
Bond watches out of the corner of his eye as he cleans the wound, then uses a numbing spray on the skin before he removes the stitches with a tiny pair of scissors. The skin is angry red and bleeds. Q very carefully addresses the worst of it with antiseptic. He then pinches the skin gently and applies butterfly stitches.
“You’re good at this,” Bond says, watching the way Q works with a quiet, focused precision.
“Field medic training,” Q replies absentmindedly.
“You?” Bond asks.
Q doesn’t look up from the wound.
“It was part of Basic, during the war,” Q explains.
“Which one?”
“The big one.”
Q finishes with the last paper stitch, then applies a sheet of gauze. He’s winding a fresh, white bandage around Bond’s forearm when Bond asks:
“Does it bother you?”
“Hm?” Q asks, sounding like he’s somewhere else. “The war?”
“No,” Bond says, though he does wonder about that, too: “the blood.”
“Oh,” he says, and then, after a moment, “no, not really.”
Q finishes with the bandage and secures it with a thick piece of tape.
“It bothers me that you got hurt,” Q explains.
“But the blood…?” Bond begins, and then stops. If Q wants to tell him, he supposes he will.
“Oh, you think because I’m a vampire that this is hard for me?” Q asks.
“Well, yes,” Bond says lamely.
He’s never seen Q drink blood, never heard him talk about it, even. To this day, he’s still not seen Q’s fangs. Aside from how weak he can get in the sunlight, how slowly his heart beats, and how infrequently he breathes, Q is rather ordinary. Bond had been beginning to wonder if Q actually is a vampire or someone with just very bizarre medical conditions.
“No, it’s not,” Q answers, and begins dabbing at a place higher up on Bond’s arm with some more antiseptic. “You have some glass in you. I’m going to get it out.”
Bond hadn’t realised that the back of his left arm had gotten scraped up as well, so focused on the wound to his forearm. He turns, slightly, to give Q a better view. From this position, he can’t see Q, but can feel him leaning close, the brush of his hair against his shoulder.
“Why not?” Bond asks, as Q begins pulling little flecks of glass out of him with a small pair of tweezers.
“Hmm,” Q says, as he drops a little shard of glass onto the edge of the sink, then another. “I suppose because this type of blood isn’t very...appetising.”
“Because of all the glass and pus?” Bond asks, trying for humour.
“Well, that certainly doesn’t help,” Q replies. “It’s infected and old, and not from a vein, but from a surface trauma. It’s just not what I would consider appealing. It would be like leaving a prawn sandwich out in the summer heat all day and then expecting someone to eat it.”
“That’s disgusting,” Bond says.
“Exactly,” Q replies,
Bond lets the question rest on his tongue for a moment, tasting, testing the words, before he ventures lightly:
“But human blood…can taste good… to you?”
The tweezers stop, midway into his flesh, then resume their work.
“Of course,” Q says, as he drops another piece of glass onto the counter. “Though it’s not like I go round London helping myself to every neck I come across. And I’m certainly not hypnotising virgins to open their bedroom windows.”
“Virgins in London? Now that’s a myth if I’ve ever heard one,” Bond says.
Q digs a little sharply with the tweezers, and Bond’s laughter ends with a slight hiss.
“So you’re not turning into a bat and sucking on virgins,” Bond says.
“I can’t turn into a bat,” Q replies.
“Why not?”
“Why…what do you mean why not?”
“Dracula could do it.”
“Well, Dracula isn’t real.”
“Wait, he isn’t?”
It’s Q’s turn to laugh now.
“No, it’s just a story,” Q says.
Bond hums.
“Sounds like something someone who knows that Dracula is real but has to keep him a secret would say.”
“Of course,” Q says conspiratorially.
“Bummer you can’t turn into a bat though. That would be kind of cool,” Bond says.
Q drops another piece of glass onto the counter without comment. Bond knows that his time is almost up, so he presses on, with a little more seriousness:
“So no humans?” Bond asks. “Ever?”
“Not…not ever,” Q answers. “I’ve had a taste, here and there, over the years.”
“No thralls?
Bond doesn’t have to see Q’s face to know that he’s grimacing.
“Where did you even hear that word?”
“Read it in those paperbacks at the airport,” Bond reminds him.
Q shakes his head; Bond feels the brush of his hair, soft, silky, against his shoulder.
“No, no thralls.”
“So those are real?” Bond asks.
“Yes, they are real,” Q answers, “and the practice should be outlawed. There’s all kinds of human rights violations happening there. It’s not decent.”
Bond hums again.
“So what are you, then? Vegetarian?” Bond jokes.
“Something like that,” Q says and then sets the tweezers on the counter next to the little pile of glass. “I think I got it all.”
“Thanks,” Bond says, and means it.
“If your arm isn’t better in a few hours, though, you’re going to Medical,” Q warns him, as he applies fresh bandages to the worst of the rash on the back of Bond’s arm. “It would be stupid to lose a limb because you’re stubborn.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“But what will all your werewolf friends say when they see you hobbling along on only three legs? They’ll have to start calling you Tripod.”
“Well if I had werewolf friends, maybe I’d be more concerned.”
Q rests his forehead against the place between Bond’s shoulder blades.
“I’m concerned,” Q says, in that way of his that catches Bond in the throat.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to it: someone being so honest with him, someone worrying about him.
“I’ll be okay,” Bond says, and then, “if I’m not, I’ll go to Medical.”
“To avoid being known as Tripod, the three-legged dog?” Q teases.
“I’m a wolf,” Bond reminds him.
“Big dog,” Q says, as he’s done before.
Bond sniffs.
“At least kiss it to make it all better,” Bond says.
“No,” Q replies.
“Stingy.”
“Mongrel.”
But the word has barely left his lips when Q places a very soft kiss to the gauze bandage on his upper arm.
“Feels better already,” Bond says.
Q huffs a soft laugh against his shoulder.
“Are you hungry?” Q asks.
“I could eat,” Bond says, trying to think of what might be open at this hour, since the last thing he feels like doing is cooking.
“Then I’ll make you something,” Q says.
Bond blinks, and turns to glance at Q over his shoulder. He’s cleaning up the debris, tossing rust-coloured gauze and wipes into the rubbish bin beside the toilet.
“What?” Bond asks, thinking he misheard.
“I’ll make you something,” Q says again, stripping out of the gloves to throw them away as well.
“You? You’re going to cook?”
Q frowns as he closes up the first aid kit and returns it to its place beneath the sink.
“I watched a YouTube video,” he explains.
“Oh?” Bond asks.
“I can’t guarantee that it will be good,” Q says, as he washes his hands again in the sink, “but it’s better than biscuits, right?”
Bond huffs a laugh of agreement and follows him into the kitchen. When Q opens the door to the fridge, he’s surprised to see that there are some groceries inside: milk and eggs, bright leafy greens, colourful peppers, and a wedge of yellow cheese.
“You went shopping?” Bond asks.
“I knew you were coming home soon,” Q says, removing a carton of eggs from the fridge, a bundle of spinach, a half stick of butter.
Home.
The word makes his heart stutter, torn between joy and terror. He wonders if the word will ever make him feel happy and not feel like something that he fears will be taken from him.
“So what are you going to make me?” Bond asks.
“Nothing special,” Q says, picking up a frying pan. He holds it awkwardly, as if he’s not entirely sure what to do with it, but he gets it on the stove, turns on the heat, and it seems that he’s off to a decent start. “I think I can even manage an omelette. That’s just eggs with stuff in it, right?”
Bond laughs.
“You’re not wrong,” he says.
As Q cooks, Bond watches unobtrusively from the doorway. Silas winds round his ankles, begging to be picked up, and eventually, he relents. The cat drapes himself over Bond’s shoulder and purrs. If Bond could, he might have, too. He’s overwhelmed with warmth in this moment: standing barefoot in the kitchen he shares with Q, watching as he assembles ingredients with immaculate care into his heated pan. Q, who doesn’t need to eat, but had taken the time to learn to cook something for Bond, just because.
“The video makes it look easy,” Q says, as he tries to keep the cohesive shape of the egg while folding the edges.
“You’re doing fine,” Bond assures him.
He tries to flip the omelette, but it breaks, and Q looks a little distraught.
“It’s not really an omelette now,” Q laments, “more like scrambled eggs with stuff in them.”
“Scrambled eggs are actually my favourite,” Bond says.
Q glances over his shoulder and smiles at a way that makes Bond’s heart skip three beats.
“Liar,” he says fondly.
“Not lying,” Bond says, “and the more stuff, the better.”
Q hums doubtfully, but doesn’t say anything else until he’s plating the eggs and placing them before Bond at the kitchen table.
“Well, it doesn’t look as nice as the picture…” Q says.
Bond thinks it actually does look rather good. The eggs are a warm yellow, slightly brown from the caramelised mushrooms and onions, but brightened with green wilted spinach. The entire plate is topped with fresh shredded parmesan and red pepper flakes.
“It looks delicious,” he says, and then, “thank you.”
When he takes the first bite, Bond does all he can to not choke or cough, because Q’s looking at him with this hopeful little expression that he doesn’t have the heart to ruin, even if the eggs are so salty that they might actually kill him.
“It’s good,” Bond says weakly.
Q deflates slightly.
“It’s not good,” he says. “You don’t have to lie.”
“It’s… a little salty,” Bond admits.
“Salty,” Q repeats thoughtfully, and then seems to reach a conclusion: “So more salt doesn’t mean more flavour?”
“It becomes sort of all one flavour after a point,” Bond explains.
Q hums, and reaches for the fork in Bond’s hand. He uses it to take a bite.
“I guess if I can taste it, it’s too much,” Q says, and then looks determined: “I’ll try again.”
“You don’t have to,” Bond says, but Q is already back in the kitchen and going at the pan on the stovetop again.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Q comes back with another plate in hand. Bond had moved to the sofa during this time to relax and rest his eyes and tired body. Silas is on his lap, purring. Aria watches–jealously? judgmentally?--from the bookshelf. It’s peaceful, this moment in the hour just before daybreak, with a warm cat on him and the smell of butter sizzling in a pan and the domestic sounds of someone cooking, humming softly.
“Bon appetit,” Q says, and hands over the newly prepared omelette.
It looks nicer than the first one, a better shape, and smells delicious. Bond doesn’t even bother to remove Silas, who seems very content in his lap, and is resolved to hold the plate at a slightly awkward angle in the air to eat. When Bond tucks in, he’s surprised at the difference between the first attempt and this one. It’s very good, though this one lacks any salt at all. He takes another bite. Q looks very pleased.
“It’s good,” Bond says again, but then, has to add: “It could use a little salt.”
Q gives him a deadpan look.
“You’re taking the piss.”
Bond laughs so hard that he nearly chokes, and then more still. By the time he’s done, Q is laughing too, and Bond’s bruised ribs hurt, but in a way that feels good more than anything else.
In the end, they eat–Bond with a lightly salted omelette and Q with the remains of the overly salty scrambled eggs–and then crawl into bed just after first light. The moment Bond’s body is horizontal, among the crisp, clean sheets, he breathes a sigh that he feels goes all the way to his bones.
“Rest,” Q tells him, as he curls himself round Bond.
It’s not a position that Bond finds himself in often: with someone’s arms round him instead of the other way around. He always thought an embrace like this might make him feel claustrophobic, trapped, as if he were back in a dark room, strapped naked to a chair, with the knowledge that the torture would come, but not knowing when it would start, or if it would ever end.
But with Q, it’s different. His arms feel solid, not restrictive or suffocating. The weight of him is like the comfort of an anchor, keeping him from drifting away in thrashing seas. There’s reassurance here in the circle of Q’s arms. Bond feels protected, adored. Safe. He feels safer than he’s ever felt in his life.
And then Q kisses him very softly at the nape of his neck, so softly that Bond feels heat behind his closed eyelids, threatening to overflow.
“I missed you,” Q says, and kisses him again, softer somehow the second time: “I’m glad you’re home.”
Bond reaches for Q’s hand beneath the blankets, brings it to his lips, and kisses the backs of his fingers.
“I missed you, too.”
Under Q’s care, Bond’s arm heals quickly, and he’s back to top form in no time, but no new mission comes down from upstairs, leaving Bond with nothing to do but wait.
The days seem to stretch, feeling endlessly long, and even the anticipation of getting back into the kitchen, returning to Q’s side in bed every night, doesn’t soothe the restlessness beneath Bond’s skin. He blames it on the weather, which is cold and wet and miserable as London tries for spring.
The rain keeps him inside on the night of the full moon, which doesn’t help his state. He’d been looking forward to running beneath it along the length of Q’s back garden, rescenting the borders of his new territory that had been washed away with time and precipitation. But that night, there had been no break in the deluge, and even the wolf inside of him had baulked at the idea at going out in it, at the thought of the standing puddles of muck that drowned the bit of grass in the garden.
“No go?” Q asks, when Bond returns to the bedroom.
It’s his night off, and yet Bond finds him in bed, mobile in one hand, laptop across his knees. There are no lights on, save for the glow from his computer screen. It casts his skin eerily blue, throwing shadows where it shouldn’t, making Q look drained and tired.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to work in bed,” Bond says.
“I thought you said you were going to go do crazy dog things in the backyard. Like barking or digging holes or something.”
“I’m a wolf,” Bond reminds him.
“Big dog.”
Bond throws himself into the bed, earning a surprised eep! out of Q when it jostles him and his computer.
“It’s too wet outside,” Bond says morosely, shoving his face into his pillow, not caring at all if he seems like a spoilt child.
He hears Q close his laptop and set it on the bedside. Fingers card through his hair and smooth down the back of his neck. They feel silky. Bond realises Q is still wearing his special gloves that he needs to use his mobile device; half gloves that snap at the wrist and only cover his pointer finger and thumb, so that his typing movements will register on the touch screen. Bond had never thought about how difficult it would be for someone with no body heat to interact with technology.
“Maybe it will stop soon,” Q offers.
His hand moves away, and when it returns, the glove is gone. Bond feels some of his tension bleed away at the cool touch of Q’s skin against his.
“It’ll still be too wet,” Bond mumbles.
Q continues his caresses, and Bond finds that he’s not as frustrated as before.
“I’m sorry,” Q says, and sounds it, “though I am glad that you spared my floors the mud.”
Bond turns and presses forehead against Q’s side. Q huffs something like a laugh and adjusts against the pillows to get more comfortable. With the change of position, Q can now touch him with both hands, making Bond forget entirely why he had ever been in a bad mood.
“I wonder…is it wrong of me to say I rather like you like this?”
“Like what?”
Q keeps petting him.
“Hm, I don’t know the word for it,” Q says, “but I like that you know you can be like this around me.”
Bond smiles against the soft flannel of Q’s pyjamas. He smells like snow, like the fresh linen scent of their fabric softener, and Bond feels the remaining restlessness in him bleed away. There’s no need to be anywhere but in this bed, listening to the rain against the roof, the windows. The moon will always be there; a mission, too. There’s no need to chase anything out there when he has all he needs, right here.
“I do, too.”