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Just Give Me a Kiss Darling

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Nothing starts before Shanghai, nor in the weeks after. But Q can’t deny the wishful thoughts of his own thin hands grazing the agent’s, thinking nothing of it, until he looks up to see Bond gazing down at him with that smirk of his that always seem to gather the eyes of damsels and femme fatals alike.

 

No, This Situation started after a routine visit to Q’s labs. Bond was satisfied by the upgrades Q added to his arsenal, but instead of walking away the moment he tested out his newest silencer, Bond didn’t skip a beat when he grabbed onto Q’s wrist before proceeding to smoothly drag him into the nearest data room.

 

The absolute nerve this man has .” The thought ran a loop around his mind before Q’s sole attention was taken by a rough mouth kissing its way down to his already unbuttoned shirt, tie and outer coat already settling onto the smooth floor below the two. Nimble fingers reach even further down to untuck Q's shirt and skim lightly over his slightly too thin stomach. Combined with Bond's ( should probably call him James now huh) still traveling mouth, the Quartermaster soon finds himself slumping against the door, head fuzzy with wandering fingers and quiet groans that find their way to Q's rapidly beating heart.

 

As soon as Bond felt the other slowly start to slide down, he pulls back with a low growl that left Q shivering and reaching up to grab at Bond's shoulders. " No , don't you dare-" The spy cuts the other off when he suddenly backs Q into the door, picks him up by the waist and in one smooth motion, holds Q's legs up before wrapping them around his own waist. Letting out a slight curse that made Bond smirk, Q used his hold on Bond's shoulders to finally eliminate the last of the space between them, tilting his head up to place his lips on Bond's like he's been dreaming of since the man first quipped back at him.

 

Only for said spy to turn his head at the last minute, causing Q's lips to softly brush against the man's sharp cheek before rearing back in indignation.

 

Ok then, there goes every single nice thing I thought about him for the past 10 minutes or so.

 

" Well, I see even in these types of situations, you don't even consider us equal in the bedroom."

 

A sigh is heard before Bond lifts up his head from his resting place against Q's neck, and reveals an annoyed expression that makes Q feel slightly triumphant. "Are we really going to argue? Right now?"

 

"Of course we are James . Just because we decided to add this element to our relationship-”

Relationship?”

Doesn’t mean we will suddenly rip out the core fun of our interactions.”

“You meant insufferable right?”

“You’re insufferable Bond. Shut up and finish what you started.”

 

And 007, as the dutiful agent that he is, follows along with the order.


 

1 week after the beginnings of the Situation

 

The feeling of suffocating was what brought Q out of his sleep. With a startled gasp and half aborted movements to remove the reason for his breathlessness, Q looks up with fuzzy eyes at an equally fuzzy blob with big eyes.

 

“Meow?”

 

“Sherlock, what have I told you about getting on my chest when I’m sleeping?”

 

A purr rumbles his chest and a tail began to wave in the air as Q lightly shuffled to the side to grab his glasses. As the world sharpened into focus, the black cat with round green eyes stretched with all the grace of its species before hopping off its owner and swaying out of the bedroom.

 

With a not so heavy chest, Q stumbles his way out of bed, making sure not to trip over the pile of clothing by the bed, and working his way between towers of books to get to his door. The moment the scientist stepped through the doorway, two things assaulted his senses.

 

One, was the blinding sunlight filtering its way through the floor lengthened windows at the right side of his apartment. It was a harsh contrast to his blackened out bedroom. With squinting eyes, Q turned to the second reason for his growing headache.

 

High screeches and thumps echoed the semi-emptied apartment, making Q patter over to the living room portion of the open space to tiredly watch as his two cats fought like it was the end of the world.

 

“Sherlock! Stop messing with Watson before I put you in time out.”

 

Said cat stopped tugging on the light-haired cat’s tail to look over at his owner with a look in his eyes that screamed, “You wouldn’t dare.”

 

Q answered back with a look of his own, holding his arms out for Watson to jump in with a scratchy purr. “I won’t hesitate. Try Me.”

 

Sherlock sniffed in a manner that only a cat of his status could do, before slinking back to his favorite spot in the entire apartment ( aside from Q’s chest of course ). With the morning battle over and done with, Q turns around with Watson in his sleepy arms to head into the kitchen.

 

If there was one thing that Q spent most of his salary on, at least for his apartment, it would be the kitchen. In his mind, a TV wasn’t worth his money when he could have had a state of the art oven, complete with an electric stovetop. So yeah, an almost empty living room was worth it when he had a fully furnished Kitchen and a splash gradient island.

 

Because the thing is, cooking was just another form of inventing in Q’s eye. Both require precise calculations, both are a field that rewards creativity and thought. A water-proof bulletproof vest gave as much satisfaction as a red velvet macaron did.

 

So, with a quick kiss to Watson’s folded ear, Q places him onto the kitchen island before getting to work on his breakfast. Looking into the fridge, Q takes out the butter container and an egg or two. Looking into the upper seasoning cabinet, he takes a moment to wonder what he should make. A half-empty bottle of cinnamon catches Q’s eye, and its with a startling thought, that he reaches in to grab it.

 

“James likes cinnamon doesn’t he?”

 

With blushing ears and a weighty feeling in his heart, Q cooks a French Toast with a side of scrambled eggs.



**********************************************************************

 

Q sets his plate down on top of the bent coffee table while he fiddles with parts constructed from schematics pinned onto the whiteboard in front of him.

 

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do, the specifics at least, all that Q knew was that James (Bonds dammit) needed a new gun and Q wasn’t going to let his workers (the idiots) half-ass the designs again. Not after the last time at least.

 

Q mutters to himself, paying no mind to Sherlock lounging on the couch armrest and Watson tangled up at his feet. “A pinging system to track his last known location perhaps, or maybe even a reduced kickback to start this off. Wait- didn’t he complain about Newt’s molded handguard? I’ll fix that up as well.”

 

Remembering all the other complaints, ( “Remarks. I don’t complain.” A poorly hid snort from Q combined with a fast quip makes Bond frown for the rest of the meeting. “Yeah, and I don’t cook”) Q doesn’t quite realize how far his thoughts had shifted from weaponry to wistful thinking about the next time Bond decides to pull him close and put his lips on-

 

A red hot flash of pain makes Q jump and bang his knee right onto the further bent coffee table, filling the empty apartment with sounds of cursing and a plate shattering onto the wooden floor.

 

For the love of! ” A high pitched purr from Watson lets Q know the reason for all his pain and misery. Holding onto the vacant armrest, he looks down to see the angry red scratch going up and down his leg. “ It isn’t that bad ” Q thinks with screwed up brows that tighten as blood begins to well up and run down his leg. With one last curse, Q hops around the broken plate to gather up the broken down material of the gun before Sherlock gains any more ideas.

 

Placing the parts onto the marble island, Q hops onto the counter and pulls out his emergency kit. With experienced hands, he goes about disinfecting and patching up the cut, hissing as the disinfectant burns its way through him. 


As Q cleans up the first-aid kit, he gives himself a moment to clear his head. Ever since his hectic but routine wake up, he’s been uneasy with thoughts of Bond. “ Even his name is enough to make me turn red apparently. ” Q blows up his cheeks before shaking his head, short curls falling over his eyes at the motion. Looking up at his apartment, taking in the open windows and scattered remains of a plate with his two cats lightly purring over each other on the couch, Q sways his legs and spots the dark materials of a half-finished prototype one would call a gun.


 

2 days after

 

A touch to his wrist is what pulls Q out of his work-induced daydreaming, fingers slowing down for just a moment to look at the hand softly touching his wrist. Gazing up to see a glimpse of something indescribably soft in Bond’s grey eyes was enough to leave the engineer breathless. 

 

To do something so intimate (at least for Q) in the middle of an open lab with other scientists and spies, well, that must’ve been the loudest possible way to declare what they are to each other.

 

What exactly? it's hard to understand who they are together when Bond makes it a point to never discuss notions of a relationship.

 

Q shakes himself out of such thoughts before they make an appearance on his face and looks at Bond with an expression that basically translates to, “May I help you?”

 

The softness is now locked behind an impassive grey gaze, but the spy’s fingers are still lightly circulating on his inner wrist. Q lets out a breath when Bond begins to speak. “Any progress on that handgun you promised?”

 

Q scoffs, “I did not promise anything of the sort,” before releasing himself from Bond’s soft grasp to step towards the dismantled pieces of a modified handgun. “I said I would fix that idiot’s mistake; I never said I would do so any time soon.”

 

A silent roll of the eyes by Bond is heard loudly by Q, who is ever aware of everything the spy does in his presence. “One would think that fixing the mistakes of one’s workers would be in the job descriptions of MI6’s Quartermaster.”

 

‘Wordplay? This early in the morning? I'm surprised you haven’t silently glared your way through this conversation.’

 

Sue Q if you must, but thoughts of how uncertain he is about his relationship with Bond is starting to get him a little snappish in his thoughts.

 

Said Quartermaster goes about assembling the prototype handgun while keeping up his and Bond’s quippish conversation, earning themselves looks from the meagering scientists and junior engineers stepping in and out of the open lab on their way to their assigned station.

 

“007? I must speak with you. Now.”

 

The voice of M sends a thunderclap through Q, making him lightly stumble back from Bond and focus back on the still unfinished prototype as said agent steps forward toward his leader with an impassive body language.

 

“Yes?”

 

A few seconds of silence occur before M finishes up her silent evaluation of Bond and gets right to the matter at hand.

 

“You have another mission; I want you in Italy in the next 24 hours. Prepare the bare minimum, this is only a recon Bond.”

 

A silver of tired arrogance makes its way into Bond’s voice as he questions M. “ A recon? What? was the entire sector of junior agents unavailable?”

 

A soundless sigh comes out of Q at the words but it's M that shuts Bond up. “No, they were not. But this type of recon has a rather high prediction of getting our agents killed. So I chose you since it seems you thrive on surviving unlivable situations.”

 

A somewhat tensed silence follows enough that it creeps its way into Q, tightening his shoulders even as he finishes up the prototype. He walks toward M and Bond, showing off the handgun for the spy to test out. “Here, I adjusted the aim, added in a tracking signal for us to know your location, and recreated the handguard to actually fit your hand.”

 

With a smirk making its way onto Bond’s face, Q watches as the agent picks up the handgun with a sense of amusement that quickly transforms into amazement. It has the effect of filling Q up with accomplishment as Bond breaks in the gun, looking for all the world like a kid with a new toy. With a quick glance at M, Q can see that she must feel the same as she looks on with a small measure of amusement.

 

“Thank you Q, this is exactly what I need for this recon.”

 

Not expecting the compliment, an undignified blush makes its way to Q’s ears, noticeable even through his curls. A smirk once more appears on Bond’s lips, adding onto Q’s blush. 

 

Behind them, M looks on with curiosity apparent in her eyes, tracking the way Q seems to gravitate towards Bond even as he tries to cover up his embarrassment with stinging quips that Bond has no problem throwing back. Speaking of Bond, the man seemed to lose some of that tired energy of his, standing even taller as he looks down at Q with this sort of teasing smirk of his. M just sighs, lets it be, and leaves with a reminder at her top agent.

 

“Bond, remember, in Italy in the next 24 hours. Please don’t pull another disappearing act; for my sake and for the minds of others.”


 

52 hours into the mission

 

“Ah fuck. Don’t tell me he’s doing this again.”

 

“Restart the system, maybe its a glitch.”

 

“No no! I’ve restarted the damn thing twice over! He’s gone. I'm telling you, he disappeared like he always does at least once every mission.”

 

It's the weird conversation that stops Q in his tracks. It makes him curious as he turns into the Intelligence & Tracking sector instead of moving onto his personal labs. 

 

Looking into the glassed room, Q looks at the semi-panicking workers before moving his gaze towards the wide screen that takes up the entire backend of the Intelligence & Tracking sector. It's filled with data upon data in code and numbers that even Q (not to brag) is finding hard to figure out.

 

But it isn’t until he reads the location, “ROME, ITALY” that the immense sense of dread begins to take over Q. More cursing about Him from the other workers clues Q in the inevitable conclusion that he has figured out. 

 

It’s Bond. James fucking Bond that is causing this sector to panic and for Q to think of all the awful ways the agent can die. Its James harsh bites against his neck followed by soft kisses, a firm grip on his waist and a voice that would shame all others. It's the man Q is pretty sure he’s in love with (doubts upon doubts began to cloud his mind) and he’s missing. 

 

Even with the systems, Q has put in place to make sure that never happens again, Bond is gone with nary a trace for the Quartermaster to follow.

 

What is he going to do now?

 

The only action Q can even think to perform, as the papers in his hands drop from suddenly frozen fingers, is to race into the nearest emptied room and lock himself in; pacing as his body tries to work with his mind long enough to think through his raging thoughts.

 

What am I going to do? Wait for him to appear? No!

 

There has to be something, anything, not even his personal tracking system is online. What happened to Bond? What made you disappear?

 

Q slides his aching body in the farthest corner of the empty room and stares through his fogged-up glasses. He’s looking into nothingness as his mind works against him, as it cracks down on every doubt and ill-thought about the relationship between him and Bond.

 

He speaks into the achingly empty room with a voice that is made of softly broken glass.

 

“Does he even give a damn about me when it’s not about sex?”

 

The room doesn’t answer back, and Q takes that as the answer that it is.


 

40 hours into the mission

 

The sun is shining down onto the open plaza as the wind makes sure the citizens are cool enough not to complain. Tourists and the like walk around, enjoying the sights and beauty of what Italy has to offer.

 

And yet, James reflects with a swirl of his cold drink, he would rather be in Q’s labs than in this sun infested country.

 

With a barely-there scowl, James knocks back the rest of his drink as if trying to take back his previous thought. In his mind, it has no place being there, especially when he is trying to stay on the target long enough to gather the necessary information in order to make M happy.

 

Why make M happy when Q is so much more of a reward when happy.

 

Fuck , maybe the liquor intake should’ve been slowed down a bit.

 

“Sir? Is this seat taken?”

 

Looking up to see a rather beautiful woman in a flawless summer suit was enough to considerably lift James’s mood. With a nod towards the open seat, he watches as the smartly dressed woman sits with a graceful nod and a smile that was almost enough to outshine the sun.

 

James remembers his manners and starts up a conversation with the rather cheery woman. In fact, he gets so into their bantering that James manages to once more get distracted enough to miss his downfall.

 

It doesn’t take much, others have fallen for less. But for James, it was a touch to his hands, a glance up at the sunny smile, and the quick reflex of a woman bent on poisoning her target.

 

The last thing James remembers clearly is the thought of Q making fun of him after all this has settled.


1 1/2 weeks since 007’s Disappearance

 

Sulking in bed after another nightmare is rather pathetic of himself, in Q’s opinion, but it doesn’t stop it from happening. It’s late in the night, or rather, extremely early in the morning. With a huff aimed at his pillow, Q squints through the dark room and spots vague shapes he knows to be piles of books.

 

It’s just a distraction if the Quartermaster was being honest, because at this point if he doesn’t focus on something completely random or insane, his thoughts will turn towards Bond. And lately, that’s been an issue for his mental and physical health.

 

it's been almost 2 weeks. M has stated that MI6 will begin looking for another 007 when the 3rd month passes.

 

With that in mind, a knock at his front door startles Q into full awakeness. It takes another loud boom of a knock for Q to scramble off of his bed and out of his room; moonlight reflecting off his sleeping cats cuddled together and empty living room.

 

Without even thinking, Q unlocks his door and opens to a dream.

 

“… James?

 

Leaning against the frame was the spy himself, in a barely buttoned-up shirt stained with bloodstains and ash. In the dim moonlight, Q could see his face was bruised all around, and a trail of old blood made an appearance in the corner of his mouth. Hair was in a disarray and for some reason, he held a gun in the hand that was leaning against the doorframe. 

 

Neither spoke as Q gazed worriedly at Bond and Bond gazed back with this look of indescribable emotion that Q would’ve mistaken for fondness in better lighting. Instead, the Quartermaster assumed that the man’s injuries were the cause of such a look.

 

The silence was broken by a loud sleepy purr, and in its wake, Q went to speak.

 

“James, are you-”

 

Q is cut off as Bond steps into the apartment, making Q stumble back. With a mouth that was slightly ajar, the man watches as Bond sets down his gun by the kitchen island before advancing onto Q. Maybe it's the intensity in Bond’s eyes, or maybe it's just his instincts telling him to back away , but Q ends up by his outer bedroom wall with Bond caging him in.

 

It's nothing new for Q, but with the almost 2 week absence of this constantly happening, well, you can’t blame the engineer for reacting like it was the first time.

 

Q, once more, goes to speak, but the words die in his throat as a hot mouth makes its way from his jaw to the hollow in his throat. The world has gone silent, save for the barely heard panting from Q and the creaks of the floorboards as Bond shifts to move in closer to the Quartermaster.

 

Just for a moment, one single moment, Q envisions himself taking a stand and telling Bond to step off. But Q is a weak man when it comes to the one he loves does he? does he truly love Bond, or is it the rush of being craved that he loves most? and so, he lets himself surrender in the most natural ways one can.

 

His last thoughts before he lost in a sea of desire is:

 

that’s the first time James has ever gotten close to his lips


Waking up without Sherlock’s assistance was like a vacation for Q. More so, after such an eventful dream. Because in Q’s currently fuzzy mind, it just had to be a dream, a respite from living in a world where Bond was probably dead in a ditch.

 

With that rather morbid thought, Q moves to stand and fix up breakfast but is stopped from a barrage of aches suddenly making itself known to the engineer. Holding onto the nearest part of the bed frame, Q stumbles towards the only mirror in the apartment, eyes widening at spotting a bloodstained shirt sprawled over the floor in the dim light of his room.

 

A look into the mirror and Q has to clap a hand over his mouth in order to stifle a yelp. While not a new sight to see, it has been a while for Q, specifically 1 ½ weeks. Taking in all the love bites and bruising all over his body, from the waist up ( if it weren’t for his pants, he would’ve seen the rest) , Q has half a mind to curse himself out. 

 

I don’t remember drinking, I don’t remember inviting anyone in last night. What the hell happened?

 

Finally taking note of his surroundings, Q notices the smell of scrambled eggs laying heavy over the apartment, and it is with a distressed mind that he opens the door out of his room. Stepping into the rest of his apartment gives Q view over the kitchen, and with a breath caught in his throat, the Quartermaster stays in place as he watches 007 cook breakfast while entertaining the affections of Sherlock and Watson.

 

Q couldn’t help but think of them as traitors honestly, because they were never as affectionate to him as they were with the agent.

 

He makes to stand a bit more comfortably, but the creak of the floorboards gives Q away to Bond, who sends a quick glance behind himself along with his patent smirk. “Well, I’m glad you’re awake, thought you were going to sleep the day away and miss saying goodbye to my lovely face.”

 

Q unconsciously scrunches up his face at Bond’s words and decides that they don’t deserve an answer, but makes his way towards the kitchen, Watson meowing in delight at the sight of his owner while Sherlock continues to play the traitor. Opening his arms up leads to Watson jumping into them, and with a much more happy attitude, Q looks at Bond to discuss the elephant in the room.

 

“What happened Bond?”

The question isn’t even enough to stop the man, and Q watches with rising frustration as he plates scrambled eggs by two french toasts, but scowls at an empty cinnamon bottle which Q smirks at. The engineer looks on as Bond just sets his plate onto the island and begins to eat. He tightens his arms around Watson, who purrs in that scratchy matter of his as a form of comfort.

 

“Well? Are you going to be immature and not say anything? People have been worried sick-”

 

“M already knows.”

It's like a slap to the face for Q, and embarrassedly, his lips start to quiver before he manages to pull himself together. That’s not what I meant. I have been worried sick about you James; do you even give a damn about that? About the panic attacks, you left in your wake after you let me care about you? Q doesn’t let those thoughts rise to his face and instead tries to find out what happened in those lost times.

 

“That’s not what I meant Bond and you know it; what happened on the mission? What caused you to disappear off our radar? It was a recon mission for God’s sake.”

 

Either it was the tone of the question or the words spoken, maybe even a combination of both, but Bond looked at Q with this annoyed expression as he set down his fork. “It is none of your business Quartermaster . Leave it be, everyone who needs to know has been informed, now let me finish my breakfast Q; it's been a rather tiring week.”

Quartermaster? You can take your breakfast and shove it up your-

 

Q takes a deep breath and slams down on his thoughts before his mouth decides to blurt them out, and instead spends the next few moments gazing into the distance as Bond finished up his breakfast. In the middle of the tensed silence, Q has an epiphany and quickly glances at Bond’s plate to the countertop next to the stove, and scowls full force at what he finds.

 

“You made yourself breakfast but not for me?”

Bond doesn’t even skip a beat with his response, “There wasn’t enough cinnamon for the french toast.”

“Oh fuck you, Bond.”

“Not just yet Q, not right after breakfast at least.”

This time, Q’s blush is caused by a different response, and it grows at Bond’s smirk when the spy notices. But the man must know mercy because he lets Q stew in silence instead of making his blush worse. By the time Q calmed down, Bond looked ready to leave, and that brought its own form of anxiety within the engineer. He scrambles to find a reason to make Bond stay a bit longer, and his eyes zero in on the slightly scuffed up handgun propped up by the cinnamon bottle. “Wait, let me check the gun before you go.”

 

Bond raises an eyebrow but just passes along the gun before making his way back into Q’s bedroom without a word. Q tinkered with the gun, checking if it was damaged and trying to take his mind off Bond in his bedroom.

 

It was the first time that ever happened; he slept over and even made friends with Sherlock and Watson.

 

Do you think if you ask, he would actually stay-

 

Q slams the gun down with a flustered expression before he thought better of it. The clack of metal on a granite countertop rang through the apartment, startling Sherlock and making Watson huddle deeper onto Q’s lap. He ran a soft hand through Watson’s slightly matted fur as an apology while glaring at Sherlock when the black cat hissed at his owner.

 

“You know, that’s not the right way to treat a gun Q. Give it respect before it turns on you.”

The words combined with the feeling of Bond leaning against him was enough to still Q as his body started to heat up. As a hand softly made its way to his neck and played with the curls there, Q gasped and waited for Bond to speak, because he certainly didn’t think that he could at that moment.

 

“Last night, you opened the door without knowing who it was, in the middle of the night too. At first, I thought you were confident in your security systems, but it turns out you have nothing in place.”

The hand now firms up and Q has to fight back the urge to arch back into Bond.

 

“So can you please enlighten me as to why MI6’s Quartermaster seems fit to live in such an unsecured apartment?”


In this charged air between them, Q can only think of one way to answer the spy. So he tips his head far enough to look at Bond and peer up through lidded eyes and speaks in a voice that never fails to make James tighten his hands on Q’s body.

 

“I know you would come to rescue me if there was any trouble.”

 

Q doesn’t allow himself to break the staredown between him and the agent, so it is with victory rushing through his veins that Bond is the first to look away. The moment ends with Bond placing the gun in Q’s hands with a silent demand to take it, and turning to leave the apartment.

 

The last words he spoke left Q with a smile he couldn’t stop from growing.


“Keep the gun, I don’t want you to die before I get here.”

He really does care.


 

Two days after

 

It’s getting a bit hard to hide what they were to each other. That day back in Q’s apartment seemed to break down a wall between them. And the Quartermaster would’ve been ecstatic, thrilled at the thought of Bond actually being in a relationship with him. If it weren’t for the fact that the spy still did not allow their lips to touch.

 

It was a simple thing in the grand scheme of things, but for Q, it was the indication that what they had together was something more than just a fling. A kiss meant a step forwards, and Q so desperately wanted to take that step with Bond.

 

But did James want that? Because if he really did, he wouldn’t have hesitated to show it.

 

The thought, like all others that involve Bond, was enough to make Q react in a physical matter, and this time all that was near him was a blinking keychain that was meant to be a tracking beacon. Q’s hand reached out and slammed the keychain down onto the sleek table before him. The rattling in his bones caused his mind to silence for just a moment.

 

“What is it with you and slamming things?”

Q refused to acknowledge the yelp that escaped him. Instead, he turns around and faces the spy with reddened ears as papers from the table fall onto the ground. Looking at Bond as he strolls in like he owns the lab was enough to make Q scowl fiercely as he bent down to pick up the important documents. “It’s the result of when certain spies don’t mind their business.”

 

A chuckle sweeps through the lab, and subsequently Q as well, and the Quartermaster has to fight the urge blush before Bond notices. A line accompanied by a hand reaching out to help with the papers takes Q’s attention. “Well that was quite rude, and here I was, heading down to visit our resident Quartermaster for some intellectual thinking.”

Intellectual thinking my arse; he wants something.

 

Q rolls his eyes and stands up to place the documents on the table once more, but a glance down at Bond paralyzes him for just one moment. From this angle, Q can see everything, can see the way Bond’s eyes are bright and danced in the light; sees the way he seems to soften as he looks at the Quartermaster.

 

For the love of everything, please don’t look at me like that, I don’t think I could handle it

 

It takes a clearing of a throat for the two to look away, and as he whips around to face the newcomer, Q spots the slightest hints of a rogue smirk appearing on Bond’s face.

 

007 , may I please have your attention for one moment?”

Bond hums, standing up as if made from liquid grace and makes to speak towards M. But the Head of MI6 stops him with a shake of her head and gestures for the two to step aside before beginning their conversation. Watching the interaction take place makes Q burn with curiosity. Makes him want to butt into a conversation that was so obviously about a new mission, take down the details so that he had a better idea of what to equip Bond with, make it so that the failure of the last mission never-

 

Q takes in what he wants to believe is a steady breath, but it's hopeless when he knows that any minute now, Bond will be assigned to another mission. Which means Q’s anxiety levels will start to rise up, which means his mind will start to come up with the most horrible outcomes to whatever hell MI6 is sending James into. Which means that in the end, all that Q can do once he gives Bond his gadgets, he sits back and waits for his return.

 

He focuses on repairing the latest stun weapons as a way to keep his mind occupied, but soon enough, Bond is at his side with a touch to Q’s wrist to get his attention. He blinks out of the gadget induced focus to see Bond wearing a familiar tired scowl and the softness locked behind his impassive wall.

 

“You’re coming with me to my next mission. Pack only what I tell you to get.”

Q rips his hand out of Bond’s touch with the frustration that was building up inside of him.“That’s it? You’re not going to tell me anything else? Mission information, the parameters, targets ?”

 

Bond just leans back onto the table Q was working on and graces the engineer with a smirk.

 

“Don’t worry about all of that. You’re only there to be my stationary in-between and refill station for the mission. The agency will set you up in a nice hotel and I’ll see you a week after to let MI6 know that I haven’t been killed.”

Q smirks as amusement rises up in him, understanding what the spy was saying but finding it utterly hilarious. “So what you’re saying is that I’ve become your glorified babysitter.”

 

The Quartermaster laughs as 007 precedes to deny that assumption.


 

24 hours into the Mission



Q had to admit it to himself, the hotel MI6 set them up with was rather wonderful. Good service, wonderful food and huge beds that had no right being that soft. But he won’t complain much about that last part, not when Bond was dead set on making sure the two became very acquainted with said bed.

 

The Quartermaster doesn’t truly know how it started this time, all that he remembers is becoming surprised at Bond’s offer to have a meal together, something to enjoy before the mission really began. The hotel restaurant was nice and private, and the wine was something that Q wouldn’t mind having again if he had the choice. But maybe that was it, the wine was probably the reason for all of this happening.

 

Not the fact that Q felt ambitious enough to begin flirting.

 

Not the fact that Bond seemed amused at said flirting attempts before becoming infatuated with Q’s wine-stained lips.

 

Not the fact that Q readily agreed when Bond asked if he wanted to spend some time up in their hotel room before the mission truly began.

 

Yes, Q did blame the wine, but he knew that the true cause for his predicament was truly himself. Said predicament was drowning in a heavenly bed while the agent went around the room and got himself ready for his mission. Staring at the hotel ceiling did nothing to stop Q from hearing Bond slowly put his walls back up, and it hurt to hear, so Q just stays in bed with all his aches & bruises, and closes his eyes.

 

A few more moments and he’ll be gone until he’s forced to see you.

 

A few more moments and he’ll be gone before you have the guts to say that you love him.

 

But like a dream that offers the sweetest aches of reality, Bond straddles his waist; buttons on his shirt open, and belt unbuckled. Q opens his eyes long enough to see Bond lean down and press their lips together.

 

It is sweet

It is soft

It is rough and everything that Q has ever dreamt of

 

But then it is over, and Q watches as Bond closes the door to the hotel room without even a glance behind him.

 

That’s the last time Q ever does anything with Bond outside a professional level for a long time.



The next time they meet up, exactly one week since they kissed, the air is tense and harsh between them. Q goes to bring up what happened; the dinner and wine, the rush back to the hotel, the kiss . But all that Bond does is look at Q with cold eyes and harshly remarks that they are on business and nothing more.

 

With his heart jumping up into this throat, Q curses Bond out before heading to the train back to MI6’s pick up transport. As he huddles against the train’s freezing seat, Q pretends that he doesn’t taste the iron coating the back of his throat after he bites his tongue hard enough to bleed.



Q pretends like he isn’t dying inside


(5 weeks after MI6’s last transmission from Bond)

Waking up lately felt more like a punishment than anything else. A constant feeling of nothingness seeps into his body, making the chore of getting out of bed that much harder to do; limbs weighing Q down more than any panic could ever do.

 

 But the world doesn’t stop for anyone, especially for Q, so he lumbers his way out of bed and steps toward the door leading out into the rest of his apartment. His senses, dulled as they were by sleep seem to sharpen to the point that a few inches away from the door, Q stumbles back as the scent of scrambled eggs reaches his nose.

 

His first thought: why does it smell liked cooked eggs?

 

The second: who in the hell is in my apartment

 

And the third, I need that gun. Now .

 

The Quartermaster trips his way back to his bed, energy rushing through his body as he quickly tries to find the gun. There was nothing behind the bed frame or even under his pillow, but there, right in the nook of the bedside table and the bed sat the handgun Q made all those weeks ago; scuff marks from the previous owner shining through the dim lighting of the engineer’s room.

 

Grasping onto the molded handling of the gun, Q steadies his hands and makes his way back towards the front of his door. With a breath stuck in and a body already filled with panic, Q opens the door and steps into the open layout of his apartment; gun firmly pointed out in front of him.

 

Only for it to be worth nothing.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

In front of Q, working away at the kitchen stove, was Bond; dressed in one of Q’s old shirts and a pair of pajama pants. A glance down reveals that Sherlock and Watson have once more switched sides. 

 

The engineer feels a sense of relief so immense he doesn’t know what to do with it. The emotion shakes his body and this time, Q isn’t afraid to say that his lips even began to quiver. But soon enough, as Bond does nothing to acknowledge Q, that relief begins to turn into anger; leaves him furious enough to march forward as curses and accusations spill from his lips.

 

" You complete bastard -"

 

"My parents are married thank you very much."

 

"How can you stand there like nothing's happened-"

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"You utter Fuck -"

 

It took a couple of seconds before Q's brain caught what Bond said. I’m sorry. That's never happened before, and just that thought was enough to cut off the rest of Q's explosive rant. He looks at Bond, then glances at the 2 plates filled with what seems to be Q's favorite breakfast.

 

There's an ache in the Quartermaster's throat and his hand is rattling the gun hard enough for it to clack against his nail. It has the purpose of making Bond look down at the gun with appraisal and this small amount of affection.

 

Or at least, what Q hopes to be affection; even when angry, he can't help but want for Jame's love.

 

"You were actually ready to use it. Guess that means you do listen to what I say."

 

I listen to everything that you say, how could I not? Your voice does things to me.

 

Q steps forward, placing the gun right by the plates as he leans in close enough to feel Bond's body heat. "And you said sorry. Why?"

 

The you never did before is left unspoken but heard clearly by the agent who grimaces before lifting a hand to touch Q's cheek, only to be stopped by the man himself. It sends a discord between the two, makes Bond stiffen up as if shocked, makes Q feel like he's taken a misstep. But he holds steady, and watches as Bond nods to himself before pulling his arm away.

 

The time after that seems to stretch on, but it couldn't have been less than a minute before Bond spoke. "I'm sorry. For the way, I treated you, for acting as if you meant nothing to me when in reality, you were the only good reason to ever come back from a mission."

 

Q lets the words flow through his body, lets it warm him up from the inside out, and watches what his blush does to Bond; makes his voice rougher, makes the man himself a bit more dangerous in the best kind of way.

 

"I'll make it up to you, in any way you want; I'll do what it takes to make you trust my love for you."

 

And at that, Bond winces, like he said something he shouldn't have, like he said something way too soon. But Q doesn't give a damn, now when he is so close to actually getting loved back.

 

"James?"

 

"Yes Q?"

 

This time, the Quartermaster lets his spy cup his cheek, lets him frame the edges of his fogged up glasses and links the pads of his scarred fingertips with that of his curly hair.

 

"Shut up and kiss me before I change my mind."



It is sweet

It is soft

It is rough and everything that Q has ever dreamt of

 

Q has never felt more alive.