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The next time he saw Bond was at three in the morning when Q had just staggered home from work, head aching and eyes tired. He knew that Bond was back in town because he’d booked 007’s tickets, but the last place he expected to find him was fast asleep in Q’s bed.

Q’s bed. Not the couch, not his own flat, not the flat of his mysterious hypothetical boyfriend.

Mind and heart reeling—because he’d only just gotten used to the idea that Bond had some other boyfriend, enough to make him turn down the advances of pretty women, and that it wasn’t him, except that maybe it was?—Q flipped the light back off and stumbled back to the kitchen.

A month ago, he would have crawled right into that bed, happy to have the warmth and company of his unrequited love. But now, it was all too much. He couldn’t climb in with Bond while he had the fear of some other man in Bond’s heart, and he couldn’t curl up on the couch without Bond finding him and knowing what a confused idiot he was.

Making himself a cup of tea, Q turned his laptop back on and returned to working. It was easier to deal with sleep deprivation than to deal with the choice of sleeping with Bond or sleeping on the couch while Q was getting such mixed signals from his not-boyfriend.

He had to admit now that Bond probably had meant him. The probability of that had suddenly rocketed higher than the possibility that Bond had met someone within the last month but hadn’t mentioned it, had in fact hidden it remarkably well, and then broken it off in the past three days. But even if that was true, Q didn’t know what it meant, or why Bond wouldn’t have mentioned ‘oh, hey, would you like to be boyfriends I promise not to sleep with anyone if it isn’t work-related’, if that was what he was doing.

Q didn’t look up from his work when Bond got up. He tracked his progress through the flat by sound and with his peripheral vision, as Bond flipped on the kettle and helped himself to a banana. Shoulders tensing, Q actively ignored him, at least until Bond reached out to kiss his shoulder, hand closing over the back of Q’s neck to start massaging the way he often did.

Except that Q twitched away from the touch, and Bond pulled his hand back.

Giving him a few feet of space, Bond leaned against the counter and watched him. Q could feel the weight of his gaze. He could almost hear Bond thinking.

“What have I done?” Bond asked. He sounded confused, but willing to assume this was his fault.

They were talking now, evidently. Q didn’t have any idea where to start, or what to say. He stopped typing, but didn’t look up. “Last time I saw you, you said you had a boyfriend.”

“I thought I did.”

Heart aching with what he didn’t quite dare to believe, Q looked up at him, scared and confused.

“I meant you,” Bond specified, meeting Q’s gaze with steady honesty.

James Bond thought that Q was his boyfriend. Q opened his mouth to scold him about how this was the sort of thing people normally discussed in advance, and then he got it.

Bond didn’t have much in the way of relationship experience. His job didn’t allow for fidelity, and most of his partners ended up dead. And with what Q knew of his background, he doubted if James had ever had a lasting relationship. As masterfully experienced as he was in the bedroom, it made sense that he wouldn’t have the first clue how to behave with a boyfriend.

Worse, he’d probably been taking relationship cues from Q.

Q; who ignored him at work, barely talked to him at home, and had locked down any hint of attachment toward him. His mouth fell open in shock as he realized what an utter prick he’d been. In trying to provide Bond with the lack of commitment that he thought 007 wanted and needed, he’d ended up behaving like a total dick.

“Oh, I’m an idiot,” he breathed.

Needing to fix it and reassure Bond before he did anything else, Q took a step towards him, kissing him warmly to communicate that it was all okay, and this was good. Bond’s hands settled on his waist, and Q broke the kiss, grinning at him. “We should talk about what that means.”

Bond tensed a little. “I can’t offer—“

“I know exactly what you can’t offer, 007,” Q said, reminding him that he knew the details of Bond’s job. All of the details, even the ones he didn’t like. They were still coworkers, and Q knew for a certainty that they would both always put the job first.

“I love you,” Bond tried, instead.

Q stared at him, emotions in a tangled mess. He wasn’t sure what he wanted or needed from this relationship. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t want anyone else. I’m still going to—“

“Sleep with lots and lots of very dangerous spies,” Q finished for him.

Bond smirked, fond and affectionate. “Yes. But as long as I have a choice, I only want you.”

Q nodded, trying not to let himself spook. “That’s fair.”

Really, he thought it was more than fair. He thought it was amazing. He was ridiculously in love, and maybe, in a few days, he’d find the courage to admit that.

“What else do we need to talk about?” Bond asked.

“That’s good, I think. We could have sex now, and talk more later.”

Bond grinned and kissed him. “I think you should sleep now, and we can have sex later.”

“Lots of sex.”

Bond reached out and shut Q’s laptop, steering him firmly into the bedroom.

“But it’s morning,” Q attempted to argue.

Ignoring that, Bond pushed him face-down on the bed, straddling his hips and starting to massage Q’s back and shoulders.

Oh, he had missed Bond’s massages. Hugging a pillow under his chin, Q relaxed into the touches (from his boyfriend), and fell asleep in utter bliss.


“Close the laptop,” Q ordered.

He was leaning back against the footboard of his bed, watching James against the headboard. It was nice, almost domestic: Q with a book, James with a laptop.

Bond looked up, meeting his eyes, and Q could see the moment of insubordination as he decided whether or not he was going to obey. He was used to that look, in or out of bed. Although Bond’s loyalty was beyond question, he always took a split second to react to orders as he decided whether or not he was going to do things his own way.

Today, he was feeling cooperative. Keeping his gaze locked on Q’s, he shut the laptop and waited.

Feeling a little thrill of power at Bond’s obedience, Q shut his book, focusing his attention completely on his partner. “Set it aside.”

Q loved the I’m only obeying you because I feel like it challenge in Bond’s eyes as he set the laptop by the side of the bed.

“Covers off,” Q continued, fully aware that Bond was naked beneath the covers. Even now that James kept spare clothes at Q’s flat and practically lived there, Q had yet to see him deign to wear pyjamas.

Lips tilting in an indulgent smirk, Bond tossed the covers aside, some of them landing in Q’s lap.

Lazy and confident, James shifted comfortably, letting Q look. His body was beautiful, even with all the scars from so many near-death scrapes. Q took his time enjoying the view, reveling in the fact that he had a right to look and the way that Bond’s dick filled and hardened as he watched.

“Touch yourself,” he said, after a minute.

Bond kept his eyes on Q as he wrapped a hand around his length, stroking slow and firm. Q watched, feeling his cheeks heat from the look Bond was giving him: challenging, adoring, and absolutely self-assured.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, unable to help asking. Bond was increasingly looking at Q like he was some kind of creamy dessert to be devoured.

“The way your breath catches right before you come.”

Q blushed to his ears, embarrassed and flattered. “Spread your legs,” he said, glad that his voice was still steady.

Bond obeyed, bending his knees up to expose himself. He was making himself vulnerable, for Q. Only for Q. No one else got to see this side of him.

Heart pounding with how much that meant, Q watched him for a minute before nodding over at the nightstand. “Lube’s in the drawer,” he said, letting Bond figure out the order contained within that.

Smirking at him, Bond opened the drawer without looking, and pulled out the bottle of lube. Q was going to need to buy a new one soon, at the rate they were using it.

“Finger yourself,” Q said, having to reach down and adjust his dick. He was wearing pyjama pants, which were now visibly tented.

Never taking his eyes off of Q, Bond slicked his fingers and reached down, hooking two of them inside and starting to fuck himself with them. Even now, he looked completely confident and in control, as though this was all his own idea and he was just letting Q talk because he thought it was cute.

“You are maddeningly sexy,” Q told him, pretending to grumble about it.

Dropping his book aside, Q climbed up and kissed him. It was slow and heated, and he could hear the slippery sounds of Bond continuing to finger himself while they kissed.

“Grab me a condom,” Q said, his tone dropping back to casual instead of commanding as he kicked off the pyjamas.

Stealing one last kiss, Bond reached over and fetched the condom, tossing it at Q without taking his fingers out of his arse.

“Cocky bastard,” Q scolded, fond. Sitting back on his heels, he opened the packet and rolled the condom on, taking the lube so that he could prep himself.

Bond pulled his fingers out only as Q settled between his legs, arms wrapping around Q’s back.

“Good?” Q asked, to make sure he was ready. Bond just nodded, a warm little smile tucked into his mouth.

Bond made a contended little groan as Q pushed in. He was noisier when Q topped, letting out the occasional gasp and moan that he always kept contained when he was in control. It made Q love this, how vulnerable his boyfriend was willing to be for him. There were still layers upon layers of walls between them, so many of Bond’s defenses still in place, but a few of them dropped for Q, and that was an honor.

“Hard,” Bond said, the first thing he’d said without prompting since they’d started. Q grinned.

“You always want it hard,” he teased, taking his time with a few slow, patient thrusts.

“I like it hard,” Bond grunted, grinning back at him.

“Masochist,” Q said, stealing a kiss before he shifted his hips and started increasing his speed, fucking him in earnest.

Bond rumbled approval at that, lifting his hips sharply into each thrust and making the occasional stifled moan as Q hit just right.

“Touch yourself,” Q ordered, his lips falling next to Bond’s ear as he rutted into him. Bond had the ridiculous ability to get Q off without touching him, but Q was not similarly talented. Not yet, anyway.

Bond complied, hanging on to Q with one arm as he jerked himself off with the other.

This was the other thing Q loved about topping. Everything else they did, Bond would go out of his way to make sure that Q finished first. Sometimes it got a little annoying, how determined Bond was to be a generous lover. Q suspected there were a few things in Bond’s psychological file that would explain the compulsion—orphan, abandonment issues, need for approval, inability to accept approval—but he’d never read it.

When Q topped, things changed. Suddenly Bond’s goal became to come first, and Q got to watch the raw pleasure rippling over his face as—for once—Bond didn’t hold himself back.

It was wonderful, the feeling of pounding hard into his James—his James—as that tight, breathtaking body beneath him shuddered.

“I love you,” Q whispered, and got the incredible ego boost of hearing and feeling Bond gasp and come in response to his words. He didn’t slow down—Bond always asked for harder, no matter what Q gave him. Within seconds, he felt himself coming, spilling into the condom and gasping out Bond’s name. “James.”

Completely composed within seconds, except for slightly quickened breathing, Bond leaned up and stole a kiss. “You’re going to have to do that more often,” he said, not being any more specific.

Q took it as encouragement in general, and caught his lips for another kiss.


It was good, loving Bond.

Sometimes it was hard, to battle down his sense of jealousy when Bond went out seducing beautiful, clever women. Some days, Q thought this is it, this is the day where he leaves me. Bond faced such brilliant, deadly, gorgeous women, and there were days when Q couldn’t even fathom why Bond would come home at all instead of running away with them.

But he did begin to understand Bond’s sense of loyalty.

As openly insubordinate as he could be, Bond’s loyalty to queen and country was unshakeable. It went bone-deep, that willingness to go to any lengths to protect the interests of his country. No amount of money, sex, or even threats to the people he cared about would dent Bond’s loyalty to his job.

That was what made them so much alike.

It still amazed him that some of Bond’s loyalty had attached itself to him. Somehow, Q had earned a place in Bond’s heart just beneath queen and country. It was the spot beneath, he had no illusions about that. If Bond had to watch yet another lover die in order to complete his mission, he would.

That was fine. Q didn’t think he could do the same, not anymore, but he admired it in Bond. It let him know that there was another person in the world whose loyalty was as unshakeable as his own.

And Bond loved him: truly, deeply, and with his own particular brand of fidelity. That was all Q needed in the world.