Chapter Text
Alex spends the night. They strip and burrow beneath the covers, limbs braided, the man’s heartbeat thumping encouragingly and Q listens as if to a precious hymn. His whole professional career has been an exercise in selfless sacrifice, and for many years he has resented Bond since he was always the one left absorbing the fury of M and their supervisors. And yet now the agent has offered him a gift which he can never repay. He has Alex again. Relatively unharmed.
There are lingering effects, of course. Alex wakes him once in the middle of the night because he’s squirming beneath the covers, twisting the comforter’s fabric in his fingers, facial muscles twitching as he fights to tread water within the nightmare. Probably recalling his time in isolation, the music rattling his eardrums. Q sits up and cradles his sweaty head on his lap, stroking Alex’s brow and calmly whispering his name, calling him back to shore until the man’s eyelashes flutter and he’s looking up at Q.
“I’m okay,” is the first thing he says, which is how Q knows it’s bad. Alex prefers to internalize his distress and privately dismantle it like an especially challenging equation.
So much of his job requires reading the agents’ needs that sometimes he wants to ask Bond and Alex if they think they’re really fooling him. It’s too late (or early, depending on how one chooses to splice a 24-hour period) to press the matter, so they curl up again, Alex’s warm mouth pressing a kiss into his errant waves and Q sleeps until his cellphone alarm sounds—a pleasant trilling of bells, nothing too jarring to pull them from the meditative void.
Q turns off the alarm and lays his head on the pillow for a while, looking at Alex as the man gazes back at him. The flat is so peaceful with him inside it that Q is very tempted never to leave again. “I have to go to work,” he eventually whispers. It feels wrong to speak too loudly, as if he could shatter their tentative tranquility. “But you should stay here and sleep. I’ll tell M you’re still recovering. He won’t dare censure you lest he incur the wrath of Frances again,” he grins.
It’s a joke but Alex doesn’t smile. Q wonders if he resents the involvement of his mother and fights the urge to point out that Bond didn’t have a choice in summoning her. She was the only one who could hit the breaks on the whole interrogation. Darkness flickers across his gaze, but Alex is silent, so Q fills the quiet by reaching for his glasses and putting them on, easing to a seated position as he considers the rest of the room. He’s thinking about starting the day: showering, shaving, dressing in fresh clothes.
“I didn’t think they would do that…to me,” Alex murmurs.
The words make Q’s face hot. Even though he knows MI6 was following protocol, he’s furious at M and anyone else responsible for Alex’s interrogation (he’s unsure how deeply Tanner was involved). “We’ll be more careful from now on,” he says, flashing an encouraging smile. “I should have destroyed the device myself.”
He slips out of bed and walks to the armoire, opening the heavy doors to remove a pressed pair of slacks, a collared shirt, and a sweater. By the time he turns back to the bed, Alex is sitting up, his back pressed to the headboard. He’s unsure, but Q thinks the man looks a little better: more color in his cheeks, gaze brighter, generally more alert and curious, which is his usual disposition. “It’s not your fault, Avery,” he says quietly. “It was my invention.”
“And I’m responsible for your safety,” Q says, flashing a slight smile, one that indicates he’s not going to debate this matter with Alex. He will own the guilt, pack it into a small box, and tuck it away into his heart. But it will always live there, just as he has stored away the other times agents have been hurt on his watch.
The loo is filled with steam from the shower and he has to wipe a small circular patch into the mirror so he can see his reflection while shaving. Dressed and shaven, pores still tingling from the aftershave, he steps from the washroom and immediately smells burning bread. Alex has toasted some slices and is currently smearing them with jam when he walks into the kitchen. The man flashes an apologetic smile. “I’m not much of a chef, but I thought…”
Q pauses by the counter to kiss him. “Thank you,” he grins, taking his plate to the island to eat. Alex places a cup of tea by his left hand and sits on the other side of the counter’s corner.
“What are we going to do?” Alex suddenly asks.
Considering him over the horizon of his mug, Q shrugs his shoulders. “Carry on as usual. M wants this to blow over as much as we do.”
Alex quietly digests his words. “What are they going to do with me?”
It’s a good question. He can’t imagine M putting Alex back in the field right now, and they’ll be too spooked to allow him free range in a locked lab again. And yet, Alex is an undeniably brilliant man whose brain MI6 will wish to exploit. He sets down the mug and leans close to Alex, gazing over the tops of his spectacles. “Do you still trust me?”
Without hesitation, Alex says, “Of course.”
“Then let me deal with M,” he says, adopting the confident tone of Bond. He wonders if 007 doesn’t feel certitude in his bones when he says the words either.
An ambitious young engineer named Holland has invented a pocket-sized 3D printer. It’s a small rectangle about the size of a cellphone, featuring a red extendable arm. When Q places it on the counter, lifts the arm like an old LP player and presses a button on the side, the 3D printer slowly constructs a blue plastic gun. “It shoots real bullets,” Holland eagerly explains, closely watching Q’s face for a reaction. “Most of our enemies won’t have any idea what it’s capable of. Perfect for agents who will be strip-searched. In future models, we can disguise it to look like a phone.”
Years of experience as head of Q-branch have taught him never to express too much enthusiasm for an engineer’s hypothesis. Desperately hunting his approval drives the underlings to strive harder, and besides, most of their ideas end in flaming disasters anyway.
Still, he has to admit this is a very good idea. He can already imagine a hundred scenarios in which such a field item could prove to be very handy.
“Keep working on it. Notify me when the construction time is under a minute. We can’t have agents waiting fifteen minutes for a handgun,” he cooly instructs.
Holland’s face lights up and he nods enthusiastically, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Q leaves the stark vacuum of the lab and returns to his workstation in the center of Q-branch’s hive mind. He checks the communal board, pleased to find that they’re progressing at a good clip. The hiss of glass doors turns his attention to Moneypenny, who breezes past the busy workers. “Hello,” she greets, flashing a vague smile. They haven’t spoken since the raid on the basement. “M wanted me to remind you of your meeting at two o’clock.”
“How could I forget?” Q weakly jokes. He looks to her, waiting, knowing there is something else.
Her hand ghosts the surface of his desk, as if wiping away invisible crumbs, but suddenly there is a USB drive sitting beside his keyboard. “You didn’t get this from me,” she says, voice pitched low.
Q immediately covers the drive with his hand. “What is this?” he whispers, casting a look around the room to make sure no one is listening.
“Apparently, there was a glitch in the security system and the surveillance footage of 009’s interrogation has been lost.” Her brows arch pointedly as she glances to his knuckles. “That is the only copy.”
MI6 doesn’t have glitches—only deliberate sabotage. “Who deleted it? M?”
“No,” she sighs, glancing towards the doors before looking back to him, “I really think you should just look at the footage, Q. And then destroy it. Don’t make the same mistake as your boy.”
“What am I going to do with you?” M gripes before Q is fully settled in the chair. He recognizes this as a rhetorical question, so instead spends a moment straightening his spine and adopting the posture of an agreeable employee. M looks ancient staring at him, sighing as he reaches for a glass of water with tiny bubbles fizzling at the surface. Antacid. Q has disrupted his digestion process. “Here’s a better question: what am I going to do with 009?” This time he directs the question at Tanner, who is standing beside an enormous bookcase, his arm leaned against a polished shelf containing books that are three times Q’s age.
“Let’s approach this rationally,” Tanner advises, “009’s scores have improved dramatically and he’s conversing better with work colleagues.”
“The hybrid program was meant to strengthen agents in both fields,” M reminds, “009 certainly improved in his field scores, but he technically committed high treason in the lab.” M rolls his eyes and takes a swig from the effervescent drink. “I know we’re not supposed to acknowledge that because Mrs. Turner could chemically castrate us all, but let’s approach this rationally, ay? I can’t unleash him into the wild again.”
“Unless he’s under strict supervision,” Tanner suggests, nodding to Q, “We cut off his communication with his quartermaster. Perhaps, if we do the opposite, 009 will benefit from a carefully structured schedule provided by Q.”
Q feels warm, but he keeps his face neutral. “That’s entirely within my purview.”
M plucks the box of antacids from his desk, brow furrowed as he considers the label, perhaps searching for how long it’s supposed to take for the medicine to work. When his gaze lifts to Q, he sighs, “You realize I’ll need hourly updates. I’ll be personally supervising every corner of his research. And if I’m not clever enough to understand it, I’ll find someone who is. He will not be permitted the same intellectual freedom. That ship has sailed.”
“He understands that,” Q promises, even though he’s not sure that’s true. For the first time since their troubles began, he sees a glimmer of light, and is determined to seize upon it.
“You can commit to that?” Tanner asks. “It won’t be a strain on you? Be honest with us, Q. There are no second chances here.”
Q pictures Alex curled up in his bed. “He will be under my constant supervision.”
His superior looks utterly unconvinced, but as a man cornered, without any other options, he relents. 009 is too brilliant to let slip through his fingers, and Q is the only one who has overseen demonstrated improvement in the agent’s performance. “No more muck ups, Q. I need all cogs working in sequence: Q-branch, the Double Os, and that means our tech team too. There was a disruption in the electrical grid that wiped out surveillance footage from the past week. It’s those kinds of errors I don’t want to have to bring to Downing Street’s attention.”
Alex has already fed the cats by the time he walks through the door. “I hope you don’t mind,” he greets, “They were crying and I know where the cans are.” Babbage briefly looks up at Q, licks his mouth, and delves back into the pile of meat.
“Not at all,” Q smiles, kissing him in greeting. Alex smells like soap and his shampoo, hair even wavier than usual as it naturally dries. Bathing has invigorated him further, and he looks almost like his old self. “Bored sitting around in my flat?” he teases.
“I’d like to go back to work soon,” Alex agrees, flashing a weak smile, “Did M mention when that may be?” Q drops off his bag by the door and tells him about the meeting: M and Tanner’s suggestion that he work more closely with Alex, monitoring his research. Babysitting, you mean, he says. Q snorts. “That’s basically my job description.”
Alex lingers in the space between the kitchen and parlor, considering the arrangement. “So I would see you every day,” he discerns, smiling slowly.
Q throws a mock scolding look as he collapses on the couch. “We have to be careful, Alex. They’ll be watching our every move. It won’t be like before.” Alex is still watching him with hopeful eyes, so he sighs and adds: “Yes, I’ll see you every day.” The man smiles and joins him on the couch. He’s probably thinking that not even Bond gets to see him that regularly, which is true. They will be spending an unprecedented amount of time together, which M imagines will permit Q to supervise Alex closely. If only they knew the true nature of their relationship. He imagines M shaking the antacid tablets directly into his mouth. Chewing them like candies. “But you won’t have as much freedom with your projects. You’ll have to write out your theses and present them to M. You may have to argue your case to MI6’s superiors. And don’t try to be clever and confuse them. M’s on to that, as well.”
Alex’s brow furrows. “They won’t understand what I’m working on.”
“I’ll go with you and serve as a translator,” Q offers.
The man nods slowly, mulling over their new arrangement. “I like the part where I’ll get to see you.” Q smiles and touches the nape of his neck, running fingers through the damp strands. Dipping down, Alex kisses him, and he draws the man forth until they’re reclined on the couch. “I thought about you…the whole time I was in there,” he whispers, Q silencing him with his mouth. The mention of Alex’s interrogation reminds him of the drive waiting in his messenger bag and Moneypenny’s cryptic warning to destroy it as soon as possible.
His hands run under the hem of Alex’s dress shirt, the one he was wearing while held in isolation. Q tries not to think about that—or the way the fabric is wrinkled from the days Alex spent waiting in the cell—as he reacquaints himself with the muscular ridges of his back. Palms slide around to his stomach, stroking and exploring as Alex coaxes soft moans from his mouth. He’s hard against Q’s hip, which is no surprise but still a pleasant confirmation that—despite all the trauma and turmoil—the spark between them has survived.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Q pants against Alex’s cheek, and the man can only nod and practically lift him from the couch in his eagerness to hurry things along.
Q grins and races into the bedroom, stripping as he goes, happy to see Alex has followed suit so by the time they reach the bed they’re both nude and fall against the mattress. Alex looms over him, Q laughing as he reaches for him and kisses his flushed face. Alex’s eyes are glassy, dazed, surprised to find himself in a happy moment after all the pain. “Will you…” He still has trouble articulating what he needs, “Again?”
“Yes,” Q agrees, already breathing hard, “I want to.”
Alex rolls onto his back, watching as a naked Q reaches to the bedside table to collect their preparation materials. “It felt so good last time,” he quietly confesses and Q smiles, gently stroking his thigh. He’s unsure about so much of Alex’s life, but is fairly certain the man was raised to link sexual desire with great shame. Alex expressing any kind of preference is no small feat.
“You can tell me what you want,” he says, dropping the strip of foils and the bottle to the comforter and worshipfully kissing Alex’s stomach, a hair’s breath away from his rigid length. The man pulls in a sharp breath and looks to the ceiling. “Did you like when I sucked you?” Alex can’t speak. He can only timidly nod, and Q cradles his cock, sliding the head into his mouth. A desperate Ah escapes Alex’s mouth, the man squirming under him, a hot palm cradling the back of his head.
“Avery…” Alex gasps, voice broken, and Q’s eyes slip shut behind the lenses, silently registering it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He wants to remember how Alex sounds saying his name. Unlike before, he won’t allow his lazy mind to forget such details and this time will consciously store them in a mental reservoir.
He works Alex with his mouth and tongue, tenderly milking him of his first orgasm. The routine is more familiar to the man now, so he doesn’t stammer in embarrassment; rather, lays there, panting for breath, watching with dazed eyes as Q rolls on the condom and spreads the lube across his cock. Alex obediently raises his thighs and scoots lower on the bed so Q has unfettered access. He dips down, finding the little mole, to kiss it in greeting. It occurs to him that he could have very well never again seen it—or Alex—and the thought causes his throat to tighten.
“Tell me to stop, if—” He can’t finish the thought. Alex’s torso gleams with sweat, his chest rapidly rising and falling, which Q finds distracting. Bracing atop the man, gripping a thigh to coax Alex into draping a leg across his back; pressing forward until the burning tightness envelops him. An endless stretch of silence: Alex’s face a perfect mask of pleasure, eyes shut, lips agape. He dips down just in time to swallow a groan when he’s fully sheathed.
The rubbish mattress is a noisy animal beneath them, squeaking and moaning as the headboard thumps lightly against the wall, and yet all Q can focus on is the rhythm of Alex’s breathing and the way his name periodically escapes the man’s mouth in a choked invocation. Alex trembles and tenses, begging as Q’s hips stagger to a halt, “Keep going,” and he does, dimly registering the warm dollops smeared between them—evidence of Alex’s second climax.
An overwhelming warmth pours over him like a wave and Q moans loudly during his release, collapsing to the bed and laying there in a pleasant haze as they recover. He’s aware Alex is touching him, stroking his chest, kissing the side of his face, but he can’t speak.
Eventually, he climbs out of bed to dispose of the condom and bring a wash cloth to Alex. The gesture reminds him of Bond, surprisingly in a positive way, and he’s glad to pass along the caring ritual. It feels good to take care of Alex, to help him tidy up before they collapse in bed together and the man pulls him close. A large hand palms the dip above his rear, a motion only Alex could perform as tender and innocent, as if cradling a precious keepsake.
Q wakes some hours later to a dark room. They’ve separated at some point, Alex’s back pointed in his direction, breathing indicative of a man experiencing a deep sleep. He slides out of bed, pulls on his briefs, and creeps from the room on silent feet with the intention of drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, which he does, but remembers the drive waiting in his bag. Q sits on the couch and powers up his personal laptop, then recalls that MI6 is monitoring the device. He sneaks back into the bedroom and pulls out an ancient laptop from under the bed—the one from his university days, which MI6 doesn’t know exists. It barely works, having been thoroughly destroyed by hours spent downloading programs and devouring memory, but it can still open a USB drive. Returning to the parlor couch, Q boots up the laptop, inserts the disk, and double clicks on the sole folder: a video file of the interrogation room where Alex was held.
He hits pause immediately and fetches ear buds from the jacket hanging by the door and plugs them into the laptop so he can listen to the audio without waking Alex. The footage is black and white from a high perspective in the corner of the room, the camera aimed at Alex’s back as he sits tied to a chair in the center of the barren room. Q squints at the grainy image, trying to determine how Alex was restrained. From the looks of it, his ankles were shackled to the chair legs, while his wrists were handcuffed behind his back. There is a dark strip mashing the hair at the back of his head—a blindfold. Q turns up the volume two bars, which is loud enough to hear the harsh rock music blaring through speakers. If he were to turn up the volume to max, the cacophony would hurt his eardrums, and still it would not be as loud as the music was playing in the room.
Damn them, he thinks, skipping ahead through the footage. There’s barely any change in the image for several hours—only minute differences as Alex attempts to change his position. Once or twice, a MI6 superior that Q recognizes as one of the silver-haired men who participate in closed-door meetings with M walks in and stands in front of Alex. They remove the blindfold and ask questions like: “What is the invention for?” or “Who instructed you to build it?” or “Who are you working for?”
He can’t see Alex’s face, though hears the confusion in his voice: To end lies…No one told me to build it…England. The horrified shake of his voice makes Q feel queasy. Alex is a patriot. He would never betray the crown, but being odd has placed him under a microscope.
Always, they replace the blindfold and leave, the music erupting, Alex cringing and jerking from the force of it. After the first day, Alex begins to thrash in the chair. A few times, he topples over and someone comes in to right him. Q speeds up the rate of fast-forwarding, not wanting to linger on Alex’s most painful moments. What he’s looking for is located at the end of the file; the whole reason Moneypenny gave it to him.
In the last hour of the surveillance footage, Alex is very still, his head collapsed forward so that all Q can see is a tuft of hair and the ridges of his spine. Suddenly, the door blasts inward with a force too great to be explained by Bond simply kicking it in. Smoke pours in from the hallway. Bond used bloody explosives. No wonder the riot officers were phoned in. He leans his face close to the screen, but can’t see Bond anywhere. Where could he be? Just then, the music unexpectedly stops. Perhaps there was an ancillary room, the tortuous music’s source, which Bond disabled. Q’s finger jabs the volume upwards, his hand freezing above the keyboard when Alex’s voice floods the ear buds, groaning his name.
Bond warily approaches the agent, temporarily frozen in front of him as Alex’s moans carry. Begging for Q, using his real title. No wonder Moneypenny wiped the footage. If anyone heard this, they would instantly know about the affair. No agent platonically pleas for his quartermaster like this.
He covers his mouth, eyes slipping shut. Q wants to stop the footage, to rip out the drive and smash it to a thousand pieces, but he can’t move. All he can focus on is Alex and his pained voice. How long was he crying for Q? Hours? Days?
Bond yanks the blindfold off him, growls: “Shut up,” and proceeds to pick the handcuffs lock, leaving the metal bracelet to dangle from Alex’s left wrist. Next, he cuts the bindings wrapping his legs. At first, Alex can’t move. He can barely comprehend what’s happening. Why are you here? he slurs as Bond drapes his arm over broad shoulders and heaves upwards. “Because I made a bloody promise,” he snarls. Another reason for Moneypenny’s actions. M would quickly decipher that comment as meaning Q sent Bond to the holding cell, which he inadvertently did.
James practically drags Alex from the room, followed by thirty seconds of nothing—an empty room, dissipating smoke, the distant threatening shouts of the arriving riot guards—and the screen goes dark.
Q plucks the drive from his computer and stares at it a moment, then carries it into the kitchen. He places it in a ziplock bag and finds a hammer under the sink. He’s convinced the noise of the metal shattering the plastic device will wake Alex, but after scattering the parts in three separate rubbish bins located respectively in the kitchen, loo, and his bedroom, he turns towards the bed and sees Alex is still sound asleep.
After storing the old laptop beneath his bed and carefully climbing under the blankets, Q tucks an arm beneath his head and watches Alex’s back—the same back from surveillance footage, under very different circumstances. The warm, fulfilled feeling he felt post-coital is gone, replaced by gnawing guilt. He can’t help but feel responsible for all of Alex’s suffering, even though the agent has explicitly provided absolution. Q wants to touch him, to stroke the length of his spine, run his fingers through his hair, furl around the strands and gently tilt back Alex’s crown to kiss his mouth. But he’s afraid of startling the man, so instead watches the gentle expansion and compression of his ribcage, allowing the rhythm to lull him to sleep.
He wakes sometime later, dim light pouring through the curtains, still too early for his alarm to sound, but this time when he looks over at Alex, the man is watching him with a serene expression. The corner of his mouth lifts and he reaches to touch Alex’s chest, stroking the warm flesh, fingers tracing the thin coat of hair. They luxuriate in the comfortable silence for a moment, until the memories of the previous night revisit him.
“You’re really okay with me seeing Bond?” he asks, a small voice inside his brain cursing him for meddling with an ideal situation. But is it really ideal if Alex doesn’t fully understand the perimeters?
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Alex asks, his face blank in the way that makes it difficult to determine what he’s really feeling.
Q sighs, inching closer to him. “I don’t know. I just want to make sure. This is all a bit…overwhelming for me. I love you, and I love him. I don’t know what to do.”
Alex rolls onto his side to get a better look at him, a hand cradling Q’s hip, squeezing reassuringly. “I told you: I don’t own you.”
“Is that why you punched him?” Q means the question to sound playful, but he can’t keep the sadness from his voice. His brain won’t allow him to believe Alex’s words.
A flash of regret washes across the man’s face. “I thought he was putting you at risk with his boorishness. And I had assumed he and I were going to be gentlemen about our arrangement, but he chose to rub my face in it.”
“Gallantry isn’t really Bond’s style,” Q quips, flashing a crooked smile, the expression slipping when memories from the shooting range incident come back to him, “He won’t do that again. I spoke to him.”
He wonders at the calmness in Alex’s gaze. Inside Q’s chest is a hurricane of emotions, but after everything he’s been through—after all Q has asked of him—Alex looks at peace. “Why don’t you like the way you look?” Q’s brow furrows in confusion, so he adds: “Our first night together. You said you drink because you don’t like the way you look and it helps you relax when you make love.”
Q almost smiles at Alex’s gentlemanly euphemism. “Someone once said I’m scrawny and it stuck with me, I suppose.”
Alex looks confused, as if he can’t comprehend what Q is talking about. “And that’s why you drink.”
“I’m trying to—I don’t do it as much.” New Years passed as a quiet evening spent at home with the cats, while unbeknownst to him Alex was locked away in the tombs of MI6. Q didn’t go out to a pub. He didn’t drain a bottle of wine by himself. He went to bed before midnight, woken hours later by the sounds of fireworks on the Thames. “I know you disapprove.”
“I disapprove of you insisting that you deserve to be unhappy. I disapprove of you being alone and lonely, drinking yourself into a stupor because no one tells you that you’re beautiful.” Q gazes at him silently, suddenly afraid if he speaks that he’s going to cry. “I love you. You love me. Why do you keep doubting what I’m telling you?”
Alex pulls him closer until their chests are touching, the course hairs rubbing deliciously against Q’s smooth skin. He wraps his arms around Alex’s shoulders and flashes a smile. “Most people don’t say what they’re really feeling. I thought you were just telling me what I wanted to hear.”
“I’m not most people,” Alex says, a playful glint in his eyes. And yes, that is undoubtedly true. “You’ve seen my file. Am I lying to you?”
Q kisses him softly in apology. “No,” he agrees, kissing Alex again, coaxing him into an embrace.
They agree to be tactful, within reason. Alex wants to spend the night at his flat again, and Q agrees, so they part the next day with the expressed agreement to rendezvous first at work (in a strictly professional sense) and then later in the evening, after taking separate trains so as to avoid suspicion (sometimes Q sees his engineers on the tube). Alex needs to pick up clothing and toiletries from his flat, and Q would be lying if he denied that there is a warm feeling in his belly at the thought of regularly waking up to a handsome man in his bed. Still, he’s unsure how this polyamorous business works. Is he breaking some sort of rule by allowing Alex to spend multiple nights at his flat? Is it wrong that he wants the man to do so?
“There are no rules. We’ll make things up as we go along,” Alex encourages, which sounds nice, but he’s unsure how it will work in the real world.
What if James shows up one night, wanting to…Q feels a bit sweaty at the mere idea.
It doesn’t take long for Bond to do just that. In fact, the visit happens that very night when Alex is still back at his flat collecting some personal items, unbeknownst to Q, who walks into his flat and glimpses a man standing on his balcony. He thinks it’s Alex until slipping outside and registering the unique build of Bond. “You’ve got to stop breaking into my flat,” he chastises.
“So make me a key,” James greets, cigarette burning between fingers.
Q smirks, hesitating by the door, unsure of what he should do. James decides for him, flicking the cigarette off the balcony and closing the space between them. He wraps an arm around his waist, tugging Q forward and kisses him, his mouth a warm, slightly smokey chamber. The embrace instantly lulls him, his body heavy, yearning to drape against James because he knows the man will support his weight. “Um, wait,” he laughs self-consciously, pulling back, “Alex is coming over, so…”
How does this go? He feels as though he’s standing in quicksand.
“Oh,” Bond replies, brows quirked. Q realizes he’s amused. “I can’t stay long anyway. M’s sending me to Argentina.” Q frowns at him, saying he hasn’t been notified. “No one has. He says it’s of the utmost importance I leave tonight on a red-eye. You’ll be briefed tomorrow.” Bond glances at the door that leads to the parlor. Q wonders if he’s looking for Alex. Then he wonders what would happen if Bond saw him. “You know, I always thought he was a posh legacy masquerading as a field agent.”
Q tenses a bit. “He’s not.”
Bond makes a soothing noise. “I know…Stop it,” he scolds gently when Q refuses to relax, angry that James is still attacking Alex. “I’m trying to tell you something, so listen.” Q relents, scowling at him, “He’s tough. He’ll be a good Double O. I can tell, you know.” There it is again: the charming, arrogant gleam in his eyes. Q feels too overwhelmed by fondness to smirk or roll his eyes. “I’m glad someone will be here to look after you.”
For a moment, he can’t speak, nor can he look at the tender look in James’ eyes, so Q stares at his hands, which are splayed across the man’s broad chest, fingertips delicately plucking at the fabric of his jacket.
“James..” he begins, voice trembling, “I’m worried about you.” He’s heard that Bond has started seeing an MI6 therapist, but the sessions will have to be suspended until he returns from the field. And besides, he doesn’t fully trust MI6 psychiatrists. How in the world have they cleared an agent with PTSD for an operation? “What if you have a flashback?”
“That’s why I have you,” he lightly replies, belying the seriousness of the matter. “I’m willing to share, but I hope your man is prepared for the same because I’m not giving you up.”
Q says his name again and Bond dips close to him, stopping just short of kissing his lips so their noses graze. He smells heavenly and Q fits perfectly in his arms. With James, he can’t force the words out, can’t ever say he loves him because it feels like saying goodbye. Bond won’t say it for the same reason, and because he’s said it too many times before to loved ones who perished. Three words that have become a jinx for him. Besides, they don’t need to say them. He’s never needed to tell James what lives in his heart.
“I see why you like him. He’s my exact opposite.”
Q almost disagrees. He wants to ask: Then how can I love you both? But the answer is obvious: Q’s needs are complex, not easily satisfied by a single individual. There is no shame in that. He gazes at Bond imploringly, and the man understands, leaning forth to kiss him, Q clinging to the thick fabric draping his shoulders. Leather gloves grip his spine, holding him tightly, stroking with expert precision.
“All right, I must be off,” Bond decides for the both of them, kissing him again and then his brow, Q’s chest painfully clenching. He feels desperate, yearns to cling to James, but scolds himself for being so dramatic. He’s a Double O, for Christ’s sake. He’ll be fine. But things are more complicated than the old days. Now, when James leaves, he will take with him a piece of Q’s heart.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so instead offers a weak nod, watching Bond walk to the door and cast one last look over his shoulder before letting himself into the parlor. Q remains outside because the cold air feels good against his hot skin, and he doesn’t want to watch James leave his flat.
Alex trudges inside, using the key Q had made for him. He looks up from the couch, a smile on his lips as he watches the man walk into the small vestibule and shed his jacket, setting down the travel bag with his possessions. Q gazes down a tunnel of time: five, ten, thirty years from now, years spent watching Alex come home like this, as if they could be normal men in a normal relationship. Bond is right: he could never have a life like that with him. Settling down would drive a man like James mad.
“Hello, hello,” he greets first Heisenberg and then Babbage, and still Q watches, waiting for the moment their eyes meet across the room. A smile breaks across Alex’s face when he sees him. “Hello,” he says again, voice lowered in a way that makes Q feel warm.
“Hi,” Q says, willing his mind to keep this image of Alex standing in his—their—home inside a special chamber forever.
Alex approaches him slowly, perhaps detecting a change in the atmosphere (maybe he smells Bond’s cologne). “Is everything okay?”
He must be concerned because Q’s eyes are shimmering, and he doesn’t know how to tell Alex that they’re happy tears—that he never thought this kind of contentment was possible—and as such he’s terrified of losing it. Love is risky enough when reciprocation relies on another person, but Q has invested his happiness in two people, thereby increasing the likelihood of some outside element shattering their peace. It’s a math thing—he can’t stop running the numbers, realizing the odds are stacked against them.
Alex extends a hand, helping him from the couch, and still Q doesn’t speak. “Did he leave?” the man asks, once again correctly inferring by gathering evidence in the wake of Bond’s visit. He nods, flashing a weak smile, hoping it relays the message: I’ll be fine. He just has a way of destroying me. Alex cradles his face, “It’s okay,” he soothes, drawing out of Q a sigh and twin trails of tears that spill down his cheeks, “I’m here.”
It is no consolation prize. In fact, the promise is exactly what Q needs.