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Q couldn’t quite tell you the exact moment he fell in love with the Double 0 agent James Bond.
The man took the piss out of him the first time they met in front of The Fighting Temeraire. He mocked his complexion, his age and his choice of kit. But he didn’t mention his wheelchair. And he didn’t ‘didn’t mention it’ the way some people did, their eyes raking over the steel tubing or his skinny legs or the fingerless gloves he wore when propelling himself outside. His face didn’t broadcast a hundred unasked questions. He’d simply sat and had a conversation with Q like it was the most logical thing he could imagine that MI6’s new quartermaster should see the world from a seated position.
Maybe Q fell in love with him on that very first meeting.
It started slowly, this thing between them. Bond still smarting from Vesper’s betrayal, Q still so scared of his body’s limitations almost twenty years after the accident. He’d always tried to be stoic, not letting his disability get him down but underneath his bravado there’d always been a fear and an anger that wouldn’t quite quit. He’d tried going on dates as he grew up like any ‘normal’ boy but the incident which had permanently damaged a thousand axons and synapses and left him struggling to stand had also broken a vital part of his confidence. He wanted, admired and adored from afar but in his mind there were too many complications. He was gay for a start and who would want a twink with few motor skills below the waist? His body was a tangible reminder of the death of his family and he was wary of allowing anyone else near it. So he stayed alone in his own little world, working and making the best use of what he had.
Bond quickly took to hanging around Q Branch when he was off-mission. His dry humour making Q smile despite himself, even on his darkest days. At first he was oblivious until he realised that Bond’s smiles and twinkling eyes were only directed at him. That made him shy, so painfully shy, which increased Bond’s smiles tenfold. The agent began bringing him cups of tea and gifts when he came back from his missions until his desk was filled with knickknacks and oddments. He would casually bring his lunch into the Branch and share his sandwiches with Q and if Q didn’t like any of the offerings, Bond never brought them in again. After a few weeks Bond began turning up whenever the staff decided on a trip to the pub after work and he always made sure that he somehow ended up sitting next to Q.
When Bond finally asked him out for a drink, ten months after their first meeting, he’d been genuinely surprised to discover it was just the two of them, expecting the usual gaggle of post-work drinkers to be there too. What was almost as surprising was how at ease he was with Bond and how quickly the four hours they’d spent together had passed. When Bond walked him back to his specially adapted car he’d made no effort to help as Q manipulated himself and his chair in. Q was so grateful. His last boyfriend Grant had lasted less than a month due to his insistence in trying to do everything for him. Bond had simply waited for Q to get settled and then leaned in through the car window to kiss his cheek goodnight. He told Q he’d had a wonderful evening and the thing was, so had Q.
Pretty soon they were spending almost every free waking moment together. Bond would hang around Q Branch at the end of the day and then take him out for drinks or to dinner or the cinema. In the early days Q always drove but as time went on he allowed Bond to drive him even though it meant Q had to let him take his chair away from him to place in the boot of the car. And if he noticed that Bond had traded in his Aston Martin for a four by four that had enough boot space for the wheelchair, he didn’t comment on it.
The issue of Q’s disability was never really discussed or even mentioned (apart from on one memorable occasion when an arrogant maître d’ kept knocking the back of Q’s chair during dinner and hadn’t Bond frightened the shit out of the guy over that?) but eventually Q had bitten the bullet. They were getting on well, so well in fact that Q had begun to wonder if Bond might be getting frustrated by them not going further than the end of night kissing sessions that they’d progressed to. He waited until a Friday night, inviting Bond around to his flat so he could cook the agent dinner. After they’d eaten and taken their wine glasses into the lounge Q had held Bond’s hand and falteringly told him everything that was wrong, everything that had been damaged in the accident. He told him about the periods of pain and cramping that sometimes kept him awake at night. He told him about the reduced sensations below his waist. He told him that he got erections but not always when he wanted them and how sometimes it was impossible for him to get it up no matter how turned on he was. He shivered with fear for Bond’s disapproval as he explained he that he had a stock of vibrators and a pump and other equipment that he sometimes had to rely on to come and…
He’d expected at any moment for Bond to reject him. To decide that it was all too much to cope with. Q needn’t have worried. He was interrupted by Bond very slowly pulling his hand away and peeling off the simple pale blue cashmere jumper he’d been wearing. Taking Q’s hand again he’d placed it on the twist of scars on his shoulder. The scars left by Moneypenny’s bullet. This shoulder won’t extend fully, he’d said, it’s weaker than the other and sometimes I have to take painkillers for days on end if the weather is cold or damp or I sleep badly on it. Q had looked at him questioningly as Bond slowly took off his jeans. He indicated a long, cruel-looking scar that ran around his knee. This kneecap was replaced after a bullet shattered it when I was twenty-five… This scar is from a knife… This is from when I was hit by the shrapnel from a grenade… He continued, pointing out all his physical flaws and all the damage his body had suffered over the years, encouraging Q to run his fingers over every mark.
Eventually, dressed only in his briefs, he’d leaned in and kissed Q softly, tasting of chicken teriyaki and strawberries and chardonnay. Do you want me any less because of anything I’ve shown you? He’d asked. Q shook his head, his previous fear morphing into a trembling desire. He made a small sound of negation as he was kissed again. Good. Because I’m falling in love with you and none of what you’ve been talking about makes any difference to the way I feel about you. My darling Thomas. Bond had picked him up then – the first time he’d done it in all the time they’d been together – and he’d taken him to the bedroom, kissing him every step of the way. Bond laid him down before loving him gently and thoroughly, constantly checking that what he was doing was OK. When he eventually came from Bond’s combined ministrations with his mouth and hands and a small vibrating pad pressed to his frenulum just like Q had shown him, he was speechless with pleasure.
Having a sex-life that actually involved another living breathing person wasn’t the easy natural thing that Q had sometimes dreamt it might be but neither was it the hideous, shambling beast he'd feared. Whatever else Bond was, he was a quick learner. Soon he was at ease with Q’s body and its limitations, knowing when to encourage Q to orgasm and when to content himself with kissing him or allowing Q to touch and enjoy his body with no pressure to reciprocate. This made Q himself more confident. They’d been to bed together a dozen times though before Q felt comfortable being fully naked in front of him. In the early days he preferred to keep as dressed as possible or covered by bedding. He needn’t have worried. The first time he allowed Bond to undress him the agent did so reverently, kissing and caressing every inch of his exposed flesh until he lay nude. It was the single most erotic thing to ever happen to Q, right up to the point that Bond buried his flushed face into Q’s hip and groaned. When Q asked him what was wrong he admitted that he’d just come in his pants for the first time since he was fourteen.
And if that wasn’t the greatest ego-boost, Q didn’t know what was.
After that night more and more of Bond’s possessions moved into Q’s flat until feeling strange having Bond in his bed turned into feeling strange when he wasn’t there.
Q felt like he had never been happier right up until the accident in R&D.
Crutches were possible but Q generally found his wheelchair was easier. It made him feel less vulnerable and didn’t tire him out so much, so he preferred to use it at work. He kept a pair around though in case he needed to be slightly more manoeuvrable or if he wanted to see the world from the same height as everyone else. A few months after Bond and he had started their physical relationship he’d fallen whilst using them as he tried to inspect the prototype of a new all-terrain stealth vehicle. It was a stupid stumble, coming down off the access ramp, but he’d broken his wrist. Bond was away on mission and Q had to run the gauntlet of Medical and the inevitable meeting with M on his own and by the time he was home with his arm in a cast, and a bag of painkillers in his lap he was done. So fucking done. It had been necessary for M to discuss his disability in front of Tanner, Kressler from Medical and R as they arranged how R was to cover his duties in Q Branch and how they might make life easier for him on his return. He hated the way everyone had looked at him. He didn’t want or need their pity.
M insisted he take four weeks mandatory sick leave, most likely thinking he was doing Q a favour. His return was pending a review by Medical as the injury had an effect on his mobility. He knew that M was only trying to help but he was just so fucking angry that he’d been effectively suspended because of his disability. Still furious when he got home he drank the bottle of ‘Old Pulteney” 21 year old whiskey that he’d bought Bond for his birthday. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so low. His whole life, ever since the accident which had almost killed him he’d fought. He’d flogged himself to the point of agony in his efforts to physically rehabilitate himself after the accident. He’d battled depression when he realised he’d never walk unaided again. Worked harder than anyone to succeed at school and work, to prove to everyone he was more than just the chair he used. He was desperate to be independent, to live his own life but at that moment it was like it had been all taken away from him by a cruel universe that wanted nothing more than to slap him down. Something so fucking simple like a cracked Scaphoid had stopped him from doing the job that he loved and he knew it was temporary, he knew it, but it hurt and he was tired and he wanted Bond.
He got so wasted that he never really remembered trashing his flat, screaming and crying as he smashed everything he could reach. It was probably a good thing that he ran over the broken bottle and punctured one of his tires as it slowed the path of his destruction and wore him out. He fell asleep sobbing on the couch, feeling utterly wretched.
He awoke untold hours later in bright daylight to cool, calloused fingers smoothing over his pounding forehead. He threw up on both of them when Bond tried to ease him up into a sitting position but his lover didn’t let go of him. He’d whimpered as Bond cradled him in his arms, this beautiful strong man not caring that Q had puked, not caring that he’d wet himself in his drunken stupor. Q wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, his face resting on Bond’s chest, safe in his arms, accepting small sips of water from the glass in his lover’s hand. Eventually Bond set the glass down and gently picked him up, for the second time, carrying him to the bathroom where he stripped him and placed him in a bathtub full of warm water. Q had cried as Bond had washed him, soaping away his tension along with the grime.
Later, when they were laid in bed together, Q had quietly poured out his heart to Bond and when he was done he was kissed. I won’t say we’ll get through this as this is all about how you see yourself, Bond had murmured, but I have faith that you will get through this. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. I love you. Go to sleep and it won’t seem so bad in the morning. Q had nuzzled into Bond’s embrace and sleepily asked why. Why did Bond, who could have anyone, want him? Why was he so good to him? Bond had answered immediately because you’re you. Q had forced a weak smile and pointed out that he was ‘Q’ not ‘U’ and was Bond sure he was shagging the right cripple? Bond had frowned at the ugly word but he had kissed him and told him with a loving smile yes, he was sure. So very sure. Q had stroked his face and his heart seemed to creep into his throat when he told him that he would understand if Bond ever changed his mind… Bond stopped his words with a kiss that tasted like ‘never’. When they eventually fell asleep, Bond had done so spooning him, holding him close like he was the most precious thing in the world.
The next morning Q awoke in bed alone. His wheelchair sat next to him, its punctured tire repaired. He pushed himself clumsily through to the lounge to see that Bond had cleaned up all the signs of his destruction from the night before. For a moment Q wondered if it had been the final act in their relationship. Whether the cold light of dawn had brought Bond the realisation that he really didn’t want Q and all his hang-ups. As he reached the window and paused to look out over the rainy London skyline he heard the key in the door. As long as he lived he wouldn’t forget what happened next.
Bond came in soaking wet. He didn’t bother to take off his coat before kneeling by the wheelchair. He placed a bouquet of Arum lilies in Q’s lap (they were his favourite, he’d told Bond, they reminded him of his mother). Bond reached into his pocket and drew out a small box and said;
I know you’re feeling down and I don’t want to take advantage of you if you’re not feeling yourself but you need to know how special you are. What you said to me last night…You need to know how much I love you Thomas, my darling. I need you to know that I love you more than I ever thought I’d be capable of loving anyone again. I love you more than life. When I found you in such a wretched state yesterday - when I saw you lying there - I realised I would die if anything happened to you. Please let me love you. Let me stay with you for however long we might have. I went to the bank…my safety deposit box… this was my grandfather’s… your fingers are so slim it may not fit but… Thomas, will you marry me?
Shocked, Q had said yes and Bond’s face had lit up like a Christmas tree, his eyes glittering with tears as he’d fumbled to get the too-large ring onto his finger.
Their wedding was a quiet affair at the registry office five minutes down the road from Q’s flat. Q insisted on using his crutches to move slowly up the aisle towards his beloved to the sound of Debussy playing quietly in the background. He’d almost reached Bond when Tanner set the whole room off crying and laughing by noisily blowing his nose. They sat in matching chairs as they became Commander and Mr Bond. After a small reception at Dukes Hotel Q, tipsy from drinking too much champagne, allowed Bond, his James, to carry him for only the third time since they’d met. They went upstairs to their honeymoon suite.
It hasn’t been perfect since they’ve married. No real life love story ever truly has a completely happy ‘ever after’. They argue sometimes and Q gets frustrated and Bond sees and does things in his job that no sane person could ever hope to bear but they are together and that is the main thing. The only thing that matters.
Thomas Bond really couldn’t ask for anything more than that.