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It’s a testament to how long the mission in Serbia was that Bond passes Q twice on the way to the bedroom before it registers. Even then, it only clicks because Q is peering over the rim of his glasses behind his computer screen like a sheepish librarian.
“I thought we agreed no computer in the bedroom?” Bond asks.
Q wets his lips. “Ye-es,” he agrees slowly. “We did.”
“D’you want a cuppa?” Bond asks, calm. Q watches him.
“Ah—Bond. James.”
“Hm?” Bond hums encouragingly.
Q falters. “How was your day at work?”
“Oh, you already know,” Bond tells him, waving a hand. Q winces.
“I...suppose I’ll ask later?”
“I’d rather tell you all at once, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Sorry?” Q tries. Bond fixes him with a look. “Sorry four times? You can take it all as rote, of course. I’m certain they agree.” Bond hums again, because Q is getting flustered and a flustered Q blabs worse than a guilty five year old: “So maybe there was an incident at work that I didn’t phone about.” There it is; Bond fixes him with a look and Q cracks wide open, babbling something about an experiment and institutional memory and some nonsense about fixed points in experience rather than time, since time is so fickle and age is dependant upon lifestyle. Bond finally shuts him up with a merciful kiss to the top of the head.
“Four, though. I can understand making the mistake once, but twice more?”
“Have to be able to duplicate the mistake before we can fix it, don’t we?” Q says, cheeky, his grin only flickering at the edges at Bond’s disapproving frown.
“Were you ever, at any point, in danger?”
Q’s silence is damning. Bond sighs.
“Don’t know how Britain’s tea industry’s going to be able to support four of you.” It’s as close as he’ll let himself get to caving in the face of Q’s adorably guilty puppy eyes. Q understands, of course, pushing the laptop aside to reach up for a hug.
The unexpected clasp of a pair of arms wrapping around his torso reminds him how important it is that they’ve got a “no weapons in the bedroom” policy—hence, no laptop in bed—but the shock of hearing Q behind him and seeing him beneath his hands, fingers curled around the hand at his throat, makes Bond push back as if burned. He’s never, ever wanted, even by accident—
“Calm,” Q says. His throat is already bruising, and Bond is struck with ridiculous remorse. “My fault. I should have warned you—”
“The one thing I could never forgive myself for is putting my hands on you, Q—”
Q shushes him gently, reaching out to draw him close. “Behind,” he murmurs seconds before another set of arms twines itself beneath his ribs. “Extenuating circumstances, I think, darling.” He has to admit there’s something unusually comforting about the embrace; there’s a tap at the door and another Q.
“Everything alright? Am I missing a group hug?”
It’s confusing, Q at each direction and he can’t tell the difference physically; each of them is the same dark mop, the same sweet, clear eyes in various stages of concern, the same bitable moles and the same—the wave of lust that hits him at the thought, at the passing fancy—is that the same, too?—is almost dizzying. The Q in his shirtsleeves, the one who smells of the tea he was making in the kitchen when Bond passed earlier, laughs bright and pokes the Q that’s marked with Bond’s—the Q wearing the tatty Christmas jumper, Bond thinks instead, forces himself to think instead—in the ribs.
“You owe me. Pay up—I said he’d get there pretty quick. I don’t know why you doubted; you’ve got the same memories as me,” Q tells him. Q fishes in his pocket under the long edge of his jumper for a crisp twenty pound note; the Q in pyjamas rolls his eyes.
“It is literally all the same money. You bet your own money against yourself in a stupid bet. You are proof of that theory that clone quality degrades with each generation of copy,” Q tells him, but really, Bond doesn’t care—he could be reciting Chekov in front of a brass band and Bond would still be spinning with the images that have begun to spin in his mind.
“Bitchy,” Christmas-jumper Q accuses. Pyjama Q shrugs.
“We’re losing him,” Tea Q notices. The other two turn, and suddenly Bond’s the focus of three sets of suddenly hungry eyes.
“Can’t have that,” Jumper Q agrees. Pyjama Q touches the line of Bond’s spine through his jacket—at least he assumes it’s Pyjama Q; there are six hands on him quicker than anything he’s ever experienced, and outside of a particularly freeform period in Uni Bond can’t say he’s fallen into bed with—Q sucks his earlobe into a hot mouth, Q pulls his fingers up to tangle in his curls as he angles his mouth for a kiss, Q slips his lips over the wool stretched across his shoulders, and he can’t keep up, just sinks into the sensation.
“That’s better,” Q says, and Q hums in agreement. Q touches him gently, guides him to the bed and then there are three of them in the double bed that’s never felt too small for two but is suddenly spilling over its edges with long, slim limbs and dark heads of curls. A hand guides his hand into a lap, a cock grinds against his shoulder, a mouth presses sucking kisses at his chest as they manoeuvre on the bed; they’ve planned, or at least thought out the logistics; Bond finds himself bent over a body kissing that sleek throat and nuzzling at familiar dark spots as the other two lift Q’s hips with the pillows, coax and guide and tease him in, and then he’s fucking into Q’s arse no different than any other day Q’s waylaid him at the door except. Except he’s being led back, hands stilling his hips for the press of a slick cock as he wavers between them, pinned in place by Q’s eyes dark with want as he strokes himself off. Fucking, fucked—he curls his fingertips over the blade of Q’s hip and draws him in to taste the slick of his cock and Q sighs.
It’s the Q beneath him that goes first. Q’s always adored it, Bond’s cock in his arse, or his fingers or his tongue. He’s squirming now, pressed into the bed by the combined weight of his lover and his doppelgangers, and when Bond spares him a glance he’s blissful, eyes closed and cheeks flushed as he arches into Bond’s stilted thrusts. His knuckles bump against Bond’s abdomen as he wanks, smearing precome along Bond’s skin sticky and slick and eager. He’s making delighted little keening noises even as he comes, barely more than muffled whimpers; Q doesn’t seem to mind that Bond’s stopped sucking to watch, and when Q peers up at him with dizzy rose-petal eyes, Bond groans and leans in to lap at the cock again, drawing it in and relishing the sensation of blunt, trimmed nails along his scalp.
Q is watching from behind and fucks into him harder with a groan, but it’s the splash of semen across Bond’s lips next, bitter earth and chemicals and the faint, milky-sweet taste. He sucks until there are hands on him, three sets pulling him away with breathless laughter. They rearrange him, spread his thighs until he’s sure they’ll all four of them fall from the bed, but when the body behind him begins again, it’s enough. He’s shaking from the hand on his cock, from the mouth on his nipples, from the cock in his arse as it tears his pleasure from him; the hands hold him in place firmly as he comes into the bedsheets with a broken little cry, then hold him firmer as Q takes his pleasure from his limp body. When he comes, Q eases Bond’s body onto its side, smoothes his hair back from his brow, makes soothing noises.
There are fewer hands on him. Bond leans up, looking for Q in the Christmas jumper, but while the jumper is on the floor, he’s nowhere to be found.
“Where—?”
“The clones fade, I’m afraid,” Q tells him as he brushes his fingertips through Bond’s fringe. “In order of generation: a clone of a clone of a clone has less permanence than a clone of a clone, and so on.”
“And just as I was growing used to the idea of the four of you lying about in your pants drinking tea,” Bond tells him fondly. Q’s eyes are just as affectionate, and he leans in to kiss Bond’s brow as another set of hands drifts ghostlike away.
“Sleep, you ridiculous creature. Sleep, and I’ll be here when you wake.”
The rattle of Q’s satchel hitting the floor wakes him later, calamitous despite the sheepish grin Q gives him as he eases it down. “Sleep well?” Q asks. “Only I know that Serbia was a pain and a half, and if anyone deserves a good nap after that clusterfuck it’s you.”
Bond leans up on his elbows. The room’s been tidied, Q’s clothes folded neatly over the chair back, and if it weren’t for the full-body thrumming of his sated flesh, Bond would think it had been a fantastic dream. Instead, he looks at Q, one brow cocked. Q looks back at him, the same impish man who could have had the same filthy idea four times in a row.
“Very well,” Bond purrs, reaching up to tug Q into the bed with him. “Got in a bit of exercise beforehand—quite wore me out.”
“Sorry I missed it,” Q teases back, humming with contentment as he sweeps his lips over a lovebite. “I do so love to see you sweat.” Bond lets him think he’s got away with it, lipping at those sweet, dark moles again, before flipping him; Q squawks and flails a bit, landing beneath Bond with wide, innocent eyes. Bond grins and slides his hand inside Q’s pants, finds him hard and wet already.
“Since you missed the party….”