Archive of Our Own

James had aged in the near-decade since his promotion. An odd word for becoming a sociopath, it had etched lines in his face, deep grooves pole to post. His hair was nearly grey, hairline fighting a hopeless rearguard action, Horatio on the bridge of his brow. He hardly recognized himself, staring into vanity mirrors, catching glimpses in darkened windows.

Q’s smooth cheeks, the red spot on his chin, had felt like a stake through the heart. Put the old man out to pasture, they seemed to say, hand over the reins to the next generation, spots and all. James had hardly known whether to ruffle his hair, or spank him and send him to bed without dinner, when they’d first met.

But for all of Q’s youth and piss, at the end of the day he was the best handler that Bond had ever had. His voice on the comm had been smooth and even, throughout the Silva episode. He hadn’t let James bully him, hadn’t faltered, had taken his time and trusted that when he gave the go, Bond would go and go and go.

He felt vaguely disloyal for comparing Q to M, but M had always been a bit excitable. Impatient, like Bond, like most 00s, she’d fed into their innate impulse to leap before looking, instead of checking it. Tanner was more cautious, but timid and unimaginative.

James had run four more missions with Q as his handler, since Skyfall, since Q had simply taken over the comm as if it were his right. Each had gone better than the last, and now James was back in record time, despite the tragic lack of exploding pens in his equipage.

He shot his cuffs and straightened his tie, before stepping briskly through the glass doors of Q’s demesne. The techs and analysts buzzed about in their jumpers, just that hair more casual than the rest of MI6. His entrance caused the faintest pause in the hum of activity, as they carefully ignored him.

Q, exquisitely sensitive to his minions, greeted James without turning from the rippling columns of numbers on the main monitor. “007, welcome back. Please tell me you’ve come to return your ordnance; I’ve five quid on it,” he said, evenly.

“Ah. Sorry. You should have mentioned that before telling me to jump out of the plane. I’m afraid it’s somewhere in the Pacific, now.”

“A shame, but hardly unexpected.” Q gave a few more quick taps to his keyboard, and turned. The screen resolved into what appeared to be a schematic for some sort of explosive device. “The radio?”

James held it up, then dropped it into Q’s outstretched hand. Q stepped over to a table and slotted the innocuous silver square into a slot in a larger silver square that looked anything but innocuous. Frankly, James had no idea what 90% of the objects in Q Division did. They beeped and whirred and hissed, and sometimes emit Pop music. On this particular occasion, one of them suddenly started playing something about a bicycle race, which twigged Bond’s memory, before Q glared over his shoulder, at someone behind Bond, and the song cut out mid-chorus.

Q waved his hands over another keyboard, and the box began to chitter. His lips twitched, in something that might be called a smile, and Q appeared to focus his full attention on the information downloading. Soon, approving little noises began issuing from the Quartermaster; Bond stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, prepared to stay for a while.

What would Q look like in something other than tie, jumper, and trousers, James wondered, entertaining himself. He squinted a bit, trying to picture the younger man in a suit. No, he’d look even more an infant. Tee-shirt and jeans? James blinked, surprised at the slight flush the image engendered.

He let his mind play, wondering where this would go. Q, hair even more disheveled, in a washed-out tee-shirt and jeans, bare feet propped on something, something low. A coffee table, yes, legs stretched out under a laptop. Q on his day off, relaxed at home, slumped on his sofa while he drank tea and caught up on celebrity gossip sites or hacker news, or whatever Qs did on their day off.

“Do you Sudoku?” he asked, involuntarily.

“Hm?”

“Nothing, never mind,” James tried to dismiss the question, embarrassed that it had popped out.

“Sudoku? No, actually. Why?” Q looked up, curious.

“No reason, just…” He waved a hand, as if trying to brush away the conversation.

Narrowing his eyes, Q stared at him intently for a moment, before shrugging. “Do you play it?”

“No. I tried it on the plane--the other one, not the one I jumped from. It was frustrating,” he admitted. “I was just wondering what sort of person would find it relaxing.”

“And inevitably, your idle musings turned to me. I’m flattered,” Q snarked.

“You should be,” James replied, a bit more sincerely than he’d intended, then cleared his throat and looked away.

Q said nothing for moment, before murmuring, “Yes. Well. Thank you, Bond, for returning the radio. You are due to Medical next, I believe.”

James nodded and left.

*

Medical had not quite caught on to Bond’s lack of gunshot wounds after his last two missions, and still had him on four week’s mandatory leave. He spent a few days sleeping and reacquainting himself with his flat. The first day or two home, it always felt strange and unfamiliar. He was more accustomed to hotel rooms, really, but he’d bought the flat with his 00 raise, out of some sort of sense that it was what regular people did, and maybe he should take a stab at that normality thing.

The first two years it had stood completely empty, mostly because he’d forgotten about it. When he finally remembered, it was because he’d been invalided back to London for twelve weeks (minimum, insisted Medical and Psych, in unholy alliance), and had had a moment’s panic about where the bloody fuck he was going to sleep for twelve whole weeks.

He’d had an unexpected amount of fun ordering furnishings off the internet, probably paying too much for delivery, considering that MI6 intercepted his purchases, ran each under a microscope, or the sofa equivalent, and then delivered and assembled it all themselves.

Since then, James had acquired an eclectic mix of furniture and gew-gaws, either purchased on missions and shipped home, or sourced locally, during his infrequent leaves. Nothing matched, except in the way that one’s taste tended towards favourite colours and textures. It was the antithesis of a hotel room, and that’s what he liked about his flat, why it had become home, rather than an investment. Gradually, now that he had the time, he settled back into familiarity with his things, going barefoot, cooking whenever he felt peckish, and dozing on his obscenely comfortable sofa.

Eventually, though, he got bored. James was staring at the ceiling, not thinking of much of anything, just feeling vaguely restless, when it occurred to him that it had been nearly a week since he’d checked in and debriefed, and no one had called him. Because, of course, M had been the only one who’d ever called him when he was on leave, and, well. That wouldn’t be happening anymore.

He could get dressed and go to the office, he supposed, but that would just be pathetic. A scarred, old battleship, cast adrift, desperate for relevance… no. James refused to play that role. He would enjoy his leave, even if the tedium killed him.

*

Week two, day nine, and James had resumed jogging, just to satisfy his need to be moving, doing something. Well, he called it jogging, although he did it at night, going as fast as possible, frequently over roofs, and up and down fire-escapes, wearing combat blacks. He wasn’t carrying a gun, though, which made it jogging.

He landed on the rooftop garden of his building, knees bending into a deep crouch, to absorb best the impact of the drop. His flexors barely protested, and he rose smoothly, feeling springier than he had in years. James bounced a little, enjoying the sensation of healthy muscle and bone, and practically skipped around the little grove of potted Japanese maples and bamboo that screened the edge of the garden.

Of course, Q would be slumped in one of the garden chairs, eyebrows quirked and mobile in hand. James stuttered to a halt. “Q,” he said, intelligently.

“007,” Q replied, rising. “So, this is what you’ve been doing.” He paced closer, and circled James, examining him. The snug fabric was soaked with sweat, but wicked it away from his skin, so he felt warm and dry. Still, they were very snug and he wasn’t wearing anything but an athletic supporter underneath. “Hm. I’ve never actually seen you in blacks.”

James flattered himself that Q sounded admiring. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but Bond was an old dog, and he’d take what he could get. “Look your fill,” he offered.

“Thanks,” drawled Q, then, “I’m freezing; invite me in for tea.”

“Why Q, how nice of you to drop by. Please come down for tea,” James obeyed the demand, amused, and walked past to open the stairwell door. He gestured Q in ahead of him, and only then noticed what Q was wearing. “Are you wearing pyjamas under your coat?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Q stuck his nose in the air and swept down the stairs. His voice floated back to James. “I usually wear pyjamas when I’m sleeping.”

“Do you? I don’t.”

“And how often do you get called out of bed in the middle of the night, because the system has decided that a 00 is in mortal peril? Oh, that’s right, never. And, ta, thanks for that, by the way.”

“Ah. Sorry, about that,” James apologized, as they reached his door. Q waited while Bond checked his tell-tales, then let them in. “Is that why you were on my roof?”

“Yes. I was pretty sure it was a false alarm, so I wanted to program the night’s activities into the system. Impressive, by the way.” Q shed his parka, and looked curiously around himself, blatantly examining James’s home.

“Me, or the flat?”

Q flirted a look back at him. “It can’t be both?”

James choked, startled, then coughed out, “Right, yes, tea. Earl Grey, yeah?”

“Please.”

He filled the kettle and put it on the hob, before retreating for a quick shower and change. The water wasn’t even boiling, yet, when he ducked back into the kitchen to fix up a tray. Q was poking his long fingers into the various corners of Bond’s sitting room, nose practically quivering. He was wearing a tee-shirt much like the one that James’s imagination had provided, and trainers, with his loose flannel pyjama trousers. James would be money that he wasn’t wearing socks.

“Anything interesting?” he asked, as he carried in the tea tray. He set it carefully down on the coffee table, and prepared to pour.

“Everything,” replied Q, absently, attention riveted by the bookshelves. James liked books, but he wasn’t particularly discriminating, and he had no interest in collecting. His books were books that he’d read, and thought he’d like to read again; they weren’t decorative, or purchased to impress. He suddenly realized that Q was the only guest he’d ever had in his flat, the only person who wasn’t himself or MI6’s housekeeping service to see James’s belongings. It made him feel vaguely exposed, more so than he’d felt before changing into jeans and jumper.

“Lemon, or milk and sugar?” he asked, to cover his discomfort.

Q turned in response. “Oh, sorry. Black is fine,” Q replied, and perched himself neatly on the edge of one of the mismatched club chairs.

James had settled on the sofa, as he usually did. He’d never noticed how far away his furnishings were spaced. Q seemed almost on the other side of the room, and yet he was barely beyond arm’s length.

Deliberately, James set both cups on the edge of the table nearest him, then slid up to sit against the far arm of the sofa, curling his right leg up. Q took the hint, and relocated, seating himself opposite. He looked at James’s bare feet, and toed off his trainers, before aping the pose. He picked up his tea cup and delicately inhaled.

Ha, thought James, mentally paying himself out. No socks. And Q’s feet were as long and slender and pale as the rest of him. Not surprising, considering those hands, and that neck. He’d once heard Moneypenny describe Q’s neck as “swan-like,” a term that he’d previously only come across in books, but it was fitting. He wondered if Q’s cock was also long and slender and pale. Could a cock be swan-like, and should it be alarming that James was wondering about Q’s cock?

What was a swan’s cock like, anyway? Probably not at all like their necks. James, he lectured himself, you just might be having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps it was time to look into a desk job, after all.

“Do you always drop in on agent’s work-outs?” James asked Q, instead of calling Psych for an emergency evaluation. If he was having a psychotic break, he might as well enjoy it.

“No, this is a first. Most agents work-out during the day, in a gym. Usually, the MI6 gym, actually, which the algorithm finds very reassuring.”

“But I’ve been doing this the last few nights,” James pointed out, “and no alarms have apparently gone off, until now.”

“Not as such, no, but it was tagged, and tonight’s 45 foot vertical fall triggered your implant’s automatic distress call. You were very nearly interrupted by a medevac team and full field support,” Q explained in a dry voice.

“That would have been… awkward,” he acknowledged. “Thanks.”

Nodding, Q set down his cup. “You’re fine, so I should go, let you get some sleep…”

“You could,” James interrupted, “stay. If you like. Have an adult beverage,” he added, trying to make it into a joke, but already aware that the attempt was a failure.

Nonetheless, Q sat back and nodded. “Technically, I’m off this week. Except for emergency calls about falling 00s, of course.” He smiled, to take any sting from the words. “Make mine a double.”

Relieved, and not wanting to examine the feeling too closely, James asked, “Double what?”

Q waved, grandly, and settled farther back into Bond’s really, very comfortable sofa, petting the suede appreciatively. “Anything. Everything. Whatever. I’m on holiday.”

“Why are you off, anyway? I don’t remember Boothroyd ever taking a hols. He’d worked every day for 33 years, according to the rumors, before he retired.”

“And he retired because he had a massive coronary in the middle of some extremely delicate work and nearly turned London into a glowing, radioactive crater. Medical has decided that every two months, Q is required to take a week off, for the safety of England. None of his successors, until me, have lasted long enough to take advantage.” Q stretched, catty and luxurious, and accepted the drink James had been fixing while they chatted. He sniffed at his beverage and smiled. “You have very nice Scotch.”

James settled back onto his end of the sofa, after pushing the tea tray over to make way for the bottle and a bowl of ice. “I’m shocked that you know good Scotch,” he teased. “I didn’t think infants drank single-malt.”

“I’m not actually a child, you realize, 007. They don’t promote children to division head, even in these troubled times.” Q sounded a trifle bitter, forcing James to realize that his jibes probably weren’t all that original. They were both a bit sensitive about their age, apparently.

“Please accept my apology,” he offered, formally. “I’ve been… feeling a bit the old warhorse, recently.” James ran his hand across his thinning, graying hair, and chuckled at himself. “I shouldn’t take it out on you, just because you’re…”

“Spotty?” Q offered, grimacing.

“Lovely,” James argued, swiftly, instinctively. The pause that followed felt endless, but Bond was determined to enjoy his breakdown, so he held Q’s gaze with all the serenity he could dredge up from almost 10 years of killing people. Which was quite a lot.

“Fuck it.” Q said, as his eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. He quickly downed his beverage and set the crystal tumbler on the floor. Q leaned forward, placed a hand solidly on James’s thigh, and squeezed. “You are not an old warhorse, you are a stallion in his prime. You are a fucking brick shithouse, James Bond, and no other agent even comes close.”

Q snatched his hand back, closed his mouth with an audible snap, flushed from his clavicle to his hairline, and leaned back against the arm of the chair so far that he looked about to fall over. James watched the entire process with pleasure, as a warm glow started in his chest and spread outward.

Looking away, Q fumbled for his glass and the bottle, and served himself another generous measure of Scotch.

Oh, thought James, as his cock gave a little twitch and his heart a little skip. It had been quite a while since a beautiful man had given Bond a second look. Women in distress, murderous psychopaths with Mommy issues, and sometimes both at the same time, but not nubile geniuses with swan-like necks. How did one seduce nubile geniuses, these days?

Fuck it, he decided, consciously mimicking Q. Stroking his own hand gently up and over Q’s quadricep, he leaned into the other man’s personal space. “And you are the best handler I have ever had,” he whispered. He kept moving, pressing in, until his mouth was against Q’s ear. “What’s your first name?”

“Why?” Q whispered back, suddenly breathing rather heavily.

“Because,” he sighed, and nipped at Q’s lovely, swan-like neck. “If I have to moan ‘Q’ while we fuck, I’m going to get hard on missions, and it’s difficult to run like Hell with a stiffy.”

Q whined and tilted his head in offering. “Fuck, okay, but if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you. It’s Yates.”

James pulled back. “You’re kidding me. Your first name is Yates?”

Bristling, Q--no, Yates--snapped, “Problem?”

“No, not at all,” James replied, smiling. “Yates is a wonderful name. It suits you. Really.” He slid his other hand under the back of Q’s tee and petted the soft skin. “Yates, Yates, lovely Yates.”

“Yes, yes, shut up already, and fuck me.”

“Yes, Sir,” growled James, focused on trying to get into Q’s pants.

“Oh! Hmm. That works, too.”

*

Q was delightful, a delicious pour of velvet flesh and roped muscle, gloriously responsive. They snogged on the sofa, sipping Scotch and sharing a spliff between kisses and lazy groping. For once, James wasn’t in a hurry. He wasn’t fishing for information, had no goal other than to feel good and give pleasure in return.

And Q, once he groaned, “okay, yes, we’re doing this,” into Bond’s mouth, gave himself over with total abandon. His mouth was lush and mobile, his cock (long and slender and pale) drooled and twitched. He ran his feet up and down Bond’s calves, and squeezed Bond’s biceps with blatant appreciation.

James trickled Scotch onto Q’s nipples, into his navel, and sucked and licked his way downwards until he was nuzzling hungrily into the soft curls at the base of Q’s cock. He eased his way down the other man’s length, sucking softly, stroking firmly, then trading sensations. It had been years since James had performed fellatio, and while it wasn’t quite like falling off a bike…

He nearly bit into Q’s cock as the song from his last visit to Q branch slotted into place. He managed to catch himself in time, but he still laughed into the blow job, nearly choking.

Q groaned, but patted his ear, clumsily, obviously making a heroic effort to give a shit if James died before Q got off. “You okay?” he slurred.

James replied by sliding his mouth back down the length of Q’s cock and swallowing until the Quartermaster came with a wail, finally saying his name. “James, James, oh, please fuck me, James,” sounded absolutely lovely when Q said it. He wanted to hear it often, at varying volumes.

After Q panted and writhed for a bit, James lit up another spliff and fixed them fresh drinks. Q accepted both as his due, sprawled out like a high-end rentboy. His porcelain skin glowed against the dark mahogany-toned suede, and James silently congratulated himself for not going with the black leather. Q would have looked tawdry, instead of lush and inviting.

Q watched James watching and smiled. He flexed his leg, exposing himself further, and Bond’s mouth went a little dry. “Not here,” he rasped. “I want to spread you out.”

“Show me,” Q demanded, eyes hot as he wobbled to his feet. He still had the spliff in his left hand, his drink in his right, so James snagged the bottle, managing both it and his own glass while he rose to wrap his free arm around Q.

Q steadied after only a few steps, but seemed to enjoy rubbing up against James as they made their way down the hall to the master suite. And master suite it was; almost the sole reason he’d chosen this flat over the others offered. Longer than it was wide, the room ran the whole length of the flat, and included an en suite to satisfy the most demanding sybarite. He’d kept it simple and clean, focusing on quality and comfort, a room to reassure someone who dreamt too frequently of murder.

James pressed Q onto his bed, pleased to see Q slither appreciatively across the duvet. He deposited his glass and the bottle on the bedside table. Q leaned up to follow suit, quirking an eyebrow at the crystal dish with a scattering of yellowing roach-ends in the bottom. He dropped the dead spliff in with them, while James finally stripped off his jeans, sighing in relief.

His shirt was somewhere in the sitting room, tangled with Q’s clothes and his glasses, but for some reason James had left his jeans on. Q hadn’t seemed to mind, groping and stroking his arse while they snogged, but as he stepped free, Q surged forward to stroke a firm hand up his cock.

“Yes, fuck, that,” Q announced before gobbling him whole, and James had to grab onto Q’s shoulders to avoid falling over at the greedy suction of his mouth. Bond looked down, and nearly came at the sight: Q’s plush lips sliding over his cock, cheeks hollowed, eyelashes fluttering. The flush had returned to his face and his long fingers dug into James’s hips pulling him forward, deeper, until he could feel the head of his cock pressing against the back of Q’s throat.

“Oh, god, keep doing that, and nobody’s getting fucked,” he gasped.

Q pulled off with an obscene pop, and spun around, presenting himself. James gripped the base of his cock, and squeezed, counting to ten and thinking of the Queen. That did it.

He barely remembered retrieving condoms and lube from the little drawer. He wasn’t even sure why he had them, since he’d never brought anyone back here, and tended to knock off in the shower. Probably part of the normal-person project, or maybe the work of MI6 housekeeping, who tended towards the jaded when it came to agents’ personal lives.

In any case, it was the work of a moment to prepare himself. It took far longer to wait, draped over Q’s back, to ask, “I should probably eat you out or something, but fuck if I’m not ready to pop. Can I fuck you, now?”

“Jesus, yes, James, get in me already,” the beautiful, perfect man in his bed said, wriggling his arse. “I swear to god, if you don’t put… oh, yes, good, that’s… mmmmph.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” gasped Bond, and put his back into it. Q was tight, but relaxed, his internal muscles rippling strongly. James pushed and pulled, and Q met every thrust, moaning his pleasure and demanding more, faster, harder, until James grabbed a handful of hair and pushed Q into the pillows, hips snapping.

He could hear his name, muffled by feathers, the serene voice finally broken. Reaching around with the hand that had been on Q’s hip, he found that the younger man’s refractory period was quite healthy. Q moaned louder, braced his palms on the bed and flexed, his lithe body undulating powerfully between the hand on his cock and the cock in his split arse.

James could feel the sweat trickling down his back and sides, watch droplets spatter on Q’s skin as they rocked together. Q’s wails were underscored by his own rough grunting noises; he felt powerful and brutal, a deeply primal need to possess ripping his own lips back into a snarl as he came, pounding out his orgasm harder than he’d ever dare with a target.

His hand had involuntarily clamped down on Q’s cock as he came, and the quartermaster shot almost dry, but wailing and shaking with it. The muscles in his arse spasmed around James, wringing the last of his own orgasm out of him, and he was frozen, locked into position for an endless moment, dripping sweat and panting.

“Holy fucking mother of Christ,” he said, pulling out and promptly falling over.

Q simply collapsed, coltish limbs splayed across the bed, as a small blizzard of tiny white feathers rained down.

“Did you chew through my pillows?” James asked, idly, watching.

“Just a small one. A throw pillow.” Q paused. “You have throw pillows,” he observed, face mushed into a non-throw pillow.

“They came with the set,” James said, only mildly defensive due to the languor suffusing his being.

“Liar,” accused Q, without heat.

James eased the condom off and fumbled around until he found a box of tissues to clean up with, then rolled over to tuck himself around Q. They could shower and change the duvet in a moment. Now was for post-coital nuzzling. He didn’t get to enjoy this part often, and was looking forward to the novelty.

Nuzzling, he said, “Stay for breakfast.”

Q snorted. “Obviously.”

James smiled.