Chapter Text
The mission went pear shaped and Bond barely made it out before the place burnt to the ground.
When he returned to London in a stolen Audi, he was most definitely worse for wear: covered in cuts and burns and bruises, smelling like fire and ash, and with a suit so torn up that he doubted it could ever be salvaged. All he wanted to do was sleep. His skin itched with tiredness and the deep-seated desire to revert into his Other form. But there were more important things to be taken care of, which is why Bond went straight to MI6 instead of taking the route back to his flat. He avoided Medical’s section of the labyrinth at all costs, taking the long way round to Q-Division.
It was late and there were few people about, but Bond skirted the main floor of the department regardless. He did not want to be seen, not like this, not when the mission had gone badly and he felt, for the first time in a long time, so fragile and uncertain. The light in Q’s office was on; the door had been left open a crack and Bond let himself inside. Q looked up immediately as he entered and closed the door, but did not say anything. Bond could not read his expression.
“Lost my equipment,” Bond said, to break the quiet. It was the first time he had spoken out loud in hours. His voice came out raspy and hard, burning from all the smoke he had inhaled.
“I could care fuck all about the equipment, Bond,” Q replied, voice steadily calm despite the swear.
It might have been the light, but Q’s eyes were so dark green they looked black. Bond did not know what to say, did not know if there was anything to say, and stood there silently.
After a moment, Q’s intensity softened and he stood up. He came round the desk towards Bond and stood in front of him. It was the first time in over a month that they had been so close. Even with the overwhelming reek of smoke and ash from his own skin, Bond could smell the familiar barely-there scent of Q’s mint shampoo. It made him want to bury his nose into Q’s dark curls and stay there indefinitely.
Safe he thought.
“You need to Shift,” Q said, as he touched Bond’s lapel.
“I know,” Bond replied, before he could stop himself.
The need felt greater than before, even more so as Q began to disrobe him. His jacket fell unceremoniously to the floor at his feet, followed by his tie. Q removed his cufflinks and watch, placing them safely on his desk. When he returned, Q paused at the top button of Bond’s dress shirt and looked up at him, as if seeking permission to continue.
“I’ll take care of you,” Q told him, when Bond did not say anything, and there was nothing but open honesty in his eyes.
And Bond trusted him.
He nodded. Q made quick work of his shirt and then the rest of his clothes as Bond toed out of his shoes and socks. It felt strange to be standing completely bare in Q’s office, but his nudity did not come with shame or arousal. Q regarded him patiently, with no disgust at his bruises and burns and cuts and no lust for his naked body.
Instead, he touched Bond’s forearm with his river-cool fingertips and said again: “I promise, I’ll take care of you.”
Bond gave in.
Shifts were blissfully painless and quick; sometimes after a long time going without, they actually felt good, like taking off a too-small shirt or pair of tight trousers. This time, it felt a blessed relief.
When Bond opened his eyes again, he was on the floor, staring up at Q from the pile of clothes that smelled like a burning fire. He pinned his ears back at the overwhelming number of scents surrounding him. At first, Bond’s instinct was run, hide, but he forced himself to sit still as Q knelt down before him. He held out his hand directly within Bond’s line of sight, low and with his fingers curled towards the carpet. It was pointedly not a grabbing motion.
Food? his animal mind wondered.
Friend, safe, Bond supplied, and leaned towards Q’s outstretched hand.
His fingers smelt vaguely of some kind of synthetic material like plastic and--what Bond knew, but his animal mind struggled to identify as--gunpowder. But there was also something sugary sweet that overwhelmed another scent, slightly bitter, but not too acrid, more spicy, and Bond knew it as much as he did not. And there, just beneath it all, the distinct scent of Q’s Otherness. Bond could not put it into words if he tried, because it made more of a picture in his mind: earth and moss and clear-running streams. Bond’s instincts kicked in again, insisting predator, danger, run, hide but Bond fought his nature. Q said he would not hurt him and Bond believed him. He brushed his face against Q’s hand, up under his fingers and palm, and Q eventually got the hint and began petting him.
“I’m sure that must feel much better,” Q said, not sounding at all surprised at the sight before him.
Bond realised then that Q must have really figured it out that one day, months ago, because he did not even seem the slightest bit phased at the blue-eyed, grey and white tabby cat looking up at him. Bond laid his ears back again and nipped at his forefinger in annoyance, but not hard enough to make him bleed.
“I didn’t mean it in a patronising way,” Q informed him, and resumed petting him. Bond allowed it because his body all but begged for touch, and Q was very gentle with him. He kept his hand light over Bond’s fur as if to not aggravate his bruises and stayed clear of the burns and cuts on his chest and ribs. It was soothing, Bond thought absently, as his human consciousness lulled into quiet and his feline mind took the forefront. He lay down on the floor and stretched himself out, and Bond might have chastised himself any other time for purring when Q scratched under his chin, but it felt so good that he could not be arsed to care.
His awareness of time dimmed, something that Bond did not allow to happen to him often. Losing track of time could lead to dangerous things in his profession and though he might be careless in some aspects of his job, that was not one of them. But there was something about Q’s hands on him--hands that he trusted with his life, with his secrets--that allowed Bond to let go. He did not even resist when Q gently took him up and cradled him in his arms. The sensation of being held in such a way was unparalleled. The feelings warm, safe, happy drifted like liquid through his half-human, half-animal conscious. For once, Bond did not think of his commonness or vulnerability, but the absolute perfection of having someone support him so tenderly, the comforting and steady sound of a heartbeat other than his own. He turned over onto his back and looked up at Q, showing his belly as the only way to convey trust you I trust you because you said you would take care of me I trust you.
“You sound like a turbine engine,” Q said to him, as he sat down at his desk. Bond realised then that he had not stopped purring, but did nothing to curb his form’s natural response to pleasure. Instead, he shifted a bit more in Q’s arms to get comfortable, kneading at his chest. He felt a sort of vindictive thrill at digging his claws into Q’s horrid cardigan.
“Stop that,” Q told him, delicately untangling Bond’s nails from the loosened threads of his clothing. The minute he detached, Bond went right back to work, purring even louder when Q did not make to stop him again. Q made a few calls and typed one-handed for a little while as Bond contently wrecked his cardigan. Then he stood and, without setting Bond down, began packing his things. He gathered up the remains of Bond’s clothes from the floor and heaped them into a rucksack, then skillfully shifted Bond from one arm to the other as he shrugged into his anorak.
When he zipped the article closed, Bond found himself pressed firmly to Q’s chest. The jacket smelt like damp and car exhaust and Q, but it felt very warm and safe and Bond thought that he never wanted to be anywhere else. He was vaguely aware of sounds around him--the murmur of voices, the hum of machinery and mechanics, a gust of wind, the evening thrum of traffic--but only broke out of his doze when a car door closed nearby.
He shifted and poked his head out of the top of Q’s jacket to look round. They were no longer at Six, but in some residential neighbourhood that he didn’t recognise. A taxi drove away, leaving the street in silence. Bond inquisitively sniffed the air, trying to get a better view by hooking his paws over the edge of Q’s parka to push himself up a bit more.
“I live here,” Q told him, as he made for one of the identical buildings, juggling Bond and his keys at the main door. Sensing his struggle, Bond made to jump out of his coat, but Q held him firm. “Stay still. We’re not supposed to have pets. Hell, not even sure if my landlord would allow Shifters if he could get away with it…”
Q got the door open and closed it quickly behind him, hurrying down a short corridor toward the lifts. Bond settled back down into the jacket, but kept his eyes over the edge to see where they were going. The elevator stopped at the top floor and the doors opened with a soft whish. Bond immediately hid from it, suppressing a growl at the sound as Q hurried to his flat.
But then a door opened and an elderly voice called out:
“Adrian, is that you dear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gierlowski,” Q replied.
“My, such dreadful hours you work… you poor thing.”
“Yes, I’m a bit tired…”
“Would you like something to eat? You always look so hungry.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, but you look just like my grandson… It’s hard not to. Come, now, let me package up something for you. I made some paczki today.”
At the mention of food, Bond popped his over the zip and found himself face to face with an older woman. She wore a dressing gown and kerchief over her head and her house smelled of being cooked in, which made Bond’s nose twitch as he tried to identify just what she had made. Definitely something sweet, but he identified another scent too. Fish, maybe? Bond’s ears perked up. He suddenly realised how hungry he felt.
“Upon my word, what a beautiful creature,” said the woman. “Is she yours?”
“Um, we’ll see. He’s a stray. I found him out by the bins,” Q replied.
“Just now?”
“Yes, just now.”
“Very clean for a stray,” she observed.
“Maybe recently abandoned,” Q suggested, shifting the weight of his bag. “In any case, he looked hungry. I figured I could take him in for a while. Just until I find a home for him, because I know we can’t keep them... Anyway, it’s getting late and--”
“What are you going to call him?” she asked, not letting him get away so easily.
“Oh, I dunno…” Q replied, “maybe Cat?”
“No, no, you’ve got to give him a proper name, what with such a handsome face,” the old lady said. “Oh, I know! What about Mr. Whiskers? It’s cute and gentlemanly.”
Bond heard Q’s partially aborted snort, felt him trembling with contained laughter. In response, Bond laid his ears back and growled, digging his back claws into Q’s stomach.
“I’ll give it some thought. Goodnight, Mrs. Gierlowski,” Q said, wincing his way through a smile as he departed. Bond growled the rest of the way, making sure to scratch Q as he jumped from his coat the moment they were inside the flat.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Q told him, dropping his bags and coat.
Bond ignored him to begin surveying the flat. The floors were hard and cold, so Bond retreated to a carpeted area and hid under a chair, listening to the strange noises as he took in the unfamiliar smells. This was Q’s home and Bond knew it was safe, but he still felt uneasy and vulnerable. Fortunately, Q gave him his space. Bond heard him move about for a while, then retreat to another room. The sound of water running told Bond that he went to take a shower, and he took that as his opportunity to come back out.
He found the kitchen and a small office, then a dark bedroom. A pile of clothes lay in a heap on the floor in front of a closed door, where the water came from. Bond went to the clothing and walked about on it. The articles smelt like Q and still retained some of his warmth, so Bond kneaded at an area he particularly liked before curling up in it. He closed his eyes, breathing in the slight scent of sweat and gunpowder and something sweetly bitter that Bond thought might be tea.
The water shut off and a few minutes later, the door opened. Bond lifted his head as Q exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
“Oh, you came out then?” Q asked, as he walked by Bond to the other side of the bed. “Just to shed on my clothes, I’m sure?”
Bond listened as he rummaged through clothes, then reappeared dressed in plaid pyjama bottoms and a loose fitting tee. When Q knelt down, Bond could smell the sweetness of shampoo in his hair, the coolness of soap on his skin, and that just wasn’t tolerable. Bond got up and pushed his head under Q’s hand, rubbing his scent on the other man’s palm. If anything, Q was going to smell like him when he was through.
Q humoured him for a while, then asked:
“Do you want me to do anything about this?”
He ran his fingers close to a burn on Bond’s shoulder. Bond growled and shifted away, and Q resumed petting him as he had been before.
“What about food? Are you hungry?”
At this, Bond perked up. He hadn’t eaten in a while and he could do with something to eat. Q picked up on this immediately and said:
“I don’t have much in the way of people food to be honest...but maybe I have a can of tuna somewhere in the pantry.”
At the mention of tuna, Bond nearly jumped into Q’s arms. Taking the hint, Q scooped him up and carried him into the kitchen, then deposited him on the counter.
“You should probably drink water, too. After everything...you’re probably dehydrated,” Q said, as he pulled a bowl from one of the cabinets. He filled it with cold water from a bottle he took from the fridge, and Bond drank from it gratefully. As he drank, Q banged around in a small pantry in search of something edible. It wasn’t until Bond had had his fill and was cleaning his face with his paw that Q emerged victorious.
Bond’s tail swished as Q opened the can and then scooped the contents onto a small dish. Once placed before him, Bond descended upon the meal with a vigor only his animal mind body could muster. Q respectfully backed away to let him eat, only coming back to collect him when Bond finished and began dozing on the counter.
“Okay, it’s time to sleep,” Q told him, and brought him over to the sofa, where several blankets were laid out. Q settled him into them, curling the fabric round him into a little nest that made Bond purr. Q petted him for a moment, then his hand disappeared. “Good night, Bond.”
And then he was gone.
Bond listened as he walked away, straining his ears to catch the sound of Q getting into bed and pulling the duvet up and over himself, the click of the lamp as it switched off, the tired sigh that Q let out before everything went quiet. Bond lay there for a while, but could not sleep. His skin itched as his wounds slowly healed at the much-faster-than-human pace. He wanted the warmth from before, the peace that the safety of Q’s arms had provided.
It didn’t mean anything aside from his instinctual need, Bond told himself, as he untangled himself from the blankets and trotted from the living room into the bedroom. He and Q were nothing more than coworkers brought slightly closer by the circumstances. It didn’t mean anything, Bond told himself again, as he jumped up onto the bed and walked the length of Q’s body beneath the duvet.
“Oh no, you’re not sleeping here,” Q said, but made no motion to get up and move him.
So Bond continued his exploration, walking up and over Q a few times, rolling around on his duvet and pillows. There were different scents of Q, somewhat faded over time. He could smell back about a week to when it had last been washed. There were work smells, as if Q had fallen asleep in his clothes a few times, making it all a mix of gunpowder and tea and sweat. Then there were warm smells, after Q had been nestled in blankets all night: less of things and more of feelings of happiness and contentment, safety and security. Bond liked this smell, and tried to bury himself in it by wiggling under the duvet and sheet to where it was stronger. And there, amongst all of the scents, was the quiet forest with its rippling brooks and those moss-covered stones...what Q truly was.
Bond’s animal mind warned him again that he should be afraid, but Bond couldn’t find it in him to care. The bed was warm and felt so safe and it was like everything he’d ever wanted…
“C’mon,” Q grumbled, sliding his hand up under Bond to scoop him from under the blankets, “at least stay on top of the sheets so it’s not weird...”
Sighing, Bond acquiesced, rolling over onto his back to show Q his belly. Q huffed out a laugh. He smelled less of shampoo now that his hair was dry and more of toothpaste. Bond liked the minty smell, and walked over to get close to Q’s face.
Cats have unparalleled night vision--one thing that Bond always missed when in his human form--which allowed him to see Q in what felt like high definition, even in the dark. Without his glasses, Q looked impossibly young and.
Absolutely beautiful.
Bond wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of safety and home surrounding him, the knowledge that Q was only one person alive who now knew him in the most intimate way, but seeing Q like this was like seeing him for the first time. He’d always seen Q as competent and honest and hard-working and trustworthy, but never really gave much thought to his physicality. Although aesthetically pleasing at first glance--dark hair, green eyes, a mouth that could give anyone wet dreams--Bond had only looked but never saw.
He was soft in all the right places--fringe, lashes, lips--to counter the lines of his brow and nose, the barely-there stubble of his cheek and jaw. Bond wondered what it felt like, and, testament to his nature, moved closer to find out.
(Nice, it felt nice, the brush of Q’s facial hair against his whiskers was unparalleled.)
“Really, Bond?” Q sighed, a rush of mint, and Bond rubbed against his cheek and mouth to savour it. “Never pictured you as the cuddling type.”
Q huffed out something that might have been a laugh, and then his fingers were petting behind Bond’s ears, under his chin, and the bed seemed very, very soft. Bond purred himself into exhaustion, settling down beneath Q’s hand.
“Sleep,” Q said softly, his touch warm and gentle, grounding him, lulling him into a sense of security and safety that he’d never experienced before.
And he slept.
00Q00Q00Q
Bond stayed in his Other form for a few days, alternating between sleeping in a nest of Q-smelling blankets and eating directly from the cans of delicious tuna that Q brought home for him from the grocery.
“You’ll get fat,” Q told him, as he scarfed down his second can of tuna one night.
Bond’s response was to clean his face afterward, then, when Q had his back turned, to push all of his things off the counter. The resounding crash told him something important had broken, and it was with triumph that he resumed cleaning his face.
“You’re a monster,” Q grumbled.
Still, Q let Bond sleep in bed with him every night, giving him all sorts of affection as if he hadn’t done terrible things to his home. Maybe he just hadn’t realised that Bond had clawed the side of the couch to shreds, or knocked over all the pots out on the patio while he’d been on his way outside to do his business earlier that day, or stolen that horrific cardigan from Q’s closet and mauled it to death before hiding it in a ball in the back of the closet…
He would eventually, if he hadn’t figured it out already, and Bond was content to enjoy the attention bestowed upon him. It had been a long time since he’d let his Other form have so much time to stretch and relax, and Bond had to admit, he was rather enjoying the holiday.
But once he his wounds healed, Bond started getting anxious to go back to work. He wasn’t content to be a lazy housecat, after all. No matter how good the food and affection were…He thought about that day with Moneypenny, when she’d been talking about mates and packs and couldn’t remember exactly why he’d been so adamant to deny himself.
And then Q would be there, humming to himself as he read, or petting Bond idly while they watched telly at night, and Bond remembered.
He couldn’t be cruel, not to Q.
Never, never to Q.
It would only end in heartbreak or bloodshed, and Bond couldn’t do it, no matter how selfish he wanted to be. He couldn’t let Q get hurt just because he didn’t want to feel lonely. He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
He allowed himself one more night of indulgence--all the pets, chin scratches, and ear massages he could get--sleeping beside Q, but with first light, Shifted back into his human form.
After days of being small, agile, and on four paws, it was a little disconcerting to be up so high on two feet and with the aches and pains that came with his age. Still, it was nice to take a piss inside, and--after some rummaging around in Q’s drawers for a spare toothbrush--brush his teeth. Days of eating nothing but tuna might be nice for his Other form, but not so much for him. Coffee and something with an insane amount of carbs sounded fantastic.
But first.
He peeked back into the bedroom. Q was still asleep, his back to him. The clock said it was nearing five in the morning. The alarm would go off in about thirty minutes. Bond could find something to wear and be gone in less than five.
But.
Bond felt something tug under his ribcage, something begging him to stay.
Q had taken him in, cared for him, never passed a single moment of judgement upon him the entire time Bond had been in his home. A surge of affection washed over Bond, partnered with the sudden desire to return to bed, to slide under the sheets--naked and so very human--and press up to Q until there was nothing between them but skin. And not in a sexual way. Well--he looked down at his cock, half-hard with curiosity--not really. Just to be close, to feel that warmth, that safety again. That sense of belonging.
Is this what pack felt like?
What mate felt like?
The alarm went off with a wail, and Q turned under the duvet, arm reaching out blindly to slam down on the snooze button. His glasses and phone toppled to the floor in the process. Bond heard his muffled curse into the pillow, but then, almost instantly, Q dropped off back to sleep.
It was Bond’s last chance to escape. He knew that if he disappeared now, they would never speak of this again. But he also knew that if he disappeared now, he could never come back…
So.
Bond went into the kitchen and made tea.
The water had just finished boiling when he heard the alarm go off again, heard Q nearly break the clock in two with the force of his hand. Bond added an extra sugar to Q’s tea, hoping the sweetness might appease him. Then Bond quietly went back into the bedroom, where he set the cup down on the nightstand next to the clock.
Q’s head moved under the duvet. His hair poked out, then the top half of his face. His eyes were closed, long lashes dark against his skin. They fluttered a bit, but didn’t open. Bond resisted touching him, because it was inappropriate now that he was like this.
Still, that didn’t mean Bond couldn’t caress in a different way...
“Good morning~” he purred.
Q’s brow furrowed at the sound of his voice. One eye opened, then the other, but only to half-slits of dark green. He blinked a few times at Bond.
“I made tea,” Bond said, procuring the tea so that Q could see it.
Q blinked again, looking at the cup, then at Bond’s face, then at the rest of his very naked body.
“Are you wearing pants?” Q asked.
“About that...you wouldn’t happen to have any clothes I could borrow?” Bond asked.
Q made a sound in his throat that sounded a little strangled, and Bond wasn’t sure what to make of it. Distress? Arousal? Annoyance? It was hard to say.
“There’s. That is, I brought some clothes for you from Six. In the duffle in the laundry,” Q said.
“Thanks,” Bond said, putting the tea back on the nightstand. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Q made the sound again, and Bond definitely detected some distress. But maybe it was at the early hour discussion more than anything else, because Q’s words were jumbled, all in a rush, like he was still trying to wake up:
“Stay. You could, I mean. Stay, shower. I’ll find breakfast?”
Bond felt like he was balancing on a precipice: say no and they go back to the way things were--comfortable, safe, professional--or say yes and… then what?
Well, they say curiosity killed the cat, but what people always forget is that satisfaction brought him back.
“Not tuna?” Bond asked.
Q laughed, and it was something carefree and unrestrained and beautiful that twisted Bond’s gut up in an uncomfortable way. He knew this feeling well enough to know that it was dangerous. Love always was.
“I was thinking a full English.”
“You read my mind.”
00Q00Q00Q
By the time Bond had showered and dressed in the spare set of running clothes from MI6, Q had finished his tea, dressed, popped down to the shops, and returned with a shopping bag of food and a tall cup of coffee for Bond.
It was black with cream and just a hint of sugar, just how he liked it.
He wasn’t about to ask how Q knew, so he just accepted it gratefully and without comment.
As Q began unloading the groceries onto the counter, however, Bond couldn’t resist saying something:
“So did you buy the entire store?”
There were two cartons of eggs, a sleeve of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables, various packaged meats, juice, milk, beans, and a few other various odds and ends. The spread covered the entire counter of Q’s small kitchen.
“I don’t usually keep all of this in the house,” Q admitted, shoving a few things at Bond, “now make yourself useful.”
Bond opened the fridge to put the juice and milk away. The entire fridge was empty save for two half-empty bottles of water. The freezer was in a similar state, only housing a sad miniature carton of ice cream and an empty ice tray.
“You don’t keep anything in the house,” Bond said, closing the door. “You don’t even have condiments. Even I have condiments.”
“Alcohol is not a condiment,” Q reminded him, as he produced a frying pan and put it on the stovetop, “now hush or I won’t cook for you.”
“You can cook?” Bond asked.
“Contrary to popular belief, I do have other skillsets,” Q replied.
And he did. Bond took a seat on a stool at the counter and watched as Q masterfully cooked a full English in no time flat. Q loaded up a plate of sizzling meats, eggs, toast, beans, and fruit, handed Bond a fork, and that was all she wrote. Bond tucked in like a man starving, glad that Q didn’t seem to expect any conversation from him.
But Bond figured they should talk eventually.
Maybe later. No, probably now.
Q had just slid another helping of eggs onto Bond’s plate when he asked:
“How did you know?”
When Q gave him a questioning look, he elaborated.
“About my Other form.”
“I used my eyes,” Q said, with a sly smile, “and some intuition.”
“Oh?”
Q popped some bread into the toaster before turning back to Bond.
“What else could you be?” Q asked, holding up a hand, where he began raising fingers with each point he made: “Constant resurrection from the dead, so I presume you’ve been using up those nine lives.”
Bond made a face; he hated when people believed that superstition.
“You almost always land on your feet--”
“Result of training.”
“No fear of heights--”
“Plenty of people are not acrophobic.”
“Enjoy fish more than any other meal--”
“A lot of people like fish.”
“Well-groomed--”
“I like to look nice?”
“Loyal to those who feed you, or in your case, give you things you like--”
“Who isn’t?
“And an unhealthy obsession with small, fast-moving or shiny objects--”
“Now you’re just making things up.”
Q smiled knowingly and turned back to the stove, cracking another egg into the frying pan for himself. Maybe Bond had not been as good at hiding things as he thought. But then again, no one else seemed to have picked up on these subtle hints. Q was just more observant than the average person.
“So now you know why I’m... quiet about it,” Bond said.
The toast popped up, and Q caught it, buttered it, and laid it on Bond’s plate before answering:
“No, not really.”
Bond stared at his back as Q returned to tending his eggs.
“I’m an international spy with a license to kill, Q. Don’t you think it’s a little embarrassing that a world-renown assassin is... is--”
“An adorable kitten?” Q supplied from over his shoulder.
“I’m fully-grown,” Bond growled, “and don’t call me adorable.”
“But you are. Especially when you deny it,” Q said, and Bond crossed his arms and looked pointedly elsewhere.
He heard Q add more bread to the toaster.
“Don’t sulk.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Yes you are. That was another tip-off, actually. I’ve never known anyone to sulk as much as you.”
“I don’t sulk,” Bond said.
“You are not helping your case right now.”
Bond resorted to glaring at Q’s back.
“The Plotting-My-Destruction glare is also very commonplace in felines,” Q said. “It really is adorable.”
“This is why I don’t--” Bond began, but stopped himself before he could continue. He pushed away from the counter and and pointedly went towards the door, in preparation to leave despite being barefoot and having no money to catch a cab.
“Bond,” Q said, and Bond halted at the door.
Q appeared in the foyer a moment later, all teasing gone from his expression.
“You know I don’t mean anything by it.”
Bond did, but he still felt affronted, as if someone had licked his fur the wrong way.
“There’s nothing shameful about being what you are, you know,” Q continued.
“There is in this line of work.”
“No there isn’t.”
“How would you know?” Bond asked, actually growling the words.
Q, to his credit, did not flinch.
“Do you know the torment I would have gone through in the Royal Navy if they knew? Do you know the amount of unwarranted prejudice I would have faced during the practical exams for SIS? Do you know that if it would have been Mallory in M’s place back then, I would have been barred from the Double-Oh Programme entirely, just for how commonplace I was?”
Bond had not raised his voice, but he had stepped closer to Q, who did not move away from him. After a moment, Bond realised what he had said: all of those things he had never been able to tell someone before, all spilling out in an angry wave of bitterness and discontent. And Q still stood there, listening to every word like it mattered, like Bond mattered despite everything.
“I wouldn’t know, not really,” Q said, dropping his eyes for only a moment before looking up at Bond again, “but there is nothing shameful about it. Have you ever thought about how your Other form works to your benefit?”
When Bond did not say anything, Q kept on.
“Think about it: you have an advantage that not everyone has. Double-Oh Four may be able to kill someone with a single bite, but she’s vulnerable in all kinds of environments and people are much more likely to see her before she can strike. Double-Oh Six may be able to maul someone to death, but he’s not exactly subtle; you don’t just see snow leopards on every street corner, now do you? They’re both obvious and that makes them targets, so they can’t Shift often, even when they might need to. You have no idea the amount of damage control I’ve had to do for them...”
Bond raised an eyebrow, and the other man stopped, looking slightly sheepish for a moment. He cleared his throat.
“You, on the other hand, have the advantage of near-invisibility. You can go almost anywhere, follow almost anyone without being detected. You can get in and out of the worst situations. No one looks twice at a cat. Not only that, you’re much more agile, you can fit into smaller places, and have the advantage of perfect balance no matter where you go. So, yes, you may be commonplace, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It’s what has kept you alive this long and will continue to keep you alive.”
“Until someone shoots me,” Bond said.
“Did you not learn anything as a Double-Oh? You’re supposed to shoot them first,” Q replied seriously.
Bond fought a smile and lost. Q managed to contain his much more effectively than him and sobered well enough.
“Now have I stroked your ego enough?”
“My ego?” Bond repeated
“Yes, your ego. Cats are always so self-important…”
“Q…”
“Alright, alright,” Q said, holding up his hands. “I just needed to get it out of my system.”
Bond waited because he knew Q was holding something back.
“Get it out then,” Bond said, and Q started laughing, honest to God laughing, that Bond almost did not hear the words that followed:
“Mr.... Whiskers...”
Bond glared, but when Q saw his face, it sent him laughing again.
“I’m going to piss on all your cardigans.”
It had Q doubled over laughing, and just seeing it, hearing it, made Bond’s bad mood vanish entirely. They had a secret, the two of them. Q knew him for what he really was and had accepted him all the same. It felt good.
It felt like home.
<<<おまけ>>>
Bond was on his way to his next assignment when his earpiece came to life.
“You actually had a piss on all my cardigans.”
Q’s infuriated tone just made Bond grin wider with pride.
“Every single one.”
“You’re a bloody nightmare.”