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Q could never understand why Bond never left before the morning.
He seemed like the type, honestly. Bond was an exciting person to engage with, but he didn’t seem relationship material. To be fair, Q wasn’t exactly good at relationships, either. Being a nerdy professional was kind of sexy to lead with, but he was, unfortunately, married to his work. He barely had time for friendships. He hadn’t made any. Spending all his hours from a nobody intern to the quick assumption of Quartermaster after the headquarters attack had cut him off from the few friends he had hung about, their brief acquaintance fizzling out with the proximity. MI6 was not a place of intimacy in whatever form; it was functionally anonymous. There was always hostility, too. Q guessed it came with the territory- threats to national security, unable to share any of the truly vile things everyone had to be involved with, all contributed to tensions running rather high. And, he would admit, Q was difficult to get along with.
He always got off on the wrong foot. Bond was no exception to that rule. On their first meeting, it was clear that Bond had no patience for his intellect (really, how could someone not be affected by a Turner) and a somewhat antiquated way of looking at the world. Q had of course had something to prove. He was too young, he knew it, every one of his subordinates knew it. Bond could see it on him. But he was capable. For God’s sake, he’d been working on encryption software his government had implemented when he was sixteen. He knew what he was doing. But it was a quick transition. Q supposed MI6 should’ve anticipated an attack on such a public building, but they hadn’t, and moved to the shadows. That’s where Q knew he best operated; In the dark, by the glow of a screen where no one could see his face and judge him for anything that wasn’t his work. But Bond lived in a world of the golden age of espionage, where his body was the tool. His manner was essential to the mission of British intelligence.
Q knew he wasn’t anything special. He’d known that from very early on. So he’d made himself indispensable by his dedication to his work.
As embarrassing as it was to look back on, Q had tried to impress Bond that way. Bond may be everything he had secretly wanted to be, but Q had thought he was obsolete. Q could do everything he could and didn’t have to wear a suit. But they had worked well together. Q found that he felt much more fulfilled helping Bond try to save M than he had spending hours working on code that would never get the appreciation of an operative in the field. He found leaving the breadcrumbs a proper intellectual challenge.
And he liked working with Bond.
It was true- even at his weakest, Bond’s sheer force of will made him incredibly effective. All Q had to tell him was the objective, and Bond would get it done. He complained a bit, sure, but so did Q. He just put his head down and put his back into everything he was asked.
It was a mindset Q could empathise with, even if he had a different set of applicable skills. And he appreciated the lack of arrogance that, he was sure, had worn off over many years of service. The Bond he worked with was dedicated, brilliantly stupid, and didn’t unnecessarily pull focus.
It was nice that Bond didn’t demand a lot of attention.
Well, he did. That was kind of his job, the top agent always saving MI6 and her country from peril. Constantly on the move, always running from danger and encountering it head on. Q didn’t exactly work a desk job but he felt almost sick at the idea of encountering any of Bond’s enemies himself. No, he was not double-o material. Bond’s work demanded engagements that Q didn’t want to think about. Professionally, Bond had nearly cost him his career dozens of times. Q had never been good at lying to authority, but it got to be rather disturbing how easily he decided to deceive M when Bond prompted him to do so.
But despite Bond being as demanding as he was in their professional lives, he never asked for much in the way of their relationship.
It was very much no attachments. The agent was constantly having liaisons with others in the field, from what Q knew entirely with women. He was seldom in England, and when he was, it was only ever on official business. Neither of them could even think about settling down. Q didn’t exactly have a filter. Bond wasn’t terribly emotional. But they got along alright. And he was funny. God, Q hated to admit that. But he was. They had a rapport. Q secretly quite liked that they bickered like that. It felt good, little jabs, true, but good natured. It felt cathartic.
Bond understood the stresses of the job. He seemed so comfortable with himself, but with Q, he didn’t feel arrogantly so. Most times, they’d go back to Q’s place, have a meal, and then they would sleep together. Q didn’t think he would like hookups- not that that’s exactly what it was, he didn’t know what to make of their situation- but it didn’t feel insincere. He wasn’t terribly experienced; growing up gay was difficult, and, as embarrassing as it was, he hadn’t really had a relationship until he had been in his twenties. He had always been a bit insecure about not knowing everything, because everyone else had had their time, their school sweethearts and breakups. Q wasn’t naïve, but he didn’t exactly know what he was doing. But Bond really didn’t seem to be expecting anything extraordinary from him. Over time, the endlessly charming, daring, roguish perception of Bond Q had maintained began to melt away. Their relationship was slow, most of the time. Bond was respectful. It didn’t even feel that romantic, but it wasn’t transactional. Q didn’t know what to make of it.
And he didn’t get why he never left before the morning.
The first night it happened, he fully expected him to. He hadn’t known Bond that well. He had been in London in a lapse of information. Things were quiet, just for a moment. Bond had been called to Q branch for a mandatory lecture on the preservation of MI6 equipment. These happened routinely for them, and Q never got his equipment back and Bond never learned.
He was leaning on one of the desks, making a show of interest in what Q was saying. On that day, it was more irritating than usual.
“You do know you’re singlehandedly responsible for damages exceeding one hundred thousand pounds per deployment?” Q snapped.
Bond lowered his chin. “I received my orders from M. I am not going to sacrifice a target for preservation of property.”
What an idiot. “You are the very reason the public does not believe in the utility of our organisation.”
“But I get things done, don’t I?”
“That’s not particularly relevant to this intervention.” Q leaned back and pinched his nosebridge. “You must know that our department does have limits in how much we can spend in developing sensitive equipment you treat like toys.” He smiled wryly and met Bond’s eyes. “What am I saying? I’m sure you don’t.”
“Oh, I assure you I am very appreciative of the toys. Not as creative as they used to be, mind you,” He straightened up, meeting Q at eye level.
Q sneered. “I appreciate the feedback.”
Bond winked. “Sure you do.”
“M ought to reprimand you,” Q rolled his eyes and turned back to the computer.
“Hardly a topic of professional conversation,” Q had thought he was immune to this kind of ribbing. Apparently not.
“We are never in a non professional setting, in case you have forgotten this is an active intelligence agency and not your personal playground, if you’d respect professional decorum.” He sniped.
“Would you like to?”
It had felt like a train switching tracks abruptly under his feet. It wasn’t how these arguments were meant to unfold.
“Like to what?” He kept his eyes on the computer.
A shuffling of feet behind him. “Meet. In a non professional setting.”
It had felt ridiculously stupid to him, but Q had said “I’m free tonight,”
He hadn’t really ever thought of James Bond in that way. He had sized him up, certainly, when they had first met- a maladapted man with a chip on his shoulder and an inexhaustible hard-headedness that would’ve driven Q to hang up his hat if he’d had the choice then and there. But after he had never really considered Bond in that way. Q had gotten good at assuming every man he knew was interested solely in women, and he found the idea of mixing work and professional life appalling.
Not that that’s what this was. Nothing that Bond was saying indicated anything but a genuine attempt to get to know a coworker.
“Is meeting a breach of protocol? Revealing personal information?” There was warmth in Bond’s voice, a reflection of their typical banter.
Q didn’t know what to say to that. He shook his head, though he wasn’t sure. Bond laughed.
“I have nothing after eight.”
“Sure.” Something had shifted In the energy of the place, but Q hadn’t quite let it register. He felt the silence stretch.
“I have two cats.” Q blurted.
Bond, for once, looked almost disarmed. “You do?”
“If you’re allergic.” That seemed ridiculous as soon as he’d said it. It seemed impossible that the unstoppable agent 007 could have something as mundane as a cat allergy. “They’re hairless but they still have the dander.”
Bond laughed at him again, and Q felt the distinct sting of mockery. Almost horrified, Q realised he kind of liked it.
“I’ll bring the wine,” Bond put his hand on Q’s shoulder and slid past him. Q turned to watch him go.
No attachments. Q could handle a dinner.
His resolve crumbled when he’d gotten home. Suddenly the task of sharing a meal with a man he’d fought side by side with against some of the most dangerous people in the world felt herculean. He’d waited rather anxiously at home for Bond to arrive. He’d had bursts of motivation to clean up the downstairs rooms, cooking, worrying over his clothes, debating whether he should lock up the cats who were following him and mewing curiously. Mostly, it was nervous energy. It wasn’t a date. He kept telling himself that. The arrangement had been so unexpected he half thought he’d dreamed it. And for once, he had no work to keep himself occupied. He had just decided to put them in his bedroom and no sooner had he closed the door than he had heard the doorbell ring. Bond had arrived a few minutes after 8, and then immediately inquired after the cats.
He had not dressed particularly fancy, but dressed better than Q had on most fine dinners he’d attended. Q had debated his own clothes over and over, and he had decided that a sweater was just fine. After all, it wasn’t a date. He knew Bond, saw him at work, put great effort into creating technology for him that would be blown to bits before next Tuesday. He didn’t need to impress him.
It had been a weird dinner. Q had made linguine with lemon and chicken, because it seemed easy enough. When Bond was sitting down at his dining room table, his confidence in his culinary skills had deflated. Q watched him all night. For someone who had dined in the best restaurants in the world, he never showed any disdain for Q’s homemade dinner. He had brought some ridiculously expensive chardonnay that looked out of place in the cheap glasses Q had stored in a high cabinet but never used- they were harder to clean than a mug and he never had company. But he drank it and they made small talk. Now, Q could hardly remember what it had been about. He’d been uncharacteristically nervous around Bond- their work relationship had built in social codes, scripts to be followed that Q had mastered. Q supposed his conversational intellect did not compare to those Bond typically fraternised with, but the conversation had gone well, all things considered. Q wasn’t drinking as much as he usually would, but he made some pettish comment about Bond’s salary when the agent stood. Q had stumbled over his words and made to continue, but trailed off when Bond had stopped in front of him and looked at him curiously. Q remembered that in that moment, he was more irritated than confused.
Then Bond had kissed him, leaning over the table there. It was measured and meditative. They’d paused and Bond helped him clean up the dishes, and then they’d gone into Q’s messy bedroom. Q had remembered having to take the cats downstairs to feed before he and Bond had slept together The sex was good. Not mind blowing, and Q couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. But they were compatible. And he hadn’t left. Bond was a late sleeper, too. Q had made tea and sat at the table until he’d woken up and joined him. Q didn’t typically eat breakfast, but he dug a bagel out of his pantry and watched Bond prepare it in his kitchen. Then Q had to leave for work and Bond left. He’d gone abroad shortly after.
At first, Q was terribly embarrassed about the whole ordeal. It felt so strange, to see Bond at work from time to time and to be on completely professional terms with a man he had slept with. Every one of Q’s previous relationships had burned up in a fiery crash, so just being cordial with someone who had seen him naked was new. When Bond was back at head office he had tried his best to avoid him, but his position as the Quartermaster of MI6 and Bond’s as a premier double-o made that next to impossible. Bond never spoke about it, and Q tried not to let it weigh on him. He couldn’t get it out of his head that he’d ruined things, somehow. He always did. Then he’d gone home one night and Bond was at his door, holding a bag of Indian takeout. The whole thing just clicked into some sort of sense, and Q stopped trying to wrap his mind around whatever this was.
Now, they were in Q’s bed and it was 8:36 in the morning, a Saturday. Sunlight filtered through his upstairs window, the most light this tiny room got in at any time of day. They were somewhat apart, Q on his back and Bond on his side, facing him. Q could hear his even breathing. He sat up on his elbows and looked at him. His face was hardened, even in sleep. His eyelids twitched slightly. He thought Bond would be a light sleeper, but he seemed to be truly out of it. The sunlight made the whole scene look frighteningly domestic. Q thought about trying to get his glasses off the nightstand, but they were on the other side of the bed, next to Bond. He didn’t want to disturb him.
The agent shifted, and Q felt the top of Bond’s foot against his shin. It was warm. Q leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, trying to pick out the drips and divots of dried plaster. It was strange- despite the peace, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole thing was a terrible idea; calm before the storm
.
He knew Bond didn’t get attached, and wasn't allowed to. He knew tangentially about Vesper Lynd, had pieced an approximation of the story via overheard office gossip and case files. He knew Bond’s reputation. And he seemed somewhat indifferent to the whole affair outside of it- it was lovely, thank you for the evening, see you in the office. Things just continued, business as usual, when they weren’t in bed together.
But as much as he tried to avoid it, Q held on to things. A leftover from his school days as a pining nobody, he knew he could be incapable of maintaining emotional distance. He looked back over at the agent sleeping beside him.
He wasn’t in love with Bond. Q didn’t even know if he knew what being in love meant. But he liked this. He didn’t want to let it go.
He pulled the sheet slightly up Bond's shoulder, feeling the light friction of fabric on skin. He let his finger rest lightly on his shoulder. There was a scar there, a little bullet mark he must have sustained long ago. Q thought to ask, but figured he probably didn’t know where from. Maybe he didn’t keep track of those things. Slowly, he put his finger to Bond’s shoulder. He could feel the hard muscle under the rough skin. Bond’s breathing changed. Quickly, Q pulled his hand away and rolled to sit with his feet off the bed.
“Leaving?” The agent’s voice was raspy from overnight disuse
.
Q inclined his head and picked a mostly clean sweater off the floor. “I have to feed the cats.”
On cue, he heard a mewling and scratching at the door. Bond laughed behind him, and Q felt a strange rush of emotion. He shook his head. “Do you want eggs?”
“Yes, thank you,”
“Any way you’d like them prepared?” Q finished getting dressed and turned to face Bond, who was sitting up on his elbow, watching him. Q’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed.
Bond looked up at his ceiling, considering. “Surprise me, I suppose.” He took Q’s glasses off the nightstand and offered them to him. “I’ll make toast.”
Q ended up poaching the eggs, and Bond came downstairs and made toast on the stove next to him, sitting down to eat as Q put the kettle on. Their silence was comfortable. Bond got their dishes out of the cabinets as he had done several mornings before and set out plates. He held out his hand to one of the cats to rub its face on. Q could feel him glancing over as they worked.
“You seem bothered.” Bond remarked after they’d started to eat. Q swallowed and nudged the cat pressing against his leg.
“You don’t leave,” He said finally. “In the morning.”
“I don’t,” Bond replied. It was more of a prompt than a response.
“Why.” Q asked, glancing up at him. “I didn’t take you for the type.”
“What type did you take me for?” Bond smiled and leaned back in his chair, charm switching on. Q blinked.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” Bond took another bite of his egg.
“That. You're always- equivocating.” Q scooped the cat up and put her on his lap, trying to keep his hands busy.
He thought Bond would parry riposte, but he leaned back in his chair in thought. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. You can never really kick the training.”
Q looked down at his plate. “So much for us meeting in the non professional setting.”
“It’s certainly easier than having an honest conversation.” Bond said
“What do you mean?”
Bond took another long break. “I don’t know how much you know, but I try not to trust people I have relationships of our sort with.” He met Q’s eyes, studying his face. It was an uncomfortable position to be in- on the end of that inquisition that put plenty of people behind bars in the most secure prisons in the nation. A knot formed in the pit of Q’s stomach, like he’d done something wrong. “It’s a… occupational precaution.”
It had not been what he had expected. “This feels occupational to you?”
“Funnily enough, almost.” Bond ate more of his toast. Of course it felt like work to Bond. His charm was one of his most valuable assets in the field. It was one of those things where MI6 was content to look the other way, because, as much as Q hated to admit it, it was an effective way of getting the job done. Bond sniffed. “If we’re getting personal, why do you always do that.”
“Do what?” Q licked his lips, defensive.
“Needle.” Bond folded his hands under his chin and leaned forward to look at Q. “You needle me. Honestly if I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t know if you even like me at all.”
Q swallowed, stung. “Well, you aren’t exactly an easy person to like,”
“I’m not?” Q glared at him, ready to begin to list all of the reasons the agent made his job a living hell, and Bond leaned back in his chair, raising his hands apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not.”
The kettle whistled on the stove, and Q shooed the cat off his lap and went to get it. He took time to prepare their tea, driving his nervous energy into sectioning loose leaves into bags and steeping them, watching the brown tendrils slowly darken the water. “Call it my professional precaution.”
“You don’t have to do it.” Silverware clinked against a plate.
Q put down the cups and stared straight at the back of the stove. “I think I do.”
Keeping people distant was the safest option. Bond knew that. Q antagonised him because it’s what he had to do. Better to foster hate than to get his heart broken.
“I like to think we are fast enough friends that you don’t have to.”
Q grabbed his sleeve and twisted it, trying to stop his heart from racing. “I didn’t think you made friends. Not in the typical way.”
Taking a deep breath, he carried the cups to the table and set one in front of Bond, who looked at him with an expression he couldn’t place. Sitting down across from him, he took a sip of his tea that was still too hot. It burned his tongue. Q zeroed in on that pain, letting it linger. He never could get out of his head.
“That’s why I think you’d leave. You're not exactly open to people.”
Bond blew on his cup. “Neither are you.”
“No.”
The silence stretched. Q thought how pitiful they must look; Two men at a table, somehow worlds apart but neither could’ve been more present. Both had truly insurmountable baggage. Q didn’t know how to do this sort of thing- connection was never his strong suit. But he was trying to deny to himself how desperately he wanted to.
It had crept up on him. Bond’s clothes turning up in his washing, a comb he’d left that’d gotten knocked to the bathroom floor. The way Bond appeared at his doorstep when he’d had a particularly awful day. It hadn’t been difficult for him to think of what his life would be like if there was more to their relationship than Bond sleeping over two or so nights a week. His world was empty, and the agent had slid in and suddenly things were making a sort of sense. Q wondered how different it would be if he and Bond were together. If they drove home from work in Bond’s car, or Q could take him on the Underground, making snide comments about how he couldn’t read the map. Q felt a pressure in his throat.
Bond wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t leave because I feel… safe.” He licked his lips, looking almost nervous.
Without really being aware of it, Q got up and kissed him.
At first, Bond seemed surprised. Then he buried his hands in Q’s hair and pulled himself to stand. It was hungry, furious. Q felt his glasses press uncomfortably into his nosebridge. Q wanted this. He really, really wanted this.
But he was terrified. Q had built walls around himself. He had put in all of these precautions to keep from getting hurt, but Bond was practically a master of deconstructing romantic defenses. Q knew he had done this before. Why was he different from all of the women Bond had left broken in his wake?
“I want to let you know that this isn’t solely about sex.” Bond said against Q’s mouth. “It is about the sex, partly. But I like your company. I like your cats.”
Q pulled back. “Do you do this with other people? Feel safe, I mean.”
“Why do you ask?”
Q felt Bond’s hand on his shoulder, and he moved his hand to grasp it. It felt rough and warm under his fingers. “I don’t want to feel like an exception for you. Like a conquest for you to complete. That when you get bored of all of this, you’ll just leave. I don’t know.” He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes, and with his other hand, he smeared them away.
Bond’s expression softened “I haven’t left, Q.”
Stupid. Once he started crying, he wasn’t able to stop. “I know. But I feel- I feel like this is so… nice, and then you’re just going to take it away.”
Bond’s throat worked. “I understand.” He let go of Q and wiped at his nose.
“You know, I find it very, very hard to trust people.”
He was crying. It was very odd to see him cry. It felt almost invasive to Q to be so close to his face, to see every detail distorted in very deeply rooted emotion. He squeezed Bond’s hand, the one still on his shoulder. After a moment, Bond took a deep breath and blinked rapidly.
“I don’t trust you, and I don’t think you fully trust me. But, I want to. I want to trust you.” He took another breath and leveled his gaze at Q. “It’s just everything I’ve ever been taught is screaming that I can’t.”
Q sighed and nodded. “I understand.” He glanced over Bond’s shoulder. This felt right. It felt intimate, it felt special. It hurt, but Q wanted to stand with Bond in that hurt forever.
“If you’re willing, I can work on it. Letting you in,” He gave a weak smile. “I’ll stop needling you.”
Bond laughed, looking at the ground. “Oh, don’t take that too hard. I think it can be fun.”
Q raised his eyebrows. “You do deserve it.”
“I do.” He lowered his chin and winked. “I’m sure you enjoy putting me in my place.”
Q laughed, looking off to the side. Bond grasped his shoulder more firmly, and Q let himself be pulled into a hug.
“It’s good now. Things are good right now.” Q murmured into Bond’s shoulder. He smelled distinctly of how he always did, dark cologne and gunpowder and scar medication. But Q could tell it was blurring, Bond’s scent blending with notes of his home, slipping into his life so that Q knew it would soon become suicide to try to dig him out. “But they won’t stay this way, James. I just want to be honest with myself, and with you. It will change.”
“I can’t promise that I won’t fall for someone else. Down the line.” Bond took a shaky breath.
It hurt. It really did. “Okay.”
“But that’s not now.” Bond pulled back again, a comfortable forearm’s distance. “Do you mind if I stay longer?”
Q adjusted his glasses, which had become dislodged in the exchange. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe a couple more nights a week? Take it slow.” He raised his eyebrows, inviting. “We could try my place.”
Q’s heart was in his throat. He swallowed. “Who would feed the cats?”
Bond laughed, and Q felt the tension melt away.
What a mess this all was.
“You’ll find a way. You always do.”