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His lips are swollen from hours of kissing, his neck so warm from beard burn that he leaves his scarf tucked in his pocket. Two bottles of wine and memories of Marcelino's wandering hands keep a banked fire of arousal smoldering as he strolls along the Lungotevere Farnesina at half 1 in the morning. Below him, the Tiber River reflects the shimmering yellow lights of the opposite bank, and above, the night sky is dotted with clouds glowing pink with light pollution, and David is just soused enough to find man's imposition on the natural world whimsical rather than a sad commentary on the state of things.
There's a boisterous group crossing the Ponte Sisto ahead of him, but the rest of the pedestrians on the street are paired off, couples promenading arm-in-arm, off to reach their mutually satisfying conclusions. David sighs that such is not his lot tonight. Marcelino had been lovely, saying all the right lines and lies to sweep David off his feet for a pleasant evening. David's half-convinced it would have been worth Marcelino stealing from his hotel room to have a proper shag after so many hours of foreplay.
At times like this, he curses his MI6-mandated training in identifying manipulation techniques.
But for all that he's destined to end his evening one-handed, it's impossible to feel melancholy on a clear night in one of his favorite cities in the world. He often thinks Rome is at its most appealing past midnight, when the tourists are all abed, and the bustling traffic has quieted. Of course, just as he thinks this, he identifies the sounds of two high-performance engines roaring louder and louder off to his left. He turns his gaze to the far side of the river, expecting to see a pair of street racers tearing up the Lungotevere dei Vallati. But a flash of headlights draws his attention lower, to the wide, paved riverbank directly below him, which is…preposterous. Like something out of a Jason Bourne movie.
He stops to watch the vehicles' approach, fascinated by the abuse of two very fine automobiles on the uneven paving slabs. The headlights of the lead car look oddly familiar, and…the trailing vehicle's bonnet appears to be on fire, and—oh god—there's an obstruction in their path as they close in on the bridge! David has a hand raised as if he could shout out a warning in time, when a large object rockets vertically out of the lead car, and the vehicle itself swerves toward the water. David follows the object up, even as he hears the tremendous splash of an Aston Martin DB10 hitting the river at 100 mph, up and up and up, his heart in his throat, until it's 200 meters in the air, and a parachute deploys, and….
No.
Just no.
"Nope," David says as he turns away from the larger-than-life sight of a British agent gliding down to earth in the emergency parachute rig that he designed last year. As proof of concept, he's elated to see his ejector-seat design both function perfectly and save an agent's life. But he has no desire to get tangled up in that life again.
He crosses the street and heads back toward Freni e Frizioni. It isn't gone 2 o'clock yet. If Marcelino is still at the bar, perhaps he'll forgive David's fickleness, and they can finish out the evening making good use of the massive bed in David's hotel room.
With his hands shoved in his pockets, David does his best to block out the sounds of the people clustering at the overlook, murmuring over the luxury sports car sinking into the Tiber and the pursuing vehicle still ablaze below them. And then he hears a fluttering sound, as of nylon flapping in a breeze.
He swears and walks faster.
"Good evening," he hears in an unforgettable voice several meters behind him, and he can't help ducking his head in dread.
It couldn't be 009? Or even 004? It had to be—
An arm loops around David's left elbow, hooking him like a fish.
"What a surprise," 007 says, long legs matching and maintaining David's pace, keeping him moving even as David tries to pull away from the sudden touch.
"Bloody hell," he yelps. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Relax, Q, and smile for the polizia." James Bond smiles demonstrably and nods in the direction of the police cars racing up the avenue to reach the scene of the "accident."
David smiles and smiles and huffs through curved lips, "That isn't my name."
"I suppose not," Bond says without missing a beat. "Then what is?"
David thinks with sudden certainty that no good can come of giving James Bond such personal information. He has a brief flash of déjà vu, of having the exact same realization while standing too close to Bond in the lift at MI6, but he shakes it off. "None of your business."
With the police safely behind them, David drops his smile and tries to shake off Bond's grip again, but the man is clamped on tight.
"Let me go, Bond," he orders.
"Still just as bossy," he says infuriatingly.
"I don't want any part of whatever you're involved in, whoever's chasing you, and whatever M's going to do to you when he learns you just sank a 3-million-pound piece of MI6 property into the Tiber River."
"And here I was thinking what luck to have run into an old friend in my hour of need."
David shoots him an assessing look, noting the same cropped blond hair, the same lined face, the same immaculate suiting as ever. Bond doesn't appear to be injured, and he hardly seems frantic. "Hour of need?"
"I'm on a bit of a side mission, and I could use some tech support for a few days. Unofficially."
"No," David says sternly. He feels the familiar itch to volunteer, to problem-solve, to be useful—the foolish part of him that had once chosen government service over a far more lucrative career in the private sector. He tells that part of himself to shut up. "I'm heading back to Paris tomorrow. Some of us have jobs we actually care about."
"Call out sick. I'm sure your boss will be forgiving."
"I am the boss!"
"Well then, you deserve a holiday."
"This is my— Look, Bond." David plants his feet and yanks hard enough that Bond finally lets go of his arm. "It's lovely to see you, I'm glad that wasn't you going into the water, and best of luck on…whatever extrajudicial acts you're about to commit. But leave me out of it."
Bond looks at him with a pleasant, melancholy sort of smile, and David knows it's a mask, albeit a better one than Marcelino's. The yellow lamplight above them sets a gold halo about Bond's head as he says, "I understand completely. They didn't know what they had in you. But you're probably better off without all of our endless crises."
And of course he had to bring it up. Getting sacked from the one position he'd truly cared about, where he felt he could do the most good for Britain and for the entire world, was one of the most painful experiences of David's life. And James Bond, with his beatific smile and patient benediction, has absolutely no right to go dredging up that humiliation from the murky undercurrents of David's thoughts. And certainly not while looking just as distractingly gorgeous as David remembered.
"I wouldn't dream of dragging you back in against your will. But if you could—" Bond licks his lips, as though nervous "—if you could just give me…."
"What?" David asks, catching himself leaning into Bond's space, the false lure of vulnerability impossible to resist.
"A place to sleep for the night. It's not safe for me to go back to my hotel, and I'm rather empty handed at the moment. I don't even have a mobile."
David snorts with relief and reaches for his phone. "Is that all? I'll book you a room myself."
Bond slides a step closer, his hand coming up to brush the side of David's neck, where his touch is shockingly cool against the inflamed skin. "That would be lovely of you. But there's no need to go to any trouble. I'm happy enough to bunk on your floor."
As if that wasn't how it started, when David let Bond kip on his office futon in between their hearings with the disciplinary review board. Bond had looked hollowed out by grief and exhaustion, and David none better, near-frantic at the prospect of losing the job he'd fought so hard for. A favor asked, a kindness offered, a friendly touch…and David having to replace the damn mattress out of his personal account before he lost privileges to use that office entirely.
Bond's fingertips stroke the exact spot Marcelino had delighted in discovering, the place just below his earlobe that sends shivers down David's spine. There must be one hell of a hickey there, and Bond doesn't look put-off in the slightest.
"You're unbelievable," David groans.
Bond smiles wide enough to flash his teeth. "I'll take that as a compliment, Q."
He huffs again, a show of stubbornness that wouldn't fool anyone. "David."
"David," Bond purrs. "A pleasure to meet you."
David rolls his eyes. "Leave off. Just…follow me. The hotel's back this way." He turns to resume his aborted journey toward the Ponte Sisto. Why deny himself the opportunity to gawk at the wreckage Bond left half-submerged in the river? He smirks, contemplating M's conniption over the lost budget for Bond's "unofficial" mission. Maybe David will snap a photo for posterity.
Bond falls into step beside him, and David knows this is a bad idea…but he's had that realization about Bond before as well, and it didn't stop him then. Why should it stop him now? He's on holiday to enjoy himself, after all.
Bond chafes his hands together, and David realizes the man's coat was lost along with the car and mobile. He pulls his scarf from his pocket and loops it around Bond's neck. Bond beams at him, wraps it snugly, and leans over to brush his lips against David's cheek.
David tries to hide how pleased he feels, but doesn't think he manages.
Bond retakes David's arm and strokes his hand along the inside of David's forearm. His hard, muscled body presses along David's side as they stroll arm-in-arm across the bridge on a cold, clear evening, while a spectacle of flashing emergency lights bounces off the stone walls of the vertical banks below.