Chapter Text
On his laptop screen, Bond's Aston Martin glides through the intersection of Collingham & Harrington Gardens, slipping in and out of traffic camera range—the last approved camera for the evening. Q triggers his program to track and erase the footage from each subsequent camera in real time, then sets a timer and forces himself to step away from his laptop. A watched pot never boils, and Q can't make Bond drive faster with only his mind. No matter how badly he wants him here already.
Besides, Bond breaking traffic laws on his way to Q's cottage would counteract all his efforts of discretion.
Frustrated in more ways than one, Q putters around his home, getting everything ready. Cats shut away in the spare bedroom; condoms and lube on the bedside table; guest towel on the shower hook. Q drinks a glass of water and reminds himself not to primp or tidy. He can maintain a facade of minimalism and order at the office, but he refuses to mask in his own home.
And there's absolutely no need to. He has no reason to try to impress Bond, since this visit, just like the three that preceded it, is purely about sex. It hardly matters if Bond observes Q's bad habit of leaving clean laundry to wrinkle in the hamper for weeks on end. Or that Q's kitchen table is covered with half-constructed prototypes, the antique wood scarred and stained with grease. Or that Q's inability to hold a healthy division between working hours and personal life has left him so achingly lonely….
Q's alarm chimes, and he returns to his laptop to double-check his program's thoroughness. Satisfied, he sighs with relief. And then he turns at the sound of a car on his gravel drive, pulling round the back where it won't be seen from the street.
He closes his laptop and opens the door to the back garden just as Bond steps onto the wet doormat, a drizzle pattering broad shoulders and a wide smile lighting up the night. Q stands aside to let Bond enter, and Bond proffers his mobile, saying, "It's powered off."
"I know."
Q already checked for himself, pinged the GPS in Bond's sim card to ensure no nosy Q Branch techs—or god forbid someone in M's office—could discover Bond at Q's home. The prospect of facing Tanner's well-meant words of caution, Moneypenny's pitying smiles, or M's eloquently withering stare (I thought you were smarter than this, Quartermaster. Perhaps I promoted you too soon…) is unendurable. Better to keep this arrangement to himself, a guilty pleasure not to be shared with anyone else.
Bond sets his useless mobile on a shelf and reaches for Q, something like lust in his eyes, though not the hurried kind that characterizes Bond's mission liaisons. Callused fingers comb through Q's unkempt hair as he tugs Q into his arms and kisses him, and Q is amazed all over again how gentle and present Bond can be without the urgency of a mission to drive his seduction.
Not that seduction is necessary here; Q's been in helpless, hopeless love with Bond for more than a year, only waiting for a single overture to throw himself at Bond's feet.
But this isn't some grand romance they're assaying. Despite Q's emotional over-investment, their assignations are nothing more than a carnal, corporeal indulgence of his favorite sexual fantasies. Q is enjoying Bond's body, but not Bond's heart.
It's better this way. Safer. Less messy.
So long as Q never allows himself to believe it's more than sex, never lets hope out of its amphora to sink poisoned claws into his back, Q can't get his heart broken. This unrequited love is infinitely better than confessing and facing Bond's inevitable disappointment when he learns how little time and attention Q has to offer a romantic partner.
Q doesn't have to think about love—or anything at all—when Bond's trousers hit the floor and their bodies slide against one another, Bond's arms pinning him against the bedroom door frame for another consuming kiss. He can just close his eyes and savor this fantasy-made-flesh for as long as it lasts.