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"Are you okay?"
The words are quiet, whispered against the skin of his neck in the soft darkness, and Bond almost laughs. It's been a long time since he's heard that. He'd almost convinced himself that he didn't need to. A smart retort heads towards his lips, but he stops himself, choosing to focus on the sensations instead. Maybe, if he tries, he can lose himself. Maybe, if he tries, he can come home.
He can feel himself to be calloused and rough, gunpowder and blood and dirt still clinging to him despite the long shower he took as soon as he arrived. Sometimes he thinks it is a permanent part of him, just a feature, like the blue eyes he's used to his advantage so many times. The stain of the missions clinging to his skin. The weight of the licence to kill branded into him. But the skin of Q's chest pressed up against his back is smooth and surprisingly toned, so he presses back into that and focuses on the velvet friction, the movement of fingers to rest lightly on the waistband of his underwear, the slow rhythm of breathing.
It dawns on him that Q really does expect an answer.
"I'm fine," he mutters, closing his eyes. Q presses in, gentle and certain, arms loose around Bond's waist.
"Are you sure? Because if it is your first time-"
"I told you, it isn't."
There's an edge of anger to the response that surprises even him. He forces himself to breathe. Q is considerate and gentle, infinitely more so than he deserves, and it's not his fault that the question stings so deeply. Bond sighs, turning around to look at him, silhouetted against the orange glow of the streetlights outside. He brings up a hand to Q's jaw, the other sliding easily around his waist. His hands are calloused from throwing punches, palms scored with the weight of the weapons he's so used to carrying, and as he drags his fingertips lightly across Q's cheek the younger man shivers, arching into the touch.
"James," he whispers.
That hits home, bringing Bond into the present. He leans in, pressing his face to where Q's neck meets his shoulder. The soft rasp of his defined stubble on Q's five o'clock shadow makes his skin prickle with anticipation, and his hands slide easily up and down Q's back, drawing him ever closer until their lips meet, finally, and Q leads him back towards the bed.
He wasn't lying. This isn't his first time. He remembers his first- a fumbling encounter when he was seventeen, with a boy who had the most beautiful smile and could name all the monarchs of England- and remembers too the way the shame had bitten afterwards, the way it had eaten away at him, and how angry he had been that simply wanting something could instil such deep shame in him.
This is his second.
This is his second time, his first in close to thirty years, and it's nothing like the messy groping of his last, nothing like the countless encounters with nameless women he's had since then. Q is strong and assured and practised and flowing and attentive, and Bond clings to him like he's drowning all over again. Every touch is calculated to reassure him, every accidentally bruising grip instantly soothed by a kiss. For the first time in a long while he finds himself being slowly taken apart with care and love until he is completely undone, sprawled out and close to begging on an unfamiliar bed, the presence of Q's hands and smile a reassuring constant as the world begins to blur around him. He doesn't cry out, but it's a close thing. Q chuckles and catches his lips in a gentle kiss, coaxing a smile from the usually deadpan mouth.
"Good?" he asks, once Bond has had time to catch his breath. There's no response; Bond can't think what to say.
"James. Are you okay?"
There it is again, the same question, the same need for reassurance. James sighs, pulling Q back in for a kiss, long and lazy, eyes half lidded with bliss and a sudden tiredness.
"Absolutely," he replies.