Work Text:
Bond wakes up with a start.
For a few moments he doesn't know exactly what it was that woke him up, other than the overwhelming feeling of wrongness. The bed underneath him wasn't his own, the room surrounding him is a much cosier space than his barren bedroom, the linens are all wrong. But no, none of those things unsettles him, at least not enough to wake him up subconsciously—despite his overstrained assassin psych, somehow in this unfamiliar but oh-so-familiar space he feels he belongs, and safe.
It was the other half of the bed, still some warmth attached to it—which Bond indulges himself to snuggle over and feel with his own skin, and bury his face in that warmth to take in the scent of the man that was, only moments ago, there. This is what woke him up. The absence of his bedmate. Not lover, yet. Bond doesn’t want to assume, despite his bedmate’s passion last night.
Last night. Bond can't help the smile that's blooming on his face. Last night Bond came back from another draining mission, debriefed at Six and then went to Q-branch to return what was left of his equipment, which wasn't a lot, though he made extra efforts this time so at least his Walther was in working order. He had hoped to impress the Quartermaster, and other things.
The Quartermaster wasn't impressed. He groaned and berated Bond for the state he left his much-modified smartphone in, and sighed at the sight of what was left of his radio that Bond rescued from a burning building. But as un-impressed as his Quartermaster was, Bond could still detect the underlying fondness over all the exasperation. Q would bitch all he wants about Bond's careless attitude towards the tech he devoted countless hours in, but he would never be able to hide that hint of relief of seeing Bond come back from yet another mission, mostly unscathed. Q would never say it, but Q would rather have another million-pound dent in his budget than lose one of his agents. (In fact Bond probably has made altogether more than a-million-pound dent Q's budget (a car or two came into mind), yet Q always seems to pamper Bond with the latest Q-branch tech knowing they would increase Bond's chance of survival and that he would probably never lay his eye on them ever again. It also helps that Bond is Q's favourite—a fact that Q would strongly deny but is true nevertheless.)
It was the fond exasperation that decided it for Bond. Q was going on about stupid dated field agent not seeing the value of tech that would make their lives immensely easier and how next time he should send Bond with a squirt gun (a threat Q would never go through, and Bond would more than likely still accomplish his mission with flying colour and Q knows it). But Bond wasn't really listening. He was too busy looking and observing Q. His eyes vivid and full of light. His moving lips red and enticing and slight swollen due to him unconsciously biting at them while working on some particularly difficult project during the day. His dark hair more unruly at the end of the day, a few locks falling over his forehead and half obscuring his eyes, and Bond almost couldn't help the urge to put the few locks into place or ruffle that hair even more, both were tempting choices with their own charms.
“…just don't understand how you could always find the most bizarre reasons for not bringing back your tech. One time it was Komodo dragons, the next a pond full of alligators, I wonder what it is going to be next time…”
If Q thought his frustration could encourage his agents to bring back more tech intact, he was wrong. In fact Bond wouldn't mind losing a few more weapons just to have Q's attention focused on him and seeing Q with his cute little frown and listening to his perfectly pronounced scolding that doesn't have enough heat to intimidate. Q was very, very cute when frustrated and very, very attractive when defending his much-loved tech.
“Have dinner with me.” Bond blurted out. He intended this to be a statement, a request much like all those times he asked Q for another shining gadget in development, but it came out more like a question. A plead. He never knew exactly where he stood with Q. Q could be verbally sparring with him with obvious fondness and affection one moment, and stoically professional the next. One moment within reach, and so elusive the next. And Bond wanted him very, very much.
That effectively shut Q up. Q's eyes went wide, and he lifted one hand to right his glasses that didn't really need adjusting to hide his surprise. For a genius and secret service agent (of sorts), Q could be very transparent. Q was looking at Bond intently, searching for something. Bond took all those details in with amusement.Was he thinking that Bond was not serious, was he trying to see the ulterior motives behind the invitation other than having a jolly good time together when there was none? Bond wondered, and waited. For once in his life he was willing to be patient, undemanding, and utterly at mercy of another human being. Q would come to his own conclusion, in his own time. And if it was the wrong conclusion, Bond would take all the time in the world to make Q see that he’s not going to be another notch on his bed, that Bond is as serious as he can get, that all Bond wants is Q and all Bond has to offer is what is left of himself and he hopes it’s enough but if it’s not he would back off if that’s what Q wishes.
Whatever Q saw obviously satisfied him, so some of those thought must have shown in his expression. Bond should be worried about that, being a government sanctioned assassin slash secret agent made keeping his thoughts guarded a most important skill, but Bond couldn’t be arsed to think about that now, because suddenly Q was beaming at him and his smile, genuine and full of delight, was so intoxicating and Bond wanted to feel that smile with his own lips. But that could wait till after dinner.
Bond didn’t go for the Michelin stars, he opted for a small family business that Bond once found accidentally while on leave. It was cosy and unpretentious and intimate. Q was delighted by Bond’s choice, Bond thought Q was probably thinking by forgoing obvious luxury choices of restaurants Bond was baring part of himself to Q. Q would not be wrong.
Bond has had his fair share of dinner dates in his time, most of them for missions and not a small amount for pleasure. But Bond could honestly say that he never enjoyed himself more and so without burden on any other dinner date he’s had. Things never got overmuch heated, they didn’t get physical, there were nothing blatantly sexual in any of their interactions, yet it was the most intimate experience Bond has ever had. Q’s eyes lighting up when talking about self-indulgent projects that he has probably never told another soul, Q unconsciously leaning in, Q looking at Bond with obvious fondness, their knees slightly touching. Their talked about everything, first about work (well, more like weapons really), then to more personal subjects like those indie movies Q was very fond of, the books they likes to read (Q was an unashamedly stereotypical nerd in this regard, Lord of the Rings being his favourite books growing up. And as a well-read boffin Q could easily discuss Bond’s cynical choices of books with detail. They also found out, as two patriotic Brits, they both knew their Shakespeare).
Dinner went brilliant, despite its surprisingly chaste nature (according to Bond’s track record). And Bond didn't mind just driving Q back to his flat and go home himself, without sex. He felt, he knew he had something rare and precious with Q, and he didn’t want to ruin it by rushing things. But then Q leaned in and spoke directly in his ear in an uncharacteristic low voice, “Come back to mine tonight” and all thoughts of leaving Q tonight and going home alone evaporated.
So here he is, in Q’s bed surrounded by the scent of the man he hopes very much to call his lover and indulging in a few more seconds of morning laziness.
But of course Bond couldn’t stay in this man-made cocoon of heaven forever. Only moments later Bond feels an unfamiliar weight on his back. Ah. That would be one of Q’s cats, stepping over him already after having just met for the first time last time. He could already envision himself spoiling the two cats to no end because one, Q absolutely adored them and that would earn Bond even more favours from his dear Quartermaster, and two, Bond needs to bribe those two devil cats to earn their approval of wooing their human.
Bond turns and pets the cat—Turing, this one is. The tuxedo cat starts purring almost instantly, not shy at all (much like his Quartermaster, once you get to know him, Q’s very much not shy and bashful at all. Bond smirks at his recall of what they got up to last night).
After some petting Bond decides it is time to find wherever Q did end up. Sensing Bond is leaving (or the warm lump underneath him moving more likely), Turning jumped off bed, then promptly trotted after Bond. Bond has a feeling that Turning might end up his favourite cat in this household (that is, discounting Q, of course).
He finds Q standing next to the counter in the kitchen, half asleep. A kettle is on, and Q is staring at the box of cereal but not really seeing it, mind wandering to god knows where. It appears that Q is definitely not a morning person. Which suits Bond just fine, because he’s most definitely a chirpy (or disgusting, as Q would comment) morning person, and he thinks he will enjoy seeing a very adorable half asleep Q struggling before his first cup of Earl Grey. And Bond could see a future where he would make healthy, nutritious breakfast for both of them (plus the cats) and make sure Q doesn’t burn down the house due to inappropriate use of toasters in the morning. For once Bond’s life after retirement doesn’t look so bleak.
Bond walks to stand behind Q, then spoons Q from behind, his hands fall naturally at Q’s hips as if they belong there. He plants a kiss on Q’s neck. He’s glad to see the mark he left there last night is still there. “Morning”, he says into Q’s ear, then nips the earlobe when an urge overtakes him.
Q leans back, slightly turning to Bond and nuzzles his head in Bond’s neck, and mumbles, “Morning. Don't tell me you're one of those disgusting morning people.” (There. Mind completely in sync, isn't that grand.)
Q looks like one of those grumpy sleepy kittens that can barely hold himself up without Bond’s support, Bond chuckles at the sight, utterly charmed.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe you would enjoy it.” His hand suggestively reaches underneath Q’s too large T-shirt, only to have Q bat it away faux-annoyed.
“Unlike certain old field agent who spends his working hours partying among the high society and downtime screwing his Quartermaster, some of us actually have to go to work you know.” Despite the words, Q nuzzles even closer, and Bond plants another kiss on Q’s forehead before talking into that shock of dark hair, “How about I fix us some healthy, actually edible breakfast while you shower?”
Q finally turns to face Bond, a small chaste kiss on the month, then asks playfully, “Not joining me in the shower then?”
“I seem to,” a kiss, “remember distinctly, ” another kiss, “someone mentioning something about work…” then another.
“Pity, that.” Q spends some more seconds taking in the warmth of Bond before reluctantly slightly pulling away. “Next time?”
Bond smirks at the “next time”. “So there will be a next time then?”
“Oh trust me you wouldn’t get away with it so easily. There will be next time,” another kiss, Q is very generous with his affection and kisses it appears, Bond absolutely loves it. “And many, many times after that.” Then finally steps back.
“Best to get going, then.” With the last pinch on Q’s frankly marvellous arse, Bond lets Q go and have his much needed shower, then turns to the fridge to see if Q has anything close to edible in. If not he’d have to make do with toasts and canned baked beans that surely haven’t passed their use-by date? He would have to pop out for provisions later—it wouldn’t do to starve his Quartermaster and his—or theirs?—cats. It is a surprisingly domestic thought that James never thought he would have, but wouldn't mind having for the rest of his life.