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Chapter Text

Q was minding his own business that fateful Thursday, when Bond waltzed in with one of his more peculiar questions.

“How do you feel about letting dates dress you up?”

A few blinks were had.

“D’you mean like …” Q lowered his voice, “stockings and heels and things?”

“No, but let’s put a pin in that.”

“Let’s not.”

“There’s a thing I need to go to on Saturday, and I simply can’t show up alone. My date cancelled, and I immediately thought of you.”

“Moneypenny shot you down, didn’t she?”

“Like a bloody missile.”

“Well I’m always happy to help you out of a bind, but I’m perfectly capable of choosing my own wardrobe.” He sniffed. “Would you have told Moneypenny what to wear? Or your original date?”

“No, but they have a sense of style which lends itself naturally to such an event. Your style, on the other hand … well it certainly is a style, isn’t it?”

“I’m inclined to take offense at that. I’ll have you know that I’m not wholly unaccustomed to formalwear. There were dances at school.”

Bond called his bluff. “Tweed?”

Q blushed, but remained defiant. “I’ll go shopping.”

“We’ll go shopping.”

“Fine then. I should be free that morning-”

“Actually, we need to start now.”

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Apparently Bond wasn’t far off when he chose the phrase ‘dress you up.’ Q felt rather like a doll as he was made to stand in a Burberry suit, surrounded by mirrors and getting groped by some stranger with a measuring tape. He was palpably aware of Bond watching every moment from a respectful distance. Every now and then he caught a flash of smirking blue in a reflection.

“Well that was undignified.” Q complained as they left the shop. He turned toward where they’d parked, but a hand at his elbow pulled him the other way.

“Oh, we’re not nearly done.”

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“Is all of this in the budget?” Q’d been avoiding looking at prices all afternoon, just watching Bond hand over what he assumed was a company card. By the time they’d gotten a shirt, tie, socks, shoes, watch, and cufflinks, he was starting to get antsy about it.

“My treat. A small thanks for a big favor. It’s hardly the most expensive ensemble I could have thrown together last minute. And besides, you need a real suit. It’ll look good and last forever.”

“Just like you.”

Sharing a smile (and maybe just a bit of a blush) they set off, finally, for the car.

“So what exactly is this event, anyway? What will I need to do?”

“I’m to courier some documents from the Americans. An old friend of mine will be making the handoff, so we thought the best place to meet was at a party thrown by another old friend whom we both trust.”

“So I’m just along for the ride?”

“You have the all-important task of maintaining my reputation for never showing up without a beauty on my arm.”

“Showing up with a man won’t sabotage that reputation?”

“No. At least not with this crowd. And even if you’d rather come as my friend, that’s better than chatting up an empty chair all evening.”

“No worries; they won’t think you’re lonely.”

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“Excited?” Bond asked when he picked Q up for their afternoon drive out to the country.

“Decidedly.” Q bounced down his front steps, an overnight bag in his hand. “Who gets to choose the music?”

“We’ll take it in turns. You pick first.”

With that, they sped off.

At about the midway point, they stopped for a coffee, and Q slipped into The Suit. Bond had picked it up that morning from the tailor, so this was the first time Q had the chance to experience the finished fit. It was better than he’d thought was scientifically achievable. He carefully put the pieces together - the tie, the shoes, the jewelry - combed his hair, and prayed that it all looked good. He couldn’t see enough in the tiny bathroom mirror to make such a judgement call himself.

Bracing for … well, something, Q presented his new look to Bond and the entire coffeehouse. The very twee crowd, into which Q had blended so recently, continued milling about unaffected. Bond, however, lit up like a halogen, positively bursting with pride in his handiwork.

“Smashing,” was all he said aloud, but the sentiment was echoed in his eyes and his smile, so Q took it as high praise indeed.

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The party was much, much more fun than Q had feared. The thirty-or-so guests, while overeducated and out of touch, were nonetheless friendly and interesting. The dinner was delicious, the booze was free, and the handoff went smoothly.

“Felix, so good to see you!” Bond cried when they saw their contact. He and Bond clasped hands and pulled each other close, genuine camaraderie and affection in the way they slipped a small, thick envelope from the inside of Felix’s jacket to the inside of Bond’s. “You’ve not met Q yet.”

“That’s an interesting nickname.”

“Gave it to him at work,” Bond answered before Q had a chance to laugh it off like he had so far that evening.

Q and Felix both started at their friend’s candidness. After a beat, they shook hands, recognizing Bond’s signal that they could trust each other.

“Always nice to meet a fellow sufferer.”

“Likewise. Join us for a drink?”

They went out to the garden to enjoy their champagne with a faint measure more privacy than could be found indoors.

“Did Jimmy think he needed backup tonight, or are you two …?” inquired Felix with that charming American indelicacy frankness.

“I’m just arm candy tonight,” Q deflected, much more interested in this new ‘Jimmy’ ammunition he’d just been handed than .

“Very tasty arm candy,” said Bond, warmly.

Over the course of the last hour or so, Q had become accustomed to Bond’s hand on his shoulder or waist. He’d even initiated a few touches himself. But now Bond added a whole ‘nother dimension to their playacting with a tender kiss on the temple. Thinking Bond only meant to tease for his friend’s amusement, Q ignored the shudder and flush that swept up his back.

But, of course, he couldn’t ignore it all night.

Several hours and several more drinks later, the light kisses had drifted to lips and ears and necks. Q kept forgetting why they were there and why he shouldn’t actually let Bond kiss him, why he shouldn’t kiss Bond back … why he shouldn’t enjoy it.

When it got to be quite late, and Q was quite worked up, their host offered them a room for the night. There was such an inevitability to it that he barely registered when Bond graciously accepted and led them upstairs.

The next thing Q knew, the lights were out and their mouths were meeting in a vastly different kind of kiss. His back found the wood of the door.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he mumbled wetly against Bond’s ear, unsure what he was trying to accomplish with the reminder. He certainly didn’t want this to stop.

“I never was,” Bond replied, nipping at Q’s jaw.

With that succinct confirmation of mutual attraction (and a more-than-decent buzz) Q could do nothing to stop himself. They cracked open each other’s posh suits and left the pieces in a mingled mess on the carpet. Naked and desperate, they fell to the bed, where Bond bent Q nearly double and spread him wide.

It was a fuck unlike any Q had ever had, somehow passionate without sacrificing efficiency, intimate without a word spoken. For a moment, just before he came, Q thought that Bond’s cock might drive him mad from the inside out.

Or that perhaps it already had.

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Everyone always talks about great sex being earth-shattering, but no one ever seems to consider how awful it is when the earth actually shatters.

Q woke in the late morning, hungover, sore, and all bundled up in strong arms.

“Bond?” He wriggled futilely. “Bond I need water.”

“Mm, could you bring me some, too?” Bond mumbled between soft snores, only tightening his embrace.

More wriggling, this time with more vigor, brought Bond to something closer to wakefulness.

“‘msorry,” he said, rolling away and relaxing back into sleep.

“Me too,” Q whispered as he gathered what he could find of his clothes.

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Guilt caught up with him on the train back to London. He’d never left anyone like this before, and it had never been done to him; it was the stuff of movies and songs and trashy telly.

But what else was Q to do? He couldn’t very well stay and keep falling more in love or lust (or whatever this was) with MI6’s most notorious slag.

He’d fallen for everything, willingly played along and truly believed their lies. But, recognizing that he was emotionally wounded and skittish, Q was inclined to be gentle with himself.

This bloody headache is punishment enough.

Chapter Text

Come Monday, Q felt better about what had happened. In the clearer light of the office fluorescents he was able to look back fondly on Saturday night, as if had happened years and years ago. He was even able to let go of the guilt for running out on Bond (once they’d passed in a corridor and shared a nod of resigned understanding, that is).

But Bond liked to get verbal confirmations in such matters, so on Wednesday, he approached Q to talk about it. Thankfully, he did so in his usual calm, judgement-free way.

“Just the once, then?” he asked without preamble.

“I’m afraid so.” Q didn’t look up from his three screens, though Bond leaned atop one in a bid for attention.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I’m used to it.”

“Used to what?” Surely he couldn’t mean rejection. A distinct lack of rejection was what had begun this whole business.

“People not sticking around for a second date.” He shrugged. “I might look good and last forever, but I’m not exactly boyfriend material.”

Q felt guilty all over again, but he didn’t want to give his friend false hope.

“Neither am I, really.”

It was best for both of them.

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Friday morning, Q had to track Bond down, tail between his legs, and beg a favor.

“Anything,” said Bond without hesitation, apparently holding no grudges.

“I got a call last night … a bunch of my old schoolmates are meeting up tomorrow for a concert. I panicked when they asked if I’d be bringing a date and said yes.” Certain he was blushing furiously, Q curled in on himself. He’d backed Bond into a semi-private alcove outside M’s office, but it looked like he was the one being cornered.

“Aren’t you afraid it’ll end up like last time?”

“Terrified, but …” he took a deep breath, about to be far too honest, “I’ve got quite a reputation myself; I never have a date, and even when I have a boyfriend, it never lasts long enough to show him off to anyone.”

“Happy to help. And I’ll try harder to keep my head about me.”

“Thank you, I’ll do the same.” Q unfurled, feeling much better.

Bond walked them back into the flow of hallway traffic.

“Something tells me we’re not going to the symphony.”

“Not even remotely.” Oh, this is such a bad idea … “By the way, how do you feel about letting dates dress you up?”

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They met the next morning at a vintage clothing shop and set Bond up with jeans, a sweater, and sneakers.

“There,” said Q, rather haughtily. “Much easier, wouldn’t you say? I’ll allow you to provide your own shirt, tie, and socks.”

“I’ve got my own sneakers, too, you know.”

“Yes, and I’ve smelled them coming a mile away.”

They both smiled at the pavement

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Q picked Bond up at his place, and fell in love all over again when he saw 007 dressed like a normal person. That blue pullover brought out his eyes, those jeans clung to his every curve, and … well, Q got rather sidetracked by the curves.

“... Damn.” He’d meant it to sound remorseful, but it came out sounding hungry. And really, the two impulses were not unrelated …

He could have kicked himself. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t get a second chance, it was that he’d made a big show of refusing one. He felt such a fool.

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They took the Tube, and both refrained from voicing any of the quips that leapt to mind. Each one could be spoken clearly enough with a look or a gesture.

Better than the last time I put you on a train, eh? Q asked with his eyes.

I dunno, that was fun, too, in its own horrible way, Bond answered with his grin.

I’m glad I got a second date. A downward, blushing glance.

So am I. I like you a lot, and I know how scared you were. I’m with you. Moreover, I want to be with you. A kiss on Q’s forehead.

Thank you. A gentle sigh.

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At the concert (a local band that had been gigging the same pub since before Q was born, made up mostly of his friends’ dads), Q’s entire clique was suitably impressed with his arm candy.

He and Bond kept the public displays of affection to a minimum and kept themselves to two pints apiece. It read perfectly as a couple that had been together for ages. Sentences were finished, inside jokes were shared. Hands were held. It was lovely.

“Ooh, ‘Q.’ Rather suits you, dunnit?” laughed Charity, the guitarist’s daughter, between sets. “How’d you get that one?”

“Gave it to him at work.” Though no less the truth, this time Bond’s answer meant nothing.

Such a small distinction, between a truth and a lie. For some reason it reassured Q to have his secrets, to be in control of something.

He caught a glimpse of The Jeans out of the corner of his eye and remembered that he’d exerted control over those, too.

“It’s actually getting a little late for me,” he said with an obviously feigned yawn. “I think we should head home.”

“I’ll say your good-byes for y’then.” Charity winked.

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They took a cab back to Q’s place and enjoyed another beer, far fancier than the ones they’d already enjoyed.

“The only thing I really regret about last weekend was running away.”

“Why were you scared?”

“Because I liked it so much … and I thought you’d think less of me if I begged for more.”

“You wouldn’t have had to beg … I suppose my reputation for always having a different beauty on my arm didn’t help matters much.”

“That’s the trouble with reputations, innit? They become self-fulfilling prophecies.”

Bond took the last of his beer in one go, perhaps in search of courage, and came closer to put his arms around Q’s waist. “You know, both our reputations would be ruined if we stuck together. Everyone would see I’ve settled down, and you’d always have a date.”

“When you’re around, of course,” Q’s enunciation didn’t make it sound like a dealbreaker.

“I’m sure it would be dreadful for both of us: me being gone so much, some of the things I’d have to do in the line of duty, death on my heels every moment … but I’d always strive to make it up to you.”

Q finished his own beer. “I do have one more regret about our first date.” His hand fell to the front of those marvelous jeans to feel Bond’s growing cock, hot even through the denim. “I never found out what you taste like.”

Bond surged beneath Q’s hand, about to need more space than The Jeans could provide. So Q took him by the belt buckle and led him out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. He stopped short of the bed though, instead leaning Bond up against a wall and sinking to his knees.

“I’ve been thinking about this cock for a week now,” longer, if I’m being honest with myself. He pulled it free and brought it to his lips. “Wondering if it feels just as thick in my mouth.”

He took his time finding out, letting his tongue explore thoroughly on the slow, wet descent. He gagged at first, but it was worth the discomfort to feel another measure of control, to have Bond at his mercy, if only for a few moments

When his jaw grew sore, Q stood and picked a losing fight with Bond's several layers of clothing.

They tried very hard to make it to the bed, but once Bond’s chest was bare and Q’s trousers were down around his thighs, they found themselves against another wall, conveniently within reach of the nightstand with the lube in it, fucking like they couldn't wait another second.

Once more, the earth was shattered.

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Sunday morning, Q woke to the smell of take-out breakfast.

Investigating, he found Bond in the kitchen, coat folded over his arm.

He handed Q a fancy café mocha from the good place down the street. “I was afraid you’d hear me leaving and get the wrong idea, but cooking is not one of my many talents.”

After chugging half the coffee, Q could stand up straight again. After a few bites of veggie frittata, he could think again.

“So when’s our next date?”

Bond flashed that halogen smile. “As a matter of fact, M’s written up an answer for the Americans, and he wants me to pass it along before Felix leaves the country … fancy skipping work for a matinee on Wednesday?”

“What should I wear?”