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English
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Part 3 of inevitabilities
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Published:
2022-04-22
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2,747
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close quarters

Summary:

James has been making a habit of showing up at Q’s flat in the middle of the night with injuries that need tending to. On this particular night, Q tries to focus on the task at hand, rather than the way James is looking at him, or talking to him, or the incredible close quarters in which they find themselves.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

“You know,” Q says, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I do have some limits. This might just be one of them.”

“It’s not that bad,” James claims airily, as though there isn’t a jagged piece of glass wedged into his thigh. “You’ve seen worse.”

“I’m not so sure that I have.” 

Apparently this comes across as a challenge, for James starts reeling off a list of the other injuries of his that Q has tended to of late. It is quite the list and full of things that any sane person would likely deem well past their limits.

Q does wonder sometimes if he has lost his marbles, or at least a handful of them. He has known all along that he is well within his rights to ferry James over to headquarters and yet he persists in patching him up here. 

He listens as the list goes on, wincing, while hunting in the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit. It ought to be here given that at least three of the items on James’ gruesome list were tended to only weeks ago, right in this very spot. Much like tonight - or this morning, rather, since it is half past one - James was perched on the edge of the tub and making light of whatever crisis he had narrowly escaped. The wild stories have begun to meld together in Q’s mind but he remembers each injury with perfect clarity. This one may be the most memorable yet; even now that he is searching for the first aid kit, he can see that shard of glass lodged in James’ thigh like it is still right in front of him. 

Q tries to think only of James’ leg and not his own, injured in much the same way long ago.

He finds the kit at the back of the cabinet behind the cleaning supplies, possibly shifted by his housekeeper. He supposes they might have assumed the cleaning supplies take precedence - but James shows up enough of late that the first aid kit seems to be in higher demand. 

“So what happened this time?”

“I had to make a quick escape.” James smiles as though he’s amused by it all while he announces, “There was a window which looked to be a convenient exit point.”

“You couldn’t have stopped to open it first?”

“I might have been able to - but then you might be pulling a bullet or two out of me.”

“That right there,” Q proclaims. “That’s the limit. You get shot, you call for med-evac or you find your way to a hospital. I’m not tending to bullet wounds.”

Still looking most amused, James queries, “Not even very minor ones?”

Q sighs and sets the first aid kit down next to the basin. He eyes the shard of glass stuck in James’ right thigh, just barely visible through his trousers which are soaked in blood. “Are you in pain?”

“Not much.”

“But you can feel it?”

“It’s somewhat noticeable.” James is still smiling at him, as calm as anything. That changes when Q prods his thigh about an inch away from where the shard is. He curses, then asks with a grimace, “What was that for?”

“I was checking for sensation.” Q smiles as James scowls at him. “Like I said before, I do have my limits. Gunshot wounds are one; serious lacerations may well be another. If that was any worse I’d be carting you off to headquarters.”

In a most flirtatious way, James says, “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I might.” Q steps to the other side of the bathroom and removes his beloved monstera from the stool on which it is placed. He picks up the stool and sets it closeby James, then sits down and examines his leg more carefully. “As much as I might enjoy making outlandish threats when you act like a scoundrel, I don’t actually want you to… I don’t know, lose a leg, as the case may be tonight.”

He can feel James watching him and glances up to catch the smile on his face. Just as Q looks away again, James murmurs, “That’s very kind of you, darling.”

Q traces the ragged tear in James’ trousers, which are light grey except for the bloodstain surrounding the wound. “How attached to these are you?”

“As of right now, not very.”

“Good.” Q reaches for the first aid kit and pulls out a pair of scissors. “I need to see it better before I do much of anything. Tell me if I’m hurting you, alright?”

He rests one hand lower down, closer to James’ knee, and then cuts the bloodstained section of the fabric away. All the while, he can feel James’ eyes on him - but that is par for the course of late. Q tosses the bloodied scrap of fabric in the bin then begins cleaning up James’ leg.

“It looks fairly shallow,” he notes, trying to focus only on the wound. 

“It feels that way.”

“Explain to me again why you didn’t remove it yourself and then duck into headquarters for a check? It might have saved you some hassle.”

“What hassle is that?”

“Flooring it over from Chelmsford like a maniac,” Q says accusatorily, “Then hitting an absolute maelstrom of roadworks in these parts and circling around three times before you parked illegally.”

That second part is a near-perfect echo of the flood of complaints he heard after opening the door to a hobbling James. Q glances up fleetingly to raise his eyebrows pointedly at James. “If that car gets towed-”

“I’ll be in a dreadful amount of trouble, won’t I?” 

He says that in the most electrifying way imaginable. Q tries again to focus on the task in front of him, rather than James’ silky voice, or how his hand is pressed to James’ bare thigh, or the incredibly close quarters they find themselves in.

It didn’t feel so cramped in this bathroom weeks ago when he stitched up a wound on James’ brow, but they were both fully clothed then. Tonight finds them in rather a different state. James is missing his suit jacket and his tie is knotted around his upper thigh as a makeshift tourniquet (one which almost seems unnecessary, given that his trousers are just about tight enough to cut off circulation). Since Q was dragged out of bed by the chaos, he is only in his pyjamas. It has been bitterly cold all week so he has on his best thermal shirt - long-sleeved, snug, and the same light grey as James’ suit.

“I like this,” James said earlier, stroking the sleeve while Q all but dragged him upstairs to sort him out. When that went ignored, he tried again once settled on the edge of the bathtub. As Q stepped close to mop the blood from James’ neck, courtesy of a milder cut along his jaw, James touched the waistband of his pinstriped pyjama bottoms and murmured, “I like these, too.”

His hand lingered there for some time, right near Q’s hip, a surprisingly tentative touch but no less tempting for it. Q might have jumped him then and there if not for the glass lodged in his thigh. 

He gets closer and closer to abandoning any sense of resolve or decorum with each of these velvety offerings of flattery. I like this, James says of his coats, ties, and blazers. He often pairs those comments with gentle touches that drive Q wild. Just the other day, James put his hand on Q’s side in the middle of the workshop and said, while stroking the wool of his jumper: This is lovely.

It won’t do to get distracted right now, not by their close quarters or James’ escalating attempts at flirtation. Q takes one more look at the shard of glass and decides to get on with it.

“If this is deeper than it looks, I’m taking you in for a proper check,” he warns. 

Out come the tweezers from the first aid kit, which Q secures around the piece of glass. It is a soft shade of green, which Q imagines he isn’t far off from matching at the moment. He has never considered himself all that squeamish and has managed just fine with the other injuries that James has shown up with. This one is slightly more sickening somehow. Q asks James if he is alright, and as soon as he has an affirmative answer, he extracts the shard of glass.

James flinches when it comes out but otherwise bears the extraction well. “How does it look?”

“Not all that bad.” Q examines the piece of glass which is blessedly small. He drops it and the tweezers into the basin, then gets to work cleaning up and stitching the wound. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” 

“Do you want to stay the night?” Q checks his watch and smiles wanly. “Not that there’s much of it left.”

That doesn’t matter, of course - losing a little sleep here or there is hardly unusual for the two of them. It feels as inevitable as James gazing at Q, or caressing his clothes while dishing up sultry compliments, or crashing on his sofa. Q doesn’t even know why he asked - it is a foregone conclusion that James will stay the rest of the night. 

What he doesn’t expect is for James to say, ever so tenderly, “I always want to stay.”

Q has been avoiding eye contact for most of the time they have been cooped up in here. He is too undone by it all to trust himself. Hyperfocusing on James’ injury only helped so much in distracting from their proximity. Now that James’ leg is stitched, all Q can think of is how intimate it is, sitting huddled together in the early hours of the morning, each of them in some state of undress, with his bedroom only a few paces away. When he meets James’ eye, a dizzying sense of yearning ripples through him.

Even in his mildly dishevelled state, James looks delectable. He always does, every time he shows up here, whether bruised or bloodied, and often in a total state of exhaustion. Q doesn’t know how he has held back on so much as one of those nights. There must have been half a dozen instances now of James appearing at his door to demand impromptu medical care.

Not that he ever demands it, really. He always asks ever so sweetly, with the same sparkling gaze he is directing Q’s way right now.

Near breathlessly, Q asks, “Always?”

“Always,” James says.

If he doesn’t put a stop to this he will end up jumping James. That sounds like a brilliant plan for the most part but Q can’t imagine it would do James’ leg any favours. He stands up and closes up the first aid kit, then restores the stool to its rightful position and places the monstera atop it. James is still watching him like he so often does; it is a constant thrill that laces their every interaction.

When Q is done righting everything, he turns back to James and asks, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

James stands up and tests his weight on his leg. Even though he looks steady, Q instinctively reaches out and grasps his arm. 

With a smile, James confirms, “I’m fine.”

“You should rest,” Q says. “Come downstairs, I-”

He falls silent as James steps closer to him. There is hardly any space between them at all now. Q keeps his hand on James’ arm, but shifts his thumb and forefinger ever so slightly to stroke the crisp cotton of James’ shirt. 

“You’re very good to me,” James murmurs. His left hand traces up Q’s side, grazing his hip and then his ribs, before travelling up to brush Q’s hair away from his face. 

At first, Q catches the smooth, rich scent of James’ cologne, which always makes him light-headed. But as James shifts, reducing the gap between them so that it is next to nothing, Q has to pull away.

Moving back doesn’t quite erase what he just noticed: the scent of another man. It seems to stay with him even as he distances himself.

Since the only harm that befell James came courtesy of the window, Q has to imagine he didn’t pick up that scent during a fight. In a sharp flash, he sees James kissing someone else, taking them to bed - the thought of which turns Q’s stomach far more than the shard of glass did.

He knew that was a likelihood on this mission, just like it was on the last, when James returned with a hint of lipstick on his collar. But knowing it was likely and liking it are two entirely different things.

Q tries not to think about it for the most part. The jealousy it induces is as pointless as it is unfair. He doesn’t like feeling envious over something that he can’t control - not that he would want to. James is too good at what he does; Q doesn’t want to limit that. But he also doesn’t want to have to think about James with anyone else, whether it is work or play or something in between. 

He hasn’t been as closely involved with this mission as he has with others, but he knows enough to have an image in mind. There was a photograph in the case file of the man that James is likely to have seduced. Q can see him as clearly as he can smell his grapefruit and sea salt cologne. The map of the private estate they have been surveilling comes to life; he can almost imagine where it happened.

When he is struck by another intrusive flash of what might have been, Q steps well away. 

“Q,” James says, reaching for him again, but Q shies away and heads for the door. 

He offers to fix something for James to eat. While steadfastly ignoring the way James is looking at him, Q insists, “You really should eat something. Come downstairs and put your feet up; I’ll make you anything you’d like.”

“Are you alright?”

Q should have seen that question coming. James is the only person who consistently sees through him when he is pretending to be alright. Harry has a knack for it as well; he manages to catch Q out most of the time, and Eve is swiftly rising to his standard. But James always knows. That was how they first became friends - James noticed that Q was having a rubbish day and took him out to drinks to make up for it. Ever since, he has maintained a perfect read on Q.

Exactly how fine-tuned that skill is, Q doesn’t know. He worries that James can tell that he is jealous. It isn’t like he can claim turnabout is fair play, even if James does seem to get incredibly envious over dates that don’t come to be and boyfriends that don’t exist. That isn’t enough like this for Q to feel comfortable in the comparison.

“I’m fine,” Q says, because he expects he should be. He tries to talk himself into it like he always does, by stepping through the same refrains: they aren’t together; it’s just a part of what James does; it doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t take away from whatever has been happening in between that night at drinks months ago and right now.

In the end, what gets him from pretending to be fine to actually feeling it is recalling what James said only minutes ago: I always want to stay. Q returns to the tenderness of that admission and wraps himself up in it. 

James is still regarding Q with concern. Gently, he asks, “Are you sure?”

Q smiles and promises, “I’m alright.” 

He reaches for James to loop an arm around his middle and urges him to keep his weight off his right leg. James hooks an arm around Q’s shoulders and leans into him. 

“There you go,” Q says. As he starts guiding James downstairs, he takes the chance to tease, “Honestly, it’s appalling, the situations you get yourself into.”

That earns him an absolutely luminous smile from James. “It isn’t all that bad.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re always here to help me out of them, one way or another.”

Q tightens his grasp and draws James closer. Smiling, he promises, “Always.”

Notes:

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