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Chapter Text

The first time Bond sees the tattoo-like markings of Q’s tentacles, he sucks in a short breath and whispers, “Q.”

He has Q do a turn to make sure that, yes, the markings do cover his entire lower body.

When Bond touches him, he starts at the tip of the two larger appendages on Q’s chest and follows the gently curved markings that seem to bracket his frame, making Q shiver. Then Bond splays large and warm, gun-callused hands across the tangle of smaller tentacle markings that start at the waist and Q nearly comes undone.

Q manages to reign in his control and keep his tentacles from spilling out. He can’t say the same for his colouring though, which morphs his skin tone a few shades lighter to match the white sheets beneath him when he comes, seeing stars. Luckily, Bond wasn’t paying attention, too busy chasing his own orgasm.

Q wakes at dawn to fingers tracing lazy patterns over the other two large appendages nestled between his shoulder blades. He can tell that Bond has been awake for some time based on the sharp gaze in his eyes that seem intent on memorizing every detail of his markings.

“What do they represent?”

Q answers Bond with all honesty, “Me.”

Bond accepts the vagueness of Q’s response and abandons his line of questioning for more pleasurable pursuits. Questing fingers dip to Q’s opening, asking permission and Q grants it by pressing back. When Q comes, it’s all he can do to keep his tentacles from spilling and contain the writhing within his body. And if Q seems brighter, then Bond chalks it up to the sunshine pouring in through the windows, lighting Q’s body aglow. Bond thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.

Chapter Text

Bond thought it would be a one-night stand but his traitorous body dictated otherwise.

As a personal rule, Bond never sleeps with the same co-worker twice. It’s distinctly unhealthy to form attachments given the nature of his work. Yet, here they are a week later on their third encounter in the new Aston Martin that Q is remodeling just for him.

It’s a bit cramped even with some inventive seat adjustments and Bond already has Q bent over double. The seat’s tilted all the way back but it’s still set at an incline. Bond tries to get a better grip as he thrusts into Q but he’s got lube all over his hands and some on the seat, making everything slippery. Eventually he loses the fight against gravity and they slide down.

Bond lands with his arse on the horn and the sound startles the both of them. They tense for a few seconds before they meet each other’s eyes.

Q breaks first, snorting and wheezing, and Bond can’t help but join in, chuckling wryly. Q’s giggles manage to push Bond out and Q laughs all the harder.

The whole situation is utterly ridiculous.

When their laughter subsides, their foreheads are touching and they just rest there a moment breathing each other in. Bond realizes that Q cannot be comfortable in his current position and start to untangle them.

“Where are you going?”

Bond raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at their surroundings, “Q.”

Q makes an annoyed sound and says, “You just have to pull that lever and then we’ll be fully horizontal.”

Bond pulls the lever and they drop back by a couple of centimetres.

“Q, it’s not going to work.”

“Then I suggest you put your back into it, 007,” says Q, voice in quartermaster mode.

Bond smiles at that, remembering, and quips back, “You put your back into it.”

“We’ll both put our backs into it, shall we? On 3 – 2 – 1.”

Something in the car snaps and suddenly they’re horizontal. Q sighs, bemoaning the damage and Bond kisses him to make him shut up.

It’s their first kiss and Q looks up at him, wide-eyed and surprised.

Bond realizes his mistake and inwardly curses himself. Bond only ever kisses his marks because the tactic makes for a speedier seduction. Except Q isn’t a mark. No, he’s far beyond that.

Bond finds that he likes kissing Q and without overanalyzing it too much, he leans back in for another kiss. Q tastes of the earl grey tea that he seems to consume by the gallon each day and the mints that he keeps in his drawer. Bond can’t help but think of what they would taste like together if Bond had some fine quality scotch beforehand as he licks his way into Q’s mouth, their tongues dancing in a give and take.

Or rum. Oh yes, that would be a better match. Bond runs his tongue along the back of Q’s teeth and decides that he really likes kissing Q. It’s a heady sensation and why didn’t they do this sooner?

Bond trails a line of kisses down Q’s throat and then sucks a bruise in to the skin, just at the tip of one of the larger tentacle tattoos on Q’s chest. Bond follows the tentacle down, kissing and sucking more bruises, making Q squirm, and moan, and arch his hips to get more friction. Q’s renewed erection presses insistently against Bond’s navel while Bond’s own desire lies heavy along his leg.

But Bond ignores all of that in favour of pursuing a particularly interesting strand on Q’s inner thigh. It’s depicted like a cock, thinner but much longer, ending at just above the crook of the knee. Bond licks and mouths his way down Q’s thigh, looks up and makes eye contact with Q when he reaches the tip.

Q is flushed, panting and paying rapt attention while Bond laves and sucks the skin at the head, heavily suggesting what Bond would do with Q’s real cock. Q’s eyes, already blown wide, seem to dilate even more.

Bond repeats the same motions on the matching strand in the opposite thigh. When he finally makes his way up to the apex, Q’s got both his hands on the back of Bond’s head, pressing gently in an attempt to guide him to where Q wants him to be.

Taking pity on Q, Bond gives him what he wants. Bond slowly takes Q into his mouth, tongue rubbing along the underside of Q’s cock until his lips touch the root. Q gasps, impressed by the lack of a gag reflex as he tries not to grind himself into Bond’s welcoming mouth.

Bond comes back up just as slowly, one hand pulling down at the base as he sucks. The dual sensation of being pulled drives Q mad, Bond can tell by the way he clenches his hands into fists and the swoop of his stomach when he exhales sharply.

With his other hand, Bond teases at Q’s opening. He’s still slick from before but has gone tight again.

Bond eases the first finger in and then the second, all the while sucking and pumping, working Q into a whimpering frenzy. Bond pins down Q’s hips with a forearm and hums around the head of Q’s cock as he drives in the third finger. Bond is prepared for Q as he bucks up with a shout and Bond hungrily swallows all of Q down again.

Bond can’t decide if he wants Q to come down his throat or all over the both of them when Bond fucks deeply into him. The thought of either scenario gives Bond a thrill like never before, making his cock twitch. Q decides for him when he pushes at Bond’s forehead.

Bond lets up with an obscene pop of the mouth, spit and precome dragging a thin line between Bond’s lips and Q’s hard cock.

Q moans at the sight.

“I’m ready. I’m more than ready,” pants Q, “Come up here and fuck me.”

Before Q’s even finished speaking, Bond’s already rolling on a fresh condom and pouring out a liberal dose of lube. He throws Q’s tattooed legs over his shoulders and lines them up.

Q pulls Bond down by the back of his head for a dirty kiss, sharing Q’s taste of musk and salt.

Tequila, to go with the salt; Bond will have to bring some lemon slices—That’s the last coherent thought Bond has before he’s consumed by good, hot. Tight.

Bond bottoms out in Q in one long slide and it takes every ounce of Bond’s control to not drive into Q’s heat, to slow down and be gentle.

But Q wants none of that and demands, “Harder.”

That’s an order that Bond can follow so he goes harder on the next thrust and it jostles Q bodily upwards.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” Q hisses in appreciation.

Bond leans back so he can watch himself drive into Q’s body, to see his lover tighten down on his cock and know that he did that. He brought them pleasure.

“Look, Q. Look at how well you take my cock.”

Q looks and Bond looks with him, each thrust going in long and deep and hard, hard enough to make Q’s erection bounce and bob in the air. And Christ, Q has a beautiful cock. If Bond wasn’t already balls-deep in Q, then he wouldn’t mind taking a turn on that.

Next time, he promises himself. Next time, Bond’s going to ride it for all it’s worth.

Then Bond notices it, Q’s clenching down on him every time he’s in, like Q doesn’t want Bond to leave and it turns the pull-back into a sweet drag.

Bond looks up at Q, and Q looks innocently back at him. Bond narrows his eyes. Oh, challenge accepted.

Bond takes the time to re-angle his hips before he thrusts in once more, unerringly finding Q’s prostate, making Q throw his head back and cry out.

Q’s long neck is exposed and open for the taking. So Bond does, tasting the rapid beat of Q’s pulse on his tongue.

“Your move, Quartermaster.”

Q pulls Bond’s head up with both hands until they’re face-to-face.

There’s a frenzied gleam in Q’s eyes as he says, “Make me come, 007.”

Bond’s going to have to train himself to not think of this moment whenever Q’s in his ear on future missions.

“Yes, sir.”

Bond braces himself in the small confines of the car and starts a fast, punishing pace.

His mind dimly registers a slight squeaking sound over the sharp slap of their thighs as he makes the entire car shake with his thrusts.

Bond’s lost the location of Q’s prostate so he begins to circle his hips as he drives into Q. Soon, there’s a hitch in Q’s breathing, his face slack in a dazed pleasure with his mouth open in a soundless oh! letting Bond know that he found it again.

Then Q’s arching his back with his arms thrown wide, grappling to find purchase. Bond grabs both of Q’s hands and pins him down, fucking him with quick, shallow thrusts.

“Come on, Q. Come for me.”

Q whines. “Bond, I need—Ah!”

Bond knows exactly what he needs and gathers both of Q’s hands over his head with one hand, still pinning Q down. Bond’s free hand curves around Q’s length which leaks copious amounts of precome as Bond strokes, and squeezes, and teases.

Q’s panting now. “Ah, yes! Right there, Bond.”

Bond practically growls, “Call me James.”

Bond’s so close he can taste it, feel it as his scrotum starts to tighten. He rubs a hard thumb on Q’s frenulum and then Q’s entire body spasms.

Q shouts, “James!”

And that’s what Bond needed to hear. He shuts his eyes tight and follows Q, groaning and shouting Q’s name, coming hard and long in him while Q comes in strong spurts, painting their chests with hot seed.

As they recover, Bond thinks he’s going to remember this. Remember the smell of new-car leather and the reek of sex, feeling weightless in the aftermath of orgasmic bliss. He may have just had the best sex of his life because he could swear that he saw Q’s tattoos move just as he came.

Bond laughs to himself because that’s insane.

He gazes down at his Quartermaster lying beneath him. Q’s eyes are still closed, his jaw is clenched and his whole body is tense. Bond cards his fingers through Q’s already mussed hair.

“Hey.”

Q opens his eyes and Bond can detect a flash of fear before it’s replaced with calm. Bond hopes that Q isn’t normally this nervous after sex.

Q has to clear his throat before he says, “Hey, yourself.”

“I’m going to pull out.”

Q nods and grimaces as Bond withdraw. Bond kisses an apology into the middle of Q’s brows then ties off the condom. Bond can see Q visibly relax as Bond uses his own underwear to wipe off the drying come from Q’s body.

After doing the same for himself, Bond says, “Let’s get you up and dressed.”

Q flaps a hand. “In a minute.”

Bond pulls on his clothes and admires the image that Q’s nude form presents: relaxed and boneless with his tentacle tattoos standing stark against his pale skin, forming an almost tribal pattern that is simple, and complex, and interwoven at the same time.

Bond feels a fondness wash over him which is quickly followed by worry. Bond schools his features to look neutral while feeling uneasily troubled inside. This—the banter-cum-flirting during work and the mutual attraction before falling in to bed—this is exactly how it started the first time he fell in love. He had told himself that the first time would also be the last time because look how that had ended. But the affinity he holds for Q has long settled and Bond thinks he’s well and truly fucked now.

Chapter Text

Q stares at his computer screen, affronted. Bond’s doing a search on Q on MI6’s database.

“007.”

“Q,” Bond drawls from his end in India.

“Is now really the best time to be doing this?”

As Bond scrolls through the results, he says, “Yes, because awaiting further instructions is terribly dull.”

“So to pass the time you decide to hack my file.”

“Not hacking, no. I could never be at your level.”

Q pauses, slightly flattered.

“What would you call it then?”

“Research on a working colleague. This information is really out of date.”

A query for “Quartermaster” or “head of Q-branch” still returns everything on Boothroyd. Q made sure of it.

“You could just ask, you know.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I work in intelligence, Q. Therefore, I need to practice my intelligence gathering skills.”

Q watches as Bond pulls up the facial recognition software on his laptop.

“There is something called Google. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“I have heard of it, thank you. But it’s hard to look someone up when all you have to go on is a letter for a name and a job title.”

Bond drags and drops a file into the upload section which magnifies into a slightly grainy photo of Q inside MI6.

“Hey! How did you get that picture?”

“CCTV. Aha!”

The top results from the facial recognition program depict Q with varying hair lengths and styles, head turned at different angles.

“Why are there seven of you, Q?”

“I used myself as a test case when I upgraded the system.”

Bond selects one at random. “But they all have such thorough backgrounds.”

“The latest identity generator software works in a pinch, complete with credit card history, dental records, and even a Twitter handle. Not that you would ever use the software, of course.”

“Hmm,” Bond hums noncommittally. “Are any of these the real you?”

“Oh now that would be telling.”

“You said to ask if I wanted to know.”

“I believe I’ll let you practice your intelligence gathering skills.”

Q takes a sip of his tea, feeling amused and a bit smug. He’s fairly sure that Bond is smiling on his end as well.

“Why thank you, Dr. Jacob Munroe. You don’t look like a Jacob.”

“I could be a Jacob.”

“Who enjoys heavy metal and gardening.”

“Everybody has a hobby.”

“Wait; are you old enough to be a doctor?”

“I’m thirty-two years old, Bond. Yes, I’m old enough to have acquired a PhD.”

“Ah, thirty-two with a PhD. Cheers, Q.”

Damn, outmaneuvered. Bond is already quite good at intelligence gathering.

“One more quip about my age and I’ll send you out into the field with nothing but cable wiring.”

“Acknowledged and not one of these aliases is thirty-two with a PhD.”

“Strange.”

“Strange indeed.”

Their computers simultaneously ping. They read the message quickly and Q can hear Bond already moving. Q pulls up a map that is the maze of New Dehli’s streets.

“There’s no time to take the stairs, you’ll have to scale out the window.”

“Copy that.”

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Q lies in the bath fully submerged in the water, breathing through his gills. With all of his tentacles unfurled and floating, Q contemplates his relationship with Bond.

Q had tried. He really did try not to sleep with Bond.

But Bond had stood there, post-mission in the after-hours looking old and haggard (read: pathetic, actually) and what was Q to do?

Besides, Q had already rejected him twice before. The first time was right after Bond had passed his tests, for real. Mallory had grounded him and told him in unequivocal terms that Bond must pass his tests or he was fired.

So Bond passed his tests and showed up in Q-branch looking all giddy.

“Drink? To help me celebrate,” Bond asked.

Q smiled at him and gestured at his project, “I have work.”

“It’s Friday, Q. Surely even MI6 Quartermasters take breaks.”

“It’s for your mission on Monday.”

Bond nodded, “I’ll leave you to it then,” and left.

The second time was at the shooting range. Non-field operatives go to log practice hours and field operatives go to test new gun models.

Bond stepped up behind Q, framing his body to correct his stance. Thankfully, Bond kept a respectful distance or else Q would have said something embarrassing like ‘is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’

Q hit the target dead on and Bond smiled at him.

“Congratulations. Drink? It’ll help you relax.”

Q politely declined.

The third time—well, there was no third time. Bond got the hint and stopped asking. It was Q who invited Bond back to his flat.

“Just the radio then? Very well, put it on the tray there.”

Q heard some soft steps on the stone floor and a gentle clink as Bond placed the radio on the stainless steel tray, but no answering quip.

Q looked up then and noticed the bleary eyes, the rumpled suit, and the five o’clock shadow. Bond never looked anything but his very best at all times and to see him like this reminded Q of Bond’s appearance when they had first met at the art gallery.

“Dinner?” Q asked before he thought better of it.

Bond blinked, slightly surprised, and then said, “Sure.”

When they got to the restaurant, they discovered that it was jam packed. Not wanting to wait an hour for a table, they got take out and brought it back to Q’s place to eat.

They ate at Q’s kitchen table, conversation and banter growing easier and easier between them as Q’s cats wound themselves between their feet.

The only hiccup they had that evening was when Bond wandered over to the fireplace and picked up a framed photograph of a smiling Q as a boy and his bearer building a train set, Christmas tree and wrapping paper in the background.

“Did your mother take this?”

“I don’t have a mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s true, Q doesn’t have a mother. He has a bearer and a sire, his family is entirely made up of males. His sire had taken that picture the year before he died.

When the hour turned late, Bond took Q up on his offer to stay and then took Q to bed.

Q had never been so thoroughly shagged.

Q knows this because he turned colour in the two times he came that night. The first time it was too dark for Bond to see Q slip in to camouflage by instinct, skin matching the bedsheets. The second time it was too bright for Bond to notice that Q had literally turned his colouring to match sunshine.

Two days later, they sat in a pre-mission meeting together with M (the new one), Moneypenny, and a couple of other agents.

Bond eye-fucked him throughout most of it.

Bond was subtle about it but not subtle enough because Moneypenny noticed and she waggled her eyebrows at Q as Bond approached him after the meeting.

“Q. Let me walk you down to your office.”

“Certainly, 007. Can I help you with something?”

“You most absolutely can.”

When they were out of everybody’s earshot, Bond leaned in close and said, “I want you. Right now. Do you want me?”

“Gods, yes.”

Bond took a hold of Q’s elbow and steered him in to an out-of-the-way supply closet.

Once inside, they undressed in record speed and lacking proper protection supplies (oh, the irony) they did what they do best: Improvise.

Q wrapped his legs around Bond’s waist and could do nothing else but cling as Bond curled one big hand around the both of them and stroked them to completion.

In the pitch black, Q had let his tentacles writhe all they want, the markings slithering and crawling within the confines of his skin.

Afterwards, if anybody had noticed that their clothing was a bit dusty, they didn’t say anything.

Q is half hard in the water and his other two sex organs begin to take interest. He supposes he has time for a leisurely wank while fantasizing about Bond. Now Q doesn’t even have to imagine, he can recall and goodness, he has so much material to work with.

Three of Q’s thinnest tentacles wrap themselves around his cocks, gently squeezing and fondling while his mind continues to drift.

Five days later, Bond returned from his joint mission in the dead of the night and reported directly to Q-branch with all of his equipment intact.

Q rewarded Bond’s good behaviour by showing him the car that Q had been tinkering with for the better part of the day.

Bond demonstrated his appreciation by bending Q over said car.

Bond began with Q’s back, kissing and licking a meandering path, sometimes on Q’s large tentacles, sometimes along the spine, all the while caressing and touching.

The first kiss in the small of Q’s back, right at the start of one of Q’s tentacles, made Q shudder. A long lick across the arch of the back waist made Q tremble, his tentacles threatening to spill. The base was extremely sensitive and it felt like Bond had touched the deepest part of Q.

Then Bond seemed to have a single-minded fascination with Q’s markings, running large hands over the globes of Q’s buttocks and down the back of Q’s legs to the ankles. Bond worked his way up from the bottom, tracing and mapping with questing fingertips and lavishing with lips and tongue, tasting.

Q kept his cheek pressed against the cool metal of the hood. It was a good thing that he was mostly on top of the car because there was no way that he could have held his own weight under the onslaught of pleasure. Q could feel every touch, every kiss on tentacles and skin, a dual rush of sensation.

It was equal parts slow seduction and worship and it had Q whimpering and moaning, breath fogging up the metallic surface.

When Bond finally made his way back up, Q was hard and rutting gently against the car but stilled when he felt Bond part his buttocks. There was a draft of cool air and then a rush of warmth as Bond licked a wet line from testicle to tailbone.

Q gasped, surprised and aroused. It was a good thing he had showered.

Then Bond did it again before seriously rimming Q, tongue lashing and leading the assault on Q’s hole.

Q did his best not to push back but it was difficult when everything felt so good and please and fuck.

Bond suddenly let up and Q instantly felt bereft.

“No, don’t go.”

When Bond covered Q’s body with his, Q realized that Bond was still fully clothed.

Bond practically emanated heat and felt deliciously heavy as he growled in Q’s ear, “I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

Bond pressed his clothed erection against Q’s bum and groaned when Q pushed back.

Then Bond bodily hauled them upwards to standing.

“I want to see you when I fuck you.”

Bond opened the door to the car and said, “Get in and fix the seats.”

Once inside, Q fumbled with the controls while Bond got undressed in a hurry.

Bond tossed condoms and lube in the passenger seat and then crowded Q in the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to make a mess of you, Q.”

Q toys with his nipples as his slimmest tentacles continue to squeeze and stroke his three cocks.

Bond certainly made good on his promise and they had a good go at it until they slipped and Bond sat on the horn. Q smiles at the memory.

Then there was the kissing which Q is certain shifted their relationship into something more intimate. And not only did Bond kiss like a demon, he sucked cock like one too.

When Bond had mouthed the markings of Q’s additional cocks on his inner thighs—Lord, it was electrifying.

Q moans in the water as the tips of his medium-sized tentacles start a suction on the head of his cocks, mimicking Bond’s actions.

Q had thoroughly enjoyed being pinned down as Bond ploughed into him. Maybe one day Bond will let Q return the favour. Let all four of Q’s largest tentacles wrap themselves around each of Bond’s limbs and hold Bond’s legs opened and arms above his head while Q fucks all three of his cocks into him, smaller tentacles touching and caressing.

Some of Q’s tentacles rise from the water, instinctively seeking for something that isn’t there. Q consciously reigns them back in and they obey reluctantly.

They’re getting harder and harder to control with each sexual encounter. They seem dead set on choosing Bond as mate. Q can feel the phantom writhing of his tentacles inside his body every time he comes, constantly reaching. Since Q can’t let his tentacle markings move in the light where Bond would see, all the potential movement is trapped inside. Sometimes they twist and wind together so tightly that Q chokes on the energy and can no longer contain it.

That energy manifests as slipping in to camouflage, or his markings moving, or his tentacles spilling from the markings on his skin as they did in the car.

The tentacles on his ankles had actually lifted from his skin, ink turned into matter in a split second, while the markings on the rest of his body had crawled and slithered.

Q covers his face with his hands and groans. He had been terrified that Bond had seen Q’s momentary loss of control. They had dim lighting that night in the garage but it wasn’t completely dark like that time in the closet. Luckily, Bond didn’t seem to have noticed as he was in the throes of his own orgasm.

Will Bond accept Q for who and what he is?

Q can picture the horrified expression on Bond’s face if he finds out. Q is fairly certain that Bond will shoot first and ask questions later.

Still hiding behind his hands, Q groans again. Bond may seem fascinated and intrigued by Q’s markings which Bond mistakes for tattoos but the idea that Bond will happily accept or want Q’s extra bits seems too far-fetched.

Q sighs to himself, a bit despondent. He should never have asked Bond out for dinner and just let things die down. Bond had stopped asking, he had been losing interest. Q could have lived without his company. It wasn’t like Q had never dated before or was a virgin wanting to lose it to an experienced lover, but it had been so long and Bond's attention was so damned flattering.

Q is quite embarrassed of himself. Just because one enigmatic man shows interest it does not mean that he's mate material. But there’s something about James Bond, Agent 007, British spy and assassin extraordinaire that made every cell in his body sing. Q had felt it when he shook Bond’s hand at their first meeting. Bond is a compatible match; he can be turned into one of Q’s kind.

But no, Q needs to stop this before it gets any more out of hand. Before it becomes unprofessional or worse he’ll make a mistake that—

Then abruptly, Q’s sentry tentacle detects a change in the electromagnetic currents. There’s someone in his home.

Q emerges from the water silently, two tentacles already extended to reach the Walther taped under the sink.

Gun now in hand, his tentacles disappear onto his body where they please in the blink of an eye. He has the gun ready and pointed at the door just before it swings open.

“Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The intruder stops short in the doorway. There’s a brief standoff.

“Do you always carry a gun with you to the bath?”

It was Bond. Speak of the devil.

Q relaxes and puts the safety back on the gun then bites out, “Yes.”

“I highly approve.”

Q squints and it brings Bond’s form into sharper focus. He has Lovelace in his arms with Kepler at his feet.

“You’re back early.”

“Jaspreet Singh died quickly.”

“How did you get in?”

Bond simply raises his eyebrows as if saying I'm a spy.

“Oh, right.”

Bond peers in to the clear water of the tub, eyeing Q’s now soft penis.

“Were you masturbating?”

“I was before you interrupted.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Bond, who does not sound the least bit sorry. “Well, don’t come yet. I’ve got plans for that.”

Bond winks and Q thinks maybe one more round of sex as a goodbye. He can allow himself that much.

Chapter Text

There’s a paper bag on Q’s counter with a note taped to it that says, “For: Q, From: J.”

Bond brought him back a gift. From India.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Q opens the bag and he can smell the flavours and spices before he even sees it.

It’s loose-leaf Masala Chai and Earl Grey packaged in their own slender paper bags.

Q takes out all the necessary equipment necessary to brew Chai the proper way. He lets the leaves steep in the milk while he makes himself a snack.

The first sip of Chai makes Q want to moan in pleasure. So he does and wonders if the Earl Grey will be just as good. He’ll brew some in the morning, content with the Chai for now.

As Q settles down to eat his eggs on toast, he speculates whether Bond bought the tea before or after he tried to look up Q’s file. Q’s not at all offended that Bond tried to look him up since Q certainly looked Bond up before they met. Q’s merely baffled as to why it took him so long. But then again, Bond has been busy and probably just didn’t have the time.

Q really has to break things off before Bond finds out the truth about him, but Bond’s thoughtful gesture is making it harder for Q to do so.

Bond thought about him. In India.

No, this has to stop before it gets out of hand. Q has built a career for himself and works at a job that he loves. He’s living the life that he’s always wanted to live: on land and in the open. One mistake could destroy everything and he can’t…

Q stops mid-chew when he sees Bond emerging from the bathroom in nothing but a towel.

…he can’t even.

Good Lord, Bond’s physique is a sight to behold. His muscles are toned and his skin is decorated with scars but it’s tanned golden which speaks of much time spent outdoors.

Q has become so engrossed in watching Bond sauntering down the hall towards him, towel tied low on his hips, that Q misses the fork to his mouth. It grazes his chin and Bond clearly saw that because he smirks and makes the last few steps slower and a little more exaggerated.

Cocky bastard, Q thinks as he dabs his chin with a napkin. Cocky beautiful bastard.

Bond is standing so close now that Q is eye-level with Bond’s abs. Jesus, look at that body.

“See something you like?” Bond drawls.

Q tears his eyes away and tilts his head back to look up at a smiling Bond.

“Very much so.”

Bond braces himself against the table and the back of Q’s chair, leaning down until he can kiss Q. It’s a gentle and lingering peck on the lips and the best hello kiss that Q has ever experienced.

“Do you like the tea?”

Bond must have smelled the Chai on his breath.

“Mm-hmm,” hums Q in agreement who then says conspiratorially, “It’s from India.”

Bond chuckles. “Yes, from India.”

Wanting to show his appreciation, Q pulls Bond in for another kiss. This time with more pressure and a teasing lick on Bond’s lips before Q withdraws.

“You shouldn’t have.”

Bond’s gaze is heated now and flickers down to Q’s lips then back up to Q’s eyes.

Bond practically growls, “Anything for you.”

Then Bond captures Q’s lips with his, tongue licking insistently at the seam until Q opens his mouth slightly and Bond is instantly in, demanding and searching. If you give Bond an inch, he’ll seize a mile but he’s a generous conqueror who gives back as much as he takes.

Bond nips and pulls on Q’s bottom lip and it sends a thrill to the pit of Q’s stomach, arousing and exhilarating, turning Q’s brain to mush.

“Especially when you taste this good with it.”

Q has no recollection of what Bond is referring to but his voice sounds nice and gravelly.

Bond runs a hand down Q’s clothed back until he reaches the hem. He slips his hand under Q’s shirt and glides light fingertips along the back of Q’s waist, caressing where Q’s tentacle markings begin, making Q shudder and twitch. Bond has very talented hands and an excellent memory for all of Q’s erogenous zones.

“Come to bed.”

Q doesn’t need to be asked twice. He surges to his feet and finally allows himself to touch Bond’s fantastic body, thumbs rubbing circles over his nipples, making Bond moan.

Bond tugs Q closer to kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry. Bond nudges Q’s head to the side to expose the neck. He gently bites down on the tendon then soothes it with his tongue and ngh. When Bond sucks a hickie that will definitely need to be covered tomorrow, Q never imagined that the sharp rasp of stubble and scrape of teeth could feel this good.

Bond quickly strips Q of his shirt and Q’s hands immediately come back to land on Bond’s torso, following Bond’s treasure trail to the towel. Q unwraps the towel like he’s unwrapping a Christmas gift, eager with anticipation, and reveals Bond at half-mast, growing with interest.

Q licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry with want, and starts to bend down only to be promptly hauled up.

“None of that or I’ll have you over the table.”

Q doesn’t whine, exactly, when he says, “You’ve had me in a car. How would this be any different?”

“I have plans. Here, let me.”

Bond pulls down Q’s sweatpants and underwear, careful of the erection currently tenting Q’s pants. Bond helps Q step out of the puddle of clothing and when he looks up from his crouched position, Bond realizes he’s eye-level with Q’s cock. Q can see Bond lick his own lips and start to lean in.

Q grabs Bond by the short hairs on his head.

“None of that or we won’t get to your plans.”

Bond completely disregards Q, of course he does, and changes the angle of his approach and aims for the waist.

All Bond does is nuzzle the base of Q’s tentacles and it’s got Q panting and moaning loud enough that the neighbours could hear.

Bond traces blunt fingernails up the two large tentacles on Q’s upper body as he rises. When Bond gets to the top, Q grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him hard.

Bond reaches down and hoists Q up by the arse. Q naturally wraps his arms and legs around Bond.

My, he’s strong, thinks Q as he’s being carried to the bedroom. He wonders if all natural-borns like him generally fall for brutish, burly men like Bond. His bearer certainly did.

Q can feel Bond’s erection nestled in the crack of his arse and he can’t help but wriggle against it.

They sway as Bond goes slightly weak in the knees. Q laughs, basking in this small power he has over Bond. Then Q feels a sharp slap on his buttocks and damn, that stings!

“Stop that or I’ll drop you.”

Unheeding of Bond’s warning, Q wriggles again.

“That’s rather the idea, Mr. Bond.”

“Your wish is my command.”

They’ve finally reached the bed and Bond gently tosses Q onto it.

“And it’s James.”

“James,” says Q, correcting himself.

The effect on Bond is immediate.

The piercing blue of Bond’s eyes turn tender and warm and he smiles, just a quirk of the lips and it makes Q’s foolish heart stutter a beat.

Bond props himself up on hands and knees over Q and leans down for a soft, chaste kiss.

“Say it again.”

“James.”

Bond kisses Q like he’s made of porcelain, drinking and savouring that one word from Q’s lips.

Bond touches his forehead to Q’s, eyes shut, head bowed, and jaws clenched tight.

Mildly concerned, Q places his hand on Bond’s cheek, warm and healing.

“James? Are you alright?”

Bond opens his eyes and the glow of the lamp light plays with the blue of his irises. To Q, it’s the shade of fresh-water cerulean meet the sky blue of a clear, sunny day and it reminds Q of home.

After a long while, Bond nods and kisses Q, delicate and soft.

Something in their…relationship changed. Q can feel it but can’t discern what it is.

Bond nudges Q and Q scoots up to the head of the bed, Bond crawling after him.

Bond takes off Q’s glasses, folds them neatly, and places them on the nightstand. Then he rustles around in the drawer and pulls out the lube.

Q opens his legs expectantly. Bond shakes his head and in one smooth roll, switches their positions.

“I want you in me tonight.”

Q’s not floored by the request exactly, more like surprised (and excited). It’s never not happened before; it’s just such a rare occasion that Q is always amazed when his partners ask.

Q reaches for a condom from the drawer and Bond stops him.

“No barriers. Just you and me.”

Q looks at Bond and then freezes, mouth open, slack with shock. No barriers?! Did he just…?

Bond continues saying, “I’m clean. I trust that you’re clean too, yes?”

Does Bond know what he’s asking for?

Bond leans up and whispers something truly filthy to Q and it barely filters through above the static noise ringing in his ears.

Bond just asked Q to place all of his trust in him; it’s tantamount to a marriage proposal.

Gods above.

Bond proposes to Q and has no inkling that he’s done so.

“Q?”

Is Q ready for a happily ever after? No.

Is Bond? Bloody hell, definitely no.

Does Q want Bond? Emphatically yes.

Does Q love Bond? … Infatuated, yes. Love? … Not yet.

Oh, but it would be so easy to fall in love with Bond.

One to yearn.

The first line of the little rhyme comes back to Q now.

“Q?”

One to yearn.

And Q would definitely be in love then. It would only be on Q’s part, Bond wouldn’t be affected.

If it doesn’t work out, then they part ways and Q’s feelings will fade with time. So long as they don’t get to Two to Learn then Q will be fine. No mental link or anything that will irreparably connect him to Bond.

On the other hand, if they do get to the second line, then that would be even better.

Q must have taken too long to think because Bond props himself up on an elbow and regards Q with a serious face.

Bond says, “It’s alright, we don’t have to,” while Q says, “Yes,” at the same time.

They look at each other, one still astonished and the other confused.

“Yes?” Bond inquires.

“Yes,” Q replies, confident.

“You’re sure?”

Q nods, “Absolutely.”

“Because you took a long time to respond.”

Q presses his erection against Bond’s hip

“Would I feel like this if I wasn’t sure?”

Bond murmurs, “I suppose not.”

Bond looks down at the point of contact and Q can see the sweep of his eyelashes. Q has never noticed how long they are until now. Entirely captivated, Q leans in and kisses Bond’s brow, then lower on his eyelid, feather-light and soft. Yes, it would be very easy to fall in love with Bond.

Q continues kissing down one side of Bond’s face while pressing him back onto the pillows.

Bond goes willingly with a lecherous leer. He reaches down to wrap a hand around Q.

“That’s a rather large problem you have there, Jacob.”

Q’s groan encompasses the bad pun, the name, and the sinfully delightful little twists that Bond is making with his hand.

“No? Cameron then.”

Ah, so Bond has deduced his alter ego but Q is going to neither confirm nor deny it and rocks into Bond’s hand.

“I really prefer Q.”

“Then that’s what I’ll be shouting when you fuck me.”

Q’s cock pulses and twitches at that.

“Won’t get to do much fucking if you don’t stop that.”

Bond’s grip loosens instantly. He swipes a finger through the pre-come beading at the tip then winks at Q as he licks the moisture from his hand.

“Mm, can’t wait to taste the rest of it.”

Tearing his eyes away from that erotic sight, Q looks at the broad expanse of the bronzed chest before him instead. Bond may not have markings like Q (yet and Q was not quick enough to suppress that thought, rutting harder into Bond’s hip) but he does have many scars, enough for Q to soothe with kisses and licks.

Q goes from the one on Bond’s right pectoral, to the one below the sternum, to half a dozen more that Q can see, some white and faded with age and some darker and more recent. They speak of Bond’s loyalty, his dedication to Queen and country.

They also remind Q of just how quickly life can be taken away.

But he’s here, Q tells himself as he nuzzles the base Bond’s erection and breathes in the musk of virile man.

Q looks up at Bond to see him lazily watching back.

He’s right here.

Q pushes Bond’s legs up and has Bond hold them by the crease behind his knees.

And I’ll protect him with everything I have.

Then Q licks Bond from tailbone to testicle in one smooth, wet line, making Bond moan. Q may not have a lot of experience being on top, but he does have a lot of experience preparing himself. Mostly with tentacles rather than with fingers and tongue but Q can learn, and he can follow Bond’s previous example.

Q circles his tongue around the pucker of Bond’s hole, wetting it as much as possible while his hands caress Bond’s thighs, arousing, enticing. Q alternates between prodding, pointed licks and long, broad sweeps to get Bond relaxed and loose.

Q has never imagined that Bond could be quite so vocal while being rimmed, but he is and demands, “More,” or shouts, “Fuck, yes!”

When Q deems Bond to be wet enough, he tests it with a forefinger and slips in easily to the first knuckle before it’s tight again. Bond hisses slightly and lobs the lube at Q’s head.

“Use that.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry.”

Q pours out a generous amount and warms it up between his hands the way he remembers Bond doing on their first night before smearing it over Bond’s anus. Q tests it again and sighs in relief as the whole digit slides in smoothly.

Q tells Bond to let go of his knees and Bond complies, feet planted firmly on the bed bracketing Q.

Q moves up slightly, breath warming the beautifully erect cock in front of him. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Bond’s watching him, but Q does anyway. He wants to see Bond’s reaction when Q demonstrates that he too does not have a gag reflex.

It’s the best reaction Q could have ever hoped for.

Bond clenches down on the finger still in him and gasps audibly, “Fuck. Q.”

Q sucks Bond with ease and expertise; Q has had a lot of practice with his tentacles. He works mouth, tongue, and hand on Bond as he slides in the second, and then the third finger, making Bond groan loudly in pleasure with every stroke.

By now, the neighbours have definitely heard them, or more specifically Bond.

Q starts up a rhythm of fingers in and sucking the tip, fingers out and deep throating Bond. Pretty soon, Bond picks up the pattern and oscillates between fucking Q’s fingers and thrusting into Q’s mouth.

Then Bond’s frantically pushing at Q’s forehead and panting.

“Enough.”

Q feels himself being hauled up by the armpits.

“Now,” Bond demands urgently, “In me. Now.”

Q is quick to obey and tries to lift Bond’s legs but to no avail. Bond pushes a bottle into Q’s hands.

“More lube first.”

“Right. Yes.”

Q squeezes out an ample measure and slicks up himself then the outside of Bond’s hole. Placing a hand next to Bond’s head, Q lines them up and looks down in to Bond’s eyes.

Bond looks back and nods. He grunts as Q pushes the head in past the two anal rings.

Once fully seated, Q stops, gritting his teeth against the fluttering sensation pressing around his cock as Bond adjusts to the intrusion.

“Alright?”

Bond blows out a shaky breath. “Give me a second,” he says then shifts into a more comfortable position.

Q tells Bond in a strangled voice, “Take as much time as you need,” but prays that it won’t be long.

To help Bond along, Q circles a hand around Bond’s softening length. A few tugs and strokes later, Bond gasps and starts to wiggle, making Q grit his teeth all the harder.

Bond wraps his legs around Q and takes over Q’s ministration on his cock and says, “Go. Slowly.”

Q thanks his lucky stars as he plants both hands on either side of Bond’s head. Q bends down in a half push-up and kisses Bond’s lips lightly in thanks.

Then Q pulls his hips back an inch before sinking inside again, watching as discomfort, puzzlement, lust, and pleasure flit across Bond’s face in a matter of seconds.

Inch by growing inch Q does this, rearing back and then pushing in, Bond’s body alternating between reluctance at letting Q go, and resistance at letting Q in. It’s a wonderful contradiction and it makes Q pant with want and need.

When Q has only the head of his cock left inside (which wow, that’s tight at the rings), he drives back in hard enough to jolt Bond upwards.

Bond himself gives a full-throated, guttural groan, “Oh, like that.”

So Q does it again, vision whitening at the edges before it clears again as he charges back in.

Bond cries out, “Yes!”

Q looks down at Bond’s face, gone are the winces and grimaces. Now it’s slack with pleasure, a fine sheen of sweat dotting the hairline, and blue, blue eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.

It’s too much for Q to handle.

“I’m close,” rasps Q.

He’s absolutely bollocks at this and wants to hide his face in to Bond’s neck.

Bond pulls Q down by back of his head with a free hand and kisses Q with a force that’s hard enough to bruise.

“Me too. Fuck me.”

With a command like that, Q follows instinct and starts up a rhythm of quick, shallow half thrusts and ah, that’s good.

Q can feel his tentacles begin to tremble inside. When he comes, he’s going to lose control of them, so he lowers his head until they’re seeing eye-to-eye, making sure to block out Bond’s view of his markings.

Bond pulls Q down further by the nape until their foreheads are touching, intimate.

Bond’s other hand is still down there, fisting his cock. Occasionally he would reach further down and gingerly feel around the stretched rim of where they’re connected. The sensual brush of fingers against his cock nearly has Q coming undone.

A particularly angled thrust makes Bond buck up hard enough to almost unseat Q.

“There!” Bond shouts.

Oh, it seems like Q has found Bond’s prostate. Q re-positions them and does it again.

Bond lets out a short scream. “Fuck me right there!”

Q succumbs to instinct and thrusts again and again into Bond while he babbles a string of incoherent phrases. Mostly, yes, fuck, Q, more Q, don’t stop.

Q couldn’t have possibly stopped even if he tried.

Being this close, Q can clearly see the thin blue ring of Bond’s irises and Q knows he’s home. He’s going to be able to see his home-away-from home whenever Bond is near and he can build a life, a future with this man, this beautiful, beautiful man.

“James,” Q whispers.

Bond whines and throws his head back as he comes, anal muscles clenching down hard on Q’s cock, entire body spasming. Q groans and follows immediately afterwards, continuing to thrust as he orgasms, shooting into Bond.

Vision whitening, Q loses all control of his tentacles and his markings slither and writhe across his skin in a dance of triumph.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Some of the thinner tentacles make a break for it from his skin while he’s distracted, but Q has anticipated this and contains them. They hiss at him and wind tighter together. Q mentally shrugs at them.

When Q comes down from his orgasmic high, he becomes aware of two things: the sound of Bond’s steady heartbeat and the feeling of his own slightly faster pulse.

Q’s bearer never told him about this development. Hopefully he can turn it off so he can concentrate on other things in the future, like fulfilling Bond’s wish, for example.

A quick peek tells Q that Bond still has his eyes closed. Taking advantage of the moment, Q quickly rearranges his markings to their normal places.

Then taking a longer look down at Bond, Q has never seen him so relaxed, the lines on his face almost all disappeared, making him look boyish.

Kissing Bond gently on the lips, Q asks, “You ready?”

Bond hums in agreement.

Q pulls out and Bond’s only reaction is an increased heart rate which Q takes as excitement for what’s to come.

As Q makes his way down, he notices how much of a mess Bond made of their chests and torsos. Q sneaks a taste, tongue lapping up the white fluid dotting Bond’s stomach. It’s warm, salty, and bitter, with a hint of sweetness.

Then he parts Bond’s legs and watches as his own semen ooze out of Bond. Q smiles and feels something primal and satisfied settle in him to see Bond marked as his.

Q licks up the amount of semen that overflowed and Bond sobs, feeling sensitive. Q swallows, moaning, loving their combined tastes. Then he sucks out as much as he can of what’s left while Bond whimpers, hands clenching the bedsheets.

Q holds the fluid in his mouth as he ascends, licking a glob of Bond’s semen high up on Bond’s chest along the way.

Q fits himself over Bond and lowers his mouth to Bond’s like a bird to its chick. Bond licks impatiently at the closed seam of Q’s lips and then moans happily when he tastes the first drop.

They kiss, tongues twisting and twinning together, sharing in their combined tastes.

When the last of it is gone, Bond leans back with contented sigh.

“Perfect,” he says, “That was perfect. I—”

Q can hear Bond’s heart suddenly race as he cuts off.

“Thank you,” Bond finishes, simply.

“You’re welcome,” Q says as he gets out of bed, “I’ll be right back.”

Q can hear Bond’s heartbeat taper off again. Wiping himself down, Q wonders what Bond was going to say. The spike was unusual but Q’s not going to press the issue, wouldn’t want Bond to get suspicious of Q’s new ability.

Q returns with a wet cloth and wakes Bond from a light doze as he wipes away the drying come.

“You take such good care of me.”

“Of course.”

Finished, Q gets up to go but Bond catches him by the wrist.

“May I stay?”

Q smiles. “Please do.”

Q brushes his teeth, preferring the taste of toothpaste over semen. Felching was a hot, new experience for Q, but the bitter aftertaste was decidedly not.

Q returns again with an empty bowl, some mouthwash, and a tall glass of water.

“I brought you something.”

Bond blinks his eyes open at the sound of Q’s voice, sees the items in Q’s hands, and groans.

“Come on,” Q cajoles, “You’ll feel like something died in your mouth tomorrow otherwise.”

“They’re already dead,” Bond says drily.

Q can’t help but laugh at the bad joke. Still, he’ll keep trying.

“Please, James?”

Bond huffs, clearly not wanting to get up but he does so anyway and rinses out his mouth.

“Thank you,” Q says, walking away again with the dirty dishes.

“Hurry back,” Bond calls after him.

Q does hurry back, not wanting to be away from Bond for too long; being separated by such a short amount of time and distance made Q feel a bit anxious.

Q climbs into what is now “his” side of the bed and luxuriates in the sensation of high thread count bedsheets against his skin. Sleeping in the nude is another new experience since he started sleeping with Bond. Q’s markings brush the sheets as he moves around and he shivers in delight.

“Cold?” Bond asks before turning to face Q and draw him into his arms, cuddling close.

He’s not really cold but he’ll take the excuse anyway and tangle his legs with Bond. Q will definitely not be cold for the rest of the night seeing as how Bond emanates heat like a furnace while asleep.

In the ensuing moments, Q becomes aware first of Bond’s breathing, then the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Soon, the sound his breathing is surpassed by his pulse, heart beating slower and discordant to Q’s own.

So Q can ignore Bond’s heartbeat if he wants to; that’s convenient.

Bond has given Q something precious and the idea that Q hasn’t really given anything significant in return sits uneasily with him.

Laying a hand over the centre of Bond’s chest, Q reckons that he can gift the agent with something equally precious.

“Alistair Samuel Callum.”

Q said it so quietly that he’s not sure if Bond heard but then he feels Bond drop a kiss onto the top of his head and hug him closer.

In the comforting embrace of his lover’s arms, Q falls asleep to the lullaby of Bond’s heartbeat, his own now synced and keeping pace.

Chapter Text

In the light of early dawn, Bond wakes with MI6’s resident Quartermaster sprawled over him, thigh nudging his morning wood. Bond briefly entertains the idea of waking Q for another round of sex but then thinks better of it when he moves.

Bond feels sore in places that haven’t been sore in a long time. Best not.

After carefully extricating himself from Q’s embrace, Bond pads quietly to the bathroom.

He relieves his bladder then brushes his teeth with a toothbrush and rinse cup that have been designated as his on the first night he stayed over.

Maybe they can have a permanent place next to Q’s on the counter and, if Q is amenable, see more use than once every two weeks.

Two weeks. God.

They’ve been having sex for only two weeks and Bond has been away at work for the majority of those days.

Half of the time he was thinking about Q, wondering what he was doing, if he was eating properly, if he was happy.

Bond didn’t mean to think about Q. Stray thoughts like that just happened and they were dangerous.

Bond yanks on the handle to turn on the shower and moodily waits for the water to warm.

Case in point: he almost lost sight of his target in New Delhi because he wasn’t giving the job his full attention. If Bond hadn’t been successful at killing his target then thousands of people would have died.

After that blunder, Bond made a conscious effort to not think about Q, or at least not until he finished his job.

Bond acted like a lovesick schoolboy with a crush and it was fucking unprofessional.

Stepping into the shower, he lets the spray of hot water wash away his shame and vows to gain better control of his thoughts. He has to; too many people depend on him.

There’s no time like the present to tear off the Band-Aid.

In love—Christ, this is difficult.

He’s in love with Q.

Alistair, Bond corrects himself. His name is Alistair. Smart, witty, sexy-as-hell Alistair.

Bond almost told him that he loves him last night. Right after Alistair fulfilled his fantasy. Bond groans and closes his eyes against that disastrous image. There is no way that confession would have gone well.

Bond takes comfort in the fact that it took him longer to fall in love this time as opposed to the last.

Also compared to Vesper, Alistair was fully vetted by M (the previous one), MI6, and MI5. Alistair jumped through hoops and passed every clearance level to get to where he is right now. Bond knows, he remembers what it took to become a double-oh.

Why then, does Bond keep waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Because the last time he found a measure of happiness, it was ripped away from him shortly afterwards.

It wasn’t so much the betrayal that hurt; it was losing someone he loved that made him feel gutted.

What was that saying? Once bitten, twice shy?

He cannot go through that again.

Bond should just let Q go before it’s too late, before the other shoe does drop. Something terrible is coming his way. Every instinct has been screaming at him and he can’t shake the deep sense of foreboding.

He steps out of the shower and towels himself dry before padding back into the bedroom.

Q—no, Alistair, damn it—is sitting up in bed with his glasses on, scowling at his laptop. His hair is a mess and sticking up every which way. It’s adorable. There is no feasible way for Bond to let this man go.

“In what part of the world are you laying damage to with your laptop so early in the morning?”

Alistair looks up and smiles. Bond’s heart skips a beat.

“Nowhere in particular. Just reports,” replies Alistair. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. A little sore but it’s okay.”

“That’s good.”

Bond steps over next to Alistair and leans down to kiss him. Alistair turns his head with a noise of objection and the kiss lands on his cheek.

“What’s the matter?” Bond asks.

“Morning breath.”

“I don’t care, Alistair.”

Alistair scrunches his nose. “Please call me Q.”

Oh, thank goodness. Bond would not have adjusted to calling Q by ‘Alistair’ any time soon.

“Q. May I kiss you now?”

Q nods his head in assent and Bond leans in to kiss him properly, full on the lips with a little bit of tongue.

Bond murmurs, “Good morning.”

“Mm,” Q sighs happily, “Morning.”

Bond steps closer and cards his hands through Q’s mop of hair. Q wraps his arms around Bond and presses his face in to Bond’s stomach.

They stay like that for a while as Bond tries and fails to put some semblance of order to Q’s bed head. At this point there’s no hiding the fact that Bond is just playing with Q’s hair. It doesn’t matter. Q seems to be enjoying his ministrations judging by the contented sighs and little face rubs in to Bond’s abdomen. Again, it’s adorable…and slightly arousing.

Q toys with the towel wrapped around Bond’s waist then looks up. “Would you mind terribly if I sucked you off?”

Bond hardens even more at Q’s question. “Uh, no.”

Q breathes, “Good,” then shuts the lid to the laptop and tosses it to the side of the bed. After placing his glasses on the nightstand, he tosses the sheets to the side as well to reveal that he is still fully nude.

Grabby hands tear away the towel then Bond is tumbled across the bed in a matter of seconds. Q must have gained some confidence during his sleep because that was impressive.

Sinking down to his knees, Q spreads Bond’s thighs wide open and without much further ado, sucks him down to the root, eliciting a startled groan from Bond.

Q doesn’t even pause for air when Bond stiffens and swells to full length, rocking steadily into Q’s warm and welcoming mouth.

Q may be inexperienced in fucking but he’s practically a professional at fellatio.

Bond has enough blood left in his other, bigger brain to fondly mutter, “Fucking show off.”

Q chuckles low and dark in the back of his throat and the noise vibrates all around Bond’s cock. Any blood Bond has left flees south and his eyes roll to the back of his head in pure pleasure.

Bond curses a blue streak, interspersed with rapturous endearments and incoherent babbling like fuck, shit. Such a good little cocksucker. Yes! More, Q. More. Suck it just like that.

Q stops at some point and Bond whines, “No. No.”

Lifting his head up, Bond looks down at Q who looks back with astounded eyes, big and round.

“Don’t stop now,” Bond growls.

Q stares at him for a few more seconds, then he sucks and swallows more ardently and fervently than before, making Bond cry out and thrust sharply, hands clenching the bedsheets.

This isn’t going to last for much longer.

Sure enough, Bond can feel his scrotum tighten in imminent orgasm and he shouts a warning.  Q’s response is to push a thumb into Bond’s perineum.

Bond makes a strangled noise as he comes, a low swooping sensation rushing through him, tipping him over the edge into freefall.

As he floats through his haze of afterglow, Bond dimly registers Q saying, “I’m going to go take a shower,” before pressing a kiss in between his eyebrows.

Bond grunts, still incapable of speech and Q huffs a laugh, warm breath ghosting his forehead.

When Bond gets his bearings, he has the previously discarded towel covering his torso and his legs are hanging off the side of the bed.

He sits up a little too quickly and yelps as he feels a sharp twinge in his ass. Smiling bemusedly to himself he thinks, so much for not having sex.

The shower’s still on and he wonders if Q might need a hand in washing his back, or just a hand in general to repay the wonderful morning blowjob. After all, that shower-slash-bathtub was more than big enough for two. Looking at his watch, Bond thinks probably not.

If he does join Q in the shower then they won’t have time for breakfast before going to work and Bond is more than a little determined to see Q fed. There is nothing in Q’s pantry except for the bare essentials and a large supply of pot noodles. Bond can feel the stomach ache just by looking at it.

After getting up and getting dressed in the charcoal grey suit he brought with him, Bond makes his way to the kitchen and turns on the kettle.

Something bumps into him on the side of the leg. It’s Lovelace brushing against his ankles.

Bond bends down to pet her and then sees Kepler sitting pointedly in front of a cabinet further away, meowing.

Bond walks over to open the cabinet door and finds cat food.

“Hungry, huh?” Bond asks the cats.

They meow at him as if saying ‘yes’.

Bond scoops a decent portion into their bowls and they settle down to eat.

After washing his hands, Bond makes two cups of tea with the Earl Grey leaves he brought back from India. Then he makes himself comfortable at Q’s table to drink his tea while pulling out his phone to check his messages.

Ten minutes later, Q comes into the kitchen, dressed and ready to go to work. Bond hands Q his tea and Q takes a grateful sip, humming appreciatively when he discovers that it’s fixed the way he likes it with lots of milk and too much sugar.

“Thank you for feeding my cats,” Q says. Then he muses out loud, “I should really automate that.”

Bond nods then asks, “What have you got on for today?”

Q makes a face. “A budget meeting starting at ten o’clock that’ll last well into the afternoon.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“No, especially the part where I have to request a bigger budget for Q-branch in order to fund all the equipment that isn’t brought back, and we’ve already spent millions of pounds.”

Q glares a little and Bond at least has the grace to look a little contrite.

Changing the topic, Bond says, “I was thinking we could go out for breakfast.”

“I’ve already had a protein shake,” Q says, deadpan.

Bond chuckles. “Yes, I noticed. You didn’t miss a single drop.”

Q grins, looking a little proud.

Bond continues, “I’d return the favour but I think you might have already taken care of that in the shower.”

Blushing, Q’s grin turns a bit sheepish and Bond smirks at him.

“There’s a bakery nearby that’s quite good,” Q says.

“Let’s go then.”

They walk the three blocks it takes to get to the bakery. Bond finally stops dithering halfway through and thinks, fuck it. He holds out his hand and internally sighs in relief when Q takes it. Bond only wishes he had snapped a picture of the way Q had beamed at him.

At the bakery, they split two large-sized croissants, one savoury and one sweet. As they chat over non-work related topics, Bond discovers that Q, like Bond, was born in Scotland.

“In the family cabin,” Q says.

“Really?” Bond asks, interested.

“Yes. I was a home birth. It’s a tradition.”

Bond nods then asks, “Does your family live in Scotland or here?”

“Dad travels but the cabin’s still there.”

“I see. Do you have any siblings?”

“No, but I was almost a big brother.”

Bond doesn’t miss the ‘almost.’ Q’s mother must have lost the baby before she died. Not wanting to make it any more awkward, Bond excuses himself to buy more pastries.

“I’m quite full,” Q says.

“Yes, so am I. This is for the R&D department.”

Q easily connects R&D of International Shipping to the Q-branch of MI6 and raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

Smiling ruefully, Bond says, “I might have damaged some sensitive equipment on my last trip and the second-in-command was quite cross with me when I returned what was left.”

Q narrows his eyes. “Did she?”

“Yes, and if she can be that angry then I’d imagine her overlord will be worse. So I thought I would bring in something as a peace offering.”

“I don’t think R&D can be that easily won over.”

“A man can try. What do you think the department head would like?” Bond asks, looking at Q imploringly with innocence.

Q looks back at Bond for a while, impassive and resolute. Then Q sighs and rolls his eyes, “The overlord is rather partial to the chocolate tarts and the second-in-command likes cheesecake.”

Bond grins and says, “Thank you.”

“You should also get an assortment of pastries for the rest of the department. At least thirty more pastries and four dozen of those macrons.”

Q raises his eyebrows in challenge and Bond only smiles.

“Yes, Q.”

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Sitting in a taxi on his way to work, Q feels like he’s on cloud nine. He’s engaged, albeit only in his head, but engaged nevertheless by his customs.

Then this morning his fiancé said I love you.

Bond said it in the heat of passion while getting a blowjob so there is no telling if he was serious or not.

He must have been serious, otherwise he wouldn’t have wickedly whispered, “Let’s book a day off together and spend it in bed.”

Q had quickly agreed and then he was kissed breathless before being ushered into the taxi.

Q can’t stop grinning at what had just happened as he looks out the window.

He’s so wrapped up in his own happiness that Q doesn’t see the car tailing his taxi.

Chapter Text

Arriving into MI6, Bond makes a detour to Mallory’s office.

“Good morning, Moneypenny. My, you look ravishing today,” Bond says, flirting because it’s expected of him. Plus, he wants her to do something.

“Bond. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” Moneypenny says, flirting back.

Placing a big bag of pastries on her desk, Bond asks, “Could you do me a favour and take these down to the boffins in Q-branch?”

“Trying to bribe your way into their good graces?”

Bond wrinkles his brows. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s more of a…”

“Bribe,” Moneypenny says, matter-of-factly.

“An encouragement,” finishes Bond. “Like this cookie,” he says, setting the pastry bag down in front of her. “For you.”

Moneypenny, recognizing the emblem on the bag, looks up at Bond with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

“And this,” Bond says as he places a box of half-dozen macrons next to the cookie.

Moneypenny smiles. “It would be my pleasure, Bond.”

“Thank you, Moneypenny. You’re a treasure.”

Bond wisely says nothing about sweets and weight gain.

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Bond shuts himself away in his disused office and sits down gingerly to finish writing his mission report before he debriefs with Mallory at nine. It doesn’t take Bond long to complete as he had started it while on the plane back to London.

Task done, he pulls his MI6-issued laptop closer to do what he really came in to accomplish. Time to do some digging.

He starts with some Google searches: ‘Alistair Callum,’ ‘Alistair S. Callum,’ ‘Samuel Callum,’ and etc. Bond clicks on some of the links in the results to view the social media profiles. None of them fits Q.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, Bond tries ‘Cameron Phillips UK’ and is somewhat successful. There’s a faceless LinkedIn profile and the limited details match what Bond remembers of the profile on MI6’s database.

Bond logs in to MI6 to check. Pulling up his search history, he clicks on the last search he did three days ago which used facial recognition on a grainy picture of Q that Bond had gotten from CCTV.

Comparing the two profiles side-by-side, Bond tentatively confirms his suspicions that Q is Cameron Phillips. Just to be sure, Bond does searches for the other six profiles and find social media presence that match.

What was it that Q said? Identity generator software complete with Twitter handle.

Damn.

Smiling wryly, Bond really has to hand it to Q; the boy’s too clever by half.

Call it a hunch, but Bond thinks he has got it right, that Q is Cameron Phillips.

Bond can understand using an alias but why is it necessary? Why would Q lie about his name to the British government, the institution that he works for?

Glancing at Cameron Phillips’ date of birth, Q should be thirty-five instead of ‘thirty-two with a PhD’ like he had said. Why lie about his age?

Nothing adds up. Bond is putting two and two together and falling woefully short of a real answer.

His best theory is Q was put in to a protection program. But why?

Bond taps his thumbs against the bottom edge of the keyboard in consideration.

Something terrible must have happened to Q’s family. Something that resulted in a deceased mother, who might have been pregnant with Q’s younger sibling at the time of her death, and a father who now ‘travels.’

Travelling is probably a better-sounding euphemism for absentee parent or incarceration. Hell, Bond travels for his job and—oh.

Maybe Q’s father also works or worked in intelligence.

Bond does a search of MI5 and MI6 employees with a surname of ‘Phillips’ or ‘Callum.’ Unfortunately, none of the people in the resulting short lists seem likely.

Q might have removed his father’s records from the database for safety purposes. Perhaps Q and his father were put in to protection under different surnames to further disassociate their relationship.

Either way, it sets Bond back to square one.

He sighs and checks his watch. Plenty of time for a short row with his lover before his debriefing.

Bond types the full name that Q near whispered to him last night in to the MI6 search bar. Bond presses the enter key and instantly, the screen goes haywire. The laptop makes a loud grinding noise and then shuts off completely with a small zap.

Bond figured something like that would happen. He wouldn’t put it past Q to set up alerts and precautions for searches on his full name. Thankfully, Q respects machinery enough to not put explosives in them.

Bond pushes his chair back and puts his feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles, a perfect picture of lazy nonchalance. He sets his phone on a timer for ten minutes before tossing it on to the desk. That’s how long he’ll give Q to summon him or Bond will go down to Q-branch himself. In the meantime, Bond will get some shut-eye.

With his eyes closed, he can better draw up two pictures of Q’s tattoos: one of how they look like normally, and the other of how they looked like when Bond found him in the bath.

Granted, Bond only saw the front when he interrupted Q’s wank, and the water refracted the tattoos on his legs, but comparing them now in his mind’s eye, Bond can see a difference in the way the large tentacles on his chest were positioned. Plus, there were a couple of thin ones on his torso that curved up his ribs and around to the back when there shouldn’t have been any.

As far as Bond knows, tattoos are permanent and they sure as hell don’t move to another place for a short while and then return.

Unless it’s magic.

Bond ponders his feelings about it for a moment, and decides that he’ll be happy to remain a Muggle and shack up with his genius wizard.

…Come to think of it, Q may as well be a grown version of Harry Potter with that hair. Bond smiles to himself at that thought. (He never believed the boy-wizard was entirely straight anyway.)

The alarm for the timer goes off and Bond opens his eyes with a frown. No text or call from Q. He can’t be that busy, can he? Maybe he anticipated Bond’s actions and is waiting for Bond to go to him. Well then, fine.

Making his way down to Q-branch, Bond concedes that the misplaced tattoos could have been a trick of the light and water. Still, he saw what he saw. He had been knackered after his mission but that didn’t mean he had stopped observing. He wouldn’t make a very good agent if he did.

At this point, nothing about Q makes any sense. Bond only has pieces to the puzzle and it’s bloody frustrating. But Bond can be patient, he can wait. He has to spend more time with Q, that’s all.

Stepping in just past the doors of Q-branch, Bond notes that Q’s office is empty. R is down in the glassed-off pit, facing the giant screens on the wall, handling what looks like an intense mission. There’s a sense of uneasiness in the air as the boffins in the ‘pen talk in low murmurs or scurry about in mild distress. They all cast the occasional furtive glance towards the pit with worried eyes.

Maybe they’re the reason why, Bond thinks as he notices Mallory, Moneypenny, and Tanner standing out of the way in the pit.

Bond makes his way in and over to the small congregation. Nobody tries to stop him.

“Bond.”

Bond nods in greeting. “Tanner.”

Mallory and Moneypenny merely glance at Bond’s appearance without comment before looking back up at the screens.

Bond leans into Tanner and asks lowly, “What’s going on?”

“Q’s missing.”

Bond’s blood runs cold at the two words he never wants to hear.

“Update,” he snaps.

“Q sent off a distress signal at 7:46 this morning. His position has been triangulated to be somewhere in the vicinity shown on the map,” Tanner points at one of the large screens.

“We’ve tried his phone. It went directly to voicemail which makes us believe that they have a close-range signal jammer. We’ve also activated his trackers, both on his phone and on his person, but with the jammer in place they’re useless. We have no idea where he is.”

Bond swallows hard and it does nothing to dislodge the heart in his throat.

Waving at the other screens, Tanner continues, “We’re systematically checking every traffic camera in the area right now in that timeframe with facial recognition for Q but it’s slow going.”

A buzzing noise starts up in Bond’s ear, drowning out other sounds.

This must be how Q feels when Bond goes off radar.

Helpless.

Q must know that he comes back every time, right?

The better question is: will Q come back? Q who has no field experience, zero combat training, and just learned how to hit a bullseye not too long ago. What if he—.

Bond ruthlessly shuts down that train of thought and focuses on staying calm. Panicking doesn’t help anybody.

The buzzing clears and Bond can objectively look at this like another set of mission parameters.

Location. They need a location.

Bond pivots on the balls of his feet to face R. He blurts out the location of the bakery and the approximate time he and Q had left.

R, having heard Bond, looks at him and then at Mallory for confirmation. At Mallory’s nod, she brings up the appropriate footage on one of the big screens and cycles the time forward until Bond appears in the frame, hailing a taxi for Q. Just as the taxi pulls up to the curb, Bond pulls Q towards him.

The video image is grainy and pixelated with such a low framerate that all movement looks jerky, but there’s no mistaking the two of them as Bond leans in to Q for a long goodbye kiss.

“Um,” R fumbles.

She tries to remove the footage from the screen and instead, manages to rewind the video so that the kiss is played out in full view again. It finally pauses mid-kiss, Q’s body flush against Bond’s.

Without looking at the glass partition behind him, Bond is sure that everyone in the bullpen is staring at him. If the situation wasn’t so urgent, he might care about his reputation, and Q’s as well, but right now Bond doesn’t give a damn.

Boldly, his eyes flicker away from the screens to meet Mallory’s, conveying without words that now isn’t the time especially while the trail is still fresh.

Mallory’s gaze is inscrutable and the best Bond can do is hold it.

Finally Mallory lets out a sigh, exasperated. He turns and says, “R, track that taxi on traffic cams. Find out where they’re going. Let me know when and where they stop.”

“Yes, sir,” R says, fingers flying over her keyboard and the video on the screen resumes playing.

“Moneypenny, reschedule our budget meeting. Tell them we’re in the middle of a national emergency. I’ll calm ruffled feathers later.”

“Sir,” Moneypenny says and leaves.

Mallory turns to Tanner and says, “Prepare a kit and transportation for 007. Get him something fast.”

“Right away,” Tanner acknowledges before leaving to find a technician.

Bond allows himself to take a subtly deep breath through his nose, easing the tension in his chest slightly. Mallory is going to let it stay within MI6 rather than handing it over to MI5.

“Bond, follow me,” Mallory says.

Time to pay the piper, Bond thinks.

Sequestered in Q’s soundproof office with the windows turned opaque, Bond and Mallory resume their staring match from earlier.

Bond fights the urge to look away first and feels quite relieved that he didn’t have to play against Mallory’s poker face in Montenegro.

Bond had expected Mallory to lay it in to him while they wait, but instead Mallory starts with an even tone, “Two things…”

Mallory pulls out his phone to show Bond an alert message that reads:

Unauthorized search: ‘A******* S***** C*****’
Origin: Bond, James
Serial: 574063455722

“First, that name does not exist anywhere on record and it does not leave this office. Do I make myself clear?”

Mallory knows Q’s story, or at least some of it. Bond files away that tidbit away for later and nods, “Yes, sir.”

“Second, have you seen Q’s tentacles?”

“Yes,” Bond says, picturing the tattoos he was thinking about not too long ago.

Mallory hesitates a bit but asks, “The actual ones?”

Here is the other shoe, Bond thinks, resigned and braces himself.

“The actual ones, sir?” Bond asks, brows furrowed in query.

Mallory sighs, a tired sound. He stares off at a point beyond Bond’s shoulder and Bond watches the small movements in his eyes, left then right then left again, weighing something heavy in his mind.

At long last, Mallory says, “Q’s tattoos. They become real like actual tentacles.”

It’s Bond’s turn to stare past Mallory’s shoulder.

And there it is. The truth, second hand.

Bond doesn’t quite know what to feel. Numb, he supposes.

“Judging by your lack of skepticism, you believe me even though you haven’t seen them yet,” Mallory says, the sentence somewhere between a statement and a question.

“Yes,” Bond replies flatly.

“I have to warn you, they’re a bit of a shock,” Mallory says, wincing in remembrance.

Bond nods sharply at the understatement of the century.

They fall quiet then, both lost in their own thoughts. Bond connects the dots and analyzes events within the past two weeks with a fresh perspective: Q’s evasive answers, his anxiety after their romp in the car, the fucking bathtub.

Bond was right about the moving tattoos. Sometimes he hated being right.

“How do they…become real?” Bond asks.

“One second they’re tattoos and then they come up,” Mallory lifts both of his hands, palms to the sky, “Off from his skin like cartoon drawings and turn into flesh.”

Bond pictures the scenario in his mind’s eye.

“Put me off seafood for weeks,” Mallory mutters, grimacing.

Bond can’t sympathize because it looks…intriguing.

“Yes, but how does it work?” Bond asks.

Mallory shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for an explanation on the science behind it. I don’t think Q would have told me anyway. They’re a highly secretive people.”

Translation: Mallory knows about as much as Bond does, which is only slightly more.

Mallory’s phone vibrates with a text from R and reports, “They’re headed east.”

Bond stands upright from the wall that he was leaning against, roaring to go but Mallory blocks his exit.

Looking Bond in the eye, Mallory says, “This is a need-to-know only.”

“Of course,” Bond says, indignation colouring his voice. “Sir,” he adds on at the end.

Mallory ignores Bond’s slight insubordination.

“Good. One last thing. This is again obvious, but it has to be said. If you see something like a giant octopus or a giant squid, don’t shoot. Because that’s Q.”

Mallory waits for Bond to show a sign of understanding. When he does, Mallory opens the door and they step out.

“Bring Q home, 007,” Mallory orders. “We’ll debrief as soon as you’re back.”

“Sir,” Bond says.

He picks up his kit (ammunition, knife, and earpiece) and heads towards the car park.

Speeding through a series of R-controlled green lights in the DBS, Bond thinks, hang on, Q. I’m coming.

After Bond kills the people who dare to snatch Q out from under his watch, Bond is going to wring Q’s scrawny neck. Then they’re going to have a serious conversation.

Bond anticipates a lot of shouting (from himself) and backtalk (from Q). Bond smiles in grim determination, he’s rather looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Q emerges from his daydreams of wedded bliss with a text update from R that all ongoing missions are running smoothly. There were no major mishaps overnight except for a blip in the firewalls. Q texts back saying he’ll be in soon to relieve her and to deal with the blip.

He looks up to check for a time estimate and pauses. This isn’t the way to MI6. Q glances at the driver thinking maybe he missed a turn, but then sees the white of the driver’s knuckles.

Cocking his head slightly to one side, Q thinks, that’s distinctly out of place.

He feints indifference that he doesn’t feel and turns his attention back to his phone, quickly activating a silent distress call to MI6. It seems he was just in time too, because his next text of ‘help’ to R does not send. He no longer has signal and he is not in a tunnel.

He slowly sits upright in his seat, trying to look past the partition of the taxi for the blinking light of a small signal jammer. He doesn’t find one. What he does find instead is the driver’s nervous gaze, flying back and forth between Q and the road.

Beads of sweat dot along the driver’s forehead and his mouth flattens in to a thin line as their eyes meet in the rear-view mirror.

The game’s up and they both know it. Still, Q has to try to get out of this with minimal conflict.

“I think I’ll stop here. It’s close enough that I can walk the rest of the way,” Q lies casually.

“Gimme yer phone. Toss it through the gap, ‘ere,” the driver demands.

“Why do you need my phone?”

The driver doesn’t appear to have a good response. He sneers instead, “Consider it as payment for yer ride.”

“That’s a steep price for a taxi, even in London,” Q says as they stop at a red light.

The driver puts the taxi in park. Revolver in hand, he turns around and points it at Q through the gap.

“I said, gimme yer phone,” the driver says through gritted teeth.

Q blinks, incredulous. How did a taxi driver get a gun?

Then the revolver fires, the sound deafening in the small confines of the car. Q jerks in shocked surprise and disappears from view for a split second, camouflaged except for his clothes. There’s a small explosion in the cushioning of the seat next to him, a scant six inches from his head.

The driver is speaking but Q can’t hear him through the ringing in his ears. He does, however, understand the threatening gestures the driver makes with his gun.

Q swallows and puts his hands up slowly, phone in one hand. He does as the driver demands and throws his phone through the gap.

The driver slams the partition shut and turns back around. Q sighs in relief as the gun disappears out of sight and the car starts moving again. He closes his eyes and huddles against the door closest to him, hyperventilating and curling into himself, tentacles slithering and coiling in distress beneath his clothes.

It takes long minutes for Q to notice his bearer trying to get his attention through their mental link. The ties between parent and child aren’t as strong as those between mates but they’re there.

Slowly, Q detangles his own emotions (shocked, terrified) from his dad’s (distressed, worried) and sends back sluggish reassurance of his existence. Dad’s response is instantaneous, warm relief intermingled with concern and…is that confidence?

Curious, Q tilts his head up to look out the window and catches the turn of a traffic camera. Suspicions confirmed, he feels gratified. It’s a brief respite to know that they’ve found him and are tracking his location. It means that he’s being rescued.

Not that Q can’t rescue himself. He could attack while they’re enroute to wherever they’re going and make a run for it but there’s no telling how bad the crash would turn out. The taxi may flip and Q could end up trapped in the car. Too many people and too many cameras, will see if he uses his tentacles to get out.

For now, he’ll bide his time while they slowly move through morning traffic. He could try bribing the driver but he might just become even more aggravated. They seem to be catching all the red lights, making the driver swear every time as he steps on the breaks, taxi jerking to a sudden stop. Whether it’s Q’s team at MI6, Dad’s team at MI5, or cousin Mycroft’s team, somebody is playing with the lights.

Fed up, the driver floors the pedal on a yellow when they’re still three car lengths away. They run a red and narrowly avoid being hit by the oncoming traffic, multiple horns blaring loudly behind them.

With his heart in his throat, Q prays that whoever is watching got the message from that near miss and stops screwing with the lights. The driver is volatile and has to be given some green lights for God’s sake!

“Amateurs,” Q mutters beneath his breath while thinking that he is not at all cut out for this high-adrenaline action.

It seems like he got his wish because they’re going at a steadier pace now, his tension headache easing slightly.  

A beat later, it comes back threefold as he recognizes the building: a hanger.

Shite.

They’re going to put him on a plane.

Double buggering shite!

His breathing comes in too fast and shallow, his heartrate spiking. His normally detailed and organized thoughts scatter to the winds except for one—he cannot and will not get on a plane.

Panic attack in full swing, Q doesn’t notice as they drive through an open gate and stop outside a hanger.

The door opens and he is grabbed roughly by one shoulder. Q acts on instincts and his limited combat skills as his hand comes up on the inside of the other man’s arm. Grasping the bicep, Q pulls and twists, dislocating the man’s shoulder.

He shouts in pain and Q takes the opportunity to liberate the gun from the man’s holster, click off the safety, and shoot. The man drops and screams in even greater pain. Everything happens quickly after that.

Q shoots another henchmen behind the one that dropped. The window on the other passenger side shatters from a spray of bullets. Q ducks down and returns fire.

It all stops when he feels the barrel of a gun against the back of his head.

“Drop it.”

Q halts, snapping out of his panic attack.

“Drop it now, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

Eyes widening in dawning realization of what he has done, Q drops his borrowed gun.

Shit. Way to show your hand. Good job, Q.

He’s quickly dragged from the taxi by his wrists and thrown to the floor on his stomach, his glasses falling off. Two men pin him down and zip-tie his hands behind his back.

Q winces as they hoist him on to his feet and grab a tight hold of his arms to make sure he can’t get away.

He turns his head towards the sound of raised voices behind him. There’s some shouting and then a gunshot fires.

The shouting stops and dazedly, Q registers that it was the taxi driver. Q wonders if he’s next.

It certainly looks like it as the blurry shape of a woman walks towards Q. Squinting his eyes, Q can make out her strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a long pink coat draped over her black cocktail dress.

She’s flanked by bodyguards on either side but Q isn’t intimidated by them.

They stop in front of Q and the woman address him. “Mr. Phillips.”

Q stares blankly ahead, neither confirming nor denying her address, waiting.

She tilts her head to one side in consideration. “Or should I call you Quartermaster?”

That gets Q’s attention. Squinting again, Q brings her face into sharper focus. He hasn’t been Quartermaster for all that long. How did they discover his identity so quickly?

Q licks his lips and decides quickly meeting her eyes. “My surname is Munroe. What’s a quartermaster, Miss…?”

The lady smiles, close-lipped and patronizing at Q’s obvious deflection. “Emma. You can call me Emma.”

She snaps her fingers and two bodyguards approach Q. They relieve him of his keys, wallet, employee badge, and other personal effects in the pat down and hands them over to Emma.

She frowns as she rifles through the cards that identify him as Dr. Jacob Munroe but then smirks when she sees “Q” on his employee badge.

Q stays silent and resumes looking blankly ahead. The small discovery means nothing.

He also remains still and unresisting as they run a metal detector wand over his body. They won’t find anything because Q has confidence in the deep-tissue tracker he designed.

Indeed, they don’t.

A henchman brings Q’s phone and the signal jammer to Emma. She does a cursory check that there’s no signal on the phone before tossing it on the floor between her and Q. The henchman pulls out his gun and shoots a hole through the phone.

It dies with a fizzle and Q sighs at the destruction of his tech.

“That was expensive,” he says reproachfully.

“Yes, but I’m sure you can understand why it was necessary,” she replies, uncaring as she turns off the signal jammer.

Q rejoices on the inside. The tracker is on now. Help is on the way in the form of MI5 or MI6, he’s not picky. All he has to do is stall for time.

Emma waves a hand and one of the men standing next to her pulls out a knife.

“You stay away from me,” Q says.

He begins to advance towards Q, and Q should really stall for time now.

“What do you want?” Q asks of Emma, struggling against the tight hold on his arms to no avail.

“Relax, Quartermaster. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Q’s entire body is tense as they pull his shirt out of his trousers and cut it open down the front. Only a handful of humans have ever seen his tattoos: his lovers and his employers. Of that handful, two know what the tattoos actually do and the old M is dead.

Q rounds his shoulders, hunching in on himself, feeling quite naked and exposed.

This doesn’t mean anything, Q assures himself. They don’t know.

But something in the way that Emma’s smile tells Q otherwise. She makes a gesture and the men let go of Q’s arms immediately, and someone cuts the ties on his wrists.

“You look a lot like your father,” Emma says.

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell him about your crush,” Q says sarcastically even though holding his shirt together while retorting doesn’t quite have the intended effect.

“No, not your…caretaker. Your father, Major Samuel Phillips,” Emma says.

Q freezes, his blood turning into ice. Papa died when he was thirteen. Q’s sure of it because he still misses the mental connection he had with his sire. All that’s left now is emptiness.

Dad had withdrawn from society, becoming quiet and numb after losing the baby, and got laid off from work. Thank goodness for cousin Mycroft who put Dad in grief counselling and helped him get his job back.

Dad never talked about how Papa died, although he must know something of what happened as he was mentally linked to his mate in the final moments. After Q learned enough about computers, he hacked his way in to top secret government databases to find out for himself. Papa was killed in action in the Middle East, ambushed by the enemy.

“I’m very sorry about the cloak and dagger routine but your father insisted,” Emma says, unaware of Q’s sudden stillness.

Q did not practically raise himself through his teenage years, feeling helpless in consoling Dad to become an idiot and believe that Papa is still alive today.

And yet… Papa’s body was never recovered.

“He’s alive?” Q whispers.

Emma smiles at him gently. “Yes. He wants to meet you,” she says.

Q’s instincts test her statements. Lie. Then truth. Peculiar.

“My father is really still alive?” Q asks, instilling wonder in to his voice.

“Yes!” Emma cries happily.

Lie.

“You’ll take me to see him?” Q asks.

“Of course,” she says, smiling again.

Another lie and… part truth?

“Come with me. The plane is ready and we don’t have much time.” Emma holds out her hand.

Q squints as he quickly glances left and right, calculating. This is going to be the stupidest thing he’s ever done or the bravest. Either way, he has to try.

Heart pounding, Q reaches out his hand slowly, hesitating but still projecting trust and hope. In the next moment, the gullible look is wiped from his face, his stare hardening.

He’s heard enough of her bullshit and he’s sure as hell not getting on any planes.

Q yanks her towards him and a tentacle strikes Emma in the cheek, stingers injecting her with a tranquilizer. The glare she shoots at him is one of disbelief and betrayal before she goes down, falling unconscious.

In his rage, Q unleashes all of his tentacles letting them do as they please, killing indiscriminately with their poisons. Hair's-breadth needles pierce through trousers and socks in to skin, leaving behind deadly toxins. The men in Q’s immediate surroundings drop in convulsions, their bodies seizing. Nobody is getting out of this alive except for Emma because Q has questions.

Henchmen further away start to come to their senses, reaching for their guns. But Q is quicker on the draw, wrapping all four his longest and thickest tentacles around the ankles of those standing closest to him.

Q stings them and then flings his poisoned victims at the henchmen. They scream as they go flying.

In their distracted state, Q camouflages himself and runs away, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. He lifts himself high up in the air with his four combat tentacles just in time, narrowly avoiding the bullets that would have hit him had his feet been still touching the ground.

He slithers his way to the ruined taxi to hide behind it. He calls back all of his tentacles and hugs his knees to his chest, curling himself into as small of a ball as possible. He covers his mouth to muffle the sound of his scared panting once the shooting stops.

Q just wants to stay put where he is and wait for rescue to arrive. But that would be foolish. Already the men are fanning out looking for him, saying he can’t have gotten far.

Taking a deep breath, he gets to his feet and starts to move. It becomes a cat and mouse game where Q has to constantly be aware of all the cats trying to sniff him out, the invisible but semi-blind mouse.

A couple of smarter henchmen have discovered that Emma is alive and still breathing. They call out to the others to help move her on to the plane. Q can’t let them get away! Yet, how can he stop them without getting himself killed in the process?

Q curses his luck and opts for his own survival as he dances his way around the men still looking for him.

Suddenly, there’s a squeal of tires and Q squints sharply in its direction. Judging by the sound of the engine and the blurred outline of the car, Q can tell it’s a customized DBS from his department.

Q breathes a sigh of relief now that help has arrived. The question is who’s in the driver seat?

Q stays invisible as he watches the DBS mow down any man standing in its way.

The tires squeal as the car does a sharp turn and comes to a sudden stop next to the group moving Emma.

Q squints at the fuzzy shape of a male figure that stepped out of the car to make out his identity.

“James,” Q whispers.

Bond shoots all the men holding Emma, using the car as protection.

Q shakes himself in to action and chases down the men running towards Bond. Q lifts them up in to the air by their ankles, stings them, and then throw them at each other.

In helping Bond, Q is now visible. Amid all the chaos, Q misses the henchman with the knife behind him.

The knife slices through a cluster of Q’s fine motor tentacles and the section drops to the ground like wet noodles. Q cries out in pain and swings a combat appendage, knocking down the enemy. He was the last one.

With everyone dead or unconscious, Q crumbles to the ground, tentacles writhing around frantically, blinking in and out of existence. He cradles the injured part of himself to his chest, groaning and panting in pain. Then taking a deep breath, he pushes the wounded strands into his body and they become tattoos on his skin. This will stop him from bleeding all over the place.

He dimly becomes aware of Bond calling his name. Looking up, Q can make out Bond’s fuzzy shape crouched two metres away in front of him.

“Q, let me help you,” Bond says.

In recognizing Bond, Q’s tentacles move towards him for comfort. Bond startles with a gasp and backs away.

Q shakes his head at his tentacles, telling them no, not right now. They settle down around him, dejected, then docilely return as tattoos on his skin.

Bond steps closer now that the tentacles have disappeared. “Q, get in the car. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Q shakes his head again. “No. No hospitals,” he says as he gathers up the broken pieces of himself.

“But you’re hurt.”

“No hospital can heal me,” Q says as he struggles to stand.

Bond is there to help and Q looks up when he feels his touch. Bond’s eyes are a shade of electric blue, stormy and angry.

Q closes his eyes and turns his head, swallowing hard as the first tears stream down his face. This is it, the end of their relationship that barely started. He forces himself to turn around and start walking.

Bond follows. “Tell me how to help you,” he implores.

In the next step, Q vanishes into thin air.

“Q?” Bond calls out.

No cameras would pick up Q’s nude form as he exits the hanger except for the trail of blood coming from the pieces of his severed tentacles. Bond continues to follow, walking a few steps behind.

“Damn it, Q! Talk to me!” Bond shouts, frustrated.

Q makes it to the edge of the Thames and stops. Bond stops next to him, staring at the spot where blood begins to pool at Q’s feet.

One more step into the water and Q can be on his way home. Sniffling, he debates with himself. All Cephlians are obligated to protect their own whether they be natural-borns or turned. They have to keep their identities and homes hidden as best as they can to stay safe from harm. It’s how they’ve survived for millennia as a race.

On the other hand, Bond can see the Cabin now. If Q can get the other onto his territory like he did for their first meeting in the National Gallery, then maybe there’s a chance. Let Bond see the life he could lead and decide for himself. It’s a strategy that’s worked well for many of Q’s ancestors in the past.

The choice between protecting his people and salvaging their relationship wars in Q’s heart. He has to at least try.

Taking a deep breath, Q weakly says, “Meet me at the Cabin.”

“What cabin?” Bond asks immediately.

Q catches the little move that Bond makes, reaching out with his hands. Bond stops and clenches them into fists. He stuffs them into his pockets before turning to look out at the Thames. Q appreciates that Bond is also acutely aware of the possibility of cameras.

“Ask M,” Q says.

Bond nods once curtly. Q refuses to get his hopes up.

Q takes one last good look at Bond, committing it to memory. He admires Bond’s striking profile from the steely glint in his eyes to the tightly clenched line of his jaw. So very different from this morning when Bond had said I fucking love you while in the throes of passion with lust-blown pupils and opened mouth.

How did their day start so beautifully only for them to get to here?

Q steps up on to the ledge and pauses, tuning in to hear the steady beat of Bond’s heart. If all else fails, at least Q will still have this when they’re in close proximity.

“I’m sorry,” Q whispers. It’s time to go.

Q jumps feet first into the water, plunging down deep to the depths of the river. He drops his armful of severed tentacles, the sea creatures will eat all evidence of him by the day’s end. Then he unfurls his intact tentacles and starts swimming under the waters towards home.

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

About twelve kilometres out from the Cabin, Q propels himself into the open arms of his bearer. Their tentacles immediately entangle with each other in greeting.

“Da. You came,” Q sobs in relief, feeling exhausted beyond measure.

“Of course I did,” comes the response down their mental link.

Ian (born Callum Gregory Maxwell) gently manipulates all the strands between the two of them until Q is enveloped in a nest like he was still a small boy. Ian checks over his son and tsks when he sees the wounded strands trapped in ink on Q’s body. Ian will help Q regrow them in the pools.

Q had promptly closed his eyes the moment that he knew he was safe. He only stirs when he feels a water current as they move.

“Sleep, son. I’ll take care of you.”

Q does as his bearer bids and sleeps.

Chapter Text

Sitting across from M in his office, Bond opens the first of three files stamped with “Top Secret.” A photograph of a sullen-looking teenaged Q glares up at him.

Pushing away his feelings, Bond concentrates on M speaking.

“Q is publicly known as Cameron Phillips. Jacob Munroe is an alias that we came up with for security purposes, and Alistair Phillips,” M says, nodding at the file in Bond’s hands, “Only exists on paper. Alistair Samuel Callum doesn’t exist at all.”

M shoots a meaningful look at Bond which Bond acknowledges with a nod of his own, remembering their conversation in Q’s office.

Satisfied, M relaxes and continues to speak. “His father was Major Samuel Lee Phillips who started out in MI5 and then transferred to MI6 Special-Ops Division.”

Bond thinks to himself that he was right this morning about Q’s father working in intelligence. He replaces special-ops with ‘black-ops’ in his mind as he flips open the next file. Pinned at the top is a picture of a serious looking man wearing an army beret and fatigues.

“He was killed in action when Q was thirteen.”

Bond regards the picture of Phillips and though Q does resemble him, he looks nothing like the smiling, care-free man Bond had seen in the picture on Q’s mantel.

“This is not Q’s father,” Bond says.

“It is,” says M as he gestures at the next file.

Bond turns the cover to the final folder. There’s the same man who built a train set with Q on a Christmas Day some years past. Bond was half-right about Q’s father, he amends.

“His other father is Ian Hume. He works within MI5. I’ve rang him, he didn’t pick up,” M says.

Bond flips past the page containing Hume’s headshot as an employee at MI5 to a glossy picture.

In the picture Hume stands with an arm wrapped around Phillips’ shoulders, smiling at the camera while Phillips looks at him like he makes up Phillips’ entire world. They looked very much in love and Q looks like a perfect mix of the both of them.

“How was Q conceived?” Bond asks.

M shrugs. “Nobody knows but them. The usual way, I suppose; even though their entire species is made up of men.”

Bond remembers when Q told him, ‘I don’t have a mother,’ Bond thought she was dead. Looks like Q was speaking in the literal sense. 

“Q mentioned a cabin,” Bond says.

M rifles through the desk drawer that’s usually locked and pulls out a printed map on a piece of paper.

“We’ve done periodic satellite sweeps at that location and the surrounding area. This is the latest snapshot we have. Mansfield even sent in a team to scout it out once Q told her of its existence. There’s nothing there. If there is something there, then they must have advanced cloaking technology or…” M trails off with a wave of his hand.

Magic. That’s the word M is trying to avoid using. Bond thinks this might be all too fantastical for M.

“If none of ours can see it, then how the hell am I supposed to see it?” Bond mutters.

“Click your heels together and say ‘there’s no place like home,’” M suggests, a little sarcastically.

Bond gives his boss a withering look but then stops. Hell, it might work. Who knows with magic?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bond says.

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, M changes the subject. “Based on the sporadic readings we’re getting from the tracker in Q, it seems like he’s headed towards those coordinates.”

On the wall screens in the glassed-off pit, the red dot representing Q had disappeared and reappeared, bouncing all over the UK. The dot would move steadily like Q is walking or on some form of transportation for short bursts and then disappear for minutes at a time. Q went from Cambridge to Liverpool then up to Newcastle. The dot recently resurfaced in Edinburgh. Q designed the tracker so it makes sense that he knows how to make it malfunction. Even by that logic, it didn’t stop R from cursing a blue streak while trying to get a lock on Q’s location.

Bond takes in the map as a whole and gets a sneaking suspicion he knows where this is, but he asks anyway to confirm. “Where is the cabin located exactly?”

“West of Loch Ness.”

“Hmm,” Bond grunts.

He stares hard at the coordinates and commits it to memory.

“What about the lady? Has she woken yet?” Bond asks.

As much as Bond wants to chase after Q, he also wants to find out who dared to try and kidnap their department head.

“Let me worry about her and the men we captured.”

Bond had caught up to the car tailing Q’s taxi. Bond got rid of it by driving in front and releasing nails which punctured its tires and caused a nasty crash. Now they have four men in custody.

“Go retrieve our Quartermaster; don’t come back without him. I want a report every four hours,” M orders.

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Bond makes a quick stop at home to pack a bag. Then he breaks in to Q’s flat by picking the lock. Bond is quite frankly appalled that the Quartermaster of MI6 has such shoddy home security.

Bond is equally appalled by Q’s wardrobe but makes do with what’s available and packs a bag for Q as well. Not knowing how long it would take for Q to recover, Bond thought it best to not leave the cats alone. He finds their carriers and herds them inside with food. He drops off Kepler and Lovelace with Moneypenny where he also receives his flight details to Inverness.

Once the plane is up in the air, Bond has a lot of time to think and process his day. To start, hearing the truth of Q’s tentacle tattoos is not the same as seeing them in person.

Bond would hate to be on the receiving end of whatever toxins and poisons Q carries or produces. The last man that Q took down had been convulsing and foaming at the mouth when Bond got to him. Bond shot a bullet in his head to make sure he was dead. The movements stopped afterwards.

Then Bond saw something in the corner of his eye and turned, pointing his gun at it. Q’s tentacles were whirling wildly around him and Bond was thankful of M’s reminder not to shoot at something that looks like an octopus or squid.

After Bond hurried to Q, he watched as Q shoved his injured tentacles into his body. That looked like it hurt. A lot.

He never meant to hurt Q even more by reeling back, but honestly, having the rest of all of his tentacles come at Bond was a bit much. At the time, Bond’s state of mind perceived them as weapons like staves coming to attack him.

Then watching Q pick up the cleaved parts of himself, Bond understood why M had been put off from seafood. Bond thinks he will be as well, feeling mildly nauseous now.

At the ledge by the waters, it had been so hard not to reach out and grasp Q’s invisible arms by feel and shake him to get him to talk. The instinctive side of Bond had wanted to haul Q over his shoulder in a fireman carry back to the car.

But he didn’t. Why?

That’s the question of the day. Why didn’t he just take Q and run? Why did he let Q go?

Because he still loves Q and when you love someone, you respect their choices and decisions even if—no, especially if they don’t include you.

Bond hails down a flight attendant, desperately needing a drink. After the first sip of alcohol, he unfolds the tight fists of his hands and consciously unclenches his jaw, forcing himself to relax.

He’s calmer once he reminds himself that Q invited him up to ‘the cabin,’ which is likely Q’s childhood home. Bond is currently flying to Q at his express invitation.

Taking another sip, Bond thinks yes, he loves Q but is it enough to overcome the lies and deceit?

Bond is fully aware that he works at a spy agency. It’s obviously full of secrets and covert operations. Lies and deceit are par for the course when one dates within the Six. Whether or not love can overcome all evil remains to be seen. Bond’s never experienced it for himself but he has hope.

Next question, can Bond live with the tentacles? Really accept Q completely for who and what he is?

The short answer is yes. The long answer is Bond compared Q to Harry Potter just this morning. He was perfectly content to be a Muggle shacking up with Q’s wizardry and he still is.

Only instead of a wand, it’s multiple wands and some of them are rather thick. Bond snickers quietly to himself, mind straying to those wands. How would sex feel with all of Q’s additional bits?

Bond lets himself imagine it, riding Q with a few extra tentacles in him, feeling deliciously full. Or being tied up and held in place by those tentacles as Q fucks him from behind, Q taking his pleasure from Bond’s body. It’s a dirty hentai fantasy come true.

Bond clears his throat and takes another sip of his drink as his trousers begin to tighten. He pulls the tray closer to cover his crotch. Sex won’t be a problem.

Perhaps the biggest question of the day is: why Bond?

Here is where Bond is at a complete loss. Q is a supernatural being with abilities and possibly magic powers. What is he doing with someone like Bond who is human, a Muggle? Why isn’t Q with someone of his own kind?

Bond finishes his drink and dozes for the rest of the trip pondering that question.

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

It’s dark by the time Bond disembarks the plane. So, he is forced to check in to a hotel for the night. In the morning, he’s woken by a call from Moneypenny who tells him where to go to get an MI6 boat and to check his email.

Opening the email from Moneypenny, Bond watches the video on Q’s last known whereabouts. Q had passed through Inverness, heading south in the River Ness into Loch Ness. Then his dot veered west going upstream in another river. The dot disappears almost two kilometres from the coordinates Bond memorized yesterday. It’s like there’s a shield around it or a device disrupting the signal.

Bond eats a quick breakfast and checks out of the hotel, eager to be on his way. At the MI6 dock, he decides on a small motorboat that’s normally used for fishing. He follows the same route that Q took and makes good time.

Bond steers the boat past the point where Q’s dot disappeared completely towards the coordinates he had been given. As he rounds the bend of a copse of trees, the roof of a building emerges in the distance on top of a short rise. He breathes a sigh of relief that he doesn’t have to do anything silly to see the cabin like clicking his heels as M had suggested.

Bond pilots the boat into a small, naturally occurring inlet in the river where the water is much more placid. He ties the boat to the dock and steps ashore, leaving his bags onboard. He takes his Walther with him but keeps it holstered as a sign of good faith.

He walks up the beach and climbs the steps that have been carved into the rock. When he reaches the top, he gasps in amazement. That’s not a cabin, that’s a sodding mansion. It certainly looks bigger than Skyfall Lodge.

As he walks up to the front door, Bond wonders how a team of highly trained operatives could miss a house of this size.

“Magic, of course,” he whispers to himself, smiling.

The water fountain, the roundabout, the awning, and the paved roads and walkways are all definitely man-made. But the large, fenced-off gardens on both sides of the main road are kept impossibly immaculate. There’s no way that a giant cactus and a banana tree could thrive in the Scottish climate without the help of magic. Also, four uniquely different trees couldn’t stand in that straight of a line before the edge of the forest.

Bond knocks on the door and after a minute there’s still no response. He tests the handle and finds that it’s unlocked. Normally he would question why a place like this is unsecured, but then when you have tentacles and magic on your side, one can guess it’s not that big of deal. It explains why Q has such crap home security.

“Hello? Anybody home?” Bond calls out as he steps into the house and closes the door behind him.

The whole place looks like it’s been recently renovated. The ceilings are quite tall and the walls have a new set of moulding and trim. The floors alternate between large marble tiles in the hallways and laminate hardwood from room to room with area rugs thrown in at the right places. Only the stairs have carpets and the banisters are made out of wrought iron with mahogany railings.

It’s very masculine and modern despite some of the furniture pieces which look antique. Daylight spilling in from the large windows make it look warm, bright, and inviting. It reminds him of Skyfall when his parents were still alive.

Bond steps outside through the backdoor. Maybe Q is in one of the backyard grotto-like pools.

“Q? Are you out here?” Bond shouts.

A rare spot of sun shines down making him squint against the piercing glare reflected from the water. He didn’t think to pack sunglasses. Not hearing a response, he heads back inside.

Looking around the kitchen, he spots a bowl, a spoon, and a mug in the sink. There’s an open box of cereal on the island and fresh milk in the fridge. So, Q is here at the cabin but is still invisible.

Maybe he’s asleep, Bond thinks as he climbs the stairs up to the second floor. There are a lot of bedrooms. Bond knocks before opening the door to each one, peering inside. He stops when he finds what he’s sure is Q’s room, judging by the pictures on the desk but the bed is made.

He hears a door open and close.

“Q?” Bond says.

He closes the bedroom door and steps down the stairs, taking out his gun by force of habit.

“Q, it’s James,” Bond announces.

He makes his way back to the kitchen. There’s somebody in here and they’ve just put the kettle on.

“Look Q, I know you’re here. I have orders from M to bring you back to London safe and sound. So, I’m going to put down the gun and we can talk.”

Bond flips the safety back on, places the gun down on the kitchen island, and takes three large steps back.

“Q please show yourself. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Before he knows it, Bond is slammed up against a wall. Tentacles shoot out of nowhere and wrap around his ankles, wrists, and neck, holding him in place.

Like some Lovecraftian horror, Hume’s head materializes out of thin air in front of Bond’s face, the rest of his body following.

“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?”

Bond manages to introduce himself through gasping breaths. “I’m James Bond. I work with your son.”

“Really?” Hume sneers, “And what’s his name?”

“Alistair,” Bond chokes out.

Hume lets go of Bond in shock.

Bond sits on the floor propped up against the wall, wheezing. “Alistair Samuel Callum.”

Hume lifts the hem of Bond’s trousers. Bond’s still too winded to stop him.

“Hmm. Not from the salt waters,” Hume mutters.

Bond flinches when a bunch of tentacles come at him. He holds out his hands in an effort to block them. “No, wait!”

“Relax. I’m just checking for weapons.”

“I can stand to make the pat down easier,” Bond suggests.

Hume gestures impatiently for Bond to go ahead.

Bond stands up shakily and asks, “Can you only use your hands, please?”

Hume eyes him amusedly but agrees.

As Hume pats him down, Bond says, “I’m 007 from MI6. Gareth Mallory sent me here to retrieve your son and escort him back to London. Mallory is the new head of MI6. Call him, he can verify everything. He said he rang you.”

Pat down complete, Hume regards Bond with a piercing gaze, head cocked to one side.

“I swear I’m telling the truth,” Bond says.

“Shh!” Hume shushes. He closes his eyes like he’s listening for something, face turned towards the pools outside. Then he heaves a great sigh and mutters, “I should have known you were going to turn out to be a hopeless romantic just like him.”

Bond observes this behaviour with interest. Is Hume talking to someone? Could he be talking to Q telepathically?

“And you,” Hume says to Bond, “Sit down before you fall down.”

Hume guides him to the nearest chair at the dining table before striding out of the kitchen, completely nude with tentacles now in tattoo form.

Bond covers his face with both of his hands and groans softly. He saw…everything. He rubs at his eyes, trying to scour the image of Hume’s three cocks from his memory without success. It’s impossible to unsee.

The kettle whistles just as Hume strides back in to the kitchen, thankfully now clothed in a robe.

Bond watches Hume make a pot of tea and open a new tin of biscuits. Hume brings it all over to the table on a tray.

First Bond is attacked and now he’s going to have tea with his attacker. The change is so sudden that he might have whiplash. Come to think of it, his neck is feeling a little sore from being choked.

Hume pours hot tea into a fine China cup and nudges it in Bond’s direction.

“Drink that. It’ll help soothe your throat.”

…Can Hume also read his mind? Bond eyes Hume and the liquid with distrust.

“It’s just tea. I haven’t poisoned it.”

Even though Bond watched Hume prepare everything, that robe is a loose fit and Hume’s body was angled so that Bond couldn’t see his other side. Anything could have happened.

“No offense, but I’ve seen what your poisons can do to a man.”

Rolling his eyes, Hume says, “Suit yourself.”

Hume sips his own tea and takes a big bite out of a biscuit.

Bond has never met any of his lovers’ parents before but he knows it’s bad form to snub his boyfriend’s father’s hospitality by refusing tea. Bond values his life but he doesn’t want to be impolite and give a bad impression.

Bond blows on the tea to help cool it and then cautiously takes a small sip.

It is soothing. But if it’s all the same to Hume, Bond will wait a minute to check the validity of Hume’s statement.

“What are your intentions towards my son?”

Bond freezes, never having been in this situation before. He opts to play dumb to avoid answering the question.

“I’m here to bring Q back to London,” Bond says.

“No, not that,” Hume says, annoyed. “Let’s not be coy about it now. I know you know what I mean. So, let’s try this again. What are your intentions towards my son?”

Bond huffs internally. Hume is like a dog with a bone. Bond doesn’t know how to answer the question and he can’t come up with anything eloquent. In the end, he stops overthinking it and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I want to take him out to dinner, and breakfast, and lunch because he’s a workaholic and he forgets to eat. Those pot noodles are not healthy.”

Hume nods in agreement. “Go on.”

“I want to add more locks to his flat. I understand that he can defend himself but he’s the Quartermaster of MI6! If I can pick the lock without any trouble, then it’s not safe. When we’re back in London, he’s getting a security detail and a personal car to take him to and from work. No more taxis or the tube. If anyone tries to kidnap him again in the future, then at least it won’t be easy.”

Hume raises his eyebrows at Bond’s impassioned speech.

“And his clothes,” Bond says emphatically. “Nothing matches.”

Hume bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Bond exclaims, crossing his arms. “I brought up some of his clothes. It’s on the boat so I can show you if you want.”

“I’m afraid his poor fashion sense is on me,” Hume says.

Oh, shit. Bond’s face must have fallen because Hume waves a hand dismissing Bond’s inadvertent insult.

“Samuel, Cameron’s sire, used to buy all of his clothes.” Hume pauses, thinking for a second before continuing, “And mine too for that matter. Anyway, just understand that us natural-borns don’t take well to wearing clothes.”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Bond eats a biscuit and drinks his tea now that the minute is over. He’s still alive and not poisoned.

Hume looks at Bond like he’s got him all figured out.

“You love him,” Hume states.

Bond takes a deep breath before admitting, “I do.”

Hume refills Bond’s cup with more tea.

“Did you fall in love with him before or after you saw his tentacles in their true form?”

“Before.”

“And you’re still here.”

“I am,” Bond acknowledges as he takes another sip.

“How many cocks did he stick into you, boy?”

Bond sputters into his tea, instantly reminded of what’s underneath Hume’s robe.

Hume waits until Bond is finished coughing before asking again, “Well? How many? One, two, or three?”

“Just the one.”

It’s Hume’s turn to choke on his tea. He covers his eyes with one hand and laments, “My son’s an idiot.”

He sits up suddenly and shouts, “Two weeks!” Hume faces Bond with wild eyes and asks, “The two of you have only been dating for two weeks?!”

Bond was right, they can communicate telepathically. That’s so useful.

“Don’t worry, we’ve known each other for longer than that,” Bond says. “Is Q on the other end? How much of our conversation has he heard?”

While that wasn’t the worst declaration of love that Bond has ever made, it’s still pretty bad.

He watches Hume open his mouth, ready to say something, then thinking better of it, closes his mouth. Hume turns inwards.

Bond eats another biscuit and finishes his tea.

Hume repeats his fish gulping motion several times before he throws both hands into the air and declares, “I give up!”

Bond doesn’t dare ask any more questions, not wanting to get between a father and son argument.

Hume looks at Bond and sighs. “Come on. I’ll show you the pools.”

Bond picks up his gun and holsters it before following Hume outside.

Hume points out the amenities, “Hot tub, wading pool, turning pool, and the healing pool.”

The healing pool is by far the biggest and longest, stretching what must be twenty-two metres away. The shallow end is on their side so the deep end must be on the other, judging by the ladder installed next to the waterfall. Jumping down from those heights must be thrilling.

Bond nods at the waterfall and asks, “Is that natural?”

“Yes, it’s why we built it this way. There are pipes and plumbing to get it running during the off seasons but nothing beats a natural waterfall to help aerate the water so that we can breathe,” Hume explains.

They stop at the point where the tiles change colour, about two metres away from the ledge.

“There’s a low electric current running in the healing pool right now to help with the process. If you pass this line and get electrocuted, then it’s your own fault,” Hume says.

“Let me guess, you have electric eels swimming around in there.”

“We stopped breeding those after electricity was invented.”

Bond chuckles at the joke but Hume just gives him a look. Oh, he’s serious. Bond sobers quickly and clears his throat.

Now that he’s closer to the pool, Bond can see a mass of tentacles moving under the water towards them.

Q’s head breaks the surface and he slicks his hair back with a hand. He looks like a siren, a mythical creature come to life with that pale, pale skin reflecting the sunlight, giving him an otherworldly shine.

“Ah!” Hume snaps, pointing a finger at his son in warning as Q puts his hands on the pool edge looking ready to come out. “We’ve talked about this. Stay in there.”

Q falls back into the water with a pout. Then he turns and squints slightly to make out Bond’s face. When he does, his whole persona brightens.

Q gives Bond a shy wave and says, “Hello.”

“Hi,” Bond says.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Of course, I would.”

Standing there, Bond is reminded of their similar position from yesterday. But today is vastly different as they stare into each other’s eyes, Q’s green to his blue. Bond feels enraptured.

“Alright, break it up you two,” Hume interrupts. “You can make heart eyes at each other later.”

Bond shifts his attention to Hume with a frown and quickly shifts it away as Hume begins to disrobe. Ugh, Bond thinks. The time when he never has to see Hume naked again can’t come soon enough.

“Bond,” Hume calls out from inside the pool. “We’ll see you at lunch in two hours. In the meantime, go get some rest. You look tired.”

Then Hume takes Q by the hand and start swimming. Q cranes his head to look back until they dive into deeper waters. Bond stands rooted in place for a full minute afterwards with his hands in his pockets so as to not do something rash like jump into the pool and follow them.

Taking a deep breath, Bond does a sharp about turn and marches back into the house. He pulls out his phone thinking it’s a good time to update M but there’s no service. There’s no Wi-Fi either which Bond finds hard to believe given Q’s technical genius and the modernity of this house. Bond doesn’t bother with searching for the tower as it could be anywhere.

He looks around for a home phone that could be connected to a landline but there isn’t one to be found. Frustrated, he sits on the sofa in the living room to think about his options. He could take the boat out to where he’d get a signal or walk down the road until he’s past the invisible barrier.

He yawns, eyes watering. Just imagining the distance he’d have to travel makes neither of those options seem very appealing right now.

Hume’s right, Bond is tired; he’s had an eventful morning. He lies down on the couch to take a nap. Q can fix it and get his phone working once he’s awake.

Bond realizes too late that his thinking has been wrong. The last thought he has before losing consciousness is: Oh, that crafty-arsed wanker.

Chapter Text

Time has never moved as slowly for Q as these final two hours of his healing. He paces a tight line by the corner of the pool floor beneath the waterfall. He can only go as far as his dad’s tentacles can stretch.

All eight of dad’s thinnest tentacles are in use, attached above and below Q’s four injured ones to help them regrow. They work much like IV’s with hair’s breadth needles pierced into Q’s skin, injecting nutrients, hormones, poisons, and genetic material to speed up his healing process. The low electric current encourages Q’s Cephlian systems to build and regrow his tentacles correctly. This is why it’s so important for him to stay in the water.

He could be done in six hours if both of his fathers were alive or if he had a mate, but since he only has his dad, Q has to spend a full twelve hours in the pool. It’s still better than trying to heal on his own—that involves sleeping in the bathtub for a week or more, risking his tentacles to grow back deformed. 

Q walks a bit too far which yanks Ian behind him a little, waking him from a light doze. In their close proximity, Ian sends a clear scoff down their mental link. Q huffs back, still upset with him for nearly killing Bond. Ian shrugs his shoulders, unapologetic when it comes to protecting Q. He crosses his arms and goes back to dozing. 

Q learned from his bearer that he thought Aunt Esme had woken up. She picked up dad at the airport yesterday and dropped him off at a secluded spot near the water. She was supposed to drive up to the Cabin today with lunch but she had gotten so worried that she drove up in the middle of the night. Ian ate a bowl of cereal while assuring her that Q was healing and insisted that she stay and sleep in the guest bedroom. 

Ian got out of the pool when he sensed movement from the backdoor. Thinking it was Esme, he put the kettle on to have tea with her and talk about how they were all going to spend their weekend together. Instead, he encountered Bond and almost murdered him. Luckily, Ian’s distress woke Q up in time to stop him.

Ian berated Q for not telling him but Q honestly didn’t think Bond was going to come! Q explained quickly how he thought inviting a potential mate up to the Cabin would work for him as well as it did for granddad. Ian mentally rolled his eyes at him and called him a hopeless romantic.

“Do you want grandsons or not?” Q asked.

That caught Ian’s attention. “Hmm,” he hummed as he went to get his robe.

Apparently, Esme was gone, presumably getting groceries from the city which left Bond alone to have tea with dad. The poor man. 

Q prayed hard to whatever god or deity listening that dad would not ruin his chance at love. 

“Hey! I heard that,” Ian said as he carried a tray over to the table.

He kept the connection between them wide open so Q heard every word. As he listened, Q’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher. Wow, Bond really cared about him.

Q’s heart melted even more when Bond confessed that he loved him to dad. However, the moment was short-lived after Ian called his son an idiot.

“Give me a break. We’ve only been dating for two weeks,” Q quipped.

Then they had a heated exchange and towards the end Ian said, “You can’t marry someone you just met!”

“You sound like Elsa from Frozen.”

“Life is not a fairy tale, Alistair.”

Q sent a picture of the forest where the Faeries live and said, “Really, dad?”

“I give up!” Ian said, knowing that they were at an impasse.

“Come back into the pool and help me,” Q sighed. “And bring Bond with you. I want to see him.”

“I am not your messenger boy.” Ian said, but he brought Bond with him all the same. 

And oh, was Bond a sight for sore eyes. He looked sinfully attractive in casual wear, dressed appropriately for the weather. 

Q let his tentacles float freely in the water which elevated all of his senses and enabled some others. The sentry tentacle poked its head out and Q could feel the electromagnetic waves emanating from Bond. He was like the sun, comforting in the winter and relentless in the summer. The weight of him pulled Q inevitably closer into his orbit. 

Q was aware of Bond with every fibre of his being. It was difficult to believe that he was actually here, but his heartbeat echoing in Q’s ear was undeniable. What was Q supposed to say in a situation like this? 

He said ‘hello’ and Bond said ‘hi’ back. It seemed they were similarly afflicted – both at a loss for words. 

It struck Q in that moment that Bond was not repulsed by him. His tentacles drifted openly in the water and Bond saw it all. He saw the real Q and didn’t turn away.

It would be so easy to fall in love with Bond. Hadn’t Q said this to himself just two nights ago? He was right, it was so easy.

Q swallows and breathes deeply through his gills. He bets if he offers to turn Bond, then Bond would say yes. They could be married today.

“Alistair Samuel Callum,” Ian calls between their mental link. 

Q winces; he hates getting triple named.

“No, you shall not!”

“There’s something called privacy, dad,” Q mutters.

Ian ignores him, of course, and launches into a lecture. “Going all in at once is dangerous. There are reasons why we have stages. They keep us safe and sane. You’ve heard his heartbeat by now, yes?”

“Yes, not like you ever told me.”

“It’s in the book, son.”

“What book?”

“The book on our ways and our history. I’m sure I—Oh.” Ian covers his face with his hands and groans.

Q shakes his head and scoffs. “It’s still with Sherlock, isn’t it?” he says it more as a statement rather than a question. “It’s likely gone now. Pawned off for drug money or destroyed in the explosion at his flat.”

“Granddad never told you any stories before he died?”

“Some. But he was more concerned with grooming me to take over his position at MI6.”

Q leaves out ‘because raising me was supposed to be your job’ but the resentment bleeds through their connection.

Ian flips himself upright and swims the short distance to stand in front of Q. 

“Cameron, I know I wasn’t there for you throughout your teenage years and I’m sorry. You saw the state I was in after your sire died.”

“You pushed me away.” Q closes his eyes, thankful that he’s under water because he thinks he’s going to cry. He’s allowed. It’s been a harrowing two days.

Ian pulls him into a tight hug. “I was deeply depressed and I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I could have helped,” Q says, voice cracking.

“You could have,” Ian acknowledges, “But it’s not your job.”

Q hugs his bearer back. How do parents just know what their children are thinking?

“Don’t be jealous of your cousin over a book. Forget I said anything about it. I’ll teach you everything I know, if you’ll let me.”

All Q could do is nod. He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“That means you’ll have to spend more time with your dear old dad.”

“You’re not old,” Q says in Ian’s defense. “You’re not even middle-aged.”

Ian huffs a laugh. “Fifty-eight is old for humans.”

They stay like that for a while wrapped up together beneath the splash of the waterfall. This is nice even as Q sheds a few tears. This doesn’t heal all the hurt he’s been through, but it’s a start. 

Ian pulls back a little to touch his forehead to Q’s. “Now listen to me, son. I know you love Bond and I know he loves you. But he is a field agent, a double-oh at that. He could die at any moment.”

 Q interjects. “Yeah, but—”

“No, let me finish. If you turn him and then lose him… It’ll feel like you lost a part of your soul, and I would do anything in my power to spare you from going through the same pain I went through.”

Ian cups Q’s face with both hands. “ I’m not saying stop seeing him. Oh no, I want grandsons. I’m saying give it some time. Get to know each other because there is so much that the two of you have yet to learn. You brought him up here to court him, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, court him and let him court you too.”

Q thinks about it for a few seconds and then nods. Dad has some very good points.

“Date, dad. The word you’re looking for is date. Nobody uses court anymore.”

Ian scoffs. “Date. Court. Whatever. Now tell me about your kidnapping. What happened and who do I have to go kill?”

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

When the requisite twelve hours is over, Q practically leaps from the pool, snatching up his spare pair of glasses, his robe, and a towel that Aunt Esme had set out for him as he goes. He puts on the robe and the glasses and dismisses all of his tentacles as he walks briskly to the house.

“Oh, Cameron dear,” Esme greets as soon as Q opens the door. She pulls him into a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Hello, Auntie,” he says, hugging her back and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Have you seen James?”

“Do you mean the handsome young man having a kip on the sofa?”

Q furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “It’s not like him to nap at this hour. It’s Bond.”

Q turns to glare at his bearer who is equally clad in a robe, devouring a box of fish and chips with speed. “What did you do?” he asks accusatively.

Ian pauses mid-chew when he notices their attention on him. He pops in another chip, feigning innocence. Q glares harder and Ian rolls his eyes.

Swallowing his food, Ian admits, “I may have added the tiniest drop of sedative mixed with truth serum into the tea.”

“Dad!” Q exclaims, aghast. “I can’t believe you!”

Ian waves a chip. “I have good reasons for doing so that I’ll explain over lunch. They’re in the book which I thought you’ve read but never did.” He heads out of the kitchen towards the stairs, taking the box of food with him. “Now go wake sleeping beauty and get dressed for lunch. I’m still starved.”

Q glowers at his bearer’s back, displeased.

“Go on, dear,” Esme says to Q.

Q says a quick thanks and finds Bond stretched out on the sofa in the living room. He admires how handsome Bond looks before shaking him on the shoulder, “James. James, wake up.”

Bond comes awake with a sharp inhale.

“It’s alright. You’re safe,” Q says soothingly. “You’re at the Cabin.”

Bond exhales and deflates once he recognizes Q and his surroundings. Rubbing his eyes, Bond asks, “How much of that conversation did you hear?”

Q grins. “All of it.”

Bond groans and Q giggles. Then Bond looks up at him, considering.

“Come here. Lie on top of me,” Bond requests.

Q bites his bottom lip as he climbs on top of Bond, straddling him. Bond hums in satisfaction, like he’s got Q right where he wants him to be.  

“Kiss me,” Bond says.

Q leans down on all fours and kisses Bond. One, two long presses of lips against each other.

“I can’t believe that you’re here,” Q says.

“Let me help you believe,” Bond says. 

He turns them so that he’s on the outside and Q’s tucked on the inside of the sofa. Bond leans in and Q closes his eyes to enjoy the kiss while listening to the sound of Bond’s heart beating a steady rhythm. Bond licks across the seam requesting entrance into Q’s mouth which is granted. When their tongues meet, it’s slow and gentle, a sensual and wet slide. It’s familiar in how good it feels but the tempo is new.

Just when it’s turning into a proper snogging session, Bond slows it down even more until they stop altogether.

Q opens his eyes and sees Bond staring into his. Q feels like he’s seeing into Bond’s soul.

“I love you,” Bond says earnestly.

Q licks his lips. The love confession is sincere. The truth of Bond’s words tastes like apples, sweet and juicy with a hint of tartness that makes the mouth water. Q chases it with a chaste kiss and then he smiles.

“I love you too,” Q says back.

Bond lets out a shaky breath that Q didn’t know he was holding. This time when Bond leans in, the kiss is hard, demanding, and conquering. He is totally in control.

Here’s the tempo that Q remembers and he responds by capitulating. The leg Bond throws over his feels proprietary. The hand Bond worms into Q’s robe feels firm and real, caressing and stroking Q’s stomach at the waist.

Q digs his fingers into Bond’s nape, desperately holding on as he is awash in a maelstrom of arousal and sensation. It’s too soon after a long healing session, his defences are down and he can’t contain it anymore. His tentacles bulge out into shape for a moment under Bond’s hand before hiding away again.

Bond breaks the kiss and looks at Q with wide, glittering blue eyes. “Oh!” he gasps. Then he chuckles darkly. “Don’t be afraid. Come on out,” he purrs.

Bond rubs the pad of his thumb across the root of Q’s tentacle tattoos in encouragement and Q whimpers, helpless in the little thrust of his hips to seek pleasure and relief for his growing need.

“That’s it,” Bond says, shifting his own hips to slot his clothed crotch against Q’s nude one.

Q moans softly at the contact. It’s not fair how easy it is for Bond to make Q come undone. 

“Come on, Q. I want to feel them,” Bond says as he touches their foreheads together. “Show them to me.”

That’s all the permission they need to move in on Bond. A gripping tentacle coils up around his arm while a thin one wraps around the hand at Q’s waist, threading through the fingers. 

Bond leans back to see, forgetting that he’s on the outer side of the sofa. He could have dropped to the floor but a thick combat tentacle and a few other ones lay lengthwise along the back of Bond’s body, cradling him.

Feeling the weight of them, Bond cranes his head to look there too. “Wow,” he breathes in amazement.

“Shall we take this up to my room?” Q asks.

“Let’s,” Bond agrees huskily. “I want to see all of it.”

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Ian licks the salt and vinegar from his fingers with a happy sigh. He’s still hungry but at least now he doesn’t feel like he’s going to faint. Healing his son is hard work.

Ian digs through his bag that Esme had brought up to his room. He finally finds his phone and has full intentions of calling Mycroft to update him on the situation. But the text from Mycroft with a phone number for Gareth Mallory and the six missed calls from a private number seem more urgent. It’s easy to connect the dots between the text, the private number, and Ian’s conversation with Bond. 

So, Ian rings the number.

“Mallory,” a male voice answered at the other end.

“Hello. This is Ian Hume. I believe you’ve been looking for me.”

“Mr. Hume, how is your son?”

“He’s indisposed but healing.”

“That’s good to hear. Listen, I have an agent—”

“Bond.”

“Yes. Where is he?” Mallory asks, voice hard. 

Ian knows that what he really wants to ask is what did Ian do to Bond.

“He’s alive ,” Ian says, emphasizing the word, “But equally indisposed.”

The boys choose this exact moment to thunder up the stairs, giggling all the while. Ian curses and slams the door to his room, but he’s not quick enough to muffle the noise.

“Indisposed, you say?” Mallory asks sardonically.

“Quite,” Ian says with finality.

There’s a short silence on both ends. Then Mallory growls, sounding decidedly disgruntled. (If asked, Ian will categorically deny that the noise does anything for him because it doesn’t.)

“When they’re available could you have them report in as soon as possible? Preferably this afternoon before two o’clock.”

“Certainly. Is that all?”

“Not yet,” Mallory says. “Have you ever heard of Dupont Biotechnology?”

“No, never.”

Ian can hear Mallory take a breath before delivering the news: “We have reason to believe that they have your husband’s body.”

Hunger forgotten, Ian says, “Tell me everything.”

00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q00Q

Once they close the door to Q’s room, he is pressed up against it and kissed with intoxicating urgency. Q makes a happy noise and kisses Bond back, arms curling over his shoulders. Tentacles back in tattoo form slither and wriggle on Q’s skin, joyful to be so close to Bond.

Q pouts a little when Bond breaks the kiss, but then he’s tugging on Q’s robe. “Off,” Bond says.

Q hurries to take off the robe in one moment and stops in the next when he sees Bond looking down at his body. The tentacles halt all movement as well, picking up on how self-conscious he feels.

Q lets Bond take both hands into his, trusting him to lead. However, Q does wonder what is Bond doing? 

They never take their eyes off of each other as they walk together until they reach the foot of the bed. 

Q steps into the open V of Bond’s legs when he sits. Then Bond ducks and peppers kisses on the tattoos he can reach. With a quiver, the inked tentacles on Q’s legs coil upwards for Bond’s convenience, each vying for his attention. 

Bond huffs a delighted laugh. “Are you controlling them?” he asks.

“Not right now. They have a mind of their own.”

Bond plays a game of chase with them, placing more kisses. It’s only when he starts nipping at Q’s skin does Q throw his head back and moan in pleasure, enjoying the touch feedback he’s getting from the tentacles. He’s so aroused, he’s starting to grow and harden.

“Q,” Bond calls from in between kisses.

Q looks down feeling dazed and catches Bond staring up at him with electric blue eyes. Q is hit hard with such a strong wave of home and how right this is that he almost misses what Bond says next.

“Will you show me?” Bond asks, splaying a large hand over Q’s abdomen where the tentacles are gathered.

Q bites the inside of his cheek, considering. Bond will either accept or reject Q after seeing all of him. So far Bond has been very accepting when Q was in the pool and when they were on the sofa, but seeing everything up-close and personal is an entirely different situation. One can only guess how a potential mate will react. 

Bond eyes turn beseeching. “Please?” he adds.

Q breathes in deeply to tamp down his fear and nods. “Okay.”

He takes two steps back and pauses to warn his tentacles to behave, don’t scare James away .

Heeding Q’s warning, the eight thin ones inch out slowly from his skin like garden snakes and travel downwards. The six gripping tentacles opt to slither down his legs and materialize from there. Finally, the four thick ones on Q’s chest and back unfurl from root to tip, falling elegantly to the floor without a sound. They form a big, pale, skin-colour skirt around him. 

Q swallows hard. This is it. Judgement day. He never thought it would come so quickly. He unconsciously juts his chin and tilts his head slightly back as he watches Bond’s reaction.

Bond has his mouth slightly opened in shock, or maybe it’s revulsion. His eyes dart around looking at Q’s tentacles. Is he trying to take it all in or is he assessing how dangerous they are? 

“Amazing,” Bond breathes.

“What?” Q asks stupidly.

“This is amazing,” Bond says. He looks Q in the eye and says, “You’re extraordinary.”

Q blinks. “That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

“No? What about beautiful? Exquisite. Striking.”

Q flushes deeper and deeper with each compliment, tentacles turning a dusky pink.

“Are you blushing?” Bond teases gently. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. What about your injured ones?”

They curve themselves around to the front of Q’s body and hold themselves out for inspection. Transfixed, Bond lifts his hands and then stops abruptly. 

“Can I touch?” Bond asks.

“Yes.”

With Q’s assent, the tentacles wrap around Bond’s hands, wrists, and forearm. Bond looks enchanted, cooing at them like they’re cute pets and greeting them in a voice that Q didn’t think he possessed but apparently, he does. Q takes a mental snapshot of this moment.

Bond scritches them like he’s giving them a head rub. The newly grown ones are sensitive. A tremor runs through them and vibrates up to Q who shudders and breaks out in gooseflesh. 

Q watches Bond stand. The tentacles in front part for him as he bridges the gap between them.

Q feels Bond’s hands moving down his back and slightly to the side to grip the base of Q’s rear combat tentacles. There’s a hitch in Q’s breathing as Bond pulls him flush against him. 

“And how are you feeling?”

It takes Q a moment to remember what they were talking about, distracted by Bond’s handling of his body. “I’m all better now.”

“Well enough for sex?” Bond asks in a husky voice.

“Yes,” Q answers eagerly as he kisses Bond. 

Putting his hands on Bond’s waist, Q unbuckles his belt and lifts up his shirt to get to the skin underneath. Q’s tentacles take this as license to coil, slither, and wrap themselves around Bond who makes no objections being thusly touched. Indeed, he moans into the kiss. 

Unfortunately for them, Q’s stomach decides to announce his hunger with a loud gurgle. 

There’s a short pause. 

Then Q groans, “Ugh,” while Bond shakes with silent laughter.

Q colours in embarrassment and Bond is quick to reassure him that he’s not laughing at him. 

“Hey, it’s not as bad as the horn,” Bond says, chuckling.

Q can’t help but laugh with him.

Once they get it out of their system, Bond kisses Q and says, “Come on. Let’s get you dressed and fed.”