Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t Alec’s idea. More of a stupid joke from his idiot friend. Some niche dating app for “professionals with demanding jobs.” Not suspicious at all.

Alec didn’t need random hook-ups. If he were to, he could find one by simply walking into a Soho bar – he’s not ugly, and he can be charming. He just didn’t want to.

But he set up a half-hearted profile just so Jimmy would bloody leave him alone.

Nickname: T-40
Age: 40
Bio: Tall, dangerous, cook a mean curry.

Blurry, decade-old photo of him standing with his back to the camera. Those jeans did his arse a favour. He still has them somewhere, for painting and car fiddling.

That’s it. Surely no one would find that interesting.

***

Q didn’t mean to download the stupid app. Well, a sober Q didn’t. Q, after three glasses of wine and lamenting to Eve about his monkish lifestyle, certainly did. And Eve, being a menace, encouraged him.

The evidence – a fresh profile he vaguely remembers creating.

Nickname: Qubit
Age: 29
Bio: three-paragraph essay on why he doesn’t need romance. Tone: sardonic.

He would’ve written more, but the app has a limit, and by then, Q was too drunk to go and tweak their code.

Profile photo: three kittens glaring into the camera. They sit on Q’s lap, so technically, it’s his photo.

It wouldn’t have been a big deal. It’s an easy thing to delete. But just as he’s about to do just that, he notices the app – well, Eve – has found him a match.

***

Q glares at the app’s icon for the entire day.

It’s midnight. Q is curled on his couch with one cat on his chest, one on his lap and one glaring at him from her perch on a cat tree.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles at the furry menace and opens the app. “I’m telling you he’s either a creep or as dumb as Alfie.”

Upon hearing his name, Alfie stirs on Q’s lap and looks at him. Q scritches between his ears. He loves Alfie. His brainlessness doesn’t make him less adorable. But it doesn’t work like this with people.

***

Alec, insomnia in full swing, is half-watching a documentary about… owls, probably, while ignoring Jimmy’s texts pestering him about the app.

Alec swiped someone to the correct side just to make Bond leave him alone. In the morning, the app showed a match, and he panicked.

He has his phone safely tucked between the couch cushions when it pings with a new kind of sound. He’s too weak to resist his own damn curiosity.

App Chat: T-40 & Qubit, 23 Aug, 12:20 AM
Qubit: what exactly is supposed to be attractive - the threat of bodily harm or the promise of food poisoning?
T-40: Ouch. Do you always start a small talk with an insult?
Qubit: weeds out boring and weak.
T-40: So I passed?
Qubit: maybe. your bio like a villain’s cv
T-40: I was aiming for that.
Qubit: still not very comprehensive.
T-40: Yours is. Cute cats.
Qubit: thank you. the black one glared me into writing you.
T-40: Are you that easily persuaded?
Qubit: [photo attachment]
T-40: Excuse me. That’s some mighty glare. She reminds me of my former Commander. Only tiny. And with more hair.
Qubit: tragic.

***

Alec wakes up on the couch the next morning, the pain in his neck making it quite clear that he’s too old for adventurous sleeping arrangements. He finds his phone poking at his ribs and remembers: the chat.

He hurries to open the app. He fumbles it so badly the phone springs from his grip and lands on his face. Embarrassing. No one around to see it.

No new messages. He hesitates, then reasons it would be polite to apologise, and fires off a text.

App Chat: T-40 & Qubit, 23 Aug, 9:24 AM
T-40: Sorry. Didn’t mean to leave so abruptly. Fell asleep on my couch and regret it right now.

***

Q sees the message during the lunch break. He scowls and ignores it. He spent an hour tossing and turning and checking the phone yesterday. He didn’t know why. Now he was underslept and grumpy.

He’s driving home when a push from the app lights up the screen again.

T-40: I took another look at the photo of your scornful cat and was properly chastised. If it helps.

Q snorts despite himself. He keeps driving.

He’s through the evening routine and in bed with Alfie – he’s the only one actually sleeping with him – when there’s another push.

App Chat: T-40 & Qubit, 23 Aug, 11:44 PM
T-40: Please don’t keep me in superposition.
Qubit: not how it works. but fine.
T-40: Well it did work, didn’t it?
Qubit: you annoy me already.
T-40: How was your day?
Qubit: you annoy me more.
T-40: Fine. I was killing weeds in the garden. Found those old jeans for you.
[photo attachment: a shot of the lower body taken in a garden mirror. Bare feet, jeans streaked with grass and yellow paint, holes in a few strategic places. Nothing else in frame to suggest a possible location.]
Qubit: shouldn’t you be at work?
T-40: Between the jobs. Were you?
Qubit: yes. i need to feed three cats.
T-40: Fair. What’s your job?
Qubit: tech research. yours?
T-40: Security consultant.
Qubit: that’s not a job, that’s a euphemism.
T-40: Yours sounds like it too.
Qubit: no it’s not. i research the tech and develop better tech based on results.
T-40: I consult about security to develop better security.
Qubit: sure sure

***

It goes on with a momentum that surprises them both. Qubit almost never responds immediately, popping up at odd hours, mostly late at night or early morning. He sends Alec pictures of the cats aplenty. Alec gets to see his knees in trousers or pyjama bottoms (a little bony by appearance) and, occasionally, a hand (long fingers, pale skin). It probably shouldn’t excite Alec so much but it does.

In turn, Alec provides photos of curries as evidence of his proficiency, his herb garden, and the snails that try to eat all his basil.

App Chat: T-40 & Qubit, 2 Sep, 1:21 PM
T-40: I feel weird using this nickname of yours to refer to you in my head.

Alec doesn’t expect the immediate response, but he doesn’t expect it to go unanswered for two days. He’s despairing when the answer arrives.

App Chat: T-40 & Qubit, 5 Sep, 2:40 AM
Qubit: suggestions?
T-40: You can say me your name? Also, you keep strange hours.
Qubit: you keep replying me. and no i don’t think so. just q.
T-40: That works too. How do you call me?
Qubit: obviously tank.
T-40: Cute. I’m Alec btw.
Qubit: didn’t ask.
T-40: Told you anyway.
Qubit: see? tank. barrel right through. going to sleep.
T-40: Sweet dream, Q.

Alec grins and goes back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Q is not flustered. Q doesn’t do flustered. He is perfectly normal.

He’s in his nicest trousers—pinstripe and pleat, vintage (re: thrift store), paired with dusty Converse because of course they go well together—so what? The rest of him is ordinary. Hair’s a mess because it’s windy outside. Shadows under his eyes. Cardigan with the power to offend a lesser man.

He came early because that’s what he does. Lecture ended. The children didn’t pester him with questions. Not because he threatened them. No.

He tugs his sleeve and wonders how he’s supposed to recognise a man he’s only ever seen from the waist down. Jeansed thighs are not a face, no matter how nice.

As an answer, the bell over the door chimes.

The man who walks in is too broad-shouldered for the doorway. Blond hair is a nest of unspeakably attractive chaos. Unfair.

The man pauses to brush his hair off his forehead with a gesture of casual annoyance.

Q adjusts the glasses and peruses the cakes on display. He pretends not to notice the man’s slow approach to his table. He pretends that it’s not his heart rabbiting in his chest.

Pathetic.

“Hey,” the man says. “Am I late?”

Unfair, unfair, UNFAIR, Q screams inside his head upon hearing this voice.

Alec—it must be him—tilts his head. Q realises he’s been silently staring instead of answering a simple question. His mouth might be slightly open.

“You are Q, right? You look like Q.”

“Oh yeah?” Q manages.

Alec’s grin widens until he’s beaming. Unfair. “Yes. The only other male singleton in here is a little worn out to be twenty-nine.”

“Maybe this Q lied about the age.”

“I would have recognised my peer. Q’s disregard for capitalisation betrays him.”

Q huffs a laugh and unfolds himself from the chair and up. The man—Alec—looks tall, but objectively only a couple of inches taller than Q.

“It’s an unneeded feature,” he states and offers his hand. “Hello, Alec. You’re not late. I’m early.”

Alec’s fingers curl around his hand. Long. A little too dry. Calloused. The squeeze isn’t aggressive; it’s more like a cradle.

“Nice to finally put a face to a name, Q.”

Alec looks at him. Like, right at him. Bold, unbothered. Q can’t. His eyes drift back to the safety of the cakes.

“Indeed. Shall we order? The cake is good.”

There are seven cakes. Q is going to die.

Alec chuckles, touches Q’s shoulder and nudges him back and down with silent insistence. Q obeys without thinking. Unfair.

“I came last, I order. Which cake?”

“Any. If there are no almonds.”

“Allergy?”

“Hatred.”

“Valid.”

The first fifteen minutes are a little awkward. It’s a relief that not only Q has the potential to make an idiot of himself. Alec catches up with him by spilling tea everywhere and grumbling about vegan cakes like an old man. Q is almost smitten. They smooth it out with photos of Q’s cats and kittens he mentioned visiting.

“Aw. They look like furry rats. Cute,” Alec says.

Q agrees. The cake is good. The rain starts pattering outside. The hour and a half passes too fast.

“I need to head back.”

“Do you have an umbrella?”

“Nope. It’s just a fifteen-minute walk.”

Alec has an umbrella. And time. Q allows him to walk him to the gates of the Department of Physics.

They stand there, awkward again. Not a problem. Not when Alec is easy on the eye and has a voice like honeyed tea.

“Thank you for getting here,” Q manages.

“My pleasure, Q,” Alec says. Huffs. “What is your name?”

Q opens his mouth.

A flock of his undergrads chooses this moment to float past them, staring curiously. “Hi Dr Harper,” they greet in discordance.

Q waves them off with a half-hearted glare.

“Here’s your answer.”

“I guess that works.”

***

Alec all but flows through the weekends. Jimmy notices and teases him mercilessly, but doesn’t ask much because he’s a good friend.

Q is both not what Alec expected and precisely what he sounds like in their chats. Granddad attire that’s somehow popular with the young these days. A sardonic eye roll. Nervous fingers. Less smug and more shy in person. Pretty. And too young—the only thing Alec keeps worrying about.

The stream of messages is steady, but nothing of their meeting, past or future. Alec gathers his courage by Tuesday.

WhatsApp, 14 Oct, 9:16 PM
Alec: Hypothetically: if I cook, would you eat it?
Q: define ‘it’
Q: cats say hi
Q: [photo of two cats occupying a human’s sternum]
Alec: Can you breathe?
Q: with moderate difficulty.
Alec: Acceptable. ‘It’ as in food. Cooked by me. Curry’s my first choice if you’re not opposed. Vegetarian is no trouble.
Q: hypothetically, i might. what logistics do you suggest?
Alec: You come to London from Oxford one of those Fridays.
Q: and when do i go back?
Alec: I have a room to spare.
Q: bold. but acceptable. conditions.
Q: precise address, no almonds, door locks from inside. evidence that it does.
Alec: Deal, deal, yes it does, but in the spirit of honesty – I know how to pick the locks much more complex than this.
Alec: [photo: white door with a thumbturn lock]
Q: acceptable. also, show off. not this friday, no time. the next?
Alec: Yes.
Alec: [google maps location pin]
Q: tiny house. cute.
Q: do you fit in the doorways?
Alec: What do you mean?
Q: nothing, don’t listen to me. underslept
Alec: Sleep.
Q: about to

Q isn’t counting days until the next Friday. He is not.

Eve is delighted, to say the least. Abominable.

The sleepover bag has been ready since Sunday. Eve asks if he’s packed condoms.

“Most certainly not.”

Q only has patience for her because she’ll stay the night at his, so the cats aren’t grumpy about being left alone.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a prude. You like him.”

“Exactly.”

The admission comes easily.

It makes Eve’s expression more smug. Q throws a piece of bread at her.

WhatsApp, 24 Oct, 2:15 PM
Q: 6:08 to paddington fine?
Alec: Perfect. Meet you there?
Q: i know how to use tube, alec. meet me at queen’s park if you must
Alec: Fine.
Q: eve has your address, i don’t check in on saturday morning, there will be consequences
Alec: Fair. Who’s Eve?
Q: a friend
Q: what’s on menu?
Alec: Dal Makhani. Aubergine curry, Palak Paneer. First non-negotiable (already started), the rest are.
Q: a bit too much?
Alec: Just enough for the sake of variety. Spice level?
Q: not extravagant.
Alec: We’ll adjust to taste then.
Q: as you say

WhatsApp, 24 Oct, 6:15 PM
Q: in tube.
Alec: I’ll be by the flower stall on the right from the station exit.

Alec is where he promised to be: standing beside a closed flower kiosk, hands in his pockets, hair in mutiny. Not looking at his phone, not scanning the crowd with nervous, tactical energy like some men do. Just waits, easy and sure. It’s disarming.

Unfair.

“Harper,” Alec says when Q reaches him, as if tasting the name in his mouth.

It sounds agreeable.

“Alec,” Q replies and folds into a brief, careful hug that smells of spices.

Q is not often in London, and has never lived there. His overall impression of the city was: cramped, noisy, expensive. Alec’s neighbourhood looks a bit like residential Oxford in the years when Q was a student.

“That’s… nice,” Q comments, not bothering to conceal his surprise.

“Yeah, the big development hasn’t reached here yet. All the fancy stuff’s on the other side of the railway.”

The house is tiny and cramped. Fussy and neat. The railway is just one street over, and the glass rattles whenever a train passes. Alec’s lived here long enough to pay it no mind whatsoever, showing Q to the guest room on the first floor. A pull-out couch. A view of the back garden.

Back on the ground floor, the kitchen smells like onions and garlic and kaffir limes, just shy of overwhelming.

The kitchen proper is a narrow room with counters on both sides and a door leading to the garden. Something is bubbling in a slow cooker; something sits in a pan over a turned-off hob. Alec checks the oven. Something intriguing roasts inside.

“What is it?”

“Eggplants,” Alec says, pauses. “Aubergines? Never understood why you lot need the French word.”

Q shrugs; doesn’t ask.

“Tea?” Alec offers.

“Later. Help?”

“You can sit on the counter and critique my knife technique.”

Q hops up on the counter on the same side when Alec sets the chopping board and ingredients. The onion goes into the oil. Garlic. Ginger.

Alec’s showing off.

“Your wrists are doing… too much,” Q says just for the sake of it.

“It’s always the case,” Alec gives him a salacious smirk that Q didn’t think the man capable of. Menace.

Q grins. “How tragic.”

Alec laughs and sweeps ginger into the pan. “Paprika or Kashmiri chilli?”

“Chilli.”

Alec nods, tips the spice into the pan. It blooms. Heat prickles in the air.

In go tomatoes, aubergines hiding in the oven, coconut milk. Alec murmurs a melody under his breath. Q watches the pan bubble like some strange sort of code compile, captivated. Alec catches him watching, smiles—not smug, just pleased.

He cooks for me, Q thinks, a little dazed.

No one’s ever done it before. Well, Eve used to make her anti-hangover bacon butties when they were both students, but it’s not the same. He never wanted to kiss Eve for it. Not like he wants to kiss Alec.

He needs to divert his thoughts or he’ll panic.

Alec comes to his aid. He scoops some of the bubbling concoction into a spoon and holds it out for Q, a hand with a tea towel hovering under the spoon as precaution. He’s close enough for their knees to brush, and perhaps it’s less help than escalation.

Q tastes, careful, his fingers at Alec’s wrist to steady. He waits with justified apprehension—he saw the amount of powders Alec has thrown in. The spice unfurls, gentle, more a promise of heat than the thing itself.

“Tolerable?” Alec inquires. He again looks at Q this way, like in the bakery two Fridays ago. Steadfast. A little greedier now.

“More than. I was a little apprehensive.”

“Coconut milk tames the spice,” Alec smiles and licks the spoon clean.

Hums, satisfied. Reaches past Q to open the slow cooker.

The smell is an assault.

“Now that would kill me,” Q declares and edges away. It brings his shoulder in contact with Alec’s chest very quickly.

Alec doesn’t budge one beat. He scoops a little dal and tastes it first. “It’s not bad, just smells spicy. A mild dal is just glorified pea soup. No sense in cooking it.”

Q snorts and lets himself be persuaded. The bite nibbles at the taste buds with the promise of heat that arrives after a few spoonfuls.

Q hums.

“I have rice,” Alec gestures back, and Q spots the rice cooker hiding in the corner.

“I’m persuaded.”

“Feelings about coriander?”

“Positive.”

“Good,” Alec says and ducks outside.

Q jumps off the counter to peek through the door.

Alec stands in front of a neat row of pots. He plucks one, peers inside, and retrieves a snail from the midst. He puts it into another pot and notices Q watching him.

Q thinks his expression gives away too much.

“Isn’t it too cold for snails?”

“They’re mostly asleep,” Alec agrees. “That’s why she’s in the coriander and not feasting on the basil,” he grumbles, just a little, and stops at the door where Q’s blocking his way.

Q smiles and takes hold of the pot, brushing over Alec’s fingers as he does. “I’ve got it.”

“Alright,” Alec concedes and lets him take the pot.

Somewhere between Alec getting the plates out and Q tearing coriander into a bowl, Alec’s hand closes over Q’s wrist.

“Mm?” Q looks up at him.

“I think that’s enough coriander,” Alec says, amused.

Q glances down at the bowl. At Alec’s fingers still around his wrist. Up at Alec, carefully pushing the bowl to the side.

Alec doesn’t smile, though his eyes are light. Q knows his aren’t.

“Is this the point when you ask something of me?”

Alec’s brow twitches—probably at the phrasing—but he doesn’t digress. A tank, barrelling through. Q’s mouth quirks.

“Perhaps,” Alec offers.

“Good. Ask.”

“I’m about to kiss you.”

“It’s a statement, not a question,” Q points out. “But fine.”

“Good,” Alec says and leans in.

“Good,” Q whispers into his mouth.

It’s perfect alignment and precision; the thing carefully orchestrated rather than stumbled upon. Works just fine for Q. He turns into it and rotates his hand to grasp Alec’s forearm in return. Alec’s mouth is ginger and wet heat. The kiss he leads is bold on the edge with blazen. No tongue, but teeth. Perfect.

Q pulls back first and hums. “Promising,” he states.

Alec laughs against Q’s cheek. “Cheers. Let me feed you now.”

“Please.”

***

They eat, and it’s heavenly. Dal is velvet and then something that bites; aubergine is smoky, collapsing on the edge of the spoon; paneer is blissfully mediocre—something not to impress but to give a respite.

Q doesn’t care about the sounds he makes. He is only sorry he has to stop eating before he’s too full. Alec makes tea. Big mug, ginger, loose leaves, hot water. Lemon.

They migrate to the sofa in the living room.

The wallpaper is a crazy, William Morris-esque pattern that covers the entire room from floor to ceiling.

“Are you mad?”

“We’re all mad here,” Alec grins. “I wanted something… unadvisable. I like it.”

Q nods, accepting the argument. Outside, the cars crawl by; foot traffic is almost nonexistent after rush hour. Trains still rattle the house. Alec still pays it no mind. Q shifts and tucks his toes under Alec’s thigh. Alec doesn’t question it, settles a hand a little above Q’s knee. Q doesn’t question it back.

“Do I get graded?”

“You? Or your cooking?”

“Let’s start with cooking.”

Q leans his head against the cushions and considers. “Dal: 8.3. Didn’t expect this from the dish of extremely overcooked beans. Spice is mean, though. Aubergines: 9, outrageous. I would’ve eaten it until I’m sick if I had a little less willpower. Palak Paneer: 7.5, competent, bland as it should be.”

Alec’s mouth folds into a slight curve of pleasure and something close to timidity. Like he didn’t expect what Q said, though why, Q has no idea.

Q looks at him. Reaches for tea, sips, puts it back. Reaches Alec’s hand on his knee. Taps, then tugs.

Alec goes with the pull. Q untucks his toes and lays his legs across Alec’s lap instead. He stops pulling when Alec is hovering over him.

“Again,” he says.

Alec obliges. The second kiss is less rehearsed and better for it. Alec cups the side of Q’s face, adjusts the angle, but also rubs a thumb under his eye. Teeth nip. Q loops an arm over his neck. They shift closer until the gravity does the rest—Q lying on his back along the couch, Alec pressing down on him. He hums. Parts his lip. The tongues tangle, just briefly.

They part for air. Alec’s palm rests under Q’s cardigan, but over his t-shirt.

Q does what he’s wanted since the moment he saw him and touches his hair. It’s soft. He plays with the strands. Tugs. Alec rumbles, nose under Q’s jaw. Kisses the skin under his lips when Q keeps tugging until he’s bored. Q tangles his fingers and gives one firm pull.

“Again,” he says as Alec lifts his head.

The third is even worse for discipline and better for everything else. They don’t rush; Q is methodical by nature; Alec is a man who might know the cost of reckless decisions. It’s unhurried and gloriously filthy, for Alec sucking at Q’s bottom lip slow and hard until it’s an inevitable spark of pain and teeth.

“Alec,” Q gasps a little.

Alec’s hand is fisted in Q’s t-shirt. Q unfurls his fingers and guides until it’s skin on skin.

Alec looks at him with too serious eyes and a shiny red mouth.

“What is it?” Q asks, licking his stinging lips.

The broad palm finds his heartbeat.

Q pops buttons on Alec’s shirt halfway and tastes the skin above his collarbone. Alec is silent.

Q nips at his jaw and bites at his chin, startling a chuckle.

“What is it?” he demands.

“You’re young,” Alec points out.

“Fuck’s sake,” Q mutters. “Don’t even start. I don’t need a self-important prick my age, I have myself already. Not a bloody word about it.”

Alec huffs. Kisses the furrow between his brows until it’s gone.

They stay. Conversation like kisses. Kisses like conversation.

***

A guest room is a treaty honoured. Q doesn’t lock it.

The pull-out couch is suspiciously comfortable for what it is. Q opens the chat before he thinks of it.

WhatsApp, 25 Oct, 12:07 AM
Q: wake me up if I sleep too long.
Alec: Define too long.
Q: past 10
Alec: Will do. How’s the pillow?
Q: great. goodnight, Alec.
Alec: Goodnight, Harper.

Alec doesn’t hope for sleep, and sleep doesn’t come. He won’t take pills.

He stays in bed. Passing cars move the shadows over the white ceiling. The house creaks and groans. The baby across the road cries; is soothed back to sleep again.

Alec thinks of Q in his kitchen. Of Q watching him rehome a snail. Of Q humming around a spoonful of curry. Of Q humming around his tongue.

Alec thinks of the blank spaces that surround Q. Name? Employment? Place of residence? Age?

“Dr Harper” teaches on Fridays in the Oxford Physics department. That thread would answer most of it. He is not going to pull it.

He thinks of Q’s glasses sliding down his nose, of Q’s heartbeat under his palm, of Q’s fingers in his hair, of Q’s fingers picking at coriander.

He thinks of Q entirely too much.

He falls asleep around four and wakes around seven. Better than some nights.

He goes for a run. He buys pastries in the place where he usually drinks his double espresso like a shot of vodka. The woman who works morning shifts more often than not smiles like she knows something. Maybe she does. Alec huffs and doesn’t try not to look mildly embarrassed and stupidly happy.

Back home, Q’s still asleep. Alec showers. Decides homewear is appropriate. Percolates more coffee. Pokes at the herbs. Cleans the kitchen after yesterday’s exploit.

He’s almost done when Q goes down the stairs and stops in the kitchen’s doorway, barefoot, glassless, bed hair a thing worth of epos.

Alec smiles. Q squints.

“Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

“What does that mean?”

“Insomnia. I bought pastries.”

Q allows the evasion with a nod.

He doesn’t stay past noon—cats and a two-hour commute.

“Leaving is an investment strategy,” he says like an apology into the corner of Alec’s mouth.

“What?” Alec huffs. Their arms are a tangle around one another. “Stop-loss?”

Q looks startled; then pleased. “Uh-huh.” He nudges their noses together. “Bye, Alec. Thanks for cooking. And for providing me with lunch.”

“My pleasure. I shall decide if I’m offended by your statement.”

“You do that. I’m right anyway.”

Q goes. He waves at Alec in the window. Alec waves back, heart doing something undisciplined. Somersaults. Salto mortale.

Chapter Text

WhatsApp, 25 Oct, 5:04 PM
Q: eve gave dal the appreciation it deserves
Q: vbhjbrkehb
Q: cveygc
Alec: Q?
Q: Eve hopes you have a strategy for a third date.
Alec: You’re not Q, Q doesn’t capitalise.
Q: Yes, and it’s true not only about the letters, but about men.
Alec: I guessed. Have you stolen his phone and hidden in the bathroom?
Q: Got that in one. I know where you live.
Alec: I’m properly intimidated. My intentions are pure.
Q: I hope not too pure.
Alec: …
Q: sorry. please disregard it.
Alec: I don’t think so, Q. I like your friend.
Q: don’t get attached. i go kill her now. bye.

Alec tries to strategise. In vain – every time he thinks strategy, he thinks Q’s mouth. He gathers data instead.

WhatsApp, 26 Oct, 7:34 AM
Alec: Do I get to meet the cats?

WhatsApp, 26 Oct, 11:02 AM
Q: WHY aren’t you sleep a 7am sunday?
Alec: Thinking.
Q: stop straining yourself. i need to consult with the cats.
Q: the cats: 2 for, 1 against. the final vote is mine, as usual
Q: hold on, i need caffeine for this
Alec: I await your judgment.
Alec: Will you tell me their names one day?
Q: have to deserve it, but your favourite is Alfie.
Alec: black and white?
Q: [photo: Alfie looking out of the window]
Q: the very same
Alec: Hi, Alfie.
Q: saturday? 1 nov?
Alec: Yes.
Q: ok. i withhold the address in case i change my mind.
Alec: I hope you won’t.

Alec puts the phone down and spends the rest of the day humming. Jimmy meets him in the pub in the evening and says he’s alarming.

Fair is fair.

By Friday, Q still hasn’t changed his mind. Despite Alec trying to guess the names of the two other cats the whole week. Unsuccessfully. He goes through typical cat names, women scientists, random nerdy stuff. He runs out of ideas.

Just as he’s about to ask for the address, the other phone rings. The one he doesn’t want to hear ringing, not now. He hopes it’s not something urgent. Or urgent but quick.

But no. It’s urgent and decidedly not quick.

Go-bag. Cab. The phone he shouldn’t bring with him. Thirty minutes to face the doom.

WhatsApp, 31 Oct, 8:16 PM
Alec: Q. Not what I wanted to tell you, but. Work called. Had to be on my way.
Q: convenient
Alec: It isn’t. I’d rather be with you.
Q: do i have reasons to believe it, how do you think?
Q: you go dark, you reappear. job title is a euphemism
Alec: It’s also my job. I can’t broadcast it. Besides, yours is an umbrella term, Q.
Q: mine seems to be ‘a flexible time slot’
Alec: That’s unfair.
Q: just like a week of silence because something ate your phone.
Alec: I told you to expect this.
Q: did you?
Alec: I’ll message when I can.
Q: don’t bother

The rest burns down in silence.

***

Monday morning at his workstation, Q is in a spiral of vindictive plans and nagging self-doubt.

Is it because Q stayed the night in the guest room and not in Alec’s bed? The age thing? Is he too abrasive? Or has he really made it one-sided, sharing barely anything while Alec welcomed him to his home?

Perhaps it was wrong to blame the man for things beyond his control. Well. Provided Alec was truthful.

Because if not - good riddance.
If yes - Q is a moron.

He stews in it, and his colleagues know the look well enough to keep a distance.

His handler, on the other hand, is annoyingly brave. The secure line pings just before lunch. Q glares at the door to his nominal boss’s office. The door opens. The nuisance in a three-piece glares back, taps his ear twice.

Q rolls his eyes, slides on headphones, and hits accept.

3 Nov, 11:52 AM – Secure Line
J. Harper, Head of Cryptography Unit: What?
Handler: SIS asking for a consult. Field team dumping data over a contested link. Custom crypto, rekeying mid-stream.
J. Harper: Just what I need. Send me the sample.
Handler: They can’t push the blob over. Need you in London.
J. Harper: Of fucking course. You know the requirements. Original or don’t bother.
Handler: Yes. Told them, they’re trying to get physical. Go pack.

Eve appears before he rips the headset off. “You’re going to London,” she states, pleased.

“Yep. To work,” Q says, stuffing gear into a backpack. He didn’t tell her. It’s embarrassing enough already.

She looks closely enough to make him want to hide under the desk. “What happened?”

“Him going dark under the pretence of another ‘work trip’,” he replies, not under his desk because he’s brave.

“Have you considered he’s not being deceptive?”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course,” she says, soft. “Which is why I know you lash out first, think second. Especially with people you care about.”

Q deflates. Waves a hand, resigned. “It is what it is. I’m taking Alfie. Will you keep the girls at yours until I’m back?”

“Of course, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

She hugs him and kisses his cheek. Q accepts comfort with a deep sigh.

***

By late afternoon, Alfie and Q are down in MI6’s Tech Branch, aggressively stainless and fluorescent. Q is in front of the machine, glaring; Alfie perches on the corner of Q’s desk, accepting kisses and scritches. Alfie is extremely sociable, enjoys car rides, and is too emotionally attached to Q. Therefore, they travel together as a rule.

Q fiddles with a data pack—or what’s supposed to be a data pack. Despair hits quick, irritation quicker. It’s crystal clear to Q that it will never work—not over a data dump and not from a clone. He needs the original drive.

“I need the original drive,” he tells the tech loitering at his shoulder since forever.

“Mm. Told them you’d say that,” the guy replies. “They told the field to try for physical and not blow too much up.”

“Meh,” Q shrugs and turns to look at the guy.

Objectively, he’s easy on the eye. Q briefly considers rebound. Alfie’s next meow is reproachful. Q abandons the thought.

“I’ll borrow a desk tomorrow and do my actual job while I wait.”

Q and Alfie are back the next morning to do just that. The branch is lively. He’ll never cave to their attempts to hire him - he won’t give up his undergrads and Math Camps and the long commute that keeps him sane. Plus, moving to London? Thanks, but no. The housing market is a fraud.

Q is about to call it a day when the commotion at the entrance rouses Alfie. Good. Means someone else will meet his displeasure and not Q. Q briefly looks up, clocks some tall figure looming over his yesterday’s rebound-that-isn’t-going-to-be, thinks nothing of it, ducks under the desk to open the carrier. He’s rearranging the blanket inside when he hears two sets of steps approach.

He considers remaining under the desk, but remembers they don’t have the power to shame him into overtime, and boldly emerges just in time for a battered Pelicase trunk to be dropped on his desk.

“Oh, lovely,” he says wryly, and looks up, very prepared to glare…

Only to meet the very reason for his bad mood, staring down at him with slack-jawed horror.

Alec looks like Q’s bad mood, and better: hair in its usual revolt, shirt singed at one shoulder, torn at the other where fabric clings to skin.

Well. That explains some of it.

Q’s mouth gets there first, faster than his brain processes the shock and total absurdity.

“You’re late,” he says, dry as the biscuits they keep here.

Alec’s expression turns contrite. “Traffic,” he shrugs - and visibly regrets it.

Q snorts. Looks at the case. The arm. The face. “You’re shot,” he observes, level.

All around them, silence like a curtain. He pays their curious, confused onlookers no mind.

I will have to apologise, Q thinks, watching the wry twist of Alec’s mouth. It is not as disagreeable as usual. It’s embarrassingly close to relief.

“’Tis but a scratch,” Alec replies with perfectly staged dismissal.

As if Q needs to be more endeared. Q snorts, barely keeps from laughing.

“Hard drive. Untouched,” Alec presents, nudging the case closer to Q.

Q pops the latches. Seals intact. The drive looks promising.

A promise of a sleepless night.

“Well. We’ll see if you can attempt optimism again,” Q grumbles, entirely forgetting he’d meant to apologise.

Alfie jumps onto the desk. Meows.

Alec lights up. “Hello, gorgeous,” he croons and scritches. Alfie is ecstatic. Alec begins dripping blood on the floor.

“Alec. You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“It’s not your floor.”

“It’s in front of a desk that’s currently mine. Go see the doctor.”

Fluorescent lights buzz. They flatter no one. Alec looks like an insomniac put through a cheese grater.

It works in favour of the imploring look he gives Q.

“Yes,” Q says.

Alec gives Alfie one more pet, sneers at the room, and goes, steadily dripping.

***

Alec comes back in an MI6 sweatshirt, colour not great.

Q is elbow-deep in the drive, peeling encryption off layer by layer and waiting for the fun to start.

Alec drops into the chair at the vacant desk nearest to Q. Watches Alfie, a furry paperweight on the corner. Then Q.

Q is about to tell him to stop when the monitors flash red. A night-shift senior tech swears. A terminal spits a stream of packets.

“Live push,” the tech says. “Rekey every sixty… no, thirty… no…”

“It’s fine,” Q speaks over him. His eyes flick to Alec for a fraction. “Give me the transport.”

“Satlink died. Bounced off microwave repeater. Clock drift on the field kit. See the sawtooth?”

“Yes, I do,” Q murmurs, pleased.

“Window minus thirty-seven,” Alec adds.

“Good boy,” Q says under his breath, for Alec’s ears only. He drags the capture window back thirty-seven, pads for jitter, tells the system to expect rekeys every 30 seconds.

The cipher cracks. A trickle of data; then a flood.

Q smiles and flips a pane to the wall display. Coordinates. Time stamps.

“06:20, South Acton,” someone calls, moves. Q pays it no mind - not his game.

He rides the rekeys. The alarm cuts. A final checksum lands.

Q takes his hands off the keys. He looks at Alec. Alec is looking at him.

“Useful,” Q offers. “Got it looked at?” he adds with a flick of his eyes to Alec’s formerly-dripping side.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Q turns to the monitors once more; hands off the write-protected copy to the senior tech. Pets Alfie.

Turns properly to Alec. “MI6?” he asks, arch.

Alec grins, a little bleak. “Occasionally. Only when anonymity is required.” He swallows. “Tech research?”

“Unwrap gifts like this until they confess. Occasionally.”

“And mostly?”

“Make sharp things safer and find ways to revert safety back to sharpness when required.”

“GCHQ?” Alec guesses.

Q smiles and stands with a slight groan. “Go home, Alec. Take the pills and sleep. Remember my number?”

Alec rises a fraction too slow. “Yes, I do.”

He pets Alfie.

They stand with the desk between them. Both blink too slowly. Alfie begins to purr.

“Friday?” Alec says, like the word is sharp.

“Cheltenham,” Q agrees. “If you go home right now.”

Alec’s smile is small and precise, perfect as a sunny day in November.

He goes.

Q scoops Alfie into his arms and kisses his head. “Alright, darling. Where were we?”

Chapter Text

WhatsApp, 6 Nov, 7:47 AM
Alec: I have slept an unreasonable number of hours.
Q: good boy.
Alec: You shall not speak to me that way.
Q: because you like it or because you dislike it?
Alec: I shall let you ponder. I procured a new phone device, and it’s acting too smart. I don’t like it.
Q: i can turn off everything you don’t need tomorrow
Q: if we still meeting
Alec: Yes we do. Luckily, I’m quite useless with my arm in a sling.
Q: sling is new.
Alec: No worries. Stitches pull.
Q: is it gory?
Alec: Quite.
Q: will you let me take a look?
Alec: Why, it’s most improper. But yes if you want to.
Q: yes. 4:33 PM from Paddington is your train tomorrow. i’ll meet you at the station.
Alec: I too can find my way around.
Q: no. no buses where i live. you’ll need a ride.
Alec: I’m intrigued.
Q: good.

A two-hour train ride is a struggle. The stitches twinge. He wants to reach and scratch until he bleeds, until the annoying pinch blooms into something fiercer.

Q is waiting for him on the platform.

“Harper,” Alec says, tasting it again.

“Alec,” Q echoes and tilts his chin up, expectant. Alec smiles and obliges.

An old lady gives them a side-eye.

It’s another twenty-five minutes by car. Alec’s intrigue grows like a storm cloud until it resolves when Q slides into a gravel driveway beside a quaint stone cottage.

“You’re living on a farm,” Alec says.

“It’s not a farm, Alec. Just rural. I don’t like the city.”

“Cute.”

“As you say. Come meet the cats.”

Alfie is greeted first—and is idiotically delighted. The other two watch from the sitting room’s doorway, unimpressed. Alec reveals the treats. Q doesn’t scold.

The white one is open to negotiation. She looked big in photos, and she’s bigger in reality; sturdy like a small dog. Her fur is long and fluffy, and her voice is scratchy. She accepts the treats, then plants her front paws on Alec’s knee to sniff his face, and retreats, tail like a chimney.

“Approved,” Q murmurs. “Her name is Lazy.”

“Lazy,” Alec repeats.

“Yes. She had a lazy eye. We treated it.”

Miss Judgement (black, short-haired, green-eyed) continues to glare.

“Best not,” Q chuckles, ruffling Alec’s hair. “You’re injured as it is. She’s Sunday. Sunny.”

“Of course. Absolutely logical,” Alec grunts, standing.

“Tea?” Q asks as he moves to the kitchen.

Alec nods. Redundant—Q’s already reaching for the kettle. Alec takes the kitchen in. Giant oil stove. Old cupboards, sanded and painted anew. It’s everything he has time to note before the lights go out. Everything plunges into darkness. For a few moments, it’s just this—silence and dark.

Q’s sardonic chuckle breaks it. “A power cut. How interesting.”

The light on his phone flashes, briefly blinding.

“Torch?” Alec asks.

“Yes,” Q says, and his light disappears into the corner. Alec follows and finds the pantry. Places a hand on the small of Q’s back.

“Maybe a camp stove?” he murmurs.

“No, not that extreme.”

“Wood? The place must have a fireplace.”

“Not functional.”

“The weather isn’t awful.”

“You’re not building a fire in my yard,” Q declares, and thrusts two items into Alec’s hands—a torch and an accumulator for it.

“Fancy,” Alec comments, sliding the accumulator in place and clicking the torch on. “Why not?”

Q sighs. Surrenders. “I don’t have wood. I know who does. Stay. Wander around.”

Alec tries to give him the torch, but Q waves it away.

Allowed, Alec wanders. The house is tall and slightly contrary. The landing on the first floor has two windows. One of the three bedrooms has no windows at all. The smallest appears to be Q’s room; it barely fits the bed. Alec supposes the largest is the guest room, then. It’s too illogical, so he just leaves his bag on the landing under one of the windows.

Q returns with a good stack and kindling. “Neighbours. I help them with internet stuff.”

Q doesn’t allow him to take the wood, glaring at his arm. Alec has to concede.

Inspection of the garden—ridiculously large, making Alec jealous—reveals he doesn’t have to improvise a firepit: an old brazier is tucked beside an overgrown raised bed of… weeds.

“You know what it is?” Alec chuckles, pointing.

“Old heavy thing?”

“Yes. To make fire inside.”

“Really? How lucky.”

They secure the cats inside, hang one lantern from a branch, and get busy. Alec builds a fire. Q arranges seating and blankets. Finds an old enamel kettle, mugs, a tea tin. Watches Alec coax water to boil with fond scepticism.

They drink tea sitting hip to hip, looking at the bright orange flame. It ticks and creaks and pops. Q sighs and leans his head on Alec’s shoulder. Alec is grateful Q sat on his good side.

“Heating?”

“Oil boiler. Dead without power. The walls are thick; it’s fine. Hot water is the issue.”

“Anything in the fridge that needs rescuing?”

“Cheese. Jam.”

“Bread? A pan that won’t melt?”

“Yes.”

Alec constructs grilled cheese sandwiches in an ancient cast-iron pan. It takes beautifully to flame.

Q makes indecent noises while eating. From inside the house, cats glare, disapproving.

“Not quite what I planned,” Q says.

“What did you plan?”

“Nothing. I’m awful at this.”

“Well, I quite like the current vibe. You can pretend you arranged a power cut to amuse me.”

“I take all the credit for the faulty power grid,” Q nods.

The fire sinks to embers. They fill a thermos with tea and retreat inside. Power stays out. They smell like smoke and cheese. Q finds candles, reconsiders, swaps them for two battery lanterns so the cats can roam without courting catastrophe.

“Romantic,” Q notes, arch.

Alec hums.

“Silence is not ideal,” Q adds, less arch, more vulnerable. “I was meaning to apologise.”

“To me?”

“Yes, Alec.”

“You can if it’ll make you feel better. But I don’t think you were unjustified.”

“You’re too kind for your own good.”

“I know.”

“I hate apologising.”

“I figured.”

Q does not apologise.

Silence again. Q huffs, fidgets, then shoots upright and into motion. He drags cushions off the sofa. Brings blankets. More pillows.

“What are you—”

“If there is no power, there will be a fort.”

The architecture is questionable. Alec’s shoulder complains. Q catches the wince and orders an ergonomic review.

He crawls in and lies back, leaning on his healthy elbow. Ergonomics: great. Structural integrity: questionable. Alec doesn’t know what holds the blanket roof aloft, but he finds he doesn’t care when Q crawls in with one of the lights.

He’s flushed and a little breathless from the effort; the cardigan has been left behind somewhere; the t-shirt clings.

“Show me,” Q says softly.

Alec’s hesitation is but a flicker: the lights going out.

The sling goes first; freedom is welcome even as it hurts. The hoodie follows with minimal struggle—Q tugging the zip down, coaxing the sleeve carefully off his bad arm. Then, the issue of the t-shirt. Alec hesitates. Q does not. He catches the hem and drags it up. Alec allows it. Q undresses him with casual competence, and Alec tries not to lean into every stray brush of skin against skin.

The dressing adhesive is half-hearted by now. The corner peels away easily. Q inspects the stitches—angry but fine; the lantern light does the picture a kindness, hiding the worst purpling in shadow.

“What was it?” Q asks, not horrified, not appalled. Just curious.

“Some stray piece of metal. Debris.”

Q scrunches his nose. Prods the edge. “Need a change?”

“Just slap a new one on later. Let it breathe first.”

Q nods, unpeels the bandage, and sends it beyond the fort’s realm. “Acceptable,” he pronounces, and Alec notices Q has been kneeling across his lap since the beginning of this inspection. “Too warm,” Q adds.

“Yes,” Alec agrees, skimming a careful hand under Q’s t-shirt, where skin is warm and a bit damp. “Tell me to stop.”

“I will. Not yet,” Q says, and leans in.

The kiss is precise and greedy. Alec is guilty of being too forward with his mouth. Q meets him there without reserve. Alec’s hand climbs the crest of Q’s spine, and Q makes a sound that’ll live in Alec’s head rent-free.

“Too warm,” Q breathes again, voice pouring over Alec’s lips, and this time the t-shirt goes up and off. Q shivers and laughs. Sits back, and Alec can look—the pale, almost glowing skin: smooth, unblemished, startling.

Q looks like something sacrosanct. Not something to touch. Alec’s hand falls away.

Q huffs—I see—and considers him like a deity would a mortal. Impartial curiosity.

“What are you thinking?”

“Folly.”

“I see that,” Q grins. “Be specific.”

“You are divinity.”

“Folly indeed,” Q murmurs, not displeased, and bends to map Alec with his mouth like a route: corner of his mouth, a cheekbone, a soft place just under the hinge of his jaw, his collarbone. Alec sets a steady hand across Q’s back.

Lazy is settled at their feet. Alfie is asleep somewhere, purring like distant weather. Sunday pushes through the flap, sits, and glares.

“Judgement has arrived,” Alec whispers.

Q snorts and laughs. It’s less divine a sound. Alec prefers the reality.

The lantern dims. Alec pulls Q closer and lays them down among the pillows. Q threads their fingers together. The lantern dims further; they’re almost plunged into darkness. Neither moves to fix it.

“Game, round two?” Alec offers softly. “Same rules?”

“Proceed,” Q allows, and Alec hears the smile.

“Full name?”

Q sighs, put-upon. “Jonathan Aleron Harper. Go by Harper. Like Q. You?”

“Alec Trevelyan, born Aleksey Trubetskoy-Velyaninov. A bit of a mouthful.”

“Oh my. I was wondering what the aubergine thing was about and why you sound a little Scottish.”

“I do?”

“A little.”

“You sound Oxford-ish. Where are you from, then?”

“Welsh. What did you want to be at twelve?”

“Tall,” Alec says, deadpan. “2 a.m. truth: someone useful.”

“You have succeeded in both,” Q grants, easy and so matter-of-fact that Alec has to swallow.

“Next of kin?” Alec asks.

“Eve,” Q replies. “She’ll have to raise the cats. Are you gay?”

Alec laughs shortly. He can’t see in the dark, but he feels Sunny’s glare on him. “I can take a woman if I must. But the occasions I desired to do so were rare. But they were. So, difficult to say.”

“Accepted.”

“Longest relationship?”

“This,” Q blurts out, and immediately goes very still.

Something inside Alec does, too.

He squeezes Q’s hand. “Is that how you make confessions? Like apologies?”

“Yes. I’ve been told I’m quite difficult to work around.”

“Minefield under fireworks.”

Q snorts and relaxes beside Alec again. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Random fact: I love things that blow up.”

Q shifts closer and nudges until Alec turns his head, and Q kisses him, soft but weighted with gravity that steadies Alec where it might crush a lesser man.

They lie for a while. Quiet here is alien to Alec’s ears. No passing cars. No telly mumbling in the neighbour’s living room. Only the soft snuffling of cats and Q’s breathing.

“Tell me,” Q murmurs abruptly, clearing his throat, “what’s your opinion on camping?”

“I can camp,” Alec replies, a touch baffled.

“I help organise a maths camp every summer,” Q’s fingers tap Alec’s thigh. The words come slowly, as if Q is undecided about whether he should keep talking. “July, ten days in the middle of Welsh nowhere. Fresh air, a lot of math. Kids with an IQ higher than most adults.”

“Is it an invitation?”

Q hesitates. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think about it.”

Alec squeezes his hand.

The morning will come. So will July.