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James Bond, the legendary 007, was bloody infuriating.
However, when asked what he meant by this, Q could only shake his head. There was nothing to point to with regard to Bond’s behavior because it was so... polite. Which of course should have been a dream for Q, who had to deal with any number of surly agents in the course of his work. But from 007 — predatory ne’er-do-well and self-appointed Golden Boy of MI6 — the recent shift to a benignly humorous and thoughtful coworker routine actually felt somewhat menacing.
Not menacing per se but... it didn’t bode well.
It in fact made Q a bit restless, as if there were something more he should be doing, preferably far away from, well, everyone else.
Especially when Bond brought gifts.
They were always little things — souvenirs from countries traveled to for work, tins of specialty tea or a well-designed travel mug, a cat toy or two for Harold and Maude — and they never came with conditions of any kind.
Q managed a quiet, sincere thank you, and Bond only ever nodded with a hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes, and that was it. No implication of a quid pro quo about it.
Which felt... off, given the weapons grade flirtation he wielded at others in MI6, the innuendos and insinuations of a bit of “I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine” that were flung at every remotely attractive agent on the roster. He even targeted some of Q’s minions, all of whom privately admitted they’d never have the courage to relent.
And yet, even after everything the two of them had been through, the amount of close collaboration they’d achieved, the ways in which Q had defied all rules and protocols and laws for Bond, the agent had settled on being nothing more than gentlemanly and courteous with Q. It felt less like respect and more like he was trying to keep himself removed for some unknown reason.
Except that he kept up this consistent stream of thoughtful gifts — ones that never seemed to be for anything, either. They weren’t timed to any specific holidays, and they didn’t only come after especially difficult missions. There was never a card attached to explain why Bond felt the need to give Q, say, a plush tiger mascot from the upcoming Pyeongchang Olympics.
“His name is Soohorang. Made me think of you.”
“Are you sure it was this and not the sixty-plus hours I spent in your ear over the weekend?”
Bond shrugged, supremely unconcerned. Q sighed and went back to ignoring him.
Or at least looking like he was ignoring him.
That was the problem with James Bond. Because he constantly made himself known but never actively demanded his quartermaster’s attention, Q didn’t have a reason to give him any. And that was excruciating because there was something about Bond that puzzled Q to no end, and he wanted an excuse to figure him out. He wanted time and resources to fiddle with 007, the inner workings of whom looked to be obscure and possibly very messy, until he’d dismantled him completely and understood what made him tick. And then he wanted to put him back together again, adding in any improvements that tickled his fancy.
This wasn’t how one behaved with coworkers, however. In fact, this was not SOP for humans in general, he’d learned, though it took quite a bit of work to remember that rule. Z had needed to drill it into the both of them, but because the lesson was learned after they’d grown into the absolutely too-curious geniuses they were — a patch on top of an already existing operating system — it wasn’t his default way of working.
Yet he’d managed to teach himself any number of human interaction protocols, most of which consisted of toning down his curiosity with regard to people’s limits. This meant he was able to continue to seem uninterested in delving into what made Special Agent James Bond tick, even though what he wanted, more than he had any right to, was to get his hands dirty.
After all this time, that desire had simply become a hazard of the job, and Q had so far been very good at overriding it.
So far being the operative words.
~~
“You love the gifts, don’t play like you don’t.”
Moneypenny only had an inch of her brick of moussaka left and had a loaded fork halfway to her mouth. Q was picking at his spanakopita so diligently it nearly had no phyllo crust left on it. The flakes of pastry covered his plate in an explosive pattern radiating out from the center.
He set down his fork and grimaced. “I do. But it’s awkward. He doesn’t get you anything.”
“Why would he? We don’t work together anymore.” She shoved the bite in her mouth and closed her eyes to concentrate on it, as she had done with every other bite so far. This really was the best Greek restaurant in town. When she’d swallowed, she added, “He’s got no one else, you know. Mallory is only there for directives, not direction. Since Mansfield’s been gone I think Bond is a little...”
“If you say rudderless I’m leaving,” Q snapped. She tilted her head as if to say now I don’t have to and he nudged his glasses up so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s not in my job description to be a rudder.”
“You’re joking, right? What do you think it’s like having someone in your ear day and night, who knows exactly where you are and what you’re doing at all times, and is feeding you intel and making informed decisions for you, not to mention getting you out alive every time?”
“Yes, but that ends the moment the mission’s complete. It has to.” It was clear to Q that agents needed to feel control over their personal lives as much as possible, given how little say they had in their own bodily safety at virtually any moment on the job.
“I’m just saying his gratitude isn’t untoward.”
“Is that what it is, then?”
Moneypenny gave him a flat, too-kind smile, eyes just shy of pitying. He shifted in his seat and looked down at his plate. Being seen as human was so humiliating.
“Next week is Valentine’s. I suppose we’ll see?”
Q rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, but it was worth it to hear Moneypenny snort in self-derision.
“You’re right. That was a little too...”
“Yes.”
“But now you’re curious, aren’t you?”
“I... yes. But about something quite different. Thank you.”
The best thing about Eve was that she knew, more or less, when to keep her mouth closed. Or when to fill it with moussaka instead of words, which she did for the rest of their lunch date.
~~
Valentine’s Day was a wretched holiday, but at times it was useful. Z loved it unreservedly for the kitsch factor — at least, that’s what he said. Q knew Z’s penchant for extravagant gestures was just made for a holiday like this one, and it was fun to watch him employ it with abandon, even if he insisted that his tongue was firmly placed in his cheek all the while.
Q however strove for subtlety in all things, and so a day devoted to placing your heart directly on your sleeve always felt a bit vulgar to him. Still didn’t mean he couldn’t use the occasion to his advantage.
When he arrived at his workstation after a quick lunch break, however, he was in for a surprise. Standing on his desk was a huge bouquet of bright pink roses. And Bond was hovering nearby. Q’s face flushed hot and he tried desperately to slow his heart rate to something approaching normal as he stepped up to the arrangement and plucked a card from amidst the blooms.
Fuck everyone else, you’re my favorite forever. Valentine Bros FTW? <3 Z
Of course. Pink roses were gratitude and appreciation, not romance.
Breathing a heavy sigh, Q tossed the card onto the desk and took a moment to smell the lovely, vibrant flowers. He’d text Z later to thank him.
“Glad to see someone is showing their admiration for you to the extent you deserve.”
Bond’s voice was suddenly close by Q’s shoulder and he hoped he’d managed not to jump. Without removing his too-warm face from the cool, fragrant bouquet, he hummed in agreement, then added, “A lovely surprise from a close friend.”
“Good.” The word held an odd amount of finality to it, and Q couldn’t help looking up at Bond. “I’m glad,” he added, a lopsided smile showing the creases around one eye. “Chocolate?”
He leaned his hip against Q’s desk and held out a fan of three bars of fancy dark chocolate, a brand that Q had previously enjoyed, and Q nodded warily as he took them. Bond looked for all the world like he was simply the means of delivery, not the source of this gift.
Q unwrapped the first bar of chocolate right there and broke off a piece, offering it to Bond. “Share it with me?”
“With pleasure.” Bond took the piece from Q without brushing their fingers together, but it still caused Q to hold his breath. Bond waited until Q had broken off another piece and raised it to his mouth to nibble at his own piece.
“Thank you,” Q murmured around the quickly melting bite.
“It’s nothing,” Bond said as he stood up again. He was preparing to leave.
“It’s not. It’s kind. And I appreciate it. All of it.” Q gestured to his workstation, which was adorned — the more rightful term might be littered — with only a fraction of Bond’s gifts.
“Well... good. I appreciate you, so...” Bond had leaned in to speak but then he took a large step away mid-sentence and didn’t look as though he planned to finish it. It was clear he wanted to make his exit after the sincerity, but Q couldn’t let the moment go.
“I’m not good at little gifts like this.” He spoke low, adjusting his glasses and looking down at his desk, still dominated by Z’s extravagant bouquet. “My mind is too practical for that. So I threw something functional together, and...”
He slid a small, black hardcase over to Bond and chewed on his lip as Bond frowned, examining it before opening.
“It’s not going to explode,” Q muttered at Bond’s trepidation.
Bond let out a heavy exhale and rolled his eyes. A hint of sideways smirk drew creases around his mouth as he opened the case.
Inside, nestled against the foam, was a phone. Bond looked up at Q, a question in his light eyes.
“It’s... secure. In all the ways. It works off of satellites, not cell towers. It’s as Bond-proof as I can make it — should survive terminal velocity impact and submersion to depths of 500 fathoms.”
A soft huff of amusement escaped Bond as he picked it up. “I assume this is not standard issue, then.”
“God no.” As Bond looked for an on button, Q added, “It’s set to your fingerprint. Just touch the screen wherever.”
He did so and, eyes intent on navigating the screen that blinked on, he quietly asked, “And what, exactly, is it to be used for?”
Q took a deep breath and let it all out before answering. “Navigation?” Bond quirked a questioning eyebrow without looking up and Q tried to continue. “An emergency call comes directly to me. Not Q Branch, me. This phone is off every radar imaginable, so no matter how many times you have to disappear, I’m... reachable.”
“As am I, I suppose.”
“I can track your blood, Bond. I don’t need a phone to tell me where you are.”
“No, but it could tell you how I am, if you wanted to know.” He glanced up, but gave Q only a lightning quick flash of those ice blue eyes before his gaze roved around the room.
“You’re... not wrong,” was all Q could say in response. The idea that Bond might want Q to know such a thing had never occurred to him.
Bond seemed to feel how nonplussed Q was and he stepped even further away. “I... Thank you for this, Q. Have a,” he swallowed as if he had been about to leap over a widening gap, then thought better of it. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Q turned away as his face flushed hot, his eyes on the roses once more. “Yes. You too, 007.”
Once Bond had made his exit, Q sat heavily in his chair and pressed his hands to his face, regretting every one of the choices that had led to the last few moments. He cursed Moneypenny, but he knew he had no one to blame but himself.
~~
The clock on Q’s computer screen read 23:47 when a discreet notification flag appeared in the corner. Q Branch was running on skeleton staff, monitoring the few agents on missions in hostile territories. Q wasn’t even necessary to their working, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go home. Z was out on a first date — because of course he’d been able to pull someone on the most coupley day of the year — and an empty house was not where Q needed to be just then.
He made sure everyone’s attention was on their own work before clicking open the little chat window to see a message from Bond’s new phone.
JB: Is this a beacon or a tether?
Shit.
What a loaded question.
He took care in responding.
Q: It’s whatever you need it to be.
JB: To be used only in emergency, or...?
Q: See above answer.
JB: Need or want?
Heart skipping a beat, Q clicked away from the window to gather his thoughts.
Giving an agent free rein was always a risk, and giving it to a Double O would, by definition, be a disaster. But this entire experiment was to understand James Bond better, after all, so by rights Q shouldn’t shut this down so early. He just hadn’t anticipated getting cold feet when presented with the chance to actually learn what it was Bond wanted.
He clicked back to the window and typed quickly, pressing enter before he could second-guess himself.
Q: It was a gift. How you use it is for you to decide.
It took an alarmingly long time for a response to pop up. Long enough for Q’s lip to get chewed to shreds.
JB: I can’t help but feel I’m being set up to fail. I’d hate to overstep...
Q: How, exactly?
JB: Q, you’ve given me unfettered, untraceable access to you. Without some boundaries set up, that could get dangerous.
Q: It’s just a phone, Bond.
JB: And yet, as you were so fond of telling me, you can kill people with your laptop in your pyjamas.
Q: I’m unsure who you think will end up damaged from whatever catastrophe you’re envisioning.
JB: Never mind. The answer is clear. I’ll let you go.
The gut drop at reading those words was so severe Q’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. Had he just offended Bond? Had he pushed him away instead of giving him a chance to draw closer? Shit.
Humans were so confounding.
~~
It took two days of radio silence from Bond for Q to break the one rule he’d made for himself around that damned phone and be the first to make contact.
Q: I was hoping it could be an anchor. If you needed one.
And then it took nearly a day for a response to come, and in that time, Q cleaned and tidied every corner of his office, the prototype lab, his laptop, his workroom at home, and the kitchen. Z stopped him from starting in on the bathroom and sat him down with chinese takeaway to talk.
“What the fuck is this, anyway? He’s not your type. Why is he so important?”
“I don’t know. But he needs something from me, and I’m not disinclined to give it.”
“What, for fuck’s sake?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“By giving him agency with regard to contacting you.”
“Sure, yes. If he wants it.”
“You think he doesn’t?”
Q shrugged and picked at his orange beef.
“You’re afraid he doesn’t want it like you want it,” Z mused as Q continued to focus on the food he wasn’t eating. He could feel his brother’s gaze hot on his face. “Nooooo. You’re afraid that he does . Fucking hell, mate. What is it about this tosser?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well figure it the fuck out already, Christ.”
Q leveled a deadly glare at him and he finally went back to his mapo tofu, only reviving the conversation when he started regaling Q with a new chapter of his conquest from the other night involving a lost handcuff key, a startled cat, and a bathtub full of jello.
The hilarity of the story nearly caused Q to miss the notification noise on his phone.
JB: Got a minute?
“It’s him, innit? God, you’ve got it bad.”
“Shut. Up.”
A minute later, Q was locked in his workroom, staring at the screen.
Q: Of course.
JB: I wanted to apologize.
Q: I think that’s my job. I failed to make it clear that the *purpose* of the phone was for you to have access to me. If you’d rather not, that’s fine.
JB: No, that’s... good. I’m grateful for it. Honored. Not particularly worthy.
Q: I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t think you were worthy, Bond.
JB: Then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.
Q: The man I know is someone I want to hear from whenever he needs to reach out.
JB: Thank you, Q.
Q: You’re more than welcome, Bond.
And... that was it. For close to a week.
The next time Bond used the phone was while on a mission. Which made no sense, since Q was on comms with him at the time.
It was a rather tense moment, as they were waiting for the target to relocate his terrorist operation from a safe house to new headquarters, and the timing for when to move on him was critical.
JB: Are you here if I need you?
Q: Always.
JB: Good.
Q: Did you need something?
JB: Just that.
Q shook his head. The comms had been quiet during this exchange — unsurprising, given the circumstances of the mission — but after, Bond brought out his trademark snark for the first time in much too long, and Q remembered how much he revelled in engaging with it. It felt more... James Bond, instead of the stilted, polite way he usually was with Q.
“Whenever you’re ready, Q.”
“Things are still settling into place, 007, so you’ll move when I tell you to, and not a moment sooner. ”
“Take your time. I’m used to people needing a minute to adjust.”
A hush went over Q Branch, and everyone started throwing furtive glances Q’s direction, curious how he would react. The statement was subtle enough to go without comment, but Q couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
“And I’m used to people following my orders without complaint. Now stay absolutely still until I say otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a good agent. Well done.”
The silence on the other end was shaped like a smirk, and Q looked down at his hands poised on the keyboard to hide the tiny smile he allowed himself. It had the added bonus of keeping him from seeing the knowing glances being thrown around Q Branch.
Later, there was a text that only consisted of the clapping emoji, which succeeded in making Q feel even more smug. He chose not to respond, as silence left him the higher ground.
~~
“Did you really dom the shit out of 007 on comms? I can’t believe you!”
Moneypenny had brought lunch into Q’s office, since he was running three missions at once — Thai food this time, from the best takeaway spot in this corner of the city. He choked on a broccoli floret at her words and needed a moment to recover before answering.
“He asked for it.”
“Not the way I heard it, unless... Oh. He’s a bloody brat, isn’t he?”
“Obviously. I thought you knew. Didn’t you enjoy him in Macau?”
Her eyes twinkled merrily at Q. Or possibly at the memory. “He must have been on his best behaviour for me.”
“At least he didn’t try to give you gifts...”
“He’s like a cat. Leaving dead birds for you to show he likes you.”
“I’d prefer that to things he spends money on. Does he think I need someone to provide for me?”
“Maybe it’s his love language.”
Q just looked at her. She relented.
“All right, using the word ‘love’ with regard to Bond’s motives is shady as fuck, but hear me out...”
“Absolutely not. He’s dated multiple people in this institution and none of them were inundated with this many gifts.”
“How do you know? 0012 could have an entire box of jewelry from Bond and we’d never know.”
The thought made Q distinctly queasy. He set aside his bathing rama and checked his phone. No messages from a certain unlisted number. Moneypenny had the decency to not comment on the situation again during lunch, thank Christ. He appreciated her for so many reasons, but once again, that particular one really hit the spot.
~~
JB: Are you awake?
It was late. That didn’t matter. Q was willing and able to answer.
Q: Always.
JB: False.
Q: Nearly always.
JB: Got a minute?
Q: For you, always.
JB: You flatter.
Q: I really don’t.
JB: Wish you would.
Q: No you don’t.
JB: All right, never mind.
God, the man was impossible. So skittish.
Q: What do you want, Bond?
JB: An anchor.
There it was. Q’s words coming back to him. He didn’t know what to do with them, of course. He tried for the obvious.
Q: You have one.
JB: Show me. Outside in five min.
That gave him pause. Q hadn't even known Bond was back home. Well, he'd kept track of when Bond had landed safely in the country, but he hadn't been notified that medical was done with him, let alone that all the other debriefings and checks had been duly accomplished. Knowing Bond, they hadn't. Or he'd breezed through them with a charming smile and a wink.
Five minutes was more than enough time to get nervous, but not enough to warrant tracking down Z for a pep talk, so Q ended up doing nothing more than changing out of his pyjamas and slowly drinking a glass of water to try and calm himself. It didn’t quite work.
Or, it worked until Bond stepped out of the shadows looking a little roughed up and a lot unsure of himself. Q’s heart smacked his chest, once, so hard it hurt.
“Oh.” After a moment he remembered to breathe. “Come inside. Are you all right?”
“Yes and no. No, then yes.” Bond took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’d rather not go in.”
“I don’t care. I’m not standing out here in the cold, dark garden at three in the morning when there’s tea and a sofa and warm blankets inside.”
Bond started to back away, but Q’s stern voice cut through the night and he paused. “This is how I anchor you. If you don’t like it, look elsewhere.”
He grimaced, but didn’t retreat any farther. “I don’t need to be coddled.”
“ I want to be cozy while we talk. I couldn’t care less about your comfort.”
The delivery was deadpan enough that Q was rewarded with a faint, amused twitch of Bond’s mouth. A small triumph.
Once inside with a mug of tea in hand, Bond slumped into Z’s overstuffed leather recliner and sighed. He suddenly looked old, worn out, frazzled, and possibly drunk? No, just exhausted. The mission had ended well, but Q had been able to actually hear the pressure Bond had been under nonstop for the past three days. Between the high stakes and the high level of intrigue required, Bond had been strung tight as a violin string by the end. Q couldn’t begrudge him a chance to finally let down his defenses. And yet for Q to witness it happen — in his home, no less — was both disconcerting and intriguing in ways he didn’t have time to examine.
“Are you injured?”
Bond’s eyes were half-closed but Q could see they were focused on him. Bond shook his head. “Bruises. Nothing more.”
“Have you slept?”
Another slow shake of his head.
“Drink your tea, then I’ll help you with that.”
“With what?” Bond’s lip curled into a subtle sneer.
“Sleeping.”
“That’s not what I asked for.” Bond’s expression hadn’t changed but something around his eyes had gone wary.
“No, but it’s the inevitable outcome of what you asked for, so we might as well take it into account.”
“I just wanted somewhere safe...”
“Bond, you’re in London. This isn’t about safety and you know it.”
“I...” Bond shut his mouth and exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “I’m not trying to weasel my way—”
“I know. It’s fine. Just... let me.”
Bond shifted in the chair as if he didn’t want to be too engulfed by it. “Let you what?”
“Help.”
A momentary pause, then Bond gave him a small, slow, deliberate nod.
Relief rushed through Q, bathing him in warmth. He pulled a straight-backed chair over to Bond’s recliner and started talking in a soft, calm voice about his day, infusing the mundanities with sensory descriptions to encourage Bond to ground himself in his body. When Bond had finished his tea Q suggested he recline the chair so he could relax. When Bond had done so, Q took hold of his forearm and started to give it a steady, firm massage, working his way down from elbow to wrist, and then working the muscles in his palm and fingers to release the tension there.
He continued talking, asking simple questions that had nothing to do with either work or personal life to keep Bond present and to distract him from any discomfort he might feel about the care Q was taking of him. When he was done with the right arm, Q slid off his chair and onto the arm of the recliner, perching there lightly and continuing to talk about the best way he’d found to reset the palmprints on the handguns he issued to Double O agents.
Bond shifted only slightly at Q’s new proximity, his eyes refocusing to take in their relative positions, free hand only twitching slightly toward his shoulder holster.
“I’m just going to do your other arm now. Is this all right?”
“Yes. Feels good. Thank you.”
Q nodded as he took hold of Bond’s left forearm and worked his thumbs down the knotty muscles. He continued talking even as Bond’s free hand came to rest just below his kneecap. It felt more like a steadying gesture than anything, and Q appreciated the extra assurance that he wouldn’t tip off his perch.
In fact, the longer he sat there, the more he was grateful for the soothing point of contact between them. Bond didn’t change the grip or location of his hand, though he had every opportunity to move up Q’s thigh if he’d wanted. Instead he just held on, even as he seemed to relax more and more.
When Q finished the massage, he didn’t make a move to get up, and Bond brought his newly freed hand to Q’s hip. Again the touch felt steadying, not possessive or encroaching on Q’s agency — he still felt he could get up at any moment, though any sort of incentive to do so was draining quickly away.
Experiencing Bond in such a calm state felt like getting him as close to neutral gear as possible. Not yet powered down to be taken apart, but idling, nearly ready for testing. And goodness wasn’t that an interesting place to be already?
It was too soon, and Bond was too weary, for trying something tonight, but if anything was an indication of the possibility of experiments to come, this felt like it.
“Who lives here with you? If you don’t mind my asking...” Bond’s eyes were now closed and his voice was low and growly with fatigue, but it was also free of any insinuation.
“My brother.”
“And if he wakes up to find an MI6 agent in his front room...?”
Q managed not to say, he’ll wonder why you’re not in my bed, and instead replied, “He’s not easily rattled.”
“And might there be anyone else who could find fault with this scenario?”
“If you’re asking about a jealous partner, you’re wasting your breath.”
“Only non-jealous partners for our unflappable Q.”
Q didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he shifted on the arm of the chair, and Bond’s hands moved with him, holding a little tighter.
“I should let you sleep.”
“If that requires you to leave, I vote no.”
“Bond, you need to rest.”
“James.”
“Him too.”
That evoked a chuckle, and Q couldn’t help smiling at how resilient this man was.
“Look. An anchor doesn’t leave once a ship has stilled in the water. It stays in place to keep the craft from drifting.” He opened his eyes, flashing that startling blue at Q, and frowned. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t stay either...”
“Not in the slightest.” Q rested a hand on the opposite arm of the chair, leaning over Bond in a way that he hoped felt more protective than intrusive. “I don’t want you out of my sight just yet.”
“Then...” Bond nudged at Q’s knee and caught hold of a belt loop to tug slightly, not enough to move him but to be a clear indication that he wanted Q much closer. “Come help me sleep.”
It was absurdly endearing to see this deadly man — who still smelled faintly of both propellant from emptying his clip in a distant warehouse not ten hours ago and the gasoline explosion that followed — unbend enough to ask for physical comfort from another person.
Physical comfort that wasn’t sexual.
At least, not the way Q performed it. He simply slid into the big chair, pressed up against Bond’s side but propped up enough so he could drag his fingers through Bond’s hair while humming softly.
Bond rumbled his appreciation and Eve’s allusion to cat behaviour came to mind.
Q sat there for nearly an hour, watching Bond slowly unwind towards sleep as if he were a clockwork man. First he stopped concentrating on Q’s closeness and movements, then on the stiffness in his own body, then on his breathing, and finally he had wound down enough to not even notice the gentle touch of his hair. Q subtly slowed his movements over the last five minutes to help Bond’s breath slow and deepen, and soon it was clear he’d drifted off.
The problem then was: how to get out of the chair without waking a Double O whose senses were tuned to startle at nearly anything.
After a few minutes of assessment and observation, it was clear to Q that leaving for his own bed was impossible if Bond were to continue sleeping. So he settled in for a few hours of closeness until Bond woke on his own and Q could escape to get some real rest.
The proposition was not distasteful. In fact, Q hoped the immediacy of their contact tonight would help align them to each other more fully, which could only help them in future — with both their working relationship and whatever this might end up being.
...Except then it was morning.
Q’s shoulder was crushed painfully against the chair, and his face was smushed against something warm and that proved to be Bond’s neck, and there was a hot forearm pressed awkwardly to the small of his back. He was sweaty and had possibly been drooling, and he realized that he’d woken because the hand on his hip was twitching erratically.
Q raised his head to look at Bond, whose eyes flew right open. Not startled, not scared or shocked or worried, just immediately focused and alert.
“Oh. Good morning.” He tried to stretch and must have realised how entangled they were and how little room there was. He left off trying as his eyes focused more closely on Q. “All right?”
“Yes, thank you.” Q struggled to sit up but the chair, when still in its reclined position, was not particularly stable, and everything wobbled a bit. “How’d you sleep?”
“Well.” Bond’s voice was full of surprise and satisfaction. “It had been a while.”
“Since you’d slept?”
“Since I’ve gotten actual rest. Somewhat shocking it happened with another person nearby.”
“Do I pass the anchor test, then?” Q teased, but the genuine smile on Bond’s lips caused him to wonder if that hadn’t been the case, without either of them meaning for it to happen.
“Clearly. Thank you, Quartermaster.”
“Andrew.” The shock of saying his real name out loud required taking a deep breath and holding it for just a moment.
Bond’s smile shifted away from his piercing eyes, but his voice was warm as he reiterated, “James.”
“You’re welcome, James.”
~~
Later that same day, in the middle of testing a new prototype that was highly explosive, Q’s alert went off. He waited until it was safe to remove his gloves and eye protection — and made sure no one else was nearby — before checking the message.
JB: This thing. What’s happening here. It’s not a working relationship.
Q: I should hope not.
JB: So the phone, the anchoring...
Q: ...is not your quartermaster playing favorites.
JB: Then... what is it?
Q: You tell me.
JB: I’m asking.
Q: Let me put it this way: I didn’t issue you a piece of tech on a random Wednesday, James.
JB: You gave me a gift on Valentine’s Day. Right.
JB: And your other Valentine is all right with this?
Q: The flowers were from my brother. There’s no one else, James.
JB: Ah. Then... would it be all right if I asked you to dinner?
Q: As in, would I say yes?
Q: Because the answer is yes.
JB: And if, afterwards, I asked you to... take my mind off things...?
Q: I’m certain I could find a way to do so which would benefit us both.
JB: You, sir, are a genius.
Q: I like the sound of that. Though I have heard it before...
JB: And will hear it again.
Q: I do plan on learning all your settings and then figuring out how to keep you at peak performance.
Q: If you’ll allow it.
JB: I’d love nothing more.
JB: Pick you up at eight tonight?
Q: It’s a date.
JB: Yes. It is.