Chapter Text
So many thanks to dr_girlfriend who took time away from writing her Quriosity 00Q story (go read that next if you haven't, it's amazing) to beta this one! Any remaining errors are my fault. This is ever so much better due to her hard work!
Gorgeous cover artwork by thislostcastaway!
Querencia: From the Spanish verb Querer, which means to desire or to love/be fond of. A word that defies clear translation into English, but embodies a place where you feel safe, where you are your most authentic self; a place where you feel at home.
There is a serious problem with Q working for MI6, Mallory decides. True, the man is a model employee, and in the weeks following the Skyfall debacle he gets Q branch up and running as smoothly and more effectively than ever. He’s brilliant and utterly unflappable in the face of chaos. He delivers clear, commanding orders to his agents and branch workers alike. Even James Bond, the most notoriously difficult agent, just winks and does as he’s told when Q demands Bond get his arse back to Medical until he is released or so help him, Q will cancel the order on the new Aston Martin he has planned.
The real issue is that Q is distractingly handsome and has a voice like perfectly-aged scotch and his hands...those constantly moving, enticing hands. Whenever Mallory is around Q he can’t stop his mind from imagining what it would be like to suck on each ridiculously long finger. Thank the gods that after they’d done the introductory handshake it wasn’t expected each time they meet, because apparently even at his age he still has to fight down an erection simply at the memory of holding that slender hand in his own.
It’s inappropriate as hell and he knows it. Q is 18 years younger than him; of course he’d checked, like the masochist he is. And Q is his subordinate. And even if he wasn’t, he would probably just be disgusted if a balding man with a bit of extra padding around the middle tried to chat him up. Especially since he has no idea about Q’s sexual preferences. Which he has no business thinking about. At all. Except for the part where he can’t help himself.
Mallory sighs, and even though he knows it’s pointless he checks a mirror to straighten his tie again and tugs at the sleeves of his best suit before heading downstairs for a meeting with Q. Now that MI6 has been back up and running for a few months he’s been meeting individually with all the department heads, just to check in and make sure things are flowing well under his new management. He can’t deny that he’s been looking forward to spending time with Q in his environment, though he’s nervous since he’s never actually been alone with the man. Once he’s outside the door to Q’s office he takes a moment to remind himself that this is a business meeting. He’s the head of MI6 for god’s sake, and he will act like it. He takes a steadying breath, raises a hand, and knocks.
It’s a good half an hour until Mallory is scheduled to arrive, but Q is already staring at the door and considering how best to make the man realize he is actually quite the opposite of off limits. Based on a few lingering sidelong glances and the fact that he hadn’t been sacked on the spot for acting outside of protocol with the Silva situation, he’d begun to suspect rather early on that Mallory was attracted to him. A smirking 007 had only confirmed it when he’d casually asked if Q had noticed that Mallory wants to fuck him against the tinted glass wall of his office. Sometimes having a spy for a friend has its advantages, he supposes.
At first, Q wasn’t sure how he felt about Mallory’s attraction. He knew the man would never act on it without his express permission, so he wasn’t concerned or uncomfortable. He was...curious. So he began to watch Mallory in return, though he admittedly cheated by using the building’s security cameras once or three times. He doesn’t feel more than passingly guilty, as he’s learned that no one in this business plays by the rules. At first glance Mallory wasn’t anything extraordinary, but the more Q observed the more intrigued he became. There was a quiet intensity about his movements, his carefully controlled voice, and the blue eyes that transformed his gaze from average to striking. Q had never been one to become immediately attracted to anyone, regardless of gender. Oh, he could acknowledge physical beauty, but he didn’t ever truly desire anyone until he got to know them first. Over the course of the three months since the previous M’s death, his thoughts regarding Mallory went from, ‘he’s interesting,’ to ‘someday I’m going to snuggle into that frankly adorable stomach and fall asleep while he pets my hair.’
Because Mallory, most importantly, is brilliant. He doesn’t advertise it, but Q did his research and discovered that the man holds a master’s degree in psychology. Not only that, but he has published dozens of articles in scholarly journals with titles such as, “A note on the estimation of the Pareto efficient set for multiobjective matrix permutation problems.”* Q has a definite intelligence kink, and knowing that Mallory’s mind is capable of understanding and writing on such a complex topic is an absolute turn-on. Just imagining lying naked and sated while Mallory whispers to him about complex subjects he doesn’t fully understand makes his trousers feel uncomfortably tight.
The question is, how is he going to convince Mallory he’s worth getting involved with? Because he wants involvement, not a quick one-off on his office sofa. He suspects it’s going to take time and good old-fashioned wooing rather than clumsy attempts at seduction. Truthfully, he’s rather looking forward to the challenge.
A knock at his door shocks him out of his reverie and he turns to his computer, quickly pulling up a screen to look busy before calling out, “It’s open!”
Mallory opens the door and steps inside, his brows raising in surprise at the unexpected warmth and comfort the room radiates. After seemingly endless cold, clinical hallways and stairways on the way down, the office feels like a safe haven. Q is in profile as he types away, impossibly graceful fingers dancing over the keyboard facing three large monitors. “Is this a bad time?” He takes advantage of Q’s focus to sweep his gaze over the lithe body concealed inside clothing that looks at least a decade too old for him.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll only be a moment. Help yourself to some tea and make yourself at home.” Q gestures with one hand towards the electric kettle on the richly varnished mahogany table on the other side of the room.
Mallory wanders over slowly, taking in the deep wine shade covering the three walls that aren’t tinted glass like the fourth, which affords Q a view of his subordinates working away at a series of computer desks. The walls display framed paintings reminiscent of Monet, Turner, Degas, and oddly, Bosch. He selects a mug that proclaims “Bowties Are Cool” and an Earl Grey from the half-dozen options and adds creamer. Then he moves to sit on the wonderfully plush brown suede sofa since Q is sitting in the only chair in the room. The coffee table is also mahogany and covered in recent copies of computer science, engineering, and interestingly, psychology periodicals. He sets the mug down and his stomach clenches as he picks up a copy of The British Journal of Mathematical and Statistical Psychology that contains his most recently published article. Trust Q to have discovered it.
“Do you approve of my reading selection?” Q asks, allowing a hint of teasing into his voice as he sits on the other end of the sofa with his own mug of tea.
Mallory looks over at Q, caught off-guard since he wasn’t expecting to discuss his writing. The fact that Q is blowing gently on his tea isn’t helping his brain work any faster either. He forces his gaze off of Q’s tempting lips and back up to his eyes, which are filled with amusement. “Well it’s...that is...I suppose-”
“You have hidden depths, sir.” Q smirks, delighted at the almost imperceptible flush of pleased embarrassment that flits briefly over Mallory’s features before he schools his expression back to one of professional distance.
“I wouldn’t say hidden, exactly.” Mallory takes a sip of his tea and wonders why Q is interested at all.
“So the diploma on your office wall is what, invisible? Because if you’re concealing that sort of technology from me I’ll be seriously put out.”
Mallory laughs. “No, it’s in my flat. The field agents are complicated enough to deal with already. The last thing I need is them thinking I’m psychoanalyzing them every time we talk. You know they avoid Psych even more avidly than Medical.”
Q leans forward and asks conspiratorially, “And are you psychoanalyzing them?”
Mallory can’t help a sly smile as he crosses his legs and shifts sideways to face Q more directly. “Well, I can’t reveal all my secrets now can I?”
Q grins back. “I suppose not. Where would the fun be in that? Besides, we all deserve our hidden depths.”
The way Q says it makes Mallory realize just how little he actually knows about the man. He knows him by his file and the few times he’s gotten to watch him work, knows he’s a genius and far more dangerous than he looks, but that’s all. Suddenly his inappropriate attraction feels even more foolish. “Right. So, how are things going down here? Are you satisfied with how your branch is functioning? I know you hired a few people and fired others, and expanded R&D.”
Q cocks his head slightly and tries sort out why Mallory’s professional facade slammed back down so quickly, even as he gets his thoughts back on track. He nearly had the man flirting, but something clearly went wrong. “Things are going as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Many of my people lost friends in that explosion, so their focus is understandably still a bit shaken; but they seem to be coping. And we lost a lot of equipment, obviously. We’ve rebuilt our security network from the ground up so it’s as impenetrable as I can make it. We won’t have a repeat of the Silva situation. And while I loved Boothroyd as much as anyone, I have to admit his system of organization was rather...creative. I’m still finding boxes of half-built inventions whose use was never catalogued. Still, no major complaints.”
“Good, that’s good. I get the reports and I’ve been keeping a close watch on the missions, but in your opinion how are the agents doing? Are they still functioning optimally, or is the fear of corruption from within impairing their operations? I’m sure they feel the most betrayed in the wake of recent events. I’ve met with them each individually, but perhaps you know better if I need to do more.”
A rush of affection has Q gripping his mug to prevent him from doing something stupid like giving Mallory a likely much-needed hug. The man is compassionate even as he is calculating, which sets him starkly apart from the previous M. “If anything they’re just more driven, I’d say. And they’re using the recent surveys about equipment that would make their jobs more effective to request increasingly ridiculous items, so at least their sense of humor is intact. 003 would like a bra with padding that can be cracked open to release some sort of chloroform so she can kill next arsehole who thinks having boobs is consent. Her words. I’m actually working on that one. 007 however, would like a cloned velociraptor so that he can, and I quote, ‘scare those terrorist fucks to death and feed it anyone who asks me to fill out paperwork.’”
Mallory nearly spits out his tea. "I don’t suppose you could make me one while you’re at it? I could bring it to the next cabinet meeting to ensure timely decision making.”
Q’s pulse flutters because Mallory’s truly uninhibited smiles are rare and do wonderful things to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Sadly, DNA over 1 million years old isn’t viable in the first place so most dinos are out of the question. Also, we would need to replace the nucleus and genetic material in an egg cell. The type of egg cell the DNA is swapped into is also significant. The cell would contain mitochondria, which themselves contain some separate genetic material. The mitochondria come from the animal that donated the cell, and that wouldn’t be a dinosaur — so the incompatibilities would be vast. Scientists would need a very similar animal to even consider cloning a dinosaur. Sadly, Jurassic Park lied to us and we can’t grow a velociraptor with just a pile of DNA.”*
“I wasn’t aware of all that. You’re destroying my boyhood dreams here, Q.” Mallory tries to look affronted, but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t think Q has any idea that rambling off random facts is something of a turn-on. He’s watched a fair number of Q’s workers go all gooey eyed while Q explains something complicated in that soft, posh voice of his but Q has never seemed to notice.
“Blame science. I’m good, but I’m not Harry Potter.” He grins as Mallory looks shifty. “I control the security in this building and have access to all the information on the servers. I know all of my nicknames, and that one I can even understand. But honestly, what is the story with all the cat references?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.” Mallory looks around for something to change the subject and staunchly does not look at Q’s gloriously disheveled hair or think of comments regarding his theoretical cat hair stylist. At all. “I like the art,” he comments, because it’s true.
“Really?” Q perks up at the compliment. “Well, I suppose you are entitled to at least one of my secrets as well. I painted them, actually.” He fiddles with the handle of his cup nervously, because he’s never told anyone else at MI6 about his hobby.
Well, shit. Mallory gets up and walks over to a painting of a flower-strewn field at sunset because he really, really can’t look at Q right now. All he needed was another reason to be attracted to his young, phenomenally-uninterested-in-him-that-way, Quartermaster. He steps close and looks at the precise brush strokes, imagining how Q’s hands must have been smudged with color as he worked. He digs his fingers into his palms against the ache of longing. “They’re incredible.” His voice sounds false in his ears.
“Thank you. I started painting when I was rather young. It’s how I realized I’m good with my hands.” He grins at Mallory’s ‘hmm’ of acknowledgement that is very nearly a keen. He views the slight tension in Mallory’s stance with a sense of accomplishment. “It translates well into all the detail work involved in constructing computers and all the neat little inventions the agents love so much to destroy. ”
“Well, you’re very good. And I’m sure it does.” Suddenly Mallory needs to get out of the room before he does something very ill-advised. Like ask Q to marry him. “Well, I suppose we should get on with the tour. Wouldn’t want to make your minions keep pretending like they always work this hard for too long.” He gestures towards the glass wall and hopes his tone sounds casual instead of strained.
“I resent that comment, sir. My minions always work this hard since they’re never quite sure if I’m watching or passed out on the sofa after a 24-hour shift.” He gets up and follows Mallory, who practically trips over his own shoes in his haste to leave. Oh yes, he decides, this is going to be fun.
An hour later Mallory strides into his office and pours himself a glass of scotch, imminent meeting with the prime minister be damned. That went both better and worse than he’d expected. On one hand he’d managed to maintain his professional composure and had been reassured that Q branch is running smoothly in capable hands. On the other, he had underestimated how much spending much spending even a short amount of time with Q would sharpen his hopeless desire.” He takes a large sip and sprawls back into his desk chair, letting his eyes fall closed for a few moments.
He’s more irritated with himself than anything, really. He’s too old for this romantic nonsense. He’d mentally resigned himself to spending the rest of his life working a thousand hours a week and being so busy he wouldn’t notice how empty his flat was during the few hours he actually got to spend there. Now most of his work hours will be spent a few minutes’ walk away from that gorgeous, intriguing man. And his expressive hands. And his paintings. Christ. He really, really hopes this infatuation fades with time. And that Q doesn’t end up dating anyone from within MI6 so he won’t be tempted to arrange a transfer to the Falkland Islands.
Q settles back into his desk and prepares to connect with 005, who is on assignment in Detroit of all bloody places, so Q is stuck coordinating with the Americans. Always a treat. He allows himself a few moments to reflect on M’s visit first. It could hardly have gone better. His workers had all explained their projects clearly and he had the pleasure of watching Mallory ask intelligent questions and offer valid suggestions and encouragement. The man really was incredibly smart. And attractive as hell when he was engrossed in an in-depth conversation. And he smelled like some spicy, expensive cologne that was only perceptible up close. Like when Q had leaned in to show off their newest nanotech specs and Mallory’s breath had hitched, eyes fixed on Q’s fingers as he swiped them over the tablet. Okay, deal with the business of protecting the world first. Then, he's ready to begin phase one of operation 'Get M To Date Me By Christmas.' Possibly he should work on that title.
Three weeks after his meeting with Q, Mallory is smiling fondly as he reads his most recent email from the man and wonders how the hell he got here. It had started innocently enough, with Q sending him a message asking for his opinion about a network upgrade. The message had concluded with a comment that Eve was taunting him about getting time off to attend the opera in Paris and that Mallory should tell her to be nicer to him.
In his reply Mallory hadn't been able to resist asking if Q enjoyed opera, and somehow it had turned into a daily exchange that started out business-related and then shifted to more personal topics. On the surface it seems innocuous enough. They never discuss anything even remotely sexual or inappropriate for work. Still, learning little things like Q's favorite singers and writers, his favorite takeout foods and the fact that he has an irrational fear of zombies lurking in the London underground only serves to strengthen his attraction. And make him wonder if maybe Q feels any in return.
Now the emails are the highlight of his days- Q even sends them on weekends- and the thrill of happiness he gets from seeing a new message in his inbox doesn't show any sign of abating. Or the feeling of disappointment if there isn't one when he arrives at work, since Q generally replies sometime over the night. He knows he’s probably setting himself up for getting hurt when Q bores of him, but he can't bring himself to end the correspondence. So here he is, considering his reply so he can send it before he leaves for the day. Just as he is about to begin typing there is a knock at his door. "Come," he calls, hoping it’s not a disaster at this late hour because he really wants to get to bed at some point.
Q walks into M's office and flops into a leather chair in front of the desk. "You really need a sofa," he declares, closing his eyes and rubbing his aching temples. He really should just have gone home, but he's exhausted after a shit day. What he really wants is to curl up in Mallory's lap and be cuddled, but the man probably isn't ready for that. Still, he hasn't seen Mallory in person for a week and even if it’s silly he misses him.
Mallory takes a moment to recover from his shock, because Q has never come to his office like this before. Like he's in need of comfort, and for some unaccountable reason he's decided Mallory can provide it. The rush of protectiveness and affection he feels for Q is very nearly a physical sensation. "I'll have one delivered on Monday if it means you'll come use it," he says without thinking. Shit. Hopefully that didn't sound like a come on.
"Excellent." Q opens one eye and smiles, thrilled at the promising response. "Right now though, I'd really like a drink. I know you keep scotch around here somewhere."
"You don't like scotch," Mallory points out as he gets up and goes over to a cupboard. "I have brandy though, how does that sound?" He opens the bottle that he hadn't in any way purchased just after learning Q prefers it.
"Like heaven. Long day. Thank god most missions only require one 00 agent because trying to control two of them is like herding particularly antagonistic cats." He gratefully accepts the glass Mallory hands him and takes a slow sip. "Mmmh, you buy the good stuff," he comments appreciatively, absently licking his lips then opening his eyes to find Mallory sitting on the edge of his desk and staring at him with barely-concealed longing. His stomach does a delicious little flip and he's tempted to reach out and pull the man in by his braces for a kiss. He could do it he knows, but the timing is all wrong. He doesn't want Mallory to panic since he is currently uncertain of Q's affection. It's time for that to change. "Thanks for letting me interrupt your evening."
"What? Oh, no problem. I was about to send you an email actually." Christ but that tongue is distracting. "You're welcome anytime, Q."
"I think when I'm half asleep and drinking with you after dark, you can really just call me Quillan. Do get the remarks regarding the coincidence of my name and title over with now, won’t you?" He lets just a hint of flirtation slip into his smile, knowing an expert at reading people won't be able to miss it.
Mallory blinks in disbelief, a dangerous hope taking root at the flicker of interest on Q’s, no Quillan's, face. He knows he can't take advantage of the opening, not when the man is exhausted and stressed and he's not even completely sure it was any sort of invitation. Still, his mind is a riot of 'this is a bad idea' and 'please let me have this' as he replies, "I suppose you can call me Gareth, then."
"Alright, Gareth." Q lingers over the name, savoring the shape of the letters and loving the way it makes the man in question bite his lip. He also appears to be on the verge of a panic attack, so Q takes pity and changes the subject. "So, what were you going to tell me in your email?"
"Oh. Right." He thinks for a moment while Q smirks at him from behind his brandy. "I was just going to reply to your comment about not having a favorite Doctor. How is that possible? I thought everyone your age was obsessed with Ten since you weren't around for the earlier ones."
"I enjoy Ten of course, but all of the incarnations are the same essential person. That's who I'm attracted to, regardless of packaging."
"I don't follow." Truthfully he's in no condition to follow much of anything since Quillan's eyes are so distractingly greenish-gold at the moment.
"I'm attracted primarily to intelligence. The term is sapiosexual. With bi and demisexual slants in my case. Appearance, age, gender, superficial things like that, are secondary to me. The Doctor is brilliant, so I'm basically equally attracted to each actor. Have I lost you?"
"No, not at all. I understand the terminology, I'm just reconstructing my reality to allow for new data over here. This is all a bit surreal. This discussion. You, here, having a drink with me. I'm just...not at all used to it." He drains his drink.
"Would you like to be? Used to it, I mean?" Q leans forward and looks at Mallory with obvious hope.
Desperately, Mallory thinks, but wanting something and having it are two very different things and suddenly he’s a bit frightened at the possibility of actually having this. "Yes," he finally admits in a low voice.
“As would I.” Q finishes his drink then stands and reaches out to run his finger lightly across the stubble on his potential lover’s jaw. “Good night, Gareth. I’ll see you Monday.” He turns and walks out of the office, satisfaction and excitement putting a definite spring into his step. He doesn’t stop smiling until hours later when he’s finally asleep.
The following morning Mallory is lying in his bed thinking about Q, of course. Despite the offer to call Quillan by his given name, at this point he‘s too used to thinking ‘Q’ to mentally change it. He’s half hard at the very possibility that the gorgeous young man might actually want him, but at the same time in the light of day he’s filled with doubts. He runs a hand down his chest and over the rise of his stomach and cringes at the idea of lithe, beautiful Q seeing him naked. He’s old and soft and balding, and surely Q would be unimpressed despite his little speech on intelligence mattering more than anything. What if he does start seeing Q and then they don’t work out? Surely Q would do the leaving, and being around him at work would be awful. Maybe he’s better off not even opening himself up to this. But he wants it, wants Quillan, so badly.
A text alert has him reaching over to grab his mobile. When he sees it’s from Q he’s almost afraid to open it, but of course he does. It reads simply, I’m thinking about you too. He tries to come up with a proper response, something witty or romantic but every time he hits reply he’s paralyzed by nervous indecision and he just...can’t.
Q lies in his own bed, propped up against a few pillows as he plays around on his laptop and wonders if Mallory will respond. Though, there’s a good chance the man is in the middle of an existential crisis so he won’t. Last night was perfect, and Q has to rein in his first impulse to go over to Mallory’s flat and offer to share a shower. There will be plenty of time for that later. Now he has to make sure that when Mallory finally decides to get over his hangups and date him it’s because he finally believes he’s wanted just as badly in return. So. Phase two.
When Mallory arrives in his office Monday morning after a rather sleepless weekend spent obsessing over whether or not he should return Q’s text, which he hadn’t and now feels like a right berk about, there is a bright red beta fish in a bowl on his desk. “Moneypenny?” he calls.
Eve strides in with a knowing look on her face and raises a brow. “Sir?”
He waves towards the cheerfully circling fish. “We seem to have had a security breach.”
“Maybe you should take that up with security then. Dealing with tropical fish isn’t in my job description,” she adds with a smirk as she turns and walks out, closing the door behind her.
Mallory goes to sit at his desk, turns on his computer, and watches the fish. It really is rather pretty. Now he feels even more guilty for not responding to Q’s text because there’s no avoiding talking to him now, and after this long he’s definitely going to come across as the coward he is. But you don’t give a gift to someone you’re angry with, so maybe Q really is still interested. He just doesn’t know what to say, or what Q could possibly want with him.
He’s too nervous to call, so he settles on sending a message over the network’s instant chat function. He struggles with wondering if it should be humorous or apologetic and finally settles for, I think I’ll name him Rory.
He stares at the screen nervously until a reply comes in.
Rory? Why is that?
He lets out a sigh of relief. Well there aren’t very many male companions to choose from. He’s lovely, Thank you.
I decided you could use it since fish are meant to be calming, and I clearly stressed you out the last time we spoke.
He cringes. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this, he finally types.
Luckily for you, I am. I need to go be productive, but I’ll see you later.
A thrill of relieved excitement goes through Mallory at the realization that despite behaving like an idiot, Q hasn’t given up on him. After he signs off he opens his web browser. He can spare half an hour for his plan before he deals with the pile of paperwork that will likely take up the rest of his day.
Q has barely begun his project of coding the new batch of Walthers to specific agents when Eve comes striding into the weapons room, heels clicking dangerously. Fortunately he’s alone because he has a very good idea what this is about and he doesn’t want his entire department to know. “Can I help you?” he asks, smiling innocently.
“I’m not going to waste time trying to be tactful, Q. What do you want with Mallory? Because he’s a good man and I’d hate to see him hurt. If you’re playing games with him, we’re going to have a problem.” She crosses her arms and looks menacing.
“I’m not playing games, Eve. And ideally I want to celebrate our tenth anniversary in Costa Rica, since I hear it’s beautiful. For now though, I’ll settle on having a date for New Year’s.”
“Oh thank god.” She relaxes visibly and grins. “You two are going to to be so cute together! And it’s still early November so I’d say New Year’s is looking good.” She leans in and says in a low voice, “He is kind of sexy in an unconventional way, isn’t he?”
“Back off Eve, he’s mine,” Q warns with a grin. “He is though, isn’t he? The problem is going to be convincing him of that fact. I think he’s rather having a crisis over thinking he’s not young or attractive enough for me.”
“I’m sure you can show him you think he’s hot once you get him into bed,” Eve points out with a sly look.
“It’s the getting him there that’s the problem. He’s too self-conscious right now. I think the best tactic will be to seduce him slowly over emails and texts and visits for tea until he finally accepts I’m not giving up and asks me on a proper date.”
“Well let me know how I can help. This is going to be ever so much fun to watch! Okay, I’d better get back upstairs.” She hugs Q, then leaves with a wave.
It’s a long day as usual, so by the time Q makes his way up to Mallory’s office it’s already after six. He knocks then walks in since he knows Mallory is alone. It takes him a moment to register what’s different, then he notices the furniture has shifted a bit and there is a new leather sofa against the wall. He laughs in delight and goes over to test it out.
“Like it?” Mallory asks, watching in amusement as Q sits and bounces on the sofa then stretches out on it with a dramatic sigh.
“It’s perfect. Maybe I’ll come take naps here instead of in my office when I really don’t want to be found by anyone other than you.”
“I don’t know, I might be taking it up rather frequently now that I have the option.”
“I’ll just have to lay on top of you in that case,” Q mumbles, eyes falling closed.
Mallory bites his lip at the rush of desire that image creates. “I’m not sure that would be conducive to actual sleep.”
“I look forward to finding out someday.” Q sits up again and walks over to sit in the chair in front of the desk instead. “So, tea? I can regale you with the parable of the intern and the tranq dart.”
“Sounds like a perfect bedtime story.” Mallory gets up to make the tea and tries to convince himself that yes, he can have this.
The following day Q is in his office running a tactically complicated phase of 007’s mission, and as usual Bond is behaving inappropriately. Truth be told Q likes that about him, but he still has to do his job and at least attempt to keep the man under control. Currently, Bond is amusing himself by trying to wheedle information about Q’s love life out of him. Well, perhaps wheedle is too gentle a term.
“So Q, have you taken advantage of the fact that M’s door is padded on the inside yet? I’ve often been tempted to bring someone up there for some comfier-than-normal wall sex myself.”
Q can actually hear the smirk. “007, would you please focus on the mission?”
“I’m stuck here for the next fifteen minutes until the guard changes. It’s your job to keep me awake since I’m going on hour twenty-seven here. When it’s a matter of national security I feel you’re allowed to tell me if he’s a biter.”
“For god’s sake Bond, these coms are monitored!”
“Yeah, by you. Come on Q, give me something here or I’ll just have to start listing off sex tips. First of all, the key to rimming-”
“Damn it Bond! Fine. If you must know, I’m still in the slow seduction phase of the mission.”
“Let me guess. He thinks he’s old and ugly and you think he’s a silver fox.”
Q rolls his eyes, but he’s actually surprised Bond guessed. “That’s a rather blunt way of putting it, but essentially you’re correct.”
“I deal with this sort of problem all the time, so get ready to take notes from the expert.”
“How can you possibly be an expert on this?”
“Come on Q, you know that while people like to think being a 00 means seducing information out of hot twenty-somethings, the reality is the information is usually with the aging secretary who has a few more wrinkles and kilos than she’s comfortable with. So when I make them feel beautiful and desired they’re willing to tell me anything.”
“Okay, but how do you do it?”
“By finding them beautiful and wanting them. You can’t fake desire Q, and everyone knows it. Your pupils won’t dilate, your heart rate won’t elevate, you won’t tremble with need. You’ll be stiff and awkward, and your partner will feel self-conscious and all their body issues will be validated. I’ve learned to find something attractive in everyone, and that’s why I’m so damned good at what I do. You just have to let M see how much you want him every time you look at him, let him feel it when you touch him. You need to be around him more. It’s easy to be uncertain about written affection, but in person he won’t be able to rationalize it away.”
Q blinks in surprise. “That was...surprisingly insightful.”
“Yes well, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation as a cold heartless bastard to uphold.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Okay, the guards are moving early it seems. Wait for my order then head for the door. It will be open.”
It’s been a week since the appearance of the fish, and Mallory is going slowly and quietly insane. The random gifts keep appearing. A playlist of gorgeous, relaxing music shows up on his computer. A stunning painting of the London skyline at sunrise, signed by Q, is hanging on his office wall like it’s always been there. And suddenly Q is just always there, right when he least expects it. In the middle of a conference call Q will just breeze in- he really should have a word with Eve but he suspects at this point that she’s in on it- and leave a set of plans, a memo, or a bar of chocolate on his desk. Of course Q does this by stepping up behind him and leaning over so he can feel that warm breath on his cheek. Then Q whispers something that could be considered completely professional were it not for the brush of soft lips against his ear and he can’t do anything other than try not to gasp into the phone. Just this morning Q had dropped off tea and a muffin while he was on the line with the bloody Prime Minister and had ‘accidentally’ dropped crumbs all over his lap. Which meant Q of course had to brush them off. Slowly.
And it isn’t just the random appearances. Q stops in every evening for tea or brandy before heading home, and the entire time he keeps Mallory talking about music or art or technology, safe topics with no more mentions of sexuality. But Q licks his lips and talks with his hands and looks at Mallory like he’s the most desirable thing imaginable. If Mallory had wanted Q before it was nothing compared to this physical ache. He wants to pin Q to the sofa and kiss him for hours. Wants to run his hands over the planes of Q’s body, wants to watch that collected demeanor crack and shatter beneath his lips and tongue. But he can’t bring himself to start something at work. He wants Quillan, not his Quartermaster. He’s still nervous, still afraid it will all fall apart, but he can’t handle the not having anymore. And the way Q looks at him...maybe it will be okay. He needs a plan.