Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bond had… habits.  In all frankness, they were perfectly natural habits that many people had, so he couldn’t be faulted for any of them.  It was simply a fact that each of these habits slotted in neatly, perfectly, and catastrophically with the little soft spots in Q’s psyche.  Perhaps the blame should have been shifted there instead: it wasn’t Bond’s fault that Q had weaknesses for such little, insignificant things, trivial things that the mainstream world called ‘harmless’ but Q called shots right to his poor heart.

Six months had passed since the changing of the guard, with Mallory’s arm healed and MI6 accepting him as a replacement for the old M; six months for Q to settle into his new domain and for everyone else to settle around him, like dust drifting down after being kicked up by the passing of new shoes.  Now, with literal dust settled and Q’s metaphorical shoes quite dusty in their own right, it was safe to say that everyone was getting to know everyone.  New faces were slowly ceasing to be so new.  And now-familiar faces were swept into the stilted, sporadic social life that existed beneath the secretive, brutal world of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Eve liked to dance in places where the lights were wild and the music was low; Tanner somehow knew almost as many fancy clubs as Bond did, and always seemed able to get people in; R and a few other tech analysts enjoyed drinking each other under the table, events that were usually brief and hilarious, because they were all lightweights, and therefore all ended up under the table in short order.  Perhaps that was why they’d long-since started inviting along any agents who were between missions – spies liked drinking, too, but still made safer designated drivers than R or her cohort, who often ended up deep in their cups and singing ‘God Save the Queen’ off-key.

It was an honor and a revelation to be added to these little outings, and Q did his best to hide how strange it felt to be Overlord of Q-branch one minute, and then clubbing-buddy the next, all thanks to a text from Eve or one of the others.  The events were always random, although in the wake of any particularly bad mission, it could be depended upon that at least someone would be in London and in need of company and either a stiff drink or some mindless music in a smotheringly dark club.  Even Q, who was notoriously difficult to drag away from his work, sometimes just needed to leave MI6 behind and spend a little time with coworkers who were also friends.

That was how he found out that Bond had habits.

The man was an inveterate charmer, but that wasn’t actually the problem – he didn’t direct it at Q, and on most occasions when he joined his colleagues for a drink, he only used his skills for the sake of amusement.  A lot of the 00-agents in particular liked to use their less savory skills in more tamely recreational ways when off-duty, just because they could and because they were all vain bastards.  006 liked showing off his pool hustling skills, 002 was a card-sharp, 009 was a fabulous dancer who somehow managed to bring class to even the crassest dance-floor, and Q had at least one minion who sometimes was invited along because the little fellow knew magic tricks (quaint, but true).  And James Bond, when the mood struck him, showed off his ability to seduce people at random, although always in good fun that ended with him returning to his chuckling coworkers as often as him taking a cab to a pretty stranger’s bed for the night.

And none of that bothered Q.  He’d found out at a fairly young age that he was asexual: he’d never felt comfortable fantasizing about sex with good-looking people he’d met, he’d rarely (if ever) had wet dreams that included anything but faceless sensations, even in his teenaged years, and even those dreams were rare.  When he’d finally given in to peer pressure at the age of nineteen, he’d learned on two occasions – once with a woman, once with a male partner – that this wasn’t merely a fluke of his imagination but a legitimate case of atypical sexual preferences.  And by ‘atypical’ he meant his sexual preferences were totally nonexistent.

Q didn’t share this fact with others, and wasn’t repulsed by sex so long as other people made sure not to get him involved, so he laughed and teased along with everyone else whenever the notorious James Bond swaggered up to something leggy and blonde at the bar and flashed his well-honed smile.  Of course, just because Q had no interest in the man’s sexual skills didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the smile.  The world at large seemed geared towards sexuality, however, so Q kept his own ideas on the matter to himself.

For the most part, Q didn’t date, and didn’t get out much.  He had his work, and after a few attempts at relationships, found out how difficult – and how heartbreaking – it was to try and connect with a person who wasn’t wired like he was.  For the most part, dating and trying to explain himself just made him feel like he was made wrong, and things always seemed to end badly, so he’d ‘married himself to his work’ long ago.  Practically everyone called him a hermit, but with the exception of Eve occasionally trying to throw a prospective hot date Q’s way, it wasn’t a bad way to live.  His legitimate lack of a distracting libido meant that he could do quite a good impression of a machine, and his work-ethic was legendary, a fact that he was quite chuffed about.  Plus, being ace, Q had found, meant that he valued the relationships he did have very, very deeply, and he would put down even his biggest projects when he received one of those rare texts saying ‘So-and-so had a rough week – you up for a night on the town?’  The names and venues varied, but in a high-stress job like just about any at MI6, releases like this were oases in a danger-fraught desert.  In his own little ways, Q cared for his friends, even if that caring never reached any deeper levels, like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover.’

Maybe what Q should have been blaming his present problems on was how his lack of dating (and his hermetic nature) meant that he was a bit touch-starved and unused to personal bubbles that were smaller than his.  Hence Bond and his habits…

Bond liked to touch, often unconsciously.  He didn’t do it so often on missions, when every action had to be weighed and measured and inspected for possible repercussions, but when he was on leave and sharing a Scotch with Eve, Tanner, Q, or any of MI6’s closer crew, he was fairly free with physical contact.  It came as something of a surprise to Q, who never expected to feel a hand on his elbow as they were all approaching the bar.  Feeling like he was a high-class lady being led to a fancy table instead of a scrawny Quartermaster being guided towards a barstool, Q’s head had swept around so fast at the time that he nearly dislodged his own glasses in surprise.  Bond, somehow, didn’t even notice.  Even while his fingers curled naturally and easily around Q’s arm, the blond-haired agent had his head turned to say something offhand to Eve on his other side, the two conversing as if their Quartermaster weren’t having a miniature crisis to James’s left.  Fortunately, by the time the conversation naturally swung back to include Q again, the boffin had reduced his wide-eyed, almost scandalized blinking to a more blank expression, and 007 released his hold the second Q was seated.  No one was the wiser.  That occasion set the stage for Q slowly realizing that a relaxed 007 touched just a bit more often than the average person, but never meant anything by it.

The problem was, Q touched and was touched significantly less than the average person, so this habit… meant more to him.  No matter how much he told himself, logically, that he was getting excited over nothing, the little part of him that got warmer whenever Bond cupped his elbow (or eased him forward with a hand on his back, or squeezed his shoulder after a joke, or nudged an elbow against his side to get his attention) wouldn’t shut up and go away.  It wasn’t even that Q was misreading things.  He was reading them perfectly fine – Bond literally meant nothing by small shows of physical contact, beyond the simple recognition that he was with friends and felt at ease connecting with them physically.  Eve, the other 00-agents, even Tanner and some of Q’s minions got the same treatment.

Q was just the only one who had a problem with it, whose heart gave a little leap whenever he felt warm fingers close around his wrist to tug him along through a dense crowd.

If this were Bond’s only problematic habit (problematic purely for Q; no one else seemed to share these chinks in their emotional armor), perhaps it would’ve been tolerable, although Q had resigned himself to the fact that he got attached to people very easily.  As a teenager, he’d had a hard time understanding how people were devastated by the phrase ‘just friends,’ or being told “I can’t think of you that way because we’ve practically grown up together.”  He liked those phrases just fine.  His own definition of a perfect relationship actually morphed platonic, friendly love with something deeper and broader in a way that… he’d stopped trying to explain years ago.  So while most people stressed about whether or not they could ‘love someone like a friend’ or ‘love someone like a boyfriend or girlfriend,’ Q struggled with the fact that there was no line in the sand for him between these things.  If he loved and cared about someone and trusted them deeply as a friend, he didn’t have to push it further, because after all – he wasn’t going to ask them for sexual commitment, was he?   It felt like relationships were a stairway and he was lucky (or unlucky) enough to always stop a step or two before everyone else and be happy there.  The only problem was, those standing ahead of him on the stairs had a very hard time seeing the world from his supposedly lower perspective.

Bond had more habits, though, and they all made Q want to pull his hair out with frustration, but also made him feel so hot behind his breastbone that he never actually did anything.  The next idiosyncrasy that Q found out about was 007’s infuriatingly delightful habit of leaning closer to be heard in noisy environments.  Eve and R had managed to team up and drag Q, Bond, and two other agents to a dance-club named The Raven’s Shade after a particular mission had gone tits-up.  No one had died, and Queen and Country had won in the end, but everyone needed to forget their work and unwind, so Q had barely put up the slightest fight when R had more or less wrangled him straight into his coat and out to the carpark.  He’d been surprised to find Bond at The Raven’s Shade as well, because he’d thought the man was still recovering in Medical.  As it turned out, 007 was still recovering, although his pullover did a fantastic job of hiding his bandages.  The only sign that James was at all damaged was his reticence to get on the dance-floor, so Q used keeping him company as an excuse not to join the mob himself.  “I can’t dance! I have two left feet!” Q shouted over the pounding thump of the music, admitting the truth of the matter to the blue-eyed man standing to his right.

Instead of raising his voice to a roar in order to answer, however, 007 sidled in closer until the front of his shoulder was just touching the back of Q’s.  The boffin stiffened involuntarily even before he felt a waft of breath against his cheek.  With his mouth nearly brushing the shell of Q’s ear, 007 didn’t have to raise his volume as much, and his voice rumbled out quite naturally, “You looked perfectly coordinated at that last place Moneypenny dragged us to.”

Q didn’t reply except for a shaky nod, because that was all he could do, what with his nerve endings all ignited and a little shiver skating down his spine at the simple sensation of words dropped into his ear from so intimately close.  At least the dim lighting hid his blush.  Apparently not noticing that he’d broken his Quartermaster a little bit, Bond accepted Q’s company for the rest of the night, seeming entirely content to watch the action on the dance floor from a distance and converse in low sentences that no one but Q had any hope of hearing over the pulsing music.  After his first mute reply, Q managed to get his voice back and his wits together enough to respond like a normal human being, but he only managed to sublimate his reaction, not kill it.  The truth of the matter was, Bond’s habit of leaning in close to talk made Q’s knees a little bit weak, which made him feel like the biggest fool, because most people would expect that kind of reaction from something far, far more intimate – kisses should cause weak knees, promises of hot sex should cause weak knees, not close conversation and brushing shoulders.

To make matters worse, on the following occasions when Bond didn’t feel like socializing and ended up gravitating towards his socially inept Quartermaster, it turned out that 007 had a predilection for ignoring personal space in general in favor of being heard.  This included such places as pubs, in the cinema queue on that one occasion when Trevelyan wanted to see a new action film, waiting for seats in restaurants, and even art galleries on the one occasion when Q was in charge of picking the venue.  If there were lots of people that Bond didn’t want to talk to or didn’t want to talk over, he stood close enough that there was, at most, a hand-span between himself and others.  He did it with everyone, just like the touching, often looking idly around even as the slightest shift of his weight made him brush against his companion.

He did it to everyone, but as before it was only Q who felt at all bothered.  And since he was bothered in the best and worst ways simultaneously – his heart giving a repeated, happy lurch in his chest like a dog at the pound jumping up at every hopeless, prospective owner – he never got mad or told Bond to bloody give him his personal space bubble back.

There were so many habits like this that 007 did indiscriminately when in company that everyone else barely noticed but which twisted Q up onto his tiptoes until he felt like a hare kicking and spinning slowly in a noose.  Even the way Bond sprawled when he sat, unapologetic as a peacock: Eve always complained that he was taking up too much space, but Q couldn’t help but love it because while 007 would good-naturedly retort back to Eve, his knee would invariably be pressed up against both Moneypenny’s knee and Q’s, and the latter didn’t mind.  Quite the opposite.  He’d sit and soak in the spot of warmth like a lizard in the sun and wish he could get more.

To make matters worse, Q knew that this heart-sore condition was entirely his own fault, making an emotional connection out of wishful nothingness.  Q still didn’t care when Bond went home with a woman with the obvious intention of having sex with her – Bond could do whatever he wanted with his cock, Q didn’t want it - but he found that he did care when the group of them all walked home, often tipsy, always more relaxed, and he realized that those little touches and intimate distances were all he was going to get.

And he did want more than that, but how did he say it?  How did he even begin to explain it to someone?  Saying, “Yes, I want more, but not much more,” felt somehow less credible than demanding sex with all the trimmings – which, in Q’s case, would be a lie besides.  He never got jealous about Bond’s nighttime liaisons because that was something Q wasn’t even vaguely interested in.  What he wanted, though…  Q sometimes felt a yearning for close-contact that was like a hook tugging at his guts, or a toothache, visceral and throbbing.  But the world wasn’t predominantly made to understand asexuals who only wanted cuddles, free hugs, and maybe occasional kisses.  Generally speaking, such desires almost always came with sexual strings attached – in Q’s experience, anyone he snuggled up to invariably saw the door opening to more intimate possibilities, when really all Q wanted was to have a set of arms around him, a warm chest to breathe into, and a heartbeat that he could quietly fall into rhythm with as his muscles relaxed and he fell asleep.  And that would be it.  That was all he wanted.  He wanted the freedom to touch a person lovingly, and when he dated someone, he did indeed get permission to do that – but every time Q tried it, his significant other tried to lead it up to sexual things, to the point where Q didn’t even know how to try anymore.

That didn’t stop the longing that made his chest too tight.

And then, to make matters worse, Q started developing habits, too.  It all started when he realized that Bond accepted idle, friendly touches as easily as he gave them – provided they were by people he knew well and therefore trusted.  Q had graduated into that category when he started being regularly invited out to the pubs with everyone else, and James’s equal-opportunity outlook on casual touching became an invitation too good to resist.  As the Quartermaster of MI6 and rather painfully professional even before then, Q didn’t do a lot of touching, but that didn’t mean he was opposed to or incapable of it.  What he was opposed to was how easily people could misinterpret the brush of a hand on an arm, or a lingering nudge – but Bond didn’t misinterpret anything, or really seem to try and interpret it at all, so before long, Q found himself reaching out to curl his hand over Bond’s biceps to catch his attention, instead of just poking him furtively on the shoulder.  Soon Q got up the gumption to smother a laugh into 007’s shoulder when someone at the pub told a terrible (but admittedly funny) joke.  It was really more of a very, very brief head-butt, but Bond didn’t seem to find it strange, so it soon became the norm for Q to secretly show affection and happiness with quick presses of his forehead to Bond’s muscular shoulder.  He always managed to make it look normal, and he was brief about it, before going back to just sitting and conversing with everyone like a normal person.

It felt good, though, the personal contact.  It was a physical connection to someone that reassured Q of his place in the world, and that everything and everyone was all right, and also served to remind him that he was accepted.  After all, Q had seen what Bond did to people he didn’t like who dared to touch him – generally this happened with enemies on missions, but 007 had hair-trigger reflexes and had once put an impertinent bloke on his knees when the fellow had rushed up to angrily grab the 00-agent’s shoulder over some perceived slight.  And 007 could be downright frosty to women who pushed their attentions after he told them that he wasn’t interested.

But Q… Q could come right up without announcing himself and tug on Bond’s wrist, and all he got was a smile.  Of course, that was the same for Tanner, Moneypenny, and a dozen other MI6 denizens, but for Q it felt special, and since he’d been brought up in a household where only dating or married couples touched so boldly, it made something effervescent and excited leap in his chest every time he did it.  Sometimes it felt like he spoke a different language from everyone else, which made him feel very isolated but also unexpectedly free when he said ‘I like you’ in a language no one around him spoke.  Since it was all quite harmless on the usual scale of affectionate gestures, and since no one knew but Q, the young boffin didn’t feel too guilty about the absolutely inordinate amount of pleasure he felt every time he came up and brushed warm, tanned skin or expensive cloth.

Okay, maybe he felt a bit badly about it sometimes, but only because he knew he wanted a little bit more, and because his brand of affection was never going to get noticed.  Q’s habits were a two-edged knife: they were subtle enough not to be interpreted as a come-on, but they were also too subtle to ever tip Bond off that maybe Q liked him as anything but an acquaintance.

Or perhaps Eve noticed, after awhile.  She didn’t say anything, but at one point it became rather common for Q to be maneuvered into sitting next to Bond – whether this meant Eve giving up her seat or subtly arranging things as their group settled down at a bar or restaurant.  When Q realized this, he started blushing every time it happened, and it took incredible effort to keep this reaction from being noticed by any 00-agents that might have been present in their group at the time (not least of which being 007 himself).  Eve just smiled, indulgence, mischief, and perhaps a bit of query in her eyes that said she’d figured a few things out, but not all of them.

Rather bitterly, Q figured that no one ever would figure things out entirely.  After all, most people would be after 007 to get first-hand experience with his legendary prowess in bed.  If Q ever told Eve what he really wanted, she’d probably think that he was setting the bar rather low.  Who ever flirted with James Bond because they just wanted to know what it felt like to sit with his arm around their shoulders?

Therefore it was with mixed feelings that Q let himself be squeezed into a booth on Bond’s left.  He’d started to develop quite a love for 007’s hands, and it all became quite heartbreakingly distracting when he perched in Bond’s shadow and thought about all the things those hands could do and the relatively short list of things he wanted them to do to him.  “Are you all right, Q?” Bond’s voice, curious and cultured, and just audible above the hubbub of the Thai restaurant, drew Q from where his chest felt tight and his eyes were following the rough arches of scarred knuckles.

Seated between Bond and the wall, Q’s eyes immediately swept up to Bond’s, and fortunately he’d had a long time to learn how to maintain a poker-face – being the youngest head of Q-branch necessitated some practice at keeping a straight face and professional exterior at all costs.  “Just fine, Bond.”

Sometimes Bond could be annoyingly (and probably purposefully) obtuse, but other times he was worrisomely astute – like now, as his brows drew together over his piercing blue eyes.  “Are you sure?”

Q managed to flash a small smile and say something that was at least true, “Just hungry.  I’m not even sure the waitress got my order, what with me back here and Trevelyan distracting her so much.”  Alec was on the other side of the long booth and closer to where he could beleaguer waitresses.  Conversely, Q was in the back corner and quite happily overshadowed by 007’s muscled bulk.

Bond’s expression eased and his mouth kicked upwards on one side, and because he was sitting so close – unbothered by sitting flush with his seat-mates, Q on his left and Tanner on his right – it was possible to feel the subtle loosening of his frame as he accepted the answer for now.  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Q.  Susan is used to Alec’s habit of ordering sexual favors along with food, and if she did miss your order-”  In another example of how easy physical contact came to him when he was at home and relaxed, Bond gave Q a nudge, his elbow digging almost gently into Q’s side.  “-You’re more than welcome to share mine.”

“Thank you, 007,” Q replied, trying for sarcasm to hide the way his heart had done a happy skip just now.  Food meant more to him than sexual favors by far.  He saw utter strangers share sex every other day on missions, but only close friends or family shared food.  “But I’ve seen what you do to food.  If I weren’t worried about there being not enough for both of us, I’d be worried about you eating my hand along with your meal.”

“I’ll stop as soon as I bite into chopsticks,” 007 assured Q with an entirely straight face that lasted all of three seconds before the man grinned incorrigibly, and Q couldn’t help but laugh in return and reached out to grab Bond’s nearest hand in something between a shove and a squeeze.  And Bond didn’t mind – didn’t even bat an eye, except to chuckle in return, and that made it all worse, because this was all an addiction that intensified with each dose.  And it hollowed him out a bit more every time it went unnoticed.  

And did he want it to get noticed?  Because if Q had learned one thing, it was that the only thing worse than his pining now was the prospect of what would happen if James took note and tried to reciprocate - because Q could not fathom James responding in any way that Q wanted.  Maybe it was shallow of Q, but no matter how he played through the scenarios in his head, the only way this could end would be James noticing Q’s flirting, and asking if he wanted to sleep with him.  At best, there would be steps in between, dating and wooing, but Q had seen James do that before, too (if rarely), and the end result was the same.  James was sexual.  Ergo, if James really liked someone, he ultimately had sex with them.  So did a lot of people.  Most people.  

But not Q.  

The food came, distracting Q from his bout of melancholy as everyone made varying noises of appreciation and eagerness, and Alec hit on Susan one more time.  Apparently she had heard Q’s order, and James gave Q a crooked grin to show that he’d noticed, too.  Q, after a millisecond pause, pushed his internal struggles down deeper and dared another nudge of his shoulder.  The playful jostling had Bond looking smug, as if he’d won something somehow.  Tanner only complained a little bit when Bond let his body sway with Q’s blow, bumping him in turn.  Slowing sinking in to a buzzing sort of happiness at the simple closeness of James against his right side, Q dug in, only realizing too late that he’d ordered something quite hot.  The first mouthful was delicious, but the spices snuck up on him by the second bite, and he found himself coughing and reaching forward hurriedly for his water.  For a moment, all Q cared about was guzzling water to cool the burning in his mouth, and when he finally paused for breath, he was aware of everyone laughing.  Grinning good-naturedly, Q tried to say something clever about dragons and fire-breathing, but ended up coughing again.  This time, he was aware of James’s hand on his back, patting and rubbing soothingly.  

Q added that to the infuriatingly wonderful list of Bond’s habits, which was growing longer by the day - and got longer a moment later, when everyone got tired of teasing Q about his handling of spicy Thai food, and James offered, “Here, you want some of mine?  I’m not sure if it’s entirely safe for you to keep eating yours.”

Ducking his head to muffle a chuckle also worked to hide how the offer affected Q: his heart had done a little dance in his chest the moment he saw James unhesitantly sliding his plate closer.  “I don’t know, Bond,” Q looked up over the rims of his glasses, still smiling, affecting a dry tone, “Will you starve?”

“Not if you let me try some of that dragon-fodder you ordered,” James retorted without a hitch, and as easily as that reached over Q’s nearest arm to snag Q’s plate.  No one else gave it a second glance, except perhaps those who expected Q to become indignant and defend his food.  For the record, Q did made a scoffing noise and roll his eyes dramatically, but at the same time he learned back to give Bond easy access.  And thus Q’s entire plate was purloined, but he was given unhindered access to James’s Phad Thai.  Q never quite stole the plate - if asked, he’d have made some jokes about 00-agents being possessive and not liking anyone taking their things, but in reality he just liked the excuse to stay in James’s space.  He watched carefully to see if the blond-haired man would mind, but Bond just kept up the various conversations he was having, smiling and eating and chatting by turns.  

If anything, Bond seemed amused every time he bumped into Q when the bespectacled young man reached for more noodles, but he only nudged the plate slightly closer when Q dropped some food between them.  When Bond smirked at him, eyes dancing teasingly, Q menaced the older man with his chopsticks and warned, “Not a word about my clumsiness.  We’ve been over this.  I’ve got two left feet.”

“And two left chopsticks?”

“How else do you think I stay this thin?”

Surprised by the swift rejoinder, James’s eyes lit with surprised pleasure, and then he started silently laughing.  As close as they were, Q was able to feel the laughter easily, and his entirety warmed with pride at having caused it.   Of course, with eight MI6 employees squeezed into one booth, everyone on their side of the table could probably feel it, too - nothing special.  Not to anyone but Q.  

Over numerous, similar encounters, Q learned that Bond had a natural habit of food-sharing - but only when people were bold enough to initiate it.  Q wasn’t even sure if it was a habit so much as a buried reflex, with Bond always relaxing, smiling, and giving in almost proudly when anyone went for his food.  Of course, if one tried to steal it without him knowing, it became a game, and on one occasion Q saw Trevelyan nearly get stabbed in the hand with a fork - and all the two 00-agents did was laugh.  Q felt special, therefore, when he never got a utensil wielded his way, even when they were all relaxing at an expensive Italian restaurant and Q snuck ravioli while James was discussing rifles versus handguns with 004 across the table.  Q saw the moment when James - still talking, his present argument cool and unbroken - flicked his eyes down and back, but although he caught Q in the act, he didn’t react.  All Q got was an upward quirk of Bond’s mouth and a deepening of the crows’ feet around striking blue eyes.  It was so perfect that Q felt giddy, and wished for the millionth time that he felt comfortable explaining this to someone.  He’d been a listening ear to Moneypenny and a few of the other Q-branch staff as they chattered about individuals they liked, but most of those conversations focused on things that Q couldn’t connect with.  Like when R mused about how she thought the girl from accounting would be in bed.  

Q was fairly certain that if he started waxing poetic in the same way about 007 letting him eat off his plate, he’d get a lot of odd looks and very little understanding.  Or how Bond’s easy acceptance of it all made Q want to lean into him and smile and do exactly nothing more.  

So he did, just a little, pretending that the seating wasn’t spacious enough for him to give Bond more personal space.  

“I am so fucked,” Q went home and said to himself that night as he realized that he was basically doing his own equivalent of dating Bond, and the agent didn’t even know it.  

~^~

It all came to a head on New Year’s Eve, when an unexpected quiet spell in the world of espionage allowed most of the MI6 gang to meet up at The Raven’s Shade again.  Bond wasn’t injured this time, so he split his time between dancing and drinking like the others; Q still didn’t trust himself to dance without breaking anyone’s toes (or his own), but was more than happy to watch.  Q had no interest in what people kept in their pants, but he had a genuine appreciation of a good-looking body in motion, and the dance floor was full of both good-looking ladies and blokes that kept Q watching and smiling.  When everyone started grinding up against one another to a particularly heavy tune, Q wasn’t really bothered by Bond and Moneypenny rubbing up against one another, but he felt a little pit of melancholy open up when the song ended and James tossed a friendly arm around Eve’s shoulders and they shared a chuckle before the song changed.  Therefore, Q’s defenses were down when James, Eve, and Alec, too, all took notice of him looking lonely at the bar and immediately began calling him over.  A bit horrified, Q held out valiantly, even after they converged on him.  No, he wasn’t really comfortable dancing.  No, he wasn’t going to change his mind.  

After a moment, he thought James was going to push it - in which case he was likely to give in, because he was so far gone on the man.  But, at the last moment, while Eve and Alec were beginning to tug on Q’s wrists, something changed on James’s face.  Even in the flashing club lighting, Q could see canny understanding fill those blue eyes, and then James backed off.  It was somehow all done very smoothly, even for an agent trained to be subtle, as James went from coaxing Q onto the dance-floor to fending off those same advances.  Between Q’s repeated, somewhat strained rebuffs and James’s smooth defense, Trevelyan and Moneypenny were soon giving up with a last bit of well-meant teasing.  

Q sighed and sagged on his barstool before he realized that Bond hadn’t left.  Clasped hands hanging down between his knees, the Quartermaster jerked his head up in surprise, blinking questioningly as the agent took over the vacant seat to Q’s right and ranged his arms along the edge of the bar behind him.  This put one of his hands just behind Q’s shoulders, and it was unaccountably pleasant, even though Q was leant forward and therefore not touching.  “Lost your interest in dancing already, Bond?” Q asked, not having to raise his voice yet - the newest song was only just picking up volume.  It was a fast and wild tune, the beat of it rolicking around the room.  

“Figured I’d sit with you,” James replied with an easy smile, his eyes on the dance-floor.

“Not out of pity, I hope?”

“Never,” Bond scoffed back, and sounded like he meant it, surprisingly.  That had Q easing, sitting up and then, tentatively, sitting back.  Of course, then playful eyes danced his way, and James smirked, “Or maybe I thought I stood a better chance of getting you to dance if I played the long game instead of trying to drag you out by force.”

On missions, it was maddening when James was this incorrigible, but outside of MI6, with one drink already in him, Q found it charming and amusing - he tipped his head back and laughed.  Q wasn’t aware of how out of character his own easy exuberance was until he dropped his head again, finding James favoring him with a surprised but pleased smile and more focused attention.  Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he’d caught the agent off-guard - after all, despite their frequent public forays, Bond was most used to Q in his skinny-ties, cardigans, and peerless professionalism, not his skinny-jeans, comfy jumpers, and easy laughs.  “You’re making a play where Eve and Alec have already failed,” Q reminded.  Perhaps he would have reminded James even more, but he could feel the shape of Bond’s thumb against his spine, where James hadn’t bothered to move his hand when Q sat back.  That single point of contact, the ease of it, made Q warmer than the alcohol had.  

Not dissuaded, James replied as the music rose in volume, “I know.”  He had to lean in a bit - his thumb inadvertently running along Q’s spine as James braced his weight on his hand a little - to keep talking and still be heard, “But I think that I’m more patient than them.  And I don’t believe that you’re a bad dancer.”

“Really?”  Q had to admit that the real reason he was still entertaining this argument was because the act of arguing itself was fun, with James and his habit of leaning right up to Q’s ear to talk, all carelessness and play.  Much like with all relationship-related matters, Q liked the game and tried to ignore or avoid the ‘reward’ (be it dancing or sex) at the end.  “And what exactly makes you think that I’ll be even vaguely graceful?”

“You don’t have to be graceful to dance, Q,” Bond scoffed, and raised his hand in a companionable swipe up Q’s back that had Q’s toes curling involuntarily.  “You just have to have fun - and surely even the vaunted Quartermaster can do that,” he cajoled with a brief squeeze to the back of Q’s neck.  It was a gesture that would have been easily shared between two friends or comrades in arms, but for a boffin who wasn’t touched very often, it just increased the delighted buzzing under his skin.  He realized rather deliriously that, by this point, he’d do just about anything right now.  

“Careful, James,” Q stressed the normal name even as he reminded, ducking his head to hide a flush and a softer smile than before, “Work titles are for work.”

“And since all work and no play,” James rejoined easily, his hand still resting on Q’s upper back in a way that was probably very manly and natural - but to Q felt special and intimate, “makes Q a dull boy, how about you play a bit?  Come on, Q.  For me?”

Oh god, the nail in his coffin.  Still, Q managed to shout over the now-pounding music, “For the man who regularly goes off-script and destroys my things?”

“And who shares his Thai food with you?”  

Damn, James just looked so winning, and suddenly Q couldn’t remember why he’d been reticent to dance in the first place.  Giving in with poorly feigned grumpiness (only holding out long enough to coax Bond into gripping his arm), Q allowed himself to be drawn forward and into the crowd.  To avoid the awkwardness he was sure would be coming, he stuck close to James like the coward he was, and was pleasantly surprised when James let him - the man was more observant than Q gave him credit for, seeming to realize that Q was only dancing under duress.  With the crowd pressing in (the music not quite drowning out Eve’s cheer at seeing Q joining in), James remained a steady presence at Q’s side, a bulwark of familiar muscle and bone.  The mass of people and the impending task of trying to dance wasn’t so bad when weighed against the pleasure of James’s close company.  

So Q began to dance.  He had no idea what his body was doing, and he felt like he was mostly just being jostled while wriggling his gangly body at random, but before the crippling embarrassment could catch him, Q closed his eyes.  That made it easier.  He was still fairly certain that the warm, moving present against his right side was Bond, but other than that, the most present thing was the music.  It had a beat just a tad faster than his heartbeat, urging the thumping in Q’s chest to race and catch up.  With his eyes closed, balance became a more moment-by-moment thing, and somewhere between trying not to fall over, Q found himself enjoying the swaying.  It was a bit like a childhood memory of rides at the fair, the rush of purposeful vertigo rising up in him.  

The more Q listened to the music the more he felt himself sink into it - felt it sink into him.  With his eyes closed, he realized that he’d never know if anyone was laughing at him, a thought that made him smirk suddenly - and start to move a bit more.  He decided he didn’t care what his limbs were doing.  He’d warned everyone that he was a menace on the dance-floor, so if they didn’t make room, it was their own bloody fault if he elbowed or stepped on someone.  Beside the hand he felt briefly on his shoulder, though, he bumped into surprisingly few people, giving the usually artless boffin the sensation of floating untouchably.  Not only was he managing to stay on his feet, but he was also weaving through the bodies on the dance-floor like a butterfly on a breeze.  That thought was at once so ridiculous and triumphant that Q found himself laughing, and raised his hands above his head, giving himself over entirely to the beat that had risen to a wild and feral pitch.

The spell was only broken when Q did, eventually, crash into someone - but when Q’s eyes jerked open, it was just James, and the agent was giving him such an unfettered smile that Q couldn’t help it.  Mouth still stretched wide in a smirk, flush with the warmth in his own limbs, Q twisted around and threw his arms around Bond’s neck in an impulsive hug.  His back had initially jolted against Bond’s chest, but now, flush chest-to-chest, Q shouted happily in Bond’s ear, “I danced and I didn’t even maim anyone!”

“I knew you could do it, Q!” Bond roared back over the continued pulse of the music, which was starting to decrescendo - Q had been lost in it for longer than he’d thought.  When the hug broke, the blond-haired man kept one arm slung around Q’s shoulders as they steered themselves out of the mess of people.  Q couldn’t remember ever having been so happy: his pulse racing and his body for once feeling agile, and the handsomest bloke he knew pressed against his side with an arm hooked around the back of his neck.  It was the kind of camaraderie he craved, and he couldn’t stop himself by pushing it a little - like he always did - and muffling another bout of laughter against Bond’s shoulder.  As always, Bond didn’t mind.  

But for the first time, someone else actually took notice.  

“Get a room!” someone in the direction of the bar shouted, and it was a minor miracle that Q heard the voice at all, amidst the general clamour of the club.  It was like the words had been crafted to spear right into Q’s ear, and he immediately jerked erect.  He saw someone he didn’t recognize grinning at them, raising a beer in their direction, but it was the suggestive sneer that had Q’s tensing.  Sex in all of its forms had always turned Q off, and now, the suggestion that he and James were something other than just friends shattered Q’s good mood.  Back in his earliest dating memories, Q recalled how mentions of sex or sexual actions had made his stomach turn uncomfortably - in the same way that he’d seen straight men grimace and quail at the mention of gay sex, so Q grew uncomfortable at the thought of any sex at all being connected to his person.  Now, someone had drawn a sexual line between Q and the agent at his side, and Q couldn’t forget that he’d heard and seen it.  Suddenly awkward again, Q pulled away, fiddling nervously with his glasses.  

“Q, don’t worry about it,” James was quick enough to note Q’s negative reaction even if he didn’t really know the cause of it - he thought he did, but his interpretation was incorrect, “Judging by the way that bloke is smiling even now, I think he meant that as a compliment or encouragement, not an insult.”

“I know.”  Realizing that the only way Bond could understand him speaking that softly would be if the 00-agent was keen on lip-reading, Q pulled himself together enough to shout back over the next song, “I think…  I think I just need to sit for a bit.  Drinking plus dancing has made me a little lightheaded.”  It was a lie, but the other option was to explain how the barest hint of sex could ruin his mood simply because he found the idea such a turn-off.  Fortunately, James didn’t push, although his blond brows were drawn down in worry as he put a careful hand on Q’s elbow and coaxed him to a new place at the far end of the bar.  The 00-agent then leaned over the bar to catch the barkeeper's attention, ordering Q some food and a water.  

Q took the glass and stared into it moodily, angry at his own brain for how it couldn’t even take a well-meant catcall without messing things up.  ‘Why can’t I just like sex?’ he screamed internally, and not for the first time in his life.  The urge to be ‘normal’ had haunted him even after he’d been old enough to realize that ‘normal’ was just a setting on the dishwasher and a statistic for advertising demographics.  Regardless of what was normal, Q could see how his life would be a million times easier right now if he weren’t so sex-averse, because he was pretty sure that James would have given him a delightful tumble if he’d just asked.  

“You sure you’re all right?”  007’s hand was on his shoulder.  This time, he wasn’t leaning in to talk like he usually did, but instead raising his voice as the next song shrieked at full pitch.  Q missed the nearness keenly, aware that his sudden standoffishness had been interpreted as a desire for space.  

Unsure precisely what he wanted at the moment, but made skittish by the very thoughts brought up by the catcall, Q just nodded and tried for a reassuring smile.  It wasn’t until he’d eaten a bite of the fish and chips that James seemed to believe him, and only then did the man leave.  Q morosely watched Bond wade back into the crowd, broad shoulders and blond head cutting a traceable path back to the center of the fun and action.  

“Why can’t I just fall for other asexual people?” Q lamented, unable to even hear himself and not caring.  As soon as he said the words, of course, he rolled his eyes at them - because if other asexual folk were anything like him, they weren’t exactly flaunting their desires, and would therefore be quite impossible to find.  The hopelessness of it nearly made Q lose his appetite… but the fish and chips Bond had ordered him were really quite lovely.  

Q went back to his previous pastime of watching his friends and coworkers from afar while he struggled with his own mind and ultimately settled into resigned acceptance.  Bond was on the dancefloor again, this time with Alec and a woman Q didn’t know, and since there had been no significant looks exchanged, Q assumed that James hadn’t gone and gossiped about their Quartermaster’s sudden bout of jumpiness.  Thank goodness for the natural discretion of spies...

Q’s attention had just moved to Eve, her body moving fluidly along the edge of the dancing mob, when a body slid into the seat next to him, close enough to bump him.  Startled, the Quartermaster turned to find a platinum-haired woman with possibly the biggest eyes he’d ever seen.  They were almost too big to be beautiful, but her broad smile balanced them out like pieces to a puzzle, even though Q had never seen her before, and tended to only find people attractive once he’d come to know them.  “Hello,” she greeted immediately, then leaned an elbow near him and with a significant glance at his glass, asked, “Buy a girl a drink?”

For a long beat or two Q merely stared at her, blinking in bewilderment, then realized that a response was expected, “Oh.  OH!  No, that’s - I’m just drinking water.”  He felt the compulsive need to add, brows lowering, “And that line is terribly cliched.”

“What?”  She couldn’t hear him over the music.  

It was awkward trying to maintain his personal space while still being heard, so Q leaned just a bit closer and raised his voice to shout, “Never mind!”

The young woman laughed in return, and Q wondered a bit uncharitably if she’d heard him the first time but had been hoping for a different answer.  

She continued to stay where she was, even though Q was distracted and sure that he made terrible company.  The problem was, she didn’t make incredibly good company either.  She kept scooting closer even after he made a comment about her falling off her barstool, and while her compliments were rather nice at first (he was going to spontaneously combust from blushing, but still), they eventually grew bold enough to make mention of how ‘long and lean’ Q was, and therefore how ‘long and lean’ another certain part of his anatomy certainly was.  The result was about the same as when Q had heard the shout of “Get a room!” in which the bespectacled young man jumped and stiffened like a cat having water tossed on it.  What little enjoyment he’d been deriving from the young woman - who said her name was Martha - calling him adorable, and complimenting his eyes, vanished.  

It had been a good long while since Q had been so sincerely hit on, and he tried to derail the conversation as gently as possible.  That was about when he found out that ‘gently’ wasn’t going to do it, because Martha was quite determined.  Perhaps Q was just used to hanging out with people who were taught to read others down to the tiniest quirks of their body-language, but it seemed like Martha was purposefully ignoring quite a few of Q’s ‘please go away’ hints.  Finally, as the music again shifted to a softer song and Martha grabbed his hands and leaned in to coo, “Come on, this could be our song.  Let’s talk somewhere more quiet than the bar, hm?” the boffin realized that he was going to have to be blunt.  

“I’m sorry,” he got out, feeling more awkward than he had at the prospect of dancing, “But I’m not interested.”  

Those big eyes flashed, the smile freezing stiffly on her face.  She recovered quickly, though, sliding her hands up his sleeves to squeeze his elbows.  “You’re not serious,” was her reply as her cheeky smile began to recover.

Growing faintly scandalized, Q leaned back as far as he could within her grip, and maintained, “Y-Yes, I rather think I am.”

A man on Q’s other side leaned in, startling the boffin as the eavesdropper opined with a chuckle, “Give it up, boyo.  The gal seems to know what she wants - you.”

Martha smiled her big smile with her big eyes.  Q stared at her more and more like she was a scorpion scuttling up on him.  Wetting his lips and flushing in embarrassment, he tried again, “You’re very lovely but-”

“But what?” she challenged.

“ButIdon’twanttohavesexwithyou,” he got out all in one hot rush.  Martha looked almost as shocked as him that he’d managed to say it.  

Still, she tried once more, rubbing one hand over Q’s bicep, “You can’t mean that.  You’re just shy - but lucky for you, I like shy ones.”

“I assure you,” Q disentangled himself swiftly but with effort, imagining that this is what a clam felt like when an octopus was attempting to pry it open, “I’m not shy, I’m just-  Well, I am shy, but-”

“Then let me help you with that.”

“No!” Q yelped, and only then did Martha’s wandering hands withdraw and the flirtatious advances cease.  Martha’s smile had also disappeared and her eyes were narrowed, suddenly catlike.  Q could all but imagine a swishing feline tale.  

However, after a bit of a silent standoff with Martha half-glaring in a thoughtful way and Q leaned back away from her in a trapped way, the young woman waved her hand as if chasing away flies.  “Fine.  You don’t want to have fun-”  She reached across and took Q’s drink and shoved it at Q’s chest, finishing, “-You sit here, be boring, and enjoy your water.”  

Q clutched his glass before it could spill, mostly on reflex.  He was still startled and blinking behind his glasses when Martha slid off the stool and left - although she did pause to wink coquettishly over her shoulder at him, which Q couldn’t understand.  Absently, while he ignored the people around him not-so-subtly muttering over the ‘opportunity’ Q had just wasted, the dark-haired young man sipped.  Across the room, Q’s eyes naturally scanned until they found something solid and familiar - James.  The man was with a group of women, no doubt chatting them up with great skill, but he was also watching Q with a slight frown that said he’d at least noticed some of the interaction between Q and Martha.  Embarrassment heated Q’s ears and he ducked down to drink more water, giving himself something to do.  

For a moment, Q just wallowed in his thoughts… but then his thoughts got hard to hold onto.  And he forgot why he was so bothered by them.  Q wasn’t sure when the dance-floor started swaying with the music, but he himself felt quite light and floaty by the time Martha sashayed back to him, smirking like a cat in cream.  

~^~

Bond had seen when the platinum-haired young woman had decided to occupy Q’s attention because Bond had been watching Q on and off since he’d left him at the bar.  The blue-eyed agent was worried.  For a man who spied and killed for a living, worry was something he usually reserved for live bombs and hidden snipers, but Q had gone from ecstatic and boisterous to closed off and nervous very fast - which wasn’t normal for anyone, much less a Quartermaster known for his steady level headedness.  Bond didn’t buy Q’s excuse about the dancing being to blame.  

So, even while mingling and otherwise joining in with the rest of the party at The Raven’s Shade, James regularly glanced back to where Q’s pale skin and dark hair made him stand out at the bar.   Therefore he saw the young woman hitting on Q and frowned a bit, but the intervening mob of people shifted and blocked his view.  It wasn’t until a bit later when, surprisingly, a stern-faced Trevelyan walked over that Bond’s level of worry and alertness ratcheted up a good five notches.  006 was not known for his seriousness, unless he was on a mission and/or something dangerous had caught his attention.  Immediately James reacted by matching the temperament, subtly tensing, and ‘James Bond’ had become ‘007’ by the time the other blond was close enough to say into his ear, “Noticed you were watching Q.  I think that bitch chatting him up just put something in his drink.”

Blue eyes snapped towards the bar like laser sights.  There were still a lot of people in the way, but Bond thought he could see platinum hair and Q’s dark mop, and he knew that Alec was looking, too.  “Let’s go,” was all he growled, and despite his tone being so low that it was swallowed up by the deep base of the latest song, Alec fell into step without question or hesitation.  

James and Alec reached their Quartermaster in no time, and two sets of highly-trained eyes immediately took in the scene.  It didn’t look all that suspicious, at first glance: Q’s mouth was stretched in a wide and guileless smile, and the platinum-haired young woman was standing next to him, close enough to splay a hand possessively across Q’s chest and nuzzle against his neck.  Just as James and Alec approached, the woman coaxed Q into standing - presumably to follow her somewhere - and that was when signs of foul-play became more obvious.  Q stumbled.  

Bond didn’t pause to think.  He closed the rest of the distance between them, and when the smiling woman noticed him with a look of surprise and annoyance, James simply slung an arm around Q’s shoulders and pinned the slimmer man against his side.  

Q’s head lolled around to look up at him.  “Oh!  James!” he said, and only someone who knew him would have detected the slight loosening of his vowels, the slipping of his words.  

Meeting Q’s goofy smile for only a moment more, James turned his stern expression back to Q’s new partner.  The look he fixed the woman with was positively xyresic.  “What did you give him?” James demanded flatly.

Big, doe-like eyes immediately widened.  “What?  Nothing - he ordered his own drinks-”

A part of Bond’s attention noted Alec circling subtly through the crowd, a flanking shark.  If the young woman bolted, she’d be cut off before she knew it.  Q, meanwhile, was having an increasingly hard time keeping his feet and had grasped at Bond’s henley.  In the same implacable tone, Bond cut the young woman off, “He’s not drunk.  So let me ask you again: What did you give him?”

Now the woman’s expression started to turn belligerent, and Bond easily read defensiveness - guilt - in the way she folded her arms and cocked her head.  “If he’s a friend of yours, you should know that he’s got an award-winning stick up his arse.  A few shots probably did him some good.”

“If he had a few shots, I’d be able to smell them,” James countered, “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

The arch, annoyed expression was getting angrier, those big eyes narrowing.  “What’s it to you?” she exploded.

Deciding he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, James turned his attention back to Q.  He found his heart softening despite himself at the way Q’s head had apparently come to rest drowsily on his shoulder while Bond and the girl were arguing.  “Q?” he asked, quieter now, not needing to raise his voice with the Quartermaster’s head so close, “Q, how many drinks have you had?”

Even at this angle, it was possible to see Q’s face scrunch up as he struggled to give an accurate answer - this from the MI6 prodigy who was already known throughout the organization as having a photographic memory and a genius brain besides.  “Two,” Q answered after a beat or so, then his head swiveled on Bond’s shoulder, looking up at him with a blandly open expression, “But you ordered one of them.”

Since Q’s breath didn’t smell at all of alcohol, Bond was going to guess that the glass of water had been Q’s latest drink.  The girl was beginning to fidget, but Bond paid her no mind - if she bolted, it would prove she was guilty of something, and Alec would get her in minutes.  “Which drink is yours?” Bond asked Q next, tone calm and patient.  

Q was transparently obedient now, and all it took was a slight turn of Bond’s body to get the boffin’s focus back on the bar.  That easy pliance confirmed a few more of Bond’s suspicions, and the anger in his belly burned hotter.  When Q moved towards the bar again, he swayed, and it was reflex for Bond to lunge forward and catch him.  The few people nearby chuckled, making absentminded jokes about ‘having one too many.’  James ignored them, and sublimated the urge to punch them, too.  With Bond’s arm around Q’s waist, the Quartermaster leaned forward and swiped his nearly-empty glass from the bar-top.  “Here,” he offered it to Bond like it was a present, and while Q’s smile was gorgeous to look at, it was also out of character.  Even when Q had smiled after taking over the dance-floor, his mouth hadn’t stretched so artlessly, and even that expression of jubilation had been a bit of a surprise.  

Of course, Q had had a reason to be ridiculously happy then - he’d just blown everyone (or Bond, at least) away by just how free he looked when he let himself go.  Now?  Bond was pretty sure that Q wasn’t acting this friendly by choice.  

Taking the drink and reeling Q in against his side again, James turned and extended the glass towards the young woman.  He didn’t miss the flash of unease that went across her wide eyes.  “If my friend really is just drunk, then you wouldn’t mind taking a sip of this, would you?” James affected a level of friendliness of his own, a fabricated gentility over a shark’s bared teeth.  He swirled the water gently, adding disarmingly, “Maybe you’re right.  My friend is a lightweight.”

The particular stress on the word ‘friend’ could be read several ways, and Bond didn’t particular care what assumptions the woman made - the result was all he wanted, which was for her to quail a bit, realizing that James was more than just some random good Samaritan.  She’d messed with the wrong boffin.  

“I don’t drink,” the woman immediately demurred, looking clearly nervous now.  

James wasn’t so easily deterred.  His smile turned even more gentle, which, if he was able to see his own expression, he’d have known was more terrifying.  “Good thing it’s just water then.”  He took a step closer, noticing with a sympathetic pang that Q stumbled even with support.  

When the girl physically flinched back from the glass, it was obvious that the gig was up.  Eyes turning sharp but clearly not wanting to draw attention to herself by causing a scene, the young woman went on the defensive instead of just making a run for it.  “Fine, god!” she huffed, coming just close enough that the three of them could talk in confidence, “Maybe I did put something in your mate’s drink, but just to help him have more fun.”

It took physical effort to just calmly lower the glass out of the way instead of using it as a blunt-force object.  Considering the heft of the glass, he’d probably kill her - which wouldn’t weigh on 007’s conscience much, but the clean-up would be a bitch, and he’d probably never be able to return to this club again.  Muscles flexing and a lifetime’s worth of dangerous instincts prowling just beneath his skin, James replied coolly, “Oh really?  Q, did you want to have more fun?”

Holding his head up now under his own power, and looking a bit confused by the arm James had around his shoulders, it took a moment for Q to readjust his focus.  He started looking confused pretty quickly.  “What?”

“Did this nice young woman ask you if you wanted to have more fun?” Bond elaborated patiently, even if he nearly cut his teeth upon the word ‘nice.’  

Q’s expression immediately crumpled into a troubled frown, and he looked so suddenly insecure, young, and unhappy that Bond growled deep in his chest.  He wished that he could be in two places, so that he could both keep an eye on Q and be the one to chase this bitch down.  Alec would probably do a better job of not killing her, though.  Q looked between James and the woman, answering but also subtly trying to wriggle backwards and away from the latter, “She asked, but I said no - but then she just kept asking.”  Q paused, blinking, looking even more confused before glancing up at Bond questioningly, “That bothered me at the time.  Why doesn’t it bother me now?”

“Because she drugged you,” James said bluntly, but his flatly merciless gaze was on the woman.  

“I’m drugged?”  Q blinked.  

“Yes, the question is, with what.  Care to enlighten us, miss?”  Once again, James pulled out a thin veneer of politeness, but it must have been thinner than he thought, because the young woman began to look a bit scared.  

People were starting to look at them now, realizing that something was going on besides the dancing and the drinking and the general fun of the crowd.  It was probably the final proof Bond needed, when Q was pretty much the last one to notice, tugging on the neck of Bond’s shirt and asking, “James, what’s going on?”

At that point, the woman spun and bolted, so James just shifted his weight a bit to more easily take Q’s leaning into him, and sighed, “Right now, what’s going on is that a certain friend of yours is about to get run down by Alec, and then arrested, if she’s lucky.”  If she wasn’t lucky, Alec had figured out the situation from contextual clues, and would be as righteously protective and angry as James was.  

Whatever she’d given Q didn’t make him slur like a drunk, even though it made him uninhibited and uncoordinated like one, so James was able to easily understand Q even as the boffin swayed and pouted, “She’s not my friend.”  He paused, then added, “I think she wanted to have sex with me.”  Another pause, this time confused, “Is that bad?  She said it wasn’t bad.”

“She’s a fucking liar,” James growled back.  Across the room, there was a ruckus breaking up the crowd.  Alec had found his prey then.  

Q tried to stand up on tip-toe to see over the crowd, and instantly lost his balance, only kept from tipping over by James’s grip.  As he was pulled back against James’s side, the Quartermaster admitted, “I don’t think I feel very well.  Everything is… slanted.”

Alec was plowing through the crowd now, as easy and unbothered as a tugboat - and, indeed, was tugging a certain doe-eyed, pale-haired young woman unwillingly behind him.  “Got someone who has some things she’d like to say to you, Jamesy!” Alec called as soon as he was in hearing range, then he looked at Q and frowned.  “You don’t look so hot, Q.”

The Quartermaster blinked guilelessly.  “She said I looked hot.”

While Alec stifled an involuntary cough of laughter, James got the name of the drug out of the girl.  She gave it up after one final, eviscerating glare from Bond, no doubt seeing something in his look that said he’d eviscerate her for real if she didn’t speak up.  Bond thought he recognized the name, even before the girl assured, “Look, it won’t hurt him or anything!  It would just…”

“Make sure that he wouldn’t say no when you started getting into his pants?” Alec supplied without any particular qualms - in fact, if anything, he raised his voice, and now people were definitely looking.  By the way the gazes all around them were darkening, most everyone nearby had an appreciably dark view towards rape, which warmed Bond’s frosty mood just a little.  Alec turned back to James, expression carefully neutral as he finished, “How about you take Q to get checked out, while I handle things here?  I can see the bouncers heading over, and it might take a sec to explain that she’s the one who needs to be escorted out, not me.”  In response, the young woman hissed and tried to slap Alec’s arm off her wrist.  He appeared not to even notice her efforts, and by now, everyone around them had realized that Alec wasn’t restraining some innocent young thing who needed saving.  

Since Bond didn’t trust this girl as far as he could throw her, he wanted nothing more than to get Q checked out by a medical professional as soon as possible, so he immediately nodded.  “Thanks, Alec.”

“Don’t mention it,” was the easy reply, although as James ushered Q out through the crowd, Alec called after them cheerily, “Take good care of him, Jamesy!  I expect to see our за́йчик up and dancing again by tomorrow!”

“What did he call me?” Q wanted to know, while James just shook his head and sighed at Alec’s antics.  

~^~

By the time they reached the nearest open clinic, it was pretty obvious that this wasn’t how Q acted naturally.  He seemed, in a detached sort of way, to realize what social niceties and inhibitions were, but had rather lost the ability to understand them.  He also had no brain-to-mouth filter, and seemed to say things at random - like now, as Q perched on the exam table while Bond leaned against the wall across from him, the two of them now alone as the doctor checked Q’s lab results.  Q was looking down morosely at the tape over the inside of his elbow, where they’d drawn blood.  Suddenly, he stuck his arm out and said in just about the most pitiable tone James had ever heard from anyone, much less MI6’s painfully professional Quartermaster, “Why don’t people kiss things like this better anymore?”

Startled, James bit back on a laugh and somehow cobbled together a reply, “Probably because no one asks anymore.”

“If I asked, would you?”

It was so endearing, to see Q acting like this, even if it was scarily abnormal.  It made Q seem ten years younger, but also more vulnerable.  James softened his features into a smile that was just a little bit fond, and extemporized, “How about I just sit by you?  You look like you’re about to fall over.”  Which was totally the truth.  

Q accepted Bond’s presence with a blatantly happy smile, eyes actually half-closing and the sound of a pleased hum reverberating up his chest.  Bond reminded himself that Q was basically incapable of saying no at this moment, and only happy because he was high; but the way Q was acting now with him was still different than he’d been acting with the girl.  It made something smug light up in James’s chest.  “How are you feeling?” James asked after they were both perched on the edge of the table.  

Unexpectedly, Q leaned a little more heavily against him.  As in the bar, the boffin seemed comfortable once his head was pillowed on Bond’s left shoulder, dark hair rippling across Bond’s shirt.  “Sort of dizzy.  And I have a feeling that I’m acting silly, but no one will tell me.”  Q swiveled his head to look up at James, brows disappearing up under his hairline.  “Am I?”

Truthfully, Bond was fighting the urge to chuckle, but he managed to keep his reaction to just a smile.  “You’re just fine, Q.”

“Oh, okay.”  Q settled again, but stayed with his head pillowed.  James could tell just by watching that the Quartermaster was trying to match his breathing to Bond’s, and something about that made the world stand quietly still for a moment.  James said nothing, and didn’t move, and watched with a quiet, unnamable sort of awe as their inhales and exhales fell into sync.  Only then did Q speak again: “Martha wasn’t actually a very nice person, was she?”

“Martha?  The woman you were with?”

“Yes.  She said that I was no fun, and should loosen up.”  Q shrugged, clearly unsure what to make of that.  

Bond dared to slip his left arm out from in between them, instead wrapping it around Q’s shoulders as he had at the bar.  Now, though, he was doing it more as a comforting gesture rather than a rampantly protective (and perhaps slightly possessive) one.  “Martha deserves a few pointed lessons on what is and is not consensual,” he growled.

He could see Q’s lips purse in a frown.  “I think I said yes?”

“Q, she slipped you a date-rape drug.  Your ‘yes’ didn’t count.”

“That… explains a lot,” Q said, then he shook his head, cheek rubbing against Bond’s shirt in a way that reminded Bond of a cat, “But I can’t seem to remember how to get mad at her.  I mean, she’s right - I’m really not much fun.”

“If she saw you dance, she’d have a different opinion,” Bond maintained strongly.  

Q immediately looked up at him again, that brilliant, slightly silly smile back.  “You really liked my dancing?”

Despite the fact that some of this was the drugs talking, lowering Q’s inhibitions to near-dormancy, Bond couldn't help the smile that found its way across his face.  “Loved it.  You looked like you were having more fun than anyone else on the dancefloor.”

The noise Q made sounded a lot like a combination of a happy hum and a purr, as he pressed his cheek down to the muscle of Bond’s shoulder again.  He looked so transparently delighted as he stared forward, but then it faltered again, the mieu of insecurity returning.  “But… James, she wasn’t talking about dancing.  Am I still fun if I think sex is terrible?”

The sentence - and any answer Bond could have given - was cut off by the door opening and the doctor walking in.  Q stopped talking more because the newcomer distracted him, but Bond was left staring stupidly at Q for a moment, caught off-guard by the last question.  It took him a moment to switch his focus to the doctor, who was talking.  

“I think you should count yourself lucky, Mr. Quincy,” the middle-aged woman said, grey eyes imperturbable but gentle, too, “Both for the watchfulness of your friend here, and because the drug you were given isn’t going to have any lasting effects.”  Q smiled whimsically but didn’t seem to truly understand the import of what was being said; Bond, however, did sigh in relief even before the doctor finished, “The effects will probably last a few more hours, but I don’t expect any memory loss or other long-term or adverse effects.”  Then the doctor grew more serious, looking between Q and Bond, before coming forward and putting a hand on Q’s wrist and saying to him very gravely, “Mr. Quincy, do you feel safe going home?”

Q took a moment to process that, then frowned.  Then, to Bond's surprised, burrowed more firmly against his collarbone.  “Don’t want to be alone,” Q grumbled into the outer point of his clavicle, sounding remarkably petulant for possibly the smartest person in MI6.

The doctor sighed but otherwise maintained her aplomb, going on, “Okay.  What do you want to do?  I could admit you here, until the side-effects wear off.”

Now Q was grimacing outright.  He reached out, and James jumped at the feeling of fingertips scraping over his abdomen before Q could get a proper grip on his shirt, fisting it against Bond’s flank.  “James, don’t make me stay here,” he whined, “Smells like antiseptic and sick people.”

Shifting his weight a little, surprised despite himself at how strong Q’s grip on him was, James tried, “Q, you are sick-”

“I’m not sick - I’m drugged,” Q retorted stalwartly, “There’s a difference.”

Realizing that options were limited if Q didn’t want to be alone but also didn’t want to stay overnight in a hospital bed, James chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before looking up to catch the doctor’s eyes.  “We’re coworkers, he and I,” James started, a bit fumblingly, trying not to get distracted by Q’s knuckles knobbling his ribs, “and I know he’s not in his right mind, but I’d take him back to his place, and watch him.”

For a moment, the doctor just assessed him, inscrutable herself - wearing the face of a woman who’d worked in A&E for too long to be unsettled by much of anything - before she nodded.  James felt a rush of relief.  “Even though your friend is under the influence of a mind-altering drug, I find it hard to believe that his obvious trust in you is false.  So, since you were also the one who kept him from being taken advantage of, I’m inclined to let him go into your care.  You’ll call if his condition changes?”

“Of course,” James agreed, and that was how he became Q’s keeper for the night.

~^~

Getting them both back to Q’s flat was a lot like taking Alec home after a bender, only at least Q was a lot lighter - although since Bond didn’t have a key to Q’s flat like he did to Alec’s, they had to depend on Q to get them in.  Considering how formidable Q’s security systems were, and how uncoordinated and loopy Q was, they waited outside for a good long while before gaining entrance.  

“Easy does it,” James cautioned as he let Q go onto the worn couch in the middle of Q’s living room.  It was a remarkably ‘lived-in’ looking flat for a man who spent over eighty percent of his life at work.  

Once settled, Q promptly tipped over, but since he looked pretty happy sprawled lengthwise on the couch, Bond let it be.  The younger man tipped his head back against the couch-arm to keep Bond in his sights as the agent sought out the kitchen to get a glass of water.  “Are you really going to stay with me?” Q asked.

“You’re stuck with me,” Bond concurred.  The doctor had said to keep Q hydrated and away from situations that took fine motor skills or important decisions.  Considering the bits of gadgetry and half-finished projects Bond saw everywhere, Bond felt a lot like he’d be looking after a young child in a house that hadn’t been baby-proofed yet.  Finding water and a glass, James also flicked out his phone, noticing missed texts from Eve and Tanner, and also a missed call from Alec.  Deciding to get a handle on the situation first, he ignored the texts and redialed 006.  “Alec?  I’m at Q’s.  Doctor gave him the all-clear, provided that I babysit until the side-effects wear off.  How are things at your end?”

“Pretty boring.”  Said the man who could be bored in a firefight.  James waited to hear more.  “The police were called - not on me, thankfully, because enough people were watching to realize that our girl here was up to no good.  Apparently it looks suspicious when someone like Q goes from blushing and saying ‘no’ to grinning like a fool and letting himself be dragged off to dark corners unknown.”

“Apparently,” James echoed back wryly.  

“In the time it took the authorities to arrive, Eve and Tanner were getting pretty worried,” Alec went on, sounding just the faintest bit guilty, “They saw you leave with Q, and I figured they’d make my life hell if I didn’t tell them what was going on.”

That explained the texts.  

“Tanner also said it was his duty to inform M, but I bought you some time - I said you were in hospital with Q, and would keep him from spilling state secrets… and would also call him in an hour,” Alec finished with just a bit more of a wince in his tone.  

Checking his watch, James saw that he had about ten minutes go before his grace period was up.  

“So how is our little boffin?”  Up until that moment, 006 had been talking offhandedly, and only now did his voice begin to sound alive and real.  This was what he was really interested in.  

Bond glanced out of the kitchen, and immediately snorted as he saw that the boffin in question was still watching him - which mean hanging his head back over the arm of the couch and staring at Bond upside-down.  His glasses were starting to slip, but he smiled when he saw that Bond was paying attention to him again.  James judged him to be out of hearing range, however.  “He’s still pretty drugged, but at least he’s too high to be properly worried about it.  Can’t walk in a straight line either.”

“But the doc let you take him home?”  There was some slight surprise in that tone, mostly hidden.

James shrugged.  “I’m not sure she should have, but I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Pretty sure Eve will kill you if you do, and Tanner will bury your body,” Alec opined as easily as commenting on a bad bit of weather, “Oh, speaking of murderous intentions - the police have the girl now, so I can’t murder her.  Tanner might have flashed some of our credentials, so they won’t be questioning Q until he’s in his right mind again and, you know, less likely to give out sensitive information.  But if he wants to press charges, he can.”  Alec paused, then added smoothly in a tone that had frosted over around the edges, “And if he doesn’t want to press charges, I might have to visit Miss Martha Blunt and see where she gets off on trying to take advantage of one of my favorite coworkers.”

Being Alec’s ‘favorite’ anything was high praise, and it made James smile, grim but pleased.  Now Q was giving him an upside-down curious look, unable to decipher Bond’s new expression but trying.  It was unfairly adorable.  “Look, Alec, I’m going to let you go so I can text Eve and Tanner back before they think Q and I have either died or eloped.”

Alec’s rumbling laughter rolled down the line.  “Good luck with that. До встречи!”  

“Who was that?” Q asked, as the call ended and James switched to texting, getting much of the information he’d expected from Tanner, and many of the threats from Eve that he’d expected.  Q really was everyone’s darling, and right now, as Q look at him artlessly with his hair like a dark cloud hanging from his head and his glasses precariously hanging, James could see why.  

“Alec.  Everything is under control, but I’ve got to call M, and you’ll probably have to talk to the police in the morning,” James informed.  Q remained with his head hanging back as James approached the couch, so James had to tap the edge of the glass of water against one of his arms, coaxing, “Drink this, Q.  If I don’t take good care of you, there is a growing list of people who are going to skin me.”

Q immediately sat up, and then just as immediately turned a very greenish color, closing his eyes.  “Oh god,” he groaned, pressing his fingertips against his temples, “This drugged business is horrible, and now things are spinning worse than ever.  Please don’t make me go anywhere.  Or stand up.  Or move.”

With Q sounding so sincerely pathetic - and just plain sincere - James took pity on him and put the glass on the nearby end-table, freeing up his hands to press down reassuringly on Q’s hunched shoulders.  “No one’s going to make you do anything, Q, until this all wears off.  Okay?”

Q’s eyes were still closed, and his expression was scrunched up with unhappiness, but he murmured, “Okay,” like a child grudgingly accepting that perhaps bean sprouts weren’t terrible.  Then, painfully candid again, he opened his eyes to look up at Bond and say, “Thank you.”

Very, very few people thanked 00-agents.  A lot of people cursed them, and some appreciated them after they’d disappeared from whence they’d come, but ‘thank yous’ this sincere were rare events, and James was a bit taken aback despite himself.  Clearing his throat, Bond gave Q’s shoulders one more awkward squeeze before sitting down on the other end of the couch with a murmured, “Don’t mention it.”

The next few minutes were spent with Q dealing with his vertigo and James texting the necessary people, and eventually calling M.  He must have been on the verge of that one-hour grace period, because the man on the other end of the line sounded more terse and tense than usual, tightly strung.  James tried to explain things in clear but brief terms, all the while uncomfortably aware that Q was watching him.  Sometimes Q would butt in, trying to correct something, but with Q’s head still not screwed on quite right, the interruptions were usually just distracting.  The phone call would probably be hilarious in hindsight.  

James: “I left Q at the bar-”

Q: “Just after I’d finished dancing.  Tell Mallory what you said about my dancing!”

James: “...Q… yes, had been dancing.  That’s not really relevant-”

Q: “How is that not relevant?”

James: “Q, I’m trying to talk here.”

Q: “But you’re leaving out all of the good parts.”

James. “Q, what’s important here is that that woman, Martha whatshername, wanted to have sex with you, and when you said you didn’t want to, she decided to drug you to get what she wanted.”

Q: “...And… she wanted sex?”

James: “Yes, Q.”

Q: “Why would she want sex?  Sex is awful!”

At that point James had to get up and walk into the kitchen, because he couldn’t handle two conversations at once - at least, not when one was with his boss and one was with an overly loquacious and chatty, drugged genius.  And especially not when Q’s repeated negativity towards sex was making James suspect things, possibly troubling things.  

Fortunately for everyone, Mallory was an unflappable man.  The story was conveyed, Mallory only hid a few chuckles before wishing Bond a good night ‘babysitting,’ and then the conversation ended with orders for them both to check in come morning.  Bond heaved a sigh and leaned back against Q’s kitchen counter, muttering towards the ceiling, “Why couldn’t I have grabbed just one more Scotch before all of this?”  Realizing that wishing for more alcohol wouldn’t just make it appear, and at least one of them needed to stay clear-headed, James pocketed his phone and returned to Q.  

“I tried to get up and follow you into the kitchen,” Q admitted once James was sitting again, “but I couldn’t get my legs to work.  So I stayed here.  Is that a good thing?”

“Staying put was probably a wise decision,” Bond assured patiently.  Q brightened immediately where he was leaning against the back of the sofa, head flopped to face Bond like James was the only thing in the room worth watching.  Bond tried to meet that gaze as he asked, slowly feeling his way into a conversation he didn’t know if he wanted to have, “Q… can I ask you a question?”

Fortunately, Q wasn’t as reticent as James was.  His smile grew a bit cheeky, but he immediately retorted, “Depends.”  Bond narrowed his eyes.  Q grinned wider, obviously delighted.  “Can I put my feet on your lap?  If so, then yes.”

Snorting, James reminded himself that Q wasn’t exactly a cutthroat negotiator in this state.  “By all means.”  It was a small price to pay; hardly a price at all, really.  Q like this was harmless and hilarious, but even normal-Q was decent company, and James wouldn’t have exactly said no to this arrangement even under more normal circumstances.  There was a brief moment where Q realized that he still had his shoes on, and got upset about putting shoe-prints on James’s trousers, at which point James told Q that they were just jeans, nothing dressy.  In response, Q said that they still looked terribly nice, and the only way to get Q to relax and lift his feet up was to grab the Quartermaster by his skinny ankles and then proceed to take off Q’s shoes for him.  The boffin quieted surprisingly quickly after that, settling back down on the couch with his head on the armrest and his eyelids falling to half-mast.  He looked so… content… and James wasn’t sure that the drugs were entirely to blame, as Q easily accepted Bond’s skilled hands untying his shoelaces and removing the offending articles.  Argyle-socked feet now propped across his thighs, James cleared his throat and dove into the topic at hand, which he’d been thinking about ever since Q’s comment in the hospital.  “Q, you said something earlier… about sex being bad.  Do you remember that?” James asked slowly.

Q rocked his head to the side, like a fluffy curious bird.  “I think so.  Now or earlier?”

“Both.”

“Oh.  Yes, I remember both.”

“Did you mean it?”

Now Q’s brows beetled, and he looked confused for a moment before scoffing, “Of course I meant it.”

This wasn’t getting them anywhere.  Shaking his head as if to physically dispel his own frustration, James looked away, then looked back and tried again, “Can you tell me…?  Can you tell me what you meant by that?”

“I meant…” Q said slowly, lips turning downwards just a bit and tone indicating that he thought he was talking to a slow four-year-old, “...That sex is terrible.  Like I said.”

Bond dragged a hand down over his face and just left it there, palm over his eyes, and just blurted out what he wanted to know instead of beating around the bush, “Okay, yes, but…  Dammit, Q, are you saying that because someone has done something like this before?  Has someone tried to… to hurt you, sexually?”

Q got very quiet, and James dropped his hand, feeling something painful and angry rise up in his chest as he began to see his fears being proven correct.  Looking back, at the way Q had reacted to the sexual catcall, and how Q had drawn away as if scalded, and thinking on Q’s derogatory comments towards intercourse, James could see now the reactions of a rape-victim - someone for whom sex had been ruined, turned into something vicious and ugly.  And it shocked James just how much that infuriated him, that something like that could have happened to Q.  The protectiveness that rose up in him was like a dragon, roaring and defensive, and suddenly he wanted to burn whoever it was that had hurt Q.  

For his part, Q was holding quite still, and clearly trying to get his brain working at something more like its normal speed.  After a few slow blinks, in which James’s left hand wrapped around Q’s ankle and his right one twitched as if to go for the gun he wasn’t wearing, Q asked bemusedly, “You’re asking if I’ve been raped, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” James admitted uncomfortably.  It felt like he was talking around a hot coal in his throat.  He wanted to do something.  Break something.  Or maybe fix something.  Bond dealt with despicable people every day, people with either no morals or no redeeming qualities - and some of those people were his allies.  Q wasn’t one of those people, however.  From the start, Bond had enjoyed the way Q as a person managed to walk the line between the necessary evils that they all did and the good intentions that had to survive all of those evil deeds.  In that way, the boffin was like a breath of fresh air - a reminder that this wasn’t all pointless, and goodness wasn’t being killed in the name of duty.  To think that someone could have hurt Q of all people-!

Q started laughing.  Slowly at first.  Then a mad giggle.  And finally uproariously, his whole body shaking.  

Bond was forced lay an arm over both of Q’s shins to keep Q’s legs from jiggling and kicking.  He scowled.  “I don’t see what’s so funny about this,” he griped, caught off-guard and unsure what to do about it.   Still sour, he met Q’s laughter-crinkled eyes and struggled not to soften at the way Q’s entire posture and expression were so open and easy - the only other times he’d seen Q like this were usually towards the ends of their evenings out, or else on the dancefloor just hours before.  Not a lot of people got past the Quartermaster to see Q.  Bond realized then that he actually saw Q rather a lot, but was determined not to enjoy it now - at least until he understood what was going on.  

Of course, when Q’s giggling got slightly under control, it was only to give Bond a teasingly knowing look and observe, “You look like you’re going to murder someone.”

“I don’t know if I have to murder someone yet,” Bond grumbled, but at least put his right hand - his empty gun-hand - on Q’s other ankle, the equivalent of putting both hands, spread and empty, on the table.  To James’s surprise, that more than anything got Q to stop his wild laughter, far better than the amorphous threat had.  Still smiling, Q settled down once more at the contact with something so soft in his eyes that James suddenly felt the urge to decipher that look more closely.  Still wanting an answer to his earlier question, though, James pressed, “Has someone hurt you, Q?”

“Someone drugged me,” Q supplied.  

“You’re a little shit.  You know that’s not what I meant.”

The silly but increasingly infectious grin was back, but at least Q returned to bargaining rather than laughing and/or dodging, “If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

James bit his tongue on the urge to say that it was Q doing all the laughing.  Instead, with effort, the 00-agent evened out his tone into something diplomatic, “On my word.  I won’t laugh.  I just want to know that you’re all right.”

“That’s nice,” Q sighed, sinking into the couch, and only then did he grow a bit troubled.  Eyes on the ceiling, he looked young and a bit helpless, “I’m not really sure if I’m all right, but no one has hurt me.”  

On one level, that got James to settle; the dragon in his chest stopped breathing its fire, and he felt his muscles loosen.  However, the soft way that Q was speaking now, almost tentative in contrast to his laughter, made another kind of concern rise up.  Realizing this was hardly the appropriate time to interrogate his Quartermaster, what with Q under the influence - but realizing he was too much a 00-agent to miss the opportunity for answers - James went on gently, “Can you explain that?  I don’t understand.”  Softening the fact that he was being nosy, Bond gave the top of Q’s foot a little rub, since Q seemed to enjoy the warmth of Bond’s hands.  

Q’s eyes looked down, soft and dark, to watch the movement.  “I don’t really understand either,” he admitted with a tiny, melancholy uptick of one side of his mouth.  Then he heaved in a breath and sighed it out, saying on the exhale, “I mean, how does it make sense that I like that-”  He nodded to Bond’s right hand, as it completed another companionable stroke.  “-More than I’ve ever liked sex?”

Now Bond was surprised, but in a whole new way, being faced with Q’s sex aversion from another angle.  It was actually more frustrating to hear that Q didn’t like sex even without having some sort of damage connected to it - because at least before, Bond had had a theoretical enemy to attack.  Now he just had a scenario he didn’t comprehend.  “So… you’ve had sex?  Totally consensual sex?” was all he could ask, trying to seek out an answer like a blind man in the dark.  

Q was nodding easily.  Hair flopped in his eyes boyishly, and Q didn’t bother to move it, another sign that Q was high as a kite despite the fairly mild symptoms - usually Q was prim and proper even in the seediest bar they went to.  “Yes.  On a purely physical level, it was even…  Oh, I don’t know… rather nice?”

“You’re not sure?”  Bond wasn’t following.  Again.  He definitely didn’t like it.

Throwing his arms up in exasperation (then letting them hang over the arm of the couch, beyond his head, as if he’d forgotten they existed), Q snapped, “My cock works-!”

“All right, all right!” James hushed him, deciding there were parts of this conversation he really didn’t need to have.  

Q subsided, frowned, tried again - but less explicitly, thankfully.  “At first, I slept with a girl, and thought I must be gay, because I could barely get it up with her.  So I slept with a boy, and all I remember thinking was, ‘Shit, I must be straight after all’.”  Despite how freely he was talking, Q’s stockinged toes had turned together, unconscious signs of humiliation showing through the haze.  

Fortunately, Bond finally thought he understood.  Expression softening, wondering how he’d not realized this earlier, James wrapped one big hand around the top of both Q’s feet and guessed, “You’re asexual.”  

“Yes,” the answer finally came out.  Then, unexpectedly, Q’s toes wriggled against Bond’s palm and the boffin brightened a bit again, “This is nice, though.”

Starting to understand more and more - which only fed back into his curiosity - James allowed himself a smile and cocked his head, guessing again, “You like being touched, don’t you?”  When Q nodded, easy and uninhibited, James went on wonderingly, “I always thought you didn’t.  You’re like a cat, Q, as aloof as the day is long.”

“Cats like being touched,” Q defended.  

“Yes, they do,” Bond mollified with a rumbling chuckle, “My mistake.”  He then defended his own actions in turn, cocking a significant eyebrow, “But you can’t blame a man for thinking that the Quartermaster of MI6, the pinnacle of professionalism, hated to be touched by common hands.”

Out of everything, surprisingly, that was what made Q sad.  Bond felt like the biggest berk as he saw Q’s expression crumple, his arms still up around his ears and his hair hopelessly ruffled, and his big eyes suddenly pools of sadness.  “How haven’t you noticed?” Q asked in such a soft, tentative little voice that made Bond want to either run for the hills or wrap Q up in a blanket.  And then the younger man went on, and it got worse, “I’ve always liked it when you touch me.  I may hate sex, but I’m not a robot.  How...”  The sadness doubled, and ultimately Q just repeated, “How have you not noticed?”

 There was the sudden and inexplicable urge to apologize, and Bond had never felt so contrite in all of his life - and all for no real reason, because he wasn’t even sure what he’d done wrong.  He was left sitting, helpless and a little bit stunned.  After entirely too long spent just meeting Q’s big, liquid-sad eyes, James managed to find an answer that felt appropriate, or at the very least sympathetic, “You’re not a robot, Q.”

It was a point in the drug’s direction that Q’s mood shifted quickly - in the same way that he couldn’t properly say ‘no’ to things, he also seemed to struggle with staying upset.  A bit of a smile came back.  “Really?”

“Really.”  Then, James added, in a last-ditch attempt to get some answers, “But if you’re not a robot, then I’m not a mind-reader - so what the-?”  He cut off the ‘What the hell haven’t I been noticing?’ and instead softened his word-choice to, “-So what exactly haven’t I noticed?  Can you tell me?”

“You’ll laugh,” Q pouted.  Honest-to-god pouted.  

“I promised I wouldn’t,” reminded James.  

“Oh.”  Surprise lit Q’s face.  “Yeah, you did.  That’s okay then.  I’ve never told you any of this before because… well… I honestly thought you’d either laugh at me or basically do what you’ve already done.”

“Which is?”

“Assume that I hate sex just because I’ve never had good sex, and try to ‘fix’ me,” Q answered and finally lifted up his arms to give exaggerated finger-quotes.  Bond made a mental note to never ever try and ‘fix’ Q, with sex or otherwise.  “But if you really must know…  Must you really know?”

Better men would have backed off and said ‘no,’ but James was a spy, and spies were never better men.  “Yes.”

And so Q answered, with an utterly guileless blink of dark lashes behind thick glasses, “I like you.  And I’ve probably been flirting with you for over a month, but nobody’s noticed because I’m doing it my way, and I’m half afraid that if I ever tell you, then it’ll lead to things I don’t want.  But now I’ve told you.”  Q seemed to realize belatedly what he’d done.  “Dammit.  I’ve told you.  Are you angry?”

The question was so innocent that James had to struggle past his latest bout of surprise to answer quickly, “No, I’m… confused, but not angry.”  He hid his further confusion with some bravado, flashing a smile that was just a bit insecure on his face, “I just usually notice when people are flirting with me.”

“Most people who flirt with you want different things than I do,” Q grumbled grumpily.  The Quartermaster had his chin down against his chest now, eyes determinedly watching his own hands, which had occupied themselves with plucking at the hem of his jumper.  A sliver of flesh was revealed where the material rode up, showing the shadow of a hipbone and a blue vein against pale skin.  

Watching that vulnerable sliver, James rolled words in his mouth for a moment, and then asked quietly, seriously, “And what do you want?”

“Not sex,” Q snapped hurriedly.

“Fine,” James agreed.  He was finding calmness again somehow, like the eye at the center of a storm, now that he understood the weather.  “What else then?”

Sharp hazel eyes snapped up to his, rife with suspicion and so incredibly readable because of Q’s present, open-book state.  Bond just met those eyes evenly, waiting.  His forearms were now draped over Q’s shins, relaxed, heavy, and at ease.  It was possible to see the moment that Q decided to reveal some truths, like flowers unfolding behind his narrowed eyes.  The words unfolded moments later, cautious and slow, “I want… someone to care for.  To be cared for.  I want to be able to hold someone’s hand when I want to, to sit underneath someone’s arm.”  Q’s words stuttered, like he was trying to hold them in now, but it was too late to stop the flow, “Your arm.  But in all my life, I’ve never met someone else who was happy with just that, and everything goes to hell when the other person wants more.”  Q jerked his eyes away, back to watching his hands again, finally finding it in himself to break eye-contact as he finished in a resigned mutter, “And I know that you’re sexual, so I’ve just been contenting myself with stealing food off your plate and grabbing your arm and hoping you don’t notice.  I’m happy with that, and I already know you’d never be happy with me and what I can give”

“Q…”  These felt, somehow, like the most important words James would ever say - even though this wasn’t a mission, there wasn’t a terrorist about to kill people, or secrets that could doom nations.  This was just him and his Quartermaster, a young man who sometimes drove him barmy but mostly impressed him, sitting on the sofa in Q’s flat with no demands on them until at least the morrow.  There shouldn’t have been anything heavy with potential about this moment, yet James took an extra moment, counting his heartbeats and timing his breathing like a sniper finding the perfect moment, and then he said, “You don’t know that.”

Just a short sentence, but said with total sincerity.  It had Q immediately looking up again, bewilderment with the faintest spark of interest in his expression.  His lips were pursed, but his eyes were scanning over Bond’s face, perhaps trying to find some falsehood there, some crack in the statement.  He wouldn’t find either.  James really had meant it.  “What do you want, Q?  If you could have anything - anything from me - right now, what would it be?” James dared.  

“To sit with you,” Q blurted out immediately.  Sometimes, crippled inhibitions were useful in getting truths out.  “And watch telly, and hopefully not drool when I fall asleep against your shoulder.”

Despite what they’d just talked about, James was surprised.  “That’s all?”  Technically, James knew what ‘asexual’ meant, but knowing objectively that Q wasn’t interested in sex and actually figuring out what an asexual individual did want were two different things, and Bond was struggling.  

Q just nodded, interest becoming almost hope.  “Popcorn and a blanket would be good, too.  I’m always cold, and you’re warm,” Q added, as if those were the most obvious facts in his life right now.  

‘What the hell?’ James decided after a moment of flustered staring, and he got up.  Finding the remote and a blanket were easy.  “I’m not sure if I can deliver on the popcorn,” he admitted as he came back.

There was such delight in Q’s eyes already that it was almost hard to look at, like a glimpse of the sun.  Q pushed himself up on his elbows, admitting with the general bluntness that had marked this evening, “I don’t have any.  But you asked what I wanted if I could have anything.”

Chuckling, James sat back down as Q’s legs withdrew off his side of the sofa.  “Touche.  All right-”  He turned on the television, and lifted his right arm invitingly, but also with a little shiver of anticipation himself.  “-You said you wanted a place under my arm, so take it or leave it.”

Q paused for just a moment, eyes going huge like a kid at the doors to a toy store, and then he scrambled forward.  It was then they both remembered that Q was terribly uncoordinated right now, and dizzy as hell, and Q nearly ended up falling off the sofa - and Bond nearly ended up going with him.  Somehow, however, they ended up sitting on the left side of the couch, one of 007’s arms around Q’s shoulders, and a blanket up over them as Q squeezed his eyes shut and shivered.  “The world is spinning, and I hate it, because I really want to enjoy this,” Q complained past a grimace.  The blanket was up to his chin, and he tucked his face down into it until his head was just visible from the bridge of his nose up.  

Occupying himself with seeing what was on the telly now that the excitement seemed to be over, James gave a one-shouldered shrug and an answer that seemed true enough, “It’ll pass.  If nothing else, the doctor said you’d be better by morning.”

“I’ll probably regret all this in the morning,” Q muttered into the blanket fatalistically.  

“I bloody hope not,” James immediately parried back, “because I’ve got a lot of fuck-buddies, but very, very few people that I can just sit and hold without worrying about it being taken the wrong way.”  Bond’s tone had been light, but it hid a sizeable amount of uncertainty, so a beat later James frowned and looked down at Q out of the corner of his eye, “You’re not taking this the wrong way, are you?  You just want someone to touch you?”

Q hadn’t lifted his head or opened his eyes to give Bond a read on his expression, but the purring hum he admitted was worth a thousand smiles.  Q lifted his head just enough that a smile did peak out, however, as he replied, “I want you to touch me - just not in a sexual way.  Cuddling I won’t take the wrong way.”  To prove his point, he snuggled deeper, not seeming to notice the buzz of the television turned on low volume.  

Bond had never really thought about how much he liked or disliked cuddling.  One way or another, he wasn’t averse to this, so he curled his arm in more securely, closing his hand over Q’s far shoulder and feeling how Q relaxed a bit more.  With his other hand, Bond muted the television, then reached over to carefully remove Q’s glasses.  “Just go to sleep,” he urged in a low rumble, “You’ve had a terrible evening, and it’s late.”

“You really don’t mind?” Q checked, eyes finally opening.  Without his glasses, they looked bigger, and took a second to focus despite the close distance.  

“No,” was the truthful reply.  James took a moment to test out that answer in his head, cataloguing what he felt, and shifting his weight slightly as if to test out exactly how Q’s weight felt against him.  What did he think about this?  Q was his coworker, but the only times that Bond had really worried about ‘respecting someone in the morning’ were in liaisons that involved a lot of naked skin and bodily fluids, and Q had already made quite clear that he wasn’t interested in that.  This wasn’t exactly the same as just watching rugby with Alec and a few good beers, of course, but it didn’t feel like it crossed any worrisome lines.  

In short… it was nice.  And easy.  Q as the Quartermaster could be difficult to please, but in this, it felt like Bond wasn’t straining himself at all, and yet he had Q looking happy as a clam against his side.  Bond couldn’t recall the last time he’d done so little work and yet made someone so transparently happy, and that definitely stroked his ego.  

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” he assured Q, settling down to watching an old Western with subtitles, sensing Q’s breathing starting to slow and even out.  One of Q’s dexterous hands had spread out across his lower ribs, but it felt natural there - unobtrusive.  It was strange but pleasant to know that that hand wouldn’t purposefully wander into more risque territory.  Bond loved sex, but sometimes, even he had to admit that a libido could be annoying and very troublesome.  “But I should warn you - if you start drooling, I will be required to take embarrassing pictures on my phone.”

Q sounded on the verge of sleep, but managed to mumble quite coherently, “Arse.”

“Stroppy little sod,” Bond murmured affectionately back.  

~^~

Later, when Q seemed asleep and  James was judging the ludicrousness of horses falling over every time their rider was shot off, the agent folded his free left hand across his stomach.  The blanket over them both was comfortable - thick enough to weigh a body to the sofa, but light enough not to cook them alive with the help of Bond’s bodyheat - but it hid the movements of Q’s hand until James felt an unexpected touch to his fingertips.  A bit drowsy, and as relaxed and comfortable as he could remember being without a stiff drink or a postcoital buzz, James didn’t jump, but did look down and cease to pay attention to the movie.  He was still trying to grasp just what it meant for Q to be asexual, and what it was he wanted, but since James was usually game for just about anything, he sat and waited to see what the younger man was doing.  Eyes still closed, either feigning sleep or honestly semi-conscious, the Quartermaster’s deft fingers connected with Bond’s blunt fingertips, before skating slowly up the long line of them.  

“Figured I should do this before my spiked drink wears off,” Q mumbled drowsily, sounding more drunk now than ever with sleep thickening his words.  His eyes were still closed and his tousled head nestled against Bond’s shoulder and chest.  “You’ve got the best hands.”

Bond huffed a surprised laugh, even as he continued to feel Q quietly tracing the tendons where they rose above his knuckles.  “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me unless I was feeling them up,” he admitted candidly, even though he had to admit he was pleased.  Bond was vain no matter what the context.  So sue him.  

Instead of seeming bothered by the obvious sexual reference, Q just made a noise that eloquently conveyed disinterest.  The little sniff was actually quite amusing, and James chuckled deep in his chest as Q continued to idly investigate his hand.  It was strange, but not unpleasant, to feel someone else paying so much attention to what were essentially tools to Bond.  “I’m glad you like them,” Bond added less teasingly than before, and continued to watch inexcusably bad shooting in a saloon while Q traced his hand and gently curled and uncurled his fingers, doing this until the Quartermaster fell well and truly asleep.  

~^~

The morning after was (as most mornings after are) awkward.  Both men felt the need to apologize even if they weren’t entirely sure what they were apologizing for, and it took nearly half an hour for both Bond and Q to make it very clear to the other that neither wanted an apology.  After realizing that neither had actually harmed or embarrassed the other in any way, they still felt uncomfortable enough that they went their separate ways.  Of course, then they met up again to check in at MI6, and then to get everything figured out for filing charges against Martha Blunt, and ultimately they realized that there was no point in ignoring one another until the awkward wore off.  They managed to work remarkably well together despite that, however - in fact, it could even be said that sleeping together on the couch did not affect their working relationship whatsoever.

It still took a week for the awkward to wear off.  This was indicated by Q showing up on the doorstep to James’s flat, bearing gifts.  “I brought popcorn,” he said shyly, shifting his feet and looking up over the rims of his glasses in a tentatively hopeful way, “and if you actually like watching Westerns, I downloaded a few.”  

Bond let Q in, and they ended up on Bond’s sofa this time, eventually relaxing enough that Q flopped over to watch My Name Is Nobody with his head on Bond’s thigh.  Without any expectations of things heating up, James relaxed into that before long, and somehow found one hand resting idly on Q’s chest and the other touching his hair.  In all honesty, James had wondered for some time what Q’s wild mess of hair felt like, but had never expected to get to touch it without possibly ruining their ability to work together.  On the contrary, Q seemed to soak up all of the attention, and it was like any night on the town they’d spent amidst friends - only it was just them, and somehow all the better for it.  

As the weeks went on, and then the months, and eventually years, James still had sex with people - just not with Q.  There was an awkward period in which James wasn’t sure how that would work, because one way or another, he was in a relationship with Q - it just wasn’t a relationship that included anything in their pants.  James wasn’t good at relationships in general, so it took a bit before he realized (and Q flatout told him) that James could fuck whoever he wanted, because Q didn’t want to sexually starve him.  “You haven’t tried to change me,” Q had finally said over a late supper, after Bond dragged him away from work, “so the least I can do is return the favor.”

“You really don’t mind?”

“You’re not like me.  You need different things,” Q spread his hands, trying to explain, then adding with a dry little smile, “Besides, even if I was jealous of who got your cock, I’d have to put up with it anyway for missions, wouldn’t I?  Go - have fun your way.”  Q made a bit of a face as he usually did when discussing the sexual activities of other people, now that he wasn’t hiding his asexuality quite as much.  “I’ve got work to do anyway.  004’s on a mission in Russia, and the timezone he’s in means that I’ll be up all night monitoring him anyway.”

So Bond went out, bedded a fast, mouthy brunette, and had a lot of fun.

And the next day, he came to Q-branch with coffee, and let Q stand with his head against Bond’s shoulder as if he intended to sleep that way.  It wasn’t long after that that people started to realize that there was some sort of connection between the head of Q-branch and MI6’s most recalcitrant agent, even if that connection seemed subtly not to fit the expected title of ‘lovers.’  

It probably helped that James, even as he began to feel better about fulfilling his sexual needs elsewhere, never found anyone that he wanted for more than a night or two.  In that way, it was perfect, but Q still said, one evening as they cuddled on the couch, “If you… if you ever find anyone special, someone that you want for more than one night…”  Q stopped and fretted his lower lip.

Bond ran a hand over Q’s hair and idly stroked the side of Q’s neck.  “Yes?” he encouraged.

“If you ever find someone good enough to keep, will you introduce me to them?” Q finally got the gumption to ask.  

“Of course,” Bond promised easily, and pulled Q’s head a bit closer, pressing a kiss to silky, wavy hair.  Q turned his head up to catch the second kiss on his mouth, close-lipped but sweet.  It turned out that Q liked kissing.  Sometimes Bond’s libido wanted to get involved if they snogged too much, but there was something oddly relaxing about having a partner who just liked to sit and kiss sometimes, and Q’s mouth was a lovely place to explore.  

What Bond didn’t add was that he’d already found someone good enough to keep, and that person was right next to him right now, babbling about a new invention and stealing popcorn from Bond’s bowl.  

~^~