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The first time they shagged, it was to save Bond’s life.
No, really.
“You must be joking.” Q said in a level voice that was betrayed only by the tiniest trace of exasperation.
They were on the tail end of a mission which was a rare occasion in that Q had had to come out in person. The whole affair turned out to be much less glamourous than he'd anticipated (pajamas would have been all he needed if he had known what was waiting for him) so he was already being a bit huffy, and now this. Unbelievable.
“Why couldn’t they have employed a poison that just kills you straight dead like a decent megalomaniacal villain? Even I could think of seven of those with reliable lethality off the top of my head, for Pete's sake.”
“Don’t hurt yourself bearing my well-being in mind.” Bond laughed a low, rumbling sort of laugh that almost sounded as if he was finding it all very funny, too, as he poured a health measure of amber liquid into a tumbler. Perhaps he did. But there was a tremor in his wrist when he brought the glass to his lips, a slight sheen on his forehead, and his eyelids were getting droopy.
Observing such, Q rose with abrupt movements from the lumpy-cushioned chair. He had made up his mind about what to do, naturally, the moment they had figured out the bizarre plot twist. He was a public servant, after all. To not take action under the current circumstances would be tantamount to the willful destruction of government assets—a prosecutable offense (to say nothing of a smudge on one's conscience).
Q would be damned if he was going to allow Bond—anyone in general but especially this damnable one—to cause more damage to his career than he had already done.
He darted around the room, slapping at switches to turn off all the lights except for the one in the loo, and then began unbuttoning his cardigan and tugging it off (for greater mobility, naturally).
Bond’s condition, in the meantime, had visibly deteriorated. His breath were coming in short, ragged bursts; his eyes had glassed over, face and ears flushed near crimson, and all over sweat was pouring out of him.
So Q moved swiftly and efficiently. He grabbed the sick man’s biceps to pull him up, and maneuvered him to the foot of the double-size bed covered in a ghastly paisley thing, then pushed him down onto it gently, but firmly. When he started working on undoing the tie and shirt buttons the agent grumbled something childish and lifted a hand in a gesture that looked suspiciously like an attempt to swat away Q’s hands.
Q took hold of Bond’s jaw, clamped it in his palm and intoned in his most commanding voice, “Cut it out, Bond. There isn’t time for any of your shit right now. The probability of your certain death is exceedingly high if an ejaculation, i.e. the expelling of toxin, is not achieved in—” he shot a glance towards the cheap wall clock, “—fourteen minutes. So just fucking let me toss you off, will you?”
Maybe his words took the intended effect or Bond simply became further weakened, the agent’s body went limp and he sprawled out in the bed.
Full access having been gained, Q wasted no time in tearing open Bond’s sweat-drenched shirt, sending a few buttons skidding audibly across the cracked tile floor. Next, the belt went, and then the trousers were worked open.
Muttering a fortifying, “Here we go,” Q dove on top of his agent.
+
Was the quartermaster successful in the unconventional and unusual mission? Well, let's just say that one of the most elite secret operatives of the British government, human weapon, and embodiment of masculinity, Bond, James Bond, was surely going to shove off this mortal coil one day like everyone else, but it wouldn't be from a poison that could only be expelled by its male victim achieving sexual climax.
(When he had recovered enough and Q had filled him in, with the neutral face and voice of a lab technician, on what had been done while he was passed out in order to avert an HR crisis, Bond looked at Q with something complex—Shock? Disbelief? Approval?—in his eyes.)
“That was hardly fair, was it?”
“Pardon me?”
Bond gave a shrug. “I was completely out of it.”
“Yes, because you allowed yourself to be poisoned by a lethal aphrodisiac which can only be purged by an ejaculation, likely the only kind on the entire bloody planet. I swear, only you could—”
“We must repeat the experiment.”
“Oh, we must, says he who was near comatose twenty minutes ago. What makes you think I would ever—”
Bond reached out his right hand, took hold of Q’s jaw, and pressed a kiss on the quartermaster’s lips, stubbles scraping lightly against skin, assaulting Q’s mouth with the bitter taste of aquavit.
When he pulled away to put a bit of space between them and looked at Q, the corners of his eyes were crinkled in the most delightful way which Q certainly did not commit to memory directly.
“As you know, I’m just not one to tolerate being taken advantage of.”
The younger man gave an incredulous huff. “Please, I assure you, if it hadn’t been a life or death scenario I would never have laid a finger on an old dog like you.” His nose wrinkled up as if in disgust.
Before Bond could feign injury, his Quartermaster carried on. “But, I will allow that it was not entirely an unpleasant experience and further exploration could prove...rewarding.”
Bond leaned back in for another kiss, smirking insufferably.
“Let’s just put you and that silver tongue of yours to the test, shall we? And this time there’s no time limit, so do your worst.”
Q bit down lightly on his lower lip and announced, haughtily, “Steel yourself, old man. If you think my tongue is the most lethal in my arsenal, astonishment will be your new best friend when you see what I can do with my little finger.”