Title: Does Your Mother Know? 1/3
Author: sorion_writes on DW; sorion on LJ/AO3/FFnet & Tumblr
Fandom: Skyfall (James Bond)
Pairing: 00Q (Bond/Quartermaster)
Genre: Romance, Humour, Character Study
Word count part 1: ~5,500
Summary: There is downtime to be had. Neither Q nor Bond spend it as they expected.
AN: The meaning of the title will become clear in the third part. (No, it's not really a big deal or even a surprise, and there will be no mothers.)
It's inspired by the Christine Baranski version of the song, mostly because I think it would be hilarious to have Bond sing that song to Q on the beach while wearing his blue swimming shorts from Casino Royale. Q of course would be wearing his customary glasses with clip-on shades that he can flip open and drink tea from a 00Q mug with a cocktail umbrella in it. (Yes, this is what my brain does when I let it.)
That being said, the story is not quite so silly, not even remotely, but I thought you'd appreciate the visual. You're welcome :3
Does Your Mother Know?
When Q sees the silhouette of a man enter his office behind him mirrored on his monitor, he supposes it's a miracle it has taken this long for someone to come find him.
The left corner of Q's lips twitches. Well, perhaps less a miracle and more the result of joint efforts and competence. He does like to think he's competent. As is Bond, obviously. And there has been no reason for additional worries or complaints; he has seen both their evaluations, after all, and knows for a fact that there hasn't been.
Still, they both had been aware that this last step they have taken would be the one step causing a reaction.
His eyes flicker to the clock on his monitor. He has been in the lab for less than five minutes. The tiny lip twitch becomes a full-blown smirk. That really hasn't taken long.
And that, as they say, was that.
The whole thing started quite a while ago, actually. Not at the beginning, though, that's just silly. Things never begin at the beginning. The beginning of Q and Bond was a meeting of two poles at opposing sides of the metaphorical age spectrum (because, really, the chronological difference wasn't that large).
Q at the top of a new game, the best in his field, chosen for Q Branch for both his competence and his (just a tad) unhealthy obsession with causing some sort of damage, simply because he's known which wires to follow and which parts of a gun to dis- and reassemble at about the same time he learned to crawl.
Bond at the top of the old game. Not following wires to weasel himself into and out of situations, but instead his intrinsic understanding of pain and pleasure in people. Not particularly interested in the selected parts of a weapon, but instead in the feel of the weight in the palm of his hand, causing his own damage.
Despite the opposites clashing, it hardly took more than five minutes in each other's company for them to realise that the damage they could do collectively was mutually beneficial to their respective… qualities. Bond soon saw that if he followed Q's wires, his aim was more accurate, and Q learned to accept Bond's interpersonal connections as extensions to the ones at his fingertips.
Well… perhaps it did start at the beginning, then, after all. Not that either of them had been aware of it, at the time. No, that came later.
It came after M had realised that while Q tended to several 00 agents, that particular brand of efficiency was only achieved with Bond, and Q had become a much more constant (if incorporeal) presence during several of Bond's missions (via ear-piece).
It has to be said for M, though, that he realised this the very moment he caught Q and Tanner laying out that trail of breadcrumbs leading to Scotland. It had come as a bit of surprise, finding the quirky head of department who was usually happy with his wires and gadgets and codes now breaking rules and regulations he undoubtedly had memorised on his first day, simply because he had decided to follow his instincts and listen to the instincts of another. It was the trust that was surprising, not necessarily the breaking of rules. And M had also realised that Q and Bond working together was in accordance with his own beliefs.
Win-win scenario. During missions, Q would keep Bond's mind on the job and giving him additional angles, while at the same time gaining more insight into field work without any pesky flights or flying bullets to unnerve him. A wonky tandem at times, what with both of them enjoying their work a bit too much, but a working one.
And then came the day the connection transformed. Yes, transformed (somewhat, anyway), not began.
When Q managed to come home late one evening, after a fifty-five hour work-day(s) that had been interrupted at some point by a three or perhaps four hours kip, he blamed the lack of sleep for his reaction to someone sitting in his darkened living room only being a rush of adrenaline and a spike of pulse and blood pressure for a few seconds. All other reactions were delayed for long enough for him to realise that he knew that silhouette sitting hunched over on his sofa.
Annoyed, he flicked on the light. "What the hell are you doing here, 007?" He didn't even ask how the man had got in. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.
Bond squinted in the sudden light.
'Oh, great', thought Q. 'He's drunk.' He huffed and walker closer, struggling to keep his steps steady, since the now fading adrenaline reminded the rubbery feeling of fatigue in his knees that it was still there.
Bond looked… well, not so much drunk as… wrecked. Like he had a reason to get a lot more drunk than he was. Couldn't have been a mission. Q had been busy with one of the other assignments, but he had still kept an eye on Bond, and his had been a tedious but successful gathering of intelligence.
Bond held up the glass in his hand in a mock cheer. "I needed a drink and was in the mood for company."
Q's eyes flickered towards the bottle on the table. Bond couldn't have had more than three glasses of its content. (Of that bottle, at least.)
"Seeing as I wasn't here, I'm sure that endeavour was fruitful," he remarked as a quasi-answer to a quasi-statement.
Bond lifted and tilted his head slightly. "You look about as ready to drop as I feel."
Q mentally ran through possible dates that could cause Bond to want a day off while not being alone or in the bed of some floosy. The Skyfall incident hadn't been a year ago, yet, had it? No, not quite. Nine months? Maybe ten. Q did know Bond's file, but he hardly memorised dates of death of people from his past. The death of that woman in Venice, maybe? His parents?
Finally, he decided to just respond to the cues he was given. "Well, I have just worked over two days straight. What's your excuse?"
"Do I need one?" Bond grumbled, knocking back the amber content of the glass in his hand before putting it on the table with more force than necessary, reaching for the bottle.
"Christ," Q muttered and stepped in, taking the bottle out of his hand. "You're enough of a mess without any more of this."
Bond stood, staring Q down (and standing entirely too close).
Q could detect a faint scent of something alcoholic that wasn't what he currently held hostage. So Bond had probably started before getting here.
Bond swallowed dryly. "Don't worry. I'll be out of your hair," he said with a pointed look towards the mess that was most likely gracing Q's head. "I'm off."
Q snorted. "I don't believe that I will let you." He grabbed an unresisting Bond (he had to be unresisting, truth to be told, for Q to be able to manhandle him) and pushed him further into the flat. "With my luck and your current state, you'll get murdered by an old lady with her handbag, and M'll have my hide for not preventing it."
Bond rolled his eyes but let Q shove him into the bathroom, nonetheless. "I'm not that drunk."
Q turned Bond around to face him. "That's not the state I was talking about," he said, seriously, possibly softly, too, holding Bond's icy cold eyes with his.
Eventually, Q sighed and turned away. "Get cleaned up and get out of those clothes. You can have the bed," he added the last part ruefully. He had been looking forward to his bed…
Bond, being Bond, gave a ghost of a smirk. "That's quite forward of you, Q."
It was Q's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm taking the couch," he griped.
Bond rubbed his face. "Look, this is ridiculous. I shouldn't even have come here, I'll…"
"You'll do as you're told, 007." Because, dammit, he was Bond's superior, after all.
Bond hesitated, seemingly more for show than anything else. "Yes, sir," he replied with a mocking raised eyebrow.
Q decided that, while Bond was otherwise occupied, he'd better hide that bottle before he'd crash and not wake for hopefully at least twelve hours.
By the time Bond left the bathroom in nothing but his pants, Q waited for him with his eyes firmly on Bond's face – Q himself wearing his sleepwear, consisting of sweatpants and a t-shirt – and thrust a water bottle into the other man's hand.
"Drink this. All of it," he said and then stood and waited for Bond to comply.
Which Bond did, though not without voicing his discontent. "You're not my mother." He finished the bottle in a few, long drags anyway and handed it back to his host.
Q nodded his head towards the remaining door. "Get in bed. I'm about ready to crash." With that, he disappeared into the bathroom himself.
Once he was done, he refilled the water bottle and carried it to the bedroom.
Bond was already dead to the world and curled in on himself on the far left side of the bed. Q put the bottle on the bedside table next to Bond's head, because, while he might not be the man's mother, he was his quartermaster. And if water was what this particular idiot needed, then water was what he was going to get.
He walked around the bed again and fully intended to leave… Damn. He really should have sent Bond to the couch. He ventured a longing look at the empty side of his bed and the comfortable mattress…
To hell with it. Bond could bloody well deal. Would serve him right, breaking into other people's flats without invitation or warning.
Before he even made a conscious decision, Q was already fast asleep, hardly aware of the warm body behind him and the regular sounds of both their breathing.
Bond woke suddenly and with a soft gasp, but otherwise remained unmoving until his mind had caught up with the rest of him and he remembered where he was and who that other person he could hear breathing behind him had to be.
He opened his eyes and couldn't hold back the smile when he saw the full water bottle waiting for him.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and turned to look at his slumbering, assiduous quartermaster. The movement also reminded him of the reason for the water on the nightstand. The grin turned rueful, and he reached for the bottle, emptying it. After that, his bladder quite insistently demanded his attention, and he sneaked out of the bed heading for the bathroom.
Before returning, he also refilled his bottle and splashed his face and the back of his neck, trying to get rid of some of the dull throb that the water hadn't been able to battle entirely.
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, watching Q sleep unaware, contemplating the reason why he had decided that coming here was the right course of action in the first place, yesterday. Truth to be told, he had no freaking clue, and he probably should have hunted down his clothes and left the exhausted department head to his sleep. He remembered their first encounter, and perhaps Q's perception of him was what he had sought out. Complete awareness of who and what Bond was, and accepting and finding him useful, nonetheless.
Only once he sat on the edge of the bed next to Q, quietly sipping his water, he realised… that he apparently hadn't done what he should have. Instead he sat there, studying a brilliant mind at rest.
Until the brilliant mind was joined by unfocused, warm eyes.
"Bond?" Q croaked and rubbed his face.
Bond lifted his bottle in a greeting. "Morning."
This seemed to confuse Q for a moment. "What time is it?" He twisted to his side and blindly reached for his glasses, so he could see the alarm clock. Huh. They had actually slept for almost ten hours. He was not on schedule.
"Why are you even awake? Why am I awake?" He pushed himself in a half-way upright position and looked at Bond expectantly.
Bond grinned at the picture his quartermaster made.
"Glad to amuse you." Q did his very best not to pout.
Bond's grin softened. "Thank you."
Q blinked. "You're… welcome." The expression on Bond's face showed actual gratitude, not just a set phrase. "Is your meltdown over, then?" he asked, neutrally. He didn't mean for it to sound condescending or the likes; he… well… He just wanted to make sure that he didn't miss some social cue or other, causing Bond to somehow fall to pieces like a lethal Jenga tower or something.
"I mean," he cleared his throat, "you look rested."
Bond didn't seem to be taking any offence, so that was good.
"Getting there," he said with a crooked smile that Q couldn't help but return.
Q was about to suggest that they get something to eat, since they were both awake (and he was almost certain he still had something edible in his kitchen), but then Bond held out his water bottle for him.
Well, he did have a dry throat from sleeping, so he took it.
The first swallow made him sigh blissfully, then he tipped back his head and emptied the bottle. He didn't really know why he peeked at Bond only a moment before moving his head upright again, but… he could clearly see man's eyes being trained on his swallowing throat.
Q waited for Bond to return his look and somehow acknowledge or dismiss what he had just seen, but while Bond did the former, there was no acknowledgement whatsoever and even less dismissal, except for a calm and steady look between them.
After a long moment, Q realised that he was still holding the water bottle to his lips. He cleared his throat and turned away to put the bottle (that was probably insinuating all kinds of indecent things) down on the bedside table.
"That is…" What, exactly? Not what it looked like? (Ha! Right…) Not really his thing? (Hahaha! They just kept getting better.) "… extremely inadvisable." (Well, that much at least was true.)
And when he turned back, Bond had shifted closer.
Q licked his lips. Oh, bugger. Damn that soft and clear seducer's voice. "I suppose that would depend on who gives the advice," he conceded.
"Mhm," Bond hummed in agreement and grinned amusedly. He reached out with both hands for Q's glasses and slowly pulled them off, folding them and putting them next to the discarded bottle, his eyes never leaving Q's.
Firm fingers of one hand ran along Q's throat before cupping the back of his neck warmly and pulling him closer. So close…
"James," Q forced out in what could have been both a warning and a plea.
"Des…" Hardly more than a sigh, nothing but an abbreviation uttered by so many people in Q's past...
And Q crumbled into a deep kiss, as if his real name (that Bond absolutely should not have known) was the passcode to bypass any walls of restraint he might have had.
And Bond knew exactly how to catch him, how to see what Q was ready to give and never take more than that, playing him so artfully that Q never even noticed how Bond was reading his cues.
When Q's rubbery arms were once more under his control, he brought them up Bond's shoulders and around his back… Oh, dear god. Before he even realised that he wanted to look and not just touch, Bond reacted and started kissing along his neck, his nipping, sucking and licking mouth grinning.
"Like what you see?" the smug bastard asked.
Q chuckled, his eyes now following the path of one hand running over that ridiculously refined body. "I may not be wearing my glasses, but I'm not blind…" he said, biting one shoulder.
Bond's teeth wandered to the middle of Q's throat, grazing over the Adam's apple, making Q moan and tilt his head back to grant all the access his agent wished to have. Bond's nose first bumped Q's chin and then his nose, before he captured his lips, again.
One of his hands cradled the back of Q's head, while the other wandered under the t-shirt and up, breaking from the kiss for long enough to pull it over his head (and making an even bigger mess of the hair).
And for a moment, Q felt… well, he felt… self-conscious. Which he'd never been with a lover before. But this situation was silly. Bond was sculpted out of what must have been some divine combination of heat and marble and flesh, and he himself was… just the quartermaster.
"I…" he managed to sneak into a kiss, "… can't really hope to compare…"
Bond framed his head with both hands, breathing harshly. "Don't be ridiculous," he said before devouring Q's mouth some more, not that Q was complaining. Neither was Q complaining when Bond gave all his attention to the previously neglected side of his neck.
"You like your men scrawny, then?" Scrawny? Oh, for the love of buggery, where the fuck did his brain think it was going? Scrawny? He wasn't scrawny! His body was efficient and… streamlined, thank you very much.
Bond growled and sharply bit Q's neck, making Q gasp and pull his head closer, then Bond pushed him back to lie on the bed, leaning over him.
"I would have thought it to be obvious… but I like the sexy quartermaster type." His eyes roamed over Q's upper body. "And you're not scrawny."
Oh, god. The growl was back. Q's eyes almost crossed at that sound and the hungry look that went along with it.
"You're edible." Having said his piece, Bond dove to bite and suck a nipple, definitely making Q's eyes cross and grab him with both arms, arching up into him.
And there went the insecurity. Q moaned loudly and then grinned at the sensations racing through his body and at the sheer and utter lunacy of having James fucking Bond in his bed, turning his chest into some kind of erotic quilt pattern with his teeth.
Laughter bubbled from his chest, and he could feel the answering grin on Bond's lips. He pulled Bond up, so he could look at him, both of them breathing hard, and he knew that the hunger he had so clearly read in Bond's expression, earlier, was now just as clearly visible in his own.
Bond chuckled. "I knew there had to be an imp hiding in there."
Q really didn't want to disappoint, so he pulled him back into a kiss, alternately all but fucking his mouth with his tongue and biting his lips wherever he could catch them.
And when Bond kissed a trail down his body, he gasped (he did not whine), "James!" again, feeling an extra tingle simply for the pleasure of being able to call him something other than Bond or 007. He was particular to the sound of James, especially when it was being accompanied by lips expertly sucking his cock.
When Q woke again from a light doze, he first watched his sleeping bed mate for a bit before realising that the light falling into his room must have meant that he just about caught the missing two hours of sleep he had planned on getting.
He ran lazy fingers up and down Bond's steadily rising and falling (and utterly ridiculous) chest. Because, really, it was ridiculous, and it bore repeating. Who even had a body like that? Not that he was complaining, mind…
Eventually, Bond sleepily leaned into the soft touches and slowly opened his eyes.
Q smiled. "James," he greeted him. He really liked the sound of that name.
Bond laid a hand over Q's that was still on his chest and easily returned the smile. "Desmond."
Q's smile widened fractionally before turning rueful.
"What?" Bond asked, catching the fingers and kissing them.
Q opened his mouth to answer, paused, shook his head and started a new train of thought. "It… feels very good to hear that name again, but, please, stick to Des. Desmond makes me want to check if my mom is in the room."
Bond, the bastard, laughed at him, but since he also pulled him back into a kiss, Q decided to let him get away with it. Just this once.
Within minutes, he was expertly taken apart, piece by piece and inside out, anyway… He was splayed open, licked, caressed, bitten and breached by slicked fingers. He wasn't usually this… this…
"Are you always this complacent?" Bond asked into his right thigh.
Complacent, yes. That was the word. "No… I'm… hmmm… I'm not." Not at all, really.
Bond nipped at the skin. "Just for me, then?" The grin was audible.
Q didn't think that Bond's ego needed any polishing. None. Whatsoever. "How are you so bloody good at this?" Damn his mushy brain.
To his credit, Bond didn't gloat (as he could have), but instead returned to pleasuring his lover. It was what was different, Q supposed. He's had generous lovers before, but not like this. Mostly, because it didn't feel like generosity, but as if Bond gained most pleasure from giving it.
Q was a quivering mess by the time Bond moved up and over him and kissed him deeply, slowly, licking into his mouth and coaxing his tongue to respond.
"Are you ready for me?"
Q blinked at him. "What the hell kind of stupid question is that?" He lifted his head, trying to capture the lips again. He got a kiss, two. "Come here." Three. "Come here."
Bond allowed one more kiss, before positioning himself, both of them breathing the other's air. "So demanding," he murmured, but his voice trembled, as if the demand hadn't come from Q. Instead it came from Bond himself, and he had found the part of Q answering to it and had grown and nurtured it with all of his own.
If this what he did with all his conquests, Q wasn't at all surprised at Bond's reputation. He groaned loudly when he was finally breached and threw back his head. "Oh, god, fuck, yes, James…!"
Bond nearly folded Q in half, steadily and slowly moving inside and pushing Q's legs up against his torso, while he leaned in and gasped kisses and nips. He bit a trail over Q's chin to the spot behind his ear where he sucked at the soft skin, before latching onto the neck, groaning.
"Are you always this responsive?"
Q somehow found enough air in his lungs to growl, slung one leg around Bond's torso to lift his hips upwards and meet him and held onto Bond's head with both hands, biting his lip.
"Just shut up and fuck me."
Bond grinned. "I aim to please."
He pulled out slowly, only to push back in in one hard thrust.
Q laughed and gasped in abandon, slung both his arms around Bond's neck, bit his ear and said, "I know."
Bond chuckled, establishing a deep rhythm.
Yes, he did know, didn't he?
Later found them in the bathroom, sharing a shower. Not that the shower stall was designed for two people, but Bond had insisted that making a mess only to have to clean it up on your own was hardly the point of making it.
"And I have a weakness for wet bodies," Bond said, kissing along Q's shoulder that was once more rinsed of shampoo and shower gel, his hands running over slick skin.
"I wouldn't have pegged you for that much of a sensualist," Q replied, arching into every touch. He would have arched into every single finger individually, if he could have.
"When senses are inspired, yes…"
Q hummed, contentedly. "And a shameless flatterer."
Bond grinned and kissed him before he turned off the water, and once they were out of the shower and towelled dry, Q could see the infamous blade at work in Bond's hand.
Q stood with his hip against the sink, watching. Which was an interesting picture… him wearing nothing but his glasses. "Are you always carrying that razor blade around with you?"
Bond's lip twitched (not too much; not with a potentially lethal weapon in his hand). "Heard about it, have you?"
Q grinned. "Eve was raving about it."
"Hm," Bond agreed, almost motionless. "Did it leave an impression?"
Q nodded, slowly. "I can see why." He huffed in amusement and slowly shook his head. "I don't know if this is insane or just incredibly arousing."
Bond pointedly looked down Q's body.
"Give me a minute; I'm about to make up my mind."
Bond finished the job with Q's aftershave and cleaned the blade. "Interested?" he asked and held it up.
Q snorted. "Are you crazy? I'm quite handy, but with an ancient thing like that, I'd probably chop off my own nose by mistake."
Bond took a step closer. "Would you like me to?" he asked, lowly.
Q was almost certain that is brain crashed and rebooted at that point. "Why am I even contemplating this?" he asked, rhetorically, with a bemused little smile on his face.
Bond stepped closer still. "You're curious about what it would feel like. You – despite your decidedly in-house job – are more of a danger aficionado than most people would give you credit for. And, finally, you want to give me more of you. Your life at a razor's edge and at the same time perfectly safe."
"Perfectly?" Q sounded distinctly hoarse.
"Do you trust me?"
Oh, dear, a dare. Q smirked. "With your job. With my life. With this country. Decidedly not with your own health…"
Bond remained unperturbed. "Was that a Yes?"
Q waited for a moment, if only to watch Bond's calm and self-assured expression (that most would have called simply cocky), then he nodded, slowly. "Alright." He looked around. "Where should I sit? The bathtub?"
"No. Not steady enough." He nodded towards the toilet.
For that, Q actually wrapped a towel around his hips. No need to sit on cold plastic. After a second's contemplation, he took off his glasses and put them on the sink.
Bond put his blade down and picked up Q's shaving cream, again, eyeing the prominently placed brand critically. "Where do you even get this vile stuff?"
Q rolled his eyes. "Where normal people get their things, Bond. And it does the job."
Bond smirked slightly and applied the cream to Q's face. "I'm going to have to convince you of my ways, some day."
Q raised an eyebrow and waited until Bond was done and went to wash his hands. "I thought this was what you were doing?"
Bond wordlessly returned and kneeled in front of his quartermaster.
"I could get used to you on your knees." It really needed to be said.
Bond flipped open his blade and gave Q a look.
"What? Think you're the only one who can use one-liners?"
"Shush, you." He spoke like talking to a tree year old, which, in his opinion, Q has been not too long ago, anyway. "This is a delicate process." He turned the blade side to side to let it glint in the artificial light of the bathroom.
Q's lips twitched a bit, but he remained still, otherwise. The cold metal expertly whispering over his skin felt… extraordinary. He would have shivered, had he dared to. Eventually, he closed his eyes, tilting his head where Bond directed it with a finger on his chin.
"You're taking to this quite well," Bond murmured lowly, intimately, and when he wiped the blade to clear it of foam, again, Q opened his eyes, looking directly into Bond's and answered.
"I warned you I might."
"I thought that was only pertaining to my position on my knees between your legs."
Q remained silent and closed his eyes again, his smile amused and blissful. He was almost certain that Bond was drawing the blade over his throat more slowly than was strictly necessary. Then he remembered what had started this whole thing in the first place. When Bond was finished, he lowered his head.
"You have a disturbing fascination with my throat," he murmured.
"Disturbing? Not beneficial?" Bond remained where he was for a moment longer.
"I… could be convinced to agree."
Bond grinned. "Perhaps later." He stood, went to pick up the aftershave and returned to his previous spot, applying it himself and appreciating the feel of the cleanly shaved skin.
Q ran a hand over his skin. "Nice job," he conceded.
"Why, thank you, Q."
"So is this how 007 makes proper use of his downtime?" he asked and stood.
Bond stepped right in front of Q and put his glasses back onto his nose. "Well, usually, there's less shaving involved."
"Variety keeps you on your toes."
"You keep me on my toes."
Q smirked. "How about some food before I make sure of that again?"
Bond cupped Q's face. "Cheeky little bitch," he stated before kissing him. "I could eat."
"Not only that, but you should."
"But get dressed first," Q said, demonstratively dismissing Bond and stepped around him and out of the bathroom.
Bond trotted after him. "You don't have a pair of pants I could borrow, do you?"
Q snorted. "You couldn't fit that arse into my pants, Bond."
Bond contemplated going commando when Q stopped in front of a drawer.
"That is… if you don't mind tacky…" He grinned over his shoulder. "I do have that one pair of hideous boxers that I got as a joke for Christmas, once… They never fit and were probably never supposed to." He held them up and showed them to Bond. "They are silk, though."
Bond stared at the offending garment. "Why anyone would put that on silk is beyond me."
Q just threw them at Bond who caught them, his grin widening considerably when Bond actually put them on.
"They have sentimental value, so I want them back."
They did manage to locate food in the kitchen, once they were both dressed, and between food and kisses and gropes, Q was beginning to think that Bond's brand of downtime was exactly his thing…
And then a text message alert on Q's phone and a phone call on Bond's effectively ended their 'downtime'.
"Shit," Q pronounced when he read the message. "Fucking shit," followed when he heard Bond's phone ring.
Bond picked up. "Bond. Yes." He listened for a moment, then held a finger over the mouthpiece and caught Q's eyes. "How are you getting in?"
"Car will be here in two minutes." He was already putting on shoes.
"I can hitch a ride," answered to the unheard question on his phone, closed the connection and followed suit with shoes and jacket. Then he went to the window, checking for the car. When it came into view, he motioned Q to have a look.
"One of yours?"
Q looked out. "Yes. Let's go."
Once outside, Q got into the car first.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Afternoon, Mister Kebede."
Kebede startled momentarily when Bond followed. "Sir."
Bond nodded at him via mirror. "Afternoon."
Q wasted no time and closed the partition between driver and passengers, pulling Bond into a harsh, kiss. Then he held his face firmly in position and gave the man his best stare.
"You are to come back in one piece, or I'll have your hide and make a lab coat out of it."
Bond grinned. "Yes, sir." With that, he licked his way into Q's mouth, drawing out a twin moan. "Thank you," he added, clearly talking about all of their shared (and cut short) downtime, including the one spent sleeping.
"The pleasure is all mine, 007."
Once there, they hurried inside together until Q had to take the elevator and Bond was expected elsewhere.
"Have a good day at work, Desmond," Bond murmured, smirking.
"Fuck you." They were in a surveillance blind spot, Q knew that very well, or Bond wouldn't have used his name, and he wouldn't have replied quite so crudely.
Bond leaned close and murmured in his ear. "When I get back." He straightened. "To work, Q?"
Q grinned. Oh, yes. "To work, 007."