Title: The Long Game
Fandom: James Bond
Pairing: James Bond/Q
Rating: G
Length: 1690
Summary: Bond wants his relationship with Q to get off to a perfect start and that means not rushing it.
Authors Note: Part of my Into The Unknown series


James Bond genuinely couldn’t remember the last time that he had spent this long planning a date. An honest to god date. Years probably, considering that he definitely hadn’t been on a date since Vesper. He wasn’t even sure that he’d worked this hard with Tracy and he’d married her! Still, there was no question about it; he wanted to make the best possible impression on Q. Particularly as it had taken him such a long time to get the man to even consider going out with him.

After the events of Skyfall, Bond had thrown himself into work, taking any and every mission that he could, despite Mallory’s obvious reluctance and MI6 guidelines. He refused any downtime that was offered, well-aware that psych would have a field day if they could get their hands on him. As a result, other than when Q was handing him new equipment (which happened on a startlingly regular basis) and over the comms, Bond had very little to do with the new Quartermaster. That all changed about three months after Skyfall. Bond had heard a lot of chatter from other agents about the new Quartermaster and was already intrigued from his own interactions with the man. Besides, anyone who could have Alec Trevelyan waxing rhapsodically definitely warranted further investigation.

What he really hadn’t expected was that he was going to fall head over heels for the Quartermaster. Bond had slept with a lot of people since his first inexpert fumblings with a girl got him sent down from Eton, both for missions and for pleasure. He had never been picky about his partners. He’d slept with men, women, alphas, betas, omegas, blondes, brunettes, redheads, anyone. All he asked was that they were willing. However, if you were to look at the only two serious relationships that he had ever had, he had a type; lean, dark-haired, intelligent and witty with fire in their blood. The Quartermaster ticked every single one of those boxes. There was also the fact that he spent a considerable amount of his time working to ensure that Bond came back from missions.

Plus, he wasn’t impressed by the fact that Bond was 007. Bond had never had to work so hard for someone’s interest and he had liked that, liked that Q hadn’t simply rolled over for him. Rather than being put off by Q’s constant refusals, as everyone had assumed, it had simply made him more determined to get Q to say yes. By the time that Q finally said yes to a date, two whole months since Bond had started his campaign of flirting and attempts at bribery via sugary confectionary and exotic teas, Bond had the gut feelings that this wasn’t just going to be a fling for him. This was it. Q was it.

It was for that precise reason that Bond had gone to all of this effort. He wanted to prove that he was serious about this, that he was serious about Q and that he didn’t simply want a quick shag. Alec had actually bruised a rib laughing so hard that he fell over when he realised how much thought Bond had put into it. Well, Alec was telling people that he fell at least. In reality, it had been Bond who had pushed him and he was completely unrepentant about that. Besides, the other blond alpha would surely find himself in the same situation at some point, even if Bond couldn’t picture Alec finding anyone who would put up with him.

Picking where to take Q for dinner had probably been the hardest thing. Why was it so bloody hard to make the right impression? He wanted to impress Q, make him feel special but he didn’t want to scare him off. Bond liked fine dining, he made no secret of that, and he could get a table at any of London’s top restaurants without trouble but he had the feeling that dinner in a Michelin-starred restaurant on their first date wasn’t the best decision to make. Eventually, he had plumped for Albannach, an old favourite that would be just perfect.

When the day of their date finally came, Bond dressed himself with care, picking an immaculately tailored navy blue Tom Ford suit that he had seen Q’s eyes linger on appreciatively when he had worn it in the past. He wasn’t above using tidbits of information if they ensure that the evening went in his favour. Q had been subtle in his appreciation of Bond of course, but Bond was a spy and incredibly good at his job; if he hadn’t seen Q watching him then he clearly needed to work harder at honing his skills. Besides, it had only convinced Bond to persist in his pursuit of Q. Bond had never forced anyone in his life, be they alpha, beta or omega and he had no intention of starting now. The glances had proved that Q was interested in Bond on some level and that whatever reason he had previously had for saying no, it was no dislike of Bond.

As he got into his car to pick Q up, Bond felt a pang of loss for his old Aston Martin. He might not have got to drive it as often as he liked but he had loved the car and had been far from happy at its demise. The Jaguar he drove now was nice but it wasn’t his Aston. Maybe he should look out for another Aston and then see if Q could be bribed into giving it a little boost, a few modifications to make it more interesting. Besides, the Jag might not be a patch on the Aston but it still garnered the second appreciative look of the evening from Q, the first having been bestowed upon Bond as he made his entrance into Q-branch.

To Bond’s delight, Q had also taken some care in selecting his attire for the evening and was sporting a smart pair of black trousers paired with a forest-green shirt and a jacket that was a hell of a lot better than that bloody anorak. Oh, he was still nowhere near Bond’s own sartorial elegance but he had at least dispensed with the horrific mustard cardigan that made Bond shudder just to think about it, never mind that checked trousers that had left Bond with the urge to dig his eyeballs out with a spoon the first time that he saw them. They might be designer but that didn’t mean they weren’t bloody horrendous. Not for the first time, especially since he had seen Q in the Gieves and Hawkes tuxedo, Bond was struck with the urge to take Q to any number of establishments on Savile Row and have him measured for something more befitting his station. Not that Q would ever agree to such a thing.

By tacit agreement, none of the conversation over dinner was about work and Bond discovered, to his delight, that Q was a master conversationalist, able to talk about almost anything. Simultaneously, Bond couldn’t help but feel a bit smug when Q’s surprise at Bond being able to keep up was apparent. To be perfectly frank, Bond was pleasantly surprised that he had managed to keep up with the conversation considering how distracting Q had been while he was eating. He may be skinny as hell but Q had eaten an impressive amount and the pleasure that he had taken in the food he had eaten was clearly apparent.

Bond had found himself digging his fingers into his thighs as Q hummed and sighed happily around his forkfuls of food, exclaiming over the flavours of their food. Bond found his control severely tested when it came to dessert. Q had ordered some ridiculously rich chocolate concoction that had him closing his eyes in bliss and moaning in pleasure as he practically fellated the spoon, resulting in Bond having to discretely adjust himself. He was more than a little relieved when Q finished, practically licking the crockery clean in the process, and normal service was resumed. In the end, they lingered so long over tumblers of perfectly aged Scotch that it took a discrete cough from the manager for them to realise the place was empty and staff wanted to go home. Bond had snatched the bill and handed over his card before Q could even make a move for it and had refused to listen to any of Q’s protests as he ushered Q back to the waiting car to drive him home.

Even though he desperately wanted more, wanted Q to invite him in, once he had walked Q to his door, Bond simply left him there with nothing more than a kiss to the cheek. He wanted to do so much more. Wanted to see what Q tasted of, whether it would be bergamot and sugar as Bond presumed it would be. Wanted to see how Q responded when he was kissed; whether he would submit or if he would fight Q for dominance. He wanted to know if Q would make the same delectable little hums and moans of pleasure under the onslaught of Bond’s lips and tongue as he had while he demolished his food. Even the thought of it had Bond reconsidering his good intentions.

It was incredibly difficult because Q was not only intoxicating but because Bond really didn’t want to fuck this up before it had barely started. Ignoring the disbelieving look on Q’s face, Bond had instead walked back to his car, knowing that he had made the right decision. He was undoubtedly going to become very well-acquainted with his right hand but it would be worth it eventually. He wasn’t going to rush this. He was going to savour every single minute of this because the few hours with Q, just the two of them – no work – had confirmed that Bond’s gut instinct was right.

Q was it for him.

No, Bond was more than happy to take his time and play the long game. It was worth it if it got him Q.