oldestcharm

Q pushes past Bond, into their hotel room in hopes to have his meltdown with fewer witnesses. Fewer, because Bond's still with him and there's no avoiding his unnerving stare, but he'll take that over a plane full of passengers, the overly nosey cabbie and the entirety of the hotel personnel. He's held out fairly well considering the good drugs are beginning to wear off by now. And that's a goddamn shame.

His shoes are off as soon as they're inside. He discards his jacket almost immediately, fingers already working on his tie when he reaches the bathroom. He doesn't have the energy to think about propriety or appearances as he yanks it off, fumbles with the top buttons of his shirt and drops his glasses rather carelessly onto the counter. He can worry about the damage later — if it is at all necessary. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he has a vague memory of having packed his contact lenses and those will do.

He turns on the tap and splashes some cold water on his face. It drips down his neck and soaks into his shirt, but it doesn't matter because he'll be out of it soon enough. Ruined clothes really aren't the priority when his heart's still thumping loud in his chest like some fucked up clock and his hands have yet to stop shaking.

"Oh, fucking... GOD!" he hisses, slamming his wrists against the not-quite-sharp-enough edge of the marble countertop on either side of the sink. The dull ache does fuck all to help, especially when his pain tolerance is already fairly high. Just fifteen minutes in R&D would be far more effective than this poor showing of a deliberate attempt to distract himself in a hotel bathroom. Nothing good ever happens in a hotel bathroom anyway.

It's not nearly enough, and yet, he can't help but feel relieved he's been able to postpone his meltdown. That in itself is a feat.

He shuts off the water and runs a hand through the damp strands, leaving his hair dishevelled and inartful. "What?" he snaps, meeting Bond's eyes in the mirror. The man has clearly followed him out of mere curiosity and is now leaning casually against the door frame as though he's got nothing else to do. Q wishes he'd have less of that — less of his scrutiny — mostly so he wouldn't have to deal with it in his already rattled state.

"This is new," Bond comments mildly and he would sound almost nonchalant, if not for the near predatory look in his eyes.

Q lets out a humourless laugh. "It's not new."

"Do you need anything?" Bond asks, because apparently, the fucker is trying to be helpful and considerate, which would be charming in any other context, but really has the opposite effect right now. Q doesn't want a goddamn audience.

"A fistfight, a fuck and a shitload of drugs," Q mutters under his breath and then he's pulling at his hair, the pain allowing him just a momentary escape from nausea. He tries to get his breathing under control. Tries to count from one to ten, but only makes it to four.

Bond's eyebrows shoot up. He seems to recover quickly enough, though, because Q can hear him make his way across the room.

"Well, take your pick — I'm open to two out of three," Bond says and it startles a genuine laugh out of Q, "although I see no reason to mess up your face — it's quite delicate."

Q taps his fingers on the countertop, considering. Now, this is a very clear proposition. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice is screaming at him not to be stupid, not to sleep with his colleagues, especially the ones whose life he's directly and regularly responsible for, but... he definitely needs something.

He turns around, finding himself face to face with Bond who smiles slowly, clearly enjoying himself.

He is much closer than he had originally expected.

Q narrows his eyes.

"You look positively indecent right now," Bond murmurs, eyes dragging over Q with obvious appreciation. That is not new either.

Q scowls at him and then pulls him into a bruising kiss, fingers sliding along Bond's jawline and into his hair. He pulls hard, bringing him closer still, even when there's not a lot to work with — that's a shame. Bond fumbles for a moment, hand slipping on the counter before managing to right himself with a soft, almost startled laugh into Q's mouth. His hand finds Q's waist and he pulls him closer, pressing his hips against Q's own. It's not like he needs encouragement, but he responds to it nevertheless, digging his fingernails into broad shoulders and just dragging.

Bond pulls back to breathe and catches his eyes. "Are you sure you want to—" he says, but Q cuts him off with another rough kiss. There's really no need for the niceties.

"Yes," he hisses against his mouth, insistent and needy. He's vaguely aware that he sounds annoyed, but it's too late to reel himself in.

Bond has know what he's getting into. They've known each other for long enough now for him to have figured out that Q's a basket case.

And he doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he grins and lifts Q by his thighs up onto the counter. His fingers tug at the hem of his shirt as if testing the waters.

Q has had enough of the caution.

"The fuck are you doing? Stop being a gentleman about this," he insists, voice breathless and hoarse.

"I'd like you to be comfortable," Bond says with a twitch of his lips, and really, Q would be planning murder if he weren't so preoccupied.

"I don't need comfortable right now," Q hisses, digging his fingertips into Bond's hip, guaranteed to leave bruises. The bastard deserves it. "What do you think this is? A bodice ripper?"

Bond snorts, leaning down to kiss along Q's jawline. "I don't believe that's particularly safe."

"That is, ah— really not the point," Q says, inhaling sharply when Bond drags his teeth along his pulse point. He shoves his free hand under Bond's expensive jumper and rucks it up as far as possible. "Take this thing off, it looks stupid on you."

"You should have said so earlier," Bond responds, but leans back to let Q drag it over his head and fling it onto the bathroom floor. "I might have avoided nine hours of insurmountable embarrassment."

Bond's fingers are back on Q's shirt buttons near instantly, making fast work of them. Years of practice finally put into good use, Q thinks and lets out a somewhat hysterical snort. Bond glances up at him, a coquettish grin on his lips. For a moment, Q wonders if he'd said that out loud, but no. Bond's just like that.

"You wouldn't have listened," Q decides with an aborted attempt at Bond's belt. He acquiesces immediately when Bond slides his shirt over his shoulders and hooks his legs around Bond's thighs to drag him closer. "Come here, you idiot, you're practically on the other side of the room."

Bond lets out a breathy laugh, urging Q to lift his hips so he can slide off his trousers and pants at the same time. "You're extremely bossy, did you know that?"

Q sucks in a breath at the cool air against his cock, his arm curling around Bond's shoulders. He can feel the muscles shifting under his fingertips and it's... nice. Just nice. "It's come up once or twice," Q says with an attempt to focus even as he gets distracted by Bond's collarbone. He bites down on it, almost absently. Bond hisses at him.

"Fuck, you're an absolute menace," he says, but he sounds so utterly delighted that Q doesn't even bother with a response. Instead, he pulls him into a filthy wet kiss and shoves his hand down Bond's pants, fingers curling around his erection at a somewhat awkward angle. It's a sure way to get a hand cramp, but that is not exactly on the top of his list of priorities for the time being. Bond arches into his hand and Q tries not to smile. He shoves down the trousers with his toes and flexes his fingers just so, closing around them both. He can't resist the little smirk at the sound he draws out of Bond. Now that is an accomplishment.

It's dry and not entirely comfortable, so he just spits in his hand, ignoring the exasperated look from his companion. It is gone in mere seconds. Bond lets out a choked little noise that Q chases gleefully. He tightens his grip and lets his thumb slide over Bond's leaking head, smearing the precome over both of them.

"Cute," he mutters in a tone that's just a little derisive, and Bond yanks himself from his grip. For a moment he thinks he's ruined it, but then Bond slides his hands over Q's thighs with obvious intent and quite a bit of heated eye contact before he lowers himself onto his knees.

"Come on," Bond says, never taking his eyes off Q and there is something in his eyes that makes it difficult for Q to communicate in a sensible manner. "Have at me."

Yeah, none of that left here.

Q's not entirely sure what to make of this. Of Bond in particular, but it's hard to ignore him nosing at his cock and dragging his tongue up his length with reverence. Q's breath catches. He shudders, both hot and cold in the moment.

"Fuck," he hisses as Bond gathers a bead of come on his tongue. "Is that what you always— do?"

Bond hums, lips curling into a smirk. "Take my time?"

Q grinds his teeth. "Procrastinate."

Bond huffs a laugh, eyes gleaming and swallows down his length. He puts in an effort, intensified pressure, friction and tongue. His fingernails dig into Q's thighs, sharp and delightful, spreading them wider still and it's— a lot.

Q gasps a breath and Bond's eyes flick to his. Q's fingers are grasping at the marble edge of the counter. He thinks he sees Bond focusing on them, eyes transfixed even through his lowered lashes. And isn't that interesting?

It's a miracle he can still work out a hypothesis in his current state, but the scientific method is everything to Q and therefore needs to be followed through. So he unclenches his fingers from the countertop and reaches out to slide his fingers alongside the joining of Bond's mouth and his cock. Bond gasps, shudders and lets his eyes fall shut. He scoots just a little closer and applies himself thoroughly enough for Q to forget all his musings about science.

He's so fucking close. Overwhelmed by the goddamned plane ride and the terrible lighting in the bathroom and most of all — his actual fucking feelings.

He throws his head back and smacks it hard against the mirror with an audible crack. The dull paint adds to the enormous pile of sensations stacked on top of one another, tipping him over the edge. Bond makes a startled noise that vibrates all around Q. He barely has time to reach out and yank him back by his hair before he comes partly in Bond's mouth, partly on his face.

Q wets his lips. Blinks rapidly. His ears are ringing, a slight buzzing sound, light headed. Something warm about it. He shudders.

He is vaguely aware of Bond staring at him, but Q's not entirely with it to decipher his expression.

"I almost thought Moneypenny was lying about you and flying."

Q winces.

"My fault," Bond says, almost softly. "I asked."

"Yes, well," Q says and clears his throat. "I'm good at compartmentalising my emotions. After, I mean."

"I see," Bond says, fingers still tracing over Q's over-sensitised skin. Q isn't entirely sure how he feels about the intimacy, but seeing as it's not exactly repulsive, he lets Bond have his fun. He just closes his eyes and leans his head and shoulders against the mirror at his back. "Sort of like when you get shot?"

"The disconnect?" Q snorts. "Yes, I suppose it's exactly like when you get shot."

"Have you ever been shot?" Bond asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Q's eyes snap open. "What a time to ask personal questions," he huffs, deliberately evasive.

He has, in fact, gotten shot before, but it's not relevant to this particular situation and he has an odd feeling that Bond might get off on that. Q thinks it's better if he doesn't contribute to that particular kind of insanity.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Bond says and smiles pleasantly. "Should I ask while we're at work then?"

"Shut the fuck up," Q tells him with an annoyed snort he can't quite keep from escaping. "We are at work. Unless you've suddenly forgotten the mission."

"You sure do have a mouth on you, dear. But fair enough. It can wait." Bond grins sharply, more teeth on display than Q's comfortable with, especially on a man who's just had his mouth on his cock. "This can't."

Q blinks, remembers good manners and sex etiquette enough to reach out to return the favour but before he can do so Bond scrambles up from the floor on his own, wipes his mouth and frowns at Q. He reaches out and steadies his hand on Q's jaw which makes him pause. "What?" he asks, suspicious of the way Bond's peering around him.

"You're bleeding," he says, gingerly brushing the side of his head.

"Like fuck I am," Q says, backing away to twist towards the mirror. The mirror, that is now cracked. The mirror that shows his reflection. The mirror that is smeared with blood. "I, um—"

"Hold still," Bond says, warm laughter under his breath and goes for the cabinets. "We'll patch you up and then you can get back to work."

Q's not sure what he means by 'work' but for once he's willing for Bond to call the shots.
 

*

Back in England, Q isn't entirely sure whether to regret his decision or not. He doesn't have to think about it much because Bond is sent out on another mission almost immediately and Q wholeheartedly prescribes to the 'out of sight, out of mind' saying.

Until, of course.

Bond leans against Q's desk and sets the gun — miraculously intact — down on Q's desk.

Q glances at him, wary, and back at the gun.

The smile on Bond's lips is probably meant to be charming, but the intensity of his eyes ensures it comes across as somewhat unsettling instead. Or perhaps, Q's just not as brave as he thought he was.

"So, have you ever been shot?" Bond asks, low enough that none of his staff could overhear.

Q's fingers pause on the keyboard and he tears his eyes from the screen in order to stare blandly at him. "Yes, 007, I have."

Bond's smile widens and he traces a finger alongside Q's desk. "Will you show me?"

Q blinks rapidly. "You want to see my gunshot wound?"

"Yes," Bond says and there's something about him that seems oddly wistful. "I didn't really get a chance to explore last time."

It's a terrible idea, so of course, Q has to say yes.

"I'll see you later, James," Q tells him with a slight quirk of a smile and turns back to his laptop. Bond slinks away, satisfied.