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Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Prologue
“Sometimes, there is nothing for it but to play,” Q says, hands resting on the piano keys, naked except for black boxer briefs. His shoulders are slumped, back curled in uncharacteristic bad posture that is absolutely alarming.
Bond has seen him tired, where his head falls back and his eyes shut, neck bared for appreciative staring and caressing. Bond knows that tired Q means gentle kisses and being handsy under the blankets and falling asleep before anything else happens. But this isn’t exhaustion.
“Fingers dancing over ivory keys, hands dragging a bow lightly over strings, mouths breathing life into wind or reed instruments... Sometimes, the notes were the only way to speak.” Q’s voice is quiet – but not the demanding pay attention right now quiet - and his expression unreadable.
Bond has seen him tense, spine snapped painfully straight, where Bond doesn’t dare do anything but wait for Q to finish his task or process whatever it is he needs to before even approaching. Bond knows that when Q is tense, it means leaving him to work through what’s bothering him, and then offering either a massage or rough sex, depending on the resolution of the issue. But this absolutely isn’t tension.
“But not anymore, it seems.” Q slides the fallboard shut, covering the keys with a quiet snap, and stands. He looks for a long moment at Bond, expression devastated and almost perplexed in a way that makes Bond ache. Then Q turns and walks to bed.
Bond has never seen him devastated before.
He doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to follow Q or not.
Ways of Growing Up
1973 — 2010
Unlike what some people liked to believe, the Holmes brothers weren’t inherently musical. Because the trio excelled at whatever instrument was placed in front of them, the parties lucky enough to bear witness to the music simply assumed it was another facet of their genius. Sometimes — often — the audience would secretly curse them for being allowed to have it all: logical and meditative genius, physical appeal, and the art of harmony all in one lovely package.
The truth was that the price of such proficiency was almost unbearably high.
In fact, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Sherrinford had almost no talent whatsoever in the beginning. They were clumsy, lanky, uncoordinated children whose minds always ran far ahead of their limbs.
Music in the halls of the Holmes flat began when their mother, Dr. Holmes (who, it must be said, had very little patience and even less empathy) tried to cure Mycroft of his ‘infuriating inability to be still’. She schooled him in the art of self-control quite brutally, using tactics such as forcing him to stand motionless in the corner, holding a coin to the wall with his nose, for hours. As a result, Mycroft learned at an exceedingly young age how to be still in every sense of the word. He learned not speak unless spoken to. He learned not to touch unless explicitly given permission. He learned to keep the movements of his uncoordinated limbs small and controlled.
But, as it turned out, this wasn’t what his mother wanted at all. She didn’t want timidity. She wanted grace.
When Sherlock was born seven years later, Dr. Holmes realized her failure was in over-correction. She watched heartlessly as Mycroft managed to control his long limbs when moving about the house in silence, but fumbled at holding the tiny, screaming, sensitive infant. Her expectations of control worked wonderfully on the grander movements, but not the smaller ones.
It didn’t take long for her to come up with a solution. There were a great many types of activities designed to hone the fine motor skills, but the act of learning an instrument had many advantages over the vast majority of other activities suggested to her. While fiber crafts could produce lovely results, she disdained the notion of her boys being involved with something so... practical. She wanted beauty, not functionality. Fine scale metal work offered the opportunity for artistry, but her sons were already producing enough chaos with the chemistry lessons their father forced them to participate in. Art itself — such as painting, drawing, or sketching — was dismissed as a waste of time.
Music, however, had many benefits.
Visions of long evenings spent by the fireplace while her sons played for her and her guests danced in her head. She was already the envy of her friends and colleagues, producing sons who showed the obvious signs of inheriting both of their parents’ genius and physical attractiveness. Add to that the beauty of expression through music, and they would be flawless creatures in the world’s eyes.
It didn’t turn out that way. Mycroft was much like her — cold and calculating, though hindsight made her realize that she’d pushed too hard and broken his spirit. Mycroft had no ambition whatsoever; in fact he was far too lazy to make a name for himself. He preferred to do his work, brilliant though it was, quietly and efficiently. He was still the same boy she’d forced nose-first into corners, though now he hid in Vauxhall behind the role of “minor government official” rather than her china cabinet.
In a rare show of ambition, Mycroft enjoyed his music lessons because he had to work at them for physical coordination without much mental expenditure. When the mental landscapes of internal calculations became too much to bear, he’d told his mother, he could sit at the piano or pick up the violin or breathe into the clarinet and let his mind work under the calming influence of physical control. He had to work to get his fingers to go in the right ways, and it diverted enough of his mind that he could start to see the forest of his problems through the trees.
It was meditative, he’d once told her. Dr. Holmes couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.
Sherlock was another matter entirely. Dr. Holmes didn’t break him the way she broke Mycroft, choosing to use lessons as tools for physical and mental control rather than the harsher manipulations she’d used for her eldest. She’d learned from her mistake with Mycroft and enrolled Sherlock in a barrage of carefully-selected training exercises — martial arts, languages, physiology, and music — at a very young age. He learned self-control in physical form, but, frustratingly, not in mental form. The constant pressure on him to excel, to use his mind in only the most productive of ways, led to small physical rebellions that were nearly Dr. Holmes' undoing.
Explosions in the chemical lab, she could handle — at least it meant that he was mentally engaged and learning something. But temper tantrums and emotional meltdowns were much less easy to deal with. From sliding down staircase railings to using antique furniture as a jungle gym to digging holes in her immaculate garden, Sherlock was a mess of expression. He had all the tools of self-control, but none of Mycroft’s patience to put them into practise. Unless it suited him.
When Sherlock got old enough he objected to all lessons because it was in his very soul to be contrary. But oh how he hated music lessons in particular. They required his concentration and effort in a way that almost nothing else did, and it angered him that they didn’t come easy. He’d broken more violins in anger over the years than Dr. Holmes could count on two hands, but she was nothing if not persistent. A broken violin always meant a new one — and a harder piece of music to learn as punishment.
As Sherlock grew older, he (much to Dr. Holmes’ astonishment) kept to the challenge, saying it was one of the few things that calmed his mind. Dr. Holmes sneered at that — she didn’t think their minds needed to be calmed at all. He just obviously wasn’t applying himself properly if he was bored, she’d tell him. He simply played more in response.
When Sherrinford arrived only two years after Sherlock, Dr. Holmes was determined to get it right. She chose the middle ground between Mycroft’s harsh discipline and Sherlock’s lack of it. She combined punishment with instruction, and was pleased with the outcome — a son who was marginally more cooperative, more pleasant, and more functional than her other two. Ford applied his brilliance in useful ways.
Unlike Mycroft, Ford had enough ambition and passion to carry him through the hard work of getting where wanted to go. Unlike Sherlock, he had the patience and emotional competence to suffer fools long enough to finish his Ph.D. and find a job that suited him. Dr. Holmes couldn’t tell anyone that he was MI6’s youngest Quartermaster, but her acquaintances could feel her satisfaction rolling off her whenever the subject of children was broached.
By some odd twist of circumstance, all three of her sons continued their pursuit of music as adults. Sherrinford’s persistence, in particular, was odd; unlike Mycroft and Sherlock, Ford never seemed to have trouble with nor passion for it. Their monthly dinners together never ended in conversation, but in the three sons standing up in front of where Dr. Holmes sat by the fire to play for long hours into the night.
They weren’t a close family, and they didn’t talk. Not about lives or hearts, at least. Dr. Holmes didn’t know much about their lives beyond her reach, and frankly, that was how she preferred it. She didn’t care to hear the stories of their broken hearts. She could close her eyes and listen to the music and assume that everything was fine.
Ways of Finding
April 2011
Bond had absolutely no interest in the young prat that was MI6’s new Quartermaster — at least, not at first. Q had biting wit and a light aura of disdain around him that Bond associated with youth, and he couldn't decide if it rankled him or made him slightly wistful. Neither emotion was particularly useful or appealing, so he more or less avoided Q except to collect equipment or allow himself to be directed when it fell to Q to be his handler.
But despite Bond’s not actually devoting much thought to the Quartermaster, Q became as much a part of his life as any other essential piece of equipment. He was almost always there when Bond needed him, ready to hand out armoury and tech as needed, or to guide him through dark streets without getting him lost or shot.
They bantered and laughed, but didn’t actually communicate. Which is why, nearly six months after the incident with Silva, the agent knew no more about him than he had the first day they’d spoken.
“Welcome back,” Moneypenny said cheerfully as she caught up to where Bond was striding determinedly away from Medical. The clack of her shoes was an almost welcome sound after nearly a month spent in a city whose streets weren’t solid enough to support high heels. The red of her dress against the white clinical walls was extremely distracting, and Bond briefly wondered if he were bleeding too much through his bandages to be considered attractive as a bed mate.
“Miss Moneypenny. I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you, but something tells me you’re not here to check up on me.”
Her low chuckle echoed in the featureless hallway, mixing with the clack of her heels and the swish of her dress in a deeply soothing way. Bond considered slowing down to draw out the experience, but knew that it would make Eve instantly suspicious.
“I’m under instructions not to let you leave until you finish your after action report,” she declared, smirking as she caught the handle of the door before Bond could beat her to it. Her body language was carefully nonconfrontational, and the smile never left her lips, but she was very obviously not going to let him pass until he acquiesced.
“I’ll go up to my office right now to finish it,” he lied smoothly, before reaching out to lightly run his fingertips over her knuckles where they were wrapped around the door handle. “Unless you have any better ideas for a way to pass a slow weekday evening.”
Eve’s grin grew a bit wider, but as she opened her mouth to answer her mobile chimed with a text. She reached into the pocket of her jacket to fetch it without releasing the handle. “Hold that thought,” she replied with a smile before breaking eye contact to check her message.
“Oh,” she said with a hint of surprised delight in her voice. “As it turns out, I do have an idea for a better way to pass the time.”
Without explaining further, Eve twisted the handle to the side corridor that connected Medical to the building’s stairwell and lifts. She ignored the stairs in favour of the lift and, once they were inside, pressed the button for sublevel 6.
Bond raised an eyebrow, watching her curiously. “Q Branch? I think I’ve had enough of armoury for the week, thank you.”
“Q’s brother is here,” she replied simply, looking down at her mobile rather than him.
Bond couldn’t quite hide the twitch of surprise that tugged at his mouth. MI6 was a famously not-family-oriented agency. In most cases, even the parents and close family of the agents (if they had any at all) didn’t know exactly what their kin did for a living. But to have a family member actually here, inside the building? If the brother wasn’t working for MI6 — which seemed likely — he must have had a high security clearance for another reason.
“Why is this person such an attraction?” Bond asked. “Is he someone famous?”
“Not at all.”
Moneypenny didn’t seem inclined to speak further, so the last few moments of the ride down to Q Branch were completely silent. Perhaps that was why the shock of soft, almost sad, sounds of a piano and violin playing perfectly together hit him with such force when the lift doors opened.
When the rebuilding of HQ had finished after the explosion caused by Silva, Q Branch’s move from the tunnels to the sublevel was relatively quick and quiet. Nothing notable actually changed — the lights were still falsely bright and fluorescent, computers still dominated the landscape, and the walls were still covered by large screens to keep the technicians apprised of the state of various MI6 activities.
One significant difference, however, was the addition of a grand piano to the main operations center. It sat to the back right of the room, next to the rear entrance to the explosives labs. Bond had never bothered to ask about it, and (never having seen or heard it be played) assumed it served as little more than decoration.
The sight he walked into proved otherwise.
Q sat at the piano bench, hands moving methodically but lightly over the keys as he played what Bond recognized as Beethoven’s Spring Sonata. There was no sheet music on the stand in front of him, and when Bond looked closer, he could see that Q actually had his eyes closed.
Perhaps even more interesting was the man who was sitting — like a nightclub diva — on top of the piano as he played the violin accompaniment. That he was Q’s brother was obvious not just in their shared hair colour and facial features, but in the way he held himself — perfectly upright, somewhat tense, and with a sense of dispassion.
Bond watched as they finished the sonata in perfect time. When the last note was hit, sounding out in perfect and sharp clarity, the entire room broke out into applause. Bond realized with a start that it wasn’t just Q Branch techs here to admire the duet, it was an odd collection of people from all corners of MI6. Bond checked his watch quickly to confirm that it was indeed long past when most of the nine-to-five types would have fled, but not one of the dozens gathered in audience moved as they awaited what they obviously expected to be a second performance.
“They always start with Beethoven,” Moneypenny confided quietly in Bond’s ear as he watched the brothers confer quietly. She took advantage of the break to lead Bond further into the room, sitting at a row of computers to watch the ‘concert’ more comfortably. She gestured to the empty seat next to her, which Bond took. “But they’ll move into something modern now. What they choose will depend entirely on why Sherlock is here, of course.”
“Sherlock?”
Eve hummed, but didn’t say anything further.
“Seasons of the Soul, followed by The Ascending Soul,” Sherlock said out loud, clearly addressing Q without actually looking at him. Q nodded his head and turned back to the keys.
What followed was about ten minutes of the softest, most sweetly haunting music Bond had ever heard. The pieces weren’t complicated in any way, but a combination of slow, methodical notes on the piano underscoring the drawn-out, wistful cries of the violin. Bond watched as the people around him closed their eyes, bodies unfurling from rigid, professional stances into more open body language as if to more fully capture the music. Bond almost couldn’t help having the same reaction; weeks of stiffness and adrenaline seemed to melt away from him in the wake of the elegiac sounds.
Q Branch might have made a good auditorium, Bond thought quietly to himself as the last of notes echoed sweetly in the cavernous room.
It took several long moments for the crowd to shake itself into an appreciative applause, hushed though it was for not wanting to spoil the mood. One by one Bond’s coworkers drifted away, either back to their workstations or whatever remnants of a life they had outside of the building.
Bond couldn’t help but smile as Moneypenny herself walked away quietly, failing to remind Bond that he still owed her his report. From his somewhat hidden position on the side, he watched for a brief moment as Sherlock tucked his bow carefully into its case, twisting the internal latch to keep it in its place.
Curious, Bond sat quietly and waited. He watched as Q remained motionless on the bench, staring at the keys. Sherlock was equally quiet, packing his violin carefully into place before snapping the lid shut and sliding the fasteners into place. Neither of them bothered with a goodbye as Sherlock walked away.
“Lock,” Q said quietly before Sherlock could reach the lifts. The brother stopped, but didn’t turn.
“I don’t know if I can help,” Q said quietly.
“But you’ll try, Ford,” Sherlock answered. “That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll try.”
When Sherlock was gone, Q straightened at the piano and began playing another song — this once much quicker and much more complicated, but no less melancholy. Bond wondered if Q had memorized the song because he played it so much, or if he had an eidetic memory.
Bond sat listening to the music, letting it continue to soothe his post-mission exhaustion and wariness while wondering what else he was missing about his Quartermaster. He let his head tip back to land silently on the wall behind him and he wondered if Ford was Q’s full name or a nickname. The latter seemed more likely, given that Sherlock had been shortened to Lock.
It could have been minutes or hours later that Q finally quit playing. With a grind and a clunk, Q drew the fallboard into place, and stood, stretching.
Bond watched, smiling. “That was quite nice.”
Q jumped, turning with a frown to see Bond where he was nearly hidden by the wall. “Christ, I’d thought everyone had gone,” he muttered, striding over to his desk to retrieve his bag, jacket, and travel mug. He didn’t immediately leave, however. The stations there were already shut off, so it was only the slight fidgeting of replacing pens and throwing away sticky notes that kept Q in place.
Bond watched in amusement for a moment as Q tried and failed to find other reasons to not leave. It was only when he’d straightened the same stack of folders for the third time that Bond took pity and rose from his seat.
“Going home?” he asked quietly as he crossed the room to where Q stood, arranging his drafting pencils in a more perfect order at the side of his desk.
“Yes,” Q answered, meeting Bond’s carefully neutral gaze with a blank one of his own. He didn’t move.
Thinking again of how unacceptable it was that Q knew all about him, but Bond didn’t know anything about Q, Bond decided to take a chance. “Have dinner with me instead?”
There was only the slightest hesitation before Q smiled and nodded carefully. “All right.”
That night, Bond learned a great many things about his Quartermaster. He discovered that Q hated fish of any kind, but would snack on crab appetizers all night if they were continually brought to the table.
He learned that Q could play most instruments, not because he had a talent for it, but because his mother had insisted.
He discovered that the Q loved blackjack, but didn’t like to play it with anyone with any frequency because he almost always won and it put people off.
He found out that Sherlock was one of two brothers, something of an arsehole, and currently over his head in an investigation with an international criminal who had already tried to blow him up once.
And finally, at the end of the evening, when he was buried deep inside Q, teeth firmly attached to Q’s neck, he learned from breathless whispers that Q’s name was actually Sherrinford. Fortunately, Bond was too lost in the sudden rush of orgasm to comment.
~~~
Q left in the morning. He tried to slip out invisibly in the pre-dawn light while Bond as still sleeping, but Bond hadn’t survived this long by being a heavy sleeper. He was excellent at pretending, however, and didn’t make a sound or move in the slightest as Q pulled away.
Leaving took effort and coordination; Q had slept wrapped around Bond as if he were clinging to an anchor, afraid to float away without the solid bulk of Bond’s muscled body to keep him in place. The disentanglement was masterfully done but still time-consuming, and Bond wondered if he should be insulted by the fact that Q obviously still thought Bond was asleep. But Bond dutifully kept his eyes closed, knowing there was no reason for a conversation yet. As Q moved about the room, silently retrieving clothes and dressing, Bond’s only clue that he was still there was the rustle of fabric as it slid over Q’s skin.
Moments later, Q’s footsteps went from socked to soled, and Bond listened as Q walked to the door. After a moment of silence, Q let out an audible breath.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Then he was gone.
Ways of Learning
June 2011
The day after they’d had their first encounter, there was no ‘morning after’ discussion at work, no uncomfortable exchange of wary looks, no smirking in silent acknowledgement of a night spent so pleasurably. Q treated Bond exactly as he had before, and Bond reacted appropriately. It helped that they were both distracted by the very practical matter of a Priority Two mission; all interactions revolved around getting Bond kitted out and ready to go.
It had been one hell of a mission, with hell being a generous description at best. Bond hated Central America for its complete lack of regard for human life, and he hated Honduras in particular for its sad statistic of having the highest murder rate of anywhere in the world. Twenty murders a day, last Bond knew.
Despite his close call with one of the gangs, Bond made it back to MI6 a week and a half later unscathed. He felt justifiably proud of that accomplishment; trying to hold onto a sweaty little biochemical engineer of a terrorist while fending off seventeen gang members with shit for aim but the ammo to make up for it is, after all, deeply unpleasant. He’d been debriefed quickly and efficiently, had filled out the appropriate paperwork, and was now in the men’s locker-room changing out of his worse-for-wear linen suit and into a wool one more suitable for Britain’s colder climate. He heard the door swing open behind him, and when his eyes flicked up from buttoning his shirt to look at the newcomer in the mirror, he was more than a little surprised to see Q slide in silently, locking the door behind him.
Not that Bond let his surprise show on his face. He simply made eye contact and went back to buttoning his shirt.
It reminded Bond of standing absolutely still and waiting for a wary but determined woodland creature to approach, intent on satisfying its curiosity. Q wasn’t hesitant but he was silent and methodical, coming up to Bond from behind, standing just inches from his back, looking not at Bond’s eyes but his shoulders.
The firm hand between his shoulderblades was unexpected but not unwelcome.
When Bond didn’t flinch away from the touch, Q slid his hand down and to the right, to Bond’s hip. The other came around to Bond’s shirtfront, long fingers dipping in between buttons to reach warm skin underneath. Q pressed along his back in a way that was less than sexual but more than simple comfort. It felt oddly like gratitude.
Q tipped his head and leaned in to drag his teeth along Bond’s neck. Bond closed his eyes and shifted under Q’s hands — not to get away, but to make it easier for Q to get at his skin. Q rewarded him with a much harder bite, just under the collar, and a hard press of his hips. However, before Bond could do anything, such as turn around, push Q against the wall, and have his way with him, Q pulled away. The heat along his back, the cool fingers on his chest, and the moist breath on his neck vanished abruptly, and by the time Bond opened his eyes to see what had happened, Q was slipping silently back out the door.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Bond’s mouth. It looked as if Q was more than just appreciative of Bond’s safe return; he was eager to welcome him back personally.
July 2011
Bond wouldn’t call their interactions a frequent occurrence, necessarily, and Q’s claiming of Bond’s body when he returned home from his missions didn’t exactly stray into the territory of a relationship. But their time together did become more... well, comfortable might have been the word, Bond thought, though unpredictable was also an adequate descriptor.
Not to say that Q’s behaviour was unpredictable. Whenever Bond came back from a mission gone well, usually high on his own success, Q would find him. He’d corner him in an empty tunnel, an unused conference room, a dark corner of the parking garage, or anywhere else that was convenient, and wordlessly invite him back to his place with touches, teeth, and tongue. If the mission had gone poorly, Q seemed to have an uncanny sense of whether his presence would be welcome or not. Sometimes Q simply showed up at Bond’s flat to curl up behind behind Bond on the bed. Q would wrap Bond tightly in his pale but strong arms, breath light on Bond’s neck, soothing him without words. Other times, he left Bond alone to heal in silence and solitude.
Q, Bond decided, was nearly perfect for him. Things between them were entirely uncomplicated. When Q acted as his handler, there was flirting, certainly, but given Bond’s reputation and Q’s ceaseless desire to keep tit-for-tat with anyone on the other side of his comms, no one at MI6 really paid much attention. It was one of the best, most professional working relationships Bond had ever had.
For his part, Q didn’t show the slightest bit of concern or moral outrage over Bond’s activities while on mission. Bond refused to change his behaviour; not only would it be suspicious, but he really had no desire to have a possessive or jealous lover at home.
But Bond had never had much restraint when it came to poking quiet insect nests just to see what was inside, so, after several months of banter and dinner and sex, Bond finally asked.
The question seemed to entirely catch Q off guard. Or maybe it was the way Bond was worrying the skin of Q’s inner thigh that had him distracted.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Bond looked up from where he lay between Q’s outstretched legs to give him his best innocent smile, which Q rolled his eyes at. Despite the pre-orgasm flush that Q was sporting, and his prone position on the bed, he still managed to look entirely in control and unimpressed. Bond licked another stripe up from Q’s knee to the crease where his thigh met the soft thatch of brown, curly hair between his legs. Q’s breath caught, and when Bond bypassed Q’s cock to bite at the sharp jut of his hip bone, he hissed in disapproval. “What was the question?” he asked again, this time a note of pleading in his typically perfectly-controlled voice.
“You’ve never once asked me to rein in my seductions. You’ve never steered me away from them, never discouraged me to engage in them. In fact, if it’s the quickest and most efficient path to information, you generally give me advice on how to proceed.”
Q lifted his head from the mattress to give Bond an incredulous look.
“I didn’t mean adivse on the actual sex and you know it,” Bond corrected with a chuckle. “Have you ever even slept with a woman?”
“Of course not!” Q said with a huff. “Which makes your bringing up this particular topic while in bed with me highly questionable as a seduction tactic.”
Bond hummed, then turned back to Q’s body. He kissed the soft skin of Q’s stomach, then dipped his tongue into Q’s navel. Q let his head drop back on the mattress and shuddered. “Fuck, Bond,” he gasped encouragingly. He threaded his fingers through Bond’s hair and tightened his fist, giving Bond the edge of pain he enjoyed without directing him.
Bond groaned and slid upwards, licking and biting a path towards Q’s chest, hands scratching light marks into Q’s sides as he went. He sucked one nipple into his mouth before releasing it for a bite, and Q arched with a soft sound of ecstasy. He moved to the other side of Q’s chest and licked, then stopped.
“I just want to know why the women don’t bother you,” he encouraged, and Q shivered at Bond’s hot breath over wet skin.
“Why would I discourage you from them?” Q asked, any attempt he might have made at indignation lost under the rough scratch of lust in his throat. “It’s your job. It’s just sex. Your body is a tool, and you use it perfectly.”
“In my experience, that isn’t how it usually works.”
Q sighed and gentled his hand in Bond’s hair, though he didn’t meet his eyes again. “The last thing either one of us is, is typical.”
Well, that was true. Bond made a noise of agreement and lifted himself free from the mattress just long enough to bring himself in direct alignment over Q. He settled his hips on top of Q’s, but didn’t grind down yet. He brushed a thumb along Q’s jaw, thinking. Q let his eyes flutter close and didn’t object to the glacial pace they were moving at.
“I’m not sure what you’re afraid of here,” Q confessed quietly after a moment, turning his head so that it was cradled in Bond’s hand, eyes still closed. “That I secretly do care, that I resent your work, and that someday I’m going to snap…”
“Or?” Bond encouraged.
“Or that you think I don’t care, which would translate into an utter lack of deep emotional attachment.”
Bond stilled the movement of his fingertips, which had been caressing Q’s cheek. “And?” he asked, dreading the answer more than he cared to admit.
“Why does it have to be either of those things?” Q asked, shaking his head slightly. He opened his eyes and stared into Bond’s eyes. “Why can’t we just… be?”
Because it doesn’t work that way, Bond thought to himself. He didn’t voice that thought aloud, however, because any such comment might be taken as Bond wanting Q to press a label to their relationship. He didn’t want Q to not care about him on some emotional level, but he also didn’t want the sort of classification that might pressure either of them. They weren’t boyfriends. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t fuck buddies. Q was right. They just were.
He rewarded Q with a deep and dirty kiss, finally giving in the the desire to apply just the right sort of pressure between them to bring their arousal back in full force. Q groaned into Bond’s mouth and brought his legs up to press his knees to Bond’s hips.
“I take it that was the right answer,” Q said with a happy sigh when the kiss ended.
“Just do me favour,” Bond asked. He pushed himself into a press up, then ground his erection hard into Q’s.
Q gasped and threw his head to the side, exposing his neck. Bond, who knew Q’s proclivities well enough now to take it for the invitation it was, bent to bite down on the soft flesh under Q’s ear.
“That’s just cheating,” Q breathed out, rolling his hips up to meet Bond’s. “What favour?”
Bond nuzzled into Q’s temple, the turned his head just enough to breath into Q’s ear. “Tell me if it ever changes.” He purposefully left it — their not-relationship? their status? their state of being? — undefined. He’d let Q decide when something needed to be said.
Q exhaled, swallowed, and finally nodded. “I will.”
~~~
Bond didn’t do families. He had one, once, that he vaguely remembered. He’d met the occasional target’s parents, but only when it was unavoidable, and never as more than part of an investigation. M had come the closest to being something of a maternal figure in Bond’s life (“at least I got something right”), but even at that she was more his commanding officer than anyone remotely affectionate.
Which was fine. He wasn’t bitter. He was an assassin. A soldier. He didn’t do regret or bitterness, and he never tried to imagine a different life for himself. If he had had a family, whole and intact, he could probably never have become the man he was today — a man who had saved England over and over again.
This was why, when Q explained (rather forcefully) that he didn’t want Bond to have anything to do with his family, Bond didn’t object.
Unhappily for both of them, it didn’t make any difference.
~~~
“No.”
Bond stopped in his approach to Q’s office, halted by the uncharacteristically dark, snappish tone. He mentally ran through a checklist of anything he might have done lately that would have resulted in Q’s ire. The list was distressingly long, but Q Branch wasn’t a place where the Quartermaster often took personal offense to the antics of his agents. He might punish gross infractions through occasional revocation of privileges, but he never stooped to actual outrage.
It was one of the things Bond like best about Q. He wasn’t overly emotional or prone to dramatic displays, be they of displeasure or satisfaction. His approach was methodical, if his actions sometimes reeked of vindictive satisfaction… Well. It was only fair.
But nothing on Bond’s list of recent transgressions seemed to be a likely culprit, so Bond took the final step to Q’s office door and swept it open, smirk firmly in place.
What greeted him in return, however, wasn’t Q’s usual impatient but always slightly-amused frown. Q was angry. And it all seemed to be directed at the man Bond didn’t recognize sitting primly in Q’s chair.
Q didn’t pay any attention to Bond, so Bond let the door close behind him and stood silently, waiting for a cue. The guest turned his head only slightly to give Bond a quick, dismissive once-over, before turning back to Q. “There is no point in fighting it, Sherrinford. I can requisition agents whenever I like for whatever I like, and your objections only serve to make you look foolish.”
Bond watched Q clench his jaw, the muscles flexing with the force of holding back whatever he wanted to say. Curious who had the power to ruffle Q so completely, Bond turned his gaze back to the intruder.
He held himself with the air of someone who had power — real power, the kind that could change the course of nations — and knew how to use it. But there was nothing military in his movements or body; in fact, he was soft, round rather than sharp around the edges. If Bond were any less observant, he might be fooled into thinking he was just another bureaucrat, but the eyes gave him away. His bearing said lazy and self-satisfied, but his eyes spoke of sharp, impatient control that couldn’t mean anything good for Q.
Or Bond, if he were the “requisitioned” agent in question.
“You’ve been working on this ‘flight of the dead’ for months, and now suddenly you want Bond involved? Why?”
Bond had long years of experience in schooling his body to react only in the precise manner he meant it to. But, while under normal circumstances not twitching in surprise would allow average men to forget that he was in the room, in this case, he knew damn well he was currently the focus of sharp observation. No matter how much Q or his guest seemed to ignore Bond completely, he felt… scrutinized. Laid bare.
“Sherlock is infatuated with Irene, now,” the man said wearily. “He’s going to do something foolish. I’ve been trying to get his attention on this particular problem for months now, but he’s been so distracted by Moriarty —”
Q’s scoff derailed the man, who narrowed his eyes. Bond tried to place the name, but was coming up blank. And what did Q’s violin-playing brother have to do with anything?
“He’s going to derail this operation, and I know it,” the man said firmly. “Therefore I need a decoy in its place.”
“A decoy of a decoy,” Q said with a smirk. “How I don’t envy your job, Mycroft.”
Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? Bond felt his back and shoulders straighten involuntarily. Q didn’t miss it, and he frowned.
“Bond isn’t MI5, Mycroft. And I don’t want him anywhere near that psycho that Sherlock is infatuated with.”
“Which one?” Mycroft asked with a nasty little smile.
“Any of them! I’m certain Bond and Irene would get along famously, but I don’t want Moriarty anywhere near anything of mine.”
Bond didn’t know quite how to feel about Q’s declaration of possession, but tucked it away for further consideration. Mycroft, for his part, merely shrugged.
“It seems fitting to me, having your agent on a dead-weight sort of a project,” Mycroft replied easily. Q’s reaction was instantaneous and as violent as Bond had ever seen. His face turned an angry shade of red, and the fury that rolled off him had an almost physical presence. He stood, hands shaking, and glared.
“Just because you haven’t the wherewithal to take your lover properly and in balance doesn’t mean you get to deny the rest of us. Now scoot off to your horrible machinations and leave me in peace.”
Oh. Oh. Another sibling, Bond realised. Otherwise, Q would probably swiftly disappear, no matter how unaffected Holmes seemed by the poisonous rant.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have much to prepare. 007,” Mycroft added, turning to stare at Bond with such distaste that, were Bond any other man, he would have flinched away from. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bond, knowing exactly who was in front of him and what he was capable of, had no choice but to nod deferentially. Q’s hands balled into fists, but he didn’t say anything. Then Mycroft left, and the tension broke.
“That was interesting,” Bond said, raising his eyebrows at Q. “You’re a Holmes?”
Q executed a controlled collapse into his chair and rolled his eyes at Bond, the tension leaking from his frame as he settled. “Indeed.” Then he glared at the door. “At least you have some warning. Better than being kidnapped. I’ll have some time to prepare you.”
Bond raised his eyebrows and walked around the desk to stand next to Q. “It’s nearly three am, and I just got back from Korea. Is your brother really what you want to talk about?” Then he leaned over Q and pressed the button on his desk tablet he knew controlled the security. The soft click of solenoid locks whuffed behind them, and the lights in the office grew dim.
“No,” Q said more softly. “Not at all, in fact.” He turned his chair and let his legs fall open, and Bond stepped between them. Bond took the hint and sank to his knees in front of Q. He ran his hands along the inside of Q’s thighs, and upward, until he reached the fastener on his trousers.
Q reached out to scratch through Bond’s short hair, exhaling softly as Bond unfastened the button and unzipped. But just as Bond leaned down to bury his nose in the delicious heat, Q gripped the sides of his head tightly and tipped Bond’s head back up.
“Whatever he says, don’t trust him. Don’t believe him, don’t agree with him, don’t promise anything. Just do as you’re told, and nothing more.” Q held Bond’s gaze, expression calm, though Bond could see just the slightest flicker of desperation in his eyes.
Bond couldn’t do anything but nod wordlessly.
With a sigh of relief, Q let his head fall back. “Thank you,” he said fervently. Then, eyes closed, he guided Bond’s head back down.
Ways of Interacting
November 2011
The “Flight of the Dead” decoy went off without a hitch, though both Mycroft and Q opted not to tell Sherlock how utterly predictable he was. Bond suspected that Mycroft was simply too lazily-self satisfied to bother with the trouble of an argument, and as for Q? Well, as it turned out, the naming of the flight to 007 had come about as a bet between them. Mycroft was certain that, despite his apparent lack of interest, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to learn everything he could about Q’s “newest infatuation,” as Mycroft called him. Q seemed convinced that Sherlock didn’t care, and had no idea that Q and Bond were… whatever they were.
Bond still marveled at the riskiness of the bet, and how the brothers were able to play out their petty rivalries on the stage of global politics, but he said nothing. Q was bitter for days after he’d learned that Sherlock had made the connection between “Bond Air” and “Flight 007,” but it passed.
Bond wasn’t foolish enough to think that his interactions with Holmes siblings were over, but he didn’t expect them to escalate as quickly as they did, either.
December 2011
“Family what now?” Bond asked, horrified and not bothering to hide it.
“Family dinner,” Q repeated, not looking up from whatever new bit of shiny tech currently had him entranced. “If there were any possible way I could get out of it without risking your assassination, I would.”
Bond wanted to think Q was joking, but by now he knew better.
“You and your brothers.”
“And my parents.”
Bond’s dread instantly grew to suffocating levels.
“Don’t worry. You’re likely to be ignored entirely.”
“Don’t worry,” Bond repeated, incredulous.
Q looked up from his project — it looked for all the world like a dog robot from the nineties, but Bond knew better — and his mouth twitched in amusement. “You’ve faced assassins and psychopaths and the deadliest of weapons being shoved in your face. A Holmes family dinner shouldn’t do you much damage.”
Bond snorted. “Your brother is the British government.”
Q’s expression shifted to suspicion. “How curiously resonant of Lock’s assessment. You’ve been speaking with him?”
Bond hadn’t; he just wasn’t stupid. He knew who Mycroft was, what he was capable of. So he ignored the question. “Your mother was one of the original Double Os.”
“Not one of the originals,” Q corrected, looking back down at his work. “The original.”
Bond opened his mouth to reply and closed it again when the implications hit him. “She and M must have been quite close,” he said after a moment.
Q nodded. Then he gently dropped his tech and turned to the shelves behind his desk. Unlike his office at MI6, his home office was warm and cluttered. He had to shove aside a remote controlled Dalek and a tea mug to get to a row of maroon leather volumes that turned out to be photo albums. He pulled one, marked “2009”, down from the shelf and let it fall open with a muffled crack of the stiff binding. After a few minutes of page shuffling, he handed the open book back to Bond.
“Mummy and Olivia trying to decide if they wanted to buy a vintage car for me to soup up.”
The photo showed M, dressed in black and fur, sitting on the black leather seat of a very old car. She was looking not at the camera, but at her apparent partner in crime at the large steering wheel. Mrs. Holmes looked about the same age as M, hair silver-blonde, face half-covered by a wide-brimmed black fedora. The maroon leather jacket she wore was nearly the same colour as the photo album. Neither woman was smiling.
Bond swallowed.
“They look quite lovely.”
Q snorted and took the album away. He snapped it shut without another glance and replaced it on the shelf. “I think of all the things that could be said to describe Mummy and Olivia, lovely is not one of them.”
~~~
Bond didn’t know what he expected from Q’s family home, but this wasn’t it.
“A flat in Kensington?” he asked Q quietly as they stood on the street looking up.
“Five bedrooms, cinema, pool, library…” Q glanced at Bond and shrugged. “Do you see yourself retiring to the countryside, James?”
Bond shook his head. Nevermind that he found it unlikely that he’d live to retirement age; there was nothing about a pastoral existence that held any appeal for him.
“Then why would you think it would be any different for my parents?”
Bond knew that Q’s mother retired from the Double O programme when she was in her thirties, just before Mycroft was born, and she was in her early seventies now. He wondered what she’d been up to since then. It was a safe bet that she wasn’t a stay-at-home wife.
“You’ve never told me anything about your father,” Bond said as he turned back to the car. He reached in the back for the box of gifts they had brought. The packages were tastefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with red ribbons, and Bond’s only contribution had been to try and soothe the tension from Q’s shoulders with a back rub while Q muttered about not knowing why he bothered.
“He’s a chemical engineer for Ineos.”
“Should I refer to him as Dr. Holmes, then?”
Q leaned against the car and watched as Bond carefully pulled out their offerings. “Yes. Both of them, actually. Mummy’s degrees are in International Law and Economics. Though, if you wish to be spared, don’t address them at all. Speak when you’re spoken and that’s it.”
Bond nodded and straightened, and Q smiled. “Thank you.”
As if I had a choice, a vicious little voice whispered in the back of his mind. But Bond knew that wasn’t fair. He did have a choice — one that they both were aware of and weren’t addressing. Bond could easily have dismissed the dinner and suffered whatever consequences Mycroft could have thrown at him, knowing it probably wouldn’t have ended things between him and Q.
He had chosen Q over his own discomfort with families, however, and that came dangerously close to shoving their relationship away from the neutral place it had been holding in his mind. Sex and comfort, or so Bond liked to think of this state of just being. No pressure, no pain, no stress. And now he was carrying a box of presents into Q’s family home.
Q stepped close, foggy breath whispering ice crystals onto Bond’s neck, and kissed him lightly. Then he straightened, expression turning resolute, and led Bond into the building.
The flat was massive and stunning. Once they’d been greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Olson, and shed their outerwear in the foyer, Q led them into an open main level. The walls were sand-coloured slate broken up either by massive windows or bookshelves, and the floors were cream-coloured marble. A brick wall with a fireplace separated the living and dining area from what was presumably the kitchen, and the far right corner was overtaken by a large piano, a shelf full of music books, and two wooden music stands. The flat’s accents were either deep brown or silver, and despite the perfect contemporary architecture, furniture, and decorations, the place felt cold.
Bond was just about to ask where he was to set the box — there wasn’t a Christmas tree in sight — when the grandfather clock on the wall chimed seven. Then several things happened at once. The front door slammed behind them, followed quickly by sounds of bickering that Bond identified as Sherlock and Mycroft. Then another set of voices — these low but intense — came from the hidden area to the left of the brick wall, followed by two older people waking to the long dining room table.
“Can we please not do this here, Sherlock?” Mycroft said in a bored tone.
“Early, Ford?” Sherlock demanded coldly, raising an eyebrow at Q. “How tawdry.”
“Don’t worry, Siger. I don’t want to go to The Hague, so I’ll be there for you when your lab is inspected.” Mrs. Holmes spat out the last word venomously and frowned. “Those useless, atrophied bastards at the Hague don’t deserve my advice, anyway, given what happened last time.”
Bond suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable. He was used to being one the most attractive, intelligent, well-informed people in any given situation. His body gave him an edge with the people he needed to seduce to achieve his goals, and his mind gave him the ability to interpret and navigate even the most delicate situations without failure. But in this situation?
Mrs. Holmes was just as stunning as she appeared in the photograph Bond had seen earlier — perhaps even moreso now that she was smiling at her husband. Her hair was perfectly styled into an upward sweep, and the colour matched the large drop pearls at her neck and ears. She wore a cream-coloured evening dress and a silver shrug, but the formal attire didn’t seem out of place. She had sharp eyes and moved with the grace and comfort of someone who was completely in control of herself. 70-something or not, Bond wouldn’t want to take her in a fight.
Mr. Holmes was a dark contrast to his bright wife. He was dressed entirely in black, the expensive suit’s monochrome broken only by his shirt’s silver buttons and cufflinks. Though Bond knew he was only a year or two younger than his wife, Mr. Holmes looked almost ageless. His hair, short and styled upward, was still nearly black, streaked with only occasional strands of silver. In contrast with wife’s cold smile, though, Mr. Holmes had the intense stare and frown that had Bond suppressing his fight or flight instincts. There was a darkness in Mr. Holmes’ expression that seemed to hint at temper, or perhaps the slight taint of madness.
“Mummy,” Mycroft greeted, stepping around Q and Bond to walk to the table, where he pressed a kiss to Mrs. Holmes’ cheek. He was dressed in his usual suit, though, for once, he was without his umbrella. He was followed by a short, buxom brunette that Bond recognized as his personal assistant, who was dressed in her own usual black dress. Anthea, however, did not address either parent. She merely set her own box of gifts down on the floor next to the brick wall and took a seat at the dining room table as Mycroft shook his father’s hand.
Next came Sherlock, dressed in a black suit and white shirt. As he greeted his parents in exactly the same fashion Mycroft did, Bond took the moment to observe his companion. Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Nothumberland Fusiliers, so Q had said last night. He was in grey slacks and a cream-coloured cable-knit jumper that was a sharp contrast to his surroundings. But he carried the air of a soldier, and though he looked a little uncomfortable, his expression was defiant, as if he was daring any of the Holmes to say anything.
As Q stepped forward to greet his parents, and Bond placed his box of gifts next to Mycroft’s, Bond realized that he was the only one wearing a tie. Q was dressed in slate-coloured slacks, a blue button-up, and a red half-zip cardigan that had had Bond whispering filthy things in his ear as soon had Q pulled it on. But, for once, Q hadn’t worn a tie. But despite Bond’s perfectly-tailored grey suit, complete with waistcoat and tie, he still didn’t feel like he quite fit in with the formality of the Holmes.
Not that he couldn’t fake it. He was damn good at that.
Q’s predictions regarding the elder Holmes’ behaviour towards their sons’ guests turned out to be absolutely spot-on. None of them had been greeted or even looked at twice, though only Dr. Watson seemed affected by it. He shifted in his chair as everyone settled in.
Though, as the first course was brought out — a spicy lentil soup — and everyone remained silent, Bond began to wonder if conversation was actually ever going to happen.
Then Q sighed and set his soup spoon down. “How is work, Mummy?”
“Dull,” Mrs. Holmes said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been working with the ILO in Kiribati.”
“Labour laws? You?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.
Mr. Holmes snorted. “She’s involved in the Tripartite consultation arrangements.”
“Only marginally better,” Mycroft said with a frown. “What a waste.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Holmes agreed. “Partially my fault. I’m working on…” he looked at Dr. Watson, then Bond, and narrowed his eyes. “Something that requires input from your mother. An easy, low-key task allows her more time with me.”
Bond wondered just what he’d be working on that required the input of an expert in international law, and was above the combined security clearances of those at the table. It was a truly uncomfortable thought.
“The American/Iraq war is to officially end next week,” Mycroft offered, as if that were somehow a more acceptable topic.
“And Samoa and Tokelau are going to have no December 30th,” Q added. “I wonder how they’re going to deal with that loss, practically speaking?”
Bond chuckled, but given how everyone’s heads snapped up to look at him, followed by complete silence, he assumed that was an unacceptable response.
Well, to everyone but Q, who smiled. Bond took it for the appreciation it was and ignored everyone else.
“Kim Jong-il is about to pass,” Mycroft said. Bond looked over and raised his eyebrow — he’d heard nothing about the Supreme Leader being ill — but Mycroft ignored him. “I’m sure we’ll all be expected to attend his funeral.”
Sherlock said something under his breath and Dr. Watson snorted in response. They exchanged a fond look, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes both frowned in response.
The soup was cleared away and replaced with what it took Bond a moment to recognize as shirataki noodles with peppers and basil.
“I’ll be sure not to brush up on my Korean,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “You know we’re in the middle of a case.”
“A university student murder,” Mrs. Holmes replied, mouth quirking. “Sounds fascinating.”
“Oh!” Sherlock said, sitting up straighter. “That reminds me. John and I left our gifts in the car. Could you send Tim?”
Mr. Holmes nodded and held up his hand. Sherlock tossed his keys to his father, who held them out to the man — a butler, it seemed — that had just walked into the room.
“How did you jump from uni murder to gifts?” Q asked, his expression curious.
“John took me Christmas shopping. I yelled at Father Christmas just before we got home, where our client was waiting for us.”
Q laughed. “Of course you did.”
Silence took over again as everyone finished their noodles, which were soon replaced with a bed of greens, a grilled and sliced chicken breast, and steamed carrots. No wonder they’re all so skinny, Bond thought as he picked up his fork.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, the final two courses of salad, fruit, and cheese, passing in a quiet vacuum barely disturbed by the clank of cutlery against plates.
Dessert was skipped entirely.
Gifts were exchanged at the table. There were hums of appreciation and the least sincere smiles Bond had ever seen among family members as expensive watches, jumpers, and leather-bound journals were exchanged. Much to his surprise, the three non-Holmes also received gifts, and those exchanges turned out to be the most fun. Q had built Anthea a new phone, whose features he described with animation as Bond unwrapped his gift from Mycroft. It was a box of hand-wrapped cigarettes, as far as Bond could tell. Upon seeing them, Q stopped his discussion of the phone’s pre-installed traffic light controller to laugh.
“You can light them, but I suggest you don’t. They’re rocket-launcher cigarettes, made by Q’s predecessor for one of your predecessors,” Mycroft told him with the first genuine smile Bond had ever seen him wear. “They’re really more for posterities sake than actual use.”
Q smirked as Bond chuckled. “Thank you, Mycroft. It’s nice to know that someone has an appreciation for old-school gadgetry.”
The clock was chiming half-past nine when Mr. and Mrs. Holmes finally rose from the table. Q threw a dark look at the piano in the back, but followed anyway. Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged looks as well, but didn’t hesitate to rise and take their places in front of the music stands. Some time during dinner, someone had placed two instrument cases next to them. Sherlock unpacked a violin, and Mycroft a clarinet.
“Prokofiev’s Overture on Hebrew Themes,” Mrs. Holmes told her boys.
“Oddly conventional of you,” Sherlock remarked drolly.
“It’s festive.”
Sherlock snorted.
“It’s short, and we have things to do,” Mr. Holmes snapped. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows in response, then lifted his bow.
Bond watched curiously as the brothers got comfortable with their instruments, wondering if they were uncomfortable with the five people who stood staring at them. He assumed the concerts were common affairs after the dinners, but was surprised that there were no chairs set around the music area. He stood between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, thinking about the parade of powerful people that had most likely been treated to dinner and a concert here in this flat. He filed the question away for later.
Bond didn’t recognize the song, but he was too busy observing the way the men played to fully enjoy the music. It was festive, though it swung between cheerful and haunting, and it engaged all three instruments nearly equally. But whereas Bond had become used to seeing Q play — fluid and graceful and full of melancholy enjoyment at his flat — it was nothing like what Q was like here. Here, he was stiff and still, moving only his hands and arms and right foot as he played. Mycroft and Sherlock were similarly constrained, perfect in form but seemingly free of any enjoyment. It was an odd contrast, the expressive music played by inexpressive men.
When the song was over, everyone clapped politely and the instruments were tucked away without fanfare. Q was the first to leave, given that he had nothing to pack. He wrapped his arm through Bonds, surprising him, and led him to his parents. “Good evening Father. Mummy.” He bowed his head slightly, then walked briskly to the door, Bond in tow.
They didn’t talk on the way back, the silence comfortable and relaxing. Q kept his hand on Bond’s arm and his eyes forward. Without asking Q, he drove to Q’s flat. The cluttered and comfortable discord took on new meaning in the face of what Bond had just witnessed, and he found it comforting to feel the evidence of the real Q in these surroundings. He tugged Q back towards his own piano — an expensive electronic keyboard in a wooden stand that made it look like a standing piano — and pressed him against it.
“You need to be naked,” Bond said playfully, tugging at the corner of Q’s cardigan. He pulled Q’s glasses free, set them on top of the piano, then pulled the cardigan up and over Q’s head. He tossed it away, not caring where it landed, then attacked Q’s mouth as he started unbuttoning the shirt.
Q moaned under Bond’s mouth and slipped his hands under Bond’s jacket. “This is not the response I was expecting,” he said when the kiss ended.
“I didn’t like it there,” Bond confessed. He finished the last button and pulled the shirt free from Q’s body, throwing it in the direction of the cardigan. He gently placed his hands over the sides of Q’s face and held it steady, meeting Q’s gaze. “I need to see the real you.”
Q’s eyes widened in surprise before he broke into the widest, most genuine smile Bond had ever seen from him. Q dived in for another kiss, licking and biting at Bond’s lips as he pushed the suit jacket off Bond’s shoulders.
After a moment, Bond pulled away. “Just a moment. Take off your trousers and pants.” Q stood frozen in surprise for only a second — usually Q was to one to demand and Bond the one to comply — before moving to do as Bond asked.
Bond walked to the other side of the room, ridding himself of his own clothes as he went. His first stop was the bedroom for lube, then the workshop for the comfortable, oversized arm chair Q often read in. He carried it out to the piano, kicked the bench aside, and set the chair in its place. Q watched as Bond set the lube on the fallboard.
Bond shed his last remaining bit of clothing — his trousers, pants, and socks — and sat, then pulled Q forward by his thin hips. Q came willingly until he was standing in front of Bond.
For just a moment, Bond indulged shamelessly. He ran his hands up and down over Q’s pale skin, then leaned forward to place small kisses on the concave of Q’s stomach. Q breathed out, and Bond imagined all the tension and stress from the dinner leaving his body.
He couldn’t say anything, because words would come too close to defining the undefined state of being that they both insisted on. But Bond was a master at speaking with his body. With every well-placed kiss, he told Q how much he wanted to see him relaxed and free again. With every fingertip that traced veins and muscles, he begged Q to come back to himself from whomever he pretended to be for his parents. With every bite, he requested that Q break the silence his family home drove him to.
Soon Q was shaking and panting, and Bond felt triumphant in his ability to crack the veneer and bring Q back to himself. Then he grabbed Q by the hips again and turned him to face the piano. “Knees between my legs and the arms of chair,” he instructed, and between the two of them, it took only a few moments of awkward fumbling before Q was settled, facing the piano, over Bond’s lap. He pushed Q’s lower back gently so that he was leaning over it, elbows on the fall, arse lifted.
Bond grinned as Q’s breath came faster, and he reached forward to grab the lube.
“Let’s reassociate the piano with actual pleasure, shall we?”
He took his time preparing Q because orgasm wasn’t the point. The silent car ride home had given him time to think, and time to wonder. Q’s act was perfect — he was silent, compliant, and calmly cheerful in the face of his parents’ cold indifference and his brothers’ barely-disguised anger. It had shredded Bond to see Q like that — and to remember the rare times they’d fought, when Q had adopted that very same attitude to calm and placate Bond. Now that he knew where it came from, Bond never wanted to see it again. The fact that he’d taken Q’s calm acquiescence for victory instead of the coping mechanism that it was twisted a knife somewhere in Bond’s mind, and he vowed to himself to never make Q fall into that ever again.
When Q resorted to begging — please, James, fuck me, god, I need you, you’re so fucking good, please — Bond pulled Q back to settle slowly on his cock. He kept Q facing away, which was unusual for their typical encounter. Then again, everything about this was different. Usually it was Q in control, giving comfort or appreciation as he saw fit. This time, it was Bond’s turn to bring Q back to himself. He tightened his grip on Q’s hips anticipation, grinning at the the thought.
Before he let Q lean forward again, however, he opened the fallboard on the piano to reveal the keys. He knew he made the right choice when Q made a desperate sound as his elbows hit the keys. It was probably uncomfortable, but worth it. He fucked Q to the sound of discordant keys and uncharacteristically loud cries of enjoyment from Q. Bond felt as if he was freeing Q not just from the vice grip of his parents’ expectations, but his own internal measures of control.
It was incredible.
Q came with a cry, and Bond managed to capture most of his release in his hand so that it wouldn’t hit the keyboard. The realisation that Bond had Q so overwhelmed with pleasure that he would have orgasmed all over his very expensive instrument if it weren’t for Bond’s intervention burned like a fire. He pulled Q up so they both were standing, and bent him entirely over the piano. It didn’t take more than a few more hard thrusts before he himself was shouting Q’s name and finding his bliss deep inside his lover’s body.
Ways of Being
January — May 2012
Spring passed quickly for Bond and Q. Not only were they busy in the aftermath of the American pullout of Iraq, but Sherlock and Mycroft kept making themselves known in Q’s life. In January, Q had flown Bond to the Middle East to assist in Sherlock’s effort to save his not-friend (respected nemesis?) Irene Adler from being beheaded.
Bond has been quite impressed with Sherlock’s sword skills, and the flight home had actually been quite pleasant as they talked about weapons and martial art training forms and histories.
February saw Bond on mission in his least favourite part of the world — Central America — where he spent far too much time hiding in the jungle and getting shot at. He just barely managed to deal with the chemical weapons disaster that had threatened to poison much of the world’s sugar supplies before the cartel he was eliminating tried to burn the warehouse down around him.
Q had been very welcoming when he got back home. They took a week’s vacation in Cortina, Italy, which — in addition to being Bond’s favorite ski resort — was a marvelous place to forget just how much he hated hot climates.
They spent more time naked in front of the fireplace on the remarkably soft, conveniently placed rug than actually on the slopes, but Q seemed distracted and Bond was happy to let him lose himself in mapping Bond’s body with kisses.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Bond finally said on the last day they were there, completely content and boneless thanks to Q’s skilled hands and a warming massage oil. “But you’ve been massaging me all day. What’s the matter?”
Q sighed but didn’t stop his caresses. “Sherlock is in trouble, and the idiot won’t let me help.”
Bond was face down on the rug, so his expression of disbelief was lost to Q. The truth was that Bond couldn’t imagine any of the Holmes brothers being in real trouble. They liked to play dangerous games on the international chess board, but they were so clever, and so well-connected, that it was impossible to imagine any of them in trouble.
Later, Bond would blame his ignorance on the fact the Sherlock tended to stay local. Not only did Sherlock prefer not to leave England if he could help it, he really didn’t care much for leaving London. And as much as Bond loved his country and his city, he didn’t pay much attention to national news. It wasn’t necessarily because he didn’t want to know what was going on at home, but he fought and bled and, hell, occasionally died to keep her safe. He didn’t want to read sensationalist headlines that made London seem less than the vibrant, beautiful metropolis that he wanted her to be. And, more practically, he may have been tempted to fix any serious problems he became aware of, which wouldn’t have gone over well with MI5.
So when Bond rolled over, captured Q’s hands in his own, and said “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he really, truly believed it.
~~~
March was relatively uneventful. Bond was called in to Mycroft’s office to help him deal with a traitor scientist at Baskerville — and hadn’t been able to help laughing when he learned of Sherlock’s trickery after Q’s refusal to help him hack the security system there — but otherwise he spent his time training new agents in the dirtiest forms of combatives he knew.
April snuck up on Bond quickly, and despite still not having any label to call their own (or maybe because of, if Bond were being honest with himself), Bond knew he wanted to do something to celebrate his and Q’s first year together. He didn’t quite manage anything grand thanks to a last-minute mission to Russia to spring Alec from jail, but he did take Q to Wilton’s Music Hall for a fun roaring-20s themed evening. They dressed up in American-gangster-style bootlegger outfits and were served baked beans and alcohol in jam jars while they watched an admittedly less-than-stellar performance of the Great Gatsby.
It was worth it for how Q laughed the evening away, and to see how fucking adorable he looked in white trousers, a maroon and white-striped dinner jacket, and a maroon bow tie. Bond knew he’d chosen his own outfit well — a perfectly tailored version of Bugs Moran’s famous grey pinstriped suit, with added fedora and red carnation — because Q couldn’t stop staring at him with barely disguised lust. When dinner was over, they went back to Bond’s place and took turns switching positions, hat still on Bond’s head, bowtie still around Q’s neck, until they finally ran out of energy at about three in the morning.
It was a good evening, even if the word anniversary wasn’t spoken once.
~~~
Bond knew that whatever trouble Sherlock was in didn’t go away because of the increasing melancholy of the music Q played in the evenings. The songs ranged from slow and sad, to fast and angry, to wistful, to melancholy. None of them were songs that Q himself composed; they were contemporary pieces that were easy for him to play so he could think at the same time. But apparently the exercise didn’t bring him any insights; he always ended the song sad, and more often than not ended up simply crawling into bed with Bond and snuggling against him.
It was disturbing enough that Bond broke precedent and went to seek out Mycroft himself. He wanted to know what, if anything, he could do to help Sherlock, but was brushed aside. Mycroft thought, like Bond himself used to think, that Sherlock had the matter well in hand.
When June came, and Bond came back from a conference in Vienna to find Q standing in his office, watching the CCTV footage of a man flinging himself from St. Barts to the cold cement below over and over again, he finally found out that the Holmes brothers were not, after all, indestructable.
Ways of Expressing
June 2012
“Sometimes, there is nothing for it but to play,” Q says, hands resting on the piano keys, naked except for black boxer briefs. His shoulders are slumped, back curled in uncharacteristic bad posture that is absolutely alarming.
Bond has seen him tired, where his head falls back and his eyes shut, neck bared for appreciative staring and caressing. Bond knows that tired Q means gentle kisses and being handsy under the blankets and falling asleep before anything else happens. But this isn’t exhaustion.
“Fingers dancing over ivory keys, hands dragging a bow lightly over strings, mouths breathing life into wind or reed instruments... Sometimes, the notes were the only way to speak.” Q’s voice is quiet – but not the demanding pay attention right now quiet - and his expression unreadable.
Bond has seen him tense, spine snapped painfully straight, where Bond doesn’t dare do anything but wait for Q to finish his task or process whatever it is he needs to before even approaching. Bond knows that when Q is tense, it means leaving him to work through what’s bothering him, and then offering either a massage or rough sex, depending on the resolution of the issue. But this absolutely isn’t tension.
“But not anymore, it seems.” Q slides the fallboard shut, covering the keys with a quiet snap, and stands. He looks for a long moment at Bond, expression devastated and almost perplexed in a way that makes Bond ache. Then Q turns and walks to bed.
Bond has never seen him devastated or perplexed before.
He doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to follow Q or not.
The moment is tense as Q curls in on himself, and Bond feels time slow and become crystallised, the way it does on missions when he feels like he’s about to die. This isn’t something that he can fix. This isn’t something that time will heal as if it never were.
Bond strips down to his own boxer briefs as he watches Q’s breath grow faster and more ragged. He slips into bed next to Q, runs his hands down Q’s arms, presses his chest to Q’s back in an effort to instruct Q’s heart how to slow down. It works only insofar as it stops a panic attack, but Q still isn’t responsive. He stays silent, curled and trembling and heartbroken, in Bond’s arms, until dawn.
Ways of Coping
June 2012
The funeral was surprisingly well-attended, and the family’s cold, blank faces were a shocking contrast to the devastation and sadness openly displayed by the majority of the attendees. Q stood still and strong between Dr. Watson and Bond, having refused to stand anywhere near Mycroft or his parents. With Sherlock’s suicide had come the whole picture, brought to them by Dr. Watson who had visited them in Bond’s flat in order to rant. Bond knew that Sherlock and Watson weren’t lovers — apparently, Sherlock was completely asexual — but Bond knew better than to think they weren’t more than just friends.
He’d held Q as Watson, in devastatingly calm anger, had outlined Moriarty’s schemes and Mycroft’s culpability. He described how the Holmes patriarch and matriarch had shut John out completely. Not only had they refused to help Watson in his investigation of what had really happened, they had also taken all post-mortem decision-making out of Watson’s hands.
Watson didn’t get to keep anything of Sherlock’s. Not even Sherlock’s mementos of their cases together. It was cruel, in Bond’s opinion.
Part of Bond couldn’t help but see what he might become were Q ever to die. He knew that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes didn’t approve of Q’s sexuality, so even Bond’s rank and contacts would do nothing to counteract whatever they decided to do if Q were to die. He’d be like Watson, devastated in the wake of loss.
He knew he’d never recover from it. Unlike his experience with Vesper, there would be no betrayal or redeeming self-sacrifice to hold onto in the aftermath. With Q, he’d experienced real attachment. Real love — the kind that came not just from sex and passion and attraction, but from shoving your partner off the bed towards the bathroom when they had morning breath. From arguing over whether Silent Hill was too scary to play before bed. From coming to your partner’s office after a long, sleepless night to find coffee, perfectly made the way he liked it, waiting on the desk. From the silence and comforting touches, offered free of demand, after witnessing horrors on the job.
~~~
It was Bond who finally broke their state of just being. Three months after Sherlock’s suicide, Bond came home to Q’s flat and found him playing again for the first time since the night of the funeral. The song was slow and sad, but it was played strongly and without hesitation. Bond grinned as he hung his coat and toed off his shoes, the worry he’d been feeling for so long finally starting to lose its grip on his heart. He took off his sidearm and set it on the nightstand, then moved to stand behind Q. He kissed the back of Q’s neck, then over his pulse point behind his ear, then his temple.
“I love you, Q.”
Q didn’t respond — Bond didn’t expect him to, not yet — but he kept on playing. Bond turned to get ready for bed, smile refusing to melt away.