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"Slower," Q says, and Bond wants to snap at him, but his tongue is busy drawing circles on the mark's neck. She smells like lilies, but the skin on her pulse tastes bitter from the perfume and salty from her perspiration. He can only unzip her dress so slowly before it surpasses the line of seduction and into sluggishness.
He stills his hand nonetheless, because Q would know if he doesn't. Q always knows.
"Good," Q says, tone almost disinterested. Bond pictures him in his flat, clad only in sleep pants with a computer on his lap and a mug of sickeningly indulgent hot chocolate in his hand. He doesn't have to imagine Q chewing popcorn while watching something mindless, with pop culture references that would fly directly over Bond's head. Of all the things he could lord over Bond, he chooses those. Bond can hear the taunts perfectly well. He inhales another lungful of lilies.
"When you reach the bottom, run your hands down her arms." Bond does as he's told, and he's not surprised when she shivers. "Take the straps down with you."
Bond does away with the dress, making sure to rustle it as it falls to the floor. Q hums, as satisfied as he'll ever be, or as Bond will ever make him.
"Her sides are particularly sensitive," Q says, accompanied by some typing. There are no cameras inside the room - Bond checked - but Q would find a way to watch if he wanted to. He must be doing research then.
"Pin her by the wrists, to the wall." The only reason Bond is certain he won't have an audience tonight is evidenced by the background music in Q's flat. The bastard is in the middle of a Lord of the Rings marathon. "Use your mouth on her ribs and bite her flank, gently, but avoid her breast. She likes to be teased."
"Unlike some people," Bond mutters into the mark's chest as he descends, fingers firm on her wrists. She lets out a questioning "hmm?" before Bond turns it into a succulent little moan.
"I heard that, 007," Q says, perpetually unrattled. "I'll check in on you again in five minutes. Aragorn's about to march in and I don't want to miss it."
The comm switches off unceremoniously. Bond does his best with the time he's given, leaving glistening wet stripes all over the mark's tanned body, purposefully overlooking the usual erogenous zones. She's a panting, quivering mess when Q comes back on, a touch more chipper than earlier.
"Oh, I know what you're going to say. It was more than five minutes, but I'm quite enamoured with Eowyn as well..."
Bond doesn't dignify that with a reply, which presses a laugh out of Q. He's always most successful at that when he isn't trying.
"You've no idea what I just said. Very well. I trust you paid special attention to her inner thighs?"
Bond nibbles right there to prove a point. The whimper it elicits from the mark is just another bonus.
Q quiets, turns serious again. A sign that he was enjoying it. "Lovely. Now hook her knees over your elbows - you can carry her weight, she's only eight stone - and. Get to it. Any use of your teeth will tip her over, so save those for later."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He mouths at her like it's the end of the world, punctuating every roll of her hips with another thrust of his tongue. He pulls an orgasm out of her, toe-curling and mind-numbing, then a second, then a third. She's gone lax when he's done, lazy fingers giving up their search for purchase on the walls, so he slips her off him and carries her to the bed.
"Kiss her good night," Q says suddenly. Bond is half-hard in his trousers but he does notice the sleepiness in her eyes, the soft give of her mouth. She's spent; Q didn't miscalculate.
He grits his teeth and presses his lips to hers briefly, straightening up. He makes a move towards the bathroom, but Q tuts. Bond swallows down his irritation. "What?"
"There's no time for that, 007. Return to your hotel for so I can analyse the drive you've extracted. I've sent a cab to wait for you at the lobby."
"I'll tear you limb from limb."
The smile in Q's voice is palpable, sweet as blood. "I'm sure you will."
It had been a matter of not if, but when. The energy that fizzled and popped between them that day in the Gallery, that could have given bystanders first degree burns if they had sat too close, had to be set aside for more important matters. Queen and country, new management, setting up shop, the works. Recovery, too, but Bond had already taken an extended holiday before the whole affair began. He wasn't keen to waste any more time. Live as if you'll die tomorrow and all that (as if it'll make a difference).
There was a spark of surprise behind Q's glasses, certainly, but for only a moment, and it leaned on the side of incredulous, probably because Bond chose to do it in the Armoury of all places.
"Quite fortunate there aren't any security cameras in here," Q said, lips dry but pliant against his.
Bond didn't really give a damn if there were or weren't, but it was impossible to interrupt one of Q's spiels. He moved the kiss down Q's jaw, murmuring, "that seems unwise."
"Pray tell, 007."
"Lots of expensive equipment. Detailed, highly-classified blueprints. Would've thought you'd be more eager to protect them."
Q snorted in that petty, offended way of his that makes him seem like a better fit in a university than in the walls of MI6. "Who says I don't?"
"Lower employees could be stealing intel and selling them to the highest bidder, and you'd never know." They had been talking far too much for Bond's liking, but Q's neck flushed when he's riled up, and Bond smirked when he felt the heat.
"I do know. There's surveillance pointed right outside the door." Q paused when Bond grazed teeth against his throat, but he's otherwise unperturbed. "And I've input my own security measure in the equipment. I oversee each one myself. Nothing I haven't authorised for active duty may pass through without setting off an alarm. You can try it yourself, but it's all very annoying."
"I assume that anyone in Q-branch would be smart enough to override it."
"Then you assume wrong. It's coded to my tongue print."
Bond opened his mouth to comment, suddenly very taken with the mental image of Q's lips snug around the barrel of his Walther, eyes blown wide - sex and danger always did go hand in hand for him - but Q cut him off quickly.
"Please save your innuendo for someone who'll share the amusement." Bond huffed anyway in his own version of laughter; there seemed to be a smile in Q's voice too, but he was too intent on leaving a mark on Q's pulse point to pull away and look.
"Fond of personal statements, aren't you?"
Q made a moue of his plush mouth. "How sweet of you to notice."
The mark is taller than Bond, his muscles manifesting in long, clean lines - a far cry from how Bond carries the stock in his build. Still, he turns to silly putty at Bond's insistence.
"He can give you a run for his money, can't he?" Q says like he's desperately trying not to snicker. There's the familiar bubble of irritation in Bond's gut, his instinctual response to Q's voice, but it can just as easily morph into affection if he's not careful.
(It already has; Q should never be underestimated).
"Stroke his abdomen, but not too heavily. You're quite literally stroking his ego - and really, I wish I was joking. Tickle the bastard, if you can. He's a bit of a freak show." Bond knows the texture of his palm enough to let it do the work for him - almost everyone is a slave to his callouses, to the idea of a big hulking dog of a man taking them apart. People are predictable; Q isn't.
Bond lets his touch falter to an agonising crawl up the mark's chest, idly rolling a nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. The mark groans aloud, near comical, when he flicks at it like he would a small spider.
"Told you. He lucked out with that face. And what a handsome face indeed." Q drowns himself out in music, so Bond can tell he's not watching. The poor sod's been the target of Q's relentless research that's probably ten shades of immoral and then some, but then again there's a lack of people in Bond's life that Q hasn't already subjected to an extensive background check.
Make that zero, in fact.
"You're quite right, I'm not looking at pictures at the moment. Did that earlier." Q reads his mind like it's something normal people do, Q is terrifying, but he acts like he doesn't know it, which makes it that much worse. Bond would have run in the opposite direction if he still had half a brain left (he's been concussed more times than a handful of civilians combined, in several lifetimes) but he has long stopped pretending that it's precisely what makes him keep coming back.
"I'm practicing my piano. Oh, and repeat the gesture on the other nipple."
Would help if Q wasn't such an insufferable git, though. It was quite a feat to attempt seducing someone while all he can conjure when he closes his eyes are pink tutus and bloody toenails, courtesy of Swan Lake filling his ears.
"He was a victim of his time, Tchaikovsky. He's ninety percent brilliant and ten percent trite, if any, and only because he's gotten so popular. Keep running your hands over him, he'll be fully hard in two minutes, I'd wager, and the fun can start. The Nutcracker does bring back such good memories, doesn't it? Christmas and snow and toy soldiers. Very fitting. Oh, I'm going to need my concentration for this next refrain. I'll wait for him to start keening, feel free to take your time, Bond."
Blood pools in the pit of Bond's groin at that the rare mention of his name, which really isn't fair when the mark's only halfway up. Piano keys are descending, one right after the other, and the noise that hits the air is swift and beautiful, almost-deaths that start with the edge of the sky and are thwarted only ten feet from the ground. The best kind, Bond's mind goes heady with remembrance, and the simple frame of Q's fingers used on him instead makes him almost forget about the mark.
Q jolts him back, and he wraps a hand around the mark's cock, albeit begrudgingly. The mark had to have been faking that scream. His lips are even looser than Q's.
"He's a good boy, isn't he? Go on, allegro."
"You're infuriating," Bond hisses to the mark's skin, only because he's already to distracted to even ask Bond to repeat it, jerked off without much finesse. Not that it matters. Q laughs along with the mark's moans, fingers nimble and flying over piano keys too hurriedly for the piece - he's just showing off now - a rendition, no, a bastardisation of 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.'
Bond's been undercover at one too many ballet shows for his liking.
"I feel a kinship with him, you know. Oh, all right, spare a hand for yourself too. Not as fast though, if you can help it. Word is, he was frenzied with night terrors as a child, but not the usual kind. Nothing so common. There were shadows, ghastly things, that chased him into consciousness and willed him to compose. Inspiration, if you will. I thought I was alone in that. Genius is rarely so kind, oh--"
Q realised it before Bond did, how the writhing mess of a man under him turned into a shuddering mess instead. His fingers are warm and slick with come that isn't his, and he's more than a little peeved about it. Q is a step ahead of his thoughts, as always.
"You've obtained the necessary information? Of course you have. We should review them."
Bond's fists are balled up at his sides, and he's exhaling through his nose. He pities the mark for being in his presence, because he's still very stiff and very, very unhappy.
Q's mood seems to border on mania and the kind of cheerful that can't be smothered. "Come along, now, we don't have all day. Stick the plug in him and say you'll return in the morning. I'll even tape his reaction for you."
Bond almost feels sorry when he screws the plug in, while the mark's still a bundle of overstimulation and nerves. He did use copious amounts of lube; he's not completely heartless.
If he were, he thinks as he tucks himself into his trousers, Q would be dead within the week.
"They ought to make shouting an Olympic event," Q says as Bond swaps spit with the man in question. The mark winks at him as he leaves, all chiseled cheekbones and freshly shaven jawline. Too perfect. He could use a broken nose, Bond takes a mental note.
"He'd make his country proud, don't you think?"
"Do you ever shut up?"
"I could," Q says, far too self-assured to ever pull off seeming wounded. "But what would you do without me?"
The third time Bond makes a move on Q, it's in his private office, because Q so very condescendingly informed him that he doesn't find the scent of gunpowder as remotely titillating as Bond does. So, Q's office, and even then he stopped them every few seconds to ask Bond if he had locked the door, or to whine that the edge of the table was digging into his hip. Bond bit kisses into his neck and twined unforgiving fists into his unruly hair to no avail. He used his last resort.
"I'm afraid I can't give you what you need."
Bond stopped, caught off guard by the response to his palming of Q's crotch. His hand stayed, and he was suddenly very hyperaware of the texture of Q's tartan trousers.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, husky and nonchalant, betraying none of his surprise. Q wasn't fooled. That had been his first lesson that any further attempts to do so would not be seen to fruition.
"Simply that I am not interested." Q was leaning against the desk, not even trying to move. Bond could've sworn he'd even rolled his hips.
He wasn't amused. "Your actions determine otherwise."
"My actions determine nothing, 007, except that I haven't rejected your advances until now." Q had trailed his fingers up Bond's tie, fingering the material casually. That was what made Bond withdraw his hand and bat Q's away, injecting a warning note into his voice.
"Don't play games with me, Q."
Q remained steady, though his eyes seemed bigger and evocative without the glasses Bond had removed earlier. "Only if you want me to."
Bond stepped back. He wasn't going to be made a fool by a little boy. As he headed towards the door, Q called out to him.
"Don't take it so personally. Your file says you're very skilled, and I've experienced it firsthand..."
He turned around, interest piqued. "My file."
"Yes, and I've added some notes." Q was wiping his lenses, and he slid them on as he talked. "Anyway, I do like kissing. It's entertaining, and provides a good distraction. And you can be very distracting. Quite commendable."
It was the truth, and Bond never did have much to say to the truth. Usually that was when someone reached the end of their usefulness and he terminated them with a bullet to the head.
Q continued, unprompted. "And, unless one's partner was akin to a slobbering bull dog, there's virtually no clean up necessary. I can't say the same for... other things."
Then he did a little nose quirk Bond had learned to associate with him whenever he felt particularly haughty. He couldn't help but tease. "God forbid that it gets messy."
"There's a reason I'm a technician rather than a field agent," Q snapped, adjusting the glasses. "I like to maintain order rather than disrupt it.
"Order and control."
Bond had barely been able to keep himself from raising an eyebrow, in case Q saw it. "Didn't take you for that type."
"No one does." Q retreated back behind his desk, and that was as good a dismissal as any. Bond turned to leave, for the second time, but Q wasn't done.
"Although, based on how much my presence affects you, it may be a necessity to scratch that itch. Before it starts becoming a disadvantage, you see."
Don't flatter yourself, Bond thinks, because denial is vital to a Double O's survival. "The point, Q."
"Yes, well. I have a proposition. An arrangement of sorts. Please take a seat." Q pointed to the chair across from him, and though it wasn't a command, it certainly felt like one. Bond stared him down as he sat.
"I'm listening."
Q folded his hands and rested his chin on them, looking like the cat caught with a lick of cream on its whiskers. "I would hope so." And then he told Bond what he wanted.
When he finished, he sipped on some tea, and Bond was seeing him through fresh eyes.
"You're twisted," Bond said, honest for once, because heaven help England if this boy ever turned against her.
Q only smiled at him, sprite-like. "Then I'm in good company."
For the first time in a long Bond actually feels like he's working, because here's a mark that can keep up with him. She's lithe, petite, and that means she'd be quick on her feet, much quicker than he would be if he tried to subdue her.
"She's one of their best," Q tells him as the mark bats her eyes, tracing a fingertip over the rim of her wineglass suggestively. Her lips are small but full, and they match the colour of her trimmed but well-kept nails. ("Tacky," Q had said earlier, watching through the restaurant surveillance. It took a lot of his famed self-control not to glower at the camera, because that wouldn't have been subtle.)
"They'd be very unhappy if you don't bring her back in one piece." He hears Q's idle typing; Bond presumes he's zooming into the mark's face to point out other flaws. Not that there were many. Q seems bored, he is bored, because he isn't doing this from the comfort of his own flat, lured into the office with the rest of his department in what was a very delicate operation. No doubt he'd like this to be over as soon as possible, because tonight he can't have his fun.
It doesn't occur to Bond then, not just yet, because the mark just grazed her lacquered nails against his knee when she leant to adjust her stockings. His expression remains impassive, well-trained, but his mind short-circuits for just a small moment. Q doesn't want this, and on any other day, it would've seemed important.
He offers dessert; she refuses with a prophetic smile, like she knows where she'd find sweeter things, and quite certain she'll take them before the clock strikes midnight. It's a little terrifying, and Bond finds that he rather likes it.
He pays, and helps her put on her coat, ever the gentleman. She's staying at a hotel not more than two blocks away, she tells him. He already knows, of course, but he asks if she'd like to take a cab there, those heels look awfully high.
She laughs, practised but still lovely. I can run ten miles in these, she says, and more. Depending on who's chasing me.
"Depending on who's chasing me," Q mutters under his breath, mocking, as if forgetting that he was right in Bond's ear. More peeved about this than he'd ever admit. Bond smirks, and he lets the mark think it's for her benefit. He offers her his arm, and they step out into the street. Bond can feel a hundred eyes in them, which isn't far from the truth - Q's tracking them through individual monitoring cameras, can see each and every move. Good.
He pulls the mark to him, sudden and smooth, but not to be one-upped, she kisses him before he can her. He grunts softly, squeezing her arms for a moment before moving his hands to her hips. She tugs at him by his lapels, deepening the kiss though it stays chaste and close-mouthed. It won't for too long, because it's beginning to formalise in his head.
Q stays remarkably silent, at least until they reach the hotel elevator, pressing the button to the 34th floor.
"Remember that this is a simple retrieval mission, 007. Give her the shot once she lets you inside, the effects will be instantaneous. She keeps her valuables in a hidden compartment in her suitcase. The drive will be there." Bond already knows this, has had the syringe ready in his pocket since he dressed up for his rendezvous with the mark. Q slips into a habit of stating the obvious when he's nervous.
They're walking to her room, and Q's blind from here. The mark had disabled, or paid someone to disable - likely the hotel staff - all the surveillance equipment on her floor, Q had told him irritably as he had been putting on his cufflinks. He'll tell Bond later, when he gets back, that it's why he was being particularly nasty about this mark, but it'll be as transparent as a cling film.
She pulls him into the room and kisses him by the door, pressing the length of her body up against his. He allows it for about half a minute, before swooping her legs out from under her, an arm around her waist and one under her knees. She laughs, delighted, and works on loosening his tie as he carries her to the bed.
"Give her the shot," Q hisses, a fraction less professional than he had been. It's a direct command, and he ignores it. On his debrief and official reports he'd say that he was looking for a window of opportunity, and it hadn't arrived yet, but Q will know better. That's how Bond prefers it.
He considers it payback for all the previous missions: Q's been depriving him, and dogs turn more rebellious on shorter leashes.
"007, we don't have time for this," Q says, his voice even as he makes the mark moan. Her dress has the zipper down the front and it's like a museum unveiling as he slides it down, his prick twitching as he realises that she isn't wearing undergarments, top or bottom.
"Minx," he says as he bites at her earlobe, and she giggles as he rips at her stockings. Q cracks his knuckles, or maybe he's imagining it.
She yanks his clothes off with a determined lack of gentleness that could have surpassed his own, and when she pulls out his belt he's almost expecting her to try to tie him up with it. He watches her face - he's right, it flickers there, the possibility of it, before it's abandoned. Pity.
"Bond," Q says, masquerading as a warning but more like a last resort, because that's all it is.
It's a rush, so he rides on it, pushing two fingers between her legs and they slide right in; she's wet and her scent is strong, filling his nostrils and he decides that he hasn't got the patience for anything else. He's already hard against her thigh - she even rolls on the condom for him. Then she nods, spreading herself open, he nudges into her, burying himself to the hilt.
He fucks her slowly, deep and hard, his hips synchronised with hers until she gets bored with his pacing and flips them over. Her thighs straddle his own as she rocks against him, her dark hair plastered in strings along her collarbones to frame her exquisite breasts. He gropes, at them, one in each hand, and pinches her nipples when he feels them peaking against his palms. She gives out a strangled little cry and he pictures Q at his desk, thin-lipped and eyebrows set, his precious tea cooling in his hand, listening and unable to do anything but.
Bond anchors himself on the mark's upper arms and thrusts upwards, roughly now, until she keens and throws her head back to expose the her throat, pale and ripe for the syringe he doesn't make an effort to reach for. Q's breathing lightly in his ear, too proud to terminate the connection.
The mark swivels her hips, jolting his thoughts from his Quartermaster and he welcomes it, groaning, and it's his last coherent thought before his climax. The mark takes a little longer, her hands braced on his chest, and she makes a toy of him, not letting up until she orgasms for what seems like the fourth or fifth time. Women are so bloody fantastic.
He's in genuine awe of her, so he allows himself to be rueful when he finally gives her the shot, her lashes fluttering when the clear liquid empties into her neck. It's highly improbable that she'll remember it, though it wouldn't matter if she does because he'll be a hundred miles away in the morning. Even so, he covers her with a sheet before he retrieves the drive, and it's only then that he speaks directly to Q-branch.
"Hardware secured."
"Good work, 007," Q replies, so acerbic that it could have melted through flesh and seared bone, had it been whispered to his skin.
Q's displeased with him, and that fact alone could run for understatement of the century. He hasn't been addressed in weeks, not if it didn't directly pertain to MI6. He's had quite a few opportunities to sleep with his marks, but he finishes missions quickly now instead of taking the long route. Q turns off their line once he's met the target and only comes back on when he's acquired whatever it is that needed acquiring. Bond had hoped that it meant that he was watching, at least, until a source (or, that particular Q-branch employee who gave under intimidation whose name Bond didn't have room for in his memory) told him that Q had assigned that task to one of his minions, under orders to only disturb him once Agent 007 had done his job and had to be escorted out.
Humiliating, put in those terms, but he supposes he deserves worse. Q barely glances at him, though not ignoring him outright, but when he is acknowledged it's as if he was a small child, unworthy of his time. When the late M did it, he took it for affection, but it's very evidently not the case with Q.
His disobedience tastes like stale sex in his mouth and he wants to spit it out.
It's his move, really. So he buys a pawn, making them wrap it up in a ribbon, in case the paltry attempt at humor earns him any favours. He finds Q in the Armoury again, occupied and alone. He's working on what looks like a crossbow, forehead crinkled and fingers precise.
"Q."
"007."
There's that dismissive tone. Bond misses the acid.
"Like Legolas," he says as a peace offering. It's too much to hope for a smile, or for any reaction, so he considers it a victory when Q arches an eyebrow.
"Legolas." Q repeats, like he can't quite believe it. Bond is certain he got the character's name right. "Really."
Where most people sigh, Bond frowns, trying again by placing his second offering beside Q's hand and the crossbow.
"What is that."
"A gift."
Q remains unimpressed, though he does put the equipment down, pulling at the red ribbon until it comes undone in his hands. There's no card, because Bond's not that far gone yet.
Inside the box is a white ceramic teapot with the Union Jack hand-painted on the side, reminiscent of the bulldog he now keeps in his flat. Q takes it out and his face contorts, like it's torn between a grin and a scowl.
"You can't be serious."
"It matches your mug."
"Not, it doesn't."
"A personalised touch."
"It's uglier than sin."
Bond tried. He doesn't bother to retrieve it when he turns on his heel to stalk out. Of course, it's Q's voice that halts him in his tracks.
"I'll keep it." Bastard had the gall to sound amused. He looks over his shoulder and Q's gone back to his crossbow, but the corners of his mouth are twitching upwards, eyes darting surreptitiously to the box and back again. Bond's made triumphs out of lesser things.
There's no office chatter in the background, no musical instruments interrupting. If there happened to be a fantasy film playing on the telly, then it had the volume turned all the way down, muted. There were no distractions tonight, and no one else except him and Q. And the mark.
"His neck, just below the ear. There's a pulse point, I'm sure you know where... if you apply pressure..."
Bond sinks his teeth at the spot, and by the sound the mark makes it's the right one. Q lets out a sigh.
"Yes, right there. That's wonderful." Bond wonders which camera he was watching from, what angle he was seeing - though knowing Q, he has multiple screens open, making the most of all the views. He works on sucking a bruise on the skin there, and the mark leans up bodily against him, long-limbed and wiry-framed. It's easy, so incredibly easy to imagine him as someone else; easier than all the others combined.
"Twist your fingers in his hair, pull down." He does so, and the mark rakes his nails up his back, both their suits only half-undone. Q told him to keep it that way. He's never had such a responsive mark, rutting against his thigh while unbuttoning his shirt and making the dirtiest noises this side of the continent.
"Oh, I forgot. He still has his contacts on." Bond wonders what Q's doing besides watching, if the thought ever crosses his mind; if it were him, he'd chafe himself raw. If it were up to him, he'd never abide by just watching, but that's the difference between them. Some days he admires Q for it, all the restraint involved in this, and others he'd like to prove him wrong. That losing control can be just as ecstatic. "You're permitted to ask him if he'd like to remove them."
But he says nothing, because it's not his place. He repeats the question to the mark, who just laughs, lips bright and red but his eyes dull, naive, a mere diplomat's son, a pawn in this elaborate game instead of an actual contender. It's a startling contrast. The mark shakes his head and goes in for a kiss but Bond turns his head on instinct, awaiting instruction.
"Push him to his knees."
With pleasure, Q, he says in his mind, shoving at the mark's shoulders with the brunt of his palms. The mouth already has his mouth opened, eyes wide and eager, reaching for Bond's cock.
"Well. Let him have it. But give him a smack first, on the cheek. You'll see why."
Bond felt ridiculous, taking his cock in hand and slapping the mark with it, but it pays off as blood pools under the mark's flesh, turning him splotchy all the way to his chest. Q chuckles, though it's with a hint of self-deprecation, like he was looking at a mirror.
"You may fuck his mouth now," Q says, a little breathless. Bond shoves himself into the mark's throat, hard and fast, the rest of his skin prickling at the echo of Q's exhales. The mark gags but welcomes him anyway, spit dribbling over Bond's prick, using both hands to stroke, to twist up his length, and it's almost reverent. Bond closes his eyes and sees Q behind them, greedily drinking down the scene, taking what he wants and giving nothing in return.
Except that isn't quite true. The mark's good at it, enough to make him curse aloud.
"I know he's wonderful," Q says, and Bond doesn't even think twice about how Q found that piece of information, "but hold out. You won't have to wait much longer - he prepared himself before the gala."
He stills his hips for a moment, uncertain, though the mark's still going at it with enthusiasm.
"I didn't tell you not to enjoy yourself," Q reminds him, makes him move again. "I know I am."
It takes a valiant effort not to come then and there. And even more, when Q says minutes later, "haul him off to bed, there's a good lad." The mark doesn't protest, even immediately settling on his elbows and knees, arching his back and raising his bum higher when Bond yanks at his trousers. After applying protection, he tests what Q said earlier, prying the mark's arse cheeks apart and slipping two fingers in between. They slide out with ease, already, obscenely, slick and wet.
"Did you expect to find anything else?" Q asks him, playfully. "I'd never lie to you, 007."
That wasn't entirely true either, but Bond smirks, lining up the head of his cock at the mark's entrance.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
He's in no way kind about fucking the mark, because kindly is the last word he'd use if he ever got the chance to fuck Q. Still, something tugs at him when the mark starts keening, when the mark fists at the sheets with long, nimble fingers, when the mark's dark hair gets matted with sweat and by Bond's own mussing of it. When he inhales he smells Earl Grey, though it might just be his mind playing tricks on him. It's not Q, but it is, the voice in his ear tells him so.
Neither him or the mark utter a name when they find their release. Bond thinks it all the same.
The mark slumps on the bed, smile sated despite the mess Bond's made of his clothes. He yawns, and is asleep only seconds later; he'd have Bond's heart a universe or two over, but not in this one.
Bond makes himself presentable again, then walks around the bed to get to the draw beside it. The manila envelope is there, and he takes it without regret.
"Retrieval's a success," he says, though he doesn't need to. Q laughs, watching him from out of his thousand eyes. "A success indeed."
(Double O's were always happier when someone told them where to point and shoot.
This is simply an extension.)
my knees are bent
like the corner of a page
I am saving your place
Andrea Gibson, "Maybe I Need You"