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He’s been in Jordan before; it’s practically “espionage for beginners” to get an assignment in Jordan, and he’d be insulted if he weren’t still sore, still tired, still bleeding sluggishly from a gash in his thigh from the assignment in Bolivia. It was a dirty, gritty fistfight in the jungle. The stark, pale blue of the Dead Sea is welcome, an empty reflection devoid of green or life, echoing hollow in his chest. Observation. He’s here for observation, watching an upstart organization that’s accidentally gotten its hands on something more than they can possibly handle or understand.
The area is known for its spas and resorts just as well as it’s known for its bleak beauty. He’s three days in, caked in mud—on purpose this time, pale and streaky with primordial minerals and salt—when the resort’s concierge interrupts their wealthy businessman’s vacation to let him know that his companion has arrived. The sudden change in plans—the man looks cool, unruffled, and very calmly annoyed—means that there are no more double rooms without upgrading them into a suite. The concierge sounds pleased; Bond’s skin crackles as he tips his head to look at him. Q’s voice is distant as he assures the man that it’s alright. His lips are dry on the mud smeared across Bond’s forehead as if to prove himself.
“I’m just going to go drop my things in the room and freshen up, okay?” Q says. “Darling.”
Twenty minutes later, Bond is clean and dry and polished to a sleek, glossy glow. His things have been moved to the new room—he’d expect no less for the amount this place charges for a bottle of mineral water—and Q is installed in the middle of the room’s large bed, laptop already at the ready.
“You’ve made good time, darling,” Bond says, as much for the dull flush that creeps along the sides of Q’s bobbing throat as for anyone listening. “I didn’t even know you’d left home.”
“I couldn’t bear to be apart from you for even one more day,” Q says. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”
Bond swears silently. His things have been moved from the old room to this one; it’s likely infested. Q’s eyes are sharp behind his glasses.
“Let me take you out tonight. Dancing,” Bond offers. He’s pacing, fine leather shoes not even creaking as he covers the floor. Q nods, watching him. “Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.”
“That sounds lovely,” Q says easily, the edge of his mouth quirking around a smile. “I haven’t a thing to wear, though.” He tips his chin in the direction of the closet and Bond is suddenly sure that his suits are already there, hanging neatly and wired for sound. Bond returns the wry smile.
“As if I need an excuse to dress you up,” he says. “And perhaps I’ll pick up something, myself, while we’re out.”
::
The city of Amman opens before them, a glittering oasis after the loosely-populated expanse of Jordanian desert. Amman is a startling double exposure, western and neon laid over one of the most ancient cities in the world. Bond puts the BBC on the radio and curls his palm over Q’s knee.
“Have you been to Jordan before?” he asks. Q shakes his head, shrugging away from Bond’s hand into the seat and absorbed in his mobile. Bond smiles widely. “You’re in for a treat. Almost half the people in Jordan live here in Amman. The bustle is sometimes so hectic that it can be hard to hear yourself think. Stay close to me; I wouldn’t want you wandering off. I have a tailor here—”
“Of course you do,” Q interrupts, grinning to himself.
“—he does a fantastic job. Not for today, however, I think. As much as I would normally hate it, we’ll probably have to go pret-a-porter. There’s no time for a proper fitting if we want to do anything but, tonight,” Bond continues regretfully.
“You in a suit that’s had less than three fittings? My impatient baby,” Q says idly.
Bond hums in agreement, shifting gears. He’s driving like a maniac, but so is everyone else as traffic pours into the city. It’s one white-knuckle moment before he’s swinging the little car into a parking space in a big, covered building. Q does something on his mobile screen as he clambers out, and Bond allows himself a moment of silence for the little Audi he’ll probably never see again. They can’t afford to change cars every time they suspect the valet’s left behind invisible ears, but Q is playing indulged and Bond indulgent, and he hopes that for once Q’s sensible nature returns with a flashier car than before. Their cover may depend on it.
Once out of the car, they ramble a bit through the narrow, crooked streets. No one follows them; it seems for once they’ve shaken their trace. Bond pats his pockets and hems—no listening devices he didn’t already know about—and turns to Q for a long-awaited explanation. Q doesn’t disappoint, turning over his mobile promptly to display a series of mug shots.
“Your mission is going to go belly-up within the week. Someone else has found out about the tapes, and he doesn’t brook amateur hour at the Evil League of Evil’s karaoke club.”
“Evil League of Evil?” Bond asks, cocking a brow.
“Follow the point, double-oh-seven. Within the week, your target is going to be eradicated by a much more serious threat. The purpose of your mission has changed: you need to acquire the tapes before they’re taken. We may have been able to trust the original cabal to never have figured out what to do with the tapes, or at least to have given you plenty of time to sneak in and get them around your busy beauty regimen, but it’s not going to work out half so well with this new group. Now it’s a matter of the utmost importance that the tapes are retrieved before they’re stolen again by someone who knows what the hell he’s doing.”
Bond nods, then pauses. “Evil League of Evil?” he asks again. The frown he gets is pissy and completely worth it. Turning to the mobile again, he skims across the glass with his fingertips. There’s a familiar face; he taps to bring up the file. “This one’s different. He’s joined the group since I arrived.”
“Then he’s the link between the group and the real terrorist,” Q says, nodding.
“There’s no such thing as a terrorist who isn’t real, Q,” Bond tells him. “Just different kinds of dangerous. You don’t sign on for this sort of thing unless you want to see someone die.” Q is silent. Bond touches the small of his back gently, as if herding an easily startled creature. “Come on. We ought to stop off at the tailor’s before putting in an appearance in the nightlife. There’s nothing we can do tonight—the group certainly isn’t one to stay up all night—and we’ll need some sort of hand stamp to verify the story we’ve given.”
“Dancing,” Q says as if the word has personally offended him.
“Don’t you dance, Quartermaster?” Bond asks. The look Q shoots him is positively filthy. “Don’t worry. There are still a few places to get a good martini in a dry city.”
“And of course you know them,” Q says.
“Of course.” Bond steers Q by the elbow until they find themselves in a shop, its narrow walls lined in breathy suits of cotton and linen. Q fondles a sleeve as he passes, and Bond grins. “Plant fibers only; breathable, with the added bonus of being halal.”
“At least it’s not synthetic,” Q agrees, pulling a face. “I’m not ironing your wardrobe, though.”
“Oh, I’ll be wearing mine. They need to think we’re not on to them yet, and the best way to do that will be to pretend we haven’t noticed that they’ve been overzealous in their application. You’ll be the one in all of this creasable cotton.”
“Then you’ll forgive me if I hang around the room in my pants,” Q replies, touching a shirtsleeve.
“Is that a promise?” Bond asks, leering. “I do like to decorate my room with pretty things.” Q shoots him a startled look, and Bond spies the edge of a blush sneaking back in around his collar. “And not a single cardigan to be seen,” Bond hums as if to himself. “Whatever will you wear?”
In the end, it’s a simple suit of clean, polished linen, the waistcoat buttoned over a white t-shirt that somehow already looks rumpled. The jacket is folded over an arm; the collar of the t-shirt clings to the beads of sweat already developing along the graceful arch of his neck. Bond hates it.
“You look like a twelve year old, and I look like a bloody pervert, carrying you around on my arm,” he complains as he carefully folds his own suit into the box to be delivered to their hotel room later.
“But I thought you liked it when I called you ‘Daddy’,” Q quips dryly, and Christ, but when he puts his hands in his pockets like that, the pleats press against his arse like a caress. He blinks a moment, realizing Q is waiting at the door, and flashes Q a dirty smile and an arched brow as he continues giving him a blatant once-over.
“Not in public, darling,” he says low as he catches up. Q rolls his eyes. “Do have a care, dear. Amman is more forward-thinking, yes, but it’s still Jordan,” Bond murmurs. “And while our cover may be that you’re my lovely bit of fluff, it won’t help us at all to be accosted in the street by the moral right.” His right hand slips easily into the front right pocket of Q’s trousers.
“Mixed messages, you,” Q says. “Don’t go feeling about while you’re in there; I’m not one of your Bond Girls.”
Bond stops, frowning. “Beg pardon?”
All at once, Q seems to realize what he’s said and bites his lip, guilt stealing over his face. “Nothing, Double-oh-seven.”
“Tell me, what’s a Bond Girl?” Bond insists.
“Only the most pathetic creature. Each of them thinks she’s your ain true love, when truly she’s just a stepping stone in a mission for you—” Q’s smile strains, breaking off. “They’re the Bond Girls.”
“How charmed I am to know Q branch has nothing better to do than gossip about whether or not I care for the women I sleep with when I’m in the line of fire for Queen and Country.” Bond’s voice is cold. “I do, of course. Not that it’s any of your business. A Bond Girl isn’t such a terrible thing to be.”
“Relatively short life expectancy,” Q remarks.
“Nowhere to go from there but down,” Bond replies. They make it another two steps before Bond cracks, laughing at the ridiculousness of the conversation.
“You prat,” Q says without heat.
“—you asking my intentions? For a hand on your arse?” Bond manages between his laughter. Q flushes, face puckering around his embarrassment. “No, no. Don’t be—it’s adorable. No one’s feared for their chastity around me in a while.”
“Right, then,” Q says crisply. “Dancing?”
“Not yet.”
The building Bond leads him into is cool, at least compared to the stinging heat of the desert. There’s a pungent, sweet odor dripping in the air as mists of water vapor brush along his skin. “A hookah bar?” Q asks quietly as they’re led further into the dark rooms, his fingers wrapped loosely around Bond’s belt in the crush.
“A shisha club,” Bond corrects, smiling genially at the host before pointing generally at the menu. He holds two fingers up; the host returns with a small silver foil packet and a bowl of olives. The neon lights of the room are discordant against the delicate mosaics; Q touches the tile with his fingertips and looks back at Bond, who offers him the hose. Q stares at it. “Are you honestly one of the few who’s never done this before?” Bond asks, teasing. He unfolds the hose again, guiding it into his mouth to take a suckling drag at it. The pot on the table percolates, and Bond’s breath is cold as smoke steals across the table.
“Never,” Q confirms, watching as Bond luxuriates in the smoke. It’s strong, woody and dark, impossibly masculine as he pushes it from his lungs. Bond makes it look effortlessly sexual.
“What did you do in uni, then? Don’t tell me you actually studied?”
“I brought down third-world regimes and ate a lot of twiglets,” Q replies blandly.
“Boo,” Bond responds, sidling closer on the seat. “Here, let me.” His lips seal over the hose, and up close, Q can see the moisture condensed on the cool metal. His mouth looks interesting, but he cannot say exactly why before hot lips press into his own, coaxing damp into his mouth and down his chest. Bond’s fingers curl around the back of his neck to hold him still as tobacco floods his senses, rich and herbal. His body feels warm in the cool fabric clinging to him; he’s aware of a pool of sweat forming ice cubes in the small of his back but his lungs burns for air. Bond draws away, disappointed, and Q blows the smoke into his eyes. “You didn’t choke,” Bond says, and he’s honest-to-God pouting on the seat, bottom lip puffy and swollen and wet.
“Your kisses aren’t that abhorrent,” Q says, tucking an olive between his teeth. Removing the pit, he continues, “—and I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen. Caffeine can only get you so far.”
“You never smell like it,” Bond says.
“Cheer up. It was a good try,” Q admits. He takes the hose from Bond’s limp fingers and sucks until he’s dizzy, awash with sensation and heady with the lack of oxygen.
“Slow down,” Bond says. His voice is a buzzing feeling at his shoulder that Q leans into, humming quietly.
“This is almost a date, isn’t it?” he asks languidly. Bond smiles.
Half an hour later, he’s regretting his rash behavior as the pure, uncut tobacco swirls in his stomach, leaving him queasy and woozy. Bond’s palm is sure and hot as it guides him through the crowd; he’s swooning. For a moment, Bond’s concerned—he looks like a stiff breeze will knock him down—but Q is stubborn, drawing himself up to peer at his phone.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the dancing tonight, dear. Long flight,” he explains, and Bond’s stomach twists at the understatement. Any flight's too long for Q.
“No worries, dear,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of Q’s head. “Let’s get you back to the room.” In the garage, there is a new car sitting in their spot as if it has always been there, a sleek, gleaming thing that looks shiny and fast and flash. The keys are in the gas compartment; in the car, Q slumps against the seat. An hour into the drive, the air is broken by a snore. Bond chuckles and revs the engine.
Sleepy Q is like a cat, boneless and warm as Bond manhandles him into the hotel. It’s a bit of a walk—he doesn’t dare turn the keys over to the valet again—but the quartermaster is so slight that Bond just tucks his unwieldy frame under his chin and carries him in, ignoring the looks he gets as he walks in. Q makes a soft sound of discontent when they stop at the counter to check for messages. Bond smoothes his palm over his hair and tucks him further against his chest.
“It’s okay, darling. We’re nearly there,” he murmurs, more for the concierge’s benefit than Q’s, as Q begins to struggle to his feet. “Shh. We just need to get the post.”
“Just one for you today, sirs,” the concierge says stiffly. Q freezes, cautiously sliding into a more gracefully exhausted slump as he listens carefully. “A note from a lady by the name of E?”
“Eve, you mean?” Bond corrects him with a gracious smile. “Just checking to see if Quentin has arrived, I’m sure. I’ll ring her from the room. Is that all?”
“That’s all, sir. Dial 7 to get out on your room phone.”
“I’ll use my mobile, thanks,” Bond says. Turning to Q, he gingerly lowers his legs to the ground. “Darling, do you think you can walk now?”
“I’m sure I can manage,” Q tries not to snipe as his legs go embarrassingly weak. He clutches at Bond’s arm and leans in, and Bond grins wolfishly. “You like me defenseless,” Q accuses mildly.
“I doubt there’s such a thing as you defenseless,” Bond says, the picture of perjured innocence. Q leans heavily on him until they make it to the room before collapsing full across the bed.
“I feel I may vomit,” he says succinctly.
“Not on the bed, please,” Bond says. His hands are practical, unlacing and removing Q’s shoes to place by the door before brushing the creases from his suit jacket to hang it in the closet. The box by Q’s elbow rustles when Bond digs into it, fingers quick over the seams and hems to find bugs; it’s clean, as best he can tell, though he’ll check it again in the morning. “Budge over.”
“Hardly.” Q rolls over, tucking himself around a pillow. “There’s a couch.”
“I’m not sleeping on the couch,” Bond tells him.
“Neither am I. And I don’t feel up to a game of Roman hands and Russian fingers.”
Bond’s face twists at that. “Your virtue is quite safe. I prefer consent from my partners, thanks.”
“Fine, then. Don’t hog the blankets, though, or you might wake up dead.”
“How does one wake up dead, I wonder?” Bond asks the room at large. The listening devices are silent.
::
Bond waits. And watches, and nothing happens save another pointless meeting. Impatience swarms under his skin; the group disperses and he’d wonder if they were toying with him if the mole didn’t look as poleaxed as Bond himself feels. It’s a bit like watching a Mr. Bean film, all bumbling inefficiency and half-informed plots. He catches himself chuckling at the expression of confused indignity on the mole’s face and remembers—they’re both here to kill these men.
Q’s clothes are a messy puddle in the hotel floor; Bond picks them up—singlet, trousers, pants—and piles them into the chair. They’re still body-warm. Q peers up at him over the rim of his sunglasses when Bond joins him at the seaside, the water milky blue and everything white for miles.
“Hard day at the office?” Q asks. Bond presses a halfhearted kiss to his forehead and slumps into the chair next to him.
“You’re like a localized tornado, stringing clothing across every available surface, aren’t you?” he asks. Q laughs. “Feeling better then?”
“Much. Overindulgence is an issue of mine, I must admit,” Q says. His grin is unrepentant. “I take too much when I want.”
“Do you,” Bond says, lifting Q’s paperback from his chest to flick through it.
“Mm,” Q agrees. “Come swimming with me.”
“Maybe not,” Bond says. The book turns out to be Ginsberg, and he’s somehow wholly unsurprised. Q’s got a beat-poetry kind of look to him. The page is creased, underlined, and Bond resents the endless whitewashing of the past that makes young people crave a time that never existed. He’s seen the best minds of his generation, too, all of them wishing they could be the generation before. Q’s chest looks wire-thin as he stretches carefully.
There’s almost not enough of Q to be buoyed by the sea’s salt. Bond watches him do the typical touristy things: floating, sitting on the water, spitting the taste of life and death out when the splashing catches him in the face. The book’s as dull now to him as it was in uni; it’s folded carefully under the towel he’s brought along and then the water wraps warm hands around his calves, drawing him in. Q doesn’t look at him, doesn’t open his eyes or say a word, just tips his head back, lips parting as the sea carries him.
It’s the salt Bond tastes first. Q sighs into the kiss, arching like a fish, limbs water-slick and salt-stiff. His fingers pluck wet spikes into the hair at the nape of Bond’s neck. He curls; Bond can feel him hotter than the stark white sun above them. Q’s eyes open; Bond’s drift shut.
“Changed your mind?” Q asks.
“Not even a bit,” Bond replies.
He wants to bite his way into this man but he can’t—not here—so he settles for raising welts with his teeth along the sharp line of pale throat beneath him. It’s all he can taste: salt and metals, heavy and ancient. There’s iron; he hisses—he’s bit his lip and it burns, fire clawing its way in as it claws its way out. Q sucks at his mouth; his lips come back pink and blooded. His eyes are the only spot of color on the horizon, moving green-hazel-blue and astigmatic, sliding as if to take in everything at once. They close when Bond sucks another purpling bruise along his throat. The sound he makes when Bond grabs his arse is wounded.
Q opens, limbs falling apart; Bond can see addiction there, hunger fierce and simmering; Q wants, he realizes. Heat steals over him. They’re alone—for now—and he takes a palmful; Q breathes Morse code into his skin, nonsense and stars as Bond touches, ignores the barrier of Q’s swim clothes to reach. He wants to take, give, taste more. “I want to take you apart,” he gasps, and Q laughs like a sob. Bond doesn’t want to be good. He wants to drag him screaming, fingers deep and clawed in his flesh; Bond wants to tear him open and crawl inside. He clutches hard, drives himself against the tender flesh of Q’s inner thigh and holds him there until Q’s making soft, hungry-hurt sounds with each breath, his cock so hard it leaves him dizzy from lack of oxygen. Q lets him. Lets him use him, lets him rub him against himself like a doll, like a toy, like a puppet; spread his thighs and touch ungentle until it hurts, friction and heat and salt and sex and Q makes a tiny gasping cry as Bond brings him off against his hip and holds him there, cock twitching between their bodies past the point of pain and into shivering revelation.
They almost don’t make it to the room. Not a word; wrapped in towels and homoerotic poetry abandoned on the beach, Bond shoves him through the lobby and ignores the stares. Q moans loud and sudden when Bond bites him in the elevator. It’s the first full sound he’s made; he’s clutching the rail with both hands and moaning like a whore as Bond works his throat with his teeth and his cock through the towel. He shoves past the startled woman when the doors swing open, and he knows Bond will follow. Bond crushes him against the door of the room, hips working him into the wood. Q kisses it, tastes paint and the sea that covers everything, and arches, offering. Bond has to hold him up when he opens the door.
Q hits the floor, the soft carpet at his hands and knees and hard wood beneath his curling toes, and stays there. He can’t make it up, can’t move, can’t do much more than sigh into Bond’s mouth as Bond rides his arse from behind, salt drying and starting to chafe in the layers between their skin. Bond wastes no time, yanking towels and shorts down and aside and his cock is so incredibly hot against Q’s skin that’s chilled by the air conditioner. The ends of Q’s hair curl on his skin; Bond licks hot against his nape and tastes shampoo and Q and complex salts. Q rubs against him; Bond ruts; he comes against his thigh with an almost inaudible sigh of relief and Bond does the same with a grunt.
They lie together on the floor, Q’s eyes on the open balcony door and Bond’s eyes on him. Bond rolls away. Q pads naked into the bathroom and Bond listens to him shower.
::
Nothing happens the next day. He buries three fingers in Q’s arse and watches him spill across his belly.
“It’s okay,” Q says.
::
They’re there before he’s sure what’s happening; the mole lets them in and they kill four of the terrorists before he’s in the building. He remembers Hamad’s wife and three children; the mole dies against the wall, but they still get the case out of the building while he’s distracted. He wonders how long it will take them to discover the tapes are gone and clutches the knife wound in his forearm.
The hotel’s lobby is empty; Q’s eyes are empty and he opens his arms to welcome Bond back. He’s been packing. The tapes are secured; their ride to the train station will collect them in the morning. Bond winces as Q stitches silently. The sea is pale and luminous and moon-bright.
“What’s okay?” Bond asks as Q draws him into the bath, curling behind him to cup handfuls of water against his chest. Q lips at the back of his neck, the short blond hairs there so fine and thin they’re nearly invisible but velvet-soft. Bond touches his thigh.
“Did you kill them?” Q asks, but he knows already. Bond remembers the way Q’s breathing had sped, luxurious holiday air shattered and sharp; Q pants when he’s excited, Bond pressing his back against his cock. The lurid splash of blood after so, so much pale.
“Yes,” Bond tells him. Q wraps a hand around his cock and pulls until he reaches down, his fingers around Q’s wrist.
On the bed, Q’s hair leaves wet streaks on the linens that fist knots in Bond’s gut. He looks nearly sweet, eyes wide and wild. His skin is peppered with bites, bruises and fingerprints and perfect mouth-shaped kisses sucked into the pale expanse between nipples and navel. His thighs are riddled, nearly one solid bitten arrow that leads to the cock that lies puddling on his stomach; Bond takes another mouthful on his hip and closes his eyes around the shiver and sound. He leaves behind toothprints pink and red ; Q writhes.
“Harder,” Q gasps. Harder, James answers. The mark he leaves is dark, angry. The skin around it blooms; he thinks with some satisfaction that it will be there a while. Q’s tight and hot and clinging when he pushes in; his cock throbs. Q whines. He has Q twice before he’s done, as the sheets heap damp and then drying around them. They don’t so much finish as collapse into a sweaty, semen-streaked pile and lose consciousness. The morning sun wakes them; he cups Q’s hips in his hands and lets him ride until it’s time to go.
Q smells like sex, naturally. The tang and mask of Bond’s cologne draw his nose unerringly to the crook of his throat, the hollow behind his ear, the faint curling dark strands of his hair. Q is permissive, passive; Bond touches his inner thigh under the lap blanket they share and they fool absolutely no one, but Q doesn’t protest. They eat. They sleep. Bond wakes in the pitch dark with Q’s head in his lap and the disapproving eyes of his fellow passengers. The closer they draw to St. Pancras the smaller Q’s smiles grow until the city looms large around them. Bond reaches for him; Q shrugs away.
“It’s okay,” Q says again.
“What’s—?”
“You like,” Q tells him quietly, wheeling his little suitcase down the pavement as if he’s in the big city for holiday, “sex,” and the word sears along Bond’s senses. For the first time since Bolivia he feels real danger. “On a mission,” Q clarifies. “I’m not concerned about it. It’s a coping mechanism, and one I can understand; adrenaline running high, you can’t be expected—well.”
It’s reasonable. It’s a perfectly reasonable excuse, an escape hatch, a liability clause absolving him of any further involvement. “Did you fuck me because of that?” Bond asks.
“You fucked me.” It’s a non-answer. “—but as far as MI-6 are concerned, neither of us fucked anyone. It’s a miracle, at least as far as you’re concerned.”
“Q. I am asking you,” Bond begins.
“And I am telling you,” Q finishes.
“You’re going to have to be a little bit clearer than that,” Bond says, and Q keeps dragging his suitcase behind as he walks. “Q!”
“What then, Bond?” Q asks suddenly, turning. His expression is droll, forced still and emotionless.
“Did you—?” Bond asks. His fingers wrap around Q’s wrist and Q lets him. His eyes are turned away, body stark and rigid.
“Did I whore myself so you would solve the mission without being distracted?” Q asks in the same tone he’d ask the weather. Bond stiffens.
“Yes,” Bond admits. Q’s smile isn’t comforting as he presses his lips to Bond’s cheek.
“You’re very good at what you do, Mr. Bond,” Q says finally. “It was an honor.”
“You’re not.” And Bond’s not sure exactly what he means until Q says, “Not what?”—“A Bond Girl,” Bond tells him. His mouth is set in a frown. “You’re not. At all.”
“I’d rather assumed,” Q says. His mouth has difficulty wrapping around the wry smile that’s trying to form. “Not a girl, you see.”
“Not disposable,” Bond corrects.
“Nowhere to go from here but down,” Q reminds him.
“Could be fun.” Bond’s mouth cocks to the side and Q grins.