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So, it has been said that Q is afraid of flying.
(And Moneypenny is a spying spy who spies, dammit all.)
But this statement is only half-true, really. Maybe even 25% true.
Because Q is not afraid of flying.
Q is afraid of falling.
*
The…apprehension Q has about boarding any transport modem that doesn’t stay strictly on the earth starts…well, it starts in the somewhere over the Afghan Mountains, when the helicopter she was in at the time went down for absolutely no bloody reason.
(Since then, Q has had absolutely no confidence in anything that flew. This includes birds of any size or breed. If you ask Q, penguins and ostriches have the right of it.)
At the time, Q had been a fairly jaded field agent, blood-spattered and dusty, her mouth dry from the sand and lack of atmosphere, so high up that she could practically feel the cloud layer as it whipped around them.
The mission had been a success--
(But that’s classified, even now, thanks to the Official Secrets Act.)
Her hands were buried in a rookie’s thoracic cavity, holding pressure on something that was undoubtedly important while the medic shouted orders in her ear, trying to be heard over the roar of the blade-rotors and the engine.
One minute, they were speeding over the earth, high up in the sky.
The next, they were plummeting to the ground and Q’s stomach and heart were up in her mouth.
The medic throws himself on top of Q and the rookie, and it’s only from long, long practice in situations like these (well, not exactly like these, lord, but the high-energy, adrenaline-infused situations that Q makes…made her life around) that keeps her hands still clenched around…whatever it is she’s holding.
(She doesn’t think, she doesn’t think she is not thinking about it--)
They hit the ground in a bone-breaking smash that has Q clenching her jaw and relaxing her entire body just moments in time to keep from snapping her neck against the rookie’s chin.
The medic dies on impact, impaled on a piece of molten door-metal that scratches a finger-wide gash up Q’s back.
The rookie dies with a gasp and a gurgle minutes later, by the involuntary jerking of Q’s hand as she rips something unwittingly away from something else important. Q had felt his heart, vibrating, stuttering…stopping.
It’s darkness and fire and heat, the ear-bursting whine of machinery grinding apart and the sound of Q’s heart as it tries to rumble out of her chest, past her tongue and the taste of steel, iron and wine.
It only takes two or three tries to shove the medic off of her back, lifting with her hips and pushing with her shoulders.
Something squishes under her hands, still trapped in the rookie’s chest. Something impossibly hot and strangely soft.
But he’s dead, so he doesn’t care.
Probably.
Either way, the world sways and Q claws her way out, snagging her pack and the medics, her rifle slipped over her shoulder and biting into her neck as she belly-crawls out of the crumpled door.
She looses time. Once. Twice. The world swaying around her head as she throws the supplies and stumbles back.
Medic dead. Rookie dead.
One of the pilot dies as well, trapped inside the chopper as it explodes into a concussive wave of fire and light, as Q drags the other pilot out, with her eyes blurring from the heat and her own blood, her back numb and her wrists and ribs screaming.
The other pilot, a freckled blonde woman with a bruised chin and a broken leg, lives to fly another day.
Which is something.
*
That’s where it all starts.
*
It just gets worst, as times goes by. It starts with pure, fearful vehemence and ultimately, it evolves to the point where just stepping foot into a flying anything sends her heart racing and her normally so steady hands beset with a fine tremble.
She’s been told what she looks like, too. And she believes it. It’s believable.
Pale skin goes paler, paler, white, then gray. Lips get tighter and tighter and tighter until her mouth is just a thin slash against her face. Her eyes get darker and darker, her pupils shrinking to pinpoints in a sea of sudden, deep brown.
It’s not attractive, but, there it is.
It’s a fact of Q’s life.
She doesn’t fly.
Ever.
*
Which makes it even worse, really, when she does.
*
Q honestly, has no idea how it happens.
No, wait, she does.
(And, let her say that some people will be beset with the most obnoxious, disgusting porn that Q can find, blasted across all of their technology screens. Including their phones. Every. Hour. Of. The. Day.)
So, there she is, with Bond as accompaniment while she goes to try and pacify/instill confidence in the pansy that runs the CIA’s tech-department. Because America is England’s ally, and, really, Q, we can’t afford to make an enemy out of them, really.
God.
And there’s Bond, the look on his face slowly moving from amused to concerned to worried as their flight comes closer and closer.
Between them, all they have is Q’s computer bag. (The others having been checked in earlier, when they purchased their tickets.
Both of them are armed. (Admittedly, Q hasn’t had much chance to carry like this in a while, but she’s still well-versed in all of her old weapons.)
Bond has another Walther PPK/S while Q has her old Beretta 9mm. (Her Columbia River A.G Russell Sting is strapped to her forearm, the hilt easily reached through the arm of her bulky sweater, her Ashworth Turtle hidden as one of those big, fashionable rings on her other hand.)
Bond hasn’t seemed to notice either, which is fine, really.
But he does notice when she pulls her wallet from her back pocket, pulling out a small baggie of pills. She pops two Valium as their flight-boarding is called, and Bond helpfully passes her an un-opened bottle of water, taking her bag for her and slinging it over his muscled shoulder, hidden beneath another one of his fine suits as he stands.
Q slips her wallet away, burrowing under the scarves she had piled around her neck, an unconscious chill sinking down under her skin, swallowing her joints and leaving her stiff.
She swallows dryly, her hands worrying the half-empty bottle as they inch into the line. She gulps down the rest of it before she boards, trying to settle her stomach.
She is incalculably afraid, and Bond places a gentle hand on her back to guide her to their seats in First Class. Like she’s a helpless woman.
It makes her sick, but she lets him, God dammit, she lets him, her arms curled around her stomach. Her heart is beating so fast, so loud, that she can feel it through her layers, through her ribs.
Bond, if anything, makes it worse, though he’s kind enough to take the window seat, storing her bag on the ground next to his feet so that if she had to, Q could get to it easier.
But every time she looks at him, at his solemn face and rough hands, she imagines him bleeding out under her fingers in a helicopter that is somewhere in her past, his heart under her hands and she, unable to save him. Killing him.
It hurts, and makes her even more afraid, and the Valium doesn’t kick in until Q’s began to work herself into a real panic and the plane is about to take off.
She’s carefully straight in her seat, her fingers clenching around the arm-rests until her fingernails are as white as she imagines her face is. She’s taking slow, deep breathes, holding them for as long as she can, and then letting them out.
It’s not helping.
She absently notices as Bond wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning in close as a flight-attendant bends down and asks something.
(Probably, ‘is she okay/going to pass out/fit to fly’ and Bond responds, his voice low and suave and assured that sends the annoyingly nosy attendant away.)
Q’s tongue slips out to wet her lips, Bond’s arm impossibly hard and hot.
His hand is tight on her upper arm, his fingers digging in. He’s a quiet, warm presence at her side. Solid. Painful.
The pills kick in slowly, and Q can feel her body and mind slowing, slowing, her breath coming more easily. Viscerally, she can feel her muscles loosening, and can better feel Bond’s eyes on her. His regard. It’s a weighty, physical thing across her skin.
“Alright, darling?” he asks lowly, his nose touching her cheek.
She can smell his cologne, feel the dampness of his breath.
She nods, vertigo and exhaustion slapping her in the face.
She pats his hand without thought, trying to comfort him as she feels the blood rushing behind her eyes. She doesn’t notice as he stiffens.
“Yes, Bond,” she says tiredly.
They lift off.
*
Q sleeps most of the flight, surfacing at the odd moment to blink, shift, and slip back under.
It’s still frightening, but in a…distant way, blocked by drugs and buffered by Bond’s heartbeat and breath, rumbling under her cheek.
Her…cheek?
She’s back asleep.
*
Bond wakes her up when they’ve landed, tapping her cheek softly, helping her sit up straight and handing her another bottle of water to sip as they wait for the chance to disembark. He hands her her patent, NHS glasses, letting her yawn and stretch and rub at her eyes and hair.
Q had timed the dose she had taken, and it’s already beginning to wear off as Bond puts his suit-jacket back on and straighten his cuffs.
Her throat is dry and her mouth is gummy as she holds small amounts of water around her tongue before swallowing. Her head feels stuffed with cotton, and she hates the feeling, but, Christ, she can’t imagine trying to fly without chemical help.
Luckily, Bond is there with an arm to slip under hers and help her from the plane.
When her feet are back on solid ground, Q, honestly, feels like crying.
Crying, as Bond sits her on a bench and snags their luggage, then hails them a cab and directs them to their hotel.
How embarrassing.
*
They had taken a late flight, so they wind up in D.C. around 9:30 P.M.
That’s fine.
Still.
As soon as they hit their hotel room, Q makes a straight line to the coffee machine in the corner and starts up a pot of thick, viscous rocket fuel while Bond sets their luggage in the corner and puts her computer on the…bed.
Wait.
Q blinks.
Bed?
Singular?
*
…what?
*
Q works on getting her brain back up and running while Bond scopes out the room, his strides not dissimilar from those of a great cat.
Q just stares at the bed and sips mouthful after mouthful of scalding caffeine, curled in one of the posh, uncomfortable chairs that Q has found in every fancy hotel in every nation across the globe.
Had there been…a mistake in their booking?
The coffee is thick, almost congealed, and it sickly coats her tongue. It’s disgusting, and incredibly reminiscent of her Uni days.
Ugh. Those were some memories she would rather not revisit.
Then Bond is on the phone with…whoever it is he’s on the phone with, letting them know that they had gotten to the United States unhindered, before snapping the phone shut and tossing it onto the desk in the corner, next to the telly and wardrobe.
Then he looks at Q, undoing his cufflinks.
“Alright, Q?” he asks, stripping out of his suit-jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes.
“Hmm?” Q blinks at him blearily, her hands burning around her cup.
Bond pauses, looks at her.
“Pills not worn off yet?” he asks.
“Working on it,” Q mumbles, feeling her head clear by degrees. She’s getting warmer, and is beginning to consider stripping out of her scarves and sweater.
She doesn’t, choosing instead to ask a very pertinent question.
“Why is there only one bed?”
Bond has finished taking off his shoes and socks, and begins loosening his tie. He takes a moment to look at her, his eyes amused.
He shrugs eloquently.
“I would imagine because they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that a young woman is traveling unaccompanied with an elder gentleman, Q,” he points out dryly.
Q snorts.
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t the Victorian Age, Bond.”
“No, but people notice things out of the ordinary,” he points out patiently. “Better any maid just think--”
Q can’t help but cut him off, “What, that we’re having a tryst? That you’re my wayward professor and I, your panting young mistress?” Sardonic.
Bond just gives her an eye, frowning as he hangs his tie and straightens his shoes, ever the military man. “Something like that.”
Q blinks slowly, letting him see her derision. “Right.”
Bond doesn’t seem to catch it, or, if he does, he ignores it in favor of unbuttoning his shirt.
“Do you want the first shower?” he asks politely, already heading for the bathroom.
Q shakes her head, motioning him away and getting up to get another cup of coffee and to set up her computer.
“No, you go ahead, I’m going to check in with my minions.”
Bond snorts. “You do that.”
*
Q’s minions are fine, and have their marching orders, and Q herself is watching the evening news when the bathroom door opens, releasing steam.
Bond walks out, clad only in a towel, and Q has the time to admire the long, lean line of his bare torso, his tan skin dotted with water and scars before her brain really catches up and her mouth begins to work.
She slaps a hand over her eyes.
“Bloody hell--Bond!” she yells at him.
He sounds amused.
“Yes, Q?” he asks, and Q can hear him opening his luggage and pull something out.
Pants?
Q’s face flushes harder.
“What are you--never mind. Just, put some bloody trousers on, would you?” Q sputters indignantly.
Bond seems to choke on a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
Q retreats to the vacated bathroom.
*
She doesn’t make the same step as Bond, having unpacked her own shower bag when he was occupied and having it by her side when he walked out.
Q washes quickly and furiously, her face burning all through her fast shower and after, as she brushes her teeth and smears her face and hands with lotion, puts on her deodorant and snags her nighttime retainer from its clear box, clicking it into place under her tongue.
(The crash that spawned her fear of flight also spawned a two-foot long scar down her back and an enormous amount of dental work to replace her cracked molars and front teeth. She wears her retainer religiously, so that all of the work doesn’t go to waste.)
She bares her teeth in the mirror, showing off the metal grill along the bottom of her mouth, and sighs at her reflection.
She looks like the child that Bond accused her of being, not so long ago.
Well, nothing for it, Q supposed.
Hair wet and slicked back, dressed in an overly-large t-shirt and a pair of flannel jim-jam bottoms, she tucks her bag under her arm and opens the door.
Bond is lounging on the bed with a newspaper and a bottle of lager at his side, sipping slowly.
He flicks the paper down, catches sight of her, and his eyes widen, the paper drooping slightly.
He’s shirtless in a pair of silk sleep pants, and is so handsome that Q’s bloody teeth ache.
“What?” Q snaps when Bond doesn’t look away, tucking her bag back in her small suitcase and pulling out another sweater to wear to bed.
She tugs it on over her shirt, ignoring the heat of Bond’s eyes on her back.
(She wonders if he caught sight of the long, dragging scars that trace up the insides of Q’s forearms or the rabbit-trail marks along the backs of her arms from where she protected her face from an IED in India. She doesn’t ask.)
“Nothing,” Bond says quietly, as Q sets her gun on her bedside table, along with her sheathed Russell Sting and Ashworth ring.
“Radio?” Bond asks, folding his paper and gesturing to the ring Q had set aside.
Q blinks, slips it back on, and releases the tidy inch-long knife hidden in the body of the ring.
She flicks her wrist, and the blade retreats.
Bond looks impressed, and Q puts it back down and pulls back the covers. Her feet are bare, and she curls them up under her lap as she shimmies down to recline on the pillows.
The room is dark except for their lamps, and Bond flicks his off and tosses the covers over his legs as he lays down fully. He looks at her, and Q has to lean over to take her glasses off and turn her lamp off as well.
(Her phone is there, next to the lamp, and the alarm is set for the next morning, for the meeting with the CIA.)
The lights of D.C. shine, muted, through the edges of the window-shades, past Bond’s back. His face is shadowed, and he’s warm warm hot next to her body. She feels him, like a ghost limb, so close. Close enough that she could reach out and touch his cheek, his mouth, his shoulders.
(Was that intentional? Q wonders, her back to the rest of the room and his to the outside world, folding her hands under her cheek and staring back at Bond’s face, so close to hers. When had he gotten that close?)
Had she let him get that close?
When?
Bond is like electricity. Like a storm contained by skin and bone and blood. Muscle and sinew and breath.
And Q wants.
She wants him.
Wants to put her lips to his mouth, his neck, his stomach, to drink him in and feel his heat and the movement of his body, the death in his hands and the song of his blood rushing just below the tanned expanse of his back, his chest, his thighs trembling around her head as she swallows him down.
This isn’t a new feeling, not for Q.
But Bond’s never been this close before, this real, as he is lying beside her in a posh hotel in the heart of another nation, an ocean away from their own.
Q doesn’t know who moves first, but Bond’s mouth is under her own, and it’s probably the most chaste kiss she has ever given/received.
They breathe with each other in that moment, bodies in sync, and his hand is hot against the back of her neck, the pads of his fingers circling the top of her spine.
She shivers at his touch, his lips dry beneath her own.
He smells amazing--something clean and hard and utterly male and it has been entirely too long since Q has done this.
She aches as she pulls back, few scant inches separating them, and stares blindly into his eyes.
He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, his thumb rubbing along her cheek.
Q rests her head against his shoulder, feels bone shift below skin as her hand comes up to rest gingerly over his heart, and they wait for sleep to come.
She wants to laugh, to cry, to curse.
God.
Bond.
What is she going to do with him?