Chapter Text
Bond sat heavily on the post-modern steel and dark fabric chair that constituted the only piece of furniture in Q’s cupboard of a flat - save for the mattress/box spring combo on the floor in one corner and seriously? How old is this man? - that he wanted to sit on. His side protested as it rubbed against the arm of the chair. Surprisingly, it was comfy.
“What would you like to drink, Bond?” Q flitted around the kitchenette, pulling drawers out and flicking cabinet doors open, muttering under his breath. The older man smirked.
“What do you have?”
“Tea. Coffee...no, scratch coffee. Vodka. Whisky-”
“I’ll take the whisky, thank you.” He glanced around the flat again, and peered into the dark walkway. “What’s back there?” The sound of clinking glass rang in his ears and fired up his senses, but he tamped it down. No way he’s got anything good. Not with the state of this flat. He sighed.
“Loo and master bedroom. I use it for my electronics. Don’t move. I’ve got a medical kit in the cupboard here.” More banging around. “Wherever the hell I managed to put it.”
Bond’s smirk turned into a slight smile. “You should know where it’s at the whole time, Quartermaster.”
“I’m hardly home long enough for it to matter. Besides, it’s not as though I go out of my way to get shot on a regular basis, so other than alcohol and plasters, I have no” - grunt - “need for the whole kit. Found it.” A solid thunk on the countertop made the Double O’s head crank around.
“Need help?”
“No!” The derisive snort Q let out sounded well used. Bond’s brows rose. “I don’t need assistance. You sit still, or I’m going to tape you to the chair.”
Now Bond laughed. “I wouldn’t do that, pup.”
Q rounded the chair, tumblers balanced in one hand, medical kit under the other arm, and a dark glint in his hazel eyes. “Do not tempt me, Bond. I do have gaffer tape and I’ve watched rodeos on YouTube.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Sit still.” The hacker held out the glass filled halfway with rich, deep gold liquid to Bond, and kept the clear liquid for himself.
The scent hit the agent first. Vanilla, sweet, with hints of toffee and oak. He breathed deeper, inhaling the tannin scent of new leather and the sweetness of banana. Oh...oooooh...his mouth started to water as he lifted the glass to his lips. He watched Q as the man sat cross-legged on the floor at Bond’s feet and flicked the clasps of the tackle box open, flipping the top open first, then pulling out the removable tray. He reached for his glass and knocked back the three finger’s worth of vodka, no mixer or chaser. A slight shake of his head, and then he was back to work, fiddling with a pair of scissors and gauze. Bond stared at him, and drank.
He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips, and Q’s eyes shot up to him. His eyebrows disappeared under his insane fringe. “I take it you are pleased with my selection.”
Bond couldn’t respond right away, because God damn it, this was good. He rolled the spirit around on his tongue, savoring the bright peppery taste, tempered with the smokiness and oaky flavors. He could even taste the lime and spices. Bloody hell. He swallowed before it got too dry. “I’m a fan of Glenfiddich. Didn’t take you for a whisky drinker, Q”
“On occasion, I indulge.” Q finally leaned forward and gestured at Bond’s bloody shirt. “Get that thing off and out of the way.”
The agent set the drink aside and obliged, hissing as the fabric of his high end dress shirt pulled and dragged dry blood away from the wound on his side. Once the shirt was off, he scooted forward on the chair so Q could have a better angle on the ragged patch of skin.
“Not quite a bullet wound, Bond.” Q saturated a clean tea towel with rubbing alcohol and pressed it against the torn skin. Bond set his jaw and breathed in deep against the sting, even though the motion pulled against the pressure the hacker was using against the fresh blood seeping from the abrasion. He reached for the whisky again, and took a deep pull, draining the glass entirely.
“Sorry.” The tone of Q’s voice made Bond flinch.
“Nope, don’t be. You’re doing fine.” Bond reached down and took the towel from Q’s thin hands. “Go get some more booze, for the both of us. Hell, bring the bottles. We deserve it, after that fucking mission.”
Q’s lips pulled up into a smirk. “Don’t we ever. Why did I even agree to it?”
“Because we took a train?”
“Possibly.” He stood smoothly and moved into the kitchen once more, and Bond turned away from looking at the man’s impossible hips. There was no possible way that his Quartermaster could have hips like those. Hips that just begged to be stroked, grabbed - bruised just so - fuck. He shook his head and pressed the towel harder against the wound, making himself hiss out his discomfort. He was not going to sleep with his Quartermaster.
No matter how bloody gorgeous he is.
Q returned with the tumblers completely full, and the bottles of alcohol. Bond distantly noticed the vodka was Russian Standard.
“You buy 21 year Glenfiddich, but cheap vodka?”
Q snorted, an happy sound this time. “Scotch is meant to be savoured. Vodka is meant to be swallowed as quickly as possible. Besides, it’s a holdover from Uni.” He peered at the label. “I like it. Tastes like the Devil, but makes it easy to forget that humanity is trying its damnedest to destroy itself.”
Bond watched again as Q downed half the glass in one go, and tracked the drop of vodka as it slid from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, then over that to his throat before a hand lifted to wipe it away. He’d much rather have done it himself, with his tongue. Fucking hell, James. Head out of the gutter. NOW. He smiled and gestured to the first aid kit. “What’s next, Doctor?”
Q huffed out an amused breath. “Antibiotic salve.” He plucked a crumpled tube out of the tray and spread the jelly on a wooden popsicle stick. “Just yell if I hit anything sensitive, alright?”
“Will do, Doctor.” Bond lifted his left arm and watched the man - had to keep reminding himself that Q was thirty, nearly thirty one, damn his young features - as he worked on his side. Steady hands, despite the nearly five shots of hard liquor in his system, symptoms of a really good hacker and a rather heavy drinker. For a moment, the agent wondered where Q put it all, or if he was actually part cyborg. Then he noticed something, something black along the back of his neck. “Bloody hell, Q, you have a tattoo?”
Q’s chin tucked in as he made an awkward face. “Uh, yes?” He glanced up at Bond, his eyes sharp. “Is that a problem?”
“Identifying marks.” One side of Bond’s lips turned up into a rueful smirk. “I had to get rid of mine, and I still can be identified by certain scars. What was the point?”
Q laughed, the tense line of his shoulders - was there actually one? Q was tense? - easing under the sound. “I told M that if I had to get rid of this baby that I wouldn’t take the job. I suppose they needed me badly enough.” He finished with the stick and tossed it onto the pile of garbage that was gathering at his side. “It’s not really bleeding much anymore.”
“Didn’t think it would.” He reached for his drink and drank, letting the liquor roll over his tongue like a lover’s caress. He set the glass down on the arm of the chair as Q bent forward again with a pad, medical tape already fixed to the sides. He let the hacker - his hacker - press the gauze to his side, sticking the tape to his skin, a job he’d normally do himself. And if those quick fingers lingered a scant second longer than they should have... it could have been the alcohol messing with his perception.
No need to tell him that he could drink the whole fucking bottle and not miss what happened next.
Q picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich, nearly half empty already, and took a deep pull from it, swallowing once. As Bond watched with ice-sharp eyes, the thin man circled around the chair until he was directly behind the older man. He ran one hand through close cropped sand-blond hair going to grey, from nape to crown, then gripped tightly to pull Bond’s head back as he bent down and pressed full red lips against the agent’s slightly chapped ones. On instinct, Bond opened his mouth, licking at Q’s lips - cheap vodka and brilliant scotch mixing together, wet and hot and fuck - and coaxing them open...
Q suddenly pushed his mouth hard against Bond’s and opened his lips, allowing the mouthful of scotch to pour out into Bond’s.
Bond’s body went rock hard with a firestorm of lust as the hacker’s tongue followed the liquor, stroking against his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth - exploring and pushing, playing with Bond’s tongue, entwining in a delicate dance. His brain scrambled to catch up - how did we go from caring for an injury to this - but when it did, it was rewarded with the feel of Q’s cool fingers dancing up his carotid artery, tapping the flesh and pulling sensations up to the surface. Finally, he pulled away, only to duck his head down and lick wetly at the pulse point just beneath his jaw. Bond swallowed the scotch, not caring that it’d gone dry on him, and moaned as his throat moved against Q’s mouth.
“Fuckin’ hell, Q.” His voice had gone dark and raspy. “You little shit.”
Against Bond’s throat, Q smiled. “You are the shit, Bond. Getting injured on my watch? Not a smart thing to do.” He sank his teeth into the cord of muscle along the spinal column, and Bond’s body jerked as a thin whine escaped his mouth. Oh, bloody hell. Bloody hell. He liked this. His hands reached up and gripped Q by the back of the head and shoulder and pushed him down further. An encouraging groan from deep in the hacker’s chest made Bond’s hand clench in the ridiculous mob of his hair and pull. The teeth set even deeper, drawing a gasp from Bond.
“Holy hell, Q.” He shuddered as he felt that tongue pressing against the trapped skin and muscle. “Holy bloody hell.”
Q hummed, and slid his free hand down Bond’s bare torso, avoiding the major injury but pressing inquisitively at bruises and scrapes, each press of those fingers drawing another hitched breath, gasp or moan from Bond’s lips. After a side track to trace the agent’s rib cage and abdominals, Q finally reached the buttons of his trousers. He deftly undid the button and zip, and reached inside to massage Bond’s fully erect prick through the fabric of his pants. Bond’s hips jerked, which set Q’s teeth differently, and the two completely separate sensations made the man god damn whine with lust.
“Q, you son of a bitch. Fucking let me up.”
He rocked his hips forward to try to move, and the grip on his cock tightened. Q hummed and bit even harder, and Bond felt his heart leap as adrenalin flooded his system. Almost bordering on too much, Q. He trembled and cursed, his hips stuttering and jerking against that soft hand on his pants, on his cock. Hands that have never killed, save for with a keyboard and a command prompt. Hands that have never seen combat except through a computer monitor. But as his own hand tightened to the point of bruising on the back of Q’s neck and shoulder, he knew that these hands were just as dangerous as his, and they were going to take him apart. Far from hating the realisation, he welcomed it, loved it, but he didn’t want to give up without a fight. The hand on Q’s neck slid up to his hair, and Bond yanked hard, pulling his teeth forcibly away from his neck. Immediately, blood rushed to the bite, and it stung. Bond savoured the feeling like he’d savoured the taste of the whisky, and his whole body shivered as he held the hacker at bay. He tipped his head back against Q’s shoulder, the one he was still holding, and looked up at the messy genius.
“My turn, you crazy pup.” He licked his lips, and the wickedly decadent moan that Q let out on the flutter of his eyelids went straight to Bond’s cock. He felt the hard pulse, felt pre-come seep into his pants and slide against his hip, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever heard. He swiftly stood, not relinquishing his grip on the younger man’s hair, and rounded the chair, pulling Q into a hard embrace and an even harder kiss. Tongues intertwined, warred with each other, and Q bit at Bond’s lips, not quite drawing blood yet, but the Double O knew there would be. It was expected when two obvious tops crashed together like this. It was a fuckin’ warzone, and he thrilled at the chance to tear Q apart at the same time as the genius made him fall apart.
This was going to be glorious.