FIC: For your eyes only (Bond/Q)
Nov. 16th, 2012 04:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linndechirTitle: For your eyes only
Fandom: James Bond – Skyfall
Pairings: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5383
Warnings: D/s, light bondage, a bit of blood
Summary: Bond is always very quiet when he comes to Q in the middle of the night after a mission. He doesn't need to talk, he needs to let go.
Author's note: Surprise, surprise, Skyfall finally made me like Craig!Bond (still not a fan of his two previous Bond movies, but I loved this one). No surprise, I ended up shipping Bond/Q. I'm so predictable. And since all I really want is some more sub!Bond, I wrote some. This fic is partly inspired by this beautiful fanart I saw on tumblr.
Bond never talks much when he comes to Q in the middle of the night after a mission. Sometimes he makes a glib remark about Q being up at three in the morning and still typing away at his laptop, and Q has learnt to judge his mood by how forced his smirk is, how tired his voice sounds, whether he's even trying to be funny.
Bond doesn't say anything at all that night, just shoulders his way past Q into the flat the moment the door opens. He looks like hell, face covered in blood and sweat, his tailored suit torn and dirty, but while every fibre of his body seems to radiate exhaustion, he doesn't limp, doesn't move in that careful way of the injured, and Q lets out a quiet sigh of relief.
He never asks how the mission went. Most of the time he knows what 007 is doing even while he is doing it, and the missing pieces will be filled in by Bond's report. And Q knows better than to pester Bond with platitudes. How did it go? How are you feeling? Are you all right? James Bond is not a man who deals with his problems by talking about them, and frankly, Q is glad for it. He has never been any good with comforting words or gentle reassurances. Q knows he should at least ask if Bond already checked in with headquarters for debriefing, but he gave up on that after a while. If Bond has done so, good; if he hasn't, there's really no way of making 007 do anything he doesn't want to do.
So instead he says, trying to sound as casual as he can, “You could do with a shower.”
Bond turns to face him and shakes his head, and Q is struck by how wide and bright his eyes are, even in the half-dark of Q's flat – after the glaring light of HQ, he rarely has more than a small lamp on at home. Bond still remains quiet, but Q knows what he's thinking. That he would have gone back to his hotel if a shower was what he needed most.
Q waits for Bond to step closer, to make the first move, although he doesn't know why he even bothers anymore. It's a bit like a ritual, maybe, letting Bond decide when this starts since he doesn't get to decide about much else once it has begun. So Q waits until he feels Bond's hand on his hip – large and warm and strong, and covered in the blood of a dozen men, if Q remembers today's body count correctly (14, to be precise, his brain unhelpfully offers). A heavy touch, it would have seemed intimidating once, dominating, but Q recognises it as the simple invitation it is. He steps away from it, though, walks to his bedroom, and he wonders when having Bond behind him started feeling so natural. He'll have to clean the sheets after this, maybe even throw them away if he can't get the blood out, but Bond looks like he could do with the comfort of a mattress.
“Undress.” His voice is steady these days when he demands that; there's something exhilarating in the knowledge that a man as powerful as Bond will obey him. Sometimes he resists a little, makes Q work for it, shoots him smug looks and mocking remarks before he gives in, and on too quiet evenings like this one Q almost misses that. He knows the smirks and quips are only Bond's mask, but sometimes Q almost wishes he had never seen behind it, had never been forced to see Bond so raw, so unguarded, so vulnerable. The thought vanishes within a second – if he truly wished that, he wouldn't keep doing this, wouldn't keep digging his way through Bond's shell down to the raw flesh every time they're alone.
He watches in silence as Bond peels off his torn clothes and just drops them to the floor, his eyes instinctively scanning him for injuries, but all he sees are too many bruises, and what does it say about them that he's got used to those? Q stays dressed, for the moment. He has never been self-conscious about his body, really, not even around more muscular men, but something about seeing the countless scars on Bond's skin always makes him feel ashamed of not having any of his own, as if even his 16 hours of work every day were somehow not as valuable as what Bond does for his country. It is an old fear, the fear of a youngest son with two older, stronger brothers in the military, but as irrational as it is, as much as he knows that his work is more efficient than most field agents' and most soldiers', it is hard to get rid of old doubts altogether.
Q steps closer as Bond sits down on the edge of the bed, runs his fingers over the stubbly cheek – when was the last time Bond had slept? Properly slept, not just a few stolen hours on a plane? Bond is still tense, but his shoulders slump and he hunches forward, like he only realises in that moment that he made it back alive, that he's safe. But his muscles still quiver under dusty skin, even as Q caresses his face, his hair. Tenderness is not what he needs now. Or maybe it is what he needs, but he isn't ready for it yet. And though there's a childish, soft-hearted part of him that wishes he could just cradle Bond in his arms and somehow make it all better, he's not foolish enough to believe that he actually can.
If he were to put what this is into words – which he doesn't, because they don't talk about this – and if he were inclined to be philosophical about it – which he isn't, because he shouldn't accord this enough importance to let it hurt him – he might say that Bond needed him to take him apart and pull out the splinters before he'd put him together again, not whole, maybe, never whole, but with cleaned up wounds and neater scars.
His hand moves to the back of Bond's neck, careful at first. Just as the touch registers he tightens it, knows his fingers are stronger than they look as they dig into the hard muscles of Bond's neck. The touch seems to startle Bond out of his numbness; the usual spark is almost back in his tired eyes as he looks up and strong hands start to tug at Q's shirt. Q lets him take it off – however he may feel, seeing himself naked next to the walking sacrifice that is Bond's body, he can easily imagine what Bond sees. Something smooth, something whole, something as different from his torn-up self as any of those stunning women he chases constantly. The comparison bothers Q less than it used to, ever since he realised that Bond really only cared about conquering those women and forgot them the next morning, while he keeps coming back to Q. He would never call this a relationship, wouldn't call it anything, really, but he knows it's the most regular thing Bond has had in years.
He allows Bond to caress him for a few moments, enjoys the scratch of calloused hands on his sides, the almost reverent way Bond touches him. It vaguely reminds Q of how Bond runs his fingertips over beautiful suit cloth or fast cars, and that should probably bother him more, but he knows too well that 007 has more love for suits and cars than he has for people.
A gentle touch to Bond's wrists is enough to stop him tonight – no games, no resistance. His hands still immediately without Q having to remind him that he was not given the permission to touch. It makes Q almost dizzy, the way Bond reacts to the lightest brush of his fingertips. He has no illusions about his strength, is reminded every time he tries to move Bond without his cooperation, but that only makes this surrender sweeter, that it's given so willingly.
Bond stays still as Q's fingers gently slide up his arms, to his shoulders, then lies back obediently at the smallest push. On some nights Q talks more, tells him what to do, when he feels like Bond needs to hear a familiar voice, but sometimes silence is what they both need most, and so he only watches as Bond lies down on his back. Those blue eyes stay on Q's, as if looking for an anchor, but Q shakes his head, and Bond closes them. It makes him more tense, his other senses instinctively straining to make up for the loss of sight, and Q is careful not to move too quietly when he sits down beside him. His hands return to Bond's body, with caresses that barely disguise a quick exam of the cuts and bruises – Bond is too stubborn to mention serious injuries, and Q still berates himself for that time he made him kneel on a twisted knee for half an hour. Bond relaxes a bit under him, puts his hands over his head and grabs the headboard. Q doesn't tie him up all that often, unless he feels like wrapping Bond up in his own braces – it's so much more enjoyable to watch him try and keep his hands in place.
But as pleasing as it is, something is still missing from the picture. Q smiles about the frustrated growl that Bond barely holds back when Q stops touching him to get his belt from the closet: a black leather belt he hadn't worn all that often, too stiff and boring for his taste, but he had been wearing it that first time he had slept with Bond, and ever since it had gained a new purpose, he had found himself wearing it almost daily. He moves carefully when he returns to the bed, knowing that Bond is still wound up enough to startle if surprised, but instead Bond only sighs in relief when the leather brushes against his throat, as if he had been waiting for this all along. There's a familiar ease in the way Bond lifts his head, supported by Q's left hand, in the way he relaxes when Q wraps the leather around his neck and pulls the end through the belt buckle, tightening it just enough to put some pressure on Bond's throat without actually choking him.
He looks perfect like that, arm muscles straining, his head thrown back and his throat bared in the oldest gesture of submission. Q leans down to kiss him, right in the hollow under his chin. So close up Bond smells of blood and sweat and death, and somewhere underneath of that aftershave he loves so much, and really, all Q wants is to make Bond smell of him. The belt wrapped around his hand, his hand resting on Bond's chest, he kisses his way up Bond's jaw, nips at his skin and smiles as he feels the strong body shudder.
“There, my pet,” Q says quietly, forcing his voice to stay steady, strong, never so affectionate that it might spook Bond. “That's better.”
Bond's moan is only a low rumble in his chest, but his entire body tenses up and arches off the bed; it's a different tension now, all want and impatience, not the earlier readiness for a fight. Half a year ago Q would have probably assumed that Bond's buttons were a lot harder to push, but the great seducer was actually quite easily seduced himself. Q's hand twitches a little, just enough to tighten the belt, and with the way Bond strains against him, greedy for more, but anxious to stay where Q wants him, Q even enjoys how small his fist looks on Bond's broad chest. Knows that Bond's muscles aren't working to get away from him, but to stay down.
He barely does more than tease him, light fingertips dancing over his torso, lips brushing against his neck, listening to Bond's laboured breathing. Only once Bond is fully hard, he finally rewards him – both of them – with a proper kiss, snarls when Bond bites him and only bites back harder, unsurprised to taste blood when his teeth reopen a fresh cut on Bond's lip. He keeps his teeth there, swallows his blood and his groan when Q's thumb and index pinch Bond's nipple. So sensitive, the easiest way to administer pain without actually injuring him in any way, and he would gladly spend half the night worrying them so they'd still be sore and aching the next day. Q presses against him, enjoying the wrecked moans against his lips and the trembling of Bond's muscles under his hands every time he twists and turns again. There's a primal rush of power in controlling someone so easily, of turning a man who could break his neck at any time into a shivering mess without even touching his cock beyond the light pressure of Q's thigh against Bond's groin.
“Having fun?” Bond growls after a while, and it takes Q a moment to realise that those are the first words Bond has said to him tonight. His voice is harsh, but Q can hear that some of the tension has already seeped from him. He gives a light tug on the leash, another pinch at the same time, and the sight of Bond's eyes opening and his lips parting in a silent gasp makes Q smile in anticipation.
“Probably not quite as much as you, James.” Bond always gets this strange look in his eyes when Q uses his first name, and though Q is not quite sure what that means, Bond seems to like it, and he was never too shy to complain if anything bothered him in bed. The name always feels odd on Q's tongue, and not only because it had been his brother's, but he likes that raw expression in Bond's eyes, the way his face just seems to open up.
Bond's hands twitch, as if he's tempted to grab Q and turn the tables on him, but another tug on the belt is enough to discourage him from that idea.
“Behave, pet.” Q's voice is teasing, never too serious, because he knows that Bond doesn't like to think of sex as a serious thing. Q kisses his way down Bond's throat, to his chest, lets his teeth continue for a while what his fingertips started until he wrings the first yelp from Bond's lips. He moves lower still, to his navel, and after a final kiss he sits up between Bond's thighs and looks down to admire his handiwork: the fresh sweat gleaming on Bond's chest, the darker shade of his nipples, the red spots on his skin where Q has bitten him. His eyes are twinkling with lust and impatience, and Q is relieved to see that numb, empty look gone. He's not as relaxed yet as Q wants him, but he'll get him there.
And if he needed any proof that Bond is starting to feel better, he gets it when Bond waits just until Q bends forward to retrieve the lube from the nightstand to growl “Yes, sir” in his lowest, most seductive voice and then give him a rather unconvincing innocent look when Q almost loses his balance. But there's still an underlying tension in his body, as if part of him expected to have to jump up and go for his gun any second. So Q only rewards him with a sharp slap on the inside of his thigh (the right one – there's a large, yellowish bruise on the left that he'd rather not aggravate). A sharp intake of breath, but Bond doesn't move. His rebellious moment only lasts until the next slap, harder, so hard it makes Q's palm tingle, but this time Bond gives in, spreads his legs and pulls up his knees. Q digs his fingernails into the reddened skin of Bond's thigh, just for the way it makes him twitch, for the pained and yet greedy moan when Q drags his nail upwards.
Realising that he'll have to let go of the belt, he hesitates for a moment, then motions for Bond to give him his hands. No resistance this time, and the surge of warmth Q feels when Bond crosses his hands over his chest is more than just arousal. The stiff leather is anything but ideal for tying knots and they both know that Bond could easily slip out of the loop when Q ties his hands together with the end of the belt. It doesn't matter – if Bond really wanted to get away, even the most perfectly tied knot wouldn't keep him from it. Like everything they do, this goes only as far as Bond gives him the power to go.
When he is done, Q still has to swallow hard and remind himself that he has to take his time, no matter how difficult it is to be patient when faced with a sight like this. His thoughts must be obvious, or maybe it is just that Bond can read people far too well, but the bastard smirks again, and this time Q only pulls on the bit of leather between Bond's throat and his hands, until he hears a strangled little gasp. Nothing more, never more – Bond has made it very clear that there would be no choking over longer periods of time. Considering the countless times Bond had been taken prisoner and tortured over the course of his career, it is hardly a hang-up Q could begrudge him.
Rather than say anything Q touches Bond's eyelids gently until they lower, and once he doesn't feel so damned watched anymore, he goes for the lube again, coats his fingers generously. This is almost his favourite part – he could spend what felt like hours doing this, teasing Bond, preparing him so slowly that Bond first starts moaning, then cursing and finally begging him for more. It seems like an endless task sometimes, for Bond tenses up again almost as soon as he relaxes, and sometimes Q wonders if he does it on purpose to draw this out. It still amazes him that he once managed to work his whole hand, slender as it is, into him, but as much as he wants to repeat that some day, he doubts that Bond is in the right condition for it now. He takes his sweet time, grateful that his fingers are probably the part of his body least prone to cramping up, pushes Bond's legs further up so he can see him spread open around his fingers.
He's not quite sure how long it takes until Bond's groans turn to curses, and then finally to an angry, snapped, “Oh, for God's sake, Q, get on with it, I don't have all -”
Q slaps him across the face before Bond can finish the sentence, and although the left-handed slap is awkward and hardly painful, it has the desired effect. Their little game has never been about pain, after all.
“Do I have to remind you that we do this my way? And I don't let my pet tell me when to 'get on with it.'” Running his fingers over Bond's chin, he thinks that he should probably feel bad for being so aroused by the blood that has dried in his stubble, and even worse for that little part of him that wishes he could mark him like that. Not out of sadism, merely out of possessiveness. A very much misplaced possessiveness, he reminds himself, and focuses his attention back on his right hand, on a small twist of his fingers that elicits another groan from Bond instead of a smug reply.
He had actually been meaning to 'get on with it', just before Bond had snapped at him, but he's a lot less inclined to grant him his wish now. The sight of Bond writhing beneath him, arms and legs drawn close in a beautiful illusion of helplessness, is compensation enough for the wait, and so he just keeps playing with him. Three fingers sometimes, pushed deep inside him until Bond whimpers; sometimes only one finger, one knuckle, a teasing presence that only serves to remind him that he could have so much more. Bond's eyes are clamped shut now, and although Q knows he won't be able to make him come just from this, he can see that Bond is slowly losing it, every bit of carefully maintained tension and control dissolving into a hazy cloud of want.
Finally, once the curses turn to whimpers, once he starts saying “please” instead of “fuck”, Q's left hand grabs Bond's cock, keeps the grasp light until Bond remembers that it's “please, sir”. And because he can see that Bond is in no shape to take much more, Q doesn't hold back then, his strokes firm and strong, trying his best to do it the way Bond did it himself, that one time Q had insisted on watching him. Bond's eyes are still closed when he comes, but his mouth goes slack and his body relaxes after a last shudder, legs stretching out the moment Q pulls out his fingers. Even his tied-up arms rest lightly on his chest, and Q has to bite back a chuckle when he realises how much the position of his arms and hands looks like an altar boy's, albeit a rather overgrown one. But the look on Bond's face is relaxed and peaceful; he even smiles a little when Q leans down to breathe a quick kiss on his lips.
“Good pet,” Q mumbles, and as expected it only makes Bond's smile broader. “You did so well.”
Q gives him a minute, fighting down his own impatience, just runs his messy fingers over Bond's sides. He waits until Bond's breathing has slowed down before he slaps him lightly on the thigh.
“Turn around.” It's a mean request, really, to someone who's both tied-up and fucked-out, but he's been unselfish for long enough, and he enjoys the sight of Bond struggling to turn around and get up on his knees and elbows far too much. It's worth the glare Bond shoots him the moment his eyes open, but as long as the belt is still around his neck, he does as he's told. The muscles in his thighs tense as he gets up on his knees, the perfect lines of his back would remind Q of a statue, if statues were covered in scars and bruises. Bond keeps his head bowed, his neck still tied to his wrist, and Q can't resist running his fingers over his spine, from the leather on his neck over his back to his arse. He only tears himself away to get out of his own trousers, wonders why the hell he even kept them on so long.
Q has never considered himself to be a selfish lover, but when it comes to Bond he is sometimes amazed by how much he puts the other man's needs before his own. Not that he doesn't enjoy every single moment of this, of course, but he can't remember ever keeping himself waiting for so long with anyone else. Then again, no one else had ever rewarded him so much for it. All the pain and agitation Bond had radiated when he had arrived are gone now, and even in this uncomfortable position he still seems completely at ease. Q looks down at his hands on Bond's hips, marvelling at how small they look on Bond's body, knowing that he wouldn't be able to move him an inch, and yet Bond still reacts to every touch as surely as a puppet to a string. Spreads his legs further when Q's hands move down, arches his back in a way that's helpful as much as it's showing off. It would make Q laugh if the sight didn't make him breathless. And he's done resisting temptation. Shivers when he feels how loose and relaxed Bond still is, when he slides into him with barely any resistance, and he was wrong before, because this is his favourite part, having Bond's strength underneath him, around him, accommodating him in a way that would have barely seemed possible when Bond arrived all tense and uneasy. It's the reassurance that he's got what he wanted, when Bond only moans in pleasure and pushes back against him, his muscles betraying not a single sign of discomfort.
Q can't take his eyes off him, he feels light-headed from the sight, the sensations, from the sound of Bond's breathless moans – maybe the best part of this is how much Bond wants it, how every thrust makes him arch his back as if to draw Q in deeper. Q knows Bond doesn't do this often, that he's too paranoid to lower his defences so completely with strangers, but even if that's the only reason he keeps coming back to Q, it's more than enough.
He tries to hold back a little to make this last as long as he can, for both their sakes, but he's only human and Bond is an insufferable tease who tenses around him whenever Q least expects it. It almost takes him by surprise when he comes, the pleasure so intense he feels his heart tighten in his chest. Maybe it's the waiting, but he's always louder with Bond than he usually is, although he'll be damned if he ever lets the smug bastard know that. They both slump down in an undignified, sweaty heap of limbs, Bond wincing a little when Q rolls off him.
Q feels boneless and tired, but he remembers to untie Bond's hands, then pulls him closer with the leash. He can't help but sigh when Bond wraps his arms around him, but Bond surprises him when he rests his head against Q's chest and closes his eyes again. Q runs his fingers through his hair, holds him close now that Bond can finally appreciate it. Bond is curled up against him like a large cat, almost purrs like one when Q massages his neck and his shoulders with one hand.
They're quiet for what feels like a very long time, but maybe that's only because Q is not used to seeing Bond so peaceful and calm. There is always something brewing and boiling under the surface, anger and pain and doubt, all stuffed underneath the shell of his charm, but Q knows too much about him to be fooled. The only times Bond ever seems completely at peace with himself are now, after this, taken apart and put back together, and even so it rarely lasts more than a few minutes.
There's almost a tangible shift in the air around them when Bond moves a little, stretches his neck ever so slightly. Q slowly takes off the belt, almost reluctantly – he likes seeing it there far too much – but to his surprise Bond's head sinks back onto his chest.
“You have a heartbeat like a mouse.” And Bond makes it sound like that's the most pertinent observation of the year. Q resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Some of us have other skills than slowing our heartbeat enough to fire a shot in between.”
“You know, I can't actually do that.”
“Getting old, 007?”
That earns him a mock-glare and Bond sits up, stretches slowly like a lion after a nap in the sun, and much as Q knows that he's just showing off, that he wants Q to stare, he sees no reason not to enjoy the view. Sits up to run his fingers over Bond's chest, and he feels a rather embarrassing flutter in his stomach when Bond wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him into a kiss. Q keeps promising himself that he'll never react to Bond the way women do, swooning and half fainting when he so much as smiles at them, that he won't fall for him and get his heart broken like every girl Bond ever slept with – but damn it if the man isn't a good kisser. Q can't remember if anyone else ever kissed him so well, but truth be told he can never remember much of anything when Bond's lips are on his. And if he didn't have to work with him, if Bond wasn't already giving him a hard enough time for being half his age, then Q would definitely swoon a little and imagine that this is special, that it meant something. As it is, he looks away the moment Bond breaks the kiss, even turns his head away from Bond's palm.
“You can sleep here, if you like,” he says simply, and he's proud of himself for making it sound like a reasonable offer, not a plea. “It hardly matters if you go to your hotel to change now or in the morning.”
Bond doesn't reply, only runs his fingers through Q's hair – he does that sometimes, and Q still hasn't figured out if the gesture is supposed to be tender or patronising – and gets up. Still putting on a show as he stretches again and walks to the bathroom, and a minute later Q hears the shower running. He lies back down, determined to stay awake and see if Bond will take him up on his offer, but he had already been tired before Bond had even arrived, and the last hour had taken his mind off the code that had kept him awake all night. He dozes off while the water is still running.
When he wakes up at 7am to the furious beeping of his alarm, Bond is gone. Q isn't surprised – the only time 007 had slept at his place was when he literally passed out after sex. The torn suit jacket still lies on the floor – Bond didn't even bother to put it back on. The sheets smell of sweat, and Q wrinkles his nose when he sees several blood stains in the early morning light. One of them looks still moist, though, and as he touches it gingerly, he sees fresh blood on his fingertips.
A smile spreads over his face, and as he presses his palm to the pillow, it's still warm. Q jumps out of bed faster than he has in years, slips into his trousers before he walks through his small flat, wondering if Bond is maybe still here, after all. The rooms are all empty, though, Bond must have left hardly more than a few minutes ago. As he enters the kitchen Q finds a small box on the counter and a note scrawled on the back of a cab receipt:
“Brought you back the phone. Lost the watch, but I liked it. I'll take a new one.”
Q opens the box to find the phone – somewhat scratched and as dirty as Bond had been – and an empty mould where the watch should be. He rolls his eyes, but two out of three was downright spectacular by Bond's standards: he assumed that 007 still had his gun, or else he would have asked for a new one as well. Q washes his hands in the sink, watches the trace of blood in the water as it flows away. Somehow, when he started working for MI6, he didn't think it would lead to him being happy about battered spies leaving their blood in his bed. He should really know better, he works enough with people like Bond to know that one shouldn't let them into one's personal life, that half the people Bond sleeps with seem to end up dead.
Well, he does know better, he just doesn't care. After all, if he wanted safe and boring, he'd be fixing corporate computers for some company rather than working for MI6.
Fandom: James Bond – Skyfall
Pairings: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5383
Warnings: D/s, light bondage, a bit of blood
Summary: Bond is always very quiet when he comes to Q in the middle of the night after a mission. He doesn't need to talk, he needs to let go.
Author's note: Surprise, surprise, Skyfall finally made me like Craig!Bond (still not a fan of his two previous Bond movies, but I loved this one). No surprise, I ended up shipping Bond/Q. I'm so predictable. And since all I really want is some more sub!Bond, I wrote some. This fic is partly inspired by this beautiful fanart I saw on tumblr.
Bond never talks much when he comes to Q in the middle of the night after a mission. Sometimes he makes a glib remark about Q being up at three in the morning and still typing away at his laptop, and Q has learnt to judge his mood by how forced his smirk is, how tired his voice sounds, whether he's even trying to be funny.
Bond doesn't say anything at all that night, just shoulders his way past Q into the flat the moment the door opens. He looks like hell, face covered in blood and sweat, his tailored suit torn and dirty, but while every fibre of his body seems to radiate exhaustion, he doesn't limp, doesn't move in that careful way of the injured, and Q lets out a quiet sigh of relief.
He never asks how the mission went. Most of the time he knows what 007 is doing even while he is doing it, and the missing pieces will be filled in by Bond's report. And Q knows better than to pester Bond with platitudes. How did it go? How are you feeling? Are you all right? James Bond is not a man who deals with his problems by talking about them, and frankly, Q is glad for it. He has never been any good with comforting words or gentle reassurances. Q knows he should at least ask if Bond already checked in with headquarters for debriefing, but he gave up on that after a while. If Bond has done so, good; if he hasn't, there's really no way of making 007 do anything he doesn't want to do.
So instead he says, trying to sound as casual as he can, “You could do with a shower.”
Bond turns to face him and shakes his head, and Q is struck by how wide and bright his eyes are, even in the half-dark of Q's flat – after the glaring light of HQ, he rarely has more than a small lamp on at home. Bond still remains quiet, but Q knows what he's thinking. That he would have gone back to his hotel if a shower was what he needed most.
Q waits for Bond to step closer, to make the first move, although he doesn't know why he even bothers anymore. It's a bit like a ritual, maybe, letting Bond decide when this starts since he doesn't get to decide about much else once it has begun. So Q waits until he feels Bond's hand on his hip – large and warm and strong, and covered in the blood of a dozen men, if Q remembers today's body count correctly (14, to be precise, his brain unhelpfully offers). A heavy touch, it would have seemed intimidating once, dominating, but Q recognises it as the simple invitation it is. He steps away from it, though, walks to his bedroom, and he wonders when having Bond behind him started feeling so natural. He'll have to clean the sheets after this, maybe even throw them away if he can't get the blood out, but Bond looks like he could do with the comfort of a mattress.
“Undress.” His voice is steady these days when he demands that; there's something exhilarating in the knowledge that a man as powerful as Bond will obey him. Sometimes he resists a little, makes Q work for it, shoots him smug looks and mocking remarks before he gives in, and on too quiet evenings like this one Q almost misses that. He knows the smirks and quips are only Bond's mask, but sometimes Q almost wishes he had never seen behind it, had never been forced to see Bond so raw, so unguarded, so vulnerable. The thought vanishes within a second – if he truly wished that, he wouldn't keep doing this, wouldn't keep digging his way through Bond's shell down to the raw flesh every time they're alone.
He watches in silence as Bond peels off his torn clothes and just drops them to the floor, his eyes instinctively scanning him for injuries, but all he sees are too many bruises, and what does it say about them that he's got used to those? Q stays dressed, for the moment. He has never been self-conscious about his body, really, not even around more muscular men, but something about seeing the countless scars on Bond's skin always makes him feel ashamed of not having any of his own, as if even his 16 hours of work every day were somehow not as valuable as what Bond does for his country. It is an old fear, the fear of a youngest son with two older, stronger brothers in the military, but as irrational as it is, as much as he knows that his work is more efficient than most field agents' and most soldiers', it is hard to get rid of old doubts altogether.
Q steps closer as Bond sits down on the edge of the bed, runs his fingers over the stubbly cheek – when was the last time Bond had slept? Properly slept, not just a few stolen hours on a plane? Bond is still tense, but his shoulders slump and he hunches forward, like he only realises in that moment that he made it back alive, that he's safe. But his muscles still quiver under dusty skin, even as Q caresses his face, his hair. Tenderness is not what he needs now. Or maybe it is what he needs, but he isn't ready for it yet. And though there's a childish, soft-hearted part of him that wishes he could just cradle Bond in his arms and somehow make it all better, he's not foolish enough to believe that he actually can.
If he were to put what this is into words – which he doesn't, because they don't talk about this – and if he were inclined to be philosophical about it – which he isn't, because he shouldn't accord this enough importance to let it hurt him – he might say that Bond needed him to take him apart and pull out the splinters before he'd put him together again, not whole, maybe, never whole, but with cleaned up wounds and neater scars.
His hand moves to the back of Bond's neck, careful at first. Just as the touch registers he tightens it, knows his fingers are stronger than they look as they dig into the hard muscles of Bond's neck. The touch seems to startle Bond out of his numbness; the usual spark is almost back in his tired eyes as he looks up and strong hands start to tug at Q's shirt. Q lets him take it off – however he may feel, seeing himself naked next to the walking sacrifice that is Bond's body, he can easily imagine what Bond sees. Something smooth, something whole, something as different from his torn-up self as any of those stunning women he chases constantly. The comparison bothers Q less than it used to, ever since he realised that Bond really only cared about conquering those women and forgot them the next morning, while he keeps coming back to Q. He would never call this a relationship, wouldn't call it anything, really, but he knows it's the most regular thing Bond has had in years.
He allows Bond to caress him for a few moments, enjoys the scratch of calloused hands on his sides, the almost reverent way Bond touches him. It vaguely reminds Q of how Bond runs his fingertips over beautiful suit cloth or fast cars, and that should probably bother him more, but he knows too well that 007 has more love for suits and cars than he has for people.
A gentle touch to Bond's wrists is enough to stop him tonight – no games, no resistance. His hands still immediately without Q having to remind him that he was not given the permission to touch. It makes Q almost dizzy, the way Bond reacts to the lightest brush of his fingertips. He has no illusions about his strength, is reminded every time he tries to move Bond without his cooperation, but that only makes this surrender sweeter, that it's given so willingly.
Bond stays still as Q's fingers gently slide up his arms, to his shoulders, then lies back obediently at the smallest push. On some nights Q talks more, tells him what to do, when he feels like Bond needs to hear a familiar voice, but sometimes silence is what they both need most, and so he only watches as Bond lies down on his back. Those blue eyes stay on Q's, as if looking for an anchor, but Q shakes his head, and Bond closes them. It makes him more tense, his other senses instinctively straining to make up for the loss of sight, and Q is careful not to move too quietly when he sits down beside him. His hands return to Bond's body, with caresses that barely disguise a quick exam of the cuts and bruises – Bond is too stubborn to mention serious injuries, and Q still berates himself for that time he made him kneel on a twisted knee for half an hour. Bond relaxes a bit under him, puts his hands over his head and grabs the headboard. Q doesn't tie him up all that often, unless he feels like wrapping Bond up in his own braces – it's so much more enjoyable to watch him try and keep his hands in place.
But as pleasing as it is, something is still missing from the picture. Q smiles about the frustrated growl that Bond barely holds back when Q stops touching him to get his belt from the closet: a black leather belt he hadn't worn all that often, too stiff and boring for his taste, but he had been wearing it that first time he had slept with Bond, and ever since it had gained a new purpose, he had found himself wearing it almost daily. He moves carefully when he returns to the bed, knowing that Bond is still wound up enough to startle if surprised, but instead Bond only sighs in relief when the leather brushes against his throat, as if he had been waiting for this all along. There's a familiar ease in the way Bond lifts his head, supported by Q's left hand, in the way he relaxes when Q wraps the leather around his neck and pulls the end through the belt buckle, tightening it just enough to put some pressure on Bond's throat without actually choking him.
He looks perfect like that, arm muscles straining, his head thrown back and his throat bared in the oldest gesture of submission. Q leans down to kiss him, right in the hollow under his chin. So close up Bond smells of blood and sweat and death, and somewhere underneath of that aftershave he loves so much, and really, all Q wants is to make Bond smell of him. The belt wrapped around his hand, his hand resting on Bond's chest, he kisses his way up Bond's jaw, nips at his skin and smiles as he feels the strong body shudder.
“There, my pet,” Q says quietly, forcing his voice to stay steady, strong, never so affectionate that it might spook Bond. “That's better.”
Bond's moan is only a low rumble in his chest, but his entire body tenses up and arches off the bed; it's a different tension now, all want and impatience, not the earlier readiness for a fight. Half a year ago Q would have probably assumed that Bond's buttons were a lot harder to push, but the great seducer was actually quite easily seduced himself. Q's hand twitches a little, just enough to tighten the belt, and with the way Bond strains against him, greedy for more, but anxious to stay where Q wants him, Q even enjoys how small his fist looks on Bond's broad chest. Knows that Bond's muscles aren't working to get away from him, but to stay down.
He barely does more than tease him, light fingertips dancing over his torso, lips brushing against his neck, listening to Bond's laboured breathing. Only once Bond is fully hard, he finally rewards him – both of them – with a proper kiss, snarls when Bond bites him and only bites back harder, unsurprised to taste blood when his teeth reopen a fresh cut on Bond's lip. He keeps his teeth there, swallows his blood and his groan when Q's thumb and index pinch Bond's nipple. So sensitive, the easiest way to administer pain without actually injuring him in any way, and he would gladly spend half the night worrying them so they'd still be sore and aching the next day. Q presses against him, enjoying the wrecked moans against his lips and the trembling of Bond's muscles under his hands every time he twists and turns again. There's a primal rush of power in controlling someone so easily, of turning a man who could break his neck at any time into a shivering mess without even touching his cock beyond the light pressure of Q's thigh against Bond's groin.
“Having fun?” Bond growls after a while, and it takes Q a moment to realise that those are the first words Bond has said to him tonight. His voice is harsh, but Q can hear that some of the tension has already seeped from him. He gives a light tug on the leash, another pinch at the same time, and the sight of Bond's eyes opening and his lips parting in a silent gasp makes Q smile in anticipation.
“Probably not quite as much as you, James.” Bond always gets this strange look in his eyes when Q uses his first name, and though Q is not quite sure what that means, Bond seems to like it, and he was never too shy to complain if anything bothered him in bed. The name always feels odd on Q's tongue, and not only because it had been his brother's, but he likes that raw expression in Bond's eyes, the way his face just seems to open up.
Bond's hands twitch, as if he's tempted to grab Q and turn the tables on him, but another tug on the belt is enough to discourage him from that idea.
“Behave, pet.” Q's voice is teasing, never too serious, because he knows that Bond doesn't like to think of sex as a serious thing. Q kisses his way down Bond's throat, to his chest, lets his teeth continue for a while what his fingertips started until he wrings the first yelp from Bond's lips. He moves lower still, to his navel, and after a final kiss he sits up between Bond's thighs and looks down to admire his handiwork: the fresh sweat gleaming on Bond's chest, the darker shade of his nipples, the red spots on his skin where Q has bitten him. His eyes are twinkling with lust and impatience, and Q is relieved to see that numb, empty look gone. He's not as relaxed yet as Q wants him, but he'll get him there.
And if he needed any proof that Bond is starting to feel better, he gets it when Bond waits just until Q bends forward to retrieve the lube from the nightstand to growl “Yes, sir” in his lowest, most seductive voice and then give him a rather unconvincing innocent look when Q almost loses his balance. But there's still an underlying tension in his body, as if part of him expected to have to jump up and go for his gun any second. So Q only rewards him with a sharp slap on the inside of his thigh (the right one – there's a large, yellowish bruise on the left that he'd rather not aggravate). A sharp intake of breath, but Bond doesn't move. His rebellious moment only lasts until the next slap, harder, so hard it makes Q's palm tingle, but this time Bond gives in, spreads his legs and pulls up his knees. Q digs his fingernails into the reddened skin of Bond's thigh, just for the way it makes him twitch, for the pained and yet greedy moan when Q drags his nail upwards.
Realising that he'll have to let go of the belt, he hesitates for a moment, then motions for Bond to give him his hands. No resistance this time, and the surge of warmth Q feels when Bond crosses his hands over his chest is more than just arousal. The stiff leather is anything but ideal for tying knots and they both know that Bond could easily slip out of the loop when Q ties his hands together with the end of the belt. It doesn't matter – if Bond really wanted to get away, even the most perfectly tied knot wouldn't keep him from it. Like everything they do, this goes only as far as Bond gives him the power to go.
When he is done, Q still has to swallow hard and remind himself that he has to take his time, no matter how difficult it is to be patient when faced with a sight like this. His thoughts must be obvious, or maybe it is just that Bond can read people far too well, but the bastard smirks again, and this time Q only pulls on the bit of leather between Bond's throat and his hands, until he hears a strangled little gasp. Nothing more, never more – Bond has made it very clear that there would be no choking over longer periods of time. Considering the countless times Bond had been taken prisoner and tortured over the course of his career, it is hardly a hang-up Q could begrudge him.
Rather than say anything Q touches Bond's eyelids gently until they lower, and once he doesn't feel so damned watched anymore, he goes for the lube again, coats his fingers generously. This is almost his favourite part – he could spend what felt like hours doing this, teasing Bond, preparing him so slowly that Bond first starts moaning, then cursing and finally begging him for more. It seems like an endless task sometimes, for Bond tenses up again almost as soon as he relaxes, and sometimes Q wonders if he does it on purpose to draw this out. It still amazes him that he once managed to work his whole hand, slender as it is, into him, but as much as he wants to repeat that some day, he doubts that Bond is in the right condition for it now. He takes his sweet time, grateful that his fingers are probably the part of his body least prone to cramping up, pushes Bond's legs further up so he can see him spread open around his fingers.
He's not quite sure how long it takes until Bond's groans turn to curses, and then finally to an angry, snapped, “Oh, for God's sake, Q, get on with it, I don't have all -”
Q slaps him across the face before Bond can finish the sentence, and although the left-handed slap is awkward and hardly painful, it has the desired effect. Their little game has never been about pain, after all.
“Do I have to remind you that we do this my way? And I don't let my pet tell me when to 'get on with it.'” Running his fingers over Bond's chin, he thinks that he should probably feel bad for being so aroused by the blood that has dried in his stubble, and even worse for that little part of him that wishes he could mark him like that. Not out of sadism, merely out of possessiveness. A very much misplaced possessiveness, he reminds himself, and focuses his attention back on his right hand, on a small twist of his fingers that elicits another groan from Bond instead of a smug reply.
He had actually been meaning to 'get on with it', just before Bond had snapped at him, but he's a lot less inclined to grant him his wish now. The sight of Bond writhing beneath him, arms and legs drawn close in a beautiful illusion of helplessness, is compensation enough for the wait, and so he just keeps playing with him. Three fingers sometimes, pushed deep inside him until Bond whimpers; sometimes only one finger, one knuckle, a teasing presence that only serves to remind him that he could have so much more. Bond's eyes are clamped shut now, and although Q knows he won't be able to make him come just from this, he can see that Bond is slowly losing it, every bit of carefully maintained tension and control dissolving into a hazy cloud of want.
Finally, once the curses turn to whimpers, once he starts saying “please” instead of “fuck”, Q's left hand grabs Bond's cock, keeps the grasp light until Bond remembers that it's “please, sir”. And because he can see that Bond is in no shape to take much more, Q doesn't hold back then, his strokes firm and strong, trying his best to do it the way Bond did it himself, that one time Q had insisted on watching him. Bond's eyes are still closed when he comes, but his mouth goes slack and his body relaxes after a last shudder, legs stretching out the moment Q pulls out his fingers. Even his tied-up arms rest lightly on his chest, and Q has to bite back a chuckle when he realises how much the position of his arms and hands looks like an altar boy's, albeit a rather overgrown one. But the look on Bond's face is relaxed and peaceful; he even smiles a little when Q leans down to breathe a quick kiss on his lips.
“Good pet,” Q mumbles, and as expected it only makes Bond's smile broader. “You did so well.”
Q gives him a minute, fighting down his own impatience, just runs his messy fingers over Bond's sides. He waits until Bond's breathing has slowed down before he slaps him lightly on the thigh.
“Turn around.” It's a mean request, really, to someone who's both tied-up and fucked-out, but he's been unselfish for long enough, and he enjoys the sight of Bond struggling to turn around and get up on his knees and elbows far too much. It's worth the glare Bond shoots him the moment his eyes open, but as long as the belt is still around his neck, he does as he's told. The muscles in his thighs tense as he gets up on his knees, the perfect lines of his back would remind Q of a statue, if statues were covered in scars and bruises. Bond keeps his head bowed, his neck still tied to his wrist, and Q can't resist running his fingers over his spine, from the leather on his neck over his back to his arse. He only tears himself away to get out of his own trousers, wonders why the hell he even kept them on so long.
Q has never considered himself to be a selfish lover, but when it comes to Bond he is sometimes amazed by how much he puts the other man's needs before his own. Not that he doesn't enjoy every single moment of this, of course, but he can't remember ever keeping himself waiting for so long with anyone else. Then again, no one else had ever rewarded him so much for it. All the pain and agitation Bond had radiated when he had arrived are gone now, and even in this uncomfortable position he still seems completely at ease. Q looks down at his hands on Bond's hips, marvelling at how small they look on Bond's body, knowing that he wouldn't be able to move him an inch, and yet Bond still reacts to every touch as surely as a puppet to a string. Spreads his legs further when Q's hands move down, arches his back in a way that's helpful as much as it's showing off. It would make Q laugh if the sight didn't make him breathless. And he's done resisting temptation. Shivers when he feels how loose and relaxed Bond still is, when he slides into him with barely any resistance, and he was wrong before, because this is his favourite part, having Bond's strength underneath him, around him, accommodating him in a way that would have barely seemed possible when Bond arrived all tense and uneasy. It's the reassurance that he's got what he wanted, when Bond only moans in pleasure and pushes back against him, his muscles betraying not a single sign of discomfort.
Q can't take his eyes off him, he feels light-headed from the sight, the sensations, from the sound of Bond's breathless moans – maybe the best part of this is how much Bond wants it, how every thrust makes him arch his back as if to draw Q in deeper. Q knows Bond doesn't do this often, that he's too paranoid to lower his defences so completely with strangers, but even if that's the only reason he keeps coming back to Q, it's more than enough.
He tries to hold back a little to make this last as long as he can, for both their sakes, but he's only human and Bond is an insufferable tease who tenses around him whenever Q least expects it. It almost takes him by surprise when he comes, the pleasure so intense he feels his heart tighten in his chest. Maybe it's the waiting, but he's always louder with Bond than he usually is, although he'll be damned if he ever lets the smug bastard know that. They both slump down in an undignified, sweaty heap of limbs, Bond wincing a little when Q rolls off him.
Q feels boneless and tired, but he remembers to untie Bond's hands, then pulls him closer with the leash. He can't help but sigh when Bond wraps his arms around him, but Bond surprises him when he rests his head against Q's chest and closes his eyes again. Q runs his fingers through his hair, holds him close now that Bond can finally appreciate it. Bond is curled up against him like a large cat, almost purrs like one when Q massages his neck and his shoulders with one hand.
They're quiet for what feels like a very long time, but maybe that's only because Q is not used to seeing Bond so peaceful and calm. There is always something brewing and boiling under the surface, anger and pain and doubt, all stuffed underneath the shell of his charm, but Q knows too much about him to be fooled. The only times Bond ever seems completely at peace with himself are now, after this, taken apart and put back together, and even so it rarely lasts more than a few minutes.
There's almost a tangible shift in the air around them when Bond moves a little, stretches his neck ever so slightly. Q slowly takes off the belt, almost reluctantly – he likes seeing it there far too much – but to his surprise Bond's head sinks back onto his chest.
“You have a heartbeat like a mouse.” And Bond makes it sound like that's the most pertinent observation of the year. Q resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Some of us have other skills than slowing our heartbeat enough to fire a shot in between.”
“You know, I can't actually do that.”
“Getting old, 007?”
That earns him a mock-glare and Bond sits up, stretches slowly like a lion after a nap in the sun, and much as Q knows that he's just showing off, that he wants Q to stare, he sees no reason not to enjoy the view. Sits up to run his fingers over Bond's chest, and he feels a rather embarrassing flutter in his stomach when Bond wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him into a kiss. Q keeps promising himself that he'll never react to Bond the way women do, swooning and half fainting when he so much as smiles at them, that he won't fall for him and get his heart broken like every girl Bond ever slept with – but damn it if the man isn't a good kisser. Q can't remember if anyone else ever kissed him so well, but truth be told he can never remember much of anything when Bond's lips are on his. And if he didn't have to work with him, if Bond wasn't already giving him a hard enough time for being half his age, then Q would definitely swoon a little and imagine that this is special, that it meant something. As it is, he looks away the moment Bond breaks the kiss, even turns his head away from Bond's palm.
“You can sleep here, if you like,” he says simply, and he's proud of himself for making it sound like a reasonable offer, not a plea. “It hardly matters if you go to your hotel to change now or in the morning.”
Bond doesn't reply, only runs his fingers through Q's hair – he does that sometimes, and Q still hasn't figured out if the gesture is supposed to be tender or patronising – and gets up. Still putting on a show as he stretches again and walks to the bathroom, and a minute later Q hears the shower running. He lies back down, determined to stay awake and see if Bond will take him up on his offer, but he had already been tired before Bond had even arrived, and the last hour had taken his mind off the code that had kept him awake all night. He dozes off while the water is still running.
When he wakes up at 7am to the furious beeping of his alarm, Bond is gone. Q isn't surprised – the only time 007 had slept at his place was when he literally passed out after sex. The torn suit jacket still lies on the floor – Bond didn't even bother to put it back on. The sheets smell of sweat, and Q wrinkles his nose when he sees several blood stains in the early morning light. One of them looks still moist, though, and as he touches it gingerly, he sees fresh blood on his fingertips.
A smile spreads over his face, and as he presses his palm to the pillow, it's still warm. Q jumps out of bed faster than he has in years, slips into his trousers before he walks through his small flat, wondering if Bond is maybe still here, after all. The rooms are all empty, though, Bond must have left hardly more than a few minutes ago. As he enters the kitchen Q finds a small box on the counter and a note scrawled on the back of a cab receipt:
“Brought you back the phone. Lost the watch, but I liked it. I'll take a new one.”
Q opens the box to find the phone – somewhat scratched and as dirty as Bond had been – and an empty mould where the watch should be. He rolls his eyes, but two out of three was downright spectacular by Bond's standards: he assumed that 007 still had his gun, or else he would have asked for a new one as well. Q washes his hands in the sink, watches the trace of blood in the water as it flows away. Somehow, when he started working for MI6, he didn't think it would lead to him being happy about battered spies leaving their blood in his bed. He should really know better, he works enough with people like Bond to know that one shouldn't let them into one's personal life, that half the people Bond sleeps with seem to end up dead.
Well, he does know better, he just doesn't care. After all, if he wanted safe and boring, he'd be fixing corporate computers for some company rather than working for MI6.
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Date: 2012-11-16 03:41 pm (UTC)Love how Bond has Q to surrender to (makes total sense to me), but also how Q is constantly aware that he relies on Bond giving him the control.
And the end is as adorable as it's painful.
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Date: 2012-11-16 04:13 pm (UTC)Glad you liked the ending, I agonised over it for a while. Thank you. :)
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Date: 2012-11-16 04:22 pm (UTC)I know what you mean about the ending. Those are tough but I think you found the right balance between Bond being Bond, and him opening up a little bit more, to let Q know that he, too, is important...
Phew... I'll stop now....
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Date: 2012-11-16 04:25 pm (UTC)I'm glad it worked. ^^ And no need to stop. ;)
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Date: 2012-11-16 06:01 pm (UTC)And I don't think that Bond would go to him for that. It makes more sense this way, that he has a place to go to where he can feel save, where he can let go.
Hehe... I can hear Ian Flemming turn in his grave over us, discussing his character's sexual preferences... *snicker*
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Date: 2012-11-16 06:05 pm (UTC)I was going to say "he'll survive", but then I realised that doesn't really make sense. ;)
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Date: 2012-11-16 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 06:14 pm (UTC)