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Bond had been watching him. Every time he came in after a mission, every time he prepared to go out, the boy was there with that sardonic expression on his full lips, looking at him through his ridiculous glasses. Q even turned up in places he was not supposed to be. The dressing station, for example, when Bond came in from Paris, shot up and bleeding, hobbling off the Eurostar just in time to fall into the arms of Tanner’s quiet men, the Lamplighters. Q hovered in the background that time, a worried look on his face replacing the usual amusement. Bond caught glimpses of him through the glass wall. This new building was full of them, crystal partitions through which you could see but not hear, look but not speak.
But that was a lie, like everything else in 007’s life.
He and Q spoke through glass without saying a word, through the glass walls and the glass lenses. They spoke with their eyes.
He came home from Panama rattled. As he walked through the hallowed halls of the new M’s empire, he could feel the eyes on him. They were wondering how much longer he could last, riddled with bullet holes and psychological fissures as he was. Time for a new man to take over the mantle? He wondered that too.
He was tired. Exhausted, even. He had come in for debriefing with only half his mind still functioning, the other half still tortured by the image of the woman with her two children, a toddler and an infant, that Salinas had murdered before Bond had managed to get there. More casualties. More victims he had not managed to save. Right now, more than anything, he needed a friendly face. He needed a saviour. How strange that redemption should come in the form of a gawky young man with far too much hair, and glasses like the bottoms of beer bottles.
‘Back already, 007,’ came the delicate voice behind his shoulder.
‘Yes, Quartermaster,’ he said, turning slightly, dropping a smile on the boy’s desk. ‘It’s nice to finish ahead of schedule.’
‘Anything you want to confess?’
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seventeen days since my last confession, and since then I have broken another handgun and lost the radio transmitter you gave me in a mangrove swamp while averting a major oil spill.’
Q huffed. ‘You can say ten Hail Mary’s for the transmitter, but I shan’t forgive you the gun, Bond. They aren’t cheap, you know.’
Their eyes met. And Bond knew. Just knew. Right to the very roots of his soul.
‘Perhaps we should discuss it privately,’ he suggested.
Q’s eyebrow twitched. ‘I don’t keep any secrets from my analysts, you know that.’
It was true. Q did all his work standing up at a podium, surrounded by his Housekeepers and scientists, like a spider at the centre of an immense web of experimental data.
‘My definition of privacy as a little more specific,’ Bond told him.
Q climbed down from his plinth. ‘Over here,’ he said.
It was a fire door. On the other side a long service corridor stretched into the infinite distance, polished concrete walls painted stark white. As soon as they were on the other side of the door, Bond grabbed the boy and slammed him up against the wall, mashing their mouths together.
Q made a whimsical little mewing sound.
‘With all due respect,’ he panted when they came up for air, ‘this is hardly what you might call private.’
Bond grabbed his spindly bicep and dragged him along to a junction. There was an alcove into which two locked cupboard doors were set. One had vents, so Bond concluded it housed the air conditioning units for the working area beyond. The other was marked ‘Cleaners’. Nobody was going to come out of these. He pushed Q up against the latter and kissed him again, grinding his body against the boy’s slender form.
They were both panting. Q’s mouth was as luscious as Bond had anticipated. And he realised he had anticipated it, quite a lot. He had been thinking about this for months, in fact, ever since their first prickly meeting in the National Gallery. How plump and soft those lips would be to kiss, how malleable and sensuous as they explored his own. He disengaged and ran his tongue along the boy’s jaw and down his neck, into his preposterously gaping shirt collar. Thin fingers raked through Bond’s hair, ribs and hip bones dug into him.
Then just as Bond was getting into his stride, Q slithered out from under him. One minute he was there, the next he was slipping down Bond’s body to his knees.
Oh. Oh, yes. Clever boy.
Bond’s belt buckle jangled as Q loosened it. It sounded agonisingly loud in that empty corridor. Cold, bony fingers probed inside Bond’s fly and extracted his cock. And then that luscious plump mouth closed over it and it was all he could do not to roar with desire.
Q was clearly no stranger to the art. His tongue was as adept at caressing as it was at barbed witticisms. He ran the flat of it along Bond’s underside, laved at his fraenulum, swirled it around the crown, tickled the slit until little tears of glossy fluid leaked out. He toyed with them, tasting them on the tip of his tongue, looking up at Bond with knowing eyes. Then he took the whole length into his mouth, plunging him deep into heat and liquid and squirming flesh, and Bond’s knees nearly gave way.
That was when Bond decided he needed more. More than a blowjob in a chilly corridor. More than a quickie up against a concrete wall.
Bond dragged him to his feet and turned him around, pressing his cheek against the whitewash. He slipped his hands around Q’s comically tiny waist and deftly unbuckled his belt. Pants followed trousers, and Bond’s fingers explored. The boy was hot and hard, thin, slightly curved and longer than he had expected. He brushed his hand along the length of the shaft and Q gasped. Bond began to stroke.
‘Like that?’ he hissed into Q’s ear. The boy nodded, pushing back against Bond’s loins so that his length settled into the crack of the quartermaster’s backside and slid up and down there blissfully.
Bond growled. ‘More?’
‘Hnnng,’ Q panted, arching his back further.
Keeping one hand working Q’s erection, Bond raised the other and pressed his fingers into the boy’s eager mouth. His slurping sounded obscene in the echoing corridor. He laved with his tongue until Bond couldn’t stand it any longer. He dropped his hand, rubbing between Q’s buttocks until he found that tender little knot he was looking for. He probed with a slick finger.
Q moaned.
Bond hissed in his ear again,’ be quiet, you’ll have the whole of Q section down on us!’
Q whimpered, bucking his arse out again.
‘You want that?’
Q nodded, urgently this time.
Bond added another finger, slowly pressing in and then working the muscles.
‘Christ, you’re so tight!’
‘More!’ Q gasped.
‘Not yet.’
‘I can take it! More!’
Bond gave him a third dripping finger, working into the hole hungrily.
‘Oh, God! Oh God!’
Bond pressed his face against Q’s delicate little ear.
‘Is this what you want? You want me to fuck you?’ he rasped.
‘Yes, yes! What are you waiting for? Do it!’
Bond didn’t wait any longer. He eased his fingers out from between the beautiful globes of Q’s arse, spat on his palm and worked the spittle into the crown of his knob. Then he lined himself up and pressed slowly in.
Q’s body seemed to undulate and, for a moment, Bond feared he might lean forward and vomit. Too late he realised that what the boy was doing was stretching out his spine to accommodate him. With a deft twitch of his hips, he took Bond to the hilt, tightened around him. It was enough to make them both gasp.
‘Please,’ Q breathed.
Bond didn’t need asking again.
He took the boy by turns, swift hungry pounding followed by a slow slide in and out, so far out he stretched his anus with his glans before he slid again into the hot, silken depths. With his free hand he continued to work the twitching cock in his palm. It had softened a little from the pain of entry, but Q could clearly take it. Bond understood now. The boy shared with him the delicate delight of the pleasure that is pain, and pain that is pleasure. Pumping him hard, his buttocks flexing, he wondered for a moment what it would be like to submit to this himself, what Q’s long, curved cock would feel like moving inside his own body. He had done this to women more times that he cared to remember, but never craved it for himself. He had often thought of doing it to other men for his own pleasure, though he had done it for work. He had taken more lovers of either sex than he could count. It was part of the job. Now he realised he was falling into something new, that the lithe, slim body writhing under his hands was pulling him into a new world he had never experienced.
Q was bucking his hips back, thrusting against Bond’s forward motion. Inside he was gripping at Bond’s shaft with a thrilling undulation of muscles. The slapping of loins against sweaty buttocks echoed down the long corridor. They panted and grunted into one another, bodies finally in symbiotic motion.
Q’s noises were becoming louder, though, and risked attracting attention. The instinct of too many years of field work gripped Bond, and he pressed his hand over the boy’s mouth. There was a muffled groan from underneath his fingers and then a hot tongue squirming at the flesh. He tightened his grip very slightly, wondering if Q would appreciate a little breathe-play. Cutting off a little air would intensify his pleasure, a trick Bond had often enjoyed himself, and the satisfying moan that rewarded this new pressure assured him that Q was definitely into the same games.
Bond felt Q’s cock jump against his palm before he realised that climax had caught up with his lover. The sound of semen splattering against plaster was grotesquely erotic. Bond thrust deep and hard, clutching at the boy’s blade-like hips, grinding against Qs prostate as he juddered and clenched and squealed. The caress of inner muscles pitched Bond over the edge. He thrust again, deeper this time, hurting the boy probably, sinking his teeth into Q’s scruff like a feral tomcat. He held himself there while the ecstasy washed through him. Then together they crumpled against the wall, sweating and panting. After a moment or two, Bond ran his hands up Q’s sides and along the length of his arms, lacing the fingers of their hands together against the wall.
Q sighed the sigh of the thoroughly fucked.
They stood there, trousers around their shaking knees, until Bond was too soft to remain within. His length slithered out on a flood of juice, and Q moaned at the loss. Bond nuzzled into his ear.
‘Sssssshhhh,’ he breathed softly, tender now that his need was sated.
‘Mmmmmmm,’ Q hummed, pressing his buttocks back into Bond’s sticky groin. Bond pulled away, tugged the handkerchief out of his breast pocket.
‘Here, you should clean up.’
The boy had semen running down the insides of his thighs. He took the square of silk for a moment, looked at it, then handed it back.
‘You clean up,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who’s got to go and see M.’
‘You fancy walking back in in front of your staff looking like you’ve wet yourself?’
‘It’s the closest I’ll get to keeping you inside me,’ he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Besides, I must look so thoroughly fucked they won’t have any doubt what we’ve been up to out here.’
Bond finished fastening himself up, then pulled the boy’s trousers up and made him decent.
‘Oh, James,’ Q breathed, and suddenly Bond had pressed him back against the wall, face-to-face now. Their noses brushed together.
‘I want you so much,’ Q whispered.
Bond looked down into his eyes and saw something there he had never expected.
‘You just had me,’ he managed, feeling the emotion well up inside him.
‘It’ll never be enough, you know that.’
And then Bond did something he had not done in a long time. Not since Venice. He kissed Q. Not the usual kiss of desire, of passion, of lust. This was a kind of kiss he had not pulled from his arsenal since he had last shared it with Vesper.
This was a kiss of love.
Q knew it too, because he was trembling in Bond’s arms, his delicate eyes brimming suddenly.
‘Don’t get all emotional on me, kid,’ Bond growled.
Q managed a weak smile. He gripped Bond on the sides of his head, running fingers through his blond stubble of hair.
‘Just promise me one thing?’
‘What?’
Q angled his head slightly to one side, so tenderly.
‘Promise me you’ll keep coming home alive.’