An MI6 driver was waiting for them. "I usually take the Tube," Q explained, as they both slid into the back of the car, Bond wrestling with the damned cane that was more a hindrance than a help.

By some unspoken agreement they were both silent in the car, but Q's hand crept into Bond's, and Bond was content to hold it, letting his thoughts drift, still unsure what exactly was going on but willing to find out.

Bond deliberately left the cane behind in the car and Q didn't comment, just tightened his grip on Bond's hand and shifted closer as they slowly climbed the stairs to Q's flat.

Bond looked curiously around Q's flat as Q wordlessly fixed them tea, and then scrambled eggs with toast. He was not sure what he might have expected from Q's living space. Perhaps something modern and industrial, clean metal surfaces and polished stone. Instead, Q's flat was comfortable and homey — walls full of untidy bookcases, wide windows letting in puddles of sunshine, plants flourishing in small groups. An enormous grey cat had roused itself from a patch of sunlight, winding its way through and around Q's legs as he stood in the kitchen, scrambling the eggs.

It all felt a little surreal, how well Bond seemed to know Q, and yet not know him at all. "I didn't know you had a cat," he finally said.

"That's Turing. He just arrived one day, managed to make it past all my security measures. He was quite persistent." Q smiled. "The two of you have a lot in common."

Bond snorted, taking another sip of his tea, letting the peace and comfort of Q's flat settle over him. It so different from his own, impersonal flat that he rarely visited, furnished from a store in one unemotional day of shopping to replace all the possessions sold at auction during his "death."

When the food was prepared Q settled at the table with Bond, drinking his own cup of tea and nibbling at the toast while Bond tucked into his own eggs and toast with good appetite.

Q set another pain pill in front of Bond and he swallowed it down, feeling the headache diminish as fatigue crept over him. He felt warm and full and strangely content, and didn't realize his head was drooping until Q rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Come to bed," Q said gently.

"Knew you'd ask eventually."

"Wanker." But Q was laughing as he led Bond to the bedroom, helping him take off his socks and shoes and taking each article of clothing without comment as Bond stripped efficiently down to his boxer briefs and slid between the covers.

It was still early, late-afternoon summer sunlight streaming in through the windows. Q's bed was soft and comfortable and smelled deliciously like Q, as if Bond had his face pressed against Q's warm skin. He wondered if that was allowed, now.

Q slipped off his own shoes and then lay on top of the covers, fully-clothed. His hand found Bond's again, slim fingers gripped tight while his thumb traced small circles in Bond's palm.

"Did you mean it? About giving this a try? Or rather...do you still?" Q's voice was carefully neutral, and if Q hadn't taken Bond home, hadn't shown him his own intentions so clearly, Bond would resent being asked to be the one to expose himself again.

"Yes," he said simply, and Q's thumb stopped circling for a moment before resuming.

"You're brave," Q said somewhat cryptically. Bond made a vaguely interrogatory noise.

"About this, I mean," Q said, squeezing Bond's hand again to indicate what this was. "You're brave, and I'm not. But I'm trying. I'm...willing to try."

"But you weren't before?" Bond was starting, slowly, to understand.

"I told you I was posted in Rome. Before London."

"Yes?" Bond felt that he had lost the thread of the conversation again.

"I met a man there. Lived with him, after a bit. Loved him."

Loved. Past tense. Belatedly, suddenly, Bond put the pieces together. "A field agent."

"Yes."

"And he died." Bond didn't even have to make it a question.

"Of course he died." Q's voice was strangely gentle, as if all the old bitterness had calcified into quiet resignation. "That's what field agents do, isn't it?"

Q's voice echoed in Bond's memory.

You're dead, you don't care. We're the ones left behind.

He had thought at the time that Q had been talking about agents lost in the line of work. like 009. He'd had no idea it had been so personal.

Even without knowing about Q's past, Bond should have realized. Yet, out of all the reasons Q might have had for avoiding a relationship with Bond, devastation over his eventual death was the one that hadn't occurred to Bond at all. Bond had lived for so long knowing that few would mourn him. Even now, the idea that he could touch Q so deeply, that he could hurt Q so deeply, just by dying…

A thought occurred to him. He was tempted to let it lie, but Q was being honest with him and deserved full honesty in return.

"I'm still a field agent, Q. I'll need time to recover, but if you're under the impression that my injuries are severe enough to keep me out permanently —"

"Don't be ridiculous, Bond. I'm well aware that your current injuries hardly rate compared to your usual misadventures."

"Then why now? What's changed?"

Q sighed, turning on his side. His eyes glowed mossy green in the fading sunlight, limpid and vulnerable.

"I thought I could protect myself," Q said softly. "I thought if I — if I could keep from getting involved with you, I could stop myself from getting hurt again. But then I saw you there, with a gun to your head. And I didn't feel relief, that I had kept you at a distance. All I felt was regret, that I hadn't had the courage to try."

Bond was used to pushing such thoughts away, but it struck him anew how close to death he had actually come. If Q had delayed by only a few seconds longer, or failed to track him as quickly, or wavered in his aim…

Bond had been gifted with yet another chance at life, this time with the potential of more to fill it than simply duty to his country. If Q was willing to try, then so was he.

"So we try," he said aloud, and Q nodded.

Bond's felt as if his bones were weighted, his eyelids heavy. He yawned even as he reeled Q in, settling his slender form more closely into the curve of his body.

When Bond woke up in the night, head pounding and mouth dry, Q was ready with a pain pill and glass of cold water. The simple comfort of being cared for was something that Bond hadn't experienced since he was a child.

Bond settled back into Q's bed. At some point Q had changed into a threadbare t-shirt and pajama bottoms and burrowed under the covers with Bond. It was remarkable how easily they fit together, Q's head on Bond's shoulder, their legs tangled together.

Bond couldn't remember the last time he had been able to sleep next to someone without a part of himself remaining on guard. It felt strange and yet freeing, like some hard shell of himself had been cracked open wide. He trusted Q, and so he allowed himself to fall into that softness, succumb fully to that vulnerability — luxuriate, even, in the novel sensation. He nuzzled closer into Q, breathing in the warmth and comfort of his skin, and slept.

He had been dreaming, a lovely dream about Q. Q's silky hair sliding thickly through his fingers, Q's beautiful hands clenched tight enough to leave bruises on his hips, Q's sweet mouth hot around his cock…

He woke slowly, reluctantly, arousal thrumming through his body, pooling honey-thick in his groin. As he surfaced sluggishly he became aware of the warm scent of Q's body, the puff of Q's breath against his skin. Bond was sprawled out on his back, Q draped across his chest, and Bond had been slowly, mindlessly rutting up into the softness of his body.

Bond stilled his hips with an effort, blinking against watery sunlight to stare down at the mop of dark hair puddled in the center of his chest.

"Don't stop, you arse," Q murmured sleepily and Bond groaned, his hips bucking once involuntarily, sending a delicious sizzle up his spine.

Q stretched languorously before settling even more heavily across Bond's body with a happy sigh, his thigh riding high against Bond's hardening cock. He snuck his arms underneath Bond's shoulders before nestling his own stiff cock into the hollow of Bond's hip, churning his hips lazily.

Bond mumbled his approval into Q's hair. He swept his palms down the arch of Q's spine, feeling the muscles flexing and relaxing under the thin fabric of Q's t-shirt. When he reached the small of Q's back he slid one hand up under Q's shirt, spreading his palm against the warmth of Q's back. The other hand eased inside the waistband of Q's pajama bottoms, cupping the firm curve of his arse.

Bond tightened his grip, helping Q grind down against him harder, slow languid thrusts that had them both dragging in harsh breaths in no time. Bond broke away to tug at the hem of Q's t-shirt and Q pushed up a little, allowing Bond to pull the shirt up over his head.

Q's face was sleep-soft, his grey-green eyes lambent in the pale early morning light, his lush mouth lax and dazed. A ruddy pink flush was creeping across his chest and cheeks. He leaned down, nose nudging Bond's cheek for a moment before catching his lips in a kiss, remarkably sweet and chaste in comparison to the dirty grind of their bodies.

Bond let Q set the pace, and Q seemed content to tease, licking slowly into Bond's mouth before sucking gently on his tongue, the rocking of his body into Bond's steady and relentless, just enough to keep the pleasure building.

Bond hauled Q a little higher up his body, running his thumb over the Q's nipple before suckling it, making Q shudder. Q's hands pulled at Bond's hair as Bond worried the dark pink nub, making it puffy and hard as Q huffed increasingly desperate noises above him.

Finally Q pulled back a bit, his breath shaky as he resettled himself. Their cocks were now aligned, pressed hard together against the thin barrier of Q's pajama bottoms and Bond's briefs. Q's face was set now, focused, his mouth slightly open and his cheeks pink as he began grinding against Bond in earnest. He was beautiful like this, fever-hot, chasing his own pleasure, arms shaking slightly where they braced themselves over Bond's chest.

Bond couldn't help the groan that escaped him, his head thrown back as he rutted up into the pressure. The bed was squeaking as they thrust together frantically, mindlessly, and Q was making soft little fretful noises that seemed to go straight to Bond's cock. Christ, Bond wanted to know what Q sounded like when he came, wanted to pull that from him. Just the thought of it had Bond close to coming, grunting out his pleasure as he rolled his hips up again and again.

Q ground downward once more with a choked, broken sob and Bond was coming in his pants, messy and hot, fucking up against Q all the way through it until Q came as well in shivery little pulses, mouth pressed hot against the skin of Bond's neck.

They lay together in a boneless heap, catching their breath. Finally Q rolled from the bed, stripping off his own bottoms unselfconsciously as he fetched a warm damp flannel, wiping both himself and Bond down with tender care before burrowing back into Bond's arms.

"I'm probably bollocks at relationships," Bond confessed into Q's warm skin. "I'm selfish and I drink too much. I sleep with other people for my job, and I have absolutely no domestic skills."

Bond could feel Q smile against the skin of his neck. "I work too much and clean almost never," Q murmured in return. "When I'm engrossed in a project I'll forget you exist. And sometimes the cat runs around like a lunatic at 3 a.m. for absolutely no reason that I have ever been able to determine."

"Mmm," Bond hummed thoughtfully into Q's ear, making him squirm. "Sounds like a bad deal. I might have to sleep on it some more."

"Please do so." Bond felt Q's fingers in his hair, brushing tenderly around his dressing. "I'll be here when you wake up."