"Will you play for me?" Bond asked.

It was uncharacteristically sunny, and he and Q had spent the majority of the morning in bed. They had no pressing agenda, nowhere to be, no one to answer to, and there was a beautiful freedom in it, that the day was entirely theirs. Q stood in the kitchen in only Bond's button up, pouring tea and coffee with expert efficiency into their preferred mugs.

"What was that?" Q asked as he came into the room. He sat down on the sofa next to Bond, handing over a fresh cup of coffee.

"Will you play for me?" Bond asked again, nodding at the collection of instruments in the corner.

"You've heard me play before…" Q reminded him, taking a sip of his tea.

"But I've never seen you play."

"There's not much to see," Q said, flushing a bit, the colour stark against Bond's white shirt.

In the two months since Bond had moved in, he had yet to see Q pick up his violin or sit at the piano. Most nights, Q arrived home late and exhausted, and Bond had no other desire than to get a good meal into him and send him to bed. The few days Q spent away from the lab were rare and usually busy running errands, out seeing shows, or spent in bed, all of which left little time for music.

But Bond missed it desperately. He felt restless in civilian life, which was dull in comparison with his years in international espionage. Due to his injuries, Bond knew he could never return, but there was some hope that he might be able to still work for MI6 in some capacity once his physical therapy finished, most likely classroom lecture for new recruits. Until then, Bond needed something that would distract as much as inspire him.

"Please?" Bond asked.

"Well... I had been working on a piece a few months ago, but I just couldn't get the second violin to sound right," Q said, tapping at the edge of his mug with something like nervousness. "Will you tell me what you think?"

"Of course," Bond said.

Q smiled and set his mug down on the coffee table, then moved over to the corner of the room. He perched on the edge of his piano stool and picked up his violin. As he tuned it, Bond was captivated by his white fingertips; when he applied rosin to the bow, Bond felt his mouth go dry at the simple flex of Q's wrist. But even more breathtaking were Q's eyes, so intent on the instrument as he worked, possibly even more focussed than he was at work on his screens filled with scrolling code.

Once the violin met his satisfaction, Q fiddled with his laptop for a moment, then moved his sheet music to a free standing rest that had been shoved behind the curtain. He clipped a wireless microphone to the top if it, then dragged it round so that it faced Bond, and so Q, too, faced him.

Q tucked the end of the violin beneath his chin, resting the edge of the instrument into that particular spot on his neck that Bond loved most. Nestled there, the violin looked like a natural extension of himself, even more so when Q took up the bow and played through a series of scales to warm up.

When he was satisfied, Q pulled up a recording on his laptop.

The soft sound of a piano came from the speakers, a melody that Bond had never heard before but one with which he felt somehow intimate. The notes fell as quiet as rain winding down on a late afternoon day. Then came the mellow tune of a violin, joined almost imperceptibly by the lower undertone of the cello. After a few bars played, Q picked up his violin from its rest position and began to play along, layering the gentle sound of strings atop one another.

It was nothing like listening to the music through floorboards, through speakers. The sound that Q's violin produced sang in his blood, warmed every inch of his skin. The music touched him in almost the same way that Q's lips did, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

But most remarkable of all was that Bond could see Q.

He didn't look at the sheet music at all, his eyes closed as he moved his fingers across the bridge, slid the bow along the strings. Bond watched him, transfixed, as the music effortlessly glided through the prerecorded score. There was a smile on Q's lips as he reached the crescendo, and it lingered as he let the notes softly fade away.

"What do you think?" Q asked, as he rested the violin and bow across his lap.

Bond wanted to say it was the most beautiful song he had ever heard, that it meant more to him now than ever before to see Q play it with as much love and passion as he had shown Bond these past weeks. But the words seemed to fall short of what he wanted to convey, ten thousand English nouns and verbs and adjectives that would pale in comparison to what he felt. And it was then that Bond thought of the crumbled note he kept in his wallet, the one he hadn't been able to throw away after that night, because the word-that single, solitary word-had meant so much.

It still meant so much.

"Mélomanie," Bond said.

Q's radiant smile rivaled the morning light, coming only in second to the kiss that followed. For the first time in his long life, Bond knew everything would be alright.

And he couldn't ask for more.

My Sincerest Thanks
So, I must give my sincerest thanks to my wonderful BETAs, who have worked with me on this project from the start, as well as some BETAs who were amazing enough to step in at the last moment when I most needed them. Deepest adoration to Wwwhat,Obfuscatress, Fireblooms and Flantastic.

Also, my infinite love and gratitude to rawr-balrog, who listened to me whine, bitch, and complain for the past few weeks, who convinced me to cut, cut, cut when I most needed to, and who pretty much kept me from going off the deep end with all the stress. Thank you for putting up with me...Christ knows I could have.

And, of course, I would be nothing without you all, dearest readers. Thank you for your unwavering support for this project. You're all beautiful creatures. 3