Chapter Two: Like a hitman, like a dancer

The doorman stares at them as they board the elevator. They're silent all the way up. When they reach the door of Q's apartment, the key doesn't quite fit the lock. This is rather strange, since it worked fine this morning.

Q is a bit nervous. Alright, he is nervous as hell. It's been a long time and this requires physical contact and reading body language and he is afraid that he might have forgotten how either of those things work. There are beats to it and moves that have to correspond to the beat. It is like a dance and Q has no sense of rhythm.

Finally, he manages to stop fumbling and actually insert the key into the lock. There's a sound from inside the apartment.

'You live alone?' Bond asks, suddenly sounding tense.

'Yes, though...'

Bond shoves Q aside, draws his gun and kicks in the door.

'I do happen to have a cat,' Q dryly remarks, as a grey cat races past the door. Bond, looking sheepish, puts away his gun.

'You could have checked the doorknob,' Q reasons.

'Calm down.'

Q is calm. At least, he was until Bond told him to calm down. He does not appreciate the patronizing phrase.

'Why don't you ever do that? This obsession of yours with violence… The door was open! Which you would have known if you had tried it. Next time, try checking the doorknob first before you go kicking in doors like some maniac.'

By now they have an audience. More doors are opening around them. Neighbours are peeking out.

'Sir, you're making a scene,' Bond whispers, imitating Erin's shy yet stern tone. Q tut-tuts the wreckage and mumbles something about 'testosterone driven idiots' before leading his guest away from prying eyes. Bond lifts the door and sort of rams it back into place. The grey cat wanders into view again, sits down and starts to lick his paw.

'Bond...'

'Call me James. We're about to have sex,' Bond points out. He slips off his coat and slings it over the nearest chair. Q swallows.

'James, this is Charles. Charles, James.'

The cat and Bond eye each other. Neither blinks. They seem to recognise something of themselves in each other. The similarities are numerous, Q realises. Both are solitary hunters. Dangerous. They always look like predators about to pounce. They also share an utter disregard for other people's opinions.

'Your cat's named Charles?'

'Babbage, actually. Charles Babbage,' Q teases, mocking Bond's usual greeting. The corner of the agent's mouth trembles. It twists up the tiniest bit. Not quite a smile, but definitely the making of one. Q surmises that Bond likes the joke. Well, he thinks, that was a piece of solid non-verbal communication and I picked up on it nicely. Perhaps social cues aren't so difficult after all.

'The father of the computer,' Bond states. Q blinks, surprised, which causes Bond to smirk.

'I'm not a one-trick pony, Q,' he chastises. He strolls over to the bookcase, dragging his fingers over the spines of a row of books.

'Alphabetised,' he mumbles. He sounds amused. The cat jumps up on the sofa and continues to watch the stranger who has invaded his home. Q can't help but share the feeling, though there is something thrilling about Bond being here too. About Bond touching his belongings.

Bond walks into the kitchen and suddenly Q notices how catlike his movements are. Lazy, controlled, supple. Strangely mesmerising.

'Something wrong?' Bond asks.

'You move...'

'Yes? Bedroom?'

'You're alarmingly casual about this,' Q says, pointing him into the right direction. Deciding to change the subject he has himself begun: not logical. Not logical in the least. He follows Bond into the bedroom. The spy picks up an antique calculator.

'Not my first time,' he remarks over his shoulder, setting the calculator down again, but not in the proper place. Q resists the urge to put it back.

'Well, obviously. From what I gather, you've bedded half of MI6. This is new to me, though. I pride myself on being an exemplary employee. Come in on time, do what my superiors ask of me. I realise this must sound rather odd to you, but…'

'Do stop talking,' Bond urges, starting to unbutton his shirt. With his practised fingers it doesn't take long. He takes off the shirt, sits down on the bed and unties his laces. Uncertainly, Q removes his own jacket and cardigan. He hesitates at his shirt.

Affecting nonchalance, he retires to the back of the bedroom and hides behind the open door of his wardrobe. He sneaks a glance at Bond. How is it possible that the man is all muscle yet moves with such effortless grace?

Ashamed, Q pulls off his shirt. He takes note of Bond's shoulder blades with abject jealousy. They are masculine and wonderful, whereas Q knows of himself that all his own shoulder blades do is pathetically stick out and make him look like a pterodactyl.

He sighs, watches Bond undress and flicks off the light. There's some sunlight filtering through the grey curtains, but it's barely sufficient. Q kicks off his shoes and shimmies out of his pants. Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the lack of light, he takes a few steps towards the bed. Bond is gone. No longer on or near the bed. The light is turned on again.

'What on earth are you doing?' Bond inquires. He is standing by the door, naked and armed.

'I'm...' Q stammers, embarrassed. 'I'm... better in the dark.'

'Nonsense,' Bond asserts, placing his gun on the night stand. Quickly, Q gets rid off his socks and briefs. He could hardly look worse without them.

'You're skinny,' Bond murmurs, sliding his hands down Q's back. Q can't help it; he cringes. Bond notices.

'Not criticism, Q. Merely an observation,' he assures. Then he gently removes Q's glasses and places them on the nightstand. Q cannot deny the ripple of anticipatory pleasure he feels at the thought of sleeping with Bond. That body. Those eyes. That voice.

Even aside from the possible professional ramifications, this is a particularly stupid idea, Q knows. His doubts lasts approximately one second, at which time Bond – in one fluid motion – pulls Q against him and all rational thought goes out the window.