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Bond parked his Jaguar on the street and stepped out, straightening his cuffs and collar as he walked up the sidewalk to the club entrance. They were still letting people in, which was grand. He’d hate to have to keep the young Quartermaster waiting.
Latvia had been boring. Honest-to-God fucking boring. He didn’t even have to use the gun or the transmitter. For once, everything had gone to plan, by the book, and so perfectly seamless that he’d been afraid that someone had actually managed to nuke the world while he rotted in the fucking safe-house. But that was all behind him. As he walked past the line, he acknowledged, with a subtle smirk, the sidelong glances and outright stares he was getting from the women, and some men, who waited to get into the club. He was very glad he’d gone without the suit tonight; with his solid black button up and denims that fit him perfectly, he’d fit right in. He glanced at his watch. 10:02pm. Well, he was here. Not that late. Traffic had been horrid.
He finally slipped past the bouncers at ten past, and winced a bit at the oppressive press of bodies just inside the door, the crowds setting off his mental proximity alarms. He pushed past them and made a straight line to the bar. He blinked against the wild neon theater lights and laser lighting as the bass thumped against his chest. “Definitely not where one would find a computer nerd,” he muttered to himself, barely hearing his own voice in the heated air. He flicked a finger at one of the five bartenders, and when the pretty blonde made her way over to him he leaned forward enough to smell her floral perfume. “Get me your best whisky, straight. Fill the glass.” She nodded and moved away, and he turned, one elbow on the bartop, to scan the crowd. His drink arrived, he paid the girl, and turned back around - and Q was standing right there. “Jesus!” He closed his eyes against the adrenaline rush. “Can’t hear a bloody thing in this place!”
“I’m not having a problem, Bond.” Q leaned forward, almost fully against Bond’s torso, and talked directly at his ear. “You just can’t be afraid to get close.”
Bond could smell the soft earthy notes of Q’s cologne, thankful that he didn’t go with that wild smelling stuff most young people did nowadays. He turned his head so he could talk to Q. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”
“Good!” Q backed away and knocked back the rest of his vodka and cranberry, at least that’s what it looked like. He set the glass on the bar and reached into the pocket of his - holy hell, are those painted on? - skinny jeans for money. Bond stilled the motion, belatedly realizing that his hand was resting on a very warm hip. Q looked up at him with very, very green eyes. “What?”
“I’ll get this. You invited me, I’ll get this round.” Bond turned and signaled the blonde again, only to find a drink at his elbow and a scrawny scruff-ball of a hipster grinning at Q, who was grinning right the fuck back. He wasn’t ready for the hot surge of MINE that shot through his brain, and he tried to ignore it as the hacker mouthed ‘thanks’ and pointed at Bond. “He’s getting it!”
“Oh, okay!” The boy looked at Bond, who tossed a few bills on the bar. “Keep it.” The boy nodded, and Bond turned away. “Where to, Q - Q?” He looked out to the gathering crowd, and spotted the mop of brown hair moving through them. He pushed away from the bar and followed that head through the throng, straight out to a table that had three others perched on bar stools. The table overlooked the dance floor, which was full of gyrating bodies. Lasers and spotlights bounced and scattered around the area, and in a moment of clarity Bond finally got a good look at Q’s attire...and his brain stopped working for a while. The dark denim skinny jeans accented the man’s hips and thighs, ending in a pair of well worn black Chuck Taylors and topped by a studded belt and a not quite form-fitting dark red button-up that accented his rather toned frame. The sleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm. Silver and black bracelets adorned his thin wrists, and Bond finally looked back up at Q’s face proper to find him smiling at him. “Like what you see, Bond?”
Bond only smiled, something that involved only his eyes. “I do.”
“Nice.” Q flicked a hand at his apparent companions. “Mindy, Tomas, and Natasha. Guys, this is James.” Q whirled around, something that Bond felt could only be pulled off by the hacker, and stepped around the railing to the floor. He turned his head and smiled at Bond. “Are you coming or not?” He had to shout, now that he was that far away from the agent, and Bond shook his head slightly.
“No. Show me what you’ve got, first.”
A fire lit Q’s eyes, something dark and hungry coming across in that gaze, and Q smiled. There was nothing, absolutely nothing innocent about that small twist of red lips.
Bond continued staring into Q’s eyes until he realized the man was moving.
The hips, first - swaying and rocking with the beat, rolling through the multicoloured stripes slicing across his body. Then the music really started up, and Q was in motion, his head swinging as his whole body moved to the thumping bass of the club music. Beside Bond, Natasha slipped off the stool and joined the hacker out on the floor, matching him move for serpentine move. She slid in front of him, and they rolled together as if they were one organism. Bond’s eyes focused through the smoke of the fog machines and bubbles and lasers, watching Q’s hands slither down the sides of the tight black dress Natasha was poured into, caressing her ribs and hips as she raised her hands above her head.
“You gonna go out there or what, mate?”
Bond ticked his head over to Tomas. “Thinking about it!” He really had to shout now, because the music was building again, throbbing against his head. God, he wanted a cigarette.
“Don’t wait too long, then, man! Or Evan’s gonna take that bird home with him instead of you!”
Bond turned his head back out to the floor, where the apparent mating dance was really heating up. Q - Evan, his cover name, apparently - was undulating against Natasha now, his hips rolling into her plush arse as he locked an arm around her trim waist and muttered something unintelligible into her ear. He thought he could make out the words ‘James’ and ‘three’.
Oh. This was going to get interesting.
Tomas leaned over again, his shaggy blond hair brushing lightly against Bond’s ear unintentionally. “Man, just go out there!”
Bond turned, very face to face with the kid and smirked. “Let me finish my drink.” He knocked back the rest of his whisky and pushed away from the table as the other two moved out to the dance floor beside him. They were soon intertwined as smoothly as Q and Natasha were, but Bond wasn’t paying attention to that. His eyes were locked on Q, locked on his body, his hair glinting in the spasming lights, the glasses that he supposed looked rather good on Q’s angular face...Those eyes, green depths that gazed at him through the haze and damn near reached out to grab him by the balls to drag him over, oh, those eyes. Before he knew what he was doing, Bond had his hands on Q’s hips, guiding both him and the woman into an easy rhythm similar to what they’d been doing before.
Q leaned his head back until it rested on Bond’s shoulder, his mouth close to the agent’s ear. “Interested in a threesome, James?”
Bond smirked, keeping his eyes forward and grinding up against Q’s pert rump. He wasn’t quite hard yet, but just the mention of having both of these beautiful creatures tonight was stirring him. And why hadn’t I noticed Q before this? And when did this start? He shook off the thoughts and allowed the self-satisfied smirk blossom into a smile. “I’m in, Evan.”
They stayed like that through three more songs before Natasha waved farewell to her friends (apparently Q had only just met the group) and grabbed both of their hands to lead them out of the club and into the crisp night air.
Bond flopped onto his back after extracting himself from the pile of bedclothes and limbs and the two bodies he was curled around. His brain wasn’t functioning correctly just yet, only to the point of pinpointing and reacting to threats, not capable of higher thinking, so he didn’t think about how he was in Q’s bed. He didn’t think of how Q sounded when Nat had swallowed him down to the root with three of Bond’s fingers wriggling in his arse. He definitely didn’t think of a tiny purple metallic pill-shaped vibrator that Q had dragged along his perineum long enough to make Bond squirm and growl and sweat.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his feet on the cold wood floor.
“Are you leaving, Bond?”
He turned his head slightly to accept the press of full red lips against his cheekbone. Q plastered his naked torso against his back and breathed in his ear. “Probably.”
“You know, it’s fine. She’s passed out. We could have a few more drinks in the kitchen if you’d like.”
And that’s how Bond found himself drinking Russian Standard at 5am on a Sunday morning, naked as the day he’d been born in the Quartermaster’s kitchen, with his arms wrapped around thin shoulders as bare as his own, swaying to the beat only they had in their heads. One could call it cuddling, he supposed, but the more he thought about it, the more one word came to mind: anchor. Q was an anchor, a voice in his ear telling him which door to go through, which wire to cut, which baddie to shoot...the voice that always brought him home in the end. He sighed and held out his glass for the hacker to fill again, then watched him take a swig straight from the bottle. Bond tightened his grip, and they stood like that until the dawn light.