Archive of Our Own ^beta

            Bond has had modeling training.

            From his perch on the second level, Q watched with shrewd precision as the aforementioned agent strode and snaked his way through the various worktables, desks, testing areas, and cubicles of the Q Branch Laboratories. Having been the Quartermaster for going on five months now, he had thus far had plenty opportunity to observe 007 and various other agents walk to-and-fro through the beehive that was Q Branch. All the double-0s immediately commanded attention whenever they set foot into a room: 008 with his dark skin and full mouth, 004 with her petit figure and sharp cat-eyes, 005 with his rigid walk and authoritative footstep. And 007, with his electric-blue eyes and his firm shoulders that seemed always to enter first, the rest of him following like an afterthought. The others presented themselves with intensity and authority. 007 simply presented.

            Hips canted slightly forward, spine an easy line sloping back, feet held should-width apart and powerful. His stance not only flaunts his suit of the day, but also his body, as if he’s got a designer figure.

            (He does. Q’s seen it. The whole bloody Q branch has seen it, as well as a decent portion of the other departments – particularly the female portion.)

            Placing one hand on the railing, Q adjusted his glasses as he looked down at, and briefly caught eyes with the nearing double-0 agent. Bond gave what could only be called a mock-salacious wink as he turned and began ascending the stairs to the second level where Q waited at his workstation. The young Quartermaster did not bother to turn around even as he heard 007’s footsteps reach the top of the stairs, choosing instead to continue his survey of Q branch’s employees at work.

            “Good morning Q.”

            The returned “ ‘morning”, was deadpanned, thrown over Q’s shoulder carelessly like a used napkin. This entire display he was putting out was meant to make the meeting as impersonal as possible, to make it seem as though Bond’s presence was inconsequential. To leave no room for dill-dally or pleasantries or—

            “Well then: how would you like me?”

            Flirtation.

            Q stiffened as the words were spoken right next to his ear, 007 having approached him from behind without making a sound. He held very still, mentally plotting out his increasing heart-rate against the calm and steady breath on the nape of his neck.

            As smoothly as his heightened functions would allow, Q ordered: “In my office, please, hands at your sides, feet shoulder-width apart,” and hoped that the sigh he relieved himself of as 007 stepped away was not audible.

            Q’s office was on the east side of the second level of Q branch, just a rectangle with one wall of concrete and three of glass that could be made opaque and soundproof with a few strokes of a keyboard. When he turned around to survey his agent, 007 had already entered said office and assumed the requested position, and Q was again sorely reminded of his earlier observation. Today, Bond was wearing a grey blazer and pants, and a tie that was just barely blue, only a shade different than the rest of his attire. On another body it might have looked drab, or dull; but the way Bond stood seemed to display every sharp angle, every meticulous crease. For one who often wore his accoutrements with such disdain, he did a remarkable job of showing them off.

            He wondered briefly how Bond would react if Q asked him to walk up and down the length of the elongate office, but promptly squashed the thought. Instead, he too entered the office, shut the door behind him, and reached into the pocket of his brown jumper, producing a small object that 007 eyed curiously.

            Q paused to consider whether or not he should tint the glass walls of his office. It would be a wise extra precaution, but it might also be slightly incriminating, since everyone on the lower level had seen 007 walk through and therefore knew that he was in conference with their esteemed Quartermaster. Besides, Q’s office was far enough away from the railing that, from almost any vantage point on the ground floor, all one could see of the office were the tops of its glass walls.

            Q hazarded a glance at the large monitor screen mounted on the south wall of his office, which showed multiple feeds of the goings-on of the lower level, noting that quite a few glances were turning upwards and to the East. Yes, best not to bolster the rumor mill by being suspicious.

            “Keeping me in suspense, Q?”

            The sultry sound of Bond’s voice put an abrupt halt to Q’s musings, and he steeled himself as he rounded his gaze back onto Bond. The double-0 agent had relocated his hands to his pockets, and shifted his hips forwards slightly, giving him a haughty, impatient sort of air if it weren’t for the tell-tale quirk of his lips.

            “Please do cooperate, 007, and I will endeavor to make this as painless as possible.”

            “I bet you say that to all the agents,” 007 returned easily, only a hint of mirth in his otherwise serious voice. 

            Q rolled his eyes, and took several steps forward, coming around the left side of 007. “Yes. Because at work I have nothing better to do than harass Her Majesty’s finest.”

            “Damn,” 007 cursed unconvincingly, keeping his blue eyes trained forward as Q moved around to stand behind him. “And I thought here that I was receiving particular treatment.”

            To that, Q gave no response, which with 007 was sometimes the best response. Instead, he quietly surveyed the expanse of Bond’s back and shoulders; though he was at least a good ten centimeters taller than Q, Bond was not nearly as towering as his countenance suggested, though he certainly had the shoulders to make up for it. Not overly broad, but definitely strong with the curve of muscle hidden beneath the smooth grey fabric of his suit.

            Q’s attention was snagged momentarily by Bond’s foot, which shifted ever so slightly, and the Quartermaster couldn’t help but give a small smirk. Agents were notorious for hating to have people in their blind spots; apparently, even the infamous daredevil that was 007 did not approve of Q being there.

            Bringing his attention back to eye-level, Q let the object he was holding—a small tape measure—unroll and descend floorwards. Wondering vaguely if he was going to get thrown clear across the room, Q brought the end of the tape measure to the corner of one grey shoulder and extended it to the other, mentally notating the measurement.

            “Remind me again why you are taking my measurements,” Bond drawled conversationally, doing an impressive job of keeping relaxed as Q began his second measurement, pinning one end of the tape at the base of his neck and letting it fall downwards. Q on the other hand nearly startled when he felt the steady rhythm of Bond’s pulse under his thumb.

            “Because if Q Branch is to begin making specialized suits part of your kit, we will need your precise measurements, and I cannot blindly assume that the numbers currently on file are 100 percent accurate,” Q replied, pursing his lips and committing another number to memory. “Round about, please.”

            007 complied, turning to face Q—or the top of Q’s mess of hair, to be more accurate. He tilted his head down so that he could look the younger man in the eyes.

            “What I meant was: why the personal touch? I’m sure you could have asked one of your minions to do this.”

            “Technicians, 007. Again, the issue there is assurance of accuracy.”

            “That is a disturbing lack of confidence in your staff’s capability you have there.”

            “I do not doubt their capability; I simply do not trust you to be acquiescent. I would rather have this done correctly the first time rather than wait for you to take the time to behave. Jacket off.”

            “Feeling bossy today?” the taller man asked as he did as he was told and shrugged out of the steely grey jacket.

            Q just barely kept from rolling his eyes. He had been warned early on by various parties to be wary of 007 and his infamous penchant for flirtation. At first, he had thought nothing of it; Bond, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be straight (more or less), and for a while Q managed a business-like rapport with the man.

            But, starting a few weeks ago, the dynamic had inexplicably been altered. Q had been puzzled at first. What was the cause for this change? Mentally, he reviewed all his conversations, every interaction he and the double-0 had engaged in since their first encounter. Had he been inappropriate? Had he given some indication that this kind of behavior was acceptable? His memory, accurate as it was, provided him with no answers. Apparently, 007 just woke up one morning and decided that it was appropriate to say “Good morning, gorgeous,” when he walked into Q Branch for weapons training—well within ear-shot of several ballistics technicians.

            Which had started up all kinds of terrible rumors, Q was sure.

            In any case, Bond had been keeping up a steady flirtation with him for weeks now and Q, ever-adaptable, had learned how to properly field it and respond.

            The trick, he found, to it was fairly simple: he must simply keep in mind that none of it was serious. Flirting was something Bond did perpetually and to almost everyone, usually not for a specific aim (unless he was in the field) but more as a means to put people at ease with him (or annoy the living daylight out of M). As long as Q maintained the thought that it was all in good humor, there was no reason to construe anything from it or find it unsettling.

            Bond draped his jacket carefully over the edge of Q’s desk, leaving him in nothing but a white button-up shirt and that strange almost not-blue tie. Like the suit, the white shirt beneath was all lines, but that didn’t stop Q from noticing the distinct presence of musculature—which he was fully expecting but still gave him pause. Up until now, Q had been very careful to avoid pondering 007’s body as much as was possible; and being that he was a fairly young man of certain inclinations, he felt he had done a rather excellent job of keeping his mind off of it, particularly once 007 had started making come-ons. He was disciplined enough to prevent himself from contemplating such things. Until now, that is, where it was pertinent that he be thinking about the man’s body.  

            Though obviously not in that manner.

            Bond, ever observant noted Q’s stare and asked politely: “Something the matter, Q?”

            Without thinking, Q blurted:—

            “Your shirt. It needs to come off.” 

            Instantly after the words escaped his mouth, Q wanted to shove his tar-covered foot in it. The grin that nearly broke out over Bond’s otherwise expertly schooled features was no help in the matter at all.

            “Is that so?” 007 queried.

            Q, who was mentally slamming his head into a wall, pinched the bridge of his nose and pretended to give a tired sigh. “Yes, 007. The measurements for your jacket need to be as precise as possible, so if you would be so kind,” he gestured by giving an irritated wave of his hand.

            Surprisingly (but thankfully), Bond refrained from making comment as he removed the tie and stiff white button-up, placing them next to his jacket. Now all that remained covering Bond’s chiseled torso was an impeccably white A-shirt.

            Though Q’s facial features were schooled into an inquisitive, calculating sort of calm, internally his thoughts were churning ferociously. About a thousand different notions were circling his head, pelting his brain like a particularly vicious onslaught of hail. And he could feel himself beginning to react physically as well, which was of no comfort—

            Q bristled, internally chiding himself. Really.  

            Muttering a quiet and efficient, “arm please”, he set about measuring the length of the limb he had requested. He measured the full length from shoulder to just past the wrist, then the circumference of the upper arm, forearm, and wrist. His lips moved silently, telling the numbers to himself and cataloging them away for future reference.

            Next he measured Bond’s torso. He found that, while the agent was silent, he could easily complete a task that otherwise might have been slightly awkward. 007’s lack of comment allowed Q to pretend as if it wasn’t really Bond whose chest and waist he was measuring, but a mannequin.

            Bond certainly kept still enough for a mannequin. He did not attempt to breathe in or flex his pectorals when Q brought the tape around his chest, and if Q raised an eyebrow at his surprisingly slender waist measurements, Bond didn’t notice or didn’t care.

            As Q let the tape drop from around Bond’s hips, he nearly let out an audible groan as the agent spoke up. “You are a man of many talents, Q.”

            Running over the numbers in his head one more time in order to make sure he had them, Q scoffed and replied, “Yes, obviously. This particular task takes a great deal of skill and intellect.” Not letting himself hesitate, he crouched down and began measuring Bond’s legs, starting with the outside seam all the way down to his ankle, the slight jut of the end of the fibula.

            “I would say it is a multi-faceted man who can do all of your technical work, make gadgets, and find time to put together suits as well. Not just a tinker, then, but a tailor too.”

            “Indeed.” Q paused for a moment, considering whether he should give Bond a warning—for courtesy’s sake. Which he did.

            “I am going to measure your inseam,” he said, standing up briefly only to re-position his crouch right in front of Bond. “—Don’t get too excited,” he added darkly.

            “For you, I will endeavor to try. But I will say, it isn’t every day that I am almost felt up by my Quartermaster for the sake of Queen and Country.” 

            “Keyword being ‘almost’,” Q said dryly, using his thumb to pin one end of the tape to Bond’s upper thigh. He tried to focus on the task at hand and not how close he was to palming Bond’s crotch. “Besides, I hear you have plenty of other opportunity to be felt up for Queen and Country.”

            Something in 007’s countenance shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. And do you believe everything you hear?”

            “When it comes through our direct line of communication, yes,” Q answered as he began obtaining measurements for the circumference of various points on Bond’s thigh. Once finished, he tried not to draw away too hastily lest he seem anxious. He stood up—only to realize that he should have stepped back before doing so because it put him much too close to Bond. Startled, his pointed nose nearly brushed the soft fabric of Bond’s A-shirt and his sharp inhale newly acquainted him with the smell of Bond beneath the suit: musky, slightly bitter, warm.

            His step backwards might have been too quick or not quick enough. He wasn’t sure. But when he looked into Bond’s face, he saw that the agent was wearing a most curious smile.

            Q was sorely tempted to spit out “what?” but also didn’t think indulging that notion was the wisest thing to do. He did not want to know what Bond was thinking. So instead he pushed his glasses back up his nose from where they had been sliding, and began rolling up the tape. “That will be all,” he informed Bond. “You may put your things back on.”

            In a distressing display of compliance, Bond did as he was told, and began slipping back into his white shirt, doing up the buttons quickly and efficiently. “Sure you have all of those measurements, Q? I did not see you write them down.”

            Involuntarily, Q’s brain started rattling the numbers off. “Of course, I do,” he said snappishly, “I—”

            His brain stuttered to a halt.

            Oh. Damn.  

            Bond, who was in the act of doing up his tie, looked up and positively grinned. “Ah. So you did forget at least one.”

            “I didn’t forget a number,” Q huffed, “I forgot to take a measurement. I need the circumference of your neck.”

            “What for?”

            Absently, Q laid a hand on one hip in impatience. “Your collar, 007.”

            “Planning to put a leash on me, Q?”

            “And a ball gag.” The reply fled his mouth without warning, without premeditation, and he received a well-deserved smirk for his sauciness. However, he did not dare look abashed. Besides: the ease of his reply readily masked the burn under his own collar. Jesus. “Look straight forward and hold still.”

            Removing the tie once more from his neck, Bond let his hands fall back to his sides whilst Q took a deep breath and looped the tape-measure carefully around the agent’s neck. Inevitably, as he smoothed the tape-measure across the circumference, the pads of his fingers brushed warm skin, feeling it prickle at his touch, as if electrified. Bond’s breathing was deep, calm, but there was no mistaking the accelerated pulse that thudded beneath Q’s fingers.

            Q looked at the tape-measure, seeing but not comprehending. His long, lissome fingers tapped out the rhythm of Bond’s pulse against the centimeter-markings of the tape, mind curiously curling around this new information. The pulse he felt now was much faster than the one he had felt when they had first started, yet it was the only indication that anything in Bond’s comportment had changed. What did it mean?

            For all his genius, Q could surmise only two statistical likelihoods:

            One: Bond was uncomfortable.

            Two: He was aroused.

            And suddenly, he was looking directly into 007’s eyes, a hand gently pushing his chin and gaze upwards. Electric blue irises appealed to him, partially overcome by the black pit of pupils, dilated and hungry.

            His angry wrenching away was a knee-jerk reaction, an impulse not governed by thought but by self-preservation. He jerked his head and abruptly brushed away 007’s hand, snatching himself backwards and whirling around, turning his back on the agent. Shit. Shit shit shit.

            “We’re,” he swallowed, and hated himself for hesitating, hated the way his voice had lowered and his skin felt flushed. “We’re finished here, Bond.”

            Behind him, the agent said nothing.

            Despising the silence he was met with, Q added (more nastily than he intended): “It looks as though you will leave with what little is left of your chastity intact.”

            And that comment did garner a chuckle. There was a rustle of fabric as 007 supposedly shimmied back into his shirt, tie, and blazer.

            “Pity, that,” came Bond’s teasing, sultry voice. “Care to remedy it?”

            Q twisted the tape measure vindictively in his hands and gritted his teeth. “Good bye, 007.”

            He didn’t dare turn around until he heard the door click shut behind him.