Work Text:
It starts, as a slow dance between them, at MI6 when Bond is bored, has nowhere to go, so he makes Q tea and hovers by his station. Q’s unaccustomed to 00’s brewing anything other than trouble, but he allows it.
Next night, when Q arrives on shift, his tea is already waiting, and the tea maker propped against the wall, grinning. Q takes his mug, mutters thank you over the rim and stares at his keyboard. He might be blushing.
He knows what Bond wants, isn’t opposed to giving it to him, but he doesn’t have the patience for this game. For seduction. Two nights of side stepping around an immovable object has rattled the steel in his spine. If Bond won’t close the six feet of space between them, then Q will.
The surprise on Bond’s face is genuine. A kiss worth risking the reflex, which could have left Q’s neck broken. When Bond’s lips part to welcome Q’s tongue they’re searing enough to melt steel, supple enough to ask it to bend. So Q does. Backwards over his desk, as the man above him bears down, instinct parting his thighs when Bond grinds against him, snapping his hips until Q is keening and coming in his trousers.
And both too far gone to tap the cameras to black.
