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The soft plinks of precipitation against the windowpanes stir Q from his light doze in Bond's arms. He blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to see over Bond's bare shoulder—hot skin distractingly close, smelling like sweat and sex—to the windows of the master bedroom. Where the grey skies of late-afternoon have turned into a shifting curtain of white.
Q scrambles out of Bond's hold, pulling on glasses and a dressing gown—the only clothing he's worn since they arrived at Skyfall Lodge yesterday. He stumbles across the plush carpet, past the massive, crackling fireplace. And with his face inches from the glass, he sees the awful truth. That's not rain falling across the Scottish hills: it's snow.
"Shit," he whispers, a chill starting where his fingertips are pressed against the glass and running all the way down his spine despite the warmth of the bedroom.
The last 24 hours had been a whirlwind of sex, with brief naps and snacks snatched between rounds. While Q expected that kind of day-long stamina from Bond, he's quite impressed with his own ability to keep up…and grateful for all of the activity. Because between the passionate snogging and post-coital cuddles, he's hardly had a moment to think about how long it's been since he logged on, how long it'll take to get back to London in the event of a crisis, what could be going wrong right now that his team is struggling to handle on their own, which vital systems are going unchecked, which connections are being lost, all because their boss decided to faff off to the bloody Highlands on a bloody holiday at the wrong bloody time.
God, he knew it was a mistake to come. There are too many responsibilities, too many lives depending on him. No one else in his branch has his level of authorization should M need something immediately. What if those bastards in Finance try to slash his budget while he's out of town? Or everyone in his branch gets food poisoning, or the avian flu, and all of MI6's active agents lose their support, and he could have prevented it by just staying in town.
But no, Bond wanted a "proper holiday" with actual distance from MI6 HQ. And yes, Q understands Bond's frustration. Bond's spent months slouching on the uncomfortable futon in Q's office, waiting for Q to complete just one more project before they can head out on their date—when said date isn't canceled for a last-minute emergency, of course. Months of Q being on-call during the dates they do make, and of Q climbing out of bed at all hours to hop online, and even—oh god, this was the most embarrassing—interrupting a toe-curlingly brilliant 69 to answer a work call and then heading straight to the office while Bond sighed, naked, erect and glistening on Q's bed, his lips red and swollen from sucking Q's cock.
Q's workaholic compulsions have cost him three relationships since he joined MI6. He wasn't about to lose one with the best man he's ever known, not without doing his damnedest to give Bond the minimum of what he deserves. So he said yes when Bond asked—pleaded, honestly—for a holiday trip to his rebuilt home in Scotland. But Q knows himself too well, bartering Bond down from a week to four days, and hoping, praying that he could keep it together for those four days. He swore to himself he wouldn't open his laptop, wouldn't check the work messaging platform on his phone. If there's an emergency, they'll ring his mobile; R agreed.
Short of receiving that call, he owes Bond his full, undivided attention.
But now it's snowing. They're in a remote corner of the Highlands, miles from the nearest village, and a strong storm could easily cut them off from civilization, from power, from MI6 entirely. Four days could turn into a week, a month. The entire national defense could be overrun during that time! Q doesn't realize he's still muttering shit shit shit until Bond says, "Problem, darling?"
Q flinches and jerks his freezing hand away from the window. "Oh it's…it's snowing."
"How lovely."
"It's not lovely! What if we get snowed in? What if we're trapped here, like 004 was in Chile last year?"
Bond rises out of the bed, his gorgeous body practically glowing with warmth, and Q belatedly shivers with a chill that's both physical and mental. Bond slips into his own dressing gown and pads over to join Q, pausing by the fire to add another log. The flames leap a little higher, and Q leans toward them and toward Bond when he puts his arms around Q.
"Skyfall is far-better equipped to weather a storm than some Chilean fishing shack," Bond rumbles in his ear, and then proceeds to list the many improvements he made to the estate last year. Central heating, two backup generators, enough dry wood to last a month, a fully stocked larder including liquor and water, a snowmobile in the shed, a snowplow attachment for Kincade's truck, and a satellite phone in the safe. "We even have enough lube and condoms to host a week-long orgy, should one of those happen to break out spontaneously. This is hardly the ends of the earth, Q. We aren't stranded or lost."
Q shakes his head, none of those precautions enough to assuage the rising panic in his chest, the guilty certainty that he needs to get back to London now, and that when Q leaves, Bond will say good riddance to their relationship. Unreasonable, selfish, an absentee boyfriend—Q's heard them all from his past partners. Which accusation will Bond use…or will he come up with something new and even more devastating?
"But then, you already know all that; you suggested half of them yourself." After a thoughtful pause, Bond heaves a portentous sigh, his disappointment painfully clear. "I'd hoped to make it at least two days before this."
Q cringes. "It's been wonderful—" he starts to say, but Bond shushes him.
"Come with me. I have a surprise for you next door."
Bond's laid-in something to distract him, to try to take Q's mind off work. It's a sweet thought, and Q is terribly grateful for all of the effort Bond's put into this holiday getaway for them, but the only things that've kept Q's mind off of work so far are sex and sleep, and he doesn't think he could get it up again for at least another few hours, and he's far too tense to fall asleep now. "It'd better not be an orgy," Q says with forced mirth.
Bond laughs and tugs him across thick carpets, Q's bare feet moving quicker over the thin patches of uncovered hardwood. The first door down the hall to the right is closed, and Bond gestures for Q to open it. Inside is a spacious sitting room, although only one small corner is furnished. There's an unlit fireplace, a floor lamp standing beside a well-padded armchair, and a small bookcase next to a window.
"Cozy," Q says of the reading nook, before turning to consider the rest of the space—empty save for a stack of wooden crates bearing familiar bar codes and department inventory numbers. "What is this?"
"I asked R to pack us some equipment. So you could set up a personalized workstation."
Q drifts closer and looks at the small-print labels below the bar codes. A server rack, desk and chair, multiple monitors, headset, ergonomic keyboard, soldering iron, spare circuit boards, network cables, even a small satellite to affix to the roof. "You brought me a satellite office. On our holiday."
"Some assembly required, but yes."
"But…we're only here for four days."
"This time." Bond coughs, as though nervous. "I'm hopeful this won't be our last holiday together. And since I'll have to share said holidays with MI6, I'd prefer to enjoy your company from close by."
Q finally turns his awed gaze away from the pile of electronic treasures and takes in the small fire Bond has just lit, and Bond already settled in the armchair with a book in hand, gazing fondly at Q.
Q thinks of Bond waiting on the lumpy office futon all those nights while Q worked late, and he finds it hard to breathe past the tightness in his throat. Unlike Q's ex-boyfriends, Bond's always waited silently, never nagging or chiding Q for the extra hours he works.
Patient, understanding. Accepting.
Work is suddenly the last thing on Q's mind.
Overwhelmed, Q throws himself across the room and into Bond's lap. He tugs the book out of Bond's hands and tosses it on top of the bookcase.
"Well," Bond says, his emptied palms seeking out Q's hips as Q squirms to straddle him. "And here I thought I'd already lost you to your work."
Q leans in close and inhales the scents of sweat, sex, and love behind Bond's ear. "Oh no, I think you have me for another 24 hours at least. You perfect, perfect man."
"I truly don't mind if you—"
Q shuts him up with a kiss, his tongue delving hungrily between Bond's lips, seeking out his taste and reveling in the way Bond groans into the caress. Their hands work blindly, sliding dressing gowns out of the way until there's nothing but hot skin sliding together, hot breaths intermingling, and the hot snap and crackle of the fire beside them.
Outside, the last few flurries drift curiously past the window before melting on their way to the ground.