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💙 drunken kiss / tipsy
Hey @dude-watchin-with-the-brontes! Thank you so much for this prompt, and apologies for taking so long to get something written! Here's a short little prompt fill for you.
Enjoy 💙
Read it below or on AO3.
drunk.
When they emerge from the pub, it’s still light out, which seems like madness until Q remembers the recent turn of the clock. Daylight savings. The most wonderful time of the year. The night sky is a haze of pink and orange, and if he were a different man, Q would call it romantic.
“It is.”
“Hm?” Q turns to the man beside him. Bond. The last man standing, as ever. He looks remarkably sober for having polished off an incalculable amount of hard alcohol.
“Romantic,” Bond says. “The sky. I was agreeing with you.”
“Right. Yes. I definitely—” Q swallows a small burp. “I definitely meant to say that aloud. Christ. I’m ratarsed.”
Bond laughs. Laughs. It’s such a rarity that Q closes his eyes for a moment. Tries to seal it into his memory and lock it away with everything else that should only be declassified in seventy-five years.
When he opens his eyes, the sky is even pinker, and Bond is standing in front of him. His eyes are lovely, but lovelier are the laugh lines around them.
Deep, they are. Well-worn.
Q knows it’s just genetics. DNA-sequencing. A pinch of his mother, more of his father. The creases of his face don’t mean Bond’s laughed so much in life, really, and yet he smiles easily when they’re like this: drunk under London’s sky, meandering through the city, usually while it’s raining. Thank goodness it isn’t tonight. Q hasn’t an umbrella on him, not even a dangerously experimental one.
“All right, Q?”
“Fine. Yes. Lovely.”
“And ratarsed.”
Q wobbles on a loose paving stone. Bond’s hand steadies him.
“Mm. But a merry sort of ratarsed. I think the fresh air’s helped.”
A laughing couple walk past. They’re handsy, all over each other, and their loud public affection might normally prove annoying, but it isn’t tonight. The sky is lovely, and the company is even lovelier, so why shouldn’t everyone kiss where they like?
Why shouldn’t Q?
He leans in.
But Bond’s hand moves from his arm to his chest, and Q is kept at bay.
“Q.”
“What? But we—” Q breaks off, frowning.
They’ve done this before. They’ve done this in Q’s office, and they’ve done it in Bond’s. They’ve done it in a hospital, and they’ve done it once in Cyprus amongst the olive trees. Infrequent as it is, Q’s habitual drunken snog with Bond is one of the two constants in his life. The other constant is the cats, and he can’t very well snog them.
“I know.”
“Is there someone else?”
He cringes as soon as he says it averting his eyes. He sounds like a desperate wife concerned about Bond’s mistresses—all those overseas trips, the late nights at the office. It’s nine o’clock. Where’ve you been? Absurd, if only because Q’s the one who’s always staying late.
So. They’ve snogged a few times. So what? Q shagged a man named Iain a few weeks ago. Bond’s fucked three women with three different names since. Q forgets them. He’s sure Bond hasn’t.
There’s a messy, drunken taxi line forming outside the pub. People waiting for their Ubers, give their friends one last hug, then two, then three. A weight sinks in Q’s stomach and sloshes about amongst seven pints.
“Too many people, then?” he ventures.
“Q, look at me.”
He does.
“I’d have you in front of a football stadium if that’s what you wanted.”
Q’s breath feels punched out of him.
Bond steps closer, slides his hand up Q’s jaw. Their foreheads touch; Q’s messy curls, greasy from the day, pick up the clammy sweat on Bond’s forehead. Bond’s lips are so close. They look cold. Q wants to warm them.
“I’d just prefer to have you sober,” says Bond.
“Oh. Yes.” Q digs his hand under Bond’s jacket and urges him closer. Behind them, someone lets loose a catcall. “Yes.” He bites his bottom lip. “Perhaps one for the road, though? While I sober up?”
Bond smiles. He turns his head until his lips meet Q’s cheek—or rather his jaw—and there is nothing chaste about the kiss he places there. It’s louche and incendiary in the way of all Bond’s actions. Q’s body does not know the meaning of whisky dick.
When he surfaces from the haze of the last few minutes, an MI6 driver is waiting to take him home. He climbs into the car with Bond, knowing that when he gets out, he’ll be getting out alone. The thought doesn’t smart like it might have on some other night. He creates a reminder in his phone for the following morning — CALL BOND - DATE?? — and leans back against the headrest.
Bond’s hand is waiting for him; it tangles in Q’s hair. Outside, the day disappears into a navy blue sky.
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The naming of female characters in Bond movies makes a lot more sense if you headcanon them as trans women who picked their own slutty names.
Like, can I believe "Pussy Galore" is a cis woman who was named that as a baby? No. But a trans woman who got vaginaplasty and is very proud it of? Of course!
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