He takes the bottle with him as he moves through to theliving room, half expecting to find Q already asleep on the sofa – to scratchone or both cats behind the ear, if he’s permitted, to coax Q to bed if it’sneeded, and to disappear.

Instead, he finds Q sat upright on the sofa staring at anearly-full glass of wine consideringly.

James leans against the door.

“If you’re waiting for an invitation --- well, it’s notgoing to drink itself.” Q startles at the sound of the voice, though James hadbeen making no special effort to keep himself quiet. He stands, hand pressingat his chest as though willing a jumping heart to calm itself beneath histouch.

“You’re a menace, double-oh seven, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” James pushes himself from the doorway,sets the bottle on the table. Q watches him approach with a little wariness.

“By me,” he points out. There’s high colour on his cheeks, awine-stain glow.

“Frequently,” James agrees. “Though not exclusively.”

“Well. I’m telling you now.”

James tips his head in easy acquiescence, not even feigningany offence. “It’s duly noted.” Q huffs in response, a rush of air from betweenparted lips, and he folds his arms in front of his chest, looking a littlesulky.

“Must you always be so – so –”

“Irritating?” James provides, anticipating the new insult.

“—opaque,” Q corrects. That earns a quirk of a brow fromJames. “You cover everything up with sarcasm.I’ve no idea what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Yes, you do. More than most, at least.” It’s true; Qfeatures high on the list of people that could probably discern at least theshape of what he’s thinking. A skill picked up through years of close working,a required intimacy.

“More than nothing isn’t all that much,” Q says.

“It’s enough.”

“You’re an idiot,you know that double-oh? All I want is –” Q arrests himself mid-sentence. Jamesis intrigued, and not only because it’s his nature and his job to be so.

“----is?” he prompts.

Q scowls, and the flush on his cheeks must now be a mixtureof frustration and alcohol. There’s a moment where elegant fingers tapconsideringly against forearm where they’re still crossed over his chest.

The step closer is taken defiantly. There’s not much betweenthem, but Q tips his head ever so slightly to meet James’ eyes. James’ own gazedoes not waver, fixed coolly on the grey-green eyes in front of him.

The fingers in his shirt are a surprise, a move notcalculated. So, too, is the way that Q pulls him closer – no resistance from James,part surprise and part intrigue and just a little bit a lack of will, nothingcompelling to keep him from being led.

Q kisses him quickly, like he’s afraid he might lose hisnerve. Lips press against his, firm and nervous.

It’s all instinct, all familiar, the way that James gentlesthe kiss – fingers brushing at hips, head tilting a little, coaxing a lazygentleness from it that was not there before. There’s nothing familiar, nothinghabitual about the hop-jump of his heart somewhere at the base of his throat. Akiss that is something more than just a kiss.

He pulls back, keeping Q at a distance with palms pressedagainst the curve of hipbone.

   “You’re drunk,”James points out.

   “And you’refacetious.”

A breath of laughter warms the air between them, and Jamessteps back again, hands falling reluctantly back to his sides.

“Go to bed, Q.”

James is anything but a lightweight.

One glass is negligible. Two is habit. Three is at least asign of intent. James can’t recall the last time that anyone had to guide himto bed.

Today, Q comes home and finds an empty bottle of scotch thathe doesn’t recognise on the kitchen counter, barely a few drops left in the bottomof the bottle. Q tips it up to read the label, then sets it back upright as hemoves towards the living room.

He finds James sprawled on the sofa, a half-empty glass rollingbetween his fingers idly. The room smells like alcohol and warmth and leather;for once James isn’t in a suit. The leather jacket looks soft, well-worn, thoughQ doesn’t recall having seen it before.

Q leans against the doorway.

“I see that you don’t need an invitation,” he says. Jamesdoesn’t react, for a long moment, until he rolls his head over towards Q.

“I’m sorry,” he says flatly, not at all apologetic. “Wereyou hoping to share?”

“I think you’ve done quite well enough on your own,double-oh seven.”

Q takes a seat on the sofa, a cautious distance betweenthem, and eyes the agent critically.

“Must you always be so disapproving?”

The déjà vu brings a half-smile to Q’s face. He has no doubtthat James, too, has drawn the comparison, is encouraging it deliberately. Thatsaid, perhaps he ought to have expected the smooth lean into his space, thesudden scent of whisky-warm breath. James’ fingers curl at his neck, and thekiss is confident, just a little demanding.

Q’s breath catches, one hand flying up to clutch at James’wrist where his hand cradles Q’s face.

James leans back a fraction, and his eyes are hazy-soft,pupils wide, something soft like a smile tucked at their corners.

       “Come to bed,Q.”

Another catch of breath, a staccato stutter-stop of heart inrib cage, and Q reaches out a hand with the intention of pushing himself awayfrom James. Instead, it rests on his chest, warm and uncertain. Beneath hisfingers he can feel the beat of James’ heart. Steady.

“No,” he says. “No.”

James smiles, like he’s unsurprised, and slumps back againstthe sofa. The glass is raised, last of the whisky drained. One last consideringlook at Q, and he stands, unsteady but more upright than he has any right tobe.