[Fic] let's get lost
Fandom: James Bond
Characters: James Bond, Q, Gareth Mallory
Pairing: Bond/Mallory/Q
Rating: PG-13
Word count: c.520
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
A/N: For the trope bingo prompt "crossdressing".
***
“Moneypenny was unavailable,” Q says in response to Bond’s raised eyebrow when he sees him and the beautiful gown he’s wearing, a light shawl covering his bare shoulders, and a dark wig the curls down past the neckline of his dress.
“Is that what M told you?” Bond asks, taking Q’s hand and kissing the back of it. Q’s delicate bracelet jingles, sapphires that match his dress set in silver.
Bond leads Q onto the dance floor, and Q is much more graceful than expected, silk swishing as they move smoothly with the waltz. “No, that’s what I told M. He didn’t argue.”
“I imagine not,” Bond says appreciatively, as Q presses himself closer.
"Work first, 007,” Q murmurs, slipping something small into the breast pocket of Bond’s suit jacket. "Here is the replacement for the tracer that you lost somewhere in that lake.” Bond chuckles at his disapproving tone, which only incites another glare from Q. He continues, “Do try to actually make use of this one.”
“Well, perhaps I wanted to see you. It’s been a dull mission. A pity that M couldn’t be here as well.”
“Impatient,” Q tuts, as the waltz slows to a close. “Plant this tracer on the target and you’ll be home soon enough. We’ll wait, but no guarantee we won’t start with you.” Q gives him a wicked grin and slips away through the crowd of people, leaving Bond straining for another glimpse of him and wishing that the job was over already.
It is, as Bond had complained, completely boring, and the target even approaches him not ten minutes after Q disappears. It’s painfully easy to attach the tracer to a fold of the target's red velvet dress while they dance. She flirts, tracing her hand up and down his arm and giving him coy looks, but he only plays along long enough to plant the tracer, then extricates himself, his mind still caught up in blue silk and the look in Q's eyes, the thought of M taking that dress off. He's at M's house in record time, where they usually meet, since Bond takes personal offense at the size of Q's bed.
He follows the trail of clothing to the bedroom that he knows they've left there for him on purpose -- Q's impressive heels and his shawl, M's waistcoat and suspenders. They're sprawled on the bed together, kissing lazily, the skirt of Q's dress pushed up to his thighs. The wig is gone and so is the padding, jewellery in a pile on the bedside table. They break apart when Bond enters the room, and M beckons him over. Q pulls him down onto the bed with them, kisses him while M watches, a hand toying with Q’s hair.
“You shaved,” Bond says, running his hand up Q’s thigh.
“Yes. M helped,” Q says, and leans up to kiss the other man.
“Oh?” Bond slides his hand up further, making a pleased sound when Q's breathing quickens. “What’s this?” He traces the edge of the delicate lace, and Q bites his lip.
M smirks. “I helped with those, too.”
Characters: James Bond, Q, Gareth Mallory
Pairing: Bond/Mallory/Q
Rating: PG-13
Word count: c.520
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
A/N: For the trope bingo prompt "crossdressing".
***
“Moneypenny was unavailable,” Q says in response to Bond’s raised eyebrow when he sees him and the beautiful gown he’s wearing, a light shawl covering his bare shoulders, and a dark wig the curls down past the neckline of his dress.
“Is that what M told you?” Bond asks, taking Q’s hand and kissing the back of it. Q’s delicate bracelet jingles, sapphires that match his dress set in silver.
Bond leads Q onto the dance floor, and Q is much more graceful than expected, silk swishing as they move smoothly with the waltz. “No, that’s what I told M. He didn’t argue.”
“I imagine not,” Bond says appreciatively, as Q presses himself closer.
"Work first, 007,” Q murmurs, slipping something small into the breast pocket of Bond’s suit jacket. "Here is the replacement for the tracer that you lost somewhere in that lake.” Bond chuckles at his disapproving tone, which only incites another glare from Q. He continues, “Do try to actually make use of this one.”
“Well, perhaps I wanted to see you. It’s been a dull mission. A pity that M couldn’t be here as well.”
“Impatient,” Q tuts, as the waltz slows to a close. “Plant this tracer on the target and you’ll be home soon enough. We’ll wait, but no guarantee we won’t start with you.” Q gives him a wicked grin and slips away through the crowd of people, leaving Bond straining for another glimpse of him and wishing that the job was over already.
It is, as Bond had complained, completely boring, and the target even approaches him not ten minutes after Q disappears. It’s painfully easy to attach the tracer to a fold of the target's red velvet dress while they dance. She flirts, tracing her hand up and down his arm and giving him coy looks, but he only plays along long enough to plant the tracer, then extricates himself, his mind still caught up in blue silk and the look in Q's eyes, the thought of M taking that dress off. He's at M's house in record time, where they usually meet, since Bond takes personal offense at the size of Q's bed.
He follows the trail of clothing to the bedroom that he knows they've left there for him on purpose -- Q's impressive heels and his shawl, M's waistcoat and suspenders. They're sprawled on the bed together, kissing lazily, the skirt of Q's dress pushed up to his thighs. The wig is gone and so is the padding, jewellery in a pile on the bedside table. They break apart when Bond enters the room, and M beckons him over. Q pulls him down onto the bed with them, kisses him while M watches, a hand toying with Q’s hair.
“You shaved,” Bond says, running his hand up Q’s thigh.
“Yes. M helped,” Q says, and leans up to kiss the other man.
“Oh?” Bond slides his hand up further, making a pleased sound when Q's breathing quickens. “What’s this?” He traces the edge of the delicate lace, and Q bites his lip.
M smirks. “I helped with those, too.”