Chapter Text
Kandahar is ablaze when Bond first sees him. The buildings almost seem to catch fire at dusk here, cracked bricks and dust-smeared minarets turning a burnt, desert red under the setting sun, and by the time the first muezzin lifts his voice for the evening call to prayer, the city has eased itself into the dark of the evening, shadows taking over the colours of umber and sienna on the walls.
Over the flat roofs, words of the adhan are rising.
Hayya'alas-ṣalāh.
(Hasten, to worship.)
Hayya ʿalal-falāḥ.
(Hasten, to success.)
Bond knows the timing by heart now, knows with a time-worn intimacy how long each syllable will echo and hang, suspended, in the pause between every new line.
Less than a minute left on the clock, then.
That's not too long left to die.
In retrospect, it might have been curiously apt had Bond cared for such things.
The adhan is one of the few constants left untouched by either falling empire or rising war and yet, here he is, somehow ostensibly daring to balance on the precipice of change. Death, after all, is one of life's truly big adventures and the lurch that Bond feels in his chest at the prospect is almost obscene in its boldness, unspeakable in its liberation.
That doesn't make this any less of a completely asinine way to go, though.
Shot through the chest like some wet behind the ears amateur on his first day out on the field? Going down without even a decent fight to remember it by?
Bond draws a raspy breath that sends air rattling wetly through his lungs and thinks, slightly irritably, about how he would have laughed at the sheer tediousness of it all if he could muster up enough strength to do it, or if he could find any actual humour in the situation.
It’s just a fleeting thought in the end, anyways, here one inhale and dissipating by the next.
Breathe.
Another lungful of dusty air.
And breathe.
Another inch of his shirt turning sticky with new blood.
Bond stares at the darkening sky and waits, a weight resting uncomfortably in his chest.
It'll be dark, soon. Cold as well, despite the way the Afghan heat has clung to him like a stubborn mistress since sunrise, leaving fingers of warmth trailing along the small of his back and lurking, undesired, in the way his shirt sticks uncomfortably close to sweat-slicked skin.
Though the light is starting to fade, Bond is still acutely aware of all the places the sun has touched today and he thinks he can even pinpoint the exact coordinates if he was forced to, accurate down to the very last degree:
Here, where dry heat has split his lips open, half-formed scabs over the cracks tasting like rust.
Here too, where afternoon sun has baked the cement floor that's now pressed against his back, coarse surface radiating an uncomfortable warmth.
He really should know better at this stage, but Bond still ends up trying to move all the same, only to end up wincing when the pockmarked surface of the ground scrapes painfully against his exit wound. It’s borderline absurd, but Bond is sure that he can almost, just almost feel the individual grains of grit and sand pressing deeper into the rupture.
Careless. So careless, and admittedly, not even for the first time that day, too.
With that particular thought circling round to resurface his mind again, Bond finds himself...irked, on some fundamental level. Surely there’s some sort of argument he can make here, for this whole fiasco? Something about the semantics of luck versus skill when it comes to dodging sniper bullets, or a rebuttal against the logistics of dodging something you can’t even see coming to begin with?
When Bond wets his lips, he tastes blood.
Then again, it’s not like this is an argument that Bond can win. A gunshot wound can put quite the damper, on any valid points that he could have made in his defense.
God, who knew dying would be this hard?
It's the sound of the boy's robes that Bond hears first, whisper soft and trailing over the red-yellow dust that scatters into the evening air as he inches closer.
"Go away," Bond hisses in broken Pashto as he rouses himself just enough to find the right words in what he hopes passes for the language. "What are you even doing here?"
Despite his warnings, a young-ish looking still face insists on swimming blearily into view. The wind has whipped the boy's patu out of place and it's with a careless ease that he turns his face away to tuck the fabric back where it belongs. When he looks back again, he's arranged it to hide the bottom half of his face so that all Bond sees is a flash of green in the growing dark.
Probably one of the local Pashtuns then, skipping Maghrib prayers on the roofs and lured here by the sudden crack of gunfire, lingering on out of boyish, ill-timed curiosity. The careful distance the boy keeps and his half-hidden face means that he's smart to not trust strangers who look like Bond, never mind whether they’re dying or not, but from the way he's still crouched by Bond's side, he's evidently not smart enough to know the difference between when to stay and when to go.
Call it sentiment, but Bond can't help but narrow his eyes at that.
"It's not safe," Bond tries again when the boy doesn't move.
If anything, he leans in closer still and inexplicably, Bond can't help wondering if this is the first time the boy has watched a man die. Try as he might, there’s a strange light in those eyes that Bond finds he can’t meet for too long.
"Get away," Bond says weakly and there it is again, Bond somehow finding that his gaze has drifted to where a stray curl of hair is brushing the very top of the boy's ear.
Even with his own heartbeat starting to pound far too loud in his ears, Bond can already hear faint shouts of commotion floating up from the street, ugly yells and barked orders to stand aside, stand aside, move goddamn you. The first signs of backup, then, or whatever messy alternative Kandahar has to offer, though it’s not like they’ll be able to do much good at this point.
"Go," Bond says once more to the boy. He’d meant for sharp intent to give weight to his voice, but when he speaks, it comes out hoarse instead, Bond swallowing dryly in the aftermath.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself and the hand that Bond raises to wave the boy back to whatever shadows he’d come from feels far too heavy to be real. “Go on, then. Go.”
Maybe it's the sudden burst of frustrated aggression in Bond's voice, or even the lapse back into English, but the boy's eyes widen at the sound, growing wary with something far too sharp, too pointed to truly be fear, and it’s in that exact moment that Bond gets the strange impression that this is not the boy's first death.
Somehow, the thought is almost a comforting one.
"You'd do good to go as far away as possible," Bond continues on in English when the boy stands from where he'd been hunched over by Bond's side. Even though Bond doubts that the boy understands half of what Bond is trying to say, the intent must have been clear enough for him to be leaving, and for that at least, Bond is thankful.
His own death isn't something that Bond minds much, but collateral damage still is, and always will be an ugly word.
"Don't come back here again until we're all gone, okay?"
The boy is silent as he brushes dust from his knees and he's just a shadow now, a slender darkness that hovers over Bond.
"Now get going, you don’t want to be here when backup arrives," Bond says, that much more tired than he had been a moment ago.
A tiny grain of sand has come to rest on his eyelash and Bond is trying to blink it away, only to find that having his eyes closed suddenly makes things so much more comfortable. The pain, the inevitable regret, even the mild annoyance, it’s all easier to pack away and forget about in the dark.
"I'll be fine."
Bond keeps his eyes shut then, drifting, and as his thoughts fade untethered into inconsequence, Bond finds that the last thing he thinks of is how curious it is, to be able to feel the boy’s gaze still standing a quiet watch over him.
Bond doesn’t die.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, Bond comes awake in fits and bursts to bright lights, a stinging, yet heavy pain resting in the hollow of his chest.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Sometimes, it’s easier. Sometimes, it hurts more than Bond would like to admit.
Black to grey to white. From the hum of engines to the beep of machines, voices speaking in snatches of languages Bond knows he should understand.
“Thank you,” he remembers slurring at some point, even though everything hurts like hell itself and being dead actually feels like a perfectly acceptable alternative to going through this. His chest feels like it's on fire and when his hands clench at the burn, Bond's fingers dig into the scratchy fabric of cheap-starched sheets, the tang of antiseptic flooding his airways when he gasps.
Hospital, then. One of the military ones, probably.
"You're quite welcome," says a voice that comes from somewhere to Bond's left. “Now please, stop moving, you’re going to tear the stitches out again if you do.”
A face blurs into view, but turning his head just that small fraction has exhausted Bond beyond his limits and when his eyes slip shut again, blessed, blessed sleep is there to pull him under.
The thing about death is that once it’s had a taste of you, the damned thing won’t consent to leave you alone. Even after MI6 quietly handles Bond's discharge, death still trails after him , dogging his heels like some sort of starving mutt that won't stop begging for scraps of his life.
Down, boy Bond feels like saying most days, but it’s not something he can change all that easily.
It's there, in the way that Bond's breath comes short even after weeks of being grounded.
Lingering still, when Bond gasps awake in the middle of the night, pain lancing like a serrated blade through the place right under where his heart is cradled.
Whenever they do manage to make him show up for his appointments, they make it a point to tell him how lucky he is to be alive, and that while he’ll heal with time, the wound will scar badly.
Not that all of this will mean anything to Bond anyways, in the long term.
Scars, wounds, the maddening itch of new skin being stretched out again and again, over the same old, tired bones.
He stands in front of his bathroom mirror some days, tracing the ways his body has insisted on clinging stubbornly to life and he thinks then, absently, how none of it actually bothers him in the slightest anymore.
Bond and death, after all, are the best of friends by now.
Sometimes, Bond wonders about the boy. Even thinks to check up after him, because if MI6’s Afghan operations have already gone through the trouble of somehow airlifting his sorry, half-dead arse out of Kandahar, a small, throwaway question like this wouldn't seem like too much to ask for.
Had he been there, when the retrieval team arrived?
What about the things he remembers? Does he understand what he saw that night?
Is he even alive?
The weeks crawl on into some semblance of summer and by the time the weather cools, his bandages have begun to come off as well, strips of gauze being shed just as the season starts to change.
Everywhere, footpaths are turning colourful with the death of leaves. Clouds are throwing rain at his window, settling in for the long haul.
When Bond stops waking up in the middle of the night, he finds that somehow, he’s stopped wondering too, about the boy.
And life goes on.
It’s a dark, wet day in London when Bond steps out of his flat. His ribs still throb when he walks, breath pressing sticky fingers against his chest with every step, but it's an ache he has learnt to live with for now, every bruise and every dull flare of pain like a stubborn reminder that yes he's still alive.
Not that this godawful weather is anything he's remotely grateful to be alive in.
Barely past nine in the morning and the sky has already gone a slate grey, city slick with wet shadows and shallow, dirty puddles that Bond skirts with care. It's miserable weather to be out and about in, but desperate times call for desperate measures and this is only the third week since Bond has left the hospital, the fifth time he's been out on the street.
Coincidentally, also the first time he's woken up to a spluttering machine and an empty carafe of coffee.
A semi-invalid he might be at the present, but a ruthless heathen he is not. Bond didn't claw his way back into the land of the living just to drink instant coffee.
All things considered, maybe it's a weak excuse and the reality of the situation is Bond can't stand another hour of staring at the same few, sparsely decorated walls of his apartment, an itch he can't scratch starting to roam under his skin.
Maybe there's a restlessness stirring in his bones that refuses to go away and Bond needs to wash the lingering taste of blood and sand out of his mouth, relearn how English syllables sound on his tongue.
Or maybe, Bond just needs to get out more.
Whatever it is though, he’s been told to point and shoot for reasons just as flimsy as these, so thank Queen and country for not all causes having to be valid before they're acted upon.
Bond ducks into a quiet street just as the weather starts to take a turn for the worse, trading the hum of mid-afternoon traffic on the main road for the quiet staccato sound of rainfall. His wanderings have taken him to the western border of Chelsea and this particular pavement is currently only being shared with the odd pedestrian or two, fellow blank-faced Londoners that bob past him under the cover of dark umbrellas.
Blessedly, at least there's no sense of urgency here. No rush, no harried crowd speed-walking past him with their misplaced elbows digging in his side and frenzied determination sprinting them forwards.
If pressed, Bond might almost say it's...pleasant, for lack of a better word.
Or at least, as pleasant as pleasant can be when rainwater is starting to soak the turned-up collar of his coat and his socks are getting damp from stepping in too many unexpected puddles.
Evidently, this is the point in Bond's day where he should start to regret bringing a gun out with him and not an umbrella.
The sky looks like it's one peal of thunder away from a full out storm when Bond finally admits that he'd best get out of the rain. There's not much street left to wander down anyways, so Bond just shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets as he covers those last few metres in long, even strides, aiming purposefully for the misplaced-looking cafe that's crowded onto the very end of the shop row.
It's a decrepit little thing, all old wood decor and rickety looking furniture from what Bond can tell, but interior decorating choices hardly matter now that it's the only shop within a half mile radius that looks warm, dry, and most importantly, open.
Café proclaims the cursive lettering on the front window rather informatively, and try as Bond might, he can't seem to find any other name attached to the place.
How terribly imaginative.
Nonetheless, a cafe is still a cafe by any other name (or lack of, thereof) and the bell above the door chimes when Bond pushes his way indoors, the sound of it drawing out an accompanying clang of metal from behind the heavy-wood counter.
An eloquently muttered "Fucking stirrers," follows that up soon after and a wild-haired employee straightens from where Bond assumes the stirrers in question should be.
"Sorry, we're not open till ten on-" he's starting to say after barely getting an eyeful of Bond, but a sudden, low groan of thunder rumbling outside and Bond's generally waterlogged appearance cuts him short.
"No, wait, never mind that," he amends abruptly. Bond finds that he has to fight down the urge to raise an eyebrow at the sudden change of heart. "Get in here before you let more rain in all over the floor, it's already half to anyways."
A flustered wave of his hand towards the table closest to the counter has Bond thankfully stepping inside and the door swings shut behind him, muting the storm.
In its absence, the sound of Bond dripping rainwater and the accompanying squelch of his wet shoes squeaking on the floor has become almost embarrassingly loud.
"Shite weather we're having as usual, isn't it?" asks the barista blithely as Bond goes about settling into this newfound dryness.
Coat off, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Bond can feel the chair creaking as he twists around in it to hang his coat over the back of an adjacent seat and at the counter, the man (Bond is just about 51% sure he's of legal age) is moving about as well, meticulously slotting the previously cursed-at stirrers into a holder. The faintest strains of music are seeping into the warm air and if it feels blandly surreal, for some reason, it’s not wholly unpleasant.
"Shite doesn't even begin to cover it," Bond says amiably in reply. In the background, the lead piano warbles through a chromatic scale that disintegrates into some jazz-infused variation. "And thank you for letting me in here a bit early, by the way. You really didn't have to."
The barista throws Bond a Look and an accompanying shrug, as if the blasé attitude of the latter could somehow lessen the effect of his earlier, slightly exasperated attitude.
"I'm sure the alternative of kicking you out into that-" He throws an empathetic look at the fresh sheet of rain lashing at the windows fronting the store, "- would have done wonders for the café's reputation."
"So it's down to reputation and not conscience?" Bond lets amusement slip into his voice and thinks, oh why shouldn't he? It's not like some mindless flirting has ever hurt anyone...much. Bond has time and heart-space to spare anyways, and besides, he's hardly don't anything this entire morning.
Also, it's not like there are rules for these kinds of things.
"If I had been concerned for my conscience, I would have said so."
Nimble hands have left the stirrers alone and are currently doing complicated things with the espresso machine, Bond finding himself smiling even though (and maybe because) the barista can't see it.
Most of the human interaction he's had so far has been in the form of jittery MI6-sanctioned medical staff and jaded handlers checking in to see he hasn't died in his sleep, so this, in all it's civilian dullness, is actually quite a nice break in the routine. As much as Bond detests the mindlessness of small talk, the sharp twinges in his chest serve as a pertinent reminder as to how he hasn't actually had an honest-to-god, real conversation in weeks.
"Coffee?" comes the tentative question and it snaps Bond out of his contemplations regarding both his lack of a social life and the fact that the said lack isn't bothering him too much. "For the record, I'm asking for reputation's sake again, since this is a cafe, albeit one that's still technically closed."
"If you don't mind? And thanks for the reminder, I don't think I got it the first two times."
He gets thrown a wryly amused look, but Bond holds his ground, meeting it straight on with a quirk of his own mouth.
"Preferences for coffee, then?"
"How about you surprise me?"
The barista makes a half snort, half scoffing sound and so maybe that hadn't been Bond's smoothest line to date, but who can blame him? A near brush with death can put any man out of his game.
Lack of practice notwithstanding, the espresso machine whirrs to life all the same and the warm, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee, the quiet hiss of hot milk being frothed manages to chase out the rain-damp that Bond has brought in with him.
It’s nice to know, that maybe Bond's knee-jerk reflex isn't a lost cause after all.
"We source our own beans," the barista says with a touch of pride when he brings the cup over to Bond's table. "Our house special for the moment is Salvadoran, honey-pressed. There's sugar on the table if you need it, but I've heard it's sweet enough on it's own to not warrant using too much, or even any at all."
"You've heard?" Bond says lightly even as he accepts the cup with a nod of thanks. He's counting it as sheer luck that he's been made a flat white instead of one of those tiny little lattes in tiny little glasses that more and more cafés are favouring these days.
It's the chic thing to drink, apparently, but as with many things, Bond really couldn't care less.
"Should I be trusting a barista who doesn't sound like he's sure about how his own house blend should be taken?"
"It's not my fault that my own tastes tend to run a little sweeter than the norm," comes the dry reply. "But by all means, test it for cyanide and the like first, if you're so inclined."
Bond grins and true to word, the coffee does smell a tad sweet, with an almost fruity undertone lingering in it's scent when Bond brings the cup up towards him.
"And let a fresh cup of coffee go to waste in the process? I think not,-" Bond lets his gaze dart surreptitiously to the name tag that the barista is wearing, "-Q." Quaint, but it’s not like Bond hasn't seen stranger names, though, and Q has a look about him that's practically daring Bond to question his name-choice.
Bond may be a daredevil, but he’s certainly not an idiot, so he wisely cuts straight to drinking his coffee.
The first sip goes down easy, spice-infused caramel tinged with the barest hint of red berries resting on his palate long after he has swallowed. It's sweet, as Q had mentioned, but not overwhelmingly so, and Bond comes to the conclusion that yes, he does actually really like the coffee, pretentiousness and all.
Maybe the revelation is showing on his face as well, because the next time he looks up, Q is looking decidedly pleased with himself, the smile that he's wearing having gone from distantly polite to outright smug in a mere matter of seconds.
"Well?" Q demands.
"I think I can say quite safely at this point, that there isn't any cyanide in it."
Bond sets the cup down on the table and there's reluctant amusement playing across Q's features, Q folding his arms as he regards both cup and man still holding onto it.
"Unless you give me any reason to include it in your order, I'm now giving you the assurance that most, if not all of our products are non-toxic and will be unlikely to cause death."
"A lot can happen short of death."
"Is that an accusation I hear, Mr.-"
"Bond. James Bond."
"Well is it, Mr. Bond?
Bond lets his finger trace the rim of his cup, absently wondering whether he's actually enjoying himself or if this is just another sign that he should get out more.
Maybe it's just the result of getting a really satisfying caffeine fix, all under the scrutinising gaze of a barista who's inexplicably more fascinating than any number of people that Bond has had the pleasure to come across in months.
It's a warm feeling though, whatever it is, and Bond isn't the kind of man to say no to any form of pleasure, artificial as it may be.
"It's an observation, more like," Bond finally concedes. "Did that just earn me a shot of cyanide for my next cup?"
"Please," says Q loftily even as he turns at the sound of the front door opening, a rain-bedraggled couple already heading for a table not too far from Bond's. "As flattered as I am to hear that you're already anticipating another cup, you shouldn't presume so much, Mr. Bond. Cyanide is expensive these days, you know, and on the contrary, I actually have it on good authority that our coffee is good enough to die for, if not to die from."
The couple are scraping chairs across the floor, already sinking noisily into them with the air of people who've seen too much rain in too short a time.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I have some orders to see to. "
With that, he's already halfway to the new customers before Bond can even think of an appropriate comeback, but no matter.
Without Q bearing down on him from above, it actually makes it easier for Bond to finally take a proper look at the other man, when earlier, all he'd managed to notice was the way Q's eyes had caught some trick of light to almost look green for a moment, when he moved away. But no, it's just a brief play of imagination, Q's eyes brown and bright with a living curiosity that regards him every now and then from behind those black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
From further away now and mistakes aside, it's with a growing interest that Bond notes the middling height and birdsnest-tousled hair, the black apron that's tied around his hips.
Built lithely in the way that's more lean than fragile, Q has long, long fingers attached to expressive hands that flutter as he explains something or other, gesturing to a food display at the far end of the counter that Bond had somehow missed when he first walked in.
Fascinating, Bond finds himself thinking as he sips at his coffee. The minutes stretch, growing into a half hour that slinks on further still, and by then, more customers have already trickled past the doors in a steady stream, most seeking something hot to have in their hands or a take-away from whatever's on display that day, be it a pastry, a sandwich, or even the odd slice or two.
It's with a bland amusement that Bond watches a mousy looking office worker victoriously make off with the last salmon-and-avocado-on-rye and not for the first time that day, Bond has to wonder at how this has suddenly become his life.
Once or twice, whenever he's not swamped with orders, Q shoots a questioning look over to where Bond is still seated, coffee drunk down to the dregs by now.
? he seems to imply with every glance and Bond will only shake his head, an affirmation that he doesn't need anything for now, thank you. It feels just shy of cruel to have only one person staffing the cafe, but the more that Bond watches Q (and it's innocent in it's intent, really) the more Bond is convinced that it might actually be better this way. The cafe isn't large by any standard of measurement, seating maybe a maximum of fifteen all squeezed in, but Q moves with the air of someone who knows exactly where he should go and what he should be doing.
To be honest, it’s all incredibly engaging to watch.
By the time a gaggle of students come in to take up the long, six-seater table that hugs the wall closest to Bond, Bond takes it as an unspoken cue that he should stop this minor case of unexpected infatuation and leave before the rains starts up again.
And of course, Q has to choose that moment to sidle over.
"Leaving?" he asks lightly, as if Bond gathering his things isn’t an obvious enough sign, and Bond shrugs, cocking his head towards the general direction of the storefront where watery sunlight is fighting to filter through the glass.
"I'm not too sure how long the rain will hold off for. Also, it feels a bit selfish to continue taking up a table when I've finished with my order so long ago."
It's a lie and a half, which is still a less than what Bond is used to, but then again, he's been out of practice.
Q hums in mild agreement and gathers up Bond's cup, smoothly slipping a tiny scrap of paper onto the table in it's place before he's called away again, yet another customer ringing the bell at the counter to have his muffin reheated.
Well. Now this is unexpected.
Bond turns the scrap over, careful to keep his expression mostly neutral even though he's grinning wide on the inside.
"Cheeky," he mutters under his breath and Q catches his eye just as Bond stands, damp coat slung over his arm.
A nod for a smile and Bond completely forgets to buy new coffee beans on the way back home.
on the house, but not because I have a conscience.
A misplaced sense of pride demands that Bond somehow stay away from Q's cafe for at least three, severely under-caffeinated days before the lure of good coffee and multi-layered smiles draws him back again. Inexplicably, the idea of actually going out to buy actual coffee beans during that time doesn't even cross Bond's mind.
"Mr.Bond," Q says easily when Bond walks in at the much more decent hour of 11:20am. In the cheery, late morning sun, the cafe looks warmer than Bond remembers, wooden floors and smooth-worn panelling on the walls catching the light. "Back so soon?"
"Drop the mister and just call me James, please." The cafe is blessedly empty at this time of the day, office workers already at work and students in class, so Bond gravitates towards the table he had been seated at the last time, mindful of how it puts him within a comfortable distance of the counter.
Today, Q seems to be preoccupied with stacking and arranging freshly dried cups.
"Bond, then." The name rolls off Q's tongue with far too much flourish as he polishes the side of a glass and Bond looks away before he can notice how Q's lips part to vocalise the first part of– oh, hell.
"You do seem more like a Bond than a James, in any case," Q is continuing on heedlessly, clearly unaware of the sort of mental scolding that Bond is giving himself. "So what shall it be today? The Salvadoran blend? Or can I recommend our lovely new Brazilian roast, if you're after something with a bit more of a creamy undertone in it?"
Truth be told, Bond isn't that big of a coffee connoisseur. By all means, he'll take at least a cup a day and maybe consider IV-lining it straight into his bloodstream if need be, but Bond isn't the kind to read up on the finer details. If it doesn't come from the bowels of some vending machine, isn't liquid sludge, or isn't (god forbid) instant, Bond will gladly take the role of uneducated heathen and drink whatever is out in front of him without question.
Q, on the other hand, seems to take delight in knowing all there is to know about whatever coffee he's serving up that day.
It's comforting knowledge to have, given how Q is actually in charge of brewing what goes down his customers' throats, but it's also...strangely endearing, for the lack of a better word. Bond doesn't know what he'll do with all this newfound trivia about regions and micro-regions, elevations and drying processes, but he does come away from it with the double prize of one very pleased Q and a delectable long black that tastes like smooth caramel on his tongue, so at the very least, Bond now knows that what they say about any sort of knowledge never being wasted is partially true.
"Do you get new beans very often?" Bond asks when silence has lulled itself back into existence. There's nothing but the barely discernible sound of soft, atmospheric jazz meandering around in the background as Q moves behind the counter and he lifts his head almost instantly at the sound of Bond's voice, latte glass in hand.
"Not as often as I'd like, honestly, but I do try. Fair trade aside, it's always so much cheaper to get things directly from the source."
"And so you handle all of this-" Bond makes an encompassing hand gesture at the surroundings, "-just by yourself?"
"Do you see anyone else here at the moment?" comes the retort, though it's without any real bite. "In all seriousness though, both yes and no. I'd like to, if it were possible, but I do have someone who takes care of the more...logistical and administrative details. On paper, I own the place, but in reality, I really just make the coffee. And wash the dishes, wipe down the tables, deal with the customers, et cetera, et cetera."
Bond has to hide his amusement behind the rim of his cup as he processes this new glut of information, taking a long swallow that has Q eventually turning back to his latte glasses. Stacks dry, he's starting to ease them carefully into something that might, at some angles, resemble a straight line.
"Shocked into silence that I actually own the place?" Q prods when Bond is still trying to figure out what he should address first.
"More due the fact that you can still find the time to make coffee in the midst of everything."
"Good coffee, I hope?"
Bond lifts his cup in a mock salute. "It's certainly drinkable, if you were fishing for compliments.”
With the latte glasses done, Q seems to be at a temporary loss as to what to do with his hands next, and it's only after his fingers have snatched a rag off it's hook on the wall that Q speaks again,
"At the very most–," Q says as he runs the rag under some warm water, "–you can fit...twelve, maybe fifteen people in here? It's hardly ever filled to full capacity, at any rate, and people who do deign to come in here generally can afford to wait a bit longer than usual for their fix. Case in point."
A knowing look is directed at Bond, who just meets it straight on with a magnanimous air.
"Guilty as charged."
Q has moved out from beyond the counter to go wipe down the table closest to the door and Bond resolutely does not make it too obvious that he's tracking Q's every move, body angled just the right amount to let Q know Bond's still engaged in the conversation.
"Even though it must be said that my supplier isn't exactly awful, let's be honest. It's not the food that people come here for." Q is bent over some stain on the tabletop that Bond can't see, working at it with the rag and Bond is resolutely not looking at the way Q's trousers are stretched over the curve of his arse. "And before you say anything, I'm pretty sure they don't come here for my stirring, in-depth conversations as well."
"Then surely it's for your stellar personality?" Among other things, Bond adds, in the privacy of his own head.
"Ha bloody ha." Q gives the table one last wipe down before moving on to the next one, a cramped little two-seater tucked away in the corner. "I don't know what you're here for, Bond, but people generally come here when they want to be left alone for a while. And I swear, I'm usually quite adept at doing that."
"Could have fooled me," Bond adds in smoothly before Q can even continue on and Q casts a look over his shoulder, Bond catching the edges of a wry grin.
"Has it occurred to you, perhaps, that I wasn't trying to fool you?"
"And if it has?"
Q huffs a laugh, turning his concentration back onto sweeping stray crumbs into the waiting cup of his palm, bending over the expanse of the table yet again to get at that one place by the wall. Over at his own table, Bond tries to be interested in the way his coffee has stained the sides of his cup a sandy brown.
"Then we both have to work on either subtlety or proper communication." Straightening ever so slowly, Q still has his back towards Bond, but the amusement in his voice is unmistakable. "Now drink the rest of your coffee, Bond. It's getting cold."
They fall into the loosest approximation of a routine, if it can even be called as such. Bond traipses into the cafe every other mid-morning to subject himself to whatever exotic brew that Q has taken a fancy to that day and Q, in turn, lets their strange, half-flirtatious, mostly-inane conversations run ever longer still before calling his usual truce.
So what if every other morning has turned into Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday of that week?
And so what if Bond keeps (in)conveniently forgetting to pick up coffee beans at the store?
Q sets down a Kenyan blend that leaves the lingering taste of black currants in Bond's mouth before slipping back behind the counter to cater to the newest walk-in. There's a tiny, barely visible smudge of espresso dust smeared under the curve of Q's jaw and Bond knows this not only because Q had leaned in a little too close to set today's cup on the table, but because Bond had turned towards Q's presence as well, tilted his head up and smiled with all the confidence of knowing it'd be returned.
Another day passes. Bond drinks yet another cup and slowly, the tightness in his chest eases, only to be replaced with something else that Bond cannot really understand. It's restlessness, probably, or at least that's what Bond tells himself. The sort of feeling that comes with being in a place for too long, with too little to do and too much to consider, Bond fairly unsure of whether he actually likes this feeling or is unspeakably wary of of it.
In any case:
It's only a matter of time before Q introduces Bond to the wonders of aeropressed coffee and Bond, in turn, finds out that Q blasphemously prefers tea over everything else.
"How do I even trust you with my coffee?" Bond wonders out loud when the truth is revealed.
"Oh ye of little faith, have you not tasted and seen that it is good?" comes the reply from behind the counter and Bond thinks, quietly, about how faith might have nothing to do with it.
It's not his fault that the coffee is good here, Bond thinks stubbornly to himself when he sits at his usual table on yet another rain-splattered weekday.
Honestly, Bond can get coffee anywhere, and it's not like Q's cafe is the only one within walking distance of Bond's flat. There're countless others, obviously. Dozens, even, but it's just that this one is more convenient than the rest, and it's quiet whenever Bond comes in.
Also, there's something to be said about Q being the barista here. Even more to be said about almost halfway to nearly being friends with said barista.
Bond drinks his coffee with these quiet rationalisations for company and tries not to remember how he lies for a living.