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He's expecting the skin under his fingers to be cold, firm, corpselike. The panic that's been building in his chest since the accident--hurry, hurry, and still he'd been too late, the damage too catastrophic; the explosion had taken out the entire back wall, to say nothing of the thin frame between the bomb and--congeals in his throat, blocking his breath. There's Q's wavering smile, sliding down the left of his face until it's wry and hurt and tucked in the corner of his mouth. Grief pinches hard in Bond's chest. He forces a smile.
"Not what you expected, 007?" There's no trace of machinery in the sound; if he closes his eyes, he can pretend the accident never--but to be truthful, he can pretend with his eyes wide open. It's the knowledge that keeps him from pretending, really, and the way it holds itself, shoulders back, frame too straight. Bond misses, suddenly, the tired slump of shoulders that have spent too much time hunched over a computer screen or a cup of tea. It regards him, looks so solemn and similar that he hurts to see the pain on its face.
"You're warm," Bond says, wincing at the bluntness of the statement.
"So it would seem," it says, and it sounds so, so like Q. Its lashes flutter; it draws a deep breath that shudders back out again. "Sorry to disappoint."
"I'm not disappointed," Bond says sharply.
"Try that again and maybe I'll believe it."
"I'm sorry, am I supposed to prove myself to you?" Bond asks. It rolls its eyes and he can't stop the smirk that follows; the way it narrows its eyes is a punch to the solar plexus.
"I'm certainly not proving myself to you," it says.
"What do you mean by that?" Bond asks.
"You're not being cute, 007. You think less of me, now. I can see it in your face," it accuses.
"I'd like not to think of you at all," Bond blurts out, and it goes very, very still. Unnaturally still. He forces himself to meet its eyes and finds them wide and trembling.
"Christ."
"I didn't mean that," Bond says. It draws away from him, such an exact portrait of agony.
"Tell me how you really feel, then, Bond. Have at me, both barrels. It's not enough to nearly fucking die--" It cuts itself off short, crumpling a little.
"You're--it's a good facsimile, I'll warrant--"
"Facsimile!" it gasps, laughing bitterly. "Like I'm a print on a mimeograph!"
"--but you're not him," Bond finishes firmly. "And that's not your fault."
"Fault?" it asks, still chuckling knife-sharp.
"It's mine. Everything I touch, everyone I touch. Everyone I," he confesses airlessly, "love," but he can't make himself push it out any faster. Swallowing a heavy breath, he tries again, shoving a hand through his hair. "They all die. He never did have a chance."
"James," it says, face melting from angry hurt to startled sadness. And it looks so real, so much like him, that he lets it draw him into its arms, lets it kiss his face. "Please, James," it murmurs into him, lips soft and dry and familiar.
"What? What can I do?" Bond asks. It clutches him, tucks his face into the side of its throat, and he mouths at it, the skin fresh and startling and hot.
"Love me." And it sounds so, so like--
"Geoffrey." Bond's voice cracks, and it fits in his palms the way he always had, tastes the same but charged, a lovely battery.
And Q's face shatters, sends him climbing into Bond's arms until he's full of him, all grasping hands and pleading lips. Bond kisses him, tucks him into the crook of an arm to lick into a mouth that tastes like ozone and tea, and when he pulls back, Bond brings him in again. Q whimpers against his mouth, fingers working desperately at Bond's lapel. When they finally part, Q's lips are wet, face flushed, as he pants for air. Bond watches him, traces the line of his lips and smiles when Q nips at them, chasing them.
"It's not," Q says, voice soft and breaking. "It's not your fault, James. What happened. I should have been more careful, more--"
"I can't believe that you're him," Bond says. "I'm not that--I never get--"
"Resurrection," Q says, lips quirking.
"You're not," Bond insists. Q's eyes drop, happy smile fading wistful.
"Because you're not that lucky?" he asks. "What about me? Am I?"
And Bond smiles because he is; he really is.