jayeinacross (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jayeinacross) wrote2013-01-15 11:55 pm
jayeinacross) wrote2013-01-15 11:55 pm
[Fic] streetlight
Fandom: James Bond
Characters: Gareth Mallory, Q
Pairing: Mallory/Q
Rating: PG-13
Word count: c.1500
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
A/N: For the trope bingo prompt "au: hooker/porn/stripper".
***
There’s a flickering streetlight on the corner of Mallory’s street, a shivering boy standing underneath it. It’s nearly wintertime, and he’s only wearing tight jeans and a thin shirt, but he puts a suggestive hand on Mallory’s arm as he walks past and suppresses the chill of the night.
“Hey,” the boy says, sidling closer. “I’m Q. Looking for someone?”
He looks so young, too young to be hooking on street corners in the middle of the night, but they always are, and Mallory’s not in a position to judge anyone. He’s out so late because nightmares won’t let him sleep, because staying cooped up in his bare flat makes him too nervous, because the fear of staying in one place for long is too still too much.
Mallory jerks his arm away, an involuntary movement – he knows that a boy like that isn’t going to hurt him, but he doesn’t have control over his reactions yet. Q lifts his hand apologetically, and Mallory manages a shake of his head. “I’m just on my way home.”
Q nods towards the apartment building that Mallory’s only moved into in the past few days. “You’re in there, right?”
“I only just moved in,” Mallory says, a little cautiously. Q’s seductive air has melted away, just leaving a boy standing in front of him, too thin and not looking more than eighteen years old, but polite enough, if a little curious. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’ve been around.” Q shrugs, and Mallory continues down the street to his building. Looking back before he goes inside, he sees Q leaving the light of the lamp and heading across the street to a car idling in the shadows on the other side of the road.
When Mallory’s on his way home the next night, back from another late-night walk, Q’s standing under the streetlight again. He quirks a little smile at Mallory and asks him what his name is.
“Gareth Mallory,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation, because it’ll do no harm to tell him, but the paranoia hasn’t quite faded yet.
Q studies him intently for a minute, noting the pause before his answer, and finally decides, “Nicknames are better. I’m Q. I’ll call you M.”
He’d noticed Mallory’s discomfort, and though there’s no way that he could know what happened to him, Q must know the necessity of keeping names secret, and how hard a habit it is to break. Mallory’s grateful; he’d spent the three months in Ireland trying to forget everything he knows so he couldn’t give any of it away, but also trying to not lose himself in the process, but he’s lost his bearings, it’s left him confused. The nickname feels like some sort of middle ground, steady and solid, and Mallory likes that.
“Do you want to take me home?” Q asks, but there’s no provocation, no flirtatious gestures, just a simple question. He says it like he already knows Mallory’s answer, and perhaps he does.
“No, thank you,” Mallory says, and Q just nods and smiles again. This time, when Mallory glances back at Q before he shuts his door, Q’s looking back at him.
From then on, Q’s at the corner almost every night when Mallory comes home, and he always draws him into a short conversation. He propositions Mallory every night, always casual and unexpectant, smiling a little wryly when Mallory turns him down each time, but never surprised.
Mallory can’t help but say how young Q looks one night, just lets it slip out, and Q stiffens and says shortly, “I’m older than I look.” Some answers to questions, neither of them will give, and they both respect each other’s boundaries, because they both know there are some things they can’t share yet. Mallory’s mentioned his job in the military but not Ireland, and Q never asks, just as Mallory won’t pry into Q’s past. When he thinks about it, Mallory supposes that it’s a strange relationship that they have, but then again, Q’s not any ordinary kid. He’s smarter than he lets on, too clever to be out on the street, but sometimes Mallory thinks that that’s a story he’ll never hear, no matter how much he wonders.
The nights get colder and colder, but still Q stays out on the corner, and eventually Mallory can’t stand seeing him in his skimpy clothes in this weather anymore. He finds an old leather jacket in the back of his closet that hasn’t been worn in a years, something of his brother’s that he still has, and small enough to fit Q.
Q just stares at him for a long minute when he gives the jacket to him, and then he says earnestly, sounding more sincere than he ever has, “Want to take me home?”
Mallory shakes his head, not quite sure what to make of it, since he’s already asked him once that night, but Q just laughs, delighted, and it’s not often that Mallory hears that sound. Q says, “Thank you. Thank you, M.”
“You’re welcome,” Mallory says, smiling back at him.
They start opening up to each other more after that. Mallory talks a little about Ireland, says that he was there for three months, and he doesn’t say much more than that, but he doesn’t have to. Q gives his hand a quick squeeze, and Mallory doesn’t flinch away.
“Why do you ask every time?” Mallory asks once, after he’s turned Q down again. “When you already know that I won’t?”
Q gives him a long look. “Because I would, you know. If you ever asked.”
Mallory doesn’t know what to say to that, and eventually he just blurts out, “You’re too young.”
“That’s what Bond said to me when I first met him,” Q says wryly. Bond’s a friend of his, one that Q complains about constantly, but that Mallory can tell he’s fond of anyway. He makes light of their friendship, but Bond is clearly important to him. Q brushes off his sudden confession and Mallory’s confusion easily, but Mallory knows that look in Q’s eyes. It’s the one that means that he’s completely serious.
There are nights when Mallory doesn’t get to speak to Q, when he’s already found a john and can’t pass up the opportunity, because that means passing up money, which means skipping another meal. That’s the only reason Q won’t be at the streetlight when Mallory’s coming home, the same time every night, and Mallory hates it. But Q’s made it clear that he’s not responsible for Q. Even so, he feels helpless, but confused more than anything, because Q’s gotten under his skin like nobody else ever has before, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do about it.
Q stands ten metres away from Mallory’s building on a nightly basis, but he’s never once been inside, until the night that Mallory finds him not standing underneath the streetlight, but on the ground slumped against the nearest wall. He’s bleeding from a cut on his cheek and limping a little. When Mallory’s helped him into his flat and has him lying down on the bed, he examines him, and he thinks Q has some bruised ribs.
“It’s all right, M,” Q says, voice rasping a little, when he sees the anger start to rise in Mallory. “Bond got to him. It’s not even that bad.”
Q’s never really said it outright, since it’s not just himself that he has to protect, but Mallory’s put most of the pieces together. Bond takes care of Q and the others, and apparently that includes finding anyone who hurts them and making sure they don’t do it again.
“It’s not all right,” Mallory replies, carefully cleaning the blood off Q’s face, sitting on the edge of the bed. He brushes his thumb over Q’s bottom lip. It’s true, the injuries are relatively minor compared to what they both know could have happened, but it’s still not all right. Not in the least.
“It finally got me into your bed, at least,” Q jokes weakly.
Mallory laughs a little, but it fades, and he says quietly, “You really are too young.” He still doesn’t know exactly what Q’s age is, but he knows that even if he really is older than he looks, he’s still much, much younger than Mallory. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“I meant it when I said that I would, if you ever said yes.” Q’s expression twists, frustrated. He sits up, wincing a little, but pulls Mallory closer, until their foreheads are touching. “Does anything else really matter?”
“It should,” Mallory murmurs, but he doesn’t resist when Q kisses him, softly.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Q teases him, and smiles into Mallory’s next kiss.
Characters: Gareth Mallory, Q
Pairing: Mallory/Q
Rating: PG-13
Word count: c.1500
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
A/N: For the trope bingo prompt "au: hooker
***
There’s a flickering streetlight on the corner of Mallory’s street, a shivering boy standing underneath it. It’s nearly wintertime, and he’s only wearing tight jeans and a thin shirt, but he puts a suggestive hand on Mallory’s arm as he walks past and suppresses the chill of the night.
“Hey,” the boy says, sidling closer. “I’m Q. Looking for someone?”
He looks so young, too young to be hooking on street corners in the middle of the night, but they always are, and Mallory’s not in a position to judge anyone. He’s out so late because nightmares won’t let him sleep, because staying cooped up in his bare flat makes him too nervous, because the fear of staying in one place for long is too still too much.
Mallory jerks his arm away, an involuntary movement – he knows that a boy like that isn’t going to hurt him, but he doesn’t have control over his reactions yet. Q lifts his hand apologetically, and Mallory manages a shake of his head. “I’m just on my way home.”
Q nods towards the apartment building that Mallory’s only moved into in the past few days. “You’re in there, right?”
“I only just moved in,” Mallory says, a little cautiously. Q’s seductive air has melted away, just leaving a boy standing in front of him, too thin and not looking more than eighteen years old, but polite enough, if a little curious. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’ve been around.” Q shrugs, and Mallory continues down the street to his building. Looking back before he goes inside, he sees Q leaving the light of the lamp and heading across the street to a car idling in the shadows on the other side of the road.
When Mallory’s on his way home the next night, back from another late-night walk, Q’s standing under the streetlight again. He quirks a little smile at Mallory and asks him what his name is.
“Gareth Mallory,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation, because it’ll do no harm to tell him, but the paranoia hasn’t quite faded yet.
Q studies him intently for a minute, noting the pause before his answer, and finally decides, “Nicknames are better. I’m Q. I’ll call you M.”
He’d noticed Mallory’s discomfort, and though there’s no way that he could know what happened to him, Q must know the necessity of keeping names secret, and how hard a habit it is to break. Mallory’s grateful; he’d spent the three months in Ireland trying to forget everything he knows so he couldn’t give any of it away, but also trying to not lose himself in the process, but he’s lost his bearings, it’s left him confused. The nickname feels like some sort of middle ground, steady and solid, and Mallory likes that.
“Do you want to take me home?” Q asks, but there’s no provocation, no flirtatious gestures, just a simple question. He says it like he already knows Mallory’s answer, and perhaps he does.
“No, thank you,” Mallory says, and Q just nods and smiles again. This time, when Mallory glances back at Q before he shuts his door, Q’s looking back at him.
From then on, Q’s at the corner almost every night when Mallory comes home, and he always draws him into a short conversation. He propositions Mallory every night, always casual and unexpectant, smiling a little wryly when Mallory turns him down each time, but never surprised.
Mallory can’t help but say how young Q looks one night, just lets it slip out, and Q stiffens and says shortly, “I’m older than I look.” Some answers to questions, neither of them will give, and they both respect each other’s boundaries, because they both know there are some things they can’t share yet. Mallory’s mentioned his job in the military but not Ireland, and Q never asks, just as Mallory won’t pry into Q’s past. When he thinks about it, Mallory supposes that it’s a strange relationship that they have, but then again, Q’s not any ordinary kid. He’s smarter than he lets on, too clever to be out on the street, but sometimes Mallory thinks that that’s a story he’ll never hear, no matter how much he wonders.
The nights get colder and colder, but still Q stays out on the corner, and eventually Mallory can’t stand seeing him in his skimpy clothes in this weather anymore. He finds an old leather jacket in the back of his closet that hasn’t been worn in a years, something of his brother’s that he still has, and small enough to fit Q.
Q just stares at him for a long minute when he gives the jacket to him, and then he says earnestly, sounding more sincere than he ever has, “Want to take me home?”
Mallory shakes his head, not quite sure what to make of it, since he’s already asked him once that night, but Q just laughs, delighted, and it’s not often that Mallory hears that sound. Q says, “Thank you. Thank you, M.”
“You’re welcome,” Mallory says, smiling back at him.
They start opening up to each other more after that. Mallory talks a little about Ireland, says that he was there for three months, and he doesn’t say much more than that, but he doesn’t have to. Q gives his hand a quick squeeze, and Mallory doesn’t flinch away.
“Why do you ask every time?” Mallory asks once, after he’s turned Q down again. “When you already know that I won’t?”
Q gives him a long look. “Because I would, you know. If you ever asked.”
Mallory doesn’t know what to say to that, and eventually he just blurts out, “You’re too young.”
“That’s what Bond said to me when I first met him,” Q says wryly. Bond’s a friend of his, one that Q complains about constantly, but that Mallory can tell he’s fond of anyway. He makes light of their friendship, but Bond is clearly important to him. Q brushes off his sudden confession and Mallory’s confusion easily, but Mallory knows that look in Q’s eyes. It’s the one that means that he’s completely serious.
There are nights when Mallory doesn’t get to speak to Q, when he’s already found a john and can’t pass up the opportunity, because that means passing up money, which means skipping another meal. That’s the only reason Q won’t be at the streetlight when Mallory’s coming home, the same time every night, and Mallory hates it. But Q’s made it clear that he’s not responsible for Q. Even so, he feels helpless, but confused more than anything, because Q’s gotten under his skin like nobody else ever has before, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do about it.
Q stands ten metres away from Mallory’s building on a nightly basis, but he’s never once been inside, until the night that Mallory finds him not standing underneath the streetlight, but on the ground slumped against the nearest wall. He’s bleeding from a cut on his cheek and limping a little. When Mallory’s helped him into his flat and has him lying down on the bed, he examines him, and he thinks Q has some bruised ribs.
“It’s all right, M,” Q says, voice rasping a little, when he sees the anger start to rise in Mallory. “Bond got to him. It’s not even that bad.”
Q’s never really said it outright, since it’s not just himself that he has to protect, but Mallory’s put most of the pieces together. Bond takes care of Q and the others, and apparently that includes finding anyone who hurts them and making sure they don’t do it again.
“It’s not all right,” Mallory replies, carefully cleaning the blood off Q’s face, sitting on the edge of the bed. He brushes his thumb over Q’s bottom lip. It’s true, the injuries are relatively minor compared to what they both know could have happened, but it’s still not all right. Not in the least.
“It finally got me into your bed, at least,” Q jokes weakly.
Mallory laughs a little, but it fades, and he says quietly, “You really are too young.” He still doesn’t know exactly what Q’s age is, but he knows that even if he really is older than he looks, he’s still much, much younger than Mallory. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“I meant it when I said that I would, if you ever said yes.” Q’s expression twists, frustrated. He sits up, wincing a little, but pulls Mallory closer, until their foreheads are touching. “Does anything else really matter?”
“It should,” Mallory murmurs, but he doesn’t resist when Q kisses him, softly.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Q teases him, and smiles into Mallory’s next kiss.