Complicated
While practically everyone else in Q-Branch had gone home for the night, Q was still sitting at his desk, laptop screen black and mug filled with his eighth cup of tea that day. He sighed and looked at his watch. 2:00 am. Three hours he had sat there, doing nothing but good old fashioned really hard thinking. He should have been rebuilding the MI6 firewall and repairing all the damage Silva had done or developing some new codes or even working on designs for Double O weapons, anything that would have put his genius brain to work at what the British taxes were paying for him to do. But no. There he was sitting in complete darkness in an empty office thinking about sex.
Well, it wasn't just sex. That would be too simple. It was much more complicated. It was sex and love, and there was nothing less simple or more complicated than that. Actually, that wasn't correct. The only thing less simple or more complicated than love and sex was dealing with both of them at once between two different people. A man and a woman in fact. A man and a woman who happen to be related. A man and a woman who happened to be related and had no idea that they were both involved with the same person. Q sighed again and dropped his onto the glossed surface of his oak desk. He silently swore as he heard the frame of his glasses crack under the unintentional force of plastic on wood. He took them off and examined them as closely as he could with his blurred vision. He silently swore when after fiddling with the bridge it snapped in half completely.
"Well isn't that just a bloody perfect metaphor," he muttered bitterly, tossing the two pieces into a bin next to his desk and fumbling through a couple of the drawers until he found a spare set. The perfect metaphor for his heart being ripped in half. Was it even worth saving, or would it make more sense to just throw the remains away? Even if he chose to try repairing it, would one half just get lost amongst the clutter if he neglected it too long for the other? If only there was a manual or a formula to love as there was for fixing specs or programing a computer.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and connected his hands in an almost prayer-like position, just the way Sherlock had taught him when they were young. The best way to clear your mind and look at a question logically. Go back through the evidence. Return to the situations. Focus and be diligent, and you'll always solve the case. Q took a deep breath.
"Sherrinford, Molly. Molly, Sherrinford," Sherlock hastily introduce, immediately getting to work at a microscope.
"Q," he corrected. "You know my first name is classified."
Sherlock either did not hear or simply didn't care enough to acknowledge him. Rolling his eyes, he extended his hand to the young pathologist. She looked to be around his age, and from what his brother had reported in the cab on the way over, was smarter than most in her position.
"A pleasure," she said quietly, shaking his outstretch hand. She had surprisingly soft hands for someone who cut up cadavers all day.
"It's all mine," he insisted back.
"The thumb drive I need you to examine is on the far end of the supply table," Sherlock interrupted, not even bothering to point. "Tell me as much as you can about the encryptions that were used and how to bypass them."
"Well since you asked so nicely, brother dear," he grumbled, grabbing the small black stick and plugging it into his laptop.
The three of them worked in silence for about an (well, mostly silence, since Molly hummed almost inaudibly every so often when she was waiting for samples to finish in the centrifuge) before Q made any serious progress. Solving and breaking the encryptions wasn't difficult, just time consuming. When he finally finished, he tossed the drive to Sherlock without warning, hitting him square in the temple. While his older brother shot him a glare that spelled out certain death, Molly giggled, trying to hide her smile behind a clipboard. He couldn't help but notice that it made her face light up beautifully.
"Thank you," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, and Q beamed smugly. He knew that Sherlock hated saying those two words to him or Mycroft, but he wouldn't agree to help him if they were not delivered.
As Q put his laptop back into his bag, he caught Molly glancing up at him from the other side of the workbench where she was seated. Taking a deep breathe, he strode over and leaned on the side of her table.
"Would you like to get coffee sometime?" he asked as confidently as he could manage.
She lightly bit her bottom lip. Whether it was out of excitement or anxiety, he couldn't tell.
"Sure, I'm off on Wednesday at 3:00."
He had meant it to be only coffee. Q hadn't tried dating anyone since uni. Even then it was a young man, and it went far from well. He wanted to take it slow, get a feel for what it meant to learn compatibility and affection from more than just chemical reactions explained in a textbook. He wanted it to be casual, exploratory, nothing too committal, but there was an error is his calculations. Nothing in his studies of the human brain prepared him for the warmth in his chest whenever Molly held his hand, or the sweat on his palms when she ran her fingers through his hair. Q had absolutely no idea what to do with himself after the third date when she invited him back to his flat. It may as well have been written in neon lights that he was a virgin and she was not. He was almost embarrassed by how gentle she was with him, as if taking care not to scare him away. But despite the confusion and awkwardness and pleasure and ecstasy, the best part was simply lying in bed, feeling Molly run her fingers in circles around his chest while he fiddled with her sweet smelling hair. Was this love? Was this what it was supposed to be?
It hit him like a cricket bat to the skull when the next night she called out his brother's name instead of his own. There was no cuddling like the last time, but rather Molly curled in on herself, refusing to look Q in the eye.
"I'm so sorry," she whimpered through what sounded like tears. "I promise, I've moved on. I… I don't know what happened. You… you can leave if you want."
Instead of replying with words, he pulled her into an embrace and kissed the top of her head. That's when it truly sank in just how much work love took. Though he stayed the night, he didn't sleep. He tried not to admit to himself that he was scared. Of exactly what, he didn't know. That she really didn't love him? That he wasn't ready? Maybe a bit of both? For a genius, there was so much he still didn't know.
They never put a label on what they had. Once a week he would make time to take her to dinner or watch telly at her flat, but they slowed down. Maybe that was best. Start over, just be friends, find out just what they really were to one another. But above all, definitely no sex. That made things too complicated.
Q opened his eyes and took a sip of tea, grimacing that it had long gone cold. Not only was the taste more bitter, but it made him shiver and reminded him that despite the anxiety cramps that were beginning to take hold of his stomach he needed to keep going. Yet another thing Sherlock had instilled in him from a young age. Don't give up, no matter how squeamish or uncomfortable a case might make you feel. Care as little as possible. "Caring is not an advantage" was practically the Holmes family motto, even if he had failed miserably in that area. He most definitely cared. Way too much. And so did Molly. And so did Bond.
"I hate fieldwork," Q grumbled through his chattering teeth, feeding another log onto the fire. "I was belong in a real lab, not some frozen shithole in the middle of Siberia working with computers that are older than I am."
"Take it up with M when we get back. In the meantime, either stop complaining or get me another bottle of vodka," 007 responded with a smirk. The older operative was enjoying his misery far too much. If his hands hadn't been so cold that they were shaking, he would have slapped that smug grin right off his face.
"This bloody stove isn't doing a damn thing for my body temperature," he groaned, deliberately ignoring the 'no complaining' demand.
Bond was already up, digging through the scant cabinets in search of more alcohol.
"Take your clothes off."
Q jumped, dropping the other piece of wood he was about to put into the fire.
"Excuse me?!"
"Your sleeping bag is -40 thermal as long as it has your body heat to work with. I'm surprised you didn't know that, considering your department engineered them."
Recovering from the startle, Q adjusted his glasses and looked down in an attempt to hide the redness that had taken over his face. Judging by the entertained sparkle he caught in Bond's eyes when he turned back around, he was convinced the torment was deliberate. The minute they got back to London Q was going to find some clever way to make his life just as miserable as the agent was making his now.
"Fire duty's all yours," he muttered, indignantly stripping down to his long underwear and curling into the spacious sleeping bag. Though it was indeed a great deal warming than the parka and the fire, he would have cut off his toes to be back in England, working on his own laptop or drinking a nice hot cup of real British tea. As he continued silently grumping to himself about how much he hated his life, he almost didn't notice the heat of another body entering the sleeping bag. Q's breath caught in his throat when a hand ran down the back of his bare neck.
"This is not in my contract," Q stated, trying his best to sound unshaken.
When Bond didn't stop, he rolled over and gripped the older man's hand, glaring into his bright blue eyes that looked all too pleased with themselves.
"007, I am not going to be another one of your conquests," he growled.
Despite the rejection, the twinkle in those cerulean orbs did not go away.
"You're telling me this isn't what you had in mind all those times you flirted with me over your mic while directing me on missions?" he almost hummed, using his free hand to brush a few strands of hair out of his face.
"Harmlessness to boost morale."
Q felt the words quiver on his lips and his tongue go dry one calloused thumb ran over the line of his jaw. Just in the short year he had been his quartermaster, Q had seen or heard Bond seduce countless women. He never expected that he would favor men as well. Or that he would be just as effective. The man's middle finger brushed just the right spot on Q's neck to make his whole body shudder with excitement. He tried to think of Molly. Even if they were still in the progressive stages of considering a relationship, he still cared about her. Still wanted to show some signs of commitment, but Christ, he could barely remember the password of his own wifi connection when the warmth of Bond's breath fell onto his ear. Though he tried to suppress it, a moan made it through his lips.
"If you really want me to stop-"
"No!" Q burst, regretting it the moment after the word escaped. "I mean, yes, but no, and…"
He paused, trying to take deep breathes to reorganize his thoughts. Was it the altitude making it harder to breathe, cutting off the oxygen supply to his brain?
"Don't… don't stop," he finally groaned.
James wasn't sweet or tender or slow like Molly had been. Nothing about him was anywhere near resembling as careful or loving as the girl back home. But this wasn't affection like it was with her. This was nothing but lust. Mind consuming, frenzy inducing lust. Q was trapped in a maelstrom of pain and pleasure and moans and screams and bites and kisses. Nothing was complicated anymore. It was all so simple, because there was only longing and fulfilment, over and over again. A heightened rhythm that threw him into an empty minded trance. There was no more cold, no more Siberia, no more MI6, no more Molly. The one thing in the world that mattered was James Bond.
By the time the other agent was done with him, Q wondered if he would ever be able to fully catch his breath again. They just laid there for a while, not talking, not snuggling. When he finally recovered, he managed to ask hoarsely,
"So what now? Don't you usually leave your conquests when you've finished?"
He tried to sound bitter. Now that it was over, he wasn't sure if he felt satisfied or used.
"You are not a conquest, Q," James murmured with no further explanation as to what he meant by that.
Q huffed.
"Well I am definitely hungry. Pass me your coat so I can go see what's in the kitchen."
Attempting to maintain the displeased persona, he threw on the parka Bond tossed him and quickly shoved his hands in the pockets to warm his already chilling fingers. They came into contact with a glossy piece of paper. Though Q knew it was not his business what 007 put in his own pockets, curiosity got the better of him. He heart sank when he gazed at it. It was a photograph. A photograph of Molly Hooper. The date written in fading ink on the corner was ten years old.
"That's none of your concern," James warned, noticing Q's stare.
"What is this?" he asked in as calm a voice as possible. No matter the answer, he knew it wasn't going to fix the pit forming in his stomach.
Bond sighed.
"If you must know, she's my little cousin. As far as MI6 is concerned she doesn't exist. If you tell even M or even Eve, I'll kill you."
Q swallowed hard. He had suddenly lost his appetite.
Opening his eyes again, Q swore loudly and kicked the edge of his desk. Why wasn't there a solution?! He ran through the scenarios and the evidence over and over again but nothing was clear. Did he tell them the truth? Did he belong with Molly? Did he belong with Bond? Did he follow his brothers' examples and just refuse to feel at all?!
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" he hissed, slamming his hand into the surface of the desk until the skin split and started bleeding.
Why did it have to be so complicated? The clock struck 4:00 and he knew the early morning engineers would be arriving soon for the start of their 20 hour shifts. He had two hours before he was supposed to be a fully functional quartermaster. 007 was leaving for a mission in Kabul and he had to be on the mic the minute his plane landed in Afghanistan. He flinched when he heard a knock on his office door.
"Come in," he called, and winced that his voice so easily betrayed.
Eve opened the door and carefully approached him. She looked well rested, ready to go for the day even though it was at least an hour before first light would hit London. She chewed her bottom lip when she saw the streams of blood leaking out of his hand.
"Tanner told me you still here. Something on your mind?" she asked kindly.
For all the guts and sass that went into being a capable field agent as she had been before the Turkey incident, she was an incredibly caring person. Almost maternal, if such a thing was possible from people like them.
"You could say that."
She exhaled with a bit of exasperation.
"You know, my stepsister used to work with your brother, and I temped for Mycroft a few years ago. You Holmes brothers are the same," she said with a small smile. "You always make things over complicated. That wouldn't happen to be your current problem, would it?"
'No. It's just as complicated as it seems' he wanted to spit back, but came out with, "Please tell the coffee lad to get me a cup of Earl Grey with two shots of espresso. I'm going to need it."