Spectre of Change

by tutb88

The one in which Q might or might not be haunted by a spectre with an easily predictable agenda. Because everything always revolves around James Bond and he should get used to it. Beware of SPECTRE spoilers.

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There is a semi-transparent M staring at him from his fridge. Technically, it's only her head. Well, it doesn't make a hallucination any less disturbing.

He blinks, hard. The bizarre vision evaporates after the third blink.

"Hm, I'm not even that tired," Q murmurs, but closes the fridge with healthy amount of wariness and caution.

Here goes his midnight snack.

He pads to bed, sluggish mind busy pondering over the probability of early sprouts of schizophrenia, or any mental ailment for that matter, at his age and in his line of work. By rough estimation, the probability is hardly one to be ignored. On this infinitely positive note he slides under covers, maneuvering already sleeping cats to the side, and as soon as his head touches the pillow he is out like a light.

When he wakes up with a start, it is still very much dark. Street lights pierce the gap in curtains and light line slashes the edge of his bed and one of the cats in two. He hurries to snatch glasses from a bedside table, realizing that his traitorous hand is shaking. With cold knot tightening somewhere in stomach region, he observes semi-transparent M again. Only this time the apparition is a full body, glowing white around the edges. Said apparition is also next to carefully erected piles of books, right at bed foot.

Q doesn't say anything to it, to her. Though, he feels an urgent need to break oppressive silence, but he holds on. He is not succumbing to the frowning phantom of his previous boss. For sole reason — ghosts don't exist.

Staring provides him with an opportunity to examine M, and when he notices how her expression visibly shifts, his hair literally stands on end.

"Well, then. Are you quite done?" she asks briskly, in that unforgettable business-like manner of hers.

Q tries his hardest to keep himself from freaking out completely as he pushes the covers aside and promptly goes for light switch. That finally wakes his cats. They protest sudden shift, but neither looks in the direction where the supposed ghost is standing.

"Q, I wouldn't come to you if I had a choice. This is serious."

That does it. Q freezes on the spot and then slowly, very slowly turns around.

Lights are on. And M is still semi-transparent.

Still in his flat.

"You are not going to faint on me now, are you?" she huffs.

"I wouldn't dare," he quips.

It's a pity it comes out a tad too raspy and shaky, but nobody is here to bear witness, except for the deceased director of MI-6, of course.

"Good, and before you say anything, yes, I am really here and, no, I am neither a holographic projection nor some other highly elaborate part of ruse to make you think you've gone insane."

"Image transformation and projecting can be executed in many ways," mutters Q distractedly.

"Go on, check," sighs M then and floats to the kitchen.

He follows her as well, armed with a couple of gadgets of his own design, one aimed at jamming any wireless signals in one hundred meter radius and one which he uses for electric field measurements.

After conducting every simple test his sleep-deprived brain can come up with, Q officially gives up and makes himself tea.

"It's too much to process, but I need your help," M leans over the counter and almost passes through it.

"I don't intend to be rude, madam, but why not haunt Bond?"

Hot steam smells divine when he inhales it. It throws him into some sort of giddy mood.

"Bloody Bond can't see me. Tanner can't see me. Even Moneypenny can't. Mallory is out too. You, on the other hand, can."

Cradling his mug, Q peruses her words one more time. Despite almost certain probability that he's losing it, and is now talking to some imaginary voice of imaginary woman inside his head, her ranking him low on the list of trustworthy allies stings.

"Okay, okay," he heaves, "What can I do for you this fine early morning?"

She steps back and the image of her cut off torso on the counter stops bothering him. Oh sweet, small mercies.

"It's about Bond. I've given him a lead and now he intends to screw it up."

Isn't it always about Bond, marvels Q in quiet stupor.

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Since disappearing in his kitchen M was nowhere to be seen. Her words lingered though, and this morning's recollections twisted something raw inside him. Great timing. Like he doesn't have an oncoming merger to be worried about. Questions weighted heavily on him. And his mental health was on the forefront this once.

Immediately after arriving at work too early and making night shift slightly disturbed, Q set about fiddling with a new sniper rifle. The prototype kept him busy for half an hour at best.

Bond was supposed to be in the labs at 8.

He was late.

Q suddenly realized that the prospect of facing 007 made him a little jittery. Waiting was at once excruciating and not enough. No matter how he looked at it, something in his perception shifted dramatically. As it stands, even his abrupt slide into madness seems to be revolving around Bond. Infuriatingly irresponsible, reckless Bond, who, to his credit, somehow manages to cause unbelievable levels of destruction and come back again, and again, and again to ask for a new favour.

Bugger.

And yet Q's disability to say no to the man is honestly plain ridiculous.

"Bond is coming."

"Shit," gasps Q, nearly knocking over the chair.

Pale visage of M is hovering over his workstation, watching him reproachfully.

"In any case, he'll need help in Rome."

"007 is chaos unleashed, let's be frank. Will Rome stand at all?" he asks aloud and instantly berates himself for responding. After, he settles down again and winces slightly at the mess on his desk.

No good, he thinks despairingly, it was not a mere night-time fluke.

At the sound of door opening, he looks up, sees Bond and Tanner and looks back at M, swaying lightly in the air. No one bats an eye on the ghost.

"Q."

"Ah, 007."

Through semi-transparent M he catches Bond smirking. He and Tanner are coming closer and Q does his best to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room.

He briskly apologizes for the mess and doesn't waste time, just orders Bond to follow and injects him with Smart Blood none too gently, with face and tone so impassive, that he actually thinks he can pull it through. When the agent stands up and starts rolling down his sleeve, Q registers the prick of unease, an apology, which he doesn't know how to voice. There is something profoundly wrong about tagging people. It brings forth chills of anti-utopia echo. Just in time, M appears over Bond's shoulder and distracts Q from feeling sorry.

Q fidgets, pulls at his gloves a bit too roughly. Therefore, he glares at her, admittedly crossly. Apparently, Bond misinterprets it, as he tilts his head a little to the side, in his unmistakable fashion, and gives him an almost-there smile.

Already mildly hysterical, Q even skips taunting Bond with a car. And, oh, how he was longing for it: a smart revenge he planned ahead and was somewhat proud of.

"Here, take this," he says quickly and offers Bond a watch. "To help with your punctuality issues."

M has primly joined Tanner, floating by his side. Q missed her movements completely; it looked like she was able to pop out of nowhere wherever and whenever she wanted. Lovely, just lovely.

"Q?"

"Sorry, what?"

Bond raises an eyebrow, but doesn't break eye contact.

"Does this watch do anything?"

"It obviously tells the time. Mind the alarm, it is rather loud. If you know what I mean. That's it for today, 007. Good day. Please, try not to get lost."

With final clue given out, Q hastens to leave Bond behind, but no such luck. He is smoothly intercepted on his way to the storeroom. First by M, who is definitely aiming for heart attack, then by Bond, two of them calling for him in unison.

Q crumbles slightly.

He is grateful that they are partially hidden from sight by the massive arch of the tunnel. Dimmed lights are also quite welcome, reminding him one more time why he prefers this place to any other.

"It was foolish of me, to think that we're done, I assume," he says, turning around, addressing them both. "Save your breath and just tell me what you want."

"What's going on with you?" asks him Bond instead and his words pierce right through. Only Bond can switch to human mode all of the sudden and use it as means of incapacitation.

For a moment Q considers spilling the truth, if only for the sake of reaction. His eyes wander from M to Bond, back and forth, and he knows that he shouldn't. Not right now, at least.

"I'm feeling under the weather, 007. Insomnia doesn't help as well," Q concedes with half-lie. "Nothing worth mentioning. Regardless, how can I help you?"

"Ask him about the ring," sternly reminds M.

"Make me disappear," says Bond at the same time.

"Vacation in Rome, 007?" it slips uninvited. "While we are undergoing the major shuffle in boring London?"

Bond stiffens in a way that screams danger and Q almost takes an involuntary step back.

"I didn't say anything about Rome," he points out calmly. "What made you think that I'm going there?"

To say that Q is overwhelmed would be an understatement. Thus he exchanges looks with M and sighs when she nods.

"I might need to tell you something in private, Bond."

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Cold wind from the Thames feels peculiarly harsh today, although refreshing after his miserable morning. The steady, insistent hum of highway traffic overloads his hearing, but thankfully Bond is already here. He looks like he's posing for a photoset: some sharply dressed self-possessed stranger silhouetted against darkening cityscape.

When he notices Q, he turns and walks downstairs, lets Q follow him from afar.

"I have a very bad feeling about this," murmurs Q to M, barely visible in twilight.

"When it comes to field, Bond knows what he is doing," she pauses mindfully. "Mostly."

Imaginary or not, M is trying to be encouraging in her own way.

"Anyway, I'd rather know what mess he dragged the agency into this time than be left in the dark."

She doesn't comment. It is really not needed.

As per agreement he makes sure that he is not followed, mainly with M's help, and ends up in the blissful quiet of a library, with only a few desks occupied and a lone guard nodding off in the chair. Bond is lurking in the most shadowed corner. Q approaches him and sits at the table, pulling the strap of his laptop bag over his head. M has left him again, however he is reluctantly getting used to her coming and going at random.

"I still don't understand why she told you too," says Bond bluntly. "Now, too many people are involved."

"I suggest we postpone a rather fruitless guessing game on the subject of previous M's motivation."

Naturally, Q didn't tell Bond about the ghost. The other's suspicion he is feeling is tangible as it is.

"Of course," Bond drawls and reaches in his pocket. "Can you get me anything on this?"

He opens his palm and Bond lays a ring in it. Curious, he examines it closer, noting crude octopus-like pattern, which strikes him as the one on the sketchy side. The metal itself is smooth inside and warms up poorly. In his mind, he conjures a formula for this particular alloy and strives to have his assumption tested. As usual, the excitement of any challenging discovery overpowers other inconveniences.

"So, you killed a man in Mexico, acquired his ring and now you want to show up on his funeral?"

Q must never forget that this man always does as he pleases.

"Precisely. Also, my flight is due in two hours."

"I hate to break it to you, but since we are basically conspiring behind M's back, do have some patience. My career is on the line. Again."

Bond chooses to respond with wise silence and Q is already busy with his laptop, fully absorbed in running through the data he's getting from the ring. Rapidly flickering images have his undivided attention now, that's why he shudders when Bond, probably forgoing patience, puts a grip on his shoulder and leans in to look at the screen. To Q's growing distress the analyses itself reveals startling, truly horrendous connection between all Bond's nemeses, starting from Le Chiffre and White to Silva. Q is familiar with 007's files enough to connect the dots, and though the probable outcome seems very improbable, he simply can't brush it away solely due to general phantasmagoria of it happening. He appreciates that Bond doesn't need any additional verbal commentary, but in a moment he changes his mind as Bond squeezes Q's shoulder extra hard.

"Bond, let go," Q manages with a hiss. "You will snap my collarbone at this rate and I'm rather fond of all my bones intact."

This startles Bond into locking eyes with him and his carefully maintained façade is crumbling right before Q's eyes. There stands a man, realizes Q, who has just found out that every single bit of grief and misery in his life has most likely been orchestrated. The lengths they went to — ponders Q quietly — it hints on something disturbingly personal, some vile scheming of a madman Bond must have come across at least once. But when he opens his mouth to ask a question, he reconsiders in the last second.

"I'm sorry, Bond," he says instead.

Bond audibly takes a breath to collect himself, before releasing Q and pulling away from him altogether.

"I didn't mean to," Bond offers in lieu of apology as Q gingerly tries to rotate his sore shoulder.

The images on the screen stare at them impassively. Q saves the data and makes to return the ring, which Bond regards with darkening closed-off expression before taking and stuffing it in his inner pocket.

"I can give you some time, I think," Q says quietly, fiddling with his laptop. "But I honestly don't know how long I will be able to cover for you without raising suspicion. If individuals of that caliber are united, presumably funded by some criminal organization, you may only imagine the number of human and technological resources it takes to run one."

Clearly, Bond doesn't even stop to consider it from that perspective.

"Thank you, Q. I must leave, I have a plane to catch," he dismisses Q's concerned words with unusual expression of gratitude and it nearly throws Q off kilter.

If not for M appearing out of the blue by his side, he would have let Bond go just like that.

"Bond, wait," Q marvels at his sudden burst of courage, grabbing the agent's sleeve. "I can't unsee it and neither I want to. This strikes me as something bigger than just matters of British national security. While rushing right into is your usual style, we must coordinate our work at least this once."

"You absolutely must," adds M.

Well, if only 007 could hear her. So what then, thinks Q snidely, he might or might not listen.

"Moneypenny knows. I'll contact you when I get more details."

With this Bond slides out of Q's grip and strides towards exit.

"Is it too much to hope that he will not do what he always does?"

It's a rhetorical question, but M still nods.

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One of the cats strolls in, right through the ghost, and puts his front paws on Q's knees, begging to be picked up as soon as Q enters his flat.

He has discovered one of laws of life very early — there is so much comfort and solace in animals, more than in actual human beings. Q indulges the feline and gently picks Hurricane up, lets him nuzzle his jawline and purr sweetly. In doing so, he closes his eyes and buries his face in fluffy fur in attempt to smother himself into serenity. His ears are filled with happy purring; this close he also hears rapid heartbeat. He absolutely adores Hurricane, and likes Mist as well, though she is hardly as affectionate as her brother. Only when particularly hungry.

"You don't look well," notifies him M.

"Hm."

"I might be dead, but I am not blind, you know," she mutters and slides closer.

Q lets go of the cat and goes through routine evening chores on autopilot. M stays to watch him all the time. She seems to be worried, but Q really can't tell the difference between his pale reflection in the mirror today and yesterday. Already in pajamas, he drags himself to a second bedroom he equipped as a study and drops into armchair while computers come to life.

"If it is something this big, they must have left a trace. I already have a protocol for that written and now is a perfect chance to test it," he explains as he types in a set of commands and then adds as casually as possible. "So, how do you come to be a ghost?"

"I just did," shrugs M calmly.

Q imagines himself in her shoes and has to pause, to will tremors away.

"I must be tied to people I used to communicate closely with. Regrettably enough, the people I'd like to speak to the most are unreachable."

Q mentally shuffles through her file — a widow; carefully erased information about any children, which, in his humble opinion, points out their presence with certainty; in charge of MI-6 operations during Cold War and in more or less constant cold war with higher-ups in the government later on.

When he gets to bed and leaves his program running, he dreams of Skyfall — of gunshots, fire and blood. Needless to say that he has never been there before.

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"Morning, Q. Here to see M?"

"Of course not. He is attending a conference, isn't he?"

Moneypenny smiles a smile, which is partially in job description and partially her genuine nature. Meanwhile, she discreetly accesses Q up and down and it backs up his knowledge that no field agent can become an ex-agent.

"First of all, I should apologize for a delay," he gets a box of chocolates out of his bag and she leans over the desk to take it. "Happy last week's birthday, miss Moneypenny."

"Well, thank you. This is certainly a pleasant surprise."

She opens the card and her eyes widen a little, then, she nods in agreement, holding his gaze.

"It was a pleasure seeing you," Q smiles briefly, turns on his heels and walks out of the door. He is thinking about all the ways he could have passed the message via technological means, but M insisted that though Q could definitely make sure that he leaves no traces whatsoever, Moneypenny, quite competent in other departments, was not safe in that regard.

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He has specifically chosen to sit with his back to the wall and his laptop screen is turned away from the reach of security cameras. Even if he is new to this espionage on foot game, he can learn really fast. And maybe he does want to prove to M's ghost that he can: he will not deny that Silva has struck a chord, undermining his professional confidence and skills, he arrogantly considered unmatched. It appears, he can't brush aside such grand fiasco and pretend that nothing ever happened; and not only because he learned a bitter lesson. That taunt not such a clever boy was meant specifically for him — meaning Silva was always two steps ahead of them all. They knew who he was and that was worrisome, more than the jab at his age, or lack thereof, which sounded like something Bond would say.

Moneypenny interrupts his gloomy musings when he is on his second cup. She looks around and about and calls up a waiter to order some sort of sophisticated spiced coffee.

"Anything interesting?" she asks, pointing with her eyes to his open laptop.

"Very."

After the waiter returns with her order, she takes her time and sips her drink slowly.

"I feel like I was run down by a train. A couple of times." Moneypenny breaths out. "Who could have thought that a desk job of a paper-pushing kind can do that to a person?"

"The strain of secretarial position is often underestimated," agrees Q, looking up from the screen. "We can talk safely now."

"Oh, fine. Bond showed you a recording as well?"

"M told me herself," replies Q.

Not being a good liar, early on, he made a decision to tell the truth whenever possible.

"She did?" hums Moneypenny.

"Indeed," presses Q and goes on. "Bond has taken a ring, previously belonging to Sciarra and I ran it through a couple of forensic programs. Consequently, just a few minutes ago I have received a confirmation that Bond, as per usual, discovered traces of a secret criminal organization. It is not a surprise per se, but the over encompassing character of his latest discovery can be summarized as unique."

"A global ring?"

"Quite nice word choice."

"Can't but draw a parallel right here. C's Nine Eyes Project seems like a devil's spawn."

"Wait," Q suddenly realizes that if there was a missing link in the otherwise fine equation, that was precisely it.

"Aha, I am right, aren't I?" grins Moneypenny.

"Magnificently so."

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"Are you sure that your place is fine?"

"No, but since I am not going back to yours… have you seen the clock, Q?"

"Hm, it is rather late, I admit." Q checked his mobile and scrolled through visual feed from his flat for good measure. "Have you already come up with a cover story for your boyfriend?"

Moneypenny gave him a wry look, before turning the key.

"I'd rather he didn't come across any of you, because that's why you call private life private. For a reason. Oh, hi, Mike, darling," she greeted a touch rumpled, tall man, appearing in the doorway.

M popped out from the door as well and Q's heart gave a wild flip.

"Mike, this is Q, our computer genius I have told you about. He is going to help me restore those extremely important missing files before our boss arrives. Don't ask an obvious question about his name. Q, why are you staring at Mike like you have seen a ghost?" Eve gently nudges his side and Q comes to his senses.

"Ah, my apologies. Good evening," he nods to the man and is very glad that the other doesn't offer a handshake, only a civil greeting in return.

"Tell Moneypenny to check his background more carefully. I think, I can detect a fellow spy when I see one," M says and floats closer, when Eve and her boyfriend turn around the corner, speaking in hushed voices.

"I checked him myself, but if you insist I'll redouble my efforts," whispers Q, while looking around for a place to hang his parka. "So, please, don't sneak up on me again."

M slides through the wall, leaving him in awkward silence.

"Try a coat hanger by the door. Here," Moneypenny steps in to help him. "Were you speaking to yourself just now?"

"I do it from time to time, when I crave intelligent conversation especially hard," he retorts briskly and trots after chuckling Eve to her kitchen.

Mike is already there, pulling mugs from the cupboard.

The kettle is on.

"I'm falling asleep on my feet," he jokes and rubs at his eyes.

His voice is a nice, deep rumble, notes Q. And though he doesn't come across as a suspicious character, his background is rather dull according to Q's research, M's paranoia is quite contagious.

"I'm sorry," Eve pecks him on the cheek apologetically. "Go to sleep. I will too, as soon as I get rid of Q."

After boyfriend's migration to the bedroom, they sit down at the table and Moneypenny hands him a burner she received from Bond. A throwaway cellphone it may be, but everything can be tapped given certain amount of skill. He promptly picks it apart and sacrifices one of his own microchips to make it untraceable.

"From the outsider's viewpoint it is not clear who is running the agency, for that matter, — M or Bond?" she sighs in mock exasperation.

"Bond is running everything," says Q snidely. "He behaves like Q branch is his personal armory, garage and toyshop, and MI-6 is a travel agency with occasional fun assassinations scheduled here and there. Bugger, this is not even a joke. It is nothing but devastating truth."

Eve nearly bursts out laughing, but, mindful of Mike behind closed doors, clasps her hand over her mouth.

They sit like that for a while. Q keeps drinking lukewarm tea, not noticing any taste, as he struggles to find some connections between Max Denbigh and a worldwide criminal ring: he comes out empty-handed and this mere fact frustrates him and prompts him to keep looking, even when he has to override his own SIS security clearance, which is very high as it is. Not that it ever bothered him, to be fair.

Abrupt buzzing sends vibrations across the kitchen table.

Moneypenny lays her tablet down and snatches the phone.

"Bond, do you know what time it is?" she hardly minces her words. "Yeah, I'm not alone. Q is here as well. No, we are not. Christ! Yes, I ran that check. Your man, Mr. White, seems to be alive, was last seen in Altaussee, Austria, four months ago. Unconfirmed. No, you'd better ask him."

She passes the mobile to Q and gets up to pour more water in the kettle.

"007."

"Q."

Q knows how not significant it should be, but he wants to ask, so he does.

"Are you quite alright? I mean, after what we found out…"

There is a heavy pause on the other end of the line, during which Q goes through all stages of regret in a few seconds.

"Can't you hazard a guess?" Bond settles for dry mockery and it is more telling than anything he might have said.

"I detest guessing, though the fact that I don't hear any gunshots in the background is unusually pacifying. What else did you discover concerning that organization? Any leads we can use? You might want to know that British government is at least partially compromised, I believe. Those international terrorist attacks are all linked — this much is evident."

"Not surprisingly. I saw Franz Oberhauser at the meeting. Can you check for any records before and after his death?"

"An atypical resurrection?" hums Q, typing in the name. "I have to warn you, Bond. There might be nothing, like there is nothing on our government man."

"I saw him," repeats Bond grimly.

"I trust you."

"He was in Rome today and it looks like he is the puppeteer."

"Will look into it. How was Rome, by the way? Should I beware of news?"

"There was nothing newsworthy."

Q exchanges looks with Moneypenny. She is pouring milk in her tea and listening carefully.

"I am asking, because I don't want to end jobless when M gets the news of your sightings out of London."

"You worry too much, Q."

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Admittedly, this is the craziest idea he has had since his teens: and that was a timeline he labeled era of bad choices.

He quickly scans the contents of page, before shutting his computer down. Should the need arise, he can stall Bond's movements with no trouble — making his flight delayed in order to intercept him was the easiest option. He was also aware of the way Bond operated. Despite his legendary unpredictability, the man was as predictable as your typical blue collar or… just everyone. Yes, everyone has a pattern. Everyone is essentially a tangle of patterns.

As much as an idea to fly to another country frightened him, he could do it.

Cats were restless, winding between his legs like snakes, while he filled his humble luggage. At one point he stumbled, so he had to crouch and reassure them by scratching and stroking both.

Cats should be fine for now. He has occasionally left them for three days straight and they survived just fine. In any case, he can ask Moneypenny to do him a favour and check in on them. He put on a warmer sweater, smothered his hair down, and stopped for a moment in front of mirror, certain he forgot something.

Right, pills.

His hands were definitely shaking in anticipation, even though he was only going to the airport.

Without further delay, he slung his bag over his shoulder and was off.

On the plane he was blessed with a half-empty business class compartment. It was a necessary waste of money, decided Q, as sedatives started working their magic. He leaned back on the chair, as if trying to merge with it, and stared at the ceiling. His sight grew dimmer and dimmer.

M shimmered into view gradually.

Perhaps, she was indeed more mindful than he expected her to be.

"You shouldn't have. For someone supposedly intelligent, you are putting yourself in too much danger."

But Bond risks his life like that every single day.

M occupied his conscious attention only for a moment. Nevertheless, when Q closed his eyes, succumbing to drug-induced sleep, he could swear she was still watching him.

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Bond is dressed in all black and, frankly, somehow sticks out like a sore thumb in the ordinary airport crowd. Q has mixed feelings at the sight of him coming out of the sliding doors, and they, the feelings, are greatly befuddled after his medicated haze. Luckily or not, the matter of approaching Bond is taken out of his hands, when Bond raises his head and notices him.

He walks up to him quickly, yet calmly.

"What are you doing here, Q?"

"Waiting for you. Obviously."

Bond has not escaped unscathed: there are easily noticeable scratches on the left side of his face and judging by the way he is walking, putting his weight slightly on the right, there is more.

"I have rented us a car," informs him Q and throws him the keys.

Bond catches them before they whack him in the head and circles the car to get into the driver's seat.

Q slides in as well.

"I have confirmed his location," he points to GPS navigator, "estimated time of arrival. Also, I don't see my watch anywhere on your person. I presume a fairly predictable thing must have happened."

At least, it has done what it was supposed to do — namely, save Bond's life.

"Will you go easy on me?" Bond inquires with zero to no inflection.

"That remains to be seen."

Bond still hasn't started the car.

"Q, go back. This is not your business. Do you understand?"

Nothing shows on his stony face, nothing seeps through his tone. He has both hands on the steering wheel and if not for almost imperceptible tightening of his grip, when leather creaks against leather, Q could have believed that Bond is merely being rational.

"I think, this is not for you to decide where I want to be at the moment, 007," warding off the urge to sneer, Q continued more or less levelly. "And you are wrong. This is my business, as well as Moneypenny's... M and everyone's in the agency, which is under threat because of this omnipresent criminal ring of yours. If I were not willing to take some risks, I wouldn't be here at all."

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"It doesn't look well-maintained," Q peers at the wooden cottage and curses under his breath — his fingers gone numb from cold and that alone makes typing rather odd and slow experience. "Bond, a minute. Oh, I see…"

"Who else is there?"

Q turns the laptop to let Bond have a look — thanks to Mr. White's paranoia they have a view of every single corner. There is no one else in the shabby house. Heat signature too big to belong to a person is a server in the basement, like Q suspected, and a man in question is there too. He is nodding off in the wheelchair, with IV drip attached to his arm.

"I am looping the camera feed," he tells Bond.

Despite Bond and M's protests he intends to follow the agent into the house.

"Anything can be booby trapped, Q. Are you out of your mind?"

"You are going first, so I don't see any problem," smoothly assures him Q.

Bond only grunted in response, whereas M expressed her disagreement muttering something he didn't even try to catch.

"If I die and you live, I will come back to haunt you," says Bond.

Q shakes his head to chase away the image of M and Bond stuck to him for the rest of his life 24/7. He lets the tension go as laughter bubbles to the surface and he can't help but snicker.

"Please, don't," he gets out, propping his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath to calm down.

They are at the door though, and Bond, amused just a second ago, turns expressionless again. He nudges the door lightly and it opens without much resistance.

"You know the drill, Q."

"Of course."

He follows Bond, maintaining safe distance, yet step in step, and keeps his eyes open. The draught of cold air gets stronger, but it is not able to whisk away potent scent of decay and sickness. Looking around at dusty furniture and seeing no possible chance of someone spending sufferable months in this wreck of the house, Q thinks back to the man in the wheelchair. To his credit, when a startled raven darts up and out of the door, missing his head by inches, he barely flinches. After dealing with M's apparition his ability to get scared dulled quite a bit.

It is now quite plain that White is really terribly ill. As they take the stairs down to the basement, Bond first, gun at the ready, Q concludes that the man is at his death's door.

Unperturbed, Bond comes up to White and shakes him into wakefulness.

At first, he stammers out something, as his head rolls helplessly, but soon he looks up at Bond and rasps his name.

When he notices Q, he gives a pained grunt:

"Who are you?"

"Nobody," saying so Q examines the room and approaches a computer station. A quick sweep allows him to locate encrypted files and initiate their transfer to remote server.

Bond is asking questions — under the circumstances it's rather like a civilized overture than his usual brash technique. In a way, he is a creature of extremities, his 007: it is either bed or torture chamber. Q freezes completely then. What under the heavens he did it for? Called Bond his. Dim consciousness of knowing something seems to be dawning over him. As though someone took this knowledge and forcibly dragged it up from the very bottom of the sea, up in the plain view, where his mind oh so recklessly recognized it. For one instant he almost considers fleeing, but that terrible, joyful fear confines him to the spot. This, Q panics, is not an insight he is ready for.

"I can protect her in exchange for information."

Q rallies, summons all his boldness and turns to look at Bond.

"007, can you please put me in the picture? I believe, I misheard you," he puts in, and channels all authority he can muster in his voice. After all, he is Bond's superior, though this meager triviality is often neglected.

Bond scowls slightly.

"They poisoned him, because he deflected. He is not willing to tell anything sufficient about organization or Oberhauser. But he has a daughter, who knows something. Enough?"

"Quite."

You are to be disbanded in a few days, you arrogant man, cringes Q inside. How can you protect anyone after your license is taken away. Bond may fancy himself as a mercenary, but without people covering for him and his suicidal stunts, with all enemies on the hunt, how long can he last?

"Consider this carefully, Mr. White," Q says dryly, "you are dying. She is your only known descendant. People who killed you, will they stop? As I see it, if there is a chance that she knows, she must be eliminated at all cost. With or without you telling us where to find her, I can and I will. But, it may already be too late."

White starts coughing — his entire body is trembling, while Q stands there motionless, waiting for his answer. After cornering his feelings for further perusal, he feels entirely focused. Feels like he discovered a part, previously missing.

White tells them the name and the place. He could have told them what she knows himself, Bond and Q realize it, however, he needs to ensure that she is valuable.

What surprises Q is that Bond refuses to shoot the man after he asks, point blank.

"Bond, just give him your gun."

Q is not ignorant of the way Bond looks at him, his blue eyes appear to be saying — so it turned out, I don't know what to make of you, you challenge my preconceived opinions and I am not sure I like it. Then, his eyes blaze and he obeys.

No amount of bravado is enough to stomach the suicide and emerge unshaken.

Having come outside, Q drops down on the porch with his head hung low. He breathes in and out, on and on, finding consolation in absence of nausea.

For a seasoned assassin, Bond is surprisingly tactful. He sits next to Q and pats his shoulder. And leaves his hand there. The weight of it is reassuring, yet nothing patronizing. It pains Q, so badly pains him that he can't lean in for more touch and comfort.

"Thank you," he sighs, glancing at Bond sideways from under his fringe.

Bond shrugs with one shoulder.

"Thought, you might shy away from this."

A spike of headache, most likely born of nervous tension, is long overdue.

"This is about evaluating suffering, not life," strives to explain Q as he takes off glasses to massage his temples. "Believe me, I am well aware how little or how much the latter can be worth."

"You are right," Bond gets back on his feet.

There is no doubt that they are done here, but with such sudden clarity gained, what do I do now… questions himself Q.

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Snowy, spotless landscape is silent and still and, thankfully, with no cars in the vicinity.

Well, not for long.

"Bloody hell."

Bond notices them first.

They have hardly left a minor road behind, turning at the juncture. Just about the carve of the main road there are three, no, four black SUVs.

"They are who I think they are," Q turns to Bond for confirmation.

"Yes, Q," Bond glances in the rear mirror and revs up the engine.

The cars split up. Two of them turn to the left, onto the narrow road leading to White's house, and two start closing in.

They must have seen them driving from that direction and, by all means, this is the hell of an unfortunate coincidence.

Naturally, the paramount priority which springs to mind is securing his laptop. Q twists around and reaches back, trying to grab the stripe of his bag. He succeeds before the first pursuer rams into their vehicle. Q feels it in his bones. His head snaps to the side, but he achieves his objective and drags the bag closer and clutches it hard.

Bond drives like he does everything else.

As if he is immortal.

When they are hit in the back, rear wheels start spinning, so Q nosedives and barely avoids smashing his face against hard plastic. Bond keeps the slide going, steering the car along and takes next corner slightly faster. It's only then, that the shots ring out. Now, they finally got serious.

"Q, duck down!"

He does, because this is Bond's game and though Bond is not the agent of his choice to be stuck with in a car chase, he is all Q has at the moment. Yes, Q may have feelings for the man, but he is not a deluded fool.

There are more shots.

Rear windshield shatters and Q, in some mad glee, scoffs at the mercenary's aim.

Bond opens fire too, but ceases immediately after a couple of shots.

"Bond?"

"Bullet-proof," throws Bond and stomps on the gas pedal.

"Give me the gun," he asks and Bond presses it into his hands.

A shooting range in MI-6 is nothing like this: Q doesn't even dream of proper poise in the maneuvering vehicle. Instead, he twists in the front seat, grabbing said seat with one hand to stabilize himself to the best of his ability, and trains the gun on the elusive vehicle. The first shot misses the tire. Not by much, notes Q with satisfaction, and pulls the trigger again.

A lot of things happen at once.

Burst tire at this speed makes the driver lose control of the car. Induced oversteer, which should never be performed on the road like this, tilts the vehicle sideways. The outrage screaming of tires, metal against tarmac and gunfire from the remaining pursuer render Q deaf for a split second. This is the very second when Bond loses control of their battered car. Not to speak of the clichés but their eyes meet, unprecedentedly, and Q stop persisting at being unafraid.

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M is the first who he sees when he opens his eyes.

Fantastic, thinks Q, now that I am dead, nothing has changed.

"You are alive," says M as though she can read his mind.

Owing to his body's ability to register pain, he groans. The more he dives into this matter of field work, the more he wants to go back to his labs. He dimly remembers Bond getting him out of the car and that he himself hadn't been able to stand on his feet, plainly because of shock and confusion. Therefore, Bond half-walked, half-carried him to another vehicle. He recalls crimson brushes on the snow, clearly pointing out the way, where Bond must have dragged bodies of their pursuers. But, the rest is very contradictory. The rough sketches of the scenes, suggestively unimportant, — dark, tall mass of trees sliding past, Bond, anomalous as it may seem, talking to him quietly while gently wiping the side of his face, the cloth gets reddish and Q draws in a surprised breath. There was talking and a lot of moving insistently going on, a hotel, a sparsely furnished room — here Q's stock of vitality, which has never been tested to such extremes, became exhausted.

"This is what I meant by referring to danger," M observes as he is pawing around the nightstand in search of glasses .

Tranquil twilight baths the room into different shades of grey, difficult to navigate through.

His fingers come in contact with familiar frames and Q slowly gets out of bed.

Bond was considerate enough to rid him of his parka and boots. Q can hypothesize that he has just dropped dead onto bed upon approaching it: this is one of his peculiar and less quoteworthy virtues.

Shower lasts longer than anticipated. He feels sore overall, and though bruises are yet to show, he is sure he will have plenty. There is also a raw gash on the right side of his head, which has been tended to.

Hair covers it fairly nicely.

"Q, are you in here?"

You cannot go inside your head at times like this.

Q is both frustrated and profoundly debilitated for not noticing his arrival sooner.

"Yes. Who else do you expect to be in your bathroom?" he pushes the door open and walks into the suit, grateful that he got dressed.

Like expected, Bond is already busy pouring whiskey into glasses, which came out of cupboard. Q regards this combination of Bond and alcohol with tired eyes. He mutely refuses the offered glass, as it is not prudent to get tipsy in his state.

"Treat it as painkiller substitute," says Bond, taking a gulp.

Q snorts.

"Suit yourself, then."

"Did you kill them all?" asks Q somberly.

"Left one for questioning. Hadn't found out much, only the name — Spectre."

"Criminals have no imagination nowadays," sighs M.

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"You are very quiet, you know," tells him Bond, staring into his empty glass morosely.

Q honestly tries to focus on work. He is not here to entertain drunken Bond by engaging in pointless chatter, especially with Spectre at their heels. He has been dodging M by doing some of the most urgent work remotely so far, but what can Bond know about any of it.

"Too quiet and collected for someone your age," goes on Bond in the background, accompanied by gurgling sound the remains of whisky make when he tilts the bottle.

"You are not going to quit pestering me, aren't you?"

Feeling light fit of dizziness from rising up too abruptly, Q goes to pour himself a glass of water. He desperately needs something more substantial, but it can wait till they are ready to leave.

With an impulse of strange, misplaced guilt, he looks at Bond, who is watching him heavily. It is as if being under scrutiny of a brooding mass of trouble. His eyes are misty and dull, with chill indifference reflected back, and that, by some spell, throws Q into a heartsinking abyss of compassion.

"I am trouble, Q," says Bond distinctly. "Do try to stay away."

"He has a point, Q," omnipresent M adds — is it concern Q detects?

If only he could adhere to his sensible thoughts. But thank you both for fair warning, which is, however, seriously delayed.

"I hope you haven't overestimated the capacity of your liver and you will be functional when we approach Dr. Swann," Q gives Bond the semblance of tight smile.

"You wound me," mock salutes Bond with the glass.

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According to her résumé, Dr. Madeleine Swann, is a fairly acclaimed clinical psychotherapist specializing in treating anxiety disorders, OCD, PTSD and about twenty related conditions. According to Q, if you take Bond and him, for instance, between two of them, they are probably harboring everything on the list, including things previously unheard of. You can't work in intelligence at their level and remain relatively sane. There is an earthly reason why Bond is into adrenalin, alcohol and sex, ponders Q.

And it is fair to presume that Q's own addictive and bordering on psychotic nature is finally given free reins right now — since the eruption of hidden passions and these ghostly visions. He can't but question M's presence time and again. There is no helping it: this is how he likes his mind to operate — with healthy skepticism, in order not to be lost to confounding attempts to figure out her mystery.

At that time in the morning, Dr. Swann is just leaving her apartment. About an hour will elapse until she gets to the clinic, where she already has her consultations prescheduled. Q desperately wanted to accelerate everything somehow.

Seeing, how they are technically in the field, it is Bond, who comes up to her in the parking lot. From his observation point, a different car Bond must have acquired in no legal terms, Q sees their reflection in the mirror. At first, Dr. Swann is listening to Bond quietly: it is marvelous how essentially calm she is. Dr. Swann is also young and beautiful in person, in a cold and austere way, which can appeal to Bond as a challenge. They disappear for about twenty minutes and come back again together. She has got changed, and Bond is carrying her luggage.

Apparently, Bond is not entirely hopeless when there is a need to act with delicacy. It is worth unusual regarding, Bond's way of succeeding where and when he is surely expected to fail. Thinking it, Q absently greets her when Bond opens the car door, and hunts for forged documents in his bag.

"Please, take this. It was a short notice, so don't mind the photo," he turns to give her one of the passports and she takes him in with a careful look.

This close he sees that her expression is pinched and troubled.

"I don't altogether believe you," she says slowly.

Yet, enough to join their party.

"You shouldn't," Q agrees, lets her digest everything in relative peace.

"How much time do I have?"

"Not enough to waste it," Bond starts the car, "we are going to the airport either way."

Since Bond keeps to himself, Q and Dr. Swann manage to have a brief conversation during their ride. They don't speak of her father's death; rather it hangs over like a dark metaphorical cloud, which, as far as reactions go, is justified. Notwithstanding, she confirms everything they know about Spectre.

"I only know about the hotel my father used to stay in, in Tangier."

"He must have left a clue somewhere," muses Q.

He doesn't like Bond's silence. It is very significant: the blind determination of someone drawn to the very bottom of turmoil.

Q strives to hush the whisper of premonition, but it is a very persistent one.

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Flights to London are delayed.

There was a terrorist attack no one claimed responsibility for. The attack is outrageously bold, launched at the biggest international airport in Britain. Q had been glued to his phone and laptop ever since M's first call. Dr. Swann, who asked to call her Madeleine, didn't leave his side at the small café table, while Bond, although having promised to come back soon, disappeared.

"I can't tell, sir. If I comprehend the current situation well, these attacks are all coordinated from the same source," he has already said too much for a phone conversation, only M is reasonably angry with him and it does cloud his judgment.

"You are in deep shit, Q," M drops civil tone. "In the not too distant future you shall lose your job as well as I shall lose mine, but, rest assured, if I find out that you have tried to double-cross me, I have my ways of making you regret it."

"Yes, sir."

Some small part of him, still worrying about his employment prospects, grows chilled. The problem is, his career path was marked with non-strict following of official protocol from the start and since then he developed a tendency for swaying in that direction. Q is mature enough not to lay entire blame on Bond for corrupting him so thoroughly. He chooses to balance on the edge, because it is in his nature.

"We must hurry," says Q to Madeleine. "Don't worry. Even if my organization ceases to be, we still have enough resources to help you disappear."

"I have been running all my life," Madeleine gazes at him blankly. "I want to stop," her voice gets sharpened by frustration they both share as she adds. "But, evidently, this simple wish is next to impossible."

"Are you having second thoughts about coming with us?"

"No, not that. You, at least, hadn't made an attempt at kidnapping or any other assault yet," the corners of her mouth curl up.

Q finds her dark amusement rather contagious.

"I wonder when Bond is going to grace us with his presence."

"You've been referring to him using a set of numbers occasionally," she spots.

"It is work related and less you know, less problems we have. Anyway, these numbers may be history when we finally reach London, I'm afraid."

"I have got the impression, that this is not the issue, which concerns you the most."

And I have suddenly got the impression that I am in counseling session.

"Ah, yes. You spotted it right," huffs Q. "What keeps happening repeatedly that frustrates me? Which difficult people in my life are causing problems for me? How do these problems typically make me feel? Do I feel manipulated?"

Oh my.

Q stops.

He just went and vented and had her listen, though his previous intention was to steer the conversation away from himself.

She played him with incredible ease.

Madeleine smiles and tilts her head, as if to shift the angle of perception.

"It was good. Good," Q leans back, quietly basking in the sensation of the tight noose loosening a little.

"I do like my work. This is something I regret leaving the most," she confesses.

Q keeps respectfully silent.

He understands the whole case and realizes that any sort of consolation would sound too hypocritical to his tastes. For a moment each of them is occupied with thoughts, apprehensive of their current predicament.

With eyes leveled on the table, he startles a little, when Madeleine grabs his hand.

"Q, I think, they have found us."

He briefly glances to the entrance, resolving to run, and sees two men, tough-looking and poised, unmistakably on the stakeout. He slides his laptop in the bag, while Madeleine fetches her scarf and coat. They are in the corner booth, and coat hanger covers them from view quite well.

Madeleine pushes the doors leading to kitchen and a dark-haired waitress, Anna, as her nametag suggests, gapes at them accusingly:

"Excuse me, you can't go through here! If the manager sees — "

"Please," Madeleine is wringing her hands and talking quickly. Her German happens to be softly accented. "My husband… if he catches us here, it will be a disaster! You have to help us, please."

Anna believes them.

They both must look frightened enough to merit an escape route.

"This way," she hurries along the corridor and reassures the bearded man, popping out of the door. "They are from restaurant inspection. I told them they needed Osteria, not Ost Café. These French," she laughs and the man rolls his eyes and lets them come in and points to the back door.

"Merci beaucoup, merci," mutters Q in not so fake embarrassment.

"Try not to get caught next time," instructs them Anna, opening a back door. "Or divorce a bastard, for god's sake."

"Thank you! Thank you so much! You have saved our lives."

The door shuts and they are alone, under a feeble street lamp in the narrow passage between buildings. It began to snow heavily sometime while they were inside. Fat, white snow covers everything now. For Q, a Londoner born and bred, more than an inch of stuff is sort of a novelty, which seldom lasts long to fuss over it.

"Come on, let's go," says Q, downing a hood.

It looks like a mission he should never have been assigned to.

Q spares the thought for M's ghost. She was supplying him with practical advice lately and he reluctantly became dependent on her instructions. Unfortunately, she was currently elsewhere. As well as Bond.

They quickly cross the narrow lane and come out on the other side. This street is quite busy despite it being late: shop windows are bright with lights, people are walking past them, cars are moving slowly, beeping, as road movement gets hindered by traffic jam for as far as he is able to see in this snowfall.

"Railway station?" asks Madeleine.

"Yes, but taxi is not an option," he gasps, when someone collides into him just at the juncture.

Q is all anxiety, so he waves awkward apologies away and pulls at the hood, covering his face.

They proceed down the darker street and into an underground walkway: his eyes get immediately assaulted by bright white light. This type of lightning never fails to make him oddly agitated. The echo is also terrible. It is unreasonably loud or seems to be such to his ears. His phone's buzzing cuts into his naked nerves like a knife.

It's Moneypenny.

"Q," she starts without prelude. "An emergency meeting has been called. C will have it all now in a couple of hours."

"How can he not?"

Everything works in his favour, especially a bomb with such impeccable timing.

"I told M everything I knew like we agreed," she goes on. "I think, he took it rather well, considering that there is nothing he can do. All missions are put on hold. You understand what it means. Where are you, by the way?"

"Abroad," he replies vaguely. "I will do my best to return back home as quickly as I can. Besides, I was not joking when I said that should anything happen to me, both cats are in your caring hands. Please, don't forget that."

"Q," Madeleine's whisper calls his attention to the man in black jacket turning around the corner.

Unfit for this as they are, could they ever hope to escape trained assassins? It is chiefly a mad surge of adrenaline, which prompts Madeleine and then Q to turn and run back in the direction they came from. They take two stairs at a time and Q, despite heart pounding his ears, can acutely hear the man closing in.

Outside, the blizzard has worsened. Fresh snow sticks to his glasses — he can barely discern Madeleine a few steps ahead. Q slips before miraculously regaining his footing.

Ahead, Madeleine screams.

Then, Q is spun around by the grip on his arm. The punch to the solar plexus is painful beyond imagination. As he doubles over he can't seem to draw a breath. His vision darkens, but his mind stubbornly clings to consciousness. He takes another punch and this time he hears a distinct crunching sound. Q feels himself losing his precarious balance and, when he finally goes down, he expects a relief of blackout.

It doesn't come.

Even when he is barely wheezing, chest hurting so much that his eyes burn from involuntary tears, he is aware. He has lost his glasses and is virtually blind as he is, and yet his blazing mind and aching body do not league. Q wishes there wasn't such great internal disassociation in him. Instead, he recalls he was told, on good authority, that punches like that are meant to knock out, but had there been too much force applied, the consequences might be dreadful.

A formless being from above, his assailant barks out something in the language Q fails to recognize.

Sudden gunshots, sounds so familiar to his ears, make him freeze vehemently.

The entire elusive moment goes on and on, before the man standing over him topples to the ground with a thud.

Ever pacing, frantic thoughts rob Q of steady assessment and cold reasoning.

What is going on?

He would have hauled himself up, had he been able to breathe properly.

"It's me," pants Madeleine from above. "I think I killed both."

To Q's tear-filled eyes she is nothing more but a dark, hovering shape, and, oh my, but this is not the end. The pain doesn't subside and he is suffocating for real — every gasp is an incredible feat. Thus, he tries to turn on his back and he has help, when Madeleine finally crouches down. Instincts were not lying — the probability of breathing becomes possibility, so he hungrily fills his lungs, ignoring throbbing pain in his chest for now.

"Glasses," he whispers faintly.

She might hear not, but Madeleine does understand him correctly and soon world assumes half-decent, if only a tad crooked shape.

Bond is laughably late again.

Not only that, but he dares almost get shot by Madeleine, which is extremely unprofessional of him. Granting that Bond appearing means prospect of painkillers, basic first-aid and relative safety, Q gradually calms down.

"They found us," says Madeleine in lieu of unnecessary explanation and it is only now that she starts shaking.

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The perk of flying on the private jet is space. As a bonus, there are cushy leather seats and even two couches, which would fit nicely in some pretentious parlor, pale beige and, by the looks of it, very luxurious. How Bond managed to secure them this plane remains a mystery. But, what is one more.

It could have been much worse, reasons Q with himself, shifting in his seat as he tries to discover the less aggravating way to position his back. His first care is to make sure that it doesn't feel like his chest is being slowly crashed beneath pile of stones. Indeed, pain has graduated from intense to dull and throbbing. Hence, he tries not to take deep breaths, because simple trial has let him learn that breathing deeply adds to the ache in his chest, turning it particularly prominent. Q is adding twisting, bending and arching torso movements to the list of things to be avoided as well.

M is finally here and, after unabashedly listening in to Madeleine and Bond talking in hushed voices in the far corner of the cabin, she comes back to hover over him.

"Something must have happened to Bond. Here is an attractive woman and they are just discussing their next tactical move in earnest. Did you know that he planned to go to Tangier on his own?"

Q shakes his head and takes comfort in M's indignation.

"How are you feeling, Q?"

"Like my bones are fractured," murmurs Q and subsequently realizes that this actually might be the issue.

He bites the inside of his cheek to stifle the grunt.

Only shallow breaths, don't forget that.

"You must keep your lungs open," instructs M. "Is there any swelling?"

"Yes," Q admits quietly.

Raising his hand to his face to take off glasses, he changes his mind when he sees Bond walking up to him.

Bond looks, for lack of a better word, grim, though not as much as Q feels.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks and he is offering Q a blanket.

"Painkillers and sedatives. Be so kind."

This answer doesn't please Bond. Narrowing his eyes, he leans in, and what is worse, cups Q's face.

"I think you've got a minor fever, not to mention uneven heartbeat and I could hear you wheezing all the way from the back."

At the same time pilot announces that they are to be ready for a take-off.

Q jerks his chin up, shaking off the touch. This is the only gesture of defiance he is capable of right now. He feels inclined to tell Bond to piss off, rather rudely, but, as Bond has so shrewdly mentioned, his heart is skipping erratically, prompting his chest to tighten painfully: and here he carelessly presumed that he could refrain from panicking this once.

"Bond, please."

He thinks he doesn't imagine alert blooming in Bond's eyes.

No, social shame is not enough to overcome his fear and let him keep his face. Q finds it impossible to utter a word after blind panic ceases him completely. And presently, as the idea has just occurred to him, he doesn't remember ever telling Bond about his anxiety disorder. Q just scarcely overhears Bond calling Madeleine. Next scene he'd rather forget, had it not been engraved in his mind with precise clarity. The perverse warp of necessity made him grab Bond like a lifeline and at brief intervals he recalled Madeleine coaxing him into letting go and taking medicine. Surprisingly though, he was able to hear only M. And when directed by her command he stilled, the prick of injection came as unexpected relief.

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Slight vibration is enough to determine that they are still in the air. Q perceives this information from afar, in a detached way that means that the effect of drugs is holding.

"Q," Bond is sitting in the armchair next to the couch, so he notices when Q stirs.

It takes a lot of will to look Bond in the eye, even though the sight is a touch blurry.

"It must be enough to knock out two people, she said." There is a smile in his voice. "Yet, you are up and awake."

"Not quite awake," Q opts for crooked smile in return, for his body feels absolutely devoid of pain and languid. "And maybe you will not ask, but you obviously want to: no, that's the first time it has been so bad," he confesses easily. "I also feel the need to apologize for caused inconveniences, which is a ridiculous impulse; because this is not something I have control over."

"Christ. Meticulous as ever," Bond rumbles.

"Lately, you have taken a liking to describing me," Q muses and then. "Oh, shit, I have almost forgotten."

"What?"

"Ah, we have lost. Moneypenny called to inform me of recent developments. I dare assume it is a matter of hours until we are officially disbanded. C's mode of operation is unknown for now, although, what would you do with a bunch of people who know plenty of top secrets. Would you set them free?"

"I would dispose of them quietly," his answer is sharp and immediate.

"Do you understand now why I came for you? Not only I can't abandon you for personal reasons, but I also can't do it to everyone else. But then, it seems, I utterly miscalculated," Q whispers harshly.

It was not meant to come out like it did — spiced with accusation and weary. Therefore, when Q peruses his words once again in the privacy of his drowsy mind he reconsiders. But after he looks to the side he finds Bond's seat already empty.

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Heavy, haggard clouds drift across London sky and equally haggard Tanner is the one to pick them up.

He greets Madeleine with a polite thin smile, nods to Bond and tells Q:

"M is very eager to see you, Q," he frowns at the way Q is wincing when getting into the car. "Are you all right?"

"I had an exciting trip in double-oh fashion, so I could hardly hope to emerge unscathed," Q retorts breathlessly.

During the ride to the safe house, Q rests his nape on the cushioned edge of backseat and pays heed to everyone talking and enlightening Tanner on the subject of Spectre. Phantom of M wanted them to work together from the start. Well, look at them now. Something Bond says pulls Q's attention back to the conversation.

"Have we got anyone left in Tangier? Any operative smart enough to check the hotel suit without attracting attention?"

"If 003 is still there, she can do it… at her own peril," grumbles Tanner.

The car stops next to a rundown block of flats that look across railroad tracks. The inhabitants are nowhere to be seen, except for a pack of teenagers idly smoking in the shelter provided by tall iron fence. The depression of the place cuts deeply and Q is secretly pleased that he is not walking these streets alone.

On the stairway Q stops to catch his breath. He leans on the rail by the narrow dusty window looking into an alleyway. The building is old and like every old building has got its' creaks and groans, reminiscent of legendary haunting sights. Q huffs none too bitterly — he has had enough ghosts for a lifetime.

From the half-darkness above he hears the sound of familiar footsteps. Bond comes to a stop on the top of the stairs and presses:

"Q, if you need — "

"Please, tell me you were not intending to say 'help'," he groans, though he regrets not passing his laptop bag to Tanner. Strap cuts into his shoulder with vicious sharpness, as he reluctantly adjusts it and proceeds climbing the stairs.

Bond doesn't move an inch until Q comes up to him and together they turn around the corner. Q finds himself in the flat the likes of which has probably been last refurnished during the Cold War. He sees their current M sitting on the chair next to the table with several steaming standard issue mugs and Tanner arranging box of biscuits and candy bars in the center of the table. In this ludicrous travesty of domesticity Moneypenny is talking to Madeleine on the sofa. She divides her attention and smiles to Q.

And this is all that is left of them, really?

"Sir," he greets M, not sure whether he must brace himself.

"Q," if M wants to say something unsavory he is very good at concealing it. "Tonight we have the last chance to stop the system going online and I know only one person capable of the task."

"Yes, sir."

So this is how everything turns out.

"Of course, we will also need a solid, tangible proof that C is not working alone and what his true intentions are," M reaches for a mug and mutters. "I wish it was something with less tannin and more ethanol. No offence, Tanner."

"I have some," fills in Bond.

M chuckles darkly.

"Of course you do."

They go through the entire plan twice. Despite the improbability of success, hope is a stubborn force when is creeps into Q's mind; half-forgotten somewhere on the way from Europe to Britain. Tanner tells him that there are more habitable rooms, so Q drags his feet after him. It is only afternoon and Q needs to kip at least a little. He sits on the couch and listens to the prolonged steady rumbling of a passing train.

His glance then wanders to the doorway, where Bond is standing and holding a mug of tea.

"Is it for me?"

"Of course," Bond moves into the tiny room and closes the door.

"I appreciate it," says Q hoarsely, taking the mug.

It is the quality of being a calm presence that he appreciates about Bond too.

"I told you to stay away because I didn't want you to get involved," with the customary insistence Bond takes a sit on the chair opposite him and leans forward.

"Have you changed your mind?" beneath Q's words there is a pit of exhaustion and he scarcely wants to add anything emotive to deepen it. A desire not to fail this time is potentially stronger than that to sort out his less reasonable emotional entanglement.

Bond reaches forward and his touch is very alike to those depicted in literature of the dubious kind — warm and tingling. Q really looks at him. The man with face one can hardly call handsome to be honest, but the face, which is extremely attractive in its' rough asymmetry, as rare capability and magnetism show through.

"Bond, I have little to no expectations. I do know better," Q says. "The utmost discretion is something I can guarantee. I also realize that you are probably thinking that it will change something at work, which it won't — "

"Q, you think it's easy to be loved by you, when you already have the anticipated scenario written out?" Bond unclasps the mug from his numb fingers and puts it down.

"There are many," Q looks hard at Bond. "That is a big point for me, you'd better understand."

"I understand, but I refuse to give you up," Bond states and it induces a sort of connection, brimming to life with ferocity and reverence. Q, by all pre-established rules, should not return to making up positive arguments, but obeyance never settled especially well with him.

"Tell me."

"Fine. Fine," Q doesn't deny himself a smirk. "It was not a struggle to determine that your many faults fade in comparison to some virtues."

"You have the best way of phrasing the simplest tings," Bond laughs quietly and Q wonders how drastically his expression changes to fond, easing wrinkles and tensed lines. It is a beautiful transformation and Q is tempted to trace it, so he lifts his free hand and touches Bond's temple, runs fingers down his cheekbones and to his jawline. He is looking for a pattern in canvas, totally absorbed, until Bond shifts closer and presses their lips together. At first, Q refuses to be defeated by the ache from the uncomfortable way his body is bent, but he lets out a stifled gasp, so Bond instantly draws backwards.

It takes Q a moment to find the right way to breathe.

"I feel mashed," he proclaims slowly, as a suspicious wave of warmth washes over him. "Have you spiked my tea?"

Bond looks unbelievably smug when he sternly denies it.

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It took some time to perform a sweeping check over the security measures in С's headquarters. All of them were tight, but obviously not tight enough for Q, who suddenly discovered himself in the spotlight of everyone's attention.

After all these accidents of the last few days he has apparently built up some resistance. How else he is able to work under such pressure.

While Bond, maybe James now, is looming over his shoulder, the rest of MI-6 leftovers are residing on the couch. Q has the misfortune to be responsible for clearing their way and ensuring that C's attention will be redirected elsewhere. And he will be responsible for shutting off Nine Eyes in a few hours as well. Nothing to do, really. He has to singlehandedly accomplish a breach, which, had the circumstances been better, would have demanded the collective effort of the entire division. When he told Bond earlier that he was one of the best, he wasn't joking, though he has enough sense not to flail around now, feeding on the false sense of supremacy.

His injuries, though not fully incapacitating, are taking a severe toll on him. As Q takes a break to adjust his body on the less than comfortable chair, Bond notices. He subtly shifts his stance, but Q murmurs:

"Not now."

He tilts his head up to look at Bond and simply exchanging looks with him feels so good, anomaly good. Say what you will about infatuation, but it definitely comes along with a surge of incredible energy. His mindscape takes a new shape, with a rashness inspired by his desire to protect more than ever. And despite all this mess, deep inside he has a patient sense of serenity. Nothing has changed in his perception of Bond in particular, he thinks mildly, because Bond remains Bond no matter what. Q is the one who changed.

He gazes at Madeleine sitting on a chair by the window. Having a general idea of what is going on she verbalized her willingness to help. Q noticed that she seemed to seek out either Bond or him whenever they were in the same room. Bond appears to understand what Q means by nodding at her and strolls to the window, entirely casual.

The outsider's involvement is not calculated upon.

It nags at Q that Madeleine has become just another obstacle.

"Q, what about your pursuers? Are you quite sure that you have not led them here?"

Well, M's tone is unfairly insinuating since she sneaked up on him and Bond, though they were not doing anything remotely incriminating. If you don't take into account the almost kiss on the couch, made difficult by Q's inability to breathe properly when twisting his torso.

"Bond said he had taken care of it," reports Q, summoning his progressing skill to hum entire sentences without moving his lips.

"Bond said?" she turned her head to Bond and raised an eyebrow in a very eloquent show of skepticism.

Seeing as M's fears are almost always well-justified and Bond is only one man, a deadly one, but one man nonetheless, Q has to agree.

After all preparations are finished, they gather around the kitchen table and wait until M makes some phone calls. Moneypenny is offering him a gun, which he declines. Partially, because he is not sure whether he can aim at all, as he is feeling worse and worse and his chest is now a permanent area of aggravating ache. Q subtly brushes wayward fringe away from his eyes — his forehead is sweaty, even though he notes now, that he isn't so preoccupied with hacking, that he feels cold overall.

"And how do you know that for sure?" asks Tanner meanwhile.

As Q's attention drifts back to the world, he makes a troubling discovery that he's missed the begging of conversation.

"I know Oberhauser. The way he singled me out is very telling," Bond is becoming angry. "On this account, I am the one he wants the most."

"You are overestimating your importance, 007," joins them M. He then glances at Madeleine and frowns. "Dr. Swann?"

Everyone turns to look at Madeleine. So Q turns to look at discontented Bond.

"I possess very limited knowledge," she says levelly. "Therefore, I can't offer you a clinical picture of any disorder, namely obsessive, based on second hand verbal evidence."

"Madeleine is right," Moneypenny nods. "Bond, we will cross that bridge when we come to it."

Perhaps, it is a result of long brewing tension or trauma on Bond's part, but to hell with it. They are on the schedule here. Q turns around and pretends that he is busy, while the rest of them leave, following Tanner. Having caught the hint, Bond lingers behind.

Madeleine vanishes into the adjoining room as Q asks:

"What has possessed you all of the sudden, James?"

"He called," says Bond reluctantly and, to think of it, Q does recall Bond leaving his sight for a while.

"Well, go on."

Q is not in need of a retelling, it is mainly for Bond's sake. The newfound sense of trust between them is a fragile entity, so Q doesn't lean into temptation to offer any physical reassurance. But what he needs to know is how the bloody bastard reached him.

"The usual threats to destroy everything I have and everything I am," it is difficult to say anything by observing him when Bond doesn't want you to. "But the implications — "

"They can see us and they can follow us," Q recognizes the unsaid. "It changes nothing. Imagine that we are in the occupied city. You, spies, must have been through worse, and what I imply is — don't you dare wander into the trap on your own."

For an instance, he believes, Bond hesitates. Then, he leans closer himself and in doing so tugs Q in, awfully mindful of his range of motion. Through the pang of sharp jab in his chest, which Q stubbornly ignores, he wounds his hand round Bond's neck and senses Bond enveloping him in the loose embrace in response.

"M wanted us to work together," words tumble from his lips unreserved, "if you don't trust my inexperienced judgment, can you trust hers?"

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Late in the evening London looks like every other big city, that with darkness smoothing the edges and painting the sky standard black tinted with artificial glow. Dark is hiding innumerable inhabitants, chasing the most of working population from the streets. Q has been told that panic and fear has coated people in the aftermath of the explosion and he has seen enough footage of rescue teams, working to remove debris generously sprinkled with blood, to come to the same conclusions on his own. He is fairly sure he can connect C to the attack. At least he has enough incriminating data, stored on various proxy servers for safety, which can make C's life more than complicated.

"003," Tanner says upon picking up his phone. "Yes, good. Thank you, it is very essential, yes. I understand. Hold on, please."

He turns in the front seat to address Q:

"What is the best way to deliver the data safely right now?"

"Backup network, definitely not our usual channels. A moment, I shall send her the details," Q taps at his tablet, awakening it.

A few minutes later he takes a shallow breath and speaks, because he can feel Bond's eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

"Here is a set of coordinates. Ah, it figures," he huffs a dry laugh. "What should be a secluded desert crater is presumably a large complex… according to satellite visuals I am getting right now."

"Oberhauser is there," states Bond from the driver's seat.

"Maybe," declares Q thoughtfully. "Of course, —"

Glass shutters and Bond turns the wheel too fast. Q ducks down instinctively and, by god, but the movement hurts so much. He can also swear that he has glass in his hair now: little bits of it have certainly nicked his cheek.

"Q?" Bond asks hoarsely.

"I am alright," he grits out, not raising his head. "Tanner, what is going on?"

"They have intercepted us at the roundabout. Moneypenny managed to break through," Tanner sounds wired, as he clicks the safety on his gun. "Bond, take to the left here."

Now, he has been in two car chases, grimly thinks Q, as he tunes out gunshots to work on his tablet.

Two times too many.

He might develop a new vehicle phobia after this.

Q can't allow himself to be blind, so he follows their progress through live CCTV feed until they turn and dash down narrow side street, where two rows of dark houses are completely devoid of lights.

"Bond," he calls out urgently, "this way is blocked. M and Moneypenny can't deal with the system on their own. What are you doing?"

"I am getting you out safely, Quartermaster."

"I think, 007 means that we must engage."

"Well, thank you for explanation."

Q tries for sarcasm, but it is quite difficult under the circumstances.

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"It was a close call," winces Tanner, pressing his handkerchief to his wounded forearm.

Even Bond emerged from the violent encounter winded and bleeding, and Q is gravely impressed by the way he dealt with their attackers, how he charged with the sole intention to kill. Q himself is lucky to be alive too. At one point he was sure that the gunman was aiming directly at him, and though Bond was faster, bless him, Q still feels the phantom wisp of bullet missing his neck by inches.

Q rubs at his chest and slumps back against the brick wall, panting.

Frankly, they don't have any time to chill out, just a minute until Bond hijacks a car, so they can proceed to new headquarters.

Ah, here he is.

When Q pushes himself up and ahead the world swirls a little, but Bond is close enough to notice and steady him by putting his arm around Q's shoulders.

"Easy, Q. Don't you dare faint on me now," he is saying in a low and smooth voice and Q shudders, reminded of M's first words.

"I shall faint on you later. After we end this."

When this is over, he needs a proper stress-free holiday.

"Wait, you've got blood on your face," points out Bond while he assists him to climb into the backseat.

"These scratches are the least of my concerns," scoffs Q.

Tanner is regarding them both in weird fashion, or maybe it is a meager trick of light.

Minutes tick by in vertigo. Q doesn't want this high tide of adrenaline to subside, because he knows all too well what comes after.

"Probably, Spectre doesn't have enough people in London at the moment," muses M. "That attempt was quite pathetic," she gestures with her ghostly hand to the previous Six headquarters, which they pass at breakneck speed. "Although, I would have been immensely pleased, had I any chance to squash them myself."

Rather pressed on time, they hurry in as soon as they arrive, leaving rapidly paling Tanner behind.

These cold glassy buildings are full of reflective surfaces and they make a good job of turning the insides deadly sleek and disturbingly elusive. As though all memories would only leak off impenetrable mirrors and be gone. And now, as Bond and M quietly argue in the back, while Q and Moneypenny go right for the elevator, he inherently perceives the utter wrongness of the place. Getting in is way too simple, too easy — the thought pulses in Q's mind with annoying frequency. He has encountered private villas with better security than the supposed Big Brother's headquarters.

So, when the elevator dings, opening, and he's looking right at the heavily built, tall man with a gun, part of Q, which has a will of its own, unwinds, loosening the tension. Neither the man nor his henchmen are on the footage feed, which Q is constantly monitoring on his tablet. Well-played, indeed.

His thoughts are running a mile a minute, and he even has time to be secretly glad — his death is going to be swift.

However, Q is not permitted to stay petrified.

Moneypenny suddenly swoops upon him and seizes him by the arm with considerable strength.

When the gun does go off, Q is being dragged to the side.

He catches a brief glimpse of Bond and M opening fire when Moneypenny kicks open the staircase door after shooting the lock.

"Behind me," she orders briskly and Q obeys just in time, as she shoots another man in black gear, popping out of the maintenance door.

And one more, running down the stairs.

"She has improved," compliments M magnanimously.

Half-deaf from all shooting and fairly dizzy from suffocating pain, Q can't share M's thoughtful mood. As they rush up the stairs, every movement is marked by blinding hurt — Q has the feeling that his lungs are both bleeding and on fire. It is an absolute wonder that he makes it to the necessary floor and doesn't start coughing up blood.

When he finally sets to work, a tad later than intended, his hands are dangerously sluggish, uncooperative. The lines of code seem to dance before his eyes and he is genuinely afraid, again, that he may fail all these people depending on him. The cold wave comes and goes although, and then he gets to work. He looks up only once, heart almost stopping at the noise and sees someone's reflection, but M says:

"I suppose you are calling this one C. Moneypenny can handle him."

When he succeeds, faster than he thought possible, he feels too weak to stand up. The purpose gone, Nine Eyes system shut down, he registers Moneypenny's voice directly ahead. The other one must be C. Yeah, he can actually see them.

With soft curse he barely hauls himself up and finds out that voices grow stronger.

"You are too stupid to realize the need for the new order," goes on C.

His rumpled look and plastic tied wrists are quite demonstrative.

"We will see who is the moron," drawls Moneypenny lightly, as she prompts him to walk by cocking a gun. "Q, are you done?"

"Yes, the system's down."

"Brilliant," M is shining especially bright tonight.

The sudden blast comes from behind Q's back.

He never sees it coming.

But he detects an almost comical look of surprise on C's face.

Then, there is nothing.

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While Q had a long and rather painful moment of coming to his senses, which altogether felt like clawing through liquid tarmac, he also didn't fail to register a certain oddity.

The sight was grim and murky.

There was a lot of eye-watering poignant smoke, but that was not strange in itself. Rather, Moneypenny was contributing to it. She was kneeling next to him and probably checking his vitals. Her figure was outlined by the orange glow. Then, she turned her head a little to the side and fire illuminated one side of her face better.

Oh, he thinks, her lips are moving.

For him — there is nothing but silence.

"I can't hear you," Q tries to pronounce, but inhales smoke and starts coughing.

He shouldn't have done that.

It is excruciating.

There isn't a single part of him that is not in pain. Coughing fit draws to the surface his previous injury and Q is overpowered.

It is molten tarmac all over him again. Under its' crushing weight his brief glimpse of consciousness is well and truly defeated.

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However, waking up for the second and for the third time is not much better. Q feels so infinitely tired. He can breathe sharp clean air due to plastic mask strapped to his face, though he can't hold on to his elusive awareness. His hearing is still off and all the rest of his senses are muffled to the point of nonexistence.

When confined like that, he is faced with the weird ideas spawning merrily on his mindscape. Like the idea to apologize to Moneypenny for blacking out on her, strings of worries and insecurities dragging him closer to Bond — he never knew he has been ever harboring such, theories concerning M's ghost — he can't simply let it be, can he? Q thinks rather a lot about a new rifle prototype configuration. He also feels bad about leaving the cats, being unfairly attached as he is to both.

By the time he wakes up properly it is midday and the sky is a rare pale blue — this much he is able to see through the window.

When assaulted by obligatory questions and examinations he becomes a tad wistful, regretting leaving a world with no sound. Apparently, it was a temporal condition, so he was told. Fractured breastbone was also temporary, but promised a lot of future ache and inconvenience.

Tanner came next.

A shade too ashen and with a right hand in the neat sling, he was still one of MI-6 pillars, and a very nice person too.

"Oh, thank you. It's lovely to have at least something back," Q accepts a brand new laptop bag carefully and immediately unzips it as Tanner deposits the bag with the change of clothes on the chair.

There is his spare standard issue laptop from work, which is far below the one supposedly scorched, but will do for now.

"Yours was unsalvageable," confirms Tanner mildly and smiles. "And I can't keep you from work, Q, since we are all officially back to espionage affairs."

"Bond?" asks Q then, acknowledging a vague pull of concern.

"As usual. One more gunshot wound to add to his customary lead overdose."

Q's spark of anxiety must reflect on his face, because Tanner immediately explains:

"A clean one, more or less. Upper arm," he points to his own arm with his chin. "Should heal just fine if he refrains from putting any strain on it. He was here yesterday, but after we established that you may encounter difficulties regaining consciousness, Bond, well, evaporated. "

"Not for long," assures him Q.

The damage Six has sustained is great, and the mess they have found themselves in after everything is even grander. Currently out of both headquarters, in the country destabilized by not one, but a series of terrorist attacks, their victory over C is bittersweet and incomplete. Not a triumphant ending, bringing exultation and peace, indeed. Therefore, all the afternoon he is working to reassemble everything available for a future stand-off.

Bloody Spectre.

So he talks to M, then to technicians from his reestablished department, has a few quick words with Moneypenny and is recalibrating their security system until exhaustion properly kicks in.

It's high time to go home, decides Q.

When night falls he texts Bond, who, according to Smart Blood data, is neither on the plane to Africa nor in a cheesy bar, drinking himself down adrenaline high in tormented solitude. He is at home, which doesn't mean that he is not indulging in alcohol or someone else per se, and Q is slightly disturbed by the evident absence of jealousy he is feeling at the imaginary scenes fed him by his accommodating mind.

It figures.

All his preconceived expectations of how it would feel to really establish an emotional connection with Bond are confusingly different from reality. By degrees, he comes to the conclusion that since there is nothing normal about him, there is nothing normal about the way he loves and cares for someone.

Tanner is hardly pleased when he calls and tells him that he is going home. Momentarily, he adopts a chastising tone, which is a futile affair as far as Q is concerned. Much as Q is aware of precautions and following prescriptions with utmost care, he can surely be fine on his own.

Within an hour a car is waiting for him.

Within forty minutes he is finally home.

As he pushes open the doors to his flat, he feels almost as if stepping into foreign space. Oddly alienated from anything which made up his routine life so far, Q relives a subsequent experience of being lost, especially when cats come dashing at him just as he appears in the doorway.

This enthusiastic greeting grounds him and he kindly mutters some nonsense, while petting them gently. If nothing else, he absolutely enjoys these little bursts of affection. They are bound to be followed by bouts of indifference on Mist's part, but he is used to that.

Bond arrives when he is just done feeding both.

All in fancy black again, as though straight from the dinner party, Bond is balancing a paper bag with groceries with one hand and refrains from moving the other.

"Your place is actually very nice," says Bond and starts shrugging off his coat in a rather awkward fashion.

A perceptive look later, Q takes the bag from him and tactfully turns around, not sure whether Bond would appreciate any help.

"I sincerely hope it's not surprise I hear," he throws over his shoulder, smiling lightly.

Q takes his time to make himself tea and coffee for Bond. Moving about his kitchen he patiently instructs Bond on the subject of locating cooking appliances. It seems they have unwittingly discovered a way of keeping it simple. So simple, in fact, that Bond's presence in his flat, in his kitchen, is less a rattling novelty than it should have been.

"Is Madeleine fine?" Q asks first, gingerly leaning on the counter next to Bond and casually admiring some breathtaking way the man is wielding a broad and heavy kitchen knife.

Of course, Bond is quite good at cooking even one handed.

"Yes. She is good. Saw her in the morning," replies Bond without missing a bit. "She was asking about you. You have made quite an impression."

His lips are not devoid of that peculiar sly curve.

"By almost dying a couple of times? Well, that was not intentional, let me assure you."

At this, Bond puts down the knife.

Softly and slowly.

Q can't take eyes off him.

"After we gunned them down I barely understood what was going on because of smoke inhalation. It usually impairs judgment as you may know. And then there was fear. Not for me, for you. And, I supposed, I have already had it drained for good," he tells Q with something like sore defeat. "That's why I considered leaving just after Moneypenny called to tell me that you're alright."

The way Bond is forcing out words makes Q sigh.

"I also worry. Though, it is an integral part of caring for someone, therefore absolutely inevitable. I, well… I honestly expected you to leave," Q shrugs and instantly regrets a motion.

Quickly catching him by the shoulder, Bond pulls Q close.

The kiss feels fairly like a heady mix of despair and terror, as if Bond is seeking reassurance, and Q doesn't quite like it like that. James is all suggestive touches and heat. And Q hates his inability to switch off his mind like Bond does, if only a little.

"Please, slow down," he hums in between taking raw breaths.

Bond does.

His eyes are searching Q's face and he seems to look first incredulous, then apologetic.

"Face it, I am not up to getting enthusiastic and neither are you," Q taps at his chest for emphasis. "Let's have a dinner. Then, I intend to introduce you to my cats. Yes, they are currently hiding somewhere, seeing as they are the creatures of excellent instincts… regarding visiting assassins."

"Cats?"

"Fortunately for us, there is no one else to introduce you to, so you might as well relax."

"It unburdens me greatly," if a smile is Bond's way of putting their collective pasts behind them, so be it.

Q, a soft-hearted fool that he is, leans in and kisses him once more.

A simple brush of lips to seal the deal.

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For several weeks Q sees nothing of M, but he never forgets about her.

Q tucks his sadness as deep as he can and focuses on never ceasing amount of work he is having these days. His injury made housework difficult for him and some things are utterly unmanageable. Entirely unexpected, it is James who helps. Quite a lot.

One night after dinner, Q, glad that as luck would have it, double oh program is still officially on standby, finds himself nodding off against Bond's shoulder on the couch. Blinking, he hears-feels a deep rumble of Bond's voice — it appears he picked up the phone without Q noticing and is having a hushed conversation now. As it happens, Q's mind is in a foggy, sleepy state right now and soothed by over encompassing warmth it slowly drifts towards a wonderful realm of slumber.

"Q, wake up," someone calls so sternly and insistently, that Q bolts upright as if electrocuted.

Despite Bond asking him whether everything is fine in the background, he can't revert eyes from M. She has her arms crossed and is regarding them both impatiently, glowing in the same ghostly manner.

"You have been sitting about and around for too long," M dryly observes. "It's time to seize Spectre and crash it for good."

"Oh my," Q murmurs weakly and turns to look at concerned James. "Hail the trouble, for it is soon coming."

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