WARNING: please be aware that this fic contains mentions of suicide, depression and PTSD; as well as canon-typical violence.

Betaed by Charlotte from thebetaservice on tumblr. Contains references to James Bond films prior to Casino Royale, although the characters are primarily from the Craig!Bond verse.

Usual disclaimers: character's opinions are not mine, I don't own anything you recognise, etc, etc

Enjoy!

There aren't many people jogging at six a.m. on a Monday morning, probably because it was raining when James started out. He's now soaked, but at least the rain has stopped. He has a clothes dryer, he might as well make use of it every now and then.

He settles in his usual route and is one lap into three when he sees him.

Q is running along the path ahead of him.

Instinctively James slows his pace, stays around ten yards behind Q and hopes that Q doesn't turn and see him. How do you explain following a co-worker around a park at six thirty in the morning?

Q's jogging pace is only slightly slower than James's. By now he knows that Q isn't your average geek, but he never imagined that Q might actually be fit. In jogging gear he's just as skinny as he looks at work, but without all the extra layers James can see that Q looks strong, his muscles wiry if not bulky.

There's something almost erotic about Q's straight back, his confident stride, the realisation that if he turns around James would be able to see his face flushed with exertion.

All right, it's not almost, it's definitely erotic.

There's an incessant beeping and Q swears, veering off the path to lean against a tree. James slows, watches him pull out his phone and start texting, or possibly plotting the destruction of a minor terrorist organisation.

Of course, Q chooses that moment to look up and spot him. He doesn't look annoyed, so James takes that as a cue to approach, because there's no point in pretending he was just looking at the tree or some other rubbish.

Q's hair has fallen into his eyes, and James has an absurd urge to reach out and brush it back. 'Hello Bond, get caught in the rain, did you?' Q grins at him.

'No, I always run soaking wet. It's the newest fad, don't you know?'

Q rolls his eyes. 'Don't even pretend to be trendy, Bond, it's nauseating.'

'Because you know so much about style.'

'Style and trend are two very different things, 007.'

James grins, because though Q's tone is dry his eyes are sparkling. 'Do you run here every day?'

'I had to move flats after I got promoted, I'm still trying to find a nice spot.' He looks James over, and James feels an odd twinge of self-consciousness. 'But I might come here more often, if the company's good.' He gives James an unexpectedly soft smile. 'See you later, 007.'

James watches him disappear down the path and can't help but shake his head. Q is full of surprises.

The rest of his morning goes the way every morning has gone since February. He goes to work, continues his argument with Clarke about whether the Royal Marines are worth the tax the country spends on them (Clarke is one of the rare Double Os who didn't start out in the military, which makes the argument even more absurd, because what the fuck does he know about it), and spends the morning in the gym training field agents.

They never tell you that most of the work you do as a Double O is behind a desk, just like they never tell you the only thing you get for lasting the longest of all the Double Os is a job teaching agents fresh out of an embassy in the middle of nowhere how not to fuck up their first field assignment.

If someone had asked him five years ago where he'd be now, it sure as hell wouldn't have been here.

Five years ago he was still young. Five years ago M was a bitch and Alec was alive and James was in the prime of his life.

Just as James is preparing to go to lunch, the phone in his office rings, and Q asks him to come down to Q Branch's firing range a test a new something.

'You'll find out what it is when you get down here,' says Q before he hangs up on James's indignant reply. There's no point being pissed off, though. He can never resist testing Q's inventions, especially the things that explode.

This morning notwithstanding, working with Q is already difficult, because every time James sees him he wants to lay him out and have his way with him. He's always had a thing for competency, and Q being absolutely gorgeous doesn't help.

He's sure Q knows, or at least suspects, what he's thinking. Occasionally there's a flirting edge to his words, sometimes James swears he wears those ridiculous jumpers just to irritate him.

On the other hand, maybe being stuck in the office is actually driving James mad.

An hour later, James has proved that Q's supposedly bomb-proof suitcase is very easy indeed to blow up.

'Honestly, Bond, is there anything you can't turn into an explosion?'

He raises an eyebrow at Q's annoyance. 'Water? Although, if there's enough electricity…'

Q pulls off his ear protection and stares. 'You're insane.'

'Says the man who builds bombs for a living.'

'I do not build bombs.' Q looks insulted. 'I design your equipment, some of which happens to be built to blow up. The rest of it you blow up even though that's not what it's for.'

'It's called improvisation, Q. Isn't that why you wanted me to test it, so you could make it Double O proof?'

Q rolls his eyes and shakes his head violently. Ash from his hair goes everywhere. 'I suppose it's back to the drawing board with this one, then. Can't use it to safely transport explosives if you can blow it up with a screwdriver.'

By the afternoon, James's good mood has almost evaporated. He's always like this these days, starting off the day feeling fine but sinking slowly as the hours go by. By three o'clock, as he rides the lift up to M's office, James is seriously questioning why he's still here, when he could be drowning his sorrows at home or in some bar. The only reason he can see is that Mallory (M, M, must remember) summoned him, and he's been following orders for so long that, unless someone's shooting at him, he doesn't question them.

Moneypenny greets him when he steps into her little office and James drags himself back to the present.

'Is it still a good time, or has someone done something unforgivable since you called?'

Moneypenny smiles the smile that always reminds James of sharp knives. 'No, he's waiting.'

M greets him perfunctorily and motions for him to sit down while he flips through a stack of papers. When the file closes James is surprised to see TOP SECRET stamped across the top. He's still on his two weeks break after his most recent mission in New York, and all Moneypenny had said when he'd picked up the phone was 'He wants a word, if you've got a spare half an hour.'

Now, M says, '007, take a look at this,' and slides the folder across the desk.

James skims the first few pages, realises what he's reading, and goes back to read them properly. By the time he's finished wading through the double-speak that's typical of reports like this, there's a familiar prickling on the back of his neck that always means danger.

'What do you make of it, 007?'

'Well, sir,' James ventures, 'it reads like a report on a mole –'

'But?' M prompts.

'But… all this – this "identity unknown" stuff is bullshit, sir.'

He's obviously hit the nail on the head. M's brow creases. 'How do you mean?'

'Whatever Q's been telling you about how antiquated MI6 is, that's rubbish. We had a purge in 2006 and we've been keeping our ears to the ground ever since. If there's a mole we'd at least know a name.' He taps the folder. 'Either the person who wrote this report is incompetent, or they've got something to hide.'

M leant back in his chair. 'That's what I thought.'

The last time they missed an infiltrator, M died. James isn't willing to let that happen again. 'So what are you going to do, sir?'

M steeples his fingers. 'We can't rely on anything in this report, which means, unfortunately, that there's a whole office we can't trust.'

'But you're telling me.'

M gives him an unimpressed look. 'We may have had our differences, 007, but of all the people who work for MI6, I think we can safely say you're the least likely to be a traitor. But this doesn't leave this room, you understand?' James nods. 'I'll be making my own investigations, but I'd like you to keep you ears to the ground, as you say, and report to me immediately if you hear anything of interest. Whoever this is, we want to weed them out as quickly as possible.'

They both frown at the report for a moment. James looks up before M, and notes the furrowed brow. If this investigation unearths something of the scale of the Quantum infiltration they dealt with in 2006, it's going to uproot everything this M has been working on since he took the job.

James realises he's been staring a second after M looks up, but refuses to do anything but look straight back at that calculating gaze. He and M work well together, and he doesn't doubt his dedication to the job, but it's not the same as working with someone who's watched as you were forged by the fire of experience.

Finally M nods and James takes this as his queue to stand up. M rises too, and says, 'I'm sure I don't need to remind you how vital this is.'

'No sir.'

'Good. Send Moneypenny in when you leave, could you?'

M's problem sits at the back of James's mind for the rest of the afternoon. James has seen a lot of investigations like this in his time, has helped Bill Tanner with a handful of them. They always end in tears, and the strangeness of this situation doesn't bode any different.

He can't help assuming it's Quantum. It almost always is, and every time it means another target for him, another kill on his list. It's been a while since the last one, and his pulse quickens, despite his bad mood. Maybe he'll get out of London sooner rather than later.

By the end of the day James has almost forgotten about M's problem. The darkness in his head is clawing for a grip on his soul again.

James stares at the Thames without really seeing it. He hates nighttime. It used to be his favourite time of the day, but since his most recent resurrection the bars and clubs he used to frequent have lost their appeal. Drinking, too, feels like a bit of a waste. There's a very good chance that James will survive to retire, now, and as much as he hates the idea he's started making small adjustments to his behaviour, just in case. He doesn't want to survive ten years as a Double O agent only to be felled by liver disease.

He knows he's a cold-blooded killer, but he wasn't born, he was made. What the hell is he, without the work? A walking time bomb of regret, anger and loneliness.

James fishes his packet of cigarettes and Alec's lighter from his pocket. He only smokes one cigarette a day, but he can still imagine his mother tutting at him like she did his father.

All right, maybe his bad habits are going to kill him if his job doesn't.

He's halfway through the cigarette when he hears footsteps behind him. 'Those things will kill you one day.'

He closes his eyes instinctively. Q is close, their elbows are almost touching. 'Q, if I last long enough to get lung cancer I will be very surprised.' It won't do to have MI6 thinking he's gone soft.

'You've made it this far,' says Q quietly. He almost sounds disappointed. James opens his eyes.

Q is leaning his elbows on the railing, shoulders slumped and hair in his eyes again. The lamplight is making him look slightly ethereal.

'Retirement wouldn't suit me.'

Q frowns. 'I suppose not. Not enough murder.'

'Not enough action. I could do without the murder.'

Q turns to stare at him. 'Really?'

James stares at the remains of his cigarette. 'Killing is necessary. It doesn't mean I have to like it. Do you like knowing that you can kill thousands of people with the touch of a button?'

'No.' Q bites his lip. James swallows. His cigarette has gone out. He wants to know what Q tastes like. He wants to wipe that sad look off Q's face. He wants to explore every inch of him until all of Q is imprinted in his brain.

He kisses Q before his better judgment can kick in.

For a moment he's sure Q will kiss back, but he only hesitates for a second before pulling away. 'James. Stop.' Q isn't making eye contact. His eyes are full of an emotion James can't read. Something like fear. 'I'm not going to be your distraction.'

James catches his elbow, tries without success to turn Q to face him. 'I don't think you're a distraction.'

Q shakes his head. 'I know, but that doesn't mean you won't, eventually.' James opens his mouth but has no idea what to say. Q's words sting. 'Figure out what's going on in your head first, James.'

And then he walks away.

Figure out what's going on in your head.

What the hell does that even mean? What does Q know about how James's head works?

The anger lasts him until he gets halfway home. He stops at a red light and suddenly realises what Q meant. People have been looking at him sideways ever since M died, as if he's about to have a breakdown, or take a leaf out of Silva's book and start shooting.

To be fair, last time someone he cared about was killed he did disappear for two months.

Regret is not part of our profession, M had said, and she's right. He's been learning to control his own head for years. If Q thinks he doesn't know what he's doing, that's not James's problem.

And yet.

He drives around for over an hour on autopilot, his mind a pitch battle between Q and the blackness. In the end, he's not sure which is winning, but he needs a drink.

As soon as he closes the front door James knows something is wrong. His blinds have all been closed, but one of them is flapping in the breeze. There's a window open somewhere.

He hasn't got a gun. There's one in the bedroom, in the safe, but he can't get it without crossing the living room. The breeze is making it impossible to hear breathing, if there is someone else in the room. He crouches, slides his knife out of his ankle sheath, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.

There's someone lying on the floor behind the sofa.

James can't see anyone else, is expecting a gun to the head at any moment. Slowly, silently, he stands and turns on the light.

M is lying on his living room floor in a pool of blood.

He scrambles forward, pulling off his jacket. M's head lolls to the side when James puts pressure on the wound. He's breathing, but only just.

James thinks of her, of bloody hands and fire, dead bodies in the wilderness.

His hand is steady as a rock as he calls 999.

'Emergency, what service?'

'Ambulance. Shooting victim, adult male.' He rattles off his address, stays on the line until the ambulance comes. M is semiconscious and trying to speak, there's blood trickling from his mouth and James wants to scream.

As soon as the paramedics take over he rings the only other person he can think of, who answers with a crisp 'Moneypenny' even though she must be home by now.

'M's been shot.'

'What?'

'He was bleeding out on my floor, the paramedics are here –'

'Wait, are you at home? I'm coming over.'

'Sir?' It's the police. Of course.

'Moneypenny, bring your ID.'

Fifteen minutes later the police have reluctantly handed over the crime scene to an MI6 forensics team, and James and Moneypenny are staring at the neat bullet hole in James's window.

'He knew someone was after him. He closed all the blinds. How on earth –'

'Cameras.' James turns, sidestepping the blood he still can't look at, points them out to her. 'I used to pull them out all the time, but they always put more in so I gave up. The shooter must have had back door access. I've seen it done before.'

'Not by you?'

'No. But it can be done.'

Moneypenny's mobile rings. She answers it, and then, loudly, says 'shit.' The whole room turns to look at her. She looks like she's about to throw up. 'We have to go to the hospital.'

Blanket statements for this and all future chapters:

1) I've done my best to research things (like first aid and mental health) before publishing, but please point out any mistakes I've made, because I'm sure there are some.

2) Reviews always make me smile, so please leave one if you can!