Author unknown:

~"You can't love someone

until you love yourself."~

By the time you'd met him, he'd already died three times, and killed at least a hundred times that many people. He is cynical, pessimistic, all scarred knuckles and sharp edges. He looks at you, all lanky, teenage softness that you never really grew out of and bright green eyes that don't really reflect your personality and sarcastic cheer that is surprisingly indistinguishable from optimism, and he sees youth and inexperience. He sees weakness, and he's not afraid to lunge for it.

And you're not afraid to bite back.

The two of you snap and growl at each other in the most civic way possible, but you can tell your hardness has caught him by surprise, and he doesn't question it when you hand him his kit. It's different from what the old Quartermaster used to give them, and something you've worked a long time on and are very proud of. Bond is politely interested (read as: as interest as he should be, because these are the tools that are meant to save his life and complete his mission).

"I don't need a babysitter, Quartermaster, nor do I think you have the qualifications of one," Bond says, but slides the earpiece in anyway. You narrow your eyes at him, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

"I'm not here to babysit you, Agent. I don't know how the old Q ran his branch, but times have changed. You're not the weapon anymore, you're a weapon, and I will guide you as I see fit to complete the mission. Don't worry, Agent Bond," you say as you stand, smiling in faux innocence and straightening your clothes, "I treat my things well."'

As you walk away, you can swear you hear him murmur, "A brave new world."

~Bullshit.

I have never loved myself.~

Silva came through like a whirlwind, a tornado, tearing apart everything in his path, and the things that are left you're hardly capable of salvaging. It took fifteen minutes for Medical to pry M out of Bond's arms. It took an hour for them to deem him- physically- clear to go. He never showed up for his Psych eval. He never showed up for M's funeral. He wasn't there for Mallory's induction. You didn't see him for a whole three weeks. In that time, MI6 changed dramatically. Vauxhall became less of an abandoned system of tunnels and more of a headquarters. New locks were installed. New passcodes were handed out. New rules were covered.

By the time Bond waltz's back in, weathered and worn and bearing new scars, you'd already been back hard at work for a good week's time. International criminals didn't wait for MI6 to get back on its feet, and you find yourself trying to guide 006 through a scandal to rival the kind of chaos Agent Bond can wreck. He's surprisingly docile with you, considering his track record, but it's still no easy feat to try and get a 00-agent to do as you want.

"The door on the right is a far safer bet, 006," you point out even as Alec breaks down the door on the left. He says something about the left being faster, but you're not paying attention; you're focus is put to better use trying to make sure his idiocy doesn't get him killed.

"You're not giving your Quartermaster trouble, are you, Alec?"

You freeze, your muscles tensing subtly at the sudden voice at your shoulder. The Q-branch is distinctly quiet, the only sound being breathing, the static of the electronics, and Alec's cursing over the communications system. There is a shot, and you can tell from the sound that it's Alec's Walther and not an enemy gun.

"I wouldn't even think about it, James," Alec teases back, finally, but as though no time has passed since he last saw or spoke to the agent. It seems to break the spell of silence that hangs over the Q-branch. Chatter resumes. You go back to work trying to make sure 006 stays alive, though now an iota of your concentration is on the agent approximately a hand's width to your right. Bond is watching you work over your shoulder, scrutinizing the efficiency with which you can bring everything to the tips of your fingers. His focus is eerie, like a million ants crawling under your skin, like you're being skinned alive under that ice-blue gaze, and you do your best to ignore him.

You have work to do, after all.

~But you, oh God~

Dinner with Bond is a quiet thing.

You're not at your flat a lot, with your work hours being so heavy, but you're surprised when, the first time you come back to your flat after almost a week's absence, you're flat isn't empty. You draw your gun without really thinking, leveling it with the intruder lying on your couch.

Bond greets you with casual indifference, and the tension drains out of you in a flooding sigh.

"There was a key under the doormat, you know," you point out, putting your gun on the hallway table. Your keys go beside it, your coat and scarf on the hook. Bond never moves from the couch, and there is the clink of ice against glass that tells you he's raided your liquor. He hums nonchalantly, and you take that as a "yeah, I saw it, but I don't care".

The two of you end up ordering Chinese takeout. You sit politely, laptop in your lap, eating with one hand while you finish up some work. Bond lounges on the couch like a very big cat, take up space somehow without intruding on yours. The television is on, but you're not paying attention to it and you have the feeling that Bond isn't either. The younger, college you would have complained about the abandoned television jacking up your electricity bill, but you're paid so much nowadays (and you're here so little) that you hardly even care. He's actually using the chopsticks that the restaurant provided, but you went for a fork (so you never learned how to use the damn things, is that a problem?). Your pair ended up in Bond's lap; he'd laughed at your first few failed tries, and you threw them at him as you stormed off to get proper silverware.

Aside from that, the two of you really don't talk much. You inevitably spread out to fill up more space on the couch, until your feet brushed his thighs and his yours and you were practically resting your laptop on him. A hand rests on your ankle, a thumb brushing circles into your Achilles- clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise…

You're not sure what happened so that the two of you were sitting shoulder to shoulder. You don't remember what brought the two of you nose to nose. You don't know what lead up to your lips brushing his, to the two of you crashing together.

You remember, however, that what followed was wild, and all you'd ever hoped for.

~I love you so much~

You find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, your body tired and sated, a cigarette dying between your fingers. Bond- "You can call me James, Q"- is stretched out behind you, a single, strong arm wrapped around your waist. You know it's cold in the room, but James is a living furnace behind you, and you find yourself leaning back into his warmth. Hard muscle and sharp lines: Bond is nothing if not a weapon, and it's a strange thought that you trust it at your back.

"Won't you sleep, Q?" James murmurs into your side. His stubble scratches at your skin, fingers brushing at the bruises he left. He's imprinted on your mind, on your skin, and you should want to wash him off- "Dirty, filthy, blood and sin and death. You're going to be the death of me, James". You don't, though.

You stretch out next to him, curling into his heat. You say nothing, and neither does he.

~I forgot what hating myself feels like.~

The beeping of your phone rings through the silence of your room, and both of you are awake in moments. You don't answer it. You know who it is.

The first shirt you pick up off the floor is not your own. It's too big everywhere; it falls off you like a dress, too broad at the shoulders and far too long in the sleeves. You take it off, fold it properly, and lay it on the dresser before picking up yours.

"It's not that expensive of a shirt," James mutters, still tired. It's far before he normally wakes up, and you're surprised that he's actually groggy. "It could have been left on the floor."

"Sure," you toss back over your shoulder. "If you want cat hair all over it."

You're dressed in under five minutes, out the door in fifteen. You would have been out sooner, but James was fairly determined to drag you back to bed, and it took all of your stubbornness to pull yourself out of his arms and to work. There's a new bruise on your neck by the time you leave, though, and it's a bit too high up for you to hide. "I'll see you later, James," you whisper against his lips as you whisk out the door.

An hour later, you're guiding his mission in Moscow.