"I pulled the trigger and watched most of his face explode into an unrecognisable mess. His eyes had been bluer than in the photos." From Cerulean Sins by Laurell K Hamilton

Inspired by the above quote...

"Fuck!" Q turned into the next corridor and swore when he saw there was no hiding place among the smooth insipid walls and harsh electric light. He wheeled about and continued along his original path, pausing occasionally to try doors as he ran. All locked. All fucking locked.

Blood dripped down his arm in a sluggish flow staining his pale blue shirt a rusty brown; it splashed onto the glittering vinyl floor in fat red droplets leaving a breadcrumb trail for his pursuer. He didn't need to run. He stalked calmly through the deserted lower corridors of MI6, moving like the predator he was, on the blood trail of the traitor.

There was a whimper of terror and Q realised it came from deep within his own chest. It had all gone horribly wrong. How had it gone wrong? He had been so careful to erase all evidence of his activities, so damn careful not to leave digital fingerprints on any file he touched. He was the best hacker in the western world; everyone said so. He never left so much as a whisper of his presence, and certainly not the bloody big screaming banner that Bond had found. It had been all the evidence Double-Oh Seven needed to confirm the rumour that Q had betrayed Queen and Country.

Q was going to die today. His lover was going to put a bullet in his brain.

The wound in his shoulder burned with the bullet still lodged somewhere inside his body. He wouldn't bleed out, but the steady seeping was a concern. Bond had taken him by surprise with that one.

You won't really shoot me, Q had said with a smile, confident that Bond would listen first, be dissuaded from taking him down. The bastard had shot him without even a flicker of mercy. The man Q loved, and whom he thought loved him in return, had coolly pointed his Walther at Q's chest and pulled the trigger. Bond flicked the gun sideways to his shoulder just before firing, but still...

Q had run. Bond had let him. It wasn't like Q could escape the building but perhaps he could buy himself some time. Bond clearly wasn't in a hurry to end him or he would have put a bullet in Q's retreating back.

Q glanced at the phosphorescent hands of his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since Bond had walked into Q's office and accused him of being the leak that had resulted in the loss of two agents. Bond's eyes were arctic and his expression murderous as file after file of evidence pinged up on Q's monitor from the memory stick that he thrust into the laptop.

Q's impulse to initiate the building's emergency evacuation and lockdown procedures was far from his most intelligent plan given that he was potentially trapping himself with a talented killer but he was proud that he still had the presence of mind to think of a way of preventing collateral damage.

The final corridor offered only one option. One solitary door, dark brown wood, small black sign. Cleaner. There was nowhere else to go. Cornered like the rat Bond believed him to be. Bond was wrong. This was all wrong but the agent wasn't going to give Q time to explain. The evidence against the Quartermaster was overwhelming in Bond's eyes making him too blinded by cold fury to even consider that this was too convenient and toofuckingridiculous to be true.

Q slammed the door shut and sank to the floor in pitch black darkness. He cowered in the corner making his body as small as possible and tried to slow his racing thoughts. The acrid smell of chemical cleaners irritated his eyes and made them water. They weren't tears. Not tears. The bitter, stale air was choking him. He coughed and it was more a sob. Definitely a bloody sob.

God his shoulder hurt. The blood was sticky and warm, adding a metallic taste to the room every time he breathed in. He felt in his pocket with his good hand, pulled out his phone, and used its dim light to survey his surroundings. He needed something he could use for defense. There wasn't a great deal from which to choose. Bottles of chemicals. A metal bucket and mop. Boxes of paper towels, toilet rolls, assorted cloths. Maybe if he mixed a few things together he could make something unpleasant but the noxious fumes would probably finish him off long before Bond even opened the door.

There was a footstep outside. Q swallowed and pushed onto his feet. He was sobbing openly now. His only real hope was to make Bond listen, make him doubt the evidence. He rapidly typed a text and sent it; listening for the tell-tale chirp from Bond's phone on the other side of the wood. It seemed to take forever.

There was no answering message; no voice calling to him. A close range gunshot and the splintering of wood, quickly followed by a second. Q scuttled into the shadows at the very back of the small space - taking the mop with him. Grabbing the wooden shaft was agony and a strangled yelp burst forth before he could stop it. From outside there was deathly silence.

Q was breathing too quickly, too heavily. He needed to calm down, get some control back. If he was to die, the Quartermaster of MI6 would go down fighting; not whimpering in a dark space, executed by a man whose rationality was compromised by his lover's apparent treachery. Bond believed him guilty. He wasn't. But he couldn't prove it from the tiny broom cupboard at the end of a hallway. Bond would kill him before he let him anywhere near a computer. Q needed to get to a computer and have enough time to clear his name.

Bond knew he was inside and there was nowhere for him to go. He didn't have much going for him but he had two things he could use; unpredictability and a weapon in the form of a mop. For once in his life he thanked God he was skinny. There was just enough room for him to conceal himself between the door and shelving, bracing the mop between his bony hip and the door frame. He was counting on Bond to underestimate him, but the chances of that were slim to none.

The door creaked open slowly; dim light filtering in from the corridor. Q held his breath, poised and waiting. At first nothing. Bond wasn't stupid enough to enter until he'd assessed the danger. The gap into which Q had squeezed hid him from Bond's view but it was a tiny room. It would take a few seconds for Bond to figure out where he was hiding. Q had paid close attention to Bond's missions over the last eight months and as a result he could make an educated guess as to how the agent was likely to approach.

As expected, Bond came in low, crouched. Q waited until his head cleared the frame and then brought the mop down hard on Bond's crown, which sent the agent sprawling to the floor. The blow wasn't hard enough to knock him out but he lay still for a moment, disorientated and dazed. The Walther skidded from Bond's hand, coming to rest against Q's foot. Q grabbed the gun and leapt over the prone man, tearing up the corridor in the direction of M's office. Its weight in his hand was a reassuring presence.

Bond would expect him to head for Q-branch so Q did the opposite, heading up through the deserted building rather than down. M's office was purposely designed to be defensible if necessary. He made the floor with a cry of relief, scrubbing tears away with the back of his hand. No time for that. Work to do.

His hands shook so badly he could barely enter his access codes and the blood on his fingers made the keys slick. Twice he mistyped a vital string, causing automatic security protocols to trigger, and he lost valuable moments counteracting the program, and shutting it down. In less than five minutes he had level one access, two minutes later he had initiated a trace following his original path; seeking the source of his betrayal. It would take time though. And time was something that he didn't have.

Bond stood in the doorway. In his panic Q had forgotten to shut it, never mind lock it, and now the blond agent loomed, his calculated calm replaced with raw anger. Q snatched the Walther from the desk blotter and gripped it tightly in his good hand. Not his gun hand but he could fire well enough. He practiced plenty firing at paper targets, but he'd never yet had to fire at living flesh and blood. He'd never had to commit to damaging a body that he knew intimately and loved passionately.

Q's hand was shaking so badly now he had little chance of hitting his target. Bond advanced slowly, eyes on the barrel that pointed at his chest; everything about him radiated menace. There was a thin trickle of blood on his brow and his fingers flexed at his side; clearly missing the weapon that Q had taken from him.

Q risked a sideways glance at the monitor to check the progress of his program. Bond noticed the momentary waver in his focus and struck, leaping forward to grab Q's arm but he only succeeded in knocking the Quartermaster's hand an inch or two higher. Reflexively Q's finger tightened.

The noise was the worst. Or maybe it was the look of surprise in Bond's electric blue eyes as his lower jaw shattered. Or maybe it was the dead weight of his lover bearing him to the floor. Q was screaming. He couldn't stop. There was only one horrific noise left in the world and it was being ripped from his chest. He passed out.

"Turn it off for fuck's sake!"

The sting of medical adhesive pads being ripped from his skin yanked Q from the depths, sobbing his way to the surface. He was dragged into a protective circle of warm chest and strong arms; his body pressed tightly against another hot living torso that was quivering almost as much as he was.

"Double-Oh Seven, get out of here now! You were given express instructions by your Quartermaster not to interfere with the simulation."

Bond growled at the rat-faced man in the white coat, literally baring his teeth when two medical staff stepped forward to try to reclaim Q from his lap.

"Don't you dare touch him. This was a stupid idea. Look at him!"

Q screamed when the pain in his shoulder was torn away. It instantly felt better. Maybe they had removed the bullet?

"Q?" Cool lips pressed against his temple. The disorientation was fading as the pain receded, awareness of his surroundings seeping back into his consciousness.

"James?"

"Mm. Don't even start on me for stepping in. The stress on your body was too much."

"I think I pissed myself."

Bond chuckled and hugged him tight. "You didn't, but I wasn't happy with your vitals. They were setting sensors off all over the place and those medical idiots weren't doing a thing." He glared at the assembled white coats who were gathered anxiously just out of his reach.

"At least some people follow instructions," Q murmured against Bond's jaw. "You're banned from the building next time."

He shivered in Bond's embrace, the residual discomfort from the simulation still buzzing in his nerves. Chills were setting in and he snuggled closer to steal some of Bond's heat. A nervous hand thrust a spare white coat at them and Bond wrapped it tenderly around the almost naked, shaking man in his lap. Someone else gently replaced Q's glasses and then scurried back to the safety of the medical pack.

"There won't be a next time, not for you." Bond nudged Q's glasses up the younger man's nose so they sat correctly and grimaced at him once Q's eyes focused on his face. "You have plenty flunkeys you can order to volunteer. There's no need for you to test the simulation yourself."

"We're still in the early days of development James." He curled his slim arms around his lover's body and kidded himself that he wasn't hanging on to sanctuary. "I need to know that we're moving in the right direction, and I can only collect the required data by being a test subject myself. Other people will be involved soon enough."

"I could ask M to put a stop to it," Bond muttered, brushing his lips briefly over Q's brow. "You're too valuable to risk like this. Is Mallory even aware of the trauma you're inflicting on your body in order to develop this tool? I doubt you've kept him fully apprised of your involvement in this particular project."

Q was more present, coming down from the adrenaline high that the simulation had induced. The muscular arms around his waist and the fine fabric of Bond's suit were becoming more real than the weight of a non-existent gun in his hand or the heavy press of his lover's dead body pinning him to the prickly carpet.

Q made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort of derision. "I know how it feels to shoot you now," he quipped, ignoring the sickness churning in his stomach at the memory. "You might want to remember that before you start trying to interfere or order me around."

"Can I order you to finish here for today and come home?" Bond asked softly. Both still shook slightly, clinging to one another without apparently realising it.

"You can ask me."

"Please?" Bond rumbled, rubbing at Q's sore shoulder where the contact had delivered a steady point of pain simulating the bullet wound. The touch was soothing, pushing the stress of the experience from the forefront of Q's mind. Q dropped his head onto Bond's shoulder humming his assent.

"It's valuable research," he muttered, expecting Bond to argue but the agent simply sighed.

"I know. I don't have to like seeing you put yourself through it."

"If you stayed away as you were told you wouldn't have to. Thank you for sticking around though." He pressed his dry lips to Bond's jaw and smiled. "Take me home love. Killing you wasn't nearly as much fun as I imagined it might be."

"Glad to hear it." Bond struggled to his feet without letting the younger man go, dropping a small kiss on Q's forehead. He carried him from the room, leaving the white coats staring after them.