The rain was hammering hard against the high, arched windows of his rather expensive London apartment as Q boiled the kettle and went to sit down on the couch. Crossing his legs underneath him and resting his laptop on his knees, he tried to concentrate on encrypting a particularly high-risk document sent to him earlier that evening by M, but the whistling of the kettle and the heavy drone of the raindrops made it impossible to think clearly. He was exhausted, though his stubborn nature would never allow himself to admit it. He had been awake for almost 48 hours now, having been at the office for the past two days working on the most difficult case he had ever seen. It had involved a Russian hacker, a team of British special operatives vanishing into thin air in Moscow, and Bond killing a civilian while attempting to track down a rogue agent.
They hadn't heard from him since. And while he didn't want to worry about 007, the thought of him drowning his sorrows somewhere and trying to forget the fact he had murdered an innocent bystander continued to weigh heavily on his mind.
He forced the thought from his already throbbing head and slammed his laptop shut, knowing he would never get to finish the file tonight. He shuffled back into the kitchen, poured himself some earl grey, and dimmed the lights in the living-room. He watched TV for about an hour, sipping absent-mindedly at the steaming mug cupped in his permanently freezing hands, and glancing every now and then at the rain still cascading down the glass panes. He could see the orange glow of a street lamp outside, making the raindrops glow as if they were on fire, and clambered up from the couch to shut the thick curtains. It was only then that he saw the figure, drenched and unmoving beneath the harsh glare of the lamp on the opposite side of the street, coat collar turned up against the downpour and his head tilted downwards, obscuring his face.
And yet, even in the pitch black, even with the heavy rain, Q could still make out that stiff, muscular frame, the broad planes of his shoulders, the blonde hair now plastered to his skull. Bond had returned, and had surprisingly chosen him as a refuge point. He almost smiled, before hurrying through to the entrance hallway and opening the door.
He squinted out into the darkness and eventually caught a glimpse of the agent sidling casually towards him, hands pushed into his coat pockets and his eyes never making contact with Q's inquisitive stare.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked, stepping aside as Bond entered without a word, creating a puddle on the tiled floor. Q watched as he removed his soaking coat and hung out on the coatstand before marching through into the living-room. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was in his pajamas – a plain blue t-shirt and stripy yellow and white bottoms – and wondered whether he should go and change before deciding against it. Bond probably didn't care what he looked like, he was most likely wanting a favour, which wouldn't require a different outift. He still remembered the first time they had met, when Q had, rather confidently, told him that he could do more damage sitting at his laptop in his pajamas than Bond could manage in a year. He was still surprised at how self-assured he had been back then. Three years on, and the job had managed to wear him down. He could feel the bags under his eyes, the ache in his back, the constant drumming in his head. He felt old beyond his years, and there was always the terrifying possibility that he wouldn't even make it to 30. Fear and the constant waiting for something awful to happen had aged him more than he could possibly have imagined, and his own appearance was mirrored in every colleague he worked with, from the girl who made coffee right the way up to M himself. They were all just waiting for the day when their luck would run out, and knew it was only a matter of time before each of them was picked off one by one.
Q shivered, closed the door hurriedly and followed Bond through into the living-room. His hair was dripping, and the droplets of water which ran down his cheeks almost looked like tear tracks.
"Has M been in contact?" Q asked, picking up his tea again to try and warm him after the bitingly cold draught which had greeted him when he had opened the front door.
Bond glanced upwards, those icy blue eyes rooting him to the spot. "No. We're... not on speaking terms at the moment."
That's putting it mildly, he thought to himself but didn't dare say it aloud. He could see how vulnerable Bond was, and knew one misplaced word could send him straight over the edge, and he was perilously close as it was.
"Tea?"
"No."
"I don't have anything stronger, I'm afraid."
"I don't want a drink."
Q sighed and sat down on the arm of the couch, watching as Bond shifted from foot to foot, evidently deliberating with himself on what to say.
"You need something, I take it?" he probed, and Bond nodded, looking him straight in the eye for a moment before returning his gaze to the floor.
"I thought disappearing was the best thing to do, but I've just made things worse. And now the net's almost closed in, and I have no one left to turn to. You're my only hope."
The words came out in an almost whisper, pleading with him. It winded him for a moment before he regained composure and stood up.
"Tell me what I need to do," he said immediately, the sheer exhaustion lifting slightly as he found strength from some unknown source.
Bond stepped closer to him, leaned in, and then stretched across to take the laptop from the couch. Q kept his eyes trained on his tea.
"I need you to hack into Viktor Langstrums personal file. It's locked, even to me, and I know you can get into it. I also need his bank details, his location, and his plans for the next few weeks. And I also need any associates currently living here, in London... Actually, any associates living in the UK. I don't know how far this has gone – I'm only just beginning to piece everything together now."
"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
"No," Bond said automatically, coming to sit down opposite him, his hands clasped together tightly on his lap. "You don't need to know. Just get me the files and then I'll be on my way."
Q bit back the reply he wanted to give, and forced himself to continue cracking the series of codes he had helped to design, eventually breaking through the final encryption and logging into M's personal "vault" where he kept all the top security files. Viktor Langstrums was hidden right at the back, behind yet another series of passwords, though these were ridiculously easy to break, and he made a mental note to increase the security once he was back in the office.
"Do you want a hard copy or just send them to you?" Q asked matter-of-factly, trying not to feel as though Bond was isolating him from this evidently off-radar mission, but feeling rejected nonetheless.
"Which is easier to get rid of?"
"Hard copy, every time. Sometimes the old ways really are the best."
Bond smiled sadly at this, but Q decided not to ask for a more detailed response. He was tired of being ignored or shunned every time he tried to get near the 00 agent, and he was desperate to get to bed.
"The printer's upstairs. Don't go snooping – I know what you spies are like," he said acerbically, his eyes trailing Bond as he gave him a grateful nod and rushed upstairs. Two seconds later he heard the thud of footsteps coming back down, and saw him pulling on his coat.
"That's it, then? That's all?"
"Would there be anything else?" Bond replied, stuffing the filed into his inside suit pocket and buttoning up his grey, wool coat.
Q shrugged. "I'm your Quartermaster, which means I do have a level of responsibility for your safety. Do you have a gun, for example?"
Bond proceeded to pull out two hand-held guns and the knife tucked into his belt. "I'm all set."
"Fine. You better get off then."
"Are you angry at me?"
"Why would I be?"
Bond raised an eyebrow at Q's sharp tone before grinning broadly. The smile didn't even come close to touching those sad, blue eyes of his. "I have no idea – just the impression I got."
"Then you can't be very good at reading people. Go. I need to get some sleep and you obviously have very important work to be getting on with."
"So you are angry?"
Q growled quietly and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not angry – I'm tired. And I don't appreciate having to keep hiding things from people in order to protect you."
"You're the one making a fuss about my protection! I'm quite capable of doing this alone!" Bond exclaimed, his hand now on the door handle.
"I'm concerned, Bond, as well I should be. You're not in the right frame of mind to be going off-road again, especially when you really do have no back-ups this time. Whatever is going on, it's far more dangerous than anything you've ever been involved with before. I can see you're scared, and that terrifies me because if you're afraid then there's no hope for the rest of us," he replied truthfully.
"I'm not scared, I'm just on edge. Viktor Langstrum is-"
"I don't want to know!" Q interjected, grabbing the door handle himself and yanking it open. "Do what you have to do – you will anyway, with or without my permission. Just make sure that if you get into trouble, you come back. Better admitting defeat and risking complete humiliation than returning to Britain in a coffin. I know which I'd prefer."
"That's because you've never been on the field – there's very little chance of you ever being killed."
"This game is dangerous for us all – you might like playing with fire, 007, but sooner or later we're all going to get burnt."
He regarded Q for a moment before slipping outside into the darkness and melting into the shadows.
He stood in the doorway for a good few minutes afterwards, watching the rain continuing to pelt down onto the cobbled street and hoping against all hope that his secret agent would return safely, and soon. Because whatever was out there for waiting for him, it didn't sound friendly, and Bond needed all the friends he could get at the moment.
Q closed the door tightly and shuffled back through to the living-room where his tea had gone stone cold in his absence. He went to boil the kettle again before thinking better of it, and decided to go upstairs. He shuddered as he felt a cold draft washing over him, and realised too late that the front door was open again, and a new dark figure was waiting to greet him this time...