"What?"

"I said, do you actually have a name?" Bond asked, having made himself comfortable in the leather chair to the left of the Quartermaster's desk. He seemed more bored than actually interested, his head tilted against the backrest lazily.

"Why?"

"Small talk."

Q hummed in response, but still did not answer. He remained brooding over the new gun he was about to hand to the 00. He had some concerns with giving Bond a new one when Q bloody well knew Bond was just going to chuck it into a ravine the first chance got.

"You still haven't answered me." Bond said, interrupting Q's train of thought.

"You still haven't given me a reason to," Q murmured distractedly. Maybe he could attach a bungee cord. Then if he tried to throw it there was a possibility of it swinging back and giving Bond a right whack. Pleasant thoughts.

James leaned forward, in a decent mood for conversation. "Well, you know mine. It would be fair for you to tell me yours."

"Yes, but you never really told me your name. Someone else told it to me for you, which doesn't count."

"So someone else has to tell me your name?" Bond asked.

"If we're being fair." Q answered. The field agent choked a laugh down.

"So who knows your name then?" Bond could hear Q release more air from his nose in irritation.

"Jesus Christ." Bond wasn't sure if the Quartermaster was saying the phrase out of exasperation or sarcasm but he sounded too genuine for both.

"Of course. So I have to pray to get your name."

"Don't be stupid. No one prays to Jesus," Q replied quickly while picking up the gun and finally handing it over to Bond. The field agent took it and began looking it over in his own secondary inspection. As he did, the Quartermaster returned to one of the various computers which occupied his desk. He really would like if Bond would just leave, but apparently the agent had plans to irritate him further into the afternoon. Why did he need his name? The other agents didn't care. It was just Q, and that was the end of it. Now Bond needs a proper title? Who did he think he was? He can't just demand to be told. Things which are private are kept secret far longer when people don't think they're meant to be private.

"If you don't tell me I might just have to invent one for you." Bond had finished looking over the gun yet still remained in the chair he had claimed as his. Q never liked that chair anyway, but he felt an acute sense of indignation at Bond wandering in and commandeering it.

"Why are you so keen on calling me another name? Sick of feeling I'm your superior?" Q suggested. There was a sharp laugh from James. "I am your superior, whether you like it or not, which means I can keep my name to myself."

"I don't believe someone who types 0's and 1's into a computer really counts as my superior." Bond mocked. Arrogant sod. Of course he wouldn't. "So that rules out that. I'd just like to know."

"Why?" Now Q was getting seriously irate. He really didn't feel like getting into this today. Or any day, for that matter.

"That's a question, not an answer. I could look in your personal file." Bond said flippantly. Q turned sharply around from his computer to face Bond. He would normally explain that a field agent cannot access the files, but this was 007 he was talking to, and somehow he would find a way. "I'm not leaving until I get a name." He sounded like he meant it.

"Qemuel." Q said it fast and undertone. The next second he wished he'd lied. He should have said Henry, or John, or Riley, or anything. It shouldn't matter, but he hadn't said it since he'd fallen, and it sounded foreign on his tongue.

"Excuse me?" Bond asked, leaning forward.

"That's my name."

"No it's not." Q remained silent while Bond looked on unconvinced. "Your name also starts with a Q? No. There is no way that is your actual name." There was an awkward pause as Bond tried to figure out if the Quartermaster was in earnest. "Qumel?" He finally attempted to repeat.

"Qemuel, you savage. You ask these things and then can't bother to get them right," Q snapped. Bond looked like he wanted to laugh at the name but the tone of the room had changed. The quartermaster was back to his computer, typing too fast to be typing anything at all. He looked tired instead of irritated, and James could tell he wanted him to leave.

'Qumel.' Why even ask if he was going to butcher it? Q aggressively typed nothing in particular into his computer as the 00 found his way to the door to leave. It felt almost sacrilegious to hear his name not only spoken, but spoken incorrectly.

"I like it. It suits you." James told him as he stood in the doorway for a brief second, then left, shutting it behind him. Q stopped typing as he left. He liked it? It's not as though he needed the field agent's approval, or even wanted it. But he felt better, and he wished he didn't. Bond liked his name, or at least had the decency to lie about approving of it, and Q felt warmer somehow, if that made any sense.

After the door shut and he was sure Bond had left for good, Q stepped away from the gobble-de-gook he had written on the computer. He felt warm and sick and displeased all at once and could do nothing about it. He'd told James Bond his name. His real name. And he honestly didn't know why. Even his file didn't say his real name. It said Jasper Roberts, which was technically his birth name. His parents gave it to him the day he was born. Well, the second time he was born. He could remember the second time with immaculate precision. It was almost unsettling, but he remembered being conceived and remembered then spending eight and a half months in the womb, and he could remember every detail of his birth, yet he couldn't remember the first. The first time wasn't a birth though, but a creation, as far as he believes. One day he did not exist, and the next one he did. It was the only time in his life he was as in the dark about a concept as everyone else. His brothers and sisters received the same treatment. Not living and then life.

"Hm," Q hummed curiously. He hadn't thought of his siblings in quite a long time. A lot of them were still with his Father, but the other third was down here, with him. Of course, that third wouldn't remember any part of their former lives. Qemuel did, but that was a special circumstance since he wasn't technically supposed to be alive. Even if he was he shouldn't have been able to keep his memories. The other angels weren't, but then they were placed more gently on this earth than he was. They were given the chance to adjust.

The Quartermaster tried to shake the memory off. He wouldn't even be thinking about any of this if Bond hadn't brought it up. Now he was stuck monologuing which felt both stupid and unnecessary at once. Attempting to return to his always important work, Qemuel absentmindedly raised his hands to feel the soft wings that rested, invisible, on his back. Three times the size of himself, they folded were always nicely when out of use and remained hidden to others' eyes as long as he kept them that way. He sorely missed using them. Once he had flown past clouds and heavens to rest among stars in the vast expanse of the universe. Now he stood puttering in an office with dozens of computers and a leather chair that was quickly losing the body heat 007 had left on it. Simply infuriating.

But that would change, slow but surely. One day he would get the chance to fly again without the constant fear that a random human being would shoot him out of the sky with a shotgun. Someday he could soar back to heaven, back to home, back to his sanctuary. He'd be different though. He'd be a full angel but without those rules that got him here in the first place. Those weaknesses.

And all he had to do to get there was look at the current history of fallen stars. Every single one, which was an incredibly difficult task that had consumed all his spare time since he was a child. Keeping track of every speck of space that had ever fallen to the planet. Most would be meteorites, just pieces of space that entered the atmosphere, but one of them had to be the singular object he had consumed himself looking for the piece of himself that went missing when he died. That's all he really needed.

Oh, good, still monologuing. What a useful way to spend the afternoon instead of working. Q rolled his eyes at himself and leaned back over his computer to erase the meaningless text he had written before and pull up several tabs of work related inquiries. He blamed Bond for distracting him. If he could have managed to hold onto any of the equipment Q gave him, he wouldn't be thinking about any of this. He would be working in a content mood instead of the contemptuous one he was currently in. He should have attached that bungee. Or changed the palm-coding on the gun. He could only imagine the look on Bond's face if he did. Such plans would have to be saved for next time Q supposed. Though, perhaps next time Bond will have worn out this phase of desiring to know every detail about Q and he will not need to chastise him at all.

Q doubted it. Give an inch, take a mile. Bond would be back with more questions. He didn't know any better. Q would respond with more answers. Maybe he didn't know any better either.