It was a quiet Friday evening in the Bond home. James was on mandatory leave after a high risk operation in Moscow, and Q had made sure his leave coincided with his husband's. They were going to have a nice weekend with their children, one that was long overdue. But for now, Charmain and Andrew were tucked in their beds, and the twins were playing a board game in the living room before their own bedtime. Q and James were lounging on the couch watching their boys; Q leaned against James's chest while the 00 agent played with his hair gently.

The only one not in the house for the evening was Monique, but both Bond parents had been aware of her upcoming date and had agreed to allow the teen her freedom for the evening, even extending her curfew to midnight.

So when the front door opened and shut at only a quarter past ten, and the sounds of footsteps quickly made their way to the staircase, both Bond parents knew something was wrong.

"Monique?" Q called out, getting up from the couch, "Honey, is that you?" Both Q and James made their way to the front hall to greet their daughter, who was halfway up the stairs.

Monique stopped her climb up the stairs, but didn't turn to face her fathers, "Yeah dad, I'm home…"

James and Q shared a look. Monique's voice was tight, and it wasn't full of its usual effervescence.

"You're home awfully early." James noted, "Not that I mind, of course, but we thought you'd be out later."

Monique shook her head, keeping her face away from her parents, "It didn't turn out the way I expected."

Q blinked at the odd choice of words, "Did something happen?" He was already partway up the stairs, following his daughter.

That was when James noticed the torn strap of his daughter's dress, and how she was doing her best to hold the dress in place. Her blonde hair, which Q had spend nearly an hour and a half helping her curl to perfection, was now rumpled and flattened in parts.

And now he could hear sniffling.

"Monique?" Q placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him and James.

The oldest Bond child was a wreck, for want of a better phrase. Her mascara was running down her cheeks in black streaks, and her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

James almost didn't notice those things because his eyes were focused on his daughter's split lip, and the dark bruise that was forming around it. "He hit you?" He ground out, clenching his fist.

Monique looked down, "It was a lucky shot, I should have been able to block it…"

"Monique, we don't care about if you should have been able to block it or not." Q shook his head, wiping away the flecked blood on her lip, "The point is you shouldn't have had to defend yourself in the first place."

"What happened?" James asked, firm. It was only his grip on the stair railing that kept him from driving his fist through the wall at the thought of someone striking his baby girl.

There was a moment when Monique didn't say anything. James knew the feeling, her reluctance to admit weakness, but he kept his eyes trained on her until she spoke, "It was after dinner, we were in his car. He…he wanted…and I didn't…" Monique shook her head, unable to finish her sentences.

She didn't need to.

Q took a long, shaky breath, "Go get changed, baby girl." He said quietly, "I'll make us some tea, and we can take a look at that lip once you're cleaned up."

Monique nodded, thankful for the small reprieve as she made her way to her room. Q and James walked back down the stairs to the kitchen. They passed the twins on their way there, but both boys, thankfully, said nothing about the exchange.

The couple stood in silence in the kitchen while Q put the kettle on the stove. Neither knew what to say, or even if they had the strength to speak without resorting to curses and screams.

James couldn't take it anymore, driving his fist against the granite countertop. "Damnit…I should have followed her…should have let her take her side arm…"

"You know she wouldn't have allowed either of those things…" Q hung his head. James could see the small signs of Q's agitation: the tightness in his shoulders, the rigid posture, the deadpan in his voice. Q took a breath, "There's only one person to blame for what happened."

"We'll have to convince Monique that she is not to blame…" James nodded, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm going to reassure our daughter." Q nodded, pouring tea into two mugs, "You are going to find that son of a bitch and bring his head back to me on a platter." He turned to look at James, "Is that understood, 007?"

James saw the look in Q's eyes, and knew the only reason Q wasn't out there hunting down the bastard responsible himself was because he knew James was far better suited for the job, "Affirmative."

The date had been a bust, so Arthur had opted to head to a pub with some friends. So what if the bird had left him with a case of blue balls? There were plenty of other gals who wouldn't be so obnoxiously uptight about having a good shag. But for now, getting shitfaced had seemed like a good substitute.

He stumbled to his car, giggling to himself about the phone numbers he had collected. He would be in for a good week, he noted as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Good evening."

Arthur blinked, looking up at his rearview mirror to see a man sitting in the backseat of his car. "What the hell…?" He reached to open his door.

Only to find it already locked and jammed.

The man smirked, "You and I are going to have a talk about the proper way to treat women."