A/N: I haven't posted on in a while because I've spent the last year or so writing mainly RPF on my AO3 account, but SPECTRE has thrown me head long back into Bond love so here I am again! Thanks for reading!
It starts small.
He receives a package. Specifically, a repurposed Amazon parcel with the old address scribbled over to write in the number of Q's flat. It's an oblong box, larger than it needs to be; Q shakes it and the rattle suggests that the object is small and not in the vein of any regular geometric shape. There is no return address. He has it scanned, despite a growing intuition concerning what is inside. So when he finally slides a kitchen shearing knife down the middle crease of the cardboard lid, what he finds doesn't surprise him at all.
The severed brake pedal of a familiar 1964 Aston Martin.
The sabotage is intentional, it would appear, which makes Q scowl when he remembers the hours he put into rebuilding that bloody car. Cryptic, ungrateful bastard. Still, though, the acrimony subsides, because the message is clear. When he exchanges looks with Moneypenny, Tanner, and Mallory, their mirrored expressions confirm his theory.
Bond has his foot on the gas again.
Which is more than can be said for the rest of MI6 - the post crisis reshuffling is a clusterfuck comparable to the one after the incident at Skyfall. And, again, Q gets himself tangled in it. His orders are conflicting; Tuesday he's told to delete all double-O files and by Wednesday they've reinstated the program completely. By Thursday they're running missions again. Tomorrow, he suspects, there will be some sort of international incident and all of it will be up in the air once again.
007 remains absent, his dubious resignation note of a few weeks ago still going unread on M's desk. Q goes to great lengths not to think about it, but the brake pedal that now sits at the edge of his desk next to a snub nose Walther has a tendency to steal his concentration. Skyfall, again, rises in his mind like a growing flame - it was at this point in the chaos of the aftermath, then, that he and Bond had begun their little dance, only to leave it unresolved.
Now, it seems he's missed his chance, even if the pedal tries to persuade him otherwise.
It's calling to him from the deepest pocket of his winter coat when he comes into work on Tuesday, dreading whatever committee will call him up today. Mallory seems considerably less enthused about civilian oversight now that it's got a knife at his throat. Tanner's lost a stone just from the stress of the last three weeks and every time Q's laid eyes on Eve, she's been up to her eyeballs in phone calls and emails and everything she could've avoided if she stayed in the field. They've all taken to telling each other to fuck off and have a nap whenever they pass in the halls, but it's always with a wry smirk and remnant of the adrenaline rush that sometimes doesn't feel as if it's worn off yet.
In Q-Branch, there's a letter on his desk.
No return address. But he knows the handwriting - the looping g's had been a source of over-the-comms banter for weeks. Q smirks a little, and instinctually surveys the rest of the room. He pokes his head out and asks Julian if anyone had been in before him. The answer is a no, and Q isn't shocked in the slightest. He returns to the envelope and slips a finger beneath the edge, drawing the slightest of line of blood when he goes at it a little too enthusiastically.
Inside, there are instructions.
How Bond knows any of this, he can't fathom - but it confirms that 007 has been anything but stagnant in his time away. Q quickly switches to a less valuable laptop and makes sure the necessary proxy servers are still in place. His anonymity assured, he dives in; the address the instructions lead him to is beneath even the usual hub of deep web espionage. It's slow work to get below the illegal trade and the faux government intelligence. He's dipped into the deep web many times, sometimes for work and sometimes out of boredom. The lawman part of him is made twitchy by it, because there's nothing he can do when presented with the sorts of things he's meant to prevent. He'd tried, once, and had been presented with the kind of look from his superiors that suggested they knew exactly what he was talking about and had already decided not to do a thing about it.
When he arrives where Bond intends him to, he's presented with what appears to be the transcript of a previous chatroom conversation, wherein every message had been written in a particularly impenetrable-looking code. Still, there's something about it that immediately sets off alarms in Q; it practically screams SPECTRE activity, or at least Quantum. He saves the page and wonders if the combined minds of himself, Moneypenny, Tanner, and Mallory will be able to unravel it, because Bond's left no hints. The letter is blank, save the chatroom address. Defiantly terse. That is, until Q flips it over and catches the black ink on the back.
For you.
Q smirks a little at that, because it seems far more likely that this particular tidbit Bond has left him is entirely self-serving. Bond has torn off on one of his periodic vendettas and, as per usual, Q is his pathetic and willing accomplice. He smirks, but it's only because his devotion is utterly pitiful, and Bond knows it.
m m m
"Well, someone has to state the obvious," Moneypenny says, inspecting the print out that still awaits decoding. "They're coming for Blofeld."
M's face shows its usual mild concern when confronted with catastrophe. He murmurs, "That's clearly what Bond suspects."
Tanner is perched on the edge of Q's desk, lips set in a hard line. "If they manage to get Blofeld out of Belmarsh, we should hire them. Because that would be bloody amazing. There's no one higher priority than him."
Mallory frowns further. "Any luck with decoding it, Q?"
"I've got four people on it, including myself, and we still haven't developed a key," Q laments. "But I am inclined to trust 007's judgement on this." Over the last few days, he's been contemplating whether Bond even knows what the decoded conversation says, or if he, too, is functioning on suspicion alone. It wouldn't be the first time.
"He does have an unfortunate tendency to be right," Moneypenny concedes. "Despite the body count he wracks up to prove it."
At this, Q wonders (not for the first time) of what has become of Dr. Swann. Bond does have a track history of forging bonds while under the influence of alcohol, adrenaline, and traumatic brain injuries. And some of his more sociopathic tendencies usually cement the feeling as mutual amongst the women unfortunate enough to end up in the crossfire. Inevitably, they end up dead or disenchanted; if Bond is on the move again, then one of the two has happened, and Q hopes for Madeleine's sake that it's the latter.
"Well, this isn't much to go on." M has turned his gaze back on Q. "Until it's decoded there's very little information I can pass on to anyone who might be useful."
The strictly logical part of Q is aware that it's a little nonsensical that they all trust Bond's risk assessment so implicitly. But this is what he does, or at least what he does to them; they follow him to the ends of the Earth, but he just keeps running. He's a fundamental theorem, Q muses. The doing and the undoing of all of them.
"I'll keep working at it," Q promises, perfectly conscious of the fact that they are the puppets and Bond holds the strings.
m m m
They've never shared a bed, or even a kiss, and yet the pillow beside him seems colder than ever. Before long a solidly built tabby cat meanders up to claim it, settling in to gaze at Q with a pair of languid tawny eyes and an expression somewhere between adoration and indifference.
Against his better judgement, he's taken to carrying around both the brake pedal and Bond's note with him at all times. Now, the objects stare at him from the bedside table, the words for you standing dark against the glow of a streetlamp outside. He should be asleep, but that's never been his strong suit. And Bond knew it, too. He'd always had a knack for arriving in Q-Branch with a cup of tea and a flirtatious smirk just when the circles were darkest beneath Q's eyes, just when the resulting smile seemed most difficult and most necessary.
Now, though, his absence is the root of all evil. Q shouldn't feel as betrayed as he does, but he's awake and it's three in the morning and the feeling is natural. Liebniz, the cat, head butts Q's outstretched hand affectionately. Newton's whiskers brush against his toes where they stick out the edge of the duvet. Bond never specified whether he likes cats or not, but Q suspects he does. There's always been something a little feline about him.
m m m
He's slipping into his anorak when he sees it. It's a postcard from Singapore, folded three or four times into a neat square still thin enough to have been slipped under his door. Q hasn't slept much; he wonders idly if he was awake when it was delivered, but was too far from the door to notice. Bond is very close indeed.
He unfolds it smoothly.
Stay safe. Soon.
Q frowns at Bond's tendency toward crypticism. It seems unnecessary but, then again, the same could be argued for 007's tuxedos and vodka martinis. And Bond is a creature of habit, after all. Women and death and rebelling authority and, over everything else, Queen and Country. He's a ghost, doomed to repeat old patterns ad infinitum. A specter.
He adds the postcard to the pocket with the other one and the pedal, all of it weighing him down with every step.
m m m
Eve arrives in his office by noon, not on any official business. She usually appears at some point to say hello, or bitch about her boyfriend, or listen attentively to whatever Q's latest bitch-worthy misfortune is. Today, though, she comes bearing a rainbow cake pop and a smirk.
"It's 009's birthday," she explains, clearing away a few prototype grenades in order to perch on the edge of his desk.
"Is she still mad about-"
"Yes." Eve snorts, and motions to the cake pop. "I only managed to smuggle that out by telling her it was for Mallory."
"It's hardly my fault that everything wilts beneath Bond's touch," he says, but it's not as lighthearted as he wants it to be. The champagne he'd left in place of the DB10, though, was lovely. Q had wondered at the time if Bond had intended for them to share it. "Speaking of which, something happened this morning."
Moneypenny's eyebrows raise. There's something in the twitch of her left hand toward an imaginary sidearm that reminds Q that she's more similar to Bond than anyone will acknowledge. "Nothing major," he says quickly. "Just this."
He hands over the postcard. By the motion of her eyes, she reads it over several times before she hands it back, despite its brevity. "Well, you are his favorite." She smirks again, returning the creased card.
"What gives you that impression?"
"Don't be daft," she retorts, and then laughs with her head thrown back and her curls bobbing. He's struck, then, by the surreality of it all - C is dead, it's 009's birthday, Eve is laughing. And Bond is coming home.
m m m
One piece.
On an autumn Tuesday, Belmarsh prison burns to the ground for reasons unknown. Some inmates escape, some don't. To no one's surprise, Blofeld is unaccounted for. There is no trace of him, but they've seen this act before. He'd never managed to fully decode the deep web intelligence from Bond, which is embarrassing, but somehow he doubts it would have made any difference in the long run. Inevitability steps in all too often.
Q arrives on scene to find only the husk of the major cell block, the air still thick with ash and dust. Moneypenny and M are already there; Tanner is on his way. Together, they join the search effort, and wander through the ruins. Q half expects Bond himself to rise from the gray haze.
As it happens, he does.
A week later, Q is locking the door to his office with one hand and checking his phone for the time with the other. It's after midnight; he spares a glance and a wave at the oasis of light to his left that is the night shift in Q-Branch, guiding any Double-Os still in the field. Q will be on call all night, of course, but his flat has been deemed secure enough in times of crisis.
Crisis. He supposes that's what they're in now, even if it hardly feels like it. Blofeld's at large - theoretically, SPECTRE is mobilizing again. And yet it still feels like 009's birthday, like the squint of Eve's eyes when she laughs. He can't muster any panic.
(What's to be done? he'd asked, the day after they'd officially deemed Blofeld escaped. The question wasn't new. It had always been there. Except once upon a time there seemed to be answer. Lead Silva to Skyfall or Make me disappear or I need one more favor.)
He adjusts the brake pedal in his jacket pocket.
It's after midnight, and outside a mist dampens the shoulders of his coat and the ends of his hair. Visibility is low, or at least that's what he tells himself after the fact to calm the discomfort at his own obliviousness. Regardless, he's already thinking about a shower and warm sheets and Leibniz and Newton by the time a familiar shape steps from the shadows around the door to his building.
And, for a moment, it feels a little like time stops.
"Well, it's about bloody time," Q says, to keep himself from doing something rash. The urge to kiss Bond is unexpectedly strong; he balls a fist and sucks in a breath until it passes.
Bond smirks. "Missed me, did you?"
Q just snorts, unlocking the door. Bond follows him in without an invitation, and watches as Q presses the button for the lift. "We need you," he says quietly, pushing at his glasses. "As per usual."
"I knew you would," Bond replies, but it's not smug. Q barely has time to register the strange tone of his voice before there's movement - Bond's leaning over and kissing Q on the edge of his mouth. Gently, as if it's what they've always done. As if tenderness beyond a few longing looks and complimentary cups of tea is something to be expected.
"Bond." It's not a question, or a warning. The lift doors slide open, but neither of them breaks eye contact.
"So, Blofeld's escaped, then," Bond says finally, stepping into the elevator.
"Yes." Q follows him, words and steps uneven. "I...we need you," he repeats, feeling dull and off-kilter. Bond just smiles that smile of his that usually doesn't reach past his mouth, but today Q thinks he might see something of it penetrate the blue above. "Are you ready to get back to work, 007?"
Bond reaches for his hand, intertwines their fingers with a sigh. This is not their usual dance; unfamiliarity washes over him, but he doesn't choke. Q can't help but think that Bond has not returned in one piece, but that maybe the piece that made it back is a starting point. The beginning of a dance for two.
They meet eyes just as the doors ping open. "With pleasure, Q."