"Where the hell have you been?"
Bond took another generous sip of M's excellent scotch, relishing the taste he'd almost forgotten after weeks of cheap tequila.
"Enjoying death," he replied dispassionately. He took yet another sip, allowing the alcohol to have a dampening effect on his emotion. He wanted calm and cool, nothing that might allow his boy to hear him. "007 reporting for duty," he continued dryly.
-:-
Six weeks after his 'death', James Bond walked through the door to the new MI6.
"He was able to breach the most secure building in Britain," Tanner explained, moving briskly toward a large iron door. "So we're on war footing now."
They moved through a series of brick tunnels, until coming to an opening.
"Welcome to the new MI6," Tanner said. Bond walked through the brick archway and looked out from their raised position over the main floor. Large stone archways and old brick walls framed the underground room, bustling with people moving from desk to desk, harried looks on their faces.
Bond's eyes roved over the crowd, wondering if his Voice was among them. He'd know, wouldn't he? Stories and tales had been spun around the first meeting of two soulmates. Some believed they were drawn together by an invisible string, ever pulling the two together. Others claimed fate or divine intervention created the perfect stage for the two to meet. For the first time in his life, Bond thought he might actually believe it.
He could remember a movie his mother had made him watch - the main female character was blind except for her soulmate. Her world was dark until he came into the room. "With you, I can see," she had whispered into her lover's ear. "With you, I am complete."
Bond mentally shook himself as he walked down the iron steps. Whatever the silly romance novels said, the one truth was that a single touch was all that was needed. A single touch, and the bond would form.
From there, any number of things could occur. Bond walked through the rows of desks, allowing Tanner's explanations to wash over him as he pondered the potential outcome of meeting his Voice. It wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd experience.
At their first touch, they would bond. Some bonds changed only very little, most made the bonded pair's life easier – often ending their ability to Hear each other. What a relief that would be, he thought dryly.
Occasionally, the ability to Hear would stay the same, sometimes even heightening the partner's ability to communicate. More control over what he hears would be convenient, he thought.
Not all bonds lead to relationships. A soulmate was simply the person who best fit with you. Some bonded pairs were life long friends, completely platonic, never anything romantic between them.
Bond thought back to the night in Port-au Prince when he heard his Voice gasp quietly as he whispered words of desire, possession, and promises. He doubted they would form merely a platonic bond.
Yet still other bonded pairs, the strongest, rarest ones, had devastating effects. There were some partners who could physically feel when the other was injured. If not having their skin actually cut, then the phantom pain of the injury. Bond fought back a chill at the thought. He'd never be allowed out in the field again.
"And here," Tanner said, swiping a key card and entering a pin, "is the lift down to Q-branch."
The doors slid open to reveal a narrow network of tunnels they navigated in silence until they came upon a room similar to the main floor above them. Though this room was vast and tall, it had large monitors every few meters along the wall, tangled wiring snaking along between desks and along the floor, and at the center of the room, three monitors set up before him, stood a thin man with a mop of black hair gently curling along the crisp collar of his dress shirt.
Bond couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He just knew. Standing before him at a hip-height desk and wearing an ugly, wrinkled black raincoat was his Voice.
"If you think I'm ruining my cover after three years in this shithole, you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were, Quartermaster."
At the familiar growl of 002, Bond's eyes moved automatically to the large screen in the center of the room, currently displaying the agent's vitals and GPS location. Then what the man said caught up to him. Quartermaster.
"This command comes from the top, I'm afraid," his Voice replied. "Your identity has been compromised, it is not longer safe for you to remain under cover."
Bond had to work to prevent himself from making a sound, and he was very sure he'd let something show on his face. That Voice. That was his Voice.
Hearing it spoken aloud for the first time sent gooseflesh along his skin and his heart racing.
"Have you confirmed I've been burned?" 002 pressed.
His Voice sighed, the sound sending chills down Bond's spine. He'd heard that before.
"No, I cannot say for sure," he replied, fingers flying across the keyboard, bringing up a blur of reports on the second monitor. "But I must inform you, 002," he began, pausing. "There have already been three hits on our men." His Voice was still smooth, professional. But his hands curled into fists and the line of his shoulders tensed.
"This cover will give us more information than we've ever had on Al Qaida," 002 said slowly after several seconds of silence. "It's my duty to ensure we get all we can." There was silence again for a beat. "Even if that means risking getting burned."
The room was silent, quiet respect given to the Double-oh. Bond's eyes were on the Quartermaster, however, physically holding himself back from going to the bowed figure.
"Very well, 002," he said quietly. "I will keep your position on deck at all times. I'll be on the comms for you at any time you find yourself in need of assistance."
"Thank you, Q."
Q. It hit Bond then that he didn't even know his Voice's name. He'd spent thirty years with the boy – the man, he reminded himself – in his head, and he'd never even tried to get his Voice's name.
Q turned then to address a bespectacled woman off to his right, and Bond caught his first look at his face.
He was all angles and lines – a prominent cheekbone matching a sharp jaw, adorned with a light dusting of stubble. There were dark circles under his grey-green eyes and a general air of shabbiness that spoke of long days and little time at home. Dark brows furrowed in the center to form a deep V wrinkle that gave Bond the strangest desire to smooth it away. He was already becoming a damned walking cliché.
His Voice was absolutely breathtaking.
And utterly breakable.
Q's fingers began moving over the keys rapidly, the man still conversing with his co-worker. His subordinate, Bond corrected himself. Because his Voice was the Quartermaster of MI6.
He wasn't able to fully absorb the information before Tanner stepped forward.
"Quartermaster, let me introduce you to our wayward 007, declared dead nearly two months ago." Bond stiffened as Q turned his eyes to him.
"Q, meet James Bond."
All the air in the room seemed to disappear as grey-green eyes locked onto him, and Bond knew right away that Q knew, just as he had.
His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open in what would be comical in any other situation. There was a flicker of something bright – a hint of a smile, a slight crinkling of his eyes – and then darkness. Q's face shut down, smoothing over into a bland, disinterested façade.
After a long moment of utter silence, "Go away."
James Bond knew what being shot felt like. Quite intimately, in fact. There shouldn't be any way that two short words could cut through him like a bullet, and yet. Pain.
He recovered quickly, however, never one to back down from a fight.
"Afraid I can't," he replied smoothly, projecting a casual tone he did not feel. "We're under attack, and you're going to need all the help you can get, Quartermaster."
Anger flashed in Q's eyes for a moment before settling. "Quite the high opinion of yourself, 007," he said, voice like ice. "I wonder, what exactly have you been doing these past six weeks?"
Cheeky little shit.
"Soul-searching," he replied, imbuing as much dry sarcasm into his voice as possible.
Q's eyebrow twitched. "I wasn't aware there was a soul to search through."
Bond flashed his teeth in a grin, projecting a humor he didn't feel.
"You're right," he said, fixing Q with a penetrating stare. "I have no soul."
He turned before allowing Q to respond, receiving a questioning look from Tanner, and marched back through the maze of tunnels. He reached the lift, nearly broke the plastic covering on the button with his fist, and glared at the doors until they opened and stepped inside.
He then abruptly deflated, his breath leaving his chest with a violent whoosh, and he covered his eyes with a shaking hand.
Holy buggering shit.
The lift made it to the ground floor with just enough time for the agent to pull himself together. Then he headed straight to M.
-:-
"He's got to go."
"Bond!" M chastised from her desk, glaring absolute daggers at him from where he had just flung the door to her office open.
He took a deep breath, using his training to lower his heart rate and level out his breathing. He had to keep calm, block the connection. It frustrated him to no end that his Voice had figured out how to do this, and yet he – James Bond—hadn't mastered blocking his own voice.
"He's got to go," he repeated, his tone carefully measured.
M gave him a flat stare. "Dare I ask who?"
Bond clenched his fists. He didn't have his real name to give her.
"The new Quartermaster," he said instead.
She scoffed at him, lowering her gaze back to the paperwork across her desk.
Bond moved to stand in front of her desk. "He's a risk."
"How do you figure, 007?"
He chewed the inside of his cheek.
"He's got a Voice."
M froze. She fixed her icy blue gaze on him, eyes ever-penetrating through his bullshit.
"Not according to his employment records," she said slowly, watching him.
"Records he filled out."
"Records that I am willing to believe unless you can give me a valid reason not to."
Bond glared. "I suppose you won't just take my word for it."
"You would suppose correctly."
They held each other's gaze, neither willing to back down. Finally, he sighed. With a heaviness that surprised even him, he sunk into one of the chairs and covered his face with both hands.
"He's got my Voice."
Silence had never sounded so loud.
"James."
Bond jerked his head up, eying the woman before him with a sliver of surprise.
She was looking at him with something akin to sadness, so subtle that you'd have to know where to look. Bond knew exactly where to look.
"For how long?"
Bond heaved out a breath and leaned back in his chair, fixing M with a flat stare.
"Thirty years."
This whole situation was almost worth the look of utter surprise on M's face. Almost.
"Dear Lord," she breathed.
"If that's who you attribute this soulmate business to, then yes I suppose. Dear Lord, indeed."
The shock was quickly replaced by the unimpressed glare he was so accustomed to.
"You realize you have committed perjury on an official government document?"
Bond scoffed. "Because that is the biggest problem facing me at the moment."
He leaned back again and ran a hand down his face, suddenly feeling every one of his 41 years. Why am I back here, again?
"He's the absolute best," M said, bringing Bond's eyes back to meet hers. The blue had lost some of its chill, but he knew there would be no arguing with this woman.
"He has single-handedly brought revolution to our department in the short time he's been employed. He's one of the greatest weapons we have against the enemy we are currently facing," she continued. She looked down then at her paperwork, a frown appearing on her face.
"Times have changed, Bond," she said, meeting his gaze once more. "There are enemies we can't just aim and shoot at. We are now in an age where ghosts walk through our walls within wires and destroy the lives of millions."
"We need the very best to help us move into the new frontier of espionage, and damnit, that man is bloody brilliant."
Bond grimaced, but inside, he couldn't help but preen just a tiny bit. His Voice was the youngest Quartermaster in the history of MI6, the very best the country could offer.
But that can all fall away in the blink of an eye.
He closed his eye. "We won't be able to touch."
He peaked open one eye after several long seconds without an answer, only to find M watching him with that soft look of sadness again.
"It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen, James," she said quietly. "To have someone."
Anger swelled in his chest and he quickly fought to control it. Keep calm.
"At eleven years old, I heard my Voice's very first word," he growled, narrowing his eyes at his companion. "No one hears their Voice that early." M just raised a brow.
"So what sort of bond do you think will come from such a connection?" he continued, exasperated that she didn't seem to get what he was saying.
"It'll be strong, incredibly strong." He stood. "We'll be connected in the deepest way – physically. He'll feel every scrape, every cut, every gun shot." He stopped, the words unable to leave his throat around the lump that had formed there. He took a deep breath and continued.
"When I die," he said slowly, meeting her gaze. "You'll be down not only an agent, but a Quartermaster."
M watched him for a moment before looking down to her clasped fingertips.
"There is another option."
"Enlighten me," he quipped, earning himself a look.
"You could retire."
Bond froze.
"You'd reduce the risk of transferred or phantom injury exponentially, finally give your body a break, and have a chance of actually seeing the next thirty or forty years." Her look was not unkind as she observed him.
And Bond was furious.
"I have worked my entire life to get to where I am today," he hissed, grasping the back of the chair with bone crushing strength. He looked down at his hands – hands he'd honed into the perfect killing machines.
"This was all I ever wanted, and you expect me to just give that up? For what?" He scoffed. "A little boy who might just have been unlucky enough to get stuck with the same freak mutation as me?"
He pushed the chair away. "I've spent nearly fifteen years being shot at, stabbed, strangled, tortured, and left for dead by my own agency, and now I'm going to throw away all that work to what – settle down and play housewife for some kid who's still got spots?"
"Bond –"
"No," he said, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper. "If you value anything I've done for you, for this country, you'll send him packing."
Silence reigned for a full minute.
"There was once a time you were willing to give it all up."
Bond lowered his head into his hands. Damnit.
"You once sent me your resignation, prepared to make a life of your own. A life without gun shots or car-chases or rooftop skirmishes."
His heart twisted in his chest.
"Stop."
"Why then, and not now?" she continued. "Why not now that you've come so far, achieved so much, and have the opportunity to be with someone who –"
"Stop," he snarled, bringing his head up.
"James," she said softly. "He's your soulmate."
He wanted to break something. Anything. He stalked to the other side of the office, as far away from M as possible just in case, tucking his arms tight against his chest.
"So what?" he growled. "Having a soulmate hasn't meant anything for thirty years. Why would it matter now?" M frowned.
"Having a soulmate meant nothing as I buried my parents. Then another father. Nor did it seem to matter to him when the same happened." Because I didn't do anything for him, a small part of his mind whispered.
"Hearing his damned Voice didn't take away pain, like in all those ridiculous films," he spat, thinking about his mother's favorite movie and the blind woman who could suddenly see. He scoffed. "Having him in my head didn't make torture any easier, nor did it stop me from sleeping with – and sincerely enjoying – easily a hundred women." Though it did lead his eyes to wander to the occasional man.
"Having a soulmate didn't stop the pain when –" he stopped, visions of a red dress swirling in dark water, black hair drifting along hauntingly at the bottom of an elevator shaft. He took a breath.
"It's never mattered," he said quietly, collecting himself. He straightened, forcing his face back to its smooth mask.
M stood slowly and leaned on her hands, head bowed. Finally, she met his now emotionless gaze with resignation in her eyes.
"It's your choice," she said, each word heavy as she said it. "The Quartermaster will stay." Bond's jaw clenched. "You have the opportunity to walk away now." She held his gaze for a long moment, as if waiting for him to take the option.
"If not, I expect to see you tomorrow morning at 0700 sharp to be debriefed, then begin your tests to ensure you're fit for active service." She stood straight and clasped her hands, face smoothed into all business.
"Take the day to decide. Good day, Bond."
He stared at her for another long moment before pushing off the wall and leaving the office.
-:-
At 0701 Bond walked back into the office.
M looked up from her tea and shot him a glare.
"Making a statement, really?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Did you expect anything else?"
She paused, contemplating him intensely over the lip of her teacup.
"No," she conceded, sounding weary. "But I had hoped I was wrong."
There wasn't much he could say to that.
"Well," he said finally, looking down and unnecessarily straightening his already impeccable tie. "I suppose I have to disappoint you at least once."
He met her eyes again with a smirk he didn't try very hard to fake.
-:-
Bond placed both hands on the warm tiles of the MI6 locker room shower and let out a shuddering breath.
"Fuck."
He was a mess, and he absolutely knew it. So does everyone else. His body ached, his right arm quivering just to keep it held up to support him against the wall. He clenched his jaw and held his arm there, daring it to give out on him.
It held, but barely. Just like my sanity.
Skyfall.
His heart had pounded just thinking about it, and he'd found himself wrestling with a flurry of emotions.
"Done."
Bond pushed off the wall, a low groan escaping him, and watched the blood swirl in the water.
That bullet better be damn worth it, he thought, grimacing as he rolled his shoulder and glared at the scattering of bullet fragments he'd pulled from the wound.
After toweling off and changing into simple jeans and a jumper, Bond made his way down to Q-branch, the fragments carefully enclosed in an evidence bag.
Shrugging off the oh-so-small-and-regularly-ignored voice of reason telling him to bugger off home, James Bond stepped into the lift and pressed the button for Q level. Because he had a reputation of being a masochist, and he sure as hell was living up to it.
The doors slid open and he made his way soundlessly through the corridors until they opened up to reveal the main level of Q-branch.
Just as he'd thought, there was only a solitary person on the floor, back to the entryway and eyes glued to the screens before him.
There was a grace in the slope of his pale neck and the messy swirl of dark hair curling lightly at the tips. His frame was now on display, his jacket cast aside to reveal a simple brown jumper. His shoulders were wide, but well proportioned to his thin hips and long legs. Surrounded by the light blue of monitors, his skin almost glowed in the dark room.
"What do you want, 007?"
Bond quirked his brow, the only outward sign of his surprise. Then he thought about that. What did he want?
Q turned to face him, crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk. He met Bond's eyes with his own, his face kept carefully blank. And waited.
Bond held up the small bag. "This needs to be analyzed."
One dark brow lifted. "And you just had to hand-deliver it yourself, now, when everyone else has gone home?"
Bond gave the man his best blasé shrug, then moved to the nearest desk and dropped the small fragments onto it. He met the cold stare of his Quartermaster once more before turning back the way he came.
"007."
Bond turned.
"What did you really want?"
His first instinct would be something along the lines of 'come home with me and I'll show you.' But he pushed that away, and gave the question the serious consideration Q undoubtedly desired.
What do I want?
Bond could be content with very little in his life. Sure, if he could swing it, he'd stay in grand hotels, sleeping and fucking on ridiculously high thread-count sheets. He'd don crisp suits with pressed collars so sharp they could cut a man. He'd drive off in sleek sports cars that could hit 60 mph in 2 seconds.
And yet. He didn't really need any of that. In fact, most often he didn't really even want it.
Standing here in the semi-dark, body aching, head throbbing, and heart twisting as he looked into this man's eyes, he really only wanted one thing.
"Your name."
Q's brows rose, disappearing into his dark locks.
"You don't already know?" he asked.
Responding to a question with a question. Two could play at that game.
"Did you know mine?"
Q watched him quietly for another long moment. Bond's thoughts briefly noted that his stare held the same sort of penetrating, anti-bullshit power that M's had.
"No," he said finally. "I don't think I know anything about you at all."
He turned around again, obviously dismissing Bond, his fingers finding the keyboard again.
Which is probably for the best, Bond reminded himself, pushing down the niggling of disappointment. He allowed himself to watch Q's back for another moment before turning. He paused at the doorway.
"20th of April, 1979," he said, back still turned to Q. He didn't fancy seeing the young man's face.
"Pardon?" Q replied after a moment, sounding annoyed.
"The day you spoke you first word," Bond answered quietly. "Something I know about you," he finished.
Silence reigned for a long moment.
"Oh."
Bond turned his head to the side and nodded. "Good night, Quartermaster."
-:-
