Thursday, 17 January 2013

Q awoke, alone and surprisingly refreshed, to the sound of tapping over the softer hiss of rain. He looked over at his clock and saw he had another fifteen minutes before his alarm would go off, but he didn't close his eyes. Instead, he rolled over to face the window and grinned at the shadow outside.

"You're back," he said, pleased, and sat up to open the bedroom window. Rain blew in, accompanied by the wet owl that hopped down onto his blanket as though eager to get out of the weather. "Did you try the living room window already? Or did you know to look for me here at this hour?"

The owl hopped its way down to the end of the bed, where it perched on Q's upturned toes. In a great shuffle of white and brown feathers, it shook its body and flared its wings. Rainwater splattered everywhere, and Q had to hold up a hand to keep the water from getting in his eyes.

Laughing, he ducked and scrubbed his face with a corner of the blanket. "You're soaked, poor thing. Do you want to stay here today? I can probably leave a window open for you," he offered, leaning forward to hold out a hand. He was no longer afraid of the owl biting him, even though he had no assurance that the owl was tame or domesticated and not simply behaving strangely.

In quick, unhesitating movements, the owl hopped down off Q's foot and made its way across the blanket to present its chest for rubbing. Its feathers were still puffy and sticking out in some places from the quick attempt at drying.

Q took the time to smooth down the disarrayed feathers. "I have a feeling a towel would make things worse, not better. Did you want breakfast? There's a bit of leftover takeaway from last night. No dessert, I'm afraid," he added, feeling a blush rise despite the fact that he was alone except for the owl.

Last night had been something of a surprise. Bond had insisted on feeding Q every bite of dessert, though he'd accepted the same courtesy in return. But the sensual evening had ended with little more than kissing and comfortable, warm cuddling — not at all what Q had expected. And yet, strangely, it had been perfect. Just enough, rather than too much.

"I have to say, I'm very glad that you didn't stop by last night. Did you fly past the window and see I wasn't alone? He might like you, but I don't think it's the right time for you two to meet."

The owl shook itself, blinked at Q, then launched itself off the bed in a wet flutter. Predictably, it headed into the kitchen.

Q took the hint and got out of bed, pausing to yawn and stretch. He wasn't particularly hungry — not after last night's rich dinner — but he could do with tea, and he'd need to find something for the owl. "I still need to find a name for you," he said as he followed the raptor into the kitchen. "Do I need to start buying mice for you? God, I hope not. You liked the chicken well — Oh! Do you eat fish?" he asked, diverting from the kettle to the pantry. "I might have a tin of tuna. Would that be all right?"

The owl landed on the counter next to where Q had opened the soup tins two days earlier and stared at Q, obviously expectant.

"Tuna it is," Q agreed, and found the tuna. He opened it and tipped the contents into a bowl for the owl. Only then did he turn to make his tea. "It's fish. Of course, you probably know that. I'll stop by the store tonight and pick up something better. And I can leave the window open for you — not the one over my bed, though. The one in the living room. I'll lay out some towels in case the rain picks up."

It didn't take long for the owl to consume the pile of tuna, scooping it up in big chunks and swallowing them whole. It shuffled its feathers contentedly when it was done, then took off from the counter towards the living room. Seconds later, it came back with the blanket it seemed to favour and once again dropped it square on Q's head.

"This is your thing, isn't it?" Q asked, voice muffled by the layers. He got the blanket over his shoulder just in time for the owl to land, talons digging into the thick wool. "There must be something proper for people to use — a padded shirt, or perhaps something with straps. Oh. Maybe one of those military jumpers, with the reinforced padding at the shoulders. They're meant for shooting and carrying rucksacks, aren't they?"

Still chatting to the owl, he picked up his tea and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Instead of leaving, the owl just walked down his back when he bent over, leaving Q awkwardly trapped for a moment before he stood enough to force the owl to climb back up to his shoulder.

"I'll need to shower eventually," Q warned. A bit tentatively, he started the shower running, hoping the sound and splashing water didn't startle the owl. "I've got work today, but I can make you somewhere to nest, if you'd like."

As soon as Q leaned in to test the heat of the shower with his hand, the owl hopped off his arm and flew out of the bathroom, throwing an annoyed screech behind it as it left. "One of us has to work to keep you in chicken and tuna!" Q commented with a grin. He bundled the blanket onto the counter, dropped his pants, and got in the shower.

His owl had come back. Again. That had to prove that the owl was his — and by choice. He'd definitely leave the window open, at least until he could rig a way for the owl to open it from the outside. In fact, he could probably design that today and have it installed by the end of the weekend.


Q did a poor job of hiding his grin through the morning's meetings. He called in a lunch delivery for the whole department — always a nice treat — because he wanted to work through lunch so he could get home to his owl, though he ended up spending his lunch looking up owl names from legends, mythology, and sci-fi/fantasy.

So he was distracted when Tanner called down to Q Branch and asked him up to a last-minute meeting. Expecting it to be the usual notification that some self-important minister was coming for a tour, Q asked Danielle to check up on security protocols, picked up his tablet, and headed upstairs, idly wondering if he should coat his windowsill with talon-proof metal sheets or if he should wait until he bought a house.

"Afternoon, Eve," he said cheerfully, giving her a grin when he entered the executive office.

"Aren't you chipper," she said with a matching grin. "What's her name, then? Or his?"

Q laughed slyly. "I'll tell you when I find out."

"Oh. Well, then," she said just as slyly, and buzzed the security airlock open. "Good luck."

Once the outer door closed, the inner door opened, and Q let himself into M's office, just as Mallory was saying, "... per cent at least. Ah, Q. Come in. Drink?" Tanner gave Q a nod from where he was standing by the sideboard.

"Thank you." Bourbon wasn't Q's drink of choice, but Mallory had his traditions. It never hurt to indulge the habits of the man who signed off on quarterly budgets.

"Sorry to drag you in, but we've got a bit of a last-minute emergency," M said over the sound of Tanner pouring.

Alarm prickled up Q's spine; Mallory's last-minute emergencies often meant something important had caught fire. "Nothing too serious, I hope."

"Only as serious as any dog-and-pony show can get. There's an industry conference ending tomorrow afternoon, and I'm afraid Sanderson, from Intentions — You've worked with him on the Dubai job?" When Q nodded, Mallory continued, "Sanderson's taken ill. Bad shellfish. We need someone familiar with the satcom programme to finish his presentation tomorrow."

"Oh. Well, Danielle could do it, but her husband is a bit of a scheduling nightmare," Q said, trying to think of his other, less senior team leaders. Of the six who were competent, four weren't trustworthy to speak in public, one was on maternity leave, and the last tended to scratch himself in odd places when he was distracted.

"It's at a higher level, I'm afraid."

Q's eyes narrowed. He took the bourbon Tanner offered. "Executive level, I take it?"

"That would be ideal, yes," Tanner agreed. "I'd go, but I've been putting off a medical appointment for weeks now. They've threatened to send a retrieval team with tranquiliser guns."

"Mmm." Q sipped the bourbon, ignoring the taste. "Where is this conference?" he asked, pointedly not yet reminding them that he wouldn't fly. Hopefully it was somewhere far off — California, Brazil, Sydney — and he could refuse and go back home to his owl.

"Lower Tadfield. Just a couple of hours' drive. You could be back by tomorrow dinnertime, though the reservation is good through Sunday, if you wanted to get in a round of golf," Tanner said cheerfully.

"Golf," Q repeated.

"Skeet shooting?" M offered, holding up a colourful brochure. "They do management initiative training courses. Could be fun."

"Lovely," Q said with a sigh, wondering how he'd explain this to his owl.


Q stared at Google Maps in horror, looking between the giant display on the wall and his laptop screen, searching for any hint that the program had been hacked to remove all major roads from the area of Lower Tadfield. Unfortunately, though, it hadn't. There wasn't a single highway closer than fourteen kilometres, and the nearest exit was more like twenty.

"A couple of hours away," he muttered bleakly, turning when he heard his office door open. Some of his irritation eased at the sight of Bond looking at him curiously around the edge of the door. "007," he said, barely remembering not to call him James.

"Quartermaster," Bond said with a fond smile. "You look like you've just been told to install Vista on one of your laptops."

Q couldn't help but grin. "Then I might just have a task for you. But no. I'm supposed to go" — he gestured at the screen — "there. Wherever 'there' is. Have you ever been to Lower Tadfield? It's all back roads."

Bond frowned and walked into the office. "Yes. Deceptively beautiful, but not on my places to ever visit again, if I can avoid it." He made his way to where Q was, standing only a few tempting inches away. His frown deepened as he looked at the map. "Can you avoid it?"

"No, Sanderson from Intentions is sick. I need to finish his presentation tomorrow." Q huffed in amusement. "And then I get to play golf or shoot clay pigeons."

Bond looked over at Q with a raised eyebrow. "You're staying the night there?"

"I'd rather not, actually, but this place is a damned maze. And my GPS isn't updated with maps there," he said in disbelief. "The last thing I need is to try and drive home after a bloody 'professional' conference — which means drinks all around — and end up driving to Calais by accident."

"When are you leaving?" Bond asked, still studying the map.

"I have to be there by half ten tomorrow morning, prepared to finish the presentation." Q looked thoughtfully at Bond and decided that there was no harm in a bit of cheating. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in providing security, would you, Agent?" he asked hopefully. The idea of being 'forced' to share a room at a resort conference centre didn't sound so bad at all.

"I would love to, but Tanner roped me into taking over a couple of classes tomorrow. But I can get one of the other agents to take over. Maybe 004 — he should be back in-country, if he hasn't been shot." Bond nudged Q's shoulder with his own and grinned at him briefly before pulling out his mobile. "I can always threaten to shoot him myself if he tries to say no."

"That would be — Oh, god, that's awful of me to say 'lovely'," Q said with an embarrassed laugh. "MI6 would appreciate your diligent attention to my security, if possible."

Bond flicked a thumb across the touchscreen, switching screens to his contact list and tapping on the first entry. He held the phone up to his ear, waited for the call to connect, and greeted whoever answered, presumably 004, with, "So, how would you feel about kicking around some new recruits tomorrow?" He winked at Q.

"Oh, we'll be back tomorrow night," Q said in a stage whisper, thinking of his owl. He could stop at home to pack a bag tonight, open a can of tuna for the owl — maybe two cans, if it wanted breakfast — leave first thing in the morning, and then come back as early as possible tomorrow night for dinner.

Bond nodded to him. "No, you won't get in trouble for it. The Quartermaster has found himself ordered to Lower Tadfield for a presentation, and I thought it prudent to drive him. Would you mind covering the... Excellent." Bond rolled his eyes and sighed. "Thanks. I will." He hung up and pocketed the phone. "Looks like we're off to the countryside tomorrow."

"You're wonderful," Q said sincerely. He felt momentarily disappointed that he wouldn't be spending the night with Bond, but he'd at least see his owl. "Would you like to drive? Pick me up at some ungodly hour?" he asked.

"Ungodly hour?" Bond repeated with a wry smile. "If you insist. Though there are alternatives. I can even bring a movie for you this time, if you like."

Q's breath caught, but thinking of his owl, he shook his head. "I should go pack, just in case we're there overnight. But will you let me take you to an early breakfast?"

Bond's smile was unreserved and free of disappointment. "Absolutely. What time would you like me to pick you up?"

Q smiled gratefully, thinking that if all went well, maybe he'd introduce Bond to the owl. "How's seven sound?" He suggested, thinking that would be enough time to feed the owl breakfast.

"Perfect, actually." Bond tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should get the breakfast to go. Have an early picnic with the windows down while pretending we're not moving."

"Excellent idea. Much better than that incident with the fuel tanker you drove off the dam," Q said, grinning.

"Well, hopefully at least as entertaining," Bond said with quiet amusement. He brushed a quick, gentle kiss to Q's cheek, then turned and thankfully left without noticing the sudden blush colouring Q's face.


"I'm home," Q called hopefully as soon as he let himself into his flat. He left his coat on in hopes that the owl would come to him without stopping for the blanket first.

There was a loud, screech in response, but no accompanying sound of flapping wings. Q paused at the door, waiting, but the bird didn't come to him. It merely screeched again, this time loud and long — a sound that made Q flinch and hope his neighbours wouldn't hear.

Frowning, Q hurried towards the noise, only to find his blanket thrashing and writhing on the floor in front of the sofa. Visions of broken feathers and strained wings filled his mind, and he rushed to rescue the poor owl, saying, "It's all right. I'm here. It's all right."

Wary of the owl's deadly talons, Q unwound the blanket as best he could. The owl was on its back, feathers disarrayed but not bent or broken, and Q didn't hesitate to comb his fingers carefully through them, murmuring soothing nonsense the whole time.

"You and your silly blanket, love. I'm still wearing my coat, see?" It was ridiculous, but he felt compelled to say something, and not even a gun to his head would make him use baby-talk. "You're all right now. And I stopped at the store to get you dinner. Isn't that good?"

Once free, the owl screeched again, but much more softly this time. It hopped from leg to leg in irritation, shaking its feathers and preening at them. Every once in a while it would stop and rest its gaze on Q, who couldn't hide his grin as he tried to help smooth the feathers back into place. It took several minutes for the bird to calm, but when it finally did, it leaned out to nip Q's ear before settling, tucking its feathers in and hunching its head into its shoulders.

"It's freezing in here. I need to shut the window. If you need out, just let me know." Q went to the window, trying to ignore the way his dress shoes squelched on the carpet where snow and rain had blown in. Of course, his deposit on the flat was meaningless with his new salary, and having his owl free to come and go was worth any damage short of flooding. "I have to go to a conference tomorrow, but I'll try and be back tomorrow night. I'm going with James. Remember, I mentioned him? I think maybe I can introduce you to him soon. Would you like that?"

The bird's agitation grew again as it watched Q walk away, and it craned its neck to watch as he moved towards the window. When Q's hands rested on the frame, the bird fluttered and screeched, then flew unsteadily across the room towards him. It didn't land, however — it seemed unable to make up its mind about where to go. It screeched again, flew back to the blanket without actually picking it up, then back up in what Q might have imagined was irritation.

Q patted his shoulder, saying, "It's all right. My jacket's thick enough that you won't hurt me, love. And I'll need it anyway, until the flat warms up. Aren't you freezing?"

The owl dropped on Q's shoulder in a surprisingly graceless movement, shuffling its feathers as soon as it stopped flapping them. It hopped sideways a few inches, gripping Q's shoulder and jacket tightly, until it was pressed right up to Q's neck and the side of his head. It nipped at Q's ear again, and settled in the same almost squished posture it had adopted earlier on the counter.

Reaching up to pet the owl, Q carefully walked to the kitchen. "Poor thing. You weren't hurt, were you? I can look later. Let's give you a little something to eat."

He opened the rotisserie chicken and put it onto a plate. He cut off enough for his own dinner, along with the side dishes he'd picked up, and twisted to look at the owl on his shoulder. "Would you like me to cut it for you or can you manage? I don't mind feeding you. Spoiling you," he corrected affectionately. He used his fingers to tear a strip off the chicken and offered it to the owl.

After a long moment of absolute stillness, the owl finally seemed to decide that the chicken was worth the effort to move. In a motion much slower than its usual snatch-and-swallow, it craned its head out slowly, bit at the chicken, and tore off a small chunk to swallow before resting again against Q's warmth.

"Poor thing," he said again, and dumped everything onto one plate. He tucked the roll of kitchen towels under his arm, picked up the plate, and steadied the owl with his free hand. Then, with careful steps, he went back to the living room, where he settled on the sofa and pulled the offending blanket up onto his lap. "Can you sit here? It's easier for me to feed you, and you won't fall down if you want to go to sleep." He patted his leg.

With a screech that was unfortunately very close to Q's ear, the owl tightened its grip on Q's shoulder and didn't move. Q laughed and leaned back, putting the plate of food on his lap instead. "All right, love. You win." He ripped off an owl-bite-sized piece of chicken and offered it to the owl. "I'll leave the window open for you tomorrow, but I might not be home until very late. I can put out some tuna for you, for breakfast — I'll be up too early for you — and I found some beef jerky. It's the best I can do until I get home, unless you can learn to open the refrigerator or use a tin opener."

The bird shuffled its feathers a bit and slowly moved from foot to foot, but didn't reach out for the chicken. It turned to bite Q's ear and didn't let go, the pressure gentle but insistent.

"I'll need that," Q warned, holding carefully still. He didn't want to drop the chicken blindly, but he couldn't look down without risking his ear. He finally ate the piece himself and tugged off his glasses. "Is that what you want? My glasses? They'll look terrible on you," he said, offering one arm of the plastic frame. The bird completely ignored them, but after a few seconds it finally released Q. It kept its head turned, however, and Q could feel the sharp edge of its beak in his hair.

"Oh, don't you start. Who has time for a proper haircut?" Q challenged, turning to brush his cheek over the owl's head. "I'm in meetings all day and running operations all night — when I'm not feeding you," he added, ripping off another piece of chicken. "A little more? Don't make me worry that you're living on rats."

Finally, the owl turned its head and took the offered chicken, snapping and swallowing slowly before turning back to rest its beak in Q's hair again. It couldn't seem to stop shuffling its feathers, but the restless moving of its feet finally stopped.

"All right. You must be hurt," Q said worriedly, wondering who he could get to take his place at the conference tomorrow. If his owl was hurt, he'd find a way to get out of it, even if he had to go to Mallory's office and throw up on his desk. He braced the owl on his shoulder with one hand so he could move the plate of food to the coffee table. Then he turned, saying, "Can I see you? I'd like to look at your wings, love." He hinted by trying to slide a finger under one wing.

It was only with apparent reluctance that the bird allowed the touch. It stretched its wing under Q's gentle fingers, but didn't otherwise move. When Q withdrew his hand, the owl tucked its wing back to its side and leaned against his head again. Murmuring encouragement, Q twisted around to check the other wing as best he could, though the owl stubbornly refused to turn around.

Finally, Q told himself not to worry — the owl hadn't made a sound as if it were in pain, and it had flown without any difficulty. He petted everywhere he could reach, carefully combing his fingers through the owl's feathers. They were fairly neat on the owl's breast and wings, but its back was a mess, reminding Q of his own hair in the morning.

"Leave it to you to want to be pretty before a dinner date," he teased, resting his cheek against the owl's head as he twisted his wrist so he could get at all the feathers on its back.

Whatever tension the owl seemed to be holding in its small frame slowly melted away under Q's careful attention. It shuffled and moved in obvious pleasure, leaning into Q's hands, or moving its wings and head out of the way to make room. Finally, it willingly stretched out its left wing, hovering inches in front of Q's face. It took a few seconds for Q's vision to adjust to the bright white feathers being so close to his eyes, but soon he noticed one of its primary flight feathers was twisted near the centre.

"Oh. That can't be comfortable," Q said, hesitating before he reached up to touch the feather. He took hold of the wing a little further down, trying to keep it extended, but all he could imagine was the feather twisting in on itself and snapping. "God. All right. Do I need to look this up on the internet? If I hurt you, please don't bite."

Cautiously, he moved both hands to the offending feather and tried to ease it straight. It didn't seem to be bent or cracked — just caught in an awkward twist — and he gently pulled and worked the feather until it was flat. Gingerly, he smoothed his hand down, looking from the wing to the owl's face. "Is that better? Do you have any more? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

With what was probably its quietest screech — still loud in Q's ear — the bird pulled its wing back in an immediately started preening. Its claws gripped tight on the jacket, strong enough to tear the fabric, but Q didn't mind. When it was finished, it turned its head back towards Q but didn't stop shuffling its feathers.

It took Q a moment to realise it wanted him to do something about the self-inflicted feathery disarray. "Spoiling you," Q muttered, though he grinned and ran his hand over the owl's feathers. The contrast of its soft, downy under-layer and its harder outer layer, with sharp quills and barbs, was fascinating. Much better than a cat or dog to pet, he thought. And much more interesting.

"What shall I call you?" he asked. "Every time I look for owl names online, they're either female names or from a Harry Potter website. And since you have yet to bring me my Hogwarts letter, I think we can assume you're... What's the muggle equivalent for an owl?"

When Q's hand moved from the owl's back to its breast again, it nipped at his fingers as they passed — not hard enough to hurt, or even pinch. It released him immediately, then turned to start tugging at his hair again.

Q laughed and let the owl have its way with his hair. "Will you eat in a little while, then?" he asked hopefully, reaching out for the plate. He got it onto his lap without dumping the owl. "You can stay here tonight, of course, and tomorrow, if you want. Oh! I can leave the telly on for you. You're very clever. I'll bet I could teach you to use the remote."

Throughout Q's calm one-sided conversation, the bird didn't stop playing with his hair. As though preening his hair, it tugged and scraped and raked its beak around his ear and at the nape of his neck. At one point, when Q tried to turn his head to see, the bird stopped him with a nip at the ear that it didn't release until Q stopped moving.

"Perhaps you won't like James after all," Q said as he decided to get on with his own dinner — keeping his head as still as he could. "His hair is short, but nicer than mine. Very gold, because he gets out in the sun. Can owls see colours?" he wondered. "His eyes are like the sky. Beautiful blue. When he gets angry, or in bright light, they're more like glacier ice. That's when the sky is reflected through compressed ice," he added before realising he was explaining geology to an owl. Well, it wasn't as if talking about his growing crush on an assassin was any more normal.

"No, you would like him," he decided. "He's helping me tomorrow. He's very safe — very dangerous, but safe, that is. He'd do whatever was necessary to protect people he likes. I know that much from his files. He wouldn't tell anyone about you."

After several more minutes of playing with Q's hair, the owl apparently satisfied itself. It settled into a position that was fast becoming familiar, its soft and comforting weight sinking trustingly into Q's warmth. It stopped moving entirely, except for an occasional turn of its head to watch Q's hands as they went back and forth between the bowl on his lap and his mouth.

Q had never thought of himself as lonely. He liked privacy and solitude. He enjoyed being able to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water in his pants or to leave the bathroom door open when he showered. He liked not having anyone to answer to — or to depend upon for a share of rent and utilities, honestly. But the owl was more than simply a companion. It was smart, even if most of that intellect had to be Q's efforts to anthropomorphise an animal's instincts and responses, and it took hardly any imagination at all to interpret its behaviour as affection. And unmistakably, the owl had chosen him — even if it was just because he was a pushover, willing to give the owl baked chicken and tinned fish and whatever else it might want.

"I hope you stay," he said softly, rubbing his cheek against the owl's head.

The owl pressed back against Q, still and silent, and gradually fell asleep.