Somehow, flirting with Q became something of a habit for Bond.
"Another modification to the Walther, Q? Let me guess, this one also makes a delightful macchiato?"
"Just for that, 007, I will give you the one that doesn't have the spare clip that also serves as a tea strainer…"
"Well, I see that you're improving your record with the equipment, 007. Your firearm is only in seven pieces this time…"
"Don't be ridiculous, Q. The one before this was very much in one piece — the last I saw of it disappearing into the Persian Gulf…"
In truth, Bond's sarcastic words masked a growing respect for the young Quartermaster. He had known Q was brilliant — that much had been obvious within a few moments of meeting the young man. He had certainly known that Q was desirable — that observation perhaps had taken even less time. And yet, the more time Bond spent in Q Branch, the more he started to notice other things about Q as well.
Like how Q worried incessantly over his agents in the field, the constant upgrades to his tech just another manifestation of his deep concern for their welfare. Or how formidably calm Q became in a crisis — his crisp voice steady and deliberate, not a word wasted as he guided his agents through the most perilous of situations, making the hard choices without the slightest hesitation or self-doubt.
Slowly — mission after mission — Bond found himself forging some sort of relationship with Q that was different from anything in his experience. Too charged to be friendship, but completely unique from the heedless, passionate lust Bond had experienced in the past. A slow and enduring smoulder where Bond had previously only indulged in ephemeral bursts of flame, extinguished as quickly as they flared.
It was a game, and playing it made Bond feel alive — every synapse in his brain firing to keep up with Q's quicksilver wit, his blood burning in his veins as they managed to skirt so very dangerously close to the invisible line they seemed to have mutually drawn.
Bond took immense pleasure in teasing Q over the comms, every statement carefully phrased so as to seem relatively innocent should anyone care to review the transcripts. And Q gave as good as he got, that posh dry voice of his somehow managing the filthiest of insinuations in the blandest of tones.
They were more circumspect in person, ever-conscious of the curious eyes of the minions. Nonetheless, tension snapped in the air despite the careful distance they kept between themselves. Just stepping into Q Branch made Bond's skin hum, every nerve-ending prickling with anticipation of Q's nearness.
He never knew which Q he would encounter. Q in the depths of research was sardonic and witty, sparring with Bond briefly before sending him on his way. Q caught in the rare instances of downtime at Q Branch was playful, his extraordinary eyes sparkling with mischief, his voice as warm and honeyed as the cup of Earl Grey perpetually at his elbow. Q in the midst of a crisis was formidable, his voice crisp and decisive, fingers dancing over multiple keyboards, tension only evident in the stiffness of his spine until the agent was in the clear.
And the agents always did make it clear. Q's record was unparalleled, his remarkable mind infinitely inventive. He seemed to marshal resources from out of thin air, pushing the minions to ever more impossible feats, managing to extricate his field agents from even the most hopeless of circumstances.
Q's moniker was spoken in only the most reverent tones in the hallways and training rooms and rifle ranges at MI6 Headquarters. Q was a wizard, a marvel, a genius. Q was infallible.
Which made it all the more shocking for everyone when Q failed.
Before Q took the helm, the death of a double-oh would hardly have seemed notable. Sudden, but by no means unexpected. The life of a double-oh was invariably both short and brutal. Somehow, during Q's reign, everyone seemed to have forgotten this fact, most of all Q himself.
Bond heard the first whispers of it on the transport back. His mission had been entirely mundane, notable only for the complete absence of Q from his comms. Bond wasn't concerned; it happened from time to time, particularly on low priority missions. Q had to sleep some time, and at other times would get so engrossed in data analysis or research and development that he would disappear for days, only called back to comms for the most critical circumstances.
This time, however, the whispers of Q's name were furtive, not admiring. By the time Bond made it to Medical, he knew most of the story already. 009 had been killed in action, mere hours ago, on Q's watch.
Bond had the after action report pulled up on his tablet by the time they were wrapping his sprained ankle. It could have happened to anyone — a crucial bit of intel delivered just a moment too late, a blind spot in the street surveillance cameras, a sniper in an area that was supposed to have been cleared. It was only remarkable in that it had happened to Q.
Bond told himself that it was procedure, not concern, that had him limping down to Q Branch with a crutch shoved under his arm as soon as he could break free from Medical. After all, he may have lost his gun and radio, but he still had his watch to return to Q. It was a bit smashed, but Q was so adamant about equipment return. And he had tinkered with this one endlessly, packing the slim silver case with function after function that he thought might benefit Bond on his mission.
A pall seemed to hang over all of Q Branch, the minions all hunkered down at their desks, speaking in hushed undertones. Bond felt their eyes following him as he limped toward Q's office.
The smart glass surrounding Q's office was opaque even though the lights were clearly on inside. Bond hesitated, and then took the unprecedented step of knocking. He took a deep breath after hearing the muffled "Enter," preparing himself for what he might find. Q angry, or shaken — perhaps even in tears. What he found turned out to be so much worse.
"Equipment, 007?" Q's voice was flat, toneless. "Very well, hand it here. Just the watch I see."
"Q," Bond placed the shattered watch on Q's desk, looking him over carefully. Q's face was drawn and pale, dark smudges under his eyes.
Q tapped his tablet a few times, logging in the tech without a comment as to its damaged condition. Then he turned back to his keyboard dismissively, leaving Bond lingering, uncertain where to begin.
"Anything else, 007?" Q finally asked.
"I heard what happened," Bond hazarded.
"Yes. Well. No such thing as secrets in an organization of spies, now is there?" Q's eyes lifted briefly to Bond's. His usual lively gaze was deadened, eyes so blank with numb detachment that Bond was almost relieved when Q looked back at his monitor. Q's pale hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling almost imperceptibly for a moment before he began typing, quick as ever.
"Are you — how are you?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Bond felt himself cringing at the inanity of his question. Bond already knew how Q was, had been there several times himself, in his darkest hours.
"I'm fine, 007," Q said flatly.
"Bullshit."
The hands on the keyboard froze, the tremor becoming more pronounced for a moment before Q resumed typing.
"Moonlighting for Psych Branch now, 007?" The first hint of irritation was starting to creep into Q's voice. "I'll have to remember to update your paycheque."
Bond placed his palm on the desk, leaning in to try to look Q in the eye. "Q, I know how it is —"
Q shoved his chair back, nearly upsetting Bond's precarious balance.
"Do you?" The words were like a lash, Q's voice icy.
"I've seen more men die in the field than —"
"In the field," Q interrupted, his voice scathing. He stood up now, his slender body practically vibrating with fury. "In the field, getting yourself shot at, jumping out of aeroplanes, exploding fucking buildings." His chest was heaving, the words spitting out like gunfire. "You're always out there, in the field. You have absolutely no idea what it's like, to be the one here — the one back home. On the other end of the comm, helpless. While you're getting shot, while you're dying, crying and moaning and gurgling your last breath. We're the ones who have to listen to that — who have to live with that. You're dead, you don't care. We're the ones left behind."
All the fury seemed to leave Q in a rush. He sank down into his chair again, swallowing thickly. He pulled his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. The eyes that looked back up at Bond were no longer flat and lifeless. They were limpid and vulnerable, eyelashes clumped with unshed tears.
"That's what you have no idea about," Q said, hoarsely, tiredly. "What it's like to be the one left behind."
Bond felt something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He thought of a boy cowering in a dark priest-hole, and knew that Q's words weren't exactly true. But he also knew that Q wasn't talking about Bond, not really. So he stood in silence, leaning heavily on his crutch, not knowing what to say but reluctant to leave Q alone in his misery.
Finally Q sighed. He placed his glasses carefully back on his face and leaned back in his chair. Now that some of the tension was gone his body seemed languid with exhaustion, head tilted back to expose the long pale expanse of his throat. Typically such a sight would have fueled Bond's desire, but now it only seemed to instill in him some unfamiliar sense of tenderness.
Perhaps some of what Bond was feeling showed on his face. A shadow of something unreadable passed through Q's eyes and then he was straightening up, pulling absently at his cuffs.
"Well," Q said awkwardly. "I had best get finished, so I can get some sleep." He turned toward the keyboard, and then paused, looking back at Bond. "I do appreciate it though, Bond. Your — stopping by."
Bond fumbled his crutch, equally discomfited. "Certainly, Q. Any time." He nodded curtly, and then stumped toward the door, suddenly desperate to escape. Behind him, he heard the rapid tapping of Q's fingers over the keyboard resume. As Bond shut the door he caught a final glimpse of Q, the pale vulnerable neck bowed, curly head bent once again to his work.
