Q as a traveling companion turned out to be a neverending source of entertainment.

First there was the dodgy incident at security, when Bond thought he might need to pry the laptop and mobile out of Q's hands to send them through the x-ray scanner.

Bond had to bite his cheek to keep himself from laughing out loud as Q virtually ignored his own security screening, twisting and turning to monitor the progression of his tech down the conveyor belt. His beatific expression when he was finally reunited with his electronic devices was that of a new mother seeing her infant after a long absence.

They waited at the gate, Q tapping away on his laptop, apparently reconfiguring Heathrow's wifi systems for greater efficiency and security out of sheer boredom. After a brief warning not to access the actual air traffic control computers Bond left him to it. Since they had reached an understanding earlier a great deal of Q's tension had eased, but he still seemed apprehensive — about the mission itself, or flying, or both. If distraction helped, Bond was happy to leave him to it.

Q seemed to get increasingly edgy in the boarding queue. Bond instinctively stood behind him, blocking the press of the other passengers and giving Q a little space, and was rewarded with a small smile of relief in return.

When they were seated — Bond having relinquished his window seat as promised — Q's apprehension turned to eager curiosity. He opened and closed the window shade, tested out every recline option on his chair, and fiddled with the air and light controls, all the while regaling Bond with a stream of information regarding the underlying mechanism, construction, and manufacture of every component.

Bond found the combination of almost childlike curiosity and highly technical knowledge ridiculously endearing. He listened with apparent rapt attention to Q explaining how the environmental control system used high-pressure water separation to dry out the air within the air cycle machine upstream of turbine section input, while idly speculating as to the odds of getting a scotch out of the flight attendant before the drinks trolley came around.

When the engines actually started up Q's recitation halted suddenly. "Oh," he said, his eyes going slightly wide, as the plane lurched into motion. Bond watched him carefully, wondering if he should have picked up something from Medical after all. The last thing he needed was for Q to have a panic attack on the flight.

Q's hands tightened on the armrests as the plane gathered speed.

"You know the statistics on flying..." Bond began.

Q interrupted him with a sharp glance. "I am aware of the statistics, 007," he said acidly. "A rarer incidence of mechanical failures in comparison to other forms of travel does not negate the fact that when said failures occur they are significantly more likely to have catastrophic — oh!" he said again as the wheels left the ground.

Q craned around, watching the ground drop away from them for long minutes. Finally, he turned back to Bond, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face. "It's — it's quite brilliant, actually," he said.

Bond couldn't help grinning in return. He barely noticed it anymore, flying to him was as routine as getting in a car. It was quite entertaining to experience it anew from Q's rather eccentric perspective. Bond wondered again why he had never flown before. Perhaps his parents had been afraid of flying? He was tempted to ask, but didn't have the heart to ruin Q's simple enthusiasm with potentially sad memories.

Instead he reclined his chair, settling in. "You know, it might attract attention if you go around calling me 007," he said indulgently.

"Hmmm?" Q still seemed entranced by the view out the window. "Oh. Right. Of course."

He dropped his voice to a low undertone. "It's Somerset for this mission, isn't it? And I am Quentin Darcy." He pulled a face. "Moneypenny's idea of a joke, no doubt. She loves giving me Q names, and she is a tremendous closet Pride and Prejudice fanatic. Which is just ridiculous, I'm supposed to be French for this mission."

"Or you could just call me James, you know. That's the same, and I am your underling after all."

"Oh. Yes." Bond watched the tips of Q's ears turn pink with fascination. "James," Q said, as if tasting the word, and damned if Bond didn't feel a jolt straight to the cock at the sound of his name spoken in that rich, posh voice.

"Or Somerset," he found himself saying. "Either one is fine." He closed his eyes and pretended to fall into a doze, wondering when in hell the drinks trolley was going to arrive already.


The Grand Hotel in Stockholm was a sprawling, turn-of-the-century structure overlooking the harbor, a mix of modern clean-lined updates and that particular pompous ornateness that characterized all European grand hotels — as if they were perpetually anticipating hosting a royal wedding at any moment.

Q's eyes darted around the lobby as they entered, pointing out every security measure to Bond in a low undertone as they passed through. He managed to spot a few even Bond had missed. Finally he mentioned fingerprint scanners for staff computer access before they had even reached the front desk.

"Come on, Quentin," he said, overpronouncing the false name. "That has to be a guess."

"It's Mister Darcy to you, underling," Q said imperiously, with a glint of mischief in his eye. "And I never guess." The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to suppress his smile. "I hacked the server of the security firm who did the install and downloaded the schematics, of course."

"Cheater," Bond shot back, before checking them both in to their adjoining rooms.

After a shower and a shave, Bond knocked perfunctorily on the connecting door and wandered into Q's room. His stomach dropped briefly at the apparently empty room, before a thump and a quiet "Bugger!" eased his fears.

He rounded the bed, ducking slightly to see under the massive, ornate desk by the window. He was greeted with the sight of Q's shapely arse, wriggling energetically in his trousers as he messed about with cables under the desk.

"Nice view," Bond purred, and was rewarded with another bump and curse as Q scrambled out backwards on his hands and knees, trailing cables behind him.

"The wiring is atrocious," Q said, straightening up. He blinked as if processing Bond's words. "Don't you have a harbor view as well?"

Bond refrained from rolling his eyes with effort. He couldn't tell if Q was deflecting his flirting by willfully misunderstanding him, or if he was just remarkably oblivious.

"The housekeeping is apparently atrocious as well," he said. "You have dust bunnies in your hair."

He snickered as Q ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, making its usual wind-tunnel look even more pronounced.

Q shot him a dark look. "Perhaps you could be helpful and fetch that small case over there?"

Bond fetched the case and opened it up to find a frankly mind-boggling collection of electronics and cables. Under Q's direction he helped him assemble the set-up into what was apparently a cutting-edge secure network.

When they were done Q stood, dusting off his hands. "Kryptos said he would be in touch at 2300."

Bond checked his watch. Over ninety minutes to go. "Have you eaten at all today?"

Q's brow furrowed in confusion, apparently trying to recall if breakfast had factored into his day. Bond tossed him the room service menu. "You choose. I'll call it in."


At 2300 exactly, Q's mobile pinged.

"Email to the secure address set up for contact with Kryptos," he said. He tapped the screen, opening up the email. "Oh. Oh...that's clever," he said with admiration.

"What is it?"

"He wants to verify that I am Shadow. He's left me the time and place of the meet tomorrow. I just have to get to it."

Bond felt a curl of suspicion in his gut. Q looked entirely too intrigued for this to be a good thing.

"Left it where?"

Q's mouth quirked. "On an NSA server."

He opened up his laptop and settled down on the bed cross-legged, his fingers already flying across the keyboard.

"Q. Are you actually hacking the United States' National Security Agency?"

Q grinned — grinned! — at Bond. "Better order up some Earl Grey."


Q sat in the chair in the hotel conference room, staring out the window over the harbor. Bond stood, tense and watchful, alternately watching the door and Q.

Q looked knackered, dark smudges below each eye, his face pale and set. He had cracked the time and the location of the meet in an impressive three hours, but Bond would be surprised if he had slept at all after Bond had returned to his own room for the remainder of the night.

Bond glanced at the door again. No sign of Kryptos yet.

"Q?" he asked.

Q shifted his eyes to Bond. "What am I doing here?" he asked, his voice soft and husky with lack of sleep. "He'll know, as soon as I open my mouth he'll know I'm lying..."

"Stop it, Q," Bond said sharply. "You are not lying. You are Shadow. You want this data. That is all you need to say, and it's all true."

"I'm not sure..."

"Q." Bond's voice was harsh now, as he crouched in front of Q. He knew people found his ice-blue gaze intimidating, and he brought every bit of the force of that gaze to bear on Q's stormy-green eyes. "Who are you?" he barked in a low voice.

Q flinched instinctively at the tone, and then blinked. "I'm Shadow," he said, his voice growing more steady and confident.

"And what do you want?"

Q's face was resolved now. "I want the data from MI-6," he said firmly.

Bond nodded once. "Good. You're ready."

He heard soft footsteps in the hall and straightened up, his hand twitching toward his holster.

Get the data. Protect Q. Get the data. Protect Q. With the mission objectives firm in his mind Bond fell into wary readiness as the door opened.


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