Bond looks startled by his sudden appearance—or, rather, as startled as he ever is by anything, with only a raised eyebrow and a questioning gaze as his betraying features. Q, feeling bold, marches past him into the compartment, and tries to look comfortable by leaning against the pillar between two windows.
Bond's eyes swivel over him for a moment, and his intent has a strange, predatory tenderness to it. He crosses the room calmly and sits down on the edge of the bed. "What would you like to talk about?"
"I would like an explanation, first of all."
"For what?"
"Don't play dumb," Q says, and it comes out sounding less sharp than he intends.
Bond smiles like he's got a secret but doesn't meet his eyes. "I was testing a theory."
"Were you proved correct?"
"Unfortunately for both of us, yes."
Bond looks up and there's a moment where it seems like he's trying to project his thoughts through silence, as though convinced they're on the exact same subconscious wavelength and Q should understand. Understand like all the ladies and gentlemen Bond manipulates with just a blink.
Puzzled though he is, he thinks something does reach him, or at least bubbles to the surface. Just a name, the sort of name that gets written in the depths of a personnel psych evaluation and is just the sort of thing you don't mention around a double-O if you intend to stay in one piece.
Vesper.
There's a few others in the file, the farther back you go. Wounds that have sealed themselves but won't heal, leaving knots of dead tissue that hurt on rainy days. He's read the file all the way through (he always prefers to know what he's dealing with, and so has read the file of every double-O. Though he's aware this is probably not ethical, he figures at this point it probably goes in the same gray area as sleeping with an operative you're entrusted to enable in the field), and in it he's found detailed descriptions of the events, noted each of the commonalities that have lead to the barely alive man that sits before him expectantly.
People have a tendency to die in Bond's arms. Specifically, people he loves.
And Bond, for all his suavity and sophistication, has a type that he goes back to again and again when he wants true connection. The sort that need a bit of protecting, but have a wit and allure that is impossible to ignore. The sort that won't let him get away with the mundane bullshit but understand that he's only partially intact and is going to stay that way, by choice or by necessity, it doesn't really matter. The sort that have their own darkness, carefully tethered. These are the ones that Bond finds it far too easy to fall in love with. And, as the cycle goes, these are the sort that end up dead.
And why should Q be any different?
All he manages to say is, "Oh."
And then:
"I suppose it's too late, then?"
Bond gazes at him frankly. "For me."
Q turns his eyes to the floor, tests life in waters that are neither cerulean nor scarred. He sighs, and though not hugely flattered at being able to identify himself as just another in a never-ending sequence of lost loves, he realizes that he was right in his predictions that first day in the National Gallery: that anything with Bond would end badly. He was wrong, though, in thinking that it was at all avoidable.
Bond starts to get up stiffly, presumably to escort Q out. Q watches the other man heave his half-shattered bulk to his feet with a grimace, and smiles inwardly. He knows it's a little fucked up to find solace in Bond's moments of impairment, but it's too familiar in himself to not find comforting.
The double-O motions a hand toward the door just as Q takes the two steps forward and kisses him softly, just beneath the chin. Bond's relief, though likely temporary, is palpable, and he places a gentle hand against Q's cheek, guiding him to his lips and sliding an arm around his waist.
"If you can manage it," Q murmurs, breath warm and close. "I think we should live in the moment."
"As you wish," and it's more than a little melancholy.
m m m
The train beats on through the night, and Q slips into his shoes without a whisper. Bond's breathing doesn't even change as he wakes, and he nearly scares the living hell out of Q when he reaches out to grab his hand.
"You're going?" Bond rasps. He's face down, halfway speaking into the pillow. His back is exposed, and Q's eyes dart away to admire it leisurely, as though they have all the time in the world. Even the burns and scabs can't ruin the elegant lines of a well toned spinal column, of thighs and forearms and the sweep of where a neck meets shoulders. He squats down as long as he dares and studies Bond's intoxicatingly vulnerable eyes. They intertwine cold fingers.
"Still on the job," Q smiles crookedly. "Don't want Khadija to worry."
Bond lets out a breath and watches him leave without another word.
m m m
Early morning dawns and he once again meets Khadija and Bond in their secluded collection of seats. The tension has dispersed, the day is unexpectedly sunny, and with Bond's skin inches away he feels a quiet sanity that overshadows everything in optimism. In the living, breathing daylight it's easy to forget that future and all the unknowns that Bond has introduced. Easy to leave his worries as the kind that only lurk when on the edge of exhaustion. Soon he's locked into a debate with Khadija over the pros and cons of using Python as an entry level tool, and Bond is watching, a mildly amused little smile on his face.
A joyous guffaw erupts from some unseen crevice of the train, a crackling, half screeching sound that doesn't sound like it could come from an adult human being. Even while irritating, it's infectious, and they snicker discreetly because there are times when annoyance at those thought less evolved is so easily overruled by giddiness.
Q thinks that if this is what field work is, then all the double-O's need to quit their bitching and return their goddamn equipment. He almost says this to Bond but instead resolves to whisper it later, sensuously and in chosen privacy, when the backlash can be used to his advantage.
In Copenhagen, Q pulls on sunglasses against the uncharacteristic light and gets Briar Komaromy's passport stamped. They flag a taxi and let Bond off early, who sets off to make clandestine contact with Station C. Khadija has fallen into her role flawlessly, transforming into a terse, efficient bodyguard the moment she steps onto foreign soil. In the elegant, Scandinavian modern hotel, she stays two steps behind him and her eyes flicker toward every spot of cover, every exit, every camera. Q is escorted to his room and she keeps a threatening, yet still respectful, distance.
Delivered at the heavy oaken doors that are the entrances to their side by side rooms, she dismisses the bellhop and catches Q's eye. He leans in to her murmur.
"Keynote address begins at seven. Cocktails at six. We'll be armed but you shouldn't be. Bond is bringing back earwigs for all three of us, some of your prototypes that are nearly unreadable. We meet the Marteles tomorrow morning."
He nods, and it's not an effort to be fearless. Not when Bond is on his way back and he's got a suitcase full of firearms and a plan that is so well laid that certainly it must work.
Q turns toward his door, key in hand, but realizes a moment later that Khadjia hasn't moved. He raises an eyebrow at her.
"You and Bond..." she starts hesitantly, eyes narrowed.
He waits, noncommittal.
"Nevermind," she says abruptly. She throws him one nervous, nearly pitying smile before disappearing into her room.
