The assignment happened to be in Monaco and Q, who rarely ventured out to deliver mission tech and equipment personally, had flown to Nice without much fuss. He was picked up by a company car and driven to the Cote d'Azur lab, where he checked and rechecked the equipment, then waited for his agent to make an appearance. The lab was a non-descript warehouse in the industrial district of Nice, posing as an international import and export firm of cheap toys coming from China.

Business was booming, it seemed, since trucks were always delivering or picking up crates. No one knew that the contents wasn't toys. No one knew that everyone working here was an MI6 operative or employee.

Bond had been checked into a hideously expensive hotel in Monte Carlo, posing as a high roller in a high stakes game. He would arrive tonight to begin his mission and it was up to Q to outfit him. He arrived right on time, walking into the warehouse like he owned it.

Q was already waiting. "Welcome to Nice, 007. I take it you had a pleasant flight?"

Bond lifted a corner of his lips into a smile. "Passable, Q. I see you made it without incident."

Q ignored the little taunt about his supposed fear of flying. He gestured at the man to follow him and Bond did. They walked into an elevator and exited two levels down where the scenery had changed from 'old, stuffy warehouse' to 'high tech lab and garage'. Q ignored the goings-on around him and walked purposefully into a parking garage like area.

He stopped at a table and opened the silver case.

"Your gun, as usual. Personalized, of course."

"Of course." Bond checked it with a glee in his eyes that had Q suppress a pleased smile.

"Tracker." Q held out a tiny tracking device to him.

Bond slid it into his pocket.

"Smartphone. Coded to you. Looks like an ordinary phone, but it can crack any electronic lock in a matter of seconds."

Bond smiled again, very pleased.

"Watch. You can slip a tracer on your marks and the watch acts as your GPS. The tracers are in this box." Q held out a cigarette case to him; silver, engraved.

Bond checked it, found cigarettes, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"The butts are the tracers. You can even smoke one of those and it won't be destroyed."

"Cute."

Q glared at him. Bond smirked.

"These in combination with an app on your phone will patch you into a closed circuit surveillance system." The quartermaster gave him the glasses Bond had already used on other missions. "Break the lenses…"

"And I'm a dead man?"

Q snorted. "You have five seconds to either fold them back up or take cover. They explode."

James looked downright ecstatic. Q rolled his eyes.

"Like a child," he muttered, loud enough for his agent to hear. "Now for something special."

"Special?"

Q walked over to a partition and pushed it aside. Behind it was a tarp-covered lump. Bond stared at it, trying to look neutral, but Q could see the first slivers of hope and excitement.

"I managed to get this out of the very limited funds M gave me for the project. Please bring it back in one piece, 007."

He pulled off the tarp.

And it was the first time he saw Bond gape; as much as a man like Bond would ever come close to gaping anyway. The blue eyes lit up with emotions that were hard to define and the agent walked almost reverently around the dark blue car.

"Aston Martin Vanquish," Q introduced the car. "Customized to your mission, 007. Bullet-proof, undetectable for heat-seeking missiles, misleading laser-guided projectiles and almost invisible to traffic cameras."

"Almost, Q?" Bond asked, walking around the car like a predator on the prowl.

"I'll always find you."

Their eyes met and the blue was almost to drown in. Q refused to smile at the open expression of… something they never talked about.

"You have the standard features, including satellite uplink wherever you are, oxygen tanks, MI6 emergency kit, an additional weapons compartment, and the car is water- and fire-proof."

Bond reached for the door and, when Q didn't stop him, touched the handle. The car clicked open. "Personalized?"

"Of course."

The agent smirked. "Of course."

"It reads your bio signature, 007. Copying your fingerprints won't give anyone access. It's equipped with a remote control and able to navigate to your position through traffic. You have ten different license plates from several countries to choose from."

"Offensive weapons?"

Q rolled his eyes. "Yes. Laser-guided projectile weaponry, flame throwers and a small missile launcher. Crude but effective."

"Nice."

"You would enjoy that, of course."

Bond grinned and slid into the car.

Q joined him from the passenger side.

"Your bio signs are coded as well?"

"Until you leave, yes. It was my project. Now listen up and pay attention, 007."

He went over the interior, seeing the child-like glee increase. James was really looking forward to taking the car out for a spin. He pushed a button and the car locked, the windows darkening. The blue eyes fixed on the quartermaster, stopping whatever he had wanted to say next.

Bond leaned over, caught him around the neck, and pulled Q into a kiss. Not just a brief contact of lips against lips, a full-blown, all tongue tonsillectomy that left him breathless and feeling the first thrills of arousal course through him. The preternatural's eyes were intense, focused only on his partner, making Q acutely aware that they were alone, with no cameras, and no one would expect him to be done explaining the car to James any time soon. When Bond activated the reclining seats, Q knew he was done for.

"Highly unprofessional, 007," he said when the lithe form slid over him.

Predatory. Hungry. Wanting. Lusting.

"Think of it as a thank you, Q."

"For what?" he gasped as clever fingers cupped his very interested dick and massaged it gently.

Bond took his mouth into another kiss that had him groan when they separated.

"My new car."

"It's not your car…"

Bond bit his neck lightly. "You gave me a car."

"It's not…"

"I know M refused to sign the budget for it."

"So I'd appreciate it if you brought it home, in one piece, with no bullet holes or dents, or missing vital pieces."

"Can't make that promise."

"I know you are capable of it, so make an effort."

"I think I am right now."

Q groaned at the bad pun and Bond chuckled against his skin.

But Q hadn't been idle. He was very much a part of this and he liked where the whole scenario was going. It was a small space and they couldn't do a lot, but when their hard dicks finally rubbed against each other, he eagerly pushed into the contact. Bond moaned, pushing back, setting a rhythm.

When he finally came, Bond muffled his cry against Q's neck. He blanketed the younger man, breathing hard, looking into the dilated, brown eyes.

"I bet you do that with everyone who gives you a nifty car," Q whispered, feeling pleasantly sated.

The kiss was soft, warm, loving. "Only one, Q. Only the one."

He raked his fingers through the blond hair, smiling a little stupidly. Sometimes simple words caught him off guard because they were accompanied by emotions he hadn't expected that very moment.

Bond pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned them up, giving Q a last kiss as he zipped him back up.

"Have to go."

Q smiled. "Yes, you do. Come back in one piece, please, 007."

The seat was back up, both men looking just a bit more flushed than normal. The agent smoothed down his dress shirt and suit, then flicked a strand of hair out of Q's eyes.

"I always come back, Q."

The quartermaster cocked an eyebrow, then climbed out of the car. Bond started the engine and headed for the ramp leading into a tunnel that would exit away from the business district.

He was quite aware what a feat it had been for Q to make this happen. MI6 had a tight budget and agents didn't get specialized cars unless a mission explicitly called for one. Q had made it happen and the tingle that sent through Bond was pleasant and warm.

x X XX

He was in Monte Carlo half an hour later.

x X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx x

Gareth Mallory looked at the report sent to him by Joe Adler. The unofficial report that would never make it into any file stored on MI6's servers.

For one very important reason.

It was dangerous.

Q had recovered rather quickly. According to Adler primary healing was a lot faster than humanly possible and he compared it to Bond's recovery rate after his injuries. Yes, it had taken weeks, but the shock to the system such an injury and the surgery was, as well as the need for a human body to recover from this, had been rather brief. Three months after the shooting it was as if Q had never had surgery. His blood tests were fine, his physical endurance back to normal. The scar was there, yes. The nerve damage to the skin was just about healed. But everything else was… normal.

M had frowned at the man the first time the doctor had remarked on it.

Now, two months after the incident, he was reading through the unofficial file that existed nowhere anyone would look, and even those who hacked into unfamiliar places wouldn't find it.

Q was a preternatural by birth. His abilities were his mind. He was a genius, but he was a genius able to access computers with his mind. His abilities were mental, not physical like Bond's. Now he was displaying advanced healing capabilities. Like his partner.

Adler had no explanation for it. Preternatural abilities had been examined in the past, there had been DNA tests, but nothing conclusive had been found. Bond's blood tests had been done and redone. As had been Q's.

Nothing.

If this was something inherent to Q, it was a big coincidence. His partner was a phoenix, who regenerated from death. Someone who recovered from injuries rather quickly and never with any lasting disabilities.

Q had part of those abilities. He recovered without disabilities, with a rather smooth looking scar of a gun shot wound in his side.

Mallory closed the file and studied the pale beige folder.

He would keep a close eye on developments. They weren't bad developments, just interesting ones. If some part of this connection had enabled Q to mimic the healing rate of his partner, all the better. Those two were an asset Mallory intended to use. They were MI6 specialists, one a field agent, one the quartermaster.

A very dangerous combination.

*x X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx x

He hadn't immediately flown back to London. M had contacted him an hour after Bond had picked up the Vanquish. He had requested he stay on location to assist 007 and Q had simply agreed. He knew the mission objective and he had had his doubts that the Double-Oh could get what they needed. Q didn't doubt Bond's abilities, but he wasn't a hacker and their opponent wasn't stupid.

So the quartermaster arrived in Monte Carlo early in the afternoon. Bond was waiting for him in the hotel lobby, though he didn't greet him in any way. The agent simply stepped onto the same elevator, with three more hotel guests, and they got out on the same floor.

Q checked the cameras watching the hallways, the doors, the elevator, and decided to take a peek at the hotel's system within the next hour, just to be on the safe side.

When the hotel room door closed behind him Bond prowled around the room, checking the layout. Q pulled out his smartphone and started a thorough scan for bugs and other unsavory devices.

They both came up clean.

His agent had closed the blinds and now pulled his quartermaster close, lips brushing over his temple, his cheek, then finding his lips.

"Highly unprofessional conduct, 007," Q murmured, smiling a little when they parted.

Bond smiled unrepentantly.

They stayed together a moment longer, Q enjoying the feel of the lean, hard lines, the strength the preternatural embodied.

"I like having you here," Bond murmured, lips moving against his ear, hands heavy and warm against Q's lower back.

"Don't get used to it. I'm not a field agent."

"Your predecessor liked going out, delivering tech."

"I'm also not a mailman or run a delivery service."

"You'd see the world."

"I can do that from at home."

"But not like I do. This is different."

"Yes, it is. More dangerous," Q countered.

One large hand rested over his scarred side, gentle pressure against the healed wound.

"No more than at home."

At home. MI6. Where he had been shot.

They separated and Q turned. He looked into the turmoiled eyes of his phoenix, saw all in there, those emotions achingly clear. Q hoped his own were just as open and from the expression in the pale blue eyes, Bond had understood.

"We should get some rest."

His agent raised an eyebrow and Q sighed theatrically.

"One track mind."

"Room's paid for."

Yes, it was. All expenses were actually paid for. It was secretly exciting for Q, something new and different, and despite his words, he did enjoy being here.

x X XX x

In the end he had to confess that a blow-job really did take the edge off things. It also passed the time until later in the evening when Bond would finally get to do his job, coerce the mark, find a way into her home and give Q the necessary access to the files they wanted.

And Q liked hearing the rough whispers, the encouraging moans, as he reciprocated and sucked off his partner until Bond came with a hoarse groan and a shudder.

They showered together and the technopath enjoyed watching his agent getting dressed for the occasion.

Bond raised an eyebrow, shirt hanging open, showing a firm stomach and the smooth chest Q had caressed just an hour ago.

"See something you like?" he teased as he buttoned up the dress shirt.

"Always," Q replied and pulled on his own shirt.

While he would be tech support, he had to be ready to leave and then blend in. In a place like this, a dark suit and a white shirt would help.

Bond's appreciative look told him that if not for the mission, more would happen tonight.

But it was a mission. An assignment. It was time to be a professional.

x X XX x

So there he was, watching through the lenses of the cameras all over the casino, as Bond played and won. He was a very good player and Q had to admire how he handled himself. It was all an act, a charming, smooth act to get close to the target. Bond was perfectly sociable, an actor in a role so deep you couldn't but believe him. Every line, every gesture, every eye contact was studied and executed to perfection.

Q had set up his small surveillance operation in Bond's suite. He knew his partner wouldn't come back here tonight, and probably not in the morning either, especially when he finally had the attention of his mark and started to charm her.

She fell for it.

And she took him with her.

Q used traffic cameras and the tracker in Bond's suit to follow them on the map. He listened to Bond's voice as they talked, to her answers, and he knew the agent had her wrapped around his finger.

They ended up in a hideously expensive condo, right where Bond had wanted to be, and Q turned down the audio when Bond took the mark to bed.

But not before he had placed Q's access to the woman's computer where it was needed. The tiny electronic device, dubbed 'flea' by Q branch, stuck to the computer and Q started his work. The flea was the key into the whole system and cracking the code was child's play.

At least for someone like Q.

Q understood just what MI6 expected of him. Use his own abilities to get what they needed. That they needed the blueprints of a satellite some power-hungry madman wanted to launch into orbit was one thing. That they were protected by a highly efficient security network based on what could only be described as a rabid, unpredictably violent watchdog program – and please, he could have done better and already had in so many ways – was another.

Tanner's assessment had been right. Bond wouldn't have been able to hack into this or establish a stable link.

Someone had to be inside.

That someone had to be a technopath.

It all boiled down to a major migraine that left him breathless, hunched over on his hotel bed, fingers trying to bury into his skull. He might have whimpered or made another embarrassing sound. He might have tried to draw bloody gauges into his scalp. He might have locked himself in and everyone else out.

Q wasn't aware of much.

Some time later he felt someone in the room with him and that fact alone had him scramble for his gun. He was MI6 trained. He knew how to handle a weapon and his score was perfectly fine.

Why hadn't the intruder tripped an alarm? Why hadn't he been aware of them in any way?

The gun came up.

"Q."

The one word had him stop, blinking at the shadow that coalesced into the well-known form of James Bond.

"007."

The pain receded like he had swallowed a very effective painkiller. His hand was still steady, had never wavered as it had pointed the gun at a perceived enemy, and the small smile around Bond's lips was one of pride and approval.

Q found the hotel door locked – how in the world had he broken the lock? – and no one in the room but the two of them.

He lowered the gun.

Bond approached, all lithe muscle and volatile danger. His fingers brushed over Q's cheek, along his cheekbone, then buried themselves in the dark hair. He lightly massaged the scalp with one hand, the other gently lifting the narrow face to meet Q's tired eyes.

It was a cool touch. It enveloped him, drew him in, soothed his still raw brain, chasing away the rough edge of exhaustion. Q closed his eyes. For a moment he just needed and James just gave. He felt chapped lips against his own, felt the calloused hands caress his skin and scalp.

"We need to go," Bond murmured.

"I know."

He opened his eyes and met the amused twinkle in the glacial eyes. Bond was still operating as an agent and that was perfectly fine. He was under control, too. So far the violence had sparked no adverse reaction and Q was thankful for it.

"Alright then."

The contact broke as Bond stepped back, but the cool darkness surrounding Q's overheated brain was still there, balancing him, keeping him functional.

Just then he noticed that he had been inside the program for almost six hours.

Damn.

No wonder he felt so off balance.

He packed his things, quick and efficient. Bond pulled him into a quick hard kiss as they were about to leave the hotel room. Hungry, reassuring, wild, unleashed, and still so much tamer than could be expected. Fire danced in the blue eyes and Q smiled.

He placed a hand flat on the hard chest, pushing him back ever so slightly. Bond moved, but the promise was there.

"Let's go."

And then they were gone, the Vanquish sliding almost noiselessly away from the hotel and into traffic.

*x X XX xx X XX xxx x

They went their separate ways in Nice. Q was already booked on the next plane home to London while Bond would wrap up a few loose ends.

And to draw away whoever might be following him.

It was his job.

And he was damn good at it.

The good-bye was as professional as the whole mission had been. No soft smiles, no kisses, no touches.

Q got out of the car with hardly a look back, walking into the departure terminal with firm, decisive steps. He had only his overnight bag and the airline wasn't exactly MI6 standard. No allocated seats, cheap, mostly tourists.

Using one of MI6's cover names that wouldn't raise any flags, Q bought a ticket and paid cash, then went right through customs.

x X XX

He was back in London three hours later.

x X XX xx X XX xxx x

He didn't see Bond again until he walked into Q branch, all polished looks and radiating accomplishment and sex and the rugged charm he was known for. The look he gave one of Q's assistants as she walked past had the poor woman flush. It was so terribly easy to fall for this man, the quartermaster knew. And Bond used it to his advantage. His bedpartners didn't regret the adventure.

Sometimes they just ended up dead.

Oh well, it wasn't happening here, he knew.

Bond was very careful not to leave any more broken hearts at MI6 than strictly necessary, and he had yet to take any of the coyly flirting or hotly flushing ladies to bed.

They weren't marks.

And he didn't need them.

Those wintery eyes met Q's and he let his eyebrows rise a little. Bond's infuriating smile grew.

"Welcome back, 007."

"Q," was the pleasant reply.

Q had landed safe and sound back in London, carrying the top secret data, and he had been debriefed by M personally. His staff was already busy decoding what had been found.

He let his surprise show when he was handed over the equipment. Nothing was missing. Nothing was broken.

"You'll get a gold star, 007. You're setting a new record."

"Anything for my favorite quartermaster."

The men and women closest to Q's station were suddenly very immersed in their work. One of the women had red ears from a blush that was creeping up her neck. Bond's voice held that rough, low rumble that had weakened knees and turned heads often before and always would.

Q refrained from sighing.

James smiled that little crooked smile that spoke of just how aware he was of what he was doing. He always was. This was an act and they both played a role to their admiring public.

"The car?"

"Still in one piece. But you know that already, don't you?"

Yes, he knew that. Yes, he had received a detailed report. Bond had treated the car with the utmost respect, even if he had kept it a lot longer than he should have, and he hadn't returned it to the garage. He had parked it at the airport, VIP. There were a few dents and scrapes from an encounter that hadn't been made official in a report yet.

Q was very interested to hear where they had come from. Bond hadn't been able to use all the car's nifty features and, knowing his partner, he was probably heavily disappointed and just itching for an assignment that would a) bring back the car and b) let him blow something up with it.

Right now Q was just glad the Double-Oh had come back in one piece and alive. Dealing with a phoenix reborn was never easy and with the latest events, with Q's shooting and the protective streak his partner had displayed, Q just knew it would have been worse than ever before.

The quartermaster looked at his agent, who was still hanging around, trying not to admire the sleek lines, the way the dark gray suit accentuated the lean, trained form.

It was hard.

And his underlings weren't having a lot of success either. At least Q wasn't openly salivating, like some who were desperately trying not to stare – and failing.

"007?"

"Q?" he replied. Smirking wickedly, the bastard!

"Shouldn't you head for your debriefing?"

"No."

He swallowed an irritated sigh. No. Of course not.

He busied himself with filing the return of Bond's tech and then handed everything to one of his assistants for closer examination, possible repairs, updates and whatnot, and finally storage until the next mission.

Bond had found his way onto the couch, looking for all the world like he belonged down here, and he probably did, Q mused. He had a tablet in hand, going over whatever had caught his interest, and Q knew he wouldn't be able to get rid of the aggravating man.

Not that he really wanted to.

It was their game and they both enjoyed it.

And it might look like Bond wasn't doing anything but surf the net, but he was writing his report and tying up loose ends from the mission.

x X XX

The debrief was a few hours later and Bond disappeared like a phantom. Some didn't even see him leave.

Q pulled some overtime and wasn't surprised to find James waiting for him. They both fell in step with each other, comfortable silence between them, and when Q chose to walk home, Bond didn't comment.

He simply waylaid him into having a late dinner, which consisted of take out.

"Very suave," Q remarked, biting into his sandwich.

Bond gave him that half-smile while he unwrapped his own combo. They were sitting on the steps of the National Gallery, watching the early evening traffic of Trafalgar Square.

"And here I thought you might wine and dine me to make up for the lost opportunity in Monaco."

"You're not the type."

"But I'm the type for subs and tea?"

James shrugged elaborately and continued to eat.

Q shook his head in amusement.

It was nice. Nicer than a fancy restaurant.

"Maybe I am."

It got him one of those quick smiles. "Maybe you are."

They stayed for a long time, just watching, not talking, letting the world walk by. The food was gone, the drinks empty, but neither man felt inclined to move.

x X XX

Finally they did move, walking home to the flat, side by side without being overly close. They rode the elevator to Q's flat and only when the door closed after them, the security system fully online, did Bond turn and draw his partner into a soft kiss. One hand rested over the place where the scar was, the other was in Q's hair.

Blue eyes, the color of a wintery sky, regarded him when they separated and Q brought his own hand up to lightly caress James' cheek.

He knew it would take a while to get this out of the preternatural's system, this sensation of near-loss, protectiveness and the fierce claim on Q's soul.

Q could deal with that.

It was what defined them, what made this partnership so interesting. Never boring, never routine, he mused. God forbid it would become routine with James Bond.

The kiss that followed was almost too light, too shy, and still so very much them. Q deepened it, not James. He slid his hands under the suit jacket, felt the smooth fabric of the dress shirt, the warmth underneath, and Bond made a soft sound, a rumble, a growl.

Q looked into those very familiar eyes and saw nothing cold or dangerous, just that emotion, that need, and he smiled.

Me, too, he thought. Me, too.