He came back to life, the phoenix roaring a challenge as it rose from the dead. It lashed out, snarled and screeched, and he felt his lungs fill with air, expand, muscles filling with blood, and the pain had him expel that air in a gasp.
Eyes the pale blue color of the eternal ice opened, staring at a light gray ceiling. Fingers curled into the sheets of the bed he lay on.
There was movement.
He tracked it with all senses.
"James."
Recognition.
Hyper-awareness of his partner and mate. It was like a conduit of energy was suddenly open between them, heat and fire and something even stronger coursing through the battered form of the resurrected preternatural.
"James."
His name, repeated.
The phoenix quieted down almost immediately, rumbling, still high-strung and lusting for a kill, but now somewhat enthralled by the voice.
"Q."
His own voice sounded rusty, gritty, painful. Like his throat had been slashed and just healed together.
He blinked.
Oh. Right. That had happened.
Q looked a bit disheveled. Younger than his years, the glasses hiding nothing of the relief that rushed through him, and the smile was open and warm.
"Welcome back, 007."
"Where?"
"Somewhere very safe. Mr. Finch arranged for it. And no, you're not leaving."
Damn.
He flexed his fingers again, felt bearable pain there, and attempted to sit up. More pain introduced itself immediately and he fell back with a gasp. The darkness rose, wanted to push forward, furious at the injuries and his weakness.
"How long was I out?"
Q smiled dimly. "Four hours for the rebirth, ten hours of natural sleep. But you will be down for the count for a while."
Q met the pale blue eyes, his own dark and filled with emotions he would never put into words, and his even voice was caressing the wounded soul. The exhaustion of resurrection was already pulling him under. With his partner here, the phoenix didn't fight it. He knew he needed to rest, needed to recover.
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 x
Harold Finch limped into the living room of the safe house where Q sat on the couch, a laptop with him. He was talking to his CIA liaison, Felix Leiter. The call had come in a few minutes ago and Finch had been very much aware of it.
Actually, he had hacked into it, listening in. And he knew that Q was aware of it, too.
"Well, too bad it ended like this," Leiter said, sounding a bit exhausted. "We would have preferred to keep Stanton alive."
"White's pack did what they had to do."
It got Q a chuckle. "No argument from me. I read the reports. I talked to White. She was completely off the rocker; insane. She killed a whole pack, picking them off one by one."
"How is Agent Snow?"
A sigh. "Recovering. She did a number on him. Werewolves are hard to take down, but she knew what she was doing, of course. She was his second-in-command and she had the time to inflict some cruel damage. Agent Snow is currently off the active list and it looks like he will stay that way."
Q pursed his lips.
"His own decision," Leiter added as if reading his mind. "This shook him pretty badly, especially since it was an inside job. He lost his whole pack. I'm no werewolf or an expert, Q, but I know it hits an alpha the hardest."
"Maybe she never truly planned to kill him. Losing his pack wasn't unlike death itself."
"Maybe. Whatever her final plans were for him, she achieved something in the end. White talked to him, alpha to alpha. We also had a psychologist flown in who specializes on werewolves. Not sure it'll get us anywhere. White's doubtful."
"He might end up a loner," Q mused.
"Most likely. White offered to let him stay part of his pack, but Snow's an old alpha, a very strong one, he wouldn't be able to submit to another to function within the pack. And werewolves don't work with alpha pairs."
"Too bad. I read his file. He was a very good agent."
"True," Leiter answered. "Well, it was nice working with you. Tell James I'm looking forward to the next time."
"I will. Good day, Agent Leiter."
The call ended and Q looked up. Finch was struck by his youth again, though the quartermaster of MI6 was older than he looked. The usually alert and sharp eyes reflected exhaustion and there were dark smudges beneath them, looking almost like bruises on his fair skin. Q hadn't slept a lot, had been logged into the network for the whole of the mission, and Finch had found out that the connection the technopath had with the phoenix ran a lot deeper than handler and agent.
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Finch," he said, voice still smooth and very British.
He was putting up a good front.
"You should get some rest, Q. I know you worry about your agent, but I promise you that the two of you are perfectly safe here."
Q smiled a little. "I know we are, Mr. Finch."
"And your partner is healing all on his own. I suspect his recovery rate is faster than a human's?"
"Yes." Q tilted his head a little. "Like Mr. Reese's?"
Finch chuckled. "He has the same penchant for getting into harm's way, but yes, he heals fast."
Like after getting two bullets into his body. It had been amazing to watch, amazing to see how the body knitted back together within such a short time. Reese had a high threshold for pain, but even that wouldn't have helped them in some situations. The healing factor did.
"I have to warn you that 007 has a tendency to vacate the premises and hole up where he feels safe the moment he can walk."
"I know the type, Mr. Whittmore."
Q closed the laptop. "I hope we're not keeping you from anything."
Finch smiled. "Not at all."
The two men looked at each other, both aware that they were so much alike, had so much in common, right down to handling two agents who were more than a handful and always putting themselves into harm's way.
"I believe I will take a nap," the quartermaster finally said.
"A very good idea."
x X XX xx X XX xxx x
He hadn't been able to sleep. The bed, while not as posh as a hotel bed, was nice and comfortable. The sheets were clean and fresh, and it was next to Bond's room.
Q lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, his mind running on and on with recaps of what had happened.
Especially when James had died.
He had felt it in a way. Not like dying himself – and he really had no experience in that department, thank you very much. It had been this sharp tug, losing part of himself, the darkness flailing and latching on to him. It had been the phoenix coming to life while dying, dragging Q along while also letting go, and for a single moment he had faced the predator.
Looking at the monster without a human soul to keep it civil.
Q hadn't been afraid. He had faced it before, though while Bond was still breathing, and he had faced it now. It had studied him like prey and then decided he wasn't.
A second.
Just a single second between them.
Then the sensation had passed. The phoenix had curled up and waited for the magic to happen, for the body to follow the soul's command.
Even now Q could feel that piece quite acutely. Bond was in the room next to his and he had the feeling like they were sharing the same room. No walls between them. It was like a dark presence lurking in his mind, this heat that wasn't really warm, this fire that was sometimes more like ice.
The phoenix was active, was the part of Bond that enabled his recovery. It was soaking through every cell of his body, making him more, making him a volatile creature at the moment, one prone to crawling into his own, chosen corner to lick his wounds. And he might be a bit more… possessive of Q for a few hours or days.
Q sat up with a sigh.
He was the phoenix's balance. He was the partner, its mate, Bond's. And the pull was intense. More than before. More than before… Q had been shot by Leslie Collins and had nearly died. It had been like a turning point for them, for the connection.
He felt more.
He experienced more.
He needed… needed a lot more. It was a hunger unlike the phoenix's, but hunger nonetheless.
His body felt like a live wire, energy coursing through him, thrumming through his mind, making him want, need, hunger. It wasn't the boiling mass of darkness that was Bond, that was the phoenix, but it was equally powerful and it was what kept the other preternatural so balanced.
It was useless. He knew he wouldn't get any sleep in here, separated, unable to touch, to see, to talk to his partner when Bond woke again.
So he slipped on his shoes and left the room.
x X XX xx X XX xxx x
Q allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the man on the bed for a second. Look, no touch. Soak in the muscular form of his agent, the man he handled and who he was bonded to. The man who was his anchor and meant more to the technopath than he could ever explain to anyone not in his position.
Only about five people in this world might get what James Bond truly was to Q. If they were still sane enough to understand it.
Bond was reasonably held together by stitches and bandages. There was a rather deep cut running along his left collar bone, the staples ugly and crude. More cuts, all claw marks, were all over Bond's chest. His throat had looked perforated and it had been a mess. Right now it was swathed in bandages. It had been a miracle the man had already been able to talk. The doctor, whose name Q didn't know, and hadn't asked, had done a great job.
Q had calculated that rebirth should have taken about half a day.
James had managed it in mere hours.
It was something that puzzled and mildly alarmed him. It was something his hyper brain was already turning over and over, looking into and analyzing, and the vague notion as to what it meant terrified him in a way.
Of course Bond was awake. He had opened his eyes the very moment the younger man had walked inside, like beacons in the night, holding Q's eyes and drawing him closer without ever saying a word or even making a beckoning gesture. If asked to put the sensation into words, Q would have been hard pressed to find the appropriate ones. Static in his head, the hum of a live wire, the roar of something indescribably.
He only felt it when Bond resurrected.
When the phoenix was at its most uncontrollable and wild stage.
Walking to the preternatural's side, Q held the sharp eyes as they narrowed, taking in the quartermaster's tense body, the pale skin, the shadows under his eyes. Q knew he looked as bad as he felt right now. He hadn't slept at all and staying on-line all the time had stressed his brain.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
Bond's lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. "I've used that line too often for you to make it believable."
His voice still sounded completely off. Too rough, like it should hurt with every syllable, like he was chewing glass and spitting nails. According to the nameless doctor, Bond's throat had been a complete mess. That he was healing this was… quite new, he thought. So new that it was another puzzle piece he needed to figure out.
"And you see how exasperating that is."
Another smile. James looked as tired as Q, though in his case it was coupled with the stress of a resurrection. Looking into those impossibly colored eyes, Q saw the hunger in there. It was suppressed, Bond trying not to overwhelm him, and it touched something within the technopath. The phoenix needed him, but it was also so very much aware that Q had reached his limits a long time ago. Catering to the hunger would deplete Q further, but Bond needed him.
And Q needed him in turn.
"I am fine, Bond. You, on the other hand, have seen better days," he teased.
"And worse. This is nothing."
"Our definitions of 'nothing' differ greatly."
"Maybe." Bond gave him a small smile, that crinkle of his lips.
Q's exasperation showed because Bond's smile widened.
Bastard!
His agent held out one hand. Bruised, scraped, cut, with a bandage covering the worst.
"Q," he said softly, cajoling.
Q took it, immediately feeling some of the tension lift. The skin-to-skin contact was like balm to his aching soul and he closed his eyes with a soft, involuntary sigh.
"Stay," Bond murmured.
He opened his eyes and looked at the other man.
"Stay," the Double-Oh repeated and tugged at his hand.
"Bond…"
"Q."
"I…"
"You can."
Yes, he could. They were safe here. He had trusted Finch with finding a doctor who could keep his mouth shut. He had trusted him with this safehouse. The security network was state-of-the-art and Q had been inside for hours, running his own security checks, stress tests, and even an outside attack scenario. Nothing had given. Like expected.
"I can," he murmured, almost as if it was a surprise to him, too.
And he did.
The bed was wide enough for both of them and Bond, ignoring all his injuries and the pain he had to be feeling, pulled him close. Q tried not to put too much weight on him.
Bond pressed his lips against his temple, chasing away the lingering pain.
"Good?"
Q smiled, already feeling the exhaustion take over. "Yes."
The phoenix spread its black wings, like a liquid, silky blanket covering his mind and soul. He let go of everything, let himself fall, trusting Bond not to overwhelm him.
The agent only pulled him closer, urging him to wrap his arm around the older man's waist, and Q buried his face against the bandaged chest. Bond's fingers were in his hair, carding through the long strands.
He fell asleep not much later, feeling completely safe.
tbc...