Reese had prowled around the library, lounged in the computer room, generally not leaving Finch alone for any longer than maybe a bathroom break or to get food.
"How are our guests?" Reese asked as he placed a cup of tea in front of Finch.
"Recovering quickly. It's amazing."
"Watching, Harold?" he teased, voice quiet, with a predatory edge.
Finch smiled. "There are no cameras at the safehouse, aside from the one above the porch. I wouldn't try to look in on a technopath, Mr. Reese. Q can easily find whatever I might have left and switch it off. Or worse. I talked to him an hour ago. Mr. Bond is alive, awake, healing well, and so is his partner."
Reese raised an eyebrow at how Finch had worded it.
"Oh please," the billionaire said. "Don't tell me you didn't notice their closeness. Q needs an anchor to function as a technopath and 007 is that anchor. As for the phoenix, I've done some research and Q is most likely psychically bonded to the MI6 agent. A phoenix is a terrifying, dark and horrifying creature, John. It consumes itself every time the resurrection tears it apart. A phoenix needs someone to pull it back. Q is that someone."
Reese leaned against the edge of the computer table. "He's a lot more, Harold."
Finch gave him a neutral look.
"I might not be a werewolf, but I can smell them on each other when I'm close enough."
"Oh." He blinked. "I see."
That explained a few things. Not that it was any of his concern. But knowing that they anchored and balanced each other, maybe it had been the natural development of this bond.
Reese smirked, then pushed away, brushing past the other man. Closer than he had to. There was a ring of silver around his blue eyes, something that had happened before now and then, but Finch had never been able to tell what connected the events. It had tipped him off to the preternatural in his partner, but never to the true nature. Werewolves didn't get silver-ringed eyes, in any state of shift, and Finch had never researched too deeply.
It had been like an act of respect, the refusal to dig deeper than he already had.
Maybe he should have been more attentive, considering when those shifts in the blue eyes had happened. Maybe it would have given him a clue-by-four.
Fingers that had killed and maimed brushed over his back, barely even there, but he was hyper-aware of the contact. The contact was almost playful, laced with a danger inherent in Reese's nature.
He tensed for a moment, but he didn't say anything.
Reese just smiled some more and went to one of the bookshelves to pick out a book he had started reading.
Finch stared at his computer screen, not seeing anything. But he felt more. He felt incredibly conflicted.
Something was happening and it was spiraling out of control. It had been launched by Q and Bond, by resolving an issue of Reese's past, by the revelation of what the other man truly was.
Out in the open.
And Finch had never been good with opening up.
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Q spent most of his time in the safehouse with his laptop to keep track of what the CIA was doing with Snow and to monitor what they might know about the involvement of Bond and Reese in the case. Leiter was doing his job as a liaison and downplaying the MI6's involvement. White had made good on his promise and Reese didn't appear in any reports.
He had talked to M several times, told his boss about developments, what had happened, and that he and Bond would need a few more days until the phoenix was mobile enough to fly home. Bond would have flown with a gut shot wound and half a leg, if the decision would have been up to him, but Q wouldn't risk it.
M agreed.
And Mallory approved that at least one of the two men was thinking logically, not through a primal instinct.
"Take all the time you need. And good job, Q."
"Thank you, sir."
Q also kept close eyes on his recovering agent.
Now that Bond had revived, he would most likely try to be a hero, get up and show everyone he was a tough guy, and Q was there to keep him from falling flat on his face doing so.
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Bond had, of course, tried to prove he was perfectly capable of moving about after being killed by a werewolf.
Well, not just killed, eviscerated. His throat torn out. Three quarters of his blood all over the ground.
It was simply the fact that he was still too weak and couldn't even make it out of the bed that had Q manage to keep him in it.
"Give yourself another day, James," the quartermaster said in a calm, soft tone.
Reasonable.
His handler voice.
Slender fingers caressed the stubbled face as he held the burning eyes. Pale blue, filled with the rage of the phoenix at the continued weakness in his body, reflecting so much pain it would have any other man writhing and begging for morphine.
But Bond had a very high pain threshold.
"One day. I'll take you wherever you want then. You can't walk and I can hardly carry you."
The truth and nothing but, even if Bond was healing so much faster than in the past; even though he was at a stage he shouldn't have achieved under a week.
The caress never stopped and the intense eyes slid shut again. Q placed a light hand on the other man's chest, felt the reassuring beat of his heart, and he closed his own eyes with a soft exhalation.
Damn.
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It had started to snow again. Soft flakes that melted when they hit the streets but stayed on the plants and cars and the houses. It wasn't really bad weather; it was nice as long as one could stay inside.
A day had passed since the resurrection and James Bond had finally been able to get out of bed and not fall flat on his face. Or end up on the floor. It had been a close call, but he had stubbornly left the bedroom and walked into the living room.
Q had watched him, without interfering, his face reflecting a scowl mixed with exasperation. It was a normal expression when it came to his partner.
"I'm not going to pick you up off the floor and drag your sorry arse back to bed," he muttered.
Bond's expression was teasing. "I thought you liked my arse."
That had only deepened the scowl.
James was healing nicely, though just because he was on his own two feet didn't mean anything. The man was hard to keep down without restraints and Q wouldn't really go there. Even if James had teased him about it and the endless possibilities.
Nightmare. Yes, the man was a nightmare. Not just the preternatural he was, the whole man.
"You think his partner is his anchor as well?" Bond asked quietly, his voice still rougher than normal, but considering the alternative – death because of a ripped-out throat – it was an improvement.
They sat together on the rather comfortable couch that was part of a very comfortable living room. The windows showed the ocean. The safehouse was outside New York in a summer house area that was currently completely deserted for obvious reasons. February just wasn't the time to spend here at the beach, though Q found the waves crashing against the shore, the cold wind biting into his skin and the leaden sky somewhat fascinating. It was a nice change to the hustle and bustle of New York, or the crowded beaches of summer.
The snow just added to it.
Q shrugged. "Possible, though a cipher doesn't need an anchor, more of a connector, and hellhounds are far more likely to flip and turn violent than a werewolf. I think if Stanton had threatened Finch, Reese would have torn her to pieces."
Bond shot him a quizzical look. Q returned it with a half-smile.
"Like I said before, hellhounds aren't really pack animals How he worked with werewolves is beyond me. But they do choose partners and they are incredibly protective. Get his loyalty and you have it for life. Reese doesn't need a soul anchor, he needs a different kind of stability, one that comes with trust. As for Finch, I believe he needs Reese for a different reason, one that is probably very much part of his past."
"You couldn't find him," Bond stated.
Q smiled. "No. His earliest listing is as a Harold Wren, attending MIT. But he didn't exist before that. The name is fake, as is his whole life as Mr. Wren. Whoever he really is, whoever he was before whatever happened to him did happen, he erased that person a long time ago." He looked thoughtful. "I wonder if he even knows who he is anymore."
"I wonder if Reese knows."
Q shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
Like it didn't matter to Bond who Q was, what his birth name was. He had never asked. Q was Q. A name didn't change what he meant to the phoenix. A name was a human thing; the phoenix was a primal monster that operated with very basic ideas on what it accepted, what it was ready to kill, and what it needed to survive.
The connection told everything, was everywhere, would let it recognize Q whatever he looked like, no matter what he called himself.
Of course, knowing Bond, he already knew everything there was to know about his quartermaster. Q wouldn't put it past him to have found his personnel file, or discovered it through various channels, but he actually couldn't care less.
Bond leaned over and brushed his lips over Q's temple, then snaked an arm around the narrow waist and pulled the younger man closer.
Q let himself slide into the embrace. He turned his head and met the slightly chapped lips, nipping playfully. He knew his Double-Oh wasn't up to anything strenuous right now, but sometimes all it needed was physical closeness. And after what had happened, after dying, the phoenix needed at least that. Of course, knowing the creature's dark nature, the possessive need and hunger would come the moment the physical limitations were no more. It was a vicious circle, this hunger for reaffirmation of life, the sex, the heat curled inside the ice blue eyes that nothing could truly tame.
In the past Bond had found willing bed partners, fuck buddies, sex for money, to sate those needs. It hadn't stopped the decline, the ever-present danger of consuming himself in the end closing in. He had been so close just after Moneypenny had accidentally shot him in Turkey.
One more death and he would have been adrift.
He had pulled himself back for M, with an effort Q knew was beyond human. One more mission, one more kill, and then oblivion.
He pushed Bond back a little and lightly straddled his lap, looking into the tired face that reflected the ordeal of the resurrection, the pain still present, the need to heal. Q leaned down and kissed him again, feeling broad hands on his lower back, sliding up his spine, over his sides, just touching and needing to feel.
The technopath knew that he had pulled Bond back from the edge of the abyss. He knew he had made him live, had set him free, had removed the chains around the preternatural, and he gladly did what was needed to keep him balanced. Because James gave him everything in return. He was everything.
Now those hands were underneath his sweater, underneath his t-shirt, finding warm skin. Q rested his forehead against Bond's, smiling as the exploring fingers drew mindless patterns on his back.
"Q," the phoenix murmured.
"007."
It got him that small smile, that absolutely private, knowing smile. It wasn't a game, an act or fake in way.
Q wanted to say the words, but they were stuck in his throat. So inappropriate. So impossible for them. So untrue of what he really felt.
There were no words for it.
Instead he settled in for trading kisses and touches, listening to the noises his partner made, the soft sounds of approval and need.
tbc...
