OpalescentGold: I do not own James Bond or Q.
The National Art Gallery isn't the strangest place Bond's ever met a colleague, although it's still pretty bloody strange. And if his new Quartermaster thinks he's being subtle by sitting him directly in front of The Fighting Temeraire, then they don't deserve to be in the business of espionage.
Briefly, James mourns his flat in the stillness of early morning. He doesn't like to be attached to material things - he knows better than that after so many years as a spy, where items lost are only topped by lives stolen - but he'd like the comfort of something familiar and safe now, although he'd never admit it.
A hotel's security, after all, is abysmal, and his sleep deprivation is going to become a problem soon. He knows full well that he's far from his best at the moment, fighting off two bullet wounds, aching bones, and weeks of nothing but alcohol and shagging. It'll be a true miracle if he comes back this time.
Still, England calls. M calls. And 007 has always answered.
It's a shame about Boothroyd, though. Bond is well-accustomed to death, his one true companion throughout the years - but for a soulmate who has not written a single thing since his resurrection - but his old Quartermaster's death is still a bit of a shock.
All these years, and goddamn smoke inhalation is Boothroyd's cause of death. It's deeply ironic, considering all the explosions Boothroyd liked to cook up. Seems a right shame, an anticlimax for the books, but then, no one is immortal, not even ancient geezers.
Not even Double-Oh agents, for all that he has the devil's luck.
Bond doesn't try and delude himself into thinking this new Q will be able to fill the shoes of his predecessor entirely, but M would never promote someone out of their depth, no matter the crisis. This new game is being played on computers, and that's just not 007's forte. If they're to beat this new enemy, Q-Branch will need to be at the top of its game.
A quiet shuffle to his right catches his attention, and he glances over discreetly without turning his head. A boy with dark messy hair, square glasses, and a truly atrocious sense of fashion sits down next to him, peering at the painting.
College student, Bond categorises. Art major, probably. No weapons, graceful but not combat-fluid movements, and judging from the way he doesn't look at the agent, more inclined to focus on completing his homework or project or whatever than causing trouble for Bond.
That's fine. If England hadn't been threatened, he would still be ignoring the world in favour of oblivion. If M hadn't been in danger, he would have preferred to stay there. In the back of his mind, a sense of deja vu glows like an ember, but he dismisses it.
Where the hell is the Quartermaster?
Not here, obviously. Bond waits.
Time passes near imperceptibly in the silence, and gradually, James finds himself relaxing despite the continued presence of the college student, tense muscles melting and impatience fading for his mind to segue gently into a quiet, warm headspace.
Training dictates that he never lose the acute spatial awareness that has kept him alive for so long, but the soothing atmosphere is...nice. He has to fight to keep his eyes open and maintain his military posture, fight not to simply sink into a stupor of languid comfort.
There is no expectation here, no need for the suave, lethal spy. He's allowed to just breathe, to just be, and it feels strangely like peace.
Sitting here, London not yet truly awake, a stranger at his side, James feels a terrible sense of rightness, of belonging,sweep over him. It doesn't last, of course, these things - inexplicable, unreasonable, dangerous - never do, but he treasures it while it does even as he wonders why.
When the boy breaks the silence at last, after what could be minutes or even hours, it's a bit startling, not that 007 lets himself show it. "Always makes me feel a little melancholy." His voice is rich and posh, if a tad stilted. High-class, probably flying through college on his parents' money, raised to be polite. "A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap."
He sighs, soft and wistful. "The inevitability of time, don't you think?" Dark green eyes are turned around to face him for the first time, unreadable but gentle behind the thick frames in the split second before they look away again, as if in avoidance or unhappiness. "What do you see?"
Bond sees a proud, strong weapon of his country being thrown away when it was no longer useful. He sees tradition versus technology, the old versus the young, the past versus the future. "A bloody big ship," he says, moving to leave, the previous harmony shattered. "Excuse me."
The Quartermaster can bloody well find him when he decides to show up.
"007."
...what the fuck?
"I'm your new Quartermaster."
Bond's eye twitches even as he sits down with a long-suffering sigh. "You must be joking." Damn it, he can deal with greenhorns like Eve, and yes, the boffins of Q-Branch typically make him look ancient, but this is just ridiculous.
"Why, because I'm not wearing a labcoat?" Q, apparently, volleys back apathetically. With context, his earlier comments make a bit more sense now, not that Bond is any more sure of how he's supposed to feel about the oddly sympathetic words.
"Because you still have spots." Although that guileless projection obviously works. He's furious at himself for having fallen for it, not sure whether he was being mocked or not, and it turns his voice rough and curt.
"My complexion is hardly relevant."
"Well, your competence is." 007's not going to suffer through the indignity and danger of having an inept Quartermaster on top of having a young and inexperienced one.
"Age is no guarantee of efficiency." Crisp, sharp words. Too sharp, for all that there's a distinct lack of cruelty or malice.
Bond wonders which rumour Q got a hold of, that the man would be cross with him under the sheer veil of professionalism despite this being their first meeting. "And youth is no guarantee of innovation."
A pause, fraught with unspoken words and tense consideration, before Q says slowly and clearly, "I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field."
Bond scoffs, mildly amused but more perplexed than anything else. "Oh, so why do you need me?"
"Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled." The words are all but gritted out with distinct reluctance. Why? Pacifists don't survive long in MI6, so it can't be that. A dislike of field work, perhaps, or maybe just a dislike of 007 himself.
"Or not pulled," Bond refutes with dry humour and pointed charisma. Working with a Quartermaster who bears a grudge against him will be a bit of a challenge, and while never let it be said that 007 doesn't enjoy a challenge, he knows when to pick his battles. "It's hard to know which in your pyjamas."
Q doesn't respond immediately, but the corners of his deep red lips turn up for half a second in surprised amusement before he wrestles them down again to cling to whatever grudge he's nursing.
Bond studiously keeps his face blank of the triumph that flares in his chest, even as he re-evaluates the other man, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fae-like beauty Q boasts behind that awful parka and aloof demeanour. Pale skin, dark hair, high cheekbones, and all.
But those eyes, those green eyes, are his most oddly disorienting feature. Bond can't find an honest tell, and that reminds him unerringly of the last person he couldn't read, beautiful and pale and dark as well.
Bond smiles, charming and calculative, and holds out a hand. "Q."
"007." Q doesn't smile again but his gaze is soft when he takes Bond's hand, and... something flickers into being between their palms, warm and intimate and shivering up Bond's spine, sweet and raw. His heart stutters uncontrollably.
James furrows his brow slightly, immensely confused but not willing to show it, not quite sure if he likes this feeling or not, but it appears to be one-way because Q doesn't even blink and drops his hand after a nice, professional moment.
"Ticket to Shanghai. Documentation and passport." He hands over an envelope.
Bond takes it, off-balance and feeling like he's missed something. "...thank you."
"And this." A black case with a familiar gun resting inside. "Walther PPK/S, 9mm shot. There's a micro-dermal sensor in the grip. It's been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it," Q rattles off quickly, making it perfectly clear that the sensor is his own design.
Q hesitates - not long, scarcely a second, but enough for 007 to notice - before adding quietly, "Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement."
Bond mulls over the unexpected sentiment behind that statement while he points at the small indent next to the gun. "And this?"
"Standard issue radio transmitter. Activate it and it broadcasts your location. Distress signal." Q hands the radio over, and this time, their fingers don't even brush. Then, he goes silent, fidgeting with his hands.
Nervous, Bond notes. But why?
"Is that it?" he prompts, raising an eyebrow.
Q's glance is hard and cool, but he sighs and finally drops a key into Bond's hand. "To your new flat. Structurally ninety-seven point five percent similar to your previous accommodations, furniture already moved in according to the blueprints, and security systems in place. Ready for residence."
James...stares, baffled, first at the key and then at Q. He doesn't understand. This is a complete one-eighty from the initial sullen reception. Q's plainly unhappy with Bond, so why did he go through the hassle of putting together a flat for him, especially with such thoroughness? "Q - "
"And that's it. I'm afraid we don't go in for exploding pens anymore." Q stands up briskly and walks off, barely pausing to fling over his shoulder, "Good luck out there in the field. And please return the equipment in one piece." He's gone seconds later.
Why, if 007 didn't know better, he'd think that his new Quartermaster was running away.
Bond is left absolutely speechless for a long heartbeat, a true rarity after so long in the field, before barking out a reluctantly admiring laugh. The smile that tugs on his lips feels unusual after the solemnity of the recent months, bright and fascinated. "Brave new world."
He's always loved solving enigmas.
Although he's been known to improvise, Bond fully believes in the classics of wooing, and so he brings Q a gift: the laptop of a cyber-terrorist and rogue Double-Oh agent. Uniquely tailored for the recipient and certain to yield important information; two birds with one stone.
From where he rules his technological domain, Q arches a vaguely unimpressed eyebrow but a faint, pleased smile quirks his lips, and yes, that's definitely a victory for Bond.
Bond decides that it's perfectly acceptable to smirk and preen despite being relegated to a dusty corner of Q-Branch where he can't get in the way of boffins running around like headless chickens.
How they make order out of this chaos, even Bond doesn't know. Then again, his job usually results in the opposite.
"Talk to me, Q," 007 murmurs after a few long minutes of silence because while he's quite excellent at speaking, coaxing, and flirting with body language, that only goes so far when the mark isn't even looking at him.
Q sighs through his nose and doesn't stop typing. "He's established failsafe protocols to wipe the memory if there's any attempt to access certain files. Only six people in the world could programme safeguards like that."
Bond shifts slightly, a baffling sense of deja vu washing over him. He chases after the lingering memory those words elicit even as he says, "Of course there are. Can you get past them?"
"I invented them," Q replies matter-of-factly, and James can't help but smile.
Because it's simply one of those days, one typing of 'Granborough Road' later, the situation spins rapidly out of control, and 007 finds himself running after Silva yet again. That bastard needs to learn how to stay put, damn it. At least this time, he has Q in his ear, although it's very frustrating that after the initial hint of self-recrimination, Q sounds more at ease than he did during their first meeting.
Precisely which part of this anarchy is less stressful than arming a Double-Oh agent? He talked with 006 briefly, and he said Q was just fine with him when they first met a month ago. There was a fondness in the other man's voice that wrenched at Bond's gut despite all reason and logic.
In all honesty, 007 just can't figure out why Q's holding a grudge against him in particular. He can't recall ever having talked to the boffin before the Art Gallery. For God's sake, coming back from the dead can't possibly be that annoying for Q. He knows that the paperwork isn't that bloody irritating.
Bond can only be grateful that his new Quartermaster definitely doesn't lack in wit. Maybe he can persuade Q to forget about whatever he got into his pretty little head, or at the very least, establish a decent rapport just in case 007 ever needs some questionable technological support.
That snark can be infuriating, though. Fantastic but infuriating.
"It won't open."
"Of course it will. Put your back into it."
"Why don't you come down here and put your back into it?" Bond pushes against the stubborn door with his shoulder, grunting with the effort. It doesn't so much as move a millimetre. "No, it's stuck."
An ominous rumble reaches his ears, rapidly followed by bright lights coming around the curve. "Oh, good. There's a train coming." Because God forbid anyone ever make anything simple and uncomplicated for him.
"Hmm. That's vexing." Q's voice remains calm and even, but through the pump of blood and rush of adrenaline, Bond manages to pick up a thread of strain. Because God forbid Q be reasonable and predictable for him, too.
Jesus Christ. Bond snarls and rams against the bloody door three more times. Fuck, it's like trains have a vendetta against him now. He's very, very tempted to blame Eve for this. Or, better yet, just snip at M herself to make himself feel better. The sodding door doesn't budge.
The train bears down on him, lights near blinding, and, out of options, 007 falls back on old strategies and simply shoots the doorknob. He throws himself out of harm's way just in time. "I'm through," he reports, leaning against the wall.
"T-Told you," Q says, something incomprehensible behind the shakiness that's most likely a product of his first experience with the stress of monitoring a Double-Oh agent's mission. "We alerted security. Police are on their way."
Bond grunts and gets moving.
Some part of his mind notes how peculiarly familiar Q's guidance is. Every handler has their own way of directing missions, but as 007 chases Silva down through a train and across London, he falls easily into the rhythm of predator and prey with Q's instructions in his ear.
It's almost like a routine. A habit.
He shuffles that thought into the back of his mind and resolves to think about it later. He's already done his homework, but regretfully, most everything is classified. Deciphering his Quartermaster can wait, though, preferably for a time when he's not avoiding falling trains.
Damn it, it's a fucking conspiracy, they do have a vendetta against him!
Bond asks Q for help because he's shit with technology and this is going to be a technological battleground until he can get M to Skyfall. Silva's evidently bloody fantastic with hacking, and this is Q's expertise. Once bitten and twice shy; 007 knows Q won't let Silva get the better of him twice.
The possibility of Q reporting him, of Q refusing him, of Q contacting the higher-ups, crosses his mind, but it's a risk he has to take with the stakes so very high.
James asks Q for help for reasons he can't quite understand, a purring warmth in his chest and instincts whispering of trustworthiness and assurance when he thinks of the lanky man and his cheeky quips and those green, green eyes, for all that he wasn't planning on testing their budding relationship so soon.
He is fully aware that, for whatever reason, his Quartermaster is mad at him, upset for a reason he can't fathom, and probably not inclined to be lenient or helpful or indulgent. He asks anyway because taking gambles are what he's staked his entire life on.
Q sighs into his ear, half-exasperated and half-resentful. "So much for my promising career in espionage."
James relaxes minutely and smirks. "Thanks, Q."
Focused as he is on driving, keeping an eye out for danger, and listening to Q grumble quietly, 007 nonetheless doesn't miss the way M's eyes narrow. "Something you want to tell me?" he asks blandly without taking his eyes off the road.
"No," she says curtly, and he doesn't believe her for a second.
M whispers, "I did get one thing right," and dies.
James Bond shakes apart and cries, lost and alone.
Is this what it feels like to drown?
Bond enters his new flat for the first time with a suit covered in blood and numb down to his bones after two days of heavy sedation and four days in a hotel, after trashing the first room he was given and then shagging his frustrations out with strangers in the second.
In the end, he got into a fight after seducing a brunette while her husband was still in the pub and barely managed to leave before the police came knocking. The hotel staff are oblivious, but not that oblivious, and he's honestly lucky that only one of his wounds started bleeding again.
Bond can't bring himself to care.
Q wasn't exaggerating. Except for the smaller island in the kitchen, the larger walk-in closet in the bedroom, and the more spacious shower in the bathroom, this place looks exactly like his old flat. A dull sense of gratitude brushes against the edges of his apathy and is prompted shoved away.
007 strips and washes off the blood, stares at the pinkish water running into the drain and tries not to shake. The emptiness in his veins is frigid although the heat is turned all the way up, the steam fogging over the mirror. His weary, abused body protests painfully, but he pays it no mind.
When he steps out of the shower at last, sparing a minute to slap a bandage on his reopened wound, half an hour has passed, and he wants a drink. Or ten.
James stumbles out into the kitchen in sweatpants and an unbuttoned grey shirt, all of his clothing in neat boxes in the closet. The bar is stocked, whisky and scotch, bourbon and vodka. Gin. Someone knows his tastes well. He doesn't bother fumbling around for a glass. Instead, he drinks straight from a bottle of scotch.
It burns down his throat, a sweet fire, and he sighs, stumbling over to the sofa and collapsing on the soft leather. Everything hurts, everything aches. He's so bloody tired. Seven days isn't nearly enough time for him to get over the shock of her death. Maybe he never will.
There are the days when he loves his job, those times when he's high on victory and adrenaline, and then there are the days when he hates his job, when he's covered in blood and the last one standing above enemies and allies alike.
This is definitely a case of the latter.
James steadily consumes the scotch, but, despite himself, his thoughts begin to wander. About M, of course, because he can't not think of her, no matter what he does to try and distract himself.
She was the strongest woman he knew, all hard practicality and knife-sharp words and burning eyes. Fire and ice combined to form a dragon with a treasure hoard made of spies and lies and loyalty. Willing to sacrifice anyone and anything for the sake of her country and duty, yes, but also known to fight tooth and nail for her agents, her agency.
Bond remembers the day he met her, the expectations and the demands. He was a cocky little upstart back then, but he fell in line regardless, brought to heel with the weight of her gaze. Years of field work only sharpened his edges and carved his confidence into a dagger, but M's authority remained an absolute, despite Bond's constant defiance.
She was, he thinks hazily, the closest thing to a mother he had since his actual mother died.
And now? Now, M's dead, just like everyone else he's ever loved. He takes another swig of his scotch and closes his eyes.
Who does he even have left? Tanner, maybe, but while James appreciates the input and support MI6's Chief of Staff provides, they've never quite been friends. Close acquaintances with the bonds of blood and fire and death between them, but not friends in the conventional sense.
Eve shot him, but he thinks he could grow to like her warm companionship and fierce attitude. They'll never be lovers, not after she made it clear that he, broken and empty, is not who she wants, but friends, perhaps. One day. At the moment, however, they're nothing more than comrades.
James sags against the sofa and finds his bottle three-fourths empty. Green eyes appear behind his closed eyelids, and steady, grounding tones echo in his ears over the white buzzing, and he can't help but yearn for the sweet relief he found when there was just James and Q in that art gallery, bound together in the silence.
Was it just a fluke, that time, two strangers with none of the burden of espionage and responsibility between them? If they were together again, would he be able to find that peace once more, be free of the anger and sadness and grief that twines through his every thought? Would Q, resentful for reasons that Bond still does not know, let him?
James doesn't know, but he wants to. He wants...wants...
There's a train wreck in his brain, something died in his mouth, it's too goddamn bright, and the world is spinning around him even though Bond's training is telling him very clearly that he's not moving. No, he's lying on his back, and the soft sounds of breathing are right by his ear.
Bloody hell.
Despite the weakness in his muscles and the blurriness of his mind, 007 snaps awake without a sound, automatically cataloguing his surroundings without moving or opening his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time he woke up in captivity or in the middle of some nefarious plot.
He's laying on something warm with a cushion underneath his head, and there's a soft, heavy material thrown over him. A bed, pillow, and blanket. His hands are by his sides, unrestrained, and he finds his feet free as well. The slight shift pulls his clothes against his skin, confirming his suspicion that he's still completely clothed.
Bond concentrates on the quiet exhales and inhales, looking for and quickly finding a pattern, deep and rhythmic. Whoever's in the room with him is asleep. A guard, perhaps. A real shitty guard, but...there's something strange about the tempo, something that makes him more confused than wary.
It's hard to think with the headache pounding away happily within his skull, but Bond tries to recall the last thing he can remember. He was in his new flat, certainly not on a bed and without a blanket, drinking away, after...M's death, and then...the gloomy haze of night in London, the piercing glare of the streetlights, the sound of a door opening before pure darkness.
Vaguely, he recalls dreaming of gentle warmth and soft, undemanding touches, strokes through his hair and fingers petting his nape, but that's impossible. If he isn't in his flat and if he isn't passed out on the street, then where in the world is he? Jesus fucking Christ. If someone has kidnapped him this week of all weeks, they'll be regretting it.
Although, he's currently leaning towards more benign intentions or some truly idiotic kidnappers. Who leaves a Double-Oh agent with a full range of movement and an unconscious watcher?
Slowly, cautiously, Bond opens his eyes and instantly winces away from the harsh light. His headache spikes malevolently, but he breathes through it and finds himself looking at an unremarkable white ceiling. A quick glance to the left finds his 'guard'.
007 stares at the Russian Blue cat curled up on the pillow next to him, sound asleep.
...well then. If this is some strange plan to get him to lower his defences and leave him confused as hell, it's working. Bond judges the cat as non-lethal, provided he doesn't startle it into going for his eyes, and takes in the rest of the room.
He was right; he's on a bed. Queen-sized, hedonistically soft mattress, pristine white sheets, pillows, and blanket. There's a sapele bedside table, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the taser, glass of water, and bottle of paracetamol.
Training dictates he grab the weapon at once, despite the groan of his shoulders and the stiffness of his fingers, and a rapid glance-over confirms that it's in perfect working condition. Having a weapon in his possession is somewhat reassuring, although he remains excruciatingly aware of his otherwise unarmed state.
Bond eyes the medicine warily and decides not to touch it until he knows who the benefactor is.
A cream rug covers swathes of the floor, and he can see snatches of blue cat fur here and there. The blinds are over the small window, thankfully, and a sapele dresser is settled closeby. A closed laptop and some wires, screws, and gadgets litter the larger table that rests against the far beige wall.
A sneaky suspicion begins to grow in James' heart. He isn't familiar with many boffins.
The halfway opened door to the left of the table leads to a bathroom, and the completely open door to the right leads to a hallway. Whoever the owner of this flat may be, they certainly know who Bond is; every sign points to them trying to alleviate 007's inevitable paranoia.
There's nothing else in the room that could give away whose bedroom he was sleeping in. James frowns, fiddling with the taser absently, and almost gives himself a heart attack when he lays back down and turns his head to find feline green eyes staring at him unblinkingly.
007 and the Russian Blue have a stare down. The cat wins a staring contest with MI6's finest, a feat terrorists the world-over have failed at.
James frowns sternly. "That doesn't count," he whispers.
The cat yawns indolently and squints at him. He is left pondering his life choices...which inevitably reminds him of M. Bond can't help but picture what she would say if she saw him now. Probably scoff and ask him how soft he's gotten in her absence.
He's startled when the sting of her memory is duller now, the shrieking depth of his mourning a whisper quieter, as if muted sweetly in thick cotton wool. What happened last night? It hurts to try and remember, and suddenly staying right here in this heavenly bed with its cocoon of softness and warmth sounds much more preferable than actually getting up and doing something.
It's a shame he doesn't know if the bed's usual occupant is trying to kill him or not. Generally, it's easier to fall asleep when the answer is 'no' but Bond can't really remember a time when he slept deeply without a belly full of liquor.
007 buries his nose experimentally in the pillow, searching for traces of gunpowder, blood, or anything else suspicious, but finds only something herbal and tea-like along with a whiff of a citrus and woody cologne. The cat watches him questioningly, still curled up in a ball, and he can feel the judgment.
"If your owner is anywhere near as docile as you are, we won't have any problems," James murmurs amiably, keeping his voice down for the sake of the element of surprise and his own headache. "So long as they don't try and beat me at a staring contest as well."
The Russian Blue huffs, unimpressed, but relents a moment later with a purr. It nuzzles affectionately against his cheek, and Bond rolls his eyes but runs a gentle hand down its back, marvelling over its fur, plush and soft to the touch, like the finest velvet.
Just as James is relaxing back into the bed, he sees the cat's ears perk up. A heartbeat later, he hears the footsteps himself, quiet but precisely enunciated. Grimacing, Bond pulls himself into a sitting position as the cat gets up and jumps lithely down to the ground.
In retribution, his body triples the magnitude of the headache and reminds him vindictively of the many wounds it still suffers from. Nonetheless, when a figure leans against the doorway, 007 has the taser up and directed, eyes blue chips of ice.
"007, if you taze my cat, I will be very displeased," a familiar, posh voice warns dryly.
James blinks, a bit befuddled. "Q?" It's one thing to suspect and quite another to find himself right.
His Quartermaster arches an eyebrow at him, hair even messier than usual and cardigan rumpled. In his hands, he cradles a white Turkish Angora cat, even as the Russian Blue winds itself around his feet. "Good morning, 007. It's ten in the morning, you are in my flat, and I would advise you to swallow some painkillers before attempting to get to your feet."
"Why am I in your flat in the first place?" he demands, letting the taser fall to his side.
Q hums noncommittally and lowers the Turkish Angora carefully to the ground, gifting the Russian Blue with a scratch behind the ears while he's at it. James finds himself wondering just how many cats Q has. He's rather partial to the little beasts himself.
"You were drunk," Q says succinctly and then turns around and begins to leave. "Take the painkillers, Bond. Breakfast is ready."
...James could be wrong, although he rarely is, but wasn't this the same thin, elf-like creature who was stroppy with him earlier?
Headache only made worse by the enigma of Q, he decides to take the advice for once and swallows down three paracetamol with a gulp of refreshing water. He wants to lounge about for five more minutes while the painkillers do their work, but it's much harder to relax now that he knows that this is Q's bed.
It figures the sheets smell of tea.
Christ, he's been in plenty of awkward situations in the past, but he never thought he would end up in his Quartermaster's bed because he was drunk and passed out. Other, more pleasurable, circumstances may have crossed his mind, but this is a certain level of humiliation he had no intention of going near.
Sighing to himself, James drags himself up through sheer will power and makes a slight detour to the bathroom, head pounding away all the while. The white sink and white-spotted grey tiles echo the bedroom decor, and he takes the chance to splash water on his face and gurgle some water in his mouth to get rid of the bad breath.
The man in the mirror looks terrible, reminds him of the man on that small island off the shore of Turkey. Dark bags, deep lines, sorrow and pain written all over him. Weak. Pathetic. Useless. Nothing like the self-assured 007 or even the rakish Agent Bond.
James is honestly surprised Q let him crash at his place instead of kicking him out the door.
Before he leaves, he takes the chance to button up his shirt and starts mentally reviewing all of the morning-after tactics he knows in the hopes of alleviating at least some of the upcoming discomfort. Maintaining a somewhat cordial relationship with his Quartermaster is looking more and more unlikely by the second.
True to form, when Bond walks out into the living room area, the kitchen to the right, Q is sitting at a square sapele table pressed against the wall, a plate in the middle stacked with an impressive amount of near-toppling pancakes. A bottle of maple syrup is nearby. The Russian Blue is nowhere in sight, but the Turkish Angora is in Q's lap, purring contentedly.
Q is messing around with something on his laptop, his plate pushed off to the side with a fork still stuck in a half-eaten pancake. Fingers typing at lightening speed, he frowns at something on his screen and momentarily grabs the mouse with one hand.
James opens his mouth to refuse the breakfast politely and tell Q he's going to go back to his flat after a charming thank-you.
"Sit. Eat," Q orders in a distracted tone, waving briefly at the chair to his right, and goes right back to typing. There's no sense of awkwardness about him whatsoever. In fact, he acts like this is a perfectly normal occurrence and an agent with a hangover eating breakfast with him is less interesting than whatever's on his laptop.
James closes his mouth and feels the odd urge to smile. He doesn't obey it, but it's the first time in eight days he's felt anything more than numb or angry or devastated, so he'll take it. He sits down and piles some pancakes onto the plate already set out for him.
A cup of steaming tea is next to Q, but there's a pot of coffee on the table, and James pours himself a cup, ignoring the sugar and creamer. "What are you doing, Q?" A quick dash of maple syrup is enough for him, but he puts off eating in favour of pinning a gaze that he knows is uncomfortable on his Quartermaster.
Who doesn't show the least sign of being intimidated or, indeed, even noticing. "Upgrading our firewalls," he explains, clever eyes flitting here and there. "MI6 can't afford to be vulnerable to cyber attacks right now."
"...no. No, we can't," Bond agrees slowly, but Q darts a quick glance at him and doesn't elaborate further.
Silence settles gently over them then, soft and warm as the blanket James was just sleeping under. He finishes five pancakes, surprised to find himself ravenously hungry, but feels no desire to break the silence when he's done. A cold, wet nudge at his ankle nearly makes Bond flinch, but it's only the Russian Blue, who meows imperiously.
Smirking, James bends down and lifts the cat up into his lap. It cuddles close, purring encouragingly as he begins to pet it. Q doesn't even seem to notice, so intent is he on his coding. Just like before, the quiet sinks through James' skin, vanishes into his bones, and coils deeply inside of him, as calmly content as the cat he's stroking.
It reminds him a bit of late nights with his parents, ever so long ago, sitting by the fireplace and watching his laughing mother tease and provoke his long-suffering father, surrounded by love and comfort and some intangible notion ofhome .
Which is ridiculous, this is all ridiculous, but...
James relaxes and lets his head fall back a bit, eyes going half-lidded. It goes against his training to let down his guard completely, but for all that this is ridiculous, he wants to warm his soul in this feeling for as long as he can in the hopes of melting the ice that has formed around it.
Or maybe he simply doesn't want Q, brilliant, mysterious, reassuring Q to leave as well; he can't quite decide. Nothing about this makes any sense, but he can't bring himself to care. He divides his attention between lavishing the cat with attention, thinking of nothing at all, and watching Q.
Under close scrutiny, Q looks only mildly better than James himself. Dark circles are prominent beneath his eyes, and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth occasionally, brow furrowed.
Bond is uneasily reminded that while he was off drinking away his sorrows, Q must have been dealing with the fall-out of their not-so-legal actions and holding MI6 up. Guilt claws at him, but he ignores it to dedicate himself to basking in the remission while it lasts.
Approximately an hour later of this lassitude, the two cats wandering in and out of their little circle of peace as is their wont, Q finally smiles in satisfaction and hits enter with a decided finality to it.
And then, he glances up and seems to notice James' presence again. "You're still here," he says, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.
Inwardly, Bond is surprised. Not many people can turn their awareness of him off at all, not with the aura of strength and danger he knows he radiates even now, their hindbrains perpetually screaming in fear at the cold-eyed predator.
007 has a licence to kill, and no one should know that better than Q, who has no doubt read every last line of his file. Q, who either completely lacks common survival instinct or subconsciously trusts James, both of which are beyond foolish. M demonstrated that quite nicely.
"I'm still here," he replies.
Q's smooth brow furrows, and he shakes his head, as if trying to disperse his confusion. "I...need to go to work," he says, standing up and frowning at the mess that remains on the table. "If you're going to stay, please don't blow up my flat. I'm rather fond of it."
James considers pointing out that it's Sunday and even Q could stand to stay at home for one day. He doesn't. "How could I without my exploding pen?"
Q snorts. "I'm sure you could find a way." A plaintive meow has them both looking at the Turkish Angora who peers at them with blue eyes from the kitchen. "Oh, that's Morgana. Rayleigh..." he looks around helplessly. "Rayleigh should be around here somewhere."
"Morgana and Rayleigh?" James echoes, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "Didn't expect you to name your cats after an evil sorceress in Arthurian legend and a market town in Essex."
"Of course not," Q says haughtily, curling his lip. "A fata morgana is a complex mirage with elements both compressed and stretched, introverted and right side up, combining into visions that change quickly. John William Strutt was usually referred to as Lord Rayleigh. He discovered the elastic scattering of light or other electromagnetic radiation - "
Q cuts himself off abruptly and blushes a fetching shade of pink. James is leaning back in his chair and smiling slightly, feeling lighter than he's felt in ages. He can't help it; intelligence has always been his...catnip. "Well, don't stop," he teases. "Electromagnetic radiation?"
Q sighs but completes, "Electromagnetic radiation by particles much smaller than the wavelength of the radiation. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," James refutes with faux innocence. Q plainly doesn't believe him but pulls on that hideous parka and grabs the briefcase leaning by the front door, doing something complicated to the security pad on the wall and then on his phone.
"I have an automated feeding system for the cats; don't let them deceive you into thinking they survive on snacks," Q instructs absently. "Security systems aren't designed to stop people from leaving, so you're free to go whenever you like. Just don't try to get back in. Erm...that should be it. Good day, Mr Bond."
"Good day, Q," James says quietly with an uncommon amount of sincerity in his voice. Q hears it, judging by the way his head snaps up, but after a long, searching look that James can't understand, he only nods and leaves with one final scratch for Rayleigh, who has come to see his owner off.
The sound of the door closing behind Q is harsh, and suddenly, the flat is much colder than it was before.
James can't help but shiver. He wonders at himself, at why he stayed, at why he continues to stay. He wonders at Q, at why he let him stay, at why he continues to let him stay.
"What am I doing?" he whispers to thin air. Morgana meows and twines herself around his legs. All at once, James remembers that he didn't ask Q what happened last night. "Shit."
James investigates Q's flat because he's a spy and he's curious. He also doesn't want to return to his empty flat, the company of the cats still better than the hollow, haunting silence despite Q's absence.
For such a complicated perfectionist, Q's flat is a bloody mess.
The bedroom, kitchen, and dining room are the only places even remotely approaching neat. A small telly sits in the middle of the living room, but there's a layer of dust over the screen. On the other hand, the sapele table - he's starting to see a trend here - in front of the telly is cluttered to the point it affronts James' navy training.
It's essentially Q's bedroom table to the nth degree. Pieces of convoluted machinery, an open toolbox with half of the tools scattered everywhere, a tablet mostly buried under blueprints and dismantled bits of prototypes, and electric components rest on the table. James doesn't want to disturb the top layer for fear of an uncalled for explosion, but he suspects there might be a plate of forgotten toast at the bottom.
Dryly, James muses that he isn't sure what else he'd expected from the boffin.
Random projects are scattered over the sofa, which is thankfully covered in slipcovers, probably for ease of cleaning. Cat fur and all that. A large bookshelf completes the living room furniture, and he spends a good half an hour looking over the books, varied and well-taken of.
Q has an eclectic selection, sorted first by fiction and non-fiction, then by genre or subject, and then finally by author. The books to the far left on the top shelf are on programming, coding, and computers. Next to those is engineering, followed by physics and electricity, and then anything from weather to history to mathematics.
On the second shelf, James finds more mundane books, on cooking and cats with a smattering of other...subjects. His hand hovers over The Scientific Reasoning Behind Soulmates for a few hesitant seconds but only the cats are witnesses when he draws back.
He's 007, and everyone he loves dies. Bond hasn't kept up with the recent breakthroughs in soulmate ideology for a reason. He assumes Q hasn't found his soulmate yet either, if he's reading books like these.
The world is unfair. Karma dictates that James will never find that sort of happiness because of everything he's done, every life he's ended, every life he couldn't save, but Q is lovely, kind, should be adored by his soulmate. James frowns, throat strangely constricted, and hurriedly moves on to the last shelf.
Fiction, mostly classic books with a dot of poetry here and there. An encyclopaedia of quotes leans against Dracula andThe Tale of Two Cities. Moby Dick and The Hobbit are happily nested with the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy. The Iliadand The Odyssey are with The Great Gatsby and Revolutionary Road.
James smiles, flushed warm although he does not know why. He ghosts careful fingers over the worn spines and spares ten more minutes to pet the cats and dig out a bag of treats for one each before slipping out of the flat, leaving the plates in the dishwasher and the bed made with military-perfect corners. He even unearths the toast from the living room.
"Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning." - Albert Einstein.
When 007 walks into Q-Branch two weeks later, poised and confident and assigned to a mission in Argentina, Q is ready for him. Glancing up from his computer for a second to scan the agent and presumably finding him fit for duty, he goes back to work.
Neither of them mention the forty-fourth birthday that passed five days ago.
"Really, 007? A Komodo dragon?" Q drawls, sceptical and exasperated.
Bond grins, unrepentant, with his hands in his pockets. "That sensor came in handy."
"You fed my gun to a Komodo dragon. I should send you out in the field with nothing but a glow stick."
"I'm a secret agent, Q. I prefer to make my entrances much more dramatically."
Q pushes a kit into 007's chest with unnecessary force. Naturally, Bond rocks with the impact as much as a stone wall would.
"Bring me back my equipment in one piece, 007, or I'll replace your Aston Martin with a Fiat Multipla in bright neon orange."
Q has withdrawn behind walls of professionalism and cheek, his flimsy threats not quite distracting from the stiffness of his body language, the purposeful distance between them. Not a single word is spoken about their previous encounter, and if Bond didn't know better, he'd think it never happened.
007 saunters out of Q-Branch with a gun, a radio, an earpiece, and a plan developing in the back of his mind.
When James - 007, 007, Bond if he must - is finally gone, Q breathes out a sigh of relief and quietly excuses himself to go to his office. After closing the door behind him, he slowly slides down until he's leaning against the cool metal, wrapping his arms around his bent knees.
He's always known that dealing with his soulmate wouldn't be easy, but, Jesus Christ, this is so much harder than pining away from a distance.
OpalescentGold: All the thanks to gunshyvw and Linorien for cutting this up six ways to Sunday and putting it back together without all of the nastiness. I do have a tumblr with this alias, if anyone would like anymore 00Q obsession.
ladytoyko: *smiles sheepishly* This chapter provided more emotional roller coaster, I assume? It'll get better, I promise. Thanks for the lovely review, darling!
Guest: You're welcome, and thank you for your kind words! Hope you enjoy this update as well.
rubyred753: Oh, thank you! I think I did okay, and now that exams are over, I have time to do more writing! Hope you liked this update, sweetie, and thanks again for the wonderful review!
mervoparkite: Aww, thank you! Yes, they've finally met! James, well, he'll get there eventually. Thanks for the review, dear!
OpalescentGold: Thanks to all my followers and reviewers, and as always, comments make my day!~