OpalescentGold: I do not own James Bond. A thousand apologies for the long wait!
Never let it be said that 007 is a bad spy.
There is a reason he was the youngest Double-Oh in history, is still the only Double-Oh who has survived for so long. Part of it is skill and experience, but most of his success comes from vicious, single-minded stubbornness, the willingness to reach out and grab and take what he needs.
It has suited him well, if he says so himself. Few of his 'acquaintances' would say the same.
The first step in any successful mission is reconnaissance, especially if the agent has no prior information.
Bond has already researched his Quartermaster as much as possible. He was naturally stonewalled at practically every turn, which isn't so much as surprising as it is frustrating. The paper files he got his hands on had nearly everything redacted, up to and including the boffin's name, age, birthday, and residence.
In other words, absolutely useless.
Even before Silva taught Q caution and paranoia, Bond wasn't so foolish as to think he could beat the Quartermaster at his own game. MI6 has moved with the times, and the few ways it lagged behind before, Q has pushed into the 21st century forcibly. Nearly everything is electronic now, as the now-dead rogue agent proved ever so nicely.
He tried hacking into the online files anyway. He didn't get in, of course, but then, he would have been disappointed if he had actually succeeded.
To this day, James still doesn't know why M - Olivia Mansfield, and damn it, it still hurts like the kiss of a bullet - left Q's address for him at the very end of her video message. Her poker face was as brilliant as ever, but he doesn't think he imagined that flicker of regret before everything went dark.
So, he has profession, address, appearance, and surface personality. Not exactly the most optimal preparation for a complex mission, but 007 has dealt with worse. Even if paper in his hands and files on a computer can't tell him what he needs to know, the human body is far more inadvertently revealing.
A glance to the left when embarrassed, two blinks when lying, a nervous habit of tracing circles on the knee - he knows how to read people, both at a poker table and in a corner of Q-Branch. Q's harder to make out than most, but Bond is confident that he'll figure the boffin out eventually.
He always does.
Still, at the moment, Q is wary, closed off to most everything that has to do with Bond for reasons still unknown, so Bond graciously gives him three missions' worth of relative peace to lull him into a false sense of security before doing anything serious.
He can be patient, when he wants to be, staking out a target or waiting in the stillness of a sniper's nest.
Notwithstanding the time he spent accustoming himself to M's, his M's, death, it's still bitterly disturbing to answer to Mallory. 007 prefers to listen to Q instead, all three missions spent with that rich, steady voice in his ear, directing him through crowded streets and secret corridors, every last one of the electronic doors opening for him without so much as a hitch.
Unlike before, however, Q's demeanour is perfectly professional, only the vaguest hints of snark and wit behind his crisp words when Bond does something reckless and dangerous, as is his wont. James finds himself unaccountably annoyed by it.
Perhaps this distance is because of the failure at Skyfall, perhaps it's because of that night; he doesn't know Q well enough to tell. He would still kindly appreciate it if Q would stop.
The missions go surprisingly well, for him, at least, but he still breaks or "loses" all of his equipment. The stroppy looks and vexed lectures Q throws his way are both adorable and a welcome interlude from the stiff aloofness.
Plus, it's not his fault that particular terrorist decided to throw his gun into the Pacific Ocean after tearing it out of 007's hands and that other megalomaniac crushed his radio under his surprisingly stylish high heels. The corset was a nice touch, almost pretty enough that Bond felt sorry when he ripped it apart.
Personally, he thinks that it's a right miracle the only injuries he's sustained so far are countless bruises and cuts, and the one bullet graze on his arm. When he points this out to Q, he gets the most frigid look and a stern order to go to Medical. Which is outside of Q-Branch. Right now, if he would.
Bond goes, but that doesn't mean he has to be happy about it.
After he returns from his fourth mission, which started in Cuba and ended in Argentina, 007 walks into Q-Branch with his customary smirk and the pieces of a spectacularly wrecked gun in his possession. Several boffins glance at him uneasily as he passes by but return to their computers within seconds, preoccupied with some disaster in Hong Kong.
Q is, as usual, standing in the heart of his technological kingdom, typing away, eyes focused on the five major screens. Bond has learned that Q rarely uses his actual office, preferring to work out in the common area where he can talk freely with his subordinates and issue the necessary orders.
From the few boffins 007 has already approached, the new branch head is a rather benevolent overlord and the minions are becoming quite loyal and attached, if they weren't already. He'll get nothing from them without ludicrous amounts of threats and blackmail. Shame.
"Q," Bond greets, briefly eyeing the depleted scrabble mug next to the laptop as he comes up on Q from behind. If he recalls correctly, 004 was sent to contain the drug ring setting up shop in that region of the world. He rather likes the other Double-Oh; she's beautiful and lethal and not at all afraid of castrating a man when he needs it. "How's Marian?"
"Trying to get herself killed," Q answers shortly, scanning the blueprints he brings up on the screen and then darting a quick look-over at Bond. "Put whatever you have for me on the table, please. And try not to make a nuisance of yourself today, 007; we're in a bit of a tight spot at the moment."
Bond isn't the obedient kind, never has been, but he knows when to push forward and when to pull back. "Whatever you say, Q." He smirks and places the black case with the remnants of yet another Walther inside on the table before retreating to a familiar, little corner of Q-Branch and fading expertly into the background.
And then he watches, still and silent as a wraith in the night.
Q-Branch is, as he's noted before, chaotic at best, but theirs is always a controlled chaos: constant, rapid typing, murmuring voices, a calm atmosphere nearly completely at odds with the way the boffins hurry around on soft feet, their normal high-strung nature blurred into focused competence.
If Bond listens closely enough, he can hear the roll of chair wheels on plastic floor protectors as people bend their heads together and discuss something urgently in hushed tones. Their voices blend into the hiss and squeal of the electric kettle as someone takes on the all-important duty of keeping a room full of nerds and techies caffeinated enough to maintain coherence.
Which is a tricky balance, Bond is certain. Too much tea and things'll probably start exploding before they're meant to.
It's times like this that 007 is reminded that the small, easily frightened boffins he bullies and coaxes into performing favors for him are also the ones who put together the gadgets that have saved his life more times than he bothers to count, the ones who guide him through difficult missions and send medical and evac when he needs it.
A tad humbling, all things considered.
In the midst of hushed conversations and frantic coding, Q stands tall and calm, face impassive, body language carefully neutral. He takes a sip of tea from his refilled mug and speaks into the comms evenly, every ounce of his attention on the screens that change rapidly in accordance to his desires.
Here, now, there's something very entrancing about his image: a man with the universe at his fingertips, a stranger with the command of everything that's welcome in the field. A port in the storm, a well of information and safety, an anchor and an armour against the hushed evils of fieldwork.
Solitary, with the world on his shoulders.
James wonders whether he's ever lonely. Sad. Q seems to him, at times, infinitely heartbroken in a way that tears at James' heart even as his gaze remains as sharp and aloof as ever.
"Get to the rooftop, 004," Q says, nine camera views up on one screen and a map on another. Marian's red hair is tangled, darkened with dirt and blood, and her dress is torn although her gun is still in her hand. She's lost her shoes somewhere and is bleeding from multiple shallow wounds. "A helicopter will be waiting."
The sound of Marian panting is audible. "How, Q?" she snaps, frustrated and breathless with pain and exertion. "If you haven't noticed, I'm being chased by a squad of hired muscle, each with their own illegal machine gun. One of them has a fucking flamethrower. Why don't we get flamethrowers?"
That's a good question. Bond sometimes wonders the same thing.
"Because my budget is constantly taken up by missing equipment. Take the second door to your right." Deft, elegant hands move over the keyboard, finding their marks readily although Q has not looked away from the camera screens. There's a whirling click and then Marian is pushing the door open. "Close it behind you."
"Now what?" Marian asks after she has done as Q asked and the lock engages again with another click. She leans against the brick wall and dashes away the blood starting to run into her eyes, grip on her weapon never loosening. The motion pulls at her scarlet dress, and Bond realises she was shot in the upper thigh.
Q has zoomed in on 004's position on the map with a few quick taps of his fingers. "Keep on going. There should be two men at the end of this corridor. There'll be a staircase behind them that leads to the roof. You'll be home free after that."
She laughs lowly, beginning to creep down the hall, Beretta at the ready. "I want first class," Marian tells Q. "Window seat, mind you, with the best food you can get me, good television, and a luxurious comforter. Maybe a glass of good red wine."
Q doesn't stop typing, but he smiles, almost fondly. It's much more open than anything he's ever given Bond, and he's startled by the flare of resentment, almost jealousy, in his gut. It doesn't make sense - Q is only his Quartermaster, even if he once sheltered James in an incident they have never spoken of - and, troubled, Bond ignores the bruise.
"Dully noted. Guards in seven meters, four o'clock," Q warns.
It takes Marian only thirty seconds to knock out one guard and shoot the other despite her weakened condition. She races up the steps and emerges out into the rooftop, blinking furiously against the harsh light. As promised, the helicopter is waiting, already hovering a meter off the ground and ready to leave.
"Q?" Marian prompts, distrustful.
"Mission accomplished, 004. Time to come home." Gentle words, for all that Q's tone never changes. About the closest he's ever come to being that kind to Bond on the comms is giving him directions to the airport and the smaller details of what his ride home is going to look like when he is on British soil once more.
(Technically, the Quartermaster isn't obligated to supply his agents with that type of assistance once the mission is over and done with, but selfishly, Bond has never informed Q of this.)
007 recognises the kamikaze sort of smile that graces 004's lips before she takes a running leap and latches onto the landing skids, unbalancing the helicopter dangerously. Even as a hand appears to help Marian on, the door that leads to the rooftop is slammed open and armed men begin to pour out, shouting in Cantonese and guns already raised.
Marian blows them a kiss with her free hand before throwing herself fully inside the helicopter and making her escape. It's a convenient reminder of why Bond respects the other Double-Oh agent in the first place, and he finds himself confused, torn between envy and relief now that Marian is out of danger and Q no longer needs to talk to her so sweetly.
Completely unnecessarily, Q doesn't turn off the comms until Marian is back at a hotel, an MI6 approved doctor seeing to her wounds. As soon as he does, the barely noticeable tension underlying Q-Branch disappears, leaving brighter smiles and teasing words and slower typing as the normal pace of work resumes.
Q braces himself with his hands on his desk for a long moment, head bowed and shoulders relaxing, before straightening and turning to look at Bond as if aware that the agent was there all along, expression detached once more. "Well. I'm impressed, 007. You are capable of behaving for more than two minutes at a time."
Bond smirks, skillfully covering up his confusion, and saunters out of the shadows to stand next to Q. There's a fierce, triumphant light in those unreadable eyes that calls to his own after-mission adrenaline, and he can't help but reply, "Q, you have no idea how well I can behave."
He regrets the words a second later when Q stiffens, what little receptiveness there was in the first place immediately replaced with multi-layered walls. "I'm perfectly happy not knowing, ta," Q says, voice carefully modulated, and spins around to start typing away again. "Is there anything else I can help you with, 007?"
Bond hesitates but knows better than to provoke a siege when he can wait and coax instead. "...no."
"Good. Stop by Medical before leaving; I know you fractured your wrist."
"There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it." - Edith Wharton
James lays flat on his back on the bed and traces the familiar handwriting with his pointer finger thoughtfully, mind and heart in turmoil.
It's been quite some time since his soulmate wrote anything, but he hasn't noticed, thoroughly distracted by the enigma of Q. In the dark depths of his subconscious, an alarm bell goes off but he fails to detect it, unsure whether to treasure the continued assurance of his soulmate or follow his training.
After Silva, after M, the small, neat letters are an uncomfortable reminder of what he discovered on that inconsequential island near Turkey. He supposes he's always suspected the truth subconsciously but preferred not to think about it in favour of keeping this last comfort close to his heart.
The depression, the near-mourning just when James Bond was believed to be dead by all and sundry in England isn't something he can overlook though, no matter how much he may want to.
That it's now very likely that his soulmate has been aware of his missions, aware of his status, aware of who 007 is, for years is...confounding. It means that they have known what he's done and not abandoned him. It means that they're a security risk, and he might end up being the next cautionary tale told to green agents.
James grits his teeth and covers the ink with a spray of mark concealer. He won't tell MI6, he decides, not yet. Mallory remains an unknown, an M he doesn't trust, and as much as the information leak bothers him, he'll do some investigating on his own before throwing his soulmate to the wolves.
It's the least he can do, after all that he's done to them. After all they've done for him.
It's only been two days since Bond was last in Q-Branch, and Q's frown is vigilant, suspicious. "Back so soon, 007?"
Bond smiles and sits on a nearby chair with his arms thrown over the back and his feet planted firmly on the ground. He doesn't mind the hush that has fallen over Q-Branch but discreetly assess the clear wariness of the boffins. It doesn't look like anyone will call security yet. Excellent. "Afraid so."
Q furrows his brow and runs a hand through his hair, only messing it up even more. Bond wonders if this is what Q looks like after a long, pleasurable night of writhing in silk sheets. Q, he thinks, deserves high-quality silk, at the very least. "What do you need? You haven't been assigned a new mission, as far as I know."
Bond shrugs. "I don't have a mission. I'm just bored. Don't you have work to do, Q?" If nothing else, there are five different stacks of paperwork on the floor by Q's desk that most likely need looking through. 007's own paperwork is lying neglected on his table at the flat.
"...you're bored," Q repeats blandly, looking supremely unimpressed beneath the thin veneer of professionalism he stubbornly maintains despite the twitch of his eye. "007, I trust you are aware that Q-Branch has not recently been converted to a circus for your enjoyment."
"I would hope so. Any decent circus act should have a lion or two." Although, from the way the minions are staring at them in both awe and horror, Bond and Q might as well be the best bloody circus act they've ever seen in their entire lives. 007 would probably make a great lion.
Q's frown only deepens, creases lining his forehead. "You're gravely mistaken if you think that my job is to provide you with entertainment whenever you want," he says, and there's something sharp to his voice now, ominous.
Normally, Bond would flirt his way through an obstacle like this, but that only backfired last time. Contrary to popular belief, he does learn from his mistakes. "I'm not expecting you to, Q. Just do what you have to. I can behave myself, remember?"
Q blinks and hesitates, thinking it over. After a few beats of agonising silence, he exhales slowly, apparently giving up further arguing as a lost cause. "Fine. Stay there and stay quiet. I don't have time to argue with you all day, but I reserve the right to have you removed if I think you're being disruptive. Back to work, everyone."
There's a general sigh in response that lingers in the air when their audience realises the spectacle is over, but everyone compliantly turns to squint at their computer screens. Bond smirks when Q isn't looking his way anymore, smug but willing to keep it to himself.
And so, the clock ticks on.
007 sits and watches, silent as a ghost. His eyes constantly track over the entirety of Q-Branch, cognizant of the movement of every shadow, even as he lounges in the chair like a king on his throne, decadent and casual and lethal.
The boffins of Q-Branch are entirely too cognizant of the predator in their quarters, constantly keeping half an eye on 007 and squirming whenever he so much as shifts. Regardless, they seem to trust in their leader's judgment and don't ask him to leave even as the hours pass.
In contrast, it takes peculiarly little time for Q to become accustomed to Bond's presence. For the first twenty minutes, he flicks uneasy looks at the agent, checking on his stance, mood, and actions, understandably not too trusting of 007's ability to keep his hands to himself.
When Bond keeps his word, however, he eventually relaxes subtly, beautifully, and focuses entirely on his laptop screen, blocking out the outside world as he did during 004's mission. Q even angles his body towards Bond at all times, like a flower following the sun.
It's all the more intriguing that James is fairly certain Q doesn't even know he does it. Doesn't even consciously know where James is while he's engrossed in his work. Not for the first time, he ponders over how Q can feel so at ease when he's around, yet flinch away from the most innocuous comment.
It would be easier if it was just the flirting but sometimes, it's not.
Sometimes, Q looks at James like his world is falling to pieces.
Bond learns plenty about Q throughout the day, not saying anything but looking, seeing like the spy he is.
Q can work for hours straight without stopping, a workaholic to the core. It's almost as if he doesn't notice the time passing, doesn't realise the clock is ticking away while numbers and letters flow from his knowing fingers, doesn't understand that he's a human being with needs, too.
He blinks faster, pauses more, when he's tired, fingers tracing patterns on his desk even as that genius brain goes on spinning like a well-oiled machine. He takes breaks in the form of short conversations full of technological jargon with his subordinates.
He can forget to eat whole meals but drinks around seventeen cups of tea, ten of which are straight Earl Grey and seven of which are Earl Grey with a little something extra that the minions sneak in to offset the caffeine a bit. James suspects calming herbal teas like chamomile.
Snacks are also left on his desk, small, neat ones throughout the day that he can reach out and grab absently while continuing to type with the other hand. The implication appears to be that he wouldn't eat otherwise.
James finds his neglectful behaviour nearly worrying. And then is immediately startled and perturbed at his uncharacteristic reactions. What is it about Q that entices him so?
Q dismisses most of the boffins at precisely eighteen hundred but doesn't make any move to leave himself. Ten minutes after the last minion leaves, dark, forest green eyes pin James down, and Q doesn't have to say a word.
"Goodnight, Q." Bond doesn't smile as he rises to his feet, but his voice is soft, his footsteps silent.
For once, there are no blades or iciness in Q's tone when he replies, only pleasant politeness, something almost like a caress of warmth buried underneath. "Goodnight, 007."
As James leaves, adjusting his cufflinks and tugging at his jacket, there is no restless humming in his bones or disdain at an unproductive day of simply sitting in a chair and staring at his Quartermaster.
Instead, he finds a small smile on his lips and an odd warmth in his chest, something painfully like...contentedness.
It's a foreign feeling, and so, he ignores it to let himself into his cold, empty flat and curl up on his bed, falling into a deep, restful sleep.
The nightmares stay away.
"The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have." - Vince Lombardi
James escapes Medical with ink on his upper arm and two broken ribs. It's easier than usual, but he is far more preoccupied with the sudden realisation that overtook him while he was sedated into compliance and floating painlessly to wonder why.
He calls up a cab easily once he's off MI6 premises and is back at his flat five minutes later after a series of green lights. There, he pours a glass of scotch, smokes a cigarette, and cracks open the laptop he bought on a whim two years ago.
Bond may not be a boffin, but all field agents are at least somewhat familiar with modern technology. He pulls up Google search and types in 'Sherlock', the name having come to him while he was draped over a hospital table.
He really should have done this sooner, perhaps when he was first inducted into MI6 or even before that, but some part of him remains that eighteen-year-old boy who gave up his soulmate without ever knowing them.
Some part of him still stubbornly clings to the ideal he has inadvertently built up in his mind of a cute, young boffin with a wicked tongue and harmless intentions, and it was easy to let his soulmate remain nameless, faceless, blameless, especially after becoming 007, after Vesper.
Bond doesn't have that luxury now.
To his surprise, hits in the triple digits for one Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Watson, appear. Bond's eyebrows shoot straight up. Well. This is a surprise.
Further research into the two most prominent blogs, The Science of Deduction and The blog of Dr John H. Watson, reveals that, indeed, the doctor from Afghanistan is Sherlock Holmes' partner and soulmate. From Watson's posts, he reads to be constantly in danger, exasperated by his soulmate's antics, and relatively happy.
James is glad. He didn't work with Watson for very long, but he saved Bond's life, and he was one of the better men he knew. Watson deserves a good, exciting life with his soulmate. 007 is hardly one to judge a man for playing with fire.
On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes seems at least half mad from Watson's fond but mostly annoyed recounts of their misadventures. Frighteningly intelligent and brilliant with complex crimes but odd and completely ignorant of social norms.
Bond recalls what Watson said of his soulmate's messages, as well as his own's soulmate's comments, and mentally applauds the doctor for putting up with Sherlock. "I suppose he's why they were writing down police reports when they were a child," he muses to himself, memorising the pair's address just in case he'll need it later.
Opening up a different tab, James types in 'Mycroft'. Mycroft Holmes, a low-level government official, comes up, confirming what his soulmate's last name is, at least. There's precious little on him, only a note on one of the smaller branches of the British government that he's an employee.
Which...considering Sherlock's genius, considering James' soulmate's genius, is rather dubious.
James spends nearly the entire night on his computer, searching for information on the Holmes family. Mrs Holmes is a revolutionary mathematician, and Mr Holmes is the CEO of a private company. By all accounts, Sherlock Holmes is a celebrity detective, and Mycroft Holmes is a humble government official.
There isn't a single mention of a third child. For a moment, he considers the possibility that they are not a part of this family at all, but dismisses the idea quickly. These names are not common, and he doesn't believe in coincidence.
His soulmate is a technological genius. They know classified information, have been keeping an eye on a Double-Oh agent, and are all but nonexistent on the internet. The logical conclusion would be that they're doing something unsavoury, don't wish to be found, and are an enemy of Queen and Country.
As the first rays of light start creeping over his floorboards, James props up his chin on his palm and reconsiders his plan of attack.
"Do I need to check for poison, 007?" Q doesn't so much as glance up from his laptop when a mug of steaming tea is placed next to him, brewed flawlessly to his taste and at just the right temperature to drink without burning his tongue off.
Bond smirks and leans his hip against the desk, amused by how resolutely Q refuses to look at him. Apparently, lines of indecipherable code are much more interesting than an agent who refuses to leave. "I don't know, Q. Have you done anything recently that would warrant being poisoned?"
"Putting up with you all the time should earn me sainthood," Q grouches but reaches out blindly and takes a sip of the tea anyway. His hum is faint and satisfied, his faith in 007's spying and tea-making abilities obviously rewarded.
Bond chuckles. Since the first time he argued Q into letting him stay in Q-Branch for hours on end, he's dwindled away four more days in much the same manner, complete with the meagre protest at the beginning and the peaceful farewell at the end. "You don't seem like the religious kind."
"Funny, you don't either." Q jabs at the enter button and finally deigns to peer at Bond over his scrabble mug. "What do you want today, 007? I assure you, the chair you stole from my poor intern is right where you left it five days ago."
"I procured a better one for her, and I'm growing quite fond of that old thing," Bond says, placing a piece of paper in front of Q, "but it'll have to stay empty a while longer. I need information on these two."
Q picks up the paper and frowns at it. "'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Mycroft Holmes'? Is this for a mission?"
"No. More of a...side project." Bond trusts Q for some strange reason, far more than he should, but his soulmate he trusts only with himself. Losing them at this point would utterly ruin him, and isn't that ironic, isn't that exactly what M predicted and tried to prevent?
"And what have they done to you that you're hounding them like this?" Q adjusts his glasses, looking up to direct his frown at Bond.
Bond merely flashes a smile, infusing every ounce of charm he can into it. "Tell me what you can about them, would you, Q? You know I wouldn't ask unless it's important." He places a coaxing hand on Q's shoulder and doesn't miss the slight shudder that rolls over all that soft, lovely skin.
It's not the most intimate touch, only a flirtatious gesture meant to fluster the boffin into agreeing to whatever he wants, and yet, Bond finds that it's his own mouth that goes dry, his heart tripping helplessly over itself.
Oh, he thinks, a bit feebly. Oh.
Q takes a step back, face going blank as Bond's hand slides off and shields slamming down behind those clever eyes. "I'll see what I can do," he says curtly, turning back to the schematics on his laptop. "If that's all, then I'll have to ask you to leave, 007. You're distracting my subordinates."
Bond has to take a moment to respond, confounded both by his own response and the bereavement that steals over him now. "And God forbid I do that," he says, turning to walk away. "Two days, Q."
"I hear Antarctica is nice this time of year."
J.B. is making inquiries. - Q
Not about you, I hope. - MH
No. About the two of you. I suppose he remembers your names from my childhood antics. - Q
So he's looking. Why is he interested in you now? He never was before. - SH
I may have given myself away when I thought he was dead. - Q
Understandable if reckless. Double-Oh agents have a habit of dying but not staying dead. -MH
Don't give him access to your handwriting, preferences, files, or DNA. Spies don't care about privacy. - SH
I know. What do I tell him? - Q
Sherlock's life is already splattered across the internet. J.B. has high security clearance but exercise discretion with my information. - MH
I will. He might come to Baker Street, Sherlock. - Q
I'll tell John. - SH
"Right, so, Sherlock Holmes calls himself a 'consulting detective' and works with the New Scotland Yard. He has a long history of solved crimes, often with little details others take for granted or overlook, and lives at 221B Baker Street with his soulmate and partner, John Watson, a former British army doctor."
"Go on," Bond murmurs, peering at the two pictures on Q's laptop over his shoulder. Sherlock is tall and lean with dark curly hair and striking green eyes shot with amber. Watson hasn't changed much from his military days, but his hair's grown out and his smile is brilliant.
"Holmes has been arrested several times, but there's nothing serious on his record. Watson's arrested mostly because of Holmes. They're both capable of fighting. I'm not sure what you're looking for, 007. Outside of their clear inclination to find life-threatening cases, neither of them appear dangerous to MI6."
Bond hums noncommittally. "And Mycroft Holmes?"
Q purses his lips in a very distracting way, fingers dancing over his keyboard. The pictures of Sherlock and Watson are sized down and relegated to a corner. A new photo appears, this time of a middle-aged man with murky eyes of dark blue-green and a receding hairline, flaunting a very expensive suit.
"I don't know what you're up to, but Mycroft Holmes is nearly above your security clearance," Q warns him, voice remaining neutral. "He's nearly above my security clearance. Just know that he's incredibly influential in the British government and occasionally orders MI5 around."
Bond quirks an eyebrow. "MI5?" Admittedly, that does sound more in-line with the rest of the Holmes family, including his boffin genius of a soulmate.
"MI5. Try not to go around aggravating Mycroft Holmes if you can avoid it. You already threaten to give M a heart attack every five missions." Q takes down the pictures and sips at his tea. He keeps his eyes straight on the screen and doesn't look at Bond.
"Only every five missions? I must be slacking then," Bond teases, drawing back a little at the tension he can feel is starting to leak into Q now that he's not longer distracted. "Are there any other living members of their family?"
Q furrows his brow. "There's the mother and father. Do they need to be looked into?"
"No." So even Q can't find any traces of his soulmate. That's...disturbing. Bond has the uneasy feeling he'll have to inform M of this security breach soon and has to fight not to scowl and inflict physical violence on someone who isn't Q. "Well done."
Q turns to stare at him, unblinking despite their close proximity, frowning slightly at the rough purr. "Let me guess. You want me to keep this to myself."
"I would be much obliged." Bond doesn't touch Q but keeps their faces only a quarter of a meter apart and lets his eyes bore gently into his. "Will you let me keep this between you and me?"
"You haven't even told me what you're looking for," Q points out but doesn't flinch away. Bond counts that as a win on his part and tries not to look directly at those rosebud lips.
"It's not necessary. This isn't MI6. It's a...personal matter." Up close, Q's bone structure is exquisite, so very delicate. Clothed in his efficiency and intelligence, Q portrays a demeanour that's much stronger than his slender build suggests, the lines of his vulnerable throat elegant.
Bond is uncomfortably aware of how easily this lovely, stubborn creature could be broken. The jolt of fierce protectiveness burns, but he keeps it tucked away for later examination and instead analyses the beautiful shades of those elfin eyes.
"Fine," Q concedes after a second, glancing away unexpectedly. "But I expect you to report to M if anything dangerous comes up, 007."
"That's a given," Bond lies.
How did it go? - MH
Fine. He doesn't suspect anything. - Q
You want him to. - SH
Shut up. He doesn't know your exact position, Mycroft. I also kept our family's predilection for intelligence out of the report. - Q
That's acceptable for now. - MH
And then, in a private chat:
Is it the MI6 regulations? You know Gareth Mallory would have to listen to me. - MH
No, it isn't. Please don't interfere. I have this under control. - Q
Having a soulmate isn't so bad. Sherlock has improved tremendously. - MH
Don't pretend our situations are the same. I'll be fine. Don't you dare arrange to have J.B. kidnapped. - Q
Not until you're seeing him properly, no. Then, all bets are off. - MH
Q is always silent when Bond is seducing a mark. As per protocol, he thinks, but no, somehow, it feels more than that, as a strange amount of other things do with Q. His instincts, normally precise and accurate, are perplexed whenever this situation rears its head.
On one hand, he finds Q's constant presence a comfort, as he normally does, knowing that there is someone watching over him, keeping an eye out for danger, staying with him throughout the mission while he's on foreign land, perpetually in danger, alone with no one else to depend on.
On the other hand, despite years of work in the field and in the military, something about Q listening to him shagging other people strikes him as uncomfortable, like a gun with the weight a tad off or the fit of a suit a millimetre too tight, barely noticeable but an ever-present itch.
Bond sits on the edge of the bed, back to the beautiful blonde he spent all night exhausting into a whimpering, shaking mess. It's three in the bloody morning here in Tunisia, and he knows that it's three in the bloody morning back in London. "Q?"
"I'm here." Q sounds clinical, indifferent, exactly the way a handler of a Double-Oh should be. It's disheartening fuel to the weariness that already dwells within his old, tired bones. Bond calculates at least five cups of tea in that alert, posh voice.
Bond turns the flash drive in his hands over and over. "Grey PNY, 128 GB, USB 3.0?"
"Yes, that's the one. The Tunis-Carthage International Airport is 25 kilometres to your west. The details are on your phone, as always. Do you require further assistance, 007?"
A question hovers on the tip of his tongue. This is one of the easier missions, not one necessarily meant for a Double-Oh, one that even one of the junior members of Q-Branch could handle without any problems. There isn't even a body count and retrieving this small piece of tech is as technologically advanced as it gets.
"No," Bond says now, but later, when he's trying to get comfortable on the plane, which is no picnic despite his plentiful experience, the after-mission adrenaline rush buzzing in his ears and numbing his fingers, the words slip out unbidden anyway. "...why are you on the comms, Q?"
There is a startled pause even as the earpiece crackles back to life again. "I am your handler for this mission."
"There must be other, more strenuous, missions you could be overseeing. And it's four in the bloody morning. Another all-nighter?"
"I am your handler for this mission, 007," Q only repeats blandly. "Is there anything else?"
Bond sighs through his nose and stares blindly up at the ceiling. "No. I'm fine."
There's another long pause and then the audible click as Q goes offline. Five minutes after that, the speakers start playing quiet blues, and Bond relaxes slowly. He drifts off to the sound of Eric Clapton.
"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." - Dr. Seuss
It's his birthday, his forty-fifth birthday. Today, M granted him leave with a wave of his hand (deja vu, yet again), Tanner passed along a bottle of good scotch, Moneypenny pressed a cake into his hands and a kiss to his cheek when she caught him in the hallways, and James didn't so much as catch a glimpse of Q.
But. He did find several emails waiting for him when he checked his inbox. Apparently, he's won several email sweepstakes he never entered, the rewards ranging from a free trip to an expensive golf course to a full-on spa treatment.
James is fairly certain that Q is trying to tell him something, but he can't quite bring himself to focus on that at the moment.
In the fading grey-purple haze of twilight, James brushes his fingers reverently over the words in black ink. Either his soulmate is the most twisted villain 007 has ever known, so far down the bend that they seem normal, even kind, or they are nonexistent for a legal, logical reason.
He wants desperately for it to be the latter, even as his past advocates the former malevolently in his ears.
"Take a right turn, 007. No, your other right." Q's voice is dry and calm in his ear, the wind is rushing past him, honks and screeches of startled cars and indignant drivers are mere background noise, and Bond grins.
"I know where my left and right are, Q." Slamming down hard on the accelerator, he almost clips a van and bypasses five other cars, swerving in and out of lanes expertly. The sky is an almost painful shade of blue today, so very bright, the breeze warm and comfortable. "Where is he?"
"Heading towards the Pantheon from the East. Which, if I may point out, you're heading away from."
Bond's grin widens. "Ever been to Rome, Q?" he asks casually, turning into one of the smaller, gently-paved roads not actually meant for cars. It's an old city, this place, and he's more familiar with it than most others, all graceful history and awe-inspiring monuments.
"No, I - 007, what are you doing?"
"Taking a shortcut," Bond murmurs as people scatter before him with shrieks and curses. "Lots of those around." All but bulldozing over a stand, cutting across open paths and back streets, he smiles faintly as the massive Pantheon comes into view. It's bittersweetly nostalgic.
He remembers meticulously drawing the temple on his chest back in his early thirties, wanting to give his soulmate a piece of the glory of Rome while they were still stuck in England. It's hard for him to imagine now, being so carefree and open, having his soulmate so close but yet so far, leaving them gifts on his skin.
James' hands tighten on the steering wheel. He has to fight not to reach for a cigarette or a glass of scotch, the ache in his chest a familiar one. He wonders if he would have been able to stop writing if M hadn't died, if the shock of that loss hadn't overridden the compulsion to continue to communicate with his soulmate after half a decade of silence.
Even now, knowing that they have secrets, his fingers itch for just a quick sketch, nothing more but so much more.
Q's slow sigh is an appreciated distraction. He doesn't bother to protest Bond's unorthodox methods, but informs him, "He's driving around Via di Santa Chiara."
"Pull up a picture of the Pantheon, Q." 007 wrenches the borrowed car to the right, hovering on two wheels for moment before touching down again and zooming off. In the distance, he can hear police sirens, but he ignores them.
"I've got it. What now?"
Bond smiles and sees his target's black Audi in front of him, perfectly average except for the scratch on the left side, the one created by a bullet from his Walther. "Beautiful, isn't it? You should go on a vacation with me sometime. Get some perspective, learn new things, and all that."
There's a very long silence from Q's end. Bond rams the front of his car into that nice black Audi and drives his target off the road and into a ditch. "Q?" he prompts, worried.
When Q's voice comes at last, it's quiet and cool. "We need him alive, 007. Keep that in mind."
And for the rest of the mission, no matter what Bond says or does, Q talks to him only when necessary, in as few words as possible, and even his quietude seems chilly. Bond is left frustrated and confused, not quite sure where he went wrong, even as the familiar sights of Rome wrap him in muffled memories of kinder, happier days.
Anyone else would be discouraged by now. He's hitting dead ends everywhere, it seems.
M told him to kill Marco Sciarra as a final mission for her. 007 lost Sciarra's trail in Poland.
Bond wants to have a good, healthy, maybe even pleasurable, relationship with his Quartermaster. Q is quite possibly the most contrary creature he's ever had the fortune of meeting.
James needs to understand what the bloody fuck is going on with his soulmate before he's ordered to kill them. They are a genius phantom with powerful brothers, no records, and coding that is beyond even Q-Branch.
It's a very good thing that he's never been the type to give up.
The second step in any successful mission is the operation.
Bond has all the information he'll ever have through just watching. He knows that Q doesn't react well to flirting or innuendos or private questions. He knows that Q likes sweets and books and cats. He knows that Q is afraid of planes and dislikes archaic testaments, knows that Q wants to keep a nice, professional distance between them.
James has no intention of letting that happen.
On some level, he questions himself. Were it any other MI6 official, he would have let it go. He doesn't expect everyone to like him; hell, he expects everyone to hate him or fear him, be in awe of him or look down their noses at him. Why can't he simply accept Q's coldness and move on?
But no. Maybe it's because having the Quartermaster on his side can only ever be a good thing. Maybe it's because he can't understand why Q can be unbearably kind to him one day and then years away the next, and that's a riddle, an enigma, a distraction that has nothing to do with his mysterious soulmate or the latest death on his conscience.
Or maybe it's just because it's Q, lovely and familiar in a way he can't understand.
These days, when Bond walks into Q-Branch, the minions rarely spare him more than five seconds of wary looks before going back to their work. Q glances up and offers him either a cheeky remark or a neutral acknowledgement, and from that, Bond can tell what sort of day it will be.
If he gets the cheeky remark, Q's in a good mood and willing to tolerate him so long as Bond keeps the flirting and interrogating locked down. Most of the time, Q will let 007 watch him work with only a few comments here and there, competent and purposeful about what he does, calm and relaxed in a way that soothes James as well.
If he gets the neutral acknowledgement, Q has retreated into the safety of his mind and the parameters of the MI6. He is the Quartermaster, and Bond is the Agent, and they are nothing more. Had James marked these rare times down, he would have realised they corresponded with anniversaries of ink, but he doesn't, normally too moody himself.
Today, Q is wrapped up in a crisis in Pakistan. He takes one and a half seconds to check that Bond doesn't need anything from him and goes right back to barking orders at 002 over the comms.
James doesn't try to catch his attention. He sneakily abducts the empty scrabble mug instead and brings it back to Q filled with tea. As he leaves Q-Branch with no one the wiser, he places a call that will have ten boxes of hot pizza delivered by noon.
007 informs the baffled security guards of this and takes a cab to the airport. He has a mission in Yemen to complete.
When Q comes on the line, he is wholly proficient and efficient, every word enunciated and clear. In fact, 007 only receives confirmation of his efforts after his mission is complete and he's on the plane ride back.
"Thank you for the tea and pizza. Shall I tell M your paycheck is growing a bit too large?" Q asks archly, a warm undertone to his voice that makes Bond smile.
"I'd prefer if you wouldn't actually," Bond replies, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes briefly. "How else will I continue to feed you?"
"...it's not necessary," Q says. "If you need something, you should just tell me outright - "
Bond wonders if Q is being difficult on purpose. He suspects he is. "I don't want anything, Q."
"Then why?"
Bond shrugs although Q probably can't see him. Probably. He wouldn't put it past the boffin to hack the security cameras. "You're too skinny. I could break you in half without effort."
"Thank you for that. Are you telling me you're attempting to fatten me up?" Q sounds incredulous. "Is this some bizarre rendition of Hansel and Gretel?"
Bond huffs out a surprised laugh. "Did you just compare me to a witch and yourself to two lost children?"
"You're the one who's offended by my weight. I'll have you know I have a perfectly healthy body mass index for my height and age."
"What, one hundred fifty centimetres and eighteen?" Bond shoots back despite being well aware of Q's height. He's a bit iffier on the age, sadly, but he suspects late twenties to early thirties.
Q makes an offended noise that reminds Bond of Rayleigh and Morgana. "007, I am only two centimetres shorter than you."
"No comment on the age?" Bond is delighted by this turn of events, the easy banter, the light-hearted back and forth he hasn't had since Skyfall. If he knew a bit of food would lull Q this much, he would have done drowned Q-Branch in pizza months ago.
Of course, just as he's thinking this, Q's voice chills several degrees. "I would think that my innovation has already been proven. Your ride will be a silver Porsche with the number plate of LW96DSW. That's all I have for you."
"Wait, Q - "
There's the crackle of static in his ear. James grits out an exhale and struggles with his frustration for a minute or two. When he's under control again, he takes out his phone and begins plotting out his next move.
This is a battle of wills, and he doesn't plan to lose.
"So, I hear you've been trying to make nice with Q." Moneypenny leans against the doorway, resplendent in a bright red dress, eyes twinkling and a knowing smile on her plum lips.
Bond looks up from where he was attempting to glare the paperwork into submission and raises an eyebrow at her sardonically. He knows full well what she's here for, the nosy wannabe-matchmaker.
It's been more than a year and a half since Skyfall, and he's found that it's surprisingly easy to talk to Moneypenny. They've even developed a friendship, of sorts, wherein Moneypenny complains to him about M and Bond grouches to her about finding good tailors nowadays.
He thinks that it's the longest strictly-platonic relationship he's ever had.
That doesn't quite mean he isn't aware of how beautiful the woman is, her rejection no deterrent. That doesn't quite mean he isn't aware of how manipulative the former agent can be, her desk job not dulling any of her edges.
"Listening to gossip now, are we?"
"Oh, come off it. It's practically my job," Moneypenny says, propping one hand on her hip. "How goes the wooing? Is the great 007 stumped?"
Bond blinks. "People think I'm trying to seduce Q?" It's not...an unpleasant thought - he's more than self-aware enough to know that he's deeply attracted to the boffin - but just a stable, amicable workplace relationship has been his objective. Anything else should reasonably come after.
Although, now that he thinks about it, he can see how people came to that conclusion. In addition to his now-customary refilling of Q's scrabble mug, he comes into Q-Branch bearing food more often than not and that is a classic courting move.
Typically, he leaves the food with Q, who always tells him off for "being the gingerbread witch" but ends up eating it all nevertheless. James still hasn't figured out why he leaves those encounters all but purring with satisfaction.
"Trying and failing," Moneypenny confirms gleefully. "Hard to tell whether the minions are ecstatic or terrified, really. I hear there's a betting pool going around."
"I'm not trying to seduce Q." Bond stands up and walks around the bulk of his seldom-used desk, unable to resist adding, "Although if I was, Q would hardly be complaining."
Moneypenny only looks amused. "I'm sure. Well, in the very unlikely case that the minions aren't mistaken, just know that Q likes caramel and peppermint bark." She lets herself out with a smirk, sauntering down the hallway.
Bond looks after her for a long moment and wonders if he wants to know how Q is reacting to this rumour. Probably not. He's only just getting mildly non-bipolar interactions, although the exploding pen is still out of reach. Shame, really.
No matter how many times 007 has endured it, torture still tends to be a highly disagreeable experience. All MI6 employees are trained to resist torture, of course, and field agents are prepared more thoroughly than most. Double-Ohs tend to laugh their way through their advanced training and learn the rest through brutal, hard experience.
Bond has been through many varied and creative methods of torture. He prides himself on his pain tolerance, but there's nothing for it when there's no pain to resist.
Instead, there is nothingness.
Deprivation chambers are frightening, really, even for an experienced agent like Bond. Human beings are social creatures, require constant sensation, and the absence of both can lead to insanity when it goes on for too long. He's seen the victims himself.
They shy away from light, from interaction. They talk to themselves, to whatever hallucination their brain has conjured up in an attempt to stimulate itself. Each brand of madness is unique, but there is one similarity: their minds are broken, their reality shattered into so much dust.
Bond has been placed in a nine by seven cell. There is most likely concrete beneath his fingers, nothing padded. No natural light, no sense of time; he knows how this works. He has been given three bottles of water, two packets of stale biscuits, and a bucket in the corner for him to relieve himself.
The walls are soundproof. No sound will reach him here. Well, that's not quite true. His captors stripped him of his clothing, but they underestimated the cleverness of his Quartermaster. The earpiece hidden deep in his ear canal was not found, and he is ever so grateful.
"Q?"
"Still with you," Q reassures, the sounds of rapid typing distant. "It's eighteen hundred fifteen here in London. It should be twenty hundred in Syria. We don't have a tracker in this earpiece, but we should be able to narrow down your position."
Bond slumps to the floor and leans against one of the four walls. It was meant to be a relatively simple mission, in and out with no one the wiser. The bloody terrorist organisation that Bond accidentally stumbled upon was a complete surprise, and it cost him.
"How long?" he asks, keeping his voice even, unaffected.
"We're estimating four days at the moment. M is aware of the situation and has instructed me to locate you. Tanner has a rescue squad waiting in Iraq. It has been approximately five hours since you were knocked out and captured, by the way."
Bond smiles, humourless. "What would you have me do then?" He's already tested the door. Even with all of his strength, the locks are beyond his ability to force open. While he's not cuffed, for once, there's really not much he can do at this point.
"Sleep," Q says, not unkindly. "It'll help the time pass faster."
"That's a matter of opinion," Bond replies but closes his eyes anyway. He's been trained to value sleep as the commodity that can be taken away in the time it takes to snap his fingers. "Good night, Q."
"Good night," Q says, and James can almost pretend he's back at MI6, leaving Q-Branch after a day of lazing around, fascinated by that dark, messy hair and the intent look in those eyes and the gentle slope of that nose, contented and lulled and maybe even a little happy.
007 snaps awake soundlessly without moving a muscle. He assesses his surroundings, but finds nothing of note, although the lack of light is strange. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Bond remembers where he is and grimaces, hands fisting.
"Q?" he whispers, fighting the urge to reach up a hand and assure himself the earpiece is still there.
"007," comes the immediate response, and he breathes out a slow sigh of relief. "Good morning. It's nine hundred over there. We're still trying to track you down, but so far, we've had little luck. I've found my poor car though. Christ, what have you done to it?"
Bond manages a short laugh, standing up to stretch out his muscles. He has to be careful, only marginally aware of the limitations of his cell. "From what I saw before gaining a concussion, the steering wheel can be salvaged."
Q makes an abject noise of disgust that makes Bond smile despite himself. "The only thing that surpasses your kidnapping rate is the amount of equipment you unsuccessfully bring back intact. I wouldn't have to scold you nearly as much if you'd just stop using your Walther like a boomerang."
"Now, that's an idea," James muses, deciding he might as well be productive and do push-ups on the hard, cold floor. The utter darkness grates against his ingrained training, the uncertainty of his environment uncomfortable, but he does his best to ignore it. "You should make me an exploding boomerang."
"There's no point in making a boomerang that comes back to you if it explodes along the way," Q says tartly. "I know that you think that my budget is limitless but try to hold onto a shred of reasonableness, 007."
"I'll let up on the exploding boomerang idea if you make me an exploding pen," Bond bargains.
"Absolutely not. Pull the other shoe; it has streamers on it."
James smirks, on his fortieth-first push-up. The burn of his muscles is an excellent distraction along with Q's familiar voice. "Cruel. Will you at least rebuild my Aston Martin?"
"I shouldn't. Just to teach you a lesson."
"Come now, Q, there are so many other, better, ways to teach me a lesson." A split second after the words have left his mouth, James freezes in the front leaning rest position, pressed against the stone floor, suddenly remembering the last time he said something similar, wary of Q's reaction, of being left in the darkness and silence -
"Down, boy," Q says dryly. "I'm afraid I'm more of a cat person; there's less training necessary."
James huffs out a laugh, mostly out of relief. "I noticed. How are Rayleigh and Morgana?"
"They're as spoiled as ever." The fondness, sweet like sunshine, is apparent in Q's voice, and James rather wants to stretch out and bask in it like one of Q's cats. "Morgana almost clawed up my sofa yesterday. It was dreadful."
"I imagine you deserved it."
"Nonsense. I didn't even withhold snacks from the spoiled beast. Did you, perchance, get a glimpse of your captor's face or any sort of landmark?"
"No. Sorry." Bond takes a second to catch his breath after the one-hundredth push-up and then goes right back at it. "Still no luck?"
"I'm not a miracle worker, 007, and Syria isn't nearly as small as you seem to think it is. Have some patience for once in your life."
"I find that offensive," James informs Q. "I have great patience."
Q snorts. "I very much doubt that, but we'll agree to disagree. Are you tired out enough to go back to sleep?"
Bond refuses to show his surprise on his face, even though there is no one here to see it. He didn't think Q was listening to his breathing. "I can try," he says, "but then I'll be keyed up tomorrow."
Q hums. "Let's not risk it then. One moment, please." The line goes silent, and the first creeping tendrils of unease shiver through Bond's blood, threatening to close around his rapidly pounding heart. Now that he's paying attention, the sheer lack he's been doing his best to deny seems overwhelming, spilling into his thoughts like misbehaving ink -
"007." M's crisp voice isn't so much of a comfort as it is a distraction and a mild surprise.
Bond discreetly takes a deep breath before answering. "Sir."
"Tanner has been informed that the CIA were originally investigating this terrorist organisation, and it's highly likely that your kidnappers don't actually know you're MI6, just some poor sod in one of the lower branches of the CIA. If they knew who you were, they would be much more...hands-on."
"Wonderful," Bond drawls. He supposes he should be glad they don't think he's worthy of more brutal torture, but really, he's just annoyed. "Shall I take this to mean no one will mourn for these chaps if they happen to die when I get out of here?"
"Feel free," M says. "Just don't set anything on fire. Q, how are we doing?"
"R's systematically eliminating the places 007 can't be, and I'm searching for the most optimal spots to hide a terrorist organisation's headquarters," Q reports, voice coming in faint and remote. "They're clever, but their activities have churned up some waves and we're tracking that."
"Good. Keep at it. 007, I look forward to seeing your report on my desk when you get back," M hints, none too subtly, and then is gone.
Q, James discovers, is bloody fantastic when he's not trying to block Bond out or freeze 007 into an icicle through the power of his glare alone. They share the same sense of dry, mildly sarcastic humour, and once they get going, James finds himself losing track of time without caring, falling into the easy push and pull that has always lived and sang between them.
It's odd, because it's not as if they are abruptly sharing their deepest, darkest secrets with each other. No, it's the meaningless snark that comes without effort that fills up the silence, holds back the devastating darkness.
Q only goes off the comms once, somewhere around fourteen hundred. To be honest, were Q not updating Bond every time an hour goes by, he would have been lost, his own finely honed sense of time giving up in the nothingness that surrounds him.
"Enjoying your vacation, Bond?" Moneypenny's laughing voice comes on, and Bond's grin, which had faltered when Q told him he was ducking out for a bit, returns.
"Could be better. Could be worse."
"I'm sure. Aren't you lucky, though, having Q all to yourself now?" she teases slyly.
Bond chuckles and goes along with it, although he's long since stopped thinking about Q in a purely romantic context during the past five hours. He's become much more important than a potential one-night stand. A safeguard, perhaps, a tether to sanity.
"Somehow, I think that I could come up with healthier ways to do so, Miss Moneypenny."
"Now, where's the fun in that? I thought you were a lover of excitement and all that." There's the sound of papers being shuffled, which is a bit jarring after hearing nothing but Q's voice and the click-clack of typing, but Bond welcomes the interlude.
"Tsk, tsk. What are they teaching you these days? I thought you'd already know that the most important rule of seduction is knowing what your partner wants. And Q most definitely does not have a fondness for field work."
Strangely enough, Bond doesn't think he'd be very happy if Q were to be sent out into the field either. The thought of Q in a situation like the one 007 is in at the moment is bone-chilling. Better for Q to stay safely within Q-Branch, controlling the world through his laptop.
"Speaking of Q," Moneypenny says, and her voice is serious now, intent, "you may have taken a nice little nap, but Q hasn't slept in more than twenty hours. He's surviving on tea and spite right now, so be gentle, okay?"
Bond frowns, calculations flying through his mind. "That means he hasn't stopped working since I was first taken," he says, stunned.
"Exactly. It's taking half of Q-Branch to force him to eat something at the moment, and the only reason he's complying somewhat is because I'm here holding the fort. Be an ass, Bond, and I'll bury you in paperwork the minute you get back, got it?" Moneypenny doesn't raise her voice, but he doesn't doubt her threat for a second.
"Should I be flattered by your faith that I'll survive this?" he says, running on autopilot while his mind tries to puzzle out this new development.
Moneypenny scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous. You survived me shooting you off a train. Besides, Q would never settle for anything less than you coming back home in one piece, although I think he's given up on the equipment for this mission."
Before Bond can respond, she's talking again, "Time for me to go. Hang on in there, Bond. I'll give you more tips on how to woo Quartermasters when you're in Medical."
There's the clacking of heels on smooth floor, a shuffle of clothing, and then, Q's back on the line again, the posh sound of his voice an unspeakable comfort. "007?"
"Here," James says, resting his chin on his bent knee. He doesn't understand Q at all. "Did you have a good lunch?"
"I see Moneypants was tattling," Q observes, rueful but not upset. "Yes, I had a grilled cheese sandwich. Happy?"
"Boring. You should let me introduce you to genuine Italian pasta. It's an eye-opener."
"Is that so."
"Well, if you'd prefer Chinese..."
Bond knew it was coming, but when Q says, "It's twenty hundred, 007. Get some sleep," it's still a bit of a shock, like feeling cold water close over his head even though he was anticipating the frigidity of it after diving off a building and falling towards an icy winter lake.
He's an agent, though, appreciates the pragmatism of the suggestion, even if he doesn't like it. He takes his time replying, trying to find some comfortable position on the unyielding concrete. Even though he tends to run hot, the cold threatens to seep through the thin white t-shirt and sweatpants he was given to wear.
"Goodnight, Q," James murmurs, closing his eyes though it makes no difference in the lighting. For some reason, after the day he's had, hours of doing nothing but exercising and listening to that voice, this farewell seems different than the ones before. Warmer, more...intimate.
(James is not accustomed to thinking of intimacy in any other terms but sex and even that is only on his targets' side, never his own. He associates the word with graceful gondolas and hazy sunshine, the gentle rock of a boat and red lips, and perhaps that is why he shies away instinctively.)
"Goodnight, 007," comes the expected response, tone gentle and even, much like what he heard Q give 004 way back then, except kinder, perhaps, with a hint of affection hidden within that ever-present professionalism, and it makes something in James purr and curl up into a contented ball.
Bond tries to go to sleep, he really does. He deepens his breathing, relaxes every muscle he can in his body, one by one, meditates, and thinks of nothing, or tries to. Here, he can almost pretend he's back in his flat at England.
However, the hardness underneath him is all wrong. There are no patterns dancing across his ceiling from the street lamps and the moon and her stars. Although he concentrates, he can't pick up on the persistent drone of cars, only the maddening thump of his own heart.
Thump. He's alone. Thu-Thump. There is no one else here. Thu-Thump. There is nothing else here. Thu-Thu-Thump. He is alone.
Bond inhales. Opens his eyes uselessly. Even his training cannot overcome this hollowness. "Q?"
"I'm here." Calm, steady. James' heartbeat starts to slow down. "What do you need, 007?"
It's a completely legitimate prompt, could be something out of a handbook they toss to new handlers. But the inherent generosity in the often-heard words threatens to take James' breath away. It's been a very long time since someone would just give him what he wanted if he asked, no strings attached.
"...it's too quiet," James manages at last. "I can't sleep."
A thoughtful hum and then the usual sounds of typing. Half a minute later, the melodic, soulful notes of blues tickle his ear.
"Better?"
James closes his eyes and smiles through a yawn. "...yeah. Thanks, Q."
"My pleasure," Q whispers, low and sweet, and James sleeps, dreamless.
Bond wakes up on the third day of his captivity to the earsplitting noise of a rusty old panel in the door being shoved open and piercing light spilling across his protesting eyes. He throws up a hand to shield himself from the agonising brightness and hears an ugly laugh, masculine and rough.
The sheer amount of stimulation is overwhelming.
"Ready to talk yet?"
"Afraid not," 007 says, a cold smirk twisting his lips. "Come back later."
"Hmph. You'll break soon enough." Before his eyes can adjust to the light, the panel is slammed back shut, and he is in darkness once again.
Bond waits a full two minutes to ensure the man is gone before saying softly, "Q?"
"Here." The answer comes swiftly, which means the Quartermaster was probably listening in. "Did you get an appearance?"
"No," Bond grunts. "Tell me you have something."
"We're closing in," Q confirms, weary but focused. "Give us a few more hours. Ten, at the very most, I promise you."
"Alright. It's not like I can do anything anyway." Bond sits up with a groan, already knowing it'll take ages for his back and neck to get straightened out again. "Time?"
"Eight hundred. Feel free to go back to sleep. I doubt they're going to check on you anymore today." The vigorous sounds of typing serve as background noise, but James frowns.
"Q? Have you gotten any sleep at all since I ended up here?" Because, combined, that's around forty hours without sleep, and that's insane for a boffin who's not even in the field and in a highly volatile situation that requires constant supervision.
And for him, for Bond, who Q appears to tolerate at best? Why?
"...I took a nap," Q says, sounding defensive even through the earpiece. "And I hardly think that's relevant right now. Focus on not going mad. I know what sensory deprivation can do to a psyche."
"You are worried about me," James says in that manner prophets the world over portray when having a brilliant epiphany. "Why, Q, you could have just said so."
"I worry about all of my agents, 007. You just happen to be the one that gets in trouble the most. And never, ever returns the equipment I spend all of my valuable time creating."
"It's a talent, I know. Will you let me make it up to you later with curry?" The request is a wholly serious one on James' part, and even he is surprised by how free of suggestive undertones it is.
Q hesitates. "Maybe," he allows although his tone says ' no'. James is too tired, too empty to push, and he merely grunts in acknowledgement, sitting against the concrete and letting his head drop back against the cold wall with a muted thud.
Now that the adrenaline is draining away, he feels curiously like he's floating, not quite contained by the prison of his own skin. He's had this happen to him before, after particularly hard, brutal missions, when he's past the drink and the cigarettes and the shagging, drifting at sea with no lifeline.
Gaze fixated at nothing at all but finding it difficult to move, James just...sits there, not sure if this is reality or a dream, if he's really, truly here or somewhere very far away, where even the silence and the cold and the dark can't touch him.
"...7! 007! Answer me!" The voice is sharp and faintly panicked, and he finds that disturbing on some level. That's not right, he thinks, this voice should be soft and smooth and serene. Not...upset, and definitely not upset because of...James.
The crushing numbness grips on hard, shakes and demands and refuses to let go without a fight, but James forces his mouth open and croaks out a "Q" and the frantic calls ease up.
It sounds like Q takes a deep breath, but when he's talking again, he's composed and authoritative once more. "Fell into a bit of a rut, did we? That's fine. You don't have to move or do anything but concentrate on my voice. Can you do that?"
"Yes," James replies obediently, still detached from the world but willing to answer Q.
"Describe what you're feeling at the moment." And then, muffled, "R, take over, please."
"Floating. Distant. Hard to focus," James recites, knowing he should move, do something, but frozen in place by the heaviness that weighs down on him, the lightness that keeps him lost in his own mind. There's a word for this, he knows - "Dissociating."
"Alright. Okay. Breathe in for me, would you, 007? Good, that's good, count of seven, here we go...one, two, three, four, five, six, seven...okay, breathe out, count of seven...one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. In, seven. There's nothing wrong, it's just your mind trying to deal with the deprivation. Out, seven. Good. In, seven..."
Q's voice remains soothing, rhythmic, and James falls freely into the cadence of Q's directives until his breathing is stable and steady. From there, Q guides him through a series of gentle exercises that involve every part of his body, and James slowly sinks back into himself, reacquainting himself with this version of truth.
When Q goes quiet at last, James is wracked by a full-body shiver, still reeling a bit but far more centred than before. "Done this before, have you?" he asks, voice hoarse as if he's been screaming. "Or is this in the training they give to all handlers?"
"No," Q admits, the warmth in his tone curling around James like a phantom hug. "They should though."
"Then how did you...?"
"...let's call it instinct." Q goes on quickly before James can protest that "instincts" don't work like that, "Alright, I really need to focus on this algorithm I'm running, so occupy yourself with this: what comes down but never goes up?"
"A riddle, Q? I would have thought you were more into scrabble or sudoku." James smiles, however, bittersweet memories completing what Q started and bringing him back fully into this realm of existence. He wonders where his soulmate is now, how they're doing.
"I like scrabble. Sudoku's too easy. Focus, 007. I want the answer."
"Bossy," James comments but goes quiet, turning the riddle around and around his head. Over the comms, the white noise of rain intermingles with the ever-present click-clack of typing in a soothing blend, and he sighs, head lolling back. Q must have some sort of app or website on that simulates the sound of precipitation.
Isn't the age-old saying: what comes up must come down? What comes down but not up...down but not up...down but not up...
Time runs away from him, but when the answer comes to him at last, he groans, smiling ruefully. "Really, Q? Really?"
Q laughs softly, a bright, mesmerising sound James realises he hasn't heard before. He wants to hear it again. Again and again and again. "Well, 007? Do you have the solution?"
"It's rain, you little prat," James growls, annoyed at himself for not getting it earlier but still hopelessly charmed in an odd reversal of events.
"Well done," Q compliments dryly. "It's eleven hundred by the way. We're searching through an 80 km radius. Do you feel up to another riddle?"
James stretches absently, somewhat surprised to find out that three hours have gone by since he woke up. A shiver runs down his spine; it would be terribly easy to lose track of time in this place, minutes stretching to eras, years passing in seconds. So this is how people go insane.
"Go ahead," he says because distractions are the only thing left to him until Q tracks him down.
"I'm tall when I'm young. I'm short when I'm old. What am I?"
This is harder to figure out, although he can't decide if it's because the riddle is more difficult or because his mind is resisting his attempts to concentrate. Everything seems to be slowing down, suspending him in cold honey, leaving his thoughts sluggish and disordered.
Somewhere, sometime, Bond recognises this isn't good, but he can't bring himself to care.
As the aeons pass, beyond the rain he can still hear, beyond the typing, beyond his own limbs and the pounding of his heart, James feels isolated from the rest of the world, locked up in a vacuum. The darkness crowds closer, and he is suddenly so, so small in the scheme of the universe.
Abruptly, he wants Q back, isn't sure how long it's been since he heard that gorgeous voice over the white noise, and so he forces his mind to work at the riddle, picking it apart piece by piece. "...a candle."
"Good. That's good, 007." There is something exquisitely tender in Q's voice, as if he knows exactly how close James is to the edge. "Remember, in, seven, out, seven. The number should be familiar to you at least."
James manages a small smile but feels scraped out and vacant on the inside. "What time is it?" he whispers, curling his fingers into his palm, the small hurt of his fingernails digging into flesh there but not seeming to connect with his faraway conscious.
"Twelve hundred. We're almost there. Just a little bit longer now. Do you want another riddle or something else?" It should be galling that Q is handling him with baby gloves, but James is only relieved that Q isn't going away again, the gentleness in those tones assuaging a fraction of his loneliness.
"Something else. What are you doing right now, Q?"
"Assessing the blueprints and schematics of every building within the radius we've established," Q says promptly, followed by what sounds like a long sip of tea - Earl Grey, if James had to guess. "I've already eliminated seventy-five percent, so we should be clear within the next four hours."
"Four hours, huh?" Q was right; to search the whole of Syria must be more than a little intimidating. "Are you sure you don't want me to repay you with dinner? I swear I won't bite." Raw as he is, the flirting falls a tad flatter than usual, but Q only snorts.
"Never mind that, 007. What do you know about Greek Mythology?"
James quirks an eyebrow although Q cannot see him, attention caught. "Oh, more than enough, I think."
When the rescue team shoots through the front doors five hours later, when the terrorists are all either captured or killed in an immense shoot-out, when CIA and MI6 agents pour into the building, James and Q are debating the creativity of Hera's retributions.
"She forced her husband to turn his mistress into a cow," Q insists. "A cow. Say what you want about how appropriate that punishment would be today, but it was more than a bit of a new trend for the Ancient Greeks. People normally didn't go around being turned into cows."
"Come on, Q, she's a goddess," James disdains. "She could have done so much better. That lovely widow from Berlin; now she knew how to make her lover regret cheating on her. Threw his mistress' decapitated head at him like a football."
"And the time she tricked Zeus into killing off his mistress himself?"
"Unoriginal. Margaret from California forced her ex-husband to admit to his affair, dump the mistress, and beg forgiveness at the most important party of his life. His boss and coworkers were there. Parents, too, I think. I have never seen a man so embarrassed."
"She was pregnan - excuse me for a moment." There is a short pause while James tries not to squirm at the sudden renewal of the silence. "That was 004; she's nearing your position. She says she'll be knocking on every door she comes across. Answer in Code 29B."
"Got it," 007 answers, standing up immediately. Thanks to the constant stretching, he isn't numb, his muscles just fine. Feeling his way across his prison, he pauses when his questing fingers meet the outline of the door. Turning, he leans against the wall right next to it and breathes slowly and carefully.
Instinctively, James knows that when he is out, when he is back in MI6, being beleaguered by Psych and Medical, this will end, whatever this is. Be it the effortless banter, the unusual openness, the lack of barriers and aloofness and professional distance, it will all melt away as if it never was.
It's almost enough to make him want to stay here, where the only thing he knows is Q's voice, now as familiar as James' own. "Q?" he asks, wanting to know why, why Q won't let them be something more, something magnificent.
"Yes?" Like always, Q's tone comes across even and mostly indecipherable, but he thinks he hears a strain of regret, as if Q, too, doesn't want this to end. That only intensifies his desire to get to the bottom of this undeniable grudge.
They could be so good together, and despite all of his reservations, despite every last death that has haunted him, despite the sky-high, thorned and bloodied walls around his heart, James wants.
He opens his mouth, but the knock comes on the door, jarring and startling, and the moment is gone. Q is forced off the comms, R takes over, and Marian arches an eyebrow at Bond, hand on hip. "Why, hello there, handsome."
007 is back on a plane to England approximately three hours after he set his temporary prison on fire and burned it to the ground. 004 helped, a wicked smile on her lips and laughter on her tongue, careless disregard for the orders they were disobeying.
They're creatures created of the same mould, the Double-Ohs, and they thrive in hell and war.
The medical team wanted to keep him in Syria for a while more, but he isn't physically injured, isn't so much as bruised, and they didn't have any grounds to hold him. Psych will be a different story, but for now, Bond is free to leave for brighter pastures.
Although he isn't injured, Bond's lovely time with his captors remains with him in every throb of his head. Even the steady hum of the plane engine and the low murmurs from the other passengers are a shrieking cacophony to his sensitive hearing, the bright lights from above sharp needle pricks through his eyeballs despite the dark sunglasses he wears.
004, no stranger to sensory deprivation herself, found the softest cotton shirt and sweatpants she could for him, the material of his usual suits too irritating for his current sense of touch, but still, he feels like the world is burning down around his ears, too much, too much.
James finds himself longing for something familiar. Comforting. As if in response, a balmy warmth flares on his forearm, like sitting by a fireplace after a long, satisfying ski, like a lover's embrace after too much time and distance. He stiffens instinctively, but it doesn't hurt, only washes over his heightened senses gently.
He glances around discreetly to be certain no one is watching him before drawing his sleeve back, casual as can be. As he half-expected, half-hoped, black words are appearing slowly on his skin. He watches, fascinated but confused; this has never happened before. Is this some new aspect of the soulmate rules the scientists still cannot agree on?
"Home is where one starts from." - T. S. Elliot
Home. Such a strange concept, he thinks, swirling the glass of water in his hand like it's vodka. He supposes he should be concerned about more evidence that his soulmate is keeping an eye on him, but he's too bloody tired to. Home.
To be honest, James doesn't think he's had a home for a very long time. The flat in London is just that: a flat. MI6 is his job. Before, he thought Vesper could be home. When she was gone, he still had M, who was a foothold if not a home.
Now, home is an abstraction, not a place. Home is somewhere in London, he knows, meandering down this alley and that, but never settling, like a stray alley at with teeth and claws and a wariness of kindness.
Above, soft strains of blues start playing, and the flight attendants nearby exchange startled looks. James relaxes into his seat, the faintest hints of a smile on his lips despite everything. The lights above dim gradually, and the night sky outside is beautiful.
James dozes, secure in the knowledge he's being watched over. It's not necessary by any means, but it feels...nice. Surely, if his Quartermaster is happier keeping an eye on the agent he kept sane for three, almost four days, then who is he to argue with that?
"So, I hear you're driving Psych crazy again." Moneypenny catches up him at the front door, the clacks of her stilettos on the hard floor worsening Bond's headache although he doesn't show it.
Bond slows down in concession to her shorter stride but doesn't stop walking. His plane touched down on English soil thirty minutes after midnight, and after a brief, cursory visit to Medical, he was, indeed, forced to undergo a psych examination. "Did you expect anything less?"
"No, but I do wish you would stop trying to give M an aneurysm. If he goes down, so will my salary. Q's on a five-day mandatory leave, by the way. Looked like he was about to pass out after staying awake for almost ninety hours with only a two-hour nap in-between." Moneypenny's smile is impish, the non-sequitur not the least bit subtle.
"I know," Bond says dryly. "It was the first thing Psych told me. When Tanner came down, he opened our conversation with that, too. Should I expect M to spare a minute or two in the middle of his inevitable lecture to tell me the same as well?"
He refuses to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind, that he was wondering about the absence of snarky, mysterious boffins in the vicinity before his psychologist informed him.
Moneypenny laughs and hands him a piece of paper. "Five-day mandatory leave for you, too," she says. "Go home, Bond. MI6 will still be here when you come back."
Bond goes to his flat and breaks out the good scotch, expensive even by his standards. That edge of painful sensitivity is starting to fade, and he pushes through the rest of it with all of the dogged determination that has kept him alive to this point despite the world's attempts to kill him.
He chokes down two glassfuls and collapses on his bed, every last one of his security systems on. Bond sleeps the sleep of the dead, exhausted and worn-down, and wakes up with not a clue as to what time it is, a far cry from his usual impeccable internal clock.
He thinks he should get up and do something. He doesn't move. Instead, Bond lies on his bed and stares up at the blank ceiling, the silence in itself a monstrous thing threatening to devour him. He can't quite bring himself to care.
Time washes over him, away from him. It's a familiar experience by now. His mind tunes in, tunes out, tunes in, over and over and over again, but every time he focuses once more, only the white ceiling greets him. He wonders what he was hoping for.
Nothing. Nothing. Surely he knows better than to hope by now.
When he rolls out of bed at last, his watch says that it's six in the evening. Like a robot, James goes through the motions: taking a shower, putting on a suit, strutting out the door in search of something, anything, to ease the cold emptiness that continues to taunt him.
The one upside of the use of sensory deprivation as a torture device, he thinks sardonically, is the lack of injuries and thus the lack of necessary break-outs from Medical.
James wanders into a bar and sits in the corner for three hours, nursing his martini. He smiles at a beautiful brunette and shags her senseless when she takes him back home. After putting himself back to rights, he stumbles home and promptly falls asleep.
He dreams of darkness, suffocating, maddening darkness, only as beautiful as it is terrifying. He dreams of the sea, endless and magnificent, his eternal love, his heart's murky grave. He dreams of silence, of falling, of drifting around aimlessly without his anchor.
James wakes up at noon the next day and does it all over again.
On the third day, he jerks out of a nightmare at six in the morning and goes for a run. The wind cuts into his cheeks as he sprints past the familiar buildings of London, the steady pump of his heart loud in his ears. He jumps over rails, flips over walls, and runs.
It's the most alive he's felt since he burned his jail to the ground.
James goes home and starts unpacking. He's ten minutes in when the inanity of it catches up to him. There's no point in inconveniencing himself or the moving crew. Either someone's going to find this flat and bomb the hell out of it or someone's going to find him and do the same.
Knowing himself, knowing Q, the latter option seems most likely. Nonetheless, there's absolutely no reason to put effort into unpacking.
James pours himself a glass of wine and settles down in front of the telly for a long night, lighting up a cigarette. He ends up falling asleep on his sofa, dreams restless and filled with blood.
"It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop." - Confucius
James goes for a run at four in the morning on his fourth day of leave and takes a shower when he gets back home. Instead of ordering take-out, he wastes almost an hour figuring out how his kitchen works and cooking a simple breakfast.
By now, his military training has come back to haunt him. Keep moving, his old trainers shout, keep running, don't ever stop, you're wasting daylight, sailor! The room, the empty room next to his bedroom, is soundproof and padded, and he hangs a punching bag from the hook that was already there.
James has studied boxing amongst the many other forms of martial arts he's well versed in. Today, he finds his gloves, slides into the correct form, and just wrecks the punching bag until sweat is running down his skin and the violence that churns relentlessly in his mind ceases momentarily.
He takes a shower once more and eats the leftovers of his breakfast for lunch. The silence is starting to echo in his ears once more, a constant, shrill ringing that threatens to give him a headache, so he settles himself on the couch with some rum and the newest tablet from Q-Branch, sleek and fast and quiet.
Q handed it to James himself, merely two weeks ago, although it seems much longer. He wonders what the boffin is doing right now but rapidly derails his thoughts before he starts wandering down that well-worn path again.
There are already several sites bookmarked, detailing new developments in technology and terrorism, and he easily loses himself in what guns villains are using today, where their minions are coming from, the lesser-known details of guerrilla warfare…
Drowned. Countless articles later, James physically jerks when that word crosses his path, suddenly stricken. His rum is all gone, and there's not enough air getting into his lungs. He looks at the date at the top of the screen, thinks of storm blue eyes and that red, red dress.
Fuck it, he thinks and gets up to grab the scotch.
"I forgot," James slurs the instant Q opens his door.
Q observes him for a long moment, blank-faced.
James knows why he's not surprised, at least - the conspicuous cameras in the upper corners of the walls and the other features of Q's security system must have alerted him to the identity of his visitor - but he can find nothing else, and it almost makes him uneasy of his welcome.
"I forgot," James repeats, softer this time. From behind Q, there is a familiar meow.
Q sighs through his nose and steps aside. James stumbles inside, not yet smashed enough to trip over his own feet and faceplant into the floor although he was in the process of getting there when the silence finally became too much.
Q's apartment hasn't changed much, still all barely controlled chaos. Morgana and Rayleigh waste no time greeting James with purrs and nuzzles, and when he collapses on the sofa, surprisingly devoid of random trinkets, they leap up and settle down next to him.
It helps. A little. He pets them and stares blearily at the bookshelf. Behind the familiar buzz of intoxication, he's...tired. So tired.
James barely has time to register Q's absence before Q is in front of him again, pressing a cup of water into his still rock-steady hands. James doesn't want water, he wants more alcohol, but he drinks the water anyways.
Q sits down on the sofa, Rayleigh between them. He's quiet until James finishes the cup and then Q takes it away from him and says, "What did you forget?"
"Vesper," James says, unthinking, and doesn't see Q flinch minutely. The second the name falls off his tongue, James wonders what's wrong with him; even completely and utterly drunk off his ass, whether to M or to the parasitic psychologists, he's never spoken of Vesper.
But now, it's like a dam has broken, and more words are flowing out of his mouth. "I - she - we met. Tomorrow. Six years ago."
Q says nothing.
"She was beautiful. And clever. So clever. Not afraid. Of me." James laughs raggedly. "She was never afraid of standing up to me. Even. Even right before the end. God, why am I telling you this?"
Q says nothing still but gently shoos Rayleigh off the sofa. James wishes he would say something, he's missed that voice, oh has he missed that voice, but then there's a hand sliding around his nape to cup the side of his neck.
James shudders, head lolling back.
When Q draws him down to rest his head on his lap, James doesn't resist. He blinks up at Q, whose face remains unreadable with the exception of his green, green eyes, soft with kindness and something terribly, awfully like sorrow.
James frowns, reaches up to touch his fingers lightly to Q's cheek. He doesn't want Q to be sad. "After she left," he whispers, "everyone else left, too. My fault, 'course. Mathis...I got revenge for him. But Fields - she was an innocent. Camille was right to not get involved with me."
He pauses, smiles humorlessly. "But you already know that, don't you?" James lets his hand fall back down, sluggish and dropping not caring. "You read my file, you know everything 'bout me."
"No," Q says evenly, running his fingers through James' hair, and it's a relief, it makes something in him click and unlock. "I don't."
And he remembers -
"She's gone," James mumbles into Q's shoulder, hands flung around his waist. He clings like he's adrift at sea and Q is the lifeboat, confused and hurt in equal measure. "She's gone."
Q merely hums, breath hot on his ear. Something in the way he holds onto James just as tightly seems to suggest he needs this, too. By all rights, James should be squishing him, but he hasn't complained once.
"It's my fault." There is something nearly childlike in the whispered condemnation.
Q is quiet for a while, and James knows he agrees. But then he asks, "Is it my fault, too?"
James looks up at Q, frowning, bewilderment cutting through his grief. "No, I...why would you say that?"
"I let Silva into our systems." Fingers pet James' nape absently while the other hand draws small circles on his back. "I let him escape to hurt M."
James shakes his head and reburies his head in Q's collarbone. "Not your fault."
"Then not your fault either."
"That's not it works."
"Yes, it is."
James doesn't want to argue. "Mmkay," he says and closes his eyes. Q smells strangely like home and comfort, and when he falls asleep, it's with the sound of Q's heartbeat echoing in his dreams.
James...stares. "We've done this before."
Q doesn't try and deny it. "Yes."
James groans, brow furrowing, and turns to bury his face in Q's stomach for a moment. "I don't understand," he says, a tad helplessly.
"Don't understand what?"
He doesn't understand why his instincts seem to automatically categorise Q as a non-threat. He doesn't understand why he goes to Q when he's dead drunk and vulnerable and should know better. He doesn't understand why his secrets can't stay secrets around Q.
James doesn't understand why his trust in Q is so absolute when Q says one thing but does another, when Q blows hot and cold with no warning, when Q is his Quartermaster and James is 007, and as Silva so nicely demonstrated, MI6 has no compunctions about expendable assets.
"You," he replies at last because that's the easiest response. And then, his brain shorts out and his mouth continues on with, "Me. Us."
Q smiles, wryly and tinged with something James can't comprehend, almost like irony or self-mockery. "There is no 'us'," he says but his voice is soft, gentle. "I have no interest in becoming a one-night stand, Bond."
Not '007', he notes hazily and wonders why. "I don't want you to be a one-night stand." James throws away his one-night stands, and he doesn't want Q thrown out of his life.
"Then what do you want?"
James just shrugs and burrows deeper into Q's cardigan, closing his eyes. He's warm and comfortable, safe and content, and he wants to go to sleep now.
"Bond. What do you want from me? "
Huffing, he forces himself awake a little and thinks about it. He wants Q to stay, not go away like M and Vesper and everyone else. And since Q refuses to be tied to James with sex… "Be my friend."
Q is silent for a long time but guides James off the sofa and into his bedroom, tucking him in and then sitting on the edge, watching. James steadily dozes off, lulled by the tea and citrus scent from the bedsheets, too tired to worry about the implications of his request.
At last, dimly, in the floating darkness, James hears Q whisper, "Okay," and brush a kiss over his forehead.
That doesn't seem like a very friend-like gesture but then, what does he know?
The third step in any successful mission is dealing with the aftermath.
It's almost like a message from beyond, Q thinks wistfully as he strokes James' hair, a touch his soulmate would doubtlessly refute violently were Q any other, were this situation any better. Q has failed at being a mere colleague, acquaintance, and so, he must become a friend.
It's almost cruel, the things James says, does, when he's drunk and his instincts can fully come to the forefront, the leash of his wariness and training slackened. Of course, it's not James' fault. He doesn't know.
Because Q doesn't want James to know. Because James can't know.
"Friends," Q tells himself. "Only friends. I can do that."
OpalescentGold: James and Q are very, very stubborn, let's go with that. All the love to gunshyvw, Linorien, and jordankaine.
Light Lamperouge: Thank you, darling! Welcome to the fandom - I would recommend AO3, there's more 00q there to be found - and I will absolutely not stop writing until this story is complete.
rubyred753: *blushes* Awww, thank you so much! Your review made my day. No worries, I love writing too much to stop.