OpalescentGold: HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYONE! THIS IS MY GIFT TO ALL OF YOU LOVELY READERS WHO HAVE STUCK WITH ME THROUGHOUT ALL MY BS.

(And in the spirit of the holidays, please forgive and forget the amount of time this took. I tried. Really. James and Q just wouldn't cooperate with me. Also RL tried to murder me.)

I don't own James Bond or Q. Thank God, I couldn't deal with these two idiots 24/7.

007 has a license to kill, and oddly enough, that has never let him sleep soundly.

He's accustomed to the fast life. All Double-Ohs live extravagantly and desperately, for their job pays well in money and in death. They deal out both in fair amounts to others and one day, they all know, in their heart of hearts, the same will be doled out to them.

James Bond may have the nine lives of a cat, but he has certainly not gotten where he is by being stupid. Reckless on occasion, perhaps, but not stupid. While sleep can have more value than gold at times, it also brings about a sitting-duck feeling that all agents despise.

These days, he rarely even needs the training the Navy and then MI6 pounded into his skull to wake up in the span of a finger snap, silently and without even the flicker of an eyelash to give him away.

The nightmares that haunt him, of fire and of water, of last words whispered and mouthed, of wintry eyes and red dresses, of ghosts and blood and death, are more than sufficient.

Ironically, on this morning, enclosed in warmth and comfort, every muscle melted into the bed, an odd contentedness drifting through his veins, the world fuzzy and sweet around him, this is what jolts James awake.

For the first time in years, reality embraces him with a gentleness he hasn't been treated to since childhood, and it's an utter shock to his system once his mind catches up with the situation.

How long has it been since he felt this sense of easy leisure, as if 007 is a bloody ordinary man lazing around in bed on a Sunday morning? How long has it been since he felt safe and secure enough to surface out of sleep in gradual, hazy interludes?

Which is stupid, is what it is, because who protects a Double-Oh? No one. Double-Ohs are the ones who protect others, and really, it's tried and true that James Bond is rubbish at that, no matter who it happens to be.

No. No, there must be something wrong with him, with the situation. Bond feigns sleep and concentrates on his hearing, discreetly evaluating his status at the same time. No injuries, although he's almost painfully thirsty and rather dizzy. A strange, new drug, perhaps.

After about a minute of pure silence, a meow sounds about a metre away.

Everything clicks in a moment, and James groans faintly as the memories from last night finally work their way past the hangover.

Buggering fuck.

Abruptly, he is stricken with the sudden desire to bolt right out the window; it's worked well for him in the past, guns, daggers, and scorned women aside. The only thing that stops him is the knowledge that Q is his Quartermaster, and Bond cannot - doesn't even want to - avoid him forever, even with his unneeded secrets now clouding up their formerly stabilising relationship.

That, and Q's security system would probably electrocute him, and 007 would honestly prefer not to go out flailing on the rug like a fish out of water.

Sighing, James is entirely unsurprised to open his eyes to a familiar unremarkable white ceiling. He's tangled in blankets that now smell a tantalising mixture of Earl Grey and James' cologne, and Morgana stands primly in the doorway, looking highly unimpressed.

Upon seeing that he's awake, she flicks him a judgemental look.

He scowls, propping himself up on his elbows and noting to his discomfort that there's a glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol, and a taser on the bedside table. Again. Fuck, it's been awhile since he last screwed up so badly. Even the torture in Syria came of better decisions than this.

"Oh, shut up. Don't act like you could have done better," James grumbles, downing the paracetamol and draining the glass.

Morgana stares flatly, eyes narrowed, tail lashing.

"Cats don't have painful anniversaries," he informs her waspishly. Flinging back the covers, James rolls his neck and makes a face at the horrid taste in his mouth. "You don't know what it's like."

The blasted cat jumps onto the workbench table to pointedly look down her nose at him.

"Bloody cheek." Of course Q's cats have just as much sass and attitude as he does under that proper, professional exterior.

After taking care of his morning breath, Morgana watching him silently the whole time, James lets himself linger in the bedroom for another two minutes, agonising over the revelations of last night, his frankly mortifying request, the kinks in his armour he made so. Very. Obvious .

Christ, what possessed him to come to Q in the first place, much less talk about Vesper? Because although the memory of the entire evening is rather blurry in his mind, he remembers this vividly.

He doesn't talk about Vesper. James Bond doesn't ever talk about Vesper Lynd, not to anyone. Not even just Vesper, but Mathis and Fields and Camille, too.

James can't make heads or tails of his behaviour when he's drunk around Q. Or in general, really. He briefly considers going to Psych before deciding he'd rather get shot off a moving train again.

(It's a shame he doesn't. Any psychologist worth their salt would have identified the 'problem' as an effect of the well-known, instinctive, dangerous trust between soulmates within seconds.

Textbook case in espionage, really, the inability for ancient and mighty walls to stay put, for trembling, broken hearts to remain in the right hands.

Secrets never remain secrets for long.)

Besides that, even looking past the raw vulnerability of the question and the surprising answer, James knows, knows, that Q will never be his friend like Moneypenny or Tanner. Their dynamic is simply too different but -

This could be a step forward, regardless of what may be waiting for them at the end. This could be a blessing in disguise, however unplanned. No agent is one to overlook a gift horse in the mouth, not unless betrayal is in the air and their back is wide-open.

Certainly, James never sees any of his one-night stands again - not positively anyhow; more than a few have turned out to be assassins - and his record with lovers is even more bloodstained.

Mathis aside, Felix, Moneypenny, and Tanner, all people he would reluctantly consider friends although he wouldn't admit so under torture, are still alive despite all odds and field risk, so that should mean something, right?

Being a player in the world of espionage means knowing the landscape of your mind and personality and wants and dreams and needs and desires like the back of your hand. The triggers and the buttons and the weak points - James is much too familiar with himself and hates it.

But. He knows now that he would rather Q stay with him as his friend than try and push for anything more only to hold the boffin's limp, cold body in his arms one day and mourn until he's six feet under and nothing but bones.

Hasn't this been his goal from the very start? A useful, friendly relationship with his Quartermaster? James isn't certain what his feelings are doing by this point.

And what does Q think of all this?

Morgana meows impatiently when James remains frozen by the door and prowls off, taking no notice of the thoughts wreaking havoc in the famed 007's already-besieged mind. Twitching at the realisation that he's being an idiot and standing in place won't solve anything, James follows.

Q is splayed over the sofa they occupied the night before, laptop safely on the table, right arm flung over his eyes, feet still bare, breathing deep and rhythmic. Rayleigh dozes at his side, wrapped tightly in a little ball. Morgana wastes no time in joining the duo.

In the fluttering lights of early morning, Q looks heartwrenchingly young and vulnerable, all tousled hair and soft lines, too gorgeous by far.

James watches over the boffin and his cats for a moment, fighting the bizarre urge to bundle Q up and hide him away from the world so willing to do him harm, or, at least, tuck a blanket around him.

It's August. No one needs a bloody blanket.

Fuck, he needs to get a hold of himself. Why can't this be as simple as the usual car chase followed by a shoot-out? Bond would be so much more comfortable if someone was pointing a gun at him.

Alas, from the sounds of the soft snoring, no can do.

Reluctantly leaving Q to sleep, James moves into the kitchen and with his customary stealth, begins to re-familiarize himself with the place. He can't change what's happened so he might as well salvage the situation. That's what 007 does, after all.

Of course, most of the time, he's trying to salvage a world on fire or a bloody hole in the ground but explosions are a necessary component of life.

The contents of Q's kitchen are somewhat pathetic, even by James' standards. There's take-out in the fridge, instant ramen noodle cups in the pantry, and some bread on the counter. And of course, the machine that feeds the cats is stocked almost to the brim.

It's good to know his Quartermaster has his priorities straight.

By the time Q begins to stir, James has the bread toasting and some water boiling. Not unsurprisingly, Q has more than enough tea despite lacking pretty much everything else. "Good morning," he calls casually, finding both marmite and butter in the fridge.

There's a sleepy, befuddled silence. "...007?"

James turns to look at Q over his shoulder, smirking playfully. It's easy enough to pull on the role of morning-after charmer; he has quite a bit of experience in that department even if this doesn't fit the bill completely. "Codenames between friends, Q?"

Q groans after a moment of recollection. "I knew you would be insufferable."

James laughs and just like that, the faint tension in the air disappears, leaving behind an ease and intimacy that defies explanation and time. "Now, is that any way to talk to the one who made you breakfast?"

A shuffling sound and two complaining meows mark Q's attempt to leave the sofa. "Insufferable," he repeats and wanders off to the bathroom with the most ridiculous bedhead. It's oddly endearing.

James carefully refrains from imagining a scenario where such a sight would be a common one.

By the time Q wanders back into his kitchen, dressed in one of his customary, hideous cardigans and tapping impatiently away on his phone, James has the toast on the table and a mug of tea ready, made precisely the way Q likes it.

"Ta," Q mutters, still sounding half-asleep. He covers up a yawn, possibly dismantling a government eight thousand kilometres away at the same time. Rayleigh meows demandingly and flicks his ears before meandering over to James to be petted.

This appears to set the tone for the rest of breakfast. Q is evidently not exactly a morning person, and James is content enough to be preoccupied with the cats while Q dedicates a minuscule amount of his attention to making sure the food in his hand gets in his mouth.

He manages remarkably for someone whose eyes are either half-lidded or focused entirely on the screen of his phone.

When James gets up to grab the plates, Q graces him with a sweet, absent-minded smile that he's never seen before, entirely devoid of barriers. Q seems to realise what he's done seconds later, mind finally catching up with a lag time that's in amusing contrast to his normal diamond-bright intellect, and freezes.

There's a long, awkward moment as a multitude of emotions flash across Q's face, his struggle with himself painted in delicate, clashing colours. James takes pity and pretends not to notice, moving to set the plates down in the sink instead.

As far as he knows, friendships that last aren't built on their kind of tension. Best to ignore it, however it might make him itch right down to his soul.

Morgana pads into the kitchen behind him and rubs up against his left leg with a needling meow. James rolls his eyes and throws the clingy cat a treat before it has the chance to ruin his clothes further.

Q's abandoned his phone for his laptop when James returns, not so subtly trying to avoid meeting Bond's gaze. Silently walking around the sofa to lean over Q's shoulder, James arches an eyebrow at the familiar MI6 network on the screen. "Aren't you on leave?"

"What about it?" Q doesn't startle although he couldn't possibly have heard 007's approach, his deft fingers flying over the keyboard to form lines of indecipherable code with impeccable command.

James smiles slyly and thinks, with a truly frightening amount of fondness, that, of course, Q, beneath his prim cardigans and sensible voice and professionalism, isn't afraid of breaking the rules when they don't suit him.

But then he already knows that, doesn't he? Has known since Skyfall. "Nothing, Q. Nothing at all."

Q flicks him an unreadable look but doesn't ask him to leave, so James doesn't. Collapsing gracefully on the sofa beside Q instead, James deliberately emits a placid and comfortable air - not hard to do in the circumstances - and turns on the telly.

Despite evidence to the contrary, it's amazing what the power of suggestion can do. Q, unintentionally most likely, relaxes muscle by muscle, lulled by the white noise into lenient tolerance.

There's nothing terribly worthwhile on, but when he flips to a channel with the new Doctor Who on, Q twitches, so James, who has seen Q continue coding without a hitch while lives are at stake, smirks softly and leaves it on.

He's been meaning to catch up anyway.

Within half an hour, Q has set his laptop aside and curled up on the other end of the sofa, focused intensely on the screen as the Tenth Doctor runs around trying to resolve the newest crisis before the universe can get blown up. For the nth time that week.

James is grimly amused by the chaos. It's always nice to see stakes higher than the ones he normally deals with and a man whose lives are worse than his.

While the cats alternate between stalking around and splaying themselves over their humans with purrs, Q remains purely devoted to the show. As if he's a feline himself, he melts gradually into the cushions like he's made of liquid.

He occasionally checks his phone but otherwise stays relaxed and pliant, a far cry from his usual professional behaviour. Right here, right now, there is only the vaguest hint of the Quartermaster, that lethal brilliance soothed into calm content, brisk demeanour blurring into languid enjoyment.

Only a fool would believe he's an ounce less dangerous or formidable, of course, but this...this is certainly something. New.

In the end, James is the one who gets up and orders in some Chinese food from a good place he knows. Q hums a distracted thanks and replicates his feat from breakfast, paradoxically at ease and so wary, it's clear he's been hurt before.

Even with all the rot and cruelty James has witnessed in the world, he can't comprehend why anyone would ever want to hurt Q.

Their Doctor Who marathon lasts well into the afternoon and then into the night. During the commercials, while Q occupies himself with his phone or his cats and the gentle thrumming quiet is filled with absentminded banter, James wonders at himself.

007 is not a man readily tamed. His vices tranquillize him to an extent, but when off-duty for too long, he's been known to stir up all sorts of activity for an unimpressed MI5. Passive domesticity is hardly his area, and yet he is the farthest thing away from restless at the moment.

(Once, just once, James let himself be stroked into complacency by a smile that could outshine the sun and a passionate touch that brought to mind summer nights and the love of a bonfire. But Q so close is a shining beacon to the present, and James leaves her ghost be.)

When the time comes for him to leave, James is leaning against the arm of the sofa, the Italian pasta he ordered in for dinner still dancing across his tastebuds, feeling unbearably pampered by the day he's had.

Two slender feet that don't belong to him are pressed against the side of his abdomen. The sofa is much too small for two grown men, and propriety has long lost its fight against cosiness. His own feet are right by Q's hip.

James isn't quite sure when that happened, but he can't bring himself to regret anything.

Q's eyes are half-lidded, hand covering his third yawn in just as many minutes. He's sleep-warm and right within arms-reach, looking so vulnerable, it makes James' chest throb with bittersweet ache.

The moonlight turns him into a piece of art, and James is flying, crashing, wholly at peace with the world, burning as if he was soaked in gasoline, as slaphappy as a silly teenager on their first date -

James murmurs, "Thank you, Q," and it isn't until he gets back to his flat that he realises the silence has stopped ringing in his ears.

They don't talk about what happened last night.

"Do bring your equipment back in one piece this time."

"Of course, Q."

"Liar."

"So cruel, Quartermaster."

"Good luck."

"Of course."

"Life did not stop, and one had to live." - War and Peace

007 blows up a terrorist organisation in Tehran after a long ski-chase and a minor avalanche and returns to Q-Branch only to be told by R that Q is down in R&D and Is Not To Be Disturbed on pain of malfunctioning gadgets and injured boffins, Q included.

For once, Bond decides to listen. He still escapes before she can tell him to go to Medical. It's just a broken wrist, after all.

He leaves his souvenir - a splendidly-patterned scarf in red and black - and a box of peppermint bark on Q's desk and doesn't bother leaving a note or tampering with the security cameras. The minions know better. And Q will know either way.

When 007 reports to Mallory three hours late, there's a suspicious tilt to the man's head, but he doesn't mention the rumours of his best Double-Oh agent and his Quartermaster that Moneypenny has whispered in his ear.

Doubtlessly because his concerns lean more towards the national side of things.

"There's going to be," M says, "a merge between MI5 and MI6 in less than five months. Behave yourself, 007."

There have been whispers since Skyfall, of course, but the unholy meld, as Bond has come to think of it, has only become an official matter in the past few months. Personally, he isn't at all enthused by it, but then, 'old dog, new tricks,' wasn't it?

The tower, in his opinion, is just bloody unnecessary.

"I'll do my best, sir. What are they calling it now?"

"The Joint Security Service, apparently. Bit ostentatious, but what can you do?"

Dr Watson's blog is both marvellously entertaining and magnificently informative, Bond thinks as he takes a sip of expensive scotch. He's on his way to Paris, and if Q is questioning his taste in travel literature, his earpiece has remained silent.

(This mission came a bit out of the blue for both of them, really. Bond had less than four hours of sleep before being called back into the field, and Q didn't even have time to berate him for his lost equipment in-between handing him his case and frantically saving 001's grateful arse.)

A Study in Pink, truly.

There's certainly...something to it, reading about his former comrade's descent into a mad, mad love in increasingly fond descriptions and a thousand subtle shifts in syntax. James can't put his finger on it, the numberless facets of the courtship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

When Watson talks of late-night chases and ever-gruesome murders and a kill-shot waved away as an unsolved-mystery or self-defence, it almost feels familiar, bringing to mind rapid gunfire and explosions in the distance, the lashing heat of Afghanistan lingering in his veins.

Fast as death, violently chaotic, and more than suitable for an army doctor and his consulting detective.

But then Watson is trying and failing to conceal a deep fondness and affection behind exasperation in small little anecdotes about body parts in the freezer and a violin playing lullabies at midnight, and James can't possibly imagine such a light-filled existence.

Slow as honey, serenely peaceful, and dropped crumbs from a soulmate romance straight out of the classics.

007 closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, turning the tablet off. Above, the plane speakers play familiar blues.

"Thank you for the chocolate," Q says nonchalantly as 007 runs down an uneven backstreet and back onto the main road, the soft glow of the lights dancing in the thin fog so the world seems magical and haunted at the same time. "It was delicious."

Bond grunts, breath coming hard and fast, adrenaline placing everything in fast-forward and slow-motion simultaneously. "Not really the time, Q, but you're welcome. Where is he?" His target is one of the leaders of a slave ring, and 007's doing the world a favour, really.

"Coming up at you is an intersection. Take a left. And…now a right. Do please keep in mind that you're not off the hook for all the tech you've managed to destroy this time around. I'm not susceptible to bribery."

"Never considered it," Bond claims and is only partially lying. Multitasking is one of his many talents, and if keeping Q happy will also get him favours, then there's two birds with one pretty stone. "Happen to be partial to anything from Paris?"

"Intact equipment," Q quips drily and then there's an abrupt bite to his voice, and Bond knows , even before Q says, "Ten enemies fifteen metres ahead, spread out over a thirty metre distance. 007, it's too foggy for me to get a proper read on them."

"Noted." Bond readies his gun and lets his footsteps soften until he's a phantom with arctic blue eyes and death on his mind.

In the ensuing fight, 007 kills seven grunts, knocks out three, and manages to lose his earpiece in the Seine River.

...Q is going to be so pissed.

"Nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced." - Keats

James, alternatively running away from and shooting at his target, has no idea what to make of this. Hence, he chooses to ignore it and shoot a hole through an utter bastard instead. The world's been done a favour, really.

When Bond trots into Q-Branch this time, he's armed with a box of macarons and fifteen different bags of tea. He also has several make-shift stitches on his chest, dozens of colourful bruises painted on his skin, and two weeks off-grid under his belt.

Q is typing away at his desk, form much too tense. "Back so soon, 007?" he asks without turning around, casual tone strained.

Cameras, 007 assumes. Either that or a James-Bond detector. Sheer omnipotence might be pushing it a bit.

Bond hesitates but sits down on 'his' chair, uncomfortable but not willing to show it. He doesn't know how to deal with this. It's been so long since anyone was waiting for him to come ho -

"Afraid so."

'Did you miss me?' lingers on his tongue, but he swallows it back, knowing better. "Mission accomplished." After a chase across four states, three shoot-outs, two stolen cars, and one brief kidnapping, Bond misses his Aston Martin.

"Is my equipment still intact?" The tea in the scrabble mug is steaming, and Q still won't turn and face him.

In answer, Bond stands up and places the souvenirs on his desk, too close for Q to ignore them. Up close, the circles under his glazed eyes are darker than ever, and there's a paleness to his cheeks that's ugly.

For me? James wants to ask, Really? Are you sure? Why all this for the likes of me?

"I'm in one piece."

Colourless lips press together firmly, and rather than glance at his face, Q gives his battered suit a once-over before returning his attention to his computer. "Hardly. Be nice for Medical and check in with M, 007, or I'll order a mandatory psych evaluation for you next Friday."

"Cruel. At least eat a macaron first," James barters, willing to bet a good sum of money that Q hasn't eaten a proper meal in days. "Even you can't survive on just tea, you know."

Q rolls his eyes but reaches out and starts breaking open the macaron box. "Those," he says, gesturing to the tea bags, "claim otherwise. And you're not my mother, 007. Go. Shoo. I have work to do."

But there's a small curve to his lips now, and he's wearing the scarf although it's nowhere near cold enough for it to be necessary.

James smirks cheekily and saunters out, calling over his shoulder, "Exploding pen, Q."

"In your dreams!"

James doesn't tell Q about his dreams. The minions are already whispering amongst themselves, their eavesdropping not even the slightest bit subtle.

Friends, he reminds himself. They're friends. Surely, this, that, is within the boundaries of friendship.

"There are plenty who regard a wall behind which something is happening as a very curious thing." - The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Who are you, he wants to ask, what do you know? Are they afraid of a killer, is that why? Are they a bloody enemy of Queen and Country; is he meant to shoot them down in the end?

Stop. Christ, just stop this, he doesn't want -

But he traces the elegant words, a bit shaky as if his soulmate's hand was shaking, and can't bear the thought of losing this.

James has been pushing. Whispering, asking, searching for the third Holmes brother. But he's gotten nothing, and the only two venues open to him now are going directly to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson or shaking the system so much he gains an audience with Mycroft Holmes.

Instinctively, he knows that if he does either, the status quo will shift. The catalyst will spark and whether the outcome will be in his favour, in his soulmate's favour, isn't going to be his decision.

There's a high chance he'll lose to those odds, by his own hand or otherwise.

007 makes a career of hard choices and unbearable sacrifices. And still, James lies in his bed, fingers resting reverently on the ink on his skin as if afraid it'll all disappear the second he loses contact.

Bond returns to Q-Branch bright and early three days later and walks in on Q delivering the mother of all dressing downs on 003, who looks appropriately shame-faced and very inappropriately wary for someone whose credit score hasn't even been threatened yet.

Eyebrows raising, Bond crosses his arms and leans against the doorway, entertained and mildly disconcerted. There's nothing quite like seeing an enormous, muscular man cowering before a slender boffin, but…

Q doesn't even look angry, is the thing. His face is entirely impassive, his voice a sharp, clear scalpel with no mercy. He is eerily implacable, coolly ruthless, and remarkably skilled in tearing down inflated egos in a few well-chosen words.

James watches, torn helplessly between admiration and intrigue. He can definitely understand the sparkles in the gathered minion's eyes as they watch their boss flay a Double-Oh alive without so much as a flinch:

Q's glorious, combining the composure of a centuries-old glacier with the rapid-fire efficiency of cyber-destruction. He's breathtaking, he's formidable, and 007, for all that he burns so much more than 003, has never had that rage directed towards him.

That's. That could be interesting. Useful.

James swallows hard, mouth abruptly very dry.

"...and that's quite enough out of you. I'll see you in three days for your mission to Prague, 003, and I'm sure I've made my expectations more than clear enough for you. Do let me know if you need further clarification. Good day." Q turns away, the dismissal evident.

It takes 003 a few minutes to pick his jaw off the ground and shove past 007, a particularly dazed look on his face. Bond has to admit, it's possible his face might be doing the same thing. Taking a moment to gather his wits, he walks in with perhaps a touch less arrogance than usual.

"Ah, 007," Q greets with a bland smile and hard eyes. "Come to wreck more of my equipment?"

"Is that what 003 made the unfortunate mistake of doing?"

"Sadly not. 003 made the mistake of threatening one of my employees in an excessive fit of temper and possessing the dubious nerve to attempt to intimidate me into procuring a grenade launcher for him. He has since learned better."

Bond starts making plans to pay 003 a visit one of these nights."Hell of a lesson," he teases, expertly concealing his suddenly murderous thoughts.

Q blinks. Arches an eyebrow. "Are you implying you're interested in learning? And here I thought you'd left the good classrooms of education behind a long time ago."

"We never truly do, now do we? Not to worry, though, I don't doubt that you'd make a marvellous teacher. You remind me of a feisty professor I once met in Cambodia. Quite brilliant, he was."

"The chemistry professor who eventually ended up blowing up an entire shopping complex?" Q's tone is sheer disbelief with an added side of vintage dryness, but there's a smile lurking on the corners of his lips now.

"That's the one." Smirking, James leans his hip against the edge of Q's desk, peripherally noting the slow scattering of the crowd of giggling, whispering minions with amusement. "Just as magnificent with martinis as he was with Molotov cocktails."

"Is that where you got your obsession from?"

"Obsession? Q, where do you get these strange ideas from?"

"I don't know. I guess I just assume that's where most of MI6's budget is directed to instead of being put to actual good use." The rigid line of his shoulders relaxing, Q settles into his chair and starts typing, ostensibly ignoring the agent looming over here.

James isn't deterred. "The martinis I have are worth it. Have you ever had one?"

"I don't drink on the job, 007."

"Pity." An interesting idea occurs to him. "You wouldn't happen to be a lightweight, would you?" There are just so many fascinating possibilities to be had with that.

Q splutters for a long moment before throwing an adorably stroppy glare at Bond. "A lightweight? Is that the best you could come up with?"

"Well, I've hardly seen any evidence otherwise. Shall we break out the scotch?"

"I am working, 007, and unlike some people, I do have a solid work ethic. In fact, I seem to recall something about behaving while in Q-Branch. Are we re-negotiating? Do I need to call security?"

"Of course not," James says, perfectly blameless. He promptly ruins it by adding, "As if they could do anything but squeak like mice and run in the opposite direction anyway."

Mute, Q points at 'his' chair. James chuckles and smoothly obeys the unspoken order, settling in for a long, peaceful afternoon. He says nothing of the small smile that still lingers on those red, red lips.

When Q leaves at eighteen hundred, James goes with him. Intent eyes study him for a long, endless moment, but Q doesn't comment or refuse. A few taps on his mobile and then there's a taxi pulling up two blocks away from MI6.

The walk there is calm and eventless with meaningless banter and sarcastic comebacks filling up the air, the still-humid summer breeze tugging at their clothes and ruffling Q's already messy hair.

James imagines the texture of that thick, curly hair to be akin to silk, so soft and heavy and cool, but he wouldn't know, now would he?

James pays for the cab fee, so Q ends up calling in Mexican takeout. James lounges on the sofa like he owns it and picks through the crap telly to come upon an episode of Star Trek he's never seen before.

"Shall I tell you the ending?" Q offers generously as he shuffles around his kitchen, pulling out drawers and retrieving plates.

"Shall I throw popcorn at you?" mimics James, eyebrows raised and the bag of warm popcorn in his lap.

"If you really want to pick it up from the floor, then go ahead."

It slips out, playful and comfortable and relaxed as he is. "If you really wanted me on my knees, then all you had to do was ask." James freezes, panic flaring in his chest and stifled just as quickly.

No.

No, he doesn't do this, he doesn't make these kinds of mistakes. He knows flirting is off-limits; they don't have that sort of a relationship; he's just made a sodding mess of things. He's bloody 007, and -

Forgive me, is on the tip of his tongue, and James swallows it back. He can't remember the last time he apologised for anything. He can't start now, not for Q; he can't, he won't be able to stop.

Q freezes, too, for the barest of seconds, but then, like Morgana's graceful prowl away from the crime scene after she fell off the tabletop counter ten minutes ago but pretended nothing at all had happened, he's plating up their food again, staring resolutely at their pasta.

"You need not be a masochist in my house, 007, when you can be one in the field and find far better success there," he says, dry and even, and leans down to scratch Rayleigh under his chin

James isn't so sure. Out of all the people in the world, for all the megalomaniacs and terrorists and tyrants who want to kill him in slow, painful ways, he thinks that Q is the one who has the potential to hurt him the most, destroy him in ways beyond the flesh.

Just like she did.

Outside the windows, London winds down, although James knows better than most that her streets never rest.

When Q settles down next to him, his shoulders are tense and curved inward like he's trying to protect himself from a blow that hasn't come, frustration in the creases of his forehead. James would think it's him, but Q is close enough that he can feel his body heat.

James pretends he isn't aware that Q is tense enough to snap. They don't touch. It's a breathtaking sort of torture, the sweetest kind, but gradually, gratifyingly, Q relaxes and becomes immersed in the show, as James knew he would.

And when even the London traffic has grown quiet, and they're both ready to tuck in, Q shows James how to unfold the sofa into a bed and dumps clean blankets and pillows on him before wandering off with Morgana to brush his teeth and sleep in his actual bed for once.

James is stuck with Rayleigh, who makes himself useful by purring James to sleep.

There's not the slightest hint of a nightmare.

"You're spending quite a lot of time with Q," Moneypenny says with a mischievous smile. It's a bit of a surprise that she's gone so long without prying, but they've all been busy with the merge. "How goes the courting?"

"Nonexistent." Bond smirks and leans in, closer than necessary. "Are you sure you don't want to grab a coffee with me, Miss Moneypenny?"

"Positive, you implacable flirt," she refuses, playfully pushing him away with a hand on his chest. "And don't think you're getting off that easy, James. What happened? Surely Q didn't turn you down."

How are you so certain, Bond wants to ask but doesn't. He won't reveal such an acute vulnerability, not even to Moneypenny, who he is reasonably sure won't betray him at the drop of a hat. "We've decided it's better to be friends." He smiles, inviting her to laugh with him.

She doesn't take the bait. "You and Q friends?" The arch of her eyebrows is eloquent, as is the slight tilt of her head. But Moneypenny, above all, is careful with herself, with her dress and her actions and her words, so she says, "That's a fantastic betting pool gone to waste then."

Bond chuckles. "If you had only let me know earlier, I could have helped you win."

"And risk Q erasing all my bank records? I'll pass."

"You're like a bad rash," Q complains when he opens the door on a Sunday afternoon to find James standing outside in a three-piece suit, hands in his pockets, but it's fond, nearly indulgent. "Can I help you, 007?"

He may have a point, considering James stayed the night on Friday for Harry Potter, snuck out at five hundred on Saturday without waking Q, and is back already, but Bond considers the rules of society only when he feels like it, and he suspects Q isn't too keen on them either.

Besides, if Q didn't want him around, he could easily shoot lasers at Bond, or whatever other weapons his security system is packing.

James smirks charmingly, the ice-cold edge of his mood a deadly, bloodied weapon. "Nothing wrong with a proper visit," he lies lightly, holding up a bottle of expensive red wine. "Why, busy?"

The truth is, of course, that he's dangerous right now but would rather not go to MI6, stew in his silent, empty flat, or get himself drunk and shag a complete stranger who might stab him in the back.

That he's flying on an adrenaline rush and will crash soon but doesn't want to be alone, that he's on a hair-trigger but would sooner turn into a seven-metre, scaly, grape-purple, millennia-old dinosaur than hurt Q.

But there's no reason to burden Q with any of that.

Q frowns, gaze lingering on the blood stains on his white sleeve. A quick scan has him zeroing in on the slight tear in his right trouser hem and the shallow cut on his collarbone, meant to be hidden by his collar. "What have you been up to?" he asks sharply.

"Mugging gone wrong." Responsible as his Quartermaster is, doubtlessly he'll insist on taking care of the criminal gang Bond stumbled across rather than letting MI5 do their jobs. And after the week they've both had, Q deserves rest and recuperation, not more stress.

Granted, Q is a genius, so -

"That'll show you to be arrogant," Q chastises, stepping back to let James in. "You're not actually invincible, you know. Do you need the first aid kit?"

So obviously he'll believe James Bond, a world-class spy and known chronic liar, without a second of hesitation.

A bit baffled, James hesitantly walks into the living room, feeling like he's waiting for the punchline or a conveniently placed taser on the ground. It can't be that bloody easy. He knows he should be relieved or triumphant or amused, but lying to Q shouldn't be this bloody easy.

It's an advantage, he tells himself, just like knowing Q will break the rules for him, just like knowing Q favours him above all the rest of the agents. But the usual sense of cruel triumph is dull and hollow, a mere gnat to the giant vice of confused misery enclosed around his heart.

"Bond?"

James looks up to see Q in the hallway that leads to his bedroom, the irritation on his face washed away in favour of concern. It takes him a moment to realise that he's just been sitting on the sofa, frowning at Morgana, who stares back flatly.

Christ, that fucking cheeky cat.

"Did you hit your head?" Q inquires, squinting at him suspiciously. "I'm trained in basic first aid, but concussions do require Medical's expertise, despite what all you stubborn agents believe."

Shaken, James looks back at Q and wonders what Q's doing to him. Wonders how he's wrecking the very foundation of 007 with nothing more than his mere presence and that delightfully sweet smile.

But he deflects with his most suggestive smirk because that's what he does and says, "And miss the chance to get your hands all over me? Not bloody likely."

Q's expression instantly flattens out to mirror Morgana's. "Who says you'll have that privilege?" he retorts tartly, stalking forward to throw the first-aid kit at him. It only seems to annoy him further when Bond catches the projectile with ease. "Take care of yourself."

James widens his eyes in entreaty. "I would if I could, but I can't quite reach my back like this and if these wounds aren't treated, infection might settle in. Medical would be so displeased. I would be left to their cruelty for weeks. Surely you can't leave me to such a fate, Q."

It's all bullshit, of course, and Q's face says he knows it. But he obliges with a grumble anyway, and despite his annoyance, his fingers are careful. Gentle.

The prowling, bloodthirsty monster beneath James' skin sighs and lays down, hiding its teeth and claws once more. Purrs under the tender touches, adoring.

James just relaxes, all of his wounds taken care of. They order in some French take-out, and when the adrenaline rush has finally passed, Q pushes him towards the sofa and tells him to go to sleep so work can be done without constant disturbances.

He falls asleep to the familiar sound of keys clacking.

On Wednesday, after spending the morning calling his contacts about the still-missing Mr Sciarra, James finds Q in the last place he would have expected the boffin: the shooting range. Safety gear firmly in place, Q shoots round after round into the target, textbook perfect stance and prototype gun.

James leans against the doorway and watches. Tastes the desire thick and sweet on his tongue.

Q has excellent aim. The head-shots are neat. Precise. The shots to the heart are even more so. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, fingers confident on the trigger. He's easy with the gun, handling it with the familiarity of long-term lovers.

Competency, it must be admitted, has always been a particular weakness of James. Oh hell. He promised himself he wouldn't, but. But.

Ejecting the magazine and flicking on the safety, Q places the gun on the table and removes his earmuffs. Then and only then does he turn to James with a mildly inquisitive look. "Can I help you, 007?"

James licks his lips unconsciously. "You could outshoot most of the senior agents."

Q smirks, sly and amused. "Didn't expect that now, did you?"

"No," he admits, taking a step forward. Q is motionless, watching him with cunning eyes, and James wonders what he sees. He suspects there's something hungry and predatory on his face; his skin feels too tight. Electric.

"This is beyond basic training." It's almost an accusation. James didn't expect this, wasn't anywhere near prepared, when he sauntered into Q-Branch looking for its overlord and was directed here by R.

"I'm the Quartermaster," Q reminds him, crossing his arms casually. "All of the equipment that goes to you agents - and generally doesn't come back - passes through my hands. It would be remiss of me to not personally test and approve of the weaponry."

James has to swallow back the first five responses that spring to mind, none of them work-appropriate. "So dedicated," he says, and it's only half-mocking.

There's a reason the majority of the agents adore Q. There's a reason the majority of the agents under Q's care come back from their missions fucking alive.

"Are you here to patronise me or are you actually here for a reason?" Q asks, sharp, and that's not right, James isn't trying to patronise him, but he feels nearly out of control, off-balance, and the suave skin he normally pulls snugly over the predator underneath is stretched thin.

Even Q, it seems, is not entirely oblivious to the raw, dangerous energy that sparks in the air, his fight-or-flight instincts prickling at the way James has prowled half the length of the room to stand before him.

The flat line of his lips is wary, his shoulders rigid and tense.

James falters. Starts to think past the scorching desire being pumped into his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.

Christ, what the fuck is he doing?

James takes a step back and attempts to frantically reign himself in, five minutes too late. He is familiar with lust, knows how it consumes and devours like hungry flame, is more than well aware of how to manage it in himself and others.

This, whatever the fuck this is, is entirely unfamiliar.

Because, God, dreams and fantasies and short moments of longing aside, his self-control is shredded to high hell, his blood is running hot, and he -

He still feels as if he's losing his mind in the best way possible and almost can't bring himself to care. As if surrendering would be the greatest adrenaline rush of his life, the luxury of burning in the roaring bonfire without any of the pain.

Until he's nothing but ash and cinder and yet can't help but want more.

Fuck . No. I can't. I told myself I wouldn't. Q, Q, Q, what are you doing to me?

Preoccupied with regaining control over himself, James doesn't notice the tormented disappointment that flickers over Q's face, the slow unravelling of anticipation in his body.

"How's your hand-to-hand combat?" is James' non-sequitur because he doesn't want to go, can't bear to go, and this is the first idea his beleaguered brain comes up with. Possibly because fighting and shagging are two sides of the same coin.

Q blinks, startled. "Passable. I'm not exactly preparing myself for the field."

James' feral grin is comparable to the tiger who has just decided what he wants for dinner even as he backs himself up to the doorway. "'Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence.'"

"Vince Lombardi?" Q identifies with disbelief.

James chuckles. "Pack up your things, Quartermaster. We have a sparring mat to get to."

A thought finally occurs to Bond while he's in New Delhi, and he could kick himself for not having considered it earlier. Nearly a year and a half knowing Q, and he's never found out, never even speculated past that very first time he ended up in Q's flat -

"Q?"

"Yes, 007?"

James hesitates, because Q has more than a few sore spots, and he's found most of them by poking at it and then suffering the resulting cold shoulder. But now that the idea has occurred to him, it's a disease under his skin, and he has to know.

"Your soulmate," he starts and then trails off. James doesn't know how to continue, doesn't quite understand what he's asking, what he hopes the answer will be.

There's a minute of damning silence. The topic of soulmates itself is a bit of a touchy one, either a sign of great intimacy if shared or the equivalent of a crude joke about your mother or sister. Certainly not a common subject among coworkers or even, indeed, friends.

"Irrelevant," Q says finally, cold and clipped.

Never let it up said that 007 can't read in-between the lines. The sheer amount of relief behind his exhale is probably inappropriate. He can't be fussed to analyse why.

"In that case, there's a new Chinese restaurant opening on Lexington Street. Let's have dinner," he proposes casually as he saunters to the hotel room of his latest paramour.

"Oh for God's sake - !" Q cuts the connection off, but not before James hears the exasperated smile.

They do end up going to the restaurant with R's blessing when James comes back to find Q hasn't left the branch in two days and hasn't eaten a decent meal in the same amount of time, sleeping on the sofa in his seldom-used office.

After nudging Q into eating a few pieces of the jalebi he brought back from India purely to keep his blood sugar up by bribing him with the return of his earpiece, James gets him to dinner by waving his surprisingly still-intact gun around like the carrot on the stick.

Q is still grumbling about it when they're shown to a two-person table with their menus. "The sheer bloody audacity of you, Bond, leveraging me with my own sodding equipment. I should send you out on economy, right next to screeching toddlers!"

He flips open his menu viciously and glares. James is reminded of a kitten with puffed up fur and a sullen look on its small face. It helps that this level of irritation is nowhere near what was directed at 003.

"You would never be so cruel. Besides, I've brought back two out of five this time. Doesn't that deserve a celebration?" James takes five seconds to decide to order the roast pork slices, butterfly shrimp, and three spring rolls.

Not because he likes spring rolls, but because Q adores them and yet never orders enough for himself.

"If you would bring all of your equipment back like you should, then there would be no need," Q grouches, only to smile politely at their waitress when she steps up hesitantly. As predicted, he orders a hot and sour soup, fried wontons, and a single spring roll.

James resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Then where would you get your fun?" he teases when he's finished ordering.

"I think I could manage," Q replies, drier than the desert.

James knows better than to believe him. "You would spend all day and all night underground," he starts slowly, "and never leave your computer for more than five minute stretches. Your skin would grow all pasty and your cardigans would begin to stink of tea - "

"Yes, thank you, Bond, for your contribution. The moment I become an official zombie, I'll be sure to inform you." Q rolls his eyes, but his smile is exasperatedly amused, previous irritation washed away.

"You believe in zombies? How unexpected."

"A grudge against science fiction? Really?"

James, who has explored every last genre on his long plane rides, shakes his head slightly. "Hardly. There's nothing wrong with being a connoisseur of entertainment. Movies or books?"

"Both. Although I have been accused of book favouritism."

"Sensible. The extra effects in movies can be positively absurd. To clarify, books, true books, not e-books?"

A pointed look. "Despite what you may think, I don't do everything electronically. There's something quite satisfying about holding a hardcover in hand, actually."

James' smirk ends up looking more like a smile than was intended. "Well, well, well. That's a surprise. I thought you were one hundred percent technophile."

"And I thought you were one hundred percent ancient dinosaur." Q offers him a sardonic grin. "For the sake of both our egos, let us pretend such assumptions never occurred."

He laughs, delighted, unrestrained, a wild giddiness inappropriate for his age and experience thrumming through him at that perfect, undeniable pitch that prophesies disaster. "Just as Atlantis never existed?"

Q bolts upright, eyes narrowed. "Oh no you didn't , James Bond," he growls and then is off, words spilling out of his mouth, evidence and sources and recent findings all locked up inside that marvellous mind.

James listens to him talk, chin braced on his palm, and can barely breathe through the warmth spilling into every vein, nerve, muscle, tissue, bone, and cell he has, imprinting right into his DNA.

He feels as if he's in his twenties again, on top of the world, in glorious free-fall, with nothing to worry about and only too willing to listen to the rough gallop of his heart.

It's dangerous, too much so. This is quite possibly the most lethal weapon he has ever encountered. But James couldn't leave if all of the Italian Mafia started storming through the doors, guns out and cigars lit.

Especially, not when, in the end, Q boldly snatches up the spring rolls James has left untouched on the outskirts of his plate and narrows his eyes at the smirk already lurking on his lips.

"Not. One. Word."

Am I the only one dealing with a sudden surge of surveillance? - Q

No. This merger is proving to be rather troublesome. - MH

Serves both of you right. Never quite as fun being watched as it is being the watcher, is it? - SH

Shut up, Sherlock. What's this deal with the Joint Security Service, Mycroft? - Q

I'm looking into it. Keep a low radar for now. - MH

Easier said than done. - Q

Four days later, during one of Bond's frequent vacations to Q-Branch, there's a crisis in Serbia with 008 at fourteen hundred.

By twenty hundred, everyone has been run ragged trying to contain the mess, seeing as the local authorities, national authorities, and an exponentially-growing terrorist organisation are all eventually caught up in the disaster.

Q in his element is always a sight to behold. But even Q is limited by the constraints of the human body.

As Bond watches, Q is finally exhausted enough to be covering up a yawn at twenty-two hundred. He suspects at least two mostly sleepless nights behind the minor loss in control and the eight hours of straight-up frantic damage control isn't helping.

Subsequently, Bond regards the chain of yawns that proceeds to travel down this row and then that with bemusement and a hint of amusement. Boffins, it seems, are used to late nights but not happy about them.

A certain petite blonde's sole job seems to be walking around with tea and crumpets. In the span of five minutes, two boffins fall asleep at their desks and need to be shaken awake by their neighbours, who get the favour returned not long later.

Bond has no idea what the phrases that are exchanged between the boffins mean, but he is aware of when the fiasco has begun to wind down because the minions start to pack up and leave in small groups of twos and threes.

One truly exhausted boy nearly smacks into the wall before his colleague tugs him towards the door.

Q wears his lethargy in the little gestures, from the accelerated blinking to the tired creases lining his forehead. Even his typing speed looks a bit more sluggish than usual, and when the disaster is finally over at two in the morning, he dismisses R with a slow wave of his hand.

There's no indication of when he's going to leave.

James sits through Q giving 008, who's just as worn out by the sounds of it, his last instructions and then sending him on his way. Then there's reports to the right authorities, safety measures, a corralling of the last few vestiges of the terrorist organisation...

By the time Q is propping his forehead up with his palm, looking askance at whatever he has on the screen like it's personally offended him, James has had enough. He stands up abruptly, cracking his neck.

Heavy-lidded eyes are directed at him a second later, blearily questioning.

"Q." James approaches slowly, careful to broadcast harmless intentions. This isn't the time to scare Q back behind his locked castle of glass, intellect, and authority; James would never be able to draw him back out again, not in this overtaxed state.

"007? You're still here." Q looks endearingly confused, although he must have known James was sitting in the corner for the entire time. It's almost as if the simple fact that he stayed for so long is hard to process in Q's sleep-deprived brain, which is frankly ridiculous.

And entirely validates James' hastily made decision to get Q out of MI6 before he collapses.

"I'm still here," James replies in a conscious echo of the past, stopping a metre or so from Q. "But you shouldn't be."

Q blinks twice in rapid succession, trying to fight off sleep somewhat unsuccessfully. "Why not?" he asks, almost petulantly.

"It's almost four o'clock, Q," James points out. "You need to go back home and sleep."

Q frowns, half-hearted irritation sparking in his eyes and chasing away wisps of lassitude. "You're not my babysitter, 007," he says, more stinging now. "There's no need for you to remind me of my bedtime. I am perfectly capable of continuing - "

"That's not my intention," James cuts in before Q can go on a full-fledged rant.

"Then what is?"

James can't honestly reply to that, not when the answer is simply utterly unacceptable. He's still mostly convinced that he's deluding himself, actually, and that it'll all pass like a brief spring shower. Thankfully, he has a convenient excuse for Q.

"Friends take care of each other, don't they? Come on," he says flippantly, retrieving car keys from his pocket and spinning it in the air lazily. "I'll give you a ride, and I won't even charge."

Q blinks at him sleepily. Once, twice, thrice. "...you shouldn't even have a car." His frown is befuddled. "No, wait, I don't want to know. Plausible deniability. And I can take a cab. I haven't finished finalising this program. I should - "

"Go home and sleep." James keeps his voice undemanding but firm, daring to place a hand on Q's shoulder. He gets a slow blink but not much else, to his silent relief. He urges Q up out of his seat and frowns at the screen. "Shut down the computer, Q."

"Am I being kidnapped? This is a terrible kidnapping attempt," Q protests but begins to close the systems anyway. "This is my branch, you know. You shouldn't even be here, much less bossing me around."

James considers pointing out that, for a terrible kidnapping attempt, it's working, but keeps his mouth shut. After Q closes the laptop, he nudges him out of Q-Branch and quietly tells the agent on night guard to lock the place up.

At the staff parking lot, he presses the convenient button on the car keys to locate the car and a silver Volkswagen Golf beeps obnoxiously. James resists the urge to rolls his eyes - Tanner is incredibly predictable at times - and nudges a somewhat-suspicious looking Q towards the car.

The wariness passes quickly, no match for the utter exhaustion taking over that genius mind. Once in the passenger's seat, seat belt on, Q curls up into a tiny ball, eyes fluttering shut. He falls asleep in two minutes flat, snoring softly.

Stubborn man.

James smiles at the sight, a small, golden ball of warmth pulsing steadily in his chest, before being distracted by the many safety protocols he has to clear before they're allowed out of MI6. He keeps his driving fluid and moderate in deference to the very asleep Quartermaster next to him.

At a red light, he happens to glance over and almost bites his tongue off. The dim light flirts with Q's hair, his skin, turns him into a creature out of myth and legend and entirely unreachable but oh so lovely. James wants to touch, pet, stroke, and -

That's not how it works, is it? One way or the other, and the other promises to be a complete and utter catastrophe. Being in lust is one thing, but this is something else entirely.

Thankfully, the light turns green before he has more time to make another terrible life decision, and it's smooth driving from there on.

James pulls up to Q's flat and hesitates. "Q," he says at last in a gentle tone that rarely sees the light of day. "Q."

Q stirs with a groan but doesn't open his eyes. Curling farther into himself for warmth, he grumbles incoherently at the outside interference, unwilling to wake up. As a whole, it's far too adorable, and Christ, what's wrong with him?

Like a spring shower, just like a spring shower -

"Q," James calls, louder, more insistent, frustration and longing roughing his voice. "Q, wake up."

He regrets it immediately when Q jolts violently, eyes flying open only to be screwed up again when confronted with the glaring streetlight. "Bond…?" he murmurs huskily, questioning and uncertain.

James can't help himself. He really can't. Maybe not a spring shower then, more of a summer storm.

He reaches over to cup Q's cheek, thrilling guiltily in his soft skin and the resulting small, happy smile as Q liquefies once more. For reassurance, he justifies to himself, because there's no need for his Quartermaster to be afraid. Not when James is here. "Come on. Time to move, Q."

"Don' wanna," Q protests, turning his face to nuzzle into James' palm, and sod it, that's not fucking fair. "Sleepy."

James takes a deep breath and fervently prays to a God he doesn't believe in for strength. Even in this current state, Q would probably remember if James kisses him, from the shock value if nothing else. Still, the desire tugs at him like the fiercest of autumn gales, and fuck. Fuck.

"I know you're tired," he tries, removing his hand to shake Q's shoulder. "But you'll be much more comfortable in your bed."

Q just pouts.

Through a combination of vicious self-control, coaxing, prodding, wheedling, and out-right manhandling, James manages to get an impossibly pliant and very distracting Q out of the car and up the stairs.

Q, boneless and draped all over James' chest with his head buried in his neck like he's trying to fall asleep right on top of James, murmurs suddenly, "I'm glad it wasn't you."

James almost stumbles. The flash of pain from his ignored wounds is born out with gritted teeth. "What do you mean?" he asks, even though he thinks he knows.

"I'm glad it wasn't you at Serbia." Q doesn't remove his face from its hiding spot but tightens his grip on James as if he's worried that he'll leave, as if he doesn't know that leaving isn't an option for James at this point.

"I would be worried," Q whispers into James' skin, and James feigns deafness, heart doing all sorts of inadvisable actions in his chest. "I am worried."

And maybe this is more of a Russian winter, inescapable, obvious, and undeniable.

James is devastated in the wake of it.

It's almost a relief when he finally gets Q into his flat and on his bed without any more secrets pressed into his neck. James removes his glasses, shoes, and socks, before turning to leave, unwilling to trust himself with anything more.

A hand catches his sleeve. "Stay," Q pleads, stark and beautiful, and James knows he shouldn't. Q's so tired, he probably won't even remember, and this could have dreadful consequences, both professionally and personally. He knows better.

He should leave. He's going to walk out the door right now. He waits for himself to do just that.

James gets into bed.

As soon as James slips under the covers, Q burrows into him, snuffling drowsily. He wriggles and squirms until James has to clamp his arms around him purely out of self-survival, and then they're so tangled up, it's impossible to know where he starts and ends anymore.

It's hard to think. He can't. Not with Q so heavy and warm in his hands. He just.

Fuck regretting this later. James is regretting this now, because he knows this won't be enough, will never be enough, but he won't ever forget this night, and he'd much rather have just a small piece of Q than lose all of him.

"I'm scared," Q breathes plaintively in James' ear after five minutes of blessed, tormenting paradise.

James goes still, every protective instinct screeching. No one gets to hurt the man in his arms, not if James has anything to say about it, and he has a bloody lot to say about it. "Of what?"

A soft snore is his only answer.

Predictably, James doesn't get a wink of sleep.

"Quick decisions are unsafe decisions." - Sophocles

James scoffs at the quote on the back of his leg before continuing on his morning run, having left while Q was still asleep. He doesn't need his soulmate to tell him that. His entire life is a never ending cycle of unsafe decisions and the devastation that follow.

To his surprise, when he's back in his flat, washing off the sweat, he finds that they've changed their mind:

"Quick decisions are unsafe decisions." - Sophocles

"If you have difficulties making decisions, choose the lesser of the two evils." - Rajneesh

He really should put more effort into tracking his soulmate down. Do something. Make certain they're not an enemy of Queen and Country. Prepare himself for a bloody showdown and getting his heart torn to pieces all over again.

James gets dressed and decides to go golfing with Tanner.

"You're welcome," Tanner says as soon as they meet at the golf course, genial and sardonic. "Did you take good care of her?"

Bond smirks, unrepentant, and tosses him the keys. "The best."

Tanner sighs. "And how is the Quartermaster?"

"Alive and well," Bond deadpans. "I didn't kidnap him and hold him hostage in his bedroom, if that's what you were worried about."

"I would never dare."

"Then let's get on with it."

Mallory smiles faintly when he hands over the mission. The merger between MI5 and MI6 is tomorrow, the fifth of September, and by that time, 007 will be wrestling crime lords in Uzbekistan.

"Try and limit the damage this time," he says, placing his hands on the armrests. "Q'll be too busy with the revised protocols to clean up your messes like he usually does."

"Yes, sir," Bond lies. They both know that all the Double-Ohs but 009 and 004, the most well-behaved of the group, are being sent out on missions rather than participate in the pomp and ceremony of the Unholy Merge.

No need to fuck things up before the ink's even dry, after all. And if there's one thing that Double-Ohs are infamous for doing, it's rocking the boat.

Mallory eyes him with clear wariness, the dents in his budget clear evidence against his lies, but knows better than to continue the conversation. "Very well, 007. Report to Q."

"Of course, sir." It's just as well. Bond has something he wants to ask Q anyway.

Q is nowhere in sight when Bond walks into Q-Branch. The minions are busy with their coding, and in the case of that boy who almost ran into the wall on the other day, Minecraft.

No one takes much notice of 007, which is now both expected and vaguely boring. It wasn't particularly helpful when he was trying to lull Q into lassitude, but at least the frightened squirming and startled jumping was amusing.

Maybe he's losing his touch. It's a sobering thought.

As a test, on his way to R, Bond throws a cutting smirk at the off-task minion as he passes by and gets a jolt. The boy squeaks softly and stares back at him with wide eyes, giving every impression of a deer in headlights.

No, not quite a deer. A mouse, perhaps?

Without daring to glance away from Bond, his hand tip-toes across his keyboard to tentatively press a key. A screenful of code appears over the minimised game tab, and the boffin has the bravery to slip a puppy-dog look over the please-spare-me face.

Hah. He's still got it.

"007." R's tone is both exasperated and resigned.

"Yes, R?" Bond flicks one last amused glance at the boy before turning to face the lovely Second of Q-Branch. He looks her up and down suggestively, lowering his voice to a purr, "You're looking gorgeous today."

He wonders where Q is. It's not like him to leave equipping his agents to less capable hands. In all the time James has known Q, he's never been given his Walther by anyone else.

Already, he feels on-edge, although his mission hasn't even started yet.

"Don't even start," R says, crisp and professional. It's probably why Q works so well with her, her infatuation with 004 aside. "The priority request came in approximately ten minutes ago. We're not ready for you. Q's assembling your gun at R&D right now."

"Then I guess that's where I'm going."

It's rare that Bond wanders down to R&D, a subdivision of Q-Branch located directly below the main, more technological portion of their section of headquarters; he's had more than enough bad experiences with dark tunnels and conspiracy trains, and agents with the misfortune to stumble into R&D tend to turn into lab rats or get wrangled into testing out new toys.

A blonde with short, fluffy hair in a questionable and rather stained jumper points him towards Q with a wry smile and a wink behind quirky glasses. "Might not wanna startle him," she advises, slurping loudly from the straw in her fast-food soda cup. "It'd be pretty bad if our supreme overlord accidentally shoots himself. Or, you know, you."

Bond quirks an eyebrow, offering her a sardonic smirk with the sultriest edge of flirtation. "Oh, I think I could take him."

She cackles and saunters off, throwing over her shoulder, "That's what you think." Imbedded within her words seems to be the implication of a future apocalypse waiting in one of the wings of R&D. Bond is pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

The paperwork to file any of that in isn't worth the trouble.

Boffins are odd and dangerous, Bond muses as he strolls down the brightly-lit corridor. He has no idea why they're so often bullied in primary and secondary school. Don't those idiots know they could be threatening the next nuclear engineer?

(Granted, Bond bullies them all the time - or, to be more exacted, bullied them because God knows Q would get his revenge if he ever got wind of anyone taking advantage of his minions, as discovered so nicely by 003 - but most people aren't secret agents with a license to kill.)

When Bond finds him at long last, Q is assembling his gun, as fast as any senior field agent and apparently adding modifications to it on the go, which, in his humble opinion, only proves his point. It's also awfully alluring.

"Became impatient, did you? I'm almost done." Q pushes aside some of the crap on the table - Bond spots capacitors, resistors, three circuit boards, a multitude of tangled-up wires, cannibalised remains of other guns, and more - to locate a clip.

If he recalls anything from the last time they spoke, there's no sign of it.

"Been slacking, Q?" James leans against the doorway, smirking in a way he knows infuriates Q, if only to keep himself from doing something stupid.

As expected, he gets the dark glare as Q snaps the clip in without looking. "Slacking? The only reason I'm rushing now is because you're so bloody irresponsible with my equipment. And if you Double-Ohs would refrain from causing havoc everywhere you go, then I'm sure M wouldn't have had to scramble to find last-minute missions to keep you lot occupied."

"Sounds like you've been slacking to me," James chuckles but deigns to take on the labyrinth of half-used engineering parts to retrieve his gun when Q holds out the Walther PPK/S. It's a familiar weight in his hands, the three little green lights a reminder and a relief. "Is that all?"

Q stomps out of the room in a strop, muttering under his breath about ungrateful agents and his poor budget. James follows far more sedately, hands in his pockets, gun already tucked in his holster, wickedly amused smirk on his lips.

Breezing in and out of various rooms while James waits outside with exaggerated patience, Q shoves - carefully - a radio, an aerosol can, and an envelope in 007's arms. "There. Christmas. Or Halloween, in this case."

James smiles, hopelessly fond. "Thank you, Q."

Q sniffs and adjusts his glasses, turning away but not before James catches the soft pink of his cheeks. "You can thank me by refraining from throwing your Walther like a boomerang whenever you run out of bullets," he says crisply, leading the way back to his office.

"It's a tried and true method of distraction," James protests, ambling along behind him with all the easy grace of a well-fed lion simply waiting for his next amusement to be laid at his feet. "Saved my life more times than I can count."

"I'm fairly certain that says more about your aptitude for mathematics than your dubious combat tactics."

"Not all of us can be a genius like you, Q."

"Yes, but most of the population can count from zero to ten after primary school."

James chuckles. "Are you saying it took you until after primary school to learn basic math?"

Strolling easily into his lair of dormant technological bombs, Q turns slightly to offer him a disdainfully arched eyebrow. "If you must try and insult me, at least make it reasonable. I was excellent at basic math before primary school."

James smirks. "Of course you were." They come to a stop before Q's main computer, which he wakes up and promptly logs into, uncaring that 007 is watching. The password probably changes every thirty seconds or so anyways.

"Anything else, 007?" Q questions when he realises Bond has made no move to make his goodbyes or leave.

007 hums noncommittally, sliding his hands into his pockets. He's trained to use all of the resources at his disposal, and Q is certainly one of the best advantages he has, guilt or not. There's no bloody reason for it, anyway. He's done far worse to other allies for far less.

And besides, his contacts have come up with nothing. This is the only way, really.

Damn it.

"Maybe a little something," he says, deliberately vague.

Q eyes him suspiciously but doesn't refuse at once like a normal sane person would. He never does. "Well, do spit it out. Your plane leaves in approximately an hour, and I hear traffic's going to be hell."

"This coming from the man who commonly directs traffic jams whenever our government decides to check on his branch's finances?" James remembers witnessing Tanner uncharacteristically torn between laughing hysterically and yelling hysterically at the chaos.

"I don't know what you're referring to." Q smiles at the blonde intern who was in change of the crumpets. This time, she appears to be solely on tea duty and dutifully refills her boss' mug with a returning grin and a sly glance at 007 before sauntering away. "Nothing was ever proven."

"You're a head of MI6," Bond says, uneasily reminded of his decision to do this at work instead of somewhere more private. But he doesn't want to taint Q's flat with his lies any more than he has to, and this is best done on a secure network with brilliant tech. "It's practically expected."

Q studies him for a long moment, chin braced on his palm, and James wonders if he should be worried that Q knows him too well. When he speaks, his voice is lowered in concession to the many minions bumbling around them and effortlessly disarming. "What do you need?"

Oh God, he can't.

James has never quite wanted to kiss someone so badly before and been unable to. It turns his voice rough, and hidden from sight, his fingers curl. "Marco Sciarra. Find him for me. Quietly, if you know what I mean."

Q sighs and drinks his tea. "Nothing's ever simple with you, is it. Priority?"

Just like that? James wants to ask, but it's always been just like that, isn't it? He's surprised all over again, although he didn't truly think Q would disagree or out him. "Medium."

"Fine. Go on now, 007. I've got work to be doing."

Q has been providing Bond with a running commentary on how the merger has been going, complete with disgruntled complaints, disdainful observations, and displeased grumbling, when he suddenly pauses, just as 007 is preparing for bed in the dingy hotel he's been guided to.

There's a click that signifies a switch to the private channel. "Will you be careful?" Q asks, point-blank.

James knows better than to make promises, but he says, "I'll do my best," anyway.

I hear the Day of the Dead festival is quite popular in Mexico City," Q says, carefully neutral. "You might want to visit when you have the chance."

"El Día de los Muertos?" Bond draws the straight razor down his cheek, the Spanish rolling off his tongue with ease. "I'll keep that in mind."

"It's quite interesting, actually." Q's tone changes from neutral to intrigued easily, the click-clack of keys audible. "The traditions and beliefs behind the modern festival are more than three centuries year old…"

Q educates James on the history of the Day of the Dead while he finishes shaving, washes his face, and slips under the covers, voice even and steady, obviously pulling on a dozen resources at once, as is his wont.

"Should I stop?" he asks once, after Bond has been quiet for too long, drowsing.

"And deprive an agent of valuable mission intelligence? Do carry on."

"Tosser," Q says and continues elaborating on calaveras. James falls asleep with Q's posh tones in his ear and his last thought is simply, I can't wait to go home.

If in the fuzzy depths of his subconscious James was harbouring the impression that he would have the time to properly contemplate and panic over his highly uncharacteristic thoughts, he was spectacularly wrong.

Bright and early the next morning, the door is kicked in and armed gunmen stomp inside. They have him in sturdy bindings within minutes, albeit with three of their members bleeding out on the floor and one particularly unlucky fellow rendered a eunuch.

The earpiece in his ear is silent, and Bond makes a note to himself to get his hands on whatever piece of tech his enemies have that has so efficiently cut him off from Q.

For the twenty-first time since he became a secret agent, 007 is carted off to an abandoned warehouse. From the shadows, a native man with blinding white teeth and a deceptively small voice greets him with, "James Bond. I've heard so much about you."

He's an unknown. Bond hasn't spent nearly enough time here to break his cover.

And from there, it really only goes downhill.

James returns to a rainy and gloomy England two weeks after the estimated date, utterly exhausted and sporting enough cuts that it's a good thing his suit is black, else the plane would never have let him on.

His poor Walther is a smoking lump of metal somewhere back in Khiva, and his 'borrowed' Beretta is almost out of ammunition. He's been tracking and been tracked, followed close enough that there's been barely a chance to breathe, much less contact MI6.

(And it will always be MI6 to him, just as M will always be Mansfield, for all that Mallory isn't so very bad.)

Then again, with the rat lurking within headquarters, that was probably for the best.

It's 0231 when James slips into a taxi and slumps against his seat. To add insult to injury, the rain took him by surprise, leaving him soaked to the bone.

"Where to, mate?" grunts the cabbie, looking none too happy, either at his position, the weather, or the world in general. It's hard to tell.

James knows what he's meant to do. He should tell the cabbie his address, return to his flat and lick his wounds until he's ready to face MI6's rat and the consequences of the merge and M's inevitable lecture about the path of destruction he left in his wake this time around.

He opens his mouth, but what comes out is something else entirely.

"Sure thing," comes the response and then the taxi's pulling away from the kerb.

James exhales slowly and attempts to gather up enough energy to reprimand himself but fails. More than a hot shower and a soft bed, what he truly craves at this moment is Q, simply, always Q.

It's an odd feeling, to miss nerdy rantings and ugly jumpers. It reminds James of that time he spent a morning in Venice longing for talk of estate agents and tourist sights he's seen but would gladly see again if only to spend time with his partner.

He wonders who he's fooling at this point. Q, probably. He doesn't care about anyone else, but Q has to believe him.

"Here we are," the cabbie drawls, pulling up a block away from Q's address. Bond thanks him and gets out, fighting not to waver on his feet. He staggers home, because it's dark and there's no one around to see his weakness, and when he gets there, there's a beep before he even knocks.

The locks disengage.

James stares. His befuddled mind isn't nearly up to the task of figuring out Q's security system or working out when his Quartermaster inputted a Double-Oh Agent as a known and safe entity with 24/7 access.

Running footsteps, and then five seconds later, the door is flung open. Q stands in front of him. "Bond," he says, almost a question. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes are bright, and he's panting a little, but relief is sunlight splashed across his face, and he's too beautiful for words.

James tucks his hands in his pockets. "Q," he says, so soft it's barely sound.

They stare at each other. James takes the opportunity to drink Q in, even as that feral creature of nightmare and casual death inside of him finally closes its eyes and lays down its weapons.

Twin meows sound behind Q, and it seems to jolt him into action. "Come on in, then," he orders briskly, already twisting away in search of the first-aid kit. "On the sofa; I have the covers on today, you lucky bastard, otherwise I would make you clean up the stains yourself."

"I'm rather good at that," James agrees, lowering himself carefully on the soda and instantly gaining two very vocal and affectionate feline companions. "But enough about me. I think the bags under your eyes are going to start moving any day now."

And the less said about the way his fantastically ugly jumper hangs off his lanky form, the better.

"You're one to talk. Have you looked in the mirror?" Q shoots back, marching into the living room armed with bandages and antiseptic. "Jacket and shirt off."

"If you wanted me shirtless, all you had to do was ask," James says, but it's half-hearted. Q scoffs but is silent, brows drawn together and lips white, as he patches James up.

When he's done, he moves if to pull away, but James reaches up and closes his fingers over Q's wrist. His skin is soft and cold, although Q keeps his flat five degrees warmer than James does. "Hey."

Q stares at their hands with the utmost concentration. "Seventeen days, six hours, and twelve minutes," he lists off, voice as cold and burning as dry ice. "Completely off grid, not a hint of contact - "

"They had an informant in MI6," James cuts in, desperate to sand off the razor edges in that normally smooth demeanour, remove the hurt that keeps Q's posture closed-off and rigid. "I couldn't risk it. Q, I'm fine. Look at me; I'm fine."

Q blinks too rapidly and his shoulders are still too tense, but he manages a wry smile. "Like I ever thought for a second that Uzbekistan was too much for you, 007. Eve would never have forgiven me."

James chuckles but sombers up quickly. "I can't promise it'll never happen again," he cautions because it's clear that Q is one of the few, few people negatively affected by his disappearances. "Things...happen."

"Things always happen around you, James Bond," Q says, pulling away. He smiles, though, and brushes his fingers over James' cheek, prompting a subtle shiver. "I'm not even going to ask about my tech this time."

"Probably for the best," James murmurs and gets up, feeling much better. They order Thai and settle in for a night on the sofa. Q texts Moneypenny with all the data on their rat that James gives him and falls asleep before the second Lord of the Rings movie.

James smiles down at him, a smile he will never allow to be seen for the frightening amount of fondness inherent within it, and runs a hand through his hair. Q sighs and curls into James, and they fall asleep twisted around each other like vines, each feeding off the other's warmth.

They trot back into MI6 the next morning like the good little employees they are - well, Q is, and Q's the one who drags 007 in to debrief, traumatising half of MI6 in the process - and M, as predicted, throws a tantrum.

A quick search, courtesy of Q's programs, and a greying, harmless-looking minion turns out to be the culprit. Q joins M in his tantrum, cold and sharp and aiming a death-to-all-traitors smile at the rest of his half-terrified, half-disgusted, all-upset division.

Moneypenny smiles beatifically from where she tackled the traitor and pinned him to the floor with a lethal stiletto heel to the chest when he tried to make a run for it. Bond judges the situation under control and places a quick call to a nearby bakery.

Ten minutes later, while Q is maniacally combing through the network for bugs, viruses, and backdoors, M is sorting everything out bureaucratically, Moneypenny is watching over the interrogation, Tanner is dealing with the rest of the agency, and the minions are a tense, under-caffeinated, overstressed mess, James wanders out and returns with five boxes of donuts.

The crazed eyes that are immediately aimed his way from every single direction are frankly enough to make even 007 question his life choices, for all that he can take down every last minion in the room and not even need to get his suit cleaned afterwards.

But, as planned, the sugar makes Q unwind a bit, though, slow down just a tad, and smile very, very faintly at James, so it's worth it.

007 is called out on a mission again on the fourth of October. He's off to California, where he has a drink with Felix, blows up three mansions and nearly drowns during a surfing shoot-out, and returns to England with two days to spare.

He has Q in his ear the entire time, the earpiece both waterproof and taserproof. Optimistically, Bond chooses to think that the oxygen-giving kiss Felix laid on him after Q yelled at them both about adrenaline junkies and CPR is somewhat like an indirect kiss from Q himself.

"Chinese?" Q asks when 007's flying home, like it's a given that James will spend the night at Q's flat rather than his own.

The speakers are playing jazz, and Bond is at once on top of the world and wrung out like a mistreated rag. He should say no. "I know a good place."

James goes home, and Q welcomes him back by showing him how to refill the cat feeders and rolling his eyes at the tacky tourist magnet James has brought back but sticking it on the fridge anyway.

Morgana nuzzles against his trousers, and Rayleigh twines himself around Q's legs, and James is weary but at ease.

Q hits the training mat with a grunt and stays there, panting. James, not even out of breath, waits patiently with an amused smirk on his face, arms crossed and perfectly confident.

"This," Q says in disgust, "is why I am the Quartermaster and not a field agent."

James chuckles. "Don't sell yourself short. A few more months of training, and you'd make a decent undercover agent. In that jumper you wore yesterday, no one with eyes could suspect you of any wrongdoing other than grandfatherly-manners before your time."

"Lay off my jumpers, Bond. I've seen what remains of your suits after you're done with them. At least I treat my clothing with respect."

James merely shrugs. "Hazard of the job."

"Doesn't sound especially appealing from my point of view."

"I don't have to deal with MI5's Quartermaster," James points out, gleeful.

Q, who subjected James to his latest rant about his counterpart a mere two hours ago, lets out a very cat-like growl. "This merger is going to be the death of me," he mutters softly despite having disarmed all the security cameras as soon as they arrived.

"Nonsense," James insists, faux cheerful. "I've taught you how to throw a decent punch, haven't I?"

"You've taught me how to take a fall and land the right way," Q says with a roll of his eyes. "And I think that's what I've got the most practice in."

"Useful skill," he agrees. "Got your breath back?"

Q groans but gets to his feet. "Ready when you are."

007 is sent off to Iran with a smile and a pat on the head from M, who is still trying to keep his Double-Ohs from meeting their new leash-carriers. Q rolls his eyes and grumbles and complains but hands over a new prototype and sunglasses with a thermal vision option.

"Don't ruin that," comes the demand, and then a narrow-eyed look, tense shoulders. "And take care."

James freezes.

He knows that look. In the eyes of his targets. In the touch of a woman in red. In the bloody mirror every damn morning.

No.

It can't be. He's misreading the signs, but he's a fucking Double-Oh; he doesn't misread signs. His own feelings are affecting his judgement, but he knows better. He can't be this damned unlucky (lucky), not with the blood on his hands, in his file, the one Q must know from front to back .

Q can't possibly want James.

He's seeing what he wants to see; this isn't real, can't possibly be real. They are friends, Q thinks of him as a friend, nothing more, however James might be losing his mind.

And even if...even if he's not misreading this, James knows he can't do it, can't take the risk of shattering yet another beautiful, sacred thing with his brute, killer hands, can't possibly trust himself with something so precious and fragile as Q's heart.

"Of course," Bond murmurs and saunters out without a hitch in his step.

James feigns sleep all throughout the plane ride, and Q lets him. Thankfully, the mission goes to hell the second he lands, and there's no time for Q to do anything but bark instructions at him and warn him of incoming enemies.

Bond dislocates his arm after falling - jumping, thank you - three stories and snaps it back in place with a grunt before he turns his glare on the fool who he was chasing after in the first place. A few well-placed threats, cuts, and smiles later, he's running off to the hideout.

Along the way, he seduces three women. The silence in his ear seems more inconspicuous than normal, but that's got to be just his imagination.

Before he can even get to the hideout in Tehran, he's ambushed and kidnapped, because, evidently, his hosts are more eager to meet him than he thought. One thoroughly disappointing interrogation later, Q cuts off all power remotely and tersely informs him of an escape route.

Which Bond follows but not until he shoots the bastard who raped a little girl in the forehead and ends up setting fire to the whole nasty place.

And by the time James gets back, a week before the Day of the Dead, he's managed to wholly convince himself that the entire scene was born of his own wistful, wishful thinking, because, really, why the fuck would a genius like Q love the broken, irredeemable mess that is James fucking Bond?

No, it has to be a mistake, a fanciful fantasy, a trick of the light.

"Indian?" James asks as he ascends the plane.

There's a startled pause. Both of them have been professional to a fault throughout this mission, with Bond starting with the cold shoulder and Q following his lead. "Alright," Q says slowly, as if waiting for the punchline.

Other than despairing at life in general, snapping off intel, and laying down the law, Q has been quiet. It reminds James of this first few perilous weeks after the Skyfall Incident, and he doesn't like it. "Tell me about the Tudors," he requests out-of-the-blue.

"...the English monarchs from the sixteenth century?" comes the incredulous response.

James smiles, because, to date, Q has ranted over the comms about the history of coffee, the behaviour of ladybugs, and the science of thunderstorms and lightning. This is right up Q's alley. "Not up to the challenge, Q?"

"You know nothing, 007," Q says, indignant, and starts in on the War of the Roses.

"You've been busy," Tanner says, long-suffering and indulgent. "M's threatening to quit over the paperwork."

"M always threatens to quit," Bond says. "He never actually does."

"Where would we be if he did?" The grimace on Tanner's face is a testament to how the aftermath of the merger is going, the Chief of Staff generally the meter by which all the agents judge the status of MI6. "He's at a meeting at the moment. Something about that new shiny tower across the bridge."

Bond hums noncommittally. "I heard it was finished last week."

"That it was," Tanner sighs, leading the way to Q-Branch. "No debrief today, or probably for the next week, so you may as well get your equipment signed in. Or lack thereof."

"I would be hurt, Tanner, except you're absolutely right," admits 007, shameless.

Tanner acknowledges this with an unimpressed sigh and ploughs right into the domain of the boffins. Several of them glance up to eye him warily, and it doesn't take Tanner long at all to notice that 007 warrants surprisingly little terror.

Maybe Moneypenny's theories aren't that far off the mark after all.

"Ah, Tanner. 007, there you are," Q meanders out from his office, focused in that absentminded manner James has grown so used to seeing. "You're late, as usual."

"Terrorism doesn't bend to the will of the clock," Bond retorts, amused, for once in pristine condition. "Even if the will of the clock bends to you, my mighty Quartermaster."

"Flattered." But the warm glow of his smile says that he is. "Don't suppose you have anything for me today?"

"Wellllllll…" Smirking, James slips a hand into his pocket and comes out with a tourist-sized model of the Azadi Tower. "I have this."

Q glowers, even as he snatches the gift out of James' palm without hesitation. "Yes, because this certainly makes up for a five thousand pound prototype. And that's only one out of the four you couldn't bring back."

"Manners, Q. When someone gets you a present…"

"You say thank you, and you don't break it." Despite his words, Q places the gift carefully by his laptop and waves at a minion - the misbehaving one - who scuttles forward, places a form by the overlord's hand, and flutters away, no doubt to play more Minecraft, all without meeting 007's eyes.

Tanner's disapproving look as he turns to leave is eloquent. Bond smirks and doesn't even attempt to act innocent.

Mumbling to himself, Q fills in half of the form and hands it to James with an impatient jerk of his head. "Completed and turned in by Monday, if you please," he says. "Accounting doesn't need another excuse to cut my budget."

"We'll see," James says, although they all know he'll probably get around to it in three weeks, two if he's spectacularly bored. He makes as if to fold the form into a small square, meaning to stuff it in his trouser pocket until its existence is useful, but reflexively scans it and freezes.

It's an entirely ordinary acquisition form. He's filled out hundreds throughout his career; most agents have, despite Q-Branch's exasperation. There's nothing odd about it.

Except Q's handwriting, neat and graceful and as painful as a bomb in his face.

Everything goes eerily quiet for just a moment, a touch of Syria. Everything goes eerily cold for just a moment, a whisper of Skyfall.

All at once, 007 is aware that he has never seen Q handwrite, not when he prefers typing so much - but is it just because he prefers typing or was it merely a misdirection to avoid this? - and he almost can't process -

He knows that handwriting.

Seen it a hundred times. Been an indulgent bystander during its infancy, watched it wobble and trip and bleed during its childhood, bantered with it in its adolescence, mourned and longed for it during its adulthood.

Q's. His. His -

It's a mistake, it must be a mistake, but it's not a mistake he can explain away. There's no explanation for this, but there is one, and he thinks, with a rush of splintered ice and a roaring in his ears like he's too deep underwater, that of course it would come down to this.

His luck, his fucking cursed luck, fuck it all to hell.

His training tells him to demand and expose, to threaten and yell, to go for the nearest weapon and inform the world of this too-fragile man's treachery. His fingers curl, rebelling against even the thought of pointing a weapon against this lying, destroying piece of his heart. His soul.

James can't breathe.

"007?" Q takes a step closer, concern in the hand he starts to extend. "Bond?"

He's been silent and still for too long. James takes a step back even as every disloyal molecule in his body yearns to lean towards the offered contact. He watches hurt flicker past that dear face, and he can't stand it anymore.

"Goodbye, Quartermaster." 007 smiles, charming as can be and just as fake as his soulmate, clearly dismissive.

(Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.)

Bond walks out without any further interaction, his confident prowl unaffected by the mass of writhing, screaming despair carving out his chest, casual smirk betraying none of the fury-hurt-sorrow-pain blocking his throat and gorging his eyes.

Christ, all this time and he's the one he's been fooling.

Bond borrows Tanner's car and peels out of MI6's garage in a screech of tires. Rushing through the security checks, he presses down on the accelerator and simply drives, single-minded and reckless and hurting.

London, graceful old lady that she is, takes him away into her dark streets and says nothing of the tight clench of his fingers on the steering wheel, as if it's the only remaining thing that tethers him to her soil.

The clock tolls midnight, and he needs more than the constant green lights and his favourite jazz playing on the radio. He wants to be distracted from the CCTV cameras that turn to follow him, from the thoughts that poison his bloodstream until it's a steady, burning ache.

(What are you doing, Q? I know already, there's no need to pretend any longer. I don't want your pity, Q. Just leave me alone, prove to me that you don't need damaged goods, you deserve better than damaged goods. Q, Q, Q, why have you done this to me, to us?)

For the first time in a long time, Bond gets trashed at a pub. He knocks back martini after shot after bourbon and doesn't hesitate to smirk at the curvy redhead who sidles up to him. They flirt. She takes him back to her place, and he fucks her into the mattress.

He can't remember when he last shagged someone off mission.

And when it's all over, James can't ignore the nausea clawing up his chest anymore. He vomits in the toilet and stays there for half an hour while the redhead snores. When he raises a hand to wipe his mouth, he discovers he's shaking.

Fuck.

Bond heaves himself to his feet and stumbles out the door. He stares at the taxi idling by the kerb until the driver shoots him an annoyed look and drawls, "Look, mate, you coming or not?"

"I didn't call for a taxi," Bond says.

The cabbie snorts. "In that condition? I would think not. Nah, a friend of yours called. Said something about giving you a water gun and glow-in-the-dark sticks if you kept on being stupid."

James doesn't understand Q anymore. Maybe he never did, not even a little, but it was nice to think so for a little while.

He needs to say no. Stop this before it goes any further. He's not a bloody masochist, no matter what Psych says. He needs to reject this last act of kindness and make it clear to Q that their 'friendship' has come to an end before he crumbles anymore.

James gets in.

The cabbie takes him a block away from his flat. He's drunkenly fumbling for his wallet when he's told the whole trip's already been paid for, and he'd better take a shower before someone comes looking for a distillery.

Bond screws his eyes shut for a second. He wants to punch someone. Either that or break down and scream. He can't cry, won't cry, that'll make it much too real -

He collapses on his cold, unfamiliar bed and can't fall asleep. Instead, he thinks of a comfortable sofa and a cat sleeping on his chest, toast in the morning and takeout at night, movie marathons and laughing green eyes.

Oh, but he wants.

Fuck hindsight. It was so damned obvious, if he would have just put the pieces together. There were countless hints, both verbal and not. He's an internationally-known spy, for God's sake; he should have figured this out bloody ages ago.

You didn't want to, an unwelcome voice that sounds irritatingly like Moneypenny points out in the back of his mind, you wanted to keep him regardless of the cost.

"Shut up," James snarls into his pillow, ragged and jagged and unravelling at the seams. "Shut up!"

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams in black and white, soft skin and elegant ink, riddles and math equations and coding that never seems to end until it's created a picture: a man with eternally mussed hair and a sweet smile, hand outstretched.

James reaches back this time, willing to trade the torment of the truth for the warmth of that touch, only too glad to be made a fool of if it means he can have that smile forever -

And falls, falls into deep waters devoid of sunlight and joy, enveloping him like a mother's embrace, and he twists around but up and down aren't concepts here, only the cold and suffocating grasp of death, and he gasps awake, reaching for a life that isn't beside him.

James collapses back into bed with a sound that's not entirely unlike a sob.

Bond can't bring himself to leave bed for the entirety of the morning. He lays there listlessly, hollowed out as if a long, elegant hand has reached inside him and yanked his entrails out, devoured his heart with the utmost tenderness.

Like a recalcitrant pupil, he's finally applying himself to the puzzle. Picking up the pieces he threw to the floor in a fit of petulance and examining them at long last to find the ugly truth he's buried beneath the beauty.

All of the little quirks he never understood, the walls and the defences and the knowing, all those things and events and feelings he shoved into a box labelled 'to contemplate later' but kept firmly sealed shut, everything makes sense in the discordant music that is his world shattering.

"Your soulmate…"

"Irrelevant." Right to his fucking face. Never let it be said that Q doesn't tell the truth with impunity.

He hates this part. Where he understands at last and wishes he never did.

James finally drags himself out when his stomach protests, only to nearly trip over the Indian takeout set right outside his door.

In a brilliant contrast, Bond spends the entirety of his afternoon parkouring all over London, pushing his body to the limit in the hopes of bludgeoning his brain into halting its regretful and enlightening replay of every single minute spent in Q's presence.

It doesn't work.

To make matters worse, when he's finally dripping in sweat and making his way back to his flat, his phone, the one on silent, beeps.

Are you alright?

- Q

James stares at the screen of the phone and briefly debates throwing it into the Thames. He can't bring himself to do anything but keep his gaze away from the CCTV cameras and return home as if nothing had happened.

He doesn't reply.

Can't reply.

Instead, after smoking half of a cigarette pack, James chugs down half a bottle of scotch. He sits on the floor, leaning against the frame of his bed, and stares at the ceiling, trying to think of nothing and failing.

The worst part is, he can't even blame Q for lying. Not when some sadistic, cruel God stuck him with James Bond, hot mess and death bringer extraordinaire.

He should probably be used to the ground crumbling beneath him by now, but he's surprised each and every time. It's a machine gun fired at his back from a man who's become his sanctuary this time around, and he can't bring himself to staunch the wound.

No. He's just numb, pumped full of anaesthetic but aware that the pain's going to hit soon, knowing the blood's dripping off his skin and creating a puddle on the ground but not caring, wanting only to sleep.

Here he is, bleeding out, ready to die of major blood loss, and he can't give a damn.

Bond pummels his punching bag from midnight to sunrise after the stupor wears off, and after his knuckles are red and bleeding, goes out in his most expensive suit and seduces a woman with light hair and pale mourning eyes, and they try to fuck the sadness out of each other.

It doesn't work, but then, they don't expect it to. She weeps into her pillow while he sits on the edge of the bed, a million kilometres between them, and when she's done, she shows him the door and he goes.

As expected, the opiates are wearing off, and now there's a resentful sort of fury left behind, the fire that led to him wrecking Quantum, the cold murderous weight of a gun in his hand and the world's ashes at his feet.

James wanted more, that's true, but damn it, he didn't go after more. Q implied that more was off-limits, and James respected his wishes, and they were, if not happy, then content in their small bubble of felines and understanding, so why?

He knows he doesn't deserve it, not after the blood and the fire and the death, but is it such a crime to have just a small sliver of happiness? He wanted green tea in the morning and tangled feet in the evenings, just that, only that, and now, he can't even have that anymore.

Bond wants to rage at the heavens, tear apart destiny and fate and all that fucking nonsense apart with his bare hands, but he can't.

He doesn't have a target to go after, not a mark to chase, nor an organisation to tear down, operative by operative. There's only Q, gorgeous, maddening, deceitful Q, who is his soulmate and who has known of this since who-knows-how-long-ago.

And he can't hurt Q, regardless of. Anything. Everything. Can't even be angry at Q, in the end.

James hates this.

He wanders the streets, ignoring the icy rain, until a gang of idiots try to rob him. He takes care of them and keeps going until he's kept a woman from being raped, a kid from being beaten up, and two men from killing each other via drunken fight.

Bond? Do you need extraction? Medical? Anything?

- Q

James looks at the message and wants to feel only ire again. Because here is the aching hurt and traitorous longing that's been waiting in the wings. The bitter regret and pure, raw grief wind strings around his limbs and plays him like a marionette.

However forced or false or formulated of obligation they were, he'll miss them. Miss Q-and-James. Miss the smell of Q's shampoo and the imperious demands of Morgana and Rayleigh and the bad-tempered remarks Q used to cover up his helpless smiles when James was being ridiculous.

(Is that a lie, too? Please, please - )

He can't ever return to Q's flat again. He doesn't want anything from Q that isn't freely given, and everything will be tainted with the truth now anyway. But to be completely, terribly honest, James would rather Eve shoot him again.

No.

- 007

Bond sends in a leave notice to M and takes the first plane out of England.

He can't stay in such close proximity to Q. He'll go insane. Or worse, he'll simply give in and pretend he didn't notice anything. Let them go back to easy banter and a friendship built on lies and deliberate ignorance with nary a hitch.

It would be so fucking easy. So. Easy.

The temptation itself might kill him. Is killing him. He's never wanted anyone or anything quite as much as he wants Q, in whatever form Q's willing to offer him, and isn't that just pathetic?

And what of the inevitable aftermath of M's final mission? He can't avoid Q forever. Even now, he isn't sure whether he could, would.

Returning to the professional relationship they had before Bond was stupid enough to start nudging barriers, merely a Double-Oh and his Quartermaster, is evidently the only option left to him. Them. Yet the mere thought...

Goddamn it. He throws back his glass of vodka.

Bond does his best to ignore both the vaguely drunk tint to his thoughts and the raging, wounded creature trying to pry its way out of his rib cage and lay waste to the world before crawling back to his Q and requesting one last affectionate touch.

He succeeds by focusing on the familiar blues playing from the plane speakers.

So, 007 goes to Mexico City. Nothing wrong with a little early reconnaissance.

He doesn't bring his earpiece.

Q knows he fucked up somehow. That's...obvious, but he can't figure out where he fucked up, his genius mind spinning in circles like a mouse in a wheel. He doesn't know what he did, he doesn't know how to fix it, and he sure as bloody hell doesn't know what to do now.

Eyes on the dot that shows the real-time movements of Bond's plane, the vibration of his phone distracts him:

Time to relocate. All this surveillance is getting awfully stuffy, don't you think? - MH

OpalescentGold: *coughs*

Definition of "lover": a person in love.

*cackles*

rubyred753: Aww, thank you, darling! Well, I wouldn't say it was the "friendzone" but yes, Q deserves all the hugs. I'm sure they'll get to where they need to be. Eventually.

AzureLazuli: *squeals* Yes, welcome! The 00Q fandom is a wonderful place, and I'm thrilled you've decided to convert! Thanks for the lovely review, hun!

cinimar: Lolz, in that case, happy holidays! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Xhre: Because this story is in Bond's POV, darling. I might eventually write a story with Q's POV, but as it is, this is Third Person Limited.

mervoparkite: Yes, exactly! *cackles* Well, he certainly had a bit of a breakdown. Thanks for the review, darling!

Teska: Nope, this is nowhere near done yet. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Minastara: Thank you, hun! Here's the reveal for ya. XD

404 rorrE: Nothing happens.

iHateHotWeather123: Thank you, darling.

Grex: Lolz, I'm doing my job correctly then. Thanks for the lovely review!

OpalescentGold: All the love to timetospy and Linorien. Reviews count as the best presents. ^.^