He knew it might come to this. He knew he shouldn't have made such an uncoordinated move.

And hindsight was always 20/20.

Every step was an effort. The pain behind his eyes was merciless, blinding, and the light was like agonizing little stabs right into his brain. Q walked unsteadily over to the bed. Carefully he lowered himself down, moving like an old man. He felt old. Everything hurt. His brain was ready to explode. His head felt like it would just split at the seams and let that happen.

Sinking back, he moaned silently at the on-going noise in his brain. He wanted to just tune it all out, make it disappear.

Every thought hurt.

Every little notion of grasping reality had him wince and wish for relief.

So he stopped thinking, blanked his mind, wanting nothing more than the darkness of sleep.

x X XX xx X XX xxx

It was hours later. Maybe even days. Maybe it was after an eternity.

Q had no idea.

The bed dipped and he felt someone close by, but the headache made it hard to even get the panic going. Panic that he might have been found, that someone had entered his room.

There was a familiar sensation, one that was trying to pierce through the pain, and he instinctively leaned into the touch to his temple.

The pain lessened.

It lifted like a veil and he blinked, focusing on the darkness, the cool, even blanket that enveloped him. Blue eyes like ice regarded him.

Gentle.

Soft.

Warm.

He leaned into the sensation that wasn't simply physical. It was everywhere, inside him, around him; it was part of him.

A calloused thumb caressed his temple and he sighed unconsciously, smiling a little.

Bond mirrored the smile.

He then rose and stripped off his jacket and toed off his shoes. Q mourned the loss of contact only for a moment, because James was there again, fully on the bed and spooning up behind, holding Q close. He pushed his face against Q's neck and the soft kiss had the technopath shiver. A hand curled over his belly, a warm weight that was an easy focus for him.

The pain was gone, replaced by a sudden mellowness. A feeling like Q could just let himself fall.

He did just that.

It was the most heady sensation; and he was completely safe.

The hand over his stomach slid underneath his t-shirt, caressing the warm skin, and he sighed in contentment.

"How bad?" Bond murmured, voice barely more than a rumble.

"Gone now."

"Good."

His caresses never stopped and he nuzzled Q's neck. Q felt warm. He felt complete. The pain was no more and there was no urgency left. He could just let himself be, trust in Bond to protect him while he was at his most vulnerable.

"Got anything out of it?" Bond asked, voice low. "Aside from a headache?"

"Only that whoever is protecting Reese, working with him, probably handling him, is very, very good."

Q interlaced their fingers, letting them rest on his stomach. Bond's breath was warm against his neck.

"But there is more. I made a grab and run. I just have to sort through it."

He barely suppressed a yawn and James curled up closer behind him.

"Get some rest first," he murmured.

"Definitely."

Because his body was already shutting down, demanding rest, and Q wasn't foolish enough to try and fight it. His eyes slid shut and the last sensation was of Bond pulling the comforter over them.

Then he was out like a light.

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Bond sat in one of the many New York coffee shops, sipping at an exceptionally strong and very good coffee that had cost more than a pot of regular coffee anywhere else.

He was watching the streets.

He had followed Detective Carter all day, more in the open and a lot more visible than usual.

Bond had made himself a target.

And he was waiting for the curious hunter who he knew would be lurking around, watching him.

"Q?" he asked softly, masking his lip movement behind his mug.

"Still tracking, but no luck so far. It seems like Mr. Reese knows how to stay invisible. He seems to be as talented as you are in that regard."

He smiled. "Let's wait some more then."

"Maybe I should lead him to you?" Q offered with a slightly teasing note.

"It would be very much appreciated."

"Not enjoying your coffee?"

Bond felt amusement rise. Of course his partner would know where he was and what he was doing.

"Watching, Q?"

"Always, 007."

Bond glanced at the street surveillance camera, the one the city had installed to prevent crime or, if a crime happened, have a way of finding the perp. There was also the coffee shop's security camera and probably a dozen more devices the quartermaster could employ.

"I'll leave some footprints," Q told him.

Bond emptied his cup of coffee and left cash on the table as he stepped out of the coffee shop. It was time to be seen again.

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Finch had run the name James Bond through the net. He had walked into the MI6 and had grabbed the file, though it was a very superficial one. To get into the restricted area he would need more time and a lot more attention to detail. But what he read about Bond was enough.

Double-Oh agent, the man with the license to kill. One of the oldest in the field and one of the most successful. Finch looked at the black-and-white image. Bond was a ruggedly handsome blond with piercing eyes. Blue eyes, his file said. Very intense. Former British military.

And now the man was looking for John Reese in connection with the murder of two MI6 agents, and a CIA agent who had been a werewolf.

Add to that that someone had attempted to hack his system, had snooped around, it had set off all alarms.

It hadn't been Root. It had been someone very skilled; terribly skilled, even. Better than Root; better than anyone Finch had ever met or heard about. Bond was listed as working alone, but he had to have had a partner. Someone was helping him, doing the hacking, the snooping, and this someone was a person of interest to Finch.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the image. Even though it was a photo, the MI6 agent seemed to look right into his soul.

He finally used the picture to start his facial recognition software to find the man. They would need to keep an eye on him, on matters that involved Bond, because a Double-Oh after Reese was something new. The man was different from the CIA and FBI or the police. He would handle a confrontation differently.

This might be a problem.

x X XX xx X XX xxx

It was late when he entered the abandoned building that housed the heart and soul of their operation. At least it seemed to be abandoned. Reese had no idea how many different homes and bases Finch had set up. He only knew that Harold Finch had created a net that was as incredible as it seemed impossible.

He was, as always, at his computer. Impeccably dressed, posture stiff. Reese had yet to find out what had injured Finch this badly, had given him his permanent limp and had made it necessary for him to have spinal fusion surgery of the neck.

Harold Finch was a far cry from the men who had given Reese his orders before, but he was one of the few he respected and wouldn't hesitate to protect to his last breath. Maybe it was in his blood; maybe it was pure instinct. Maybe it was the curse of his soul.

Reese only knew that he was needed here, that Harold Finch had given him a second chance. A man who he was only slowly getting to know, a man who seemed to be so many people, who had an incredible wealth, an even more incredible intellect, and who was officially dead.

His preternatural side was interested in this man.

Now Finch looked up, the eyes behind the glasses sharp as always. John had been struck by the quiet intelligence before, the way this unassuming man was so powerful, moved so easily in the shadows, and held such secrets in his hands.

"I believe I found our Mr. Bond."

Reese raised his eyebrows.

Finch just hit a few keys and an image of the MI6 agent popped up. He was standing in Central Park, watching something. Another image showed him entering a hotel. The next had him sitting in a coffee shop.

"I have been following him the past hour."

Reese looked at the image. "I believe I should take a closer look then."

Finch was silent and Reese turned to leave.

"Be careful, Mr. Reese," he called after him.

Reese smiled. "I always am, Harold."

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He had strolled around the streets of New York, enjoying the crisp air. The clouds had lifted a little, blue sky was peeking through, and no snow was falling. People were enjoying the day and Bond had done his share of pretend-sightseeing.

So far he had not picked up on anyone following him, but he was sure someone was.

And finally there was someone.

Bond met the eyes of the man he had been looking for. Reese stood across the street from the restaurant he had chosen for an early lunch, a silent watcher, impeccably dressed in a dark coat, dark suit pants and black leather shoes. The Double-Oh just smiled, no humor in the movement of his lips, and left some money on the table as he rose. He walked away from the restaurant, following a route he had explored before and which would get them to an abandoned alley between two restaurants and off the main traffic routes.

Aside from the garbage bins and stacks of old cardboard boxes and wooden crates, no one was around.

Bond turned and looked at his shadow.

"Mr. Reese, I presume," he greeted the ex-CIA agent.

"Mr. Bond," the man replied. His voice was smooth, dark, low.

The phoenix stirred, taking an interest. Something about Reese told Bond he was not just human. He had been part of a werewolf pack, but wasn't a wolf himself. Their suspicions about him were correct. He could feel it. Something… something was there. And it was a predator like Bond. It was watching, calculating the risk, calculating the threat, and waiting.

"I've been looking for you."

Reese tilted his head. "So I heard. I'm interested why."

"One of your pack members was murdered. He worked with two MI6 agents on a joint case."

Reese's features didn't even twitch. "I have no pack, Mr. Bond."

"Former pack. You were CIA once. Your alpha was Mark Snow."

Now there was a flash. Not just recognition; it was something more.

"He's no longer my alpha, Mr. Bond. It hasn't been my concern for a very long time."

Bond smiled coldly. "Maybe. You can understand that a few people are interested as to why, aside from your alpha and his second, only you have survived the killing spree that took down a whole pack of werewolves."

"I might," was the even, dark reply. "But I didn't kill them."

"I'm not the one to determine that."

"You just bring me in? As a favor to the CIA?"

He shrugged.

"Too bad I'm going to disappoint you," Reese stated easily.

Bond sighed. It would have surprised him if matters had gone smoothly.

Oh well.

He had tried.

x X XX xx X XX xxx

The thing about taking down an MI6 agent was: it was rather difficult. Bond was highly skilled, a killer like Reese, had received most likely the same training, and the only difference between them was that John Reese had had werewolves insisting to train him in their way, too.

It was probably what ended the fight before Reese had to resort to more drastic measures.

He hadn't really wanted to kill the British agent, just incapacitate him for now, take him out of the picture for a while, maybe a day, maybe more. It would give him and Finch time to find the werewolf killer who had also taken the lives of the MI6 agents. It would prove that Reese was innocent, remove the threat of more international visitors after his hide, and return the status quo.

Wiping blood off his face from the split lip and the cut over his left eyebrow, Reese looked at the motionless form. Bond was almost completely buried under the wooden crates that had been stacked against the wall. He had a head wound that was bleeding profusely and he would most likely have to deal with a murderous headache when he woke.

But he was still alive.

Reese had checked.

He grudgingly had to give Bond his due: he was a very good fighter. Even employing moves learned from the pack, Reese hadn't really managed to slow him down. It had been a close call.

"Mr. Reese?"

"I'm still here, Finch," he answered easily as he straightened his clothes.

"Good to hear. How is Mr. Bond?"

"Currently in no position to answer that question. But he'll live."

Reese dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his face. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, though that might be difficult in a city like New York. Too many whack jobs.

"Maybe we should drop Detective Carter a call," he suggested. "There is a man in an alley, unconscious. Looks like he was robbed. He incidentally carries a weapon."

"She won't be able to hold him for long."

"Long enough."

There was a moment of silence, then, "I believe I have found the hacker."

Reese raised his eyebrows. The left one stung. "Where?"

The address was a downtown location, just across Central park, and Reese brushed the last bit of dirt off his clothes. He didn't bother with removing Bond's weapon or wallet. He had neutralized a threat for the time being; next was the man who had apparently managed to break into Finch's system.

"Well, let's meet our mystery friend," he decided and walked off at a brisk pace.

"I'll let Detective Carter know about Mr. Bond's whereabouts."

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"I don't know where John left this guy, but he isn't here."

Detective Joss Carter, cell phone at her ear, looked around the deserted alleyway. Yes, there was a stack of toppled crates. Yes, there were signs of a scuffle. Yes, there was some blood, though that could have come from a dog fight or a cat making a messy meal out of some varmint. But there was no sign of an unconscious MI6 agent.

"It seems Mr. Bond has quite a hard head," Finch replied, sounding mystified.

She could hear him typing at his keyboard.

"I can hardly put an APB out on him, Finch. He's an agent of a foreign government, but England isn't the enemy and he hasn't committed any crimes so far. If push comes to shove I have to set him free the moment I find him."

"I'm quite aware of that, Detective Carter. Let me worry about Mr. Bond and his pursuit of our acquaintance. Thank you."

She shot the silent, dark cell phone a frown. Finch liked to hang up on people before they could even react to his words.

A cold gust of wind hit her and she pulled the collar of her coat up. Carter walked out of the alley and back to her car. She had a job to do and cases to investigate.

But in the back of her mind she was worried. The MI6 was after Reese for something he claimed he hadn't done. She believed him. Carter had known the former CIA operative long enough to believe at least that about him: he wasn't a cold-blooded serial killer.

x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx

Reese stood in front of the hotel. High class, luxurious, costing a small fortune per night. He should be surprised, but he really wasn't. He had been set up in all kinds of establishments himself. Some had been dingy, run-down, smelling of things best not pondered too deeply. Others had had every creature comfort imaginable. Apparently the MI6 had decided to splurge a little.

He walked inside.

"I have located his signal," Finch could be heard. "You might want to know that Mr. Bond recovered before Detective Carter arrived on the scene."

Reese grunted. He waited for the elevator and got on with two others.

"I have been unable to find him so far," Finch continued.

The elevator stopped and the two men got off. Reese continued to one of the top floors.

"The room is rented to a company name. Global Import and Export. It's a British company, of course."

"Of course," Reese murmured.

He got off when he was on the correct floor and walked noiselessly through the corridor toward the suite's door. It had a computer keypad and needed a special card issued to guests only.

Reese didn't have a card; he had Finch.

He pulled his gun.

"Any time you're ready," he murmured.

The light on the entrance key pad turned green.

Reese lifted a corner of his mouth in a brief smile, then he walked inside.

tbc...