"And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, whatever his orientation, whether it's to young men or not, then something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don't want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment."

-Plato, The Symposium

Part II, Act I

It may be the longest sort of relationship he's ever been in, Bond realises, when two months pass and he is still unable to resist the draw of Q and his eyes and lips and bed. It's still only about sex; they aren't seen together in close company in public or at Six and they don't go on dates or anything resembling them. They still work together as they had before and still trade insults like it's going out of style, but they can also shut out the rest of the world and spend long stretches of days not getting out of bed. It's not always like the first time; sometimes it is hard and fast and desperate, exactly what Bond needs. Other times, it is quiet and slow, spanning hours instead of minutes. Afterward, Bond always prepares to leave, but Q always asks him to stay, and there's something about the poetry in his voice that makes it impossible for him to do anything but acquiesce. Q never asks for anything else, so if there's one thing Bond can do for him, it is fulfill that one request.

Bond does not know exactly when Q stops asking, and when Bond starts staying anyway.

The warmth of another body breathing next to him is more of a comfort than he ever thought possible, and Bond is particularly infatuated by Q's after shave, the minty scent of his shampoo, the freshness of his laundry detergent in the bed clothes, his cardigans, everything. When they lie under skin-warm sheets together, Bond breathes him in like his lungs have never taken in air. He does not think he has ever felt so close to someone before.

But that does not mean that they don't have their secrets: Bond still has too many skeletons in his closet and drinks too much to be healthy, but he's been cutting back on the alcohol bit by bit as Q starts filling the void. Meanwhile, Q still smiles mysteriously from time to time, but he has become more open in ways that are drastically different from work. In fact, just last week, Bond heard him laugh for the first time-a true laugh-and he was dizzy with the knowledge that he caused it. It inspired Bond to find all of Q's ticklish spots, and he spent one entire Tuesday torturing Q until he was gasping in between bouts of laughter.

But Bond does not realise that it means something more until he is sitting at an outdoor cafe in Madrid and suddenly wishes that Q was there with him. It's not about sex or because Bond is lonely, he just thinks it would be nice to be together at that moment, taking in the view and the food and the pulse of the city. The thought is terrifying, because, despite his best efforts, Bond is feeling for Q. He is thinking about what he likes and what makes him happy and the best ways to make him laugh. Bond no longer thinks about sneaking out in the middle of the night and instead looks forward to waking up with Q pressed against him, to the shared shower and breakfast and the openness in Q's expression that is for Bond and no one else. It is not love, Bond tells himself over and over again, because love is for children and people who have never been hurt before.

And even though he's happy, probably the happiest he has been in a long time, Bond decides that he will end it-that he has to-because he cannot let it go on any longer. But the moment he is back on English soil and he sees Q with his grey-green eyes and pink lips and riot of dark, luscious curls, the first words out of his mouth are let's have dinner. Q looks at him, surprised, and even closes his door so that the conversation remains private in his office.

"Are you sure?" Q asks, like someone who knows the rules of the game and is concerned about breaking them. The fact that Q is willing to keep on that way hurts Bond in ways that knife wounds and bullet holes never have. He goes to Q and cups his jaw and kisses him in response, because nothing has ever felt more right.

"Yes," Bond says, and means it.

Q's smile lights up the room as he says:

"Let me get my coat."

Part II, Act II

He is in India when it happens.

He is just wondering if Q will like the souvenir he picked out for him when there is a twinge of pain in his shoulder, the bad one, where Patrice had shot him over half a year ago. It hurts from time to time, but it's manageable, and Bond has grown used to ignoring it, especially when on assignment. But then pain changes from a dull throb to sharp and burning. That's new Bond thinks, as he rubs at it unconsciously while driving through Lucknow's afternoon traffic. For the next hour, Bond tries to put it out of his mind, but the pain gets worse and he slowly begins falling further and further behind his mark until he can't see the coupe anymore. He curses and presses hard at his clavicle; his hand comes away bloody. Years of training quell the urge to panic, but Bond all but rips down the visor to angle the mirror so that he can see his shoulder. There are spots of crimson on his shirt, right above the old wound. Steering around pedestrians, Bond uses his free hand to unbutton the top of his shirt. The skin beneath is angry red and there is a mess of blood around the old scar. He curses again, does up his shirt the best he can, and presses his palm against the wound to try to staunch the bleeding.

He does not manage to catch up with the target, but after checking in briefly with Q-Branch, R assures him that they will have better intel the following day and to wait for her communication. Bond does not ask to speak with Q, because he knows the man already has enough on his plate with budgets, and truly, Bond does not even know what he would tell him. So he goes back to his hotel, strips out of his shirt and jacket the moment he is in his suite, and heads to the bathroom.

Bond runs a flannel under the tap and presses the material to the mysterious wound. Once the blood is mostly cleared away, Bond cannot explain what he sees. It is almost like a series of cuts that form small lines in his flesh. They are angry red, and Bond puts antiseptic on them to thwart infection. He then raids the MI6 issued first aid kit and puts gauze atop the worst of it before wrapping his upper torso and shoulder with a cloth bandage.

He forgoes the general painkillers in the kit and drinks from the mini bar instead, trying not to be concerned about how such an injury occurred. But despite how much he drinks, Bond feels the pain creeping up until it's almost on par with a second degree burn. When he touches the gauze, it is agonising, like someone is carving into his skin with a knife. He suddenly thinks of Q and how much he wishes they were not halfway around the world from one another.

It is definitely the pain that makes him think that, that makes him lay down on the bed an arm's reach away from his gun on the night table. The light is on in the bathroom, but Bond cannot be arsed to care. His shoulder throbs and burns and the alcohol in his gut rolls uncomfortably. He feels feverish as he closes his eyes and imagines that he is in Q's bed in London and that he can hear the sound of morning traffic over the gentle patter of rain against the windowsill, and that there is a warm arm round his waist and a nest of dark hair tickling his chin. He is not sure if he it is a memory or a dream, but Q hums and opens his eyes and they are more green than grey and remind Bond of home.

Q smiles at him, no secrets this time, and it's like the entire universe falls into place.

Part II, Act III

When Bond wakes, it is morning and he is shaking and covered in sweat. Fragments of a dream, of images, fall apart and shatter like glass as he attempts to remember what exactly it was he had been dreaming. Words like forever and eternity filter through his mind, but just as he tries to grasp at them, they slip through his fingers like sand. Minutes pass, and Bond's heart calms, the sweat dries upon his skin, and his head feels empty, as if he's forgotten something integral, but he cannot pinpoint exactly what. Feeling hungover and weak, Bond pulls himself into the bathroom and uses the toilet, then splashes water on his face until he feels a little more human and a lot less nauseous.

Bond looks at himself in the mirror, takes in his unshaven appearance, his red rimmed eyes, the dark circles just beneath them. He looks like he's been through a war and lost. Irritably, Bond yanks off the bloodied bandages around his chest.

Surprisingly, the wounds have clotted over, and the lines are distinct enough for Bond to make out an image, a design, in the chaos upon his skin. He stares at his reflection and cannot quite understand, because it's impossible, it has to be. He must be hallucinating, or he's drugged and still dreaming, because this cannot be happening.

But there upon his chest is the same mark that is on Q's hip, the one that Bond reverently touches and kisses whenever he can.

It doesn't make sense and it's frightening. Bond is used to fighting monsters, but he fights the ones that he can see, the ones that are tangible to hurt and shoot and kill. This is something else entirely, something that shakes him to his core. He cannot explain it-cannot even begin to understand how it happened-and if there's one thing Bond hates, it's not knowing.

But now, Bond had things to do and not enough time to think about anything else. Shaking, he dresses and then drinks until he calms down enough to focus on the mission, then he checks in with MI6. Once he gets the intel, he goes out, does the job, and finishes in record time, with very little damage done to himself or the surrounding civilian population. Bond does not linger and hurries to catch the next possible flight back to London. He spends the entire journey rubbing at the sore mess of lines on his chest, looking out the window at the ground and ocean below, and wondering how on earth he will approach things.

What he does not expect is to feel angry.

Confused, yes. Still a little afraid, possibly. But angry, no. Especially with Q.

But the sight of him sparks something in Bond that makes him slam the door to Q's office harshly. Q immediately stands and comes to him, but Bond pushes him up against the wall and is not gentle about it. He does not let up, even when Q makes a pained sound, and he wishes he could stop himself because this is not how he wanted things to go. But the anger boils and he growls out:

"What did you do to me?"

Q looks at him, confused, and Bond pins him harder against the wall. There will be bruises, but Bond keeps him there regardless and stares into the grey-green depths before him.

"What are you talking about?" Q asks, and for the first time since they've met, Bond sees something he has never seen before: a flicker of untruth in his eyes. He knows in that moment that Q has never lied to him until now.

"What did you do?" Bond whispers, and rips open his shirt to expose the still-raw wound. Q's eyes move from his face to the angry red blooms on Bond's chest. He gasps so softly that Bond does not quite hear it as much as he feels beneath his hand. There is recognition in Q's expression.

"Oh, James…" he murmurs, and reaches out to brush his fingers gently over the raised edge of the design. Despite the tenderness in the gesture, Bond cannot control the hiss that escapes him at the touch. Q immediately withdraws his hand and regards Bond calmly. "I think we need to talk."

"So talk," Bond says.

"Why don't we go back to mine," Q suggests, but Bond does not release him.

"We can talk right here."

"I don't think-"

"We can talk right here," Bond says again, and Q swallows at the tone of his voice.

"If that's the case, will you let me go? So we can talk like normal people?" Q asks.

"This isn't a normal situation," Bond replies, but lets him go anyway. Q straightens the front of his cardigan for an abnormally long time and Bond waits, counting seconds as they turn to minutes, and his impatience is nothing but on the rise. When Q looks up again, his eyes meet Bond's for only a moment, before he is back to looking at the mark upon his chest.

"When did it happen?" Q asks, like it's business as usual.

"Yesterday afternoon." Bond replies.

"The onset?"

"Rapid, unexpected."

Bond's tone is harsher than he intends; Q flinches as if Bond had lifted his hand to strike him.

"What were you thinking about?"

"My target, what else would I be thinking about?"

"Something other than your target."

Bond stares at him for a long time, then goes to the bag that he had thrown on the floor upon his entrance. He rummages through the few items inside and pulls out a small box wrapped in stiff paper, which he hands to Q.

"Well, open it," Bond tells him, and Q does.

Inside is a small miniature of the Taj Mahal.

"You got me a kitschy souvenir?" Q asks.

"Your desk is boring."

"You got me a kitschy souvenir."

Q is grinning and heaven help Bond if he cannot catch his breath at the sight of it. He swallows down the confused jumble of joyous feelings at Q's reaction and instead focuses on the lingering pain in his shoulder. Q must sense this, because his grin fades to a smile as he places the statue on his desk, right next to his computer monitor where Bond knows he will undoubtedly see it, and then turns to Bond.

"You were thinking of me," he says, not asks, and Bond nods. Q makes a motion with his hand for Bond to sit in the guest chair. For once, Bond does not argue, and sits, feeling the anger bleed away to weariness.

"What's going on, Q?" Bond asks.

Q's expression transforms into something sad as he approaches. He comes to stand before Bond, leaving only a small sliver of space between them as he leans back against his desk. With slow movements, he begins to undo the buttons of his cardigan, then Q pulls his shirt out from where he had it tucked into his trousers and holds it up for Bond to see. Red lines stare back at him, a perfect copy of what is now on his chest.

"Mine appeared when I was thirteen," Q says softly. "It was very painful, like being cut and burned at the same time...When my parents saw it, they thought I had mutilated myself due to some sort of mental condition. They brought me to a doctor who recommended me to other doctors specifically for troubled youths. I visited at least four psychiatrists that year and none of them could come up with any sort of diagnosis. I wasn't psychotic or depressed or suicidal. They couldn't explain it just as much as I couldn't, or wouldn't, I should say."

He smooths the shirt down and looks very lost for a moment, as lost as Bond felt when he first saw the marks upon him, and that is when Bond knows for certain that Q is telling the truth.

"I began having dreams," Q continues. "Well, not really dreams, but I didn't know it then. More like memories."

"Memories," Bond repeats. Q sighs and puts his head into his hands.

"This part is always...so difficult…" he murmurs, then straightens and looks at Bond with open honesty. "The memories are from past lives. Our past lives, to be exact. We...we've met before, many times. Our fates have always been intertwined."

Bond stares and stares some more, because the words don't make sense no matter how he tries to comprehend them.

"What are you saying?" Bond asks, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Q closes the space between them and touches Bond's shoulder. His eyes are like a stormy sea.

"We are, for lack of a better term, soulmates."

Part II, Act IV

Bond does not see Q for a week.

He goes back to his flat and locks the door. He sits and drinks and listens to traffic, but he's not thinking about M or about Vesper or about anything, anyone but Q. His words ring in Bond's ears soulmates and he scoffs and drinks until the bitterness is so heavy on his tongue that he knows he needs to stop. He showers and lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. It is hard to sleep when he is used to Q's ceiling and the direction of his windows facing East instead of West and it's so quiet without someone breathing next to him that Bond wants to crawl out of his skin. He wants Q, even now, and it is crazy and wrong because none of it makes any sense.

When he is not drinking, Bond is ignoring his mobile and pacing and thinking and torturing himself with questions. He watches as the mark on his chest heals rapidly day by day. By the time the last bit of clotted blood falls away and the skin is no longer swollen, Bond sees the design in all its beauty. It is much more beautiful on Q, Bond thinks, but then he has to stop himself. He does not want to imagine the sleek shelves of Q's hips and the gentle slope of his arse because it comes with a crushing sort of feeling that he may never touch Q again. It drives him to drink more than is healthy and sets him back into the cycle of too much liquor and not enough sleep. If someone were to ask him why he is doing this, Bond could not answer, because it has not even been four months and it is definitely not love, but Bond is enamored with Q to the point of madness.

Maybe that is why he is willing to believe him and his extraordinary tale, even though all rational thought screams at him that it is entirely misguided of him. Or maybe it is because Q looked at him and Bond knew he had not uttered a lie.

He knocks on Q's door at some ungodly hour of the morning, realising a moment too late that he's forgotten his coat and did not button the top half of his shirt and that he smells like booze and has not shaved in days. But when the door opens and Q appears looking tired and haggard, Bond forgets all of that entirely. Words tumble out of his mouth before he can restrain them:

"You're taking the piss."

Q leans on the door frame and gives Bond an exhausted little smile.

"I wish I was," he answers.

And Bond does not know what to do except allow Q to lead him into the flat. It only vaguely registers in his mind that Q has brought him to the ensuite and is drawing a bath when Bond hears the roar of the taps. The room becomes warm and steamy, comfortable, almost dreamlike and Bond feels his eyes closing of their own volition. Careful fingers undress him and coax him into the water. Q does not join him, but sits just outside of the tub within arm's reach.

"How does it feel?" Q asks, and it takes Bond a moment to understand that he is talking about the mark upon his chest.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," Bond says, reaching for him. Q intercepts his hand and kisses the backs of his fingers.

"Good," he murmurs, and does not release him. He stops the taps after some time, and then there is nothing in the quiet room except for their breaths and the steady lap of water against the porcelain basin.

"Soulmates," Bond says.

"Yes," Q replies, brushing his lips along the inside of Bond's wrist. "Two halves of one whole."

"I don't believe in soulmates," Bond says, because it's crazy, impossible..

"I know," Q answers and his eyes are just as storm grey as they were the day they last spoke. Bond thinks there is nothing more beautiful in the world.

Maybe it is love after all.

Part II, Act V

Q tells him that he will not go to work the next day, and Bond is grateful because it means that he can wake up with the windows facing the right direction and with his arm round Q's waist. He likes listening to him breathe because it's comforting to have someone warm and alive next to him whom he can trust. He wakes at dawn but does not rise, too content to move, but too aware to go back to sleep. It is only after an hour of lying there that Bond realises they are breathing in unison, as if their brains are commanding their lungs to operate in perfect synchronicity. He loops his hand around Q's wrist and counts his heartbeats, then counts his own, and they are matched almost perfectly.

Two halves of one whole.

When a weak pane of morning sunlight falls across the bed, Q makes a grumpy sound that Bond finds endearing, especially when it leads to having the other man turn over and curl up against him. He burrows beneath the duvet and moves closer, mumbling a sleepy good morning against the curve of Bond's neck.

Regardless of whatever the truth may be about all of this soulmate business, Bond knows that he would be very much content to wake up this way every morning for the rest of his life.

They are slow to get up and out of bed, especially because Q's kisses are pleasantly distracting, but Bond is firm on wanting to talk about things and they do not let their wandering hands venture any further. Instead, they work on getting cleaned up. Q makes sure that Bond has a toothbrush and lends him a razor so that he can take care of the three day growth on his face. After washing up, Bond finds a few articles of his clothing hanging in Q's wardrobe, which he must have forgotten at one point or another while on leave between missions, and dresses casually. Q does the same, and they are quiet as they lock up the flat and walk to get breakfast. Although Bond is not usually one for public displays, he let's Q hold his hand on their journey to a corner cafe a few blocks away.

It is late enough in the morning that they have missed the early crowds, but not yet late enough that the lunch rush is on its way. The weak beginning-of-autumn sunlight is warm enough that they opt to sit outside. Bond positions his chair so that he can see the street behind Q and all oncoming traffic. He still has his Walther from the mission in India, on which he still has yet to be debriefed, which is against regulation, but he knows that he will use it without hesitation should trouble arise.

"You can relax," Q tells him, over the edge of his menu. "The most exciting things that happen in this part of London are related to road construction."

"Never can be too careful, Q," Bond says.

"No, I suppose not," Q agrees. "Carry on, then."

He lets Bond survey the place without another word, only speaking when the server comes to take their orders.

"You'll need to go in for debrief," Q says, after the man has walked away with their menus.

"In good time," Bond replies. "First things first."

"Breakfast?" Q asks, and he says it so brightly that Bond cannot refuse him. They drink their coffee and tea and eat their omelettes in silence. After they pay, Q takes his hand again and leads him purposefully along, until the city pavements give way to brick pathways in a small park. The greenery is lush and calming compared to the grey of the city and Bond finds himself breathing easier.

"So tell me," Bond says.

"Where do I begin?" Q asks.

"At the beginning," Bond replies, and Q laughs.

"The beginning was a long time ago," he says.

"How long ago?"

"Ancient Greece. Around 400 BC, give or take."

Bond stops and sways a bit at Q's matter-of-fact tone.

"400 BC," he says.

"Yes," Q answers, and looks sad in a way that Bond cannot begin to understand. It is like the way Q smiles so mysteriously, like his entire being is comprised of nothing but secrets.

"And you remember?" Bond asks.

"Yes," Q replies. "I always do."

Q begins walking again, and with their hands linked, Bond follows. They travel for some time in silence again, and Bond can tell that it is not because Q has nothing to say, but that he is trying to think of how to say what is going on in his head.

"We first met in Athens," he says. "I was studying mathematics at the time. You were a playwright. We met accidentally. Well, maybe. I'm not sure I believe in coincidences anymore."

Q smiles and it is a bit self-deprecating. Bond wants to kiss him, but he does not know if it is appropriate.

"We were romantic almost immediately. There was no cause to hide it in such a time, so we didn't. I think it was one of our happiest lives because of that," Q finishes. Their walk pauses at the end of a footbridge, where Q looks over the railing and down at the water below.

"And the others?"

"They were happy too, don't get me wrong, but times...change. There were wars and famines and plagues, so not the best of times for anyone, really. And most often, we were reincarnated as two men, which made secrecy another aspect of our relationship. Hiding was always hard... We weren't allowed to be seen together, or be caught spending too much time with one another. It just wasn't done," Q explains, and sighs, leaning into Bond. He feels small in a way that does not feel right, and Bond cannot help releasing his hand so that he can put both arms round him.

"How do you remember all of this?" Bond asks.

"I'm not sure," Q replies, resting his forehead against Bond's sternum. "Like I said, I dreamed most of it. But then I didn't forget when I woke up. I just kept accumulating more and more memories of us, always different names and faces, but always us."

"Why don't I remember?" Bond asks.

"Sometimes you do," Q answers. "Sometimes you only remember bits and pieces. Most of the time, though, there's nothing. That's why...it's so hard to prove it to you."

"And the mark?"

"It always appears on me first, usually when I'm young, before my fifteenth birthday and never any later than that. Yours appears only after we've met and you...acknowledge that you have some sort of strong feeling for me."

"Strong feeling?"

"It doesn't have to be sexual," Q replies, and the tips of his ears are red. "We've lived several lives just as very good friends."

"Just friends?" Bond asks.

"You were married," Q explains. "Happily so. It wasn't my place."

"But aren't we supposed to be-"

"A soulmate doesn't have to be a romantic partner. It's someone who compliments you...who serves as your other half."

"But weren't you lonely?" Bond asks.

"Of course," Q answers, in a way that makes something hard stick in Bond's throat, "but if there's one thing that I've learned from all of these memories, it's how to be lonely."

And it might be a little too much for Bond to believe-to admit that there are such things as destiny and soulmates-but he knows that some sort of force is at work that he cannot explain. There's something about Q and there's something about the way Bond feels when he's with Q that tells him it's right. It might be a mistake, too large of a leap of faith, but Q's eyes are open and not lying and Bond can do nothing but believe him. And that is what makes him tighten his arms round Q and press a kiss to his temple.

"You don't have to be lonely anymore," Bond says.

Q tilts his head a bit and brushes the tip of his nose along the hinge of Bond's jaw.

"You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that."