A/N: So, I'm continuing this story! I chose to change the title of this fic in order for the title to represent the whole story and not just the first chapter. I hope it doesn't cause too much confusion.

Added Warnings for the rest of the story: Mentions of the 7/7 bombings in London. Nothing that anyone would find insensitive, I hope, but since I'm aware that it might still be a very traumatic memory for some I thought I should mention it.

Disclaimer: I don't know what belongs to the estate of Ian Fleming and what belongs to the Broccoli's, but nothing belongs to me.

"Who, who are you really?
And where are you going?
Well, I've got nothing left to prove
'cause I've got nothing left to lose
See me bare my teeth for you
Who, who are you?"

- Mikky Ekko, Who Are You, Really?

Q Is for Unknown Quantity

He is used to being called 007, or "Mr Bond", or any of a number of aliases, but after years of going by those names he still thinks of himself as James. "007" is his title, and "Bond" is what his friends (if he can be said to have any) and co-workers call him in less official circumstances, but "James", although hardly anyone who stays in his life longer than a few days calls him that, is his name. James was the boy who walked into that priest hole, and James is the man who walked out again. James is the man who made his first kill as an MI6 agent in an abandoned restroom and had to drink half a bottle of whisky to make his hands stop shaking that evening, and James is the man who made his second kill from an armchair in an office, as cool and collected as he would be every time after that. James is the one who fell head over heels in love with Vesper Lynd and James is the one who cursed her name and returned to England and to M a little wiser, a little harder, and a little colder.

James is not what they call a people person. He does not get off on mingling and making small talk. He does not relax by "hanging out" with others. But he works in counter intelligence, and he wouldn't be half as good at his job as he demonstrably is if he weren't interested in people. He's curious by nature, about everyone he meets. He tries to figure out what motivates their actions, what makes them desperate, what makes them forget themselves, what makes them trust him, what makes them fear him. In short: what makes them tick.

When he finally came eye to eye with Silva on that Chinese island, he saw the same curiosity in the other man's eyes. He knew exactly what went through Silva's mind as he tried to rattle James, tried to pick at the scabs of James' mind and find his weaknesses: "How can I get under this man's skin? What will provoke a reaction? What will elicit an emotional response? What makes him tick?"

James doesn't believe Silva was anything but honest that day. The tale about the rats might not have come from Silva's own childhood, but that was never the point of the story anyway – he had meant it. His anger and bitterness at M had not been an act. However, that didn't mean that his lines and actions hadn't been carefully calculated. James considers himself a good judge of character. No flamboyant move from Silva's side or evasive comment from M's was enough to make him underestimate Silva. He saw clearly that the man had been a great spy, before he had become a bargaining chip for MI6. Probably one of the best – but not better than James.

Silva underestimated him, that day. After all his talk about the two of them being alike – being the last two rats – he still thought James was enough of an amateur to fall for Silva's little games. He had assumed that the legendary womanizer would be thrown off his kilter by a little innuendo. Really, now. Two could play that game. The disappointment Silva couldn't keep from showing on his face when he realised he had failed to unnerve James, the brief flicker of honest surprise at James' retort – those were perhaps the only truly enjoyable memories James took with him from that entire mission. He had enjoyed upending Silva's game, with the same carefully subdued glee that Silva had displayed when he still thought he was winning.

Maybe Silva had a point. Maybe they weren't so different, he and James. The thought bothers James, because Silva is the reason M is dead, and he refuses to have anything in common with that man. But Silva is dead, and James is alive, and at the end of the day that's difference enough.

Different or not, though, James understood Silva. He had him figured out. He doesn't understand Q.

He thought he did, at first: one of the new breed, a young man with plenty of IQ and know-how, but no actual experience; someone who thought he was being smart when he made his witty little remarks about James's age and the pitiful state he was in at that point (oh yes, the oh-so-subtle battleship metaphor had not been lost on him).

Then he saw Q in his natural habitat, at the HQ, and what he saw there was something else: a man who already had all that skill in his spine and his fingers rather than in his head; someone who spoke in a soft, smooth voice that didn't fade, rise or waver even when things were falling apart around him; someone who seemed to have spent so much time with computers that he had become one, unflappable and detached, and at the same time someone who would risk his future career to help James and M – or perhaps to get back at the man who had hacked his systems. James can't be sure what Q's motives were. The man shows so little of what is going on inside his head.

And now he's seen Q in the field, and found that there is yet another side to him.

James suspects Q himself thinks that he didn't do a very good job, and that he's not handling the fact that he killed a mark very well, but James disagrees – even if he hasn't said so. Q's reaction is the same as James has seen in dozens of newly hatched field agents: he's upset, which tells James he's not pushing it away and refusing to deal with it, but he's also grounded and calm enough that it's obvious he's accepted that things like these are an occupational hazard and nothing Q is to blame for. James is impressed that Q managed to kill the man at all. He might have expected that Q wouldn't be entirely useless with a gun, considering he is the one who picks out and upgrades the weapons for all double-ohs, but that he's coldblooded enough to shoot a man down in the field came as something of a surprise.

Then there was the incident at the club. Q might not have had to act very much to become "Quentin" initially, but his conduct after he spotted the man who followed them was remarkable: the way he kept his head cold, the way he showed no sign of being uncomfortable when he was forced to nearly sit in James' lap, the way he played along when James kissed him, even kissed him back, and then not as much as mentioned it again – not even when James cornered him on the firing range.

So James' view of Q now has to incorporate this cold-headed field-agent-in-the-making as well as the cocky young man and the competent Quartermaster. Instead of coming any closer to pinning down who Q is, he has been forced to take a step backwards and try to take in an ever larger picture. Q is not the two-dimentional boffin or spotty youth James first wrote him off as. Q is complex and elusive. Bond can see why M – his M – picked him. He wonders if Q, too, is an orphan, a child prodigy, another promising young man for M to take under her wing. He'll never get the chance to ask her, now.

The next time James has an errand to Q-branch, he stands in the doorway for a while and watches Q buzz around the room talking to his underlings. If James wasn't seeing it with his own eyes, he would never believe that a man as young as Q, dressed the way Q dresses, with that floppy hair that falls into his face and that cup of earl grey forever in his hands, could command such respect and attention as Q does. Everyone in the room seems to defer to him as naturally as they did any of his older and more imposing predecessors, if not more so. The soft-voiced "yes, sirs" and "no, sirs" follow upon one another seemingly without end, accompanied by the constant click-clack of typing.

When he decides to make his presence known, James stalks right up to Q, who's talking to a freckle-faced underling. He stands a little bit too close, as is his habit with everyone, but he thinks it will be extra effective with Q. The young man seems to have a larger personal sphere than most – when he's not cuddling up against his colleagues in nightclub sofas, at least.

Q finishes his instructions to the woman as if he hasn't even noticed James' presence; then he straightens up and looks him in the eye, and says which such a stern voice that it reminds James of M:

"Yes, 007, was there anything you wanted?"

The part of James' brain that never stops flirting suggest the answer: "you". He hasn't forgotten Q's reaction to that kiss; it's just one more thing that makes Q interesting. James usually prefers women, but he wasn't lying when he made that quip about "first times" to Silva, and Q certainly fits James' type on all other accounts: mysterious, beautiful and with more cheek than what can possibly be good for him.

"Just admiring your leadership, Quartermaster."

"From such a short distance? Maybe we need to fit you up with spectacles for your next mission."

Q says that, but it doesn't escape James' notice that he hasn't backed away. James smiles. He thinks he notices the shadow a smirk on Q's face, too.

"M wants to talk to you," he says, getting back to business.

"And you're his message boy? That's funny, he usually sends Miss Moneypenny. Or Tanner."

"I offered."

"I'm sure you did."

There's something in the way Q delivers that line that makes it sound perfectly innocent and positively lewd at the same time. James' so impressed he can't come up with a fitting answer.

"Shall I escort you, sir?" he says instead, with exaggerated courtesy and his most disarming smile.

"I know the way, thank you."