When James actually drifted off into sleep, his whole body relaxing, unwinding, loose muscles and complete trust, Q smiled a little. Fond and worried and so much more.
Q wasn't tired, so he went into the network. He went back to the Kazakhstan files, to where they had lost Bond's trail in the tunnels under the abandoned building.
Bond had burn scars. Very bad, very long-lingering burn scars. Q knew the recovery rate of the phoenix and he knew that while Bond would come back to life, he would still bear the signs of his injuries. Some had scarred in the past. Q had speculated it was a sign that he hadn't been balanced back then, that he had been too close to losing himself. The outward signs of such near-losses were the scars.
Now: healing burns.
He shuddered at the very idea that his partner had been burned.
Q went looking for fires in the area, then spread his search pattern, working the grid he had used before, and finally came up with a list of fires that had happened in the past month in various, possible locations. One had been a car pile-up involving a truck transporting gasoline. It had been fairly close to Bond's last known location and there had been several deaths. All but one person had been identified.
One.
Q swallowed as he pulled up the file, refusing to look at the photos from the coroner's report.
What caught his attention was the claim a week later that the body had disappeared out of the morgue. The police had investigated the apparent theft, but no break-in had been discovered. There was one article about losing the corpse, another speculating the man had risen and walked out.
It sounded laughable.
But it wasn't if one took into account that this might have been a phoenix.
Q stared at the peacefully sleeping man in bed with him, took in the damage, refusing to think of what James must have gone through.
Still, the thoughts came unbidden.
He had… Q swallowed. He had burned. The report had mentioned a double-tap shot to the head, killing the man before he had been burned. More speculation was that he had been in the trunk of a car before the gasoline truck had hit it, throwing him out but not clear of the fire.
Bond had come back from that. He had come back from being shot and burned!
His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest, and only because Bond moved slightly in his sleep, burying closer to Q, did he get his reaction under control. Q rested a protective hand on his agent's shoulder, finger pads sliding over uneven skin.
What kind of energy had been necessary to resurrect him? What kind of will and strength had let the phoenix rise, screeching and screaming, a dark, nightmarish monster, and continue living? What had it taken for him to slip out of the morgue unseen in his condition, more primal than human, running on instinct? How had he made it from almost near the Kazakh-Chinese border back to England? Did he even remember it?
James had had no medical help. In the past he had never been without, sooner or later. He had survived and needed healing time. That had sped up slightly with the acknowledgment of the connection between them, but he wasn't like a werewolf, whose instant healing was legendary.
He must have gotten pain medication and bandages from somewhere. Or had someone helped him? If yes, who and why?
Q made a mental note to look into the theft of medication from hospitals or pharmacies.
And how could a mind take this? he mused.
Q was horrified by the idea alone, but to live through this?
There were no reports on preternaturals like a phoenix. They were generally seen as myths, as something that couldn't really exist, and the few things the quartermaster had found were without true evidence or any other, sane foundation. Those who had talked about people coming back from the dead had been discredited.
But the phoenix did exist, and Bond had resurrected more than once.
The danger was simply in the very nature of the beast. The phoenix was terrifying. It was a cold predator, it lived for the hunt, the blood, the kill. It needed the violence and it was the perfect assassin. But with each resurrection it consumed part of itself and only the mental strength of the preternatural with such a nightmarish, primal soul kept the human from going over the edge, giving in to the madness and finally perishing completely.
James Bond was a very strong man and he had survived the rebirths against all odds. He had fought for his sanity and while he had been close to finally surrendering to the horror he was when Moneypenny had shot him, he had pulled himself together for one last time.
To save M.
And in the end he had lost her.
But he had found Q.
Q was very much aware of what it meant to be the balance to this creature his partner was deep down in his soul. He had faced the fire and the ice and the violence, and he had always been able to soothe and calm and even out the temper. By just being there.
Like right now.
And now, nearly a year after M's death, he wasn't really any closer to understanding the true nature and power of the preternatural being. He knew what Bond needed, but he had been wary of speculating on what he could do if driven to extremes concerning his recovery powers.
Now… Now he had perished in a fire… and he had come back…almost literally from the ashes…
Sane.
Because he was sane. There was nothing feral about him. There was no monster dominating his mind. He was in control, he had been in control enough to get here without an incident, but how? Agents were trained to survive, to find ways to get back, to steal and lie and take what they needed, employ all their abilities to make it back.
And James had.
He had made it back.
Q gazed at the sleeping man in his arms, the man who trusted him, and only him, so completely, and he was drawn between horror and amazement.
But why had resurrection shaved a few years off? Had his death hit some kind of reset? If yes: why? And why to that one point in Bond's life? He had been a phoenix since birth. Why go back to what he had been like when he had become a Double-Oh?
Q petted the blond head and kept browsing, kept trying to catch a glimpse of his partner's actions, ran facial recognition software, but there was too much for him to wade through. It was humanly impossible and even as a technopath he wouldn't be able to find him if he didn't have at least one image to go after.
An email from M had him smile grimly. The head of MI6 had taken Bond off the active list, had pushed Q into medical leave or vacation time, whatever he wanted, and he demanded a detailed report on whatever Q could give him.
So he gave him shreds, because that was all he actually had himself. He tagged an apology to it. James wasn't talking yet and he might not even remember everything, but should he talk, Q would report.
M had to be satisfied with that.
For now he was and Q was thankful for it. Mallory gave him a lot of freedom when it came to Bond and it was more than appreciated.
X X xxxX X x
He sent a brief message to Finch.
The reply was almost instantaneous and it made him smile.
'Take care of him.'
Of course he would.
x X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx x
Q had dozed off and he only drifted awake when he felt the mattress move. He was quickly alert, checking his network, the time, the date. All in a nanosecond. He was satisfied another second later that no one had broken into the place, that they were still alone, in private, and that only three hours had passed.
Dark eyes watched as Bond got up and walked into the bathroom. Naked skin stretching over the toned body, the muscles lithe and trained as always. Completely nude. Sometime throughout the past hours or just in the last minute, Q didn't really know, Bond had lost his last article of clothing.
Not that he didn't enjoy the sight. Damn, he wouldn't be alive if he didn't. It also gave him an unobstructed view of the scarring, which was fading.
Q listened to the toilet flush, then the shower came on. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He wasn't tired and his brain felt better than in days. The headache that had always been there, underneath it all and waiting to flare or turn into a migraine, was gone.
Instead of waiting for his partner, Q went and made coffee. He also prepared sandwiches, just in case Bond was hungry.
The agent came out of the bedroom not much later, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing only a pair of sweat pants, looking a lot better than a few hours ago. Truly, he did. Q's sharp eyes took in the much more faded burn scars and his brain was all over those facts. His torso still showed the injuries quite clearly, but less pronounced. His face was… almost back to normal.
Dear god… mere hours. A few hours together, the bond no longer strained and dark, reviving with their proximity, and the healing had sped up. Q was stumped and scared and so much more. He could feel the knot of energy within James, almost as if each touch had him crackle with it. It was still there, not used up, from the last resurrection and it was working something inside his partner.
Like on automatic he reached out and ran explorative fingers over the shaven face.
"You healed," he whispered, fighting the awe and the fear that came with it.
Bond caught the hand, still not talking, his eyes too sharp, too silvery still, and the kiss that claimed Q's lips spoke of his need for the technopath. He was a dark, coiled presence.
It was touching something deeper than before. It wrapped itself around Q's soul, held it, needed it, and then and there he was aware how much power he had over this man.
James Bond was his agent. But the phoenix was his anchor as well, and that bond was stronger than anything else. He needed James, but the older man seemed to rely on him even more
"I'm here. Not leaving," he murmured when they parted, then groaned softly into the gentle bites delivered against his neck.
Strong fingers slipped underneath his Henley, seeking warm skin, and Bond breathed against his neck. It sounded like Q's name, rough and gritty, like chewing on broken glass.
"I'm here," the quartermaster repeated.
The kiss was reassuring, reaffirming, and it was far more than merely sexual. The connection between them was like a living, breathing thing. It was there, right in the middle of his soul, firm and a total fact of his life. It resonated strongly, it pulled them together.
"Hungry?" Q offered, never stopping the caress.
Those intense eyes briefly left his face and looked at the sandwiches. A small, very Bond-like smile pulled at his agent's lips. That tiny crinkle at the corner of his mouth. Q knew his phoenix was always professional on the job, that he only let go in private, and he had seen and heard him laugh, had seen him free and without a care when they were together.
This was a first step.
"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get some food into you."
Bond accepted the sandwiches and the coffee, but he stayed close to Q, like an instinct was telling him to be with his balance, his own anchor. And it was instinct; it was the preternatural.
They were on the couch together after that, James leaning into his partner, seeking closeness, seeking confirmation of what they were. Q let him.
"Whenever you're ready," he murmured into the blond strands that were longer than the last time he had seen James.
The blue eyes were so intense when Bond leaned over him, Q shivered a little. Blunt, deadly fingers touched the frames of his glasses and, when Q didn't stop him, pulled them carefully off.
The kiss was punctuated by tiny nips, almost playful, and Bond pushed him back.
Q went with the flow.
His Henley went next. Then his pants. And he wasn't passive either. Bond was only wearing the sweat pants, but those went, too.
The phoenix straddled him and gazed down at the technopath. Q smiled, almost challenging. Even now, in this situation, he wouldn't submit to the powerful predator.
The answer was a slow smile, hungry and needy and knowing.
The bite to his jaw was his own challenge for his quartermaster, and Q scratched blunt nails over his skin without breaking it. He was careful of the scarring, but Bond rumbled his appreciation, the kisses growing more hungry, more intense.
Q pushed up, felt the reaction, the growl more than telling, and their movements became more intense. Bond's teeth were leaving their marks, but Q didn't care. He urged him on, pushing, pulling, wanting. James gave in to the need and they slid against each other, the emotions open between them, the intensity without equal, and the rough friction was amazing.
Q came hard, Bond's name on his lips, and the harsh exhalation of air announced his agent's completion. Bond sagged onto him and Q didn't mind the weight, held him close, listening to their harsh breaths.
"I died," Bond whispered after a while, voice hoarse, almost jagged.
Q carded the fingers of both hands into the damp hair, holding on. "I know," he answered.
"I came back. Hell. Felt like… hell…"
The voice was muffled against his skin.
Q waited.
Bond pushed himself up, stomach spattered with the evidence of their encounter, and Q sat up as well. He didn't mind their nudeness. He didn't care what they looked like. He was only concentrating on James.
Bond had died in fiery hell. He had burned. Something had happened then as the phoenix had risen. He had recovered from such intense physical destruction. Finch had told him about the possibility, but for it to really happen?
Q pushed away the images of burned corpses, of James' image overlaying those gruesome deaths.
The quartermaster interlaced their fingers, squeezing the broad hand.
How long had it taken? How much had Bond felt of it? When had he come back to life? When to consciousness? Who had maybe been there?
A soft sound of distress escaped his lips.
Blue eyes, no longer so silvery, looked at him. There were emotions there, emotions Bond never talked about, except when there was no other outlet. Right now he couldn't put them into words.
The Double-Oh reached out with his free hand, cupping Q's cheek, fingers ghosting over his temple. It was soothing, cool, balm for his soul, and his eyes slid shut automatically.
"I can't… remember," Bond said roughly, sounding almost fragile. "Anything."
Q opened his eyes, saw the pain in those silvery orbs. And the pain was terrible. Not physical. It was deep within the phoenix's soul, the last trace of an inhuman ordeal. It was something that had even scared the monstrous thing that never shied away from death and blood. It had left marks. It had the creature push forward in a different way.
It needed reassurance, it needed Q. He smiled softly and turned his head a little to kiss the rough palm.
"I can't remember," he repeated. "It has never happened before. I always… always, Q!"
And that hurt, too. It hurt like so many things. Q wanted alleviate that hurt, wanted his partner to know that he was there, that he would give him whatever he needed.
He didn't dig any deeper. Loss of memory was to be expected after such a traumatic death and rebirth. James might just need more time.
And the phoenix needed a calm environment, safety, familiarity.
Bond claimed another kiss, rough and still demanding, a different kind of fire racing through him.
There was no more talking after that.
tbc...