While they did some touristy New York walks, getting to know the city from Finch's point of view was a lot more interesting, especially when Q let himself see it from The Machine's eyes. He had had little contact with Finch's creation, though it was literally everywhere, and he tried not to give in to the burning curiosity. It was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

Bond knew, of course. Q didn't have to say a word and his partner still knew. He sometimes brushed a hand over Q's, bumped their shoulders together, or initiated physical touch in another way.

Q had met Finch for lunch in a hotel located near Central Park. It was a very good lunch and he had enjoyed himself. Conversation had, as always, been multi-themed and had finally turned to preternatural lore and myths.

"There are several titles I've been meaning to buy," Finch told Q as they walked through Central Park. "They are very hard to find and even harder to acquire. Other collectors don't always part with them."

Q raised an eyebrow.

Bond and Reese were… somewhere. Doing their agent thing. Q playfully piggy-backed on the security cameras and challenged himself with finding the two men. Finch shot him amused looks.

"You researched the phoenix," the quartermaster remarked.

"It's an interesting topic. Ciphers and hellhounds are normal." He smiled, turning his head a little as he limped on. "The internet can only give you so much information. Sometimes you have to go back to the roots."

"Books."

Finch smiled. "Books have been there before the internet."

Q chuckled. "Indeed. What did you find?"

"I found who had the books."

"Had?"

Another half-turned head with a mischievous smile. "I also found someone who can get me what I need."

Q raised an eyebrow.

"One of our numbers was the wife of an FBI agent. He in turn had a partner who is a world-class forger, art thief and con man."

"Ah."

"He also happens to be a preternatural."

Q gave him a humorless smile. "Thief, you said? A master?"

Finch chuckled, limping over to a bench where he sat down. Q joined him, eyes roaming the park around them. No sign of Bond and Reese.

"He's a harpy?" he asked.

Finch nodded, an appreciative look in his eyes.

"Not hard to guess," the younger man added with a shrug. "Most successful master forgers and master thieves are."

"And Mr. Caffrey has an extraordinary talent. As does his colleague. Both are harpies."

Harpies were always very talented, near-perfect thieves. It wasn't a legit excuse in court and the justice system treated them as they did every criminal.

And not all harpies were criminally inclined.

They weren't as rare as one would think and they were not solely female. Myths and legends were one thing; the real thing another. Like all preternaturals they couldn't shape-change, so no wings, no feathers, no bird-like features. Neither did they look different in their human guise. They weren't ugly or terrifying to look at. Some were rather handsome.

The preternaturals had gotten their misnomer from the original meaning of their name: that which snatches. They had nothing in common with annoying, nasty women from myths and legends of old. While many would claim thieves had more characteristics of the foxes, those shape-changers had no relations to harpies. They were mostly found in politics due to their natural ability to bend the rules with words and get away with empty promises. Those not inclined to trick with words but deed became magicians and illusionists. Some very famous ones had made it to Vegas.

"He's working with the FBI now?" Q asked.

"After he was finally caught." Finch smiled a little. "Agent Burke is a very persistent man. He also happens to be a fury."

Q's interest rose immediately. Furies were far from vengeful goddesses. Usually myths served to hide the true nature of a creature. Harpies, furies, the phoenix. All of them weren't what writers had made of them.

Furies existed in both genders and were drawn into careers like bail or bounty hunting, which they were insanely good at. They were dogged in their pursuit of a criminal and couldn't be swayed. That one was an FBI agent was surprising. They rarely had the civility to work within a set system of rules.

He mentioned it to Finch.

"After getting to know Mrs. Burke," the older man said with a fine smile, "I believe she is vital in keeping him calm and even."

"Preternatural?"

"No, I'd call it love."

That had Q chuckle.

"So Mr. Caffrey agreed to get you some very rare titles?"

"His associate has. Mr. Caffrey is limited in his activities due to Agent Burke, though that hasn't stopped his nature completely. No one can tame a harpy and Burke knows it. He has given his partner quite some leeway in some regards already. I approached his associate with an offer. I'm lucky that money can bait almost any harpy into acquiring what I need."

"Illegal activities, Harold? I'm shocked."

Q wasn't surprised by the low, soft rumble. Reese was silent, but he had also been on camera. Q liked to stretch his technopathic muscles and Central Park was a good place to hop through the feeds. He discovered Bond not far away, leisurely dressed in jeans and a dark, woolen coat. He looked relaxed, at ease, though his expression was vigilant.

Finch turned as much as he was able to with his stiff neck. "I find it hard to believe that I can still shock you, Mr. Reese."

Q smiled briefly. "I'd appreciate anything you can send me," he told Finch.

Finch glanced at him. "Of course. I wouldn't keep it to myself."

"Thank you."

Bond had drifted closer, the blue eyes like cubes of ice. Q rose after saying his good-byes and the two men easily fell in step, leaving Central Park and strolling through the crowds.

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It was almost ten in the evening when Finch limped into the art gallery. It was more of a studio, really. Aspiring artists trying to make a living. Not that the man Finch was about to meet had such ambitions. He was an artist in his own right, of course. A forger of the highest class, but he didn't need such an open location to work his own breed of magic. He lived and worked in the dark, in the shadows, and no one would ever know what he had done or created.

Finch closed the door after himself and looked around the small studio. Hardwood floors, white walls with different paintings in different styles, a few free standing sculptures, all lit up discretely. It wasn't a large studio, but the paintings and sculptures were tasteful.

"Mr. Crane?"

Harold turned and looked at the man who was no taller than him. Balding quickly, bespectacled, looking as harmless as Finch himself, Mozzie appeared no more the art forger than Finch did the computer genius.

"Mr. Haversham," he greeted him.

"Didn't think I'd see you again, actually, but since you helped save Mrs. Suit, and Neal in a way, here I am personally."

"Anonymous services rendered would have been acceptable as well," Finch said neutrally.

Mozzie regarded him closely. "Like I said, you helped Mrs. Suit. I'm not sure who and what you are, Mr. Crane, or what your partner is doing all the time, but you're in a business that might suit me one day, too."

Finch gave him a brief smile.

"You have an interest in mythical preternaturals as well. I know you know what Neal is, so I guess it's a hobby?"

Finch just regarded him calmly, refusing to be baited into any kind of conversation regarding his interests. "I believe you have checked that your payment has arrived, Mr. Haversham. The books?"

Mozzie's high forehead wrinkled a little, then he placed his bag on the table that was usually used as a cashier's desk in case someone wanted to buy a painting. He was visibly biting back on asking more questions. The man had a fine sense of when someone would really talk and when he was going too far.

The cipher pulled out the books and carefully inspected them. They were the real deal. He hadn't expected anything less from Caffrey's associate. He was sure word would get back to the younger man about the successful transaction. While Finch had no plans to uphold any kind of regular relationship with either man, knowing they were here in New York and capable of assisting in matters of a more illegal matter in the world of art and forgery might come in handy another time.

"Thank you," Finch said politely and rose.

Reese melted out of the shadows the moment he left the gallery. It actually came as no surprise that the hellhound had apparently followed him. It had been kind of their game in the beginning. By now Finch appreciated the silent, invisible shadow.

When he glanced back into the gallery, Mozzie was gone. Reese's eyes swept over the evening crowds, then he hailed a cab and the two men got inside.

"You paid a small fortune for a few old tomes?" Reese broke the amiable silence between them when they were finally back in the library.

"Very valuable tomes, Mr. Reese." Finch placed them carefully onto the table. "I believe they will prove to be more than valuable concerning Mr. Bond."

"And they will look good on your shelves."

He chuckled. "They will indeed."

Reese was close and Finch was drawn between pulling him even closer for a kiss and not giving in to the pull he felt when it came to the other preternatural.

A whine saved him from making a decision. A wet nose pushed against his hand as Bear sat down beside him, giving Finch and expectant look.

"Time to play, Harold?" Reese teased, voice low and soft and hitting some buttons Finch hadn't been aware of having any longer. Or at all.

"He might be begging for treats," he told his partner. "Because you keep spoiling him."

Reese's smile was bright and happy. It gave Finch a little thrill to know that the man had come this far, that he could actually feel like this again.

Reese picked up the chewed-up tennis ball and Bear's attention was riveted to the toy. His whole body thrummed with expectation.

When the ball was thrown, the Belgian Malinois waited obediently. Reese smiled, then gave the command and he dashed off.

Finch's lips curled into a little smile as he watched man and dog play, then limped to his chair and sat down to read his new acquisitions.

He knew he would probably give in to his growing attraction to Reese later. Much later. In his own, slow way. He was learning to let the other man in, though. And Reese was a good teacher.

A very good one.

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Q had chosen a small tea shop for their meeting and Finch looked faintly amused. The room was small, crowded with tables in different styles, the chairs just as mismatched, each one decorated with a different table cloth. Since Easter was coming up the main theme was of course bunnies, colorful eggs, little chicks and spring flowers. Daffodils and tulips in tiny vases had been placed on every table.

"I haven't been here before," the cipher said, looking around the quaint little shop.

It wasn't part of a chain, offered a multitude of teas, served in flowery cups, some with cute animals on them, or dots, or hearts and the like, and it had homemade cakes and pies.

All in all it was nice. And the prices were reasonable.

Q ordered a black tea flavored with an interesting mixture, and a scone. Finch decided on a variation of green tea and picked out four small cookies.

"Thank you for an enjoyable stay," Q said when the tea had been placed on their table and the server had left. "We had an interesting week with our, well, extracurricular activities."

Finch chuckled. "Nothing you can book through a travel agency."

"Even though adventure tours are very popular."

"I believe Mr. Bond did truly enjoy himself. I know Mr. Reese did."

Q smiled. "Perfect vacation. For both of us, I have to say. I have been able to train in a different, very challenging environment."

Finch studied him.

"I didn't touch it. It would be too dangerous," the technopath said calmly. "I know my limits and just watching it, seeing it through the barrier, tells me I would most likely drown and be torn to pieces within seconds. You created something incredible, Harold. It's there, it knows who and what you are, and it protects you and John."

The older man seemed to pale a little, then studied his tea.

"You never truly went back." Q met the shadowed eyes.

"I can't. It would endanger everything."

"But you have a backdoor. No one would register your entry. It would let you in."

"Something still might get out."

Q was silent for a moment. "You fear Root."

Now Harold did pale. "She is a formidable opponent."

"One who wants The Machine. To set it free, you said. But should she ever break the barriers, it wouldn't be as she imagines it. It's still developing. I wouldn't even call it a child. It's nothing you can compare to a human being, a human mind. It's somewhere between sentience and self-awareness, but neither of both, really. It's your code, Harold. It's part of you and it would only ever turn to you."

Finch stirred his tea. "It was how I met Grace."

Q frowned a little.

"Grace Hendricks is an artist I… met. A long time ago," Finch said haltingly. "Because of The Machine."

The quartermaster raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I thought it was a glitch. I was still… training it, you could say. I was running the program, seeing if it really would work as I had intended it to do. The Machine directed me to Grace. I believed it to be a glitch and I corrected it."

"It wasn't?"

"No. I was led back to her. I didn't understand it back them, but now, so many years later, I do."

"It selected her. For you."

Finch nodded. "Yes."

The technopath smiled. "And it worked."

Harold mirrored the smile. "It did. For a while. But then… things changed and I had to leave her and everything else behind."

Q looked at the older man, studying the pale features. Finch looked drawn as memories came back, probably memories of what had happened to him, what had injured him, leaving him partially crippled. It had been a time when the man he had been had died. Q had tried to dig deeper once, but Harold Finch had wiped his tracks, had become so many people that he probably didn't even know who he was any more either.

"She believes I died in an accident."

"You never went back?"

Finch sighed. "I did. I shouldn't have. But she was someone special, Q. Someone I had hopes of sharing my life with. She didn't know who I really was, but I had wanted to be someone for her, after everything concerning my program was said and done. I never could."

"The Machine pushed you her way," the technopath said softly. "It knew you two were compatible. I believe it did the same again. With John."

Finch looked up sharply.

"It watches out for you, Harold. It needs you, it wants you safe and… happy." He quirked a little smile again. "I really do believe it would let you in."

"The Machine is much more than what I access sometimes. And it's not even access. I receive the irrelevant list. As for our communication…" He shook his head. "The Machine I can still see, the part that I'm in contact with, is tiny compared to what the program really is."

"What you access is the important part, Harold. It is the part that learns and evolves."

Finch was silent, refusing to get deeper into the subject matter. They switched topics, even briefly went over the case of Elisabeth Burke, the woman who had tamed a fury and who was friends with two harpies.

x X XX

They left the tea shop a little after five, taking a cab to the hotel Q and Bond were staying at. As they stood outside, Q was aware of the security camera on him, the red light flaring briefly.

He smiled.

Finch cocked his head, then glanced at the camera. He didn't say anything, but his expression was thoughtful.

"Have a pleasant journey home," the cipher finally said.

Q held out his hand and Finch took it. "Thank you. We'll be in contact." He smiled.

Finch mirrored the smile. "Of course."

Then both men parted, Finch limping off down the street. Q watched him for a moment longer, then turned and walked into the hotel. He knew he was being watched and this time he didn't block the signal.

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They came back home three days before the end of their enforced downtime. Clothes were put in the washer, the fridge refilled, the network checked. It was routine, but still, in a way it wasn't.

Because a day after coming back, James Bond finally gave up his rental place. There was little he called his own, even less that was truly important to him. A few personal items, some documents, nothing more. One of those items was his father's old hunting rifle.

Q hadn't been truly surprised. Almost all of James' clothes were in his bedroom, their bedroom, already. There were a lot of expensive suits, dress shirts and leather shoes. But also what Q teasingly called 'normal clothes'. Jeans, t-shirts, sweaters. Bond had his own laptop, his own office space.

It had been only a matter of time.

One of Bond's arguments had been Q's safety if a Double-Oh lived with him.

"I'm safe," the quartermaster had told him sternly. "This place is safer than any other private home. You know I have measures in place to fight off a break-in. I also know how to shoot."

It had gotten him a smile and a nod. "That you do."

"It's also just theoretical that you living here will endanger me. Someone might be after the head of Q branch as well."

"Possibly."

And they had taken their time to try out living together like this without ever making a conscious decision to do so.

It had started with Bond drifting over to Q's flat now and then.

Then he had stayed longer and longer, had come after missions, had been there until the next. He had rarely visited his rental place. MI6 hadn't bought him his own, nor had Bond thought about buying one either.

It had just happened.

And now Bond had thrown out everything that had still been in storage, sold off to interested parties over the past months, one by one. Storage was cleared. The rented flat was gone.

It changed nothing for them.

They had been living together for almost a year now.

Somehow it worked.

And it would continue doing so.

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It was mandatory for Double-Ohs who had been either MIA in the field or laid off due to medical reasons to go through another performance evaluation. Since Bond qualified for both the medical reasons and being MIA, M insisted that he run the course.

Bond just looked blandly at him, not a single emotion in his face, then gave his superior a brief nod.

"Sir."

And with that he was gone.

M sighed.

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Evaluation was not a problem. James Bond was in perfect shape. He ran his miles, he did push-ups, crunches, pull-ups and let them take blood. The shooting range was no problem either. He hit the target with a perfect score, even when they moved it back past the normal distance, and he smirked a little.

008 was in the changing room, fresh out of the showers.

"Congrats," he only said. "No one's placing any bets anymore." He grinned.

Bond stripped off his grimy sweats. "Too bad. The odds were interesting."

"I'll say."

Nothing else was spoken, though Bond felt the scrutiny he was under from his fellow Double-Oh. They were professionals enough not to pry, especially when it came to Bond. By now his age-loss was no longer so visible. It was as if his body had tried to rectify its error to a degree. It was nothing that couldn't be blamed on a good, long vacation.

Right.

Bond almost laughed at that and he knew Q had been highly amused.

James wondered if there would be any bets on that.

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Q was back at his work desk as if he had never been gone. Charles Barker handed over the duties as the head of Q branch with a rather relieved look and briefed him on everything that had happened. Q had already checked his emails and had browsed MI6's servers for what had been happening while he was gone.

Thankfully, not too many explosions.

He logged in, ran over the list of projects, ignoring the curious looks from his underlings, and made his own list of what he could work on today.

x X XX xx X

007 strolled into Q branch around lunch time, carrying take-out from Italo.

Q looked up, caught more of his underlings looking, openly gaping and staring, and some got elbowed by their colleagues. Sharp whispers floated through Q branch.

Bond ignored them. He was very good at that. Dressed in a light gray suit that was tailored to his figure, a white dress shirt and black leather shoes, he looked amazing. Q had seen him in all states of dress and undress, and he still felt that curl of warmth again.

Not that he showed it. He played it professional and distant, as always.

And Bond came up to his desk, that tiny curl of a smile tugging at his lips. He placed the food on Q's desk.

"With compliments of 004." He raised an eyebrow.

Q mimicked it. "I haven't heard of any new assignments, 007."

"Bringing you lunch."

"Well, mission accomplished."

"I didn't know 004 decided to feed you. Anything I need to know?"

"No, not exactly."

The blue eyes were cool, shielded, but the smile grew more private. Q turned back to his coding and finished with a few more key strokes.

Bond grabbed a pizza box and a set of plastic cutlery, then walked over to the couch. His couch. A piece of furniture no one dared to move or use themselves. He settled down, feet up, stretched out in a very delightful posture, and opened his box.

Q checked his own meal and found spaghetti with meatballs. He pulled a chair up and twirled a fork into the spaghetti.

Lunch was a quiet affair, though nice. Q kept an eye on his screens, but nothing happened. Bond's eyes ran through the room, alert, taking in everyone and everything. Sometimes he would glance at Q and Q would shoot him a neutral look.

x X XX xx X

Bond disappeared just after lunch and Q didn't see him for the rest of his day. He kept half an eye on the internal mails and found a flurry of activity about Bond's so-called new and improved looks and his brief stint in Q branch.

He sighed.

Like a bunch of school children. No, worse. Kindergarten. Grown men and women gossiping like children.

There were speculations, some rather ludicrous like Bond having cosmetic surgery – Q had to almost laugh out loud at that – or a very good weekend spa getaway. As if James would be caught dead in a full facial nutrition mask. Q hid his amusement behind his mug. Dear god, the very image that called up!

Some commented that Q was good for Bond, which showed in his more rested appearance. Well, no argument from the quartermaster in question. He knew he was good for the Double-Oh. One of his own people told them to just shut up and let them be. Everyone knew they were an item and if it had Bond look less tired and exhausted, more alive and alert, the better for MI6.

Q took note. Loyal underlings were precious. Those who didn't spend their time gossiping about the head of Q branch and the most dangerous of the Double-Ohs were also rare.

Well, let them talk, he decided. He didn't care about it one way or another, and he was too busy with his schedule.

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He left almost at a normal time, just after seven. It came as no surprise that Bond was already at the flat, though the sandwich dinner was.

Well, in a way.

James Bond could make a decent meal. Q grinned as he dropped his bag and hung up his jacket.

"What's for dinner, honey?"

Bond shot him a cold look that could probably kill lesser men. He tossed a pack of crisps at him and Q caught them deftly. His partner carried two beers and the sandwiches, then plopped down on the couch and kicked up his feet. Q joined him and grabbed a sandwich.

"So, how's the grapevine?" Bond asked amiably, opening a beer.

"Quite active."

It got Q a smirk. "Anything interesting?"

"Aside from quite explicit fantasies about you and your body and your performance in bed? Nope. And that's an old hat anyway."

Bond's grin was insufferably smug. Q refused to share the crisps with him for that.

"Jealous, quartermaster?"

"Hardly, Mr. Bond."

Bond slid deeper into the couch, looking relaxed and completely at home and so far from the smooth, suave Double-Oh agent who could kill without conscience, without remorse, without questioning the order. Q held out the bag and Bond grabbed a handful of crisps, blue eyes alight with a warm smile.

In a way, nothing had changed, but still so much was different. So many little things. Q pushed it all away. He didn't care at all. James was with him, whole and healthy and very much alive.

That was what counted.

And nothing else mattered.