L'ennemi Écoute
Water fell from the sky.
Or, at least, that's what it felt like, as Q suddenly spluttered back to consciousness, heart racing and skin numbing under the torrent of ice-cold water that crashed over him.
"Wakey, wakey, little omega. There's someone here who'd like to see you".
He muttered a few choice words under his breath and tried to shake the worst of the wetness from his hair. His captor grinned, tossing the now-empty bucket to the side of the room where it landed with a loud clatter.
The sound sent a piercing pain through his already throbbing head, and Q threw in a few more mental curses for good measure. A quick glance around the room revealed him to be in the same bloody position that he'd been before one of these thugs had gotten a little too trigger happy with their fists.
Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceilings. A single metal chair in the centre of the room, which he was currently tied to, wrists and ankles, with deceptively strong zip-ties. One door, bolted from the outside, with thug-number-one currently standing guard. There was a single lightbulb overhead, flickering ominously and casting a pale yellow glow over the otherwise empty room. Q would have laughed at the entire cliché of it all if he hadn't been so glad to not have to deal with bright LED lights right now, given his current headache. Especially since they'd taken his glasses, like, two whole minutes into this entire clusterfuck of a disaster.
It wasn't that Q hadn't expected to be kidnapped at some point in his career. In fact, ever since he'd signed the dotted line that had named him Quartermaster, he'd been full-on anticipating it. Except, and here's the fucking infuriating bit, these archaic fucking knotheads didn't even believe that he was the first omegian Quartermaster of MI6, purely based on the fact that he was an omega. And, of course, his dynamic could only mean that he was a brainless homemaker with no aspirations or ambitions of his own and-
"Hey!"
His head snapped to the side as thug-number-two backhanded him, hard.
"I thought I told you to listen to me when I'm talking!"
Q gingerly prodded at his bottom lip with his tongue, somewhat annoyed to find it bleeding.
"Yeah, well, maybe if you actually said something worth listening to every once and a while, then I would".
The beta snarled and gripped his chin with far too much force, jerking Q's face up to glare at him, despite how the sudden movement wrinkled his otherwise impeccable suit.
"You should watch that mouth of yours, bitch".
"Bitch?" Q raised a solitary eyebrow. "Oh, how original".
He got another slap for his troubles, and the Quartermaster mentally added 'bruised cheek' to his list of bruised… well… everything. He could taste blood in his mouth, copper and iron and rust and resisted the urge to grimace in disgust.
"You keep using your tongue like that, and you're gonna lose it!" he snarled, "And no big tough alpha is gonna save you!"
He spat out the blood on the man's handmade Italian leather loafers.
"Wanna bet?"
Thug-number-one took a warning step closer from his place by the door, but thug-number-two held out a hand to stop him and, honestly, if they could just get over their fear of using names and actually give him something to call them, Q would be a lot happier. But then again, coming from a man named Q, perhaps that was a little hypocritical of him…
Thug-number-two leaned down until his face was a mere foot away. He probably wanted to step closer to up this whole 'imitation' thing that he had going on, but he also didn't want to get his suit dirty, and the last time he'd dared get that close, Q had headbutted him. Hard.
Hence the headache.
"Do I want to bet?" he taunted, voice low and mocking, "On what? The chance of someone even realising that you're missing? The chance of an alpha suddenly appearing like a knight in shining armour, ready to save the day? I don't need to bet, bitch, because I've already won. Poor little omega. How do you expect to be rescued when you don't even have an alpha?"
"... You're right".
The beta smirked and straightened back up, but the quartermaster wasn't finished.
"I don't just have one alpha". Q grinned, bloody and feral. "I have nine. They're called the double-0 program, perhaps you've heard of them?"
A flash of fear came across his face, hovering in the tenseness of his jaw and dark eyes. Q leaned forward in his restraints, uncaring of how his ribs ached with the movement.
"And just for the record? I don't need rescuing. I can rescue my own damn self!"
The sound of slow clapping made him startle, and thug-number-two quickly took a few steps back as thug-number-one stood aside to let the newcomer enter the small room, a tall slim figure with dark clothes and-
"Still causing trouble, I see?"
-that voice.
The beta gave the man a respectful nod, before turning back to Q with a sneer.
"Well, luckily for me, little omega, I won't have to deal with any double-0s for very long. Quite frankly, you're more trouble than you're worth, so this kind gentleman here has agreed to take you off my hands… For a price, of course".
"Of course" he replied dryly, squinting as he tried to make out the man who stood just inside the doorway. He was still too far away to see, and Q cursed the bastards who'd broken his glasses because he knew that voice, he recognised that voice, but he just couldn't quite place it.
"Oh, and, uh, one more thing".
There was a flash of white as Q's head snapped back, the force of the punch leaving him dazed and somewhat bewildered.
"That was for my shoes" thug-number-two snarked, before turning back to the not-stranger, "He's all yours".
Together, the beta and his friend left the dim room, closing the door after them. The new man stepped closer, and in the confined space, Q suddenly caught the scent of alpha.
Oh no. No no no. This could not be happening, it couldn't be him, it wasn't, it-
"Hello, Q".
The familiar voice cut through the haze of fear and pain that seemed to have settled over his brain, and he blinked blearily at the man standing in front of him. Tall, ruggedly handsome, and with a smirk that belonged on the cover of Vogue.
The omega swallowed thickly.
The face from his nightmares waited patiently for his response.
And Q knew full well what the consequences were if he ignored him.
"Hello, Francisco".
- Nine Months Previous -
Ash fell from the sky.
Or, at least, that's what it felt like, as Q sat in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask held weakly over his nose and mouth while a paramedic on his right tightly bandaged his shoulder.
It's sprained, he thinks. Or maybe strained. Or… torn? He hadn't really been listening when the soft-spoken beta had gently maneuvered his button-up shirt over pale, scraped, burned skin.
The sound of the explosion was still ringing in his ears.
A few meters away, the remains of Vauxhall Cross were still smouldering.
And ash fell from the sky.
It was strangely beautiful, he thought, drifting through the air like charcoal-coloured snow, and he felt an odd sense of serenity as he gazed at the crumbling walls and the blackened glass melting in front of him. The building was still smoking, golden embers flickering in the cool evening breeze, even as firefighters shouted and ran and tried to battle the blaze.
The entire TSS branch was… gone.
Q was still reeling from the shock of it all. Whoever had placed the explosives had known exactly where to strike to hurt them most, to hurt him the most. He should have been there, after all, right in the heart of MI6 with Boothroyd and his computers and his marvelous designs and-
-and the fact that he was still alive was just a fluke.
"-ir? Sir?"
Q blinked and dazedly turned to face the paramedic. The man smiled at him, kindly, but with a hint of pity.
"Your shoulder is wrapped, but it'll take another three to four weeks before it's fully healed. Keep the burns and wounds clean, and they should be good as new by then too" he explained, "I'm going to see if there's anyone else I can help, but you need to keep that mask on for another half hour, alright? I'll come back to check on you soon".
With another smile, more pity and less kind, the paramedic disappeared into the smoke.
A fluke.
A pure and utter fluke.
It was nearing the end of November, which meant budget proposals. Old Boothroyd, of course, had been around the block before and knew that those measly bastards in accounting wouldn't listen to him, so he'd asked one of the TSS staff to go instead. No one liked accounting, not even R, who never had a bad word to say about anyone, so they'd drawn straws, and Q had lost.
Ten minutes later, with the budget proposal in hand, he was half-way across the building, never more glad that he'd been wearing scent blockers since he'd started at '6. If the majority of the accounts department were this rude and abrupt to him as a supposed beta, then Q shuddered to think what they'd say and do to him if they knew he was really an omega. They were dynamicist pricks, the lot of them, and he was glad to see the back of them.
Three minutes after that, in the middle of a rarely used stairway, the entire building trembled around him.
It was pure instinct that told him to run, and he'd joined the horde of screaming accountants as they tried to desperately escape the collapsing structure they were trapped in. Bursting outside, he finally saw the true damage that the explosion had caused.
The entire top three floors of Vauxhall Cross had gone up in flames.
And the TSS branch was stuck in the middle.
Q rushed back inside, back into the inferno and heat and smoke that burned his throat and made his eyes water, blindly stumbling through the corridors and stairwells, rushing against the tide of workers as he tried to claw his way back to the second highest floor, back to TSS, back to Boothroyd and his colleagues and his home and-
He knew it was futile.
Black dust and cinders hung in the air and invaded his lungs, the sound of shattering glass and creaking beams rang in his ears, and the beginnings of sirens echoed in the distance.
Q had drawn the short straw, quite literally.
And it had saved his life.
"Ah, there you are!"
Q blinked, memories and smoke clouding his vision, looking up only to find-
Holy shit.
The Head of MI-fucking-6 was walking directly towards him.
He quickly scrambled to stand up, but half-way there he collapsed in a coughing fit and his legs shook and his shoulder ached and the first-degree burns along both arms seared his skin.
"At ease, Q".
He blinked, surprised that she knew his name. Or, at least, his moniker. Though in all likelihood, she knew both, being the Head of MI6 and all.
M studied him closely for a moment, Tanner hovering behind her looking somewhat concerned. Eventually, she held out the file in her hand and he automatically took it.
"It needs the new Quartermaster's signature".
The reminder of the Major's death, the kindly old beta who saw him for him, brought tears to his eyes, and he desperately hoped that the smoke would hide it.
"... Okay. Who do I give it to?"
His throat ached and he longed for some earl grey.
"It's quite a few years ahead of schedule, and quite frankly I'm not even sure if it's going to work, but Boothroyd always spoke highly of you and you are one of the very few TSS workers still remaining. I've spoken to R, the only survivor with seniority over you, and she is quite adamant to remain in her current position with your approval... Which leaves you".
M held out a pen.
"Quartermaster".
He slowly took it and turned back to the paper resting innocently on his lap. He blinked.
"... I'm an omega, ma'am".
"I'm well aware".
"... An omega has never held a position of power in any government".
She sighed.
"Q, you're a damn good worker and frighteningly intelligent. Boothroyd vouched for you, R currently vouches for you, and my Chief of Staff does the same… So, if you'll forgive my French, I don't give a single fuck about your dynamic. It's about time things changed around here, so why not start it with you?"
He looked up. She stared back unflinchingly, mouth set in a grim line but eyes determined. Raising the pen, he placed it on the necessary signature box.
It took an embarrassingly long time to remember his own name.
"Welcome to MI6, Quartermaster".
He took a deep steadying breath, unsure if he'd just made the best or worst decision of his life.
"Thank you, ma'am".
"Due to our current vulnerability, MI6 is moving underground. Both metaphorically and literally. Mr Tanner here will provide you with the details, but I trust that you can get your department together, sooner rather than later?"
He nodded, head still reeling from your department. He was the Head of TSS now. Holy shit.
She turned to leave, but after a moment, paused, and glanced back.
"If I might make a suggestion, Q?"
"Of course".
"... I would advise you to stock up on scent blocker".
At his expression, she held up a hand to continue uninterrupted.
"I meant what I said about change, Quartermaster, just as I meant what I said about your dynamic. As long as you can do your job then I don't give a damn what you are. Unfortunately, there are still some within this organization who hold… shall we say, rather archaic views".
He couldn't stop himself from snorting at that, and from behind her, Tanner smiled, more so in agreement than amusement.
"I'm not asking you to mask your scent forever, not if that's something that you do not wish to do. However, for the time being, it would be for the best. As I said, MI6 is quite… weak at the moment, and there are many out there who would see an omega in a position of power as a vulnerability, and I'm sure you can imagine that it would not take much to knock us over right now".
Q nodded.
He didn't like it, he wasn't even sure if he completely agreed with it, but he understood. The news of an omega being appointed as quartermaster would spread like wildfire, secret agency or not, and there were bound to be a few who would think that he was just appointed because he was the only one left, and not because he was smart enough and more than skilled enough.
"Good" M finished, with a decisive nod, "Get your department together, Quartermaster. We need the TSS branch now more than ever. I trust that you won't let our agents down".