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Chapter Text

Ω: Miss me?

B3XT3R: Tf were u?

Ω: Playing hide and seek

sIllysAllyXO: tell me you won you bastard

Ω: I don’t think it’s the kind of game that leaves room for winners, do you? 

Murderers are not monsters, they are men. And that’s the most frightening thing about them.

—Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

Vesper sighs. James has caught hints of it before. A deep, underlying sadness, not grief but something just as heartbreaking. He takes her hand into his, gently. He always moves gently these days, careful and aware of himself in a way that is foreign outside of battles and whistling bullets.

Her wrist is thin, and James knows he could snap the bones oh-so-easily.

“It’s nothing,” Vesper responds, to a question that hasn’t yet been asked. She does that sometimes.

James may love her for it a little. It gives him hope that some part, however small, of the man she sees in him is real.

“You can lie better than that,” he murmurs. Words that could be sharpened all too easily into something terribly, could start wars and end lives, but remain on the edge of teasing just long enough. It’s an act of balance, certainly, but James has found that most of life is.

They sit quietly for a moment, the world bustling around them. It is unexpectedly easy to be quiet with Vesper. Partly, perhaps, because he knows she will give in eventually. He can still read her clearly, and for that James is more thankful than he will ever admit.

“I miss them, is all,” Vesper states, too quiet as to be mistaken for a casual mention. There is a tension working its way through her jaw and tightening the skin around her eyes that reminds James of blinking numbers, counting down towards the inevitable explosion.

Once more he doesn’t ask. Because although bombs are hazards of the job, James has never been fond of them the way some of his colleagues, most notably 002 and 006, are. He is fond of peace, or as close to peace as a ceasefire ever comes, that much the past few weeks with Vesper have revealed to him.

“Tell me about them,” James requests instead. Keeps up a steady motion of his thumb on the back of her hand, gentle but calming in ways he rarely means to be. Absently he wonders if you can re-learn genuine affection again, or if it is a skill that, once forsaken, will never be within your grasp again.

The corners of Vesper’s mouth curve upwards. Despite conventional expectations, she appears sadder than he has ever seen her for it, fragile in a way that isn’t a trap used to reel in predators. A mask so paper thin, it can hardly be called protection at all. James responses to it instinctively, involuntarily tightens his grip, presses his thumb against the pale skin where he can feel her pulse beating steadily.

She is alive, James knows. But there is a ghost in the shadows lurking behind her eyes that he can’t fight, an intangible threat he can’t defend against. Neither her nor himself.

Then, as sudden as the darkness appears, it disperses into nothingness again as Vesper throws her head back and laughs, loud and deep. There is nothing delicate about the sound, nothing vulnerable in her eyes as she watches him with the cunningness of a wild wolf that knows himself out-matched but not beaten.

“They would like you,” Vesper gasps, in between the warm giggles spilling from her lips like barely felt raindrops on a summer’s eve. “My brothers.” She shakes her head, and if there are tears in her eyes, they are gone before James can identify them for sure.

“I’m not sure if I should dread the day you will meet or look forward to it,” she admits.

“Brothers?” James quirks his eyebrows. “How many of them do you have, exactly?”

“Three.” There is genuine fondness in Vesper’s face now, drawn into every gesture and every nuance of her voice. It is as pure an expression as James has ever seen on her, but it is not a pure one by itself. There are taints of pain and regret souring its edges, the kind he recognises all too well from families gone wrong, and cracks that all the love in the world can’t fix.

It reads like a warning.

“There are the twins of course, and what an absolute terror they would be. I can only imagine the kind of shenanigans they would drag you into…” Vesper’s voice trails off for a moment and her free hand absently plays with the unopened package of sugar next to her untouched cappuccino. “And Quin -- he is the youngest, you see -- he’d be so much worse. You’re not supposed to have favourites among your siblings, of course. But the twins have always been so wrapped up in each other that sometimes, I couldn’t help be jealous of the bond they share. Quin feels the same, I think, though we’ve certainly never talked about it. Yet it brought us closer all the same. Funny how these things work, isn’t it?”

She sighs again, a little soft and a little sad and a little thoughtful.

James wonders whether she realises what she’s just confessed.

By the time he pays the bill, whatever melancholy has overcome Vesper has been shrugged off expertly. Vesper’s smile is warm and playful, her hands steady, her words sure.

And if James was anyone else, he would have believed the illusion.

*

Q first sees James Bond on a fairly regular Thursday.

It’s during a routine check of the traffic cameras surrounding a Barber shop that is most definitely a front for something untoward (not that Q would know anything about that, of course) that the blonde man first catches Q’s attention.

At this point, Q is not yet Q, though he might as well be with how often he sheds his name to step into a new skin. Still, in a reality that is largely painted by the less-than-stellar debriefing reports written by two of MI6 most hazardous Double 0s, every tidbit of logical continuity is appreciated. As such, when Q first sees James Bond on a fairly regular Thursday during a routine check, Q is not yet Q. He goes by Ω, a name that has served him well thus far.

There is nothing particular about Bond that tips Ω off. Nothing that makes him stand out, even. Thirty-something, well-dressed men in expensive cars are hardly a rarity around this part of the city, and this one is still miles away from setting off even the most paranoid of perimeter alarms, but then, Ω is known to be thorough.

Besides he’s reached level 264 of CandyCrush and neither B3XT3R nor sIllysAllyXO are online -- meaning Ω is fast approaching the dangerous kind of boredom.

Best head that off before it goes out of hand. Ω is very good at making computers dance to his tune, but even a man of his calibre can only afford so much attention. In his line of work, attention comes attached with a bullet through the skull more often than he likes to think about.

And Ω, for all his unhealthy sense of adventure and self-confidence, has a practical approach to life: If you don’t want to feel the wrath of multiple agencies, don’t declare war on them.

Not that he has any particular reason to declare war on any agency, never mind several, but Ω has been known to make stupid decisions when bored. Everyone who personally knows him will attest to that.

Therefore it’s only for the best that Ω finds himself interested in the man on the screen. Maybe it’s simple attraction, shallow, superficial, and yet effective. Maybe it’s the sureness with which the man walks, projecting nothing but calm certainty. Maybe it’s the odd, niggling feeling in the back of his head, like there’s something there that isn’t quite right.

Whatever it is though, Ω finds himself observing the man. Or rather trying to observe the man.

Ω straightens in his uncomfortable seat, as faint interest is rapidly turning into genuine intrigue. For an ordinary business man, this guy shows up on surprisingly little security footage.

It’s impossible to not get caught on camera at all -- at least when you’re moving out in the open, and trying to not drawing attention to yourself -- but the average citizen gets their picture taken up to multiple times a minute, depending on the density of electronic supervision that differs between countries, cities and even areas.

This blonde man -- who is walking faster now, not running, but no longer the definition of calm and steady either -- appears on screen significantly less than the average citizen.

A half-formed grin tugs insistently on Ω’s lips, but he refuses to indulge it. He’s too busy typing, hands flying over the keys. It’s not even that Ω has made Bond as an agent.

No, at this point, he has no idea at all who the man is or where this trail might lead to. Ω follows it because he can, because he wants to, and because lately, decent entertainment has been hard to come by.

He can’t bring himself to regret it. Not even when the man starts killing Raymond’s men. And if Ω finds himself unlocking the electric lock and disabling the biometric scanner to keep blondie from getting trapped in his warehouse -- because any room Ω personally secures belongs to him, damn it -- well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

And possibly Raymond’s, but it’s not like Ω is stupid enough to get caught.

It all ends with a few warehouses demolished to the point where it’s cheaper to discard them rather than try and salvage anything from the ashes, as well as quite a few dead henchmen Ω definitely won’t miss. Then the blonde man disappears off the screens for real -- as Ω had suspected him capable of, but it’s always nice to be proven right.

Still, Ω doesn’t think too much of it. He’s done impulsive things before. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, but usually nothing ever came of it.

Ω certainly doesn’t expect James Bond of all people to be an exception to that rule. Although if he had known that it was James Bond he was dealing with, he might have gotten an inkling.

*

It would be incorrect to say that Ω is caught off-guard when the same blonde man makes an appearance on his personal surveillance monitors approximately three months later.

He’s in Greece, at the stronghold of one of Raymond’s more successful smuggling operations -- weapons and guns, thankfully, because for all his slightly psychopathic leanings, Ω doesn’t have the stomach to dip his toes into the sex trade -- because apparently their activities have drawn unfriendly attention. Raymond has been most insistent that Ω rehaul the entire security system and give it his own special brand of deadliness.

Ω regrets his agreement more with every passing day.

For one thing, he lacks any appreciation for the heat typically for July in Greece. For another, ACs should not ever be an optional part of any building, especially not in Mediterranean countries. That arms dealers make for atrocious company is really just the tip of an increasingly unpleasant iceberg.

The appearance of an almost familiar face -- though alarming in its own right -- is therefore a welcome distraction. With his own, personal tools available this time, Ω wastes no time to run a facial recognition software that isn’t supposed to be accessible outside governmental usage.

(Ω may have liberated this particular piece of art under suspect circumstances. A part that no post-mission debriefing will ever mention, rest assured.)

He gets a match for a Walter Grahams, age thirty-three, British citizenship, Head of Sales of a security company Ω has never heard of. Out of sheer curiosity, Ω checks Grahams passport, as well as all commercial flights. As suspected, there was no Walter Grahams in Belgium three months ago. In fact, Walter Grahams was on a four day conference, as confirmed by session protocols, security footage, and even the odd tweet.

As far as cover stories go, it’s a great one. Too bad Ω is very good with faces.

Which leaves me with the following question: Who exactly are you, Mister Grahams?

As it turns out, Walter Grahams is the sort of one person arsenal that dismantles illegal smuggling operations. Whether in an official capacity or in his freetime Ω doesn’t know. He will care about it later, most likely, but right now, he’s too busy cursing Grahams to hell and back.

Because Raymond definitely doesn’t appreciate an enemy behind secure lines. And his wrath is nothing to scoff at, for all that the medium tall, slightly pudgy man with bushy eyebrows and greying hair doesn’t make for much of a intimidating picture.

Unfortunately, men like Raymond do not become more mellow with time.

Watching Grahams take out four of their men -- combat trained men used to working together, and with the added home advantage on their side at that -- Ω gives the operation up as a lost cause almost before his mind has finished running the numbers through.

Instead of building their systems up to new heights as was the plan, Ω shuts them down. He starts with the most crucial parts and spreads out from there. Even if he can’t ensure that all the data will be destroyed to the point where whoever Grahams is working for won’t be able to do anything with it, Ω can make damn sure that the files are too corrupt to be worth the hassle.

After all, this particular operation may have been lucrative, but it is hardly one of their best works -- or even their most central ones, for that matter.

Raymond would have never allowed him this deep into the network unsupervised if that were the case. The man is ruthless, not stupid.

Packing up his things with quick, efficient movements, Ω gets ready to evacuate the building. There is nothing here -- neither human nor mechanical -- he isn’t prepared to lose. Save for his personal laptop, of course, but that one is safely tucked away in his unassuming backpack.

He’s at the door of the control room, placed conveniently close to the underground garage that hasn’t been compromised yet, when a glance at the last still running monitor causes Ω to freeze.

On the screen, Grahams is locked into a deadly battle with three of the most unpleasant men on this base.

(And Ω can’t say ‘base’ without an underlying current of disgruntlement, much as Raymond has tried to cure him of it. There is nothing humorous in imitating cheap Disney villains, as far as Ω is concerned.)

That isn’t what causes Ω to hesitate though. It’s the fourth man, lurking just outside Grahams’ view, armed with a gun that most definitely won’t hit the market for another year at the very least. Ω would admire the sleek design -- oh, alright, he  does  -- but his interest is soured by the imminent death of Grahams.

Which doesn’t make sense. Except that it’s rare for Ω to meet anyone interesting these days. And by that he means truly interesting, which arms dealers and drug lords tend not to be. Much as popular fiction might think otherwise.

Regardless, Ω enjoys challenges. And Walter Grahams, who is definitely not Walter Grahams, is a challenge.

It’s a spur-of-the-moment decision that has Ω reaching for the nearest keyboard and type three final commands. Or so he will tell himself later.

Immediately, the monitor, as well as every light in the building, goes dark. Ω grabs a tighter hold on his precious backpack and stumbles his way towards the garage.

He has given Grahams the best advantage he can offer. Everything that happens from now on is up to the man himself. After all, if Grahams doesn’t survive this encounter, he will make for a poor challenge.

(After all, Ω has never been fond of this particular operation of theirs.)

*

Ω does not believe in coincidences.

It’s hardly surprising, considering the life he leads. Consequently his first assumption when he catches a glimpse of Grahams out of the corner of his eyes whilst on a quick run to the closest shop -- really, how come he doesn’t have minions who do these things for him? -- is that he is being hunted.

Seven weeks have passed since he left the man to handle four professional killers in a dark corridor, and Ω is honestly surprised by the surge of relief he feels at seeing the man alive and breathing. Thankfully, the embarrassing emotional response is quickly tampered down by the rightful panic at being hunted by an accomplished killer.

It’s a good thing that Ω works well under pressure. Against all odds and the oddly un-rhythmical thundering of his heart, Ω manages to keep his face void of any outward sign of distress. It is an old habit, born out of sheer necessity, considering he surrounds himself with people who treat a crack in his composure the way a shark might treat a drop of fresh blood.

Ω is well-trained in handling predators. He is less well-trained in fighting them to the death, which is an unfortunate oversight. Not that he can do much about it now.

So Ω does the only thing he can do: He continues on towards the shop without hesitation, keeps his expression frozen in the perfect mixture of bored and bland, and buys soda, Orangina, and gummy worms like he planned to do.

He is so focused on behaving normally, that it takes Ω until he’s almost back at their current base -- a small, but charming B&B that may or may not have two more cellar levels than the official building plans will show -- to notice that he’s lost his shadow. Or, considering Ω hasn’t done anything to lose anyone, figuring it a lost cause from the start, hasn’t been followed.

Only now does it occur Ω to consider that it might not be him Grahams -- and he really needs to find another name for the man, since it clearly isn’t Grahams -- hunts. Or, at least, the man probably doesn’t know that he should hunt Ω. He may not be able to kill a human in fifteen different ways with a pen, but Ω is very good at staying under the radar.

As a man wielding similar skills, Grahams seems the type to appreciate that sort of thing.

Not that such an appreciation will save Ω’s skin if it comes to that. The knowledge sits heavy in his stomach for hours, like a clay brick that has been dislodged of its original position, but remains unfortunately stuck where it is, digging into the soft flesh of Ω’s intestines. It is not a pleasant sensation.

Ω bears it with all the grace he can afford to lose. Which isn’t much. In an eery imitation of his stop at the local supermarket, Ω is too focused on not drawing any attention to himself, to give his upheaved emotional landscape much thought. Emotions never have been is first priority as it is.

Raymond would probably appreciate an advance warning of Mister Cedric Ackermann’s -- Grahams’ new cover is as detailed as the last one -- presence. It would certainly go a long way towards winning the man’s trust. As it is, Ω's position within Raymond’s organisation is still worryingly precarious.

But Ω is too busy situating himself in the room closest to his prefered escape route, and putting safeguards into place around the data they can’t afford to lose. Or so he will tell himself later. Because Ω, for all his many flaws, is never too busy to consider an angle that will bring him closer to his goal.

When the alarms sound, Ω is unsurprised. More importantly, Ω is ready.

After all, Grahams -- Ackermann truly is an awful choice of name -- may not be hunting Ω, but he is most certainly hunting SHADE.

Which is unfortunate, of course, except for the part where it is interesting.

*

Ω doesn’t find out who Grahams really is until the man finally catches Raymond’s attention. It’s unavoidable, seeing as Grahams happens to systematically destroy their organisation, but Raymond doesn’t catch on until one of his most favourable arm deals goes up in flames.

Literally.

The resulting burn scars do not make Raymond more handsome. They do, however, help to support the image of a maniacal fanatic hell-bent on revenge. Ω is not happy with this particular development.

(Although Ω would like to own a pool filled with flesh-eating piranhas. He settles for adding another note to Q branch’s official suggestion box. It is a truly fearsome box, as far as the Psych department is concerned.)

With Raymond fixating on Grahams, Ω has now all the excuses in the world, as well as some borderline violent encouragement, to find the man. And because Ω is Ω, he does.

James Bond. MI6 agent. Codenamed 007. Declared KIA four times. Fails more psych evals than he passes. And very, very dangerous.

“He is British military,” is what Ω settles on. “Well-trained, obviously, with a reputation for viciousness and utter lack of morales.”

He hands Raymond the official files, all suspiciously thin. Adds an apologetic, “If there is anything more, it’s most likely an old-fashioned paper trail,” for good measures.

Then Ω leaves Raymond to his scheming.

*

Two weeks later, when the elevators of an office building in Myanmar malfunction, and a carefully planned assassination of James Bond fails because of it, Ω doesn’t consider it betrayal.

He considers it a small thank you to the man who has given him an excuse to try his hands on one of the most challenging hacks Ω has pulled off in years. That is all there is to it.

*

Q first meets Alec Trevelyan on a particularly unremarkable Tuesday.

Alec Trevelyan is a tall, muscular man who moves his body like it is a tool, a well-oiled machine that is used precisely the way he intends it to. It’s that tightly-woven self-control, wrapped around Trevelyan’s skin like a barely noticeable layer of latex, flexing and adapting at all times, yet never tearing, that first catches Ω’s attention.

Trevelyan is pleasant on the eyes, if not a particularly pleasant person. Not that Ω can judge him for that -- pleasant people don’t end up in places like this one. Ω would know.

“You’re not needed,” Ω tells the stranger -- because that is what Alec Trevelyan is to him at this point -- pleasantly.

Even so, Ω takes in Trevelyan’s appearance more closely, well aware that his complaints have little impact on the outcome of this situation. Raymond has grown more paranoid, and with Bond proving remarkably resilient and very capable at sniffing out traps, Ω can’t blame the man. That doesn’t mean he appreciates the growing mistrust he finds directed at himself, no matter how justified.

Ω is very fond of staying alive.

A bodyguard, issued by Raymond himself and no doubt loyal only to him, ironically decreases his chances of staying that way significantly.

Blonde curls just a tat too long to fit the military hairstyle, taller than Ω, who is by no means small, strong built, favours his left side, though there is no visible sign of injury, Trevelyan poses the kind of physical threat even civilians recognise on instinct. Ω feels the strong urge to lock the man into a basement and throw the key away before those scarred hands have the chance to end his life for good.

It doesn’t help that Trevelyan carries at least three hidden weapons Ω can spot, and a smile too smug to count as friendly. His green eyes remain sharp and cold like chipped glass at all times. It signifies the kind of attentiveness that will cause Ω a lot of trouble, if he doesn’t find ways to get rid off his newest shadow as soon as possible.

Disregarding the obvious danger Trevelyan poses for the moment, Ω fixates his steady glare on the unassuming man at Trevelyan’s side. Raymond, as usual, doesn’t waver in the face of Ω’s ire. But that has never stopped Ω from expressing his displeasure.

“He’s not needed,” Ω repeats. There is nothing pleasant about his tone this time around.

Not that it will change anything. Ω knows that from the resolved expression on Raymond’s face alone. But damn if he won’t make his standing on the matter unquestionably clear. If nothing else, it will give him an excuse to be bratty and escape Trevelyan as often as possible later on.

“I will not change my mind, Ω,” Raymond states with finality. And he doesn’t.

The smile on Trevelyan’s face fades into utter blankness as Raymond addresses him, and though it isn’t acknowledged by any of them, Ω is well-aware that he hasn’t been assigned a bodyguard.

He’s been assigned a guard.

*

The very first thing Ω does once he is alone -- however short the reprieve may last -- is look up his personal guard. Forget Bond, forget fucking Raymond. No way in hell is he enduring the constant presence of a man he doesn’t know better than himself.

It’s not the first time Ω goes crazy, and it likely won’t be the last. Trevelyan’s story checks out on the surface. Born in Russia, immigrated to Great Britain as a child -- and really, what is it with British people and ending up in the middle of international criminal organisations? -- served in the Navy for four years before he was let go.

It’s a good story, especially when considering that Raymond prefers to hire ex-military. But Ω isn’t satisfied. Won’t be until he gets his hands on a hard copy of Trevelyan’s birth certificate -- which conveniently doesn’t exist -- or any other information you can’t change with the press of a few keys.

Sadly, Trevelyan’s backstory holds. It would have been too damn convenient if Ω could have gotten rid off the man by proving him a traitor.

*

Trevelyan turns out to be the worst kind of guard: a competent one. And Ω, who has always appreciated competence in all its various forms, curses it in all the five languages he speaks.

Giving Trevelyan the slip, if only for a couple of hours, is far more challenging than Ω is used to. Which is unfortunate, sinde Ω has an impractical weakness for challenges.

And by the delighted grin he sees more than once on Trevelyan’s face while the man hunts him down, he isn’t the only one.

It’s a cold comfort, considering it drives home just how out-matched by the man he really is, when Raymond will inevitably order him killed.

You’re not in this type of business to make friends, Ω reminds himself grimly. But there are better and worse enemies to have, and Raymond belongs firmly into the latter category.

And so Ω keeps updating and improving the cyber security of Raymond’s more rewarding operations. He keeps slipping away from under Trevelyan’s watchful eyes whenever possible. He keeps tipping Bond off every once in a while when he can afford to, if only for his own amusement. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop

And the dance -- between Ω and Raymond, between Bond and SHADE, between Trevelyan and Ω -- continues.

*

Inevitably someone slips. Unfortunately, it’s Ω who makes the first mistake. And an unforgivable one at that.

In retrospect, Ω knows that he’s gotten careless. The stress of the past few weeks, coupled with his latest success’ to get away from Trevelyan -- who is growing less vigilant, and even with the benefit of hindsight Ω can’t decide whether it was intended as a trap -- has given him false confidence.

Ω comes to regret this deeply when Trevelyan catches him red-handedly. Figuratively speaking, since Trevelyan actually catches him cutting video surveillance and unlocking doors for a certain Double-0 agent trapped in one of their deadlier hideouts in Nepal.

Still, even a computer illiterate would be able to recognise what Ω is doing -- and not doing, for that matter -- and Trevelyan has proven to be anything but.

For a long moment, Ω simply sits there, his hands frozen over the keyboard, staring at Trevelyan with near comical surprise. His guard’s expression gives nothing away, and for an eternal second, they are locked into a wordless staring contest that Ω can’t guess the outcome of.

(He can, of course. He’s just always had a habit of ignoring unfavourable odds at least convenient of times.)

Then Ω features harden. He starts typing again, so fast his fingers almost fly over the keys. There is an unfamiliar tension in the back of his neck -- the expectation of having it broken any second now, undoubtedly -- but Ω ignores it with the single-minded focus of a man on a mission.

If someone is to die today, Ω will make damn sure that he’ll be the only one.

*

A week passes. Ω is still breathing and still has his fingers as deep in Raymond’s security as always.

Nobody is more surprised about this turn of events than Ω himself.

A sentiment he has no doubt made quite clear to his guard, what with all the confused glances he’s been throwing Trevelyan lately. Ω has run the numbers a thousand times, but there is no reason for Raymond to keep a traitor within his ranks.

Even if he was trying to figure out whom Ω was working with, it wouldn’t be worth the damage Ω can do whilst left to run rampage over the man’s systems. No, if Raymond had even the faintest hint of proof, Ω knows he’d be dead already.

Which means Trevelyan hasn’t told him. Which means…

Yes. What exactly does it mean?

After eight long, sleepless nights spent guessing, Ω tires of the odd game they’re playing. Whatever it is Trevelyan wants, Ω would rather know now than live with a continuous sword of Damocles over his head.

Ω confronts Trevelyan in the privacy of his own room, where the systems have long been rigged to show only what Ω wants to be seen.

“You haven’t told him,” is all he says. Is as specific as Ω dares to be.

Trevelyan will know what he means in any case, and Raymond’s paranoia has reached new, unfortunate heights of late. No doubt encouraged by the continued survival of Agent Bond.

Trevelyan tilts his head in acknowledgement, another sign of the man’s cutting intelligence, hiding beneath a decent pretence of brute force.

“Why?” Ω tacks on when it becomes clear that, no, Trevelyan does not plan on making this conversation easy on either of them.

It gets him a reaction at least, even if it’s not one he expects.

“Why indeed,” Trevelyan murmurs, an unfamiliar accent -- or possibly the merge of multiple ones -- thickening his voice.

He’s standing far closer all of a sudden than he did just a moment ago, and Ω resents the fact that he has to tilt his head up slightly almost as much as the smoldering lust he reads in the other man’s eyes.

The heat in Trevelyan’s gaze is scorching, glides over Ω with all the force of a physical touch. Then, as suddenly as the man invaded his personal space, Trevelyan steps back and Ω can breathe again.

“I see,” Ω says -- to himself, since the door is already falling shut behind Trevelyan’s back.

But he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

(Here, the post-mission reports will always diverge greatly. For though Q will firmly insist that Trevelyan has never shown a sign of genuine attraction and has, in fact, behaved completely professional for the entirety of the mission, everyone will know better than to believe such ridiculous nonsense. 006’ two page long poem on the firmness of Q’s behind -- that nobody better touch or else -- goes a long way in affirming that disbelief.

Q is exasperated with all of them.)

A few moments pass while Ω thoughtfully stares at the shut door. If not Raymond, whom do you serve, Mister Trevelyan?

*

In the end, Ω does what he should have done the second time he caught sight of James Bond. What he should have done at the very latest when Raymond told him to find anything there is to know about the man determined to destroy their work.

He hacks MI6. And this time, Ω doesn’t want answers. This time, he wants everything. So that is what he takes.

It turns out that Alec Trevelyan’s cover story is so good, because it is based closely on the truth, only tweaked here and there for convenience sake. Ω further learns that Trevelyan is the infamous 006 -- and really, what is it with highly-trained, British assassins getting dropped into his life? -- and has been on an undercover mission for going on fourteen months.

A mission that apparently demands he take down Bernhard Quentin, head of a smuggle ring suspected to have ties to several terrorist organisations. Which is true, Ω can personally attest to that. Of course, Quentin died in a rather explosive accident four months ago.

Having read Agent 006’s file, Ω has no doubt that the man’s death was Trevelyan’s personal handiwork.

It appears, though, that the agent has figured out the truth before Quentin’s demise: that his target was nothing more than a scarecrow, moving in plain sight to distract from the movements in the shadows. Trevelyan must have followed the money -- it’s always the money -- to Raymond, which explains his presence here.

It doesn’t explain why he hasn’t used Ω’s betrayal as a way to get closer to his target. That is what Ω would have done after all.

Agent 007’s file, similarly, turns out to be enlightening. While Bond is clearly hunting down SHADE’s most notorious businesses, his briefing implies that this is the means rather than the end. Bond has been assigned with bringing in or eliminating uroboros, a hacker who has made a name for himself with the simultaneous destruction of three secret military bases all over the world.

All of them were occupied by terrorists, but it’s blatantly clear from the mission briefing 007 has received that MI6 deems uroboros too big a risk to wait around for them to become a problem.

Preemptive measures truly are a thing of beauty, Ω thinks sardonically. And chuckles.

He can’t help it.

006 has been sent out to destroy SHADE.

007 has been sent out to find uroboros.

The irony of the entire situation is delicious, but as with all amusing things in Ω’s life, it leaves a bitter taste behind.

With two Double-0 agents in the game, Raymond’s paranoia increasing steadily, and Ω’s continuous hobby of helping Bond to cheat death, the game is becoming increasingly unpredictable. And as unnerving as losses of control always are, Ω can’t help but look forward to the explosive finale that undoubtedly lies in their future.

If nothing else, staying ahead of three wildcards is exactly the kind of challenge Ω loves to indulge in.

*

“Why are you here?” Trevelyan asks him one evening, in the relative safety of Ω’s bedroom.

He is nonchalantly leaning against the wall opposite to Ω’s desk. His hands are absently playing with a bright yellow gummy ball. Ω wonders whether Trevelyan could use the toy to kill someone with it. He wonders if he will see it happen.

“Excuse me?” Ω blinks startled, not having expected the man to address him. Trevelyan rarely acknowledges him, too deep in his emotionless bodyguard persona perhaps. Or maybe this is who he is. Ω doesn’t know, and he doesn’t much care either.

To his credit, Trevelyan doesn’t voice the underlying accusation. “Why are you here?” he simply repeats, calm and steady, and stressing the last word in particular.

Ω has a fairly good idea what 006 means to ask. He is less clear on what answer he is supposed to give.

Given his track record, Trevelyan will undoubtedly recognise any lie Ω might feed him. Not that he could do much about it, if Ω decides to tell them. Besides getting him killed, that is.

But then what answer is left to give?

The truth, one might say, but Ω has lived in the shadows long enough to know that the truth is a wretched, vicious little thing -- and never is it straightforward. This case is certainly no exception.

It pays better than IT,  Ω could say. I was bored, would be just as good a response. And though those answers aren’t the complete truth, they are true. Some days, Ω wonders what kind of person that makes him. Most days he knows better than to follow that line of thought.

“They killed my brother,” Ω says, and it is as much a truth as all the other answers. “In my family, that isn’t the kind of attack you leave unanswered.”

Trevelyan blinks and for a brief moment Ω can see the shift behind 006’ cold eyes as he processes the new information. Ω can’t help but wonder what Trevelyan makes of his response, what he sees in the actions Ω has taken in response to the offence.

It is not a normal reaction, Ω knows. Normal people don’t join international crime syndicates to find their siblings’ murderer. Normal people don’t commit an untold number of crimes to avenge a single offence. Normal people don’t burn the world around them just because it isn’t to their liking.

Of course, Ω’s family has never done ‘normal’.

After all, the first time Owen fell in love, Aaron almost killed someone. The first time Vesper fell in love, Quin did.

Ω voices none of this, of course, but Trevelyan nods anyways.

Everything that needs to be said, has been said.

*

With Bond’s growing shadow looming over their organisation, things escalate quickly.

Raymond loses more and more of his legendary calm, his temper constantly frayed these days. Their organisation, though far from falling, falters, slowed down by its leader’s growing panic and irrational decision-making.

Things are accelerating far more quickly than Ω planned. With Trevelyan watching his every step, and Raymond growing dangerously frantic, Ω is rapidly running out of time. And so he does the only thing he can to salvage his plan: he accelerates things even more.

*

Achraner Street 23

Tomorrow, 1600

You aren’t afraid of snakes, are you, 007?

Chapter Text

Sometimes Quin hates his brothers.

Aaron and Owen are only two years older than him. A small gap, all things considered, yet somehow it puts them further out of his reach than Vesper, his dear sister, has ever been, even though she is almost twice as old.

It takes Quin a couple of years to understand that it’s not age alone that keeps Aaron and Owen away from him. It’s not even the deciding factor at all. No. It’s the fact that Aaron and Owen are Aaron and Owen. Are twins. Are each other’s world. And though they may care for him, care for their mother with her tired eyes, their father who struggles to accept four children that continuously outperform him, care for Vesper who will always protect them, they have all they will ever need in each other.

One day, Quin ends up screaming at Owen to stop touching him -- and there is no mistaking the hurt in Owen’s eyes, the murder in Aaron’s snarl -- that he isn’t their brother, that he hates them, never wants to see them again.

The twins disappear for three days. Leave their mother harried and worn down, the shadows under her eyes deeper than ever. Leave their father bellowing into the phone, frustrated and helpless. Leave Vesper crying in her room when she thinks Quin can’t hear.

He sneaks into her bed late into the second night, apologises in the darkness where he doesn’t have to see the worry in her red-rimmed eyes. Vesper hugs him, and promises that all will be well.

The next day, the twins show up on their doorsteps again, amidst lots of hugs and tears and yelling.

Quin doesn’t apologise to Owen. Aaron doesn’t acknowledge Quin’s existence at all.

After that debacle, Vesper takes Quin aside and explains to him that what he is feeling isn’t hatred but jealousy. That it is alright to feel as he does, but that he shouldn’t let it define him, for one day he will find someone, who will look at him the way Aaron looks at Owen.

And because Vesper is his big sister, because she has never lied to him, because he loves her with all his heart, Quin believes her.

For years he holds on to that thin strand of hope. He watches his Vesper search for her own fairy tale, her own world in another person’s smile. Watches her break herself over and over, in the hopes of finding something the twins never had to search for.

Quin tries to ignore the itch under his skin that burns uncomfortably, some days more so than others. Like when Aaron yells “Tag, I’m it!” -- which is not how you’re supposed to play the game, Quin knows that, but Owen squeals in delight and takes off running all the same. And it’s like they’re speaking their very own secret language, a code they never had to learn, that locks everyone else out of something they don’t want to share.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair to Vesper, who longs so much for something unattainable that Quin is afraid it will tear her apart some day. It’s not fair to Quin, who has two brothers that love him, and care for him, and don’t need him at all. It’s not fair because the twins will never understand this desperate need for something they take for granted. Will never know what it means to exist on your own, be the sun of your own universe, and have that be enough.

Straying further from his brothers’ as time passes by, Quin seeks refuge in other places. He teaches himself languages nobody else speaks. Learns codes that he won’t have to share with anyone but the one Vesper insists he will find one day. Quin turns to machines that need him to tell them what to do, and for a while the emptiness does not feel as suffocating and all-consuming.

It gets easier to bear the twins, and even Aaron forgives him eventually. Quin isn’t happy, exactly, but he is -- at ease. With himself. With his mind. A constant hum of contentment settles over him, eases Quin into his skin in ways he hadn’t realised he was lacking.

Then Vesper falls in love. The crushing, ugly kind of first love that makes Owen watch her admirer through narrowed eyes, and Aaron mutter about emergency brake failures when he thinks no one but Owen is listening.

And as warm laughter is replaced by reassurances as carefully chosen as the make-up deigned to cover bruised skin, Quin learns that his sister is a liar after all.

He learns that he will kill anyone who harms her.

The first time Q meets James Bond, he is butt-naked and tied to a chair. Bond, not Q, that is.

(“Of course that is what he’d lead with,” Q murmurs under his breath when he skims over the report 007 has handed in with a smile that promises nothing good to his terrified handler only fourteen minutes ago. From the seven different shades of red the poor man had blushed whilst reading it, Q can only imagine what else the paperwork contains. And really, how is it possible to make a PG-rated undercover mission sound like a very explicit porn script? Q very much doesn’t want to know.)

Q is still Ω at this point, though his time of carrying that name is fast approaching its end. This in no small part thanks to the work of Bond and Trevelyan, though some time will pass yet before any of them realise it.

Regardless, Ω is preparing himself for the end.

The end that has been inevitable ever since that day hot summer day in mid-July, when Ω finally uncovered what he had been searching for the past four months in a tiny base in Greece of all places. The day he let Bond burn down the work of the man who has killed his brother.

They may not have been close -- that isn’t the kind of family they are, not even Vesper, the gentlest out of the four of them -- but blood forges its own tie. And Ω does not take kindly to someone harming what he considers his.

Now here he is. Closer to the final destruction of everything the man who dared to touch one of Ω’s own has worked for than he has ever been. The realisation doesn’t bring him satisfaction exactly -- Ω has learned a long time ago that death does not heal damage, only carves new wounds -- but it holds its own relief.

Wearing masks is what Ω does. It has been a long while since he has even known what is left underneath all the lies and aliases. But this job is wearing on Ω in a way previous ones haven’t. There is something suffocating about the identity he holds. Something unbearable in the weight of Raymond’s and Trevelyan’s watchful gazes.

The next one will have to be different, Ω decides late one night, after he has spent over two hours lying motionlessly in the darkness, with nothing but his whirling thoughts to keep him company.

Night time is a precious commodity, if only because then, at last, Ω finds himself alone. It allows him to put his thoughts in order, to plan and recalculate. Precious work that has become all the more important with two agents now dancing their own parts in Ω’s carefully constructed play.

The dark might not hold answers or comfort, but Ω will create the former himself if he has to. As for the latter, well. He’s never had much use for useless reassurances. They have a way to fill the mind with ridiculous notions that, if pursued carelessly, will get you killed. In a messy fashion, probably.

The thing is this: Ω values his continued survival. He doesn’t put much stock in suicide missions -- and certainly not in starting wars in the name of a dead man that will be no more or less alive, no matter if he succeeds or not.

Self-preservation is a tricky thing.

Ω will avenge his family. He will protect criminals to achieve this, will even partake in unspeakable acts to secure his position among them. But he will not lay down his life in honour of a ghost. Not when there are other options left still.

And so Ω spends his last eight nights in Raymond’s favourite stronghold in Austria analysing and re-analysing the game board, the actions left to be taken, the possible outcomes so closely, he can already feel them dancing just outside reach of his fingertips.

Ω spends his last eight nights wondering if 006 or 007 will be the one to kill him in the end, and which fate he would prefer.

*

Perhaps Ω is not as good an actor as he would like to think. Perhaps Alec Trevelyan is simply a very hard man to fool. Or maybe the answer lies in the long glances Raymond shoots him these days, when he thinks Ω is too focused on his coding to pay attention.

He hasn’t been pulled back from everything worthwhile, but Ω’s responsibilities have been cut down to the mere minimum to keep him busy. He’s still handling the security of the compound, but when it comes to what’s truly valuable -- the mass of information Raymond has collected over his many years of dealing in the shadows -- Ω is forced to walk blindly these days. Or as blindly as his own backdoors in the man’s system will allow.

It is not a good sign.

Ω is glad he won’t have to hold out much longer. He could, probably, if he absolutely had to. But the measures Ω would have to take to convince Raymond of his loyalty would be the kind of drastic he will avoid at all costs.

In any case, Trevelyan is getting restless.

It’s subtle, and if Ω didn’t spend every waking hour with the man on his heels, he likely wouldn’t have noticed. And the odd thing is, Ω doesn’t think the change is born out of mission-related reasons. Not completely.

Trevelyan has already been undercover for over two years by this point. If he lacked the patience to play the long game until the very end, he wouldn’t be here right now, being an overly-attentive pain in Ω’s arse. Besides his mission is going rather swimmingly, all things considered. SHADE is beginning to fracture, its leader weakening, its business deals turning sour more often than not.

Bond’s special brand of chaos helps speeding things along.

All in all, Ω can’t think of a reason why Trevelyan would be troubled. And yet, there is no mistaking the renewed tension in the man’s posture. Cold eyes have frozen over with a new level of glacial calm, like a lake in the deepest of winters. Fingers twitch tellingly with renewed regularly that hasn’t been seen since the very beginning of Trevelyan’s assignment as Ω’s bodyguard.

It’s annoying. More than that, it’s worrying.

The man’s odd behaviour leaves Ω with the foreboding notion that he has missed something. Not the kind of mistake he can allow himself to make this late in the game. There is no room for miscalculation now.

Perhaps Raymond’s paranoia where Double-0 agents are concerned is infectious, Ω considers one evening, while tinkering with the last bit of code that will shut down all running systems in the building once it’s done. His lips are crooked into a thin smile of amusement he doesn’t feel.

It would be terribly annoying indeed, should he fail after coming this close to achieving his goal.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, Trevelyan shifts slightly. Ω barely suppresses a flinch.

Even after all this time, he finds it disconcerting how quiet and still a man as large and dangerous as Trevelyan can be. It’s all too easy to forget the man’s existence, sometimes, what with how used Ω has become to having him around.

Ω is fairly confident that the fact that MI6 Agent Alec Trevelyan of all people no longer registers as a threat to him is a very bad sign.

For one thing, Trevelyan is anything but safe. For another, Ω is not comfortable in other people’s presence. These are rules, and they are the kind of rules even Double-0s can’t break. Ω is sure of it.

Turning his head slightly, without taking them completely off the screen in front of him, Ω hums questioningly. Trevelyan would not have drawn his attention unless he wanted something. The man takes his job as an unobtrusive bodyguard seriously. Ω can’t decide whether he hopes to slip under Ω’s radar and witness (even more) incriminating activities or if this is simply Trevelyan’s chosen role. Silent, and collected, and deadly.

“You could leave,” Trevelyan states after a moment. His voice is gravely, the kind that hasn’t been used in too long. It works well with his character, Ω decides.

Like all communication passing between them, the comment is vague. What it entails is all the more powerful for it.

Absently, Ω can’t help but wonder how it is that they, who are strangers for all the hours they have spent together, can convey so much in so few words. Understand each other on a level that can’t be explained or learned, yet feels all the more natural for it. It’s a connection Ω doesn’t understand, and it grants him the few times he allows himself to contemplate it.

Neither does he understand why Alec Trevelyan, one of the two most dangerous, amoral, ruthless killers in MI6’s employ, is offering him a way out.

In all his time at Ω’s side, Trevelyan has never made a move to gain information from him. No seduction, no threats, no bribery, no promises. Ω hadn’t thought to question it -- since this is, after all, the first time he has been assigned a professional stalker -- but now it makes him wonder.

Has Trevelyan spent all this time searching for the right hook? If so, much as it gals Ω to admit, he can’t be hard to read to a spy of 006’s calibre. There is no way that Trevelyan hasn’t decided months ago which approach would get him the desired results.

Which begs the question: What exactly has he been waiting for? What has brought this sudden offer on?

Ω’s chair creaks ominously as he slowly turns around to fully face Trevelyan. Sharp, green eyes reveal nothing of the thoughts swirling behind the flat expression on the man’s face. So Ω decides to treat the comment with the same consideration he would give any threat on his life.

“I really can’t.” His answer, an even, lighthearted, little thing, doesn’t reflect his own suspicions any more than Trevelyan’s calm exterior. Two masks, no crink, and an understanding.

They are both well-practiced liars after all, and liars recognise their own.

*

Things come together smoothly in the end. Which is, perhaps, why Ω is only marginally surprised when the entire plan crumbles in a heartbeat.

So close, he thinks with a regretful sign, as he watches dispassionately via the relative safety of his personal laptop as an unconscious James Bond is dragged into Raymond’s favourite guest room.

Trevelyan is stationed just outside Ω’s door, as per usual. Far away from the chaos of the long anticipated capture of the man who has brought them so much trouble in the past few months. Ω wonders if 006 has any idea how close his colleague is. Or how close to dying said colleague is, for that matter.

Bond’s imprisonment is admittedly unfortunate, but it’s not like the man has fought all that hard to avoid it. Ω doesn’t even understand how it could happen in the first place. Bond knew that he was walking into enemy territory -- had been dared to enter said territory by possibly hostile forces no less -- and yet, after many weeks of successfully staying ahead of every team and hit-man Raymond threw at the man, he got himself captured in under four minutes.

It is all rather anticlimactic. Not to mention inconvenient.

Still. Technically, the plan still holds.

Ω doesn’t like the thought of leaving Bond to an undoubtedly gruesome and, worse, unnecessary death. Not after all the work he has put into keeping the man alive. But despite the fact that his mind suddenly remembers that it does have some scruples left after all, he  is  fully capable of walking away now. No matter that Trevelyan will likely try to stop him -- and Ω’s gaze pointedly doesn’t flicker towards the two potted plants who’s watering can holds a fast-working poison Ω has been planning to use to deal with 006.

He can.

He simply… chooses not to.

It’s not the least rational choice available. Ω has put backup plans in the works right from the start -- and redoubled those upon the introduction of two more wildcards into the game, clearly a wise decision. Most of them will lead to perfectly satisfying results in the end.

It’s just that all of them require Ω to die. Which is truly a shame. Ω has known that the outcome is as inevitable as the tide’s rise and fall for a while now, but he would have liked to drag it out for a little longer. Buying himself time is somewhat of a specialty for Ω.

Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it.

Grimly, Ω opens a new tab on his laptop and types a quick message to the one person left alive he still owes answers to.

Tag, I’m it!

Then he goes to work.

*

Here are the things Ω knows for a fact:

Raymond Kessler is a nasty piece of human shit, who has a lot of fingers in all kinds of shady pies, and is the unopposed head of an international crime syndicate that keeps most of its dealings within Europe. For a hacker like uroboros, who, despite being counted as a white hat more often than not, has a reputation of being an unrelenting, vindictive bastard when focused on a worthy target, it’s only a matter of time until Kessler catches uroboros’ attention.

As an unfortunate series of events would have it, however, uroboros catches Kessler’s attention first.

[These are the circumstances that will forever remain unknown to MI6 and any other inquiring mind: Kessler learns of uroboros long before the rest of the world does. He strikes a deal with the man who brings this knowledge to his attention: a life for a life. When the business deal goes south, Kessler decides not to bother with an intermediate.

He orders the man’s death, but not before demanding every bit of information on uroboros he possesses. The man, despite his slight frame and untrained mind, does not break. The only knowledge he shares with Kessler in his final, delusional moments is this: “uroboros is the beginning and the end. You can not have one without the other. Many have tried, but like all of them you will fail. Hell reserves a special place for men like us, who try to take what can only be given freely.”

Kessler shakes off the threat of the crazed man with ease. At this point, ending his life is an act of mercy.

Half-way across the world, uroboros sends a message that will forever remain unanswered.]

When Kessler tries to employ uroboros, he is rebuffed. When Kessler tries to force the issue, uroboros’ retaliation is swift and merciless, more than worthy of the fearsome reputation they are beginning to create for themselves. Not only does uroboros force Kessler’s capitulation, but Kessler finds his own networks crippled, and is forced to hire another hacker, one with looser morals than uroboros, to clean up the mess.

*

That Raymond Kessler had the misfortune of murdering Ω’s brother is just the last straw in a very long list of unforgivable sins. As such, Ω feels neither guilt nor hesitation when he first starts to plan the man’s death. Maybe that will change after the fact, although Ω doubts it. Psychopathic tendencies are hardly a rarity in his family.

This doesn’t mean that Ω assumes walking away from the murder of Raymond Kessler will be easy. On the contrary. Kessler has built up his own empire and stayed in power for along time. There are many people loyal enough or hateful enough to kill for him. And that is disregarding the attention Ω will draw from people outside Kessler’s sphere of influence, once he has toppled a king of his throne.

So, while it might be possible to kill Kessler and get away from his people and out of the country unscratched, even live out the rest of his life, it won’t be easy or practical. Ω has no wish to live with a death sentence hanging low over his head. It will be much simpler for Ω to die with Kessler. Less messy too.

The thing about false identities is that they are only as good as the protection they offer. Sometimes that protection is fairly substantial. Sometimes a mere name is connected with more danger than would be generally considered worth the trouble. And when the threats outweigh the usefulness, it is time to do what Ω does best: move on and adapt.

*

By the time Ω leaves his bedroom, he has introduced four new viruses into Raymond’s systems. Three of them are slowly working their ways towards destroying every bit of information on the local servers, taking advantages of faults and holes in the system that Ω has purposefully built into their walls. The fourth blocks all outwards communication. They are, after all, staying at Raymond’s favourite stronghold. And this is going to be as private a party as they come.

Trevelyan is tense, but calm. Ω being out of his rooms at this late an hour is a break in their usual routine, and with Raymond’s fraying patience kept in mind, Ω is unsurprised to see that Trevelyan takes it for the bad sign it is. Or a sign at least, because the ridiculously pleased grin that skims over 006’ lips too quickly to give Ω the chance to call him out on it, implies that some things got lost in translation.

That or Trevelyan’s natural reaction to danger is even more skewed than his medical file implies. Either option is well within the realm of possibility.

Ω shakes the contemplation off as irrelevant, focuses instead on the undercover agent in front of him.

“There is a matter I have to discuss with Raymond immediately,” he states calmly.

His grip tightens almost involuntary on the strap of his worn down backpack. A tell that Trevelyan probably picks up on, although he doesn’t react in any way, other than to gesture for Ω to get going.

For the first time in a long while, Ω is uncomfortable with having the double-0 agent at his back. He ruthlessly squashes the urge to turn around, aware that it will only serve to tip off Trevelyan even more. And yet, Ω can’t help the slight tingle of regret. He finds himself suddenly wishing that he had invested more effort into their connection. Maybe even learned how to read the man better. Yet in the same breath Ω is glad for the distant relationship they’ve shared -- for he couldn’t have trusted anything Trevelyan would have said or shown him.

There are mournful words of goodbye resting on the tip of his tongue. But they are pointless now, will only serve to hinder Ω in his objective. And besides he has never believed in the drama of dying declarations.

Sparing both of them the embarrassment, Ω quickens his steps and soon reaches the closed doors of the room he knows does contain James Bond. Even if he hadn’t, the three guards armed to their teeth guarding it are quite the clue as well.

“Raymond has asked for my assistance,” Ω announces blithely, without slowing down for even a moment. It’s a blatant lie, but none of these men will know that. Nor is it unusual for Ω to suddenly show up in places unannounced and demand entrance.

The men step aside without fuss, accepting Trevelyan as part of Ω, as they have been trained to do in the past months. Sometimes unquestioning obedience really does have its uses.

And on that cheerful note, Ω enters the fairly spacious, windowless room, oh so affectionately called the guest room. The walls are equipped with all sorts of torture devices, some for show, most for usage, as Ω has had the dubious pleasure of discovering. James Bond is bound to a chair in the middle of the room, two of Raymond’s favourite -- and most violent -- henchmen standing at his back. Raymond is standing in front of Bond, undoubtedly raving about one thing or another. He turns with the others when the door opens and Ω and Trevelyan enter.

To the Double-0s’ credit, neither of them show any outward sign of recognising each other. For Ω, who knows exactly what to look for, there is a added layer of tension visible in Trevelyan’s broad shoulders, but that could merely be his imagination for all he knows. He wonders if agents of their calibre often run into each other during missions. Is this a common occurrence for them, or is it as awkward as it feels to Ω?

Awkward in no small part because James bloody Bond is naked as the day he was born.

Ω is rational enough to admit that, from a strategic point of view, the undressed state of the man makes sense. Easier access to vulnerable flesh, harder to hide weapons of any kind, humiliation, the list goes on. That doesn’t mean Ω is prepared to see all of the man on their first real meeting. And in such an annoyingly non-intimate setting at that. Really, it’s almost insulting.

Surprisingly, Raymond doesn’t look upset to see them. No, he looks delighted. A fact that instantly makes Ω wary.

He crosses the room slowly, careful to skirt just out of reach of both henchmen -- he’s never bothered to learn their names, nor does he plan to change this now -- a tied up but still breathing Bond, and a madly grinning Raymond. Trevelyan, as expected, chooses to take up his post at the door, guarding the only exit the room provides.

“Ω!” Raymond cries out happily, raising Ω’s hackles even more. “How nice of you to join us!” It isn’t a genuine happiness by far, is the problem, but something sharper, containing a hidden veneer of rough stone and burning ice. With how out-of-control Raymond has gotten in recent days, Ω’s wariness increases tenfold.

Bond’s eyes -- still impressively aware, considering the clogging blood running down his temple, never mind the tranquilliser they must have used to put him down -- fixate on him as well, but with the distraction of Raymond’s madness, the weight of 007’s shrewd glance is easily shrugged off.

Three killers and one hacker walk into a room, a voice in the back of Ω’s head giggles hysterically.

“-have come to save your lover, have you?” Raymond’s mocking voice brings Ω back to the matter at hand. It takes him another moment to process the man’s words.

Ω blinks. He isn’t sure who is more surprised by this matter-of-fact announcement: 006, 007, or Ω himself.

On some far, far off level of madness, Ω is sure the accusation makes sense. He remembers notes about the Double-0s’ talents for honey pot missions -- basically a requirement for the job, really -- and yes, both men are objectively attractive -- which is yet another unofficial requirement for the job, Ω is sure. But that is where all reason ends. Disregarding matters of sexuality or differences in morals, considering their chosen professions, Ω has only seen Bond once in person. And never actually interacted with him.

All of this races through Ω’s mind in the time it takes Raymond to continue his strange rambling about how, “I wasn’t entirely sure you would, given what a cold-hearted bastard you are. But for once I’m glad you’ve proven me wrong!” The exclamation is accompanied by a truly unhinged smile.

Ω, who has by this point managed to position himself in the corner furthest away from all the other occupants of the room, though sadly also furthest away from the exit, stares at the man with morbid curiosity.

“How by all that is holy did you come to the conclusion that we’re lovers?” Ω asks, unable to help himself. He’ll probably end up more traumatised for it, but nobody has ever accused Ω of possessing good decision-making skills.

Raymond laughs again. “Look at you! I never knew you had it in you!” Then his chuckles taper off abruptly, and his eyes lose the amused twinkle. “I admit, you had me fooled for a while. But then you stopped that elevator in Myanmar, and, my dear Ω, you were the only one I had told of my plans for Mister Bond that day.” Raymond turns back to Bond now, head shaking in a mockery of disappointment. “I must admit, Mister Bond, I was quite upset to discover that you had stolen my favourite toy right from under my nose.”

As much as the possessive description makes Ω shudder inwardly, he blends out the man’s raving to focus on the important part. Namely that day in Myanmar. Had he been careless? Had he left a trail behind? Or was Raymond bluffing? Lying in wait to confirm a unfounded suspicion? Besides, even if there was evidence linking Ω to the failed assassination attempt, how had that led Raymond to conclude--

Oh.

Oh.

So that is why Bond had unconsciously drawn Ω’s attention that very first time he had helped the man out. He must have recognised the man after all, if only subconsciously. Ω will never know for sure, but he supposes there is evidence to support Raymond’s theory, slight though it may be. Although Ω does wonder whether he has Raymond’s increased madness or his late brother’s poisonous tongue to thank for this unexpected twist.

After a brief, internal debate, Ω comes to the obvious conclusion. Namely that it doesn't matter. Bond, after all, is rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Ω isn’t here to indulge a lunatic’s delusions or listen to the great, evil villain’s scheme. He isn’t here to find out how far Trevelyan will go to keep his cover if pressed, or whether Bond has something up his sleeve as his track record implies. Ω isn’t here to start start fights or to swear grand oaths of vengeance.

Because Ω is Ω. He is Omega. Ω doesn’t start things. He ends them.

With Raymond still snapping one thing or another at Bond, Ω calmly reaches into the small shoulder bag he carries slung over his left shoulder, just to the side of his beloved backpack.

A thing most people wouldn’t give Ω is this: he is fast. As such, when he pulls the small handgun -- nothing impressive, but sufficient for its purpose all the same -- from its hiding place, the only people in the room with the reflexes to react accordingly, are 006 and 007. Since 007 is currently tied up and 006 is the one furthest away from Ω, nothing stops Ω from pulling the trigger.

Another thing most people wouldn’t give Ω is this: he is a very good shot. The bullet enters Raymond’s skull an inch above his right ear. And like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he crumbles to the ground in blessed silence.

Ω throws himself to the ground then, before the two henchmen can shoot him where he stands. As it turns out, he doesn’t have to worry about that. Trevelyan takes care of them almost embarrassingly fast.

The commotion must have drawn the attention of the guards outside because suddenly the door is thrown open. Bond is forced to throw his whole weight against the chair, topple over whilst still bound to it, to avoid multiple bullets coming his way. Trevelyan, still calm as you please, shoots one of the guards in the face, then kicks the door shut before the brutal image can fully burn itself into Ω’s mind.

Dismissing the dead bodies around him as inconsequential, Ω instead uses both agents’ distraction to his advantage and fumbles for his phone. It’s a little trickier to type one-handed, especially with the mostly unfamiliar weight of a gun in the other hand, but Ω adapts. Besides the activation of his special code of utter destruction only takes three commands.

Therefore, by the time Trevelyan notices that Ω is up to something, it’s already too late. Ω puts the phone back into his pocket -- slowly, so as not to set off any trigger-happy licensed killers. He keeps the gun in hand though, if currently pointed at the floor.

Feeling wrong-footed and off-balance, now that everything he has been working for has come to pass -- save for the getting away clear part -- Ω stares blankly at the man that probably isn’t his bodyguard anymore. Unsure of what to do next.

On the ground, Bond is doing a remarkable good job of freeing himself from the chair he is still tied to. Ω isn’t sure whether that improves his own chances of survival or declines them.

Thankfully, he doesn’t get more of a chance to ponder the issue because in that moment Trevelyan throws his head back and barks a laugh that sounds more animated than Ω has heard of him in the entire time they’ve known each other.

“And to think that this is how I have to learn that you’re cheating on me, Ω.” 006 grins, a flinty thing that looks as dangerous as the gun he’s holding.

“Can’t blame him for improving his taste.” Bond groans as he eases himself out of the uncomfortable position the fall had forced him into.

Ω can’t help but notice that this is the first time Trevelyan has called him by his chosen name. And that he has seen more emotions in the last seven seconds from either man than in all the other times put together. He isn’t entirely sure what to do with that knowledge.

“Are you going to shoot me?” is what Ω ends up blurting out, because apparently even he has a limit of calm, emotional detachment. Or maybe it is the realisation of who Bond is, who he could have been to Ω, that keeps him from recovering his balance.

“He better not!” Trevelyan snaps, like a small dog going after a stranger’s heel. Except, of course, that there is nothing small about 006. Especially not now, as he glares at Bond with narrowed eyes, muscles bulging as though instinctively puffing himself up to appear a bigger threat.

Ω does not stare at said muscles. He does however give the two men a bemused glance. What game is Trevelyan playing now? There is no more reason to uphold the illusion -- unless he is still pretending to be Ω’s bodyguard. But why? To get his hands on the information he’ll need to take SHADE down for good? To keep his cover?

Bond gets to his feet slowly, though Ω gets the impression that this is more for his benefit than out of necessity. The agent then proceeds to carefully stretch his limbs, checking for injuries no doubt. Considering he is naked, Ω settles for focusing his attention on Trevelyan, although Bond seems entirely unashamed of his state of undress. Trevelyan, meanwhile, is glaring at Bond with a deadly intent so focused, it’s a miracle it doesn’t solidify.

“Is that so?” Bond asks, all glib and serene calm.

Right now, Ω would be hard-pressed to decide who out of the two of them is the most dangerous.

“Yes.” Trevelyan growls, lacking Bond’s mask of civility, but none of his focus.

The sound is accompanied by Ω’s belated realisation of what he is witnessing: the unforeseen confrontation between two predators in the field, with their violent urges sharpened by necessity, adrenaline, and the oncoming fight, to the point where unleashing them at their most dangerous is no longer an option but a foregone conclusion.

“This one’s mine.” Trevelyan continues sharply. Ω has the odd feeling that 006 isn’t talking about him specifically, but neither is he being excluded from the sentiment.

Possessive bastards, Ω recalls reading in one of their less-than-professional medical evaluation. Even the mildest of Double-0s does not play well with others. 006 and 007 are anything but mild.

On an abstract level, Ω has known that. Seeing it play out right in front of him is different though.

Bond raises his hands in faux-innocence, belied by the devilish smirk on his lips. “Then we will simply have to learn to share. Won’t we--” he turns to address Ω directly, his blue eyes a splash of ice that freeze Ω in his place long before the words sink in, “uroboros?”

A trap, Ω thinks dizzily, helplessly caught in the cold, blue eyes of one of the most dangerous men he knows. It’s a trap.

One he, despairingly, is utterly ill-equipped to handle.

Almost without conscious thought, Ω finds himself answering. By some small mercy, his voice doesn’t waver. “Yes. I suppose you will, 007.”

Is this what you saw, when you looked at him, sister? Did you know he would be your death in the end? Did you know he would damn us all?

“Sharing?” Trevelyan asks with exaggerated disbelief -- the kind that could be real, if everything about the man’s expression right now wasn’t false. “Now that’s a first.”

An understanding has passed between Bond and Ω that he isn’t privy to, and from the cool glint in his eyes, like snow in the early winter sun, he knows it. Swallowing hard but ultimately undeterred, Ω turns away from Bond and faces Trevelyan once more. Whereas meeting 007’s eyes has sprung the trap, facing 006’s steady gaze is the tightening of the noose.

“Good.”

Because after the end comes the beginning of something new. Ω has played his final move. It’s time for something else. And while Ω doesn’t start things, only ends them, uroboros is the snake that swallows its own tail, is the past clinging to the future’s heels, is the circle of life that forever repeats itself.

Ω gives the body of Raymond Kessler one last, dismissive glance. Be at peace, brother. I’m sorry.

Then uroboros crouches down besides the closest henchman and throws Bond the guy’s handgun, knife, and identification card in quick succession.

“I have all the information you need already saved on a separate server,” he addresses Trevelyan, all business now that the personal matter has been attended to. His eyes are hard. “There’s nothing worth saving in this place or on the computers on this site. Electricity is going to shut down in four minutes. If you can get me out of here alive, I’ll give you everything you need to eradicate SHADE for good.”

Bond raises an eyebrow, while Trevelyan smirks. It’s the kind of smirk usually seen on entertained parents indulging their offspring -- and uroboros firmly decides not to contemplate the matter any further.

“But first,” uroboros’ lips quirk suspiciously, though the words are tinged with a genuine note of regret, “Bond, let’s find you some trousers.”

*

[What Q doesn’t know -- what will never be mentioned in any of the various post-mission reports -- is this: Alec Trevelyan watches Raymond Kessler for three weeks before first approaching him. He takes note of the young, bespectacled, skinny man that accompanies Kessler immediately. A lover, most likely, and Alec’s way in.

And whilst it quickly becomes clear that Alec is wrong about the former, the latter proves true in more ways than expected.

It turns out to be a theme, where Ω and Alec are concerned. Ω will say or do something, Alec will draw reasonable conclusions, and half the time he will be wrong. Half the time he will be all too right. He will watch Ω type on his keyboard without flinching or loosing his focus once, while Raymond tortures a man two steps away from him. Read neither pleasure or sadism, nor tension or discomfort in the young man’s posture. Watch as Ω hands a young girl with bright, green eyes and red-bitten lips the five pounds she’s missing to pay her bill on that same evening.

Ω is an enigma. He holds neither affection nor loyalty towards Raymond, and yet he doesn’t stray from the man’s path. He is a genius of terrible power in his own right, yet he only uses is abilities to secure facilities and improve firewalls.

The thing is, Alec doesn’t fall in love the way James does. He doesn’t love countries, doesn’t love women, doesn’t love the man he would readily die for, doesn’t love anyone at all. But Ω intrigues him, and for Alec, that is perhaps as close to love as he’ll ever come. It is all the more alarming when one considers that Ω doesn’t appear to plan on killing him -- and not for lack of opportunities Alec offers.

And maybe everything about Ω is enticing in a way that should rouse Alec’s suspicions, would make him the perfect trap, the perfect ray of light to blind Alec to the shadows hiding underneath, and maybe that is precisely what makes Alec want all the more.

But what keeps those instincts from truly rousing, what keeps Alec from lashing out, is what he will only confess once in his lifetime, a long way off into the future, after far too many glasses of vodka and far too many ounces of lost blood: Alec falls in love with Q the day Q introduces himself as Ω -- a term used for the lowest of members in a wolf pack, a term for those at the bottom of the hierarchy, the discarded and the weak -- with a confident smirk that says he is the only one in on a hilarious joke the whole world falls victim to. Alec falls in love with Q the day he identifies the man as dangerous. And for all the times Alec is wrong about Ω, this isn’t one of them.]

*

[What Q doesn’t know, won’t know for a long time yet, is this: The moment James Bond lays eyes on uroboros for the first time, he knows.]

Chapter Text

As the youngest of four children, Quin has always held a special place in the heart of his siblings. Despite what most assume, this is not solely due to his age. Quin is different, even among the four of them. And Aaron, who always, always watches out for Owen, is the first one to notice.

“He’s a sociopath,” he murmurs into the soft skin of Owen’s neck late into the night. “Or a psychopath. I’m not sure.”

He could be a risk to you, he doesn’t say.

“He’s our brother,” is Owen’s response. Sure and confident, like the final line of an argument they haven’t started yet.

Aaron tightens his grip, curls closer around a body so familiar it might as well be his own, and doesn’t say anything at all. Owen, he knows, will never understand the way Aaron does. Because Aaron, like Quin, does not form connections to other people, does not feel love, affection and empathy. Aaron doesn’t care about his family, his siblings, beyond the most shallow of relationships.

He cares about Owen, who is his and is him in equal measures, though. And because Owen isn’t like him -- close enough to understand, but far enough away not to agree -- Aaron has gotten used to watching out for his brother and sister. Has gotten used to hugging his mother and joking with his father. Has gotten used to looking out for the people Owen smiles at, if only so he will see that smile again.

So Aaron lets the matter drop. He doesn’t trust Quin, and he doesn’t love him, but Owen does. As always, that is more than enough. And for many years, the uneasy balance they strike that night holds true.

Then Vesper dies.

Aaron doesn’t know what he will do in a world without Owen. He doesn’t allow himself to think about it. The mere idea has his grip tightening on Owen’s wrist until his fingers dig into the pale flesh deep enough to leave bruises. And Aaron hates hurting his twin. He hates even more that Owen lets him.

But when Vesper dies, Aaron gets his first taste of what that grief will feel like. Because Quin may not care for anyone else, but he loves Vesper. And when she drowns, he drowns with her.

“He killed her!” Quin screams, the rage twisting his handsome features into a horrifying mask of hatred the likes of which Aaron has never seen before. Not this deeply, and certainly not directed at them.

“She killed herself!” Owen yells back, his eyelashes wet with the tears neither Aaron nor Quin will shed for her.

Aaron’s hand tightens around Owen’s arm -- he hasn’t let go of him once, since the news have reached them -- and he has to consciously suppress the urge to pull his twin behind him. To shield him from the ugly fury Quin is directing at them. The moment is scarily reminiscent of a day many years ago that Aaron has carefully put behind them, but never allowed himself to forget.

Brothers or not, he will not allow Quin to hurt Owen again.

“If it was Aaron, you’d be the first to pull the trigger,” Quin sneers. “You’d burn down the world for him. But I suppose Vesper and I just don’t deserve that kind of devotion, do we?”

Owen flinches back at the spiteful words as though hit, and the only thing that keeps Aaron from attacking Quin is the fading awareness that he would have to let go of Owen to accomplish that. It’s a thin restraint though, one that’s already fraying at the ends.

“She died for us!” Owen chokes out after a long moment of unforgiving silence. Aaron can feel the fine tremors those words evoke, running through his twin’s body. “To protect us! And you would rather have her sacrifice be in vain, to hunt down a man you only hate because she loved him! Because she chose him instead of you!”

Aaron is in front of Owen a millisecond before Quin’s fist can connect with his twin's jaw. This -- the fact that Owen remains unhurt, that Quin's hits only ever manage to strike Aaron -- is the only reason Aaron stops when Owen screams for him to.

Quin is bloody and bruised but alive. He manages to get up on his own, staggering and gasping raggedly, but still standing tall. His blue eyes are dark, almost black, and not because of the bruises forming around them.

“Fine then,” Quin rasps, stumbles against the nearest wall to avoid the helping hand Owen offers. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Brother, wait-” Owen calls out, although he must know the futility of his words.

Quin whirls around, the rage within dulled by the pain he must be in, but no less cutting for it.

“We are not brothers!” Quin hisses, and even Aaron takes a reflexive step back at the force of his hatred.

This time, when Quin leaves, Owen makes no move to stop him. And Aaron, who has never loved anyone but Owen, never cared about anyone but his twin, is glad to see him go.

Later that day, the twins sit together on the small, shabby couch they own. Pressed so closely against each other that Aaron can feel his twin’s body heat warming the entire left side of his body. It’s a nice contrast to the cool ice Owen insists he keeps pressed against his jaw.

Owen is curled around him, hands aroundAaron’s side, digging painfully into his rips that have already received too much abuse today. But Aaron bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, to keep quiet, because Owen has buried his head in his shoulder and is crying soundlessly, for their sister, for their brother, for him. Hearing his twin’s hitched breath, feeling the helpless shaking, Aaron thinks this is as close to agony as he will ever come.

“Vesper loved him,” Owen repeats eventually. The tear tracks on his pale face are still wet, but his tone is calmer, more secured, now that he has had the time to properly process the information. “She loved him enough to leave us.”

And that -- that lack of resentment, that unvoiced understanding -- is perhaps the greatest difference between the two of them, Aaron thinks. Owen has never held Vesper’s chosen distance against her. Aaron hasn’t either, but then, he has never exactly wanted her around in the first place.

“I know,” he answers, but says nothing else.

Vesper, who has always payed more attention to a long string of men than her own family, hasn’t done much to earn Aaron’s loyalty. Her obsession with finding someone to fulfil her dreams for her has rubbed him the wrong way time and again. Because unlike Aaron -- unlike Quin -- Vesper was whole . And Aaron, who barely feels like half a person without Owen close by, can’t help but despise her a little for not cherishing the gift she’s been given.

True, Aaron has Owen, and he would never wish for anything that might change that. Owen is all he will ever need, and he knows the same is true in reverse. But want and need, as Vesper has so often shown them, are two different things.

And Aaron hasn’t missed the curious glances Owen has thrown Vesper’s latest -- and last -- admirer. Owen has never resented the place Aaron holds in his life. But he is like Vesper in ways Aaron will never be. And that terrifies him more than he will ever admit.

For all that Aaron will kill Quin, should he ever lay eyes on his brother again, he can’t imagine what their brother must have gone through when Vesper chose a stranger over him. Aaron refuses to let it get that far. He won’t wait around for the curiosity in Owen’s eyes to grow into longing. Won’t sit by idly, while interest slowly festers into frustration.

Involuntarily, Aaron tightens his hold on Owen. He can barely imagine a life without his twin by his side -- he won’t. And if he’ll have to give Owen the world as his playground to ensure that his twin will never want for anything -- will never want for Aaron to leave and not come back -- then he will. He will.

That day Aaron holds Owen tight enough to feel like he’s slipping beneath their skin, like they are so closely entangled that they’ll never fully come apart again. The following morning he will look out for the people that make Owen smile. Will start a new game -- because it’s always Aaron who starts a new game, it’s always Owen who ends them -- to make Owen smile. Will hunt down Quin and stop him from hurting Owen ever again.

But tonight, there is only Aaron and Owen. And that is all they will ever need.

The first time Q wants to kill 007, he has only been in the man’s company for ten hours. The first time he actually tries to kill him comes two months later.

*

Against all odds, they do make it out of Raymond Kessler’s stronghold alive. Most of Kessler’s men don’t have the same luck, but uroboros would be lying if he said the deaths bother him. Not the ones 006 and 007 cause, and sure as hell not the ones he deals out himself.

Damaged, his mother used to call them. The word, with all its associations, has long ago stopped bothering uroboros. The world is filled with damaged people after all, the two agents on either side of him -- bracketing him in, though whether to protect or to contain uroboros isn’t sure -- are proof of that.

“All this just to kill Kessler?” Trevelyan asks him quietly, as they watch the exploding warehouses in the rearview mirror of a car 007 has liberated from the head of security on their way out.

uroboros shrugs. He’s sitting in the backseat, 006 next to him. uroboros supposes it’s a good thing he’s gotten used to the man playing his guard -- it seems like he’s going to remain stuck with the role for the time being.

“All this to utterly destroy Kessler,” uroboros corrects softly, head twisted to stare at what’s left of the building behind them. They are too far away by this point, of course, but uroboros swears he can feel the warmth of greedily licking flames on his face.

“He killed my brother.” uroboros repeats, as though willing Trevelyan to understand. “This was the least I could do.”

Their differences don’t matter, never have. The only one who touches a Merces, is a Merces. But that last part will not be voiced out loud for as long as uroboros is alive -- for their name, their true name, has long ago lost all meaning to them. They have all left it behind for a reason. And even in a world made of shadows and lies, some secrets are best left undisturbed.

In the driver seat, Bond looks tense, some blood smudged on his cheek the only colour on his skin, and uroboros abruptly wonders whether the man is in any state to drive. Double-0 agent or not, a human body does need a certain amount of blood on the inside to function. And after everything else, uroboros would be quite put out, where he to die in a bloody car wreck of all things.

“Right,” Trevelyan mutters, though it’s clear that he doesn’t understand at all.

uroboros doesn’t bother with explanations. MI6’s files have made it clear that Trevelyan doesn’t have siblings -- a relationship that can be hard to understand from the outside, long before you figure in the various mental issues, limited range of emotional capacity, and tendency towards obsessive behaviour that could be observed between uroboros and his siblings.

“In that case, let’s focus on the important bit.” Here Trevelyan’s voice sharpens, though he simultaneously sinks back into the soft leather, hands folded in front of his chest. The dichotomy of relaxation and accusation throws uroboros for a bit. Only until he realises that Trevelyan isn’t addressing him though. “Namely what the fucking hell you’re doing here, James.”

uroboros suppresses a wince at the hostile tone. 007 doesn’t seem to share his reservations, if the blindingly charming grin he throws over his shoulder is anything to go by. Then again, can he really expecting common sense from a man who courts death for a living?

“Just doing my job,” Bond states with the sort of easy carelessness one might associate with a quick glance outside the window to check whether the clouds have cleared yet.

If anything, Bond’s clear dismissal seems to raise his fellow agent’s hackles though. And from the small smirk that twitches along his cheeks for a moment, uroboros has a feeling that Bond damn well knows that.

Speaking of dysfunctional relationships, uroboros thinks with the tired resignation of someone who has spent many a family location locked in a car with three other children for multiple hours.

“This mission is mine,” Trevelyan growls, voice deepening as he does so. The muscles in his forearms tense and then relax again as he flexes his hands. uroboros finds himself mesmerised by the sight -- and vaguely worried. A fist fight inside a car is hardly desirable when you are also inside said car. And driving 90 miles per hour. “I haven’t spent twenty-seven months of my life hunting these bastards down, just for you to sweep in at the last second and pull a fucking Bond Move™ on me!”

uroboros doesn’t think he’s imagining the capital letters. Or the trademark, for that matter. From the way Bond tilts his head in inquiry, glacial blue eyes warming with intrigue, he isn’t the only one to pick up on that.

“A Bond Move™, Alec? Really?” 007 drawls mockingly.

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Trevelyan sneers. uroboros can’t decide whether the aggression fuelling it is genuine or not.

“Jealousy is not a good look on you.”

Trevelyan laughs, and this time uroboros knows it’s fake. “Everything’s a good look on me.”

As enjoyable as 006’s and 007’s game is, uroboros wishes they would shut up already. He’s too tired to properly appreciate the show -- planning murder is terrible on one’s sleeping hours -- and the dull ache in his right leg hasn’t let up yet. Falling down the stairs truly isn’t preferable to walking, uroboros will attest to that. He presses his hand on top of his knee, which thankfully doesn’t seem to be sprained. The pain sharpens, but uroboros doesn’t mind. It gives his racing mind something to focus on, blends out the dizzying, white noise of too many unknowns and none of the security and foresight his plans usually entail. Which is par the course, considering said plans involve two double-0s. uroboros has pretty much given up on foolproof plans for the foreseeable future.

“Would you mind resolving your personal issues with each other at an undetermined time in the not-foreseeable future?” he interrupts with dryness that is driven more by exhaustion than annoyance.

A moment of silence passes. Oddly, it doesn’t ease the pressure building behind uroboros’ temples. It only makes him feel like a parent of two unruly and ultimately unrepentant children. He hopes the sensation will pass soon.

Sadly, the peace doesn’t last for long. Even sadder is the fact that uroboros can’t find it in himself to be even a little surprised.

It starts with a challenging smirk that glints in the rearview mirror like a cocked gun in a dark side alley, accompanied by a sinful invitation into 007’s bed, and deteriorates quickly from there.

“I’ll have you know, I am an excellent host.”

“You’re a blanket hog, Jamesy. And an awful sharer.”

“Is that the thanks I get for leaving half the gunmen to you?”

“Six out of twenty-two is not half, and you know it.”

Later, uroboros will find out, is what men like 006 and 7 look like when they’re balancing on the precarious line between finishing a mission and coming back from a mission. This is what monsters are like when scrambling to regain their human façades, feeble though they may be. And like a thunderstorm caught in a glass bottle -- contained but not safe --, like a wild wolf faced with a leash, they crackle, and shake, and growl. Let the raw violence pour out of them in wild rivers, rather than drown helplessly in its flood.

What uroboros is witnessing in this moment are two Double-0 agents dulling their claws on the safest, most convenient target available: each other.

But at this point, he doesn’t yet know that. All uroboros knows, is this: he has just ended five lives, been thrown down a set of stairs, and his entire body aches in places he doesn’t think are supposed to ache. The two agents with him, meanwhile, seem determined to waste all their energy fighting each other. Over him.

“Says the one clinging to my mission.”

“If anything he’s my employer.”

“This is ridiculous!” uroboros snaps, tired of being talked about like a favourite toy that’s only desired for the fact that nobody else has it yet. “Now can we please act like the grown men I assume we all are?”

Trevelyan glowers at Bond. “You heard him.”

“Only if you take your hands of my hacker.”

uroboros closes his eyes against what feels like a truly monstrous, oncoming headache. He hasn’t even made it into the official custody of MI6 yet, and he is already regretting his decision.

Maybe he should have tried his hand at world-domination instead.

*

They make it back to London, and the heart of MI6, in one piece. Somehow. Strong pain medication plays a significant role in the outcome, uroboros is sure of it.

As it turns out, MI6 does have use for a man of his abilities. But then, that was never the question, was it?

*

uroboros spends his first three weeks back in Britain in containment. It’s only half power play -- to much about uroboros remains unknown, even in spite of his general cooperation. His birth name has yet to be discovered, the first twenty years of his life a complete unknown. And even when it comes to the identity uroboros has created for himself, many questions are left unanswered.

uroboros, after all, has only taken credit for three great hacks. He never does confirm that those three were the only ones he committed.

The hacker’s stubborn silence on personal matters makes people in all the wrong positions twitchy. When one of their own, agent 006, whose standing has been precarious even before his latest undercover mission, breaks him out of his cell after three weeks -- as announced, though only M and Bond will be aware of that particular fact -- this does not help to assuage their fears. Neither would the knowledge that Bond had done nothing to stop him, not that M will share this particular tidbit with anyone.

uroboros, who doesn’t appreciate cages of any kind, is hard-pressed to care about hurt feelings. Instead of disappearing, burning MI6 to the ground or whatever other, dramatic notion the various politicians in play have probably had, uroboros uses his newfound freedom to buy himself dinner. Then he goes flat-hunting.

After that, an agreement is struck. Undoubtedly helped along by money and favours the likes of which uroboros prefers to remain ignorant of. There are, after all, quite a few people who have their own reasons for wanting to keep uroboros firmly at MI6.

And so uroboros joins the TSS as a lowly IT-assistant, and disappears into the forgettable crowd of coders, IT specialists, and inventors, whose names and faces never make it onto the frontpage of an international newspaper the way Double-0 agents’ are known to.

He doesn’t lose touch with Trevelyan and Bond precisely. It’s just that both Double-0s are soon sent out on new, other missions, and uroboros, who is faced with suspicion and distrust from all sides and does not have the clearance to assist either, doesn’t go looking.

*

[Here is what uroboros will never tell anyone: In the five hours and twenty three minutes following his escape from Austria, he sees more emotions on Trevelyan’s face than he has seen in the entire time they’ve spent together. More and more, Trevelyan sheds the skin of the silent bodyguard, and steps into the role of the mischievous, troublesome Double-0 agent who is most cordial with a man as deadly as he himself is. It’s not a development uroboros dislikes per se. It is not a development he likes either.

uroboros doesn’t know what to do with a man who is more than a blank canvas, free for uroboros to paint him however he likes. He doesn’t know what to do with a man who breaks his orders at the drop of a hat to greet him with a smug smirk and a challenging, “You coming or what?” He doesn’t know what to do with a man whom he looks in the eyes and sees someone look back.

Here is what uroboros will never admit to himself: Looking at James Bond, what he sees is a handsome face and a razor sharp smile. Is his sister’s pale face, lifeless and all the more beautiful for it. Is his brother’s bloodied knuckles. Is what’s left of his family -- the only people in the world who have ever mattered enough to be his -- tearing itself apart in the wake of an implosion none of them had seen coming.

It’s not blame, exactly, but the difference is a negligible one.]

*

Two months after Austria, after giving up Ω and becoming uroboros, he lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. The room is empty, safe for the thin mattress uroboros is lying on and a small chest filled with carefully folded clothes, there is no furniture. The walls are an ugly shade of white, the colour peeling off near the edges, and there is a small dent where a previous tenant threw the door open too often.

uroboros holds no particular feelings for his current home, be they positive or negative. Home, as a rule, has never been a building. And right now, uroboros feels the loss more keenly than he has in a long time. Right now, he feels a crushing emptiness, that goes far beyond the sad state of his room.

This must be what is left of a person, when all the things that make them human, all the cords that attach them to others, all the cables that make them care, have been torn out. Leaving nothing but a hollowed-out shell behind.

There is no uroboros. There is no Ω. There is nothing there that holds him, keeps him tethered to anything worthwhile. He is weightless, is empty and bereft and incomplete, and it’s the most terrifying sensation he has ever experienced. There is no one and nothing but the ever-present darkness that swallows shadows like him and never lets them resurface.

A movement yanks him out of it. uroboros jerks violently, feels like he’s been left dangling over a steep cliff for hours, to be suddenly pulled back and expected to stand on his own legs again. There’s a brief moment that crystallises itself in the brightest, sharpest sense of relief uroboros has ever felt. The kind of gratefulness that stems from undeserved forgiveness and spared lives.

Then he realises that the movement is not a figment of his imagination. Is real. Is a threat.

A thing most people don’t give uroboros is this: he always sleeps with a loaded gun in easy reach.

*

“You shot Bond.”

uroboros doesn’t grimace, but it’s a near thing. He’s not sure how he imagined his next meeting with the formidable head of MI6 -- whose grey hair seem to be a manifestation of the steel in her spine, rather than a sign of growing age -- would go, but this isn’t it.

“He broke into my home unannounced,” is the deadpan reply uroboros settles on. He holds M’s glare, though it does take more effort than most other people require.

M’s eyes are like small mirrors that reflect nothing back at him safe what he sees and knows already. Slowly, her thin lips crack into a smile just as dangerous. “I must admit, I’ve had my doubts.”

She’s not talking about Bond anymore, and they both know it.

“U.” It’s the only concession on his name situation that she will allow. uroboros has a feeling he is lucky to get as much.

“M,” he replies in turn. Then he turns on his heels and leaves. He has a medical-shy agent to hunt down.

To uroboros’ relief, Bond is the kind of person who doesn’t take getting shot personal. Although being well-practiced at stitching up wounds undoubtedly works in his favour.

To everyone’s utter lack of surprise, Alec Trevelyan thinks the entire incident hilarious.

*

[What MI6 will never know is this: The next time a Double-0 breaks into uroboros’ home, he stays, and uroboros lets his steady, sure touch anchor him to a world that has no hold on him. Both are fully clothed and their only connection is the arm thrown over uroboros’ chest, firmly pressing him down, but it’s intimitate in a way they refuse to acknowledge.

And it’s not perfect -- because though uroboros is physically weighed down by the presence of someone else, his body feels almost like too thin a shell to keep his soul contained, like a full glass swaying from side to side, right on the brick of spilling over -- but uroboros breathes through it until it’s close enough.]

The first time Q takes on the moniker Q, 006 almost dies.

[Here is what Q doesn’t pay attention to: It takes two years before MI6 begins to actually trust uroboros -- now christened U by M of all people. As the name spreads, most having never been fond of the term uroboros anyways, U soon learns that people assume ‘U’ to be his title rather than a replacement for his name. In an agency as fond of monikers as MI6, U supposes it is a reasonable conclusion. That still doesn’t quell his amusement over the curiosity he faces when agents try to figure out where his place on the hierarchy is.

This guessing game is kept all the more interesting by the fact that, though U is never seen handling anything above the lowest of security clearances, two of MI6’s most infamous agents have supposedly been seen around him multiple times. There are even those who claim U has shot one of them -- 007 at that. And like sharks drawn to fresh blood in clear sea water, field agents and Double-0s alike draw their circles around U. Who remains rather unimpressed -- which is to say oblivious, which is to say he simply doesn’t care to notice -- to the attention he’s gathered.

Neither Alec Trevelyan nor James Bond suffer the same oversight. And Double-0 agents -- these two in particular -- do not share well.]

*

It’s supposed to be a simple mission. Actually, it’s not supposed to be a mission at all, which is the only reason U initially has any part in it. Even so, he is at the very bottom of the list. But after two other technicians call in sick, a third just broke his arm in an incident that no one can prove involved 006, and a fourth has managed to not shop up on time again, U becomes an attractive option.

R -- Boothroyd’s second in command, a middle-aged woman with flinty eyes and a perpetual scowl that has the power to make even Double-0 agents hesitant to mess with her -- is the one to call him in. “Congratulations, you’re our Quartermaster,” are the exact words she uses.

It takes U four precious seconds to process what R carefully isn’t saying. By that point, apparently, his right to protest has passed, and R turns to begin delegating U’s daily responsibilities to some other, lucky bastard. Not that there are that many responsibilities to begin with.

Whenever the Quartermaster leaves the sanctuary of MI6 for a foreseeable, public occasion in his official capacity, there is at least one double out and in play. U has never seen himself as one of them -- which is not to say that he has never considered becoming Quartermaster, he has to keep himself occupied somehow after all -- but it’s abundantly clear that his opinion isn’t relevant. And that in spite of how many important people still hate to be reminded of his existence again.

Not that U blames them for backing down in the face of R’s ruthlessness. Some fights are better off not fought.

He accepts his fate with the grace of a younger brother who has grown up enduring his sister’s obsession with dressing people up. All things considered, running around London with an entourage of four bodyguards is going to be more interesting than fixing Mitchell’s coding yet again anyways. U is convinced of this right up until he learns that one of his bodyguards is 006 -- undoubtedly M’s punishment for the aforementioned incident involving a Q branch member’s broken arm.

At that point, U knows for sure that his day will be interesting. Things never manage to stay boring with 006 close by.

*

U’s prediction comes true a mere two hours later, when he finds himself locked into a small, cosy internet café with two dead bodyguards -- one a turncoat, who shot the first, but was thankfully taken out by 006 before he could point out U among the dozen other, wide-eyed civilians --, three living ones, albeit spread across the entire café, and at least six gunmen.

Perhaps it’s arrogance, but U has the suspicion it’s not the Quartermaster he is pretending to be that’s the target. If nothing else, both Omega and uroboros made many enemies -- and they aren’t the only ones.

What’s worse than the attackers themselves is the tech they’re using. If U didn’t know every weapon he has ever built by heart, he would have sworn he had outfitted them himself. From their high-quality protective vests to the odd-looking tasers that are definitely not set on stun.

U is kneeling behind an overturned table, huddled closely together with a young girl who looks about seventeen and is recording the entire event with her smartphone. Just thinking about how many channels he’ll have to wipe in the aftermath of this disaster exhausts U. But that will come later.

For the time being, U reminds himself that he needs to focus on staying alive. And keeping Trevelyan alive. Who, in true Double-0 style, has taken the ‘don’t move, do as we say, and we might not shoot you’ speech at the start of this mess as a challenge. U would snarl some very unfriendly truths into the agent’s ear, if Trevelyan wasn’t currently on the other side of the room, wreaking havoc.

He does an admirable job of it, U has to admit. Not that he’s ever doubted Trevelyan’s ability to create chaos merely by breathing. It’s a different matter entirely to bear witness to 006’ prowess in the field however. Especially when compared to the way U’s two remaining, well-trained bodyguards handle the situation. There is a difference between handling a weapon and being a weapon. One that Trevelyan, for all his brash taunts and undaunted laughter, underlines brilliantly. And for once, U is sure it’s not a point 006 is even aware has to be made.

Watching Trevelyan take on armed gunmen with his fists and a lot of pent-up frustration -- no doubt fueled by Psych’s refusal to clear him for field work these past three weeks -- is as awe-inspiring as it is horrifying. And also stupid.

U really can’t stress that last part enough.

He doesn’t know where Trevelyan and Bond have gotten the impression that they’re bulletproof from, but should he ever find out, there will be consequences. As it is, it’s a miracle that 006 lasts as long as he does, despite all his training. There is only so much a one-man army can achieve when outnumbered, outgunned, and out in the open. Also, there are civilians to consider. Or at least, U dearly hopes Trevelyan is considering them. He would hate to explain to M how twelve people got shot in the middle of London on a Double-0’s watch. Of course he’ll probably just leave the explaining to Trevelyan. U is willing to share credit like that.

Only three of their attackers are left standing when one of them makes a move in U’s direction. For one horrifying moment, U fears he will end up a hostage in one of life’s baffling twists to indulge mindless clichés. Thankfully, he is spared the embarrassment. Instead he finds himself scrambling backwards to stay out of reach. A mistake that leaves him open on the floor without shelter -- and it forces 006 to leave the corner he’s been fighting in, give up the limited cover the walls provide.

The taser comes out of nowhere. Or so it will seem later, even after U has rewatched the security tapes for the thirty-second time. Thin straps hit Trevelyan right into the chest. One that U unfortunately knows very well isn’t sufficiently shielded against the kind of voltage these tasers have proven to carry. From the barely perceptible stutter in Trevelyan’s fluent movements, he knows it too.

Unlike U -- who freezes in place down to his very core, struck by that breathless moment in which loss, inevitability, and denial dance in perfect tandem across time’s edge -- and the other spectators though, Trevelyan also knows something else a fraction of a second before the rest of the world realises it: the taser isn’t loaded.

The strings do, however, make for a guillotine quite nicely. U forces himself to take a deep breath when the aftermath leaves three more men dead and Trevelyan standing. He doesn’t have to force himself not to be bothered by the violent ends they meet. They did try to touch his agent after all.

When it’s over, Trevelyan bounces over to U, looking remarkably like a three year old on a sugar high. He checks U over quickly and efficiently. It’s a well-practiced ritual, thanks to the months they’ve spent side by side, and U doesn’t miss the way Trevelyan doesn’t fully turn his back on any of the other agents. Or the civilians for that matter. He wears a faint smirk as he stares down at U though -- as always taking delighted pleasure in the proof that he is insignificantly taller than U -- so U knows they’re fine. Pissed off, but fine. MI6 has a way of taking attacks on home soil personal.

On the way back to U’s tiny flat later that day Trevelyan is quiet. U considers the irony at ending the day with an assigned bodyguard, 006 at that, but he has a headache from the collective yelling of the many people who wanted to make their opinion on the incident known, so he let’s it go.

“You could’ve told me,” are the first words Trevelyan says to him, now that they’re away from prying eyes and curious ears.

U presses his head against the cool glass of the window. Usually he delights in these games with 006, where neither says what they mean, get the message across through hints and gestures and context instead. Today, he has been shot at, dragged into three crisis management meetings that got exactly nothing done, and watched his agent get shot. By a taser, but it still counts.

“Told you what?” U asks, making no effort to mask his exhaustion.

Trevelyan turns his head to smile bitingly at him, and U concentrates on not tensing at the blatant disregard 006 is showing the road whilst driving. “That you put the taser to stun.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Trevelyan scoffs. “That taser just happened to fail the first time it was used.”

U doesn’t bother correcting 006. Where fights are concerned, a Double-0’s word is as good as fact, and if Trevelyan says the taser hadn’t been used before, then it hasn't been used. It’s a curious thing for sure, considering how effective the others were. But that doesn’t change U’s answer.

“Apparently it did,” he agrees calmly. When the only reaction that evokes is a huffed breath, the tension underneath Trevelyan’s joyeval mask tightening to the point where the first cracks can be noted, U resigns himself to a more elaborate explanation. “What you’re suggesting isn’t simply unlikely or illegal, 006. Short of manually messing with it, which was not possible due to the combat situation we were in, I couldn’t have done anything. Just because these tasers happen to be automated and are a work of art-,” which is not an exaggeration, U’s biggest regret of the day is not being in at his workstation right now, playing with it, “-doesn’t mean I can just shut them down. Even I need a network to hack into, 006.”

U doesn’t turn to check, but he feels Trevelyan’s steady gaze on him all the same.

“I’m not going to--” Trevelyan starts, then trails off. There’s something meaningful in the pause that follows, but U is in no mood to decode it.

“It’s impossible, Trevelyan.” U closes his eyes, tired of the conversation already. “You were lucky. It happens.” Not on his watch ever again -- because U refuses to leave his agent's life up to luck -- but that’s besides the point.

“I’m a Double-0.” Trevelyan growls, presses down on the gas pedal harder than necessary. His words are quieter though, no longer aggression, just the bloody stubbornness he is so well-known for. “We don’t get lucky.”

But they do. They do all the time.

*

It’s the first time U has this particular argument with Trevelyan, but it won’t be the last. Somehow Bond gets involved as well, the both of them coming up with increasingly ridiculous ways U is apparently watching their backs. It’s all in good fun of course.

Except for that hard glint in Trevelyan’s eyes, that cool assessment in Bond’s gaze.

“Maybe you’ve got a guardian angel watching over you,” U tells them at one point, his lips twitching just so. Because everyone knows that Heaven has little interest in matters of the Double-0s. It’s Hell that sits up and pays close attention.

They don’t believe him, though they hide it well. U can’t decide whether their disbelief is born out of an unacknowledged hope that they have someone looking out for them or the inherent mistrust they regard everyone with.

Of course he knows. Their world doesn’t leave room for romantic tales, and men like Bond, Trevelyan and U have no use for them anyways.

*

[Here’s the thing MI6 keeps track of: Alec Trevelyan was declared dead three times, wounded in the line of duty twenty-seven times, and his psychological evaluation forms are a thing of beautiful horror that has caused the development of many a compulsive twitch. James Bond has only returned wounded twenty-three times, though he makes it up with five death certificates, and a enmity with the Psych department that’s swiftly approaching legendary status. Each and every mission they’re sent on is a success. Eventually.]

[Here’s the thing MI6 doesn’t keep track of: When Bond barely makes it out of a mad business manager’s private torture chamber alive, the surveillance stationated around the house fails due to a power shortage. When Trevelyan jumps out of a four storey building, there is a giant bouncy castle conveniently on the street beneath, placed there due to a paper getting filed incorrectly. When Bond gets shot by a sniper in Spain, the only reason he isn’t dead instantly is a malfunctioning light bulb that explodes over his head half a second before the shot is fired. When Trevelyan is drowning in the North Sea, he is pulled aboard a small tucker boat that is miles off course due to issues with the equipment.]

The first time Q kisses James Bond, he does it because he can.

There is something oddly thrilling in being close to a breathing legend like James Bond. To know that for all the times his strong hands have ended lives, all the people who have thought to control Bond and sign their own death warrants for it, all the times the agent discards others orders and opinions in the firm conviction that he knows better, the violence barely leashed under scarred skin, if U were to step into his personal space and kiss him, Bond would let him.

So he does. And Bond lets him.

It makes U wonder what else Bond would let him do sometimes. Feels the occasional itch to find out. He doesn’t understand why the agent indulges him, why he charms and jokes where he could threaten and use, but he knows that Bond does.

Maybe that’s all that should matter -- but it isn’t. Bond is a fantastic kisser, U has to admit as he takes a regretful step back. But U isn’t the kind of man to enter games he doesn’t understand unprepared.

The first time Alec kisses Q, he doesn’t see it coming at all.

Granted, U -- who is still U at this point, despite his brief stint as Q -- has a clear preference for computers over people, for he isn’t very good at understanding the latter. Not that he is blind. U knows of Alec Trevelyan’s interest in him. Off-mission 006 isn’t a subtle man in general, and especially not in this particular matter. Obsessive stalker is a much more fitting description.

But despite the occasional hint or comment about the nature of said interest, U has never taken Alec Trevelyan seriously. Like all agents of his calibre, 006 wields desire and sex appeal like a lethal weapon, with the skill that guarantees he never misses and always kills. Therefore U has taken the lustful gazes and playful leers with a barrel of salt, and Trevelyan has done nothing to dissuade that assumption. If anything he’s done his best to play right into it.

So, yes. When Alec Trevelyan walks up to U on a Saturday morning just a few doors down his apartment and pulls him into a kiss, U is very much caught off guard. He is even more surprised by his own receptiveness of said kiss.

True, U is no stranger to the pleasure of intimacy, affection or sex -- no matter what the Q branch betting pool claims -- but it’s not something he indulges in often. But Trevelyan, who has spent the past year and a half slowly digging himself through U’s walls, hasn’t registered as a threat in a long time. Registers as pleasant company by now. U simply never stopped to consider how this fact might mix with something a little more physical.

Apparently, Trevelyan has. U relaxes into the warm hold, that has all the secure and none of the trapped sensations attached to it. It’s not rational exactly, but Trevelyan is steady and sure, and his lips are a gentle question, and U finds himself unable to deny his agent anything.

*

Time passes. U rises slowly through the ranks, not so much because of lacking skills but because of bureaucracy and pesky security clearances. But he does rise, and in an odd way, U delights in the challenge. Machines he can hack, but people? U has never had to gain so many people’s trust before and it’s refreshing.

Yet even that challenge can’t last forever. Luckily, U has inadvertently adopted himself two double-0 agents, who, not unlike stray cats declaring themselves at home, are keen on keeping things interesting. On and off missions.

Things like break-ins in the middle of the night and food left in places that U definitely didn’t cook have become common, to the point where U would believe his flat haunted if he wasn’t personally acquainted with the ghosts in question. That doesn’t include the things they consider harmless enough to bring home, the states they consider healthy enough to come home in or their utter inability to not leave blood on the carpet. Not that U has tried very hard to curb them off those habits. But then, nobody should nominate him as a moral compass for anyone, ever, as it is.

Still. Occasionally, U wonders what it says about his relationship with the both of them that the only reason he hasn’t offered them a key to his apartment yet is that he knows all too well they’d take it as an insult to their lock-picking skills.

*

U doesn’t come over to James’ flat very often, and never does so uninvited. One simply doesn’t sneak up on a double-0 agent. As such, when U enters through the unlocked door and doesn’t see James anywhere, he is immediately suspicious.

When he finds the picture on the otherwise empty dining table, U knows it isn’t a coincidence. He was meant to find it. He was meant to know that James bloody Bond had left it there for him to find.

Taking a steadying breath -- and hating himself a little for the faint shudders running along his tense muscles -- U steps closer and stares down at his sister’s smiling face.

Vesper had always been pretty, but only when she had hit twenty had she truly blossomed into the woman their mother could have become if she hadn’t let the weight of four children, who couldn’t love her like she loved them, pull her down. Reaching out slowly, U hesitates, leaves his hand hovering in midair, right above the photograph. The picture shows Vesper at her most beautiful: head thrown back mid-laugh, her hair spilling down her shoulders in artful waves, eyes sparkling as they look up at the man by her side. U had always known that Vesper loved Bond, of course. This though? This is the first time he sees it. He’s not sure why it makes a difference, but it does.

U drops his hand back at his side.

He doesn’t turn around to check whether James is here, watching him. He doesn’t need to.

“You’ve been waiting for me to kill you from the get-go,” U states. His tone leaves no room for doubt.

Because there is no room for forgiveness and second chances in the world they live in. There is no letting go and moving on. Part of him wants to ask why James is doing this, why he’s confronting him now of all times. But the thing is, U may not understand people, but he does understand James, in this at least. James will await his death patiently, invite it in time and again -- only U hasn’t taken him up on the offer. And James is too much of a double-0, has long ceased being anything else, not to casually court the reaper once more.

Or maybe, U supposes, it is easier to invite betrayal, rather than wait for what you consider inevitable come to pass.

Finally, U manages to tear his eyes away from the sight of one of his sister’s last, happy moments. When he faces James, what he notices first is that Alec isn’t there. Is that they’re standing in a brightly lit room near the windows, and Alec is undoubtedly out there somewhere, possibly with a sniper rifle. The question which one he is there to protect is one best not asked. There are many things between the three of them that they don’t acknowledge, and their ties of loyalty are one of them. Too many broken hearts lie in a promise of unfailing faithfulness that, at the end of the day, can not be given to more than one person.

“U,” James says softly, and nothing more.

U wonders whether there are tears in his eyes. He’s grown tired of crying over Vesper a long time ago.

“Vengeance isn’t my style,” he says, and it tastes like a lie, even though he means it.

He doesn’t think James believes him. U is unsurprised when he learns that this doesn’t keep James from pulling him close and pressing a barely felt kiss against his temple, soft like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. It’s as close to an apology as he will get.

Theirs is not a love story.

It can’t be, for they aren’t men of eternal vows and tearful declarations. It can’t be, because whatever bond it is the three of them share, it’s not one of love.

U will never categorize it as such. He will learn to recognise the warm surge of affection, the welcoming burn of desire, the startlingly stubborn dedication. But never will he add two and two to equal four.

Because U has grown up with a love unlike anything he’s ever seen, and though it may not be a romantic love, may not even be a healthy one, he has yet to witness anything that could ever measure up against such a bond. U has witnessed the brilliance out of two people dividing through zero successfully, and now he struggles to adapt what he knows to be true to the rules and ideals society offers.

U isn’t in love, and neither do his agents love him. But they are his agents -- 006 and 007, Trevelyan and Bond, Alec and James -- and that means something, even if U can’t quite put a finger on why that is.

*

Here is what MI6 can never know: Alec doesn’t promise U the world, doesn’t even promise to follow him wherever he goes. For all his charm and lies, Alec doesn’t make any promise at all to U. But his every touch feels like a brand, every kiss like a chain that ties them closer together. And Alec doesn’t promise anything, but when M orders 005’s death, Alec looks to U for the briefest of moments before he accepts the mission, and that is all that should ever be said on the matter.

James always makes promises. Not all of them he voices out loud, and the most important ones will never see the light of the day. But when he splays his hand possessively over U’s chest, the weight sinks into him like the most steadfast of anchors, holds him in place when the rest of the world is adrift. And when he is declared dead for the sixth time, U receives a message on a burner phone he didn’t know he had less than seven hours later. It’s rare for James to intend to keep his word. U notices that it’s becoming a bit of a habit where he is concerned though.

*

[Here is what Q will never know: When James Bond first begins to take down SHADE, it’s done to establish a connection and, preferably, a rapport with the hacker uroboros. When he succeeds, the technology suddenly on his side more often than not, he gets himself captured. He is growing tired of playing hide and seek, and if his vague plan of forcing the hacker out into the open was reckless, than that’s besides the point. Because it works.

It works. And the moment James Bond first comes face to face with uroboros, he starts planning his death. But uroboros -- U -- is playing a longer game than Bond initially gives him credit for. More importantly, Alec refuses to exit the game, long past the point of no return. Not that Bond is one to throw stones. He may not love the game, but he so loves to play .

Bond is no stranger to compromised agents. He has even turned a few himself. And although Alec hasn’t betrayed Britain, might never betray Britain, there was a reason James didn’t ask Alec to come with him and Vesper. And it wasn’t because he thought Alec wouldn’t follow. He doesn’t report Alec though.

The thing is, James falls in love with women the way he loves countries; fast, hard, and unrelenting. It has never been identified as a risk before. Of course, Vesper has never asked James to turn against Britain, only to stop his fight for her. He knows better than to ask himself what he would have done if she’d wanted him to. She betrays him in the end, so it’s a moot point anyways.

Because James will fight and kill and move on from the ones he loves if he has to. But he doesn’t turn his back on them first. Not that James loves Alec, or U for that matter.

James doesn’t fall in love with men. Every psych evaluation MI6 ever put him through will confirm this.]

*

Their lives -- and their relationship, for that matter -- are anything but normal. With three predators, two of them trained killers, living in close quarters, that’s only to be expected. But for all the distance that comes with long-term missions, the frustration born out of long forced leaves and lots of physical therapy, there are moments when they fit so beautifully that it throws even U himself.

They’re like a numeric code, a never-ending mathematical formula that’s constantly in motion, he supposes. Only at the odd moment do the numbers align, but when they do, they do it perfectly, shaping the most brilliantly balanced triangle.

It strikes him during mornings like this one, where Alec leans against the doorframe to the small balcony, a cigarette dangling loosely from between his fingers, whilst James handles the stove with a calm competence that wouldn’t be out of place on a award-winning chef, and U is buried under four of the fluffiest blankets, erasing the last evidence of his agents’ latest exploits. He is warm and comfortable, and James doesn’t ask how he prefers his tea, and Alec reaches for a pack of gums without seemingly thinking about it.

And U, who has never liked company, never enjoyed the presence of other people in his life, thinks that this, right now, is a good place to be in. It’s a good place to stay.

Absently, he wonders whether this isn’t as close to retirement as the three of them will ever get. None of their jobs are the kind you walk away from, after all.

“Come on, Q. Even Quartermasters have to eat,” James teases. He hasn’t stopped since rumours about Boothroyd finally retiring have first started.

Against better knowledge, U is beginning to get dangerously attached to that title. But now isn’t the time to worry about such things. With a few confident key strikes, U shuts his laptop and joins his two agents with a smile that feels foreign on his lips, but familiar whenever he catches sight of it in a mirror. Vesper used to smile like this, he thinks, and the ache gets easier to bear every day.

Especially when you have two double-0s doing their very best to distract you from darker thoughts with jokes, and smirks, and touches that are never harmless but always welcome. His agents are infuriatingly capable like that. And smug about it too.

Yes, if this truly is retirement, then U can see what about the idea has drawn his sister in all those years ago.

He wonders whether she, too, would have grown bored with the reality of it eventually.

*

Four years later, on the 23rd of April, at 4:07pm every MI6-issued screen turns black. Two seconds later, the blackness fades to reveal a black snake biting its own tail. Underneath the symbol are three words, written in bold letters the colour of freshly spilled blood.

Miss me?

-- A

Down on the lowest floor of the building, the Quartermaster of MI6 takes a sip from his cup of Earl Grey to hide a telling smirk.

The end.

Cut scenes:

“uroboros is the beginning and the end. You can not have one without the other.” The dying man chuckles, a raspy, broken sound that would make a lesser man wince. Raymond Kessler doesn’t so much as twitch. “Believe me, I’ve tried. But where one is, the other will follow, and never do they serve any master but themselves.” He tips his head back then, and smiles at something only he can see.

“You won’t listen, of course. You will take it as a challenge, just like all the others. Many have tried, but like all of them you will fail. I’ll look forward to seeing it. Men like you, they focus on the beginning in all his brilliance and brutality. They never see the end coming, soft-spoken and oh so final.” He laughs again, eyes shuttered, blood and spit running down his chin. He faces Kessler directly then, or so it appears, for his eyes refuse to focus on anything. He is long past the point of caring. “And you know why?” his voice grows weaker as strength and breath leave him in equal measures, but there is a determination straightening his spine that has carried him through the past hours and days. And he will not go before he has not said his piece. “Because you yearn to keep what you find. Even when it isn’t yours for the taking. Especially then, probably.” Another chuckle. Unerring, blue eyes meet Raymond Kessler’s for the last time, broken but undefeated. “Hell reserves a special place for men like us, who try to take what can only be given freely.”

*

“Let’s play hide and seek!” Aaron suggests, young face alight with an eager smile. “I’m it!”

Owen rolls his eyes. “You’re not supposed to want to be it, A.”

“Why not?” Aaron’s grin slips, slides into something mischievous and calculating. “Everyone’s always on the lookout for the ones in hiding. No one bothers to keep track of the seeker.”

*

Their mother is a soft-spoken woman with intelligent eyes and a tired smile. It’s only in retrospect that Vesper understands that her exhaustion isn’t born out of a job she has no passion for or a marriage to a man she doesn’t love. It’s the people she does love with all her heart that are at fault.

It’s Aaron, who bears her warm hugs with an expression of long-suffering amusement, long before he reaches the age typically associated with this kind of rejection. It’s Owen, who is polite and affectionate, but always turns to his twin first and his parents second. It’s Quin, who shrugs off inquiries and comfort, like rain dripping off his coat, a casual disregard that cuts deeper than words spoken in anger ever do.

It’s Vesper herself, who is too busy watching over her siblings and searching for something she doesn’t dare to name yet, to pay her mother the attention she undoubtedly deserves.

Despite all that, there are moments when Vesper seeks her mother out. Moments when she asks for advice even, though they grow rare by the time she is fourteen. After that, there is only one time Vesper remembers, where her mother sought her out on her own.

She is at the playground in their neighbourhood, watching Quin bowed over a book in the shade of a tree. Vesper isn’t blind, she notices the glances some of the other children give her brother, so she pays close attention. Yet, occasionally, she can’t keep her gaze from drifting over to where Aaron and Owen play with each other -- and only ever with each other.

Her mother sits down besides her in an unhurried motion. Likewise she only breaks the silence a few minutes later, when she deems the time to be right.

“You shouldn’t envy them so.”

Vesper turns, startled out of her thoughts, but her mother is facing away from her. Towards the twins.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The denial slips over her lips easily, thoughtlessly. She is getting better at it, the lying. To others and to herself.

But her mother only shakes her head, a barely perceptible movement. “I know my children, Vesper,” she says and is no trace of judgement nor condemnation in her words.

When she meets Vesper’s startled gaze a beat later, the shadows under her eyes are almost black, but her eyes hold nothing but compassionate warmth. “The beauty of the rose is visible for all to see. But only those who hold her feel the pain of her thornes.”

Vesper furrows her brows, but her mother’s quiet, painful laugh locks the questioning words into the back of her throat. “Dreams are a beautiful, dangerous thing, my dear daughter. But obsession, like love, is a force not to be taken lightly.”

Years later, as the memories of her mother become blurred with time and negligence, Vesper still remembers those words. It doesn’t save her, in the end, and in her final moments Vesper wonders if that is precisely the point.

*

“We can be in two places at once, O.” Aaron chuckles. “We can do anything.”

*

The first time Quin tries to kill James Bond, he blows the man’s cover mid-way through his third, and as of yet most dangerous, mission. Then he leans back and watches the fall-out.

The second time, Quin traps Bond in an elevator whilst he is on the run from a dozen trigger-happy henchmen.

The third time, Quin, tired of watching Bond survive against all odds, hacks into the plane Bond boards to bring the entire thing down. His attack is thwarted by another hacker. One with a familiar signature.

Many, many attempts later, Quin resigns himself to the inevitable. He is a brilliant hacker, but so is his opponent. And whilst he is too good to lose, he can not win this battle either. Quin would take matters into his own hands, but by that point, he is certain that the damn bastard has eyes on him at all times -- turnabout is fair play after all. And neither of them has ever played fair.

So instead he seeks out a man powerful and resourceful enough to pull off a physical attack electronics won’t be able to stop. And if he has to hit his brothers where it will hurt the most, then that is just added incentive.

Quin knows he is playing a game not all of them will survive, but he finds himself hard-pressed to care. The one he loved the most -- the only one he loved -- is already dead. And Quin has always been the coldest of the four.

*

“He’s mine,” Alec mutters later that night, after they’ve dropped uroboros off at MI6 for questioning, had a charming chat with M -- involving a matter-of-fact “You’ve got three weeks, then he’s out of here,” from Alec that neither M nor James acknowledge, though they certainly don’t forget -- and escape Medical fairly unscratched. “Get your own.”

He doesn’t sound angry or aggressive anymore, just resigned. James pulls out a bottle of high-quality vodka from his hidden stash that he keeps around precisely for occasions such as this.

“You’ve never cared before,” he points out reasonably.

Alec snorts and takes a gulp straight from the bottle. Glasses are wasted on conversations like this one. “Like you didn’t with Vesper?”

At that, James falls silent. Briefly, he considers telling Alec. About how uroboros has her eyes. About that reflexive twitch of his fingers, slightest tilt of his head. Knowing Alec though, he already knows.

Besides there was a death sentence in Vesper’s lifeless eyes that James has been waiting for a long time to come to pass.

“Learn to share,” is what he ends up saying with a shrug that pulls at the stitches in his shoulder.

Alec tips the bottle back even further, almost overbalancing as he does so. When he comes up for air, he’s laughing.

*

The morning after their vicious fight with Quin, Owen wakes up alone, with a bright pink post-it note stuck to his forehead.

Tag, I’m it!