Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he finally climbs down from the roof, the black box is tucked carefully against his side, protecting the paper-wrapped ceramic bulldog -- (“The whole office goes up in smoke and that bloody thing survives,” he says with a chuckle. “An exemplar of British fortitude, or some such, I imagine. Like that god-awful obituary.” M smiles thinly, lifting her glass in his direction, “I knew you'd hate it.”). It’s the last tangible reminder of his M now that she's cold and embalmed downstairs while what seems like the whole of the British intelligence community and more than a comfortable number of politicians make small talk and attempt to furtively further their political agendas have turned out to make Mansfield’s funeral about them and not about laying to rest a true exemplar of British fortitude. He nearly drops it when he comes across a wedged-open door in the stairwell and catches a whiff of cigarettes and the new-familiar shock of unruly raven hair and grey-hazel eyes hidden behind thick glasses of the new Quartermaster. Q looks infinitely thinner dressed in mourning all-blacks, he notes, the pale length of his neck longer, fingers capable of easy destruction yet long and delicate as they pull another cigarette from a crumpled pack to light it from the one in the corner of his mouth. Bond, silent as a big cat stalking prey, pushes the door open with his free arm and squashes his grin when Q flinches whole-bodily, almost dropping the newly lit cigarette in his fingers when Bond speaks.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know.” Contrary to his words, he steals the pack from Q’s other hand, flicks one out in a practiced way that speaks of years of smoking and leans in close enough to light it from the end of Q’s own. Q has the decency to not look shocked at the blatant invasion of his personal space, and what had become a personal moment as well, and coolly recovers, bracketing his coat as he leans his arms on the parapet and looks down over the street. The blonde agent leans against the wall opposite, still protectively holding the black box under his arm. Q takes a long drag of the cigarette and flicks the ash out over the edge, leaving it between his fingers for the moment. 

“Aren't you of the worst sort to deliver that kind of warning? How many times have you been killed now?” Q attempts for humor, but his tone is wrong, all strained and tight, and when Bond sweeps his eyes over him again, he notices belatedly that Q’s eyes are red-rimmed and the color in his face is blotchy. Q stubbornly doesn't allude to it, and Bond sweeps past it with a half-second delayed chuckle, but they both know he's noticed the intrusion. Bond doesn’t know whether the technician cries at all funerals he attends, or if M’s is of some significant importance to him, the way she’s another name in the list of people that he’s loved and lost -- his parents, Tracy, Vesper, Ronson, a list of friends too long to detail in short succession but each one he continues to feel as a stab in the black pit where his heart would be. 

Q takes a breath and pushes forward, aiming for level and steady, his Quartermaster voice, the unflappable head of Q Branch, the calm voice in a hundred different ears depending on the day. “Do you know that the part that bothers me the most? That when Mall-,” he stops hastily, clearly it’s not the first time he’s made this slip, “That when M found me in the middle of creating the trail we were leaving for Silva to follow the only thing I could worry about was what the bloody PM was going to say if he found out. Isn’t that awful?” He’s obviously glancing over the largest error on his own part, the stupid foolish mistake of plugging Silva’s laptop directly into the mainframe. He’s more than certain there will be an enquiry into it, that he’ll have to defend himself and his actions, but that’s for tomorrow’s Q to deal with. Today’s Q is grieving.

Bond shakes his head and lets out a low breathy chuckle. “Parliamentary politicking is nothing new, Q. You should get used to it. Why do you think I stay in the field?” The words blunt instrument come immediately to mind, something Mansfield had called him repeatedly but not always with the contrite that it usually carried. Particularly not now. The M in his head vacillates from crotchety old bitch to almost kinder than he ever remembers hearing her, a bit like a conscience if he would simply admit that maybe he does have one after all. 

Q sighs out a breath that holds more than just smoke, lets it drift up and away as his red-rimmed eyes follow it. Crying makes almost everyone ugly and Q is no exception. “Be that as it may, I suppose it’s not too far gone to say that I didn’t imagine having to deal with it so soon after assuming the position. In hindsight, I also suppose that I should’ve expected it, though the Major never seemed to be too bothered by it.” 

It’s then that Bond realizes why Q’s tone sounds so melancholy - he’s another one of M’s orphans. Blasted woman had some sort of sixth sense about finding them and promising them the moon or something. Vaguely, there’s a thought in the back of his head that Mallory doesn’t seem of the same sort, of a different stock than Mansfield despite his dealings with the IRA during The Troubles. “When did they recruit you?” he asks finally, eyes trained on Q’s side profile.

“I was 24,” Q replies succinctly, all tight-lipped and level voice, but the minute widening in his eyes of surprise would’ve been missed had Bond not been looking for it. “The Major caught me in a hacking honey-pot of his own design after I’d hacked them a few times. They hauled me in and gave me a choice, I could come to work for MI-6 and help them shore up security or I could rot in a maximum-security prison with nothing more technological than paper and pencil for the rest of my life.” He doesn’t bother to close the story, they both know how it ends. “Next year is my tenth anniversary at Six.”

Bond isn’t surprised by the fact that he hadn’t noticed the technician before he became Quartermaster -- he doesn’t have a habit of haunting Q Branch unless it was to pester the Major for something new or to turn in his battered and bruised equipment. Q Branch was famous for squirreling away its best and brightest to work on codeword Top Secret material. Or it’s entirely possible that Q wasn’t even assigned to the Home Office until recently. Regardless, Q looks much younger than his self-admitted 33 years, and in contrast, Bond feels that he is starting to show the signs of his age. He’s only six years from mandatory 00 retirement, and yet he inevitably feels that he’ll never see 45. Mallory has already told him he’s going to have to re-qualify for active service (“ Properly this time, 007, after you’ve had time to recover and a full debrief.”) which Bond knows means another attempt by Psych to disqualify him for his so-called sociopathic tendencies . 

“Huh,” is all he says in reply for the moment, and after a beat, he adds, “I was 22 when I joined the Royal Navy. My first tour out I spent a year on the Armilla Patrol before we rotated in. Most boring deployment you can imagine, but when we got back into Bahrain, Major Boothroyd was waiting for us. Said he had some tests he wanted to run on us since we’d been at sea for a year. We had no idea just how sadistic he was when he asked for volunteers.” Bond chuckles, shaking his head slightly at the memory. “Qualification and requalification never had anything on the Major.” 

Q practically holds his breath during the aside because James Bond is attempting to make him feel better. He turns to brace his back against the opposite wall but keeps his head turned, looking out over the buildings embracing the sky. He feels less like dying now and more like he wants a stiff drink, something for his head (because crying gave him god-awful headaches), and a long lie-in. Instead, he’s patiently and patently quiet, smoking the rest of his cigarette in the silence before Bond speaks again.

“I didn’t see him again for two years, but he remembered me right away. I had just finished my rescue diving certifications on the Illustrious when he appeared again asking for volunteers. Something about the way he said it made it sound like he was there to see me, but maybe that was just my ego at the time talking. I realized later on that it was probably true - M had sent him to see how I’d done in the certs. See if it was worth recruiting me, I suppose. They did manage to recruit me at 28 and drafted me out of the Navy and into Six. Not a moment too soon or else I’d have been back on the Illustrious going into Saif Sareea II.”

Q’s eyes widen marginally again, briefly surprised at the timing of Bond’s draft to MI-6. “The 9/11 bombings happened during Saif Sareea II,” he adds matter-of-factly. “But the HMS Illustrious wasn’t sent to Afghanistan, the HMS Ocean was.” He momentarily contemplates another cigarette but shoves the pack back into his pocket, rucking up the line of his mourning coat as he does, exposing the slim set of his shoulder, the brace cutting a black line across his crisp white shirt. “The Illustrious rotated back into Portsmouth when the Ocean went into Operation Enduring Freedom with the Americans.”

The blonde holds his surprise close to the vest because of course the Quartermaster knew his military history. “That’s correct, though most of the officer crew joined the Ocean since the Illustrious was due for a re-fit shortly after returning from Oman.”

“That was a whole year later,” Q interjects quickly. “A year doesn’t count as ‘shortly’, Bond.”

“Yes, yes, impress me further that you know your naval history, why don’t you?” Bond quips sarcastically, fishing a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket to re-light his cigarette that’s gone out while he’s been distracted comforting Q (and himself) talking. He relights it, inhales, and sighs in a satisfied way, as if the nicotine has been sorely missed.

“Eidetic and photographic memory, I’m afraid. Sometimes being an actual genius has its uses.” Q lacks a large amount of modesty when it comes to his accomplishments but, he supposes, that’s also partially why Psych labeled him as a potential for sociopathic tendencies in his initial interview with them. He’s made a better attempt at keeping it quashed, though he realistically knows that Bond will be able to see through any filter he puts on it. 

And for his part, Bond merely laughs, because of course Q has a memory based on total recall. He can’t even attempt to be surprised now, though he’s certainly not about to let Q know that. It’s the same feeling he had when Q had quipped about Silva’s laptop -- (“Only about six people in the world could program safeguards like that,” Q says, adjusting his glasses and barely restraining himself from looking at the laptop like a kid with a shiny new toy. Or, more accurately, a Quartermaster with an intriguing puzzle. “Of course there are. Can you get past them?” Bond queries, arms folded over his chest as he oscillates between Q and the display. “I invented them,” the technician replies coolly.) -- that there’s more to Q than rumpled jumpers, fragrant Earl Grey, and dark rumpled hair that looked made him look perpetually well-fucked. For all he knows, maybe Q is perpetually well-fucked. For a split second, he imagines stretches of unmarred pale skin on dark-as-night sheets, greengrey eyes closed in self-abandon, and his name in a gasp from bite-swollen lips, and Bond is surprised to realize that he wants. The thought is gone quickly, dismissed by the follow-up realization that Q is probably technosexual, if anything.

“Perks of being a genius or of a well-trained mind,” Bond amends without a beat, nothing to belay the fact that he’d been imagining the tech naked. 

Q does chuckle at that, it makes his nose crinkle under the bridge of his glasses and his eyes go soft in the corners. Bond can tell it’s real, instead of the fake serene smile he gives when he’s annoyedpretendinghiding. The blotchy red is fading from his face, and he looks more-or-less like the professional that haunts Q Branch instead of the grieving waif Bond had stumbled upon. “I’ll give you that addition,” the tech gibes, “but I don’t think it applies to you.” He finally looks away from the open air and meets Bond’s eyes for the first time that day, only the faintest impression that he’d been crying left around his sharp, intelligent eyes. 

“Is that so?” Bond queries with a self-deprecating chuckle, draws the last of the cigarette and flicks it over the edge of the parapet, not watching as to where it lands. They’re far enough up that no one will be able to tell which balcony it came from, and frankly, he doesn’t care. 

Q, of course, has other thoughts about that.

“You shouldn’t litter. The cellulose acetate fibers in the filter take up to ten years to decompose, depending on the conditions.”

Bond smiles sarcastically and shoves his now-free hand into his pocket, leveling a casual gaze at the tech before he speaks again. “How old were you when your parents died?”

Q simply can’t hide the look of shock and surprise on his face. None of his personal information is available on the MI-6 servers, one part because he had stipulated it in his employment contract and one part because when anything other than his designation does show up, he has a program written to immediately erase it and move it to his private server for review. How Bond has leapt from the small amount of information they’ve discussed to his history, Q will never understand. Probably the same thing that made him a bloody good spy.

Bond counts it as a win that Q’s almost too flabbergasted to answer. Right on the money.

“I was 11 when my parents died in a mountain climbing accident,” Bond continues entreatingly. “I lived with my adoptive father for a while before he sent me to Eton. Finished at Fettes, went on to the University of Geneva, joined the Royal Navy almost as soon as I graduated. From there--.” He shrugs one shoulder as if to say ‘and you know the rest ’. “I figure if you’re going to be my only handler from here on out, you should hear the real version of it and not whatever is written in my file, epistolary action novel that it probably is.”

Q is again momentarily flabbergasted, rapidly adding all of this information to the mental file he has on the blonde, but it’s the words at the end that strike him the most. “Only handler? Apparently I’ve missed something.”

“Oh, M didn’t tell you? Pending my requalification in four weeks, I will be working together with you. Exclusively.”

The headache behind Q’s eyes throbs and he vaguely wonders if it’ll ever go away now because Bond has a destructive streak 5 kilometers wide and how on Earth is he meant to handle Bond when he’s not even fully repaired Q Branch to his standards. For fuck’s sake, they’re still operating out of a rat-infested bunker. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shifting the thick frames of his glasses upwards as he does, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll be sure to thank M when he asks why my equipment expenditure triples.” He’s still rubbing at his eyes and misses Bond’s grin. “This does not mean that you get to ask for whatever you want equipment-wise.”

“Maybe next time you’ll deign to give me more than a radio and my Walther,” Bond quips quickly, a sorry attempt at assuaging his new handler, but passing on the opportunity for a well-timed innuendo. For once. He honestly hadn’t known M was purposefully being tight-lipped about being under Q’s direct purview.

“ Your Walther? You’ll be lucky if I give you more than a squirt gun and a piece of tinfoil after you fed my Walther to a Komodo Dragon in Macau,” Q replies incredulously, greygreenhazel eyes snapping open to find the blonde still grinning at him. “And left the other one at the bottom of a lake.”

“I didn’t feed it to him. A very burly guard attempted to fire it and didn’t see the Komodo Dragon come from behind him. He dropped it and I barely got out of there before the other one got me. I didn’t have time to pick it up.” Bond is still grinning, and the longer he grins, the more infuriated Q seems to become.

“All of which I would’ve heard had you not also purposefully dropped your earpiece into Ms. Moneypenny’s glass of champagne,” Q adds icily. The headache now has a name, and its name is James fucking Bond. He swears he’s going to have to invest stock in Nurofen at this rate.

“Accidentally misplaced,” Bond replies with the same grin.

“That’s not what Ms. Moneypenny wrote in her After-Action Report.”

“Oh, Q, you know how things are, sometimes in the heat of the moment, things get misremembered. I’m sure she didn’t mean to write that.” His grin is bordering on cheeky now. Needling Q might be his new favorite pastime if the tech is going to get all worked up every time.

It does bring a bit of flushed color to his previously blotchy face, and once again, Bond is momentarily distracted by his earlier thoughts of how the Quartermaster might look spread out in his bed. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Silva that it wasn’t his first time. Wouldn’t even be his sixththirtyseventhfiftieth time.

Q abruptly realizes he’s being toyed with and shuts down, retrieves his coat and scarf from the parapet, and slides it on with innate gracefulness. He very nearly smirks when Bond’s grin disappears, leaving in its place an almost puzzled look. Point - Q, he thinks, doing up the buttons with less-than-practiced ease, looping the scarf around his neck before tucking the ends of it down into the front of the coat. He’s uncomfortable in such formal dress, but Mansfield’s funeral warranted it to him. He could stand to be uncomfortable in order to pay his proper respects. He slides one hand into the pocket of his coat and makes for the wedged-open door, pausing only momentarily with his other hand on the doorknob. “Car crash killed my parents and older sister. A drunk driver ran the light and t-boned us on our way home from the cinema. I was 12.” 

Bond stares at Q’s back, unsure of what to say for the first time in his dealings with the younger man. No witty retort, no snappy comeback. Fortunately, Q doesn’t give him time to answer and disappears through the door without another word, half-tempted to shut it completely and lock Bond out onto the balcony, dress shoes clicking on the stairs as he makes his way down them. Bond gives him until the silent count of five before following, his own steps noiseless as he continues his trek from earlier back downstairs.

By the time Q reaches the bottom floor, he’s already firmly back in his Quartermaster headspace, cool and unflappable, the quiet and staid leader of one of the most formidable technology branches in the world. He bypasses the rest of the crowd milling about to pay their respects before Mansfield is entombed and does his best not to notice the silent foreboding presence at his back. He can feel Bond only steps behind him as he makes his way out onto the street and immediately heads left towards the tube. 

“Q,” Bond calls after him, stopping in his tracks when the Quartermaster does so himself, decidedly not looking over his shoulder. “I can give you a ride, if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Q replies, looking down at his shoes. “Though I appreciate the offer.”

Perhaps it’s the car Q has a fear of, Bond notes mentally. He’s about to speak when Q continues, finally half-turning towards him with a cheeky smile.

“I know how you drive.”

Bond puts his free hand to his chest, mock offended. “Why, Quartermaster, I would never ever endanger you with reckless driving.”

“I guess we’ll never know. Good evening, Bond.” Without giving him time to respond, Q turns back and heads off towards the station again, hands shoved down into his pockets, leaving Bond standing there shaking his head with a smirk, the black box still tucked under his arm. Geniuses, he comments to himself, briefly musing over how strange the afternoon turned out to be. He turns on his heel and heads towards his car, thoughts of the Quartermaster occupying his mind for the entire drive back to his empty new flat and well into the night.

Chapter Text

Armed with his new knowledge, Bond attempts to do some investigating of his own over the course of the next few days. He knows only the few details Q deigned to impart on him -- his age, the approximate year the accident happened, and the specific details of it -- which he believes is enough for him to gather enough information to figure out what it is about Q that gets under his skin so easily, like a knife slicing through flesh to reveal muscle, sinew, and bone underneath. Frustratingly, none of the results that come up match what Q’s told him. Three days later, his next approach is through HR, combing through the old paper files that had been transferred from the old Home Office to the bunker for the year Q was recruited. He thinks he’s finally got something when he finds the list of technician candidates and works his way through cross-referencing them with a current staff roster. Several names overlap both lists and he pulls the relevant files -- Devi, Priya; Evans, Micah; Foster, Edward; Harris, Monica; Williams, Jonathan -- only to discover that one of the files is particularly light, so light in fact that there’s no way it’s a complete file. He sets aside the rest and flips open Evans, Micah’s file to see Q’s picture staring at him attached to an almost blank application form and no CV, no eDV interviews, no vetting to speak of. It’s literally one page of likely fake information and the photograph, though the photo is probably real as Q looks even younger than he does now, still all floppy well-fucked hair and bright eyes behind what appears to be the same pair of glasses. As Bond sweeps his eyes over the personal information section of the application, he notices a small note written in the corner of it -- Nice try, 007. -- and he slams the folder shut. All the rest he files back in their correct places, he is sneaking around after-hours after all, and takes the Evans file with him up to Q Branch.

The branch is deserted at this time of night, all the good little tech geeks have gone home or are currently resting in the dedicated on-call rooms, ready for any emergency to arrive. Q’s back is to the rest of the open floor as he sits at his main terminal, fingers flying across his keyboard as his eyes trace the lines of code on that appear at the commands he’s inputting. Bond watches him silently for a moment before approaching and is about to throw the file down onto his desk and demand an explanation to the cheeky-as-fuck note, but Q’s voice halts him when he’s three steps away from the terminal.

“Taking a late-night stroll through HR, 007?” Q’s voice is crisp and posh in the deserted branch, his fingers still typing away furiously. The sequence on the main display screen shifts, taking Q’s attention with it as he admires his handiwork and saves everything, backing it up to a jumpdrive that he clips to the lanyard around his neck, tucking it down under the collar of his shirt to rest against his skin. He starts the log-off process for his terminal, and swivels his chair around to face Bond, who apparently surprisingly has been waiting patiently for his full attention.

“What’s the meaning of this, Q? We’re meant to be working together, I’m sure M has detailed that to you by now,” the blonde says icily, crossing the remaining steps between them and tossing the folder down on the terminal desk. His blue blue eyes are impossibly frosty as he levels his gaze at Q again. The urge to be petulant and cross his arms over his chest is mounting, but he’s nothing if not professional and quashes it. 

Q smiles what he refers to as his Quartermaster smile -- calm, serene, and revealing absolutely nothing. He's learned how to guard his body language as best as possible, to retreat behind the facade for this very reason -- angry double-oh’s who think they run everything. “Yes, M has briefed me fully on the nature of the responsibilities on my end of this working relationship.” The computer chimes, indicating his log-off sequence is complete, and Q turns in his chair to retrieve his badge from where it's connected, clipping it to the pocket of his oversized maroon cardigan before turning back around, resting his hands in his lap. “I’ll be the voice in your ear, available to answer any questions related to your brief. I'll be responsible for outfitting you with what is required for the mission, and also for travel and lodging arrangements. Furthermore, I’ll be checking in with you periodically while you're on home territory to make sure that you're not getting yourself into trouble. In short, 007, I'm your babysitter. I'm not your friend, I’m not a mission or a mark. I'm your superior, military ranking be damned.”

There are several points where Bond attempts to interject, but Q steamrolls through what he wants to say, almost enjoying the narrowing in those blue eyes staring him down, until the very end of it, because Bond has put two and two together and come up with a surprising four. “Military rank be damned, hm? When did you serve, Q?” 

The minute crease between Q’s brows gives him away, and Bond knows he’s landed on a bit of truth. “Ah, you did serve. But this,” he grabs the folder again, holding it out in Q’s direction, “this is a load of shit. Your name isn't Micah Evans any more than mine is.”

The crease in Q’s brow disappears and he retains the unflappable serene smile, grey-hazel eyes cool and neutral behind his glasses. “My name is Q. Or Quartermaster, if you like. I'll answer to either and nothing else. You may be MI-6’s most effective agent, but the logistics are my domain. The field is yours. Let's stick to our respective roles, shall we?”

Bond swears a blue streak internally because god damn Q is a fucking prick, and he knows the bastard knows it too. Q is goddamn enjoying this, much the way he had enjoyed needling Q on the balcony at M’s funeral. Two can play this game of headstrong wills, and if it's the road Q wants to take their relationship down, he's all too willing to accommodate this particular request. 

“You should already be well aware that I don't play nicely with others, Quartermaster,” Bond replies genially, keeping the venom from his voice. “I play by my own rules. It's what makes me such a good agent.” 

“And contrary to your beliefs, 007,” Q battles back, all calm and crisp consonants, “my personal life is none of your business. Because that is what this relationship is, purely business. I’m sure you’re more used to a hands-off approach, but you’ll find that I have a very different style of doing things than the Major.” He reaches between them, grasping the edge of the folder and pushes it pointedly back in Bond’s direction. “Please return this to HR before you leave for the evening. I would hate for it to come up missing during an audit of internal record. They have a habit of happening when unauthorized access is recorded.” 

Bond is seconds away from challenging that before he thinks better of it because Q is dangerous and he’s wondering why it took him this long to figure that out. He chalks it up to a general lack of field experience and oversized clothes that give him a dowdy appearance, as if he purposefully makes himself look as unassuming and harmless as possible. It’s a good deterrent as most people seem to glance over Q and underestimate him immediately, but Bond just knows there’s more hiding under those oversized layers and floppy hair. Q hasn’t been shy about letting him know it either.

Instead, he takes the folder back and tucks it under his arm with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Don't worry, Quartermaster. I'll return it,” he quips, already turning on his heel to head back up to HR with it. Let no one say he’s never followed orders before. 

The sharp contrast to his earlier anger causes Q to send an eyebrow arching over the rim of his dark frames, but it disappears almost instantly and is replaced by his calm and serene smile. “And hopefully my equipment next time as well,” he calls out, “A Quartermaster can dream, anyways.”

The bark of a laugh coming from the blonde makes Q’s smile turn into a real one as he chuckles himself. 

“You wouldn't be the first Quartermaster to have that dream.” When he turns over his shoulder, this time, Bond’s smile does reach his eyes, the lightness of them shining with amusement. Q can barely glimpse the edges of who Bond had been before Six, all roguish charm and rakish good looks. It’s a look he wouldn’t mind seeing again, he finds.

“And I'm sure I won't be the last either,” Q teases, half-turning in his chair to disconnect his laptop from the mainframe and place it on his lap. “Good night, Bond. Do stay out of trouble.” His delivery, despite the words, is soft, a far cry from his usual clipped consonants and no-nonsense tone.

Bond turns on his heel, lifting a hand as a way of bidding the tech good night, heading towards the lifts once more. “I make no promises, Q. You should know that,” he calls back as he presses the button for the lift. 

Q’s real smile doesn’t disappear even after the blonde does, until he realizes he’s been sat in his chair for the last ten minutes, smiling at the lifts.

The next morning, Bond has retreated to his office, catching up on his frankly horrible amount of emails, which include the menu for the next month in the canteen, several voluntary retirement planning seminars (which look like they’ve been emailed to half of Six, so he doesn’t take that much offense to the invitation), a schedule of mandatory Q Branch training sessions, and a few that are personal correspondence between himself and other field agents. Not two minutes after he signs into the email server does it ding a new message. 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: <no subject>

Attachment: secure_2983267452150.jpeg
| This message has been digitally encrypted and signed by the sender. This message cannot be copied, printed, saved, or forwarded. Permission has been granted by the sender and will have to be removed by the sender to complete any of these actions. | 

The email contains nothing more than the attachment, no message text or even a subject. Q’s been very thorough about restricting all the permissions on it, and it immediately piques the agent’s interest because why would the Quartermaster send him such a locked down email for it only to contain an image attachment. At first, he thinks it has to be a mistake, but then the image loads and he swears a blue streak aloud, cursing his computer screen up and down. On screen, the image of a much younger Q is displayed, wearing desert combat dress and a dark blue beret emblazoned with the badge of the Corps of Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. It’s not even an official picture, but rather one someone had taken of him in the field - laughing, eyes closed and nose crinkled up under the frames of what look to be the same glasses as he wears now, dark curls barely visible under his helmet. Even more curious, under his PLCE and kevlar vest is the embroidered patch of a Major, one rank below Bond when he’d left the RN for Six. The strap slung over his shoulder leads to a gloved hand holding the pistol grip of a L85A2, one long elegant finger pressed alongside the trigger guard. The very bottom right of the photo has a label that looked as if it has been applied before the picture had been scanned into a computer and reads ‘Major Q, Sierra Leone, May 2000’. 

Bond pales as he reads the label, and then re-reads it again just to be sure. Closes out the image and reopens it, but the label doesn’t change. He pushes back from his desk and stands, pacing for a moment before staring hard at the image, hands shoved into his pockets. 

He’d been in Sierra Leone at the same time as Q - the HMS Illustrious had arrived 8 days after Operation Palliser had begun. Hell, the Illustrious had carried some of the REME personnel to Sierra Leone. Q’s military knowledge of the Illustrious ’ movements in 2001 made a lot more sense now with the added information. Hell, they could’ve interacted and Bond not even realized it, though he doubts he would’ve so easily forgotten someone as striking as the Quartermaster. Christ, 2000 meant that Q had been 20 or nearly 21 on that deployment. How the hell had he made major so early in his career? The questions were spiraling as he all but collapsed back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his jaw as he stared off into the middle space behind his computer screen, not quite seeing the image of a laughing Quartermaster on the screen, but not not seeing it either. He’s so caught up in the questions forming and suppositions being rewritten about the technician that he almost misses the chat box that pops up on the internal messaging service that Q Branch has thoughtfully installed on all of Six’s machines.

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): Does that answer your question?

Bond stares at it for a moment before tentatively reaching for the keyboard, the spiraling list of questions still on the forefront of his mind.

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): If anything, I have more of them now.

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): I’ll allow you one per 24 hours or else you’ll run out too soon. I reserve the right not to answer if the information is above your clearance or too personal for my liking.

Bond huffs a laugh at the chatbox, because he can hear Q’s voice as if he was already in his ear, all clipped consonants and rounded vowels. It vaguely makes him wonder if the tech has always sounded like that, even during his service. He reaches for a pen and paper from the drawer of his desk and quickly jots down as many of his questions as he can think of before typing back, erasing it several times, and then finally hits the return before he can think better of it.

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): Did we meet during that operation?

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): Yes. 17 May 2000. My unit was brought onboard the Illustrious since we were part of the first rotation and had been in the field for 10 days straight. We only stayed 48 hours before heading back out. We ran into each other twice in the mess and once more in the Officer’s lounge. Though I’m not surprised if you don’t remember. It was all very brief, and I spent the majority of my time with my unit.

The revelation rocks the blonde to his core and he’s momentarily speechless, staring at the screen. He wracks his brain for the context, attempting to pull himself back into the memories of that operation, the way the sun had beat onto them while on the upper decks of the Illustrious , the buzzing blades as Chinooks, Harriers, and Apaches took off from the flight deck, but he can’t place either the Q of today nor the Q in the photograph. 

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): I don’t remember it. I’m sorry.

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): I was rather unremarkable during that time period. Trying to keep my head down and all that. I don’t blame you.

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): I highly doubt you were ever unremarkable, Q. My priorities were different then, and without a reason to tie the memory down, I’m afraid that I didn’t commit it. 

Strangely enough, he wishes he had . That their first meeting in the National Gallery as Field Agent and Quartermaster hadn’t been a first meeting, which now begs a new question.

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): Did you recognize me when we met at the Gallery?

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): New question allowed in 24 hours. You’re on a timer now. 

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): If you ask too soon, you’ll reset it.

The blonde scoffs at the chat because he can practically feel Q’s smug look across the little box, and for the first time, he’s almost happy there’s not a camera attached to his desktop. Not that CCTV isn’t recording everything anyways. He adds to his list of questions ‘ Did you watch the cctv footage of me opening the email?’ but crosses it out almost immediately. Bond rather doesn’t want to know the answer to that question. He expects that if Q did watch, he’d probably laugh. Hell, Q has probably been laughing since the previous evening when he realized that the agent had no recollection of ever meeting him. 

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): If it makes you feel any better, there were over 4,500 troops in Sierra Leone during that operation. That’s a lot of faces to remember, and names even more so. I’m not offended. We barely spoke. I just happen to possess an exceptionally good memory.

Q’s… attempting to make him feel better? The feeling is as strangely odd as it had been when he’d been the one comforting the Quartermaster at M’s funeral. Still, not one used to being caught on the back foot, though it was becoming more of a habit around Q because the bloody infuriating tech kept surprising him, Bond still feels slightly unsettled at the revelation. 

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): We were on rotating watches with all of the helos taking off. It was as stressful as when we were supporting Operation Southern Watch. 

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): I had wondered if you were part of the Illustrious’ crew then. 

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): You mentioned the Armilla Patrol the other day, but I wasn’t sure when you’d actually joined the Illustrious .

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent):  At the tail end of Southern Watch. We supported the ‘98 bombings in Iraq as part of my first campaign onboard. 

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch):  And I thought being in REME was stressful. Southern Watch to Palliser is a big difference.

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): They both offered their own unique challenges. Different lessons learned in each.

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): What is life except a series of lessons?

> Q (Quartermaster, Q Branch): As much as I am enjoying reminiscing, and I mean that with no sarcasm, I have a briefing to attend. Please do pay attention to your scheduled sessions with my staff. 

> Bond, James A. (Field Agent): About that.

He’s in the middle of typing when the chatbox greys out, indicating Q is no longer online. With a small sigh of frustration, Bond reads back through the exchange, adding all of the new information to his mental file on the tech. He’s slowly building a more complete picture instead of something tenuous and threadbare and it makes him want even more. To know the intimate spaces in Q’s history and mind as well as his body. It leaves him with the strangest feeling, not unlike the past several interactions, and yet he still can’t place his finger on why even the most frustrating conversations with the technician leave him feeling the same as the frankly cordial ones, or even what name to ascribe to it. Perhaps the thing that strikes him the most is the fact that Q initiated the conversation about it. Although, he muses, if Q so clearly remembered them meeting and he didn’t, it wouldn’t have exactly put him at a loss to disclose the information. The revelations continue to come, even as Bond turns his attention to the rest of his emails and finally, the training schedule Q Branch had emailed him.

> Week 1, Monday: Debrief; Medical Pre-Evaluation, Initial, Full

> Week 1, Tuesday: Medical Recovery Day, Off-site 

> Week 1, Wednesday: Equipment Calibration (Small Arms), First Round

> Week 1, Thursday: Equipment Calibration (Medium and Long-Range Arms), First Round

> Week 1, Friday: Offensive/Defensive Driving Certification, Level 4

> Week 2, Monday: Equipment Calibration (Small Arms), Re-Fit

> Week 2, Tuesday: Equipment Calibration (Medium and Long-Range Arms), Re-Fit

> Week 2, Wednesday: Swimming/Diving (Combo) Certification, Level 5

> Week 2, Thursday: Close-Range and Hand-to-Hand Combat Certification, Level 4

> Week 2, Friday: Medical Pre-Evaluation, Follow-up, Full

> Week 3, Monday: Team Building Seminar, Initial

> Week 3, Tuesday: Equipment Calibration and Range Testing (Small Arms), Final

> Week 3, Wednesday: Equipment Calibration (Medium and Long-Range Arms), Final

> Week 3, Thursday: Team Building Seminar, Follow-up

> Week 3, Friday: Medical Pre-Evaluation, Final, Full

What in the bloody fuck has Q done to his three weeks of rest?

Chapter Text

Week 1, Friday: Offensive/Defensive Driving Certification, Level 4

“Hang right at the intersection, then take the second left.”

“Copy, Q.”

Bond’s voice is barely strained through his headset, just a small clench in the corner of his jaw if the internal SmartEye monitoring cameras are anything to go by. They’re currently over halfway through the Offensive portion of the Driving Certification in the redesigned driving labs’ testing facility, and it seems like half the driving labs’ staff has turned out to see how the new facility takes to a double-oh’s handling since Bond is the first to put it through its paces. It’s a cross between a full VR experience, live-fire exercises, and vehicle testing. Q’s outside the booth that houses the testing vehicle, currently set up as a manual Audi A5, laptop hooked up to the main testing terminal that supplies the map for the certification. The driving labs’ staff has managed to take the driving simulator at UMTRI and make it look like a child’s toy. Inside the test vehicle, they’ve combined not only modified SmartEye sensors to track and record eye movements, but have paired it with with a full VR suit -- ( “It’s got haptic feedback, Q,” the lead tech had leered. “And biometric sensors without all the lead wires!” piped a second tech, practically shoving the schematics towards him. “The car’s strapped down too, so we can throw them around in it too. We’ll get some wicked data sets if they let us have a double-oh test it,” grinned a third. “I’ll see what I can do,” is all Q could remark, his enthusiasm growing at seeing the staff so excited to test it. ) -- and set the whole thing up inside a 360-projection booth capable of day- and night-driving, multiple weather conditions as well as off- and rough road conditions. The test vehicle is also able to be configured in a number of configurations, ranging from a Ford Fiesta to an Aston Martin Vanquish. The driving labs’ staff has really outdone themselves with this monster, and Q’s inordinately happy to see through to the fruition of their main project for the last few months. 

Currently, Bond’s been doing well, but they haven’t started throwing any curveballs at him yet. He’s currently chasing a Jaguar XF through a randomly generated city, the dirt roads shaking the test vehicle inside the booth to simulate real-time feedback. 

“In three blocks, let’s send the Jag down to a lower section of the city. Preferably down some stairs,” the vehicle labs’ lead tech says with a gleam in his eye. “You got it,” grins one of the map techs, already programming the Jag into the requested route. Q forgets sometimes how data-driven his techs can be at times. 

“After you’ve made the second left, make an immediate right, 007,” Q calls, eyes on the map in front of him, generated real-time CCTV on his feeds. “Looks like you’ve got company coming, a pair of Land Rovers three vehicles behind and closing.”

“Copy, Q.” The car goes careening around the second left, and Bond doesn’t hesitate to take the immediate right, the test vehicle simulating the thudding of the A5 down the stairs by rocking violently, nearly spinning out as he reaches the bottom of the staircase and guns it out of the turn, downshifting hard. The Jag handles slightly better than the A5 and he’s fallen slightly behind, which is starting to grate on his nerves.

“Third right, and a left onto the main road. He’s gunning through local traffic now. Land Rovers were too large to take the stairs, they’ve had to go around.”

To Q’s side, the labs’ techs are looking over their most recent data set, cheering quietly to one another as the readouts are showing Bond’s spike in respiration and heart rate, still tracking his eye movements through the SmartEye’s display. “Land Rovers are going to catch up to him soon, they have home pitch advantage,” grins the lead tech again, looking at Q’s map.

“Q, what are my chances on losing those Rovers?” Bond grits his teeth and swerves through oncoming traffic to get back out onto the main road, the test vehicle slinging around to show the XR about six vehicles ahead of him. He glances into the rearview, and doesn’t see either Rover. Yet.

“I wouldn’t put it rather high, they do know these streets better than we do.” His hands are curled around a paper cup of tea and he chances a quick drink from it since Bond’s on a straightaway for the moment. It’s still hot, blissfully, and warms Q to his toes. 

“Damn,” is Bond’s only reply, swerving through the three lanes of traffic in an attempt to catch up to the Jaguar. “Move, you stupid--”

“One Land Rover approaching, 8 vehicles behind you, middle lane,” Q cuts in, “and closing.”

“Double damn,” Bond swears again, cutting into the left lane and then immediately back into the middle, gaining ground on the Jag. It’s only three cars ahead of him now, two, he’s practically even with the rear of it now and slams hard left, shoving the Jaguar into oncoming traffic, causing it to spin from the back end and ultimately land on its side after it gets hit by another vehicle. 

The projected city disappears within moments and Bond blows out a breath before unclipping his seatbelt, hands still curled on the wheel as the abrupt lack of adrenaline-raising input causes his autonomic nervous system to take a nose-dive. The mock-car resets to its original position and after a few minutes, one of the technicians from the driving labs comes in to shut the test vehicle down and leaves the door open for him. He’s barely climbed down from the vehicle when Q wanders in, mobile in one hand, the other still curled around the paper cup of tea. 

“Well done,” Q starts, rapid-fire texting, from what Bond can tell anyways, headset pulled back from one ear, mic lifted in the universal mute position.

“I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that,” Bond replies with a chuckle. The VR suit is sleek black and clings to him like a second skin, impact sensors still green to indicate no broken bones. The sensor matrix on the back of the suit is still green as well. “It’ll definitely be good for training.”

“Yes, they’ve rather outdone themselves with it. Nice to see someone else in it, though. Different experience from the outside,” Q comments, returning the mobile to the pocket of his garishly green cardigan. Today he’s paired it with a light blue shirt and tweed checked trousers. The only sensible thing about his outfit is the brown brogues he’s wearing. 

Bond can’t help but wonder if Q likes to put on the appearance that he either dresses in the dark or is colorblind. Maybe it keeps people guessing, but Bond is slowly getting answers out of him. “This doesn’t count as my daily question, but merely because I’m curious. Have you tried it already?”

Q tsks and sighs, taking a drink of his tea before answering. “Yes. I was the first one outside of the vehicle labs’ staff to try it.”

“Certification or just for fun?”

“Certification. Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to drive. I just choose not to unless I’ve no other choice. Any further questions on the subject will count as your daily one.” He takes one last drink from the paper cup before lowering it. “They’re scoring you now. Shouldn’t be too long before we can start the Defensive portion.”

“Speaking of my daily question,” Bond starts, leaning against the test vehicle casually.

“Off the car, 007,” chirps a voice from overhead speakers, to which Bond raises his hands in surrender and walks out of the testing booth, knowing Q will follow after him into the hallway away from the vehicle labs’ techs.

Q bins the paper cup in the recycling on his way out and pulls out his mobile again, checking the timer he set yesterday. He stops short of where Bond is now leaning against the wire grating that surrounds the vehicle lab. He’s remembered to ask his daily ‘Question for Q’ four out of the last seven days, and has so far learned that Q did indeed know who he was when they met at the National Gallery, his unit had helped support the Battle of Tora Bora, and that he resigned his commission on his own free will after his unit rotated back in from Afghanistan. Q had refused to answer the question about where he’d gone to university though.

“Let’s hear it then.” With a few quick taps on his mobile, he’s blocked out the audio recordings from this section of the hallway. 

“Mm, you won’t tell me where you went to university, but will you tell me what you studied?”

Q huffs a laugh and resets the timer on his phone. “I have Doctorates in Mechanical Engineering, Computer Science, and Cyber-Security, and two Masters in Electrical Engineering and Architecture.”

Bond blinks once, twice, and then a third time, slower, because Christ, he knows Q is a genius but he’s a bloody intellectual genius as well. “Putting me to shame, Q. I only have a lowly Master en développement territorial,” he comments, the switch from French to English so seamless that it sounds like they’re the same language. Mentally, he adds another question ( how many languages would you say you’re fluent in? ) to his list.

“Territorial Development? Then again, I don’t suppose they had a degree in diving or charm at Université de Genève.” Q replaces the mobile into his pocket once more, his hands following after, his own switch between French and English putting some of the field agents to shame. “Best Indian near Six, if you please?”

Their turnabout has become almost routine by this point, an unspoken agreement that for every question Bond asks, Q gets free reign to ask his own. So far, they’ve been mostly centered on takeaways or wine recommendations, nothing personal. It makes Bond almost feel invasive for his questions. Almost. 

“You’re sworn to secrecy on this. I don’t need everyone frequenting my haunts.” It’s not a very well-guarded secret that Bond knows all the best places to eat in the city, but he very rarely gives recommendations beyond a few well-known (and expensive) places. 

“I’ve already told you that I’m not going to share the names of any restaurants you give me,” Q says resignedly. “Except if I have to send someone to collect food for me.”

“Fine, good enough for me. There’s a place on South Lambeth that makes the best lamb angara, though they don’t do takeaway. I can call and ask them to make an exception for you, as a favor.” There’s a charming gleam in Bond’s eye as he says it, the corner of his mouth turning up into a grin.

“Not necessary, but I appreciate the offer. I assume it’s authentic? Lamb angara is meant to be spicy,” the tech quips.

“Authentic, and they have an all-green mentality too. No artificial flavors or colors, everything is slow marinated to perfection. The head chef is fantastic. You won’t be disappointed.”

Q’s about to speak, but their names are being called from inside the vehicle lab, and he pulls out his phone instead, turning the audio surveillance again. “I suppose they’re ready for the second session. Best head in.”

Bond pushes off from his reclined stance against the gate and sweeps a gentlemanly arm towards the opening leading back into the lab, his grin turning less flirty and more genuine. “After you, Q.”

Q’s momentarily struck by the blonde’s grin, reminding him ever so much of the first time they met on the HMS Illustrious , and the edges of his memory are overlaid with the older version of the blonde that he knows better than the vague impression of the Commander that he’d met by chance. It’s only a half-second pause before he quirks the corner of his lips into a smile that disappears so fast that if Bond hadn’t been watching, he would’ve missed it. 

Week 2, Monday: Equipment Calibration (Small Arms), Re-fit

Bond’s not expecting Q to be in the range when he shows for his re-fit on small arms, but there he is, ever-present mug of tea to hand when he enters. Q’s already got a pair of noise protection headphones slung around his neck, yellow-tinted safety glasses perched on the top of his head. 

“Ah, 007,” Q starts, settling his mug of tea down and slipping his safety glasses over his normal ones. “I was expecting you ten minutes ago.”

“Apologies, Q. I was waylaid on my way down here. M wanted to see how the new training schedule was working out.” The blonde is dressed down today in standard-issue grey t-shirt and blue sweats that, in Q’s opinion, have no right to cling as well to his arse as they do. “I didn’t realize this was part of a new initiative.”

“Yes, well, that would take all the fun out of it, now wouldn’t it? Rapid Assessment Protocol on Training, or RAPT as we’ve been calling it, has entered its beta-testing phase, and your recertification happened to coincide with the perfect opportunity to be the first to beta-test it. If all goes well, your performance will most likely be part of the control as we work the kinks out of the system for when new field agents are called up for service.”

“A bit unfair to them, wouldn’t you say? Using a seasoned double-oh as the control?” Bond grins but retrieves his own pair of hearing protection and safety glasses, copying Q’s example by putting his glasses on and the hearpro around his neck.

“I believe you missed the ‘part of’ portion of my statement. New field agent recruits also wouldn’t have to go through three full medical evaluations as part of their cert, but alas, here we are.” The jab is practically undetectable, save a small smirk in the corner of Q’s mouth. “It’s a shame the double-oh section shirks Medical so much. We wouldn’t have to give them so much time on the training grid otherwise.” Q sighs, takes one last drink from his tea before putting it aside and moves to the weapons locker, opening it with a full palm-print, a swipe of his access badge, and his PIN. Immediately, the mechanisms inside the locker begin whirring, calling up the equipment from the central armory. 

“If the vampires in Medical didn’t take as much blood from us as they do, I’m sure it wouldn’t be nearly as bad. ‘Oh here’s this bloke who clearly needs his blood, let’s bleed him dry of it anyways.’” The last bit has clearly been on Bond’s mind for a while, but there’s no real venom behind the words.

“Autologous donations, I’d assume. As long as the rapid testing is clean, they’d freeze it in case of an emergency.” Q’s been moving the racks of re-fit small arms to the table his mug of tea is resting on and is now working on the cartons of ammunition, two magazines per handgun type. 

“I suppose I didn’t think about that prospect."

Q practically stares at Bond for that admission, not sure on the appropriate response. Two heartbeats pass before he finally opens his mouth. “Huh.”

“Surprised, Q? That not even I think of everything.” One blonde eyebrow arches high behind the yellow-tinted glasses, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“If you thought of everything, 007, what would you need me for?”

“Something about doing more damage on your laptop in your pajamas before your first cup of Earl Grey than a year in the field, I’d imagine.” The smirk transforms into a cheeky grin, a real one that crinkles the corners of the blonde’s eyes, and Q can’t help but pay attention to it.

“I always knew that’d come back to bite me,” he says with a sigh, pulling down a lint-free cloth and the small arms cleaning kit he keeps stocked in the range and bringing both over to the table.

“Right in your hideously checkered arse, I’d say.” The cheeky grin hasn’t faded, not even as Q clears his throat and hides behind his mug of tea again.

“So, I’ve reworked a number of your small arms to compensate for your shoulder.  And don't give me that look, it'll help correct your aim.” Q can already feel the indignant claim of ‘my shoulder is bloody well fine now, I don't need corrective aim’ coming, but before he can head that off, Bond's watch starts beeping and the blonde grins at him. 

“I believe that's my 24 hours.”

Quick as lightning, Q has his mobile out of his pocket, and indeed, the 24 hour timer expired less than a minute ago. Damn Bond for being so horribly efficient about things when he wants to be. “Very well. Let's have it.” 

“It’s all part of your own personal firewall.”

Q merely blinks, cocking his head to the side for a moment.

“The clothes, the glasses, the stoic beyond reason facade. It's your way of keeping people out.” Bond shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats, waiting.

“Was there a question in there, or just a supposition?”

The words are barely out of Q’s mouth before Bond leans into his personal space, speaking almost directly into Q’s ear. “A theory I'd like to hear confirmed. It is, isn't it? You hold everyone at arm’s length by hiding behind it.”

“That's entirely too personal, 007.” The minute crease between his brows as he pulls back gives Q away though, as does the retreat to his codename. Point - Bond , the blonde muses and turns his attention back to the table, resetting the timer on his watch as Q resets the one on his mobile and takes a step directly out of the blonde's personal space.

“No follow up question today, Q?”

The tech quirks a smirk in the corner of his mouth before it disappears almost as quickly as it came on, retreating behind his personal shields. “We are in the middle of something here. I'll ask later. Now, if we can return to the matter at hand. I've recalibrated most of your small arms to help correct for your shoulder, as I know it's still bothering you. Your range results from the unmodified portion from last week's training session showed as much, no need to argue with me. Think of this not so much corrective aim as a temporary aide while your shoulder heals. With any luck, and you going to your physical therapy appointments, you won't need it for long.”

At the words ‘physical therapy’ Bond visibly cringes, and stares at the rack of handguns on the table. “What do you want me to do, Q?”

“Other than attend your physical therapy appointments in hopes of preserving your shoulder?” It's worth the jab to see Bond cringe again, just slightly. “We’re going to do accuracy first. Then we’ll do concealment pulls and see where we go from there.” Q traces a finger almost lovingly over rack of unloaded handguns before pulling the smallest of them off, a Beretta 70S .380 ACP. With no showmanship involved, he ejects the empty magazine and sets it aside, pulling the slide to check the chamber. Once he’s verified it's empty, he hands the firearm over to Bond, who has the edge of a slightly stupefied look on his face as he takes it and also verifies the chamber is empty before setting it down on the lint-free cloth. 

Q’s economy of movement is so practiced and efficient in clearing the empty weapon that the blonde has to remind himself that now is not the time for his cock to become interested, no matter how good Q looks handling the firearm. He’s even further distracted when Q picks up one of the empty .380 magazines and expertly thumbs seven rounds out onto the table from the box, standing like soldiers at attention, before loading them into the magazine. He then picks up the small Beretta and fits the loaded magazine into it with adept ease, flicking the safety on with the same economy of movement and hands it back with his hand over the slide. The whole process takes less than a minute but time feels like it's stretching out between when Bond reaches for the gun and takes it in hand, feeling the slim solid weight of it against his palm, the lights above the grip glowing dull green.

“All weapons R&D techs have to pass the certification tests before being cleared to work with them. I can practically see the question on your face,” Q muses aloud, pulling the hearing protection from around his neck and looking up at the blonde expectantly. 

“I assume that not all of them are fully certified for all arms,” Bond replies, pulling his own one-handedly from around his neck, the other still around the grip of the firearm.

“You’d be correct. Though any they come into contact with, they’re fully certified. While I can’t speak of their individual firing accuracy, they’re thoroughly knowledgeable. In the case that it’s not me working with you down here.”

‘Down here’ happens to be the new designated firing and testing range off the main wing of Q Branch in the bunkers. They're a far cry from the old glassed-in booths that the Vauxhall building had, but the Q Branch techs have made every effort in modernizing the old bunkers, having even gone so far as to construct a separate wing of ranges for the Double-Oh Programme itself. They're a strange mix of old and new with the link to the centralized armory barely noticeable but the polished silver and chrome stands out against the brick-and-mortar leftover from a bygone era. 

“But you are, yes?” Bond queries, one eyebrow cocked over the edge of his safety glasses as he moves down to the first firing lane with the hearpro still in his hand. 

“Indeed. Part of my responsibilities as Quartermaster.” Q halts any further conversation as he slips the hearpro over his head, moving to his laptop that's been set up on the table. The lights come on in the lane, brightening to outdoor conditions as the target at the end of the lane moves into position at 30 yards away and the doors of the range auto-lock as part of the safety protocols that Q’s programmed into the range. The thick plate-glass windows shift from transparent to opaque as well, affording them some modicum of privacy. 

The blonde shifts over fully to the lane, careful to keep the barrel pointing down his leg until he reaches the bench at the lane and sets the handgun down in order to don his own hearing protection, then picks it up again, sighting down the range. He glances over at Q, who nods and holds up 7 fingers to indicate he should fire the entire magazine, and does so, pausing briefly between the shots to sight down the barrel of it. There's barely any recoil, which the small handgun is known for, and once he's emptied it, he clears the slide to confirm before setting it down to pull the hearpro from around his head. 

Q signals the computer to bring the target forward as the results load into the computer, showing the side-by-side comparison from the previous testing before pulling his own off, setting them to the side of his laptop. “Safe to say that the adjustment worked,” he muses, waving Bond over. 

Bond looks at the paper target one last time, all his shots have hit center-mass, and then comes to look at the computer screen, an approving look on his face as he hands the gun back over, looking at the side-by-side comparison from the previous week. The look doesn’t fade as Q automatically checks the chamber as well and settles it back onto the lint-free cloth to clean it. 

“As your shoulder recovers, we’ll keep adjusting it so it compensates less,” Q says, loading another .380 magazine, this one for a Ruger LC9. 

Bond’s eyes stray from the computer to where Q is clearing the chamber of the LC9, and he has to sternly tell himself that his interest is merely a reaction to the adrenaline of having a firearm in his hand again, and nothing to do with the way Q’s hands move quickly and precisely with the ammunition and magazine. 

“I thought the LC9’s extended magazine wasn't due to be released until next year,” the blond comments, eyeing the rounds on the table. 

“You're correct. I have connections.”

Q hands over the unloaded gun for inspection before handing the magazine over as well, and then moves to change the paper target. Ever one for the opportunity, Bond takes the moment that Q’s disappeared to the lane to adjust himself in his sweats, still mentally talking himself down from the edge of arousal. 

It’s untouchable Q, after all. If it were anyone else, he would've taken the first opportunity to bed them in an attempt to write it off as a passing interest. For whatever reason, though, nothing seems to be lessening Q’s magnetic draw. Not even the several slim, dark-haired men he's taken to bed in an effort to work whatever attraction he has to the Quartermaster out of himself have helped. In fact, it's merely made Q’s allure that much stronger. He's still musing over his thoughts when Q returns and snaps his attention to the tech, all inherent grace and wild untamed hair. Under the harsh lighting of the range, Q looks more pale and tousled than he does anywhere else, and suddenly Bond understands why he hides behind the oversized layers and unkempt hair - he is strikingly beautiful underneath his layers. It's not the instant type that one would recognize in a beautiful woman, nor is it the playing-at-coy beauty of a man who knows he’s gorgeous. It is, instead, the quiet allure of slim hips and wrists, the spark of intelligence hiding behind greyhazel eyes, of a man who can, and frequently does, go toe-to-toe with any number of the field agents under his purview, Bond included, the wit and careful charisma hidden behind the facade he presents while on duty.

He's well and truly fucked when it comes to Q.

Belatedly, the blond realizes Q’s been talking, and he slips back into frontline focus, grinning casually.

“Have you heard a single word I've said?” Q poses,”Or did you slip off into parts unknown?”

“I just realized how much you hide underneath your layers, Q. You're beautiful.”

For a moment, Q laughs, broken and choked off, and Bond realizes that Q must think he's joking. And that clearly he hasn't heard the sentiment enough. 

“I'm serious, Quartermaster.”

“Yes, and you're bloody well gorgeous, but you already know that. If we can return to the task at hand. Same range and distance, if you please.”

They work in tandem through the rest of the firearms, the Ruger followed by two other small low-kickback low caliber handguns and steadily into ones that turn Bond’s shoulder into a giant ache after he's finished firing them all. The results are staggering -- as they proceed up in caliber, his unadjusted accuracy had gone down, but the small modifications Q had made put him back at near-perfect aim. There's no question that he’ll be able to clear his requal with the minor adjustments. 

“All I did was adjust the sights,” Q tells him as they take a break before starting concealed pulls. “It was pulling to the left because that's your weaker side for the moment, so I just shifted it over a touch. I'll swap them back as they're no longer needed and your shoulder recovers, but you've got to attend your physio appointments for that to happen. You know it as well as I do.”

Bond knows he's right, but doesn't bother to answer, he merely disappears for the rest of their break and returns with a refill of Q’s tea in his hand and a sandwich, which they end up splitting. 

It's while they're eating that Q finally poses his question, saved from earlier. “If you had remembered me when we met at the National Gallery, would it have changed things?”

The blonde is quiet for a long moment, thinking and also finishing his half of the sandwich. “I'm not sure. I'd have to think about it more and let you know.”

Q nods, accepting that for now, but adds, “You can't ask any more until you give me an actual answer.”

Bond quirks a brow in curiosity, but nods regardless, brushing the crumbs off his hands on his sweats. “Holster pulls now?”

Q grins almost evilly and nods, handing over a belt holster meant to fit the small caliber handguns they were working with first. “We've changed the concealed testing format. 7 drills at 7 yards, then we’ll switch formats to 8 drills at varying distances. No re-shoots, all timed.”

“Oh, you're evil, Q,” Bond replies with a chuckle. “What's the sequence?”

“Hands loose, draw, one round, reholster, draw, one round. Low ready, two rounds, repeat. Low ready, six rounds. Low ready, one round, reload, one round. Low ready, one round in two targets. Holster pull, back turned, one round in three targets, reholster, opposite turn, one round in three targets,” Q comments off-handedly, already thumbing ammunition into the extra magazines they would be utilizing for this portion. “Timed from when you move from the ready position.” He brings them over to the bench that Bond had been working from before, shifting the partitions to clear the way for the additional targets that this round requires. 

“Oh you are evil,” Bond replies, visualizing the sequence in his head, committing it to memory. “Even the juniors have to use the same format?”

“Even Q Branch uses the same format.” Q finishes moving the partitions and shifts the bench to sit parallel to the lane instead of intersecting it, locking it in place. “Though we don't necessarily have to pass this portion. Junior agents must pass one of the two formats, Upper and Double-ohs must pass both.” He moves back to the table, lifting his hearing protection from it with a glint in his eye and a grin on his lips. “I passed them both.” 

Bond’s eyes widen marginally as he watches Q slip on the headset and his safety eyewear. A dangerous genius indeed. His mind is frantically inputting the thoughts of Q passing the same tests he's about to undertake, and it's enough to have his blood roiling with want. Q’s back is turned to him again, typing something into his laptop, and he lets his eyes roam over his slim form. Dark curls rest on the edge of his collar, his shoulders are rounded and low, spine bowed just ever so slightly towards the table, trim hips hidden under striped trousers and down to his black no-nonsense leather brogues. In his mind’s eye, he sees a different Q, without a stitch of clothing on, back arched, mouth open in silent surprise as he covers those ever-changing eyes with his forearm, Bond’s name a gasp on those red red lips of his as he presses up into Q’s body, fingers curled on his hips, in his hair, anywhere he can reach. 

Shit. 

He’s half-hard with the thought, and adjusts his prick quickly, turning away from the slim-boned tech to take his place in the lane, the Beretta in the holster strapped to his thigh. He reaches for his hearpro and slips it on as well, repeating the sequence of the drill in his head in an effort to push himself into the correct headspace, firmly not thinking about the slim-wristed Quartermaster and his pale pale skin.

Q picks up the stopwatch from where he had laid it down next to his laptop and glances at the blonde, who's giving him a thumbs up. He shifts to a better vantage point and flashes a thumbs up as well. He watches as Bond blows out a breath, hands by his sides, and reaches for the Beretta in his holster. Q clicks the stopwatch as soon as his hands reach for it and continues to do so as Bond works his way through the drills, blowing through them with practiced ease. Though Q’s eyes are fixed on Bond’s hands, his mind is partially elsewhere, imagining a totally different scenario with different circumstances. What must it be like , he muses, to be under that gaze. To watch him narrow down everything to just one person, one moment at a time, until there's nothing left but him and them. To be the most important person in that moment to him. It's a thought he's returned to time and time again, catching snippets of him over the issued earpiece, talking in the halls with others, late at night when Q’s alone in his flat. 

He clicks the stopwatch at the end of the drills, flashing another thumbs up at Bond before pulling down his hearpro, watching him do the same. The computer is calculating his score while Q verifies the times are within parameters. “Pass,” he calls out, already shifting towards the next set of magazines to continue their session.

Chapter Text

“Lock down Lab 3 until further notice.” Q’s voice is cold as it rings out in the empty locker room, as cold as he is from the safety shower he's just been doused in.

“Quarantine protocol already in effect, sir.” It's one of his lead chemists, Simon Edwards, right behind him, following him down to escort him to Medical after he changes from his soaked clothing.

“Good. Make sure that access is restricted to anyone below Chem Clearance 4.” His locker is open as he hauls off his soaked jumper and works open the knot of his tie. “Can you find me a towel, please?”

“Yes, sir. To both of those.” Edwards disappears without another word towards the showers and Q resumes stripping out of his sodden clothes, muttering under his breath about how safety protocols were meant to be followed and not ignored. He's in the middle of pulling off his shirt when the door opens again, and he half-turns towards it, expecting to see Edwards with a towel in hand, but instead sees the familiar figure of Bond, a towel around his neck, dressed in nothing but compression swim shorts. 

His throat goes dry as he sweeps his eyes once over the blonde and turns back towards his open locker, swallowing thickly before he's able to speak. “Good afternoon,” Q calls as he undoes the cuffs on his dress shirt and strips out of his undershirt, dropping both with a wet squelch to the floor at his feet.

“Did I miss you in the pool, Q? I had no idea you liked to swim in all your clothes. So inefficient.” The blonde attempts for levity as he can read the lines of tension in the tech’s back. Speaking of that.

His eyes roam over the pale lines of Q’s back and pause, lighting on the tattoo inked between his shoulder blades. He doesn't remember moving closer, remembers even less raising his hand to trace the lettering. 

Q startles under the touch but stills, holding his breath as calloused fingers outline the edge of the circuit boards inked above the words.

“ Per ardua ad astra ,” Bond reads. 

Q swallows thickly again before he's able to speak. “Through--”

He’s surprised to hear Bond join in his translation.

“Through adversity to the stars.”

Really, he should be surprised that Bond knows Latin. He is classically educated, after all. 

“This though,” Bond continues, sweeping his fingers over the detail inside the circuits. “Circuit boards and constellations in compass format. Pisces, Gemini, Virgo, Ophiuchus.” His strong fingers move along the lines connecting them as he names them almost reverently.

“My parents’, my sister’s, and mine.” The fingers against his skin are electric and he shivers, partially from the fact that he's still in sodden trousers and more than partially because of the warm touches to his skin.

Bond sweeps his hand along Q’s right shoulder to stop at a mound of scar tissue that he instantly recognizes as a through-and-through bullet wound. His mind is already calculating just how the bullet would've pierced through Q’s delicate shoulder, and now he can't help but feel the front of it as well, almost dead center on his right clavicle. The bone feels like it was shattered and repaired, and he suddenly realizes that he knows even less about Q than he previously thought. 

“Tora Bora, December 12, 2001,” Q says quietly, his voice finally under control. “Caught me at an angle that not even my Kevlar could protect me from.”

“Q.”

Bond’s voice is soft, and it brings him back to frontline focus, blinking rapidly to clear away the wash of memories from long ago.

“Q, you're bleeding.”

“Ah. Lab accident. Someone decided to disregard safety protocols and caused an explosion in Lab 3.” There are small cuts on his face from the tempered flask exploding towards him, but his forearm seems to have taken the brunt of the damage, and Bond can read how he brought it up to shield his eyes from whatever caused it. 

Edwards finally reappears, bearing several towels and looking frantic. “Q, we've got a problem. Lab 3’s storeroom is where the APEX is stored.” 

Q pales and reaches for the stack of towels. “Call Robotics. Time to test out their new EOD project. You're sure the quarantine protocol is already in place?”

“Yes, sir. I initiated it as soon as we left.” 

“Good man. Head back down and contact Robotics and get them in place to verify the APEX. You know what to look for. Remind them that it's very prone to being set off by shock and for fuck’s sake they need to be careful. Tell them exactly that if they seem lackadaisical about it.”

“Yes, sir, I'm on it.” Edwards dashes off, his lab coat flapping behind him as he pulls out his mobile, already getting the Robotics division’s lead on the line. 

As soon as he's gone, Q visibly deflates, sinking onto the bench separating the two rows of lockers, head practically between his knees. After a long moment, he sighs heavily and stands, working the belt of his trousers open and kicking his shoes off.

“What's APEX?” comes a curious voice.

Q startles and turns around, having momentarily forgotten that Bond was there, though, he's changed from his compression swim shorts and is in the middle of pulling on a t-shirt. Small mercies , Q muses.

“Acetone Peroxide. It's an organic peroxide we use in crafting explosives.”

Bond’s eyes widen at the name of the compound -- he's very familiar with just how dangerous acetone peroxide can be. “The 7/7 bombings used TATP.”

“Triacetone triperoxide, yes. The so-called Mother of Satan. It's why we keep the APEX locked up securely.” Q turns his back to shimmy out of his trousers and pants, drying himself quickly with a new towel before redressing in dry pants and grey standard-issue sweats. 

“So the APEX had nothing to do with the explosion, it just happens to be stored in the same lab.” Bond finishes dressing, wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans that shouldn’t cling to him as well as they do, but when Q turns, he's momentarily speechless because there's no denying the man has an arse that is a gift from God.

“Correct,” he says thickly, carefully drying his arm to avoid any of the still bleeding cuts there. He's about to pull his own blue t-shirt on when Bond stops him with a gentle hand. 

“Let me help with that. Take off your glasses and sit down.” 

Warily, Q does as he instructs, folds his glasses neatly and sets them on the bench and sits. Immediately, Bond begins to run the towel carefully over his hair, cautious to avoid his face, and cards his fingers through the dark curls. It's a self-serving move, he's been wondering about the texture of Q’s hair, and then moves to stand in front of him. With an inordinate amount of gentleness, he brushes the towel softly over Q’s face, avoiding the majority of the shallow cuts. 

“I don't think you'll need stitches here,” he says, voice soft and gentle, and Q barely suppresses a shudder at his tone. 

“Small mercies,” Q muses again, this time aloud.

Bond moves to dry the rest of his exposed skin, eyes taking in the tell-tale graze of a bullet across his left tricep, the pale faded scars from childhood surgeries, one of them low across his abdomen from what was probably an appendectomy, the others probably from the car crash that orphaned him. He's gentle in his attentions, but Q can feel the quiet strength behind them, and knows full well that the assassin in Bond could very easily snap any number of his bones without hardly any trouble. Even more gently does he press the towel against the gashes from the explosion, frowning as it comes away red. 

“These will, though, I'm afraid.” Bond's tone is still gentle, carrying what Q thinks is the smallest tinge of regret, though he doesn't particularly understand why. It's not like Bond had anything to do with it.

He sighs before answering, “Nothing I'm not used to, I'm afraid.”

Bond wraps the towel gently around Q’s bleeding forearm and helps him into his t-shirt, then picks up his glasses and wipes the lenses clean with his own shirt.

“Carefully, please. They're delicate.”

It piques his curiosity enough that he lifts them to peer through the lenses, noting how bad Q’s vision actually is. “They look ordinary enough to me. Except that it looks like you've been wearing the same pair for 10 years.”

“They're meant to look that way,” Q comments, holding his right hand out for them and settles them onto his face once Bond releases them. “If anyone but me wears them, the retinal scan won't show anything. It's how I knew you tried sneaking up on me last week. Look over my left shoulder through them.”

Bond does as Q bids and moves to bend down so he can peer through the unassuming lenses, hand on his left shoulder in another self-serving gesture. There’s strength in Q’s muscles that he hadn’t been able to see underneath all his usual layers. Looking through the lens, he can barely make out the tiny lettering scrolling up the inside of the lens. It's complex lines of code he doesn't quite know how to interpret, but at the top is a small alert and he huffs a laugh at it. 

“Proximity alerts. That’s brilliant. Is it based off facial recognition?”

“Indeed.” Q stands, glowing slightly at the praise, and sets aside the bloody towel to start gathering his wet things, but Bond is faster and starts to fold them efficiently, even going so far as to fetch a plastic bag for them. His shoes are a lost cause for the day until they're properly dried, so he makes do with his shower shoes and wraps the towel back around his arm, holding it in place with his free hand. 

“I have an answer to your question,” Bond says finally as they're partway through the trek to Medical. “About whether it would've changed things or not. But the answer is conditional.”

“Oh?” Q’s intrigued now. They've been walking in silence for the past few minutes, a comfortable silence at that, but whatever revelation Bond is about to impart on him is far more important than carrying on with the quiet. “What are the conditions of the answer?”

“I need to ask a related one before I can give you an answer.”

Q’s quiet for a long moment. They’re steps away from entering Medical when he stops. “And if I refuse to answer?”

Bond stops too, just a step ahead of him and half-turns over his shoulder, eyes guarded and unreadable. Q’s only seen that look on his face one time, right after he returned from Scotland with M’s body. Immediately he pulls himself tighter behind his own firewall (as Bond had called it), making himself prepared for whatever the blonde is about to say. It’s imperceptible to anyone he’s ever had to use it on, but Q gets the strangest feeling that Bond can see right through it, that the man has so many layers of his own that he can distinctly tell when Q’s hiding behind them. He feels pinned down under that unreadable gaze, like he can’t pull oxygen into his lungs fast enough because he realizes what Six has done to the Commander he’d met by chance 12 years ago. He’s just as breathtakingly beautiful now as he had been when they’d first met, but for entirely different reasons. The before-Six half of him and the after version standing in front of him, escorting him to Medical after he’d been so gentle in the locker room, was now some entirely different creature. Something he uses in the field , Q realizes, To keep himself protected .

“I won’t be able to give you an answer then,” Bond replies without a pause, as if he’d already known he’d follow up with that.

“I see. I need to think about this.” It’s almost the same situation that brought them to this point, and the irony isn’t lost on him. 

“I thought you might.” Without anything further, Bond turns back and resumes their trek into Medical, immediately grabbing the first nurse he finds to explain Q’s situation. 

Q’s stuck momentarily still in the hallway while he processes whatever just happened and follows after him in slow motion, only halfway to where Bond’s standing by the time the nurse turns toward him to pull him into one of the clinic rooms, already tutting like a grandmother. Bond’s not far behind, still carrying the bag with his soaked clothing in it.

They end up sending him home for the rest of the week in hopes that when he returns on Monday, the neat rows of stitches will be able to come out. Q even agrees not to take them out himself, even though it’d be much easier. Bond ends up seeing him to his first floor flat, just so he doesn’t have to carry the bag of wet clothes himself. 

He debates for a moment about whether he should go ahead and answer or not, and before Q can think better of his choice, calls out after him -- “You can ask your question.”

Bond stops short two steps from the main door. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and slowly turns around. The unreadable look is back on his face. Q’s glad he didn’t imagine it earlier. “Alright,” Bond says slowly. “The question is this: you remember our meeting and I don’t. You told me that we met a total of three times and that it was brief each time.

Yet, when we met at the National Gallery, I was instructed to sit in front of that particular Turner painting. Why?”

Q bites back a retort of ‘I already told you why’ and looks down to his feet, still in his shower shoes. He’ll have to replace them after this. 

“I need more time to answer,” he replies after almost a full minute of silence. His brain is anything but. Why indeed?

“Take your time, Q. And get some rest. We have team-building on Monday.”

“Be careful walking back,” he calls when Bond turns to leave, who lifts his hand in the air, much like he had done upon departing Q Branch the night they’d argued. Thinking, he reopens the door to his flat, two felines swarming him immediately for his unusual appearance into their day. 

Why indeed is on his mind for the next several days.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sierra Leone, May 2000

Q and his unit had been in the field since they'd arrived late on the 7th of May, following the 1 PARA regiment that had flown in before them. They'd worked on securing the hotel Mamy Yoko first, since it was to be used as their evacuation centre, and then the surrounding areas; meanwhile, a separate detachment had gone to secure Lungi Airport as their means of evacuating those who wished to leave before the RUF continued their advance into Freetown. After two days, the evacuation was mostly complete, though the regiment had orders to stay on site in case anyone from outside of Freetown wanted to evacuate and hadn't yet been able to reach the city. 

They'd opted to provide support with evacuating four United Nations Military Observers that were being held by some of the RUF forces in Makeni, meeting them at the Mile 91 UN base before accompanying them back to Freetown. New orders were handed down from the MoD two days after they’d arrived back from Mile 91 -- they needed to maintain a heavy presence in the city as it had thus far halted the RUF’s march on Freetown, and the HMS Illustrious and HMS Argyll were already heading towards their position to provide support and reinforcements. 

Q’s unit largely took to patrolling the streets to reassure residents that the UN peacekeeping mission was still a viable end to the civil war that had kept Sierra Leone in a state of distress since 1991. Before things had escalated, the UN Mission in Sierra Leone had already disarmed over 19,000 combatants using the Disarmament, Demobilization, and Reintegration programs that they’d set up across the country. The HMS Illustrious arrived only two days after their mission had been expanded, and Q had requested that his unit be part of the group providing humanitarian aid to the citizens since they had become familiar with the surrounding area during their patrols. They handed out food and water to those who needed it, helped set up medical camps for the sick and wounded to be triaged and attended to, and even passed out small toys and stuffed animals to the children, many of them former child soldiers that had been reintegrated as part of the DDR portion of UNAMISL’s directive. 

On the morning of the 17th, Q found himself in front of the colonel, who had orders from the brigadier that his unit be granted 48 hours of rest on the Illustrious as ground forces had engaged a mass of RUF fighters, and it was uncertain whether or not they would continue their push towards Freetown. If they did start the push, his unit would be recalled to provide support, regardless of whether or not their 48 hours was over. Grateful for the reprieve, tenuous as it was, Q gathered his company to board the aircraft carrier, reminding them they were still in an active operations zone and to stay out of the way of her crew. Eager to have a brief R&R, he dismissed them once they were aboard and went to find a place to rest his head that wasn't a cot.

They’d been given use of some of the bunks that weren’t currently in use, while Q had been given directions to the officer’s lounge where they would set him up with a private room, to which he was thankful for. His enlisted folk were great, but it was also difficult being 20 and in the position he was in. Captains weren’t usually promoted to Major until they were 8 years into their commission -- he was only 2. And barely at that. 

He made his way through the decks of the ship, pulling open the door to the lounge before slipping inside, feeling several pairs of eyes on him at once. He was completely out of place in all of his gear, the camouflaged desert battle dress a stark contrast to the white long-sleeved shirts, black ties, and black trousers that the Illustrious ’ officers wore. Q let his eyes take in the room’s five occupants, sliding over them like the waters the ship had cut through while approaching their position. They were various ages and ranks, all higher than himself, but clearly off-duty. He nodded at them in greeting as he stepped further into the room.

“Major?” a soft female voice called, a sub-lieutenant on-duty manning the desk in the corner of the room. He turned towards her and made his way over to the desk, pausing when she stood and saluted, to which he paused in front of the desk and returned. “Let me show you to your quarters,” she said, picking up a key from the desktop. “I’m sure you’re eager to get out of your gear and rest. We heard that your unit has had quite the last few days.”

Q chuckled a little, almost embarrassed that word had reached them so quickly. “I just tell them where to go. They do most of the hard work.”

“That’s not what we heard,” she replied, leading the way through a small corridor next to the desk she’d been sitting at, automatically stepping over the raised threshold. Q followed, one pace behind, trying to hide his flush at her reply. 

“I appreciate you making space for me,” he replied, eager to change the conversation away from himself. “I know my unit is grateful as well. I’m sure half of them are already asleep.”

“Anything better than a cot is a cause for celebration, right? Though I’m not sure if the bunks are any better,” she said with a small laugh, rounding a corner. Further up the corridor, a door opened and Q’s breath nearly caught in his throat when the blonde man leaving the room turned towards them. He was just barely taller than Q, maybe an inch or so, but with intelligent blue blue eyes and bronzed skin that spoke of days in the sun. He walked with the sense of purpose of a man going to his duty station, his peaked cap tucked under his arm as he approached.

“Good morning, Commander,” called the sub-lieutenant automatically, stepping to the side of the corridor to salute him as he prepared to pass.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Those bright blue eyes passed from the lieutenant to Q, taking in his rank first before roving back over him fully. “Good morning, Major. Welcome aboard.”

“Good morning, sir. Thank you for having us,” Q replied, his voice steady while his heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure why just the simple act of the man’s gaze upon him was affecting him so badly. It was like something inside of him had sat up to take notice, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was about him.

“Always ready and willing to help out our fellow forces,” the blonde commented. “I've heard you have had quite the week.”

Q’s flush came unbidden but he nodded quickly. “Yes sir, it's been eventful to say the least.”

“If you need anything while on board, don't hesitate to ask. I hope you get some rest while you have the chance. I can imagine it must be stressful out there,” the blonde continued, smiling openly at them both. “I'd best be off. Good afternoon, Major. Lieutenant.” With another quick flash of smile, he passed them fully, heading towards the direction of the lounge.

Q turned to watch him go for a moment, letting his eyes rake over the man’s back and the obscene way his trousers fit over the curve of his arse.

“It's just this way, Major,” the lieutenant said as she started down the corridor again, pulling Q out of his musing and back into frontline focus. He nodded and followed after her, mind still completely occupied on the blonde. 

She stopped in front of a doorway identical to all the others except for the empty nameplate next to it and unlocked it before handing him the key. “Like Commander Bond said, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be at the desk until 1700, and then Lieutenant Kardy will be there until 0200. It's unmanned between 02 and when I report back at 09, but there's a good chance there will still be others in the lounge between those hours.”

“Thank you again, Lieutenant,” Q replied as she moved out of the doorway to allow him to enter the room. “I appreciate the hospitality greatly.”

“Any time, Major.” She saluted sharply before striding back down the way they’d come and Q stepped fully into the room, locking it behind him. 

He started to remove all his heavy gear, laying the pieces of his kit out in methodical fashion before heading for a shower. Once he was clean of the field and dry, he was asleep and snoring before his head even hit the pillow, still musing over the blonde Commander and why his pulse had thudded so loudly in his ears he could barely hear.

-----

When Q made his way down to the mess that evening, it was clear that about half of his unit had commandeered a set of tables for themselves, clustered around together with trays of food in front of them. He worked his way through the line, selecting whatever looked good before heading their way. 

“Major! Glad you could forego your beauty sleep to join us!”

One of his Corporals, Thomson, was standing, attempting to wave him over as if he could've missed the stark contrast between the sea of white shirts and his unit’s camouflage bush jackets. He chuckled a little to himself and headed over in their direction. Immediately they parted to make space for him at the center of the group and he took the seat, almost like a king holding court.

“Hello, you lot. Keeping your noses clean and out of the way?” Q teased lightly as he sat his tray down, grinning at them. The sleep had done wonders for him, and by the looks of it, he wasn't the only one. There was a rousing chorus of yesses, and a few who laughed outright at the notion they would be behaving. 

“And you, sir? Staying out of trouble?” That was Martin, one of his Specialists, leaning in from further down the table.

“Don't I always? Tell me, what's new since I've seen you? Anything interesting?”

“Karrick got slapped. Already.” Another Specialist, Andrews, said from a few seats down.

“Oi! Not my fault I didn't know she was married,” Karrick called from the other side of him, the barest edge of red still showing on his cheek. Q shook his head lightly, not at all surprised. 

“Yeah, but you could've asked instead of just offering,” Andrews replied, causing much of the table to laugh riotously. “Not everyone in a skirt wants your prick, you prick.”

Karrick didn't even have the good grace to look shamed, just shrugged and went back to his food.

“Any news from shore?” Q asked, steering the conversation away from Karrick and his cock.

“None at all, sir. I suspect we’ll find out once we head back out.” Rogers, his most level-headed Sargeant replied. 

“Hmm. That's true. They said they'd recall us if they needed us,” Q mused, looking at his tray. “Damn, I forgot utensils. Excuse me a moment.”

Q stood and headed back towards the serving line, his mind preoccupied with what could be happening out in the field, if the firefight that the RUF had initiated earlier in the day had petered out yet. He was so lost in thought that he very nearly barreled directly into a white-shirted back, only a quick half-step backwards saved him from doing just that. 

“Shite, I’m so sorry,” he apologized immediately.

The blonde turned around at his apology, eyes going gently wide when he recognized who it was. “Oh, hello again.”

“Hello, Commander. My apologies. I was a bit distracted,” Q said hastily, his own eyes wide behind his glasses.

“That's alright. No harm done. How are you finding ol’ Lusty?” His blue eyes practically shined when he smiled at the nickname.

“Very hospitable, thank you. I don't think I've slept that well in weeks.” Good Lord , he thought quickly, feeling pinned down under those bright eyes, like the world was narrowing down to just the two of them, like he was the most important person in Bond’s world at that moment. I bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. How are you not married yet? Do women and men throw themselves at your feet?

Bond practically chortled at that. “You must not have very comfortable sleeping quarters elsewhere if these beds are comfortable to you.”

“I'm afraid we've been on cots, actually. Hard to sleep more than a few hours comfortably on those.” That rush of blood was back in his ears, barely able to hear the blonde over it. 

Another sailor stepped around them, and Q realized belatedly that they were blocking the mess line. “Ah, sorry, I realized I forgot utensils. I should probably get back to my unit before they start causing a riot,” he said by way of apology. He was about to reach for a set when Bond beat him to it, passing them over. 

“At least it'd be interesting,” Bond teased, a smile still on his lips. 

Q laughed a little nervously. “You have no idea. Thanks for this,” he said, gesturing with the utensils in his hand. 

“Any time, Major,” he replied with another sun-shaming grin, taking his tray away from the rail and heading off to find a seat, leaving Q standing there with the napkin-wrapped utensils in his hand. 

God , would his heart just stop pounding so fast. Just a grin from him was turning Q into jelly. Did everyone feel this way after talking to him? He shook himself out of his daze and headed back over to his unit before they actually did start a riot.

Chapter Text

Week 3, Monday: Team Building Seminar, Initial

Q Branch’s training team’s idea of a team-building seminar comes in the form of a mock infil/exfil retrieval mission staged in a cordoned off floor of the lower bunkers. The idea behind it is simple - stage a common brief type with the agent on one side and handler on the other as a way to judge how well they will be able to work together on an actual op. The training team is already in place, patrolling the corridors of the lower bunker with modified paintball guns.

There’s CCTV for Q to watch on a screen inside the area he affectionately calls The Sarlacc Pit, the main workspace of his ops technicians. It also functions as his desk away from his office, as he admittedly gets little time to spend in there. Three stacked displays are next to the main one, and since there happens to be no ongoing mission support, most of the branch had been given special dispensation to watch, as it’s the first time anyone is running the seminar course. The main screen of the display shows the map of the tunnel block they're working in, with the CCTV taking up the other three. Q’s already noted down the patrol pattern to relay to Bond, once he’s in position and ready to begin. 

He’s plugged in, sleeves rolled down over his arms to hide the bandages covering where his stitches had been removed earlier that morning. The cuts on his face have healed, for the most part, just the scab of one above his eyebrow remains. The ones on his arm will probably scar, but it’s nothing he’s not already used to, even after being behind the scenes of Q Branch for almost 10 years.

“Q, this is 007. Radio check, over.”

Let’s begin, then, shall we? Q tugs his mic down from the muted position he’s had it in.

“007, this is Q. Send over.”

“Copy, Q. I’m in the stairwell. Ready to proceed.”

“Roger that, I have eyes on your position. Hold at the bottom of the stairwell.”

“Copy, Q.” 

Immediately the red dot on the map begins to move as Q’s eyes track the blue ones, the opposition. There are four branches of corridors laid out in a box-shape leading to a centralized room, with two armed patrols moving through them, a set of guards standing watch outside the main “entrance” to the floor on the opposite side of where Bond is infiltrating, and another set of guards outside and inside the “mainframe” room where their target, a laptop, is. 10 total guards versus one of Bond. He doesn’t like the numerical odds, but odds never had anything on 007. 

“Holding position,” Bond calls when he reaches the intended point.

“Copy. Two armed patrols of two guards each. They’re turning the corner away from you in about 30 seconds, you’ll need to cut left and head up to the central corridor before the other patrol rounds the corner towards you. Approximately 90 seconds across until they round the corner and can see you. When you make it to the central corridor, there’s a door immediately to your right that you can hold position in.”

“Copy, Q. How many total?”

“Ten.” Q’s internal clock is already ticking down along with the way his eyes are sweeping over the CCTV feeds, the map, and back to the CCTV of Bond in the infiltration position.

“Copy.”

Q holds his breath for a moment and is about to tell Bond to proceed when he sees him opening the door on CCTV, gun held in low ready, just in case the guards decide to double back for any reason. The only audio on the comms is Bond’s low breathing, a steady march forward as he creeps down the corridor. Q tracks his progress with the map, he’s about to give a 10-second warning when Bond turns the corner and slips into the unused office.

“I’ve reached the holding position,” the blonde radios in. He’s off the CCTV, but Q still watches as the armed patrol turns the corridor and slowly makes their way past the office. 

“They’ve cleared your position. I’ve got two guards in the corridor outside the mainframe room, and two more inside,” Q replies as soon as the patrol is clear. 

“And the only way in is through the guards?”

“Indeed. The mainframe is about 30 seconds east of your position before you have to turn left into a side corridor. The only good thing is that the armed patrols don’t have eyes on the entrance from their patrol route, though I suspect they will come running if they hear gunshots.” Bond chuckles good-naturedly over the comms and Q can’t help but smile. Even though it’s a simulation, they’re both taking it seriously, and he trusts that the training team is as well. Not every mission is life or death, but they always have the potential for the situation to escalate.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re trained to do. Or, at least, what I would do if I were them.” 

The guards have turned into the long corridors running parallel to the access one Bond is using. “You’re clear to proceed, 007.”

“Copy, Q.” His voice has dropped to no-nonsense again as he prepares to move.

On CCTV, Q watches as Bond exits the office and turns right to continue down the corridor, pauses briefly at the intersection before turning left and practically barrels down the hallway towards the first guard, catching him in a one-armed chokehold before slamming the butt of his gun into the second guard’s stomach, causing him to double over in pain. The first guard is attempting to pull Bond’s arm away from his throat and very nearly succeeds before Bond is there, pressing the muzzle of the gun against his temple. The guard puts his hands up in surrender, the pre-arranged sign that had this been real, he’d be dead, and Bond releases his hold. The first guard drops to the floor, as if actually dead, and the second guard goes for his gun, manages to get it out of the holster and tries to draw aim, but Bond is faster, grabbing his wrist and spins him to choke him out as well. The second guard also gives the sign and drops to the floor as well. 

Bond swiftly disarms both of them before turning to the door, but immediately turns back to the guards to frisk them again, looking for something. When he comes up empty-handed, Q is ready on the comms.

“We’ve got a problem, Q.”

“Tell me.”

“Keypad 0-9 but neither of the guards have a passcard for it.” Bond’s only slightly winded from the altercation and keeps an eye on the guards, but they haven’t so much as moved from where they’re laying on the floor, just listening, no doubt keeping mental track to report back as they help to score the altercation.

“Luckily, I thought there would be some sort of security, though I had hoped they would have access cards. On the bottom of the keypad should be an access point. Unscrew the crown from your watch and insert it into the access point. It’ll link up to my computer so I can get you inside.” Q can see him doing just that on the feed, and his computer lights up, detecting the input. Immediately, he sets to cracking the passcode, watching it run his homemade software.

“ETA on that?” Bond is back to rooting around on the guards for whatever he can steal from them.

“Under three minutes,” Q replies cooly, watching the little bar crawling across his screen.

“I’m going to take these guards and throw them in the closet where I was holding position. Update me on where the armed patrols are?”

Q pulls the map back to the center display, looking at the blue dots walking perpendicular to the main corridor. “Hold 45 seconds, then you’ll be in the clear for 90. By the time you move them both, I should have this passcode cracked for you.” 

“Copy that.” Q watches as he hauls one of the guards into a fireman’s carry, pausing at the end of the corridor while his internal clock counts down. 

“You’re clear to proceed,” Q calls out over the comms, but Bond is already on the move, moving swiftly down the hallway to dump the body into the office and heads back to repeat it with the other guard. He assumes since they are meant to be dead that Bond isn’t going to waste his time tying them up and barely clears back into the central corridor before the guards round the corner again. His cracking program dings just as Bond turns the corner.

“Pin code bypassed. Once you press up on the crown again, it’ll enter the code. The guards inside the room are at your 11 and 2 once you enter.”

“Copy, Q.” He one-hand aims the gun in low ready, crouching low by the keypad. With the other, he presses in on the crown inside the access port of the keypad and it glows green as the lock disengages. The sound is loud in the otherwise silent corridor, Q can hear it over the comm, and Bond pushes the door open, swiftly bringing the gun up to fire once at each guard, hitting them firmly in the chest. Paint blooms where blood normally would, and they both drop. Before the door can close all the way, Bond reached a hand around to pull the crown of his watch out of the port and screws it back in.

“Armed patrols en route, 45 seconds,” Q calls, watching as the blue dots speed up as they head in his direction. Bond’s busy disconnecting the laptop from where it had been plugged into a dummy server, throwing alerts into the system at its removal. “Entry guards alerted as well. 6 on the way.”

Bond sighs irritatedly over the comms. “Copy.” He frisks the two downed guards, taking their guns as well and sets them on top of the filing cabinet next to the door, just in case he decides he needs something more. 

“Patrols approaching in pincer formation, two left, two right, entry guards 30 seconds behind on the right.”

“Copy, Q.”

Q knows he’s going to go for the shootout before he even approaches the door, his back to the filing cabinet as he pulls the door open, sighting down the corridor to the right as the patrol comes into sight. He fires twice, both center mass, turns immediately to the left and barely dodges a paintball that goes whizzing over his shoulder as he drops out of the way, firing rapidly again. Satisfied that all four are down, Bond turns back to the right and sights down his gun again, firing at the last two guards. When none of them move, he finally stands from his crouch and retrieves the laptop, tucking it under one arm with his gun still naked in his hand.

“All guards down,” he finally calls, not at all out of breath. “Target acquired. Heading to the stairwell now.”

“Copy that. Radio when you’ve completed exfil,” Q replies, watching the red dot move swiftly across the map, back towards the stairwell that he started in. He’s not exactly holding his breath, but does breathe a sigh of relief when Bond radios back.

“Exfil complete.”

“Well done, you. You’re in the clear. Bring me my prize.”

“Well,” Bond chuckles over the comm, “since you asked so nicely. Consider me on my way up.”

-----

The training team awards Bond a full pass after hearing the reports from the field agents-turned-guards they utilized for the exercise. It’s how Q and Bond both end up in M’s office, as he looks over the report from all of the blonde’s training exercises from the previous two weeks. 

“Looks like RAPT is a success,” Mallory states matter-of-factly. “Massive improvement from the previous qualification protocols.” His arm is still in the sling from being shot, but he looks like he’s settling nicely in at Six, which is a sigh of relief. It’s still awkward being in this office where Mansfield had sat for so long, and it drudges up old memories that Q would rather stay buried as they threaten to ruin his exhilaration at having run a perfect op with the blonde sitting next to him.

“Thank you, sir, though much of the credit goes to the training team. They put the work into making my idea a reality. And even more credit goes to 007 for being our guinea pig.”

Bond laughs at that. “It’s not like I had much of a choice in the matter.”

“It doesn’t mean that I’m not appreciative of it. You’ve taken it seriously, which is why we were able to get such good results out of the beta testing,” Q replies, waving a hand towards the reports that M is still looking over.

“It seems the only place there is a needs-for-improvement is in your psych evaluation,” M continues, addressing Bond directly this time. 

“I’m off the pain pills,” Bond retorts, “my shoulder is healing, no small part to that dreadful physiotherapist, which I am loathed to admit. Q’s been fantastic, even despite the setback from last week.”

“Well, it’s a start. I believe we’re finished here. Good work, gentlemen. I expect that we’ll continue to see good things from you two,” M says dismissively, to which Bond and Q both stand and head for the door. Eve is already there waiting for them and pulls it open, trading them spots as she heads into the inner office with her tablet in her hand and a stack of folders underneath. “Sir, I have some documents that need your attention-” is all that is heard before the door seals behind them, leaving Bond and Q standing in the outer office, Tanner’s door closed as well though they can hear him on the phone. 

“Really, Q, fantastic work today. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but color me pleasantly surprised,” Bond says casually as they walk back to the lifts. “You said it’d be different, more hands-on, but I can see the potential of having you constantly in my ear.” The last bit is laced with a bit of flirtation, because Bond flirts with everything that has a pulse, but Q has come to the realization that it’s just an automatic defense mechanism for him.

“I’m glad you approve, considering there wasn’t an alternative offered,” Q replies with a little laugh, adjusting his laptop under his arm. His forearm is itchy from where the stitches were, and he has a tube of anti-itch cream in his office that he can’t wait to get to, except there’s something he needs to take care of first. His heart is practically pounding in his chest, because he’s about to divulge the answer to Bond’s question from last week, and it’s making him unbelievably anxious at doing so. He’s taken much of his five days of leave to think about the actual answer, rather than the statement he opened with in the National Gallery that day -- ( “It always makes me feel a little melancholy. Grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.” ) -- even though the answer sits close to his heart. Showing his cards too early would never have led them to the conversation upon which Q is about to embark, but he shores up his reserve and asks the question anyway.

“Would you mind accompanying me to my office? I have an answer to your question, and my office is where I’d be most comfortable doing that.”

Again, the irony is not lost on him in the reversal of the situation.

Bond merely shrugs a shoulder. “Of course. I don’t have anything until I have to be in for physio at 3.”

Q nods and jams the button for the lift as a tenuous silence descends between them, which he doesn’t break until they’re ensconced in his office, behind a locked door with a mug of tea in his hand. He takes a grateful sip of it, sighing gently before he sets it down. He can’t quite meet those blue blue eyes, even though he can feel them on him, waiting for him to begin speaking.

“‘Let us pause to consider the English,
Who when they pause to consider themselves they get all reticently thrilled and tinglish,
Because every Englishman is convinced of one thing, viz.:
That to be an Englishman is to belong to the most exclusive club there is.’” 

The words are not his own, which Bond can readily read, but he merely waits, because there is more that Q isn’t saying.

“Ogden Nash,” Q continues. “The first stanza of the poem ‘England Expects’ from his collection of poems entitled I’m a Stranger Here Myself , published 1938, though the origin of the phrase is much older. ‘England expects that every man will do his duty’ was the signal raised during the Battle of Trafalgar by the Admiral Lord Nelson in 1805, in which the HMS Temeraire took part in. Even after losing her mizzen topmast, fore-yard, and main topmast, a fire breaking out on the starboard rigging and foresail, having a separate fire break out on the main deck from a thrown grenade, and being sandwiched between two 74-gun ships, the Temeraire still helped completely destroy the Redoutable with the help of the Victory . 

“The Fougueux and the Temeraire were lashed together shortly after that and continued to exchange fire, despite the heavy casualties, but eventually the commander of the Fougueux ordered the surrender. The Temeraire was almost non-functional, losing all of her sails and yards, only the lower masts left intact, 2.4 meters of her starboard hull completely caved in, and yet she still persevered, a true testament to Nelson’s hoisted signal. 

“Even Dickens and Carroll have quoted it in their writings, it’s a statement that you and I have heard no doubt countless times in our lives, and yet there are many who sit in front of The Fighting Temeraire and have no idea as to the absolute bloodshed of a battle that Trafalgar was. Have heard that statement, and have no idea where it comes from. And so I say to you again, it does make me feel melancholy, seeing such a grand ship as the Temeraire being hauled away for scrap. It was ignominious, knowing what she stood for, what sacrifices her crew made, the way those onboard gave their lives during that battle to protect England, it should make everyone melancholy. You shouldn’t see ‘a bloody big ship’, you should see yourself in the Temeraire as much as I do. Willing to give all that you are, all that you have had, willing to die to protect England. 

“You asked me why you were instructed to sit in front of The Fighting Temeraire , and I say to you: a warning. You are the Temeraire in the midst of the Battle of Trafalgar, as you have been for over ten years. Don’t become the Temeraire in Turner’s painting: don’t turn from those who want to help, who seek to equip and enable you to continue fighting. Be the Temeraire in Stanfield’s The Battle of Trafalgar , surrounding the enemy ships and always fighting back, even against all odds. M was right when she called you an exemplar of British fortitude, because you are.”

As if exhausted from the amount he’s spoken, Q slumps down into his chair, reaching for his tea again in order to give Bond time to process all that he’s said. If he’s had any impact, Q can’t tell from his face. It’s impassive yet his eyes are thoughtful, as if sorting and sifting everything. His impassioned response to a simple question leaves Q feeling like he’s shown his hand, but the question of ‘Why?’ had never been a simple one to answer. He sets his tea down and pulls open the top drawer of his desk, finding the anti-itch cream and sets to rolling up his sleeve before a hand on his wrist stops him and he looks up. Bond’s expression hasn’t changed, he’s still processing the words, but Q didn’t even hear him move from his seat. Bloody silent double-ohs , he complains to himself, and lets go of the button, allowing Bond to sit on the corner of his desk and unbutton the cuff of his shirt before drawing the sleeve of his cardigan and his Oxford up past his elbow, exposing the raw edges of where the stitches held his skin together long enough for the three long gashes to scab over.

Bond swipes the tube from the desk and pops the cap, smearing it onto his fingers before starting high up near Q’s elbow and works the cream into the skin around the scabs, knowing just how itchy the healing process can be. He’s still silent, eyes fixated on his self-appointed work now, but only moments pass before he starts to speak.

“I don’t think things would’ve been different. Even if I had remembered, you said that it was only in passing, so I can’t say that I would’ve acted any differently, beyond a little surprised to see you again,” he explains, “particularly because I wouldn’t have had the explanation I do now.”

He moves to the next angry line and repeats the process, smearing the contents on his fingers before slowly working it into his skin. 

“You frustrate me. Infuriate me. Fascinate me. I’ve stopped trying to guess what you’ll do next because you always seem to surprise me. You hide behind your shields and hold the world at arm’s length away so no one can get close, but I can see you peeking out from behind them, as if waiting for something, someone to tear them down and get close enough to see you .”

Q swallows thickly, not daring to look at Bond’s face - he’s too close to the mark that he knows if he does, Bond will see right through him, that it will bring him directly into focus instead of being hazy at the edges like he prefers, something solid and real. The blonde is so singularly focused on him that Q can feel the edges of his awareness fading, feel the world around them narrowing down to nothing but the moment, tenuous and balanced on a knifes-edge as it is, and he’s drawn back to his previous thoughts about what it might be like to be pinned under that gaze when he disturbingly realizes that he is. Bond’s fingers have stopped -- he hasn’t spoken another word, and those blue blue eyes are staring at him with such intensity he feels like he’s drowning, his heart is pounding so hard he swears Bond can hear it, can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, can see the real edges of him again. 

The mask slips, just for a moment, from both of their faces, and Q is staring back into the dichotomy that is James Bond, that boyish grin, charming laugh, and rakish good looks mixed with the evidence of what life at Six has done to him written across the span of his body.

“When I saw you, the first time,” Q starts, barely a whisper, “I didn’t understand. It was like a part of me recognized you, even though I’d never seen you before. Like it went, ‘Oh, there you are. You’re what I’ve been missing my whole life.’”

Bond is still holding his arm, staring at his greyhazel eyes hiding behind yet another layer of protection. Neither of them moves for a long second, the tension palpable in the space of two heartbeats, but as if on cue, they move together, melding together at the mouth, and neither of them is sure on who is kissing who, but they are indeed kissing, gentle at first, almost chaste, but one of them moans softly, Q’s pretty sure it was him, and Bond presses the opportunity, sweeping his tongue into Q’s mouth. Q’s arm is still in his grasp, the angle is awkward at best, and Q reaches a hand forward to curl into the lapel of his jacket, holding Bond in place to kiss him back, moaning softly again as he leans forward into it, running his tongue over his hard palate, licking into his mouth with a ferocity that he’s waited over ten years to do. Bond’s free hand, the one without the cream on it, finds a home in the back of Q’s hair, tangling his fingers into the soft waves of it, letting Q kiss him for a moment and take control before he battles back, kissing back with skill that makes Q’s knees quake with desire.

The tenuous moment is snapped when Q’s mobile rings an alert from inside his trouser pocket. It’s the work one, the one he’s not allowed to ignore, and unwillingly he pulls his hand from Bond’s jacket and reaches for it as he pulls back from the kiss, a scowl settling onto his features. “I really really hate you right now,” he tells the device, “I’ve been waiting ten bloody years to do that.” He’s panting softly, lips swollen and hair mussed, but Bond isn’t faring any better -- his jacket is wrinkled from where Q had held onto it, the faintest flush of arousal under his tanned skin.

Ever the gentleman, Bond picks up the tube of cream and works it into the last line of scabs soothingly as he pulls himself back together. “I assume you didn’t join Six because you knew I worked here,” he says finally, voice completely normal as if they hadn’t been having a secret snog.

“Imagine the surprise on my face when I saw you. I believe I ran and hid in the loo for the next hour, convinced that I’d been hallucinating and just needed to get off,” Q replies, one-handedly tapping out a reply to the text. His own voice is not so recovered, and he expects it will take some time as his heart is still racing, and he can feel the flush from his ears to his neck and everywhere in between.

Bond finishes rubbing the cream into his arm and produces a pocket square to wipe his fingers on before tucking it away, rolling down Q’s sleeve of his shirt and buttoning the cuff, then tugs the cardigan back over it. “Vitamin E oil is supposed to help with the scarring process. Apparently, it’s so good that you can’t even see them after using it diligently until the scabs disappear.”

“I’ll have to do my research before I decide.” His shields are back in place, voice normalizing. 

Bond stands from his seat on the desk, Q will never not remember the way he’d been sitting there, and presses the softest kiss to the top of Q’s curls. “That’s my Quartermaster,” he says fondly before disappearing into the ether that is Six’s halls, leaving a very bewildered Q behind in his office, his tea gone cold by the time he snaps himself out of reliving the entire conversation, kiss and all. The words echo in his brain late into the evening, even after he’s taken himself in hand and attempted to get out the lingering sexual frustration that had been building all afternoon. It’s unsuccessful, and he knows it. Now he’ll have to deal with a James Bond who knows he’s cared for in more than just a Quartermaster-and-Agent relationship. 

Fuck, what have I done?

Chapter Text

Q doesn’t sleep that night.

He shows up to Six on Tuesday bleary-eyed and in serious need for caffeine, partially because he’s spent the last 10 hours losing himself in a coding project he’s had on the backburner as its importance hasn’t yet deserved more than casual attention, and partially because he’d had to delete almost half of his evening’s work when it was riddled with errors at his inability to focus on the bloody damn thing. 

His headache was back and it has one name: James fucking Bond.

He’d seriously miscalculated yesterday’s interaction, with a capital S for all the seriousness that it deserved. He’d given up on the coding when he caught himself at 5am, banging his head against the desk at his utter stupidity. How could he have given himself away at such a moment, regardless of whether they both wanted it or not. He was playing the long game, how could he forget all of the work that had gone into it?

At least he wouldn’t have to see Bond again until Thursday, which gave him two days to sort his sorry state of mind into order. The training team was taking over the range certification portion, preparing to return 007 to full active service, and Q has half a mind to call out sick on Thursday, but he knows M will haul him in whether he’s on his deathbed or not, because 007 is not allowed to have another handler; M had chosen him specifically, laid out in great detail how Q’s particular brand of calm and stoicism coupled with his no-nonsense behavior regarding his equipment was exactly the type of firm hand the agent needed. It’s not like Q doesn’t track the equipment return rates, details exactly how and when his items go missing during the course of a brief. 

He’s about to default to his desk in the Pit of Carkoon when he turns instead and heads for his office, swiping his badge through the reader, leaning in to lift his glasses for the retinal scan before it unlatches to allow him access to his own personal sanctuary inside of Six -- he’s always done his best work alone anyways. Moving through, he flips on the light, pulls his laptop from his bag and starts to plug everything in, letting it go through bootup before starting the log-on sequence. His unwashed mug is where he left it yesterday half-full after tearing out of Six’s halls like a ghost had been chasing him, and the little tube of anti-itch cream is open and waiting, a congealed blob of it sitting at the very end, taunting him with the memories. Angrily, he snatches it up, swiping off the mess at the end and rolls his sleeve up to start dabbing it at the scabs he’s unconsciously scratched through in the middle of the night, telling himself not to compare the way his fingers make quick work of it to the way Bond’s hands had been so warm against his arm, his laser-focus drawn to his self-appointed task as blunt and calloused fingers worked the cream almost reverently into the skin around the scabs. 

Scowling, he caps the tube and throws it in the drawer before finding a long roll of gauze to wind around his arm, over the raw edges of the scabs, silently praying that they don’t start to bleed through. The last thing he needs is another trip to Medical because his stupid hindbrain can’t stop unconsciously scratching at what his forebrain already knows is itchy and chooses to block out. He’s had worse before. 

Almost unconsciously he rubs at his right collarbone where he can feel the plate holding the bones together, long since fused back together, the protrusion of metal much less noticeable than the scar tissue surrounding it from the actual wound and subsequent surgery, and for a moment his brain brings him back to the pain, the surprise as he had stumbled back from the force of it, breath knocked out of his lungs as the bullet had ripped through his jacket and uniform, catching him on the top end of his vest above the front ceramic plate, leaving him collapsed in the cold desert sand. A damn lucky shot the medic had called it as he’d put his arm in a sling to minimize any further damage before starting to pull his vest off, the bullet still lodged in the back of it, flattened against the back ceramic plate, cutting away his clothes to get a better assessment of the damage. He still had the damn thing, tucked away in the safe in his flat along with his service medals and awards, his backup handgun, plenty of cash, and two new identities should he ever need to cut ties and flee the country. He's made himself disappear once before, a second time wouldn't be that difficult to do again--

His laptop’s beeping is enough to startle him out of the bad memories, and he blinks at the screen gratefully, reviewing the alerts quickly before deciding they can wait until he’s properly caffeinated, and locks the laptop before pulling his access card from it. Q snaps up the mug of half-drunk tea from yesterday, disarms his office security protocols, and heads to the branch’s kitchenette. He busies himself with the menial task of filling and starting the electric kettle, loses himself in simple act of washing his mug in hot water then dries the outside of it just in time for the kettle to click off, the lid of his anxiety pushed back on the box he keeps it in, settled back behind his shields by the quiet routine that making tea affords him. There’s a locked drawer with his initial on it that he unlocks and pulls down the tea, regular Earl Grey today instead of the many varieties of it that he stocks, and sugar before dumping a spoon of sugar into it and fills the mug with boiling water before tossing the tea bag into it. 

He locks everything back up before taking the mug back to his office, stopping short in the doorway as his anxiety comes roaring back, pushes past the edges of his awareness, threatens to suffocate him where he stands. Only his two-handed grip on his mug keeps him from dropping it when the back of the blonde he’d been intent on avoiding for the next two days comes into view and he very nearly turns around and leaves him there, his control over his anxiety so tenuous it's transparent, but his laptop is there on his desk, and Q sighs as he leaves the door open purposefully and takes his seat behind his desk without addressing Bond, shoving his anxiety down, focuses his breathing into the pattern means to calm his heart rate, the way they'd taught him during endless group therapy sessions meant to help him control his PTSD and anxiety. He doesn’t even look at Bond or his blatant invasion into his sanctuary, sets down his mug, unlocks the laptop and starts to review the alerts in-depth on his screen. He can't exactly blame the blonde for triggering his anxiety when he's almost 100 per-cent positive Bond doesn't even know . It’s only when the silence stretches between them that he sneaks a glance from the corner of his eyes and discovers that Bond is asleep in his guest chair.

He looks as haggard as Q feels, run over roughshod and turned inside out.

It strangely reminds him of how dead on his feet he looked that day in the Gallery, and Q quickly sweeps his eyes over him at first, as if assuring himself that Bond is asleep. He's far too good of an actor sometimes, part of the many masks he wears, but he does at least look like he’s actually asleep. Then, he lets his gaze linger, taking in the novelty of seeing him sleeping, compares it mentally with how he knows Bond is when he's awake, how the lines of tension are gone from around his eyes and between his brows, his mouth soft and relaxed. With a sigh, Q pulls open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and pulls out a soft blanket he keeps for nights he ends up kipping on the futon against the back wall of his office and stands. Careful not to startle the blonde’s trigger-hair reflexes, he spreads it and oh so gently lays it over him. Bond doesn't so much as move, other than a soft sleepy snuffle, and Q smiles despite himself and returns to his desk. He logs into the internal training messaging center and sends a quick message to the range team, letting them know to postpone the certification session until the afternoon. He's halfway sure Bond will be awake by then. It's only then that he lets himself contemplate the appearance of the agent in his office. 

Bond is in his office, asleep, with what looks like his guard down. 

It leaves Q with the oddest sensation, like the agent well-known for trusting no one is trusting him. He can't help but think that it has something to do with the previous day’s events and a culmination of the working relationship they've been building since his appointment as Quartermaster, but even Q doesn't count his hypothetical chickens before they hatch. Even if he wants to ascribe to it more meaning than it’s worth, he won't let his heart get ahead of his, well, head. 

He spends the next hour combing through budgetary reports and projections, making notations where appropriate, before saving all of his work and backing it up to the jump drive on the lanyard around his neck. He still has his rounds to make, sleeping double-oh in his office or not. He logs off his laptop and stores it in his in-office safe, scribbling down a note in perfect Engineer’s script for the blonde before he leaves, letting his office protocols stay unlocked but the door closed so as not to disturb him.

JB-

I rescheduled your certification to 1400 this afternoon. Please don't be late. Blanket goes in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet on the left if you're sitting in my chair. You can leave the door closed behind you. I should be back around 1700.

-Q

When Q returns to his office, it's well past 5 pm, getting on towards 6:30 actually. The door is pulled closed and there’s no light coming from under the door or around the shade he keeps pulled down over the thick plateglass window. Q isn't sure how to classify the feeling he gets with the knowledge that his office is empty, is still mulling it over as he pushes the door open with no expectation that it's occupied. 

Except that it is. 

Bond is there, again, but this time he's on the futon, blanket pulled up over his shoulder, snoring lightly. Q can see the dark lines of the holster against his light shirt -- he must've changed after range qualifications, and he closes the door gently behind him, some modicum of Bond's privacy protected. Or his own? He's not quite sure how to process the emotion that is again welling up in his chest, had long ascribed the name of equal parts many emotions to it, but the one that hits him hardest right now is shock. Again. He's shocked at the blonde’s unspoken trust in him. The shock of the revelation is enough to bypass his shock at seeing the man in his office again.

He has read the files. He's read them for every agent assigned to him, committed them to his long-term memory storage in the event that he should ever need the smallest detail to help them in the field. He knows more information about James Bond than James Bond does, knows how many broken hearts and dead bodies he's left behind, how many friends he has lost, the times he was willing to stake everything on the name of love. He knows the most insignificant facts that his MI-6 file contains, and yet he knows hardly anything about the man at all. 

Q finds his mug again and sets off to make a pot of tea this time, his note from earlier seemingly untouched. His contemplation will take him several hours, he intrinsically knows this, and it also leaves tea for the blonde, whenever he should awake. He throws it all together with the practiced ease of someone used to working shift work and takes the tea tray back to his office. 

Bond is... gone. Disappeared into thin air like a ghost. Or a hallucination, his brain oh-so-helpfully supplies. Again, it reminds him.

Q drops the tea tray. 

His legs threaten to give out as he darts across the mess, and practically dives for his office chair, wrenching the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet open, reaching for the blanket. 

Still warm. Not a hallucination .

He's safe. 

The shock of the entire thing is enough to rip the lid from his carefully controlled box of anxiety. He moves through the breathing routines, willing his breath and heart to slow down, but this is one too many times today he's been caught off-guard, and he scrambles for the top drawer of his desk, hands shaking as he locates the bottle of blister-packed pills, uncaps it and sends the contents of half of it across his desk, practically hyperventilating as he does.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, feels the clawing sensation of his asthma choking him as he hyperventilates, knows that his lungs aren't getting enough of the carbon dioxide in them out and reaches again into the drawer for his inhaler, shaking it almost viciously before uncapping it and putting it to his mouth. He closes his eyes and lifts his arms as soon as he's done inhaling the medication, leaning back in his chair as he encourages the medication to enter his lungs, dry out the secretions as he wheezes the breath out and shakes the inhaler again. 

He hates his fucking brain some days. 

There are hands on his, startling him yet again. They pull the inhaler from his hand and hold it to his mouth while he keeps his arms folded above his head, eyes still closed because he can't open them and not see Bond there, the heartbreak will be too much as calloused fingers hold his chin and depress the top of his inhaler again. He inhales a second time, holding it longer before he breathes out slowly. 

“Shh,” Bond all but croons at him, picking up the half-empty pill bottle to look at the label. “Did you take this yet?”

Q shakes his head almost violently, doesn't trust his voice, his words, the pain of his lungs seizing up and the rapid beating of his heart keeping him still breathless as he swallows for air. “I need-”

Wordlessly, Bond picks up one of the blister packs, deftly opens it and holds the pill to his mouth so that Q can slip it under his tongue. In the time it takes for the pill to dissolve, Bond is there with a glass of water, letting him have tiny sips. His throat is wrecked, too much abuse for one day, for one instance, but he wheezes his thanks regardless and goes to pull his arms down from where they're still clasped overhead, but those strong hands stop him again, keep his arms up, shifts them to grasp his opposite elbows. Bond keeps a watchful eye on him, monitoring him in case he needs another mouthful of his inhaler and turns on the desk light before he picks up the pill packets from across his desk, stacks them and puts them carefully back in the bottle. He recaps it after looking more closely at the label and sets it to the side before taking up the spot he'd sat in the previous day, arse perched on the edge of Q’s desk, bracketing his chair with strong thighs. 

Q closes his eyes again and focuses on his breathing rather than the man in front of him, manages it for all of about 3 seconds before Bond's hands are on his arms again, leaning forward into his space to rub soothingly at the flexed muscles of his triceps brachii , tracing down the lines of them through his cardigan and Oxford.

“Shh,” Bond says again, voice soft and soothing as his fingers and hands are almost petting Q’s arms. “I didn't know,” he offers as explanation.”I should have and I didn't think about it.” 

Q shakes his head from under the bracket of his arms, feels the strong fingertips sweeping along the lines of his muscles, and finally his voice doesn't sound as wrecked as he thought it would. Thank God for small mercies is becoming his tagline where Bond is concerned. 

“It's not like I go around telling people. That's asking to be treated with kid gloves.”

He laughs wryly at his own joke, but the laugh turns into a cough, and Q pushes back from the desk with one foot, dropping his arms away from his head to wrap around the lower edges of his chest protectively as the force of it throws him forward, pitching his head between his knees. 

Bond is there almost instantly, rubbing a soothing hand down his back. It's not hard to read between the lines and Q can see the guilt etched into his features before it's wiped away, leaving a softly concerned mask in its place. 

“Don't give me that look,” Q all but snaps at him. “This is exactly why I don't tell anyone.”

There is surprise in those blue blue eyes at his recrimination, there for barely a heartbeat before it's gone, and Bond laughs in return, fondness in his eyes but none of the pity that had been present only moments before. Q looks at him hard for a second, sees the moment that he adds two and two together, and it's nice to know that he can still surprise the blonde.

“That explains the proximity alerts,” Bond says finally. 

“Yes, well done you,” Q only half-teases, his voice still weak. He puts a hand out for the water, which Bond promptly hands him, and sips from it gratefully. His medication is kicking in, his heart slowing to a more appropriate pace, and all of it leaves him completely exhausted. 

“You didn't have to come back.”

Bond looks thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I was worried.” 

He hooks a foot around one of Q’s armrests now that he's sitting back up and pulls him back towards the desk, rooting through the top drawer for the anti-itch cream before reaching for his arm, which Q doesn't so much as relinquish as it is pulled away from him. Bond's nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons at his cuff and pull it up past his elbow before starting to unwind the gauze. Q struggles for a moment, trying to pull back because he remembers the half-scratched through scabs at the last second but Bond stills him with another hand, this one to the side of his cheek. The shock in his green eyes makes them go wide and the fight goes out of him at the soft concern in matching blue. Only when he relaxes does Bond move again, slower this time, and unwinds the gauze gently. He tuts softly before picking up the uncapped tube and smears it onto his fingers before starting to work.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Bond starts, looking at Q’s arm, not daring to meet his eyes. “I didn't mean to. I came back to talk but you weren't here. I thought you were leaving, so I didn't want to bother you. Didn't realize you were making tea.”

Q tamps down on any verbal reaction, just settles bonelessly into his chair as the combination of exhaustion from his asthma attack and his panic attack medication work into his system. Add to that with the way Bond's fingers were all but massaging his arm and it was recipe enough to lull him into letting his eyes droop closed, letting the strong hands on his arm soothe his frayed nerves.

By the time Bond is done working the cream into the skin around his scabs and winds fresh gauze around his arm, Q is sleepily pliant enough that the blonde can easily shift him to standing, and helps him into his coat. He puts the medications away in the top drawer of Q’s desk and picks up his bag, shouldering it easily. A sleepy hand tugs at his arm before stepping away to unlock his office safe and retrieve his laptop, closes it back before all but dumping it into his messenger bag that Bond is still carrying for him. Q blinks into the lights in the hallway, it's much brighter here than the pale light from his desk lamp had been, but he doesn't have to adjust to it because Bond is there tugging his parka hood over his head, shielding him from the fluorescents. Q pauses for a moment more, swiping his access card through the reader to turn the security protocols back on. Only then does he let Bond guide him with a hand on his shoulder towards the parking garage. He very nearly falls asleep waiting for the lift, and definitely does fall asleep as Bond drives him home, snoring softly in the passenger seat. 

Q wakes to his name being called softly from his left, blinks blearily to see that Bond has the door open already to his side of the car and is kneeling next to the seat. Q fumbles for the latch on the seatbelt and doesn’t protest the blonde’s help in climbing out of the low-slung Audi, but he does motion for his bag, which Bond only barely relinquishes to him. He fumbles with it for a moment before producing a tablet to which he disarms his flat’s security system before allowing Bond to usher him through the outer door and on to his own. 

It’s strange, he muses sleepily as his hands root through the bag for his keys. This is the second time Bond has seen him home in under a week, and neither circumstance was under the pretenses that Q had mused about. He fumbles with the keys for a moment more, peering at them before Bond takes pity on him and takes them from him to slip one into the lock, thinking for a moment before just barely unlatching it. 

“They won’t run out,” Q says through a yawn. “They’re well behaved.” Bond hands him his keys back, and they get shoved back in his bag, along with his tablet. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Not at all, Q. I told you I wouldn’t endanger you with reckless driving,” Bond replies, the barest edge of teasing to his words. 

Q smiles despite himself and pushes the door open, immediately swarmed by his two felines. “I would invite you in for tea if I thought I would be able to stay awake long enough to make it,” he offers, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand even as he says it.

Bond leans in wordlessly to tug back the hood of his parka and kisses the top of his head. “Go sleep, Q.” He gives him a little push on the shoulder until he’s fully inside and closes the door between them, waits for him to lock it and then disappears like a ghost through the main door once more. 

Q barely makes it to his bedroom before flopping down face first, snoring before his head even hits the bed.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

He isn’t quite sure why he ends up back in Q Branch that night. 

He’s waiting around for the cleaning crew to show up so that he can clean up the broken teaware and the spilt tea so Q doesn’t have to worry about it in the morning. There’s very little to do, even Q Branch is deserted, so he lets his focus slip to his thoughts, hearing on the alert as he closes his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he settles in to wait. Compared to late-night stakeouts, this is a walk in the park.

Part of it, he muses, is guilt.

There had been signs he had shrugged off, writing them off as a side effect of being a double-oh: he was virtually silent on his feet if he wasn’t actively thinking about it. Too many times he had accidentally startled people when he hadn’t meant to, but Q is the first one he’s ever sent into a full-blown panic attack. He makes a mental note that when Q is less sleepy and more coherent to ask about his triggers in order to be conscientious of them. 

Which leads him to another question - why does he care to be conscientious of them?  

The easy answer is obviously that he and Q will be working so closely together in the very near future that it’s important to know even small things about each other. Q’s human, after all, not a machine. That under the horribly patterned cashmere sweaters and no-nonsense Oxford shirts, Q is human, despite the arms-length distance he views and keeps the world at. In his mind’s eye, there are two of Q. The no-fuss all-muss Quartermaster with his quiet monotone RP as though he’s equal parts bored and annoyed at the same time is the one he sees the most. This is the one the easy answer would satisfy. But then,-- 

But then, there is the Q who he catches looking at him from the corner of his eye when he enters the room as if drawn to magnetic north; the Q who is quietly infuriating in the way he offers the smallest amounts of information and always on his own terms; the Q whom he had comforted at M’s funeral, dressed in stark black with his hair mildly tamed and skin so pale it was almost luminescent. There is the surprisingly human glimpses of a younger man mourning his family in ink, of the physical and emotional scars played out across his body, in the lines of his posture, in the set of his eyes. The Q that hides behind layers and layers of his own version of security, that only offers real information when those layers are stripped back. Who has been letting him in slowly, enticingly, who continues to turn out to be a surprise at every revelation.

That is the Q he cares to be conscientious of. 

For all that he knows of himself, he recognizes the draw. It’s the same way he felt when Tracy had helped him of her own free will, when he’d been awake for so long and exhausted from the skiingchasingfighting that he thought he would die from exhaustion before Blofield’s agents caught up to him. How he thought he’d die from how broken his heart had been when he’d held her during her last breaths, how she’d told him he’d given her hope for a new life after wanting to end it only months previous, how he’d seen the hope in her eyes fade as she realized the irony. It’s the way he’d felt when Vesper so casually dressed him down at every turn, the way he’d awoken to her name in his mouth before even opening his eyes after being tortured. The way he’d held her in the shower, the shock absolutely consuming her -- he’d seen that look on more faces than he could count but on hers -- on hers, it felt like his heart was breaking all over again. The guiltsorrowbetrayal love in her expression when she’d held tight to the wrought iron of the lift, accepting of her fate, only to see it change to panic when she realized she was actually drowning, the last struggle for life in a doomed woman’s eyes.

He feels the draw of him so inherently in his bones that it hurts, a deep solid ache high under his ribs that warms at his laughter, that burns for his wit and sarcasm and pithy retorts, that breaks for him over past and current hurts, that wants him so desperately that it’s overwhelming and threatens to become all-consuming.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about long effortlessly graceful limbs, the soft red pout of his bottom lip, or the dimples in the small of his back. The dark lashes that sweep over those ever-changing eyes, the forced bob of his throat when he sips too-hot tea, the spread of his thighs when he’d knelt to retrieve something he’d dropped. Those quick, long fingers, the delicate arch of his neck, the--

The lift dings and he opens his eyes, swivelling automatically towards it. The cleaning crew is here and he pushes off from the desk he’s been leaning against to make his way over. 

“Good evening,” he sweet-talks, “I need to retrieve something I left in the Quartermaster’s office earlier.” Quick hands are already pulling his access card from where it’s clipped against his hip, a thousand-pound smile that matches the charm he pours on when she starts to explain that she can’t --

“You’re not understanding me, Mr. Bond. It isn’t that I don’t want to let you in, it’s that his office won’t be unlocked for another 30 minutes.”

It’s not the first time he’s encountered this type of security system, and it checks another box off on his mental checklist of security upgrades from the Vauxhall building. 

“We were called in early one night after we started down here, some senior techy explained the whole thing. All the executive offices and some of the conference rooms are like that. They’re only unlocked during a specific time, that we have to badge in and out on time or else we’ll trigger a lockdown.” 

They sit with a mug of tea apiece, pilfered from the Q Branch kitchen, leaned up against the wall next to Q’s office. She’d worked at Vauxhall for a few years before the attack, had stayed on afterwards because she was a single mother and they actually paid her a decent wage so that she could afford overnight care for her daughter while she worked. 

“He was rather shy, but I imagine they must all be like that,” she continues, “smart but skittish.”

He laughs good-naturedly, imagining Q giving such a briefing to a group of staff who probably only understand every third word of his intensely detailed explanations, talking about the choices in connectors to surpass international standards, the effects of the lockdown protocols, how long they’d be stuck in a dead room.

“He had the prettiest eyes behind those glasses too. Shook our hands and thanked us for coming by name, like he’d memorized it as soon as we’d introduced ourselves.”

Carefully, he keeps his voice neutral, curiously interested but with no ulterior motive, his ‘it’s alright to trust me’ voice. “Did he say what his name was?”

She shakes her head lightly. “No, but I’d recognize him instantly. He had the unruliest hair.” Laughing, she checks her watch and pushes off the wall. “10 minutes and then I really do have to get in there to clean. Fair enough?”

He laughs and pushes off as well, genuinely charmed by her freshness. “I’ll be done in 5.” He gulps down the rest of his tea and takes the mug to rinse in the sink and sets it aside to dry. When he returns, the door to Q’s office is unlatched but not pushed open for him, the cleaning cart left just outside the door. 

The longest part of the whole operation is deciding what he’s going to ask next. They’d gotten slightly off schedule since the accident the previous week, but it isn’t as if he’s going to let Q off that easily. He goes to the list he made on the first day, the one he falls back on when nothing pressing or entirely appropriate is in the forefront of his mind, but none of them satisfy his curiosity. He turns them over in his head rapidly, deciding that all of the answers can wait because there's something else he needs the answer to instead.

Smiling to himself, he tucks the pen back away in his pocket before leaving behind no trace that the tea tray incident ever occurred other than a scribbled reply to Q’s earlier note, a £500 note tucked into the top of the cleaning cart, and the blanket Q had tucked around him earlier.

“That's me off,” he calls, and she pops her head out of the kitchenette. 

“Find what you were looking for?” It's equal parts curiosity and teasing. 

He knows immediately she saw the mess from the curiosity in her tone, his mental rapid assessment says seventy per-cent chance someone close to her has a mental health disorder, sibling or friend maybe, less chance it's actually her. It's his job to read people, even when he doesn't necessarily need to. Habit makes him paranoid, and his paranoia has saved his life far too many times to be discounted anymore. Just the same with the risks he takes, though that one is a harder sell to M. Either M, really.

When he laughs, not even a second has passed, he is still that good. He pulls the pen from his pocket, showing it off, and she falls right into it, ignoring the blanket on his other arm.

“You came down at 3:15 in the morning to get your pen? You're a strange man, Mr. Bond.” She laughs and finishes her tea, moving back inside the small kitchen to rinse the mug.

“It's a rather nice pen. Writes like a dream.”

He's gone by the time she finishes washing the mug, the ding of the lift echoing across the empty cavern of Q’s Pit of Doom. Quick eyes flick over the floor, taking in the lack of life, the background hum of workstations, committing it to his memory. With a smirk, he presses the button for his own office’s floor. Small mercies that he had access to sleeping quarters and several changes of clothes in his locker. It made coming back at all hours of the night so much easier. 

Q, did you know I want to take you to dinner?

He sleeps and --

Water

The tarns of Skyfall, of midnightdark water rising up over him, filling his lungs, choking him even as he chokes the body pinned between his calf and thigh

Unable to find the surface, of the flare lighting the ice from underneath and seeing no break in the massive slab

Ice in his veins and hands on his thighs -- 

“ How you're trying to remember your training now,” Silva whispers, dragging his fingertips down sensitive muscles --

of hands against his shoulder -- 

“ What's the regulation to cover this?” he coos, a mocking kiss in the air over his ear. “Well, first time for everything.” --

Kincaide’s hunting knife in his fingers, burying itself in the spine of a man he could have easily become were it not for his pathetic love of country 

M’s blood on his hands, layers and layers of other people's blood, it’s always someone else’s blood, never his

Darkness.

Laughter

a thousand melodious voices

the milky pale curl of a spine as it disappears into the curve of a hip and sway of arse 

Hair in a hundred colors and textures, braids and buns, complicated hairstyles that took hours to achieve

The humidity of freshly washed and showerwet softness

dark thick waves curling gently over the rumpled collar of a white Oxford

slim wrists and thin fingers

his hands pass through a thousand ghosts and shadows only to land on something solid and real

”Are you just going to stand there and stare?”

there are greengrey eyes staring back into his

in understandingpeaceacceptance.

He wakes.

Coming to full wakefulness only takes him a split second, years of practice from waking under unfamiliar ceilings and a honed edge of focus let him place himself immediately, his period between sleep and waking is wiped away like it never existed, the dreams forgotten. For now. His handgun is still snapped into its holster on the small bedside table on top of his assorted pocket contents, all where he left them only hours before. His white dress shirt hangs over the edge of the bed, ready to be worn, shoes under the end of it tucked away militaryneat. These on-call rooms are perfect for catching a nap at all of the odd hours Six works with a small single bed, and a lamp on the bedside table the only things that inhabit them. 

He flicks the light on before rolling to his side to prod at his shoulder, willing the angry muscles into submission before giving up and rubbing his palm fully against it to relieve the ache first, pressing hard only moments later with his fingertips to increase the bloodflow. It is getting better, he’s recovering a little more with every milestone, but months-too-late physiotherapy might not be enough to save it from the everyday aches and pains, or from being a long-term physical weakness. That is not a thought he wants to start the morning off with, so he clears his mind and focuses on the task at hand instead. After a few more minutes of careful massage, he can move it without it creaking and protesting, it's a job well done for now and sits up, sliding into his shirt and buttoning it with a practiced ease before gathering up the rest of his belongings, pulling the holster over the lines of his shoulders. When it hangs properly, he tucks the dress shirt in and threads the belt through the loops of his trousers and the holster. The Omega finds its home on his left wrist, the blue of the dial and the titanium band shining even under the muted light of the lamp before he slips on his shoes and stowing his wallet, mobile, and keys, ID badge clipped to his waist. 

The double-ohs are the only ones allowed to openly carry their firearms inside of Six, it’s usually more than enough to identify them on sight, his ID badge is more of a formality than anything after Silva, and having the handgun tucked again under his arm feels almost like he's whole once more. Blunt instrument indeed, taunts the M in his head, but he's long since made peace with her assessment. It's one of the things he's best at, after all. He likes the missions where he has to think for himself, enjoys the ones where he has the autonomy and latitude to conduct how he sees fit instead of a master plan, but he also doesn't take the straightforward assassination ones for granted anymore either, the point-and-shoot of being M’s favorite nickname for him is almost freeing.

The first thing he does is laps in the basement pool. It's limbering on his joints and good for his shoulder as he carves through the water -- breaststroke, backstroke, combat sidestroke. He'd picked that last one up a few years ago when he'd joined some US Navy Seals for a training stint in California, a modified version of the rescue sidestroke he’d learned in the Navy. When he’s loose and more-or-less relaxed, he climbs out to perch on the edge as he takes several breath-up breaths before his breath-holding one and gracefully dives under the surface of the water towards the bottom of the pool, practically only a ripple at his entry. The key to it, he’s learned from years and years of practice, is to relax everything but the breath he’s holding at the back of his throat, let his thoughts fall away as soon as he enters the water, his mind completely blank as the force of the dive sends him towards deeper water.  When his descent slows, he rolls to his stomach and spreads his arms and legs, letting himself slowly rise back up until he’s breaching the surface again, hauling himself up and out of the pool. Only the days when he’s physically unable or out of the country, which has slowly become more and more of them over the last few years, does he not find himself in the pool, previously in the basement at Vauxhall, now here in the remnants of Churchill’s bunkers. 

He redresses in the familiar blue and grey of their training kit, trainers in place of his dress shoes. Sublevel 3 is where he’s going today, another one of Q Branch’s innovations: an indoor sniper range. All their previous training had been done at Stirling Lines in Hereford with the SAS, sometimes during their selection process. It was always interesting for him to compare the training the SAS recruits were undergoing with the training he’d received at Six, how outside of the technical and specialty skills he’d needed for survival the rest hadn’t helped him much at all. How RTI training paled in comparison to some of the more creative of his captors. The negative thoughts are quickly waylaid by his intrigue at finally getting to see the new monstrosity that is the indoor shooting lane.

There’s a smug sort of pride at how Q Branch is once again at the forefront of so many aspects of espionage and technology because, at half a kilometer long, he’s fairly certain the indoor long-range lane is the only one of its kind. Q Branch makes him think of Q, not the first time of the day, and he wonders if he’s made it in yet, all half-mussed from drugged sleep, his hair sticking up at random angles. He resolves after his time in the range, he’ll find out, perhaps bring him something to eat because he looked like he never ate unless it was while he mindlessly worked in front of his computer. 

According to what he’s heard from Q, part of the design specifications needed to be rewritten due to the sheer length of the lane itself. Outdoor lanes needed less than 1.5 meters between them with a berm which is what they were used to for training, but there were no structural guides for how to build something of this size indoors. Frankly, no one had ever tried. With free liberty to design as he wanted, Q had turned the idea into a technological marvel -- padded, soundproof walls, a targeting mechanism that offered moving and fixed targets, an intuitive climate control system to simulate day- and night-time conditions and variable windspeeds, all with a link to the central armory. The safety protocols he’d written were ingenious as well, mostly owing to the fact that the lift lets him out in the middle of a small reception area that’s blocked off from the shooting lane. The steel roll-up door is locked in the up position for now, but once the protocols engage, he knows it’ll seal itself. The elevator always bypasses sub-3 as there’s no real reason for anyone to be down here unless they’ve booked the range time, so Q had fixed that problem in the programming without a second thought, but added the extra layer of security to add an automatic bypass with the range hot.

He’s ten minutes early, so he takes the time to inspect the lane itself, stopping in front of the bullet stop to take in the metallic panels attached to the ceiling. It’s a space of about 3 meters by 3 meters, though part of it extends from the back goes towards the berm and out from either side in a T-shape, disappearing into a small enclosure on the right. He gets a quick look at what he can only assume is the targeting mechanism and shakes his head. It looks almost like a probe droid, and he adds it to his shortlist of work-related questions to ask Q. He’s 90% positive that’s where the master tech drew his inspiration from. By the time he’s finished his inspection, the two members of his training team from yesterday have made it down and they go through quick reintroductions before getting started. 

He has three different rifles that the armory technicians have modified for him, a Savage 110 BA, an S&T K14, and a brand new Zastava M12 that he still isn’t quite sure how Q got his hands on since it only came out two weeks ago. Even when he isn’t trying, Q still manages to surprise him. The three of them make their way down to the shooting lane, the initial safety protocols already in place. The secondary protocol activates when they’re securely in the lane, effectively sealing them in, and Bond gets into position, the bipod clicked into place, his free arm tucked in the sling, the stock pushed between his shoulder and cheek. His finger lies outside the trigger-guard as the lighting shifts and the probe-droid targeting computer comes online.  Fixed targets first, it holds steady at the end of the metallic box on the ceiling, locked into place. Steady hands bring the rifle into better position, closes his eye as he peers down the telescopic sight and counts his breath. Inhaleexhalepausepull. The target shifts and he does as well, settles into position with a swing of his shoulder, nudging the stock as he flicks the bolt forward and back, brings it back up to his shoulder, inhaleexhalepausepull , the mantra is always the same whether the target is paper or not, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s a long two hours.

When they surface from sub-3, his mind is a little lighter. There is something to be said for the rhythmic way he’d been able to settle into what basically amounted to target practice. The senior of the two training technicians says M will have their report before the end of the day; the younger simply claps him on the shoulder and whispers “Welcome back, 007.”

It leaves him with a strange taste in his mouth, one that he adds to the growing list of feelings he either doesn’t wish to or simply doesn’t care to categorize. It makes him feel old, as though part of him had expected something in the whole process to go wrong. It makes him feel like a younger man again, that he could recover from such trauma and come out the other side with minimal scars, that he could operate at peak efficiency again so quickly. He speaks nothing of the psychological scars on his soul, the tattoo of blood on his hands, each recovery he makes stealing the life of someone else, trading their life somehow for his own. He’s not normally prone to such introspection, can only blame Q’s quiet revelation and his foray into those memories as the reason for it, the memories of those years shoved down and so rarely accessed without a purpose, a detail to recall, a training course, location, a name. But it’s not actually Q’s fault, he muses as he showers perfunctorily, a quick scrub to the most essential parts, because the introspection had begun with that one word, hateddreadedbloodyawful word Skyfall . The psychologist had stared into his eyes and uttered that one word, and it was the flood of memories that followed that had led him down this path. 

He doesn’t linger on the thoughts as he dresses, khaki trousers, a different white shirt, and a dark blue jacket, his locker is running low on clothes, and he adds it to the list of things to do before he goes back out into the field. It’s inevitable at this point, even if the psychologist gives him a full fail for not answering questions, he’s too good of an agent to not be let off the leash. Mallory would have to be actually certifiable to deny his return. The debrief is long since done, and his feelings and memories are tucked away into another box in his compartmentalized mind.  He’ll deal with them later ( never ), and when he does, that will be that. 

In your own time then, 007 , M taunts him, there’s work to be done .

Chapter Text

Q wakes up groggy and sleep-mussed in the late afternoon and remotes in to Six from his secure laptop. From there, he clears his emails, catches up on briefings and department check-ins, and verifies the in/out logs in the security system. All the in/out swipes are recorded and uploaded to his server where a collating program he'd written tabulates the data with the appropriate employee file, looking for anything that breaks their pattern of behavior. It's part of a new security initiative designed to predict behavior that may indicate a double agent. Anything that triggers the filter is immediately flagged for his review on the server, but so far it's been fairly quiet since he started it. There are still plenty of bugs in the predictions, which is why he manually verifies the swipes once a week, or sooner if he has the time. He doesn't feel all that up to making the trip back into Six, knows he won't feel like cleaning the mess from earlier, and resolves that tonight he will verify the swipes until he's bleary-eyed in exchange for waiting to clean up the broken teapot and its mess. And his mug . 

His favorite Scrabble mug is a goner. 

He lets out a melancholy sigh at the thought. 

He'd gotten it as a gift from his unit when he'd resigned his commission in the Army. Sullenly he pulls up the swipe log data, goes back to the last previous verification date and gets down to work pairing in and out times and verifying them against the downloaded data in his program. It's so mind-numbingly boring that it's easy to lose himself in the string of numbers and after about two hours, it's more than his frazzled brain can take. Instead, he pokes around the security system’s real-time monitoring, looks for flaws and vulnerabilities, reviews the people still swiped ‘ in ’ and shakes his head as most of the executive staff is still present even at this late hour. Most of his techs have gone home, the night crew is already settled in for the evening. 

His body is exhausted . While his rescue medication is wonderful at stopping his attacks, it also has the unfortunate side effect of making his brain feel like it's full of wool instead of the neural pathways it should house and his body hazy to respond. He knows there are instant noodles in the kitchen and that he needs to eat before he goes back to bed, so he strips to his undershirt and pants with coordinated efficiency, flinging his shirt, trousers, and cardigan into the laundry with impeccable accuracy. 

Q meanders as he works his way through the semblance of a routine he has when he comes home from the office at night - fixes dinner and eats while he catches up on anything he's missed on his DVR while devoting a hand to the two purring felines that swarm him as soon as he sits down; he cleans the dishes and works at his home computer for a while; he falls asleep at his keyboard and wakes at some point to go tuck himself under the blankets of his bed.

Morning is just as routine an affair. 

He wakes, takes his medications, and changes into his work clothes; he takes the Tube and swipes into the building; he changes in the locker room and loses himself in the gym. He runs, he lifts, he squats, he cycles. He showers and redresses in his work clothes, only the earliest of early birds are here yet. 

It still shocks him at times that Q Branch is his , his domain, under his control and purview, his to guide and shape and grow.

It is a burden, but one he shoulders with the same sense of duty and responsibility that carried him through the war, that had him clawing back from injury and setback and misfortune at every turn. It's the same sense of duty and responsibility that carries him now.

After the gym, he finds breakfast in the canteen before making his way down the Q Branch’s depths, steeled to deal with the two-day-old mess. He swipes and scans into his office, eyes immediately on where there should be porcelain and ceramic and stone-cold tea. Instead, there is just concrete. The cleaning crew must've come in and dealt with it for him. He resolves by the end of the day to figure out which of their wonderfully patient cleaners took care of it for him and help their credit score. It's the least he can do. 

He settles in at his desk, for now, plugs his laptop in before hooking it up to its station. His fingers light on the note he'd left for Bond the other evening, and immediately his eyes are drawn to the bottom, to the scrawl that definitely wasn't there when the blonde had taken him home. 

He didn't.

He logs into his laptop at lightning speed and calls up the CCTV feeds for Tuesday. There are multiple views of the Pit, some of which show his office door, and he rearranges the feeds to show only those and picks up at the beginning of the day.

He slows when he catches himself leaving his office the first time, half-drunk mug in his hand. Not even 30 seconds after he'd left, Bond appears on the screen, looks around to make sure no one sees him and pushes the door open before closing it carefully as he sneaks into the office. The man is a literal ghost when he wants to be. He fast-forwards through the next few hours to see Bond emerge from his office at 1330, looking more put together as he closes the door behind him. He speeds through it again until Bond reappears around 1630 and lets himself back in, shoulder holster dark against his shirt where it had been absent before. There's no movement towards his office until Q himself reappears, sees himself pause in the office door before closing the door behind him. He watches himself reopen the door and step out with his mug, sees Bond slip out about two minutes later, sees himself pause just inside the doorway before he's gone again, no indication of why there was suddenly a mess of tea and porcelain. His eyes are fixed on a sideways angle of the wall his office is on. There are no head-on views of his office for security reasons, a mandatory requirement of the enhanced security protocols surrounding the offices and conference rooms that basically serve as SCIFs. 

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath, counting the seconds, analyzing the moments until Bond reappears on the screens. The first few frames are blurry, but the eighth one is where the motion stabilizer kicks in and locks its focus onto him -- a deep crease between his brows, eyes narrowed as he reaches for the firearm under his arm. His vision is swarming just for a second before he realizes he needs air and to stop staring at that worried look on Bond's face . There might have been worry, but there had also been pity. He'd seen it, called him out on it. He didn't have room for pity. 

He taps into the swipe project and rolls through the data to Tuesday evening and scans through the raw data, looking for either of the two employee stringIDs in their out swipe. They are encrypted differently each day and only by following the pattern of in/out swipes is he able to make out that Bond indeed swiped back into the building at just before 0200 on Wednesday morning. Q rolls through everything on the CCTV footage until he gets to the 0150 timestamp and then he proceeds cautiously, rolling forward at 2x speed. It takes until about 0215 for him to show up, paces in front of the door a few times before finally taking up residence next to it, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

For the next 30 minutes, the Bond on-screen barely moves. He watches at 2x speed again, the timestamp in the bottom ticking away until Bond pushes away from the wall, the charming ‘trust me’ mask is in place so fast Q nearly misses it. When he returns, it's with a woman, and they're both carrying tea or coffee, he can't tell which from the angle. He’ll find the audio transcription later when he has time to devote to dissecting it, but for now, he continues to speed through the footage until the woman leans up from the wall and fishes her access badge from her pocket, eyes on her watch as she waits ten or so seconds before swiping it across the access pad. It glows green and she pushes open the door just enough to pause, presumably looking at the mess, and then pulls it almost completely closed back before fetching her cleaning cart to leave outside his office. 

Bond goes into the office but doesn't come out empty-handed. Into the trash bin on the cart go rags soaked with tea and containing what he assumes are the remains of the teapot and his beloved mug. 

He did. 

Q all but collapses back into his chair, doesn't pause the rest of the recording as he watches the Bond on-screen leaving money in the top of the cleaning cart before making off to the lifts with his blanket. His £500 cashmere blanket.

The recording continues on while he frowns and opens the drawer where the blanket normally resides and of course, it's empty. With an exasperated sigh, he kicks the drawer closed with more force than entirely necessary and finally pauses the recording, closing it out and wiping his access traces habitually. It's not as if he doesn't have the clearance, but he'd rather no one else review the specific timestamps he's chosen to view if it can be avoided. 

“He'd better have a good reason for taking it,” he grumbles aloud to no one as he locks the laptop and goes to make himself a large cup of tea, loses himself in the routine of it as he picks a mug from the community-use ones and washes it in hot water. By the time he's finished the whole process and installed back at his desk, he's firmly in his work headspace, tea to hand as he starts his morning run-down. 

It's only when he surfaces from his depths of focus because his mug is empty does he realize that he'd forgotten the note. It had tipped him off to the whole thing and he immediately picks it up, staring hard at it. Bond's inelegant scrawl is underneath his neat and tidy Engineer script. The invitation for dinner makes him raise an eyebrow at it and flip the paper over to see if there is some sort of ‘ Gotcha!’ hiding but there's nothing. Q’s laughter catches himself off guard, and he looks at it again, shaking his head. 

‘Really, he's so unimaginative when it comes to anything not field-related,’ he muses internally as he creases the note and stores it away in his top drawer, behind his medications. They're not scheduled to meet until later that afternoon, and it's more of a formality at this point as the training team has already handed over their formal assessment that Bond was cleared to return to the field, pending his final psych appointment on Friday. The invitation to dinner isn’t something that he was expecting, especially after he’d made a downright fool of himself and dropped his guard. His particular brand of hypervigilance had helped warn off the most of his panic attacks for the last few years and while they’d worked for almost all of the situationally-induced or triggered ones, nothing had quite been able to deal with the ones where his brain turned against itself in a cross between a game of chicken and self-sabotage. 

But Bond had been understanding. Kind about it, even, and perhaps the fact that he’d come back after hours to clean up a mess that while, yes, he had caused it, it wouldn’t have been the easiest thing to clean if it had been anyone but Bond attempting to do so, it still showed a thoughtfulness that left him touched. It almost wiped out his frustration with the pity he’d seen in those eyes, those clear blue eyes that never failed to leave him feeling like he was gasping for air. 

Dinner had been the last thing he was expecting. 

However, it was going to be on his own terms.

Dinner on Q’s terms had meant deciding on takeaway at his house where he felt most comfortable to which Bond had agreed, stopping on his way to pick up Chinese food for them both while Q was supplying the wine. Though he’d dropped the master tech off at his house twice before, he hadn’t lingered on either occasion, and as he arrived at Q’s first-floor apartment in an upscale neighborhood in South Hampstead, it was a wonder that Q could comfortably afford the mortgage on his MI-6 salary, though it would be impolite to pry into his financials by asking such questions. Nevertheless, he finds the main door unlatched after leaving his Audi TT RS parked in the road behind Q’s more modest Q3. “Of course he has a Q-modeled car,” he muses as he laughs internally and knocks on the door into Q’s part of the house, a small smile on his face. It’s only seconds before Q is there with a matching grin on his face as it’s smushed between the door and the jamb.

“I thought I heard you from halfway down the street,” he teases, opening the door the rest of the way to allow him into the flat. “Are you still driving that beast without any thought to the rest of the road traffic?”

Bond laughs as he enters and makes his way further inside for the first time, tempted to hand the food off to Q so that he can get a better look at the rest of his personal space. From first glance, it looks tidy and neat, but there are telltale signs of Q’s personality leaking out among the cozy furniture. 

He sweeps his eyes over the space once more before turning back towards Q, a grin on his mouth still. “The engine isn't nearly as loud as you're making it out to be,” he teases back easily before sweeping past him and into the kitchen to unpack the requested dinner. 

It's how they find themselves several hours later with Bond sitting on the floor in front of the couch, his back propped up against the cushion where Q is lying along the length of it, socked feet kicked up on the arm opposite him while they both nurse their n th glass of wine -- Q had lost count after they opened the third bottle. The back door is open to the garden and the sun is just setting beyond the tree line at the edge of the property where it backed up to his neighbor one street up, giving the room a slowly intensifying hazy orange hue while they've been drinking.

“And if you're caught in a position where you're making contact under duress but they are listening?” he asks, shifting his gaze from where he'd been staring out the open door through his wine glass to the man below him, watches him drink slowly from the glass as he mulls the question over.

They've been discussing code words for the last thirty minutes, each dependent on a different situation. It's easier for Bond, he's choosing words that wouldn't come up in normal conversation for verification and cross-verification and reusing them among his handlers is the easiest way to keep track of them. He only has to change one when it's been burned. ‘ That awfully bloody hateful place ,’ he starts mentally before finishing aloud, “bishop.” 

“Fair enough. I suppose I'll have to go with antimony,” Q comments before drinking from his wine.

“Any particular reason you've chosen elements for all of them?” Bond asks, shifting so that he can rest his elbow and forearm along the sofa and look up at him.

“They're not just elements. They're post-transition metals. You see, they're these weird elements squeezed in between all the metals and non-metals, but they're not exactly metals themselves,” Q explains, a smile on his lips. “They're actually my favorite class on the periodic table because post-transition metals are amphoteric -- they can either be an acid or a base because they can either donate or accept an electron.”

“And you identify with it because you can either fill up an empty space or take a backseat and let someone else do it?”

Q raises his glass with a laugh. “Better than I could've put it. Let's be honest when I say that social skills aren't my strong suit.”

With a grin, Bond leans over the side of the sofa more so that he can clink his glass to Q’s, the easy grin on his face not disappearing for a second. They're both well-fed and Q’s likely on his way to a hangover in the morning if they keep going at this rate, but the easy companionship isn't something that he so readily wants or is even willing to give up. Not when it’s so hard to come by in the unspoken way he’s at ease around Q.

“There's always room for self-improvement,” Bond comments in toast before finishing off the glass. He reaches for the nearly empty bottle and pours the rest of it into his glass before drinking that down too. “Oh look, out of wine. Guess we’ll need to take a walk for more.”

Q watches him lazily from the sofa before sitting up fully to drink the rest of his own. “There's a liquor shop not too far from here if you're feeling something stronger. Maybe 20 minutes?”

“Do you think you can make it for another hour? That’s a lot of walking on a bottle and a half of wine.”

Q snorts a laugh and hauls himself up into sitting before leaning past him to set his glass down on the table. The cats have been surprisingly absent during the last few hours that Bond has been here, but he so rarely brings anyone home that they’re not used to company anymore. He makes a mental note to check in on them where he’s sure they’re holed up in their fortress in his room before they leave for the shop.

“I’m perfectly capable of just about anything right now, Mr. Bond,” Q replies with a laugh and stands up to stretch his back.

Bond doesn’t move from the floor yet, letting his eyes rake over the lithe and trim form of the master technician stretching next to him. He can’t quite make out the definition of his thighs under Q’s dark-wash denim, but he knows it’s there, wants to lean forward and press his mouth to the insides of his thighs as he hauls him closer and --

“Are you going to be formal through all of this?” Bond asks, sweeping away his thoughts about kneeling up from his spot on the floor and pressing Q back down onto the sofa, even if only just to kiss him again and chase the heady flavor of the wine from his lips to his tongue. With a charming smile that betrays none of his thoughts, he adds, “You can call me James, you know. We’re not exactly working right now, are we?”

As Q relaxes from his stretch, he grins down at the blonde, a little struck by how much he likes the reversal, and holds out his hand to help him up, not that the agent needs it. In fact, Q’s quite sure that Bond could take him out without breaking a sweat. Nevertheless, his grin doesn’t disappear, it actually intensifies as Bond takes his hand and with their combined efforts, stands and stretches. 

“If it makes you more comfortable, I will,” Q replies smoothly, gathering up the wine glasses to take them into the kitchen. He’s not at all surprised when the blonde joins him in the kitchen with the empty wine bottles and hands them over to be rinsed before Q dumps them in the recycling. “I hope that you won’t be offended if I don’t offer you mine. I’ve been Q longer than anything else anyway.”

No crinkle between his brows means Bond knows he’s telling the truth. It’s nice anyways that Q doesn’t make a habit of lying to him -- he can probably count on one hand the number of lies the tech has told him. “I’m not offended, Q. I’ll call you what you want to be called. You don’t have to explain anything you can’t or don’t want to.” With a shrug, Bond reaches for a dishrag to dry the dishes as Q’s finishing up washing their glasses and moves on to the assortment of things they had dirtied with dinner. “Me offering for you to call me by my first name wasn’t a quid pro quo. I just want you to feel comfortable around me.” He focuses intently on Q, who is now standing frozen with his hands under the water, focused on listening. “I’d like it if you felt comfortable around me, I mean,” he adds, looking away to the wineglass he’s drying once Q starts moving again. It’s eerie the way Q can shut down everything and zero-in with laser focus on something, though not unlike the tactics that he uses himself when in the field.

“ He’d make a bloody good field agent if he were differently inclined ,” Bond comments internally while he sets the wineglass aside, already reaching out for the next one to give it the same treatment. 

After several long minutes in silence where Q finishes the rest of the dishes, Bond’s beginning to get used to long gaps in their conversation while Q weighs what he wants to say, the tech shuts off the water and puts his back to the counter to dry his hands on the towel in Bond’s calloused hands. He pauses in drying the plate he was working on while Q does it and resumes only when he’s finished, watching him from the corner of his eye.

“I am comfortable around you. I was trying to keep our relationship professional for both our sakes, and part of that included some self-imposed distancing. Hence the codename while we were actually doing work and family name when we weren’t,” Q muses, looking at the bottom of his fridge instead of at Bond.

“Or when you’re tetchy and in a strop with me,” Bond amends without a beat, setting the plate in the cabinet with the rest of them before hanging the dishtowel back up.

“Yes, I suppose that’s fair enough. Though you rightfully deserve it.”

Bond laughs as Q moves through the house, watching as he picks up his mobiles and wallet before disappearing into what he presumes is the bedroom, lingering behind while Q’s voice drifts out incomprehensibly from the room. He inches closer on silent feet, stopping just outside of where Q would be able to see him from inside the room to eavesdrop on him.

If he’d wanted privacy, well, he should’ve closed the door.

“And I still haven’t gotten around to talking about the other night. It’s easier than I thought to get lost in talking about other things. It’s not as if I’d forgotten you stole my 500 quid cashmere blanket from my office, James Bond.”

“Damn.” Bond holds his hands up sheepishly, laughing even as he’s caught and steps into view, and then fully into the room, looking at the massive cat fortress Q’s built in one corner of his room. “Shall I even ask how you found out?”

“Hard to miss it,” Q replies as he picks up one of the two cats from the tower and cradles it to him before moving closer. The ginger and cream cat struggles for a second before giving up, settling instead for an unimpressed meow when Bond brings his hand close to offer it. “You'll have to win Charles over first before Erik here will like you,” the tech teases, laughing as Erik promptly bites one of the blonde’s fingers. 

“And you brought him over instead of the friendly one?” He's not giving up just yet and attempts to scratch lightly at the top of the cat’s head but as soon as he gets close again, Erik shoots out of Q’s arms and runs back up the cat tower, watching them judgmentally from one of the higher ledges.

“I never said Charles was friendly,” Q laughs again before starting back towards the main part of the house, pausing briefly for his jacket. “I just said you'd have to get him to like you first. Also, you owe me a new blanket. Or kindly return the original.”

“Oh, but I had such good dreams while I slept with it. I don't think I can return it,” Bond teases back, letting Q lead the way out of the house until he stops to lock the door and waits for him outside the house. He immediately picks up an easy pace next to Q when he leads them down the street in the opposite direction Bond arrived in. They've been drinking solidly for the last two hours after finishing dinner, but the walk is somewhat refreshing, even if the weather isn't entirely spectacular. 

Q sorts a laugh as he shoves his keys down into his trouser pocket. “I expect a replacement then. It's my office spare.” With his hands free, he shoves them into the pockets of his jacket, feeling oddly off without his satchel and sidearm. They're practically his constant companions since his promotion.

Bond laughs as well, turning when Q does onto another street and they head up towards the high street. “You're the only person I know who'd keep a cashmere blanket and call it a ‘spare for the office’,” he jibes good-naturedly, amused as hell at the almost offended expression on Q’s face. “What's that look for?”

“You're forgetting someone off that list, and I'm looking right at him. If it was something you cared about, you wouldn't spare any expense,” Q retorts, cutting his eyes over to the side at him. “You still haven't explained what the motive behind all this is. Bringing me dinner, encouraging me to drink more than I should on a Thursday evening.”

“I don't know if I even fully understand all of my intentions, but I can say that I enjoy your company.” Without a beat, Bond amends, “When you're not being a little prick about something, that is.” He laughs again and cuts his eyes over to the tech in his periphery, laughing harder when Q shoves his shoulder into him, causing him to stagger and stumble to the side in good fun.

Q is still laughing when Bond casually straightens as if nothing had happened and resumes at their steady pace. “I don't think little is a fair descriptor to use for me. Especially,” Q raises a finger and laughs, “ particularly if we’re having a prick-measuring contest.”

The blonde practically shakes with his laughter, the force of it is tremendous. For a moment Q looks concerned but it's banished the moment Bond breaks out into a full-blown fit of laughter as he holds onto Q’s arm for a second. As if it's some unspoken permission, Q starts to laugh as well, and quite suddenly they're two grown men having a laughing fit in the middle of the street. That is enough of a thought for Q to taper his laughter down to a giggle and tug Bond off in the direction of the off-licence shop using the hold the blonde has on his arm to point them in the correct direction once more, not pausing in his stride when Bond slides his hand down to curl his arm around Q’s and shoves the hand into his pocket. He doesn’t let go until they reach the shop.

They end up with two bottles of wine to replace the ones they'd drank earlier in the evening plus an additional two that they plan to uncork once they get back to Q’s house. The walk back from the shop seems longer in comparison as the time between footsteps and heartbeats extends into the infinite, where Q’s living footstep to footstep, breath to breath, because somehow the tension has been building since Bond had untangled himself and released Q to open the door for him into the shop. He was carrying the bottles in a recyclable cardboard carrier, a contemplative look on his face every time Q cut his eyes over to see if it was still there, like he was thinking hard and had put himself on autopilot to walk back, trusting Q yet again to keep an eye out for them. They were just turning down Q’s street when the look vanished, his attention only drawn to it when they fell into step and turned the corner at the same time.

“I asked you to dinner because I wanted to spend the time with you. I wanted to apologize, I wanted to see you smile again, I wanted to know if your house was the same as your office, I wanted to know the real things about you, instead of the facade you put on,” Bond says as they pass the first house on Q’s street. Q stops where he is, gone silent and still while he processes. Bond slows to a stop two paces in front of him and turns back, the contemplative look back, but this time he's in the forefront of his focus, sweeping his blue eyes over the tech.

Q, however, is not in forefront focus -- he's playing a mental jigsaw puzzle blindfolded with only half the pieces present. He has to know --

“And now? You said wanted. Past tense. What do you want now?”

He only manages two blinks before there is a hand on his jaw, calloused and rough against his almost-downy facial hair and smooth skin underneath, Bond’s thumb pressing gently against his bottom lip before he steps all the way against him and threads his hand through Q’s hair as he kisses him gently once and then once more before stepping back just a half-step. The whole thing is over in seconds, but the time stretches out again, slows to a crawl as Q’s world narrows down to just the two of them again as his computer of a brain records the entire thing, encodes it, makes a duplicate copy, and uploads it to his virtual cloud for long-term storage.

By the third blink Bond is smiling at him knowingly, but those blue blue eyes are so soft. Softer, Q thinks, than he's ever seen them. Affectionate. Caring.

The moment of it breaks as Bond speaks - “That's what I wanted.”

“And the rest of it?” Q asks as he starts forward again, reaching out with his hand to spin the spy around as he walks past him, pleased as they keep pace again while he digs his keys out of his pocket.

“I still want it. Nothing changed, I just wanted that as well.”

Q nods in acceptance of the explanation. “You don't have to apologize though. You couldn't have known for sure, even if you suspected, and even if you had, you couldn't have predicted my triggers. No real harm done.” The basement apartment light is on, but the top floor is out as they approach the entry to Q’s house, the two Audis well at home parked on the streets among several BMWs, a few Aston Martin’s, and assorted others. 

“It doesn't mean that I don’t feel like I should apologize for startling you, so we’re going to have to disagree on this one,” Bond pushes as Q works the exterior lock and lets them into the house. He nudges the door into the lock while Q works the interior door for his section of the house, not at all surprised when he sees the tech lift his glasses to peer into the peephole. 

“There goes ever breaking in the front,” Bond teases as they re-enter the house. The cats make a momentary appearance, but when they realize Q isn't alone, they take off towards his bedroom, presumably to hide in their fortress. 

“I wouldn't suggest breaking in at all, to be honest,” Q chimes from where he's putting his keys up and shrugging out of his jacket before hanging it up. He kicks his shoes off into the closet as well before nudging them into order with the rest of them before he shuts the closet and heads into the kitchen where Bond is already uncorking one of the two bottles of wine. Q reaches for the wine glasses and hands one over before tipping a generous amount into his own. He saunters off towards the sofa again before stretching out along it lengthwise once more. The blonde laughs and shifts to hold both the wine bottle and his glass in one hand, picks Q’s feet up, and slides underneath them to sit on the sofa as well, the tech's calves against his strong thighs. 

“If I accept your apology, can we not talk about it anymore? It's over and done with, you don't need to do anything else to make it up to me,” Q says finally, his head resting in the triangle between the sofa and his shoulder. “It's fine.”

“I suppose that's fair,” Bond replies, drawing his fingertips randomly along Q’s shin. Even the light touch belies the musculature underneath. He wonders if Q’s ever played sports. “But I do want to have a conversation about what triggers you, when you feel up to doing so, that way I can avoid doing it again in the future.”

Q nods against the sofa, his eyes drooping a little. He takes a drink from the glass, smiling a little. “I'll make a list as I think of them. And I accept your apology, even though it was completely unnese- unecessary--” He sighs and tries again, “Un-nec-e-sar-ry. Good lord, you'd think I can't hold my alcohol.”

Bond politely doesn't laugh but instead reaches for Q’s glass and pours half of it into his own before handing it back. “I think you're cut off now. As it stands, you'll probably have a hangover.”

“Furthermore,” Q insists, leaning forward in an attempt to swap his glass with Bond's, but he just keeps it out of Q’s reach. With a huff, Q sits back and continues. “Furthermore, you needn't apologize any more. You did more for me than anyone else has, so I'm already grateful to you.” He both does and doesn't imply the tea tray mess. Bond knows what he means regardless.

They sip the rest of the wine in companionable silence until Q’s work mobile beeps an alert and he has to break out his laptop to assess the situation from home but not before helping Bond into his coat and kissing him softly at the exterior door, a gentle smile on his face at the affection in those bottomless blue eyes. 

“See you tomorrow,” Bond says, one arm on the top of his Audi, the other hand holding onto the door. If Q didn't know how good of a driver he was under almost any circumstance, he would've made him call a cab. Maybe still should. 

“Good night, James. Drive safely.” He waits only as long as it takes for Bond to climb into the car with that boyish grin on his face before heading back inside to start reviewing the alerts on the developing situation.

Chapter Text

The situation devolves rapidly.

Q ends up back in the office around 3am and patches into the communications mainframe to guide one of their on-loan agents through a complicated security grid hack before the agent is able to make their way into the data storage center that’s disguised as a warehouse in the middle of Bishkek. It was meant to be an easy in and out, but it appears that the security system has been upgraded in the time since the intelligence on the building had been gathered. Unsurprising coming supposedly from the head of one of the three arms of the Kyrgyz Mafia. He makes himself a mug of tea while the agent works their way through the physical infiltration of the data center, and by the time his remote network pick is in place and the data stream starts to upload, Q’s already back at his desk in the middle of the Sarlacc Pit. He takes control of it immediately, downloading all of the data from the servers while monitoring the outgoing traffic, sending pings through the system to locate and create a branched web of computers that are receiving data from the storage center. There’s mountains upon mountains of data, most of it old, useless, or irrelevant, but it’ll take hours and the full team of his CIS data specialists to sort and sift through all of it. It’s rounding on 6am when he finally pushes back from his desk, the labor-intensive portion of the task done for now and an empty mug in hand. Stifling a yawn, he logs out of the computer before taking the mug in to give it a quick rinse, leaving it to dry as he makes his way towards his office, scribbling a note on the whiteboard that hangs next to the door before disengaging the security protocols to let himself inside. It really is a shame that his blanket has been absconded with -- this is a perfect example of its continued usefulness. 

He shoves at the futon to release the back of it to lay down and fetches his extra pillow and a stray winter coat he'd left accidentally before setting himself up on the futon, glasses and both mobiles shoved under the pillow, coat pulled on over his chest to prevent it from slipping off during his nap. He's asleep before the motion sensor lights kick off after 5 minutes.

It is 5.47am. I have been awake for almost 36 hours. If you disturb me for anything less than a Priority 2 or RedLine item, I will make sure you spend the next week trying to make your mobile stop playing Never Gonna Give You Up at full blast. If you belong to Q Branch and you wake me up for anything but the aforementioned items, you will spend the next rotation on IT help desk duty as well. Cheers! -Q

Final Transcript of Psychological Evaluation

Interviewer: [redacted for security]

Interviewee: Bond, James A.

Reason for Evaluation: Re-Qualification for AFD

MD: It's good to see you again, James. You look healthier than the last time I saw you.

JB: I’m off the pills. My shoulder is doing better. Going to physiotherapy.

MD: That's good to hear. Obviously you know why we are here.

JB: Sort of hard to miss the ‘if you don't go to this appointment, you're as good as submitting your retirement papers’ with the email reminder. 

MD: Indeed. Now, previously we have done word association and situation analysis, but I think today we should just talk. No tests, no hidden agenda. We can have a conversation about whatever you like.

[Silence: 45 seconds. He must be thinking.]

JB: And if I choose to sit in silence for the entire appointment?

MD: You are welcome to do that, but I would advise against it as I do believe it would end you up here with me again.

JB: Mm, yes, best avoid that. What if I don't have a particular subject I want to talk about?

MD: I can suggest some, if you'd like.

JB: No thanks. Anything you suggest would be an attempt at revealing some hidden weakness that doesn't exist or trying to figure out the best way to convince everyone I’m a danger to them.

MD: Why do you assume I would do such a thing?

JB: The fact that these appointments are mandatory says you would do such a thing.

MD: And if the Executive Staff just wants to know that you've been evaluated to be as fit for your position as you can be before they send you back out?

JB: For what, their conscience? Or for liability? And let's not pin this on all of the Executive Staff. 

MD: For whatever reason you choose, but I do believe they have their own individual reason since as far as I know, the mandatory nature of these appointments was unanimous through the Executives.

JB: [sound of derision, similar to a snort or a hmph like a toddler might make when throwing a tantrum] Fine. We can talk. What subject would most put our delicate Executives at ease about sending me back out into the field to do my job? Which, I would like to remind everyone, can be so politely summed up by M’s favorite words on the subject: ‘a blunt instrument’. So, for the recording, please enlighten me as to which topic of conversation would be best at allowing them for me to continue on so that they may lie back and think of England at night without a worry in their heads.

MD: [clears throat - embarrassed probably]

[Silence: 20 seconds]

MD: How’s your personal life?

JB: Really? That's what you go with? 

MD: It's a fair question, James.

JB: Fine, fine. My personal life is fine as well, actually. Recovering, all things considered. I found a new place to live. Made a new friend. Or rather, an acquaintance recently became a close friend.

MD: That's good to hear. You don't give your trust easily, as we’ve discovered during our previous conversations. What makes this person different? Actually, let me phrase that differently. What about this person changed your mind to allow them to move from acquaintance to close friend, as you put it.

[Silence: 30 seconds; more thinking]

MD: James?

JB: I'm thinking. Give me a minute. You're asking me to answer a question I haven't thought about.

MD: That's surprising. I'd have expected you to examine both sets of motivations as soon as you realized it.

JB: I have been a bit busy. Q Branch has me running in a new training protocol.

MD: So I've heard. Word makes its way down to us, even in Medical.

JB: This friend. They keep surprising me. I expect one thing, either based on pattern of behavior or from what I know about them, and more often than not, I find myself caught off-guard because their response was unexpected.

MD: That seems like it would be a reason against friendship for you. Much of what you do is based upon predictable patterns of behavior.

JB: I thought so too. And maybe that's why I was put off at first. Condescension and holier-than-thou never worked on me. But it's not real. It's all just a facade.

MD: This friend, they put on a false front of condescension and holier-than-thou, as you put it?

JB: It only seems like it at first, but it's to keep everyone at arm's length, to keep them from getting close.

MD: That's the opposite of what you do. Or rather, the way you think you do your job. Giving away little real bits and pieces of yourself that don't mean anything rather than keeping everything locked up tight behind a wall.

JB: You're certainly welcome to think that way. The point of it was that as I started to learn more about my friend, the more I realized there was behind it. That the facade is just the Wizard and my friend’s really the man behind the curtain.

MD: Do you perceive the deception as intentional?

JB: Completely. But it's their defense tactic.

MD: Returning to your previous statement, because of the continued unexpected responses, it prompted you to investigate more thoroughly?

JB: It really was more of a series of chances that made me realize it. Catching them off-guard, mostly. 

MD: What was their response?

[Silence: 45 seconds - thinking hard again?]

JB: Tempered. Even. As if even having these secrets found out didn't bother them in the slightest. But also, surprised?, I suppose, when I asked about whatever it was.

MD: Why do you think that is?

[Silence: 1 minute - more and more thinking]

JB: Sometimes I’ll catch their eye, and it's just a wall of empty emotion. There's nothing behind it except the task at hand. But other times, and it's usually because they were looking first, when I catch their eye, it's like I can see the real version of them hiding behind the facade. Like they are waiting for something, but I don't know what it is.

MD: And how do you feel about that?

JB: You know I hate that question. 

MD: Most people do. They often prefer to discuss the feelings and actions of others instead of their own, but we are discussing your friendship with this person and that is a two-way street. I think it's appropriate, given the topic.

JB: Fine. Fair enough. [Short silence] It makes me curious. And oddly excited?

MD: That was a question. You don't know whether you're excited or not?

JB: I can't tell if it's excitement exactly or just mere curiosity. I want to know what's behind it. How deep does the rabbit hole go?

MD: Why do you want to find out? What if it's just a double-blind and your friend is actually just the wall of empty emotion, as you described it.

JB: I don't know. Part of me expects to be continually surprised, but logic says that's unlikely. 

MD: Are there instances where you've met with them and haven't been surprised?

[Extended silence: 3 minutes - He must be thinking hard. I counted the time twice to be sure.]

JB: [clears throat] No. Every time I've seen them, something always surprises me. Even if it's the smallest thing.

MD: For example?

JB: Discovering a reason for doing something a particular way. A scar I hadn't noticed. Conservation of movement in practiced tasks that I had never seen before.

MD: Two of those three describe actions. When you're in that moment of discovery, what do you feel beyond surprise?

JB: Intrigue. [Brief pause] Why didn't I notice before? Why are they this way? How did it turn out like this? What led you to this moment right here right now?

MD: Are you attracted to them? Your friend.

JB: According to most people, my type is ‘has a pulse’. 

MD: Your deflection means yes. [Brief silence] It isn't a bad thing. 

JB: I know it isn't. I'm trying to figure out why you'd ask that.

MD: It was merely a line of enquiry, nothing more. We can move on from it if it makes you uncomfortable.

JB: I'm not uncomfortable. Attraction is part of my job. Provocateur, remember?

MD: But this isn't work. We’re talking about your personal life, remember?

JB: It's not a switch. It doesn't just go on and off like that.

MD: Indeed. I wasn't suggesting such. I was merely reminding you that in the course of talking about your personal life you brought this person up, not while we were discussing your occupation. 

JB: [Short laugh, sounds almost like a bark] Occupation. As if it’s a 9-to-5. 

MD: You are still deflecting, so I believe that means it's time to move on from this question. 

[Electronic buzzer, alarm clock, most likely]

MD: Actually, I think we’ve covered quite a lot. My recommendation to you is to, as always, relax on the alcohol, and try to enjoy your downtime. Do things outside of work that bring you joy.

JB: [Noncommittal noise - Probably isn't listening]

MD: I’ll have my report to M within the next few hours. It was nice to speak to you again, regardless of the circumstances.

JB: I’d like to say I enjoyed it, but you’d know I was lying, wouldn't you?

MD: With you, it's hard to say.

End of Transcript. Total time: 01:03:37

Transcriber: T.N., Q Branch Audio Team

Chapter Text

“This is impossible.”

“It isn’t.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one sitting in front of this infernal thing.”

“I'm not, but I ran it through the rebuild sequence before I shipped it out. It can be done. Please try again, a little more delicately this time.”

They've been arguing for the last 30 minutes while Bond attempts to assemble a rack-mounted switch with the components that Q sent with him. He's holed up in a tiny hotel room in Buenos Aires with only a pitiful fan in the window attempting to suck the already hot air out of the room. 

Over the open comm line, there’s a clatter of tools and a frustrated sigh.

“I'm telling you Q, this heat sink is not compatible with your modification,” Bond complains, pushing back from the small table that he's been hunched over, reaching for the glass of water he'd set aside when he cracked the case open on the switch. The heat is unbearable, thick and choking with humidity, and he gets up to find a washrag to dry the sweat from his forehead. A second one, actually. The first one is still damp and drying over the side of the small sink.

“I rebuilt that switch three times to test the casing around the new chipset and I assure you, 007, it will fit, however, it will only goes together one way.” There's the briefest edge of irritation to his tone, but it's promptly soothed away when he picks up the mug sitting next to his keyboard.

Q , the note had read, To replace the ones that broke. No signature but inside had been a replacement mug and teapot. The mug was almost exactly the same as his last one: plain white with his initial and rightful 10 points on one side and the score distribution for Scrabble on the other. The addition to it had been a red tile at the bottom of the inside proclaiming ‘Triple Word Score’ when one reached the end of their drink. The teapot, however… That was. Well, where he'd had a plain white teapot before, this new one was white also, but had the words ‘Crazy Cat Lady’ written on both sides in bright pink decorated by cat paws and hearts in other alarming shades of pink. He'd very nearly dropped the damn thing before packing it back into the shipping box and storing it away to never see the light of day again. The new mug had, however, been given a thorough wash and christening of a fantastic cup of tea. Q had been unable to convey his thanks personally as Bond had left for Argentina early Saturday morning, itchy to be back in the field after his AFD requal had been processed and approved by M on Friday; his package hadn't arrived in the mailroom until first thing Monday morning. 

Now early Tuesday afternoon in London, three days on-duty as Bond’s official handler, and he already wanted to strangle the man as soon as he returned to London. Alternatively, reach through the comm line and strangle him, but he hadn't invented a way of doing that just yet.

“Let’s try it again. Disassemble it down to -”

“It’s done,” Bond interrupts.

“Oh, well done. Now, chipset first, logo side facing the power supply.”

“The case fit, Q. I didn't have to disassemble it,” Bond explains, picking up the glass of water to drain it and gets up to fill it again.

“See, I told you it would fit,” Q chuckles softly. “I wouldn't send you something that didn’t work.”

Bond’s hum of approval echoes clearly across his headset, and it makes him smile, picturing the look on the older man’s face.

“I never doubted you, Q,” the blonde teases in clear opposition to his earlier words, but Q can't begrudge him that. He does love to tease.

“Clearly,” Q hums in reply. “Your badge should be there inside the switch’s installation manual.”

“I’ll check.” Bond quickly downs the second glass of water before picking up the booklet from the packaging and thumbing through it to find the plastic RFID card with his picture in the middle of a dark blue background and under the yellow words Correo Argentino. “Yeah, I have it. Looks good.”

“Took all of about 30 seconds, I’m sure. I didn’t print it but I did give it the final review. It has a contact sensor in it that should bypass any low-level door security they have, given that the sensors are even working,” Q explains, eyeing the building layout projection on his screen. “Last survey said the doors weren’t alarmed. Once you get up to the fourth floor, you’ll need the bypass I programmed into the crown of your watch.”

“Sounds doable enough. I'm going to box this back up and get a shower so we can get started,” Bond replies, replacing the hacked switch into its box and that box into a yellow and blue mailer before leaving the ID badge on top of it.

“You know I’ll be here.” Q’s voice is warm, almost soft, a departure from his usual no-nonsense, and Bond grins before quickly popping the low-profile earpiece from his ear, an actual flesh-colored dot of tiny micro transmitters, resting on top of his badge before he strips to shower.

He can’t help it if his thoughts stray to Q while he does, of rosy wine-blushed cheeks and soft full lips, of the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs, the annoyed set of his eyebrows when something doesn't go right. If he despoils Q in his thoughts while he washes with ideas of how the man would look on his worn-in couch with his trousers around his thighs and Bond’s mouth around his cock, well, no one had to know. If he further dirties the master tech in his mind and strays a hand to his own arousal with just how beautiful Q’d look coming around his fingers or his prick as he fucked him into the mattress, no one had to know that either. 

If he thinks about thin, talented fingers laced in his own, a soft open safe expression and gentle rhythm that speaks of love and mutual respect, and if that is the thought that tips him over the edge, prick tightening in his hand as he strokes himself off unevenly under lukewarm water that still feels too hot and a bit-back cry of passion, no one definitely needed to know. Though perhaps the tech in question wouldn't mind hearing his thoughts when he got back. Or a less love-tinted and more lust-driven version, anyway.

Despite taking care of himself, showering and redressing in his lightest linen shirt and trousers takes less than 15 minutes. When he sticks the earpiece back inside of his right tragus, the new low-profile earwig actually matches the color of his skin instead of generic flesh tones!, the sounds of Q in his Branch’s kitchen come across clearly - he must be making his afternoon pot of tea. He smiles a little at the thought of knowing Q’s routines and the somewhat smug feeling associated with it.

“Did you receive my present, Q? I know it came through the mailroom yesterday,” Bond says conversationally as he pockets the ID badge and checks his ankle-holstered Beretta 70S ACP Q had adjusted for him during his requalifications. Along with it on his left ankle, he has an extra magazine and a small knife Q had also given him separately from his mission kit. 

“It’s an LDK, last-ditch knife. If you've got nothing else, you’ll at least have that. You can keep it, it's not part of my inventory,” he had said, looking away with a flush at the last bit like he hadn’t purchased it but rather had made it himself. Bond was willing to bet money on that as Q simply refused to stop surprising him, whether he meant to or not.

“I did. It was very thoughtful of you. I was going to wait to convey my thanks in person, but since you brought it up, I’ll just go ahead,” the current Q was saying, shaking him from the memory of that bashful little smile he'd tried to hide. He sounded like he was rinsing said present in the sink. “Though I'll save the teapot for using at home on special occasions,” which clearly meant he had no intention of using it whatsoever.

“Liked it that much, hm? I guess I'll have to bring you something back from Buenos Aires then,” Bond chuckles as he gathers up his equipment and pats his pockets down to make sure he’s not missing anything. His documents are already in waterproof bags in the tank of the toilet, his Argentine driver's license and credit cards under the name Matheus Ayera tucked into his wallet. His mobile ends up in another pocket as he picks up the box, his sunglasses, and room key, locking the door behind him before he makes his way down to the street. The humidity is even worse outside, and he's sweating before he’s able to flag down a black and yellow taxi, giving the address in Spanish. Generally, he would have transportation drop him off further from his location and walk in, but in this case, it's not necessary. His cover of going in to mail something will work for as long as it takes for him to find a bathroom and ditch the mailer.

He and the driver make small talk in rapid-fire Spanish, and Bond listens attentively to his retelling of a Boca Juniors at River Plate football match the previous night, a long-standing rivalry between the two teams that ended in a draw. He’s also listening to Q in the background as the tech follows the route of his cab through the city by narrating his satellite-fed view, imagining him easily in that straight-backed chair he subjects himself to whilst at the main terminal. The majority of what Q narrates around him ends up being mostly businesses and restaurants, but as the driver starts making his way further into Barracas, Bond starts to listen less and less, senses on hyperaware as he hands over enough money to cover the ride and a bit extra for the company once he’s stopped in the middle of the one-way road to let his passenger out. The humidity greets him like a wet second skin, not that the cab had been much better with its air conditioner that seemed to only recirculate the damp air. His dress shoes click as he crosses the street in front of the cab, waving the driver off one-handedly with a charming smile as he heads into the main branch of Correo Argentino. 

The building itself is four stories, shared by various other businesses on the left and right, with the front half of the ground floor dedicated to retail postal services. Bond joins the queue for a few minutes while employees help those at the counter, and then dips out of line with a sheepish smile, “Ah, baño?” 

Luckily, the old lady behind him takes pity and points out the sign with a quick, “Por el pasillo a la izquierda, mijo. ¿Quieres que sostenga tu paquete?”

His sheepish smile quickly brightens, how easy it is to flip from one to the other like a snake shedding its skin. “Gracias tía, pero no sé si volveré a tiempo. Comí algo malo…”

“Ahh, pobrecito, mejorarse,” she coos as he steps away, waving a hand politely back as she watches him disappear around the corner, utterly charmed by the sweet tía instead of the Abuela she normally hears. By the time it’s her turn at the counter, smile still on her face, Bond is already on the third-floor stairwell landing, heading to the fourth with his ID badge clipped to his waist. 

The entry doors to the fourth floor are badge-access only, and with solid confidence in Q (Branch)’s work, he holds the card against the reader until it beeps and glows green, granting him access. There are significantly more people on this floor than the last one, the majority of it taken up by cubicle farms in varying sections. 

“Fourth-floor houses all financials, HR, and the executive staff offices. Luckily, we don't need to get you in there, just into the server room,” Q chimes in once he's on the floor. Bond’s strategy of ‘always look like you know what you're doing and where you're going’ usually pays off for him, but this maze means the server room is anyone’s guess. Anyone except for Q.

“When you come to the second corridor, make a right,” he directs from behind his workstation overlooking the Pit, watching the little dot on the map move accordingly. “You’ll pass five rows of desks and you should see a door with a keypad on the left wall after the desks. Once you're there, on the underside of the keypad should be your access point.”

With a nod to the young lady passing behind him, Bond fiddles with the box in his arm, making it look like he’s nearly dropped it while sneaking the crown from his watch out of place and then grins embarrassedly at her, ducking his head almost demurely. She turns around at that, continuing on with an embarrassed smile of her own. As soon as she’s not looking, the smile falls and he turns his attention back to the keypad at hand, popping the little lock-breaker into the slot. 

“Ah, I see we’re ready to continue then?” Q asks, half-teasing half-sardonically, as he starts the process of overriding the pinpad. A huff of laughter and a soft breathy “Jealous?” are Bond’s only responses as he brute-forces the code with precision, the light glowing green after only a few seconds. Q doesn't deem a response to that necessary, regardless of how the word sends shivers down his spine. Not now, he tells himself rudely before focusing back on the task at hand. When the audible click of the lock sounds, the tech lets out an invisible sigh of relief - the first hurdle of this op is behind them, physically and metaphorically, and he's barely done any heavy lifting. That's about to change as soon as Bond gets the new switch installed.

“Alright, what are we looking at?” Q prompts, crossing his legs at the ankles as he picks up his mug. 

The blonde flips on the light and swears under his breath. “You're really not going to like this… It's a mess in here. There's wires everywhere, nothing is tucked away neatly…”

“Ah, damn. It should be fine, we’re just swapping one for another. How many racks do you see?”

Over the next hour, Q guides him through the maze of wires and connections before they find the correct rack, and then again through the mess to find the computer attached to the correct rack. Along with the new components installed into the switch, the USB install stick had been modified to crack into the server and wipe the traces of their visit, including the log of replacing the switch. It also left a very nice little backdoor for later, just in case. All in all, by the time Bond ends back up at his hotel, just over half the day is gone. Though this first portion of the op has been fairly straightforward, he knows that's nothing to speak of how the rest of it might go down, that things can, and often quickly do, go to shit.

Two days later, things indeed do go to shit. 

“How? We had three sets of eyes on that slick bastard, THREE, and satellite!, specifically so he couldn't just up and disappear, and you're telling me he up and disappeared?!” Q’s tirade ends in a fwump of defeat into his chair, the balls of his hands pressing into his eyes, glasses clattering to the desk loudly as light blooms behind his eyes. After a long moment, he sighs and lowers his hands, nodding in the direction of the tech-cum-bearer-of-bad-news as he retrieves his glasses and rights them on his face, all of his hard-earned calm rushing back to take control of the situation. “I'm sorry for yelling at you, Ms Farrow, I’m just very frustrated with this behavior.”

Sarah Farrow, to her credit, understood and even sympathized with the new Quartermaster. She had been an employee of Q Branch for longer than almost anyone else, probably old enough to be many of the newer technicians’ mother, and had grown accustomed to Bond’s antics, which often included dropping off the radar only to surface days or weeks later with little to no equipment and usually a suntan that spoke of days on the beach. When he was in the office, he was a gentleman to everyone, an equal opportunity flirt, and a fantastic conversationalist. Still, she felt bad that this was the first one out of the gate, and Bond still couldn't take it easy on their poor Quartermaster. 

She crosses the room and pats him gently on the shoulder, a warm smile on her face. “Not at all, sir. He’ll turn up. He always does.”

“I know, but it's until he turns up that worries me. What am I supposed to tell M? ‘Sorry, sir, I had satellite feed and three sets of eyes on him but 007 still gave us the slip?’” Q huffs a sarcastic laugh, but it holds none of its usual mirth. 

“If you tell him exactly that, I'm sure he will understand,” she continues, withdrawing her hand before heading back towards the door. “Don't worry, sir. Bond might cause trouble, but it’s generally always worth it. He probably stumbled onto something big and couldn't sit on it. I’ve seen enough shenanigans to know his style by now.” She pauses in the door again with a small knowing smile, “I’m sure he’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Q laughs, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. “I’d really rather he didn't! Or rather, he can make it up to me by not disappearing next time.” 

With a laugh of her own, the tech closes the door behind her, leaving Q to his thoughts in the quiet solitude of his office. He quickly drafts an email to M about the missing 007, but doesn't send it yet, minimizing it in favor of looking over the folders on his desk that require immediate outfitting, code numbers staring up at him from the desktop. Had it really been less than a week since he’d seen the blonde’s number staring up at him from the same windowed folder? A small shake of his head gets his brain back on track, scanning over the three folders before starting to compile the equipment lists he needs to have pulled from the central armory.

Bond and his mess of an operation leave the forefront of his mind in favor of focusing on reviewing the new training protocols they’re initiating under RAPT, on signing off employee files for reviews, on debugging a new nasty virus that he’d caught wind of through a thwarted hacking attempt, on reviewing a thousand things he keeps juggling in the air as part of his responsibilities as an executive. It keeps him busy until well into the evening, and when he turns to see if Bond is still napping on his futon, the question of ‘dinner?’ hanging on his lips, Q is momentarily startled to not find him there. 

The feeling hits him like a brick wall - he'd forgotten somewhere along the line that Bond is not here, is not anywhere reachable within Q’s technological grasp, and the feeling is so off-putting that he feels like he’s going to be sick to his stomach. How could he have forgotten that the smarmy bastard had swanned off the face of the Earth without so much as a wink of indication? It's hard not to feel upset by it, but several calming breaths later and Q’s recovered his control over his emotions, pushing them back into the box where they came from. 

With a sigh, he maximizes the email from earlier and retypes a small portion of it to update that they've lost contact with 007 ten hours ago, and he's not reported in, really really trying to downplay the fact that he's gone off-op. When Q gives it up as a job poorly done, he sends it anyways and logs off his laptop, retrieving his things to take back home with him. It's not like he can't hear Mallory’s disapproving tone in his head, that go figure, it's Bond’s first job back in the field, and he's already causing problems for them both. It's not like they don't have MI-5 encroaching on their territory with the idea for a global surveillance network floating around. It's not like they're still reeling from the loss of not only Mansfield, but a significant portion of their agents as well, of having to move the entire operation in secret to these bunkers where Q still hasn't had time to finish setting up properly… 

No, of course not. Because Bond always does what he thinks is best, and bugger everyone else. Or, that's what Q tells himself as he finishes packing his satchel and straightens his coat over his work clothes. Because goodness forbid anyone else from actually knowing what's going on, except Bond, sitting like a spider in the middle of his web, yanking everyone else’s strings. It isn't entirely a fair assessment, but it makes him momentarily feel better as he shuts his office door behind him and engages the security protocols. Change-over is coming up in an hour, and the night tech team has already begun filtering in, the scent of coffee and tea wafting in over the sounds of spirited conversation. Not for the first time does Q wonder if he made the right decision in accepting the position of Quartermaster. He could've been perfectly happy forever in the R&D Lab, the Computing Labs, Chem Labs, really anywhere in Q Branch. He could've been in the middle of the conversation, talking with his peers about his cats, and the new Chinese drama he started watching, going out for drinks after shift and gaming with colleagues. Life could have been very different if he'd said no, but thank you for considering me…

‘Q,’ comes a voice from within his brain, smooth like honey and filled with charm, ‘when have you ever wanted any of those things? You worked here for 9 years before being offered the position, did you ever once go with your colleagues to dinner? Did they ever even ask?’

‘They asked!,’ he retorts to the voice of his #1 headache, ‘I was just busy that time. And the time after. But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have asked again.’

The voice laughs at him, and quite rudely too. ‘I wasn’t trying to make you mad,’ mental Bond coos, already trying to put out Q’s fiery temper. ‘You haven't gone to dinner with a colleague, so does that mean dinner at yours was a date?’

Date? Had it been? There had been wine, and food, good conversation, too. Shit, there had been hand-holding and Bond had kissed him. Twice. The amount of emotion he’d seen on the man that night. There really wasn’t another explanation for it. He really hadn’t had the time or spare brain process to think about it, but now that the man in question has decided to invade his brain while he made his way home, it was apparently as good a time as any. More to the fact, technically Bond had even asked him ahead of time via written note. 

It...wasn't outside the realm of possibility that they could consider it a date.

And what if it was? What if it had been a date indeed? It wasn’t like things had been any different afterwards… Bond had been assigned the next day to leave for Argentina within 24 hours. Sure, there had been plenty of conversation over the last few days, perhaps a bit lighter than his own usual near-acerbic tone, but they generally made conversation when they were able to, be it 11,000 kilometers apart or not. (Not that he’s calculated the distance between their respective locations several times. That would be absurd!)

A bit of doubt creeps in because, surely, the blonde can’t be yanking him around for fun… right? He wouldn’t. Right? Not after Q had practically bared his soul, had given so much of himself away without meaning to, put himself on the line again. Years and years spent convincing himself that even if nothing ever came of the affectionlongingdesireneed buried deep in his heart he would still be alright, and one (not-even-sure-if-you-can-call-it-a-)date was all it took to fuck all of that up. 

Q lets out a short, wry chuckle at the thought that he is well and truly fucked when it comes to James Bond, once again. 

The sound is enough to make the passenger next to him look up in surprise and shift in their seat, and Q realizes, belatedly, that his anxious brain has managed to carry him on autopilot through most of his commute home, the overhead announcement for the upcoming arrival at St John’s Wood Station nearly startling him. He’s been so good about maintaining presence, being in the here and now, that the dissociation sways him, grip tightening on the metal pole he’s holding on to as he’s been leaning against the bumrest. His other hand tightens instinctively on the satchel at his side, patting down the front zippered pocket for his Oyster card. Over the years, he’s found that it’s the best place to keep it since the reader was able to pick up the RFID through his bag, and it hangs at just the right angle for him to be able to brush up against the reader when he taps in or out since that's really all he's required to do with his year-long season ticket provided through Six. Subconsciously, Q pats his other pockets, feeling out his mobiles, wallet, work badge and chip card on the lanyard under his shirt, the thick outline of his laptop and tablet, the solid weight of the P290RS in its holster inside his bag heavier than its 281 grams --

(Getting dispensation to carry a firearm while not being a field agent had ruffled so many feathers that Mansfield had made it her personal mission at one point to ensure that Q be allowed to carry his sidearm under the agreed-upon (and true) explanation that if someone got their hands on him: 1- they likely already knew who he was, 2- given his previous experience during his military service, he would have a better shot at surviving if he had the capability to fight back, and 3- because of his prior service and his medical conditions, unless he had a chance at escaping from the initial encounter, it was likely he would either not survive a kidnapping or assassination attempt, or he would have a mental breakdown from being tortured. Q had argued that several other executives had the means or a trained bodyguard-cum-assistant at their sides, he had nothing and no-one, and was potentially more vulnerable because of his underlying mental health and medical conditions. Being the reasonable woman that she was (probably turning in her grave as he was thinking about this and calling her reasonable of all things), Mansfield had agreed with him and set upon getting the approval. No precedent had been set before, but her argument that the now-Quartermaster was ‘woefully under-armed to handle a potential threat to his life while being unarmed’ eventually won over whatever committee she needed to have his paperwork signed off. The fact that he had agreed to an outside assessment of his firearm skills during all of that probably helped as well. Prior to that, he’d always carried a stun gun, just to be safe, as the two unlicensed handguns in his safe at home were more than enough to ensure his lifetime stay in a deep, dark hole until someone decided they’d spent enough time taking care of him, but the comfort that he could very easily wipe almost all traces of his existence and disappear at any given notice if he needed to was more than enough to outweigh that.).

The break of the train from underground to above-ground blinks the evening into the train around him as they head away from Swiss Cottage station. The routine of the transit is soothing for his anxiety, programmed alerts fed onto the tiny HUD in the top left of his glasses keeping him clued in to exactly how far along he is in his commute and how long until he arrives at home. Tomorrow morning he’ll drive his barely-used Q3, following the program he’d written back in his early days as a technician for varying his commuting routine. During his first month as Quartermaster, upper-level managers had begun hounding him about opsec and predictability being the number one killer on members of the intelligence community. Q had politely dropped his collected data from his commute program and his data analysts’ opinion on the desk and walked out. He hadn’t heard another peep after that. Coincidentally, shortly after that was when his approval for the firearm permit had come through. (He’s still partially convinced that his program had something to do with it, but no one has mentioned either of them to him again.) 

The rest of Q’s commute passes in his own bubble of silence, already into the evening enough that most of the people on the train are stragglers like him leaving late from the office. His arrival at West Hampstead station and the subsequent walk home also pass in silence, both his bottom- and upper-floor housemates are out, leaving him to the relative quiet of his part of the house, Erik and Charles swarming him for attention as soon as he walks in the door. The first portion of the evening passes in swiftness as he fixes a quick dinner and takes up his usual spot on the couch, the cats on either side of him as he eats and watches another episode of 陈情令. He stays until the end of the episode before getting up to aggrieved meows from Erik, offended that he dares to disturb his comfortable position against Q’s thigh. The small number of dishes are dealt with summarily before he opens his home office, dropping his satchel onto his desk after retrieving it to be sorted out after he showers and changes for the evening. (The only exception is that his work mobile never leaves his general presence, God forbid some emergency should arise while his phone was in the other room, he'd never hear the end of it.) From there, he trails into his bedroom, chuckling as the cats chase each other up into their fortress, Erik batting at Charles’ tail from the ledge above. Practiced efficiency lands his tie on the rumpled bed, covers and blankets shoved into a mess on one side, his shoes kicked off near the edge of it as he unbuttons and hauls off both his dark navy cardigan and striped dress shirt, the cardigan joining his tie on the bed, the shirt dropped unceremoniously to the floor with his socks joining them momentarily, toed off as he strips off his undershirt and belt as well. The belt ends up on the bed while the undershirt ends up in the pile on the floor, his trousers and pants shoved down to join the rest of the items destined for the washing.

Since he'd bought the house, he'd made several quality-of-life improvements, one of his favorites being swapping out the old water heater for an instant one instead, along with a few much-needed upgrades . Some days, there was honestly nothing better than turning on the water in the shower and it being already hot and ready to go instead of having to wait for it to heat again after his housemates have showered. Today happens to be one of those days, confident that the hot spray will ease the knot between his shoulders and the vise of background anxiety that's been eating at him for hours. The business portion of the shower doesn't take long, instead Q spends almost triple that amount of time with his back to the near-scalding water, letting the warmth of it soak into his bones, attempting to relax enough for the metaphorical weight on his shoulders to lift, even just a little. 

20 minutes later and no less lighter, he’s about to twist the shower off, but his right hand strays instead to his thigh, running the backs of his fingers up the inside before cupping his balls and squeezing them together. With a small groan as it twitches, he slides his hand further up, squeezing his prick this time as he retracts the foreskin, teasing it repeatedly over the head. The sensation is good, but he's suddenly craving , and it doesn't take much for him to scoot to the bench and kick it down with his left foot, planting it firmly on the bench as he carefully shifts the rest of him further out of the water. Spit is not an ideal lubricant, not when doing anything more than putting 1 or 2 fingers in, but for this, that's all he’ll need. So, spit he does, into his right palm and coats his left second and third fingers, leaning forward as he balances on the slick tile and reaches under the heavy weight of his sac, pressing and then rubbing firmly as he starts to stroke his prick again, pulling the foreskin up and down as he does. It's slow at first, pulling up as he presses in and then pulling down as he pulls almost all the way out, building speed and a rhythm. It feels amazing, but simply touching himself isn't enough. His mind wanders, wanders to bright blue eyes and strong shoulders, of rich laughter and his name whispered across his skin. 

‘Q,’ that voice in his head chides, ‘are you desperate?’ The voice laughs, sending a ghost of a shudder down his spine. ‘Are you aching?’ Q’s breath catches and his knees quiver, sheer willpower keeping him in place as he rapidly strokes himself off, two fingers behind him mimicking the act that yes, he is desperate for. It only takes a few minutes before his hips shudder and shake as he groans, breath coming in sharp pants as he rinses his hands and all associated traces of the act disappear down the drain.

Freshly washed, dried, and dressed, Q gathers his earlier-abandoned pile of dirty clothes and throws them in to wash before retrieving the previous day’s clothes from the drying line, folding and putting them away along with the items he'd left on the bed before showering. With an evening pot of tea on to brew, he finally unpacks his satchel to settle in for the nighttime work session. Laptop into the dock, tablet on to charge, both mobiles close at hand, he pulls up the sign-in screen and leaves it to blink while he cobbles together what he’ll need for the next few hours that the pot of tea will get him while he reviews the footage of Bond’s disappearance earlier today. Bare feet slip quietly over worn tile and carpet as he brings the whole tea tray back to the office, naturally avoiding the spots that creak and groan in a pattern that speaks more of muscle memory than it does of any conscious thought. His mind is far away, already thinking of the minimal CCTV they had on the site, 2 additional local field agents within sightlines but nowhere near close enough to do anything about it, and then active satellite tracking had been lost before Bond had even moved within a block of the building..

It had been a calculated risk to begin with, one that M had told Bond he was not authorized to make, not until they had more intel, but Bond being Bond had moved on his idea of actionable intelligence, and of course, had disappeared off the grid. And here they were, 22 hours later and still no closer to locating him. The actionable intel had been in the process of being verified when Bond moved in, and had since come back and flagged as false. No one was surprised, to say the least.

Q shakes his head and rubs the balls of his hands into his eyes, sighing as his vision goes dark momentarily and then blurrily blinks back into focus again, the log-on box taunting him, waiting for input. With a second sigh, he slots his ID card into the reader, cracks his fingers, knuckles, and his back, and gets down to work. 

It feels like hours pass before he blinks again, the clock reading well after 0100 before Q stands and stretches the kinks from his back, locking down his computer before clearing the desktop of the tea tray and the empty snack bowls he doesn't really remember eating from. Mobiles go into his pocket before he takes the assorted dishes to the kitchen and starts to rinse them all, a sleepy yawn half-stifled into the crook of his arm as he rinses the last dregs of tea from the pot. He loads them into the dishwasher methodically and sets it to run while he sleeps for the few hours he can before he's eventually hauled in front of M to account for 007’s whereabouts. Passing by the desk, now dry hands lift the laptop and tablet from the surface, tucked under one arm until he reaches his bedroom, setting them on the top of the dresser before he goes to open the safe built into the wall of the closet, dumping them both in with an unstifled yawn, before shutting it back up and dumping himself into bed, barely awake long enough to plug in both of his mobiles to charge and take off his glasses, a duo of sleepy meows complaining about his late appearance. 

“I'm paying the mortgage with this overtime, you know,” Q retorts, cuddling up to them nevertheless. “All you two do is complain about how much I work, but did you ever think that all my work pays for your toys and food?” Neither of the two cats dignify him with a response, but Q is used to having one-sided conversations with his furry children. Had they answered, he probably wouldn't have even been awake long enough to respond again anyway. As it is, he's forgotten to brush his teeth. 

The alarm wakes Q far before he's ready to get up but he does anyway, pathetic meows coming from the blankets in protest of losing the warmth of their human, though the protest doesn't last long when they snuggle back up together in the warm spot Q left behind and he pulls the covers over them a little bit. Furry children, indeed. A cursory scan of the work mobile’s notifications reveals nothing interesting happened overnight, certainly not the reappearance of a very specific blond. The personal one is even less revealing - not a single notification. Not that he honestly expected one. Bond will make his reappearance when he is damn well ready to, and if he requires assistance, he’ll find a way to get in contact or get picked up by authorities to force MI-6 to rescue him. Any of the three is less than ideal, but the sooner he got back in contact, the sooner Q could theoretically relax, since M would not be hounding him over it. Already there was a meeting request in his calendar for first thing this morning with the man, no doubt ready to rake Q over the desk about the missing double-oh. 

With a shake of his head to clear the thoughts away, Q stretches and changes out of his sleep clothes, pulling out his athletic clothes before retrieving his small Sig Sauer from the closet safe, strapping it to the small of his back with a stretchy nylon belt and custom holster. Hopefully the morning jog will help to further clear his mind, using his refocusing techniques to pin himself into the here and now as he takes his medications, tucks the mobiles into each pocket and picks up his headphones, beginning to stretch lightly as he makes his way to the door. Routine will help clear things. Surely…

== 

007’s been missing for more than 96 hours when a postcard with an obscene amount of postage shows up at Q’s house, addressed to Quinton Kingsley, which is not even remotely close to his name. It is, however, Bond’s handwriting, if the samples in the computer are anything to go by. That, and his address is spot on correct. The picture on the front is of the Cemitério de Recoleta, and the back, besides a fake name and his address, is empty. With a care usually reserved for electronics and explosives, he carefully peels back the express postage stamp, hoping for a miracle because if all he has to say is the Recoleta cemetery in Beunos Aires, Q is going to murder him - and then he stops, staring at the word written on the reverse side of the postage: natalensis .

What the hell is natalensis supposed to mean?