Chapter Text
Q was admittedly shaken for a bit after Rousseau’s exit, and it took an embarrassingly long time before he unrolled his keyboard again, reassuring himself with the flexible, familiar feel of it as he also let the melodious story of the opera wash over him. It was almost calming, but he had a little voice in the back of his mind telling him that it would be better if Bond was there.
Of course, being in a tetchy mood already from Rousseau’s invasive questions, the rest of Q’s mind misinterpreted the desire: ‘Am I so weak then that I need to have a babysitting at my elbow at all times?’ Q still felt bad about 007 having to hover over him so often, helping him far more than he would have had to if Q were still sighted, and his embarrassment and regret over that tangled up with a frustrated sort of anger until his mouth soured and his head throbbed. Pausing in his typing (he’d already mistyped three times in just sending off simple commands to his laptop, which wasn’t improving his frazzled mood), Q lifted his fingertips to rub at his temples, which only informed him that the pain was closer to his eyes – again. “Shit,” he muttered in a resigned sigh, “Pull yourself together, Balien.”
Calling himself by a name that wasn’t his was a smart move, but it was also annoying, because right now he wanted nothing so much as he just wanted to be Q. And ‘Q’ before the blindness.
Somehow, he thought that whatever tangled feelings he had around 007 would make a lot more sense if he had working eyes to just see the man’s expression with. Just as Q began to think that perhaps he’d be more interesting to the agent (as opposed to just a cripple he had to be eyes and muscle for) if he were hale and whole, the Quartermaster gave his head a hard shake and dropped his hands. His fingers found their appointed keys, and he refused to let his mind wander again, typing. Imagining that his laptop was right in front of him, and listening as the computerized voice in his ear confirmed his typed commands, Q began checking up on the cameras that he’d commandeered at the auction house. He’d simply frozen them all, but knew that that was risky, especially if someone was watching them attentively. He found Bond first before ‘freeing’ all of the other cameras, even as he began to run facial recognition on the present footage.
General alarms informed him where random faces appeared (nameless, for all intents and purposes, and most likely guards), all a safe distance from where Bond was… but then a name rang through Q’s ear and he stiffened.
Q immediately tapped his earpiece to unmute it, barking as his heart hammer, “007, how the bloody fuck did you end up with Mercer and Rousseau within less than a meter of your position?”
He didn’t receive a reply for a long time, which was to be expected. He didn’t even know if Bond was listening right now, but hoped that he was, if only so he wouldn’t be caught unawares on the off-chance that he was unaware of the two men so near him. There was a third man, but Q’s facial recognition program was designed to focus first on a list of ‘known’ faces, mostly the criminals from the auction – the rest, theoretically, Q and Bond didn’t care about. Now, Q typed a few commands to run a search specifically on the third man, which ran as he waited with a building sweat for 007 to answer. The silence in his ears was suddenly almost as bad as the blackness before his eyes, making him feel like he was slowly being smothered.
But Bond hadn’t moved, and the three men near him didn’t go in to where he was. Q told himself that that was good, and that no news was good news, even if it meant radio-silence that was slowly killing him. He prepared to knock out the power in the area or set off fire-alarms as a distraction.
Then, at long last, Q received alerts that Mercer and his companions were moving away down the hall, turning up on different cameras. Almost immediately after, 007’s voice reappeared in Q’s ear, hushed and just a bit tense, “Sorry, Q, I was a bit indisposed. I didn’t exactly plan to be eavesdropping on Mercer, Rousseau, and his bodyguard.”
Right about then, the facial recognition program came back in with that last bit of information, so Q nodded to himself as he took that all in and tried to calm down. “No need to apologize, 007. I’m the one who should be apologetic, leaving you unattended for so long.”
“No worries. I was fine,” was the agent’s typically untroubled answered, “I even managed to find Genecode, although we might have met up with a snag in that department.”
“What is it?”
“It’s in genetic form. A syringe of liquid, to be precise, and from what I heard from Mercer, he might have additional information hidden elsewhere, which complicates this job significantly,” came Bond’s irked but concise reply.
“So you can’t just destroy what you’ve found?” Q asked, frowning.
There was a pause that probably indicated 007 thinking or mulling over his answer; it was easier to have nothing but verbal cues when it was over the comms like this, because Q was used to never seeing an agent’s face in situations like this. “Not without alerting Mercer. We have two objectives now, and if we acquire and destroy one, there’s no doubt he’ll double the security on the other – or hare off with it entirely.”
“Drat,” replied Q with understated, dry annoyance all compounded into one word. 007 actually chuckled. “So what’s our plan then? I can see that you’re already moving.” Q’s mouth twisted in a frown as he amended, “Well, I’m getting auditory reports that show you disappearing and reappearing on different cameras. If you take the next left, you’ll be following the same route Mercer and his entourage are.”
Bond took the right. “As much as I want to put a bullet in all three of them, I’m sure that M would call that a reckless impulse, the kind that would get me sent to Psych,” 007 replied glibly and without as much regret as there should have been. Then he sobered abruptly, “No, I’m going straight back to you. I’ve learned that Rousseau isn’t merely keeping track of his boss’s assets at the auction – he’s recruiting. You’ve been targeted as someone Mercer wants to finish the program that you started. If this were less dangerous, I’d be laughing at the irony.”
The first two sentences stunned Q enough that he barely heard the latter, although his brain grasped enough to realize that danger he was in before it sort of stuttered to a halt. He wondered if this was what a heart felt like when a bubble of air was injected into the blood stream. “Come again, 007?”
“You’re too smart for your own good, Q. Can you get out of the opera house?”
That was not what Q had hoped to hear. In fact, he felt his breathing start to speed up as if he were on a plane, unease igniting into the hotter fires of panic at an alarming, largely unwarranted speed. Logically, Q knew that alarm was counterproductive; logic didn’t have to contend with stress, headaches, and now a genuine threat to his person. Q hadn’t realized that he was so close to panicking until it hit him like a snowball becoming an avalanche.
“Q? Q!” Bond’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, but it was growing more intense. He might have been saying something before this, but Q only heard the hard, iron tone of his title as it hit his eardrum, piercing through the thudding of his heart. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he realized that 007 must have heard his increased breathing as it rushed in and out of his lungs – too fast, too shallow. Embarrassment joined the fluttering spasms of the panic attack as Q curled forward in the opera seating, clenching his eyes shut as if to make the darkness behind his eyelids seem more natural and less permanent than blindness.
“I… I’m sorry,” he wheezed, shaking his head, “I shouldn’t… Shit, I don’t mean to panic.”
“It’s okay, Q. Just breathe. I shouldn’t have asked that,” came 007’s voice with surprising understanding. “I’m going to see if I can waylay Rousseau without Mercer seeing me, because Mercer doesn’t seem to realize just whom his crony is cozying up to. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get to you, at least not before I’m with you.”
Q nodded, then realized that 007 couldn’t see him, and then realized he still didn’t have the breath to talk anymore.
“Are you with me, Q? You don’t have to talk – I know those clever fingers of yours can punch keys and give me a whole helluva a lot more than your mouth can, if you put your mind to it.”
The compliment was so ridiculous that, somewhere in his lungs, Q found the air to punch out a laugh. The humor was unexpected enough that it eased the iron band around his chest and he was able to laugh thinly for a moment. “Please don’t flirt with me like that, 007,” he rasped past breathy giggles.
He heard the sigh of relief through his earpiece. “And why not?” came the charmingly impish reply.
“Because that was just terrible. And because I’m barely fit for duty as it is, and we both know it,” Q joked self-deprecatingly, “so more distractions will no doubt end in tears.”
“You’re not as bad as that, Q-” Bond started to say warmly when suddenly a little alarm went off in Q’s ear – something he’d set up for moments just like this, when he didn’t trust his own abilities but still trusted the tech at his fingertips.
Q interrupted sharply, dragging himself back into his role of Quartermaster with speed that took surprising effort thanks to his recent panic, “007, Mercer and company have slipped off my radar. I can give you the coordinates of the last locations where the facial recognition program picked them up.”
007 was back on track, too, voice serious. “Did they leave separately?”
“Yes.” Q paused and stuttered, realizing something as he checked information and had it repeated back to him in his ear. “All three of them – Rousseau isn’t with his bodyguard.” Which meant that even if 007 went after one of them, that left the other free and possibly hunting after Q. While it made sense for Mercer to want ‘Balien’ to be recruited as gently as possible, Q also knew that Mercer had his back up, and was getting desperate. Desperate men were the ones, in Q’s experience, who did violent things – 00-agents were in that category more often than not.
“Lead me to the bodyguard, Q,” Bond demanded calmly.
Q grabbed onto that self-assuredness like a lifeline, weaving an echo of it into his own voice as he directed the agent as swiftly and efficiently as possible.
~^~
Bond was rushing and he knew it, and some part of him was muttering in the back of his head that this would go badly. The other option, however, was risking Rousseau and/or his bodyguard getting too much of a lead on him, and getting back to Q – which was no option at all. Sliding through the dim halls at twice the speed he’d entered them, the Quartermaster’s directions a familiar noise in his ear, the 00-agent made his way to the west exit.
“You’re going after the bodyguard?” Q’s tone was curious.
Far more serious, his own tone a growl, 007 answered as he moved, “He’s the more dangerous one.” Although, in the back of his head, 007 was still struggling to balance the pros and cons: Rousseau was less dangerous, but would therefore be easier for 007 to incapacitate. But if Bond went after the hacker, no matter how fast he took him out, it would take time to then hunt down the bodyguard – during which time said bodyguard could already be getting worrisomely close to Q. The fact that Q didn’t have any more cameras in the area worsened matters, and 007 didn’t realize how much he missed that extra input until right now, when he realized he didn’t have it.
Ironic: Q was blind, but still did his best to keep eyes on the situation, and his agent.
Apparently, the Quartermaster was a bit recovered from his aborted panic attack, because he answered with weary dryness, “Just great. So I get Rousseau talking my ear off again. I’m not sure if that’s really the better option.”
Almost at the outer door, 007 slowed down a bit, forcing himself to be careful when his limbs were already buzzing with adrenalin. He snorted at Q’s complaint, “At least your background checks don’t show him being competent with firearms or edged weaponry.”
“A bullet is a quick death, at least,” Q mused, with the kind of morbid humor that usually came out of agents, “Do try not to get too busted up, 007, because you’ll need to save me from a slow death by inane conversation.”
007 was chuckling by the time he slipped outside, “Funny, Q. We’re going to have a long and involved talk about your sense of humor when this is over.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
There was no denying the faintest edge of desperation clinging to Q’s tone – almost completely hidden, and very well controlled, but James heard it anyway as clearly as any shout. “Standby, Q,” was all he was able to say, however, as he caught sight of a figure ahead of him, the broad shoulders and dark, close-cropped hair of Harris Spall, bodyguard to Rousseau, mercenary for Mercer, target of 007. Spall was already standing next to his car, and as he bent to peer at the lock in the bad lighting, he simultaneously gave Bond and opportunity to dash forward unnoticed while also spoiling any shot the agent might have taken at him. Irked that a quick, distant kill was out – although everyone back at MI6 would probably be glad not to have to explain away the death – 007 went for speed instead of efficient deadliness and rushed forward. Q had stressed the advantages of getting information out of Spall and using him against Mercer in more legalistic ways.
Bond just wanted the threat removed from the equation.
Luck wasn’t with him, and Spall noticed 007 coming at him just seconds before the agent would have hit him from behind. What would have been a clean, crippling strike turned into a grappling match as the bodyguard spun around, eyes wide, and produced a knife with unexpected speed that made Bond swear on reflex. Swinging his left arm in an outward block that pushed the knife to the side – its aim having been Bond’s chest – 007 collided with Spall against the front door of the car, the two of them matched for muscle and weight and now struggling in the dimly lit parking lot like dogs in a cheap pit.
One hand lock on the wrist of Spall’s knife-hand, Bond swung his other fist at Spall’s throat, but his punch was foiled by a solid punch to his lower ribs from Spall’s free hand. At half speed and now askew as 007’s body jerked and flinched, Bond’s fist nonetheless snapped hard against the bodyguard’s jaw, disorienting him enough that Bond was able to gain the advantage in the struggle for the knife. A hard shove slammed Spall’s right hand hard enough against the side-mirror that it was nearly broken off, and the knife went clattering to the ground. Unfortunately, Spall was well-trained, too, and took the opportunity to sweep a leg forward. Bond lost his balance, but thanks to two hands now gripping his opponent, 007 managed to take them both to the ground when he fell. The jarring impact knocked 007’s wind out of him, pain shooting through his shoulder-blades and ribs, but he refused to loosen his grip.
Spall might have had training, but he had nothing on what 007 had gone through.
Twisting his body even while his lungs still felt like they would never work again, 007 got an arm around Spall’s throat, taking advantage of how the bodyguard had fallen on top of him. Less stunned but unprepared for his opponent to still be so mobile, Spall only had time to shout hoarsely before all of his energy was focused on trying to claw Bond’s arm free. 007 merely snarled with what little air he’d dragged into his chest and jerked, putting them firmly chest to back and snugging his arm so tight beneath his foe’s chin that sound immediately ceased to come out of the man’s mouth – and probably air, too. In a desperate bid to get free, Spall hammered back with his elbow, but 007 held on with a bulldog’s tenacity and just swallowed the pain. The sleeves of his jacket protected his arms, and he saw the scratch to his face coming in time to twist aside, ducking as Spall tried to claw at his head. Bond’s ruthless lock on the bodyguard’s neck precluded attempts to try and break Bond’s nose with the back of Spall’s skull.
Finally, with Bond’s muscles were starting to burn from the steady pressure he kept exerting and his ribs were on fire, throbbing with every breath, Spall went limp. With a grunt, 007 let him go, tense just in case this were a trick, but it wasn’t. Panting himself, Bond redirected his energy to now roll the unconscious man off, and couldn’t resist the urge to just rest a moment. Pushing himself back against the hub of the nearest car, Bond leaned back and breathed deeply for a moment.
His next movement was pure reflex, all based on something he’d seen out of the corner of his eye – a speck of movement. 007 spun, still on his knees, around the front of the car even as a silenced gun spat out a bullet that dented metal right behind where his head had rested.
“I knew it,” Mercer’s voice cut its way to Bond’s ears like nails on a chalkboard – a noise that made him grit his teeth and flinch, “I knew it, deep down, that Q wasn’t dead.”
“Bond, what’s going on?” Q asked, somehow sensing that something was wrong even though he couldn’t have picked up Mercer talking from as far away as he was, which wasn’t far enough for Bond’s taste.
Knowing that he couldn’t spare time to answer, 007 instead flattered his back to his hiding place and drew his gun, calling over his shoulder in a louder voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play with me, 007. I recognize you, and you’re too good an agent not to recognize me.”
Q’s intake of breath was audible in 007’s ear, but the Quartermaster also fell silent, knowing that now was not the time to interfere. Bond was working. “Fine,” the agent drawled, making sure that it was audible as he took the safety off his gun, “You’ve made yourself rather unforgettable, Mercer. Killing the Quartermaster of MI6 will do you – good for you.” He glanced around to see what options he had, what cover and what exits. At least he didn’t see any other witnesses yet, although his own gun didn’t have a silencer, so things would get hectic pretty fast once he put it into play. “I’m here to kill you,” he finished in a perfectly deadly, unbelievably pleasant voice.
Unfortunately, Mercer wasn’t at the top of his field for nothing: he was a smart man. While that genius hadn’t been enough to let him realize that pissing off MI6 was bad, it unfortunately meant he didn’t fall for 007’s quick lies. “Nice try, agent. I got curious about Caspian’s blind friend and his blue-eyed bodyguard, and after a bit more description, I’m willing to be that that’s you and Q. Did you really think you could hide from me?”
‘We were doing awfully well so far,’ 007 thought to himself, but decided that baiting the madman was hardly a good idea. Besides, 007 was pretty sure that he had gotten a fix on Mercer’s location, and was planning to put a bullet in him. He and Q could find Genecode at their leisure later – this threat was simply too big for 007 to play nice with. So, without answering, 007 slid silently around to the other side of the car, bringing his gun up even as he circled.
Just as Bond was about to stand up and shoot where he’d heard Mercer’s voice – two cars back, to the left – he heard a sharp, startled noise through his earpiece. It made his heart lurch before his ears even knew what they were hearing.
007 straightened on Mercer’s left, having flanked him, and felt an unholy surge of anger at the familiar sight of the man. This was the bastard who had dared waltz right into the heart of MI6 and try to kill one of its most important people. What kept Bond from immediately pulling the trigger, however, the mobile Mercer was holding to his left ear.
Spotting 007, Mercer looked a bit startled, but ultimately smiled instead of cowered. “Rousseau, kindly give Q something to say through the earpiece. I imagine he’s in communication with his agent.”
There was a stuttered, cut-off scream in Bond’s ear, not loud but sharp with pain. Q gasped a little at the end, his voice a recognizable to Bond as his own.
The hesitation in the agent’s actions made Mercer relax a bit and grin more self-assuredly. “Thank you, Rousseau. If you here anything amiss, or if I stop talking to you in the next few minutes, kindly kill him, would you?”
There was a tiny bit of feedback and a small growl that was all Q – still in pain, but now angry – but then Rousseau’s voice was in Bond’s ear, cheery and edged, “Whatever you say, boss.”
Mercer’s own gun was at his side, and now he slipped it away beneath his coat to turn to 007 fully. His face was disgustingly smug, and 007 figured that this own expression was the kind that promised a slow, gruesome death. “Put the gun down, 007. Slowly. I’ve already called back-up – more of Mr. Spall’s associates.”
Boiling alive with frustration and impotent rage, 007 hesitated just a second, until it hit him with a jolt that his hesitation could kill Q. Putting his own neck on the line was an experience so common that it barely fazed the agent, but his sudden concern for Q’s wellbeing was a cold shock. The blond-haired man dropped the gun, then swallowed his pride when asked to kicked it over to Mercer.
“What are you going to do now?” Bond asked slowly, his voice still calm despite the tension.
“Why, I’m going to make quite a lot of money,” answered Mercer, phone still by his ear, more deadly than any gun at the moment. Bond’s eyes never left it. “You see, one things I’ve learned in my days is that brains always beats brawn – and your Quartermaster has just the mental acumen I need to win against some rather brawny and rather rich criminals. He’s going to help me part them from their money, after finishing his program, of course.”
There were running footsteps approaching behind 007, and the only thing that kept him from wheeling around and dropping to a fighter’s crouch was the knowledge that one word from Mercer and Q would be hurt again. All 007 could do was stand, taut and tense like a cornered stag, as Mercer nodded wordlessly to his approaching fellows.
“You should worry more about yourself than your Quartermaster, you know, 007,” Mercer pointed out with a hint of viciousness that Bond should have noticed from the moment the man appeared in MI6. Maybe Q wouldn’t be blind now if he had. “After all, Q I need. You, on the other hand, are virtually useless to me.”
Those were the last words 007 heard before something hard connected with the back of his skull, and he dropped like a stone into darkness as black as pitch.
~^~