Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“M.” Bond’s voice broke like a wave on Q’s ear, startling him despite the fact that he knew the 00-agent would be at this meeting. And despite the fact that he should have heard the door opening, but apparently even the noisiness of doors bowed before the catlike quiet of MI6’s best. The Quartermaster shivered a bit as he tried not to be annoyed at being snuck up on, and likewise pretended not to notice the hand that touched the back of his chair - and ever so softly the back of his shoulder - as the blond-haired man padded past to his own seat. “You wanted to brief me?” Blue eyes skated around the room, taking in a few new faces but also Q’s, which was familiar to him but not usually in pre-mission meetings. “Any particular reason Q’s here?”

“I didn’t arrive here by mistake, if that was the real question you were asking,” the bespectacled man replied without hesitation, the smallest tic at the corner of his mouth giving away that his dry tone wasn't offended. Bond merely arched an eyebrow, attempting to take up the entire space of the room just by lounging in his chair somehow. The arch of one pale eyebrow remained challenging, but the rest of him was relaxed, at ease in Q’s presence, which made the Quartermaster heave an internal sigh of relief. Just weeks ago, the lethal agent would have been openly challenging his authority, but their relationship had settled a bit since then.

Although Q would be damned if he could put a tag on exactly what that relationship was now.

M’s look said that she didn’t care, so long as it meant she wasn’t playing referee while they were in the same room, which had occasionally happened in the weeks following Q’s rather tumultuous entrance as Quartermaster of MI6. “The Quartermaster is here because his involvement is vital in this next mission,” the older woman informed 007 frankly, wasting no time.

“Which is actually all I know on the matter as well,” Q had to make note, and was smart enough to keep the large volume of his reproach out of his voice - but he was still annoyed. He loved having information at his fingertips, so to suddenly find some knowledge blocked from him was like ants beneath his skin. He actually shifted in his seat, lips pursing. 007 watched, secretly thinking that it was the same posturing he did when an enemy had a gun and he didn’t...yet. The agent turned back to M, his own face a practiced mask of idle serenity or perfect boredom.

“Q, meet Mr. Auden, of Auden Industries,” M indicated a man to her left, who wore a suit that would have looked sharper if it weren’t measuring up to Bond’s attire, who wore anything with peerless class like it was right off a runway. Still - Mr. Auden was a crisp-looking fellow.

“The programming company?” Now Q perked up, annoyance forgotten at being excluded from the loop. Bond was looking at him again, but this time with a bemused expression that easily said he had no idea what Q was talking about - or why he was so excited. “I’ve heard that your company is really rising in the ranks. My congratulations,” he said formally.

Mr. Auden nodded his black-haired head, looking supremely self-contained until a little smirk just broke beneath his mustache. “Actually, I think you might know me better, Quartermaster, as the head of Umbra Genomics - I believe we’ve conversed with my assumed name being Stellan Bram, and this is my associate, Shaw Mercer.” He nodded to the man next to him and belatedly stretched out a hand, which Q nearly tripped out of his chair to reach. It was amusing to everyone - not least of whom being Bond, whose face had been bewitched into a slanted smirk - to see how Q instantly lit up even more, and even M seemed to be fighting a smile.

“Still feeling left in the dark, Quartermaster?” M asked as Bram, Mercer, and Q shook hands like old friends - Mercer being slightly more reserved, 007 noted from his position across the table.

“Not now that I know who I’m talking with,” Q replied, still with an out-of-control grin on his face as he sat back down. He jumped as a foot nudged his shin, and jerked to find that it was 007’s, still sitting back indolently in his chair like a monstrously big cat, but now looking at him with an expectant, questioning look. “Oh...um…” Q looked between the agent and the two newcomers, and found himself in the rare position of being able to read just what 007 wanted without the man explicitly stating it, “Introductions: Bond, these are two very intelligent people whom I have been working with on an...atypical project. I’d give you their names, but apparently MI6 isn’t the only group to work in code.  We only ever communicated over cyberspace.”

“Bram and Mercer work fine, so long as we’re in discreet company,” the head of the company said, still all manners and smiles. Bond knew the same tricks, but at the moment wasn’t using them besides acting presentable in company. “The programming company is a front, but what we really do has progressed in leaps and bounds thanks to MI6’s help - specifically, the help of your Quartermaster.”

“So what exactly do you do?” asked Bond, in a tone that sounded like honeyed charm but made M shoot him a look. The agent had crossed his arms and had a calculating look in his eyes, like a cat gauging how far it had to jump to take a bird off a ledge. He’d occasionally given Q the same look, before he’d realized that Q was a bird with sharp little claws and beak and perhaps not worth terrorizing.

“We are in the unique position of crossing technology and genetics,” Bram immediately began to explain – he was more than happy to do so, considering that he was usually bound by secrecy, “You’re aware of the genomic code, of course? All of us are made up of repeating patterns of nucleotides and such, which are replicated and passed on every time a cell duplicates itself. Well, our company has been working exclusively for MI6 on a project called Biocode, in which… How shall I put this best?”

Mercer was so far showing himself to be a much more taciturn person, his eyes narrowed and distrustful, but now he stepped in and said grudgingly to 007, “We’ve found how to encode computer data in a genomic format. Basically, we can translate written information into genes and put it into a person.”

“Theoretically,” Bram corrected, lifting a hand even as Bond finally seemed to gain interest, his own eyes focusing more as he sat up. “Essentially we are designing benign viruses, which will live in a body and continue to replicate their codes in normal cells without doing any damage to the host. Unfortunately, whenever DNA or RNA is replicated, small mutations inevitably occur. That can make retrieving the data tricky. Which is where Q comes in - he’s in the process of creating a program that will allow us to read through the errors, as it were, and be able to get the data back more or less in one legible piece.”

By this point, Bond looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be incredulous, wary, impressed, or just plain flustered. “Well, now I’m wondering why I’m at this meeting,” he admitted frankly, folding one hand over the other on the table, perfectly hiding any sort of twitch or ‘tell’ of annoyance.

This whole time, M had been more than happy to let everyone chat and get up to speed, but at this point she stepped in - while also standing. “Because, 007, unless Q was overzealous in the email he sent me just a week ago, he’s nearly finished with the decoding program. That means that this little project is essentially complete, and I wanted to see what someone of your credentials thought of this.”

‘Your credentials’ meant someone with a licence to kill, and Bond’s eyes twitched minutely before his expression abruptly settled into a calm mask. Clearly, Bram didn’t know that he was speaking to a highly capable assassin, because he leaned forward and sought to explain as if 007 were merely a desk jockey at MI6. “If this works, the world of information trafficking will be changed drastically. Any person can become a vehicle for moving data, without the need to either memorize anything or carry it on them electronically.”

“Or even to know they’re carrying it,” Bond said in a low tone that made the room still. The man’s eyes were flat and unreadable, like a frozen lake, showing neither approval nor disapproval but somehow chilling the room either way. Bram’s smile finally faltered a bit beneath his mustache, and Mercer twitched a bit at his side.

“Well, yes. That’s why we’re doing this with utmost security. Only a handful of people know this project exists, and it has been coupled with MI6 from the moment of its inception,” Bram went on, understandably flustered now. Q resisted the urge to now kick Bond under the table for ruining the mood so easily, with just one frosted look and well-placed, grim sentence.

“Q, how about you lead the way down to Q-branch where you can show these two gentlemen your progress?” M suggested before things could get more awkward, “Bond and I will hang back and talk about security.”

That explained 007’s presence, at least. Not only would it be wise to inform the spying element of MI6 what was going on, but if something needed to be kept secret and safe - such as this - then a man like Bond would know how to do it. True, the man had a wariness for high-tech devices that usually ended in him destroying them on missions, but he was lethally competent at getting a job done, so Q was glad to have him on this project.

Bond hung back as Q and Bram started chatting animatedly, the CEO’s professionalism slipping to something more resembling childlike glee - something that was swiftly happening to Q as well, making 007 fight a smirk. He’d gotten used to his Quartermaster being a veritable fortress when it came to emotions, and the man could be as aloof and robotic as his machines, but apparently he had a human side underneath it all if you dangled something deliciously technological under his nose. Mercer was another story, however, and made 007 edgy, if only because he wasn’t quite reacting like his coworker was.

“Bond?” M’s voice came in on his slow evaluation of Mercer, which was so far indeterminate. The man seemed eager and interested in this Genecode, but had remained too detached for Bond to get a real read on him. “What’s your take on this?” she asked in a sensible and unaffected tone.

The agent shrugged. “I feel like I’m suddenly in a science fiction novel, but Q seems right at home,” he replied honestly and with a little nod to the slim man ahead of them. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that someone had spiked his tea.”

“Well, he has been making a breakthrough in espionage history,” M pointed out, with a little sigh like this all just left her rather put-out. Then again, she - like Bond - had been in the spying business far longer than Q, so the idea of seeing the business change was perhaps as unsettling to her as it was to 007. Both hid it perfectly, however, with the ease of much practice. “This project has been done quite quietly, but I’ve been receiving updates, of course, and was going to bring you in as soon as it was feasible,” M collected herself a moment later to go on, her clipped tones matching her strides, “After all, Q and Umbra Genomics might be the ones designing all of this, but it will be your division using it.”

Bond made an act of wincing at the idea, putting on perhaps a bigger show of his distaste than was entirely necessary. He almost wished Q were there to see it (because it would undoubtedly irk the boffin so), but by now the other three men had gotten far ahead of them - at the pace they were moving at, they were probably already hunkered down over computers, showing off various brainy things. Bond shook his head and tried not to smirk. “Wonderful. It’s not bad enough to have Medical trying to catch us after missions - now we’ll have Q-branch shooting us up with engineered data-viruses before missions,” he deadpanned, and M made a little snorting noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “How close are they to using this on real, live people?” he had to ask.

“Quite soon, from what Q’s last email said - he’s been so buried in the process that I’ve had to send Tanner down multiple times to drag him out and actually go home to sleep,” was M’s take on that, the pursing of her lips showing how little she thought of the personal habits of her Quartermaster. “I’ll be happy when this is all squared away, actually, so that I can have my Quartermaster back one-hundred percent and working purely on MI6 missions.”

Now it was Bond’s turn to snort, his humor showing more and more on his face. M wasn’t one to freely show her opinion unless she was verbally chastising someone - in those cases, she showed her opinion quite clearly - but on rare occasions like this, it was amusing to see her idle irritation. “So I should expect to be a guinea pig for Genecodes within the week?”

“Barring death or dismemberment, yes. Why? Problem, 007?” was the arch reply.

“If this gets me sick or mutates me-” he started to retort.

He was stopped when a horrendous explosion rocked the building from the direction of Q-branch.

~^~

Q’s ears were ringing. Why were they ringing…? Why were they ringing and why was the world tilting, as if the ground beneath his hands and knees were heaving. He didn’t remember even getting on his hands and knees, but the raging pain in his head… Why did his head hurt…? So many questions…

The ringing in his ears was drowning out everything, and the amount of effort it took just to keep being on his hands and knees was unsettling, but things didn’t really reach a level of panic until Q attempted to open his eyes only to feel a lancing pain that went right into the back of his skull before ricocheting back again. He hissed in a breath and thought he swore, but couldn’t hear it, and it was right about then that he realized he couldn’t see anything either.

Even though he’d managed to get his eyes to open.

Panic was like a sonic blast, concussively smashing into his chest and taking all of his air away. He opened his mouth to shout something, but his ears weren’t working...nothing was working…! He couldn’t bloody hear or see anything…! He might have been screaming by that point, but was aware of nothing until a hand snapped into place over his mouth.

Hearing and sight might have been out of commission, but Q’s sense of touch was still working agonizingly well. After the first shock of contact, he thrashed, becoming aware of a few other points of pain peppered on him, but none so bad as the throbbing pain centered around his useless eye-sockets. No matter how he jerked, however, body still feeling disoriented and sluggish, he couldn’t seem to slip free of the hand clasped over his face, or the second that had slid around and locked across his chest.

Just before Q started hyperventilating, his frenzied thoughts ground to a halt, picking up on something… Although it made no difference at all, he blinked a few times, sending painful sparks across his face, but slowly zeroed his focus in on a swift tapping against his sternum, from what he realized was the forefinger of the hand clasped around his chest. One tap...two...three… It increased in number and then paused, before swiftly returning to its rhythm again so that Q temporarily and dazedly thought it was Morse-code - then he realized that it was simply seven uniform taps.

007?

Shakily, feeling as though his inability to hear or see had destroyed his ability to orient himself, Q scrambled with his hand until he could feel the warm skin connected to the hand over his mouth. Shakily, trying to calm his nerves enough to be sensible, he dragged his finger in two slow, tall circles, then inscribed a seven after that. No sooner had the downed Quartermaster traced out ‘007’ in return than Q literally felt a heavy sigh of relief at his back, and a calloused thumb rubbed against his cheek in a gentle, absentminded motion. Slowly, the hand released him, and Q breathed in smoky, charred-smelling air before clamping his jaws shut in determination not to start yelling again. The ringing in his ears hadn’t lessened, unfortunately, so he still had no idea what was going on beyond 007’s arm being hooked around his ribcage. The man had to be crouched next to him, or half over him. That was literally all Q knew, and that lack of data had his brain shrieking mutely in the confines of his skull.

Determined to get some point across, he scrambled with his hand again until he was at least eighty-percent sure that he’d grabbed a handful of Bond’s shirt-front - he didn’t realize how much he wanted to ground himself in touch until he felt the material in his fist, and tightened his grip to white-knuckled proportions. He felt air against the side of his head that was warm and smelled like Scotch over the scent of ozone and burning - 007, trying to talk to him - but that was a useless endeavor, so Q gave another tug at his shirt before moving his damnably quivering hand first to his ears, and then his eyes, before slowly curling his hand into a fist and pointing his thumb downwards in a negative gesture. It had never been so hard to make a thumbs-down in his life, as if in doing so, he was admitting that he was blind and deaf forever.

The arm still around his chest jerked, a flex of muscles translated all around his back and into the solid frame he could feel pressed against his right side. There was no more breath against his face, no more motion. Q gritted his teeth and tried not to imaging Bond staring at him like some sort of pariah, and felt frustration bubble up hotter than the terror or the pain. Sharply, on impulse, he elbowed the 00-agent at his side.

That galvanized the man into motion, but whatever Bond said in response was nothing more than a caress of hot air against Q’s ear.

~^~

“Little shit,” Bond growled with rough, impulsive amusement against Q’s ear, not sure where the grim flash of humor came from when he should have been on the edge of panic himself. Q’s elbow had done a lot to jar his senses back into him, though, and all of the latent 00-agent instincts that were never far from Bond’s fingertips snapped back into focus. He had a blind and presently deaf Quartermaster, but he also possibly had a bomber still in the room - because, in his experience, most villains liked to survive their own handiwork, suicide bombers being the exception. Keeping Q safe at the moment was the priority, and that was why he’d immediately insisted Q be quiet.

“Stay put, Q,” he said, even though he knew Q wouldn’t hear him. He shifted his hands to press Q down a bit, endeavoring to get his point across physically before he started scouring the room for anyone who might deserve a bullet in the brain for showing the audacity to blow up Q-branch. For a second, Q didn’t seem to get it, and the hand wrapped like a knot of bones and tendons on the front of 007’s polo tightened enough to permanently wrinkle the fabric. James swore again, glancing around with tensed muscles in the hope that no one was coming even now to finish the job they’d started, and kill the Quartermaster. “Fuck, Q, you’ve got to stay put,” he growled, and on impulse grabbed Q’s free hand and guided it to the floor.

It was unexpectedly heart-wrenching to see all of Q’s body tense, his fingers slowly splaying against dusty tile at Bond’s command, before the smaller man just barely breathed out in shaky desperation, “What do you want, Bond?”

More than anything, Bond wished he could just tell him. To show that he’d heard, he pressed a hand gently to the side of Q’s head for a moment, finding the mess of curls soft despite all the debris stuck in it. Maneuvering the Quartermaster as if he were a puppet instead of a person - figuring he’d apologize for that later, if neither of them got shot - Bond pulled Q’s feet carefully out from under him to force him to sit, and from there, Q seemed to get the idea, although he swore quietly a few times and called Bond a bastard under his breath. The invectives sounded so normal that it eased something tight in 007’s chest and allowed him to focus again. Aware that Q still couldn’t hear him after an explosion that loud, Bond pressed a finger against Q’s lips, and even though the smaller man flinched and then glowered like a storm-cloud, he remained silent from there on.

Then James got up and left him, and felt more horrid doing it than he’d ever expected to. The one time he glanced back...was terrible. He’d left dead men behind on missions before, but watching his Quartermaster sitting stiffly, cut off from two of his senses and staring at nothing with tightly narrowed eyes, was somehow worse than that.

Suddenly Bond hoped there was someone to shoot still in the room.

~^~

Bond’s absence was like a vacuum. The world both expanded and shrunk when he left, and Q hadn’t realized just how hot the man ran until his warmth was absent, the heat of taut muscles against his side disappearing as totally as if the agent had just been deleted from Q’s world. Being deaf and blind was suddenly worse than being dead in Q’s book, because this was the worst kind of torture he could imagine. Around him was a blackness so vast that it stretched on forever, and yet so small that it clung to his skin like a suffocating layer of tar.

Now that he’d gotten himself together a bit more - pushing the panic to the back of his head like a pack of rabid hounds, snarling and slathering around the edges of his brain - Q recalled some of what had happened. Some. There were still chunks of memory that felt blasted and torn up, the corners acid-eating and irretrievable at present. He’d been showing Mercer and Bram the program designed to decode DNA data even if it had been in the body awhile, collecting mutations the longer it was in a living body - they’d been impressed, Bram elated, to hear that the program was finished and ready to actually be tested. Q himself couldn’t remember being prouder since he’d hacked MI6 to get the job as Quartermaster.

And then… Then it got fuzzy, but he remembered something very loud and very bright, the latter digging into his eyes like sickle fingers and ripping everything apart.

Now he was being told to sit and stay by a 00-agent, when all facts pointed to the idea that someone had exploded a bomb in his department. Q would have been outraged if he weren’t so terrified, his unease increased by Bond’s clumsy efforts to tell him to stay put and stay silent - which meant there was likely still danger in the room that might come looking for him. Q’s fingers slid slowly across the floor, feeling through bits of wood, plastic, and ceiling dust but unsure what else they’d touch. When something like a long splinter found its way into the grip of his inquisitive fingers, though, he breathed easier, telling himself ludicrously that he had a weapon, and that would make it better. His other hand he brought up to swipe at his eyes, relieved to find his glasses still in place but petrified to still find the eyes behind them utterly useless. Gentle prodding with his fingertips didn’t reveal gaping, bloody eye-sockets, though, which was more of a relief than anything he could imagine. Q sighed gustily and sagged a bit, then tensed up again like a spring as something touched his shoulder, and he reacted.

The ringing in his ears was apparently fading - because this time Q heard 007’s bark of angry surprise as if through a thick layer of water. Never before had he been so glad to hear the man’s low tones snarling, “Bloody fuck!” at him. Then again, Q was...reasonably sure that he’d just stabbed the man with a piece of his desk.

“I can hear you.” His own voice sounded just as muddy, and the ringing was annoying as hell - but at least that sense was coming back online. “I assume that you must be shouting in order for me to hear you, so does that mean I don’t have to be quiet now?”

The silence that followed almost convinced him that that moment of auditory success had been a fluke, but apparently he’d just surprised the man. A beat later, and he could just understand Bond if he concentrated, “I’ve cleared the room. Whoever caused this is either gone or dead already. You?”

“Am I gone or dead?” Q asked back, and marveled at the level, dry tone of his own voice, and wondered how long it would be before it slipped into a level of hysteria. Probably not long, if this blindness persisted. “Presently, neither, but my ears are ringing like the inside of a bell, and…” And his voice caught. It just caught in his throat as if a hand had reached out and snatched it, clamping tight with cold fingers, and he found himself blinking and feeling hollow.

He could feel strong hands on him, wrapped around the bone and lean muscle just below his shoulders, and right now they squeezed. “And you can’t see,” Bond finished, admirably calm himself, but this was from a man who faced bullets down for a day-job. He’d no doubt seen worse. “Can you stand?”

Q just nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak now without pure madness pouring out. He couldn’t remember feeling this helpless. With apparently no effort at all, 007 lifted him to his feet, keeping hold of nearly all of Q’s weight until the Quartermaster found his balance - something that took a terrifyingly long time with his inner ear still squealing and his world made of nothing but blackness. Q just stood and panted in barely-controlled panic for a whole minute after he got his feet under him; 007’s hands were still around his biceps, and Q deluded himself into thinking that the agent didn’t see the way his Quartermaster leaned forward, brushing his forehead against Bond’s lapels and trying to hold back the scream he wanted to let out. 007 said not a word, not that Q could hear, anyway.

“Okay.” Q said it again to convince himself. “Okay. I’m fine now. Can we get out of here? What’s the damage?”

“Extensive - in answer to your last question,” said Bond with more annoyance than actual distress or worry, “And yes to the first. Medical and security are already coming this way, actually.”

“The one upside to being in a catastrophe in the heart of MI6,” Q deadpanned before forcing his head to lift, blinking because that motion felt normal even as it felt odd. “Tell me,” he tried to joke, aware that it came out flat and a bit manic-sounding, “do I look like a blind-man?”

“Q…” Bond warned in an undertone, then apparently gave up on trying to keep his Quartermaster from joking morbidly. The sigh ruffled Q’s hair and gusted over his nose. “No, you don’t, actually. Whatever cut out your vision obviously did so without any obvious damage, which hopefully means it’s temporary - like that ringing in your ears.”

No doubt 007 could feel the way that made Q’s shoulders sag with relief, but somehow the hope kept slipping, like a cat with no claws. The blackness felt like it would never go away. “Was that comfort I heard there, 007?” Q quipped dryly, finding words to hide behind.

“Shut it, Q. Let’s get out of here before your sense of humor gets any worse,” Bond grouched back, maneuvering Q somewhat clumsily. The man couldn’t help but comment, “I think I like it better when you’re threatening to hang me off the side of the building for destroying your tech.”

Q thought he liked that better, too, but he couldn’t focus enough to do anything but spout bad jokes at his own expense.

~^~

“What happened?”

Bond sat in a chair next to Q’s hospital bed, he himself still in Medical because the bloody Quartermaster had gouged his arm with a bloody piece of wood. Honestly, Bond would have been impressed if it hadn’t hurt so much, but the damage had already been reduced to a bandage around his left bicep. As for Q, the man had just undergone a barrage of tests before one of the doctors had...perhaps put something like a sedative into him. Q’s tightlipped, razor-sharp humor had been getting worse by the second, the only sign of his impending mania as the sheer horror of being blind ate away at his self-control and sanity. Everyone dealt differently with traumatizing situations, Bond knew, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone act like Q, who started talking with razor wit and humor that was just a half-step off the edge of normal so that it sounded biting, hard, and odd. Other than that, the Quartermaster had appeared utterly unfazed, but the doctors had still drugged him.

Now he was sprawled out on his side on the hospital bed, dressed in scrubs and with a few plasters here and there but otherwise normal. His eyes weren’t even bandaged, because the damage had been mostly to the retina, it seemed.

Bond sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling as if he’d been up for days even when he’d gotten a rare full night of sleep just the night before. M’s question was giving him an instant headache nonetheless. “I don’t know yet. The list of explosive things that could do that - especially if they were brought in past security - is limited,” he replied, gouging his memory for any helpful information on the subject. He’d seen a lot of explosions (and had proudly caused at least half of them), and therefore was something of an expert on the subject. He dropped his hands back to his lap and felt a deadlier tone enter his voice and harden his eyes, “My money’s on Mercer, because Bram’s dead and they were at the epicenter of that blast - and guess whose body hasn’t been found?”

M nodded that these facts were rather clear to her as well.

“And now we’ve got a blind Quartermaster,” Bond finished with a deep sigh, feeling guilt like a punch to the gut for not preventing this. He’d been suspicious of Mercer from the get-go, his instincts prickling as he’d seen the man’s aloofness and his reticence when compared to his elated companion and Q’s excited pride.

Unexpectedly, it was Q’s voice who replied next, tart and a bit rough from sleep, “A blind Quartermaster who is hopefully only blind temporarily, and who can hear you.” He shuffled in the bed, reaching out for his glasses as if it were an instinct too ingrained to halt even when he couldn’t see a bloody thing. Bond couldn't stand the perturbed look that put on the Quartermaster’s face - a face that looked shockingly younger without spectacles, and with hazel eyes that wouldn’t focus - so he moved and placed Q’s glasses in his outstretched hand. The Quartermaster jumped in surprise, then quickly figured out what had just happened by feel. “Thank you,” he said, formally, maneuvering the glasses onto his face while fighting his way awkwardly into a sitting position. “I’m presuming good morning - M, Bond. Anyone else I need to address?”

Bond winced at the thistle-sharp tone, and watched M’s face pinch as well. “No, Q, just us,” the agent said to him, leaning his elbows on his knees and glancing between his boss and his Quartermaster, the latter of which having struggled upright so that he was now sitting ramrod stiff - somehow managing to look prim and proper in scrubs on a hospital bed. “And it’s 5:34 PM.”

Q’s hair was a mess, even after getting most of the debris out of it; his impromptu nap hadn’t done it any favors, so that it looked like a wild mass of dark-sable curls on his head beneath the harsh overhead lighting. For a moment he seemed to struggle with the internal disorientation of what time it really was, but then, with fingers fisting in the blanket, he forced a semblance of steadiness into his voice to ask, “Do you want me to give my report?”

“Only if you think you’re ready to give it, Quartermaster,” M said, and - typical of M - her voice didn’t ring with pity, but instead something closer to a gentle warning. She regularly saw foolishness in agents, Bond especially, the kind of foolishness that led her spies to run headlong into things while more dead than alive or at least bleeding out of multiple places. She’d probably never expected to see her staid and steady Quartermaster in the same position, and Bond himself was a bit startled to realize that he had something more in common with the boffin right now: possibly reckless behavior.

Without realizing that he was acting with the same brash stubbornness he usually yelled at Bond over the comm-link for, Q clenched his jaw briefly and tried to find M’s face with eyes that weren’t working. The effort failed, but that didn’t lessen the effect of his determined, frowning expression. “I’m awake, talking, and whatever those nurses gave me to knock me out seems to have left my system - I’m ready to give my report, ma’am,” he said in a voice that rode the line between respect and belligerence. Under other circumstances, Bond would have grinned proudly, but now he just hunched his shoulders and tried to contain the sensation of wrongness that crawled up his spine. Q was as tense as a violin bow and contained the same sort of fragile look, so it was hard to tell if his biting stubbornness was holding him together or was going to cause him to snap in half right there in the Medical room.

Regardless, Q gave his report. Unlike reports given by cantankerous agents who thought they had better things to do, the Quartermaster’s report was characterized by crystalline details and stunningly sharp recall, only losing ground in the last seconds before the explosion. “I’m afraid even my photographic recall gets a bit fuzzy at this point,” Q admitted, sagging a bit despite himself. Hazel eyes flicked back and forth while he pressed his lips together in failed concentration, trying to drag up memories that just weren’t there. The doctors had said that the concussive force of the blast had probably done that, although Q had been lucky that the damage hadn’t been widespread - besides his eyes, he was largely fine, although preliminary test results suggested retinal damage due to incredibly bright light. “After that, I recall waking up with my ears ringing and…” He waved vaguely at his face, hiding how incapable he still was off processing the word ‘blindness’ still. Psych hadn’t been in yet to evaluate Q, but Bond didn’t envy him the interview.

“Thank you, Quartermaster. Hopefully your report along with everyone else’s in the area at the time will prevent a cock-up like this from happening again,” M stated, her internal fury showing in the pure coldness of her expression and nothing else, “Although it’s already too late for some. You’ve been informed that Mr. Auden, a.k.a. Stellan Bram, did not survive the blast?”

Q nodded, head swiveling slightly as his ears caught the words and his brain told him to turn his head to it. “Yes, I was informed,” he replied tightly. “I was not informed of Shaw Mercer’s condition, however.”

Temper crackled against the inside of Bond’s skin, and it was he who answered in unforgiving tones, “Mercer is missing, and suspected to be responsible.”

“Mercer?” Q started in surprise, and his eyes nearly found Bond’s, reflex turning them so that they actually focused somewhere near Bond’s shoulder - although, for a moment, Q hardly was aware of it. Surprise seemed to have very fleetingly distracted him from the crippling damage done to his eyes. “But he was…” Perhaps Q was about to say ‘right next to us,’ but suddenly he stopped, eyes sliding back and forth like a physical application of his seeking thoughts. “No…” he said slowly, “I don’t actually remember where he was standing exactly, although I admit my memory has holes in it regarding the last minute or so preceding the blast.”

“We’re still trying to determine what he smuggled in and how, but the bomb was designed to have a fairly small blast-radius,” M added on, explaining and confirming, “Besides Bram, there were no casualties, and all injuries were relatively minor and due mostly to shrapnel, but it’s plausible-”

“Likely,” Bond corrected with bite still wrapped around his words. Q twitched near him, but kept listening to M.

“-That Mercer was able to move just far enough away not to appear suspicious, but to be out of harm’s way,” M finished without giving any indication that she’d been interrupted.

“Security footage?” demanded Q, still the Quartermaster even if his ability to do the job would undoubtedly be in question now.

“Much of Q-branch is still trying to get itself in order, but that’s the first thing on the agenda.”

“Good,” Q nodded, almost looking himself, until he finished, “I’ll just-” Abruptly, he cut himself off, blinking once and seeming to return to reality in a shocking rush - the reality where he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, much less check security footage for a saboteur. The agony was visible on his face, buried mostly in his eyes, ironically, as they tightened around the edges and seemed almost to darken a shade. While the room was gripped in crippling silence, Q swallowed a few times, then spoke, “I imagine I’m relieved of active duty for the meantime, correct?”

“That is sadly correct, Quartermaster.” For all that M didn’t sugarcoat it, her words were softer than they usually were - not necessarily compassionate, but their usual sharp edges blunted out of respect for someone who had done their job diligently and well, and was only incapable of doing it now because of happenstance. “Consider yourself on medical leave until you are recovered.”

Q made a small sound that might have been a cough or might have been a bitter, bitten-off chuckle, but only Bond noticed his lips move, tracing out the dark words, “If I recover,” that were barely said. He noticed also, with a spy’s attention to details, the fine tremors that attacked Q’s hands, quivers of panic that were quickly controlled as the dark-haired man gripped the sheets again and straightened his spine like an unstrung puppet picking itself up. “Understandable, given my condition. I would like to help in any way I can, however.”

“Just get some rest, Quartermaster,” M said, and then turned and walked out the door. There was little else she could say, after all.

Standing as well, also silent - because he knew that too much sympathy could look a lot like pity, and pity could kill a person at a time like this - Bond watched as complicated emotions twisted and tangled across his Quartermaster’s face, centered around fear and frustration as wrecked hazel eyes tried and failed to pick out anything in the darkness. It was so different...so unnatural...to see Q like this, and 007 felt both humbled and unsettled to be in a position to see the other man so belittled. “Anything I can get for you, Q?” he asked, in as normal a tone he could muster, albeit more subdued than his usual temperament.

It took a moment for Q to drag himself out of whatever dark tide of thoughts he’d been wading through. “Oh,” he made a noise of surprise as if he’d expected 007 to have left already, silent feet carrying the agent out after M, “No, that’s quite all right. Thank you. Unless you’ve got a fresh pair of eyes handy, I don’t really need anything.”

The attempt at humor was maudlin, and Bond’s response managed to sound like there was a smile in it, but his face didn’t reflect the tone - which perhaps made it good that Q couldn’t see his face to tell. “Sorry, Quartermaster, fresh out. Would if I could, though.”

Q didn’t thank Bond for the effort or the offer, merely sat staring off into space, which worried 007 more than he wanted to admit. In the end, however, he had no choice but to leave as well, determined to dig up as much information as he could on Mercer and just where he got the nerve to attack the Quartermaster of MI6.

~^~

Chapter Text

Bond was startled some eight hours later - putting it at about 1:30 in the morning - when his phone vibrated, bringing him out of sleep.  He rolled over and looked at the screen, but the number wasn’t familiar. “Who is this?” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep unless someone was trying to shoot him. It had been a long and taxing day.

“Q. It turns out that touch-screen phones are nearly impossible to use if you’re blind, and it can be remarkably difficult to get hold of a phone that still has actual buttons. Good morning, 007.”

Immediately, 007 sat up, covers sliding off his bare shoulders even as he came fully alert. Surprise was probably all over his face. “Q?”  He swung his feet off the side of the bed as if he needed to prepare to move.

“I believe I said that,” came the dry tones, sounding so perfectly normal that they had to be manufactured - something that all 00-agents learned was that the most perfect mask was sometimes the most obvious lie.  Only fake things were perfect, although Q was pulling off the attempt at normalcy rather well.  “I called regarding an offer you made.”

“You’ve lost me, Q,” said Bond after a moment, sincerely perplexed but glad that Q at least wasn’t in a catatonic state of grieving over his blindness.

The Quartermaster huffed a sigh that was exquisitely familiar, and in that moment, it was almost possible to forget the catastrophe of the day before, and that Q wasn’t totally fine.  “Let me refresh your memory. I asked for a new set of eyes, and you said that you would if you could.”

“Yes,” admitted Bond slowly, eyes narrowing because he still couldn’t see the terminal end of this roundabout conversation, “I said that.  Why does that offhand comment have you calling me at 1:00 AM?”

Q was quiet a moment, and then very clearly swore before coming back to himself. “Is that what time it is? In that case, apologies - I’ll make this quick.  Clearly…” He stopped to make a frustrated noise as if the words were rebelling in his throat, clogged up by helpless temper - so much so that Bond winced and wished he hadn’t brought up the time. “Clearly I’m not as capable as before, now that I’m...sightless.  But I refuse to just sit back and let things happen around me, and if your offer was actually more than just an offhand comment, as you say, then I have a job for you.”

Listening to Q’s tone - a mixture of challenging, sharp, and defensive - Bond was warily attentive, but also interested.  Although the Quartermaster sounded a lot like someone with their back to the wall and a lot of panic boarded up behind them, there was also more than enough evidence that Q’s spine was still utterly intact.  The same voice that had no qualms about lecturing him viciously for destroying tech was back, determined and stubborn, and it had 007 reaching for a pair of trousers before he even answered, “What kind of job? Not that I’m picky, but if we’re going over M’s head…”

“We might be,” Q sounded more abashed, but came back quickly, “But only temporarily! I know that I’m relieved of duty and a cripple, but there are still skills that only I have - skills that could help. And I want to help.”

Bond smiled at the mulish tone.  He already had the phone tucked between his shoulder and one ear as he dressed with practiced efficiency. 

There was another sigh that just whispered through the phone, and then Q was admitting with a little less spark and a little less pride, “I just need the help of someone with eyesight to actually do it.  With your track-record, you seem the best equipped for the job.”

“And when you say my ‘track-record’, you’re referring to…?”

“Your willingness to bend the rules a little to get a job done.  If M gets mad at me for not just sitting on my arse, she’ll probably yell at you, too, but you seem rather used to that,” Q retorted wryly.

007’s grin was only widening by the second.  He’d have never thought that Q could be at his most amusing and charming when, honestly, most people would have been curled up in a ball crying and feeling sorry for themselves.  He was still one-hundred percent sure that Q was stubbornly refusing to give himself some well-earned moments of self-pity, but Bond couldn’t very well lecture people about that when he was a pro at it himself.  “Give me half an hour, and I’ll be in Medical.”

“Bond, I didn’t mean-!  It’s 1 AM. If I weren’t too bloody blind to see the clock, I wouldn’t even have called.”

“See you soon, Q.”  And 007 hung up, utterly ignoring the embarrassed protest, and continued to dress before snagging his keys and slipping out for a late-night drive back to MI6.

~^~

Medical was never entirely quiet, but the night-watch took one look at a 00-agent stalking their corridors and wisely went back to their chores.  Grateful for the lack of questions, Bond gave a benevolent smile but kept walking, letting himself into Q’s room with a perfunctory knock. He also flicked the light on, although it was only the sudden sound of his entrance that made Q sit up straighter and jerk.  “I’m not room service, but at least I’m punctual,” Bond said, and watched as something in Q’s shoulders eased, recognizing the voice.  “Now, care to elaborate on what you’ve got to pull me out of bed at arse-o’clock in the morning?”

“I told you you didn’t have to come,” Q reminded him primly, texting out something by feel, his thumbs moving almost in a blur as he typed.  “I gave you an out, so it’s not my fault you didn’t take it.”

Bond shrugged, too interested in alleviating his guilt at getting Q into this mess (by not pegging Mercer for a threat soon enough to stop him) to continue the argument. “To be fair, your internal clock isn’t worth shit even on your best days - and my sleep-schedule is no better. What’s on your mind, Q?”

The Quartermaster’s eyes were shifting, slithering back and forth over nothing as if he were reading currents in the air that Bond couldn't see - as if he were more sighted rather than less.  It was a horrid lie, but the impression was still there.  Q looked suspicious.  “You’re awfully accommodating,” he said instead of answering the question, his texting making a pause, presumably as he found and hit the send button.

“Q, just spit it out already. Why am I here?” Bond changed tactics from being charming to being more sincerely exasperated - and, yes, a bit tired. 

“Yes, right, of course,” the slim man thankfully dropped the subject and returned to his topic with the usual, businesslike efficiency he was known for, “I’ve been keeping myself apprised of the situation - unofficially - and it sounds like Mercer did more than blow up my branch.  He used the opportunity to smuggle information as well.  Genecode, to be more precise.”

Sitting up straighter in the chair he’d sat in next to Q’s bed, Bond’s 00-instincts came alert. “Does anyone know where he is?”

“Not presently, no, but the most complicated and efficient tracking programs are ones I designed myself - meaning I’m the most skilled at using them, even if most everyone in Q-branch has some training.”  Q shook his head, his expression somewhere between frustrated and angry, and his lips whitened as he pressed them into a taut line.  “I can find Mercer - and Genecode - if someone goes and grabs my laptop, and then at least makes sure I’m actually clicking on the things I want to instead of just typing into empty space,” he finished with an irked twitch to his expression.

“All right,” Bond agreed readily enough, but was still wary as he stood with silent smoothness.  He asked now from a greater height, which made Q’s head twitch again with an instinctive effort to try and peg down the sound, “But I don’t see why you couldn’t just ask one of your minions to do this, seeing as you already bullied them into giving you updates.” He nodded at the phone, realizing a second later that Q would miss the motion. 

“True, but if I find Mercer, I’m going to need a 00-agent,” Q corrected with a tiny little smile that held only the coldest sliver of humor.

~^~

The laptop had been more or less waiting in Q-branch for Bond to pick up - Q’s minions were loyal little things, if nothing else, although the few of them still working late were nearly spooked witless by the mere sight of 007 invading their territory like a late-night ghost.  For once, James didn’t try and cause trouble, but came and went with as little trauma to the techies as possible. 

“One laptop, as ordered.  I feel a little bit like a Golden Retriever, in case you were wondering,” Bond pretended to snark as he deposited the smooth silver case on Q’s lap and leaned up against the raised head of the hospital bed. 

“Don’t worry, Golden Retrievers and dogs in general are far more obedient than you, so no one would ever confuse you with one for long,” Q mollified/teased absentmindedly as he ran his hands over the edges of his laptop for the first time without seeing it, a little shiver in his next breath as if he feared he wouldn’t even be able to open it.  The screen lifted to his deft touch, however, and Q must have recognized by the soft whir of its internal fans that it was on and running.  He typed in a password twenty characters long without even pausing. “Okay,” the Quartermaster said, voice tight and all business.  It took obvious effort, but he removed his hands from the keys and returned them to his lap.  “There should be a folder on the screen labeled ‘BLUE65’.  If you could click it for me, please, I’d be much obliged.”

Unable to miss the tightness of Q’s voice - clear evidence of how vulnerable he felt asking for help - Bond unfolded his crossed arms and leaned over carefully, glancing from Q’s tense face to the screen a few times even as he saw the folder. Q’s laptop had a touch pad so sensitive that it seemed to click the file almost before he’d tapped the cursor over it. “Done.”  He resumed his previous post, elbow brushing Q’s shoulder and eliciting an unconscious twitch.  “Now what?”

“Tell me when it’s loaded.  Then I have to enter the password to get it totally up and running.”  The two of them waited, Bond feeling awkward and Q looking like a branch bent bare centimeters from snapping. 

Fortunately, it was only seconds before Bond was able to say, “All right, it’s prompting another password now.  Do you put passwords on everything?”

“I work in a building populated by spies and specialize in taking down criminal enterprises.” Q’s mouth softened enough to tick up at one corner.  “What else do you expect? Is it open now?”

Although 007 had absolutely no idea what any of this was, he could now see that the screen wasn’t visibly locked down anymore.  He nodded, then verbalized his answer an awkward beat later, “Yes. Care to explain what you’re doing?”

“No offense, but that would take too long,” the Quartermaster answered, still with a small and enigmatic smile.  He was placing his fingers carefully again on the keyboard, feeling out the little tabs on the ‘F’ and ‘J’ to center his hands before taking a steadying breath. “In short, I’m about to do some coding, which I’m hopefully just as good at doing while blind as when I’m sleep-deprived and in a caffeinated haze.  If anything that looks like a warning comes up, tell me immediately.”

Not entirely sure that he’d recognize a warning, and in fact feeling more intimidated by Q’s computer than he was by most semi-automatic weapons, Bond narrowed his eyes and frowned but nonetheless gave in with a murmured assent. 

Then - with another breath like someone bracing themselves to leap across a cliff without a safety net - Q began to type.

It was amazing to watch.  Even with little to no knowledge of coding and even less regarding the program Q was using, it was clear to the agent watching over Q’s shoulder that what was happening was incredibly complex, and yet Q never missed a key.  Bond now recalled many times before, watching while Q typed something distractedly, eyes elsewhere and sometimes even talking while he typed, but that was different than doing it after being recently blinded.  Bond was tempted to ask if Q had heard anything more from the doctors concerning his eyes, but held back, unwilling to disturb Q’s concentration.  Windows were appearing and disappearing on the screen, apparently brought into existence and banished by the mere tap of keys, and Bond fancied Q was like some sort of god for his own little realm, his words law as he sent them through the keyboard. Only a few of the windows look familiar: he’d seen facial recognition programs, and watched with increased interest as one was activated and started running in the background. Mostly, he just stared in impressed silence as ‘BLUE65’ basically allowed Q to access anything and everything, with the right codes.

Q stopped, suddenly, shoulders twitching and fingers pausing even as he gave his head an anxious tilt.  Questioning eyes moved restlessly.  “Are you still there, 007?” Q asked with sincere uncertainty. 

Realizing how silent he’d been - 00-agents were all trained until they were able to stand utterly still for hours at a time, hushed as death - James belatedly shifted, his weight going to his other foot and the faint rustle of his clothing against the bed more than audible.  Q let out a breath.  “Sorry. Yes, still here, still watching. I just haven’t seen any obvious mistakes yet,” Bond said, letting some of his interest and awe show in his voice.

Apparently missing the praise, Q leaned forward a bit as if peering at the screen more closely, before typing a bit again with his eyes focused somewhere beyond that. “I’d threaten to put a bell on you, but not only do I believe myself utterly unprepared for such a task, but I don’t doubt you could move silently with a bell, too,” he said with a scathing evaluation of his skills - because, to be fair, getting a bell on 007 would be borderline impossible for even the most capable sighted people. Still, Q’s shoulders were knotted up tight with the stress and determination to do this right, and his fingers typed away with a swift but careful rhythm.  When Bond moved again (to resume his place in his chair to watch from there), the Quartermaster jumped, and this time his fingers slewed across the keys. “Shit,” the growled, knowing that he’d messed up without even being able to see.  He didn’t get mad at Bond for startling him, merely glared and gritted his teeth, clearly furious but mostly at himself. 

“Sorry, Q,” Bond expressed his apologies sincerely for once - most of the time, he’d admit to ‘sorry’ being an empty word in his mouth, a tool used to get out of trouble.  Even M knew it.

“No, it’s fine,” the younger man said in a tight voice that said it wasn’t, because his lying skills were nowhere near Bond’s, sadly.  “Just...um…”  He clenched and unclenched one hand while clearly trying to keep himself focused on something other than failure, closing his eyes in stalwart concentration but quickly cobbling together words and waving vaguely with a hand towards the screen, “Read to me the last line, including punctuation. If it’s not too fucked up, I’ll fix it instead of just deleting the whole bloody mess.”

Q swearing was never a good sign, but Bond couldn’t think of a way to tell his blinded Quartermaster to calm down and take it easy without causing the man to instantaneously explode.  So, instead, he scooted his chair a little closer and leaned over to read, as commanded, the last line of type - which was all nonsense to him, but apparently only held errors in the last few characters.  Q swiftly deleted and corrected, the motions like that of a child angrily erasing a poor drawing before swiftly putting new sketches over it.  “You’re doing a good job, Q,” Bond tried to soothe him.

“Yes, well, ‘good’ isn’t precisely the level I’m used to working at, so forgive me if I am not instantly elated,” was the smarmy retort, designed to cut and cut well. Bond took it with a grain of salt, knowing that words would be inadequate when faced by the trials Q was going through.  Bond didn’t want to think about how manic the Quartermaster would get if this condition were permanent. “There.”  Q finally sat back, then narrowed his eyes in an acutely embarrassed expression, saying, “I think that did it, if there’s a screen right now that looks like it’s got text flying across it at a dizzying pace.”

“Faster than I can track,” Bond affirmed.

“Is the facial recognition program still running?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Q nodded, looking a bit lost now that he wasn’t typing.  He pegged down a few more keys, which didn’t do anything Bond could see, but then the Quartermaster allowed himself to ease back.  “That’s all I can do for now, but unless I’m wrong in my coding, this should chime audibly when it finds anything related to Mercer or Genecode. I’m searching for the former visually, and the latter by more textual, computerized means.  If there’s so much as a whiff of that coding anywhere, I’ll find it.”

Since his last attempt hadn’t gone well, Bond hesitated a moment, but ultimately dared to say, “I imagine congratulations are in order.”

Not surprisingly, Q was too wound up to take the praise yet again, instead pushing his laptop off his lap (but keeping it close at his side, so he never stopped touching it and lost track of it in the darkness) and muttering, “Not until we get results.  My program is not omniscient - although it is bloody close - and neither is my typing, now that I can’t see.”  As all the times before, his voice shook as he said it, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that. “I’ve sent off a copy of what I just typed in the last half hour to R, who should be back to check it…” Q paused, head swiveling, and he tried his best to look in Bond’s general direction as he asked, “What time is it, anyway?”

Trying not to chuckle at Q’s inability to detect the time - an amusement that didn’t stem from Q being blind, of course, but from the simple fact that Q lost track of time regardless of how many clocks he could or could not see - Bond informed him with a smile to his words, “Q, you’ve been working for a lot longer than half an hour.  It’s nearly 4 AM already. I’m not sure whether to be concerned or impressed.”

“Shit,” was Q’s only comment on that, as he leaned forward over his knees and brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, before pulling his fingers away as if that hurt. “How did I-?” he started in a self-recriminating tone.

“Don’t sweat it, Q,” Bond assured, cutting him off while also reaching up a hand to straighten Q’s glasses more or less automatically - they’d been pushed a bit crooked when Q had reached up earlier to rub at his useless eyes, and it didn’t look right to Bond.  Q jumped and then froze, but 007’s task was done before the Quartermaster could argue about it. “To be fair, you had a habit of losing track of time before all of this, and I’d probably have an aneurysm if I ever slept more than four hours at a time,” Bond continued to brush aside the fact that Q had called him in the middle of the night to help him ‘keep an eye on things.’  It was mostly the truth, though: he’d been vexed at being dragged out of bed, but once he was dressed and in the car, training kicked in, and he was well and truly awake and ready to follow orders.  “Need anything else?” he asked automatically as he stood.

Perhaps it was because actual Q-branchers would be arriving to work before long - meaning people with a more fitting job-description could be bullied into helping Q - or perhaps Q was feeling guilty for making a babysitter out of a 00-agent, but he kept his damaged eyes slightly narrowed and turned in another direction as he replied with forced politeness, “No, no, it’s fine.  You’ve done more than enough, 007 - far above and beyond the call of duty.”  Considering the pained tone in the Quartermaster’s voice, 007 was willing to bet that Q was feeling more ashamed of himself than anything else.

Maybe it was that that drove Bond to reply, “Coffee it is then,” before striding out of the room with Q’s ineffectual shock stuttering out sentences behind him.

~^~

Despite the fact that their Quartermaster was technically removed from his position until further notice (meaning, until he had his eyesight back, really), the minions seemed more than happy to do their boss a good turn.  Therefore, it was as easy as pie to walk into Q-branch and pick up Q’s phone as well as order up some tea and coffee (knowing that Q actually preferred the former while Bond himself liked the latter). Most of the boffins still at Q-branch were either early risers, recluses, or incredibly tired, but one of them managed to scurry up to Bond with the things he had asked for without staring too much.  When the agent smiled back at the middle-aged woman, she actually squeaked and ran away. “Q, we’re going to have a long talk about who you hire as minions,” Bond sighed to himself, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he left, “Or about what in the world you tell them about 00-agents, because I might be a trained assassin, but I’m not going to eat them!”

Of course, that conversation was put to a later date when 007 once again let himself into Q’s hospital room, finding the lights on but the Quartermaster very totally asleep.  Bond immediately made himself quieter, an easy task for a man who could move like a cat when the situation called for it.  Easing the door closed quietly, he came forward, intending to drop off the tea and phone and then take his coffee elsewhere - leaving the nurses with orders to direct the blind Quartermaster towards the tea, if it was still warm when he got up.

What happened instead, however, was that Bond sat down in the chair he’d left earlier, idly watching Q’s sides rise and fall in steady breaths, his glasses once again askew on his face as he lay curled on his side as if he’d tipped over sometime while Bond was gone.  James smirked involuntarily at the way one of Q’s arms had looped over his laptop like it was a teddy-bear, something that only he could pull off while still looking somehow natural. Q’s hair was an even greater mess than before. 

Bond just sat there for what was probably quite awhile, but didn’t feel long at all, as the peace settled in like a blanket.  It was rare...no: unheard of...to catch the Quartermaster of MI6 like this, so unguarded, and 007 decided to savor the moment, as he’d not likely see it again.  There were actually people in MI6 who doubted that Q slept at all, and even Bond could barely recall seeing the slim young man leave work to get some shut-eye.  Seeing Q now asleep was nearly as odd to look at as the sight of him sitting earlier with his glasses not sitting right on his nose, but this time Bond didn’t feel the need to intrude and end the moment. Q deserved some sleep.

Calm faded to darker thoughts, recollections of the catastrophe of the day before, and how close he’d been to preventing it.  Bond’s free hand clenched on the arm of his chair until his knuckles went white, while he sipped at his coffee some more with a sudden grimace.  00-agents learned fast and early to trust their instincts - if they didn’t, they didn’t hold the position for long.  This time, however, it was Q who had taken the fall, and that knowledge was like a string of barbed wire caught permanently around 007’s throat. He glanced again at the Quartermaster, who looked utterly healthy like this, with his ruined eyes closed and only his present location deep in the heart of Medical giving away the fact that he was injured. 

After watching and brooding for a moment more - both the last of his coffee and the entirety of Q’s tea getting quite cold - 007 got up and left, footsteps as noiseless as death. He did, as he’d planned, inform the nurse on duty that there was some tea that could be warmed as soon as the Quartermaster woke up, but other than that the agent remained silently wrapped in his thoughts as he left Medical and then MI6 entirely.

~^~

It was another three weeks and a mission overseas before Bond saw Q again, and it wasn’t quite his place to constantly ask on the condition of his newly-blinded Quartermaster.  He didn’t ask after him directly, but whispers were easy to find, even if James weren’t trained to dig up information like a second language.  What he knew was that Q was still blind, and Medical wasn’t optimistic about that changing.  Either in hopes that the diagnosis would magically change or in pity over Q’s sudden turn of fortune, MI6 hadn’t officially removed him from his post; thus far, it sounded as though Q’s underling, R, was shamefacedly running the Branch now - but Q himself was still a regular fixture in the place. What exactly he was doing there without eyesight, Bond wasn’t sure, but his shoulders and spine lost some of their sword-blade stiffness when he thought about Q not being tossed out on his arse over an accident that wasn’t his fault. 

Whether it was James's fault had not been discussed nor said aloud by anyone, but that didn’t mean the 00-agent had removed the blame from where it was etched in black thread across his jaded heart.

~Your presence is requested in Q-branch~  The text came only seconds after Bond re-entered his flat after having spent what felt like years away from home.  Hunting gun-runners was always fun like that.  Still a little tightly wound, he jumped at the vibration of the phone in his pocket, almost forgetting that he’d turned it on after a week away on a mission.  He didn’t relax as he read the message, because while the message made sense, the number was unfamiliar.

He texted back as he hovered just inside the doorway, closing it but not locking it yet or taking off his shoes on the off-chance that he really was being called into Q-branch by someone official.  It was possible that they wanted to get their tech back as soon as possible, although that wouldn’t make the majority of it any less damaged or destroyed. ~Who is this?~

~Apologies. I am once again on a different phone, but this one will likely be my new permanent number. Q~

Eyebrows rising, Bond immediately - and perhaps more instinctively than purposefully - hit the ‘call’ button even as he turned to retrace his steps outside. “Q?”

There was a little sigh as if this were just too dull to contemplate. “Yes, Bond, I believe my text said that. But if that’s too high-tech for you, I suppose this works.”

Ignoring the jab at his lack of tech abilities (which really weren't as bad as Q always made them out to be - just because 007 destroyed tech didn’t mean he had a running vendetta against it...maybe), James unlocked his car remotely and padded swiftly towards it.  “Why the check-in order?”  As he slipped behind the wheel, he checked to see that he did, indeed, still have his kit sitting under the passenger seat...what was left of it. 

“Oh, this isn’t a check-in, 007,” came the controlled response, and through the phone, Bond was having a hard time reading the finer nuances of Q’s tone - but he sensed a harder edge, a spark of electricity, subtly enhancing Q’s voice. Since he’d last seen him in Medical, the dark-haired young man had regained his air of professionalism, but Bond knew what to listen for when looking for the cracks in it. This wasn’t so much a crack as an itching scar, but now Q’s tone was alive and determined instead of dead, so Bond counted it as a good thing. 

“What is it then?”

“Are you on your way?” Q asked back as if he honestly hadn’t heard the question.

“If I say no, will you bloody explain?” retorted the agent in a grumble, but he was already pulling out into traffic.

“I heard the engine start,” was Q’s shrewd response, “But yes, I’ll explain - as much as I can over an open line like this.  I’ve made progress.”

“You? Not ‘we’, as in our boss and your minions?” Bond had to ask, because he’d be an idiot not to - blind-Q wasn’t exactly the technological powerhouse that he’d once been. 

Was he?

The snort on the other end of the line was somewhat bitter, but clearly Q was making an effort at hiding his more fragile emotions beneath an impenetrable wall of snark and wryness.  The vulnerable Quartermaster that Bond had spent the wee hours of the morning with was gone. “Obviously they helped, but most of the programs that got the majority of the work done are above everyone else’s heads.”

“Your modesty is appalling.”

“As is your sense of humor - if you make one more pot-shot at me being blind and incompetent, I’ll set such a virus on anything with your name attached to it that you’ll have to live under your aliases’ aliases in order to live a normal life,” Q dropped the facade of aloof calm to reveal words like rusted blades, their edges rough with rust but not less biting. 

Momentarily, Bond was taken aback by the vicious little explosion, before he sighed and realized that he’d asked for it.  Just because Q sounded like himself didn’t mean that all was well with the world, just as a dog hiding its wounds didn’t bite when you prodded them. “I wasn’t questioning you, Q,” Bond said with firm sincerity, softening his voice and removing the irreverence. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Q didn’t respond except to hang up, and Bond winced, sensing the frost even through the phone.  “Nice going, James,” he berated himself wryly as he tucked the phone away and took the next left, “You’ve managed to offend your blind Quartermaster before he even explained his cryptic commands to report to a Branch he doesn’t officially run right now. Bloody brilliant.”

~^~

Chapter Text

007 waded into the thick of Q-branch (an ironic name for the moment, he had to admit) and watched tech analysts disperse from him like water from oil.  Agents were typically seen as oil or kerosene: difficult to catch hold of, equally difficult to get rid of once they were on to you, and imminently attached to explosive and flammable conditions.  Bond appreciated how Q-branchers were always aware of that and kept their distance, unless it was to point him timidly in the direction of Q’s office, where the man apparently still was.  

Wary after the abrupt ending of the phone conversation (on top of the cryptic summons), 007 rapped his knuckles on the door before testing the lock and finding it open.  He saw Q typing away behind his desk within, looking so normal that it caused a physical catch in James’s chest, until he looked more closely and saw that the thin-framed man had his eyes locked on nothing just beyond his computer screen.  Still, with barely a twitch of his head - revealing a wireless earbud nestled firmly in one ear - he unerringly greeted, “Hello, 007.  You’ve learned how to knock, I’ve seen.  I’ll have to put that in your records.  It will be a great day of celebration to remember in years to come.”

More set aback by the swift recognition than the flawlessly dry tone teasing him (apparently Q had smoothed over his early temperament, or perhaps buried it all beneath a layer of concrete), Bond stood a moment by the door before slowly letting it fall closed behind him and padding towards the chair opposite Q.  The Quartermaster’s eyes didn’t follow him, of course, but Q had stopped typing and was clearly straining his ears, just barely able to follow the feline step of his agent even in the quiet of his office.  Now facing the smaller man in person, Bond was able to see the faint tension in Q’s shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that said this tension was a chronic condition by now despite his apparent coolness.  While Q’s expression remained placid, his posture screamed unease and caution to 007’s trained eyes.  “What’s going on that you felt the need to call me in?  Does M know about this?”

Bond had asked the right questions, because one of Q’s hand twitched, a giveaway.  

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ to the last question,” Bond observed, feeling just a bit proud of himself for getting an answer for so little effort.

Q’s mouth twitched down at the edges, but he didn’t argue.  “Quite correct, 007, very perceptive of you.  M is aware that I’m still...continuing my efforts as Quartermaster, albeit in a limited fashion, but she doesn’t yet know the results of my work.  I wanted to tell you first - test the waters, as it were.”

“Sounds promising,” replied 007 noncommittally, also adding nonchalantly as he idly drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, watching the way it made Q’s head shift subtly as he caught the faint sound in one ear, “Sounds like trouble, too, if you don’t mind me saying.  Don’t get me wrong, I love trouble as much as the next 00-agent, but if it involves going behinds M’s back-”

“We’re not!” Q hurried to say.  One of his hands lifted in a belaying motion, one that normal people would use to perhaps keep a person from rising from their chair and leaving, only Q was on the other side of his desk and had precious little idea of exactly where Bond was.  Frankly, Bond still wanted to know how he’d recognized him at the door.  “That is, not for long.  You see, Bond, I’ve found Mercer, and Genecode.  He’s on the run with it, just like you suspected from the beginning, but it seems that now he wants to auction it to the highest bidder.  We have to either get it back or destroy it before that happens.”

Bond shifted until he was leaning forward over his knees, a posture that indicated he was listening but was lost on Q, except to tell the blind Quartermaster more clearly where his coworker was.  “And?  Why the secrecy?  Why call me in?  I consider us friends, Q,” Bond said, pausing and watching Q’s face, because this wasn’t something either of them had verbalized, although 007 had considered it true for ages now, “but something tells me that you want Bond the 00-agent and not just Bond the friend.”

At that moment, the Quartermaster looked almost desperate to see, as he gave a few shocked blinks and visibly resisted the urge to swivel his head - a rather owl-like reaction that 007 was already getting used to, recognizing Q’s efforts to pinpoint sounds.  “I…” Q started, then stopped and removed his hands to tuck them on his lap.  007’s eyes narrowed, but he was pretty sure that the smaller man was trying to hide a tremor that had started up in his long fingers.  How many weaknesses and insecurities was Q hiding to maintain what tenuous hold he still had on his position as Quartermaster?  “I’ll get right to the point then,” Q started over, perfectly in control again, although Bond suspected that this wasn’t the first sentence he’d been planning on saying.  Leaning his chin on his palm, Bond watched with patient interest, drinking in the little tells and quirks of Q’s expression as he tried to figure him out even as the slender young man spoke.  “The auction Mercer has sought out is very underground: very secret, very exclusive.  Even with my hacking skills, I’ve been having a hard time finding out its exact location, although I have been able to procure the means to an invitation.  Therein lies the dilemma, and the reason you and I are speaking.”

Bond waited a moment, all but seeing the words trapped on the edge of Q’s tongue, and coaxed them out by saying unflappably, “Spit it out, Q.”

The response was not what he’d been expecting...although he had to admit that he understood why Q had come to him alone with this before facing off with M.

~^~

“No.  No, this is insane.  Q, you’ve lost your bloody mind.”

It was more intimidating than Q wanted to admit, listening to a fully-trained assassin storm around his office without having the benefit of seeing him.  He briefly wondered whether he still had enough power in MI6 to request the carpet be removed, so that he’d at least have a chance of hearing Bond’s footsteps as he paced back and forth, instead of just hearing his verbal outbursts from first one side of the room and then the other.  At least he’d heard the rough sound of the chair jerking back and fabric shifting as 007 had lurched to his feet, his surprise making sitting still an untenable position.  

“Give me a better option,” Q forced himself to say with enough calm so as to seem unaffected.  In reality, he had his hands fisted on his lap, moved there so that the whitening of his knuckles wouldn’t stand out like a fucking target to 007’s trained eyes.  Q knew as well as anyone else in MI6 just how much training every agent had at people-watching, something that he’d never worried about until he was suddenly in a position where he couldn’t watch back.  

Bond was still angry, his voice sharp, temperamental, and contrary in a way that gave every word a silver-lined bite.  “Blow the place up.”

“Ah, but I said I couldn’t find the place,” Q made his rebuttal, adding with smug wryness that was far more sincere than the calm he was layering over everything, “and good luck finding someone better at that than I am.”

Bond’s growl sounded like it came from behind his hand, and Q imagined the large man pausing a moment, rubbing a palm over his mouth before digging it back through his hair because Q had frustrated him so much.  “No, Q.  I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but you’re bloody blind!” Bond snapped, his control breaking just a bit more.  Q held his ground with effort as the man’s voice drew closer, right to the other side of his desk, which suddenly felt like no defense at all, really.  “Even if that weren’t the case - and it is, I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Q - you’ve never been in the field.”

By this point, Q felt how his breathing had picked up slightly, although by some miracle he had managed to keep his posture and expression carefully neutral, even though Bond sounded as though he were leaning over his desk now.  A split-second later, and the blinded Quartermaster realized that the intimidation was probably intentional: 007 was trying to get him to back out of the idea.  That infused a whole new coating of steel into his spine, and Q pressed his lips together for a moment, doing his level best to direct his eyes to where he thought Bond’s face was, and retorted with as much icy control as he contained, “I say again, 007: Do you have any other options?  To get an invitation, you need someone of my skills, my background.  If you or anyone else tried to fake the role, it would be like a pigeon pretending to be a peacock - they are simply too dissimilar.”

Bond’s frustrated breath was a soft touch to Q’s face, light but still terrifyingly close considering that one of them was blind and the essentially helpless and the other had a licence to kill.  Still, the agent kept his cool, and countered with only the sound of gritted teeth, “Pretend to be a prospective buyer until they give out the location.  Then hand it over to me.”

“Won’t work,” Q argued unhesitantly.  Physically, he was essentially useless, but mentally, he was still way ahead of everyone else.  Just because he’d lost his eyes didn’t mean he’d lost his brain (whatever Bond may think at the moment).  After all, he’d programmed his computer as well as the camera at the door to accommodate his new disability, the speaker nestled in his ear telling him when the facial recognition program picked up familiar face - Bond’s, in the most recent case.  He’d also worked out the bugs on a program that was quite able to read code back to him, a feat that had made his minions rather shocked, but glad to have him back and working on his computer again.  It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.  “Computers and data aren’t the kinds of solid targets you’re used to working with - even if you get in, and even if M gives you the go-ahead to just summarily blow up the place, chances are the data will be saved elsewhere, and survive.  If I’m there, onsite with you, I can find exactly where the data is and extract it.”

“How?” asked Bond mercilessly, and Q tried to remind himself that the agent was simply doing what was necessary: testing Q’s weaknesses, pushing and prodding, all to ensure that this wasn’t a death-wish from the get-go.  Still, the man’s brutal tone made it difficult to hide a wince.

Perhaps it was wounded pride that had Q’s back stiffening, his tone taking on a frosted edge not unlike the kind he’d gifted Bond with on the phone barely two hours ago.  “The same way I’ve been coding for the past week.  The same way I knew it was you at the door without bloody eyes to see with.  It was a bloody nightmare to set everything up, and I still feel like a fish on land, but I’m coping!”  Realizing that he’d been leaning forward, on the verge of challenging a man he couldn’t even see, Q froze, lips pursing until their whitened.  Then he made himself sit back, feeling the utter silence of the room like a smothering pressure around his head.  “I’ll be as frank with you are you’re being with me,” he said, with a frigid approximation of professional calm that made him want to bite the inside of his cheek with embarrassment: he didn’t sound in control at all, he thought.  But the Quartermaster plowed onward anyway.  “I know I’m not built for this, I know that I’m a liability on the field no matter how one looks at it - but I’m all you’ve got.  If we want to find Genecode before it get into the wrong hands, you need a hacker of my calibre.  No other key will get you in and get the data you need.”  Q moved a hand to his keyboard, orienting his fingertips in a flash and pressing a few keys.

007 must have turned to look.  His voice was cautiously even.  “What did you just do?”

“Sent M my proposal.”  Q sat back a bit more, trying to remember how to be the Quartermaster dealing with a recalcitrant agent.  “I wanted to do you the respect of informing you first, but ultimately, it’s her decision whether the gains outweigh the risks, or vice versa.”

“Q, you can’t do this,” Bond was still trying to explain the lunacy of all of this to him, and it was endearing, really, in a sad and annoying way.  Q flashed a slantwise, bitter smile.

“No, 007, this is all I can do.  Let me do it.”

~^~

‘Let me do it.’  Q’s last sentence kept ringing in his ears, and as Bond paced in the carpark, he kept running over his own responses to that whole damned conversation and wishing he could take it all back.  Running frustrated hands back through his short hair, the 00-agent growled imprecations under his breath and considered going down and letting off steam at the firing range, but realized he was likely too tense and dangerous for that right now - and all he really wanted to shoot was Mercer.  And maybe himself a little, for calling Q blind and useless.  Bond winced, recalling his words without shock and temper fogging his reactions this time.  No, today was definitely a study on how not to deal with crippled Quartermasters.  

Really, Q was doing incredibly right now.  After that last hollow smile, he’d gotten up, taking one of those canes customarily found in the hands of the blind, and had walked right out of his office.  He’d kept the earbud in one ear, and Bond noticed that he carried something like a phone or blackberry hooked at his belt.  Only then had Bond’s eyes flashed to the new cameras at the door, and recalled Q’s statement about recognizing him.  It hadn’t taken too much after that for Bond’s deductive reasoning to kick in, and for him to realize that Q had somehow used tech to make up for where his body failed him.

Impressive.  

Also, a little bit scary, when combined with the Quartermaster’s reckless determination to get back the Genecode.  Q was barely holding himself together, 007 could tell, but the stubbornness was something the Quartermaster had always had.  As much as Bond worried that that stubbornness was going to get him killed, he felt bad for attacking his plan so brutally.  If Q ever talked to him again after that, it would be a bleeding miracle…

His phone buzzed with a text.  Sadly, it wasn’t from Q, despite the ironic timing - instead, it was M.  ~Come to my office.  You bloody know what about.~

“Well,” Bond sighed to himself, typing out a quick ~On my way~ before the woman suspected him of ignoring her, “It’s either about Q’s fucking mission or it’s because of what I said to him.”  Either way, he had the sinking feeling that he was about to get his arse handed to him...and he rather felt he deserved it.  He still didn’t know what to think about his newly-blind Quartermaster diving into the thick of a black-market auction, but he figured Q deserved for him to at least give him a chance.  

Pushing down his conflicting emotions of worry, frustration, and an uneasy mixture of guilt and something warmer, Bond made his way from the cold, concrete silence of the carpark back into the heart of MI6.  

~^~

M had accepted the plan, which Q told himself wasn’t surprising, because he’d explained in his email quite succinctly why there was really no other option.  Still, when he’d made his way to M’s office (a trip that looked easy only because he’d walked this way for two weeks now, until it was little different from shuffling around in his own apartment at night without his glasses), the Quartermaster had been expecting a blunt and long-winded refusal - and possibly a second lecture not unlike Bond’s, in which he was told why this was a bad idea.

The thing was, Q knew this was a bad idea - he just didn’t see why it was any worse than Genecode being in Mercer’s hands.

M had agreed, however, and after an interrogations of the finer details and what Q knew, M had called in 007, at which point Q had braced himself for the third time that day.  Anger and helpless frustration fizzled in his stomach no matter how he tried to extinguish the painful flame, but he managed to sit composed and silent until the door opened behind him.  Q turned his head, following noise until the micro-camera he’d imbedded in his glasses caught on a face, and the computerized voice woke up to say through his earbud: ‘Bond, James.’  Then the larger man was presumably sitting down in the chair next to him, uncharacteristically silent.  

In fact, he’d stayed mostly silent.  Q had been expecting another round of yelling.  

Everyone always wished for an obedient 007 - Q was even fairly sure that some employees blew out their birthday candles to make such wishes - but now Q just found it bloody eerie, as if he were sitting next to a black-hole.  At least when 007 had been arguing with him earlier, Q had been able to get his social cues from the man’s obviously furious voice, but now he was deaf as well as blind.  It was so frustrating and distracting that the meeting was all but over before he knew it, without one word of dissention from 007.  

Now Q was back at his desk, another program he’d modge-podged together reading out the mission specs to him with a pleasant, computerized voice droning in his ear.  Unfortunately, since he’d come up with most of the missions specs, his brain had plenty of power left over to run over other worries in his head.  ‘You’re not built for this, Q,’ some part of him warned direly, completely disregarding his recent, crippling injury and simply thinking in terms of how he’d never been in the field - and had never planned to be.  Rubbing a hand at the headache gathering in his temples (likely caused by the tension that never really left his shoulders nowadays), Q pushed the little voice away but was unsurprised when it just came back.  Logic was unavoidable that way.  

“I’m a blind man who has barely learned to walk in a straight line with a cane, going on a mission usually reserved for 00-agents, to get back information that might end up going to who-the-hell-knows if I mess this up,” Q muttered to himself, pretty much summing up the entirety of his plans, “And I might end up in enemy hands myself if I can’t keep it together.”  He could bluff a good game - call people’s names as they entered his range of sight, walk without hitting walls in Q-branch and the better known halls of MI6, code with only the minimal number of mistakes - but in reality he knew that he was barely functional.  Awareness of his own strengths and weaknesses had always been something Q prided himself in,  but right now it was a torment.  

Even though it was viscerally painful to do, he typed off a quick text to Bond informing him that he’d probably have to make sure Q didn’t walk into things on this mission.  Embarrassment made him want to just implode into nothingness, but for the sake of the mission, he hit send.  At least his blindness was part of their cover, as hiding it would be impossible.  Q was basically playing himself as a reclusive hacker interested in what the auction had to offer, and, being blind, he never went anywhere without someone watching over him (Bond’s job, obviously).  The role itself would actually be easy to play, theoretically.  The only difficulty would come from remaining calm, not screaming, and pretending it was utterly normal when he walked into a doorframe.  With a slightly manic, bitter chuckle, Q leaned forward to push his fingertips up under his glasses - for once it didn’t matter if he smudged them - to rub at his eyes, which seemed to always ache now.  

His computer kept listing off things he could see: “Balien, Adam.  Hacker-slash-programmer.  Numerous aliases…”  They were all computer-aliases that Q had already had, wanting to keep to the truth as much as possible.  After all, he didn’t have 007’s training at seamlessly absorbing and then spitting out lies as if they were truths.  The criminal record he’d given himself was less sincere - Q of Q-branch was better at hiding his work than Adam Balien.  

“Sterling, Richard.  Ex-military.  Bodyguard to Adam Balien for three years.”  Q snorted, amused that Bond’s alias had known Q longer than James Bond himself, although it would hopefully explain away any moments where the two of them appeared familiar with each other.  Even if Q weren’t dependant upon 007 physically, he knew that he’d need the man’s expertise and advice simply to work undercover, and the less often they were separated, the better.  Unfortunately, that would severely limit 007’s range of activity, further proving just how much of this depended on the Quartermaster, who’d never been in the field on a mission in his life.

Finally buzzing with too much energy to sit still, Q pulled out his earbud with a sharp dig of his fingers and shoved himself to his feet, swallowing against the quiet of the room and panic in his head.  Everything felt deathly silent without the chatter in his ear, and he itched to put it back in, having a momentary flashback to right after the explosion when he’d been deaf as well as blind.  Pushing down the memory, feeling his way slowly, he made his way over to the battered futon situated at the back of his office (usually hidden by his desk), and stretched himself out on it.  It was well-used, more slept-in than his bed, truthfully.  Of late, it had even become a favorite place for 007 when the man barged unannounced into Q’s office.  It had only happened a few times, but Q had gotten the idea that 007 was less interested in being annoying and intrusive and more interested in crashing somewhere quiet and comfortable, where he knew that the company was nice, familiar, and undemanding, and the environment was unthreatening.  Q sighed, closing his eyes for the illusions of normalcy, and willed up an image of Bond, a crooked grin on his rugged face, slouching back in a tux against the faded black of Q’s worn old futon.  The man had always looked as out of place as a peacock amidst pigeons when he sat on that futon, but it had somehow added to the amusing warmth of the memory, and Q drifted off with a chuckle echoing somewhere in his head, also thinking that Bond had just said they were friends earlier that day - had they been friends before then as well?  

It was one too many questions in the Quartermaster’s strained brain, and he was out before he could find any answers that he was seeking.  

~^~

A slightly nasal voice weaseled into Q’s ear, questioning, “Quartermaster?”

Out of reflex, Q jumped a bit, but his heart-rate stayed steady and barely picked up pace - until his eyes flicked open and saw nothing but darkness deeper than hot tar across his vision, his perception, his world-!  The Quartermaster thrashed then, adrenalin slicing right and left like a knife in his chest and stomach, spurring on the actions of his heart as it tried to escape through his ribs, which had suddenly become the bars of a cage hemming it in.  Q may or may not have let out a very unbecoming yelp, strangled panic stumbling out of his throat, but then the poor minion who had come to wake him was grabbing his arm and trying to calm him.  Fortunately, the fellow succeeded before Q ended up on the floor, and the indignity of it all ended in just a few seconds, albeit seconds that felt like years.

Amidst rasped apologies (on both sides), the situation was brought under control.  Q straightened his glasses pointlessly, trying furiously to hide the desperate shaking of his hands, wishing for one manic second that it had been 007 to wake him up - because he still couldn’t place exactly which of his underlings it was next to him (although he thought it was Marvin-something), but he knew that he’d recognize Bond’s voice the second he heard it.  A second later, logic set in, and Q tossed out the thought of churlish and ludicrous, because the last thing he needed was 007 watching him lose his shit over something as simple as waking up.  Humiliated from stem to stern, Q managed to make it to his desk and put his earbud in, a few pushed buttons on his new phone urging it to repeat what the cameras had told it: “Collins, Morris.”  Ah, Morris.  Not Marvin.  Close enough.  

“I was just coming to tell you that the taxi was ready…if...that is...if you are.  Ready, that is,” Morris Collins stuttered, still off-put.  Q made an effort to at least seem recovered and collected, although he had to brace his hands on his desk for a minute, squeezing his eyes shut until sparks of color exploded behind his lids - funny how that could still happen when everything else was jetty blackness.  

“Yes, Mr. Collins,” Q nodded, voice back under control but sounding tired, as if he hadn’t just slept.  Then again, he had no idea how long he’d been asleep either…  Another few buttons pushed, and the relevant data was verbally relayed to his ear.  8 AM.  Barely any time at all before he and all of his things went on a train to destinations dangerous.  Bond was taking a different route only because he was willing to fly, and because M wanted him to get the lay of the land before they dumped a Quartermaster into the mix.  That gave Q a bit more time to be an utter blind dunce before he made a fool of himself with Bond for company.  His MI6 escort up until then would no doubt have to be threatened into silence, or else they’d never keep quiet about the fabulous tales of ‘Adam Balien’ stumbling, tripping, and various other clumsy things that sighted people never did…

It took effort to drag himself out of those thoughts.  Before this, Q would have loved a ride on a train, but before now, he would have been able to watch the view as he reminded himself that he wasn’t on a tin-can with wings with no leg-room and bad in-flight meals.  

“Um...here, sir,” Morris said uncertainly when Q’s hand felt around.  His cane was nudged into them, and Q fought the urge to bristle at the help.  “Two agents are waiting just outside Q-branch for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” nodded Q with as much grace as he could muster, while he tried to figure out what to do with his cane.  It was honestly more trouble than it was worth, and he walked into tables and chairs just as effectively with or without it.  Somehow - as he left the familiar confines of his office, and wove through the equally familiar maze of his branch, and finally joined the two lower-level agents who flanked him like half-trained puppies - Q managed not to trip or otherwise embarrass himself.  

~^~

Chapter Text

Q still didn’t know the meeting place for the auction, M had informed Bond.  He was still in contact with her while Q was in transit, going over the last bits of data before they effectively slipped into radio silence and the mission began.  Fortunately, ‘Adam Balien’ and his guard ‘Richard Sterling’ were connected now with the right people and hadn’t set off any alarms so far, so hopefully it was only a matter of waiting and playing their cards right to get them into the auction.  Until then…

“Until then, keep Q out of trouble.  It’s nerve-wracking enough having him injured - having him damaged and out in the field is going to give me ulcers.”

“I thought I gave you ulcers,” Bond retorted with a playful smirk as he listened to M’s complaints over the phone, his own steps carrying him around the hotel room for the third time as he grew accustomed to it.  He was used to larger, more opulent spaces, but had picked this - just one single room with two beds - because he figured it would be easier for Q to navigate.  Because Bond was a spy and that was what he was trained to do, he’d gathered that Q was still getting used to his lack of sight, and only in very familiar areas was he coordinated in the slightest.  That, combined with what 007 already knew about Q’s pride, had led him to pick a place that wouldn’t frustrate Q for too long, at least.  

“You’re still on the list,” M retorted, but Bond fancied he could hear the grudging smirk in her voice, “Which makes me wonder why I put my two greatest headaches on the same mission - so don’t screw this up, Bond.  Q is still an incredibly valuable asset, for all that is contained in that head of his.  He doesn’t have to see to bring the world down around our ears.”  

M’s secret belief in Q’s abilities was echoed in 007, who nodded without hesitation, “Understood loud and clear, ma’am.”

“Good.  Don’t contact me again until you learn something.”  And with that, M hung up.  

Well used to his boss’s prickly temperament (and knowing full-well that he wouldn’t respect anything less), 007 rolled his eyes and checked his phone for messages, noting the important one: the Quartermaster was almost there.  In fact, at that moment, he got another text from Q himself, succinctly saying: ~Arrived at hotel.  Heading to room.  Do not shoot my escort.~

Bond smirked now and resisted the urge to send back an optimistic ~maybe~ while looking out the room’s one window.  They were on the second floor, facing the front of the hotel, giving 007 a clear view of any newcomers.  He didn’t see any familiar faces, but noted the taxi idling by the front doors, half-hidden by the awning.  ~Understood~ he texted back instead of being cheeky.  

He heard the footsteps before the knock on the door, and had a relaxed and friendly smile on his face even as he opened it, seeing Q with two nondescript men at his side.  Q looked a bit haggard, and was tapping his cane ahead of him more like the annoyed flicking of a cat’s tail than the movements of someone trying to get the lay of the land.  “Ah, Sterling,” Q slipped into character passingly well, even though there was no one around who needed to be fooled.  The brittle edge on the Quartermaster’s voice, making his small smile look slightly thin and sharp, grated on 007’s ears and made him shift his weight uncomfortably.  “Or at least I presume that’s who opened the door.  If not, my traveling companions have made something of a mistake with the room number.”

With a jolt, Bond realized that Q hadn't recognized him.  Whatever had allowed Q to recognized him back in his office in MI6 apparently didn't apply at the moment, so maybe Q’s ability to discern faces was presently limited to the cameras at his disposal - and while 007 was pretty sure that Q had rigged or hacked every camera in MI6, the hotel was something of a new place to him.  Feeling like a right git or just standing there silently, Bond cleared his throat and replied with the same light politeness that Q was grasping for with obvious strain.  “You got the right room.  Or, if not, I’d be more than happy to share it with you.”

That earned him a snort of amusement, and even if Q couldn’t look at him, the man was still more than capable of rolling his eyes effectively.  “How can I resist an offer like that?” he deadpanned, and then hesitated.  The cane twitched in his hand, skittering uncertainly across the carpeted floor, but even though it didn’t bump into anything, Q seemed at a loss as to what to do about it.  Bond took matters into his own hands with only a second’s hesitation.  

“Allow me.”  He ignored Q’s jump of surprise or the way the lesser MI6 agents moved back warily as Bond stepped forward, sliding up along Q’s side like he was built to be there, coaxing Q’s free hand into the crook of his arm.  The Quartermaster jumped in surprise, lips compressing in a thin line, and his other hand fisted around his cane - however, after a brief second of internal turmoil, he let his left hand curl over the proffered arm.  With a hum of approval and a little nod to the other agents (who were left with the duty of carrying Q’s bags like the lapdogs they were), 007 escorted Q in, the two of them moving as smoothly as if they were both sighted.  Only the nervous tension of Q’s hand around his arm let Bond know how nerve-wracking this was for the smaller man.  

Things were quick and formal after that, as Q was led to sit in the room’s one desk-chair.  From there the Quartermaster efficiently ordered the arrangement of his things, adapting rather well despite the fact that he still didn’t even know how large a room he was in.  In surprisingly short order, the other agents were exiting, leaving just Bond and Q.  The latter heaved a bone-deep sigh and slouched a bit.  Bond made conversation as he leaned against the wall with ever-watchful eyes on his Quartermaster.

“You keep holding that stick like you’re going to hit me with it.  Should I be worried?”

“Only if you’re within reach,” Q retorted.  The politeness he’d garnered for the other agents were fading fast, leaving fatigue and dryness, “And since I still haven’t quite gotten a grip on depth-perception, I have no idea if you are.”

Bond chuckled, taking the attempt at humor for what it was.  Pushing off the wall, he made his way to the little coffee-maker, where he’d already heated water.  He watched with amusement as Q’s head twitched, catching the scent of tea almost as soon as Bond slipped in the tea-bag.  “Long trip?” 007 asked instead of acknowledging the attention.  

“You have no idea.  You’d think that with trains effectively being the same car repeated over and over again, I’d learn to navigate them, but I’m afraid I’m a mass of bruises from bumping into things,” Q laughed at himself.  He twitched his walking stick, and the glare on his face seemed to be directed at it.  “And this is useless.  Bloody useless.”

Usually, a stroppy Q was a terrifying thing to be faced with, but since 007 knew that it wasn’t his fault for once, he gave vent to another bit of laughter while also padding forward and catching Q’s free hand.  The Quartermaster’s tension was revealed in how hard he jumped, tensing up like a cat with water tossed on it.  Bond pretended not to notice, instead slipping the cup of Earl Grey into Q’s hand.  “Here.  Let this settle you a bit.  Then we can talk work.”

“It’s safe for that?” the Quartermaster asked with wary curiosity, sitting a bit frozen with the mug in his hands.  Bond wondered if Q would notice that the drink wasn’t the usual hotel fair, but actually something more familiar - a piece of home.  Bond had deduced Q’s tastes in tea ages ago, but hadn’t had much use for the information until now.  So far, Q seemed too tense to notice much of anything.  

“Checked for bugs already.  The room’s clear.  And not very big either, so feel free to wander.”

“No vast suite of rooms for the great 007?” Q joked wryly, now that he knew he could talk freely, “Whatever else will accounting spend the money on?”  He brought the tea up to sip at it, then got a better whiff, head jerking down as if to stare at it with sightless eyes.  Consternation or budding realization flashed across his features.  

Not wanting Q to think about the sentimental gesture, Bond hurried to change topics, “Any word on the Genecode or the auction?”

As usual, business polarized Q’s mind swiftly.  He did sip the tea again, but already his mind was clearly elsewhere, and he loosened his death-grip on his cane to let it rest on the arm of his chair.  “Not yet, unfortunately.  I’ve still got Q-branch monitoring various channels, but I think that it’s mostly a matter of waiting now, for us.  So far as anyone knows, Adam Balien is more than interested in a lot of things at that auction, and has the money to buy his way in.”

“How many hoops will we have to jump through before they trust us with the location?”

“Hopefully none - at least, none that I can’t work my way through via computer,” Q said, but there was enough unease in his tone to indicate that he wasn’t entirely sure of this.  He admitted another sip of tea later, “There’s always the off-chance that someone will want to meet us in person first, but I’d rather avoid that, if it’s all the same to you.  The less I have to walk around and make a fool of myself, the better.”

Bond was surprised by how much he hated the self-effacing, bitter tone of Q’s voice in that last sentence.  It all mixed up with the guilt in his gut as he thought about how he’d had a chance to prevent all of this, but had missed it, not seeing Mercer for the threat he was.  It as probably that same wayward guilt that had driven him to snag some of Q’s favorite brand of tea - all of this from an agent who rarely suffered much from morals.  The two men sat in brooding silence until Q had drained his cup, and Bond spoke almost automatically as the smaller man levered himself to his feet, “Bed’s on your right.  Most of your bags are sitting on it, at your two o’clock.”

Q actually jumped a bit in surprise at the instantaneous clarification, 007’s words like sonar racing out, giving Q a rough image of his surroundings with sound alone.  “Er...thank you, 007,” was the reply Q eventually managed to get out as he blinked a bit.  Then he moved hesitantly forward, footsteps clearly cautious.  He made it to the nearest bed, though, and pulled himself up on it to sit crosslegged like a crow amidst its nest.  Elegant, long-fingered hands - just as effective as always - reached out and touched the bags around him, and Bond watched as Q relaxed.  “It’s going to be a bit boring for awhile, 007.  Hopefully you can survive that,” Q joked with something more resembling his usual humor, now that he was amidst familiar things again, pulling his laptop out of the nearest bag.

Reclining now on his own bed, entertained by the simple business of watching Q’s every movement and gleaning new insights from each, 007 said back coolly, “I’ll do my best not to blow anything up out of boredom.”

~^~

Q couldn’t figure Bond out, and it was going to drive him insane.  True, the man had been respectful enough when they’d last met in M’s office, but before that he’d been so against this plan that the Quartermaster had been half-worried that 007 would handcuff him to his desk to prevent it - or do some other sort of violence.  Now, though, the agent was back to being as eerily quiet as the dead, and Q felt a lot like he was sharing space with a lethal predator.  Which he was.  The silence alone Q wanted to interpret as icy displeasure, but whenever Bond did open his mouth, it was to be extremely helpful in small doses.  So far, whenever Q had started moving around, it had somehow jump-started Bond’s mouth, and a bit more of the room was described with each pass.  After the overall layout had been expressed, however, the larger man had fallen into unreadable silence again, and Q had no way to decide if that meant brooding, assassination plans, or if the man had fallen asleep.  

Moving some of his things from the bed to the small, hotel desk, Q tripped and swore, the long day combining with every new irritation like needles being driven increasingly deeper into his skin.  He heard 007 shift where he was, and suddenly felt the overwhelming need to break the silence himself before he received pity.  “I don’t see any use for this cane!” the words tumbled hotly out of Q’s mouth, “I honestly trip over it more often than anything else!”  He gave it an angry thump on the floor for emphasis, although he was tempted to throw it across the room.  With his luck, he’d probably break something.

“I imagine that it takes awhile to learn how to use properly,” 007 said calmly, but Q could just detect a hint of amusement lurking in the relaxed tone.  It was almost obscenely odd to hear the agent in the position of levelheadedness between the two of them, talking Q down from his plans of murdering his cane slowly.  Then, unexpectedly, Bond asked, “Anything I can help with?”

“No, I don’t think that even you could get this cane to behave-”

“I meant with whatever you’re stockpiling on the desk.  I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on anything with wires, but until something happens, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Hands finding the chair he was looking for, Q eased himself down into it as he considered the offer.  It had been a long day already, and even if it hadn’t, the Quartermaster rather doubted he could have detected subterfuge in James’s tone if the man didn’t want him to.  Even an unoccupied spy was still a spy, and Bond could lie with a lazy ease that would surprise and disturb most people.  Despite the fact that 007 never really behaved on missions, however, he was also known for getting the job done, and only messed around when there was a leggy blonde in the vicinity - so perhaps he meant what he said now, about being helpful.  Q took a box that he’d been cradling carefully, opening it by touch and feeling relief that the hand-sized object inside appeared undamaged.  “Well, mostly I just need to do some programming at this stage, so could I bother you to fetch my laptop?  If I have to make one more trip blind, I’m afraid I’ll be pushing my luck.”  Q grimaced at the thought of tripping with his laptop in hand, because there was no way in hell that would go well.  In fact, the possibility opened up a cold pit of fear in his stomach, because that laptop was like a part of his being - damaging it was unimaginable.

The only answer he got was the sound of bedsprings moving, and then he just barely heard the soft slide of footsteps - barefoot? - moving across the room lightly.  Even in close quarters like this, with no distracting noises, and with Q listening attentively, Bond was eerily quiet.  Fortunately, Q just heard the shift of clothing and more footsteps as 007 approached him, and he could feel the unexpected warmth of radiated body-heat as Bond leaned over him and placed the laptop down on the desk.  “There.  If you ever say that I can’t touch technology without breaking it, I’ll remind you of this moment.”

“The jury is still out on that until I open it,” Q couldn’t help but smile just a little at the friendly and familiar banter.  His fingertips felt along the edge of the laptop until he could find the catch, and only really relaxed when he had his fingertips on the keys and had activated the connection to his earbud.  

Bond was still there, at his left side.  “If you don’t mind me asking, Q, why is it that you’ve got a second set of glasses with you?” the man asked cautiously, while Q felt his hand settle on the back of the chair, just brushing Q’s shoulder-blade in the movement.  Probably an unconscious gesture.  

“You mean, why do I have two sets of glasses when I arguably don’t have any use for either one of them?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Q.”

“Sorry - reflexive snark,” the smaller man apologized, and actually kind of meant it, because 007 wasn’t being a berk but Q was still snapping at him.  The blinded Quartermaster slid his right hand from his laptop to the glasses that he’d just pulled out of their well-padded box.  “Do you notice anything different about these?”

“Not at first glance,” the agent admitted, but his weight shifted - a soft noise to Q’s ears making him imagine that he could feel the aura of the man brushing him - as if he were looking at everything more closely.  Then he snorted, closer to Q’s head than expected.  “Your bloody hair covers up the ones you’re wearing, so I can hardly compare.”

To hide the startled little jump and the inexplicable flush rising to his cheeks, Q quickly  began explaining, even while his left hand tapped keys on his laptop to get a few programs up and running, “With the glasses I'm wearing now, my facial recognition program has been dependant upon any cameras I can subjugate.  Hacking feeds isn’t exactly difficult for me-”

“Your modesty is overwhelming.”

“Pot, meet kettle - do not lecture me on modesty when you’re the one who struts around like a peacock to seduce marks,” Q reflexively shot back, lifting a finger.  The nasty bite in his tone was absent, however, leaving him sounding...like himself.  He quickly got back on topic as the act of doing something work-related soothed him, even if he was doing it in pitch blackness, “As I was saying, it’s not impossible to hack into cameras willy-nilly, but it takes time and effort.  So that other set of glasses includes a built-in camera.  Nothing fancy, but it’s hooked up to my laptop remotely, and I tested it out while still in MI6.  I'm still not one-hundred percent happy, but as soon as I get the last glitches out of the programming…”

“You’ll be able to see,” 007 filled in for him in a quiet but unreadable tone, and Q found himself going still, the words hitting him more than he’d expected.

Motionless, Q blinked, part of him still reflexively thinking that the darkness would clear whenever he opened his eyes; logically, he knew that Medical held little hope for his eyesight, but logic and reflex rarely were on speaking terms.  Logic also told him that this conversation was nothing to get emotional over, but 007 had hit the truth of the matter with the same deadly accuracy that he usually applied to guns, and Q similarly felt as though a bullet had just torn through him.  Trust Bond to pick now to be perceptive…

“Yes,” Q forced his voicebox to work, and denied that his voice was rough around the edges because frustration and loss was clogging up his throat.  He had to briefly clench his teeth and swallow to regain control again, as he primly went on, “In layman’s terms, this shall give me a semblance of sight.  I tried to use it the train, but having that many people so packed together made it like using a geiger counter inside a radioactive facility.  I’ll need to tweak the program so that it only relays its finding verbally under certain circumstances.”

“Like when someone unfamiliar is approaching?” Bond guessed, sounding at least politely interested.

“Or someone familiar, like yourself,” Q shrugged and added, going back to typing up code, “Call me crazy, but it’s a bit unsettling every time you sneak up on me.”

For a moment, Q thought the following silence meant that Bond didn’t feel particularly bad about spooking him, but it just turned out that 007 was gathering his words.  “Sorry.  Walking silently is a force of habit.”  He actually sounded a bit contrite, or at least uncomfortable.  

Q was still a bit too tense to play nice, and his metaphorical claws were still out as he murmured back a bit tartly, “As is everything else in your repertoire, so you’ll have to excuse my continual bloody nervousness.”

Now the silence definitely had a feel to it of Bond staring at him, but Q wished he could just rewind and stop his mouth from running.  It wasn’t his intention to either annoy or offend James, but it was just a fact that Q was nervous around him, and being sightless didn’t exactly lend itself to feelings of safety and well-being.  Q wished for the days when he'd been getting used to Bond being around, to watching him smirk as he returned damaged tech, to even feeling comfortable when they were sharing space and idle moments amidst work.  Q sighed and forced himself to remove his hands from his laptop, dredging up an apology from behind the walls upon walls of strain and stress.  “I’m sorry, 007.  That was utterly uncalled for.  I know, of course, that you’re here to help me - on my own request, no less - and anything I say to the contrary is just the anxiety talking.”  He didn’t think he needed to remind 007 that this was the first time he’d been in the field, so he should be allowed some nervousness.  Q went to rub tiredly at his eyes under his glasses before remembering that his eyes still ached, and instead dropping his hands back down awkwardly.  He suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here, anybody but himself, and it was so bloody frustrating he could explode.

“Maybe you should try and catch some shut-eye, Q,” Bond suggested in a wary sort of tone that was carefully devoid of anything that could set Q off.  The fact that Q could tell he was doing that nearly set him off, ironically, but he kept a civil tongue in his mouth as he responded.

“No.  No, I’m fine.  At this point, I just need to work.”  To prove his point, he put his hands stubbornly back on his keyboard.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.  I’ll shout if I need anything.”  

Uncomfortable silence stretched between them like overheated taffy, and Q found his muscles winding up tight as he hoped with increasing fervor that Bond would let it drop.  With a new disability and a field-assignment on his hands, Q was already overwhelmed, and a stroppy 00-agent was the last thing he needed.  

After easily two full, endless minutes of quietness, however, 007 said nothing but merely retreated to his bed.  Q heard the springs depress, a bit of fumbling and two thumps that must have been Bond’s shoes being removed and dropped to the floor, and only then did Q let himself relax and return to work.  007 didn’t make another sound after that, and before long, Q forgot about the other man entirely in favor of diving into his project.  The lack of being able to see what he was doing was a constant, burning frustration needling at the back of his neck, but the Quartermaster was able to work through it, listening to the occasional verbal updates transferred to his earpiece and focusing on each precise line of type his deft fingers laid down.  

~^~

Chapter Text

Bond was somewhere in the middle of mentally cursing Q’s stubbornness and bad temper when he drifted off.  When the situation was safe, even 00-agents slept.  It was just a light doze, the king that left his ears alert for any unexpected sound, ready to launch the rest of him into battle-ready wakefulness at a second’s notice.  The only sound was Q typing and breathing, however, and Bond had spent enough time in Q’s office just lazing around to get used to that sound.  

He wasn’t exactly sure when he’d started relating Q’s office to a calming place.  It had most likely happened after some rougher mission, when 007 had been craving a silent environment that would offer him no surprises, but he’d known that he was too dangerous still with his post-mission high to leave MI6.  Q’s office with its shuttered windows and battered couch had seemed like the best alternative all of a sudden, and 007 had taken to returning there ever since, even when he didn’t need the privacy and quiet.  Sometimes Q was there, and they’d talk; sometimes Q was there, and the Quartermaster would tell Bond not to break anything and to let Q finish his work - hence Bond’s accustomedness to the steady sounds of clever fingers working over a keyboard.  It sounded like regulated rain, mathematics tapping at the window.

The typing had stopped, though, and Bond opened his eyes as his senses stretched out to find anything amiss.  A quick glance told him that the room was empty except for himself and Q still, however - although the alarm clock next to Bond read 2 AM and Q was slouched over the desk asleep.  Softly snoring, in fact, which had probably awoken Bond as much as the sudden dearth of typing.  

“Q, you bloody night-owl…” Bond growled as he sat up and slipped to his feet in one seamless motion, moving towards the Quartermaster before recalling a splinter of their earlier conversation: Q mention how unsettling it was to be snuck up on.  That got the agent to freeze, still a meter behind the other man’s sleeping form, one scarred hand outstretched to touch him.  “Q,” he said again instead, unsure how to deal with this situation, “Q, if you keep sleeping like that, you’re going to get a crick in your back.”  Still no response, besides another soft whuffle of air as Q continued dozing.  Bond made an irked sound again that was...perhaps...just a little bit fond, too, as he rolled his eyes, “If you haven’t gotten one already.”  Giving up on waking Q verbally (because raising his voice didn’t seem like a particularly wise option either), 007 approached the rest of the way, and kept up his reproachful muttering as he carefully slipped Q’s glasses the rest of the way off his face - they’d been crookedly teetering from one ear and the tip of his straight nose.  “One of these days, Medical is going to catch wind of your sleeping habits, you little shit,” Bond went on, not really taking note of what he was saying anymore so much as gently filling the silence.  When Q finally seemed to hear him, and jerked with a startled little gasp, it was reflex for James to take a hand and smooth it down the Quartermaster’s back; he was disturbed by the vertebrae he found there, but rewarded by the smaller man settling again after one frozen, taut moment.  “Q?  You awake now?”  

“Go away,” was the gritty murmur.  

Looking at Q’s eyes - which were still closed - and how the rest of him hardly budged, 007 placed his bets on the possibility of Q not actually being all that awake.  “Sorry, but out of all the things I excel at,” Bond joked wryly as he just took matters into his own hands by literally taking the Quartermaster into his hands, beginning to ease him up away from the desk, “obedience is not one of them.  Come on, Q, up you get.”

There was a flustered, floundering moment when Q struggled in his grip, nearly knocking his removed glasses from the table.  Fortunately, Bond had experiences both with kidnapping people and moving unhelpful corpses...which, sadly, had prepared him rather well for maneuvering a sleepily struggling Quartermaster.  He got Q to his feet by mainly brute force, but only exceptional balance kept the two of them from spilling to the floor as Q over-centered into him, as ungainly as a broken ladder.  “Bond?  What the hell…?” Q grumbled at him in a voice still swathed in sleep, heavy and slow.  Like two dancers with two left feet apiece, the two somehow managed to remain in standing position without anyone’s toes getting stepped on, although Q was still relying heavily on Bond’s strength to remain upright.  

“For a genius,” Bond grunted as he just resigned himself to taking the Quartermaster’s weight and balancing for the both of them, “you’ve got some real gaps in your education - starting with how beds are for sleeping, not solid, wooden surfaces.”

“Bastard,” Q muttered without seeming to wake up.  Bond had manhandled him so the two were facing each other now, and the smaller man was half-crumpled against his chest, hands groggily finding handholds in the agent’s shirt.  

One of Q’s sleeping hands lost its grip around the neck of 007’s shirt, and he had the dizzyingly pleasant experience of feeling the boffin’s lax fingertips slide distractingly down his shirt all the way to his belt.  007 grunted, deciding that this exercise was swiftly becoming something more interesting and complicated than simply coaxing Q away from his desk.  Ceasing his light attempts at conversation, James went silent and simply concentrated on backing Q towards the room’s second bed, then realized that it was still largely covered by Q’s things.  Always one for the path of least resistance, Bond simply rotated them, keeping a hand clutched around the small of Q’s back and another on his left bicep to ensure he didn’t slip down to puddle on the floor (as he seemed quite intent on doing, if his lax frame was any indication).  The turn made the smaller man huff out a brief, warm breath that tickled past the neck of Bond’s shirt, and when Q’s hands tightened in unconscious reflex, his right one hooked sleepy fingertips behind 007’s belt.  Grunting at the sharp awakening of his libido, Bond made sure to lower Q into the already-turned-down bed as swiftly as possible, turning away before he thought too hard on the fact that Q was soft and sleepy and in James’s bed.

To distract himself - because now he definitely wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon, even though Q was clearly sinking back into deep sleep - Bond shuffled Q’s things as much as he dared.  Now that his hands weren’t full of exhausted Quartermaster, James was able to make enough room on Q’s bed so that he could sleep on one side of it without breaking anything.  A few pieces he moved to the table, noticing for the first time Q’s laptop screen: ‘Scan complete,’ it read above a window of coding and numbers, ‘No errors detected.’  The second, new pair of glasses were still hooked up to it, looking so benign and yet somehow smug and proud with their new capabilities.  Bond found that he couldn’t help but echo the sentiment, a smile ghosting across his mouth as he gave his head a wondering shake.  “Q, you cunning little shit,” he murmured almost pleasantly, and then retired to his new bed, hoping he didn’t roll over in his sleep and get stabbed by little screws and wires.  

~^~

Q woke up slowly, jerking in terror as he always did when he opened his eyes from the black of sleep only to find more darkness.  It always surprised him for a split second, striking like a punch to his Solar Plexus and making his lungs seize up for the short span of time it took his brain to catch up with him.  

“Q?”  Bond’s voice drifted from off to Q’s left, worry weaving its way carefully through the tone.  

“I’m fine, just fine,” Q assured automatically, cheeks burning, reasonably sure that he must look a bit like a seizure victim whenever morning came, “That’s just how I wake up now.”

“Oh, I know a thing or two now about how you deal with waking and sleeping,” came the unexpectedly amused reply, and suddenly Q was more bewildered than embarrassed.

“What are you going on ab-?” he started to ask cautiously, but as he began to push himself into a more upright-feeling position, he was startled by the feel of mattress giving under his elbow and a blanket sliding off his shoulders.  “What?  How did I…?”  He swung his head as if he could still see, most all of his brain quite sure that he’d been at the desk last - and Q was quite used to late-night work-sessions turning into desk-napping.  Then he focused a bit more on where Bond’s voice was coming from and how that fit with his imagined layout of the room, and the Quartermaster got even more confused.  

“How did you end up sleeping in an actual bed?” Bond finished Q’s sentence with a slight snort, still a voice floating from a room Q could no longer picture in his head, because nothing sounded like where it was supposed to be coming from.  “You can thank me for that, although I wouldn’t call it making you go to bed so much as assisting in your sleepwalking,” Bond finished in a wry tone, and Q found himself coloring again, pursing his lips and trying to think of a way to tell Bond off without sounding more idiotic than he already felt.  Unfortunately, the 00-agent wasn’t finished yet.  “Your bed was too covered in tech and gadgetry to hazard sitting on, much less sleeping on, so you’re in my bed.”

Q honestly had no idea what to say to that, and felt a wave of heat rise up his neck, face, and all the way to his ears as he sort of just opened and closed his mouth a few times.  Finally, the only option besides spontaneous combustion was to just escape the situation.  “I’m going to take a shower,” he mumbled rapidly, and somehow managed to sit up the rest of the way and swing his legs off the side of the bed.

“Q-” Bond tried to slow him down in a tone that was turning more admonishing than amused.  

“Directions,” Q snapped out before the agent could say another word, pushing to his feet.  Even though he was seriously considering dying of embarrassment, and probably looked like a rumbled, bed-headed tomato, the smaller man managed to infuse his demand with his ‘Quartermaster voice,’ the kind that even the most stubborn 00-agent knew not to trifle with.  

There was a noise between an uncertain grumble and a sigh, a noise that reminded Q of the sound a cat would make when someone was shooing it off the front-porch with a broom, and it was deciding whether or not it was worth it to fight back.  “Your six-o’clock, Q.  Circle the bed and follow the wall, and you’ll come to the door.  Do you-?”

“No, I do not need any help,” Q cut him off again succinctly, already following instructions with only a little bit of stumbling.  Now that he knew that he was on the other bed (the one furthest from the door but closest to the bathroom), he could orient himself just enough to be functional - and right now the last thing he needed was sympathetic assistance.  He couldn’t see Bond’s face, of course, but he could imagine the agent’s enduring amusement the whole time he stumbled his way to the bathroom, until he shut the door behind himself.  

~^~

As the door slammed, 007 winced, scrubbing a hand back through his hair and swearing softly.  It didn’t take a world-class spy to see that he’d embarrassed Q and offended him royally - it had been written all over the Quartermaster’s aristocratically-lined face, behind that messy fall of hair that looked as though someone had buried their fingers in it all night.  Without glasses on, Q’s sightless eyes were remarkably expressive, and they’d flashed with immediate, painful humiliation the second Bond had explained the situation.

‘That could have gone better,’ the agent reflected with a little sigh, and relaxed a tiny bit as he heard water start running.  Having never been blind himself, Bond had no idea whether Q was actually capable of working the intricacies of an unfamiliar shower by himself, but the Quartermaster seemed to be dealing - as he was with everything else.  Q’s temper had been raw and sharp-edged since the accident that had blinded him, and Bond got that.  Perhaps more than other people would have, the 00-agent understood using emotional shields when you lost some of the physical ones.  At least Q had gotten a few hours of sleep, although that hadn’t helped much when Bond had started poking fun at him.  It had been in poor taste, Bond had to admit, but he’d honestly found the ‘sleepwalking’ funny and rather adorable - not that he could tell Q that, of course.  No, at this rate, he’d have Q threatening to taser him before this was all over.  Listening to the sound of the shower running, Bond muttered to himself about the prickly tempers of cornered Quartermasters, and berated himself for being his usual, inconsiderate self.  

Rubbing at the back of his neck and still feeling quite a bit like an arse, 007 glanced around the room aimlessly, realizing with a little sigh that Q hadn’t actually grabbed any clothes to take with him into the bathroom.  The Quartermaster really had been escaping him.  That realization twisted something painful in Bond’s chest, and his hands clenched briefly into fists against his knees.  He forgot, sometimes, that Q couldn’t see his face to tell that he was warmly smiling as he teased, and that Q wasn’t trained to pick up on the tiny nuances of a person’s tone to tell the difference between gentle joshing and mean-spirited amusement.  At least this was Q, and not a more physically oriented agent, or the results would probably be more explosive than just a clenched jaw and a quick exit from the room.  Unsure whether he was about to be helpful or just more insulting, 007 got up and headed to Q’s suitcase.  The last thing he wanted to see was a damp, stiff-backed, already embarrassed Quartermaster coming back out in his wrinkled clothes from yesterday - 007 could see it all now in his head, right down to the challenging, tight look around Q’s eyes, the look that dared him to say anything.  This morning was definitely not starting out well…

Bond had new clothing balanced on one hand by the time the water stopped, and he heard a bit of noise that was followed by a sharp but quiet curse.  Clearly, Q had realized exactly what Bond had.  Testing the doorknob (finding it unlocked, which was wise on Q’s part, considering how easily he could fall), Bond eased it open silently, just a crack - enough to feel warmer air slip out like a steamy breath, but not see anything.  “Here, Q.”

There was tense silence, and then a sharp, “ ‘Here, Q’ what?”  After that, at least, followed the sound of a towel being moved around, and Bond took the risk that Q was at least covered up, and opened the door with a few raps of his knuckles to announce himself.  Sure enough, there was Q, standing outside the little shower stall with a towel held around his waist and water still dripping off him.  His blind eyes looked so odd without their glasses, and were fixed somewhere off to Bond’s left, angry but still.  The most awkward silence followed, as Q refused to say anything, and 007 likewise was unable to think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.  Q looked...under attack.  His jaw was clearly clenched, a muscle jumping in his smooth cheek, and he stood with the tense posture of someone who wanted to put up a strong front but also wanted to curl in and cover themselves.  Q was the most stubborn and determined person Bond knew, however, so he was maintaining the former, managing to act as though he weren’t all but naked with a 00-agent looking at him.  

James cleared his throat, modulating his tone carefully so that it sounded like nothing but quiet respect, “Figured you’d want something to wear that you hadn’t slept in already.”  He touched Q’s shoulder with a hand and waited patiently for the flinch to subside before carefully running his fingertips down to Q’s wrist, drawing forward the hand that wasn’t holding up the towel.  It made it easy to wrap Q’s fingers right around the neatly folded pile of cloth.  

“Digging through my suitcase, were you?” Q asked wryly, but he’d deflated a bit.  Some of the anger had left him, and he stopped looking offended that 007 had touched him.  The aura of tightly-strung nerves faded as well, and made the room seem more open.  Subconsciously, 007 sensed it, the predatory instincts of a trained assassin standing down and allowing him to relax, too.  

“Well,” Bond murmured back, “I didn’t think anything of mine would fit.  Besides, it’s a force of habit.  I dig through the luggage of all my friends.”

The word ‘friends’ had the intended effect, and Bond found himself smiling in relief as Q’s mouth tipped up slightly on either side.  “Well, in that case, I’m glad I didn’t pack anything scandalous,” the Quartermaster joked back, sounding like his old self in a way that went through 007 like a hand being stroked down the back of a cat.  He realized that he was still gripping Q’s wrist, and let go, to which Q blinked as if he had forgotten about the contact as well.  “I’ll just get dressed then,” Q raised the pile of clothes in a miniature solute, “Much obliged, 007.”

Bond was tempted to ask if there was anything else Q needed, but figured that the Quartermaster would ask if there was.  Besides, 007 wasn’t exactly known as the accommodating type, unless he was seducing a mark or trying to get back in M’s good graces after starting off a small war.  Deciding to stay in-character rather than get Q’s hackles up again, Bond turned and left the room, remembering to scuff his feet just a bit so that he was more than just a big, silent entity.  “Any time, Q.”  And he closed the door.  

~^~

The rest of the day was rather boring.  Q did more work that 007 couldn’t even begin to follow; Bond napped; Q got excited and actually whooped when some program or other worked; Bond nearly went for his gun in surprise as he was yanked out of a light doze; Bond regained possession of his bed only so that he could take apart his gun and clean it, because Q was taking up the only other flat surface.  Bond had cleaned his weapon in far more diverse locations than this, and was careful not to make any sort of mess that housecleaning would notice, although a few of the towels from the bathroom suffered.  Q smelled the gun-oil and turned his head, looking curious, but didn’t comment.  In fact, it seemed possible that the familiar sounds of 007 working calmed him in the same way that Bond had gotten used to the steady patter of typing on keys.  “What are you going to wear to the auction?” James asked out of the blue as the question came to him.  He didn’t bother to act as though they might not be allowed entrance; he trusted Q’s skills too much to fail them there.  

“Haven’t thought about it,” Q answered absently but truthfully.  

Bond merely hummed a noncommittal response and went back to work.  Left unmentioned was the fact that he’d just gone through Q’s suitcase a few hours ago, and he knew full-well what Q had to choose from.  An hour after that and 007 left, making the excuse of stretching his legs a bit before he destroyed something out of boredom.  He agreed to wear an earpiece, and Q likewise agreed to contact him if anything like trouble should come up.  

By the time Bond returned, Q had tapped into the security cameras of the hotel, and therefore didn’t need the knock announcing James’s presence at the other side of the door. “Come on in, Sterling,” he called, remembering the alias even as the he finished tweaking the Dragon program now running on his computer. It had been a relief to find that he wasn’t the only blind person in the world, and that programs had actually been designed to help the sightless with computers – Dragon being one of them. Being Q, he’d immediately started digging into it and fine-tuning it to suit his own purposes. He added dryly as the door opened, “I already knew it was you, but even if that weren’t the case, I hardly have the skills to shoot you on the doorstep.”

There was a pause that Q chose to interpret as 007 being either surprised or impressed by his audacity. “Good to know your sense of humor's back,” the agent eventually said with just a hint of irony on his tone. Then the agent placed something that rustled onto the floor and asked in a different, more flabbergasted tone, “Have you moved since I left?”

Q paused, thinking rapidly a moment, still hunched over his computer. Come to think of it, he did ache…but he’d been stiff ever since the night before, the Night That Shall Not be Named, in which he’d fallen asleep at his desk. Deciding that he may as well test the verbal capability of the Dragon program now, Q cleared his throat and spoke out the command clearly, “Query: Time?”

Since Q didn’t have his earbuds plugged in for once, a rather pleasant, computerized, female voice replied, “5:42 PM.”

Q sat back with a little jolt, startled by the time. He actually wasn’t even sure what time it had been when Bond had left, but now his stomach (the belated traitor) made a noise to indicate that lunch had been missed. While Q tried to come up with a suitable reply or excuse, mouth opening and closing while his hands slowly retreated guiltily from his keyboard, Bond sighed and there was shuffling at the doorway. Q jumped again and swore out loud when 007 went seemingly from the distant doorway to right at his side and gripping his wrist with no sound in between.

“Sorry.” And he did sound sorry, but mostly frustrated. “Old habits die hard. Next time I go shopping, I’ll buy myself a bell.” The hand on Q’s wrist turned his hand over, and something in plastic wrap was placed into his palm.

When Q was released to pick at it, the agent moved away with a bit more deliberate noise, brushing against the nearby bed and scuffing his feet regularly. “You went shopping?” Unsure what it was he was holding, but reasonably sure it wouldn’t bit, Q began tapping at it curiously with his fingertips as he sat back in his chair. His back protested the idea of straightening, and Q groaned a bit.

“Yes, I did, actually – the last stop being a place that makes very nice sandwiches,” replied Bond from the general vicinity of his own bed. It sounded like he was pulling his shoes off. “I hope you like ham and Swiss.”

Now that he knew what it was he was holding, Q was able to make quick work of the plastic wrapping, revealing his meal almost as easily as if he’d been able to see it. “Much obliged, 007.” More out of a sense of normalcy than anything else, Q turned in his chair, roughly directing himself towards where he could hear his companion still. That was about as far as Q’s manners when as he dug into the sandwich, glad of something so simple to eat blindly – he was swiftly learning that some meals were harder to eat than others. So far, anything that involved cutting apart and dexterous maneuvers were a source of supreme frustration to him, and he was harboring a secret craving for steak. Silence accompanied the quick meal, and Q chose not to dwell on whether or not he could hear 007 eating as well, or just sitting and watching. Finished, Q stretched, making it about halfway into a feline arch before his back reminded him – excessively – that he’d been hunched the other way for hours now. The Quartermaster hissed past his teeth as his back spasmed, forcing him to curl forward again with a little curse.

“Stiff there, Q?”

“Laugh it up, 007,” Q retorted lightly with a grimace, reaching up to rub at his neck and down to his back, “This is what happens to good little Quartermasters who decide that work is more fun than play. We can’t all have active jobs like you 00-agents.”

“Yes, well, I imagine that even workaholic Quartermasters could stop long enough to stretch every once in awhile,” Bond snorted back, taking Q’s half-hearted snark with aplomb. “You’re going to be permanently bent in half by the time you’re fifty, Q.”

Now it was Q’s turn to crack a sardonic smile, lips tipping up at the edges. “The better to slave away over a laptop – didn’t you know?”

It relaxed something tight and painful inside Q’s chest to hear Bond’s low chuckle roll about the room, a noise that curled like the smell of warm hearth-smoke in the air. “Take a break, Q,” Bond proposed, still with enough of a smile evident in his voice that Q kept smiling a little himself, and didn’t shoot the idea down immediately. “There hasn’t been any progress on the auction, has there?”

“No,” Q admitted with a sigh, swiveling his head to his laptop as if he could glance at it. “I’m afraid it’s just a waiting game now.”

There was an unexpected pause that Q couldn’t translate, as was the case with so many silences. For a man who liked to understand everything around him, the floating question was like a secret bobbing, unmoored, just out of reach. It pricked at his skin almost physically, stealing some of the lightheartedness he’d gained. Just as he was about to go back completely behind his shell of professionalism and polished work-ethic, 007 started moving again, bed creaking as he stood and bare feet shuffling so Q heard him approaching leisurely. “What do you want, 007?” Q asked immediately, voice perfectly steady from long practice.

Bond’s hand touched Q’s elbow, a light brush that, for once, didn’t startle the smaller man. “Come on, Q. Stand up and step away from that laptop of yours for a moment, and I’ll see if I can keep you from becoming too stiff to walk when we do get into that auction.”

In reflexive response to gentle coaxing, Q wrapped his hand around the crooked of Bond’s elbow, but he still furrowed his brow in confusion. Suspiciously, he asked as he stood, “Could you be any more vague?”

Again that rumbling chuckle filled the air, low and smooth liked warmed honey. He walked Q smoothly across the room, so the sightless Quartermaster didn’t even brush up against anything. “Bed,” 007 said helpfully, as Q’s knees bumped into something. “Please, sit,” was the next gracious set of words, phrased like an offer. Q was sure by now that his suspiciousness and caution was written all over his face, but he sat anyway.

“I’d love some explanation, Bond. Anytime now, really.”

“And here I thought mystery was part of my charm.” Before Q could scoff at him, Bond lost the teasing tone and said with more practical, unaffected tone, “Lie down on your stomach, Q. I think I’ve got a few skills that aren’t entirely unethical, and I’d consider it a chance for me to apologize if you’d let me work out some of the knots you’ve got.”

For a dizzying second, Q’s mind went about a dozen places at once, at least five of them sexual. He’d seen Bond on missions, back when he literally could see – anyone who was around James Bond for more than an hour at a time realized that the man spoke with his body and had sexual appetites that came as naturally to him as a hunger for food came to everyone else. Therefore, it took a flustered moment for Q to push aside the absolutely ridiculous, sexual interpretations of 007’s words and latch onto the remaining option. “Are you suggesting to massage me?”

Chapter Text

~^~

“You don’t have to say it like you’ve just swallowed a lemon,” groused 007 back, and Q tilted his head to try and pin where the man was. Nearby, but not too close. “But yes. Does that bother you?”

Unsure how to maneuver around that tone of curiosity he thought he detected in the last sentence, Q pursed his lips a moment.  There was something else thrumming under the edges of Bond’s voice, something heady and intense, but it was hidden enough by the agent that Q couldn’t parse it out.

Bond was trained to be persuasive, among other things, and from what sounded like the edge of the other bed, he coaxed, “Come on, Q, you know I’m not one for apologies to begin with.”

“And what, pray, are you apologizing for?” Q wanted to know.

A pause. Surprise? Bond choosing the right words, like a surgeon picking his tools? Smooth as ever, 007 admitted as if the hesitation had never happened, “For verbally brutalizing this plan. For calling you blind to your face.”

The Quartermaster flinched, the reminder somehow never losing its sting no matter how often he heard it out of someone else’s mouth. He kept his face as even as his temper, however, and couldn’t find anger no matter how hard he looked. With a sigh that made his shoulders lift and drop – and the muscles attached complain – Q gave up arguing and simply felt for the arms of his glasses to slip them off his nose. He didn’t know why he wore them, except out of hope that someday he’d actually need them again. “You weren’t saying anything that wasn’t the truth. If you’re intent on…physically expressing an apology, however…” Q bit his cheek at how horrendously suggestive that wording sounded, and counted himself lucky that he couldn’t see whatever look 007 was giving him. Q hadn’t become Quartermaster by giving up easily, however, so he bulled onwards doggedly, despite the way he could feel a blush heating all the way up to his ears. “…Far be it from me to stop you.”

“Thanks, Q…I think.” Both men managed to chuckle at that, although Q was secretly a bit moved by the fact that Bond was both apologizing and thanking him – two things that the larger man was definitely not known for. He thought back to how 007 had called them friends, and felt that warm, relaxing sensation in his chest again. The darkness felt less total. “All right then – take off your shirt and lie on your stomach.”

“This is hardly professional,” Q had to remind, but his fingers were already at work, moving against the familiar texture of fabric and smooth curves of little buttons. “And we are on a mission.”

Bond chuckled somewhere off to Q’s left, a throaty noise that licked at Q’s ears like velvet. “And since when am I professional on missions?”

Q slipped rather self-consciously out of his shirt, feeling his way further onto the bed to lie down quickly, before he had to think about how he looked to 007’s intense eyes. “Touché. You’ve actually behaved rather admirably. Should I be suspicious?”

“I was out in the city unsupervised for a few hours.”

“If I find out that anything has been detonated during that time period, I’m blaming you and pushing you under the bus when M catches wind,” Q informed him with a little groan as his entire back protested the act of stretching out.  He really had been hunched over a long time. The pillow brushed his cheek and he hugged it close a moment, burying his face in the material as he made a few more irked and pained noises. Sleeping on the desk had definitely not done anything for him, even with 007 eventually saving him from himself and moving him to a bed. Little quivers of spasming muscles were moving up and down the sides of Q’s spine and across his shoulders, but all of the Quartermaster’s attention focused and fused on one spot when Bond’s fingertips touched down. Q’s entire frame froze involuntarily, right down to his breathing, as if James had gathered up all of Q’s consciousness at the tip of his fingers.

“You all right, Q?” asked the agent softly. Q forced himself to exhale and relax, pushing the pillow away to rest his head on his arms instead.

“Fine.” Slowly but without hesitation, the larger man’s fingertips made a few soft, exploratory circles, like one would do on the head of a cat if unsure whether the creature liked to be petted or not. Despite many calluses from handling guns and knives, 007’s hands moved smoothly, and Q realized why after concentrating a moment on the sensation. “Where did you get the oil?”

“Trade secret,” was the answer wrapped around an audible smirk. Q decided he didn’t want to know – especially since that would lead to him asking what exactly 007 was rubbing into his skin, which could have been anything from cooking oil to lube. As the agent’s second hand joined his first and began pressing down in earnest, thumbs riding the divots on either side of Q’s spine, the smaller man decided he most definitely didn’t care. “Tell me if I’m pushing too hard. I wouldn’t want to break you.”

Bond’s hard hands had moved all the way up to the back of Q’s neck, where they softened, feeling out the muscles that were nearly all bunched into tight, hot knots. Q tried not to hunch his shoulders, but mostly failed.  When 007 pushed down against those worked-up muscles, it felt as though he were pulling on Q’s puppet-strings.   “I’m not easily broken,” he assured Bond as he lay there wishing for nothing more than to get the stress driven out of him. He’d been living in a world of stress for far too long…most of the time, he just lied to convince himself that he wasn’t.

Fingers spread, letting the whole of Bond’s warm palm flatten out against the stretch of muscle coming down from Q’s neck to either shoulder, 007 murmured quietly, “No, you’re not.”

Before losing his sight, forcing him to use his ears so much, Q wouldn’t have heard the soft words. Now the impact of the short sentence was lost in pure sensation as 007 bore down, trusting that Q would tell him to stop if he was too harsh. Q moaned and nestled his face down in the circle of his forearms, both loving and hating the exquisite discomfort of powerful hands kneading stiff muscles. His hunched shoulders were pressed down into the bed.  Settling next to Q on the edge of the mattress, Bond was able to leverage his weight easily, pushing down hard against little bundles of sinew that felt like hot iron under Q’s skin. He worked his way up and down Q’s spine, stopping at the small of his back, although Q would hardly have stopped him from going further – 007 truly was rather good at this. The tiny part of Q’s mind that was still working analytically (instead of relaxing along with the rest of him like butter in the sun) flipped through his memory of 007’s file and past missions, trying to remember if he’d ever used this skill on a mark. His mental searching stopped as 007 worked his way back up to Q’s nape again, cradling Q’s neck from either side in his hands and kneading at his vertebrae with stubborn thumbs. Suddenly it didn’t matter that these hands were used for killing, because this was the best damn apology Q had ever experienced.

And, embarrassingly, he fell asleep before it was even over.

~^~

“Q.” Bond called from his place on the other bed – Q’s bed, again. He needed to either stop putting Q in his own bed, or just trade their sleeping arrangements permanently. The Quartermaster was still stretched full-length on the sheets, breathing softly with only his ear and one closed eye visible past his folded arms. He twitched and snuffled as 007 called his name. “Q, your laptop beeped, and only you speak computer.”

That had Q waking up, a little jerk running from his very fingertips down to his toes. His eyes blinked open at nothing and Q froze, and Bond found sympathy and pity painting complicated, painful patterns in his chest as he realized what Q was seeing: absolutely nothing. Bond had woken up before in dark places – sealed in underground tunnels, trapped in basements, locked in a crate and waiting to die – and those were horrifying experiences. Somehow, the lack of pain or an obvious threat made those moments worse, because you were being caught by surprise, by an enemy that had neither body nor thought, and yet it was a dread presence. Q woke up to that every day now. Bond kept talking because he sensed that it was the best thing to do, “If you want me to go over there and try and figure out what it wants, I can, but my track-record with Q-branch technology-”

“No – no! You stay right there,” Q woke up the rest of the way and pushed clumsily into a sitting position. His head swung back and forth as he visibly gathered his senses, and then he reached in a slow, painfully tentative movement – it took 007 a moment to realize that he was reaching for his glasses and hoping that Bond didn’t notice. 00-agents were not known for respecting motives based on sentiment, like wearing glasses when your eyes were broken. Q found them on the nightstand before Bond could think of a way to respond, and put them on his face almost furtively, body curling in on itself as he sat up. Q had never been particularly difficult for a man of Bond’s skill to read, but spending increased time in close quarters with the smaller man was making Bond even more attuned, so he instantaneously read the embarrassment and pain. Q hid it well in his voice, though, like the head of Q-branch that he was. “The day I let you poke around my laptop is the day they put me in the ground. You should be declared a national menace.”

“Who says I haven’t been already? And why only national?” Bond tossed back in kind, liking the banter. He always had. Having someone chattering in his ear during missions would have been unbearable with anyone but Q, with his dry humor and xyresic wit. It had taken a bit to get used to, but now, James realized that he connected the sound of Q’s voice with safety, waiting in the wings. Q’s ability to organize back-up was indeed rather necessary for survival from time to time…

Q stood, obviously forgetting that he was shirtless for a moment. Now that Bond could get a good look at him, he could see some fading bruises still mottling the pale skin along his lean stomach and chest – evidence of the explosion he’d survived. It was such a visceral reminder that James winced. At that moment, Q remembered that he was half-dressed, and felt around on the bed until he caught hold of fabric. A few moments later, he was seeking out arm-holes and buttons, dressing again with only a little more slowness than a sighted person. Bond refrained from helping, deciding to save any intervention for times when Q really needed it – he’d already injured Q’s pride enough already, and had only just apologized, after all.

The hotel room must have been growing familiar, because Q made it to the desk-chair without any trouble, feet shuffling and hands feeling carefully around him. He eased into the chair just as mincingly, before he suddenly seemed to realize that he wasn’t as stiff as a little old man, and straightened in his seat with a blink of surprise. “You really are good at that,” Q marveled, clearly talking about the unexpected massage.

“I live to serve,” Bond tossed back offhandedly, reflexively. He relaxed against the headboard and decided to just camp out on Q’s bed for now, since the chances of Q leaving his laptop were zero to none for the next few hours. “Just don’t go spreading it around that I’m good at it. I’d have Moneypenny chasing me all over MI6.”

Q chuckled with clear amusement, and replied impishly, “Well, now isn’t that a thought for blackmail?”

“You’re an ungrateful wretch, you know that?”

“I’m an ungrateful wretch, sir. Remember, I’m your boss both inside this mission and outside of it.” Bond could just see a little quirk of a smile as Q talked, fingers meanwhile feeling out his keys. The earbud was plugged in and placed in one ear. “Maybe you’ll break fewer things that I give you if I have some information to hang over your head.” It was obvious that Q was teasing, and since the Quartermaster couldn’t see, 007 felt free to smile.

“And here I thought I’d gotten on your good side.”

“You have. I’m sorry to inform you, however, that my good side is little better than my bad side,” Q said with mock regret and a theatrical little sigh.

Now Bond was close to laughing.  He almost said, ‘If this is all it takes to reveal your sense of humor, I should offer to give you massages more often,’ but bit his tongue at the last moment, not wanting to ruin the good mood.  Q looked relaxed and was acting playful, something that was rare for him even before this whole incident...and 007 liked it.  He found his entire frame relaxing a little, and his mind shifted gears a bit further from ‘work’ to ‘play’ in a comfortable way that he got to enjoy only rarely.  It was like they were back in Q-branch again, the most recent mission over and done with and 007 letting go of the last threads of psychological tension from his perch on Q’s futon.  

Like in that mental image, the dark-haired Quartermaster was working, the tap-tap-tap of keys further easing something in Bond’s mind.  Then the smaller man froze.  “Q?” Bond asked experimentally, tensing all over again without moving.

Q didn’t answer, but instead typed a few more things, wet his lips, and typed again.  He finally exhaled a slow and shaky exhale before turning his head slightly - he was moving as if to look at Bond, but didn’t have the faculties to accurately do so.  “It would appear,” Q said slowly, in a slightly stunned voice, “that our presence has been formally requested.”

“We’re in?”  Readiness stirred like a fire under 007’s skin.

“We’re in - at least so far.  That noise was my computer alerting me to an email, and it sounds like this is just an informal banquet of sorts.”  Head still turned to look towards the left side of the room a bit, Q frowned and his right hand pressed down keys almost distractedly.  “It all sounds very banal, but I suppose this is one of those dreaded hoops we have to jump through.  Shit.  I hate get-togethers.”

“You’ll hate them with the criminal underworld more,” Bond informed him grimly as he got off the bed and approached.  Only at the last second did he remember Q’s comments about disliking the way Bond snuck up on him, and he scuffed his feet slightly.  Either Q heard him in time not to be startled, or all of his attention was really on the email, because he didn’t jump or even change positions.  He was still turned about  forty-five degrees away from his computer as he thought, which meant he seemed to be staring at Bond’s left shoulder as the blond-haired agent leaned over and around him slightly to read.  

“I wonder if there’s any way to avoid this…?” Q pondered to himself, drumming the fingertips of his right hand on the desk’s surface, his other hand now resting idly in his lap.

Bond shook his head, then answered verbally, “Not an invitation like this.  The people running the auction clearly know what kind of folk they’re dealing with, and want a chance to get a feel for the buyers, before they let them all the way in.  If we don’t turn up, the game ends here.”

“Drat,” was Q’s reply to this, sounding more resigned than his earlier, harsher curse.  “We’re going then.”

“Sounds like.”

“Fantastic.  I’ve always wanted to mingle with criminals and ne’er-do-wells,” Q puffed out an explosive sigh, sagging back in his chair and not noticing how close it put him to 007’s chest - the agent was still bent over the back of his chair a bit.  Even though he probably would have felt the body-heat if he’d focused, Q went on with lackluster resignation, eyes tracking back and forth aimlessly, “This whole situation just keeps getting better and better.  You know, if we ever get hold of Mercer, I’m going to take time to seriously think about all of the cheesy superhero movies I’ve seen.”

Bond found a twist of humor working its way through his chest at the Quartermaster’s obvious vexation, and tipped his head down to ask him, “Why is that?”

Q glared down his nose at nothing, looking positively irked.  “Because I’m starting to see the appeal of hanging Mercer over a pool of piranha like some B-rated supervillain.”

It shouldn’t have been so funny - part of Q’s temper, after all, stemmed from the fact that Mercer had blinded him - but Q just looked so smarmy and grouchy about it all that James couldn’t help the laughter that rolled from his belly and out of his mouth.  Q jumped a bit then, but soon relaxed and put on a rueful grin himself.  The new expression looked at once more natural on his face and more nervous.  “The party is tonight.  Clearly no one wants to give anyone time to plot against one another.”

“It’s a smart move,” Bond admitted, agreeing instantly with Q’s shrewd observation and returning to business, “I’d have done the same.”

Q cocked his head, the slightest ghost of a smile back.  “If you were a supervillain?”

Out of pure reflex, 007 gave the back of his Quartermaster’s head a little shove, and retorted ruefully, “Shut it - I’d make a great supervillain.”

Instead of snickering or teasing back in turn, Q replied instead more  gravely, “Oh, I don’t doubt that.  I imagine that everyone at this place would do well to be afraid of you if you really were playing on their side of the fence.”

“You know, Q,” Bond said slowly, sensing Q’s unease about the upcoming situation and wanting impulsively to alleviate it.  Like the bat to Q’s head, it was a reflex, one he couldn’t quite decipher the cause of.  “Just because I’m not some amoral criminal doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous.”  He leaned forward a little more, until he was sure Q had to feel his presence - which hopefully felt more like it was promising protection and loyalty than simply testing personal space boundaries.  Voice lower because it was closer to Q’s ear, 007 finished with utter sincerity, “I still plan on being the most lethal thing in that room, and anyone who takes a go at my Quartermaster is going to find out just how amoral and dangerous I can be.”

A little shiver - almost imperceptible - skated down Q’s frame, making his lips part slightly and his breath catch.  He’d sat very still while 007’s silk-and-steel voice had wafted up against his ear, clearly not knowing how to respond.  Finally, he just nodded, blinking rapidly as he visibly steadied himself.  “Let’s get ready for this bloody thing then.  Hopefully the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave and the hard part will be over with.”

~^~

“We’re going to have to mingle, Q.”

Q’s snort was sharp and harsh.  His nerves were getting the better of him despite his best efforts, feeling like a pack of wolves that drew in close every time his efforts to hold them back flagged.  Bond, of course, was as calm as a bloody mountain, which was as infuriating as it was comforting.  At least one of them had done this before…  “I don’t mingle,” Q snarked back, knowing he sounded childish but presently not caring.  This was going to be a disaster.

“No, but Adam Balien does,” the agent remained patient.  He was once again talking from the vicinity of his bed while Q stood by his own suitcase on the pretence of going through it - mostly, he was just trying to keep his hands busy while his mind panicked.  “The less we mingle and show our faces, the more suspicious we’ll seem.  Plus, it will look like weakness - like blood in the water.”

Logically, Q had already deduced all of this, but he’d still been hoping desperately that 007 would fold and say that they didn’t have to go along with all of this after all.  The truth was, Q had never been one for social functions even when he’d had his eyesight - he was bloody horrible at it, actually.  A lot of the time, he made R go to things like this, trusting his second-in-command’s social skills just as he trusted his own technological ones.  Q could stand up in front of a whole army of computer-geeks and tech-analysts and give whole speeches on his work, but the personal side of it - the small-talk, the hand shakes, the vague smiles - always went rather badly.  Like dumping a cat in a barrel of water and expecting it to behave with aplomb and politeness.  

So, knowing that there was no way to avoid the humiliation, Q straightened and said to the wall he knew to be about an arm’s-length in front of him, “For the sake of full-disclosure, you should know that I’m really quite bad at social functions like these, even under the best circumstances.”  Which this was not.  This included criminals and cover stories and a complete and utter lack of eyesight.  The darkness had never felt so complete, and Q shivered.  

Unexpectedly, and after a bit of a pause that said perhaps he was thinking about his response, James replied, “I know.”

Q half-turned, forgetting that he couldn’t see anything regardless of where he was facing.  “What?”

“Convention.  Last year, May?  You and a lot of the other higher-ups from MI6 and MI5 were there,” Bond explained lightly and briefly.

Like the pages of a calendar turning, Q’s brain flipped back to May, going through the memories stacked like perfect files in his head.  “Ah,” he recalled a second later, voice sounding a bit martyred as he asked, “You were there?”

“Security.  I kept out from underfoot, though.”  There was a pause, and Bond’s tone changed just enough on the next word for Q to imagine a roguish grin, “Mostly.”

Deciding not to ask what was not included under that wolfish ‘mostly’ (it probably included Bond either getting up to mischief or getting up under someone’s skirt - or both), Q shook his head as if that could shake loose his anxiety.  No such luck: it seemed to have gripped onto him with needle-thin claws.  “Fantastic.  You know that this is going to be difficult then?”

“Well…”  There was a rustling and movement of the mattress as Bond stood, and Q braced himself, because the bloody man never remembered that he couldn’t hear him.  About two steps away, however, he heard the intentional scuff of a foot on carpet, and was only irked and not startled shitless when the calloused hand closed lightly around his elbow.  “...It would be less difficult if you dressed better.”

Q swung his head around, trying to triangulate where 007’s face was by sound so he could frown at him properly.  “What?” he asked in a tone usually reserved for Q-branch when one of his minions had done something foolish: it was a tone that warned people to tread carefully.

Bond, apparently, was either immune or deaf to it.  “Come on,” he was suddenly coaxing, tugging just enough to make it clear that he wanted Q to move with him but not quite forcing him to.  Nonetheless, the Quartermaster could feel the inescapable pull of that much muscle by his side.  “I know what kind of wardrobe you’ve brought, and it’s not going to cut it.”

“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?” Q shot back, affronted.  He pulled back a little bit, but his feet were nonetheless moving after 007.  Wary of walking into something, he tensed all over, but he shouldn’t have worried - as he came to where he vaguely predicted the corner of the bed to be, James’s other arm came and gripped Q’s free elbow, shifting him to the side.  Q’s posture was still taut and cautious, but he slowly admitted that the agent was rather good about not letting him bump into things.

“Do you want a categorical list, or can I just get the idea across by saying I hate your cardigans?”

Unsure whether to snort at the frank tone or be irritated by it, Q settled for snarking back tolerantly, “Maybe that’s what a blind, criminally inclined computer genius like Adam Balien would wear.”

“Not my blind, criminally inclined computer genius,” Bond retorted, and then Q was pushed back gently until he was deposited on the corner of the bed.  There was a lull in the argument for a bit there, because, to be perfectly honest the smaller man was still a bit gobsmacked by the possessive tone of voice he had heard around the word ‘my’.  It had somehow transformed 007’s whole tone briefly, and Q suddenly wished desperately to be able to read that rugged, tanned face.  

“Fine then,” the Quartermaster finally said, crossing his arms and shifting his face into what was probably a glare at the opposite wall.  He hoped the look was as intimidating as it used to be, despite his inability to direct it accurately.  He resisted the urge to rub at his useless eyes - they still ached when he did that, and it never helped, of course.  “How do you suggest we fix this?  I’d be just about swimming in any dress-shirt of yours, and-”  He flinched and jerked as fabric hit him in the chest with only the faintest noise of warning.  “What is this?” he demanded, hating not knowing.

“The solution.  I already got you new shirts.  Since I went through your suitcase this morning-”  The agent sounded smug rather than embarrassed or apologetic, which just went to prove that he’d been a 00-agent too long and had forgotten that normal people didn’t dig through other people’s luggage without feeling bad about it.  “-I had time to do some shopping on your behalf.”  

“I fucking hate you.”

“Put the shirt on, Q.”

To be truthful, the waspish tone on Q’s part was mostly trying to hide the fit of nervousness and tension rising up like a stranglehold on his throat.  Everything was just starting to feel...too real...and the prospect of failure was staring him in the face with gimlet eyes that he didn’t even have the power to see.  Suddenly, all of Bond’s earlier words about this being a bloody horrible and idiotic idea came back, and Q rather agreed with all of them.  He was about to walk into a party of criminals, and he didn’t have a lick of experience.  Panic made his skin feel clammy and his stomach knot, and it took effort not to just fold over and put his head between his knees.   

“Q.”  Bond’s voice had lost the playful edge, and was just quiet now - soft in a way that was strange to Q, coming from this man with a license to kill.  

Immediately, Q took hold of his courage and gripped it tight.  He brought it up like a shield even though it felt like a paper mask.  “I’m fine,” he said, back physically straightening.  He forced his hands to move over the shirt Bond had tossed him, feeling silk and buttons.  “I presume I’ll need an undershirt for this?”

Instead of tossing it to him this time, James handed it to him, but the agent did it once again without thinking to make some noise, and Q had to bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper just to keep from jumping and screaming at the man.  He’d never thought that the thing he’d hate most about working with 007 was the man’s catlike walk.  “Just how much did you buy for me?” he demanded a bit tetchily to hide his mounting nerves, hand twisting to catch hold of he material he felt brushed up against his wrist.  

“Enough to make Adam Balien presentable.  Come on, Q, stop stalling,” the agent replied back.  

His voice actually sounded closer to resigned and pleading than anything else, and the lack of amusement or taunting was what finally got Q moving.  The smaller man sighed in defeat and moved to his own clothing, beginning to shuck it off.  This was the most he’d ever thought to be undressed in front of 007 before, and it was rather surreal but not quite as unsettling as he’d expected...at least considering that this was now the third time Bond was going to see a lot of his skin.  “Is this some hideous animal print or something?” Q muttered to fill the new silence, as he pulled on the new undershirt and then sought out the arm-holes for the button-down he’d been tossed.  “I had a friend once who was utterly color-blind, and whenever his wife was upset with him, she’d dress him in the most obscenely mismatched clothing.  Fortunately, the rest of the time she took pride in making sure he wore quite flattering colors.”

Bond’s laugh sounded startled, but genuine, and the sound allowed Q to pinpoint him as somewhere across the room - perhaps leaning against the wall beside the telly.  “No animal print, I promise,” the man admitted goodnaturedly, still chuckling, “You haven’t offended me quite that much in our past dealings.  You know that new car you have in the shop at MI6?”

“Yes.”

“Your shirt’s the same color.”

Now it was Q’s turn to chuckle, just a bit, as he reminded himself that Bond not only loved cars, but was incorrigible.  “You’re hinting a bit heavily on what you want for Christmas, aren’t you?” he had to ask, lips tugging up at the edges.  He had to feel carefully and count button-holes to make sure he didn’t do up the shirt crooked, and as he got up to his neck, he hesitated, unsure if he should do them all up.  When warm fingertips suddenly brushed the edge of his throat next to the shirt-collar, he swore loudly and made a blind grab, ending up catching two strong wrists.  “Goddammit, Bond!” he couldn’t stop himself from hissing this time, even as his body thrummed with tension and his eyes swiveled around uselessly.  It felt like the agent’s hands had tightened in his shirt a bit, which was probably the only thing that kept the smaller man from jerking back and tipping right over.  “I swear, the next time you sneak up on me, I’m going to find that fucking cane and beat you-!”

“Sorry, Q, sorry!” the agent hurried to interject, sounding frustrated, sincerely apologetic, and even a bit startled himself.  Good.  He deserved to be a bit surprised - after all, he’d just surprised the daylights out of his Quartermaster.  “Fuck.  Can’t you get that little camera in your glasses to...I don’t know…”  It sounded like the agent was grasping exasperatedly at straws, and he was still holding onto Q’s shirt, standing close enough that their knees were brushing.  “...Warn you that I’m around or something?”

That actually wasn’t a half-bad idea…  Q calmed a bit as he considered it, applying his mind to the puzzle as if it were a stress-ball to be squeezed in his hand.  Right now, he was pretty sure that the facial-recognition program was flawlessly interconnected with his phone, laptop, and the little camera hidden on his spectacles, but he’d had it turned off lately - at least so far as 007 was concerned.  He could definitely tweak it to detect Bond’s face at specific distances, though…  “Or you could just learn to scuff your feet,” he felt obliged to comment unkindly.  

“00-agent, remember?  Silence is golden, especially when noise gets you shot.”

“A bell then, for special occasions?” Q replied with totally faked sweetness, and this time he got a snort and 007’s hands started moving, releasing him but staying close enough to feel.  All they did was do up the last buttons, all the way up to the last on the collar, as Q reflexively tilted his head back out of the way.  

“Tie,” Bond said helpfully just a moment before he let go, and then Q felt something brushing against his hair at several points.  He shifted his head a bit, lips curving down in a frown, but at least James was being conscientious of Q’s blindness now and explaining his actions ahead of time.  The tie was tightened neatly around his neck with a practiced tug, but never got too tight, proving just how good at this Bond was.  “A white tie, if you were wondering.  Like the Aston Martin.”

“Dressing me up in the same colors as your favorite cars in MI6 won’t do you any good, 007,” Q reminded him, but was also grudgingly amused...and grateful that 007 wasn’t making him tie his own tie.  He’d never been very good at it, and was afraid that now his hands would forget the motions.  “Not only am I unable to see the colors, but you’ve broken so many vehicles that you’re lucky I don’t send you out on a bicycle.”

“Maybe I’d break fewer cars if you mounted gun turrets on the Aston Martin…”

“And maybe M would fire me,” was Q’s smooth but still amused answer to that.  He felt Bond smooth down the tie and shivered a bit at the contact.  “Well then, am I presentable yet, or is this going to become a production?”

There was a pause, another one of those unreadable things that floated like a feather in the air, drifting just out of Q’s reach until it finally reached the ground and Bond spoke again, “No, I think you’re good now, Quartermaster.”  Bond’s voice was unaccustomedly rough around the edges, but otherwise unreadable, and Q was just a bit too ragged around the edges himself from worry to think on that too long.

Chapter Text

~^~

If Bond had ever made a list of things he thought he’d never be doing, helping a dark-haired, skinny, blind boffin dress would have been on that list.  Then again, he’d never thought that Q would become blind in his lifetime, so all bets were off now.

Q was fidgeting with the collar and turning his head in little back and forth motions like an owl honing in on a sound, even though it looked more like he was getting used to the feel of the new tie.  All Bond could think of, though, as he sagged back to slouch in Q’s desk-chair, was that he’d made both one of the best and worst choices in his life by picking out that dark-cobalt button-down and the ivory-white tie to go with it.  

Q looked spectacular.  

And that was bothering Bond in ways he hadn’t expected.  

Having seen Q in various states of undress in the past few days, and being generally inured to nudity by this point in his life anyway, James hadn’t so much as twitched when Q grudgingly stripped to the waist again, tense and clearly unhappy through the whole thing.  It didn’t take a genius to know that the Quartermaster was wound up tighter than a spring, but he was holding himself together admirably well, and Bond could deal with the verbal lashing out - M lectured him worse on regular occasions.  As Q had started dressing again, though, in clothes that Bond had gone out and found for him just this morning, something stirred low in his belly, and the 00-agent’s attention immediately sharpened.  By all rights, blue should have been a passably good color on Q, but nothing noteworthy - likewise, the pale tie was another article of clothing designed to be mildly complimentary without drawing that much attention, positive or negative.  ‘Adam Balien’ had to look presentable without standing out, and Bond wanted Q to look good but also look invisible.  

Instead, though, the near-black of the blue accented the dark sable color of Q’s hair, making him seem paler but also more striking.  Bond was a very good judge of clothing, as part of his job, but he honestly hadn’t expected to be so impressed by a simple wardrobe change.  He blamed his surprise and intrigue for why he forgot how much Q hated his silent footsteps, but then he was distracted all over again by how Q’s pale skin looked against the ivory tie.  Standing over Q like that, watching his put-out expression (even if that expression was aimed somewhere around James’s sternum instead of his face) and the new color pallet on him, Bond found his thoughts unaccountably...scattered.  Usually he was focused and honed like a knife, even when he was ostensibly off-duty and calm, but right now it was like his mind was a restless big cat pacing behind bars.

All because he’d gotten Q to finally change out of those horrendous cardigans.

“Well then, am I presentable yet, or is this going to become a production?” Q’s question centered his thoughts again like a lasso grabbing and dragging them back.  His head tilted just enough - one ear canting towards Bond as if to catch his words in its shell - that he looked like a curious (if somewhat cantankerous) bird.  

It had been part of the plan to give Q some better trousers, too, and tame that mop he called hair, but suddenly Bond found himself just staring and blinking.  

And realizing precisely how close he was.  He was almost standing between Q’s knees now, and just a bit nearer, and he’d feel the smaller man’s breath against his stomach...

“No, I think you’re good now, Quartermaster,” he made himself say a bit roughly and then backed away, pulling his thoughts into order and purposefully focusing on the mission.  In a little under an hour, he’d be playing bodyguard for the Quartermaster of MI6 in a den of thieves and cutthroats.  At least Q would blend in now.  Even his wild nest of dark hair would fit, 007 convinced himself, glancing back at the familiar, tousled locks.

Then he sighed, realizing that he liked them purely because they were familiar, and not because it would help their cover.  He sighed, wondering what had gotten into him.  “Sit still a moment, Q,” he sighed, turning back once again, trying not to think inappropriate thoughts as he once again shifted close to stand against his Quartermaster’s knees - remembering to announce his presence this time.  “Your hair looks like you’ve just climbed out of bed.”  007’s mind supplied unexpectedly, startling him even as it made that feeling low in his belly return, hot and sweet like warmed honey, ‘Like a lover just pushed their fingers through it.’  Taking the wayward thought and shoving it so deep that it would never see the light of day again, the agent glowered to himself and continued, “Which makes sense, because I’ve never seen you within touching distance of a comb.”

“Bond, you don’t have to-!”  Q’s hands lifted like wayward birds lifting off a telephone wire, fluttering before settling again on his lap.  By this point, Bond was trying to impose some semblance of order on Q’s hair - but, since his own comb was all the way over in the bathroom and he was too impatient to get it, he was using brisk movements of his hands.  Q could have easily pinpointed the movements without sight, but apparently gave up on shoving him off, and sighed with a dramatic roll of his hazel eyes.  

“You’re as close to presentable as I can make you,” 007 finally got to say, easily faking an offhand tone.  His hands were reluctant to leave Q’s head, though, feeling the soft strands of hair that simply were not made to lie in an orderly fashion, but felt like strands of dark, cool silk.  Beneath the mop of hair, Q’s scalp was a warm curve of breakable bone, and a flash of protectiveness jerked through Bond hard enough that he had to nearly clench his teeth.  He returned his hands to his sides and stepped back.  “Let’s get that cane of yours.  Time for a bit of acting, Q.”

Another sigh from Q, this one a bit shaky around the edges.  Bond saw an abortive movement that was probably Q reaching up to run a stressed hand through his hair - but remembering that Bond had just fixed it.  It was tempting to give in and say that Q could mess it up again, if he wanted to or needed to, because James really hadn’t done much to change it - it looked less like Q had crawled out of bed, but still like the snarky, professional Quartermaster who ruled over Q-branch.  

And if 007 suddenly missed the ruffled bed-head, no one outside of him had to know.  

M was going to skin him when this was all over, he decided with a silent little sigh, eyes flicking over his Quartermaster and truly beginning to wonder if this whole thing was a good idea.  

“Not Q,” the smaller man finally said, infusing his tone with iron as he straightened and then stood with the careful, over-cautious grace that he’d been slowly acquiring over the past few days.  “Adam Balien.  Mr. Balien, to you, Mr. Sterling.”

Approval making just the very edges of his mouth twitch upwards, Bond nodded, spotting Q’s hated cane discarded in the corner even as he moved to slide the crook of his arm into Q’s grip.  “Of course, Mr. Balien,” he slipped into character as well with deference and unflappable calm in his voice.  Masks were like a kind of armor, 00-agents all knew, and Bond buckled his down tightly around him until the world saw only steel.

~^~

Q’s hand was right around Bond’s arm, but that was one of only very few signs of the Quartermaster’s trepidation.  Besides the press of Q’s fingertips into the crook of 007’s elbow, there was the stiff pursing of Q’s lips as well as the tightness of his eyes as they stared off at nothing.  He continued to be annoyed at his cane, but again, most of that was actually admirably well hidden – Bond just saw it because he knew what to look for.  On a whim, he reached over with his other hand to fold it over Q’s, eliciting a small jerk of Q’s head in his direction.  “Breathe, Q.”

A small puff of air was actually let out in a sigh.  “Easy for you to say.  You’ve played Richard Sterling before.”  They were just now heading for the car James had rented, so there was no need to slip into character yet – but both were still talking quietly.

Sensibly, Bond answered with a shrug, “And from what I’ve read, Adam Balien is practically you anyway, if you’d ever decided that MI6 was too boring and freelance paid better.”

That got Q’s mouth to twitch upwards at the corners.  “Thank goodness you make sure my life is never boring,” he dryly tossed back.

Unaccountably, that made something hot and pleasant uncurl in Bond’s middle, a little rush of unnamable feelings that had him fighting back a playful smirk (one that he realized Q wouldn’t be able to see anyway).  He was saved from responding by their arrival at the car, and he brought Q to a halt next to him with two taps against the back of his knuckles.  “Car,” he said a beat later, the simplified explanation coming easily to his lips, “I’ll get the door.  May as well start playing Sterling now.”

Q’s ironical little smile was still there, the look that said he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or suspicious, but was leaning tentatively towards the former.  “Much obliged, Mr. Sterling.”  He stood as still as if carved in place when 007 slipped away from him, and it was child’s play for Bond’s keen eyes to notice the way the smaller man’s frame slowly tightened with each passing second without contact.  In a rush of comprehension, Bond realized that things ceased to exist when they weren’t touching him or making noise at him, and for a man who worked around world-class spies for a living, it had to be hard to trust them to come back and re-start the world again.

So, as Bond began unlocking the car, he whistled.  Like any agent worth their salt, he’d had all nervous ticks and absentminded bad habits trained out of him – he neither drummed his fingers when bored nor muttered to himself, unless it was entirely on purpose, as with now.  Perhaps that was why Q twitched, eyes widening a fraction even as his head swiveled and came to rest somewhere near the vicinity of 007’s collarbone.  “Really?” the Quartermaster said next, tone floating between derision and befuddlement, “ ‘If I Only Had a Brain’?  I didn’t even know that you’d seen ‘The Wizard of Oz’.”

Bond’s whistling cut off with his impish grin even as he returned to Q’s side, and this time there was no flinch as he cupped the smaller man’s elbow, leading him again.  There was something rather unsettling and at the same time intoxicating about controlling the Quartermaster’s movements like this, especially when a sighted Q would never have tolerated anything of the sort.  Before all of this, Q would have found the idea of being lead around demeaning, and part of him undoubtedly still did.  Maybe that was why 007 took such pride and pleasure in playing seeing-eye-dog to the utmost of his abilities – Q was sitting in the passenger seat without having so much as brushed up against the door.  “I watch movies.  Older classics like that I even enjoy,” Bond parried back before shutting the door and circling to his.

The drive to the party was composed of checking in with MI6 – a brief affair, although the familiar sting of M’s tongue actually lightened the mood of the car, because so long as the head of MI6 was berating you, life was playing out normally.  After that, Bond gently quizzed Q a bit on his role of Adam Balien, but he’d been saying the truth when he’d noticed the similarities between Q’s true persona and his assumed role – the two were close.  It was a wise decision, and after a moment, Bond collected his words and said so.  The look of pleasant surprise on Q’s face was charming, but mostly it served to make Bond feel like a bastard for holding back the compliment that long.  After that, the car fell into companionable silence, each to their own thoughts, preparing for what lay ahead.

“We’re here,” Bond supplied, slipping easily into the role of being Q’s eyes, because he was used to relaying information back to Q-branch via earpiece, “Enclosed compound.  Gates.  Cameras.”

“Guards?” Q asked in a voice that was just starting to get brittle and tight around the edges.  He reached a hand up to smooth it down his new ivory tie, and that seemed to allow him to take a breath; Bond found his eyes following the slow downward drag of Q’s hand, remembering how Q had unconsciously slid his hands down Bond’s shirt when the agent had been moving him to bed.

“Coming up to the car now.  Just one.  Two more at a distance that I can see.  Obviously armed,” 007 finished obediently, growling in slight annoyance  but no real fear at the last sentence.

Unexpectedly, Q took in a breath and straightened in the passenger seat, deciding, “I’ll talk.”

Cocking an eyebrow at his companion and completely forgetting for a second that Q couldn’t see his expression, Bond had no time to argue before a hand was knocking on his window, and he obliged to roll it down.  “Your business here, sir?” the burly guard asked, some accent thickening his words but not hiding the dangerous keenness of his eyes.  Bond himself had those same eyes, and he wore them now: patient and lethal and blue.

“His business is mine,” Q’s voice suddenly cut from the other side of the car, and it took effort for Bond not to jerk his head towards the Quartermaster exactly as the guard was doing.  Q’s crisp, enunciated tone had the effect of surprising both men who were hearing it, and all the while, Q let his blind eyes stare obviously forward at nothing.  Bond tried to pretend that this was all normal for him.  “And I’m here for the pre-auction soirée.”

Although clearly startled and on the back foot thanks to Q’s unexpected entrance into the conversation, the guard recovered quickly, mouth moving only for a moment before words came out.  “I’ll have to check that you’re on the list, Mr…?”

Instead of giving out the name, Q sighed and gave one hand a little flick against his leg, commanding, “Mr. Sterling, give him our IDs.”

Bond was liking this little performance more and more by the minute, in part because he enjoyed seeing the guard trying and failing to regain his equilibrium.  With the smooth, instant obedience of a man who did this all the time, 007 pulled their wallets from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, letting his gun and holster show.

The guard immediately stiffened.  “Sir…”

“Is there a problem?” Q was the one to answer, eyes still forward but expression darkening into a frown that Bond usually saw when he came back with nothing but pieces of his gun and a bad explanation.

“Your companion, I’m afraid, is armed.  I can’t allow-”

“My companion, as you put it, is my bodyguard,” Q succinctly cut him off, and continued in a dry and deceptively smooth tone, “The reason he’s armed is because my blindness makes it rather hard for me to be physically all that lethal.”  Q turned his head, making it all the more obvious that his eyes didn’t track anything – a fact that had actually slipped the guard’s notice until now, if his little start was any indication – and added with a thin little smile that was barely frosted on, “I presume that if you’ve looked up my name by now, there will have been some mention of my circumstances.”

The guard actually hadn’t checked, but now jumped in earnest as he was reminded of his duty.  Stiffening a bit, he tightened his grip around the two very good – and very fake – IDs and said, “I’ll be back momentarily.”

As the guard walked off, Bond watched him and tried not to grin, humor growing behind his chest.  “He’s walked off to check our names, but when he comes back, he’ll want my gun.”

“We expected as much,” Q sighed in a voice very unlike the one he’d used a second ago.  He sagged a bit, and his fingers flexed restlessly against the material of his trousers.  “God, I hope I don’t have to do that again.”

“You were rather good at it.”

“Really?”

“You pull off ‘pompous arse’ rather well, and it was in-character for a freelance hacker of your supposed background,” Bond replied back, still highly amused – and impressed – by the performance.  “All right then, he’s coming back.  With any luck, if he takes one weapon from me, he won’t feel the need to look for more.”  Pushing down his earlier humor, Bond resumed his face of blank disinterest, a look practiced in many other bodyguard roles before.  This time, the guard met his eye and nodded, a look that mingled professional respect and perhaps a little sympathy, as if he didn’t envy Bond his boss.  007 wanted to laugh out loud.

“Everything is in order, Mr. Balien.  Sorry for the delay, but the rules are that no weapons be taken onto the premises.  I’m told to relay to you that you can trust our security here, and need not worry about your bodyguard Mr. Sterling leaving his gun with me.”

Q made a rather good show of being annoyed by this, huffing out a sigh while Bond waited in patient silence.  He’d originally planned to give in quickly and hand over his gun without much provocation, but now he decided to wait, purposefully ignoring the guard at his side in favor of watching his ‘employer’.  There were lots of different angles from which to play a bodyguard, but right now, 007 liked the idea of giving Q the power: Richard Sterling was going to be a man who didn’t move on anyone’s say-so but Adam Balien’s.

Finally, Q murmured with ill-grace, “Fine then.”

Playing his own role, Bond waited a beat, and then queried, “Sir?” as if he were uncertain of the vague order.

The façade of irritated businessman almost cracked as Q’s head twitched, caught off-guard by the small change in script.  Before Bond could grow worried, though, the dark-haired man recovered, eyes flicking back and forth the only sign that he was scrambling a bit to catch up.  “Hand over your gun to the nice man, Mr. Sterling,” Q commanded with just enough impatience to sell it.

Q’s hands were shaking now, thanks to the tiny kick of adrenalin he’d no doubt just experienced, so Bond decided it was time he took over just a smidge.  As he slowly drew his gun and flipped it in his hand to offer the grip first, he leaned out the window – ostensibly to talk privately to the guard, but he pitched his voice so Q would hear.  “If you have made Mr. Balien late, I’ll be back for that gun,” 007 said, putting on a smile that was all broken glass and sharp things – a smile that glittered beautifully but was made for one thing, which was to cut skin from bone.  He finished pleasantly, “And I’ll feed it to you.”  Then he slipped back in, rolled up his window, and waited for the gate to be opened, which it was a second later.

“Let the games begin,” Bond just barely heard Q breathe out, voice shaky and fearful around the edges again.  However, the boffin had just proven more than adequately that he could handle this, so all Bond had to do was his job: tonight, he was Richard Sterling, bodyguard to one Adam Balien.

Beneath that, he was still James Bond, willing bodyguard to the Quartermaster of MI6.

~^~

This was more terrifying than that first moment when he’d regained consciousness and realized that he was blind.

Although Q had had some time to get used to the brutal truth of it all, and how he had to strain his other senses now to make up for the pivotal one that he was missing, he still felt like a fish out of water as he moved through a building he didn’t recognize amidst people he not only didn’t know, but probably wouldn’t want to know given the opportunity.  He’d used his hacking skills to track down the guest-list, of course, and had then used MI6’s resources to do background checks on everyone, which had ultimately produced a portfolio of rap-sheets that didn’t make him feel any better.  Ignorance was truly bliss when he now knew that at least half of the people here tonight had murders in their resume, and the other half probably just hadn’t gotten around to that yet.  

Bond, at least, seemed calm.  Not that Q had a lot to go by – it felt a lot as though he were walking next to an automaton, the only indication of life being the warmth he radiated, and the pulse Q could almost feel through Bond’s jacket if Q gripped the agent’s arm hard enough.  Still, 007 radiated self-assurance and power, and Q wished he could reach into him with both hands and pull some of that out for himself.

“Possible incoming small-talk, at your two o’clock,” 007’s barely-above-a-whisper voice slipped into Q’s ear.

Q turned his head even as the ear-bud hooked over his ear (an obvious earpiece that he’d purposefully made no attempt to hide) chirped out data from the camera on his glasses.  “A Mr. Brandon Gault, apparently,” he just breathed back, even as he made a decision and brought them both to a stop.  007 grunted at the lack of motion, but paused willingly enough at Q’s side, even as Q stopped the swaying tap of his cane.

Mr. Gault noticed the sudden halt, but kept coming forward.  “I was under the impression you were blind, Mr. Balien.”

“I was under the impression that very few people knew my name,” Q replied back as smoothly as he could when he knew he was facing a dangerous stranger and not even capable of looking him in the eye.  007’s continued, solid presence at his side helped.  In fact, it allowed Q to take in a subtle deep breath and twitch his lips up into a smile that hopefully just looked cool and aloof rather than paper-thin and faked.  “But yes, I’m quite blind.”

“Apologies.”  Gault’s voice had warmed.  “I did not mean to offend – you simply appeared very perceptive for someone without vision.  But I can see you’re not faking.”

Q felt something clench in his chest, like a hand fisting around his heart in a hard twist of strength.  He should have been unsettled by the danger implied in that sentence (because Q was faking much of his role, but not his blindness), but instead he just registered how much the reminder hurt like cold steel plunged into his chest.  Bond shifted next to him, just enough that their shoulders brushed, and Q forced his lungs to take in air again, and he pulled the smile tighter across his face.  “And I can see that back-handed compliments are your forté, clearly.  Now, if you’ll excuse me?”  Not caring what direction they went, or who he walked into, Q tugged forward against Bond’s arm, moving them away from Brandon Gault and his honey-and-vinegar words.  There was silence as both Q and Bond walked off, nothing impeding their progress, thankfully.  Fuming silently under his skin, Q tried to berate himself for acting so harshly, but the impulse had been like the hissing of a cat to having water dumped on it.

Unexpectedly, he felt little shudders coming from the agent next to him, tiny repeated movements that were getting stronger but also more familiar.  “Are you laughing?” Q asked under his breath, unsure whether to be incredulous or faintly dumbfounded.  He didn’t find a bloody thing funny about this.

As if released by the question, a low and rolling chuckle accompanied the vibrations of silent laughter – still quiet enough that Q figured he was the only one privy to the sound.  “You know, most people use parties like these to make friends,” was the rumbled suggestion.  

“I am not most people,” Q replied primly to save his pride, mantling a bit.  His cane brushed something and he flinched, the full-body jerk giving away just how tense he was, wishing he were anywhere but here - anything but blind.  Unexpectedly, warm, calloused fingers folded over the hand he had on Bond’s elbow, sliding up his knuckles to squeeze his wrist until the fragile bones were pressing together.  It should have been uncomfortable, being reminded in this way of 007’s strength, but instead it seemed to ground him.  

“You’re doing fine,” Bond said, just as quietly but in a more sober tone.  

Q hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until he suddenly remembered to breathe out.  “I’ll never understand how you do this.  I have a newfound appreciation for your tolerance of social functions, Sterling.”  He just barely remembered the alias, and felt a shudder of ice-cold slide down his spine at just how easy it would be for him to slip up and doom them both.  

“I’m serious, you’re doing quite well,” Bond’s voice came back to him with frank approval that made Q blink, swiveling his head as if wondering if he’d caught that one correctly.  The hand was still on his wrist, and he felt gun-scarred fingertips press little indentations into his skin before slowly retreating, leaving Q simply walking alongside Bond again, connected to the agent’s elbow and what other parts of him he let brush.  Somehow, from what little practice they’d had, the Quartermaster had gotten used to walking with James, and he hardly missed a step as Bond led him into a gentle turn around some object Q couldn’t see.  He was hearing people again, and his earbud began relaying information on names and identities.  

Q once again pulled tight his courage like a ratty cloak around himself, and stood straighter, imagining himself at the head of Q-branch with people looking to him for directions.  “We’ll call this night a win if I don’t make an utter fool of myself,” he bit out ruefully under his breath.

There was another vibrating chuckle like a wave against Q’s side.  “I’ll call the night a win if you don’t bash anyone with your cane.  Incoming on your three o’clock.  Pretty thing in heels and an unflattering shade of orange.”

Q couldn’t help but snicker.  “I can’t see the color, remember?”

“No, but she can, and if she’s got any sense,” Bond must have leaned in a bit, because his breath was briefly hot against the side of Q’s head, the words a gravel-edged murmur filled with something warm and teasing in his ear, “she’ll take one look at you and what you’re wearing, and decide to fire her tailor and hire yours.”

Feeling his face flush and an unexpected jolt of something burning through his stomach, Q just blinked and walked for a second.  His brain actually disconnected until he heard a simpering female voice saying, “Oh, hello there!  I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…”  

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

This was not unlike many other tanks of bipedal piranhas that James had walked through before - he could nearly say that he was used to the viciousness hidden beneath genteel aplomb and shallow affection.  Then again, the same description could be applied to him, quite often correctly, so maybe it was best not to look too closely at his affinity for sharks with human smiles.  Leading Q through it was different, though, and Bond found his mask and his true nature melting together, becoming both Bond and Sterling with a doubled urge to keep Q/Adam safe.  

It was mostly a sort of mingle-and-meet party, with tables of hors d'oeuvres spread around and interspersed with small, intimate standing tables like tall islands populated by well-dressed folks and their accompanying drinks.  Due to Q’s habit of using his cane more like a regular cane than a means of feeling out the area in front of him, not everyone had completely caught on that Adam Balien was blind - at least not immediately.  The curvaceous woman they had just talked to had actually seemed quite intent at first on impressing the young boffin with her low-cut dress.  It was a breed of manipulation that Bond was more than used to navigating, and for a second, he frowned, worried how Q would react...and then he remembered that Q was blind, and therefore effectively immune to ninety-percent of this woman’s arsenal.

It was the funniest thing 007 had seen all year.

Of course, the woman wasn’t a complete idiot: after a few sentences of bland conversation in which Q’s head never quite turned to her, the woman started looking a bit piqued and then saw the cane for what it was.  Her face blushed bright red even as her eyes darted past Q to his supposed bodyguard, as if to ask for confirmation.  It took everything 007 had not to flash her his cheekiest shift-eating grin, but instead keep in character with a level, emotionless sort of look that came with being a guard-dog-for-hire.  “Nice chatting,” the woman finished in a slightly pinched tone, and abruptly left.

“Did I do something wrong?” Q puzzled a moment later, shifting his weight and tapping his cane.  

Now Bond chuckled - silently, but he knew that the Quartermaster would feel the movement.  “I think you actually just made my day,” he murmured with quiet hilarity, eyeing the woman’s assets as she tried to flounce away with dignity.  He had to admit, she was gorgeous in all the right ways, especially in that dress that showed the most intriguing slices of flesh as she moved.  It was all bait on a lure, though, one that Bond hadn’t even had to steer Q away from.

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Tell you later.  How about you and I wander over to the food, shall we?” Bond covered smoothly, turning his attention from the embarrassed woman to the task of blending in.  Already, his training was kicking in, tugging him towards the little things that would make him seem like he belonged here rather than causing him to stick out for the interloper he was.  It was akin to an artist’s innate knowledge where to put the next stroke of a brush, that innate pull of instinct that was at once visceral and almost thoughtless, drawing on the pain like a hidden magnet.  The same pull had 007’s head calmly turning, subconsciously taking in the ambiance of the room, the actions of those around him - everything.  Like timing his breathing to that of a lover, he eased into the rhythm of the room, sensing what to do to best fit in, and pulling Q along with him.  “Any preferences?”

“On hors d’œuvres?  Forgive me for pointing out, Sterling,” Q made sure to use the correct title, although his volume was pitched to barely carry past Bond’s attentive ears, “but I don’t even know the menu.”

Bond merely smirked, close enough now to see the expansive array of edibles for himself.  “You’ll stand out like a sore thumb if you don’t try at least something.  Sweet or savory?”

“Savory,” Q answered with the quickness that came from an impulsive, true answer - a bird flushed into the open.  It made something like smug triumph fill Bond’s chest to know that he’d captured the truth like that, but that was normal for him on missions: from the moment he’d donned the mask of Richard Sterling, he’d submersed himself in a sea of lies, and truths were rare, hidden things that rarely fell into his possession.  In that respect, having Q here was somewhat novel - someone who knew the true James Bond, and whom James knew in return.  It was...nice.  It didn’t mean that a predatory, possessive heat didn’t coil through him at the thought of capturing honesty like a prize.  “But nothing too exotic.  I’m already a mass of nerves, and I do not need to stress over food, too,” Q stated tersely, tapping his cane again and this time actually brushing a table-leg.  It seemed to surprise him, and his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to glare at the cane for doing what it was supposed to do.  “Are you sure I need this thing?  Honestly, I’d prefer to put it in a quiet grave.”

Eyes moving from dish to dish, half of his attention always on the people around them - potential threats, potential tools - Bond still managed to smirk as he replied in an almost inaudible undertone, “It’s part of the cover, Adam.”

“That’s Mr. Balien to you,” Q retorted, but stopped asking if he could ditch the cane.  His head swiveled, catching noises with no images to tie them to - kites without strings.  “The facial recognition program has picked up a Mr. Caspian Rousseau.  He’s the one standing in for Mercer.”

Rousseau had been covered in the original dossier, and 007 recognized the head of auburn - almost copper-colored - hair still a distance from them, talking to the man they’d met first upon entering.  This mission would not have been possible if Mercer had intended to come in person, but his middleman, Rousseau, didn’t know Bond and Q’s face like Mercer would.  MI6 had let slip fallacious information regarding the explosion, including the fact that they assumed Mercer himself to be dead.  In reality, the damage had not been so great as to fake anybody’s death, but Bond hoped that it brought Mercer out of hiding soon so that he could put a bullet...or three...in him.  All non-lethal, of course, because M would have a fit if the man weren’t brought in to face questioning and then the law.  

“I see him,” Bond assured, all the while making it look to the outside observer as if he were merely playing the cordial guard.  People were starting to wander close enough to notice, so Bond raised his voice just a little, “Would you care to try this, Mr. Balien?”

Q’s little jolt of surprise was transmitted through his frame and his grip on Bond’s arm, but other than a brief widening of his eyes, he adapted quickly.  “Of course.  I’m sure your judgment is flawless on things like these.”  A bit hesitantly, Q let go of 007’s arm to instead hold his hand open, palm-up, although he had no idea what he was waiting for.  

Adjusting easily, 007 picked up a small, breaded confection with a buttery, flaky crust and sage-scented filling in its middle.  It fit neatly on Q’s hand.  “Try a bite of that,” Bond said, trying to sound professional but also finding himself slightly curious.  He told himself that it was because the Quartermaster of MI6 rarely ate anything, so seeing him eat even this mouthful that Bond had given him would be akin to seeing a mythical creature stepping into the room.  

Q tensed for a moment, minute twitches of his expression showing just how frustrated he was at not knowing precisely what was going on - or even what he was holding.  Ultimately, after a few seconds of tension, he slipped the loop for his cane over his wrist, freeing up both hands to just barely touch at the thing on his palm.  He was treating it like a baby bird, and something in Bond softened abruptly.  “Bread with a bit of filling,” he murmured, lips barely moving, supplying instructions without making Q prompt him.  Pride was a remarkably fragile thing, for all that it could be stubborn, and 007 had seen Q’s bruised (thanks to him, quite often) enough.  “Made to be eaten in one mouthful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sterling,” Q murmured almost inaudibly, but the gratitude was there.  The confection disappeared like magic, and Q’s eyes closed behind his glasses - a remarkably normal reaction from a man who noted no difference between when his eyes were open or sealed shut.  “Hm.  That was actually quite good.”

“Happy to be of service, Mr. Balien,” Bond kept in character smoothly, watching as little things gave away Q’s reaction to eating something he hadn’t seen.  Something that 007 had given him.  

“You would have to be Mr. Balien, wouldn’t you?” came a voice from their right.  Q must have gotten an alert from the camera imbedded in his glasses, because he tensed but didn’t downright jump.  Inconspicuously, 007 shifted closer, figuring that the protectiveness he was sincerely feeling matched well with his assumed role.  The Quartermaster’s head turned back and forth a bit, and after a moment he actually managed to turn and more or less face the new arrival, Caspian Rousseau.  The man was tall and lean, with a vulpine sort of face that reminded Bond of 002.  Considering that 002 was an inveterate liar, that didn’t endear Rousseau to him at all.  

It took Bond a second longer to realize that he, too, was an inveterate liar, but he pushed that thought childishly to the back of his brain to die a quiet death.

“Yes, and whom am I addressing?” Q replied back as if he didn’t know.  Bond and Q hadn’t explicitly talked about how they’d use Q’s little hidden camera.  The earbud in his ear was a known entity to the people in charge of the auction - Q had fed them false information about how it was linked only to Sterling (Bond was wearing a tiny but visible earpiece himself, although they likely wouldn’t have to use it tonight), whom he would not be separated from for any reason.  It had sounded excessively clingy to 007, who knew for a fact that Q didn’t have a clingy bone in his body, but it gave a reason for the receiver in Q’s ear without giving away that he also had technology that allowed him to detect people.  

“Oh, forgive me…”  Rousseau reached forward, creating a handshake by actually catching Q’s hand.  Only Bond, now standing at Q’s back, noticed the tension it caused between the smaller man’s shoulders.  “Caspian Rousseau, of Rousseau Enterprises.”  His spoke English without the least hint of an accent, except maybe the slightest American one, and his smile was as blindingly friendly as his voice.  “It seems that you and I are…  How shall I put it?  In the same business.”  His grin widened, and he was looking more and more like a fox in a henhouse by the second, although it looked like he was, at least, treating Q like a fellow fox.  Then his tawny-brown eyes flicked past to Bond, not ignoring him as most people ignored hired muscle.  “And you are?”

Q must have recovered himself after the sudden physical contact, because he was quick to step in.  “This is Mr. Sterling, my bodyguard and impromptu guide.”

“Your seeing-eye-dog, is he?” Rousseau joked, while Bond kept his face flat, merely glancing deferentially to Q when what he really wanted to do was glower.  At least the reddish-haired man had the good grace to soften his joke, adding, “Forget I said that!  It was in bad taste.  It’s just that men like you and I have to spend so much time around bodyguards that we can’t do much but joke, can we?”

It was killing 007 not to respond himself, not to give Q hints of some sort on the best ways to react and respond.  Even bland conversation like this was crucial in maintaining a cover, and this early in the game, making Mercer’s middleman suspicious could ruin them.  It was all on Q, though.  With people watching, Bond had to stay silent and uninvolved - in fact, he had to act like he was mostly ignoring them.  

Somehow, Q found words, a moment later, voice a bit slow but passing for aloof rather than insecure, “I must agree.  However, unless my ears aren’t working, I don’t seem to hear you being shadowed by anyone.”

‘Well played, Q,’ 007 congratulated in his head.  

Rousseau was indeed unaccompanied, but now he laughed a silvery laugh and replied, “You caught me!  I actually had some very, very harsh words with Antonio, my guard, just moments ago.  I informed him that he could watch me very well from the edge of the room.  Most of the other guests have done the same, so that we may enjoy the facade of being independent, free people without babysitters.”  

“I’d hesitate to call Sterling babysitter material,” Q replied a beat later, and only Bond knew that the backward twitch of Q’s cane was actually to find him - because they were not touching.  The tension between Q’s shoulder-blades eased when his cane hit the side of Bond’s calf, and 007 grunted in acknowledgement.  With more assurance, Q continued. “Besides that, I’m afraid he’s rather necessary to me.” The unease in Q’s voice reading more as rueful to someone who didn’t know him better, James noted with relief.  The bespectacled young man was also smiling a small, thin-lipped smile that Rousseau took as secret agreement to his complaints, which was a big leap in the right direction.  Although Bond hadn’t belabored the point, he’d informed Q that making friends of these people would benefit them in the future.  

Rousseau seemed completely taken with Q, although he shot Bond a cheeky look that was probably meant to tease him. In reality, it downright annoyed him, but it would probably end poorly if he were to give into the urge to punch Rousseau in the mouth right now.  So, instead, he turned his body away a bit, the kind of body-language that said he was providing the two other men with as much privacy as he could.

“How about I show you around for a bit then - or at least as far as the nearest set of chairs?” Rousseau surprised them both by offering, and 007’s eyes immediately cut back to him. Rousseau’s sharp-featured face was full of avid curiosity, and it looked like he’d taken a genuine interest - not in Q - but in Adam Balien.  There was no suspicion, merely the obvious attention of a child finding a new playmate, or a partner-in-crime.  Tawny eyes moved and caught Bond’s mid-glance, and Rousseau added more cheekily, “Unless your bodyguard is worried about you being on my arm for five minutes?”

Q’s mouth moved a few times without sound coming out, and it was clear that he was scrambling.  Before Bond could make the decision for him, however, the smaller man pressed his lips together, and his grip on his cane tightened.  Briefly, 007 was worried that the Quartermaster was going to brain Rousseau with it.  Instead, Q said quite calmly and even politely, “I think he could do that.  It’s just one big, open room, isn’t it?”

It was.  Q had found the blueprint for the building, and Bond had described it to him, but he wanted assurance - assurance that 007 would be able to keep him in his line of sight.  

It was Rousseau who answered.  “Yes!  Your boy can easily keep an eye on your from a few more meters away.” Daringly for a man half Bond’s weight, Rousseau stepped forward, quick and lively as a coyote, and offered his arm, hesitantly taking Q’s hand to guide it there.  “Allow me.”  Smartly, he kept his eyes on Bond, though...possibly because Bond/Sterling was having a harder and harder time finding a reason not to look slightly homicidal.  

Unfortunately, within the boundaries of his cover, all James could say was, “Are you all right with this, Mr. Balien?” in a respectful, level voice.  

By now, Q’s hand had been slipped around Rousseau’s arm, although his rapid blinking said he wasn’t adjusting well.  However, his reply was calm, and carefully worded, “If you think it’s advisable.”

Bond’s impulse was to say no, but then he realized that that wasn’t the most advantageous answer - it stemmed purely from the fact that he didn’t like Rousseau.  From a strategic standpoint, it was a good move: Bond really could keep Q safe from a good distance (the room had clearly been designed with criminal paranoia in mind), and his judgment of Rousseau was that he wasn’t a killer, a fact supported by his rap sheet.  He was a hacker who delved into just about every non-physical crime there was, and he didn’t move like he was hiding any other dangerous skills.  So Bond dipped his head in a small, formal sort of nod, and replied, “I’ll go fetch you and Mr. Rousseau some drinks.”  It was an answer that would satisfy Rousseau’s need to chat privately with his newfound companion, but would also inform Q that he wouldn’t be left alone for long, or even over any particular great distance.  

“You do that,” Q replied with a rather applaudable pompous tone, which forced 007 to turn and walk away, lest his smirk be seen.  

~^~

Words did not describe how uncomfortable Q was right now.  He’d occasionally walked on the arm of other people, letting them guide him around tables and chairs that he couldn’t detect.  He’d never really trusted any of them, though, at least as far as he could throw them.  Quartermasters were apparently not trusting creatures, so some part of Q’s brain was always constantly on the alert for a mistake on the part of his guide walking him into a chair.  Bond was the exception, apparently, with his bloody silent footsteps and his surprisingly deft guidance.  Sometimes Q wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed or grateful for the agent’s presence, although right now he was definitely missing it as he depended instead upon the guidance of Caspian Rousseau.

“Well, it’s impossible to get out from under the eyes of bodyguards, but out from under their ears is possible,” Caspian’s chipper voice bumped up against Q’s eardrums, all silver delight and cardamom mischief.  All things considered, this wasn’t the worst company the Quartermaster could have gotten stuck with - Rousseau was probably one of the least dangerous persons at the party, in fact, although Q had to respect the man’s capacity for bloodless mayhem.  It was remotely possible that Rousseau and ‘Mr. Balien’ might be able to have an intellectual conversation, the Quartermaster pondered as he registered the slowing of their pace and the shudder up his arm when his cane hit something.  

“Of course,” Rousseau went on, not thinking to enlighten Q yet on whether they’d reached their destination, or even if it was a chair that Q was sensing.  It took some effort for the Quartermaster not to look either tense or annoyed, but rather to keep a polite little smile on his face as he let Rousseau’s idle conversation wash over his ears.  “With a bodyguard like you have, perhaps you wouldn’t want to get out from under him.”

Abruptly, Q jerked his head around, a left-over reaction from before the accident, which now just left him blinking and staring stupidly at granite-hard darkness.  Apparently, this conversation was not quite as idle as he had suspected, and suddenly Q couldn’t pluck a single sentence out of his startled brain to reply with.  He was dimly aware when Rousseau started laughing at him.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”  He stopped, and Q flushed, clearly knowing where the other hacker’s thoughts were going by the innuendo that sat like hot silk over his amused tone.  Rousseau was quick to continue, now sounding both rueful and almost unsettlingly frank, “I suppose that I was what you’d call ‘projecting.’  Maybe I’m the one who’d like to spend some time under your bodyguard.”

Q could feel his own mouth compressing into a thin line, turning down at the edges as all thoughts of cordial smiling temporarily disappeared.  Unexpectedly, all of Q’s unease and anxiety and even his fear were being replaced by a hotly firing protectiveness that had come from some hidden place he hadn’t known he had.  “I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr. Rousseau,” he said in a voice that was as steady and calm as a ship’s hull upon a familiar ocean.  

“Call me Caspian, please,” was the utterly-friendly response, and only then was Q chivvied back until his legs bumped up against something, and then Rousseau was coddling him into a chair.  “And by the look on your face, I’m sure you know exactly what I’m saying.”  Rousseau sounded cheeky, and Q imagined a wink and a sly grin as his companion presumably sat down as well, because the sound of his voice was once again level with Q’s ears.  “I can tell you, your Mr. Sterling over there is easy on the eyes.  Even if you take eyes out of the equation-”  Rousseau had enough tact to deftly keep Q’s blindness in mind.  “-I’m still jealous.  My bodyguard looks like a cross between a bull-dog and a cinder block.  Want to trade?”

Q wasn’t sure why he was shaking.  It was just a fine tremor, but it had taken up residence somewhere in the long tendons at the back of his hands, and somewhere at his core.  He wanted to blame emotions, but he wasn’t necessarily sure what he was feeling.  He wasn’t scared - Rousseau clearly wasn’t threatening him, nor on the verge of uncovering Q’s real connections to MI6.  In fact, he was pretty sure that Rousseau was simply glad to have someone to talk to and joke around with in this otherwise stuffy soiree.  And it wasn’t as though Rousseau’s clearly approving teases were any threat to Bond - the man could take care of himself, and this would neither be the first nor the last time someone hit on him.  

It was the first time it had happened to Q’s face, however.  

A softly whistled tune began to inch into Q’s ears, smooth as cream, and it jerked his mind from the slow state of disorder that it was crumbling into for no reason that the Quartermaster could discern.  A split second later, and he recognized ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ the same tune Bond had been whistling earlier, and the Quartermaster turned his head without thinking, knowing that the agent was approaching from behind him.  It didn’t stop Q from noticing the silver slivers of Caspian’s laugh, or the low and playful way that the criminal hacker said, “Ah, you clearly have all sorts of unexpected tricks, Mr. Sterling!  Maybe you’re not as boring as all the other bodyguards after all.”  The condescending tone was back, but now Q recognized the undertone as something more intimate - a coquettish sort of teasing.   For some reason, it made the sensation of vibrating apart get worse, and Q had to struggle harder than he had all night to keep up the facade of calmness.  He didn’t try to focus his useless eyes on anything, and missed the fact that (possibly for the first time) he didn’t jump when Bond’s voice appeared from above him.  The agent had approached without a single footstep being heard, but the whistling had negated the need for any other warning.

“I’m paid to be efficient,” Bond replied smoothly, his voice giving away nothing, which suddenly was the most frustrating thing in the world to Q.  “Whether I’m interesting or boring doesn’t apply when I’m on the clock.”

“Caspian wants to know about your time off the clock,” Q said suddenly, the words coming out of his mouth but feeling like they stabbed out of his chest.  He didn’t know why he said them, except maybe for the twisted voice of logic that was covering up for something else in his head.  

There was silence.  Q couldn’t read it.  Perhaps Bond was surprised; perhaps Caspian Rousseau was grinning.  Perhaps vice versa.  Perhaps nothing of the sort from either of them.  Q didn’t make any move to find out, for once, instead using his blindness for the first time as an excuse to stay blissfully ignorant.  He felt like nothing more than a statue - a piece of furniture - as he sat very still and concentrated on finding the source of this shuddering, twisting sensation that had taken up residence somewhere in his chest, radiating befuddling tension like a metastasizing cancer.  

Finally, 007 filled the silence when Q wouldn’t, and his butter-smooth voice was familiar to Q from listening to him dozens of times on missions.  “Well, it would seem that Mr. Rousseau is a curious man.”  The slight resonance of Bond’s voice said that he wasn’t talking down to where Q was sitting, but angling it further out, to where Caspian was.  

Suddenly, Q found his mouth jump-started again, and he abruptly pushed up, brushing against the warm solidity that was 007 as he clumsily found his feet.  “My eyes are hurting me,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie.  They often ached.  Now wasn’t much worse than any other day since the explosion, though.  “As ecstatic as I am to have found someone worth talking to..”  Where Q found the wry little smile for Rousseau’s benefit, he had no idea.  “...I’m afraid that I might have overexerted myself.”  Let Rousseau think that Q was a fragile flower with broken petals.  If anyone decided to question the validity of Adam Balien’s technological skills, he could swiftly prove that everything in his faked background he was still viciously capable of doing.  Already, he knew with certainty that he could metaphorically disembowel Caspian Rousseau in the cyber world, even if Rousseau thought himself the best around.

Since Bond had been going to get drinks, he presumably set them down, because a hand was curling around Q’s arm with all the familiar heat he’d come to associate with 007.  “We’ve stayed long enough,” James said in that same detached, professional voice.  Q wondered how much disappointment and annoyance was rolling around underneath that, now that Q was upsetting the delicate balance of the situation.  Q thought he had good reason, which he’d tell Bond later.  

And after that, he’d sit down under the numbing pressure of a hot shower until he could figure out why he was suddenly feeling so anxious and out of sorts, all because a two-bit villain had shown an interest in making a pass at his bodyguard.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

“Care to tell me what that was all about, Q?”

Trust 007 to get right to the point, when for the first time, the Quartermaster was almost hoping he wouldn’t.  They’d left the party and driven in silence, although they hadn’t driven very far, Q thought, before 007 had pulled over and was now focused on him.  

Q still felt unsettled, as if something in his core had been knocked off its axis, and he didn’t know how to right it - although he was trying desperately.  It was not unlike trying to build a model plane without instructions, though...or perhaps building it blind was a better analogy.  Q blinked his eyes, which did actually feel hot and sore right now.  “Caspian Rousseau has a romantic interest in you,” Q just shoved the words out, giving his report a bit gracelessly but at least all at once, no halting in his voice, “Or at least a very interested sexual one.  I was unsure how to inform you of that development, but that was pretty much the gist of my conversation with him during your absence.  Considering Rousseau’s connections, it might be worthwhile to consider getting him to flip on Mercer.”

There was silence as a response.  It stretched on, making Q squirm on the inside, and outwardly making him purse his lips together and his hands start to clench on the seat and the edge of the car-door next to him.  His cane was...somewhere...and his mental image of the inside of the car was somehow out of his grasp, the wildly conflicting thoughts in his head absolutely ruining his concentration.  On the best of days, Q hated it when (for whatever reason) his focus was shot, but now it was ten times worse - because he needed that concentration to ‘see’.  

Finally, 007 started talking, although Q still couldn’t find it in him to relax.  “I was wondering what Rousseau was getting at.”  A bit more incredulity entered 007’s tone as he asked, “He told you all that in the five minutes I left you alone?”

“He was quite bold,” Q replied primly, telling himself that he was annoyed...which was true.  He just wasn’t entirely sure what precisely that irritation was tied to, although he wanted to believe that he simply couldn’t stand the utter impropriety of it all.  “I don’t know if he cozies up this nicely to anyone with a handsome bodyguard, or if today he was just feeling extra outgoing, but either way, he was making very little polite effort to hide his interest.”

007’s chuckle filled the car, and while the sound was usually warm and soft and almost uncomfortably nice like velvet against Q’s ears, right now it rubbed him the wrong way.  Whatever was tangled up beneath his skin bristled, and he couldn’t get comfortable where he sat.  Bond went on with a jovial tone, “I wish I’d been there to see that.”

‘No, you really don’t.’  Q had hated it with a level of unexpected ferocity that was surprising him even now.  

“From a distance, it had all looked quite polite,” Bond went on, easing at least a tiny fraction of Q’s thoughts with the acknowledgment that the agent had always been near enough to keep an eye on him - to step in if things had turned threatening.  Q didn’t realize that he’d been worried about that until the fear was alleviated, and he sighed a bit, the death-grip he had on the door-handle easing.  “Q?  Q, I was always nearby,” Bond said in a suddenly softer voice, the uncanny ability of his to answer unspoken thoughts making Q jump a bit.  

“I know you were,” Q lied, wishing that that were the only thing clouding up his head. “Can we return to driving now, please?  I wasn’t actually fibbing about my eyes.”

“They’re hurting?”  Worry had quickly edged its way into 007’s tone, although the car was shifted into drive again.  The vibrations of the car on the tarmac assured Q that they were moving, even as he adjusted to the tiny changes in momentum that he’d always taken for granted before.  

“I think it’s more the headache I’ve got.  I was worried that it would distract me before long, and I’d say something stupid if we stayed,” was the reasonably truthful answer the Quartermaster gave.  In fact, the more he said it to himself, the more he believed it.  Yes, that was a totally sensible reason for dragging them both out of a sensitive but potentially pivotal situation.  

Bond’s voice sounded like he - at least guardedly - approved.  “A wise choice.  You were doing well, though.”

Q snorted.  He didn’t feel as though he were doing well now.  “How nice of you to say things like that.”

“No, I mean it.  Dammit, Q, just because you don’t think you performed perfectly didn’t mean you failed,” Bond shot back with his frustration finally slipping free a bit, and Q turned his head away uncomfortably, as if he could stare out the window.  007 didn’t take the hint, and kept talking, “Honestly, since we didn’t get shot at, I’m counting this as a win.”

“You have low standards.”

“ ‘Alive’ is a perfectly sensible standard.  And besides that, I think that Rousseau rather liked you.  Maybe he wasn’t coming on to you-”  Bond sounded rueful and maybe a bit peeved, and that, for some reason, unravelled at long last some of the buzzing tension in Q’s chest...which shocked him as he noted this.  “-But he definitely looked and sounded like he enjoyed your company, and you two really have a lot in common.  He wouldn’t have just opened up and talked like that otherwise.”

Q tried to tell himself that that was a good thing - and unexpected advantage that they would likely be thankful for later.  Instead, he found that he didn’t have any words, and he simply felt tired.  A few times, he opened his mouth, but it was as if his voice had just dried up like a desert well, and nothing but little puffs of air came out before he closed his mouth again.  In case 007 was looking at him and expecting a response, the Quartermaster merely nodded, and resumed his sightless staring out the side window.  

~^~

Although Q was admittedly clumsy all the time now, he was worse when they got out of the car again.  Whatever innate balance he’d managed to draw on seemed to have been switched off, leaving him feeling like he had the first day after the accident: very crippled, very unaware of how to react to surroundings he couldn’t see, and just generally not very good at anything.  It was incredibly frustrating, and if he’d been a bit less wrung out, he might have cursed a bit more.  Instead, he just swallowed his pride and clung a bit closer to 007’s arm, his trust being rigorously tested as he moved timid foot after timid foot in front of the other, keeping up with 007’s more assured strides and trying to hide that he flinched preemptively every few moments.  He didn’t hit anything and he wasn’t allowed to trip, and Bond was merciful enough to say not a word the whole way into their hotel room.  There was the remote possibility that he didn’t notice Q’s increased ungainliness, but Q wasn’t optimistic enough to bet on it.  

“Take me to my laptop,” Q commanded the instant he sensed the familiar room around them - the combined smell of gun-oil and Bond’s aftershave wrapping around Q’s alert senses like a familiar cloak.  “I need to do a bit of hacking.”

“Now?”

Ignoring the surprise and disbelief in 007’s tone, Q kept to the agent’s side until he felt around and hit the hard wooden corner of the desk.  He hit it with the backs of his knuckles, which bloody hurt, but he was already too focused to notice. “Yes.  I need to find Rousseau’s phone number.  It would please me to no end to know that I could find it, and besides that, I think that he’d be tickled if you called him.”  

Bond didn’t argue anymore, but Q could hear his sigh out a resigned heave of breath.  There was the occasional sound of movement, coming sporadically from around the room as if Bond were teleporting rather than moving, but then he started whistling again.  This time, it took Q a second to recognize the tune as ‘Reviewing the Situation’ from the old movie ‘Oliver.’  The whistled notes moved with lilting laziness through ‘I am reviewing...the situation...’ picking up pace to the familiar lines ‘...Can a fellow be a villain all his life?’  Bond was mimicking only the tune, of course, and not the words, but Q found himself following along in his head even as some of that horrible tension left his shoulders, and the unaccountable tremor in his hands vanished.  “Ever considered switching careers to something more musical?” he found himself asking dryly but with some very real appreciation just slipping into his tone, “You’re really rather good at whistling old show-tunes.”

“It distracts from the fact that I can’t sing,” the agent deadpanned back, and Q wasn’t surprised to find Bond at this side, because the skillfully pitched notes had painted a watercolor trail of the man’s progress in Q’s minds-eye.  He’d actually been able to track Bond into the small bathroom and then back out again, and didn’t flinch now as one of 007’s fingertips tapped twice against the back of his wrist, although Q did stop typing.  “Turn over your hand?”

“Why?”  Despite the question, Q was doing it anyway, half-listening as the modified Dragon program read off some data from his screen.  

Something was pressed against his palm with a warm and calloused touch.  “Because so long as you are still determined to work - which you clearly are-”  Q imagined the agent gesturing resignedly at the laptop, and warmed unexpectedly at the flash of familiar memory.  007 never had totally understood Q’s addiction to work.  “-You should probably do it without a headache.  Those are Paracetamol.  This-”  As soon as Q’s fingers had folded around the two tiny pills, 007 enfolded his wrist in a light but immovable grip and pulled Q’s hand to the side just enough for his knuckles to brush against plastic nearby.  “-Is a glass of water.  I’m going to call M and give her our progress report.”  And with that, James was moving away again, a few more whistled notes just touching the air like a banked fire keeping a room warm and homey.  

Resisting the urge to ask Bond where the sudden interest in old tunes had come from - or why he’d apparently never showed off this skill to anyone else, because Q was sure he would have heard of such by now - Q popped the pills into his mouth, finding the cheap, plastic glass provided by the hotel.  He dearly missed his personal mugs, but drained the water anyway, imagining that the coolness of it was already soothing the ache in his head and eyes.  Behind him, the whistling was replaced by Bond’s low and professional voice as he gave their report.  007 kept it brief, and even though Q was focusing on other matters, the Quartermaster was more than able to follow the conversation.

“You didn’t mention Rousseau,” he commented when the lack of verbal responses indicated the end of the phonecall.  

007 was silent again, but presumably standing between the two beds.  Finally, he replied, “Because we don’t know much about Rousseau yet, at least beyond what MI6 knows already of his track-record.”

“Well…”  Q sighed, sitting back from his laptop and moving his hands away with unavoidable reluctance.  When he was touching his keyboard, he felt safe - connected.  The world was more or less the same so long as he could feel where every key was, ready to respond to his touch even if his eyes were no longer there to watch his progress flitting across the screen.  “We now have his personal number as well.  He struck me as the kind of fellow who likes pleasant surprises, so you could probably call him tonight, and see how much of his interest in you is genuine - and whether we can use it.”  Some of that buzzing unease was coming back again, and this time, as Q observed it, he realized that unhappiness was that the core of the emotion.  He frowned, wondering why he was feeling so out of sorts when he was no longer being subjected to a formal criminal event.  

There was a faint sigh from 007 that Q was too busy thinking to interpret, but then the bed creaked under the addition of weight and Bond was asking sensibly, “How am I supposed to explain how I got his number?”  Another pause, then a more cautious, “How did you get his private number?”

Q found himself grinning a tiny, sly smile into the darkness.  “Oh, believe me, it wasn’t easy.  Still, just about everything nowadays has a finger or two in the cyber-world, if you’re good enough to find it.  Which I am.”

“One of these days, maybe I’ll get used to how immodest you are when it comes to tech.”

“I have a right to be immodest,” Q argued back, his displeasure with Rousseau fading in the face of his pride now, “I’m good at what I do.  And if Rousseau asks, you can tell him so: he made his interest clear to me, so I decided to help him out and allow the two of you to talk.”

“And coincidentally show off your own skills at the same time?” Bond asked back.

Q’s smile widened by small but definite degrees.  “Rousseau thinks he’s the best, and can have anything he wants,” Q replied, putting this together based on the criminal hacker’s records as well as his cock-sure attitude at he party, “I’m just showing him that he might want to rethink all that, just a smidgeon.”

Bond chuffed out a short laugh, soft enough that Q probably only heard it because the room was small and quiet, and his ears were always on the alert now.  “Fine then.  I’m always up for a bit of ego-bruising.  Tomorrow, though - it’s already 3 AM, and I can say from experience that even the most enamored person will be more irritated than flattered by my calling him now.”

“Drat.”  Q returned his fingers to the keyboard, prompting the program to speak the time through his earpiece - confirming what 007 had just said.  “I lost track of time again.”  Frustration sizzled through him, but also tiredness, as if he’d been denying the time and sleepiness alike until now, as it all crashed into him.  He sagged a little, feeling small and breakable after the long, trying day.  

“Your eyes still hurting?” Bond asked after a long minute, words unexpectedly low and soft, like waves lapping at a shore at night.  Since Q was living in perpetual night, it was fitting.

Sighing, Q removed his glasses with careful fingers, lowering them to his desk before bringing his hands up to his face.  He wanted to rub at his eyes, lids fluttering closed, but just touching the edges made him wince.  “A bit.  Not much worse than they usually do - they’ve ached on and off since the incident.”

“Can I see them?”

The question was unexpected, and had Q reflexively turning his head, as one would do if they wanted to give someone a surprised look face-to-face.  Q’s fingertips lowered to his lap to flutter uncertainly over the material of his trousers.  “I can’t think of any pressing reason why not,” he replied after too long a pause to seem nonchalant, although he did his best to fake a light, uncaring voice as he waited for the sound of bedsprings to herald Bond getting up.  Quite suddenly he missed Bond’s idle whistling, and wondered if, perhaps, it was not so idle as he had thought.  Either way, Q tensed as if the new silence of the room were some beast wrapping around him, settling down inky coils in concentric, tightening circles that he could neither see nor shake off.  A clearing of Bond’s throat seemed to do the trick, though, and Q breathed out a little shakily as he pinpointed the sound as being only an arm’s-length away already.  

“I’m going to touch your chin. That all right?” James’s low and steady voice came in, sounding neither unsure nor hesitant, but at the same time…  It sounded like he’d back off and not touch Q at all if the Quartermaster replied ‘no’ at this moment.  Somehow, that did a lot to relax a knot that had been tight and cold in the smaller man’s chest.  Q just nodded, unexpectedly grateful for 007’s explicit questions and explanations, and twitched only barely as battle-hardened hands gently came into contact with this skin - first just fingertips on the point of his chin, then more of James’s hand as he slid his grip into something more familiar and solid.  Q was almost surprised to find the right side of his jaw cradled.  He let Bond then tip his head this way and that, a bit self-conscious because he didn’t know what his eyes were directed at, blinking occasionally.  

“Fuck, it’s like they never changed,” Bond swore under his breath, so transparently surprised that Q couldn't help the tiny burst of laughter.  He tensed the muscles of his neck as if to lift his head out of Bond’s grasp, but somehow never ended up doing so.

“The damage isn’t very noticeable, apparently,” Q was able to reply with surprisingly little trouble.  Somehow, with Bond being the bemused one for once, it made this easier to talk about.  Or maybe the slightly rough palm against his jawline helped.  “Medical actually said that I was lucky, in some ways, because no actual shrapnel got into my eyes - the light from the explosion was what did most of the damage.  I’d spout off more of what Medical said, but as neither of us are doctors, it hardly seems worth it.”

Likely absently, James’s thumb shifted, brushing back and forth on Q’s cheek before coaxing him to turn his head one more time.  Breath startled the Quartermaster for a second as it ghosted over his face, but then 007 was letting go and stepping back.  “We should get some sleep.  Now that we’ve passed that first test, I have a feeling things will move a lot faster in the near future.”

Q pushed himself up, feeling for and picking up his glasses as an afterthought.  He still liked to carry them, as if they contained all of his hope that he might someday need them again.  He tried to pull up his mental image of the room, his thoughts bogged down by weariness, but then realized that he wasn’t even sure which one of them was sleeping in which bed at the moment.  They’d already switched once.  “If we really can find an in through Rousseau, it might move even quicker.  Ideally, I’d love to steal back Genecode before it even goes up for auction.”  He took a guess on which bed he’d be sleeping in when he heard 007 moving about near the other.  Suddenly, a long sleep sounded heavenly…  “It somehow seems like losing to simply buy Genecode from the man who stole it in the first place.”

007 made a low noise like a growl as Mercer was indirectly mentioned.  “It also sounds damn expensive,” was all he commented back, though.

Scoffing, Q replied as he removed his earbud and shoes, “As if I needed to use MI6’s money.”

“You’re going to use your own?”  007 sounded sincerely surprised.

Another delicate snort and a shallow smirk make Q’s opinion clear even as he explained, “No, I’m just fairly good at getting into other monetary sources.  How do you think Rousseau would feel about paying for his boss’s stolen item?”

“You’re a bit of a monster, Q.  Why again are you working for MI6 instead of just freelancing, again?” Bond sounded amused, but there was also something else in his jovial, chuckling tone - something dark and low that skimmed like hot silk up Q’s spine.  It made him shiver, and temporarily decide that not all things dark were bad, at least if some of them made his toes curl like 007’s voice did.

Feeling a bit light and floaty as tiredness combined with the relief he was starting to get from the Paracetamol - he could feel the various aches in his head fading to the background - Q sat on the edge of his bed and smiled again.  “For the entertainment value.  Freelance hackers may get to dance around the law, but they don’t get to work with 00-agents.”

Bond laughed softly again, still that delicious noise that Q suddenly couldn’t get enough of.  He began to wonder if maybe he was more tired than he thought, of if the panic of the day had left him with no more fucks to honestly give.  “Quartermaster, are you telling me that 00-agents are a better adrenalin high than criminal activities?” 007 teased.

There was a rustle of fabric, and Q found himself shifting as his mind supplied images of Bond undressing, while the Quartermaster was right there.  Q couldn’t see a thing, but he was still present, and that made him feel unexpectedly like a voyeur.  But was it voyeurism if Bond was totally aware of him?  “You 00-agents are practically dozens of criminal activities rolled into one.  If only you didn’t cause so much bloody damage that I had to fix later, I dare say you lot would be addictive,” Q replied before really thinking what he was saying.  Then he zipped his mouth shut before any truths escaped the silence of his mind.  It was all true, of course, but he hadn’t meant to ever say these thoughts out loud.  

Bond hummed, a wordless reply that nonetheless still sounded pleased by the conversation.  Q had no idea what the agent was doing anymore, or if he was finished undressing or if he’d ever started.  Quite immune to his Quartermaster’s citrus-tart embarrassment or vinegar-harsh uncertainty, Bond suddenly came around the bed and offered easily, “Let me help you with your tie, Q.  It would be a crime against good taste for me to let you sleep in your new clothes.”

Suddenly, the mental images of 007 undressing came back to the fore of Q’s mind, becoming almost crystalline in their sharpness until he found himself imagining the ridges and angles of hard muscles, the way they would roll and flex under tanned skin and over trustworthy bone.  The unbidden thoughts were enough to effectively short-circuit Q’s brain for a second, and he could only sit like a puppet carved stiffly out of wood as he tipped his head back for 007 to access his tie.  He felt the slide and tug of the knot being undone, slipping against his collar, finally sliding free even as the back of 007’s warm hand just grazed the underside of Q’s jaw accidentally.  Q lowered his head as the silk pulled free, holding his breath until he was sure he could let it out without the exhale shaking incriminatingly.  “I’m going to make use of the bathroom.  You all right?” James asked, apparently not noticing Q’s sudden (and hopefully temporary) crisis.

“Ye- Yes,” Q replied, clearing his voice in between the two attempts, because his voice had sounded embarrassingly squeaky and breathy at first.  He touched the buttons of his shirt - the new shirt that Bond had given him, and had even helped him into - as if to indicate that he planned to undo them...maybe once he was sure 007 wasn’t right there, watching.  “I’m quite capable of undressing myself, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”  There was a pause, and then 007 added sincerely but still lightly enough that Q knew it wasn’t in any way patronizing - because all 00-agents were hand-shy around the truth, so if they were joking or making light of it, it probably came from one of the few sincere places in them.  “You did good work today, Quartermaster.”

“I imagine luck had a lot to do with that,” Q said self-effacingly, “and the fact that I had a competent babysitter - sorry, not babysitter.  Ignore me, 007, I’m just babbling now.  It’s been a long day, and I should just shut up before I get insulting.”  Q pulled out a crooked, dry smile to match his words, making it clear that he meant well even if he was once again leaning towards snarkiness.  Since being blinded, he’d gotten used to being taut and waspish, always defending himself or proving himself, so now it was surprisingly hard just to accept compliments and return with a plain and simple ‘thank you.’  “Good night, 007.”

Apparently unoffended by being called a ‘babysitter,’ Bond merely replied, “See you in the morning, Q.”  The sound and echo of his voice said that he’d already turned, and before long, Q heard the door to the bathroom shutting.  The Quartermaster sagged where he sat, unconsciously lifting a hand to brush it over the collar of his shirt as if he could still feel Bond’s deft fingers freeing the tie from there.  A warm flush of interest had already pooled at the base of Q’s spine, and he was fervently grateful that he hadn’t gotten more obviously interested in the sensations floating down his nerves.

That didn’t change that fact, however, that he had been interested.

“Bond, you bloody bastard, can’t you see my life is already complicated enough?” Q hissed under his breath with a narrowing of his useless eyes, knowing that he was talking to empty air but not caring.  Q was too smart not to connect the dots: he hated Rousseau for entirely unprofessional reasons that all revolved around a certain 00-agent who was too good-looking for his own good.  It didn’t matter that Q couldn’t see him, because apparently the man’s appeal was omnipotent, covering all the senses, or at least affecting enough of them that Q could become quite affected even without eyesight.  The Quartermaster was able to convince himself that part of his...connection...to 007 hinged on that fact that he needed James, both to make sure he didn’t walk into things and to make up for Q’s lack of field-knowledge.  Ergo, some of Q’s dislike for Caspian Rousseau stemmed from a want to protect 007.

Q sighed in tired defeat, undoing buttons on the shirt that even felt expensive.  It felt like class and it felt like Bond.

The ‘protective’ excuse sounded flimsy even in Q’s head.  

~^~

Chapter Text

Bond was with Rousseau.  It was a very simple sentence, laid out like that, and yet it had Q’s stomach twisted up in knots ever since that morning, when the 00-agent had surprised Rousseau on the phone, laying out the lie they’d concocted about ‘Adam’ doing a bit of friendly matchmaking.  Q had sat on his bed - still in pajamas, because there was no sign of anything happening today in regards to the auction, although entertainment had been vaguely promised for tomorrow - and listened while 007 spoke playfully and so charmingly that it brought to mind the Biblical snake in Eden.  Most certainly Bond could charm pretty women into eating apples, or anything else he liked.  Apparently, he could do much the same with Quartermasters, because he also got Q to rather listlessly eat a bit of toast while he himself handled Rousseau on the phone expertly.  

As soon as 007 hung up, however, the warm and congenial tone disappeared so suddenly that Q actually jumped a bit.  “Sounds like I get to spend the day with a lesser member of the criminal underworld,” Bond muttered resignedly, summing up the conversation.

“Don’t let his credentials fool you,” Q cautioned, while stubbornly tamping down how happy he was that Bond clearly was not looking forward to his time with Rousseau, “He might be strictly white-collar, but Rousseau has dangerous connections.”

“So he’s like you?”

That caught Q off-guard, and his head tilted, the last bit of toast-crust still in one hand and hovering over the plate.  “What?”

Bond’s tone was always so bloody hard to read, but Q would have bet money right now that one of 007’s smaller, more mischievous smiles was making an appearance now - a more sincere kind of playfulness than he’d been laying on thick and smooth over the phone.  “You were the one who said you needed a 00-agent if you were going to find Mercer and Genecode.  If we’re talking about keeping one’s hands clean but still getting the job done, mine are about as dirty as they can get, and presently quite at your disposal.”

That sentence should not have sent a little shiver down Q’s spine, but it did anyway, and he just had to pray that it didn’t show on his face.  To be honest, he wasn’t even sure if the little flush of excitement was due to thinking about how dangerous Bond was (and yet tame for Q), or that his hands were at Q’s disposal.  Already those hands had been quite deft with his shirt-buttons and the tie around his neck, not to mention handing him clothes while Q had stood mostly naked next to the shower…  The Quartermaster quickly tilted his head down and munched away on the last piece of toast, focusing on that until he could be sure that he was sensible and professional again, swallowing the last mouthful and replying dryly, “I’d hardly call mine clean, if that’s the allusion you’re making.  But perhaps the idea is the same.  Rousseau is probably as physically harmless as me, but he might have some hired muscle up his sleeve, too, so don’t underestimate him.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bond assured, bedsprings making small noises as he moved.  Q jumped with a squeak as warm fingertips touched his face, although Bond’s other hand loosely but skillfully caught his nape to hold him still when the Quartermaster instinctually pulled back.  “Toast on your face, Quartermaster,” Bond explained patiently, if a bit belatedly, and he’d brushed the offending crumbs off and retreated before Q could get properly mad at him or otherwise react.  The smaller man’s skin was still buzzing from surprise and the unexpected contact minutes later, as he strained to hear 007 move about the room, all while Q sat, tense and rather flustered, on the bed.  

“What are your plans for today then?  Since I’m going to be cozying up to your villainous alter-ego?” Bond asked from across the room a moment later.  The rustling of cloth indicated he was dressing, and Q had a ridiculous moment where he moved to turn his head away, before realizing that he didn’t have to worry about politely averting eyes that didn’t work.  He was so out of sorts this morning already, and 007 was not helping…

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something to keep me busy.”  A thought struck him.  “Leave your watch.  I’m going to see if I can do something about you bloody sneaking up on me.”  He couldn’t help the grousing tone to his voice: he might trust Bond, but trusting a 00-agent and not being unsettled by the unseen and unheard approach of one were two different matters.

Bond stopped moving, or at least the sound stopped.  Then it resumed without explanation, and the agent was speaking, “Probably a good idea.  I’m starting to realize just how hard it is to break habits I’m not aware of.”

“Speaking of breaking...and breaking habits,” Q went on, trying to keep focused on work - on tasks he could set before himself, when his mind kept constantly going to other places, “I know that it’s your habit to lose and/or break any communication piece given to you, but-”

“I’ll keep my phone on me,” Bond interrupted without hesitation or irritation, surprising Q into breaking off his sentence.  The agent continued speaking with candor that the Quartermaster could barely remember hearing before, “If you need anything, I’ll just be a call away.”  His tone changed to something more impish, the kind that would have accompanied a smile if Q had still had eyesight to see it, “It wouldn’t be the first unwanted date I’ve squirrelled my way out of.”

Now Q suspected that Bond was using some of that charm on him, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that.  In the end, he chose to ignore the possibility, feeling around until he could place the empty plate on the bedside table.  “Much obliged, 007.  Do try to keep out of trouble.”

The patronizing, long-suffering tone was meant to annoy, but - predictably - it only stoked the fires of Bond’s smug pride.  “Always.  But if trouble comes knocking at my door, I’m rather obliged to answer.  Expect me back sometime this evening, unless you want me home sooner?”

“Ah, yes, as if I’m going to give a 00-agent a curfew,” Q scoffed, glad that his eyes didn’t ache so much that he couldn’t roll them effectively, “No, 007.  Just keep me updated, if you can, and I’ll try not to put out ‘Missing’ posters before tomorrow.”

Bond’s chuckle was low and jovial, and Q felt a bit pleased with himself, because it also sounded sincere - nothing like the sharper bursts of laughter James had manufactured for Rousseau on the phone.  “I’ll be back by supper at the latest.  I doubt that Rousseau can keep me busy that long anyway, no matter how charming he thinks he is,” Bond assured ruefully, and then he was leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

~^~

To be fair, Q managed to last...a whopping total of fifteen minutes before he realized that he had to do work or he’d go insane.  Then again, being blind, his only other choices were napping or listening to music, and while Bond had graciously removed the crumbs from Q’s face, there were still crumbs on the bed.  Napping wasn’t going to happen even if the Quartermaster didn’t feel like he had a whole flock of birds flapping around in his stomach.  Right now, even the best music couldn’t keep all of Q’s brain occupied, because it was flying around similarly.  

“Bloody Bond,” he growled, even though he knew he had no right to blame the man.  Really, Q decided, as he moved hesitantly along the edge of the bed and finally felt his way across the gap to the table and his laptop, he should be blaming Rousseau - Rousseau and his taste for bodyguard-types.  Still, the date was an opportunity to get information, even if it was going to take diving head-first into work to keep Q from imagining Bond seducing a mark.  Mentally upbraiding himself, Q got his fingers moving on the keys, letting his thoughts blank until they could be filled up again with nothing but code and computers.  

A few things had been bothering him from the start of all this.  Obviously, he was bothered by the fact that he couldn’t reach Genecode, but that just meant that Mercer was smart enough to keep it somewhere blocked off from the web, which was only to be expected.  However, despite the auction’s claims that Genecode was ‘the next step in information transport,’ Q was pretty sure it was lying...because Q was still the only one with the translation program.  

Mercer and Auden had worked heavily on the biological angle (mostly Mercer, with Auden serving as the go-between who conferred heavily with MI6 throughout the process), and by the time Mercer had turned on them all and blinded the Quartermaster of MI6, they’d figured out how to take information and turn it into amino acid sequences.  In the same way that the body could turn A, T, G, C into a whole plethora of proteins, their company had managed to use the same code to harbor messages.  Those messages could be hidden in none-transcribing sequences, so the body wouldn’t actually do anything with it (basically, they’d developed a decidedly impotent virus that could be carried around), but every time a cell divided in the body, all of the DNA had a chance of picking up mutations.  Working on that problem had been entirely up to Q, and he’d solved it - he’d developed an algorithm that could track how long the message had been in the body (and thus how many cell divisions it had roughly gone through), and then predict the mutations.  Working backwards, it could mathematically ‘reverse’ them to make a readable message once again.

Mercer did not have that algorithm.  He was selling only half the process, and nobody knew.  Perhaps Mercer thought that he could work his way around that, but Q knew he couldn’t - at this point, anyone with Genecode could take a message, turn it into a harmless bit of genetic code, and put it into a person, and even get it out of them at a later point.  However, the chances of anyone being able to read it were slim to none, especially the longer the message stayed in a human body.  Unless Mercer was a bleeding idiot, he’d realized that by now.

“Maybe it’s time some people started to question you?” Q murmured to himself, and began to type, easily bringing some fake accounts into the mix, making sure that the signal would never be traced back to him.  00-agents weren’t the only ones in MI6 who knew how to cover their tracks.  They also weren’t the only ones who had at least a dozen aliases.  After typing up a swift email designed to antagonize Mercer a bit - and hint that someone knew his secret, that he was trying to sell a useless fraction of what he had promised - Q left his laptop to focus on other things, Bond’s watch, namely.  It would probably be awhile before he got a reply from Mercer, so he’d distract himself with other things until then.

Q was aware that he was taking a risk, albeit a small one, he figured.  Even if he pulled in Rousseau to help, there was no way Mercer would trace that email back to Q (or ‘Adam Balien’) directly, although chances were high that he’d suspect someone involved in the auction.  After all, they were the ones who were going to be bidding on Genecode - or not bidding if this secret became public.  Adam Balien wasn’t the only hacker on the docket, though, and Mercer would have to be careful about pointing fingers in a room full of touchy, powerful criminals.  Q figured he was fairly safe poking this tiger from afar with a very, very long stick.  

That didn’t mean Q wasn’t still buzzing with directionless energy that he couldn’t put a name to.  Determined to think no more of Bond and Rousseau (or Mercer, until the email came back), Q felt about on his desk until he found the familiar weight and shape of Bond’s watch, and then went hunting for his tools.  

Bond would probably be rather surprised to find out just how much the Quartermaster had packed besides tasteless clothing in his suitcase.

~^~

Correction.  Bond was very, very surprised by how much Q had packed, namely because he came back at 5 PM to see most of it strewn across the hotel room.  

The 00-agent’s first reaction was to reach for the gun concealed under his coat, suspecting some sort of danger and unable to see Q.  Right about then, however, a tousled head appeared from between the two beds, blind eyes behind familiar glasses shifting in his vague direction.  “Ah, 007,” he said with perfectly packaged and cheerily delivered professionalism.  If it weren’t for the misdirection of those hazel eyes, it would have looked exactly like Q before the accident.  If it weren’t for the fact that this man was Bond’s superior, and they were on a potentially dangerous mission, it would have been adorable.  

Bond lowered his hand slowly from the grip of his Walther.  “Q, what are you doing on the floor?” he asked slowly

“Oh, that.  Well, you see, I started with everything spread out on the bed, but blankets wrinkle so much, and I kept losing things,” Q answered as if it were the most obvious thing, although he grew visibly frustrated as he mentioned the troubles he’d faced.  Losing things had bothered Q before, but now he lacked eyesight to find those lost things with, so the pet peeve had grown into quite a sore spot.  Q glared pensively at nothing, lips thinning out before he clearly made an effort to smooth out his expression.  “So I relocated to the floor.”  His computer chimed suddenly from the desk, and Q perked up like a particularly ruffled-looking cat when a can of tuna is audibly opened.  “Splendid.”  He started to pull himself up, and Bond finally shook loose from his shock enough to respond.

“Stay put,” he halted the smaller man, even as Q got to his feet amidst a sea of screws, metal plates, tiny wires, and all manner of gadgetry.  “I don’t know how you managed to do all of this, but you’ve spread tech everywhere.  I’d rather not see how you plan to navigate your way through it.”  He himself went to Q’s computer when the Quartermaster obliged to hold his position, although it was like navigating a minefield.  “What am I looking for?” the agent leaned over the screen, which was full of so much data that he honestly didn’t know how a sighted person was supposed to deal with it.  

“That’s...er...well…”  Q ran a hand back through his hair, and when 007 shot him a cautious look (which Q didn’t have the benefit of seeing, obviously), the Quartermaster looked a bit embarrassed and uncertain.  He felt around on the bed next to him until he found a spot clear enough to actually sit on.  “Funny you should ask.  I’m actually waiting for an email from Mercer.”

Bond had left the hotel room, and had come back to pure, unadulterated insanity.  That was the only answer.  Otherwise, the world had simply ceased to make sense.  “Come again?” he tried after a stunned pause, hoping that he’d magically heard wrong.

Q, however, merely enunciated patiently, “I.  Emailed.  Mercer.  The bloody bastard’s been keeping Genecode hidden from me, but he can’t hide himself, at least not when I want to contact him.”

“And why the hell do you suddenly want to do that?”

To be honest, Bond didn’t realize that his voice had taken on a growled edge until the taut words were already out of his mouth, stretching through the air like subtle barbed wire.  He noticed when the Quartermaster tensed, however, eyes widening infinitesimally before his hands braced a little bit more firmly on the bed.  Slower than before, as if he were testing his words before saying them now, Q continued, “A few things weren’t adding up, and I realized it was because Mercer never got all of Genecode - he can’t process any data he transfers into a human body.  That was the program I was showing him and Auden when Q-branch exploded, but I never sent that data anywhere beyond my own protected servers.  Mercer has a useless product that he’s trying to sell, so I sent him an email to spook him, saying that someone was aware of this.  My email was completely untraceable, however.  I made sure of it.”

Already Bond missed the previous lightness in the younger man’s tone.  It had sounded utterly insane, of course, but at least Q had also sounded blithely pleased with himself - it was like he’d been on some sort of harmless, mild high, and it had sounded so much like Q before his blindness that 007 didn’t know how he’d missed it.  But now Q had been dragged back down to earth by 007’s unthinking sharpness, and the agent was kicking himself for doing that.  Jaw clenched, tongue trying to work its way around an acceptable reply or apology, Bond looked back to Q’s laptop uncomfortably and tried for an olive-branch of sorts.  “How about I bring your laptop over to you?  Even if you’re just expecting an email, your computer is so bloody complicated that I’m afraid it’ll bite me if I click the wrong thing.”

Q relaxed, if only a tiny bit.  He still looked uneasy in the same way he did when James accidentally spooked him by moving too silently.  Maybe Bond really did need a bell...and a gag, because every time he talked, it felt like he upset his Quartermaster.  “That would be much appreciated, thank you.”

As Bond carefully picked up the slim laptop, he glared at the floor, carefully trying to place his feet where he wouldn’t step on anything.  “Mind telling me what you’re doing that includes spreading tech like caltrops all across the floor?” he had to ask.  This time, he managed to keep his tone more polite and level, although some suspicious caginess still slipped out like briars around a pleasant gravel path.  

“Oh!”  Q’s eyebrows shot up, even if his eyes remained fixed somewhere over 007’s left shoulder, and he seemed to abruptly recall what he’d been doing.  “Well, if you can spot your watch somewhere, it now gives off a signal that will allow me to triangulate your position - or at least relative nearness.”  He swiveled his head, frowning for a second, and then started a tentative smile that grew swiftly brighter.  The slender young man got up so abruptly that Bond was sure he’d trip or step on something, but couldn’t stop him with his hands full of Q’s precious laptop.  Q didn’t place a foot wrong, however, but instead navigated the short distance to the opposite bed and moved his hand almost reverently, spread fingertips moving with unerring accuracy to the silver curl of Bond’s watch.  Q’s smile was blinding now, a look so rare that James found himself just standing and staring.  “Perfect,” Q breathed, almost a purr of breath, “It works phenomenally.”  He tapped the sides of his glasses, then the wireless earpiece cradled in his ear, explaining eagerly as he straightened with Bond’s watch still caged in his dexterous fingers, “My glasses receive the signal, but I’d designed it only to trigger an audible notification within a certain distance, so I don’t have to be distracted by constant updates when you’re out of a useful range - sort of like the facial recognition program.  When the watch is nearby, though, I can pinpoint it with more accuracy than I had expected.”  

For a moment, Bond was distracted by the look on the Quartermaster’s face and the sound of his clearly elated voice, but it was still necessary to look where he was walking, because the floor may as well have been a gauntlet of Legos.  Bond looked down to place his feet.  Besides the general bric-a-brac of tiny screws and metal bits, he saw something that looked disturbingly like a saw and maybe some other tools he hadn’t known Q actually had here.  “How did I not see half of this stuff when I was into your suitcase?” he asked in befuddlement, coming to sit where the Quartermaster had been a moment ago.

Still standing by the other bed, Q turned with the watch still in one hand, blind gaze shifting as if trying to pick out Bond’s location by sound.  Still, his mood was good, and he put on a dry little smirk that was achingly familiar from days past.  “Probably because it was in my other bags.  You didn’t think I’d come without some of the tools of my trade, would you?  No one asked you to come without your gun.”

Wisely Bond refrained from asking how in the world Q had used half of these tools without being able to see (let it never be said that 00-agents were not fast learners in the art of keeping Quartermasters happy).  Surreptitiously, however, he looked Q over.  Since the Quartermaster was hardly going to notice, Bond’s eyes roved, looking for signs of harm.  All he saw, however, was Q’s lean frame beneath his night-clothes - a truly horrendous shirt and sweatpants all in flannel and plaid. Right then, on a whim, 007 decided that he was going to make those disappear, if only so Q would have to wear something else and stop hurting Bond’s eyes.  “Touché.  If you’re ready for a hostage exchange, I’d gladly give you this laptop for my watch,” he brought them back on topic, even as his eyes looked once again to the floor and to the side.  He’d caught sight of Q’s much-hated cane stranded somewhere in the sea of it all, and almost pitied it.  

“Fair enough,” Q played along, only growing hesitant again as he went to step back towards Bond - not because of any lingering fear of him, it seemed, but instead a very sensible wariness about walking into him.  Q managed it, though, his careful, slow walk bringing him forward until his knees touched the bed to Bond’s left, eyes focused on the wall beyond.  “Bond?” he asked, words holding that faint and subtle tension that said he didn’t know what the world looked like.  It probably said something that 007 was able to discern nuances like that by now, and it tore at him to hear that very faint note of vulnerability.  Q’s hands were already reaching out, fumbling in the air.

Bond obliged swiftly, “Here.”  With one hand he tapped Q’s nearest elbow, making the Quartermaster twitch just a little, even as his dark-haired head swiveled towards the sound of Bond’s low voice.  Bond let his hand slide down Q’s arm until he had two fingers just hooked over the palm of Q’s hand, brushing the silver watch still caught there.  “How about I take that off your hands, and then hand your laptop over?”

Looking as if Bond’s politeness was leaving him rather at a loss for words, the Quartermaster just blinked, appearing a bit surprised at himself while he obliged.  Bond easily nicked the watch from Q’s loose hand, leaving it next to him on the bed (hopefully not to be swallowed by the bits and pieces of things strewn there) while hefting Q’s laptop carefully.  For once, Q seemed to expect it when 007 caught his wrist, pulling at it until Q’s hand bumped up gently against the lifted laptop.  “All yours.  Tell me what Mercer said.”

That focused the Quartermaster, and both of his hands found their way along the smooth case of his computer, quickly orienting himself to take it from Bond.  At that point, he simply sat down where he was - on the floor, nearly brushing up against 007’s left shin.  Back against the bed and laptop flipped open on his folded legs, Q began typing, the screen reflected off his glasses while he seemed to look off somewhere.  After a moment, his lips stretched in a small and cruel smile.  “I think it’s safe to say that someone has suddenly made Mercer very nervous.”

“Good job, Q.”  The sincere praise came out of Bond’s mouth automatically, naturally.  By now he had leaned forward over Q’s shoulder, a movement that brought his knee into contact with Q’s shoulder, while absentmindedly strapping his watch back on.  It felt and looked exactly as he’d left it, making him doubly impressed with his Quartermaster, because there was no evidence that he’d even tampered with the timekeeping device.  Now he thought that he could see the screen Q was working on, and eventually saw where more text was turning up at the behest of Q’s quick and clever fingers.  Bond read the original email, then the reply, in silence, easily interpreting the tone behind the latter.  “You’ve got Mercer on the verge of panicking already,” was his professional opinion, “He’ll start making mistakes now, or get reckless.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Q opined with a distracted hum.  He lifted a hand to push his earbud deeper into his ear, listening to whatever data it was verbally relaying while he typed at a dizzying speed.  If he noticed the leg flush up against his side now, he didn’t show signs of it - if anything, he seemed to be leaning into it, like a vine to a trellis, finding stability.  

Making a rumbling noise of wordless agreement, Bond kept watching, reading as Q put together a reply.  It was well done: both the first email and this new one gave out just enough information to make it clear that he wasn’t to be trifled with, but didn’t give away anything traceable.  Bond knew better than most that people sometimes gave out information that later became the nails to their own coffins.  Bond made a living off unguarded words like that, and clearly Q had at least been around MI6 long enough to pick up on some of that.  He was teasing Mercer now, almost but not quite threatening to expose him.  “Should I give him an ultimatum?” Q asked suddenly, focus still on his work.  

“Not yet,” Bond replied automatically, “There’s a difference between spooked and cornered, and I’d rather not deal with the latter yet.”  He sat back and grumbled feelingly, “I’ve had way too many missions go to hell when cornered targets either went on the attack or bolted out of the country.”  Trusting that Q could handle himself, Bond got up from the bed, telling more than asking, “I’m going to clean some of this up.  I’ll try to keep similar pieces together, but mostly I just don’t fancy either one of us going lame if we have to leave in a hurry.”

It seemed to take effort for Q to drag his attention back to the real world, but he managed it with effort, belatedly catching up on Bond’s words.  “Oh!  By all means.  I…  Did I really make that much of a mess?”

“Yes, Q, you did.”

The younger man looked chastised, but with a flicking of his useless eyes, he came to the realization that he’d be quite unhelpful in picking up, at least compared to 007’s sighted efficiency.  “My apologies.  Feel free to just dump things on my desk, or my bed if that gets full.”  He turned back to his laptop, embarrassment pushed aside in favor of work.  

As he listened with one ear to the steady tapping of Q’s keys, 007 felt his shoulders relaxing.  It sounded just like all the times he’d crashed in Q’s office, doing as he wished (within limits) while the Quartermaster focused on work with a rare singlemindedness that virtually nothing could break.  Since they were in the field now, where such singular focus could be dangerous, 007 took it upon himself to be watchful for both of them - which started by making sure the floor was a bit less strewn by mechanical debris.  He actually recognized some things, and could see some kits laid out on the floor with designated little drawers and pouches for certain screws or other pieces.  Usually, Q was quite meticulous and orderly.  Other things Bond dutifully moved to the desk while stubbornly ignoring the fact that he was acting like a housekeeper rather than a dangerous international spy.  

Bond finished his task before Q, but only because he suspected that the Quartermaster had gotten distracted by something else on his computer - new windows were opened.  Now that he didn’t have to worry as much about sitting or stepping on something metallic and sharp, 007 slid onto his bed and stretched out with his shoulders against the headboard.  Q was still sitting on the floor against the side of that same bed, close enough that 007 idly measured the distance.  He could have touched Q’s head or near shoulder with barely the slightest bit of reaching, and the idea was surprisingly tempting.  “Want to hear my report?” he asked, feeling content where he was.  He was rarely this calm on missions, but he also rarely went this long without someone trying to kill him.  So far, his biggest danger had been trying not to set off Q, honestly.  

Q blinked and his head turned, although he seemed to know vaguely that the 00-agent had taken up residence behind him.  “I suppose I may as well.  What did you learn, 007?”

“That Rousseau’s a light-weight, but unfortunately not a chatty drunk,” 007 began to list off irreverently, “He thinks that he has better tastes than me - the humble bodyguard - but really, I’ve had better.  He wanted to show me a good time though, clearly, so I played along.  There might be a chance of us getting him to flip on Mercer.”

“Careful, 007, if you get any more dismissive of him, he might start to think you don’t like him.”

“I don’t.  I pretend very, very well, but he’s not my type,” Bond replied back easily, folding his arms behind his head and accepting the fact that he didn’t have anything to do this evening.  It made him a bit restless, body shifting, the impulse to reach out and touch Q rippling through him again.

Q’s attention appeared to be back on his laptop, although it was hard to tell, because the direction of his eyes meant nothing.  “Nerdy, undersized, prideful hacker not your type?” he teased back in a soft, dry voice while he typed, although he swore a moment later as something seemed to alert him to a mistake he’d made - he began deleting a moment later.  Something had upset his typing rhythm.  He quickly recovered.

“Criminally inclined isn’t my type,” Bond corrected as he watched Q fix his error, noting the way Q’s shoulders drew up tight beneath his clothing when frustration took hold.  “Plus, he’s got the most abhorrent taste in wine.”  At that point, Bond glanced around, realizing that he’d missed something in the room - more specifically, he’d neglected to notice a distinct lack of food items, despite the fact that lunch had come and gone, and supper was already fast approaching.  “Q, did you actually eat while I was gone?” he sighed, already sitting up, because if Q said yes, he’d just tell him that that was an obvious lie.

A shy gurgle of Q’s stomach gave him away before he could attempt an answer, and Q paused before typing something.  Now that he was listening, Bond could just barely hear the computerized voice as it spoke through Q’s earpiece, telling him the time.  “Drat,” was all Q said.  “It’s already almost six?”

“I’m starting to think that my job on this mission is less to keep you safe, and more to make sure you don’t starve yourself to death,” James opined before sliding his feet off the far side of the bed and to the floor, letting him circle around to where Q sat.  “Come on, Quartermaster.  Up you get.”

Sitting in Bond’s shadow and moving his eyes as if he wished he could peg him with an affronted look, Q looked almost...childish.  Irked and childish.  It was an adorable look, especially since Q was stubbornly refusing to close his laptop.  Well, if he wanted a battle of stubbornness, Bond could more than oblige him…  “007, you really aren’t my babysitter,” Q tried for professional disdain, but came across as flustered instead.  

“No, but I am your bodyguard, and I think that neglect is probably something I’m supposed to protect you from,” replied Bond flexibly, even as he reached down and slowly pushed Q’s screen closed, pacing it so that the blind Quartermaster noticed with plenty of time to pull his hands back.  He still grabbed the computer, hugging it to his chest as if he thought 007 would take it away next.  Bond just changed the destination of his hands, and wrapped them around Q’s upper arms instead, grunting as he took Q’s squirming weight and drew it upwards.  

“Bond-!” Q squawked, somewhere between startled, irked, and irritated - but all in low enough levels that the agent wasn’t put off.  He knew what truly angry voices sounded like, especially from Q, and this wasn’t it.  No one knew how to push his limits like 007 did, and he had a bit of push-room left before Q snapped and threatened to wipe his bank accounts, he figured.

“Supper, Q,” 007 interrupted as the voice of reason, still steering the smaller man.  It was rather helpful that Q was the size he was: very easy to handle, especially when he was only putting up the barest bit of a fight, and mostly giving in to 007’s guidance.  Now, 007 guided him to his own bed, firming up his grip as he pushed back until Q’s knees had no choice but to give out against the edge of the mattress Bond had been sitting on moments before.  Not surprisingly, Q tensed all over as his legs buckled, and if he hadn’t been clutching his laptop to his chest, he would have flailed to grab at something.  “I got you, Q, I got you,” Bond found the reassuring words rolling easily out of his mouth, being sure that his own balance was impeccable, his muscles clenching and bunching to handle the weight.  He had Q sitting a moment later, still looking on the verge of outrage or shock and holding his laptop close.  Perhaps wary of more unexpected and unsolicited movement, Q put it down, pushing it further onto the bed behind him before turning a look with lowered brows and pursed lips in the direction of 007’s sternum.  

“That was utterly unnecessary, but fine,” Q gave in, letting out a short breath that made his temperament quite clear, “What are we ordering then?”

“Not ordering.  Going out.  Which means you’ll have to get dressed,” Bond said, the clarity of his vice hiding that this was on a whim.  He was remembering something Q had said earlier - something about steak - and after having gone to a sub-par restaurant with Rousseau, he suddenly had the urge to show Q a true good time.  Despite having been out all day, he also felt the urge to get out of the hotel room, and this time to drag Q with him.  He was still supposed to be Richard Sterling, however, aloof bodyguard.  Bond had tested the limits of his cover before, though, and taking Q somewhere nice to eat was hardly a crime.  

Q looked rather alarmed nonetheless.  His eyes scathed the area across Bond’s stomach, like hazel strokes back and forth.  “You’re not joking, are you?” he said with almost pathetic resignation after a moment, a martyred look all over his face.  “God, I can’t even see your face and I can tell that.  Is there any point in me telling you that this is a bloody bad idea?”

“Nope.”  In fact, it was sounding like a funner and funner idea by the second.  Bond lived to annoy.

“God.”  Q rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, then found the bridge of his nose with the other, pinching it between thumb and forefinger like he had a headache coming on that no amount of painkillers could touch.  “I knew that your good behavior was too good to be true...”  

~^~

Chapter Text

“Tell me again where you’re dragging me off to?”

Bond chuckled, then replied with maddening aplomb, “I can’t tell you again if I haven’t told you to begin with.”

“Ah, yes, how foolish of me to forget,” Q quipped, making it clear that he was unamused.  “I should have remembered that my escort takes great delight in keeping me uninformed.”

Less than half an hour ago, after convincing his Quartermaster to go out to eat with him, Bond had once again made it his top priority to see that Q didn’t go out ‘dressed as a raggamuffin,’ as he had put it.  Q had sputtered and tried to glare at a man he couldn’t even see, but in the end, hadn’t fought as he quite clearly heard 007 digging around in his luggage again.  “I’m starting to feel like a manikin,” he pointed out disagreeably, mostly to hide the flush as Bond circled back to him and commanded that he undress.  Technically, it should not have bothered him: they were both grown men, theoretically at peace with their bodies and in professional circumstances.  Somehow it never felt professional when Q was slowly stripping out of his nightclothes and feeling eyes from a man he could barely hear, much less see.  It was possible, of course, that 007 wasn’t watching him at all, but that idea was shot out the window when he got his shirt tangled around his head and his glasses, and callused hands were immediately there to help.  At least Bond had the decency not to laugh, his fingertips brushing Q’s wrists and arms as they offered assistance.  

“Easy does it, Quartermaster,” came his jovial encouragement.    

“Bond, this isn’t a good idea,” Q felt the need to emphasize, even if he’d lost all hope of convincing the agent.  He lowered his arms with his shirt now off his head but wrapped up in his fists.  He tilted his head to try and catch a sound to indicate where 007 was in relation to him, even though the signal from the watch as well as his glasses was painting an adequate picture.  “Need I remind you, we’re undercover-”

“And I fully intend to keep that cover,” 007 interrupted, calm and self-assured as he pressed new clothing into Q’s hands, relieving him of his sleep-shirt with a deft tug.  Damn, Q hadn’t even heard him go for the new shirt before returning to steal the old one.  No matter how accurate the camera in his spectacles, or the triangulation from Bond’s watch, it seemed the man was able to surprise his Quartermaster.    

Unsure of just what he was holding, but trying to figure it out with slow runs of his fingertips against the seams, Q replied dryly, “Somehow, I don’t see Adam Balien’s grim bodyguard taking him out for supper.”

Maddeningly enough, Bond agreed without missing a beat.  “And neither do I.  Which is why you are not going to look like Balien, and I won’t look like your stuffy, grim bodyguard.  Even going out with Rousseau, I wore a suit.”

“And you’re not going to wear one now?”  Q could barely imagine Bond without one.  Or, rather, he could, but the mental images swiftly grew inappropriate.

“You’re not the only one changing now, Quartermaster.”

Despite his best intentions, that image Q’s brain immediately tried to paint out across his entire brain, unhelpfully supplying the Quartermaster with images of defined muscles and tanned skin.  It didn’t matter that the only times that Q had actually seen Bond even partially unclothed had been in Medical, or brief glimpses on missions before 007 found himself some privacy for his more...intense liaisons.  Q’s brain was still blowing a fuse over the influx of mental images when Bond came up to him again, and it was remarkably disturbing and distracting to not know precisely what state of undress 007 was in while he was moving around in the Quartermaster’s personal space.  “Trousers, too, Quartermaster.  We’re dressing a bit more casually, but not that much.”  

Q huffed and made to defend his pajama bottoms, but in the end, couldn’t.  Even he had to admit that they were not fit to be worn outside of bedrooms, regardless of what kind of place 007 was taking them to.  “What the hell am I wearing then?” he finally demanded, as he awkwardly got up (depositing the new shirt on the bed to be pulled on in a moment), orienting himself with self-conscious sweeps of his hands, feeling the bedside lamp with one hand and the bed solidly behind his knees.  Stripping out of his trousers wasn’t quite as embarrassing as he’d expected, probably because he was so focused on not falling over.  

Instead of answering, of course, the 00-agent in the room merely asked enigmatically, “Do you trust me, Quartermaster?”

“Yes,” Q replied quite before he really thought about it, the word slipping out so easily.  He blinked stupidly for a moment, wondering at the fact that he really did mean it, and then sat down slowly in just his pants.  He amended, “But questions like that have a habit of leading to untrustworthy situations.”  So far as he could tell by touch alone, it felt as though he was just holding a collared shirt of some sort, although he couldn’t speak for its pattern or distinct cut.  

When Q didn’t immediately pull it on, Bond was back again, and this time he was definitely shirtless, because when he took it upon himself to help his Quartermaster (commandeering the new shirt and quite unceremoniously sliding it over Q’s head), squirming on Q’s part led to a lot of inadvertent touching.  He made disgruntled, offended noises and struggled, and snapped that his glasses were going to get damaged doing this (forgetting that he didn’t need them anyway), but 007 was patient and persistent, and did a good job of handling his companion’s flailing limbs and funneling them through sleeves.  Q’s arguments stuttered to abrupt halts a few times as his hands, more keen in their sense of touch than he’d realized, recognized the silky texture of warm, bare skin, the ridged terrain of abdominal muscles as his fingers bumped over them.  He was glad that his knees brushed fabric, however, so at least he logically knew that Bond wasn’t standing there naked while helping his blind Quartermaster dress.  

“All right, all right!” Q declared in a commanding tone that said he gave in, even as he slipped the rest of the way into his new shirt - his glasses were still miraculously on his face, a familiar but useless weight on his nose.  He waved his hands in a vague repellant gesture, nervous about touching anything he wasn’t supposed to but wanting to ward off his suddenly-helpful agent.  “I can put on my own clothing, thank you!  And since it seems that you’ve taken quite a shine to being mysterious, I’ll stop asking what I’m bloody putting on.”  He muttered as he felt around him for a pair of trousers left by 007, “And hope that it’s nothing ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on, Q, you know me better than that,” Bond chided goodnaturedly, seeming to have backed off just a bit.  Q still had his earbud in- it was turned down to a very low volume on purpose, so it wouldn’t be distracting, but he could tell that 007 had backed off to roughly a stride away.  The Quartermaster relaxed at the small control he still had over the world: he knew where one thing was.  Somehow that felt like a monumental accomplishment.  A bit more relaxed, he went back to listening to 007 talk, “I’d hardly cart you around in public if you weren’t dressed up to my tastes.”

Somehow, the combination of words in that sentence set off another flush to Q’s cheeks, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it except pretend to be focused on his new trousers - which felt like a rougher material than the slacks he was expecting.  He kept his head down as he continued going over ‘being to Bond’s tastes’ in his head like a badly broken record.  Bond was talking about his wardrobe, of course, but Q knew perfectly well that 007 had a record for having people on his arm who were aesthetically pleasing regardless of clothing.  He was a vain man that way, and Q wasn’t sure whether to be incredibly flattered or just nervous and embarrassed that Bond was putting in the effort to make him an acceptable addition to Bond’s own good looks.

“Ah, so you’re dressing me up then, are you?” Q made to joke, tone self-effacing and quiet.  His mouth tugged up into a wry half-smile.  He’d managed to get the trousers on, and was tucking in the shirt with slightly clumsy motions, head down.  The faint beep in Q’s earpiece warned him of Bond’s approach just a second before strong hands caught Q’s wrists and stopped him.  

Bond’s voice was...unexpectedly candid as he answered.  “No, Q, I’m not dressing you up.  Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”  He made a low noise in his throat that Q thought was a sign of frustration, a sound he’d heard before his blindness that usually correlated with 007 not knowing what words he wanted to use.  The blond-haired man would be looking around now, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he sought out inspiration impatiently.  “Leave the shirt untucked,” he finally said, a bit gruffly, although he also surprised Q by going on to explain briefly, “You’re in jeans, white collared polo, and in a minute, a black jumper over that.  Just street-clothes.  They look good on you, but no one will peg you for Adam Balien at a passing glance.”

Still stuck on the sincere-sounding words ‘They look good on you,’ Q could only stand and blink as his wrists were slowly released with an almost reluctant slide of scarred fingers.  Then something soft was being pressed into his grip, and he found himself with the aforementioned jumper.  “Your usual socks and shoes will do.  Give me a minute.  I still need to find my jacket.”

‘And your shirt,’ Q felt the need to comment, but only mutely in his head.  He was still pretty sure that a half-naked 00-agent was navigating around him, although if Bond didn’t want to bring attention to that, so much the better.  Q was confused enough already.  Glad for the momentary reprieve, he laboriously got the jumper turned the right way - finding tags with his fingers, memorizing where the head-hole was in relation to where his hands were - before pulling it over his head.  His hair had to be a hopeless mess, but his glasses had somehow survived all of this intact and on his face.  Having to wear glasses used to annoy him, as his near-sightedness forced him to wear them at all times, but now he desperately wished that they were necessary, instead of the world being claustrophobically black.  This time he noticed Bond approaching him, getting more and more used to hearing the gentle chimes signaling the positions of the man’s wrist-watch.  

Bond stopped in front of him.  “I’m going to take your glasses off, Quartermaster, but only for a little while,” he said, in one of those unexpected moments where he explained himself patiently and clearly and almost gently.  The whole room felt quieter when he talked like that, as if his words - coming from barely a foot away - were the only thing there, wrapping Q up in their grasp.  When Bond talked like this, the Quartermaster also always found himself unexpectedly tongue-tied, but Bond just waited, apparently needing permission of some sort before moving on.  

“Uh...er...yes, of course.  Whatever you deem necessary,” Q more or less babbled on reflex, having no idea what was going on but somehow willing to agree to it anyway, because the way Bond was talking was unexpectedly convincing.  The smaller man found himself wetting his lips, eyes shifting back and forth in apprehensive anticipation.  “Just don’t damage them, if you please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Q.”  As Bond was speaking, his fingertips just brushed over Q’s cheekbones, the triangulation program giving a cheery and useless warning that 007 was very, very close right now, or at least his left wrist was.  Q let those rough but warm fingers slide against his temples and gently grasp the arms of his glasses, easing them with infinite care off the Quartermaster’s unmoving face.  “Hold still, Q.”  The Quartermaster heard the familiar clink of his glasses being folded up, but Bond must have been doing it one-handed, because his other hand had taken up a position under Q’s jaw, just holding him there for a puzzling moment.  He felt Bond lean away, and because it was his right and not his left hand on Q’s chin, he was informed when the agent reached for something or put Q’s glasses down.  Then Bond was touching his face again, faint brushes from both hands, and the grip of his right hand on Q’s chin only tightened when Q felt something cooler than skin touch near the outside of his eye, and flinched back a bit.  “Just a pair of sunglasses, Q.  They’re one of mine, and wouldn’t fit over your normal glasses, but they’ll make it harder to notice that you’re blind.”  He heard as much as sensed the faint smirk on the agent’s voice as he continued, “Another thing to keep people from associating the dark-haired young fellow on the street with Adam Balien.”  He kept Q’s face still with little nudges of his free fingertips while guiding the new set of glasses into place.  Bond let Q settle them, frowning at the unfamiliar shape and weight and trying to imagine them filtering the light that got to his eyes.  

“You’ll have to forgo your cane, too.  Think you can manage?” Bond asked, and there was a rustle as he stepped away.  His coat, presumably.  

Q had admitted that yes, he could manage, and now he was walking down the street pretending to be someone who was not Adam Balien on the arm of a man who was decidedly not Richard Sterling.  

The sleeve under Q’s hand (wrapped around 007’s helpfully crooked elbow) was the familiar texture of leather, something so far removed from Bond’s usual smart, expensive suit jackets that Q was dying to have his eyesight back just to see it.  In all honesty, he was burning up with curiosity just regarding the wardrobe choice for this foray, without even taking into account that he still didn’t know where they were going.  Bond was walking with easy, lazy strides, and something about the smooth way he moved made it easier for Q to trust in his guidance and walk naturally, as if he were perfectly sighted.  Occasionally, Bond would adjust suddenly, and always after that Q would feel air move next to him, as if he’d just avoided someone.  The streets were crowded, and even before losing his eyesight, Q would have expected to shoulder-check a person or two, but 007 seemed determined that his Quartermaster wouldn’t so much as brush up against his sleeve.  

It was...unexpectedly relaxing...to know that 007 was taking care of things so totally.  

“I was about to ask when you suddenly became so fond of withholding information,” Q felt free to quip, the tension in his shoulders going away just a bit more, “but then I remembered your profession.”

Bond tucked his arm in a bit as he laughed, pressing the back of Q’s hand unconsciously against his leather jacket, and the rib-cage beneath, as the chuckle vibrated through him.  “Consider this a surprise gift for keeping your head at the party yesterday.  You’re always the one talking about positive reinforcement, right?”

“That was back when I thought it would get you to bring back equipment in one piece,” Q retorted drolly, but then focused on placing his feet as he felt them turning.  Bond helpfully and quietly alerted him to a step, and then the world around them got suddenly quieter.  Indoors then.  Unsure what to do with himself all over again, the Quartermaster stopped chatting and went silent, hoping he didn’t look too odd swiveling his head like he did, desperately trying to catch sounds and orient himself.  

“Take it easy, Q,” Bond’s voice was a reassuring rumble next to his ear, “You’re all right.”  Bond’s voice got a bit louder as apparently someone approached.  “Yes, table for two, please.”  With an uncomfortable jolt, Q realized that without his glasses, he didn’t have access to the cameras in them.  That somehow hadn’t bothered him before, but now it made him suddenly feel as if he’d been punched in the gut or dropped into a pool of sharks.  Bond’s voice was what centered him again, once more dropping to a low and private volume, “Easy, easy.  Just keep trusting me, Q.  I wouldn’t have let you leave the hotel if I didn’t think you were safe, and you are safe.”  The words were anchors, keeping him in place while the sea tried to toss him.  Bond’s words were as gentle as silk but had hardened at the end until their iron certainty was absolute.  It settled the miniature panic attack before it could get a proper foothold in Q’s chest, and he settled with a little exhale and a tight nod.  Bond walked them both forward with slow, measured steps, presumably following the silent waiter to their table.

Once there, Bond shifted, leaving Q temporarily unmoored as he disengaged himself from the Quartermaster’s grip.  Bond’s hands stayed in contact at all times, however, and were soon relocating to the small of Q’s back and his upper arm to ease him into a seat.  “Wall at your right.  We have a corner table, because I like having my back to the wall, but you’ve got some space behind you.”

“That sounds all right,” Q replied a bit more breathily than intended, finally trying out his voice again, straining his ears for anything and everything that might help him regain his equilibrium.  As his hands began nervously shifting across the table in front of him, Bond caught his one wrist much as he’d done earlier, when the Quartermaster had been intent on tucking his shirt in.  This time, Bond seemed more intent on grounding him than stilling him.  His grip was firm and unshakable.  “If you’re really not okay with this, Q,” he said softly, “just say so, and this ends.  Right now.”  There was no judgment that Q could find in his tone, nor any displeasure if Q were to choose to take the out.  

That more than anything coaxed the Quartermaster into taking a deep breath and settling his free hand onto his lap.  He purposefully uncurled the fingers of his trapped hand, knowing that 007 would be able to both see and feel the release in tension as the blind Quartermaster relaxed.  “No, no, I’m quite all right.  I’d gotten used to my glasses…”  He wasn’t sure what else to say when he didn’t know who else was near enough to hear him.

Apparently no one.  Bond finished his sentence quite freely, “And the facial identification program, right, so you can at least sense when a person is nearby.  Sorry, Q.  I didn’t think about that when I traded out your glasses.”

“It’s all right,” Q made his tone light, although it took effort, and he was still nervous.  But 007’s hand was also still curled around his wrist.  “It’s your job to be my eyes anyway, isn’t it?”  

“Exactly,” Bond’s voice agreed warmly, and his fingers unlocked.  Q was surprised by how much he missed the firm contact, but he resisted the urge to fidget.  Subtly stretching out his fingers, he felt the smooth tines of a fork, and the thin stem of what had to be a wine glass.  

“Would you mind telling me where we are now?” he asked dryly to hide his remaining unease.  

“Just a little place that I found last time I was on a mission in this part of the world,” Bond was free with his information now, “I was hoping it would still be here.  It’s a small, discrete place by the name of Dulce Periculum.”

“ ‘Danger is sweet’,” Q translated without thinking.  He surprised himself with a chuckle.  “A Latin phrase.  Dare I ask what they serve here?”

“Oh, a lot of sweet things,” Bond sounded off-hand, but in the way that said he was definitely smirking, and wearing one of those mischievous-cat looks.  The kind that would be making his glacial blue eyes seem to change color to something more cobalt than sapphire.  “But they also make the most delicious steak I think I’ve ever had.  Ah.  Here comes our waiter.  Do you mind me ordering for you?”

A bit flustered by how quickly things were moving, Q was tempted to get stubborn, but instead made a conscious effort to relax, trust Bond as he had said he would, and nod, “Go right ahead.  It’ll look terribly embarrassing anyway if I try to find what I want in a menu I can’t actually see.”

They were both saved from any more sarcastic retorts as the waiter came up.  He sounded formal and polite - standoffish by the standards Q was used to, although he was already seeing one of the reasons why Bond might like this place.  The wait-staff, at least, had no interest in being overly personal or wordy beyond the proper etiquette of taking a person’s order.  This was apparently one of those fancy places that had special names for all of their dishes that were purposefully as nondescript as possible, so even though Q was able to follow the conversation, he had no idea what he was going to be eating - except for steak.  Bond asked him if he minded it on the rare side, in a tone that suggested he was hoping Q was, and the Quartermaster had murmured his agreement.  He wasn’t picky.  Bond passed on the wine.  

“Relax, Q,” Bond suggested after a few moments of silence heralded the exit of their waiter and their apparent return to reclusiveness.  Their table must have been tucked away where they had some amount of privacy, for James to be using his name so easily.  

“Ah, yes,” Q deadpanned, letting his tone go dry while he carefully reached up to feel the sunglasses on his face.  He figured that since they were indoors, he should do his part to act ‘normal’ by taking them off.  Besides, they felt odd, like a new pair of shoes after the old pair had long ago been broken in.  “Says the person with all five senses and a keenly honed sixth.”

“That sixth sense of mine works for you.  So do the other five, come to think of it.”

Bond’s light, logical tone made it seem so normal to just reply to him in kind, as if they were back at MI6, and joshing one another while Q coded and 007 lounged on the futon like the lazy bastard he was off-mission.  “Hmm.  That would sound far more appealing if it actually fixed these unfortunate eyes of mine.”  Realizing that he was taking this in a maudlin direction, Q made an effort to put some levity in his tone and stretch a bit of a smile across his face.  “Although your efforts to stand in for my eyes have been more than satisfactory.  Thank you,” he said with real gratitude.  

A foot nudged his under the table.  “No problem, Q.  Ah, here comes out first course.”

Q was understandably nervous as the waiter returned.  Not that the waiter bothered him - no, it was the unknown food that he’d be bringing.  Not only could the Quartermaster not see it, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what it was, and neither smell nor sound was helping.  All he could hear was the blink of plates being placed on the table as he tried to act like a sighted person for the benefit of this facade.  He doubted that he was doing a very good job, but Bond was a master when it came to distraction, and was making light conversation with the waiter for the few minutes they were in proximity.  The waiter was a taciturn fellow, but Bond was all charisma.  Even with just his ears tuned into the man’s charms, Q felt himself being swayed, lulled by the pleasant warmth and playfulness of the agent’s low voice.  Q had one elbow on the tabletop and his chin in his palm, and felt his eyes going half-lidded.  Unconsciously, he shifted his foot against Bond’s, which was still settled next to his one the floor, close enough to maintain physical contact.  When he moved, Q realized that 007’s other foot was nearby, too - neatly bracketing Q’s left one, in fact, as if to keep it from getting lost.  “Ready to finally get something to eat, Quartermaster?”  The return to titles signaled that they were alone again, even if the retreating footsteps hadn’t.  

Coming out of the quiet place in his mind that he’d gone to quite without realizing it, Q turned his head, knowing that he’d never see Bond’s face but wanting to at least make an effort at normalcy.  It stung every time he realized that he couldn’t even act normal in the smallest ways, like looking a person in the eye when speaking.  He lowered both hands carefully to his lap.  “Perhaps.  I’m starving, but I still don’t know what you ordered.  If it’s some sort of salad, I rather hope it doesn’t have a lot of dressing on it, because if it does, this is going to become quite amusing quite fast,” Q replied in a tone that indicated ‘amusing’ meant ‘amusing for Bond but humiliating for Q’.  

“No salad,” Bond assured, “This is an atypical restaurant, and I figured I’d order something that would be easier for you to handle.”

That made Q grateful but also suspicious.  “What’s on my plate?” he finally demanded straight-out.  

Bond’s chuckle was a quick bark of amusement, probably at the look on Q’s face - he imagined that he was staring forward at nothing, but with the same look he’d usually favor a bomb with if he wasn’t sure if it was defused or not.  “No need to get stroppy, Q,” Bond said goodnaturedly, just enough tease in his tone to make Q want to roll his eyes, “We’re at a place called Dulce Periculum - the first course is chocolate-covered fruit.  This is one of the few places I know where you can always get a taste of dessert first.”

Pleasant surprise curled through him, completely erasing any annoyance he might have felt at Bond calling him ‘stroppy’ (he was self-aware enough to admit that he was, most of the time).  Bond continued, voice coaxing as well as holding some other undertone that might have been curious interest.  “Go on, Q.  Consider this my form of apology for all the times I left your tech in faraway lakes.”

“You and your apologies.”  Q meant that to be an ironic sort of joke, but instead it brought to mind the last ‘apology’ he’d received (literally) at 007’s hands.  The massage still felt like some sort of surreal dream when he thought back on it, but he was starting to realize that James could be a remarkably conscientious fellow if given the chance.  In fact, if his voice was anything to go by, he found some sort of pleasure in assisting Q - although why he’d find it fun to repeatedly accommodate a clumsy blind person, the Quartermaster hadn’t the faintest idea.  He couldn’t, for the life of him, see what Bond got out of this.  Still puzzled with 007’s attitude but willing to accept that it had its benefits, Q slid a tentative hand forward until it brushed the cool edges of a plate, barely another inch forward bringing him into contact with what could only be a chocolate-coated something.  

~^~

To be honest, Bond was getting a lot more out of this than he’d anticipated.  

Dulce Periculum was the perfect place for people with a sweet-tooth, and for people like Bond (who didn’t, not really), who liked contrasting savory and salty tastes, the main-courses were just about good enough to kill over.  Knowing what he did about Q, however - that he worked himself to the bone, forgot to eat, and also seemed to like his tea best when there were liberal amounts of sugar drowning in it – Bond had figured that this would be the perfect place for him, especially considering that he’d forgotten to eat since 007 had last seen him.  The man was probably like a hummingbird, burning his way through calories at a dizzying, energy-driven pace.  

Bond wasn’t wrong.  

Not everyone took to the ‘dessert-first’ approach here at Dulce Periculum, Bond had heard, but his Quartermaster was clearly enjoying the chocolate-coated fruits that had been placed before him.  It was a pleasure to watch the dark-haired man eat something that wasn’t testing the limits of his dexterity, too, and Bond found himself smiling at the way Q was growing more at ease: his shoulders were held less stiffly, his mouth was relaxing out of its pursed, rigid line.  Without glasses of any sort on, it was even possible to see the way his eyes relaxed, although they continued to focus on the middle distance, and Bond would have done anything he had to fix that.  

Q’s foot - no doubt unconsciously - shifted, bumping into Bond’s and reminding him of the point of contact he’d created.  It had been meant as a temporary stabilizing mechanism, but Q had really taken to it, and now 007 was making excuses to keep his feet exactly where they were, touching Q’s.  Popping a half slice of apple coated in milk-chocolate into his mouth, Bond made a list in his head of all the ways this evening was totally logical and professional, and had nothing at all to do with the fact that he liked getting Q into different clothes and surprising him with good food.  

Dulce Periculum had given them a table in the back, very secluded and gently lit, and the effect was really quite stunning on Q.  At some point, he’d pushed the sleeves of his jumper up near his elbows, showing a little bit more pale skin that had a golden tint under the room’s lighting.  Q’s hair was no less messy than it had been this morning, but...007 liked it that way.  Right now, it looked like waves of obsidian, formed into a glossy, labyrinthine bird’s nest.  Bond didn’t realize that he’d stopped eating until he caught himself watching a strawberry make the journey to Q’s mouth, fingers feeling for the leaves and mouth taking an overly-careful bite.  Q had actually nipped his own fingers once, and 007 had laughed, but he’d also stared, because the Quartermaster’s embarrassment and annoyance at his failures was matched only by his obvious enjoyment of the fingerfoods.  

“Still tasting all right?” Bond had to ask, noticing the treats nearly gone from Q’s plate, and considering moving some from his - 007 liked them well enough, but had the urge out of nowhere to give them all to the smaller man sitting across from him.  

The response he got was a little less prim and a little more nature than the ones he’d been getting so far, another sure sign that the insecurity about this whole situation was fading away, leaving room for Q to be… himself.  “Clearly you must not be eating the same things I’m eating - these are fantastic.”  A bit more wryly, with some of the self-effacing humor that was becoming familiar, Q added, “Plus, they seem to fall into the very select category of things I can eat more or less gracefully.”  To prove it, he popped a chocolate-y grape into his mouth, looking remarkably normal, although Bond’s keen eyes tracked the renewed look of appreciation on Q’s expression as the taste burst over his tongue.  Cocking his head to one side, Bond considered a theory that he’d had before they’d even left the hotel: that Q’s other senses were making up for his absent sight, and that meant tastes would be all the more vibrant as the Quartermaster’s focus and awareness shifted to his remaining senses.

Suddenly Bond wanted to test that.  It was an unapologetic and unexpected urge, flaring up alongside a new brand of heat in his core.  All 00-agents had a predatory side, but usually it only woke up and stretched its legs when things got dangerous or agents were stalking targets.  Now, however, both Bond’s suave, professional side and his usually-hidden, predatory side were sitting back and blinking at the young man across from him.  

Bond was saved from trying to reconcile these two mindsets - he wasn’t sure he wanted to think about what it meant, that watching Q eat appealed to both sides of his nature - by the waiter returning.  Q’s shoulders twitched, the only outward sign of his surprise, and he went back to being still and apparently disinterested with the whole affair.  It was actually a rather good mask to wear, and the waiter had barely given the smaller man a second glance after it became apparent that Bond was the talkative one of the two.  New plates were added to those already on the table, these loaded with food more tempting to Bond’s palate.  “Thank you,” he smiled the waiter away, then turned back to the table at the nudge of Q’s toe against his ankle.  He wondered when it had become natural to communicate this way, with prods and touches beneath the tabletop.  It was surely like no game of footsy James had ever played.  “Steak,” Bond supplied before Q could ask.

Q’s face fell a little, not surprisingly.  There was no way he could eat this with anything like the ease he’d eaten the chocolate-covered fruits with, or even the sandwiches or toast 007 had supplied him with previously.  “Bond, I don’t think-” he started to sigh, posture winding up tight again.  

“I said to trust me, didn’t I, Q?” Bond admonished, but warmly - not wanting to get Q’s hackles up.  “I can be an arse sometimes, but not so much of one that I’d leave you to starve.”

One of Q’s eyebrows lifted eloquently, but apparently he decided to believe James.  “I’m listening.”  

And here was the part that 007 honestly wasn’t sure about.  Usually, to be a successful spy and assassin, one had to cultivate a predilection for thinking things through and planning them meticulously, but 007 had always had a habit of jumping into things feet-first - he also had the devil’s own luck in coming out of those situations on top.

On top.  Suddenly he had images to include with that, images of him on top of Q - no longer in those jeans or those layered shirts - pale skin on paler sheets, stretched out as 007 pressed his lips to each of those blind eyes...

Bond jarred himself back to the present, but now he was pretty sure that he’d once again leapt into a situation without thinking first.  Like most such situations, he knew with a martyred sort of trepidation that turning back was worse than moving forward…  Clearing his throat and schooling his voice into the same light confidence of before, he hoped that his Quartermaster hadn’t noticed the pause before he asked, “Are you averse to me feeding you?”

Chapter Text

“Are you averse to me feeding you?”

007’s words, so easy and steady, like a snow leopard prowling off a mountain, echoed and ricocheted in Q’s head with the stunning, startling quality of a small flash-bomb going off in a small room.  They left him entirely stupefied, and quite unable to comprehend anything beyond the shocking quality of the words themselves. 

Even before being blinded, the Quartermaster had frequently found it frustrating that 007 – and many of the other agents – could say incredibly ridiculous or horrific things without sounding the least bit alarmed.  00-agents could talk about scandal as easily as they talked about a nicely tailored suit, and seemed largely unaware of how odd this sounded to the common eavesdropper.  Q was sure that Bond had to notice the impact of his own words, but that hadn’t stopped the question from coming out with satin smoothness. 

It also had come out with a certain amount of allure, which was perhaps the only reason that Q had been stunned silent but hadn’t tipped into panic or outrage of some kind. The most logical reply to Bond’s question was, ‘Of course I’m bloody averse!’ but 007 had a knack for sidestepping most people’s logical reactions and charming his way into better ones.  Q was unsure whether he was being…charmed…right now, but he found himself unaccountably tongue-tied.  The words brought to mind the idle way Bond had tied his tie, the matter-of-fact way he’d made himself personally responsible for dressing him, and the gentle way 007’s hands had guided him around in particularly blind moments. None of those qualities should have been so easily connected to such a scandalous query.

“A poor choice of words,” Bond’s low, smooth voice jerked Q’s thoughts back to the present, making the Quartermaster scramble for a grip on reality for a second.  Immune himself to the way he was repeatedly resetting the world’s axis, 007 went on, “That came out differently than I meant it.”

Since Bond didn’t sound particularly embarrassed, and only rueful in the barest sort of way, Q doubted that those two sentences were at all the truth.  This was just Bond putting his superb acting skills into play. Still, the Quartermaster went along with it, because this offered him the out that his brain had been scrambling for. “And how, pardon me for asking, did you mean it to come out?” he asked back with just the thinnest edge on his voice like a rim of frost skirting a window. 

There was the sound of something moving on the table – Q’s plate sliding closer to 007’s side. “I meant to ask if you minded me cutting your food,” the agent replied, appearing for all intents and purposes untroubled by all of this, but it wasn’t the same easy kind of calm that had been there before.  There was no way for Q to prove it, of course, but he was willing to bet that 007 was ‘on duty’ again, and handling the situation as training dictated.  It was slightly disconcerting to realize that he could note the difference between when Bond was just being a good bloke and when he was acting like one.

It was also disconcerting to realize how often the former attitude had been occurring.

“Not at all,” Q replied somewhat reflexively, the words coming out of his mouth without the Quartermaster really hearing them.  Then he numbly listened to the sounds of a knife cutting meat, clicking against the plate occasionally, but Q could easily imagine the exquisite control Bond exercised over the blade.  It was hysterically funny, in a way, to realize that he had at his beck and call a man who usually used sharp implements to perpetrate a decidedly more lethal artistry – 007 was probably a better hand at knife work than most anyone alive, but now he was domestically slicing up steak for his invalid Quartermaster.  “This seems like a waste of your skills,” Q had to comment, carefully folding his hands on the edge of the table, shying away from anything that unexpectedly brushed at his skin. 

Therefore, he was startled when something moved to touch him, but just as Q startled and began to pull his limb back, 007’s fingers caught his wrist.  The noises of cutlery on china paused and Bond pulled Q’s hand forward just a bit again, until it brushed against…Bond’s plate?  Things had moved again, which Q didn’t appreciate, but he also noticed that this new plate still contained chocolate-covered fruits.  How Bond had failed to eat them all, Q had no idea, but he was grateful when he felt the satin sleekness of what was…maybe a chocolate-covered slice of apple.  When Bond’s rough-palmed, warm grip disappeared, Q popped the dessert into his mouth and was pleased to find his guess entirely correct.  The chocolate tasted almost warm as it melted away, leaving crisp bits of fruit that were almost tart by comparison.  Q paused to simply hum happily, feeling his eyes slip close, a shield of darkness against darkness.

There was a bit more silence from the other side of the table, and then 007 was moving again. “I wouldn’t call it a waste. Just because I can use my abilities more actively than this doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally like just doing mundane things,” Bond replied, sounding lighty amused and more relaxed as he kept talking – and less like he was covering up some other reaction.  “Think of this as me having a miniature vacation.  Indulge me.”

‘A moment ago, did indulging you include eating food out of your hand?’ Q wondered, but kept his lips sealed this time.  Just thinking about Bond’s first question made a rippling shiver skate up Q’s spine, a confusing reaction that wasn’t easily parsed into categories like discomfort or fear.  It was like the frisson of sensation that came from brushing his fingers over something metal when he’d just walked his socked feet over a carpet – but without coming close enough to actually get jolted by a spark, merely feel the potential hovering between metal and skin. 

Metal and skin. That was Bond all over.

“Q?” Once again that low rumble of a voice was pulling the smaller man’s attention back around to the present, a lighthouse beacon made up of sound.  Q tried to orient his eyes on the noise.  “Ready to try some of the best steak you’ve ever had?” the agent went on cheekily.

The tension slipped out of Q’s shoulders as a laugh escaped his mouth.  “Smug bastard,” he retorted, while mentally scrambling again for what to do with his hands.  The fingertips of his right hand were chocolate-smeared, so he started feeling with the left one for his fork.  The more he searched without success, the more flustered he got, but tried to hide it behind a wall of stilted conversation, “You’d think you cooked this yourself.”

Once again, callused fingers ended up on Q’s skin, this time catching and briefly cradling his left-hand knuckles before sliding up to his wrist.  The entirety of Q’s focus felt as if it had been glued to the journey of Bond’s warm hand, following the paths of tendons like fish following rivers, silver and deft.  The strength in 007’s grip was always shockingly apparent, but as always, Bond curled his hand with notable gentleness around the bones of Q’s wrist, holding Q still as he pushed warm metal into Q’s grip.  It was unclear whose utensil this was, but it was body-temperature before Q had even touched it, and it was unexpectedly heavy on one end. 

“Small piece already on the end of the fork.  Enough to take in one bite, but might be a touch hot,” Bond painted the scene without prompting, hands to himself again.  Then he added, and his factual tone slipped into a slightly impish one, “And, for the record, I’m a fair hand at cooking myself.  We just don’t exactly have access to a grill in our hotel room.”

Imagining the little quirk of 007’s lips – a lopsided curl as if he were tucking the humor away but not quite managing to suppress or hide it – Q chuffed another little sound. He should have been too tense to find this funny, but even the threat of impending embarrassment didn’t negate how fun it was to listen to a 00-agent toss about off-handed, humorous comments. 007’s legs were still bracketing Q’s at the ankle, and somehow the Quartermaster had let that fact fade into the background until the agent shifted slightly now.  The contact still felt too nice to pull away from, so Q bit back any ideas of unprofessionalism or unnecessary touching and let himself be grounded by muscle and bone and reflexes that were currently protecting him.

True to his word, the meat weighing down Q’s fork was cut down to a mere morsel, and it was almost no effort at all to get it in his mouth.  It was also a bit hot, but Q was instantly too enamored with the flavor to care.

Something must have shown on his face, because Bond immediately asked, “Good?”  His toe lifted to rub at Q’s ankle through his new jeans, possibly a subconscious gesture, because Bond had always been rather tactile – just not quite this tactile.  “Or would you rather I eat the rest?”

“I don’t have to see your face to know when you’re being a bloody berk,” Q chided, not caring that he was talking around food – he was still reveling in the flavors of intricate spices and medium-rare meat in his mouth.  Every second was flavorful.  “And I’m presently close enough to kick you with some accuracy, if you insist upon holding that steak hostage.”

Bond’s chuckle was nearly as rich as the chocolate.  “All right, all right, easy does it, Quartermaster.  No need for threats and violence.”

As he felt his empty fork being pulled out of his grip, Q swallowed and replied primly, “You started it.”

~^~

As Bond led his blind Quartermaster out of Dulce Periculum, he wondered why he hadn’t done something like this ages ago: clearly, a fed Q was a far more easy-going Q.  An edible form of bribery would have probably gone a long way towards avoiding some of the worst lectures about flagrant destruction of tech. 

Sans sunglasses now that the hour was late (rendering sunglasses both unnecessary for hiding Q’s unfocused eyes, and out of place in a world fading to grey), the Quartermaster walked with a stride that was only faintly stilted, expression very nearly serene as he trusted himself to Bond’s direction and pace. The 00-agent found himself preening at the show of faith, liking the way Q depended on him more than he’d expected. Despite the way most of his life depended on him having a firm handle of situations, Bond would never have labeled himself as a control freak, and therefore was unsure how to categorize his feelings now: he felt calm and complete within himself as he turned and guided Q’s every step, acknowledging the vast imbalance of power between them while also realizing that he’d never betray it.  Very little was sacrosanct to a 00-agent, but at the core of all men, Bond had realized, there was an inviolable law or two, and he felt this new one forming like lava cooling into firm volcanic rock.

When Bond hailed them a cab, he deftly focused his skills on getting Q in without him hitting anything, and nearly purred at the way the smaller man gave in to every nudge. Soon 007 was sliding in after Q, feeling more content than he had at the end of most missions he could recall.  He stretched an arm out across the back of their seat without thinking, causing Q’s expression to twitch, but like everything else since eating, the Quartermaster seemed disinclined to question it. 

After the directions had been given to their driver and the divider closed between the front and the back of the cab again, Q did quirk an eyebrow and ask dryly, “You’re awfully quiet. Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” 007 returned smoothly, for the first time realizing that he’d stretched his arm across the line of Q’s shoulders.  Brows lowering in consternation, as if the limb had somehow done this against his express orders, 007 shifted restlessly but ultimately settled down again. Q continued to sit at his side, somehow managing to combine professional poise with a relaxed demeanor. Without any glasses on and dressed in casual clothing, the Quartermaster looked youthful and intriguing, hair an artfully tousled mess that was catching and holding the shadows that the night was starting to cast.  Bond caught himself staring.  He cleared his throat and recalled uncomfortably the way he’d already pushed boundaries tonight for no good reason.  “Being quiet makes it easier to keep an eye on everything,” he finished, which was the truth, but not all of it.

Q nodded, swallowing the not-quite-lie without trouble.  Bond felt a little bit bad for deceiving him, but what else was he supposed to say? ‘I’m quiet because I’m pleased as punch to be your keeper.’ Or ‘I’m quiet because all of my attention is on watching you, and not purely in a professional way.’

“I was afraid it was because you were finally getting sick of babysitting me,” Q distracted him, still talking quite lightly, the fingers of one hand drumming out a complex pattern on the leg of the dark-wash jeans Bond had picked out, “I mean, you mentioned that using your skillset in a mundane way is like a vacation, but this must get ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Bond allowed, knowing that an outright denial would not be believed, “But not as much as you’d think.”

“Oh?” Q sounded disbelieving, but his mouth had tipped up on one side, head canting slightly. 

“Don’t underestimate your own ability to be interesting.”

The glib reply had the desired result of making the Quartermaster chuckle, a brief but vibrant noise like sharp-noted bells.  People often made the mistake of seeing Q’s un-muscled, nerdy frame and thinking in terms of soft edges, but the more time Bond spent this close to him, the more the agent realized that his Quartermaster was made all of sharp angles and unexpected, sometimes-sharp edges.  It was more noticeable since he’d been blinded, but Q was still a lot tougher and harder than most gave him credit for. 

Right now, though, full of food, Q had softened. 

They reached their stop and Bond once again helped Q out of the cab, proud of himself for doing the job without it being obvious that his companion was sightless. The temperature had cooled a bit as night had sunk in, and Bond hiked his leather jacket more firmly around his shoulders.  He was in the process of glancing around in a reflexive surroundings-check when he realized that his arm had, once again, found its way around his Quartermaster’s shoulders. He felt a tiny shiver, and turned his head to watch the breath just faintly plume from Q’s straight nose. “Cold, Quartermaster?” he asked, just enough playfulness in his tone to show that he was smiling.

He got a quirk of Q’s mouth in return.  As always, it was faintly disconcerting to watch Q’s eyes move, as they did not to follow the sound of 007’s voice – more and more, that seemed to be an unconscious habit Q was developing.  When people spoke, he ended up with his useless eyes wandering somewhere in the vicinity of the speaker’s mouth, or throat, conceivably tracking the noise either to the lips or the voicebox.  Right now, hazel eyes found a middle distance vaguely triangulated on Bond’s chin. “I’m not a walking talking furnace like you 00-agents,” he retorted dryly.  One hand lifted then, tentative and unsure of itself, and 007 found his eyes riveted to the movement like a cat watching the unexpected flutter of a feather. Q’s fingertips ended up tapping the back of Bond’s knuckles where the limb was stretched over Q’s shoulders. “This is appreciated.”

Those three simple words, said candidly and given ungrudgingly, cut Bond unexpectedly to the quick. He found himself simply standing on the curb where the cab had left them, staring at Q’s guileless expression and struck speechless.  He told himself that Q was mostly happy with the way Bond could guide him more easily now, and did so, getting the two of them moving with barely an angling of his body. It was easy to navigate for the both of them, although the factors that made guidance easier also made distraction more prevalent: he was touching quite a lot of Q, and was reminded of the time he’d guided a mostly-unconscious Q from desk to bed.  Q’s hands weren’t wandering accidentally towards 007’s belt this time, but he felt himself getting hot and restless under his skin nonetheless.

He noticed a gaggle of young women walking in the opposite direction, one of them noticing Q and immediately eyeing him up.  Without giving it a second thought, 007 glared, aware of how easy it was to bristle in a visible and understandable ‘fuck-off’ fashion.  Q immediately jumped a little, arm spasming so that the back of his fingers brushed the denim over Bond’s thigh.  “What is it?” Q demanded carefully, unable to deduce the reason for the tension next to him. 

As the girl’s eyes got huge and she hurried to lose herself amidst her oblivious posse – all of them entering a nearby club – Bond quieted.  A flex of his shoulders and a little gruff noise of triumph in the back of his throat, and 007 was just an idle person on the street again. Considering the stunt he’d just pulled, he probably looked like an idle, protective boy friend on the street, but denial and encroaching night did a lot to hide ideas like that. “Nothing.”  Then, on impulse, he added almost blithely, “Someone was giving you a look I didn’t like.”  There. See what Q thought of that. Bond was entirely aware that he was being a berk, but couldn’t stop the impulse to tease and prod.

The way Q’s brows were lowering said that he perhaps suspected this.  Either way, he remained a bit tense, and 007 was forced to slow their pace as the Quartermaster’s steps grew a bit more cautious. “A dangerous kind of look?” he asked sensibly.

“No.”

“Then why the hell were you tensing up all over like someone was pointing a gun at us?” Q asked back with a bit more pique in his voice. 

“00-agent’s prerogative.”

“Prerogative my arse,” Q grumbled.

‘Nice word-choice, Q.’  Bond felt a heavy ripple of interest curl up from the base of his spine, and suddenly realized that this was going to get inappropriate awfully fast, at least in his head – outwardly, the only evidence was probably a brief shift in 007’s gate. If there was a darkening of his eyes, it could be blamed on the night.  Not unlike his impulsive offer at the restaurant, 007 found his mind wandering pleasantly. 007 was known for pushing the envelope seemingly at every opportunity, but right now, he realized it could get him into a heap of trouble with his Quartermaster, and therefore suppressed the impulse to cause trouble. 

“Let’s just say a pretty young thing looked a lot like she was going to come over and ask for your number,” Bond finally admitted, leaning his head in to drop the words on the shell of Q’s ear.  The Quartermaster jumped a little, but sated as he was with good food (the chocolate in particular was a pacifying flavor Bond would have to remember next time he got Q angry) and hooked in the curve of 007’s muscular arm, he didn’t move much. With one last bit of impishness, 007 found his mouth carving out a smile, and he finished, “There’s no denying that you look like quite a catch right now.”

At that point, Q really did jolt, trying to arch his head back as if that could put 007 squarely in his nonexistent sights – theoretically removing the possibility of more surprises.  Theoretically. “Bond!” Q stuttered his name in surprise, just barely keeping his voice down. 

Knowing that he was being an arse but not caring, Bond just kept smiling as he walked them both further down the sidewalk.  Q stumbled a bit in his distraction, but (double-oh reflexes being what they were) 007 tightened his arm and caught Q’s weight for the seconds it took Q to regain his balance. After that, the pressure of Bond’s hand around the Quartermaster’s bicep relaxed but never left entirely. “Why do you sound so scandalized, Q? You were the one who was worried that I’d put you in unflattering clothes the first time,” Bond teased.

“Well, yes,” Q huffed back, his expression making Bond wish it were lighter out, so he could see the flush no doubt taking up residence along Q’s cheekbones and ears, “But I didn’t expect-”

“What? That you’d turn heads if you weren’t wearing rumpled cardigans?”  Bond had always hated Q’s choice of cardigans on principle, but the more he saw of Q in other things…or in very little of anything but creamy skin…the more the vendetta grew.  It was already into the realm of utterly unprofessional, but 007 decided to berate himself for that later, when he wasn’t having a rare moment of fun. 

For all of his apparent annoyance, Q seemed to be slightly amused as well – or, at least, the eye-roll he executed for effect didn’t look entirely angry.  “You’re impossible.  All of the jokes about me with too much sugar, and it turns out that you’re the insufferable one.  And you barely had any chocolate at all.”

“Never had much of a sweet-tooth.”  ‘I’ve always preferred something with more body to it.’  Ah, yes, there was the voice in the back of Bond’s head that got him into so much trouble on missions – and also got him into so many beds that should have been entirely out of his playing field.  As pleased as a cat in cream, 007’s rolling steps took them to the front of their hotel, his pleasant smile greeting the distracted woman behind the lobby desk while Q kept talking. 

“I’ll have to blame your delinquent behavior on something else then, shan’t I?” Q quipped back with his usual tone: a sharp tongue wrapped up in just enough velvet to dull the bite from nasty to merely attention-catching.  It was, Bond realized, not unlike the pleasant sting of fingernails being dragged against the muscles of his back…  “Really, if I could find a reason behind all of the things you destroy and blow-up, the world would be a safer place.”

“Admit it, Q, you’d be bored if I didn’t make a nuisance of myself.”

“Bored, but probably richer. Or at least MI6 would have more ready cash, not having to pay damages,” the smaller man mused. When he tipped his head thoughtfully, it brought his mess of hair close enough to nearly brush 007’s jaw. He smelled of shampoo and something that might have been metal shavings, if that had a smell. “The drop in my stomach tells me we’re in an elevator.  Does that mean we’re almost back?”  He had to have noticed the entrance to the building, but had refrained from asking then.

“Yes,” Bond answered obediently, but couldn’t help but add, “Tired of my company yet?”

“Oh, I was going to ask if you were tired of mine,” was Q’s reply, sounding entirely sincere. As they left the elevator and entered their room, the Quartermaster was able to walk on his own again, feeling around for things and shutting himself into the bathroom with a tired little wave of his hand and a congenial, “Thank you for forcing me out of the hotel room for supper.”  Soon the water was running for a shower; Bond checked the bathroom knob on reflex, finding it sensibly unlocked, in case Q fell or something.  For someone as newly-blind as Q, it was still a reasonable precaution. 

Which left Bond feeling restless again, because he hadn’t realized how interested he was in slipping after Q until just now.  That finally triggered his common-sense, a slap in the face that reminded Bond of one very important fact that he’d been ignoring for the better part of the evening: Q was his co-worker and superior. 

And yet Bond had sincerely offered to hand-feed him.

Had scared an admirer away from him without so much as a by-your-leave.

Had trodden the line between banter and flirtation with him.

And was now standing outside the bathroom door feeling very off-balance and very frustrated, skin too tight and mind a snarled tangle of things he didn’t know what to think about.

Chapter Text

Q slept remarkably well, partially because he was contentedly full, partially because he felt especially… safe.  He didn’t try and quantify the second feeling, merely accepted it in the way his muscles relaxed almost as soon as he got into bed.  Even walking around blind had been better than it usually was, as if his brain had finally stopped freaking out over every little thing he might walk into or trip over.  Instead of his imagination populating his mind with an entire obstacle course, the Quartermaster had merely felt his way along the wall and out of the bathroom, trusting that his knee would hit the edge of Bond’s bed exactly when it did. 

“Bond?”

“Sleeping,” was the murmured reply, sounding as if it was half spoken through a pillow, or out the corner of 007’s mouth. 

Imagining the larger man sprawled face-down on his bed, Q quirked a smile as he continued shuffling along, eventually brushing up against his own bed and using it as a guideline to his suitcase.  “I’ll leave you to it then.  If you wish to shower, however, it’s all yours.”

There was a grunt that might have been acknowledgement, and then there was just Q deciding how to get into his pajamas without dropping his towel.  It was awkward, but he managed it, and 007 didn’t start laughing – meaning he probably really was asleep, or at least ignoring his blind, uncoordinated Quartermaster as he tried to hop into his pajamas, keep the towel from slipping, and not fall over at the same time. 

After that… it was quite simple really.  Q got into bed, reached for his glasses only to realize that he hadn’t had them this evening, cuddled up under the blankets with his towel now dragged up between his damp hair and the pillow, and nodded instantly to sleep.  He didn’t even dream. 

Of course, it felt like seconds later when he opened his eyes again, and then the whole process of panicking over his lack of eyesight started all over.  It felt like he’d never get used to it: during the day, he coped pretty well, he thought, but everything seemed to reset itself at night, and he was never ready for the utter blackness pasted over his eyes come morning. He jolted and thrashed a moment, and heard 007 shift and grumble. 

“Sorry,” the Quartermaster whispered, judging the hour to still be either late or very early by the sleepiness in 007’s low voice.  Q would have gone back to sleep, too, but now that he had a jolt of adrenalin in his system, that was unlikely to happen.  Besides, it seemed that an ache in his eyes had prompted the unscheduled waking.  Sighing outwardly but swearing in his head, Q sat up the rest of the way, rubbing between his eyes because he knew that rubbing at the eyes themselves always hurt nowadays. With his other hand, he felt around the bedside table for his glasses, because that habit was so engrained it would probably never leave him.  Likewise on reflex, he put them on as soon as he located them – apparently 007 had been having a conscientious moment, because they’d been folded up neatly and placed where Q always kept them. 

Resigning himself to being awake, Q got up, keeping a leg up against the side of his bed as he counted off steps to the table where his laptop was hopefully still sitting. Bond’s breathing to his right was quiet and even, and Q probably wouldn't have even heard it before all this had happened, but his ears seemed now to be at a constant state of alertness.

Because Bond was a 00-agent, Q had probably woken him, but at least it sounded like the man’s trained instincts had given him the all-clear and let him go back to sleep. There was no reason for both of them to be up.

Hoping that the ache in his eyes would just fade, Q fumbled his way with admirable quietness into the desk-chair, and gave a contented sigh as he felt the smooth contours of his laptop.  It only took a bit more work to open it, find an ear-bud, and start getting a verbal translation of everything he’d missed since leaving that evening.  ‘I’ll just check a few things, then see if I can find painkillers…’ he promised himself, as his fingers began to find their ways across the keys.

Q managed to forget about that plan.  Instead, he ended up sneaking into the MI6 servers and fixing some bugs that had magically cropped up in his absence, bringing up some old projects that wouldn’t ever get anywhere if he left them to his subordinates, and once again tried to hunt down Genecode – coming to the same conclusion as before, which was that it was being hidden somewhere that he couldn’t hack into.  It was frustrating and annoying.  Even if Q didn’t already hate Mercer for ruining his eyes, he hated him now for making Q’s job more difficult.

Internally grumbling and making threats that even 007 would have been proud of, Q finally got around to checking his email, immediately finding a few worth reading. One was regarding the auction, cordially inviting everyone to an opera, all expenses paid; apparently, by the end of it, the exact time, date, and place of the auction would be revealed. Q wasn’t exactly crazy about the new social event, but at least things were finally reaching a finale…hopefully not a deadly one.  Shivering a bit at the reminder that he was a blind undercover agent with a lot of danger hanging over him and only one 00-agent to keep him safe (but the best 00-agent in MI6, to give Bond his due), Q opened the second email. 

It was from Mercer.

“Er… Bond? I have a question,” Q raised his voice for the first time in hours.

There was the sound of the bed shifting and a large amount of weight moving as it hadn’t since nightfall. “Q, it’s too fucking early for this.”

Blinking and pausing, Q realized he had no idea what time it was, and belatedly checked. The mechanical voice in his ear read succinctly, “2:16 AM.”  Ah. Bond’s reticence made sense then.

Q gave out a bit more information to convince 007 that waking up was still in his best interest. “How do you tell if someone is sincerely making threats on your life?”

There was no excitement following that, probably because Bond was a 00-agent and death-threats were par for the course, but it sounded like Bond was at least now moving. Q tracked the sounds of his body getting off the bed until there was the faint thump of his feet hitting the floor. James was a bit noisy, right out of sleep with no one but Q to notice – or maybe it was because Q was listening hard enough to notice, in a room small enough to contain all of their sounds like cupped hands.  “Okay, Q, tell me that I misheard that,” James finally spoke again, once he’d taken up his habitual position behind Q’s chair.  Q felt an involuntary thrill rush up his spine, because not only was 007 quite close – folded against the chair’s back with his head apparently hanging over Q’s shoulder, if the proximity of his voice was to be believed – but his voice was sleep-roughened, like the stroke of a cat’s tongue. Q realized that he’d never really dealt with a just-awakened 007 before – in all past events, Bond had managed to rouse himself before Q, or else he’d been on the job in another country.

“Q,” Bond prompted, when Q had been quiet and thinking for too long.  Fingers tapped Q’s shoulder.  “You’ve got too many bloody windows open on your laptop for me to just follow along.”

“Right. Sorry,” Q got back on track, dismissing thoughts of sleepy-007 from his mind.  He realized, on some level, that it showed trust on Bond’s part that he wasn’t launching immediately into total wakefulness.  Thinking back, Q realized that it was hardly normal for any 00-agent to let someone wander around in their presence unremarked, but 007 hadn’t given any indication that he cared.  Unsure whether he wanted to dig too deeply into that puzzle, Q focused on the matter at hand. By now quite deft with working his computer blind, he minimized everything but the email from Mercer, lifting one hand to rub between his eyes again.  “From your point of view, have I perhaps pushed him a bit too far?” Q asked as lightly as he could, sitting back until he touched the chair behind him.

That also put him into contact with one muscled forearm, folded like a lazy cat over the back. Bond just leaned over closer, ostensibly reading, although all Q noticed was the increased physical nearness as he felt his hair and shoulder being brushed up against.  “Congratulations, Quartermaster, I think you’ve made yourself an arch nemesis,” Bond cheered drolly, as he finished reading.

“Ha. Ha. Now tell me whether this is a bad thing or not,” Q retorted, crossing his arms.  He was going to move himself into a haughty posture, but that included tipping his head back a bit, at which point it definitely came into contact with 007. Q quickly jumped and adjusted, feeling his cheeks flush.  If he was lucky, the room’s light was off, hiding his flash of embarrassment. “You had mentioned that we didn’t want to spook him too badly.”

“This should still serve our purposes.  It’s when the bad guys start running that I get fucking annoyed,” 007 swore lightly, then backed off. Again, there was the faint sound of his feet on the carpet as he moved away.  There was the click of a light being turned on, and then the groan of bedsprings as Bond flopped back onto his bed.  “But so long as Mercer is angry, he’ll stick around.”

From the email, Mercer was more than angry – he was a cornered lion, or at least wanted his antagonist to think he was.  The email had been mostly vitriol, with Mercer leveling threats at his mystery foe, bluffing about Genecode and outlining in detail what would happen if Q pursued this. All in all, it hadn’t been as impressive as it could have been.  Q saw right through the bluffs, knowing that only he could decode the genetic material that Genecode produced, and to be honest, working with 00-agents had broadened his horizons so far as death-threats went.  He was unsettled that Mercer was threatening to kill him, but honestly, the man wasn’t all that creative.  Q swiveled in his chair, trying to focus on where Bond probably was. “So how do we play this? There’s also an opera planned for tomorrow night, that we’ve got reserved seats for.”

“Really?” Bond sounded mildly interested. “Hm.  In that case, it might be time to wring some more information out of Rousseau.  It should be a fairly safe event for you, and a good opportunity for me.”

Barring the fact that he still irrationally hated Rousseau, Q saw the logic. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut not because it made any difference in his vision, but because he wanted to see if it would lessen the throbbing, prickling sensation in his eye-sockets. 

“Q?”

“Hmm?” The smaller man opened his eyes again quickly, doing his best to zero in on the source of 007’s voice so that he could seem attentive. 

“Your eyes hurting you again?”

The concern caught the Quartermaster a little off-guard, and for a moment he just blinked, lowering the hand that had been unconsciously reaching over the nose-piece of his glasses. “Um…a bit.  That’s why I got up, actually, but I also got distracted by work.”

Bond muttered something about Quartermasters being bloody workaholics, and then there was the sound of him moving again. 

“Bond-! Bond, go back to sleep,” Q tried to convince him, feeling rather bad now on top of being a bit embarrassed still, “I’m more than capable of handling it.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I seem to recall facing off against two different terrorist organizations down in South America, and saying that I could handle it,” Bond replied easily, voice already closer to the bathroom where the medical supplies were kept. His voice drifted languidly and calmly back, “I seem to recall someone telling me that I shouldn’t handle it.”

“That was different,” Q huffed, recalling the situation with perfect clarity, right down to 007’s idiotic independent streak, “I was in a position to hack their systems and do a lot more damage than you were at the moment.  You’d been shot.”

“And I’m presently in the bathroom, with the bottle of painkillers in my hand,” called back James, infuriatingly unhesitant and untroubled.  The agent’s voice softened a few degrees more, however, to a personal tone that Q couldn’t snap at, “How bad is it, Q?”

Because Bond seemed to sincerely want to know, and to want to help, the Quartermaster deflated a little bit, and hoped his voice didn’t whine too much as he admitted, “On a scale of one to ten?  Probably a hefty eight.  I was hoping it would fade, but it hasn’t.”

Grunting to show his gruff sympathy, 007 rattled the bottle of pain-meds to show he was coming back. “This will take ages to kick in then. Still – take two.”

Obediently Q tossed back the two pills pressed into his waiting palm, and downed the water he was given, too.  He heard movement in the bathroom.  “What are you doing now?” he couldn’t help but query, curious. 

“Plan B,” was the utterly uninformative response.  Damn 00-agents and their secretive nature.  Q went back to working on his laptop, annoyed that he could get sore eyes even when he wasn’t physically capable of straining to look at a screen. It was a few moments later when strong, warm hands on his shoulders were pulling him back.  “Save the work for daylight hours, Q, I think the rest will keep. Come on.”

“I assume I’m going to hear about this miraculous Plan B of yours sometime soon?” Q asked a bit edgily, as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and maneuvered around the chair. He likewise let 007 walk him back to the bed, if only because it saved him from bumping up against it and using it like a guard-rail as he walked. Perhaps it should have been annoying to have someone else taking charge of whether he stayed at his laptop or not, but Q’s head was still tangled up in the sleep-roughened sound of 007’s voice and the way the man had growled when he had wanted to stay in bed. “You know, telling me your grand plans ahead of time is allowed. It’s not illegal.”

“And yet, like most legal things, it’s not as fun,” 007 blithely argued, even as the increased nearness of his toned body coaxed Q to one side, finally coming into contact with his bed.  “Lie down, Quartermaster, if you please.”

“Your politeness is nearly as worrisome as your secrecy,” Q felt the need to point out, squirming a bit to make it difficult for Bond to get him off his feet just yet. He probably looked like a dog avoiding a bath (subtly, he hoped), but didn’t care.

“Probably because the former is rare, although you should really be used to the latter by now.”

“Are you being smart with me?”

“You’re the genius.”

“Okay, now that joke was just bad, but I walked into it, didn’t I?”  Q shifted his weight a few more times, maintaining his balance between 007’s solid form and the waiting bed, forcing 007 to either give up on making Q lie down or give up on being polite about it. Q had also, at some point, found 007’s arms and was clinging to them rather shamelessly, and nearly dancing upon the agent’s toes as he remained stalwartly upright. 

“Q,” Bond finally sighed in exasperation, the warmth of his breath just catching the tussle of Q’s hair.  The rushing exhale made Q’s scalp tingle, a sensation that spread down his spine even as 007’s hands moved to tighten around his ribcage.  “Just sit, will you?  You think that I’m being a pain, but I’m really not.”

“That’s up for debate,” Q informed him loftily, but allowed himself to be pushed backwards. As always, when he became overbalanced, panic kicked in and he went from idly wriggling to actively struggling and latching onto things.  If he had been a dog avoiding a bath before, he was now a cat being dropped into unknown waters, and it was a good thing that 007 tolerated long-fingered hands grasping at him.  As always, 007 supported his Quartermaster’s weight with barely a grunt, making sure that Q was lowered smoothly, soon finding his bearings again once he was sitting.

“Come on, now, Quartermaster,” Bond had slipped into his coaxing voice, which was truly quite a lovely sound to be regaled with.  Q would never admit it, but he had probably had a liking for the honeyed tone even before hearing became his dominant sense.  “Take your glasses off, and lie down.  I’m not going to do anything drastic or embarrassing, promise.”

Q started to make a scoffing noise, tilting his head away and unconsciously reaching to rub at his eyes again, but 007 was still close, and caught his wrist without warning. The smaller man jumped.

“Do you trust me, Q?” came the unexpected question.

“Yes,” the Quartermaster answered,surprising himself with how swiftly and unreservedly the answer came to him.  As 007 released his wrist, Q merely sat and frowned at himself, wondering if his tongue was as defective as his eyes.  After a pause, just barely hearing 007 padding away (the agent was fully awake now, and starting to move like a cat again), the Quartermaster added, “You’ve asked me that before.”

There was a cessation of noise, a signal that Bond was halting his movements for a second as well. From the direction of the bathroom, he replied after a moment, with uncharacteristic slowness, “I know, it’s… It’s just rather pleasant to hear.” And with that he must have entered the bathroom itself, because water started running. 

Utterly unsure what to make of that, but feeling it pluck a cord somewhere deep in his chest where their previous, light bantering hadn’t, the Quartermaster finally gave in to Bond’s simple but unexplained commands.  He should try and get to sleep anyway, he figured, regardless of his damned eyes.  Fumbling around until he had his glasses placed on the bedside table, Q had just relaxed back under his covers when a lightly whistled tune let him follow 007’s progress back towards him – A Hard Day’s Night, by the Beatles. Q couldn’t stop himself from laughing as the notes bounced jauntily around the room.  ‘It’s been a hard day’s night … And I’ve been workin’ like a dog…’ Q added the lyrics in his head.

“Glad you find me amusing,” 007 said when he was beside Q and no longer whistling, voice wry but warm.

“You bring it on yourself,” was Q’s quick retort, but it was softened by the fact that a smile was still pulling at his mouth.  The only thing that kept him from laughing more was the persistent pain in his damaged eyes, and he suddenly wished it would go away just so he could enjoy this little moment of humor with a man who was usually all trouble or all business. “You have a very eclectic taste in music.”

“How about we talk about my whistling later, and right now, you put this over your eyes and tell me if it helps?”

Focusing on serious things again, if only a little, Q’s eyebrows twitched down and he lifted his hands – aimless but trusting that he’d touch something eventually. He wasn’t disappointed as, a moment later, he was startled by the feel of 007’s fingers as well as something textured, damp, and very warm.  “Hot, damp cloth. Best I can do on short notice,” 007 supplied a beat later. 

“Thank you, 007,” replied the Quartermaster, meaning it.  “You were being so tight-lipped that I was sure I’d regret this plan of yours, but this is something I honestly should have thought of myself.” On retrospect… Q wondered if Bond’s secrecy had less to do with his natural tendency towards mystery and more to do with an unfamiliarity towards little gestures like this.

007’s voice definitely lacked its usual, cocky edges as he replied, “Well, it was something I could do.” He actually sounded uncomfortable, and moved away shortly thereafter, the sounds of the mattress depressing and the light turning off soon meeting Q’s ears.  “How about no more late-night surprises, hmm?  You might be surprised to hear this, but sleep is a wonderful thing, if not for Quartermasters then for their 00-agents.”

Q snorted as he settled the hot, damp cloth over his eyes and relaxed back onto his pillow. Already, the heat was leaching away some of the pain, enough so that he could feel sleepiness slipping into the new open spaces.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a regular comedian?”

“No one who remembers my name the day after,” Bond tossed the light reply right back, totally unconcerned by that.  Q could hear him shifting on his bed, larger frame getting comfortable.  After a moment of quiet when it seemed they might both drift off, 007 spoke again, more quietly this time, and serious, “Next time, tell me if your eyes are hurting you, Q.  My job is to help you, and I can’t do that if you don’t tell me everything.”

That little cord in Q’s center was being plucked at again, and he lifted an unconscious hand to rub at the center of his chest through the blankets and his night-shirt. It was a novel sensation, just as the open concern in 007’s voice was novel.  Therefore, Q felt that the only good answer was one that reflected Bond’s level sincerity in kind: “Understood, James.”

“All right then.” With that blunt acceptance, 007 moved one last time, and then Q listened to his breathing slowly even out. Listening to the sound, Q followed suit, as easily as stepping into someone else’s footsteps in new snow.

~^~

Chapter Text

Bond had come to the rather unsettling (frankly embarrassing) realization that one of his new favorite hobbies was dressing the Quartermaster.

Honestly, Bond wasn’t required to, but he always managed to find very sensible excuses to be involved when Q got dressed – after all, Q had to look the part of Adam Balien, and he couldn’t do that if he was literally dressing in the dark.  Arguably, Q hadn’t had any particular interest or sense in matching clothes before he’d been blinded, although that was just James’s opinion.  Instead of just picking out sensible clothing and handing them over to Q, however… 007 always found his hands physically tangled up in the process.

“I can do that on my own, you know,” the Quartermaster reminded him, even as the smaller man sat quite still on the edge of the bed, head tipped back and eyes focused somewhere next to 007’s left ear. Bond’s hands worked under his chin.  

Continuing to loop the soft silk of Q’s new black tie, 007 answered in a distracted mutter, “Yes, but can you do it well?  That’s the question.”

Q snorted.  He twitched a little as 007’s hands drew the knot up tight, a reflexively defensive response to the snugness around his neck; 007 could read the reaction in Q’s shoulders and face.  Even though those hazel eyes were useless to Q, they were still fonts of information to Bond, emotions never far from the surface like brilliant koi in a crystal pond.  It was reflexive for 007 to smooth one hand around the side of Q’s neck, as if to ease away the fleeting reaction of unease.  Swiftly, Bond hid the gesture by turning down Q’s collar with brisk, efficient movements.  “Repeat to me the plan for tonight.”

Now Q slouched a little, but with a faint roll of his eyes – such a normal action, that made 007’s mouth quirk up – he replied, “There’s not much to repeat.  At tonight’s opera, we arrive together as expected, and while I sit like a useless lump-”

“You won’t be a useless lump, Q.”  Bond found his voice more fond than anything as he heard the Quartermaster’s mild complaints.  The agent stepped away to grab Q’s dinner jacket, the cut very suitable despite the short time-frame that Bond had had to procure it.  If there was anything that 007 knew more than spying and killing, it was probably clothing.  “After all, aren’t you the one who keeps saying that it will take a computer geek to properly handle the Genecode data, once we find where it’s being housed?”

Hazel eyes narrowed behind the spectacles that Q still insisted on wearing, and even though the glare was physically directed at the bedside lamp, Bond’s skin prickled as if he could feel it on him.  “Did you just call me a computer geek?”

“With the highest level of affection.”

Following the sound of Bond’s voice, Q managed to level his glare with more accuracy, and 007 wasn’t sure whether to shiver or grin.  “I have a few things that I could say back to that – with the highest level of affection,” the Quartermaster retorted icily.

That finally tipped 007’s reaction over into laughter, and as he chuckled, Q visibly gave up on him with another huffing sigh.  “You’re hopeless, 007.”

“But you still try,” replied the agent, feeling proud when Q’s frown deepened a bit more for a second, before twitching as if it wanted to be a smile instead.  Bond was noticing how exquisitely expressive Q was, more and more by the day, which disturbed him a little.  “Now – you were saying?”

Q kept up his monologue as 007 came back to him with the jacket.  A touch to Q’s shoulder kept the younger man from jumping when, a moment later, the heavy material settled across his back.  “While I’m sitting there waiting to be useful,” he amended his earlier words, “you sneak off.  With the date for the auction set so soon, the items should have been moved to the main building by now. You’ll have to drive there.”

That was a fact Bond was fully aware of, and rather unhappy with – he’d be leaving Q very much alone for a decidedly long length of time.  Amidst a bunch of criminals.  The only up-side to the whole situation was that it was a public venue, and a large portion of the crowd was going to be civilians, although the auction attendees had been given the best seats.  As he guided Q’s slender arms into their sleeves, 007 growled a little under his throat in discontent.  Q’s head twitched a little towards him at the sound, but his unexpected attempt to reach for Bond was stymied by the jacket, which was still low on his upper arms, effectively trapping both limbs.  For a moment, Bond noted that it was a rather enticing look on the dark-haired young man.

Q cleared his throat and 007 brought his thoughts back on track, focusing.

“I asked why in the world you were growling at me.  This is your plan, remember?” Q prodded verbally, since he couldn’t physically.

To stop himself from thinking about Q’s slim limbs bound up in the expensive cloth of his jacket, 007 pulled it the rest of the way up Q’s shoulders, then – just to be safe – took a step back.  He clasped one wrist in his other hand behind his back, settling into an at-rest position (which coincidentally forced him also to keep his hands to himself).  “No plans are perfect.  And I wasn’t growling.”

“Ah, yes, lie to the man who’s been depending on his ears over his eyes for the past weeks,” Q blithely retorted, mouth curving upwards at the sides.  “Brilliant idea, 007.  My ears were clearly deceiving me.”

Bond chuffed.  “Now who’s being insufferable?”

“You started it.”  Q stood up, as delicately careful as always, although his movements had gotten a bit smoother since this had all started.  Pale, graceful hands patted against the new clothing as the Quartermaster got an idea of what he was wearing.  “Good.  It has pockets.  I have some things I want to bring along.”  The smaller man immediately began navigating his way around the hotel bed, to where his suitcase was on the other side.  He promptly began feeling his way through it.      

“What are you looking for, Q?” Bond asked, thinking to help.

At that moment, however, Q brought up a second bag from his suitcase, about the length of his hand, vaguely tubular, and as wide around as one of Q’s thin wrists.  “Just a toy - and not one for you, for once.  You get an earpiece that you are going to promise not to break, and a flashdrive that I have specifically designed with something like this in mind.”  As Q backed up to sit on the bed (feeling his way with hands and socked feet, as always), his grin became disconcertingly broad.  Bond felt like he was looking at a bespectacled Cheshire cat.

It was more of a turn-on than he’d expected.

“Q?”

“Believe it or not, I actually managed to plan a bit for this mission,” the Quartermaster began talking again, loosening the drawstring on the black bag as he did so, “There were some things that could be expected - tight security, for one, and the possibility that you might need some guidance while I lack my computer.”  

Wary but also intrigued, 007 folded his arms and leaned against the wall, blue eyes keenly watching what the smaller man was revealing.  So far, he couldn’t tell what it was: it was simply something flat and rubbery, rolled up into a tube.  “You’ll be able to give me verbal assistance through the earpieces,” he reminded.

Q lifted his hand to teeter it back and forth, showing both agreement and disagreement.  “True, but that still means I won’t have my laptop – I somehow think that that would be frowned upon at the opera.  Communication hopefully won’t be a problem, despite any ambient noise on my end, but I want to be able to provide you with more back-up than mere verbal support.”

Q had a point, as much as Bond hated to admit it.  The agent shifted his weight, making a contemplative noise, but otherwise waited for Q to continue.  He did so by suddenly unrolling his new ‘toy,’ and revealing a supple keyboard.  

“This will make it past most any security, so I might drag it around with me later, if we’re forced to go to another criminal soirée.”  Q rolled his eyes, showing clearly how much he hoped that wouldn’t be the case.  “There’s nothing in it that will alert a metal detector, and if anyone ever pats me down and finds it, all I have to do is play the fool and say that I remembered to leave my tablet behind but not the keyboard.  I’m hoping that it won’t come to that, however - I’d rather no one knew I had this.”  Q tilted his head, taking a minute to find Bond’s face with an increasingly eerie level of accuracy.  The Quartermaster grinned his reserved little grin, an infectious curve of his lips that did things to Bond’s thoughts.  “Are you following, 007?”

“Quit teasing and hit me with the punchline, Q,” Bond replied with wry humor warming his words.  It was worth it to suddenly see Q’s grin broaden.  

The keyboard wasn’t plugged into anything, and looked rather unreliable and flimsy to begin with, but suddenly Q slid a hand over it and tapped his fingers against the translucent rubber keys.  Bond tensed and jerked as something caught at the corner of his vision, head jerking to find that Q’s laptop - still on the desk - had turned on.  As Q’s fingers continued to deftly move, programs began opening up on it.  

“It’s ironic, really, but the fact that I’m blind is actually helpful at the moment,” Q confessed, bringing up one hand to push one of his earbuds deeper into his ear - reminding James that Q would be getting audible feedback from his computer.  “You see, I don’t need my laptop physically with me.  This keyboard has been wired and programmed to stay connected to it in pretty much any circumstance save an underground bunker, so the only thing I have to do is… well, pretty much what I do anyway: visualize the computer screen and pay close attention to the verbal program nattering in my ear, which is probably going to get annoying-”

“You’re brilliant, Q.”

The words had slipped right out of Bond’s mouth, but it was rather worth it to see the blankly startled look suddenly splashed across his Quartermaster’s face.  “I beg your pardon?” he asked with an adorable level of innocence.

“I said you’re brilliant, Q.  I never would have thought of that - our enemies certainly won’t see it coming,” Bond clarified candidly, gesturing between the rolled-out keyboard and the laptop even though he knew the other man couldn’t see.  Even as Bond felt a renewed, fierce desire to undo the damage done to Q’s sight, he felt a new reaction unfurling alongside it: the knowledge that Q hadn’t really lost anything when he’d been blinded.  Not anything that mattered, at least.  He was still lethally brilliant enough to make a 00-agent pause and look at him with respect.  Hopefully none of Q’s inventions would be too rigorously tested tonight, considering the relaxed venue but 007 almost hoped that they’d get a chance to use them. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

Even as Q relented and gave a tentative smile, he blushed, the color spreading across his cheekbones and ears.  “A magician never reveals his secrets.  At least not all of them.”

“Minx.” Bond chortled on reflex.  

An eyebrow was arched at him.  “Careful now, Mr. Sterling.  If your erstwhile date Mr. Rousseau hears you throwing about terms like that, he might wonder where your affections lie,” the Quartermaster managed to joke with an entirely straight face.

Bond choked on a little laugh, although he quickly swore as well, unpleasantly recalling the biggest wildcard in tonight’s game.  “Damn.  Are you ready to lie to him if he asks where I am?”

“I imagine that I won’t see him much, once the opera starts,” Q replied, “and you’ll be around until then.  If he asks you to do something uncouth like sit with him, it will hardly be a lie for me to say I’d rather have you with me.  Also, I already got online and… tweaked… our tickets a bit, so we’ve got a private box.”  

James wondered when he’d become so full of praise, because suddenly he wanted to call Q brilliant again.  He also wanted to do it in a somewhat more physical fashion than his previous approbation, and the urge was difficult to stifle.  ‘Since when am I turned on by bespectacled men who weigh all of ten stones and have the physique of a common scarecrow?’ Bond asked himself incredulously, before a more truthful part of himself amended sardonically, ‘No, since when have you been turned on by brains?’  Now that he was thinking about it, it was impossible to deny that the dangerous acuity of Q’s mind was incredibly alluring to watch - nearly mesmerizing.  Usually, Bond was the charmer, but now he felt like a cobra, avidly leaning in closer to the clever tune Q was playing.

Unaware that he had a 00-agent struggling with new urges and possibly feelings barely two meters away, the Quartermaster remotely turned off his computer programs again, and then rolled up his keyboard.  It slipped easily into an inside pocket of his jacket, and suddenly the lack of a perfect fit was beneficial, because it left room for the parcel to go unnoticed. “Did you manage to plant the bug on Rousseau?” Q asked.

There was a tightness to Q’s voice that hadn’t been there a minute ago, and it made James cock his head, curious.  Both of them were well aware of the answer to that question, but their conversation presently revolved around hashing out what they already knew - so Q wouldn’t forget, and so Bond could be assured that the less field-tested of the two of them understood what was going on.  “Yes.  Unless there’s a very nice tea shop or a pretty young date on the east side of the city, then Rousseau was visiting Mercer today.  So if I can’t find any signs of Genecode at the auction house, I’ll have a second option to search in the future.”  That had been what most of today had been spent doing: Bond had met up with Caspian Rousseau again, once more catching a bit to eat and then going for a walk in the nearby park.  James had acted so docile and tame that it sickened him even to think about it, and he still hated Rousseau’s tastes in alcohol.  

Thankfully, the man had started to get handsy as well, which had made it easier to do the same in return - and plant a tracking device on his person.  Then Q had tracked it to a location that had to be where Rousseau met up with his handler, Mercer.  Q had confirmed this by his own means, which James trusted even if he didn’t understand them in the slightest.  

“Well, I think that just about covers everything, as I know it, at least,” Q finished, nodding absently.  The absent, back-and-forth flicking of his eyes cued Bond in that the Quartermaster was still thinking, however, running things over a few more times in his head.  A wise thing to do.  “I’ll do my best to send you some alert whenever we’re between acts, but I’ll probably just have to lie about your location, because I know honestly nothing about Lakmé - and you need all the time you can get.”

~^~

Q hated not knowing things, but out of everything he’d ever researched in his life, he’d never thought that it would be important to know opera.  

“Lakmé is performed in three acts,” Bond was saying as he drove them to the opera house, “It’s based in India in the late nineteenth century.”

007 went on to describe more, outlining the religious troubles underpinning much of the opera’s storyline, and laying out characters as well.  Despite having an eidetic memory, Q was entirely certain that he wouldn’t remember this well enough to have any sort of educated conversation over it, but he nodded and listened diligently anyway.  Fortunately, Q actually did know French rather well, although it was undoubtedly rusty - hopefully it would suffice for him to follow along, at least so that he knew when the play was close to drawing to a close.  Bond already knew the expected running time of the opera, but a warning beforehand to get back to Q’s side would make things smoother.  

“You following so far, Q?”

“Yes,” Q lied, then deflated with a sigh and amended more truthfully, “Well, I’m following insofar as I can.  If anyone asks me questions outside of the information you’re giving me, I’m afraid that it will be terribly obvious that I’m a heathen when it comes to operatic performances.”

Bond’s snort was followed by a low chuckle that was barely a pitch higher than the purr of the engine, eventually transforming into low, amused words, “Don’t worry, Q, you’re not required to be a connoisseur.  I only know this because I’ve been to this opera before.”

That Q didn’t know.  On reflex, he turned his head to face the pleasant sound of Bond’s voice.  “Really?  When?”

“Before you came to MI6.  It was part of a mission, but it was all laid-back enough that I actually got to enjoy myself a bit.”  Q could imagine the larger man shrugging, almost as well as he could imagine the expensive material of Bond’s suit shifting over his frame as he did so.  “Hopefully this will be an easy night for the both of us, so feel free to enjoy yourself a bit.”

“I won’t be able to enjoy myself until we’re back on British soil, and I know that a homicidal, maniac geneticist isn’t running around,” Q grumbled, running his hands along his cane to hide the unease running likewise through his limbs.  He was nervous.  Even the knowledge that he’d be spending most of the night alone in a private box hadn’t alleviated the tremors deep in his bones, and he kept worrying over Bond.  Unable to see the agent’s face, the Quartermaster murmured more quietly, “Any mission is dangerous.  And even when I’m pretending to be Adam Balien, I’m still your Quartermaster.  I’m responsible.”

There was silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.  Q was still sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, and the air seemed to crackle with the kind of electric attention that only Bond could create, but Q felt no need to retract his words.  Finally, in a soft, equally forthright voice, 007 replied, “I know, Q.”

The silence lasted only a bit longer, before Bond cleared his throat awkwardly and returned to his earlier explanation of the opera.  If Q was forced to cover for Bond’s absence in some way, it would be beneficial if ‘Adam Balien’ could at least direct the conversation to safer waters, such as the general plot of the opera.  

~^~

People were milling about in the foyer, and Q hated it.  He had his mobile with him, and of course had the camera in his glasses sending signals back to his distant laptop, much like the keyboard.  Right now, the combination of technology was giving him a vague idea of where people were around him, informing him that most were civilians, and at a polite distance.  It still left him feeling claustrophobic and in the dark (literally and figuratively), making his shoulders tense and his muscles seize up tight, so he wouldn’t have moved at all had not 007 urged him forward.  The firm arm under Q’s hand suddenly felt like a lifeline, as unknowns swirled around him in a sea he couldn’t decipher.  Telling himself that it was out of practicality and not because he preferred the other man’s closeness, the undercover boffin continued to depend more on the powerful frame next to him than the cane he twitched back and forth ahead of him.  

As they were forced to mingle, Q couldn’t help but notice how Bond seemed perfectly at home in a way that made Q insanely jealous.  He maneuvered them through the amicable crowd of people, his calmness radiating in the ease of his step and the relaxed set of his muscles where Q could feel them – at his arm, and occasionally his side when Q tucked in especially close to avoid some imagined object near himself.  Either by luck or by Bond’s deft maneuvering, they weren’t forced to talk with anyone.

The boffin nearly melted with relief when Bond finally murmured, just loud enough for Q’s ears to pick up, “All right, enough people have seen your pretty face.  Let’s find your seat then.”

~^~

Leaving Q on his own was difficult.  To be perfectly honest, 007 lingered at the Quartermaster’s side longer than he should have - he told himself that it served a purpose.  Q had looked out of place and very small as the singers’ voices and music began to fill the air, so 007 had leaned close to Q’s ear, murmuring what he was seeing.  Q had tensed at first, one hand tightening on his cane where it rested against his leg, the other clenching on the arm of his chair.  But the smaller man hadn't said anything, and a sideways glance had shown hazel eyes narrowing in thoughtful concentration as 007 continued his low murmurings.  A few times, when Bond translated the verses being said, Q’s lips moved, and after a few times he repeated back the correct French phrases.  Unaccountably proud of how quickly he could see Q adapting, Bond eased a bit closer, speaking more easily, and now switching between English and French himself as the music grew in the air.  

He should have been leaving, but instead Bond found his arm moving along the back of Q’s chair, hand curling around Q’s right shoulder as if to make sure he was paying attention.  Q’s focus was already a palpable thing - as total and brilliant as a compact star.  As the famous ‘Duo des Fleurs’ started up, Bond was basking in that attention like a cat soaking in a summer day.  Q continued to let Bond translate in his ear, Bond trusting that his low voice was audible while the high notes of the singers twirled upwards from below.  “Call us together,” Bond spoke with them, husky English to their musical French, “Come, let us drift down together.”  He felt the smaller man shiver a bit under his hand, but his blind attention remained fixed ahead, as if watching not the singers but the very music that they made.  The orchestra swirled like an ocean around everything.  “...With a nonchalant hand … let us go to the shore.”  It took a moment for Bond to realize that Q was now speaking as well - French still, but with increasing certainty, and if James strained his ears enough, he could hear a hesitant musicality to the words.  Q was shaking just a little bit more now, but his lids had closed to half-mast, and he seemed more at ease in an electric, attentive sort of way.    

Realizing that he couldn’t hang back any longer, James tightened his fingers around Q’s shoulder and stopped his repetition of the lyrics to instead say, “You’ll be fine, Q.  See you at the end of the show,” before pulling away.

Up until then, Bond could have truthfully said that he had no real opinion of opera one way or another - he was cultured enough to appreciate them, but never sought out tickets.  Now, though, with the last memory of Q’s lithe frame quivering beneath his touch, Bond had to fight very, very hard not to share the rest of the show with the young man he was leaving behind.  There was something heavily intoxicating about knowing that his own low, pedestrian words had Q straining to listen equally as much as the music of a world-acclaimed opera ringing out below them.  

~^~

Avoiding security at the auction house was pathetically easy.  If Bond had wanted to, he probably could have smuggled both of them in without ever attracting notice, but ‘Adam Balien’ needed to be seen at the opera, if they were to avoid suspicion.  If Bond and Q played this right, in fact, it would provide them both with an alibi for the whole night.  Walking as confidently and lightly as a shadow at midnight, 007 slipped down darkened halls, avoiding security guards no doubt meant to remove people like himself – those eager for an early peak at the merchandize.  The guards would have better luck catching smoke.  

Bond’s phone vibrated, a subtle motion that got his attention but wouldn’t get anyone else’s.  Brows lowering, Bond flipped it open to look at the message.  

~Don’t worry about the security cameras~ was all it read, followed by a typed ‘Q’ that had 007 smiling.  Trust Q to find a way to communicate that wouldn’t give Bond an audible distraction.  The music of the opera would have been pleasant to hear, wrapped about Q’s professional tones, but silence was better.  Keeping his earbud in just in case, Bond pocketed his phone again and strode more boldly through the building, steps noiseless and ears keenly listening for any signs of trouble.  Knowing that Q had somehow suborned the cameras, 007 slipped down another hall without fear, body relaxed now that he had his shoulder holster and gun again.  He hadn’t worn either into the opera, but instead had kept them stashed in the car, slipping into the harness as soon as conceivably possible and holstering his gun.  He always felt naked without the weight of them.  

He decided to text back instead of tapping his earbud to activate it, taking a cue from the Quartermaster.  ~Much obliged, Q. Will contact when things get interesting~

~^~

After Bond had left, Q had spent the next… he wasn’t sure how long, to be honest… feeling as if he were a violin strung exquisitely tightly.  He listened to the rest of the duet, but found himself longing for the huskier tones filling his left ear, even though they hadn’t been in the least bit musical.  After that song faded and the opera moved forward, thankfully, the Quartermaster managed to shake himself out of his daze with an awkward clearing of his throat.  “Dammit, Bond,” he muttered to himself, shocked by how breathy his voice sounded.  To try and distract himself from the tumult of reactions and feelings tumbling about inside his skin, the Quartermaster reached inside his jacket and drew out the keyboard, unrolling it across the uneven plane of his lap.  It took him a moment to get used to the terrain, even after slipping Bond’s program underneath, and for a moment Q panicked at the thought that he couldn’t do this - that he’d be truly useless to Bond right now.  It took a force of effort to push down the way his lungs tightened and his thoughts began to fragment in self-doubt and fear, but then Q’s fingers were moving.  As they stroked the keys, the computerized voice in his earbud became audible even over the continuing sounds of the opera.  Q sighed with relief, and got down to work.  His first order of business was to ask his computer to track Bond’s watch - once he’d ascertained the agent’s location, and the careful progress he was making, Q did whatever he could to be useful, calling up lines of code and programs like a symphony all his own.  His ears were filled with feedback messages and status reports from his computer in a constant barrage, and while Q lamented the fact that he couldn’t enjoy the opera this way, he was fiercely pleased at the same time.  He likened himself to a falcon plucking pigeons out of the air, as the cameras and other security systems quickly came under his control.

He was feeling quite smug by the time he sent his text, and also feeling far more in control of the situation.  

Q was still tracking Bond’s progress by the time the first act of the opera ended.  The cessation of background noise made Q sigh, because as delightful as the music was, it still kept him from sensing his surroundings naturally – his paranoia kept conjuring up images of people sneaking into his box without him hearing.  Up until now, he’d been depending on the one security camera leading to his box - he’d hooked it up to alert him to anyone coming.  He’d also made sure that Bond’s exit would go unnoticed, although he didn’t think that anyone would check the security footage at the opera house too closely, unless things truly went downhill.

Which it did barely minutes after the music faded.  The chirrup of warning had him groaning where he’d laid his head back against the headrest of his chair, a childish sort of whine that came from just wanting to relax and breathe for a moment.  He deserved that, didn’t he, for getting himself and Bond this far without disaster?  Apparently not, because barely seconds later, his earpiece was also informing him that the facial recognition program had identified his oncoming visitor as Caspian Rousseau.  With people milling about during the interlude, this didn’t exactly surprise Q, but while other faces were recognized as they went by, only Rousseau’s refused to leave again. Just barmy: the man had found out where Q’s box was and intended to visit.  Glad that he’d turned off the receiving end of his comm-link, Q swore and quickly rolled up the incriminating keyboard, hiding it bare moments before he heard the door to his box swing open.  

Knowing that he wasn’t supposed to be as omniscient as he was, Q turned his head and asked a logical question, “Already back, Mr. Sterling?”  Unconsciously, his hand tightened around his cane, an item he’d despised until recently - having tinkered with it a bit, however, he thought he could get along with it now…

“Just your buddy Caspian!” came the cheery reply as the other man let himself in.  “Drat, was I supposed to knock?  I never know the etiquette of this place, or of blind people.  Should I have announced myself at the door?”

Rousseau’s blithe rudeness was probably meant to be cute, but Q was already taut enough with nerves that he had a hard time containing the frown he wanted to wear.  As it was, he took a subtle but deep breath, and answered with a reserved tone instead of an openly hostile one, “Announcing yourself would be appreciated, but don’t worry about it, please.  What brings you up here?”

“I was looking for your handsome bodyguard, actually,” Rousseau answered unabashedly, and suddenly it was even harder to hide a scowl.  Q managed only by biting the inside of his cheek.  “You know we’ve been meeting up, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Q was able to say with utter sincerity, although his next sentence was more false, “He mentioned that you spent a rather nice evening together.”

Rousseau’s chuckle as he came around to take the empty seat next to Q had the Quartermaster bristling and his hand tightening around his cane more.  “Nice isn’t the half of it!  You know, I’m so glad you came, Adam.”

“I’m flattered, although you only seem to like me for my bodyguard,” Q retorted with positively arid dryness before he could stop himself.

He sensed Rousseau favoring him with a look, and tried very hard to school his features into blandness.  However, Rousseau merely chortled again, replying with obviously feigned hurt, “Why, I’m wounded, Adam!  Don’t you know, we hackers always need to stick together?”  Still, he nudged Q’s elbow with his, startling the bespectacled man.  “But it’s definitely an added bonus that you have a gorgeous entourage.  You must tell me, though…”  Suddenly there was a keenness to Rousseau’s tone that Q didn’t like, and by the sound of him, he was leaning closer.  Q was suddenly all too aware that they were alone in the box, far above any witnesses, unless Q wanted to either make a lot of noise or break cover and contact Bond.  Either way, Rousseau had him in an unfavorable position here, and the reminder of his helplessness seemed to summon the ache in Q’s blind eyes.  

Fortunately, Rousseau remained benign - although his nosiness made Q hackle nonetheless, “...Are you sure you don’t have feelings for that blond-haired brute you call a bodyguard?”

If Q were a cat, he would have been quite fluffed up by now, and he resisted the unbecoming urge to hiss.  He tried and failed miserably not to be defensive as he answered, and ended up opening and closing his mouth once or twice before realizing that he’d incriminate himself just as well with silence as by noise.  He finally forced words out anyway, managing to sound resigned and tense all at once, “No, of course not.  That would be professionally unbecoming.”  That was the truth - wasn’t it?  Q was frustrated that it didn’t come out sounding that way, so he added with more surety, “I’m happy he’s found some distraction in you.”

“Oh, come on, Adam.”  Caspian was teasing now, and Q despised it.  And Caspian Rousseau himself.  And Bond, a little, for leaving Q alone to do the lying, which was not what he was trained for.  “God, man, you’re not even a very good liar.”

‘You don’t even know the half of it,’ Q mused morosely, but then realized that if Rousseau was focused on this so-called lie, then maybe he’d not look for more.  So, feeling an unexpected jolt in his heart like he’d just had a shot of adrenalin, Q sat up a bit and decided to grab the metaphorical bull by the horns.  “Fine then,” he started, while part of him screamed and asked if he’d gone insane.  

Rousseau’s next little noise was smugly proud.  “I knew it!  There was no way you could have a bodyguard like that for so long without something happening between you.”

Q tried not to flush, and then wondered why in the world he was flushing - because of what Rousseau was insinuating, or because he was having a hard time dividing his playacting from reality?  This was why Q left all of these facades to the 00-agents…  “There isn’t anything,” Q found himself protesting, hoping desperately that the opera started up again soon, but as usual, he’d lost track of the time since intermission had started, “Happening, that is.  Just…!”  He trailed off as words failed him.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), Rousseau seemed more than happy to fill in the blanks himself.  “Just emotions on your side and tall, dark, and handsome silences on his?”

Q actually snorted derisively.  “Very funny, Mr. Rousseau.”

“Really, call me Caspian.  And I apologize for trying to get into your bodyguard’s pants,” the other hacker said without actually managing to sound all that sorry at all, “Have you, by the way…?”

“No!” Q barked, startled by the invasiveness of the question, although maybe he shouldn’t have been.  Rousseau was as suave and flirty as a peacock, but clearly saw no point in politeness or subtlety.  It brushed Q all the wrong ways, but he had little choice but to endure it, unless he wanted to throw caution to the wind and smack Rousseau with his cane.  The thought was rather tempting, and Q thought he had the coordination for it by this point.  Taking deep breaths, Q forced himself to calm down, scrounging up a semi-suitable answer, “Really, Mr. Rousseau - Caspian - I think it would be best if you returned to your seat.  Before Sterling gets back.”

“Yes, where did he run off to?”

“Out for a smoke,” Q replied because that lie was the simplest he could think of, and therefore the most believable, he hoped.  It was disgruntling that Rousseau still didn’t seem all that interested in going away.  “Where is your bodyguard?”

“Oh, I purposefully lied to him to sneak away.  He doesn’t know I’m up here,” Rousseau replied cheerily, and Q began to realize that he was in trouble: his companion didn’t intend to leave.  

Thinking on his feet as best he could, knowing that he needed to either get Rousseau to go away or find some other private place so that he could stay in contact with Bond, Q squeaked, “I think I need to use the loo.”

~^~

Chapter Text

The auction house was technically well guarded, but well guarded against your typical villain and well guarded against the top agent of MI6 were two very, very different things.  Bond moved stealthily down darkened hallways, avoiding the few watchmen that haunted the place like ineffectual ghosts.  At one point, Bond tried to contact Q - not with any urgent need, but to see if the boffin might be able to narrow down exactly where their prize might be.  Bond got no response, starting a seed of worry in his gut until suddenly he got some noise from his earpiece: it wasn’t a reply, per se, but Bond sighed as he was allowed to listen in to the idle sounds of Q having a conversation with Rousseau.  Q must have managed to idly reach up and turn on his earpiece without attracting notice, because the topic of conversation was idle and boring.  

In fact, it started to veer towards Bond’s persona of Richard Sterling, but it was nothing beyond Rousseau’s typical nosy innuendos, and Bond knew that Q was safe enough.  Annoyed as hell, if his progressively tightening tone was any indicator, but at least ‘Adam Balien’ hadn’t made a reputation as the friendly sort.  Bond started laughing quietly as Rousseau began prodding for sexual stories (about Balien or Sterling), and apparently hearing 007’s helpless chuckles in his ear was the last straw for Q, because the connection was muted again.  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Q,” Bond murmured teasingly, before muting his end as well, imagining the look of supreme annoyance barely contained on Q’s expressive face. Bond thought that Rousseau was an utter arse for the most part, but right now, he was at least making up for that by giving 007 something to needle Q about later.  

Knowing that Q was busy but still there, still in one piece, 007 turned his mind back to his work.  It would take longer to find Genecode at this rate, but he still had time, and he’d run many missions like this before MI6 had installed her newest Quartermaster - those before hadn’t been anywhere near as interested in handling missions either.  Dressed darkly now with gloves on to avoid the possibility of fingerprints, 007 narrowed down likely places to search, and began picking locks like it was his day job.

Which, honestly, it was.  Along with lying, spying, stealing, and killing.  Although how much of that he did in the day depended on the situation.  

It was tempting to investigate some of the other things docketed for sale.  This was an auction catering to criminals, after all, so chances were extremely high that most everything here had some negative connotations.  Bond was on the clock, though, and he simply didn’t have time to stick his nose into everything and still make it back to Q before his absence became noticeable - he was already worrying about what Q was saying now to cover for him.  Entertaining thoughts of simply burning the building down to save everyone the trouble, 007 continued on his way, moving from room to room with patience and speed in equal measure.  

He almost ran into people a few times, having to duck rather quickly behind doorways or around corners, but he never really felt under threat until he was in the middle of a long, desolate hallway, his picks just settled into a lock, and heard voices coming his way.  A quick glance told him that he either had to sprint for the nearest corner and abandon this hallway for another, or get this door open and hide inside - from the growing volume of the voices he was hearing, he barely had time for either.  “Damn,” he muttered too quietly to hear, even as he counted the different voices, noting that there were more than he would be able to deal with without making a ruckus.  One guard he could dependably take down without making a sound, but this sounded like three, and at least one of them would undoubtedly raise holy hell while he was busy with the others.  

In a reckless move that would no doubt have Q groaning defeatedly or swearing in his ear, if he were privy to all of this, 007 made the decision to hold his ground and hope that he could unlock the door in front of him before he was noticed.  

One tool keeping weight on the lock, Bond slipped his pick in, nudging at the pins and resisting the urge to scrape them roughly - he’d get results either way, but the latter option made noise. Bond was gaining new appreciation for Q and his stick, tap-tap-tapping in a world he couldn't see to try and get a feel for things, when he finally managed to align all the pins, and the door slid open.  007 all but tumbled in, only training and impeccable balance keeping him quiet and sure-footed as he got in and swiftly closed the door behind him.  He turned the lock just as the voices got loud enough to indicate that they’d turned the corner, where they would have seen him.  

Sighing, 007 resigned himself to the fact that he’d be stuck in this room at least until they’d walked past.  He’d wanted to investigate this room anyway, but being cooped up by forced made him irritable.  Frowning to himself, wishing he were back at the opera with Q at his side (preferably under his arm, and close enough to watch his lips move as he murmured along in hesitant French), 007 fished his pen-light out of his pocket, one that Q had tweaked so that the light was easily adjustable and unlikely to either ruin 007’s night-sight or draw attention from anyone eyeing the gap under the door.  

This room looked to be another dead end: there were no computers, or other pieces of tech that looked likely to be used as a storage device for the Genecode program.  Seeing as there were still people talking just outside, meandering on their way with maddening slowness, James had no choice but to keep looking around or let the boredom get to him.  Q would no doubt give him a scathing lecture about how he shouldn’t be able to get bored in under a minute, but clearly Q didn’t live in a life that build up one’s tolerance for action and adrenalin - just as 007 rarely got excited for anything short of an AK-47 pointed in his face, his threshold for boredom was likewise a bit skewed.  

And people wondered why 00-agents blew things up.  

The more Bond looked, however, the more he began to realize something: this wasn’t the dead-end he’d thought it was.  It was worse.  Keeping his swearing to the confines of his head only with effort, 007 began to look at the items around him with more understanding, recognizing some tools as medically-based.  He discarded some things as totally unrelated to what he was looking for, but it was only a few moments more before 007 opened a case and found a syringe.  There was also a brief pamphlet of notes, conscientiously typed up to give people some idea what they were bidding on.  

Bond had found Genecode, but only the biological components.  Unless the words Bond was reading under his dim light were pure lies, the data… was translated into viral form, and resting patiently at the moment in temperature-controlled case within the syringe 007 had found.  Bond would have taken the easy route and destroyed the syringe at that point, but that still left him with the question of: Where was the rest?  “Damn,” Bond found himself growling yet again, as possibilities and courses of action played themselves out in his head.  If he destroyed the viral information now, that would start the timer counting down to the end of their mission.  Mercer was already nervous, thanks to Q’s anonymous emails, but he’d probably snap entirely if he found out that someone had destroyed this - and that would curtail further movements on Bond and Q’s part significantly.  If Mercer really did have more information on Genecode hidden on a flashdrive somewhere, he’d take it and run.  That knowledge was what had Bond reluctantly returning everything to its proper place, and leaning forward with his hands braced on the tabletop.  He’d technically found what they were looking for… but not in the way they had anticipated.  007 tried to furiously decide what to do next.  

And then things got more complicated as he realized that one of the voices outside the door was Mercer’s.  

“I assure you, Mr. Mercer, your items are well protected.”

“They’d be better protected if you’d allow me to post my own guards,” came the familiar voice that made Bond instantly draw his gun, putting a pound of pressure on the trigger before he’d even realize that much more would lead to him shooting something.  His sudden and irrational anger was all on Q’s behalf, and it was only subdued slightly by his own humor at the situation: clearly, everything wasn’t as protected as everyone hoped, or there wouldn’t be a 00-agent in the henhouse.  

“I’ve told you, sir, that we have rules against that,” came the patient voice of probably some official running the auction, “No outside guards may be hired, or else we’ll swiftly have the place crawling with different men from different organizations.  This way, everyone is answerable to my employer, and I can assure you, the safety of everything here is of utmost-”

“Fine, fine,” Mercer cut the little speech off, giving away just how tense he was.  007 filed that information away, even as he sidled up next to the door, flicking off his torch to put everything in darkness except the thin light now coming from the hallway outside.  His own eyes picking up the world around him in gradations of grey, even as he once again found his plans shifting amorphously in his head.  Killing Mercer now was damn tempting, but there were still too many variables, and M and Q would both definitely frown on flagrant killing - no matter how justified 007 thought it was, personally.  

“We do wish that you’d trust us with the entirety of your items for sale,” the underline was saying.  “You did say that there was additional information encoded for the biological sample you brought in?”

“Yes, but no, I’m not bringing it.  Not until I’m confident that the buyer is prepared to pay for it,” Mercer answered cagily.

Bond found himself swearing in his head yet again as his suspicions were confirmed: this wasn’t all of it.  There were now two assets that Bond and Q needed to find and contain - or destroy.  He glanced longingly at the one he had on hand now, but once again kept at bay the desire to destroy it now.  Mercer was clearly already paranoid.  

That paranoia was mostly thanks to Q, but 007 couldn’t bring himself to be unhappy about that, because what followed was probably also thanks to that email-induced fear as well - a calm, collected Mercer would never have been here anyway, talking within hearing range of a well-placed 00-agent.  That would, ergo, have meant that a second familiar voice would never have appeared in the auction house as well.   “Hey, boss!”

“Rousseau, what the bloody hell are you doing here?  You’re supposed to be at the opera house with Sergei.”

By the second heavy set of footsteps that approached - far too audible to be coming from a slight man like Rousseau - Sergei had quit the opera as well.  In fact, it sounded like he was panting, perhaps from chasing after his recalcitrant and energetic charge.  007 was caught between keen interest in what was going on, and tense irritation that once again the odds were against him if things got dangerous, or if he decided to make a move on Mercer.  Events seemed to be conspiring to make decisions for him tonight…  

“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted me to report as soon as I could,” Rousseau tossed back, sounding only slightly peeved at the tongue-lashing, “And since I bloody hate opera, I figured now would work, although it took a bit to find you here.”

Mercer made a noise that would definitely have been a very sharp, chiding sentence, but he bit it off to say more diplomatically instead, presumably to the auction employee still there, “Could you excuse us a moment?”

“Of course, sir.  I assume you know your way out?”

“Yes.”  After Mercer’s words, Bond heard receding footsteps, and there was a moment of silence that stretched like taffy before Mercer spoke again, “Perhaps next time I’m difficult to find, you’ll pause a moment and consider that maybe you have better things to be doing - things I told you to do,” he hissed.

Rousseau was unbothered this time by the tone, and replied almost flippantly, “Like scout out the various hackers in attendance for this whole thing?  Well, I have, but if you don’t want to hear what I’ve learned…”

Even as Bond tensed and his heart gave a skittering beat in his chest, Mercer was changing his tune, swiftly demanding, “Have you found anyone who can do what we need?  At least four of them looked promising on paper.”

“Yes, and that’s why you hired me - I’m good at reading people.  Good enough to tell you that at least three of those pompous cocks aren’t really as smart as they think they are.  There’s one fellow who’s promising, though,” Rousseau laid out proudly, “Least interesting resume, but in person, I can tell you that he’s smarter than the others combined, even if I’m pretty sure I’m only catching the half of it.  I can’t very well walk up to a person and demand to know what their I.Q. is, after all.”  

“Good, good,” Mercer was sounding increasingly relieved, even as Bond grew ever tenser, “Will he be amenable to helping us?  Without spreading information?”

“Not sure.  But that’s what Sergei and his goons are for, aren’t they?”  

Sergei grunted as if he’d just been poked, but Bond heard his voice for the first time as he entered the conversation, tones a deep base, “Indeed.”

“Indeed,” Mercer echoed in a voice that was edging into gleeful - a man who’d been looking at the noose only to see the threat being removed.  “What’s this man’s name?”

“Adam Balien.”

~^~

Q had actually managed to get rid of Rousseau, although not before the man had escorted him to the loo and then kept him company for the rest of the intermission.  The man seemed to have taken it upon himself to be Adam Balien’s sidekick while his bodyguard was absent, and the most disturbing part was that Rousseau’s interest in Bond seemed now to be swinging more Q’s way.  The brief distraction of Bond checking in had been an exercise in embarrassment, although Q at least gave himself points for managing to turn his earbud’s receiver both on and off without being noticed - the upside of his mess of hair was that reaching up to brush his fingers against it was a natural movement, and one that could easily bring his fingertips next to his ear.  Bond’s laughter had made Q blush harder than Rousseau’s nosy questions about his personal life, and the Quartermaster made a mental note to swat the agent later, since he seemed to be safe and whole so far.  

There was only one upside: Rousseau had stopped asking where Q’s bodyguard had gotten to.  The downside was that Q now had to stay on his toes and not give away the wrong information about himself.  After Q had finally made clear that he was not about to chat idly about his romantic interests, no matter how Rousseau was going to be about it, the other hacker had changed tactics to ask instead about Q’s work.  It helped, perhaps, that a disturbing amount of Q’s resume was entirely real, but he was wary of Rousseau.  The man chattered like a squirrel, but there was always a quick, cunning edge to it, and Q had memorized some information on him in return - all of it pointed towards Caspian Rousseau being a very smart man.  To be playing in this criminal arena, he had to be, so Q did his  best not to underestimate his companion, and kept his cards as tight to his chest as he could without coming across as suspiciously cagy.  Sadly, Q wanted to talk, because it wasn’t every day he got to spend time with a hacker who spoke his language.  But he remembered Bond talking to him about the importance of maintaining his cover, and the danger hovering over  both of them, and reigned in the impulse to let himself get lost in the conversation.  

By the time intermission came to a close, Q was a blind ball of nerves and annoyance.  He desperately wanted to be checking in on Bond and monitoring is progress, doing his job and ensuring that everything was proceeding smoothly and safely, but instead he was still stuck in the lobby on Rousseau’s arm.  The man seemed to take a perverse joy in walking his sightless companion around the room, and Q had a new understanding for ‘arm candy.’  Somehow, whenever 007 walked with him, it didn’t feel like this, even when they’d gone out to eat and Bond had made a point of making his Quartermaster presentable.  With Bond, it had felt… natural.  Natural to time his steps with him, natural to cling a little to his solid, dependable bulk, natural to trust him.  With Rousseau, it all felt painfully contrived, and a lot like he was being shown off like an oddity, which gave his cheeks a perpetual blush and his mouth a downward turn that he didn’t even bother to hide anymore.  His ‘Adam Balien’ persona was simply going to gain a reputation for being irritable.  

Q heard the opera attendants announcing the impending end of the intermission, and very nearly exclaimed “Thank god” before remembering who his audience was.  

“Oh, blast it,” Rousseau muttered, stopping suddenly enough that Q tensed and momentarily feared for his footing.  Really, it had hardly been an abrupt halt at all, but without eyesight, everything felt like it was coming without warning, and Q had to grit his teeth to keep calm for the brief second it took to resettle himself.  Going from movement to stillness always felt odd, because he was aware that the world kept moving around him, but couldn’t see any of it, if it were to come his way.  How much he hated that honestly defied description.  “I suppose that since your guard Sterling is still avoiding the opera, I’ll be the one to guide you back to your seat,” Rousseau chirped cheerily, and before Q could lose his patience and actually groan in defeat, Rousseau added unexpectedly, “And then, sadly, I must return to my own.  Sergei - my great lump of a bodyguard - is already giving me looks.  Alas!”  His voice sounded so light that Q wondered if perhaps Rousseau were the blind one, and hadn’t noticed Q’s increasing failure to hide his displeasure at all of this.  

One way or another, Rousseau definitely seemed not to notice that Q hated him deeply right now, because he cheerfully did exactly as promised: escorted Q back to his box.  In parting, he leaned in just a bit closer than was strictly respectful, and murmured, “It’s been so nice chatting and getting to know you a bit better, Adam.”  

While Q fought down a shiver at the unexpected proximity, body tense and hand wrapped tightly around his cane like a lifeline, Rousseau left, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud.  Q couldn’t help how his unease and discomfort lingered, and he couldn’t bring himself to move even after he was sure he was alone, and the music started up again.  There were moments like this when he hated his blindness more than ever, because of how his own vulnerability reached in like a stiletto blade towards his heart.

~^~

“I’m sure that if you give me a bit more time to talk to him, I can get Mr. Balien to see the advantages of taking this job for us.  I’ve already got his bodyguard wrapped around my fingers,” Rousseau made clear, sounding quite sure of himself.

‘Not bloody likely,’ was Bond’s mute rejoinder from the other side of the locked door.  Rousseau was perhaps not as observant as he liked people to think he was, if he really thought that Richard Sterling was anything but a mask.  It was encouraging to learn that no one’s cover had been blown yet, at least.  It also made Bond wish that they were all on the same side of the door, so that he could recklessly try his odds against three assailants in the hopes of at least bloodying Rousseau’s pert little nose.

Mercer complicated matters when he growled back impatiently, “We don’t have time for that.  This auction is merely days away, and I can’t stall forever without drawing attention from some very dangerous people - people who will give us a lot of money if we play our cards right-”

“And kill us if we don’t,” Sergei finished lowly, with the steady, grim voice of someone who knew the score, especially if that score was a deadly one.  007 had already made a note to pay special attention to the guard – out of Mercer, Rousseau, and Sergei, it was the last that would be most likely to kill 007 in a fair fight.  Not that James had any particular love for fair fights, preferring to avoid them like the plague.

Rousseau seemed untroubled by the threat of death, managing to sound almost petulant, “It’s not my problem that you made promises you can’t keep.”

“No, but the moment you agreed to work for me, you tied your lot to mine - mine, and Sergei’s,” Mercer snapped back at Rousseau, “So it’s in everyone’s best interest that we make sure things turn out exactly as we want them, and that includes getting this Balien fellow to work for us.  I hired you to scout out prospects - I hired Sergei to bring them in.  Consent is optional.”

007 was getting a very, very bad feeling in his stomach about where this was all going.  

“So, I’m only going to ask you this once, Caspian,” went on Mercer with threadbare patience evident even through the door, “Can this Balien guy do what we need him to do?”

There was a brief and weighted pause, in which Bond desperately, desperately hoped that Rousseau would grow cautious and back off from his previous statement. Sadly, Q’s genius shone through a bit too well for that, as Rousseau answered with certainty, “Yes.  He’s brilliant.  A bit up-tight and stroppy, but what do you expect from a blind-guy.”

“Blind?” Mercer repeated, startled.

“Oh, yeah, didn’t you read up on that?  The fellow’s as blind as a bat.”

Sergei chose then to chime in, “Bats aren’t blind.”

“Oh, shut up, Sergei,” Rousseau groused, “I like you more when you’re the silent, brooding shadow casting rainclouds over my shoulder as you follow me fucking everywhere.”

“Both of you shut up.  For the love of…!”  Mercer growled, and Bond would have found the man’s problems funny if they hadn’t started to bleed over into his own concerns – namely, Q, who was in more danger than previously assumed.  At least the paranoia exacerbated by Q’s emails was paying dividends, or else Bond doubted that plans like this would be spoken so openly.  “Rousseau, go back to the opera, and at the next intermission, see if you can subtly ask if Mr. Balien would like a temporary job.  If he says no, Sergei will force the issue.  Just time it so that the opera has everyone distracted.”

“The blind guy’s got a guard,” Rousseau piped up, proving that he wasn’t an idiot after all, or at least was observant enough not to forget about Sterling’s existence.

“Whom you said you had well in hand – so distract him,” barked Mercer unforgivingly, “And you’ll have Sergei waiting in the background with back-up if you fuck that up.”

Oh, they were going to need that back-up, 007 decided.  Because if they so much as tried to lay a finger on Q, he was going to take them apart in so many ways that the morgue wouldn’t even know what to do with them.

~^~

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. 

~^~

Chapter Text

The cut on Q’s side was bleeding; he could feel it sticking to his shirt but also sending the occasional warm trickle down his skin. His jacket hid it, however, as was no doubt the intention of the cut’s location. 

Everyone else was still listening to the closing scenes of the opera as Rousseau pulled his blind partner along, the music blocked off by the doors when they closed behind them as efficiently as Rousseau’s hands had kept Q from making any further fuss before now.  The only noise the blind young man had been allowed to voice was the involuntary, breathless cry he’d emitted when Rousseau had drawn something sharp across his side, slipping under his jacket but easily slicing through the cloth of his button-down and then a layer of skin beneath. By then, Q must have already been dragged far enough that no one listening to the opera was disturbed, although Q’s own confusion precluded his ability to pinpoint his exact location. Blindness combined with surprise and now fear  made it nearly impossible to gain his bearings, leaving him feeling like he’d been tossed overboard into a tossing, midnight sea. 

His only clue now to what was happening was silence giving way to the muted noise of a city at nighttime.  The smell of fresh, outdoor air struck his nose, and the lightest breeze played over his hair when another door swung open and shut near him.

“I don’t like being tricked, you know,” Rousseau hissed, one hand still gripping Q’s upper left arm in a vice-like grip that would undoubtedly leave marks.  Despite the firm hold, the danger of falling felt imminently real in Q’s mind, and he began to realize that he’d been spoiled by 007’s careful handling – usually, he was fairly confident in his steps, providing he had someone walking next to him and providing some direction and support.  Apparently ‘someone’ really just meant ‘James Bond.’ Rousseau was another story altogether. “And I sure as hell don’t like being made a fool of.”

The last furious sentence was punctuated by a sudden, forward thrust, and Q felt a moment of total panic as Rousseau’s hand left him and he tripped forward through darkness.  Barely seconds later and Q was brought up sharply by hard metal and glass – a car-door? – instead of tumbling ignominiously to the ground. He splayed his fingers against the solid textures, trying to ground himself in a world he couldn’t see, and that had gotten monumentally more dangerous the second he’d heard the little warning from his computer informing him of Rousseau’s approach on camera. He hadn’t betted on how fast the man could move when motivated, however, and hadn’t even had time to weigh the pros and cons of distracting 007 before the door was being thrown open behind him and a hand was clamping down over his mouth, an arm locking about his throat, too. 

Rousseau’s hands now grabbed his shoulders again and shoved Q carelessly to the side, presumably so that he could get to the door handle.  It was a purely cruel gesture, and this time it was pure luck that kept the dark-haired boffin upright, although his body was quivering with the effort of staying alert and balanced.

“My cane,” Q found himself saying, voice shaking but otherwise remarkably stable, considering what he really wanted to do was scream and go into hysterics – the latter options wouldn’t help him as much as calmness would, however.  Clearing a throat that felt uncomfortably tight, he forced himself to push onwards, “I know that you’re angry-”  More than angry: Rousseau’s light mood had been torn to shreds by the knowledge that Adam Balien and Richard Sterling were actually MI6 employees, operating right under his nose.  Clearly Rousseau had never suspected that the man he was trying to bed was a trained spy, and the hacker Rousseau was likewise chatting up relentlessly happened to be said spy’s Quartermaster and handler.  Q now had marks of rough-handling to show that he was paying for this discovered deceit, besides the stinging cut on his ribs.  All of this proved that Rousseau was absolutely infuriated. “-But if you’re to bring me back to Mercer without me hurting myself, I’ll need my cane,” Q made himself finished logically. 

There was a pause as Q heard the door being pulled open, but no further movements for a long moment.  Unanchored by anything but the impression of the car at his right, Q stood in petrified, breathless silence, counting the seconds as he felt sweat break out on his skin.  It mingled with the blood of his cut, making it sting worse, and he resisted the urge to sweep his hands around.  He knew that he’d look bloody stupid waving his hands around, and he was already at enough of a disadvantage.    But without his sight, his hands were his eyes, and he wanted to touch something – even if it was only that exasperating cane that he still barely knew how to use.

Finally, Rousseau made a noise, and it was a barking laugh that was almost familiar from friendlier encounters. “I should say no – I should lie and say I didn’t grab it at all, but Mercer didn’t want me to leave anything behind,” he admitted, though snidely. 

Q’s right hand flexed on nothing, the edge of his wrist brushing the smooth contours of presumably the car’s back window. He waited in silence, unsure what else to say, what other words to bring up that wouldn’t get him into more trouble. “Please,” was all he could come up with.

Suddenly he was being slammed backwards, hard bone wrapped in lean muscle the only input his senses had besides the hard shape of the back of the car suddenly catching his weight.  Q panicked, thrashing and flailing, although his fearful, reflexive pleas for help only lasted a second before Rousseau’s palm was across his mouth again, fingers digging into Q’s cheeks and jaw.  Bent almost over backwards against the vehicle with Rousseau pressed against him like an angry deerhound, Q felt his own helplessness biting into him like thousands of needle teeth.  “You’re pathetic,” Rousseau snarled, close enough that Q could smell his breath, feel the warm heat of it against his face, “I can’t even imagine why Mercer would want you, but what the boss wants, the boss gets. You’re going to pay for making me look like an idiot, though.  I can’t hurt you anymore without orders, but I’m flexible.” The pause was almost as torturous as the vicious words, as Q wriggled without success.  He thought he had a grip on one of Rousseau’s sleeves, but he couldn’t tell, and even if he weren’t blind, the Quartermaster of MI6 wasn’t exactly trained for combat.  There was literally nothing that he could do that had more than a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding. 

“Beg,” demanded Rousseau silkily and unexpectedly, loosening the squeeze of his hand across the lower half of Q’s face while Q blinked blind eyes, “You want that walking stick of yours?  Beg for it.  That’ll just about make my day right now!”  Laughter spilled across Q’s nose and cheekbones, even as he felt it through the proximity of Rousseau’s body to his.  The man went on sneeringly, “I’m willing to bet you can barely walk with it – I’ve seen how you cling to that bodyguard of yours. Excuse me – that agent of yours.  And Mercer tells me you haven’t even been blind for a month. No wonder you always looked like a landed fish when your companion left you!”

Rousseau’s hand dropped, and briefly Q considered just gritting his teeth and refusing the demands.  But he really did need that cane, and for more reasons than Rousseau knew – besides the fact that Rousseau was entirely right, and Q may as well have no legs at all, considering how little he could walk without assistance on unfamiliar terrain.  If there was one thing that Q was also slowly learning, it was that his pride was far less valuable than his life.  So he licked his lips and cleared his throat again, repeating in a voice already shaken by fear, “Please.  Please, Rousseau, let me have my cane.”  Humiliation burned through him, hot and acidic.

“Are you going to try and hit me with it?” came the almost playful reply.  Clearly, Rousseau was enjoying this.  He’d pulled back enough that he wasn’t touching Q anymore, which allowed the blind young man to straighten gingerly, hands on the car for support and spine aching.  

“No,” Q answered with muted obedience, shaking his head a little and trying not to grimace as he forced the word out.

“Good decision.”  The hand patting Q’s cheek startled him, and Rousseau once more laughed as his fellow hacker flinched hard.  “Because I think that I could get away with stabbing you if it was self-defense, so using that stick of yours for anything but walking would end far better for me than for you.”  The ease with which Rousseau spoke of violence made Q shiver again and lift a hand involuntarily to his side, just touching the wound beneath his jacket and pulling back when he was rewarded by a flash of pain and the sickly texture of tacky, drying blood on cloth.  Rousseau kept on talking, the trajectory of his voice indicating that he’d moved away a bit more, “I’ve unlocked the car, so how about I give you your cane and you show that you can be a good dog and walk around to the other side without causing a fuss, okay?”

Oh, this was going to be demeaning… Rousseau was entirely correct that Q could barely walk with the thing.  He’d gotten pretty good in the hotel room, but even when he had everything mapped out in his head, he preferred to walk either with Bond’s aid or with no aid at all.  But at least it seemed that Rousseau was acquiescing, be it from a desire to seem falsely benevolent (giving a man in the desert a thimble-full of water, in essence), or because he had realized that having Q stumble half-competently with his cane was more efficient than leading him around as Bond did. Q spent a moment to be thankful that Rousseau was not as patient as 007 was. 

Rousseau backed off and there were only the sounds of rustling clothing and gravel under shuffling feet for a moment, before Q’s wrist was being cruelly gripped and dragged forward. His hand found a familiar rod even as he instinctively tried to pull free and not hyperventilate in surprise.

It wasn’t really heavy or sturdy enough to be used as a weapon, even if Q did have the coordination and aim, and Rousseau must have realized that.  The Quartermaster fought the urge to frown as he weighed the thing in his hand, deciding that if they got out of this, he was going to order his own cane – and it was going to be made of sterner stuff.  Seeing no point in attempting to break his walking stick over the head of a man he couldn’t even properly pinpoint, Q settled his grip and twitched the cane’s tip across the ground, getting a crude sense of things. 

Rousseau kept his promise to make Q prove his own incompetency, unfortunately.  The simple walk around the car to the assigned passenger door was just about the longest stretch of torture Q could imagine.  He actually tripped on the cane itself twice, and the parking lot was old enough that bits of broken gravel or upstart plants foiled his movements at every step, despite how the cane was supposed to alert him to things like that. Rousseau was doing a poor job of stifling laughter by the time Q was actually at the indicated door, and if there had been anyone else outside, they would have probably thought Q drunk and his friend rather amusingly unhelpful.  Q literally couldn’t make it any farther, helplessness and frightened frustration climbing up his throat to strangle his calm, and he didn’t think to fight as a giggling Rousseau came up behind him and gripped a handful of the collar of his shirt before reaching past to jerk the door open. Q flinched at the noise, and hunched in on himself as he felt his captor roughly fold him into the seat. Fortunately, Q’s fear of having his skull smack against the rim of the door was never realized, although the edges of a panic attack felt like they were burning at the back of his mind.

“Mercer might think you’re a genius,” was Rousseau’s smug remark as he himself slid into the driver’s side a moment later and turned on the car with a click of keys and a grumble of the engine, “but I’ve been watching you be an uncoordinated cripple for days, so don’t think that I’m impressed.”

‘You don’t have to be impressed,’ Q thought to himself with a bit of vicious fury of his own.  His hands gripped his cane where it rested between his knees and his anger pushed down the anxiety threatening to constrict his ribs.  The walking stick in his hands wasn’t retractable like some were, so the confines of the car rendered it inoperable as a weapon.  Rousseau had also no doubt checked over the slim, tapered rod for any modifications, but it had no buttons or secret compartments. In fact, Q had heard the man’s palms slipping as he tried to twist it in half, as if looking for a blade waiting to slide out of its innocuous sheath.  Beneath his fear and humiliation, Q had actually had to try not to snort at the idea.

Then again, the only thing more ridiculous than thinking that Q could or would be able to wield a sword-cane was the thought that a half-bit hacker like Rousseau would be able to find any modifications made by the Quartermaster of MI6.  The only reason Q was behaving so well right now was only partially due to his own blindness and Rousseau’s intimidation tactics.  If Q weren’t so worried about 007 right now, and aware that he was right now being brought not only to where Mercer was but to where James was, Q was fairly certain that he would have had enough bravery to do something reckless and stupid.  If nothing else, he knew that fear could actually motivate him to do quite a lot of things, like sinking a sliver of wood into Bond’s arm when the man had first startled him after that terrible explosion in Q-branch.

No, right now, Q was behaving because he needed to get to James.  Bond had helped him and kept him safe this whole time, and Q would be damned before he failed to return that favor however he could.  Besides that, Rousseau had just reminded Q how helpless he was on his own, and that terrible truth made it hard for Q to bite back furious tears even as he fervently hoped to have his agent back soon. 

Bond was more than Q’s agent, and perhaps even more than a tentative friend right now: he was Q’s eyes. Q’s biological eyes, right now, were aching terribly as if they’d turned to orbs of molten lead, and were just as useless for seeing the world around him. 

If it hadn’t been so dark inside the car, with night having settled in the world around them, he might have noticed the faintest fogginess to his previously pitch-black vision.

~^~

Q’s entire focus was used up trying to move one foot in front of the other, and it didn’t help that Rousseau took perverse pleasure in rushing him now that they were out of the car and inside another building. “You can try and call for help again. We’re away from anyone who will care now,” Rousseau had chirruped pleasantly after hauling Q out of the car and propelling him forward.  Q’s cane was saving him more by acting as a brief crutch than by actually assisting his sensory input, and he felt the roots of panic sinking into him again. The sheer weight of the unknowns populating the world around him was crushing, so much so that even brief shoves were almost welcome, because at least it told him where Rousseau was.

“Caspian,” came a male but unfamiliar voice, and Q shied away from an amorphous sense of something near him.  He couldn’t retreat far, however, as Rousseau caught a fist-full of his jacket again to reel him back in.  Head turning away stiffly as he felt air – breath – against his hair, Q gritted his teeth and tried to remain calm as the speaker continued from far too close, “Nice catch you brought in.”

“Where’s his partner?  Did Sergei bring him in, too?” Caspian replied, the sharpness of his voice giving away his emotions.  007’s betrayal of his trust clearly stung. 

“Oh, the blond bastard was brought in all right – but we had to carry Sergei, too, on account of his useless arse being laid out on the pavement,” was the answer, which made Q swell with pride even as he swallowed the embarrassment of being talked over like a piece of furniture, “That blond bastard did a number on Sergei that he’s not likely to forget soon.” Then attention turned, regrettably, back to Q.  “This his partner? He’s seriously blind?”

“Yes, I’m seriously blind-” Q couldn’t keep his mouth from replying for himself with bored flippantness, and therefore earned an even harsher tug against his clothing that had almost all of Rousseau’s weight behind it.  Q was sent staggering to the right, shoulder colliding with a wall and pain shooting down his right side in an agonizing flash as the laceration connected, too. Q’s mouth opened in an involuntary gasp that would probably have been a scream if the pain hadn’t been so sudden and shocking, pushing the air out of him.  He could only lean there, every muscle taut enough to snap (probably keeping him from crumpling to the floor), as he tried to swallow down the sudden burst of pain.  He missed the next few things that were said, but had rallied himself again by the time Rousseau gripped his elbow and dragged him roughly away from the wall and forward again.

“You have no idea how much better I liked you as Adam Balien,” Rousseau griped, “You were quieter, for one. Although I’d like to see you mouth off against Shaw Mercer – I’ll bet that he won’t have any trouble beating on a blind person.”

“Rousseau,” came a voice that Q had honestly hoped never to hear again, drawing him up short even though his cane had struck nothing in front of him, “I’d like it if you could keep from defaming my good name.” He sounded incredibly irritated and resigned, like a man who’d had it up to his ears in trouble for days now – which he very likely had, and the revelation of Q’s survival and 007’s presence couldn’t be helping that. 

“Sure thing, boss,” the hacker replied cheerily, then gave Q a little shove between the shoulder-blades.  Q resisted the urge to spin around and take a swing at him only because he knew that the effort would be embarrassing and fruitless. “One spy in our midst, just like you ordered.” 

Q froze and tried not to shake too obviously as he heard footsteps moving towards him. 

~^~

The room was simple, especially by the standards of scientists, whose labs had a tendency to collect clutter instead of the answers they sought.  Computers lined the back wall, and a center table was occupied by little more than a small latched case, newly deposited.  Mercer himself stood next to it, murderously eyeing the dark-haired waif of a man who’d just been pushed into the room.  Large hazel eyes slid in an unfocused way across the space over Mercer’s left shoulder, the only mark of blindness on an otherwise familiar, very alive visage. Rousseau smirked as he crossed is arms and leaned against the doorway, doing a very poor job of hiding his hurt and anger behind the mean, upward curve of his lips. 

Behind the central bench was another figure, large and out of place, unguarded but also terribly still.  An unconscious 00-agent was decidedly less terrifying than an active, deadly one. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mercer finally grated out into the silence, because that was the biggest thought in his head, and nothing else would come out before it. 

“Hopefully this will convince you to stay in the science business instead of switching to assassination for your income,” the blind, captured Quartermaster had the sass to say back thinly.

Mercer growled, “Watch your mouth. I’ve got your pet assassin right here, and since I’m pretty sure that I’m his target, and I’m still breathing, then he’s failed, too.”

That beat Q into silence.  His lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line, and his paleness revealed his fear and worry more than any words would have. As Q shifted his weight slightly, looking stiff and adrift between Rousseau and Mercer, he winced. Instantly Mercer’s eyes seemed drawn to an extra wedge of darkness tucked beneath the edges of Q’s jacket.

Rousseau straightened enough from his post at the door to raise his hands innocently, defending before Mercer could ask, “I just cut him a little – you wanted him to make some noise, so I gave him some incentive.  It’s barely a paper-cut.” 

  The way Q’s mouth thinned again even as his sightless eyes grew flinty said that he disagreed, but the Quartermaster also didn’t look like he was about to collapse from pain or blood-loss any time soon.  Mercer nodded to show he accepted the explanation.  “Fine then.  Rousseau, if you could kindly-” 

Q surprised everyone by interrupting in a hard, forceful voice usually heard only in the depths of MI6, “I want to see Bond.” Realizing that ‘see’ wasn’t the best choice of words but refusing to back down, Q flushed but added, “I want proof of his condition.  If he’s dead, I won’t cooperate, and I know that you want my expertise.”

“You really don’t know anything at all,” Mercer retorted, causing the Quartermaster to twitch a little in surprise.

“Take me to my companion,” Q refused to budge or be distracted.

“I could have killed him already. After all, he’s of no use to me – you are, which annoys me to no end, but at least makes me grudgingly glad that that explosion merely blinded you.”

“Take me-”

“You don’t get to give orders here!” Mercer roared, suddenly coming forward and into Q’s space, in a rush that had the hapless Quartermaster tensing and flinching, knowing on a visceral level that he didn’t have the means by which to escape – just like he’d never had the option of fleeing the opera house without 007 there.  He was like a genie in a bottle: vast amounts of knowledge and power, but quite without the power to do anything with it unless he had a bit of outside help. Right now, that help was gone, and Q’s cane twitched against Mercer’s leg even as the scientist’s hands bunched in Q’s collar and dragged him forward and off-balance.  “Just because I’m in need of your expertise doesn’t mean you have any leverage.  I may not want to hurt you, but believe me when I say I have no patience for you either.” Mercer paused, eyes wild with anger and a mounting stress that looked like it had been eating at him from the inside and was swiftly becoming visible from the outside as well – acid gnawing through a container.  “Fine.” Suddenly Mercer was hauling Q along, just as everyone seemed to be doing today.  “You want to see your agent?  Here he is.”  He thrust the smaller man forward, some beast being sated in Mercer as he saw the Quartermaster stumble, and then trip, cane helping not at all as his legs were fouled up by the very presence of Bond himself.  Mercer smirked coldly as he heard the cane clatter on the floor and saw Q go sprawling across the agent’s torso.  “Reacquaint yourself with your partner in crime.  Then you’re going to sit, behave, and listen to what I tell you – and then you’re going to do exactly as I tell you, or I’ll kill your agent slowly so that you can hear the life coming out of him.

~^~

Q was getting really tired of being manhandled, and panicked a little as he felt his cane fly out of his grip. He needed that!  Then he was suddenly more preoccupied by the give of flesh beneath the texture of cloth beneath his hands, having landed heavily on something that was very clearly alive… or at least once had been.  He instinctively recoiled, terrified and sickened, the unique resistance of a body for a moment being too much for him to handle when his brain had been expecting hard floor.  As he scrambled to push himself up and away, however, his hand brushed past the edges of a lapel and he pushed down harder on what must have been a chest, because there was a soft rush of air being pushed out.  Then, belatedly, Q realized that the body he’d fallen on was warm, and he spent a second frozen with his right hand underneath the heavy weight of a suit-jacket, pressed against the texture of the expensive cotton that 007 favored in his button-downs. 

Suddenly Mercer and Rousseau’s presence didn’t matter, and Q got his knees under him, his brain reflexively orienting itself so that he figured he was next to the body’s left side, having fallen next to the man’s hip.  Now he just needed desperately to know that this man was James, and that he really was okay.

Why was he so still?  All Q could think was that 00-agents hated to be still when danger was so close around them. 

Q’s finger’s ghosted upwards, shaking and light over the wrinkles of cloth and the smooth, tiny islands that were buttons, finding a stubbled, hot throat that he immediately curled the rest of his hand around.  With a rush of relieved air, Q found what was, without a doubt, a strong and steady pulse, albeit a very slow one.  Q’s fingers moved up further until they were mapping out a strong jaw and cheekbone, finding the feathery fan of lashes from closed eyes, finally finding short hair that was surprisingly soft against his fingers. 

It was Q’s other hand that asserted that this was truly James Bond, however, finding its way past the collar of James’s shirt and along the skin of his collarbone.  There.  Q knew that scar.  Spies like 007 could be chameleons if they wanted to, changing as they wished to fit into situations, but scars were things the body didn’t like to give up. Q had read about this one in files, and had even seen it on a few occasions when missions had lead to shirtlessness within sight of cameras.  Apparently Eve had shot him at one point, and the reminder of 007’s intense will to survive – and that 007 was literally so annoying that even friends shot him from time to time – nearly made Q smile.  He withdrew his hand respectfully until it was resting on top of Bond’s shirt, where he could still feel the rise and fall of the agent’s chest and the steady throb of his heart.  Running his other hand down 007’s body in the vague hope of not finding any life-threatening injuries, Q instead came upon the fact that 007’s arms disappeared beneath him where he lay on his back.  It didn’t take a genius to realize that Mercer had been smart enough to tie Bond up in the event that he awoke. 

“For now, he’s just suffering from a knock to the head and a heavy sedative,” Mercer was at least nice enough to clarify, making Q tense again as his focus was torn away from Bond.  He huddled instinctively closer to the agent’s side, as if the mere presence of a familiar shape could somehow protect him, although he knew that that was ludicrous. 

Turning his head a little over his shoulder even though he knew that he had no hope of meeting Mercer’s eyes, Q steeled himself to face the problem at hand.  He couldn’t depend on Bond to get him out of this one, because Bond was out for the count. “Tell me what you want, Mercer.”

“I want Genecode.”

“You have it,” Q played dumb, fishing for more information but also stalling as he tried to come up with a plan.

Even blind, Q could feel the frustration coming off Mercer, if only in the small growls the man was actually emitting. To be fair, it wasn’t a very intimidating growl, but Q was used to hearing the noise amplified and deepened in 007’s throat, so he was probably desensitized. The threatening noises 00-agents made under their breath made Mercer sound pathetic by comparison, and it made Q feel a little better even as the scientist got talking again, “That’s what I’ve told the auction house, yes, but I’ve gotten rather good at lying as the years have gone by.  I’d be embarrassed to say this, but since I’ve got you here under my thumb, I suppose I may as well just say it.”  Mercer let out a giggle that had just enough of a manic edge that Q flinched, kneeling a bit closer to Bond and wishing he could reach his bound wrists.  Trying to untie them would at least have made his fingers feel useful, no matter how pointless the endeavor.  

“You see, Q, the explosion in MI6 was supposed to leave me as the only person with all of the data on Genecode. I had everything: the genetic research as well as the prototype for the decoding algorithm that you had worked on.”

“But you couldn’t complete the prototype on your own,” Q finished with wary certainty.

“No one can, it seems,” Mercer muttered, and an uneasy shuffling by the door reminded Q of Rousseau, who was no doubt quite technologically savvy, but nowhere near Q’s level. Virtually no one was. “And it turns out that Bram wasn’t a complete imbecile either.”  This caused Q to perk up, sensing new information.  “He must have suspected me, the cheeky bastard, because as soon as I tried to withdraw the information from the systems, everything began to shut down.”

Suddenly Q recalled a conversation with Bram Auden, the unfortunate head of this whole operation – the man who’d had the foresight to see how science and technology could mesh.  While Auden had not appeared suspicious of his compatriot at all, working with MI6 had reminded him of the necessity of security – he’d talked to Q, , about programs that could be installed to prevent the theft of information.  Neither of them expecting the theft to be instigated by someone so close to home, Q and Auden had talked amicably for hours on various codes and programs. Q could name scores of such programs just off the top of his head that would react unfavorably to someone suddenly removing information from its secured location, as Mercer had tried to do. Mercer had tried to take the golden goose from its nest, only to find that a wolf lay in waiting, a wolf with orders to eat the goose instead of letting anyone get his or her hands on the wealth it contained.

Flooded with this realization, Q asked with blank shock, “So you don’t have any of the Genecode data?”

“I do!” Mercer shot back defensively, backing off to a frustrated snark, “Bits and pieces were saved on a back-up server, and I managed to get your prototype program out intact, but it was tricky. Bloody Bram had set the entire memory to wipe itself apparently, should anyone try to remove Genecode without his personal codes.”  Sounding almost hurt, and definitely furious, Mercer said more softly, “My codes should have been enough.  It should have worked.”

Apparently Auden had suspected something about Mercer long before they’d all seen proof of Mercer’s betrayal in MI6. Q just wished that Auden had done something more about that knowledge like, say, arrested the man before he could unleash a bomb that had killed one man and blinded another. But Bram Auden had always had an trusting streak, preferring to hope for the best in people.  At least he’d been pessimistically prepared beneath it all.

Mercer had gained control of his emotions again, and sounded more tired as he continued, “There was one outlet that Bram hadn’t counted on – my area of expertise.”  Q’s ears twitched as he heard a noise, something shifting on the table, a few faint snapping noises before Mercer continued, “I was able to download the Genecode program into a genetic format before everything went to hell. This syringe contains the only copy of Genecode, and I had been depending on your program to decode it so that I could make a pretty penny of it. But the copy of your program that I have is only half-finished, and I can’t find anyone else who can get it up and running. So now, I’m depending on you, Quartermaster.”

Q felt his chest constrict, and the throbbing start up around his eyes again as the pure scope of the situation finally unfolded before him. His shifting foot bumped his cane, rolling loose on the floor; beneath his hands, 007 was still unconscious, not only useless at the moment but helpless.  Q’s options were shrinking swiftly down to nothing. 

Chapter Text

Lights began flickering in Mercer’s hideout.  Q didn’t notice directly, of course, being already living in a darkened world, but he heard the uneasy shuffling and abrupt silence that accompanied such a thing – and he wasn’t surprised.  He’d been waiting for what seemed like ages to test this gadget out, and while he’d been a bit afraid it wouldn’t work, the Quartermaster trusted his own work. Of course, that work had been mostly done in a manic flurry of activity when he’d been unsuccessfully trying to ignore his jealousy of Rousseau spending time with Bond.  Such sub-par conditions did not lend themselves to Q’s best work, to say nothing of him being sightless, but the growl of Mercer’s next sentence made relief rush through Q’s system, “What the devil is going on with those lights?”

“Don’no,” Rousseau murmured back, an almost Americanized lilt touching his words and pushing them together carelessly.  His tone, however, was anything but careless – he sounded just the slightest bit tense, Q noted smugly. The Quartermaster tightened his hand around his cane, standing slowly. 

Q heard next the burst of static from a handheld walkie being turned on, followed by Mercer giving orders to, presumably, more of his thugs to check out the problem. Q took note that this meant no such thugs were likely waiting just outside the door, or Mercer would have just yelled at them in person – a foolish, overconfident move on Mercer’s part. 007 might have been out for the count, but the Quartermaster of MI6 wasn’t exactly harmless either. Perhaps he was as harmless as a blind kitten, but he hadn’t been declawed. 

A plan was beginning to form in Q’s head, amorphous and desperate. 

To everyone’s shocked consternation but Q’s, the communication between Mercer and his men began to break up and return to static before he’d even gotten a proper response. “What the devil?” Mercer grunted, then slapped the offending device down on the middle table – the middle table that, apparently, held the syringe filled with genetic data on Genecode. Q fixed this point in the map he was mentally forming, his eidetic memory shifting now so that his other senses replaced the perfect recall usually related to his sight.  “Rousseau, go out there and find out what the hell is going on with these lights,” Mercer ordered, proving once again that he was a geneticist and not a trained mercenary or assassin at his core.

Rousseau actually showed more sense, hesitating before asking, “What about those two?”

For a second, Q held his breath, wondering if he’d have to contend with two enemies instead of one. Already, Q knew that his plan was a mess, and he didn’t know if he could handle much at all, really. Although at least one part of the plan was going far better than expected: the palm-reader he’d installed on his cane had reacted to Rousseau’s foreign touch just like it was supposed to, and since Q hadn’t exactly sent in an ‘all clear,’ it now appeared that his laptop had gone into attack-mode.  Seeing a culmination of his work like this suddenly made Q feel rather giddy, and it took all of his will-power not to grin like a maniac. 

In response to Rousseau’s question, Mercer snorted and replied, “What, you think I can’t handle a blind boffin?  His counterpart is the dangerous one, and he’s going to be unconscious for at least another hour.”

That put a bit of a kink in Q’s plans, but he could only hope that Mercer was wrong about that last part.

“Fine,” Rousseau gave in, and there was the sound of retreating footsteps and then the door closing.

Now Q’s ears were only filled with the sounds of three people breathing: 007 behind him on the floor, Mercer before him, between him and the center table.  Q did his best to appear harmless, lowering his head in what he hoped looked like a submissive gesture, even as Mercer grumbled to himself, “An electrical short, of all things…  Why won’t this damn walkie-?”  He cut off suddenly, and that was how Q knew that the lights must have finally gone out all together.

‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,’ Q knew the old quote to say.  Well, Q could think of no better self-defense than to blind the whole world, to make it just as crippled as he was.  Trusting that the room around him was truly as jetty as what his useless eyes were showing him, Q tossed aside all hesitancy and trusted that he was more equipped to handle pure darkness than Mercer was. 

And if Q was wrong, well… he had an ace up his sleeve. 

Mercer had been swearing before Q had even lurched forward, another hint that the power had gone out. His swearing held a bit of a surprised note as something narrow poked him in the side – like a stick prodding at him. Q’s hand, at the other end of that ‘stick’ (his cane for once feeling useful in his grip), sensed the pressure that came from connecting with Mercer’s body, and he depressed the skillfully hidden button that turned on one of the more inventive tricks Q had hidden in his cane.  An electrical charge immediately crackled and arched from the end of the cane, and Mercer’s low cursing abruptly became a rather girlish scream.

The blast of power was brief – Q had sacrificed duration for power, and knew that the power source behind the electrical blast had been drained dry even by the two-second jolt.   It had been enough, however, because the sound of Mercer’s shriek had ended, replaced by the thump of a heavy body collapsing to the floor.  Q just stood for a second, cane still held out like a fencing sword, adrenalin trying to convince his heart to explode.  He didn’t think that he’d killed Mercer, but he’d definitely taken him down like a felled tree. “I can’t believe that worked,” he murmured to himself, before he realized that time was of the essence. Chances were high that someone had heard Mercer and would come to investigate. 

Moving forward shakily but determinedly, only stumbling once as he was forced to make his way around one of Mercer’s limp legs, Q made it to the center table and immediately began feeling across it with questing hands.  His fingertips brushed something, immediately beginning to feel around the shape of it until he was reasonably sure that he was dealing with a case of some sort – he sagged in relief as he found the clasps, and they actually came undone. Inside, Q felt velvet and the smooth, cylindrical shape of a capped syringe.  Mercer had brought it all back from the auction house for safe-keeping, no doubt, so Q reveled in the irony as he stole the syringe from its case and tucked it into his jacket pocked.  He winced a little as the movement made his side twinge, his button-down stuck to the wound with blood, probably.  At least it didn’t feel like it was actively bleeding anymore.

With Genecode secure and no sounds of anyone arriving yet, Q turned around, swiveling his mental map with him so that he could get back to 007 as fast as possible.  He was too much in a hurry to be properly pleased by the fact that, this time, he didn’t trip and fall on the man.  “Bond.  Bond!” Q hissed, keeping his voice low at first and then raising it recklessly when the agent didn’t respond.  Shaking the man’s broad shoulders likewise garnered no response.  Panic began to swell behind Q’s sternum, as he realized that his whole plan might have been for nothing.  He couldn’t get out of here without someone to act as his eyes.

And even if he could, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t leave his partner here anyway.

“Bond, wake up!” Q’s voice got sharper, like an icicle getting honed to a tapered point even as the heat rose, and it started to drip away.  Q definitely could feel the situation getting a bit too hot for his liking. He gave 007’s chest a sharp thump with a frustrated fist as he cried out in frustration, “James, you bloody narcissistic phoenix, don’t you dare choose now to just lie there!” Still nothing. Q’s other hand had fisted in 007’s jacket without realizing it, and he suddenly felt like it was the only thing that was keeping him anchored.  Exasperation was becoming panic, was becoming terror, and Q didn’t realize when tears began streaking down his cheeks.  “I’d slap you, but I don’t have the aim, you bastard,” he snarled more quietly, even as 007 remained soundly unconscious.  As Q had alluded, 007 made a regular habit of coming back from the dead, but coming back from a drugged sleep seemed another matter entirely – and Q realized that this sleep was likely to become permanent if they didn’t get out of here. Mercer hated Q more than 007, arguably, but while he needed Q…

He didn’t need James.  And Mercer was going to want to take out his anger at being electrocuted on someone.

Swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut as if to force the tears back where they’d come from, Q began putting his powerful mind to the task of devising a new plan. He had precious little to work with, but he began to twist it and turn it in his head, furiously devising a new approach that might not get them out of here… but would maybe keep them both alive for just a bit longer.

~^~

Mercer woke up at about the same time that his henchmen and Rousseau returned to make a report. It brought to mind a tidal wave crashing in, turning what had previously been a fearful but silent waiting into a smothering rush of chaos. 

“You… you little minx!” Mercer roared with a slur to his words that probably came from having been hit with the mad-genius equivalent of a cattle-prod.  The geneticist had enough coordination to shake free of the hands helping him up and charge the subject of his ire: the kidnapped Quartermaster of MI6, who had up until this point been sitting calmly next to 007’s head.  Mercer’s charge knocked him on his back, and for the next few seconds, Q was pinned down by a solid, furious weight across his thighs while hands found their way around his neck. Mercer was nearly incoherent, either with rage or due to having been electrocuted, but his grip was horrifically strong as he tried to choke the life out of the smaller man beneath him. Startled, Q dropped his cane to claw at Mercer’s knuckles and arms, but couldn’t get free.

Suddenly, just as Q thought that he’d miscalculated and Mercer would kill him after all, Mercer was dragged off him.  Q could only lie limply on his back, coughing and choking down lungfuls of air that made his throat scream in protest but his de-oxygenated body gasp in relief.

“Mercer!  Shaw!”  That was Rousseau’s voice, sounding shocked and panicked – by what, Q couldn’t have said. After all, there was a lot to deal with. Mysterious power-outages and comm-line interferences; the sight of his boss in a twitching, semi-conscious mess on the floor; said boss flying into a mindless rage and trying to kill someone… Q actually giggled, but the sound was so hoarse and shaky that he doubted anyone recognized it as such. “We can’t kill him, remember? You need him!”

Mercer’s growl was wet and animal, and Q imagined spittle flying off a boar’s wet tusks.  “True,” he admitted, “But I don’t need his MI6 bodyguard. I hope that you can stomach being responsible for this agent’s death, Quartermaster-”

“I wouldn’t…” Q wheezed, still supine and out of breath, but feeling a strange calm settle over him as the situation began to develop exactly as he’d predicted it would, “I wouldn’t… do that… if I were you.” 

“And why not?” retorted Mercer from somewhere over him.  Q’s eyes opened to slits, and he wondered if he could still see stars even though he was blind, because there were hazy motes dancing amidst the blackness as his eyelids parted. 

“You were out for exactly five minutes and forty-one seconds,” the Quartermaster continued, voice gaining strength even if talking was an exercise in agony at the moment. He winced, closing his eyes again, but dragged more words past his bruised throat, “You don’t think I spent that whole time just standing still, do you?”  He swallowed painfully, but delivered the last sentence with a sharp edge to smother his discomfort, “Check the case on the table.”

There was a tense silence, and then a scramble of movement.  Q could hear… maybe four people speaking in the room now.  Mercer, Rousseau, and probably two guards. And Q was willing to bet that every last one of them flinched when Mercer suddenly raised his voice in an unholy roar.

“It sounds like you found the empty case then,” Q mused.

Mercer barked commands, and Q didn’t fight as he was dragged to his feet and forward. He had no walking cane now, and his mental map never worked very well when he was being forcibly moved around, but he doubted that it mattered.  The only thing that actually made him tense was the familiar noise of a gun being cocked. Mercer’s breath was hot and acrid-smelling across the Quartermaster’s face as the man got into his personal space and said with low menace, “And how is that supposed to save your precious agent? I’m just about mad enough right now to skin him alive, just so that you’ll have to hear a grown man scream.”

Q made no comment on the fact that he’d heard Mercer scream just minutes ago, before collapsing to the ground like a sack of moldy potatoes.  Instead, the Quartermaster steeled himself and hoped that his face remained impassive, before replying evenly, “Look in my jacket pocket.”

The hands of the two guards tightened around Q’s arms, reminding him that he already had some bruises there from Rousseau’s rough handling, but seconds later he felt another hand delve under his jacket.  His wound was inadvertently jarred, but no one cared if Q hissed and bared his teeth in brief agony. “What…? What the fuck did you do?!” Mercer’s voice shook with horrified shock and confused wrath.

Ah, good, he was seeing the empty syringe now.

“Call it life insurance,” Q said, sounding calmer than he felt.  Honestly, he was starting to feel a little bit giddy, which wasn’t a good sign – but hysteria was a better option than a panic attack, he figured. “But not for me. Your Genecode is in 007 right now, Mercer. And until it’s been in Bond’s body long enough for it to multiply a little, you won’t be able to get it out – not in dependable amounts, at least.  So if you kill him now…”  Q resisted the urge to stammer at the thought, instead speaking in a harder tone to seal the deal, “…Good luck finding the genetic needle in the metaphorical haystack.”

“You little fucker,” Rousseau breathed from a bit further away, and it was hard to tell whether he was impressed or shocked. 

Mercer was clearly vacillating between anger and shock, and Q was already waiting tensely for the blow before Mercer’s hand even connected with his cheek.  The blow felt open-palmed, but it had the fury of a thwarted man behind it, and Q felt like his brain was rattled in his head.  He tasted blood on his tongue as he sagged against the hands holding him, struggling to regain his balance while his inner ear rang. 

“Tie him up,” Mercer commanded, his voice quaking under the obvious effort of containing his temper – it sounded like a dam on the verge of giving way, “Once he’s trussed up like his friend, they can both spend some quality time in the supply closet – the empty one. I’m sick of things not going according to plan.”  Mercer quieted a little, and that tired tone returned to his voice.  “I need to think for a bit.”

It was hard, but Q managed not to sigh obviously in relief. Mercer was the geneticist, not Q, so if any part of Q’s crazy scheme weren’t air-tight, Mercer would be the first to notice.  But either Q had planned this better than he’d thought, or the voltage and amperage had adequately scrambled Mercer’s brains a bit.  Regardless, it bought Q and Bond a bit more living, breathing time. Being tied up and stuck in a supply closet sounded like a horrible change in scenery, but Q had just had his bell rung pretty good, too, and his efforts to fight may as well have been the weak flailing of a snared rabbit.  His arms were dragged behind his back and roughly secured with handcuffs that bit into his wrists.  Perhaps he should have tried to listen in to Rousseau and Mercer’s murmuring together close to the door, but it suddenly seemed more important to listen to the heavy noises of 007 being picked up… or dragged… somewhere back and to Q’s left.

“When I figure out what to do with you, Quartermaster, you’re going to regret this,” Mercer threatened, even as Q was bodily hauled back, too.  A door was opened, and Q stumbled as the man at his right arm swung him around to face forward and walk. 

Q desperately hoped that Bond would have woken up by that point, because he was fresh out of ideas. Aching in a million places and beginning to shake with the realization that he’d just escaped death by a hair’s-breadth – and had just saved Bond from execution with a similarly small margin for error – the Quartermaster let himself be pulled away.  He closed himself off, his thoughts and mind and senses, so that all he listened to was the dragging noise and faint puffing that he assumed was at least two henchmen suffering under the weight of a 00-agent as they dragged him along as well. 

~^~

The smallness of their new prison made it easy for Q to find 007, so ever since the door had closed and they’d been left alone, the Quartermaster had been sitting close enough to the unconscious agent to feel him.  Bond was on his right side now, and Q was close enough that he felt the first shudder of tension roll down the man’s back and shoulders as he began to finally – finally – shake off whatever they’d given him.  It was eerie, really, to hear someone come awake so silently, when Q’s ears expected to hear at least low groaning or incoherent curses.  Bond was a 00-agent, however, and his training would follow him to the grave.  “007, good to have you back with us,” the Quartermaster drawled, fearing that some of his anxiety showed in the pitch of his voice. 

The body next to him stiffened, then turned a little, then swore quietly.  Bond’s left shoulder pressed into Q’s thighs, where his own legs were drawn up close against his chest.  “Where the hell are we?” 007 demanded in an unfairly steady, calm voice, just a bit rough and thick still from his sleep.  Before Q could answer, Bond asked a bit incredulously, “Are we seriously in a closet?”

“Very perceptive of you,” Q applauded dryly, feeling some of his anxiety melt away at 007’s familiar, low tones. “Yes, I do believe that we have been put in a room where we cannot cause trouble.  I think it’s guarded, but I can only hear people rather distantly.”

Bond appeared to have finally noticed his bound hands, and Q rocked a little as 007 awkwardly curled into a sitting position, brushing heavily against the Quartermaster as he did so. “Damn.  I can barely feel my arms.  How long have I been out?”

“Hours,” Q said, deciding not to narrow it down to the minutes and seconds.  Perhaps it should have amused him that he could keep time so well in dangerous situations, and yet lost track of time entirely when he was working.  “You’ve missed quite a lot, actually.”

“Are you all right?”

Bond’s voice was a low rumble, and it suddenly made Q want to buckle beneath the weight and strain pressing in on him.  He dragged in a breath that hurt his throat, and prayed that it was too dark in here for 007 to see much of him. “Yes, I’m fine. You were drugged, so you missed some rather stimulating conversation with Mercer.  Did you know that this whole time, he’s only ever had Genecode contained in one genetic sample?”  Q was fairly certain that he was babbling, but it distracted him from the itchy throbbing at his side and the fact that he couldn’t see any way out of this, now that he’d already tried literally everything else he could think of. “Apparently, after killing me and Bram, he’d planned to run back to the lab and download all the data, while everyone else was still distracted by the chaos at MI6.”

“And it didn’t work?” 007 asked, his voice drifting from just back and to Q’s right as the agent shifted around.  He was probably trying to get loose, but Q had already been trying that for what felt like ages.

“No,” Q replied wryly, a bit pleased to deliver this tidbit of information, “Apparently Bram had been paranoid about someone trying to steal Genecode, so he’d basically booby-trapped the system.  Unfortunately, Bram never knew the genetic side of things quite as well as Mercer did, so he did manage to convert the data into genetic form before the system wiped itself.”

“Dead-man's switch?” 007 sounded approving, although he finished with a harsher tone, “Shame it didn’t quite work.” He was wriggling around more and more as he struggled with the cuffs, and Q scooted over a bit to avoid being knocked over. 

“Well, it may as well have, because Mercer was idiotic enough to think that he could translate those genes back into readable data again.  Which would have worked, except all he had was the prototype of my program, which he was stupid enough to think he could finish without me.”

“Don’t let your own modesty overwhelm you there, Quartermaster,” Bond had the audacity to chuckle teasingly. “What else did I miss?”

“Oh, just a few threats on your life,” Q sighed.  This was all starting to feel worrisomely surreal, which either meant he was handling this very well or was about to have a psychotic break under all the stress.

“Mercer did mention that I was expendable.”

Q winced, but finally admitted, “You’re actually not anymore.  Mercer was getting a bit too… free with his threats on your person, so I had to do something about it.”

By the sudden lack of sound, Bond had stilled.  “What did you do?” was the wary question that came next.

Taking a deep breath, Q let out the story in a rush, “Oh, nothing much, really.  Just knocked out the power-grid for most of the building, jammed the comms, and then electrocuted Mercer with my cane when everyone else went to investigate.  When Mercer woke up, I told him that I’d injected all of Genecode into you, so congratulations, 007: you’re now probably worth a few million dollars.”

“What?” 007 barely thought to keep his voice down, and it was comforting for Q to spread the alarm around a little. Now he wasn’t the only one who sounded a bit mad.  “Okay, you’re going to have to say that again, Q, because from where I’m sitting, none of that made a whole lot of bloody sense.  Start over,” the agent demanded in granite tones. 

Q sighed, sinking forward so that he could rest his chin on his knees.  The posture did little to alleviate the strain of having his arms cuffed behind his back, and his side twinged, but things could hardly get much worse. “You remember when I modified your watch, yes?”

“Of course I do, Q.”

“Well, I took that time to modify my cane as well.  You’re always busting up your handgun, so I’d taken along spare parts, and… I might have used the palm-print recognition technology on my cane.  It’s actually rather flexible stuff.”  While Q mused at his own genius for a moment, James just sat and breathed, presumably stunned.  Q finally continued, “It was already keyed to your handprint and mine, so it just took a teensy bit of tweaking to get it to send out an S.O.S. of sorts if any other hand was imprinted on it.  Ergo, when Rousseau caught me-”  Q couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath at the memory, but pushed it down hard, clamping his eyes shut before continuing, “-I convinced him to bring my cane along. Every blind man needs one, after all, and if I don’t send in an ‘all clear’ message within ten minutes of contact, the unfamiliar handprint sets off a chain reaction of sorts. The signal reaches my laptop.”

“Q, you’re a little bit scary, you know that, right?”

“I’m not finished. My laptop is set to hone in on my location – or, rather, the location of my cane.  Then I’ve set up a whole phalanx of programs to basically shut down all power in that area.  It’s… flexible. I think that my computer managed to tap into enough systems to cause an energy surge that knocked out the lights in the building temporarily, and Mercer was having a hard time communicating with his men by then, too.  I didn’t expect the time delay, though.  This all happened nearly thirty minutes after Rousseau first took hold of my cane, and so far as I know, it didn’t start taking out streetlight along the way. I suppose it worked out for the best, happening when it did.”  If it had happened earlier, maybe he would have been saved the indignity of dealing with Mercer – but he also would have learned less, and maybe wouldn’t have spotted the opportunity to keep Bond safe.  “The rest is simple, really: I also managed to connect a power supply to a conductive metal tip on my cane, and pumped Mercer full of enough volts and amperage to light him up like a Christmas tree.  It didn’t kill him, sadly.” 

There was silence from his right, the only thing keeping Q from believing that 007 had just disappeared into thin air being the continued inhales and exhales he could hear. Growing a bit tetchy, Q sat up and snapped, “Well, say something!”

When Bond did speak, it was in a martyred sort of groan, “I can’t believe I just became the first fucking guinea pig for Genecode.”

“Seriously?” Q ranted back, deciding that a bit of hysteria would do him good – and if the guards heard him, fine.  If they were smart, they’d stay far, far away while Q finally went nuclear.  “I tell you all of that, and you decide to focus on that one piece of information?  I did it to save your skin, you know!  Mercer was going to bloody murder you right next to me, and I couldn’t take it-!”

Q was cut off abruptly when a hand came around his mouth, another curling around the back of his head to hold him still.  That was shocking enough in and of itself, because last Q had known, 007’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Bond must have either felt or seen the way the Quartermaster’s body jerked sharply in confused shock. “Easy, Q.  I’m not out of the cuffs yet.  I just finally got enough circulation back into my arms to get them under my legs and out in front of me.”  Bond’s easy voice soothed like a caress against Q’s eardrums, quieting him despite the Quartermaster’s best intentions to remain panicked and angry. “Just calm down, all right? I wasn’t complaining about your methods – far from it.  You’ve done amazingly so far, Q.  Just amazing.”

Despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, Q found himself relaxing and sagging against the hands cupped around his face and nape.  He was exhausted, and only now seemed to fully realize it, with a shocking suddenness that made him want to sob.  His eyes hurt, the rest of him hurt, and they were both handcuffed in an empty closet waiting for Mercer to find his way around Q’s temporary sabotage.

Still not releasing the smaller man, 007 let the fingers of his left hand stroke through Q’s hair softly, steadily, and soothingly.  It was as if he could feel Q coming apart, but at least seemed to know how to use his voice and his touch to hold him together.  “We’ll get out of this, Q, don’t worry.  You’ve already done more than anyone else would have.  Amazing.”  The last word was just a breath, and Q shuddered again, but less violently this time. It was the kind of shudder that came from stepping out of the cold and into a blessedly hot shower, and he thought that he was a bit more collected by the time 007 finally released him. “Better?” Bond asked.

Despite how he should have been annoyed at someone forcibly muzzling him like that, Q did indeed feel more steady – not exactly relaxed, but less like he was going to start screaming. “Yes, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I have some pertinent information to add, however, now that I’m…”  Q stammered a little, embarrassed at himself and his reactions, but went on gamely nonetheless, “…Not ranting and raving.  I lied to Mercer.”

Another beat of silence informed Q that he’d managed to startle the 00-agent yet again.  This had to be some sort of record by now. Bond lost his soothing tone in favor of a slightly stiff one, “Spit it out, Q.”

“You’ll be happy to hear this, actually,” Q went on, quietly enough so that even an ear pressed against the door wouldn’t have heard, but a 00-agent sitting attentively at his side could, “As of now, Genecode is no more, unless someone wants to scrape if off the duct-work.  I found a floor-vent and emptied the syringe down it.  That way, even if we both end up dead at the end of all this, Mercer still loses. I’ll be damned if I give him something as powerful as Genecode.”

“Q… that,” 007 started and stopped, voice still flat and rather unreadable, but with little warbles at the edges like various emotions trying to slip through.  Finally, Bond barked out something that might have been a laugh. “That’s positively evil.”

“I’m a mad genius. You said so.”

“You’re a vindictive mad genius. And an overprotective one. You should have been keeping yourself safe instead of doing all of this just to save my skin,” 007 chided seriously.

Q merely huffed, turning up his nose at 007 even though he doubted there was enough light in the closet for him to see the gesture.  “Quartermaster’s prerogative.  Besides, I can’t very well walk out of here on my own, can I?”

“Very true,” 007 admitted, then slowly stood, grunting with a sound of shifting clothing and muscles that Q’s keen ears labeled as the sounds of stretching.  “Sorry I haven’t been more helpful.”

Since Bond seemed to sincerely mean that, Q replied in kind, “No apologies necessary, 007. If you can get us out of here, you can expect me to forgive you completely, in fact.”

There was noise above Q, and the blind Quartermaster tilted his head and frowned, trying to place what he was hearing.  007 shifted, his knee brushing Q’s arm.  “What are you doing?”

“Just…”  007’s words were tight and distracted as he worked, but a second later he was sighing out a pleased sound.  “Just taking advantage of what we’ve got on hand, Quartermaster. I’m entirely capable of dislocating my thumbs and getting out of these cuffs as soon as it’s convenient, but somehow I don’t think that you can – nor do I fancy the job of doing it for you.”

Q felt momentarily queasy. “I’d really rather not,” he said in a small voice. 

“Don’t worry, Q, that’s not the plan,” 007 reassured as his voice lowered once again to Q’s level, and one large hand pushed at Q’s shoulder a little, leaning him forward. There was a faint noise that sounded like glass breaking, before 007 elaborated further, “Light bulb filaments. They’re a bit fragile for my tastes, but I should be able to pick the lock on yours cuffs pretty well. You listen for anyone coming close to check on us, okay?”

“Okay,” Q agreed instantly, finding hope fluttering madly in his chest where previously there had been only dread. For a moment, there was very little to focus his senses on, except tiny scratching noises that turned out to be 007 picking his own cuffs – they fell away with a quiet clink of metal a moment later. Then Q tried not to fidget as he felt a warm, callused palm wrap around both of his wrists.  007’s other hand, presumably with the improvised lock-pick, occasionally brushed against Q’s fingers, which made him want to reach out and grab or touch, just to reassure himself that Bond was there, safe, alive, and getting them out of this mess. Q flinched as the hand holding his wrist brushed against some of the raw skin where the cuffs had bitten in.

Clearly 007 noticed, because his swearing came, low and angry, from behind Q’s head, “Damn. Did they intend to restrain you, or cut your hands off with these things?”

“Mercer was less than happy with me by this point.”

“Well, I’m going to be even less happy when I find him,” 007 promised lethally.  As he shifted positions to get more room to work, he inadvertently nudged Q in a way that aggravated the cut along his ribs, and before he could stop the noise, Q whimpered.  007 froze and stiffened. “Are you sure you’re all right, Q?”

Deciding that hiding his infirmity would only come back to bite them in the long run, Q swallowed his pride (as he seemed to be doing quite a lot today), and said delicately, “Rousseau… was less than happy with me as well.”

“He made you cry out over the comms,” 007 caught on before Q had to say more, and the next quick sentence out of Bond’s mouth sounded like Russian.  Q’s Russian was rusty, but he was fairly sure that what he’d just heard was James threatening to gut Rousseau with a spoon.  Only an agent of 007’s vast and deadly skill-set could probably actually do that. “What did he do? Is it serious?”

“Just a cut to my ribs – lower right side.  I think it’s shallow. At least, I can’t feel it bleeding anymore.”

Bond growled.

Q decided to distract him, because as nice as it was to hear 007 so angry on his behalf, they had more pressing concerns than vengeance.  “Do you have a plan?  Because I’m fresh out, and would really, really like to hear that you have a plan right now.”

At first, the only answer was a snapping click, and the sudden loosening of one of the cuffs. Q’s head dropped to his knees in relief even as he bit his lip against a pained hiss – the return of blood-flow to his chafed wrist hurt. Bond was already working on the other one, though, as swiftly efficient as an ocean tide.  “Of course, Q.  I’ve always got a plan.”

~^~

Chapter Text

Bond had to admit: despite Q’s repeated comments about being an incompetent actor, he really was quite good when he put his mind to it.  At the moment, he was raising an unholy racket that would not only have raised the dead but made it sound exactly like 007 had stopped breathing and Q was out of his head with the thought of being stuck in a closet with a dead person.  Q’s previous panic-attack - the one that 007 had stopped by the questionable means of muzzling him with his hands - was comparatively tame and quiet.  Still, as 007 crouched readily just at the edge of the door, he felt a painful tugging behind his breastbone at the terror and stricken alarm Q was infusing into his voice.  From Bond’s experience, good performances like this (from people with no previous training) were rooted in truth.  

Watching the dim silhouette of Q crouched against the back wall, mostly motionless except for the sharp inhales he needed in between wild shouts, 007 recalled that the Quartermaster had already been through far more than even most field agents could take.  Feeling a hot stab of guilt for being unconscious while Q was trying desperately to keep them both alive, 007 readied himself and focused on making sure he could make up for lost time.  He wasn’t unconscious now, and it was his turn to pull his weight.  

“Oh bloody god, I’m in here with a corpse!” Q was just wailing, sounding on the edge of madness.  007 would definitely have to applaud his performance later, when he was totally sure that Q was not only safe but not actually on the verge of a mental breakdown.  

Bond knew Q well enough to be able to say with… reasonable certainty… that this wasn’t an actual panic attack, but it sounded like the guards had bought it.  “Quit yer hollerin’!” one bellowed, sounding closer than expected - and hopefully coming closer.  

Only pausing for breath, a short pant that sounded a bit strained, Q went back to causing a ruckus as if he hadn’t heard.  “Oh god oh god oh god… You lot killed him and now you’re going to kill me next!”

Another voice - two guards then, at least - answered with annoyance equal to the first, “We will if you don’t shut it!”

At which point Q raised his voice about three pitches until Bond actually winced, and that finally sapped the last of their guards’ patience.  007 was already tensing with readiness to move even as Q - his whisper sudden and shocking when interspersed between his alarming wails - rasped, “They’re coming now.  Three, I think.”

“Should be a party,” 007 murmured back just as quietly, thinking that he should be less shocked by the keenness of Q’s ears.  The blind man returned to making all manner of pathetic sounds, like a hunter using a wounded-rabbit call to lure in coyotes.  Neither of them had a gun for this hunting trip, but that wasn’t going to slow down 007 much.  

Bond held himself poised as he did his best to pinpoint the locations of three voices on the other side of the door, too focused to notice Q going quiet because a second later he was hearing the scrape of a lock being turned.  007 wasted no time, but lunged, his own hand on the knob turning it seamlessly while his weight pushed the door open at a reckless speed.  Bond’s momentum came up against one body with a hard slam of impact, and winged a second man hard enough to send him sprawling backwards.  The hallway was devilishly bright compared to the dark, cramped space 007 had been in, but there was no turning back now as he faced off against the third man, whose mouth was half-open in shock.  007 barely slowed down, pushing off the door and charging into him.  

The knowledge of Q at his back, unarmed but also helpless compared to three sighted, armed guardsmen, made 007 ruthlessly quick.  Every second that passed raised the risks, and while 007 was more than used to shouldering those dangers, he wasn’t on his own this time.  The third man went down under Bond with a grunt, and the agent, eyes rapidly adjusting to the light, snapped off a series of punches before the other man could defend his face.  ‘Weapon,’ 007 thought, even as the body under him groaned and went limp.  A quick glance showed him a handgun at his opponent’s hip as well as a sheathed knife, and Bond - still on his knees - twisted towards the door again.  No one had raised an alarm yet, so far as he knew, but he had to act fast as one of the men stunned by the door began to rise.  

007’s hand found the knife instead of the gun, feeling its weight and praying that he wasn’t too rusty at this.  A sharp flick of his hand sent the knife tumbling end over end, and although it wasn’t the type of blade made for throwing, it still managed to slash Bond’s next opponent - missing the man’s neck or face but gouging through his shirt just outside the collar.  The man’s responding shout was loud, but still quieter than a bullet, and by then 007 was surging to his feet again, taking the handgun with him.  

The element of surprise stayed with him long enough to use the gun as a blunt instrument, striking across the second guard’s face hard enough that bones crunched.  Before 007 could be satisfied over one more unconscious body, however, the third man - the one he’d hit solidly with the door - attacked him from behind.  An arm locked around his throat, the weight of the man attached to it bearing them sideways and crashing to the floor.  

007 had grabbed something as he fell, however, and stubbornly ignored the arm crushing the air out of him in favor of reversing his grip on the knife, aiming blindly but with the accuracy of a man who had dealt with all of death’s faces, and stabbing backwards.  The arm around his throat loosened abruptly, and 007 twisted free like a snake, focusing on silencing his enemy as he lashed backwards with an elbow at the first opportunity.  What might have been a scream in infancy became a choked cough as Bond’s elbow connected satisfyingly with a face, although Bond himself grunted at the feeling of teeth against the bend of his arm.  His jacket was more than just a fashion statement, however, and by the time 007 was standing over three wounded and unconscious men, he was uninjured.  

There wasn’t a lot of time before someone came to investigate the noise, so James immediately slid the knife into his belt and one of the handguns into his empty shoulder-holster (a poor fit, but it would do) before returning to Q.  The Quartermaster, as ordered, had remained in the closet just inside the door-frame - out of sight and also as far from danger as Bond could put him.  Q flinched and swung as Bond touched his elbow, and the agent was startled for a second even as he remembered foolishly that Q couldn’t see him.  “Q!  Q, it’s just me - it’s all right,” he hurried to announce himself even as he caught a flailing wrist.  Fear and determination were equally bright in Q’s useless eyes, but relief mingled with everything else at the sound of James’s voice.  The tight fist in Bond’s grip relaxed instantly.  “Come on.  We’ve got to move.  I disabled our guards as efficiently as possible, but I doubt I was quiet enough about it to go unnoticed.”

Q’s breath rushed out of him in surprise as 007 switched his grip to pull the smaller man to his feet.  “Put them in the closet,” Q blurted suddenly.  “At least then, if someone comes, they’ll have to spend a few more seconds investigating before they know what’s happened.”  

“Good idea,” Bond applauded with a thoughtful hum, meaning it.  He hustled Q out into the hallway with an arm right around the boffin’s shoulders, almost forgetting how timidly Q moved when he didn’t know where he was.  With 007 forcibly moving him, however, the Quartermaster went easily, the only signs of cautiousness being in how willing he was to be tucked against 007’s side.  “Stay,” 007 commanded, and just caught the start of an eye-roll as he went to deal with their guards.  They were big men, but 007 was fit and determined, and god knew he was well-rested.  He dragged them all into the closet, piling them there with literally no thought to their future comfort, and closed and locked the door.  The third man had left a worrisome smear of blood, but there was nothing 007 could do about that except turn off the hallway’s lights as they left.  Q was still standing off to the side, head turning occasionally like an owl catching sounds.  His gaze almost lined up with 007’s face as the agent returned to his side with swift steps.  “Come on.  I’m going to move quick and fast, and you’ll have to trust me, all right?” 007 said in a coaxing tone, not thinking about it as he ran his hands up Q’s arms in a thoughtlessly soothing gesture.  

Q just nodded, jaw tight and lips pursed.  His hands had come up automatically, and Bond could see the way they were orienting themselves with little brushes to 007’s jacket and arms.  Now, out in the lit hallway, 007 could see signs of injury on Q in the form of bruised skin, but he didn’t have time to check him over - not even when he caught a glimpse of dark red staining Q’s button-down.  ‘Q, you’d better not be lying to me about how bad that is,’ 007 grumbled in his head even as he took hold of Q’s wrists, directing aloud, “Hold onto me.  I need both of my hands free, but I need to know that you’re with me.  I promise I won’t run you into anything.”

“007, hitting a few walls would be more than acceptable, so long as you lead us the hell out of here,” Q replied with a choppy little chuckle.  His smile was a bit too edged to be truly humorous, but at least it told 007 that Q’s spirit was still there - battered but not damaged beyond repair.  Hands moving as Bond directed them, the Quartermaster was soon gripping handfuls of Bond’s jacket, one fist high up near the blond man’s left shoulder-blade and the other lower down.  “Lead on,” Q directed with breathless, shaky enthusiasm.  

No one needed to tell Bond twice.  

It took a second to adjust to walking in tandem with someone else, but Bond had worked with partners before in his military days, and a few times on missions, too - it wasn’t entirely novel to have someone keeping so close on his heels.  The fact that that someone was blind should have changed things, but Q moved surprisingly well, and 007 felt a flutter of emotions as he realized that that was because Q trusted him.  With one hand holding the back of Bond’s jacket in a death-grip and the other settled more loosely in case of a sudden stop, the Quartermaster was moving almost as if he wasn’t blind at all, or as if he were physically 007’s shadow for the moment.  Bond had had sighted, fully trained partners who couldn’t do as well.  

Bond couldn’t help it.  One hand still occupied with the stolen gun he’d drawn, 007 reached back without looking, hearing Q’s little intake of breath as Bond’s hand just brushed his hip.  “You’re doing well, Q,” the agent praised in a hushed but sincere voice, “Just keep quiet, and do what you’re doing.”

“And if I hear gunfire?” Q asked, the reed-thin quality of his whisper giving away his nervousness, “What do I do then?”

Bond replied without hesitation, his left hand returning to join the right on the butt of the handgun, “Nothing.  Gunfire is my problem - as is keeping you free of bullet-holes.”

Surprisingly, Q accepted that without the slightest argument, and 007 turned the entirety of his attention forward.  With each step he could feel himself shaking off his cover, discarding the lies and masks of Richard Sterling and sliding back into the skin of James Bond again - a more vicious, deadly skin.  There was no more need to hide the fact that he had a license to kill and the will to use it, no more need to act friendly or smile politely.  Bond was still a bodyguard, of course, but of a decidedly more lethal caliber.  He flicked off the lights behind them, the darkness in his wake like a shadowy echo of his cover swiftly being forgotten.

The next guard Bond met up with didn’t see them coming until he turned to find 007’s gun pointed at his face from three meters away - close enough that he wouldn’t miss, but far enough away that the horrified guard couldn’t do a bloody thing about it.  “Drop it,” 007 said, brutal but soft.  Adrenalin was sizzling under his skin, a familiar buzz that made him feel like the world was sharper and in focus in a way that it never could be on a boring, normal day.  When the guard grimaced but dropped his weapon onto the floor as commanded, 007’s mouth kicked up at one side in a purely humorless grin.  “Your radio and phone, too.”  

This was also accomplished with minimal fuss, which was rare in Bond’s profession, but a sign that luck was with them for the moment.  Without taking his eyes off the disarmed guard in their way, Bond murmured more quietly, “Q, let go of me.”

He felt the spasmodic tightening of the Quartermaster’s hands and the intake of breath that signaled an argument, but only for a tense second.  Then the smaller man did as he was told, albeit with a small noise that sounded pained.  Bond wanted to reassure him that he’d be back in just a second, but he didn’t have time to explain the situation, and instead stalked forward with his gun leading the second he was free of any encumbrance.  

The guard tensed up, preparing to fight as danger got closer, but 007 pre-empted that survivalist instinct by suddenly charging.  

“What just happened?” Q asked when 007 came back to him.  007 neglected to announce himself, and was faced with a full-body flinch as he touched the dark-haired man’s shoulder.  

“It’s just me, Q,” 007 assured, grip tightening a little, apology infusing his tone even as the Quartermaster relaxed and let out his breath in a rush, “We walked into one of Mercer’s goons, but he’s unconscious now.  Just shooting him from a distance would have been less risky, but I’m still hoping to make it out of here without drawing attention via gunfire.”  As he talked, 007 was once again taking Q’s hands and placing them on his person, and the Quartermaster latched on quickly again like a bird finding its perch.  In fact, he held on even tighter than before, and 007 heard another unsteady release of breath - Q’s tension leaching out into the air.  

“This is going to make me go grey before my time,” Q groused quietly as they began moving again.

Even with his eyes and ears scanning constantly for signs of more danger to avoid, 007 smirked and replied in kind, “I think you’d look quite distinguished.”

Q made a quiet scoffing noise, but his only other comment was, “I’m bloody missing hearing the sensor on that watch of yours.”

“I still have the watch.”

“But I don’t have my earpiece anymore.  Rousseau was too stupid to keep my cane away from me, but now that that’s gone, I’m effectively disarmed,” Q sighed, “I feel naked.”

Bond couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his face and seeped into his voice as he replied with the smooth drawl of innuendo, “Now, now, Quartermaster - this might not be the time for unprofessional banter.”

“That wasn't-!  I wasn’t-!”

The Quartermaster’s scandalized whispers were cut off as both men heard voices, Q’s ears working overtime to make up for his ruined eyes and Bond’s ears having been sharpened via training.  Bond immediately picked out two distinct, unfamiliar voices coming their way, and a quick glance around them showed a worrisome lack of escape options.  “Bollocks,” Bond swore quite unconcernedly, even as he flexed his hands around his gun and accepted the fact that he’d have to use it.  “Two unknowns coming from your two o’clock, Q,” he explained without prompting this time, “I don’t want to go back the way we came, which leaves just one option…”

“Go through them?” Q guessed, sounding resigned.  

“Afraid so.”  The agent reached back over his shoulder to unlatch Q’s fingers, using his body to ease Q up against the wall.  “Stay here.  I’ll come back for you once I’ve cleared the way.”

“And what if you get shot?”

“I won’t,” Bond assured, and on impulse reached up a hand to cup the side of Q’s face, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw even as the Quartermaster’s eyes widened for a second in surprise.  Q’s gaze almost found Bond’s face for a second, the hazel depths of his irises beautiful even if the inner workings were heavily damaged.  “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.  I’ll just be a second.”  

And with that, Bond turned and slipped into a crouch, moving like a lion  but feeling unaccountably like a doe who had just left her fawn snuggled down in the grass.  Deja vu hit him for a second, recalling those first moments after the explosion in Q-branch, when he’d done much the same with a terrified, wounded, deaf-and-blind Quartermaster.  He grimaced and glanced back once as the memory pricked him painfully, but the sight that greeted him was far different from the memory: Q was standing, solemn and straight, the only signs of fear being the rigidness of his frame as he kept himself oriented with one hand against the wall.  ‘Good, Q,’ Bond wanted to tell him, but instead turned back to the task at hand, moving forward with predatory speed and silence as a rush of pride warmed him from the inside out.  

Timing was everything.  By this point, 007 felt safe in assuming that everyone in this building was dangerous - or at least no ally of MI6.  Perhaps not all mercenaries were inherently evil, but these ones had chosen the wrong boss.  All guilt firmly locked out of his heart - pushed aside where he couldn’t feel it - 007 paused at a bend in the hallway and waited until the two strangers were just coming upon the turn.  Then 007 twisted just far enough to angle his gun around the corner and open fire into the hallway.  

The silence was shattered.  Shouts and cries of pain met the barrage.  

Bond didn’t want a lengthy stand-off, so he took a risk and followed the muzzle of his gun until he could see his enemies.  That allowed him to see one of them on the floor, clutching his side, and the other up on one knee and bringing a pistol to bear.  007 just had time to throw himself to one side, dodging as the snarling mercenary squeezed the trigger.  Ears still filled with the sound of a bullet winging off to his left, 007 returned fire, his own shot fouled as 007’s body came up short against the wall.  Still, Bond was keeping his promise thus far of remaining un-shot, and his own bullet caught the other gunman’s upper arm with a sickening crack of bones being tested.  Bond’s first shots had caught the man in the leg (hence his kneeling position), and now Bond took the shock of the second hit to charge forward again.  He disarmed the shocked gunman with a kick, a second kick knocking the mercenary into a wheezing heap on his back.  

Movement caught the corner of Bond’s eye, just enough for his reflexes to take over and make the 00-agent jerk back a step.  A shot rang out - from the first mercenary, the one that 007 had thought already incapacitated - and pain lanced like a whip-lash across 007’s left shoulder.  

It didn’t slow Bond down enough to prevent him from immediately twisting, leveling his own gun, and pulling the trigger with swift efficiency.  The first mercenary dropped back with a hole in the center of his forehead.  

Grimacing at the pain in his shoulder more than the necessary killing, 007 aimed one last kick at the remaining mercenary to ensure that he’d stay down.  The mercenary’s bloodied face went slack.  There was a chance that he’d die of blood-loss before he came to, or anyone found him, but 007 was trained to care very little for the health of those who’d taken a shot at him.  Feeling every second apart from Q like a ticking time-bomb in his chest, 007 swiftly scooped up the nearest gun (more ammunition never hurt) and tucked it out of sight at the small of his back before hurrying back to Q.

007 only allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw that nothing had changed since he’d left, except for Q’s eyes being a bit wider and his pallor a lot paler.  Aware of his promise not to spook Q again - and also aware that the Quartermaster had no other way to tell whether the oncoming footsteps were from friend or foe - 007 whistled a smooth, five-note tune.

The Quartermaster’s expression relaxed even as his expressive mouth twisted wryly.  “ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’?  Really, 007?”  

“Only thing recognizable I could think of on short notice,” 007 defended in an offended tone, once again sliding in close to Q, but this time he winced as he moved - the bullet had only grazed the muscle of his shoulder, but it bloody hurt.  

“Are you all right?” Q demanded, somehow sensing the injury even though Bond had been sure that he’d kept his little hiss of pain firmly entrenched behind his teeth.  “What happened?”

“I’ll explain as we go - we’ve got to move, Q!” Bond reminded with urgency.  He blessed every deity he’d ever heard of that Q was a practical sort of fellow, and obeyed.  Bond had the feeling that Q could sense the extra tension on Bond’s left side, however, where the Quartermaster’s knuckles pressed against the material over 007’s left shoulder-blade.  “Two mercenaries.  They won’t be a problem,” 007 explained succinctly and without inflection as he moved the two of them down that very hallway.  As they maneuvered around blood and bodies, 007 added, “Watch your step.”  

“This is one of those moments where being blind is a good thing, isn’t it?” Q asked with the faintest tremor in his voice.  

Feeling every inch the killer that he was, 007 considered for a second as he made it past the last out-flung, too-still arm and continued down the hall.  “Probably.”

“Yes, well…”  Now Q’s laugh was cracked and a bit hysterical, but mercifully quiet and brief, “That’s funny, because I think that I’m actually starting to see… things.  Or else I’ve got a concussion I didn’t know about and the smudges of light I’m sort of seeing are just figments caused by cranial swelling.”

It took a lot of effort not to stop and immediately twist around.  As it was, shock was no doubt written all across Bond’s face, and he actually missed a step, nearly tripping.  “You’re joking,” he finally said in a voice like he’d been punched.  

“No, but I could be mistaken,” Q allowed, finding an odd sort of calm now that things had finally become too insane for him to handle.  “Everything is back to black again, and my eye-sockets feel like someone put hot lead in them.”

“I just turned the lights off in this hallway.”

Q was utterly silent.  A quick glance back showed a startled, stunned expression.  “Oh,” was all Q had to say on that matter.  As they headed towards the next lit stretch of hallway, 007 didn’t ask if Q was able to detect the light again, and the Quartermaster didn’t volunteer, both men realizing that they had enough on their plates already.  If they got out of this alive, they’d have time to ponder the possibility of Q’s eyes starting to heal.  

Shouts could be heard, no doubt reacting to the sounds of gunfire.  Bond picked up their pace, Q only stumbling occasionally but never losing his grip on 007 or his stubborn position behind him.  Sharp turns were a patently bad idea, but at least that was a mistake they made only once - Q had nearly overbalanced and had started swearing under his breath, even as 007 had to compensate for the sudden jerk against his person as he went hard left and Q’s momentum remained distinctly more forward.  The next oncoming gunman, Q heard first, and just had time to hiss, “Someone at your ten o’clock!” before a door was being swung open to Bond’s left.  Thanks to Q’s warning, 007 was already spinning, his entire focus narrowing on one thought: shoot first.  

His bullet took the black-haired mercenary in the chest before the door was halfway open.

Panting lightly by now, 007 depressed the trigger in readiness for another shot, but the mercenary was finished.  Only then did 007 take stock of everything else, noting that Q was breathing fast, too, and pressed up against his back.  Bond had turned in a reflexive movement to put his back to the wall, and Q had quite obediently followed, so now Q was pinned between the wall and 007’s sturdy bulk.  “Success?” Q asked tentatively.  

“Success,” 007 agreed, brushing a hand back against Q’s dark-haired head where it hovered near his wounded shoulder.  The motion made him wince, but couldn’t make him regret the brief, reassuring contact before he stepped forward.  Q stepped quickly along with him, slightly coltish but eager to move.  “Now if only Mercer or that bastard Rousseau would step forward and take a bullet as easily.”

“Escape first,” Q requested, giving a little prod to 007’s back, “Then we’ll have a discussion about your vengeful tendencies.”

“You can’t seriously tell me that you don’t want the same thing.”

Q hummed, but pushed now against James’s back to urge them into motion again, “We can talk about my vengeful tendencies then, too.  Just get us out of here.”

“Your wish is my command, Quartermaster,” 007 acquiesced with the efficient, smooth grace of a bared knife - and the cold humor to match.  

They managed to make it the rest of the way out of the building before everyone caught up to them, fleeing like foxes who’d caught the hounds napping.  It was an exhilarating thought, even as 007 stepped out into the open air where dawn was just starting to make the sky blush.  Knowing there was no time to be choosy, he pulled Q along to the nearest car and began the process of breaking into it.  The number of times 007 had done this was probably not something to boast about in polite company, but Q’s involuntary noise of pleased surprise at the sound of the car-door opening made 007 flash a broad, smug grin.  It was wiped off when he heard shouts and a body connecting with the building’s door behind them - which 007 had taken the time to jam shut.  “In,” was all 007 said, watching behind them with wary alertness while his hands stayed in contact with Q long enough to know that he’d slipped into the car without hitting his head on anything.  007 immediately ducked in after, pushing Q until the smaller man had slid further in and settled on the passenger seat.  

“Can you hotwire it?” Q asked, breathless with either adrenalin, hope, or fear.  Judging from the way his hands were pressed respectively against the worn leather seat of the car and the door-frame next to him, tense as a cat on a hot tin roof, it was probably a heady mixture of all three.  

 Bond snorted, “Can I hotwire it, he asks…”  Seconds later, the engine gave a little jump and growled to life.  “You’re in the company of a 00-agent, Q - I’ve been able to do this since my first week of training.”  Feeling a flash of vicious regret that he hadn’t managed to kill either Mercer or Rousseau, 007 nonetheless jammed the car into drive and slammed a foot down on the gas pedal, making Q yelp as they leapt into motion.  “Seatbelt, Quartermaster.”

“Your timing is bloody pathetic.”  Q was nonetheless doing as told, feeling his way to the seat-belt with swift fingers while his eyes remained fixed forward on nothing, narrowed in concentration.  No sooner had he found the buckle and snapped everything into its proper place, however, than he perked up and frowned, “Why are we stopping?”

007 put the car in park.  “Because I don’t fancy anyone tailing us, and I’m too impatient to wait until that talk later about vengeance,” 007 said before opening the door on his side of the car, which was now a few blocks away and safely tucked into a dark, shadowed alley.  No one would find it in the time it would take 007 to come back.  

“You’re not going to tell me anything more, are you?” Q asked, tone a mix of resignation and the kind of temper that 007 just knew would scorch him within an inch of his life later.  For now, the Quartermaster was keeping quite admirably calm.

“No time,” 007 said with false cheer, for all that the words were actually accurate, “But I’ll be back in fifteen minutes - trust me.”

Bond just heard Q sigh, “I do,” before he was closing the driver’s-side door behind him, having taken with him the packet of matches he’d seen resting on the dashboard.  

~^

Chapter Text

It was easy to weave his way back to the building Mercer owned; it was easy to let himself get noticed by those following him, making sure that they tailed him back instead of hunting for where he’d hidden Q.  It was slightly harder to then lose his tail for long enough to cause true mayhem, but 00-agents were trained for these sort of things.  ‘Slightly harder’ wasn’t something Bond was about to turn his nose up at.  Hearing shouts in the dark all around the building as he played hide-and-seek in the surrounding alleyways and parking lots, 007 crouched beside a car he’d just broken into, sitting alongside it.  Yes, it would do perfectly.  Smirking thinly into the night, he tore a strip of cloth off the hem of his shirt, then opened up the gas-cap of the car to dip one end of the cloth into like a long, ragged wick.  One of his stolen matches gave a hiss as he lit it, transferring the fire to the other end of the makeshift fuse, making sure it was lit and climbing steadily towards the gas tank before hurrying back to the driver’s side door of the car.  

It was far too easy to hotwire the car, tie the steering wheel into a fix position with his belt, get the engine absolutely roaring, and then use a handy chunk of broken concrete to wedge down the gas-pedal.  007 jumped free of the car as it lunged forward and right into the side of the building.  In fact, it went through the wall of the building, making 007 wince even as he was pleasantly surprised.  All the better.

Then the flames reached the fuel, and an explosion smashed through everything.  

“Recover from that, Mercer,” 007 growled to himself even as he backed off, keeping low and to the shadows as the patches of darkness jumped and shuddered in the light tossed out by the growing flames.  

007 continued to haunt those shadows like a shark lurking through bloody waters, and he picked off men as they came.  It would take time before the fire-department arrived, and everyone knew that all moths came to a good open flame…

~^~

Q was furious.  However, when ‘Shave and a Haircut’ was rapped on the driver’s side window, he felt more relief than anger even before he sensed a heavy body slide into the vehicle.  “Q,” Bond greeted, more to announce himself than anything else.  Q was grateful, because his eyes had gone back to stubbornly not working, and he’d been sitting here and waiting for a stranger to arrive instead of Bond.  A stranger that would have had no trouble killing a blind technophile.    

Instead of saying any of the thousand wrathful things he wanted to say about 007 haring off and leaving him without an explanation or defense, Q inhaled and then said only, “You smell like a forest-fire.”

“Technically, I smell like a building fire.”  007’s voice was a little bit rough, like the scrape of a cat’s tongue.  “I needed a distraction, and the fact that it was lethal and will probably destroy evidence is an added bonus.”

More emotions bubbled up in what was already a confused mess in Q’s head - now, faint amusement struggled to share space with crippling fear, belated relief, and stomach-churning worry.  Q reminded himself that all 00-agents had a disturbing amount of practice with making truly spectacular fires.  “Are you injured?” was what Q ended up asking, however, sitting stiffly and wondering when his heart would unclench.  Not soon, it seemed, as he had to briefly clench his teeth to keep control of himself.  

There were sounds of movement that probably indicated that the agent was physically checking.  “Just where that bullet kissed my shoulder earlier - maybe a few other scrapes - and I’m a bit singed in places, but otherwise fine,” was the predictably light answer.  Then there was another long pause, and Bond’s next sentence radiated wariness, “Are you all right?”

Since apparently it was obvious, Q clenched his hands and bared his teeth into the darkness he was stuck in, and hissed with a vehemence that shocked even him, “No, I’m bloody not all right!  You left me in this damned car without so much as an explanation - or a weapon.  Do you know what that feels like?”  Q wasn’t shouting yet, but his volume had raised a bit, and he was mortified to realize that he could feel hot tears of frustration prickling at the corners of his eyes.  That just made him angrier.  “I can’t see, James!  I can’t see a bloody fucking thing, that fluke from earlier aside,” he went on, when it looked like 007 wouldn’t interrupt him, “So all I know is silence when you’re not here, and emptiness where you should be, and I don’t know whether it’s going to be you coming back to fill that quiet emptiness…”  Q swallowed thickly, feeling as if something were choking him, “Or if you’re going to die and it’s going to be Mercer, or Rousseau, or something else bad coming back to put an end to me.  I won’t even know until someone tells me.”

“Oh, Q…”  007’s voice was suddenly soft, and that was what did it for Q.  His emotions were presently piled into a Tower of Babel, just waiting to fall, and everything came crashing down into a brittle, nasty, painful mess.  Gritting his teeth until his jaw hurt because he could feel a sob behind them, Q at once wanted to wrap himself up in the apology he could hear in Bond’s tone, and scream at the man.  Anger won out, as if the act of holding in tears was forcing his body to ricochet the other way, choosing anger where it couldn’t have sorrow.  Zeroing in on the sound of Bond’s voice, Q swung at him, and was briefly, violently pleased when his hand connected with skin before the 00-agent retaliated.  It was really nothing less than Q had expected.  For a brief, hectic moment, the two men grappled in the car, Q so furious that he felt half-feral, and 007 having to hold back so he didn’t hurt his smaller companion.  

Q didn’t know when the fighting stopped.  A tiny, forever-logical part of his brain hoped that they weren’t still in danger, because he was fairly sure that the rocking of the car would’ve given them away, although at least both of them had stopped moving now.  No more hitting, no more swinging, no more grabbing.  Q’s thoughts came out of their brief fit of madness ragged and bleeding, and for a moment he had no thoughts at all as his body went supple and limp, solid warmth in front of him and powerful arms locked around his back.  Smelling smoke and blood on Bond’s warm, living skin, Q let out a sob against the agent’s chest and felt the arms behind him gentle their grip until 007 was just holding him.  

“Q, I’m a 00-agent,” 007 said, but instead of sounding convincing, he sounded soothing and sorry, “This is what I do.”

Anger tried to rise sluggishly, but it was like it was trying to rise up against molasses.  The Quartermaster still managed to fist his hands, taking handfuls of James’s jacket and wrinkling it.  Q could feel his glasses biting into the bridge of his nose as he pressed his face closer and felt it when his head brushed the curve of James’s throat.  “I know!” Q hissed, his voice thick and wet and shredded with the anger and fear he was still feeling - fear for himself, but also a fear that went beyond that, to the man next to him.  “I know, and I hate it!  I hate it right now, because if you’d  bloody died…!”

“You’d have been up a creek without a paddle,” James guessed, a mighty wince audible in his words and in the flexion of his muscles.

“I’d be alone,” Q corrected pointedly, exhaling a breath like it hurt him and curling closer.  “And you, you idiot, would be gone.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Q.”

The gentleness of those words offered to reach in and soothe Q, but there was just something so intoxicating about the pain of an open wound, and Q shied away - burying himself in the raw agony of it all.  He shook his head, feeling buttons, and James’s shirt-collar, and skin.  “It might have happened whether you wanted it to or not.  You’re not unkillable.”

“Tell that to the hundreds of men and women who have tried,” was the surprisingly firm response.  Q would have expected a sentence like that to be said with pride and cheekiness, but instead it was said with the promise of a sword being unsheathed.  007’s arms tightened, and Q was crushed breathless for a moment, having no choice but to accept that 007 was ferociously strong, impossibly steady, and indomitably alive.  As Q slowly let that reassurance get through the walls of his fear and pain, 007 continued, a low and determined murmur right against the side of Q’s head, “I mean it, Q.  I wouldn’t have left if I didn’t plan to come back.  My job is to hurt those men, Q, but my first job is to you - my first loyalty.”  The agent paused as if belatedly hearing what he was saying, but after gruffly clearing his throat, he nonetheless stroked a hand gently up and down Q’s back, and finished, “I’m sorry for scaring you, Q.  It won’t happen again.”

It was perhaps a sign of impending insanity that Q believed him - believed this man who courted death regularly, played fast and loose with the rules, and whose main currency was lies.  Feeling wrung out and sore inside and out, Q soaked in the soothing sincerity of those words and nodded, his cheek rubbing against Bond’s lapels.  It took a long time for him to gather the simple strength necessary to move from where he was, and 007 just let him stay where he was as he slowly got his metaphorical feet under him again.  James still smelled like death and destruction, but he was warm and breathing, his heartbeat audible and steadying to Q’s ears.  One of his hands also kept moving subtly up and down, aggravating Q’s cut side a bit on the down-sweep, but comforting him significantly the rest of the time.  When Q eventually started to push back, Bond obliged smoothly to help him back into his seat, and didn’t try to talk when Q showed no interest in breaking the silence.  In fact, it wasn’t until Q was buckled and they’d started driving that 007 cleared his throat again and started talking, his tone low and subdued and maybe even a bit chastised as he began to tell what had happened while Q was alone.  It was something of a novelty, to have 007 give a report so promptly and obediently.  

Q let most of it wash over him, leaning against the window with his eyes closed, so that the darkness seemed more natural.  

“Mercer and Rousseau are dead,” 007 eventually got to that part of his narrative, which finally coaxed something like alertness into Q’s tired frame again.  He sat up a bit straighter and blinked, instinctively trying to turn his face towards the sounds of Bond’s low voice.  “So you can stop worrying about them.”

For a moment, Q sat and blinked, soaking that in before murmuring in impulse, “It wasn’t them I was worried about - it was you.”  Realizing perhaps that he’d spoken without thinking, Q felt his ears go red and swiftly swiveled his head away, unable to tell whether Bond was staring at him now but pretty sure he was.  Q swore quietly and rubbed his fingers up under his glasses, hissing as he tried to rub at his eyes but was dissuaded by the ache in them.  “Sorry, go on,” he tried to change the subject swiftly, biting his tongue after that to prevent further reflexive answers.  “They’re really dead?”

“A bullet for both of them says they are,” was the answer, and after a pause, the agent said in an uncomfortable way like someone used to saying different words in another language, “It was quick.  Efficient.”

“Hm,” Q merely hummed to show that he’d heard, testing the information in his head and trying to decide what he felt.

“Q?”

“Yes?”

“You all right?” Bond asked, and this time Q didn’t explode on him.  

Instead, the Quartermaster leaned his head back in the seat and closed his eyes again, looping an arm around his middle and wincing as his side twinged.  “Just tired.  Too tired to be properly appreciative that there are two less horrible people in this world for me to worry about, I suppose.”  

“Well, we’re headed back to the hotel, so you can get all the sleep you want when we get there,” 007 reassured with the level calmness of a man who had survived many, many more situations like this than Q ever would.  It was a bit unfair how calming the agent could be, when Q still felt like one wrong twitch and he’d be raving and shouting again - although his body felt too tired to try anything physical again.  

As Q counted seconds like other people counted sheep before sleep, he slowly, slowly began to realize… that it was all over.  They’d won.  Apparently, in a deadly game like this, winning was hard to appreciate, because fear and weariness were so slow to fade.  

~^~

Bond had lied to Q.  Not about everything - in fact, most of his report was quite truthful, a sort of peace-offering to a blind young man who was clearly very, very angry at James for all the right reasons.  Bond couldn’t blame Q in the slightest for being furious at him, honestly.  Thinking of Q’s fury - and how it was all gone now, replaced instead by the restless, exhausted doze Q had fallen into as he curled against the door - 007 lifted a hand to his chin and worked his jaw.  For a blind man with reputedly no aim, Q had socked him a good one.  There would no doubt be a bruise.  The thought actually made 007 smirk a little, and cast an amused and proud look over at the smaller man sagged against the passenger-side window.  Then Bond’s mind shifted to other things, and his smile faded.

He’d lied.  Rousseau and Mercer’s deaths hadn’t been quick at all.

Rousseau he’d caught fleeing the fire, coughing and trailing smoke behind him like a peacock’s plume.  The criminal hacker hadn’t had a hope of seeing 007 coming, not when the agent slipped like a nightmare out of the gloom, and with smoke making Rousseau’s eyes water.  Bond had taken the smaller man to the ground with two precise punches - one to the stomach, one to the cheek - before Rousseau could do more than turn his way.  

Bond didn’t say anything; he merely kicked Rousseau over backwards, straddling him before the hacker could recover.  Then he punched him twice more, eliciting a sharp grunt first and then a strangled cry as shock faded and pain sank in.  Eyes as cold as chips of blue glass, 007 merely watched, gun holstered and hands ready when Rousseau regained his equilibrium enough to try and strike back.  Bond caught the first punch and twisted Rousseau’s wrist until he had the smaller man screaming between coughing fits as the smoke continued to roil through his lungs.  

With the light of the fire still at Bond’s back, he wondered what he looked like.  A monster? A demon?  He doubted he looked like anything that he didn’t feel like to his very core, as he unrepentantly embraced the darker aspect of his training.  Spies like him were designed to get information at any cost, and often pain was the best tool to pry it out of stubborn mouths.  

“Mercer.  Where is he?” 007 growled, his voice husky but not from the smoke.  It was a rumble reminiscent of a predator’s implacable snarl.  

“Fuck!  My wrist - you’re going to break it-!” Rousseau stammered instead of answering.  He tried to pry Bond’s hand loose with his other hand, scratching wildly until 007 grew bored with it.  Then he drew a stolen knife from his belt and slid it past Rousseau’s shaking, twitching arms until it kissed the vulnerable skin under his chin.  It was so easy to do - a reflex motion, when 007 was like this, focused on his objectives and devoid of remorse - and worked perfectly to make Rousseau freeze.  

“Where.  Is.  Mercer?” Bond asked succinctly, his demands as clear as his threats were real.  “Has he gone already?”  It was a possibility, an unpleasant one, but Bond wanted a lead if that was the case, so that he could start hunting as soon as Q was patched up and safe.  

Surprisingly, Rousseau stammered a quick, “N-No!  No, he’s not.  The lunatic ran back in - research, he said.  Bloody madman.”  Rousseau bared his teeth but then fell into another coughing fit, nearly slicing his neck open all on his own as the coughs wracked his frame.  007 withdrew the knife.  Immediately, Rousseau’s watering eyes refocused on him, a tentative smile stretching his vulpine features after he could breathe again.  “He’s the one you want, yeah?”  When 007 didn’t answer except to look down at him implacably, Rousseau pushed onwards, easily flipping on his boss and giving Bond directions to where in the burning building Mercer was most likely to be.

At that point, 007 might have let Rousseau live.  The hacker was a criminal, and therefore about as respectable as scum in Bond’s books, but he’d been given more lectures than he could count about ‘playing God’ and deciding who could live or die depending on his opinions of them.  So, distasteful as the idea was to him, 007 had stood.

But not before breaking Rousseau’s left wrist.  

Perhaps he should have broken the man’s other one, too, because in the midst of his swearing and choking on smoke and pain, Rousseau used his new range of motion to suddenly reach down to his right ankle and draw something out of a holster there.  Bond was still close, just standing two steps away from him, and only honed instincts kept him from being hamstrung as Rousseau drew a knife on him - Bond heard the familiar snick of a switchblade springing to life.  He lurched back, dodging the first blow, but Rousseau was determined, and came to his knees to slash again for anything within reach.  

That was when 007 said ‘fuck it’ to his morals, and drew his gun.  

As he’d told Q, a bullet had ended Rousseau, and it’d been efficient.  It was just slightly more humane if he didn’t mention the torture that had preceded it, or the violence that had goaded Bond into pulling the trigger.  In the car now, reminding himself that this was all over and that he was safe and so was Q, 007 glanced over and winced at the thought of telling Q the whole truth.  It would no doubt come out in his official report eventually, because M had a habit of knowing when her agents were sugarcoating the truth.  For now, though, 007 saw no point in adding any nightmares to the ones Q was doubtlessly going to have already.  Bond wondered when he’d started to care about what Q knew about his missions - it wasn’t as if the Quartermaster was unaware of the lethal nature of his 00-agents.  

007 turned his eyes back to the road, easing smoothly through the light, nighttime traffic, and turned his thoughts back to the last hour.

After switching out guns - placing his in the hand of another mercenary that had made the mistake of trying to kill a 00-agent singlehandedly, wiping off his own prints - 007 went over Rousseau’s last directions in his head, while watching the fire climb higher and higher along the building.  He thought he could just hear sirens in the distance, but he still had time.  And he wasn’t finished yet.   After all of this, 007 wasn’t about to leave until he’d tied off every loose end, because he’d had just about enough of little things turning up to bite this mission in the arse.  So with a few grim thoughts about how little he was going to enjoy this, 007 tore off some of the lining of his jacket - ruined beyond repair now anyway - and tied it around his nose and mouth.  As protected as he was going to be, he prowled forward into the building, ribbons of grey curling around him and welcoming him in.

Things always looked different when wreathed in smoke, but Bond had actually burned down enough buildings that this wasn’t too challenging.  The fire hadn’t completely disabled the electrical system, so some halls were still lit, even if everything had a grey, eerie cast as smoke curled along the ceiling - the greedy forerunners of a hungry, red-gold army.  At one point, 007 tensed and raised his new gun as he heard footsteps running his way, but when the mercenary turned the corner, all the oncoming man cared about was getting away.  He barely gave 007 a second glance, and Bond lowered his weapon marginally before stalking on past.  The crackling roar of the fire grew louder, and 007 realized that he was walking closer and closer to the heart of the fire.  

Still, with only a little backtracking to get around some areas already consumed by fire, 007 found the room Rousseau had designated - and the geneticist-turned-criminal who wasn’t ready to leave it yet.  

It looked like a shot from a bad suspense movie, one with a literal mad scientist running around screaming as his work went up in flames.  Bond had never really considered that there might be more to Mercer’s work than the single vial that Q had disposed of down the air duct, but now, in a room full of computers and other bits of scientific equipment, Mercer looked as though he was watching his family burn.  There was smoke all over the place, making 007’s eyes sting and his lungs itch even with the cloth he’d tied over the lower half of his face.  Fires were also in evidence, licking greedily at the walls and making the wires and computers spit and spark alarmingly.  Mercer was typing furiously on one when it suddenly caught fire, and 007 ducked back out of the door just in time for it to explode.  

Hearing Mercer shriek in agony and frustration, the agent eased back inside again a moment later, finding the geneticist on the floor, clutching at one side of his face.  Blood was running down between his fingers from shrapnel, and 007 felt a cold and vicious sort of humor uncurl in his chest - the kind of gallows’ humor that all agents acquired, whether they intended to or not. It was one of the few things that kept them from going insane in their line of work.  “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it, Mercer?” he called out, loud enough to be heard over the crackling flames and sparking electronics.  Mercer’s head jerked around, hair wild and blood flowing down to blind one eye.  It only reminded 007 that Mercer had blinded both of Q’s eyes, and suddenly that twisted humor sickened and grew poisonous, fury hotter than the fire taking root in Bond’s chest.  

“You…”  Mercer coughed, then gained volume, although he sounded on the verge of hysterics.  “You cheated me out of what was mine!”

Bond scoffed.  He kept at the edge of the room, having no interest in getting closer to either Mercer or the spreading flames, but his posture was looming and his gun rose to aim at Mercer’s chest.  “Oh, I don’t think you want to talk about cheating people out of what’s rightfully theirs, Mercer,” he said, a tone that would have been a low and lethal purr, but needed to be louder to be heard over the rising volume of chaos in the room - so what was a purr became a snarl, rough and grating.  “I seem to recall you taking the eyesight of someone… very dear to me.”

Mercer’s good eye widened, the other squinting against the flow of blood.  “My god, you’re more than just his agent, aren’t you?” the man shocked 007 by saying.

Bond actually froze up for a moment, literally forgetting what he’d just said until he forcibly went over the memory… and began wondering where that phrasing had even come from.  He firmed up his grip on his gun and raised the muzzle now to point at Mercer’s head.  “What you should be worried about is that I’m an MI6 agent with a license to kill,” 007 retorted smoothly, pushing down his emotional turmoil with the ease of much practice.  No one did denial like a 00-agent.  “And quite a lot of incentive to use it.  I don’t care for you, Mercer.”

The delicately stated but utterly massive understatement would have set off alarm-bells for anyone who knew 007 - but Mercer didn’t, so he took it as permission to sit up straighter and laugh.  “You’d have killed me already if that were the case!” he barked, a crazy light in his one eye as he watched all of his work go up in smoke.  But he gamely turned back to 007, managing a smirk as he started to push to his feet, “What would it take, hm?  Money?  I’ve found that any man who’s willing to kill for another is for sale - although god knows, a year ago I’d never have thought I’d be learning that.”  Mercer tried out a laugh, but it sounded cracked and mad and ended in coughing.  The smoke and fire were thickening.  “Fine then,” Mercer seemed to take Bond’s silence for argument, and changed tactics rapidly even as he stumbled forward a bit, “How much money just for a vial of your blood then, hm?  Surely your Quartermaster told you what he did to you - what you’re carrying.”

Bond found himself smiling humorlessly beneath his make-shift mask.  “He did.  And I don’t,” Bond replied clearly but without inflection.

For a moment, Mercer seemed not to understand, even as the ceiling began to crackle with heat. The fire had gotten into the next story up, and was roaring between the layers.  Realizing that danger was all around him, 007 backed up into the doorway, aware that he couldn’t die in a place like this and leave Q helpless.  “What do you mean?” Mercer shouted at him, starting to look unsure.

Even as something fell loose with a roar and a crash behind Mercer - burying a whole bench-full of equipment - Bond felt a singular joy in briefly pulling the cloth away from his face, so that Mercer could see his expression clearly, from his glass-sharp smile to his ice-cold eyes.  Sometimes, the most vicious things didn’t include violence at all.  “He lied to you, Mercer.  Genecode is already up in smoke, and you didn’t even see it.”  As horror dawned across the geneticist’s face, 007 was unable to help but add, “And eye for an eye, I’d say.  Or, maybe, someone’s eyesight for your entire life’s work - seems reasonable.”  Only Bond hoped that Genecode was gone forever - and he hoped with even greater fierceness that Q’s moment earlier, when he’d thought he saw light, wasn’t a one-shot.  

The shaking that started in Mercer’s hands was the first sign that he was about to go ballistic, and by then 007 was already backing up further, preparing for anything even though he couldn’t see a gun on the other man.  “No!  Nononono!” Mercer started screaming in denial, the shaking spreading to his entire body.  With it came fury.  “You’re lying!  You’re lying! NO!”

Bond was about to inform Mercer that no, for once he wasn’t, when suddenly a whole chunk of the ceiling caved in - right above Mercer.  The biggest chunks of debris missed him, but that wasn’t the dangerous part.  007’s eyes widened and he hurriedly pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose again even as flames like a dragon’s breath gouted down through the new hole they had burned, dragged down by bits of ceiling tiles and rubble.  Smoke rushed out in a wave that nearly blinded the agent, but over it all he could hear Mercer’s high-pitched, almost animal scream of terror and of pain as he was engulfed by the falling fire.  

Perhaps a more moralistic person would have said, ‘You could have tried to save him,’ but that wasn’t how 00-agents thought.  00-agents were realists, and sometimes they saw the hand of fate and karma at work in little acts of chaos like this.  007 edged close enough to the fire-filled room to see Mercer thrashing on the floor, his clothing and hair all alight, and he did exactly what he’d later tell Q: he mercifully put a bullet in Mercer, and ended it all.  The screaming stopped, and 007 turned his bloodshot, smoke-reddened eyes away to finally make his escape from what would soon become a crematorium.  

Maybe he could have saved Mercer, dragging him back to MI6 to face justice.

“And maybe the bastard could have realized that it was a stupid idea to attack MI6 in the first place,” 007 growled to himself, leaving the building behind him with all the flames laughing at his back.

~^~

Chapter Text

James was sincerely worried about how long it would be before Q crashed, because if the 00-agent in the car was feeling drained and tired, then the skinny boffin who hadn’t spent part of their kidnapping experience unconscious definitely had to be.  Fortunately, after his truly spectacular (and very warranted) explosion in the car over 007’s temporary abandonment of him, the Quartermaster had at least closed his eyes, shoulder and head leaned up against the passenger door.  The sharp down-turn at the corners of his mouth spoke of continuing disapproval that gave Bond mixed feelings: the expression was so familiar that he wanted to regard it with a warm sort of fondness, but at the same time, it reminded him that he’d put that look there, and his actions hadn’t come back to bite him in the arse nearly hard enough yet.  The blow to his jaw was merely a love-tap, he felt, and by the time they were back at the hotel, guilt and uneasiness made him want to slink about with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.  Since such an attitude was unbecoming of the Queen’s best spies, however, 007 instead kept on his best behavior and calmest demeanor when he parked.  He reached over a hand and just touched Q’s shoulder, withdrawing his fingers with more wariness than he showed towards most guns when the Quartermaster jerked back to full awareness again with a flinch.  “We’re back at the hotel,” 007 explained, mind quickly inserting itself into the position of someone blind and unable to deduce these details in a heartbeat, “No one tailed us, and I honestly doubt there is anyone to organize any kind of repercussions, even if our home base here were compromised.”

Eyes flicking back and forth, Q took in a breath, held it, and let it out in a steadying fashion.  He was nodding even as he gingerly pushed himself up and away from the door, looking as stiff as Bond felt.  “Good, that’s…  That’s good.  Thank you, 007, for getting us safely back,” he said with soft professionalism, the only signs of his earlier vituperations and ire being the careful way he formed his words.  It reminded Bond of someone who’d sprained something and was now walking gingerly to avoid worsening the spark of pain.  

Feeling more guilty for being the cause of all that, but also desperate to get Q into the hotel-room where he could finally see what physical injuries he was sporting, James spoke with considerate quiescence himself, “I’ll come around and help you out.”  

Perhaps Q was more drained and finished than Bond had thought, because the Quartermaster didn’t berate him anymore or even shoot a scowl in the vague direction of Bond’s face as the agent opened the door and reached in to brush his sleeve, a preemptive, warning move before grabbing the Quartermaster’s elbow.  It was surprisingly easy to lever Q up and out of the car, because Q moved easily at 007’s bidding, which was an intoxicating thought.  Said thought was squelched the instant that Q winced and hissed, however, and for a second Bond worried that he’d let Q bump his head on the way out, but it seemed that Q’s arm in Bond’s grip was the cause.  “Bruises,” Q explained, eyes looking a bit watery as he cringed but regained his balance on two feet.  “Before, what with all of the adrenalin, I sort of forgot they existed.  But Rousseau wasn’t big on gentle handling.”

Feeling a brief but hot flare of anger in his belly - along with a sincere wish that he’d killed Rousseau more slowly - 007 demanded, “Where else are you hurt?  What other bruises?”

“Upper left arm…”  Q’s eyes narrowed as he catalogued, making it look as though he were staring somewhere over Bond’s right shoulder, “I expect I have some bruising on my face.”

At the moment, the streetlamps were giving only a mediocre brand of light, but 007 had already gotten a good enough look before now.  “You’re definitely going to have to assure a few people over the next few days that you’re not in an abusive relationship,” he contemporized, even as he maneuvered one of Q’s arms until the Quartermaster had a hand hooked through Bond’s elbow.

That tricked a brittle bark of laughter out of the Quartermaster’s throat, and he laughed for a second before gripping his left side a little - reminding them both of the cut.  “Shit,” he hissed, “add that to the list.  Then underline it a few times.”

“I really want to get a good look at that,” Bond muttered, letting loose a bit of the resigned frustration he’d been feeling for some time now.  Pushing aside his urge to get inside for a moment, the agent shifted to face Q a bit, movements slow and easy for even Q to interpret from just holding onto the agent’s arm.  Bond brushed Q’s jacket aside, sighing in relief when the yellow glow of the streetlamp only showed him a patch of dried blood without any of the wet reflection of fresh bleeding.  “It’s fine.  Not bleeding,” he revealed his findings even as he turned and set the pace, walking them slowly to one of the back doors of the hotel.  He’d have to pick the lock to get in, because Mercer had emptied his pockets, but that was easier than trying to explain their conditions to anyone manning the front desk.  

“Great.  I’m sure I’ll have a lovely time trying to peel my shirt away from my skin then,” Q retorted with a defeated little sigh.  He stumbled a few times, walking skittishly, so James slowed still more and tucked his arm in until he could feel the tightness of Q’s grip not only against his bicep but against his side as well.  As the change in posture urged Q a bit closer to him, the blind young man relaxed fractionally.  “Sorry.  Clumsy.”

“It’s allowed,” was Bond’s magnanimous reply.  While they stopped for James to ‘open’ the door, the agent cleared his throat and asked carefully, “Before I get a good look at the bruising you acquired, care to tell me what happened?  You only had time to give me the important bits before.”

Q’s fingers tightened spasmodically on James’s elbow, where they’d decided to stay even after James had explained that he was about to do some creative lock-picking.  “Not much to tell.  Rousseau snuck up on me, was a general, all-around arse, and marched me back to Mercer.  He’s a failure at playing guide-dog, by the way.”

The snark was all wrapped up in thorns, but it was there, and it sounded like the Quartermaster Bond was used to - enough so that 007 chuckled and smirked even as the door obligingly opened.  James straightened and began to walk them through. “And I’m better?”

Instead of teasing, Q replied with unexpected swiftness and fervor, “By light-years.  That’s why I’m stumbling now - I was starting to get used to inept clods, and thought that-”  Q cut off suddenly, his words jerking to a halt as efficiently as if someone had yanked a choke-chain taut around his neck.

The horrible thing was, James’s mind had no trouble following the sentence to its ultimate conclusion.  “You thought that you’d never have me leading you around again,” he finished, apologies burning holes in his gut.  

Instead of confirming or denying, Q merely exhaled tiredly, sagging more wearily against Bond’s steady strength even as his footsteps grew more sure of themselves - seemingly without Q noticing.  As if Bond hadn’t spoken, the Quartermaster continued grimly, “A bit of humiliation and manhandling later, and the rest you know.  If you ask for more details before I’ve had a good sleep, I swear I’ll start shouting at you again.”

“Understood,” Bond grunted, one eyebrow arching.  But he left it at that, his focus soon turning to the task of getting them back into their hotel room without a key, which caused 007 only about as much of an inconvenience as the front door had.  Really, places like this had better luck keeping out sunshine than they had keeping out 00-agents like James Bond.  It was only once he was inside that James began to feel his own weariness, and the bullet-graze on his left shoulder abruptly whined for attention.  

In Q, the reaction to being presumably somewhere safe was even more obvious: as Bond’s steps slowed and there was the sound of the hotel door clicking shut, the Quartermaster sagged like a marionette being abruptly unstrung.  “Please tell me we’re back in our hotel room,” he pleaded, head swiveling as if he were trying to catch every sound and smell that would tell him beyond a doubt that they were away from all the insanity of the outside world.  

“We are indeed, and it looks like your laptop guarded the place quite well,” James said, and all it took was his tiredly joking reply for Q to really forget how to stand, and then the agent was scrambling to make sure he didn’t fall.  “Easy, Q, I got you,” he found himself murmuring soothing platitudes even as he maneuvered his smaller, clearly exhausted companion to the nearest flat surface - which just happened to be Bond’s bed.  “Just sit.  Can you?”

“Without falling over?” Q tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a foreshortened huff of breath.  His smile was as brittle as shale, stretching shakily over his face and quickly losing its structural integrity again.  “I can try my best, but I think now that the life-or-death situations are over, my body is staging a mutiny.”

“Try not to let that brain of yours get dethroned for just a bit longer, all right?”  Pushing aside his own burning weariness as much as he could, Bond was already moving about the room, slipping into the bathroom and filling up a plastic cup of water first thing - after downing it in long, desperately thirsty pulls, he filled it again for Q, his other hand snagging the first-aid kit.  Q was still upright by the time he returned to the main room, although his attempts to remove his jacket were uncoordinated and slow at best.  Remembering at the last minute that he had a habit of walking quietly, even when battered and exhausted, James cleared his throat and was rewarded by Q’s head immediately turning.  “Hold out your hand.  Glass of water.  I drank out of it, but I doubt I have anything contagious - unless one counts my bad habits.”

Q’s blind eyes lit up at the merest mention of drinkable liquid, recalling how long it had been since he’d had something to drink, and clearly he couldn’t care less about sharing the cup so long as it meant he got to quench his thirst a few seconds faster.  He all but grabbed for the container, and probably would have dropped it, but James grabbed his wrist on reflex and eased it up against the side of the cheap, plastic hotel cup.  Seconds later and Q was guzzling it down fast enough that Bond half feared he’d choke.  It was enough of a distraction for James to sidle up closer and take hold of Q’s coat himself, easing it off the arm not presently tipping the cup back for Q to get the last drops.  With Q’s right sleeve off, the rust-red stain on that side of his body was visible, and James crouched down with a grunt of strained muscles to peer more closely.  Surprisingly, even with the water now gone, Q didn’t complain or comment, although he did suck in a pained breath as Bond’s fingers gently peeled back some of the torn, blood-stiffened material.  “Shhh, shh, it’s all right,” Bond hushed, barely realizing that his other hand had come up to rest on Q’s thigh as if he were grounding him, “It looks like it’s just about scabbed itself shut, but I’ll have to clean it anyway.  You might need stitches.”

“God, just what I need,” Q moaned, blind eyes scrunching shut before he began rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses again.  The grimace on his fine-boned features was now familiar.

“Eyes hurting again?”  James sat back on his heels to regard him.

Flinching and dropping his hand away as his palm pressed against a bruised cheekbone, Q focused somewhere across the room and admitted sardonically, “Everything hurts.  I think I’d just about forgive you anything right now for some painkiller-”

From this new position, and finally with good lighting, 007 finally got a good look at one more injury on Q’s repertoire: the blossoming ring of vivid bruises all the way around Q’s throat.  The 00-agent couldn’t stop himself from blurting out right in the middle of Q’s speech, “What the bloody fuck happened to your neck?”  

Perhaps Q tried to answer, but most of it was spoken while James made his own investigation, standing up so that he could tip Q’s head this way and that, feeling furious on the Quartermaster’s behalf.  When it sank in that Mercer had done this in retaliation for Q supposedly injecting Bond with Genecode - for saving Bond’s life - the agent actually growled under his breath.  Q finally seemed too exhausted to care, and made that clear by unexpectedly shaking his head loose of Bond’s grip… and letting it fall forward until it thumped to a stop against Bond’s stomach.  “Can we talk about this later?  Please?” Q whined, sounding like a hurt child of five instead of one of the most dangerous people to ever touch a computer, “I’m starting to truly realize why you and the other agents fail to give reports until ages after missions end, because I feel like I could sleep for a week, if I could just stop hurting long enough to pass out.”

The pleading tone cut right through Bond’s anger and nicked his heart, and he didn’t think before reaching out.  Before he knew it, he had a hand folded around the back of Q’s bent head, stroking through the wild mass of his dark hair.  Q twitched at the first touch before melting into it, and his sigh sent hot breath through Bond’s soot-marked shirt, although somehow the heat of that simple exhale went much deeper.  Something sensual began to uncurl under James’s skin, even if it remained tangled up in a dozen other feelings, among which numbered protectiveness and a hazy sort of nervousness as he looked at Q leaning so trustingly into him.  “Paracetemol it is.  Humor me as I clean your knife-wound, though, all right?”

Q made a noise like a pup told that it had to go to the vet, but fortunately the sound transmuted a beat later into a defeated, “Okay.”  As Bond backed up, Q’s head slid down until it just hung between his shoulders, over folded hands that were so willowy and dexterous but presently too exhausted to even itch for a keyboard.  The first-aid kit was opened, rifled through, and another glass of water was fetched.  Painkillers downed (James taking a few more than prescribed himself, knowing his own tolerance), Bond reached out to gently nudge Q’s chin aside again, this time to get to the neck of his shirt rather than to marvel grimly at his pale, bruised neck.  For a brief moment, one of Q’s hands lifted, realizing that James was starting to undress him and wanting to assist.  Before James could open his mouth to tell the Quartermaster not to bother, however, the hand dropped again, and Q merely leaned his head back a little bit more and closed his eyes.  

“Does it always feel like this?” Q asked a moment later, lips moving but the rest of him remaining still.

Easily slipping the knot loose, Bond removed Q’s tie from around his neck in a slither of silk.  Canny blue eyes slid up to Q’s face, looking for clues to what he was getting at and answering dubiously, “Does what always feel like this?”

“Winning.”  

That caused the 00-agent to snort.  “Not always.  But often enough to make you question life sometimes,” he admitted candidly.  The task of undressing Q was… surprisingly soothing.  It centered Bond and somehow made it easier to ignore the complaints of his own body.  He deftly undid buttons, working his way with efficient precision down the Quartermaster’s torso, although Q roused enough to untuck the shirt on his own.  It was mostly Q’s undershirt that had stuck to the bloody mess at his side, but the button-down was affixed to Q’s ribs in places, too, and James eyed the problem for a moment before deciding how to tackle it.  Another trip to the bathroom provided him with a wet cloth, which he immediately pressed to the wound to soften it up.  Q whimpered, and dexterous fingers came around to grip Bond’s wrist hard.  

“Stings,” Q hissed, clearly unhappy and at the end of his endurance.  

“Sorry, it’s a necessary evil,” Bond said, wincing in sympathy and hoping that the painkillers kicked in sooner rather than later, “Believe me, it will hurt a helluva lot worse if I don’t do this.  You bled enough to basically glue your shirt to yourself.”

Q’s opinion of that was expressed in a bit of heart-felt swearing, and he didn’t release Bond’s wrist - but neither did he try and stop him.  In fact, it seemed that the contact was more as a means of keeping track of the agent, because Q still didn’t have many other options besides listening very, very hard.  

The process of eventually removing the rest of Q’s bloodstained clothing was painful to say the least, but the Quartermaster bore it with only as much cursing and flinching as expected, and only ever got in Bond’s way accidentally.  Within just a few minutes, Q was sitting naked from the waist up, breathing shallowly through his nose and swaying a little, his eyes closed from a combination of exhaustion and trying to ignore his many aches and pains.  He was all pale skin and angles, something that Bond had seen already from the various other times he’d assisted Q in deciding what to wear for the day, but this was the first time he’d seen it all with stark bruises added to the picture.  They stood out all too vividly on Q’s skin, from the hand-prints around his neck and arms to lesser marks from no doubt being bullied into things or taking minor shoves.  Bond found his fingers tracing the new collar of redness across Q’s windpipe before he could catch and halt the motion.  “I’m sorry, Q,” he found himself saying, low and soft.

That roused the Quartermaster, if only enough for his eyelids to rise to half-mast.  “For what?” he asked, blinking hazily, eyes fixed somewhere around 007’s sternum and seeing nothing.  Instead of fidgeting away from 007’s light touch, he canted his head a bit, like a parrot idly considering the petting motion without actually leaning into it.  

“For not keeping you safe, like I was supposed to.”

“I was safer than you were,” Q reminded.

“And yet I’m not the one Mercer nearly throttled to death.”

“Do you want me to repeat the threats he made against you?” the younger man rejoined in an unsettlingly level voice, something hard entering his eyes but adding a hollow edge to his voice.  For a moment he glared forward at nothing, but then his own words seemed to turn on him – wolves, once unleashed, that didn’t attack where expected.  Tears welled up unexpectedly at the edges of the smaller man’s eyes, shattering the facade of harshness even as Q turned away to brush at the falling drops.  “Shit.  Sorry.  I’m more exhausted than I thought.” Q was clearly desperate to distract himself from how broken-down he was, and since Bond had seen that Q could act, the genius’s next sentence was comparatively transparent, “What was that you said earlier about stitches?”

Bond was already shaking his head and changing plans, knowing that Q did need a stitch or two (as well as some antibacterial in that cut), but that he couldn’t in good conscience do that to the boffin while he was already so far past his limits.  It took 007 but a moment to dig something out of his own bag, tucked on the far side of the bed, and come back with it.  “Q,” Bond crouched in front of Q’s knees, waiting until he had his attention in the form of reddened eyes opening and focusing past his right ear.  It broke Bond’s heart to see that Q was close to crying from the strain, but keeping it admirably together with his eyes dry again, slouching gingerly.  His side was leaking blood in a slow rivulet, and obviously stung.  Voice apologetic, 007 laid out the facts, “You need that cut cleaned up, and then you’re going to need at least three stitches.  It’s not going to be pleasant.”

“I guessed as much,” Q quipped, doing a poor job of hiding how much this portent rattled him.  He sounded slightly manic as he added, “I never expected having a needle going back and forth through my skin would be exactly fun.”  

“Exactly, which I why I have a bottle of medication in my hand that will work ten times better than what you’ve already taken.  It won’t interfere with the Paracetamol, but it will…”  Bond paused, making a face, unsure how exactly to put this tactfully.

Q saved him the trouble, brows lowering into a foreboding, typical ‘Quartermaster’ look.  “Spit it out, 007.”

Since he’d never been able to argue with that voice before, Bond didn’t start now, and sighed, “It’s used when I want to keep a mark docile.  That’s why I have it with me.  It’s tasteless, colorless, and I can control how long it works by the dosage.”

Shock flashed across Q’s expressive face, tired eyes widening and brows disappearing under the haphazard fall of his hair.  “Oh,” was all he could think to say for a moment, a moment in which Bond waited patiently but eyed Q’s cut with increasing impatience, “And this will… knock me out?”

“Not quite, but pretty close.  Like I said, it makes marks-”

“Docile, I heard,” Q was considering Bond’s words, clearly uneasy but not immediately nixing the idea, which was encouraging.  The Quartermaster worried his lower lip, then jerked his head back so suddenly that one would have thought he’d licked a battery.  As it turned out, however, he’d merely realized that the inside of his mouth was already rather damaged - blood smeared his tongue as he probed at it.  Both men had managed to forget the blows Q had taken to the face, and how that rarely left one’s mouth happy. “Damn.  Damn damndamn,” Q hissed, hands fisting in so much helpless frustration that they shook.  James reached out and encapsulated one of those white-knuckled hands within his own, lending strength however he could.  

“Q,” he said the younger man’s name and title again, more coaxingly this time.  

Eyes squeezed shut and lip tucked in so that he could suck at it soothingly, the Quartermaster pretended to ignore him.  

Bond pressed nonetheless, “You’ll be awake enough to know that I’m there, and I can give you a dose that will wear off in under an hour.  Can you trust me to watch over you until then?”

Something in Q seemed to crumble then, and he would have sagged forward over his knees except his side didn’t like the idea of moving.  Still, the boffin exhaled explosively and ran his hand back through his hair, turning it into a veritable bird’s-nest.  “Fine.  Yes.  You’re a great bloody bastard for leaving me alone in that car to go burn down buildings, but I trust you.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Bond promised, and then for no other reason than because he’d been doing impulsive little things all evening, he stood and pressed his mouth to Q’s brow on the way up.  It wasn’t quite a kiss so much as a press of his lips to a mass of dark hair, but it was still charged with something that James was still too ragged and unsure of himself to contemplate.  Post-adrenaline-highs always had ways of messing with a man.  

He hoped that Q was too exhausted to notice - or, if he’d noticed the quick peck, he wouldn’t remember it when all of the drugs wore off and he’d had a full night’s sleep to forget some of this.  More than a bit perturbed by his own unthinking actions, 007 departed the room long enough to fill the glass of water one last time.  He measured and dissolved just a small amount of powder into the drink, easily doing the calculations in his head and trying to think of Q coldly – as merely someone that he had to gently incapacitate for a brief period of time. Still, the personal nature of this ‘mission’ struck home as soon as Bond walked out of the bathroom again to see Q sitting there, posture very still and head canted as he listened to any noise 007 might make.  It was the fragile poise of a stock-still deer, unsure whether bolting was necessary. Q didn’t bolt, though, and when Bond grabbed his wrist and guided it to grab the glass, Q didn’t even flinch. “This is it, then? Just down the hatch, and…?” Q raised an eyebrow, such a familiar expression even if it looked subtly strange with his eyes looking off into space.  In the mere two minutes it had taken Bond to mix the concoction, the Quartermaster had regained himself as much as he could, which was really a masterful accomplishment in 007’s opinion.  Q’s clipped tones were back, exquisitely British and deftly understated, so even if he was half-naked and looked like something the cat had shaken and then dragged in, there was something about him that made sure Bond couldn’t underestimate his smaller partner. 

It made Bond smile without knowing why. 

Also finding a tone more fitting to the improved mood – infusing his words with encouraging lightness that all 00-agents practiced in tight situations – 007 patted Q’s knuckles lightly and replied, “That’s the general idea, yes.” After Q, with the kind of haste that came from wanting to act before his mind could be changed, chugged the whole glass in a series of smooth swallows, 007 added, “You might also want to lie down now.  I’m not exaggerating when I say this will kick in quickly.”

No sooner had the words left Bond’s mouth than Q’s hazel eyes widened a bit, and then he swayed.  Deftly, Bond relieved him of the glass and then caught Q’s shoulders, feeling bare, satiny-smooth skin stretched over lightly-muscled bones.  Q grabbed at him in return, in a bid for balance, but already his movements were becoming sloppy and slow – which, if Q’s face was anything to go by, both startled and disturbed him.  “Easy, easy there, Quartermaster.  I told you this would happen, now, didn’t I?” Bond said in a gently chiding tone even as his attention fixed entirely on watching for any signs of trouble.  The drug would prevent any real panic from taking root, bogging down Q’s mind even as it did the same with his nerve-endings and physical responses, but 007 had learned to be careful whenever he was using a medicinal agent to mess with the workings of the human body.  Even with marks, he was meticulous, and he used his extensive background of practice now to ease Q gently and easily down onto his left side.  By the time his head touched the bedcovers, Q was already blinking torpidly. Blind or not, it was easy to see that the usually razor-sharp intellect behind Q’s eyes was dulled at the moment – in minutes, it would be impeded quite severely.  “Can you hear me, Q?” Bond asked quietly, one hand still resting on Q’s upper arm, just above a dappled set of bruises. 

For a moment, there was no response except for Q’s perceptively slow blinking and soft, back-and-forth flicks of his eyes as if he were hunting something. Then he swallowed twice – easily, which was good, meaning no adverse reactions to the drug, although Bond had the antidote ready just in case – and hazarded, “I… yes.  Clear… Clearly.”

The words had a breathy quality, as if they were escaping out of his mouth without making full contact with his tongue, which seemed rather recalcitrant anyway.  It was like hearing the sighed words of someone half asleep.  As Bond ran his hand down Q’s upper arm distractedly, Q even let out a deeper breath slowly, his next blink lasting longer, eyes so trustingly closed. It felt like something were squeezing warm fingers around Bond’s heart in a pressure that was both painful and sweet.

“I’m going to start patching you up, okay, Quartermaster?” Bond said, on the off-chance that Q was still lucid enough to care – it was possible. The drug wasn’t meant to turn off the brain, merely to calm and slow everything down so that agents like Bond didn’t have to contend with rampant fight-or-flight responses.  The effect stretched far enough that 007 had found it to be a marvelous painkiller, too, albeit one he’d never use on himself. “I’ll sit behind you, all right?”

Another slow breath was audible as Q rallied the drive to make words, his body so lax on the bed that he looked like one of those Ragdoll cats he’d heard Eve gushing over once. “O… Okay.  Just…”

“Just what, Q?” Bond coaxed, even as he toed off his shoes and began to do as he’d said, mounting the bed at Q’s back and settling down cross-legged, the first-aid kit within easy reach along with the same wet cloth from earlier. 

It took a moment for Bond to realize that the vague flopping of Q’s arm was an attempt to reach back towards him – the drug would be making Q’s limbs feel like lead, and the Quartermaster gave up trying shortly after 007 wrapped his own fingers around Q’s wrist.  “Just don’t… wander off,” Q put the slurred words together, face twisting up into a frustrated but stubborn expression as he fought the drug a little. Bond immediately hushed him, something warm and fond unfurling behind his breastbone even as he placed Q’s arm back in front of him.  The 00-agent’s other hand found Q’s nape, squeezing gently and feeling fragile, knobby vertebrae arching against his callused palm.  “I’ll stay within arms’ reach until you come out of it, promise,” he said, meaning it.

Q relaxed noticeably after that, finally giving in and slumping beneath the effects of the drug.  When Bond first took a swap of antiseptic and touched it to Q’s ripped skin, he did so gingerly, but the touch elicited nothing more than the barest twitch.

“Cold,” Q mumbled.

Arching an eyebrow and starting to dab at the wound more assertively, 007 replied, “Well, if that’s all you can feel, then I’m counting this as a win.”  Bond’s own shoulder twinged, and Bond finally gave up on totally ignoring it – at least long enough to shrug out of his jacket and shirt. A glance told him that the graze was nothing he hadn’t survived a dozen times before, and could wait. Q’s shallow cut was rapidly cleaned until Bond felt certain that he wasn’t going to be sealing up a sea of germs inside.  Q shifted on the bed as if sensing the shift from cleaning to imminent stitching. “With me, Q?”  Bond hoped he wasn’t. 

Therefore it was both relieving and a bit funny when the Quartermaster grumbled almost incoherently, “No,” and sluggishly twitched his fingers. That seemed the only movement he was capable of. 

Unable to completely hold back a chuckle, Bond shook his head at Q’s small but amusing antics before opening the prepackaged curved needle and thread. A glance at the bedside clock told him that he still had time before Q started to feel things again, but he shouldn’t waste any time.  Placing his left hand on Q’s side next to the cut, Bond pierced both sides of the laceration – probably far more carefully than he had ever done with his own skin, which already bore so many scars he hardly cared about the addition of one more. Q wasn’t like that, though, and suddenly it mattered that Bond did a good job, even as a part of his mind became hyperaware of how Q’s ribs felt, slowly rising and falling beneath his palm. Bond’s outspread hand curved easily around the graceful arcs of bone, and he felt suddenly like he could snap them, and Q would hardly feel it until the drugs wore off. 

Instead of brutality, though, Bond dealt for once in gentleness. Three stitches was all it took, and then he sighed in relief and sat back.  “Done,” he declared.  Q’s head twitched, turning slightly, although the eyes that rolled in his direction…

They seemed, for the briefest of seconds, to actually focus. Then Q was closing his eyes again with a garbled hum that hopefully contained approval of some sort.

Instead of trying to get a more coherent response, 007 gave up, instead watching Q for a moment as he lay on his side and did nothing but gently breathe. The long line of his back was a gentle, pale curve, broken up only by the arc of two shoulder-blades that cut like knives against his skin, as well as the two divots like the thumbprints of a lover’s hands on either side of his lower spine, just above his trousers. His shoes were rucked up against the bed, so Bond leaned over and removed them, leaving Q in socked feet, toes wriggling for a moment before going as still as the rest of him.

Once more giving in to impulse without questioning his actions, Bond leaned over Q, one hand cupping a bony shoulder and mouth leaning down near where waves of hair hid an ear.  “Q, I don’t know if you’re asleep or not, but I’m still here.  Just going to clean up a bit.  I’ve got a scratch or two of my own that I should probably stop ignoring.”  James waited, but there was no response, except perhaps one breath that was deeper than the next – the precursor to a snore.  Bond had been telling the truth in that his drug wouldn’t knock Q out, but it would take away the pain, and at that point, falling asleep all on his own would be easy for an exhausted Quartermaster.  Q was out like a light, and the sight relaxed something at the very core of 007’s soul. 

Not wanting to leave Q for more than minutes at a time, 007 nonetheless stripped and hunted up new clothes, padding around unabashedly naked while patching up his own hurts with decidedly less care than he’d shown towards Q. While letting water run in the tub, needing just enough for a quick wash, 007 also stripped the blanket off the other bed just so he could put something over Q’s slim frame without having to dig out the blankets he was already sleeping on.  With the tub half-filled, 007 turned off the water, leaving the hotel room quiet enough that he knew he’d hear any trouble if it came, even as he washed off the worst of the soot and grime he’d acquired. A shower would have been more luxurious on his aching muscles and joints, but that would have deafened him to any noise Q might make, so that would have to wait.  

Then, once he was dressed again and no longer smelled like a used hearth, 007 considered the two beds for a moment: one, his, containing a Quartermaster who was by now no longer drugged but definitely out cold. The other, presently short of blankets, for which Bond could only blame himself.

Clearly, one looked far more inviting than the other, and 007 felt that warmth stirring again as he gazed steadily at Q’s familiar, sleeping form.

“I did promise him that I’d stay in arms’ reach,” he murmured to himself decidedly, before flicking off the lights and moving to the first bed. Fetching his spare gun so that it would be there if needed, James joined Q on the bed, keeping a polite distance between them even as he groaned at the feeling of finally lying down and stretching out.  He’d been unconscious for part of this fiasco, sure, but then he’d been on his feet nonstop. He deserved a rest.

And, apparently, he deserved to rest with his left shoulder almost brushing up against the egg-shell curve of Q’s naked back, finding peace in the regular breathing he could hear next to him.

~^~

Chapter Text

Q was dreaming of the day he’d lost his sight.  This wasn’t the first time his sleeping self had returned to the memory, and by now, he was actually quite cognizant of the fact that it was just a dream - or, at least, his rational self was.  His emotions never seemed to get the memo.  

Like someone watching a play from a front-row seats, Q watched himself type away on his laptop, aware of Bram over his shoulder, bleeding enthusiasm when the Quartermaster knew that soon he’d just be bleeding, and then doing nothing at all as his life was torn away.  Beneath his own memory of scholarly excitement and pride, Q could already feel the panic bubbling up, as his logic warred with the static structure of the dream.  Of course, the more Q screamed on the inside - shouting at himself to get out, get away, that something bad some coming - the more the dream itself fractured, until Q could no longer even predict what was going to happen.  In reality, Q couldn’t even remember what Mercer was doing or where he was when the explosion went off, probably because the man was making sure to be well out of the way, but right now dream-Q’s head lifted, perfectly functional eyes glancing up past his computer banks to see the other man standing a few meters beyond.  Dream-Q cocked his head, aware that he was still talking, although the words he said to Shawn had a faded quality like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, the actual subject matter almost forgotten.  As he had most certainly not done in real life, Mercer smiled, looking right at Q, and lifted a cord in his hand - a lit fuse that crackled and burned.

Q opened his mouth to finally shout a warning, tearing free of the puppet-strings and removing his character from the play.  But dreams have minds of their own, and even as sound bubbled at the back of Q’s throat, time sped up, ripping away Q’s opportunity to act.  Suddenly, everything was light and fire and exploding chaos, and usually at this point, Q’s dream went black, although it didn’t necessarily end.  Right now, it most certainly didn’t, and Q sensed the dream shift like an earthquake, solidifying with him on his knees and smoke all around him.  It registered immediately as stranger that he could see, because Q was lucid enough in these dreams to separate certain facts of reality from the logic imposed by his subconscious.  Dully surprised, he blinked and viewed the destruction of his branch as he hadn’t before, and it was just as he’d imagined it: desks tossed, debris everywhere, darkness held back only by sporadic fires and the crazed flickering of those lights that survived and those wires that were spitting mad sparks.  The colors were off, some too vivid, some skewed as if the brush painting them had just subtly missed its mark on the color palette, but dream-Q accepted this even as he felt his attention being pulled to a figure walking through the smoke.  Q’s heart leapt, because this was the point in the dream where he usually re-lived 007’s arrival, although he’d never dreamt it with a visual component.  If the dream ever went this far, it was usually a muddled mess of sensations and emotions, everything as bright as an acetylene torch even if his vision remained steadfastly black.  Still, it was always a comfort to feel again those iron-strong hands gripping him, proving that there was still hope and stability in a world gone insane.

But as Q watched, the smoke peeled back, revealing that it wasn’t Bond walking towards him: the gait wasn’t right, the stride not smooth enough to be the 00-agent’s confident stroll, the body not honed enough.  The fear that had been sloshing about Q’s insides like a troubled sea suddenly ignited like kerosene, and he wasn’t sure what came first: his realization that he was seeing Mercer, or the shift in the not-quite-right lighting that revealed the man’s smirking face.  Q screamed, intending to back away, but his body wasn’t listening.  Time jerked again, and suddenly Mercer was right in front of him, reaching down to fit his hands around a neck that already had bruises…

“Q!  Q, wake up already!  You’re dreaming!” Bond’s roar took the fractures in Q’s dream and ripped them wide open, dredging Q’s mind back into the realm of consciousness.  The world was suffocatingly black again, vision obliterated - except, perhaps, for an odd greyness to the left side of Q’s vision, which Q was still too panicked to truly appreciate.  As swiftly as it usually did, a good fraction of the boffin’s alarm transferred from the dream to reality, latching onto the fact that he couldn’t see and conveniently forgetting that this was now normal for him.  He was so bent out of shape and full of adrenaline that he likely would have clawed at his own face in an effort to remove the darkness from his eyes, but the presence at his back moved, going from something shaking his shoulder to reaching around him.  The pressure of powerful hands locked around Q’s wrists to physically hold him still, and Q thrashed and bucked, only to find the body connected to the hands behind him penning him in.  So far as ways to wake up, it wasn’t particularly pleasant, and so far as ways to halt a semi-conscious panic attack, it wasn’t stunning either - although it kept Q from hurting himself.  

“Q!”  The Quartermaster’s blood was thundering so hard in his ears that he barely heard, although a fraction of his mind twitched in recognition of 007’s sharp, familiar voice.  “Q, if I knew your full name, I’d say it - middle name and all.  Just wake up!  You’re safe, and with me.”

Perhaps it was the ridiculousness of the statement that had Q freezing sharply, but regardless of the reason, he stopped flailing and also went quiet.  It startled him to realize that he’d been making noise.  He became cognizant of the agent all but wrapped around him, powerful body feeling as unforgiving as steel, but also being gentle enough that Q’s wrists wouldn’t bruise; in fact, a thumb was stroking over one pulse-point, a soothing stroke that Q focused on.

For about half a minute, there was no noise besides both of them panting.  Q blinked, becoming slowly accustomed to being blind all over again, and trying to find the ‘off-switch’ for the fear induced by the dream.  After that, he’d hopefully find the next switch, which would let his muscles unlock.  “Easy, Q,” James murmured, as if sensing the fight-or-flight response that was still humming uncertainly under the smaller man’s skin.  

Bond was tense, too.  Seeing as he had his arms around Q and was still clutching the Quartermaster’s slim wrists, Q was in fact intimately aware of just how tense the 00-agent was - hard muscles and sturdy bones were molded against him, and breath just rustled the hair behind his ear.  “Q?” James asked warily, as if he were the one looking for answers in the dark.

Shifting a little but unprepared as of yet to say he was back to normal after a nightmare like that, Q swallowed thickly.  When he wriggled his wrists, James’s hands tightened, and Q’s breath caught before he realized that that had to be an ingrained 00-agent instinct: when in doubt, keep everything locked down, especially when you didn’t know if your Quartermaster was going to flail and attack and possibly even hurt himself.  Now that he wasn’t imagining Mercer trying to throttle him on the floor of Q-branch, it got easier to trust in 007’s strength and slowly relax within the cage of his arms.  “Quartermaster?” Bond repeated, still low and cautious next to Q’s right ear, “It was just a nightmare, and my various bruises would really appreciate it if you’d come out of it now.”

Bond’s pragmatic words brought Q the rest of the way back to normal - or at least close enough that he trusted himself to talk.  Moving a little again, seeing only blackness but mapping out 007’s shape by touch along with the bed beneath his left side, Q rasped, “I’m sorry.  We’re at the hotel, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And safe?”

“Also yes,” 007 replied with a kind of confidence that made Q sigh and sag.  Slowly, Bond released Q’s wrists, pulling back just a little, but not far enough that Q couldn’t still sense him by touch and sound.  If anything, the agent seemed reluctant to pull away.  After a beat, James hazarded a bit worriedly,  “Do you remember getting here?”

Feeling better by the minute but still muzzy, Q snapped back primly, “Of course I do.”  But then he backed down and added with some embarrassment, “But I admit that some things are… fuzzy.  Did I make up the part about you drugging me?”  He twisted his head around as if to see Bond, which was ridiculous, because he couldn’t see anything… except there was still a patch of paler grey that kept shifting at the corner of his vision.

Bond made an uncomfortable noise behind him, still close enough for Q to hear the individual rustles of cloth on skin with each tiny movement Bond made.  “No, that actually happened.  In my defense, you consented to the idea.”

“Hm.  And I don’t recall being keen on the idea of stitches otherwise,” Q admitted as his memories cleared.  To be sure that everything was real, he shifted one hand, feeling as Bond twitched as if to grab him again.  However, this time, all Q was doing was reaching down to his side.  Noting that he was still quite shirtless, the Quartermaster felt down the skin of his ribs until he brushed up against tender skin and the protruding knots of fresh stitches.  Q winced as his prodding re-awoke a throbbing pain in the wound, and this time Bond did wrap his fingers around Q’s wrist again, ending Q’s curious investigation.  “Damn,” Q murmured at the flash of pain, letting his arm be maneuvered while he closed his eyes for a moment - again, he noticed that there was a difference in lighting when he did that.  For the first time in what felt like forever, he could tell when his eyes were open or closed, and it made his breath catch.  

Predictably, 007 noticed.  “What is it?  The pain?”

“No… no.  Well, the painkiller is definitely wearing off, but…  James…”  Q was ashamed of how his voice raised a bit and became suddenly needy, but it was because he felt something like hope climbing up his throat, and it was more likely to strangle him to death than any attempt of Mercer’s had.  Suddenly he wondered if he hadn’t woken up, and this was still a dream - an even crueller one, if it was false.  “You wouldn’t happen to have a flashlight, would you?”

“I might,” 007 sounded perplexed, “Why?”

“It’s just… can you get it, please?”  Q could hear the begging quality in his own voice, and felt suddenly very vulnerable lying there, half-clothed and with the promise of something other than blackness drawing him forward like a moth to what could be an utterly devastating flame.  A bit clumsily, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, unsure where the edge of the bed was until Bond’s hand wrapped around his elbow - meaning he was getting close to it.  A moment later, and Q was sitting at the edge of the bed while James was getting off it, his feet scuffing lightly on the carpet for only a second before he fell into that silent, cat-like tread.  Q heard him rifling through his suitcase soon after, however.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Bond asked a moment later.

“Yes,” Q said, then bit his lip, “But not until I’m sure.  Did you find a flashlight?”  He thought he heard a grunted affirmative, and began to jitter with excitement mingled with fear.  Clutching the edge of the bed with hands that were suddenly shaking, Q tried to mimic his usual, steady elocution as he requested, “If you could… just shine it in my eyes.  The left one, I think.  Well, may as well do both.”

It was a mark of how startled Bond was that Q actually heard him trip on nothing, feet noisy all over again on the carpet.  “Are you-?”

“Please, just do it, 007, before the suspense gives me some sort of fit,” Q pleaded, and was rewarded only two heartbeats later by a hand touching his shoulder.  Q jumped a little, having had no warning in regards to Bond’s location without his earbuds and Bond’s watch communicating with one another.  He was tempted to ask for his earbuds now, to regain some sort of grasp on the world, but knew that that would just be him stalling - because as much as he wanted to know if he really was seeing something, he was also petrified to realize that it was all his imagination.  Fortunately, before Q could say anything, he felt a hand cup his chin firmly.  There was always something about 007’s unconscious use of strength that made Q settle down.  Even when Bond was being gentle, as with now, there was something in his every touch that spoke of the power to bend and break things at will, and it made Q shiver a little even as he accepted the fact that he was in good hands.  From the moment Q had realized that he was a blind man, 007 had been immensely careful with him, even though 00-agents were trained to go for weaknesses - and goodness-knew Q had quite a massive array of those right now.  Instead of being sensibly frightened by this, however, Q sighed and loosened his death-drip on the edge of the bed a little, letting his head rest in Bond’s competent grip.  He winced as his side twitched.

“Just as soon as we finish with this, it’s painkillers for you,” James said firmly, but did a poor job of holding back an edge in his voice that could have come from excitement or worry.  His hands gave it away, too, Q realized, feeling the way callused fingers shifted against the vulnerable skin under his chin - a restless tell that James normally didn’t have.  Voice softer, 007 commanded, “Eyes open, Q.  Tell me if you-”

Q’s sharp, gasped swear cut Bond off even as Q swung a hand up clumsily - but caught hold of a muscled, bare forearm.  Q knew that it was the limb that held the light, because…  “I… I can see it.  I can see it - but just a little, and I think… I think only in my left eye?  It’s like differentiating between pitch-black and dark grey, but it just got brighter, and- Yes.  Yes!  Please tell me you just shone a bright light in my eyes and I noticed?”

The answer came in the form of Bond laughing, a noise that was more joyous than Q had ever heard it.  “Bloody hell, Q, you’re not only a genius, you’re also a miracle.”  Q could only grin as he felt his face now being cupped between two warm palms.  His knees brushed what must have been Bond’s own legs, and Q still had hold of one forearm, which he squeezed as he laughed helplessly.  “Tell me you’re not just pulling my leg.”  

“Bond, if I were pulling your leg on this, I’d have to be some kind of sadist, because right now, I’m so happy I could kiss you,” Q exclaimed frankly in return, wishing he knew where the flashlight was.  Bond wasn’t holding it anymore, obviously since his hands were on Q’s head instead, fingers presently burying themselves in Q’s hair, and Q honestly wanted to shine the light in his eyes himself now, thank you very m-

Bond’s pinky-finger curled beneath Q’s chin and tilted his head back, and then the agent had his mouth sealed to Q’s in a move that managed to be even more surprising than the possibility of Q being able to see.

~^~

James didn’t know what had come over him.  

Okay, so perhaps he did.  But that didn’t make it any less shocking as it all sank in: that he was overflowing with elation for the man sitting in front of him, and had somehow transmuted that feeling into movement, culminating in a kiss that he’d been… maybe, possibly… thinking on for sometime now.  Perhaps since he’d found Q asleep on the desk and had half-carried, half-walked him to the bed with entirely too much contact between them.  Bond was a professional when it came to denial, however, so even now he had all manner of alarm-bells going off in his head, and at least one part of his brain screaming, ‘What do you bloody think you’re doing?!’  He broke the kiss with a gasp and a jerk, although he only backed off a few inches before freezing like the snared bird that he was.  

Perhaps, in a way, an outside observer would find it funny that a man who could put contingency plans together in seconds while under enemy fire found himself at an utter loss now as to what to do next.  He could only stand, hands still cupping Q’s face as if carved there out of stone and his startled blue eyes staring at blind hazel ones as if hoping to find some sort of answer there.  Or maybe a stay of execution, because there was no way this was a good idea.  

It was a good sign that, so far, Q merely looked stunned and confused.  He still had one of his long-fingered hands wrapped around Bond’s arm, still tense but not quite tight - 007 could have broken the grip easily, and in fact tensed his arm until the tendons shifted, but found he couldn’t make himself do it.  Q, likewise, made no attempt to disengage from the hands framing his face.  In fact, he merely gave his upper lip an experimental swipe of his tongue - a darting movement that 007 should not have found fascinating - and then said in a dry tone perfectly befitting a Quartermaster of MI6 that had not just been surprise-snogged by a coworker, “Well, I suppose I didn’t imagine the rest of it either then.”  

Confusion rolled like a wave through Bond’s system.  This was no how he’d expected this to go.  All he could think to reply was, “What?” in a low, wary, and honestly flummoxed rumble.  

“I’m just remembering a few other things,” Q said, dry as wine, although Bond could see and feel signs of a blush rising up Q’s cheeks, “Especially after that draught you gave me, things are rather on the foggy side, but right before that…”  Eyes that could perhaps detect light in the vaguest sense flickered back and forth, and for a moment, it was as if they were either grazing across the planes of Bond’s face or digging through his soul and thoughts beneath.  “...You kissed me then, too, didn’t you?  Not on the mouth, but on the forehead.”

That had definitely happened.  Usually, James only felt this caught-out when he’d burned down a consulate and M was castigating him formally in her office.  It was probably not unlike the feelings a dog had when caught lounging on the couch or chewing on a good pair of shoes.  “Sorry,” seemed the safest answer he had at that moment, grumbled but awkwardly sincere.  

“No, no apologies necessary - it was comforting,” Q belayed his worry, although now the flush was clearly there, and Q’s free hand had started to lift as if he wanted to touch something but didn’t know what to do.  It eventually rose high enough, hovering like a shy hummingbird, to find the outer bone of Bond’s wrist and brush against it.  Considering how blindly bold Bond had just been, it was wrong to see Q so hesitant.  “Your holding me in the car after I lost my temper was comforting, too.”

Now it was James’s turn to do nothing but stare and blink.  Finally, he cleared his throat, and managed a close approximation of his usual, controlled voice, “You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“I’m also starting to realize that you’ve been getting increasingly affectionate over the past few days,” Q replied amicably, with the conciseness of a tech-analyst laying out facts.  It was enough to just about make 007 blush, something that he thought he’d forgotten how to do.  “Unless I’m also misinterpreting the fact that you were also sleeping on the same bed as me just now?”

That threw James for a loop.  He’d thought he couldn’t get anymore wrong-footed, but clearly he’d been wrong.  Finally a bit too startled and off-balanced to hold the same position, he made a disgruntled noise in his throat and made to back off.  As he let go of Q’s face, however, the hand already on his right wrist tightened, and the Quartermaster’s other hand darted up to catch the left one.  Still only dressed from the waist down and looking ridiculously vulnerable and young with his glasses off and his hair rucked up on one side from sleep, Q nonetheless took command of the situation so effortlessly that 007 honestly didn’t know what to do about it.  

So instead of breaking free and making a run for it, he sat down on the floor.  It wasn’t childish, it was sensible - Q had a hold of him, after all, and the other bed was just a tiny bit too far away to sit down on while confined by the reach of Q’s arms.  

“Don’t make whining noises at me,” Q chastised in response to the noise 007 had made, which made Bond switch abruptly to a growl.  Beneath the Quartermaster persona, however, Q appeared to be just as unsure as 007 was at this point, because his expression twitched comically in surprise as he registered the downward movement.  Instead of just asking whether Bond was now sitting on the floor, Q hesitantly released one of his wrists (tightening his hold with the other hand as if sincerely afraid that he’d lose his agent otherwise), before feeling around with his free hand.  Q did this surprisingly rarely for a blind person, and Bond suspected that it was because Q was ashamed and embarrassed by his condition, and actively hated doing things that made him look like the cripple he thought he was.  The fact that he was reaching out now both meant that he was very unsettled beneath his calm demeanor, and also that he trusted James.

Perhaps that trust should have been a foregone conclusion by now. 007 remembered the easy way Q walked at his side these days, trusting that he wouldn’t be allowed to stumble over or bump into anything - the way Q had followed after him when they’d escaped Mercer’s clutches, his obedience absolute and his grip on Bond’s jacket so tight that only 007’s commands could have loosened it - the way Q had actually let Bond drug him with a concoction usually used by 00-agents to completely disarm and overpower their targets.  

Something about that was erotic as hell, and in a way that 007 hadn’t felt before.  

“I really don’t think there’s any protocol for this,” Q sighed rather regretfully, managing to look quite amusingly put-upon even as his eyes focused somewhere across the room and his fingertips extended far enough to just bump James’s nose.  When Q’s hand retreated skittishly at first upon contact, Bond found himself leaning his head forward, re-initiating the touch, and this time Q’s hand came forward again more willingly.  The pads of dexterous fingertips traced the shape of Bond’s nose, glided along his cheekbone before finding his ear, thumb bumping over the back of the blond-haired man’s jaw as Q followed the line of Bond’s neck.  Q’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, realizing that James was shirtless,too, something that Bond himself had quite forgotten.  Q’s investigation of Bond’s precise position and posture included skating over the stitches Bond had put into his own shoulder last night.  Clearly bothered by the sensation and quickly realizing what he was feeling, Q’s face closed down with a frown, although when his fingers skidded away, they stayed in contact with 007’s skin. Bond found himself looking down at un-callused fingertips resting over his heart.  When Bond inhaled, they pressed closer, dimpling tanned flesh.  

“So,” Bond broke the quiet because the tension felt like it was crushing him, “here we are.”

“And you want to know what happens next.”

“Naturally,” Bond played along with a smooth tone, as if they were simply chatting over the comms on a mission.  It served to relax him a little, although he found that his new position of sitting at Q’s feet did nothing for his preoccupation with the Quartermaster in general.  From here, with Q leaning down towards him, Bond could reach out and touch just about anything he wanted, and he had to remind himself that Q’s hand on his chest was not an invitation.  If anything, the touch of Q’s hand was comparable to the regard of most people’s eyes - watching and weighing, keeping track and committing to memory what was ‘seen’.  Breathing in and taking his courage in a firm grip, Bond exhaled, “So you don’t want me to apologize?”

Q’s expressive face twitched into an enigmatic smile before fluctuating smoothly into something more insecure, mouth dipping downwards again.  “Only if you regret it.”

Releasing a humorless bark of laughter, 007 informed Q bluntly, “It’s more that I think I’m going to be made to regret it, when M hears that I’ve sexually harassed the Quartermaster of MI6.  I’m supposed to be guarding you, not-”

“Offering to hand-feed me?” Q offered with that little, impish twitch of a smile again.  His eyes, where they were still focused across the room somewhere, sparkled with amusement.  

This time, the chuckle that escaped Bond’s chest was warmer, and crow’s-feet appeared around his eyes.  “You little minx,” he meant the sentence to sound chiding or maybe even warning, but he couldn’t do it.  “Are you surprised at all that I just kissed you?”

“Oh, I’m very surprised,” Q admitted, and now Bond had a very good position to watch the flush creep all the way up to Q’s ears and even down his pale throat.  Q turned his head away as if he could feel 007’s heated gaze on him.  “It’s just that…  Well, you see, it’s finally sunk in that we won, we’re alive, and I might be only ninety-nine percent blind for life,” he said with almost giddy cheer.

“It could continue to improve,” Bond pointed out, loving the way Q’s eyes tentatively brightened.  Perhaps they weren’t working - and perhaps they never would, not perfectly - but they still made such perfect windows into Q’s thoughts, always alive with some emotion or other.  

“I hope it does,” Q sighed, clearly unwilling to put too much hope behind the idea yet, “but that’s quite out of my hands.  It’s bloody frustrating.”  He propped an elbow on his knee and his chin upon his palm, his movements fractionally slower than a normal person’s because he wasn’t ever one-hundred percent certain where everything was, his own limbs included.  The slight torsion of his middle made him wince, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere, even though the skin around his stitches still looked angry and his many bruises had only grown more vivid overnight.  

While Q was fighting hope, Bond found himself giving into it, knowing that it was equally unwise but clearly lacking the reserve Q had.  Keeping in mind that Q had a proven capacity to slap him but hadn’t yet, 007 slowly reached forward, untroubled by Q’s slight twitch and confused look as he just brushed his fingertips over Q’s knuckles, where said knuckles were near Q’s face.  Near enough that it was a small matter to slide across and just brush the Quartermaster’s chin.  “The improvement of your eyes might be out of your hands,” Bond said, slowly and in a musing tone even as he felt his heartbeat pick up incrementally.  It felt like the excitement of a chase without the mortal danger - the kick of whiskey without the bite - and it made his toes curl.  “But there are other improvements that arguably are very much under your control.”  

Q’s eyes widened slightly, and his breath caught even before he realized that 007’s wandering fingers were tracing a path closer to his mouth.  Bond brushed gently but purposefully beneath Q’s lower lip, and almost touched more inadvertently as Q spoke against his fingers, “Is that a fact?”

What Bond really wanted to remark on was Q’s ability to speak so posh under circumstances like this, but instead he merely grinned - liking the secrecy of Q not seeing his face, because Bond wore masks for people often enough - and replied with fitting cordiality, “It is indeed.  What do you want, Q?”

“What do I want…?” Q asked in a whisper almost too soft to hear, although his lips moved to shape the words.  For a moment, the world felt like it was balanced on a knife’s edge, and Bond held his breath even as he saw Q’s lithesome frame tense up.  But instead of retreating from what 007 was offering, the hand Q was using as a chin-rest rotated, easily finding the hand so near his face.  He gave Bond’s fingers a little squeeze before pulling them closer, looking so adorably hesitant as he bent his head, using touch to feel his way, and pressed a shy kiss of his own to Bond’s palm.  Q immediately pulled his head back and flushed.  “That’s a silly sort of answer, I know-”

It was physically impossible for Bond to let him finish that self-deprecating, embarrassed answer.  Surging up off the floor to instead rest on his knees, muscles flexing, Bond curled a palm firmly around the base of Q’s skull and guided him into a heated, hungry kiss.  The first kiss had been an impulse that had slipped past 007’s weakened guard - but since he hadn’t been rebuffed, he was determined to make this repeat performance decidedly more intentional.  

Chapter Text

Bond kissed with a charming sort of skill that had always seemed a bit unreal to Q, even when he was merely watching.  Now, with no way at all of watching (save the barest indication of light that gave Q hope for returning sight), and with his sense of the situation entirely dependent upon hearing and touch, Q found himself appreciating 007’s abilities in a whole new way.  Q had felt a visceral spike of embarrassment and disappointment in himself when he’d brushed his lips against warm skin, only to rethink his actions a split-second later, imagining just how silly he’d looked.  All of those feelings were evaporating now as if they were lost in each breath he exhaled into 007’s greedy mouth.  

Anxiety still fizzled at the back of Q’s brain, based on the fact that he didn’t know what to do with himself, even though he very much wanted the kissing to continue.  Fortunately, with each slide of Bond’s lips, Q found himself growing more relaxed, if only because the hand cupping the back of his head left no room for indecision.  As if realizing that Q benefitted - even liked - the guidance, 007 shifted a bit closer and lifted up his other hand.  Q knew that he lifted it, because apparently Bond had finally digested the idea that blind people liked a little bit of forewarning in their lives.  So while most of Q’s mind was focused on the feelings of warm breath, chapped lips, and faint stubble, a part of him registered the sliding of knuckles up his bare arm and then his neck.  Therefore, he was in no way startled when Bond’s left hand came up to cradle his jaw.  Still, the little tug against his hair did surprise Q, but in a good way - he gasped a little at the sparks of sensation brought on by the gentle fisting of Bond’s right hand, and immediately felt the wet slide of a tongue questioningly touch his parted lips.  

Bond paused a moment.  Q’s hands had moved of their own volition now, wanting sensory input as the situation got more exhilarating but also more foreign.  One hand was resting on the powerful, flexing curve of a shoulder (the one without stitches), and the other was shyly touching just fingertips to the skin sheathing Bond’s ribs.  Q was unsure what was polite to touch, even if perhaps it should have been obvious that he could touch what he wanted - after all, 00-agents like 007 were shameless creatures accustomed to personal contact, and with the two of them snogging now, the usual lines of professionalism were quite shattered.  Still, when 007 stopped moving and pulled back a bit, Q hesitated, freezing as well and making to pull his hands back to his sides.

“No,” Bond murmured, and Q jumped at another swift peck on his lips.  He wished that he could see 007’s expression, to know whether the other man was smiling at him.  “Your hands are fine.  I just wanted to know whether this was all right.”  Before Q could ask what ‘this’ was, 007 was pressing in again, this time with the unmistakable addition of tongue.  Q couldn’t help but groan with delight, swiftly growing drunk on the idea that Bond could want him like this, and his lips parted automatically.  007 didn’t take advantage of the opening, but instead meandered off to one side, still holding Q’s head in place but pressing his lips in a trail up Q’s cheekbone.  His breaths sounded hungry to Q’s keen ears, the rush of each exhale warm against Q’s skin and making him shiver.  The Quartermaster found himself smiling without thinking about it, and managed to move one hand so that it cupped the agent’s hand against his cheek.  Beneath his own sensitive fingers, Q felt scarred knuckles and hard lines, and tendons moving beneath warm skin.  When 007 shifted his weight, pressing a little kiss to Q’s ear that made the Quartermaster’s heart flutter, the dark-haired young man was reminded that he had MI6’s top agent on his knees in front of him - something that very, very few people in the world could boast about ever having.  

The thought alone left Q a bit dizzy with humbling shock, but he was brought back down to earth by 007 once again returning his diligent attention to Q’s mouth - and this time, he licked into Q’s mouth, adding a whole new category of sensations for Q’s mind to catalogue.  Despite popular opinion about his naïveté, the new Quartermaster had done some kissing in his lifetime, and some of those reflexes kicked back in: he kissed back, still tentative, but more confident about how to react.  By the time they parted, both were equal participants, and the kiss had heated up enough that they were both panting.

“That was nice,” Q said, knowing that it was an understatement but too dazed to come up with more eloquent words.

007 did a bit better.  “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he groaned.  Then he made a small, perturbed noise under his breath, adding with the ruefulness of a man who didn’t like to be unsure, “Hell, I didn’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

The grudging admittance had Q laughing before he knew it, unconsciously tracing the fingers of his right hand over Bond’s left, mapping out the bones of the other man’s wrist.  007 was still cradling his cheek with that hand, and it was like a tether between them even as the larger man let go of Q’s hair with his other hand.  That free hand reappeared in Q’s touch-map a second later when it landed on his thigh, warm as a brand through Q’s trousers.  It was an innocuous touch, but it made Q shiver nonetheless.  “You’re more than welcome to do it again,” Q eventually replied with a hint of hopeful uncertainty that he hoped wasn’t too obvious.  It probably was, because James was a trained spy who read people for a living.  

There was a moment of silence that Q couldn’t read, but even as he felt his insecurities pile up, Bond moved again - another kiss, chaste but sweet, lips against lips and noses brushing.  “Permission for another?” 007 asked with an unmistakable undercurrent of impishness, leaving no doubt that he was grinning like the fiend he was.  

Q snorted and aimed a swat in the general direction of the other man, knowing that if he aimed for where he guessed Bond’s center of mass to be, he’d hit something - a lesson usually applied at the shooting range.  Q was fairly sure he hit an arm.  “How is it that you can be such a cad sometimes and then get away with turning into a gentleman at the most inopportune times?”

“Oh, so this is a bad time to be gentlemanly?” was the insufferably smug response.

Bond’s musing tone was right in front of Q’s face, no doubt purposefully close just to tease.  But if the Quartermaster were just a fraction more sure of his judgment of depth, he could bridge that distance on his own…  Deciding to take a leaf from 007’s book for once and ignoring his own insecurities the Quartermaster dared to ease his head forward just a few millimeters.  The motion was still slow and uncertain, because Q was acutely worried about colliding, but he could also feel the way 007’s stilled at all the points where they were still in contact.  The playful commentary broke off, and it was like 007 was holding his breath.  Q’s nose brushed skin a beat later, and when the younger man diverted his mouth to that spot, he was vaguely certain that he brushed a careful kiss against Bond’s cheek.  He felt the light rasp of stubble beneath his lips.

“You’re making it very, very hard for me to be gentlemanly at all, Quartermaster,” 007 said in a voice like rough, warm velvet.  A distinctly pleasant shiver went up Q’s spine, and it ricocheted  back down to his tailbone as one of 007’s powerful hands kneaded his thigh.  

Taking all of his recklessness - which probably wasn’t much by double-oh standards, but quite a lot for the Quartermaster of MI6, known for his logic and caution - Q whispered without retreating, “Then don’t be.”

Usually, 007 had a habit of catching Q off-guard, but the breakdown of their personal spaces had had more than one perk: Q was now near enough to feel anything coming in the 00-agent before anything actually happened.  Bond was naturally as silent as a cat, but beneath Q’s hands, Bond’s body was full of tells.  Just as the stillness had been projected before, Q now felt muscles coiling, as well as the faint catch of a breath that hovered, poised, against his hair.  All of that occurred before Bond’s movements began to be telegraphed like a slow avalanche through his body.  

Q gasped as he was pushed back a little, 007’s hands firm on his shoulders and bolstering Q’s trust that Bond would keep him from toppling over.  Most of the time Q felt like a cat who’d just lost its tail, and hated his unsteady balance, but when he could literally feel the strength in 007’s arms keeping him steady, the Quartermaster could finally relax.  The fact that 007 was kissing him again was a marvelous distraction as well, especially since Bond seemed to know what he was doing - and what he liked - so there was very little left for Q to fret over.  

“I think that ever since that night you fell asleep at your desk,” 007 muttered between kisses, starting to leave Q’s mouth again, but this time in favor of his neck, “and I ended up walking you back to my bed, I’ve wanted to do this.”  

Surprise flashed through Q, and his hands momentarily tightened where they’d loosely lodged themselves around Bond’s biceps.  “Wait - when did this happen?  I don’t remember-”  He cut off with a little gasp as 007’s teeth scraped against the hinge of his jaw.  Logically, Q knew that he had some nasty bruises ringing his neck, but James was deftly dodging all of them - except for those he brushed with the most moth-light of touches.  Somehow, this was just as much of a turn-on as anything else, as if 007 were trained to be seductive regardless of whether he was being brutal or gentle.  The most heady part of it all was that this wasn’t actually a seduction, because even Q’s brain at its most thorough and paranoid couldn’t find any reason for 007 doing any of this if he didn’t absolutely want to.  

Right now, it seemed that what Bond absolutely wanted to do was crawl up Q’s body like a large cat.  Once again, Q felt the movement coming, even as James slowly rose up off the floor.  Somehow, he did it without ever truly disengaging, as if he knew just how much Q savored and needed the physical contact.  Unfolding from his kneeling position, 007 kept his grip on Q’s arms and pressed back with inexorable strength, and Q only started tensing as he felt his center of gravity shift to the point where he knew he couldn’t recover it if Bond let go.  Q reacted by reaching out sharply, one hand tightening around 007’s forearm and the other around the larger man’s back.  007 immediately hushed him, murmuring so that his words literally brushed Q’s lips, “Easy, sshhh.  I’ve got you, Q.  I won’t let you fall.”

Given Bond’s propensity for lying, Q should have scoffed at that, but instead he slowly relaxed, and felt a flutter of dissipating nerves in his stomach even as his shoulder-blades hit the bed.  His legs were still dangling off the side, 007 standing between them but now hovering over Q in a way that the boffin could feel - and, when he reached up a hand, physically monitor.  His fingers found an arm as it reached down to brace itself beside his head, a torso, hard with muscles packed around bones, and only stopped exploring when Q realized that he’d dragged his overly-inquisitive palm over a nipple.  “I’m sorry, that was…” Q stuttered, unsure how to even finish that sentence but very sure that he was turning beet-red.

In reply, Q felt callused fingertips wrap around his wrist.  The Quartermaster sucked in a little breath and went still for a moment, turning all of his concentration to his sense of touch as his hand was drawn forward and purposefully placed on 007’s person again.  “If I’ve got permission to be unprofessional, then the very least you can do is touch, Quartermaster,” Bond replied with faux-professionalism, something hot wrapped around the humor in his tone.  Q felt the warm curve of a pectoral and the slight imperfection of an old, raised scar when he spread his fingers, wondering if his attention and awe were showing on his face.

They definitely were.  

It took a heartbeat for Q to realize that 007’s breath had escaped him in a groan, even though Q was barely touching him, and then the larger man was shifting again.  One leg moved, disappearing from Q’s awareness before coming up to dent the bed next to Q’s hip, and Q felt his heartbeat pick up in his chest.  Skin flushing, he kept one hand splayed against 007’s chest while the other one began to rise hesitantly - when it found the curve of 007’s distinctive ears, he couldn’t help but pull the man closer.  007 chuckled for only a moment before Q was swallowing the noises, delighted in the act of kissing again.  For such a seemingly simple thing, he found his body coming alive, humming with interest and prickling with a sort of edgy excitement with every nerve waiting for contact.  He was still quite shirtless, and his skin felt cool until it came into contact with Bond’s, but every fast beat of his own heart felt like it spread a luscious glow through him.  

They were kissing like inexperienced teenagers, although in reality 007 was anything but inexperienced, and any clumsiness on Q’s part was artfully handled so that it never felt awkward at all.  007 easily tolerated the roving of his Quartermaster’s hands, understanding without asking that Q needed to paint a picture in the only way he could, with touch.  Q felt a lot like he was petting a very dangerous guard-dog, although with the unwavering knowledge that he was safe as houses in the shadow of 007’s body.  The past few days had more than proven Q could trust James, but now he felt a thrill as that trust expanded into this new, unexpected, sexual realm.  True, Bond still needed a bell until Q could listen to the beacon on his watch, but when in control, 007 had never steered him wrong.

Q blinked his sightless eyes closed, tilting his head back with a slow sigh as 007 braced both forearms on either side of Q’s head - close enough that Q could feel it even before fingers threaded through his hair.  Q glided his fingers over the back of one muscular forearm, following it up to Bond’s body for the purpose of staying aware of exactly where he was, but in reality just liking the way 007’s breath stuttered as Q touched ticklishly light at Bond’s sides.  Q’s other hand was against Bond’s stomach, and felt the muscles there clench, a combination of many muscles working in concert that fascinated the analytical side of Q’s nature.  His less analytical side was taken in by the tongue that abruptly licked a stripe up his sternum, but his surprise was once again mollified by 007 calmly hushing him.  One hand was still in his hair, holding his head still, and after just a second, Q categorized the sensation and accepted again that 007 had things under control.  The fingers in his hair loosened enough to merely card through the strands, slow and easy.  “I don’t know what I love most,” 007 said, his words surprisingly thoughtful, even as Q squirmed at the words being breathed across the skin 007 had just licked, “straightening out your hair to make it look half presentable, or the thought of making an absolute travesty of it.”

Immediately, Q’s eidetic memory went back to the first time 007 had helped dress him - how the agent had straightened out his hair with a grudging sort of tone, but had then paused strangely afterwards.  The realization that 007 might have been thinking of him even then warmed Q’s heart even as it made him want to turn his face away shyly - because, unlike 007, Q was an open book.  

“Hey, now,” 007’s low, teasing tones came closer to Q’s face, even as 007’s other hand joined the first, up against either side of Q’s head and lightly scratching his scalp, “You don’t get to turn away from me like that.”  A light kiss brushed Q’s nose, making him still.  “If I’m pushing this too far, all you have to do is say the word, Q.”  That last sentence was calm and steady, and filled with a sort of resigned, gentle sadness that Q didn’t need to see Bond’s face to recognize, and it made the Quartermaster’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.  

Immediately letting his hands trace up 007’s athletic frame, Q found the man’s face, one hand tracing a mouth that seemed somehow caught between a frown and a smile.  There were no crows’-feet at the edges of the man’s eyes, a sure sign that he was thinking melancholy thoughts - thoughts that included Q not wanting this.  Nothing could have been further from the truth, and Q finally drew his feet up onto the bed.  He could feel the twitch of Bond’s surprise - the way his head started to turn, but ultimately stayed within the fragile confines of Q’s hands, the way his hands stopped moving.  00-agents, Q was certain, didn’t like to be penned in, but Q wanted to keep Bond here, so he eventually felt the bedsheets under his heels so that he could bracket 007’s hips with his knees.  “James, there are a lot of things that you do that drive me crazy,” Q informed his agent frankly, wishing he could see 007’s reaction, but contenting himself with feeling the start of a surprised, wry smirk under his hands, “but I can safely say that this isn’t one of them.  Do you understand?”

Now Bond was definitely smiling.  He let Q’s hands explore the whole expression, apparently not minding the strange feeling of having his face mapped out by the pads of Q’s fingers.  “Understood, Quartermaster.  Any further requests?”

It was at that point that Q felt a sharp twinge in his side, and abruptly Bond’s head turned and left Q’s reach.  For a second, Q wasn’t sure where the pain was coming from, although his body was telling him that it had been there for awhile - but hidden by endorphins.  “Shit,” Q remembered abruptly, “I have stitches, don’t I?”

“And this all started with me offering to get you painkillers,” 007 agreed with regret.  When he started to get up and back off, Q whined and grabbed for him, fumbling but catching a wrist.  Said wrist twisted, and then 007 was grabbing him back, hand warm and tight.  “Don’t worry, Q - this isn’t the end, just an intermission.  I damn near forgot that you’re not used to playing around while injured like we 00-agents are.”  

Despite Q’s protests, 007 backed off, although he pulled Q up with him.  Instead of just sitting on the edge of the bed again as Bond stood, Q stubbornly reached out, using his spatial awareness and a bit of blind luck (no pun intended) to hook his fingers in one of the older man’s belt-loops.  If this included bumping his fingertips into 007’s abdomen and sliding them down the ‘V’ of 007’s lower abdominal muscles, then it was only fair-play for Q to leave 007 as turned-on as Q himself was.  Using the belt-loop as much orient himself as for a handhold, Q got to his feet and followed Bond to wherever he kept the Paracetamol - the bathroom, it seemed.  Q’s pants were feeling a bit tight, even if that ‘problem’ was fading a little with the loss of stimulation, but he smirked a little from behind Bond’s back as he remembered the slight choking noise he’d heard when he’d found the hem of 007’s trousers and grabbed onto it.  

~^~

It was typical of 00-agents to ‘forget’ to report back to MI6 on a regular basis.  Therefore, it didn’t surprise Q at all that he was now in charge of calling M, because 007 hadn’t bothered to yet.  

“Yes, M, this line is secure,” Q said, phone cradled to his left ear but his right ear also occupied by an earbud once again - the last vestiges of tension had left him now that he had his technological ‘eyes’ back.  Somehow, 007’s watch had also survived this whole ordeal.  Not that Q needed it at the moment, because while he sat against the headboard with his legs folded, the boffin could feel the warm body of the agent in question next to him.   “Apologies for not checking in earlier,” he went on, “We’ve been rather occupied.”

007 snorted, and Q flushed suddenly as he realized the two ways that that phrase could be taken.  He twitched as if to glare at 007, his expression sliding into a sharp frown even if he had to take it on faith that it was directed at the man deserving it.  At least 007 didn’t say anything else, but instead rolled over.  Q felt the bed move, and when he stretched his free hand out to touch carefully - still a bit amazed that he was allowed, even invited, to do this - he traced a shoulder-blade and a defined shoulder.  007 was lying on his side with his back pressed up to Q’s legs like a giant lizard cuddled up to a heat-lamp (which was just ridiculous when 007 was the hot-blooded one).

Giving up on teaching manners to a man who was actually behaving rather well, innuendo-filled chortles notwithstanding, Q went back to talking with M.  His right hand found a place on 007’s ribcage without thinking about it, staying there with his fingers quietly playing with the material of the new T-shirt 007 had pulled on after officially checking Q’s condition (which had included a long look at Q’s stitches, and some more dangerous cursing at his bruises) and giving him painkillers.  “Mercer is dead.  Unfortunately, Genecode was also lost, although we can be almost certain that he didn’t get a chance to share it with anyone.  When I get back to Q-branch, I’ll-”  Q cut off and almost choked on his tongue, recalling with a painful jolt that he wasn’t actually the Quartermaster anymore - and might never be again.  More subdued, trying to hide the hurt, Q went on as if he’d never interrupted himself, “Q-branch should be able to keep an eye out for residual copies floating around, and if you could please send a clean-up team to…”  He himself didn’t know the location of the place where they’d been kept, but 007 had been following the conversation, and immediately supplied it for Q to pass on.  “...They can also be sure that everything is squared away.  How can I be certain of this?”  Q tried to ponder how best to explain the situation, which had included some rather flagrant kidnapping.  Trying for levity, he answered M, “Apparently villains like to monologue.”

M was not so easily deterred from the whole truth.  Soon, Q was explaining the whole bloody thing - wishing that he could just wait and type up some final report - and soon M demanded he put 007 on the line.  Grudgingly, the 00-agent rolled back over and took the phone, leaning up against Q’s shoulder for a moment, then rolling off the bed to pace and talk at the same time.  Q’s earbud gave him a subtle running commentary on the agent’s back-and-forth positions even as 007’s voice got increasingly curt.  It took a moment before Q was able to recognize what he was hearing: Bond was bristling at the intimation that he’d somehow failed in his job to keep Q safe.  His heart doing an unexpected little jump in his chest, Q slid off the bed more slowly than 007 had, aware that the 00-agent immediately stopped moving.  Carefully using the watch’s signal like a bat echo-locating, Q crossed the room, hand on the bed to keep from bumping into it, and walked until he was apparently half a meter from the watch, and therefore 007.  “Phone.”  He held out his hand, waggling his fingers expectantly.  

Bond grumbled something under his breath, but soon the body-warmed casing of the phone was slapping against Q’s palm.  The Quartermaster once again took up the narration, making it clear that 007 was not at fault for anything, although it seemed as though M hadn’t actually been blaming him - Bond was suffering purely from self-recrimination, which forced Q to fight down a sad little smile.  He doubted that James would take well to people knowing that he could still feel guilt after all these years as an international assassin and spy.  

By the time the call was finished, leaving Q feeling a bit like a child who’d just had a serious altercation with a teacher (although one that had ended well, M agreeing that this was a win, with both of them alive and the information out of enemy hands), 007 was back on the bed again.  “You didn’t have to do that,” Q heard him murmur, a bit gruffly but softly pitched.

Although he had a pretty good idea what 007 was referring to, Q pretended ignorance even as he slowly found his way back to the bed again - the one that he himself usually occupied.  “Do what?”

“Defend me.  Besides the fact that I rather willfully burned down an entire building - a fact that Psych is going to want me to regret, but I don’t, and won’t,” 007 replied, his stubbornness reminding Q of the ceramic bulldog on M’s desk, “I also wasn’t there to do my job when Rousseau grabbed you.  If I’d been with you, that little shit wouldn’t have put a hand on you.”  There was a pause, even as Q got level with the sound of Bond’s voice at the head of the bed, then a lethal-sounding rumble, “Not without losing the hand, at least.”

Q plopped down on the bed, hands orienting him as always, still getting a little thrill when they brushed against Bond and were neither rebuffed nor found any sign of said agent pulling away.  “Unexpected things always happen on missions,” Q deflected as he perched with his back to the headboard once again, crossing his legs at the ankles but otherwise still sitting with a straight-backed and professional air, because that was what he was used to doing, “You can’t control everything, 007, and no one expects you to.”

“Yes, but I should have seen the trouble coming.”

“How could you have?” Q patiently returned.  

As near as Q could tell, 007 was flat on his back, the locator in his watch pinging through the connection to Q’s ear when the man gestured with that hand.  Bond’s voice came from next to Q’s knee.  “Because I’m trained to watch people and situations, and make educated guesses on how events are going to happen - just like you use analyses and statistics to read data.  I do that in person, Q, but this time I failed at it.  I should have at least seen that leaving you alone was a bad idea.”  Frustration was bleeding into 007’s tone like an open wound, making the edges of each word incarnadined and angry.  Q let him blow off steam, untroubled, because he’d just spent a night with 007 at his most deadly, and no harm had come to him.  “Right from the start, I knew Mercer-”  007 cut off suddenly and almost savagely - Q’s ears were by now quite attuned to the various shifts in tempo and tone.  

Q had to ask.  “Right from the start?”

The sigh from next to him sounded like air from a slashed balloon - or a knifed lung.  It was painful and on the edge of tragic, especially from a man who could take on life-threatening situations that broke most people, and laugh at them.  Q got the impression that Bond was talking right up to the ceiling, and the watch had ceased to move around.  “The day that you… that the accident happened, my instincts told me that something was up with Mercer.  But I did nothing,” 007 said quietly.  

That wasn’t something that Q had expected to hear, but looking back, a few pieces slid into place - mostly, 007’s tone back in Q’s first few days of blindness.  007 was considered amoral by many people, and as vicious as a snake to enemies or just people he didn’t like, but while Q knew differently, he still hadn’t understood some of the inflections he’d heard then in Bond’s tone.  Now, looking back on his memories like someone flicking through old film-footage, the boffin frowned and saw things in a new light.  “You’ve been feeling guilty about that?” he asked, unable to hide the shock in his tone.  He himself had spent this whole time being angry at Mercer, when he wasn’t being ruefully thankful to have at least survived with his life.  

007 let out a searing breath that hissed a little like water droplets on a hot pan, then exploded, “Of course I’ve felt guilty, Q!  I’ve felt damn guilty, because I saw a man and smelled a rat, and then I let him blow up Q-branch!”

“You didn’t let him-”

“I didn’t stop him.  And you of all people know how capable I am of stopping bastards like him,” 007 retorted icily.  He was probably the only person Q knew who could drop his voice from a natural warmth to sub-zero temperatures in the space of a breath.  It warmed up only the barest of degrees - at least rising off the Kelvin scale into something that Celcius could register - as he added, “You should be angrier.”

Q’s response to that… was to laugh.  It was just a little snort, but then he couldn’t help a slightly wry chuckle.  He couldn’t see Bond’s reaction, but he felt the bed shift as the man jerked.  “S-Sorry,” Q regained himself after the little outburst, wiping a hand across his mouth as if that could erase the unexpected smile.  He gathered himself enough to sit up like the Quartermaster he was, however, and did his best to purse his lips and look down his nose in 007’s general direction.  He spoke as archly as he had at his first interview, when he’d been trying his hardest to impress M and not be mistaken for someone young and naive, “I’m just shocked to find out that you’re such a masochist.”

There was a long pause in which Q hoped 007 was merely staring at him in shock and not slowly boiling over with temper, because a startled 00-agent was better than a humiliated or frustrated one.  Q held his pose, hands folded primly in his lap (although folded so tightly together that he feared he’d lost feeling in some of them), and then slowly tried on a little smile.  He had a feeling that it came across as hesitant, but he couldn’t think of any better peace-offering - any better way to convince the proud man next to him that Q didn’t blame him for anything, even if he apparently blamed himself.

The next time Bond sighed, it was slower and more natural, and less like the exhale of something wounded.  “You’re a real piece of work, Q,” he muttered.

Q thought he sensed a smile in the tone, and betted on it heavily as he dryly retorted, “I’m not the one who offered to hand-feed a co-worker.”

“That again?” Bond sounded exasperated, but the playfulness was seeping back in.  There was still pain lodged beneath it all, but Q had to accept the little wins when he got them.  “I’m starting to wonder if you’re just trying to embarrass me, or giving me hints.”

Taking a risk - and wanting very much to pull Bond out of his black mood - Q quirked up one side of his mouth and lightly replied, “I know for a fact that there’s no embarrassing you, 007.”

The next noise Q’s ears registered was something between a thoughtful hum and a deliciously low purr.  “So you are giving hints then.”

“As you were saying - you’re the 00-agent, you tell me,” Q demurred.  He felt excited and exposed, sitting there with no one else for company but Bond, unable to see him but close enough to touch.  

Q’s earbud informed him that Bond’s watch was moving, giving him a little warning before fingertips brushed Q’s chin.  He didn’t flinch this time at the contact, although he did hold his breath, curious to see what would happen next.  Q was more dressed than when he’d woken up, in an old jumper that he’d packed, and 007’s idle fingers traced from just under Q’s lower lip, down under his chin, to his throat, to finally stop at the neck of Q’s shirt and tug.  “If we’re going back to Dulce Periculum again, you’ll need nicer clothes.”

~^~

Chapter Text

There was something both exhilarating and strangely calming about narrowing his world down entirely to Bond.  All of his life, or at least all of his time as Quartermaster, Q was used to his every decision being pivotal and important, forcing him to micro-analyze his every move.  He did it on such a regular basis that it had long-since become natural, to the point where he didn’t even realize that was doing it until suddenly all of those decisions were taken out of his hands by one self-assured 00-agent.  Suddenly, Q didn’t have to think about anything.  From what to wear to where to go to even what direction to take his next step in, 007 was making the decisions, and now that Q finally digested and accepted these conditions, he found it remarkably freeing.  Of course, his mind would have drifted and occupied itself with all manner of internal worries, except for the fact that 007 - now that he realized he was welcome to - had a love of small, light, frequent touches that was always sure to magnetize Q’s attention.  

Q’s skin seemed to come awake as rough calluses just brushed his chest, just an idle swipe before the agent did the last buttons up to Q’s throat.  Obediently, Q tipped his head back, asking with only a fraction of the nervousness that he would have had earlier, “Tie?”

“It is that kind of occasion,” Bond said by way of answer, and his tone was just warm enough that Q thought he was probably smirking.  When James went on, his tone shifted just a little, and now it was Q who smiled.  “I also happen to like you in a tie.”

“I wear ties all the time.”

“Usually with some hideous sort of cardigan.”

Q pretended ignorance, shaping his expression into what he hoped was an innocent, shocked face to match his faux-flabbergasted tone, “Since when do you not like my cardigans?”

The low chuckle built like thunder rolling in on a warm summer storm, and Q felt ridiculously proud that he could make a hardened spy laugh like that.  Q’s pride continued to burn contentedly in his chest as he felt something settled around the back of his neck, 007’s deft hands turning up his collar and tucking the tie into place.  Q doubted that there would ever come a day when he didn’t catch his breath and gasp a little as Bond snugged the knot up tight against his throat.  “Is that all right?” 007 asked seriously, noticing.

“Fine,” Q assured hurriedly, letting his fingertips dance restlessly against his legs, already clad in trousers that Bond assured him were so dark blue as to be almost black.  After a moment of consideration and hesitation, Q went on haltingly and a bit shyly, “I suppose I’m just continually humbled by how gentle you can be when I’ve actually seen you garrote men before.”

Bond hummed, a noise to show he was thinking on Q’s words even if his reaction to them remained largely hidden.  Still, he said even as one large hand smoothed across Q’s shoulder, “You’re safe, Quartermaster.”  It was probably meant to be said teasingly, with 007’s voice shifting into a charming, playful octave.

But Q answered as if it were a solemn vow, because he heard something beneath the suave facade, “I know.”  Because his sense of touch was so focused right now, Q easily felt the fraction of a second in which 007’s hand froze, before continuing its idle stroke.  Wanting to keep this evening light, however, Q took in a breath and puffed it out, saying, “All right then - jacket?  Since cardigans are out, I assume that’s the other option you have tucked away.”

It was some time later that Q hung on Bond’s arm, wondering if he should feel like an accessory but knowing for a fact that 007 never paid this much attention and care towards mere objects - tech in particular.  Technology 007 destroyed, but the Quartermaster behind that tech…  Well, apparently Q had wormed his way into a far more personal part of 007’s awareness, and Q didn’t have to see to know that Bond was carefully monitoring his every step.  “Curb,” 007 said without any particular fanfare, and the two of them smoothly moved up a step, without the slightest change of gait to indicate that Q couldn’t see a thing - or at least anything more than vague changes in light and dark.  Everything was unremittingly dark now, so Q wondered if it was already night again.  If so, that meant he and 007 had slept a long while, which explained how absolutely starving Q was.  

“So how serious were you when you were teasing me about hand-feeding you?” Bond asked after they’d walked a few paces more, Q’s ears distractedly monitoring the sounds of vehicular traffic to the left and sparse foot-traffic far ahead and behind.  007 was between him and the street, and no doubt purposefully keeping them away from other people, which made Q feel at once amused and intrinsically safe.  He twitched his head to turn Bond’s way when he felt a touch against the hand he’d wrapped around the agent’s elbow.  

Ever since their last talk in the hotel, James had been positively cheery, to the point where Q thought he detected an actual spring in the larger man’s step.  Now the agent sounded cheeky, and Q felt his cheeks heating up even as a smile found its way onto the corner of his mouth.  “As serious as you were.”

“Oh, now that was clever, making me decide the answer to that myself,” James applauded with mock exasperation.  Q laughed, surprised by how easily the sound came when part of him thought he should be worrying about tripping or walking into something - he didn’t have his cane.  James had never let Q so much as bump something, however, and that track-record extended into a blanket-trust that let Q relax.  Bond’s left hand was now folded over Q’s entirely.  “We’re here,” were Bond’s next words, and only then did Q tense up a bit, half anxious and half excited.

The service at Dulce Periculum was much as Q remembered it: discreet, polite, but friendly.  Also as before, James did most of the talking, his words as charming and smooth as warm honey.  This time, he asked for a private booth, and Q felt his breath catch a little.  Wearing his regular glasses instead of sunglasses that hid the unfocused quality of his eyes, Q’s blindness was probably apparent, but no one treated him any differently, even though the wait-staff deferred instinctually to Bond as the more chatty one.  

When they came to a stop with the waitress saying cheerfully, “Your table, gentlemen,” Q felt a moment of panic as to what to do.  With his cane, he might have felt about for where nearby objects were, but now he had only blackness, and shrunk a little closer to 007’s sturdy bulk without thinking.  He was surprised to feel 007 touch his hand again, sliding along tensed fingers to squeeze Q’s wrist in a crushing yet reassuring grip.  ‘I’ll handle things,’ the grip seemed to say before it released, and moments later James was helping Q into his seat. It was a rounded booth that Q’s hesitant hands soon had a feel for, and as soon as Q slid in, 007 followed him, a solid presence at Q’s side.  

Bond made quick work of ordering food, while Q mapped out his immediate surroundings as subtly as possible.  By the time the waitress left, Q had his glass in hand, a cautious sniff telling him that it was just water.  The Quartermaster hummed under his breath when 007 stretched an arm across the back of the booth, which also neatly laid the warm weight across the back of Q’s shoulders.  “Made up your mind?” Q asked mildly.

A pause betrayed confusion or mild surprise, but he took the bait.  “About what?”

Q nursed his drink, tipping it up enough so that his lips kissed the cold water without really taking any in.  When Q wasn’t so nervous about not seeing, the sensations of things were actually quite nice.  Exciting.  Rather like the man next to him.  “About feeding me,” was Q’s carefully blithe reply, as if he were talking about the weather.  

For a moment, Bond made no sound, but his torso was shaking in what soon betrayed itself as laughter.  “Butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue, you’re so innocent,” he accused.  Q felt the tendons in Bond’s arm move behind him, and a moment later felt blunt fingertips prod at his far shoulder with idle playfulness.  It made Q’s smirk grow into a fully-fledged, smug smile, and he decided that he liked this.  Contentment had been hard to find since the incident that had stolen his sight, but for the first time, he realized that he was purely enjoying the moment regardless of his inability to see.  Perhaps it helped that James worked around his blindness without being awkward about it - he did treat Q differently, but with a natural, unhesitant smoothness.  In reflection, this probably came from the fact that Bond was trained to blend in and act natural in any situation.  

“What are you thinking?” Bond’s tone was low and curious, and his hand still played with Q’s shoulder through layers of cloth.  

“That we’ll be expected back at MI6 soon,” Q lied, lost about how to explain his contentment.  Then he really did start thinking about their return, and frowned abruptly.  “And that I might not have a job when I do.”

Bond’s suggestion came without hesitation or insecurity, and he leaned in close to speak it, “Think about that later.”  With James’s warm breath still curling against the shell of Q’s ear, he heard approaching footsteps and understood that Bond’s undertone was a reaction to approaching company.  Soon, the light clink of plates could be heard, and Q reached forward naturally to run his fingertip along the ceramic curve of a plate.  Before his hand strayed onto it, a larger, callused hand closed lightly around his wrist.  The waitress was already retreating, leaving them in total quiet that was almost eerie, considering that they were in a populated restaurant.  Q felt a shiver as he recalled 007’s request of a private booth, where they wouldn’t be watched.  “You’re about the ruin the surprise with those clever fingers of yours.”

Somehow, Bond’s playful chiding made it sound obscene, and Q felt his heartbeat kick up a notch as the other man slowly pulled Q’s hand back until it rested in the Quartermaster’s lap.  “Still okay with this?” 007 checked in a more normal, serious voice.

Although nerves were making it hard not to fidget, Q pressed both of his hands down against his thighs and made himself sit still.  His answer of “Yes” sounded a bit more breathless than he wanted, but if he was lucky, the booth was dark enough not to show his flush.  Pulling together his best ‘Quartermaster voice,’ he sat primly and demanded, “Now, kindly get on with it, Bond, before I starve.”

Bond’s chuckle was a lovely, lovely noise.  “Since you asked so nicely,” he replied with ample wryness, but then his body was shifting, his nearness to Q transmitting the movements even if the arm nearest Q remained where it was - still stroking Q’s wrist.  Q found himself holding his breath so that he could focus and listen better, but he still only heard the faintest of noises to cue him.  There was a little stutter in his thinking (and perhaps his heartbeat) as he realized yet again how much he was willingly depending on 007.  The light brush of a callused fingertip against his chin made him jolt a bit, the entirety of his auditory focus derailed momentarily by the return of something solid and physical.  “Right in front of you,” Bond murmured unassumingly, and with a great deal of caution, Q leaned forward, using the one fingertip on his chin like a guide until the scent of chocolate hit his nose.  He imagined 007 holding the chocolate-covered-something between his thumb and first three fingers, his smallest finger extended to brush against Q’s chin in warning.  It was just a small touch, but Q still found himself hyper aware of it even as his lips came into contact with the silky texture of chocolate, and hunger took over.  Q’s tongue immediately identified the sweet explosion of a chocolate-covered grape, and he was so enamored with the taste that he didn’t notice - and certainly didn’t mind - the way 007 moved his hand to lightly stroke his jaw before disappearing again.  

There was silence in which Q was at a loss to decipher anything about his partner, except the fact that 007 had moved his near arm so that it was once again looped across the back of the curving seat.  Q finished chewing and swallowed, asking shyly, “Another… please?”

Bond’s wordless hum of acquiescence held obvious approval, and the slight tension that had  crept into Q’s muscles disappeared.  This time, when 007 leaned forward a little bit to reach for something, he brought it right up to Q’s mouth instead of engaging in the previous dance of forewarning and waiting for the Quartermaster to respond.  It was both exhilarating and a bit embarrassing to find another treat nudging against his lips, but while Q personally thought he probably looked ridiculous, he must not have, because he clearly heard another pleased sound from James when he opened his mouth and bit into a chocolate-covered strawberry.  The sweetness of it was almost too much, making Q think of white chocolate instead of milk chocolate.  “I’m going to die of a sugar overload if you give me another one of those,” Q said, just to break the quiet.

007, when he spoke, sounded much more relaxed, to the point where Q could positively imagine him lounging back and watching with lidded blue eyes.  “There are worse ways to die,” he replied lackadaisically.  Cloth and cushion shifted behind Q, and then a hand touched his upper back like James couldn’t help it.  The caress was light but obvious to Q’s senses.  Bond was more than happy to acquiesce, and thus they found a balance: Q expressed his opinions on whatever he was given, his analytical mind delighted with the challenge of identifying everything as soon as he got his lips around it, and 007 did all of the physical work and ultimately chose each bite that Q took.  When Q grew overzealous in his hunger and felt his teeth and tongue scrape against a finger, the dark-haired young man pulled back, awkwardly swallowing to say, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean-”

“Stop apologizing, Q.”  The sentence was followed by a surprising, sudden kiss that would have pushed Q back had not 007’s arm hooked behind his neck while 007 ravished his mouth.  So far as Q knew, Bond hadn’t been eating anything, but there was no way this hunger was purely food-related.  007 hadn’t been talking much before now, preferring touch and action as his forms of communication, but apparently Q was doing something to get the 00-agent’s attention, because James sounded wrecked right now.  Those three words before he occupied his mouth with others things came across low and throaty, husky in a way that had Q’s toes curling inside their shoes.  Q parted his lip to the first swipe of tongue across his lips, but a thought had him laughing moments after the kiss deepened.  When 007 pulled back, the boffin chuckled, “Taste anything you like?”

Bond snorted, breath huffing across Q’s face.  “You taste like chocolate,” he said with a sweet warmth that reminded Q of honey on skin.  A second later, and Q felt fingers touch his chin.  He thought for a moment that 007 was merely guiding his head for another kiss, but even as Bond’s forefinger slid under his jaw, Bond’s thumb slid slowly across his Quartermaster’s lower lip, leaving something smooth and slick in its wake - a tentative poke of Q’s tongue gave him a taste of sugary sweetness that actually surprised him.  His face must have showed his reaction, because 007 startled chuckling.  Feeling a bit impish and perhaps vindictive in a good way, Q curled up his lips at the sides and then stretched out his tongue farther, licking 007’s thumb before it had a chance to move away.  Bond’s sharp inhale was immensely gratifying.

“You’re lucky that the main dish is due to arrive any minute now, or you’d be on this table instead of dessert,” 007 growled, low and throaty.  

Q felt a delicious quiver travel down his spine, and he savored the taste on his tongue and mouth - caramel, he thought.  His own voice was just a bit breathy as he returned the banter in kind, “Well, it would be a pity for you to break any of the plates in clearing off the table.  One request, though?”

“Hmm,” Bond made a thoughtful, accepting noise that seemed to strum chords low in Q’s stomach.  The hand that had come to trail idly on this thigh wasn’t helping.  “Name it.”

Lifting a hand of his own, Q indicated his face.  “When the waitress comes back with our meal, I do not want to look like a mess.  Clean this up, please.”

Of course, both of them knew that 007 would ‘clean up’ the caramel with his mouth, and a good deal of open-mouthed kissing followed, with a lot of tongue involved.  Q ended up laughing as James held his head still and licked a nice, broad stripe against the side of the younger man’s mouth.  Somehow, though, the two were presentable again by the time their privacy was breached by the sound of clicking heels and a politely cleared throat announcing the second course.

Somehow Q was still hungry - the sweets had definitely whetted his appetite for savory.  By this point, he was growing very comfortable with letting James handle most everything to do with the meal, and was in fact rather relieved, because it was still rather frustrating to blindly hunt down food on his plate.  It was far easier to instead let his hands stay folded easily in his lap and open his mouth trustingly whenever the agent commanded - and 007’s tone implied how much he liked it when Q did exactly that.  Never before would the Quartermaster have thought of eating as a sexual experience, but then again, he never would have foreseen himself in a relationship with a 00-agent outside of work.  Now he was experiencing all manner of new things, and found himself increasingly enamored with the light brush of callused fingertips against his lips, or - when 007 finally gave in and started to use silverware, always carefully - the comfortable weight of an arm sneaking in around his waist.  The bout of sugar-infused kissing had also loosened up something in Q, and he found himself relaxing against Bond’s side.  The main dish consisted some of the most deliciously and creatively spiced chicken Q had ever had (the flavors entrancing in a way that went beyond Q’s simple hunger and the way his remaining senses were compensating for his lost sight), and cheese-filled pasta of some sort that seemed to be made for small, compact bites.  

At first, this seemed less sensual than the dessert-first course.  A few times, Q was coaxed into licking salt and spices from 007’s fingertips, but mostly the mood settled into something less urgently enamored and more contented.  However, after a long stretch of silence in which both Bond and Q were focused on simply chewing and enjoying (Q could sense 007 taking turns with eating, no longer starving himself for the sake of just watching), James commented quietly and seemingly offhandedly, “I don’t remember my parents much, but I have a faint memory…”  He paused and thought, then went on even as Q listened the sounds of metal on plateware, and imagined a bit of chicken being cut from the bone in time to the feeling of Bond’s muscles flexing slightly against his side, “I remember my father always being the one to cut the meat at the table, and he always served my mother  first.  Even though he said he loved us both equally, he always gave her the best pieces.  That annoyed me as a child, but I understand now.”

Somehow, Q thought that the next bite of chicken was particularly tender, and he felt something in his heart squeeze with a beautiful tightness.  Q didn’t comment, but a little bit later, he turned his head to where he knew 007’s shoulder to be.  He pressed a light kiss to the fabric.  “Thank you, James,” he said, words respectful but hoping that his tone conveyed what he felt, which was an intense fondness for 007’s long-gone parents and a present gratitude that some of those old-world moments of chivalry had lived on.  Q had no doubt that he continued to receive the choice pieces from their meal.  He also had no doubt that what 007 felt for him was deep and real, and the last of Q’s reservations disappeared like smoke.  

~^~

Q was looking out across the opera house, the colors somehow too vivid, and prone to change with every blink he made or every minute turn of his head.  His mind absorbed it all and accepted it as truth, however, like a glitching computer program happily swallowing bad coding whole.  There was something wrong with the singers, however… he registered moving mouths, but no noise was coming out of them.  In fact, the whole of the opera was eerily silent, until a familiar voice rang in his head like a recording being turned on, “Rousseau, kindly give Q something to say through the earpiece. I imagine he’s in communication with his agent.”

A split-second later and Q felt a lash of pain against his side.  He twisted, hearing himself gasp in pain and knowing that now was when he needed to fight off Rousseau - and since he could see him, he could succeed this time.  Right?  But when Q turned, he saw nothing.  There was no Rousseau, but a glance down showed him blood running thick across his own belly and side.  The knife hadn’t gone this deeply last time… it was still in him, buried to the hilt, and he thought he could feel its keen edge scratching at his ribs with every increasingly fast breath.  

“Whatever you say, boss,” Q heard Rousseau’s voice intone, a cheery, all-too-familiar echo.  

With a jolt of adrenaline-fueled action, the Quartermaster twisted around again, prepared to fight and win by whatever means necessary.  He thought he saw a person standing at his back, amorphous but somehow one-hundred percent Caspian Rousseau, but before Q could focus or act - or think about whether he should try to pull the knife out of his side - everything went black.

Q struggled.  His body felt heavier somehow, and abruptly his sense of balance told him that he was lying on his side and tangled up in something.  Furiously sure that whatever that something was, it was blocking off his vision, the Quartermaster tried to get free and clear of it, but no matter what he did, the darkness wasn’t receding, and ire became fear, and Q whimpered.  Just as fear was about to become panic, fortunately, Q’s hand slapped down against something living and warm - as quickly as that, his brain woke up completely, and he recognized the bed and blankets around him.  Choking, tarry blackness became simple, moderately acceptable blindness, and the offending article wrapped around him likewise became a mere bedsheet.  

Bond shifted under Q’s hand, a shoulder-blade arching against Q’s palm.  They were on the train, Q remembered, saving space by taking up only one room and one bed, even though MI6 had graciously booked them two.  “Q?” 007 asked, sounding groggy now that he’d been roused.  The bedclothes rustled, and Q felt the movement of 007’s back even before a broad, comforting hand reached back to land on his hip - bare skin on bare skin.  “Everything all right?”

“Yes.”  Even to his own ears, Q didn’t think he sounded very convincing, so he sighed and admitted, “It was just a nightmare.  Then I bloody forgot I was blind again when I woke up.  At this rate, I don’t think I’ll ever get use to it.”  Feeling upset by the dream still and frustrated with himself, the Quartermaster decided that he deserved a bit of comfort, and huddled forward.  There was quite a bit more skin-on-skin contact then, even before Bond shifted appreciatively, letting his hand slide down Q’s lean flank.  The dark-haired man puffed out a grudgingly happy breath against the back of James’s neck, then acquiesced to having one of his arms drawn up and over the agent’s side.  Thus settled with the fingers of his right hand laced with scarred, gun-callused ones, Q felt some of the lingering terror and helplessness from the dream float away, and he sunk into the pleasant lull that came from knowing that whatever came, 007 could handle it.  Even before the accident, Q had had a hard time letting go, and he reflected distractedly that that was one small silver-lining  hidden in this unpleasant affair.  

That, and he’d gained James.  

“Are you going back to sleep?” 007 rumbled, still in that sleep-rough voice that so few people got to hear.  Even on honey-pot missions, Bond wasn’t the kind to linger in a lover’s bed until morning, and when he did, Q remembered how alert and aware 007 was by the time any sort of conversation was renewed.  It paid to get the drop on any potential target or foe, and there were many occasions when 007 had had to fight for his life before his first cup of coffee.  With Q, however, a coworker and now a lover (the thought of last night and the night before, after leaving Dulce, made Q’s toes curl involuntarily with pleasure), James didn’t see the need.  Q secretly loved the thick, low tones of a newly-awakened James Bond.  

“Maybe after the nightmare fades a bit,” Q saw no reason to lie.  He idly traced patterns with his fingertips against 007’s skin, feeling the powerful curvature of a rib, the flexing mesh of abdominal muscles as they reacted to the touch.  007 unlaced their fingers to give Q more room to play, happy to instead rest his hand atop Q’s wrist.  “I’ll try not to keep you up.”

Instead of merely grunting and settling back into the bed again, 007’s tone picked up a more wakeful timbre of interest, “You won’t try very hard, I hope?”

Bond’s incorrigible nature had led to a lot of fun last night.  Now, the dark-haired young man snorted out a laugh and pinched the skin beneath his hand, eliciting a full-body flinch from his larger bed-mate - which in and of itself was a treat.  Neither of them were dressed, and as his athletic body arched, Bond’s skin touched Q’s in over a dozen different places.  With Bond rubbing up against him, Q couldn’t help but moan, needing no eyesight to curl his head forward and muffle his deep breath between 007’s neck and shoulder.  “I assume you have better things for me to do than stay up mulling over dark thoughts?” he guessed ruefully even as he felt his body stirring with interest.  

When 007 rolled over, Q retracted his hands and waited, the loss of sensation less disorienting when he knew that he’d likely have plenty of sensory info again soon - Bond loved to touch.  “You know me so well,” 007 murmured teasingly from not far away.  

Q snorted and tried to act unimpressed even as his mild interest grew to something more pronounced, thanks to the heavy, warm touch that skimmed up his thigh.  It startled him at first, as most unheralded things did, but not enough to kill the mood - if anything, it enhanced it, with Q’s inability to see combining with his explicit trust in 007.  It was like adrenalin without the danger, vulnerability without the fear.  When 007’s mouth followed, the subtle touch different and including tantalizing rushes of warm breath with every exhale, Q found himself forgetting about sleep and thinking about other things instead.  The anticipation warmed him from the inside, so that he hardly cared when 007’s movements brushed the blankets off him.  More kisses feathered their way up Q’s thigh from knee to the sensitive hollow where leg met pelvis.  Bond’s hands kept Q from squirming even as his mouth trailed teasingly close to more intimate regions, diverting instead to suck a bruise onto the jut of Q’s hipbone until the Quartermaster gasped.  Not being able to see what 007 was doing made everything seem more spontaneous and electric, even though Q knew that the infamous James Bond almost always had a plan - at least for things like this.  With the rumbling of the train a comfortable background, Q let his lids fall to half-mast, content to let Bond bring his body alive slowly through sound and touch and taste.  

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” 007 said, voice still coming from further down Q’s body.  The Quartermaster was better able to pinpoint his position when he felt a kiss alongside his navel.  

Q smiled, trying to hide how deeply flattered he was by the praise, because he just couldn’t get used to it.  “I’m sure that I’d return the compliment, but…”  He let his flippant sentence trail off even as he indicated his eyes, keeping his smile in place to indicate that he really was joking.  And it was entirely true: even if he couldn’t see James, he knew the man was handsome.  He was starting to gain a new appreciation of how Bond’s qualities could be beautiful in others ways - ways that Q’s remaining senses could evaluate.  

One of Bond’s other beautiful pieces was his mouth, which shut Q right up by licking an unexpected stripe up his cock before sucking the head into his mouth.  Startled, Q couldn’t have stopped the gasping groan if he tried, heels skidding on the bedsheets as he tried to curl his body around the sensation.  His knees and inner thighs brushed against broad shoulders and powerful arms even before Q felt one of those arms come forward to lie across his lower stomach and hold him down.  The weight and feel was like a warm, iron bar, firm and immovable with 007’s considerable weight just hinted at behind it.  Q settled back down again with a shiver and a shuddering sigh as 007 backed off again, so that the only points of contact where where his arm draped across Q’s belly and where Q’s restless legs continued to brush against the 00-agent’s sides.  “I have an idea, Q, if you can spare me for a moment,” James said enigmatically.  Q twitched as the fingers attached to the restraining arm stroked and tickled at his flank.  “I need to find something.  I imagine you might appreciate me grabbing lube, too.”

Although Q’s cock was still eager for attention, the steady, smooth rocking of the train combined with 007 no longer teasing it meant that Q’s cock wasn’t aching for more - meaning Q could afford to be patient.  “Am I going to like this idea?” Q nonetheless asked.  He reached down, moving his hands carefully until 007 nuzzled into his left palm, giving Q a solid idea of where he was.  

James kissed his palm before turning his head to catch Q’s thumb in his mouth, teeth scraping the pad.  “I hope so,” James said, before Q felt the bed shift as 007 rolled away and presumably off the bed.  Q let his body go slack on the bed, one leg still hitched up and a pleasant thrum of arousal settling like a banked fire at his core.  Comfortable and eager but with the ambient noises of the train muffling his senses a little, Q mollified himself with the fact that 007 had taken to humming as he moved.  It was an absentminded sound, with 007’s voice smoothing out into a vaguely sultry tune that Q wished he knew.  Drawers opened and closed.  The idle humming came closer.  Bond only stopped when his weight depressed the bed again, a rolling note becoming an appreciative growl.  “The fact that you trust me is just about the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever experienced,” Bond murmured, sliding up Q’s body closely enough that the Quartermaster was able to revel in the slide of skin.  Their mouths met, and Q’s fingers painted out the arm that braced itself next to his head, allowing 007 to lean over him.  “You’re better than well-aged Scotch,” Bond decided to praise while he cupped Q’s jaw, peppering kisses to his mouth that always came with just the faintest dash of surprise.  Q laughed delightedly at being compared to alcohol, then groaned happily when 007 stopped teasing him with sporadic kisses and instead snogged him more deeply and seriously.  Q let Bond’s tongue in easily, feeling skin and heat and body-weight pressing him down into the bed.  Touching back in turn, the Quartermaster followed the meshed muscles over 007’s ribs up to his back, where Q thrilled at the sensation of a shoulder-blades sliding under his clutching fingertips.  Muscles bunched a second before Bond pulled back, letting them both gulp in air.  

“Ready for the surprise?” Bond asked, mischievous and heading into wicked.

Gently stroking a scar on Bond’s back, Q retorted dryly, “Doesn’t asking about it ruin the surprise?”

“Well, I’m a firm believer in testing the waters before taking a leap into them,” the 00-agent replied evenly, but Q could hear the smile in his voice and imagined he could feel said smile when Bond feathered kisses along the side of his neck.  Tongue and breath made Q’s nerve-endings light up.  By now, 007 assured Q that the bruises from being nearly choked were still quite vibrant but fading - one way or another, he felt not a single ounce of pain as 007’s mouth no doubt ran over them.  Q arched and tugged impatiently at 007’s shoulders when the larger man reached the hollow of Q’s throat and delicately lapped his tongue into it.  

Still, Q had the presence of mind to snort, “No you’re not.”

Bond’s growl was animal, and when he lowered his body to put more weight on Q, the sound became a vibration through Q’s chest - but it was far more hungry than irked.  Accompanied by the pinch of teeth against the left lobe of his ear, it had Q’s excitement level ratcheting up even as a goofy grin spilled all over his face.  Annoying 007 in good fun was almost as delightful as hearing his sleepy voice in the morning.  “Calling me a liar, are you?”  Q felt the bed shift as one of the hands previously braced next to him lifted and moved.  Seconds later it relocated to Q’s flank, stroking down before hooking Q’s left leg and dragging it up against Bond’s hip.  Q moaned, because he knew what that what he was feeling now had to be 007’s stiffened cock rubbing alongside his.  

Wishing a little that he could see 007’s expression right now, Q let his head fall back and his lids fall to half-mast, replying cheekily, “Lying is one of the things you’re paid for.”

“No one has to pay me to do this,” 007 rumbled back, before twisting his hand around enough that it teased past one cheek to just nudge at Q’s hole.  The movement brought Q’s leg tightly to Bond’s side, and he could feel 007’s entire hand splayed across the curve of his arse.  Now, though, he was mostly focusing on memories of the night before, and how good Bond could make this all feel with just his hands.  

But he withdrew, leaving Q wriggling and whining bereftly and hooking his legs behind Bond’s body.  Before Q could properly complain, however, the boffin was distracted by a silky feeling against his cheek.  Blinking questioningly, Q tilted his head, unsure whether to lean closer or farther away from the foreign sensation.  Fortunately, Bond was there to explain.  “It’s one of those ties you love so much.  How do you feel about me wrapping it over your eyes?”

At first, all Q felt was startled and a bit repelled, balking at the suggestion.  After his initial surprise, however, he mentally backed off enough to think about it.  After only a brief pause, he asked, “May I ask why?  I’m going to be blind either way.”

“It’s most definitely not because I want to hide those gorgeous eyes of yours,” Bond replied.  He then gifted Q with three kisses - one to the bridge of his nose designed to get Q reflexively blinking his eyes closed, and then one kiss to each lid.  The Quartermaster made a flustered, huffing noise as if to drive away the extravagant flattery, but 007 was an impossible creature - impossible to live with, live without, or ignore.  Instead of becoming more incorrigible, however, 007 eased down between Q’s legs, making Q feel as though he had a mighty lion settling on him, warm and powerful.  Tone more solemn, the agent went on, “You never got a choice in being blind, Q.  This will give you at least the illusion of choice.”  Bond’s fingertips and then the supple slide of silk fabric caressed Q’s jaw lightly, and this time Q stayed still.  “It’s out of my hands to give you your sight back, although I’d drag the sun down just to give you a sliver of light if I could,” 007 promised with more ferocity than Q had ever heard in his voice before, “But I can hide the truth for a bit.  Let me?”  Another stroke, light and soft, and Q remembered how much Bond had enjoyed tying ties.  “Humour me?”

Bond just sounded so damn earnest that the last of Q’s misgivings evaporated in short order.  Rolling his damaged eyes goodnaturedly, Q gave a little wriggle to remind Bond that they both still had certain things that needed attending to, the dry friction making both men gasp a little.  “Fine.  I suppose it couldn’t hurt.  I can’t imagine it making any difference, though.”

“I’ll be sure to make you too distracted to even notice,” 007 teased, mollifying Q with another kiss.  While his mouth was still close enough to Q’s for the movements of his lips to be felt, 007 murmured, “Relax and let me do the work, hm?”

Q’s original assessment that no difference would be made by the blindfold was a bit preemptive, he reflected, as he moments later felt the touch of fabric.  The tie had a bit of weight to it, the weave dense and luxurious, and as Q let Bond tilt his head a little to wrap it around and finally tie it to one side (so that the knot wouldn’t be uncomfortably at the back of Q’s head while he lay supine), his skin felt like it was tingling.  He was hyper-aware of the silk’s decadent texture, and actually sucked in a breath when 007 snugged the blindfold tight.  It really did feel, all of a sudden, like Q’s eyesight was being cut off from the world.  “The knot’s designed to come loose at the slightest tug, so you can take it off the moment you don’t like it,” 007’s voice assured Q even as he felt himself getting lost in analyzing this new situation.  Bond was still more-or-less lying atop him, but now pulled his weight back a bit, and Q didn’t know what he was doing until the snap of a lid opening (and soon after closing) became audible.  “Does it feel all right?”

After a moment of actually thinking on it, Q nodded that it did, his eyes open beneath the fabric to tentatively catalogue the darkness he found there.  With cloth brushing his eyelashes, Q shivered with the realization that this really did seem different, as his mind slipped back into old patterns - the same old pattern that had had him fighting the blankets when he’d awoken, thinking that the only thing disabling his eyesight was material in the way.  

Bond chuckled - theoretically at some expression on Q’s face.  Then he propped himself up enough to slide a hand down between them, and the Quartermaster promptly remembered a more pressing issue as he felt a lube-slicked fist enclose his cock.  Bond stroked it slowly to fullness again, and Q found himself reaching to pull the blindfold off not because it made him anxious but because, for a mindless moment, he had the urge to see 007’s face as the man murmured little praises and encouragements.  Logic kicked back in seconds later, of course, but Q had a feeling that he’d be forgetting more and more as sex addled his brain.  It seemed silly that he’d forget his own blindness so easily, but the facts were, Q really hadn’t been blind all that long and 007 was damn good at derailing logical thought.  

Instead of pulling off the blindfold, Q dropped his arms purposefully back to his sides, focusing on the rising pleasure of 007’s hand leisurely pumping up and down around him.  When the agent also sat back, Q shivered with anticipation and excitement, both because he lost the ability to touch and orient himself on Bond’s position and because he knew that this meant 007 had plans beyond simply stroking his partner to completion.  Q few seconds later and Q was proven right by a finger teasing at his hole.  Thanks to their recent play, Bond’s fingertip slipped in easily, making Q shiver and clench.  Q thought he heard 007’s low pleased chuckle above the background rumble of the train, but if 007 had any right to be smug, he proved it a moment later by pushing in deeper and finding just the right spot in Q with unerring accuracy.  A stroke of a lubed fingertip had Q’s back clenching in a shallow arch and his mouth falling open.  

“I get the feeling that you liked that.”

Rocking his head as much to feel the blindfold shift as to express his exasperation at 007, Q reached down until he could feel Bond’s bent knee, and gave it a hard poke.  “Less talking, more fucking,” he grumbled, then went wordless and breathless again as James pushed in two fingers now to nudge at Q’s prostate.  As Q’s body shuddered at the new waves of pleasure, 007 decided to abandon his cock, which was just about the cruelest thing Q had ever imagined.  

Now 007 was definitely chuckling, and even Q admitted that, yes, he was whining needily in a way that garnered a bit of amusement.  “Easy, Q,” 007 chortled even as he removed both hands from Q’s person - transforming Q’s soft keen to a warning growl - only to return them to stroke Q’s thighs almost consolingly.  Q let his legs settled around Bond’s hips, encouraged to feel the larger man shifting closer.  “You asked for more fucking, and I’m not going to argue with that, so you don’t have to make threatening noises.”

“I’m not making threatening noises.”

“Perhaps not,” 007 pretended to agree.  He sounded mischievous, though, and Q felt a nudge against his arse that was definitely bigger than two fingers.  “It’s hard to threaten a 00-agent with kitten noises.”

“Hey-!” Q protested, then forgot what he was complaining about as 007 pushed forward with a well-timed thrust.  Previous activity made the entrance easier, but it was still the perfect combination of friction and stretch, making Q’s body writhe and his breath catch.  He felt 007’s hands on his hips, steadying him, and Q anchored himself in turn by finding Bond’s wrists to grab them.  Q wanted to just spear himself on 007’s cock, and this time, the blond-haired man assisted in that wish by sinking balls-deep in one smooth push.  For a moment, all Q was aware of was the incredible fullness in his arse and the panting duet of both their gasps.  He blinked, felt silk, and saw darkness, but for once his mind imagined light beyond even as he metaphorically saw sparks.  

Bond’s hands had curled under Q’s arse to change the angle subtly, or perhaps just to knead at the muscle there while Q’s hands trailed up Bond’s corded forearms.  The agent was conscientious enough to slide a pillow under Q’s hips.  “God, Q…” Bond swore, and beneath the daze of sensation, Q was rather proud of wringing that out of his partner.  Pride aside, however, the initial burn was dying down and Q needed more.  Wriggling a bit and pulling his scattered focus together enough to clench down, he made his desires clear without any need for words.  

Instead of pulling back and thrusting back in immediately, 007 groaned and leaned forward unexpectedly.  Q didn’t know why until he felt a hand tugging at the tie around his head - not removing it, but instead using it like a handle to hold Q’s head still for a deep and searing kiss.  The combination of tension across his eyes (pressing them closed, pressing out the light that Q forgot wasn’t there), Bond’s tongue at play with his, and the cock shifting his arse suddenly made it feel like all of the pleasurable sensations in Q’s body were exploding and expanding.  His own cock was almost painfully hard between them in seconds, lazy desire becoming urgent need, and it was like something in Q’s body screwed itself up so tight that he was waiting for it to snap.  

Through it all, 007 held the knot closed on Q’s blindfold, backing off from his kiss to drag his tongue across Q’s lower lip while his other hand found Q’s right wrist, pinning it to the mattress.  Q’s left hand could have still tried to loose the silk tie around his eyes if he’d wanted to, but now the darkness was becoming something special, hiding secrets instead of dangers - secrets like the way that 007’s head was moving, backing off so Q couldn’t track it by touch, then reappearing by magic when lips stucked hard on the side of Q’s neck.  Secrets regarding what 007’s body was doing even as Q’s legs felt Bond’s torso shift, seconds before the agent withdrew his cock almost entirely then slammed back in with steady, controlled strength.  Q had never actually been blindfolded during sex before, but his brain had perhaps thought about it from time to time, and now it slipped into that fantasy like a tense body sliding into a hot bath.  Q gasped as 007’s second thrust, a repeat of the first, changed the angle enough to be perfect.  

Bond let go of the blindfold, focusing instead of setting up a steady rhythm, his left hand clenching tight around Q’s right wrist.  That left Q with one free hand, which he began to use to best advantage, making up for his missing sense: he stroked up and down Bond’s strong right arm, braced on the bed next to them, muscles taut; he fleetingly found the flexing curve of a powerful shoulder before sliding under it and taking in the feel of sweat beginning to dampen 007’s chest.  Q smiled as he heard a noise escape Bond’s throat not unlike a cross between a groan and a whine, proving that Q’s habit of ‘petting’ did not go unnoticed.  His world already afire with pleasure, Q closed his eyes willingly under the blindfold and relaxed his head back wantonly even as he caressed lower, scratching his fingernails over Bond’s stomach and feeling all of the skin and muscles move with every thrust.  It was gratifying to feel Bond come undone a little - and even better to then have his bared neck attacked by hungry kisses.  Once again Q’s skin thrilled at the feeling of being surprised, delighting in not knowing what was coming next instead of being afraid of it.  

007 stroked Q’s straining cock once, twice, thrice as if in gratitude, although he once again let go and left Q guessing.  Slowing down his thrusts to a gentler, slower pace that nonetheless stroked Q slow and deep on the inside - creating an almost steady friction against Q’s prostate that was driving him mad - Bond’s hand reappeared in Q’s awareness when he just brushed against the smaller man’s mouth.  It took Q a moment to realize that 007 was intent on sliding a finger or two into his mouth like a reminder of their sweet time at Dulce, and another moment to realize that Q’s precum was smeared all over 007’s hands.  Logically, Q knew that there was nothing particularly pleasant about the taste of precum, but good sex had a habit of gilding everything in it’s golden glow.  Having his own precum spread across his lips and then pressed against his tongue as he let 007’s fingers in felt so erotic that Q felt himself shuddering and his thighs tightening around Bond’s weight.  

Q came, shuddering, with three of Bond’s fingers holding open his mouth.  Q was nearly soundless with pleasure as he climaxed, but started to whine and then cry out in excessive pleasure as 007 - still seeking his own release - kept pounding into him, riding out Q’s orgasm and then dragging him right towards overstimulation.  Q’s body had been prepared to rise into a climax and then fall, like a ship cresting a wave, but instead he found the pleasure rising impossibly higher and higher as his nerves screamed and his every muscle began to bunch up tight.  007 still held one arm trapped as Q’s hand fisted, but Q’s other hand clutched the larger man’s shoulder - not pushing him away but pulling him closer.  

Just on the brink between pleasure and pain, teetering like a dancer on the edge of a grand stage, 007 finally came, his rhythm stuttering and finally halting as he dropped his head to pant raggedly against Q’s sternum.  Both of 007’s hands left Q’s person, although Q felt them nearby, bracing the larger man so he didn’t crush his spent partner.  Q lay completely limp under him, his head emptied of even the thought of moving as his body continued to be wracked with little shudders and aftershocks.  When Bond pulled out of him, Q’s throat constricted in a little, uncomfortable squeak.  He heard Bond apologize automatically, while also shifting his body again because neither of them wanted any pressure on their cocks at the moment - all of their nerves had been quite overworked, and like Icarus flying too close to the sun, they were exhilarated but perhaps a bit scorched.  Their fall to earth was still pending.  

The first actual movement Q made was an unconscious one.  He didn’t realize he was doing it until strong fingers latched around his wrist, stopping him.  “Not yet, Q.  Leave it.  You think you want it off now, love, but you don’t.”  Strangely enough, Bond’s voice sounded sad.

Q realized that he’d been reaching for the blindfold.  Confusion rattled around in his admittedly pleasure-warped brain, and he mewled, fingers flexing, and couldn’t stop himself from complaining, “But I want to see-”  He cut off abruptly without entirely realizing the mistake in logic he’d made, instead just sensing something wrong like an impending threat mostly hidden by fog.  

With a sigh, 007 kept Q’s left hand - and then his right, firmly grabbing that, too - away from his head.  Although Bond no doubt wanted to just drift into post-orgasmic bliss, too, he was moving, and now Q was a bit annoyed at being unable to track that movement.  Fortunately, before his bewilderment could knock him out of his dazed, postcoital state of mind, 007 rolled them both.  Murmured words kept Q docile, and 007 restraining his hands wasn’t so annoying when the man was also holding him close, both of them on their sides now.  The 00-agent transferred both of Q’s wrists into one hand, although James’s free hand returned a moment later to wipe something across Q’s chest and then belly.  Q hummed to show his appreciation, and relaxed to let Bond clean them both.  The silk knot was on the right side of his head, he remembered, and didn’t encumber him as his left ear nestled against the sheets and his forehead found itself nuzzled against warm, salty-smelling skin.  The urge to see again was still buzzing erratically in the back of his mind, along with another, more shadowy thought, one that he thought he wouldn’t like illuminated.

Time stretched like taffy as 007 finished his task and settled down, too.  His breaths were deep, and rustled Q’s hair from close range; his hand around Q’s wrists loosened a little without disappearing; his other arm gathered Q close and moved the blankets until Q felt the sheets rustling over his hip and legs.  The smell of sex and sweat was still everywhere, but Q’s brain began to descend from the heights of bliss that it had reached, although his body retained the delicious ache of a good fuck.  Q curled his knees a bit, savoring the feeling.  

“That was good,” Q murmured, meaning it.  007’s frame twitched around him as if he’d been half-asleep, and the mumbled sound had roused him.

The agent replied in a sleep-edged voice, “The pleasure was all mine.”  

Judging that James was drowsy enough now to be outmaneuvered, Q eeled one arm loose, and did indeed manage to get his hand up to his head without the agent stopping him.  Bond made a noise of surprise and his body moved, but by then Q was tugging at the tie and saying as steadily as he could, “It’s okay, James, I’m one-hundred percent back.  I know that I won’t be seeing anything once I take the blindfold off.”

James paused, although Q realized how close the agent had come to stopping him when he felt the brush of gun-callused fingers on the back of his hand.  The touch dropped away, though.  “I’m sorry, Q.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Q reassured, even as he tugged the tie loose, which was as easy to get off as Bond had promised (now that the agent wasn’t holding it in place).  He was going to say more, probably to the effect that he still felt too bloody blissful to complain about anything, when he suddenly blinked and…  “Bond, is there a light on in the room?”

Being this close was lovely in that it gave Q a lot of Bond’s body-heat and the intimacy of his closeness, but it was also very useful for feeling every time surprise went through the other man’s body.  “Just the bedside lamp, but it’s in the direction of where you’re looking,” James answered in his ‘mission voice,’ “What can you see?”

Lips pursed not because he was feeling tense but because he was trying to hold back an absolutely manic grin, Q replied, “Just the most beautiful, vague little smudge of light that you can imagine.”

007’s body was shaking slightly, and Q knew it was a laugh coming out before it even shook it’s way free.  “Q, you cheeky, glorious little devil, you!”  Q found his mouth caught in a kiss that would have pressed him right onto his back again had not one of Bond’s hands found its way into Q’s hair, threading through the strands and guiding Q into a kiss that he returned wholeheartedly.  

Truthfully, Q had been seeing bits of light pretty steadily since first noticing the improvement in his eyes, but it was easy to take it all for granted when he was still ninety-percent in the dark.  Bond’s blindfold, however, had shown Q complete darkness again - but false darkness, as 007 had promised, and when it was gone, it was like rediscovering hope all over again.  

~^~

The road to recovery was a slow one, so perhaps it was to be expect that the return to MI6 was less than triumphal.  Their mission had been a success, but Q was back to navigating new places with his cane or with James, and the hustle and bustle of MI6 often dragged the latter away.  When they went to separate debriefs, Moneypenny stepped in as Q’s guide-dog, and nearly walked him into a wall.  She spent the rest of the week apologizing with words and a steady supply of hot tea - Q’s favorite brand.  Technically, Q shouldn’t have been at MI6 during this time, because he wasn’t the Quartermaster anymore, but somehow things kept turning up in Q-branch that no one but Q could attend to.  Perhaps that was how everyone came to realize how truly, terrifying adapted Q had become to his blindness, fixing problems with almost as much skill as before.  Q’s minions loved him dearly and would have called him in even if their Overlord was totally useless, but now they flocked around him like stunned magnetized pigeons, oohing and ahhing and cooing over his abilities.  

MI6 was also closer to the hospital than Q’s flat, and when he wasn’t getting his eyes checked there, he was being dragged into Medical for basically a repeat performance.  Apparently they hadn’t been very hopeful about his eyesight, but were now celebrating nearly as much as Q-branch was.  Between all of the specialists Q saw (both within MI6 and beyond), his eyesight started returning, which was practically a miracle in anyone’s book.

And whenever Q got discouraged by how slow it seemed to be going, 007 would find a way to come back in and improve his Quartermaster’s mood.  ‘Improving his mood’ tended to include copious amounts of sex, some of it within the walls of MI6, in fact, so that soon it was a poorly kept secret that MI6’s Quartermaster and MI6’s most destructive agent were dating.  At home, however - usually Q’s flat, which he could navigate without a cane or bodily harm - one of those silk ties always came out.  Bond would wrap it gently and conscientiously around Q’s head, snugging it tight over his eyes, and then fuck Q into whatever stable surface was available.  Afterwards, Q was as often-as-not quite hazy, but now Bond always let him pull the strip of heavy silk away.  

Every time they did this, Q was able to see more and more light, and he always appreciated the progress he was making when compared to complete and utter blackness.  He also always appreciated the way 007 celebrated with him, as if each burst of light (and soon color) was his first victory.  Said celebrations always included copious amounts of kissing, and if time permitted, more rolling around in bed.  Beyond that, James was a closet-cuddler, and Q awoke more smoothly on the mornings that he did so with strong arms locked around him.  Q’s mind often forgot that his sight was damaged, but somehow it always, instantly remembered the sound of deep, even breaths, the feel of muscle and bone, and the scent of gunpowder and musk.  

~ One Year Later ~

Bond’s last mission had been a success.  He’d thought he’d have to seduce his mark - a truly repugnant woman who looked as pretty as a peach but who had the temperament of a spoiled, inbred lapdog - but had managed to get information out of her via subterfuge instead.  Never let it be said that 007 wasn’t resourceful.  He expected to get a bit of a lecture about gaining victory by unorthodox means, but technically no one had said he was required to sleep with his target…  

But first, he had to drop off his kit with the Quartermaster.  

Q-branch was abuzz with action, tech-analysts moving from terminal to terminal as if they were hummingbirds frantically trying to get enough nector to live off from each computer.  Bond wove his way through carefully, trusting that no one would run into him - or, if anyone did, they wouldn’t be physically big enough to do anything but bounce off him like oblivious, task-oriented flotsam.  After deflecting no more than two minions, 007 caught sight of the one boffin he wanted to see.  A smile flashed across his face.  

Q was standing at his terminal, typing at a speed most people only dreamed of, but with the grace of a pianist on the keys.  A wire ran down from the ear-bud presumably tucked in his ear (it was impossible to see any real evidence past his mass of hair), and a cane rested against the chair abandoned next to him.  

Despite the fact that 007’s footsteps could not have been audible over the bustle of Q-branch (or, to be honest, even a completely silent room), Bond was still a good three meters away when Q’s hands went still and he turned smoothly on one heel.  The small, dry smile that everyone in MI6 was so used to was turned 007’s way - as were a pair of brilliant hazel eyes behind their familiar, thick glasses.  Q had been reinstated before he could ever be truly replaced.  “007, so good of you to come back.  I see that you’re in one piece.  Or, at least, none of your bandages show through your suit.  Did accounting receive a dry-cleaning bill?”

“You were in my ear the entire mission, Q. You know that I didn’t get any blood on my suit.”

Q’s mouth quirked up a touch higher at one side.  He picked up his cane and idly swiped it across the floor - the magnet at its tip picked up a paperclip and a screw that less-than-keen eyes wouldn’t be able to easily locate, but a strong magnet could find.  “Ah, yes.  However, I was very sure I heard gagging noises,” Q countered almost musingly, “Was she truly that ugly?”

Anyone who had been at MI6 for any length of time knew that the Quartermaster’s eyesight was still severely impaired, but that the wonders of modern medicine had done a lot to give him back what he’d nearly lost.  He’d forever have a hard time hunting down small items dropped on the floor, and his right eye had for some reason never regained the ability to see color, but even with only an ability to see fuzzy impressions of the world, Q was able to act almost entirely normal.  Right now, his eyes were locked on Bond’s, and only the sharpest scrutiny would prove that Q was probably not actually looking at 007’s blue eyes but instead just in the vague middle of his face.  Still, something in James always burned with joy when he saw those alert, wildly smart eyes actually looking at him.  “She wasn’t ugly,” 007 shrugged back, even while grinning broadly and eyeing Q from crown to heel, “Not on the outside anyway.”

“And on the inside?” Q played along.  

James didn’t even hesitate before purring back, “Dull as chalk.  I like smart bed-partners better.”

Now Q’s smile deepened in a way that it didn’t for anyone else, a soft and fond expression that made Bond grateful that Q wore his emotions so freely on his face.  The slight blush also gave away Q’s feelings about the comment before the Quartermaster turned back around.  “Flattery is unprofessional, 007,” he said as he started typing again, his earbud no doubt reading off what he was coding.

007 approached, putting his kit down on a random table as he went.  The minions were all backing away, but with little, snickering smiles even before they ‘ignored’ the familiar hand 007 placed on their Quartermaster’s left hip.  “Who said I was flattering you?”

Q affected an innocent face, eyes focused on nothing, but no doubt taking in the swirls of color and movement and shapes that made up his domain.  “Were you not?” he asked as lightly as a feather on the breeze.  

And Bond couldn’t help but laugh, quiet and private, knowing that Q’s keen ears would pick the noise up above everything else.  No further touching was needed, as 007 squeezed Q’s hip and promised fondly, “I’ll flatter you some more if you let me drag you away from MI6 tonight.  Maybe for supper?”

Although he kept his attention seemingly on his work, it was impossible to miss the new interest in Q’s smirk or the way his fingers paused and almost tripped.  “I have a lot of work to do,” he played hard to get.

“And I’ve been stuck listening to that voice of yours with nothing but my own hands for company for a week and a half, not counting that woman.”

Q’s hands tripped over themselves, and the coding on his screen went red to indicate incorrect typing.  Taking his cane in hand again, Q pointed it Bond’s way without looking - because all of the cameras in MI6 were Q’s eyes now, even if Bond’s watch wasn’t transmitting his location like a sonar-ping in Q’s attentive ear.  “You - out.  I’ll see you promptly at seven.”

“Five.”

“Six.  And no more dawdling making a nuisance of yourself in my branch,” Q commanded the situation flawlessly, adding, “And I’m nowhere near blind enough not to know that you’re grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.”

Bond was still grinning that same grin as he left.

And as he heard shouted after him, just as he exited Q-branch, “007, you bloody bastard, what the devil did you do to my tech?!”

~^~