Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The strap of his laptop bag digs into his shoulder. Q quickens his pace, bypassing slow-walkers with a brisk pace that he hopes doesn’t display the full range of his annoyance. Can’t people see the way the grey clouds covering the sky hang so low over the city’s higher buildings? Rain’s coming, and Q forgot his umbrella at James’ flat. His computer could do without a soak, especially if it is avoidable; he estimates a kilometer of walking before reaching his flat, and at least twenty minutes before the rain starts in earnest. He can make it. 

The fact that Tanner has threatened to forcibly remove him from his office if he didn’t leave to get some sleep only serves to increase his urgency to reach his flat. Q doesn’t much care for Tanner, obviously; he could make the man regret his entire existence with a simple click of his finger on a keyboard. However, he does care for 007, who has been on a mission for over two weeks now and is a hair’s breadth away from closing in on his target, and who needs Q’s expert monitoring to finish the assignment properly. 

Q knows his colleagues underestimate him. They think he can’t perform past 45 hours awake, or that he can’t go on if he hasn’t eaten lunch earlier in the day. They think he needs breaks, and snacks, and coddling. He’s used to the teasing; teasing about his age, about his ‘abysmal’ ( not his words ) self-preservation habits, about his unremarkable and unassuming appearance, even about his arrogant wit. His work obsession, his single minded drive to ‘prove himself’ ( again, not his words ).

He doesn’t mind it. As he told James once, what feels like a lifetime ago, Q could do more damage with his computer in his pajamas before breakfast than any MI6 agent could hope to do in a year. Everyone else knows it too, despite the ribbing and the annoying insistence to grab some sleep before you fall over. 

What Q can’t take is the teasing about being the weak link . It is never worded as such, of course, and the badgering is, overall, well-meaning and thoughtless. But Q knows. 

He knows he’s not the strongest. He knows he’s not the fastest. He knows that, apart from his mind, he doesn’t have any skills in the field—which is why he is not a field agent. But sometimes the situation calls for him to wander out of Q-Branch, and then being MI6’s youngest quartermaster isn’t an achievement anymore, but a liability. He’s skinny, and untrained, and dependent on his glasses. He’s not fearless, or bold, or dangerous. 

And someone—Tanner, James, Alec, even Eve—always eventually voices some sort of joke: Q needs protection; Q needs to be rolled in bubble-wrap and confined to his computer chair; Q needs a bodyguard; Q needs a reminder of his job description; Q needs someone to tell him a soaking-wet hundred and thirty pounds will not be enough to knock over even a five-foot-five enemy; Q needs to stick to what he knows best; Q needs to invest in fucking contact lenses. 

He has heard it all, all his life. He knows he’s not made for the field, knows what happens when one is the smallest, the scrawniest, the dorkiest. Any of those superlatives turn anyone who is unlucky enough to fit them into a target. 

Q never says anything, but those jokes land over him like rotten fruits, their bitter aftertaste sticking at the back of his throat. Even though the physical aspect of the field isn’t his strong suit — and will never be — he doesn’t want to be catered to, protected, infantilized, or considered like a burden. The mere thought of it both humiliates and sickens him. He’d never forgive himself if James or Alec got themselves hurt because Q distracted them with his uselessness. 

Q, without pretentiousness, is fully aware of his mind’s and his hands’ worth. He can think of anything, and he can then make anything. There are no systems, no firewalls, no defenses that can keep him out. No weapons he can’t craft, no riddle he can’t solve, no code he can’t figure out. No plans he can’t make, no strategies he can’t try. He’s more than capable.

The contrast between his inadequacy and his competence annoys him. Q wishes he knew how to balance his outrageous pride in his proficiency with a computer with his crippling shame in his impotence without it.

The first raindrop hits his cheekbone. Q blinks, glaring at the sky. He still has a way to go before reaching his flat, and the small man walking his dog in front of him doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, unhelped by the insistence with which the dog plows on toward the street to reach a stray plastic cup rolling in the wind. The leash, stretched taut, blocks most of the sidewalk and prevents Q from sidestepping the duo’s aggravating leisureness. What if 007 needs his help right now?

Q bites back a sigh, clutching his laptop bag closer to his body. After a quick peek to the darkening sky, he strides to the sidewalk’s left, hoping to bypass the dog walker by quickly ducking into the small alley separating two sad-looking shop facades. He picks up the pace once he has succeeded, increasing the distance between him and the small fox terrier. 

Not even a minute later, another obstacle blocks Q’s route; a large group of teenage girls, walking side by side, elbow hooked to elbow, loudly gossiping and guffawing over something or other. They take up the entirety of the sidewalk’s width, a tall brunette girl even forced to walk on the street to keep up with her friends, sidestepping sewer grates with her heels. Q spares her a second of sympathy, then repeats his previous trick, diving into some forgotten alley to come out in front of them. 

A hand snatches his wrist. Q whirls around, flyaway strands of hair falling in front of his glasses. In front of him stands a narrow-faced, broad-shouldered young man with an unkempt beard and dark circles under his blue eyes. Q doesn’t have time to process the situation before he is tugged farther away from the street and the group of chuckling teenage girls. Shaking hair out of his face, he jerks his arm to free himself from the young man’s steel grip, mind running a mile a minute. 

Is this one of MI6’s enemies? One of James’? Has this man been waiting for Q all day, trailing him? Does he want Q, the Quartermaster, or is he simply interested in Q for his connection to James and the other Double-Ohs? Will Q be tortured for information?

Q jerks his arm again. The fingers on his wrist tighten and twist, pinching the skin. Towards the end of the alley wait two other men, just as broad-shouldered as the one holding him. A sick swell of fear tickles the back of his throat.

Should Q cry out? Scream? But who will help him, really? The dog walker, the group of girls? He can’t take the risk to endanger them; he will not. He works for MI6, for fuck’s sake, there must be something he can do. The odds are not in his favour (three to one), but when are they ever, really? Q has helped James out of worse situations countless times.

As of right now, the man holding Q’s wrist is the only obstacle blocking his path to the alley’s mouth toward the busy street. His would-be assailants must not be very bright; there’s no one at his back to stop him should he make a break for it. 

Which he will, once he has figured out how to free himself. Perhaps if he shrugs out of his coat quickly enough? Or if he creates a distraction of some sort? Maybe the effect of surprise will be enough if he quicks the young man in the groin? Would that be too much of a coward’s move? Q figures James and the other Double-Ohs would think so. 

But Q isn’t a Double-Oh, can’t pretend he knows how to use the same techniques and maneuvers as a trained spy. He needs to focus on making the best of what he can do. 

Q lets himself grow limp in the man’s hold, keeping an eye on him and his acolytes and angling his body away so his computer bag is mostly out of harm’s way. Carefully, he sneaks his free hand into his coat pocket. Inside it lies bits and pieces of gadgetry, discarded bolts and frayed wires and broken circuit boards. Q throws a handful in the man’s face. 

The stranger shouts, splutters and steps back. Q wrenches himself free. Runs. 

His wrist is caught again. This time, a fist crashes against his cheekbone, and he ends up in a sprawl on the ground. His heart drums so loudly in his ears that it takes him a second to understand that the young man is talking to him, flanked by his two friends. 

“Fuck right off, mate,” a glob of spit lands on the ground right next to Q, “Why you makin’ this so difficult?”

Q pushes his computer bag behind him. Drags himself to his feet slowly, using the rough brick wall as a crutch. His cheek throbs and his glasses stand askew. Drawing himself to his full height despite the untameable panic rising within him, he asks, in a voice so steady and unruffled that even James would be proud, “What do you want?”

“Give us your wallet,” the man says. 

“And that computer of yours,” his red-haired friend adds.

“And your cellphone too, mate,” the last idiot continues, “If you’ve got one.”

Q stares. There is no way this is real. 

“Are you serious?” The question slips out of Q’s mouth before he can stop it, the anxious storm of contingency plans and MI6 policies in his head grinding to a screeching halt. He can’t believe what’s happening. 

“Yeah, we’re fucking serious.” Viciousness contorts the first man’s narrow features. Q’s fingers work behind him, slowly unzipping his computer bag. “Do we look like we’re joking to ya, hmm, do we? You think you can mess with us, innit, but things don’t look too good for ya, do they? And cause we’re as serious as any other fucker, we won’t ask a second time.” 

Q got himself tangled in a common, everyday, boring, completely incidental mugging. 

The fucking laugh Alec and James will have at him. 

“I’m not giving you anything,” Q says, no longer as afraid as he ought to be, because the situation has reached a whole new level of ridiculousness. Here he was a second ago, preparing himself to a kidnapping, bracing his body and mind to withstand torture, considering ways to kill himself before spilling information. Now, those three morons in front of him don’t appear nearly as intimidating as they did when he believed they were not teenage thieves, but hardened agents out to break him three thousand different ways. 

And never let it be said that Q’s scandalous arrogance will not cause his eventual downfall. 

The three young men converge on him at once. Q ducks, pulls his laptop out of the bag, and slams it over the red-haired fellow with all his might. A shout, a fist, a burst of pain and adrenaline. Q tries to hit the narrow-faced thug with the laptop next, but quickly changes course, smacking it on the brick wall next to him with enough force to momentarily destabilize the three thieves. He whacks the laptop again and again, the four of them helplessly watching it break. 

The downpour begins at last. Someone bashes Q’s head into the brick wall just like he did a second ago with his computer. Q collapses, the world pitch-black for a blissful second before colors and sounds rush back in so fiercely he thinks the swirling intensity might kill him. Dirty shoes and boots crash against his ribs, his back. 

Hands reach for his wallet. Fumble for his phone, abandon when they don’t find it. Discard the broken laptop after a second of consideration. Leave. 

Q doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. They could’ve taken the hard drive, which might or might not be destroyed, but they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they? Groaning, he uncurls his battered body from its scrunched ball of protection, blindly reaching for the laptop’s splinters. Something wet trickles down the side of his face. It’s raining more heavily than he’d thought. 

It takes him a minute to find his lighter. Q flicks it on, feels the flame on his fingers, and presses it under the mess of plastic, glass, polycarbonate and wires where he knows, blind or not, beaten or not, where he knows for certain the hard drive is. Despite the rain, the fire ignites and eats the evidence away, and Q slumps back on the dirty concrete. 

Mission over, the pain catches up with him, his vision dimming. He wants to sleep so badly that he considers giving up and sinking into the grey haze swallowing more and more of the world around him. But they took his wallet. 

They have his IDs. 

Fake ones, of course. Quentin Dawson, thirty-four years old, freelance worker. Insured. Proud owner of a driver’s license since two years ago. 

They have his IDs.

And it doesn’t matter that the cards are fake. Doesn’t matter that Quentin’s not really him. It’s enough to be considered a security risk. Enough to have M devising ways to pull the plug. Enough to put MI6 in danger. Enough to put James in danger. 

From the moment someone has Q’s driver license in hand, someone might want to take a longer look at it. Notice that there’s just this little oddity, this tiny detail that doesn’t fit. Research Mr. Dawson. Find out he doesn’t exist prior to four years ago. Investigate. Discover nothing, admittedly, because MI6 has become good at covering their tracks ever since he has gotten there, but still. Curiosity piqued, something fishy uncovered, left open, only waiting for someone to dig some more. Too late. 

Q moans. He needs to fix this, and fast. 

Gritting his teeth, he drags himself to his elbows. Gasps and pants through the agony, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. Crawls over the concrete, lugging his uncooperative body further inch by inch like an earthworm on the sun-baked sidewalk. His arms give out. His head slams back down on the ground. 

The last thought that makes it to his attention spears through him like a knife. 

I can never let James know about this, ever.

The shame follows him even into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

“Sir? Sir!”

Rain pitter-patters faintly on the side of Q’s right cheek. His left cheek, shoved against concrete, burns as he unsuccessfully tries to shift his head. Footsteps run closer to him, the strides hurried and short, sending shockwaves through the ground to his ear with a resounding echo. A horn blares in the distance. 

“Sir? Are you okay?”

The footsteps stop, very close. The shockwaves don’t, reverberating through his skull with no exit. The rain gathers near his hairline, then slips down the side of his face, its strokes brisk. His eyelashes flutter when water teases the corner of his right eye, trying to ooze in, but he doesn’t have the strength nor the will to open it. The concrete on his left side has rubbed his skin raw.

“That’s a silly question, of course you’re not. Do you need some help? You could use some help, I think; I’ll help you. Yes, yes, you need my help.”

The voice, deep but still soft, bends and twists around a foreign accent. It lifts towards the ends of the sentences, turning each into a lilting tune with no melody, in which the consonants eat each other to give the vowels the spotlight. The sound of it filters into Q’s foggy brain, though the meaning loses itself on the way, leaving him with O ’s and E’ s and R ’s and no tools to piece them together. 

“Can you tell me your name? Sir? Are you awake?”

A hand lands on Q’s right cheek and insistently taps the cheekbone, dislodging the raindrops garnered there. The touch annoys him, but doesn’t surpass the exhaustion weighing his eyelids down.  

“Sir! Wake up!” The voice comes from closer, almost a shout. 

Q jerks into consciousness, roused by the ice-pick of noise drilling through his skull. His eyes fly open, though they can’t focus; he sees a slanted expanse of wet concrete, a black shape that might’ve been a trash bag farther away, and the crouching form of a man. He blinks, but his vision remains just as blurry, almost watery. Unconsciously, he reaches for his glasses, hindered by the ache it sparks in his chest. 

“Ah, there you are,” the man sighs in relief, then seems to notice Q’s aborted movement. The sharp crunch of broken glass reaches Q’s ears. “Oh, fudging heck! I’m afraid your glasses are a total loss, sir. They don’t seem to be in much better shape than you.”

An odd, seal-like bark comes from above him. Q frowns, confused, but then the bark comes again. It takes him a long five seconds — far too long — to understand that the short, wet noise is meant to be laughter. He frowns again, the spike of annoyance in his stomach awakened a second time. What’s so funny about this? He’s useless without his glasses, nearly blind. How will he fix whatever is happening right now if he can’t see? His agents are counting on him to be functional. 

The laughter peters off as abruptly as it began. “Do you know which day we are? What’s your name?”

The potent iron taste of blood coats the back of Q’s throat. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, numb and cumbersome like when he comes back from a dentist’s appointment. He tries to move it and answer, but he comes up blank. What’s his name?

Benjamin? Benjamin hasn’t been his name in a long time, and no longer even exists, wiped off the face of the Earth the moment MI6 set their sights on him. 

Quentin? Quentin isn’t real either, one of countless fake identities, and what’s to say it hasn’t been compromised already by his stupid carelessness?

Q? Q… Q’s the closest to a name he has, but it’s not meant for a stranger’s ears, and doesn’t even belong to him.

What’s his name?

“Okay, that’s fine, you don’t need to tell me. But you need my help, you do. You can’t stay in the rain forever, you’ll catch a cold, and you’re in bad enough shape already, aren’t you?”

The odd, choppy laughter makes a reappearance. Q wants it to stop. The hazy beige figure in front of him moves and slowly clears itself the closer it approaches to his own face. Only a couple of inches stand between them, and a faint trace of discomfort unfurls its moth-like wings in his belly even as he can finally discern something else than blurry shapes and colors; he notices a pair of brown eyes, disconcertingly pale, two bushy eyebrows, a wide nose. 

“My name’s Saul. Short and sweet, huh?”

The face moves away before Q can commit any of the details to memory. Even though he can’t see them anymore, the pale brown eyes stay with him and he clings to their image to anchor himself to the present. He can feel them on him still, watching. Q would like to watch them back, to assess and analyze and find a solution, but his mind spins on empty, stretched thin like taffy. He should go back to his flat and get some sleep. 

“Hey! Stay with me. I don’t live far from here, I could bring you home and patch you up, what do you say? Sounds good, innit? Yes, I’ll help you feel better, and then it’ll be like nothing happened at all. I’ll fix you up in no time, you’ll see.”

Q thinks about it. His body will not carry him to his flat without help no matter the strength of his will. He doesn’t believe he can get up alone, much less walk over a kilometer and then climb the flight of stairs to his front door. He can’t go to a hospital: for one, he doesn’t have his wallet anymore and thus has no identity, no insurance, no nationality; for two, being admitted to a medical facility means he can be traced back, either by his assailants or by any of his colleagues at MI6, which he can’t, under no circumstances, allow to happen. 

Q can’t let James find out about this. He can’t let M know either, not ever. Q has already turned himself into enough of a security risk without making it worse.  

Saul doesn’t know anything about him. Can’t figure anything out, either, because Q has already been stripped of his IDs. This man has no connection to Double-Oh agents, to MI6, or to any form of British Intelligence. 

Q clenches his right hand into a fist, forcing his muscles into action, and blindly reaches for Saul. The man catches on quickly and grabs Q’s arm, gently slinging it over his broad shoulders. The movement shifts his head, and he hisses in pain as his cheek drags over the concrete.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Saul says with delight. “We’ll go slowly, but it’ll hurt, okay? It’s a temporary hurt, though, don’t worry: I’ll make it all go away as soon as we’re home, I promise.”

Saul hitches Q’s arm higher on his shoulders. The man’s other hand snakes around Q’s back and settles on his waist. “Are you ready? On three, I’ll pull you up. One… Two… Thr—”

“Wait…” Q’s voice barely rises over the rasp of his breaths. “M-My head…”

“Oh, shoot, of course, of course.” Saul shifts his feet; his boots scrape against the concrete. “Give me a second, I’ll figure it out, just a second…”

Saul pulls. Q cries out. His vision lurches then flickers out, crossing a wide range of white to grey to black, as he is dragged in a sitting position by his arm. Blood rushes up from the back of his skull to his forehead, buzzing like the red and white cells have been magnetized. 

A hand settles on the right side of Q’s face and presses his head into the crook of Saul’s neck. “Shhh, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I had to. You understand that, right? I had to, so I can get you up and help you. Just a little bit more and we’ll be there.”

Panting, Q hums his assent between breaths. Heavy head secured over Saul’s shoulder, he braces himself for the next step of the harrowing processus. Saul repositions his arm and heaves them to their feet in one swift movement, as quick as a courageous toddler is to rip off a band-aid. Q loses himself to the physical sensations, rational thoughts driven out of his mind by the fireworks and explosions in his skull, rib cage and lower belly. The strangled whines slipping out from behind his clenched teeth don’t sound like they belong to him, animalistic and pitiful. 

Saul reaches up and strokes Q’s wet hair out of his face. Rain drips down his forehead. The cold humidity pierces his skin and nestles in his bones. He wants to go home. He wants to sleep. Standing upright requires more effort than he has the energy to give. 

Saul moves to take a step. Q sways, tries to follow, one foot in front of the other, but he can’t, he can’t, it’s too much— 

“S-Stop,” Q whispers, “Stop, stop.”

“C’mon,” Saul says, adjusting his grip to shoulder more of Q’s weight, “We’re almost there, I live just around the corner. A few steps and I’ll be able to set you up in my guest room. I have a queen bed waiting for you, you know. Lots of pillows. C’mon. I know you can do it.”

Q wonders about how lucky he is that Saul happened to find him. 

He grits his teeth and takes the next step. And the next. And the next.

Chapter Text

The next time Q wakes up, he’s sitting in pleasantly hot water, legs spread in front of him. The lapping waves reach his belly button, plunging him in a warm, soothing embrace from the waist down, while a strange draft of cold air blows over his upper body’s naked skin. His spine shakes with a violent shiver, agitating the pool of water around him. His shoulders ache from their unnatural position, his arms draped over a smooth, hard edge on either side of him. 

A trickle of warmth streams down his neck and back, and he leans backward to huddle closer to its source. Hands, steady and soft, settle over his shoulder blades and gently drive him forward again. Q breathes out in contentment, lashes fluttering. 

Then, the hands inch higher, stroking through his wet hair. Pain sparks behind his eyelids in a handful of white starbursts, and his eyes fly open as a garbled hiss escapes his throat. The world in front of him sways, white and indistinguishable, and he has a fleeting thought for the throbbing in his head, which will only worsen without his glasses to keep his eyes from their fruitless efforts to focus. Despite the blurriness of his surroundings, he understands that he’s in a bathroom, unrecognizable to him, and sitting in a bathtub, just as unrecognizable. 

Q shies away from the hands and the pain, the first sluggish tendrils of panic unfurling in his belly, but finds he can’t move without aggravating the dizziness and nausea clogging his senses, nor can he hold his head without the hands’ support. Gasping, he slumps forward, fingers clenched around the bathtub’s edges. 

“Shhh, shhhh,” a male voice whispers soothingly in his ear. “Stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself.”

That’s not James’ voice.

Q jolts again, the hot water splashing over his abdomen. His breaths come out in rasps, hindered by the exhausted angle of his neck, chin glued to his chest. He tries to get up, get away, gather his knees close and shift his weight forward, but none of his limbs move, stuck in place by the vertiginous lethargy he recognizes from serious head wounds. The panic in the pit of his stomach expands, trapped inside his uncooperative body and buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. 

“Wha’...?”

The voice shushes him again. 

“Don’t try to talk. Let me help you, I’ll make you feel better.” The voice and hands come from behind, out of Q’s blurry sight. The man grips Q’s head again and raises it until it sits straight, carefully avoiding the left side of his skull. “I need to clean you up before I can patch your wound. I know it hurts, but you’ll be alright. I’ll take care of you.”

With a rustle of clothes, the man reaches for something farther away from the bathtub, though he keeps a wide palm on the side of Q’s head, fingers creeping over his right temple. Q can’t help the instinctual urge to lean into the touch, seeking solace from the pain of holding a burden too heavy to bear on his own. 

The second hand comes back, and the man starts massaging Q’s scalp, gentle and thorough. Q squeezes his eyes shut to protect them from flyaway soap suds, the tension in his muscles first building at the unsolicited touch, then slowly leaking out as the repetitive movement appeases the soreness resting behind his forehead. 

The man behind him hums a sweet, lilting lullaby in a deep baritone. His stubby-fingered, wide-palmed hands glide down Q’s neck, slippery with soap, and start rubbing his shoulders, kneading the leftover anxiety away. Q’s fingers unclench from the bathtub’s edge as he lets himself slip backward, trusting the kind, self-assured touch to catch him. 

The hands drift from Q’s shoulders to his arms, then down his back, and then back up to circle around and reach his torso. He can feel the man’s body heat behind him as he bows forward to have a better reach, though the bathroom’s air remains uncomfortably cold as the soap dries on his skin. 

The man’s careful touch inches lower to Q’s belly, then lower, and lower. He recoils violently. The water splashes, blood roaring in his ears. Carried by his rabbit-nervous momentum, Q’s sluggish body slips in the soapy water with another splash, the side of his head banging against the hard edge of the bathtub. The metallic clang echoes in his skull, followed by an unrelenting video-glitch of agony as his brain sticks on the injury, alarmed by the frantic signals his nerves fire. Something warm and sticky oozes down the side of his face, pooling in his ear. A strangled, reedy groan falls from his lips. 

“Darn it! I told you not to move, didn’t I?” The man says, his voice still low and sweet, suffused with sympathy. “Look at you, poor boy, you went and made it worse. That head of yours doesn’t need any more banging if you don’t want it to break like a vase.”

Strange, pathetic gasps tumble from Q’s half-open mouth as he tries to breathe through the nausea, hunched in on himself in a defensive posture. His mind fills with the blare and incessant ringing of numerous alarms as questions pop up before his eyes like viruses on a computer: Who is this man? Where is he? What will happen to him? How long has he been here, and how long have those hands wandered over him while he was unconscious?

“Shoot, silly me, you must be in incredible pain, huh? Gimme a sec,” the voice drifts further away, then comes back, very close to Q’s ear as his head is manipulated up once more, “Here, drink this. The taste will probably be awful, but it’ll help you. It’ll make you better.”

The stubby fingers grasp Q’s jaw and pour a mouthful of liquid down his throat, still as tender as ever. He swallows reflexively, and regrets it immediately as the bitter, metallic taste coats his tongue. He knows what it means, but it’s already too late. 

There’s nothing to be done. 

****

The rest happens in flashes : 

Bright constellations of pain in a dark sky of unconsciousness. 

That same bitter, steel-like taste, again and again, constantly lacquering the back on his throat.

The blurry outline of a face, from which he can distinguish nothing but pale brown eyes.

A soft bed, covered with heavy, knitted quilts. A comfortable, worn armchair, whose cushions swallow him whole. A bathroom, and a bathtub, white and sterile. 

Kisses on his cheek, on his forehead, on his neck. Never on his mouth. 

Warm blood. Sticky bandages. Feverish dreams. Gasping breaths. 

A deep baritone voice, singing and soothing and humming. 

Hands. Stubby-fingered, wide-palmed.

Chapter Text

James’ flight home lands in less than thirty minutes. Considering Q performed a few magic tricks to book the spy in first class after his mission, it should take from twenty to thirty minutes to park the aircraft and exit its cramped hallway. And since 007 travels with nothing but a few gadgets, a suit and an extra dose of boldness, he doesn’t need to go through the endless wait at the baggage carousel, all of his items neatly folded in a small carry-on, so maybe another five to ten minute to walk through the airport to Q’s location. 

One hour maximum before he’ll see James, and James will see him. 

Q readjusts his cardigan, tugging on the sleeves to cover his wrists. Cold drops of sweat roll down his back in a slow trickle and he shivers. He shifts his clothes again (the undershirt, the shirt, the tie, the sweater vest, the cardigan, the coat), unnerved by the growing wet patches underneath his armpits. He should take his outer layer off, but then he’ll just be cold and James will spot the nervous sweat in seconds. Q needs to get a grip, and fast. 

The airport is bustling with activity. Q has always hated flying, but he finds he hates the airport just as much. Suitcases’ wheels screech on the worn linoleum floor and snag on the steps; people’s voices rise and fall in pitch as they greet each other after a long trip; cell phones beep and ring after hours on airplane mode; keys with new, obnoxious keychains jangle, souvenir bags rustle, shoes clap the ground after sitting for too long, luggage thwack against each other. 

Q wishes it would all stop. Fast-paced businessmen rush past him, followed by excited teenagers back from a solo trip and tanned families, and they walk by so close any of them could extend an arm and snatch Q’s wrist. There are too many people to watch at once, and he can’t properly keep track of them like he would while surveilling James on a mission, carefully monitoring even the slightest movement. Q regrets his decision to not wait in the car, but then he would’ve missed James’ smile upon singling him out of the crowd, the first familiar face after a two-month-long trip.

The sweat patches under his arms spread. Despite his multiple layers of clothing, he still feels chilled under the constricting, anxious heat. Q checks his watch; only from seventeen to twenty minutes before James finds him. What if the spy can tell?

In the 5 weeks that have passed since Q’s unfortunate mugging experience, the bruises on his torso have healed nicely, though his ribs remain slightly sore when he coughs or sneezes. His face bears no more signs of the injuries it received apart from a small, uneven scar on the left side of his forehead, artfully hidden by the thickness of his hair. James might notice that Q is in painful need of a haircut, but that’s it. He’s okay. 

He regrets not bringing his laptop. He could’ve gotten ahead on some work while waiting. But then what would’ve happened if someone spotted it? If they wanted to take it from him? Q thinks his computers are better left at home or at work, protected by multiple locks and heavily-encrypted alarm systems. It saves his shoulder (and ribs) the weight of carrying so many government secrets. 

Q spots James cleaving his way through the crowd even though he shouldn’t have been there until at least six other minutes. He waits for the spy to notice him, absentmindedly tugging on his sleeves. Should he wave hello? Probably not; 007 doesn’t need an overenthusiastic housewife needily calling for his attention. 

As if apprised by Q’s musings, James raises his head, his blue eyes latching onto Q with laser-like focus. Q smiles, his hand raised in a tiny, childish wave before he can stop himself. The spy doesn’t react until he is close enough to grab and protect Q should 007’s attention suddenly urge someone to attack. 

“Q.” James nods.

“007.” Q nods back, swallowing back his smile and keeping his voice neutral. 

But then James steps forward and grabs his jaw to bring their lips together. The kiss isn’t brutal, nor hungry; it is slow and softened by relief. Q freezes in place, shocked by James’ unexpected display of affection, and the kiss ends before he can gather his wits again. The spy wraps Q in a tight embrace, sinking into Q’s arm with the kind of abandon that can only come from two months of exhaustion and solitude. 

James draws back just as quickly, not giving Q the time to reciprocate this time either. James settles a hand on the small of Q’s back, gently guiding him towards the airport’s exit. Q rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge his sticky clothes from the sweaty nape of his neck. 

Outside, the wind blows lightly, cooling his flushed skin. James doesn’t hold his hand, not yet, which Q feels a rush of gratefulness for. The sidewalk stretches along the long line of cabs and frustrated drivers trying to parallel park, and Q ignores James’ tug toward an idling taxi as they walk by. James holds his questions, though Q imagines he can sense them crowding the air between them.

A bit farther away stands a nondescript grey 1980 Mini, parked slightly crookedly near the curb. Q stops near it, grabbing the keys from his coat pocket and unlocking the doors. James stops as well, staring at the vehicle with suspicion. 

“MI6 doesn’t own any Minis,” James says. 

“It’s my car.” Q opens the driver’s door, though he doesn’t slip inside, the weight of James’ eyes scrutinizing him holding him in place. The slightest movement might reveal the subterfuge, break the illusion. 

James rolls with the information, skirting around Q’s motionless figure and folding himself into the driver’s seat. The spy looks a bit absurd inside the Mini, the car too dull and harmless for someone of his skill. His hands linger over the steering wheel, the gear stick, the dashboard. “What have you done to it? Can it fly? Explode? I’m sure Alec would look dangerously dashing driving this around.”

“It’s a normal car. You know, to drive in the city like a law-abiding citizen,” Q says drily, circumventing the vehicle to reach the passenger’s side. He ignores the tickle of annoyance at the back of his throat at being supplanted as the driver.

James stares at him as he settles in the passenger seat. “Since when do you own a car?”

“I bought it a month ago.”

“But you hate driving. And traffic. “ James’ blue eyes are relentless. “And you like your walks.”

There’s no point in lying, even though Q is tempted to do so. He rolls the window down, hair shaken by a soft gust of wind, and suppresses a shiver. He has never sweated so much in his life before. “I know.”

James reaches over him and rolls the window back up. Q stiffens in his seat, breath stuttering. He prays his five layers of clothes obscure the tension running through his muscles, though he still forces himself to relax, counting down from a hundred using only prime numbers in his head. 

“You changed the windows for bulletproof glass, though, right?”

“Obviously.” Q doesn’t understand this odd urge to snap, this unexplained short temper. He swallows, tries again: “Yes, yes, of course.”

James refrains from plopping himself back in his seat, body still stretched over the gear stick and angled toward Q. Mere inches keep them apart, the narrow space between them fraught with a buzzing sort of suspense. Q feels on hold, suspended in the moment, as he sits tight in anticipation of what will happen next, waiting for James to decide which course of action will be prioritized. 

The pause stretches on for too long. Q’s unease skyrockets with each second of inaction, spent wondering and worrying about what will be done to him. He’s used to calling the shots, that’s why. It’s part of his job, and it bleeds a bit into his life outside of work. It’s completely normal.

“Let’s go.” Q calls the shot. “Your place.”

James stays silent. Reaches into Q’s coat pocket and roots around bolts, circuit boards, rivets and wires to snatch the Mini’s keys. Turns the key in the ignition and dashes out of the parking lot with an unnecessarily loud roar of the engine. Q gazes out the window, watching the airport shrink in the side-view mirrors. 

Q doesn’t ask about the mission, nor does he ask about medical needs. He should, but he doesn’t. He’d monitored the first two strained weeks with rapt focus, eyes barely leaving the screen. Then, the story is that he’d taken an unexpected vacation for a week and a half, and worked from home like a maniac for the following month, catching up on what he’d missed with an obsessive drive to learn everything. He hasn’t been back to Q-Branch in over a month and a half, nor has he talked to any of his colleagues except over the phone or by email. 

Q knows what happened to 007 during those two months in Lithuania by heart. He memorized every detail, every escape route, every close calls. Learned which problems were solved and which will lead to more problems in the future. Directed James left and right, up and down, in and out of danger. Q should ask, but he doesn’t, because he’d been there for every minute of it, scarcely sleeping. 

On the other end of it, though, James has no idea what happened in London. Hasn’t been informed about Q’s little break, only that R would take over his monitoring for a few days. The only thing James has is a handful of questions without answers and a load of too-keen hunches, which Q will need to work particularly hard to thwart. 

James parks the Mini in the parking lot adjoined to the building he occasionally lives in. His place isn’t a shit-hole, per say, but it’s not far from it; the tiny, rectangular flat seems to shrivel under the imposing cage of steel-reinforced walls, the light blocked from the windows by tinted, bullet-proof glass. A few disparate belongings populate the space: a ratty couch, a mattress on the ground, a fridge, a magnet from Mexico, three bottles of Russian vodka and a quite impressive number of handmade classic car figurines. 

Q would rather have suggested they go to his flat, which is cramped as well, but prettier and cleaner. But, even though he’s embarrassed to admit it even to himself, the reason he chose James’ place is because he’d like to get his umbrella back from where he’d left it lying on the floor all those weeks ago. His good old umbrella, which is fitted with a knife in the handle and blades in the metal branches. His good old umbrella, which could’ve been used to whack any common attacker over the head. His good old umbrella, which can still be used to protect him from the dreadful sensation of rain sliding down the side of his face. 

James drops his carry-on on the floor, toeing off his leather shoes and loosening his tie as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. He whirls on Q, drawing him closer in one swift movement, and kisses him. This time the action carries more weight, shielded from curious and potentially dangerous eyes; James throws himself in the embrace with a strange mix of relief, disbelief and despair, relief that he can finally let his guard down, disbelief that he’s somehow still alive, despair that perhaps he won’t come back home again next time. 

Q, prepared this time, reciprocates the kiss, sinking into James’ arms with his own kind of desperate relief. James’ strong, muscled grip closes around him like a shield, and those hands that have killed so many people settle tenderly over his body, one on his waist and one on the back of his neck. Q, perhaps a bit unfairly, pictures the blood on them staining him, marking him. Red streaks announcing to everyone in the world that hurting him will come with a price.

Similarly, he imagines his hands imprinting their own brand in James’ skin, a long signature of code and instructions that disclose Q’s constant presence, his perpetual vigilance. Sometimes, despite how childish the thought is, he sees himself as James’ guardian angel, and James his indestructible protector, like they’re characters in a fairy tale and not spies and hackers. 

The kiss breaks and they simply breathe together, forehead to forehead. Q’s glasses dig uncomfortably into his face. He shifts his head to readjust, an almost imperceptible movement, but James spots it and reaches up to remove the glasses. 

A spike of terror electrifies Q’s heart. His hand twitches with the reflex to snatch James’ arm midair, but he restricts himself with another spike of panic, unwilling to find out which of James’ ingrained defensive techniques such a reflex might trigger. What if 007 accidentally snaps his wrist in half?

Instead, Q squeezes his eyes shut as James gently sets the glasses aside and leans in for a soft, slow kiss, irrationally afraid to witness the world’s vanishing behind the blurry haze of his defective sight. Darkness swirls behind his eyelids and all of a sudden he doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t remember who is in front of him. 

Thin, wet lips on his right cheek. A large hand holding the left side of his head, the palm wide enough to cover nearly half his forehead. Bushy eyebrows and sunken brown eyes in an otherwise indistinguishable face. A soothing murmur, an affectionate call. 

“Shhh, dear, don’t you worry.”

Still blind, heart pounding a staccato beat in his throat, Q plucks his glasses from James’ hand and shoves them back on his nose. James is staring at him bemusedly, blue eyes wide, before he schools his expression back into neutrality. But Q knows James by heart, has watched him countless times on missions, interacting with targets; this cautious, practiced neutrality hides a hundred assessments, a thousand doubts. 

“Q?” James asks, still watching, analyzing. 

Q pushes his glasses higher, clinging to his surroundings’ sharp definition. The three bottles of Russian vodka. The ratty couch. James’ carry-on. The Aston Martin figurine he’d gotten James as a gift. James’ blue eyes. Not pale brown. 

Q strides into the kitchen and roots through the cabinets. “Are you hungry? I’ll fix you something.”

The cabinets reveal a few dusty cans, while the fridge displays a bag of rotten carrots, their skin bluish and oddly textured. Q presses his lips together, unsurprised, but still disappointed by the phenomenal failure of his attempt at distraction. “Forget it. You ate on the plane anyway. You should take a nap, catch up on some sleep. Go to bed, I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Q,” James says again. 

“I’ll be there in a second,” Q repeats, swallowing back the weird trepidation in his voice. His skin itches under his clothes, his limbs thrumming with too much energy. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk that last coffee before picking James up. 

James wordlessly takes Q’s arm, his grip light and easy to shake, and guides him towards the mattress on the floor. Q follows without thought, pressure building in his ribcage with each step. The strain gobbles up so much space that he can’t breathe. As they enter the bedroom, he finds he can’t go further, trapped in the doorway by an invisible wall. He pulls his arm out of James’ hand, as casual as still possible. 

“I completely forgot,” Q says, arms held tightly to his body, “but I need to give R a call, fill her in about that report she needs to complete about… well, it’s not important, I’m keeping you. Go to sleep, I’ll— In a moment. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He dashes out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Q willfully ignores the crushing feeling in his chest at the idea of James alone again for the sixtieth night in a row, stripped of comfort even in his own home after a long, painful mission.

Chapter Text

James sleeps. 

He doesn’t, usually. On a normal day, he enters a strange state of purgatory between sleep and wakefulness, oscillating between his exhausted mind’s genuine need for rest and his job’s constant need for alertness. He stands on the edge of a very thin cliff, balancing his weight on a single foot, always ready to take the plunge and snap back into consciousness to defend his life with a body that would rather lie down and finally unwind. 

At home, back from missions, James doesn’t sleep , either. He sinks into the same greyish haze of asleep-but-not-quite, and is brutally yanked from it by nightmarish memories: gunshots a few centimeters from his head; heavy smoke in a crumbling building; bloodied hands after another kill; cold water in a deadweight lift, a cold hand reaching for him, cold lips on his cold, cold skin. 

James sleeps on rare occasions. Back from a drawn-out, draining mission, so weary that it’s more like blacking out than resting. In bed with his arms wrapped protectively around Q’s slim form, appeased by the solidity and steadiness of his presence. 

Freshly returned from two months of hell in Lithuania, James had expected some mix of both. But Q had drawn away at the last second, eyes shifty and body closed-off, stammering some excuse about a call to R. James had stood in the doorway, mind whizzing up and down the long list of odd little details he’d noted about the Quartermaster in the few hours he’d been back on English soil. 

Tight shoulders; stress. An unfamiliar pattern of stiffening, then forcefully loosening; undetermined. Sweat patches, under the arms and on the back; anxiety. A slippery gaze, hiding behind too-long hair; avoidance, lies, guilt, fear…? Careful, studied poise; hypervigilance, appearances ( or something to hide) . A new car; undetermined. 

James had watched Q disappear behind the bathroom’s closed door, considering whether he should press the issue. He’d elected not to; Q’s tight, coiled posture broadcasted quite clearly that poking at him would only prompt a retreat further into his shell. James had sat on the mattress on the floor, watching his idle hands. Laid back on the bed, waiting. Stared at the ceiling, eyes dry and burning. 

Q had joined him, eventually. Over an hour later. James had broken his self-imposed stillness and turned, wrapping his arms around Q like he always does. He’d slept. He still sleeps. 

But then he wakes up and there’s no one at his side. James sighs softly in the silence, squinting as a rare ray of sunlight enters the room through the roughly-drawn curtain and hits his retinas. The bare bedroom has warmed considerably since he entered it a few hours ago, the air slightly humid and nearly suffocating. The covers, pushed back, trap his lower body in a tangle, and he kicks them away efficiently, sitting up on the mattress. 

Sweat darkens the sheets where he’d lain. Nightmare, then, though James doesn’t remember a second of it, nor does he remember waking up at some point during his impromptu nap. This means Q had left quite a while ago. The Quartermaster never left him trapped in the throes of a dream gone wrong even though he should; his waking James up put him in danger of retaliation, 007 snapping to life with violence ingrained in his limbs and fear singing a dangerous song in his veins. 

James removes his wet shirt, throwing it on the cement floor. Sometimes he regrets the starkness of his flat, its grey industrial style and constantly dusty surfaces. Its perpetual state of half-obscurity, half of the windows condemned, the other half heavily-tinted. Its restrictiveness, the narrowness of the space and the lack of proper furniture. He’d like to give Q something better, prettier, more to the man’s image. Respectable, composed. Neat.

Perhaps one day James will. He’d bought this terrible place because he’s never there, always on a plane, in an unknown country, trapped in Medical, loitering at the office. When he’d deepened his bond with Q, he’d assumed they’d go to the Quartermaster’s place, an elegant little flat on the sixth floor of an equally elegant little building, which is what they’d done, mostly. But sometimes, for unknown reasons, Q insists they sleep at James’. 

Now that Q and him have been together for a while, maybe James should reflect about investing in a new flat. But he knows he won’t, or at least not anytime soon. It’s too big a declaration, too big a promise. James never knows if he’ll come back; buying someplace for joint living is like speaking a vow he can never guarantee he’ll stick to. It wouldn’t be fair to Q. James’ uninviting steel-reinforced place will have to do until then.

Shirtless and shivering, he climbs to his feet, attentive to the flat’s usual sounds: the howl of the wind corridor on the east side of the building, the hum of the empty fridge, the buzz of the bare lightbulbs illuminating the space with their crude glow, the brisk click-clacking of agile fingers over a well-known keyboard. So, Q hasn’t left completely, then. 

James stops in the doorway and watches. Q is seated on the kitchen’s floor, back to the cabinets (because James had never bothered to buy a table; he eats standing up, on the go), fingers dancing over the keyboard of James’ backup’s backup laptop, this old machine he keeps in the back of the tiny closet near the bathroom.  

Posture straight and rigid; uncomfortable. Unwavering stare; focused. Quick hands; ease or urgency, it depends, could be either. Too many layers of clothes; cold ( or something to hide). 

Something tells James he should announce his presence. “You could’ve sat on the bed, you know. I know the mattress is a bit bumpy, but it’s not that bad. And the company’s better.”

Q’s head snaps in his direction. His eyes snag on James’, deviate toward the floor, then come back up with a small smile meant to mask guilt. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

James figures as much; now that the matter has been brought to his attention, the circles under Q’s eyes appear darker than ever, unaided by the shadow his glasses cast on his upper cheeks. 

Q continues typing, though he barely glances at what he’s doing, looking at James with an intensity that resembles yearning. “How are you doing? Are you hungry? I slipped by the store earlier and bought a few things.”

James blinks. He must’ve been more exhausted than he’d thought for Q to exit and then enter the flat without waking him. Either that, or Q has developed some new skill for stealth. Automatically, James glances at the doorway; beside it stands Q’s black umbrella, leaning upright on the wall. Outside, the sun shines brightly. 

“I could eat something,” James says. 

Q immediately closes the laptop and gets up, setting it aside on an unused portion of the counter. Before the younger man can open one of the cabinets, James slips behind him, drawing him closer. Q stills, then unwinds with a soft sigh, sinking into James’ embrace. James tightens his grip on Q’s waist, almost uncomfortably so, muscles right on the edge of straining. Q settles his arms over James’ as if urging him to bring them even closer. 

James leans in, mouth an centimeter away from the shell of the Quartermaster’s right ear. “Maybe you, if you’d let me.”

James can’t see Q’s face from this angle, but he imagines he feels the flush of heat coloring the younger man’s cheeks. Q’s hand spasms on James’ wrist. James nuzzles the Quartermaster’s neck, breathing him in. He’d missed it so much, this faint honeyed green tea aroma, mingled with something sharper, almost metallic. It smells familiar, comforting. 

“Maybe later,” Q whispers, “I don’t think I’d be very filling.”

“I beg to differ.”

Q chuckles, his amusement shy and nearly silent. James realizes that this is the first time he has heard Q laugh ever since he left; the Quartermaster is too professional to laugh over the comms (though 007 had managed to make him break a few memorable times), and hasn’t smiled much since the airport. James wishes Q would snort that way he sometimes does when he pretends he doesn’t think it’s funny but fails miserably, bursting into wheezing snickers after a second or two. Q’s laugh is the less graceful thing about him, and coincidentally one of the things James likes the most. 

“I’ll make tea and…” Q trails off, turning around in James’ arms to face him. “What time is it?”

James smirks, a bit mocking. “Weren’t you on the computer a second ago?”

“I didn’t check.” A casual shrug; sheepishness. 

Rolling his eyes fondly, James gazes out the tinted window near the kitchen sink. Another building blocks most of the sunlight, but, remembering the bright glare that he’d seen in the bedroom after waking up, he hazards a guess, “I’d say it’s around 4 pm.”

“Umm…” Q pushes his glasses up his nose, lips quirked. His greyish eyes crinkle at the corners. “I bought breakfast supplies.”

“Let’s eat breakfast, then.” James begins to pull away to check the fridge, but an involuntary twitch of Q’s hands stops him. Holding himself still, James blinks at his partner, waiting a split second to see if the younger man will reach out and bring him closer like he clearly wants to if his body language is anything to go by, but Q simply gives him a tight smile and steps back. 

James steps forward in the same movement, bridging the gap between them. He gently drives Q backward until his back hits the wall on the kitchen’s left. Framing the Quartermaster’s face with both hands, James holds him like a bomb about to detonate, something beautiful and dangerous to handle with all the care in the world. 

“Kiss me,” James orders, peering deep into the younger man’s eyes to try and reach the bottom of whatever is going on, to read what Q will not tell him with words but will perhaps reveal by some other mean. 

A beat, stretched taut with anticipation. Q’s gaze drifts down to James’ lips, then rises again, though nowhere near his eyes. “No,” Q says, voice slow and tentative. Then, more commanding, “You. Kiss me.”

James strokes Q’s cheek. “Where?”

“Kiss me under my right ear,” Q instructs, and James does as asked. “Under the jaw. Down my neck; don’t loosen my tie. Find my adam’s apple. Go back—”

As is their usual, James goes off mission; he pecks Q on the mouth, smirking at the younger man’s small sound of surprise. He deepens the kiss, pressing Q back against the cabinets. Q pushes back against him, though James recognizes that it isn’t because he’s trying to escape a trap, but rather because he wants to bring them even closer. 

James wonders just how lonely Q becomes during his long absences. Wonders why the younger man hadn’t stayed in bed earlier even though he couldn’t sleep, if only to seize the opportunity to soak in the human contact without even having to confess to missing James. 

James pauses before it can devolve into full-on making out and catches Q’s affective momentum in a hug. Not a sensual squeeze or a teasing embrace or a quick snuggle. A proper hug, tight and comforting and warm; a gesture meant as a reassurance, a reminder that he’s here, that both of them are. 

Q takes a while to find his footing, first shocked, then tentative, then blissfully content, then embarrassed. James can tell by the spasms of his muscles, the rythm of his breaths, the angle of his head. 007 has been trained to learn the body’s every secret; he knows every melody, every murmur, every scream of the human physique by heart. Every line, every crevice, every ridge. He reads and speaks the language with natural ease, attuned to strangers and not-so-strangers both. 

James still sometimes wishes he could read minds instead of bodies. Why is Q so skittish? Why doesn’t he reach for James if he wants to? Has it been that long? Has James done something two months ago, has he accidentally messed up? Does Q really miss him that much? Should James leave less often, come back quicker? (what is Q hiding?)

Q moves, ready to draw back, but James doesn’t release him. Q slumps in his hold. James lets go. Q turns around, digging in the fridge. James stares at the younger man’s back. Why hadn’t Q pulled away? Why had he let James stop him so easily? (What is he HIDING?)

“Eggs and toast?” Q asks, voice muffled by the fridge’s humming.

“Scrambled,” James says.

Q sets a milk carton on the counter, a brick of butter, and two eggs. Rummages in the cabinet for white bread and a tiny, tiny pot of honey that could easily be carried around in someone’s pocket. Pours water in the kettle. 

James waits for Q to retrieve two more eggs. He doesn’t. Instead, he carries on, pulling out a pan and turning on the stove. Cracking the two eggs, whisking them with a splash of milk. Melting butter in the pan. Placing the slices of bread in the pan before the eggs because James doesn’t own a toaster. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” James asks, tone casual, but not so casual that Q won’t be able to pick up on his suspicions. 

“I ate while I was out,” Q says, flipping the bread. The butter sizzles. The water in the kettle seethes. 

James can tell by the meager bunching of the Quartermaster’s shoulders that it’s a lie. 

“Too bad. You’ll miss out on your own delicious cooking,” James teases. The younger man huffs a breath, ducking his head. 

(WHAT IS Q HIDING?)

Chapter Text

Q knows he has failed to fool James. 

He had expected as much. The agent is too proficient at his job to be duped by a standoffish hacker with mediocre acting skills. Still, surprisingly so, James had refrained from slipping into interrogation mode, taking Q’s odd behavior in stride. Q can only hope that it’ll stay like this, though he knows it won’t. 007 will not be able to resist a mystery for long. 

The first night James is back, after they’ve eaten breakfast at 4 pm and ordered take-out at 10 pm, Q lies awake in bed for hours, trying to pretend he’s asleep. He keeps his eyes closed (he has to; sleeping requires him to take off his glasses, and he doesn't want to witness the world without them anymore), and his breathing as even as possible, but he knows he’ll have to keep doing this for hours and hours, at least until the sun has risen; the idea exhausts him. 

James doesn’t sleep much either, but Q thinks the spy nods off at some point. He must have been aware of Q’s stupid subterfuge, but he doesn’t bring attention to it. Q waits for dawn, mind whirling with anxieties; what if he accidentally falls asleep and has a nightmare? What if he says something damning while unconscious? What if he shifts a bit too much and wakes James?

What will happen tomorrow? Will the ruse go up in smoke? Will James confront him?

The next morning, Q shrugs on the same clothes as the day before (because he doesn’t have any clothes at James’, and can’t borrow the man’s suits; he’d be mortified if even a single drop of sweat were to touch the expensive textile), wincing at the fabric’s stiffness under the arms where his deodorant has seeped into the fibers. He dresses mechanically, undershirt-shirt-pants-belt-tie-sweater vest-cardigan, sticking to the routine he has established with obsessive devotion. 

Today will be his first day back at Q-Branch in a month and a half, and he needs to look his utter best. He needs to exude professionalism, composure, authority and confidence. No cracks, no doubts, no hints that his time away could’ve been anything else than a vacation. 

James drives them to Six in Q’s car, assuming without question that he’ll take the commands like they’re on a field mission. Q, bundled in his coat, sits in the passenger seat, silently irritated. Does James really believe that Q has no skills at all, that he can’t even drive his own car?

He doesn’t keep his mouth shut for long. “Switch lanes. Turn left at the next light.”

James side-eyes him. “Why would I turn left?”

“Because there’s traffic ahead.” Cars idle front to back, packed so tightly together that Q can feel time slipping away from him, the minutes counting down and bringing him closer to arriving late at work. He cannot allow this to happen on his first day back. “It’s a shortcut.”

“It’s longer this way.” James points out, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. Q knows the agent is resisting the urge to abruptly bifurcate on the sidewalk and bypass everyone like he’d do on a mission, ruining both the city’s efforts to embellish the streets with strips of flowers and Q’s million-dollar equipment in one fell swoop. “It’s a residential street, the limit’s barely 30.”

Q’s lips pinch together. The idiot driving the truck in front of them keeps changing his mind, flashing his indicator left, then right, then left again. “I know that, but when there’s traffic on the boulevard, it’s faster.”

James must hear the annoyance in Q’s tone because he starts switching lanes without regard for the other cars around them. Q grips his thighs, wincing at the thought of the spy scratching the Mini’s paint or getting them in an accident. This isn’t an assignment; Q bought the car with his own savings, paid insurance for a single driver (him), and doesn’t have the time for a civil lawsuit nor the money to purchase another vehicle. 

Someone honks at them. Q shrinks in his seat, embarrassed. He wishes he could write in the windows, put up a sign that says Sorry, I know how to drive, but the madman currently holding the wheel only knows how to do car chases and impossible stunts. They only have twenty minutes left to arrive on time to Six. 

James turns left without having priority, so brusquely that the tires screech. Q winces again, heart picking up the pace. The agent barrels on at the same break-neck speed even though they’ve entered a residential street, narrow and lined with crookedly-parked cars.

“Slow down.” Q shifts in his seat uneasily as the first drops of cold sweat drip down his arms. “Slow down, you’ll run someone over. And turn right at the next intersection.”

“I’m not—”

“I know what I’m doing, James, okay?” Q snaps, tongue acidic. “I can do this, I calculate escape routes and untraceable passages all the time . It’s part of my job, so don’t you dare doubt me. When have I ever led you astray?”

“What, Q, what the hell?” James finally slows down, transferring his focus from the road to Q. His blue eyes land like ice on Q’s skin. “When have I ever implied that?”

The genuine bewilderment in the spy’s voice immediately lowers Q’s hackles. Cheeks reddening, he stares down at his hands, lying uselessly in his lap. Why is he behaving like such a brat? “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m— I just. Please excuse my mood, I’ll fix it if you give me a second.”

James doesn’t say anything for a minute. Slowly, the car inches further down the road. Q’s self-reproach worsens in the quiet. What is wrong with him? He knows James didn’t bring up Q’s skills at all, he knows, but deep down the hurt feels the same even if it doesn’t belong there at all. Q would like to be listened to, for once, and perhaps even trusted; he may not have much field experience, but he has watched and learned enough to act as a good guide, as an asset.

If people took Q seriously, then maybe he’d waste less time and energy trying to prove himself.

“Are you mad at me?” James asks coolly, driving at a steady 30 as he turns right. 

Q’s eyes widen as they shoot to James’ face. “What? Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I was only supposed to be gone for two weeks, but instead it’s been two months.” James has stopped looking at Q, keeping his focus on the road in a carefully constructed picture of nonchalance. His knuckles, white as bone, contrast sharply with the steering wheel’s dark leather as he flexes his fingers. 

Q opens his mouth to deny James’ claim, then closes it again. Is he mad? Is that it? Can his raw susceptibility be explained away so simply?

“No, I’m not mad. The length of your assignments are entirely out of your control.”

Yes, I’m mad. I’m mad because you weren’t supposed to leave me that long, and if you’d come back the day you were supposed to, there’s a chance you could’ve saved me. 

I’m mad that I needed you to save me and you weren’t there. I’m mad that I needed you at all, that I couldn’t save myself. 

“Are you sure?” James’ blue eyes cut back to Q, insistent and all-seeing. 

“As sure as the fact that we sound like teenage girls right now,” Q replies, trying to drain the last of his temper from his voice and to infuse it with as much playfulness as he can find from under the ugly weight of his mood. 

James allows them to slip back into banter easily, though Q knows the spy’s doubts couldn’t be further from being appeased. “Says the man who took nearly thirty minutes to dress and fix his hair.”

“Contrarily to you, I do have a respectable reputation to uphold.”

“Q… Even hours in front of the mirror wouldn’t change the fact that you look like an overeager student who wants to play with the bigger kids.”

Q grits his teeth. It’s a joke. It’s just a joke.

***

When they finally park the Mini in Six’s underground parking, all in one piece, they still have five extra minutes to get to where they’re supposed to go. James has a meeting in M’s office to discuss his mission in Lithuania, and Q is expected back at Q-Branch. They part ways with a quick, furtive kiss right before the elevator doors open on the top floor for James’ meeting. James exits the small cubicle with a flirty wink thrown over his shoulder. Q, struck dumb, stares back at the spy, and by the time he shakes himself back to reality, the doors are already shutting and it’s too late to wink back.

Once alone, Q presses the button that’ll bring him all the way down to Q-Branch. Watching the numbers on the wall flash as they steadily decrease, he fiddles with his clothes to make sure everything is in place. He abruptly wishes for a mirror so he could check his hair and confirm that the messy curls properly hide the ugly scar on the left side of his forehead. He reassures himself that it must be fine because if it had been visible, James definitely would’ve had something to say about it. 

Q’s nervousness increases with each floor that the elevator bypasses; what will he say to R and his minions? What will they say? Will they ask questions? Ask for pictures of his vacation? 

No, of course not. He needs to stop being so stupidly paranoid. No one at MI6 cares about what the Quartermaster does with his free time; no one really even cares about the Quartermaster unless he can do something for them, which Q can always do. He can do whatever they ask, which is what he’ll focus on, like usual. Like normal. 

His tie feels constricting around his neck. He loosens it, then tightens it again. He must look flawless today. Experienced and serious. 

Not hesitant. Not incapable or young or weak or unfit. Not like a target, not like someone who could get mugged in the street and then be foolish enough to get caught like a rabbit unsuspectedly walking in a trap for a carrot, oblivious even as the trap’s steel jaws snap closed around its neck.

The elevator doors open. Q adjusts his sweater vest one last time. MI6’s Quartermaster steps out, chin held high. 

This early in the morning, Q-Branch is nearly deserted. A few exhausted minions are closing their computers and clearing their desks of countless coffee mugs, ready to crash at home after a long night of monitoring. On the complete opposite, another tiny batch of them just arrived, coffee fresh and steaming, settling in their chairs for the day. R is staring at a screen at the front of the room, eyes blank. 

Everyone stops and swivels their head in Q’s direction as soon as he enters as if they’re all secretly attuned to his electromagnetic frequencies. He supposes every worker has a keen sense for a superior’s presence, always on alert for when they need to impress and for when they can release the tension. 

Q nearly falters. Should he announce something? Smile? Remain collected and cool? What would he do on a normal day? What did he use to do before, before— ?

He hates that his life is now split between before and after. 

R saves him. “Hey, Q! Long time no see!” 

The woman traipses closer, hair severely pulled back from her face in a bun. Q smiles at her, but a needle-like prick of guilt spoils his joy at seeing her again after so long; from up close, R looks deeply tired. Face pale, eyes circled by dark rings. Even though Q had done everything he could to assume his normal charge from home in the last month, he’d had to delegate a few things to her, and now feels terrible for forcing her to bear this extra workload on top of her own.

“R,” he greets, voice warm. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” R replies quickly. “Everything’s in order here. We’re finally wrapping up 009’s mission, which wasn’t as much of a breeze as it should’ve been, but I think you’ll be satisfied by how things were handled. The only thing I haven’t had the time to do is—”

“R,” Q says again, gently cutting her off. She needs sleep, fast. “Thank you for your work. You did a great job while I was away. Go home, I’ll take it from here.”

R grins at him, shoulders slumping in relief. The minions still stare, curious to see if they’ll be dismissed too. “Speaking of your time away,” R starts, “you don’t look all that well-rested, Quartermaster. You do know what a vacation is for, don’t you?”

Q forces a smile, the weight of everyone’s gazes on him like the pressure of water when one swims too deep. “I’m as well-rested as I’ll ever be.”

R leans in, dropping her voice, “It’s certainly hard to be well-rested when there’s a certain Double-Oh keeping you up at night.”

Q attributes the teasing to fatigue; he doubts R would have the guts to say something like this if she was operating on all cylinders. The camaraderie surprises him, and for a moment he doesn’t know what to say. Q would like to think his coworkers appreciate him, but he doesn’t believe any of them would call him a friend. His constant striving for professionalism makes him appear distant, sometimes even cold. 

He makes sure to greet everyone everyday, to remember names, and to smile from time to time. Good workplace etiquette. But otherwise, he never discusses much with the minions, or even with R, or with the Double-Ohs; he doesn’t have anything worth sharing in his life outside of MI6, and anyway, why would that interest anyone? Small talk has never been his strong suit. 

“Yes,” he replies after a beat, “keeping me up with worry that he’ll blow something up or sink another one of my cars.”

Even though he and R are practically whispering, he frets about someone hearing the conversation. Q doesn’t want to project the image of a gossip, or to seem frivolous. Such chattering could easily be associated with high school practices, and Q is not a child, not a student, not a blabbermouth. He’s here to work. 

So, with calculated poise, he straightens back up and stares at the room at large. “Those of you that have been here all night, go home, get some sleep, and come back bright and early tomorrow. And for everyone that has just come in, settle in and strap yourselves for another day of wrangling agents back into order.”

The minions cheer quietly and return to their tasks, growing suddenly uninterested in Q and R’s encounter now that they know which foot to stand on. R claps him on the shoulder and bypasses him to head for the elevator. Once inside, she adds, “Hey, Q, see you soon, yeah?”

Q nods. “Yes. But you take a week off, you hear me?”

Through the elevator doors, which are quickly sliding closed, Q thinks he can hear a small, relieved “Thank you.”

Now left to his own devices, Q strides through the room purposefully and shuts himself off in his office.