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It begins in a Madrid hotel room one sunny afternoon. Q is sitting on the floor, surrounded by five open laptops, each critical to some facet of the operation, Bond is sure. There are four-way camera views, and lines of text streaming through black boxes, and a comms link to headquarters, among other things. It's all incredibly complex. Bond is purely the muscle this time out; Q is doing the lion's share of the work. There's a remote hacker named Yvgeni Imarov to find, and intel indicates he is currently employed by Niall de Cortez, the Spanish shipping magnate. Q is after their target with the single-minded determination of a blooded hunting hound. Q stopped talking an hour before, and his face has taken on a pinched look, grey at the gills from lack of sleep and intense concentration. Bond sips his scotch, and watches Q manipulating the cyberworld. When Q closes the nearest laptop, and gets unsteadily to his feet, Bond tracks his movements. When he sinks to his knees in front of James' chair, he spreads his legs to let Q closer, and then he watches Q unzip his fly and take James in his mouth. No ceremony, no preamble; just tight, wet heat, on offer without demand. His technique is exquisite, and he meets Bond's eyes as he applies it. The brazenness of it sends shivers up Bond's spine. Bond traces the shell of Q's ear, pushes his hand into Q's thick, tangled hair, and thinks about the nature of his business. Disposable weapons, planes, tools. Disposable agents, like him; expensive, but replaceable. The civilian women (and a few men) aren't disposable, but they suffer for their proximity to him, and to the work. There's one dead in the warehouse across town, her punishment for helping him find the location. There's another who will lose her livelihood for the sin of falling for Q's charm. The ones who don't die are interchangeable in his affections, and Bond likes it that way these days. Less chance of breaking them; less chance someone else will find them disposable.He sinks into the pleasure, keeps his hands gentle, and comes with his head thrown back and Q's hand on his bare belly. Bond pulls Q up to straddle his lap and strips him of his hideous jumper and shirt. He kisses Q slowly, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure each kiss provokes. He works Q's cock with his hand, until the too-sharp curiosity in Q's eyes goes fuzzy around the edges, and even then, he doesn't stop, merciless, a firm target in mind. Q's skin is soft, and his body strains to meet James' touch. Q isn't disposable. He isn't interchangeable. And that makes him the most dangerous distraction Bond has had to overcome in a very long time. After, Q showers and James keeps an eye on the equipment. He knows what he's looking for; Q allowed him that much credit, and barely glanced back as he headed for the bathroom. "No alerts?" Q says, emerging with his hair neatly combed and his body barely concealed behind a towel. James allows himself the luxury of looking, long and slow, and Q's brow arches with amusement. "No alerts," he answers. He doesn't shower; when the alert comes, he will have to be out the door in moments. He still has Q's smell on him, his come and the scent of his aftershave. It's a pleasant reminder. Q throws on the same ugly jumper and clean trousers, and sits back down barefoot in front of his technological playground. Bond finds himself watching Q's hands, or the corner of his lip, or the nape of his neck where the jumper's care tag is rubbing against Q's skin. When he goes to do his duty less than an hour later, he brushes his hand across Q's neck and folds the tag away from his skin, just to see what will happen. "Do try to save me the trouble of collecting your body, 007," Q says, still typing. Bond catches himself smiling at random moments the rest of the afternoon, right up until he has Imarov in his sights. **Bond flies back to London alone when he's finished the job, Imarov's laptop hard drive neatly stowed in a cheap carry-on bag. Far behind him now, in a room destroyed by hand-to-hand combat, Imarov is sprawled in a corner with one neat hole between his eyes. It's snowing steadily, and Bond retreats for a long weekend to drink, and sleep, and nurse the jagged knife wound in his shoulder, picking at the stitches when they itch. Once or twice - possibly three times - he has a toe-curling, back-arching orgasm, augmented by the memory of Q's mouth on his cock. On Tuesday morning, he gathers up the hard drive and his cell phone and tucks them neatly into his pockets, ready to return to Q. "I'll collect your items in his stead," Weathers informs him, when Bond stands in the middle of Q branch looking for their leader. In a flash, it crosses Bond's mind that he didn't stop to ensure Q's safety after he killed Imarov. No one had known Q was there, and the threat had been removed. But of course, that's foolish; he would have been notified if his services were still required. "Q sleeping off the jet lag?" Bond asks, plucking the tech from his pockets and unholstering the Walther. Q's tension while flying is famously a sight to behold, it's so carefully controlled; it's a wonder he hasn't broken off an armrest mid-flight. "No time for that, I'm afraid. He's in the field," Weathers replies. He reaches out his hand for the palm-coded Walther. Bond freezes. "Still?""Again." Weathers' lips purse into a thin line when Bond pulls the Walther back a millimeter from its destination. "I'll need to check that in with the rest." "Not just yet." Bond holsters the weapon. "Where to this time?""Not your mission, is it?" Weathers looks Bond up and down, as if he had forgotten how much trouble Bond could be. Bond refrains from commenting on the depth and extent of his security clearance. "Not yet," he says quietly. Five minutes later he is in M's outer office, and Moneypenny is giving him her classier version of Weathers' disapproving scowl. "Why so curious, James? Q is quite capable of handling himself in the field on routine missions.""Of course he is. But which agent is with him?""009, if you must know." Bond snorts softly. "Oil and water." "Did you not say to me two short weeks ago that 009 was one of our best, and was explicitly to be trusted?""Did I?" Bond gazes at her, hoping he appears to be placid as a winter lake. "When do you expect him back?""When did you expect you might turn in the remainder of your equipment?" There's a tiny arch to her left brow, more eloquent than all M's quiet lectures, when her gaze flicks to the area of his concealed holster. "Have a good evening, Moneypenny," he answers, just to hear her sigh his name with long-suffering resignation. No answers are forthcoming from 003 or 008, or any of the many wary-looking techs he approaches in Q branch, so he does the next best thing to personal interrogation: he hacks into the mainframe, seeking answers. M has two backdoor passwords to skirt authentication and verification protocols. Bond is quite sure he has more workarounds, but these are the only ones he's been able to confirm. Steal, you mean, past-M's voice says quite reprovingly in his mind. The old M - his M - had been considerably more imaginative than Mallory. Working out her passwords had taken a great deal of sleuthing. She would not have approved of the methods, but she certainly would have appreciated the skill. It only takes a few minutes of work and he's in. Q's mission - or the continuation of it - is to build and install a virus in the mainframe he already corrupted. Bond flicks through the mission parameters, unconcerned with them once he knows there's no further danger involved for Q. Most of what's required can be done from an office, or from a nearby location. 009, brute that he is, has skills adequate to the task of keeping nosy neighbors away. Once, not so long ago, Bond suspects most of MI6 felt similarly about him. Too quick on the trigger, too anxious to kill. He'd been driven by overwhelming smugness then, about himself and his place in this world. That arrogance has all been beaten out of him by time and experience. Or so he likes to tell himself. Since he's in, he slides through another layer of security and into encrypted personnel files. He's already been through the files of everyone who interests him except Q. Until recently, Q wasn't worth the trouble. His mop of hair, his eyes behind those soda-bottle glasses. Those impossible jumpers. The silken softness of the skin at the nape of his neck, where James could rest his fingertips to feel Q shudder. The screen in front of him turns full of static, like an old telly on station break, and an instant message box appears on the screen, with only a few words:
You'll have to work harder than this, 007.
A moment later, the screen goes black.**After that, his options for information are quite limited, so he has only one true course of action: he leaves headquarters and heads for Q's flat, mindful of the fact that it's the middle of the night. If the mission has gone well, Q will be home soon. At which point, Bond will leave, of course. It's his duty to be sure his quartermaster is in one piece, at the tail end of the mission they began together. He breaks into Q's flat without much difficulty, and it's only at the end of his efforts he realizes that was by design. There's no technology visible in the entire place - no computers, no monitors, not so much as a television or iPad. Even the phone is an ancient rotary dial. It makes sense, from a certain point of view; nothing to compromise him, should someone become curious. The place itself is a comfortable kind of lived-in eclectic, which reminds Bond oddly of his father's old study at Skyfall. Best of all, there's a grizzled black lab in an overstuffed dog bed by the kitchen door. It gets to its feet stiffly - Bond is sympathetic - and wags its tail in a friendly fashion when he approaches. "Hello there," he says, and crouches down to meet his new friend. Said friend follows him into the kitchen while he makes tea - and it's there he can see glimpses of the Q he's seen at work. Mugs neatly lined up on a shelf over the sink, next to a tin of black tea potent enough to make his eyes water. The dog is at his heels when he sits at the tiny kitchen table, mug of strong brew in hand, and rifles through Q's mail. Retrieved and dropped off by a helpful landlord, perhaps, or by Moneypenny, being her usual efficient self. Mail and coffee, a dog, and overstuffed furniture covered in crocheted green throws. Such an ordinary life, sketched out in the shadows of an extraordinary calling. It's pleasant in Q's kitchen, with a weathered clock ticking on the wall, and rows of plants below the kitchen window, where snow has built up on the ledge outside. The entire place smells of rosemary. Bond is contemplating the prints over the cabinets - which look like abstract chickens - when he hears the front door open, and then close again a few seconds later. He gets up, pours a second cup of tea, and carries it with him into the front room. Q is standing on the floor mat just inside the door, his messenger bag dangling from one hand, one shoe on, one already off. Snow is melting on the shoulders of his stylish brown wool overcoat and in his hair. He glances up through fogged glasses and says, "Oh, it's you," as if he regularly comes home to uninvited persons trespassing in his flat. Bond likes him more every moment. "You have a dog," Bond says, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. "How nice that you're surprised. I live to subvert your expectations, 007." Q sets the bag down gently - no doubt because it contains the technology the rest of the place lacked - and shrugs off his overcoat. It falls to the floor in a puddle as Q toes off his other shoe. He stands there a moment in grey-and-black-striped socks, removes his glasses, wipes them with a sleeve. Then he sighs. "Please tell me why you found it necessary to break into my home.""You went off to finish our mission without me," Bond says mildly. "I went off to finish my mission-" Here Q pauses, because Bond is offering him the tea, which he of course accepts. "-according to my mission parameters. It was nothing to do with you. And, by the way, your hacking attempts were not appreciated, either. I'll have to clear up that trail of cyber-destruction you left." Q places his glasses on the side table and takes two sips of tea. The pinched tiredness etched across his face eases a bit. "How else was I supposed to get those answers?""Wait and ask," Q says simply. He hands the tea back to Bond, strips off his jacket and tie, and slowly slips his shirt over his head. His entire left side is covered with bruises, fresh and stark against his pale skin. Bond has seen those marks a hundred times, on himself, and on agents who didn't live to report them. Footprints, fist blows; could be either, or both. "Q," Bond says sharply. "I'm quite all right," Q answers, glancing down at his own torso. "Things...didn't go to plan. Couldn't be done from a distance, I'm afraid. Had to go in. There were more than a few of Cortez's people looking for us, at the end. There was a scuffle. I handled a few of them, though 009 dispatched the majority.""Not bloody soon enough." Bond sets the mug down and steps closer, and Q looks up. "Nothing broken," he says, reading the intent on Bond's face. But the denial only makes Bond's urge stronger, to place his hands there where fists and boots have done their damage. So he does. His palm covers half the biggest bruise. Q's skin is cold, but the bruise is warm. Q presses his hand over Bond's where it rests against his ribs. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to the skin of Q's neck, and feels Q shiver in response. "You should change," he says, lips still against Q's pulse, which jumps at his words. "You're chilled to the bone.""You'll stay?" Q asks, not moving. Bond thinks of warm Spanish sunshine, and Q in his lap, head thrown back, whispering James toward the sky, as though Bond couldn't hear him. Bond has his answers now. Q is whole, and the mission is finished. The storm's been worsening for some time; while the roads are passable, he should go home to his empty flat, with its stiff still-new couch and empty kitchen, which smells of weeks-old sour milk and take-away remnants. Domesticity isn't a space in which he easily dwells. Even so, he sits in the darkened room and watches the snow fall outside while Q bathes. He orders take-away and finds a half-empty sack of food for the dog. He rummages through the cupboards and makes another pot of tea, orange with hints of cinnamon and clove. When Q is dressed and warm and fed, he takes Q to bed, touches him, listens for the whisper of his name once again. He kisses Q with intent, indulging Q's desires, and pretends his own craving is nothing more than a need for reassurance, a mission objective shelved and put back into proper place. It's an occupational hazard, this need to connect which comes upon them all every so often. Ten years before, he would have rolled out of bed and dressed, and pretended none of it mattered in the morning. Professionals do crash into one another from time to time; they right themselves, and carry on. But those ten years were filled with loss, and his tolerance for denial is waning. He rises with the sun in the grey of morning, snow still falling outside, and leaves Q sleeping under a pile of soft blankets. The dog comes close when Bond approaches the couch, tail wagging, expecting a walk, or perhaps some affection. Bond realizes he forgot to ask its name. He'll ask Q later, over morning papers and fresh tea. There's time.