Archive of Our Own

"Why," Madeleine had asked him. "Given every other possible option, would a man choose the life of a paid assassin?" 

"Well, it was that or the priesthood," James had quipped. She had laughed, sipped her drink with those beautiful red lips. 

"Is this really what you want? Living in the shadows? Hunting, being hunted? Always alone?" 

"I don't stop to think about it." James had been honest. 

"But what if you did stop?"

James had not had a chance to answer her as their table was upended, but he had answered her later by dropping his gun at M’s feet, crossing the bridge past the wreckage of Blofeld and his helicopter, and gathering Madeleine up into his arms. 

Now, dropping to his knees at her gravestone, ruining his suit silently as the freezing rain mingles with hot tears on his face, he has no answers. 

No one needs to lie to Bond about a psych eval this time. He digs the latest tracker out of his arm and leaves it on a table in Q branch, stuck to a blood-soaked napkin. He doesn’t steal any gadgets. He doesn’t need them where he’s going. 

Q enters the room at half past 6 in the morning, blinking sleep out of his eyes as the motion-sensor lights flare to life. He sets his Thermos of tea down on his main workbench and spots a flash of crimson in the corner of his eye that wasn’t there the previous day. 

“Christ,” he says to himself grimly. It’s a bloody napkin with what he immediately recognizes as 007’s tracker. He leaves it where it is and immediately pulls up 007’s signal on his laptop. To his relief, the nanobot trackers are still intact. 007 has for all intents and purposes officially vanished from the face of the earth again – but this time, M is content to let him go if that’s what he needs. Q wasn’t directed to keep track of him for any reason. Looking now at the Smartblood signal pulsing like a heartbeat, he isn’t sure why he almost doesn’t want to let it out of his sight. 

Q pours some tea from his travel Thermos into his eponymous Scrabble mug and sinks his mind into flaying a now-disbanded trafficking ring’s server string from the inside out. He systematically captures data, erases its existence outside of MI6, and tries to rid himself of a gnawing worry building within him. 

It’s been barely a week since Madeleine was buried. Why, given all the prior disappearances and his predilection for beaches, humidity, and foreign liquor, would 007’s tracker show him in his flat, barely moving? Q understands the need to grieve alone - it’s a raw, sharp edge even for those not accustomed to the harsh life of espionage. It claims you in whatever way it can, pulling you down into its depths and crushing you mercilessly. You do what you have to do to weather it. It’s just that James Bond weathers things with alcohol that would strip the paint off of airplanes and by searching for something unknowable in a place that doesn’t ache with loss. Why would he stay? 

By the evening, Bond hasn’t moved in awhile. Q can’t shake the feeling that something about this doesn’t feel right. There’s only one other worker in Q branch this late - Yasmin, who’s engrossed in her code and has likely lost track of time. Q flicks Bond’s information onto his screen and takes a quick inventory. He hasn’t left his flat. His bank card history shows a grocery purchase from a few days previous. Nothing since. 

Yasmin deletes something, cursing to herself under her breath. Q is taken back to his training - sometimes the absence of a visible difference is confirmation that there is a problem. He closes his laptop and slides it into his bag, standing up. Yasmin looks up at him as though she’s just noticed his presence. 

“You should head home,” he offers, smiling though he doesn’t feel it climb all the way to his eyes. 

“Have a good night,” she doesn’t agree and waves as he leaves. 

It’s raining by the time Q shows up at Bond’s flat. He rings the bell and is greeted by a curt “who the fuck is it” against a background of crooning jazz. 

“Ah, Bond, it’s Q.” 

A too-long pause predicates the lock buzzing to let Q inside the building. He makes his way through the stylish lobby and to the elevator bank. To his surprise, as he approaches Bond’s door, he can very faintly hear wisps of music. The music stops suddenly and the door snaps open. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” Bond perches in his doorway in a henley and jeans. He usually has an air of cool composure with a hidden sharpness and resolve, but now he won’t look Q directly in the eye. He’s crossing his arms over his chest and blocking potential entry into his flat. 

“I thought you might like this,” Q holds out the now-slightly-damp box he had been carrying in his messenger bag. “And to talk. Or not talk. Or whatever.” 

Bond flicks his eyes down to Q’s offering - Macallan 18 year. Q had asked the man at the off-licence for his best Scottish whisky and politely put up with his skeptical attitude until he had had enough and told him it was a gift. Bond raises his piercing gaze to finally meet Q’s eyes and Q begins to defend himself. 

“I don’t know if this is the right vintage or whatever the whisky equivalent of that is-” 

Bond takes the box from Q in the middle of his sentence. 

“You’d better come in.” 

As the door closes behind Q, he can smell something mouthwateringly good cooking. To his left, in a spacious kitchen, sizzles an enormous steak in a cast iron skillet. Bond sets the whisky down on an empty countertop and motions for Q to hang up his coat on the coatrack by the door. He goes back to tending to the steak as Q also removes his soaked shoes. 

Q looks around the flat. It’s dimly lit by a floor and table lamp. The dining table is wrapped in plastic and covered in paperwork and boxes. The living room holds a brown leather couch, several paintings wrapped in brown paper and leaned up against the walls, a coffee table, and a television in the corner on top of a box. Two brown leather chairs matching the couch sit on the opposite side of the coffee table. Up against one wall of the dining room is a record player with the needle pulled up and a record spinning silently. The walls are all white with paneled moulding, lit honey-gold in the insufficient light. The doors to other rooms are closed. 

“Nice place,” 

“Don’t lie,” Bond laughs, and it sounds more akin to a dry cough. “And thank you.” He nods in the direction of the Macallan. “That’s too nice a bottle for you to not have an ulterior motive.” 

“I don’t.” Q answers simply. He holds onto the strap of his messenger bag, unsure of what to do - both with the bag and in general. “Though I suppose MI6 did pay for it by virtue of paying my salary.” 

Bond turns the burner off and just looks at Q for a moment. Q has trouble holding the weight of his gaze. 

“You’ll forgive my bluntness, but why are you here?” 

“I told you. I’m here if you want to talk. Or sit in silence and drink. Or whatever it may be that you, ah, need.” Q finishes, self-conscious. 

“They have you running the therapy play now?” 

“Bond, for Christ’s sake! I’m not here in an official capacity. I’m here because you left me your tracker on my desk covered in blood and instead of dropping off the map you’ve stayed in your flat for ages barely moving. Call it what you will, but I just want to offer you something right now, even if I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“I knew you had more than one tracker on me,” Bond almost smiles, pulling two rocks glasses out of a cabinet. “You don’t need to ply me with liquor to ask me to be your friend.”

Q holds back a laugh, relieved. Here’s the 007 he knows. Bond opens the Macallan’s box. 

“The liquor is strictly medicinal and I’m not asking. I’m telling you that I’m here. For you.” 

“Well then you’d better stay for dinner.” Bond pours two glasses and slides one toward Q on the countertop. Q picks it up and they tip their glasses toward each other and sip. To Q, it tastes like the smell of permanent markers - acrid and stinging. He’s practiced at hiding his distaste and swallows against the burn. Bond downs the glass, exhales hotly, and pours another. This one he doesn’t touch yet. 

“I hope you like steak and potatoes.” 

“I certainly do.”

They sit at the coffee table, Bond on the couch and Q in a chair across from him. The steak is cooked to perfection - a mouthwatering medium rare. 

“You’re quite a good cook,” Q offers after a bite. 

“Steaks are all timing,” Bond says on the tail of a sip of whisky. “But thank you.” 

They eat in silence for a few moments; rain on the windowpanes and gentle clicks of their cutlery on ceramic plates permeate the still room. Q doesn’t dare try to talk about work. He unfortunately knows much more than he likely should about Bond and he’s not sure Bond would really want to get to know him under normal circumstances, so he decides to let Bond make the first move. 

“How is your cat,” Bond quirks an eyebrow. Q almost laughs out loud incredulously. He’s finished his steak and the last vestiges of the potatoes, so he places his fork down on the plate.

“He’s great,” he manages. “A nuisance, but that’s cats for you.” 

“What’s his name?” Bond asks. Q cannot believe this is happening. He takes a drink of his whisky. 

“Albert.” 

“Mmm. Good name. A namesake? 

“Yes, actually. After Einstein.”

“Not enough hair, I think.” 

This time Q does laugh. Bond’s mouth twitches just a little and Q counts it as a victory. 

“Fair point.” He concedes, still smiling a little. 

“You’ve read my file.” Bond says, placing his cutlery down as he’s finished his meal, and the remainder of Q’s smile disappears. “But I’ve not read yours. I apparently don’t have the necessary clearance.” Bond smirks a little into his glass. 

“Hardly surprising, given your proclivities.” Q ribs back gently. 

“Touché. Tell me about yourself, then. Or… I can guess.” 

Q sits back in his chair. 

“Go on, then.” 

“Twenty…seven. Oxford graduate. Likely early matriculation due to academic advancement.” 

Q says nothing, just stares at the corner of Bond’s mouth as to not give anything away but also not meet his eyes. 

“Large family. Youngest child. Genius level IQ, petrifying shyness. You hyperfocus to the point of exclusion of everything else, which is what makes you excellent at your job but socially, not so much. But how did you come into possession of said job…?” 

Q is silent. He notices Bond has a little stubble. 

“...You did something. Yes, that’s it. You created something that got MI6’s attention. An algorithm or a safeguard of some sort. They recruited you.” 

“Impressive.” Q finally speaks. Bond sits back himself, looking vaguely pleased. “If only for the sheer measure of inaccuracy.” Bond’s smugness evaporates. 

“Thirty. Oxford you did have correct, which I will give you credit for. No early matriculation either, I’m afraid. I attended quite young but earned three Master’s, which evened it out so I graduated at the usual age. Large family was also correct, but I was a middle child.” 

“Was?” Bond interrupts. Q’s unintentional word choice had given Bond an in. Shit. 

“Ah. You know how M - not this M, the previous M - used to say that orphans made the best recruits?” 

Bond nods solemnly. 

“I think disowned, lonely young people make pretty good recruits as well.” 

“What happened?” Bond asks, raising his glass to his mouth. Q should have known he would just ask. 

“What always happens in these cases.” Q shakes his head. “I did, or was, something that they didn’t like. So I left. Before I was told to leave.” 

“How old were you?” 

“Sixteen.” 

“Christ,” Bond hisses. 

“I was at Oxford. I spent my holidays working in the laboratories. It could have been worse.” 

“Not by bloody much.” 

“I did do something that caught MI6’s attention as well. Only half points for you, because it wasn’t something good.” 

Bond leans forward, intrigued. 

“I destroyed a student loan company. It even made the news. MI6 was at my door within hours.” 

Bond laughs again; this time it startles its way out of him. 

“The old ‘go to jail or take the job’ ploy.” 

“Precisely. At the time I was facing down prison, a doctorate, or a weapons engineering contract, so I didn’t need telling twice.” 

“And you were lonely,” Bond adds. Q must look nonplussed, because Bond reminds him. “You said so yourself.” 

“Yes,” Q says simply. “I had opportunities, certainly. But I had no real connections in my life. I was completely alone. I figured I wouldn’t mind the long hours, and why not put my skills to good use for Queen and country?” 

“Why not indeed,” Bond pulls Q’s plate toward himself, stacking it on his own and rising to carry them to the kitchen. He returns with the Macallan. 

“That was before I knew that doing what’s right for Queen and country and doing what’s right full stop are sometimes different.” 

“And before you even knew the magnitude of exactly what you’d given up.”  Bond says slowly, pouring them each another glass. He doesn’t seem to realize or mind that Q hasn’t finished his first. 

“Quite.” Q agrees, but doesn’t say anything further. There is a decided shift in Bond’s demeanor as he settles back into the couch. He stays silent. Bond doesn’t speak for a long moment and when he does, it’s very quiet. 

“It’s different.” Bond rasps, not looking at Q. He fixes his gaze on the shadows of rain dripping in streaks on the adjacent wall. “Losing. When you’re the knife.” 

“When you usually do the cutting.” 

“I’m used to self-cauterizing.” 

“You’re used to doing a lot of things on your own.” 

“This is different.” Bond grits out. “This is something else.” 

“It’s hungry,” Q supplies and Bond’s eyes snap to him. He picks up his glass with a shaking hand and chokes back some whisky. “It eats you from the inside out.” 

“Yes.” Bond downs the rest of his glass in one gulp and pours himself more. He sinks back against the couch and closes his eyes. Q doesn’t know what to say. The silence is oppressive. The rain picks up, spattering against the windows. He doesn’t open his mouth. Not yet. 

“I was out, Q. I was finished. No jobs. No targets. Just her. Just her and this terrifying fucking freedom.” Bond’s eyes are still closed. “I mean, it was terrifying but exciting. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I saw a life with her. A real life.” He drags his trembling hands down his face. “I’m not used to making choices based on my own wants. And I wanted that. With her. And now...” 

He doesn’t speak again. Q doesn’t either. He pulls his legs up under himself in the armchair and waits. 

“I think I need to sleep.” Bond says hoarsely, several long moments later. 

Q takes the glass of whisky from his hand and offers him a hand up instead. Bond grunts a negative and waves his hand away. He staggers into what Q assumes is his bedroom. Q knows he’s had more alcohol than he’s usually comfortable with himself, so he pulls the tartan throw off the far arm of Bond’s couch and curls up under it. He puts his glasses on the coffee table and lies awake for a long time, watching the rain pour down.

Bond wakes up suddenly but doesn’t let on. He slides his hand down slowly under his bed, undoing a clasp on a hidden gun safe attached to the bottom of his bedframe. There is someone in his flat. He can hear them rummaging through his kitchen cabinets. They’re in for a bitter surprise. He slowly rolls over, still making an effort to conceal the gun, in case there’s another person in the room with him that he needs to subdue. Only his stark, empty bedroom greets him. He rolls out of bed quickly, holding his gun in front of him in his trained, familiar shooting stance. 

Bond slowly pushes the bedroom door open and does a tactical sweep for other intruders that comes up empty. The person in his kitchen closes his cabinet just as Bond levels his gun at him. 

“Jesus, Bond!” Q immediately clutches the mugs he’s holding to his chest and jumps backwards. Bond lowers his gun immediately and lets out a heavy sigh. He turns around and secures the gun in its safe before emerging from his bedroom again. 

“Sorry about that, Q. I didn’t realize you’d stayed.” 

“Yes, well.” Q laughs nervously, “I slightly regret that now.” He’s hung his navy button-up and sweater vest up with his coat so he’s sporting a black short-sleeved undershirt and his usual khaki pants. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Haven’t you ever seen someone make breakfast before?” 

“I don’t have any food in the…” Bond trails off. There are sausages and potatoes going on the stovetop and toast in the toaster - a reusable Tesco bag sits on the far countertop. 

“How do you like your eggs?” Q ignores him and sets the mugs down on the counter. He pours coffee from a French press that Bond has never seen before into the mugs. 

“Scrambled, thank you.” Bond gives in. “I’ll be right with you.” 

He turns back into his bedroom. For a few seconds, he stands there and lets everything sink in. It’s the morning. She’s still dead. Q is in his kitchen, making him breakfast. No one has ever made him breakfast before. He scrubs his hands up and down his face, exhaling. 

He swaps out the clothes that he never took off from last night for joggers and a new henley. He takes a look at himself in the mirror and can barely meet his own eyes. He lathers up and shaves with an electric razor, not needing the old-fashioned precision of his prized straight razor. When he’s done, he applies the only other two things in his medicine cabinet - deodorant and a fragrance he had found while digging around in one of his boxes from before his “death.” It smells of fresh lime atop spice and leather. He still doesn’t look his reflection in the eye, but he looks in his own general direction and decides he’s cleaned up enough to be presentable. 

Q has placed the full plates on the coffee table when Bond emerges.

“How do you take your coffee?” 

“Black.” 

“I should have guessed.” Q replies sardonically and pours some milk into his own. Bond walks over and grabs his own cup. 

“Thank you.” He says to Q. He doesn’t just mean thank you for breakfast, he means about a dozen things that he can’t properly articulate along the lines of thank you for being here . Q immediately smiles in an unpracticed way that signals to Bond that his subtext has been heard loud and clear. 

“Any time.” 

Q thinks about messaging Bond several times in the subsequent few weeks since he visited him. He isn’t supposed to know Bond’s personal number and, as of right now, Bond doesn’t have any official MI6 lines of communication. Instead, he hotkeys Bond’s tracker to toggle on and off his main screen with a single keystroke. He runs every day and works out for varying amounts of time - sometimes even several hours - at a posh athletic club. Other than that, he seems to be running to shops or in his flat most of the time. Q has strictly forbidden himself from checking Bond’s card history after he dropped by unannounced. He does have a personal No Colleague Espionage rule, after all. He figures he can bend it a little with the tracker as that wasn’t his idea to begin with. 

On a miserable, wet Thursday, Q is in 004’s ear, guiding her through a labyrinthine series of tunnels in an abandoned Swiss military base that they suspect is hiding a stolen cache of weapons. It comes out of nowhere - an unusual radio signal - and Q screams into the mic to run, run, it’s a trap, get out by any means necessary . 

She doesn’t make it. 

Q locks himself into his office in the back corner of Q Branch and sits on the floor, listening to the ticking of his wall clock and not being able to really let his gaze rest anywhere concrete. He blinks several times until his eyes unfocus. He isn’t sure whether it’s been a few seconds or a few hours. His mobile buzzes in his pocket, ripping him back into his body. He stares at the text for a considerable amount of time before actually absorbing it. It’s from an unknown number and the strangeness of it baffles him until he realizes it has to be Bond. 

opinions on pasta?

why

I’ve tried making it by hand and i’ve made entirely too much

its been a bad day

Even better reason for pasta. and probably wine. want to drop by this evening? 

no thanks

Q turns his mobile off and looks at the wall clock. It’s past rush hour on the Tube and Q Branch is likely almost empty. He just wants to go home and take a shower for so long that he dissolves in the water. He gets his things in order to leave and steels himself for a moment before he opens his office door. 

A few of the engineers nod at him from where they’re clustered around a motorbike, but thank goodness they’re the only ones left. Q leaves the building and has a mercifully uncongested Tube ride to his stop. 

Albert is already waiting for Q atop the cat tree in his living room, not caring that Q is soaked from the deluge. He stretches a paw out to Q, meowing and begging to be picked up even though Q is still in his front hallway. Q shucks his bag and jacket off onto the hallway floor and scoops Albert up. His soft skin is warm and comforting and he nuzzles his naked snout into Q’s neck. Q carries him into the dark bedroom and sits down on the bed. He cradles Albert with one arm and takes his tie off with the other. He gently sets Albert on the bed despite his meows of protest and takes off his button-down. He hangs up his tie and shirt and throws on the first t-shirt he sees in his drawer. He kicks his shoes off and lies down. Albert dutifully curls up right against his stomach. Q wraps an arm around him and as the dark, solitary silence sinks in, he cries. 

He throws his glasses to the side and curls in on himself and sobs. It never gets easier. He can’t just think of her as 004, another casualty. Lottie always brought him a coffee whenever he was assigned to brief her on gadgets for a mission like it was a preemptive apology for losing them amid the chaos. She had green eyes and a kind smile and a daughter. A daughter who now has to experience the agony of growing up in an instant, in a single conversation, not in the slow crescendo of regular experiences. Q knows that conversation. He knows the lightning-strike of one moment that changes you irrevocably. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not a child. 

He heard a mother die today. 

He cries until he can’t anymore. Albert moves himself up so that his head is nestled right under Q’s chin. The room is silent but for Q’s harsh breathing. 

The doorbell buzzes. Q doesn’t move. It’s probably FedEx. They can try again tomorrow. It buzzes again. And again. He wrenches himself up and lets the courier in. They can leave it, whatever it is, in the lobby. He goes back to bed. 

There’s a knock on his door. Q gets up and angrily stalks to the door, wrenching it open. 

“You couldn’t have left it down–” 

It’s not a courier. It’s Bond, in a casual button-down and jeans, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and raising the other to knock again. His expression changes to one of alarm. 

“Are you all right?” 

Q doesn’t know what comes over him but he closes the door in Bond’s face without even thinking, almost like his body does it without his mind’s permission. He takes a few large steps back and blinks several times against a new flood of tears. He’s so fucking overwhelmed. His hands are shaking and he presses them to his mouth. They’re ice cold.

Q can’t hold back a ragged sob into his palms. Bond opens the door. 

“Are you all right,” It’s not a question. He knows. Bond sets the wine and an unknown cargo in the reusable Tesco bag that Q had left for him on the floor of Q’s entryway. 

“I can tell you’re not. What do you need?” 

Q opens his mouth but nothing comes out. 

“You’re shaking.” Bond puts his hands up slowly and deliberately, almost like he’s trying to show he’s unarmed, and approaches Q carefully. “Can I touch you?” 

Q’s mind is racing and won’t land on a response, won’t touch a single thought for more than a fleeting second, not enough to grasp one and elucidate it. He nods once. 

Bond nods back and reaches out toward him. Q isn’t really sure what he’s doing until Bond floors him with two words.

“Come here.” 

Q doesn’t hesitate - he’s far beyond rational thought right now. He all but crumbles as Bond wraps his arms around him. He’s warm despite London’s damp chill and smells like leather and leaves and spice. Bond rubs comforting circles against Q’s back and Q wraps his shaking arms around him in return. 

“Let’s get you a blanket and some tea, yeah?” Bond pulls back after a moment.

“Probably a good idea,” Q rasps out. Bond smiles a little and squeezes his shoulder before heading into the living room to grab the black blanket draped over one arm of Q’s couch. He shakes it out from its folded state and drapes it over Q like a cape. 

“Kitchen is to the left, yes?” Bond asks. 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll make us both a cup of tea, come sit with me.”

Q’s hands are warming up inside the blanket and he can finally focus a little better. 

“Let me grab my glasses,” he says. Bond nods and flicks on his kitchen light, surveying the fixtures and the greenhouse-style window next to Q’s kitchen table nook as he looks for a teakettle. Q plucks his glasses from his bed to put them on and Albert perks up, hopping off the bed to follow Q into the kitchen. 

“Albert,” Bond nods to the cat as Albert hops up onto the countertop. 

“Damn it,” Q chides and picks him up. He plops him onto the floor and watches for a moment as Albert readies himself to hop up again. Q scoops him up into his arms and sits down at the kitchen table instead. Albert instantly sits politely on his lap. Bond pulls two teabags from Q’s tea supply caddy on the countertop and picks the kettle up to fill it. 

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Bond begins. “I didn’t realize exactly how bad of a day it’d been.” 

Q’s throat tightens again and he pulls Albert a little closer. 

“It’s-” He clears his throat, willing himself not to cry even more. “It’s quite all right.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bond starts to heat the kettle. 

“I…” Q trails off as he realizes he really doesn’t know. He should probably tell Bond as he likely knew her. “We lost someone.” 

Bond’s eyes dim a little and Q watches him just visibly physically steel himself against the impact of what Q is about to say. 

“I’m so sorry.” Bond says. It’s surprisingly sincere for someone in the killing business. 

“004.” Q can’t bring himself to say Lottie aloud. 

“Damn it,” Bond hisses. He looks away sharply, toward the greenhouse window. One of his hands curls into a fist and squeezes. “Lottie. Her daughter, Christ .” Bond shakes his head, grimacing. “How did-” 

“She walked into a waiting trap in a mountainside Swiss military base that we thought was a weapons cache.” 

“We?” Bond asks and realization hits him a split second afterwards. “You were on point with her. You heard-” He cuts himself off. 

Q drops his gaze to the pattern in the countertop. He concentrates on his breathing, not letting it speed up and match his sudden pounding heartbeat. The teakettle whistles and Bond mercifully turns around to attend to it. Albert starts licking Q’s arm and the sensation distracts him momentarily from the overwhelm of grief and lets him look up again, taking a deep breath. 

Bond sets a steeping mug of chamomile in front of him and Q wraps a hand around it to ground himself in its heat.  He lets go when it becomes unbearably hot against his skin. 

“Thanks for this,” he manages. “Probably won’t sleep very well tonight, so I need all the help I can get.”

“I can imagine.” Bond puts his own mug down gently and sits down across the table from him. The tea is piping hot, steam rising from the Periodic Table of the Elements mug that Bond chose for himself. 

Q sips his tea gingerly in small increments, careful not to burn his mouth. It tastes lightly floral and comforting. Albert lays down in Q’s lap. 

“Nice place,” Bond gestures around vaguely and sips his tea. “I like what you’ve done with it.” 

“Thanks,” Q smiles a little. “It’s my home away from home.” 

Bond laughs, almost startled - like Q surprised him with his wit. 

“To have work-life balance, you actually have to stop working.” Q snarks again and Bond chuckles.  

“You’re preaching to the choir there,” Bond says, an undercurrent to the levity that makes Q immediately pull back. 

“How are you doing?” He asks. Bond just looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?” 

“I find you in the middle of a post-shock breakdown and you’re really asking me how I am?” 

“Well,” Q starts, but can’t follow it up with anything. 

“Are you hungry?” Bond suddenly changes the subject. As soon as he says it, Q is suddenly aware of how almost painfully hungry he is. 

“Actually, yes.” 

“Good,” Bond says, and gets up. Q makes to get up as well but Bond waves him back to sit down. He goes out into the hallway and comes back with the bottle of wine and the Tesco bag. He rummages in Q’s flatware drawer for a corkscrew and upon finding one, pours them each a glass. Chamomile tea and red wine is a strange but not unwelcome combination. Q accepts his glass. 

Bond pulls a glass dish out of the Tesco bag that holds something wrapped in baker’s cloth. He finds a pot in Q’s dish drainer and fills it with water and a healthy amount of salt. As it heats up on the stovetop, he pulls an unlabeled glass jar of red sauce out of the Tesco bag. 

“I told you I made too much,” He offers, and unwraps the linen around his handmade pasta. 

“I didn’t know you went in for this sort of thing,” Q sips the wine and it blooms on his tongue, rich and tender and dark. 

“I’m expanding my horizons.” Bond deadpans, and tips the noodles into the now-boiling water. He pours the sauce into a pan to heat it up. The last thing he brings out of the bag is a hunk of parmesan, which he finds a grater for as the noodles finish cooking. He assembles everything on two plates and turns around, holding the parmesan out. Q recognizes this as a question. 

“Yes, thanks.” 

Bond grates a generous amount over both of their plates and sits down, pushing Q’s plate across the table to him. Q takes a tentative bite after mixing everything together and is instantly floored by how excellent it is. 

“This is incredible, Bond. You’re wasted on espionage.” 

Bond laughs darkly. 

“You’re telling me.” He sips his wine.

“Sorry,” Q looks down. 

“No,” Bond shakes his head. “It was funny. And you’re right.” 

“Have you thought about what you’ll do?” Q asks as he tries not to shovel the pasta into his mouth. 

“Not particularly,” Bond swirls his wine in his glass. “I’m, as the adage says, taking it a day at a time. Today, I thought I’d make pasta.” 

“I’m certainly glad you did.” 

“Homemade food takes the edge off, doesn’t it?” 

Q had allowed himself to relax into their conversation and the comfort of the food and for a brief moment was able to shake the heaviness of what he’d witnessed. It creeps in again, making him pull the blanket tightly around himself and fall quiet. 

“Sorry,” Bond winces.

“Don’t be. I’m fine.” Q takes a large swig of the wine in search of alcohol-fueled warmth. 

“Yes, and I’m a professor of philosophy.” Bond quips. Q chuckles weakly and goes back to winding pasta around his fork carefully. Neither one of them speaks as they finish their meals. Albert jumps off of Q’s lap and slinks into the living room.  

“I don’t have to tell you,” Q almost whispers into his wineglass. “You know what it’s like.” 

“I do.” 

“It’s so dispassionate.” Q looks up, eyes welling with furious tears. “The way it just. Goes on.” 

“Without them.” Bond finishes his glass and reaches for the bottle on the counter. Q takes another large sip and Bond tops his glass off and refills his own. 

“And I don’t give a shit that it’s what she signed up for,” Q continues. “It’s not fucking fair. Her husband is a widower. Her daughter… fuck.” He presses a shaking hand to his mouth. His ears are ringing. His cheeks are hot. “And I’m responsible for this , Bond. I should have known, I should have tried to send a drone in before her or something, I should have seen this coming, I should have –” he dissolves into sobs, arms wrapped tightly around himself. 

Bond gets up and crouches next to Q, putting a hand on his arm. 

“Her blood is on my hands,” Q stutters out through his tears. 

“Blood washes off,” Bond gently takes one of Q’s icy hands in his own. “And look, see? I don’t see any blood here.” He turns Q’s palm upwards. His hand is shaking again and he tries to clench it into a fist, but Bond stops him. “I won’t let you blame yourself.” 

“She’s not the only person I’ve gotten killed. Not by a long shot.” It rips itself out of Q, unbidden.

“Are you allergic to the idea that sometimes things go wrong without it being anyone’s fault? And that double-oh’s have agency as to whether or not to take risks?” 

Q swipes at his eyes and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Bond places a warm hand on his back and syncs his breathing with Q’s to try to get them both breathing deeply. After several deep inhale-exhale cycles, Q is calm enough to reach for his wine glass again. Bond is right. He drains it despite it being almost full. 

“Thank you for the pasta,” He says, instead of many other things he could say. He finally looks Bond directly in the eye and tries to smile. 

“Any time.” Bond squeezes his shoulder. 

Bond stays the night in Q’s guest bedroom. Sometime in the middle of the night, Albert pushes the door open just enough to slither into the room. He curls up behind Bond’s knees and Bond pretends not to notice.

Q wakes up the next morning to a bakery croissant and a still-warm mug of coffee on his nightstand with a note that reads “didn’t want to wake you. JB.” 

He smiles a little and dashes off an email to M that he’s taking his first sick day in 6 years and that he won’t be disturbed for anything less than an actively unfolding threat to national security. He rolls over and tries to succumb to exhaustion, hoping the sound of Lottie’s last scream will fade from his mind enough to let him sink back into sleep. 

He doesn’t dream. 

Thankfully, though his laptop is always open through the weekend in case something catches fire, nothing merits him coming back into Q Branch until Monday. He arrives to find Eve Moneypenny waiting for him with a coffee. It takes everything in him not to react physically at the flash memory of Lottie holding a takeaway cup out to him in almost exactly the same way. 

“Thank you so much,” Q says, smiling and hoping Eve doesn’t notice its insincerity as he extracts his laptop from his messenger bag and flips it open. “I’d say this is a bit early for a social call. What can I do for you?” 

“You’ll never guess what the cat dragged in today,” She raises her eyebrows at Q, sauntering into his office and closing the door behind her. 

“If it’s the motorbike 003 deposited at the bottom of the Yangtze last month, that would be ideal.” 

“Mmm, arguably a little better than that. It’s Bond.” 

The bottom of Q’s stomach drops out in free-fall dread. What happened to ‘taking things a day at a time?’ 

“Bond? Are you sure?” 

“Positive. He’s scheduled for his evals today and M has us brewing up a cover story for him heading to Moscow. Surprised he hasn’t started a 00 ticket for you to kit him out.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Q intones, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “Waiting for me in my inbox.” 

“He seems all right, all things considered,” Eve sees right through his bullshit. “I know you were worried about him. Did you ever end up checking in on him?” 

“No,” He lies and immediately starts to feel bad about it. She’ll probably find out eventually. 

“Fair enough. He probably wouldn’t have a great response to that.”

They both sip their coffees. 

“You remember how I take my coffee,” Q is surprised, followed swiftly by a rush of fondness. 

“Of course I do.” Eve gives him a wry half smile and nudges him gently with her elbow. Q smiles back for the first time in what feels like weeks. “You okay? After everything last week?” 

“Are any of us?” Q hides the shake in his voice behind another sip of coffee. 

“Good point.” Eve nods. “If you’re not, though, I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.” 

Q doesn’t quite know what to say. He had long thought his people skills to be rusted over and overtures to friendship to be a useless endeavour. Notwithstanding whatever it is that he and Bond seem to share. 

“I… thank you.” He says lamely. 

“You are very welcome,” She looks at him fondly and pats his arm once before she turns to walk away.. 

“Eve,” Q stops her and she turns back to face him. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of experience with… well, with friendship, but I’m here for you too.” 

“I suspect you might have a little more experience than you think you do.” Eve shakes her head, smiling like she can’t help it. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Q, we’ve been friends for about two years.” 

“Right.” He can feel a flush crawling up his neck. “Well.” 

“Text me tomorrow if he does anything interesting.” Eve says over her shoulder as she leaves his office. 

The following day, Q busies himself with looping in several of his subordinates and cooperatively putting together Bond’s kit. M has requisitioned a full suite of gear - digital lockpicks, several earpieces, trauma kit complete with poison antidotes and defibrillator, locational radio, Bond’s signature palmprint Walther and an ad hoc request of any tools Q thinks Bond may need to take with him for a very high-stakes extraction in Russia. 

Yasmin drily suggests the exploding cigar prototypes and Q almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all, but he agrees in the end. Bond is rather unorthodox and will use just about any means to his ends, unlike other more traditional agents. They set up a collapsing briefcase full of trackers, laser cutters, ammunition, the cigars, and a few different varieties of what Q Branch calls Close Combat Neutralizers. 

Yasmin is taking down the last accession numbers for the paperwork when Bond saunters into Q Branch. 

“Q.” 

“Bond.” 

They take a breezy formality with each other, no trace of personal connection visible other than a barely perceptible wink from Bond. 

“What have you got for me?” he fixes a cufflink. 

“A dazzling variety of means to incapacitate a person.” Q expands the briefcase and walks him through each item, finishing with the exploding cigars. 

“Truly a work of art,” Bond muses, twirling one around in his fingers before slotting it back into the case. 

“Are you… cleared for this?” Q asks, hoping the unspoken are you ready for this is loud and clear. 

“I’ve seen the “pass” mark on the forms myself, Q.” Bond dodges his concern and something hardens in his eyes. 

“Well, then.” Q snaps the case shut and slides it toward Bond.

“Thank you, Q.” 

“Any time.” Q says hollowly. 

Bond picks the case up and walks toward the door to Q Branch. 

“007?” Q calls after him. Bond turns back around halfway. “Do try to bring the equipment back in one piece.” His voice is clear, tone the perfect mixture of long-suffering and flippant. His hands are white-knuckled on the surface of the workbench. Bond’s eyes flick down to Q’s clenched fists and back up. 

“I try not to promise that,” he says gruffly. Q nods shakily. “But I’ll do my best on this one.” 

It’s all Q can do not to immediately sit down out of relief. 

“Good luck, 007.” 

Bond winks again, almost quick enough for Q to miss it, before he turns away again to leave.

“Anything?” Eve opens the door to Q’s office unbidden and folds herself into the armchair in the corner. 

“No.” Q taps at his keyboard mercilessly, eyes flitting between the many screens that comprise his wall of monitors. 

“It seems Orsinov lost him ten days ago and Ilya hasn’t heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Hey,” Eve gets up and walks behind Q’s desk. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone here.” 

Q finally looks away from the strings of code, coordinates, and rapidly un-redacting data. Their eyes meet and it’s too raw for Q. He looks away immediately; the frightening thought of complete emotional unravel suddenly seems very near. 

“Have you slept?” She asks him. 

“A little. I don’t really have time for this,” he tries to turn back to his work but Eve grabs the back of his swivel chair and turns him around forcibly. 

“Make time.” Eve says softly. Her words are velvet around iron. Technically, Q outranks her but deep down he knows she’s right. 

“We’re going to take an hour and I’m going to take you to a restaurant. Don’t bother.” She adds immediately as Q opens his mouth to protest. “Do you even know what time it is?” 

“It’s six thirty.” Q answers confidently. 

“It’s quarter of nine. You’ve been looking at a wall of computer screens and you can’t even tell me what time it is. I’m taking you to get something to eat and we are leaving this building.” 

Eve gives Q an absolutely withering look as he makes to pick up his laptop to take with them. 

“You and I both have our mobiles glued to our hands and we’ll be just down the street.” 

Eve all but frog-marches Q past the night-shifters and out one of the side doors of the MI6 building. 

“Where are we going?” He asks. 

“I thought we’d get some ramen at the place we ended up with Tanner during the aftermath of what happened at Skyfall.” Eve links her arm through Q’s and pulls him along at a brisk pace.

They arrive at the restaurant and are seated immediately. It’s an open-all-hours hole in the wall and they tend to get a good crowd of students and nightlifers. They slide into a booth in the back of the restaurant, Eve with her back to the wall and a clear line of sight to the doorway. A waitress comes over and takes their orders before disappearing into the kitchen. A moment later, she brings back a beer in a green bottle that Eve accepts gratefully.

“If you say a word to anyone that I’m having a drink right now,” Eve threatens without any real bite behind it. They both put their phones face up on the table - any pretense that they wouldn’t immediately check them if they pinged is out the window. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Q says, taking off his glasses for a brief moment and rubbing his exhausted eyes. 

“I think we’re past the point of ‘do you want to talk about it,’ don’t you think?” Eve puts the bottle down after a long sip. 

“This isn’t M asking, is it?” Q sits back against the booth and puts his glasses back on. 

“Jesus,” Eve laughs without any mirth behind it. “You sound like Bond. No, I’m asking you as a friend if you’re all right.” 

“God, no.” Q laughs bitterly.

The waitress circles back with two steaming bowls of ramen. She sets them down and Q forces himself to start eating - he knows he needs the nutrients, however much he doesn’t feel like it. 

“What’s going on?” Eve asks very casually. 

“I suppose it started with Lottie. And it’s carrying on here as well.” 

Eve sips some broth and nods. 

“I guess I’m just a soft touch. I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“Just how you’re feeling, Q! This isn’t a fucking eval. There are no right answers. You’ve been through a lot over the past couple weeks and I just wanted to get some food into you and give you a chance to talk about it instead of just burying it under work.” 

Q winces. He is coming off a bit defensive, isn’t he? 

“Sorry. I’m not used to this.” 

“I’m giving you an opportunity to get more used to it.” Eve says. The I forgive your abominable attitude is tacit. 

“I heard Lottie die,” he blurts out. “And I heard Bond get taken. And I’m not sleeping. And I did check on Bond, actually. I went over to his flat and he brought me pasta when Lottie died and I-” Q presses a hand to his mouth. 

Eve takes his other hand. Her skin is soft and warm. 

“You’ve worked almost 48 straight hours and you need to eat. I’m here with you and it’s going to be okay.” 

Q nods shakily and squeezes her hand once before pulling his own back and picking up his spoon again. 

“What was that like,” Eve half-asks, half-muses. “Dropping by Bond’s flat.” 

“Kind of sad. Artwork was leaned up against the wall. The only things that were unpacked were essentials and furniture.” 

“It surprised me that he stayed,” Eve winds noodles around her pair of chopsticks. “Considering his usual habit of dropping off the face of the earth.” 

“That’s why I brought it up,” Q confesses. “That’s actually why I went to see him. I couldn’t figure out why he stayed, and it worried me.” 

“Did he tell you why?” 

“No. He was cooking when I showed up. We ate dinner together and then drank quite a good amount of whisky. We talked for a while. As he got drunker, he started to talk about her a little. And I listened. He went to bed and I slept on his couch. I’d indulged a bit more than I’m used to.” 

Eve has all but forgotten her chopsticks. 

“He opened up to you?” 

“I wouldn’t call it that exactly.” 

“And he brought you pasta?” 

“And sauce. Handmade.” 

“Bond? Hand making something?” 

“I know,” Q says between bites. “That was the day Lottie… well. At any rate. I would have been embarrassed at how he found me but I was far past the point of rational thought. He made us some tea and dinner and we talked.” 

“Talked.” 

“About Lottie.” 

“Ah.” Eve sips her beer again. 

“He said he was taking it a day at a time.” Q says quietly, looking down at the sheen of oil forming on the top of the beautifully cloudy ramen broth. “And the next time I saw him was when I was handing him a suitcase of weapons.” 

“You were worried,” Eve intuits. 

“I was.” 

“Maybe you were right to be.” Eve says what they’re both thinking. 

Both of their phones light up at once. 

Q unlocks his door and dumps his messenger bag in his front hallway. He won’t be working tonight - not after spending 50 hours at MI6. He showered at MI6, but he needs a shave and to feed Albert, who comes rocketing into the hallway meowing at top volume. He has an auto-feeder of kibble for when Q is stuck at work, but Q recognizes a fierce hunger for wet food when he hears one. 

He satiates the beast and heads into the bathroom for a shave. He makes quick work of it as he checks his work and personal mobiles. His work mobile holds the emails that prove Bond and the asset’s alias passports had cleared Domodevodo and pinged at Heathrow. He marks them ‘read’ and crafts a short text on his personal. It’s to Eve and it simply says thank you.  

She messages back almost immediately: Any time.  

Q turns off the light in his bathroom and turns on the light in his living room. He jumps backwards and drops his phone on the rug, letting out an undignified noise as he sees Bond sitting on his couch. 

With a crash of relief and a little hysteria, Q dimly recognizes that every single time Bond has ever used a door or doorbell has been a courtesy. 

Bond looks up at Q and he looks haunted. Q is suddenly struck by the fact that the first place Bond came upon returning from his mission is here instead of a hospital, MI6, or his own flat. 

“It’s over,” Q says the only thing he can think of. “You’re home.” 

Bond stands up a little gingerly and crosses the room. 

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” he says, and pulls Q into a slow, scorching kiss. They part and Q’s heartbeat slams into his consciousness like the kickback of a gun. What they’ve done was inevitable and is irrevocable. Bond has lost just about every single piece of equipment Q has ever handed him and now Q has all but bared his jugular and told him to do as he pleases. 

“Bond,” Q starts. 

“I think at this point,” Bond says and pulls Q closer to kiss his neck. “You should call me…” He trails kisses up to Q’s jaw. “...James.” Their eyes meet. Q could think of a thousand reasons - personal and professional - to de-escalate this, but the look in James’ eyes sets him on fire and he’s never been more eager to let go and burn. 

Q pulls James in by his loosened tie and kisses him again, this time starting gentle and ramping up slowly to the point that they’re both panting, hands all over each other. James bites Q’s bottom lip and pulls him closer, shoving a knee between Q’s legs. Q gasps at the contact and arches into it, hard already against James’ leg. 

“Bed.” James walks them both backwards into Q’s bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

“Excellent idea.” Q sits down on the bed and pulls James in by his tie again. James follows pliantly, kissing Q senseless as he unbuttons his shirt. Q discards James’ tie and moves to take James’ shirt off for him. Once he does, he stops cold.

“What happened to you?” Q reaches out for James instinctively, all pretense gone. James’ forearms and wrists are bruised and raw, his chest and stomach peppered with odd, repetitive little circular burns, and what Q unfortunately recognizes as a stitched stab wound barely healing uncomfortably close to several of the more crucial neck arteries. 

“What didn’t happen to me is probably a better question,” James says, nonchalant in a brittle and practiced way.

“Oh my god,” It dawns on Q in the same way nausea does, lurching and horrible. “Are these cigarette burns? Jesus fucking Christ.” 

James shrugs. 

“Occupational hazard?” He offers, clearly uncomfortable. He pulls his own hands back into his lap and Q grabs them back. 

“No,” He says before he can think too much about it. “Please don’t pull away.” 

“What would you prefer,” James says, low and shot through with darkness. “That I tell you everything? Every detail? Would you like to know what human brain looks like painted up a wall? Would you like to know what it feels like to have something shoved under your fingernails, one at a time? What do you want from me?”  

“You weren’t ready.” Q says quietly. James wrenches his hands out of Q’s. 

“Would you like a medal for guessing correctly?” James grits out, looking away. 

“Oh, would you come the fuck off it?” Q says sharply, anger spiking within him suddenly. “You think you can fucking scare me with your past? I have cleaned up after your casualties for years. I see you for exactly what you are and I know that if you don’t let someone in, it'll take you over. It’ll rot you, like it did Silva. I’ve said, and I’ll keep saying that I’m here. Let me in. What’s stopping you?” 

James meets his eyes and Q sees it plainly, like the key to a cipher. Fear.

“Oh,” Q breathes. He reaches out and cups James’ face with one hand. Sometimes being vulnerable is unbearable in its intimacy. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” James says, so low and quiet that Q holds his own breath to hear. He takes James’ hands in his again as James looks down, unable to maintain eye contact. “The injuries make sure of that. I’ve been thinking about Moscow every fucking second since I’ve left it. It’s like drowning in thin air, no fucking water in sight. You want to know the truth?” He looks up at Q again and his countenance holds nothing but raw pain. “Something’s different now. I don’t think I came back in one piece.” 

“Well.” Q says, voice wavering. He clears his throat. “It’s a good thing I’m a Quartermaster, then. I can put just about anything back together.” 

James kisses him, and this time there’s a tenderness about it that makes Q’s breath catch in the back of his throat. They open their mouths into the kiss and Q unbuttons his shirt, casting it aside. James pulls Q into his lap and sucks a kiss into Q’s slender neck. Q bites back a sound as James unrepentantly grinds up into him, both of them hard. 

James unzips Q’s trousers and palms against his cock, teasing with pressure before reaching into Q’s pants. He wraps his hand around Q’s length and pulls it free, slicking his thumb through a bead of wetness at the tip and moving his grip up and down slowly. Q clutches at James’ shoulders, trying to thrust up into James’ hand. James obliges for a moment, seemingly enjoying the mess Q is slowly becoming. He uses his other hand to unzip his own trousers and push them down. His cock springs free and he fists both of them in one hand. James is hard and hot against Q and the friction where their cocks are pressed together is perfect. 

“Fuck,” Q breathes as James strokes them together. James kisses Q again, blithely filthy with his tongue, and Q’s cock throbs in James’ hand. “I need you to fuck me.” 

“I want to fucking take you apart,” James says into Q’s neck and feels his cock twitch in his hand at just the thought. 

“In the nightstand…” Q gestures. James pulls open the top drawer and finds everything he needs. They both shed what’s left of their clothing and Q’s glasses and James pulls Q back into straddling his lap. He slicks his fingers up as he kisses a trail up Q’s chest and neck and pushes one into Q slowly. Q gasps and clutches at James when he adds the second. 

“So good,” James murmurs into Q’s shoulder and bites down. Q groans and tightens a little around James’ fingers. He works them in and out slowly as Q’s cock presses against James’ stomach, unbearably hard and leaking. 

“Please,” Q sobs out, breathless, when James fucks his fingers into him at just the right angle. “Please, I need you in me.” 

James slicks himself up and pushes into Q slowly. 

“That’s it,” he says as Q’s fingernails dig into his biceps and he sinks down the rest of the way onto James’ cock. “Fuck, that’s so good.” 

Q kisses James feverishly as James fucks him - slowly at first, then picking up a pace. James wraps his arms around Q, making as much of their skin touch as possible and trapping Q’s cock between their stomachs. 

“Fuck,” Q gasps as James’ cock hits the perfect angle inside him. “Ah, fuck!” 

James tangles a hand into Q’s hair and pulls his head to the side. He fucks into him hard and fast and Q can’t hold back his moans any longer. James bites into Q’s neck and Q cries out, tightening around James and coming hard, cock throbbing between them and streaking white across both of their stomachs and chests. He shakes against James, clenching so tightly that James comes with an exhaled groan, buried deep into him. 

Afterward, James opens the greenhouse-style balcony door in Q’s kitchen and lights a cigarette. The scars all over him are silver in the moonlight. The stitches at his neck are still black. 

“What is your actual name?” James’ exhaled smoke gets carried away by the brisk London breeze. 

“I’m afraid it’s out of print,” Q says faux-easily as he steals the cigarette from James’ fingers and takes a drag. “I prefer Q, professionally and personally.” 

“Fair enough,” James steals it back. 

James sleeps like the dead. Q doesn’t sleep for a long while. When he finally does, he dreams of holding cloth to a wound and being unable to stop the bleeding, no matter how much pressure he applies.

When he wakes up, James is gone. No note, no evidence aside from the marks on Q’s own skin. 

“Morning,” Eve greets Q as he enters MI6, walking briskly next to him as he makes his way to Q Branch. 

“Morning. How are you?” 

“Exhausted. It was pretty hard to leave my bed this morning, not going to lie.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Q nods. “I feel like we both probably deserve some time off.” 

“And yet,” Eve chuckles. 

“And yet.” 

“How are you?” She flips the question on him. 

“Ah, you know. Better now.” Q tries to smile a little. “Still exhausted as well.” 

“You look like you got even less sleep than me.” Eve says, and it’s all Q can do not to visibly react. She continues. “Bond checked in early this morning. Spent a bit in Medical and then started his debrief with M.” 

“I assume despite everything that the mission was successful overall?” Q holds the door to Q Branch open for Eve. She inclines her head graciously and walks through. A buzz of activity hums through the room - one team is working on a new motorbike prototype and another is building a new server stack. A third group of people are assembling routine gear kits. Everything appears to be in order. 

“I think so. Although I would be extremely shocked if he passed his physical or psych evals this time around.” 

“Is he all right?” Q lowers his voice, half committing to the lie and half genuinely wanting to know if she knows something he doesn’t. 

“Pretty beat up - stab wound, cigarette burns. Stiff upper lipping it as usual, won’t say a word about what happened besides ‘I finished the job, didn’t I?’” 

“Sounds like Bond.” 

“Have you spoken to him?” Eve eyes him up. 

“Only briefly,” Q sidesteps the truth. He can’t tell her. In the bleak, rain soaked morning, waking up to an empty bed, he half wondered if he’d dreamt it all from the stress. It was only when he got up that he felt the physical reminders of their night together and the doubt began to sink in. It’s such a close-held worry that it would essentially require him to flay himself open to share it with Eve. “We didn’t say much.” 

“I’m glad he’s back,” Eve leans against the main workbench as Q flips open his laptop and sits down. 

“I am too,” Q is truthful in that regard. 

“I wonder what’s next for him.” She muses. Q tries his best to not let the myriad of answers to that question creep into his subconscious and take over his thoughts. 

“Who knows,” He says hollowly, before shaking himself out of it and swiveling in his chair to face her. “I wanted to thank you again,” Q pulls a book out of his bag with an illustration of a woman in a beautiful gown on the cover and hands it to her. “I remembered you saying you like mysteries and I didn’t know if you’ve read this series.” 

Eve beams and accepts the gift. 

“Thank you so much! I’ve heard of these, but haven’t started the series yet.” 

“Brilliant, I was worried you had.” 

“You’re better at this than you think.” Eve holds the book to her chest. 

“Better at what, picking out gifts?” 

“Friendship,” She says, and bends down for a hug. Q accepts. Her blouse is gauzy under his fingertips and she smells of flowers dipped in earthy spice. She straightens up again and runs a hand over the book’s cover. “I’m going to head home at a reasonable time tonight and I think I’ll read this with a glass of wine.” 

“That sounds perfect.” Q says, and means it.

Days pass. 

Q tears apart a computer seized from a terrorist cell, submersing his thoughts in code and wiring. He runs point for 009 as he splinters apart an insider trading operation. He upgrades the SmartBlood system and prepares a vial for 004’s replacement. He can barely bring himself to get out of bed the day she starts. She’s different from Lottie in every way but one - a pair of deep green eyes. 

Days pass. 

Eve brings him lunch one Wednesday and they talk in his office for half an hour. She can tell something’s wrong and leaves long pauses in her dialogue as openings for him, but he can’t bring himself to use them. 

He brings his work home with him more than before, spreading mechanical parts across his desk and countertops. Working with his hands used to soothe his nerves, but now it leaves his mind uncomfortably vacant for the dark swell of sadness. He feels acutely empty in a way he’s never felt before. It was unfathomably stupid to allow himself to care so much for a man who sees himself as a throwing knife in a kit full of weapons. A Close Combat Neutralizer. A means to an end. 

Perhaps, no, almost certainly, that's what Q had been to him. Nothing more than a means to an end. 

He had known this. It still hurts, and viciously. A tenacious broken rib of a feeling, just on the edge of every drawn breath. 

It eats at him because he had deluded himself into thinking that this could be different. That this could mean something as a key makes a cipher make sense. That he had found someone else with a similar corrosion, a haunted head he understood. But there are countless bodies, hotwetalive and coldunseeingdead, in Bond’s wake. Sometimes those bodies are both, one right after the other. 

Days pass. 

my flat, whenever you’re done for the day

presumptuous 

I want to show you something 

Damned if it isn’t the intrigue that lures Q into what is sure to be a twisted journey through a rabbit’s warren of redactions and things that don’t officially exist in the eyes of any government. He’s been able to take solace in the fact that Bond has been on leave and he won’t have to arm him for the next suicide mission or run point in the same ears that have heard what he sounds like at his most raw, shaking apart in grief and in ecstasy. He figures this must be the next “the world as we know it will cease to exist” type of job or Bond wouldn’t have asked this of him. 

When Q arrives to Bond’s flat, he rings the bell and is buzzed up immediately. He forces himself to breathe deeply in the elevator to remove any trace of strong emotion from near the surface. 

The elevator doors open and Q hears faint jazz - a dazzling deja vu. 

Bond’s door swings open as he approaches and Q stops in his tracks. Billie Holiday’s voice spills into the hallway and Bond beckons Q inside. He barely registers stepping into the flat and the door closing behind him. 

There are paintings on the walls - a gorgeous landscape that looks rather Scottish, a running pack of Borzoi in the woods, and what appears to be an exceptional knockoff of The Burning of the Houses of the Lords and Commons by the painter Turner. Classic metal vintage lamps light the dining and living room in appealing warmth. The coffee table has been cleaned, stripped, and refinished. The television sits atop a black wood credenza with candles lit on one side of it and the previous M’s horrible little Union Jack bulldog statue on the other. The small dining table has been cleared and replaced with something a little larger in an appealing dark wood with very classically masculine chairs. There is a Smeg kettle in the kitchen, along with a hanging rack of copper pots and pans. A full rack of colorful spices adorns a countertop. Grey and white checked towels are looped around the handle on the oven door. An entire wall of the dining room is painted a comforting Hunter green, and against it are a gorgeous, fully stocked antique bar and a low shelf full of records. 

“There’s some basil growing on the windowsill,” Bond says softly as Q can’t stop looking around at the drastically changed interior. 

“You brought me over here to look at your fucking basil?” 

“No.” 

“Why am I here?” Q won’t look at him directly. 

“It started before you told me it would rot me if I let it.” Bond takes a step closer to Q. “But you were right, and this time, I couldn’t let that happen. Because for the first time since Madeleine, I had something to lose. So I started to build instead of burn. I learned what I want instead of being turned loose like a dog after what other people want.” 

“What do you want,” Q’s voice shakes. 

“I learned that I like to make things with my hands. I learned that I have expensive taste in furniture.” Bond steps forward again. Q stays where he is. “I might be learning to heal. A little. Early days, yet. But I think the most important thing I learned is that I wanted to share these things with you.” 

Q’s heart is fucking pounding and James takes a last step forward. He’s firmly within Q’s personal space now. 

“After all I’ve done to myself and this place, I realized I wanted to hear what you think about my taste in paint colors and I don’t know what the fuck that means.” 

“You idiot,” Q breathes, and kisses him. James’ arms slide into place around him and it feels like the inevitability of time. “You fucking idiot.” He throws his arms around James’ neck and dives back into another kiss. And another, and another, and the record comes to an end in the background, and neither of them notice. 

Q reaches up to turn his bedside lamp off. James kisses Q’s shoulder blade and Q instinctively moves backward toward James, pulling his arm around his waist. James pulls him close to his chest and they lay like that for several minutes, warm and tangled up in each other. It’s just long enough that Q begins to lose track of his thoughts and drift toward sleep. 

“That night,” James murmurs into Q’s shoulder. He’s instantly awake. “That night you came to see me.” Q doesn’t speak, afraid that if he does, James will stop. “You were right. I had my gun on the edge of my bathtub.” 

Q’s blood runs cold. The bathtub. For easy cleanup. His heart hammers in his chest and James tightens his arms around him like he can feel it. Maybe he can feel it. 

“I was writing the note. Cooking my last meal. Listening to Billie. I would have left the record on.” 

Q’s eyes well with tears. He can’t help himself, he clutches at James’ arm where it encircles his waist. 

“At first I stayed in London because it was the only place I couldn’t imagine her there with me. Everywhere else, I knew I would see her in crowds. I could swear I could smell her perfume in France after her funeral. But then I stayed…here. Longer. Because of you.” 

Q doesn’t know whether he means London or just here in a metaphysical sense, but he suddenly can’t get close enough to James. He turns over and sits up. James sits up to face him.  

“I don’t know if there’s anything left of me to give,” James cradles Q’s face in a broad hand. 

“You’ve given too much,” Q feels the tears spill over his cheeks and onto James’ fingers. “And too much has been taken from you. I want you exactly as you are.” 

James sharply looks away and Q can see him blinking away tears. He gently pulls James’ chin up and connects their gaze again. 

“Just as you are.”

James pulls Q to his chest and they lie back down like that. They don’t let go of each other until morning. 

In the pale peace of sunrise, James wakes up from a dreamless sleep. He turns over and Q is lying next to him, an arm thrown over his face, looking like a painting of a pale, slender muse stretched out in repose. His lips are parted and hair splayed out across the pillow, milky long lines of his torso and belly ending in a drape of the sheets over his hips. 

All at once, it hits him. Despite devotion dragging him across the world as an invisible chess piece and despite fighting the very darkness with his bloodied knuckles to save the innocent, James realizes that maybe love is being able to rest.  

He extricates himself from his bed as quietly as he can, successfully avoiding waking Q. 

James Bond breaks into MI6 for the last time. He leaves his badge and palmprint Walther on M’s desk and a ridiculously large and expensive bottle of champagne on Eve’s. 

On his way to his flat - on his way home, where Q is probably just waking up, he thinks maybe today, he’ll try gardening.