Chapter Text
It was not Quentin Fluke’s day. Granted, it really hadn’t been his day since he was about five, but today was even worse than usual.
Everything had started fairly normal: alarm, cats, food, work, his normal routine that came as naturally as his technomancy. He’d even reached work early enough to get a head start on his list for the day, but the best laid plans and all that shite.
Of course there was an emergency rescue mission. Of course it wasn’t top priority so his assigned hero, the pride of the British Government, didn’t even have to get her hands dirty. This was a high priority, low risk assignment.
“Surely,” Vesper had said in the briefing, “I’m not needed for this. Techie can handle this. Besides, you said security systems are involved?”
So now Quentin found himself driving two hours north of London to investigate a small warehouse where someone had reportedly imprisoned a child just because they could. “Fucking amateurs,” Quentin grumbled to himself as he parked and got out. Despite it nearing midday, Q was shivering in the chill November air even with his parka pulled tight around him. Still grumbling (almost inaudibly now), he approached the building and reached out with his technomancy.
The block lit up in his mind as the familiar logic of numbers and tech swirled in Quentin’s head. He knew his eyes would be glowing a more vibrant green now as they always did when he used his powers. It was nothing for him to find the off circuits for the security systems, and in moments, he was quietly slipping through the now unlocked side door.
After giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust, Quentin made his way through the building to where his powers had located the strongest source of power; more often than not, people never considered how much power it can take to keep someone restrained, and to Quentin it was like setting up a neon sign pointing directly at the end goal.
“Amateurs,” he grumbled again as he pulled out his laptop. He didn’t really need it to complete his mission, but he had to make sure the paperwork was all in order, and that meant checking the building records first. A few keystrokes confirmed what he could feel, and once he had a blueprint to confirm the wiring for the building (so he could also submit it with his report), Quentin needed no time to isolate the power just for this room and shut it off. Now he could get the kid and get home.
He wasn’t expecting the power to completely cut when he opened the door.
Nor was he expecting what felt like a solid slab of muscle and bone to suddenly grab him, dragging him into the near pitch dark.
Quentin’s laptop went crashing to the ground as the technomancer grabbed at the arm around him. His empty bag now tangled around his shoulders as his assailant pulled him so that Quentin’s back was to the person’s chest. Losing what few chances he had to escape, Quentin threw out his unpinned arm and tried to pull at the electricity in the building… only to find that the power cut had been a full shutdown. Quentin was completely powerless.
Well, almost.
He had one other option at his disposal, and just the thought of it had his power tingling. For every bit as cool and collected as his technomancy was, this was lava in his brain. A single use could lay Quentin out with at least a migraine, and besides, he couldn’t! Not to anyone, not when it would be the absolute end of his opponent’s psyche… but as much as Quentin loathed it, he had no choice if he wanted to escape. He had to try, and he would deal with the fallout of it alone. But to do that he would have to get out of here.
In the span of Quentin’s hesitation, two things happened. The first was that his assailant managed to pin his free arm, completely restricting Quentin’s mobility. The second was that a faintly sweet-smelling cloth descended over his mouth and nose before he could finish drawing breath. Quentin struggled, eyes widening behind his glasses as he recognized the smell of chloroform from his training.
The next few minutes were a blur. The arms around his body felt like iron bands, holding him so firmly that even trying to kick back at the person didn’t work - they just shifted, and somehow Q was never the one that had the balance in the end. Quentin could hear the person breathing in his ear, and had his head been clearer, he would’ve gone cold at the realisation that his attacker was breathing as normally as if he were reading an email. The pressure on his face was firm but not too tight (so at least they wanted him alive). It was of little comfort though, as Quentin’s last thought before he passed out was that no one would care enough to come looking for him.
***
Waking up felt a lot like passing out, Quentin decided when he came to.
He still couldn’t move, although he was sitting down. Keeping his eyes closed and doing his best to not obviously move, Quentin began to take stock of his body. Everything hurt, unsurprising since he’d been forcibly knocked out, but slight twitches of his arms and legs quickly alerted him as to why he couldn’t move. His attacker had bound him to a chair. Well, that was at least to be expected. It would hardly do to have him loose and wreaking havoc. Quentin swallowed, his mouth tasting like something had crawled inside and died… and realised he was gagged.
A voice, from no more than two metres ahead of him, startled Quentin’s thoughts into full disarray: “I was going to throw a bucket of water on you to wake you up, but you seem to be shaking the chloroform off as fast as you went under.” Smooth and low, with the faint whiskey-smoke rasp of something dangerously inviting, the voice finished with a slight hint of irony, “Unless you want the ice-water for effect. I know some of you hero-types enjoy a bit of drama, and I can respect that.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Quentin finally opened them, only to realise his glasses were very much not on his nose. The room around him was mostly dark, but there was one light source visible, on the ceiling just behind his kidnapper. Even if Quentin had been wearing his glasses, the shadows would’ve made identifying the other man nearly impossible. As it was, his kidnapper was barely more than a blurry mass in his vision, and Quentin scowled, hoping he could at least project a threat, even if he felt about as dangerous as a bunny.
The figure shifted. It was easy to see just in that movement, that resettling of weight, that this was definitely the same man who had overpowered him. At least there was no sign of him actually reaching for the threatened bucket of water, but that didn’t lessen the threat as the man stood and padded closer. Quentin couldn’t help it. As the man approached, he flinched, trying to shrink away as much as he could with his restraints, but the man just kept coming until Quentin didn’t even have anything left he could call “personal space.” Swallowing hard, he forced himself to look up at the man, even as his heart pounded in his chest.
Dispassionate blue eyes looked down at him. “Close enough that you can see me now, pet?” he rumbled, voice lowering - presumably because he was closer now, but the effect was unsettling, the words so soft as they rounded out the term of endearment at the end.
Still glaring (which had the added benefit of helping to bring his vision into focus a bit), Quentin didn’t break eye contact even while he still tried to move away. His captor responded by chuckling, and then there was a hand coming up towards Quentin’s face. The boffin didn’t even think. Seeing the movement of the hand, he snarled and snapped his entire body forward, shoving his head as hard and sharply as he could into his opponent’s solar plexus. For a big man, though, his captor was light on his feet - or perhaps he’d been expecting trouble. Quentin’s target swayed back, reducing the impact, and instead leaving the captive hero to overbalance forward. For possibly the first time in history, Quentin wished that he’d been trussed up in a chair that was bolted down.
Strong arms caught around his chest and middle, halting Quentin’s forward pitch before he ended up face-first on the floor. “I can tell you’re going to be an absolute delight,” the other man grunted, the tension in his voice at least proving that it took some effort to do this, “You’re about to bloody yourself before I even have a chance to get started.” He pushed Q’s chair upright again, settling him in place. This time, the hand that moved towards Q was quicker, fisting in his hair and ensuring no more headbutting as Quentin’s captor leaned in close enough for the boffin to see the dead-winter coldness of his eyes. His voice was almost too flat to sound human, “Do that again, and I’m going to let you fall right on your pretty face. Nod if you understand.” The hand on Quentin’s hair loosened only fractionally.
For a second, Quentin didn’t move, fear an ice cold pit in his stomach. This man intended to torture him, and fuck if he wasn’t ridiculously strong. Deciding to bet that his own technomancy was stronger than brute strength, Quentin met the man’s gaze as best he could, shook his head no, and then twitched his hand.
While drugs affected Quentin’s secondary ability, his tech skills were ready to go. The light source behind his captor blew, and Quentin grinned around the gag. He’d been mostly blocked from the light, and he could barely see without his glasses anyway, so the sudden plunge into darkness hardly rattled him; besides, he didn’t need light for his powers to work. He stretched his fingers as far as they could go, reaching with all he had to see how much energy was in that fixture, if he could pull more from the building. He frowned, having to search more and more to find even a tiny trickle of power. Just like in the warehouse, Quentin had the sudden dread that he was dealing with a man who knew exactly what Quentin could do.
And then suddenly he went from reaching for power… to feeling as though the power was pulling back. It was like vomiting, or like he was bleeding out from a wound he’d never seen coming, and that indescribable sense he always reached out for when controlling the technology around him was… gone. Just gone. He was left staring forward as if he’d somehow see it pooled like blood on the floor in front of him.
Instead all he saw was his captor’s face, still close enough for Quentin to make out his expression - eyes faraway as if concentrating, but grimacing as if he’d tasted something bad. In fact, even as Quentin was dealing with the sudden sensation of emptiness inside himself where his technomancy usually was, the other man turned his head away with a shake and a cough like someone who had just downed a shot of moonshine. “Fuck. That’s a new flavour I never needed.”
Everything clicked. The man’s expression and strength, Quentin’s sudden loss of his power… he knew exactly who he was dealing with, and Quentin suddenly found himself wishing that the chloroform had killed him. Because his captor was a syphon, and if Quentin had to bet, he would put down everything he owned that he was currently staring at none other than James Bond, the most powerful syphon Britain had seen in over two hundred years.
Currently, that power-syphon looked like he was trying to swallow down what he’d just taken out of Quentin - and he wasn’t particularly liking it. He gave his head another shake, eyes narrowed, even as he straightened. The heavy hand in Quentin’s hair let go, but only to slide down to cup the side of his neck in an absentmindedly threatening way. “Sorry about that, Techie,” he said, and it was hard to tell if he was sorry or not - he didn’t sound derisive or teasing, but he also didn’t sound like much of anything, like this was a normal conversation on a totally normal day, “I’d have warned you ahead of time, but then you wouldn’t have gone for the lightbulb.” Bond’s free hand gestured behind him, to where the busted filaments were just visible in the ambient light. “Some of you heroes are an easy grab, but you’ve got an intermittent power that you can turn on and off like a bloody switch - so I had to get you to turn it on.”
Quentin felt frozen in his chair, his head a jumble while his entire being was incredibly aware of the hand at his throat. He was breathing hard, exhaling sharply through his nose as he fought to process everything.
This man has kidnapped heroes before.
This man knows what I can do.
This man knows my nickname.
So this had all truly been a setup. And Bond had been watching him for some time now if he knew enough about Quentin’s work to know both his movements and Vesper’s nickname for him. Hell, Quentin hadn’t even been wearing a badge or a uniform when he’d reached the warehouse, just slacks, a shirt, and his favourite mustard cardigan; Bond had recognized him anyway. All of the bravado melted out of Quentin, and he sagged in the chair. He still felt empty, practically scraped raw from having his power drained. He was trapped.
Unless…
Despite the revulsion at the thought, Quentin started to focus. The gag was likely just to prevent him from making noise or drawing attention. He could work with that. If Bond just would take it off… Quentin’s stomach heaved, and he fought back the urge to vomit. This was a human being in front of him. Yes, a terrifying kidnapper of a person, but a person! However, if Quentin wanted to escape, he knew what he would have to do, as unstable as it would be while he likely had some chloroform left in his system.
The villain was still monologuing, although he seemed to have gotten the taste of Q’s power off his tongue. “Don’t worry, it’ll come back.” The hand that lifted from Q’s neck to unexpectedly brush his hair back from his forehead - the hell was he doing?! - was not as reassuring as Bond had probably hoped. “Hell, I’ve known some heroes - and villains, too - who are practically recharging the second I stop ripping it away.” The faux-gentle movement revealed the true threat beneath as the slow stroke became another cat-fast grab, and Q’s head was held in place again by fingers tangled in his hair. Bond seemed to be judging something about him, expression intense but thoughtful. “Power like yours though,” he finally assessed, “might take a bit longer. Usually the ones that are harder for me to catch are also harder for my target to recoup.” An easy shrug; the hand released Q yet again. “It’s just how the game is played.”
Quentin’s glare didn’t carry the bite it had only moments before because now he was focusing. He would have one shot at this, one chance to break the man in front of him if he was going to have a hope of escaping. His body protested at the building energy, and he started to shiver again. As soon as the gag was off, he would need to just unleash it and hope the power landed before Bond could steal it.
Stepping away, Bond unexpectedly lit a match - and the darkness was pushed back by what looked like an old-style lamp. Something that required no electricity for Quentin to work with. The lighting situation now fixed in an anti-techie way, Bond then dragged a spare chair over and came down to straddle it backwards in front of Quentin. He leaned his arms indolently against the back as he eyed Quentin. “That look in your eyes,” Bond said, and he was just far enough away that it was hard to tell for certain if he was smiling, although he reached out a hand and just managed to touch a fingertip to Quentin’s chin before the sidekick jerked his head away. “I take it you recognize me a bit now by reputation. Good.” For the first time the emotion rose up strongly enough to be a persistent weight in his voice, a rich sound of approval wrapping the last word where there had just been idle coolness before. “Maybe we can start making some progress on you.”
Well, that sounded ominous. Still incredibly aware of just how little he could do and still very much unable to stop how bad his shivering was getting, Quentin just let the power build in his head. One shot, you have one shot at this. Yes, you’ll leave this man an absolute shell, but you have to. You have to. Just do it. Just fucking DO IT.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” James kept talking, unaware that he’d captured a hero-sidekick who had more than one trick up his sleeve - one that the public didn’t know about. “You caused trouble once and I was nice enough to catch you. You tried to fuck me over again-” He pointed behind him towards the busted lightbulb without turning from Quentin. “-And I think I was pretty gentlemanly about it, considering that some folks would have knocked the taste right out of your mouth for that. But third time’s the charm, so nod if you intend to behave because I don’t want to bruise that lovely face of yours, but I can.”
Brain stuttering slightly at having his face be called “lovely” by a bloody kidnapper, Quentin swallowed again, fighting the shivers that wracked his body as he let the power continue to build. But he did manage a small nod, looking down to the floor as if in defeat.
“Good boy.” James shifted and leaned further over the back of his chair, and Quentin held his breath as he watched Bond extend an arm towards his gag. As the villain’s balance shifted, he stretched out his legs a bit, booted feet settling almost naturally against Quentin’s, like they were two friends sharing foot-space at a tiny diner booth - rather than hero and villain in a dark, dusty room. Bond was taking his time, too, as if this were indeed just an idle exchange, his fingers drifting along the gag’s material against Q’s cheek towards his hair. Unexpectedly, though, the man leaned in closer to give a congenial smile and then said in an altogether softer, darker tone, as intimate as body-warm velvet, “Just in case you didn’t fully realise what you’re dealing with, love, I should warn you that any power I pull - I can use. Just think on that before that murder in your eyes makes you do something stupid, hm?”
And with that he freed the gag from Quentin’s mouth.
As Bond’s words registered, Quentin felt some of his anger begin to fade. If he were willing to admit it to himself, he had been looking for a reason not to use his power, not the least of which was he couldn’t free himself if his captor were incapacitated and he couldn’t access his technomancy. And… well, fuck, Bond did have a point about being “gentlemanly,” even if they had differing definitions for the word. After all, Bond could very well have let Quentin break his nose on the floor instead of catching him.
So, rather than breaking James Bond’s psyche beyond repair, Quentin allowed the power to reabsorb into his body. And fuck it HURT. Every muscle in Quentin’s brain screamed at him as he released the energy he’d built without actually using it. He’d have a hell of a migraine soon, and his shaking was getting worse with each passing moment. His eyes burned with shame and pain, though he blinked them away and then shut his eyes against the world. He took a few slow, deep breaths, and tried this time to just find his calm. Could the man really use any power he syphoned? He hadn’t even used what he’d taken before. Once he was sure he wouldn’t start crying, Quentin cleared his throat and looked back at Bond, pleased as he spoke that his voice remained even. “Any power? I call bullshit.”
Shockingly, Bond seemed delighted by that snappy line rather than offended; his blond head reared back, but almost immediately after he barked out a laugh. “Mouthy little shit, aren’t you?” he said wryly.
“Takes one to know one,” Quentin growled back. “And I still call bullshit. You’re bluffing.”
James was still leaning in close enough that Quentin could see him narrow his eyes, the challenge striking a nerve. Instead of saying anything out loud, though… the burnt-out light-bulb suddenly started to smoke. And then to crackle. Suddenly the hairs on Quentin’s arms were standing on end, and instead of looking into pale-blue eyes he was looking into cobalt orbs that were crackling with an unhealthy light that seemed to darken the room.
Bond stretched his hand forward even as the lightbulb stopped fountaining sparks and hovered his open palm over Q’s chest. “Want to call my bluff?” he said, and Quentin stared in shock as sparks lit the space inside Bond’s mouth as he spoke.
Quentin shook his head no, eyes wide in terror as his gaze darted between the hand that very likely would stop his heart if it touched him… and Bond’s face. The man barely looked human anymore, more of a storm than a person, mouth sparking like he could breathe electricity and eyes glowing such a vibrant blue that Quentin’s eyes were beginning to ache. It never looked this way when he called on his powers; something was wrong with this. “No, no, okay, I-I can see you’re serious. Just…just stop it. Please.” Quentin couldn’t keep his voice from breaking on the final word, and he fought back tears of exhaustion and fear.
Shockingly, Bond responded by immediately closing his fist, and the power seemed to wink out. The hand retreated as if all Bond had been waiting for was Quentin’s consent to drop it. His head tilted, but he’d drawn back enough that Quentin couldn’t read the man’s expression. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page,” he nodded. The only sign that he’d just been wielding a frankly terrifying amount of electricity was when he shook out his hand at his side - as if working out a cramp - and a visible carpet-spark leapt between two fingers.
Despite his fear and very clear lack of control in his current situation, Quentin still found his curiosity beginning to surface. He’d never met a syphon in person before; usually only one or two existed at the same time, the power was so rare. And just as with how varied other powers could be, no two syphons worked the same way. “So-so any power you take you can use… ever? You don’t have to spend the energy immediately?”
Bond’s head cocked the other way, and then he chuckled. “I’ll answer one for you if you answer one for me,” he said by way of answer.
“And how am I supposed to trust anything you say?” Quentin snapped, his frustration and anger finally beginning to break through his very carefully crafted facade. “You drugged and kidnapped me, threatened me. I’m literally tied to a fucking chair!” He would’ve continued, but in trying to breathe to shout at Bond, Quentin had aspirated his spit and begun coughing.
Bond was reaching for him again, and Quentin flinched back hard, eyes wide in terror as he recalled the electrical charge, but James just followed him back and even got up out of his chair so that he could press a hand to Quentin’s chest - nonlethally, to Quentin’s surprise. The hand urged him to sit back instead of doubling over with coughs, as Bond’s voice both soothed and chided, “Easy, easy. You can’t go accusing me of lying only to choke on your own tongue, Techie.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Quentin said, voice raspy but firm. Every bit of rage he could muster he channelled into his eyes as he stared down his captor. “Don’t you ever call me that.” Now that he wasn’t struggling to breathe, Quentin could feel himself starting to panic. “I don’t know how you know that name, but I hate it. And if you call me that again, I will fucking break you.” The room was starting to feel smaller, and the bonds on Quentin’s wrists and ankles just felt so tight, restricting. “I need to get out. I want out of here. I need-I-” Anxiety rose in Quentin’s throat faster than he could quell it, the stress of the entire day finally crashing down on him and compounded from his power’s internal effects.
“Fine, Technoman , you’re actually right here, in this chair,” James cut in, smooth and cruel, “because of what you need, Techie.” After a pause, either somehow not noticing Quentin’s mounting anxiety or choosing to ignore it, Bond went on in a more devil-may-care tone, “And I think you’ll find that threats won’t get you very far with me.”
“What is it with you and using names I HATE?!” Quentin roared, anger bursting through the panic momentarily. “If you’re such a fucking stalker that you know all this, then surely you know what I prefer. You probably even know what I take in my tea, you creep.” A particularly violent shudder ripped through him, knocking him off balance for a brief second before Quentin managed to right himself. As promised, though, Bond made no move this time to reach out and potentially stop the chair from tipping as it wobbled.
“What, Technoman?” he said mildly, “I just know that name because that’s what everyone calls you, when you’re flitting about doing hero bullshit.”
“I’m just the sidekick, thought you knew that,” Quentin snarled, his eyes burning again. The pressure in his head was really starting to mess with his ability to focus, and the panic was rising again. “I don’t flit. I don’t even fucking fly. I follow the hero I’m assigned like I’m supposed to and clean up her fucking messes. So don’t even think for one second that I’m remotely like her.”
Surprisingly, James raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “No argument here. I certainly wouldn’t want to compare you to a full hero.” Before Quentin could even begin to get a handle on what Bond meant by that, the villain leaned forward over the back of his chair again and said with a wicked little smile that Quentin could see now at this distance, “But it’s not like your comrades compare you to them either.”
That stung, and Quentin could see the delight in Bond’s eyes at the words. “You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly very even after the rage he’d just felt. “You like doing this to people? Torturing them? Throwing their worst thoughts and hates and fears at them?” Despite the pain in his head, the shaking of his body, and the fact that Quentin was growing more and more desperate for some sleep , he straightened his spine as best he could in the chair and focused on getting his emotions back in check. “I could be a full hero if I wanted, but I don’t want that kind of attention.” With each word, now that he was pulling himself back together, Quentin felt a little more sure. Whether he would escape he still didn’t know, but if this was the game Bond wanted to play, then Quentin would not give him the satisfaction of breaking, no matter how badly he wanted to.
“I actually might be enjoying this, but not for the reasons you’re assuming,” Bond said, but in a quieter, thoughtful tone that made Quentin wonder if he was talking to himself. The villain quickly went on in a full speaking volume, “I can respect a man who doesn’t want attention. Unfortunately - or maybe fortunately - for you, though, you certainly caught my employer’s attention.” James rolled one hand palm-up in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of gesture. “And thus, here we are. Talking about how we both like to find the words to hurt each other most.”
Quentin blinked, warily looking at Bond now. The “we” had certainly stung, but Quentin hadn’t seemed to have actually hurt Bond in any of their altercations thus far. Cold fear curdled in his stomach again as he doggedly tried to ignore it. He couldn’t know, there’s no way. Bond’s employer must want Quentin’s technomancy. “Well I can assure you, I wasn’t trying to be noticed,” he finally said, proud that he managed to keep his voice fairly even, though his teeth were beginning to chatter.
“Which is one of the multiple reasons why I like you,” James switched gears to suddenly say warmly - after hearing how flat and emotionless he could be, however, it was hard to trust the suddenly friendly tone. “You’re the quiet, understated sort. Those, I hear, are the most dangerous. What do you say to that?”
Aware that the metaphorical ice was very thin beneath his chair, Quentin thought the question over. “I would say the quiet types are the most easily underestimated which makes them dangerous. But you don’t have anything to worry about, do you? You already know what I can do.”
That ice gave another crack as James replied, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “I do, don’t I? You did make it quite clear that you didn’t trust me, so maybe I’m just a damn liar and bluffing again.”
Quentin fought back a glare, searching for that inner balance he always had when he was working. And slowly, it began to settle around him. There was nothing quite like cold logic and rationality to combat the swirling tide of emotions threatening to tear him apart. “I still think you’re a damn liar,” Quentin said, then added, “But you did stop before when I asked. So… thanks, I guess.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Bond inclined his head. “See, we can be civil.”
“Oh sure, civil when one party is bound to a chair,” Quentin scoffed.
There was a stretch of silence then, which would have been a damn sight easier to read if James had been closer, but then the villain turned his head and seemed to look at Quentin anew - as if just noticing the technomancer’s bound situation for the first time. “To be fair, I’ve been in a few relationships where that is the only way we can be civil,” he said ruefully, then his voice took on an altogether more sly tone as he mused, “But I can see your points. You give something to me - and I’ll give you a bit of civility back.”