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Chapter Text

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To many, James Bond was MI6’s greatest enigma.

Handsome, deadly, and with a record of more damage to foreign nations than one single man ought to be responsible for, he was always a topic of conversation. Knowing this only ballooned his ego, made him strut about with a bit more importance in his step. It served to draw more eyes and more attention, which is exactly what Bond reveled in the most.

So he kept on being handsome and deadly and destroying property, if only to keep the rumour mill moving. And the best way to do this, he learned was to never be too forthcoming about how he always managed to come back alive from even the worst of the worst missions.

During debrief, they always asked, but that did not mean Bond had to tell the entire truth. Half-truths, half-lies, maybe a bit of forgetful omission, a lost radio or earpiece. That’s not to say he never dropped some clues here and there, but no one ever picked up on them, except for M. But she had paperwork that forbid her from telling, even as he laid it on high and thick and he knew she wanted to strangle him for it.

Knowing that she couldn’t do anything aside from gritting her teeth and biting her tongue, he would smile and say things like resurrection and everyone would stare in awe and wonder. When they were alone, she would give him that look that meant she would like to throw him out the nearest window. But one time, Bond felt more than cocky and laughed and said she could try because you know what they say.

(Her response had clearly been fuck off.)

Because of his secrecy, there were rumours (there had to be rumours or else they would not be in the business of espionage to begin with) and Bond knew that there had been more than one afternoon round-the-water-cooler discussion about what his True Form could be. Some swore it to be brute strength, like a lion or wolf, and others believed it more majestic, like an eagle or raptor.

Bond let them think what they wanted, because it was better than the truth, better than everyone discovering just how wrong they had been all these years. He couldn’t imagine it getting out and having their eyes and attention turn into jeers and whispers behind his back. The thought of all of that respect and awe and adoration disappearing was just too much to bear.

At least, no matter how bad he got with his storytelling or his destruction of international monuments, M never breathed a word to anyone. Bond wondered if it was out of the mutual respect they had carved between them during the past few years. At least, he hoped so. The thought that she might actually be ashamed of him was almost too much. Especially after she had been the only one to give him a chance, to let him into the Double-Oh Programme regardless of that.

So while it was common knowledge that Double-Oh Four’s Other form was a viper and Double-Oh Six took the form of a snow leopard, Bond’s Otherness remained shrouded in mystery.

(He preferred it that way.)

Then, after Skyfall, after M’s death, not a living soul knew his secret. Bond should have felt relief that no one could hold that over him and know of his deep-rooted embarrassment. Instead, he felt empty and abandoned, like there was a small hole in his chest where M used to be. He mourned in his own way and sometimes at night, he went to her headstone and wondered if she had made the right choice to trust him all those years ago.

(Look where it got you.)

Bond knew that the some of the lifers at MI6 began to think that maybe he did not even have at Other form at all, that he was a Null. Being Null was not such a bad thing, but being a high-ranking agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service and not having a Shift was...odd. It hadn’t always been that way, but during the Cold War, MI6 began actively recruiting persons who could Shift and training them to become field agents or intelligence operatives. It was believed that their animal instincts gave them an edge over their Null counterparts in high-stress situations or covert-ops. This preference for selecting persons with the ability to Shift extended to other government agencies, the armed forces, and emergency services personnel. Though not a requirement, most of these positions were filled by persons who had Other forms.

The Double-Oh Programme was no exception. Having an Other form was practically a requirement. And since Bond was a Double-Oh, he had to have an Other form; it was impossible otherwise.

Or was it?

The whispers had a different edge to them nowadays, even Bond could tell. Gone were the looks of awe and respect. Now, there was something else. Doubt, suspicion. Shouldn’t a Double-Oh like Bond been able to save M? Why hadn’t he Turned and protected her? What had happened up at Skyfall?

(Skyfall he thought, done.)

Bond tried not to listen, tried to be fine with letting them talk and wonder, because if they thought he was a Null, that was fine with him. Being thought a Null might actually be better than everyone knowing the truth. So he continued being handsome--albeit a bit older and greyer and more exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life--and deadly and a nuisance to the properties of foreign governments.

And no one directly or indirectly approached him about the matter.

Except for Q.

In the months after Skyfall, Q had proved to be an asset to MI6. The security systems strengthened, the tech improved, and the overall outcome of missions resulted in more successes than failures. Bond himself preferred Q to help run his assignments over any other person in the division. He was calm, provided Bond with what he needed when he needed it, and managed to get him out of more than his fair share of tight spots. Because of that, Bond would say that he trusted Q, which is why when his Quartermaster brought up the subject of his Otherness, Bond felt almost violated.

“If you were interested,” Q said, as if sensing Bond’s unease.

They were in the privacy of Q’s corner office, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the staff, when he brought up the new line of tech R&D had begun developing. It was a material that could endure the Transformation, adapting to both the human and animal body, most often in the form of a collar or other piece of jewellrey, which would allow agents to carry mission-important material with them despite their physicality. That could be anything as large as a gun or laptop to something as small as an SD card or zip drive. They were even in the process of developing an earpiece that could adapt to both the human and familiar form, preventing agents from going into situations Transformed but without backup.

“No,” Bond replied, because he knew the next order of business would be invading that last small piece of his privacy: height and weight measurements, body type inquiry, and then requirements that he take on his Other form to be fitted properly.

Bond trusted Q, he realised, almost as much as he had trusted M, but the hole in his chest was still there from her loss and he was not sure anyone could take her place. The thought of exposing himself like that again, putting himself out there for ridicule, rejection, laughter, was not something he could do.

(Not right now.)

“No,” Bond said again, and turned to leave.

“Of course,” Q said to his back. “My apologies.”

When Bond stopped in the doorway and looked back at Q, he saw nothing but sincerity in his expression. It was a rare thing to see today, especially in their business where deceit and trickery was the norm. From all his experience in the field, Bond might have thought it contrived, but Q had never been anything less than truthful in the entire time Bond had known him. His honesty was real; it always had been, and always would be.

He nodded at Q, accepting the apology, and left.

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Q never brought it up again, for which Bond was grateful.

They still continued working together professionally (sometimes bordering unprofessional depending on how far they could get with their banter over the comms before Q put a stop to it or someone started shooting at Bond) and the trust between them remained. It held despite how little they knew about one another, or, as it probably was, how little Bond knew about Q, who had probably been given access to (or hacked) Bond’s files. It was not unnatural for a Double-Oh to not know much about his handler; they came and went almost as quickly as agents were killed in the field and new ones took their place. But Q was a steady presence in his ear that Bond came to depend on, and it pulled at his curiosity more than he wanted to admit. There was a saying about that, too, but Bond pointedly ignored it.

“Is there something I can do for you, Double-Oh Seven?” Q asked, not looking up from his computer as Bond appeared at his workstation in the bullpen. The privacy screen made it impossible for Bond to see what he was working on, though the projected images on the wall indicated the Division to be monitoring something--or someone--in South Korea.

“Tanner asked me to bring this down to you,” Bond said, dropping a thick folder onto the workstation. Q spared only half a glance at it.

“Riveting reading material,” Q said, typing out something rapidly. The surveillance image switched on the screen to another view, which showed a busy street in Seoul. Q stared at it much more intently than the folder and after a second, the camera zoomed in on a dark-haired woman walking purposefully through the crowds. His rapt attention was so intense that Bond could not look away from him. Was this what Q looked like when Bond was out there and every second counted?

“I’m sure,” Bond replied, watching as the video feed changed again. The camera captured the woman’s face perfectly at the new angle. Q had the system freeze for a moment to take a still image, then began running a face-authentication program in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

“Is there anything else, Bond?” Q asked, and it was not unkindly, but the tone of someone who had too many other things on his mind to be engaging in small talk. Behind the lenses of his glasses, Bond saw the dark circles beneath Q’s eyes.

“When was the last time you Shifted?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself.

In truth, Bond was going out on a limb. He was almost completely certain that Q could Shift--there was just something that felt Other about him--but this was the test to validate it. And his assumption proved correct when Q gave a small tell: his fingers faltered for half a second before continuing on at their previous speed. It was no wonder; asking someone when they had last Shifted was almost an indirect insult, like asking someone when they had bathed last when wanting to hint that they smelled in need of a washing. But Bond had not meant it offensively, but rather as a point of concern.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Q replied, once again not harshly, but now with an undercurrent of gentle warning to not prod. Some of Q’s staff watched them openly while others tried to be more discrete in pretending that they were not listening. And although Bond was sure that there existed a few Others in the department with above-human-average hearing, he leaned a bit closer to Q to speak anyway.

“I forget, too, sometimes, when I’m working.”

Q’s typing slowed noticeably. When he turned his head slightly, Bond noticed that he tilted his face down and to the side instead of upwards, a clear sign of submissiveness. It was strange to see that in Q, who ran an entire division with a quiet but firm dominance, who unflinchingly fought for (and won) funding in executive budgetary meetings, and who held his own against agents and Double-Ohs alike.

But in that moment, Bond could tell that Q had reverted back to his basic instincts: they were in close physical proximity and not only was Bond older, but physically much larger and stronger than Q. Even though Bond was not challenging him for territory or power, Q still recognised him as an alpha. It was a rush Bond had never experienced before in this form; humans did not submit like animals did naturally, and the closest Bond had ever come to that sort of surrender had been during intercourse. It was new and felt good; good in a way that felt primal but not sexual.

“Have you used one of the meditation rooms?” Bond asked.

Meditation rooms were calming and private spaces for necessary Changes that happened in the office. After Silva’s attack on the old headquarters, their underground location had been immediately outfitted with the necessary spaces for their employees. Although Bond himself had never been in one, he knew that MI6 required employees to Change in these rooms if their work shifts extended over ten straight hours. It was to avoid mental and physical exhaustion or stress which could trigger unwanted transformations. MI6 had several in each department that could be reserved from anywhere to ten minutes to four hours. There were even larger rooms designed specifically for pack members to retreat to together, after it had been proven that recoveries from illness, stress, and exhaustion were much faster with a packmate present.

“I’m busy,” Q replied simply, looking back at his screen.

“You need to, though,” Bond said, with gentle authority, as he moved closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of Q’s body and detect the scent of mint in his hair.

Q did not move away from him, though Bond could sense his tension and desire to put space between them. Bond stopped crowding him, but his sleeve brushed Q’s when he went to put his hands into his pockets. Q pointedly stared at his keyboard, even though Bond knew he did not need to look in order to type. His body language screamed how uncomfortable he felt, not only at the conversation, but their proximity; Bond also thought he caught a scent reminiscent of fear, but it was so subtle that he could not be certain. The fact that Bond could read all of his usually-stoic Quartermaster’s emotions prompted him to continue sincerely:

“You’ll get overwhelmed if you don’t.”

“Yes, thank you for your concern,” Q replied, bristling at Bond’s insinuation. The Double-Oh could sense the strain in the fine strands of Q’s self-control. He must have been more worn-down than Bond had assumed; if he was not careful, he might trigger Q to Shift in front of his entire department. Not only would that be a source of perpetual embarrassment for Q, but would also strip him of whatever privacy he wanted to maintain over his Other form. Bond stepped back, giving Q the space he obviously desired.

“Take care of yourself, Q,” Bond said.

When Q did not say anything, did not even look back at him, Bond took that as his dismissal and left.

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Bond never brought it up again and Q most certainly did not and so things continued on as they were. He and Q still worked together and Q still gave him a gun and a radio but not much else. Q said that until Bond brought something back, that was all he would get.

“If I wanted to play fetch, I would have been Born a dog,” Bond replied.

“If you didn’t want to play fetch, you shouldn’t have signed up for Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” Q told him, as he slid the gun case across his workstation.

Bond met his eyes: a calm forest green behind the lenses of his glasses. He had Shifted recently. Bond could tell by the absence of exhaustion in his clear focus and steady gaze.

“That’s the point of being a Double-Oh. No kennel, no collar,” Bond replied, taking the case.

His fingers brushed Q’s before the other man could withdraw them. They were cool, like the earth after a rainstorm. It brought something to mind that Bond couldn’t quite name, something that his Other form had no words for, but knew somehow.

“Yes, I suppose neither suit you,” Q said, pulling his hand away to procure a folder, which he placed on top of the case.

Inside were his new identification papers, passport, and boarding passes to Karachi. Bond breezed through them quickly, almost indifferently. He could feel Q watching him.

“But,” Bond said, when Q did not continue.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re incapable of bringing equipment back,” he said, adjusting his glasses with the gentle touch to the corner of his right frame. Bond watched the movement, distracted by the way the light reflected on a decorative grommet. Q noticed; Bond could tell, by the way the corner of his mouth twitched, but did not smile. “So I’ll make you a proposition.”

“Go on,” Bond said.

“If you bring something back in working order, you’ll get something special,” he replied.

“Something special,” Bond repeated.

“Yes, something special. In this line of work, something that explodes or could be used to kill someone in an ingenious new way,” Q said and raised his eyebrows. “Sound fair?”

Bond regarded him with narrowed eyes.

“What is your definition of working order?”

Q shook his head and went back to his computer.

“Never mind. I suppose it’s true what they say about old dogs and new tricks.”

Bond tucked the folder and case under his arm as he headed for the door.

“I hate dogs,” he said. He felt Q’s gaze on him again.

“Yes, I suppose you would,” Q replied, using the word suppose but in a way that said there was no supposition about it.

Bond stopped in the doorway and looked back at Q, who watched him intently over the top portion of his frames. In that moment, Bond felt as if Q did not see his human body, but the Other form beneath, and there was something intimately predatory about it. Bond felt something take root in his spine, something instinctual that screamed flight or fight. But it was Q, who he trusted, who was honest, and who turned his gaze away and did not get up from behind his desk to approach Bond. He went back to his computer as if nothing had happened, even though Bond knew that Q had somehow seen. And then he said, like he usually did:

“Good luck in the field, Double-Oh Seven. And do try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”

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Bond tried not to think about what had happened between them, but it was difficult. He should have known; Q was not a genius for no reason. But just like before, Q did not bring up the topic and there was nothing in his tone that gave any of his thoughts away on the subject. So Bond pushed it to the back of his mind and did the job. He returned from Karachi two weeks later with only one bruised rib and both his gun and radio in tact. Six days later, when he was getting kitted in preparation for his next mission in Latvia, Q gave him a gun, a radio, and a handsome set of cufflinks.

“They’re miniature explosive devices,” Q explained. “You can tack them onto hard surfaces or throw them. If you plant them, you only have thirty seconds before detonation. If you decide to throw them, pull the stem to full length beforehand. They will explode upon impact.”

“So I don’t have to bring these home,” Bond said, looking at the shiny gift. As much as he liked looking at them, he did want to play with them.

“No. They’re specifically for you to destroy,” Q replied, and handed him another folder. Bond thought he saw the ghost of a smile. “Have fun.”

And Bond did.

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It took Bond some time to realise that Q was training him.

He was lying in a hotel room in Beijing with a beautiful woman beside him when he came to this conclusion. Q gave him new gadgets when Bond brought things home and usually withheld them when Bond did not. It was much like giving treats to a dog for doing a trick or scolding one for having a piss on the carpet. Just for that, Bond made sure to lose the earpiece in a careless rooftop chase and tossed the gun at the end of the mission, despite having cared for it the entire time. He did not feel guilty until he returned to HQ and saw the flicker of disappointment that Q tried to hide from him.

“Occupational hazard,” Bond said in his defence, even though he had a feeling Q knew the truth. He did have eyes everywhere, after all.

“Indeed,” Q replied, tapping out something on his tablet, refusing to look up at Bond, who left shortly after. He told himself again that he did not feel guilty that evening, as he drank some of his best scotch in the darkness of his bare flat. After all, Bond did not owe Q anything.

M’s ugly old bulldog glared at him accusingly from the coffee table.

No, Bond did not owe Q anything, he owed him everything.

Bond knew that after Skyfall, Q had defended his actions to Mallory and the PM, keeping him from an early and shameful retirement. He had consistently kept Bond alive during the past year, even with just a gun and a radio. Bond had admitted to himself more than once that he trusted Q more than anyone else at MI6. And Q asked for nothing in return except that Bond take care of his equipment. If he did, it did not mean that Q had domesticated him, it indicated mutual respect.

So after his next mission, he made sure to bring back the gun and earpiece in pristine condition. Q was so pleased that he modified a brand new Breitling that could pick virtually any lock, digital or analog. Bond liked it so much that he asked to keep it.

“Oh, is it finally Christmas, then?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow at him, amused.

Bond just laughed, surprised at how easy it came to him.

“Something like that.”

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Just because it was an unspoken subject between them did not mean that Bond did not think about it.

Sometimes, in-between missions for required recovery days, Bond would lurk in Q-Division. Q rarely had time for him, as he was always doing something: moving about from one department to the other, or from the bullpen to his office, or somewhere upstairs for meetings with other department heads, sometimes even M. While observing, Bond could almost see Q’s Otherness beneath his flesh, lending him a grace to balance many projects as well as an agility of body and mind to get everything done within strict time restraints. Q made it seem as effortless as a dance, a performance that no one else but Bond seemed to appreciate.

Even when he was not physically moving, Q still did not stop. One day, he sat down to code something and was in the exact same position when Bond returned four hours later, back still straight, eyes sharp and focused. Those were actually Bond’s favourite times, despite the lack of motion. There was something captivating about it, about Q’s ability to be so dedicated without restlessness or fatigue, and Bond made excuses to be around to watch.

Sometimes he brought Q tea, other times sandwiches, and it was mostly because Bond did not see him eat or drink otherwise; he was too busy. Bond discovered quickly that Q was left-handed: if he put food or drinks on Q’s right side, he would not consume them, but would if the items were on placed the left. It was only after trial and error that Bond learned the way Q liked his tea (Earl Grey, steeped two minutes with three sugars; no milk unless the Russians were involved) and that he did not like pumpernickel bread or cucumbers (if these rejected remains left on sandwich plates were anything to go by). Meanwhile, Q-Division staff watched him come and go with these offerings, but did not say a word to him or intervene in any way.

It was only when Bond ran into Eve that he found out why.

“They think what?” he asked.

“That you’re propositioning Q,” she replied, and at his look, she smirked. “What? You have a reputation.”

“I’m not propositioning for anything,” Bond said, and for once in his life, truly meant it. He had no ulterior motives aside from curiosity. And where he could admit that Q was strangely pleasing in an aesthetic sense, Bond did not lust for him sexually.

(Though if the opportunity arose to take Q to bed, Bond knew he would take it without a second thought.)

“Oh,” Eve said, and she looked surprised but tried to hide it. “It seems like it.”

“Why?” Bond asked.

“Well, I mean, think about it. Neither of you has a pack, let alone a mate,” Eve said, and shrugged. “People assumed.”

“What does Q think?” Bond asked, because, really, he wondered.

It was hard to read the man, even after over a year of knowing him. All Bond knew was that Q was very good at what he did and that he had a witty, dry sense of humour and that he enjoyed creating new things to give to Bond to kill people. Bond did not know anything personal about him beyond how Q took his tea and that he did not care for cucumbers and pumpernickel. He did not know where Q grew up or went to school or if he had a family. He did not even know Q’s name.

“Who knows?” Eve replied, and she looked a little sad. “But he’s not telling you to stop, so maybe you should keep up with it. The both of you seem to get on.”

“No,” Bond said, shaking his head.

He did not have a pack for a reason and did not want to take on a mate for those same reasons. A Double-Oh’s life was hard and short. It would not be fair to take on the responsibility of a pack and lover only to abandon them. Bond was a lot of things, but he could not be cruel to someone who did not deserve it.

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Bond stopped bringing the tea and sandwiches. He stopped lurking in Q-Division on his days off. The staff members eventually stopped staring when he appeared infrequently and only to get kitted. He and Q still worked together, but Bond felt the difference. Q acted a bit colder, kept their skin from touching when he handed over equipment and paperwork. He never looked up at Bond, always focusing on something else whenever the agent was in the same room.

One time, Bond got him to look up, but Q squinted at him like looking at him hurt, and quickly turned his gaze downward again. The worst was that sometimes, Bond caught a whiff of a scent that only someone with an acute sense of smell could identify: something like sadness or grief.

Bond told himself that the situation was not his doing--that too many people had read into things--and it was not his fault that they had gotten the wrong impression. He could not take a pack, just like the other Double-Ohs did not have one. They lived solitary lives because they had to, not only out of fear of abandoning those they cared for, but also because of the uncertainty that their pack might be used against them somehow. It was not unheard of for the mates and pack members of agents to be kidnapped and used as blackmail. Bond could not afford it, not in his line of work. Q had to understand that, if that even what his melancholy was about.

After some time, the little rewards for bringing back equipment dwindled. Q made an excuse about budget cuts, but his voice rang hollow with the lie. Bond pretended not to notice, just as he said nothing about the dark circles under Q’s eyes or the obvious sharpening of his cheekbones or the fact that he seemed to get thinner by the day.

But while on assignment, the night before the second phase of his mission, he found himself unable to concentrate, feeling suddenly wrong and angry. He paced the floor and drank from the mini bar, thinking himself stupid for even wanting to consider an alternative to this lifestyle. But he trusted Q more than anyone, now maybe even more than M, and that had to mean something.

Sitting down despite his restlessness, Bond put his head into his hands. His skin felt stretched taut over his bones. He wanted to Shift, but knew that in his current state, he might not be able to switch back by morning, and he had a job to do. So Bond drank until he found the courage that had eluded him and tapped at his earpiece. He knew that, despite the hour, Q would be there, because he was always there when Bond needed him.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room.

Q did not reply, but Bond knew he heard.

He caught all the green lights on the way to the airport the next day and had been upgraded to a first class seat from Belize to his next assignment in France.

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