Work Text:
The Past is Present
Q had always liked the quiet intimacy of dark places: the shadows seemed to pool like viscous ink at the corners and spilled on the floor like molten lava, barely caressed by the pale blue light of computer screens and neon lamps that rested the eyes rather than stabbing right through them and frying the retinas - an eternal twilight in which Q moved as easily as the stray cats that entered through a flap door; he had taken up the habit of feeding whenever he wasn't in prison, enjoying the ghostly company and warmth that they freely gave him in exchange.
Q didn't feel lonely, not really, even if his life could be described as such by any other person: he didn't share many interests with London's most prominent criminals and while he met up with them sometimes - mostly to exchange favours and bloodied money that had never actually directly dirtied their hands - they never really did more rather than gossip, which just was another form of subtly absorbing for free what usually was rather pricey information, if one knew the right questions to ask.
It was a delicate web of connections - a status quo balanced on tightropes as thin as a spider web and those who weren't good enough with their feet were bound to plunge down to their deaths.
Or imprisonment.
Sometimes death was the better option, really.
Q put his chin over his crossed hands as his eyes flickered over the multitude of screens crowded on his desk; his legs felt almost uncomfortably warm but he wasn't sure about whether it was the computers that were irradiating hot hair against his shins or the solid heat of a cat cuddled up against him - neither did he look down to check: he was too focused on the strings of code swirling in front of his face, teasing and taunting him with their promised secrets embedded into them.
Despite the fact that his heists were showy and loud, Q wasn't the kind of criminal who actually enjoyed to use London as his stage: he'd been groomed to be so much more than that - much more than just a sycophant waltzing into filthy puddles of melting snow, cackling maniacally as he threw skywards his hands dripping with stolen jewellery.
No, he was more similar to his mentor than he liked to admit - unlike Raoul, though, Q had learnt the fine art of subtlety: he didn't feel the need to flaunt around just how much more money he stole with just a few well-placed strokes on his keyboard, than what he pilfered from banks.
He took a sip from his favourite mug - Raoul had given it to him a long time ago and while the man was a bastard, Q didn't see why he should have thrown it out since he liked it - and grimaced at its temperature: lukewarm tea was just that horrible.
An alarmingly loud ping distracted Q from his predicament and he leaned over the metallic desk to look more closely at the incriminated screen, his attention levels rising while he looked for the reason behind the auditory warning that something wasn't going as smoothly as it was supposed.
He frowned at a line of code that seemingly started to rewrite itself out of the blue, twisting and shifting in front of his eyes.
Was he being hacked?
Q pushed to the side his mug of tea and stood up from his chair, palms firmly planted on the surface of the desk as if its solidity would help him to sharpen his focus.
He definitely was being hacked.
And not by an amateur.
The challenge both worried and excited Q and he poised his fingers over the keyboard: he would show whoever it was that they had picked the wrong person to bother.
Then, all of his screens went dark and pixelated sugar skulls emerged with their bright colours, madly cackling at him with their empty smiles and sinister faces - nothing more was needed for Q to understand the identity of the person who had just crashed his system.
Raoul Silva.
Q could feel his skin flush with irritation and embarrassment as he reached for his mobile, the swipe of him thumb efficiently silencing the fairly standard and flavourless ring tone that he hadn't bothered to change; Q brought it to his ear and licked his lips, suddenly dry "That was rude"
A chilling and warm laugh filled Q's head like silk caressing the most intimate nook and crannies of his brain, prompting a shiver to slide down his spine.
"Not as rude as you've been to me, mi amor"
The hollow noise of the line being cut off almost seemed to echo that voice.
The last time he had been called by that affectionate moniker, Raoul had promised him that he would slit his throat open once he got out of prison - that he would finally pay for turning on him and Q had never doubted that the other man would do it: Raoul wasn't exactly known for waving threats around if he didn't mean making good on them.
The fear was enough to make Q almost miss those times when Raoul would hold him close to his chest, both of them sleepy and cocooned in the sheets that smelled of Raoul's expensive and spicy cologne, and the other man's lips would find the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear and whisper those loving words there.
Q hadn't sold Raoul to the police because the other man had ever been bad to him - contrary to popular belief, Raoul had never raised a hand on him or coerced him: no, the older man had only poured love and adoration on him.
Q had just... moved on. He had wanted more, to be the best - and his fixation with Bond had made his jealousy clash with Raoul: he couldn't see how they both could have the hardened and handsome detective without their tempers pitting one against the other.
So, Q had worked with Bond.
And Raoul had been locked away.
He pushed his hair back from his forehead with a shaking hand, absentmindedly walking to his dingy bathroom - a small and suffocating room with barely enough space for a shower and a toilet - and he plugged the sink before he started running water into it.
His mobile didn't make a noise as its battery fizzed to death, steadily calling deeper into the water.
James blinked sleepily when he felt the couch dipping under his body and he looked around, confused: he had gone home alone - Alec had had to stay at the precinct to fill in a nasty bit of paperwork and he hadn't been in the mood to pick up someone to spend the night with - and he had had dinner in front of the tv, falling asleep somewhere in the middle of a trashy sci-fi movie.
"He made contact"
"Q?"
"The one and only"
James groaned and flopped back against the arm of the couch, one hand thrown over his face as he gathered enough strenght to deal with the younger man when he was basically dead to the world; he was sure that Q wouldn't hurt him: he needed him and he was too afraid of Silva hurting him - he wouldn't endanger the life of the man who could help him "What did he say?"
Q shrugged and relaxed against the back of the couch, letting one hand wander over the other's toned calves "That's not important" not nearly as much as what Raoul had implied, at least.
"Did you manage to trace his call?"
"No. He hacked me and he used a burner phone"
James sighed: that was to be expected, they weren't dealing with an amateur "Then there's nothing we can do for now" he nudged Q with his foot "Catch some sleep"
"Aren't you going to join me in bed?" Q purred, nails scratching lightly the tanned skin under his fingers "What if I have a nightmare about the bad man coming to catch me?" He added with a pout.
James pressed his fingers harder against his lowered eyelids: why did he have to always end up in that kind of situations?
"I'm going to plunge this city into chaos"
All the radio channels were broadcasting the chilling speech.
"There isn't going to be a soul who'll be untouched by my wrath"
All the TVs were stuck on the same taunting images.
"I will wipe out everything you hold so dear: memories, power, dreams, control, money.."
All the computers refused to be turned off.
"I'm coming for you"
Raoul Silva smirked from the chair he was sprawled on like a king on his throne.