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Chapter Text

Mélomanie (French) - an excessive, abnormal love and deep attraction to music and melody

The buildings all looked the same. The entire street seemed overcrowded with their matching facades and the identical black and white cars parked out front on the street. Even the landscaping scheme did not deviate from property to property, giving the neighbourhood a cohesive appearance. It might be pleasing to the eye, but it showed a lack of personality and a desire for conformity, rules, regulations, standards.

Bond found the whole thing hateful.

MI6 had chosen it, not him. Undoubtedly, they no longer wanted to pay for Bond's extravagant hotel bills. Either that, or they wanted to keep a better eye on him during the next few weeks while he was in London. It must have been tiring to whomever had the duty of keeping tabs on him, what with Bond moving hotels every few days. Maybe they thought that a boring flat in a calm neighborhood was just the thing to kick his restlessness. Bond thought that whoever came up with that idea should be fired. Double-Ohs were not meant for this kind of environment, especially Bond.

But he had orders: strict ones from Medical for a mandatory leave. Bond did not have to ask to know that his passports were no longer authorised; he had a feeling that if he went anywhere near an airport, he would most likely be detained. It spoke volumes that MI6 didn't trust him not to go AWOL, but then again, he'd done it before; once bitten, twice shy and all that.

After everything that had happened in Skyfall, Bond certainly deserved the rest and he should have been grateful for it. But with the worst of his injuries healed and nothing but time on his hands, Bond felt restless. He wanted an assignment. He wanted something to take his mind off what had happened in Scotland, but Mallory was withholding all missions until after twenty more days had passed. In the meantime, Bond now had an ungodly amount of time to deal with his current predicament.

Unpacking.

He did not have much. He never did, that came with the lifestyle. But he still had a storage unit's worth of things to go through. Upon his "death", most of his possessions had been thrown haphazardly into boxes, with no clear organisation or labelling. It left Bond with a mess of cardboard containers strewn round the flat when he went searching for his favourite scotch glass. He gave up after about a half an hour of searching and sat on the couch to drink directly from the bottle.

At least the place had come partially furnished. Bond could not think of a more hateful thing than having to shop for new furniture.

Bond stared at the dark television screen as he drank. It was only three in the afternoon, but Bond didn't care. The entire flat smelled like fresh paint and wood cleaner and he hated that almost as much as he hated everything else about the place. Bond got up from the couch and went to the window, which he opened just a bit. Coming on October, it was almost cold enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to keep a Scotsman from keeping his windows closed to it.

He went back to the couch and looked at the bottle on the unfamiliar coffee table. There were still plastic sheaths around the legs from when it had been transported. Bond picked at the nearest one with disinterest, staring through the dark neck of Macallan at the only other object on the table.

M's ugly old bulldog stared back.

Bond ripped at the plastic viciously, fighting the urge to break the stupid porcelain thing. It reminded him too much of her, that obstinate old woman with more bollocks than anyone Bond had ever met, with more patriotism than Bond had ever known. She believed in what she did. She was strong that way and Bond had loved her for it as much as he hated her. But really, when he thought of England-when he thought of home-he thought of her.

And he had failed her in the end.

Bond leant back and closed his eyes. With the window open, he could hear the sounds on the street: the splash of tyres through day-old puddles, the laughter of children, the rumble of an oncoming storm. It was ordinary, pedestrian; so horrible that Bond felt himself turning a bit mad.

So he went back to the bottle and drank until it became dark outside.

He listened as some of his neighbours returned, the building coming alive with the clicks of closing doors, the murmur of turned-on tellies, and the aroma of different cuisines cooking in different kitchens. He had been told that almost everyone in the building was MI6 in some capacity, including retired, active, and the spouses or families of employees, both living and deceased. Bond had yet to meet any of them; really, he had no interest anyway. Simply knowing that they were Six allowed him to not be suspicious of anyone he encountered by the post boxes or in the underground garage, and that was enough.

The person who lived above him came home round seven that evening, just as Bond got up to close the window. He was tired and sluggish by that point, and not wanting to do anything but drink a bit more on the sofa that he did not choose. Bond closed his eyes and listened to the person above him moving about. The ceiling did not creak under their weight, as if the person was naturally light footed or just being considerate to those below.

Bond turned on his side and reached for the bottle. He knew he should stop, but he couldn't make himself. He just brought it to his lips when he heard the sounds change upstairs.

Someone was playing the piano.

It was not a song Bond had ever heard before, nothing classic or traditional. It bordered somewhere between not quite sad and not quite happy, and there was something about it that made Bond pause. He put the bottle down on the table and leant back against the arm of the sofa.

He listened until he fell asleep.

Bond woke with a hangover that he tried to kill with coffee and aspirin, which he promptly vomited into the pristine toilet in his master bathroom. His back hurt from sleeping on the sofa and his head pounded angrily behind his eyes. When Bond looked at himself in the mirror, he hated what he saw. He was washed up, weak, a drunk, and far, far, too old for all of this. The lines around his eyes and mouth were proof enough of his inevitable ageing, and in combination with his red lids and unshaven appearance, they did not lend their usual attractiveness.

He showered, shaved, and dressed before going to Six to stalk around Administration for a bit, hoping that his presence might scare someone into insisting that he be sent off on assignment. Moneypenny removed him before he could do any serious damage to the secretarial pool and ushered him out of the building to have lunch.

"You're crawling up the walls, aren't you?" she asked. She had chosen a cafe a few blocks down from headquarters, one of those terribly French ones with a pretentious menu, and prices to match.

"I don't understand why Mallory is withholding," Bond replied, not answering her question.

"You know, it is protocol to give an agent a specific number of days recovery time for each day on assignment," Moneypenny answered. "You're entitled to a holiday."

"If I would have wanted holiday, I would be in a different business," Bond said.

"Don't be stubborn. Relax a bit. Maybe have some fun?" Moneypenny suggested, and she smiled a bit with her mouth that told Bond no, she would not have sex with him.

"This is not my definition of fun," Bond said.

"Well then find a way to make it enjoyable," Moneypenny replied. "Why don't you take up a hobby?"

Bond raised an eyebrow at her and she laughed.

"Okay, okay. Though the thought of you taking up knitting is sort of an endearing picture," Moneypenny said. "But in all honesty, if you don't want to do something so civilian, why don't you take up something else?"

"Like what?" Bond asked, because he already knew as many martial arts as the next Double-Oh, could shoot any weapon with (little) difficulty, and while he could be in better physical shape, he was not about to take up some banal exercise regime to occupy his time. He'd break his own legs before he went to a spin class.

"Hmmm…what about weapons testing for R&D?" Moneypenny said, after a moment of thought. "I remember Q telling me something about a whole slew of new designs they've got on the docket for the upcoming weeks. Maybe you could help with that?"

Bond realised then that he hadn't been down there since Silva's escape. He had cut off communication with Q after he and M had started for Scotland and had had no other reason to contact his Quartermaster since the incident. He wondered what had happened to Q after that.

"That kid," Bond began, pausing when the server brought their lunches. It was only once the person was out of earshot that Bond continued: "The new Q. What happened to him? After, I mean."

Moneypenny looked at him.

"You mean you don't know?" she asked.

"If I did, would I be asking?" Bond replied.

"He defended you," Moneypenny said, "to the Board, to Mallory. He's probably the reason you still have a job."

Bond watched her spear a pear from her salad.

"Sweet thing," she said thoughtfully, "but a bit quiet. Never talks about himself much. Quite a shame, though, because I know a girl that'd be perfect for him, but you know, I don't want to assume."

"Assume what?" Bond asked, not quite following.

"You know," Moneypenny said, and when Bond gave her a blank look, she continued: "He's very pretty for a man. Maybe he leans the other way, if you get what I mean."

"Oh," Bond said. Sexual orientation never mattered much to Bond, unless it meant he couldn't finish a mission because it stood in the way of things somehow. He was much more concerned with the fact that a man who had only met him twice had defended him so adamantly.

"Doesn't really matter to me, or to anyone really," Moneypenny kept on, "not when we've finally gotten all those server issues resolved. Do you know how easy it is to manage our database now that…"

Bond listened with only half an ear for the rest of their mostly one-sided conversation, picking disinterestedly at his food while thinking that it might be time he paid his Quartermaster a visit.

Later that afternoon, Bond went down to TSS in search of Q, only to find that he essentially had to get in line. Q was involved in some sort of intense conversation with a group of boffins; others were queued nearby to speak with him next. Bond watched him unobtrusively from one of the archways. He was scrawnier than Bond remembered and he was in desperate need of a haircut, both of which served to make him look entirely too young for the position. But Bond kept up his observation and noticed that, unlike other branch heads, Q did more listening than talking, as if what his subordinates had to say was of some importance to warrant his time.

Despite what seemed to be a very considerate open door policy, there were murmurs of discontent.

Bond knew that their new digs were strategically secure, much more so than their previously ostentatious location on the Thames, but apparently posed all sorts of other problems for everyone else. Someone from R&D complained loudly that they needed to update the ventilation system in all of the lower tunnels or else they would not be able to conduct prototype testing without violating fire codes. Beside them, another white coat sympathised, openly putting down the decision to relocate to this location while also taking the time to disagree with how the current too-young Quartermaster was handling things. Bond bit his tongue to keep from intervening, mostly because it was not his place. And because the topic of discussion chose that moment to appear, expression unamused at the blatant insubordination of staffs, the near-visible thundercloud hovering just above his head.

"If you have a better method on how to handle things, please, do enlighten me."

The two in conversation did not notice him until he spoke. Immediately, both of them straightened, red-faced and properly shamed at being caught in their abuse.

"That's what I thought," Q said, only sparing half a glance at Bond before returning to them. "You'll be happy to know that the reason no action has been taken in terms of updating the ventilation system is because, as of now, this is a temporary site. We are not going to put a quarter of our budget into updating this place only to move, is that understood?"

Nods prompted him to continue.

"The relocation is only a potential option. We'll know at the end of the month how they will proceed. In the meantime, I ask that you be patient and use your vast intellect to come up with creative solutions to our current problems. I recommend using the method put forth by TSS, which is to form task squads and work collaboratively in-house. If you're terribly desperate, you could also call in favours from MI5, but if you're going to resort to that, I highly recommend taking a step back and reevaluating your career choices. Questions?"

The two boffins were silent in the cascade of Q's words; Bond was trying dutifully hard not to laugh.

"Well?" Q asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," said one, and the other shook his head in reply.

"Good. If you think of any, don't hesitate to ask," Q said, and they quickly began making a retreat. Q let them get only a step or two away before he continued: "Oh, and gentlemen. If you again insinuate that I am unable to run this department due to something as trivial as age, I can assure you that the results will be... unpleasant."

Q smiled at them, a sweet sort of smile that somehow bordered on demonic. The men fled for the doors.

"Great, who's next?" Q asked; the two other people in the queue shuffled off, leaving Bond behind.

"You certainly know how to disperse a crowd," Bond said.

"One of my many talents," Q replied. His eyes looked tired, but his posture was as straight and alert as ever.

"Sounds like you need a lot of those around here," Bond said, looking pointedly at some of the people nearby, who were trying to not be obvious about eavesdropping.

"You have no idea," Q answered. "If I would have known that babysitting was one of my duties, I would have asked for a higher salary."

Bond smirked. Q indicated for him to follow and began walking.

"So what can I do for you, Bond?" he asked. "You aren't on my calendar today."

"Mallory's fault," Bond said, a touch bitterly.

"Don't let him see he's getting to you. It'll just encourage him. Always does with people like him," Q told him, as he led the way into a small corner office. It was cramped and poorly lit, most likely a closet at one point or another. The desk nearly took up the entire space, where two computer monitors were crammed between stacks of folders, papers, and binders, trays of equipment parts, and rolls upon rolls of plans.

"Nice digs," Bond said, not taking the bait. He went to close the door, but Q held up a hand.

"Don't close that, please. I get claustrophobic in here," Q said, and Bond respectfully left it open. Q began sifting through some things on his desk. "So you never did answer the question: what can I do for you?"

Bond put his hands in his pockets, suddenly realising that he did not have a good reason to be there.

"Can't I visit?" Bond asked.

Q looked up from his searching.

"Forgive me if I think you don't seem the type," Q said.

"Cold," Bond said, smiling.

"But I'm right," Q replied. "You're not the type at all. So why are you here?"

Bond leaned back against the doorframe.

"I have a question," Bond said.

"Go on," Q replied, giving Bond his full attention. With Q's focus entirely on him, Bond saw what Moneypenny meant when she said that the Quartermaster was pretty. Despite having met before, Bond had never taken the time to look at Q properly. He had a pleasing face and colouring-the contrasting dark hair and fair skin that people wrote songs about-and even with glasses, his eyes were expressive, vibrant green.

"Why did you do it?" Bond asked.

"Do what?"

"Defend me."

Q blinked, confused.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"How did you put it…a grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap?"

Q's lip quirked just a bit.

"I was talking about the painting," Q said.

"No you weren't," Bond replied.

"Well, sometimes we make assumptions upon first meetings," Q explained, as he began stacking files atop one another, "but it's our actions that allow others to make revisions to preconceived notions."

Bond had a feeling that was Q's way of admitting he was wrong, for apologising.

"And have you made revisions to your preconceived notions?" Bond asked. Q looked up from his work to regard him.

"I have. Have you?" Q asked.

The question was direct, but not accusatory. They had both made their assumptions that day and been proven wrong. Bond could admit to that.

"Yes," Bond said.

Q smiled and held out his hand, like he did at their first meeting in the National Gallery.

Bond accepted it with a firm handshake. Despite looking small and fragile, Q's grip was strong, confident, just as it had been the first time. But the situation was different, because Bond did not doubt Q's abilities or motives; he wasn't looking for deceit in Q's eyes. It let him focus on some of the other things, like the cool temperature of Q's palm, the smoothness of his skin, the plain black watch that hung loosely from his right wrist. The most surprising thing Bond discovered was that Q had calluses on his fingertips. They were not as large and rough as Bond's, but they were there, as if Q spent more time with his hands than just typing. He wondered, just for a moment, about Q and his enigmatic smile, but then Q said:

"007."

And Bond smiled, because it wasn't often he had been given a second chance. He had run out of those with M a long time ago.

"Q."

When his Quartermaster withdrew his hand, if their fingers lingered a fraction of a second too long, Bond was not about to analyse why.

Bond hadn't had much of an appetite since Scotland, but he loved food and missed enjoying it when he was in London. So that night, he went out to eat at one of his favourite restaurants: a small, upscale little place near Chelsea. He sat at a tucked away table for privacy where he ate filet mignon and drank a rich Merlot in silence. The taste of it still lingered on his tongue an hour later when he arrived home. It was past nine and the flat sat dark and uninviting. Bond navigated around boxes to the light switch and turned on the overheads so that he could see. He didn't have the energy to unpack and he was too full to do much else, so he went and lay on the couch.

It was so boring being back, but then again, being dead had been just as boring. As much as he loved London, when he wasn't feeling particularly sociable, it was just as lonely as anywhere else in the world. Bond felt restless for something, but too tired to figure out what it was and go after it. Psych would most likely tell him he was grieving or had some form of PTSD and to do something constructive, but the thought of going to do the shopping or picking up a new book just made him more anxious. Bond didn't even want to turn on the telly, because he knew that even mindless garbage would not soothe this problem of his.

The person upstairs came home. Bond heard the door close softly, then the sound of tired feet dragging over the threshold. Bond empathised entirely. Judging from the hours his neighbour kept, they were a working member of MI6 and knew the exhaustion that came with it. He closed his eyes listened as the person moved about the flat, which was most likely identical to Bond's. They went into the kitchen, then to the bedroom. Bond strained his ears, but heard nothing until the feet returned to the kitchen, where he could just barely make out the sound of a kettle. The person stopped for a while after that, but there were no other sounds-telly, talking on the telephone, listening to music-from upstairs. Bond was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the person moving again, the sound of a chair, then the melodic notes of a violin. They played a short song, something a bit melancholy, and then when they stopped, retired to bed.

Bond lay on the couch for a long time after, wishing the silence was not so loud.

Chapter Text

Bond never asked about helping out with R&D, and after their treatment of Q, he didn't want to. But he was also bored and had nothing to do and couldn't stay in bed past six in the morning if he wasn't 1) injured; 2) with a partner or; 3) hungover. That left Bond with no option but to rise early and put coffee on. One of the few things he had purchased immediately was the percolator and coffee grounds. There were many things he could live without and coffee was one of them, but he most certainly preferred having it. Hence, the reason for his preparation.

That morning, it was raining, but Bond could still hear all of his neighbours waking and rising to the day. It was strange to have so many. Bond was used to living on the top floor of a building and having the entire space all to himself. Being between people felt strange, claustrophobic, somehow, and Bond didn't like it. He considered using his down time to look for a new flat, MI6's ire be damned.

As the coffee dripped, Bond went searching for a clean mug in a few of the nearby boxes. Just as he located one, he heard the neighbour upstairs tumble out of bed in a rush and hurry to the shower. The pipes rattled and groaned in Bond's flat as the hot water moved from the basement to the top floor. The light flickered above his stove.

With all his free time, Bond decided he would definitely be looking for a new flat.

Bond did not end up looking for a new flat.

There were too many paper adverts and zines as it was and the Internet just made things overwhelming. He thought about contacting an agent, but decided against it. He didn't want to deal with one right now; they always asked when a handsome bachelor like himself was going to settle down and that question irked Bond more than anything. So instead of doing what he thought he would do, Bond went to Six and worked out in the gym until the late afternoon. His shoulder hurt terribly, even so many months after being shot. But what alarmed Bond was that his knees and feet hurt too; his legs felt weak after an exercise routine that would have been a cakewalk a year ago.

Bond took a scalding shower in the MI6 locker room and tried desperately not to think about it.

That was difficult when he went to the shooting range afterward and completely did a fuck up job of hitting the targets. His hand shook, his shoulder ached, and Bond wanted to punch something bloody because he was worthless.

He picked up liquor on his way home and once he arrived, Bond didn't bother to turn on the lights. He wasn't hungry. He didn't want to sleep. All he wanted to do was drink until he couldn't anymore, until this feeling of inadequacy left him. Because he couldn't find a tumbler, Bond drank from a juice glass he had the luck of finding in the box nearest the couch.

The person upstairs came home at quarter to seven; he heard the door close above him. Bond was heady with drink by that point. His head was swimming. He hated it, but he couldn't stop. He hated himself, he hated the flat, he hated how everyone else could keep on going like everything was fine, like M wasn't dead. Bond looked at the bulldog on the coffee table and thought of her, felt her weight and the last bit of warmth leaving her. He scrubbed at his hands and at the back of his neck. Her blood was there, he could feel it. It would never wash away, because he killed her.

Bond picked up the glass and tried to drink, but his hand shook as he thought of M and targets and Scotland and being useless and he couldn't.

He hurled the glass at the wall.

The sound of shattering glass somehow made him feel better. He picked up one of the empty bottles near him and threw that. Then another and another. Then he threw the half-empty bottle. The liquor splashed on the wall; the glass splintered onto the floor.

But it wasn't enough.

Bond kicked over boxes and threw their contents. He tipped over the chairs and lamps and end tables. In his fit, he overturned the coffee table and smashed the glass top. It went everywhere, along with M's bulldog.

The sight of it made him stop: that ugly porcelain bulldog broken into big red, blue, and white chunks on the carpet. But it wasn't just any old figurine; it had been M's. It had been M's and that was all he had left of her and he had ruined it just like he'd ruined her, ruined her faith in him.

Bond didn't realise he was kneeling in the mess of glass until he felt a few pieces piercing his knees. He didn't realise he was frantically saying no, no, no over and over again as he tried to collect the broken pieces among the glass. His hands were torn up with cuts by the time he had finished. Blood had soaked into the carpet, into his trousers. There were flecks of it in the glass, on the bulldog.

He brought it carefully into the kitchen, where he put down all the pieces on the countertop. With luck, he might be able to put it back together. He might be able to salvage something of this mess he'd made. He wondered if he could.

He wondered if he deserved to.

Upstairs, it was silent.

Bond spent the next day hungover and cleaning up his flat with stinging, bandaged hands. He didn't go to Six or call in or even answer his phone when it rang a few times throughout the day. Instead, he dumped all the remaining alcohol down the drain and binned all the rubbish. Then he went to the corner store and picked up real food and some adhesive glue. When he returned, Bond put all the food in the fridge and sat at the kitchen counter to put M's bulldog back together. It was hard work and it didn't quite look the same, but it didn't look bad either. When it had dried, Bond put it up on the mantle where he would not break it again.

At three in the afternoon, his neighbour moved around a bit upstairs. Bond heard the sound of the vacuum, then the soft murmur of the telly. After some time, the telly went off and was replaced by the sound of the piano.

Bond went and opened the window to let in the afternoon breeze and wondered about the person above him. Was it a man? A woman? What did they do at MI6? Did they want something different for themselves? Is that why the music always sounded sad? Bond went and sat on the couch, directly beneath where he believed the piano to be on the floor above, where he could hear better. Whoever they were, they were very good, probably someone who had learnt at a young age and actually kept up with it, unlike Bond's brief flirtations with music. He leant back and closed his eyes. His head was clearer today. There were clouds on the horizon, yes, but the music held the storm at bay.

He felt at peace.

He wondered if M did, too.

He made it two days without drinking, trying for a more healthy lifestyle, and then Bond woke himself in the middle of the night shouting and falling out of bed.

He lay on the floor in the dark, panting and sweating and shaking. Bond rarely had dreams, but he had dreamt that night. He had dreamt about Scotland and fire and drowning. He had dreamt about blood and M. He had dreamt that Silva was still alive, that the last wretched rat had somehow made it off the island. There was bile in the back of his throat, but Bond kept himself from vomiting by sheer force of will.

Eventually, the panic subsided. Bond could breathe again. He smelled like sweat and fear and his feet were cold. Weakly, he crawled back into bed. The clock on the bedside said it was near two in the morning.

Above him, he heard the quiet movement of feet, then, they returned to the space just above Bond's head. A soft note played out, the long sweep of a bow over strings. It transitioned into a slow, soothing song that Bond had never heard before. His heart rate returned to normal, as did his breathing, and he felt the adrenalin leaving him, allowing exhaustion to seep in through his bones and sinews. Bond stared at the ceiling, at the place where the person played so beautifully directly above him, until his eyes closed.

The lullaby caressed him to sleep.

Bond didn't know what possessed him.

The next morning, after the upstairs neighbour departed for work, Bond went up to the fifth floor and left a note on their door.

Thank you

-407

He decided to give up on looking for a flat and focussed more on his physical training. He would have to pass the exam to be allowed back in the field, after all, and he didn't have M behind him this time to look the other way if the scores were not up to par. Begrudgingly, Bond had to admit that he needed some help with his shoulder, but instead of going to Medical, he used the Internet to look up exercises, which he did in the privacy of his own flat using a tennis ball and an old belt. At Six, he did cardio as often as he could and strength in between, but his numbers were nothing like they used to be. It was only after he weighed himself that he realised it might be because he had dropped almost an entire weight class. He resolved to try to gain back a bit of weight, which meant eating more, even if he didn't feel like it half the time. But he hated the canteen, because everyone stared, so Bond grabbed a to-go meal and went in search of a place to eat in privacy.

That is how he found himself in Q-Branch.

Bond bypassed the R&D section and went straight for TSS. It was relatively quiet. The big screen on the wall had multiple code sequences running, none of which made any sense to Bond. There were few people at their workstations but Q was not among them. Bond crept along the back wall and ducked down the narrow corridor to Q's office. The door was open. Q sat behind his desk, slouched over as if in some sort of agony. He had a headset on and was pinching at the bridge of his nose, as if strained by whatever conversation was happening in his ear.

When he caught sight of Bond, he straightened up a bit with a sort of thank god expression.

"You know, that all sounds like something to bring up to the budgetary committee. Why don't you draft a proposal and bring it to the Tuesday meeting?" Q suggested, and then, quickly added: "And you know what, something has just come up that I've got to handle, so I'm going to have to let you go. Uh-huh. Yes. Bye."

Q barely said his farewell before he had ripped off the headset and tossed it aside with a groan.

"Long day, dear?" Bond asked; Q shot him the middle finger. Bond laughed and pulled up a chair. It was piled with important looking documents, which the agent decided would look better on the floor. Q didn't seem to care. He had his head on the desk.

"I didn't sign up for this," he grumbled.

"What did you sign up for?" Bond asked curiously. Q sat up, his hair a riotous mess, glasses slightly askew.

"To do the things I'm good at," Q replied, dumping a pile of folders into a stack on the floor, "not this administrative bullshit."

"You seem good at it," Bond said, pulling his lunch out of the bag.

"I fake it until I make it," Q replied.

"I thought Quartermaster was making it?" Bond asked.

"I didn't ask for this position, you know. I would have been perfectly happy taking over as someone a few levels down in the hierarchy. Could have probably done a lot more work with all the time I would have had on my hands…" Q groused, then looked at Bond's takeaway container. "Are you eating in my office?"

"Yes," Bond replied.

"Did you at least have the decency to bring me anything?" Q asked. Bond rummaged around inside his bag.

"Crisps?" Bond offered.

"Get out," Q said, pointing at the open door.

"I'll give you half my sandwich," Bond said. Q looked a little more reasonable.

"What kind of sandwich?" he asked.

"Does it matter? Beggars can't be choosers."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I'll accept."

Bond ripped the container in half and slid over the offering. Q's expression made Bond think of someone who had just been offered gold and gems on a diamond platter.

"They don't let you out much, do they?" Bond asked.

"No. Even if they did, I've got too much work to do," Q sighed, picking the crust off his sandwich. "I got some time off recently, though. It was nice. I slept almost all day."

"Why are you murdering that?" Bond asked, pointing to the bits of bread on the makeshift plate.

"I don't like sesame seeds," Q replied with a shrug, before biting into his sandwich. He made a face as he chewed, then set the sandwich down to begin dissecting it.

"Now what are you doing?" Bond asked.

"Tomatoes are gross," Q said.

"They're good for you."

"Gross."

"You're odd."

"You have no right to talk," Q told him, as he put his now tomato-less sandwich back together.

"Why's that?"

"You're really opening a can of worms with that one."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Bond grinned round a mouthful of tomato and turkey.

"So what's your story?" Bond asked.

"No story," Q answered.

"Why?" Bond asked.

"I'm not the story type."

"Why's that?"

"Stories are for children and people who have too much time on their hands," Q replied, disinterestedly.

"You must be great at parties," Bond said, with emphasis on his heavy sarcasm.

"I am always the life of the party," Q answered.

"Really."

"Of course. If I ever went to parties."

"Oh?"

"Can't you tell? I don't like people," Q said.

"Nope, couldn't tell," Bond replied. "Do you not like me?"

"I especially don't like you," Q replied.

They were both grinning at this point. It was the easiest conversation Bond had had in a long time. Q pointedly ignored his ringing phone for the duration of their meal. At the end, they split the small package of crisps.

"Thanks," Q said.

"For what?" Bond asked, pausing only momentarily from gathering up the rubbish.

"The sandwich," Q replied.

"It was well worth the tradeoff," Bond said.

"For what?" Q asked.

"Good company," Bond answered.

Q went a bit pink at the compliment and promptly shooed Bond out of the chair and toward the door. Bond was not even half out the corridor when he heard Q's voice call out to him.

"Prawn sandwiches. With pickle."

"Is that a hint?" Bond asked, turning to poke his head back into the office. Q was already typing away at his computer with one hand and reaching for his headset with the other. He didn't even spare Bond a glance as he replied:

"That's my price. Now get out of here. Some of us have work to do."

It was only later, when Bond was on his way back to the flat, that he realised he hadn't stopped smiling.

When Bond returned home that night, there was no message on his door, but the following morning, when he was going out for a quick jog, he found one clinging to the place just beside the peephole.

You're welcome.

Always,

-507

The writing was slanted and the letters sat close together, like the person wrote with their left hand. It was distinctly masculine, but the word always seemed romantic in a way that was quite feminine, so Bond did not want to assume. He went inside and found a takeaway menu in one of his kitchen drawers. He wrote a message on it, then went upstairs and shoved it into the space between 507's door jam and frame.

Will you play for me again sometime?

-407

Bond forgot about it after a particularly hard workout, followed by a hot shower in the MI6 locker room. It definitely slipped his mind around midday, because he was too focussed on remembering to get a prawn sandwich with pickle and with no sesame seeds to bring to Q.

"Careful, I could get used to this," Q warned him, when Bond arrived with two to-go bags instead of one.

"What's wrong with that?" Bond asked, setting the bag next to Q's keyboard, careful to avoid his Scrabble mug in the process.

"What will happen when you're gone? I'll have to fend for myself," Q said.

"Can't you get one of your minions to do it?" Bond asked.

"Minions oh, that's brilliant," Q breathed.

"Now I've started something," Bond said, pulling out his sandwich from the bag.

"Something dreadful. They'll hate it," Q replied, unwrapping his lunch.

Bond leaned back in his chair and watched as Q evaluated the sandwich, as if making sure it was up to his standards.

"Do you like them?" Bond asked.

"Who?" Q asked, before taking a bite.

"The minions," Bond clarified, taking up his own sandwich as Q chewed thoughtfully.

"Of course. It would be hard to work with them if I didn't," Q replied.

"Do they like you?" Bond asked.

"That's a question for them, not me."

"What do you think?"

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"Office politics. I'm their boss. Probability says that they most likely don't like me," Q replied with a shrug. "In fact, I'm technically your superior, too. So you probably won't like me either."

"I like you," Bond said, "when you're not telling me to get on a train thirty seconds too late. Or telling me to put my back into it."

"Yes, well, I like you, too," Q replied, "when you're not being a complete arse. Or giving me some excuse about a komodo dragon eating my equipment."

"That is legitimate. Moneypenny saw the whole thing."

"The point is that you'll be back in the field soon," Q said. "You'll probably yell and scream at me and I'll probably do the same to you. Office politics. Almost everyone hates their boss."

Bond leant back in his chair.

"Mallory's your boss," Bond said.

"Yes," Q replied, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Do you hate him?" Bond asked.

Q chewed for a bit, then swallowed. He didn't answer right away, instead fiddling with his bag of crisps.

"I don't hate him, but I don't particularly like him either. He's not terrible, I mean," Q said carefully, then sighed, "but he's not her."

"No one will ever be her," Bond said.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up," Q said, pointedly not looking at him.

"You can talk about her," Bond told him, even though the thought of doing so hurt him. He thought about the bulldog on his mantle at home, how he had cut up his hands trying to salvage whatever was left of its splintered remains. Then he saw Q looking at him, but trying not to look at him at the same time, like it was painful. It took Bond a moment to understand why, but then he saw it, clear as day: Q felt guilty. He felt responsible for M's death, like Bond felt responsible, like he failed her. Q was trying not to show it, but Bond could see it, because that is what he saw in the mirror every morning and every night. He was familiar with the signs of guilt and mourning and self-loathing. It seemed wrong somehow on Q, who really was too young to look so sad. Bond wanted to console him, but did not know how. So he said: "Really. You can if you want to."

"I'd rather not," Q said, and cleared his throat. The silence edged on uncomfortable. "Maybe, though, that's why no one particularly likes me, either. I'm a replacement myself."

Bond looked at Q, who tried to smile, but it was a half-thing that didn't look right on his face. He was much too pretty to be looking so broken.

"You're not awful," Bond said, and Q's lip quirked, fighting a smile, "but your fashion sense is. Are you colourblind?"

Q threw a crisp at him.

"You don't know the meaning of awful. You'll see soon enough," Q promised.

"Oh?" Bond replied, interested.

"Didn't you hear?" Q asked, raising a brow.

"Hear what?"

"You're slated for physical examinations next week. Tuesday morning."

Bond did very well not to let any emotion show on his face. It was news, that was for sure. Bond had thought that it would be at the beginning of next month, at the end of his leave. It was about six days too early. As much as he wanted to go back in the field, his stamina had yet to return, and he was still not back to his appropriate weight despite his best efforts. Bond wondered if Mallory was behind it. He had a feeling the new "M" was just looking for an excuse to retire him, and poor physical scores were just the thing.

"No one said anything," Bond said.

"Ah, well, that's...you didn't hear it from me, then…" Q replied, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, thanks for the warning," Bond said, a bit absentmindedly.

He was already thinking about what he could possibly do between now and the exam. There was only so far Bond could push himself before he did more harm than good. Unlike the old regime, Bond knew there would be no room for second chances. He either passed or retired. That was the new way of things. Without saying another word, Bond cleaned up his mess and prepared to leave. Q stopped him at the door.

"Bond," he said.

Bond turned to regard him. Q had stood up from behind his desk and he looked a little awkward, like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words.

"Good luck," Q said.

"I don't need luck," Bond replied.

"Please, you make luck your business," Q said, and Bond couldn't help but laugh at that, because it was true, but he wasn't about to admit that.

The next morning, Bond woke with some anxiety. He did one hundred pushups and situps on the hardwood floor between the living room and kitchen and tried not to think about the upcoming exam. But even reps could not stop him from worrying, just like the morning jog round the neighbourhood did not stop him, and he was just thinking he might become overwhelmed with all of it when he saw it clinging to his front door. Another Post-It note that read:

Of course.

Just tap three times and I'll play you a lullaby.

Always,

-507

Bond felt some of the tension drain away.

And he smiled.

After a hard day of training, Bond lay in bed that evening, sore in every bone and muscle and absolutely unable to sleep. He thought about the Post-It notes he put in the drawer in the kitchen. Tap three times the neighbour had said, like Bond's request hadn't been odd. They did not even know one another and here Bond was, asking for favours; here this person was, giving them. Bond thought maybe he shouldn't take them up on the offer, but it was approaching midnight and he didn't want to be awake as much as he didn't want to try to find a pill to help him sleep. So instead, Bond sat up in bed, then stood up on the mattress and knocked three times on the ceiling.

Above him, nothing but silence for the longest time. Then Bond heard the gentle creak of a bed, the flick of a lamp turning on, followed by the shuffle of feet moving into the living room. Bond strained his ears for the longest time. He heard the clock ticking in the kitchen and the hum of hot water in the pipes and the gentle patter of rain on the side of the building.

But there was no violin tonight. No piano, either. Bond thought that perhaps the stranger hadn't meant it after all. Maybe they were just trying to be polite and Bond had woken them up for no reason. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, feeling guilty for rousing the nameless person above him at such an hour, wondering how on earth he could apologise...

And then he heard it.

The notes were so soft that Bond almost missed them entirely. They meshed with the rain, something indescribably beautiful and sad. But as the song progressed, there was something born of that pain, something a bit more hopeful, though still somehow very fragile. Bond couldn't attribute the feeling to any single word in the English language or any image. It was something that transcended all knowledge and experience while at the same time encompassing all of it.

It was heartbreaking.

And then the music quieted, until it was just as it had started, a soft and lonely murmur against his skin. The last notes seemed to reverberate long after the player had stopped and returned to bed. Bond stared at the ceiling in the dark and wished he understood how this person he never met could play music that touched him so deeply, so intimately.

He wondered, just for a moment, if it was impossible to fall in love without ever having met.

Before he left for Six the next morning, Bond wrote out a note and taped it to 507's door:

The song you played last night

is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard

Could I trouble you for a recording?

-407

Bond walked down the hallway and then went back to the door. He considered tearing it down and not leaving it, but, in the end, he let it remain. Two days passed with no contact from upstairs, and Bond nearly ran himself into the ground working in the training rooms to give it much thought. It was on the morning of the third day, when Bond was sipping at his morning coffee, that he heard the gentle sound of something sliding beneath his door. Bond immediately went to investigate and found a white paper envelope on his doormat. Inside was a thin jewel case with a writable CD inside. The disc depicted the numbers 407 in black permanent marker, and yesterday's date. There was no note included in the case, but when Bond looked at the envelope, he found a line inside the flap:

No trouble at all.

Always,

-507

He hurried to open the front door and glanced down the corridor towards the lift, then the stairs, but the hallway was empty.

Chapter Text

Bond passed his physical examinations by the skin of his teeth. Even he couldn’t explain how he had managed to get one point above automatic retirement from field duty, but by some miracle, Bond had. The numbers were bad, of course, and Bond was borderline, but he was still kicking and that was something. On the other hand, the psychological evaluation was much less favourable. Mallory wasn’t impressed by Bond’s abrasive manner during the interrogation, and not even twenty minutes after, word got round to Bond that he intended to sit him out for another two weeks of leave. But someone must have intervened, because first thing the next day, Bond received his clearance and a new assignment in Ecuador, for which he would be leaving the following morning.

“Don’t cock it up,” Mallory warned him, before sending him off.

So Bond made the rounds: flirting with the secretarial pool as much as he was able while collecting his travel documents, then down to get updated with Medical, then finally to Q-Branch, to be outfitted with his equipment.

It was late afternoon when Bond arrived, and Q was not in his office. A minion timidly relayed to him that Q was still in one meeting or another and would be back shortly. Bond took that as his invitation to wait in Q’s closet of an office, where he sat in Q’s chair and propped his feet up on the desk. When Q finally arrived about fifteen minutes later, he looked even more harried and tired than when Bond had seen him last. His arms were full of paperwork.

“Get your feet off my desk,” he said briskly, and Bond obediently dropped his feet to the floor as Q dumped the stack on the ground near the door.

“Looks like you have half the rainforest there,” Bond commented, nodding at the pile of paperwork.

“Yes, and the other half is on its way,” Q replied. His voice sounded hoarse, and Bond wondered if it was from trying to talk sense into a stubborn committee board. “I assume you’re here for your kit.”

“I am. Should I be thanking you?” Bond asked, holding up the mission folder.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Q answered, with a good enough poker face that Bond almost believed him.

“Thank you,” Bond said, as Q waved him up out of the chair and back onto the floor.

“Just promise you won’t die.”

Q led Bond to his workstation, where a kit already sat waiting beside his computer, but he did not hand it over immediately. Instead, he opened it up to look at and handle each piece of equipment, as if the triple checks on all outgoing inventory were not already effective enough.

“Why? Do you have money on me?” Bond asked, as he watched him.

“Twenty quid.”

“That’s all?”

“All I can spare. I’m going to have to buy my own lunches from now on.”

“I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” Bond replied, as Q checked the chamber of his Walther and then its clip. There was something very appealing about his delicate, pale hands round the smooth metal of his gun, but Bond did his best not to think on it too much.

“I hope that means you’ll be returning all my equipment in one piece,” Q said, placing the weapon back onto the bed of foam, next to the already-approved earpiece and radio.

“Of course. I’ll be sure to steer clear of all komodo dragons,” Bond assured him.

Q closed the case and handed it over with a half-amused smile.

“Best of luck, 007. Try not to make a scene, if you could. Less paperwork for me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Bond ended up making a scene.

It was his first mission back, and he couldn’t help it if explosions were necessary to celebrate his return. He suffered some minor burns and a small cut through his eyebrow, but he came home after two weeks relatively unscathed.

That, he could not say for MI6.

When he went to debrief, he found the place working on a skeleton crew. Apparently, some sort of nasty bug had gotten round, taking out over half the staff in the course of the fifteen days Bond had been out of the country. When Bond debriefed with Mallory, the other man dabbed at his red nose constantly and made an effort to not sniffle during their conversation. Luckily, it did not last long, and Bond escaped before he could start feeling badly for the other man.

Kit in hand, Bond went down to TSS, fully intending to drop off his equipment and then coerce Q out for dinner. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had missed their lunchtime conversations while away. Q was easy to talk to, their conversations never strained or lacking. Q’s wit constantly kept Bond on his toes, and his dry sort of humour always had a way of putting a smile on his face, even if Bond was not in the mood. It made Bond feel like he almost had a friend.

And he needed the company of a friend that night, when the remnants of adrenalin still flickered through his blood. It kept him too tense and alert to sleep, but did not deliver enough of a high to keep the aches and pains at bay, the ones that made him feel more old than accomplished at mission end.

But when he arrived downstairs, Q was not there. Apparently he had been one of the people affected by the plague going round, and had not been in that day. So one of his minions took care of the kit, handed Bond a stack of paperwork, and sent him on his way. With no intent to work on it, Bond dropped the folder on Q’s chair and strolled out of Six. He stopped at the pub round the corner from his old flat and had fish and chips and a beer or two for a late dinner.

It was an off night, but the place was still relatively crowded. There was a woman making eyes at him from across the bar, but Bond pointedly ignored her interest as he finished his meal and drink and then left for the evening. On the way back to his flat, Bond wondered just why he had done such a thing. He wasn’t too tired and she wasn’t half-bad looking, but still, he had not been keen. Bond wondered if it was age catching up with him. It was better that than admitting he would rather go home to listen for his neighbour playing the piano than want an easy shag. He told himself again and again that it was not the reason, and drove round London aimlessly in the evening traffic for some time.

When Bond made it home, it was quarter to ten.

Upon stepping into the foyer of his flat, he immediately heard the person upstairs. But the sounds were not their usual mellifluous notes from the piano or violin; they were of the harshness of a terrible cough. It came across deep and wet, even through several layers of plaster, and Bond winced up at the ceiling in sympathy. It made him sincerely hope that he had not touched any surfaces while at Six, because getting sick was the last thing he wanted.

Bond listened to his neighbour for hours in between having a shower and trying to read a novel he had picked up on a whim at the airport. He tried not to worry about 507, who said without even knowing Bond that they would play music if he needed, to just tap three times and that was all. They didn’t ask for anything in return and maybe that was why, when Bond lay in bed that night, he could not sleep. What kind of person would do that? And someone who worked for Six, no less. That sort of kindness had been stamped out of all of them long ago, hadn’t it?

The coughing tapered off for an hour or two, then picked up in the middle of the night. Come morning, Bond hadn’t slept much, and he still heard the muffled sound of coughing above him, indicating that his sickly neighbour hadn’t either.

Despite bone-deep exhaustion, Bond dressed and went for a run, then stopped at the nearest chemist on his way back to the flat. Bond picked up cough medicine and drops, a box of paracetamol, tissues, some crackers, and a few cans of soup, which he left on the doorstep of 507 with a knock and a note:

Get well soon.
-407

He left before they could make it to the door.

Three days passed and the weather turned colder. It began sleeting more often than not, so Bond took his morning runs inside to MI6, which kept him away from the flat for longer stretches of time throughout the day. He did not see Q or Eve during these days, but he did run into Tanner, who, like Mallory, was in the process of recovery.

“It’s been a nightmare,” he admitted, when he and Bond caught up during a brief lunch in between Tanner’s meetings. “Most of our branch heads are out with it, so we’re thinking it went round in one of the board meetings. Do you know, we nearly had to sedate Eve to send her home? Poor thing worked herself into walking pneumonia before we finally got her to take the week off. Q wasn’t any better, let me tell you, but at least we got him offline and in bed where he belonged.” Bill paused and sighed as he leant back in his seat. “And on top of it, Mallory was stubborn enough to go to his meeting with the PM last week, so now she’s spreading it round her office. I just know I’m going to get a call from Parliament any day now.”

“Sounds like London will fall in no time,” Bond said.

“If I knew it wasn’t this bloody awful weather, I’d blame terrorists,” Tanner said, and Bond laughed. He let Bill go soon after to attend to all the crises that were undoubtedly happening in the absence of almost all authority. He spent his afternoon in solitary: training, then swimming in the pool, before finally going home.

Bond heard his neighbour move about very little that night, as had been the norm for the past few days. It took all his self control to not investigate to see if they were alright. But because it was an invasion of privacy--and the fact that any MI6 personnel would undoubtedly have a coronary if a Double-Oh climbed through their window--Bond refrained, and instead continued to leave packages at the doorstep every morning in hopes that they would soon recover.

At the end of that week, things at MI6 began to pick up again as people returned to work. Everyone still looked exhausted and sounded terrible, but they were at least back to getting things done. When Bond stopped by to see Eve, she had absolutely no voice and had to write things down on pads of paper to have a conversation. She looked tired, but grateful when Bond handed over a cup of tea he had picked up especially for her. There were piles of paperwork on her desk and probably twice as many emails, so Bond left her be after a short visit and went in search of Q.

He found the other man in his office behind his computer, also surrounded by mountains of folders.

“You just had to blow up Ecuador, didn’t you?” Q asked, not even looking at Bond. His voice was almost entirely gone, making his question less biting than he probably intended.

“It needed a facelift,” Bond replied.

“You need a facelift,” Q grumbled from the other side of the monitor.

“You must be sick if that’s the best you can come up with,” Bond said.

“Sod off. While you’ve been destroying Quito, I’ve been coughing up a lung.”

“You’ll be fine. You have two for a reason.”

Q threw a biro at him.

“Are you done?” Q asked.

“Well I was going to insult you and then buy you lunch.”

“My lucky day.”

“I’ll bring you soup,” Bond offered, but Q shook his head.

“I don’t want to even think about food for a while,” he replied, looking a little green at the mention.

“You have to eat,” Bond said, over the sound of Q’s phone ringing.

“Yes, mother, I’ll be fine,” Q replied, and held up a sleeve of crackers he had stashed under a report with one hand, waving Bond off with the other. Bond took that as his dismissal and left Q to work in some semblance of peace.

When he went home that evening, he was surprised to find a plain kraft paper bag on the doorknob. Inside was a bottle of Glenfiddich and another CD case with a note that read:

I think you you saved my life.
Consider this my thanks.
I hope both are to your taste.
Always,
-507

Bond brought both inside, but spent less time looking at the alcohol and more with the disc. This one had an insert sheet on the inside cover where there were notes in his neighbour’s script. It read: 407 -- Recorded 20/10/2013-21/10/2013.

Immediately, Bond took it into his bedroom, where he put it in the Bose player with the other CD, which he often played before he went to sleep. Just like the other song, the intro was so soft that Bond barely heard it, until the music swelled in intensity and volume. It wasn’t quite melancholy, but it wasn’t joyful either, characterised by a distinct yearning for something unreachable. It lodged itself just under Bond’s ribcage and filled the space with every note, every breath, until Bond felt full of it. And then, it quieted until it suddenly stopped, halfway through a heartbeat, leaving Bond hanging on the edge of a precipice he did not quite know he had reached.

He sat in the silence, that last note ringing in his ears until it, too, faded into nothing but the creak of floorboards. 

 A week later, Bond heard the news that MI6 would be moving to a new location, though when and where had still not been disclosed to all personnel. Bond did his best to get in touch with Moneypenny--who would definitely have that information--but she was completely unreachable, as was Tanner. Most likely they were hiding from the onslaught of people who were wanting answers to the vague email that had begun circulating that morning.

With no one in Administration to bother, Bond took his questions to TSS, where he found a very annoyed Q cramped up in his office with what seemed like the entirety of R&D. They were all talking at once about the move, demanding dates and locations so that they could begin the transfer process.

“Once I know the particulars, you will all be immediately notified,” Q said, raising his already-strained voice over the din. Bond could tell that he was trying to get them out of the office, and not entirely because they were being obnoxious; he remembered that Q once mentioned his claustrophobia, which was the reason they never closed the door during their lunchtime conversations. All those people were most likely triggering that reaction and Bond felt something twist in his chest that made him intervene.

“You heard him. Move along,” Bond said.

He had never seen so many faces go so simultaneously pale before. Within seconds, the boffins had cleared out, leaving Q looking relieved and grateful in their wake.

“I’m going to need to get you on speed dial,” Q told him, before turning his head to cough into the crook of his elbow. Bond politely leant against the doorframe to give him space, and waited until he was through. When the weak fit passed, Q’s cheeks were flushed with the exertion and his eyelashes were damp. Bond felt a traitorous thought emerge in his mind that he quickly chased away, because thinking his Quartermaster gorgeous was dangerous territory indeed. Just friends, Bond reminded himself, because he was not about to go down that road again, not with Q.

“Ugh this bloody cold,” Q mumbled, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Alright?” Bond asked, as Q put his lenses back on.

“Alright as ever,” he answered.

“You look peaky,” Bond continued.

“One usually does after when they don’t have time to see the sun.”

“The sun’s out today. Let’s get lunch.”

Which is how they ended up in a shop round the corner from Six, seated at a table so small, their knees touched. The place was loud and crowded with the lunch rush, but the food was good, and it was satisfying in a way that Bond couldn’t quite name to see Q eating a healthy portion of real food instead of subsisting on handfuls of crackers and biscuits.

“I eat,” Q said, when Bond brought it up.

“You eat like you’re starved,” Bond replied, looking at Q’s empty plate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone eat so fast before.”

Q went a lovely colour with obvious embarrassment.

“I eat when I remember,” Q amended.

“Or when someone brings you food,” Bond said, and Q made a noncommittal noise as he nicked one of Bond’s chips from his plate. Bond allowed it, going so far to nudge the dish at Q should he want more. He wondered what they looked like to other people, sitting in their huddled corner, sharing the remains of their lunch. Did they look like two mates out on a work reprieve? Or something more? Bond even wondered in that moment what they were exactly, because even though Bond thought friends was enough, he sometimes caught himself looking in ways that weren’t appropriate because it wasn’t enough. He wondered if it was loneliness, wondered if it was the simple fact that there were very few people in the world who didn’t want to kill him--or hadn’t already killed him, in Moneypenny’s case--and Q just happened to be one of them.

“You’re thinking,” Q said.

“Is that a crime?” Bond asked.

“It should be,” Q replied, with no malice, just humour. Bond quirked a grin at him, and Q returned it, but didn’t resume the conversation until they were on their way back to Six. They were standing at the crossing with their hands in their pockets against the cold, waiting for the pedestrian signal when Q spoke up.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked, and Bond looked at him. The sun had disappeared sometime during their lunch hour and London was drizzling; the moisture clung to Q’s dark hair in misty waves. “You know, to help with the thinking bit?”

Bond turned his attention away from Q and stared straight ahead.

“No,” Bond said.

“Ah, well, I’m here if you need,” Q said, his usual eloquence gone, leaving an awkward offer in its place. Q must have noticed it, because he tripped over his words to continue with: “When it comes to personal matters, I’m not good at the talking part, but I do listen, for what it’s worth.”

“Thanks, Q,” Bond said, as the light signalled for them to cross. He caught a glimpse of Q out of the corner of his eye, smiling something a bit sad as he said:

“Any time.”

Come the beginning of November, Bond was informed that he would be sent out on a long term mission that could last into the New Year. With only twenty-four hours notice, Bond made use of the time cleaning up his apartment, making sure to bin the milk and takeaway containers so that they did not grow their own ecosystem while he was away. Then he made the calls through Six’s Service line to have someone maintain the flat, collect the mail, pay the telly bills, and those sorts of things.

After all was said and done, Bond slept the remaining hours away and slipped out of his flat at five in the morning to catch the first flight out of Heathrow. But before he left, Bond went upstairs and posted a note to 507’s door, which read:

I’m going away for a while
I’ll miss your music when I’m gone
Take care
-407

Before Bond could think better of it, he left.

He had minimal contact with Six during his time in the States, where he had been enlisted to help Felix infiltrate a group that he suspected might be related to Quantum. At the end of it, the assignment was for naught, as it turned out they had no connection to the group. He and Leiter had a time of it, at least, and it was nice to catch up under less-stressful circumstances. But come mid-December, Bond had an ache for London that he couldn’t soothe in D.C. or New York City, and Felix agreed to do all the paperwork and let him loose a week early.

Unfortunately, Bond found himself grounded at Laguardia because of inclement weather, and by the time he made it back to England, it was a few days before Christmas Eve. He caught a taxi and made it home at some ungodly hour of the morning. Aware of his neighbours, Bond tread as lightly as he could in the corridor, and took care to not make too much noise once in his flat. After a half-hearted shower, Bond fell into bed and slept for thirteen hours straight.

When he woke up, it was mid-afternoon. The building felt still and quiet around him, such a difference to the noisy hotel rooms he had inhabited for the past month and a half. Groaning, Bond got up to make coffee, and he was on his way to the living room to lounge on the couch when he saw it.

There was a jewel case on the floor in his foyer.

Bond went and collected it immediately. There was a note inside that read:

Welcome home
Always,
-507

Like the previous, the disc had a written insert. It read, in 507’s particular brand of left-handed scrawl: 407 - Recorded 17/12/2013. Bond took it and a fresh cup of coffee into his bedroom where he added the CD to his player. Just like the other songs, the opening was so soft that Bond barely heard the notes of a solitary piano. They were as soft and repetitive as rain, soon overlayed with the movement of several violins. The infusion of the sounds was like nothing Bond had ever heard before, something epitomising the feeling of isolated introspection, tinged at the edges with a loneliness that Bond knew all too well.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He expected to think of something melancholy, to remember the terrible things that woke him up in the middle of the night. But there was nothing in the space of his head except for him and the music and the beating of his own heart.

When the song finished, Bond swore he could still hear it resonating in the silence.

That afternoon, Bond went to MI6.

Although the new location had been undisclosed when Bond left for the States, he got word of it through Leiter’s contacts at the CIA a few weeks ago: MI6 had returned to their old fortress, the Babylon-on-Thames. When Bond stepped onto the pavement at Vauxhall and looked up at it, there were no traces of damage from Silva’s attack, no indication that that had ever happened in the first place. It stood proudly as a symbol against all their enemies, that England would not cower and hide in the face of adversity, that She would rebuild, that She would prevail, always. Something about seeing her sturdy, strong walls in the mid-winter light raised a kind of hope in Bond he thought had left him long ago.

Now that was a grand old warship if he’d ever seen one.

He went inside through the doors he thought he might never walk through again, and took the lift to the top floor. When he stepped out, Bond paused and looked down the familiar corridor. The carpet had been changed and the paint smelt fresh on the walls, but the light still fell across the threshold as it always had, because it was the same unmistakable hallway that he had walked many times before. Despite this, Bond did not move, because he knew that when he reached the end of the corridor and walked through the entryway to the head office, M would not be at her desk, with that ugly old bulldog sitting watch to the right of her rolodex. The desk might be the same and the chair and the window overlooking London, but it would be Mallory sitting there instead of her, because she was dead and gone and buried and Bond had nothing to remember her by but that bulldog on his mantle and the ghost of her that he felt in this hallway that had once been hers.

But there was nothing he could do for the dead, so Bond put his hands into his pockets and tried to push away that thing at the back of his mind that felt uneasy, and walked the rest of the way with a confidence he had to fake.

When he entered the office, Bond found Moneypenny at a new desk with a sleek new computer and a view of the overcast city past her shoulders. She looked up at him and smiled like she had been expecting him.

“Welcome back,” she said, and held up her hands. “And I do mean back.”

“Never thought I would see this place again,” Bond replied, taking a seat across from her.

“Still the same old Six, just with new carpeting and a fresh coat of paint. Oh, and that bloody big hole in the front has been repaired too,” Eve said jokingly. “Other than that, not much has changed.”

Bond glanced to the side, at the door that had once led to M’s office.

“Enough has,” Bond said.

Eve looked a bit uncomfortable for a moment, but then bounced right back into conversation.

“How were the States?”

“Tedious,” Bond answered.

“And yet, here you are, almost two weeks earlier than expected, and with no reports of damaged property from the CIA,” Eve said. “This might be a record.”

“Early Christmas gift,” Bond answered.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were on your best behaviour. Almost like you’re trying to impress a certain Quartermaster?”

Bond did well to not let anything show in his expression. Either Moneypenny knew something she shouldn’t or she was making very large leaps that happened to border a bit too closely with the truth.

“I suppose that means you don’t know any better,” Bond replied.

Eve’s mouth quirked round a smile.

“What do you need, then?” she asked. “Or are you just here to wish me a Happy Christmas?”

“I need you to look something up for me,” Bond said, removing a Post-It from his pocket, which he handed over to Moneypenny. “The person who lives at this address.”

“What’s wrong with Google?” Eve replied, taking the paper with a raised eyebrow.

“Give me some credit,” Bond said.

Eve laughed and read the address.

“Having trouble with a neighbour?” she asked.

“What?”

“This is your building, right? One of the new MI6 flats in Chelsea?”

“How do you know?”

“I heard about your relocation a while ago. Accounting was in fits over your hotel fees.”

Bond grinned and Moneypenny scowled at him.

“Nothing to be proud of,” she scolded.

“Yes it is,” Bond said, and Eve let out a breath of annoyance.

“So what’s the problem? Barking dog? Noisy sleepwalker? The third shift nymphomaniac?” she asked, edging on a grin at the last one.

“No, I just want to know who they are,” Bond replied.

“Well, everyone is MI6, you know that. So all their files are locked,” she answered.

“Can’t you get around that?”

“You’re talking to the wrong person.”

Bond frowned at her, because if there was anyone who was the right person, it was Moneypenny. Being right-hand to M gave her that power.

“But can’t you see everything?” Bond inquired.

“Not everything, just the important bits that we might need in an emergency. The rest is encrypted, too, for extra security,” Eve replied. “After Silva, TSS thought it best that we couldn’t be too careful.”

“So I’d have to talk to Q, then?” Bond asked, and her little enigmatic smile returned.

“He’s not here right now,” Eve replied.

“Where is he, then?” Bond asked.

“Moving. We’re still transferring equipment from the old base. It’s been a nightmare,” Eve said. “But even if he was here, he wouldn’t let you in, either. It’s against regulations. We have to keep our employees safe. That means guarding their privacy.”

“So that even you can’t find where they live? What if there’s an emergency?” Bond asked.

“There’s backup for that, but that’s none of your business. Off you go,” Moneypenny said, making a shooing motion with her hand.

“Eve--”

“If you want to know so badly, just go and talk to them. Maybe she’s cute?” she interrupted with a smile.

Bond regarded her suspiciously, wondering if she was doing this just to make his life difficult.

“Happy Christmas, Miss Moneypenny,” he said, and turned his back.

Eve’s laughter followed him down the hallway to the lifts.

Bond ran into Q the following day.

It wasn’t quite by accident, because Bond had decided to go to old HQ to check up on him after so many weeks away. He assured himself that friends did those sorts of things, so it wasn’t completely out of line, even if his plan was to simply go and watch from an unobserved distance. So Bond hadn’t expected to literally collide with the other man in the hallway. Q made a startled sound at the impact, and promptly dropped everything he had been carrying as he stumbled back.

“Buggering fuck--” Q said, looking at the mess, then at Bond with the exasperated expression that Bond found he oddly had missed. There was just something about the way Q looked when borderline angry, something that reminded Bond exactly how long he had gone without someone pretty and intelligent in his bed. He chased that thought away as soon as it came.

“Didn’t take you for being so foul-mouthed, Quartermaster,” Bond said.

“I’ll show you foul-mouthed…” Q grumbled, straightening his glasses. “You really ought to wear a bell.”

“You shouldn’t startle so easily,” Bond teased, and knelt down to help clean the mess.

“I was doing well while you were gone. No secret agents to sneak up on me,” Q replied, joining Bond on the ground to begin collecting up the scattered computer parts upon the floor.

“Sounds like my absence gave you a false sense of security,” Bond said.

“Ah, see, I beg to differ. I would call it normalcy,” Q replied.

“Boring,” Bond said.

“There’s been no time for boring,” Q answered, though there was something of a smile on his lips.

“You missed me,” Bond said.

“I did,” Q replied, and before Bond could register what that meant, the other man continued: “It would have been marvellous to have a strong back round here to help with this move.”

“Cold,” Bond said, as Q arranged the pieces onto the tray he had been carrying. “And here I was going to offer to buy you dinner.”

Q looked up from his work with an expression that made Bond realise just how his offer came across, so he quickly added:

“You’re looking scrawny.”

It wasn’t really a lie. Q did look a little thinner than the last time Bond had seen him, and his clothes were perpetually wrinkled, giving him the look of someone very aged and tired. And although Bond meant nothing malicious by it, Q looked offended.

“I’m not scrawny,” Q said, nose wrinkling in annoyance, in a way that Bond thought too attractive. He mentally berated himself and continued:

“You are, hence the reason why I’m buying you dinner,” Bond replied.

“Well, as well-intentioned as the offer is, I’ll have to take a rain check until after the New Year,” Q said, standing with his tray in some semblance of its previous order. “Everything will finally be sorted by then.”

Bond stood up to regard him face-to-face again.

“So you’re not going to eat for two weeks then?” Bond asked.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Bond,” Q replied, and began walking the way he had originally been headed. “It’s not like I’m incapable of feeding myself without you nearby.”

“Not incapable, just forgetful,” Bond said, and Q turned back to regard him.

“It’s good to have you back, Bond. Happy Christmas.”

And with that, he was gone.

Bond told himself that he was done with drinking himself to death every few days, but after a dry spell of nearly two months, Bond needed something.

That night, he went to one of his usual haunts and drank until he couldn’t see straight. There were fairy lights everywhere and tinsel and trees decorated with baubles and bright garlands. Everyone was cheerful, as cheerful as holiday music and Christmas sweaters. Bond tried to drown it out the best he could, but even the alcohol couldn’t dilute the ache in him, fill the hollowness that seemed perpetual on nights like these.

He ended up calling it a night rather early, not in the mood for company even if that was what he ultimately desired. But the thought of the work that went into it was too much--having to be someone else was too much--and Bond left with his head down against the sleet, where he then took on a quiet, uneventful taxi ride back to his flat.

Upon arriving home, Bond immediately went into his bedroom, not even bothering to disrobe or remove his shoes. He lay in bed and listened to the most recent disc he had received, putting on repeat so that the ending blended with the beginning until the piece was neverending, seamless and perfect to ride out this tumultuous thing inside him. He blamed the time of year. Holidays were always the worst, because they served to highlight the loneliness and despair more acutely than the chronic ache he felt throughout the year. And now, returning to MI6, he felt M’s absence raw and ragged, the clot on a wound torn away.

He wondered if it would ever heal, or if it would be a forever gash, like the one Vesper left behind.

Bond lay there for some time, losing himself in the melancholy of his mind, in the music, in the haze of alcohol that began to taper off into sobriety. The crisp reality was unwanted, bringing Bond back to the needs of his body: the tiredness, the hunger. He sat up and turned the music off, running his hands over his face. The clock on the bedside said it was nearing midnight, but Bond knew a place that would still deliver, so he got up and went to the kitchen to find the number.

Ignoring the stack of mail on his counter, Bond rummaged through the drawers until he found the menu, and then placed his call. The food arrived close to the same time as 507 came home; Bond heard their tread in the foyer above him, the quiet click of the door. As Bond served himself a healthy portion of rice, chicken, and vegetables, he tried very hard not to listen to his neighbour move about the flat. But somehow, he had become hyper-aware of this person since he had moved in, and still remained so even after almost a month abroad. He knew their footsteps and habits as intimately as a lover’s, but still he did not know them.

As he sat at his table alone, Bond wondered if 507 was sitting down to a solitary supper too. In the few months since he moved in, Bond had never heard anyone come to visit, so they, like Bond, lived a quiet, private life. It was just a passing thought, but Bond wondered if they were lonely working long stretches of days at MI6, but if they found some sort of welcome companionship in knowing that they could play beautiful music for an appreciative audience of one. And then, Bond wondered what it would be like to meet them, beyond the notes and the discs and tapping at the ceiling at odd hours of the morning. Already, he felt a connection between them, something forged out of the shared beauty of the music, the quiet stories buried in the notes, the word always written in that particular left-handed script.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like touching someone, feeling the warmth of another body, a gaze, a kiss. It was something felt between floorboards, removed and distant in a way that made Bond desperate for contact, for something more than the loneliness of their isolation.

And almost as if they had read his mind, Bond heard the sound of a bow over strings, the draw of a note that caressed the air and filled the empty void between them. It was unfamiliar at first, but by the second bar, Bond realised that he knew the song, the lull and lilt of a long-forgotten childhood in Scotland, when Christmas carols were still sung by a happy family Bond could barely remember.

He leant back and listened to the soft melody of Silent Night, the faint clicking of a pedal as certain sections were repeated on a loop while new notes were played. It was beautiful artistry, seemingly effortless, and Bond didn’t necessarily feel cheerful, but his thoughts had calmed, no longer of Vesper or of M or of that aching loneliness. And it might have been a small, temporary accomplishment, but it was something.

Chapter Text

There was that odd number of days between Boxing Day and New Year’s that always felt endless and uncertain, because it wasn’t quite a holiday, but everyone was still in the mindset of one. The stores still had up their fairy lights and garlands and baubles and the songs on the radio were nothing short of overzealously cheerful. It seemed like everywhere Bond looked, there was some sort of lingering reminder to keep his loneliness at the forefront of his thoughts. So Bond went to MI6 and spent the majority of his unoccupied hours running the treadmill into the ground and shooting at paper targets because it was the only thing that kept him from trying to drink away his self-destructive thoughts.

Six helped, because it seemed to be the only place in the entirety of London that hadn’t been touched by the holiday spirit. There were no trees or tinsel or tins of cookies in the breakroom and Tanner had forgone the yearly tradition of bringing in plates of peanut brittle from Christmas Eve through the New Year, until everyone was ready to puke at the merest scent of the stuff. Even the secretarial pool wasn’t as festive as usual, opting for dark coloured clothing and no decoration in their empty, neutral palleted cubicles. It seemed wrong, even if Bond never took part in the annual traditions, because even though the lack of holiday spirit was just what he wanted, it was perhaps not what he needed. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact that it was the first holiday without M, who could be as fearful as ever, year after year in her Father Christmas cardigan and sleigh bell earrings.

But there were no celebrations, the holiday party having been cancelled because of the transition and with everyone still scattered and disoriented.

“It’s been a long year,” Moneypenny told him, over coffee one afternoon. They were at another pretentious cafe--this one Italian, not French--that Moneypenny informed him had opened during the period they had been underground. In the past few weeks, it had become rudely popular with the admins, many of which were in adjacent tables from them. “We’re just lucky that the rest of the world seems to be having one too. At least we haven’t been busy with our usual dramatics.”

“Leave it to you to refer to international terrorism as our usual dramatics,” Bond said.

Eve smiled, but she seemed tired. Bond knew he probably looked the same.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she said.

“What?”

“How everything seems normal when it’s not?”

Bond chose to drink his coffee and not comment.

“How was your holiday, then?” she asked.

“You know how my holiday went,” Bond said gruffly.

It was her turn to lapse into silence without a word, and Bond felt badly about his harshness, but did not apologise.

“Any plans for New Year’s Eve?” she asked.

“No,” Bond replied.

“You should come out,” Moneypenny said. “A few of us are going to the pub.”

“I’ll pass,” Bond said.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun.”

He gave her doubtful look.

“Well, it won’t be awful,” she amended. “Look, it’ll be me and Bill and Katie, from Intentions--you know, the cute one with the pixie haircut?--and Michael and Toby from Logistics, also possibly Mary from Accounting…and I think Mary said that if she comes, she’s bringing a friend, too, but darn if I can remember her name…”

“Sounds like a crowd,” Bond said.

“You sound just like Q,” Moneypenny replied. “He said the same thing when I invited him out.”

“Oh?” Bond asked.

“Yes, but he’s coming. He just doesn’t know it yet,” Eve said.

“How’s that?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“Top secret, then?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a sly grin. “But it’s for the greater good. I’ve got to get him out of that lab. It’s going to drive him mad.”

“We work for Six. We’re all a bit mad.”

“Madder.”

Bond conceded that she was right with a gentle shrug.

“So I’ll see you then,” Moneypenny said, not asked. “7:30 at The Pint Room.”

“Maybe,” Bond said.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be.

New Year’s Eve came round and it was near eight that night when Bond walked in through the front door of the pub.

He thought he might just stay in that night with his thoughts and drink, but it was too oppressively silent in his head and in the flat above him, so Bond donned his coat and went out, figuring what the hell could it hurt.

The place was loud and crowded with enough bodies to violate city fire laws, but everyone seemed to be having a good time, even the policemen still in uniform near the door, sharing a pint. It took Bond some time to get a drink, then to weave through the masses to a corner booth where he spotted Eve’s goldenrod frock through the sequins and glitter of everyone else. She was lovely, even more so when she beamed upon noticing him, and Bond thought he really could forgive her for shooting him off that train in Istanbul for how gorgeous she looked.

She was surrounded by faces that Bond vaguely recognised from round the office, all the times he’d gone flirting through departments because he was bored and everyone else was too busy. Then there was Tanner, much more relaxed than the last time Bond had seen him. He had the top two buttons of his shirt undone and his tie loose round his neck and he was smiling a bit like he used to back when they had first started out.

It wasn’t until he reached the table that Bond saw Q tucked in the corner amongst them.

He was unobtrusive that way. It was interesting how Q could command a room just as easily as he could disappear in one, but when their eyes met, Bond saw him. He wore different glasses--slim and silver, much more handsome than his usual specs--and a nice hunter green button down that Bond had never seen before. If Bond didn’t know better, he might say that Q had even tackled his hair with a comb, because it looked tidier than usual. Q gave him a half smile round the rim of his glass, but Bond didn’t get to say a word before he was pulled into Moneypenny’s introductions.

Everyone already knew him by his reputation. All of the girls tittered excitedly at the sight of him, but one of their male companions went rather whey at his handshake. The other man at the table did not seem to notice him, what with his gaze pointedly fixed on Q, his lips still moving in a conversation that Bond could tell his Quartermaster had very little interest in. He thought about making his presence known, about telling the twink to move so that he could sit down, but Bill quickly made a seat for him and Bond accepted.

The conversation was spotty at best because of the volume of the pub, so Bond could only hear Bill and the girl next to him and possibly Eve if she shouted. Across the table, the words were completely inaudible, so Bond was left to fill in the gaps by watching everyone’s facial expressions. Every now and then Q would meet his gaze, looking bored and somewhat annoyed, and Bond just grinned until Q rolled his eyes and continued listening to the one-sided conversation beside him.

But then, something happened, so minute that no one else noticed but Bond, because Bill was chatting up the bird next to him and Moneypenny was in deep gossip with the rest of them. But Bond saw the way Q went very rigid in his seat, the way he looked at the other man and said something with a gaze so level and serious that it brought to mind the way his Quartermaster dealt with particularly troublesome minions in the lab. But his icy expression did nothing to perturb the man, who simply laughed at whatever he said. Bond saw Q’s jaw clench as he reached beneath the table.

The man looked confused and then as if he were in sudden pain. He wrenched his hand away from Q, from out beneath the table where it had obviously been wandering unwanted, and quickly slid out of the booth to let Q pass. Q paused only a moment, leant down, and said something in the man’s ear before disappearing. It wasn’t until after Q left that Bond saw the man looked properly shamed.

Excusing himself from Bill’s side, Bond got up and made to follow Q through the crowd. He paused only momentarily to give the man in the booth an intimidating glare--finding a sort of glee when he shrunk away--and then went searching for Q. Bond found him at the edge of the bar, looking distracted even as drinks were placed in front of him. By the time Bond stood beside him, Q was on his third shot.

“Alright?” Bond asked; he could see Q’s hand shaking.

“Fine,” Q said, turning the glass over next to the others. He didn’t look at Bond.

“Do you want me to hurt him for you?” Bond asked, half-jest, half-not.

“It’s fine,” Q told him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If he touched you--”

“Bond, it’s okay.”

Bond felt some of his anger bleed away when Q put his hand on top of his, the one that was making a fist in his anger. The warmth of him was exhilarating in a way that Bond could not explain. It felt intimate, something more than a formal handshake, more than the accidental and awkward fumble of hands when exchanging paperwork or equipment. It was a touch of assurance, of trust, of something that went beyond whatever they were at work.

Bond looked at their joined hands, at Q, who was still distracted somewhere in his own head, and then back to their hands. He slowly turned his wrist and unfurled his fist, letting Q fall into the open expanse of his palm, where Bond’s fingers curled just slightly around his. It was almost as if they were holding hands, but Bond wasn’t grabbing and taking, just offering, and it was enough to bring Q out of wherever he was and back into that moment.

Q looked at Bond for the first time since he’d come over, and Bond was immediately enamoured by his eyelashes and cheekbones, two things he never thought much of before that moment, in the right light at the right time with the right person. Bond wondered for a moment if it would be different had it been anyone but Q, even Moneypenny. But then Q’s lips parted and he knew it would be different, because Bond wouldn’t feel guilty having these thoughts about eyelashes and cheekbones in front of anyone else. But because Q was Q and they were in some strange territory of not-quite-friends, Bond felt it: that crushing regret that he had trespassed a line that had been neatly drawn between them, those boundaries between desire and propriety.

Q must have realised it too, because he looked away as he pulled back his hand and used it to catch the attention of the bartender. He ordered two more drinks by holding up his fingers, and the barman obliged. Q slid the glass in Bond’s direction.

“To a Happy New Year?” Q said, holding up his glass in a toast.

“To a Better Than Last Year,” Bond said, and Q smiled and they drank. Bond pretended not to notice that Q watched him out of the corner of his eye as he swallowed, just as Q politely did the same when Bond watched him lick at his lips.

They had a few more drinks in them by the time Moneypenny appeared.

“There you are. I was wondering where you two had gone off to,” she said, and did a suggestive sort of thing with her eyebrows that made Q go red beside him. Before either of them could comment, Eve began directing them back to the booth. The man who had been keen on Q was gone, as were two of the girls, leaving a much smaller party and more room at the table. Someone had ordered food, and Bill waved them over to join in the festivities.

Q went in first, then Bond, and then Eve appeared behind them with a tray of drinks for everyone. They spent the next hour alternating between tabs, drinking and eating and talking in a way that Bond hadn’t done in years. He was rather enjoying himself, as was everyone else, except for Q, who seemed to have had one too many and kept nodding off against Bond’s shoulder.

“Oh just shake him, he’s fine,” Eve said, but Bond let him be, because he had a feeling Q hadn’t gotten a proper rest or meal in him in a while with all the stress at work.

He kept his expression engaged as the conversation flitted between subjects of little interest to him, but internally he was very aware of the warmth of Q’s cheek, the rise and fall of his chest. Bond only allowed himself a few glances at Q--ones that would be socially acceptable under the circumstances--and knew that he was most definitely in trouble, because even at a different angle, in different light, Q’s eyelashes still were tantalising enough to take his breath away.

Nearly a quarter to midnight, Q woke up after a few well-placed, teasing pokes from Eve. He swatted at her half-heartedly, mumbled something about getting some air, and wiggled out of the booth past Bond without another word. When he didn’t return after a few moments, Bond could not quite disguise the concerned glances he cast out over the crowd in search of him. Eve nudged his ankle under the table.

“Maybe you should go check on him,” she suggested, and Bond did not need to be told twice.

He checked the loo first, then walked the perimeter of the pub, but didn’t see him anywhere. It was only when Bond stepped outside that he found Q, leaning against the side of the building. There were a few others out as well, huddled in coats against the cold, trying to sneak in a quick fag before having to go back inside. But Q wasn’t smoking, he just stood there with his eyes closed as if sleeping, and it might have been a peaceful scene if it didn’t make Bond nervous. Here was one of MI6’s highest executives, drunk and defenceless on a city street corner. On top of it, he didn’t have a jacket, and he was bound to catch sick.

Bond approached him, leant on the wall next to him.

“Alright?” he asked, but Q did not lift his head.

“I had a lot to drink,” Q admitted, his words slow, but at least not slurred.

“Feeling sick?” Bond inquired, unsure if he managed to keep the concern from his voice.

“No, I just get overheated sometimes,” Q said, pushing his fringe away from his face with one hand as he straightened. Bond observed him, all angles of cheekbones and brows and jaw with only the curve of his lips and lashes to soften him. But Bond especially liked the flushed pink of Q’s cheeks, how a bit of alcohol gave him all the colour he could never keep on a normal day. He looked better for it, younger and less tired, but just as Bond was thinking this, Q turned away.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Bond asked.

“Making you leave,” Q answered, then looked back at Bond with a bit of apology. “Social gatherings aren’t really my area.”

“On the contrary, I think you’re the life of the party,” Bond said, and Q smiled at the reference to one of their earliest conversations. Bond particularly liked that smile, because it was a little warmer than the one he was used to seeing at work. Something a bit more unguarded, honest.

“Well then, I now have reason to only do this once a year, because I wouldn’t want to steal the limelight from those who crave it,” Q said, and Bond laughed. His breath visualised before him, a testament to the cold.

“And the night’s not over yet, so best not to let you freeze to death before then,” Bond said, as he began unbuttoning his jacket.

“I’m fine,” Q said to the gesture, his flush intensifying in a way that Bond found endearing.

“Then at least come back inside.”

“But they’re going to do fireworks any minute.”

Q had no sooner said these words when Bond heard the countdown begin from inside the pub.

“You have quite the timing,” Bond said.

He expected Q to say something witty in reply, because Bond had honestly left that one wide open in an invitation for banter. But Q did not.

Instead, Q kissed him.

James Bond did not often find himself just being kissed, as he was the one that usually instigated such a thing, even if it was with nothing but a glance and a well-timed brush of fingertips along someone’s forearm. But Q caught him off-guard with his forwardness, his confidence. And it wasn’t chaste, either. It was a full on kiss of lips and tongue and the press of Q’s body against his from shoulders to knees. Q tasted sweet, like liquorice, and something about it was completely overwhelming, like all of his senses had been dormant and suddenly come to life. Bond couldn’t remember the last time a simple kiss left him reeling.

He clutched at Q’s hair with both hands, weaving his fingers into ridiculously soft curls as he took control of the kiss. Q trembled against him and made a sound into his mouth like a whimper that awakened an ache below Bond’s navel. Bond was only dimly aware of the cold, of the cheering, of the fireworks, because nothing else mattered but the perfection of Q’s mouth, his body.

But then, Q abruptly pulled away, his hair a riotous mess, and Bond realised all too quickly what they had done, the line they had crossed.

“I’m sorry, I’m drunk,” Q said immediately, lips red, eyes so dark that there wasn’t any green left to them at all. He moved out of the circle of Bond’s arms as if he’d been burnt, and it took all Bond had to not reach out to him to pull him back. “That was...unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

Before Bond could say anything, Eve appeared, cheerfully singing Auld Lang Syne with some random strangers who had popped out to look at the fireworks.

“There you are! Happy New Year!” she said, throwing her arms round Q, then Bond, in celebratory hugs. The moment she released Q, he was gone, disappeared back into the crowded pub. Bond wanted to go after him, but he didn’t know what to do or say, especially when the taste of Q still lingered on his lips.

“Everything okay?” Eve asked.

“Yeah,” Bond replied distractedly, just as Q came back outside. He was dressed in his oversized anorak and not even on the pavement a moment before he was hailing one of the idling taxis from down the block. Q met his eyes for just a moment, before looking away, ashamed, and tucking into the cab. Eve did not see him with her back to the door, and Bond did not draw attention to his speedy getaway, settling for watching red taillights disappear into the distance beneath a shimmering evening sky.

“Everything’s fine.”

Three days after the New Year, and Bond found himself unable to stay away from MI6.

He had been doing his best to avoid the place, mostly because Q would be there and Bond wasn’t quite ready to confront him about what happened. But the flat was oppressively silent and 507 hadn’t been home in days to fill it with music, leaving Bond alone with nothing but his thoughts and his drink and not much else. He wanted Q, yes, but why, he could not say. He found comfort in Q, companionship in their conversation, trust in his calm voice that directed Bond over the comms. Q was smart and handsome in a way that Bond did not expect to find attractive or alluring, one of those enigmas that made Bond more infatuated the more he thought about him. But that’s all it was: infatuation. It wasn’t anything more than Bond misreading his own feelings. Trust did not mean love--did not mean lover--and while he felt sexual desire for Q, he doubted it would be appropriate to pursue him.

Q was young and intelligent and beautiful. He did not need to be wasting his time with someone who could not satisfy his needs and wants, who thought only of their temporary pleasure, who might be there one day and gone the next.

The more he thought about this, the more Bond felt an itch under his skin that couldn’t be soothed. It was that anxiety that finally drove him out the door and pulled him towards headquarters. He gravitated immediately to TSS, where he spotted Q amongst the white lab coats, a smudge of maroon and navy in their ranks. His Quartermaster noticed him and politely broke away from the congregation to make his way toward Bond.

“007.”

“Q.”

“What can I do for you?” Q asked, and a thousand inappropriate thoughts flitted through Bond’s mind at the question.

“A word?” Bond asked, and Q nodded silently as he lead him from the bullpen. They followed a short hallway to a small set of stairs, which led to a landing that housed only one door at its end. Q swiped his ID card and unlocked the door before stepping inside, waving Bond in behind him. It was a moderate-sized office with a large window overlooking the bullpen, offering ample room for a desk and chairs, a worktable, and some shelving units. There was also a sofa shoved in the corner that looked like it had recently been slept upon, judging from the haphazard pillow and blanket placement.

“Roomy,” Bond commented.

“Much more so than the last one, thankfully,” Q said.

Despite his words, when Bond went and closed the door, he noticed that Q immediately looked anxious. It seemed out of place in Q’s expression, after the months that Bond had come to know him, but he wasn’t about to have this sort of conversation without privacy.

“About New Year’s,” Bond began, and Q went very still when he looked at him.

They were standing across the room from one another, at odds with how they had been the last time they met. With all of his questioning thoughts, Bond had been reliving that one moment for days: the feeling of Q’s lips on his, the warmth and taste of him. There had been desire in that kiss, something that the excuse of drunkenness could not disguise.

So that is why he squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter, because he was going to have to end this now before it went any further.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” Q replied.

Bond couldn’t read his expression or tone, both as calm as placid water, and something about it made Bond unable to stop talking.

“It can’t mean anything. You understand.”

“I do,” Q said, but Bond didn’t think that he truly understood. He crossed the room and went to Q to look him right in the eyes, which darkened marginally under the weight of Bond’s gaze. It was then that he realised just how close they were, close enough that Bond only had to lean forward and he could kiss him, bury his fingers in Q’s hair, lose himself in the warmth of his body. Bond swallowed and Q watched, waited, until Bond finally found the words to say:

“I don’t think you do.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Bond honestly thought about crowding Q up against the desk and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t maintain his stoic confidence, but instead, Bond said:

“We’re friends, Q, nothing more than that.”

Q’s expression remained unmoved, but there was something in his eyes that flickered and shuttered closed, like a light extinguished in a dark room.

“Of course,” Q said, and moved away from Bond. He went to the window, keeping his back to Bond as he continued: “I apologise again for my lapse of judgment.” His voice didn’t waver, but Bond could see the tension in the line of his shoulders as clear as day, as clearly as he did in the strained smile that Q aimed at him when he turned around. “I hope this doesn’t affect our working relationship.”

“No, not at all,” Bond said.

“Good,” Q replied, and cleared his throat as he made himself look busy with some of the paperwork on his desk. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?”

“No…” Bond said, wishing he wasn’t such a good judge of character, because then he wouldn’t see all the cracks that Q was trying to hide from him; the fissures that Bond had made with his cruelty, however well-intentioned. “I’ll be on my way.”

Q didn’t say anything, just nodded once in Bond’s general direction, which he took as his cue and left.

Bond made it all the way down the hallway before something made him stop to glance back. He saw Q through the crack of the door, still standing, but with his hands on his desk, head down as if defeated. Bond felt a rush of protectiveness--of guilt--weigh heavily in his chest, because he was the one who had caused it. The only thing that helped was knowing that it was better this way; there was no sense in getting that close, not when things like life and death were so uncertain, when the possibility of hurting Q like that was so likely.

So Bond went away and tried to kill his thoughts with exercise, then with drink at home, but nothing helped. He knew he had done the right thing, but the image of Q standing there looking so lost made the doubts rise up tenfold in his mind. He had no idea how to salvage the situation, to gain back the relationship that they once had. But even if he did know, how on Earth could they go back now? Now that both of them knew there was a mutual attraction neither of them could act upon?

Close to midnight, Bond heard 507 come home. For the first time in days, he heard footsteps from above, but they were not the same light tread with which he was familiar. The gait was clumsy and loud they moved from door through living room, but it was not quite as startling as the angry crash of mashed keys on the piano. Something fell over, and then there was the sound of a body slumping onto the floor, knees and shoulders and elbows knocking against the wood. Bond strained his ears, wondering if everything was alright, if they were hurt or crying or just drunk.

He was overwhelmed with the want to go to them, but he refrained, because he couldn’t even take someone in his arms who wanted him, let alone someone who had never met him. There were all these boundaries between him and the things that he wanted, between him and Q, between him and this person who made the most beautiful music. There were unbreachable walls and barriers separating them, perpetuating their isolation until there was nothing but unfulfilled desire and bitterness. And there was nothing they could do except live and want and never have, never touch.

So Bond poured himself another drink, and then another, and then another, wishing he could wash away the taste of Q that he couldn’t forget.

Bond had a hangover the next day, but he didn’t get to sleep it off, because he had a call first thing from Moneypenny, telling him to come in immediately. Head pounding, he made himself as presentable as possible and was just about to walk out the door when he heard 507 begin stirring from upstairs. Quickly, Bond wrote out a note and took the stairwell up to the fifth floor so that he could post it onto 507’s door. It read:

Everything alright?
-407

He pressed it onto the door and paused, just a moment, debating on knocking instead of walking away. But his mobile buzzed insistently from his pocket, and Bond dashed off before he could think too hard on it.

There was a mission lined up for him in Montenegro. He had the afternoon to become acquainted with the parameters and the intel they had on the target before he would be shipped out on a red eye to arrive under the cover of darkness. Q-Branch was bustling with activity when he arrived, but Q was nowhere in sight, for which he was grateful. Bond received his kit from a Korean woman with a no-nonsense expression, who went only by the letter R. She explained how to use a new gadget--a tie pin that could unlock any door, even ones with ID swipe scanners--and then sent him on his way with firm instructions to check in upon landing.

When he arrived back at the flat, there was a folded note on his door, and Bond had to juggle the things he had been carrying in order to remove it. He dropped everything on the table in the foyer so that he could open the note and read it.

Just a bad day.
Don’t worry about me
Sorry if I kept you up.
Always,
-507

The slanted writing looked shaky, not the usual neat script, and Bond worried even though 507 said not to. Above him, the quiet footsteps alerted Bond that his neighbour was home, but there was no music that night. As Bond packed and pored over pages and pages of confidential files, it was oppressively silent. He thought that maybe 507 would pick up the violin closer to midnight, but they did not.

So it was with a heavy heart that Bond picked up his bag and made for the door. He jotted a note quickly, one which read:

I know what it’s like
That’s why I’ll worry about you even if you don’t want me to
I look forward to hearing your music again,
whenever that will be
Take care,
407

He climbed the short flight of stairs and slipped the note under 507’s door, before turning to catch the lift.

The sound of the piano followed him, something slow and quiet and sad, but the notes stopped abruptly, and the hallway fell into silence again. Bond waited, one foot in the lift, one out, but the music did not start again, and soon the doors were beeping at him irritably, and Bond had no choice but to go.

He leant against the rail inside the lift, beneath the burnt amber light, and felt his heart heavy and aching in his chest. It was the same sort of ache he felt when he saw Q standing at his desk with his head down and shoulders slumped, looking for all the world like he had lost something important. But he didn’t have time to think about that; he had a job to do.

Queen and Country first and foremost, always.

The mission started out well.

The weather was gorgeous in Tivat, the hotel stupendous, and the food and beverage of the highest quality. Bond lounged at the pool during the day and played tables at night. By the second night, he was also playing the hotel owner’s wife, Anya: a sporty thing with a love for men who held her by the throat when they fucked her. Although it was definitely not a kink that Bond shared, he gave her what she wanted in hopes of receiving something in return. Unfortunately, Anya wasn’t the most useful for divulging information, even in the throes of passion. Bond could tell that she engaged in this sort of behaviour often, so it would take a lot more than a few satisfying shags to get her to open up about her husband’s under the table arms dealing ring.

Over a week into the venture, Bond had little to go on and MI6 was getting impatient. Both M and R had been on the line, pressing him for details and names that Bond could not provide. The fact that he wasn’t getting anywhere fast was troublesome, because there was only so much business a fake businessman could do before he stayed too long in a hotel and became suspicious. He had one more night before he had to think of another angle, and Bond was making use of it half-buried between Anya’s legs when his comm came to life.

007, Q said, and Bond stopped everything because it was the first time he had heard Q’s voice since he’d left. He didn’t sound different than any other time, professional as always, as if what had transpired between them never happened. There were so many things he wanted to say in that moment, but then Anya made an impatient sound, and Bond went right back to it, cringing inwardly with the knowledge that Q was listening in.

I know you’re rather engaged at the moment, but you may want to cut things short tonight. I’ve got two armed men in a lift headed to your floor, Q continued, as if there was nothing odd about speaking to Bond when he had his tongue lapping at a woman’s clit. I’m going to cut the power, but I can only give you about a ten minute head start.

Bond immediately withdrew from the bed and began getting dressed, ignoring the indignant protests he received for stopping halfway through.

The two in the elevator are out of commission for the next fifteen minutes, but reinforcements are now taking the stairs. I’d say maybe eight to ten of them, each with an assault weapon of some sort, military grade. There’s not much I can do aside from turning out the lights.

“Get me an escape route,” Bond told him, as he shrugged into his jacket and removed his Walther from the hidden inside pocket.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Bond stopped at the door, turning round to Anya, who stood behind him. She was completely naked and held a Beretta Tomcat in her palms so naturally, it was as if she had been born with the weapon in her hand.

Three minutes, 007, Q said in his ear.

“You didn’t think I would let you go, did you?” she asked, making a motion with her gun for Bond to disarm.

“So you’re a part of it, then?” Bond asked, removing his finger from the safety, but not relinquishing his weapon.

“Of course. From the start. It was all about getting you here. Trapped. The infamous James Bond,” she said.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me?” Bond asked.

“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “Now drop the gun.”

You have two minutes, 007.

“I don’t think so,” Bond said.

Bond--

He raised his gun and pulled the trigger just as she did, but whereas her shot veered off and clipped his ear, Bond’s hit home. The bullet planted itself directly in her forehead and her naked form slumped to the carpet.

Bond? 007 report, Q said, and if Bond didn’t know better, he’d say Q sounded concerned.

“Escape route?” Bond replied, picking up Anya’s gun. His ear stung and bled heavily, dripping down the side of his neck where it soaked into his collar.

There’s a private lift for employees. It’s down the hall to your right. Use the tie pin to give you access. I'll see what I can do to divert them in the meantime.

Bond followed the instructions that Q gave in his clear, emotionless voice. Q got him out into the parking lot through a back stairwell, where his car was parked some distance away. Bond made the dash for it, avoiding the shots that rang out from open hotel windows. By the time he reached his vehicle, all the lights were on and Bond heard sirens in the distance.

So much for subtlety.

“You act like it’s my fault,” Bond grunted, and pulled on the door handle. It was locked.

You did start it.

“She shot first”

So did Han.

“This isn’t really the time for Star Wars references, Q.”

Bond had no way of getting inside short of breaking the glass, so Bond fired two rounds from the Tomcat at the window. The glass shattered, but didn’t fall, and Bond had to kick it out with his foot. He unlocked the door, hurriedly swept aside the glass and then slid inside. Immediately, he pulled down the console beneath the steering wheel of the BMW to expose the ignition wires. Behind him, he could hear the sound of running footsteps on the gravel path.

Well congratulations on completely blowing your cover, Q said dryly. It’s the yellow cable, by the way.

“I know what I’m doing,” Bond said, stripping the yellow cable, and not about to ask how Q could see him.

You’ve got six incoming targets from your four o’clock.

The engine turned over with a roar, just as a rain of gunfire fell on him, putting cracks in the windscreen. Bond put the car in gear and sped off away from the hotel toward town. Three black vehicles followed him in pursuit. Men with M16s shot at his back tyres.

Take the motorway, Q instructed, and Bond pointedly did not take the appropriate exit. 007.

“Not now, Q,” Bond said, swerving through a traffic circle.

I’m not talking for my health.

“Then stop talking.”

Don’t be a prat. Listen to me. I’m here to help, Q said, in a voice that commanded Bond to obey.

“Fine,” Bond replied, and listened to the rapid clicking of a keyboard. Q guided him through the streets, turning traffic lights green for him and moving trains to other tracks so that he could continue uninhibited. Q managed to trap one of the vehicles at a rail crossing, leaving Bond with only an entourage of two.

With the motorway no longer a possibility, Q instructed Bond to take a winding, waterfront road outside of the city. He was pursued for fifteen minutes by the two remaining vehicles, one which he caused to roll over into a ditch; the other wrapped itself round a tree.

But the mission was not over. Q sent him to one of their contacts in Podogorica, who got him cleaned up and outfitted with new clothes and papers. It took about a week to find the right pressure point, who gave them the information they needed. But because Bond had shown his face and was a known enemy, they called in 004 to finish the job via covert infiltration.

The entire time, Bond worked side-by-side and round the clock with Q without any awkwardness. They fell back into their routine--their banter--naturally, and by the end, Bond had all but forgotten what had happened between them. It was only after, when Bond was sitting on his hotel balcony the night before his flight back to London, that he knew what he wanted to say.

“Q,” Bond said, and his comm came to life.

007, Q replied.

“I’m sorry.”

You’d better not have lost that tie pin--

“No, I’m sorry for the other day.”

Bond heard the distinct click of the recording device disengaging. 

This isn’t the best time.

“Says the man who makes nod to Star Wars when I’m getting shot at.”

Silence on Q’s end.

“So now’s not the best time. When is a good time?” Bond asked, then continued: “You know, you still haven’t cashed in that rain check for me to take you to dinner.”

Don’t be cruel.

“I’m not.”

Yes you are.

Bond realised then, in that moment, he was.

“I’m sorry.”

Stop apologising. You’re right, what you said. Let’s try to move past it.

“Q…”

No. We’re not having this conversation again. I am your Quartermaster.

“That’s all?” Bond asked.

The silence seemed to stretch forever, a string of seconds that had Bond balanced on a precipice as narrow as a knifepoint. Q’s answer would be the tipping point, the catalyst, the words that would dictate their behaviour from this point onward. A selfish part of Bond hoped that Q would reconsider, that they could return to those days of easy companionship at shared mealtimes. But realistically, Bond knew that such a thing was beyond their reach. There was no going back, not after Bond knew the enigmatic beauty of Q’s cheekbones and eyelashes, the seductive softness of his curls, sweet press of his mouth and tongue.

Q must have understood that too, because his words were clear, but his voice wavered slightly when he said:

Good night, 007.

Bond swallowed back the things he knew he couldn’t say, and the words lodged themselves sharp and painful in his throat. He had done this to himself, to them; the boundaries between them had never been clearer, more precise. With as much stoicism as he could manage, Bond swallowed back his guilt and regret and replied:

“Good night, Quartermaster.”

Chapter Text

When Bond returned to London, he was more exhausted than he could ever remember, which made him wonder if he truly was just too old for all of this. His body ached and burned at every joint, with every breath, and his ear throbbed with each heartbeat. In truth, Bond was lucky that he didn’t lose the shredded remains of his ear to infection, though he would have an impressive bit of scar tissue there when the wound healed.

He had the taxi drop him off at his flat instead of going straight to MI6. He would much rather sleep for an eternity than get dressed down by Mallory for a mission gone wrong, than to have to face Q again after the conversation they had. The words kept turning round and round in Bond’s mind, making it hard to focus, let alone get a good nights’ sleep.

Bond stepped into the lift and reached out to press the button for the fourth floor, sighing as he shook water from his coat and waited for the doors to close. Just as the panel pinged, Bond heard the stairwell door slam open, then closed. Someone in a large grey coat walked past the lifts, their hood already drawn up against the downpour outside. Bond could not tell if they were male or female, but he did not even care about that, because all of his attention focussed on the item held in person’s hand left hand.

It was a violin case.

“Wait--” Bond began to say, and held out his arm to halt the lift. But he wasn’t quite fast enough to stop the door from falling shut, to see the person’s face as they turned round to see who had called out to them. The lift rattled as it ascended to the fourth floor. Bond leant against the wall and wondered what had made him do that. He and 507 had a silent agreement of sorts. There were the notes and the gifts and the music and nothing more than that. 507 would forever be a number to him: an untouchable thing.

And even if Bond ever did have the chance, would he take it?

Bond thought of the music. He thought about ruining that, ruining the person who played scores so beautifully in the night. It undoubtedly made him think of Q, whom he had also ruined with his selfishness.

No Bond thought. He couldn’t do such a thing, even if he felt more connected to this person by unspoken words, by notes that sounded like snowfall and rain and yearning. It was just as he had felt connected to Q, but instead it was through their words: the banter, the borderline fighting over the comms, the calmness of Q’s voice guiding him safely home. And now those words were gone.

He couldn’t let the music disappear from his life too. The prospect of that endless nothingness was too much to bear. So he latched onto the safe route, the one of cowardice, because all he could hear were Q’s words going round and round in his head. Painful, sharp things that reminded him how cruel he truly was. A monster of his own invention.

I will never deserve either of you.

Bond got a slap on the wrist after Montenegro, and as punishment, Mallory sent him on an assignment so boring that Bond could have cried. After two weeks doing reconnaissance in Andorra, he returned to London, and met with Moneypenny in the lobby of Mallory’s office.

“He’s busy, you’ll have to debrief later,” Eve informed him.

“I’m here now,” Bond said, and went for the door.

“I’d leave it. He dragged Q and Tanner in there about an hour ago. They’re locked up tight,” she explained.

Bond’s chest tightened at the mention of Q, standing just on the other side of the door.

“Bond,” Moneypenny said, catching his attention. “Let’s get lunch. What do you say?”

With nothing to do until Mallory was available, Bond agreed, and Eve whisked him away to another tiny cafe with a pretentious sounding name. Bond hadn’t even put in an order when Eve pushed his menu down on the table and leant forward to ask:

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Bond answered, carefully neutral.

“Oh, shut up. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” she said. “What’s going on between you and Q? And don’t lie.”

“Lie about what?”

“You think I don’t know what happened on New Year’s? After I painstakingly set it up?”

Bond met her intense gaze, but could find no words. When he thought about it, Moneypenny had been patently obvious about the entire thing, but Bond hadn’t seen it at the time. It just made him all the more certain that Eve was wasted in the office, not reaching her full potential out in the field. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, she breathed out an annoyed sigh.

“Talk,” she said.

“There isn’t much to say.”

The server came and Moneypenny ordered for both of them, without even asking what Bond wanted. Once he was out of earshot, she turned her attention back to Bond.

“Q’s been… I don’t know…different. Not good different, either. He’s listless, distracted. Barely will talk to me when I visit,” Eve explained with a frown. “So I’ll ask again, what’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is,” Bond said.

“That’s not an answer,” Eve replied. “You’re both obviously suffering from this.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

Bond looked out the window.

“Look, it’s none of my business, but why not give it a try? You both get on and everyone who looks at the two of you for more than five minutes can see that you want to tear each other’s clothes off.”

“We work together.”

“We work together,” Eve said, raising her eyebrow pointedly.

“But we’re different.”

“How?”

Bond stared at her, because he didn’t have an answer for that. To be honest, he hadn’t thought much of their night in Macau. There had been too many other burdens on his mind after Skyfall to think on it. But now, with Eve across from him, Bond thought of that night. It had been an unexpected and exciting affair. Eve hadn’t told him her name, and Bond didn’t much care at the time, too consumed with admiring the tone of her flesh against the silk sheets of his bed. They had fun and it was enjoyable, and if Eve had asked him, Bond would have done it again. But after Skyfall, she gave no indication that she wanted things to progress between them. And in all honesty, it was probably not the most healthy decision to have a continued affair with the woman who killed you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Eve said. “We had sex, Bond. Adult people do, you know. And we get on fine.”

“It’s different,” Bond said again.

“Why?” she pressed.

When Bond didn’t say anything, Eve’s expression changed into something soft.

“Oh,” she said.

“What?” Bond asked.

“Because you’re in love with him.”

Bond could not muster the breath to deny it.

“Never would have thought James Bond would fall in love with a man,” Eve said. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Gender has nothing to do with it,” Bond replied. He had been with men before, both for work and pleasure, but when it came to an emotional connection, a person’s physical body did not matter to him so much. Bond had always been weak for the smart ones, the witty ones with too much fire, too much pride, and all the confidence in the world. Vesper had been that way, and he had loved her. M had been that way too, and Bond had loved her just as much, though in a slightly different way. And then Q had come along with his snark and his enigmatic smile, telling him to put his back into it, and, Christ, he had been smitten from the start.

“So fine. Gender has nothing to do with it. You’re still in love with him and you’re not doing anything about it,” Eve said.

“It’s for the best.”

“You martyr. That’s what this is about? You don’t want to hurt him?”

“I don’t particularly have the highest life expectancy,” Bond answered.

“And you think he doesn’t know that?” Eve retorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re both consenting adults. He knows what he’s getting into. It sounds like you’re the problem.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Both of you see the mutual attraction, but you’re the one preventing anything from happening.”

“That’s not true,” Bond replied, and looked down at the table. “I did try to change things. I asked if we could start over, but he said no.”

“Well, no wonder after you stomped all over his heart.”

“I did it to protect him.”

“You did it to protect yourself.”

When Bond glanced up at her, he saw the seriousness in Eve’s expression and didn’t know what to think.

“Maybe you don’t deserve him after all,” she said.

“Maybe you’re right,” Bond replied.

Eve kicked him under the table. Hard.

“Oh shut up! Swallow your pride and make things right!”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“That’s because it’s not hard. Well, maybe it will be for you. It does involve a bit of grovelling…”

“Eve--”

“Don’t even start. You’re going to fix it and I’m going to help you.”

“Why?

“Because,” Eve said, straightening the front of her frock, “I’m a romantic.”

Bond raised his eyebrow at her.

“Really, I am. I think you’d be perfect for one another. Hence why I’ve been trying to set you two up for ages…And to think you needed the help, after being so close all this time…”

Moneypenny’s mobile went off before Bond could ask her exactly what she meant. When she answered it, she almost immediately became very serious and answered in a few curt words that she was on her way.

“We’re going to have to take this to go.”

They had a mole somewhere in MI6.

Their leak had compromised 004, who had been close to finishing the mission in Montenegro that Bond had left behind weeks ago.

And now, they’d lost contact with him, somewhere in the Adriatic Sea.

“Communication was voluntarily cut off over ninety minutes ago, but his tracker fell off the grid within the past fifteen minutes,” Eve informed Bond, as they made their way down to Q branch. Bond knew what that meant: either 004 had ripped out the tracker himself for some reason or it had been forcibly removed. Either way, something had gone wrong.

The department was a flurry of activity: over a dozen screens rapidly flickering with information and images, the murmur of twice as many voices exchanging intel between themselves and those on the other ends of their headsets. Q was at the front of the room with R; Mallory lurked behind them with an stormy expression.

“It’s over,” Mallory said, loudly enough that a lull overtook the room momentarily.

“It’s not over until we retrieve 004,” Q answered levelly, without looking at him. “R, summon Medevac now. Any one of ours that might be in the area, go.”

Voices picked up again and fingers resumed typing as R went to do as Q asked, but Mallory stood in her way and put his back to the room. Bond didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like the way R looked at Mallory, then glanced back at Q as if uncertain. Something unspoken moved between them, and when R turned round to face Mallory again, there was all fire in her eyes, in the words that Bond clearly heard over the din.

“With all respect, sir, no.”

Without heeding Moneypenny’s warning hand to stand down, Bond went to them, catching the tail end of Mallory’s words.

“--an order, do you understand?”

R didn’t say anything, her gaze focussed on Bond as he approached.

“What’s going on?” Bond intervened.

“This is none of your concern 007,” Mallory said as he rounded on Bond, giving R the chance to slip away to her computer.

“It is now,” Bond said, ignoring the prick of Eve’s fingernails digging into his arm. She had followed him, most likely to keep him from doing anything rash.

“007--” Mallory started to say, but was interrupted by the Quartermaster.

“Please take the fighting off the floor. I’m already at war at the moment and don’t need any other distractions,” Q said to them, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder in their direction. His fingers were too busy working at his keyboard, almost in sync with R. On the main screen, there were fuzzy images that kept appearing and then reappearing in different resolution and quality.

“Quartermaster, you will not endanger the lives of Station T staff for one agent,” Mallory said.

“One agent who not only has valuable information that we’ve been mining for weeks now, but who also happens to be one of our own,” Q retorted, just as a ripple of static came across the intercom. Immediately, everyone paused, waiting with baited breath as Q pressed his microphone closer to his mouth.

“004, do you copy?”

A silence followed that stretched infinitely, one that Bond knew all too well.

“004, do you copy?” Q asked again, a little louder, with something strained in his voice as he moved screens on the main wall, focussing on a high quality satellite image of the area, where the smoking, broken pieces of a vessel were strewn in the sea. A recent explosion, within the last few minutes judging from the fact the weather hadn’t put out the flames entirely.

“I’ve still got no vitals, sir,” offered a tech.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Q said, just as the static cut out and the communication went dead.

The quiet that followed was near deafening, until a minion timidly broke it with a shaky:

“Sir…maybe we should--”

“No, we are not losing 004 on my watch,” Q said, pulling up a time clock on the main wall, which began counting down from 00:14:59:59. “The human body can survive only twenty minutes in those waters, less so if injured. Let’s do this in fifteen.”

“You will not,” Mallory said.

Finally, Q turned to face him, and Bond saw a fierceness that he had never witnessed from him before.

“I am the Quartermaster of MI6 and 004 is under my care. I will do all in my power to ensure his safe return,” Q replied coolly, as he turned back to his computer.

“But not at the risk to the lives of others,” Mallory countered. “One life for a Medevac and diver crew is not practical. I won’t let you be the cause of unnecessary deaths.”

The entire room was looking on now, Bond too, unable to do anything but listen as Q adamantly defied the head of MI6.

“This is my call,” Q said.

“No. It’s mine,” Mallory answered. “Double-Ohs know the risks of their profession. They understand what happens when a mission goes wrong. We cannot afford the resources to save them in every situation.”

“Just because they know the risks, doesn’t mean you can justify their abandonment at your convenience,” Q replied. “This conversation is over. R, what’s the status of that Medevac?”

“You will stop this now, or I’ll have no choice but to remove you from your position,” Mallory said firmly, and looked round at everyone in the room. “That goes for everyone who abets him.”

Q turned a fraction, regarding Mallory with an expression that could freeze rushing water. He was utterly still for half a moment, and then he viciously ripped his ID from where it had been clipped to his cardigan. He threw it at Mallory, at his feet, a clear resignation, and then turned back to his screens.

“I want Medevac now,” Q continued, as if Mallory had not interrupted him. “Did anyone hear anything from any of the ships in the area? Wasn’t the Voyager on patrol in those waters?”

“Negative, sir,” said the timid minion from before. “In harbour at Pula for repairs.”

“What about Coast Guard?” Q asked.

“Nothing within 100 kilometers,” replied another.

“Page them. See if any of them can make it to this location within the time frame,” Q responded, then continued: “Are there any civilian vessels within range?”

“I’m not getting a read on anyone else in the area,” said another voice. “Radar isn’t showing anything.”

Bond was close enough to hear Q softly swear under his breath.

“What’s the ETA on the chopper?” Q asked R.

“Station T has a full crew at Durres. They’ll be in the air in ten minutes,” she replied back.

“Not fast enough, make it seven,” Q answered.

Everyone stared at Q like he had just asked for the impossible.

“They’re professionals. They can do it. Relay the message,” Q ordered, and R tapped at her headset to connect with their squad on land. Bond watched without moving, without blinking, as Q pulled up seemingly a thousand different windows on the main board.

“Station T Medevac is in the air,” R reported after three minutes.

“Relay them the last transmitted coordinates,” Q told her.

The next few moments were hushed and tense, with Bond looking on from his unobtrusive spot in the back of the room. Mallory stood near the front of the room, giving Q space, but at the same time maintaining an expression that was patently furious. Q did not seem to notice, moving with a speed that somehow held control and grace. Or at least, the facade of it. Bond could see the tension in his shoulders, like he had seen it that day they had last spoken face to face, and Bond knew that Q was worried. He was afraid for the life of his agent, the person he had been entrusted to protect, the person that Mallory would have given up on without a thought. But there was Q saying not on my watch, because just like with Bond, he had something like promise in his voice when he spoke to his agents, something that assured them I’ll get you home no matter what.

And Bond knew then that he was very much in love.

“Report,” Q said into his headset.

We’re still en route, HQ, came the response over the intercom.

“The ocean currents are moving east. He should be within sixty kilometers of the last known coordinates,” Q said.

Copy.

It seemed that the entire room held its breath for the next few minutes, watching as the clock on the wall ticked down rapidly. Some of the technicians already looked resigned to the inevitable outcome, taking their headsets off in a gesture of defeat. But Bond paid them no mind; he was looking at Q and only Q.

Q who was not giving up.

The same Q who would never give up on him.

Bond knew the odds, and Q did too, but he had this dedication, this unwavering faith in his agents. It was then that Bond realised that Q did this every day, that he felt responsible for their lives every moment of every waking day.

Q couldn’t exactly promise, but he worked with every ounce of his being to make it as close to one as he possibly could.

HQ, we’ve got visual on the wreckage.

A gentle murmur rose up from the minions, who were looking at the large screen on the wall hopefully. Another moment, then two passed, before the intercom came to life again.

HQ, we now have visual on two unidentified males. We’re sending a rescue diver now.

“Copy. Keep us informed.”

The room was stifling in the silence. Moneypenny clung to his arm the whole time. People had their heads bowed, perhaps in prayer, or something like it. There were two repeated attempts to level the chopper over the stormy sea, and Bond knew that by the third attempt, they would have to pull their rescue diver back; it just wasn’t worth the risk. But the third time was the charm, it seemed because the pilot gave the good word that they had reached the lone survivors and were pulling them up.

And then--

HQ, agent has been recovered.

Before Q could ask, the pilot continued:

Not to worry, HQ. This stubborn bastard isn’t going anywhere. We’ll bring him to base for further medical treatment, but it looks like he’s going to be okay.

The cheer that went up was deafening, so loud that Bond couldn’t quite hear the rush of thanks spill from Q’s lips, or make out the pilot’s returning answer about the other person retrieved with 004. It was only after, when Q cut the communication and turned to look round the room that his eyes landed momentarily on Bond. He seemed relieved down to his bones, smiling tiredly, but as if everything in the world was alright.

But it wasn’t.

Mallory’s expression was frigid, unmoving even when two agents appeared in full tactical gear at the entrance. The minions didn’t seem to notice the agents, didn’t seem to notice Q slipping away through the crowd of his own volition towards them, with Mallory following in his wake. Bond made to go after them, but Eve held him back.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she said.

“He saved him,” Bond replied.

“I know,” Eve said. “That will work in his favour...later, but not now.”

She walked him out of TSS and to a quiet alcove somewhere on the seventh floor, where they drank shite coffee in a poorly lit kitchen, their lunches long forgotten.

“I just can’t believe he’d stand up to Mallory like that,” Bond said.

“Kid’s got a spine. He doesn’t let people walk all over him,” Eve replied with a smile. “That’s why I like him.”

“He could lose his job,” Bond said.

“Do you think he cares about that?”

“Do you think he doesn’t?”

Eve put her coffee down.

“Do you know what happened...during that whole mess with Silva?” she asked, and at Bond’s look, she continued: “Bill was with him...when you asked Q to lay a false trail. Mallory came in after that and asked what Q was doing, even though he knew from the start what they were up to. Do you know Q began to lie? To protect you?”

“He wasn’t--” Bond couldn’t say M, because Mallory would never be M, so he settled on, “--in charge.”

“Not exactly, but he was close enough,” Eve said. “And Q knew he could lose his job, but he did it anyway.”

Bond looked away from her.

“He’s a good person,” Bond said.

Too good for me.

“That’s true. But you know, so are you.”

Bond laughed.

“I’m not a nice man,” Bond said.

“No, but you can be a good person, when you feel like it,” Eve said teasingly.

“That’s the difference, though. I’m not a good person. Not all the time.”

“You were going to go after him, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. You’re a good person when it counts most.”

“But is that enough?”

Eve swirled her coffee in her mug.

“Sometimes, that’s all we’ve got.”

Bond spent the rest of the night waiting in the hallway outside of Mallory’s office.

Eve had gone home long ago, as had the majority of the staff, and the building was dark and still around him. It was near eleven that evening when the door down the hall finally opened and Q appeared. He looked haggard, as if he had just lost a war, but he kept up his head and walked with a purpose that made Bond admire his strength.

When Q saw him, he didn’t smile.

“I’ve been suspended without pay until further notice,” Q said, before Bond could ask.

“Congratulations,” Bond replied. “I think that calls for a celebration. Dinner?”

Q looked very tired, so much that Bond wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and hold him.

“Bond…I think...I’d rather be alone, if that’s alright. I won’t be good company,” Q replied.

“You don’t need to be good company,” Bond said. “Any company at all is fine with me. As long as it’s yours.”

At first, Bond thought that Q might fight him, but his shoulders drooped and his head dropped, as if he were shedding armour, and Bond did not give it another thought. He put his arms round Q and embraced him. It had been months now since New Year’s, since the last time they had been like this, and it was just as perfect, if not more so, to feel Q hug him back.

“We shouldn’t,” Q said against his shoulder, but made no effort to move away.

“You’re not MI6. Not tonight.”

Q looked up at him, all soft lashes and sharp cheekbones and endlessly dark, dark eyes.

“No, I’m not.”

Bond kissed him.

And Q kissed back.

They went to a hotel, because it was closer than his flat. At least, that’s what Bond told himself. He didn’t want to admit that the thought of Q in his bed, tangled in his sheets was too strong an image, and one that would haunt him after this was over when everything went back to normal. The hotel was neutral ground. It was safer this way for the both of them. And Q didn’t seem to mind and he didn’t invite Bond back to his, so that was that.

The room was lavish, but Bond barely noticed. He was too concerned with kissing Q the moment they had closed and locked the door, too preoccupied with getting Q out of his clothes and into bed. Despite this, Bond didn’t rush things. He wanted to savour it, but he wanted to do it with no boundaries between them, no shirts or trousers or anything to get in the way.

When they were bare, Bond slowed, taking his time to learn every angle and curve that comprised Q’s body, so very masculine, but at the same time displaying tantalising hints of femininity. He particularly liked the place just under Q’s jaw, right below his ear. His skin smelt sweetly of something earthy, like pine, and it was only there and the inside of his wrists and the tips of his fingers that shared that scent. It was intoxicating in ways that perfume and cologne could never achieve, almost as intoxicating as the way Q breathed out James when Bond made an impressive love mark in that fragrant place just below his ear.

“Tell me your name,” Bond said, as he traced the ridges of Q’s ribs with his fingertips, sweeping them down to the hollow of his hip.

“You know I can’t tell you,” Q answered.

“You’re not MI6 now,” Bond reminded him.

“But I might be tomorrow.”

Bond looked at him, at his tousled hair and blown out pupils and kiss-swollen lips. His beauty was captivating and Bond felt nothing short of bewitched by him, by the skin and sinew and blood and bone that made him, the secrets that still lingered behind his eyes, his smile.

“Tell me.”

Q kissed him instead, and it was only when he pulled away that he pressed a name against Bond’s lips, one that Bond repeated back to him on his next exhale. When they parted for air, they smiled at each other, at their shared exchange, and Q looked as if a heavy burden had been lifted from him in that moment.

They lay there for some time learning one another, at times occupying the entirety of the bed, while at others, small parts of it. Their gentle exploration eventually led to a palpable desperation, one that Bond wanted to satisfy as much as he didn’t, not wanting to let this end just yet. But after an hour elapsed, Q began keening, begging Bond to touch him, and he wasn’t about to deprive Q of the one thing he asked.

They didn’t have anything to proceed properly, and even if they did, Q admitted to not being physically or hygienically prepared for that level of intimacy, so they compromised. Bond lost track of time after that, immersed with all five senses in Q, in their shared pleasure. He wanted to tell Q everything in that moment. He wanted to say how he felt, make promises he knew he could never keep, because Q’s fingers clutched at him like he was the only thing keeping him in the world and his eyes looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered and Bond loved him to the point where it was painful.

But Bond couldn’t manage the words, because he knew they were empty promises, and he didn’t want to tarnish that moment between them. So he kissed Q until they were both gasping, then trembling as their warm spend cooled between their bodies. Once the euphoria began to fade, Bond cleaned them up and then returned to bed, pulling the duvet over them.

“I should go,” Q said, as he settled more comfortably against Bond.

“Stay a while,” Bond replied, moving his fingers through Q’s hair.

“But then I’ll never have the strength to go,” he murmured.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Bond said.

“It might be,” Q replied, pressing the tips of his fingers against Bond’s chest, where he tapped along with Bond’s heartbeats.

“It might not be,” Bond said.

“Okay,” Q said, and nuzzled at his chin.

“I’ll stay.”

When Bond woke the next morning, it was to Q, still sleeping beside him.

It felt right.

Bond watched him for some time, matching their breathing until they were in unison. His thoughts were quiet and peaceful, no longer a tumultuous storm that raged without end. His soul felt it too; for the first time in a long time, the wounds left behind by Vesper and M and so many others didn’t ache and bleed and fester. There was a serenity in that moment, sharing the same bed with Q, the same sheets, the same air. There was no past or future; no pain or suffering or grief. There was only the two of them, as if they were the last living beings in the entire world.

All those lonely nights and wasted days; all that frantic, desperate searching. And this is what he had wanted all along: to wake up beside someone he trusted completely. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, even more so when Q opened his eyes and looked at him, because how Q reacted to seeing him when he first woke would be the thing that mattered most.

Q smiled, and Bond felt his heart stop.

“Hi,” Q said.

“Hi,” Bond replied, and Q turned his face into the pillow as if embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” Q admitted, a carryover in their conversation from the previous night.

“You don’t have to leave,” Bond said.

Q peeked at him through his fringe.

“It’s morning,” Q said.

“It’s still early.”

“But it’s tomorrow.”

Bond traced his fingers along the slope of Q’s arm.

“It is,” he said, with some regret.

“I’ve got to go,” Q replied, but made no move to get up, to stop Bond’s touch. Bond wondered if he felt it too, the rightness.

“Let’s call for breakfast,” Bond said.

Q smiled something a bit sad.

“A fantastic shag and breakfast? No wonder the ladies love you,” Q said, but Bond could see him striving to return to their spitfire routine of carefree banter.

“And what about you?” Bond asked, and Q’s gaze shifted from him to the place beyond his shoulder, where the weak morning light peeked gently through the curtains.

“You should have asked me that when it was still yesterday,” Q said, pulling away from Bond to take up his glasses off the bedside cabinet and get out of bed.

Without the duvet to hide him and the darkness to cast him in mystery, Bond saw Q clearly for the first time. His mouth and hands and tongue knew Q intimately, but his eyes had yet to have that pleasure. His body was just as beautiful in daylight as it had been by moonlight, and Bond wished he had more than just a few hours to truly explore him, adore him. There were markers of Bond’s presence, a single night upon the calendar of his skin. It would not be long before they would fade and then disappear entirely. Bond wondered if the memory would fade with time, too.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Bond said, when Q emerged from the toilet and began gathering up his clothes.

Q didn’t pause in getting dressed, swiftly hiding the reminders of their lovemaking with the band of his trousers, the collar of his wrinkled shirt.

“We both know that’s not true,” Q said.

Bond said Q’s name, his real name, and Q closed his eyes as if in pain.

“Don’t…”

Bond stopped at Q’s plea.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Q implored quietly. “I don’t want to regret it.”

“I don’t want to either,” Bond said, sitting up in bed, “but I also don’t want to regret that we only had one night.”

“You’re the one who made the decision,” Q reminded him.

“And I’m the one taking it back.”

“You can’t just take it back.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Q answered, seemingly exasperated. Already the exhaustion from the previous day had begun to seep into his expression, and Bond hated the way it pulled Q farther away from him.

“Why not?” Bond asked again.

“It just doesn’t.”

They stared at each other for a long time, until Q sighed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It won’t ever work. You know that and so do I. It’s pointless to do this to ourselves.”

Bond remembered his reasons clearly, the reasons that Eve considered to be the mark of a martyr, but they were honest: he didn’t want to hurt Q with his death, with his selfishness. But now, Bond could see that there were a thousand other ways he could hurt the man in front of him: with his drinking, his infidelity, his depression, his anger, his tendency to go off the grid for weeks at a time after a mission to unwind, his insensitivity, his self-imposed distance... Q didn’t deserve any of it; Bond had lost sight of that along the way, lost himself in Q’s touch, his kiss, the thought that tomorrow would never come.

In the harsh light of day, Bond realised that he had done what he had wanted to keep from happening all along. He had hurt Q again and again, and Q was standing in front of him now, still hurting because of Bond. And that was how it always would be if they let this continue.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said.

Q’s arms came round him and held him, pressing Bond’s cheek against his stomach, where he could breathe him in for the last time. It made Bond wish for just a moment that he was someone else entirely, some ordinary bloke who, by some extraordinary means, got Q to fall in love with him. Q held him tighter, as if reading his thoughts, and leant down to rest his cheek against the top of Bond’s head, his fingers carding through short blonde hair.

“I’m sorry too,” he said.

Bond put his arms round Q’s middle and held him there, not wanting the moment to end.

“You’re still not MI6 today, or tomorrow, and probably the day after... We don’t have to do this, not right now,” Bond said. “So stay.”

“We can’t just pretend--”

“Stay.”

Q released him and moved back, but Bond wouldn’t let him out of the loose circle of his arms.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Q said, seriously.

“I know,” Bond replied, “but I’ve never been one to play by the rules.”

“No, you haven’t.”

A flicker of a smile graced Q’s lips, and then Bond’s as Q unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the floor.

“No regrets?” Q asked

“No regrets,” Bond agreed, as Q moved over him and they fell back into bed.

This happiness was only temporary, only fleeting, but in that moment, it was enough.

After an extravagant breakfast, Bond called downstairs and convinced the desk that he needed the room a little longer, and charged the cost of it to his card without a second thought.

They took an indulgent bath together, then dried off and stayed in bed for the rest of the day, not doing much aside from relishing in the warmth of skin on skin, the press of lips against lips. Bond had never been with someone this way, so intimate that it transcended sex. Even the days with Vesper hadn’t been like this. Their life together had been brief and physical, nothing like the closeness he and Q shared that afternoon, when Bond was content enough to put sex on the backburner, to have one arm round Q’s waist as he counted his eyelashes.

It was only when the shadows on the wall lengthened that Bond realised how much time had passed. Then Q’s mobile rang, and Bond knew that meant their time was up, that they had to go out and face the world again.

“This is Q,” he answered, sitting up in bed. Bond sat up with him and began pressing kisses down his spine, trying to listen in surreptitiously. But the conversation lasted only a few seconds, ending with Q saying: “Understood.”

He rang off and dropped the phone on the bed between them.

“I have a review tomorrow morning,” Q said.

“Is that what they’re calling it?” Bond asked, dragging his lips from their place between Q’s shoulder blades to the nape of his neck.

“It’s better than inquisition,” Q replied, tilting his head as Bond went for that spot under his jaw that he particularly liked, that he’d marked the previous evening with a small, purple bruise. He breathed Q in, the scent that reminded him of a forest just after a rainstorm, and it calmed all his anger towards Mallory and MI6.

“You were in the right. There’s no case against you,” Bond said.

“The only thing they can get me on is insubordination,” Q answered, turning to press his forehead against Bond’s. “I’m not worried.”

“No?”

“No.”

Bond smiled at Q’s confidence, but Q did not smile back. He seemed distracted, conflicted, as if the call had brought him crashing back to reality far too soon for his liking.

“I should go,” Q said.

“The day isn’t over yet,” Bond replied. “Dinner?”

Q kissed him.

“Tomorrow,” Q answered.

“You might be Six tomorrow,” Bond said.

“I might be,” Q said.

“And if you are?”

Q slipped away from him to get dressed.

“Tomorrow,” Q said again, a promise in his eyes, in the hint of his smile.

And although Bond did not want to wait--wanted to stay in that bed in that perfect slice of time carved out for just the two of them--he had to take what he could get.

He reached for Q’s hand and kissed the backs of his knuckles and said:

“Tomorrow, then.”

Bond arranged the place and time with Q, then saw him off in a taxi. After he was out of sight, Bond took his own taxi to a supermarket near his flat, where he did some shopping for dinner. He walked the few blocks back in the drizzling rain, but didn’t mind it as he might have any other time. He had the prospect of a tomorrow with Q no matter what, and that chased away the dismal nature of the day considerably.

He made a pasta dish that night, then spent the majority of his evening cleaning house. Even after months of residing in the flat, Bond had yet to do much about the boxes in the living room. He had all intentions of bringing Q back to his tomorrow and he didn’t want the place to be a mess, so he tackled it with a fervour that bordered on madness.

By the time eleven rolled around, he had done a good deal of it. All the dishes were in the cabinets, the few books on the shelves, M’s bulldog joined by some framed art that he couldn’t be arsed to hang, which he let rest on the mantle. Bond put the remainder of the unpacked boxes in the spare room, where he had the remnants of the old coffee table he had broken a long time ago and never binned.

He closed the door and went back to the living room, entertaining the idea of a drink. But Bond took pause, instead letting himself remember the vivid details of that morning: the warmth of Q’s skin, the brush of his fingertips tracing scars along his shoulder, his back, the gentle kiss to his mangled ear, the faded line through his eyebrow. The remembrance of such simple things was enough to deter him from alcohol, enough to keep his usual demons away.

Above him, Bond heard 507 moving about, and the familiar tread took the familiar path to the corner just above Bond’s window, where he knew the piano to be. It had been so long since he had heard 507 play; the few notes before Montenegro hadn’t been enough, their unfinished song haunting him through the weeks abroad, more so after his unsuccessful conversation with Q and the resulting punishment in Andorra.

So it was with anticipation that he waited, wondering what 507 would play tonight. Bond wondered if it would be the continuation of the same melody, or something entirely new. A part of him--overjoyed at Q’s acquiescence to meet him tomorrow--hoped for something a bit cheerful, while the rest of him yearned for the beauty in 507’s works that emphasised the pain of loneliness and heartbreak.

Tonight, the music seemed to be a blend of many things: of happy anticipation and nervousness, of hesitance and fearful vulnerability, the jumble of emotions that Bond knew all too well. It made him think about Q and the feel of him, his strength, his dedication, how much Bond felt like his world was nothing without Q’s conversation. He knew then that there was no longer a choice in the matter; it was Q or no one at all.

Listening to the sound of the last few notes falling from the ceiling like rain drops in fading storm, Bond could only hope that once, just once, things went to plan.

Things never went to plan.

Eve rang him early in the afternoon. After their conversation yesterday, Bond wondered if it was her checking in with him to see what had happened after she had gone home. He debated telling her about last night, but propriety held his tongue. From what he knew of Q, the man held his privacy very dear, and Bond was not about to betray that sort of trust. And it was a good thing he kept his mouth shut, because when Eve spoke, she sounded tentative, the tell-tale tone of someone with bad news.

“Bond,” she began, and Bond immediately knew what she would say.

“No,” he said firmly. “I just got back. I’m entitled to at least two weeks leave.”

“We have no other available agents of your skill,” Eve answered, not even attempting to sugar coat the situation.

“Send 006.”

“006 is in deep cover. We can’t reach her without compromising her position. And 004 is still recovering at Station T.”

“When?” Bond asked, resigned.

“Tonight. Your flight leaves at nine.”

Bond glanced at his watch. He and Q had agreed to meet at six-thirty. It just wasn’t enough time.

“Can you get me on another? First thing tomorrow?”

“It has to be tonight. They want you on the ground first thing in the morning.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a tired hand over his face.

“Bond?” Eve asked.

“It’s nothing. I just...had something important planned tonight.”

Eve’s end was silent for a full minute.

“Q?” she finally asked.

“Yeah,” Bond answered.

A single beat, and then:

“There’s a 2235 flight, but you’ll have two layovers with transfer instead of one without. You’ll arrive one hour behind schedule.”

“Eve, I could kiss you,” Bond said.

“Save that for Q,” Eve replied, laughing. “I’ll make the changes. Come in and collect your kit ASAP so you can work on getting ready for your date. R will have it waiting for you.”

“I owe you.”

“Yes you do.”

Bond laughed.

“And Bond?”

“Yes?”

“Rock his world.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Bond arrived exactly on time, but Q was already waiting for him outside the restaurant, huddled beneath his umbrella against the rain. When he saw Bond, he seemed concerned and held out his umbrella a little further as Bond made the dash from taxi to pavement.

“Hi,” Q said, like he had the morning prior.

“Hi,” Bond replied.

Finally, Q smiled, and Bond relaxed.

“How was your interrogation?” Bond asked, and Q looked rather pleased with himself.

“Two weeks unpaid leave for insubordination,” Q answered cheerfully. “You should have seen Mallory. He was furious. I think he wanted them to fire me, but half the committee wanted to pin a medal on me for saving 004 and the other half were just so impressed that I made an arse of him that they went easy on me. Still, they had to follow the book, so I’ve got a nice long holiday ahead of me.”

“And how do you intend to spend that holiday?” Bond asked.

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Bond,” Q replied with a grin that told Bond everything he intended to do on said holiday. Q pressed against him--nothing inappropriate for a street corner, just enough that Bond could feel him everywhere, the warmth and presence of him--and smiled with half-lidded eyes as he asked: “Would you like to run away with me? I promise to return you in one piece.”

The opportunity was one that Bond would have taken without hesitation, if not for the passport in his pocket. He considered ignoring his assignment, escaping with Q into the country somewhere for two uninterrupted weeks. But the responsibility of his country weighed heavily on him. They needed him out there. The other Double-Oh agents were indisposed and the agents currently on the ground were in no position to perform the operation. He was the only one they had left.

“Q…” Bond began, and Q’s playfulness immediately vanished with understanding.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Q repeated.

“I just found out this afternoon,” Bond explained. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mallory planned it.”

Q looked out onto the street with a troubled expression.

“I won’t be there for you this time,” Q said. “I’m always there. Even if I’m not talking, I’m always there.”

“I know.”

Q hung his head a bit, and Bond pulled him close again, burying his nose in Q’s hair that smelt like rain. Bond wished he had more time, but he knew that this was the job and Q knew it too. They seemed to constantly be living by just enough. It would have to do.

“So I guess dinner is out, then?” Q asked, and Bond gave him an apologetic smile. “When does your flight leave?”

“Two hours.”

“We should get you to the airport then. R’s taking care of you, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in good hands. She won’t let anything happen to you,” Q said, hailing a taxi.

They slid into the back seat and gave the request to be driven to Heathrow. Then, it was silent between them for some time as they weaved between cars and pedestrians. Bond sought Q’s hand, twining their fingers together. Q sighed and leant his head against Bond’s shoulder.

“When I come back…” Bond began.

“I’ll be reinstated as--” Q glanced at the driver and then dropped his voice: “--to my former position.”

Bond looked at Q carefully.

“And then?”

The lights from the motorway flickered in bursts of sepia and violet across the canvas of Q’s skin, the lenses of his glasses.

“We try,” Q said. “If that’s what you want.”

Bond pressed his fingers into Q’s palm.

“What do you want?”

Q smiled and that was all the answer Bond needed.

When they arrived at Heathrow, the taxi stopped at the appropriate level for Departures.

“You don’t have to see me off,” Bond said, as he paid the fare.

“I don’t, but I am,” Q replied, in a tone that left no room for argument. “And you’re going to buy me a drink before you go.”

Bond didn’t even look at his watch.

“I’ve got time,” he said, and--already electronically checked in and having printed boarding passes--promptly led Q past the ticketing counters to his usual haunt in terminal four. The Windsor Castle was a softly lit, quiet pub that drew Bond with its traditional sophistication and tasteful decor. There were no tellies on the wall or loud music, which made it a brief retreat in the hectic hustle-bustle of Bond’s constant travels.

He chose his usual corner booth, and Q slid in next to him, sitting close enough that their knees touched. They ordered two pints and drank with light conversation, not wanting to be overheard by unwanted ears.

“You’re going to miss your flight,” Q said, nodding at the clock on the wall.

“Maybe I won’t go,” Bond began, but Q interrupted him.

“Defying orders is grounds for treason,” Q whispered, and Bond leant closer to him. Without the collar of Q’s jacket to hide it, Bond could see the love bite he had left on his throat, a lovely purplish bruise right below his ear. Bond used his proximity to kiss it, reveling in the resulting shiver.

“It might be worth it,” Bond said.

“Stop it, it’s not. You know we’ve both got jobs to do,” Q said, pulling back slightly so he could look at Bond. “Queen and Country, remember?”

“Always,” he said, and kissed him. “But when I come back, I’m taking you to dinner.”

“I expect it. Now get out of here,” Q said, swatting at him to get up and out of the booth. But then, his expression became more serious. “And please be careful.”

“I will. For the sake of a dinner with you, I promise.”

Bond should have known to never make promises he couldn’t keep.

It was a hot spring day in Sofia and Bond had spent the morning running away from a very angry lot with a vendetta against the Crown. Bond had already lost his informant in the gunfight, but he had two other support agents flanking him on either side. They were young, like Ronson had been, and Bond told himself he was going to see them home alive, not in cardboard boxes. But somehow, in the escape, Bond became separated from them, and he had to focus on himself and the objective. So he continued on foot through the busy marketplace, ducking into an alleyway between buildings to get off the main road.

That was where he ran into bad luck and found himself trapped. He had only seconds to decide if he wanted to backtrack or risk another route. The rooftop gunmen would soon find him otherwise. He hesitated, because R was still trying to locate him on a map to give him clear instructions to a getaway path.

Bond, can you hear me?

Q’s voice cut the line, drowning out R’s rapid typing.

“Q? What are you doing--”

No time for that. Listen, take the alley and make a right. It’ll take you to the next corner block. There are more crowds there and they’re less likely to shoot aimlessly, Q explained, and Bond followed his words without doubt.

He melded in with the morning crowd immediately, but stuck to the edges where he knew he could easily dart away if need be.

“I lost the other two,” Bond said.

They’re alive. R is setting up a rendezvous point with them. You’re to meet at--

The sound of gunfire and screaming interrupted Q’s stream of words, and Bond immediately ducked to the ground with the rest of the crowd. They were shooting from above, from the windows and rooftops on all sides now, and Bond knew that they had eyes on him.

Stay where you are, Bond. Don’t run, Q said, but Bond didn’t hear.

He bolted out of the main street and back down the web of alleyways and side streets. The sound of militant shouting followed him from the roofs above.

Bond, listen to me, you’ve got to--

Whatever Q said became swallowed up in a hail storm of bullets, followed swiftly by intense pain. Bond went down. They shot him through the knee and, judging from the intensity of the pain, had shattered his kneecap. Bond knew immediately that he was done for. If he couldn’t run, he had no means of escape, which meant torture and death.

James? James, are you--

“Q…” Bond gasped through the pain. He heard footsteps descending from above, approaching from all sides. “I’m...sorry...I don’t think...I’ll make it to dinner after all…”

James, no, just--

“Don’t listen...please...I don’t want you to hear…”

Q said something, but Bond didn’t hear it. The ground was tipping under his head and there were gunshots piercing through the darkness above him. He knew he ought to be concerned with that, but all Bond could think of was how much he ruined everything. There was a reason he didn’t want to get too close and this was it, because Q was going to hear and he was kind enough and beautiful enough to cry for him, to be hurt by his loss.

He saw Q’s eyelashes in the dim morning light, felt the warmth of his skin, tasted the sweetness of him, remembered the scent of pine that lingered at his wrists and fingertips. And gliding with these sensations, the notes of a song that Bond felt in his entire being.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say, again and again.

But he wasn’t sorry, because even though it was just a day, he had the chance to experience Q. To be in love with him. To be loved by him.

And he wouldn’t have traded that for anything.

Chapter Text

When Bond woke, it was to the sterile scent of hospital.

The edges of his vision were dark and unfocussed; it took some time before his eyes could adjust to the dim light overhead. It took even longer for the memories to return, the images distorted and fuzzy from the confusion and pain. Bond tried to take stock of himself, wiggling his fingers and toes to make sure that he still had them. They complied, but the actions felt removed from him somehow, as if his limbs were separate from his body. It occurred to him that the sensation was undoubtedly the result of strong medication.

“Bond.”

Someone said his name from somewhere to his right, but it was too dark to see. That’s when Bond realised that at some point, he had closed his eyes again.

“James.”

The voice came softer now, as soft as the touch of fingers on the back of his hand. Even through that feeling of remoteness from his own body, Bond felt the warm brush of skin against his.

And he knew that touch anywhere.

“Q,” he said, or tried to say. His throat was too dry.

A moment later, something plastic pressed against his lips. A straw, he realised, and took it gratefully, sighing as the cool water soothed his raw esophagus. Once he drank his fill, Bond felt tired and sated. The urge to sleep again pulled at every bone and muscle, every cell, and Bond could not fight it.

He slept.

The next time Bond woke, things were a little clearer, the smells a bit sharper.

He felt the tubes and tape adhesive pulling at his skin uncomfortably; his veins ached where the IV needle had been inserted in the back of his hand. The rest of him still felt separate, but a little closer than before, with only the dull recognition of his limbs’ weight and slight discomfort to let Bond know he was still all there.

“James.”

Bond turned his head.

Q sat in the chair beside his bed. He looked ten years older, drawn and aged in a way that Bond knew was entirely his fault.

“How long have I been out?” Bond asked, his voice gravelly with sleep and thirst. Q filled a cup with ice water from a pitcher on the bedside, then helped him drink as he had the last time Bond had been conscious.

“Over two weeks,” Q answered, as he set the empty cup back on the side table.

“Two weeks?” Bond repeated.

Q’s cold fingers wrapped around his. They trembled slightly.

“They performed surgery on you at Station T. Once you were stable, both you and 004 were sent home. That was about five days ago. You’ve been sleeping ever since.”

“Surgery,” Bond repeated, feeling a numbness creeping through his blood that had nothing to do with the medication and everything to do with dread.

“Two surgeries, actually. Reconstructive. You were clipped in the knee with a .22LR,” Q said, rather pale. “You were lucky. They said if it had been a few millimetres closer to center , they would have been forced to remove your leg.”

Bond stared at the ceiling. If he believed in God, he might have said a prayer of thanks that he still had both his legs. But the cold rush in his veins persisted, and Bond felt something acidic in his throat when he realised that he might have both legs, but that didn’t mean that they necessarily had to be functional.

“Am I going to be able to walk again?” he asked.

“They say that in time, yes,” Q replied.

There was something about the way he said it that Bond didn’t like.

“But?” Bond prompted, bracing himself for the worst. Next to him, Q looked conflicted, as if debating on whether or not he should answer. Bond squeezed at his fingers as much as he was able. “But what, Q?”

“But the injuries were... extensive. You won’t... be returning to active service…”

Bond closed his eyes.

And this time, he willed the world to slip away again.

When consciousness returned, it came with agony.

There were fiery splinters in his leg, radiating a sharp pain to the rest of his body with every heartbeat, every breath. Bond could feel everything now, all of his limbs present in his mind and hurting in ways that Bond hadn’t hurt in a long time.

A hand squeezed his. Cold fingers, a slight tremor.

Q.

“--slowly be decreasing the medication over the next few days,” came the fragment of conversation, of a voice that Bond did not recognise. “He will be in some discomfort during that time.”

“And after?”

It was Q that time, his voice calm and level, but his hand still shook. His nails pressed into Bond’s palm, but the slight pinpricks of pressure were nothing in comparison to the pain in the rest of his body.

“He’ll need bedrest until the wound is completely healed. After that, intensive physical therapy. With this level of damage, it will be at least a few months until he regains general mobility.”

Bond wished he could go back to sleep. Instead, he let the voices wash over him in a hum, focussing his attention on the pain. It was easier than listening to someone clinically speak about his injuries, his long recovery; better than listening to Q asking questions that just reinforced the fact that Bond would be a burden on him.

The voices soon quieted and Q’s fingers unclenched around Bond’s after some time passed.

“You can stop pretending you’re asleep. He’s gone,” Q said.

When Bond opened his eyes, he saw Q sitting where he had been last. He looked exhausted, as if he had been sitting vigil ever since Bond arrived. Maybe he had, Bond thought, taking in Q’s wrinkled clothes and slightly unshaven appearance. At the sight of him, all of his thoughts to refute Q’s statement vanished and the only words that made it to his tongue were:

“I’m sorry.”

Q’s expression crumpled just a bit, the relief and tiredness breaking through momentarily, before he forced it back with a small smile.

“Don’t apologise,” Q said, and brought Bond’s hand to his lips, where he placed a kiss to the crescent of skin not covered in tape. “I’m just happy you’re alive.”

Bond grunted in pain, and Q gingerly put his hand back down on the bed.

“You’re going to be okay,” Q told him.

“And how long will that take?”

“A while, but you’ll be okay.”

With the pain in his leg, Bond doubted him. He saw a long road of quasi-recovery ahead, a shameful retirement as a cripple. And then he imagined Q beside him during all of it, tired and worn and trying so hard to smile, weary with the obligation of having to care for Bond. Quartermaster of MI6 and his caretaker? Q would kill himself trying, Bond knew he would. He was so young. It just wasn’t fair.

“We can’t,” Bond said, looking at the sheets on the bed, the tubes in his arms, everything but Q.

“What?”

Q held onto his hand, and as much as Bond wanted to keep it there, he knew he couldn’t. Physically, he didn’t have the strength to move away, so Bond had to use his words instead.

“We can’t. This. Us...We can’t.”

Q’s brow furrowed slightly as he tried to make sense of Bond’s words. Once realisation flirted at the edge of his expression, Q replied:

“It’s just the meds.”

“It’s not the meds.”

“The pain, then.”

“It’s not the pain.”

Q looked down at their joined hands.

“You don’t get to do this, James,” Q said quietly. “You can’t just keep saying things and taking them back. You can’t just almost die and then do this.”

“It won’t work,” Bond said again, and looked down at himself, all bandages and needles and wires. “This is why.”

“This is part of it,” Q said, smoothing his thumb over the back of Bond’s hand.

“It shouldn’t be. I won’t be a burden on you.”

“You’d never be a burden to me.”

“I can’t even get up to take a piss.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“And what if it isn’t?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Q did not let go of his hand, even when Bond tried to extricate his fingers

“Go,” Bond said, but Q did not leave. Instead, he leant forward until he had his head tucked under Bond’s chin. He kissed the hinge of Bond’s jaw tenderly, with so much adoration that Bond felt his heart clench. Even the heart monitor caught it, an odd number of seconds between rhythmic beats.

“No,” Q said, and Bond loved him so much that it hurt.

That is why he summed up all his strength to put his hand to Q’s chest.

To push him away.

“Go,” he said again.

“James--”

“I said go. And don’t come back.”

The pain of rejection showed so clearly in Q’s expression that Bond nearly broke

Q stood and took up his coat. But when he was at the door, he didn’t walk through it, just paused and looked back at Bond. Bond held his gaze as long as he dared, but Q turned away suddenly and rubbed at his eyes, and Bond did not have to see him to know that he was trying not to cry. His shoulders formed that rigid, tense line, as he hardened himself the best he could manage. He had one hand on the doorknob and as he turned it, he simply said:

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

Later that day, when the nurse came in to give him a small dosage of pain medication, Bond asked her to not allow any visitors.

“None at all?” she asked.

“None,” Bond said.

“Even the Quartermaster?”

“Especially the Quartermaster.”

She frowned as she prepared a syringe.

“He’s been so worried about you. In fact, I think this is the first time I’ve not seen him here since they brought you in.”

“No visitors,” Bond said again.

“I’ll make a note of it.”

The next time Bond woke, he was alone.

Over the next few weeks, Bond was always by himself.

Bond would wake up and there would be no one by his bedside, no one holding his hand, and he felt selfish in his first waking moments, wanting that comfort that Q had given him. Yes, he missed Q terribly, but Bond cared for Q too much to condemn him to a life less than what he deserved.

With Bond’s request for no visitors, Q did not come round. But every few days the nurse brought fresh flowers for his bedside table and new books that Bond had never read. He didn’t have to ask to know that they were from Q. Q who still cared despite Bond’s harshness, who Bond knew would keep forgiving him over and over again. It was something Bond did not warrant, an abuse that Q shouldn’t be forced to endure.

So Bond didn’t ask to see him, even if every part of him wanted to.

Soon, the nurses began encouraging Bond to move about, but he couldn’t do much on his own. It was shameful to have to call on someone every time he needed the restroom or to bathe. The Navy had long since squashed any embarrassment that came with bodily functions or nudity, but it was an entirely different matter to have someone bear witness to these things in this situation. Bond was no longer 007, no longer one of the most feared agents in the world. He was a crippled man who couldn’t stand upright on his own two feet long enough to have a shower, who needed the support of a stranger to achieve his basic needs.

It was the most hateful thing Bond could imagine, being so dependent--in so much pain--and his moods were often dark and antagonistic. The nurses began hating him after a while and left him alone for longer stretches of time without checking on him. After endless days of this treatment, the solitude was nothing short of suffocating, and not even the novels could transport Bond away from his empty, monochromatic room.

He had to get out, but had no means of doing so, until one of the doctors recommended he start using a wheelchair. Despite the degrading fact that he had to rely on a chair to get from one place to another, it was better than sitting in bed, and the staff let him wheel round Medical all day so long as he didn’t get into anything important or cause a ruckus. It was dull and Bond felt restless, trapped in the muted lavender hallways, but every time he considered cruising the halls of MI6, he stopped himself, not wanting to face the humiliation of being seen like this, not wanting to be filled with regret if he inadvertently ran into Q.

And Bond knew he wouldn’t have the strength to push him away again.

To keep his mind from going down that route over and over again, Bond began visiting with 004 in his recovery room. He and Will hadn’t seen much of each other in the past few years, but there was a deep seated bond of camaraderie between them after their time in training for the Double-Oh programme and the few missions they ran together in the old days. When Bond first saw him, he barely recognised the other man. Barely thirty, Will already looked close to fifty. The lines on his face were still handsome, but just like Bond’s, they were from stress and strain rather than laughter and natural age. The most concerning was how ashen Will looked, his dark skin looking as if it had been covered in a layer of dust.

“You look like shit, Will,” was the first thing Bond said.

“You look like fucking shit, James,” was his reply.

And soon, it was as if they were back at the start of things, too young and carefree agents with their whole careers ahead of them. But then a nurse arrived to give Will medication, to check his stitches and bandages, his catheter and IV bags. Once she left, the spark of youth died from their conversation, returning them to the present, where they were nothing but two old men with nothing to look forward to but the monotonous days of retirement.

“I think they’re waiting to tell me they’re going to upgrade me for a new model,” Will admitted, adjusting his injured shoulder with a groan. “004 2.0 or some such stuff.”

“You’re not the only one,” Bond said. “Got the word a few weeks ago. They’re putting me out to pasture.”

Will was the first one to give him an empathetic look rather than a pitying one.

“Knee?”

“Yeah.”

“Well you won’t be the only one,” Will replied, and held up his bandaged hand, “there’s not much a Double-Oh can do with only three fingers on his right hand.”

“Between us, we’re one functional human being,” Bond said and Will laughed.

“You said it.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence.

“So what’re you going to do?” Will asked. “You know. For retirement?”

“No idea. Never thought I’d live this long,” Bond admitted.

“Same for me. It’s sort of bleak, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got Sharon and the kids.”

“Haven’t seen them in years, you know that.”

The bitterness in Will’s tone made Bond look down at his bandaged knee. He didn’t know much about Will’s past aside from what leaked through their few drunken conversations at seedy pubs after bad assignments. All Bond remembered was that Will loved a woman named Sharon, who had already had a young daughter at the time. During a dry spell with no missions, Will had gotten involved, had gotten her pregnant. He thought about leaving at the time and moving to some place north of Liverpool to raise the family with her. But then duty called and he answered, without telling her why or what he honestly did for a living. Bond knew he took care of them financially and visited when he could, but aside from that, he kept that information close to his chest, wanting to protect them from his dangerous life.

“Well, maybe it’s time,” Bond said.

“Maybe it is…” Will sighed.

The next time Bond came to visit, Will told him he had called Sharon.

“I’m going to tell her everything,” Will said, “and if I’m lucky, she’ll take me back. But she’s a good woman...and smart...she might not.”

“You never know,” Bond replied.

“If she does, I’m going to buy her a ring. A real one. And a house with more rooms than we need. Put the kids in private school, make sure that they get a good education,” Will continued, and there was something alive in his face when he spoke about the future. About his future with the family he always wanted.

“What about you, James?” Will asked.

“What about me?”

“Don’t you have someone?”

Bond looked toward the door instead of at Will, because he had come here to forget, not remember.

“I had someone.”

Will regarded him carefully for a moment.

“You fucked it up, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Bond replied with a nod. “I really did.”

“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this, it’s that if you fuck up, at least be man enough to admit it,” Will said. “So what happened?”

“I ended it because I didn’t think it was fair...to have to deal with this,” Bond answered, indicating the wheelchair.

“Sounds like someone’s being a martyr.”

“You should talk to a friend of mine. I think you two would get along.”

“Seriously, James.”

The silence that overtook them hedged on uncomfortable, until Will broke it.

“So who was it?”

“You’ll never believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Q.”

Will’s brows rose, probably less at the fact that Bond had been involved with a man and more to do with the pact that all the Double-Ohs had made about no upper management.

“You always did like to break the rules,” Will said.

“Of course. It’s part of our job description.”

That had them both grinning, until Will sobered a bit.

“He’s something, that Q,” Will said. “Thought he was too young, but he’s done alright. Mission success rates are the highest they’ve been in years. Well, not counting ours, anyway.”

Bond made a thoughtful noise, mostly just to keep the conversation going, all the while trying not to remember how Q had looked that day when there had been nothing between them but all the time they could never have.

“They were going to leave me, weren’t they?” Will asked, and when Bond looked at him, he continued: “When the mission went bad.”

“Yeah.”

“But Q didn’t give up on me, did he?”

Bond shook his head.

“You picked a good one.”

“I ruined it, Will. I told you that. It’s over.”

Will leant back against his pillow.

“I owe that kid my life, you know.”

“Yeah,” Bond replied. “Me, too.”

After Will and Sharon came to terms with things, Bond didn’t see the other man. He found out later that Will had put in a request to be transferred to a local medical facility closer to his family. He had gone without saying goodbye, but Bond knew better than to take offence; Double-Ohs were notorious for hating farewells.

As much as Bond was happy for him to be moving on, it left him with no distractions from his condition. He remained confined to Medical, bothering the staff until they finally transitioned him to crutches. After over a month in a bed and confined to a chair, his arms were weak, and crutching up and then down the hallway back to his room took more energy than he had, consuming his days with frustration and exhaustion.

But slowly, he built up his strength, and when he was capable, Medical released him with a bag of medications and a thick file folder of instructions. They informed him that they would be sending someone round every day to check on him, to help clean and prepare meals. Bond hated it but could not decline, and was sent back to his flat with a medical escort, a constant reminder of his handicap.

His escort’s name was Lynda, and she was a sweet, middle-aged woman who had the touch of a mother and the patience of a saint. She immediately made it her mission to clean Bond’s kitchen and bathroom, then grocery shop to fill his empty cabinets. It was dark by the time she bid him goodnight, with a firm promise that she would be back the following day.

And so, Bond’s new life began.

Lynda would come once a day and prepare meals, do a bit of cleaning, help Bond up and down to the shower if he needed it. She didn’t stay long, for which Bond was grateful, but the moment she was gone, he felt the loneliness acutely.

He often stared at his phone. He thought about calling Moneypenny, but then he knew what she would say when she found out what he did. So Bond wrote the thought off and spent his days watching crap telly and trying to read the few books that he never finished. But the restlessness buzzed under his skin, growing stronger with each passing day.

He hated it.

Almost a year had passed and already he was back to where he had been the day he had moved into the flat. Everything seemed grey-washed and abysmal. During the days that stretched on far too long, Bond sometimes found himself entertaining fleeting thoughts about ending it all. But the shame that came with suicide outweighed the shame of a half-life. Instead, Bond filled his days with monotonous routines and pointless exercises, trying desperately to think of anything but Q.

Two weeks passed, during which Bond had nothing better to do than to listen to the heavy footsteps of his neighbours coming and going. Honestly, Bond was only listening for one set: the quiet tread of 507 that he hadn’t heard since he arrived back at the flat two weeks ago.

One Wednesday, only a few hours after Lynda had come and left, Bond finally heard life from above. For the first time in a long while, Bond felt something other than self-loathing and pain; there was a happy anticipation as he listened to 507 move about, an eagerness to have this person sit at the piano and play. 507 always had a way of helping him come to conclusions, and Bond needed that more than ever.

507 did not disappoint.

After forty-five minutes or so, the piano started upstairs. The notes that night were not necessarily sad, but something more pensive than usual. The song sounded like the sun attempting to peak through clouds on an overcast day, like someone waiting patiently, optimistically for something close by, but still far away.

Bond tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. As always, he tried not to think of Q.

But long after the song ended, he still was.

It might have been a bad idea, but Bond had worked up to it and wasn’t about to back down.

He waited until he heard 507 leave the following morning, then slowly got up out of bed and manoeuvred unsteadily on his crutches. He hadn’t left the apartment since Medical sent him home, and Bond had all but forgotten just how long the hallway felt from his door to the lift. By the time he reached the fifth floor, he was panting and slightly damp from the exertion.

It took him a while, but Bond managed to crutch his way to 507, where he slipped a folded piece of paper under the door. It read:

It’s been a long time since I heard you play.
After everything that’s happened to me and everything I’ve ruined, it’s the only thing I have left to look forward to now.
I hope it won’t be too much to ask you
to play again soon.
-407

Bond left before he could regret it, much like he always seemed to do, and spent the next twenty minutes pushing himself to get back to his own flat on shaking arms.

Surprisingly, the exercise did him a world of good. Although tiring, it was the most Bond had gotten his blood pumping in a long while, and he wanted to ride it out as long as he could remain upright. Which led to Lynda becoming irate when she arrived later that afternoon and found Bond already showered and halfway through a load of laundry.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she reminded him.

“If I rest anymore, I’ll die from boredom,” Bond replied.

“It’s better than falling down and breaking a hip.”

“It’s the only thing I haven’t broken yet.”

Lynda pointed at the sofa with a no-nonsense glare.

“No wonder the nurses wanted you gone,” she said.

“They just don’t know what to do with an attractive man, do they?” Bond asked, as he hobbled over to the couch.

“Oh, no, they know exactly what to do with an attractive man. You don’t think that catheter went in on its own, do you?”

Bond made a face at her and Lynda laughed at him outright before tackling the rest of his laundry.

“If you’re getting on alright, I can come by every few days if you’d like,” she said, after she had put Bond’s dinner in the oven.

“I’ll be alright,” Bond replied. “You ought to be home anyway. Two young ones waiting for you, aren’t they?”

“Yes, and a husband,” Lynda answered. “So a total of three children.”

“You go on. I’m alright,” Bond said again.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

It was only after she left that Bond wondered if he truly was.

After the day’s excitement and some painkillers for the ache that accompanied it, Bond dozed off on the couch after dinner. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he jerked awake when he heard the fwip of something sliding beneath his door. Slowly, Bond pulled himself up onto his crutches and went into the foyer, where found a small slip of paper on his doormat.

It took a fair bit of coordination for Bond to lean down and pick it up. Unlike his note, this one was fairly short, but somehow just as heartfelt. It read:

Remember that you’re not alone in this.
Always,
-507
P.S.
My offer still stands.
Just tap three times.

Hobbling back to the couch, Bond sat back down with a sigh, reading and then rereading the words over and over again. You’re not alone in this 507 wrote, as if a friend offering comfort. Bond leant back against the arm of the sofa and put his arm over his eyes, feeling defeated with the realisation of just how alone he was. Q had been his friend, then more than a friend, but Bond had pushed him away. He had lost Q and, by doing so, alienated Eve. Tanner was an alright mate for drinks every now and then, but everyone else Bond might consider more-than-an acquaintance had either left his life like Will had or was dead.

Bond sighed, crinkling the paper in his fist as he tried to will away the thoughts of Q that inundated his mind. He could still taste Q on his lips, feel the warmth of his skin against his fingertips, remember the exact count of his eyelashes. The regret came tenfold, even as Bond reminded himself that he had done it for the right reasons. He rubbed at his leg, trying to believe that Q would be better off without him.

But Bond wanted him back more than anything.

Shakily, he got up and leant on one crutch, using the other to bump at the ceiling three times. It was better than reaching for his mobile and doing something stupid and irreparable again.

Above him, the quiet creak of a floorboard as 507 moved toward the corner of the room, to the piano. Almost as if his thoughts had been broadcast, 507 began to play, the notes earnest, as if trying to convey something more than just hope, something like courage. There was an undercurrent of hardship, but the tempo delivered encouragement, as if everything could be overcome.

And Bond wanted to believe it.

Over the next few weeks, Bond started a slow, but steady pace back to normalcy.

He began physical therapy, which hurt more than he wanted to let on, but it soon allowed him to move about without having to rely on crutches. With some of his mobility back, Bond felt his old confidence returning, though it came back at a trickle instead of a rush. He still felt ashamed of his condition, his slow walk, his bulky cane. But it was better than being in a bed, better than a chair, better than the crutches, so Bond kept on as best as he could.

Physical therapy days were the hardest, because that was when Lynda came to fetch him from the flat and bring him to Six. Bond kept thinking he might run into Q, and the thought of facing him was almost too much to bear. But he never saw the other man, even when he started walking straighter and thought he might want to. The contrasting surge of relief and plummet of disappointment were always draining after the fact, and Bond usually fell into bed exhausted.

When he was not at Six, Bond stayed home and tried to not focus on his new reality, not when he had been attempting to think positively. But the fact of the matter was that he was retired now. They would probably force him through some sort of official ceremony and everything once he could walk, then pay him off in large increments every month for the rest of his life. But Bond didn’t want things, he wanted his life back, and if money could buy him that, he would give it up in a heartbeat.

But he tried not to dwell on that. He tried reading, even a bit of writing, but nothing got rid of that restlessness. He wanted things the way they had been.

Most of all, he wanted Q.

Bond felt that compulsion growing as the days dragged by and resorted to keeping his mobile far out of his reach to prevent himself from doing something he might regret.

The only suitable distraction was the music. Sometimes, when the pain was too much or his thoughts too dark, Bond would lay in bed and listen to the discs in his player on repeat. The songs transported him away from himself, into a place where there was nothing but melody and rhythm to match his heartbeats.

And it was then that Bond knew what he had to do.

He scribbled a note and limped to the lift. On the fifth floor, Bond slipped the folded paper under 507’s door.

This may sound strange, but would it be possible to meet with you?
I’ve made a lot of mistakes and don’t have anyone resembling a friend right now.
It would be nice to have someone to talk to.
-407

He waited awkwardly for a moment, but when he did not hear movement from the other side of the door, Bond took that as his cue to leave.

The next morning, there was a note on his doormat.

I understand what that feels like, but we can’t meet.
You’d just be disappointed.
Believe me, I know.
Always,
-507

Bond scribbled a reply and slipped it under 507’s door before he left for physical therapy.

Won’t you let me decide that for myself?
-407

He pushed himself through the exercises that day, eager to return back to the flat. But when he arrived three hours later, sore and sweating, there was no response.

For two days, Bond waited, anxious with nerves as he listened for any sounds from upstairs. The silence told him 507 was away, and with each passing hour, Bond felt a crushing regret for what he’d asked. 507 wasn’t his friend and it was unfair to assume he was. Although they had known each other for a while now, their meetings had always been through the music, from the sideways glimpses out of lift doors and stairwell corridors. It was wrong of him to assume that 507 wanted any part of Bond in his life, and the fact that Bond had expected him to agree so readily to a meeting was pure selfishness on his part.

He agonised for another twenty-four hours until relief came in the form of a purple Post-It resting on his doormat one morning. It read:

Come to mine
Tomorrow
8pm
Always,
-507

Which is how Bond ended up standing outside of 507 the following evening, dressed sharper than he had in a long time, having abandoned his track bottoms for proper slacks and his athletic shirt for a pressed button down. Despite donning his old attire, Bond felt none of the confidence he used to have, acutely aware of his limp and his cane. He had aspired to impress, but now Bond worried he would not be able to. What would 507 expect when they opened the door? Certainly not an old, broken agent with a bad leg and a drinking habit he couldn’t quite shake.

He pushed these thoughts to the back of his head, raised his fist, and knocked. There were footsteps on the other side, but they stopped at the threshold. Bond saw the shadow at the bottom of the door. A small Post-It note slid from the interior into the hallway. It landed next to Bond’s shoe, words facing up.

I don’t think this is a good idea.

“Why not?” Bond asked softly, resting his hand on the door, imagining that another person stood on the other side with similar feelings, doing the exact same thing. A door, a note, another boundary between them and the things that mattered.

Everything will change.

“Is that a bad thing?”

He heard 507 slump against the door and slide down to sit on the ground. Slowly, Bond did the same, stretching his leg out on the carpeted floor. Another note slid under the door, coming to rest next to his right hand.

It could be.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Bond said.

When no note responded, Bond continued on:

“I know it’s strange, but... I don’t know how to describe it… The music. The way you play. It’s like you understood me without ever having met me...like I’ve known you all my life.”

It was cliche and Bond knew it, but he couldn’t think of any other way to convey his feelings. And it was much easier to say those words to one side of a door than to someone’s face, even more so when no reply came immediately.

After a moment, another note appeared, this one with only a single word upon it.

Mélomanie.

Another followed.

It’s a love for music that transcends all logical understanding.

“I think it’s just your music, though,” Bond said, and leant his head back against the door frame. When there was no reply, Bond sighed. “It’s helped me, you know. The music, I mean. Even after all the stupid mistakes I’ve made recently.” Bond closed his eyes and thumped his head against the door in frustration. “There’s a lot of things I wish I could take back.”

A momentary hesitation before another piece of paper appeared next to Bond.

What happened?

“I hurt someone I care about. And now and I think it’s too late to make it right.”

The rapid scratching of a pen on the other side of the door. Then:

It’s never really too late.

“Maybe,” Bond agreed, taking the note into his hand to hold it, wanting to believe it, “but I don’t think I could ask his forgiveness. Not again.”

Do you love him?

“Yes,” Bond said, “very much.”

A long silence passed between them, until a note slipped under the door with a single word:

Tea?

Bond laughed.

“I’d like that.”

It took Bond a moment to get up, using the cane and the door frame to pull himself to a stand. 507 seemed aware of his plight, patiently waiting until Bond was upright before unlocking the latch and slowly opening the door.

Bond didn’t know what to expect. Even after all this time, he still didn’t know if 507 was young or old, male or female. But that still didn’t prepare him.

Nothing could prepare him to see Q standing on the other side of that door.

He wore a t-shirt and jeans, but no shoes or socks. He looked softer somehow in informal clothes, almost as soft as the day Bond had spend in bed with him, counting breaths and eyelashes and individual strands of hair. That day felt a lifetime ago in Bond’s memory, yet its images came back with striking clarity at the sight of him standing there; the weight of his feelings came with them, a sledgehammer of force against his rib cage that made breathing difficult.

Q must have noticed, because he smiled on one half side of hopeful and said:

“Hi.”

“Q,” Bond said, and he couldn’t help it if he sounded a bit betrayed.

“Yes,” Q replied, expression a bit sad.

Bond looked down the hallway, because he couldn’t look at Q, who had been so close and yet, so far from him this whole time. His gaze eventually fell to the floor, where purple Post-Its were strewn across the carpet at his feet.

“You knew this whole time?” Bond asked.

“Almost the whole time. I like to know who my neighbours are,” Q admitted.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You told me not to come round anymore,” Q reminded him.

“Before that.”

Q sighed.

“I didn’t know how…”

Bond felt offended even though he had not necessarily been lied to. All those conversations and lunches and touches and Q hadn’t said a word to him about this.

“All those months…” Bond said, a bit accusatory, “and you didn’t think I would eventually find out?”

“I didn’t think…” Q replied, breaths even and measured as if they hurt, “that you would ever reciprocate anything more than just friendship.”

“You didn’t think--” Bond began, but stopped himself.

Bond looked at Q--the tired slump to his shoulders, the dark bruises under his eyes--and felt his anger recede. He could see clearly that Q hadn’t intended any deceit, that he had only cared too much. Bond realised then that Q had been with him through everything, both seen and unseen, the only consistent presence in his life for the past year.

The only person who honestly, truly cared.

The only person who, after everything, could still look at Bond like he loved him.

And Bond felt a weakness--a glorious, beautiful weakness--to love him back.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Bond wanted to take Q into his arms right then, to kiss him like he hadn’t in so long, but there was still distance between them. An ocean had been crossed, but a gulf still remained, and he couldn’t jump in without caution.

Q opened the door a little wider in invitation, looking somewhat hesitant himself.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

Bond stepped inside, mindful of his cane in the narrow space. This was all new territory for him--for them--and Bond feared overstepping. He had already done enough damage in this relationship; it was up to Q to lead them from here.

“Have a seat, er...anywhere. Sorry about the mess,” Q said from behind him, as he stooped low to gather their discarded notes still on the ground.

There was one stuck to the bottom of Bond’s shoe; he felt his left foot slide with each step. Stopping at the threshold to the living room, Bond bowed over to remove it. There was only one word upon it:

Mélomanie.

Bond slid it into the pocket of his jacket just as Q closed the door.

“It’s not always this disorganised,” Q said, sounding a bit nervous, most likely at the fact that Bond hadn’t moved yet. But Bond did not even take in the room until Q said that. The flat was identical to his in terms of floor plan, but it was patently obvious that this was a home and not just a place to live. Bond had to admit that he didn’t take Q for someone who would have such rich colours in his home, always believing that his space would reflect the stylistic choices of TSS, with streamlined furniture and minimalist colour palettes. But there were reds and oranges and greens in the sofa and table, the carpet, the curtains. The furniture was all wood, almost antique, and even though there there was a fair bit of clutter on those available surfaces, Bond felt welcomed by all of it.

“I got called in two days ago and,” Q continued, as he went to the nearest table and began gathering up the files and books into his arms, “and haven’t been back since, so--”

“Q.”

“--just try to ignore it and feel free to move anything you need--”

“Q,” Bond said again, and the other man stopped, his arms laden with all the things he had most likely brought home from work. He seemed two steps away from panicked, and while Bond thought his unnecessary stress somewhat adorable, he didn’t think the situation would benefit from it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry, really.”

“I’m, okay. I’m going to take this over, er, into the other room, and, yes,” Q stammered, taking his armload down the hall to the other bedroom. Bond took that time to look round the flat a little closer.

The first place his eyes gravitated to was the corner of the room, next to the overcrowded bookshelves and wall unit against the far wall. A Yamaha upright piano stood against it, close enough that it wedged between the furniture and the window. Next to it, a small tray table had been rigged to accommodate a laptop and speakers, which were plugged into the piano, most likely for recording.

His gaze moved along the corner wall, where were three mounted instruments: a viola and two handsome violins. An open violin case rested on the coffee table; upon further investigation, Bond found an electric violin nestled inside. Beside the table, there sat a propped up cello on a rigid stand. There were several bows in the vicinity of these instruments, obviously well-used, but cared for. When Bond picked one up, he was surprised at the lightness of it, but even more so by the smell. It was that same scent that Bond would know anywhere, the one that reminded him of pines trees in the middle of winter. It seemed to come from the bow strings themselves and when Bond looked closer, he saw them covered in some sort of wax. Rosin he realised, setting the bow back down where he had found it.

“Um.”

Bond turned round and saw Q standing there, looking uncertain again; he wondered how long Q had been watching him.

“How do you take your tea? Or would you rather have coffee?”

In all honesty, Bond didn’t drink tea, but he didn’t want to put Q through the trouble for anything else.

“How you take it is fine,” Bond replied.

“Are you sure? I like it sweet…” Q said.

“Cream and two sugars, I know,” Bond said, and Q flushed before he disappeared into the kitchen.

When Bond turned his attention to the piano again, Bond took in the mess surrounding the instrument. There were pages of sheet music on the rest, on the seat and floor. Bond picked one up and noted that it was handwritten in pencil in the same left-handed scrawl with which he had become familiar over the past year.

The title read 407.

He picked up another, which also had the numbers 407 at the top. The rest were unmarked or had titles crossed out so many times with ink that Bond could not read them properly. But one particular sheet caught his eye. It rested on the open keyboard of the laptop and only had a few bars of music, but the title had been written clearly:

James.

Bond felt something hard stick in his throat as he set the music down where he had found it.

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle, and Bond heard the sound of Q taking mugs out of a cabinet, opening and closing the refrigerator door to fetch the milk. Bond stopped his snooping and went to sit on one end of the sofa, hoping that Q would join him instead of taking the solitary chair.

Instead of watching Q through the small doorway in the kitchen, Bond stared at the handsome cello near him, then at the other stringed instruments above the piano. He had heard Q play, but seeing them all still amazed him. He never knew someone could have such talent.

“You play all of these?”

“Yes,” Q said, as he came into the room, two cups of tea in his hands, one of which he handed to Bond, “I’ve always had an ear for music.”

“I’ve don’t think I’ve heard the cello,” Bond said.

“I’m a bit out of practice,” Q admitted, as he sat down on the sofa. They weren’t overly close, but they weren’t as far away, and Bond thought that an improvement. “I put a short cello piece on one of the discs I gave you, but it was quiet. You probably couldn’t even hear it...”

“I think you play well.”

“Thank you,” Q said, and Bond noticed that he pointedly looked at his cup instead of at him, as if embarrassed by the praise.

They fell into a strange sort of quiet that felt more pensive than anything else.

“I really am sorry,” Q said, “about everything. But to be fair, I didn’t know what to do. You’re not the easiest person to read.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“Yes, well it is the business, isn’t it?”

Bond tapped his finger at the edge of his mug.

“Why did you?”

“Hmm?”

“You know, all of this,” Bond gestured round the room. “Why did you do it?”

“You were so lonely...hurting, I could tell,” Q replied, guilt flooding his expression as he continued, “and you weren’t the only one. After...everything that happened.”

“Why not just talk to me?”

“Really?” Q asked, looking up at Bond through his fringe. “Don’t you think that would have been awkward?”

“Somewhat.”

“Somewhat?”

“A lot.”

“Yes. And even if I had approached and asked you about something as personal as your feelings, would you have answered me honestly?” Q asked.

“Probably not.”

“Probably not?”

“Definitely not.”

“And then after I asked and you didn’t answer, would you have ever spoken to me again?”

Bond looked down, trying to put himself back his position from a year ago. He hadn’t known Q all that long, and with M’s death still raw, he would have found it invasive, borderline offensive.

“No,” he admitted.

“So that’s why,” Q said, and leant forward to put his untouched mug on the coffee table. “You needed someone you didn’t know...a stranger who you didn’t fear passing judgment on you. So I spoke to you the only way I knew how. And then...with everything between us, I didn’t know how to tell you or if I should...not when it seemed like you were finally starting to feel happy again. It felt like a betrayal of trust...and I’m sorry for that.”

Bond regarded Q, who looked back at him with a level gaze. This was Q admitting to his oversight, to his lies by omission, and now, the ball was in Bond’s court.

“I’m sorry, too,” Bond said, wondering if he could ever say it enough. The rest of the words he wanted to say weren’t so easy. He put his tea down on the coffee table next to Q’s untouched mug as he searched for the appropriate starting point. “I put you through a lot. More than just a lot, actually...But I thought I was protecting you. I wanted to protect you in case something happened...I didn’t want to hurt you like that. It happened to me and I...couldn’t let you go through it. I just couldn’t.”

“I know you did,” Q replied, scooting a bit closer, “but I also knew those risks going in. It’s hard not to, with what I do.”

“Of course,” Bond said, unable to help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“But even with the probability of an unfavourable outcome, I was willing to take the risk, the consequences be damned,” Q continued, closing the space between them with the touch of his fingers to the back of Bond’s hand. He had forgotten, in the space of so many months, what that warmth felt like. “There are some things--some people--that you’re willing to take that chance for.”

Bond swallowed, turning his hand so that Q’s fingers fell into his palm.

“And are you still willing to take that chance?”

Q’s smile lit his entire face, and Bond knew the answer.

The last boundary fell, the wall crumbled, and Bond only had to lean forward to close the final gap between them. Bond kissed Q and Q kissed him back like a drowning man seeking air. His arms came round Bond’s shoulders, pulling him closer as Bond’s hands slid up underneath Q’s shirt, fingers skipping along the warm expanse of his back.

“Bed?” Q breathed.

“Marvellous plan,” Bond said against his lips, before claiming them once again.

There was some awkwardness as they stood from the couch, knees bumping, hands fumbling. Q managed to get Bond’s jacket off, which he unceremoniously discarded on the living room floor. Stepping around it, Bond stumbled slightly, and Q pulled back momentarily, eyes half-lidded, lips already a delightful red from kissing.

“Your leg--”

“It’s fine,” Bond answered, and resumed kissing him.

Navigating round his clothes and abandoned cane, Bond walked Q backwards to the bedroom, where the two of them fell into a mess of blankets and sheets. The unmade bed felt intimate, Bond privy to the private place where Q had slept alone, and now would share with him.

“You didn’t make your bed,” Bond commented, as he kissed from Q’s mouth to his jawline.

“I didn’t expect you,” Q replied, as he worked at Bond’s belt buckle.

“You invited me.”

“I thought you’d be angry and leave.”

“You couldn’t pay me to go,” Bond said, leaving a love bite on Q’s throat in retaliation for the comment, “not after all this time.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Another bite, and that one had Q keening and raising his hips against Bond’s.

“Now you’re stuck with me. I’m never letting you go again,” Bond said.

Q’s hands came into his hair, then down to his cheeks.

“Is that a promise?” he asked, as he turned Bond’s head to look at him. Q gazed down at him, his glasses slightly askew, but his gaze as steady and unwavering as his voice. “Because I can’t go through it again, James. I can’t have you go and take back something like that.”

Bond hesitated only momentarily, remembering what had happened last time he had made a promise and how it still remained unfulfilled. But this was a new life, a new start, and it might be a chance for him to start keeping the promises that truly mattered. Bond leant forward and kissed Q, delighting in the happy sigh that escaped the other man at the gesture. They kissed until Bond felt dizzy, and when he pulled away for breath, Bond whispered Q’s real name against his lips, like Q had done that one night in confidence.

“It’s a promise,” Bond said.

“I’m holding you to that,” Q murmured, and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

“Will you play for me?” Bond asked.

It was uncharacteristically sunny, and he and Q had spent the majority of the morning in bed. They had no pressing agenda, nowhere to be, no one to answer to, and there was a beautiful freedom in it, that the day was entirely theirs. Q stood in the kitchen in only Bond’s button up, pouring tea and coffee with expert efficiency into their preferred mugs.

“What was that?” Q asked as he came into the room. He sat down on the sofa next to Bond, handing over a fresh cup of coffee.

“Will you play for me?” Bond asked again, nodding at the collection of instruments in the corner.

“You’ve heard me play before…” Q reminded him, taking a sip of his tea.

“But I’ve never seen you play.”

“There’s not much to see,” Q said, flushing a bit, the colour stark against Bond’s white shirt.

In the two months since Bond had moved in, he had yet to see Q pick up his violin or sit at the piano. Most nights, Q arrived home late and exhausted, and Bond had no other desire than to get a good meal into him and send him to bed. The few days Q spent away from the lab were rare and usually busy running errands, out seeing shows, or spent in bed, all of which left little time for music.

But Bond missed it desperately. He felt restless in civilian life, which was dull in comparison with his years in international espionage. Due to his injuries, Bond knew he could never return, but there was some hope that he might be able to still work for MI6 in some capacity once his physical therapy finished, most likely classroom lecture for new recruits. Until then, Bond needed something that would distract as much as inspire him.

“Please?” Bond asked.

“Well... I had been working on a piece a few months ago, but I just couldn’t get the second violin to sound right,” Q said, tapping at the edge of his mug with something like nervousness. “Will you tell me what you think?”

“Of course,” Bond said.

Q smiled and set his mug down on the coffee table, then moved over to the corner of the room. He perched on the edge of his piano stool and picked up his violin. As he tuned it, Bond was captivated by his white fingertips; when he applied rosin to the bow, Bond felt his mouth go dry at the simple flex of Q’s wrist. But even more breathtaking were Q’s eyes, so intent on the instrument as he worked, possibly even more focussed than he was at work on his screens filled with scrolling code.

Once the violin met his satisfaction, Q fiddled with his laptop for a moment, then moved his sheet music to a free standing rest that had been shoved behind the curtain. He clipped a wireless microphone to the top if it, then dragged it round so that it faced Bond, and so Q, too, faced him.

Q tucked the end of the violin beneath his chin, resting the edge of the instrument into that particular spot on his neck that Bond loved most. Nestled there, the violin looked like a natural extension of himself, even more so when Q took up the bow and played through a series of scales to warm up.

When he was satisfied, Q pulled up a recording on his laptop.

The soft sound of a piano came from the speakers, a melody that Bond had never heard before but one with which he felt somehow intimate. The notes fell as quiet as rain winding down on a late afternoon day. Then came the mellow tune of a violin, joined almost imperceptibly by the lower undertone of the cello. After a few bars played, Q picked up his violin from its rest position and began to play along, layering the gentle sound of strings atop one another.

It was nothing like listening to the music through floorboards, through speakers. The sound that Q’s violin produced sang in his blood, warmed every inch of his skin. The music touched him in almost the same way that Q’s lips did, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

But most remarkable of all was that Bond could see Q.

He didn’t look at the sheet music at all, his eyes closed as he moved his fingers across the bridge, slid the bow along the strings. Bond watched him, transfixed, as the music effortlessly glided through the prerecorded score. There was a smile on Q’s lips as he reached the crescendo, and it lingered as he let the notes softly fade away.

“What do you think?” Q asked, as he rested the violin and bow across his lap.

Bond wanted to say it was the most beautiful song he had ever heard, that it meant more to him now than ever before to see Q play it with as much love and passion as he had shown Bond these past weeks. But the words seemed to fall short of what he wanted to convey, ten thousand English nouns and verbs and adjectives that would pale in comparison to what he felt. And it was then that Bond thought of the crumbled note he kept in his wallet, the one he hadn’t been able to throw away after that night, because the word--that single, solitary word--had meant so much.

It still meant so much.

“Mélomanie,” Bond said.

Q’s radiant smile rivaled the morning light, coming only in second to the kiss that followed. For the first time in his long life, Bond knew everything would be alright.

And he couldn’t ask for more.

Chapter Text

Music Bibliography

I had a lot of people ask me to include this at the end so that they could find new piano and violin music to listen to. Here is the master list. You can also find all of these in my instrumental playlists on Youtube. One is only the music used in the story, the other is my personal soundtrack of instrumental music.

Music Used

Chapter 1

ひろきのメロヂ[Hiroki's melody] by 天門 [Tenmon] from the film 雲のむこう、約束の場所 [The Place Promised in Our Early Days]

夢[dream] by 天門 [Tenmon] from the film 秒速５センチメートル[5 Centimeters Per Second]

Chapter 2

Cloud Atlas Sextet composed by Tom Tykwer

Song of the Caged Bird by Lindsey Stirling

Twilight by Roy Todd

Chapter 3

A Time For Us by Nino Rota, performed by Cyril de Saint-Amour

Fyrsta by Ólafur Arnalds

Silent Night by Lindsey Stirling

Chapter 4

No audio used, but the song I had in mind for the one scene when Bond is listening through the door was Sadame from the X/1999 soundtrack.

Chapter 5

"A Secret I Cannot Tell - 不能說的秘密" (Secret OST - Jay Chou) played by Fiftyvinh

Chapter 6

Every Moment by Abby Gunderson

Tong Hua (童話) - Guang Liang piano cover by xinzui0

Music Considered

Almost Lover piano cover by KT Thomas

Ame no basutei from Voices of a Distant Star

Another springtime by Roy Todd

Eternity ~Memory of Light and Waves~ from Final Fantasy X-2 (piano cover by Kylelandry)

Film Credits by Ólafur Arnalds

Guang Liang - Tong Hua (fairytale) - PIANO COVER

Haven - by irdeen

Just a moment - by theheartrender

Ljósið by Olafur Arnalds

The unfinished story by isisip - ORIGINAL

Recommended Music

Abby Gunderson’s Time Moves Quickly

Ólafur Arnalds’ Living Room Songs

Skyfall piano cover by Elizabeth Saw

X/1999 OST