Chapter Text
1.
It takes a moment for Q's eyes to adjust when he steps through the heavy wooden doors. The fortified underground bunkers that make up Q Branch's temporary stomping grounds are brightly but artificially lit; in contrast, the natural light and airiness of M's Whitehall office makes the space feel endlessly majestic, and somehow, it seems entirely appropriate when Q blinks his eyes clear that M, seated at his oaken writing table, is flanked by a pair of Double-Os.
M looks up when Q shuts the door behind him, but both Double-Os are already at attention – 004's smile small but genuine under her unwavering gaze, 007's head tilted almost lazily in Q's direction – likely having noticed Q even before the door had swung fully open. 004 rounds the table in three strides, ducking forward to bestow a kiss to Q's cheek; she's out of disguise today, woollen coat pulled over a generic MI6 tracksuit, dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders, entirely herself in the safety of headquarters. Her eyes gleam with quiet humour when she steps back, pulling out one of the chairs before M's desk.
"Sir," Q murmurs in M's direction before sliding into the chair, dragging his ubiquitous messenger bag into his lap, the hard edge of his laptop within familiar and comforting. He tilts his head to address 004. "Welcome back. It's been a while."
Something light and barely tangible ruffles through Q's hair, and then 004 steps around Q's seat to head back to M's side. "It has. I'm glad to be back," she says with a pleased smile.
"No welcome back for me?" Bond drawls.
"I haven't seen 004 since before the whole Spectre debacle, and yet I saw you just two weeks ago," Q counters. Pulled away from his work and his bank of monitors and servers, fatigue begins creeping up on him and Q blinks hard, trying to stay alert. "I thought you were still in the field, to be honest."
There's something off about Bond that Q can't quite catch a hold of – something odd about his expression, about the way the way he's standing, fully in the shadows while 004 is basking in the stark morning light spilling through the windows.
Too still, despite his usual bantering words. Too quiet.
M sets down his pen with a distinct click, cutting off Q's train of thought, and like it's a signal, all of them turn to look at M.
The report under M's pen, now that Q is paying attention, looks familiar.
"This is regarding the specialized component you recommended MI6 to acquire on Q Branch's behalf," M says, and Q feels his spine straighten, his hand going still atop his laptop. "This component is important?"
"Yes sir," Q says, even though he had made those reasons more than clear in his report. "Q Branch could develop the component ourselves, but the breakthrough may take up to a year and will necessarily divert part of the team away from other important projects. It will be more efficient to acquire the technology elsewhere, and the developers I've surveyed, although involved in somewhat questionably legal ventures, is reliable." He drums his fingers once on his laptop, four quiet taps. "I saw the request for me to call in regarding a non-critical mission, but I had to handle a code red issue."
None of them need to mention that since Spectre's rise, Q is very rarely involved in anything that can be classified non-critical. Capturing Oberhauser, shutting down Nine Eyes and destroying the Morocco tech centre may have disabled many of Spectre's critical operations, but the terrorist organization doesn't take a many-limbed cephalopod as their symbol for no good reason.
"That was my request," 004 picks up the conversation thread smoothly. "Rather than send out another field agent, the plan was for me to cut through Zurich to meet your suggested contact in my latest mission guise. Unfortunately—" there's a minute pause "—I missed the window. There were complications."
In other words, 004's mission blew up on her; an incredibly rare occurrence. 004 often takes the longest assignments, going undercover and orchestrating many subtle changes in her wake – ceasefires and the signing of agreements or contracts – often resulting in significant but less explosive headlines.
"Are you all right?" Q asks.
004 smiles, but instead of answering, simply retrieves the copy of Q's request report and hands it back to him. Q doesn't look down at her hands when he accepts the sheaf of papers, doesn't look for bandages or stitches or any signs of wounds under the sleeve of her MI6 tracksuit; 004 is so perfect in her guises that if she doesn't want him to see something, Q never will.
"I was only able to come back to London early because of it. I'm sorry we missed the timing to acquire the component you need, Quartermaster."
"It's fine." Q folds the papers in half, taking his time to crease the lines perfectly, thinking. "Picking up the component in Zurich would have been cleaner, but I can find their next contact point."
"Your notes mention that the next contact point will be in three months," Bond says suddenly. "And we've also seen your assessments on Spectre's operations. They can accomplish plenty in three months."
"It's fine," Q repeats, although this time he finds one of his hands in his hair, fingers combing through his curls restlessly. "The component is about efficiency - it gives us faster speeds, better encryption, greater capacity for its small footprint. I can still hold Spectre off with my current set up, it just takes more effort."
"And you'll run yourself further to the ground doing so," Bond says, which is rich, considering how little regard Double-Os give their health when it comes to their missions. "You are MI6's main asset against Spectre's machinations. We can't afford for you to burn yourself out."
Q scowls at the hypocrisy and opens his mouth to retort – never mind that they're in M's office – but 004 cuts in with an easy grace that diffuses the argument before it even begins.
"Quartermaster, you are brilliant at your job. Yet you thought this component important enough that you requested M's attention on it, which means it's also important to us."
Us, as in the Double-Os, and Q can't help the way his eyes dart towards Bond. He can't quite tell if he meets Bond's eyes in the shadows, but as the seconds tick by and Bond doesn't say a word, Q forcibly turns his attention back to 004.
"We think there's a viable alternative," she says, drawing out a creamy envelope from her jacket pocket. "Rather than attempting to buy the component during their advertised contact points, how about speaking directly to the head of the company itself?"
The hefty weight of the envelope speaks of quality, and the invitation, from what Q can tell, is made from cotton fibres with a linen finish. The name of the event seems innocuous enough, if a terrible mouthful – Black Tie Networking Cocktail Party for Finances and Technology – but Q's eyes drop straight down to the organizer, and—
"Oh," he says, and carefully places the invitation on M's desk.
"We checked the invitation list, and the developers of the component you need will be attending under Val Tech, the name of one of their public companies," 004 confirms. "The window to register for the event has ended, but you have ways to put yourself on the list, I'm sure."
"Of course; it's something I regularly do for your agents. If they have an online component to their registration, I can hack it easi—" Then what 004 said registers, and Q blinks, honey-slow. "...'yourself on the list'? Me?"
"You're familiar with the organizer, Decima Technologies, so you know what this networking event is likely a front for," M says. "Of all MI6 personnel, you have the greatest qualifications and the necessary technical knowledge to blend in. And of course," M taps one finger on the folder in front of him; one that had been previously covered by Q's report, "if necessary, you have the reputation to get your foot in the door with any of the attendees, including Val Tech. I'm sure they would be delighted for a piece of their technology to fall in your hands."
The shot of adrenaline does wonders to clear Q's mind. He stares at the featureless, generic front of the folder for a long minute, before his eyes dart up to meet M's gaze.
"What an interesting file you have," Bond murmurs. "It's redacted almost as much as a Double-O's personnel file."
"We didn't get much of a look at it," 004 assures him. "Just a glimpse, when M wanted to confirm the name of your former alias."
"Of course, MI5's file on one dark web user Iota was quite interesting. The details were redacted as well, but more enlightening were all the warnings and caveats attached to the name." Bond's expression is still thrown into shadow, but there's no mistaking the wry humour in his voice. "Your reputation precedes you, Q."
Q draws back into his seat, stomping down on the urge to squirm under the attentive stares from three pairs of eyes. It's never strategically sound to let yourself get surrounded or caught on the enemy's territory; Q had rather thought he'd stepped into a safe space, especially with two Double-Os present, but he's starting to feel more and more like he'd walked neatly into a trap.
"I agree that attending the networking event is a good place to get in touch with Val Tech," Q says. "I can even understand why you'd send me out; I did recommend myself to be attached to the acquisition mission as a handler, after all. But I don't need to do any of that as Iota."
"I considered sending one of the Double-Os," M says. "But for a team of hyper-secretive operatives, they've been quite visible lately. And Denbigh knew all their identities, even 004's.'
"You, on the other hand, hid yourself and Q Branch before Denbigh came on the scene; he was shocked when you took down Nine Eyes. And although Spectre must now know about you, as the Quartermaster, you keep a much lower profile than the Double-Os do. As a civilian, you have the knowledge and skills to conceivably be at the party, and in the event that you are captured or detained in any way, Decima Technologies would never, ever let Iota be killed."
Q licks at his bottom lip and tries to ignore 004 and Bond's stares. The Double-Os value privacy deeply, but only their own; anyone else's secrets are theirs for the taking, and they delight in unearthing tiny details and hidden facts.
Someone like Q, whose entire identity is shrouded in anonymity? That's practically dangling a catnip-laced feather toy in front of a terribly curious cat.
"I think revealing myself to the organization that founded itself in Iota's name and modelled their modus operandi after Iota's methods of operation would cause us more trouble than anything else." For one, Q adds silently, they'll never let me leave.
"You'll at least be alive to complain about it," M answers silkily. "With your cybertechnology know-how, one of your civilian identities will do just fine to meet up with Val Tech. If the worst happens, the Iota alias is simply an extra card up your sleeve that should keep you secure long enough for one of the Double-Os to extract you."
Q's eyes dart to 004 and Bond on either side of M. "Is that why the Double-Os are here, sir?"
"As you'll be the in-field operative for the mission, 007 will accompany you as a handler," M says.
"Really." Q can't help the way his tone drops in disbelief; from the way the corner of Bond's mouth twitches upwards, it's clear everyone hears it. "With all due respect, sir, 007 has a tendency to hijack missions even when he's the operative in question."
004 laughs, her voice as resonant as a bell. "It's all right, Q. James is technically on enforced medical leave, but only because of the nature of his injuries: enough to take him off the roster as an active combatant operative, but not enough that he can't accompany you on a mission and assist from the shadows." On anyone else, her smile would be smug; on 004, the curve of her lips just looks serene.
"What—" Q begins, but Bond cuts him right off.
"I can still shoot and handle all manner of weapons, which is more than I can say for your condition, Scarlet."
"Put on your eyeglasses, 007," 004 says, her tone light and sweet.
"Put on your wrist braces, 004," Bond counters, his tone flippant.
"Agents," M says, like the safety of a gun going off, and the Double-Os subside. "007, wear your glasses as the medics have prescribe them. 004, you gave your blades to Tanner of your own accord, which tells me you know how serious the conditions of your wrists are."
"Sir," 004 says, and draws two braces from her other coat pocket, pulling them on with quick, efficient movements.
Q stares at her for a long minute, feeling aghast; he’s sitting in a chair that she pulled out despite injuries serious enough that she willingly turned in her primary weapons for. Double-Os pick up injuries like the days of the week, but 004 is usually so precise and meticulous that Q rarely has to deal with the consequences.
004 holds out her hands then, the brace straps still undone. Q lets his laptop bag slide carefully to the floor and takes her right hand, tugging the straps into place – he’s worn a brace or two in his time before he learned that prevention is better than cure when it comes to carpal tunnel and the health of his hands – before doing the same on her other wrist, feeling 004’s delicate bones structure and the play of muscles shifting as he goes, trying to map that to wrist guards in the form of wide bracelets, or maybe translucent, paper-thin straps—
“They’ll heal,” 004 tells him when Q pulls the last strap in place. And then, with faint humour, she adds, “And so will James’s eyes, if he follows instructions.”
Q turns immediately to stare at Bond; unlike 004, he hasn’t seemed to move at all despite M’s orders. It isn’t like Q can get away with putting glasses on Bond the way 004 allowed him to fasten and check over her wrist braces, so he just lets the silence lengthen instead.
Bond doesn’t quite sigh, but the abrupt way he pulls out a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his suit conveys a distinct sense of exasperation. He puts them on and steps out of the shadows, although he stays out of direct sunlight; in the dimness, Q can see that the frames are dark, the lenses reflecting a blue sheen at certain angles, and Bond’s eyes oddly off-colour behind them, like they’re mildly inflamed despite the lack of redness.
“Your medical report must be quite a read,” Q says before he can quite catch himself, and Bond shoots him a wry look.
“As fascinating as it is to know the lengths you two will go to placate the Quartermaster,” M says, his voice as dry as the desert, “I have a meeting with the Prime Minister in twenty minutes. Q, you have leeway to arrange the details of the mission yourself. 007, you will work with Q on the mission parameters without hijacking the mission. 004—”
“I’ll be with the Chief of Staff,” 004 says.
“Fine. Now all of you, dismissed.”
004 is the first to flit towards the door, her movements sure and easy. Bond follows her, skirting the perimeter of the office and keeping to the shadows. Q picks up his laptop bag, slings it over his shoulder, and then pushes his chair back into place before M’s writing table.
“What would you like me to do,” he says quietly, “if Spectre has a presence at the networking party?”
M glances up at him, his eyes sharp and knowing. “Safeguarding your own life is paramount. Beyond that, I trust you know how to prioritize your mission objectives.”
Q nods once. He is, after all, the Secret Service’s primary asset in the cybertechnology war, and it makes sense to send him to test the waters amongst other technology giants, to investigate how deeply Spectre may have dug into their ranks, if at all, and to lay down contingencies if the terrorist organization has. In this mission, he won’t be leaning on his Quartermaster identity at all.
“Understood, sir,” Q says, and turns to leave.
2.
It’s a measure of how well Q knows James that he sets their rendezvous point at Q Branch’s secondary parking bay.
The surveillance here goes directly to Q Branch instead of the Security Branch, and with Q in control of the cameras, James knows no one will get a glimpse of him as he prowls through the shadows, stepping past gleaming Bentleys and a Jaguar sitting sleekly in wait. Q Branch’s latest Aston Martin prototype, James is willing to wager, is locked securely behind steel doors with some kind of unhackable security measure programmed into its systems this time.
He hears Q before he sees him, and glimpses the dim glow from Q’s phone before he spots Q himself. Q’s steps are slow and measured, half feeling his way through the darkness, and James steps away from the garage doors, cuts through two Bentleys to intercept him, letting his shoe scuff once against the floor as a warning.
Q reacts quickly enough; not quite field agent swift, but his arm comes up, brandishing a length of – wood? Metal? – before him defensively, his movements swift and easy, as if used to handling a long weapon. James whistles a short birdcall at him and snags him by the arm. There’s a second where Q’s instincts are obviously at war with each other – the whistle is an identifying signal, one Q knows James uses, while the contact to Q’s personal-space-loving senses would immediately represent danger, especially when startled like this – but James keeps his hand steady, and a moment later Q relaxes.
The moment after that, he tries to rap James in the shin with the metal tip of – ah, an umbrella – which James sidesteps almost absentmindedly.
“Your awareness of the spaces around you is improving.”
Q lets out an aggrieved breath. “I’ve been berated over my inattention in Altaussee and almost letting myself get captured by Spectre agents because I was too focused on my laptop enough times to do something about it.” His eyes narrow. “Were you testing me?”
“It will be a novel situation for both of us, you being the operative and I the handler,” James says. “An umbrella, Q? I thought you were used to London’s weather.”
Q glances down at his hand, as if he’d forgotten about the umbrella altogether. He shuts off his phone, slipping it into his pocket, and simply says, “I read your medical report.”
“Ah,” James says succinctly, and lets Q slip away from his grasp.
Q shoots him a look, and then treads his way carefully towards the garage doors, finding the security pad through touch alone. “I’m almost used to the results of your after-mission physicals, but the toxicology report was something else. Out of all the possible effects, ultraviolet light sensitivity isn’t the worst outcome.”
“It’s more irritating than debilitating,” James agrees, just as Q manually disengages the locks and the doors swing outwards. The parking bay opens up into an abandoned alleyway, hidden from the city but exposed to the open air, and James feels his eyes sting as his pupils contract in the dim light, despite the glasses he wears. London is shrouded in storm clouds this afternoon, turning the day grey and dreary; Q opens the umbrella and steps closer, swinging it over their heads to further shelter James’s eyes from any possible sunlight.
“Wouldn’t sunglasses work better?” Q asks curiously.
“If sunglasses worked better, the medics would give me sunglasses,” James says. “It’s more complicated than just ultraviolet light sensitivity, hence the need for specialized glasses. Your branch developed the lenses, actually.”
Q hums under his breath. “In natural light and without protection, the toxins will start breaking down the photoreceptors in your eyes, leading to migraines, dizziness and eventual blindness. Artificial light hurts your eyes as well, but with the appropriate filters in place, you can operate almost as normal. And over time, with medication, your body will filter out the toxins.”
“Hence why I’m grounded from Double-O missions for the time being, and restricted to support activities,” James says sardonically. He liberates the handle of the umbrella from Q’s hand, lifts it higher above their heads. “Fortunately, your networking party is in the evening.”
“And I have night-mode filters on all my devices.” Q shoots him a look. “Don’t hijack the mission.”
“Don’t put yourself in a situation that requires extraction, and I won’t,” James says.
“Fair enough.” Q slips his phone from his parka pocket, flicks it once to check the time. “We can discuss details on the way. I need to get my destination before it closes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me drive.”
“No,” Q says, “and especially not with the condition of your eyes. Stop straining them.”
“Like I won’t strain them watching camera footages?” James returns; this argument will go nowhere, and he swiftly lets it go. “Where are we going?”
Q smiles, and it’s a strange one; wry and secretive. “Savile Row.”
---
As fond as Double-Os are of exquisite bespoke clothing, James rarely sets foot in the famed tailoring street. The majority of Double-O’s suits – and in 004’s case, the accoutrements of her various guises – come directly from Q Branch, custom-created and reinforced to suit their active line of work.
Which begs the very pertinent question of why the head of Q Branch chose to come to a tailor instead of hopping one floor down to the Inventories section to request a black tie outfit.
Q doesn’t have to point out the shop in question; walking side by side under the shelter of the umbrella, it’s obvious the moment Q slows down, and James tilts the umbrella back to better study the tailor shop Q is gazing at, ignoring the way his eyes sting.
Kingsman Tailor Shop. The shopfront looks innocuous, but the fact that Q chose it means it’s anything but.
Q has gone quiet at James’s side, and before James can quip at him, steps forward without warning, pushing the front door open with a gentle tingle of the doorbell. It’s not like Q at all – he’s worked with field agents often enough to respect their need to take the lead, to clear an unfamiliar room and secure the space first – and James narrows his eyes.
It’s still Q that he’s looking at, who is holding the door open for James to follow through, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s no longer acting the role of the Quartermaster.
James keeps his steps slow and languid as he follows Q through the door, folding the umbrella and letting the tip come to rest on the polished hardwood floors, keeping his hand lightly on the handle like he would a sabre.
Q makes no sound when he walks up to the counter and the man behind it – not because of any particular stealthy skill, but because of the way the shop is built. It is constructed along classically upscale lines, all glossy hardwood fittings and furniture and finishings in fine, understated fabrics. The front room is pleasantly heated against the autumn chill without being overwhelming warm, and the lighting follows suit, all dusky orange Edison lights that turns the tousled curls of Q’s hair glossy.
The man at the counter has thin gold-rimmed glasses, minimalist but finely tailored trousers, dress shirt and vest and a measuring tape draped over his neck, and is utterly average in everything else: average height, average build, brown eyes and dark hair in a symmetrical but forgettable face, smiling politely but otherwise without overt emotion.
“Good afternoon, sirs,” the man says, setting down his marking chalk and swiftly wiping his hands down on a towel. “How may I help you?”
The cutter glances at James in his suit, and then back to Q, with his messy hair and casual parka. His gaze stays there, and James feels the corner of his mouth tick up despite himself.
Here’s someone who doesn’t judge on appearance alone, who made the correct call on who they should focus more on, and James knows professionals pride themselves on their impeccable service and intuition, but there’s such a thing as being too perfect.
James isn’t entirely sure what Kingsman Tailor Shop is a front for, but he does know that cutting shears capable of smoothly bisecting thick fabric can be just as deadly as one of 004’s titanium alloy blades.
“My apologies for coming without an appointment,” Q says, his voice soft, lacking the razor-sharp wit that James is so used to. When Q glances to the side, however, it’s with the crisp precision that marks all the quartermaster's actions when he’s in the middle of handling a mission, resolving half a dozen problems at once while still speaking clearly down a line. James follows his gaze to a line of hooks adorning one wall, each embossed with a stylized mark that must be the shop’s symbol. “But the tailor I’m here for will want to see me, I’m sure.”
There’s a minute pause as the cutter stares at Q, Q gazes serenely at the wall, and James does his best to keep the entire room in view. Then the cutter tilts his head as if listening to a voice in one ear – still green, James notes idly – and nods.
“Of course,” the cutter says smoothly, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing towards one of the panelled doors. “Please, you can wait in Fitting Room One.”
This time, James lets Q take the lead easily. It’s clear that Q is in control of the situation, which means James can focus a less on guarding him and more on figuring out this intriguing puzzle.
But only a little less; James is still a Double-O, after all, and he will be six feet under before he willingly lets Q get injured on his watch.
The fitting room looks just how a fitting room in Savile Row should look, but James takes a position by the door anyway, one that gives him a clear view of the simple door opposite, one that must lead to the backrooms of the tailor shop. Q drifts towards the armchair but doesn’t sit down; instead, he glances around the room, not systematically like an agent would, but at whatever that grasps his attention.
“It’s an interesting dichotomy,” he says after a moment, “that the surveillance outside in the front room probably rivals one of my own setups, but here, in the fitting rooms, they respect a customer’s privacy enough that it’s both soundproof and completely camera-free.”
“Soundproof and camera-free means it’s that much easier to conduct and complete your business, and dispose of the evidence afterwards.” James arches an eyebrow in Q’s direction. “And here I thought you would be wary of disclosing information regarding your former alias.”
“I much prefer the way our agency operates, rather than having to maintain an artificial front. A benefit of being an officially sanctioned branch of the government, even if we work in grey spaces.” The gleam in Q’s eyes is a familiar one, but there’s a hint of mischief in the smile he bestows James, as though he’s able to let down the professional front he constantly keeps up in front of M and his branch. “And whoever said this has anything to do with Iota?”
The curiosity lingering at the edges of James’s mind spikes at the vocalization of that alias, but there’s a perfunctory knock at the backdoor, and then the panels slide open.
Normally James’s first impressions are visual-based, but their visitor starts speaking before he even clears the doors, and so James files confident and Scottish accent and familiar with Q as Q as the man says, “Q, you’ve always been a free spirit, but I didn’t think you a loose cannon enough to actually bring a Double-O here.”
James’s focus snaps immediately on the man, but Q laughs, quiet but still tinged with the earlier mischief.
“I’m standing in a room with a Double-O and a Kingsman, and you think I’m the unpredictable one?”
Q’s body language is completely at ease, his amusement seemingly chasing away the cloud of fatigue that hung perpetually over him since he took on the Spectre assignment. James sets aside the urge to drift closer, to put himself in a more protective position, and lets his voice drawl instead.
“You both have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”
“Merlin, James. James, Merlin. He tried to recruit me a while back,” Q says to James, “except our government already had their mark on me. He’s Kingsman’s technical expert.”
James puts all the subtle clues and hints together and comes up with a plausible theory. “Independent intelligence agency,” he says, and watches Merlin’s body language. The man stays absolutely rock still, expression stern and unchanging – which says plenty, really. “And M lets them be.”
“Kingsman has its functions, and they’re a thorn in MI5’s side as well, so it works out.”
“You’re quite determined to spill all our secrets,” Merlin says, managing to convey fond resignation with just a tilt of his head.
“I don’t actually know most of Kingsman’s secrets,” Q replies. “And contrary to appearances, I’m not here on MI6 business.”
“So you just happened to walk through Savile Row with a Double-O in tow.” Merlin throws James a sardonic look. “He’s fit, but you’ve always put work before pleasure,” he says, and something in the back of James’s mind goes ah, like a switch flipping. Merlin holds James’s gaze for a long moment, then seems to ignore him all together, his attention going back to Q. “That was one of the things I liked about you, that perfectionistic workaholic tendency.”
“Takes one to know one,” Q says almost cheekily, and then he withdraws his hands from his parka pockets, his fingers for once empty of his phone or any other electronic device. “I’m here for a suit. Black tie. The event is this weekend, and we’re leaving in two days.”
Merlin gestures in James’s direction. “Your agent here is proof your branch handles suits well enough. Although now that I think about it, the glasses and the umbrella are quite Kingsman-like.”
“The umbrella is mine, and it is just an umbrella, I assure you. My branch is very good at what they do, but they can’t handle suits without adding bells and whistles to them.”
“You’ve definitely come to the wrong place, then.”
“But Merlin, Kingsman Tailors is a legitimate business,” Q says. “Isn’t it.”
The fitting room hums with sudden tension; James doesn’t react, because he has already tipped his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to react at a moment’s notice. And then Merlin laughs, full-throated and belly deep.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he says.
“Just a little. I have to take my amusements as they come.” Q’s smile turns rueful. “I meant it, you know. I need to pass as a civilian, with no way to connect me back to my agency. James is here because James is coming with me, but he won’t be going anywhere near the event.”
Merlin’s eyebrows shoot right up. “They’re sending you? With a civilian cover? No,” he quickly corrects himself, his eyes narrowing, “a civilian, but one with credentials. Your old web aliases.”
Q gives a hum of acknowledgment.
“What in the world have you gotten yourself into,” Merlin says. “I heard about the shake-up between MI5 and MI6, and the whole joint agency plan that fell through.”
Q shakes his head. “You have your own reorganization to deal with. And Hart’s condition—”
Something flickers in Merlin’s eyes, sharp and dangerous behind his glasses, and his voice is heavy with the unsaid when he cuts Q off. “I know.”
There’s a pregnant pause as Merlin wrestles his emotions under control and Q lets him, looking tactfully to the side. Like a needle constantly pulled northward, however, Q’s gaze soon turns unerringly towards James.
If Merlin is anything like Q – tenacious, skilled, and extremely protective – James knows he’ll never find anything about this Hart, but he’s starting to wonder how many things he has in common with the man, for Q to look at him like that.
“Hart isn’t my agent, but I understand. Well,” Q’s voice rises as if to forcibly pull himself from dark subjects, “this time I’ll be in the spotlight, so. Black tie suit. Kingsman Tailor made. The event’s in Brussels, if that makes a difference.”
Merlin sighs, but at least the dark undercurrents have been banished from his expression. “Fine. I do owe you several favours.” A grin steals over his face. “We have new blood amongst the ranks, so we’ve been refreshing our look. A slant towards youthful modernity.”
“I’m aware. Lancelot seems to have a good head on her shoulders, but if anyone’s a loose cannon, it’s your new Galahad.”
Merlin gives a half shrug, like he agrees but still feels the need to defend his agent anyway. “His liberal, unorthodox way of thinking makes him unpredictable, and that gives him an edge. Well, all the swearing means the lines are amusing to listen to.”
“I feel like I would enjoy meeting this Galahad,” James murmurs, and has to smother his own grin at the twin looks of horror Q and Merlin shoot him.
“Perish the thought.” Merlin shakes his head. “I’ll go rustle up some of our master tailors.” He crosses the room and taps on the top panel of the back door, which opens soundlessly, giving James a glimpse of the generic corridor beyond. “Really, Q, why did you bring your Double-O here?” His voice drifts away as he goes through the door. “I noticed you’re not commissioning a suit for him or—”
The panel swings shut behind Merlin, and silence settles back over the room like heavy snow over a village, quiet and peaceful.
“Q Branch suits are good enough for Double-Os, I suppose,” James says.
“Only Q Branch suits are good enough for Double-Os,” Q corrects, the undercurrent of possessiveness automatic and absentminded; he blinks a moment later, and finally sits down on the armchair that comes with the fitting room. “This isn’t Kingsman’s headquarters – I don’t know where that is – but it’s an armoury of sorts. They have all sorts of things you like. Umbrellas with weapons systems built into them, and maybe an exploding pen or two.”
“Ah,” James says, and finally lets out the grin he’d been hiding in Merlin’s presence, lopsided and amused. “So I’m the distraction for Merlin, and Kingsman itself is the distraction for me.”
Q laughs, light-hearted – it almost feels like James has heard him laugh more times today than all their time in MI6, between missions and over a wireline – and he gives James yet another unfamiliar look, subtle but cocksure.
“I’m not one for direct confrontations, and this gets the job done. I’m a master of obscuration and deflection, after all.”
“You are,” James agrees, “But Merlin knows enough about me to identify me as a Double-O on sight. Just how many people in London actually know our identities?”
“You give away your name on assignment all the time,” Q says immediately, as if he can’t help the riposte. A moment later, his posture loosens, “Merlin is an exception, and knows better than to use that information.” He pauses, and meets James’s eyes, and the steadiness behind that gaze reinforces what James has known all along – that Q possesses several personas; that they are all him but can be as variable as the colour of the ocean, changing from hour to hour depending on the weather and the quality of light; and that despite that variance, there are core characteristics about Q that will never, ever change.
James trusts his life, his assignments and at times the fate of the world to Q himself, after all; not to the rank, and certainly not to the position.
“I suppose I will go out to the front room and settle the logistics for your suit,” he says, and then grins at the startled look Q gives him. “That shouldn’t be shocking.”
“No,” Q concedes after a moment. “I just thought you’d have more questions.”
James gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I do, but they can wait. Handlers always do what’s best for their agents. And out in the field, the operative in the question takes the lead, makes the final call.” He pauses to see if Q will catch the thought or not, and then adds, “This may be London, but we’re in another agency’s territory. This is the field, Q.”
Something flickers behind Q’s eyes. Then, he gives James a quiet smile.
“All right,” he says, and behind the words James can hear the unspoken thank you. “Let’s get this done.”