Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

3.

Q appears at the train station right on time, a woollen hat pulled over his curls and his entire form practically swallowed under a voluminous jacket, that familiar laptop bag just barely clinging onto his shoulder. He’s spotting the wide-eyed, hyperalert look of a man who is about three degrees away from crashing but is holding onto consciousness through adrenaline and sheer obstinacy, which surprises James not at all.

The hyperawareness, at least, means that Q spots James before James gets to him, and has already relaxed when James snags him by the arm – again – and tows him through the crowds towards their train’s platform. It’s a good thing Double-Os are so efficient; James gets them both and their various luggage into the right compartment without a hassle, and installs Q in his seat before the quartermaster, obviously feeling secure with a Double-O around, can nod right off.

The train isn’t terribly empty, but the seats immediately around them are vacant, and James gives the compartment a quick check before finally turning back to Q.

“I chose the last train of the night so I didn’t have to deal with my eyes, but I also thought you’d be more awake compared to taking a morning train. Aren’t you a night owl?”

Q’s eyes are barely open. “Work. Safeguards against Spectre. They were always part of the plan, but I had to accelerate my schedule to implement the last of the changes today.”

He has enough presence of mind to keep his voice low, and when James checks there’s a slim device between his fingers – a noise scrambler and signal distorter.

James smiles.

“The objective of this mission was to acquire the component to help you not burn yourself out,” he says. “You’re quite missing the point of it.”

“Do you know, I haven’t left the city of London since Spectre came to light? And now I’ll be out of the country for days. My Comms team is talented, but I’m not taking any chances.” Q makes a quiet sighing sound, like he’s trying to swallow a yawn. “Moneypenny took my tea away – she says that I wouldn’t sleep tonight if my veins are full of caffeine. Anyway. I’ll be fine once I get some rest.”

“Field agents are supposed to be more alert than you are right now,” James says, amused.

The train jerks forward, leaving the platform, and James closes his eyes against the flickering of artificial light pouring through the windows as they speed out of the station. When the quality of light steadies behind his eyelids, he opens them once more, reaching up to adjust his glasses.

Q is watching him, his irises emerald shards under the dark sweep of his eyelashes. “Handlers handle things. And when the agent is otherwise occupied, they step in as backup, to manage things like logistics and surveillance. So,” he flaps his free hand in James’s direction. “Survey.”

This time, James actually laughs, and Q frowns at him before shutting his eyes firmly, curling deeper into his jacket.

“I’ll just pour you straight into bed when we reach the hotel in Brussels, then.”

Q gives a low growl of annoyance, and ignores him altogether – a correct move, since James would have continued bantering as long as he gets a response.

James watches him, long enough to witness Q’s breathing deepen into true sleep, before he glances at the train windows, reflective against the inky darkness outside. The sightlines look clear, and finally, he pulls out a tablet – Q Branch-issued, Q-encrypted, and utterly unaffected by the signal distorter still cradled in Q’s hand – and begins checking through their bookings, the event’s schedule and the blueprints of the venue.

The best thing Q can do right now is to rest, and as for James – well, he has work to do.

4.

It’s one thing to sleep on the train – it’s essentially a sealed compartment which in Q’s head translates to a controlled environment – and another thing entirely to be inattentive in a foreign city at night. Q monitors camera feeds, taps lines and views the world through thousands of mechanical eyes; criminals, terrorists and extremists aside, Q knows plenty of threats lurk in the shadows – more mundane ones but still possibly dangerous – and Double-O in tow or not, Q is not risking them getting into an altercation ahead of their mission.

At first, Q attributes the odd sense of dissonance to his own groggy state, forced into stern awareness; two hours of sleep is more than enough to refresh him and return him to baseline alertness, but not to banish that vast exhaustion that pulls at him from under his skin. The cold does wonders to wake him up further, however, and yet that disparity doesn’t go away.

It takes Q the entire journey to the hotel to figure it out.

Q rarely gets to journey alongside his agents and interact with them in front of an oblivious audience. His preferred position is his workstation at Q Branch’s main observation lab or his office, where he has dozens of systems at his disposal and the ability to work on a myriad of issues at once. Even when he heads out into the city to arm the Double-Os it’s often a static exchange: Q and the agent in question meeting in a public space Q has scouted out and secured through technology, for their privacy. And the one time Q intercepted Bond out in the field, in a private clinic in Austria, they’d both been disobeying direct orders and flying loose, all rules and regulations disregarded, and Q had returned back to headquarters soon after.

Now, in the warmth of the hotel foyer, late night guests loitering or heading out for the weekend night life and half a dozen hotel staff around, Q realizes that he never established explicit guidelines for how he and Bond’s covers would interact on this mission.

It shouldn’t be an issue – they’ve worked around each other plenty of times, in situations where direct communication isn’t always possible – but it adds another drop of unease to Q’s already weary senses.

Q’s cover is the one with his name already on a registration list, so he steps forward to check-in; no point leaving too many traces of their presence in the city. Bond stays mostly out of the way, strategically in camera-blind spots.

They make their way up to the hotel suite in silence, Q tapping his fingers restlessly against the keycards. He’d considered whether it would be better if he and Bond arrived separately, just to obscure their movements further, but it isn’t worth the argument Q just knows Bond would be willing to engage in if he tried to insist. There’s a familiar glint in Bond’s eyes when he swipes a card from Q, as he precedes Q out of the lift and down the corridor.

He graciously gives Bond five starting seconds before pushing his way through the front door – he’s not lingering in the corridor for housekeeping to find like some lost child. Bond had turned on just the one floor lamp, leaving the overhead lights off; Q stands within that circlet of light, looking around the small living space until Bond steps out from the shadows.

“Clear,” he murmurs.

“I would hope so,” Q mutters back, and tears his eyes away from Bond’s wry grin before more inane statements can make it through his filters.

Sleep. He obviously needs more of it.

But people like Q don’t have the luxury of sleeping whenever they want – the work comes first, and he’s already halfway through unpacking his laptop bag when his rational mind catches up with his automatic habits.

His sudden pause must be obvious and jarring enough that Bond stops his own movements. Q casts his gaze over, and one of Bond’s suitcases is open, perfectly arrayed, half filled with all the accruements of a tech setup, the other with espionage gear. Bond himself has already switched out his jacket for something even more inconspicuous, black on black.

They stare at each other for a long moment. The touch of metal and plastic in Q’s hands is a familiar one, and he has to forcibly unwrap his fingers from his laptop.

Bond’s eyes are almost luminous in the near dark, half obscured by the tint of his glasses. “Old habits die hard, it seems.”

Q lets out a huff of amusement. “I should be more surprised you hadn’t cleared and secured this place while I was getting our room keys.” 

“Just like you haven’t broken into Brussels’s city-wide networks yet?”

Instinctively, Q glances at the shadowy corners of the ceiling, where traditionally wiretaps and cameras are most likely to be found. He hasn’t turned off the noise scrambler and signal distorter device since he stepped on the train, however, so he pushes his paranoia to the back of his mind.

“I shouldn’t risk tipping off the Belgian authorities by hacking into the on-street surveillance. But it wouldn’t be a stretch for professionals in finance, artificial intelligence, tech or law to link their portable technology into the city’s networks to keep themselves as informed as possible.”

Q may be acting the role of a civilian right now, but civilians can certainly be technological geniuses. There has to be some leeway in the liberties he can take.

“All right,” Bond says. “I’ll give you that.”

Silence settles between them like an aloof black cat, tail twitching.

“What are we doing, Bond,” Q finally says, and something about the atmosphere makes him keep his voice low. He pulls his woollen hat off his head, runs one hand restlessly through his hair. “You’re the one sitting behind the screens this time, so you should be fiddling with the laptop and comms devices and networks. We’re members of the Secret Intelligence Service; we’re supposed to be adaptable. Why does this—” he makes a gesture at the air, to encompass the room, the darkness, this odd tension between them “—feel so incongruous?”

“You live connected to the wider world through technology almost all the time, and you’re used to taking that support role on a mission. You’re doing what comes most instinctively to you, in this situation.” Bond stands then, and makes his way across the room, taking a seat beside Q like a stealthy shadow. “And you feel out of synch because this mission requires both of us to take different kinds of initiatives, and it can take time to get used to it.”

Q knows that. Their responsibilities are a tangled mess – Q had gotten himself on the event’s invitation list, reached out to Val Tech as an interested investor, and blazed through a number of “games” to get a number of clues and unlock the code that would give him access to the unofficial, less-than-legal portion of the party. Then he’d dived off into the chaos that was migrating the entirety of Q-net onto a newer and more secure platform without compromising Q Branch’s existing projects or stranding their in-field agents without support, and left Bond to handle everything else.

He hadn’t gotten any updates along the way from Bond, of course, but since Q’s incessant need for control hadn’t reared its head and forced him to check on Bond’s progress, some part of him must trust Bond to do this job properly.

After all, Q knows Bond is only reckless with his own life; when someone else’s life is on the line, particularly a friend or ally’s—

Well.

He glances at Bond now, and the man’s steadfastness is an anchor – a fact that would surprise others, considering how unpredictable Bond normally is, but is almost a given for those who know Bond well.

“And,” Bond adds, “you feel out of sorts because you’re running on adrenaline and caffeine fumes, and the fatigue is catching up with you. We talked about you burning yourself out, Q.”

“And we’ve talked about you constantly ducking out of Medical despite possible life-threatening injuries, but I don’t see you changing your habits,” Q snipes back automatically. But it’s hard to keep arguing when everything Bond points out is visibly true, and Q likes to think he is mature enough to admit when he’s been outmanoeuvred. “What do we do now?”

“We’ll set up the technology centre together, because that’s our first line of defence, and although I’ll be utilizing it when you’re at the party, you’re still the resident expert.”

Q nods slowly. “And then you’ll go out to secure the grounds, and I’ll guide you through the cameras, and that’s both our jobs done for the night.” He gives a small smile at Bond’s stare. “You’d have looked over the blueprint of this place about ten times, but I know you won’t rest easily until you’ve verified it in person.”

“Fine,” Bond concedes. “And you’ll let me handle everything else while you actually sleep, until you need to prepare for the party tomorrow.”

There’s that challenging light in Bond’s eyes again, not at all tempered by barrier of his glasses, but Q doesn’t plan to argue. Despite all the bantering and snarking and barbed sniping, they’ve always slipped easily into a synergistic partnership, reacting instinctively to the other’s actions, and it may take them longer this time around, but they’ll get there. 

Q has no idea what they’re doing, but he does know this – they’ll find a way to make it work. They always do.

“All right,” Q says, letting his hand settle calmly on the smooth, familiar surface of his laptop. “I can live with that.”

5.

Contrary to popular belief, media sensation and the rumour mill, not all of an intelligence operative’s missions are filled with explosions, daring car chases or firefights. James’s missions tend to skew towards the violent, but between the action are long stretches of waiting, of traveling and investigating and strategizing, and so it’s very much within James’s scope to hole up in a corner of the suite, where he and Q combined have constructed a rather impressive media setup.

Still, there’s only so much a camera feed can hold James’s attention when the mission hasn’t started, and so he finds himself keeping an ear out for Q instead.

For all that he’d collected the suit on Q’s behalf, James hasn’t had a chance to actually see Kingsman’s work. Merlin had gone with the barest illusion of normalcy; the garment bag itself looks innocuous but try as James might, he can’t get the lined zip to open. Q, on the other hand, had laughed quietly to himself when he’d seen it, and whisked the entire bag off to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Now, half an hour later, and James feels a spark of anticipation thrumming under his veins – not the poignant intensity that is James on the brink of a hunt, all coiled tension, but something far subtler.

The bathroom door clicks open, the quietest of cues, and James lets Q step out at his own pace, waits Q’s voice – “Well? I know you’ve been curious all week” – before he turns around.

The first thing James notices is that Q, without the lines of his glasses framing his eyes and face, looks much—freer. Part of it is how much healthier he appears, with a solid night’s sleep and all the tea and food James had plied on him over the last six hours. Most of it is how he holds himself: loosed from the trappings of his position, with a spark of wildfire in his eyes. Q’s hair is swept back, curls subdued just enough to stay off his face, and he looks like the kind of exquisite, handsome young thing that egoistic and power-mongering men enjoy trying to tame.

Despite James’s reputation, he’s not that kind of man, and even if he were, there’s a time for seductions and conquests, and this isn’t it. Instead of letting his eyes linger, he turns his gaze towards the fabled Kingsman suit.

At first glance, there’s nothing unique about the suit, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Classics are classics for a reason, and the silk-lapelled dinner jacket, in a shade of midnight blue that turns inky black under the hotel room lights, contrasts starkly against the crisp white of the dress shirt. Q has a dancer’s physique, all long limbs and lean muscles, and the fine tailoring of the suit flatters his slim lines tremendously. Oxford shoes – polished to a shine – simple silver cufflinks, watch, the length of a bow tie draped untied around Q’s collar for now and a white pocket square peeking out from the breast pocket complete the look, all in traditional lines.

James tilts his head, searching, and it’s only when Q moves that he sees it – the subtle pattern on the jacket, only visible when light shifts over the fabric, beautiful linework reminiscent of a schematic diagram, a design that is part mechanical, part artwork.

Well. Youthful modernity indeed, and understated enough to appeal to Q’s sensibilities.

“No cummerbund or waistcoat,” James points out, and Q gives a huff of amusement.

“That’s what you choose to fixate on? Well, Peter Banks prefers subtlety over loud statements, but at heart he’s still a bit of a rebel. This isn’t one of those ultra-formal diplomatic functions or highly social award ceremony; we’re supposed to be technology innovators, so a little flaunting of the rules is to be expected.”

James lets his stare speak for itself. Q is the type of person who carries around a battered old laptop and codes longhand instead of utilizing all the fancy holographic computer interfaces some of the more enterprising Q Branch staff adore. For all that he’s a genius that forges ahead untethered by convention, Q has a steadfast love for the some of the old ways – first edition hardcover novels and handwritten notes and soothing cups of tea, steeped loose-leaf – as though they keep him safely anchored even as he streaks through space – ha, cyberspace – like a comet.

Q is a man of dualities, of contradictions that somehow nestle neatly together, their jagged edges aligned, and James enjoys puzzling out mysteries more than unravelling bright young things.

The silence stretches out.

“Merlin did include a waistcoat,” Q finally concedes. “He also included some – extras – in the lining, and I’m not risking it.”

“Did Kingsman try to bug you, Q?” The thought is an amusing one, but Double-Os have their share of odd rituals and morbid inside jokes; tech experts like Q and Merlin likely have their own.

“Hardly. In fact—” Q pauses. “I might wear the waistcoat, if I have to follow up with Val Tech some other time. But I hope to tie up the deal tonight. And speaking of tying things up…”  he taps at one end of the bowtie, “I’d appreciate your help with this.”

“I thought you’d have a deft hand with knotty issues.” But even as he says it, James is already standing. It takes mere seconds and three strides to cross the room.

Q doesn’t draw back at James’s sudden approach, although he blinks in startlement. “I know how to tie a bow tie, in principal.” He makes a face. “But in practice…”

“Not so easy when it’s at your own throat. And you’re a perfectionist.” James tugs at the thistle ends of the tie. “Chin up.”

Q tilts his head back, and James steps closer. Whatever aftershave Q is wearing is light and fresh, noticeably pleasant without standing out as a calling card. Normally the inch James has on him goes unnoticed, any height difference inconsequential when their interactions are carried out more often than not over a line. But now, with James’s fingers nimbly looping and pulling the black silk of the tie more from touch than from sight, James is in the perfect position to study Q’s expression. Q meets his gaze head on, and this close, James can see the thinnest line around his irises.

“Contact lenses?”

Q gives a tiny nod. “I can see decently without them, but I’d rather have the clarity.” A pause. “It’s strange to see you with glasses.”

“Is it? Surely you’ve seen me with more outlandish accessories.” The skull mask he’d donned for Dia de Muertos comes to mind; James had been quite fond of it.

“Yes, but not like this.” A smile touches Q’s lips. “You look distinguished like this.”

“I’m shattered at the insinuation that I’m not distinguished all the time.”

His dry tone makes Q laugh, and James feels his own mouth tick up in a lopsided smile as he draws the bowtie snug against Q’s collar, his knuckles brushing against Q’s throat, where he can feel the vibrancy of Q’s laughter.

“You Double-Os are many things. Powerful and efficient and daring, and very devastatingly charismatic. But distinguished? Not so much. You’re a little too feral for it.”

“Just like you’ve been cut loose, like this. Peter Banks doesn’t have the strings of governmental procedure holding him back, after all.”

James checks his handiwork – perfect, of course – and takes a step back. Q lowers his head, one hand coming up to touch his fingertips lightly against the bow, and James takes the opportunity to draw out the earpiece from his pocket and fit it neatly in Q’s ear.

Q’s eyelashes sweep low over his eyes, and this time he doesn’t reach up to touch the earpiece, comfortable with it in place and comfortable with James putting it on for him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He shifts, and then tucks his hands in his trouser pockets as if checking for his phone and wallet, except this time he leaves them there, his shoulders pulled back and the dinner jacket flaring neatly over his hips, casual and confident, completely unaffected. “Do I pass muster?”

James has witnessed Q in his element several times before – cutting through elaborate security protocols with an ease that belies just how difficult the task is, directing his eclectic band of research and development staff mid-crisis, his instructions crisp and clear, and mid-mission with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder, watching M intently for orders – but nothing this public, on this scale. He’s going to enjoy watching Q work a crowd.   

“You’re observant enough to know the answer to that question,” James tells him, and picks up the charcoal-grey overcoat, holding it open by the lapels. Q slips his arms through the arms and James slides the coat over his shoulders, smooth and easy. “Ready?”

Q buttons up the dinner jacket and the overcoat, and he’s nervous underneath the self-assurance, his fingers overly slow and systematic on the clasps. Then he draws in a deep breath.

“This can’t be worse than those terrible budgetary meetings we had to have with MI5, back when the creation of the Joint Intelligence Service was imminent,” he mutters.

James grins, wide and as feral as Q attributes to him, although he keeps it out of his voice. “You’ll have me in your ear the entire time.”

Q smiles then. “I suppose I will.”

6.

It’s both easier and harder than Q expects.

No matter how smart a suit he’s spotting – and Merlin’s team of tailors had done wonders with the outfit, with the fabric and tailoring; Q feels much more at ease in it than he expected – Q feels the slightest degree out of alignment when he steps onto the mansion grounds, converted into a fine-dining restaurant, now turned event venue. The ballroom with its dozens of shimmering crystal lights is a world apart from the spaces Q normally frequents – chaotically cluttered offices and lab spaces, or cosy little cafes – and he stares at the finely-dressed crowd, the crème de la crème of the underground tech world plus dozens of oblivious but knowledgeable experts, and longs for the solid reality of his keyboard under his fingertips, giving him the ability to control his surroundings.

But Q deals with nerves – and their tougher cousins, fear and anxiety and stress – by compartmentalizing, shelving away those distracting feelings and overriding them with work, focusing his entire attention on the minutiae of solving the problem. The world, he has learned, can be broken down into logical steps and systematic processes; if he concentrates on finding the most efficient way of getting from Problem A to Solution Z, his issues become so much simpler.

So Q picks up a glass of champagne, wades into the thick of the crowd, and listens.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out the lay of the room, the divide of the tech giants with their representatives out in force and the more discreet individuals, either hunting for opportunities or there to sell their very niche specializations. Listening soon becomes contributing, which soon leads to questioning and probing and debating, and the diversity of topics – as well as the depth of knowledge required to keep up – is, well—electrifying.

Shoptalk aside, Q has a number of more mundane discussions as well. They talk about the weather – “Dismally cold for autumn” – guess each other’s citizenship through their accents – “Ah, you’re British. Easy.” – and exchange compliments on various dinner jackets, gowns, and embellishments – “private label” is what Q gives away.

And then Q gets caught in a conversation with a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man with a refined but unidentifiable accent, someone Q would think utterly nondescript if it isn’t for the controlled way he moves – smooth, elegant and dangerous like a switchblade sliding open with ease. It is fortunate that Q is operating half on instinct, letting the situation and atmosphere carry him; his hand captures the business card and flips it easily between his fingers even though his mind stutters when he sees the pattern embossed on the front on the card, a clear identifier for those in the know.

The card is a blazing reminder that electricity, for all it’s remarkable ability to power a myriad of appliances, is also capable of causing grievous burns.

Q looks up at Jacobs, at the pleasant expression on his face, and doesn’t bother forcing a smile – he isn’t natural enough to fake it properly. Instead, he runs his thumb lightly across the embossed mark. “A creative design. Smart.”

“I’m glad to hear you like it,” Jacob says. When Q doesn’t offer a card or other means of contact in return, the man’s smile widens. “I like the design of your suit as well. Schematics – very appropriate.”

Q has a split second to make the decision. “Kingsman Tailors. Savile Row, of course.”

“Of course.” Jacobs inclines his head. “Well, I must make the rounds. I might see you around then, Banks.”

“You might,” Q says, and forces himself to turn away, because it would be terribly conspicuous to stare at someone the way one would a rattlesnake.

Bond has been a discreet presence in Q’s ear, letting him get a feel for the party and solidify his cover without much commentary, and he waits until Q is moving to speak.

“You’ve told everyone else that your suit is from a private label.”

It’s not a question – it’s Bond giving Q an out, if he doesn’t want to share – but Q doesn’t take it. He has to forcibly unclench his jaw – it’s odd, isn’t it? Q has faced down and defeated all manner of online attacks and survived several brushes with Spectre’s agents, but there’s a difference between meeting an enemy in the heat of battle and coming up against one in a neutral setting.

“That man has been on Five’s wanted list for nearly two years now,” Q murmurs, keeping his head down as he walks. It’s a minor blessing, really, that he’d found one of MI5’s targets; he might end up doing something on the scale of Double-O recklessness if he came up face-to-face with someone that’s managed to escape MI6’s long reach. “Short-range hacker, extremely cunning, and very lethal. He’s the reason why Five shut down one of their programs; he double-crossed them, stole and sold out others in that program, and killed quite a few more getting out. Five asked for my help, once, to find him, but then—you know.”  

Bond doesn’t say a word, but there’s just one organization that’s constantly haunting all of them. Q hates how aptly Spectre has named themselves. “Has he made you?”

“Not the one that matters. He’s identified me as a fellow hacker – possibly because he tried to break onto my line with you but couldn’t.” That, at least, Q is confident of, but he’s going to have to double check his equipment when he gets out of this situation. “I gave him what seems like a tip on how to find me, so rather than a rival in our trade, he believes I might be a future collaborator or a client.”

“You sent him to Kingsman.”

“I can’t point Five to him – it’s too obvious a connection.” Q lets out a breath and feels himself settle back into equilibrium. It’s an encounter, nothing more, and talking it through with Bond cements that in his head. “Kingsman can handle him, and they’ve got their own information exchange procedure with Five. At worst, if Jacobs cracks Kingsman’s secret, he’ll just think I’m a Kingsman agent.”

“Either way, that’s a concern for another time, and for others to deal with,” Bond concludes.

“Yes,” Q agrees. It’s surprisingly pleasant to converse with Bond like this, an entirely different experience than doing the same from the safety and privacy of Q Branch or his office. Q’s starting to understand just why the Double-Os enjoy staying on the line with him so much; it’s strangely intimate, to have a voice murmuring in one’s ear even when surrounded by crowds and cacophony – a little secret, one only Q is aware of.

He soaks in the quiet of the moment for a while, and then says, “For the first direct encounter of the night, that wasn’t a bad one.”

“Any sign of Val Tech?”

“They’re here. They’ve been here since the start of the evening, but I’d prefer to speak to their designer, and I’m almost positive that that person is in the restricted part of this party. And that won’t start—” Q flicks his wrist to check his watch “—for at least another twenty-five minutes.”

“Take a break. Escape the crowd for a while.”

It’s less a suggestion than an order, and for once Q follows it without a word. He downs the rest of his champagne in one go – he’s managed to make his single flute last the night so far, so he’s hardly inebriated – and the bubbly sharpness does wonders to clear the last of his trepidations regarding Jacobs. He leaves the glass behind and takes to the stairs.

The mezzanine is more to Q’s liking – he’s out of the way here, able to observe the milling crowd below without being easily watched in return, although there are pockets of conversation happening along the railings.

“I don’t know how you agents do this,” Q says. Up here, he’s not the only one speaking quietly to the air; at least a quarter of the people Q has talked to have some visible smart device hooked to their ear or wrapped around their wrist, and at least another quarter likely have more covert contraptions in place.

From Q’s limited experience, proper networking parties frown on such practices – the point, after all, was not to be antisocial but to pick up leads and talk up oneself and make connections and raise their credibility amongst the industry. Meet and mingle, someone like Riley or Tanner would call it. Schmoozing, the younger staff of Q’s communications team would probably use instead.

And then there’s Q, barely older than those same comms staff members, who has little clue what networking parties are actually like since he’d only finished university at the government’s behest and had practically been strong-armed into the Queen’s service the moment he graduated. Keeping a low profile after the Iota fiasco was his best option, after all; Q had hardly needed the complication of more connections.

Illegal auctions and information-exchanges masquerading as a networking event, on the other hand – well, Q has rather more experience with those, and in those cases, representatives keeping their higher ups appraised of the situation remotely is rather the norm.

“We do plenty of things. You’ll have to be more specific,” Bond says.

“Keep up the façade for so long,” Q clarifies. “I think I’ve spent too much time behind a screen. Anonymity is a powerful defence, and I’ve always had the buffer of cyberspace in the way.”

“You handle your staff quite well.”

“They work under me,” Q points out. “I literally have authority over them; it’s easy for me to get what I want from them.” He leans against the railing, looks down at the crowd below. “I don’t have such advantages here.”

Bond chuckles, low and resonant in Q’s ear. “Give yourself some credit. Most of the people you’ve talked to have been enamoured by you.”

“I had a few debates, exchanged thoughts and speculations on several topics. That’s rather the point of this event, isn’t it? At least on the surface.” 

“I’ve been listening to you, even though I only understand perhaps half of what you’re talking about,” Bond says, and Q can hear the lingering amusement in his voice. Bond has been in good humour the entire night, which surprises Q; he’d thought that Bond would be bored, at least at this stage of the operation. “You’re not just intelligent – practically everyone there is smart in some way, with their specializations in their respective fields – but you have a way of articulating yourself that’s mesmerizing to hear.”  

Q has to choke back an incredulous laugh. “I doubt that. I just share what I know.”

“It’s easy for us agents to maintain our fronts by playing to our strengths, focusing on what comes most naturally and building a persona on those fragments of truth,” Bond says, and it takes Q a moment to realize he’s answering Q’s initial question. “My strengths include challenging a target – in a fight, in an exchange, in a game, in a dare – and winning, or seducing them. Your strengths include being brilliant in your many fields of expertise, and being ridiculously, cluelessly charming. Don’t worry about it.”

Q blinks. “What.”

The amusement in Bond’s voice picks up a teasing edge. “As I said, cluelessly charming.”

Q decides to ignore the jab – Bond outside of his own missions is an enigmatic creature that is terribly difficult to pin down, and mid-mission is not the time to figure him out. “The hints I received from Decima’s game-tests suggest that the restricted event is in a smaller ballroom off the main building. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“We’ll have to do it the manual way,” Bond says, no doubt already pulling up the venue’s blueprints. “That mansion is a technological shield box; if it isn’t for your earpiece, I wouldn’t be able to get a read on you. Where are you?”

“East side mezzanine, second floor.”

“Go north, take the middle doorway.”

There seems to be no restrictions to where guests are allowed to wander. Q gets through doorways and corridors without contest, and peeks in on more than a few clusters of private meetings along the way. Brussels is a business city and the networking event open to international participants, and English has been the common language of choice out in the main hall. But now, Q starts picking out other languages – the rolling ups and downs of French and the guttural but fluid Dutch, of course, as well as snatches of German, and other families of languages that Q can’t clearly identify.

Q knows a vast number of programming languages, a fair bit of obscure Latin, and absolutely no useful language other than English, and it just takes him mentioning that fact for Bond to begin translating for him, seamlessly summarizing the conversations in English. But occasionally, Bond murmurs a response to the dialogue he hears, in the corresponding French or Dutch or foreign language of choice, and those he leaves untranslated, with only his tone – amused, utterly dry or once, outright annoyed – to clue Q in.

Q treads carefully along the corridors, keeps an eye out for any hint Decima might have left, and listens, except this time it’s only to the voice in his ear, translated dialogue interspersed with directions. Bond’s voice is crisp and clear, and perhaps it’s a consequence of Q not understanding what he’s saying—

“Het hebben van 5G snelheden en capaciteit zal niet helpen als je mensen incompetent waren om mee te beginnen,” Bond grumbles in response to a group chattering about 5G, the only keyword Q had been able to extract from the conversation.

—but Q finds himself fixating on the timbre of Bond’s voice, captivating and low and rhythmic, in a way that he never does when Bond’s just speaking English.

“You’re quiet,” Bond eventually says, when Q enters increasingly emptier spaces, and the groups of people and their conversations begin thinning out.

“I do that, on occasion,” Q says reflexively. It takes him a moment to focus back on the mission at hand. “I’m in the right area, I think. I’ve seen others of dubious reputations that should also be searching for the auction.” He catches a glimpse of the train of a blue gown fluttering around a corner and doesn’t bother giving chase – out of public eye, the people Q has seen have dropped most resemblances of civility, and no one offers to join forces in finding one of Decima’s secret entrances. “We seem to be heading in different directions, however.”

“You received your clues by solving programming conundrums. But the private event covers a broad spectrum, so it isn’t unlikely that Decima’s set out several types of tests, each with different clues.”

Q makes a face and is glad that he’s alone, so he doesn’t have to feel self-conscious about it. It sounds exactly like the kind of thing he used to do as Iota, except his had been small scale, little games to test which people had been worth his time to engage. 

He wonders, then, if he should pull out his phone and just break his way through instead of playing along; Decima’s probably reverse engineered several of Q’s Iota-era encryption protocols by now, and since they’ve never quite given up on finding the person behind the Iota alias, they’re probably brash enough to use those same protocols in hopes one day Iota will find them, and identify themselves with Iota’s corresponding signature keys.

He dismisses the thought just as easily. Q is – well, he’s running on pure instinct now, not quite the Quartermaster, not Iota, and definitely not the civilian he’s masquerading as. The civilian wouldn’t be in this situation, Iota hides and strikes when least expected, and the Quartermaster is far more cautious, aware that his value is in staying alive so he can help his agents.

And Q himself? Well, Q has a decent idea of what Decima Technologies is like, and he’s going to act accordingly.

“You’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you next,” Q says.

“What is it?”

“I’m turning off my earpiece.”

“Why would you do that?” Bond asks, sounding like he’s humouring Q.

“Because I need to concentrate—” and your voice is more distracting than I expected “—and the restricted space I’m trying to puzzle my way into will absolutely be air-gapped and shielded. The earpiece, my phone, anything even tentatively connected to an outside network – they’ll be useless.”

“And you’re all right with that?” Bond says. “Staying connected is instinctive for you.”

“Nothing I can do about it.” Q doesn’t like it, but there’s little point on dwelling on something he can’t change. “Besides, it’s reassuring to know I have a safety net.”

“Your former web alias.”

Q smiles. “No.”

“Having a field agent in your back pocket, who has been tasked with bringing his agency’s most important cybertechnological asset back safely.”

“No.”

A beat goes by. “Q.”

It’s a mark of how much Bond trusts Q’s equipment and his skill in securing the line, that he would name Q so. They’ve avoided voicing unique names or sensitive terms as a matter of course, considering the nature of the mission, but this conversation, it seems, is important enough to Bond to override that concern.

“I’ve been in regular communication with your doctor,” Q says, keeping his side of the conversation generic, because unlike Bond, there is a possibility of someone eavesdropping on him. “Well, more like she contacted me first, and then never stopped. And I know you didn’t save her because of her ties to her father, or because she has valuable connections or expertise.”

The line is pin-drop quiet. It’s a unit Q designed and calibrated himself – there isn’t even a hint of static.

“Your regard for her is purely for who she is, as herself. And I think your consideration for me – and Eve, and even Bill – is the same. You’ll come for me, regardless.” Q eyes the door at the end of the corridor, with its discreetly lit interface, just waiting for an identifying code. “So I’m going to turn off my earpiece, and I’m going to go, and you going to let me.”

“Just like you let me leave with Madeleine and the DB5,” Bond says, not missing a beat, “even though you thought at first I had returned to MI6.”

Q freezes. A moment later, he draws in a deep breath; it shudders in his throat and is probably entirely too audible to Bond.

“Yes, I suppose it’s like that,” Q says slowly, because this line of conversation isn’t anything he ever planned to take up with Bond. Bond had eventually returned to MI6, slipping seamlessly back amongst the other Double-Os and with Moneypenny, Tanner and Q himself like he’d never left, and Q had let it go. They work together, they trust each other, and that’s enough. “Can we—let’s talk about this later.”

“All right,” Bond says evenly, and Q knows – in any other situation, if it isn’t for the mission at hand, Bond wouldn’t drop this topic quite as easily. “If I don’t hear from you in three hours, I’m heading to your location and getting you out.”

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to contact you if things go drastically wrong,” Q says, grateful for the illusion of normalcy.

Bond doesn’t deign to respond to that. “Stay safe,” is all he says, voice quiet and serious, and Q has to swallow around the sudden emotion in his throat.

That’s usually my line, he wants to say, or maybe now you know how I feel when you agents disappear off the line and I’m left wondering if you’ll be alive the next time I get camera eyes on you. But Bond has steered them free of deep, coral-laden waters; it would be churlish of Q to throw them right back in.

The line is clear enough that Q can hear Bond’s quiet breathing. “I will,” Q finally says, and turns off his earpiece.

Chapter Text

7.

One hour and twenty-five minutes.

James is no stranger to waiting. It’s a necessary part of any agent’s life – the pauses for pieces of a plan to fall into place, the necessary downtime to rest and regroup and strategize, the long stretches of limbo that is part of traveling from one location to another. James has learned to take advantage of these interludes whenever he can. Storing potential energy, Q likes to call it, when he catches James in a moment of quiet between mission activities, so swift kinetic action can follow after.

As with all the Double-Os, James excels at it. He is usually utterly neutral to the process, but this time, the enforced wait is a subtle itch under his skin.

James is self-aware enough to know the reason why this time is different. His phone, his earpiece, the other plethora of communication devices he and Q jointly own are silent. Before him, the camera footages present little distraction – the mansion grounds are quiet, with figures trickling homebound singularly or in small groups rather than a mass exodus that would mark the official end of an event; a sizable group of the networking event’s attendees, then, must be locked down in the unofficial part of the party.

The mansion itself is utterly impenetrable, at least through technological means. Without Q’s earpiece as focal point, James can’t get a read on anything inside the mansion walls, and he isn’t about to risk outing his location against dozens and dozens of communications and cybertechnology experts.

As a Double-O, James is used to jumping into action if the chance presents itself, to creating opportunities if he absolutely has to. As Q’s handler, however, James’s job is to wait, to remain alert and ready and available to assist, to provide backup. He can take no action until either Q prompts him to or circumstances change, and the shift from acting as the catalyst to simply being a placid reactant awaiting a chemical reaction is disconcerting.

One hour, fifty-eight minutes.

This is the point where James usually distracts himself, typically with hard liquor of some kind, and while he has absolutely no qualms about drinking on the job – his tolerance is immense, and only drugs or poison tipped into his drink can put James down – he’s had the lecture about alcohol and how it absolutely does not mix with your medication, are you listening 007 enough times that he forgoes the tempting bottle of whisky at the suite’s minibar. Instead, James snags a bottle of water to chase down the medication for the toxins affecting his eyes and fixes himself a cup of Q’s favourite Earl Grey.

Caffeine, he thinks with wry irony, while technically a drug, is apparently perfectly fine with this particular set of medication.

His phone rings.

James stares at it for a long second.

It’s not Q, because Q wouldn’t call James’s phone. It’s not Moneypenny or Tanner, who would never compromise a mission unless it was an emergency, and if there was an emergency that necessitated interrupting a Double-O on the job, it would come with another Double-O at the door. It’s not Madeleine, because nowadays Madeleine prefers to meet with James in person and to call up Q over a secured line, which leaves—

James picks up the call. “I’m surprised you would risk Tanner’s ire to call me like this.”

Scarlet’s soft laughter is like a chime of carillon bells ringing, pure and musical. “You picked up, so the situation can’t be all that dire.”

“I’m a Double-O. I multitask efficiently.”

“And while I’m very well-behaved indeed compared to you, I’m a Double-O too. Bill knows what we’re like.”

James feels his mouth go up in a somewhat toothful grin. “Are you taking advantage of Tanner’s soft spot for you?”

“I appreciate his soft spot for me – taking advantage of soft spots, that’s you. But I understand. Different relationships mean different dynamics. You have your favourites, James, and I have mine.”

Q is the unspoken name between them, but James doesn’t let his eyes flicker to the monitors. If Q contacts him, it won’t be through the camera feeds.

“Not that I don’t enjoy hearing from you,” James says, “but why are you calling?”

“It’s a quiet night,” she says, which is Scarlet-speak for I’m bored. “I’m still on medical leave, so I’m helping with surveillance. Are you enjoying your vacation?”

“Vacation,” James says, and lets his eyes trail across the darkened hotel suite in a systematic sweep. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“No?” Scarlet sounds amused. “If you were better about taking proper breaks between operations, M wouldn’t have to send you on handler-missions as a way to get you to rest and let your injuries heal.”

“But if I did that, I’d be bored and would have to resort to calling up other agents on missions to amuse myself.”

“I’m only calling you because Bill is in back-to-back meetings. And a spat of rule-breaking from the safety of headquarters is preferable to your track record. Honestly, James.”

“I’m still alive,” James points out.

“That’s true.”

There’s a thoughtful slant to Scarlet’s voice, and James swallows down a sigh with a mouthful of tea instead. He may be stubborn but when she makes up her mind Scarlet is utterly unmovable, and dubiously safe as James is, currently miles and miles away from headquarters, if he aggravates her too much she’ll find ways to collect from his hide.  

“It’s also true,” Scarlet says, “that you tend to sway to extremes. In the last two and a half years alone, you chose to stay dead with a bullet lodged in your shoulder, ran off to Mexico City without authorization and blew up a building, ran off to Vatican City without authorization and blew up a car, and then rode off into the sunset with a beautiful woman in your passenger seat instead of reporting back for duty.” She pauses. “Actually, I don’t fault you for the last one.”

James smiles. No one had said anything, not to someone of James’s rank and his reputation, but he’d seen the expressions on the faces of Q’s underlings when he finally returned to MI6 after the mess with Oberhauser. For weeks, the rumour mill gossip that touched on James came tinged with mild accusation and affront until he’d somehow redeemed himself in the support staff’s eyes.

He isn’t quite sure how, but it’s a relief that Q Branch – and the Security Branch, and the medic corps – were no longer out for James’s head. Field experience is utterly irrelevant, after all, when the MI6 personnel in question deal in explosives and biological weapons and could easily disrupt the structure of James’s life with a few keystrokes.

“You’re a rare one, Scarlet,” James says. “Have you met my dear foster brother?”

“No.” There’s the slightest of pauses, which is the only thing that betrays Scarlet’s unease. “Bill’s team is dealing with him, but M has specifically barred all Double-Os from the case. And if M is restricting Double-Os of all personnel from even facing him, then Oberhauser is a threat indeed. You’re the one who took him down. If I was tangled up in all of that, I’d want a long break away from everything as well.”

James doesn’t bother answering her, just as Scarlet doesn’t mention Oberhauser’s sociopathic obsession with utterly ruining James’s life. It’s rare that a mission hits so close to home – Olivia Mansfield, Scarlet and James’s first M, had preferred recruiting orphans for a reason – but Scarlet is a Double-O. They’ve both waded through the deranged dredges of humanity enough that empathy for each other is a near unconscious thing.

It’s a night, it seems, for dancing around half-healed scars.

Scarlet lets out a quiet breath, entirely audible over the line, because of course she’s using a Q-designed comms unit for this call. “How’s our favourite technology expert?”

“He’s still in-field,” James says evenly.

And because it’s Scarlet, who as 004 has to be quick and sharp and adaptable to pull off her disguises flawlessly, she picks up on everything James doesn’t say. “He’s off the grid, isn’t he? How long has it been?”

“Two hours, twenty-six minutes,” James reports immediately, because it’s not like he needs a timer to track the time passed; his own internal clock takes care of that. “He has three hours to wrap it up, or to check in to let me know he needs more time.”

“What a change for us,” Scarlet murmurs. In a more normal tone, she says, “Not much longer now.”

“No.” James finishes off the rest of the Earl Grey instead of checking over the armaments he’d packed in the other half of his suitcase, because according to Q it is sacrilege to let a cup of tea go cold when there isn’t an emergency, and Q would snipe endlessly at him if he thinks of leaving the hotel suite even a second before the agreed-upon three hours is up.

The pager sitting next to the tea saucer goes off then, the beeps loud and shrill, and James sets down the teacup, porcelain chittering subtly against porcelain from the vibrations. He shuts off the pager alarm, and thumbs through the simple menu to read the message.

“A pager,” Scarlet says with a laugh in her voice, because of course she can hear – and identity – the device through its alarm alone. “Trust our tech expert to mix the old with the new.”

“It’s cunning,” James says, deleting the message. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Scarlet.”

“It’s a vacation,” she reminds him. “You don’t have to come back tomorrow.”

“I’m sure his branch would like him back safe and sound.”

“We’d like you back safe and sound too,” Scarlet says easily. “Take the time, James. Honestly, Q could do with some proper time off as well. The rest of us can hold the fort without either of you for a few days, you know.”

“Then I’ll leave you to call off the hounds. Q Branch can be protectively bloodthirsty.”

Scarlet laughs softly, because of course she can hear the approval in James’s voice. “It’s easy – we just have to make sure Riley agrees with our reasoning. But all right, I’ll run interference. I’m getting rusty, just sitting around conducting surveillance these days.”

“I’m sure,” James drawls, because Scarlet is as likely to become rusty as one of her trusted titanium alloy blades, which is more or less never. “Happy interfering.”

“Happy vacationing,” she says fondly, and hangs up on him.

James is starting to understand just why Q gets so irate at him whenever he cuts off his line, and not just because he usually destroys the comms device in the process.

8.

The first thing on Q’s to-do list when he gets out from the mansion is to find a nice, discreet alleyway.

It is aggravatingly difficult, situated in an affluent part of the city as the mansion grounds are. There are brightly lit roads and stretches of manicured lawns and lines of majestic evergreens that have been trimmed back as to not obscure the CCTV camera lines, and normally Q respects a thoroughly-connected and well-maintained city, but right now he would pay good money to get to a dark spot in the city where no surveillance exists and where no signal can easily reach.

He would settle for a payphone as well, but Brussels had removed its last phone booth several years ago, in the name of upgrading the city.

So Q bites back all his instincts, turns on his phone, and calls for a taxi. It’s perfectly fine to be tracked, he thinks as he sinks into the backseat, letting his posture sprawl just a little in the appearance of tipsy tiredness, as long as he can disappear later.

The bowtie is still a perfect, neat knot at the base of his throat, and Q hesitates for just a second before pulling it free, slipping the bit of silk into the breast pocket of his suit. He loosens his collar, drapes the charcoal-grey overcoat over his knees, and gives the taxi driver a gentle but absentminded smile through the rearview mirror before turning to his phone.

In between mindless swiping, as if he’s scrolling through his social media feed, Q carefully taps out a coded message and sends it to a pager number, because what’s the point of reinventing the wheel when the wheel works perfectly well? One-way pagers are simple, reliable even in low-signal areas and don’t contain transmitters, and most of Q’s peers are too busy coding ever more complex and malicious programs and devising ever more devious security protocols to mess around with the paging system.

To Q’s benefit, of course.

He has the taxi drop him off downtown, where the crowds even this late at night give him a chance of blending in. He pays the driver in crisp Euro bills, tipping generously on top of the exorbitant fee like an inebriated businessman traveling on his company’s dime, and trips out of the taxi, conveniently leaving his warm and cosy overcoat in the footwell, where any trackers will continue being taken on a merry ride around Brussels, far far away from Q.  

The cold air hits Q like a potent slap to the face after the warmth of the taxi, and his involuntary shiver probably makes his act all the more believable. He chafes ineffectively at his arms, flicks his fingers to keep them warm and nimble, and hurries down the street, slipping through the crowd of happy tourists, revellers and professionals unleashed from their office cages, ties loosened. It takes him a while to identify the signs, since he’d only had descriptions and a few blurry pictures to work off, but he finally ducks into one of the afore-desired alleyway, following the powerlines until the streetlamps peter out, replaced by strings of open bulbs, burning warm and amber in the night.  

Public parks, small chapels, even the backstreets where establishments put out their garbage for collection – Q is standing in a major capital city, which means he’s surrounded by sensors. But Q doesn’t need to go completely off the grid; he just needs to throw any surveillance off his scent, and the drug dealers that own this particular passageway do that nicely for him.

He pauses a fair distance away from the dealers watching him with interest, and wonders, for one brief second, what the hell he’s doing. This is not Q’s city and his doesn’t know all the rules of engagement. He can’t fight his way out of a confrontation and it seems insane to trap himself in a situation where he doesn’t have control, but making sure Peter Banks disappears without a trace is far more important, and as much as Q loves the stability, status and sphere of influence being the head of Q Branch affords him, Q had started with far wilder roots.

“Hey,” he calls out in English, not even bothering to feel sheepish about it, because since Q’s a tourist in this city he might as well be the tourist that he is. “How much of your best stuff can I get for a hundred Euros?”

Q can’t say he’s terribly familiar with the recreational drug trade, even back in London, but the ensuing transaction goes rather a bit like the negotiations he used to engage in to get the dubiously legal components he needed, back when he didn’t have the reputation to muscle his way through the process. He tries his best to ignore the calculative stares – they’re still near popular spaces so odds are high they won’t mug Q, since disturbances are terrible for business, particularly well-to-do foreigners who are willing to pay more just to avoid the inconvenience – and lets the dealers fleece him enough to make them happy and but short of Q appearing like an easy mark.

He ducks under a convenient awning afterwards, ostentatiously to check the wares. The alleyway is as secluded as it gets; the dealers are no longer openly watching him, and they’d assured him that little official surveillance remains, not with their gang claiming the space. Q slips off the dinner jacket as if to tuck the little sealed bag in a side pocket – the cold biting at him through his thin dress shirt the whole time – unravels the entire garment in three efficient movements and pieces it back together in four, and pulls back on the now plain and hooded parka.

He shivers, his body chilled from that brief exposure to the elements, and Q forces himself to turn away with his spine straight and his steps even – nothing to see here, nothing to hide – and retraces his steps out of the alleyway. Between the pools of light cast by the infrequent lampposts, Q drags his hands through his hair, destroying the sleeked-back look, then gets rid of his phone, the components broken into dozens of pieces and disposed of in five separate locations as he walks, and finally, pulls the hood up over his hair, lets the folds and shadows obscure his features further.

A well-dressed young man with a distinctively patterned suit possibly involved in illegal dealings walks into a gang-enforced blackout zone. A youngster in a generic parka with a neatly sealed bag of cocaine in his pocket walks out. Both have secrets to hide, but who’s going to bother tracking down the latter? People like him are a dime a dozen, after all, and Q is happy to disappear into their midst, unremarkable and anonymous.

9. 

It’s a markedly different Q, compared to earlier that evening, that finally spills through the hotel suite door.

James shuts the door swiftly behind him without sparing a glance for the corridor beyond. Q’s sequence of knocks indicate an all clear – no pursuits, no emergencies – and James is more concerned with Q himself.

Q’s hands are bitterly cold when he passes James a small case, his fingertips brushing clumsily against James’s in the process, and he’s hunching protectively into his jacket – and just where did Q get a plain parka from? – to fight off the reflexive shivers as his body attempts to adjust to the drastic temperature change, from the cold of the outdoors to the warmth of the heated hotel room. A hot cup of tea, a blanket or coat, a warm shower – James ignores them all to run a sensor over Q, scanning for wire bugs and other trackers, because a mild case of hypothermia would be the least of their worries if someone – Decima, Spectre, or even just a random curious freelancer – had managed to track Q back.     

Necessary silence settles like a heavy blanket of snow between them, and James pretends not to notice the way Q is clenching his teeth to prevent them from chattering by studying the rest of him instead.

James knows from experience – and from 004 – just how much a few key changes can alter one’s appearance, and this Q, somehow, appears even younger than before. It’s not just the absence of the tailored overcoat and the slim cut of the formal dinner jacket; Q’s head is tipped down to hide under the hood of his parka, and his hair, under that, is completely rucked through, falling messily over his eyes. He wears the casual black jacket the way he normally carries his phone, like a utilitarian extension of himself, used to obscure, to hide his belongings in, to protect his flanks. He carries the fresh clean scent of the cold with an undertone of something smokier beneath that, a result of his aftershave dried down, and there’s a stubborn, defensive slant to his posture, the way he’s settled on the toes of his polished Oxford shoes – the one part of his outfit he can’t easily alter.

This Q, it seems, is just a little bit feral as well.

The scan comes out clean, and James shuts off and sets the device to one side before catching Q’s hands in his, rubbing and chafing to warm them with his own body heat.

“You’re clear,” James says, and Q makes a quiet noise in his throat, a voiceless and sarcastic really, you don’t say. “Is there anything relevant that I need to know now?”

“I’ve acquired the component.” Q tilts his head, indicating the small case James had put away; his teeth are still barely chattering. “Val Tech is satisfied with the transaction. Decima has developed an interest in me, but not because they’ve identified me as Iota. I’m a little too knowledgeable not to have a reputation and because of that this alias is a curiosity.” He pauses, blinking rapidly; James wonders if the contacts combined with the dry air are irritating him. “I’ve identified a few suspected Spectre agents. Individuals, not one of the branch organizations.”

“If you pass me the information, I can send them to Tanner to sort out and deal with.”

Q shakes his head. “No physical records. I got rid of my phone, anyway. I memorized the details; I’ll have to write up a report later.” He seems to be coming back to himself; for the first time since he walked in, Q tips his head up to meet James’s gaze. “Did you run through the list?”

“After I received your pager message, yes.” The message consisted of codes telling James that Q has left the mansion, that he’ll take time to get off the grid, and for James to begin a predetermined set of online activities to distract the networking party goers, further obscuring Q’s trail. 

Q nods once, and then his eyes slide unerringly towards the media setup at the corner of the room. His fingers twitch within James’s hold, and Q lets out a huff of unwilling amusement a moment later, his eyes flicking back to James’s face with a strict steadiness that tells James how forced it is.

“It’s only been a few hours. Is this how an addict feels?”

James lets out a low laugh. “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person. I know that I drink too much, but I’ve never felt that it was overly problematic.” He gives Q’s hands one last rub, and then carefully pushes Q in the direction of the arm chair. 

Q goes steadily enough and James unplugs Q's bestickered laptop from its peripherals with one hand and snags his own overcoat with the other, setting the former in Q’s lap and the latter over Q’s shoulders. Then, James goes to refill the kettle.

When he gets back from the bathroom, Q is leaning over his laptop, the hood of his parka pushed back and the line of his spine, muffled though it is by two layers of jackets, seems considerably less rigid. When he glances up at James’s entry, his mouth is relaxed into small smile.

“Better?” James asks.

“Yes,” Q answers, simply.

James winds down from the adrenaline high of an active mission by engaging in physical activities, whether that’s sex or racing down a highway in a high-powered automobile or sparring with a capable field agent. Q, it seems, relaxes best when he is in control. His hands are curved like a pianist’s above the keyboard, and as much as Q is able to work a crowd and infiltrate an illegal trade auction and counter surveillance out in the field, it is here amongst his technology, connected to the wide world through thousands of electronic points, that he is most at ease.   

“Good.” James plugs the kettle in and flicks it on, then reaches over to pull the laptop away. “Now go warm up properly before the adrenal crash hits you.”

Q makes a noise of protest even as he snaps the laptop shut and away, tucking it under one arm defensively. His glare is ferocious indeed, although it slides towards annoyance when James makes no further move to steal the laptop.

“You’re not terribly attentive when it comes to your personal safety,” James says, “but put your technology or devices in the equation and you’re a completely different beast.”  

“Don’t lose your weapon during a fight – isn’t that what they drill into you during training?” Q leans back to let the overcoat fall off his shoulders and stands with the laptop cradled protectively to his chest. “I thought you were done testing me.”

“I know you’ll always find a way; that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching how you do it.”

Q slants him a look, his eyes dark and thoughtful. Then he sighs. “I know you’re mostly doing this to annoy me into moving faster.” He sets the laptop down on the side table, his fingers brushing almost affectionately across the bestickered surface, and then begins unbuttoning his jacket.

“You’ve always berated me for not bringing your equipment back in one piece, but from the looks of it, you’ve gotten rid of your phone, the overcoat and your dinner jacket in one fell swoop.”

“The phone was a burner unit, Decima could have bugged the overcoat to within an inch of its life when I left it in coat check, and who said anything about throwing away a Kingsman suit?” Q pulls off the parka in one shrug and dangles it in James’s direction. “Here it is.”

James eyes the black on black jacket, nary an embellishment in sight, the shape of the hooded parka entirely different from the tailored lines of the dinner jacket. When he takes it from Q’s hands, the fabric is silken smooth under his fingertips.

Q sweeps past him for one of the bedrooms, shivering lightly from the loss of one of his layers, and emerges with a bundle of clothing in his arms.

“By the way,” he says conversationally, tilting his head to indicate the mysterious parka, “there’s a bag of cocaine in the right pocket. Handle that for me, will you?”

James raises an eyebrow – he doesn’t bother suppressing the reaction – and he dips a hand into said pocket and pulls out a small, well-sealed bag of white powder. His eyes flick back to Q, who just grins at him with a flash of teeth before disappearing into the bathroom.

Well then.

The kettle has finished boiling by the time he gets back from disposing the cocaine.  James drops a tea bag in a mug and leaves it to steep as he considers the black parka. Reversible jackets are hardly a new invention, but no matter how much James runs his fingertips along the seams and lining, he can’t find a hint of the dinner jacket’s wool blend fabric nor its distinct schematic pattern. He gives himself a break from figuring out the puzzle of the dinner jacket; a search of the pockets yields up the silken length of the bowtie, which makes James smile.

The bathroom door clicks open then, and Q emerges in a billow of steam. He looks disarmed like this, without his glasses or his jacket, his skin flushed with warmth, a towel draped over his shoulders to catch stray drops of water dripping from his hair. Then he seems to register the parka draped over a corner of the table and James’s apparent interest in it, and his eyes spark with a hint of that rarely seen mischief once more.

“Have you figured it out?”

“There must be a catch or trigger that allows you to transform the jacket; it won’t work without knowing where that starting point is.”

Q drifts over to the table, takes a seat. James turns back to the mug of tea, consults his internal timer, and fishes out the teabag – not too over-steeped – before handing the mug to Q. It’s not really a bribe – not when Q smiles when he breathes in the fragrance of the tea, the way his eyes crinkle in pleasure when he takes a careful sip – but then Q sets the mug to one side, flicks the front of the parka aside to reach one of the inner seams, and unravels the entire thing in a few quick movements.

The entire jacket appears to fall apart, but the pieces are held together through some feat of tailoring, and Q flips the fabric wool-side out, the schematic pattern flicking into view as he moves, and pieces it all back together again, although it takes him a few extra moments to tuck the hood properly away. 

“It’s easier the other way around,” Q murmurs, his brow furrowed in concentration. He zips up the last seam and there the Kingsman dinner jacket is, neat and pristine once more. “The instructions are embedded in the schematic diagram, coded of course. Merlin always did like hiding a multitude of innovations in his designs.”

James touches the same seam, and even having watched Q physically take it apart and put it back together it still takes him a while to find the slight catch that is the hidden clasp.

“I thought you didn’t want bells and whistles in your suit.”

Shrugging, Q picks up his mug once more, cradles it between his hands to savour the heat. “I didn’t want electronical bells and whistles, which is why I didn’t wear the waistcoat. But,” he pauses, considering, “Merlin went above and beyond with this dinner jacket. For any research and design team, it is a king’s ransom.”

“He’s fond of you.”

“Yes, he is. The silk inner lining, the fabric that faces outwards when it’s in the parka form – that’s biosynthetic spider silk. Lighter than Kevlar but much tougher, and immensely difficult to mass produce.”

“And Merlin gifted you an entire jacket’s worth of it, to keep you safe.” James smiles. “Are you still sure that only Q Branch suits are good enough for Double-Os?”

“Of course. If you think the Biological and Molecular Science section isn’t capable of reverse-engineering the biosynthetic silk and improving on its properties along the way, then you’re vastly underestimating Riley and his department.” Q transfers the weight of the mug to one hand, and reaches out to gently touch the silk – spider silk, it seems – lapels. “This jacket equals dozens of swatches of samples. That’s why it’s a king’s ransom.”

James glances at the dinner jacket, the intricate schematic pattern and the perfectly tailored lines cast in a different light now. “Not just the repayment of several favours, then.”

Q’s eyes flick up. “Not quite,” he says. “You can go ahead and ask me now.”

The sudden shift in Q’s tone is the only indication that he’s changed topics, and James’s attention snaps fully to him. This time, he takes a moment to consider his next words. “You’ve given me the pertinent information; I can wait to hear of your dealings with Val Tech and Decima when you make your formal report to M.”

“I specialize in obscuration and deflection and disappearing into the ether, but right now I’m too tired to do that effectively.” Q sighs deeply, his shoulders rising with the movement, and cradles the mug of tea closer. “The shower’s woken me up but I give myself twenty minutes before the fatigue hits me. I asked to talk about it later, and… it’s later now.”

The thing most people don’t realize is that Q has more in common with the Double-Os than he does his own branch. They are elites in their respective fields, in one-of-a-kind positions, and so Q too possesses that streak of recklessness, to face challenges and danger and the unknown straight on instead of escaping to safety; he is just subtler and more systematic about it.

James can tell, from the way Q is holding the mug of tea, the fingers of one hand tracing restless, idle shapes against the ceramic surface, that Q would much prefer not to discuss this – that fact that James had appeared in Q Branch once before, after Oberhauser’s capture but before his official return to duty with MI6, and that the only person James had allowed to glimpse him before he left with the refurbished Aston Martin DB5 and one Dr. Madeleine Swann for British parts unknown was Q himself. Q never brings it up, barely alludes to it other than acknowledging that he knew James and Madeleine were traveling companions during James’s leave of absence, as the MI6 gossip vine have finally decided to call it.

Never mind that it hadn’t been officially sanctioned at all, not when MI6’s upper echelon clearly decided it was easier to let him quietly disappear than to force a messy return; even Eve had looked surprised when he’d eventually broken into her flat – not to visit, but to confirm the Secret Intelligence Service’s reinstatement.

James’s disappearance is a sore point, as evidenced by how passive-aggressively the support teams treated him immediately upon his return and how Q himself had reacted earlier that evening, just before he’d turned off the earpiece, so James tips the conversation sideways, approaches the topic obliquely.

“I’m not sure why Q Branch has decided to forgive me.”  

Puzzlement joins the weary determination in Q’s eyes when he meets James’s gaze. “I wasn’t aware you’ve done anything, other than your usual brand of Double-O madness, to require forgiveness for.”

His shoulders are hunched a little defensively, so James reaches out and tugs on a lock of Q’s hair, unruly and damp. Q blinks up at him, still puzzled, and James gently spins Q’s chair around so he can pull the towel from Q’s shoulders. Lack of eye contact has never been an issue for them; Q’s primary mode of communicating with James is over a line, after all. 

James knows how to be subtle too; he just normally prefers not to.

“What are you doing.” The bemusement in Q’s tone turns the question into a statement, as if he doesn’t expect an answer – or at least a coherent one.

“Insurance,” James says, bracing himself against the table behind him. “Your underlings are highly protective of you; I’d hate to think of what they’d do to me if you fell sick on my watch.”

Q makes a growling, grumbling noise at the back of his throat, but doesn’t otherwise protest. James takes the tacit permission and begins patting Q’s hair dry with the towel, segment by short curly segment.

“Most of the support branches were somewhat disapproving when I first returned to headquarters,” James says after a half a minute of silence. “Nothing overt, nothing that would affect my missions, but perceptible all the same. Then, a while back, they mellowed.”

There’s a quiet, clinking sound – Q tapping his fingernails against ceramic. Then, he says, “It was good behaviour on your part, mostly.”

James chuckles; even by his own standards, he would hardly call his conduct good. Effective, deadly, catalysing – yes. Good? Hardly.

“It’s like parole,” Q adds.

“And my crime was in leaving MI6, was it?”

Silence lapses between them once more, but this time it’s charged. James ignores the tension and concentrates on patting his current segment of hair dry.

“It’s all right that you left, you know,” Q finally says, and instinctively, James knows this isn’t about the time James allowed the world to believe he was dead after being shot down from the Varda Viaduct, or when he walked away from both M and Oberhauser on the bridge that fateful night.

“No, it wasn’t,” James says, because he’d seen Q’s shocked expression when the lift doors opened, the momentary hope before he’d been forced to shutter it away.

Another length of silence, and then Q’s head lifts, although he doesn’t turn.

“I know that mission was different for you. That your M – Mansfield – gave it to you, that Oberhauser made it impossibly personal, that you and Dr. Swann were caught in it whether you wanted it or not. But you’re right; it wasn’t easy for us here, either. When I returned from Altaussee, M didn’t even bother ripping me to shreds for lying to him and ignoring direct orders, because the situation was that critical. Then you came back to London, and Moneypenny and Tanner and I couldn’t leave M’s side, and you and the doctor had successfully destroyed one of Spectre’s main information centres and—”

Q runs out of breath at that point, and James lets the towel drop, sets his hands on Q’s shoulders, steady.

Q has never been afraid to speak his mind over a line, only gets caught flat-footed and flustered when someone confronts him in person, and so he continues a moment later, his every word crisp and steady.

“We worked incredibly well that night. There were only a handful of us and the rest of MI6 was scattered to the wind, disbanded, and against all odds we did it. We shut down Nine Eyes, we tore off Spectre’s main head, and we survived. All of us did.’

“I have clearance for all MI6 mission reports. Not the unredacted versions, but I have access to at least the mission summaries. I know the statistics. You work with those odds, and you know what the survival rates are for something the scale of that operation.” Q doesn’t elaborate – he doesn’t need to. “And after that, after defeating Oberhauser, you left. You left, and you came back, and then you left again, and that was fine. Because you weren’t dead, Bond.”

Q’s shoulders slump at that last sentence, as if all the tension in the strings holding him up have been cut.

“And that’s why you didn’t react when I returned to duty,” James says.

“On the contrary, I remember being quite irate because I’d just transferred your biometric-specific weaponry into secure storage. You couldn’t have returned a week earlier?”

“I had things to do,” James says, giving Q’s shoulders a gentle pat. Between the warm air the heating system puts out and James’s own efforts, Q’s hair is halfway to being dry, and he begins carding his fingertips through the mess of it to smooth out the tangles. “And you treated me the same way you always did – irate lecturing included.”

“What else should I have done?” Q says wearily. “I could do so many things. I could have tracked you down, manipulate things and corner you until you have no option but to return to MI6. I could force all you Double-Os into taking safer, less reckless actions, but what would be the point? Your life and your choices are your own. I may not agree with them, but I won’t cage you any more than you would stop me from turning off my earpiece and walking into the lion’s den.”

“As much as I would like to,” James says.

“As much as you would like to. Thank you for trusting me with tonight’s mission.”

James doesn’t bother responding to that – why bother voicing with words what is already understood between them?

“So the best way to stay on Q Branch’s good side,” he says instead, “is to not run off into the unknown.”

Q gives a quiet laugh, and has to stifle a yawn halfway through. “As much as I hate to encourage your continued bad behaviour, I’d rather you do whatever you need to deal with things. The rest of MI6 would much prefer you stay put, but they hardly put as much of themselves on the line, after all.”

“Unhealthy coping mechanisms are better than self-destructive actions, I suppose.”

“Fortunately, you’re friends with a psychiatrist.” 

“Madeleine gives good advice, but she refuses to deal with me in any professional capacity.”

“I don’t blame her. Still, she’s indulgent with you. She knows what it’s like to be in our unique sorts of situations.”

Q’s posture has gone increasingly liquid, pressing heavier into James’s hands until he’s forced to go from a systematic combing to an absentminded patting, more playing with Q’s hair than anything else.

“Is that why you continue talking to her when she phones you up?”

“Speaking with someone who operates at Spectre’s level but isn’t out for world domination helps her deal with, you know.” Q makes an airy gesture with the hand still holding his mug, and the little bit of tea left within sloshes over the sides. “It’s why you gave her my contact number, back then.”

“That’s right,” James says, and reaches over to catch the mug before Q can drop it. “And now, I believe sleep is the best thing to help you deal with, you know.” He sets the mug and the towel on the table and walks around the chair to face Q.

Q scowls up at him, although it’s hardly intimidating considering he has to smother another yawn halfway. “You’re teasing me,” he accuses, and then yelps in surprise when James ducks, puts one arm around Q’s back and the other under his knees, and scoops him right up.

Fortunately, James is used to people struggling when he first picks them up and so Q’s instinctive flailing barely unbalances him. A moment later, Q’s hand catches James’s shoulder to steady himself.

“What are you doing, Bond.”

“You’re dead on your feet, Q, if you’re going around nearly dropping cups of tea.”

“Oh, someone’s going to be dead all right,” Q mutters under his breath. But he tucks his head against James’s shoulder after that, his body curling close, so James figures he’ll survive at least the night. 

He doesn’t bother turning on the overhead lights when he carries Q into the bedroom; the ambient light spilling through the open doorway is plenty to navigate by. The bedclothes are made up at the foot of the bed, so James simply deposits Q in the middle of the bed and pulls the duvet up. Q appears half asleep by this point, but when James shifts to leave he finds that Q has captured him by the wrist, his grip surprisingly strong.

James sits obligingly back down. “Yes?”

Q’s voice has always been clear, even when he’s utterly exhausted; even now, the slow, careful way he enunciates his words is the only indication of how tired he is. “Is it selfish, that I’m still glad you came back?”

“I can’t imagine why it would be. You have a possessive streak, Quartermaster, although you keep it well-hidden.”

“Because,” the minute slits of Q’s eyes visible under the sweep of his eyelashes are luminescent in the low light, “it’s easier to keep track of you – to know you’re alive – when you’re under my sphere of influence.”

James could point out Q’s prowess in tracking and tracing, or remind him of the Smart Blood coursing through James’s veins – it would be difficult, if not downright impossible, for James to escape Q’s notice now. But James knows, from his own experience and from Madeleine’s thoughtful observations, that Q follows a personal code of conduct that he stays steadfast to, and one of them, contradictory though it may seem, is the privacy of his staff and his agents when they are no longer on duty.

“You don’t need to trouble yourself,” James says, keeping his tone light. “Haven’t you heard? My hobby is resurrection.”

Q squeezes James’s wrist once before letting go, tucking his hand back under the duvet. He curls on one side, so his voice is almost muffled by the pillow when he murmurs, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bond.”

James sits there for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of Q’s breathing in the near darkness, with only the quiet rasp of the heating system for company. Finally, he reaches over and runs his fingers through Q’s hair, a gentle enough caress that wouldn’t wake Q even if Q didn’t trust James to watch over him when he is most defenceless.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

 
10.

Q wakes up to blessed dimness.

That darkness is a clue that he's not at headquarters; for another, whatever he's lying on is far too comfortable for it to be the couch in his office. The lack of a furry feline body draped over his face or on his chest, casually suffocating him to death, tells him he's not at home, and Q slides one eye open to check where he is.

Ah, the hotel in Brussels, with its wonderfully indulgent bed and dim-out curtains. Q closes his eye and smushes his face back into his pillow.

He drifts like that, for a while. Q is a perfectionistic workaholic, which means he takes his breaks seriously; he would have set up an alert for anything important or time-sensitive, so as long as his phone isn't chiming at him, Q can ignore the world.

Except he doesn't remember what he did with his phone.

Q comes wide awake at the thought. He flails ineffectually in the middle of the bed for a moment, and finally manages to shift enough of the heavy duvet away that he can sit up. His glasses and his phone are sitting neatly on the small bedside table, and Q’s first instinct is to go for his phone first; he scrolls through half the updates before he forces himself to pause and pull his glasses on, and jumps when he finally catches sight of the stray Double-O sleeping in a corner of the room.

Q lets the weight of his phone drag his hand down to his lap, and stares at Bond for a long minute.

Instead of sleeping in the comfort and privacy of his own room in the hotel suite, the nonsensical, inexplicable man has chosen instead to drowse sitting upright against the wall of Q’s room. His eyes are closed behind the glasses he hasn’t bothered to take off, and Q feels something odd rising up his chest and lodging in his throat like a stubborn knot. He has watched over the fitful rest of his agents during particularly harrowing missions, a ubiquitous sentinel standing guard through security feeds and phonelines, but not like this – not when he can hear Bond’s breathing, calm and steady, or see the expression on his face, neutral and untelling even in sleep.

Q remembers most of their conversation from the night before. It’s easy to be honest in the dark, to be brave over an intangible comms line, to speak of the truth when he’s tired and stumbling on his feet, his filters worn down until they can no longer hold his words back. Now, in the metaphoric cold light of day, however—

His gaze skitters across the room and fall upon the Kingsman dinner jacket, hanging neatly on a hanger from the back of the door. In the dimness it doesn’t look much different from a typical suit, but Q knows better; he thinks of the protective spider-silk lining, of shared prototypes and research secrets, of Harry Hart half-dead from a shot to the head and cloistered in a secure location to recover, and the lengths that personnel like Merlin – and Q – would go to to keep their agents safe.

And suddenly, it’s easy to admit: Q can’t keep people the way he keeps secrets, both his own and government’s, but goodness, he wants to.

He picks up a pen from the bedside table, and before he can think better of it, throws it straight at Bond’s head.

Bond’s hand flicks out automatically, catching the pen between his fingers, and his eyes snap open a moment later, looking thoroughly startled before his conscious mind catches up with the situation. His expression settles back into calmness, but his eyes are slightly wide behind his glasses when he turns to stare at Q, his irises a thin ring of brilliant blue around his blown pupils.

“Is this because I carried you to bed last night?” Bond asks, the barest rasp of sleep clinging to the edges of his words, spinning the pen deftly between his fingers.

Mirth bubbles up in Q’s chest, bypassing the odd lump of before, and he doesn’t bother suppressing the quiet laughter. Perhaps Q should have let sleeping agents lie, particularly ones as unpredictable and inscrutable as Bond, but the mission is completed, they’re both alive, and they have a whole day to whittle away before the sun sets and they can get on an evening train back to London.

“Perhaps,” is what Q says aloud, and smiles at the way Bond’s eyes narrow consideringly. It’s easy to slide to the edge of the bed and twitch a corner of the curtain aside, to look out at the beautiful Belgian morning. They might not be able to go outside because of Bond’s eyes, but Q is sure they can find ways to entertain themselves.

It is, after all, a brand new day.