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It’s dark.
Of course it’s dark, why wouldn’t it be? It’s the middle of the night, and if it wasn't dark, then something would be seriously wrong. Again.
But, dark it is, or at least as dark as it gets in a city. Pools of light from pub doorways warm the cold, dank streets, and the lamps are lit along the length of the main roads, but the roofs and alleyways are pitch black, and while Bond’s methods are unconventional and occasionally frowned upon, he is undeniably an assassin nonetheless. It is dark (for the argument's sake), it is night-time (though there are many people who are not yet in bed), and Bond is several thousand $AM richer than he was at lunchtime. It has been a satisfying day. It’s a shame about the view.
From his rooftop perch, he can see every single distasteful detail of his city of Ankh-Morpork. Had he not been so good at his job, the dissatisfied curl of his lips would have been visible in the moonlight. Bond is in fact a lot cleverer than a lot of people give him credit for, and he knows better than to openly display his distaste so close to home. One never knows who might be watching.
The Assassin’s Guild is not an innocuous building. In fact, it’s rather obnoxious. Bond has always thought that it looks rather like an austere gentleman’s club. Even now, if he had the sheer audacity to walk through the front gates, he knows that they would offer him something strong to drink. Scotch, maybe, if he was lucky. Wine, if he wasn’t. It is easier to disguise the taste of poison in wine. Not that any assassin would ever dare to openly employ his skills on any of his brothers.
Bond is aware there is a price on his head, and he is aware of how much it is. It’s rather unflattering, really, and in no way does his skill set justice. Well, he has done his best to ensure that; if anything, he can teach some young assassin that underestimating your opponent is a fatal flaw, however briefly that lesson would last. The thing about the lessons in his particular guild is that they rely rather heavily on the student getting them right first time, every time. It’s tough. There are a lot of lessons to learn.
Bond has his path home planned out, along with several escape routes, a good ten minutes before he makes his move. Timing is of the essence.
He moves swiftly, silently, like a lion on the prowl. Sticking to the shadows, he manoeuvres himself through the streets, as dark and slick as flowing oil. Other assassins may stick to rooftops, but he is more well-travelled than other assassins. Rooftops are traditional, and therefore they are dangerous. People expect to find assassins on rooftops. It's an unwritten rule. The Guild has many such rules, which are emphatically different from the lessons. He sometimes wonders if being an assassin is more about the style and look of the thing than the killing. Those kind of rules, he ignores, because otherwise the rules will get him killed.
As he nears the entrance to the Mended Drum, he pauses in a patch of deeper shadow to retrieve his cloak. One has to be careful, leaving private possessions scattered around the streets of Ankh-Morpork. It had been a trial-and-error process, finding a hiding place where not even the unlicensed thieves would think to look, but he’d managed it. Instead of whipping it around his shoulders and letting it billow, like he probably should have done, he fastens it at his neck, and then slowly lets it unfurl from the tight coil he kept it in.
The job had taken longer than he expected, but the cloak isn’t crinkled. Never one for scrimping, Bond has ensured that the material is of the highest calibre. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but it had been worth it. When Bond wants to be a guild assassin, he’ll damn well do it properly, cloaks as black as midnight and all. Though he’d never admit it, he knows that he cuts a rather dashing figure in it.
We’ve already established that Bond is not your usual assassin.
Assassins don’t get involved in hand-to-hand combat. Bond does.
Assassins shoot first and ask questions later. Bond doesn’t.
Assassins don’t question what the wider effects of their actions will be besides their own personal gain. Bond does.
He violates Guild protocols, scorns tradition, travels far and can afford to choose his jobs. The line of work he has pursued has strayed from the path of his formal education, and the young, light-footed, sharp adolescent that survived Guild training matured into a thick-set, quick-thinking, efficient killing machine. His knowledge and his guild background, along with his experience and his strength, make for a deadly combination.
Bond has been as freelance as it is possible for an assassin to get since the day he graduated, but nobody’s any the wiser. He’s not stupid.
The Mended Drum is a good hiding place. It’s loud, and rowdy, and full of drunkards whom Bond finds he rather likes. Nevertheless, he would never trust them. By the sounds of things, the evening’s brawl is about to begin. Bond settles against the wall, resolved to wait it out before returning home. M can wait a few more minutes. It’s not like he has anything remarkable to report, except for the few long scratches along the length of the tendons in his left forearm. Not that he’s going to report those anyway.
After a couple of minutes of yelling some rather unimaginative abuse, things start to kick off properly, which Bond finds he is rather grateful for. While the thugs are well-practiced in the subtleties of hitting things (mostly people) with other things (occasionally bits of people or furniture) their brains are not the most up-to-scratch. Nevertheless, he can’t fault them for trying.
A body smashes rather dramatically out of the door, which didn’t bother to open to let it through, and in penance for that act of spite now spouts a rather embarrassing man-shaped hole. The sounds of drunken cheering follows him out, and an enthusiastic shout of; "Take tha' yer small li'le tiny... man... who... who punches like a... A.... Sheep!" More roars of laughter follow this statement. The body curves in a graceful arc across the street, and lands in a crumpled heap on the other side of the street, rather ruining the effect of the whole thing.
With the door now, for want of a better description, open, the sounds of the brawl inside are much clearer. Bond cocks his head and listens with interest.
“Go for it, lad! That’s it, that’s it, a nice opening for a cushy three points, yes Tony! No, oh, why did you miss that? You know better than that... Oh, I see, nice one! Did you get that Librarian?”
“Ook.”
Bond blinks. The presence of the choreographer is hardly a surprise these days, as the Drum has a reputation to uphold, but the Librarian isn’t known for participating. Something about being an ape gives him a rather unfair advantage. It's the length of the arms. Or the weight. Or the strength.
“Yes, good, Five points is better than three.” Bond relaxes. The Librarian fighting just means trouble for everyone. The Librarian counting points means that it’s a fairer fight all round. He leans back against the wall, half-listening to the ongoing commentary, and wondering if he can get away with having a cigarette.
"How are we doing under there lads? Oh look, if you’re going to fall under the table, don’t stop under there, the audience can’t see! I know we’re out of the choreography and into freeform now lads, but let’s keep up the show, alright?”
Bond grins. He rather likes Louis, the slightly too-enthusaistic technical brawling expert. It must be said, he is a role model for job dedication. The Mended Drum customers always know that they’re going to get a show if it’s one of Louis’ Lad’s nights. It had been his idea to get an Igor to put his boys back together again.
"That’s it, Nigel! You’re doing well for a first timer… oh there goes your arm. Ten points, Crusher, no don’t worry Nigel, Igor will fix it back on you. That’s it, pick it up, and whack him with it, just like in training… that’s it! You’re getting it! Good lad.” There is the sounds of a body hitting the floor, and Bond tries not to flinch. That’s the other thing about Louis - he’s unapologetically brutal. He and Bond get along well.
“Ook.”
Their voices move towards the door, away from the action and into Bond’s clear hearing range.
“Well, yes, but being knocked out is part of the thing. He’s learning quick.” Louis is arguing, and Bond has to repress the smile.
“Ook.”
“Oh, don’t get all judgemental on me, he volunteered! It’s a good job this, well-paid. Most kids would kill for a chance to be knocked out by my big boys. Crusher knows his stuff, he’s a professional.”
“Ook, ook ook!”
“Well, where else am I supposed to find new faces? Look, I know you mean well, but kids have to learn somehow, don’t they?”
“He makes a good point."
“What?”
Bond freezes in the process in stepping out of the shadows, surprised by the sound of a new voice. There had been no other footsteps. Louis’ and the Librarian’s are distinctive, he would have noticed if there was somebody else with them. Wouldn’t he?
“Well, you heave to learn somehow, right? Sometimes getting thrown in at the deep end is the only way to move forwards. He already knows all the theory. He was telling me about it all earlier.”
Louis falters for a minute.
“Uh… yes! Yes, you see! He wasn’t learning anything else, he needed some practical experience. Isn’t that right, lad?”
“Exactly. Though I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me ‘lad’.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem.”
The Librarian slumps against the wall, the part of his face which would probably be his forehead resting against the crumbling brick. Louis coughs, awkwardly.
Bond runs out of patience, and steps out of the shadows. All three figures turn to face him, but only one registers any surprise at the sudden appearance of an assassin. He's loosing his touch.
“Louis. Librarian.” He greets, nodding his head brusquely. Then he turns to the newcomer. “And…?”
The boy tilts his head to one side, his eyes flashing. He stands half in shadow, which would hide the bulk of his body from anyone else, but Bond is an assassin. The cloak he wears may be dark, but to Bond’s trained eye it still clearly distinguishes him as a wizard, soberly dressed though he may be. What initially threw him was that he wasn’t wearing a hat. Instead, his head is covered with a mop of dark brown hair, almost black, hanging in loose curls around his ears. Despite the unusual phenomenon that is a wizard lacking a hat, the strange arrangement of the curls clearly shows that he does, in fact, wear one regularly enough for his hair to conform to its shape.
“Q.”
Bond doesn’t comment. He’s met people with stranger names in his profession.
“Q. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
There is silence for a second, before Louis steps in.
“Well, isn’t this wonderful? I haven’t seen you in these parts for… oh, it must be a good few months. Simply ages. Where have you been?”
Bond smirks, and shrugs one shoulder.
“Travelling.”
“Again? you’re always off someplace or another. Let me guess…” Louis crosses his arms, and contemplates it. “There was a rather troublesome dignitary from Klatch who went missing not so long ago. Al-Khali?”
“Louis.”
“No, no. Hmm, let me see… Geneva? Quirm? Sto Lat?”
“Louis…”
“Oh, no, I’ve got it! Überwald!”
“Louis, you know…”
“If you told me, you’d have to kill me, yes yes. However much of an honour that would be, I’d hate to waste your time and effort. I’ll be good, I promise.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Doubt away, posh boy.”
“Heathen.”
“You love it.”
Bond is seriously struggling not to smile. Louis is easy company, once you get used to him.
“Louis, you’re a grown man.”
“And so are you, and yet you go running around all over the world, with your cloaks and your knives and your Om-only-knows what else…”
“We are in polite company, Louis.”
“So we are. My apologies, Q, Librarian. I get rather worried about Bond, you see, and I’m afraid that this rather routine scolding will do absolutely no good whatsoever.”
“Of course it won’t.”
“It never does.” Louis sighs dramatically, and mock-faints against Bond’s shoulder, who rolls his eyes and shrugs him off, whereupon Louis gives him a dirty look and brushes himself off.
“You stink like tobacco, old man. I thought you’d sworn off those dreadful things. Your mother would turn in her grave.”
Bond just shakes his head.
“Good to see you too, Louis.”
“You need to be nagged more often, James. One day that head of yours will swell so much it will explode.”
“Wouldn’t you just love that to happen, just so you could stand by my grave and say ‘I told you so’.”
“Don’t be silly, James. If anyone could survive having their head explode, it would be you.”
“How flattering.”
“Aren’t I just?”
“Do you want an honest answer to that?”
Louis shakes his finger at Bond. “You’re lucky I’ve had a little too much to drink, old man, or I’d thump you one, and that’s the truth.”
“You must have had more than a little too much if you’re thinking of taking me on.”
“I’ve done it once before!”
“Louis, pushing me out of a window does not count.”
“Who says?”
“Me.”
“Because you’re the last word on everything.”
“I am when you’re drunk.”
“Oh, be off with you. Alec will be waiting.”
“Jealous?”
“You wish.”
Bond nods, obligatory scolding complete, and turns away.
“I’ll see you around, Louis. Librarian, Q.”
It takes barely a second for him to vanish back into the shadows. Louis sighs at his departure.
“Never could resist dramatics, that one.”
“Who exactly is he?” Q’s voice is fairly soft, fading into the darkness as the group walks away. Even so, there is an edge of sharpness concealed in it. It intrigues Bond, so much so that he even contemplates trailing them, but decides against it.
“Ook.”
“Well obviously he’s an assassin, even I could spot that.”
“The Assassin’s Guild's most successful graduate. They don’t like him very much, because he uses his brains. He’s rather good at his job, though.”
Their voices fade away into the darkness. Bond turns, and heads back along Filigree Street.
"So how do you know him?" Q asks, and Bond stops, looks back, wonders how Louis will tell the story, again debates tailing the little trio. Then the city bells begin to chime, and the decision is made for him.
-
“…and then he was gone! Oh, how cruel was the hand of fate that night. I had him in my grasp, literally,” he demonstrates enthusiastically, curling his fingers around imaginary fabric “But then he was gone, gone!”
“Oook.” The Librarian says, comfortingly, and pats Louis on the head. He recovers remarkably quickly, standing up in seconds and continuing his tale of woe unperturbed of the fact that his knees had suddenly become closely acquainted with the cobblestones. “Such a lovely man, though, never held it against me. Next time I saw him, I was considerably more sober, training the lads, you know. Well, he was happy to see me. Gave me a few pointers, too, and I can’t fault them, they’ve served the lads well. Good lad, good lad. He was fitter when he was younger, of course, but age comes for all of us, and he matured well, and he’d never let it stop him, oh no, why, I remember a time when…"
Q coughs politely, interrupting Louis’ rather drunken rambling without regret.
“I’m sorry, I really have to get home. My landlady, you see…” Louis waves off his apology before he can continue, which is rather fortunate, because Q hadn’t yet made up what he was going to say.
“No matter, no matter. I know all about these Ankh-Morpork landladies. You have to take what you can get, right? I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, and the lodgings, I’ll bet, are simply stellar. Benefit greatly from a strict landlady, let me tell you…” he waves a finger at Q, but then apparently forgets what he was going to tell him, and sighs mournfully instead.
Q thinks of the dark, dingy room waiting for him at home. The burn marks on the walls from some of his less successful spells and charms, which he hadn’t bothered to fix. The landlady, who he has met only twice, honestly couldn’t care less whether he lived or died, so long as he paid the rent. It’s not for everyone, but for him, it’s perfect.
“Indeed. Well, I really must be off. Goodnight.”
“Ook.”
“Yes, yes, goodnight. Sleep well, and have the sweetest of dreams that you young men are susceptible to. Goodness, what I wouldn’t give to have some of those dreams again…”
Q's patience runs out, and he walks away. If he feels the librarian's glare on his back as he goes, he doesn't say anything.
-
When Bond reaches the corner, instead of heading into the Assassin’s Guild, he turns right along Widdershin’s Broadway, around past the Guild of Fools and the Post Office, until he’s facing the East side of the patrician’s palace.
It takes him mere seconds now to find the spot he was looking for. To anyone else, it looks just like any other part of the patrician’s defences. To him, it’s as distinctive as a white deer among a herd of dun.
Right then. He quickly checks in each direction, but he heard no footsteps following him. He’s safe. A couple of steps forward get him the momentum to find a foothold on the smooth, slick stone walls that will hold him just long enough for him to get his next foothold, then the next, and then the next.
A flurry of material, flapping in a suitably suspicious and dramatic fashion, vanishes over the wall.
Q steps out of the shadows, and wanders over to the wall. Placing his hands against it reveals nothing more than he expected. Cold, hard stone, deliberately smoothed down by the finest craftsmen, and apparently unscalable, even to the best assassins.
It presents a challenge to Q that he's more than happy to accept. He's been looking for an opportunity to test one of his new spells 'in the field' as it were for several weeks, and this opportunity is too good to pass up.
He takes a deep breath, and thinks. When he opens his eyes again, his hands are no longer pushed up against the wall, though the texture is still present under his fingers, cold and smooth and satisfying. He checks his surroundings again, feeling for the trails of life, but finds no trace of anything except for Bond. A quick glance around confirms it. Thankfully then, nobody saw his rather sudden disappearance. He smirks to himself, yanks his robes off and dumps them in a little invisible pile by the wall, and leaps up onto the top of the wall in one quick bounce.
-
It takes Bond only seconds to make the familiar trip from shadow to shadow now. Beyond this wall, there will be nobody looking for his head.
M has been a useful ally, and under her rule, he and Alec have flourished.
Nevertheless, he is not quite ready to report back to her, and therefore he will not stroll across the lantern-lit courtyard as he might usually, but skirts around the outside, keeping to of sight. She will still know that he has returned, but she will wait for him.
Besides, she knows where his loyalties lie. Alec comes first, M and Ankh-Morpork come second.
He reaches the window of their small apartment with no small amount of relief. Alec isn’t in bed, not yet, but he is naked. They never wear clothes in bed.
James watches him for a few seconds. He seems calm, seated on the edge of the bed like that, looking out across the dim light of the rest of the room.
He clicks the latch open, silently, and slithers in through the window.
“Are you waiting for me?” he asks, a quiet grin testing the edge of his mouth.
“Are you incapable of using the door?” Alec retorts. He doesn’t move, even when James pads around the bed to stand in front of him. His face is haggard, tired, and James can’t help but see the handsome, roughish youth who dragged him away from the Guild, even years later when they are both old and greying. He is still one of the most good-looking men James has ever known.
They don’t look at each other though. Alec is twisting a worked leather belt around his hand, winding it up and uncurling it, pulling it taught and letting it drop loose in turns.
“I met Louis on the way back.” James says, carefully. Alec looks up, attention caught. All easy conversation between them is dispelled. Bond doesn’t mind. Neither of them want that tonight.
“And?"
“And nothing.”
“So you’re incapable of just asking, as well as using the door.”
James doesn’t reply. His mouth is too busy with Alec’s, his breath stolen by the other man’s hands in his hair, pulling roughly where it hurts.
It’s never tender, with them. It’s more like a wrestling match, a battle of who gets to take who, a rough claiming and a vent of unwanted, unprofessional emotion. That’s how it works, that’s how they both like it.
“Rough day at work, darling?” Alec growls, biting at James’ shoulder only just where the robe with cover it tomorrow (today’s robe is already flung to the floor, torn where one or other of them is going to have to mend it inexpertly).
“Bastard.” James growls back, and pushes into him roughly as punishment.
-
Q follows Bond’s path carefully, noting how he sticks to the wall, and then veers left, how he seems to pause at the corner, and then vanishes in one fluid movement into a room or something that he can’t see. Cautiously, he drifts closer, taking care to keep the cloaking spell on him. It’s not been tested to this length of time yet. He has used it for five seconds at a time, no more, perhaps when he was in a section of the library he shouldn’t have and the librarian lumbered past.
Now, it’s taking more and more effort to uphold, a side-effect he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t got his main staff with him, this is just a more easily-portable one. The twig stuffed in the recesses go his robes is frowned upon by most of the other wizards, and there’s no doubt that for the moment, its magical carrying capacity is limited, but he wishes he’d extended it a bit more before trying something as brazen as this.
He’s inside the patrician’s palace, following an assassin on a whim.
For a librarian, he’s undeniably impulsive, and almost embarrassingly short-sighted. He really should have thought this through.
Besides, it’s cold in just his smalls, and he wants his robes back. He daren’t cast a warming spell for fear of using the last of the magic, and becoming visible in the middle of the courtyard.
Peering around the corner, Q can just about make out the shape of a window, halfway up the wall where Bond had vanished.
Creeping towards it, he can feel the spell trembling under the exertion. Cursing silently, he quickens, and glances through the window.
Immediately, he pulls away again. Mortified, and somewhat disappointed by having his image of Bond as more than human shattered, he scrambles back quickly.
And bumps into someone.
He freezes. How on earth does he get away with this? He turned, slowly, just as the figure began to talk.
“Ah, I see that someone else got here before me. May I ask, who, exactly, has both the gall and the resources to tail one of my personal staff to his accommodation?”
Q fought to urge to burst into tears.
Oh, Om, it was M herself. He was going to die. In his panic, the last of the spell’s power slipped away.
“Ah, there you are, my little trespasser.”
M smiled. Q quailed.
“The librarian’s assistant? I must admit, of all the people I was expecting, you did not make the list.” Her voice is serene, and despite her admission, she sounds supremely unsurprised.
“I… I’m sorry ma’am,” he stutters, “I mean no harm, I was just curious…”
“Ah, the curiosity of the young. Were you aware, young man, who you were tailing?”
“I, well, sort of, I suppose, I didn’t know he worked for you.”
The admission hurls itself out of his mouth without his permission, and he ponders attempting a self-censoring spell, but he hasn’t had to resort to those for years, and he really doesn’t want to start now.
“I had assumed, from your reaction, that that was the case. Well, I will allow you your leave,” suddenly Q realises that all his curiosity is barren, and all he wants to do is get out of there. This statement makes him pathetically grateful. “After, of course, impressing upon you the importance of keeping your mouth shut. It is not, after all, for want of conversation, that people are heard to say that curiosity killed the cat.”
“No, no, of course no, thank you, well I’ll just be on my way now okay thank you bye. Ma’am.”
M nods slowly, as he backs away.
“Very good. Though I do believe that you cam from this direction, not that one. You would have trouble finding your robes on the other side of my walls.”
Blushing, Q stopped, and moved to skirt around her, just as she raised a hand to knock on the window pane.
“Ah, uh oh…” He starts. It is enough to draw her attention. Though her gaze is mild, it is not as placid as the expression he had perviously been addressed with.
“I… you might want to leave him for a bit. He looked… busy.” The blush is full-scale now. M eyes him for just a few seconds too long, and he squirms, before she lowers her hand.
“He has company?”
“Uh. Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean…” His relief and horror at himself are both obvious, he knows, but he can’t hide it.
“Don’t worry, Q. I appreciate your concern."
She raises her hand, and knocks.
The wait seems like an eternity. In reality, it is probably less than thirty seconds before another man Q doesn’t recognise opens the window and leans out against the sill, looking relaxed and sated. Q feels his cheeks flame all over again, and wonders if the ground will do him a favour and open up and swallow him.
It doesn’t.
“If you’re looking for James, I’m afraid he’s not available. I’ve tired him out.”
The complete lack of respect that he shows for M is astonishing, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Tired he may be, but I find it unlikely that he is incapable of either speaking or walking.”
The man smirks for a second, and ducks his head in acknowledgement.
“You underestimate me, ma’am.”
“Alec, if you have killed Bond with sex I will be supremely annoyed.”
Alec throws his head back and laughs, his loud voice echoing out into the silence of the courtyard.
“It’ll take more than that to kill our James. Alright ma’am, you win. I’ll be right back.”
He ducks back inside. There is a moment of hurried conversation, which escalates until both M and Q are privy to the conversation.
“I can’t talk to M like this.” James’ voice is loud through the window. M doesn’t seem to notice that she has been mentioned, and continues to stare off into the courtyard.
“No, you can’t.” Alec agrees.
Then follows the sound of water splashing, a good few seconds of silence, a thump, a laugh, and James appears at the window, his entire head soaking wet and an annoyed expression on his face.
“I was on my way, ma’am.” He is largely respectful, but there is just a teeny hint of petulance in the statement. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he leans most of his weight against the window frame. He looks somehow larger without his midnight-back robe. His shoulders are wider than Q expected, and not just his face but his entire body is tanned. The rippling pectorals, too, are something of a surprise, though they really shouldn’t be after witnessing the ease with which he scaled the wall.
“I can see that.” M replies, but Bond isn’t listening. He’s spotted Q. For the second time that evening, Q wishes himself to be anywhere else on the entire disc.
Q’s miniature staff gives a tiny little spark, as if reading this thought, but is still too depleted to do anything useful about it.
“Q? What are you doing here? And what on earth is that?”
Q wavers, wondering if M will rescue him, but she has also seen the sparks now, and her gaze is curious. No help there.
He decides to answer the easiest question first and hope that they forget about the second.
“It’s um… like a mixture staff. I haven’t actually got a name for it yet but it’s supposed to be a more easily portable and concealable version of a full-size wizard’s staff.” Silence. He wonders if he should elaborate, and in lieu of anyone else doing so, fills the awkward space rather desperately. "I’ve taken to carrying it around so that people don’t realise I’m a wizard. It’s debilitating, you see. It’s a very useful invention. Only it’s not at full power at the moment, obviously, but I’ve just drained it of its magic so it’ll be a few days till I can use it again.” The babbling is unnecessary, but it captures both their attention.
Alec appears next to James in the window, apparently having heard what was said.
“Neat. You know, that’d be a really useful weapon. You could disguise that someone was a wizard up until the last crucial minute, and then, bam. The ultimate surprise attack.”
“Yes, thank you Alec.” M says, serenely. Alec takes a draught of a recently-lit cigarette, and continues.
“Do you have to be in your underwear to make it work though? That could be a drawback.” He winks at Q, who searches desperately for an explanation for where his robes have got to.
“No, no, I just… I mean I…”
“I believe what Mr Q is trying to say is that he had an enlightening idea in the middle of the night, and it just so happened that he didn’t think to put his clothes on before attempting it.” Q is too busy being shocked by M lying in his defence to contradict her. It is clear that her explanation poses more questions than it answers, and Alec opens his mouth to say as much, but she shuts him up with a carefully-choreographed glance. Q wonders abstractly if she practices it in front of a mirror. It seems too perfectly-tailored to be spontaneous. “Alec Trevelyan, I would advise you to think carefully about your next statement, considering that you appear to be a worse state of dress yourself. And both of you know better than to question my staff about their duties.”
Shocked, but duly chastised, Alec shrugs a shoulder and retreats inside. M nods, sagely, and turns her attention to James, who is giving Q a surprised once-over. Q doesn’t need to be a mind-reader to guess that he’s trying to figure out what exactly M would be doing with the Unseen University’s assistant librarian on her staff.
“Bond, get dressed and report up to my office immediately. Do not let Alec detain you further. There are lives depending on the outcome of your mission.” James nods once, silently, and vanishes inside, shutting the window behind him.
Satisfied, M turns to Q.
“Q, you will come with me. I wish to speak to you before James reports.”
“But ma’am, won’t he be…” The question goes unasked, but judging by M’s raised eyebrow as she turns back to look at the librarian scuttling in her wake, she knows exactly what he means.
“They have not seen each other for several weeks, and according to my information, Bond was nearly killed. He will be several minutes late, if not longer.” She sighs, and begins ascending a flight of stairs. “Alec has never been one for taking orders, I’m afraid. Nevertheless, they are useful.”
Glancing left and right and seeing nobody, Q resigns himself to possibly being murdered before he gets home tonight. The thought is strangely comforting, and his bolsters his courage to ask the question which has been nagging him since he followed James over the wall.
“Right, okay. So, James and Alec, are they… uh…” he stumbles, and looks down at his feet, embarrassed. M doesn’t pause, but Q can imagine her rolling her eyes.
“In love? Yes. Goodness knows it would make all of our jobs a lot easier if they weren’t.” Q is silent for a minute, but as soon as he opens his mouth, M speaks again. "Don’t worry, you are far from the first person to ask me that. To think, I have an entire city under my thumb, and they are worried about what my staff members do in their free time.”
“Um, no, not... I mean obviously yes, but… I sort of meant… are they assassins? Or spies? Or… something??”
They have reached the top of the stairs now, and M turns back to eye him up. There is something of a glint in her eyes, something that he doesn’t recognise. It looks foreign on her face, like seeing a banana in the Rimtop Mountains. As she turns away, Q belatedly realises that it is amusement.
“Or something.” She has turned away again by the time she answers, but Q gets the feeling that her face wouldn’t have told him anything anyway.
They reach a door, and M pushes it open, beckoning Q to follow her. He shuts it behind him as he enters, trying not to be underwhelmed by what is obviously the patrician’s office. It is smaller than he would have expected, for a start. The floors are carpeted in a dark cream, the walls a similarly faded greying yellow. Also, there are windows. Glass ones, huge, making up almost an entire wall. Through them, he can see across the city, the bobbing and swaying of the lanterns marking out streets and houses, the dark patches where the thieves lurk in alleyways, the bright pools where lights from the taverns and seamstresses spill out onto the street.
The view would be astonishing, if this were any other city. Though he supposes it is stunning in its own way.
The office, however, consists of a desk covered in paperwork complete with a lamp, a large leather chair with a somewhat worn seat, and a clock. It doesn’t tick, but moves around the face silently, smoothly, instead of jarring with each passing second. Q finds it drawing his attention even as M turns back towards him.
“You know, you are not what I was expecting.”
Pulling his eyes away from the clock, he blinks at her, and restrains himself from asking what she was expecting. Silence stretches out between them until he recognises that it has become taught and uncomfortable, like an elastic band that has been stretched too far and is waiting to hit breaking point. Despite that, he finds himself incredibly unwilling to break it. She hums, thoughtfully, and moves towards her desk. Taking out a glass and a bottle, she pours some amber liquid into the crystal. The sound of the wooden drawer shutting is much louder than it should be. Q wonders what either of them is waiting for.
M pauses, the tumbler halfway towards her lips.
“Tell me about your miniature staff again.”
Q stammers, still uncomfortably aware that he is in little more than his vest and leggings, and swallows.
“Uh, well, that’s pretty much it. It’s a way of concentrating magic, I suppose. It’s just more practical and efficient than a staff. I’ve been working on finding other uses for compressed magic too, only I don’t seem to be able to make it expel it all at once unless I’m in the HEM with Hex, and quite frankly, that’s not particularly helpful in the real world. So really I’m just developing the carrying capacity and doing some basic field tests at the moment.”
There is an awkward silence as M takes a draught of liquid.
“I see. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it is rare for wizards of this day and age to adapt their own spell work, correct?”
“Yes ma’am, only I’m not adapting. I’m creating. Which is, actually, even rarer. It’s quite dangerous you see, though very interesting… though as you rightly observed, ma’am, curiosity killed the cat.” He considers this statement for a second, and the corrects himself, "Or at least, seriously maimed it.” M considers him, solemnly, the glass in her hand still and glinting in the yellow sots of light from the window.
“I see. And am I right in understanding that you also did some of the principle engineering on Hex?”
“Yes ma’am. My father was a blacksmith, and I was going to follow his trade before I became a wizard. He taught me all the basics.”
“Well, Q, I have a proposition for you. If you agree to work for me, I will provide you with food, accommodation, and a workshop complete with tools of your choosing, should you be willing to manufacture devices such as these for use by my agents.”
“Your… agents, ma’am?”
“James and Alec, mainly, though there are others. You would not know them yet.”
“But ma’am, they’re not wizards.”
“No, they are not. It would be a challenge, would it not?”
“I… uh, well, I can try, I suppose, it’s not unknown…”
“Good. One last question, if I may.”
Q gets a feeling that it’s not optional, so he nods, though the patrician is already continuing without him.
“Is there anything else unusual about you?”
He is slightly stunned by the question, and the creeping sense of suspicion up his spine says that M already knows the answer to these questions, and that by asking him, she is simply pandering to his expectations.
“I… well, I suppose… my mother…” he trails off, hoping that M will nod, interrupt him, finish the sentence for him, anything to signify that she already knows and that he doesn’t have to admit this.
“My mother was a… um…”
“She wasn’t human?”
Grateful, Q jumps at that.
“Well no entirely, not quite, though it was fourth generation by that point, you couldn’t even tell most of the time, only except, you know, apart from the obvious times.”
“And do you suffer from similar… difficulties?”
“Uh, not as such. I mean, I don’t have to lock myself in my room every month or anything, the genes are too diluted now, but I sometimes… the senses, you know? I can… feel the world differently.”
“I believe it is described as seeing smells?”
“Um. Yeah. Sort of. It’s pretty useful.”
“I can see how it would be. And you are sure that there are no ulterior effects at all?”
“Not that I know of, and I’ve had a fair bit of experience by now. And, you know, both my parents knew quite a lot about it, so I’m willing to trust them…”
“Of course. Well then, Q. You begin tomorrow.”
With a curt nod, she dismisses him. Striding towards the door, she opens it. James is standing outside with one hand raised, as if poised to knock.
“Good of you to join us, James. I would like you to introduce you to your new Quartermaster. I believe you have already met.”
A flash of something unreadable passes across Bond's face, but is quickly replaced with serenity.
“We have. Forgive me my ignorance ma’am, but what exactly is a Quartermaster?”
“A weapons developer. Q will be working on magically enhanced weapons for you and Alec to use in the field. I will thank you kindly for co-operating with him. He will be living in the empty room next to yours. If you please, Q, wait outside. When Bond has finished his report to me, he will escort you back, introduce you to Alec, and show you to your new accommodation. Tomorrow, I shall send two of my staff to help you set up your workshop. I shall send a letter of apology to the librarian for stealing you from him tonight. I am sure your presence will be sorely missed. Goodnight, Q. James, with me.”
The door shuts behind them. Q stands, completely arrested in time, for almost an entire minute. He wonders at what point his life took a completely new direction apparently without his permission. Was it when he met James? Or climbed the fence? Or when his spell failed? Or during his last conversation with M?
He couldn’t even begin to guess. Instead, resigned to his new fate, he takes a seat and contemplates his new position.
He wouldn’t have to deal with his landlady anymore, for one. That would be a definite plus. He wouldn’t get lost in time and L-space trying to return books to their rightful places, which was a relief. He wouldn’t have to face being attacked by feral books on a daily basis either, which was even better. He would miss the librarian, true, but apart from that he had never really had any friends. It probably helped that the librarian didn’t mind if Q remained silent for hours on end.
But this… he’d be able to work with raw materials and proper tools. He would have to sneak out to steal ingredients. He’d be able to experiment at times other than the dead of night, and he wouldn’t get called away at crucial moments. Best of all, he’d get paid for it.
He wonders if there is a down side to this new arrangement at all. If there is, he’s missed it.
A door shuts downstairs. From where he’s sat, Q can’t see anything beyond the small landing that he’s on, the shape of the ceiling above him and the set of stairs in front of him. He waits in silence for several seconds, holding his breath, and wondering who on earth it could be.
The footsteps are heavy, and slow. It takes them an age to climb the stairs, long enough for Q to register the erratic heartbeat in his chest. He wonders, briefly, if he should run, but decides against it. Where would he go?
Something appears on the staircase. For a mad second, Q wonders why somebody is bringing him a bowl, and carrying it upside-down, no less. Then the creature takes the next step, and he can see the glowing eyes.
The golem approaches torturously slowly. Q stares at it the entire time, almost enthralled by its strange dignity.
It is carrying his robes, and somehow, his hat. He wasn’t even wearing his hat tonight, it was back at his flat, along with the…
...the suitcase of items that the golem is lugging behind it.
He watches, carefully, as the golem finally reaches him, and extends what might generously be called a hand in his direction. The robes would have fallen to the floor if Q hadn’t jerked to his feet to catch them.
“Thank you.” He says, absent-mindedly, inspecting them for road dust. Surprisingly, there is none. There is no denying that they are his, but they are much cleaner than he ever remembers them being.
“You Are Welcome.” The creature rumbles. Q nearly jumps out of his skin, but manages to restrain himself. He’s forgotten that some of the golem could speak.
This one is now handing him his hat, which he takes gingerly, stares at it for a minute, and then shoves it on in resignation.
He loves being a wizard, always has done, but the uniforms are a large and frustrating drawback. This particular hat seems to be completely indestructible, as well. It is immune to all of the magical ‘accidents’ that Q has had in its immediate vicinity. Somehow, this has made him rather fond of it. He still hates wearing it though.
The robes are welcome though, if only because he is no loner shivering. Walking around in the dead of night with just your underwear on is not his idea of fun.
The golem then places his bag next to him on the chair, and turns its back on him, walking away again.
“Hey wait… um…”
Q’s voice wavers. The golem turns back, stands still on the stairs, and waits for him to speak.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I Did Not Tell You My Name.”
“Oh.. well, I’m Q. What is your name?”
The golem seems to consider this question for a second.
“I Am Mr Pump.”
Q gapes.
“Mr Pump? Oh wow. Um… I am very, very pleased to meet you sir.”
“Likewise, Mr Q.”
The golem turns away, and walks down the stairs.
Q sits there quietly for several minutes, playing with the thoughts in his head until his hands get bored. Then he produces his miniature staff, which really needs a better name because that was a mouthful, and plays with that instead. It is recharging quicker than last time, he thinks. Perhaps that was because he had run it out completely. He’d have to talk to Tanner about it when he get back to the HEM. If he ever did get back, that is. Actually, that was a point. Tanner isn’t aware of the precise conditions the ants needed to be maintained at so that Hex can work at maximum capacity. He would have to write to him about that…
Q is still composing his careful list of instructions when Bond finally emerges from M’s office. By now, the staff has done some serious replenishment work, and he is using it as a scribe, writing out his thoughts on a piece of paper as they occur to him. It stutters to a halt as Bond steps forward.
“Back to work already?” He asks, mildly.
“Um… yes? I suppose.”
A quick nod is all his reply.
“Alright. This way.”
Q has to scramble to keep up, sending the list back to the university with a quick wave of the miniature staff and scurrying after Bond.
He hadn’t dared to look around him on his way up, but had instead kept close to M’s heels, not wanting to look out and spot the inevitable bodyguards dotted everywhere. Now, he sees that the hall is empty. They are moving towards the staircase, and he sees now that it is one of two that flank the main entranceway, curving around the walls to leave room on the centre for what looks like…
“Is that a board game?” He asks, somewhat shocked. It only occurs to him after he’s said it that there are many, many better ways he could have begun an official acquaintance with James.
They are descending the stairs side-by-side now, Q having caught up with Bond’s longer strides. The other man, the agent, Q silently corrects himself, doesn’t look at him, but out across the tiled hallway. The black and white squares look something like a life-size game of trolls and dwarves to Q, but considering where he is, he’s not going to make that assumption. Besides, there are no playing pieces.
“Of a sort. Nothing you’d have ever played before.”
“But you have?”
“Yes.”
Q contemplates the board for several seconds before responding.
“Teach me.”
Bond almost laughs. The youth clearly has no idea what the game entails. He’s a wizard, for Om’s sakes. It’s probably against the rules that he even plays.
Fortunately for him, Bond rather likes his attitude. Unfortunately for them both, Bond is an assassin, and an old one, as they go. Years and years of observation, training and practice have made him good - too good for this kid to walk away alive if they play. He narrows his eyes, glaring at the back of the wizard’s hat, pulled down over his ears, as if expecting it to give him an insight into the way he thinks.
“Not tonight.”
Q shrugs a shoulder, seeming to accept this, and they continue their descent.
“That thing get you a job, then?” Bond inquires, gesturing to the little wooden object in Q’s hand.
“Apparently.” He shrugs. “It’s a rather useful device, this miniature staff. It needs a better name though.”
James nods, calmly.
“How about a wand?” He suggests, completely unflinchingly. Immediately, Q’s cheeks colour, and he ducks his head.
“I… um…”
“It was a joke.” Bond comments mildly, and they are silent for the remainder of the journey back. Alec is apparently asleep, and so James offers to introduce them properly over breakfast. Instead, he shows Q to his room, bids him goodnight, and leaves the young man to stew in his own thoughts until dawn.
Whereupon Q’s new life as Quartermaster is to begin.
-
Once again, Q’s room is a mess as James enters. It has been completely commandeered by his equipment now. The bed is long gone, replaced by desks and workspaces and piles and piles of equipment.
Today, there are blueprints scattered all over the floor, and Q is lying slap bang in the middle of them.
His hair stands up in warped curls around his head, and James wonders if he’s even brushed it today, or if that’s the way it looked when he got up this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or the day before.
Now it no longer lies flat from wearing his hat at all hours of the day, its a good register of how chaotic Q’s life currently is.
Having just received Alec from a two-week-long mission, James can empathise with the state of Q’s hair.
“Q.”
The young man jumps, scattering papers every which-where as he stands.
“James! Alec’s okay?”
“Gone to bed. Here, he sent me with this.”
The tiny piece of wood in his hand is shaped strangely, a little curl, like a snail shell.
“He broke it again.” Q sighs. It used to be petulant, this exchange, but now he’s just resigned to both Alec and James’ destructive tendencies.
“Yes.”
The young man rubs at his eyes, tiredly.
“I don’t know why I expected any differently.”
“Because you’re an eternal optimist. Are you coming?”
James wanders closer to have a peek at some of Q’s papers, and shuts the door behind him. Q catches him looking, and shoos his hands away. They’re supposed to know better than to touch, but for all the times he’s told them, they still don’t listen.
“Not yet. I have to finish this before tomorrow, M’s asked me to show her the progress I’m making with the wand. It’s getting much more accurate, but I just need to test it properly on a non-wizard. I would ask Mr Pump, but I have no idea where he is right now.”
“Well, I can stick around for a while if you need me to.”
“Isn’t Alec waiting?”
“When I said he was in bed, I meant he was asleep.”
“Oh. Well then, come on.”
James works his way around the mess towards Q, who has set up a target at the far end of the room, where the wardrobe used to be.
“Here. Hold it like… James!” He stops suddenly, as one of James’ hands creeps around his waist, and the other takes hold of his wrist where he’s holding the wand up, pointing it at the target.
“Go on, Q.”
“James. I can’t hold it too, that defeats the whole point of the exercise.”
“Oh, what a shame. In that case, we should just give it up now and go to bed.”
“James, Alec’s asleep.”
“Alright then, the floor works just as well.”
“He’ll be jealous.”
“We’ve had two weeks without him. He’s already going to be green with envy.”
“You are not helping.”
“On the contrary. At this rate, you’ll start getting more than twenty minutes sleep a night.”
“Not if this is your idea of sleeping.”
“No, but you always seem to sleep so well afterwards…”
Q freezes. James, knowing better than to scorn his instincts (they have saved him from several nasty situations already, and Q has only been using them openly for about two months), is immediately tense and ready.
Under his breath, Q swears. The profanity is heartfelt, but as yet, James doesn't know why. It sons becomes apparent, however.
There is a heavy knocking at the door. Q flies to his feet and grabs at his robe, pulling it back on in haste, and throwing James’ at him to cover him up. The knocking doesn’t stop. The continuous, steady rhythm of it shakes the door on its hinges.
“Oh for Om’s sake.” James groans, throwing his head back against the floor. “He has the worst timing.”
“At least I’ve taught him to knock now.” Q points out, which, to James’ chagrin, is actually a very good point.
“Then why can’t you just leave him waiting outside?”
“Because while he’s mastered the art of knocking, he hasn’t yet got the hang of not opening the door from the outside. I’ve had to have it replaced three times just this last week, and I could really do with my budget going elsewhere. Hello Mr Pump!” Q throws the door open without giving James a chance to reply, and the Golem solemnly lowers his arm.
“Good Evening, Q. I Have Brought You Your Supplies. I Apologise For Interrupting.”
“Don’t worry about it. Thank you, Mr Pump.”
“You Are Welcome. Goodnight, Q. Goodnight, Mr Bond.”
Q shuts the door carefully, and leans against it.
“Well. That could have been worse.”
He wanders over to the desk, and dumps the package on it.
“Could it?” James hates being interrupted, and it happens far too often for his liking. He is suspicious of Mr Pump, and he and Alec share the private view that the golem had some kind of sixth sense that means he always interrupts at the worst possible times.
“Yes. Now go away, I have actual work to do before I can go to sleep tonight.” And now Q is flustered. There’ll be no repeat performance tonight, as far as he’s concerned.
Sighing, James gets to his feet, and slings his robe around his shoulder. It is dusty, now, from where it had been rubbed into the floor.
“Alright. Don’t be long.”
“I won’t be.”
“And don’t wake Alec up when you come in.”
“I’ll try not to.” Q promises, collecting his papers together and beginning to sort through them.
“Too late.”
The door can’t have shut properly after Mr Pump had left, because now it swings open easily to reveal Alec standing in the doorway. He is completely naked, and utterly unperturbed by it.
“Oh, gods. I’m so sorry Alec, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Q rubs a hand through his already-messy hair. Alec smirks, and raises an eyebrow, pushing himself off the doorframe and ambling into the room.
“Don’t apologise for that.” He grumbles, and pulls James towards him for a rough kiss. When they break, he looks back at Q. “Apologise for starting without me.”
Q blushes slightly, but shrugs one shoulder.
“You were asleep.”
“I was dozing. Also, I haven’t seen either of you for two weeks.”
Q rolls his eyes.
“Oh, no. How will your over-excited libido survive?”
In response, Alec just pulls his close, and kisses him tenderly. Surprised, Q freezes, before the kiss deepens and he finds himself too interested in the texture of Alec’s tongue to be bothered.
They don’t do tenderness, he and Alec. Alec is rough, demanding, and predictable in it. Q has only ever seen him kiss even James like this once before. It had been right after Alec had first kissed Q in front of him, and James’ expression had been… well, shocked would be an understatement. Of course, it had ended well for all of them, but it also sticks out in Q’s mind as the only time he has ever heard either of them admit that they love each other. It goes without saying, most of the time, but that night Alec had felt the need to remind James of that fact, and the memory of it has Q’s heart beating in his throat.
Uncomfortable with and yet somehow elated by the thought of what this new type of intimacy between them means, he bites at Alec’s lip, a trick he has learnt from Alec himself. It breaks the tension, which is both an incredible relief and a crushing disappointment.
“Cheeky bastard. Hurry up, then.” He pulls away, grinning, and James follows him to the door.
“I won’t be long,” Q calls after them, and resolves himself not to be. If they get bored, they will start without him, and he has missed Alec these past few weeks. Even though, thanks to his new designs, they can now talk to each other, it’s not the same. Besides, Alec is rough with him where James is tender, and he likes the contrast.
From the room next door, he hears the sudden and unmistakeable thump of a body landing on the bed.
“Oh, hell.” Q swears, not even attempting to be quiet.
In his hurry, he accidentally drops the wand on the floor. The tip sparks slightly, and the magic crackles in the air around them.
Q doesn’t notice, but makes a botched attempt at clearing up all his papers, succeeding only in crumpling the corners and getting them all in the wrong order.
There is another thump from next door, followed by the sound of a deep masculine moan that reverberates through Q’s spine in a way that is far from unpleasant.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
He stares at the pile, gives it up for a lost cause, and dashes out of his room, down the corridor, and into the bedroom.
-
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Mmmph.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Q, I swear, if you damn golem was me up one more time…”
“Knock. Knock. Knock.
“I’m coming I’m coming, hang on, Mr Pump just… oh hell, James… where are my robes?”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“ONE MOMENT! Crap, I can’t go out like this…”
“Why not, it’s just the golem, he’s not going to mind.”
“He might not Alec, but I will!”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Oh fine. You know what, it’s not like I have any dignity to loose anyway, for heaven’s sake, ALRIGHT, I’M COMING MR PUMP…”
“Good Morning, Q. Good Morning, Mr Bond. Good Morning Mr Trevelyan. You Have A Visitor.”
“…Louis?!?!”
“Yes, yes, good morning indeed!”
The door slams shut again.
From within, Q’s voice can be heard as clear as a bell.
“CLOTHES! NOW!”
“Oh dear.” Louis turns to the golem, concerned. “Do you think I upset him?”