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Chapter Text

Now

Grey fades with reluctant flickers to black and white before red intercedes. It is a stark, vibrant red; bright sun behind closed eyelids. It is a red like blood, he thinks, a red like pain. James shifts and tries to remember why his memories are superimposed with Farsi newspaper print; why his mouth tastes like copper and his senses are soured and slow. He recalls the airport in Kandahar, the hotel room, the roar of artillery fire and the white shower of exploding plaster walls. Alec had been shot. He had been shot. Oh God. His entire body aches.

“James?”

He opens his eyes.

Alec. Alive. Good. Handcuffs and raw wrists. Bad. Metal chair. Dirt floor and concrete walls. Also bad. Blood. A lot of blood. Alec’s face is pale beneath it.

“You alright?” Alec asks.

He breathes. He considers. Also handcuffed. Also metal chair. Broken fingers: three. Bullet wound to left thigh. Bruising on face and torso. Possible concussion. Loose teeth.

“Fine,” he answers. “You?”

“Been better,” Alec admits. “Any idea where we are?”

“Pakistan.”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters. He tries to pull at the handcuffs and immediately stills. Dislocated left shoulder, he adds to his mental list of injuries.

Alec’s breathing is wrong. James considers asking for Alec’s own assessment of his injuries but is afraid of what the answer might be. 

“How do you know we’re in Pakistan?” Alec says.

James nods to his red-stained wrist. “Because. It’s been six hours. If we were still in Kandahar M would have saved our arses by now. Our radios are gone but you’ve still got your watch. I still have my satellite phone in my pocket. Which means they’re confident that even if we’re being tracked no one is coming for us. Which means Pakistan. I guarantee you M knows exactly where we are, she just can’t do anything about it.” He breathes for a moment. “If we survive this she’s going to kill me.”

“I’d be more worried about Q if I were you,” Alec says, spitting blood.

“Fuck. I bet he was on comms when we were taken.”

“Probably,” Alec manages something that may be a laugh.

“Fuck,” James says again, immediately followed by, “incoming.”

A car—no—Jeep. And a motorcycle—shrill whine. Four stroke engine. Probably a Honda. Brief silence. Men speaking Pashto. 

“James,” Alex says. His breathing is wrong again.

“I know,” he answers.

There is a continent of unsaid thought in the blink that passes between them.

Two men and a boy enter. A boy?—late teens. Ragged. Bare foot and dirty—the motorcycle rider then. He looks vaguely apologetic as he uncuffs James. He puts his shoulder to James’ stomach. He carries him away with a grunt. For a while things go black and white and red again.

Smaller room now, but bright. Windows and blue sky. Cheerful if not for the knowledge of imminent torture.

He closes his eyes as the questions start.

“Who are you working for?”

“Who is in charge?”

“What is your designation?”

“Do you communicate with the others?”

“How do you communicate with the others?”

A tightening of calloused fingers on strained shoulder ligaments. A press of weight to broken metacarpals. A breath of pain before he can stop it.

“Don’t be difficult,” his interviewer says, “I promise, I can make you talk.”

No, he thinks, you can make me scream. There is a difference.

****

Then 

James Bond met Quentin Holmes for the first time at ten AM on a Thursday. Quentin was thirteen; James, twenty. The meeting was an accident. 

James had entered Her Majesty's Young Offender's Institute fifteen minutes earlier, endured a pat down, and then a more thorough search when he still set off the metal detector (“surgical screws,” he had used as an explanation, he figured “bullet remnants” wasn’t something he should share). The facility was more like a dormitory than a prison, the only differences being the cameras, security, and the fact that the tenant’s doors all locked from the outside. He felt oddly naked walking the halls without a gun.

James had been informed he would find the boy he was looking for in room 311, had been buzzed in by the floor officer, and pointed in the right direction.

On first glance however, it seemed the room was empty.

There was a bunk bed, a desk beneath a double-barred window, a sink, and a toilet. He leaned back into the hall, checked the number, and crossed his arms, giving the room another slow sweep. And then the blanket on the top bunk moved.

James stepped further inside automatically, wanting to get a better look at his target, and then stilled purely because he couldn’t believe a child so small could be in a juvenile detention center. The boy on the bed could have been called cherubic if he wasn’t so thin: Grey eyes, black curls, and pale fingers clutching the blanket he had been curled under.

“Hello,” James said.

The boy just blinked at him.

“How old are you?” James asked, because he had to know. “I didn’t think they let actual children in here.”

“I’m nearly fourteen,” the boy said, looking somewhat annoyed. “Hardly a child.”

James snorted. “You’re not thirteen.”

“I am. I can’t help it if I’m small for my age.”

“Seriously.”

“Yes. Seriously,” his soprano voice was soft but sharp.

“What did you do?” 

The boy’s mouth twitched. “I made some important people look foolish. They don’t take kindly to that.”

James grinned. “No. They usually don’t. I meant what were you charged with?”

“Cyber Crimes. Embezzlement,” he waved a careless hand, “some other things.”

“Seriously?”

The kid sighed, sitting up straighter. “Are you here to actually serve a purpose, or just ask me questions you don't like my answers to?”

James found the impertinence endearing. “I’m looking for Eric Jones.”

“Ah. The impossible Meat That Thinks. He’ll be in the yard. Special dispensation because he’s charming when he’s not punching you. And apparently some sort of athletics star at his school. Complete idiot though. You don’t want him.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know why I’m here,” James pointed out.

The boy squinted at him. “I know enough. You’re recruiting, possibly MI5, more probably MI6. You like Jones because he’s a fighter and an orphan and he most likely has good results in school. But the marks are either from charm or threats. His only intelligence is in his cruelty. He’d be a terrible agent.”

James leaned back on his heels with a whistle. “Good to know.”

“Just doing my civic duty.”

“You’re smart, though,” James said. “To have figured all that out.”

“Yes.”

“Humble too.”

“No, not really.”

“Would you make a good agent?” James asked.

The boy snorted. “Of course not. Look at me. I’d be useless in the field, even when I’m grown.”

“And behind the scenes? Doing research and tech development, running ops. Think you’d be any good at that?”

The kid stilled, his eyes going sharp in a way that made James want to reach for his weapon. He remembered he didn’t have one, then remembered he was talking to a 13-year-old the size of a cocker spaniel and he didn’t need a weapon anyway.

“Give me access to MI6’s computers and I could take over the world,” the boy said softly.

“Not exactly what we’re trying to accomplish, but an interesting option all the same.” James said, pursing his lips. “What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because, if I’m going to recruit you that’s something I’ll need to know.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“There are child labor laws. I’ll be useless to you for two more years.”

“Name,” James repeated.

“Quentin,” the boy said. “Quentin Holmes.”

“Good. Let me go speak to someone about getting your file. My employer likes to move quickly, so if she approves of you I may be back as early as tomorrow to start your discharge.”

“I don’t—you’re serious.” Quentin looked suddenly lost. “Could you really get me out of here?”

“It’s definitely a possibility.”

The boy dropped his blanket and with careful movements climbed down the ladder. Standing, he was even more pathetic looking. The grey trousers and blue sweater with the detention center’s insignia on it were several sizes too large. He pushed up the overlong sleeves of the jumper as he walked forward and James caught one of his wrists before the sleeve could fall back down again.

Quentin flinched, then bared his teeth in annoyance.

“Let go.”

“What happened to your arm?” James asked.

It was obvious, actually. There was a distinctly hand-shaped bruise ringing his forearm. And James was suddenly certain there were several more bruises beneath the overlarge clothing.

“What do you think happened,” Quentin snapped, pulling uselessly away. “I’m the smallest one here and apparently I’m pretty.  Let go.”

James let go.

And found himself, for the first time in very long while, completely at a loss as to what he should say.

“Look, I’m not good with kids,” he said finally.

“Neither am I,” Quentin answered, taking two steps back, enough to no longer be in grabbing distance. “Not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“You are a kid.”

“No, I’ve never been afforded that luxury.”

James swallowed. “Hold still,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture of you. I’m about to go present a case for recruiting you. I’ll need a visual for the file and I’d rather it not be your intake photo. Smile.”

Quentin didn’t smile. Quentin stared at the camera like it was his worst enemy.

James took the picture and sighed. It was still better than an intake photo. Probably.

He turned toward the door, then paused, pivoting on one heel.

“Did you want something?” James asked. “I mean, did you get down for a reason or…”

The boy shrugged. “I just—I wanted to see what your face looked like. The others took my glasses so I can’t—I can’t see very well right now, actually.”

For some reason that infuriated him in a way that none of the prior references to abuse had.

“Quentin,” James said quietly.

“Yes?

“I’m going to go now, but I’m coming back for you. Today.”

Warring expressions of hope and pessimism twisted the boy’s face for several seconds. 

“You promise?” He said finally, sounding every bit his age.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Now

James opens his eyes to a slate grey ceiling that produces an intense feeling of both relief and resignation. The familiar noises of Medical hum around him and there’s something warm pressed against his thigh. He shifts, just enough to turn his head, and the warmth moves, sitting up to glare at him.

“Q,” James says. The letter rasps in his throat and he swallows, watching as the boy pushes away from the bed, straightening his tie with too-thin fingers as if that will somehow discount the rumpled hair and sleepless circles under his eyes. There’s a crease on the milk-pale skin of his cheek from the starched hospital sheets.

“Bond,” Q says, and the use of his last name paired with the ice in Q’s tone tells James everything he needs to know.

Dammit.

“Quentin,” he tries.

“Bond,” Q repeats, standing. “Alec is in surgery, but he’ll be fine. You’ve a nasty infection in your leg that should keep you here at least a week, but eventually you’ll be fine too. The mission was a failure and the associate operative in Kandahar was killed. You and Alec are both expected to appear at a disciplinary hearing in three weeks. Until then, you’re suspended.”

“Quentin,” James says.

Q ignores him.

“Also I’ve told M I won’t run your ops anymore.”

 “Quentin,” James says again, and yes, there may be an almost embarrassing degree of pleading present.

Q pauses at the foot of the bed, staring hard at the door. “Maybe you’ll respect one of the other techs more than me, maybe you won’t, but I refuse to listen to you die just because you’re too fucking stubborn to follow my instructions.”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea what it feels like? To be stuck here listening to you get shot and then listening to the people who’ve shot you talking about the various ways they intend to torture you. And then knowing exactly where you are but not having any way of extracting you. Do you have any idea how horrifying that was? How useless I felt.”

“Quentin, please.”

“I’m supposed to keep you safe and I can’t do that if you blatantly disregard the intel I give you and—and I won’t do it anymore, alright? I won’t. I can’t. So.” He swallows. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”

Q slips out the door before James has a chance to say his name again and James closes his eyes against the abruptly overwhelming emptiness of the room, finding it suddenly difficult to swallow around the ache in his throat.

Fuck.

***

Then 

It took two hours and a good bit of profanity to convince M that MI6 should organize the release of an underfed, prepubescent hacker from juvenile detention. It took an additional three hours to figure out how they would go about doing it. It was nearly 1800 when one of the techs finally texted James to let him know that Quentin Holmes had been officially released and sent home with one of the staff psychologists as a temporary guardian.  He didn’t much care for the psychologists, but it was undoubtbly a step up from kid’s previous living conditions.

James pocketed his phone and pulled up the collar of his coat against the rain as he stepped out of the tube station. Alec had invited him to the pub but he was feeling strangely unsettled, still thinking about the blatant, feral, fear on Quentin’s face when he’d grabbed the boy’s arm. He wasn’t interested in drinking that night.

It was a quick walk home, the rain steadily becoming a downpour by the time he climbed the two flights of stairs to his flat. He’d only been home long enough to kick off his shoes and hang his coat, when someone knocked on the door.

He paused, one hand on his gun, and ducked to squint through the peephole. 

Quentin was on the landing.

James opened the door.

The boy’s clothes were too small, over-washed and frayed and clinging to the sharpness of his lean frame in a way that was nearly engineered to evoke pity. His eyes were huge and grey.

“I thought they sent you home with Doctor Martin?” James said, completely baffled as to how a 13 year old could have not only slipped away from an MI6 employee but also managed to arrive at a double-O’s doorstep within twenty minutes of being released from the Young Offenders Institute.

Quentin shrugged.

“How did you even find me? This is supposed to be a secure address.”

Quentin shrugged.

“Fantastic.”

James stared at the dripping kid for a long moment, then opened the door further and retreated back into the kitchen with a resigned sigh.  “I was just about to order dinner. You want some?”

He glanced over his shoulder, and found Quentin carefully unlacing his trainers.

“Quentin?” he prompted, expecting another shrug, but after the boy removed his shoes and closed the door he answered quietly, “Yes, please. And I’d rather you call me ‘Q.’”

“Q,” James repeated, moving to turn on the kettle. “Just the letter?”

“Just the letter,” he agreed.

James sorted through a drawer of takeout menus, watching out of the corner of his eye as Q placed his trainers next to James’ discarded boots, then moved to stand awkwardly at the entrance of the kitchen. His bare feet left wet prints on the concrete floor.

“You want a shower?” James asked.

Q looked at him like that was a trick question.

“I mean, no offense, but those clothes are a wreck. I can give you something of mine to wear, though it’ll probably be laughably big.”

Q nodded slowly and James beckoned for him to follow to the bedroom for the smallest tee shirt and sweats he could find.

“Here. Bathroom is through there, spare towels are in the cabinet over the sink.”

Q took the clothes, careful not to touch James during the transfer, and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

The water cut on a few moments later and James fell backward onto the bed, breathing at the ceiling for a moment before locating his phone in the sheets and dialing for take out.

As he hung up, the water turned off.

James sat up, frowning, and was still frowning when Q exited the bathroom, overlarge tee shirt clinging to his damp skin. His hair, already trying valiantly to curl again, dripped against the collar.

“You were in there for 3 minutes,” James said.

Q flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“What? No, I mean, you can’t have showered that quickly. Or not well, anyway. You’ve still got ink on your thumb from being fingerprinted.”

“Sorry,” he said again, hand uncertain on the doorknob.

“I’m not—“ James resisted the urge to growl in annoyance. “Was there something wrong? Could you not find the hot water?”

Q looked blankly at him. 

James took a moment to think the situation through.

“Would you…like to take a longer bath?”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can, that’s not—yes. Take as long as you want.”

“As long as I want,” Q repeated, derisive but disbelieving.

“Yes.”

“Ten minutes?” he said, as if the number was somehow extravagant.

James shrugged. “Make it twenty. Food won’t be here till then anyway.”

Q continued to stare at him, bewildered, and then pushed the door back open, throwing a wary look over his shoulder as he returned to the bathroom.

“And Q?” James said, voice raised as the water cut back on. “Lock the door, if it will make you feel better.”

There was a six second pause and then the lock clicked into place. James sighed, moving into the living room to turn on the television. Out of morbid curiosity he checked the clock.

Exactly twenty minutes later the shower stopped.

When the Q emerged again his expression was half obstinate, as if expecting to be scolded, half terrified.

“You’re looking better,” James lied, careful to keep his voice soft. “Long shower can do that. When I got back from Afghanistan after my first tour the first thing I did was empty the hot water tank.  My friend Alec won’t flat share with me anymore because he says I steal all the hot water. He’s wrong, of course. He’s just as bad as I am.”

James nudged a box of takeaway on the coffee table in Q’s direction. “Any preference on telly?”

Q shook his head, but sat on the opposite end of the couch, watching James closely as he reached for the food in front of him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” James nodded toward the cardboard container of noodles. “Eat, it’s getting cold.”

It was several minutes before Q spoke again.

“I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“Nothing.”

“Everyone wants something.”

James licked a smear of orange chicken off his thumb. “I want you to eat. I want you to sleep. And then I want you to go with me back to HQ tomorrow and stay with the guardian they’ve appointed to you, and live some semblance of a normal childhood until you’re old enough to work for MI6 properly. Then I want you running my ops and making sure I don’t get killed. Alright?”

“Alright.”

James flicked channels until he found an episode of Dr. Who and, noticing Q had eaten everything in the container in front of him, pushed a second box of noodles in his direction.

“I need to call headquarters and let them know you’re here,” he said.

Q stilled, skinny fingers curling protectively around his elbows. “Mrs. Martin said I would have to go to medical tomorrow.”

“Okay,” James said cautiously. “Is that why you left?”

“I don’t like doctors.”

“Well. Neither do I. But they can be useful, on occasion. They’ll likely just give you a physical, maybe check your blood levels, and you’ll be done. Quick. Simple. All employees are required to have a checkup every six months, so you best get used to it now.”

“Can you go with me?”

The question seemed to surprise them both and Q dragged a hand through his hair, crossing his arms sullenly as if somehow hoping to negate the fragility of the question. The fact that he was swimming in James’ shirt with a smudge of soy sauce on his face did nothing to lessen the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Of course,” James said with studied indifference. “I’m past due for my check up anyway, I suppose tomorrow’s as good a day as any to get it done.”

“Alright,” Q said, reaching for the second box of noodles.

“Alright,” James agreed.

Chapter Text

Now

After five days in Medical, the nurses are on strike, housekeeping refuses to enter James’ room, and the young fidgeting man from psych with the ill-fitting suit left after four minutes in tears.

The doctor discharges James early purely out of resigned fury.

Alec arrives, still limping slightly, with a wheelchair, and it’s a testament to the amount of pain James is in that he actually allows himself to make use of it.

“I’m to take you home and stay at your flat for the next week, at least,” Alec says conversationally, pushing James out into the hall. “And neither of us are to leave London until the disciplinary hearing, naturally.”

“I suppose that holiday I was planning will have to wait then,” James mutters, wincing as the chair bumps into the lift.

“Indeed.”

“Have you seen Q?” James asks, trying to sound casual. Every time he’s been injured in the past, Q spent every moment he wasn’t working at James’ side. As it is, they usually eat lunch together whenever he’s on site, but James hasn’t seen the boy in four days, and it’s beginning to worry him.

“I only saw him briefly,” Alec says, “yesterday, when I was discharged. He told me if I ever let you go off mission like that again he’d ensure I spend the rest of my life in a Russian prison.”

“Let?” James scoffs. “As if you weren’t encouraging me to do it?”

Alec shrugs, straightening his tie as the lift dings, maneuvering the chair into the lobby toward the street doors.

“Has he refused to run your ops as well?” James asks.

“What? No. Though he did threaten to send me into the field with a banana and a broken compass next time.”

“Charming,” James says.

“Isn’t he though?”

There is an implication in Alec’s tone James doesn’t want to dwell on.

“Do you think he was serious?” Alec asks.

“About the banana? “

“No, about not running your ops anymore.”

Alec swipes his security card so the doors will open for them. They both brace against the gust of cold, wet, air, awaiting them outside.

“Yes,” James says, “he was entirely serious. I’d never seen him that angry before. Or that hurt.”

“So you’ll be spending the rest of your suspension aggressively apologising, then?”

“Yes.”

“God,” Alec mutters, locking the chair’s wheels. “How do you even do that for someone like him. Flowers? Tea? Robotics?”

“Q hates flowers,” James says absently, “they make him sad.”

Alec remains silent and James glances up at him. The other man’s face is unreadable. “What?”

“Flowers make Q sad,” Alec repeats, eyebrows raised.

James clears his throat. “He doesn’t like watching them die.”

Alec lets out a long whistle. “Right. No flowers. Well. I’ll go bring round the car.”

James pulls his coat closer around his throat and tries not to look at the surveillance cameras mounted just outside the door. The likelihood that Q is monitoring the external feeds at that exact moment is incredibly improbable anyway.

***

Then 

The second time Q showed up at James flat unannounced, James nearly shot him.

The boy was sitting on James’ couch, messing with a laptop, when James walked in the door, still post-mission paranoid after a seven hour flight and nearly delirious from lack of sleep.

Q blinked at the gun trained at his head, then nodded to the table.

“I got Indian this time, hope that’s okay.”

James holstered his weapon, considered saying a variety of things before deciding silence was probably the best option, shook his head, and then went to take a shower.

“You can’t just keep showing up at my flat,” he said later, wearing track pants and a new array of bandages on his chest.

“Why not?” Q asked, pushing at the frames of his new glasses.

James didn’t have an answer for that.

Q nudged a cardboard container in his direction 

“Is someone going to be looking for you?” James asked, reaching for a fork.

“No,” Q murmured, eyes on the laptop screen. “Boothroyd knows I’m here.”

“Boothroyd. Are you not staying with that woman from psych anymore?”

“No.

The subtle tightening of his jaw indicated that particular avenue of conversation was closed. James wisely didn’t push it.

“I always thought Boothroyd rather disliked children, actually, how’s that going?”

“Quite well,” Q said icily, “possibly because he realizes I’m not a child.”

“Right,” James laughed. “Have you started classes yet?”

When he’d left two weeks before, Q was still arguing with M and Boothroyd, the tech division’s head of operations, over how exactly his schooling should be handled.

“I take my A-levels next week. Then M wants me to enroll in university.”

He said the final word with a moue of distaste.

“And you would rather be doing what with your time?” James asked, opening another carton of food.

“Working. The entirety of MI6’s tech branch is in the dark ages. The firewalls are abysmal, their servers are slow, and don’t get me started on development. I mean, Boothroyd is good but he’s…old.” Q stabbed a piece of chicken, looking morose. “I could make things so much better.”

“You’re thirteen,” James said gently. “Give it time.”

“Fourteen in two months,” he muttered, mouth full. “And I’m bored.”

“Is that why you decided to break into my flat?”

“Maybe.”

James grinned. “How did you get in, by the way? I’ve a physical key and a digital lock from tech and I never got an alert that someone unauthorized had entered.”

“Funny thing,” Q said, tapping absently at the laptop, “There’s a lock box with a backup key to every Double-O and in-residence field agent’s dwelling down in TSS.”

“You stole a key. From MI6.”

“Borrowed a key. I made a copy and returned it.”

“That was…incredibly stupid.”

Q shrugged a skinny shoulder. “Would you have rather I picked it?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. “What about the digital lock?”

“Oh, easy. I asked Boothroyd about the system they install for the agents and he let me play with some of the prototypes. I made an algorithm that can solve any code for this particular model in less than a minute.  Then all I needed was a cable to connect to a TSS tablet to update the lock’s hardware and a tablet.”

“And I suppose you borrowed those as well?”

“No,” Q said drolly. “Those I stole.”

Bond sighed.

Q smirked, typing away at the computer one handed, occasionally stopping to take a bite of food.

It was a testament to how tired James was that it didn’t occur to him until that moment that Q was using his laptop.

“Hey—that’s mine,” he said, reaching for it half in annoyance and half in horror. He hadn’t deleted his history in ages. 

Q flinched away from James’ outstretched hands. It wasn’t a subtle cringe, either, it was a full-bodied, ingrained reaction that made James want to find every person in Q’s past that had harmed him and slowly bleed them dry. He immediately aborted his movement and leaned back, palms up.

“Sorry,” Q muttered after a moment, neck flushing pink. He shifted the laptop onto the couch cushion between them. “I got bored while I was waiting for you.”

James let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You know most kids play video games or something when they get bored. I’ve got FIFA, if you’d like.”

Q just stared at him blankly.

“Right. Never mind. Look.” James scratched the back of his neck. “I want you to know. I will never touch you without your express permission. I know I did at the detention centre and I apologise for that, but it won’t happen again. Okay?”

Q said nothing.

“Do you trust me?” He asked.

“Yes.” Q said.

James laughed without humour. “You’re lying, but that’s alright.”

Q scowled at him. “You said you were coming back for me.”

“I—what?”

“At the centre. You promised you would come back for me.”

“I’m sorry? I mean, I couldn’t actually be the one that went to collect you. HR had to—“

“No, that’s not—You kept your promise. You said you would get me out and you did. So I do trust you. A little.”

“Oh. Well. I suppose that’s a start.”

James shifted the laptop onto his thighs, then narrowed his eyes.

“You were reading my personnel file?”

Q shrugged.

“But this is encrypted.”

Q rolled his eyes.

James decided it was past time to pour himself a drink.

Chapter Text

Now

On Wednesday Q finds three tins of loose leaf African bush tea on his desk.

He considers binning them but doesn’t feel it would be fair to the tea. Also it’s his favorite, which James very well knows. Damn him.

Thursday, there’s a set of noise cancelling headphones hung on his jacket peg in his office. He considers binning them as well, but he knows the particular brand is outrageously expensive, and his current pair is admittedly on it’s last legs, surviving only due to a liberal use of Duct-tape. Q swears, goes to make himself a cup of the damn African bush tea, and puts the new headphones on.

He realizes at this point that James will continue to apologize with excellent gifts and he resigns himself to accepting them. But certainly not forgiving him. 

Friday, there are scones and coffee delivered shortly after he arrives, Sushi dropped off at lunch, and an assortment of Indian food waiting on his desk when he returns from the firing range at just past seven pm. He works late, monitoring 009 in Serbia while tinkering with a new prototype button lens, and at midnight more coffee and scones arrive with a letter suggesting he leave 009 to the minions and go home to get some sleep. 

Saturday two fillets of fresh salmon wrapped in butcher paper, on ice, are delivered to his door. Shortly afterward, also on ice, two pints of sorbet.

Sunday he receives a twelve outlet power strip, two boxes of microscope slides, an assortment of coin cell batteries, and fifteen feet of LED light rope; all items from his Amazon wishlist.

Monday he receives a pair of handmade, Italian leather, wing-tipped shoes that fit him perfectly and he wears them to work only because he can’t seem to force himself to take them back off again once he’s tried them on.

Tuesday he receives a watch with a leather band that matches the shoes and an email from M saying the disciplinary hearing for 006 and 007 has been set for Wednesday at 1pm and his attendance is mandatory.

Wednesday he receives nothing.

The disciplinary hearing is really just M, the department heads, Q, James, and Alec meeting in a conference room. Q is asked to speak first, as the tech who had been running the mission, about what went wrong, and how the agents had deviated from protocol. Alec and James were then allowed to speak in their defense. Q permits himself to look at James only once, when he enters the room, noting he’s lost weight and is standing awkwardly, clearly favoring the leg that had been shot, before refusing to acknowledge his presence for the rest of the meeting. 

When it’s James turn to speak he shocks everyone in the room by taking full responsibility for his actions, apologizing for behavior, and submitting himself to whatever disciplinary action they deem appropriate.  He stares at Q the entire time. Q stares at his hands. He knows that if he meets James’ eyes he will probably either begin yelling or crying and neither is acceptable behavior for the future quartermaster of MI6. So he bites his lip, and studies the damned beautiful watchband on his wrist, and ignores the burn of James’ attention in his peripheral vision.

When M essentially gives both James and Alec a slap on the wrist and reinstates them, Q stands, reiterates to the room at large that he will no longer run James’ ops, and retreats to his office where he can lock the door and pace in peace. Except when he gets to his office there is a box on his desk.  He opens it because he’s sixteen and has poor impulse control and, as James has told him on numerous occasions, his curiosity is worse than a cat’s. Inside, there are two things. The first item is a key. Standard. Silver. Freshly cut and unscratched. The second is a letter on TSS stationary noting that Q has been approved as a key-holder to 007’s residence, and his fingerprint added to the digital lock’s admit list. The letter is folded in half, and on the outside, written in slanted, but legible, pen: I’m sorry. 

Q sighs, pushing his fingers under his glasses.

He’d been jokingly asking James to be added to his admit list for years, complaining about the task of bypassing the digital lock every time security measures were updated, despite it being something of a game for him.

He never thought James would actually do it, though.

He groans, straightening, and loosens his tie, glancing at the clock.

James hadn’t looked good at all. Well, he had, with his suit and sunglasses and newly trimmed gold hair. But something was off. Wrong. Especially in the way he was carrying himself. Usually Q had intimate knowledge of James’ recovery when he was injured. Usually he was the one forcing James to at least attempt to follow medical advice. He feels at loose ends not knowing. He checks the clock again and boots the ring of monitors with a resigned sigh.

He isn’t needed in the lab for another 45 minutes and he has some medical records to hack.

***

Then 

On James' third independent mission as a field agent he was double-crossed, captured, tortured, and starved for two weeks in Columbia. When he finally escaped he killed sixteen people, missed two extraction points, refused medical assistance at the American embassy, and dropped off radar as soon as his plane touched down in London. 

He somehow managed to climb the stairs to his flat, ignoring the blinking light on his answering machine, and poured three fingers of scotch. A few minutes later, he poured three more.

Q let himself in shortly afterward.

“Don’t shoot me, please,” he yelled before opening the door.

James had migrated to the floor of the kitchen at that point, back against the island, and he pulled himself into a position that might have been called standing. The room shifted.

“What are you doing here?”

Q gave him a considering look. “Making sure you don’t kill yourself.”

“Haven’t yet.”

“And I’d like it to stay that way. I think I’m becoming somewhat fond of you.”

“Don’t,” James said.

The boy shed his coat and boots, tugging off his gloves with his teeth, and surveyed the kitchen counter, playing host to a variety of bottles, with hands on his hips.

He was growing, James noted absently, beginning to look more like an adolescent than a child. And Boothroyd must be giving him some sort of clothing allowance because Q had begun dressing himself in hipster checked trousers and collared shirts with skinny ties. Waistcoats. Wool sweaters. Tiny, wing-tipped shoes. Bond couldn’t decide if it was ridiculous or adorable, though most of MI6 seemed to lean toward the latter.

Q pursed his lips, rolling up the sleeves of his grey cardigan, and picked the bottle of Scotch up off the counter, promptly upturning the contents in the kitchen sink.

“The hell are you doing?” James choked.

“I told you. Making sure you don’t kill yourself.”

“Fucking—That scotch was 50 quid.”

“Really,” Q emptied a second bottle. “How much was this whisky?”

James threw his tumbler at the wall. Not at Q, not anywhere near Q, but the boy dropped to the floor like he’d been shot and that cooled James anger faster than any words could.

“Fuck,” he said, “fuck I’m sorry, I didn’t—It’s okay, Q. I would never hurt you, I—“

Q uncurled, leaning back against the cabinet, spots of colour high on his cheekbones and James moved to crouch in front of him. He lost his balance, though, somewhere between being upright and resting on his heels, and fell awkwardly to one side. Q snorted out something close to a laugh as James tried to position himself in a somewhat more standard seated position.

“I’m sorry,” James said again, dragging a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have thrown that.”

“You’re drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse. I scared you.”

“Instinct.” Q said easily. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Instinct is innate. That was learned behavior. And I won’t contribute to reinforcing it. You are always safe with me, Q. Please know that.”

“I do.”

James’ head was already starting to throb.

“Does Boothroyd know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“It’s 2 am on a Thursday and Boothroyd thought it was appropriate to allow a thirteen year old—“

“Fourteen, now,” Q interjected.

“—fourteen year old kid to go visit a field agent with a drinking problem and the words “sociopathic tendencies” in his psych file, after said man returned from a botched intelligence mission where he killed sixteen people, five of them civilians.”

The words started sarcastic but ended with a crack Bond refused to be embarrassed by.

“He thinks I’m a good influence on you,” Q answered. “Also he made me bring a panic button, just in case.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Where is it?”

Q nodded to the coat rack by the door. “Jacket pocket.”

“The point of a panic button is to keep it on your person,” James sighed.

“I told you,” Q said quietly. “I’m not afraid of you.”

They sat in silence on the kitchen floor, staring at each other in the semi-darkness for several minutes, neither particularly inclined to speak.

“How did you know?” James asked finally.

“How did I know what?”

“That I’d—“ he gestured to the empty bottles, the ruined remains of his glass spread across the floor.

“It was my birthday over the weekend.”

“And?”

“Boothroyd let me be a tech for 48 hours as a present. I was the one who organized your extractions.”

“You were listening?”

“Yes.”

“The whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Q said sharply.

“I know.”

“So why are you blaming yourself?”

James shrugged.

Q huffed, standing, then reached a hand toward James. He knew the boy couldn’t actually help him up, but the gesture was nice all the same.

“Go take a shower,” Q said. “I’m going to clean up this mess and order some food. And you need to either patch yourself up or promise to go to Medical first thing in the morning. I haven’t received training yet and I’d probably do more harm than good.”

“Training?”

“All MI6 employees are required to take an eight week course on emergency medical practices every three years.”

“Even the tech geeks?”

“Even the tech geeks. I registered to take one next summer but perhaps I should begin sooner. I have a feeling this is going to become a habit of yours.”

Q smirked. James swayed.

“Anyway,” Q said, “go shower. Let me know if you need assistance.”

James stood there, unmoving, watching as Q flipped the lights on and opened the pantry to find the broom, carefully stepping over the wake of shattered glass on the tile.

“007,” Q said sharply, and the tone mimicked that of a tech on mission so closely that James automatically took a step forward, knowing he was supposed to be doing something but too muddled by pain and alcohol and fatigue to know what.

“Shower,” Q reminded him, gentler, but still firm. 

James obeyed.

Chapter Text

Now

Q has been awake for nearing 42 hours, studiously ignoring the box on the corner of his desk, when Alec slips into his office.

“Evening,” he murmurs. “Or shall I say ‘morning’?”

Q pushes at his glasses and tries to straighten somewhat out of the hunch he’s in. His chiropractor would be furious.

“Did James send you?” He asks tiredly.

Alec slides a mug of fresh tea onto the desk. “No, R did. She’s worried you’re going to nod off while coding and sleep-hack the CIA or something.”

Q rolls his eyes.

Alec sits on the couch against the back wall. James had moved it there months ago so Q could catch the occasional nap on the nights that turned into second days and while James had ended up spending more time on it than Q, it was still a nice gesture. And people talked about it. The fact that James personally had stolen a couch from the upstairs lounge and made one of the tech minions help him carry it to Q’s office. James didn’t do nice gestures. Except, apparently, for Q. Thus the talking.

Q realizes he’s been staring at the same line of code, biting his lip, for the better part of three minutes while Alec patiently watches him from the damned couch. He pushes away from his desk, letting the chair swivel.

“What’s wrong with James?” He asks, resigned.

“Whatever do you mean, Q darling?”

“Alec, I’m serious.” Q gestures to the computer vaguely, “His medical file checks out. I mean, he should be doing PT for his leg and isn’t, but something like that has never prevented him from recovering annoyingly quickly before. He’s being sent to Egypt next week and there’s clearly something wrong with him. He only just barely requalified for field work and his marksmanship is nowhere as good as it was two months ago. Something has happened.”

“Well, perhaps you’d know if you hadn’t been throwing a fit and avoiding his every attempt at apology.”

“I’m not throwing a fit, I’m trying to teach him a lesson before he gets himself killed.” Q’s voice breaks. “I can’t do that again, Alec. I can’t.”

Alec sighs, gentling his tone. “I know. I believe the lesson has been learned, though, if you’d like my opinion.”

“Are you still living at his flat?”

Alec grins. “No. I was only there a few days when he was first released. You know James and I don’t share hot water well.”

Q snorts. Then sobers. “So something has happened then?”

Alec shakes his head.  “Just go see him. You two are ridiculous.”

Q turns to retrieve the fresh cup of tea, making a face.

“What was in the box?” Alec asks.

He frowns over the rim of his mug. “What?”

“The box,” Alec repeats, nodding to the box on the corner of his desk. “I’ve been helping James with his apologies and I knew about all the other gifts, smuggled some of them here myself. But he wouldn’t tell me what was in that box. He brought it personally yesterday.”

“It’s a key,” Q says.

“A key.” Alec raises an eyebrow. “To?”

 “His flat.” Q mumbles.

“James gave you a key to his flat.”  Alec says. “A key. To his flat.”

Q’s voice is small. “Yes. And added my fingerprints to his digital lock’s admit list.”

Alec briefly devolves into Russian, which most probably means he’s swearing, before switching back to English. “Fuck, Q. And you didn’t go see him? Even after that?”

“It’s not—it’s not a big deal,” he says, even though he knows it is.

“Jesus. No wonder he drank himself silly last night.”

Q winces. “I didn’t—I had to stay and—“

“You couldn’t decide between going home and going to James’ and decided to just keep working instead so you wouldn’t have to choose,” Alec says.

Q presses his palms into his burning eyes.

“Maybe.”

“Go see him,” Alec says. “Either forgive him, or make it clear you only want a professional relationship with him from here forward, but don’t keep…dragging this out. Whatever it is. I don’t even have a key to his flat and I’m his best friend.”

Q looks up from beneath his snarled fringe. “You don’t?”

“No. And not from lack of trying, believe me.”

“So. Who does have a key, apart from him?”

“No one. Save TSS for emergencies. And you, now. I suppose.”

Q lets out a long breath.

“I’ll drive you,” Alec says, standing.

“Yeah,” Q answers. “Yeah, okay.”

***

Then 

Q made it a habit to show up on James’ doorstep a good portion of the evenings that James was not on mission. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes James was glad he was there because it was excuse enough not to drink. James was spending an incredibly small amount of nights getting drunk at that point, due to Q’s presence. And he was actually beginning to develop something of a sleep schedule. It was very strange. And somewhat disconcerting. Alec found the whole thing hilarious. James reasoned Alec was probably just jealous Q wasn’t showing up at his flat. Everyone at MI6 was relatively enamored with the boy. Even the agents.

On this particular night, Q had arrived at just past eight with Indian, settled himself on his corner of the couch, and pulled James’ laptop onto his thighs.

James had given up on that particular front. It had become abundantly clear that if Q wanted intimate information about James he could easily attain it without his physical laptop. And the device had yet to be confiscated from him, so he assumed Q’s online antics were either innocent or Q covered his tracks well.  James was leaning toward the latter.

Q let James pick the television channel, which was the first sign something was abnormal.

Once he had become comfortable with James, Q was a relatively demanding house guest. If he was there he was in charge of everything from the television channel to the choice of food eaten. He would change the thermostat, the setting on the water heater and, on one memorable occasion, rewired the lighting and installed a dimmer for the living room. He would eat anything put in front of him but would only drink three kinds of tea, all at different steeping lengths and temperatures, and ratios of milk and sugar, and he had no issue with voicing his displeasure if any of his requirements had not been met.

Suspicious, James made Q a cup of tea and didn’t add sugar.

He drank it without complaint.

James became worried.

When they finished watching television Q set aside the laptop and engaged James in a conversation about a new scope being developed by a German engineering team for James’ favorite sniper rifle. He let James eat the last of the chicken masala. He volunteered to wash to dishes. 

After he laced his shoes and shouldered his bag, Q gave James a perfunctory, extremely awkward, hug.

It felt like a goodbye. 

Probably because it was.

“Don’t do it,” James said, as Q reached for the door handle.

“Don’t do what?”

“Whatever you’re planning.”

“I’m not planning anything.”

“I’d think you would know not to lie to me at this point.”

Q took a breath, obviously preparing to do just that, then really got a good look at James’ face and deflated. He set down his bag.

“They treat me like a child,” he said after a moment. “Not Boothroyd, not exactly, he at least somewhat understands what I’m capable of. But the techs, the agents, M. None of them see me. Not really. Not like you do. And I’m just…I’m so bored. I can do so much for MI6 but everyone just looks at me like I’m some sort of adorable mascot who can do neat tricks and it’s hateful.”

He bared his teeth and James tried very hard not to find the boy’s fury adorable.

“Q.”

“I just. I’m brilliant. I mean, I am really, truly brilliant. But they won’t let me be.”

James reached for his hand, clearly telegraphing the movement so Q had the option to deflect it, and tugged him by the wrist back to the couch.

“I’m an orphan,” James started, unsure exactly how to have the sort of conversation he spent a good portion of his life avoiding. “My parents died in a freak skiing accident when I was ten.”

“Oh,” Q said, bitterness coloring his tone. “Is this where you tell me you understand my predicament? That you can empathize?”

“No. Not at all, “ James answered dryly. “Your situation is infinitely worse than mine was.”

Q snorts out something that may be laugh, then looks surprised at himself.

“What are you saying then?”

“I’m saying I understand what it’s like to be young and impatient and furious with the people holding authority in your life. I’m saying I remember being sixteen and M sitting me down and telling me I could have a future but I’d have to follow the rules and I’d have to put up with years of climbing a ladder at a much slower pace than I thought I deserved. I’m saying…I’m asking, you to do the same thing.”

“Be patient?”

“Yes. M isn’t going to hand over MI6’s security to an underage juvenile felon. Give it a few years though. Boothroyd is going to retire within the next decade. Be patient, perform well, and I guarantee they’ll start grooming you to take his place by the time you’re sixteen.”

Q made a disgruntled noise.

“Please.” James said, clearing his throat and feeling entirely off-center. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said the word with genuine intent.

“Please what?”

“Stay.”

Q sighed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You were saying goodbye.”

For a moment it looked as if Q was going to argue but he didn’t, merely leaning further back into the couch, closing his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, I was. “

“Are you still?” James asked.

“No. I’ll stay. At least for now.”

“Good."

He opened one eye, to look at James, a smile lurking at one corner of his mouth. “Will you give me a key?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’m running away again.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

James turned the TV back on and Q promptly stole the remote.

“That tea you made me earlier was horrible, by the way,” he said.

Chapter Text

Now 

Q arrives at James’ flat with shaking hands, swaying on his feet from lack of sleep. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to break in like he normally would because he honestly doesn’t know if he’d be capable of it at the moment.

He inserts the physical key, then presses his thumb to the scanner bar below the knob.

The little light turns green.

The door clicks open.

It’s dark inside, and, at first, Q thinks that perhaps James isn’t home.

Then he realizes there’s quiet music playing in the kitchen and there’s a sliver of light coming from beneath the utility room door.

“Bond?” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “…James?”

He hears the washing machine door slam, the depression of a button, and then the familiar hum of the barrel beginning to turn.

The door opens, the kitchen light flips on, and Q finds the half apologetic, half scolding speech he’d been rehearsing on the tube is suddenly completely absent from his mind.

James leans against the island, wearing trackies and scars and nothing else, expression completely and terribly blank.

“Q,” he says.

“I—“ Q starts. “Err.”

James raises an eyebrow.

“I thought,” Q says. “That we, or, at least, I should talk. About things.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I—yes.”

James takes a few steps forward.

“What things?”

Q wets his lips. “I don’t—I mean I, I haven’t—there’s just things that—” his shaking hands drop the key and he attempts to catch it in an awkward lurch of movement that nearly tumbles him onto the floor.

“Jesus, Q,” James says. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Forty-three hours,” he answers, straightening, then pauses to glance at his watch, “twenty eight minutes.”

James rubs a hand over his face. “The last time you ate?”

“Alec brought me tea an hour ago.”

“Food, Q.”

He shrugs, looking sheepish.

“Q,” James says.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words going high and thin. “I was—and the key was just, and I couldn’t—“

James reaches for him and Q lets him, leaning in as James’ fingers curl around his bicep and tug, pulling him, still trying to stutter out a cohesive sentence, into the bedroom. 

“Go shower,” James says. “I’ll order food. Then you’re going to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“But I—“

“Quentin,” he says.

Q goes quiet with a soft animal noise and starts to loosen his tie.

“Chinese?” he asks, sounding pathetic.

James sighs and moves toward the phone. “Chinese,” he agrees. “Go. Shower. I’ll leave clothes for you on the bed.”

“Okay.”

“Try not to fall asleep while you’re in there.”

“That was one time,” Q retorts, struggling with his shirt buttons.

James finishes dialing the number from memory and presses the phone between his shoulder and ear, batting Q’s hands away.

“You nearly drowned yourself in my bathtub,” he mutters, “It was memorable.”

James orders while helping Q out of his clothes, pushing him into the bathroom wearing only his boxers and glasses.

James doesn’t tell Q to be quick even though he clearly wants to.

Q decides he loves him a little for that.

He tries to be quick in the shower anyway, but his time-keeping skills are incredibly sub-par when he’s been without sleep for so long. Afterward, there’s a pair of old military jogging bottoms and a blue tee shirt waiting on the bed, which he pulls on quickly before exiting to find James, doling takeaway onto a plate, in the kitchen.

“Not too much,” James says absently, handing over the plate. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

Q doesn’t argue, sitting on the couch to eat, watching as James puts the remaining food away in the refrigerator. He washes the few dishes in the sink, changes the music from jazz to classical, switches the laundry from washing machine to tumble dryer, and then turns out the kitchen light. He pauses beside the couch, studying Q studying him, and sighs. 

“I’m going to sleep. You know where the extra blankets are.”

James slips past into his bedroom before Q can swallow his current mouthful and respond.

Ten minutes later, Q rinses his plate in the sink, drinks a glass of water, and then opens the hall closet, considering first the stack of blankets on its second highest shelf, and then the couch. After a moment he closes the door without taking anything out. He stares at the couch for another minute, arms crossed, and then walks purposely into James' room.

At the first flex of the mattress under Q’s hands, James sits up.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you think crawling into bed with a man twice your age is acceptable behavior.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re only eight years older than me. And barely that.”

“Q.”

“You’ve let me before.”

James swallows. “You’re not—you’re getting too old for this to be anywhere near appropriate.”

“So you admit I am an adult, now?”

“No, I just—“

Q sits back on his heels, bare toes curling into the duvet, and the worn collar of the borrowed tee shirt slips down over one of his pale shoulders.  

“Does the thought of my becoming a sexual being bother you, James?” he asks.

“Quentin.”

“Yes?”

James’ hands fist in the ridiculously high thread count sheets. “I can’t—“

Q removes his glasses, setting them on the nightstand like it’s a habit. “I won’t do anything untoward. We’re just friends. Sharing space.”

“I don’t let Alec sleep in my bed, Q. I don’t let anyone sleep in my bed.”

“Except me.” Q flops down belly-first, before rolling onto his back, eyes turned up to meet James’ in the semi darkness. His damp curls form a halo around his face.

“Jesus,” James mutters.

“Please,” Q says, eyes wide with false innocence. “Let me stay.”

James shoves a pillow at him. “Yes, fine. Just stop…whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“Okay.”

“And Q?”

“Yes?”

“If I have a nightmare…”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

They both settle on their respective sides of the bed, back to back, not touching, but close enough to feel the frisson of warmth between their spines.

“Goodnight,” Q says.

“Goodnight.” James answers.

***

Then 

Three weeks after he thwarted Q’s escape attempt, James had just returned from a mission in Moscow and was trying to decide whether he should give in and sleep or force himself to stay up in order to reset his sleep schedule, when someone banged a fist against his door. He wasn’t in the habit of receiving visitors; when he did, Alec always called ahead and Q broke in. No one knocked.

He retrieved his gun from the hall table and slid soundlessly to the peep-hole.

A familiar curly haired head was bowed against the door, one hand—pink with cold—upraised, about to strike again.

James opened the door.

“Q?” He said, baffled, as the boy nearly fell inside.

“Sorry,” Q muttered, sitting abruptly in the entryway to untie his shoes. “I just. I couldn’t—with the lock and. I’m not—“

“Q.” James said, crouching in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer until both his shoes were off and lined up neatly with James’ boots against the wall.

“I found my brother,” Q said. 

James didn’t know what to do with the expression on the boy’s face.

“Brother?” he repeated carefully, letting his non-gun-holding hand rest on Q’s knee. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Neither did I.”

“Oh.”

“He’s—he’s in politics. According to personnel files he’s a minor government official but nearly all his additional information has been redacted and when I tried to do a bit of fishing myself I couldn’t find anything except a few hospital stays and newspaper mentions of school awards from his childhood. It’s like he turned 18 and dropped off the face of the planet.”

“He’s important, then.”

“Very,” Q agreed. 

“Probably a genius as well?”

“I’m assuming.”

“I wouldn’t expect any different, from a brother of yours,” James muttered.

“Half-brother,” Q said absently. “We share the same father.”

“How did you find him?”

Q uncurled slightly from the ball he’d been in on the floor and let James help him to his feet.

“I’ve been working on deleting my online presence,” Q said, following James automatically when he moved into the kitchen to put away the gun and turn on the kettle.

“I made a bit of code that will run occasional database scans and then compile a list of places in which my name appears, allowing me to then investigate the occurrences and deal with them as needed.”

James makes a noise of affirmation.

“At least, that’s what it’s supposed to do. When I ran it for the first time yesterday it returned with all instances of people named “Siger Holmes” instead of “Quintin Siger Holmes.”

James raised one eyebrow, clearly confused, and Q pulled himself up to sit, cross-legged, on the counter. “Siger is my middle name. It was also the first name of my father, and the middle name of my brother.”

“Ah.”

“Mycroft Siger Holmes. Mysterious government official. Brother.”

He said the word, “brother” as if considering the way it tasted.

“Your father,” James started, and then wasn’t sure how to continue. “That is, did he—“

“Know of my existence?” Q intercedes. “I don’t think so. My mother was his mistress. Young. Stupid. Far below his class. When she realized she was pregnant he gave her money for an abortion and they never spoke to each other again.”

James felt his hands curl unconsciously into fists. “Is he—“

“Still alive? No. Died in a car crash, of all things. I found that article as well, though—“ he paused, pursing his lips. “It said he had two sons, in the story, Mycroft and Sherlock. But according to every search I’ve run ‘Sherlock Holmes’ does not exist.”

“Do you think he could also be working for the government? Perhaps MI5 or even MI6? Few of us keep our original names. Or have paper trails,” James said, retrieving two cups from the cabinet.

“I’ve considered it,” Q admitted. “But he would be too young for that, I think. Still a teenager.”

“You’re a teenager,” James pointed out wryly, and Q laughed in a soft exhausted sort of way that made James want to hug him. He didn’t, obviously.

The kettle clicked and James turned to see to the tea-making as Q continued.

“Mycroft is a member at a club called the Diogenes. I could find him, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” James asked.

“Yes,” Q said, and the word was small.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

It was silent and James turned to regard the boy on his counter with a frown. Q was looking at him with a wide-eyed sort of confusion that seemed out of place on his usually placid face.

“Would you?” He asked.

“Of course.”

“I—yes, then. Please.”

“Alright.”

James realized that Q’s fingers, despite being knotted together, were still chapped pink from cold and shaking.

“Why don’t you go take a hot shower,” he said. Because their interactions tended to follow a pattern and he didn’t know how else to help. “I’ll finish with this and order us something to eat. Italian?”

“Yes. Okay,” Q said, still looking relatively lost. 

“Are you staying the night?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll text Boothroyd.”

Q stumbled a bit where the kitchen tile transitioned to wood, but moved with quiet ease into James’ bedroom. He heard his closet slide open and the sound of a shirt being taken from a hanger and drawers being rummaged through, before the bathroom door opened, closed, locked, and the shower started. It was a familiar string of sounds, at this point.

Q’s shower was relatively quick, for him. And dinner was a quiet affair. James wanted to ask about Q’s mother, but he resisted, as he had every time the compulsion to enquire about Q’s past occurred. James had always despised people asking about his personal history and he wouldn’t inflict the same annoyance on Q. Regardless of his curiosity.

“James,” Q said eventually, knees tucked to his chest again, face pale and blue and strangely ethereal in the television light.

“Hmm?”

He swallowed but didn’t say anything.

“Q?”

“I just. I was wondering if I could stay with you tonight.”

“Yeah. I already let Boothroyd know.”

“No, I mean—never mind.”

Q turned off the TV with a decisive movement and stood, padding in borrowed too-big socks to the cupboard with spare linens.

“Q,” James said, turning on the lamp. 

“Don’t worry about it. Can you move? I need to make up the couch.”

James stood, but interceded once Q dropped a pile of blankets onto the coffee table. 

“I thought we were past evasiveness,” James said, reaching for the Q’s shoulders. The action was slow, telegraphed, so Q had the option of moving out of range. He didn’t.

“I don’t particularly want to be alone, tonight. Can I—would you mind if I slept in the chair in your room?”

James glanced toward the bedroom door. The chair in the corner next to the armoire was more often used for staging clothing or stacking titanium weapon cases than actual sitting. He didn’t think it would be particularly comfortable for slumber.

“The chair?” He repeated. “Really?”

Q ducked his head, ears pinking. 

James sighed. “I have nightmares.”

Q looked up, purely to frown at him, and then used the first two knuckles of his right hand to push at his falling glasses.

“I…okay?”

“So don’t let me hurt you, if I do.”

“I’m not sure how you’re going to hurt me if I’m in the chair.”

James raised one eyebrow. “You don’t want to sleep in the chair.”

The embarrassed flush spread down Q’s neck. “No.”

James squeezed Q’s bony shoulders once before letting go, retreating to the kitchen to deposit their dishes in the sink where he paused, uncertain how to proceed. He had never shared his bed before; not with a lover, and certainly not with a skittish, most probably abused, kid-genius. He understood the ache, though. He could remember being young and similarly lost, the terrible desperation for some sort of human presence and warmth when the loneliness at night became unbearable. 

“It’s a big bed,” James said finally. “Keep to your side and we should be fine.”

There was a pregnant pause before Q answered.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Now 

James wakes syrup-slow to light on his face and the even breathing of someone sleeping beside him.

The sun is tipping full through window blinds left half-open the night before, and he can see with abnormal detail the fine hairs on Q’s upper arms. He finds this fascinating in a way that would probably be embarrassing if it wasn’t for the fact that he is sleep muddled and warm and strangely, almost euphorically happy.  He watches as slow-moving dust motes circle the boy’s still form, watches with a possessive thrill Q’s chest moving beneath James’ tee shirt, and thinks, with sudden clarity, that he is well and truly fucked.

He goes to make coffee (tea for Q) because staying in bed is no longer an option.

When he returns, two mugs in hand, Q has managed to locate and put on his glasses, but is still sprawled out, rumpled and ethereal in a tangle of sheets, muttering about window coverings.

James sets Q’s mug on the bedside table because Q probably can’t be trusted to keep it upright yet and also because James doesn’t entirely trust himself to touch Q right now, regardless of the perceived innocence of the action.

“Oh god, I love you,” Q mutters, wiggling toward the tea, and James nearly trips over the rug that has been in the center of the bedroom since he moved into the flat. He decides a shower is in order. 

When he returns from the shower, damp, cold, awake and feeling distinctly unsettled, Q is sitting up. He still doesn’t look entirely aware of his surroundings, but James isn’t worried for the safety of his sheets anymore as Q cradles the mug of tea in his hands.

“Mph,” he says, as James moves toward the wardrobe.

“And good morning to you too.”

“I slept for eleven hours,” Q mutters, voice creaky from disuse. “I can’t remember the last time I slept eleven hours straight.”

“The first time,” James says, before he has the sense not to.

“What?”

“The first time you slept in my bed, after you’d found Mycroft. You slept for nearly twelve that time. By ten I’d begun to fear you’d slipped into a coma.”

“Ah,” Q says.

James turns his back to Q as puts on a fresh pair of jeans. Usually he wouldn’t bother with a shirt, but he does today; a threadbare cotton thing that survived Afghanistan with him. 

“Perhaps you should trade in that pillow-topped monstrosity you usually sleep on,” James says, nodding toward the mattress. “The firmer the better. Doctors agree.”

“I think it’s more related to the company than the bed,” Q says, completely without artifice.

James clears his throat and towels off his hair.

“Sorry,” Q mutters. “I just trust you, is all. I feel safe here.”

“You don’t feel safe at home?”

James had helped him move, nearly seven months before, and he had spent no small amount of time ensuring the property was secure.

“No, I do. But when I’m alone I sleep lighter. Just in case. Small noises wake me. Here—“ he gestures somewhat helplessly for a moment. “Here I know you’d wake up first anyway. You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

James lobs his towel in the general direction of the bathroom, then goes to pick it up and hang it properly when Q glares.

“That’s true,” he agrees. 

“That you sleep lightly or that you’re overly protective?”

James smirks, “both.”

Q yawns into his mug before swinging his legs off the bed and standing, one hand clutching the tea to his chest, one fisted and stretched up toward the ceiling.

“I suppose we should talk,” he says, sounding not at all excited about the idea.

“Mmm,” James agrees. “Probably.”

“I apologise for my recent behavior,” Q says, somewhat stilted. “I just—I can’t do that again, James. I can’t. And I don’t know how to make you listen to me. I mean, that’s what I’m there for—what the entirety of the branch is for—and you’re just, you’re not only terrible at following instructions but you’re horrifically cavalier with your own life and it’s—it needs to stop.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. I’m—” He sighs. “I’m not in the habit of having friends. The exception being Alec, but we have similar views on life and death and service to our country.”

Q scoffs and James gives him a wry smile.

“I understand you don’t share those views. I also understand that it is incredibly selfish of me to disrespect your abilities by disregarding your intel.”

“It’s not just that,” Q says softly.

“It has also occurred to me that I’d rather you not have to hear me die.”

Q swallows.

James continues.

“Alec impressed upon me the fact that my actions have been selfish and unfeeling and I truly am sorry for that. I never intended to cause you distress.”

“I know.”

“I can’t promise I’ll never go off mission again but—I’ll listen. From now on.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

They stand, awkwardly considering each other, and Q rubs the heel of one hand beneath his glasses.

“Breakfast?” James asks, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Oh god, please,” Q answers.

***

Then 

They went to see Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenis Club on a Thursday afternoon.

Q seemed certain the man would be there, unarmed, and not expecting visitors, and James didn’t question him as to how he obtained that information.

James did bring his gun, though.

Just in case.

James was wearing a suit, as he had been instructed, while Q opted for tweed slacks, a white button down—rolled to the elbows—and a matching tweed waistcoat. The tiny pair of brown wingtips were also in attendance. When they stopped at the door of the club and the boy visibly gathered himself, looking stoic and somber and entirely adorable, James had to bite his lip against a grin. 

“Don’t speak,” Q said, reaching for the handle. “And act like you’re meant to be there.”

Most people probably would have scoffed at that instruction, but considering that James had made “act like you’re meant to be there” into something of an art form, for the sake of both his career and his life, on multiple occasions, he took the advice to heart.

The door opened without protest and they passed through an empty front hallway and into a large sitting room. There were three people in attendance, reading papers, drinking, one smoking a cigar. They were all quite old and none of them looked like Q. They were also completely silent, and ignored Bond and Q as they traversed the room and passed through the opposite door.  Q let out his breath slightly, and took a right down a wood-panned hallway.

They were intercepted shortly by a man who looked, James thought, like every butler in every black and white movie he’d ever seen.

“May I help you?” The man asked, eyeing James in a way that was either suspicious or appreciative.

“I’m here to see my brother, Mycroft Holmes.” Q said, not a quaver in his voice. “He’s not expecting me, but it’s urgent family business.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” the man said smoothly, and ushered them forward.

A moment later he stopped in front of two double-doors, knocked precipitously and then opened them. “Your brother and his associate, sir,” he said to whoever was within, then stepped backward to allow them inside. Another moment and the doors were closed behind them.

Mycroft Holmes looked very little like Q. He was tall, the awkward sort of thin that spoke of recent weight loss, despite excellent tailoring to his suit, and, most strikingly, he had severely coiffed red hair.

“Sherlock,” the man said sharply, not having looked up from the papers in his hands, “I’ve told you not to—“

Q raised his eyebrows as Mycroft glanced up and cut himself off in surprise. The man’s eyes were strangely similar to Q’s. Not in color, but in the odd mercurial quality to them: like they knew far too much and were uncertain which side they were taking in the battle of good and evil.

Mycroft stood, resting his fingertips on the mahogany desk, and leaned forward slightly. James may as well have been invisible for all the attention he was paid. The man’s entire attention was focused solely and somewhat frighteningly on Q.

“It would appear you have me at a disadvantage,” Mycroft said, mouth uncomfortable around the last word.

Q smiled slightly. “Not something you say often, I presume.”

“No,” he agreed.

Q extended his hand. “Quentin Siger Holmes.”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft said, accepting the handshake. “Though I imagine you already know that.”

“Yes.”

“Who was your mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Q tucked his hands into the pockets of his ridiculous trousers. “Do you not believe my claim to the Holmes name?”

Mycroft let out something that was very nearly a laugh. “Believe me, that is not in doubt. Your resemblance to my younger brother is…uncanny.”

“Sherlock?” 

Mycroft stilled. “How do you know that name?”

“Firstly, you said it just a moment ago. Secondly there was a newspaper story. About the car accident.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “There’s always something. I shall have to remedy that.”

He gestured to the two chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

“Please, sit. And, if it wouldn’t trouble you, your mother?”

“Ellen Mason. She died six year ago.”

Mycroft considered this. “I take it you’re fourteen, then?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

His eyes traveled to James for the first time, and narrowed.

“If you have, for all intents and purposes, been an orphan for the last six years, who has been looking after you?”

James could tell Q was somewhat rankled by the phrasing.

“I was in a children's home for several years. Then the Young Offenders Institute. Currently I’m in the care of the quartermaster at MI6.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Naturally.”

Q looked smug. Mycroft resigned.

“And you?” Mycroft said, gesturing toward James. “Are you his pet bodyguard?”

“He’s more of my pet genius,” James said, “but today I suppose the description is apt.”

James extended his hand, “Bond, James Bond. “

“For god’s sake,” Q muttered, “stop introducing yourself like that.”

Mycroft took his hand. “Mr. Bond.  I assume you’re an agent?”

“007.”

“Ah. You’ve a license to kill, then. Lovely.”

“Convenient, anyway.” He said easily.

“James,” Q said.

Mycroft looked somewhat lost. “Quentin, are you—were you aware of who your father was previously? Of who I was?”

“No. My mother warned me not to go looking into my father’s family. I was always good with computers, even when I was very small. She was afraid—well I’m not sure what she was afraid of, but I only discovered your existence three days ago. And I only made this visit because our father is dead.”

Mycroft nodded.  “I understand.  Are you…looking to change your living situation?”

“I—what?” Q looked genuinely baffled.

“You are a Holmes,” Mycroft said, “and one who has been neglected, at that. Had I known of your situation sooner you never would have been subjected to living as you have. And now…” he cleared his throat. “I don’t particularly get on with children but I would find no objections to taking over your care, if that is what you desire.”

“That’s—I don’t—”

James placed a steading hand on Q’s knee, which had begun to bounce.

“That’s not why I came,” he managed, sounding a bit strangled, “and while it’s very kind of you, I’m quite happy where I am currently. I’ll be attempting emancipation next year, actually. I just—I wanted to meet you. And perhaps Sherlock. It— I would like to have family.”

Mycroft’s expression became suddenly, intensely, sad.

“I should like to facilitate that, then. However, meeting Sherlock is not possible right now. He is in a…bad place.”

“Is he in trouble?” Q asked, “Because I could—“

“Not the way you mean,” Mycroft said. “There are few things I cannot fix, my position being what it is, but this one of them.”

“Your position?” Q asked innocently.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Lying to you would be pointless, I think. So I shall say nothing at all on that matter.”

The mobile on the desk buzzed and he picked it up, eyes moving across the screen for a moment before standing. 

“I’m afraid something rather urgent has come up,” he said. “But I would very much like to continue this conversation. Perhaps over dinner on Friday?”

“That would—yes, please.” Q agreed, tripping over himself to stand as well.

“Please give your details to Andre on your way out and I’ll send you the time and place. I assume you’ve no objections to dining at my home?”

“No, that would be lovely,” Q said.

“I’m coming too,” James interjected. “If you don’t mind.”

Despite the second part of the statement he made sure it didn’t sound conditional.

Mycroft looked more amused than insulted, however. “Of course. I look forward to seeing you both then.”

Chapter Text

Now 

James goes off mission again two weeks later.

This time, though, he has Q’s support.

They are both reprimanded when all is said and done, but considering the mission was a success without need of extraction or medical assistance, (two things James more often than not required) there wasn’t much M or Boothroyd could really say on the matter.

They were both told to take the weekend off and think on their actions.

And then, after Bond had been dismissed, they told Q they were to begin grooming him to take over for Boothroyd upon his retirement in four years.

“We were already intending to have this conversation,” M says sourly. “Don’t think we’re rewarding you for bad behavior.”

“Of course not,” Q agrees solemnly.

Alec takes Q to lunch to celebrate and he spends the evening rearranging his bookshelves before putting on his nicest pair of trousers, best tailored shirt, and wing-tips. He calls for takeaway to be delivered to James’ address and arrives himself at the door minutes before it is delivered.

James already has tea made for him and wordlessly hands over the remote.

“I hear you’re going to be my new quartermaster,” he says.

“Was I not already?” Q asks.

James grins and goes to make himself a drink.

After dinner, when they’re flipping mindlessly through the channels, as if expecting programs to have changed from the last time they’d scrolled through a few minutes before, Q abruptly turns off the television.

“Problem?” James asks, as Q tucks himself against the arm of the couch so they’re facing each other.

“No problem,” he says, “just a question.”

“Ask.”

“Do you enjoy having sex with men?”

James coughs on his mouthful of scotch, blinking moisture out of his eyes as the liquid burns down the wrong way in his throat.

“Sorry?”

“I know you do both,” Q says, “on missions, I mean. Men and women. But I was just curious if you had a…personal preference.”

James takes another swallow.

“Yes.”

“Yes you have a preference?”

“Yes I enjoy having sex with men.”

“Oh. Do you have a type?”

James raises an eyebrow. “Not particularly.”

It’s only a small lie.

Q considers this for a moment, rubbing a knuckle along his bottom lip. “Tobias Anderson or Wilker Von Moss?” 

Tobias Anderson was a small, whippet-thin, business man with mole-spotted olive skin and a head full of carefully gelled dark curls. He’d been a mark six weeks before in Belize. Wilker Von Moss was an arms dealer with military-short greying hair, a solid six inches in height on James, and the kind of muscles usually only seen in fitness magazines. He’d been a mark in Germany the previous year. James had slept with both of them. 

“Well?” Q prompted.

James closed his eyes.

“Anderson,” he answered, even though he knew it was a terrible idea.

“Why?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“I’m gay,” Q says, apropos of nothing.

“Pardon?”

“Me. I’m gay. In case it isn’t obvious.”

“It is.”

“Really?”

 “You’ve never once looked at anything but Eve’s face, but you get distracted when Alec wears his grey Armani suit trousers.”

Q grins. “His tailor is magnificent.”

James laughs. “Alec and I have the same tailor.”

“I know.”

James’ considers Q’s smirk and hastily drops his eyes.

“Why do you want to know—about my preferences? Do you need wooing advice?”

“Not exactly. I was just curious if you’d be interested in taking my virginity.”

Luckily James is not in the process of taking another drink or he would undoubtedly be choking again.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he says.

Q’s hands turn into fists on his knees. “I’m nearly seventeen and I’ve never been touched in a consensual romantic fashion. There’s nothing much funny about that, at least not in my mind.”

“So you thought it’d be a good idea to ask me to fuck you?”

Q winces.

“I may be a genius, but I’m not inhuman. I’m touch-starved and sexually frustrated and I thought you may enjoy helping with the situation.”

“No. That’s—no. You’re 16.”

“And entirely legal.”

“That doesn’t make it right!”

“James,” he says slowly as if talking to an exceptionally dim animal. “I want it to be you.”

“No, you don’t. You just think you do. You need to spend more time with people your age. Date someone your age. It’s not healthy to—“

“Are you serious?”

“I just—“

“Do you know me at all?”

“Q.”

“Spend more time with people my age.  As if I have anything in common with people my age. Where am I going to meet people my age? Better yet, what would we talk about?” 

He pushes himself to his feet, pacing to the window. “Oh wait, I know. I’ll go find some of my old friends from the Young Offenders Institute. I’m sure they’d love to spend time with me again. Might get knocked around a bit, but hell, at least I’d be spending time with people my age, right?”

James stands too because he feels like he is quickly losing control of the situation. 

“Quentin.”

“I don’t belong with people my age, and you know it. I don’t particularly belong anywhere, really, considering my circumstances, but I was starting to think perhaps I could belong with you. Apparently I was wrong.”

“Q.”

He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, bending to lace up his shoes. There’s an embarrassed, angry flush descending from his jaw to collar bone that James is trying very hard not to find endearing.

“Q, where are you going?”

“El Dorado.”

“The gay club?”

“No, I thought I’d hop on a plane to South America in search of an ancient mythical city.”

“Q, that’s an 18 and up club.”

“Is it? Damn. All my plans are ruined.”

James groans. “I’m aware you have fake IDs. I’m even aware you make them for other people as a bit of side money and, so far, I haven’t told anyone because it’s all been rather harmless. But going to a nightclub with a fake ID? That’s not you, Q that’s—“

“Childish?” he intercedes, double-knotting his shoe with entirely unneeded violence. “Something kids my age might do? Fantastic, you ought to be pleased.”

He stands, reaching for the door, and James catches his arm without thinking about it.

Q flinches away from him like the last four years never happened.

“Do not touch me,” he says lowly.

“I don’t—“ there’s a strange tightening sensation in James’ chest that he doesn’t particularly want to identify. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do the right thing, here, and you—“

“I’m leaving,” Q says, wrenching open the door. “See you at work, 007.”

The door slams.

James punches the wall.

The mirror hung in the entryway falls off its hook either from the force of the door closing or James’ frustration or both and a moment later James is breathing hard in the silence with bleeding knuckles and a cascade of broken glass across the floor. It takes five minutes to clean up the mess and then he stands, arms crossed, glaring at the blank space on the wall. He debates getting heavily intoxicated and going to sleep early for exactly two seconds before cursing lowly, grabbing his coat, and slipping out the door. He has his phone dialed before he’s reached the ground floor.

“Hey, Alec. I need your help. You’re at HQ, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alec says, sounding exhausted. “I was just leaving. Problem?”

 “I need you to look up the tracker on Q.”

Alec makes a noise that may or may not be judgmental. “Which one?”

“Brown shoes. Camel stitching. You know, the ones I got him? He may be going home to change first though so pull up all of them, just to be safe.”

“James,” Alec says, definitely judgmental this time.

“I’m relatively certain he’s going to do something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“Picking up a stranger to fuck him since I won’t—stupid.”

Alec whistles.

“It’s loading. Any idea where he’s going?”

“He said El Dorado, but I’m assuming that was misdirection.”

“Okay, it’s up. He’s on the tube, heading east.”

James abruptly changes the direction he’d been walking.

“He’s not going home first then.”

“No,” Alec agrees. “And if he’s going to endanger his favorite pair of shoes in a club like that he must be exceedingly angry with you.”

“Exceedingly stupid,” James agrees. “Text me what stop he gets off at?”

“You got it.”

He hangs up, pockets the phone, and breaks into a rough jog.

*** 

Then 

As a 00 agent there were very few circumstances that James was not prepared to encounter. However, accompanying a teenage genius to have dinner with his newly discovered brother who may or may not run the British government was not something James’ training had prepared him for.

The house was not entirely as he had expected, though similar enough not to cause undue alarm. It was large and old and drafty and had a lot of very uncomfortable looking furniture. The grand piano on the first floor clearly caught Q’s attention, but they were being ushered inside and past it by a stiff, but clearly nervous Mycroft Holmes. James imagined there was little cause for a man like Mycroft to be nervous in his life and decided perhaps the man genuinely was interested in Q’s wellbeing.

“Dinner will be ready shortly,” he said, gesturing for them to sit at a long wooden table. “I’m afraid I got started a bit late.”

“You’re making dinner?” Q asked, looking taken aback. “Don’t you have a…a cook or something?”

“Ah.” Mycroft cleared his throat, tugging on the cufflink at one wrist. “Yes, I do. But I prefer to cook for myself on most weekends. It’s something of a hobby.”

“Oh. That’s—nice.”

“Well.”

James helped himself to the minibar along the far wall. 

“Would you mind if we waited at the piano?” James asked.

Q tripped over the ornamental rug.

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said, frowning at his younger brother. “Do you play?”

“A bit,” James answered. “And Q does as well.”

“I don’t—“ Q’s hand fisted in the tail of James’ shirt. “What are you talking about?”

“My job is to pay attention to things, Q. But even if it wasn’t I would have noticed the way you were salivating over the piano when we walked in.”

“Well, yes. But I haven’t played in ages.”

James raised an eyebrow. 

Q sighed. “My mother taught me, when I was little. And I had access to a piano at the children's home, but the others didn’t like for me to practice. Said I was showing off. So I stopped.”

Mycroft made a slightly bereft noise from the kitchen doorway. “I’m going to give you a key,” he said firmly. “And you are going to come practice as often as you’d like. Just let me know which days are best so I can inform the housekeeper.”

“That’s really not necessary—“ Q started.

“Quentin,” Mycroft said, tone allowing no argument. 

“Er, right. Thanks.”

“Good.”

Mycroft muttered something under his breath and returned to the kitchen.

James grinned at a rather bemused Q.

“So he’s allowed to call you ‘Quentin’ then?”

“He’s family,” Q said. 

James made a face.

“Though I suppose if you’d like you can call me ‘Quentin’ on occasion. Just not at work.”

James’ grin widened. “Lovely. Shall we make our way to the piano, Quentin?”

Q sighed but allowed himself to be led back down the hall, fingers curling in anticipation. 

Chapter Text

Now 

When James arrives at El Dorado there’s a line out the door.

He doesn’t feel like dealing with that particular amount of visibility and heads a street over to access it from the back. 

He’s skirting a skip when the kitten runs into him.

Literally. It just—runs into him.

A kitten.

One moment he’s avoiding a suspicious looking puddle and the next there’s a little bundle of grey fur crashing into his shins.

It falls over in an ungainly flop, then glares up at him as if he was the one who had caused the collision.

James is somewhat at a loss.

Its tiny. Far too little to survive on it’s own, and there’s certainly no chance it will make a week in its current surroundings, and its looking at him.

But he has more important things to worry about than—

The kitten opens a wide pink mouth and makes a noise that might be considered a meow. It might also be considered the most pathetic sound James has ever heard.

James presses the heel of his palm between his eyes as the kitten makes a miniscule hiss and attacks his left foot.

Because he can’t just leave it here.

The stupid animal reminds him of Q the first night the boy arrived on James’ doorstep: A bedraggled skinny mess, so small it hurt but still willing to take on the world.

He scoops the cat up in one palm and tucks the little creature, still hissing, into the collar of his jacket. After a short moment of tiny claw pin-pricks against his chest, a soft buzz of purring starts in the vicinity of his right ribcage. He sighs and continues to the back of the club. With a kitten. Apparently.

The metal door accessing the employee’s entrance is propped open and two men, one of whom he recognizes, are smoking on the curb.

He nods to Eldric, a bouncer he’s befriended on the occasions in which he’s visited the club himself, and takes a moment to study the other man. He’s a boy, really, long and lean and barely-legal looking—bartender then—with a ring through his nose, and the sort of mouth that probably gets him a lot of tips.

He moves to enter the open door and the kid jumps up.

“Hey! You can’t just—“

“I think you’ll find that I can. Eldric?”

The bouncer smiles and stands, the white perfect line of his teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin.

“James! It’s been ages.”

The kitten, feeling left out, takes this opportunity to stick its head out of James’ collar.

Eldric raises an eyebrow. “Is that a cat?”

“Don’t ask.”

The man grins wider. “I take it you’re not here for pleasure, then?” he says, considering both cat and James’ annoyed stance.

“No.” James uses one finger to push the kitten’s head out of sight, then fishes his phone out his jean’s pocket. He finds a picture of Q he’d taken a few weeks before when James and Alec had kidnapped the boy from work on a rare sunny day and forced him to spend the afternoon outside. In the picture, Q is wearing wayfarers and a wide smile. His button-down’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he’s leaned back on his hands beneath a tree, head tipped slightly back, laughing.

He turns the screen toward Eldric.

“Seen this kid?”

“Mmm. Sprite of a thing? Skinny jeans and ridiculous shoes? He was at the bar a few minutes ago—didn’t see him just now when I came out, though. David?”

Nose ring, apparently named David, puts out his cigarette with the toe of his boot and moves forward to take the phone.

“New boyfriend?” Eldric asks.

James thankfully doesn’t have to answer that as David is already handing the phone back, nodding.

“He was talking to a guy at the bar, ‘bout 5’ 10”, blonde. Looked a bit like you, actually, mate.”

James grits his teeth. “And?”

“Headed off to the loo with him just as I was coming out here.”

James is inside the club and shoving his way down the narrow back hall to the men's room a moment later.

The toilets don't actually have a door, which is a good thing because James most likely would have knocked it down. There’s three urinals: unoccupied, and two stalls, one also unoccupied, the other playing host to a pair of legs—one of which is wearing very familiar wingtip shoes.

For a moment things go a bit red.

Time is a funny thing, James thinks. Because he doesn’t remember moving from the doorway and into the occupied stall but in a sudden lurch of awareness he finds himself with one hand knotted in the collar of a blonde kid’s shirt, the fabric tight enough it’s beginning to choke him, the other shoving Q away.

“Look mate,” the kid gasps, eyes wide, palms up in supplication, “I didn’t know he had a boyfriend, okay?”

“James!” Q yells, pulling fruitlessly at the back of his jacket. “Let him go!”

The kitten finds this an opportune time to reappear.

The little animal’s skull collides with James chin. The following meow is only just barely heard over the din of music outside.

The blonde kid, whom James is still insouciantly considering killing, shifts from looking scared shitless to looking baffled.

“Is that a cat?”

James growls, dragging the kid out of the stall and shoves him toward the doorway. “Get out.”

“I don’t—“

“I said. Get. Out.”

He gets out.

Q is still yelling at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?! You can’t just—“

The cat meows louder.

Q goes quiet.

James tries to shove the stupid animal’s head back down but it seems far too interested in the current proceedings to cooperate.

“You have a kitten in your coat.” Q says.

“No—I mean, yes, but that’s not—“

“Why do you have a kitten in your coat?”

“Q, the kitten is not important, would you please—“

“Is the kitten for me? Did you get me a kitten?”

James realizes there’s a pink flush riding high on Q’s cheeks and a certain dazed look to him altogether that probably speaks of alcohol consumption. 

“Are you drunk?” James asks, aghast. “You can’t have been here but fifteen minutes!”

“NO,” Q says, crossing his arms. 

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Three,” he says, sounding proud of himself.

“Beers?”

“Shots.”

“Jesus.”

Q leans back against the stall door, brow furrowing slightly. “They burned a bit more than I was expecting. My tongue feels funny now.”

“Jesus,” James says again. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Q pulls away from him when James reaches for his arm.

“No. I want to stay.”

“Too bad. You’re drunk and you’re underage and you’re just generally stupid at the moment so I’m taking you home.”

The kitten mews again and Q, who had been slapping distractedly at James’ hands, goes still, squinting at the top of James’ jacket.

“You never said, is the kitten for me?”

“I don’t—“

 “I’ve never had a pet before.” Q murmurs, suddenly contrite. “I always wanted one.”

James sighs. “Yes, Quentin, I’ve got you a kitten. But he’s a bit frightened here, I think the club is too loud. Shall we take him home where it’s quiet? So he won’t be frightened?”

“Oh, yes,” Q says seriously. “Yes, of course. Let’s go home.”

***

Then 

James wasn’t sure what the protocol was when your (friend?) (coworker?) (friendly neighborhood juvenile criminal?)’s brother arrived at your doorstep unannounced.

He’d only been home from Moscow for ten minutes, hadn’t even had a chance to shower yet, when someone was knocking on his door.

Mycroft was wearing a suit and leaning against an umbrella, despite the fact that the day was cloudless and bright.

“Afternoon,” Mycroft said congenially. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind some dinner company.”

James considered shutting the door in his face but decided that probably was not the most intelligent course of action.

Instead, he stepped backward to gesture the man inside. “I need a shower and any eating I’m doing tonight will happen here. So feel to call your driver and have him pick you up later.”

James tossed Mycroft the phone from the counter and skimmed off his shirt with gritted teeth. There was knife wound in his shoulder he’d been hoping Q would show up to patch. He wondered if he would still come, or if Mycroft’s attendance meant he wouldn’t be seeing the boy that night.

When James glanced back at Mycroft the man was looking at him with a somewhat baffled expression. 

“Order whatever you want,” James said distractedly, flexing his arm with a grimace, “menus are in the third drawer past the sink. Don’t mess up the filing system though or Q will get pissy. Alphabetical by food type, then by distance from the flat in descending order.”

It wasn’t until he was in the shower, scalding water burning his eyes, that it occurred to him he may not have wanted to reveal to Mycroft exactly how embedded Q was in his life.

He sighed and turned off the water, sadly before it had the chance to go cold.

He supposed if the man was anything like as intelligent as Q, Mycroft already knew exactly how important the boy was to him.

“I wanted to talk to you about Q’s birthday.” Mycroft said when James shuffled back out into the living room.

“You’re a little late for that,” James muttered, “he turned fourteen months ago.”

Mycroft raised a disparaging eyebrow. “He’s started the process of filing for emancipation. I believe I can ensure it occurs by his fifteenth birthday.”

“So?”

“I want to know if I should.”

“I’m not following.”

Mycroft sighed, as if conversing with a normal human being was becoming taxing. James knew this because Q sighed the same way on a regular basis.

“You know Quentin best,” Mycroft said, “And while I certainly judge him to be a capable young man, the idea of him being entirely responsible for himself at such a young age is…”

“Terrifying?” James provided.

“Yes. I just. Wanted to know your opinion on the matter. Do you think he’s prepared to look after himself properly? Alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” James said. “Regardless of his emancipated status. And he’s—he’s brilliant. And completely capable of living by himself. But he’s still—young. And brilliance comes with it’s own pitfalls regardless of age. I doubt he’ll ever remember to eat on a regular basis.”

Mycroft nodded, brows still pinched. “So. Emancipation, then?”

“He won’t be alone,” James said again, more for his own benefit than Mycroft’s.

The other man gave him an un-interpretable look. “No. I don’t suppose he will.”

James didn’t get the chance to respond to that as his front door quite suddenly slammed open.

He was belly on the ground, reaching for the gun strapped beneath the coffee table, when he recognized the shoes of their unexpected visitor.

Q.

Usually he yelled ahead as he was opening the door that is was him, and he had never in the three years James known him, handled any of James' property with less than careful respect. A slammed door meant something was seriously wrong.

It only took another second to confirm that theory when he stood, taking in the rest of Q, and realized the left side of the boy’s face was swollen and quickly going purple.

“Who do I need to kill?” He asked.

Mycroft, half crouched behind the couch, stood, looking aghast, probably because he didn’t realize James was joking.

Which, he was. Mostly.

“Stupid fucking chav tried to take my bag on the tube,” Q snarled, throwing the bag in question onto the ground.

“I got it back, obviously, but my laptop is ruined.”

“I’m a bit more worried about your face,” James said gently.

Q dropped down to his haunches and started angrily untying his shoes: white buck oxfords that day, to match the grey and white striped cardigan he was wearing.

Ridiculous, James thought.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked hesitantly.

“No,” Q snarled, standing again. His socks were grey and white striped too and James tried very hard not to find that adorable.

“It took me a month to configure that laptop properly. It was literally priceless. And I can get the data off it easily enough but—“

“Q,” James said, dropping a hand onto either of his shoulders. “Your lip is split and I think you may need stitches above your eyebrow. Can I take a look at you for a moment before we continue to bemoan the state of your tech?”

Q made a disgusted noise, but let James tug him into the kitchen and prop him on the island counter under the main light.

“Tell me what happened. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I wasn’t wearing my bag across my chest, had it over one shoulder because I couldn’t find my headphones, and this, this stupid teenage miscreant tried to snatch it and duck out at the last second when we were leaving Waterloo.”

“And you followed him?!” Mycroft said, appalled.

“It had my laptop in it,” Q muttered, wincing as James probed at his forehead.

 “I fought with him on the stairs. He got a few hits to my face but tossed the bag and ran off after some woman started screaming.”

James carefully manipulated Q’s mouth open and closed, fingers gentle at the hinge of his jaw, before ducking to retrieve the medical kit from the cabinet.

“You do any damage to him?”

“Tried,” Q said tiredly. “Did what you taught me.”

“Good boy.”

Q’s cheeks went pink as James cleaned the blood off his forehead, and he closed his eyes, nose wrinkling against the sting of antiseptic.

“Cut looks worse than it is,” James said. “And your jaw should be fine. I don’t think you need to go to Medical, though I’ll take you if you’d like.”

Q scoffed. “If I wanted to go Medical I would have gone to Medical.”

“Did you call Boothroyd?”

“Mhm. Told him I’m staying with you tonight.”

James glanced furtively at Mycroft who was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, umbrella still hooked over one elbow.

“Alright. We’ve ordered Indian, should be enough for three.”

Q leaned harder against him, probably unconsciously. James dabbed ointment into the cut with a slow preciseness that probably wasn’t warranted.

“Why is Mycroft here?” Q asked.

“I wanted to discuss Christmas,” Mycroft said, before James could respond.

“Christmas?” Q repeated, opening his eyes. 

“It’s hardly an affair, but my brother—Sherlock—won’t be joining me this year and I wondered if perhaps you would be interested. James, of course, would be invited as well.”

Q’s knees knocked against James’ thighs as he straightened. “That’s—yes. Please. I haven’t had a real Christmas in years.”

Mycroft looked both startled and pleased.

“Excellent. Well. I suppose dinner isn’t warranted after all then, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait,” Q said, “I—“ He glanced at James. “You could stay. If you wanted.”

“Yes,” James agreed. “Please, we’ve already ordered food, after all.”

Mycroft looked distinctly out of place, one hand absently stroking the wood handle of his umbrella.

“Well. I suppose I could stay for a while.”

“Great,” James said. “There’s beer in the fridge if you’d like. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

James couldn’t imagine him drinking beer anyway. He returned his attention to Q, who was beginning to sway.

“You alright?” He asked.

“Tired,” Q groaned. “Furious. My poor laptop.”

He slumped forward, forehead resting just below James’ clavicle, and made a wounded noise. “My poor, innocent, laptop.”

“We’ll have a proper funeral for it later,” James said wryly. “Go get cleaned up before the food gets here, alright? I saved some hot water for you.”

Q grumbled, but obeyed, sliding off the island to go rummage loudly in James' wardrobe before locking himself in the bathroom.

Mycroft watched their interactions with an odd sort of expression that made James nervous. 

He got a beer out of the fridge and went to sit next to the man who may or may not run the British government and wondered when his life had become quite so strange.

Chapter Text

Now 

James brings Q to his flat and sets him on the island in the kitchen because the gesture is, at this point, so ingrained. Q is injured. Q is frightened. Q is angry. Set him where they’re equal height and try to understand. It occurs to James that Q is nearly as tall as him now and the island isn’t actually necessary to put their eyes at the same level anymore.

Q is stubbornly avoiding his gaze anyway.

James extracts the now-sleeping kitten from his jacket and settles the limp scrap of fur on the couch. He calls Alec with a hurried request for cat supplies. He scrubs a hand through his hair muttering curses. He takes a deep breath and returns to the kitchen.

Q is hunched exactly where James left him and James crouches to carefully untie the handmade Italian leather shoes Q decided would be acceptable to wear to a club. 

Q makes a wounded noise when James deposits them on the counter and it becomes clear how abused they’ve been.

“Shhh,” James says. “It’s just a bit of beer. I’ll clean them for you.”

He stands again, an ache of fondness in his chest at the way Q’s socked feet swing slightly against the cabinets and presses his thumb, possibly harder than is necessary, to a mouth-shaped bruise beginning to bloom on Q’s throat. He considers seriously for a moment going back to find the kid who did it and breaking his jaw.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He says, quiet, but rough.

“I was thinking it’d be nice to finally get off with someone,” Q answers acidly.

“With a stranger? Someone who won’t even remember your name in the morning?”

“Why not? You do it. You do it all the time.”

“Yes, yes, I do. And it’s fucked up and terrible and you are better than that. You deserve better than that.”

“James,” Q says. He sounds exhausted.

“You deserve more,” James presses. 

“What hell are you talking about?”

“Your first time shouldn’t be in the toilets of a club with some idiot who doesn’t realize what he has. It should be with someone who knows you—who knows what you like and dislike and what scares you and who will respect all of those things.  It should be someone you trust. If not someone you love.”

“Yeah, well. I already asked that person. He turned me down.”

James goes still. “Quentin.”

Q shrugs somewhat helplessly because really, what else is there to say.

“If you—” James swallows. “When you’re eighteen—“

He isn’t entirely sure how to phrase this. Or even if he should.

“When you’re eighteen,” he says again. “If you still want…that. Ask me again. When you’re eighteen. Just not now. Please.”

“You want me to wait. For fifteen months.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. If you meet someone else—”

James hadn’t considered such a thing before but the words inspire a certain sort of rage, now.

“If you meet someone else,” he repeats, voice carefully level. “Then it becomes a non-issue.”

“I’m not going to and you know it.” 

“We’ll see.”

“James?” Q says.

“Hmm?”

“I feel funny.”

“You feel drunk, love,” James says gently. “Three shots for someone your size with no tolerance is probably starting to hit pretty hard about now.”

“I’m not drunk,” Q says, sounding affronted, and then before James can respond—“My socks are sticky. I don’t like it.”

James presses a kiss to the top of Q’s ridiculous head because he can’t not, and helps him off the counter. “Come on. Let’s get you clean before you pass out.”

“Not drunk,” Q mutters, but allows himself to be led away.

Twenty minutes later James knocks on the bathroom door and there’s no answer.

“Q?” He calls.

He’d filled the tub and left Q to it, because a shower just seemed dangerous, all things considered.  Now, though, he’s worried a bath was just as bad an idea.

“Quentin?”

James knows the door isn’t locked because it’s only the second time Q hasn’t locked the door when he’s bathing and that’s the sort of thing James notices, being who he is.

He steels himself and enters the bathroom.

The water is milky with bath salts; some citrus oil concoction that Q had ostensibly purchased for James but that somehow he ended up using far more often. James likes to complain about the large smelly bag cluttering up his cabinet, but finds himself suddenly and intensely grateful for the stupid bath salts and their opacity, as the only visible bits of Q are his shoulders, head, and knees. 

James crouches beside the toilet and rests his elbows on the wall of the tub.

A moment later the kitten follows, meowing curiously.

“Quentin.”

Q opens his eyes behind fogged glasses and smiles delightedly. “James. And cat!” The smile turns to pursed lips. “ ‘Cat’ is not a good name. We need to give him a proper name, James.”

“And we will,” he agrees consolingly. “Shortly. Are you ready to get out yet? Food should be here soon.”

Q sinks his torso deeper into the tub so his lips are just at water-level. He blows some petulant bubbles.

James tries valiantly not to laugh. 

“Come on. Out of the tub before you drown.”

“I’m not drown,” Q says sullenly.

“Sure. Think about what you just said for a second and tell me again you’re not drunk.”

Q narrows his eyes. “Won’t. I’m won’t drown. No, wait. Shit.”

James snorts.

“I,” Q says, poking James’ nose with one wet finger. “I won’t drown. Or. Not—not going to drown. Is what. I meant.”

“Uh huh. Out. Come on.”

He’s got Q wrapped in a towel and is attempting to dry the insanity that is his curls, when someone knocks on the door. “That’ll be Alec. You finish drying off, okay?”

“Mm.”

When James returns a few minutes later after assuring Alec Q was fine and setting up tiny bowls and a litter box in the alcove next to the kitchen, Q is sitting on the bathroom floor with the towel puddled around his waist and the kitten in his hands.

“Got sidetracked?” James asks.

“This is a girl cat.’ Q says accusingly.

The kitten, hanging quite contentedly from its armpits in Q’s hold, meows agreeably.

“Alright.”

“You’ve been calling her by boy pronouns all night!” Q exclaims.

“I—so? I didn’t know.”

“So you could have checked instead of just being like ‘oh look, a thing, I’ll assume it’s male.’ Your inherently sexist patriarchal mindset is appalling.”

James gently extracts the now damp kitten from Q’s hands and pulls the boy to his feet.

“Assuring me you won’t drown in common English is nigh impossible, but ‘inherently sexist patriarchal mindset’ you somehow get right.”

“I hate you.” Q says, peevish, and James swings Q, towel and all, up and into his arms with a tired smile.

“No you don’t.” 

Q pushes his face into James neck.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Don’t tell.”

***

Then 

Christmas with Mycroft.

Christmas. At Mycroft’s house.

With Mycroft.

James reached a hand up to run strangely nervous fingers through his hair before remembering he’d actually made an attempt to slick it down. The hand stalled, hovered for a moment, and then fell back to his side.

He shifted the bag of gifts over his opposite shoulder and finally, with no little amount of trepidation, rang the doorbell.

The door was wrenched open a moment later by a positively beaming Q.

He was wearing a grey cashmere sweater that made his eyes look enormous, and his cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. 

“You’re here!” he said, in a strangely out of character decision to declare the obvious.

“Finally! Come inside, dinner is almost ready. Mycroft’s been teaching me how to make sorbet. Are those presents?”

“I—“ James stepped inside, smiling despite himself. “Yes. Presents. And…sorbet? That’s hardly Christmas-y.”

“Oh. He asked if there was anything in particular I wanted with dinner and I just—is that bad? Was I supposed to choose something Christmas-y? He didn’t seem to mind.”

Q’s smile had dimmed considerably and he pushed at his glasses with a nervous sort of self-consciousness that made James wish he hadn’t said anything.

“Not at all,” he said. “I should think it's clear Mycroft would move heaven and earth for you. I’m sure sorbet is no problem.”

“And you would be correct,” Mycroft said from the doorway.

He was wearing a waistcoat over a starched shirt rolled to his elbows and James realized it was the first time he had seen the man without a suit jacket. Instead, Mycroft had on a purple and green paisley apron that should have looked ridiculous but somehow just managed to make him seem even more posh.

“Would you enjoy helping us in the kitchen?” He asked, giving James a look that told him it wasn’t really up for debate.

“Of course, let me just take off my coat.”

Dinner was a slow, casual affair, despite taking place at an absurdly long, incredibly opulent, hand carved table. James was sure they made an odd-looking sight, the three of them clustered at one end.  It was far too much table for their small dinner party, and, James was beginning to think, far too much house just for Mycroft. It was no small wonder he had invited Q to Christmas, even if it had been an impromptu invitation. The man was clearly lonely.

They opened presents in the sitting room where the piano was located, drinking eggnog out of crystal glasses and laughing at Q’s exuberance in ripping wrapping paper. James had purchased a bottle of excellent Scotch for Mycroft, and, in turn, Mycroft had given him a new, hand painted, set of tea cups. James knew the gift was more for Q than him, apparently his current mis-matched set was distressing to the boy, but he was thankful for them all the same. 

Mycroft’s gift for Q was a key to the house, with instructs to come practice piano, or simply visit, whenever he felt led, and a gorgeous waxed-cotton Belstaff coat that must have been specially made to fit Q’s measurements, small as he was. They had to take a brief interlude from present-opening as Q went quite wide-eyed and spent several minutes petting the garment reverently before even submitting to put it on. Afterwards, he refused to take it off.

Q’s gift to Mycroft was a mere cream-colored envelope. Mycroft took it from him with serious consideration, and, after shaking a small object into his palm, and reading the accompanying card, reached out to touch Q’s hand briefly, not saying anything. James supposed that, for Mycroft, that was a relatively spectacular emotional display. His curiosity piqued; James decided he would ask Q about the gift at the next opportunity.

James gift to Q was, he felt, somewhat overshadowed by the Belstaff, but Q was positively radiant when he unwrapped a grey Burberry bow tie, black pashmina scarf, and new pair of suede Derby shoes to replace his current pair that was getting too small. 

Q gave James a second envelope.

And then went strangely still, as he opened it.

There were several folded papers inside with small print and signatures and a few color-coded tabs. It took him a moment to understand what it was.

“This is a bill of sale,” James said blankly.

“Yes,” Q agreed, grinning.

“For an Aston Martin DB6.”

“Yes.”

“I—you bought me a DB6. I—how? They’re impossible to find and when you can the cost is—”

A photograph fell out of the papers and for a moment he could do nothing but stare at the car that, for all intents and purposes, was perfect.

Silver. 1965. One of 1,023 produced. Granted it would need refurbishing but—

“Q. I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can. I can’t drive for another two years at least. So it’s partially for me anyway. You’ll be my chauffeur, won’t you?”

He shuffled the papers in his hands, finding himself at a loss.

“This car is—“

“What you’ve been salivating over your entire life? I know.”

“How did you even—“

“Alec helped. Strangely no one wanted to do business with a fourteen year old, regardless of the money he had to spend. Silly, really.”

James eyes narrowed. “Speaking of fourteen year olds with money. How exactly did you pay for this?”

“I’ve been taking freelance jobs on the side the past few months. You know how bored I am with uni.”

James opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft beat him to it.

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft said. “I was the one facilitating the jobs. Everything was legal and sanctioned.”

Q snorted.

“Well,” Mycroft admitted. “Sanctioned, anyway. Nothing that could affect Q adversely, is the important thing.”

“That’s—okay, then.” James stared at the picture a few moments longer. “A DB6. Really? Where is it?”

Q’s grin widened. “The garage at MI6. I got permission from M and Boothroyd to store it there until we’ve finished updating it. Alec has some ideas about that, by the way.”

“Of course he does,” James said faintly. “I—can we go see it? Later, I mean.”

Mycroft laughed outright and that was startling enough to break James out of his reverie.

“There’s no reason for you to stay,” he said. “I assumed you would want to see the vehicle, that’s why we saved presents for last. Shall I call my driver for you?”

Q shook his head, looking at Mycroft with the sort of fondness usually only reserved for James or Alec, or very occasionally Eve.” 

“It’s just snowed,” he said, packing his gifts carefully back into their boxes. “I’d like to walk.”

James still wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself but put on his coat and scarf on autopilot, forgoing gloves purely because it would involve putting the papers down completely.

Q hugged Mycroft goodbye, much to Mycroft’s delight, and padded down the freshly white steps to exit the gate and wait, grinning, on the pavement.

James shook Mycroft’s hand, still feeling off-kilter, and other man smiled, albeit somewhat guardedly, at him.

“You’re welcome any time as well, you know.”

“Thank you,” James said. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate your…willingness to accept Q.”

Mycroft’s smile sagged a bit. “It’s nice to be wanted,” he said. “And it’s nice to have family who appreciates the…idea, of family. He is brilliant in every way. I just wish I’d found him sooner.”

James found himself wishing that as well.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, moving back off the step.

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft agreed.

“James!” Q yelled, “Come on! It’s snowing again!”

Chapter Text

Now 

Q sleeps for two hours, stumbles into the bathroom to pee at 4am, and then collapses back onto the bed with a wounded noise.

James wordlessly offers him a painkiller and a glass of water and after Q swallows the pill he climbs into James’ lap like he belongs there. 

“I love you,” he mutters, smudging the words against James’ collarbone.

“You’re still drunk,” James says gently, shifting him to the side. “And we made a deal about the bed, remember?”

Q sighs. “No touching.”

“Mmm.”

The boy hugs a pillow to his chest and squints up at him in the pale grey pre-dawn light. It’s raining outside and everything is dim and watery and quiet.

 “I’m never drinking again. Where are my glasses?”

“Bedside table,” James says, standing to close the curtains. “Go back to sleep. Neither of us have anywhere to be in the morning.”

“Kitten?” Q murmurs.

“Between the headboard and my pillow.”

Q rolls slightly to check, then grins.

“She needs a name.”

“We’ll think of one. If I come back to bed are you going to abide by the rules?”

Q rubs the knuckles of one hand into his eyes. “No touching,” he agrees somberly.

“Good.”

James shifts the covers to one side and resumes his former position, tucking one arm behind his head. His fingers encounter fur and he smiles despite himself.

“I’m sorry,” Q says.

The words are muffled.

“About before. The club. I shouldn’t have—I was embarrassed. And hurt. And I didn’t—it was stupid.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“You’re forgiven.”

They breathe together in silence broken only by the soft white-noise of rain against the windows.

“Were you serious?” Q says.

“About?”

“When I’m 18.”

“Yes. But—“

He struggles for a moment, unsure how to continue.

“But?” Q prompts.

“I’m damaged,” James says finally. Because honesty is always easier at 4am.

“So am I.”

James laughs softly. “That makes it better?”

“No. It makes us…suited.”

It’s several minutes before he speaks again, Q’s breathing gone even and soft and James doesn’t even know if he’s still awake.

“I don’t want to be one of them,” he admits.

Q shifts, one hand unknotting from the pillow’s fabric to push hair out of his face. His movements are slow and sleep-laboured. “One of who?”

“The boys,” James says. “At the centre. I'm in a position of power, I'm older than you and stronger, and I don’t know what they did to you, but—“

Q goes still.

“I was never raped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Rape isn’t as singular an action as most people think.”

Q breathes out like he’s been punched in the stomach.

“You are nothing like them,” he says with a fierceness that surprises James. “I don’t even—you’re the opposite of—No.  Can we talk about this later?”

“Of course.’

Q rolls then, still curled around his pillow, and presses himself backward, tucking the curve of his spine in the open space between James’ raised arm and his ribcage.

“I know you said no touching,” he murmurs, “but can I just—“

“Yeah, alright.’

“Thank you.”

Q’s breath is starting to even out again when James says, “You know I honestly didn’t think you would go to El Dorado. I thought that was misdirection.”

“Mmm,” Q murmurs, syrup-slow. “Told you on purpose. Wanted you to come.“

“Minx,” James says.

But Q is already asleep.

***

Then 

Alec arrived at Boothroyd’s doorstep at 2am on a Tuesday, bandages white against the dark peeling sunburn of his skin.

“Q,” he said. And for a moment, Q couldn’t breathe.

“Why isn’t James with you?”

They’d been on a joint assignment in Columbia and Medical hadn’t called Q to say James had been admitted. Which meant something was seriously wrong.

“They didn’t want me to tell you,” Alec said and Q considered screaming.

“Tell me what?”

“James was taken.”

“Taken?”

“They’re trying to locate him now but I’m assuming—“

“Obviously I’ll find him faster,” Q snarled, pulling Alec inside. “Tell me.”

“The mission was fine. We were ambushed leaving Heathrow to return to Headquarters. Three men. They tased us. Knocked me out. Took James.”

“Which shoes is he wearing?”

“I—what?”

Q stumbled into his bedroom and all but collapsed sideways into the chair beside his rack of servers.

“What shoes is he wearing?” He repeated irritably. “I’ve got trackers in nearly all of them.”

“Of course you do. The navy ones, with the brown stitching on the—“

“Got it.”

He turned the first computer screen toward Alec, “tell me when it loads,” before rolling over to the second monitor and booting it too.

Alec waited.

When the software was at 60% he glanced over to see what Q was doing and—

“Is that the CCTV network?”

“Maybe.”

“Q.”

“Boothroyd lets me,” he answered, sullen as any other teenager being scolded.

Alec somehow doubted that was true, but it was an emergency.

“It’s loaded.”

Q shifted in his chair, one hand on either keyboard for several moments, before turning his full attention to the second monitor.

“Alright,” Q stood suddenly, sliding a tablet and several important-looking cords into his messenger bag. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where? And what do you mean ‘lets’?”

“Broadstreet. The A block of houses. I can’t tell which he’s in but according to CCTV, 2A still has lights on so I’m guessing that’s the place. And ‘let’s’ is a way to commonly abbreviate ‘let us,’” Q said, shoving his bare feet into a pair of boots. “Meaning ‘let us go,’ meaning you’d damn well not be thinking you’re leaving me here because I will personally make both your work and personal life a living hell for several months if you do.”

“Right then.” Alec said. “Let’s go.”

2A was on the ground floor of a small grouping of three storey houses. 

Alec parked the car, a black BMW he’d “borrowed” from MI6, at the curb a few yards away and considered the building in question.

“Do you have a gun by any chance?” He asked Q.

Q narrowed his eyes. “I’m fourteen and technically a civilian. So no, Alec, I do not have a gun.”

“Do you have any weapons at all?” He whispered, somewhat desperately.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I have weapons. I have a knife in each boot and a garrote in my pocket”

“Good.”

He pressed his earpiece into place and opened the door.

“If things go badly–shit you can’t drive, can you?”

“I can drive.” Q said “Conceptually.”

“Helpful,” Alec muttered. “If things go badly call HQ. And if anyone comes for you lock the door and—this was a terrible idea.”

“Alec.”

“Fine. Just. Fine.”

Alec shut the door and slunk over the back gate and out of sight.

Being blind in relation to intel was not nearly as exciting as Q had assumed. He flipped through CCTV feeds surrounding the house on his tablet, occasionally glancing at the surrounding area outside the car, and listened to Alec breathe.

“Take your time,” Q muttered, watching the dash clock click over to 3am.

Alec whispered something in Russian that was probably offensive and Q decided he really needed to learn the language. James knew Russian as well, or at least he knew it well enough to hold exceedingly annoying private conversations with Alec down in tech branch while Q or one of the other minions attempted to outfit them for a mission.

He imagined it would be worth the time spent away from his computers to learn. He wondered how long it would take for the two agents to realise their secret conversations weren’t secret anymore.

There was a soft pop of a silenced gun in his earpiece and Q straightened.

“One down,” Alec whispered.

Q scrolled through the camera feeds again.

“The whole place is wired with cameras,” Alec said a moment later. “Can you get into the security system?”

“I’m not at HQ, Alec,” Q said. “I’ve got a tablet and an earpiece. My abilities are limited.”

Alec muttered something in Russian again.

Q decided he would start his lessons the next day.

And then he threw himself into the floorboard of the car, the tablet’s glowing face pressed to his chest. Because another car had just arrived at the curb.

“Someone else is here,” Q whispered. “They’ve parked a few feet behind me.”

“Fuck. Did they see you?”

“Don’t think so. They’re getting out now.”

He breathed, listening to car doors slam, and then, after the crunching of boots against gravel had faded, he sat up a few inches.

“Three of them, headed to the back gate now. At least one of them is armed.”

“Fantastic.”

Q watched the three men disappear inside the house, but stayed in the floorboard, just in case, as he scrolled through video feeds again, listening to Alec breathe.

“James,” Alec said, and then, louder, “found him. He’s unconscious but I think he’s—“

The sound of gunfire ripped through the earpiece and echoed outside the car concurrently and Q pressed one hand to his ear.

“Alec,” he said, tablet abandoned. “Alec?”

There was an indistinct fuzz of silence and then several more gunshots, in quick succession.

When it was quiet again, the earpiece had gone static.

“Agent, report,” Q said, knowing it was useless.

He shoved the keys for the car into his pocket and withdrew the knife from his right boot, dialing HQ with his other hand.

“It’s Q,” he said, and the person who answered—probably Owen—muttered something that sounded like “shit.”

 “I need you to send help to my location. I’ve found James. He and Alec are both compromised. At least five targets in play. Shots fired. I’m going inside now.”

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the driver’s seat where it immediately lit up with a call. He slipped out into the cool air, closed the door as quietly as possible, and ran for the house.

James, Alec and Eve had all been teaching him self-defense on a more or less regular basis for the past two years.

Alec’s fighting style was one of brute force and no concept of honor or mercy.

Eve’s was defensive, quick, smart, and used her opponent’s weight against them.

James’ was an interesting mix of the two.

Q found Eve’s instruction most helpful, being that he was small and unlikely to ever have the sort of strength that Alec and James took for granted. He’d never actually had a chance to practice his new skills in real life though—save the incident on the tube a few months before—but that was hardly a life or death situation.

But when he entered the dim back hallway of flat 2A, and a man from the shadows instantly had his arm around Q’s throat—suddenly the drills Eve had him running over, and over, and over, again, didn’t seem so pointless. 

Because he responded instinctively.

Chin down, leg hooked, a twist of his body, and the man was tumbled onto the floor. Q didn’t give him a chance to get up.

He tucked the bloodied knife into his back pocket and released the magazine of the gun he’d stolen from his assailant—it was full— replaced it, pulled back the slide to check if there was a round chambered—there was—and continued down the hall.

His hands were surprisingly still.

He found Alec and James in the kitchen.

James was sitting in a metal chair holding a gun unsteadily, pointing it at the doorway, while Alec, crouched behind him, was attempting to uncuff his feet from said metal chair.

“Q?” James said, lowering the weapon, and Alec glanced up to glare at him.

“Do you never do as you're told?” Alec hissed.

“I came to help.”

“Clearly I have things covered,”

“There was another one in the hall.  I took care of him. Also, I called HQ.”

“Fantastic. We’re all getting fired.”

“Q,” James said again. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not my blood,”

James smiled as if this was wonderful news.

“There,” Alec said, standing. He helped James, swaying, to his feet, and considered bloodied Q for a moment, mouth open, as if wanting to ask questions. He shook his head and returned his attention to James.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes,” James said, and promptly collapsed as soon as Alec let go of him.

“Idiot,” Q muttered. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and took James’ opposite side. Together, they helped him into the hall.

When they came across the man just inside the door, Alec paused.

“Good god, Q. Did you do that?” His voice was stuck between horrified and possibly delighted.

The man on the floor groaned.

“Er. Yes.”

“Jesus. Well. Nicely done, I guess.”

“I figured too much stabbing was probably preferable to not enough stabbing,” Q said sheepishly. “He’ll be okay though, right? I made sure not to get anything vital.”

James laughed outright.

Alec kicked the man slightly so they could get around him and out the door.

“As long as HQ sends Medical they should be able to get the blood loss under control. You’re probably going to have a hell of a lot of paperwork to deal with though. And a psych eval.”

Q made a moue of distaste.

“Sorry,” James muttered.

“Worth it,” Q answered.

Chapter Text

Now 

It takes Q two cups of coffee and an exceptionally long shower to become coherent the following morning. It’s nearly afternoon, in fact, when he finally stumbles out into the kitchen looking rumpled and embarrassed, but otherwise sound. 

“Breakfast?” James asks, with a raised eyebrow.

Q  settles himself on a barstool and considers the eggs frying in the pan James is minding. He smiles ruefully. 

“I think you mean ‘lunch’ at this hour.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” James responds, reaching for a plate he can deposit the eggs on.

Q notices, as he closes the cabinet door, that the knuckles on James’ right hand are bruised and torn, the edges of cuts ragged and spotted with dried blood where scabs attempted to form and were broken raw again.

“James,” Q says, catching his wrist as he slides the plate forward. “What did you do?”

“Ah,” James says. “I may have punched the wall after you left yesterday night.  A little.”

“You punched the wall ‘a little’?”

“Yes. And I may have broken the mirror in the hall.”

Q glances toward the entryway, then back to James’s knuckles, still captive in his hands.

“James.”

“In my defense you put me in a very frustrating situation.”

The kitten, apparently angry with being left behind, comes scuttling out of the bedroom, meowing at high volume.

“Cat!” Q says, releasing James so he can bend to scoop her up. “God, I almost forgot about that. I can’t believe you had a kitten down your shirt in a club. Where did she come from?”

“She ran into me in the alley,” James says, starting another round of eggs. “I couldn’t very well leave her there.”

Q glances up, an odd look on his face. “You could,” he says. “Most people would have.”

“Well.” James turns to rummage in the refrigerator but doesn’t actually appear to be looking for anything in particular. “I thought you’d like her.”

Q smiles softly at the now-content ball of grey fur in his lap. “I do,” he says, “thank you.”

A few minutes later James joins him at the breakfast bar with his own plate and two cups of orange juice.

“We should probably talk about last night,” he says.

“Must we?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation at some ungodly hour of the morning?”

James laughs. “Yes. But you were still drunk. And I think some things should be restated. For clarity’s sake.”

Q sighs and puts down his fork.

There’s dark smudges under his eyes his glasses can’t hide, his hair is a mess, and there’s a bit of dried toothpaste foam on the collar of his borrowed t-shirt.

James finds him entirely captivating.

“Well?” Q says, wary under James’ scrutiny.

“Last night. I didn’t mean to…hurt your feelings,” James says, the words stilted. “Or imply you weren’t—that I wouldn’t—“ He stops with a frustrated noise and starts again. “I was trying to do the right thing. But I’m afraid the way I handled it was insulting to you. That’s not at all what I intended.”

“It’s fine,” Q says. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I understand.”

“Well. It hadn’t really occurred to me how isolated you are. I feel like a right bastard, now.”

Q snorted softly into his juice. “It’s not so bad. I have you. And Mycroft. Alec. Eve. Boothroyd.”

“You know what I mean.”

Q sighs. “I’m fine, James.”

They ate in silence for several minutes.

“Are you planning to go out again?” James asks finally, attempting and utterly failing to sound offhand. 

“You mean to El Dorado?”

“Yes.”

Q shrugs, the stretched collar of his borrowed tee shirt falling off one shoulder. “Don’t have any reason to now, do I?”

James frowned at him over the rim of his mug. “Why’s that?”

“Because. You said yes. Granted I have to wait a bit longer than I’d planned but,” he shrugs again. “I’d rather it be you when I’m 18 than a stranger now.”

James takes a very long, slow, moment to swallow.

“So you—that’s something you’re still interested in, then?”

Q meets his eyes evenly, the slightest amused curve at the corner of his ridiculous mouth.

“Yes, James.”

James is relatively certain his name has never sounded so obscene. 

“Well. Alright then.”

Q eats a piece of egg, letting the fork drag slow across his tongue, tines lingering at the swell of his bottom lip.

“Alright,” he agrees.

James rubs one palm over his face and wonders if it’s too early to start drinking.

***

Then 

It was New Years Eve and James realized he hadn’t seen or heard from Q in nearly 48 hours.

They’d spent Boxing Day tinkering with the Aston Martin and then James had left for two days in Portugal, to assist with an issue at the British Embassy. He’d returned, expecting Q to show up, as usual, that evening. But he never had. And now, a full day later, the boy still hadn’t made an appearance.

He called Q’s mobile first, despite the fact that he rarely answered it, then sent what he hoped was a casually texted enquiry regarding Q’s whereabouts. When he still hadn’t received a response an hour later, he called Alec.

“You were at HQ this morning, right?” James asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Was Q skulking about?”

“Skulking, no. He was running Eve’s op when I went down to turn in my equipment. Seemed tense. He barely even acknowledged me.”

“Boothroyd is letting him run ops now?”

“Apparently. I’d think he would be done by now, though. Shift change was at 3pm, right? Unless he decided to stay with her. Might call Boothroyd and see, he was running 009’s extraction though, so he may still be tied up as well.”

James sighed and called Boothroyd.

The man answered on the third ring sounding exhausted. “007,” he said. “I assume you’re wondering where my charge is?”

“Er—yes.”

“He should have gone home hours ago but he went straight from running a clean up mission to pulling apart the engine block of that damn car. I’ve been keeping an eye on him through the feeds but if you’d like to come collect him before he collapses I wouldn’t be adverse to it.”

James moved to put on his shoes.

“You’re letting him run ops?” He said, voice carefully neutral.

“ ‘Let’ isn’t quite the word,” Boothroyd said wearily. “He was messing with some prototype cameras when Eve’s mission started to go tits up. R is on a location assignment with 004 and I was monitoring 009 so there was no one senior to take over. Owen was supposed to be running things but he fell apart relatively quickly.”

That didn’t surprise James. Owen was a new tech who was far too flighty to last long in the job, in James’ opinion. 

Boothroyd continued. “Q must have realised things were going badly because he bullied Owen aside and took over his work station a few minutes after Eve was compromised. It took nearly ten hours but he got both her and the hostage she was supposed to be rescuing outbound on a helicopter no worse for wear. It was…impressive work. To say the least.”

“And then he decided to go work on the car?”

“And then he decided to go work on the car,” Boothroyd agreed. 

“Has he eaten today?”

The other man sighed. “No. Probably not.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m a terrible guardian,” Boothroyd said, more to himself than James. “I told M she should have taken him. Hell, you would probably do a better job. Already do, really, all things considered.”

James exited his flat, locking the door, and jogged down the stairs, phone still pressed to his ear.

“I’m on my way to pick him up, I’ll feed him and put him to bed and have him back by tomorrow afternoon, alright?”

“Fine, fine. Thank you, James.”

“No problem. You should probably get some sleep yourself.”

Boothroyd laughed. “Someday,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

Now 

Q is in the process of making a pop-up bomb for the inbox of a particularly vexing young man in IT when one of the minions at the station next to him drops a prototype 9mm Glock with handprint recognition. She just. Drops it. Right on the floor. He’s turning, baffled, to chastise her, when he realizes why.

James Bond is in Tech branch. 

And he’s holding the kitten.

Q sighs as literally everyone in the room stops what they’re doing.

“Hello,” James says amicably, as if the entirety of MI6’s genius population isn’t gaping at him. The kitten is tucked in the palm of one of his hands, cradled to his chest, which makes the kitten look very small and James’ hand look very big and Q really does not have time to deal with this right now. Additionally, James’ other hand is holding a bag that contains a litter box, litter, food, bowls, and what may or may not be a pink squeaky mouse toy.

Q sighs a second time.

“The little one needs to stay with you for a few days while I’m gone,” James says, provoking several raised eyebrows and possibly one swoon. “I’ve got all her things here. Where should I put them?”

“Alec couldn’t watch her?” Q says, but is already moving across the room toward his office.

James just looks at him and the kitten meows reproachfully.

“Never mind,” Q admits. “You’re right. I wouldn’t trust her with him anyway. What am I supposed to do with her, though? I’m going to be here most of the next week seeing as I’m running your mission.”

He scans his thump at the doorjamb and the solenoid locks thunk open, admitting them. 

“Keep her here,” James says. “The minions will love her.”

“The minions will be distracted and end up killing someone on accident because they’re too busy cooing over her to do their jobs.”

“That would be exciting.”

“Or they’ll start making her toys,” Q says somewhat desperately, “and the last thing I need right now is, is,” he waves a hand, “… weaponized mechanical mice running around in my department.”

“That would be even more exciting than accidental murder, I think.”

“James.”

James laughs as he drops the kitten on Q’s desk and she immediately sets to exploring.

“What do you suggest I do with her then?” he asks.

Q pushes at his glasses but has to admit he doesn’t have a better idea.

“Fine. I suppose she can stay.”

James grins as the kitten launches herself onto the tower of Q’s servers and then promptly wedges herself between some cables to settle, quite comfortably, midway through the rack.

She blinks approvingly at them.

“See?” James says. “She’s a regular little boffin. Fits right in here. Now, I believe you have equipment for me?”

Q spares a relatively despairing glance at the cat, trying not to think about the havoc shed fur may wreak on his tech, before leaving the room to outfit his agent.

He does not preen under the envious glances that follow him for the next several hours.

Well. He doesn’t preen much.

But James Bond did get him a kitten, so a bit of smugness is warranted, he thinks.

***

Then 

James found Q in the maintenance area of the garage, lit bright with florescence, two open laptops running diagnostics next to the tool bench. The Aston martin was lifted a few feet off the ground and Q was on his back, mostly unseen, beneath it.

“Q.”

The boy startled, dropping something that sounded as if it made contact with skin, and then cursed.

James hooked his heel on the edge of the creeper Q was laying on and rolled him out from beneath the car. He was holding a pair of pliers in one hand. The other was pressed to his nose.

He squint-glared up at James.

“Can I help you?”

“Just out of curiosity, were you attempting some sort of not-sleeping record or is this just a particularly dramatic show of your self-neglect.”

“It’s New Year's Eve,” Q said sullenly. “Shouldn’t you have plans?”

“No. Well. I’d hoped I had plans with you. Apparently not.”

“I’m busy.”

“Yes. I can see that.”

Q, still lying on his back, crossed his arms and tried to push back under the car. There was a smudge of black from chin to left nostril. He looked positively absurd.

“Have I done something to upset you?” James asked.

Q stilled his movement, considering James’ cautious expression, then sat up with a sigh.

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t like New Year's very much.”

“So you planned to ignore the event entirely?”

Q shrugged.

“Well would you care to ignore the date at my flat where there’s food and television and no risk of doing inadvertent sleep-deprived damage to a half-million pound vehicle?”

“I’m not that tired,” Q said.

And then promptly stifled a yawn.

His preemptive glare prohibited James from commenting on that.

“Well I am tired,” James said. “ And I’d feel much better if you came home with me. Or let me take you to Boothroyd’s on the way.”

Q considered this, still rubbing at his nose and generally making a mess of his face.

“Indian?” he asked.

“Whatever you want,” James agreed.

Q scratched at his neck, ensuring no visible part of his skin was clean, and stood. 

“Alright,” he said.

The evening followed their standard course.

Q showered. James ordered food. They watched a program of Q’s choice while scraping takeout boxes clean and arguing amicably over who deserved the last of the tiki masala. Q won. Also standard.

“Please don’t.” Q said, when James stood to pour himself a drink.

“What?”

Q was listing a bit to the side, practically incoherent from lack of sleep. “Just. Can you not? Drink tonight.”

“I.” James wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Or how to respond to the look on Q’s exhausted face. “I haven’t gotten drunk in ages, Q. And I sure as hell wouldn’t do it while you’re here. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know, I just. The smell of it is—just not tonight. Please.“

James sat back down. 

“Yeah. Of course. I didn’t know it bothered you.”

Q pushed his glasses onto his head and pressed his palms to his eyes. “It doesn’t. Usually.”

“It does,” James realised. “You just don’t say anything, usually.”

Q made a noise that could mean a number of things and shoved his face into James’ shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” James said, trying very hard not to move. “Would you like to talk about your abiding hatred for New Year's Eve?”

Q tucked himself closer, knees butting against James’ ribcage.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

Q shifted so his temple was propped on James’ shoulder. His breath smelled like sweet curry when he sighed.

“New Year's was special. For my mother. She loved the idea of it: a fresh start, a new beginning. It was silly, romantic nonsense, really. But she loved New Years Eve so much. Even more than Christmas.”

James said nothing.

“She liked to make up stories. About all the wonderful things that would happen to us in the next year. When I was little I believed her.”

They breathed together for several seconds and James furiously wracked his mind for response that wasn’t useless or cliché.

“She was wonderful,” Q continued, somewhat haltingly. “Kind. Patient. Always wanted to see the best in people. I don’t even remember her enough to miss her properly but—“ his voice cracked on the last word and he went quiet.

It was a full minute before he spoke again.

“It was stupid, the way she died. Is it in my file?”

James shook his head. “No.”

“She had asthma, weak lungs, but nearly everyone in our building smoked. Couldn't afford a nicer place. She got pneumonia and I spent Christmas in foster care because she was in the hospital. By New Year's Eve she couldn’t talk because they had her on a ventilator so I made up some pretty lies for her, about how the next year would be wonderful. She would get better and find a new job and I would win the science fair and—“

He stopped again and James felt the hitch of his lungs as he exhaled.

“It was stupid.” He repeated. “And I don’t like New Years.”

“That’s why you’ve asked to work every year. So you could distract yourself?” James asked.

“Yes. But Boothroyd wouldn’t let me this time. Because I’d just finished running Eve’s Op and he didn’t think I’d be—“Q waved a hand. “On top of my game, or something.”

“Well. We’ll just have to ensure that from now on incompetence doesn’t force you to work the day before and you’ll be fresh for Ops through the occasion, yeah?”

Q nodded against James’ shoulder. “Owen is an idiot,” he muttered.

“Owen is an idiot,” James acknowledged. “Would you like to sleep now?”

Q didn’t respond for several seconds. “Could we—can we just stay here, for a while?” he asked.

“Sure,” James said. “TV on, or off?”

“Off. If you’ll talk to me.”

James obediently turned off the television. “What would you like me to talk about?”

“Tell me about your time in the military. With Alec. He tells me stories when he’s training me.  I hardly believe most of them.”

James laughed, shifting so he could get an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Any story in particular?”

“Mmm. The one with the Serbian Prince?”

“Oh god,” James said. “That would be one Alec would like, you comfortable?”

“Very,” Q murmured, eyes closed.

“Alright.” James said, voice low, words carefully slow. “The one with the Serbian Prince. It started in April, when—“

Twenty-five minutes later, story done, voice rough, James carried Q into the bedroom and left the door open, just in case, before returning to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of scotch, considered the open doorway, and then poured it back in to the bottle.

He turned the television on and laid out his gun cleaning kit on the coffee table before gathering the various weapons secreted around the house. He needed something to do with his hands. Something useful, that would take a while. Because thinking about Q’s mother made him think about his own mother. And he knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

Chapter Text

Now 

“Quentin,” James says, with the sort of exasperated tone that means he’s repeating himself.

“I—what?”

Q jerks up from where he’d been slouched over his keyboard and squints at the monitors for a moment with quiet desperation, making sure everything is okay, before he reaches for his mug of long-neglected tea. It's cold, but it’s caffeine, so he takes a sip.

James’ sigh is loud over the speakers.

“You should go home,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Q lies. “Not even tired.”

James laughs softly. “Sure. How’s our little boffin?”

Q glances around for a moment before finding the cat, curled into a tiny comma of grey fluff on the couch behind him.

“She’s asleep,” Q murmurs, returning his attention to the computers. “Made a little nest for herself out of your jumper.”

“My jumper?”

“She threw a bit of a fit this afternoon. Crying. Pacing. Wouldn’t be consoled. I thought maybe she was missing you and I called the veterinarian and they said to give her a piece of your clothing, something that smelled like you.”

James snorts, then makes a considering noise. “Where did you get the jumper?”

Q doesn’t answer.

The sound of shifting fabric crackles over the speakers and James repeats, infuriatingly superior. “Where did you get it, Q? Is it the blue one, by any chance, the one that I’ve been missing for nearly a month?”

Q clears his throat. “I found it here in my office. You must have left it.”

“Yes, I suppose I must have.”

“In any event,” Q continues quickly, “she’s much happier now.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

It’s silent for several minutes and Q’s head starts to droop again. He shakes himself and takes another drink of cold tea, nose wrinkled.

“You know I always imagined espionage would be more exciting, when I was a child.” James muses. “But it’s really just hours of boredom occasionally interspersed with short bursts of adrenaline-fueled violence. There’s also not nearly as many train-chases or quicksand escapes involved as I originally anticipated.”

Q laughs. “At least you’re somewhere temperate this time, imagine if you were camped on a roof in Russia. Remember the Romavi incident?”

James makes a horrified noise. “I suppose Barcelona is certainly a step up from Moscow. Jesus. I’d forgotten about that. Probably trying to repress it. Thanks for reminding me.”

“No problem.”

Q tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“Do me a favor,” James says a few minutes later.

“Hmm?” Q answers, checking the feeds again, despite knowing it’s unlikely anything will happen for several hours.

“Don’t be angry with me. And don’t put up a fight for Alec. He’s only the messenger.”

“What are you talking about?” Q mutters, glaring at the dregs in his tea mug. “Alec isn’t even—“

“Evening, Q,” Alec says, sliding through the half-open door to his office. “Or should I say ‘morning’?”

Q turns the glare to Alec, before squinting harder at the monitor showing James’ heat signature. 

“I hate you,” Q says.

James huffs a laugh. “Now, I told you not to be angry.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are,” James says. “ You haven’t slept in nearly thirty hours. The hard part is over. Any tech can keep tabs on me until the extraction team gets here. Transfer me to your favorite minion, let Alec take you home, feed the cat, and get some rest. I’ll be back by the time you wake up and you can shout at me then, alright?”

Alec crosses his arms in a way that makes his biceps look enormous. 

The “I will physically remove you from that chair if I have to” goes unsaid.

“Fine,” Q says. “But I’m going to your place. The cat has an obsession with knocking my succulents off the kitchen window sill and-" A yawn interrupts him for a moment and Q scrubs one hand into his hair. “—and I’d rather she damage your property, not mine.”

“Thoughtful, as always,” James says. “Shall I pick up food on my way home?”

“Italian,” Q says, pushing away from the desk as Alec starts to tap his foot. “I’m transferring you to Rebecca, now, alright?”

“Alright, sleep well. I’ll see you by lunchtime.”

“James—“

Q glances at Alec, mouth open. He pauses. He licks his lips. 

“I—will you pick up some wet food for the cat as well? I don’t think she’s very partial to the dry.”

James is strangely silent for a moment. “Of course. Anything for our little boffin. Will that be all?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m transferring you now, 007.”

“Very well, Q.”

***

Then 

Q spent his fifteenth birthday and the thirteen hours that followed it at MI6 running ops and being generally brilliant before Alec forcibly removed him on Boothroyd’s orders and ensured he ate, bathed, and went to bed. James talked to Q briefly during this time while waiting for a plane in Tel Aviv, wherein the sullen teenager rambled about no one respecting him before falling asleep mid-sentence.

Alec called James a few minutes later and explained the situation with quiet laughter.

And then he sent James a grainy picture of still-scowling Q curled on the couch in a half moon around his mobile, wearing argyle pajama bottoms and, inexplicably, one of James' tee shirts.

James may or may not have saved the picture.

The following day, four hours after landing in Heathrow and fifteen minutes into a REM cycle, James was rudely awakened by his front door opening and Q shouting, “it’s me, don’t shoot!”

He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned.

A moment later the mattress bounced and there was a grinning face a few inches from his.

“James.”

“ ‘M sleeping.”

“James. The paperwork went through.”

James was abruptly awake.

He straightened and Q, who had been more or less on top of him, toppled to one side.

“What?”

“It was approved. I got the official documents in the mail yesterday but didn’t realize it until this morning.”

He passed over the papers in his hands with a reverence that was usually reserved for very expensive computing hardware and Italian footwear.

James blinked blearily at the documents and tried to remind himself that this was what he wanted and he was happy for Q and he should probably manage something like a smile.

“You’re emancipated, then,” he said instead, because apparently that was the best he could manage.

“I’m emancipated,” Q agreed.

“Congratulations.”

He could tell his voice was stilted.

Q’s smile faded by a few degrees.

“Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” he said, and then rolled to put the papers on the bedside table so he could shove his head back under a pillow. “Because someone decided to wake me up thirty minutes after I finally managed to get home and to my bed.”

Q snorted, patting the general area of his shoulder under the tangle of bedding.

“Sorry. I forgot you’d just gotten back. I was excited. And wanted to tell you.”

“Well, you’ve told me,” James said, muffled. “Feel free to leave now.”

“James.”

Q poked at his ribs for a moment but James was very, very good at playing dead.

Q sighed.

“If I let you sleep for three hours will you take me to look at flats after?”

“Flats?” James said, sitting up again. “Already?”

“I had a shortlist made, just in case. And Mycroft and Boothroyd have both okayed them all. There’s only four and I called the estate agent and she’s free all afternoon. Please?”

“Five hours,” James says after a moment of consideration.

“Four or we won’t have time to see them all.”

“Four and a half and I’ll let you pick the music.”

“Agreed.”

Q solemnly extended a hand and they shook gravely before James lay back down again with a vague noise of exhaustion.

A moment later there was a soft thunk of a shoe hitting the floor, quickly followed by a second.  The rustle of fabric. The clink of a belt.

“Q.” James said warningly.

“I may as well take a nap too,” Q said, crawling over James and into the free space on the other side of him. “I only slept a few hours after Alec forced me home.”

“Couch,” James muttered.

“Mm,” Q said, setting into stillness beside him. “No thanks, I’m fine here.”

James was too tired to argue.

Chapter Text

Now

Q tended to sleep lightly, if at all, until exhaustion necessitated he succumb to several hours of dead sleep.  When James enters the flat, exhausted himself and desperate for a shower—he never liked riding economy in planes, regardless of how pretentious that made him sound—he finds a boy in his bed and a kitten guarding said boy. Q is sprawled on the left side, where James sleeps, face turned mostly into the pillow, the sheets kicked into a rumpled mess at the foot of the bed. He is naked save for a pair of James’ boxers, the gentle slope from his shoulder to the divots in his lower back shaded in stripes of light coming in the half-open window blinds.

Q doesn’t so much as flinch when James drops his bag to the floor and bends to scoop up the kitten.

“Hello, little one,” he whispers. She pushes her head against the two days-growth of stubble on his chin and he continues to study Q: the prominence of his ribs on every inhale, the bow of his barely open mouth. The tight, dark curls at the back of Q’s neck form a perfect V of ringlets James has never quite noticed before and the impulse to put his mouth on the skin beneath them is sudden and overwhelming. He shifts his attention instead to the half-moon cluster of moles beneath Q’s jaw that may exist purely to vex him and sighs, leaning against the door frame.

“Cold shower, then,” he tells the cat ruefully, and loosens his tie.

Twenty minutes later, Q blinks at him, syrup slow, when he sits on the edge of the bed, damp and somewhat disgruntled, a hand on the boy’s bare shoulder.

“Time isit?” Q mumbles.

“Half past eleven. Budge over, you’re in my spot.”

Q manages an ungainly army crawl that ends in a flop, but he’s on the right side now and James can insinuate himself between Q and the door.

The kitten scrabbles up to join them a moment later.

“So you’re wearing my pants,” James says. “That’s new.”

Q doesn’t answer, eyes closed, lashes dark and ridiculously long against the flush of his cheeks.

“Not that I’m complaining,” James says carefully. He’s not sure exactly where they stand; how he’s supposed to handle the space of time he has chosen to enforce as moral boundary.

Q’s eyes open and he gives James an equally hesitant smile.

“How’s your flight?” Q whispers.

“Fine. Noisy. I was in the back row and the baby in front of my screamed the whole way.”

Q makes an ungracious noise. “Economy.”

“Everything else was booked. Best she could do to get me home today.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Q shifts into a somewhat more contained position, off his stomach and onto his side, still facing James.

“Should’ve let me stay. I’d’ve got you better seats.”

“I survived,” James says wryly. “And you’re combining conjunctions. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not moving to the couch,” Q says, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t ask you to.” James answers.

***

Then

“I don’t like it,” James said, arms crossed, scowling at the bank of windows across the open floor of the empty studio flat. “It’s completely indefensible. A sniper could kill you eighteen different ways with very little effort. Wouldn’t even have to be a good sniper.”

The estate agent looked resigned, which Q supposed was a step up from horrified. 

“I’m not particularly concerned about snipers,” Q said through gritted teeth. It was the third place they’d looked at in as many hours and the third place James had dismissed upon first sight.

“You should be. I can’t believe Boothroyd okayed this place. We’ll be having words.”

“We’ll be having words,” Q muttered, glancing at the poor estate agent who wasn’t even attempting to sell the place, just standing by the door with a vaguely harried expression. 

“Could you at least try to make this enjoyable?” Q hissed. “This was supposed to be one of the most exciting days of my life, I chose to share it with you, and now you’re completely ruining it.” It was supposed to come out scathing, but Q’s voice broke a little midway through the sentence and James looked immediately repentant.

“Sorry,” he muttered, uncrossing his arms. “It’s just—this place is terrible from a security perspective. And the nearest tube station is six blocks away. And where would you put your computers? You’d have to get blackout curtains or the glare from all the windows will interfere with your screens, which will get expensive very fast. And the water heater is far too small, you won’t be able to have anything longer than a ten minute hot shower which is completely unacceptable. And there’s no counter space for your kettle next to the sink, you’d have to put it on the other side of the refrigerator and you know your coordination is shit before you’ve had caffeine in the mornings. That’ll drive you mad.”

He probably would have continued if Q hadn’t started laughing.

“What?” he said, crossing his arms again. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Q agreed. “No you’re completely right. Let’s go to the next one.”

The estate agent was all too happy to move on.

James couldn’t, upon first glance at the exterior, find anything wrong with the fourth place.

It had clearly been some sort of industrial space; refurbished enough for habitation but still rough around the edges. Thick concrete walls, reinforced glass, a metal roof and no landscaping or shrubberies along the newly poured front walk. It was nearly two stories, but the factory had been divided into only four one-floor residences which meant high-ceilings.  It was fifteen minutes from HQ., ten from James’ flat, well lit, and had a tube station right around the corner.

Once they were inside the available flat, James grudgingly admitted it was probably perfect for Q. The windows were high and wide, but blocked by the surrounding buildings. The kitchen was open, the bathroom small but well-outfitted, and the closet of a bedroom, windowless and spare, would be a perfect computer room.

“I want it,” Q said, somewhat breathlessly. “Please don’t tell me there’s something wrong with it because it’s perfect. James. Please.”

James walked another circle around the main room. “We’d have to put a metal door in,” he said finally. “And let TSS install security measures.”

Q shrieked and threw himself into James arms and it was only because he had been half expecting a rare childish outburst that he managed to catch Q without sending them both crashing to the floor.

The estate agent jumped.

“Thank you,” Q said fervently, fingers bunched tight into the fabric at his back. “Oh god, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

James set Q back on his feet a few moments later, smiling despite himself.

“And this is in your price range?” He couldn’t believe it, honestly, the flat was far too nice, despite the industrial setting, for a new-hire tech to afford. And while Q was certainly already doing more work than a mere minion, M had insisted he climb the ladder like anyone else on the pay scale. Albeit perhaps at a faster rate.

“It is,” Q said, “look.” He fished the paperwork out of his satchel and handed it over for James to read. When he saw the actual monthly rent, however, he knew something was wrong. Because it was far below necessity for Q’s budget. And disproportionately cheap to the surrounding properties.

“Who owns this place?” James asked the estate agent.

“A private businessman, Mr. Smith. He bought the entire property a year and a half ago and upon refurbishing the units put the other three up for rent immediately. It was only three weeks ago that he made this one available.”

“Why the discounted price?” James asked. “The others are twice what you’re asking for this one monthly.”

She shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“And have there been any other offers on the property?”

“Several. Mr. Smith is very particular about his tenants, however, and has not been satisfied with any of the other applicants so far.”

Q’s grin immediately fell. “Shit. I didn’t think about that. Who’s going to want a fifteen year old criminal in their building. Shit.”

The agent no longer seemed surprised by anything they said. “Actually, you’ve already been approved. When you submitted your interest form I sent your information to Mr. Smith. He finds you to be an acceptable tenant, provided you have a co-signature for the lease.”

“I don’t—so it’s mine?” Q asked.

“If you’d like it,” she agreed.

Q grinned at James. “Never thought I’d be excited about paperwork.”

She gave him a tentative smile of her own. “Excellent. If we can return to my office we can get started. Who is your co-signature?”

“That’d be me,” James said. “Give me a moment, though, I need to make a call. I’ll meet you at the car.”

He pushed back outside, dialing Mycroft’s number by memory.

The man answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Bond,” he said smoothly. 

“Mr. Smith,” James said.

There was a slight pause.

“Ah. I see you’ve discovered my little intercession.”

“What did you do, go make the perfect place for him as soon as he decided to emancipate?”

“I bought the property the same evening we had our conversation about his ability to look after himself. I wanted to ensure that he was safe and comfortable and I knew he wouldn’t accept monetary assistance.”

James laughed softly. “I feel that I may have underestimated you,” James admitted. 

He could hear Mycroft smiling when he answered. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Now

Q is in his flat, watching the cat (who now will only answer to “Boffin” or “Boff,” thanks to James) who is currently eyeing his succulents.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, scooping her off the counter. “No more grace period. You hurt the cacti there’s no wet food for dinner.”

She meows reproachfully and leaves in a huff to bathe herself by the bookshelves.

In the three weeks since James found the kitten, she has quickly become Q’s responsibility. James is gone so often that “home” for Boff is Q’s flat or his office at HQ, and it seems recently the only time the kitten spends at James’ apartment is when Q is there. Which, granted, is often, if James is in town.

It’s Q’s day off, and a rare occasion on which he has chosen to take it. He’s bought groceries, picked up his dry-cleaning, eaten lunch in the park, and is wiping down the kitchen counters, considering visiting Mycroft for a bit of time with the piano, when his phone rings.

“Q,” Alec says in a way that means he won’t be practicing any time soon.

Q closes his eyes. “What happened?”

“You better come in.”

“Alec, what happened?”

Q abandons his counter spray and moves to shove his laptop into his bag, trying to shrug on his jacket and lace his shoes at the same time.

“The drop James was supposed to do this afternoon went a bit sideways.”

“Alec if you don’t explicitly tell me what the hell has happened—“

“I can’t, Q. This isn’t a secure line, Boothroyd is looking over my shoulder and the situation is a mess enough already. Just get here.”

“Is he alive?” Q asks, “Will you please just tell me if—“

“He’s alive. He’s—well he’s not fine but he will be. Probably.”

“Who was monitoring him?” Q spares a harried moment to turn on the automatic cat feeder and top off Boff’s water dish before exiting the flat, locking the door with shaking hands, phone pressed between ear and shoulder.

“It wasn’t R’s fault. James went off-mission. Ditched the earpiece. We didn’t have eyes or ears on him for thirty minutes before he activated his panic button. And he wasn’t anywhere near the drop site then. It was a setup, obviously, we’re just not sure who’s behind it. Or why he chose to deviate. Or what happened once he did. Techs are going over the footage and audio they have but we’re all at a bit of a loss at the moment.”

Q is jogging awkwardly now, bag thumping against his side. “Can’t he tell you what happened?”

“Not…currently. No.”

Q trips in his haste to cross the street and falls hard, managing to bite clear through his bottom lip in the process.

“Alec.” He snarls, picking himself up, wrist pressed to his bleeding mouth.

“Just get here,” Alec says. 

Q hangs up and shifts his bag into his arms so that he can run.

***

Then

James, Alec, and Eve helped Q move in to his new flat the day after he signed the lease. When they realized the only things he had to move were two duffle bags of computer hardware, a rolling server rack, eight boxes of clothes, and a toiletry bag, it turned into a trip to Ikea.

Q probably would have found the resulting scene comical if it wasn’t for the fact that he was involved. 

Eve very seriously bounced on all the different mattress options while Alec googled the materials on his phone to make sure none of them were hazardous and James stood there, arms crossed and generally frightening, glaring at mothers pushing trolleys.

Eve bought the most expensive queen size mattress there was, a bed frame, a duvet, two blankets, several pillows and an assortment of tiny clay pots “for his window sill above the sink.” 

Alec bought all the kitchen things. Literally.  All of the kitchen things. Plates, bowls, mugs, cutlery. A frying pan. A drying rack. Towels. Sponges and canisters and a recycling bin. 

James bought bookshelves, already muttering about retrofitting them to the space, adding some molding and maybe a rolling ladder.

Q managed to convince them that he should purchase at least some of his new accouterments and left the store with two trestles and a table top for a work bench, a small wardrobe, several fluffy towels, a bath mat, and a shower curtain. 

They left nearly three hours after entering the store with two trolleys and a dozen meatballs that Alec managed to eat, completely by himself, on the way back to Q’s flat. Eve complained about the smell in her Range Rover for the next week.

Watching three Double-0 agents assemble Swedish furniture was probably the highlight of Q’s year.

“I don’t understand,” James muttered, smoothing out the bed-frame instructions with slightly more force than necessary. “The picture shows eight wooden peg-things but I’ve only got seven. Can I use one of the bigger, metal ones?”

“No,” Alec said, pointing with a hammer. “See you need the metal things later, for that bit there. You sure you haven’t got eight?”

“Yes, Alec, I am capable of counting.”

“Are you sitting on it?” Eve asked helpfully, slotting a shelf into place. She had managed to assemble nearly two bookshelves in the time it took Alec and James to lay out all the bed frame pieces.

Q listened to them squabble from the back room, arranging his clothing with care in the newly build wardrobe, and smiled despite himself.

Four hours, a frankly embarrassing amount of swearing, and one fistfight later, Q’s flat looked something like a home.

Eve ordered pizza, Alec picked up beer from the off-licence around the corner, and they sat on the floor, sweaty, but pleased, to eat and watch the sun set.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve something else for you,” Alec said. “Hold on, it’s in the car.”

A moment later he carried in a nylon bag, about the size of a standard back-pack, and presented it to Q proudly.

Q wiped greasy fingers on his jeans and pulled open the drawstring top. “A lilo?”

“For when James comes to visit. You haven’t got a couch, and I figured he’d rather not sleep on the floor.”

James saluted Alec with his beer in thanks.

“It’s queen sized, so the spare set of sheets Eve got you should fit it.”

“Let’s see,” Eve said, abandoning her fourth slice of pizza. You plug it in, I’ll go get the sheets.”

“I—alright.”

They inflated the spare bed a few feet from Q’s and Eve dressed it up like it belonged in a magazine with spare linens.

“That should do nicely. What do you think, James?”

“Very nice,” he agreed. 

“You should try it out, tonight,” Eve continued blithely. “Since it’s already set up.”

“Good idea,” Alec agreed. “Make sure security measures are working properly and all that.”

“Subtle,” Q muttered.

“I should be going, though,” Eve said, bending to rescue her unfinished slice of pizza. “I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Alec said, “I’m running the new recruits through the handgun course first thing so I should turn in early as well.”

The two were gone in a flurry of discarded beer bottles and hugs goodbye a moment later.

James sighed and moved to start cleaning up the pizza boxes on the floor. “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” he said. “I don’t know why they were—“

Q cleared his throat. “Actually, I may have mentioned to Eve earlier I was…apprehensive. About. Uh. My first night alone. In a new space.”

“Oh.”

“Not that you have to stay,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t be stupid,” James said. “Of course I’ll stay. What’d you do with the recycling bin?”

Q pointed him toward the proper cabinet, still flushed with embarrassment.

James considered his expression for a moment and then turned to fill the sink with water.

“The first week after my parents died I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Nothing had changed, really. I was still in the same bedroom, the groundskeeper and his wife were left as my guardians so I didn’t have to move or anything like that. Life continued more or less exactly how it had. Except my parents weren’t the ones taking me to school or checking my homework anymore.”

He glanced over his shoulder as Q joined him at the sink and reached for the first dirty plate.

“Before, I’d always fallen asleep listening to the television in their room down the hall. They’d turn it on after they’d put me to bed, more for background noise than anything else, and I’d listen to the sort of—indistinct noise of their voices and whatever television program they were talking over.”

James handed the soapy dish to Q, who took it with careful fingers and turned on the faucet to rinse it.

“Afterward it was too quiet, at night. I was the only one on the entire floor. No light coming from down the hall. No noise. I got desperate enough for sleep on the fourth night after they died that I went into their room, turned on the lights and the television and managed to trick myself into falling asleep.”

James handed a second plate to Q. “It worked. So I kept doing it. For almost two years. Kincaid, the groundskeeper, he had to have noticed. I know he came up to check on me at least once a night until I was well into my teens. But he never said anything.”

Q reached for a third plate, damp fingers brushing James’ as he handed it over.

“Point is,” James said, “There’s no shame in doing what you have to in order to feel safe or comfortable. No shame in asking for help, either.”

The final plate was transferred between them and James pulled the plug,  patting at the spray of droplets that dusted his t-shirt.

“You’ve seen me at my worst. You should never be embarrassed to come to me for anything, alright?”

“Alright,” Q agreed, somewhat subdued. “Thank you.”

“Good.”

“I would appreciate you staying the night,” Q said. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“I’ll stay then.”

“No television, though,” Q mused. “And it’s hardly 9. What should we do?”

“Well,” James said, “You’ve an awful lot of empty bookshelves.”

“Library’s already closed.”

“Bookshop around the corner isn’t closed until midnight, though. And they have hot chocolate.”

“You don’t like to read,” Q pointed out.

“Mm. But you do. And I like hot chocolate.”

“Well, you don’t have to convince me,” Q said.

“Excellent, walking or the car?”

“Walking,” Q said. “Let me get my coat,” he paused, looking thoughtful. “From my wardrobe. In my flat.”

James laughed.

“I’ll be waiting at your door.”

Chapter Text

Now

The minute Q jogs in the doors at HQ, R grabs his wrist and hauls him off toward Medical.

“They’ve got James in one of the secure units,” she says, pushing the elevator button for him. “Boothroyd, and Alec are in the observation room arguing with the doctors right now.”

Q steps into the elevator and nods his thanks, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. A secure unit in medical means James is injured but violent, posing a threat to others or himself, and Q doesn’t really know what that means. The doors open to a tumult of voices and he follows the noise down the hall and into one of the observation rooms. It’s crowded with people, and behind the two-way glass James is sitting on the padded floor of the cell looking like an extra from a horror movie.

“—just knock him the fuck out and take care of it,” the head of Security is saying. “I’m not risking any more of my men trying to physically restrain him.”

“We can’t sedate him,” one of the doctors snaps. “We don’t know what they drugged him with. We put any more narcotics in his system it could kill him.”

“Move,” Q says, shoving his way toward the door of the cell. “Let me go in.”

“Q,” Alec says, sounding relieved.

“He won’t hurt me. Let me go in.”

“No,” Boothroyd says. “He’s volatile, drugged to the gills, and doesn’t remember his own name right now. He’d probably hurt his mother.”

“His mother is dead. Give me the key.”

“Now listen,” Boothroyd starts.

“That’s why you called me, isn’t it? Give me the key.”

Boothroyd gestures at Alec with an open hand, as if asking for assistance.

“Q,” Alec says. “I didn’t call you to be some sort of magic solution. I called you because you’re his emergency contact. Going in there is not a good idea. He tried to choke me the minute I walked into the room.”

“Key,” Q repeats. “You don’t have any better options.”

“He’s right,” one of the doctors says, handing a preliminary medical file to Q.  He turns to Boothroyd, while Q scans the admission sheet. “Everyone knows James has a soft spot for Q. Let him go. We can monitor things from here and if he gets violent we’ll gas the room. He could have life-threatening injuries and we don’t have any better options right now.”

“I’m not risking the future head of—“ he doesn’t hear the rest of Boothroyd’s response because Q has lifted the keycard off Boothroyd’s belt, and scanned his way into the holding cell.

The minute he steps inside, door quickly closing at his back, James is on his feet.

Q sits down.

James is somewhat thrown by this. 

He moves forward, frowning, hands fisted. The tendons on his arms are starkly visible, painted with dirt and blood and he looks genuinely frightening for the first time that Q can consciously remember.

Q is motionless, hands palm-up on his knees, head tipped back. Their combined breathing is loud in the silence.

James stalks back and forth in front of him for a minute, tense and predatory, before dropping into a crouch. Q stares back at him, unblinking.

“James,” Q says. “Do you know who I am?”

He doesn’t answer but reaches out to touch the side of Q’s mouth where he’s bitten his lip. It’s swollen now, bleeding sluggishly.

“Hey,” Q says softly. “Do you know who I am?”

James’ hand moves from his face to his throat. 

Q has always known, in an abstract sense, that James is larger than him, stronger, and wholly capable of hurting him with very little effort. He’s never particularly thought about it in depth until this moment though.

James’ hand spans the entirety of his throat, thumb and middle finger nearly touching at the nape of his neck. The callouses of his palm are rough against the bob of Q’s Adam’s apple when he swallows. The grip is tight, just bordering on restrictive.

“James,” Q whispers. “I am not a threat. Look at me. You’re smart. Even if you don’t remember me, you know I am not a threat.”

It’s a struggle to keep his hands in his lap. To not panic and scrabble against the grip forcing him to take small breaths.

“Please,” Q says, and he can hear Alec yelling something behind the glass. “Please let me go, before they knock both of us out. I am not a threat.”

James lets go.

Q takes a moment to breathe.

“Thank you.”

James falls back on his heels, eyes devastatingly blank.

He licks drying blood from the corner of his mouth, still studying the similar injury on Q’s bottom lip.

“You’ve been drugged,” Q says. “Heavily. But you’re safe now, and I’m not going to let anyone do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Okay?”

James continues staring at him.

“Okay. God, I’m probably doing this all wrong.” Q moves to push a hand through his hair and James jerks back onto the balls of his feet and into a crouch. Q slowly lowers his hand back to his lap. 

“Sorry. Sorry, I’ll stay still. All right. Your name is James Bond. You’re at MI6, where you work. You are safe, but pretty confused. Obviously. There were—some bad people. They hurt you. And drugged you. The lab is still analyzing everything in your system but until they get the results back they don’t want to give you anything else. Are you in pain?”

James doesn’t answer.

“They didn’t really have a chance to look at your injuries before you woke up and—well, before you woke up. If I go get some water and a medical kit will you let me make sure you haven’t been seriously hurt?”

James head tips slightly to one side, strangely avian. He isn’t looking at Q anymore, but the glass behind him.

“You stay,” James says slowly. 

“Of course,” Q says, knowing everyone in the observation room is listening. “Alec can bring some supplies to us. You like Alec. You’re friends. Though apparently you don’t share living space well. Something about hot water.”

James doesn’t answer.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before there’s a knock on the door and James is on his feet again, albeit leaning a bit to one side. Q imagines the adrenaline is fading and judging from the initial incomplete hospital assessment, he likely has more than a few broken ribs.

“James,” Q says. “I’m going to stand up and go to the door. Alec won’t come inside, he’ll just hand me the kit. Right Alec? Knock twice if you agree.”

Two sharp raps.

Q raises his hands, slowly, then shifts awkwardly to his feet. James watches him, but doesn’t move.

The door slides open, just a few inches, and Alec passes through a First-Aid kit. Q accepts it, movements telegraphed, and sets it on the floor. Two liters of water, a stainless steel bowl, and several folded towels follow it. Alec’s jaw is clenched when he slides the door closed again. “Go carefully,” he murmurs. “James will never forgive himself if he hurts you.”

Q lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he turns back to face the room and James is still standing exactly where he left him.

“You should probably sit,” Q says. “Maybe on the bed? That way I can reach all of you and you can see what I’m doing.”

James doesn’t move for a moment, just staring at him, considering, but Q carries the supplies to the bed as if he’s agreed anyway. 

“Not a threat,” Q reminds him. “I hardly weigh 9 stone and even with you hurt it wouldn’t take much for you to kill me. Not that I’m suggesting that’s an acceptable course of action. You um, you actually like me quite a bit, usually.”

James moves to sit on the mattress and Q opens the kit, pulling out a stethoscope, and trying to remember the series of actions his training recommended in situations like this.

“Can you take off your shirt? I’d like to listen to your heart, lungs, and gut first.”

James reaches for the hem of his disgusting t-shirt, more brown than the original white, stifling a noise of pain as he pulls it over his head. He takes a moment to breathe, afterward, eyes closed, fingers knotted tight in the fabric, before looking at Q again.

“Broken ribs,” he says, like it’s a concession.

“Alright,” Q says, trying to keep his voice gentle but not condescending. “Thank you for telling me.”

“What’s your name?” James asks.

“Oh. I probably should have started with that. Sorry. I’m Q.”

 “Q isn’t a name. It’s a letter.”

“It’s a nickname. I let you call me Quentin sometimes, though.”

“Let me?” James seems amused by this.

“Yes, I let you,” Q repeats.  

He kneels beside the bed, meeting James’ eyes. “I’m going to touch you now, okay?” 

“Okay.” James says.

***

Then

Q was directing Eve through a series of tunnels underneath Parliament when Alec slid in the half-open door to his office and deposited a fresh mug of tea on his desk.

“Afternoon,” he mouthed.

Q nodded to him in thanks.

Alec settled himself on the couch against the back wall and, a few minutes later, James pushed his way into the room as well, also carrying a mug of tea.

He frowned at Q’s desk and the clearly fresh cup already on it, before turning to glare at Alec.

They held a whispered argument for a moment, which ended in an equally quiet wrestling match over who got to lie on the couch. James won.

Alec retreated to the corner to sulk and touch things that probably ought not to be touched.

A few minutes later, Eve was in the back of an MI6 vehicle, safely on her way to headquarters, and Q transferred her feed to one of the techs to monitor. He rolled to face his agents, unable to completely smother a fond smile.

“Both of you here at the same time? I’d think someone would have warned me.”

“One of the rookies has been to the Young Offenders Institute today,” Alec said, “he’s bringing in a potential recruit for a psych eval and wanted us to run him through some physical things as well. I’ve got weapons, James has combat.”

“Huh. I didn’t know anyone had been flagged in the system. What’s his name?”

Alec waved an unconcerned hand, which meant he hadn’t actually been paying attention when he was briefed. 

James sat up, hooking one arm over the back of the couch. “Evan something. He didn’t seem that striking from what I read but…” he shrugged.

Q made a noise of agreement and reached for the mug that Alec had brought. James’ eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Q fought a smile and carefully redirected his hand to the tea James had made him. The corner of James’ mouth ticked up, most likely unconsciously, and he leaned back, looking smug.

Q rolled his eyes.

“If you’re meant to be scoping out potential agents, what are you two doing down here?” Q asked. “Not that your company isn’t…stimulating.”

“They’re bringing him to tech branch first to remove his tracking anklet and give him one of ours. The one he has now will cause issues with the sensors at the firing range.” James answered.

“Anklet?” Q repeated.

“Apparently he’s something of an escape artist as well as a street brawler.”

“Fantastic.”

“Not all our new recruits can be well-dressed boffins, Q,” Alec said consolingly.

The soft chatter in the main tech bay outside Q’s door went quiet and all three of them glanced up.

“That’ll be him,” Alec said to James. “Shall we?”

Q followed them to the door, leaning against the jam and trying to catch a glimpse of the new kid.

When he did, Q immediately wished he hadn’t.

The boy was tall and olive skinned with a wide, straight smile. He was grinning winningly at the small crowd of people around him looking as congenial and nonthreatening as possible. It was an act, Q knew. A good act, granted, but an act nonetheless and he found himself stepping quickly back into his office, closing the door and leaning against it and trying to remind himself to breath regularly.

Evan Collins.

He hadn’t made the connection at first because no one at the detention center went by their first names. He’d scarcely remembered Collins had a first name. But he certainly remembered Collins and Collins would most certainly remember him and he couldn’t—he didn’t know how to handle this. 

There were four distinct portions of Q’s life. His time with his mother. His time at the children’s home. His time at the Young Offenders Insitute. His time with MI6. None of them had ever intersected before and he found himself struggling between the cringing child he had been the last time he’d seen Collins and the near-adult he was presently. 

A knock on his door caused him to jerk in surprise and he realized that James must have noticed his abrupt retreat.

He opened the door, just enough to let James inside, before closing it again.

“Q,” James said, and he realized he was going to have to explain.

“I—“ Q took a moment to straighten, reminding himself he was practically the the Quartermaster for M16 and not a bloody child anymore before starting again.

“I know him. Knew. Him. He was there at the centre when I was.”

James’ trigger finger twitched. “Was he one of the ones that hurt you?” he asked, completely, frighteningly, calm.

“Not—no.” Q shoved one hand into his hair, looking desperately around the room for something that needed doing. “He never touched me. But he did…He liked to watch. I think he got off on it—seeing us—the smaller ones—afraid, or in pain. Sometimes he’d give the others…suggestions.”

Q straightened a stack of already straight papers on his desk. “He’s not a good candidate for MI6. Psych will tell you that. He’s smart, but not smart enough to fool them, I don’t think.”

“Q,” James said softly, and it was gentle enough, rare enough, that Q looked up.

“What would you like me to do?” James asked, and it was so sombre a question, so completely sincere, that Q knew, in that moment, that if he told James to kill Collins, he would without question. The realisation winded him.

“Nothing,” Q said firmly. “Just make sure he isn’t accepted into the program.”

“Alright.” James was looking at him like he was a wild animal, like he may frighten Q if he made any fast movements.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

Q glanced around, bemused. “I have plenty of tea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Q sobered. “I—could you just—“ Q took a halting step forward, uncertain how to initiate a hug if there wasn’t the excuse of sudden impulsive excitement, or sleep deprived boldness behind it.

Luckily James could read him well enough that Q didn’t have to and a moment later he found himself caught securely in a strong set of arms. He let himself sag, face in James’ neck, breathing detergent and aftershave and yes, some gunpowder as well, trying desperately not to do something embarrassing, like cry, or ask him to stay.

He pulled himself together after what was still probably too-long an intermission, and stepped back.

He cleared his throat.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“No. I’ve got to do the write up for Eve’s mission and then 003 is going to need eyes on her extraction in an hour.”

“Alright.”

James didn’t argue with him, which he appreciated. 

“When are you finished? I’ll wait for you.”

Q considered the clock. “2100 at the latest.”

“Alright. I’ll be here at 1900 to monopolize your couch until then.”

Q nodded, opening the door for him. “007,” he said.

“Q,” James answered.

Chapter Text

Now

Q presses the stethoscope to James’ skin and closes his eyes.

James’ heart is beating far too fast, but that’s not particularly concerning, considering the situation. His lungs are clear and his stomach seems normal, though honestly Q’s grasp of standard gut sounds isn’t the best. 

Q lets out a breath and slings the stethoscope around his neck, watching James’ face for approval as he extends his hands again. James nods and he presses them forward, gentle palpitations he’s only every practiced on dummies and volunteer students in mandatory aid classes. James doesn’t flinch, too preoccupied with the cut on Q’s lip to give any real feedback.

Q falls back on his heels, rests his hands on bowed knees, and sighs. “Can you tell me where else you hurt? Please?”

“Ribs,” he says. “Head. I’m—I don’t.” He frowns, still fixated on Q’s mouth. “I know you. But I can’t remember—“

Q stands. “It’s okay. Give it a few hours and things will probably start to come back. Can I look at your head?”

James parts his legs, allowing Q to move between them, and with a not insignificant amount of trepidation, bows his head.

“Not a threat,” Q reminds him, and shifts his fingers through the bloody matt of hair behind James’ ear. There’s a knot, split and bleeding, near the back of his skull and Q realizes James’ memory problems may not be entirely related to the drugs. 

“You’ve got a sizable bump back here. Any chance I can convince you to let them take an x-ray?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Let me check your eyes, okay? I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion.”

James obeys his directions, following his finger, squinting at the light in Q’s hand. His performance is not encouraging.

“Definitely a concussion,” Q decides. “Alright. Well the concussion and ribs are the worst of it then, which isn’t too bad. I mean. Better than I thought when I first saw you.”

He moves back, opens one of the water jugs and pours half of it into the bowl.

“Lets get you cleaned up and we can see if any of your cuts need stitches. I don’t see any that are too bad but we should check, I think.”

He approaches James with a wet cloth, then pauses, uncertain. “Do you want to do it yourself, or can I? I imagine moving your arms is just going to exacerbate the ribs right now.”

James considers for a moment, then ducks his head again. “You,” he says, sounding exhausted.

Q throws a triumphant look at the two-way glass and can imagine Alec rolling his eyes behind it.

He cleans James’ head with careful thoroughness before discarding the rag and wetting a fresh one for his face. He wipes down James’ arms and chest perfunctorily before spending more time than is probably necessary cleaning blood from beneath his fingernails. James is starting to slump, shoulders resting on the wall behind the bed, body curved slightly to favour his ribs.

“Usually it’s you doing this for me,” Q says. “When I get a bloody nose sparring or have an accident in the lab, or when that stupid chav tried to mug me.” He clears his throat. “One time when I was drunk. You’re good at it. Taking care of me.”

He reaches backward for a fresh towel, bracing himself on James’ knee for a moment. James doesn’t even flinch.

“Don’t get me wrong, I spend plenty of time patching you up, too, after missions. You’re too stubborn to go in and let Medical do their jobs but—“ he finishes with James’ hands and rubs one wrist against his forehead. “You never let me take my time. Always hurrying me through stitching you up and slapping a bandage on burns or what have you.  I’d like it. If you’d let me take care of you too, sometimes. Like this.”

“Counter,” James murmurs, eyes half-lidded.

“Pardon?”

“I put you on the counter. Island. When you’re hurt. Upset.”

“Yeah,” Q sats, soft. “You do. Made sense when I was younger. Put us at the same level. Now I think its just habit.”

“Habit,” James agrees.

“Can I help you get your jeans off?” Q asks.

James shifts his hips slightly in a way that seems like acquiescence and Q does his best to remove James’ shoes and tug the denim down without causing him any more pain. His legs aren’t injured or particularly dirty, tan and familiarly scarred and he’s left wearing a pair of black briefs Q has folded while helping him with laundry. The dichotomy feels strange in his memory.

“Are the lights in here hurting your head?” Q asks belatedly. “We can turn them down, if you want.”

“Please,” James says, and Q glances toward the glass, mouthing his thanks as the lights immediately dim.

“Well. That’s my job done, I guess. Do you—would you mind if I stayed with you?”

James studies him, then leans forward, reaching with a wince to touch Q’s mouth.

“You’re hurt too.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

James thumb presses, insistent. He points to one of the clean towels.

 “Let me.”

Q glances toward the glass.

“Okay.”

He wets a cloth and passes it over, moving to kneel between James’ knees so he can easily reach Q’s face.

James’ hands are far from steady, but they’re gentle and he cleans the blood from Q’s lip, trailing the damp fabric to his chin, with a pinched expression.

“I remember your mouth,” James says.

“What?”

 “You sleep in his bed. Sometimes. You wear his shirts and he likes it.”

“What?”

“Sorry.” James looks confused for a moment. “I mean, me. You wear my shirts. But I don’t…he doesn’t let himself touch you. Are you—we— together?”

For a moment Q considers saying yes.

“No,” he admits. “We’re not.”

“Because you’re too young.”

“I’m nearly seventeen.”

“How old am I?”

“That’s not important.”

“Too young,” he repeats. 

“Yes. Fine. I mean, I’m not. But you think I am, so.”

James smiles slightly.  Then goes still.

“You made a deal.”

Q is lost for a moment and then—he flushes. “Uh. Yes. We did.”

“Because you were reckless and scared him. Me.”

“Sorry.”

“Stupid.” James eyes are sliding in and out of focus. He sighs and puts down the rag, reaching for Q’s wrist. “Up,” he says.

Q lets James pull him onto the mattress next to him, settling carefully against his uninjured side.

 “You love him?” James asks.

“Yes.” Q says, despite knowing he’s going to have hell to pay when the transcript of this conversation crosses M’s desk. “Yes, I love you.”

“Mm.” James says, eyes closed, head tipped back against the wall. “He loves you too.”

***

Then

James knocked on Q’s door nearly an hour after he’d said he would meet him, and Q, who was certainly not spinning idly in his chair, worrying something had happened to him,  rocketed to his feet. This was probably not the best idea as momentum, sleep deprivation, and dizziness from said spinning, sent him crashing to the floor a moment later.

James made a concerned noise outside.

“Bloody—“ Q used the wall to get himself upright again and opened the door.

James slipped inside with a fond look of exasperation.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. What took you so long? You said you’d be here at 1900.”

“Ah,” James was suddenly evasive which Q knew from experience did not bode well.

“There was an incident at the firing range. You know how ridiculous they are about paperwork when that sort of thing happens.”

Q narrowed his eyes.

“Did this incident happen to occur while Evan Collins was at the firing range?”

“Yes. He had an unfortunate accident.”

“James,” Q said, exasperated. “I told you not to hurt him.”

“You did no such thing. You told me to make sure he wasn’t accepted into the program. I did that.”

“What else did you do?”

“These things happen sometimes, Q.” 

“James.”

“What? It’s not like I killed him,” he said, sounding comically petulant. “And it was Alec’s idea, anyway.”

Q sat back down in his chair, pressing his palms to his eyes.

“You told Alec?”

James sighed, moving to lean against Q’s desk.

“He’s not stupid. As soon as I came back out of your office he asked if Collins was someone from your past. I told him that much was true, nothing else.”

“So you two decided to shoot him.”

“Oh, no.” James said, brow furrowed seriously. “He shot himself. Unfortunate accident, remember?”

“Where, exactly, did he happen to accidentally shoot himself?”

“Testicles,” he said placidly. “Nasty business. They always bleed so much.”

“James,” Q said again.

“I’m not sorry.”

Q leaned back, dragging his hand from his face and into his hair, meeting James’ eyes. None of the previous humour was left on his face and he looked…sad wasn’t quite the right word, nor was angry. He was some mix of the two and it made Q want to shove him onto the couch, crawl into his lap, and not leave for several hours.

“It’s probably bad that I’m happy, right?” Q said finally. “And it’s not—I’m not happy that you hurt him, just that you did it for me.”

“I’d do anything for you,” James said, utterly without artifice. 

Q let out a long, slow breath.

“Right. Take me home then? Please.”

James pursed his lips, slipping his hands into his pockets. He nodded once.

“ ‘Course. I’ll bring the car around. Meet me out front?”

James was still looking at him with a strange, possessive sort of solemnity that made something in Q’s chest tighten.

“Yes,” he said, trying to swallow the sudden hot ache in his throat. “I’ll get my things.”

Chapter Text

Now

James wakes to what feels like the worst hangover of his life and the distinct feeling he has done something very, very stupid.

He shifts minutely and wishes he hadn’t.

He resists the urge to groan and takes an analytical breath.

Ribs-several broken, left side. An annoyance, but nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. 

He curls his fingers, then his toes, then slowly lets his eyes ease open.

Concussion, likely.

Especially considering the absurd, painful, brightness of the ceiling.

Alec is studying him from across the room. 

Medical room. Medical secure unit, room. At HQ.

Not good.

Alec’s back is against the door and his keycard is hovering over the admit pad.

Also not good.

“James,” he says carefully.

“Alec?” he answers, squinting against the light. “What—“he remembers Q, then, being with him. Bloodied. Waking him up every hour. Cool hands on his face. And—“

“Where’s Q?”

Alec looks relieved.

“Back to yourself again, then? What’s your name and date of birth?”

“Fuck you,” James says, trying to sit up. “Where’s Q?”

Alec sighs. “Close enough,” he mutters, and moves forward to help.

“He stayed the night with you but Security came and took him half an hour ago. Apparently when M was apprised of the situation this morning she wasn’t happy. He’s been in her office ever since.”

“The situation?—ugh.”

He curls instinctively forward, head in his hands, elbows on knees. The position does nothing for his ribs, but they’re going to hurt regardless, so.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“The drop? No—I remember being in the car, on the way, and then Q. He was hurt, his mouth.” James pauses, sitting up faster than he should. “Did I do that?”

“Easy. No, he was bleeding when he got here.”

“What happened?”

“We still aren’t sure, and if you don’t remember—“

“No, I mean to Q. Is he alright?”

“He tripped in his hurry to get here to see you,” Alec says, exasperated. “He’s fine. Though I imagine he may be suspended shortly.”

“Why?”

“He stole Boothroyd’s keycard to enter the containment cell of a volatile agent, despite strict instructions not to. That can’t be overlooked.”

James was outraged for a moment, then—“Oh. Me. He wasn’t supposed to be  in here.”

“Yeah.”

“Stupid.”

“The transcript of your conversation probably didn’t go over too well either.”

James frowns, wishing the lights were dimmer. “Why?”

“Do you not remember?”

“I think we’ve established my memory is not what it should be, Alec, would you please just—“

“You essentially declared your undying love for each other. I can get a copy of the video for you if you’d like.”

James does recall something like that. Vaguely.

He puts his head back in his hands.

“Hell.”

Alec studies him, frowning.

“We’re not even sleeping together,” James says, somewhat desperately.

“Would it change change anything if you were?”

James says nothing and Alec lets out long, slow, breath.

“Just out of curiosity, when was the last time you did sleep with someone?—Off mission, that is.”

James, who had opened his mouth to respond, closes it again with a subtle wince.

“That long?”

“I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Things like Q?”

“Jesus, Alec. He’s a kid.”

Alec shrugs, clapping one hand, albeit gently, on James’ back.

“He’s been looking at you like you’re the sun for over a year. There’s a betting pool over how long it takes you to break.”

“He deserves better than me.”

“I don’t think he cares what you think.”

James sighs, straightening. “Did you have a reason for coming in here?”

Alec looks like he’s going to press the matter but doesn’t.

“Your blood tests are back, doctors said the drugs should be out of your system by now and we can get you patched up and sent home. I’m assuming M will want to shout at you when she’s done with Q and you may as well have some painkillers in your system when it happens.”

“Fantastic.”

Alec heads back to the door with a grin. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water,” James says.

“Done.”

Alec is halfway into the hall when James calls after him.

“Wait, can you get me a copy of that video? From last night?”

“Sure, I’ll have one of the minions bring a laptop up. That it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Alec salutes and the door closes behind him.

James leans his head back and tries not to groan.

*****

Then

Q was halfway through an opulent dinner of tilapia and an assortment of exotic vegetables he didn’t know the names of, when he couldn’t handle it anymore and put down his fork with studied intent. 

Mycroft, dabbing elegantly at his mouth with a cloth napkin, raised one eyebrow.

“I was wondering how long it would take.  You’ve been wanting to tell me something of importance all evening.”

Q rested his elbows on the table, then, remembering the etiquette book he’d read the week before, promptly removed them.

“James hurt someone for me yesterday. Hurt them…badly.”

Mycroft speared one of the un-namable vegetables. “Did they deserve it?”

“I think that’s a somewhat subjective question.”

Mycroft chewed, eyebrow still up, and Q sighed.

“Yes. I mean. I think he did. Obviously James thought he did.”

“Was this individual someone who harmed you or allowed you to be harmed in the past?”

Q pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“The fact that he is alive at all is a testament to James’ restraint then, I would say.”

Q exhaled. “I just. It’s not like I’m a fan of the political institute masquerading as our government system—no offense—“

Mycroft smiled slightly.

“But I—it should bother, me, shouldn’t it?”

“Let me make sure I understand correctly. James injured someone for you, someone who you believe deserved the injury, and now you are bothered because you…aren’t bothered?”

“More or less,” Q agreed, picking his fork back up. “Working at MI6…I’ve seen it get to people’s heads. The supremacy they have. The lack of accountability. We play God and rationalise our actions because they’re sanctioned and I don’t want to exploit the power I have, or support others abusing theirs.”

“But?”

“But I also—I was pleased. When James abused his power for me.”

Mycroft considered this. “It pleased you. Because you felt the individual in question got what he deserved, or because Bond was the one enacting your revenge?”

“The latter,” Q admitted.

“That’s understandable,” Mycroft said. “You’re quite enamored with him. And for a man like James, I suppose revenge schemes must be something akin to flowers and chocolates. You were flattered.”

Q flushed.

“He’s hardly wooing me. He thinks I’m a child.”

“You are,” Mycroft said, relatively pointedly. “But you won’t be for long. And his affection for you is already somewhat more than platonic guidelines would suggest. Surely you realize that.”

Q swallowed, somewhat painfully, over the sudden nervous constriction of his throat.

“James prefers women.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“He sleeps with more women than men.”

“That may have more to do with availability than preference. Besides, the majority of his recent conquests have been related to work, something he has no input on either way.”

Q raised an eyebrow, a good imitation of the look Mycroft had given him moments before.

“Mycroft. Do you have surveillance on James?”

“Minimally, it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

“I’m mentioning it.”

“Consider it an illustration of my brotherly affection for you.”

“You’re spying on James.”

Mycroft sighed, as if Q was the one being ridiculous. “If it makes you feel any better, I have surveillance on Sherlock’s current…paramour…as well.”

“Paramour?” Q choked out.

“Well I assume ‘lover’ is premature. And I had better assume correctly.”

Q coughed into his napkin and took a drink of water, blush moving to the tips of his ears.

“I think any assumptions involving James being interested in me are premature.”

“I think you should be patient and see how things stand in a few years.”

Q considered this, swallowing several more fancy vegetables, and tapped his glasses a bit further up his nose, considering.

“How many years, exactly, would you say?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to cough into his napkin. “No.”

“Oddly, that wasn’t a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

“I will not help my baby brother arrange his loss of virtue.”

“Well that’s horrifically old-fashioned.  You do realise virginity is a social construct used to—“

“Yes, Quentin,” Mycroft said, sounding relatively bereft. “But you are still my brother and currently, technically, still a child and I can’t—I can’t. So. Would you like some wine?”

“Wine? For a child like me?”

Mycroft sighed a second time. “Sometimes you are far too like Sherlock for comfort.”

Q grinned, nodding toward his empty glass. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Chapter Text

Now

Q sits in the chair outside M’s office feeling strangely like a child waiting for the headmaster.  He hadn’t been an especially problematic child, but the occasions he had been in trouble were memorable. Usually because once the headmaster had finished talking to his mother then he’d have to deal with her disappointment. At least his feet touch the floor now.

M has suspended him. Three weeks. Paid. An interview with Psych upon his return. A kind punishment, all things considered. 

Q is certain it will be hateful. 

He’ll have so much damage to repair when he gets back that the very idea of letting some other tech take over his workstation and monitor his agents is—well. Hateful.

And to make things worse, because he’s a high security risk, he’s going to be assigned a bodyguard. Babysitter, more like. In his space and his home and. Hateful. So hateful.

He scuffs the toe of one shoe against the marble floor and waits.

Technically M had told him to report back to Tech branch to gather his things and await his security assignment, but he wants to speak to James before he is exiled, and James is currently in M’s office, getting, Q assumes, a similar dressing-down to the one he just experienced. Though honestly, if his punishment is so much as a day shorter than Q’s there is going to be hell to pay.

Q absently clicks his heels together.

The door opens.

James looks haggard. He’s wearing a tee shirt and track bottoms that were most likely in his gym locker and the way he’s walking, stiff, overly formal, speaks of a significant amount of pain.

Q expects James expression to brighten upon seeing him, but if anything, the reverse happens.

By the time Q has bounced to his feet and is within touching distance, James is reaching for Q’s shoulders and talking through his teeth.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I—what?”

James tips Q’s head back, none too gently, and ducks to inspect his neck with angry thoroughness.

“I nearly killed you.”

“James, I’m fine. You barely touched me. ”

“Bullshit. I watched the video,” he says, not making the slightest effort to keep his voice low. “They told you I was dangerous. That I wasn’t in my right mind. What were you thinking?!”

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Except that I nearly did. You can’t know that, Q. Not ever. I didn’t recognize you at all.”

“Yes, you did.”

James has Q’s face bracketed in his hands now, voice steely and sharp.

“You cannot put yourself in danger like that. It was stupid and juvenile.”

“You’re one to talk,” Q says, pushing away James’ hands. “I distinctly remember you promising not to go off mission anymore.”

“I don’t—“

“You could have been killed last night, very nearly was, and it was just as much your fault that you were in danger as it was mine when I walked into that cell. So forgive me if I’m not apologetic, you outstanding hypocrite.”

“I never promised that. I said I would consult you. And I meant it. But you weren’t there and—“

“Well that makes it ok, then.”

“I must have had a good reason.”

“Goodness, that makes me feel so much better.”

“Q. I don’t remember what happened, but I wouldn’t have—I must have had a good reason.”

Q pushes away from him; solidly, this time. “I’m going home.”

He swings around, hands shoved in pockets, and glares heavily at everyone he encounters on his way to the lift. The gossip chain will be unbearable for a while considering a good dozen people had been party to that conversation. Not that he’ll have to deal with the fallout considering he won’t be here for three weeks. 

Three weeks.

Jesus.

Q realises once he reaches the lifts that James is trailing painfully behind him. He almost feels bad for a moment. Then reconsiders.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Q snaps, “but that was not an invitation for you to follow me. When I said I was going home, I meant alone.”

James moves to cross his arms, winces, and reconsiders. “That may be difficult seeing as I’ve been assigned to watch you for the entirety of your suspension.”

“No.”

“Yes, actually. I already tried to change her mind on the matter but if you’d like to try, feel free to take it up with M.”

The lift dings.

James gestures benevolently for Q to enter first.

Hateful. 

So. So. Hateful.

***

Then

James was unpacking his second-favorite suit in a Virginia hotel room when his phone rang. It was Q’s ringtone—some synth-pop thing that Q knew drove him absolutely mad—and he answered, still frowning at the slight crease that had appeared in the lapel of said suit.

“Q,” James said.

It was quiet on the other line for a moment, then, “Sorry. I’ve just remembered you’re doing the Langley job. Nevermind.”

James was immediately unsettled. Q did not forget things.

“Quentin, do not hang up the phone.”

Q sighed.

“Everything is fine.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s happened and I’ll determine if that’s true?”

“I may have exploded something. A bit.”

James rubbed the space between his eyebrows with one knuckle.

“Where are you?”

“Home. The damage to the room is minimal. But I er— slightly singed myself.”

James sighed. Alec and Eve were both in Morocco dealing with a very annoying prince and Boothroyd was probably running their OP.

“Hang up,” James said. “Call Mycroft.”

“That’s really not necessary, it’s just—I’m fine. A bit of ointment and I’ll be good as new. It was an impulse to call you. I shouldn’t have. Sorry.”

Q hung up but James knew he had no intention of calling his brother. 

So James did.

Half an hour later James was ironing the lapel of his suit when his phone rang again. He grinned as he answered.

“You mind telling me why Mycroft showed up at my flat with a disgruntled burn specialist in tow fifteen minutes ago?” Q said.

“You know Mycroft,” James said easily. “He has eyes everywhere.”

“He does not have eyes in my home,” Q hissed. “Also he told me you called him, so you can shove the innocent act, alright?”

“Traitor,” James murmured, pressing the phone to his shoulder so he could hold up his suit Jacket. The crease was gone. He nodded to himself.

“I’m relatively certain he abducted the doctor who looked at me,” Q said reflectively.

“What did he say?” James asked.

“Mycroft? Not much. He’s very good with the judgmental looks, though.”

“No, the burn specialist. How are your injuries?”

“Oh. My forehead will take a couple weeks to heal, no permanent damage. My eyebrows may take a bit longer to grow back, though.”

James laid the jacket on the bed, trying not to raise his voice.

“You burnt off your eyebrows? What were you doing?”

“Not all of them!” Q answered shrilly. “Just the top edges. My glasses protected the bottom bits.”

“Quentin.”

“And I was wearing safety gloves. Really. The damage was minimal.”

“What about the rest of your face—“ James had a terrible thought, “—what about your hair?”

“My hair is completely fine,” Q said, sounding strangely deflective. “And I was wearing a mask.”

“How was your hair completely fine?” James asked. “It covers your eyebrows most of the time and apparently you’ve burnt them clear off.”

“Not all of them,” Q muttered again. “And I didn’t—my hair was…pulled back.”

“Sorry?”

Q sighed. “It’s been getting too long but you know I hate getting it cut and—It was in my eyes. So I—I’ve got headbands.”

“Headbands,” James repeated, uncertain what his feelings were doing. “Are you still wearing one now?”

Q made a strangled noise. “Yes. Doctor said it’s best to keep my hair off my forehead while it’s healing anyway.”

“Send me a picture. Right now.”

“James.”

“Now, Q.”

Q sighed a second time. “Alright, hold on.”

A few seconds later James’ phone buzzed and he opened the text file immediately.

The picture was a close up of a very sullen, glasses-less, Q, his forehead red, shiny, and painful looking.  While he did still have some semblance of eyebrows they were, indeed, quite singed at the tops. And there, just at his hairline, was a wide, tartan-patterned stretchy cloth headband, holding his curls well away from his face. It was, for lack of a better word, profoundly adorable.

“Q,” James said, trying very hard not to laugh. “What were you doing that required a mask and not eye protection? You’re lucky you were wearing your glasses.”

Q made an annoyed noise.

“I’m working on a small explosive. The compound was a bit more volatile than I was expecting, though. And I didn’t actually think I needed a mask, I was soldering and you know I don’t like the smell.”

“Lucky all around then. A small explosive and soldering? What is it you’re scheming?”

“I—It’s just an idea,” Q said,  “I wasn’t even going to mention it until I’d worked up a prototype.”

“Q,” James said. “It’s me, not M.”

“A mouth brace,” he murmured. “Something that can be turned on with a press of the tongue to the roof of the mouth—timed so that that wearer then has time to shift it between their teeth and toss it somewhere—in cases where their hands are tied—I got the idea after Alec was shot in Israel. If he’d had something like that it would have provided enough of a distraction for him to escape without incident.“

“Sounds like a brilliant idea,” James said, checking his watch. “I recommend you keep your explosive experiments to HQ, and ensure you’re always using full safety precautions from here on out, though, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Q agreed, far too quickly for James to believe him.

“Right. Well I need to get dressed, are you going to be alright? Is Mycroft still with you?”

“I’m fine,” Q said, relatively despairing. “And yes. Mycroft is staying the evening with me. He’s ordered takeout from a restaurant that I’m certain does not deliver.”

James laughed. “Good. I’ll see you in two days. And Q?”

“Hmm?”

“I think the headband is lovely.”

Q hung up on him.

Chapter Text

Now

They don’t talk to each other.

They spend an entire day, within speaking distance, and say not a single word to each other once leaving HQ.

 Q works on a side project Mycroft has given him, probably trying to circumvent his impending boredom, and James spends most of the day alternately walking circles around the flat and clicking aimlessly at his computer. Around sunset James orders enough take out for two but doesn’t make Q a plate, and by the time Q realizes James isn’t going to make him a plate, the food has gone cold and he decides that instead of submitting himself to skulking into the kitchen and doing it himself he just…won’t eat at all. When it becomes clear to James that Q has chosen not eating as his retaliatory course of action, James angrily makes a second plate, heats it up, and drops it unceremoniously on Q’s desk. Q eats it but does not thank him. James comes back for the plate half an hour later and washes it with equal irritation. 

Q sets up the lilo for James with a glower, as far away from his bed as he can manage in the small space, but ensures the softer of his spare sheets are on it and switches out the spare lumpy pillow for one of his own memory-foam ones. Because James is recovering from a concussion, after all, and neck support is important.  

They take turns showering. They brush their teeth at the sink together, avoiding each other’s eyes. James turns out the lights while Q is still reading and Q loudly feeds the cat a midnight snack shortly afterward.

They both realize they’re being petty but neither of them intend to stop.

Q waits until James is asleep and pads quietly into the bathroom, shutting the door with careful fingers. He considers going outdoors, just to be certain his conversation isn’t overheard, but even with the combination of painkillers and fatigue, James will probably wake up if Q tries to leave through the front door.

So he decides the bathroom will do and sits on the edge of the bathtub and dials M’s home phone number, because she’s probably still awake and if she’s not, well, he’s already suspended.

“Q,” she says after the second ring, already sounding aggrieved.

“M,” he responds, trying to sound professional and not as if he’s sitting on a bathtub in his pants, near-whispering so the double-0 agent sleeping outside won’t hear him.

“I believe I can cut this conversation short by saying I have no intention of changing my mind,” M says. “Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”

The regimented, logical, list of reasons James should not be his minder for the following two weeks, a list Q had spent the last hour going over in his head, abruptly vanishes and he finds himself, rather embarrassingly, letting out something near a whine.

“But he’s injured. He can’t function properly as a bodyguard for me right now.”

“I’m not, actually, overly concerned for your safety,” M says. “I’m more worried about your tendency to cause trouble when left to your own devises. And Bond would literally die to keep you from harm. Even with a few broken ribs and a concussion I can’t think of anyone more suited to looking after you.”

“But I really don’t—“

“In any event, I had to punish him as well and if I suspended him he would just spend all his time with you anyway.”

“That’s not, actually—“

“Q. I’m not changing my mind.”

“We love each other!” He says, somewhat desperately, and far too loudly. “You’ve seen the video. Surely there’s some sort of regulation that—“

“Quentin,” M says, and her tone has gone from merely annoyed to truly fed up.

“This is the real world. Disobedience requires punishment and regardless of your no doubt magnificent future prospects at MI6, I’m no longer going to afford you favoritism in this respect. You’re always complaining you aren’t treated as an adult. I suggest you start acting like one.”

Q finds himself reliving the principal’s office feeling again.

“Now,” she says briskly. “If I may make a recommendation: Make nice with James. Neither one of you are at your best when you’re squabbling. Treat this punishment as a well-deserved holiday, and strongly reconsider disobeying orders from your superiors in the future. Goodnight.”

Q hangs up the phone with a sigh.

There’s a sudden scrabble of claws at the crack beneath the door and then  Boff, furious at being locked out of a room in her territory, positively shrieks her displeasure.

Q hisses at her to be quiet but by the time he’s unlocked the door and scooped her up, James has stumbled to his feet and is blinking blearily toward the bathroom, one hand holding a gun that he must have been sleeping with under his pillow.

“Are you alright?” James says, moving forward on instinct and then stopping abruptly when he remembers they’re fighting.

“Sorry,” Q says, kitten clutched to his chest. “No, I’m fine. I just—Boff doesn’t like closed doors. Sorry.”

“Right.”

He considers the phone in Q’s non kitten occupied hand and raises an eyebrow.

“Bit of a gamble, calling M this late.”

“What’s she going to do?” Q says, “Suspend me?”

“Point.”

“I—are you alright?”

James has lowered the gun and now has one hand pressed to his broken ribs, glowering vaguely toward the kitchen.

“Fine,” he says, turning back toward his bed on the floor. “Goodnight, Q.”

Q stands in the lit bathroom door, holding Boff—probably a bit too tightly—for another minute before flipping the light switch and moving to his own bed.

“Goodnight,” he says.

***

Then

James let himself into Q’s flat with a truly grateful sigh, dropping his travel bag in the entryway, toeing off his shoes, unwinding his scarf, and generally deflating.

“Q?” He called in the general direction of the tech room.

“NO.” Q yelled back through the closed door.

James laughed and moved into the kitchen to start the kettle.

“I’ve ordered food, you’ll have to come out eventually if you want to eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve brought you a gift.”

“No.”

“I’ve missed you?”

“Go away.”

“Quentin,” James said, hip against the counter. He noticed the boy’s single tiny cactus now had a companion on the windowsill. Eve’s doing, probably.

“Go away,” Q said again.

“I’ve already seen a picture, I’m not sure what you’re—“

“I’m peeling!” He cried, “Like a—a snake or something. And it itches. And I just—want to be left alone. Please.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” James said.

Something thunked against the door.

 James went through his mental inventory of what was inside the room, wondering what Q would have deemed worthy to throw.

The kettle clicked and James set about making two mugs of tea.

“You can’t just barricade yourself here for the next two weeks while you heal, you know,” he said conversationally. 

“Yes I can. I have everything I need to work remotely.”

“That’s a lie and a bad one, at that. How often are you running down to the arsenal or the shooting range, or up to medical for a consult on one of your defensive concoctions? And as lovely as your little hacker space is, it doesn’t have the full range of capability that your branch does.”

Q didn’t answer.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“It is.”

Considering the shape that Q had been in the first few weeks he knew him, James found it more than a little amusing what a vain little thing he’s become over the years.

The bell rang and James moved to open the door and collect the takeaway, two fingers sliding into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Food is here,” he called a moment later, boxes balanced in his hands. “I’m making you a plate. You can either come out and eat with me like a normal human being or I’ll take the door off its hinges.”

There was a relatively animalistic snarl from the other room and the door wrenched partially open.

“You cannot laugh,” Q said, dire, through the crack. 

“Never,” James answered. “Come eat your curry.”

Q sighed, mumbled something that may have been in French, and may have been very rude, and then stepped fully into the living room.

He was wearing a pair of baggy athletic trousers that gathered just below his knees and one of James’ tee shirts, as had become something of a trend in recent months. His glasses were perched low on his nose so they didn’t risk touching his mottled, scaly forehead, and the wide cotton headband holding his hair back was pale grey. His eyebrows were still distinctly singed-looking.

“I know,” Q said, moving forward to collect the plate James had made for him. “It’s awful.”

“It’s not so bad,” James murmured. “Looks like a bad sunburn, is all. You’ll be good as new in a week. Well. Except the eyebrows. But you won’t be able to see them under your hair anyway.”

Q sighed, stirring his food morosely with a fork.

“I’m not going to HQ until it’s better.”

“That’s fine. You’re due some vacation.”

“And I don’t want anyone else coming here. Just you.”

“Alright.”

“I mean it. No Alec. No Eve. No…” he waves his fork, “pizza nights.”

“I’ll let them know.”

Q glowered at him. “Would you stop being so damn accommodating. I’m trying to be angry.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You should be.”

James huffed. “You know you really ought to get a table. Or at least some bar stools. Standing at the counter to eat is beginning to lose its novelty.”

“No,” Q said vindictively.

“Right.”

It was silent save the subtle sounds of eating for several minutes.

“So,” James said, “ What have you been working on?”

“The bank robberies.  Three in the last two months. Different groups but organized by the same entity.”

“Entity?”

Q stabbed a piece a chicken slightly harder than necessary. “That’s the problem. It seems all three groups were consulted by something or someone called ‘Moriarty.’ Only I don’t know what that means. Is it an organization? A person? It’s infuriating.

“Moriarty,” James repeated. “And you can’t find any information on it? At all?”

“Nothing,” Q admitted.

“No wonder you’re in such a state.”

“I am not in a state,” Q growled, then winced when scowling tugged  uncomfortably at his healing skin.

“You are, a bit. Luckily for you it happens rarely enough it’s still endearing.”

“My face is a mess and I’ve hit a—a wall in researching something and,” he put down his silverware, petulant. “And none of my shoes are fitting properly anymore. I think I’m growing out of them. I can—I’m allowed to be less than personable at the moment.”

James laughed. “The latter can be fixed rather easily. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow for new shoes.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not going out in public.”

“Then I shall take you the day you decide to emerge.” 

Q sighed, the sharp points of his shoulders going slack.

“I told you to stop being so accommodating.”

“And I didn’t listen. Wasn’t that terribly un-accommodating of me?”

Q laughed despite himself.

Chapter Text

Now

James cups his hands over the top of his coffee mug, thumbs overlapping, enjoying the heat on his palms. He lifts his bare toes away from the cold concrete floor. He squints through the pale morning sun coming through the window. He tries not to sigh too loudly.

Q hadn’t been in bed when James woke up, which meant, most likely, he hadn’t slept and instead snuck back to his hacker space to…do whatever Q did, when left to his own devices.

James does sigh now, filling the kettle, flipping the switch, wishing he’d thought to bring a thick pair of socks to sleep in. Q’s floors are like ice.

He takes a painkiller, then sets aside his mug and gets out a frying pan. He can’t force Q to sleep, but he can at least make sure the stupid boy is fed.

Q appears in the kitchen as he’s retrieving eggs from the refrigerator.

“James,” he says.

James doesn’t know exactly where they stand so he grunts a response.

“How are you feeling?” Q asks awkwardly.

“Fine,” James says.

“Well enough to check on something with me?”

James doesn’t particularly like the sound of that.

He closes the refrigerator.

“Check on what?”

“My algorithm found a police report with my fingerprints in it last night.”

James closes his eyes briefly. “A police report? What did you do?”

“No, I—nothing. That’s just it. My fingerprints turned up on a cello bow linked to a murder case. Possibly a serial murder case. But I never touched it, I’ve never even seen it before.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Also,” Q says, looking slightly sheepish. “I think it’s something to do with Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?”

“My, um. Mycroft’s younger brother. Sherlock.”

James reaches for his coffee because he has not had enough caffeine to deal with this.

“How is he involved, exactly?”

“I’ve been looking over the case and all the victims knew Sherlock in some capacity. I think the killer is picking the victims intentionally, like he’s leaving some sort of trail for Sherlock to follow.”

“And now your fingerprints have turned up on a cello bow that’s…involved, somehow?”

“Yes.”

James leans back against the counter, winces, and repositions himself.

“You said we need to check something.”

“An address.  23A Charleston Street.”

“And what is at 23A Charleston Street?”

“I’m not sure. But there were three sets of fingerprints on the bow. One was the murder victim’s. One was mine. One belong to Arnold Pickings, resident at—“

“23A Charleston Street,” James finishes for him. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Q agrees. “Let me get my shoes on.”

“Breakfast first,” James says.

“But—“

“I’m supposed to have food with my medication,” he says, and Q cuts himself off.

“Oh. Well I suppose that’s true. Quick breakfast then. I’ll make the toast.”

James suppresses a smile and starts cracking eggs.

“Good. Can you bring me whatever information you’ve found on this case? I’d like to read it while I eat.”

Q presses the lever on the toaster and opens the cabinet for two glasses out of habit.

“Alright. Orange juice? I’m out of grapefruit.”

“Orange juice is fine.”

Their elbows bump as they maneuver around each other, easy, familiar, and James catches himself reaching to fix Q’s mess of morning hair. He retracts his hand, smile fading, and Q stills beside him, already leaning toward him to accept the gesture. After an uncomfortable pause, Q steps away.

“I’ll go get my laptop,” he says. “For the case files.”

“Alright.”

James watches him go with a feeling he can’t name.

He burns the eggs.

***

Then

James called Q from the airport, trying not to limp as he hailed a cab.

“Where are you?” He asked.

“Your place,” Q said. “I had a patch of Boothroyd’s line running in my ear all day and I’ve got the Medical kit ready and waiting. Any injuries you haven’t mentioned I should know about?”

“No.”

“Alright. Preference on food?”

“No.”

“Will you need help getting up the stairs?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

James fell into the back of a taxi and grunted his address through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

“I’ll meet you at the street. ETA?”

James squinted for a moment at traffic.

“Ten minutes.”

“Excellent. Call me if that changes. See you shortly.”

James hung up the phone, leaned his head back, and tried to ignore the hellish amount of pain his right leg was in. If Q hadn’t been at his flat he had actually been considering going to medical. May still need to, depending on whether infection had already begun to set in. 

Q met James at the kerb, paid the cabbie, shouldered his bag, and then propped himself underneath James’ right arm.

“You know you really ought to stop getting yourself shot,” Q said conversationally, leading them up the stairs.

“It was through and through, just a bit of muscle damage,” James said, sounding more petulant than he would have liked.

“I know women seem to love your scars,” Q said, opening the door, “but you’re rather taking things too far, I think.”

The words were clearly meant to be joking, but there was a certain stilted quality to Q’s tone that had James biting back a quick retort.

He let Q bully him into the bathroom and stayed silent as the boy cleaned and stitched up his leg, a constant sarcastic commentary mumbled under his breath.

The doorbell rang while James was in the shower, a plastic bag taped around his calf to keep the injury dry.

Q rapped his knuckles against the bathroom door. “Food is here, want me to make you a plate or will you be a while?”

“You staying the night?” James called back.

“Can’t,” Q answered. “I’ve got to be back at HQ in three hours.”

“I’ll be a while longer, then,” James said. He had no reason to conserve hot water if Q wouldn’t be needing some later.

Twenty minutes later he was propped awkwardly on the couch, sideways so his injured leg could be elevated on a stack of pillows, food resting on his stomach.

Q was flipping channels and generally bemoaning the quality of offered television. He turned the television off altogether after several minutes and settled himself against the opposite arm of the chair, facing James. He set his plate on the coffee table.

“I have a question,” he said. “About the shower thing.”

James took a moment to swallow. “Pardon?”

“The first night I met you. You said that you couldn’t flatshare with Alec because you didn’t share hot water well. And people bring it up all the time. At HQ. About you and your possessiveness of your hot water.”

“Mmm.” James said, stabbing a piece of chicken onto his fork. “Yes. And?”

“Well nearly every time I’m here I shower. Or have a bath. And not—usually I’m not very quick about it. And you’ve never complained. Most of the time you even encourage it. Save water for me, if you know I’m staying.”

James glanced up sharply at that and he looked, for lack of a better word, stricken. A moment later he carefully schooled his expression back to neutral interest and said, “Alright?” 

But Q had caught it and he wasn’t sure what it meant.

He took a moment to frown at James before continuing.

“So I was just wondering, if you have such a reputation for being stingy with your water sharing, why don’t you seem to care if it’s me?”

James set aside his plate, resting one arm on the back of the couch. He curled the bare toes of his uninjured leg into the shag of the rug.

“I don’t know.”

“James.”

“I don’t, honestly. At first it was because you were so scared. And small. I would have done anything to make you more comfortable, more trusting of me. And I’m not good at that sort of thing, rather the opposite, actually. So it didn’t seem like a difficult concession, then.”

Q made a considering noise.

James shrugged. “I suppose it’s habit, at this point. And usually by the time I need a shower the heater has replenished if you go first. It’s not like I’m gritting my teeth through cold water and secretly cursing you or anything.”

“I know. I just. I was curious.”

“Well.”

“Thank you.”

James shrugged again, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Do you know why I like showers so much?” Q said suddenly, feeling he owed James something.

“I…no. I assume it’s something to do with an inability to linger in the past?”

Q smiled without humor. “Yes. When I was little we had to be careful with how much water we used because we shared a bathroom with several other people. At the children’s home it wasn’t—the bathroom was dirty, and there was never any hot water left because the babies would go first and then what was left the bigger kids got. At the Young Offenders Institute the showers weren’t exactly a safe place for people like me. And when I reported—” 

Q stopped. Started again. “When I made a complaint about what was happening they let me shower by myself. But they sent a guard with me and they were never—they made me go very quickly, because it was a waste of their time.”

James laced his fingers together, a movement that would have looked casual if Q didn’t know it meant he was trying not to punch something.

“That first night,” Q said, “when you let me shower for 20 minutes. That’s probably the longest I’d spent in my life getting clean.”

James let out a very long, slow breath.

“I see,” he said.

Q laughed again, this time with sad, but genuine amusement.

“You can’t kill everyone in my past for mistreating me, James.”

“I could try,” he muttered.

Q shook his head, but his expression was fond.

Chapter Text

Now

23A Charleston is a three-story townhouse with a small, well-kept, gated garden at its front. Q jumps over the gate because he may be a genius, but he’s still a teenager, and James pauses to unlatch it before following, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. James studies their surroundings, a slow sweep of the empty street, as Q tinkers for a moment with the lock on the door: plausible deniability.

A moment later, they’re inside.

“Stay here,” James says, drawing his gun. He makes a clockwise sweep of the house before returning to the hallway where Q is waiting, not at all patiently.

“All clear,” he murmurs. “No computers that I saw, though.”

“Damn. Alright. You take the bed and the bathroom, I’ll take kitchen and living room.”

“Ten minutes,” James says, moving back into the hall.

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Fine.”

They separate and Q begins methodically opening and closing cabinets, drawers, sifting through papers and utensils. He pushes the foot pedal on the rubbish bin and frowns at the crumpled newspaper and toast crusts. 

It’s as he’s crouched in front of the sink, pushing aside cleaning products, that he hears the front door opening. He stands, a bottle of bleach brandished in one hand, frozen in a moment of panic.

There’s a male voice, a quietly murmured “wait” and a moment later, more forcefully, “Sherlock,” and then a man is in the kitchen with him. 

Q drops the bleach.

It’s his brother. Well, half-brother. He assumes. Because “Sherlock” isn’t exactly a common name and the resemblance between them is…certainly striking.

A second man, blonde, small, but clearly military-trained, enters a moment later and Q quickly raises his hands, palms out, fingers spread in the face of a gun. 

“James!” Q calls, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. “If you could assist me with something for a moment.”

“John,” Sherlock says—tone warning— and then James is there, looking equally menacing and equally blonde and Q has to see the comedy of the situation.  Two weaponless Holmes and their bodyguards growling at each other in the kitchen of a house they’ve all broken into.

James and Sherlock’s companion, apparently named “John,” are looking between the two of them with something like confusion.

“I’m relatively certain we’re here for the same reason,” Q says, “perhaps the weapons could be lowered.”

Both guns descend in parallel.

“I’m Q,” Q continues, careful not to make any sudden movements. “And this is James.”

 “John,” John says, “And, uh, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Q says. “I know.”

Q’s nerves are starting to get the better of him and he lowers his hands, tucking them into his pockets before they can start shaking.

“’Q’ is a letter, not a name.” Sherlock says.

“I prefer it, given the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “I don’t understand.”

It occurs to Q that it is entirely possible Sherlock really has no idea who he is.

“I suppose Mycroft hasn’t mentioned me then?”

“Mycroft?”

That hurts, for some reason. He knew Mycroft didn’t speak to Sherlock often, and saw him even less, but it’s been nearly three years since Q had begun a relationship with the man and to not even be worth mentioning was—

Q takes a breath, clenches the fingers of one hand into a fist before withdrawing it from his pocket, and then steps forward, arm extended.

“Quentin Siger Holmes,” he says placidly. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

Suitably dramatic, he thinks, all things considered.

Sherlock smiles suddenly, like Q is a dog that’s done an unexpected trick.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh I see.”

***

Then

Q was on the Tube, listening to some frankly terrible synth-pop music purely because he wanted to change James’ ringtone again and was endeavoring to find the most obnoxious song in existence, when a crowd of people his age boarded the train.

It was always strange for him, to see groups of teenagers interacting. Because, objectively, he knew they were his age, and in any normal circumstance he would have been forced to associate with them through school and social function. But he’d never particularly gotten on with other children and since James arranged his rescue from the Young Offenders Institute, he hadn’t actually carried on a full conversation with anyone within a decade of his own age. He wouldn’t know where to start. And he certainly didn’t dress like them, though that was admittedly by design.

That night, though, the cohort of young people was clearly on their way to something that required fancy dress. The girls were in dresses, some more risqué than others, hair curled, lips painted in pinks and reds. The boys were in jackets and ties, talking loudly, excitedly, shifting in uncomfortable shoes.

Q surreptitiously turned off his music, but left the earbuds in, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation as the group talked around and on top of each other, girls leaning into boys, murmuring with wide smiles into ears. Hands on smalls of backs, knuckles against skin.

Prom.

He’d never cared for the idea of dances. He didn’t feel safe in large crowds of people and dances could only be stressful in that regard, especially considering the noise and the lights and the no doubt truly awkward amount of teenage hormones in play. He also had no interest in girls, which even at a young age lent itself to a relatively morose expectation when it came to secondary school romance. 

Q sighed, tucking his hands between his knees, and risked another glance in the group’s direction.

There was a lesbian couple, he realized, standing, with their backs to him. The two girls were wearing complementing black dresses, one with hair to her waist, tipped with bubble-gum pink, the other a head of close cropped ringlets and a tattoo on the back of her neck. They were holding hands, fingers intertwined, and the tattooed girl kept glancing at her date like she couldn’t believe her good fortune.

Q felt, suddenly, for the first time since joining MI6, that perhaps he was missing out, in some way.

The feeling hadn’t abated by the time he got to James’ flat.

Twenty minutes later, wearing James’ clothes and eating Indian with chopsticks left over from the Chinese they’d had the night before, Q ran a hand through his damp hair and turned the television volume down.

James shifted automatically to face him, one eyebrow raised as if to say, ”yes?”

“Do you think I’m missing out?” Q asked. “By living the way I do, I mean. Working and spending all my free time with you and Alec and Eve. Do you think I’m…deficient, in some way? Because I don’t go to school or associate with people my own age?”

“I think you are the furthest thing from deficient,” James said, mouth tipped in a half-smile. “And I think you would find associating with people your own age incredibly tedious.”

Q pursed his lips. 

“Why?” James asked, setting his plate on the coffee table. “You’ve never mentioned this before. If anything you’ve been rather violently opposed to spending time with your own age group.”

Q shrugged. “There were—I saw some people on the Tube tonight going to prom. It just made me think about it, is all.”

“Do you think you’re missing out? Do you want to…go to prom?”

Q shuddered dramatically. “No. I just—“

He scraped his fingers through his wet hair, probably more vigorous than was strictly necessary, and James reached forward to catch Q’s plate before it toppled out of his lap.

Q bit his lip, watching as James stood to carry both plates to the kitchen.

“I envy them, I suppose.” he said, the admission somehow easier once James’ back was turned. “They’re so careless with themselves. With their words and their bodies. Everything just seems so easy for them: conversation, touch, affection, friendship.”

James returned to the couch, sitting closer than he’d been before, brow furrowed.

“And you feel you can’t be so careless?”

“No,” Q said. “Not at MI6, certainly. But not necessarilly with you and Alec and Eve, either. And Mycroft…well, he’s Mycroft.”

James laughed softly, and reached forward with both hands, sliding Q’s glasses off his nose. He held them to the light for a moment, and then reached for the microfiber cleaning cloth he’d taken to keeping on the side table. 

Q watched, grey eyes strangely wide when no longer framed in black, as James carefully wiped down each lens.

When he returned the glasses to Q’s face, his fingers lingered at the earpieces, smoothing Q’s displaced curls into some semblance of order.

“You’ve seen me at my best and my worst,” James said carefully. “There is nothing I would hide from you, nothing I would not feel comfortable asking of you. I would hope you feel the same.”

“I do, I just—I don’t know how to ask for—I don’t even know what I want…it’s stupid. Just. Teenage emotions. Or something. I’m sure.”

He could feel his face flushing, though it was uncertain if his embarrassment was due to his confession or James’ hands in his hair.

Q brought his feet up to tuck beneath him and James finally leaned away, one arm hooked over the back of the couch. He was looking at Q in a way that made the position seem deliberate: an invitation, and Q was warm and full and his chest was tight under emotions he couldn’t name, so he let himself fall sideways, let himself settle in the hollow between James’ arm and his ribcage.

He turned the television’s volume back up, face hot, and James propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing his ankles.

“Are you sure you don’t want the full teenage experience of prom?” he asked. “I’m sure Eve would plan one for you.”

Q punched him in the kidney, and James’ arm moved from the back of the couch to circle Q’s collarbone, holding him easily in place, prohibiting a second attack.

“Alright,” he said amicably. “No prom.”

Q rolled his eyes, embarrassment forgotten, and changed the channel.

Chapter Text

Now

James finds himself leaning against the kitchen counter at 23A Charleston Street, arms crossed, beside a similarly stanced man named John Watson. Q and Sherlock talk in hushed voices a few feet away, heads bent together.

Watson is clearly former military of some kind and Sherlock is…clearly a Holmes.

“There’s three of them?” James asks, despite it being obvious. He knew Q had mentioned there being a third brother, but James had all but forgotten his existence. It’d been years since that first absurd encounter in Mycroft’s office, and he hadn’t heard Sherlock’s name since.

“Apparently.”

“Fantastic,” James murmured.  “Do you know Mycroft?"

John nodded. "Arrogant git. Smart though, maybe even smarter than Sherlock. And fiercely protective of his family."

"I'm aware. Q has said that Mycroft is the second most powerful man on earth.”

“Second?”

James grins. “Q is arrogant too.”

John snorts.

They both return their attention to the brothers.

 “You don’t seem that surprised by my existence,” Q is saying.

 “Not entirely,” Sherlock answers. “My father’s indiscretions were hardly surreptitious.”

“Indiscretions?” 

James winces at the subtle, but obvious to him, hurt in Q’s tone.

“Mistresses,” Sherlock qualifies. “As far as I knew though, there were never any children. How long has Mycroft known?”

“Three years.”

“How did he find you?”

“He didn’t, I found him. Though I’m sure he would have noticed my activities sooner or later. I may not generally use my surname, but it is on my birth certificate.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s mouth does that thing it does when he’s having an epiphany. “Oh, of course. You’re sixteen.”

“Yes.”

James has absolutely no idea what that means, but, glancing at an equally baffled John, he assumes it’s a Holmes Thing.

 “Touching as this family reunion is,” James says. “We’ve only got so much time before the Yard arrives.”

He raises an eyebrow at Q who looks suitably chastised. No doubt he had forgotten they were on a time table in the excitement.

“Sorry,” John says, “but why are you here?”

James nods toward Q. “His business. Apparently we’re looking for something.”

“Not anymore,” Q says.

James resists the urge to sigh.

“Why’s that?” He asks.

Q nudges his glasses and smiles toward Sherlock. “Because we’ve found what we were looking for.”

Of course, James thinks wearily. That explains everything.

John looks as if he’d be rolling his eyes if he knew them a bit better while Sherlock steeples his fingers, presses them against the swell of his bottom lip, and then announces. “You’ll need to return with us to Baker Street. Quickly. Before Lestrade and his peons arrive. Come along, John.”

He turns, and his coat—a Belstaff— if James isn’t mistaken, (likely Mycroft’s doing) flares dramatically out behind him. John does roll his eyes then.

“Q?”’ James says, feeling relatively lost.

Q has a funny half-smile on his face. He turns up the collar of his own Belstaff coat before pivoting on his heel and going after his brother.

“Yes,” Q says, mimicking Sherlock, “come along, James.”

James shares a resigned look with John.

They shake their heads in tandem and follow their Holmeses into the hall.

****

Then

Q was kidnapped on the way home from M16 two days before his 16^th birthday.

James was in Tel Aviv.

No one realized Q had been taken until the following morning when he didn’t show up for work. His phone was ringing straight to voicemail. After Eve was dispatched to check his home and found it locked, no one admitted in 24 hours, according to TSS’s lock, the entirety of MI6’s available tech staff was searching for him.

One of the newer hires, a 19 year old prodigy-hacker named Rebecca, nearly as adept as Q himself, found CCTV footage of Q being taken from just outside the tube station near his flat the night before: three masked men. Black sedan. Guns. Q had fought, been rendered unconscious, and they’d driven away. The plates were fake. And the car seemingly disappeared between one camera and the next.

Four hours later, no one had even an inkling of where he could be.

An hour after that, they received the first video.

In it, Q was handcuffed to a metal chair. The bright lights made him look small and pale and young. The blood on his face was stark. There was no ransom demand, no dialogue, just sixty-three seconds of Q, sluggishly blinking against the light. And then, at the very end, Q noticed something off screen. He fought the cuffs, teeth bared, eyes wide, the chair toppled to one side, the camera tipped toward the ground and went dark, Q screamed, someone laughed, the video ended.

It had been sent internally, from MI6’s server with a dummy log-in which shouldn’t have been possible and was therefore completely untraceable.

Non-essential missions were suspended so full focus could be set on finding Q.

When still no headway had been made by midday, Alec disobeyed a direct order, and called James.

James was back in London by nightfall.

Mycroft met him at the airport, the grip on his umbrella tight, the line of his body beneath his suit tense with fury.

“Thank you for calling me,” he said, as James slid into the back seat of the car.

“I thought you had him under surveillance.” James answered, not accusing, not quite. 

“I do. But apparently my cameras were tampered with. I didn’t realize anything was amiss. My people are trying to determine what happened, but I doubt even my connections will turn up anything before the full force of MI6 does.”

They didn’t say anything more, and when Mycroft exited the vehicle at MI6 with him, James didn’t stop him.

When they got to the tech floor, M, arguing in front of the main screen with Boothroyd, did a double-take, something that happened rarely enough James was briefly distracted.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It was an impromptu trip,” he said coolly. “Mr. Bond informed me my brother has been kidnapped.”

M looked briefly torn, looking between James, who she clearly wanted to shout at considering the way he’d left the Tel Aviv mission, and Mycroft. Mycroft won.

“I had wondered,” she said. “If you were related. I would have contacted you had I known.”

“Please add my information to his file,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure you still have my personal number.”

James expected some sort of argument at that—no one could be added to an employee’s contact list without permission from the employee and a good bit of paperwork, but M merely nodded and then gestured for Boothroyd to join them.

Introductions were hasty and then, once Boothroyd returned to his computer and M left the floor to check on other agents, Mycroft found an empty chair to seat himself in and James started pacing.

Q’s office was dark. Wrong. Every time James walked past it he felt more useless.

At 1AM, they located the car—but that lead ended just as quickly as it began.

At 2AM a second video arrived, this one by way of a very confused takeaway boy. He said a stranger had stopped him a block away and paid him one hundred pounds to deliver a DVD to the building. The jeweled case had “For Mycroft” written on the outside in black Sharpie. The disk itself had a heart on it.

They ran diagnostics on the DVD while James continued to pace and Mycroft looked more and more grim and upon certifying it was most likely safe, they played the video.

Q was asleep. Or unconscious. His button-down and skinny tie were gone, as were his glasses and shoes. There was a bruise blooming down the right side of his neck, spider-webbing over his collarbone and across his chest. James could see his ribs on every inhale. The blood in his hair and on his face had congealed into a sticky, awful-looking, mess and he was breathing through his mouth because his nose was most likely broken.

James wanted to hit something.

 The video was three minutes long. Just Q breathing. And then the camera angle dropped to the floor again.

“Oh.” Rebecca said from behind her monitor, sharp, urgent.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“I think I know where he is.”

Chapter Text

Now

They’re leaving the tube station, Sherlock and Q still talking in hushed voices, looking for the world like clones, albeit one aged up slightly more than the other, when John asks why they were at the flat to begin with.

“My fingerprints were on that cello bow,” Q murmurs as they leave the station. “That’s why James and I went to investigate the house.”

“Yours was the set that didn’t have a match in the system.” Sherlock says.

“Yes. For all intents and purposes I don’t exist. I’ve been very careful to erase my online presence, so you can imagine my surprise when my fingerprints turn up in Scotland Yard’s criminal database amongst an ongoing murder case. Which, I’d like to talk to you about that. Whatever did you do to provoke a serial killer?”

“More important at the moment is how you came in contact with that cello bow.”

“I didn’t. “

“Fascinating.”

“Quite.”

“Sorry,” John says, and they both shush him. “Sorry,” he repeats, with exaggerated quiet, “but how did you know your fingerprints turned up in the case?”

“I’m a data encryptionist.” Q says.

“Hacker,” Sherlock corrects.

“Occasionally.”

James sighs.

“You’re sixteen,” John says, sounding baffled.

Both Holmes turn to look at John as if he is an idiot.

“Right. Sorry. Sherlock was at Uni dissecting corpses at sixteen. No reason his brother can’t be a hacker at the same age. Good God.”

“I’m an emancipated minor,” Q says. “I work in tech support for MI5. It allows me certain privileges.”

Sherlock snorts. “If you’ve met Mycroft, you should know better than to lie to us.”

“Us?” Q asks delicately.

“Holmeses,” John supplies, sounding tired in way that James is all too familiar with. “And really. You might as well not.” He glances at Sherlock. “Well?”

Sherlock grins. “MI6, both of them. Tech support, definitely not, unless that’s what they’re calling operatives these days. They must have recruited Q. Probably found him in juvenile detention for cyber crimes.” 

James doesn’t miss Q’s subtle wince but also doesn’t have a chance to intervene before Sherlock has already moved on.

 “He, however,” Sherlock says, voice going, if possible, even more sharp, as he nods to James. “He is a field agent, obviously. Former military, currently grounded and on babysitting duty for the golden child as punishment for some infraction.”

James grits his teeth. Q looks delighted.

“Oh I quite like you,” Q says. "That was brilliant."

Now Sherlock looks delighted.

John sighs.

James has a feeling they’re going to get along well.

When they reach Baker Street, a shirtless man answers the door. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Q says promptly.

“Pardon?” The shirtless man says.

James realizes the man may be half-naked and somewhat obnoxiously pretty, but he’s also holding a handgun with easy familiarly behind his back.

“You.” Q says, “Victor Trevor. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Sherlock,” the shirtless man—Victor—says, in a way that’s meant to convey several sentences and at least one question.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. “Meet Q. The third set of fingerprints on the cello bow.”

“So, what, he’s the next clue?” Victor asks.

“Apparently.”

“And you just found him. At the house.”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Victor takes a moment to really look at Q and makes a strangled noise. “Oh god, he’s related to you,” he says to Sherlock. “Isn’t he?”

“Well I haven’t done the tests yet,” Sherlock says, “but—”

“Yet?” Q asks.

“All I need is a small sample of—“

“You are not taking Q’s blood,” James interrupts. He’s still eyeing the gun in Victor’s hand with distrust.

“Saliva,” Sherlock finishes. 

“No.” James repeats.

“Hair?”

“Also no.”

Sherlock smirks at Q.  “For a self-involved masochist with a superiority complex and a dislike of personal entanglements, he certainly is protective of you. More than he should be, considering his guard duty is punishment and hardly voluntary.”

“Excuse me?” James says.

Sherlock’s eyes make a slow slide down James’ body and he feels distinctly unsettled, as if something terrible is about to happen.

 “Don’t deny it,” Sherlock says. “You have no meaningful friendships. No human interaction beyond that which is required for work or day to day life.  Certainly not one for romantic relationships. Sex, yes, and often, but never the same person twice. Not even a pet. Selfish. Fear of commitment. Misplaced guilt. Obsessive need for control. Possibly because of your military career. Short, but brutal. Possibly due to work—a lack of emotion is an encouraged character trait at MI6, after all. More likely, though, it’s due to your being orphaned at a young age. Which leads to the question—“

Q kicks Sherlock, hard, in the shin, and Sherlock goes silent out of surprise, looking somewhat stricken. 

James swallows, resisting the impulse to refute Sherlock’s claims. He does have friends. Alec. Eve. Q.  And a pet, even. He does. He and Q have a sort of joint custody of Boff and—

But Q is looking at him with something close to pity and John is hastily asking “Tea, anyone?” so he holds his tongue and follows John to the kitchen to help with the tea. And possibly escape.

John notices the ridiculous sequence James now undertakes whenever making Q tea and, at his raised eyebrow, James attempts a rueful smile. He’s not sure it’s quite right, considering he’s still feeling distinctly unsettled, but John doesn’t seem to notice.

 “It has to be to steeped for three minutes, sugar first, then milk at appropriate ratios.” James explains, nodding back toward Q. “He gets incredibly grumpy when his tea is made incorrectly. I brought him herbal once and he replaced all of my computer files with episodes of My Little Pony, Friendship is Magic.”

John snorts. “How long have you been making him tea?”

“Depends on when you're counting. Daily? The last week. On occasion, somewhere around four years, now. ”

“So Sherlock was right, then? You’re being punished with babysitting duty?”

That gives James a moment's pause. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What did you do?”

“That’s classified.”

“Of course it is.”

“John,” Sherlock shouts from the living room, sounding disgruntled. “Tea!”

James raises an eyebrow. “And what have you done to deserve babysitting that one?”

“Self-inflicted sentence, actually.” John answers. “I must be mad. Or very bored.”

James picks up Q’s mug, then hooks two others with his free hand. “I’m certainly never bored with Q,” he says, perhaps more fond than is necessary.

John carries the remaining mugs into the sitting room and James notices the other man is strangely tense now in a way he hadn’t been previously on the tube. He thinks it may have something to do with the shirtless man, Victor, who is currently seated beside Sherlock on the sofa. He’s talking to Q about American surveillance systems, but his thigh is pressed the length of Sherlock’s and John seems to be staring very hard at the line of contact between them.

“I should go.” John says, setting the mugs on the table. “Obviously you all have a lot to talk about and you don’t need me so—“

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Besides, it’s my day off. I’ve got loads to do. Shopping. Laundry. Bills.”

 “Of course,” Sherlock says slowly. “I’ll walk you down. I need to check Mrs. Hudson’s flat anyway. She’s stolen my skull again.”

Skull?

“Skull?” James mouths at John.

John suppresses a smile and shakes his head.

James watches the two turn the corner and descend the stairs before refocusing his attention on Q and Victor.

Victor slides into the space Sherlock has vacated and catches Q’s chin, thumb pressed to the divot beneath his bottom lip.

“You do look absurdly like him, you know. When he was a bit younger.”

James sets Q’s tea down, harder than is necessary, on the coffee table.

“Move.” He says.

Victor glances up at him. “Pardon?”

“Move.”

The other man raises a mocking eyebrow, but stands, palms out, and relocates himself to a chair by the fire.

James takes his place.

Q snorts into his cup.

***

Then

“I think I know where he is.”

James stopped pacing and moved to lean over Rebecca’s shoulder.

“What do you mean? Where?”

She had the video paused on her screen in one window, in another, she was searching for something on Google.

“The floor,” she said, somewhat harried. “I recognise the floor. But I—right. Here. It’s at the Renaissance. A club that closed three months ago for renovations. That’s the back room—where they keep the alcohol and extra glasses and things. There’s a mosaic on the floor there—“

James was already heading for the Armory.

Alec followed him, snatching a Bluetooth earpiece as he went, tapping it meaningfully with a glance in Boothroyd’s direction who nodded distractedly, pulling up a map of the West End.

“Someone get M,” he said.

Thirty minutes later, James and Alec were cutting the chains on the service doors of the closed Club Renaissance, Boothroyd murmuring quietly in their ear that just because there was only one heat signature didn’t mean Q was necessarily alone.

The final chain fell, the door was wrenched open, and Eve, posted with a rifle on the rooftop of the bank next door, gave them the all clear. For a moment it was quiet, the early morning city sounds around them damp and muffled under the soft hush of rain.

“Go get our boy back,” Eve murmured.

James wasted no time ducking inside, gun drawn, flashlight held beneath it in his opposite hand.

“There should be a hallway directly to your right,” Rebecca said. “First two doors are maintenance and electric, second two toilets, then you’ll come to the storeroom on the left. Metal door with a digital bolt, if I remember correctly. If it’s locked I can talk you through dismantling it.”

“It’s not,” James whispered, turning the handle. He glanced at Alec, who nodded, and then wrenched it open.

Q was inside.

He was still handcuffed to the chair, still mostly naked, still bloody, blinking at the beam of the flashlight in apprehension.

“James?”

James never wanted to hear Q say his name like that again.

“Hey,” James said, turning on the lights and doing a quick perimeter sweep before holstering his weapon. “Are we alone?”

“I don’t—“

James dropped to his heels beside the chair, cupping one hand to the bloodied curve of Q’s skull, the other trailing down his arms to the cuffs, tugging experimentally.

“There were three,” Q said slowly, squinting. “But they left. Said he’d be watching—or—timing you. Mycroft. I—I don’t think they actually cared about me. He said it was the—“ Q licked his mangled lips. “Most efficient way of getting his message to Mycroft.”

“Alec,” James said.

Alec did another sweep of the room, then shot out the camera lens mounted in the corner before retreating to the hall. A moment later he returned with the bolt-cutters, positioning them around the chain connecting Q’s wrists to the chair.

“That’s what I made the lasers for,” Q muttered blearily. “Easier to pack than all that. Travel sized. Where’s the—oh.”

He realized he was free a moment before James was pulling him up, hands running  light across his ribs, his shoulders, his neck.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Just bruised. I’m—it’s so cold, though.”

Between the adrenaline and the various layers of his special opps suit, it hadn’t occur to James until that moment that it was November and Q was mostly naked in a building with no heating.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling off the tactical vest to get at one of the long-sleeved shirt underneath. “Sorry, here.”

He pulled the sweater on over Q’s head and then, when the boy started to sway somewhat dangerously, picked him up entirely.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to HQ.”

“Don’t want to go to medical,” Q said, teeth clicking. “Want to go home.”

“Medical first,” James said, nodding his thanks to Alec, who was holding the door for them. “Then home, alright?”

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

“Alright. Medical first. But only for a minute.”

Chapter Text

Now

Sherlock returns from walking John to the street with a kid in tow.

At first James thinks it’s a boy, but upon closer inspection he realizes she’s a girl. A very small, skinny, girl. Between her size, Asian features, and frankly ridiculous Mohawk, he guesses she’s anywhere from thirteen to twenty.

She’s wearing rainbow-colored fingerless gloves that covert into mittens, and the folded-back bit flaps up and down as she waves to Victor upon entering the flat.

A moment later she notices Q.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Sherlock says, moving to pick up a laptop that is resting, somewhat precariously, on the mantel.

“Please tell me there isn’t some sort of top secret government facility that’s cloning you,” she says to Sherlock, “because one is enough.”

Q, whom she is staring at in something like horror, grins.

“Brother,” he says, “not clone.”

“I’m not sure that’s better.”

“Have you met Mycroft?” 

“That’s why I’m not sure that’s better.”

“I’m Q,” Q says, laughing.

“Sam.”

“I—“ Sam is looking at Q in a way that makes James nervous.  Like she recognizes him, which really isn’t--

“Were you living at the Walker boy’s home a few years back? Because I think—“

James stands abruptly but Q is already holding out a staying hand. “It’s fine, James.” Q says. “Yes. I lived at Walker for two years. You were at the Mayfield orphanage then, if I remember correctly.”

“We walked in the Christmas parade together,” she agrees. She’s eyeing James with a frankly impressive amount of distrust. “If you’re Sherlock’s brother why were you—“

“I didn’t know about him until today,” Sherlock interrupts. “If I had he certainly wouldn’t have been languishing in that…institution.”

“Oh. So.” She returns her attention to Q. “Were you adopted then?”

Q glances at James. “Something like that.”

Sam glances around, then leans to check if the kitchen is empty. “Where’s John?”

“He left,” James says, finally sitting down again. “I think he dislikes Victor.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Q agrees. “Is he your boyfriend, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is attaching a camera from Sam’s bag to his computer, and he doesn’t answer for a moment, moving pictures from the device to his documents folder, launching the photo-viewing program on his laptop. It takes him a moment to register the question.

“What? Who?”

“John,” Q says in the same instance that James says, “Victor.”

“I—no.”

Victor bursts out laughing.

“Victor is straight,” Q says to James. “He was attempting to make John jealous.”

“No,” Sherlock repeats. “No. John is heterosexual.”

“He isn’t,” Q says.

“Pardon?”

“I thought you were good at reading people,” Q says, taking a sip of his tea and then giving James a short nod of approval. 

James does not feel smug about that because it’s a cup of tea and being proud of it would be ridiculous.

 “John is clearly bisexual,” Q says. “And was clearly staring at your arse when we left the tube.”

“I did see that,” James agrees.

“That’s not—“

Sherlock returns his attention, somewhat desperately, to the laptop, and goes still.

“Victor,” he says. “Look at this man.”

Victor leans toward the screen, still snorting, and suddenly becomes equally somber.

“That,” Victor says, “is Sebastian Moran.”

“I thought you said you killed him.” Sherlock murmurs.

“I did.”

“Does no one actually stay dead these days?” Q asks congenially.

James shifts to get a view of the laptop and his breath hitches.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“That’s 009.”

“Pardon?”

Q reaches for the laptop and Sherlock hands it over.

“I don’t know him,” he says, looking up at James for confirmation. “009 is  Eve.”

“No, that’s—he was killed in Somalia. Same year I joined. His name was Seb Moore then. Eve took his place.”

“Sherlock,” Q says, paging through the pictures. “I think we may need to involve a slightly higher power if we’re going to get the information we need about this man. I could get it, but it would take time.”

James isn’t sure what he means until Sherlock has dialed his mobile on speakerphone and Mycroft’s familiar voice answers.

Sherlock makes a face and says with every bit of Holmsian venom James is accustomed to: “Mycroft, I need all the information you can provide me regarding one Seb Moore, also known as 009 of MI6, or, more recently, Sebastian Moran.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says dryly. “Right away. Anything else?”

“I’m rather curious as to why you failed to mention we have a younger brother, but I suppose that can wait until Christmas, if you’d like. I imagine that conversation would be better in person. Preferably at the dinner table.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. 

“The information on Sebastian Moran, however, is much more pressing.”

“I’ll—I will see what I can do.”

“Excellent. Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“What would you say John’s sexuality is?”

“Bisexual. Obviously. Is that all?”

“Told you,” Q mouths at him.

“Er—yes. That is all.”

“Goodbye. Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock hangs up, but doesn’t have a chance to respond to Q’s smug expression because, quite suddenly, there are police lights outside and the loud rattle of feet on stairs.

The detective who arrives in the doorway a moment later looks rather taken aback by the gathering of people in the room. He’s fit, prematurely grey, and clearly has some sort of working relationship with Sherlock, judging by his resigned expression. His attention lingers on Q.

 “Please tell me Mycroft hasn’t cloned you.” The man says, glancing at Sherlock.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters.  “We’re only half siblings, the resemblance is not that impressive. And Mycroft would hardly try to make more of me. One has been disappointment enough.”

The man looks uncertainly between Q and Sherlock, then lets his attention rest on James.

“And you are?”

“Bond. James, Bond.”

“Would you stop introducing yourself like that,” Q mutters. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Everyone here is more than qualified to hear whatever it is you have to say,” Sherlock interrupts, waving a disinterested hand. “So would you get on with it?”

“There’s been a new murder.”

“In general,” Sherlock asks, “or related to me?”

“Related to you.”

“Where?”

“23A Charleston Street.”

Everyone goes quietly still.

“Uh.” Sam says. “What?”

The man doesn’t seem to notice the sudden tension in the room.

“The fingerprints on the cello bow came back. Three sets, one the victims, one unknown, and one belonging to Arnold Pickings, the owner of the address 23A Charleston Street. We were just there, looking to talk to Mr. Pickings, and there’s a body in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen,” Sherlock repeats. He snatches the laptop out of Q’s hands, pages through the pictures, and then shoves it unceremoniously onto the coffee table as he stands, pacing a circle around the sitting room.

“You’re certain he left?” He asks Sam, rubbing unconsciously at the inside seam of one elbow.

“Positive,” she says. “I only lost him fifteen minutes ago past the tube station in Brixton. There’s no way he could have gone back in that time.”

“So someone else, then. That’s clever, isn’t it? He is clever. He knew I would have someone watching.”

“Who?” Q asks, in the same instant that the detective says “What?”

“Let’s go.” Sherlock puts on his coat. “Don’t let anyone touch anything until I’ve been over the scene.”

“Well, yeah, obviously, but Sherlock—“

“We’re coming,” Q says, because of course he does, and James abandons his mug to the table, standing as well.

“Do you really think that’s—“

Q is already in the hall, though, turning up his coat collar as he descends the stairs.

James is beginning to think that Sherlock is a bad influence on him.

***

Then

They tried to kick James out of Q’s room in Medical and it nearly came to blows by the time Alec intervened, tablet in hand, to show that, yes, James was Q’s next of kin according to his paperwork and also his medical power of attorney so, no, they couldn’t actually kick him out.

Mycroft  wasn’t too pleased by that, but his name—listed as “brother” with his contact information, had also been added to the paperwork sometime within the previous hour, and he was too concerned about Q’s wellbeing to become properly offended. At least for the moment.

Q refused an IV and after an hour of being poked at they released him with three stiches in his eyebrow, a brace on his nose, and three different kinds of topical ointment for bruises and scrapes.

The nurse handed the bag of prescriptions and accompanying paperwork to James, who tried not to look superior, while Mycroft… “glowered” would be too strong a word, but there was a definite pinch between his eyebrows that James would, in other circumstances, probably find somewhat frightening.

He let Mycroft be the one to help Q to his feet, and keep him there. Q was still wearing James’ jumper—the sleeves covering his fingers where he clung to Mycroft’s arm. He looked terrible.

“I need to talk to M,” he said.

“You need to go home and have a hot bath and go to sleep,” Mycroft corrected.

“Need to talk to you too,” Q argued. “That was—they took me as a message to you.”

Mycroft’s expression did become frightening then.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s not—I’m saying I need to recount things, while it’s fresh. Then we can—“

“I’ve got a tablet from TSS,” James interrupted. “I can interview you in the car on the way home and send the recording straight to M.”

Mycroft looked like he wanted to argue against that as well, but Q acquiesced, allowing himself to be led forward into the hall.

“Can we go to your place?” Q asked, squinting sideways at James. “My spare glasses are there. And the tub is bigger.”

“Whatever you want,” he agreed.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get Q comfortably in the back of the car and he slumped, exhausted, against Mycroft’s side while James began to question him, turned around from the passenger seat in the front of the car.

“How were you taken?”

“Happened so fast I don’t really know. There were too many of them for me to really fight off, wearing masks, and they had something on a rag—knocked me out when they put it over my face. Broke my glasses.”

“Did you regain consciousness while they were transporting you?”

“No. I was in the chair when I woke up. In the dark. There were cameras though. Not just the one at the ceiling. There was a tripod. And the one filming the videos he sent to you—he had a handheld camera.”

“You said there were three of them? There at the club.”

“Yes. They were all wearing masks but two of them were just—I don’t know. Thugs. Jeans and black shirts. Muscular. The third one, the one filming, he was dressed nicely. Suit. Tie. Italian shoes.”

James shifted, frowning. “And this third man, can you describe him? Did he ever touch you?”

“No, he never touched me, just told the others what to do. He was smaller. Thin. Higher voice. And he wasn’t wearing a ski mask. It was like one of those carnival masks. Oh and he had dark hair.”

“Did they say anything important?”

“Yes. The one in the suit, he said he needed to send a message to Mycroft. He knew I was his younger brother. It sounded…like he was playing a game, or something. After he took the second video, he left, took the others with him. He said they’d be timing it—how long it would take Mycroft to find me. I don’t think they even knew about my connection to MI6.”

Mycroft’s expression was positively dire.

“Oh and he took my fingerprints,” Q said, holding up one hand. There were ink stains James had noticed but not remarked upon on all of his fingertips. 

“They made some sort of—mold, I suppose. Did each of the fingers on my right hand. And then ink printed them as well. I asked why and the one doing it hit me so I didn’t ask again.”

“Did he identify himself to you?” Mycroft asked quietly. “The one in the suit.”

“No,” Q said. He started to yawn, then winced and suppressed it. “I assumed you would know who he was.”

“Decidedly not. And he doesn’t match the description of anyone I’m currently aware of who would—“Mycroft swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Q shook his head tiredly. “Not your fault. And it’s probably not the only time I’ll be kidnapped either, if we’re being realistic.”

James and Mycroft both disagreed with that statement and by the time Q had placated them, they’d arrived at James’ flat.

“Is there anything else you need?” Mycroft asked, after helping James get Q up the stairs. “Food? Anything?”

“I’ll order takeaway in a moment,” James answered. “But I’ll let you know if there’s anything else. And I’ll call you tomorrow, if you like. Give you an update.”

“Yes, that—I would appreciate that.”

“Alright.”

“Well. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

James locked the door, then moved to pull Q off the couch. “Come on, let’s get you in the bath before you fall asleep. Any preference on food?”

“No food,” he muttered into James’ neck. “Just sleep.”

“Well, you’ve a broken nose and the drugs they gave you at HQ are going to wear off soon. You need food to take painkillers or you won’t be sleeping for long.”

“Eggs and toast,” Q said, sitting somewhat heavily on the toilet lid. “With the toast almost burnt. And the good Irish butter.”

James tried not to laugh as he helped Q out of his shirt, careful not to catch the collar on his nose or eyebrow. He ran a hand over the worst of the bruising on Q’s ribs, then straightened, shaking his head.

“I can do that. Anything else?”

“And find my glasses?”

“Done. Can you handle the rest from here?”

“Yes,” Q said, scowling. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you’re a walking bruise and probably moderately high at the moment. Call if you need me.”

Q snorted in a way that sounded painful as James left the bathroom and James pretended not to see him lean against the counter for support as he stood to remove his pants.

He dug his phone out of his pocket with a sigh and went to open the refrigerator.

“Yes, Mycroft? Is there any way you could get your hands on some Kerrygold  butter and have it delivered here within the next half hour? I’m out and Q has requested—ah, I thought you might. Good. I’ll be expecting her. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Now

23A Charleston is sectioned off with police tape when they arrive.

Q follows Sherlock like he’s meant to be there and is pleasantly surprised to find that no one attempts to stop their strange procession. He notices that not many of the people there seem too happy about Sherlock’s presence and wonders if this is a common occurrence—Sherlock disrupting crime scenes. He thinks it is past time he investigate his second brother’s life. He’d been avoiding it, since Mycroft never wanted to talk about Sherlock and why they rarely associated, but now…

Sherlock slips elegantly through the half-open door and Q attempts to mimic the slight movement of his hips that caused Sherlock’s Belstaff  to sweep in an arch behind him. He doesn’t get it quite right, but he’s close.

James makes a noise that may be stifled laughter behind him.

Lestrade brings up the rear, looking resigned as they shuffle inside, and Q is turning to catch James’ eye when he runs directly into Sherlock, who has stopped dead at the entrance to the kitchen.

“What—?”

There’s a lurch of movement, where Sherlock is suddenly crouched on the floor beside—oh god, is that John?

No, Q realizes a moment later, as Sherlock turns the body over, the corpse isn’t John, but the man is strikingly similar in build and coloring and…Q moves to kneel beside Sherlock while Lestrade grabs the back of both of their coats, shouting for them to stop contaminating the crime scene.

 The corpse is wearing John’s clothes.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, pulling them back to their feet, “you can’t just—“

“This is what John was wearing,” Sherlock interrupts. “The jacket, jumper, jeans, shoes, even the socks. This man is dressed in exact duplicates of the clothes that John was wearing when he left my flat thirty minutes ago. He looks similar enough that I was bound, at first, to think it was John. Shot in the back of the head, left face-down and bloody enough to be indistinguishable from a distance. He wanted me to think he’d killed John. But why?”

“Sherlock,” Q says, “I don’t think these clothes are duplicates. Look.”

He points to the right cuff of the jumper, where a tea stain sits, just above the wrist. John had made that tea stain less than an hour before.

Sherlock crouches again, hands moving to unzip the jacket, pulling down the neck of the jumper, going still when they encounter a chain.

Q doesn’t know what the necklace means, but Sherlock removes it from the corpses’ neck with a savagery that is nearly frightening.

They look like dog tags, he thinks—like the ones that James and Alec have, sitting in drawers in their kitchens. Sherlock curls his fingers around them and is dialing his phone a moment later. Q can see Sherlock’s pulse in his throat. His pupils are dilated and his breathing is shallow and the raw look of panic on his face is —

Q has the sudden, uncomfortable realization that this must be what he looks like when James is in danger and he cannot help him.

 “Mycroft,” Sherlock says when the line connects. His voice cracks.

“Mycroft, I need your help.”

......

Then

Q fell asleep halfway through his eggs, but he’d taken the pills with his toast so James counted it as well enough and carried the boy to bed.

He thought, reflexively, as he shouldered open the bedroom door, that he really couldn’t term Q as a “boy” anymore. He certainly still looked younger than his age, but between his obviously mature mind, the significant amount of responsibility his job awarded him, and the subtle, wiry, muscle he’d been building sparing with various agents at MI6, there was very little childish left about him. 

The cadence of rain on the window picked up and he shifted Q closer for a moment before depositing him on the bed, careful of his injuries, and stepped back, arms crossed. A moment later James moved forward again, removing Q’s glasses. He finger-combed some semblance of order into Q’s curls and then pulled the comforter--bunched up at the foot of the bed, first to Q’s chest, and then, after a second of thought, to his shoulders. He was wearing one of James’ jumpers, thick woven cotton that should be plenty warm, but James was worried Q may not have fully regulated his body temperature after the ordeal and—he glanced toward the linen cabinet and wondered if he should get an additional blanket.  Thunder rumbled outside. The lights flickered. He realized he was being ridiculous and decided he should go to sleep before he did something truly embarrassing. It wasn’t until he was nearly into the hall when Q shifted—the soft crinkle of down loud in the early morning rain-drenched silence.

“James?”

He paused in the doorway. “Hey. Go back to sleep, everything is fine.”

“Where are you going?”

“I—living room. You can have the bed.”

Q swallowed, his eyes wide and grey and stark against the bruising beneath them.

“I’m cold,” he said.

“I was afraid you might be,” he answered, feeling strangely vindicated. “I can get you another blanket, hold on—“

“James,” Q repeated, slowly. “I’m cold.”

“Oh.”

James didn’t move for several seconds, fingers pressed to the molding of the doorway. He curled his bare toes into the carpet and took a breath, uncertain how to respond. “Do you want me to--?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Alright.”

James moved to close the blackout curtains, taking the room from pale monochrome to near-pitch black. He felt his way to the empty side of the bed, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and found Q watching him as he slid beneath the sheets.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered. He didn’t know why he felt the need to, he’d been talking normally a moment before, but the dark somehow made things more fragile. The heavy blanket of rain-noise on the roof turned the silence between them loud and holy.

“ ‘m tired,” Q murmured back. “And cold.”

It was a feeble excuse, but James took it, moving forward to meet Q in the middle of the bed.

“Turn over,” he said, and Q obeyed without question, letting himself be tucked spoon-like to the curve of James’ body. James wedged one arm beneath his pillow, then settled the other one, mindful of Q’s injuries, across the boy’s chest. His hand came to rest against the mattress just short of Q’s mouth and when Q spoke, his breath was warm against the bend of James’ wrist.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

“Mm,” James agreed.

“Sixteen. And your birthday isn’t for another five months.”

“Mhm.”

“Which means there’s only six years difference between us right now.”

James shifted minutely.

“Alright?”

Q had used James’ shampoo and it was surprisingly difficult not to just press his face to the back of the boy’s neck and inhale. It smelled much better on him.

“Was just thinking about it, is all.” Q said.

“Stop thinking and go to sleep,” James suggested.

“Okay,” Q agreed.

“You warm enough now?”

“Not yet,” Q whispered. “Just stay.”

“Alright.”

Chapter Text

Now

Q admittedly has very little basis of comparison, but sitting in 221B, watching Sherlock pace, he gets the feeling that his brother is having something of a breakdown.

“Sherlock,” he says carefully. “Statistically speaking, he’s probably fine.”

“You can’t know that,” Sherlock says hoarsely, savagely.

Q licks his lips. “Think about it. If they wanted him dead, whoever “they” are, they would have actually killed him and left the body at the scene instead of going through the trouble of making you think he was dead.”

James, sitting beside him and looking distrustfully at Victor, who is reclined on the opposite end of the couch, nods his assent. “Q’s right. If they wanted John dead he would be dead already.”

“Will you stop saying that,” Sherlock hisses.

“What?”

“John and dead and—it’s not. Just be silent. Why hasn’t Mycroft found something by now—”

Sherlock’s phone rings and he nearly drops it in his haste to answer.

“Yes. Where? The address, Mycroft. Fine, give me the license then. Of course I can’t, but Quentin is here—well I suppose we’ll find out.”

A moment later Sherlock is shoving his laptop into Q’s hands.

“Mycroft found CCTV footage of John being taken and has a license plate. They’re trying to track down the owner of the car now but I wonder if you might—“

“Yes, of course. I can access some of MI6’s databases remotely but if that doesn’t work I can’t do much more without my own tech.”

“Fine, just try.” He swallows. “Please.”

Q turns his attention to the laptop and James, sitting beside him, sighs.

He’s not supposed to access the database from an unsecured network, or at all, really, considering he’s on leave, but James doesn’t say anything and Q presses his knee against James’ in thanks for his silence.

“I have an address,” he says a few minutes later, and Sherlock, who had started pacing again, is reaching for his coat before Q can finish the sentence.

“Where?”

“Near Waterloo Station, do you—“ 

“Are you coming?” Sherlock demands, hand on the door handle.

“I—“ he glances at James, who stands.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Q spends the cab ride squished between Sherlock, who is running his fingernails over the curve of his knees in a nearly frantic tempo, and James who is looking somewhat blankly out the window, mouth thin, expression mission-serious. He’s still favoring his ribs and Q considers the scabbed abrasions on the side of his face with a frown, feeling somewhat guilty. He waits until James’ back is turned, paying the driver, to slip out the retainer case he’s been carrying in his jacket pocket. The little metal device clicks easily into place at the roof of his mouth and he takes a moment to run his tongue over his teeth, acclimating himself, before James turns back around. Just in case, he thinks, pocketing the case again.

The house is empty.

Q sends the address to Mycroft,  because he isn’t stupid, and after James does a thorough sweep they stand in the kitchen, stymied, as Sherlock mutters to himself,  fingers curled angrily around the lip of the counter.

“Want me to see if I can get anything off the computer in the basement?” Q asks, feeling rather useless.

“Yes, that’s—I’ll come with you.”

They both look to James, who shakes his head. “I’ll stay here. Keep an eye out.”

Q descends the stairs with Sherlock as his shadow and tries not to get distracted by the bereft expression his brother is wearing like an ill-fitting coat. He’s bitten the swell of his bottom lip near-raw, and the white light from the computer only amplifies the badly concealed fear on his face. 

John Watson is Sherlock’s James, Q realises. 

The revelation forces his attention back to the screen.

“We’ll get him back,” Q says, “you haven’t lost him,” and Sherlock huffs out a breath that may be thankful.

“I’m not sure I ever had him to begin with,” he mutters.

Q isn’t sure how to respond to that, and he doesn’t get a chance.

There’s footsteps on the stairs behind them and by the time Q has registered they’re the wrong cadence to be James’, it’s already too late.

***

Then

James woke to Q coughing.

He sat up, disoriented, and sleep-slow before remembering the events of the night (day?) before, and he rolled to face Q, or at least the cocoon of bedding that contained Q.

“Q?” his voice came out so raspy it was indistinguishable as speech. He cleared his throat, sitting up.

“Hey.”

The lump under the comforter stifled another cough, followed by something like a sob.

James gently turned him over.

There were tear tracks down Q’s flushed cheeks and he was holding his arms around himself as if he was afraid he might fall apart.

James realized the pain pills had probably worn off and coughing with bruised ribs was certainly not something he ever wanted to experience.

“I’m fine.” Q lied.

James decided not to mention the crying.

“It sounds like your lungs have the Thames in them. You’re not fine.”

“It’s just a cold. I had a sore throat before they—before.  So. It’s really not—“

He cut himself off with another round of deep, wet, coughs. “A big deal,” he finished, somewhat breathlessly.

James sighed.

Q’s face was a mess. There were deep black marks under his wet eyes and his nose, set but still swollen, was sluggishly running with a mixture of blood and snot.

Q rubbed the back of his hand over his upper lip and groaned, realizing he’d all but ruined one of James’ pillows during the night.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

James pushed Q’s hair out of his eyes, letting his palm linger a moment on the boy’s forehead.

“Jesus. Let’s get you some food and some aspirin. You’re burning up. Pain pills too. “

He combed his fingers through Q’s hair for a moment longer in lieu of removing his hand.

“You’re a right mess.”

“I’m fine,” Q repeated.

A few hours later, Q had moved past denial and was, instead, certain he was dying.

“How are you feeling?” James asked, setting a bowl of soup, helpfully delivered by Mycroft’s relatively frightening assistant Anthea, a few moments before.

“Kill me,” Q sighed, trying to suppress another cough. 

James winced.

“I rather prefer you alive,” he said, moving to sit beside him on the couch.

Q glared at him somewhat blearily.

“I’ve never felt this terrible in my life. I’m freezing and sweating and everything hurts. And I can’t even blow my nose.”

“I know,” James said consolingly, tucking one arm around the mass of blankets ensconcing Q. “It’s going to be a shit few days, but we’ll get through them.”

“We?”

“Of course. You don’t think I’m going anywhere with you in this state?”

“But what about work?’

“I’ve got the week off,” James lied. “M let me have some leave.”

It was a testament to Q’s illness that he didn’t catch it, or if he did, that he decided not to address it.

“Alright.”

A moment later Q pushed the soup away, eyes wide. Before James could ask what was wrong he realized exactly what the problem was. Q’s breath hitched and he sneezed, twice in quick succession. This was followed by tears.

“Oh,” Q gasped. “Oh that was terrible. Shit.”

He tried to sniff instinctively and made a wounded noise, frantically pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes, mouth curling in distress.

“Hey, don’t—“ James pulled Q more or less into his lap, attempting to keep him ensconced in blankets and ultimately failing. “Hey, it’s alright.” 

“It hurts,” Q said brokenly, “I can’t breathe and it hurts and I feel so awful.”

His breath caught on another sob which turned to more coughing and James, feeling entirely inadequate, tucked Q’s head beneath his chin, one hand working beneath the blankets to rub his back.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re alright. You’ll be fine. Just a few shit days, remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Q breathed into his neck. “Jesus, this is pathetic. I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” James said uselessly. “Anthea brought cough medicine, it’s in the kitchen if you want some. And maybe some ginger tea?”

“No,” Q said. 

“You want to try some soup?”

“No.”

“Q…”

“Please,” he said. “Please, can we just stay like this for a minute.”

Q shivered and the world shook.

James held him tighter.

“Yeah,” James said. “Yeah, alright.”

Chapter Text

Now

Q doesn’t open his eyes because he has a feeling it will hurt.

Someone is shouting and he wants them to stop and even though he knows something is wrong and he isn’t at HQ and it isn’t a voice over his headset that’s making the noise, he murmurs, more out of habit than anything else. “James? Stop shouting, please. My head hurts.”

Comprehension follows relatively quickly after that and he does open his eyes then, trying to sit up. He groans, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to ward off nausea, and then goes still. He’s still wearing the brace. He drops his tongue, carefully, and waits for a beep. It doesn’t come and he lets out a breath. Blowing his head off by accident would not be the best way to go. Also James would kill him. Resurrect his corpse and kill him. He blinks, trying to clear his muddled head, and leans back against the wall.

John Watson, handcuffed to a bed a few feet away, is staring at him.

“The hell?” John says.

“We’re here to rescue you,” Q says.

“Are you? Ta very much.”

Sherlock, the one responsible for the yelling, is dragged between them and he stops arguing with his captor long enough to notice John and nearly trips over himself in his haste to approach him. “John,” he says, eyes flicking from John’s head to feet. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You were drugged.”

“Yeah, I was. And now I’m fine. Are you alright? You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock makes a derisive noise.

 “Only a little.”

One of the two men Q can see, wearing black and face masks, grabs a

handful of Sherlock’s hair and forces him to his knees beside Q.

Sherlock spits on him, which earns Sherlock a slap to the face and a kick to the chest. He ends up sprawled on his back, growling expletives. 

“Well, isn’t this charming.”

Q swallows, throat dry, and turns to face the new voice.

He recognizes him. Not the man himself: wide eyed and slender and far too innocent looking, but the man’s voice. Before, he’d hidden behind a carnival mask.

Q closes his eyes for an exhale, too slow to be a blink, and gathers himself.

James isn’t here.

James will come for them.

 “I’m actually a little disappointed, boys,” the man says with a pout. “You really made it too easy for me, though I’ll admit your little guard dog was a pleasant surprise, Quentin.”

Q opens his eyes, an ache in his chest.

“What have you done to James?” 

“Oh, your pet is fine. He’s more useful alive at the moment. Seeing as he’s rather attached to you. I imagine he’s very invested in making sure you stay safe and…whole.”

Q doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 “And you!” He says, turning his attention to Sherlock. “We’ve had some fun, haven’t we?”

“Have we?” Sherlock mutters.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been a ball watching you scurry around after my clues. You’ve enjoyed it too, don’t lie, Sher-lock.” He says the name with malice, pronouncing it like two separate words and Q, who has never been one for violence, would really, really, like to punch him.

“It hardly seems fair that you know my name and I still don’t know yours,” Sherlock says.

“Oh how silly of me. I’m Jim. Moriarty. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Of course.

Sherlock looks blank, but Q’s fingers are curling into fists against his volition. He clenches his teeth, forcing his fingers slack again.

Moriarty pulls a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and slides his thumb across it, humming tunelessly and after a moment he holds it up so that both Sherlock and Q are in the shot of his camera.

“Say cheese. Big brother is being awfully difficult, but I think a little family picture may be just what he needs to cooperate.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock says, rubbing a cuffed wrist awkwardly against his bleeding mouth. “What do you want with Mycroft? I thought this was about me.”

“Oh Sherlock.” Moriarty says, crouching in front of him. “Poor boy. Maybe you haven’t heard, but the world DOESN’T REVOLVE AROUND YOU.”

Q flinches as soft lilting tones abruptly turn to screaming and he sees John make a similar movement across from him.

“This was ALWAYS about Mycroft,” he snarls, nose inches from Sherlock’s. “And you didn’t see it because you’re a stupid, stupid, child. Of course you can’t fault me with having a bit of fun, but honestly, what can you give me? Hmm? Nothing. Mycroft is the one with the power. You’re just his weak spot.”

Moriarty stands abruptly. “And this one,” he runs a hand through Q’s hair, knotting his fingers when Q tries to pull away. “This one was a precaution. Too smart. Too attached to the idea of a real live family.” He trails his fingers down the apple of Q’s check and the movement is so reminiscent of the past that he feels sick to his stomach. “If big brother had come to you for help when poor Sherlock went missing, oh, you may have. You just may have. And I’m not one for gambling.”

Moriarty lets go and Q glances at Sherlock, opens his mouth just enough for him to see the wire across his teeth.  He touches it with his tongue and hopes Sherlock understand the meaningful look that accompanies it.

Behind Q, Moriarty claps his hands. “So here we are. All together. And—“

Moriarty’s phone rings.

“Excuse me a second,” he says, answering with a flourish. “Hello?”

“Good evening,” Mycroft says stiffly over the speaker phone, “You have my attention.”

Moriarty opens his mouth to answer, but whatever he says is lost in a sudden barrage of movement.

One of the masked men had strayed a bit too close to Sherlock, and Sherlock had taken the opportunity to kick his legs out from underneath him. When the man hit the floor. Q moved hardly without thinking, bringing down his cuffed, fisted hands onto the man’s face several times in quick succession with a violence that should probably be surprising. When he looks up, hands bloodied, Sherlock has somehow managed to not only uncuff himself but also steal a gun from the other masked man. In the same moment he points the gun at Moriarty, a red laser sight immediately appears on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Sniper,” John says, sounding like it’s more out of habit than anything else. “Sherlock—don’t.”

Suddenly everything is very still again.

Moriarty sighs. “Hold on a moment,” he says to Mycroft. “Your brother is causing problems.” He shakes his head toward Sherlock, as if scolding a child.

“Really? Really? That’s the best you could come up with? Oh no, Sherlock. No, no, no. You’re so much better than this. Think.”

Sherlock considers, then abruptly brings the pistol to his own temple.

“Oh, that’s better,” Moriarty says. “Bravo. Sacrificing yourself for the greater good. How noble of you. But the only problem is that you’d never do it. You’re too selfish, Sherlock. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Sherlock’s arm wavers.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, as if he knows exactly what’s happening. “Don’t you dare.”

“You won’t do it, Sherlock.” Moriarty sings. “ I know you won’t because I know you. And. You. Won’t. Do. It.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.

John screams something that might be Sherlock’s name, lunging forward, nearly pulling his shoulder out of socket when the cuffs catch and jerk him back.

The pistol only clicks.

Q lets out the breath he’d been holding.

Sherlock opens his eyes. 

He releases the magazine, finds it empty, and throws both magazine and gun, across the room, looking furious.

Moriarty’s expression is similar.

“What is WRONG with you!?”  He shrieks. “You are being so stupid and normal and it is hateful. I thought you would be so much better.”

He paces a circle around the room and is now standing between John and Sherlock, his back to Q.

“Why are you being so boring?”

Q realizes Sherlock is staring at him with an intensity that is somewhat alarming and before he can second guess himself, Q presses his tongue, hard, to the plastic tucked against the roof of his mouth. It beeps, just once, so quiet Q is probably the only one who hears it. He dislodges the brace, briefly calculates that he shouldn’t be too far within the blast radius, and spits the explosive directly between Moriarty’s feet.

“Um.” Q says, meeting John’s eyes.

John realizes what’s happening a moment later and presses his face to his knees. Q realizes this is probably a good course of action and has only just had time to tuck his hands safely away and pull his legs to his chest, when the explosive detonates. He feels fire crawl up his legs and briefly, detachedly, thinks that James is going to be very, very, unhappy with him, before blissfully passing out.

***

Then

James woke to coughing again but this time it didn’t stop.

They’d fallen asleep on the couch and Q was still tucked more or less beneath one of his arms.

“Jesus,” James muttered, tugging Q vertical. It was too easy to manhandle him and James thought, not for the first time, that they should really attempt to get Q to gain a bit of weight. His skinny form was positively wracked with coughs and James, struggling to keep him upright, felt suddenly and distinctly useless.

“Shhh. Come on. I’ll—shit, I’ll go get the cough medicine.

Q’s fingers spasmed, curling tightly into the fabric of James’ shirt, his eyes wide and wet and panicked.

The little air he was getting between coughs rasped horribly in his chest and James, out of alarm more than anything else, scooped Q off the couch and carried him into the kitchen. He propped him on the island while fighting to get the childproof cap off the cough suppressant and then, too harried to read the measurement instructions, lifted the whole bottle to Q’s mouth.

“Here, hold your breath long enough to swallow a bit of this, alright?”

It took a few tries but after several of the longest minutes in James’ life, Q was only coughing intermittently and it no longer sounded like his lungs were trying to drown him.

There was a damp patch on James’ shoulder where Q’s face was leaned and they were both a mess of tears and blood because somewhere in the proceedings Q’s nose had decided to start bleeding again.

“James,” Q said, and it was so overwrought an exhalation that his throat hurt with sympathy.

“I know, I’m sorry. Let’s—let’s see if some steam helps, alright?”

He carried Q to bathroom, and tucked him, blankets and all, into the corner of the counter between the medicine cabinet and the sink. Q leaned his head back against the mirror, then shuddered when he caught his own reflection.

James shut the bathroom door and turned the shower on as hot as it would go before digging his phone out of his pocket.

1am.

“What’re you doing?” Q rasped, barely audible over the sound of water.

“Texting Boothroyd. I’m having someone from Medical come listen to your lungs. This can’t just be a cold.”

“Don’t want to go.”

“I know, that’s why I’m having them come here.”

“Oh.”

James frowned, leaning forward to rest his knuckles against Q’s forehead.  He amended the message to request a thermometer for him to keep as well.

The mirror had gone half-cloudy with condensation by the time Boothroyd responded and James, leaning against the counter beside a shivering Q, nearly dropped the phone in his haste to unlock it.

“They’ll be here in half an hour. I can’t give you anymore pain killers or aspirin for another hour though, so I don’t—“  He dragged his knuckles across Q’s forehead again, not because he anticipated a change since he’d done it a few minutes before, but because he needed to feel like he was doing something.

“It’s okay,” Q murmured, and then coughed again, deep and terrible. He sucked in a few short, painful breaths, before opening his eyes. “Anthea brought some—“ he let go of the blankets with one hand, gesturing vaguely, “Vaporub? I think it’s called. Can you—“

“Yeah, of course, I’ll just—“

James slipped out the door as quickly as possible and vaulted over the couch at a near sprint to dig through the bag of compresses, ointment, and pre-packaged snacks Mycroft’s assistant had left. 

He returned a moment later to the steam-filled room with a little tub of vaporub held triumphantly in one hand.

Q had somewhat divested himself of the blankets, lap still ensconced but torso uncovered, and was struggling to get his shirt off over his head. He was coughing again and James could see his ribs, already visible, grow stark and frightening on every violent inhale.

“Easy,” James said, helping to disentangle him. “Here, lets—“

He coated three fingers and dragged them the length of Q’s sternum, then gentled the pressure when Q winced.

“Sorry. Come to think of it, this may actually help with the pain from bruising. Alec swears by this for sore muscles.”

Q didn’t respond, leaning into James as he made careful circles on the boy’s chest. He wasn’t sure how long he was supposed to spend rubbing the salve in, but after several minutes the bathroom was a cocoon of humid menthol and shallow breathing and Q’s eyes were closed, body slack.

James used a hand towel to wipe the worst of the blood off Q’s mouth and chin, then propped him against the mirror and moved to turn off the shower.

Q laughed softly as James helped him back into his shirt.

“I’m not sure there’s anything funny about this situation,” James murmured.

“No.” Q agreed. “I was just remembering the last time I felt like this.”

“When was that?”

“I was nine. I got pneumonia. Almost died because they waited so long to take me to A&E.”

“Almost what?”

“James,” Q said tiredly.

James furiously, gently, tucked the blankets back around Q’s upper body. “I’m still not sure why that’s funny.”

“I was admitted to the hospital,” Q said, pausing a moment to stifle a cough. “I was miserable and I missed my mother. I hoped for a while I would die. Melodramatic, I know. But even then I didn’t see much of a future for myself.”

“Q.”

“Look at me now, though. Quartermaster at MI6 with my own personal double-O nanny looking after me.”

James snorted. “You’re not Quartermaster yet.”

“That’s what you object to in that statement? Interesting.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Still funny.” Q murmured.

The doorbell rang and James cupped his hand briefly to Q’s blanket-clad shoulder. “That’ll be the doctor. Back in a second.”

“Okay.”

He slipped into the hall, trying to let as little steam out as possible, and moved to answer the door.

One of the doctors he was familiar with from MI6 was standing on his stoop.

As was Mycroft Holmes.

James just smiled. “Evening gentleman, “ he said, “please come in.”

Chapter Text

Now

A nurse is just finishing taping a final bandage to Q’s calf when there’s something of a ruckus in the hall and Q can hear James’ voice—mission-serious and steely in a way that means trouble.

“Jesus,” Q mutters, “will you please bring him in here before he kills someone?” he asks the nurse.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, but moves to open the door and direct James, now threatening someone with grievous bodily harm, into the room.

“Q,” he says, stalking forward. It takes a moment for him to study the gauze covering Q’s feet and ankles and then he’s turning to the nurse, attempting to look over her shoulder at the chart she’s holding.

“Is he alright? What happened to his feet?”

 “James,” Q says.

The nurse whacks James’ knuckles with her clipboard when he tries to take it out of her hands.

“He’ll be fine. Worst case there’ll be a bit of scarring. Now go sit down and hold his hand like a normal person. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Q suppresses a laugh and is only a little surprised when James actually does as she instructs, settling himself in the visitor’s chair at the head of his bed. He doesn’t, however, hold Q’s hand. Q tells himself he is not disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” James says. “Fuck, Q, I’m so sorry.”

“I—what?”

“I should have seen it coming, I wasn’t—they knocked me out before I even had the chance to—“

“James, it’s not your fault.”

“It is.”

“It’s not. And I’m fine. I think. Mostly second-degree burns. Be a shit few months and then I’ll be back to normal.”

“I don’t—John told me what happened. I can’t believe you used that stupid brace.”

Q bristles. “It worked, alright? It worked and you don’t get to be angry about it because things undoubtedly would have turned out worse if I hadn’t used it so—“

“I understand that, I just. The idea of something happening to you is—”

He growls something in Russian, rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs, shoulders hunched.

“Remember when you were kidnapped? The day before you turned sixteen?”

Q blinks at the non sequitur.

“It’d be rather hard to forget.”

“Quentin.”

“Yes, James. I remember when I was kidnapped.”

“You remember when you got sick, and I spent the next week at your house with you? Even though Mycroft’s security surely had things handled from a safety standpoint and he probably would have hired a full medical team to look after you if he didn’t just do it himself.”

“Yes. I was baffled you could go so long without some sort of espionage. Even more surprised M let you have the time off.”

“She didn’t.”

James is doing something with his face. Something that almost looks like discomfort. Like he’s hoping Q will understand what he’s trying to say without actually making him say it.

“What?” Q says.

“She didn’t let me have time off,” James repeats slowly. “I was suspended.”

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“I was in Tel Aviv when you were taken, the mission was to discreetly steal a USB key with British Intelligence ledgers that had fallen into the wrong hands and was being bought by a Saudi Prince. What he was going to do with it, I’ve no idea.  The man in charge of transporting the key was a relatively well-known member of the Bratva. Killing him would cause problems, despite his being the scum of the earth. Operatives had engineered a twenty-minute window in which I could access his hotel room and extract it from his safe the night before his meeting with the prince without causing any damage to his person.”

Q is uncertain what this has to do with anything. “So?”

“Alec called me the morning after you were taken. Told me they couldn’t find you. It was still two days until my extraction window and I couldn’t wait that long.”

He suddenly understands what James has been skirting around.

“Oh. Oh no. What did you do?”

“I went to his room, shot him and the two men with him, and took the key.”

“James.”

“Then I contacted the Prince and traded the key for a one way trip back to London on his Gulfstream G650.”

“James.”

“I mean. I didn’t actually give him the real key. I had Rebecca reformat the files so that they would corrupt when someone tried to download them. That way—“

“You could show him the files,” Q interrupts. “Prove it was legitimate information, but then once you landed in London and handed it over, he would try to download them and—“

“Exactly.”

James licks his lips, eyes on his hands, rubbing one thumb against the callouses on his opposite palm.

“I would have, though,” he says carefully. “Given him the real key. If Rebecca hadn’t been willing to help me. If it hadn’t worked. I would have done anything to get back to you, to help find you. Even though I know I was technically useless. Even though—I had to be there.”

“You would have been fired, when they found out,” Q points out, somewhat horrified at the imagined logistics of such a disastrous mission outcome. “I mean. It would take them time to sort things but when they did you would definitely be fired. Possibly arrested. That’s—that’s treason.”

“Yes,” James says without hesitation. 

Q sighs.

“You love your job. And your country.”

James shrugs. He’s giving Q the look again.

The please understand what I’m trying to say look.

Q  knows what he wants the look to mean.

But he’s afraid to believe it.

Because if he’s wrong it will hurt worse than any physical injuries he’s already sustained and he can’t take any more pain, not right now, so he takes the easy way out.

“I have the worst headache,” he says, because its true and it’s a suitable excuse to delay the conversation and James—James moves forward to card his fingers through Q’s hair, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to touch him.

“Alright. You want me to call someone?”

“No, just—that.”

James shifts his chair closer.

“Alright.”

Q closes his eyes.

***

 Then

The third day of Q’s illness—bronchitis and a double set of ear-infections, it turned out—found Q bundled on the couch between Mycroft and Eve, breathing through his mouth and feeling generally awful. Alec and James were arguing amicably in the kitchen while they made dinner, or, at least, while James made dinner and Alec tried to set things on fire. 

It was a strange group of people, but Mycroft fit in surprisingly well with the MI6 agents, and he seemed oddly at ease on Bond’s couch, discussing French foreign policy with Eve.

Q had just taken another painkiller, which paired with cough syrup and a decongestant left him feeling warm and slow and slightly disconnected from the rest of the world. His glasses were also low on his nose since they didn’t sit right with the swelling and he couldn’t remember a time he’d felt like more of a mess. James was sautéing something in the kitchen and Q’s attention was caught by the way James’ arm muscles flexed as he moved the pan back and forth over the flame. It was a full-body movement, a light rocking of his hips as he drizzled olive oil onto whatever it was he was cooking, continuing to shift the ingredients in the pan. Usually James’ apparel choices were something of a dichotomy: a suit at work, or sweats at home. But today he was somewhere between elegance and comfort, wearing blue jeans and a grey Henley rolled to the elbows. The waffle knit of the jumper was exceptionally soft, Q knew, because he’d stolen it in the past.

Q noticed Eve was smirking at him and then realized, somewhat absently, that he was staring at James. He also couldn’t seem to make himself stop.

Eve was kind enough not to say anything.

“Q,” James called from the kitchen, “why don’t you pick something for us to watch? Food will be done in a minute.”

Q gestured vaguely to the cabinet under the television where James kept his DVDs and mumbled nasally, “I’m just going to fall asleep, someone who will actually be watching should pick. Also, should you be cooking? You’re still injured.”

James scoffed. “I’m fine. Especially comparatively speaking.”

“It’s not a competition. And I can see you favoring your side from here. Alec, take that pan from him.”

A short scuffle ensued while James declared the food done anyway and when Q turned his attention back to the television, Mycroft was crouched in front of the DVD selection, sliding a box set from its place on the second shelf.

“Jeeves and Wooster?” Eve asked, delighted. “You would pick that.”

Mycroft inserted a disk into the DVD player, unapologetic. 

“It was my brother’s favorite when we were children,” he said distractedly, then stilled, glancing at Q. “Sherlock, I mean. He—we both enjoyed it. One of the few normal things we did together.”

“Me too,” Q said. “My mother loved it.”

Mycroft returned to the couch, just the barest curve of a fond smile on his lips, but it made Q nearly giddy. Though perhaps that was the influence of the narcotics in his system.

A moment later James was squeezing in between Eve and Q, setting food on the coffee table while Alec unloaded an armful of drinks and dropped to sit on the carpet.

“What season are we watching?” Eve asked.

“First,” Mycroft said, the “obviously” heavily implied.

“Third is the best,” James said, carefully situating a bowl in Q’s lap.

“It most certainly is not,” Mycroft answered.

“Better than the first, anyway.”

Mycroft very nearly rolled his eyes. “Quentin, wouldn’t you agree that the first season is superior to the others?”

Q shook his head, nearly dislodging his precariously perched glasses.

 “I refuse to take sides between my brother and my…James.” Q said awkwardly.

“Your James? I wasn’t aware you had a monopoly on him,” Alec mused.

“You weren’t?” Eve said, grinning around her fork, “Must not have been paying attention for the last year, then”

Alec toasted her with his beer. “Point.”

Mycroft looked resigned.

James busied himself with folding a napkin for no purpose whatsoever.

Q flushed.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

Now

Q is waiting to be discharged when Mycroft knocks on the door, slipping inside as James stands.

“Hello,” he says, sounding strangely off-center. “Has Sherlock spoken to you?”

“No,” James answers, “can you tell us where things stand with Moriarty?”

“Both he and Sebastian Moran are unaccounted for.  Moran has been confirmed alive from CCTV, Moriarty, unknown.”

“He looked dead,” Q murmurs. “I mean. Sherlock was more worried about John and I couldn’t stop Moran from taking Moriarty but—I blew him up. He—“ Q swallows. “He looked dead.”

“We can explore that further, later,” Mycroft says, sharing a look with James that surely means something, though what, Q doesn’t know.

“What’s important now is getting you all to a secure location. Even if Moriarty is dead, Moran may be loyal enough to consider retaliation. I have a car and security waiting to take you to my home upon discharge. I hope you’ll be comfortable there until this situation is resolved.”

“But—“

“No,” James interrupts, “He’s right. We’re dealing with unknown variables and I’m still injured. I can’t protect you at your place, not now.”

“James.”

There’s a sharp rap on the door and the nurse who had hit James with the clipboard steps inside pushing a wheelchair. She gives Mycroft a swift up-and-down look. She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re all set,” she says to Q. “Your…friends… can take you now.

James moves forward to pick Q up before he can object, and by the time Q has managed to begin a protest he’s already being set down in the wheelchair.

Q scowls.

“You just said you’re still injured. You shouldn’t be picking people up.”

“Yes, well, you couldn’t move yourself and Mycroft might have wrinkled something if he tried and that would be a shame.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says dryly. “Sherlock and John are already on their way downstairs. Shall we go?”

Q crosses his arms, leaning back into the chair with a huff as James pushes him forward.

“Don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?”

“No,” they say simultaneously.

“Fantastic.”

When they get to Mycroft’s house, John is sitting on the couch looking vacant and well-bandaged and Sherlock is pacing around the room, coat still on, flapping about like a particularly scowl-y raven. John has a scattering of burns and bruises and he’s carefully rotating his shoulder, grimacing. James carries Q, despite his continued protests, to settle him onto the couch beside John where they get into a brief argument about painkillers and eating and whether or not getting Q’s laptop from his flat is a priority. Eventually Q agrees to eat a piece of toast and take the painkiller in exchange for James promising to talk to Security about acquiring the laptop. Q has never eaten toast quite so obstinately, and James, once the last crumb is gone and the pill swallowed, goes downstairs with a harried sigh.

John laughs softly.

Another group of people arrive shortly afterward: Victor, Sam, and Mrs. Hudson, and Q is trying to estimate how many security personnel there are creeping about and where everyone is going to sleep. The house is big, but it’s not that big.

Victor’s first action upon entering the room is to wrap Sherlock in a hug. Q glances sharply at John who watches, lips pursed, but doesn’t say anything.

Sam, the girl from before, drops onto the couch beside Q and hands him a laptop bag. “It’s Sherlock’s,” she murmurs, “but I figured it’s better than nothing.”

 “Bless you,” Q says.  She grins.

Victor, meanwhile, is still hugging Sherlock, who isn’t protesting, exactly, but isn’t encouraging the action either. When Victor moves one hand to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, though, Sherlock flinches.

“Hey,” Victor says, nearly at the same time that John does. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he says, and Q is relatively certain that isn’t true because Sherlock says it the same exact way that Q does when he’s lying.

Victor clearly doesn’t believe him either because he catches Sherlock’s chin in one hand, turning his head, using the other to part his curls. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and John pushes himself up off the couch to stand.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeats, trying to pull away.

“You need stitches,” Victor hisses. “Why didn’t you get this seen to at the hospital?”

“Let me see,” John says.

Victor turns to look at John with an expression that can only be called fury. “How long did he spend sitting at your bedside bleeding without you noticing? I thought you were supposed to be a fucking doctor.”

“Well I haven’t exactly had a chance to look at the back of his head in the last twelve hours, have I?” John says, fingers curled into fists. “And forgive me if I believed him when he said he was okay.”

“Clearly you don’t know him very well then,” Victor snaps, curling one hand around Sherlock’s bicep. “Come on,” he says to Sherlock. “Let’s get a kit and I’ll sew you up.”

“Yeah, no,” John says, moving in front of him. “I’ll be the one taking care of him. I’m the bloody doctor.”

“Not a very good one, apparently,” Victor says, attempting to push past him.

Q wonders if he should be doing something, but before he can decide what course of action to take, John has hauled back and punched Victor directly in the face.

Victor goes down hard.

Q lets out a soft, involuntary exclamation, which quickly turns into a warning as Victor lunges back to his feet.

John may be military and full of righteous fury, but he’s also injured and a solid six inches shorter than Victor.

Sherlock forces his way between them before anything further can happen, pushing Victor backward with a force Q wouldn’t have thought existed in Sherlock’s skinny frame. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock says.

“He hit me.”

“You deserved it.”

Sherlock grabs the front of Victor’s shirt and drags him into the hallway, talking through his teeth. “Blaming John for my injury is completely illogical and you know it. I understand you were concerned for my safety but if you so much as touch him I will never speak to you again. Are we understood?”

Q presses his lips together, eyebrows raised at Sam.

She shakes her head, looking heaven ward.

“Yeah. Jesus. Sorry,” Victor mutters unconvincingly.

Sherlock pushes Victor toward the stairs. “Good. Go away.”

Sam hops off the couch to pats John on the back once before following Victor downstairs, her voice gentle, but chastising. Q thinks he hears the term “wanker” being used.

“Well that was interesting,” Q says.

“Shut up,” Sherlock growls, and takes John’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come fix me.”

John’s fingers curl around Sherlock’s, and he allows himself to be dragged from the room.

Q winks at him and he flushes.

***

Then

Q’s fever finally broke five days after his sixteenth birthday. His nose was no longer swollen, and the bruising beneath his eyes had faded to a sickly yellow. His cough was still worrisome, but only to James, apparently. Q was distressingly cavalier about the state of his lungs.

He was finally feeling well enough to move around on his own and had been in the shower for—James checked his watch—nearly half an hour. James was making them dinner, or at least he was attempting to. He couldn’t find the butter—Q’s butter—which didn’t make any sense. Mycroft had brought a brand new crock two days before and there was no way—

James’ mobile phone rang and he answered it on speaker phone, refrigerator door still open.

“Alec, are you on your way?”

“No,” Alec said. “Still at HQ.”

“Are you still coming, though? I’m about to start dinner.”

There was a pause on the other line and James thought he can hear Eve murmuring something in the background.

“No, Eve and I’ve decided to get dinner out tonight. She talked to Q this morning and it seems like he’s feeling better, so we thought it’d be best to leave you two alone for the weekend.”

“He’s feeling better, though,” James said absently, checking behind the milk.

“Yes.”

James felt like he was missing something.

“His birthday was last week, wasn’t it?” Alec pressed.

“Yes?”

“So he’s sixteen now.”

“Yes. I’m not sure what that—oh.”

Alec laughed. 

“No,” James says. “Alec, he is sixteen.”

“That was rather my point.”

James found, not the butter, but a Philips head screwdriver in the crisper and he sighed, closing the door to lean his forehead against it. He suspected he’d find the butter wherever the screwdriver belonged.

“No.” He said to Alec, knocking his head for emphasis against the cool of stainless steel. “He’s too young.”

“He’s practically a department head and has the most patents out of anyone in Research and Development.”

“That’s not—“

“He has a flat, and a stock portfolio. He does his laundry on Tuesdays and housekeeping on Fridays and only rarely blows things up. He’s a better adult than you are most days.”

“Alec.”

“I’m just saying. Your argument is lacking.”

James straightened, glancing toward the bathroom as the water cut off.

“I can’t. Even if he—I can’t. It’s Q.”

Alec’s voice was infuriatingly understanding. “I know.”

“I can’t.”

“I know. This isn’t about his age, though.” Alec said.

“No,” James admitted. “It isn’t.”

Chapter Text

Now

Six hours later, Mycroft, Victor, Mrs. Hudson, and Sam are all asleep. James and Lestrade are in Mycroft’s study drinking expensive scotch and talking about fishing, of all things, and Sherlock is playing the violin upstairs. Q is sat in front of the fire, skimming all the information MI6 has on Moriarty while John, on the opposite end of the couch, is nursing his third beer. Q is relatively certain he shouldn’t be drinking considering the medication he’s on, but then, of the two of them, Q isn’t the doctor. Q glances up to find the other man staring at him, the third time in as many minutes, and his fingers still on the keyboard.

“You’re staring at me,” Q says.

“Sorry.” John pinches the bridge of his nose, flushing. “Shit. I didn’t—Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Q says, “I’m honestly just curious as to why.” 

John gestures rather helplessly with his beer bottle. “It’s just. You look exactly like him, when he was your age. Sherlock, I mean. It makes me feel like I’m nineteen again and—it’s just strange. Is all. And I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“You knew him,” Q says, “when he was growing up?”

“Yeah. Twelve through fifteen, almost sixteen. I left for Afghanistan three weeks before his birthday. He was pissed about that.”

“But not after?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you knew him twelve through fifteen. That has a rather conclusive feel to it.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I hadn’t seen him since until about seven months ago.”

Q closes the laptop. “He cut off communication with you? While you were overseas?”

“Yes.”

“Bastard.”

“Ha. Yes.”

“Was it when his parents were killed?”

“Yes—how did you?—right, hacker, sorry. Yeah. It was the day after, actually. Sent me an email. Said he was bored of me.”

“Bastard,” Q repeats.

“Too right.”

John looks…bereft isn’t quite the right word. But neither is confused. Something between the two, Q thinks, and can’t help but feel a sudden rush of anger toward his brother.

“Do I really look that much like him?” Q asks.

John brings his attention back to Q. “Nearly identical. Eyes are a bit different.  Chin, maybe a little sharper. Same hair, though.”

John reaches out, seemingly on instinct, and only just stops himself from petting Q’s head. He snatches his hand back, closing his eyes.

“God. I’m sorry. I think I’ve had a bit too much.”

“No,” Q says gently. “I understand. It must be like I walked right out of your memories. You didn’t have a chance to see the transition. To watch him turn into an adult. So you’re having trouble joining the childhood version of him you remember with the present version now. And I’m not helping.”

“You a psychologist as well as a hacker?”

Q smirks. “You have to pass some pretty rigorous psych exams to work at MI6. Especially if you’re underage. I studied.”

“You know, you’re not actually supposed to study for a psych eval.”

Q shrugs and John grins.

“He really does care about you, you know. Sherlock.”

John snorts.

“No, he does. And while I don’t agree with what he did, I understand why he did it. I never made friends for a reason.”

“You Holmeses. Too smart for friends.”

“Too afraid, really.” Q admits.

 “Still a bastard,” John says. “Though if he’d just fucking apologise I’d probably forgive him.”

“He hasn’t apologised?” Q asks.  “He abandoned you for five years and then just expected you to jump right back into playing his sidekick without so much as an ‘I’m sorry’?”

John toasts Q with his beer. “Spot on.”

“Fuck that,” Q says. “No more sex until he apologises.”

“I—what?”

“Oh. Not to that stage yet then?” He knows they aren’t, of course, but he’s curious if—

“Sherlock and I aren’t…involved. Romantically.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly. I mean. Sherlock would never—and even if he did, I’m not gay.”

“Oh.”

They both go silent for several seconds. 

“But you love him.” Q says, baffled. It isn’t even a question, really.

“I—Yeah. I guess I do.”

Q studies John for a moment and John looks like he’s bracing himself for something.

“Do you not find him attractive?” Q asks.

 “He’s beautiful,” John admits. And then puts down the beer in his hand looking rather appalled.

“So you love him,” Q repeats slowly. “And you’re attracted to him. But you don’t want to have sex with him?”

John bites his bottom lip. “No?”

“Why not?”

John doesn’t have an answer, but it looks like he is having some sort of epiphany.

Q opens his laptop again and smiles.

***

Then

As a belated birthday present, a week later, Boothroyd allowed Q forty-eight unmonitored hours in the R&D lab with full access to any supplies that he wanted. James returned from a surprisingly issue-free mission in Moscow at hour nine to find the boy building a light-saber.

“Q,” James said, leaning awkwardly against the open blast door.

“What are you doing?”

“Building a light-saber,” Q answered.

James sighed.

Q was wearing a headband, safety goggles over his glasses and a lab coat that was several sizes too large for him. There were plasters around three of his fingers already. It was unfairly endearing.

“How’s your cough?” James asked.

“Fine.”

“Have you been using your inhaler?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Quentin.”

“James,” Q mimicked, high-pitched and infuriating.

James sighed a second time.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Breakfast, with Eve.”

“That was ten hours ago.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you intending it use up all forty-eight hours in one go or will you deign to sleep in between?” James asked.

Q wrinkled his nose. “Sleep is boring.”

“So is killing yourself because you’re sleep deprived and playing with dangerous chemicals—what is that?”

Q glanced up from the metallic cylinder he was holding and looked at James like he was an idiot. “It’s a capacitor. I’m trying to rework a plasma cutter I made last year into a functioning light-saber, but I’m not sure how—“ he trailed off, attention turning back to the rest of the objects spread out on the metal table in front of him.

“Aren’t light-sabers just lasers?” James asked, pulling up a chair.

Q scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Lasers don’t have a fixed length. “

“Right. So. Plasma?”

“Mmm. There are problems, though. Like containing it.”

“Containing it,” James repeated, feeling like an idiot.

Q set down the capacitor.

“I—“ He considered James’ expression, then started again. “Plasma is a fourth state of matter, after solids, liquids and gas. You get it from stripping gas's atoms of their electrons through ionization.”

“Okay.”

“Some plasmas don’t generate much heat, but others, strong enough to slice through things—like a light-saber, they’re incredibly hot.”

“Like a plasma-cutter,” James said.

“Yes, exactly. The principle is the same as a light bulb, but with more electrical current involved. The problem is that plasma like this is both incredibly hot and requires large amounts of electrical current—and it needs to be contained.”

James nodded at him to continue. 

“They’re composed of charged particles at high velocity, and I think I can manipulate the particles by using magnetic fields. Like they do with nuclear fusion research.”

James was about to nod again when Q’s shoulders slumped.

“Shit. No, that still wouldn’t work.”

“Why?”

“They’d pass through each other, they wouldn’t—” he mimed swinging a light-saber, making a buzzing noise. “You couldn’t duel with them.”

He sounded so utterly bereft by this that James couldn’t find it funny.

“Q,” he started, but was interrupted before he could cobble together something sympathetic.

“If you can figure out a way to make a solid core for it—something impervious to hot temperatures—you could fix that problem.”

They both looked up to find Rebecca standing on a scorch mark just inside the blast doors. She was holding a tablet, her glasses nearly invisible in the mess of curls piled on top of her head.

“Like what—“ Q said, “ceramic?”

She took a few steps forward. “A solid ceramic core wouldn’t work because the hilt is only around 8 inches long,”

“What if the core came out of the hilt when deployed,” Q mused, talking with hands, “Like those collapsible toy light-sabers you can get for children—“

Rebecca pursed her lips, setting the tablet on the table. “It’d still leave you with the temperature issue, though. Heat would be irradiated in the form of infrared radiation, so the Jedi's hands—“She glanced at James, flushing. “I mean. Whoever was holding it—their hands would be charred pretty instantly.”

“So we’d need some sort of force field to keep in the heat,” Q said.

“Yeah, but the blades look like they use optical wavelengths, so the force field has to contain infrared radiation, but still let visible light through.”

James was utterly lost, but the delight on Q’s face nearly made it worth his sudden and humbling lack of ego.

“Well,” James said, standing, “I’ll leave you two to scheme. Q, will you be joining me for dinner at some point?”

Q moved his laptop to show Rebecca something on the screen. “Sure. Later.”

James glanced at his watch. “I’ll send a car for you at 10.”

“Mmm.”

“Quentin.”

Q waved distractedly at him as Rebecca dropped into James’ vacated chair.

“Yes, 10. Goodbye, James.”

James smiled despite himself, and walked back out toward the lifts.

Chapter Text

Now

James waits until Q’s head is nodding over his keyboard and then moves in to collect him for bed. He’s still awake enough to set up a token protest, but between the painkillers and the lateness of the hour, it’s only token.

John, on the opposite end of the couch and looking equally exhausted, watches their quiet arguing as James moves the computer aside and picks Q up. He smells wrong, James thinks, like hospital chemicals and the kind of sweat that only results from fear.

Q slips one arm around James’ neck to steady himself, head turned, chin on James’ shoulder, and James gets the feeling that John and Q are having some sort of silent conversation as he carries him from the room. He decides to start spending more time with John.

“You’ll need to bring the wheelchair up for me,” Q says as they start up the stairs. “I’d rather not have to crawl to the bathroom in the night.”

“The chair won’t fit in the hallways. Just wake me up if you need anything.”

“How? Yelling down the hall? I don’t have my mobile.”

James shifts Q to turn the upstairs corner and Q winces slightly as one toe clips the banister.

“Sorry,” James says. “And no, I’m staying with you, so waking me shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Pardon?”

“If you haven’t noticed, there’s an abundance of people sleeping here tonight. You don’t have the luxury of a room to yourself.”

“So we’re sharing.”

“We are.”

“And Mycroft is alright with that?”

“Mycroft laid out the room assignments.”

“Fantastic.”

Instead of taking Q to one of the guestrooms, James carries him to the bathroom where there’s a chair set in front of the sink, and a bag of toiletries on the counter. James deposits Q in the chair before retrieving a pile of flannels from the cabinet.

“I’m assuming you’d rather not attempt a bath, so we’ll just have to clean you up as best we can. Do you want to try and do something about your hair or give it up as a lost cause until tomorrow?”

Q considers his reflection: grimy, relatively battered, hair an absolute wreck, and sighs. 

“I need to take a shower.”

“Q.”

“I need to,” he repeats. “I’m sure Mycroft has some plastic bags and tape to cover my legs.”

“It’s past midnight,” James argues. “I’m not waking up the man who may or may not run the British government to ask him where he keeps his extra bags. Besides, you’re not supposed to be standing anyway.”

“So I’ll fill the tub and keep my feet out of the water,” Q answers, voice going high and sharp with frustration. “I need to get clean so either help me or leave.” He licks his cracked lips and then adds, somewhat more subdued, “please.”

James takes a moment to really look at him: the exhaustion and pain and wide-eyed embarrassment, and sighs, rubbing one palm against his forehead. Considering his own neuroses, he certainly can’t judge Q for this one.

“Alright. Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll fill the tub.”

“Thank you.”

The mirror begins to bloom with fog and James can’t help but remember the last time the two of them were ensconced in a steam-filled bathroom.

 At least Q isn’t trying to die on him this time. 

That actually gives James a moment of pause because it occurs to him, quite suddenly, that Q isn’t in immediate danger. In fact, barring the burns to his feet, Q is the healthiest Bond has ever known him to be. 

As if aware of James’ thought process, Q removes his glasses and pulls his shirt off over his head, meeting James’ eyes in the bathroom mirror. He’s still too thin, really, but that seems to be more genetic than anything else and James would be lying if he said “slender” wasn’t his type. Q moves with somewhat less grace to remove his trousers and pants while still sitting and James watches the pale skin of Q’s back stretch to accommodate the curve of his spine.  

James wants to touch him, to trace the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, to press fingers to the trenches between his ribs and—

Q straightens, naked save the bandages on his feet, cheeks flushed with warmth from the room. He meets James' eyes in the mirror again and goes still.

James finds himself at a loss. 

At the very least he’ll need to help Q into and out of the tub, both actions that will involve a significant amount of physical contact, and while James is a hallmark of impassivity when it comes to work and even sexual conquests, Q is neither of the two and he feels distinctly wrong-footed. He takes a moment to appreciate the foreign sensation.

James toes off his shoes and socks, removes his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt to accommodate the rolling of starched sleeves. He turns off the tap and checks the water temperature, more as a stalling mechanism than anything else. He pivots to face Q, still crouched by the tub, and wets his bottom lip with his tongue. Q watches him. James sighs.

“How do you want to do this?”

Q lifts one eyebrow. “You’ve never had an issue with picking me up whenever you please, but now that I’m naked you’re suddenly shy?”

“I’m trying to preserve your autonomy but if you’d rather I do whatever I want without your input that can be arranged.”

“By all means. You do in every other avenue of your life, why change your modus operandi now?”

They’re toeing a line somewhere between flirtation and genuine frustration and James picks Q up before he can second-guess himself.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Q is small enough that he fits somewhat comfortably with his feet resting dry on the faucet, the rest of him submerged to the knees and chest. 

James watches the flush of goose bumps that spread across Q’s skin—a reaction to the temperature change—and leans back, bracing damp forearms on the lip of the tub.

“You’ll need to wash my hair,” Q says.

“Your hands work just fine.”

“I need at least one hand to keep myself balanced and if you’re just going to lurk anyway, you may as well make yourself useful.”

James doubts that’s true but doesn’t argue. He retrieves the shampoo and soap from the counter, handing a flannel to Q so he can wash the rest of himself while James sees to the tangle of his hair.

It takes several minutes to finger-comb the worst of the knots out, and James spends the majority of those minutes trying to ignore the inordinate amount of time that Q is spending dragging the damp flannel up and down his already clean chest. Q lifts his hips to rub at a spot of blood on the inside of his thigh and James pulls, perhaps harder than necessary, at a snarled curl. Q makes a soft noise that doesn’t sound like pain.

“Q,” James says, warning.

“James,” he answers easily. 

Q is aroused and not trying to hide it and James doesn’t know if he can survive the next ten-odd minutes it’s going to take to get the ridiculous boy clean. 

“I’m finished,” James says.

Q arches to rinse his hair in the tub behind him and straitens again, water clinging to his eyelashes, making rivulets over his collarbone. He licks the moisture off his lips, expression far too innocent to be believed.

“Conditioner next,” he says.

***

Then

“Jesus Christ,” Q shouted into his headset, hands braced uselessly on the corners of his workstation. “James Bond you had better have noise induced hearing loss from those percussion grenades because if you can hear me and you’re just ignoring my intel I will gut you.”

There was a relatively bloody-sounding squelch from James’ microphone followed by a quick succession of footsteps down stairs. On the monitor James’ tracking beacon moved another 100 feet in the wrong direction.

“Q,” Eve said over the second com, “Bond has diverted from mission protocol, he’s not with me anymore.”

“Yes, I can bloody well see that,” he snapped.

“Do I proceed to the rendezvous point or attempt to retrieve him? I have the drive.”

“Proceed to rendezvous, I’ll handle Bond.”

“Yessir.”

James somehow managed to board a train and Q stifled a genuine shriek of rage, pulling up a more detailed map of the Paris underground.

“What are you doing?!” he shouted.

Unsurprisingly, James didn’t answer. 

Q listened to James’ fast but steady breathing for a moment.

“007 if you do not respond within the next thirty seconds I will remote activate the self-destruct sequence on your gun.”

“You can do that?” Bond said, sounding impressed.

“Of course I can’t, but it’s nice to know you’ve been ignoring me for the last eight minutes you supreme asshole.”

“Easy, Q,” James said, only a little out of breath and infuriatingly cavalier. “Let’s try to keep a degree of professionalism here.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Or not.”

“James!”

“One of Victor’s men was following us. He thinks I have the drive, not Eve. I wanted to make sure he didn’t cause problems during the extraction. He’s in the car behind me now.”

“You self-sacrificing moron. If you would have just told me that I could have remedied the issue within mission protocol.”

“Just make sure Eve gets on that plane, I’ll take care of my shadow and find my own way home.”

“Bond—“

“Sorry, Q, this is my stop. And as lovely as your voice is you’re being something of a distraction. Focus on Eve. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“James, I swear to god, if you—“

The com went static.

Q did shriek then.

He watched James’ beacon for another moment before switching feeds. “Eve, report.”

“I’m on the plane. Door are closed, we’ll be taking off momentarily. James?”

“Alive. Stupid. “

“Should we wait for him?”

“Negative, I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Understood.”

Q turned off his microphone and fell back into his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin, attention again on James’ beacon.

“Asshole,” he muttered, reaching for his tea. “Stupid, stupid, man.”

Chapter Text

Now

By the time James gets Q clean, changed, and into bed, they’re spitting mad at each other, which, adding to their frustration, hasn’t lessened the arousal on either of their parts.

They lay back-to-back on the too-soft full-sized mattress, and breathe angrily at each other for several minutes in silence.

“We’ll need to check on Boff tomorrow,” Q says finally. “I’m assuming you made sure she was looked after.” His tone implies that James probably hadn’t, actually, and is a terrible person prone to animal neglect.

James grits his teeth. “I told Alec to check in on her tonight. Eve will drop by tomorrow morning. We can collect her and bring her here if we’re staying for more than a few days.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

James takes a breath—deep enough to momentarily close the gap between his spine and Q’s—then shifts a few inches away, exhaling.

Q laughs unkindly. “If touching me bothers you so much I’ll talk to Mycroft about our room assignments tomorrow. I’m sure Victor wouldn’t mind sharing with me.” 

The very idea makes James turn over.

“Would you stop it,” he says, sharp and low.

Q rolls to face him and James is surprised to see there’s moisture in his eyes.

“You stop it. I don’t—I don’t understand you at all.  You keep looking at me, all the time like,” he swallows, “like you’re imagining me naked and then, when I actually am naked, when I want you to look at me, you do your level best to make me feel as unappealing and juvenile as possible and I just—I’m so angry with you but I still want you and I —” His shoulders hitch. “I don’t understand you,” he repeats. “I don’t understand you at all.”

“Q,” James says. 

He brings up one hand to wipe angrily at his eyes.

“And being mad at you and attracted to you is difficult enough without trying to figure out what the hell is going on in your head so would you please just talk to me.”

 “You agreed,” James says, somewhat desperately. “You agreed to drop it until you were 18.”

“I agreed I wouldn’t proposition you for sex until I was 18, I didn’t agree to anything else, and I know it’s not just my age that’s stopping you from wanting me so if you’d just—

“Oh you know that, do you?”

“Alec said—“

“Alec is a wanker who should keep his mouth shut.”

Q presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Nevermind. Forget it.”

He rolls again and James is left frowning at the back of Q’s head. His hair is leaving a damp spot on the pillowcase and the tiny little baby-curls at the nape of his neck have gone fluffy.

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I didn’t intend to make you feel unappealing. You—“ he reaches one hand out, stalls an inch from letting it touch Q’s shoulder, and leaves it there, uncertain and awkward in the space between them. “You are the opposite of unappealing. I just don’t know what you want from me or how to—handle this.”

Q shoves his face harder into the pillow. “If you would talk to me, we might be able to figure that out together.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t really been talking at all the past few days.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Q.”

They both sigh.

“Aright,” James says a few moments later. “Alright. We’ll talk. Just not tonight. To much has happened today already and—“

“Tomorrow?”

James lets his hand drop to the curve of Q’s shoulder. He squeezes it once.

“Sure, tomorrow.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Q mutters, but he turns his head, just for a moment, to push his cheek against James’ fingers.

“Well I’m still mad at you.”

“Alright, good. As long as that’s established.”

There’s footsteps on the stairs and the gentle creek of old wood floors and Q can briefly hear indistinct conversation—John and Sherlock—from the room across the hall before a door closes. 

“James?” he says.

“Mmm?”

“I’m cold.”

James lets out a breath of a laugh, gathering Q to the cup of his body, and after a minute of grumbling limb rearrangement they settle again, flush and warm and quiet. When James sighs next it’s against the back of Q’s neck.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight.”

***

Then 

James arrived home to a dark, empty, flat, dropped his overnight bag in the entryway and promptly left again, flagging a taxi to take him to Q’s place.

When he got there Eve’s car was parked at the curb.

At Q’s door, his thumbprint on the scanner read denied. 

Not, invalid, meaning it hadn’t been matched, but denied, meaning it had matched and he was no longer on Q’s admit list.

He tried again.

Denied .

“Q!” He shouted, knocking on the door. “Eve? Let me in.”

Nothing.

He knocked harder.

“Quentin!”

The door was wrenched open so suddenly it left James off balance.

Q was barefooted and covered in blood, one hand pressing a towel to his nose.

“Jesus,” James said. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing.”

James pushed past him into the flat.

“Obviously not nothing, it looks like you’re wearing half your blood on your shirt.” He considered Q again. “My shirt.”

“I was just—“

“He was sparring with me,” Eve said, emerging from Q’s tech room with the first-aid kit. “And he was distracted.”

Q closed the door making a disgruntled noise. It came out rather wet sounding.

“Distracted,” James repeated, moving to take the kit her. “Why were you distracted?”

“Why do you think?” Q said.

“Oh so this is my fault?”

Eve and James wrestled over the kit for a moment and she eventually relented.

“Q?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

Q sighed. “It’s fine. You can go.”

She took another moment to consider both of them, arms crossed, before shaking her head. “You two are hopeless. Alec will be back from Shanghai tonight and we’re going out to dinner like real human beings. If you’d like to join us we’ll be at The Belmont at seven.”

“I’ll be there,” Q said.

“We already have plans,” James corrected.

“We had plans. I find myself suddenly free.”

“Q.”

“On second thought, I’m revoking my invitation,” Eve said, collecting her jacket. “I already experienced primary school once, I’d rather not do it again.”

“Eve,” Q started. 

“Don’t even. Play doctor with James. Let him apologize. If you’ve sorted yourselves by seven feel free to join us.” She pointed to his nose, “and that was your fault. I expect better next time.”

Q let out a snotty-sounding sigh.

“Okay.”

“Good. Later, boys!”

James waited for the door to close before directing Q into the kitchen, palm warm on his lower back.

“Does it feel broken?”

“No,” Q said, allowing himself to be lifted onto the counter. They both knew James’ help was unnecessary, as was putting him on the counter to begin with, but neither of them addressed it, nor the fact that James’ hands lingered at Q’s ribcage, fingers pressed into the valleys between his ribs.

“What happened?”

“We were sparring,” Q said, lowering the towel and tipping his head back. “I wasn’t paying attention and dropped my guard. It was stupid.”

James manipulated the cartilage of Q’s nose, then pressed careful thumbs to the curve of his eye sockets; soft, probing touches that belied the angry furrow between his brows.

“You’re right, nothing’s broken. Might have a bit of bruising tomorrow, though. And a headache.”

“No worse than the one you’ve already given me,” Q muttered. “Can you hand me my glasses? They’re on the sill above the sink.”

James retrieved Q’s glasses but didn’t give them to him yet, instead setting them just out of reach while he wet a clean flannel.

“I’m sorry,” James said, wiping at the blood on Q’s chin. “I was just trying to keep Eve and that drive safe. And everything worked out. It’s not the first time I’ve gone off-mission.”

Q closed his eyes, wincing as James moved to clean his upper lip.

“It’s the first time you went off-mission when I was in charge. I didn’t like it.” 

“I said I was sorry.”

“That doesn’t actually fix anything.”

“What about an apology gift? Would that help?”

“James,” Q exhaled, “buying me expensive things isn’t going to make me forget that you endangered not only yourself but—“

“It’s not expensive,” he interrupted, folding the fabric to access a clean spot. 

Q opened one curious eye to scowl at him.

“What is it?”

James grinned, making a final pass with the flannel from cheek to neck, and then tossed it into the sink, reaching for the hem of Q’s—his—shirt. 

Q lifted his arms without being asked.

“I’ll show you in a minute. Were you hurt anywhere else?”

Q leaned over to pick up his glasses, settling them with a careful wince onto his nose.

“I’m fine," he said, retrieving another flannel to wipe at the speckles of blood on his chest that had seeped through the shirt. “This is all from my nose. You know I bleed a lot.”

“I do. Unfortunately.”

James crossed his arms, not moving, and Q nudged him with one knee.

“Where’s my gift?”

“Alright, alright.”

He retrieved his satchel from the front door and set it beside Q on the counter, moving back into Q’s space with a look that could only mean he’d done something he found particularly smart.

“I brought you flowers,” James said proudly.

Q made a moue of distaste. “You know I hate cut flowers.”

“I do.”

“So why would you—oh.”

James handed him a stack of Polaroid pictures, held together by a rubber band.

“I dropped by the Jardin des Plantes. I knew you’d enjoy the blooms. And I knew I owed you an apology.”

Q shuffled through the photographs, biting his lip against a smile. He kicked James gently, then hooked one heel around the back of his knee when he tried to move away.

“They’re beautiful.”

James smiled.

“You know this isn’t going to work again, though” Q said, trying the school his face into something less pleased. “The flowers, thing. I mean. It’s brilliant. But it’ll only work this once.”

“I know. I’ll think of something better next time.”

“You could just stay within mission protocol next time.”

“Eh. What’s the fun in that?”

“James.”

James closed the space between them with a laugh, carding his fingers through a knot in Q’s curls. “Are we alright now?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. Now, do you want to stay in as planned or would you rather join Alec and Eve out?”

“I have a new pair of shoes,” Q said hopefully.

“Alright, dinner out it is. Shall we get ready? We’ve got less than an hour before we’ll need to leave.”

“Yes,” Q said, attempting to sound haughty and failing, “just let me put my flowers in water first.”

“You do that,” James stepped back and Q let him, sliding off the counter.

“Do you need a shower?” Q asked. “I’ll let you go first. You smell like economy air travel.”

“Flatterer. And yes, please. Is my blue suit still here?”

Q spread the photographs on the counter with a smile, arranging them into a little fanned-out bouquet.

“Yes. And it’s clean, too. I just picked it up this morning. It’s in the dry-cleaners bag hanging in the—“

“I know,” James called, moving into the hall. “Thanks. You want me to put your stuff away while I’m at it?”

“If you would. Oh but James, can you keep out the—“

“Grey blazer?”

“Yeah. I want to wear it tonight.”

“Alright.”

The bathroom door closed and Q gave his flowers a last, lingering look before telling himself to stop being ridiculous and go pick out his clothes. 

“Don’t use up all the hot water!” He shouted.

“Have I ever?” James answered.

Q had to admit, he hadn’t.

Chapter Text

Now

Q wakes up to shouting.

The fact that he’s only had a handful of hours of sleep, and is experiencing a rather incredible amount of discomfort does nothing to make the awakening more pleasant. He’s also alone.

There are pain pills and a cup of water on the bedside table and he swallows them on autopilot before putting on his glasses, debating what to do next. He needs caffeine.

Before he has a chance to do something stupid, like crawl to the kitchen, James appears in the doorway, fully dressed and looking annoyingly alert. The yelling has stopped but someone is stomping angrily up the stairs to the loft.

“Care to fill me in?” Q asks.

“Sherlock and Mycroft,” he says. “Something about drugs and John.”

“Fantastic. I take it Sherlock’s gone up to the loft?”

“Yes. Lestrade followed him. Did you take your medicine?”

“I did. I need caffeine. And a computer. My computer, ideally, but Sherlock’s will do for—”

“You need breakfast,” James interrupts, moving to the side of the bed. “You aren’t supposed to take those pills on an empty stomach.”

“So I’ll fill my stomach with coffee. Or tea. Whichever.”

` James picks him up without much effort.

“You’re going to eat something. Then I’ll find you a computer.”

“You’ll get me a computer, and then I’ll eat something.”

James hefts Q closer as they descend the stairs.

“This isn’t a debate. I’m taking you to the kitchen. You’re sitting at the table. You’re eating. And then I’ll find you a bloody computer. I don’t understand why you can’t just---“

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t expect a stupid brute like you to understand,” Q interrupts, as they enter the kitchen. It comes out meaner than he meant it to.

John is standing by the kettle with a mug of tea and a conflicted expression while Sam, the girl from before, is sitting on the counter, eating a banana.

“Fifteen minutes,” James says, dropping Q into a chair at the table. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m the goddamn Quartermaster at MI6, you cannot withhold my computer privileges like I’m some sort of child.”

“You’re not the Quartermaster yet,” James says, opening the refrigerator with more force than necessary. “And yes, legally, you are still a child.”

“I am very nearly the Quartermaster, and an emancipated minor, so in the eyes of the courts I am, actually, an adult.”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of adult.”  James mutters, pouring a glass of orange juice.

“Age of consent is 16. The implications of that seem rather adult to me.”

James chokes on his juice.

“Breakfast, Q. Toast. Eggs. Juice. Just eat something and then I’ll bring you the damn laptop. You’re too thin, and if you develop an infection at this point it may very well kill you.”

“Can I work while you’re making breakfast?” He asks, eyes wide and earnest.

James makes a noise like he’s being tortured.

“No,” he says, pushing bread into the toaster. “It’ll only take me a few minutes and in the meantime you can talk to us, like a real live human being.”

Q looks beseechingly at Sam, who is still sitting on the counter, working on a second banana, and watching the exchange with interest. She shrugs at him and he turns his pleading face to John.

John stifles a laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m with him on this one. You definitely need some feeding up. And rest.”

Q looks betrayed.

“Sorry,” John repeats, gesturing to himself with his mug. “Doctor.”

Q returns his attention to James with a scowl.

“I’ll change your passwords,” he threatens. “I’ll replace your porn with cat videos.”

James snorts, extracting a frying pan from the cabinet. “Not much of an incentive for me to put a computer in your hands then, is it?”

“Please, James.”

James sighs, moving to stand behind Q’s chair.

“Please, Q,” he mimics, free hand curling around the back of his neck. His voice is soft and strangely contained. 

Q swallows and James' thumb, pressed like a habit against his carotid artery, makes a slow circle over his pulse.

“Fine,” Q mutters, adding a moment later: “Tyrant.”

“Child,” James retorts easily, stepping back to turn on the stove.

“Age of consent.” Q answers.

James focuses very pointedly on cracking eggs.

John is grinning at both of them.

Q is about to ask John for the paper when he realises Sherlock is standing in the doorway and the expression on his face is unkind.

John notices this as well, smile fading.

“Er, hi,” John says. “I was just about to come looking for you.”

Sherlock turns and walks back down the hall.

John, baffled, follows him.

Sam sighs. 

“Any idea what that was about?” James asks.

“Mm. Sherlock isn’t good at sharing his things,” she says, peeling a third banana.

“By ‘his things’ you mean John?”

“Correct.”

James considers this, using his fingernail to scrape a bit of filmy dried egg off the handle of the spatula. “He’s jealous of the attention John is paying Q.”

She points the banana at him. “Also correct.”

“I suppose we know who the stupidest Holmes brother is then,” James says.

Q tries to swallow a laugh and isn’t quite successful.

“Eggs?” James asks blandly.

****

Then

Alec found Q asleep in his office on the couch that James stole for him. He was still wearing trousers but his shoes were on their sides a few feet away, as was the jumper he’d been wearing the day before.  His glasses were making an indent on his cheek, one arm folded under his head, the other reaching out, fingertips still resting on his laptop keyboard. He was also wearing one of James’ tee-shirts. Alec knew it was one of James’ because Alec had bought James three black Ralph Lauren t-shirts with blue stitching the Christmas before and one of them—the one Q was wearing—had a knife slit just below the collar. Alec could see short glimpses of Q’s skin as the boy breathed, stretching the hole in the fabric. 

It was difficult not to run a hand through Q’s hair, lit eight different shades of brown by the dim light of electronics. He looked impossibly young; soft and vulnerable in a way that made Alec’s chest tighten with sympathy. Alec wasn’t even attracted to men, but he could certainly understand why James was slowly going insane over the kid.

“Q,” he said softly, moving the laptop to the desk. “Q, wake up.”

“Mmph.” Q said.

Alec laughed, sitting on the edge of the couch. “I’ve been sent to take you home. You’ve been here more than 48 hours and clearly aren’t going to be of use to anyone any time soon.”

“I wasn’t asleep. I was just thinking,” Q said, sitting up. He squinted at Alec for a moment, trying and failing to abort a yawn. “With my eyes closed.”

“Never play poker,” Alec advised. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m good at poker, though,” Q said, looking around in confusion. “I’m good with the—cards. And the. Counting.”

“That would be illegal,” Alec answered gently. “Come on. Let’s get your shoes on. There’s a car waiting for us outside.”

“Us?”

“I’m under strict instructions to see you home. From both James and Boothroyd. So there’s really no point objecting. Up you get.”

“Oh.”

Q reached for his shoes, yawning again. “Did James make it onto the freighter?”

“Not exactly. But he is on his way home.”

Q groaned.

“It would be so much easier if I didn’t care,” he muttered, glaring at his shoelaces as if they were trying to trick him. “How do you not care?” He asked, glancing up at Alec with genuine confusion. “The two of you—you’re just. You don’t care. About anything or anyone. You do whatever you want and you’re indispensable enough that you get away with it. I just. I wish I could not care like that. It would make—“ he gave up on the laces and just pushed his feet into the still-tied shoes—“my job so much easier. My life so much easier.”

Alec handed Q his jumper, watched with a frown as he pulled it on over his head—mussing his already wild hair even further—and sighed.

“I think you’re mistaking feigned detachment for actual impassivity.”

“He’s an excellent actor, then.”

“Not really. Not if you’ve known him as long as I have.  He does care. About me, and Eve. About M, even. And he definitely cares about you. I was jealous for a while.”

“He tolerates me.”

“He saves hot water for you.”

“That doesn’t—“

“He keeps his flat five degrees warmer than he used to. He knows you’ve got poor circulation so he worries you’ll get cold. He buys your favorite brands of tea and makes sure to have the butter you prefer in his refrigerator. He’s all but stopped drinking. He texts me or Eve to check on you every time he’s on-mission to make sure you’re eating and sleeping. I’ve known James since we were teenagers and if what he feels for you isn’t genuine affection, I don’t know what is.”

Q blinked at him, lips parted, not saying anything, and Alec sighed again, offering him a hand.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Q didn’t speak again until they were in the back of the town car and he was nodding off against Alec’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t love him,” Q said, barely audible over the noise of rain on the windows. His eyes were half-closed, slits of somber grey that suited the damp morning atmosphere.

“Probably not,” Alec agreed.

“I think I might anyway.” The statement was resigned; so sad that Alec gave into the impulse to pet his head, just for a moment.

“Give him some time.” Alec advised. 

“Because I’m only sixteen?”

“Because you scare the hell out of him.”

Chapter Text

Now

John returns to the kitchen, Sherlock in tow, by the time Q has finished half his breakfast. Sam is still sitting on the counter, sharing a plate of eggs with Victor who is standing beside her. Blessedly, Victor is wearing clothes.

James is sitting at the table across from Q, Lestrade on one side of him and Mycroft on the other. Q, unsurprisingly, is being difficult.

“Look,” he says gesturing angrily at James with his fork. “It’s simple. Either you take me to MI6 or you take me to my flat.”

“I can’t take you to MI6, you know that,” James says.

“I’m relatively certain they’d make an exception, given the current situation,” he says.

“An exception to what?” John asks.

Q scowls. “I’m on vacation.”

“And what, you’re not allowed into the building?” John says.

“It’s enforced vacation.”

“Why are you on enforced vacation?”

“I really don’t think that’s relevant at the moment.”

John raises his eyebrows at James. “And you’re… babysitting him? While he’s on vacation.”

James takes a vicious bite out of his toast. “Q is a high kidnap risk and most of the bloody security system at MI6 is in his head. Considering he’s no self-defense skills to speak of and M feels implanting a cyanide capsule in a child might be ethically circumspect, it was necessary to have someone watch him.” It’s mostly true.

“For the last time,” Q says petulantly, “I am an adult.”

“So essentially they had to put their pet genius in timeout and assigned an assassin to make sure he didn’t get into trouble,” Sherlock says.

“I’m not an assassin. I’m an intelligence agent.” James interrupts at the same moment that Q says, “He was being punished too, you know. It’s not like he volunteered to look after me out of the goodness of his heart.”

“I think we’re all aware of the fact that I’m not here by choice,” James snaps, mood shifting from frustrated to genuinely annoyed.

Q blinks and goes silent. James studies the expression on Q’s face and then sets down his toast with a softly muttered, fuck. 

 “How long does your ‘vacation’ last?” Sherlock asks.

 “Three weeks,” Q answers, somewhat subdued. “I’ve still sixteen days left, but for this they’d let me back.”

“You didn’t even make it a week without getting into trouble?!” Mycroft exclaims, like it’s an affront to him personally.

“I was bored!”

“Still not taking you to MI6.” James says, quieter than before. Q is refusing to look at him.

“So I’ll take a bloody cab,” Q answers.

“Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Enough!” Sherlock shouts. “The only reason James doesn’t want to take Q in is because he’ll be in even more trouble than he already is.”

“What? Why?” John asks.

“Obvious. Q was injured on James’ watch. He’s supposed to be keeping Q safe and he’s failed rather spectacularly.”

“Oh.” Q looks startled. “But they’ll find out during my next physical anyway. And I doubt I’ll be walking normally in sixteen days regardless. My feet will take ages to heal.”

James stares very hard at his plate.

“Look, never mind,” Q says, “No MI6 then, I’d rather go to my flat anyway.”

“What’s at your flat?” Victor asks. “Mycroft got you your laptop.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Believe it or not, hacking takes a tad bit more effort than opening a black-screened program on any old computer and typing in a few green lines of code. Movies have lied to you. I need more than a laptop and while I’m sure Mycroft has the money, we certainly haven’t the time to recreate my workstation here. So. MI6 or my flat.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, then turns to address James. “Is his flat defensible?”

“I mean, it’s not ideal, but it’s certainly not impossible.”

“Fine, go downstairs and speak to Anthea. I’m assuming you can arrange a strategy with the security team?”

“Yes.”

James stands, pauses, and then touches the knuckles of one hand, apologetic, to Q’s shoulder. “How much time will you need?”

Q shrugs off his hand. “Fourteen, maybe sixteen hours, tops.”

“Okay,” he says.

Q still won’t look at him.

James leaves the kitchen, fingers of the rejected hand curled tight into his palm.

****

Then

When having dinner out with three 00 agents, Q had discovered it was best to dress well and bring at least one weapon. Especially when the dinner invitation is last minute and relatively suspicious.

He and Eve had left HQ twenty minutes before and were waiting for Alec and James to join them. They had ordered drinks for the table—Alec and James were easily predictable in that area—and were discussing the entre options when the two men in question arrived.

“Took you long enough,” Eve said as they slid into the booths—James beside Q, Alec beside Eve. “Q and I were nearly ready to order without you.”

“Everything alright?” James murmured, leaning into Q’s space as he took off his jacket. His breath was warm against Q’s ear.

“Fine, just surprised by the invitation,” he whispered back. “Eve practically kidnapped me. I think she and Alec are planning something.”

“Yes. Why, exactly, are we here?” James asked, raising his voice and his eyebrows. “It’s a Tuesday and we all have things we should be working on.”

“It’s not just a Tuesday,” Alec says meaningfully.

James and Q shared a look.

“Care to share what the occasion is, then?” James asked.

“Well, firstly, you and Q eat far too much takeout,” Alec said. 

“And,” Eve said, pausing for emphasis, “It’s Q’s half birthday.”

Q glanced up from his menu, baffled. “We’re celebrating my half-birthday? Is that even a thing people do?”

“It’s a thing we do.” Eve said.

“Apparently.” James muttered. “Which is interesting since I can’t remember us ever doing it before.”

“It’s an occasion,” Alec repeated.

“It’s ridiculous,” Q said, bouncing one knee in agitation. He was hungry and tired and had the distinct feeling he was missing something. James glanced down at his leg, then glared across the table at Eve, who was grinning.

“Halfway to seventeen,” she said. “That’s important, to some people. You know. Being closer to seventeen than sixteen. Being more adult. Mature.”

Alec took a drink, looking at James over the rim of his wine glass, then winced, coughing, and set the glass back down.

Q was relatively certain James had kicked him under the table.

He bounced his leg a bit faster.

James dropped a hand onto Q’s knee, stilling it, then immediately removed the hand when Alec noticed.

“Stop,” James said, and it took a moment for Q to realize he was talking to Alec and Eve, not him. Regardless, his restless leg went still.

“Either you two stop whatever it is you’re playing at, or Q and I will make dinner plans elsewhere.”

Eve made a placating gesture. “Easy, we were just teasing. What we actually wanted to discuss was driving lessons.”

“Driving lessons,” James repeated.

“For Q,” Alec explained. “We’ve been remiss in not teaching him already and we thought we might work out a schedule, take turns with him for the next few weeks.

“I’ll do it,” James said.

“Excellent,” Alec said, “I know you’re meant to be in Egypt the next few days so I’ll take him then, would you rather the following week or wait for Eve to—“

“No,” James interrupted. “I mean, I’ll do it. I’ll take him for a long weekend to Skyfall. I’ll teach him on the cars there and he can get his licensee afterward when we get back.”

Everyone at the table went still. Q, his wine halfway to his mouth, swallowed, setting his glass down, and shared a look with Eve.

As a rule, they didn’t talk about Skyfall. Q knew it was where James grew up, and he knew James returned for a weekend every six months to check on the estate. He also knew that whenever James returned from such visits he nearly always shut himself away with a bottle of something expensive unless Q was there to distract him. Eve’s eyes were just as wide as his. Alec, however, had a look on his face Q couldn’t at all interpret.

“Skyfall,” Alec said. It sounded like a one-word argument.

“There’s a full range of vehicles there. Trucks, cars, an SUV, and we’ll take the Aston. Realistically he should be taught to drive all of them, just in case. Possibly even to ride, though that’ll take more than a weekend.”

“To ride?” Q repeated.

“Horses.”

“Horses?” the horror was probably evident in his voice.

“He has a point,” Eve said and Q turned his attention to her, betrayed.

She laughed. “Not about the riding, but the multiple vehicles, yes. Your three closest friends are double-o agents and you’ll be an MI6 department head within the next year. A car chase is likely in your future. It’s good to be prepared.”

Q admittedly had not thought of this.

“Skyfall, then.” Alec said, his expression still unreadable.

“Skyfall,” James agreed. “The weekend after next.” He glanced at Q. “That should give you enough time to prep Rebecca on whatever projects you’re working on, right?”

“I—“ he wanted to argue. Picking up and leaving his department for multiple days, regardless of the reason, wasn’t something he at all wanted to facilitate, but there was something meaningful, something important, behind James’ invitation.

“Yes,” he said finally, and James was gracious enough not to mention the extended pause. “Yes, the weekend after next will be fine.”

Chapter Text

Now

James, Q, Sherlock and John make the trip to Q’s flat shortly after breakfast. Mycroft’s security team sits at the curb in matching black SUVs.

James is pleased with John’s reaction upon entering the flat, and allows himself a brief period of smugness over Sherlock’s obvious appreciation of the bookcases James had spent so much time retrofitting to the space. Clearly Q’s living space is not what they expected it to be.

James moves into the kitchen to fill the kettle and belatedly warns, “watch your feet.”

A moment later Boff comes streaking out from the tech room and launches herself at Q’s shoes, climbing up the leg of his trousers until he scoops the animal to his chest, at which point the cat turns its attention to rubbing her dark head frantically against Q’s neck.

“Easy, Boff,” Q mutters, looking embarrassed.

“Boff?” Sherlock asks.

“James named her,” Q says defensively. “By the time I got her it was too late, she won’t respond to anything else.”

“Boff?” John repeats.

“Short for ‘boffin’” James calls from the sink. “Little scrap of a thing when I first found her, liked to sleep on Q’s servers. It seemed fitting.”

“James got you cat,” Sherlock says glancing between the two of them. “And named it Boffin.”

Q’s ears go pink.

 “Well it’s not like he could keep her. He’s out of country too often. And M wasn’t very pleased with her lurking about HQ.”

Sherlock snorts.

 “She’s lovely,” John says, reaching out to scratch beneath the cat’s chin. 

“I thought we were here for computers,” Sherlock says, making a slow turn to survey the flat. “And yet…”

“They’re in here.” Q nods toward the door beside the bookcases. “It was supposed to be the bedroom but since it was the only place without windows I thought it best suited for my office.”

John and Sherlock follow Q through the door James, sighing, retrieves a mug for Q’s tea.

A few minutes later he follows them, mug in hand, but pauses in the doorway.

John has one hand curled around the cup of Sherlock’s elbow, where the roll of his pressed shirt sleeve ends. He’s rubbing circles with his thumb against the skin there, and Sherlock’s posture is loose and calm in a way that, until that point, James didn’t think was possible. He moves forward again, nudging his way past them, purposely pushing John into Sherlock’s side. He gives John a wink, and then presents Q with a mug.

“Tea,” he says, handing it carefully over.

Q takes a considering sip, nods in approval, then sets both the cup and the cat on his desk, pushing up the sleeves of his cardigan. The cat curls contentedly between two of the monitors, flexing her claws. 

James turns his attention to John and Sherlock. “Best if we leave him alone,” he says, “Q gets snippy if there’s people about being a distraction. He threw an apple at me last week because I was breathing too loudly.”

“An apple?”

James snorts. “Getting him to eat while coding is tricky. It’s best to just leave food on the desk and hope he eats it automatically when it gets in his way.”

Q mutters something under his breath that is probably offensive before taking another sip of tea, and John wisely follows James back into the main room, dragging Sherlock along when it seems he might protest.

“Tea?” James asks. “Something to eat?”

“Please,” John says.

Sherlock makes a negative noise.

James moves around the flat with easy familiarity, pouring another two mugs of tea before opening the refrigerator and scraping together a couple of sandwiches.

“Have you been living here?” John asks, accepting the mug that is offered to him.

“For the last week, yes.” James nods to the rug in front of the bookcase and John watches, looking bemused, as James folds himself down onto it, setting the plate onto the floor. “No table,” he explains, “Q usually eats at his desk or in bed.”

John joins him on the floor, glancing at Sherlock who is studying the books in Q’s library with an intensity that is somewhat concerning.

“Have you been sleeping on the floor as well?” John asks.

There’s an implication there.

James gives him a feral grin. “Yes. There’s a lilo in the bathroom closet. Q makes me pack the bloody thing up every morning and put it away, though. Can’t have anything mussing his space.”

 “It is very…clean.”

James feels his expression go sour, the sides of his mouth pinching as he turns the mug in his hands. “Cleanliness wasn’t a priority in his childhood home. His adamant standards now are understandable once his history is taken into account.”

“Ah.”

John glances at Sherlock, and James recognizes the fleeting anger that passes over his features. Apparently he isn’t the only one who has wished violence upon the past abusers of a Holmes. 

“How long has Q been with MI6?” John asks.

“Officially? Just over a year, ever since his emancipation. Unofficially, closer to three years.”

John whistles through his teeth.

James takes a bite of his sandwich, nodding.

“Back when we first met you,” John says, reaching for the second sandwich, “Sherlock said Q had been recruited. Probably from juvenile detention. Is he right?”

“Course I’m right,” Sherlock mutters from the bookshelf.

James shakes his head. “Not exactly. Or not at first, anyway. I was actually the one to find him. That’s why I’m—”

“Attached?” John supplies.

James lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t disagree.

“Damn,” Sherlock says softly, “there’s always something.”

John nods for James to continue.

“Three years ago, I was new to the Double O program, and before they would send us on real missions we had to complete a year of grunt work first while in training, standard fare, you understand.”

“Right.”

“M, the woman who runs the program, she does recruit occasionally: finds promising troubled youth and gets them set on a military path with the potential promise of future employment. I was sent to the detention center to interview a sixteen year old boy serving eight months for assault. Eric Jones. He’d single-handedly put three grown men in the hospital during a bar fight. Eric had no other issues aside from occasional fights on his record, good marks and, most importantly, was in the foster care system. M thought he had potential.”

“Most importantly?” John repeats.

“MI6 prefers orphans. We’re good at surviving. And we tend to care less.”

“Care less about what?”

“Everything that isn’t surviving.”

“Ah.”

James pauses to take another bite of his sandwich.

“So,” John says, “Eric Jones. Did you recruit him?” 

“No. Q was his cellmate. I was understandably distracted from my intended mission.”

John laughs. “And what did this ‘M’ think about Q?”

“Well, she was pretty pissed, actually. Instead of coming back with a profile on a 6’ 2” sixteen year old prize fighter I showed up in her office with a fuzzy cell-phone picture of a skinny thirteen year old with too much hair and a bad attitude. Once M got a hold of Q’s file though, she changed his mind.”

Sherlock drops onto the rug beside John.

“You took him out of the system,” Sherlock says, taking the half-eaten sandwich out of John’s hand. “Had him put into the care of one of your people.”

“Yes,” James agrees, watching with quiet amusement as John allows Sherlock to commandeer his tea as well. “Q was released early for good behavior upon some gentle prompting, and our current quartermaster received guardianship. Q lived with him for two years before emancipating and officially joining MI6. He was there nearly every day since his release, though, lurking about when he was supposed to be doing school work.”

“School work?” John asks.

“Q took his exams at 13. M enrolled him in online university courses but he was more interested in taking down the Department of Defense’s firewalls and exploding things in the lab than doing anything so mundane as university. And he isn’t the sort that would benefit from the military, so M gave up and just offered him a job. He’s being groomed to take over as quartermaster.”

“Should you really be telling us this?” John asks, taking his mostly-eaten sandwich back from Sherlock.

James shrugs. “Probably not. But if something happens to me, someone is going to need to look after him. Someone who knows his history and cares about his future. A genius half-brother and a soldier-turned-doctor fit the bill nicely.”

Mycroft was a good start, but it never hurt to have a backup plan.

“Do you anticipate something happening to you?” John asks.

“I’m 24. Most Double O’s don’t make it past 35. Q will long outlive me.”

Sherlock reaches for the sandwich again and John moves his hand out of reach. Sherlock follows it, ducking to take a bite directly from between John’s fingers. There’s a drag of teeth and a brief touch of tongue to John’s fingertips and John goes still, watching Sherlock lick his lips, swallow, and then lean forward to take the last bit of crust as well. He lingers this time, mouth against John’s skin, tongue pressed completely unnecessarily to the pads of his fingers.

When Sherlock finally pulls away, John looks dazed and James is finding it difficult to suppress a smile.

“You really are a jealous bastard, aren’t you?” James says, nudging Sherlock’s knee with his foot. “You can’t stand his attention being on anyone but you for more than a minute.”

Sherlock rubs the back of his hand across his lips and stands in a fluid movement, tugging the creases out of his shirt. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Course you don’t.”

James grins as John shifts somewhat awkwardly and Sherlock returns to perusing the bookshelves. John retrieves his mug from where Sherlock left it and rubs his thumb along the rim. 

“The similarities between them really are rather disconcerting,” James says, studying Sherlock’s profile. “And I don’t just mean in looks.”

“I noticed the experiment in the bathroom,” John says. “Has Q accidentally poisoned himself at any point?” He nods toward Sherlock. “That one has.”

“I told you,” Sherlock mutters, eyes still on the books. “That was intentional.”

James hides a smile behind his cup. “Q’s experiments tend to be more explosive than toxic. Usually contained, though he did singe his eyebrows off last year. And there was the pastry incident.”

“Pastry incident?”

“Probably best we don’t talk about it.”

“Right.”

“Does yours sleep?” James asks.

John looks heavenward. “Only under duress. And otherwise due to bribery or illness.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Eating habits?” John asks.

“Abysmal. Q forgets it’s necessary. Though usually if you can get something in his hand he’ll eat it on autopilot.”

John snorts. “Sherlock only eats when someone makes him.”

“Or when he wants attention, apparently,” James says.

“Right,” John agrees, looking down. “That too.”

“At least they both seem to bathe on a regular basis,” James murmurs, smile fading slightly, “Q takes a minimum of one shower a day, still hasn’t gotten over the novelty of it, I suppose.” He blinks twice, then glances at Sherlock. “Yours smells a bit fruity, though.”

“It’s the shampoo,” John agrees. “Vanilla and prickly pear. ”

James laughs outright.

“Posh thing, isn’t he? With the shirts and the tailored trousers.”

“I like his clothes,” John says, quickly, and James can see the line of Sherlock’s shoulders has gone rigid. 

 “They make him look…slender.” John continues, and there’s something James is missing because Sherlock’s stance goes slack again.

James quirks an eyebrow. “Well the trousers are nice, I’ll give him that. I keep trying to talk Q into visiting my tailor but he insists on cardigans and skinny ties.”

“Better than a normal teenager,” John says. “But then, there’s nothing normal about a Holmes.” 

“Part of their appeal, I think,” James says.

James watches Sherlock pull a book from the shelf, hold it open so the biding is at eye-level, and then carefully close it again. He sniffs the ragged page edges of the fore end, then replaces it.

“Definitely part of their appeal,” John agrees.

***

Then

They left for Skyfall on a Thursday morning, James wide awake after a night's rest post-mission and Q barely coherent after back-to-back extractions. James packed Q’s bag for him, made a cooler of food for the drive, and then bullied the half-conscious boy into the passenger seat of the Aston. 

“Did you remember my—“

“Laptop, yes.”

“And the—“

“Charger for it. And all your other electronics, yes.”

“And my—“

“Headphones, also yes.”

“What about—?”

“Q,” James said, gentle, but exasperated. “We have everything we need. Unless you want a blanket.”

Q’s less than fantastic circulation was a constant concern—he always had his hands tucked under arms or between his legs to keep his fingers warm.

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but I do anticipate you’ll sleep for most of the drive and I’d rather bundle you up than sweat through the next several hours.”

“I’m fine.”

James leaned his forearms against the roof of the car, considering Q through the open window. “I’m going to get you a blanket.”

Q closed his eyes, resigned, then glanced at the cooler between his feet.

He hadn’t eaten in…a while. Something James undoubtedly knew. And there had been a pineapple on James’ counter when Q had visited two days before. James knew Q loved pineapple.

He untucked his hands from beneath his thighs because dammit, yes, James was actually probably right about that blanket, and pulled the cooler into his lap.

There were 2 sandwiches, a container of carrots and hummus, and a mason jar full of cut pineapple.

He extracted the fruit with a soft sound of delight and was sucking juice from his fingers when James returned.

“I included cutlery for a reason,” James said, opening the door.

Q made an ambivalent noise and reached for another piece.

James relocated the cooler to the floor again so he could fold the blanket around Q, muttering about sticky fingers in his car, and Q, either from sleep deprivation or the genuine ridiculousness of the situation, or possibly a combination of both, started laughing.

After a moment, James did too.

“Shut up,” he said, closing the passenger door.

Q rubbed a drip of juice from his chin, then licked the back of his hand.

“You should eat a sandwich,” James advised, settling into the driver’s seat. “All that sugar on an empty stomach really isn’t—“

Q started laughing again.

James gave up and started driving.

Chapter Text

Now

Q’s flat, lovely as it is, becomes relatively boring after the fifth hour spent in it. James brings Q water and tea and pain pills at hourly intervals but mostly they do nothing. After seven hours, they take turns sneaking into Q’s office to use the loo. When James finishes in the bathroom he steals the cat on his way out. She keeps them occupied until the eighth hour. By the ninth, James has called for take-out, cleared the delivery boy with the security team surrounding the building, and is making plates for everyone in the kitchen.

James knows John is watching him, too perceptive, as James carefully cleans up afterward, wiping down the counters and tucking empty boxes into the trashcan under the sink. He pauses when getting out drinks glasses to fill a cup and water the cacti in the window.

John smiles at him knowingly and pets the cat in his lap. Sherlock steals her a moment later, murmuring something about ‘testing reflexes’ and both men scramble to save poor Boffin from the clutches of a bored genius. James brings food into Q with a few quiet, cajoling words, and he can hear John working through a similar, familiar, group of phrases with Sherlock in the living area. He wonders what it is about skinny, clever, dark-haired, Holmses that turn military men into mother hens.

At the eleventh hour, Q calls for James and allows himself to be carried, pained but pleased, to join the others on the rug. Q hands his most recently emptied tea mug to James, who carries it to the kitchen and starts the kettle for the umpteenth time with a sigh.

“I found them,” Q says, folding himself carefully into a cross-legged sitting position. “Or at least I narrowed it down to two places. They could both be at either, or each be at one, but there’s no way of knowing for sure unless we go. I’m assuming Moran is with Moriarty, though. No one else he would trust at this point, I think.”

Q holds out his hand and Boffin, who had been sprawled in Sherlock’s lap, lazily batting at his fingers, slips across the floor to climb Q’s arm and drape herself around his neck.

“Who is ‘them?’” John asks.

“Moriarty and Moran,” Sherlock says, before Q can answer. “Where are the locations?”

“Paris and Madrid. I’d wager Moriarty is in Madrid, though.”

“Why’s that?” James asks from the kitchen.

“Hospital,” Sherlock says, then glances at Q for confirmation.

Q is grinning at him. “Yes. The IP I traced to Madrid came from a wireless network two blocks from the largest hospital.”

“So what now?” John asks. 

Q glances at James, then straightens his shoulders. “I contacted HQ. I’ve been reinstated full access and they want the two of us to come in and be outfitted at 0800 tomorrow. They’re going to let me run the mission on location.”

James sets the newly refilled mug rather violently onto the counter.

“What?” he says, at the same time that Sherlock exclaims, “Moriarty is mine.”

Q ignores Sherlock. “Moriarty, aka Richard Brooke, would be a high profile apprehension alone. With Moran, a supposedly dead agent, they are a priority capture. M wants them, badly, and I convinced M the best way to go about making that happen is if I’m on site.”

“Like hell you’re going to be,” James says, stalking toward the rug. “You are not an operative, and even if you were you’re not fit for—“

“I cleared it with M,” Q interrupts. “And she is your superior.”

“Then apparently I’m going to need to have a talk with M and remind her of some things.”

“Moriarty is mine,” Sherlock repeats, louder this time.

“You’re coming with us, Sherlock” Q says, placating. “I had you hired as a consultant.”

“A consultant?” Sherlock hisses. “It’s my case!”

“James and I are better equipped to handle this than you are.”

“You aren’t equipped at all,” James exclaims.

“I’m coming too,” John says.

“John,” James starts, exasperated.

“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “You’re still injured, John.”

“Fuck that.” John curls one hand around Sherlock’s wrist, thumb to his pulse, waiting until Sherlock is looking at him to continue. “Anywhere you go,” he says, voice firm. “I’m coming too, is that understood?”

Sherlock swallows as James lets out an aggrieved noise.

“John is coming too,” Sherlock says.

*****

Then

Q had been hearing whispered snatches of conversation about Skyfall for four years. He knew from Alec that Skyfall was the estate James had grown up on and apparently at the age of 17 he joined the military and left the place, only returning out of patron obligation twice a year to discuss maintenance of the land and buildings. Q had often imagined the place as sprawling and bleak and found himself strangely nervous as the drive progressed.

He watched James, closely attentive to any changes in his behavior, but James’ hands stayed easy on the wheel and gearshift: no clinched fingers or white knuckles. His posture remained relaxed, and his occasional glances at Q were fond, not wary. Lulled by the white noise of tires on cement and the blur of countryside out the window, Q fell asleep.

He woke an unknown stretch of time later to James hand on his arm: a warm touch against cool skin where the blanket he was wrapped in had slipped from his shoulder.

“Are we here?” Q asked, sitting up.

The question didn't require answering as it became readily apparent they had.

 James reached over the console to straighten Q’s glasses, suppressing a smile.

“We have an hour or so until sunset, do you want to meet the staff and eat now or would you like to take a quick tour while we still have daylight?”

“Tour,” Q said, pushing away James’ hand. He uncurled himself with a yawn and opened the car door, stretching—arms above his head, fingers interlaced—as he observed their surroundings. They were parked in a circular drive outside what seemed to be a large barn and the main house was set up on a softly sloping hill to the left some distance away. The landscape was certainly barren in many respects—few trees, and little color, but it was far from the desolate nightmare of an estate that he’d pictured. The house was beautiful, and the outbuildings were just as lovely architecturally. There was a spread of cloud-shadowed river-fed ranchland further down the hill, stretching out of sight.

“Are those cows?” Q asked, and then chastised himself for a second stupid question within as many minutes. He couldn’t help but be taken aback, though. Farm animals were not something he had ever included in his Skyfall imaginings.

“Yes,” James said laughing at his expression. “Skyfall is a working estate, there's something around 1000 head of cattle currently.  Would you like to go see them?” 

“The cows?”

 “Or not.” 

He gestured towards the barn and Q automatically followed him.

“The horses are kept here. Most of them are out grazing currently but I had Kincaid bring in Ajax early in case you wanted your tour on horseback.”

“On horseback,” Q repeated faintly. 

He looked down at his buckskin shoes, feeling somewhat disassociated. He’d never even seen a horse in real life before.

“The other option is by motorcycle,” James continued, gentling his amusement by degree, “If you're not comfortable with horses. It’s too far to walk the premises, though, and Kincaid has the 4 x 4.”

 James stopped walking and Q found himself in front of the stall of an admittedly beautiful but very large dapple Gray horse. The animal clearly recognized James, head-butting him in the chest with a rather frightening degree of force.

 Q took a step back.

“He won't hurt you.”

“He’s…big,” Q said. “I mean, objectively, I knew that horses would be big, but he’s—“ Q held out a hand feeling incredibly stupid. “Big.”

James stepped back, a funny look on his face.

“You’ve never seen a horse before, have you?”

“I—no.”

“Riding will wait then.  Come on.”

Q tried not to exhale too loudly but his relief was probably palpable anyway.

“I’m assuming you have ridden a motorcycle before,” James said, walking backwards toward the opposite end of the barn. His hands were in his jeans’ pockets, shoulders up, and Q found himself smiling slightly at the juvenile posture. James looked younger here.

“No, actually. My guardians for the past few years have been rather protective.”

“Bastards,” James said.

The far end of the building was not stalls, but instead a tack room on one side and a garage-like space on the other. Between several pieces of tractor equipment and what looked to be a mustang with a half re-built engine, were two motorcycles. One an old Honda. One a Triumph. 

“We’ll give you a lesson or two on the Honda before we leave,” James said, throwing a leg over the Triumph. “Until then, all you need to do is hold on and not make any sudden movements, alright?”

He nudged up the kickstand, looking at Q expectantly.

“Q?”

Q grinned, climbing on behind James, and found himself suddenly shy. His hands reached, light and uncertain, for James’ shoulders.

“How should I—?”

James shook his head, relocating Q’s hands to his waist, then rocked the bike forward as he started it, glancing over his shoulder when Q automatically tightened his grip.

“Alright?”

Q shifted forward, just a little, pressed flush and warm against James’ back.

His fingers curled, hooking into belt-loops. 

“Yeah,” he said, mouth against James’ ear so he could be heard over the engine. “I’m good.”

Chapter Text

Now

They arrive back at Mycroft’s house just past 10pm.

Mrs. Hudson is asleep. Sam and Victor are playing videogames loudly in the living room. Lestrade and Mycroft are in kitchen drinking scotch.

Q sets Boff’s cat carrier down on the kitchen floor, daring Mycroft to say anything as he opens the wire door. 

Boffin takes a tentative step out, considers her surroundings with interest, then leaps onto the table to examine the tumblers making condensation rings on the wood.

“I hope you’ve brought a litter box as well or the maid is going to be quite cross,” Mycroft murmurs, extending a hand for the cat to rub against.

“I have. James is setting it up in our room. I was hoping she could stay here with you while we’re gone.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmurs, the beginnings of what might actually be a smile tugging at his mouth. He drags his hand down the cat’s spine, looking pleased when she starts to purr. “Where is it you’ll be going? And will you be needing assistance?”

Q begins to explain what he’s found and John, looking weary, announces to the room at large that he is going to bed.

Q notices he doesn’t glance back to see if Sherlock will follow him.

Sherlock does anyway.

“We can work out travel arrangements in the morning, “ Mycroft says, watching Sherlock’s back with a somber expression. “You should go sleep as well. This will all keep until morning and you look…” he carefully chooses his next work when Q’s eyebrows go up. “Tired.

Q admits he is.

James returns with a mission-blank look on his face which either means he’s exhausted as well or he’s so furious with Q that he’s reverted to professionalism out of impotent rage.

Unfortunately, Q is leaning toward the latter.

James carries him upstairs in silence.

They brush their teeth and change and turn off the lamp in silence.

Q stares at the shadowed slope of James’ back, listens to his carefully regimented breathing—slow, but not the right cadence for sleep—and feels strangely like crying. 

Jesus. He really is tired.

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes up an indeterminable amount of time later sweating, tee-shirt clinging to his skin—and instinctively reaches to shove off his duvet, eyes still closed. Except it’s not his duvet that’s the problem.

 It’s James.

Q goes abruptly still and the arm around him—James’ arm around him—tightens.

“Alright?” he asks, sleep-rough and slow, the words a damp smudge against the back of Q’s neck.

“I—yes.”

Q can tell the moment that James wakes up fully—when he realizes he’s got one leg hooked over Q’s knee, one arm around Q’s ribs, one hand cupping the front of his throat. James goes stiff and still behind him, easing back his hips first before the rest of his body follows, letting out an exhalation Q isn’t capable of interpreting.

The bed springs creek and Q rolls onto his back.

“Sorry,” James says, too far away. He’s on his back too, a dark shape in a dark room, and Q wishes he could see his face.

“You could come back if you wanted.” Q says, because there’s something about 2am that makes him brave.  

He can hear James swallow.

“I don’t’ think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

James sighs like Q should know the answer to that and they lay there, eyes on the ceiling, breathing in silence for over a minute.

Q closes his eyes, steeling himself. He hasn’t ever had to talk about feelings before and he isn’t sure how to start.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he says, the words feeling inadequate and trite. 

“I’m not mad. I just don’t think—“ 

“You’re mad.”

“I’m…frustrated. You intentionally putting yourself in danger is—well. Frustrating. I won’t be able to focus if I know you’re injured and an easy target within the same city as that man.”

“Well you intentionally put yourself in danger more or less weekly and I still manage to do my job,” Q says, sharper than he meant to.

“Q.”

“What?”

“When was the last time I went off-mission?”

“Just last—“

“Before that.”

Q thinks for a moment. “Columbia.”

“And I checked in first. Told you exactly what I wanted to do. You helped me, even.  Mission was successful. What about the time before that?”

“Rio.”

“And?”

“And you told R. She suggested an amendment to your plan so you could still make the original rendezvous point and you agreed. Mission successful.”

“The time before that?”

“Moscow. You lost your radio but stole a cell phone to call in for approval. It was the week after—after you promised to do better.”

“I meant to keep that promise, Q. And I don’t know why—“ He sighs, starting again. “I can’t explain something I can’t remember. I can’t tell you why I diverted from protocol. But I swear to you, I meant to keep that promise.”

Q exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You had been. Admittedly. I just—I was so scared, James.” Q says it like a confession, mouth soft around his name. “The uncertainty—and then when they found you… I never want to see you like that again.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I swear to you, I am. But if it does happen you can’t—Idealistically I want to say I would never hurt you. But I nearly did and that’s. You cannot assume that I will always recognize you, regardless of extenuation circum—“

“But you did!”

James makes a frustrated noise, sitting up, and braces one shoulder against the headboard—half-turned so he can look down at Q.

“How would feel if while we were on mission you instructed me to do something. Something that should have been safe. And I did and it ended up getting me killed. No fault of yours. Not at all intentional. But still. What if you were responsible for my death?”

Q doesn’t say anything, but his shudder is answer enough.

“That’s how I felt. Alright? Watching that video—watching me put my hands on you. I cannot be responsible for hurting you, even accidentally, do you understand?”

Q swallows and his throat clicks uncomfortably. “Yes.”

James continues to look down at him with an intensity that would probably be frightening if it was light and Q could see his face as something more than a suggestion of shadowed features.

“I won’t—if it happens again I’ll be more careful. But—“

James groans, sliding back down the headboard. “Of course there’s a ‘but,’” he murmurs.

“They couldn’t restrain you, and they couldn’t sedate you. If I’d done nothing and you’d had an internal injury diagnosed too late because I’d waited... I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself then, either. Surely you understand that.”

James doesn’t say anything for a stretch of time that becomes nearly uncomfortable. Q reaches automatically for Boff, but she isn’t tucked in her customary place against his ribcage. He pats around the bed for a moment.

“I’ll admit,” James says finally, “that was an unusual situation. And I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing. But unless there is genuine cause for concern—“

“I promise,” Q says. 

James catches one of Q’s still-wandering hands.

“What are you doing?” he asks, thumb and forefinger circling his wrist, holding the hand up between them.

The fact that he has personally witnessed James break more than one man’s arm from this position doesn’t inspire the feelings of fear it should. It does inspire other feelings, though.

“Looking for Boff,” he manages.

“She went downstairs fifteen minutes ago. I think I heard Mycroft in his study—she’s probably looking for handouts.”

“And probably found them if she hasn’t come back.”

“He likes her.”

Q smiles at the fondness in James’ voice.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Point.”

They both exhale and James shifts onto his side, this time facing Q.

“Are we alright, now? Is the passive-aggressive standoff over?”

Q considers being flippant: whatever do you mean, James? But feels perhaps the situation warrants a bit more solemnity.

“Yes,” he says, “I think so.”

“Good. Go back to sleep, we’ve still a few hours before sunrise.”

Q rolls, trying to be subtle as he pushes himself closer to James—not touching, not quite, just close enough to know he’s there—warm and solid, just behind him.

Q closes his eyes and tries to remember the sensory echo of James against his back. 

***

Then

The sheer size of Skyfall was confounding to Q. He knew James came from wealth, but the estate was…lavish. To say the least. The bedroom he was staying in was the size of his flat.  The greenhouse was bigger than the chemical lab at MI6. After unpacking, Q changed out of his mud-spattered jeans and met James in the hallway outside their rooms. James was staying in the suit next to him, the spaces connected by a bathroom with the biggest bathtub Q had ever seen. He wondered briefly why James wouldn’t be sleeping in the master suite they’d briefly passed downstairs, but decided not to ask. 

James had changed as well and was leaning against the wall between their doors, arms crossed, starched white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Q suppressed a sigh. 

“Dinner?” he asked. There was something about riding around Scotland countryside on the back of a motorcycle that prompted hunger. And a strange desire to wear plaid.

James laughed softly.

“Yes. Kincade and the others should be back by now. I told them to save some for us.”

“Who’s Kincade?” Q said, following James back down the stairs.

“Officially? Gamekeeper. Has been for nearly thirty years. Unofficially, he manages the estate.”

“I thought you did that?”

“I’d have to come more than twice a year in that case. I trust Kincade. And the others.”

“Others?”

Q jumped the last few stairs, because he could, and James watched him do it with a grin, hands in his pockets.

“Kincade’s wife, Molly, and their nephew manages the house and cooking.  Kincade and their niece manage the grounds and livestock with an additional staff of ten to twenty hands depending on the season. Five or so live on the property at a time, so there’s anywhere from six to twenty people in the kitchen at mealtimes.”

Q was admittedly somewhat intimidated by that.

“How many will be there now?”

James pushed open a swinging door, smile widening. “See for yourself.”

There weren’t actually that many people in the kitchen, if  “kitchen” was an accurate descriptor of the word. The room was like something out of a old movie—big white tiles, endless stainless steel countertops and appliances. A ceramic sink he could comfortably sit in. There was a massive rough-hewn wood table that probably would fit twenty people in front of the windows on the opposite side of the room, but only held at that moment seven people. He guessed the couple in their sixties were Kincade and Molly, and there were four other men and one woman, all who look up, utensils frozen, conversation paused, as he and James entered the room.

“Quentin!” the older woman exclaimed, standing.

“And I’ve gone invisible,” James said wryly.

She hugged first Q, whose eyes widened under the sudden onslaught of affection, and then James.

“Oh, my boy,” she said, scolding, but fond. “Come sit, you must be hungry. Quentin, it’s so lovely to have you with us.”

They were pushed with motherly insistence to the table where they were handed beers and everyone introduced themselves and Q, overwhelmed, filed away their names in case he needed them later.

“I—you know who I am?”

The younger girl—Aislin—laughed. “Quentin, aka Q. Most brilliant, infuriating boffin. Clotheshorse and takeaway connoisseur. Also, you built a light-saber?” She looked at him with the same kind of amused intelligence that Rebbeca did, one eyebrow raised, fork tines against her bottom lip.

“Its just a prototype,” he said faintly. “And I had help.”

Molly pushed a full plate toward him, beaming like he was her long lost son, and Q accepted proffered silverware, turning to look at James.

“You talk about me?”

“You more than anyone else, I’d say,” Kincade said gruffly. “Though that Alec and Eve get fair mention.”

“We’ve been trying to get him to bring you to visit for years,” Molly said. 

James set down his beer with more force than was necessary.

“Will you pass the potatoes?” he asked.

Kincade snorted, prompting a round of snickers from the rest of the table.

“Your plate is already full, sweetheart,” Molly said.

“Potatoes,” he repeated, and staunchly piled an additional spoonful on when they were handed to him.

Q took a sip of beer to cover his smile.

“Now, tell me about this light-saber,” Aislin said.

Chapter Text

Now

Q wakes up too hot again, but blessedly doesn’t move before becoming fully conscious. He’s laying mostly on top of James and James has one arm anchoring him in place, fingers curled possessively into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Q desperately does not want to move.

But he also, desperately, needs to pee.

He sighs and carefully shifts, mindful of his feet, to prop one elbow on James’ stomach, putting a few inches of space between them.

“Hey,” he says.

“Alright?” James murmurs, fingers briefly tightening in Q’s hair.

That inspires a response that makes Q glad he’s no longer pressed tightly against James’ side.

“Bathroom,” Q says, and the word comes out too high—cracked.

He clears his throat.

“Mmm. Ok,” James says, releasing him.

He carries Q, eyes squinted and still half-asleep into the bathroom and Q has the excuse of darkness and fatigue to tuck his face against James’ neck and breathe in the warm-skin-and-cotton smell of him on the way back to the bedroom afterward.

“Where’s boff? Is she still downstairs?” Q asks, somewhere between a whisper and his normal voice.

 James makes a negative noise as he sets Q back onto the bed and then climbs carefully over him, forgoing the walk to the other side. He flops somewhat dramatically and then stretches to snag a pillow, equally quiet when he says, “Think so. Heard Mycroft talking to her a minute ago.”

They both go still, listening, and the soft sounds of Mycroft speaking in his study directly below them filters through the hum of heat moving through the old house’s ducts.

“Should we go check and see if they’re ok?” Q murmurs.

James groans, soft and exhausted into his pillow. “He’s an adult. He can take care of a cat.”

“It’s four AM,” Q says, pausing to yawn. “When I’m talking to Boff at four AM I’m usually not OK.”

“Point.” James murmurs, sitting up. “Alright.”

He crawls back over Q and the brief warm bulk of him sends a bloom of goosebumps over Q’s skin.

Q swallows, watching as the indistinct shape of James straightens, perched on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. 

“Hop on,” James says and Q shifts forward, arms circling James’ neck, knees against his hips as he stands, hooking his elbows under Q’s thighs, hitches Q a bit higher on his back. Q crosses his bandaged ankles, hiding a smile in the back of James’ neck.

They go down the stairs in comfortable silence, listening as the muffled sound of Mycroft’s voice becomes more intelligible. He’s talking about foreign policy, but not in a way that sounds at all professional—more as if he’s explaining it to a child who has no hope of understanding it anyway, or perhaps even to a—

Q stifles a laugh as they turn the corner into Mycroft’s study.

Sure enough, a dressing-gown-clad Mycroft is sat at his desk, quietly lecturing to a very attentive Boff, who occasionally butts her head against his fingers when they go still for too long.

Boff is not, however, the only cat in the room.

There’s a second animal on the desk, sitting on what is certainly something of vital governmental importance, looking superior and vaguely bored. Unlike boff, this cat is large-boned and has the rugged look of a creature used to rather hard-living. It’s missing most of one ear and Q has the urge to give it a bath and a good meal.

Mycroft stops talking abruptly when he realizes Q and James are in the doorway .

“Oh. Er. Hello.”

And then he blushes.

Mycroft Holmes. 

Blushes.

“Who is this?” Q asks, nodding to the rumpled brown tabby. “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Oh, I don’t—he just. Started showing up. A few weeks ago. I’ve been leaving the window in the study cracked open for him. He… keeps me company, sometimes.”

“Have you been feeding him?” James asks, and Q can tell James is trying not to smile too widely.

Mycroft winces. “Ah, yes. Occasionally.”

Q props his chin on James’ shoulder. “Would that be the two empty tins of cat food in the trashcan?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, “I keep a few in my desk…I think your Boffin heard the can opener so I ended up giving her one as well.”

“Mmm,” James agrees, “she does have very good ears for that sort of thing.”

“What’s his name?” Q asks.

“I don’t—he’s not mine,” Mycroft repeats. “If I name him that means he’s mine.”

James laughs softly. “You’re feeding him at 4am and letting him sit on top secret documents. He’s yours.”

Mycroft looks somewhat chagrined. “I suppose you’re right.”

Boff shimmies out from under Mycroft’s hand and hops onto the desk, touching noses with the bigger animal before settling into a little cat-loaf beside him. She blinks sleepily at Q, looking proud of herself, and James tips his to the side, nudging Q’s temple.

“I think she’s showing off her new friend,” James murmurs.

“Very impressive, love,” Q agrees somberly, addressing Boff. “Though he is a bit of a ruffian.”

“Apparently the appeal of the rugged bad-boy is universal,” James muses.

“She takes after her father in that interest,” Q agrees quietly, squeezing his legs around James’ hips.

James nearly drops him.

Mycroft looks pained.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Just checking in,” James says. “It’s early and we could hear you moving about.”

“I apologize if I woke you,” he says, “I couldn’t sleep and I thought I’d get some work done, but then—“ he gestures to the cats, covering his work space. 

Q understands that phenomenon all too well.

“You didn’t wake us,” James says, shifting Q higher on his back. “Q had to go the loo and we were wondering where Boff was.”

“Oh, would you like to take her back with you?”

“No, that’s fine,” Q says, stifling a yawn. “She’s happy here.”

Mycroft looks just as pleased as the cats.

“Well. Goodnight, then. Or. Morning, I suppose.”

“Goodnight,” Q says.

James takes them back up the stairs, slowing at they reach the top and leave the light of hallway behind. 

Once back in their room it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness and James relaxes on his stomach, facing Q, with a pillow tucked between his head and his forearms.

“You’re thinking of cat names, aren’t you?” he says.

“Maybe.”

“Any good ones?”

“Yes.”

“Want to share them?”

“No.”

James shifts one hand out from under his head so he can poke Q in the ribs.

“Go to sleep then.”

Q settles a bit, feeling suddenly and intensely fond of the ridiculous man next to him. He wants to bridge the space between them but isn’t sure how.

“I’m cold,” he says, and it so obviously, outrageously, a lie he’s surprised James doesn’t laugh at him.

“Q.”

“Please?”

James sighs but turns onto his side and Q thinks he’s smiling but it’s hard to tell in the dark.

Instead of rolling over, Q presses himself, face-first, into the open valley of James’ chest, trying very hard not to react when James pushes a knee between his legs and lets his raised arm fall, fingers curling back into the hair at Q’s nape.

“Goodnight,” James says, the words a warm exhalation against Q’s forehead.

‘Goodnight,” Q repeats.

***

The first morning at Skyfall, Q woke up to birdsong and sheets that smelled like they’d been dried in the sun. 

He took a moment to revel in the fact that he had nowhere to be, no work to do, and, most importantly, that he had been promised crepes for breakfast. 

For some reason, Molly Kincaid was quite smitten with him and had taken a list of his favorite foods to prepare for the various meals Q would be eating over the weekend.

He’d hardly been there 15 hours and already he was wondering why James spent so little time at the estate. It seemed like an Eden.

After another few moments of breathing in the utter, almost unnerving, country-quiet, Q got up and put on a pair of jeans and a soft blue/grey jumper with leather elbow patches Eve had gotten him for his birthday.  She said it brought out his eyes.

When he went next door to find James, the room was empty, bed made, and he decided the kitchen was the most likely place to find him.

He was right.

James, Molly, and her nephew, Eric, were sitting at the same table from the night before drinking coffee and eating an assortment of eggs, crepes, toast, and various fruits. 

He presently found himself with a full plate, sitting between James and Eric and trying not to make sexual noises over the sheer excellence of the food.

“Marry me,” he said reverently to Molly.

Molly grinned. “Actually, Eric made the crepes.”

Q turned his attention to Eric, and repeated, just as somber, “marry me.”

Eric laughed.

James’ fork screeched against his plate.

 “I can teach you how to make them, if you’d like,” Eric offered. “Tomorrow morning?”

Q considered this. “How early would I have to wake up?”

“Eight? The rest should have cleared out by then so we’d have the kitchen to ourselves. If that’s fine with you, Molly?”

“Of course,“ Molly said. “James, are you alright?”

James looked like he’d tasted something sour, which didn’t make any sense considering his plate was piled high with nothing but sweets.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ve a lot to do today. Finish up, Q.”

Q looked at James askance, as did Molly and Eric.

“We’ve only just started eating.”

“I didn’t—“ James took a drink, a stalling measure Q had seen him use dozens of times on missions, and then cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean right this instant, just.  We should. Be quick.”

“Yeah, alright,” Q said, baffled.

He shared a confused look with Eric. Molly, though, looked like she was trying to suppress a smile.

Fifteen minutes later, Q had entirely forgotten James’ strange behavior because the certainty that he was going to die had taken the foreground of his thoughts.

“Well?” James said.

Q, who was standing in a round pen, eyes locked in staring contest with a terrifying beast of a horse who was apparently named “Martha,” exhaled slowly.

“Well what?”

“Are you ready?”

“I thought I was here to learn to drive. Vehicles.”

“Kincaid and the others have a monopoly on the trucks until 10 am. We might as well spend our hour of wait-time teaching you another useful skill. James shifted the saddle propped on his shoulder.

“So. Are you ready or would you rather glare at her a bit longer?”

“She’s looking at me like she wants to eat me.”

James sighed. “Horses are herbivores.”

“Well she looks angry enough to make an exception.”

“She’s not angry.”

“Then why is she looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like she wants to eat me!”

“Q.”

James, sounding more fond than exasperated, slung the saddle from his shoulder and onto the top of the fence. “No saddle, then.”

“No saddle? How is that going to help things?”

James moved forward, flipping the reigns over the horse’s head, running absent knuckles the length of her neck. He wrapped one hand in a lock of hair at the base of Martha’s mane and, a moment later, was astride the horse, nudging her a few steps forward to stand directly in front of Q. He nodded toward the stool in front of the fence.

“Come on, up you get.”

“I don’t—“

James shifted back a few inches, reigns lax in his right hand, left hand reaching for Q, expectant.

“Okay. Just. Shouldn’t I be behind you?”

“No,” James nodded to the space between the horse’s neck and his spread legs, one corner of his mouth tipped up. “Right here.”

It took two tries, but Q found himself caged into the cup of James’ body, the horse moving fluidly beneath him a moment later. James’ right hand still held the reigns, but the left was firmly wrapped around Q’s hip, keeping him in place.

“What am I supposed to hold on to?” Q asked, knowing his voice was embarrassingly high.

“Use your knees, not your hands, you’ll figure out how to balance with a bit of practice. And relax, I’m not going to let you fall.”

It took several slow laps around the pen, but eventually Q settled into Martha’s strange rolling gait. He still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, but he leaned back, just a bit, so the scruff of James’ two-day stubble occasionally rasped against his cheek. He smelled like warm, sweat-damp skin, horses and gasoline and country air. Q decided horseback riding wasn’t so bad after all.

“Are you ready to leave the pen?”

“What? Why?”

James laughed and Q could feel it: a warm vibration against his back.

“I’ve got you,” James reminded him, mouth against his ear.

“I—” Q swallowed. “Yeah, alright.”

Chapter Text

Now

It’s late morning when Q wakes up; the muted sounds of people in the kitchen pushing him from pleasantly drifting to actually opening his eyes.

“Mmph,” he says into the hollow of James’ throat.

They’re still pressed together, a bit too warm for comfort, and Q can tell James is awake because his fingers are lightly combing through the curls at the back of Q’s head.

 “Morning,” Q says, mouth against skin.

He’s perversely pleased when the fingers in his hair briefly tighten.

This is becoming a bit of a thing for them.

“Morning,” James answers, putting space between them.

They’re still close enough that Q feels a little cross-eyed looking at James’ face, and their hands, now resting in the space between them, are pressed back-to-back. 

“Sleep well?” James asks.

“Very. You?”

“Yes.”

There’s something tenuous and subdued about the exchange and Q feels distinctly wrong-footed. 

“Are we alright?” he asks.

James shifts so they’re no longer touching, sitting up against the headboard.

“We’re fine.”

“Are we going to…talk? About. Things?”

The right side of James’ mouth lifts. Coupled with his mussed hair and the pillow creases on his cheek, the gesture makes him look incredibly young.

“I thought you preferred to avoid talking about things.  Particularly when ‘things’ means ‘feelings.’”

“Pot, meet emotionally stunted kettle.”

“I’m not denying it.”

Q sighs, stretching, then winces.

“We should,” he says, “Talk. But I think I need some caffeine before we do. Possibly some painkillers.”

“That can be arranged.”

Neither of them moves and, after a moment, Q laughs softly, propelling himself across the divide between them.

“In a few minutes?”

James looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t, instead bracing his weight on one arm to lie down again. 

Q watches the shift of tendon and muscle with blatant, sleepy, interest.

“In a few minutes,” James agrees.

They come together, slow and more than a little awkward without the excuse of darkness and fatigue for their actions. Q had always thought sharing a bed with someone would either be tedious or euphoric, but in reality it’s something else, a moment of mutual vulnerability that exists solely in the quiet, shadowed, space of warm skin and morning breath.

He settles his head in the slope between James’ shoulder and his collarbone, tucks one knee over James’ hip and lets his fingers spread, light as a spider web, on the cotton-covered curve of James’ ribs.

“Okay?”

James’ hand returns to the back of Q’s head. He tips his face to the side, just enough to drag the rasp of his stubbled chin against Q’s temple.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Then

In his imagination, Q thought driving lessons would be much more sexually fraught: James’ hand covering his on the gear shift, James leaning into his space, murmuring instruction in a low, commanding tone. It was always sunset, in these musings, and he was learning in the Aston Martin, and he picked up driving as seamlessly as he did anything else related to technology. It was a nice place, his imagination.

Reality, however, involved midday heat, sticky leather seats in a twenty-year-old farm truck, quite a bit of swearing on Q’s part, and an equal amount of laugher on James’. There was nothing sexy about the situation. At all.

“How am I so bad at this,” Q despaired as the truck lurched forward and stalled for the third time in as many minutes.

“It’s alright, Q. You just need practice.”

“But I’m terrible.”

“Quentin. It takes time for normal people to learn a new skill. Consider this a lesson in humility.”

Q made a bereft noise and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Is it necessary I learn how to drive?”

“Yes.”

“What if I promise to try really hard to avoid car chases?”

“Q. Come on, start it up again.”

“Can we go back to riding horses?”

“Desperation is not a good look for you. Here. Let’s do this. You focus on the clutch, I’ll shift for you.”

And oh. Well. There was James’ hand on top of his.

Q loosened his grip on the gearshift, letting James fingers slide into the new spaces between them. The callouses on his palm caught, rough, against the skin of Q’s knuckles.

“Ready?”

And James was leaning over the center console, right hand braced against the top of Q’s seat.

Q swallowed and started the truck again.

“Now, press down on the clutch—and ease off—good. Feel that? We’re in first gear.”

“First gear,” Q repeated dumbly.

“Clutch again, and—perfect—now we’re in second.”

James spoke close into his ear as the truck whined, closer than he needed to be, Q though, mouth dry, hyper aware of the scant space between them and his sweaty palm on the ball of the gearshift.

James squeezed his hand.

“Do you remember how to get to third?” He asked, low and sincere and smiling, and alright, maybe this was just as sexually fraught as Q had imagined after all. 

An hour later, Q parked the truck in front of the house without assistance and James applauded as he exited the vehicle. 

Q bowed.

“Hey!” someone shouted, and Q spun, shading his eyes, to find Eric leaning out one of the second-floor windows. 

“So can the boffin drive?” Eric called, grinning.

“He can now!” Q answered.

“Sort of,” James muttered.

Q chose to ignore him.

“Molly and I just cleared up the worker’s lunch if you want to meet me in the kitchen,” Eric said. “We decided to wait and eat with you two, if that’s alright.”

“Great!” Q said.

“Fantastic,” sighed James.

Lunch was sandwiches that went so far beyond the bread and meat and cheese combination James was used to that he wasn’t sure they should even exist within the same categorization. Clearly Q agreed because he was making rapturous faces.

“This is amazing,” he said, probably for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. “I didn’t know sandwiches could taste this good.”

Eric, wearing one of Molly’s floral aprons and somehow managing to not look ridiculous,  gave a mock bow from where he was sitting across from them.

“It’s a delicate art,” he said with faux seriousness. “But I have mastered it with years of practice.”

“Did you go to culinary school?” Q asked, taking another bite and making a noise that James really didn’t think was necessary.

“Oh, god no,” Eric laughed. “But my parents own a pub in town and I more or less grew up in the kitchen. My da got tired of having me underfoot and sent me to Kinkaid in the hopes of making a man out of me or something.”

“He was an utter failure as a cattle hand,” Molly interjected gently.

“Hey now, you weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t need to, dear.”

She winks at Q. “We all have our strengths.”

“Apparently mine is sandwich -making,” Eric agreed amicably.

“Yes,” said Molly. “It’s why we keep him around.”

Q grinned and Eric looked pleased, topping off Q’s glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.

“You seriously may want to consider culinary school, though,“ Q said, licking avocado off his fingers. “Do you know how much you could charge for a sandwich like this in London?”

Eric sobered. “I have thought about it,” he admitted. “But it’s expensive, and I’m young yet. Maybe some day.”

“How old are you?” Q asked.

“Nineteen.”

“Oh, just  three years older than me, then.”

Eric made a noise of agreement before swallowing.

 “I was thinking of taking a night swim at the spring this evening,” he said,  “if James doesn’t have any plans for you, you’re welcome to join me.”

Q swiveled to look at James, eyebrows up, and James said, dry as possible, 

“We do have plans, actually.’

They didn’t, and he was being petty, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad.

“Oh?” Q said. “What are we doing?”

“It’s a surprise. Finish up, we’re driving the Aston next.”

Q finished off his crust with wide eyes and excited movements, springing up to wash his hands. James, feeling smug, met Eric’s eyes across the table.

Eric was smirking at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He hid a smile behind his glass of water. “I hope you have fun tonight with your surprise.”

James was relatively certain he was being mocked.

“Thank you,” he said blandly, standing. “Enjoy your swim. Alone.”

Petty.

So damn petty.

But still not apologetic.

Chapter Text

Now

Q is blushing when they finally go downstairs for breakfast. Blushing and warm against his chest and James doesn’t want to put him down once they’re at the table. Mycroft raises his eyebrows at them because James is just standing there like an idiot and Sherlock takes one look at them and makes a disgusted noise.

John kicks Sherlock when he opens his mouth.

“Good morning,” John says loudly, cheerfully, and James reluctantly sets Q in an open chair.

“Eggs?” he asks. “And toast?”

Q nods, still pink at the edges.

“Orange juice, too?”

Q nods again and James wonders if the easy acquiescence is a result of the earlier physical contact or the novelty of it being allowed. He supposes he’ll have to test that. The thought makes him smile.

Sherlock makes another disgusted noise.

Mycroft, looking as elegant and put together as usual—so opposed to his embarrassed cat-feeding 3am self—sighs.

It is a very small, but very brotherly sigh, and Q, in a similarly brotherly fashion, rolls his eyes.

“I took the liberty of speaking with M this morning,” Mycroft says, and James, cracking an egg into the already warm pan at the stove, frowns.

When he glances at Q, the boy is making a similar expression. 

“We’ve arranged your travel plans.” Sherlock takes a breath and Mycroft continues quickly, “for all of you.”

James cracks a second egg.

“I thought we were supposed to got to HQ at 1300,” he says.

“I had some logistical concerns,” Mycroft says, adjusting his cufflink. “I discussed them with M and she agreed that chartering a private plane would be wiser than risking the visibility of a commercial flight.  A young woman by the name of “R” will be coming here to brief and outfit you at one pm, then drive you to the airport. Your flight leaves at three.”

Q is pinching the bridge of his nose.

James nudges the edges of one frying egg with the spatula.

“We’ve also booked you two adjoining rooms on the eighth floor with roof access at a hotel two blocks from the hospital where Q believes Moriarty is located. There will be a car waiting to transport you there upon your arrival at the Madrid airport.”

“I don’t suppose we get a say in any of this,” Sherlock says.

“No,” Mycroft answers.

His affect of his smug look is somewhat ruined when the mangy cat from the night before comes sauntering into the kitchen and leaps with practiced ease into Mycroft’s lap.

Sherlock, poised to make some cutting remark, literally drops his fork.

Mycroft scowls down at his lap with ill-disguised fondness.

“Hello,” he says dryly.

The cat buts his head against the exposed line of buttons on Mycroft’s no doubt obscenely expensive waistcoat.

Mycroft pets him, because apparently cat hair on bespoke tailoring doesn’t concern one when they run the British government.

James flips the eggs.

Sherlock is still gaping.

“I see he decided to stick around this time,” Q points out.

“Yes. He’s rather fond of your Boffin. I think that tipped the scale in his favor of finally staying.”

Boff, as if aware she is being talked about, rounds the corner a moment later and promptly joins the other cat on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft sets down his fork so he can pet them both at the same time.

“Jesus,” John mutters. “It’s like the twilight zone.”

“You’d better name him,” Q points out. “I think he’s officially yours now.”

 “Might want to give him a bath, as well,” James says lowly.

“And take him to the vet for his vacinations,” Q adds. “He probably isn’t neutered, either.”

“Could get some tags made for him, too,” James says.

Mycroft looks slightly overwhelmed.

“I’ll…have Anthea look into all that this afternoon, I suppose.”

“You have a cat.” Sherlock says, finally, utterly flabbergasted. “A cat. In your lap.”

“Technically,” John says, “he has two cats in his lap.”

“A cat.” Sherlock repeats.

“I think you’ve broken him,” Q murmurs.

“I’ve been calling him ‘Dodger’ in my head,” Mycroft says tentatively, as if seeking approval. “After—Jack Dawson, in Oliver twist? He looks like an Artful Dodger.”

“I think it’s a fantastic name,” Q says. 

He shoots James a meaningful look and he quickly agrees. “Yeah, suits him.”

 John makes a noise that may be agreement, but may be a strangled attempt at hiding a laugh.

“Dodger,” Sherlock says. “You have a cat named Dodger.”

John pats his elbow consoling.

James turns back to the eggs.

Mycroft smiles softly at the cats in his lap.

***

Then

“So what is this ‘surprise’?” Q asked, using the corner of the barn as a boot-scrape. There was mud all over him and he was exceedingly glad that Alec had bought, and insisted he bring, the pair of boring but sturdy boots he was wearing. After making a few circuits of the main house with one of the farm’s newer trucks, James had allowed Q to drive the Aston to the edge of the property and back, then insisted they spend more time with the horses. He had fallen, multiple times, trying to mount Martha who admittedly had held very still for him. She was just. So. Big.

Q was tired and sore and desperately needed a meal, bath, and possibly a nap, but he was also intensely curious.

James was standing a few feet away, murmuring goodbye Martha.

“James,” Q said, louder. “What is the surprise tonight?”

James wiped his palms on his thighs and raised one eyebrow. “I’m sorry, are you familiar with the word?”

Q sighed.

“Can you at least tell me when I should be ready? And what to wear?”

“We can leave shortly after we’ve cleaned up. We’ll be having dinner there. And you can wear whatever you want.”

“So…this?”

James gave Q an unimpressed look.

“My white buck oxfords and grey-striped sweater? Navy slacks?” It was the nicest outfit he brought and one he didn’t actually intend to take out of his suitcase after seeing the property.

“If you like,” James answered.

Q made a disbelieving noise.

“It may be a bit over-dressed for where we’re going. But I wouldn’t put your shoes in danger,” James said, nodding in the direction of the house. “Particularly not those shoes. I bought those. They’re brilliant.”

Q sighed again at this completely unhelpful information and decided to wear the outfit anyway. Only a little bit out of spite. Mostly because he knew he looked good in it.

“You want to shower and I’ll meet you out front in an hour?”

“Alright.”

And hour and fifteen minutes later, James parked the Aston in an alley off the narrow main street of a town that looked exactly as Q had imagined a small town’s main street would look.

James held the door open for him, then pushed him lightly forward, one hand on his lower back, toward the cobbled main square.

There were bulb lights hanging from the tree of a restaurant patio, bright in the grey-scale of dusk, and for a moment Q thought  that was their destination. James moved them past it, though, and a minute later pulled open the door to the little pub a few store-fronts down.

It was bigger on the inside than the exterior would suggest, narrow, but long, dark, rustic paneling and low lights and the smell of greasy, filling food.

Q was wary of the floor but, true to James’ word, his shoes didn’t appear to be in danger.

Q threw him a disapproving look anyway, “ ‘A bit overdressed?’” he murmured. “You might have warned me.”

“You look perfect,” he answered, and then waved to a wild-haired woman, probably in her fifties, who was behind the bar. 

“James!” the woman cried, delighted, moving around to join them. “And you’ve brought Q! Finally! Come sit at the bar, you two. Alec might have warned me, I would have made something special.”

“I—what?” Q said.

“Oh,” James said. “So when Alec and I visit it’s business as usual, and ‘don’t take paying customer’s seats,’ but if Q’s here it’s ‘sit at the bar’ and ‘I would have made something special?’” he said, feigning affront. “I see how it is.”

“What?” Q said again.

“Oh,” James answered, eyes bright. He was trying to be grave and utterly failing. “I would like to introduce you to Helen, Alec’s mother.”

“Mother?”

Q could see it, once he knew: the slope of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the color of her eyes.

“But I thought—“

He stopped himself.

“Thought they were all sad orphans?” Helen said, before adding cheerily, “no offense, James.”

“None taken.”

“Er,” Q said. “Yes?”

Helen laughed

“Alec wasn’t recruited. Not like James. But those two had been doing everything together for so long I don’t think they knew how to be apart.”

“Oh.” Q considered that for a moment. “I—can you even do that? I thought you had to be expressly invited into the program.”

James snorted. “I’m relatively certain he’s the first and only one who managed to join by sheer tenacity. But I may have given a rash ultimatum or two as well. It helped that his marksmanship was nearly off the charts.”

Q shook his head, fond, and found Helen considering James with a similar expression.

“My boys,” she said. “Off doing impossible things all over and me here serving beer to the same folks every night. It’s a funny little world.” She scowled dramatically, “Would be better if I saw them more often but apparently espionage keeps a body busy.”

“We visit!” James protested

“Twice a year!” she cried. “Three times if I’m lucky.”

She hooked one elbow with Q’s pulling him toward her with a conspiratorial grin. “You’ll get them to bring you more often now, though. Won’t you?”

“I…can try?”

“Good boy. Now. Would you like to see some baby pictures? I keep a few of each of them behind the bar.”

Q cups his free hand around her knuckles where she’s holding on to his arm.

“I would love to see some baby pictures.”

Chapter Text

Now

The plane that Mycroft has chartered is so small that James and John must duck to move down the center isle. Q would be similarly inconvenienced if not for the fact that he’s in a wheelchair, but poor Sherlock looks positively ridiculous. There are six seats in the cabin, the small partition between the pilot and the rest of the plane open a few inches. The pilot has grey hair and the somber, if slightly bored, look of someone who has seen everything. He nods to Q when Q cranes his neck, curious, to see inside the cockpit.

Sherlock takes the front left seat, John the front right, and Q notices, as his brother folds himself into the chair, that there’s a chain around Sherlock’s neck that hadn’t been there the day before. It looks similar to the necklace John wears, only visible at the back of his collar, tucked inside his shirt. Sherlock meets his eyes and for a moment goes very still, aware of the direction of Q’s attention. James, oblivious, pushes Q further down the isle. Q can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as James helps him out of the wheelchair and into the far right seat. When he glances up several minutes later, however, wincing despite himself at the pain in his feet, Sherlock’s attention is firmly on the tarmac out the window. John is watching Sherlock with a soft, tentative expression that Q can only label as “hope.”

Q sighs and attempts to make himself more comfortable.

James sighs louder, with purpose, beside him.

“Your feelings on this trip have been noted,” Q says dryly.

“I just find it hard to believe you’ll stay in the hotel room and let us do all the heavy lifting,” James says.

Q raises an eyebrow and James rolls his eyes before Q can even start talking.

“The heavy lifting will be my intel, thank you very much. You’re just the brute muscle.”

Q thinks fondly of the three large titanium suitcases stored in the belly of the plane. They’re filled with a replica of his MI6 workstation, helpfully assembled by R the night before. 

“You realize,” James says, tucking folded sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, “that ‘brute muscle’ literally implies heavy lifting, yes?”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

 John clears his throat, leaning around the back of his seat. “Sorry to interrupt your semantics debate, but I’ve been told to inform you we’ll be leaving soon and you need to buckle your seatbelts.”

James had already buckled Q’s, but he sees to his own while Q huffs out a breath, tapping his fingers distractedly on the arm of his chair.

“I think,” James says, “that the literal muscle has better understanding of the figurative muscle’s lack of self-preservation than perhaps M does.” 

“Excuse you,” Q replies, “I’m not the one with a history of diverting from mission protocol.”

“Might I remind you of that incident two years ago when you decided to ‘help’ Alec rescue me, despite the fact that he had things well in hand?”

“I did help! And I didn’t get so much as a scratch on me. And I nearly killed a man! With a knife!”

James literally face-palms at both the volume and pride in the final statement.

Sherlock is looking at Q with great interest.

John is grinning.

The plane’s engines start.

Q’s fingers drum with a bit more force.

James sighs a second time.

He lowers his voice as the plane lurches and begins to move backward. “You can’t fault me for being concerned. Especially since you’re injured.”

“Exactly,” Q says. “I’m injured. How will I get into any trouble when I can’t even walk on my own?”

“If anyone could figure it out, it’d be you.”

Q’s mouth quirks, pleased, and he turns to look out the window as the plane turns onto the runway. 

“I promise I’ll avoid trouble,” he says.

“All trouble?”

“Maybe not all. But the big ones.”

“Big ones?” James clarifies.

“Kidnapping. Torture. Assassination.”

“Car chases?”

“Car chases.”

They grin at each other and the pitch of the engines change. Q’s smile fades and his fingers stop drumming as they begin to pick up speed.

“You have to promise the same, you know” he says, somewhat belated. He’s gripping the seat’s armrests tightly now.

“No car chases?” James says, feigning incredulity. “What would be the point?”

Q doesn’t laugh.

James leans into the aisle, tapping a finger to the whitening knuckles of Q’s left hand.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Q says tightly.

James glances toward the front of the plane where John and Sherlock are engaged in their own conversation, voices an indistinct blur of sound.

“Is this your first time flying?” James asks.

“What gave it away?”

James unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to crouch beside Q’s seat.

“I fly all the time,” he says lowly. “We’re perfectly safe. You know that.”

“Objectively, statistically, yes. And yet—“

The front of the plane tips up and Q swallows, leaning his head back. James uncurls Q’s closest hand to him, lacing their fingers together.

“What can I do?”

Q shakes his head.

“Quentin. Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m fine,” Q says, so quiet James almost can’t hear him. “I’m fine.”

The plane leaves the ground and Q closes his eyes.

“What can I do?” James says again, urgent.

“I don’t know,” Q hisses, “I’ve never—“

“Q,” John says loudly from the front of the plane, “Sherlock and I are having a disagreement. Sherlock thinks that Windows is a better operating system than Linux and I was wondering what your thoughts are.”

Q opens his eyes despite himself.

“What?”

Sherlock makes an affronted noise. “I certainly do—“ there’s a pause. “Uh. I certainly do,” Sherlock says. “Think that Windows is a better operating system than Linux.” It looks likes the words pain him.

“That’s ridiculous,” Q says. “Windows is awful. It’s closed source. Linux is more secure, allows you the most freedom, and you can update your OS or install software via terminal. If you want complete control over your system Linux is easily the best choice.”

The plane climbs higher.

“It’s difficult, though,” Sherlock says. “Not at all user-friendly.”

Q scoffs, letting go of James hand so he can add gesture to his verbal disgust. “I installed Windows 10 on my neighbor’s laptop last week. Sweet lady, completely technologically inept but she only needs the computer for cat videos and keeping up with her grandchildren’s social media profiles so I didn’t try to change her mind. The update took ages to download, even longer to install, and neither the wireless, graphics card, or trackpad, were working. I had to download the drivers manually using Internet Explorer.”

The horror in his voice is palpable.

James laughs softly beside him.

“What about Mac OS?” he asks.

“James,” Q says. 

****

Then

James was three beers in and Q was on his second Shirley Temple (something Helen seemed to find hilarious to insist upon serving him) when a cat slunk around the corner of the bar and settled in the bottom of the wide casement window closest to them. It was small and orange and tucked itself into a tidy comma of fluff before closing its eyes.

“I can’t believe he’s still alive,” James said into the mouth of his glass.

Helen propped her chin on one hand, smiling at the cat fondly.

“Have you told Q about Reggie?” she asked James.

“Reggie?” Q repeated.

James was suspiciously silent.

Helen disappeared into the box of photo albums they’d been working through, then pushed a polaroid picture across to Q.

They were sitting at table in an alcove behind the bar, wedged between a large sink and the doorway to what Q assumed was a storage room from the few inches of pallets he could see from his seat. A younger man was serving the customers, Helen occasionally leaving them to assist when more than one patron was waiting.

The photograph was warped with moisture but still clear enough: a very young James—perhaps eleven or twelve—and equally young Alec, holding between them an even smaller orange cat. The animal was aloft in their hands, as if he was a trophy won for some sporting event.

“James found him,” Helen said. “Little scrap of a thing, almost ran over him if I remember correctly.”

“Ran over him?”

“Motorcycle,” James said, attention still on the beer in his hands. “First one Kinkaid ever let me work on. I’m not sure who was more surprised when we actually managed to get it running, him or us.”

“James and Alec spent that entire spring fixing it. And then they spent the summer terrorizing every bit of livestock at Skyfall. Poor Reggie was nearly a fatality.”

“He was by the culvert at the barn,” James said. “Alec was driving and I saw him a moment before we would have hit him. Turned the bike over to avoid him.”

Q slid off his chair—clearly a cast-off from the main room because one leg was shorter than the other—and knelt by the window. He offered one hand to the cat to sniff.

“Why didn’t you keep him at Skyfall?” Q murmured.

James said nothing.

Helen grinned.

Q looked up from the cat, now pushing his head into Q’s hand, and found James focusing very intensely on a scratch in the table.

“James,” Helen said, “had a little dog named Meelo. Sweetest thing, but not at all fond of cats. The boys were afraid Reggie might become lunch for Meelo. So they brought him here. He’s been a fixture ever since.”

“Meelo?”

“Australian shepherd,” Helen said. “Brown and white with the most adorable freckles on his nose. That dog was something else.  I think—“ she dug in the box for a moment before handing over another picture: teen-aged, muddied James with an arm around an equally muddy dog.

Q moved back to the table, tipping back the last of his drink.

“Alec was jealous of Meelo sometimes,” Helen continued. “Thought James loved that dog more than him.”

“For good reason,” James muttered.

Q and Helen shared a fond look.

“What happened to him?” Q asked, “to Meelo.”

“Stroke,” Helen said, sobering. “They put him down four years ago. James came back for it. Cried like a babe and then got piss drunk. I had to call Alec to come collect him the next day.”

“We could have left out that part of the story,” James said.

Q caught James foot between his ankles under the table, giving it a tug.

James met his eyes with an embarrassed smile.

“He was a good dog.”

“I have no doubt.”

Helen slipped a few more photographs toward Q: James and Alec with a box of baby squirrels. James and Alec with a bundled up hawk. James and Alec holding small speckled eggs in their hands.

“James always was one for taking in strays,” she said. “I’m still not sure if Alec was his assistant or if he was one of the strays.”

James drew a star in the condensation from his glass on the table, pointedly not looking at them. Q grinned back at Helen. “His proclivities haven’t changed.”

“I haven’t rescued an animal in years,” James protested.

“No,” Q said, sobering. “Just me.”

Chapter Text

Now

Q realizes what they’re doing thirty minutes into the flight when John adamantly declares that he prefers Internet Explorer to all other browsers and Sherlock says solemnly that he agrees.

Q looks at them first in abject horror, then disbelief, then comprehension, and flushes.

“Oh,” he says, embarrassed. “You’re just distracting me.” 

“Well,” John says. “We were. Do you need us to continue?”

Q considers the question for a moment, gauging his heart rate—a tad elevated but probably due to dismay at perceived technological ineptitude than any actual flight-related anxiety.

“No. I think I’m alright now.”

James, who had moved from a crouch to sitting cross-legged in the aisle at some point, stands to return to his seat.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Q hooks his fingers under the plastic sill of the window covering beside him, sliding it up with no little amount of apprehension, and makes a surprised noise.

“I can’t see the ground.”

“No,” James agrees. “Not this high. Just clouds for a while, I imagine.”

“Hm. It’s actually kind of nice. Everything looks so…soft.”

“Sunsets are particularly lovely,” James says. They both glance at Sherlock and John who have turned back around and resumed their own conversation, voices low, the conversation distinguishable but quiet.

“You are partial to evening flights,” Q muses. “Is that why? Sunsets?”

“Partially.”

“Partially?” Q repeats.

“Partially.”

“James.”

“Q?” he says innocently.

“Why else do you prefer evening flights?” Q asks, leaning forward to bridge the isle between them.

James looks toward the front of the plane for a moment, and then leans inward himself. 

“I just do,” he skirts, “It’s a quirk. Like you preferring Kerrygold butter to any other brand. ”

“James,” Q says, “I know you and you have reasons for everything. Also Kerrygold butter is not a quirk, it’s the best, which is an excellent reason for preferring it. So if you would, please, stop deflecting and just tell me—“

 “You’re always waiting for me when I have an evening flight,” James says, the words running together. “You leave MI6 at a reasonable hour and shower and change and make sure there’s food ordered. “

Q purses his lips. “So…you prefer evening flights because they’re good for my work-life balance?” 

He expects James to quip something back, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he sets his jaw with a solemn, willful look that Q knows all too well because it usually means James is going to do something he shouldn’t and says, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” James says again, softer. “I prefer evening flights because I like coming home to you in pajamas and bare feet. Because then I don’t have to share you with the rest of MI6. Because sometimes, if it’s late, or the flight is delayed, you’ll be asleep in my bed and in my clothes.”

“Oh.”

Q can feel the heat in his face. He shifts, swallowing, and drops his eyes to James’ hands because James’ eyes are so blue and serious and he can’t seem to speak and look at them at the same time.

“I like that too,” Q says finally. “Being there, for you to come home to. Being—“ he touches his tongue to his lower lip. “Being in your bed and in your clothes.”

James inhales sharply.

“I would like to point out,” Sherlock says loudly, still facing forward, “that while we are attempting to allow you the illusion of privacy, in a plane this small it is, indeed, just an illusion.”

John snorts.

Q drops his face into his hands.

James reaches across the isle to pet the back of Q’s downturned head.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, and then, louder, “would anyone like to play cards?” 

“Sure,” John says amicably.

“Pedestrian,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Poker?” John asks as James retrieves a beat-up deck from his bag.

“Not if Q’s playing, he counts cards.”

“I can’t help it,” Q mutters, face still in his hands. 

“That’s because you’re not an imbicile,” Sherlock says.

Q has a feeling that, for Sherlock, this is a sizable compliment. 

“Are the geniuses playing or would they rather make disparaging comments about the peasants?” James asks.

“I’m playing,” Q says, emerging, still embarrassed, from his hands. 

“I suppose if I must,” Sherlock says.

“Dealers choice, then,” John says, shuffling. “This round we’re playing Go Fish.”

Sherlock makes an aggrieved noise.

***

By the time they land, they’ve played every child’s card game, and several rounds of poker, with enforced handicaps on Q and Sherlock. Q has, indeed, found a way to cheat at Go Fish, Sherlock is the reigning king of Slap-Jack, and James and John have further bonded over their fondness of ridiculous Holmeses.

Two cars, black and sleek, and uninteresting aside from their undoubtedly high price-tags, meet the plane on the runway, waiting a few yards away as they disembark on the rolling staircase. R had instructed them during the briefing that Sherlock and James would take one car, John and Q the other, just to be safe. Sherlock and James would arrive and check into the hotel first,.Q and John’s car will circle the block a few times and arrive ten minutes later .

Q chastises himself for being wary of this once James has carried him to his car and then departed for his own. He tells himself that he is perfectly safe with John and that he will see James again in less than an hour, and he should really stop being so damn opaque about his feelings because John is looking at him knowingly as he slides into the back seat next to him.

“Seems you’re making progress,” John observes quietly, the words gentle, but pleased on Q’s behalf. “You two aren’t at each other’s throats anymore at least.”

“We talked,” Q says, buckling his seatbelt at the car begins to move. “Last night. It was…good.”

“Good.”

“He thinks I’m too young,” Q says, and then, because apparently he is a cliché teenager, claps a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t—“

“It’s ok,” John laughs. “You talked me through a sexuality crisis. I think our friendship has reached a point where over-sharing is acceptable.”

“I—how did that go?” Q asks, genuinely curious.

“We, uh,“ John swallows, smiling at his hands. “We talked too,” he says, mimicking Q. “It was good.”

Q grins at him.

“So,” John prompts, “He thinks you’re too young? Didn’t seem that way, from where I was sitting.”

“I asked him to sleep with me. Last year. He said no.  That I didn’t know what I wanted and if I waited until I was 18 I could ask again but—“ he winces when the car hits a pothole and it jostles his feet. “I do know what I want. I want him. And yes, I’m young, but I don’t—my feelings aren’t going to change.”

“To be honest,” John says gently, “I’d be concerned if he wasn’t conflicted about this. He’s in a position of power both physically and emotionally over you. It sounds like he’s been…something like a caretaker for you since before he ever considered you in a sexual way. That has to be difficult for him to reconcile without feeling as if he’s taking advantage.”

“Oh.” Q, admittedly, hadn’t fully thought that through. “That makes sense.”

 They hit another rough patch of road and he grimaces, turning inward so his feet aren’t touching the floor anymore.

John braces his hand against the roof, swearing, as he’s jostled in his own seat. “Jesus,” he says, looking out the window, “what?—Fuck.”

“What?” Q looks out the window himself but doesn’t see anything particularly concerning apart from the notable poor quality of the road.

“What’s wrong?”

John’s face has gone mission-blank and it’s disconcerting, seeing the expression on someone who isn’t an agent, someone who’d been laughing over a children’s card game minutes before.

John tries to open his door. It’s locked.

“You have a cellphone?” John asks, sharp.

“Yes? Why? What’s happening?”

“Call James,” John says. “This isn’t the way to the hotel.”

****

Then

They left Helen’s pub as the night crowd began to arrive and she could no longer sit with them and talk. Many people recognized James, and Q got several speculative looks, but no one attempted to waylay them as they made their way back out to the cobbled street, now dark and lit by the light from shop windows.

Q leaned into James’ arm for a moment because he could and because he snuck several gulps of James beer and because the night was warm and lovely.

“This was a nice surprise,” he said, “thank you for bringing me.”

“Do you want to drive us back?” James asked.

“Seriously?”

“It is, technically, your car,” James reminded him.

Q grinned up at James’ shadowed face. “I’m also, technically, not legally allowed to drive.”

“The only law enforcement on duty is currently at Helen’s bar. I think you’re safe.”

Q laughed outright.

He did drive them home, slow, careful, and only grinding the gears once when he got anxious about shifting from second to third. James hand immediately moved to correct his, though, and if it hadn’t been for his love of the Aston he may have intentionally made more mistakes if only for continued fleeting moments of contact between them.

They left the car in the front roundabout, quiet with their steps, as they moved past the entryway and toward, not the stairs, but the kitchen.

Q sat on one butcher-block counter, charmed, as James made hot chocolate from scratch, and then, snickering as if they were disobeying curfew, they brought their hot chocolate and several blankets from James’ room out onto the balcony off the second-floor library.

Q, fingers warm around his mug, nudged James’ knee with one blanket-shrouded foot. He’d left his shoes in James’ room, along with his coat, and the image of his clothing, laid at the foot of James’ bed, was something he would probably want to revisit. Later. When he was alone.

“Hey,” he said.

James tipped his head toward Q, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Hmm?”

“You like it here.”

It wasn’t a question, but James answered it anyway. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand, then. Why don’t you visit more often? Why is it so—“ He waved his one free hand, “Why does everyone get shifty about you and Skyfall?”

James sighed.

“Most people—people at MI6—they think I don’t like coming back because of the memories. Because I left as soon as I was able. Because no one in our business likes to be confronted with their weaknesses or their pasts, particularly when they coincide.”

“But you do like coming back?”

“I do. Too much. That’s why I can’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“James Bond,” he said, like the words are more than a name, “does not have a past. He’s an agent first, and a person second. Focused, driven, trained for everything. Coming here—“ James sighed. “ I feel things so much more strongly. It’s like a regression. Like there’s two versions of me, and keeping them separate when I’m here is all but impossible, which makes pulling them apart again when I go back all the more difficult.”

James took another drink of his hot chocolate and Q wondered how much, exactly, James had to drink that night.

“So why bring me here, then?” he asked. “I could have learned to drive anywhere.”

“I knew you’d enjoy it,” James said, stilted, like it was an embarrassing thing to admit. “And you deserved a vacation. You deserve to do things you enjoy.”

Q hid his smile in his cup.

“Thank you. I really—I do. Enjoy it here.”

James shrugged.

“We can come more often, if you like.” 

“Even though it makes it difficult for you?" He asked, lightly teasing, "To reconcile your serious 007 self and your personal self?”

James snorted, though Q wasn’t sure what was funny about that question.

“I’ve been getting a lot of practice, recently,” he said, almost too quiet for Q to hear, and then, louder, “I’ll be fine. Helen would appreciate it. And I know Alec would too.”

“Alright,” Q said, confused. “If you want to.”

“Alright,” James agreed. 

Chapter Text

It occurs to Q, as he blearily crawls back to consciousness, that for a small, decidedly not athletic, teenager, the number of concussions he’s had in his life is probably troubling. He knows he has a concussion because the world isn’t quite right in a way that’s familiar. There’s an aura despite the darkness of the room he’s in and John—oh, thank god—John is hazy in a way he shouldn’t be, considering how close they are.

“Hey,” John says. He looks concerned. Q realizes he should probably be concerned as well.

“Hey, Q.”

Q makes a noise that might count as a response.

“They’ll find us.” John says.

Q blinks at him, the words not making sense. He can feel blood creeping down the side of his face from his ear—wet and hot with pain.

“James and Sherlock,” John says. “They’ll find us. They’ll come for us.”

Q makes a second noise.

“You wouldn’t happen to have another one of those explosive things, would you?” John asks.

“No,” Q manages, the word scraping the back of his throat.

“Shame.”

Q licks his lips. “Where are we?”

“No idea. Basement somewhere, best as I can tell. I only woke up a minute before you. We haven’t been out long though—he touches the back of his head. “Blood’s still wet.”

“Within three miles then,” Q murmurs. The words come out slower than he means them to.

“Probably,” John agrees.

“Moran,” Q says. “It was him, wasn’t it? Driving? I didn’t get a good look at him but I think—the pictures Sherlock had—“ he grunts, frustrated, his brain feeling heavy.

“Yeah. Think so,” John says. “Can you sit up?”

He can, but it takes some effort. He realizes that nothing is restricting him. No cuffs. No rope. John is chained to a radiator against the wall a few feet away, but Q thinks they probably didn’t anticipate Q being a particularly mobile prisoner, considering his feet.

Q thinks very briefly about attempting to stand and decides their captors were correct in their predictions. 

He crawls, pulse pounding in his head, to where John is.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Better than you, I think. How’s your head?”

“Hurts.”

“I imagine.”

Q leans against the wall, letting it hold him up when he closes his eyes.

“They’ll find us,” John repeats.

Q has no doubt this is true, he’s just worried about how long it may take. And what may happen in the interim.

He doesn’t get a chance to express this concern, however, because the door across the room opens, and Moran enters.

“Evening,” he says, and Q can’t decide if he’s relieved or terrified to find that Moran is nothing like Moriarty.

Physically he is large, muscular, and has the same subtle danger about him that Q has become used to associating with military people. But his inflection, his facial expressions, they say he isn’t one for games or theatrics. Moriarty was (is? Q wonders) an oddity. Difficult to predict. Moran, though. Moran is easy. Q knows the moment he walks in the door that Moran is going to hurt them, and he’s probably going to enjoy it.

 “Well. It seems I didn’t get exactly what I was after,” the man says, attention on Q. “Because you are not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sorry?” Q murmurs.

“It’s alright, he’ll turn up eventually.” Moran gestures offhandedly to John. “He’s rather fond of Dr. Watson, I’ve noticed.”

“So, what?” John asks, “we’re just going to wait?”

“You are,” he agrees congenially. “Quentin, here, is going to help me pass the time, though.”

Q takes a shuddering breath.

Moran moves forward to pick him up with deceptive gentleness.

“We’ll be just next door if you need us, Dr. Watson.”

“Q,” John says, and Q meets his eyes over Moran’s shoulder. He can’t think of anything to say and apparently John can’t either because he knows, they both know, that this isn’t going to be an interrogation. It’s going to be revenge. It’s going to be pain for the sake of pain. And there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

There’s no way to prepare himself. No way to escape as Q is cuffed to a chair with both hands and Moran runs his finger’s through Q’s hair, soft and tender and entirely terrifying. Q closes his eyes briefly as the lights are turned up in the second innocuous basement room.  This one has a window, small and narrow at the top of the far wall, and there’s a gingham curtain hung over it. Q tries to focus on the curtain and not the table next to him, or the objects on it. Moran doesn’t seem like the type to talk first. Q thinks he’ll find out what they’re for soon enough.

He’s right.

He doesn’t try not to scream. He knows he isn’t brave enough to last more than a few minutes and it would only feel like failure when he gives in. He permits himself the pathetic tears, the hoarse, breathless sobs that come after, when he’s lost his voice and is finally left alone in the dark. Because he’s not an agent. He isn’t trained for this. He is allowed to be pathetic. He is allowed to be scared.

****

Then

The day after Q and James returned to London, Q got his license and Eve promptly demanded he take her to dinner.

The look on the valet’s face when he took the keys for the Aston Martin from Q was priceless. Particularly once he opened the door for Eve, who was wearing shoes that made her tower over him, and a dress with slit so high it was nearly indecent. 

She tucked her fingers around his bicep, since linking arms would have been awkward considering the height difference, and laughed all the way to their seats as various restaurant staff and patrons stared.

“You didn’t even want dinner,” Q said, once they were seated. “You just wanted to be a spectacle.”

“Did you see how confused they were? Their poor little brains.”

“Well clearly I’m not your kept boy since I was driving,” Q supplied.

“But I’m still the cougar in this situation.”

“You’re less than a decade older than me, I think ‘cougar’ is a bit much.”

 “They probably think you’re some sort of tech prodigy. ”

“Well. They wouldn’t entirely be wrong.”

Q, who had called ahead to make sure Eve’s favorite wine was waiting chilled at their table, pulled the bottle from the ice and poured them each a glass.

She raised one eyebrow, amused.

“I see you’ve been learning James’ tricks.”

Q shrugged, pinking slightly. “I pay attention.”

“You certainly do.”

Q wasn’t sure what the archness in the statement was implying, but he knew he was missing something.

“So,” he said, “aside from inciting feverish speculation amongst the other dinner guests about your incredibly wealthy, potentially underage lover, was there a reason you wanted me to take you out tonight?”

Eve sipped her wine, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. “I thought you might want to talk about James.”

“James.”

“Mmm. Blonde. Blue eyes. License to kill? Known for being completely unapproachable until a certain boffin showed up.”

“Eve.”

“No, silly, that’s me. We’re talking about James.”

“Eve.”

She laughed softly. “Q?”

“Why would I want to talk about James?”

“Well. You did just spend the weekend at Skyfall with him. And according to Alec he introduced you to all three of the parental figures he has left. That’s not insignificant.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, here, but the trip was to teach me to drive, not to…meet the family, or something.”

“And yet.”

Q sighed, gesturing for the waiter who was clearly biding his time until there was a pause in their conversation.

“I’d like the Chilean sea bass,” Q said, handing the menu to him. “Eve?”

“Steak. Rare.”

The waiter retreated and Q tried to ignore the fact that Eve was smiling at him like a shark.

“So. Tell me about Skyfall.”

“Have you never been?”

“Of course not. He and Alec secret themselves away there every few months but for the rest of us peasants it’s a mystery.”

“Well I’m not sure I should tell you anything, then.”

Eve makes an aggravated noise. “Please. Alec’s already told me about the place itself. I want to hear about what you did there.”

“I—learn to drive?”

“Q.”

“What? I did. He started me on one of the farm trucks, then the Aston. There was also a jeep, a four-wheeler, and a little kit-car. We didn’t have time for the motorcycle, but I did ride a few horses.”

“He let you drive the Aston directly after a farm truck?”

“Yes?”

Eve widened her eyes, taking a sip of wine. “Jesus, he’s gone on you.”

“I don’t…what?”

“James,” Eve said. “Gone. On you.”

Q looked down at his lap, pressing the creases out of his napkin.

“He isn’t,” Q said quietly. “I’m not—I won’t argue that I wish he was, but he isn’t.”

“Quentin,” Eve said patiently, “He took you to Skyfall. He introduced you to the people that raised him. He let you see baby pictures. You know James. Tell me that doesn’t mean something.”

He glanced up at her, hopeful despite himself. “I don’t even know if he’s interested in men.”

Eve laughed into her wine glass and Q colored.

“I mean. I know he sleeps with men on missions when necessary but I don’t—we haven’t exactly discussed the people he brings home on his nights off.”

“Q,” Eve said, the long-suffering voice back. “When was the last time he had a night off that he didn’t spend with you?”

Q was admittedly stymied by this.

“Also,” Eve asked, “this horseback riding, did you have your own horse or did you double with James?”

“I—we doubled.”

“Multiple times?”

“Yes?”

Eve rolled her eyes.

“That doesn’t mean—“ Q started.

“Oh, it absolutely does. Drink your wine, and let’s change the subject, you’re vexing me.”

Q wisely did as she said.

Chapter Text

46

Now

It takes them twenty minutes to realize something is wrong because Sherlock and James decide to circle the hotel after checking in and get distracted arguing about whether a first floor or second floor room is better in terms of safety. Sherlock is arguing for the first floor, citing multiple escape routes. James is arguing for the second floor, citing defensibility.

Sherlock calls John first, and then, when there’s no answer, James calls Q. When it goes straight to voicemail, James calls R.

It’s easy to find them. Q has trackers in his shoes, his phone, and his personal laptop, all of which are registering within the same building four miles away. It’s easy to find them and that alone should make James cautious but he is so fucking tired of Q being in danger that he just doesn’t care.  He arms himself with gritted teeth, arms Sherlock too because he’s better than no backup at all, and with R in his ear, telling him to wait until they have further Intel, they hail a taxi.

The house they arrive at is for sale, three stories and ramshackle and sandwiched between two other houses in similar states of disrepair. 

“Do we have a plan?” Sherlock asks when they step out onto the street four houses down.

James checks to make sure there’s a bullet chambered in his handgun.

“Shoot everyone who isn’t Q or John.”

“Excellent. Good plan.”

R’s voice becomes particularly loud in his ear.

“R,” James says. “Stop talking or I’m taking out the earpiece. If you want to be useful get me any information you can find on this residence. You have two minutes before we go inside.”

R goes quiet for several seconds and James can hear, tinny, and nearly indistinguishable in the background, the sharp, angry noise of her typing.

“It’s been vacant for three months. For sale five. The tenants on either side should both be at work. It looks like it was partially refurbished fifteen years ago, three bedrooms, two baths, and two basement rooms.”

“Is there access to the basement from the exterior?”

“No, the stairwell to both rooms is off the kitchen. You’ll have to go inside. Not that I’m advocating for that, but—“

“Let’s go,” James says.

There’s no one in the entryway, no one in the sitting room or the kitchen.

James is inching toward the door that leads to the basement when someone shoulders it open, eyes on his hands. Bloody hands. He’s using a towel to wipe them off and when he glances up and sees James, he looks surprised.

He looks even more surprised when James shoots him in first the left, then the right, knee. When the man reaches for a gun in his waistband, James shoots him in the hand too.

He doesn’t shoot to kill because MI6 wants Moran alive. Because Q wouldn’t approve. And because if Q is dead, a single shot to the head would be far too kind. If Q is dead, James will want to take his time killing Moran.

“Deal with this,” he tells Sherlock, and, stepping around the bloody rag, runs down the stairs. “R,” he says, “at least one of them is hurt. I need medical here now.”

***

Q opens his eyes because he can hear gunshots, and then, more importantly, he can hear James. He doesn’t know how long it’s been but it can’t be more than an hour since they were taken. It was a very long hour. And it’s very dark. And he can tell that he’s lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much blood. The lights turn on and he has never been so happy to hear cursing in his life.

“Q.”

“James,” Q says, and he know it’s real because James says “fuck” in a way that Q doesn’t think he could imagine on his own, like the whole world is ending and there’s nothing James can do to stop it.

“James,” Q says again, because that’s the only word he can formulate and the room in shifting in and out of focus and he hurts.

“Quentin.”

His voice is closer now and Q can smell him, can push his face into James’ neck to muffle the sound of his scream when James picks him up.

“I’m sorry. Jesus. I know, I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

It sounds like James is hurt too. 

“Hey, keep your eyes open, okay? I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Q wants to say. He wants to say a lot of things. Like “am I dying?” and “I’m so tired” and maybe “I love you.” He’s only able to manage another “James,” though, quieter this time, and cracked at the end.

“No, Q. You keep your goddamn eyes open, you hear me?”

Q tries.

“Quentin,”

He’s trying.

If he wasn’t so tired he might cry.

“Fuck. Don’t make that face. You’re doing great. Just stay awake, ok? We’re almost out.”

Out where? Q wants to say. I just want to go home, Q wants to say.

But he’s so, so tired.

“Q,” James says.

There’s sun on his face but he can’t open his eyes.

There are sirens, and strangers touching him, touching his neck, pressing against his side and he doesn’t like it but he can’t—

They’re moving and the sirens are louder.

He’s laying down. His chest feels heavy, and James is holding his hand and James is talking to him but he doesn’t—

He’s so tired.

“Q,” James says, and then, sharply, “what’s happening?”

There’s someone else. Someone else talking and suddenly he can’t breathe.

James is—James is frantic. And Q knows he should be scared but he isn’t. He’s too tired and he just—

“Quentin,” James says, it sounds like he’s crying, which can’t be right because James doesn’t cry, ever, but—

“Quentin.”

He can’t—

“Jesus, Quentin, please.”

He goes to sleep.

*****

Then

One week after Q got his license, James returned from a mission to several packages on his doorstep, return address: Skyfall. One of them was addressed to Q, care of James. He opened that one first, because he was sleep deprived and grumpy and Q hadn’t been waiting for him, like he’d expected. His mood didn’t improve upon finding a hand-written selection of recipes from Eric, along with his phone number and email address “in case Q needed any help.” James nearly binned them but even he realized that would be a bit not good. He poured himself a drink instead and opened the rest of the packages. The first was a blanket from Molly, as if she hadn’t already made him enough to fill the flat. The second was a selection of baked goods, which he decided not to enjoy on principle since Eric had probably helped make them. The third was one of Q’s cardigans: grey and feather-soft. He must have accidentally left it. Unthinking, James brought the sweater to his face, instinctively disappointed when it smelled, not like Q’s detergent, but rather Molly’s. She must have washed it.

The digital lock on the door beeped and James dropped the cardigan, retrieving his tumbler of whiskey, to meet Q in the hallway.

Q was bleeding.

“What happened?” James said.

Q’s bottom lip was split, a smear of red dragged across his chin to the right, as if he’d run the back of his hand over his mouth.

James reached for his hands, turning them, and yes, Q’s right wrist was covered in flaking, half-dried blood. His knuckles were also split, the first two on his hand already beginning to bruise.

“What the hell happened?”

Q sighed, kicking off his shoes with an uncommon amount of nonchalance, and dropped his laptop bag on the couch.

“Got in a fight,” he mumbled around his swollen lip.

“I noticed.”

He moved toward the kitchen, hopping onto the island without seeming to realize what he was doing until James was touching his face.

He scowled for a moment, eyes closed, as James manipulated his jaw, then checked his teeth. His thumb was gentle against the hot, red, swell of Q’s mangled bottom lip.

James handed Q a bag of frozen peas and opened the cabinet for the medical kit.

“Did you start it?” he asked.

“No. Yes. I don’t—“Q stopped, took a breath, and began again. “I threw the first punch.”

“Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

James cleaned Q’s knuckles with careful thoroughness, spending twice the time he actually needed to, waiting. 

“There was a guy talking shit on the train,” Q said, finally. “He was messing with this kid—well, he was probably my age. But even smaller.”

James raised an eyebrow and Q kicked him lightly on the thigh.

“Shut up, I’m nearly as tall as you now.”

“And a strong wind might carry you off.”

“Anyway... I told him to back off and when he wouldn’t I realized I could probably make him. So I did. He got one good hit in, though. I dropped my guard too soon.”

“Quentin Holmes, protector of the meek.”

Q grimaced, then winced, holding the bag of peas a few inches away so he could probe his still sluggishly bleeding lip with his tongue.

“What’s the point of all the ju-jitsu Eve makes me do if I can’t use it for a good reason?”

“Absolutely none.”

Q frowned at him and James realized there were only so many times he could dab at Q’s clean knuckles before Q realized James was really just holding his hand.

James stepped back and set about cleaning up the kitchen.

“You’re not mad?” Q clarified.

“Not at you. Wish I could have been there, but it sounds like you handled things.”

Q made an indistinct noise.

“You’re not—“ James tucked the med kit back in the cabinet, then stood, leaning against the opposite counter. “You’re not like me, when I was your age.” 

And wasn’t that an understatement.

“I went looking for fights. Sometimes started them myself. I didn’t need a reason, I was just angry. And I wasn’t—I didn’t particularly care about who I hurt in the process. If you were showing up every other day bloodied, or the police started escorting you home, then I’d be angry. But you’re—“ James laughed. “You’re so much more mature than I was. If you have a good reason, if you’re defending yourself or someone else and you think you have a high likelihood of winning—I’m more proud of you than anything else.”

Q’s ears went pink.

“I mean, do try not to make it a habit, though.”

“Noted.”

“You want to tell me more about it, or take a shower and eat something?”

Q lowered the peas. “You just got home.”

“Yes, “ James agreed, “and I’m hungry.”

“No, I mean, you haven’t had a chance to shower yet. You’ve been on a plane for eight hours.”

“Oh. That’s alright, you can go first.”

Q looked at him with a calculating expression.

“Are you sure?”

James took a sip from his glass, feeling suddenly off-center. “Yes. I’m picking the food, though.”

“Alright,” Q said slowly, sliding off the counter. “I was craving Indian, though, if you can’t decide.”

James waved him off, pulling open the drawer where the take-away menus lived.

He closed it a few moments later when the shower water cut on.

He sighed.

He dialed Q’s favorite Indian place from memory.

Chapter Text

Now

The first time Q wakes up, it’s to the horrible sensation of a tube down his throat and a machine breathing for him. Q gags. He tries to pull out the tube but finds his hands hampered by gauze and wires and his chest is tight with panic. James fills his vision for the few moments it takes for the world to get blurry and things go black and quiet again.

The second time Q wakes up, his throat is burning and his body feels disconnected and vaguely numb, but there’s no tube choking him, just the faint tackiness of leftover adhesive around his chapped mouth. He imagines he’s on very good painkillers. The lights are off and, outside the window, it’s dark. He has no sense of the amount of time that’s passed.

James is asleep, head pillowed on his arms, tan and dirty against the stark white of the hospital bed sheet. The awkward position he’s in, torso twisted over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, can’t be comfortable. There’s a streak of gritty dried blood over the crown of his head where James drags his fingers when he’s frustrated and Q reaches out to touch him, quickly aborting the movement with a sharp, embarrassing, flinch of pain, a moment later.

James sits up, eyes wide.

“Q.”

“Hey.”

He’s not sure he actually makes any noise.

James stands and brings a cup of water to Q’s mouth.

 He swallows, slow and painful, before trying to speak again.

“Hey.”

In the dark room, it’s hard to read James’ expression, but it looks—Q has never seen James face look like that before.

“Q,” he says again, rough.

“James.”

Neither one of them say anything else for several seconds and James closes his eyes, sitting back down in the chair like he can’t physically stand the idea of remaining upright.

“How do you feel?”

“Terrible.” He swallows around the ache in his throat. “John?”

“Completely fine. He and Sherlock were here until about thirty minutes ago. They went back to the hotel to sleep. Mycroft is on his way. He should be here in another hour.”

“Moriarty?”

“Dead. As of six hours ago. Complications after surgery.”

“Sure?”

“No, but we will be soon. Mycroft is working on it.”

Q looks at the cup of water and James brings it to his mouth again.

“Moran?” Q asks, and refuses to be ashamed of the break in his voice.

“In the custody. Here in the hospital. He’s in surgery but he’ll be guarded the moment he gets out.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“I didn’t know what he’d done to you.”

Q closes his eyes, then immediately opens them again when James’ hand circles his forearm above his wrist—where he’d pulled so hard against the cuffs that the metal cut skin. His fingers are bandaged too. He knows several of them are broken and he doesn’t want to think about the recovery time before he can type properly again.

James looks at Q’s hand like he’s considering the same thing.

He’s beautiful when he’s angry, Q thinks absently.

James ducks over Q’s hand and kisses the knuckle of his pointer finger, the sliver of skin between tape and gauze. He sighs against Q’s palm, lets his mouth rest against the sharp jut of Q’s wrist bone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” James says.

Q doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s tired, and he hurts, even beneath all the painkillers, and he just wants to go home but he knows that isn’t going to be an option for a while.

“James,” he says, because it’s the easiest option. “I’m cold.”

James laughs, soft, and harsh, and maybe a little hysterical.  He sets down Q’s hand, and then, carefully, gently, climbs into the space on the bed beside him, shifting Q’s head from the pillow to his chest. He rubs Q’s outside arm, unscathed and pale, with his palm. He sneaks his hand up the sleeve of Q’s hospital gown to pet the soft inner skin of his bicep.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Q is starting to fall asleep again.

“Did they have to cut any of my hair?” he asks.

James laughs again and Q smiles at the way it feels under his ear.

“No. All your curls are accounted for. Thank god for small mercies.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

“You didn’t go back to the hotel with John and Sherlock.”

It’s not a question, but James answers it anyway.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight any time in the near future you are gravely mistaken.”

Q closes his eyes and James’ thumb, which had been making circles on Q’s shoulder, goes still.

“No, don’t stop,” he murmurs, “feels good.”

“Okay.”

Q thinks James kisses his forehead.

“Go to sleep,” James says.

Q obeys.

***

Then 

Q started Skyping with Eric shortly after he received the care package from Skyfall. Ostensibly, their video chats were for cooking reasons, but mostly Q used the time to complain about James, and occasionally Alec, while trying not to burn things. Eric seemed to find this endlessly amusing.

“Sometimes I just want to punch him in the face,” Q said one night, shutting the oven door with more force than was strictly necessary.

“He’s infuriatingly cavalier about his own humanity. One day he’s going get himself killed and then—” Q didn’t know how to finish that statement. “I just. Really want to punch him.”

“I take it he was needlessly endangering himself again today?’

“Correct. It’s a miracle I got him on the original flight home. I should get a medal. Or a gold star. High five. Something.”

“And you’re rewarding his bad behavior?”

“Reward—what are you talking about?”

Q pulled an oven mitt out of the drawer, proactively setting it on the cooktop, and then moved back to the laptop, adjusting its screen.

“How am I rewarding bad behavior?”

“You’re baking a pie,” Eric said, “that will be ready…” he glanced at his watch, “probably right around the time James gets home. Am a right?”

“That’s not—the pie isn’t for him.”

“Then why are you making it in his kitchen?”

Q didn’t really have an answer for that.

“It isn’t for him,” he repeated.

Eric made a disbelieving noise. “Hey, you know that thing we were talking about last week? About how you’re going to be forever alone and sexless and cats are going to start congregating on your doorstep soon and all that?

Q leaned his elbows on the counter, dragging both hands through his hair.

“Yes.”

“Have you thought about asking James?”

Q straightened. “What?”

 “James. You could just ask him.”

“Ask James. To help me out with my pesky virginity problem?’

Eric sighed, like Q was being intentionally difficult.

“I mean—you don’t want to just sleep with someone. You want a relationship.  And, I could be completely wrong here, but it seems like you want a relationship with James. Just—ask him if he’d like the same.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know the answer. James doesn’t do relationships.  And he definitely doesn’t do them with—“ Q gestured to himself, self-deprecating, shoulders hunched. 

“With attractive, frighteningly intelligent—“

Q coughed out a laugh before Eric could continue.

Eric sighed. “I know you’re not disagreeing with the intelligence statement.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You honestly don’t think you’re attractive?”

“I am literally surrounded, every day, by beautiful people. I’m aware of what I look like. Comparatively.” 

“Q. You’re sixteen and you have perfect skin. You’re thin and dress like a model and your hair is frankly unfair. Stop being stupid.”

“I’m not asking him.” Q said, flushing.

“I notice you didn’t deny that you’d want to be in a relationship with him, though.”

“Oh no,” Q said, deadpan. “The pie is burning, I have to go.”

“Q,” Eric said, “Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll drop it. Just…think about it? Maybe?”

“Uh, huh. How’s your week been?”

“Fine,” Eric sighed. He brightened a moment later. “I catered a wedding, actually. On Saturday. They had it in the south field and used the old dairy barn for the venue, did James ever take you out there?”

Q nodded, encouraging him to continue, and glanced at his phone, buzzing with a text message next to his elbow.

Just landed. James said. Your place or mine?

Yours. Q typed out, and then, resigned. I’m making a pie.

For me? James responded. You shouldn’t have.

NOT FOR YOU.

Then why are you making it in my kitchen?

Q repressed a disgusted noise and turned the phone over.

Chapter Text

Now

Q wakes up to the snick of a door opening, a stripe of bright light from the hallway falling across his face.

He blinks, bleary and still muddled with medication, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is and why he’s anchored to James’ chest in a hospital bed. 

Mycroft, shoulders hunched and strangely small, pulls the abandoned chair to the side of the bed and sits, turning on the bedside lamp. He sets his briefcase and an overnight bag at his feet. He looks immensely tired.

James is asleep, one arm still crossed carefully over Q’s chest, hand curled just above the jut of his hipbone. Q thinks absently that he should probably be embarrassed that Mycroft has caught him and his…whatever James is, cuddling, but can’t seem to muster the energy.

“Hey,” he whispers. His throat still hurts.

“Quentin,” Mycroft says. He reaches out, then retracts his hand, uncertain.

“I—how do you feel?”

“Better. They gave me a second blood transfusion.”

That doesn’t appear to placate him.

“I’m sorry.”

Q rolls his eyes. Or, he tries to, he’s not certain if it works.

“For what?”

“I wanted Moriarty. And Moran. My judgment was clouded. I should never have allowed you to come.”

The words are stiff and so harried that Q doesn’t immediately respond with derision, as he’d like to.

“If you think you could have stopped him, you’re stupider than I thought,” James says, voice rough with sleep. “Q had M’s support. This was work, and our work is dangerous.”

James starts to shift Q to the side, ostensibly to get off the bed, and Q makes a soft hurt sound.

It’s calculated and it works.

James immediately goes still.

Mycroft gives Q a look that says he knows exactly what Q is doing.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” Mycroft asks, “Clothes?” he looks at James, “food?”

“I’m fine,” James says.

“When was the last time you ate?” Q murmurs, closing his eyes again. He feels heavy and warm and just a little bit put out that he was woken up.

James doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Mycroft sighs. “I need coffee anyway. If I procure you a sandwich is that acceptable? I’m assuming you’d rather not move at the moment.”

James still doesn’t respond, but his neck shifts with a nod and Q imagines they’re having some sort of unspoken conversation because a moment later, he hears Mycroft stand. 

“I’ll be back shortly, can I get you anything, Quentin?”

“Sorbet,” he says, only half joking.

“Sorry,” Mycroft says, “you’re still restricted from any solid food.”

“Sorbet isn’t solid,” he argues. The words slur a bit. He’s really incredibly tired.

“I’ll ask a nurse,” Mycroft says.

Q is pretty sure he won’t, but he’s beyond caring.

“ ‘m cold,” he says, because he is drugged and hurting and has no shame.

James laughs softly, rubbing one hand up and down his arm, too slow to be effective in warming him, but nice all the same. He tucks Q more securely against him.

“Go back to sleep, you ridiculous boy.”

“Mmmk.”

When Q wakes up again it’s morning and he’s alone in the bed but feeling something close to human again. He also feels disgusting. It occurs to him that he hasn’t had a shower in over 24 hours and a creeping sense of panic starts in his gut. He closes his eyes, attempting to quell it.

“Easy,” Mycroft says, and Q winces, first in surprise, then again in pain.

He hadn’t noticed Mycroft sitting in the corner, blackberry in hand.

“Morning,” Q whispers. His throat is dry and hoarse again.

Mycroft moves forward to retrieve the cup of water and tip some into his mouth.

“Where’s Boff?” Q asks.

Mycroft very nearly rolls his eyes. “I left the cats in the care of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock’s…associates. I’m sure your Boffin is well taken care of.”

“Oh, good. Thank you.”

“James said you’d be anxious to get clean. He’s gone to get some shower supplies and will be back momentarily.”

“I don’t—“Q blinks down at his hands. Considers his weak, injured body—his still-bandaged feet from the previous hospitalization. “How?” He settles on, hoping Mycroft will understand.

“I’m uncertain of the specifics, but James spoke to the nurses and they’re willing to assist you with a shower provided you can sit up without passing out.”

“I don’t—“ the idea of strangers touching him, bathing him, is nearly worse than being unclean.

Mycroft sighs.

“James also informed them that, due to your history, you may prefer that he assist you instead.”

Q is too relieved to be embarrassed.

His yes is fervent.

Mycroft looks supremely uncomfortable.

“I anticipated as much. I’m—ah—I’ll go procure some breakfast for us. Do you have any requests? Your doctor is allowing you solids, now.”

“Just eggs and toast, please,” Q says using one uninjured finger to manipulate the bed controller. “Did you say James was—“

Q doesn’t finish his question because James is pushing open the door with a bag that looks as if it came from the gift shop.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says. “And sitting up. That’s good. I didn’t know what you’d prefer so I got a few different soaps and shampoos, they also had the little spongy things that you like at the gift shop so I got one of those too.”

Q grinned, trying and failing to look resigned. “It’s called a loofa, James. I’ve told you this.”

“Good for exfoliating,” he repeats studiously. “I remember.”

“I’ll just go now,” Mycroft says.

James laughs as Mycroft leaves; umbrella tucked under one arm, hasty in a way that isn’t at all typical.

“I take it you expressed a preference for me helping you bathe over a nurse?” James asks.

“Yes. Mycroft is still coming to terms with the idea.”

“I can see that.”

James opens the en suite bathroom door, propping it open, and dumps the various items he’s acquired on the counter.

“Are you ready now? Or do you want to wait until you’ve eaten?”

“Now,” Q says, only a little desperately.

James is kind enough to overlook his tone.

“Alright.”

Q watches as James folds down the little white bench in the shower, as he familiarizes himself with the adjustable handheld showerhead, as he toes out of his shoes.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks, leaning against the doorjamb. 

Q is feeling brave.

“You’ll just get your clothes wet if you keep them on,” he says.

“Probably true,” James agrees, too neutral to be anything but intentional. “But John brought my suitcase. I have spare clothing.”

“It’s going to hurt. Even if you’re careful with me,” Q continues. “Might be nice if I had a distraction.”

“Nudity is a distraction?”

“If you’re involved, yes.”

James cracks a smile.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

James pulls his t-shirt over his head in a fluid movement. “Alright.”

Q swallows. “Much as I’m sure the nurses wouldn’t mind, you may want to wait to finish stripping until we’re in the bathroom.”

“Don’t want to share me?” James teases, and the fact that they’re doing this, that they’re talking around this…thing, that is between them, thrills Q.

“Not in the slightest,” he says, a little too honest. 

James moves forward, sets his hip on the edge of the bed and cards one hand through Q’s hair. His fingers linger, thumb pressed soft and warm beneath Q’s ear.

“Alright,” he says again. “Shall we?”

There is nothing romantic about being carried into a sterile hospital bathroom. Nothing poetic about trying to maneuver an IV stand in a handicap shower stall, or taping plastic cling wrap over bandages. There is nothing the least bit sexy about being naked with the person you love when your body is a mess of bruises and stiches and fractures, when arousal is impossible underneath so much discomfort.

But James, kneeling on the tile floor, carefully wiping dried blood from Q’s abdomen with overpriced soap on a gift-shop loofa…

That is affecting in a way that Q never would have anticipated.

Q admires the muscular curve of James’ back, the slick of wet, dark blonde hair and the cling of water on his eyelashes.

He tries to focus on the steadying presence of James’ free hand on his hip, the careful way he moves Q to clean him, probably too gentle, really, to be wholly effective. He lets himself be cared for. Tips his head back when James rinses his hair, presses his lips closed when James uses a flannel to scrub the lingering adhesive from around his mouth.

When James turns off the water and approaches Q with a toothbrush, he realizes exactly how incapacitated he’ll be until his fingers start healing.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Q says.

“That’s why we’re doing it in the shower,” James answers. 

Q bares his teeth helpfully.

Five minutes later they’re both a mess and the absurdity of it seems to strike them both simultaneously.

James Bond, naked, and speckled with toothpaste foam, is doubled over laughing, one hand on Q’s knee, toothbrush still in the other, and suddenly the fondness in Q's chest is too much to ignore. Q reaches for James without thinking, awkward cling-wrapped hands and sudden urgency closing the few inches between them so Q can press their mouths together.

It’s not a very good kiss.

James is still laughing and there’s toothpaste smeared all over Q’s face and they’re both wet and exhausted and starting to shiver. Q hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s doing anyway, and—

He pulls back, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t—“

James drops the toothbrush, catching Q’s face between his hands.

“No, hey—“

“But you—“

“It’s fine.”

“But—“

“Quentin.”

“Okay.”

We’re not actually having a conversation, Q thinks, but James is using his thumbs to clean the worst of the foam from the corners of Q’s mouth, expression so intent that Q can’t help but touch his tongue to his bottom lip. Just a little. Just to see what James will do.

The second kiss is better than the first. 

Everything is distinctly mint flavored and Q still has no idea what he’s doing, but James licks the seam of his lips and for next several minutes Q devotes himself wholly to becoming educated.

Q pulls back first, and for a split second James still has his eyes closed, head ducked, eyelashes dark and wet against his cheeks, against pale summer freckles that he never lets anyone close enough to see.

Remember this. Q thinks, somewhat desperately. Remember this. Just in case.

***

Then 

Q was asleep on James’ couch when he got home.

This wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the fact that there was still-warm takeaway and a pie, only a little lopsided, on the counter, was.

He’d spoken to Q less than an hour before from the airport, and he hadn’t seemed fall-asleep-on-the-couch tired then, but it had been a short conversation and James was admittedly sleep deprived and not fully functional himself.

He set his bag down in the bedroom and started unbuttoning his shirt, moving to pick up the laptop resting precariously on Q’s abdomen.

“Oh, James,” a voice said, and he nearly tripped on the rug.

“What the hell—“

Eric was on the laptop screen, half out of view, bent forward as if he’d been walking past and stopped when he noticed James.

“I was waiting for you to get home before I disconnected. Q fell asleep ten minutes or so ago.”

“Eric,” James said. “I—you were talking to Q?”

Which, obviously, but James forgave himself because A. sleep deprivation, and B. since when did Q video chat with Eric? Since when did he fall asleep talking to Eric? How had he missed this?

“Baking assistance,” Eric said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the occasional dessert he’s been making. He wanted to bake a pie for you and I volunteered to oversee the process.”

“He said the pie wasn’t for me,” James said, petulant to his own ears.

“The pie is for you,” Eric repeated, sounding vexed. “You’ll want to make sure he eats something real when he wakes up. Apart from sampling the filling, I don’t think he’s had anything of substance since this morning.”

“I—yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

“Of course. It was good to see you, James. Tell Q goodbye for me.”

“Right. Goodbye.”

Baffled, James closed the laptop and slid it onto the counter.

He watched Q breathe for a moment, noticing absently that he was wearing one of James’ shirts again, and there was a speckling of flour on the collar of it.

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and unfolded it to tuck around Q.

He straightened and watched him for a few minutes more, longer, possibly, than was acceptably within the bonds of “fondness” and perhaps verging on “creepy.”

James sighed and finished unbuttoning his shirt.

He put the takeaway in the microwave to keep warm.

He went to take a shower.

He tried not to think about the fact that there were two towels hanging on the rod opposite the shower door, that one was damp, and that the hot water cooled after only ten minutes. He tried not to think about the fact that he didn’t mind.