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They had warned him not to form attachments. It had been a discussion all of its own when he’d been promoted, and given the reason for his promotion he hardly felt it needed saying. If he hadn’t already been aware of the type of work they did, he was very much aware now. Maybe it was part of his arrogance, feeling he knew better, thinking there were more important things to talk about. Even that he knew, logically, it was an impossible thing to ask. That it seemed irresponsible to deny attachments when surely the best work you can do for someone you’re responsible for is to actually give a damn about them.
So maybe he’d tuned out a little. Maybe there were more important things said that he had automatically written off as irrelevant because it was not how he intended to conduct himself. Be careful not to get too attached. He wished he’d listened.
Inevitably, with attachment, came loss. When a mission came through, he did his best to oversee every step, plan for every possibility, equip his agents with what they would need, and what they might need. It had been a rough few months at first, some of them, particularly those with double 0 status, not caring so much for his Big Brother like surveillance of their every move, but he’d eventually won them over enough that even the likes of 007 would no longer deliberately dispose of tracking devices and communication units, even if they would occasionally turn them off.
He did that by caring, by spending hours sitting with them on long days of staking out an area, or the longer nights after something had gone wrong. By visiting them when they returned, in medical, or dodging psychology. He would always seek them out, whether they wanted to talk, a distraction, to just sit in silence, or if they just wanted to be alone; it was his job after all, give them what they need.
Caring led to attachment, and Q just didn’t see that as a bad thing. It was a human thing, and humanity was desperately needed in the SIS, as much as stoicism. As his title of Quartermaster came from his predecessor and mentor, and perhaps friend, being killed in an explosion in their own head offices, he was aware that the safety of HQ was only a relative thing. Danger on their home soil was more likely in the form of national security, a threat to the general public rather than those working in high security buildings and underground labs. But that didn’t mean they were unassailable; Silva had made darn sure to teach them that.
And that wasn’t going to stop them displaying their individual selves, through fashion choices (or insults, depending on who you asked) Q’s cardigans, Su-Jinn’s cat ear hoodie, personal interests adorning desks like Jacobs’ Star Trek transporter ornament, or R’s collection of pet rocks. Megan from accounting and Paul from R&D organising bake-offs, the impromptu musicals in break rooms. They worked hard, and trailed little pieces of themselves wherever they went. Relatively speaking, it was safe to allow attachment to these people to form.
Notably less safe were the field agents. For all Q could do for them, and as much as some seemed to think he was, he wasn’t a magician. When things started to go wrong in the field, it was almost like a chain reaction of bad, to worse, to fingers flying over keyboards, eyes glued to the monitors not even daring to blink as the sounds of pounding footsteps or tires screeching, gun shots, explosions, screams filled his ears.
Death was really just another department. You had to keep rejecting their schemes and proposals for as long as you could. Ignore the call until the very last moment. So try not to form attachments, because you will have to answer those calls someday.
Except, he reasoned, death was not solely a consequence of their work. Everyone had to deal with it, and still carry on with life afterwards. It was no different for them, perhaps just more likely. But the knowledge of that made it easier to prepare. Scrutinising every minute detail of a mission, designing equipment that would be light and compact, predicting where danger was most likely to come from, and planning emergency evacs. And should the worst happen, they were prepared. When he knew the level of danger someone was walking it to, he was prepared.
It was only when it was unexpected, that it would be difficult. When death sprang from nowhere and gripped you by the throat and forced the air out, when without warning a part of your life was just gone, and tears would fall as if you have lost both the energy and knowledge how to stop them.
Sometimes he would wish he had listened, on days like today, when everything seemed to go wrong. Ryan Miller, 003, had been tailing a mark, supposedly the girlfriend of a weapon’s dealer. He was supposed to try and get close enough to bug her, or if possible clone her phone. She had played the naïvely innocent young lady caught up in something over her head very well. She had been fearful at the right moment, cried at the right moment, up until she pulled a gun and fired. Miller had been lucky to just get clipped on the shoulder, but that seemed to be the only luck he was going to have.
His own bullets missed her and gave him the chance to run as her guards joined in. Q had heard the harsh gasp as another bullet hit, and was already in Berlin’s traffic system, manipulating lights and directing the evac car to Miller’s location.
“Not far, 003, you just need to get out the building.”
“No shit.”
“Get out, and chips and beer are on me.”
More gunshots, and Q can hear glass breaking somewhere. “Fish too. Greasy and cheap.”
“Sounds lovely,” Q replied, voice heavy with sarcasm before evening out again. “They’re 3 minutes away.”
There was a bang of a door against a wall, fast footsteps on stairs before a muttered “shit,” and more gunshots. “There’s a hell of lot more of them than we thought. Time, Q?”
“2 minutes 10.”
“I’m taking the express route.”
Then Q’s ears were filled by the sound of breaking glass, a sickening crack and howl of pain. “003? What just happened?”
“Jumped. I’m alright.” His grunts and heavy breathing suggesting he was anything but. “Direction?”
“The way you came, then take a right.” Unsteady footsteps, panting breaths harsher with a slight gurgle. “From the angle I have, they don’t appear to be following you. Where are you injured?” He got no response. “40 seconds out, 003. Tell me where you’re injured.” He heard a thud, a body hitting the ground. “003? Ryan? Say something, or I’m buying you tofu and fried seaweed.”
A harsh gasp, then “prick. That wa’n’t the deal.”
“Still no one behind you. Evac will be with you in 20 seconds, so lie there and stay calm.”
“Q…”
He didn’t hear Ryan speak again. He heard the evac team arrive, lifting the agent into the car and calling out the injuries, gun shot wound on left shoulder, through and through in lower right abdomen, broken right arm, severe blood loss. Everything he passed onto the Helios hospital, listening to the team arrive and nurses taking over, typing up a report of what they’d learned of Imani Dayal, as well as the usual apology to M for hacking into another nation’s traffic system.
When there was little else he could find to do, he ended up in his office, adrenaline wearing off, feeling bone weary, but anxious for an update of 003. Tanner had appeared with tea, and tried to get him to go home, but Q refused until he at least new if Miller had made it through surgery.
He thought again about how he had been warned about forming attachments, and it was only ever in these moments he wished he had listened. It was not knowing, and not being able to do anything, that was the worst. Mind whirring with uncertainty on how to proceed, mentally holding a breath for hours, or days, or sometimes weeks.
“He’s in recovery.”
Tanner’s voice startled him enough he flinched. “Sorry?”
“Miller. He’s made it through the operation. He’s in recovery. It’s not… he might make it.”
After that, Tanner steered him out and into one of the company cars, insisting on riding with him as if to make sure Q actually made it home.
He made his way through the locks and security codes on autopilot, utter exhaustion making him feel both light and heavy as he hung up his coat and dropped his bag on a chair. Kicking off his shoes he shuffled in the kitchen, tempted by food. The items in his fridge were far too daunting, but the packet of instant noodles seemed simple enough, and he filled the kettle and stuck it onto to boil. Checking Darcey’s bowl, where she had picked out the wet meaty chunks and left the kibble, he had second thoughts about his own food, just wanting to lie down and sleep.
He shuffled into his bedroom, flipped the lights on and paused, leaning against the. “So much for that, eh Darce,” he said with a fond smile as he spotted the bed’s current occupant. His black and grey Norwegian forest cat was sprawled across the covers, and he quietly made his way over, carefully sitting on the side of the bed so as not to jar her. “But you’re going to have to move.”
He reached out a hand, but then stopped himself, turning to stare at the door. “You always come and say hello when I get back.” He sighed heavily, biting at his lip. “You really had to sleep?”
He slowly reached out again, letting his fingers stroke softly at her neck, and down her back.
Too stiff.
“Darcey?”
Too still.
He pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. He could hear the kettle beep as it finished, and the bubbling of water slowly faded and everything was silent. He sat there, minutes passing, half wondering what to do now, half trying to push any thoughts away, and when he couldn’t do that any longer, he crawled up to lie down on the bed, curled around Darcey with a hand resting on her delicate chest, and buried his face in her fur as the dam broke.