Chapter Text
It was promising to be a quiet day. Q had gone through the motions of his morning routine at a relaxed pace, taking his time in the shower and actually sitting down for a simple breakfast of toast and a banana, a steaming cup of tea in hand, flicking through e-mails on his tablet. There had been nothing sent marked urgent in a week and it was both refreshing and concerning. And it was that he was superstitious, but it felt like the tales of saying “it’s quiet” on a hospital ward. If anyone dared utter the “q-word”, they were taking responsibility for whatever ensuing shit storm was unleashed on them.
It always felt that if things had been calm for too long a disaster was looming just around the corner.
It was the same with his routines, and he wasn’t sure why but if he could make it into work without any hassle, it usually meant the rest of the day would turn out relatively hassle free. But there was the ever looming feeling that things going well was just natures way of lulling one into a sense of false security.
By the time he was pulling on his parker and hefting his bag onto a shoulder, it was barely past six, and walking down the street to the station he decided he wasn’t going to catch the tube today. It was a clear morning, not quite bright nor cold, but cool and as fresh as London air could get, perfect for walking.
There were few cars and pedestrians on his way in, and he stopped to coo at a Birman that had strategically positioned itself on a wall as if to flaunt its beautiful markings to passer-by’s.
HQ was rather serene when he arrived, the night staff finishing up any larger tasks with thoughts of home and dinner and bed. Some nodded to him, others offered verbal greetings that he returned, stuttering his way through pleasantries with a few people he could barely remember the names of, even as they recognised him immediately. It was a strange feeling when people seemed to know who you were, especially when they only knew you by an assigned codename to protect your identity.
He checked in with Luke, or S as some had taken to calling him, who was overseeing the staff in the cyber-sec division, and with nothing of import requiring his immediate attention, Q stopped by a break room to make himself a tea and finally settled in his office.
He set up his laptop, intent on preparing the days plan of action, almost jovial that that last week of calm had afforded the opportunity to catch up on outstanding paperwork, and he could now focus on creating a new stack he would have every intention of not leaving until the last minute. But as his laptop powered up and he carefully shifted the objects on his desk into just the right place for maximum convenience, he fingers brushed a coarse envelope laying just underneath a file of design sketches.
Moving the file aside, he stared down at the it for a moment, before carefully picking it up and turning it over. It was just a small, plain, brown envelope with a large “Q” written on the front. He looked around with a frown, as if someone were about to step out the ether and tell him what exactly he was holding and who left it on the desk in what should have been his locked office.
He could think of a few culprits, actually, but the drawback of going by a single letter made it harder to distinguish one handwriting style from another. Who does he know that writes “Q” with a heavier indentation at the top right, round in more of an oval, flicking lightly to cross over the start as the pen is lifted, and a simple diagonal line from inside to out crossing the lower right quadrant? Oh, he was definitely going to start paying more attention to people’s handwriting now.
Lightly feeling up and down, there is a something hard and round inside, about the size of a £2 coin, and he hesitates before locating a pair of scissors and cutting up the side of the envelope. There is a stern voice in the back of his head telling him it’s stupid to open a package of unknown origins that had been surreptitiously left for him in his office, but a louder, more belligerent voice tells him it’s probably from someone that he bought a drink for, probably one of the 00s being droll about his grumbling about returning equipment and his recent round of “you break it, you bought it” jokes. But as he opens it up and peers inside he finds a coin, clearly not British currency, and he upturns the envelope to slide it carefully into the palm of his hand.
It looks old. The extent of his knowledge on coins ends about there. He doesn’t recognise the markings on it, a serpentine-like creature adorning one side, and a faded image of a face on the other. He turns on the lamp on his desk and leans in closer, trying to make out the writing that frame the images on both sides, but it’s not in English, and worn almost completely away in parts making it hard to tell exactly, he thinks it looks Greek.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he straightens, a chill rolling down his spine as he strains his ears. He could have sworn he’d just heard something, but there’s no one else in the room. There’s nowhere to hide in his office, and he looks around anyway, quickly confirming he is alone, but it does nothing to settle the uneasiness chest. He catches himself about to dart out the door as alarm bells scream in his head to get out, and tries to compose himself. It wouldn’t do any good to go rushing around letting everyone know he was jumping at shadows.
He takes a deep breath. And then another, hearing the rush of blood pounding in his ears; was that what he heard? Had he been startled by his own cardiovascular system? “I’m an idiot,” he mutters to himself, turning his back to the office door, and staring glumly at his desk. He rubs at his wrist as a tingling sensation starts streaking down his arm. Rotating his wrist a few times, the tingling only increases, and he can feel a pricking in the palm of his hand. He raises it, and unclenches his fist that had closed around the coin and freezes at the sight of the little serpent creature moving off the side of the coin.
He stares in shock at the now blank side of the coin, picking it up and turning it to find the face still there, rubbing his thumb over it the smooth surface, all trace of the serpent gone. The tingling intensifies and he lets out a small shriek, throwing the coin away from him and grasping his wrist, staring at his hand in horror as something moves under his skin. Thin grey lines are worming their way outwards from where the coin had rested against his skin.
He dives back to his desk in utter panic, grabbing the scissors and, without thinking, slashes at the lines growing on his skin, digging haphazardly at whatever is there, but it does nothing to stop the lines snaking further down his arm.
Gripping his wrist, he rushes out his office and, not caring who they are, starts shouting at the nearest person. “Help me! Get it out!! Get someone! Get it out!! Get it out!!”
He can hear Luke’s voice “Sir? Q? What’s happened?” and turns to the man, raising his arm to show the spreading mass of grey. “God, Q. What did you do?”
“You’ve got to get it out,” Q gasped, as a sensation of weightlessness rolled through his body, followed a moment later by his knees giving in and the room spinning into blackness.