Archive of Our Own

The first time they meet, it is in the National Gallery. 

Bond thinks it’s a rather unconventional place to meet for the first time. A quick handoff of documents or weapons isn’t unheard of in the field, when the crowds are there to disguise the exchange of a file folder, a briefcase, a gun. Time is usually of the essence in these cases. The agents barely exchange a glance, rarely, if ever, a word, and then they are gone, never to see one another again. But this is a meeting, one with the person who will be taking on the title of Quartermaster, and Bond feels a little unsettled that they’re meeting out here, in the open, among the public, instead of in the privacy of one of Six’s underground rooms. 

As he steps into the museum and begins making his way to the rendezvous point, Bond is on high alert. The Gallery is expansive, with a number of entrances and exits, and far, far too many people, any of whom could be a threat. He doubts it’s the group of nuns leading a group of uniformed children along, but one can never be too careful. 

He takes in the rooms as he passes them, catching snippets of conversation, snapshots of scents. It’s dizzying, sometimes, to be in enclosed spaces when one has enhanced senses. He’s gone through training to learn how to tune most of this out--to treat all of the intense stimuli as background input, nothing more--but he’s feeling on edge about this, about Six, and thinks, if there’s any time to tap into his extrasensory abilities, it’s now. 

The scent profile of the place is almost overwhelming, as most public spaces are. There’s the scent of the building--the wood, the paint, the floor cleaner, the chemicals used to preserve the paintings, the burning air that emanates from the bulbs above every artwork--and then the physical smell of the people--sweet perfume, flowery soap, sour body odour, lingering scents of various foods, the oncoming heat of a fever, a child with a nappy in need of changing--all mixed together into a vivid portrait.

What Bond learned to do over the years is parse through the scents quickly, identifying threat scents: gunpowder, fertilizer, gasoline, fresh solder, specific caustic chemicals, and C-4, among other things. If someone is threatening to shoot the place up or burn the place down, Bond will know. 

The Gallery, however, is as normal as most places are, like grocery stores, restaurants, airports. Bond lets all the scents fade to the background, so he doesn’t get a headache. 

He checks his watch as he finds the designated meeting spot. The message from Tanner had been specific: meet at 16:00 sharp in Room 34, in front of a Turner painting titled The Fighting Temeraire.

The what? Bond had asked. 

Big ship, Tanner had said, can’t miss it.

When he enters room 34, he sees it immediately, as it’s the only painting of a boat in the entire room. Bond gets closer, regards it momentarily, and sniffs. The boat isn’t that big. 

He checks his watch again. It’s 15:59. 

Most people are walking around, browsing the paintings, but a few are sitting on benches and admiring the works. Bond figures, if they’re going to try to look casual about this, that he ought to sit. The seat in front of the Turner is empty, so Bond takes it. He feels very exposed, with no safe place to put his back, and so he’s on guard more than usual as people walk behind him, shifting their jackets, turning to the next page in their audio guide. 

And that’s why it takes him by complete surprise when someone sits down beside him. Bond had been so hyper-focused that he should have heard them, should have felt them come close enough to touch, sit down. But he hadn’t until this moment, when this person’s coat brushes at his elbow. His hackles raise, and Bond resists the urge to growl, to immediately stand up and put as much distance between him and this stranger that he can.

Because no living creature can do what this person has just done. 

Not to Bond.  

But he remains seated despite his instincts, to try to prove that he isn’t rattled by this sudden appearance.

The man--if it truly is a man, or just a facsimile of one--seems focused on the painting. 

“Always makes me feel a bit melancholy,” he says, voice soft, lilting, like music, poetry, and Bond hates that he leans closer to hear, drawn in by that unnatural loveliness. “Grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap. The inevitability of time, don’t you think?” 

And then he turns his head, just so, to regard Bond. Despite his attempts to look ordinary and unassuming--tousled hair, dark rimmed glasses, an unstylish wardrobe--it’s impossible to hide just what he is. It’s there, lurking behind the queer green-grey of his eyes, tucked into the curve of his enigmatic smile.

Vampire.

“What do you see?”

Bond isn’t sure if this is a taunt or a threat, but he doesn’t like it either way.  

“A bloody big ship,” Bond says, and then glances at his watch, “excuse me.” 

He’s only halfway to standing when that lyrical voice says:

“Double-Oh Seven.”

And then:

“I am your new Quartermaster.”

Bond sits. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bond says. 

“Why, because I’m not wearing a lab coat?” he asks. 

You know why, he wants to say. 

It’s no secret--except perhaps to the daywalking community who knows nothing of their existence--that vampires and werewolves don’t work well, if at all, together. It’s less to do with prejudice and more to do with instincts: put two extremely dangerous apex predators into an enclosed space together and territorial aggression is unavoidable. Even at Six, office and field teams are kept separate, either by way of physical rooms or opposite shifts. This extends to the Double-Oh Programme as well. Bond has never met Double-Ohs One through Five, socialising only when necessary with Double-Oh Six, Eight, and Nine, who are his own kind. 

He doesn’t say any of this, though, because he knows the vampire beside him is thinking this, too, and it makes Bond wonder two things: why M thought this was a good idea and why his Quartermaster agreed to it. 

“Because I thought you lot couldn’t walk around in the daytime,” Bond grumbles. 

“Old superstition,” he says.

“Is it?”

“It’s nothing to do with the daytime itself,” he explains, rather matter-of-fact, “it’s to do with the sun. Full sun, that is. Which we don’t see a lot of here, do we?”

Bond makes a noncommittal sound. It makes sense, he supposes. He’s never given it too much thought before, because he’s never had to until now. 

Perhaps he senses Bond’s unease or his reluctance, because he turns to regard Bond fully now. His eyes are all grey, like iron, like steel, and Bond finds that he cannot look away.

“I understand the situation isn’t ideal,” he says, quite pragmatically, “and that you don’t respect me, and never will. But we are at war here, right now, against an unknown enemy who has attacked us on our own soil, and we need everyone to be all in or to get out.”

The words are clear, concise, but Bond knows he’s not being given a choice here. If he leaves, it means he’s not willing to do what needs to be done to protect England and her interests. It means that if he walks away, everything he’s ever done for England will have been for nothing. He has to hand it to M: she really knows how to retain staff, even the bitter ones who have been shot off bridges and left for dead.

“I know why M hired you,” Bond says, holding out his hand in a gesture of civility, “Q.”

“Double-Oh Seven,” he replies, and takes his hand.

His hand is cool, his grip firm, but their handshake is over too quickly for Bond to think much more on it, that it’s the first time he’s ever touched a vampire without the intention to kill. 

“M didn’t give me much of a choice, either, if that makes you feel any better,” Q says. 

“A little, I admit,” Bond says. 

It earns him a reward: the corner of Q’s mouth twitches, as if he’s trying not to smile. Oh, now that’s something, isn’t it? Who would have thought that vampires had a sense of humour? Bond figured that, like most everything else, died with them the first time.

“What kind of blackmail does she have on you?” Bond asks.

“She’s an old friend calling in an even older favour,” Q says vaguely, “and I always repay my debts.” 

Before Bond can chase the thread of the intriguing conversation, Q removes an envelope from his inside coat pocket and hands it over. 

“Your passport and boarding passes,” he explains. 

Bond doesn’t look at them, trusting that it’s all in order, as it always is. The gun case comes next, a sleek design holding an even sleeker Walter. Q explains the schematics of the weapon, then hands over an additional piece of tech. Their fingers touch, briefly, again. His hands are lovely, white as marble, and just as cool to the touch. 

“A gun and a radio,” Bond muses, “not exactly Christmas, is it?”

“Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don’t really go in for that anymore.”

“Why not?” 

“High risk, little reward,” Q answers, and shakes his head with a frown. “Lost quite a few fingers. And an eye or two. All could have been avoided if people could be bothered to read the instructions.” 

With that said, Q stands up and puts his hands into the pockets of his formless grey anorak. He crosses in front of Bond, so that his motions can be seen, tracked. It’s polite, Bond supposes, after Q had snuck up on him before. And this way, Bond is also able to discern one additional thing about his new Quartermaster: his scent. It’s unnaturally cold, like an oncoming frost, and it’s peculiar in a way that Bond can’t quite describe.

“Good luck in the field, Double-Oh Seven. And do try to bring the equipment back in one piece,” he says, as way of goodbye, and then is gone. 

“Brave new world,” Bond murmurs, watching him disappear into the crowds, taking the scent of winter with him. 

They meet again after they’ve apprehended Silva. 

Bond doesn’t want to admit it, but he feels unsettled after visiting the man in his cell, hearing him speak to M so imploringly, like a child, like a ghost. But the image that will remain with Bond long after will be of Silva’s face, or, perhaps, more accurately, the remains of what had once been a face: the sunken hollow of his cheek, the broken gaps along his gums, that horrifying, drooping eye socket. The moment Silva had revealed himself, Bond did well not to recoil, but then he said it--cyanide--and the room suddenly smelled so strongly of almonds that Bond nearly gagged. He knows it’s all in his head, this phantom smell that seems to linger, as if it’s burned into his skin, and it makes Bond wonder if this is a spectre of some kind; a warning, a reminder. M had left Silva, and she’d left Bond too. 

Who is to say that in a few years’ time, that he won’t take Silva’s place? Trapped in that small cell, imploring M look upon your work. 

He shakes off this feeling, tries to ignore the scent that won’t fade, the bitter taste on his tongue, as he makes towards the technical services unit. 

There, Bond is surprised to see Q. 

Bond knows he ought not to be, what with Q being Quartermaster, but it is daytime, and the staff is--a quick inhale confirms--entirely human. It goes against everything Bond had assumed, which is that Q would be lord of the graveyard shift and reign over a pool of minions of similar supernatural persuasion. But it seems he had been mistaken. 

He wonders if it’s safe to have a mixed staff like this, when someone in a position of authority considers those under him to be sustenance. Even worse, the humans seem unaware of their leader’s true nature, standing close so they can share a visual from one of their tablet screens, none of them shying away when Q leans in to see better. Bond wonders if he should intervene, if he should say something, but he’s got too many other concerns today. He makes a mental note to keep an eye out. If Q steps out of line, he knows what he has to do.

When the humans disperse to tackle their own projects, Q is left alone at the front of the room, and Bond takes that as his opportunity to approach. Silva’s laptop is on the workstation, and Q is working on connecting a series of cables and wires between it and a small box of some kind.

“Q,” Bond says in greeting.

“Double-Oh Seven,” Q says, without looking up from his work. 

This close, Bond sees that Q is wearing different glasses than he had in the Gallery. These are thicker, the lenses a queer shade of yellow-orange. Bond glances up at the fluorescent lights. Maybe they’re too bright for him.

“Missed you in Macau,” Bond says conversationally. 

“Did you,” Q says, not asks. 

“Heard you’re afraid of flying.”

Q makes a noncommittal sound. Bond wonders if he’s annoyed, or just intensely focused on the task at hand. Bond hopes he’s annoyed. 

“What’s with the cardigan?” Bond asks. 

This makes Q take pause in his work momentarily to look down at it.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks. 

“Pictured you in something more broody and gothic,” Bond says. “Like a cape. With a big collar. Or are those just for weekends?”

Q serves him an annoyed look. In mustard yellow, he looks more adorable than intimidating. 

“Colour theory indicates that this shade makes me look more approachable,” Q says. 

Bond sees him quickly glance from his work to those in the room, confirming that the staff is blissfully unaware of the Quartermaster’s affliction. Or perhaps Bond’s got it all wrong, and they do know and this is Q’s attempt to reassure them that he’s not out for their blood. Either way, at least Q is aware of the situation, and how precarious it all is, and Bond chooses to not pursue that conversation. 

Maybe another day, when they have the time.

Still, Bond does want to see if he can get Q to make that face again. 

“It’s mustard,” Bond says.

He’s disappointed when Q looks away from him and goes back to his work. 

“Did you come here just to complain about my clothes?” Q asks. 

Although Bond can’t see his expression fully, he can hear Q’s voice. He’s delighted that Q sounds annoyed, and counts it as a victory. 

“Well, that and to see what’s on this thing,” Bond says, nodding at the laptop. “Unless it’s weird porn.”

“Strange, I would have thought weird porn would have been right up your alley,” Q replies.

“The right kind of weird, maybe,” Bond agrees.

Q doesn’t rise to the comment, which Bond finds disappointing. He doesn’t know why, but as much as Q rubs him the wrong way with his queer eyes and lyrical voice and ugly, mustard-coloured cardigan, the more Bond wants his attention. It’s wrong, he knows, to keep pushing, like poking at a snake with a stick, but Bond never really has been one for self-preservation.

So Bond slides closer, expecting Q to move away. But he doesn’t, going so far as to continue with his work, as if Bond’s encroachment in his personal space is not a bother. Bond’s instincts go absolutely wild, insisting that this is a snub, a personal rudeness, and that he ought to make Q yield, to submit to him, to recognise him as the most dangerous creature in the room. But the part of Bond that is less animal, more human, likes it, this defiance, this unflinching disregard for his dominance. It’s a challenge, and it’s thrilling.

Maybe Q feels this somehow, like a charge in the air, because he does eventually look up to regard Bond. 

“You’re in my way,” Q tells him. 

But Bond doesn’t move, and Q doesn’t either. 

“Fine,” Q says, and elbows Bond as he continues working with his cables and wires. 

Every now and then, his arm brushes Bond’s side. He doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel reassured, in a way. Bond wonders if the encounter with Silva had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.

“What are you doing?” Bond asks.

They’re so close that his words stir Q’s hair. He smells like spearmint. The crisp, clean scent of it chases away the smell of almonds, and Bond is relieved. He feels his shoulders relax marginally. Strange that such close proximity to another predator can make him feel this way. Perhaps he ought to get his head checked after all. 

“Something that I think you may be unfamiliar with,” he answers, “it’s called taking precautions.”

Once the setup is complete, Q then starts working at the computer, his fingers moving gracefully over the keys like a pianist, an artist, and Bond is transfixed, unable to look away. 

“We performed a cursory analysis of Silva’s computer and it seems he’s established a number of failsafe protocols to wipe the memory if there’s any attempt to access certain files.” 

“So he’s computer savvy,” Bond says. 

“More than just savvy,” Q explains. “There are only about six people in the world who could set up failsafes like this.”

“Of course there are. Can you get past them?”

Q looks at him. 

“I invented them.”

Yellow cardigan be damned, Q is not at all unassuming. It’s the eyes, Bond knows, that make it impossible to hide. They’re too sharp, like ice, like glass. They’re the eyes of a hunter, and for a brief, terrifying, thrilling moment, Bond feels he understands what it’s like to be prey.

In the blink of an eye, Bond goes from feeling like hunted to the hunter, and then back again.  

Even taking precautions, apparently, doesn’t always result in a more positive outcome, which is how Bond finds himself with M, driving due north along the cold, winding, familiar roads towards his ancestral home. 

It’s not what it used to be: black and dilapidated after years of neglect, and while Bond has no real affection for the place, it does make him a little regretful to see it like this. It smells of rot, the moors, of damp, and Bond thinks it might be better if the entire place were to just burn down. 

He gets his wish.  

When Bond wakes, it is to the smell of hospital: sterile cleaner, antibiotic soap, pungent alcohol, plaster dust. Underneath that, there are the scents that are worn into the cracks in the floor and the chemicals of the paint, never to be scrubbed clean: urine and feces, vomit, blood, and death. So much death. 

It lingers on him, too. 

It’s worn into the creases of his fingers, sunk into every pore, saturated into every strand of hair. There’s a story, here, of desperation and tragedy: acrid smoke, dank rot, damp earth, and her. He wishes he could smell something of her other than blood: the particular wool of her winter coat, the light musk of her signature perfume, the specific brand of tobacco she preferred in the cigarettes she pretended she no longer smoked. But all Bond smells is blood, her blood. He wonders if it will ever wash away.

But just as Bond’s thinking this, he notices there’s something else. 

It had been so subtle that it took a moment to parse through all the other scents. It’s barely there, like a whisper, a caress. It’s not so much a smell as it is a feeling of a particular snapshot in time: a crisp autumn morning when he was thirteen years old at Eton, an evening in Moscow with heavy purple clouds promising snow, the particular way the earth smelled after the first frost in the days after his parents’ death.

He tries to open his eyes, but they are too heavy. Beside him, someone stirs. It’s the sound of leaves falling from trees. Not a flutter, but something close to it. Something ending, but also, perhaps, something beginning. 

Fingertips press to the back of his hand. They feel like snowflakes. It’s quiet, gentle. It feels like forgiveness.

Bond sleeps.  

After everything, they meet again in a cemetery. 

It’s a rare, blue sky day, with minimal clouds. Although it’s only March, the sun feels hot on the back of his neck as Bond stands, at a polite distance, from the place where they intend to bury M. There’s a large crowd gathered: friends, family, perhaps even some enemies. The plot is nice, surrounded by a few trees. Most of them are bare, but some are trying for spring, and there are little bulbs forming. In another month, they’ll be full of white flowers, and when they fall, it will look like snow.

Behind him, a twig on the ground snaps. Bond doesn’t turn around, doesn’t have to. He knows that scent anywhere.  

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” Bond says, squinting up at the sky, at the full sun overhead. 

“Yes, well, I almost didn’t,” Q replies, and he sounds a little winded. 

Bond turns to look. Behind him, in the shade of a nearby mausoleum, Q is standing beneath a wide black umbrella. The collar of his coat is pulled up high to shield his face and neck from the offending sunlight. A pair of dark sunglasses protects his eyes. In one gloved hand, he carries a bouquet of white roses. But Bond is less focused on what Q is wearing and more on how he is standing, how he leans against the side of the mausoleum to keep upright. The sun must really weaken him, even when every inch of his skin is completely covered. 

“You look like shite,” Bond says. 

“You’re one to talk,” Q replies. 

Bond knows that his face is still cut and bruised from Skyfall, which is why he’d opted to stand so far from the crowd. The last thing he wanted was to cause some kind of scene. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Bond tells him, and glances skyward again. “Won’t you burn to death or something?”

“I had to see,” Q says, but his voice is quiet, fading, and before Bond can think better of it, he’s going towards Q.

There’s not much he can do about the sun, but Bond can at least get Q to some kind of shelter. The mausoleum should do nicely, Bond thinks. It’s locked, but the padlock is old, and all it takes is a little supernatural force to break it open. He pulls open the gate, then goes round the side of the building to collect Q. 

“Come on,” Bond says, holding out his arm.

Q takes it, and leans against him as they make their way into the shadowy enclosure. It’s strange, Bond thinks, how fragile Q seems. His body is trembling, and his bones feel light and hollow, breakable, like a bird. Bond doesn’t like it, hates the way that Q’s vulnerability sets his teeth on edge. It’s all kinds of wrong, but he doesn’t know why it bothers him so. It should be a triumph to see a vampire so weak, so helpless. But this is Q, and Bond doesn’t like it. Not at all. 

“Thank you,” Q says, as Bond helps him to a small stone bench inside the mausoleum. 

Bond knows that should be it, that he should move away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits down next to Q. The space is in full darkness, but Bond can clearly see the niches in front of them, all with family names and dates going back at least a hundred years. It’s a little eerie to be in a crypt, surrounded by dead people. He looks at Q.

“Right at home, huh?” Bond says

Even though Q is wearing sunglasses, Bond can feel his scathing look. 

“You’re not funny, you know this, don’t you?” 

“I’m actually very funny, thank you,” Bond says. 

The corner of Q’s mouth twitches, like it had that day in the National Gallery, as if he is trying to keep himself from smiling. Bond doesn’t know why it sets him at ease--this half-smile from a vampire--but it does. 

“You think I’m funny.”

“I do not.”

Bond can hear it in his voice that he is, in fact, amused.

“You’re trying not to smile right now.”

“Stop it. We’re at a funeral. It’s not decent.”

Q is trying for solemn, but Bond can tell that laughter lingers just beneath the surface. It brings something out in Bond, like a springtime thaw. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear it more than anything.

“We’re not at a funeral, we’re in a dead family’s crypt.”

“You’re awful,” Q tells him, with no malice. 

“You’re the one laughing,” Bond says, and then, to remind him: “in a dead family’s crypt.”

Q puts a hand over his mouth. It’s brief, but Bond sees a smile. He doesn’t know why, but the sight makes him feel better than he has since M died. 

“I’m glad,” Q says. 

His hand is away from his mouth now, resting in his lap, and Bond can see that he’s smiling, but in the way that people do when they’re sad. It’s at odds with the words, the sentiment, and Bond doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“For what?” Bond asks. 

“That you’re here.” 

The words feel weighted and Bond doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. He watches as the slant of light on the wall moves, then darkens. The clouds must be coming in. At the edge of his range of hearing, there are people walking through manicured grass, the sounds of cars starting up and driving away. It must be over now. 

Bond looks down at his hands. For a moment, in the dark, he thinks they are covered in blood, her blood. But then he blinks, and the light is different, and he sees that they are clean. 

Are they, though? he wonders. Have they ever been? Will they ever be?

He moves his hands to rest on the bench, out of his sight, and the back of his hand brushes something cool and silky. When he looks, he sees it is the bouquet of roses situated on the bench between them. The roses are plump, white and full, with just the hint of a pink blush. Bond reaches out to touch one, but thinks better of it. After all, he is what M referred to as a blunt instrument. He’s not made to handle soft, delicate things. He can’t be trusted not to break them. 

Outside, it’s grown quiet. The last car is making its way out of the gates. Bond can hear it kicking up gravel on the path towards the exit. He turns his head towards the entrance, towards the fading light and says:  

“You said you had to see. What did you mean?”

“It’s nothing,” Q says.

“It’s something. You almost got burnt to a crisp.”

“I did not.”

“Thanks to me,” Bond reminds him. 

Q picks up the flowers. They rustle like dead leaves. 

“Could you bring these to her for me?” Q asks. 

“If you tell me.”

Q makes a sound like a sigh, or whatever passes for a sigh from a vampire. Bond doesn’t think they breathe, because what reason would they need to? But Q has been shutting down the stereotypes as of late. He tells himself he’ll listen closer to find out. 

“Are you this irritating all the time?”

“Just for you.” 

And M, he almost says, but she’s gone, and he feels a deep-seated grief to know he’ll never see her expression of half-amusement, half-annoyance again. 

“Lucky me,” Q says, but there’s no bite to it.

It’s almost like he knows there is a wound there, knows not to prod. Bond doesn’t know how he knows, but is grateful. It’s a relief to be in a room with someone who can understand without anything needing to be explained. 

Bond stands up and goes to the entrance to glance outside. Q’s umbrella is propped against the edge of the broken gate. Above, the sun is obscured by clouds, and there are more on the way. It might be the last bright winter day before the rainy season. Bond can smell the moisture on the wind from the west. He hopes that it will storm. 

“I think it’s overcast enough for you to not combust,” Bond tells Q. 

“I’m not going to combust,” Q says, as he stands up, roses in hand. 

“Just in case,” Bond says, and holds out the handle of Q’s umbrella.

He takes it, and puts up the umbrella as he steps outside into the weak afternoon daylight. Bond offers his arm, and Q takes it, as if it’s a natural thing for a vampire and a werewolf to touch so casually. 

Together, they walk up the sloping, grassy path to the place where M is now buried. It’s a site that she now shares with her husband. Only his side of the stone is carved. M’s is blank, not yet complete. Bond knows it will be strange to see her name there, her real name, when he visits next. 

Around the incomplete headstone, laid neatly in rows atop a pile of fresh earth, are flowers. There are so many flowers: white irises and pink roses and purple-blue forget-me-nots. Their sweetness overpowers the smell of dirt, the underlying scent of rot, and Bond is relieved. 

Q moves away from him, crouching down beneath the shade of his umbrella to set down his roses with the others. He does this with immaculate care so that the flowers all look nice and tidy, even though the rains will wash this all away tonight. There’s something so human about it, to care about such a thing, even when it doesn’t amount to much, in the end, except that it is kind.

“M told me a story, from when she was a girl,” Q says.

The words are quiet, so quiet that only Bond can hear them. It’s that same sort of lovely, lilting tone he used at the National Gallery, the one that has Bond leaning closer, enraptured, ensnared. He wonders if it’s a spell, then finds that he doesn’t quite care. All that matters are the words that come next:

“There was this old woman that lived in her hometown. Everyone called her a witch. She lived alone in a big house and was supposedly quite mean to everyone, children included. When she died, no one knew for days, because no one cared to check in on her. And then, when they buried her, no one showed up for the funeral. Even the priest and the gravediggers didn’t want to be there.” 

Q stands up, but doesn’t return to Bond’s side. He seems very far away in that moment, as if he exists in another time. 

“M said it was the saddest thing she’d ever heard: to die and have no one care enough to mourn you,” Q says. “Then she told me her deepest, darkest secret: that she worried, one day, that old woman would be her. That no one would care when she died, and that no one would be there to be sad, or to bring her flowers.”

On the wind, Bond smells the crisp cold of moisture coming from the west, the deep richness of fresh soil, the brightness of flowers, and something abrasive like salt, like tears. He can’t see Q’s face, but looks away all the same. 

“I’m glad that she was so wrong.” 

It feels like it did in the mausoleum, the words so heavy that Bond doesn’t know if he can bear the weight. He thinks about walking away, but he can’t, just as he can’t make himself take a step forward. He’s not sure where he’s supposed to be, now. He has nowhere to go and nowhere to return to. Bond wonders if this is what it’s like to be a ghost.

Maybe Q senses this, like he did before, because he turns back to join him. Bond doesn’t offer his arm again, but Q slips his through Bond’s all the same. The place where they touch is like an anchor, and Bond hates that this physical connection makes him feel so grounded when it should repulse him. Why have all of his natural instincts retreated somewhere else when it comes to Q? Why does he seek out his attention, his company, his touch? And why, when he receives it, does he feel so at peace, when it should be the exact opposite? Bond feels an ache at the place where their arms meet, because he wants, but he’s not quite sure what. 

Q squeezes Bond’s arm gently. 

“I’m glad you were there with her, at the end,” Q says. “I know it’s probably painful for you, but knowing that someone was with her, who cared about her, who gave her warmth in her last few moments, well. I don’t think there’s a greater gift to give.”

The words should hurt, twist like a knife, but they are a balm. 

“You said she was an old friend,” Bond says, hating how gruff his voice sounds, rough with unshed, unsaid emotion. 

“Yes,” Q replies. 

“How old was she when she told you that story?”

“Hm… sixteen, maybe,” Q says, and he sounds almost wistful. “It was a long time ago.”

“And how old are you now?” Bond asks

Q tilts his head and his mouth curves, just slightly, in a grin.  

“How old do I look?” he asks.

“Two hundred and eighty six,” Bond says.

Q’s amusement vanishes as he deadpans immediately.

“That’s just rude.”

Bond laughs, a real, deep laugh that catches him by surprise. It’s probably all kinds of wrong, to be doing it here, at M’s freshly dug grave. But it feels good all the same. And Q is back to smiling again, this time not hiding it behind a hand, or turning away. It’s nice, Bond thinks, knowing he’d caused it, knowing with certainty he’d like to see it more often. 

“How close am I though?” Bond asks. 

Childishly, Q kicks dirt onto his shoes. He feels it in his socks, slightly damp. 

“I’m barely a century old,” he says.

That’s old, almost older than Bond can comprehend. Bond can’t imagine what it is like to live so long, to see so many things happen, change. To see so many people live and then die. How lonely it must be. 

“You’re holding up pretty well for an old guy,” Bond says, trying for humour.

“I could say the same for you,” Q replies.

“Touche.” 

The wind picks up and the umbrella trembles. Although the sun is entirely hidden, Bond feels a surge of unease in his stomach at the thought of the wind taking the umbrella away, leaving Q exposed. 

“I’ll see you home,” Bond says, by way of an excuse to retreat indoors.

“Is this your not-so-subtle way of trying to find out where I live?” Q asks.

“It wasn’t meant to be subtle,” Bond says. 

“You think you are so charming,” Q says, but allows Bond to lead him away from M’s grave and towards the exit.

Q says it’s not far to walk, but Bond calls a taxi all the same. They sit close, their knees touching, and do not speak for the duration of the ride. It’s a short trip, but by the time they’re near Q’s neighbourhood, the sun is already low, obscured by heavy clouds and tall buildings and joined rooftops, only bleeding a dim sort of orange at the edges of clouds and the tops of chimneys. 

Q has the driver drop them at a place near the main road and they walk the rest of the way. The neighbourhood is quiet and rather stately, a remnant of an older time and of even older money. With the setting of the sun, Q’s strength seems to return. He’s not leaning as much on Bond’s arm anymore, but he doesn’t move away, either. The place where they touch isn’t necessarily warm, but it’s solid, and very present. For the second time that day, Bond wishes he understood what this meant, what he wants. It’s not right, he thinks, yet, he doesn’t make to separate them, and doesn’t turn away when they are on Q’s doorstep.

“Well,” Q says, as he opens the door, “are you coming in?”

It’s dangerous, he knows, he feels. To go willingly into a vampire’s home? Lair? Isn’t that asking for trouble? For bloodshed? He wonders if Q has hypnotized him. That has to be the reason why Bond is ignoring his instincts of late, why he is stepping into the house without hesitation.

It’s dark inside, and cold. But Bond’s eyes adjust easily to the absence of light. They are standing in an average foyer. There are ordinary coats hanging on a rack nearby. Q puts his umbrella into a normal stand tucked just behind the door.

“You’re surprised,” Q says, as he hangs up his coat and removes his gloves.

“It’s normal.”

“What did you expect? Candelabras? A dramatic staircase? A fountain of blood?”

“Something like that.”

Q huffs something like a laugh. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” he says. 

They step into the house. The rest is just as ordinary as the foyer. There’s a dark living room with a sofa and chair and coffee table. One entire wall is bookshelves. Bond can smell the paper. There’s other smells, too: dust, cleaner, soap, even food. Even more surprising, the smell of animals.

“You have pets?”

“Cats,” Q says.

“Snacks?” Bond teases.

Q gives him a look. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, but Bond can tell all the same that it’s scathing.

“Companions,” he says.

“Full of surprises, “Bond says.

He’s even more surprised when Q goes to a sideboard and produces two glasses and a decanter of whiskey. The smell of the liquor is woody, spicy, familiar. It takes a moment for him to place it: this is the same brand of whiskey M kept in her home, which he had helped himself to that night he’d climbed in through her townhome window. Even though it's only been a matter of weeks, it feels like long, long ago.

“Ice?” Q asks

“Mm,” Bond replies. 

Bond’s eyes follow Q as he goes into the kitchen, then returns with the glasses filled with three ice cubes each. He watches as Q pours them both a healthy glass. Their fingers touch when Q hands him the glass. They’re long and white and beautiful. And cold, but not unpleasantly so.

“To M,” Q says, tipping his glass to Bond’s.

“To M,” Bond agrees.

They drink. The whiskey is good, rich. It burns at the back of his throat.

“Didn’t know you could drink,” Bond says, “you know, not blood.”

“Did you receive your entire education regarding vampires from television?”

“And from those paperbacks you can get at the airport.”

“It all makes sense now,” Q says mournfully.

Bond puts down his empty glass and nudges it towards the decanter. Q gets the hint and pours him another glass, albeit not as much as the first.

“Stingy,” Bond observes.

“Mongrel,” Q replies, but it’s almost fond.

Q downs the rest of his drink. Bond watches him swallow. He still hasn’t taken off his sunglasses, even though they are inside, in the dark, as far away from the sun as can be.

“Are you going to take those off?” Bond asks. 

“No,” Q says. 

“Why?” 

Q puts his glass down, turns his shoulder to Bond as he pours a little more into his glass. 

“My eyes are damaged from being outside,” he says.

“Do they hurt?” 

“Yes.”

“Will they get better?” 

“Eventually.” 

Q drinks again and Bond watches. 

“Let me see,” Bond says. 

He moves his hand, as if to make to reach for them, but Q’s fingers wrap around his wrist to hold him still. Bond knows he should be afraid. A vampire’s strength can match his own. All it will take is an increase in pressure and his wrist will be shattered. But like before, at Q’s touch, Bond is soothed, anchored. He is not afraid. And he thinks he may understand why. 

“You were in Medical,” Bond says, “when they brought be back.”

“Yes,” Q says. 

The cool touch of his skin is a comfort, not a threat, as it had been that night, when he’d awoken to that place smelling of blood, and then of snow.

“Were you worried?”

“About you? I think that would be a waste of time.”

“Then why were you there? Wanting to get a fresh sip in before I kicked it?”

Q withdraws his hand, as if Bond had burned him, bitten him. Maybe it would have stung less if he had.

“You know, not everything about me has to do with what I eat,” he says. 

Outside, the wind rattles the shutters. The rain is coming. Maybe it will storm after all. Bond hopes that it will. 

“Sorry,” Bond says, and means it. “I don’t know how to talk to you sometimes.” 

Q turns his head, and Bond can feel him looking in the dark, behind his even darker glasses.  

“What do you mean?”

Bond focuses on his tumbler so that he doesn’t have to look at Q. He should put down his glass and leave, right now, before he says something else, something even more revealing, but the words come of their own volition.

“It would be easier if I hated you,” Bond says, “but I can’t, and I don’t know why.” 

Q hums thoughtfully, and then lets the silence sit between them for a moment. When he does speak again, the words are soft, like silk, like the petals of roses: 

“We don’t always have to talk.”

The rain starts, pattering softly against the windows, then picking up, stronger, with the wind. But Bond barely hears it over the sound of his own heartbeat, suddenly loud in his ears, at the offer, at the insinuation, at the way Q takes his hands and brings them to his face. His skin is smooth and cool, like the stones at the bottom of a natural spring. Q guides the tips of Bond’s fingers to touch the sunglasses, a clear indication of what to do next. 

He’s careful with them, because they feel fragile, as if they might break under his hands. And when the delicate arms are unhooked from behind Q’s ears, Bond quickly puts them down on the sideboard, away from him, so that he doesn’t accidentally break them. 

“You don’t have to be so careful,” Q says. 

Bond looks at him, and it’s a little hard in the dark to get the details, but there is something wrong with Q’s eyes. He brushes a thumb very lightly underneath the right one. The soft skin trembles there, as if it hurts, and Bond withdraws.

“I can be,” Bond says, because he feels it is important for Q to know this, to understand that he’s more than just a blunt instrument. He can be more than that. He wants to be.

“I know,” Q says.

He cradles the back of Bond’s hand, lets the soft brush of his eyelashes caress the inside of his wrist, then his lips. It’s tender, the same way Q had touched the flowers in the cemetery, the way he smiled every time he said I’m glad like he meant it. It feels almost too intimate being touched like this, being somehow known, and Bond wants to pull away as much as he wants to drown in this feeling forever. 

“But you don’t have to be right now,” Q says. 

Q tightens his hold on Bond’s wrist. It’s not painful, not at all, but the clear opposite of the tenderness from before. It alights a primal instinct in Bond to fight, to take, and he does. 

He surges forward, pinning Q up against the sideboard, and the air seems to vibrate with anticipation, excitement, arousal. It smells electric, like static, like lightning, like nothing Bond has ever experienced before. He feels it crackle over his skin, his lips. It’s exhilarating. But before Bond can do anything with his quarry, Q slips away from him like liquid, like shadow, and then looks back at Bond with a playful sort of expectation to pursue him. And Bond does, nearly capturing him in the doorway of the kitchen, at the threshold of the bedroom, but each time, Q evades him. 

And it’s all to lead him here, to his room, to his bed, with its sheets and pillows and blankets that smell of snow. Q places himself there, a clear invitation, and Bond knows he ought to run away now. This entire situation is wrong, and dangerous, but Bond doesn’t think he would want it any other way. 

Afterwards, they lie quietly, limbs entwined, listening to the storm. For the first time in a long time, Bond feels at peace. There’s no past or future. There’s no want, no blood. There’s just the feeling of sweat drying on his skin, the press of a surprisingly warm body against his, and the patter of rain on the sill. 

Cool, pale fingers spider lightly over his throat to his clavicle, and Bond swallows, not knowing what to do in the wake of their intimacy. He’s experienced this only once before, and it ended badly, and Bond suddenly wants to be somewhere else, before that hurt can find him again. 

“That was…” he says, but feels his voice trail off when Q’s hand rests lightly across his windpipe. 

It’s not a threatening gesture, but Bond knows that Q could kill him right now with a single squeeze. Bond feels his arousal return full force at the thought. 

“Mm…” Q murmurs. 

His hand travels south now, to the place that makes Bond’s pulse, and another part of him, jump in anticipation.

“We shouldn’t do that again,” Bond says, despite the fact that he is thinking about how much he’d very much like to do it again. 

“Oh?” 

Q sounds amused. 

“It’s not natural. You and me,” Bond says, and then, in the quiet that follows: “We shouldn’t.” 

Q doesn’t say a word. Instead, he maneuvers his body, catlike and graceful, to situate himself on top of him. He’s careful, Bond notes, of the healing cuts and bruises in Bond’s flesh, adjusting his weight so he doesn’t pull at the remaining few stitches in Bond’s thigh. Something about the care he displays for Bond--something very few people have ever done for him--makes his chest ache. It’s not natural, this thing between them, because of what they are. But why is it that Bond feels more cared for, more appreciated, more seen with Q than with anyone else?

Q seems to understand his inner turmoil, these thoughts, because he doesn’t move for a minute, maybe two, and then, when he does, it’s with the lightest whisper of his palms moving up against Bond’s bare chest, back towards his throat.

“Pity,” Q says, as his fingers wrap around Bond’s neck. 

It’s not a threat, not the hunger of a predator. There’s no violence in the gesture, even though there could be. There’s just the perfect amount of pressure that Bond can feel the weight of him there, like a collar, like a promise. 

“But it’s your choice,” Q says. 

It’s too dark to see his eyes, but Bond can feel his gaze. There’s no judgement. This is about respect, consent, pleasure. This is about equals. Bond knows he can walk away now and that will be the end of it. 

He moves his hands atop Q’s and holds them down, so they press harder into his throat. Outside, the rain starts to pick up again, a rolling sound of thunder in the distance. Inside, it smells like lightning in clouds heavy with snow. Q breathes out, soft, slow, and flexes his fingers to hold Bond tighter. 

“I knew I liked you.”

After, when their breathing has returned to normal--yes, Bond discovers that Q does in fact, breathe--Q moves away from him and sits up in bed. 

Even with his superior eyesight, Bond can only see a faint outline of him in the dark. The bed shifts as he moves to the edge, and before Bond can think better of it, he reaches for him. 

“Clingy,” Q says, but it’s soft, and rather fond, and he doesn’t move further from the circle of Bond’s arm round his waist.

“Where are you going?” Bond asks.

“Just here,” Q answers. 

He hears the sound of the bedside drawer opening, then closing, then the twist of something plastic, the delicate clink of glass. Suddenly, the room smells floral and herb-like, overpowering the soothing scent of autumn frost. 

“What is that?” Bond asks. 

“It’s for my eyes,” Q says. 

“Do they still hurt?” 

“Yes.”

The answer bothers Bond. Q touches the back of his hand, as if to soothe him. Bond’s surprised that the gesture actually does, somewhat. 

“They’ll be better in the morning,” Q assures him. 

Bond wishes he could say something, do something, but nothing comes to mind, even when Q has put his medicine away and comes back to lay beside him. 

“Put your arm around me,” Q tells him, and Bond does. 

It makes him feel somewhat better, that he may not be able to make Q’s eyes feel better, but he can at least offer some comfort, with Q safely tucked under his arm, his back to Bond’s chest. Outside, the storm has passed, and the world is as quiet as it often is after midnight. Inside, the house is just as silent, save for the soft padding of paws on the hardwood, the occasional whoosh of curious tails. Beside him, Q is breathing, and has a heartbeat. Both are just very slow. It reminds him of the way snow sometimes falls when there is no wind, where it lands softly on rooftops and pavements, pillowing on hedges and streetlamps, consuming the world in white. 

Bond presses his nose to Q’s hair and breathes. The smell of him is stronger, here, freezing out that herb-like scent from his eyedrops. What’s peculiar is how rich it is, how pure. There’s no other competing odors: no shampoo or sweat or pollutants. Bond finds himself chasing it, from the nape of Q’s neck down the slope of his shoulder. Even the place under his arms--smooth and hairless--is as pure as an autumn morning.

Further down, beneath the blanket, is where their scents begin to entwine, the remnants of their coupling. The snow here is mixed with musk. It’s unusual, but not offensive, and once he catalogues it, Bond finds that he rather likes it.  

“Smell something you like?” Q asks. 

It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Maybe he’s ticklish. Bond wonders. He trails a finger along the back of Q’s thigh, reveling in the resulting shiver it elicits. Close enough, Bond supposes. 

“You don’t smell like other vampires,” Bond says. 

“And how many other vampires have you been this close to?”

Maybe Bond imagines it, but he thinks Q sounds a little jealous. 

“Enough,” Bond says. 

Q makes a noncommittal sound that tells everything Bond needs to know. He wonders if it’s truly jealousy, or if it’s just a general dislike of being compared to others. Either way, Q seems to be pulling away from him, which is the last thing he wants. Bond adjusts on the bed, putting Q completely under him, pressing him hard into the pillows and mattress. Q resists him, at first, but then becomes pliant in Bond’s possessive hold. 

“And?” Q asks. 

“And what?” 

Bond moves his hips against Q’s, a wordless request, and Q presses back against him in reply. When they join, Q’s breath hitches and his body arches under Bond like a bow, and he’s beautiful. 

“And what?” Bond asks again.

“What did they smell like?” Q asks. “Compared to me?”

“None of them compare to you,” Bond says, and means it. 

Q’s breath goes hard, raspy.

“Liar,” he says. 

“Not a liar,” Bond insists.

“Then tell me,” Q says.

This is definitely one of the strangest conversations he’s had in bed, and that’s saying something.   

“They all smelled off. Like... decay. Death,” Bond says, and presses his nose to Q’s hair that smells of cold, fresh air on a winter day. 

They’re going slow now, not as hard or rushed as before. Q holds onto his arm, pulling him impossibly close.

“And me?” Q asks, and it’s quiet, his voice, gentle, almost. “What do I smell like?”

“The world after the first frost,” Bond says, pressing his lips into Q’s skin. “Like snowfall.”

“Romantic,” Q says

Bond bites, hard, at his shoulder, and Q writhes, makes a sound that Bond desperately needs to hear again, and again.

And does.

“So it doesn’t bother you?” Q asks, after. 

“What?”

“My smell.”

Bond thinks about it, that scent of frost and snow, and knows it’s unnatural, that he should recoil from Q instead of moving closer. But he moves closer all the same.

“No,” Bond says, and then: “You smell good.”

Q hums thoughtfully, and then touches Bond’s cheek. They’re facing each other, and it’s so dark that Bond cannot see him, but can feel all of him there: the cool press of his fingers, the weight of his thigh, the force of his gaze. Then, Q’s lips are at the corner of his. After everything, they’ve not kissed, not on the mouth, as if by some unspoken agreement. But Bond is rethinking it now, how he might want it, now that he doesn’t fear the press of Q’s fangs against his tongue, not anymore. 

“Show me how good,” Q says. 

Bond grins in the dark.

“My pleasure.”