Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was not Quentin Fluke’s day. Granted, it really hadn’t been his day since he was about five, but today was even worse than usual.

Everything had started fairly normal: alarm, cats, food, work, his normal routine that came as naturally as his technomancy. He’d even reached work early enough to get a head start on his list for the day, but the best laid plans and all that shite.

Of course there was an emergency rescue mission. Of course it wasn’t top priority so his assigned hero, the pride of the British Government, didn’t even have to get her hands dirty. This was a high priority, low risk assignment. 

“Surely,” Vesper had said in the briefing, “I’m not needed for this. Techie can handle this. Besides, you said security systems are involved?”

So now Quentin found himself driving two hours north of London to investigate a small warehouse where someone had reportedly imprisoned a child just because they could. “Fucking amateurs,” Quentin grumbled to himself as he parked and got out. Despite it nearing midday, Q was shivering in the chill November air even with his parka pulled tight around him. Still grumbling (almost inaudibly now), he approached the building and reached out with his technomancy.

The block lit up in his mind as the familiar logic of numbers and tech swirled in Quentin’s head. He knew his eyes would be glowing a more vibrant green now as they always did when he used his powers. It was nothing for him to find the off circuits for the security systems, and in moments, he was quietly slipping through the now unlocked side door.

After giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust, Quentin made his way through the building to where his powers had located the strongest source of power; more often than not, people never considered how much power it can take to keep someone restrained, and to Quentin it was like setting up a neon sign pointing directly at the end goal.

“Amateurs,” he grumbled again as he pulled out his laptop. He didn’t really need it to complete his mission, but he had to make sure the paperwork was all in order, and that meant checking the building records first. A few keystrokes confirmed what he could feel, and once he had a blueprint to confirm the wiring for the building (so he could also submit it with his report), Quentin needed no time to isolate the power just for this room and shut it off. Now he could get the kid and get home.

He wasn’t expecting the power to completely cut when he opened the door.

Nor was he expecting what felt like a solid slab of muscle and bone to suddenly grab him, dragging him into the near pitch dark.

Quentin’s laptop went crashing to the ground as the technomancer grabbed at the arm around him. His empty bag now tangled around his shoulders as his assailant pulled him so that Quentin’s back was to the person’s chest. Losing what few chances he had to escape, Quentin threw out his unpinned arm and tried to pull at the electricity in the building… only to find that the power cut had been a full shutdown. Quentin was completely powerless.

Well, almost.

He had one other option at his disposal, and just the thought of it had his power tingling. For every bit as cool and collected as his technomancy was, this was lava in his brain. A single use could lay Quentin out with at least a migraine, and besides, he couldn’t! Not to anyone, not when it would be the absolute end of his opponent’s psyche… but as much as Quentin loathed it, he had no choice if he wanted to escape. He had to try, and he would deal with the fallout of it alone. But to do that he would have to get out of here.

In the span of Quentin’s hesitation, two things happened. The first was that his assailant managed to pin his free arm, completely restricting Quentin’s mobility. The second was that a faintly sweet-smelling cloth descended over his mouth and nose before he could finish drawing breath. Quentin struggled, eyes widening behind his glasses as he recognized the smell of chloroform from his training.

The next few minutes were a blur. The arms around his body felt like iron bands, holding him so firmly that even trying to kick back at the person didn’t work - they just shifted, and somehow Q was never the one that had the balance in the end. Quentin could hear the person breathing in his ear, and had his head been clearer, he would’ve gone cold at the realisation that his attacker was breathing as normally as if he were reading an email. The pressure on his face was firm but not too tight (so at least they wanted him alive). It was of little comfort though, as Quentin’s last thought before he passed out was that no one would care enough to come looking for him.

***

Waking up felt a lot like passing out, Quentin decided when he came to.

He still couldn’t move, although he was sitting down. Keeping his eyes closed and doing his best to not obviously move, Quentin began to take stock of his body. Everything hurt, unsurprising since he’d been forcibly knocked out, but slight twitches of his arms and legs quickly alerted him as to why he couldn’t move. His attacker had bound him to a chair. Well, that was at least to be expected. It would hardly do to have him loose and wreaking havoc. Quentin swallowed, his mouth tasting like something had crawled inside and died… and realised he was gagged.

A voice, from no more than two metres ahead of him, startled Quentin’s thoughts into full disarray: “I was going to throw a bucket of water on you to wake you up, but you seem to be shaking the chloroform off as fast as you went under.” Smooth and low, with the faint whiskey-smoke rasp of something dangerously inviting, the voice finished with a slight hint of irony, “Unless you want the ice-water for effect. I know some of you hero-types enjoy a bit of drama, and I can respect that.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Quentin finally opened them, only to realise his glasses were very much not on his nose. The room around him was mostly dark, but there was one light source visible, on the ceiling just behind his kidnapper. Even if Quentin had been wearing his glasses, the shadows would’ve made identifying the other man nearly impossible. As it was, his kidnapper was barely more than a blurry mass in his vision, and Quentin scowled, hoping he could at least project a threat, even if he felt about as dangerous as a bunny.

The figure shifted. It was easy to see just in that movement, that resettling of weight, that this was definitely the same man who had overpowered him. At least there was no sign of him actually reaching for the threatened bucket of water, but that didn’t lessen the threat as the man stood and padded closer. Quentin couldn’t help it. As the man approached, he flinched, trying to shrink away as much as he could with his restraints, but the man just kept coming until Quentin didn’t even have anything left he could call “personal space.” Swallowing hard, he forced himself to look up at the man, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

Dispassionate blue eyes looked down at him. “Close enough that you can see me now, pet?” he rumbled, voice lowering - presumably because he was closer now, but the effect was unsettling, the words so soft as they rounded out the term of endearment at the end. 

Still glaring (which had the added benefit of helping to bring his vision into focus a bit), Quentin didn’t break eye contact even while he still tried to move away. His captor responded by chuckling, and then there was a hand coming up towards Quentin’s face. The boffin didn’t even think. Seeing the movement of the hand, he snarled and snapped his entire body forward, shoving his head as hard and sharply as he could into his opponent’s solar plexus. For a big man, though, his captor was light on his feet - or perhaps he’d been expecting trouble. Quentin’s target swayed back, reducing the impact, and instead leaving the captive hero to overbalance forward. For possibly the first time in history, Quentin wished that he’d been trussed up in a chair that was bolted down. 

Strong arms caught around his chest and middle, halting Quentin’s forward pitch before he ended up face-first on the floor. “I can tell you’re going to be an absolute delight,” the other man grunted, the tension in his voice at least proving that it took some effort to do this, “You’re about to bloody yourself before I even have a chance to get started.” He pushed Q’s chair upright again, settling him in place. This time, the hand that moved towards Q was quicker, fisting in his hair and ensuring no more headbutting as Quentin’s captor leaned in close enough for the boffin to see the dead-winter coldness of his eyes. His voice was almost too flat to sound human, “Do that again, and I’m going to let you fall right on your pretty face. Nod if you understand.” The hand on Quentin’s hair loosened only fractionally.

For a second, Quentin didn’t move, fear an ice cold pit in his stomach. This man intended to torture him, and fuck if he wasn’t ridiculously strong. Deciding to bet that his own technomancy was stronger than brute strength, Quentin met the man’s gaze as best he could, shook his head no, and then twitched his hand.

While drugs affected Quentin’s secondary ability, his tech skills were ready to go. The light source behind his captor blew, and Quentin grinned around the gag. He’d been mostly blocked from the light, and he could barely see without his glasses anyway, so the sudden plunge into darkness hardly rattled him; besides, he didn’t need light for his powers to work. He stretched his fingers as far as they could go, reaching with all he had to see how much energy was in that fixture, if he could pull more from the building. He frowned, having to search more and more to find even a tiny trickle of power. Just like in the warehouse, Quentin had the sudden dread that he was dealing with a man who knew exactly what Quentin could do.

And then suddenly he went from reaching for power… to feeling as though the power was pulling back. It was like vomiting, or like he was bleeding out from a wound he’d never seen coming, and that indescribable sense he always reached out for when controlling the technology around him was… gone. Just gone. He was left staring forward as if he’d somehow see it pooled like blood on the floor in front of him. 

Instead all he saw was his captor’s face, still close enough for Quentin to make out his expression - eyes faraway as if concentrating, but grimacing as if he’d tasted something bad. In fact, even as Quentin was dealing with the sudden sensation of emptiness inside himself where his technomancy usually was, the other man turned his head away with a shake and a cough like someone who had just downed a shot of moonshine. “Fuck. That’s a new flavour I never needed.” 

Everything clicked. The man’s expression and strength, Quentin’s sudden loss of his power… he knew exactly who he was dealing with, and Quentin suddenly found himself wishing that the chloroform had killed him. Because his captor was a syphon, and if Quentin had to bet, he would put down everything he owned that he was currently staring at none other than James Bond, the most powerful syphon Britain had seen in over two hundred years.

Currently, that power-syphon looked like he was trying to swallow down what he’d just taken out of Quentin - and he wasn’t particularly liking it. He gave his head another shake, eyes narrowed, even as he straightened. The heavy hand in Quentin’s hair let go, but only to slide down to cup the side of his neck in an absentmindedly threatening way. “Sorry about that, Techie,” he said, and it was hard to tell if he was sorry or not - he didn’t sound derisive or teasing, but he also didn’t sound like much of anything, like this was a normal conversation on a totally normal day, “I’d have warned you ahead of time, but then you wouldn’t have gone for the lightbulb.” Bond’s free hand gestured behind him, to where the busted filaments were just visible in the ambient light. “Some of you heroes are an easy grab, but you’ve got an intermittent power that you can turn on and off like a bloody switch - so I had to get you to turn it on.”

Quentin felt frozen in his chair, his head a jumble while his entire being was incredibly aware of the hand at his throat. He was breathing hard, exhaling sharply through his nose as he fought to process everything. 

This man has kidnapped heroes before.

This man knows what I can do.

This man knows my nickname.

So this had all truly been a setup. And Bond had been watching him for some time now if he knew enough about Quentin’s work to know both his movements and Vesper’s nickname for him. Hell, Quentin hadn’t even been wearing a badge or a uniform when he’d reached the warehouse, just slacks, a shirt, and his favourite mustard cardigan; Bond had recognized him anyway. All of the bravado melted out of Quentin, and he sagged in the chair. He still felt empty, practically scraped raw from having his power drained. He was trapped.

Unless…

Despite the revulsion at the thought, Quentin started to focus. The gag was likely just to prevent him from making noise or drawing attention. He could work with that. If Bond just would take it off… Quentin’s stomach heaved, and he fought back the urge to vomit. This was a human being in front of him. Yes, a terrifying kidnapper of a person, but a person! However, if Quentin wanted to escape, he knew what he would have to do, as unstable as it would be while he likely had some chloroform left in his system.

The villain was still monologuing, although he seemed to have gotten the taste of Q’s power off his tongue. “Don’t worry, it’ll come back.” The hand that lifted from Q’s neck to unexpectedly brush his hair back from his forehead - the hell was he doing?! - was not as reassuring as Bond had probably hoped. “Hell, I’ve known some heroes - and villains, too - who are practically recharging the second I stop ripping it away.” The faux-gentle movement revealed the true threat beneath as the slow stroke became another cat-fast grab, and Q’s head was held in place again by fingers tangled in his hair. Bond seemed to be judging something about him, expression intense but thoughtful. “Power like yours though,” he finally assessed, “might take a bit longer. Usually the ones that are harder for me to catch are also harder for my target to recoup.” An easy shrug; the hand released Q yet again. “It’s just how the game is played.”

Quentin’s glare didn’t carry the bite it had only moments before because now he was focusing. He would have one shot at this, one chance to break the man in front of him if he was going to have a hope of escaping. His body protested at the building energy, and he started to shiver again. As soon as the gag was off, he would need to just unleash it and hope the power landed before Bond could steal it.

Stepping away, Bond unexpectedly lit a match - and the darkness was pushed back by what looked like an old-style lamp. Something that required no electricity for Quentin to work with. The lighting situation now fixed in an anti-techie way, Bond then dragged a spare chair over and came down to straddle it backwards in front of Quentin. He leaned his arms indolently against the back as he eyed Quentin. “That look in your eyes,” Bond said, and he was just far enough away that it was hard to tell for certain if he was smiling, although he reached out a hand and just managed to touch a fingertip to Quentin’s chin before the sidekick jerked his head away. “I take it you recognize me a bit now by reputation. Good.” For the first time the emotion rose up strongly enough to be a persistent weight in his voice, a rich sound of approval wrapping the last word where there had just been idle coolness before. “Maybe we can start making some progress on you.”

Well, that sounded ominous. Still incredibly aware of just how little he could do and still very much unable to stop how bad his shivering was getting, Quentin just let the power build in his head. One shot, you have one shot at this. Yes, you’ll leave this man an absolute shell, but you have to. You have to. Just do it. Just fucking DO IT.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” James kept talking, unaware that he’d captured a hero-sidekick who had more than one trick up his sleeve - one that the public didn’t know about. “You caused trouble once and I was nice enough to catch you. You tried to fuck me over again-” He pointed behind him towards the busted lightbulb without turning from Quentin. “-And I think I was pretty gentlemanly about it, considering that some folks would have knocked the taste right out of your mouth for that. But third time’s the charm, so nod if you intend to behave because I don’t want to bruise that lovely face of yours, but I can.”

Brain stuttering slightly at having his face be called “lovely” by a bloody kidnapper, Quentin swallowed again, fighting the shivers that wracked his body as he let the power continue to build. But he did manage a small nod, looking down to the floor as if in defeat.

“Good boy.” James shifted and leaned further over the back of his chair, and Quentin held his breath as he watched Bond extend an arm towards his gag. As the villain’s balance shifted, he stretched out his legs a bit, booted feet settling almost naturally against Quentin’s, like they were two friends sharing foot-space at a tiny diner booth - rather than hero and villain in a dark, dusty room. Bond was taking his time, too, as if this were indeed just an idle exchange, his fingers drifting along the gag’s material against Q’s cheek towards his hair. Unexpectedly, though, the man leaned in closer to give a congenial smile and then said in an altogether softer, darker tone, as intimate as body-warm velvet, “Just in case you didn’t fully realise what you’re dealing with, love, I should warn you that any power I pull - I can use. Just think on that before that murder in your eyes makes you do something stupid, hm?” 

And with that he freed the gag from Quentin’s mouth.

As Bond’s words registered, Quentin felt some of his anger begin to fade. If he were willing to admit it to himself, he had been looking for a reason not to use his power, not the least of which was he couldn’t free himself if his captor were incapacitated and he couldn’t access his technomancy. And… well, fuck, Bond did have a point about being “gentlemanly,” even if they had differing definitions for the word. After all, Bond could very well have let Quentin break his nose on the floor instead of catching him.

So, rather than breaking James Bond’s psyche beyond repair, Quentin allowed the power to reabsorb into his body. And fuck it HURT. Every muscle in Quentin’s brain screamed at him as he released the energy he’d built without actually using it. He’d have a hell of a migraine soon, and his shaking was getting worse with each passing moment. His eyes burned with shame and pain, though he blinked them away and then shut his eyes against the world. He took a few slow, deep breaths, and tried this time to just find his calm. Could the man really use any power he syphoned? He hadn’t even used what he’d taken before. Once he was sure he wouldn’t start crying, Quentin cleared his throat and looked back at Bond, pleased as he spoke that his voice remained even. “Any power? I call bullshit.”

Shockingly, Bond seemed delighted by that snappy line rather than offended; his blond head reared back, but almost immediately after he barked out a laugh. “Mouthy little shit, aren’t you?” he said wryly.

“Takes one to know one,” Quentin growled back. “And I still call bullshit. You’re bluffing.”

James was still leaning in close enough that Quentin could see him narrow his eyes, the challenge striking a nerve. Instead of saying anything out loud, though… the burnt-out light-bulb suddenly started to smoke. And then to crackle. Suddenly the hairs on Quentin’s arms were standing on end, and instead of looking into pale-blue eyes he was looking into cobalt orbs that were crackling with an unhealthy light that seemed to darken the room. 

Bond stretched his hand forward even as the lightbulb stopped fountaining sparks and hovered his open palm over Q’s chest. “Want to call my bluff?” he said, and Quentin stared in shock as sparks lit the space inside Bond’s mouth as he spoke. 

Quentin shook his head no, eyes wide in terror as his gaze darted between the hand that very likely would stop his heart if it touched him… and Bond’s face. The man barely looked human anymore, more of a storm than a person, mouth sparking like he could breathe electricity and eyes glowing such a vibrant blue that Quentin’s eyes were beginning to ache. It never looked this way when he called on his powers; something was wrong with this. “No, no, okay, I-I can see you’re serious. Just…just stop it. Please.” Quentin couldn’t keep his voice from breaking on the final word, and he fought back tears of exhaustion and fear.

Shockingly, Bond responded by immediately closing his fist, and the power seemed to wink out. The hand retreated as if all Bond had been waiting for was Quentin’s consent to drop it. His head tilted, but he’d drawn back enough that Quentin couldn’t read the man’s expression. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page,” he nodded. The only sign that he’d just been wielding a frankly terrifying amount of electricity was when he shook out his hand at his side - as if working out a cramp - and a visible carpet-spark leapt between two fingers. 

Despite his fear and very clear lack of control in his current situation, Quentin still found his curiosity beginning to surface. He’d never met a syphon in person before; usually only one or two existed at the same time, the power was so rare. And just as with how varied other powers could be, no two syphons worked the same way. “So-so any power you take you can use… ever? You don’t have to spend the energy immediately?”

Bond’s head cocked the other way, and then he chuckled. “I’ll answer one for you if you answer one for me,” he said by way of answer. 

“And how am I supposed to trust anything you say?” Quentin snapped, his frustration and anger finally beginning to break through his very carefully crafted facade. “You drugged and kidnapped me, threatened me. I’m literally tied to a fucking chair!” He would’ve continued, but in trying to breathe to shout at Bond, Quentin had aspirated his spit and begun coughing.

Bond was reaching for him again, and Quentin flinched back hard, eyes wide in terror as he recalled the electrical charge, but James just followed him back and even got up out of his chair so that he could press a hand to Quentin’s chest - nonlethally, to Quentin’s surprise. The hand urged him to sit back instead of doubling over with coughs, as Bond’s voice both soothed and chided, “Easy, easy. You can’t go accusing me of lying only to choke on your own tongue, Techie.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Quentin said, voice raspy but firm. Every bit of rage he could muster he channelled into his eyes as he stared down his captor. “Don’t you ever call me that.” Now that he wasn’t struggling to breathe, Quentin could feel himself starting to panic. “I don’t know how you know that name, but I hate it. And if you call me that again, I will fucking break you.” The room was starting to feel smaller, and the bonds on Quentin’s wrists and ankles just felt so tight, restricting. “I need to get out. I want out of here. I need-I-” Anxiety rose in Quentin’s throat faster than he could quell it, the stress of the entire day finally crashing down on him and compounded from his power’s internal effects.

“Fine, Technoman , you’re actually right here, in this chair,” James cut in, smooth and cruel, “because of what you need, Techie.” After a pause, either somehow not noticing Quentin’s mounting anxiety or choosing to ignore it, Bond went on in a more devil-may-care tone, “And I think you’ll find that threats won’t get you very far with me.”

“What is it with you and using names I HATE?!” Quentin roared, anger bursting through the panic momentarily. “If you’re such a fucking stalker that you know all this, then surely you know what I prefer. You probably even know what I take in my tea, you creep.” A particularly violent shudder ripped through him, knocking him off balance for a brief second before Quentin managed to right himself. As promised, though, Bond made no move this time to reach out and potentially stop the chair from tipping as it wobbled. 

“What, Technoman?” he said mildly, “I just know that name because that’s what everyone calls you, when you’re flitting about doing hero bullshit.”

“I’m just the sidekick, thought you knew that,” Quentin snarled, his eyes burning again. The pressure in his head was really starting to mess with his ability to focus, and the panic was rising again. “I don’t flit. I don’t even fucking fly. I follow the hero I’m assigned like I’m supposed to and clean up her fucking messes. So don’t even think for one second that I’m remotely like her.”

Surprisingly, James raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “No argument here. I certainly wouldn’t want to compare you to a full hero.” Before Quentin could even begin to get a handle on what Bond meant by that, the villain leaned forward over the back of his chair again and said with a wicked little smile that Quentin could see now at this distance, “But it’s not like your comrades compare you to them either.”

That stung, and Quentin could see the delight in Bond’s eyes at the words. “You’re enjoying this,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly very even after the rage he’d just felt. “You like doing this to people? Torturing them? Throwing their worst thoughts and hates and fears at them?” Despite the pain in his head, the shaking of his body, and the fact that Quentin was growing more and more desperate for some sleep , he straightened his spine as best he could in the chair and focused on getting his emotions back in check. “I could be a full hero if I wanted, but I don’t want that kind of attention.” With each word, now that he was pulling himself back together, Quentin felt a little more sure. Whether he would escape he still didn’t know, but if this was the game Bond wanted to play, then Quentin would not give him the satisfaction of breaking, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“I actually might be enjoying this, but not for the reasons you’re assuming,” Bond said, but in a quieter, thoughtful tone that made Quentin wonder if he was talking to himself. The villain quickly went on in a full speaking volume, “I can respect a man who doesn’t want attention. Unfortunately - or maybe fortunately - for you, though, you certainly caught my employer’s attention.” James rolled one hand palm-up in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of gesture. “And thus, here we are. Talking about how we both like to find the words to hurt each other most.”

Quentin blinked, warily looking at Bond now. The “we” had certainly stung, but Quentin hadn’t seemed to have actually hurt Bond in any of their altercations thus far. Cold fear curdled in his stomach again as he doggedly tried to ignore it. He couldn’t know, there’s no way. Bond’s employer must want Quentin’s technomancy. “Well I can assure you, I wasn’t trying to be noticed,” he finally said, proud that he managed to keep his voice fairly even, though his teeth were beginning to chatter.

“Which is one of the multiple reasons why I like you,” James switched gears to suddenly say warmly - after hearing how flat and emotionless he could be, however, it was hard to trust the suddenly friendly tone. “You’re the quiet, understated sort. Those, I hear, are the most dangerous. What do you say to that?”

Aware that the metaphorical ice was very thin beneath his chair, Quentin thought the question over. “I would say the quiet types are the most easily underestimated which makes them dangerous. But you don’t have anything to worry about, do you? You already know what I can do.”

That ice gave another crack as James replied, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “I do, don’t I? You did make it quite clear that you didn’t trust me, so maybe I’m just a damn liar and bluffing again.” 

Quentin fought back a glare, searching for that inner balance he always had when he was working. And slowly, it began to settle around him. There was nothing quite like cold logic and rationality to combat the swirling tide of emotions threatening to tear him apart. “I still think you’re a damn liar,” Quentin said, then added, “But you did stop before when I asked. So… thanks, I guess.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Bond inclined his head. “See, we can be civil.”

“Oh sure, civil when one party is bound to a chair,” Quentin scoffed.

There was a stretch of silence then, which would have been a damn sight easier to read if James had been closer, but then the villain turned his head and seemed to look at Quentin anew - as if just noticing the technomancer’s bound situation for the first time. “To be fair, I’ve been in a few relationships where that is the only way we can be civil,” he said ruefully, then his voice took on an altogether more sly tone as he mused, “But I can see your points. You give something to me - and I’ll give you a bit of civility back.”

Chapter Text

Not rising to the bait, Quentin nodded as if thinking it over. “I suppose it depends on what you want. And what I get in exchange. You’ll find I don’t agree to bargains where I don’t know the terms and conditions first.” This was more like it. Quentin could feel his equilibrium returning, and even though he was still shaking, it no longer felt like it would tear him apart.

“What if I promise that you'll like what I give you - and what I take from you?” James wheedled further. He also leaned forward again, so Quentin was able to better make out his features - the man’s face had been transformed by a charming grin, and he seemed quite honestly delighted with all of this. Which either made him demented or… or demented. Q really couldn’t think of another option. Except perhaps a very functional psychopath.

“I want specifics,” Quentin stubbornly insisted. “Dress your words up however you like. I don’t trust you.”

The smile deepened a bit, but also seemed to become more real as James’ eyes crinkled. “Wise,” he gave Quentin credit with a nod. “All right then, Techie. Here’s what I’ll give you.”

And with that he reached into a pocket and suddenly produced Quentin’s glasses, holding them close enough that the hero could have grabbed them if he had his hands free.

Well. Glasses would certainly help. Biting back a retort about the nickname, Quentin nodded. “Alright, so to get those back, what do you want?”

The smile he was favoured with now would have fit well on the snake in Eden. “Your name.” 

Fear was somehow replaced with incredulity. “You watch and follow and kidnap me and you don’t know my name ?!” Quentin said, forcing himself to not let his jaw hang open.

“I told you it was an easy deal,” James said innocently. He looked so much like just another flirt - they could have been two young men feeling each other out at a local coffee shop, if one could ignore the busted light, the restraints, and the way Quentin still felt only a hollow emptiness where his technomancy powers should have been. 

Figuring that at this point, Bond was fucking with him and did know his name, there wasn’t really any point to lying, especially if the lie were caught. Somehow, he didn’t think the villain would take too kindly to being lied to, what with all his talk about civility. “Fluke. Quentin Fluke,” Quentin said softly after a moment.

For some reason, that caused Bond’s smile to get… more Cheshire. There was a moment where Quentin felt ludicrously like he’d just given his true name to some fey being and doomed himself in the process. But then James was standing (intimidating in its own right) and stepping up into Quentin’s personal space - with the glasses in hand, already considerately unfolding the arms. “Good. We’re making progress,” James applauded, his voice a lovely rumble up close, as he seemed to truly have a habit for dropping his volume to a conspiratorial pitch whenever he was close enough to allow it. As he started slipping the spectacles onto Quentin’s face, however, calloused fingertips just brushing the soft skin of his temples, James finished, “That wasn’t what I meant, though. I mean that what I get is your name. And I’m deciding that you’re ‘Q’ from now on.” Instead of removing his hands once the glasses were in place, Bond caught either side of Quentin’s head, turning him to look directly up at him - and the look of dark, curious consideration that Quentin could now see in perfect detail on his face. “So long as you’re mine, that’s the only name you get.”

One letter. It was still better than “Techie,” though Q felt… betrayed wasn’t the word, and Bond had returned his glasses which meant Q could actually SEE, not that he could currently really move his head. Bond didn’t have to do much to telegraph his strength; Q could feel it in the hands currently holding his head in place. But it was odd, being reduced to a letter. And he didn’t know what to think about Bond calling Q his . And bloody hell those hands were warm; for as cold as Q felt, Bond’s skin felt like fire.

Making sure his voice wouldn’t shake, Q finally responded, “Okay. I-I’m Q.”

“Good boy,” James said as he had earlier, only now Quentin could see the fond look of approval on his face, which looked unsettlingly real. Quentin flinched as a thumb stroked his cheekbone, but the touch didn’t escalate to harm or lewdness. “I said that you’d like what I gave you, and I intend to keep my word on that. Because despite what you may think, I am not, in fact, a fucking liar. Those nicknames you hated?” Bond leaned down closer, and his grip tightened so that there was no escape from… a surprisingly light brush of lips to Quentin’s… Q’s… forehead. “Those don’t exist.” He pulled back and looked at Q with eyes as sincere and cold as bared knives. “Utter them in this room, before I give you your name back, and I’ll sew those names into you with a needle and thread. Nod if you understand.”

A thrill of something went through Q, and all he could do was nod in response. Bond’s grip was firm but not too tight, and he did seem genuine in the moment, if Q could trust him at all. This man was a complete conundrum that Q wasn’t sure he wanted to unravel. Just the thought of Bond sewing names into his skin was enough to make him shy away from the thought and shiver again. Suddenly all Q could feel was how cold he was, how much he wanted to be warm, and a tiny part of him that he would vehemently deny existed, wanted just to be cared for. Instead, Q took a slow breath and nodded again to Bond.

“See? It really is simple,” James said in that softly affirming voice, and his lips brushed Q’s forehead again with Q barely managing to stifle a whimper (of fear? want? Q couldn’t tell). “This is how it’s going to be, Q. I’m going to tell you what I want, and you just have to meet my expectations.” Leaning back, Bond added from just a hands-breadths away, “I bet that’s more than your hero Chameleon has ever given you.”

Hearing Vesper’s superhero name sent a shudder of revulsion through Q so intense that, when he saw Bond’s curious expression, he felt he had to explain. “I don’t like her,” he said softly, hyper aware that this sudden bout of tenderness from his captor had him far more off balance than he’d expected. “But you probably knew that. Probably knew they’d send me for that false alarm instead of her too. She was the one who shortened my government-given hero title.” Another shudder, and now the cold felt bone deep. The part of Q’s brain that was still rational told him rather calmly that he was going into shock, so he tried to say as much to Bond, but the words jumbled on his tongue and didn’t even reach coherence.

Bond nodded, accepting this. His thumb rubbed absently at Q’s temple now, a seemingly thoughtful gesture as he paused a moment before remarking, “If I hear her say one of those names while I own your name, Q, then I’ll cut letters into her skin, too.” His fingers paused and he asked seemingly with all seriousness, “Sound fair?”

It was, in the weirdest way, the kindest thing anyone had ever offered to Q. He sagged a little in the chair and nodded again. His stomach felt sour, like the acid inside was curdling, while his bones felt they could splinter with the cold. He shivered again, and even tried, against his better judgement, to lean into Bond’s warmth.

Maybe it was something about having his name taken away and replaced by another, but it was like Bond read his mind - or perhaps there was a totally logical explanation, and the villain just saw the way Q was leaning into him, or felt the chill of his skin. “Feeling chill, are you, love? I’d apologise, but it won’t really help things.” One of his hands dropped away, but that still left Q with one hand to lean against (and he definitely did not try to nuzzle that hand). The man’s other hand dropped to press against Q’s neck - a gesture that had been all threat before, but was now just checking his pulse, it seemed. “Full disclosure, ripping power out of someone tends to have side-effects. Although I’ll let you in on a secret I know you’ll like- if you answer a question for me.” 

Not trusting his tongue yet, Q nodded, and if that motion brought more of his cheek in contact with Bond’s warm skin, he certainly didn’t admit it to himself.

James turned his chair around with one hand, so that he could sit in it without the back of the chair between them now. Clearly having no particular aversion to being in Q’s personal space, Bond sat down with their knees touching. “Answer me truthfully,” he reminded, one hand still on Q’s cheek either for encouragement or to keep him focused, “It’s not a hard question. I’m not here to make things difficult.” A stroke of a thumb along Q’s cheekbone. “Were you lying to me when you said you could be a full hero if you wanted to be?”

Q bit his lip, thinking, before shaking his head slowly. He’d barely finished the motion before the hand on the side of his face was around his throat, yanking him forward so suddenly that the chair jerked. Trapped nose to nose with Bond now, Q’s eyes widened as he felt his balance literally relying on Bond’s hand at his throat. There was nowhere else to look but Bond’s eyes, and Q wasn’t entirely sure what he saw there. “Now that was a lie,” James said very lowly and calmly, and yet it sent shivers down Q’s spine with all the threat it held. Q started squirming and Bond’s grip just tightened implacably, starting to threaten his airway. All the while, those blue eyes didn’t so much as shift, although Bond did lean in the rest of the distance - enough to put his mouth by Q’s ear, breath hot, “I’ll give you a secret for free. I don’t ask questions I don’t already know the answer to. Try again.” And just like that, he released Q to sit back and breathe fully.

Gasping a bit and coughing to clear his throat, Q glared at Bond, but not with anger or hatred towards the other man this time. This time though, Q looked away to stare at the floor. Forcing the words up and out of his mouth, despite how drained he was, Q replied, “Yes, I lied. I couldn’t be a full hero.” He could hear the monotone in his own words, but at least this time it was the truth.

There was no gloating at Q giving in. Instead James just hummed and sat back, giving his prisoner some of his personal back again - for now at least. “All right,” he accepted as easily as Q’s statements before, “Now, as promised, let me let you in on a secret.” He nudged Q’s foot with the toe of his shoe, then said with an almost-smile just barely touching one side of his mouth, “The stronger a person’s power is, the harder it knocks them on their arse when I pull it. And based on how strong you are, Q-” Something about the way he said it… just a single letter at the end of the alphabet, but James caressed it in his mouth, letting it amble free past his teeth. “-I wouldn’t be surprised if you feel like shit.”

Again, Bond kept saying things that Q was not ready for and couldn’t even process properly. He looked up in surprise and confusion, finding nothing but acceptance and truth there. Bond really was being honest with him, or at least believed he was. And Bond had only pulled his technomancy while Q had swallowed the rebound of his other power. He nodded in agreement, because he really did feel like shit, and then looked back at the floor.

“Next question,” James said, and when Q looked up at him with suspicion, James was quick to add, “Same rules as before - I’ll repay you in a secret that I know you’ll want to know. This question’s a bit harder, though, and so is the secret.” His face gave away nothing about what the hell he meant by that, blue eyes simply remaining watchful, muscular body relaxed. Now that Q had his glasses on, he could see that the man was dressed in black jeans and a black pullover, and it made him veritably fade into the dimness of the room, the lamp only picking up the golden tones of his short hair. 

“Okay,” Q said, wary, but his curiosity pulled him out of his shock just a little. “Ask.”

Bond dipped his head respectfully as if Q were doing him a great favour, and he appreciated it. But then he metaphorically sucker-punched Q with, “Why can’t you be a hero?”

Any blood left in Q’s face drained from it as he suddenly found himself without a good answer to the question. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled with himself, and after thirty seconds of increasingly awkward silence, Q finally blurted out, “Because I don’t deserve to be.”

James didn’t even blink. “Go on,” he urged with that mercilessly quiet voice, making it clear that Q’s first answer hadn’t been detailed enough when he used one booted foot to tip Q’s chair precariously up onto just its back legs. 

Q’s eyes widened and the rest of the answer came tumbling out as he felt his stability wavering. “Because my power isn’t-isn’t good! It’s not!” But when Bond didn’t move, keeping Q’s chair on its back legs, something inside the young man broke. “Because technomancy isn’t the only power I have. And what I can do… it’s not ever what good people would do-what heroes would do.”

Even as the last word was hitting the air, James was drawing his foot back. Q’s chair thumped back into place, securely on all four legs again with Q shivering in it. James leaned forward again, but now the cold persona was gone. “Easy, Q,” James said in response to Q’s shaking and wide, frightened eyes, “You answered truthfully, just like I asked. That’s all I wanted, and I’m not upset that I had to coax you.” Calloused hands were on Q’s head again, cradling either side of his jaw this time, as one would a favoured hunting dog, freshly come in out of the field after a long day. 

It was too much. Q’s skin didn’t even feel right anymore, his body felt almost weightless, and he was just so cold. A hiccuping sob bubbled up, and suddenly he was fighting back a wave of emotion that threatened to drown him in its intensity. The only thing anchoring him anymore were Bond’s hands on his face, and that small rational part of his mind wondered idly if he was already starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome. The thought barely registered in Q’s consciousness, however, as he struggled with everything he had to remain in control of himself.

“You were so good, Q,” James was speaking quietly again, but this time it felt less like a threat and more like those secrets he was promising. He even leaned in so that he was speaking it against Q’s forehead, lips a soft touch with every word, “How about this? I’ll give you two secrets for that one. It’s easier for me, after all, and I know you’re struggling.”

Q’s eyes were burning with tears, and maybe it was the soft tenderness of the gesture or the closeness of Bond and his blessed body heat, but a few tears leaked out, betraying Q’s quickly fracturing sense of everything around him. So he nodded, not trusting his voice again, and still looking at the floor.

Stubble lightly scratched Q’s temple as James nuzzled against his head, his exhale communicating approval somehow - as if Q’s wordless answer was an absolute delight. “First secret then - I grabbed you because you were wanted, Q. Wanted more than any hero wants you.” Q tensed, the words registering but not making sense as Bond continued, “Wanted so badly that I’ve been told to kill anyone who tries to take you, even before I took your name and gave you one from me.” 

The tears stopped, Bond’s words wrapping Q up like a caterpillar building a cocoon. As scared as he was, as out of control and angry and ashamed as he felt, Q realised he didn’t really want to move. He was wanted? By whom? For what? And why did he think Bond sounded almost protective the way he was speaking now? “And-and the second secret?” he whispered.

This time the answer didn’t come instantly. In fact, James firmed up his grip on Q a bit - now he was like a bird that might take flight, somehow, despite the bindings. Bond’s grip was firm but careful, fingers curling down into Q’s hair at the base of his skull, and he didn’t speak until he’d pressed their foreheads together. “This one will hurt more,” he warned, “but only until it sinks in.” His thumbs pressed against the skin just in front of Q’s ear, and one briefly stroked across Q’s ear before returning to its previous position of holding Q still. Another breath, two; in and out between them. Then Bond admitted quite calmly, “We know what you can do. You were gagged as a precaution because of it. But you were wanted anyway.”

It was probably good that Bond was holding him firmly because Q’s entire body spasmed at that secret, and had he been stronger, he might’ve ripped himself free of his bindings. It didn’t matter that Bond had even told him he knew the answers before he asked. Bond and his employer knew what Q could do. His secret wasn’t anymore, and even as adrenaline hit his bloodstream (somehow making him even colder damnit), he couldn’t really find it in himself to be angry. “How?” was all he could manage to say, trying to ask how they’d known, how they’d done all this, even if he still didn’t know why.

“Your job is to answer questions, Q, not ask them.” Counterbalancing the firm solidity of the words was Bond angling his head to press a kiss between Q’s brows - command and then soothe. “I’ll tell you what matters, and anything else, you don’t need. Can you trust me to give you what you need, just like you can trust me to give you orders you can follow?” 

Q’s brain was so foggy; he felt like he was underwater and like Bond was his lifeline. Trust… the word echoed a little in his mind. Could he trust Bond? The man had kidnapped him, bound him, interrogated him… brutality made sense. This kindness, wrapped up in firm words and commands though, was confusing up until the moment Q decided. “Yes,” he whispered, “if-if you won’t make me hurt anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to hurt anyone,” Bond was quick to answer, still that up-close-and-personal whisper, “I haven’t asked anything difficult of you, have I?” When Q shook his head, James went on smoothly, “It would be monstrously difficult to ask a hero to hurt people they’ve been protecting for so long.” It felt like there was a loophole in there, but Q didn’t have the energy to break down what Bond was saying anymore. And the man sounded so sure. 

“Okay,” Q said. “Okay then, Bond.”

“Good boy.” There was that phrase again, repeated like a gentle mantra. This time it was accompanied by fingers carding through his hair and down the back of his neck, and this time there was no threat to be found in the gesture even as Q felt the strength of the man’s fingertips against his vertebrae. He arched back against them as much as his bindings allowed as his mind began to contemplate just staying here. Here he was safe. Right then, he was okay. Bond was warm and solid, even if he had kidnapped Q. Even the praise from Bond soothed something deep inside Q that he hadn’t realised he was craving. So instead he just leaned into the embrace and treasured that he didn’t need to do anything or go anywhere. 

Bond was just opening his mouth to gently murmur something else when the door swung open with a rude squeak. Q froze, feeling very much like a deer in the headlights of a car. He didn’t realise he’d started shaking again until he felt Bond’s grip tighten reassuringly on the back of his neck. Bond himself had twisted towards the door, however, and all of the coldness that had been in the man’s eyes when Q had first arrived here - all of the coldness that had melted away - was back. It took a few seconds for Q’s brain to catch up to what his eyes could see, and the moment it did, he relaxed a little, realising that none of Bond’s coldness was directed his way.

Until it occurred to him that Bond’s coldness was towards a new person.

Standing in the doorway was another blond-haired man, but paler in skin and hair, the latter of which was swept back above wide-set eyes. Those eyes held a sort of intensity that shouldn’t have been much different from Bond’s - Bond’s gaze was like a gun’s sights - but somehow when those eyes fell on Q it was like being drilled into instead of merely hunted out from a great distance. And then the smile crept across the other man’s face, sweet and vicious. “Why James, one might think you were whiling the day away in here,” he said with faux lightness, even as James stiffened. Q’s captor looked furious. “You’re taking so long.”

“I’m working here, Silva,” Bond growled lowly.

“And I’m just here to hurry you along,” was Silva’s unruffled answer. His eyes danced between Q and James, and every time they landed on Q they seemed to glint increasingly with avarice. “It’s not like I’m paying you by the hour.”

“Yes, but you are paying me to do what I’m good at,” James shot back, finally letting go of Q and rising warily. His posture made it unclear if he was worried about a threat, or wanted to punch the other man - but one thing was for sure: James hadn’t taken his glowering gaze off Silva since he’d arrived. “So the least you could do is fucking let me do it.”

Silva sniffed and said in an openly judgmental tone, “Doesn’t seem like you’re making much headway.” He looked Q up and down, raised one eyebrow. “He’s still tied up, and here you are just stroking his head like he’s a prize-winning bitch.”

Q flinched, unable to stop himself, and he saw Silva’s lips twitch in amusement in response. Clearly this was Bond’s employer, which also meant he was the other person Bond said had wanted him and his powers, but now that Q saw him… something about this man left Q feeling vulnerable, like Silva’s gaze was paring him open to the marrow. The calm he’d felt only moments before was gone like it hadn’t even existed, and Q could feel the cold creeping back into his bones again.

Bond opened his mouth, something about the start of his sentence denoting an animal snarl of annoyance, but Silva cut him off before he could get a sentence properly started, “I think it would be best if you stepped out and let someone else pick up the slack. Maybe I’ll actually make some progress.”

Q watched as James’ hands curled into fists, scars standing out on the knuckles even in the yellowed lamplight, and Bond had turned enough that Q could see the muscles in his shoulders working, too. Silva might have seen something in Bond’s silent gaze, though, as his smile suddenly grew wild and toothy. Silva spread his arms out like some sort of Messiah, even though his words held something hellish, “Are you going to make an issue of this, James? Surely you won’t try our business relationship all over a few minutes alone with your toy.”

Taking in a deep breath, James didn’t move or say anything for a long count of ten… and then he puffed out a harsher breath and glanced tensely between Q and Silva. Because of Bond’s fearsome power as a syphon, Q expected James to take the challenge in his teeth, but instead he eased a step back and stood down. By the quick flick of his eyes towards Q, he was clearly torn, lips pursed. “Only five minutes,” he said with the same air of finality with which he’d said that Q wasn’t here to ask questions - only there was no soothing gesture to accompany the harsh command. “Unless you want to pull me from the payroll entirely.”

“Oh, no, certainly not.” That threat at least seemed to get Silva to backpedal a bit, although his smile remained pleased at getting his way otherwise. “I value your place in my organisation.”

“Just not enough to let me do my fucking job like I want to,” James muttered, even as he started stalking out. He paused right next to Silva, and for a moment it looked like things might come to blows - although Q could only catch a few phrases that Bond spat out between his teeth. Things like “I’m doing it this way for a reason, you bloody bastard,” and “If you fucking undo everything, and he crashes, he’s going to-!” 

And he heard Silva murmur sweetly that he was “flattered” that James was “so worried about his well being.” Then, more darkly and in a volume Q was meant to hear, he said, “Actually, if you’re so worried, why don’t you just gag him again before you leave?”

Bond’s shoulders moved restlessly again even as Q’s eyes widened and flicked back and forth between Bond and Silva, but ultimately he glanced over, grit his teeth, and strode back into the room. He picked up the discarded gag almost robotically, holding it in his hands as he turned those cold-again eyes on Q. There was no trace of the comfort that had been there just moments before, and Q felt so alone. Even when Bond approached him, he couldn’t really feel the man’s warmth - just the icy gaze of those blue eyes. 

“Remember what I told you,” was all James said, and then he was tying the cloth back into place, effectively nullifying the last trump card that Q had. And with that, he strode out of the room, leaving just Q and Silva. 

Pulling together what little energy he had left, Q did his best to straighten his spine and sit as if he weren’t bound and gagged and facing down a completely unknown entity. He pulled his eyes away from the door and tried to at least look in Silva’s direction, even if he didn’t really want to look at the man himself. Silva strode in like he owned the place, and perhaps he did. That unsettling smile was still in place, wide enough that Silva’s eyes were half-closed even as he took a seat in the chair James had vacated. 

“While I’m sad that we can’t have a proper talk, I’m sure you understand the position that I’m in,” Silva said, gesturing vaguely at Q’s face and switching suddenly to a sad frown, a jarring shift of great emotions where James had mostly only unsettled Q by sometimes seeming to have none. “I don’t know if James told you, but I know all about your way with words. Not that I believe you to use that power frivolously - you’re far more thoughtful than that - but since my attack-dog is so nervous, I figured, why not be careful?” The smile returned, encouraging and friendly, like they were sharing a mildly funny anecdote. 

Q nodded, acknowledging both the caution and Silva’s guess about him. He shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable despite the futility of the action. The gag tasted terrible, like dust and stale fear, and Q could feel the cold and the exhaustion trying to pull him under. Fighting the sheer weight of his weariness, Q made a decision.

Five minutes. He could make it five minutes.

So he finally lifted his eyes and met Silva’s gaze. What he saw were two windows into merry madness, and suddenly five minutes felt a helluva lot longer. “Silly me - I was about to ask you what James had told you! But I’m going to assume he’s told you precious little,” Silva scoffed, “Since he still seems so worried about you turning violent. His job was to work you over, you know?” Silva’s face shifted into a mieu of distaste. “I honestly expected more. He’s good with his fists, that one - and you’ll never forget if you see what he can do with a knife.” 

Stomach churning, Q did his best to nod as nonchalantly as he could manage, as if hearing about how deadly and violent Bond could be didn’t leave him feeling incredibly confused; honestly, despite kidnapping and draining him, Bond really had done nothing to actually harm Q physically. He felt more unsafe alone with Silva than he did with Bond, and when his head was clearer, Q knew he would need to unpack that. For now, he just needed to survive.

“Ultimately, though, I suppose he is the expert,” Silva sighed with an expressive roll of his eyes, big hands spreading on his knees. While Bond had been dressed all in black, Silva was in a creamy white suit, entirely too put-together for this dingy room. “He comes highly recommended for anything that has to do with dealing with super-powered individuals, but his forte really is breaking people.” Silva’s eyes roved over Q’s face as if seeing something there, and then he mused with a slow smile, “You know something of what I’m talking about, yes?”

Ah. Well, that certainly explained a few things about his interactions with Bond. Q nodded once and looked away, pain (mostly from his headache) evident in his expression while his mind raced as best it could. So Silva expected Bond to break him, was that it? Bend him to his will? Convince him to use his powers for their ends?

All the while Silva was still watching his expression too closely, too keenly, like he was hungry for something behind Q’s eyes that he could already see glimpses of. “Ahhh I think I see the truth of it. He was kind to you then? Using honey instead of vinegar to achieve his ends,” he guessed, and Q glanced at Silva briefly. If anything, it was like watching a grown man get excited at the prospect of smashing a precious piece of glass the way Silva looked to Q. Unsettled, he fixed his gaze instead on a spot just over Silva’s shoulder. He was gagged, so it wasn’t like the other man expected conversation. Surely it had been at least five minutes already, but there was no clock, and Q’s internal time was still trying to recover from being drugged.

And Silva just. Kept. Talking. “Poor, poor Quentin. We know so much about you, by the way - I don’t engage with any person of interest until I know that they’ll be worth my while,” Silva went on, startling Q with the use of his regular name. Despite reading Q’s other expressions and following up on what he saw so keenly, Silva didn’t make note of Q’s reaction this time, and instead ploughed onwards like he was starting to warm to his topic, “Don’t you realise that everything he did to you was a kind of violence?” He tisked, and did indeed look pityingly sad. 

Q wanted to shake his head, wanted to deny everything Silva was saying, but he couldn’t. And he hated himself a little for it. And Silva. And Bond. Combined with hearing his given name, Q started to feel tight inside his skin again. Still refusing to meet Silva’s gaze, he continued to stare over the man’s shoulder, every last ounce of energy now working to keep Q from completely falling apart.

“I know, I know, it must seem bleak,” Silva crooned, his voice smooth like warmed honey, “There are no good answers here, and for that I do sympathise with you. From the moment I set my eyes on you, though, I knew that you deserved better than what you were being given, so trust me when I say these rough waters will be worth it, Quentin dear.” 

In spite of himself, Q glanced at Silva again. He even cocked his head slightly in question. The hell did Silva mean? 

Delight lit Silva’s face again. “You’re a clever boy, Quentin, so surely you must see that you weren’t being valued by those pompous upstarts you call heroes,” he started to explain, “I’m here to tell you that you could do much better. I could help you do much better.”

If Silva thought better meant Q using his powers to destroy people, especially since Q knew from Bond that his abilities weren’t a secret, then the man had another thing coming. His entire life, Q had fought against this curse that gave him the ability to completely destroy someone with a single sentence. There was absolutely nothing good that could come from his abilities. So, he did his best to hide his anger, instead letting his curiosity show, because despite everything, Q wanted answers.

And maybe the anger wasn’t entirely hidden, because suddenly Silva’s smile fell again. “Ah, well now, not tempted by that, are you? Still loyal to your so-called friends, perhaps?” he assumed, derision thickening his tone even as he gave his head a sad shake. Q rolled his eyes, Vesper’s face suddenly very visible in his mind. No, loyalty wasn’t quite the issue at hand, and there was a part of him, Q realised, that would love nothing more than to see Vesper taken down a peg. Or four. Silva chuckled, amused by this, and it felt settling like they were having a balanced conversation despite Q’s gagged status. “There is some vengeance in you after all, perhaps,” Silva mused playfully.

Q exhaled sharply through his nose as his head throbbed again. His vision was beginning to swim, and the longer Silva spoke, the harder it was to concentrate.

Silva’s smile remained fixed in place, relentless. “Am I boring you?” 

Q shook his head and immediately regretted it as the room spun. How long had he been here? How long had Silva been talking? 

“Good, then I suppose I’ll speak to you plainly before I do. Must keep a clever brain like yours engaged, eh, Techie?” Silva said with all the pleasantness of a snake through sand. He leaned forward over his knees, bringing him closer into Q’s space. “I had James bring you here because I want you to have a place in this world, a place that appreciates you. James wants the same, but as you might have heard him say - he and I have different methods.” Silva lifted a hand to pat Q’s bound left wrist, ignoring it as Q flinched and tried to recoil in spite of his bindings. “But I feel I must let you know, James will be taking different steps if we can’t make you understand our position quickly.”

It was getting harder to keep up as Silva’s words gave Q worse whiplash than his first ever automobile collision when he was seventeen. First his name, then his dreaded nickname, and now a cold, painful reminder that Bond was incredibly dangerous and working for Silva. Each little sliver of hope was steadily being stamped under Silva’s polished heel, and Q felt helpless against the onslaught.

Silva squeezed Q’s wrist, a seemingly supportive gesture. “Whatever the hell James was doing in here before I pulled him out, you must have seen how efficient he is,” he pushed. Q squirmed, nodding, because of course he had. Bond had literally pulled his power out of him. He’d felt the man’s strength, knew he couldn’t physically fight back. Silva continued, nodding in time as if feeling deeply for Q’s response, “It’s important to me to tell you then, that if you don’t roll over like a good little dog for him as soon as he comes back, you won’t like the side of him that you see next - or what steps he’ll take, quite without regret, to finish the job that he’s been paid to do.” And with that final, pleasant murmur, Silva got up and stepped away, leaving Q reeling in fear. Silva stepped to the door, opening it just in time to see James with hand outstretched, clearly reaching for the door-knob. “Ah, James! What perfect timing. I think you’ll see that I made some fabulous progress myself - and all without any blood or bruises,” Silva said with a proud gesture towards Q. James’ eyes narrowed, dubious. 

Q’s heart hammered in his chest as he felt both men look at him, and he couldn’t help a tiny flinch as he tried in vain to make himself smaller. Silva gave him a little finger-wave and a congenial, “I hope to greet you again soon as a comrade, Quentin!” and then he was brushing past James and out the door. Q’s initial kidnapper turned to watch him go - more proof that Bond apparently refused to turn his back on the man. And with Silva gone, that just left Q alone with Bond.

Chapter Text

The moment the door closed, Q began struggling in earnest, wriggling and fighting against the restraints as he desperately tried to get free of the chair and away from the man now approaching him. Any calm he’d felt barely ten minutes before was completely gone, replaced with icy adrenaline and sour fear. It was almost worth it to see James’ eyebrows jump up, the first sign of surprise he’d shown thus far. With a muffled cry of frustration, Q sagged against the bindings; they were too secure, too well tied. And Bond was still in the room. Silva’s words echoed in Q’s mind, and he tried one more time to wrest at least one wrist free. He didn’t even notice the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The surprise on Bond’s face transformed swiftly to something else before collapsing into grim frustration. “Fuck you to hell and back, Silva,” he muttered at the now-closed door, before striding directly towards Q. Hearing the footsteps, Q’s head snapped up, and seeing Bond suddenly so much closer, Q did the only thing he could think of. He threw himself backward in a last ditch effort to just get away. He got to hear the villain swear again before his chair’s backward descent was sharply halted, albeit not very neatly - James nearly toppled over just trying to catch it. “Damn it,” James continued muttering to himself even as he tried to force the chair back into an upright position. 

Q was shaking his head no, making Bond have to work to hold the chair steady as Q continued his desperate struggle to escape.

-if you don’t roll over like a good little dog for him as soon as he comes back, you won’t like the side of him that you see next - or what steps he’ll take, quite without regret, to finish the job that he’s been paid to do-

A sob burst out of Q as Silva’s words spun in his head, and tears were streaming down his face now as the entirety of the day settled with brutal weight on his shoulders. When James reached for him, Q really thought it would be over. 

When he suddenly felt a flicker of cool, logical power in his core. It was faint, not even close to the full level of his normal power, but his technomancy was coming back. 

Simultaneously, Q realised he could feel electrical power in the building again, also faint, but persistent, like a hum under his skin. With a muffled cry of frustration, Q pulled on his power with everything he had left. His body and mind protested, screaming in pain even as Q swung his head at Bond’s hand to try and shock him. For the second time in under five minutes, the other man’s previously unflappable demeanour was overwhelmed by surprise, and there was a split second where there was a crackle of static between Q’s skin and the hand Bond had been reaching towards the same wrist Silva had been holding so lovingly earlier. Just as the glow of built-up electric power started to create a glow between their skin, and Q felt a brief glimmer of triumph, James’ own instincts kicked in - and suddenly it was like someone punched through Q’s stomach and started ripping out his guts. Q’s powers were still barely back on, but Bond’s were as ready as ever - and apparently worked just fine even when he was caught off guard by panicked superhero sidekicks. 

This time the draw was so much worse. He’d already learned from Bond and just from plain experience that having one’s supernatural abilities syphoned was exquisitely uncomfortable, but this felt like re-tearing an unhealed muscle. Q doubled over and felt his stomach finally give up as he began to heave and retch, he was vaguely aware of the gag coming off and a hand sweeping his hair back from his forehead as he finally vomited, his stomach was empty, so mostly it was bile and dry heaving, as Q’s brain went fuzzy. 

When Q’s world came into focus again, he was surprised to find himself not only sans gag (necessary for vomiting, obviously), but on his hands and knees on the floor rather than awkwardly tied to a chair. James was standing over him, one hand wrapped warningly around his neck, although when Q looked up at him, the other man had an abashed expression rather than a threatening one. “A precaution,” he said stiltedly, thumb moving briefly against Q’s nape to show that James was talking about his grip, “since I can’t exactly trust you like I did earlier - since you obviously don’t trust me like you did before either.” His voice grew rueful at the end. 

Q just nodded slightly, accepting it. He was too tired, too drained to fight back, though he was incredibly grateful to no longer be tied up. As Q looked up at Bond, he realised he couldn’t even muster up fear anymore. Tears intermittently ran down his face, some from vomiting and some just from pure exhaustion. “If, if you’re going to kill me, just make it quick,” he whispered with a little shiver. 

“I’ve never been interested in killing you, Q,” Bond sighed.

“Silva said if I disobeyed, you’d just finish the job you’d been hired to do. And I tried to hurt you.” Q swallowed, grimacing at the taste of his own mouth. The vomit was a rude mess on the floor in front of him, making the ambiance of the room even more grim and inhospitable than it had been before. Further worsening the situation, James’ fingers flexed around Q’s neck - presumably a restless motion, but unsettling to the one subjected to them.

Another soft swear from the man standing over Q, but otherwise silence. It was impossible to tell if James was refusing to answer or thinking things over, as he’d turned his head away to glare at the closed door again. “You tried to hurt me before, too,” James eventually reminded, sounding tired, “I threatened you after that, but I didn’t hurt you back, did I?” 

Q had to force his brain to think back, but Bond was right. He’d frightened Q, but he hadn’t actually hurt him in retaliation. Even now, Bond may have drained him again, but Q had forced him to defend himself. Q shook his head in response to Bond’s question. “No, you didn’t.”

The fingers around Q’s throat had flexed the moment he’d started talking, fingertips momentarily harsh against his windpipe, but they loosened again quickly. “What else did Silva tell you?” James asked next.

It was easier this way, staring blankly at the floor and answering questions. “He said you're good with your fists… and knives. That your skill is breaking people.” Q’s voice cracked but he pushed on anyway. Another brief tightening and then loosening of James’ grip as he no doubt expected Q to switch to more deadly words that didn’t come. “That everything you do is a kind of violence. That you’ll do whatever he needs to get me to-to…” Q trailed off, not even really sure what Silva wanted from Q other than his power. His cooperation.

The man leaning over him sighed deeply as the words ended, and for a moment the silence filled the room again. Finally, Bond griped under his breath, “And this is why I hate micromanagers for employers. Come on, Q.” James firmed up his voice. “We’re going to talk more about this, but leaning over you is wrecking my back, and there’s no reason for you to talk over your own vomit.” The hand didn’t leave Q’s neck, but Bond’s other hand came down to wrap around his left arm, urging upwards. 

Q allowed himself to be helped up, though his feet barely supported him and he had to lean heavily against Bond. He was shivering again, and he felt utterly hollowed out. “Where are you taking me?” he mumbled. 

“Nowhere, apparently, since your little stunt a second ago tells me that someone- ” Another sharp glance at the door indicated that James was likely thinking of Silva. “-Must have turned on some of the power in the building.” When Bond glanced back at Q, his expression was almost embarrassed, maybe regretful as he elaborated, “You shouldn’t have had enough juice to try that again, at least not until you'd recovered fully.” 

“Barely shocked you as it is. And I-I shouldn’t have tried. I feel hollow now, empty.” It stung that Bond had taken his power twice, but Q couldn’t find it in him to be upset. Q could hardly muster the energy to keep shuffling forward, painfully aware of just how much he’d overdone things. Every muscle and bone in his body ached, his head was throbbing, and even if he wasn’t bound anymore, he was still a captive. But he wouldn’t be able to think or do anything until he managed to get some rest. Maybe drink some water.

It was a surprise not to be led to the same chair he’d sat in before - the one with the restraints. However, when James half-led, half-carried Q away from where he’d emptied his stomach contents, it was towards the other chair that Bond himself had been sitting in. James even kicked the chair further away with a well-placed foot. It was a feat of balance that Q couldn’t even imagine managing right now: one arm looped around behind Q’s back now, gripping his opposite arm to keep him upright; the other now folded around the front of Q’s throat, loose but ready; and now using one foot to manoeuvre his chair until it was leaned against the wall nearest the lantern. 

James didn’t speak until he’d gotten Q sitting down, and Bond himself was perched on the edge of the table by the lantern. At that point he looked like he was about to say something else - but then he really got a look at Q’s face and frowned worriedly. “You really are a wreck,” he said in a tight tone instead of responding to any of Q’s other comments. 

Q gave his shoulder a small shrug in response, squeezing his eyes shut against the lantern light that threatened to split his skull. He groaned and raised one hand slowly to cradle his head, grateful when Bond didn’t stop him. “Feel a wreck.”

Whatever he read in Q’s answer or saw on his face seemed to have James quite worried, because after looking over Q again, he muttered under his breath, “And this is why I don’t rip power from people twice in the same day,” and then lifted his free hand to point a finger in Q’s face. “Behave, all right? I already didn’t plan on dragging power out of you twice, but if I take my hand off your throat and start to hear something that isn’t right, I’m going to rip it out of you a third time.”

“I’ll behave. You have my word.” Q wasn’t sure he’d be able to do anything else anyway, but the least he could do for the kindness he’d just been shown was to obey. Besides, Q was fairly certain that if he did try to summon his remaining power, it would destroy him. 

For a moment Bond looked worried at how quickly Q was acquiescing, but then he dipped his head in a nod and the hand slipped off his throat. Q swallowed, revelling in having his mouth and throat free, but as promised, he didn’t try to say anything. Both of James’ hands were immediately on Q’s face, turning it to the light, brushing Q’s hair back from his brow to press a hot palm there, Bond’s mouth set in a grim line the whole time and his blue eyes as honed and focused as when he’d been systematically working his way past Q’s defences. The warmth was heavenly, and Q shamelessly tried to lean into the touch. He was grateful to whatever kept Bond running so warm. With any luck, he’d be allowed to sleep soon.

“Easy there, pet,” James' voice reached him softly, a return of that quietly intimate tone from before, back when Bond had woven a counterfeit world where everything was somehow all right. It shouldn’t have sounded as inviting as it did now. “Nothing’s really changed except you’re a little more tired than before. What Silva said is true, but it was true before when I had you, and I was treating you well then, wasn't I?” James coaxed, even as he pushed Q’s head back, urging him to just rest it against the wall. 

Q leaned his head back; the wall supported him well enough, and the pressure didn’t feel quite so bad like this. Logically, he knew Bond was right. The man had been dangerous the whole time, but Q also knew that Bond didn’t have to be as gentle or kind as he was choosing. He was grateful, he supposed, that Bond was here instead of Silva. 

“I asked you a question, Q,” James pressed. His voice firmed up enough for it to be noticeable, but it also stood out that he wasn’t hitting as hard a tone as he had any other time that he checked whether or not Q understood. And instead of grabbing his captive, this time Bond merely tapped Q’s chin - a carpet-spark jumped off it, the only reminder that James had topped off his stolen supply of technomancer power. 

Q’s eyes snapped open, and he stammered out a quick, “Yes, yes you were,” swallowing as he had a sudden, intense rush of wanting to show he could obey. After all, hadn’t Bond told him earlier he just had to follow what he said? His chin tingled where the spark had touched his skin, but Bond didn’t seem upset. On the contrary, as soon as Q spoke, the man’s tense expression softened into a warm, handsome smile, crows’-feet appearing around his eyes.

“Good. See - easy question, easy answer,” James applauded, his hand smoothing out to stroke from chin to ear, warm across Q’s cheek; Q’s skin tingled at the contact. Bond’s other hand reached for a rickety drawer on the table next to him, and what he pulled out was truly magical: a bottle of water. 

Q’s eyes went wide, staring at the bottle. “May I have some water, please?” he asked, hyper aware of the foul taste in his mouth and the dryness of his throat. 

A bright flash of surprise lit Bond’s eyes, making that three times now that Q had seen through the mask. This look was smoothed over quickly, although not before it transformed into unexpected delight - before settling again into the warm smile that was quickly becoming addictive. “Tell me what your name is, and I’ll give you as much as you need,” James coaxed in a low voice, one hand braced on the arm of the chair and the other holding the water bottle within easy reach. Q hesitated, Silva’s voice still too present in his head. His hand twitched but he didn’t reach for the bottle. It was a visceral relief when James seemed pleased at the lack of response. “Even if you get it wrong, I’ll still give you water. Just tell me the truth,” he kept coaxing, and then even rested the water in Q’s lap - although he didn’t take his scarred hand off it, and the demand for the ‘truth’ suddenly left Q with so many options.

Feeling just a bit calmer at Bond having lifted some of the pressure, Q answered finally, “I’m… I’m Q. Just Q.”

Blue eyes lit up like there were fires behind them, and when James leaned towards him sharply, Q tensed at first, hands gripping the arms of the chair, but Bond was just pushing in close to press a firm kiss to his temple. “Perfect. You’re doing perfect, Q.” And with that he unscrewed the lid from the water bottle, lifting it directly to Q’s mouth for him to drink.

Never in Q’s life had water tasted so good, and he had to remind himself to go slowly and sip rather than gulp. He knew Bond wouldn’t let him spill, and the taste of sick was beginning to fade from his tongue. Bond pulled the bottle back before he could finish, but with a few murmurs of “Shh, shh, it’s not going anywhere. I said I’d give you what you need, and what you need isn’t to puke this back up again” it became clear that this wasn’t done out of malice. The pains in Q’s stomach that had barely registered beneath everything else even faded a little. “Thank you…James,” he murmured. 

The villain’s head twitched towards him at the use of his first name, but it otherwise went unremarked. James put the water bottle next to the lamp and asked, “Are you ready for more questions and answers? I’ll even let you ask a question for each that I ask.” He leaned back and sat on the edge of the table, although that still put him close enough that he was right in Q’s space. 

Feeling a little stronger now that he’d had some water, and glancing at the partially empty bottle before looking back at Bond, Q nodded. “Okay. I think I am. Go ahead.”

Shoulders flexed as James settled down with his elbows on his knees. It was a comraderic closeness, although also one that probably would allow him to physically react faster should Q try anything. “All right, one question from me, then you can ask me one,” he stated the rules again, a patient repetition that should have been annoying instead of reassuring, “Why do you think you’re here?”

Q thought for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “Well, I think I’m here because of what I can do. What my-my secondary power can do.” He glanced up at Bond (who didn’t seem to be upset or disdainful at the mention of Q’s more unsettling ability) and then quietly added, “Because I can break people with one sentence.”

“Hmm.” Bond nodded his head, looking off over Q’s shoulder as if truly pondering that. Then, without commenting on whether or not Q was even fucking right, he turned his piercing eyes back to Q and stated, “Your turn for a question.”

It was very unsettling to have Bond just move on, and despite enjoying Bond’s warmth this close, Q was still wary, but he did have his question ready. “Who or what exactly is Silva?” he asked, fully meeting Bond’s gaze even as his stomach churned with nerves. 

Bond shifted his weight, and it was unsettling to be able to see the strength of him in little movements like that. It got even more anxiety-inducing when James commented, “Bold question for your first.” Fortunately he then shrugged and went on, “I made the terms, though. So I’ll answer. Silva is an up-and-coming criminal of sorts - a potential balance to those heroes you previously spent time with. He’s still gathering his chess-pieces, but he might make quite a play once they’re all on the board.” All of this was said factually and almost blandly, as if barely worthy of gossip by James’ standards. 

Q’s eyes were wide as he took that in. A new criminal wasn’t usually someone to worry about, but Silva seemed to have a particular interest in Q that he really disliked. But he nodded and accepted the answer. “Your turn,” he said, proud that he managed to keep his voice even while his nerves felt frayed. 

This time Bond smirked, and immediately asked with something like wry amusement in his demeanour, “Are you still collecting all of this information in that clever head of yours and planning to bring it back to your heroic little clan like a good little hero?”

The question honestly stunned Q; for all that had happened, Q hadn’t actually expected to make it back to his bosses. He was naturally curious and enjoyed learning, so asking questions and gathering data were second nature. “I didn’t-“ he started before sighing and glancing down at his hands, twisting them together in his lap. “I’m not, actually. At least I don’t think I am. I doubt they’re even very concerned or looking for me.” His shoulders hunched as Q tried to just disappear into the chair. 

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to know how many have tried to find you since I kidnapped you this morning?”

“No. Because I know the answer. It’s zero.” Q felt so small; even his voice sounded small to his ears. 

“Wise choice.” Bond sighed and reached out a hand, which surprisingly landed on Q’s head with fingers sifting unabashedly through his hair in a single unhurried stroke. “Your turn again, since I wasted my question and you were smart enough not to go for the one I was pushing you to ask.”

Q chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound; it felt as hollow as he did. “How did you and Silva find out what my secondary power is? Because it’s not on any official record.”

For a long moment, James didn’t respond. His face had gone unreadable again, that carefully crafted mask. As the silence dragged on, the moment feeling like a year, Q had the sudden, horrible thought that this question was the trap, that he’d somehow doomed himself without knowing. And suddenly it was the only thought in his mind- not answering questions, not being kidnapped, not even being threatened and tortured- no, he was positive that he’d stepped too far and that he was going to die, that Bond’s silence, his blank stare, that those were just the signs of his doom.

It was suddenly very, very hard to get a deep breath, and Q found himself hyperventilating as panic slammed into him. This time, he didn’t try to run or fight; this time, he was fighting to breathe, eyes wide in terror, his anxiety screaming in his head.

It was hard to hear if Bond said “Fuck” because of the ringing in Q’s ears, but Bond’s eyes did widen and his mouth moved only briefly before he was pushing away from the table and moving in to grip Q’s shoulders, the smaller man initially trying to pull away again in his fear. “Easy, easy now,” James said in low tones, and other soft phrases that filled the air like cotton. “Focus on this,” he crooned, repeating the phrase a few times even as he took Q’s hand and pressed it up against his throat. “Can you hear me here? Can you feel the words?” he went on. 

Q was sucking air in shallowly through his mouth, but he did manage to nod in response to the question, even as he began rocking in the chair and tears began to stream down his face. It was always his least favourite part of a panic attack, the loss of emotional control. Q spent so much of his life locking up how he felt and what he thought, following the orders he was given because he truly thought he deserved nothing better. He didn’t dare look at Bond, didn’t want to see the judgement and the pity there. Q wasn’t sure he could bear that, not again. His left hand came up and pressed over his ear, trying to drown out the swiftly growing cacophony in Q’s head.

-”Oh Techie, thank you for fixing everything that I already had under control. Now, why don’t you run along so the heroes can work?”

“Ugh, it’s you. Get away from me you freak!”

“What have you done?! How could you?! She’s-”-

“Q!” Bond’s voice was harsher, and while it wasn’t necessarily louder, the timbre of it vibrated up Q’s palm like a plucked violin string. He jerked, head snapping up and meeting Bond’s gaze. Q knew his eyes were filled with tears, that he still couldn’t get a deep enough breath, but the moment he locked eyes with Bond, he couldn’t look away even as he continued to cry and fight for air. “Good, Q, good.” Bond’s eyes were steady and blue, meeting Q’s without flinching. James pushed Q’s hand more flush to his neck, leaning into it even as his warm palm splayed across the back of Q’s hand and his fingers slid between Q’s against his skin. “Focus on this, all right? Push hard enough that you’ll feel my pulse like it’s in your hand, but you have to focus past the vibration of my vocal cords.” Settling on his knees so he could maintain an easy height for them both, James shuffled a bit closer. His other hand edged towards the one Q had up against his ear, but just settled with two fingers hooked around the crook of his elbow. 

Forcing himself to focus on what he was being told, even as the panic in his head reached a deafening crescendo, Q pressed his right hand a little firmer against the column of Bond’s throat. Finding the heartbeat should have been easy, but Bond kept murmuring - small things, gentle things, so low that they were almost entirely vibration. It made Q have to work harder for it, focus more, until he could feel the promised heartbeat. It was steady, strong, and thumped against Q’s fingers with a consistent rhythm, even if James kept up the subtle distractions. Slowly, Q began to breathe in time with Bond’s heartbeat, shallowly at first, and then with a little more conviction. He didn’t move his gaze from Bond’s, seeking as much stability in those blue eyes as he was in the heartbeat. Bond’s other hand, meanwhile, snuck further up Q’s arm until he was lightly gripping Q’s wrist. “Can you repeat after me, Q?” he asked, switching from mindless sentences to a clear question now.

Q nodded, still keeping eye contact, but now that he could breathe a bit more, he thought he might be able to speak. His fingers flexed as he clung to the steady thumping beneath his hand. So, he softly said, “Yes, I think so.”

“There’s nothing crazy about this,” Bond started, with a prompting nod of his head. 

Making sure he had enough breath, Q repeated, “There’s nothing crazy about this.”

“It’s okay that I’ve panicked,” the next words rumbled against Q’s palm.

“It’s okay that I’ve panicked.” He hiccuped a little on the last word, but Q’s voice held.

“What I’m doing is difficult, and panic is expected.”

“What I’m doing is difficult, and-and panic is expected.” A few tears, but Q’s breath continued to slow and even out.

James’ nod was encouraging, his smile soft and proud. He started pulling Q’s other hand away from where it had been pressed to his ear. “No one expected me not to. So I can panic if I need to.”

Q only resisted for a few seconds before surrendering his arm to Bond. “No one expected me not to. So I can panic if-if I need to.” He nodded a little as the tears began to dry on his cheeks.

Bond ran them through the phrases a few more times until Q was more centred and sure of his words, and he was so used to the feel of Bond’s voice vibrating against his palm that he could feel the heartbeat beyond it without even trying. By that point Bond had pulled Q’s other hand away and laced their fingers together, but kept his hand angled so that he could rub his thumb back and forth across Q’s palm with slow but metronomic steadiness. He let go of Q’s hand against his neck only to reach forward to Q’s head, pulling him forward for a kiss to Q’s chin. “Well done, Q,” he said when he sat back.

“Thank you,” came the grateful reply as Q breathed slowly and deep. He no longer felt like he was falling apart or cracking open. He felt as grounded and safe as he could with the man before him, and at the very least, he was hardly shivering anymore.

“How about you come down here and sit with me?” Bond coaxed next, and somehow that didn’t sound as ridiculous a request as it should have, “I promise the floor will be comfier than it looks.”

Q raised an eyebrow in incredulity, but he obeyed. Moving slowly, finding that his body just felt sore, he shifted to the edge of the chair and then slid off it, kneeling as he tried not to overbalance and land on Bond. The larger man immediately turned and pulled him, handling Q’s body like he’d known it for years, until they were both sitting against the wall, Q tucked under James’ right arm. “It’s all right,” James murmured, urging Q to curl up his knees so they were almost propped over James’ legs.

It was an odd kind of intimacy, practically cuddling with a dangerous kidnapper, but as Q stretched and settled into the space, curled up against Bond with their legs almost tangled together, he felt more of his body relax, and a question popped into his head. “How long has it been since you grabbed me?” he asked.

“It’s not your turn for a question, love,” James said, but with a warm-breathed kiss to the top of his head. 

“Well, technically it’s still my question since you didn’t answer me before,” Q said before his brain caught up with his mouth. He stiffened, then took a deep breath, and made himself exhale and relax again. “Shit. Fine. Then that’s my third, once you answer my other and ask your next of me.”

“Fair,” Bond grunted, although there followed that pause again. This time it ended more quickly, with James heaving out a sigh that Q could feel. The man’s hand rose up his back in a slow stroke, although it ended with his strong fingers lingering near Q’s neck again. They didn’t grip and threaten a choked-off silence, but they did scratch softly at the side of Q’s neck, then idly tug at a lock of hair. “You asked how we knew the second power that you had, and the answer is simple,” he said in a blunt but heavy tone. He turned his head in so that the next words were spoken into Q’s hair, muffled but still very discernible as he muttered grudgingly, “Although I don’t know if you’re going to care for it.” Bond paused like that, and the two of them were like moths in amber, suspended in that moment with Bond’s inhale and exhale warming the crown of Q’s head, one arm around Q’s shoulders and the other still reaching across to grip his knee. “Are you sure you don’t want to trade out a question? I’ll allow it.”

Q’s stomach churned, wondering now why Bond had hesitated twice to answer him and whether or not he truly wanted the truth. “If you’re worried I’ll try something, you have my word I won’t. I honestly don’t think I could right now anyway…and I’d rather deal with you than Silva.” Q shivered and leaned into Bond’s warmth a little more, but he chewed his lip as he thought over Bond’s offer. “No, no I want to know. Just rip the plaster off.”

Bond made a grudging noise but then gave in, and he did indeed lay out his answer with swift efficiency now: “I know what you can do because I’ve seen you do it.”

Chapter Text

“What?!” Q shouted, and Bond’s grip on his shoulder and knee was the only thing that kept Q from pulling away and running - which perhaps had been the intention all along. For a moment he worried the panic was back as he struggled, but he quickly recognized that the fear he felt was more for what Bond truly thought of him. It was one thing to hear someone could destroy another, but entirely a different thing to see it done. He started shaking his head and rocking slightly, disbelief and shame running through him. “How? How could you possibly have seen me do that?” Now he looked at Bond and hoped that what he felt showed for once, rather than staying hidden. 

It was suddenly an incomparable gift that James’ eyes were not cold for once, but instead a mix of sad and sympathetic. “It’s my job, Q,” he said with an almost regretful shake of his head, “It’s what I do. Silva hired me because of my power, yes, but you don’t have a record of outmanoeuvring heroes time and again without also knowing how to find all of their weak spots that they want to keep hidden.”

“Okay, forget my other questions. Just tell me this, and-and I’ll answer whatever you want. If I can. When did you see me use it?”

James gave Q another one of those patiently measured looks, where it seemed he was judging whether or not to comply - although, as before, he ultimately ended up just inhaling and exhaling deeply and answering, “About a month ago. You were on your own again and up against a big bastard with metal skin, I think. He was pretty immune to your trick with electricity, if I recall correctly - he was basically a mean, fucking lightning rod.”

Q remembered the mission- the bastard had easily been 20 stone or more and nearly two metres tall, and Q had weathered several blows that had taken weeks to heal. Vesper had stayed back, shooing Q into danger because he “had the expertise with metal and things.” She’d gone to get a bloody manicure while Q had been forced to resolve the situation on his own.

Something in James’ eyes softened and grew sadder, as he just watched Q and kept dutifully laying out his answer like Q had asked, “He’d already thrown you around so much that half your face was all blood, and still you kept trying. It took until you were on your knees and barely lucid before you just looked up at him and spoke.”

Q could still taste the copper of his own blood, and he remembered the sudden burst of heat and anger in his entire body as he had locked eyes with his opponent and said, “What a pathetic waste of space you are.” The power flowed out of him fast enough that Q felt like his insides were a vacuum, but the result was immediate. The metal man’s eyes had focused on him with an expression of pure terror and pain before going completely and utterly blank. Q had still been trying to wipe the blood from his eyes and get up, so he hadn’t seen the metal man step out into the street right in front of a bus, but he heard the crash. His bosses had given him hell about the paperwork on that.

“Your turn,” Q said, his voice quiet and resigned. “I owe you a few answers.”

Looking torn, James rubbed idly at Q’s far shoulder and looked off towards the door again. He murmured almost too quietly to hear, “I’ve made you think so, haven’t I?” But before those words could process, he turned his focus fully back to Q and asked with the same unwavering intensity that he’d had up until now, “Who’s been more fair with you - Chameleon or me?”

A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up out of Q as he almost immediately replied, “You, no contest.” And then he was laughing, a bit manic and overtired, but he pressed his face against Bond’s chest as he tried to pull himself back together. The mere thought of Vesper trying to be remotely kind to him was just so absurd.

He felt Bond take in and let out a deep breath again, but before Q could ponder whether or not James was troubled by that answer, the man lifted his hand to the back of Q’s head, keeping it close and carding through the hair at Q’s nape softly. “Another question then, since you said you wanted to give me more answers,” he nudged, and while ‘want to’ and ‘owe’ were a bit different, Q was too wrung out to find an argument before James went on, “What gives you more anxiety: the thought of going home to face the other heroes you work with - or staying longer here with me?”

While he’d thought he was ready for another question, Q found himself very much without a clear answer or even a clear feeling. On the one hand, Vesper and the other heroes hated him; even his government handlers kept him at arm’s length. Being here with Bond was the first time in years that Q had felt either seen or heard, but that didn’t change the fact that the man had kidnapped him. Q’s stomach churned a little, and he didn’t even realise he was beginning to hold his abdomen as he tried to find an answer. He started shaking his head, mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t… know,” he finally said.

Last time Q’s answer was vague, James had threatened to send him crashing backwards out of his chair - had dragged him forward by the throat when he’d lied. This time, though, when uncertainty was all Q could give, James didn’t even tense up. Instead, the hand stroking Q’s hair curled around the edge of his jaw only enough to nudge his head up so that James could press his lips to the worry line between Q’s brows. “That’s all right, Q. That answer is the truth, and I’ll always reward that.”

At this rate, Q would never be able to figure out the man beside him, how he could go from intimidating and cold to warm, practically tender. And a very small part of Q, so small and quiet beneath his pain and exhaustion that he couldn’t hear it, liked very much that right here, with Bond, Q didn’t have to pretend.

There was no more pressure from James after that, as if this wasn’t an interrogation at all, with James just murmuring against Q’s brow, “I think you’ve earned something to eat.”

***

James watched through the room’s dingy window, staring into the new room that he’d moved Q to. He’d planned to do it earlier - this room was nicer by a small but purposefully noticeable margin, had a bed and more extensive lamp-lighting - but after Silva’s interference, it had been a bitch and a half to figure out how to move a technomancer without letting him too close to technology to fuel his powers. In the end, it had taken that extra hour just to get Q calmed down enough that James could trust him not to try anything for the twenty minutes it took to shuffle him over to the next room and get him settled enough to sleep. Once he was sure that Q was asleep and [moderately] fed (James knew his trade well, and knew that hunger was a stressor that he needed to maintain in a prisoner, so he had given Q only a small portion to eat, under the guise of not wanting to shock his stomach after the current fasting), Bond had left and done a swift and thorough sweep of the area. He’d had to switch one breaker. One breaker he’d strategically turned off when he’d known he’d be bringing a technomancer here. Damn Raoul Silva. 

If James were damning people, though, he figured he’d have to start damning himself, too. ‘Quentin,’ he reminded himself, ‘His name is Quentin.’ Even if he’d convinced Fluke that his name was nothing more or less than the letter James had given him, Bond had to keep his own grasp on reality. ‘But why does he have to be so damn earnest?’

On the other side of the door, Q was curled up on the mattress, his shoes together on the floor and his glasses by the lamp where he could easily find them when he woke. Even in sleep, Q looked worried, a frown creasing his brow even as his breathing was even and deep. He looked so vulnerable like this, not the panicked livewire of the past few hours.

And James had done that. He’d taken someone who was more than reasonably terrified about an honestly terrifying kidnapping situation and had coaxed and prodded them into relaxing right into it. The fact that he hadn’t even lied much to do it wasn’t a consolation prize - it just made the mindfuck that much harder for Q - Quentin - to get out of if he started seeing past the edges of it. Despite having done things like this for anyone with the cash to pay, and thinking that he’d gotten over the moral backlash of it a decade ago, that last hour sitting with Q after his long-awaited panic-attack had left James with a knot in his guts. 

That knot was not improved by Silva coming down the hallway and sidling up next to him. “You really are making abysmally slow progress,” the man remarked.

James just growled back without turning, “No thanks to you.”

Despite being honestly one of the most dangerous super-powered individuals James knew, Silva’s reply was fun and annoyingly playful, “Oh come now, James! I was just helping things along - and I couldn’t let you get bored.” Silva nodded towards Q’s room without actually bothering to look in. “Soft little thing like that should be too easy for you.”

“Never underestimate the mark,” James gritted, even as he started going through a list in his head of all the reasons he shouldn’t give in to the urge to punch Silva in the middle of his smug face. 

Predictably, Silva just scoffed at him. “If I’m underestimating, then you’re guilty of overkill. I’ve never seen you make such a smooth catch - yet you go through so many precautions once you get here.” He gestured with a grimace of distaste at the barely-lit hallway, making it even more abundantly clear that he was responsible for some of the power being turned back on despite Bond’s clear instructions against it. “One would think you were playing with your food. You’re not at summer camp making friends with all the wide-eyed boys, you know,” Silva teased.

“You want him as an ally, don’t you? If you think this is taking a long time, see how long it fucking takes you to make an ally of him if I start breaking his bones,” James lost control of some of his temper, his words getting heated. What he refused to look at too closely was the fact that he didn’t want to beat Q up either, despite Silva obviously pushing for more violent means of persuasion. “Like I told you - we’re doing this my way, and you bloody well know that my way gets results.”

“You did come highly recommended.” As always, the words sounded irksomely patronising when Silva said them. Underneath that, though, James knew that Silva wanted Bond on his team just as much as he wanted Q - and maybe he wanted to beat James into submission, too, but he couldn’t risk conflict with someone who could maybe, possibly, beat him. So instead, here the man was taking out his temper on a more vulnerable draftee.

‘And who made him vulnerable?’ that sneaky voice in James’ head said, and he had to grit his teeth against the sense of regret that flooded him. 

“It’s time for me to wake him up,” James said abruptly to get out of the conversation. Of course, that didn’t allow him to escape his newly awakened conscience - which was reminding him that waking Q up now, barely fifteen minutes into a much-needed nap, was just all part of the process. Scared, thirsty, hungry, exhausted captives were the easiest to manipulate, and even if these methods didn’t result in pain and blood, they were still vicious. Fuck, the panic attack had practically been planned, insofar as James had known it was a possibility from the first moment he’d seen Q’s breathing shift upon recognizing who and what James was. Even if panic attacks didn’t always leave a person open to kindness (James had known a few folks who wouldn’t have wanted to even be touched during or after an episode, so it had been pure luck that Q had responded to the distraction of James’ touch), James knew they sure as hell exhausted a person. Bond had learned early on that his powers did the same, although it really had scared the fuck out of him when he’d had to rip Q’s technomancy away from him for a second time. 

Q’s powers were probably starting to ‘refill’ now, but James was reasonably sure that he’d worked Q into a docile enough mindset that history wouldn’t repeat itself. Hopefully. ‘If he tries something again, you just teach him the same lesson again. Repetition breeds consistency. Consistency feeds patterns,’ James heard the old rules running through his head. They felt cold and dead, though, and he realised that he wasn’t looking forward to forcing new patterns into this young hero’s psyche. 

James closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his pocket and giving himself a moment to just be glad that Silva was stuck on the other side of the door. That relaxed his shoulders a little. But then they tensed up again as he looked down at Q, still curled up as if he were simply trying to disappear, and realised that now he had to go back to a job he increasingly hated. 

Bond had been there when Q had fallen asleep, so he quietly stalked over and sat down next to Q, ensuring that he’d be an immovable structure in Q’s worldview when he woke up, too. “Q, love,” he said, and it was both incredibly easy and incredibly hard to sink into the soft, gentle tone, because somewhere along the way it had become easy to comfort the hero - but at the same time, it was also part of the process, making the words go sour in James’ mouth. Nonetheless, he stroked the back of a finger along the shell of Q’s ear, crooning again, “I need you to wake up.”

Q frowned, clearly trying to pull away from the voice and the touch, but he was also leaning into it, which was exactly what Bond was looking for, and it didn’t take much longer for him to start to blink and open his eyes. “Wha-unnnnnhhhhh,” he groaned, a hand coming up to his head and holding near his temple.

“Water will help with that,” James said, which was… not entirely a lie, but honestly pretty off the mark. At this point, Q definitely had a headache that went beyond dehydration. Still, James showed off the one-third-full water bottle he’d brought with him. No food or water had been left in the room, leaving his prisoner dependent on him, but instead of going through the give-and-take game of making Q work for the water, James just set it down practically in Q’s hand and let go of it. 

Still clearly groggy and fighting off sleep, Q’s hand automatically closed around the bottle and he drank, taking a few sips before setting it back down on the floor, not completely empty. “How long was I out?” he mumbled.

‘A couple of hours,’ James was supposed to say, a strategic lie to make Q’s drowsiness feel less justified, but the words stayed trapped on his tongue. All he could see in his minds’-eye was Q so wrecked from two hits of Bond’s power that he could have died from choking on his own vomit - something that James shouldn’t have remotely let happen. “Not sure, actually,” he replied instead, which was still a lie, but somehow this one made it past his teeth. He told himself that it had nothing to do with the fact that this lie was more benign, less guileful, and more to do with the fact that Technoman was known to have a pretty impeccable internal clock.

That last lie to himself crumbled when he thought about how internal clocks get pretty shoddy when you exhaust and dehydrate a person enough in a room with no windows.

Sighing, Q pushed himself up to a sitting position as his hand reached for his glasses only to find Bond holding them out to him. He nodded and accepted them, putting them on his face and looking at Bond with a bit more focus in his eyes. “What now?”

‘What now indeed?’ James asked himself while trying to puzzle through why the fuck he’d decided to grow a conscience now of all days. Another spark of memory, like a flashback: Q looking so lonely amongst his fellow heroes, then straightening his shoulders and getting to work anyway, while James had been gathering data on him for Silva. “I thought we could talk a bit more, since yesterday was rough on you - and I realised neither Silva nor I have really explained what we want of you.” The mix of truths and lies fell out easily - for example, this truly had started yesterday, insofar as it was now two in the morning. The real truth was that James wanted to talk to Q until the technomancer’s headache took over and closed off the subject again.

“I was wondering what you wanted,” Q replied, leaning back against the wall. “Well, you said I was wanted, at least for my power, and based on the… accommodations,” he looked pointedly at the nearly bare room, “you were expecting resistance? Figured I wouldn’t cooperate?” He rubbed at his left temple and looked back at Bond.

As always, the truth rolled around in James’ head even when it rarely fell out of his mouth in its complete form: yes, they’d expected resistance, but Silva also wanted full and manic loyalty. And James knew the only way to get that was to break down a person’s current loyalty like a boat on rough seas, and convince them to latch onto something else before they drowned. It worked even better if you could get them to be thankful for - and maybe even love - their lifeboat. “Correct,” James nodded and gave a short answer, then pretended to pause and consider before amending, “Mostly. You’re focusing a lot on your power, like it’s just some kind of tool we can only get to through you.” Then he sat back against the wall and waited for what Q would make of that. 

“Because it is,” Q replied, frowning in confusion. “No one else can do what I can do. Well, technomancy isn’t completely rare, but I’ve never met someone who can utterly shatter someone with words… not like I can.” The last part was soft, not so much thoughtful as ashamed, and suddenly Q wasn’t making eye contact anymore, staring instead at the wall opposite.

James eased over on the pretence of shifting his position, a seemingly restless motion that ended with their shoulders touching. This place was purposefully a few degrees colder than most folks found comfortable, and Q hadn’t had a blanket either - and James knew for a fact that he himself ran hot. Q would notice the contact, so James kept up the conversation like normal while waiting to see if Q would accept it or pull away, “True enough. But there’s a big difference between picking out a rare, expensive tool from a hardware store and what I’m here to do.” The truths slipped out strategically, but unlike past missions, it was hard to keep more from flying free. “You don’t put this much effort into the former.”

“And what are you trying to do?” Q’s tone was rather humourless, though he did shift his posture slightly to lean into Bond’s warmth, shivering and tucking his feet under his legs. Bond felt a pleased thrill go through him, and told himself it was just because this was what he’d hoped his target would do. “What is all this that requires more effort than choosing the tool for the job?” He glanced at Bond, a brief flash of hazel green behind the glasses.

‘Wait it out. The more you play, the more exhausted he’ll be by the time you give him the answer,’ James told himself, years of experience at dirty work coming into play, ‘ Snow him in with half-answers until the truth can slide home without resistance .’ Instead of slowly but systematically overwhelming Q’s defences, however, James just blurted out, “Testing out an ally.” In his defence, he was pretty sure the main reason Q hadn’t come to his idea earlier was because of crippling self-doubt born of too long with so-called allies who treated him more like a tolerated enemy.

After a few seconds of silence, Q started laughing. He doubled over and had to take off his glasses as he laughed until tears streamed down his face. “An ally? Pull the other one.” He coughed as the laughter subsided and wiped his eyes, replacing his glasses and looking at Bond properly. “From talking to Silva yesterday, he made it sound like you were here to break me to his will.”

‘Of course he fucking admitted that.’ James spent the next three seconds less trying to contain surprise than trying to contain rage. Thus far, James himself had avoided ever giving Silva a solid answer about whether or not he’d keep working alongside him after this contract was finished, but now he was pretty sure that a bark scorpion would be a better employer. Maybe that was why he glowered at the door (the view beyond the window invisible thanks to the lighting differences) while he answered, “Like I said, vetting an ally takes more work. If you were just a tool, it would be relatively easy to put you to work.” He glanced back at Q, calming making eye-contact even if he was admittedly a lot less calm than he was supposed to be. “But allies you have to test out like ice on a lake: carefully.”

“Especially if you want them to change their allegiance,” Q said quietly. He grimaced, rubbing his temple while he kept looking at Bond. “And where does yours lie?”

The question had James’ head twitching towards Q before he could stop the motion, and he frowned. Say the truth or make up a good lie? Most people maintained that telling the truth made it easier to stick with your story in the long-run, but James had been lying since he hit the foster system at age eleven, so it was all the same to him. Nonetheless, what he rolled around in his mouth and then uncomfortably gave out was, “Whoever is paying. I’m the tool here, Q. You’re the valuable asset who will have every potential to go places if you pass this test.”

The younger man frowned, chewing his lip again as he processed this. “That hardly seems fair… to either one of us. If you’re a tool, Silva can just discard you, and something tells me that I’m only a valuable asset so long as I cooperate.”

Bond wanted to say ‘True on both accounts,’ but he managed to choke the word down and just chuckle a bit darkly instead. “I’m used to it. I’m sure you can understand the power in being a valuable tool - and that’s what I am.” Truly, that was probably the only thing that allowed Bond and Silva to work together: mutually assured destruction or mutually assured gain. Bond was one of the few people that Silva couldn’t just replace, not only because of his supernatural abilities but also because of his skills with understanding and manipulating people - and Silva… was one of the few that James doubted his ability to kill.

“So you’re valuable and Silva keeps you around. He’s assigned you to-to test me? See if I can be swayed away from the heroes?” Q chuckled darkly. “Join the Dark Side, as it were?” He sighed and shook his head, then grimaced with a muttered curse. “So all of this is just, getting me on his side, then. Must be really terrible if you had to kidnap me to make Silva’s case for him.”

The last sentence tangled James up a bit, so he went ahead and asked, feeling his way through the conversation like a knife seeking the connection between skin and muscle, “What do you mean by that?”

Q said slowly. “Silva’s been in once, you’ve been here the rest of the time. He sent you to do his job for him. I take it he’s more of a mastermind than an actual worker?” When Bond didn’t immediately answer, Q continued, “Considering what I’m capable of, I can’t see Silva wanting me as an ally for anything other than cruelty and destruction. And if I had to guess,” he added, nodding slightly, “if I fail or reject the offer, I die.” He looked back at Bond. “How am I doing?”

James shrugged. “You’re judging people a bit quickly, and you’re actually wrong on the results if you fail or reject the offer, but otherwise correct.”

“Really. If I say no, then you and Silva will just let me go? Knowing who I am and where I work? I can identify you both. I could get you arrested. Why in the world would either of you even consider that risk?”

The truth was that if Q said no, then James would just work him over again, breaking him down more and more each time - because Q would only get more tired, and James would only get more knowledgeable on which buttons to push. That was the job James had been hired for, and he always finished his tasks - and if he gave someone a name, that meant they were his . Hearing the surety in Q’s voice just made James sad, because he knew he could break Q of that, too, especially now that he’d heard Q uncertainty, he’d seen what he looked like when he doubted the answers his clever mind came up with. 

‘Maybe this is why you’re feeling for him more than any other target before,’ James realised with a fatalistic sense of certainty, ‘Because that power he hates so much you use on a daily basis. You’ve probably broken more people than he has.’

Working his jaw because he knew he had to say something, James forced his mind back on task. It felt like telling his legs to work after falling off a building running from a job gone bad. “Perhaps you’re right.” His voice came out smooth and assured, and for the first time in a long while he hated how he could do that. “In that case, we should focus on convincing you to say ‘yes’-” He picked up the nearly-empty water bottle and tapped it against Q’s chin, a physical spark of distraction - of refocusing - even as he smiled at him. “-Because I’d hate to have to do away with you after we’ve started getting along.”

Q stiffened a little (though he didn’t move away), but he also almost immediately accepted and finished the water, his stomach growling almost loud enough to echo in the room. “Sorry,” he said, handing the empty bottle back to Bond. “Guess I could at least hear you out. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Very logical,” James applauded and agreed, “and generous of you. We’ll go back to trading questions then.” Without waiting for approval - after all, someone wearing his name didn’t get to be in control of this space - James shifted, moving enough so that he sat cross-legged in front of Q. Eye-contact was easier, and they touched in a few places at knees and toes. “Do you want to start, or me? If you ask first, then I get the last question.” A trade-off; give someone a sense of power by choosing. James didn’t actually care which way it went, because he would adjust accordingly, and would have the upper hand regardless. 

“How long has it been since you took me?” Q asked, meeting Bond’s gaze levelly as he rested his hands on his knees, knuckles perhaps brushing Bond’s trouser leg, but Q didn’t seem to notice.

The thoughtless close-contact was worth it for Bond to give up an advantage: his awareness of the time. It was an easy question after he accepted that. “A little under twelve hours. My turn?” He let Q set the pace, and didn’t go on until Q nodded. “Do you believe that my intention truly is to gain your trust?” He sat and waited, watching the nuances of Q’s face as that settled in.

“No,” Q answered quietly. “I think your job is to break me. And if you do that by gaining my trust, it makes your job all the easier, doesn’t it?”

“So I do care about your trust then,” James responded, canting his head.

“Only so you can use it against me.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Bond firmed up his voice a bit and shook his head, also moving a hand to tap a finger against Q’s wrist. It wasn’t by any means a threatening gesture, but he knew that yesterday Q had gotten used to him moving, and Bond’s shifting now brought his shoulders back a bit, a preparation for movement where he’d been still before. It also wasn’t a touch like the gentle ones he’d always left on Q’s face. “Answer me and I’ll explain, but don’t evade me,” he said in a sincere, carefully lowered octave. 

“Fine, yes, you care about my trust and are trying to gain it,” Q said, irritation and exhaustion clear in his voice, but he didn’t move his hand where Bond had tapped him. “There. Didn’t dodge, and it’s my turn. Why don’t you just kill Silva?”

That had James chuckling involuntarily, his body settling into restful stillness again. “Maybe because he’s paying me?”

“Now who’s dodging,” Q replied. “You can literally take powers away and then use them, I think, so why not just ditch him and find a better paying job?”

“Professional pride. I won’t get hired much if I start killing off people who contract me to do work.”

“Fair,” Q said with a nod. “Okay, what’s your next question?”

They’d been moving along at the same octave of tension for too long now. Even if James was having a harder time than usual making himself follow through with this job, he knew that he had to change things up if they wanted to get anywhere. He thought a moment before picking a question. There were many he could ask - ‘Why do you go back to Chameleon and the others? What would you think if I said no one was coming for you? What would you do to get out of here?’  - but he could guess where those questions would lead, and Q was too alert to wander accidentally down any detours.

So he decided it was time to detach Q’s mind a little.

Chapter Text

“How would you like it if I took you somewhere with more food?” he asked with his most pleasant smile.

Q’s eyes widened a little in surprise, and his stomach growled loudly again, with at least some want. This is what Bond meant by not asking any questions he didn’t already know the answer to, and he had to fight the urge to smile wider. “I mean, as long as it’s safe and not drugged or anything, I wouldn’t mind some food.”

“I can promise both of those things,” Bond agreed obliquely, “In return, can you give me your word that you won’t use either of your powers?” He draped both arms over his knees, the picture of lazy patience, when in reality he was like a wolf listening with ears perked, knowing that a lot hinged on this answer.

Q took a slow, deep breath, let it out, and nodded. “You have my word that I will not use my powers,” he said.

“Good boy.” It was instinct to reach out a hand to pull Q to him, and Bond was surprised when Q didn’t resist, letting Bond pull him close. Bond’s actions had been a rare moment of reflex before thought, but now he relaxed and followed through with it, pressing his lips to Q’s forehead. The feel of Q’s dark hair against his skin was starting to feel familiar. When he let go, he stood, choosing to loom over Q for a moment just so his imprisoned hero had to crane his neck to look up at him. “There are a few more stipulations, but nothing I don’t think you can handle.”

The younger man shifted, bringing himself to a comfortable kneel on the mattress as he looked up at Bond, likely so he didn’t get a crick in his neck looking up as well. “What are they?” he asked, tone suggesting he’d expected as much.. For his part, James was momentarily lost in the image of having a superhero kneeling at his feet. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this - far from it, as this was where they all ended up, when James was done with them - but somehow he had a hard time slotting this picture away with the other victories, paid for and forgotten. 

Luckily, James’ mouth knew what it needed to say even if a certain amount of his emotions apparently didn’t: “Well, as you pointed out, if you get away and tell others what you saw, Silva’s work here is jeopardised - and by extension, my paycheck. You seeing my face was unavoidable.” Seeing Silva’s had been totally avoidable, but the man was a narcissistic sociopath who couldn’t resist inserting himself into everything. “But if you want to follow me to get food, you’re going to do it blindfolded so at least you don’t get any clues to where we are.”

“That’s fair,” Q agreed after a moment, nodding once before asking, “Can I stand yet, or do you want me blindfolded first?”

The hesitancy was a good sign, but James was starting to feel a schism in his mind: the cold, efficient part of him that saw the hesitation as progress, that Q was still harking back to yesterday where James had controlled everything and Q couldn’t move - but another part of him liked it for purely personal reasons, the same personal reasons that had catalogued the angle of Q’s back, the set of his head, the vulnerable line of his throat the second he’d knelt up. “Stand,” he kept his voice firm and words brief, “I’m not bending down just to blindfold you.”

Q obeyed, moving deliberately but slowly until he was standing at his full height in front of Bond. He stretched, cracking what sounded like almost every vertebra in his back with a groan. “I feel so stiff,” he said.

Bond chuckled, even as he thought about how sleeping on this old mattress would certainly do that to someone. “Perhaps the short walk will do you as much good as the food at the end then,” he said, then stepped away to the small set of drawers in the corner of the room. He’d made sure Q was too tired to care about it when he’d come to the room, although he always kept it locked as a precaution anyway. He’d had a few heroes lash out and try to break into it, although if they succeeded, they never found much - just a few tools of the trade that were useful to James and no one else, except maybe the extra water bottle. Right now he simply took out the folded sleep-mask. “Come here, Q,” he beckoned, not hiding the mask as he turned, because saying you’d accept a blindfold got a lot harder once you were faced with the reality of its presence.

It took a moment of obvious doubt and reluctance, followed by stepping into his shoes, but Q did eventually make his way over to Bond, coming to a stop about an arm’s length away. “That-that looks like a sleep mask.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rocking slightly as he stood. “Somehow I thought it would be more like the gag. Can-can I see it first? Before you put it on me?”

Since a self-assured, calm Q wouldn’t yield the results James needed, he shook his head and took a step forward to close the distance between them. “No. While you’re welcome to try and take it by force when I put it on, that’s only going to waste both of our time.”

Q bit his lip and looked down at the ground. “Sorry, yes. Okay, just do it.” He took off his glasses, tucking them in one of his cardigan pockets, closed his eyes and seemed to be focusing on breathing and just staying upright. Good. Quiet and exhausted was good. James brought the blindfold up to Q’s face, pressing the middle portion with its form-fitting padding over Q’s eyes and listening as Q’s breathing hitched for a second or two before evening out; his hands opened and closed a few times, but no electricity was forthcoming. 

With a quiet hum of appreciation, James wrapped the ends of the mask around Q’s head. “Stay put,” he commanded, even as he stepped around Q - already blinded even if the only thing holding the mask in place was James’ hand for now. Q obeyed, but not without a quiet whimper as he clearly fought to stay still and obey. He was shivering slightly again, little tremors running through his body, hands clenched into fists. This was the higher level of tension that James needed. 

Knowing that he could walk as quietly as a cat, James made sure that Q had no way to detect his movements beyond the continued hold on the mask. When he was behind Q, he stepped up needlessly close to tie it with a snug tug on the fabric. This time, Bond could feel the shiver that ran through Q’s entire body, and despite the clear tension throughout him, Q did not move or try to fight Bond off. If anything, Q seemed to be focusing on his breathing and muttering something under his breath. Since they were in such close proximity, Bond easily made out the words: “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

It was second-nature to roll with that, to let Q know that he heard him while also startling him again. James leaned his head in to murmur low encouragement against Q’s right ear, “You are, Q. You are.” 

Q jumped, stumbling and throwing an arm out, but was kept from moving more than a centimetre as James used his grip on the blindfold to forcibly hold the hero still. “Fuck,” Q swore, clearly rattled and trying to regain control. James wasn’t going to let him. He kept a grip on the knot and this time moved forward, basically walking them both off the mattress and watching Q’s feet figure out the difference between the bed and the floor.

“Please don’t let me fall,” Q said as he got both feet fully under him and on solid ground. He turned his head slightly, more out of habit than actually being able to see, and just like he had before, Q stopped, hands flexing, and then held still, waiting.

Now would have been the time to get brutal. To make it clear that Q would take what he gave him, and just like it hadn’t been Q’s place to ask questions out of turn, it wasn’t his place to make demands. Instead, Bond had to bite back the urge to promise that he wouldn't. He found himself compromising, acting as if he hadn’t heard the plea but stating clearly, “Put your hands here - and here - on me.” He caught both of Q’s wrists and moved them to where he wanted them, so Q could grip his shirt at about mid-rib cage on either side of James' back. “You’ll be able to follow behind me.”

Q gripped the fabric tightly, clinging to this single sensory lifeline and nodding. “Yes, Bond,” he said. “I understand.” His head continued to move in short, aborted motions, as if every time it did, Q remembered he couldn’t see. It was one of the quickest ways to put a target off-balance, and James felt like an entire bastard for doing it. 

Mentally apologising for punishing Q like this for his clearheadedness earlier, James simply said, “Good. Don’t say anything, don’t try anything.” Then he couldn’t help but add, when Q stumbled a bit at the first step forward they took together, “But let go with one hand if my pace is too fast for you.” Considering Q would probably let go if he tripped or panicked anyway, it felt like a reasonable safety-valve for the situation. 

When Q - already following orders - said nothing more, James walked them both forward, unlocking the door and stepping out. Their only saving grace was that apparently Silva had gotten bored and left, meaning there was no one in the hallway to ask if James was enjoying the intimate tugs of shaking hands on his shirt with every move he made. 

***

Walking blindfolded was much harder than Q had expected. So much of how he experienced the world, he realised, was completely tied into his sight, and to suddenly have it gone threw his mind into chaos. Bond kept them at a brisk but steady pace, which at least meant that the few times Q did stumble, he collided with James’ back even as he let one hand go to try and steady himself again. Each time, as promised, James slowed to a halt the second one of Q’s hands left his shirt, giving Q time to shakily find his hold again if not his equilibrium.

After several minutes walking down corridors, Q’s mental map in absolute shambles despite his best efforts to try and map the building, there was a slowing of Bond’s pace and a door opening, and Q clung a little tighter to James’ shirt. He bit his tongue, aching to ask where they were but knowing that he’d agreed to obey, and Bond had explained things so far, hadn’t he? It was starting to get difficult for Q to sort through his tangled mess of emotions and feelings. However, they were simply turning and then James was saying “Stairs. You can move one hand to my shoulder if you have to. We’re going down.” The words were brisk and efficient, an engineer’s sketch rather than an artist's oil painting of the situations, and Bond only paused for one full in and out breath to let his words sink in - then his body was moving downwards against Q’s hands, presumably taking the first step.

Q slid one foot forward, finding the edge of the step and then, praying to a God he didn’t know if he believed in, he stepped down. His foot landed on the next step, and then he had to do it again. And again. And again. He shifted his hand to Bond’s shoulder, finding it a slightly better angle as they headed down the stairs, but each step felt like he was stepping off a cliff into nothing but air. ‘I hate this,’ he thought, digging his fingers into the material of Bond’s shirt again as he nearly stumbled but caught himself before either one of them could go tumbling down the stairs. He did manage not to speak, but he couldn’t help the slight yip of terror that escaped him. Thank fuck James at least decreased his pace drastically without complaint. 

The bottom of the stairs did eventually come, with James actually pausing with Q on the last one. “Just one more step down, then we’re on level ground again,” James’ calm, factual voice informed him, and again that inhale-exhale-length pause before setting them in motion again. The transition was easier this time, and Q was even ready to move when Bond was. Finding his feet back on solid ground and no longer in danger of tumbling head over arse down the stairs while blindfolded, Q exhaled sharply in relief, sagging a little against Bond’s back before he heard the next door open and they were off down another corridor. James didn’t speak further, and it was strangely like not existing - or like simply being an extension of James, his shadow, bound to drag behind him. You didn’t talk to a shadow, you didn’t ask it what it wanted, and it didn’t speak back. The silence could have possibly become lulling if Q weren’t having to spend so much focus straining to take in the world around him without the benefit of sight. 

Another door; the sound of it opening, the brief change that caused in James’ pace; the whoosh of it closing alongside them, reminding Q that if he didn’t stay close, it might clip him; echos that could have been a hallway but was apparently a room, because then James stopped and said, “I’m going to grab some things. Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”

Q’s eyes went wide behind the blindfold and his mouth fell open in shock. He managed to shake his head ‘No’, assuming Bond was watching for his response. Motorcycle?!, Q thought, the mental image of hearing the world rush by and not being able to see any of it leaving him anxious and queasy. He had figured they would be eating somewhere else in the building, but if transportation was involved, then how the hell would Bond do this without someone noticing that Q was clearly a captive?

“Ah, well, so much for me making a metaphor,” James said lightly, as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary, just two acquaintances on an ordinary errand. “I was going to say that this will be like riding behind someone on a motorcycle - don’t anticipate the turns, just lean and move with me.” And already Bond was doing that, moving and turning, stepping this way and that, no rhyme or reason to it. 

Q’s head was spinning. Within seconds of Bond beginning this, Q had to surrender to moving with the other man or he would’ve fallen flat on his face, and within minutes, he was completely and utterly lost. Q couldn’t have even said where the staircase was that they’d descended… which, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied, would’ve clicked as Bond’s plan all along. Then, during a moment where James wasn’t moving (thank god), there was a wooden sort of thunking noise. It took Q a moment to realise he was hearing a knife on a cutting board. 

“You can talk now,” James said, as if Q’s silence hadn’t been abnormal, and neither was his control over it, “I need to ask you if you’re allergic to anything.”

“No, no allergies. But if it’s too spicy I won’t touch it,” Q said, ears focused on the sound of the knife and trying to determine what exactly Bond was doing. James just hummed and gave no indication that he was surprised by that - but then again, hadn’t the man said that he never asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to? 

Another movement, as James moved two strides to the left, tugging his blind shadow along with him. “You won't touch it, will you?” Bond said with mild intrigue, and a wicked touch of amusement, “What a lofty point of view from someone who’s only eating because I say they can.”

Q felt a flush burn up through his face, reminded (albeit in a gently teasing way) that he was not the one in control, in spite of what he might think or want. So he tried again, “Spicy food is overwhelmingly painful to me,” he said. “I love flavour, but if the heat is too much, it feels like someone holding a match to my tongue.” 

“Better,” James replied, and there was a rush of cold as James presumably opened a fridge. Their bodies brushed as James leaned a bit to pull something out or put something into it. “You haven’t misbehaved nearly enough for me to want to put a match to your tongue, so you can rest easy.” This time when moved, it was a bit quicker than before, but a hand reached back and braced Q’s hip at the same time. 

Q was very quickly learning that having Bond in control, and his own eyes out of commission, that his sense of touch was a lot more sensitive than usual. Each little brush, every little moment of contact and connection, they both grounded and unmoored him. He had to trust Bond right now because he couldn’t see, and because if he tried anything, he knew Bond wouldn’t hesitate to drain him again… and he was just so hungry; Q had to swallow back bile as his stomach threatened to upend itself if he didn’t eat soon. There wasn’t even any particular smell that was standing out, to give hints. 

Then James surprised him by asking, “Can you sense the tech in this room, Q?”

Frowning, and feeling like he was standing on thin ice, Q reached within himself only for the sensory element of his technomancy, hesitant as it had been gone for quite a chunk of his recent consciousness. He breathed slow and deep as his senses suddenly lit up. He began pointing with eerie accuracy. “Fridge, toaster, ice maker… kettle. A stove, and a garbage disposal,” he finished. “I’d imagine there’s cupboards with other things too, but those are just what’s plugged in.”

“Sounds like your power’s back on then,” James said, and it was impossible to tell whether that was an observation… or a threat. The tone the sentence was spoken in was mild and light, but considering all the threats that James had made (and delivered on at least once) up until now, it left Q feeling uneasy. “You shouldn’t be able to sense so much as a light-switch otherwise.” If James was worried about this return of Q’s powers, he gave no indication - just moved them to another part of the kitchen and kept at whatever he was doing.

Aware of the trust Bond had just offered, Q just held a little tighter to Bond’s shirt. Rather than try to use his power, he simply extended his technomancy to get a sense of the room. Knowing where the appliances sat definitely helped, but there were gaps in the space where he suspected the furniture and countertops and pantry were. “Can I ask what you’re making?”

“No.”

Feeling a little embarrassed again, Q accepted the answer and fell silent once more while Bond did something that left elbows occasionally brushing against Q’s knuckles. Patience wasn’t necessarily Q’s strength when he was this strung out, but he also knew with absolute certainty that the consequences for fighting in this moment wouldn’t be worth the struggle. 

Then apparently they both heard approaching footsteps (muffled - by a closed kitchen door?) and James froze in place and stiffened enough that Q could feel it. Suddenly Bond was speaking, low and steady and swift, “I don’t want to hear a word out of you - not a word - until I take your hands off me. Tell me that you understand.”

“I understand,” Q replied with a sinking feeling that he knew who was coming. He held a little tighter to Bond’s shirt, turned his face slightly away from the door, and then just tried to hold still, even as his anxiety began to climb. 

“Good. Those are your last words until further notice,” Bond sealed the deal bluntly just as there came the sound of a door swinging open behind them, and what sounded like a few metres away. 

A whole world away would have been enough when Q immediately heard Silva’s voice, calling out in a delighted almost-singing song, “My, what have we here! James, I didn’t realise you were taking a field-trip.” Silva stepped closer and to the left, and at that angle he must have seen enough to identify Q’s new piece of attire. “Ahhhh, and a kinky field trip, too. My my, boy, was this your idea or James?”

Bond’s voice with Q had been brisk and stony on this journey, but all of that was practically warm compared to the harsh steel of his tone now, “He’s following instructions, Silva, leave him alone.”

“Instructions?” A lewd chuckle that made Q fight not to react, to give no indication he could even hear Silva. “Of what sort?”

“If he’s outside of that room, he doesn’t talk,” James said, and while it wasn’t exactly a lie… it wasn’t the full truth either, which was curious. James was making it sound like no words had been allowed to exist this whole time, rather than a last-second order as James had sensed Silva’s approach. Mulling this over, and focusing now on the timbre and steel in Bond’s voice as he spoke to his employer, Q felt a small rush of gratitude that he hadn’t expected at all. Whatever his motives or end goal happened to be, Bond was protecting him. 

“Well, that sounds terribly dull,” Silva said with evident disappointment.

Bond replied bluntly, “I’m not here to give either you - or him - entertainment.”

“Clearly not,” Silva huffed, and as his footsteps came closer still, Q could hear him breathing now and had to fight a wave of discomfort. “You’ve got our guest all dressed up and all you’re doing with him is… having him stand around while you make a sandwich.” 

Well, at least Q now knew what was theoretically on the menu, but that didn’t change Silva’s proximity or the sheer tension he could feel in Bond’s frame. Despite that, Bond’s voice remained level - actually managing a certain degree of boredom. “That is indeed what I’m doing. Well spotted.”

“Surely we can show more respect as hosts, considering what we want from the dear boy,” Silva hedged.

James appeared unruffled. “I’m teaching him respect,” he said blandly. Apparently he’d gone back to whatever he was doing, the movement of his arm causing the inside of his elbow to brush the backs of Q’s knuckles again, and a slight backward step of Bond’s right heel urging Q to pivot to the other side - subtly away from Silva; Q made a vivid mental note to thank Bond for that if he got the chance. Then Bond’s voice went from bland and vaguely patient to xyresic, a knife coming part way out of a sheath, “Or did you forget what you hired me for?”

The strangest thing about Bond, Q decided right then, was how bloody mercurial he could be. It seemed like none of his moods ever stayed for long, and he could switch from practically kind to flintily cold in a second. It was intimidating, to say the least, and Q just hoped Silva would leave before things escalated too far. 

The ensuing stretch of silence indicated that perhaps Silva and Bond exchanged a look, although Silva didn’t back away any. He did switch topics, though, apparently deciding to talk to Q, “I trust you understand the purpose of James’ motives-”

“Silva,” Bond growled resignedly.

“I’m just talking to him!” was the faux-innocent response, “I’m not asking him to talk and break any of your precious rules.” By the sound of his voice, Silva now turned his head back to Q, speaking with patronising fondness, “Clearly you’re showing yourself to be an obedient boy - and we already knew that you were clever. The humiliation would end if you’d just-”

“You’re trying to do my job again, Silva,” James reminded, voice with a sharper edge than before. If Q’s frazzled mental map was right, they were back at the counter that was next to the fridge, so James was presumably near that knife he’d been chopping with - and he sounded honestly rather ready to use it. 

“I just think that doing things your way is a bit… ridiculous. What with this and all.” Suddenly there was a touch against Q’s blindfold, an indicator of what ‘this and all’ apparently was. Q bit his tongue, hard, as he swallowed the whimper of anxiety at being touched without warning. It was growing increasingly difficult to hold still and ignore Silva.

James didn’t sound like he was enjoying this altercation either. “So that’s why you insist on undermining me?” he snapped back, turning to face Silva more - which in turn had Q turning, although soon his hip bumped up against the counter. They couldn’t move back any further.

“I see it as fixing your more eccentric methods. After all, what good can this do? Blindfolding him, parading him around on your shirt-tails-” As Silva said that last part, a hand plucked at Q’s right wrist, detaching it from James’ shirt and eliciting a very soft whine from Q. Silva just ploughed onwards, uncaring, “-And now the two of us talking over him like a piece of furniture.”

“That’s rich of you, blaming that last part on me,” Bond said with an all new level of viciousness, even though his voice remained very low and quiet still.

Apparently the sound of Bond’s words cut through to Silva a bit, or maybe there was an accompanying look, because Silva dropped Q’s wrist. “Don’t take that tone with me, Bond. I’m the one in charge here, and I just want to make sure that those I take in under my wing are given a chance to fly-”

“At this rate, all you’re going to make is a bomb.” Suddenly James had Q’s hand, before he could find his grip again on Bond’s shirt, and he was pulling it out past him. Blindfolded, there was no way for Q to know what James was extending Q’s hand towards, except that it was vaguely in the direction of Silva’s voice. “You know as well as I what this hand can do, Silva, because I gathered that information and reported it to you. And you’ve seen him at work, with the other so-called heroes.” Bond paused but didn’t slacken his hold on Q’s arm. At this point, Q was having to stand almost flush against James’ back, left hand still fisted in his shirt but his right arm stretched out at full extension past James’ right side, Bond’s hand a cuff of iron around his wrist. Silva said nothing. The silence was unreadable. Something in it must have been bad, though, because then Bond’s voice dropped to a terrible rumble and he said, “Q, draw in power from the lighting system.” Steady and calm like a lake upon a prairie, contrasting with the thunderheads building above it, James went on, “I want to see it in the palm of your hand, but I’d better not feel so much as a spark of it against my skin. Nod against my back if you understand.”

Q obeyed almost immediately, nodding twice and then pulling. After being drained twice, he was a little nervous how his power would work, but the technomancy felt as eager as Q to give Silva a fright, if a little slow. Q knew the lights would be flickering as he began to pull, gathering, as he’d been instructed, a tight ball of sparkling electricity in the palm of his right hand. As a kid, Q had learned how to localise his technomancy, and as an adult, he was very adept at keeping it in a specific space; right now, it was the palm of his hand, ending before his wrist. Q continued to focus, and finally, like a plug pulled from a drain, his powers snapped back in full. He knew the ball of power would be fairly large and sparking, but he knew a few tricks of his own- like how to direct the sparks to only go in one direction, and right now, that direction was away from him and Bond, in the direction of where Silva’s voice had most recently been.

James rubbed one thumb against Q’s wrist bone, then said very gently - that warm voice from earlier back in full, “Turn it off now, love.”

Sighing his exhale against Bond’s back, Q obeyed again, allowing the power to return from whence he’d pulled it. The static in his palm dissipated, leaving him a little chilled, but now he wouldn’t so much as shock anyone he touched. Being allowed to access it, draw on it, left Q with a deep desire to just let loose, release all of his fear and exhaustion and stress into a veritable EMP bomb, but now was certainly not the time, not when he very clearly did not have a chance at either winning or escaping.For a long moment after that, there was neither movement nor sound except Bond’s steady breathing. Then Bond said, very coldly and bluntly, “That, what you just saw, is what I’m making. Now get out of my way or admit that you never wanted a workable ally to begin with.”

Chapter Text

Bond hadn’t been this incandescently angry in years. It was hard to even think straight - a clouding of judgement that he usually meticulously avoided, because being angry in the moment was never worth being dead forever. Now, though, he couldn’t push back the fury that sat like magma in the back of his throat, bubbling like a growl against the back of his tongue even as he walked back down the hallway to the tech-less room. Q was in tow, as obedient as before, and honestly that was all that was keeping James focused. If it weren’t for the constant tension of Q’s hands against his shirt, James would have punched a wall. 

Punching Silva would have felt better. Damn that bastard for pushing like that. For making Bond prove his point like that. God, he’d just gone through telling Q that he wasn’t just another tool, but then he’d wielded him like a gun - no, more than that. He’d been telling the truth when he’d said a tool was simple. You picked it up, you used it, you put it back down on its nice little shelf. Now, though, James couldn’t just put him down, because the rush he’d felt was still flooding his systems - the sense of power and triumph and goddamn pride at how unhesitantly Q had moved, how good he’d been. James had done things like this before, demonstrating the results of his work by showing off the obedience of an asset, and he’d always felt some of that.

But it had all faded later because it was just a job. 

It wasn’t fading now, and he feared it never would, and he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh, scream, turn around and kiss Q on the mouth, or be sick.

Instead he walked Q back to his little room with the mattress and set their little baggie of sandwiches down on the table, only then reaching behind him to find Q’s wrists with both hands. “You can let go now, Q,” he said, struggling to hide the maelstrom of emotions he was feeling and just sound calm like Q needed him to.

Q obeyed almost immediately, though it seemed he struggled a little to actually get his fingers to fully release, and his hands flexed a few times as if shaking out stiffness. He stood there, uncertainty clear in the line of his mouth and slight tremors in his body. He opened his mouth, maybe to ask a question, and then closed it again, waiting. His head was canted slightly in Bond’s direction - he was just listening.

Sighing because he knew that he’d done this - if not by the recent stunt alone, then by the hours of manipulation he’d put into this poor hero - James sighed and gentled his voice further. He turned but didn’t circle Q like before, didn’t want to put him off balance and unsettle his mind anymore. “It’s all right, Q, you can talk now,” he said, cursing himself for using ‘Q’ like a mantra, because that’s what it was. A reminder that Q was his, that Q was ‘Q’ and no one else to him. “I said you could talk again when I removed your hands from me, remember?” He lightly caught Q’s wrists again, feeling the sharp angles of wrist-bones and the soft skin at the underside of each wrist.

Q nodded, hands turning to gently grip James’ wrists back; his legs were trembling, and he must’ve been struggling to keep standing, but he was trying. “I’d like to be able to see again, please, with your permission,” he said softly. There was some emotion there, perhaps a bit of his nervousness at being so close to Silva and not being able to see the other man, or maybe from pulling on his technomancy and then not being able to use it fully, but Q also wasn’t making a move to take the blindfold off himself or move away either. Bond was so damn proud of him and so damn sick of himself for thinking that. 

“Of course,” he murmured, and didn’t bother to shake Q's grip when he reached towards Q’s head for the blindfold, and then Q released his grip, swaying slightly before adjusting his stance to better balance; he was chewing on his lip again. James itched to ask if Q had let go of him because he wanted to or if it was because he thought that was what Bond wanted, but no question left his mouth. He already knew that Q had amped his power up… then turned it back off again, tame as a Golden Retriever… because that was what Bond had wanted. It was a heady feeling, and James tried to push it down as he quickly reached around behind Q’s head and untied the sleep-mask. 

The younger man blinked and squinted in the dim lamplight of the room, likely working to adjust again to his sight after his time in the dark. His fingers twitched again, but the movement ended before it came to fruition. “May I put my glasses back on,” Q asked.

James found his body wanting to sway towards Q, but he tamped it down to just a forward-and-back sway of his feet. “Yes, Q.” 

Immediately, Q reached into his cardigan, pulled out his glasses, and put them back on his face. Some of the worry lines relaxed, and Q no longer needed to squint. He looked up at James, his expression not entirely readable. “Thank you, James,” he said, before swaying and nearly falling over. That part of Bond that had been itching for contact, to touch, got its wish as he jolted forward to catch Q’s elbows, steadying him and feeling that possessive, controlling nature shift and click into a subtly different position than before.

Suddenly he was focused again. “Easy, easy. Did using your power like that hurt you, or are you just hungry?” he said, angling his head to try and catch Q’s eyes. He knew a lot about the powers of Technoman, but there were always nuances - and he’d sapped Q’s technomancy twice. 

“Hungry,” Q replied almost instantly, and then, “cold. Adrenaline rush is over, I think.” He chuckled weakly, hands lightly holding Bond’s forearms. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting to have to-to face him while blindfolded,” he finished softly.

“And you fucking shouldn’t have,” Bond growled under his breath before he could stop it. He caught himself immediately after, noting with some alarm that maybe he wasn’t as back under control as he’d hoped. He made up for it by pulling Q in close (beneficial in that it kept Q from seeing his face) and pivoted them like a pair of slow-dancers, James taking Q’s weight against his body. It was another shuffling step towards the mattress. “I’ll take care of all of that,” he promised, and he wasn’t sure if he was speaking from the perspective of someone tasked with conditioning Q into utter loyalty or of someone who just wanted to make this better.

Q sighed against Bond’s shoulder, and Bond could feel the young hero relaxing once more. “You did,” Q replied. And then, so soft that, had they not been in such close proximity, Bond might not have heard it at all, Q added, “You protected me. Thank you.”

Still feeling like there was a hurricane bottled up inside of him, James nonetheless found some stability by pressing his nose into Q’s hair, breathing him in - salt, sweat, skin - and rumbling back sincerely, “I took your name and gave you one from me. That makes you my responsibility so long as you wear it.” The first sentence he’d said many times before, carving out a space for himself by superimposing a whole piece of identity on his victims like a scar, but the second sentence was new. Instead of trying to explain it away or retract it, though, Bond just continued with, “Mattress is behind you, Q. How about we just sit for a moment?”

***

Once he was sitting, back to the wall and watching Bond take out their sandwiches, Q took a very long, slow breath. Sometimes, when he breathed deep enough, he could feel the air in every inch of his lungs, and holding it for a moment helped him to combat some of his anxiety. The trick helped now, with Q finding he felt a little calmer and steadier even as his stomach growled once more. “That one was loud enough to wake the dead,” he joked weakly, trying to laugh and not really sounding all that amused.

James’ head twitched towards him, and for a moment his brows twitched together before smoothing out with understanding. His features looked more roguish as he smirked. “That’s a hopeful sign that you at least won’t be picky about the menu.” He strode back over with a sandwich in hand, cut down the middle so he could offer Q half when he sat down next to him.

Q accepted it, sniffing it briefly before taking a small bite. It wasn’t anything grand or complex, just a roast beef sandwich with some lettuce and a little bit of butter on the bread, but it was far better than nothing. He took two large bites before remembering again to slow down, so he took his time chewing instead. “It’s good,” he said once he had swallowed. “Thank you.” Bond’s warmth next to him was starting to become a comforting presence, as was the ease with which Q was finding himself able to follow Bond’s commands (NOT something Q really wanted to unpack).

Eating as well (apparently the man was not an unstoppable machine), James just made a noise of acceptance and nodded. “Still cold?” he asked without taking attention away from efficiently packing away his half of the sandwich. Q nodded and took another bite, focused on just eating even while his body continued to shiver. He couldn’t remember now the last time he’d felt warm, though it must’ve been recently. When he last woke up in his flat, perhaps? Between the shock and panic, being drained twice, being tortured and threatened, he was honestly amazed he could function.

Without comment, James got up - his half of the sandwich was gone. When he walked over to the set of drawers again, Q could see that there was more there: apparently another sandwich. Bond also unlocked the drawers again, though, and pulled out another bottle of water. This time everything was placed in Q’s lap, and James simply settled down next to him empty-handed, staring forward thoughtfully at nothing. 

Q glanced at Bond and waited for a command or instruction, but none came; it seemed that handing Q the food and water was permission enough. He unscrewed the bottle and took a few sips, washing down the first half of the sandwich before unwrapping the second. Q placed it on the mattress between them and took half, but he didn’t immediately take a bite.

“I wish… I often wish I was only born with technomancy,” Q said, turning the sandwich over in his hands. “It showed up first when I blew out all the lights in my room completely by accident. I was four.” Q’s lip twitched in a ghost of a smile as he continued. “My parents were thrilled, and I remember making the lights flicker and dance for my little sister. She loved watching, even though I didn’t have nearly the control then as I do now. Looking at her face, you’d think she was witnessing magical mysteries of the universe.”

He managed a small bite of the sandwich, then picked up the water bottle and took a sip before continuing. “I was seven, she was four, when it happened. We were playing together and started arguing over toys. It was… it was so stupid. I wasn’t even that angry, but she wouldn’t let me just play on my own, and all I wanted that day was to be alone.” Q stared at his lap as he confessed, “She’s why I hate my power. Because that day I shattered the psyche of my baby sister.”

Q sniffed, throat tight as he saw it in front of him. How terrified she’d looked, and then hurt, and then… nothing. Just utter blankness. “I ran to my parents, told them something was wrong, but it was too late. She wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been.”

Next to him, Bond had gone very still, but when Q looked over, James merely looked… very sad. Not angry. Not judgmental. Not even shocked, honestly. And apparently not disgusted, because only then did the man move - and it was to free the arm between them and wrap it slowly around Q’s shoulders, all without shifting his eyes from the middle distance.

Tears were falling again, but Q didn’t notice. “My parents… I knew they blamed me, even though they tried to get past it. It would’ve been better if she’d died immediately, but she didn’t. It took weeks. She wouldn’t eat. Doctors couldn’t treat her, and in the end, she starved. And it’s all my fault.” James’ arm curled, reeling Q in until Q was pressed to the villain’s chest. A single, audible sob escaped him, and then Q pulled his glasses off and buried his face against Bond’s shirt as he cried. Bond’s other arm came up to join the first, tightening for a moment before one reached out again to grab Q’s knees like before - but this time Q was pulled up entirely into Bond’s lap, cradled there like a child. 

Q lost track of time again as he sat there, crying while Bond held him. He forgot about his hunger and his thirst, even his fear and uncertainty about what might or would eventually happen to him. Instead, he finally allowed himself to grieve the sibling he’d lost and revel in the fact that Bond didn’t seem to hate him the way Q’s parents had. Bond remained disconcertingly silent for a while, although his body spoke enough: his right arm over Q’s shoulders was tight enough to push Q’s flesh closer to his bones, James’ other arm cradling Q’s legs in close like the boundaries of a nest. At some point, though, James cleared his throat as if scraping away something thorny, and then the words of comfort came out. Low and soothing, soft and sweet. “Shhhhh, Q, shh. I’m sorry that the bad memories stick so hard but the good ones don’t.” James spoke down into Q’s hair, but sometimes there was the press of kisses, too, warmed by an exhale. “You’re here with me, and I’m here with you, and that’s what matters, okay?” fell against Q’s ear, interspersed by more general soft-nothings.

Nodding, the tears beginning to dry, Q accepted what Bond told him, and for the first time in over a day, Q felt warm. They sat like that for a long time, both of them eventually falling silent. But James was comfy, and since the man also didn’t make any effort to evict Q from his lap, Q didn’t make any effort to move. The man was very solid, but Q needed that sense of strength and stability to keep himself together.

After a bit longer, Q sighed, shifting a little so he could breathe a bit easier; it was hard to breathe properly with a faceful of shirt. He wiped at his face and put his glasses back on, but otherwise, Q stayed where he was. And after a bit more time, he finally asked the main question on his mind, “Did you know? Before I said everything. Did you know about my past?”

James twitched as if just now coming awake, although his eyes had been open any time Q had checked. He twisted his head to look down at Q, present in the moment now, although he frowned for a moment as if having to work to process the sentence. After a heartbeat or two, everything seemed to register, and James shook his head, “No. I’m thorough when researching a… well, a target… but that information somehow never came up.”

“When you didn’t say anything, I figured you knew… and you comforted me.” Q pushed back but only enough so he could sit up a little and look Bond properly in the eyes. “You didn’t push me away. Why?”

For a man who had been overwhelmingly confident, James' eyes now dodged Q’s evasively, although he ultimately settled with his eyes somewhere on the level of Q’s collarbone. “Reflex,” he said shortly, but his hands gave him away, grabbing tighter at the side of Q’s ribs and knee.

“What happened to honesty?” Q asked, actually finding the whole situation a little funny, now that he didn’t feel like he was falling apart quite as much. If anything, he felt lighter than he had in, well, years. “Because your voice and body said two different things.”

James didn’t seem to find it funny, though, as he frowned and looked away, that troubled look in his eyes again. Not that Q really had extensive experiences with the man to draw on, seeing as James was a hero-kidnapping villain that Q had only been with for a day, but… this seemed different. 

“Bond?” No response. “James? What’s wrong?”

The man opened his mouth and then closed it, a muscle in his jaw jumping as if he were physically chewing up words but never letting them out. Finally he just closed his eyes with a slow, deep exhale… and pulled Q in tight against him. This time it was James with his face buried against Q’s body, pressed between neck and shoulder, with his breath a hot brand against Q’s skin as he finally spoke, “I was supposed to break you down, Q. I wasn’t supposed to feel any particular way about it.”

It took a second for the words to register with Q. It didn’t matter that on some level, he’d suspected that was Bond’s job, and it fit with everything he’d been through thus far. But it was the way Bond confessed, unable to look at him, unable to meet his gaze, that struck Q more than anything else. “So… what particular way do you feel?” he asked, gently.

Bond’s body jerked, and it wasn’t until a bark of sound came out that Q realised he was laughing - or a poor excuse for it. “I’ll tell you when I have it figured out,” he said with forced cheer that honestly sounded closer to mania. Then he sobered suddenly and bundled Q closer, adding in a gravelly but much more serious rasp, “I feel like I really fucked up by taking on this job.”

Well that wasn’t what Q was expecting to hear at all. Slowly, Q untucked his arms and wrapped them around Bond, holding him back. “In kidnapping me or working for Silva?”

Another chuckle, albeit less hysterical this time. “Oh, probably both,” Q was surprised to hear James admit without hesitation. As with before, while Bond’s knee-jerk answer seemed lined in painful humour, a pause came after, and clarity. James leaned back, and his expression looked haggard even as he was now searching Q’s face as if to find the answers for everything. “I can’t finish this job with you, though,” he finally said in a very soft, very fervent voice. 

Q’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He hadn’t expected this; hell, none of this was something you could really prepare for, and now here he was, practically cuddling with his kidnapper, who just admitted that he might be having feelings and definitely couldn’t complete his task. And if Bond couldn’t go through with breaking him, did that mean Q had a chance? His heart pounded in his ears, so loud that Q was sure Bond could hear it as close as they were. “If you can’t finish the job, what are you going to do?” Q asked.

Bond closed his eyes again and this time thunked his head back against the wall. It seemed like he was about to answer something like ‘Have an existential crisis,’ but instead he seemed to gather himself and said, “Make sure you get out.”

“Okay… okay, get me out.” Q nodded even as his anxiety spiked at the thought of the barrier between him and his freedom: Silva. Of course, the next big question was, “How?” because nothing about this was going to be easy.

James still had his head against the wall, looking off over Q’s head, but he was frowning now in concentration. His hands flexed against Q’s frame. “I’m not sure yet. I…” He shook his head, closed his eyes with a grimace. “Silva’s not an easy man to betray.”

“Tell me then. You usually have the answers for your questions. Why will he be hard to betray?” Besides being an absolute creep who made Q’s skin crawl. The thought of Silva was enough to make Q feel sick. 

Q’s second sentence seemed to focus James, although his expression wasn’t exactly optimistic. His words weren’t encouraging either, “Well, for starters, he’s just as super-powered as you and me.”

Well that made sense. Although Q felt a knot in his stomach as he then asked, “What can he do?”

Q was close enough that when James inhaled and exhaled deeply, he rose and fell with it. James’ expression wasn’t scared necessarily, but it showed a kind of naked wariness that made Q deeply uneasy. “He calls himself a Deathless,” Bond gave out secrets about his employer as he hadn’t before, “Which is apt, as the bastard can heal from just about any injury you can imagine.”

“Fuck,” Q swore. “So if we fight him, he can heal.” Which would make escaping just about as hard as it could possibly be. “Wait! You can rip powers away from people. Can you take his healing?”

“I can,” James nodded, but then drew his eyes back to Q to add, “But I've never tried.  It’s only temporary, too, and like I told you - the stronger the power, the faster it comes back. And from what I’ve heard, Silva’s damn strong.”

Q slumped against Bond, the proverbial wind ripped from his sails. If Silva was as strong as Bond had heard, then there was little to no chance of getting out. “So our enemy is practically unbeatable,” he said. “And if he can heal anything, then that means mortal wounds too.” A thought occurred to Q, and since they seemed to be sharing things, he decided to ask, “So having me use my powers in the kitchen…”

For some reason that made Bond sigh deeply again. His left arm moved from Q’s knee to join the other around Q’s back, hugging him tight and burying his face against Q’s hair before admitting with great tiredness, “That was to prove to Silva that I was succeeding at my job, Q.” Regret made his voice heavy as he finished, “To show off the perfect, loyal pawn I was making.”

It stung, that reminder of Bond’s task, his entire purpose in everything he’d done, but even with his tangled and confusing emotions about the last day, Q wasn’t angry. “I did obey, didn’t I…but-but only because it was you giving the order,” he finished in a rush. He heard the truth in his words as he spoke, even though the thought hadn’t been conscious until that moment. 

Bond froze the moment Q said them. The next breath he took sounded like a struggle somehow, but then he gripped Q tighter like it was Q that was the lifeline. “I’m sorry for making you react that way, Q,” he whispered raggedly, even though he was gripping Q as if another part of him wanted to keep Q cleaved to him forever.

Help me get out of here and I might think about forgiving you, Q thought. What he said instead was, “Thank you for apologizing,” which sounded so stupidly stiff and formal that Q groaned in frustration. “Some of what I meant was that if Silva had given me those orders, I would’ve tried to fry him instead.” 

“That’s because I’m only half done with training you,” James said, voice dark but candid. Then he sighed, shaking his head against Q’s neck before pulling back to say to him face-to-face, “And that’s why I can’t take this further. You were born with a wicked hand of cards, Q, but you’ve played it better than any hero I know - and Silva doesn’t deserve power over that.” James' hand slid off Q’s sides until they were braced on the mattress, no longer holding him in place. “Neither do I.”

He felt a bit bereft of support without Bond’s hands there, but Q immediately didn’t know whether that was from Bond trying to break him or from genuine emotions Q had; he simply couldn’t separate them. “Say you do manage to get me out. What happens to you?” Q asked, neither moving off of Bond’s lap nor reaching for another embrace. 

“I disappear, I suppose.” Bond’s mouth quirked up faintly at one side, the dour attitude lifted just a bit. “This won’t ruin my reputation as much as killing my boss will, but perhaps you’re a sign that I should just get out of this business. Start something new.”

Fair point, but it did give Q something to consider. “Maybe my life could benefit from a disappearance too. Because for all the awful that’s happened to me, you’ve shown me a few things.” When James looked at him with surprise, Q gave him a small, rueful smile. “I think, after this, if I have to hear Vesper call me that horrid nickname one more time I might electrocute her.”

That managed to trick a smile onto James’ face, which after a moment became a lovely warm chuckle. Almost hesitantly - where before he’d been intoxicatingly confident - James lifted one hand towards Q’s face. Q didn’t flinch or pull away; he simply held still and watched until James completed the motion and his calloused fingers and brushed with the lightness of eider-down across Q’s cheek. “In that case, Q-” The nickname still came out of James’ mouth as easily as breathing, only now Q noticed that he didn’t really mind the single letter anymore, “I promise to do everything in my power to give both of us a chance to start afresh.”

***

James was true to his word. They waited until nightfall (James giving Q more specifics on the time finally), with James giving Q the rest of the sandwich in the meanwhile. Somehow, perhaps as a portent of good luck, it had not been squashed when Bond had dragged Q up onto his lap. That plus another bottle of water and liberal sharing of Bond’s body heat (the man admitted that the room was cold for the average person, but that he ran hot, and he clearly didn’t mind Q’s closeness), and Q was feeling closer to normal. 

Or as close to normal one could get when planning a breakout with the person who had caught and imprisoned them in the first place.

Bond knew the building well. He also knew its denizens - few though they were. “Silva hasn’t pulled together much of a crew yet,” James had said factually. He was incredibly free with information now, especially negative information on his ex-boss. “And I managed to make clear to him - at least at the start - that my work is bloody delicate.” Clearly Silva hadn’t listened to that for long. All that mattered though was that the only real obstacle in the building was Silva - and a rather extensive net of security cameras. 

The latter of the two problems made Q smirk. “I can cover our movements and interfere with the cameras. I think I ought to be able to keep us invisible.” Security systems were child’s play.

Already leaning out of the room to check the hallway, James remained a cautioning force. “Just don’t take out every one near us. I know for a fact that Silva watches them obsessively, and while the system has been buggy since before you came, seeing too many screens go black will catch his notice.” Shaking his head, James muttered more to himself, “Hopefully the bloody bastard is asleep and I’m just being paranoid.”

Q stood behind James, shaking out his limbs as he let his technomancy well up within him. Now that he had full use of his abilities, it was hardly any effort to extend them just enough to get a view of the electricity throughout the building. While the room he’d been kept in was as tech-free as Bond had been able to ensure, the rest of the building practically hummed with power, including little power bubbles where the cameras were. Q smirked. “With any luck, this will be fast,” he replied. “I’m ready on your signal.”

The fact that James seemed more uneasy than Q was either very worrisome or deeply ironic, as he didn’t immediately give that signal, instead hesitating and asking, “You can sense the technology around you, yes?”

“Yes,” Q replied. “I can. I can even tell what kind of appliance is drawing power.”

That relaxed Bond a bit. “Perfect. I’ll try to lead us around whatever I can, because I think I know the blindspots of almost all the cameras - but if ever I don’t tell you to either duck down under one or knock it out, tug on my shirt, okay?”

“I can do that.” Q stepped closer, within an arm’s length of Bond. He felt almost giddy, like the adrenaline was buzzing under his skin. He was ready to go, and if he got out of this safely, he was definitely going to rethink his life as a sidekick.

James finally seemed to deem the hallway safe, although once more when he stepped out - he stopped. This time it was to look back at Q very earnestly, though, saying with more fervour than he’d said almost anything thus far in his quiet tone, “I’m going to see that you get out of here, Q. Whatever it takes.” He still hadn’t stopped using the nickname.

But Q didn’t correct him and followed silently, senses wide open and technomancy humming. And they began their way down the corridor. With Bond leading, the two of them slunk into the hallway - and it was lucky that at least the one leading knew the place, because it was unsettlingly dark. James had mentioned that large portions of the building had the power turned off still to make it an inhospitable place for technomancers, and the signs were everywhere. Q found himself following the electricity in the cables for the cameras, since it was the strongest source of power and gave him the best layout of the building.

It was funny, Q thought as they slowly made their way through the building, skirting cameras, hiding in blind spots, and at one point, ducking into a side room when they thought they heard someone coming. Bond periodically would stop them, point silently to a camera, and let Q do his work on it. But the longer they were moving, the closer Q knew they were to the outside. He kept feeling flickers of energy farther out than the building, like little tongues of flame at the edge of his senses, but discipline and a healthy dose of fear at the idea of being caught kept him from doing anything too terribly rash. 

That wariness proved healthy when James suddenly froze, only this time instead of directing Q to some technology that needed blinding, the man reached behind him and grabbed the front of the technomancer’s shirt. He dragged them both back around the corner. The hallway they’d been about to turn down had windows to the outside world, moonlight spilling lightly through to show the wet gleam of James’ eyes as he turned, finger to his lips. But the warning wasn’t necessary, because the windows were also showing faint reflections as someone turned down the hall around the corner. 

It was unmistakably Silva.

Chapter Text

Q met Bond’s gaze, saw wrathful frustration there, and he knew that as close as they were to freedom, their enemy fully blocked their path. Nothing in their plan or in the last day could’ve prepared Q for what he felt at that moment. A surge of white hot rage coursed through him, almost completely dislodging his focus on his technomancy. He knew, more than anything, that he wanted revenge on the man who had orchestrated everything… even as Q knew it would jeopardise their escape. He was so close to freedom he could bloody taste it, but even that thought died because Q was absolutely certain that Silva wouldn’t just let him disappear. Even from their few interactions, it was deadly clear that Silva would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, even having someone break and brainwash new minions for him.

Not giving himself too much time to overthink his decision, Q gripped the wrist of Bond’s hand that currently held his shirt, leaned in, and breathed as softly as he could, “When he interrogated me, he used those names. Repeatedly.”

For a second James’ eyes glazed over - Q feared that he hadn’t understood. But no, it was just that same red haze slipping over James’ eyes as he understood utterly. After all, he’d been the one to drive into Q’s head that anyone who called him ‘Quentin’ or ‘Techie’ would get those names written on them in blood. And apparently, Q wasn’t the only one who’d soaked up that training without meaning to. This time though, it was Q who got a rush of power as James swung his head back like an automaton, focusing on the direction where Silva blocked their path - still a phantom reflected in the glass. No hesitation this time. No logical phrases about caution or even backtracking. James had given Q a name, and he was going to defend that name. Only when Q’s hand slipped off Bond’s wrist did the other man move, and then, it was like a viper uncoiling. 

James was around the corner almost too fast to believe, Q following as quickly and silently as he could. For a man of his size, James was almost unsettlingly quiet. Of course, quiet only mattered for seconds - as the moment James was around the corner, Silva spotted him. By then, though, James was already moving like a bullet from a gun, and Silva barely had time to widen his eyes - look past James and see Q - then brace himself as his former employee hit him. It was chaos from there on out. 

Both James and Silva were powerfully built men, with Silva maybe being a bit heavier - James a bit more honed. It was clear the moment they started grappling, though, that James had more extensive training. Someone had taught James to fight, and to fight mean, as he started an overwhelming onslaught of blows that soon had Silva on his heels. James’ opponent roared in outrage, only to take one to the face, head snapping to the side and a spray of blood painting the nearest hallway window. 

But then Silva staggered back out of range, regained his footing, and rocked his head forward again. Even from his distance, Q could see that Silva had some broken teeth… but then they just. Fell out. And new ones grew in before their eyes. “And here I thought you were the one training Quentin and not the other way around,” he said smoothly, wiping blood away from his eyebrow to show no more cut beneath. ‘Deathless,’ James had said. Only now Q was seeing the horrifying reality of that skill in person.

Bond’s returning snarl was almost too quiet for Q to hear from his end of the hall, “His name is Q until I say otherwise.” And then he was launching forward again. 

Silva was ready this time, his newly-repaired grin a rictus of madness across his face. His hand went to his side, almost managing to draw presumably a gun, but James was on him by then, and they were reduced to grappling. Q rushed forward a few steps (to help? To intervene?) when he realised that he was struggling to sense technology; with a horrible sinking feeling, he realised that this corner of the building was also tech-less.

A very odd sense of deja vu settled on Q as he realised he only had one power to use and immediately, vehemently, did not want to. Q felt cold again, and even more alone. Even if he bloody could snap Silva’s mind, it still didn’t change the fact that, down to his very core, this power felt like a violation. Besides, Bond had this. Bond could do this. But Q crept a few steps closer anyway, hugging the shadows.

The bloodshed was rapidly increasing. Even as the gun was sent skittering away - no clear sense of whose fault that was - James was reaching swiftly and suddenly pulling a knife from Silva’s person. Before Silva could even realise that one of his secondary weapons had been coopted, James had slashed it across the man’s middle, sending a button flying and immediately painting a line of red on Silva’s white shirt. Unfortunately, Silva barely flinched. Instead he grinned and chastised, “Don’t you know stealing is bad, James?” and aimed a kick that sent James crashing into the window hard enough to crack it. Silva waded forward, and this time James recovered fast enough to aim an even better blow: he took one punch to the face (there was a terrible crunch of his nose breaking) but then slipped the knife past Silva’s sloppy defences and gutted him.

It looked like victory for a whole five seconds. The first warning of failure was when Silva grinned, even as he gripped Bond’s wrist and pushed his knife-hand away. Q was sure for a sickening moment that he saw guts sliding out of the tear James had made… but then they slithered back in like spineless snakes. Slamming James back against the glass enough to stun him, Silva bought himself room to back up and peel away the bloody edges of his ripped shirt - showing skin that was wet and red but sealing over before Q’s eyes. 

“You’re not going to win this, Ja-” Silva started to gloat, but he suddenly staggered and made a little choked off noise, and looked to James in alarm. When Q followed his look, it was James who was grinning… as his broken nose realigned itself with a gristly noise of moving cartilage. 

“Well, if I’m not, then you sure as hell won’t,” James panted, before pushing off the cracked window - which broke further when James rammed an elbow through it. It wasn’t safety glass, and the shards of it lacerated his shirt and sleeve like razors, but James just glanced at the damage and shrugged. After all, it was already healing. He grabbed one of the shards in his hand to match the knife he wielded in the other. 

Silva’s face purpled in rage to the point where the emotion was obvious even by moonlight. Snarling something in another language, Silva was the one who surged forward this time. Q held his breath, watching the two men continue to fight as Q kept edging himself forward in the shadows to get closer - ‘Just to see what was happening,’ he told himself. He felt so bloody anxious as the fight continued, though Bond now seemed to be gaining on Silva. There were wounds on Silva that weren’t fading now, bruises that stood out against his pale skin and blood from his mouth that kept dripping off his chin. Even when Silva grabbed a piece of glass, he dropped it with a gasp, realising that he’d cut his hand open when reaching for it - no doubt used to having a body that stitched up such minor rents. James then swept his own chunk of glass without a care in the world, his own hand not even stained even as he clenched his fist around the shard and tried to jam it into Silva’s neck. 

He missed, but still rammed it into Silva’s shoulder. James backed off a bit then, breathing hard (apparently Deathless powers didn’t inure someone to tiredness), but then suddenly he looked at his hand. Sans piece of glass, but bloody. And dripping. Q looked over in tandem with James to see Silva’s rage transforming into a startled smile, even as the glass shard magically rose out of his skin to fall to the ground, spat out by healing flesh. Q still remembered how drained and empty he felt after Bond had taken his power the first time, but it had taken Q a fair bit of time to recharge; somehow, this had barely even taken minutes, and now Q watched in steadily mounting horror as the tides began to shift once more. James himself was watching with widened eyes. He’d been the one to say, after all, that the stronger someone’s powers were, the faster they came back on. 

Silva was a force of nature, and now they all knew it. 

This time it was James who let out a wordless bellow and charged, and from then on it became a tug-of-war of power. It was impossible to know each exchange from the outside - when James tore away Silva’s powers, when they began to rapidly trickle back in again, refilling whatever James had stolen. All that Q could see were wounds that sometimes bled like a curtain and sometimes barely spilled a drop - two men who sometimes roared in frustration, sometimes in pain, and sometimes in punch-drunk triumph. All the while, both were getting bloodier, exchanging cuts and blows that sometimes stuck and sometimes didn’t. Ultimately, everything healed over, just leaving behind an accumulating coating of red. For a moment it even seemed like Silva won, as he dove to the floor and managed to grab the gun, pulling the trigger even as James dove at him to try and wrestle it back. Q shouted, “NO!” in alarm when James jerked and then went limp for a moment, blood spraying out of his back from the exiting bullet. But apparently he’d managed to pull more power from Silva just in time, because with a string of swearing he started moving again. The gun was soon sent flying out the window, shattering it further, and the wound on James’ back closed over to leave nothing but a hole in his pullover. 

“Get out, Q!” Bond had been focused primarily on Silva, so to have him suddenly focusing on Q was a surprise. “I’ve got this handled!” He added further as he got an arm around Silva’s neck - no doubt testing if you could strangle a Deathless, since you sure as hell couldn’t bleed one to death, apparently. Silva immediately responded by jamming the knife - who the hell knew when he’d stolen that back - back into James’ side. By the sound James made, it was impossible to tell if he was healing around it or not, as he focused on Silva. 

What was clear, though, was that he was tiring - and despite what Q remembered about the hollowed out, sick feeling of being drained, Silva seemed to be shaking it off just like any other wound. James just kept coming back for more, though, and it was like watching a Sysiphian hell in the making: two men capable of fighting forever in an endless cycle of pain and gore. 

Unless…

That same, familiar and terrifying heat filled Q again, and for the first time in his life, he accepted it. It’s time, Q thought, feeling his fingers tingle with power. It’s time to end this. He knew Bond had ordered him out, and he knew that Silva would do anything to keep Q in his power. He should run; he should cut his losses and bolt, but even as he thought it, he knew he couldn’t. For all Bond had done to him, he was still trying to save him. God damn it, that meant something! So Q needed to help, and in this part of the building, he had only one option.

He straightened up and walked forward, focusing on the burning heat of the power he now summoned. It felt initially as it always did: this scalding heat that Q was sure should cook his insides before it released but never did, but as Q found himself looking at Silva and Bond, it was the first time he ever wanted to use it.

So Q took a deep breath and said, “So weak and powerless- you became exactly what you feared.”

In a room that had previously been filled with chaos, there was now only silence, as if Q’s words took precedence over all other sound, a king silencing subjects. Even James froze, perhaps feeling the danger washing over him… and hitting Silva with more force of impact than a javelin. Eyes wide, fixed on Q like he’d become some horrifying god, the man who could shake off injuries and heal his body in seconds found himself transfixed. Wounds of the flesh he could handle, but those of the mind were apparently beyond him.

Silva sagged to his knees on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, dragging a startled Bond down with him. James kept up his strangle-hold - a dogged fighter until the end - but Silva had stopped fighting it, arms at his sides and breath gurgling.

Q leaned against the nearest wall, his legs now very wobbly as he realised exactly what he’d done, but seeing the mastermind behind his abduction defeated, the usual rush of shame that followed using this particular power didn’t come. Instead, he walked over to James. And gently touched his shoulder. “James, you can let go now. It’s okay.”

The man jolted. His blood-covered face looked to Q, to Q’s hand, down to Silva still asphyxiating in his grip - clinging to life even if there was no point anymore, his mind cracked down the middle. James looked confused, and for a moment he just frowned and panted before seeming to give in to Q’s words on reflex; he let go without seeming to understand what had happened, brows beetled. Silva remained kneeling where he was, although his half-crushed throat started healing; apparently his powers worked on reflex. At Q’s gentle tug, James straightened and backed away obediently, still looking like he couldn’t believe what had happened. His sleeve was practically soggy with blood beneath Q’s hand.

“Are you hurt?” Q asked gently, finding to his great surprise, that he genuinely wanted Bond to be okay (and nope, he definitely wasn’t ready to unpack that yet). The fight had been so brutal to watch, and a decent amount of Bond was either covered in dried blood or was dripping gore onto the tiled floors.

“Uh…” Noise was all that came at first, as James struggled to apparently reconcile that he wasn’t in the middle of an endless fight anymore. He did look down at himself rather comically, though, arms raising and he checked himself over. “Yes? Probably? I could feel my body patching itself up whenever I could draw the power to do it, but hell if I know how many spots are still bleeding- Fuck.” The last when he found a cut across his side still seeping. When he pulled his shirt up, it looked like it was probably where he’d been stabbed - but the knife was on the floor, and the cut itself looked more like a shallow nick than a gut-wound. Bond was now also looking at his shirt, and just how many holes he had in it - and on his trousers, too. 

Q looked down at Silva’s still breathing body, at the vacant, neutral expression on the man’s face. Usually, seeing his own handiwork like this was enough to make him shut down and hide, to retreat and try to block the memory entirely, but this time, Q only felt a little glimmer of pride. He’d won. He’d bested his enemy… even if he still didn’t feel much like a hero, though that didn’t bother him quite as much as it used to. He was starting to like the idea of disappearing and remaking his life; maybe a fresh start was exactly what he needed.

James stopped cataloguing injuries (presumably finding nothing that wasn’t already mostly healed) and went to quietly watching Q instead. “You okay, Q?” he asked very softly. 

“Yes,” Q replied, his voice much steadier than he’d expected. “Yes, I actually think I am.” He met Bond’s gaze and found himself starting to smile a little. “I think saving your life makes us even, in fact,” he added, “but thank you. For fighting. For helping me. I-I really do appreciate it, James.”

James looked away, hands in pockets, and if Q didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the man was acting bashful. “No thanks needed, Q,” he said gruffly. Then, after making a face, “Although my first act as a free agent is going to have to be a stop at a store for new clothes and some mouthwash.”

That sparked a chuckle from Q, although he was rather curious. “Why the mouthwash?” he asked.

“Because taking your power tasted like I’d licked a battery,” James complained, clearly aggrieved, “but Silva’s tastes like mothballs.”

Now Q burst out laughing, grinning widely even as Bond made a face, and then Q stepped over Silva. “Okay, now which way is the way out of here?”

James gestured out the window. “Second star on the right and straight on ‘till morning,” he said with a crooked smile. Then the joking light faded and he said with simple warmth instead, “Good luck, Q. Have fun disappearing. And becoming whoever you want to be.” 

Q hopped up onto the window sill, delighted to see it was only a short drop to the ground. Carefully avoiding broken glass as best he could, he looked back at Bond. Something warm and tender rose in his chest, and Q found himself with several ideas and a few budding plans as the world sprawled out below him. “Same to you, James,” he said and disappeared into the night.

***

Good god but James was itching for a drink after that last mission. Days like these he wondered if maybe he should have just retired on a beach somewhere - even if he would have been atrociously bored. The last two years had been interesting, but sometimes interesting was bad, even he had to admit.

Better than a mercenary for hire, though.

Sitting down in the National Gallery and reminding himself firmly that playing cat-and-mouse with super-powered gun-smugglers was something he should not do on the next mission MI6 sent him, James just slouched and relaxed for a moment. It probably said something about the life he’d led that transitioning to an MI6 agent had been easy. In fact, it had been boring until they’d bumped him up to the double-oh division - he might have fast-tracked his own promotion by breaking into M’s office and telling her a bit more information than was on his resume. M, a woman without superpowers and therefore quite immune to the kinds of terrors James promised to unleash, had threatened to taser him and then push him down the building’s garbage chute. But then he’d been promoted. Win-win, and at least now he knew that he was using his morally questionable set of skills for Queen and Country. 

Now he’d been told to behave himself and that he was going to meet a new staff-member - someone that he’d be expected to work with in the future, and to please not break him. Since James hadn’t formally ‘broken’ anyone in… well, longer than two years, since he didn’t count Q… 007 figured he’d behave. At least moderately. 

As Bond continued to sit on the bench, a young man joined him. There was nothing particularly odd about this as the National Gallery did host quite a few tours on a daily basis, and there were plenty of students walking about and taking in the artwork. Bond kept his gaze forward, when the young man spoke, gesturing towards the painting before them.

“It always makes me feel a bit melancholy. Grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away to scrap… the inevitability of time, don’t you think? What do you see?”

And just like that, James found himself fighting a smile, the words fading into nothing at the pure delight and surprise of hearing a voice he’d thought he’d never hear again. He tried to play it cool, though, answering as calmly as his heart would allow, “I don’t think I could possibly be melancholy.” He finally turned his head, and didn’t know whether it was right of him to rejoice so much at ‘the one that had gotten away’ sitting right next to him: Q. Always Q to him, for better or for worse. “But that might be less about the painting and more about the company.”

And Q looked good. The past two years had clearly been kind to him, although he still clearly had atrocious taste in clothes. Q looked far more like a mild mannered IT technician than the powerful man Bond still had in his mind's-eye from those last moments when the boffin had done what even a power-stealing brute like James couldn’t. Q was even giving him a small, knowing smile as they spoke for the first time since defeating Silva. “Well, you did always had an interesting taste in company. Should I be flattered?”

Belatedly tamping down his joy, reminding himself that he should not be so pleased to see a young man that he’d kidnapped and manipulated - and nearly hadn’t managed to set free in the end - James responded respectfully… but still with a dash of charm. Because as he’d told M when he’d broken into her office: he was still a very bad man. He was just making the best of the skills he’d been dealt. “Most definitely. I can safely admit that the whole museum lost my interest when I noticed who had entered it.” Pausing, aware that they were technically in public, albeit with no one really nearby enough to listen in, James added more softly, “I’ve also changed my taste in company since you last saw me. As promised.” He could only be so good, with the abilities he had - but he was trying. 

Q’s smile shifted from wry teasing to something more… enigmatic. “I know. I’ve been watching you,” he said. “After we parted ways, I got creative. I wasn’t going back to what life was, and after everything I certainly wasn’t going to let people walk over me either. Not only did I keep tabs on you, but I took down most of the old guard in the hero program. As it turns out, having a technomancer with a grudge is a very bad thing, especially when you’re embezzling from your employers as my previous ‘boss’ was.” Q grimaced but continued quietly, “And then deciding what I wanted to do? With the whole world at my feet? What better than British Intelligence?”

He held out his hand, looking Bond in the eye. “I’m your new Quartermaster.”

Looking at that hand (extended to him freely by a man who had every reason to have held a grudge against him, too, especially considering this heady news that Q had been watching him), James felt his small smile growing into what he wanted it to be: a fiercely delighted grin. He took the hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s an honour and a pleasure, Quartermaster. I’ll do my best to follow orders.” Honestly, he’d follow Q’s orders more than anyone else's, he figured - he owed Q that much, for all the orders Q… no, the Quartermaster… had taken from him.

But Q wasn’t done surprising him yet. “Quartermaster is so formal,” he said as if waving away the name. “I prefer the name Q. Just Q.”