Work Text:
Their captors kept Q up for three days straight before torturing him with cold.
Considering the Quartermaster’s predilection for neglecting sleep in favor of work, the sleep deprivation might have seemed like a joke, but 007 knew how torture worked from personal, intimate experience – and Q wasn’t trained for it. The mission had been meant as a quiet one, with Q providing on-site technological back-up, so obviously no one had expected both him and 007 to get grabbed and locked away in a secluded building while enemy operatives tried to get answers out of them.
Their captors were trying to evade possible legal repercussions later, by avoiding interrogation techniques that would leave permanent marks or damage on their captives, but that was by no means a good thing. The Leonid Corporation was composed of professionals, and beneath the façade of a perfectly legitimate-looking transportation company, a group of dedicated, merciless drug-runners worked. Right now, they were determined to find out just who Q and Bond were, and how much of a threat they posed, even if they seemed wary of getting their hands dirty.
Q was the obvious weak spot. 007 had been aware of that from the first moment, and it made him want to howl with rage. Their captors had realized quite quickly that the only tactics that would work on James were of the bloody, permanently damaging kind, so they’d secured and gagged him and then turned their attention to something more promising. So while 007 fumed and raged quietly against restraints he couldn’t slip loose of, Q was strung up in the middle of the room, tied so that he had to stay on tiptoe while questions were fired at him from all angles. Practically ignored in the corner of the same room, 007 watched with growing dread as Q refused to answer. It was laudable, and gave Bond new appreciation for the spine the new Quartermaster possessed, but Q eventually started to tire.
It was a physical fact that the body was not meant to dangle by the wrists for prolonged periods of time. The diaphragm couldn’t work properly, unless the person in question kept standing and thereby maintained some of the weight on his or her feet. That meant that Q had to stay awake, or at least standing instead of limply hanging, if he wanted to keep breathing. If he had been tied up higher – so that his feet were entirely off the ground – it would have been worse, because he would have had to periodically draw his body upwards, like on a pull-up bar, just to give his diaphragm a chance to contract properly from time to time. Seeing as Bond had never caught Q doing a pull-up in his life, the 00-agent sincerely doubted if the Quartermaster would have been able to save himself that way for long.
But even if it had been Bond standing there, wavering as their captors left, legs growing tired, it would have been torture.
Three days. They were given water, but not much, and not often. After the first storm of questions, their captors had backed off, realizing that 007 was psychologically armored against such things and that even Q was strangely stubborn. On the third day, however, they came in like clockwork to try again, and 007 wished he could kill with a glare, even as Q’s tired, tousled head lifted. For a brief moment, his eyes behind his spectacles were filled with terror, before he bravely pushed it down again.
Q still refused to talk, doing a lot of glaring himself, even though he’d been only sleeping in pathetic snatches for the past seventy-two hours. He had dark smudges forming under his eyes, bringing out the green in them and making the rest of his skin seem unhealthily pale. With his clothing mussed from their original capture and his hair a tangled dark mess, he still looked defiant though, and refused to give up information on who he and Bond were and what had brought them sniffing around Leonid Corporations. Q must have realized, like Bond, that their captors were averse to getting blood on their hands, and therefore ignored the gorier threats leveled at him, categorizing them as empty. He flinched at the descriptions of what they were reputedly going to do to him, and something in 007’s chest twisted at the flashes of naked fear that would snap across Q’s eyes before he struggled to hide it, but the Quartermaster continued to keep his mouth shut like a steel trap.
So their captors upped-the-ante.
It was just getting dark at the end of day three when the drug-runners came back in with a large bucket between them and, without further adieu, dumped water on Q, soaking him from head to two. Even 007 had been a bit startled, and strained against his bindings again while he tried rapidly to figure out what this new move entailed. While Q gasped and tried to shake water out of his eyes without losing his glasses, 007’s heart sunk with realization while one of the men opened up the rickety door nearest Q. It led directly outside. To discourage escape and nullify the possibility to attracting unwanted attention, their captors had taken Bond and Q to effectively the middle of nowhere, it seemed, and now the brisk autumn wind rushed in like an eager, unwanted guest. Bond knew instantly what was going on, even before he saw Q flinch away and hiss at the cold hitting his now-wet frame.
“I think you’ll see the benefit in cooperating soon,” was the opinion given by the man still holding the dripping bucket, and then Bond and Q were left alone again.
Bound securely with duct-tape to a pipe on the far side of the room, so that he could sit down or stand up but do little else, 007 was hit by the lowering temperatures as well. But while Q was wet, standing, and generally as lean as a greyhound, 007 was dry, had the option of curling his legs towards his torso, and had enough mass to produce a truly impressive amount of body-heat – and at this moment, he wished he could give all of that to Q. “Shit…!” Q muttered to himself, in a voice that said he hadn’t quite meant to speak out loud, but the cold was startling to him as it leached through his dripping clothing. He hadn’t looked to Bond in awhile, not since he’d deduced that the 00-agent was largely fine and comparatively safe, and Q needed all of his focus to keep standing and now to keep his teeth from chattering. He huddled in on himself as much as he could, arms pressing in against his ducked head while he shuffled his feet awkwardly.
But he did glance up, once, and tried on a truly weak smile. The fluttering bravery of it almost broke Bond’s hard heart. “This isn’t… quite going as planned, is it?” he said between a chilled little shiver.
Bond tried to give him an encouraging look, but his own uselessness in this situation had been pounded home with more lacerating pain than any torture: there was literally nothing he could do but watch as Q took the punishment that should have been his. Bond was used to working alone, and shouldering the consequences accordingly. Not this. He wondered if their captors knew how much they were hurting him just by stringing Q up like this.
Even though it wasn’t winter yet, the nights were cold, and Q’s plight went from uncomfortable to downright debilitating as the sun set. Bond himself couldn’t have slept if he wanted to, because there was the constant sound of Q’s teeth chattering and his breath catching, and his body shivering its way through that. The ropes holding him up creaked like tree-branches in a nasty wind as he moved, now fighting the quivering of chilled muscles alongside the desperate desire to give his legs a rest. Bond made himself watch, wincing whenever Q’s exhausted legs buckled and all of Q’s weight suddenly dragged on his arms – or when Q couldn’t help it, and dozed, and the same thing happened but with more dangerous consequences. Bond tried to shout at him through the gag, terrified that Q might actually die this way as his diaphragm lost its ability to properly move his lungs, turning sleep into suffocation. Fortunately, Q always came awake before very long, breathing labored and the cold probably forcing him to come alert again, too. Bond redoubled his efforts to get loose, despite the knowledge that he was making precious little progress as it was.
Come morning, Q looked like death warmed over – but without the warm part. Bond by this point was ready to put their captors in the lowest reaches of hell even if he had to drag them there himself. Q was barely conscious, and shivering so pathetically that it was visible as soon as the watery sun started to rise. Even if 007 hadn’t been able to see the evidence of his Quartermaster’s condition, he would have heard it: Q let out occasional little mewls, probably involuntary noises that were escaping as his whole body clenched and quivered in an effort to desperately create more heat.
When men came in a second time, shortly after dawn, with another sloshing bucket, 007 surged against the pipe at his back so hard that they flinched and nearly dropped what they were carrying. One eyed the pipe, even though they’d already ascertained that it was stable and strong enough to hold back a man of 007’s strength.
Q for the first time pleaded as the two men recovered and once again doused him with cold water, adding to the damp still clinging to him, so that the Quartermaster was standing in a puddle beneath his own feet. “No, please!” the Quartermaster choked out, only to end up spitting water out of his mouth and shivering harder. The cold and the sleep deprivation were starting to gnaw into him with teeth like a million slivers, and it was honestly more cruel than many of the beatings 007 had survived in situations like this. 007 heaved forward again, wanting nothing more than to go to him, to make this end.
Instead, he was forced to watch as one of the men came forward with a patronizing smile and wrapped his hand around Q’s jaw. The Quartermaster’s lashes, stuck together by water and looking shockingly dark against his pale and clammy skin, lifted as he turned his attention to the enemy operative blearily.
“Are you ready to talk now?”
“No.” The answer was slower than usual, however, as if the Quartermaster were struggling to think. Bond noticed with a pang of sympathy that Q had ceased to glare defiantly, too, no doubt lacking the energy.
“Come on now, boy,” the man went on smoothly, and 007 found himself unexpectedly bristling at the demeaning term. True, Q was the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history, and even Bond had poked fun at his age at first, but Q was also wildly smart – calling him a boy so dismissively was to forget the number of times that he’d saved missions and agents alike with his competence and skills. “Surely you must realize that I can end this. I don’t like torturing people, you see.”
“You...” Q’s voice was dazed, weak. His stance wavered and he had to shift his feet to stay standing on his own power. He went on, however, after licking lips that had a blue tint to them from the chill, “You could have… fooled me.”
Fierce pride surged through 007’s system, and he didn’t bother to hold back the low chuff of approval that made it past the gag. Angry eyes turned on him, except for Q’s, who appeared to have either not heard or lacked the energy to show interest. The leader of the present gang of criminals glowered at 007 before forcibly turning his attention back to more malleable prey. “Do you like standing here? Freezing? On your feet all day?” he snapped, and showed his fraying temper by suddenly kicking out, knocking Q’s feet out from under him. The Quartermaster cried out in pain as his shoulders were jarred and the ropes bit into his abused wrists, and 007 could do nothing but watch as tears escaped and joined the cold water down Q’s face. It took a laboriously long time for Q to find his feet again, and no one bothered to help him.
‘Come on, Q, hang on. I’m not going to let these bastards kill you, and I’m going to pay them back for every single thing they’ve done,’ 007 swore furiously in his head, and wriggled his hands. He’d been working nearly nonstop at the duct-tape, and while it felt like he’d been getting nowhere, he could feel the edge of the tape where he’d started peeling it up, millimeter by millimeter. Other parts were starting to tear. ‘Just don’t give up on me now.’
By this point, 007 honestly didn’t care if Q gave away every secret in MI6 – that came second to Q’s safety, in Bond’s books, at least right now. Bond would never have thought beforehand that he cared this much, but with fury twisting like a cyclone in his chest, all tangled up with protectiveness, clearly the skinny boffin had become more important to him than he’d realized. The biggest danger at the moment was the encroaching look of hopelessness and bone-breaking exhaustion on Q’s face, and 007 feared that Q’s will was finally going to snap, and possibly his sanity along with it. Pain was easier to fight than tiredness, and a localized injury was easier to ignore than the all-over ache of intense cold, and 007 was already wondering how Q was still as coherent as he was. He just looked so… brittle… now that 007 was afraid for him: all slim bones and unprotected, scarecrow frame.
“You know it’s only going to get worse,” the interrogator continued, stepping in close again so that Q’s dazed eyes had little choice but to look at him, “Even without you as wet as a drowned rat, the body loses its ability to regulate body-temperature when it’s pushed to the limits by exhaustion. Did you know that? So make it easy on yourself and tell me what I need to know. Then you and your friend can leave.”
This time, Q didn’t answer at all, but merely blinked slowly, once, and clenched his teeth to stopped their rattling – and to make it clear that no words would be coming out. When anger suffused their captor’s face, 007 feared that brutal retaliation would finally happen, but instead the interrogator turned suddenly and started stalking towards 007.
Instead of being afraid, Bond felt a nearly suicidal rush of elation. At the prospect of finally being something besides a forgotten bystander, the brutal side of himself stirred – a monster purring at his core. Even the prospect of a beating didn’t faze him, because at least Q was being left alone for a while. Bond got his feet under himself and eased into a standing position slowly, hampered by the position of his arms taped behind the pipe.
But Q would always protect his agents.
“Siger Q. Holmes!” the Quartermaster suddenly blurted, the words sounding brittle and fragile because all of him was still shaking. His eyes looked wild and a bit deranged from lack of sleep when everyone turned to him, seeing the dark-haired man standing up straighter and trying not to look on the verge of collapse. “That’s my name. That’s one of the things you wanted to know.”
007 snarled before he could stop the noise, and unfortunately, everyone took Bond’s rage as confirmation of the truth. In all honesty, Bond didn’t actually know whether this was the truth: Q was just Q, and he’d never actually bothered to ask for his mundane name. Whatever title Q wore for the outside world was as thin as any alias, from Bond’s point of view, and Q responded to the letter as naturally as if he’d been born to it.
Eyes glinting like a cat stalking prey, their interrogator moved leisurely back in Q’s direction. “And who do you work for?”
Q’s eyes got hesitant again, and Bond silently cursed, because spilling information would probably keep Q safer – but instead he’d drawn the attention of their captor only to clam up again. Bond tried to the millionth time to remove the tape over his mouth and speak himself, but had no success.
“I said,” their captor repeated, coming in close and wrapping one meaty fist around one of Q’s forearms. Bond noticed the way Q’s eyes darted up, and he hissed in a breath that was nearly blissful – already he was so cold that even that small gift of heat must have felt heavenly. “Who do you work for, Mr. Holmes?”
Shivering hard, Q somehow managed to find the will to purse his lips and look remarkably fierce for someone who was (literally at the moment) probably ten stones soaking wet. It took a few tries to speak without the chattering of his teeth marring his words, but the interrogator waited, and finally the Quartermaster bit out with quiet, hushed venom, “Look up my name. That will give you a better answer than I can.”
Bond wondered what the devil Q was up to. If it were as easy as looking up the Quartermaster on the internet, then MI6 would have had a storm of security problems ages ago. In fact, Q boasted on a regular occasion about the improvements he’d made to MI6’s security systems and firewalls, so there had to be something that Bond was missing to all of this. The man standing in Q’s personal space seemed conflicted as well, but could read his captive’s querulous and stubborn expression well enough. Glowering, then glancing between Q and Bond (causing the latter to growl meaningfully, a noise more than audible despite the duct-tape), the interrogator ultimately kept his focus on Q, snarling into his face so that smaller man drew back, “You will talk. Henslow, dislocate his shoulder. Just one – I want him uncomfortable, not maimed.”
Even as Bond lunged forward one more time (failing, again, to do anything more than jar his own shoulders and made the pipe groan), yelling obscenities that never made it past his mouth, Q’s eyes flashed wide and adrenalin managed to push back some of his stupor. “No!” he yelped involuntarily, as a hefty man with a buzz-cut came his way. The big fellow didn’t look eager to do this job – a good sign, and more support for the fact that this organization wasn’t high enough on the ‘evil scale’ to perpetrate the kinds of atrocities that some others were – but didn’t hesitate even when his prey started thrashing to get away. Like a rabbit in a nose, Q twisted and skidded back as much as he could, trying to keep facing his new adversary even as hazel eyes grew wide and frightened behind their spectacles. “No… please!” came out of his mouth next as a large hand caught hold of his elbow anyway. Bond had never wanted to hear his Quartermaster beg, and this time did the merciful thing and looked away and tried to ignore the pleading, panicked words tumbling out of Q’s mouth. “Please, you don’t have to do this…! No! Stop!”
Bond was looking at the wall, but he heard their interrogator loud and clear, interjecting calmly, “Then will you talk?”
And Q, the stubborn, stupid, brave creature that he was, said after only a small pause, “No.”
The next sound was Q’s scream echoing up to the ceiling, but not quite drowning out the nasty pop of a joint coming out of its socket.
~^~
Q was drenched again. Patience seemed to be something that their captors were adept at, a temperamental quirk that worked well with their tactics as they once again left their prisoners to sit and stew. Q hadn’t said a word beyond a few moaned curses, although he’d also cried a bit after having his shoulder dislocated. Now he stood, teeth bared a little at he bit his lip against the pain, and said nothing. He kept his head tipped so that his face pressed to the inside of his uninjured arm, eyes tightly squeezed shut like he could ignore what was happening. Bond knew, however, with grim surety, that the dislocated shoulder would get harder and harder to ignore as the adrenalin wore off and Q’s exhaustion returned full force – because now, instead of the slow threat of suffocation if he fell asleep or lost his footing, there would be the sharp stab of agony as one arm took his weight and the other one lit up like a hot brand. There was virtually no chance of Q getting any sleep now.
The members of the Leonid Corporation probably thought that they were less evil, because they did not draw blood and they did not beat answers out of their captives. But in reality, Bond knew that this was worse, and he didn’t know how – or if – Q would recover from this.
‘It’s going to be all right, Q,’ he wanted to say – over and over again until it was actually the truth, and not just wishful thinking. In fact, it was probably a downright lie, if Bond couldn’t get free, so he turned his attention to that when it was clear that the Quartermaster didn’t have the energy to pay attention to him. Q was drifting further and further into his mind, Bond could tell, and he just had to hope that he could draw the boffin back out of there once this was over.
Because Bond refused to believe that this would end with anything short of their captors choking on their own blood and Q safely freed.
James worked furiously at his bonds, eventually finding what he’d suspected and feared: there was wire beneath the duct-tape, explaining why his headway was so slow. Still, if their captors were going to ignore them, he was going to make good use of that inattention, and there was virtually nothing a 00-agent could not get out of if given the time. He could at least feel the wire now, having pulled at the tape until his fingers were raw and numb. The only distractions from his work were Q’s occasional, sharp cries of pain, that signaled a weak moment where he’d lost his balance or given in to the allure of giving his legs a rest. Whenever Q shrieked, Bond had to pause and just close his eyes, agony and of the emotional kind swelling unbearably behind his breastbone. Then sometimes Q would whimper, hanging there and unable to find peace of any kind.
By the time night fell again, Q was murmuring to himself, and 007 felt dread creep up his spine.
No one came to check on them, beyond the occasional glance in the door. They were left to their own devices at night, however, so no one but Bond heard the boffin’s soft, mewled words. They weren’t of any import, merely distracted sentences about the cold, or the pain – the words were definitely strong signs of oncoming delirium that came from sleep deprivation. “Cold… so fucking…cold,” would come the tetchy but soft mutterings, distracting Bond from slowly tearing back the duct-tape around his wrists, “Why can’t I be…? Why can’t I get warm? Just want.. warm.” Q hadn’t exactly slept well before all of this, and now he was being worn threadbare, down to the metaphorical bone.
Bond tried to work faster without getting caught. The 00-agent had seethed with impatience every time he was forced to stop, because someone had come to the doorway to peep in at them during the day. Sometimes 007 was entirely ignored; sometimes a knowing leer was cast his way. At night, though, the time was all his own, and he was making slow and steady progress. The only distraction was the constant torment of Q himself, as the slim young man fought to stay conscious.
“Bond… Bond, why does it hurt?”
The 00-agent flinched, unable to answer. He’d been scraping his cheek against his shoulder to try and rub off the tape, but hadn’t gotten it off yet. It tore holes in his chest to hear Q’s voice, so young-sounding and fractured. Bond had never thought that he’d get used to that stroppy, businesslike voice – so full of competence and command despite its unassuming vessel – but now it felt just wrong to hear it twisted into a fragile whine.
It should have worried the agent that Q was starting to use his real name, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. ‘It won’t hurt for much longer, Q. I’ll make sure it doesn’t,’ Bond replied mutely, his eyes trying to express his determination to a man who wasn’t even focusing enough to look at him. The Quartermaster’s wet head lolled against his good arm again, and he briefly sagged just enough to wring a pained cry out of his lips. “Hurts…! Why? Oh god, I’m so tired… I just want to sleep.”
As the night progressed, it would have been a terrific time for their captors to be around listening. Instead, there was just 007 to listen to the Quartermaster slowly come apart at the seams, slowly running from laments, to complaints, to pleading. He went from asking Bond for help to someone named Mycroft, to someone else named Sherlock, but he always came back to variations of ‘James’ or ‘Bond’ or ‘007’ again. About halfway through the night, he was actually holding brief and broken conversations with James, all one-sided because the agent couldn’t answer. Only a fraction of the sentences made sense, and the rest either beat at the flames of 007’s helpless fury or made his eyes prickle with tears he hadn’t shed in longer than he cared to remember.
Morning came, and Q seemed beyond noticing, but as soon as the watery sunlight started coming through the open doorway – once again left ajar to pour in the cool nighttime air on Q’s wet frame – he hiccupped his way to silence, head hanging. He seemed asleep on his feet, the only sign of continued consciousness being the occasional whimper as his dislocated shoulder was pulled at. There was blood starting to stain the rope at his other wrist, which had been forced to bear his weight alone more than once.
Q was barely shivering anymore, which 007 knew was a very, very bad sign.
But 007 had also managed to absolutely mangle the duct-tape around his wrists, and was now feeling the naked wires that held him.
Every second of Q’s pain that he’d had to watch had been like a new drop of rage in 007. Now he was full to the brim, and at the slightest jostling – he planned to overflow. Tidal waves would take note of the way he came roaring down on the heads of these men.
Their captors walked in, looking well-dressed, well-rested, and sure of themselves. 007 glared daggers. Q started mumbling again, down towards his chest until the interrogator reached forward and grabbed his chin, lifting it. Bond tensed and the interrogator smiled as Q simply kept talking, a low, barely intelligible string of words. He was like a cracked pot, slowly dripping out secrets, if they could just get him to focus on the right topic and speak up. “You’ve had a hard day,” the interrogator said, voice soothing, and 007 jerked forward as viciously as a dog against its chain. He was ignored, although Q’s eyes blearily opened. The hand cupping his chin kept him looking forward. “A few hard days. Want to talk about it? We’ve got some questions for you, Mr. Holmes.” When Q’s brows twitched, his mouth stilling and turning down at the edges, it looked like their captors were making progress – Q barely knew where he was now, much less that he was being questioned by enemies. “This is your boss, Siger. Answer me. What was your mission? Just tell me.”
Q remained silent for a moment longer, as if gathering his words, and 007 sagged back in defeat. He wasn’t angry; he’d already decided that any MI6 secrets were worth Q’s safety. No one could be blamed for breaking under circumstances like this, short of a 00-agent who’d been excessively and brutally trained as 007 had.
But when Q opened his mouth again, and whispered something through chattering teeth, the interrogator frowned. “What was that?”
“I s-s-said,” Q wheezed, blinking in a terribly confused way, but still somehow stringing a sentence together coherently, “th-that my boss…doesn’t sound like that.” Q swallowed even as 007’s heart surged with pride in his chest, a reckless, painful pride. “And she d-d-doesn’t… call me Siger.”
The interrogator let Q go with a snarl and swung his hand back in for a hard slap, but Q was too numb to even react. He stumbled a little but remained standing, head dropping lax again with his chin to his sternum, hands limp high above his head.
“Fine then,” their captor snarled, his frustration warming Bond’s admittedly twisted heart. “We try something else.” And he turned to Bond. This time, Q didn’t notice; he was finally too far gone for his suicidal protective instincts to kick in, and that thought made 007 positively purr.
As the interrogator walked forward, Bond sat back against his pipe in a relaxed pose, thinking with a slightly apologetic look Q’s way, ‘You can protect me next time, Q. But now it’s my turn.’ Their captor squatted down in front of 007, eyes angry enough that he’d be making mistakes, Bond knew. Henslow hovered in the background, but that wasn’t anywhere near enough manpower to intimidate Bond.
“You’ve been watching your comrade,” the other man jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Q pitilessly, “I’m sure that that hurts you – I’ve seen it written on your face.” 007 narrowed his eyes to blue chips of hatred. The man facing him gave an oily, superior smile. “I can see that you’re a man hardened to physical pain and hardship yourself, but your comrade – your friend? – he’s not so tough. He’s suffering. But I’m going to give you a chance to end that. If you answer my questions, without stalling or giving me the runaround, I’ll let him down.” The man shrugged. “I’ll even let you both go.”
‘Liar,’ 007 said, but he made his eyes show guarded interest. He saw that his bait was swallowed when the interrogator flashed a little smirk and reached forward to grab the edge of the duct-tape across Bond’s face… which was going to hurt like a bitch, but it would be worth it.
“Will you cooperate? For the good of your friend?”
Bond nodded, glancing down as if ashamed and finally beaten. Behind his back, however, his fingers were working quickly and quietly; when he’d leaned back, he’d hidden the final movements of his hands. He only stopped moving when the ripping of the duct-tape off his skin made him flinch.
“All right then,” the interrogator said primly, holding the removed strip of duct-tape primly between two fingers, “First things first: who are you?”
“I’m an international assassin,” Bond grinned with a voice roughened by days of disuse, and an edge like salt ground into a wound. His smile would have better fit a wolf snarling at sheep. “And I’m going to laugh while I pay you back for every sorry second you kept us here.”
And with that, 007 jerked forward, the unraveled wires releasing his wrists as he lunged.
Bond’s muscles were stiff from not moving, but he’d learned to sit, poised, for hours while waiting for a mark; he knew how to make his body work regardless. His shoulders screamed in protest and there was his own blood all over his hands, from worrying against tape and wires and the hard surface of the pipe for hours on end, but his hands still gripped with horrifying strength the second they locked around the interrogator’s neck. As much as 007 wanted to kill him slowly, to pay him back for everything, he was aware of Henslow shouting in surprise and reaching for his gun. So 007 snapped the interrogator’s neck instead, letting the man die with a look of horrified shock forever frozen on his face. Barely on his knees and only seconds free, 007 turned his attention to Henslow, leaping up from the ground like a snake uncoiling. The bullets that had been intended for him sprayed the wall behind him, one actually hitting the body of the interrogator. 007 slammed them both into the wall on the far side of the room, and once again locked his hands on the man’s neck, using the grip to strangle as he simultaneously rammed Henslow’s head back against the wall. Just as Henslow started to turn the gun inwards, towards Bond’s body, the 00-agent swept a foot against the other man’s legs. Off-balance, Henslow toppled, and 007 followed him down. Bond was like a panther riding down a kill, and was decidedly less jarred by the landing – the disparity in training was clear. Bond had Henslow’s gun in seconds, and killed the man with one clean bullet to the chest.
The next man who charged through the door got the same treatment. 007 was enraged, but fury was something he could work with, and it only made him deadlier.
These men had thought that they could go after the supposedly weakest link with impunity. But Bond wasn’t being held at bay any longer, and like a river held back as the floodwaters rose, the intensity of the destruction had increased tenfold with every moment it was put off.
These men had frozen, sleep-deprived, and scared Q for over nearly five days.
In return, 007 turned the little building in the middle of nowhere into a slaughterhouse.
~^~
The wrathful monster that had just slaughtered over a dozen people wasn’t the same one that approached Q when it was all over. 007 was covered in a lot of blood-spatter, and looked like a veritable nightmare, but his hands were conscientious and gentle as he crowded close to Q’s insensible figure. “Q. Q. It’s all right. Q, can you hear me?” Up close, the Quartermaster was even more of a wreck, circles dark as sooty bruises under his eyes and hair a tangled, damp mess that hung over his ears and glasses in messy ringlets. His head bobbed halfway up in surprise at the sudden contact of Bond’s hands on his sides, also probably feeling Bond’s body-heat because of how close he was. 007 reached upwards, giving up on any answer from his wrecked Quartermaster, and gripped Q’s wrists in one hand and a stolen knife in the other. “This is really going to hurt for a second, Q, but I promise it will all be better once you’re down.”
Q’s forehead had been resting heavily against the hollow of Bond’s throat, so the agent felt the raw scream of pain right against his chest as he cut the ropes holding Q aloft. The agony came from suddenly lowering arms that had been strained upwards for so long, including one that was out of socket – there was, in fact, a nasty popping noise as that one fell from the severed ropes. Bond dropped the knife (knowing that there were no other threats to be armed against anyway) in favor of catching the smaller man when he sagged. Q was so completely boneless against him that Bond wondered if he’d just passed out, and swiftly lowered them both to the floor to mitigate the risks of dropping the Quartermaster.
Legs folding up, Q’s head remained nestled between Bond’s neck and left shoulder, soon sitting on the floor while 007 knelt and continued to keep hold of him. At that point, Q proved that he wasn’t completely unconscious, as he leaned blindly into Bond’s solid form and gasped breathlessly, “Cold.”
Every inch of Q was, indeed, freezing. Contact with 007 was encouraging him to shiver again, almost violently; the trembling spasms made his bad shoulder lock up, and he whined into Bond’s shirt-collar. “I know you’re cold, Q, and we’re going to fix that,” James soothed, nuzzling Q’s head without thinking while he curled his left arm around Q’s back – reaching around until he could cup his hand over Q’s dislocated shoulder. Bond’s other hand was gripping Q’s bicep to hold the arm still. “Shhh, shhh, sorry – I know that hurts.” Q writhed weakly and let out a choked sob as Bond’s capable hands checked over his shoulder, finding that it had actually slipped back into place with the last bout of movement, but was still undoubtedly sore. It would have to be kept as immobilized as possible, to help it start healing and prevent it from possibly slipping back out of socket again.
But first Bond had to get his companion warm again.
Bond had been ruthlessly efficient once he’d gotten himself freed, and he’d wasted no time in putting down absolutely every single person that stood in his way – but he’d been smart about it, too. He’d made sure that he got everyone, so that there was no chance of anyone running off and coming back later. He’d also spent just enough time interrogating one man to learn the lay of the land, where they were, and what the chances were of reinforcements coming. The dense surrounding of forest would prevent arrivals by air, and apparently the drive was winding and long – so 007 knew that he had quite a bit of time before he might expect trouble, and that was if anyone was coming. Reception out here was terrible, and 007 hadn’t given anyone a lot of time to call for help.
Grunting, Bond got an arm under Q’s legs and kept his other snug behind the man’s shoulders, standing and lifting Q up with him. The Quartermaster was shuddering in fits and starts now, although he seemed to have the strength for little else. Protectiveness tangled up with fear as 007 took note of the state Q was in, but he kept both reactions at bay as he strode out of the torturous room and into the main house, stepping over bodies as he went. “It’s good you’re not fit to pay attention right now, Quartermaster,” he murmured, meaning to joke, but his tone came out low and harsh with anger that refused to go out. 00-agents were trained not to regret the kills they made, but right now 007 couldn’t even imagine feeling bad about the physical destruction he’d just caused.
Bond took his Quartermaster to one of the bedrooms on the building’s second-floor, where there were two beds but also no bodies – the only criteria for 007 picking it. Away from the room where they’d tortured Q, the rooms were comfortably warm, which only amped up Q’s ability to shiver. 007 lowered Q onto the bed before swiftly striding back out, mind having catalogued what he wanted already.
Little time passed before the agent came back, every second not spent watching Q tugging on him like a hook caught in his chest. Bond was sensible, though, and had taken the extra time needed to get a bit of food and water into himself, knowing that it wouldn’t do either of them any good if their one coherent member collapsed from hunger. The bottled water in his hand was even more necessary.
Curled in on himself with his bad arm folded limply across his stomach, protected by the rest of his body, Q roused dazedly to open his eyes at 007’s approaching figure. Q’s glasses were askew, and it hardly seemed that he was focusing. With a little whimper, he tried to back away from the blond-haired man as he approached, but only succeeded in rucking up the bedsheets a little. Bond was dropping to his haunches by Q’s head in seconds anyway, a hand fitted behind Q’s head keeping him still. “It’s just me, Q – just James. Stay with me.”
The water was warmed, courtesy of the little microwave he’d found, and when he pressed the mouth of the bottle to Q’s lips, the Quartermaster startled a little. Once he felt the soothing heat of the water, though, he pressed forward as much as he could, and probably would have grabbed the container of water if his left arm wasn’t still sore and his right one underneath him. A small measure of relief made 007 smile, and he didn’t realize that one of his hands was stroking Q’s mess of hair as he finally started to get the smaller man hydrated again – and hopefully started the warming process from the inside.
The next step would probably be a bit harder. Q made a small, bereft noise as the water bottle was pulled away from him (although he would have either made himself sick or suffocated if he’d kept drinking at that rate), but it turned into a muzzily startled one as Bond lifted him again. Once again, with atypical gentleness in juxtaposition to the violence he was capable of, the agent soothed and hushed him until they were in a bathroom, where 007 had already turned the shower on to lukewarm. There was no tub to be found anywhere in the house, so this would have to do. Efficient and focused, 007 set Q down to sit against the frosted-glass doorway, and began to undress him, starting with his glasses. Q’s clothing was still damp in many places, and was doing nothing to warm him and everything to leech more heat from his body, so it needed to go. There was no time or place for embarrassment as 007 steadily revealed more and more pale skin, from a knobby, badly bruising left shoulder, to a flat stomach that clenched with every other breath as shivers took hold, and on down to jutting hipbones and lean legs as 007 stripped him completely. Under other circumstances, this would have been either a mortifying or hilarious situation, and 007 most certainly hadn’t ever expected to be peeling his Quartermaster out of his clothes.
What made it terribly unfunny was that Q seemed so confused. He kept trying to bat at James, no matter how weak and uncoordinated his movements were. It was an irksome miracle that he hadn’t just fallen asleep, but seemed to be actively fight drowsiness as if he were still strung up, and even when the familiar agent spoke, Q would only stop for a little bit. Eyes too heavy to fully open nonetheless showed bewilderment, as Q’s brow crinkled, and mumbled half-questions started and stopped on his usually eloquent mouth as it turned down into a frown. As James slid off his pants and trousers, Q actually let out a quiet keen, clearly frightened. The agent had to immediately come back up to his head, holding it between his hands and patiently getting his attention, waiting for glazed eyes to open a bit wider while he leaned in close so that even Q’s nearsighted eyes could make him out. It took a painfully long time for something like crippled recognition to ease the Quartermaster’s fearful expression.
By then, the water had been running for quite some time, and James didn't want to run the risk of emptying the hot water alotment - even if the shower was running a spray more cool than steamy. There'd be time for a truly hot shower later, after Q's body was thawed enough to safely take it. 007 slipped out of his clothing, too, because he knew that this was going to end in them both quite wet – but hopefully somewhat warmer.
Q didn’t react well to being carried under the running water at all. Honestly, part of Bond had been expecting it, knowing that Q was barely there in his head right now, and what little sense he had was all garbled up with recent, vicious, painful memories – many of which included being doused with water and left to freeze. Therefore, it was unsurprising when the first drops of warm water on Q’s skin (most of it blocked by Bond’s broad back and shoulders, as he turned them so that the water would hit him hardest and first, and because he could more easily take the temperature difference) made him cry out and begin struggling. “No! No, no, no, no, please…” he choked out, while Bond struggled to hold him but eventually just got them both sitting on the floor. With the water falling on them like warm and steady rain, he was able to better control Q’s panicking with the Quartermaster on his lap. Dried blood had started to soak and run away from Q’s more battered right wrist, streaking his arm even as he flailed it weakly. Bond caught it in his hand, hating himself for it, because all Q wanted was to escape and be away from there – but 007 couldn’t let him. This water would warm him up. “Please, don’t do this to me anymore!” Q begged, kicking and hitting the wall. Fortunately, he had barely a kitten’s strength.
Bond weathered the emotional storm, eventually keeping Q still by curving his body around him; this served both to pen in at least his arms, while also protecting Q from much of the water. It still dripped off Bond and onto him, but it was heartbreaking how the Quartermaster tried to hide in the lea of him, face pressed so that panting, scared breaths stroked constantly across the hollow of Bond’s throat, and newly-wet hair rubbed against his neck and jaw. One hand was pressed flush to his chest, shaking as if it was trying desperately hard not to paw or try and claw Q free.
“It’s all right, Q,” Bond kept up the constant, calm litany, “It’s going to be okay. You’re with me. No one is going to hurt you while you’re with me. We just need to heat you up and give you some rest.” 007 gently rubbed some of the blood off Q’s skin, feeling quivering tendons and bird-fine bones.
“…Rest,” Q repeated after a while.
“Yes.” Bond nodded against Q’s head, the stubble on his chin rasping against dark, thick hair. “You get to rest.”
“I…I c-can’t. It h-h-hurts if I do.”
“It won’t hurt this time, Q, I promise.”
“Can’t breathe when…” The Quartermaster sounded so terribly young like this, and it made that fierce need to protect rise up all over again, overwhelming and strong within the cage of Bond’s ribs. The 00-agent held his battered companion tighter as lukewarm water began to gently thaw Q out. Where they touched, Bond’s warm, naked body was doing much the same, infusing Q’s cold skin with heat.
“You’re not hanging from the ceiling anymore. You don’t have to worry about staying awake, or breathing,” Bond reassured without any guarantee in return that Q even understood all that he was saying. It was deeply wrong that someone should fear for something as necessary and simple as a breath of oxygen, or the desperate pull of gentle sleep.
That settled Q a bit, although he still didn’t drift off. 007 weathered the restless shifting and wriggling that Q insisting on doing every few moments, like a limb jerking just as the body reached the precarious edge of sleep. Bond couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d had that much skin-on-skin contact without sexual connotations.
Once Q’s skin was something closer to a normal temperature, 007 moved on to the next step, of getting them out and dry. There were enough towels to bundle Q up quite thoroughly, and 007 hurriedly scrubbed the water off himself as well. He noted the few wounds he’d acquired, but it seemed that pure, righteous rage had protected him, because the worst he had were small scrapes, scratches, and bruises, besides the raw mess he’d made of his wrists and the sore tips of his fingers. The shower had washed him clean of other men’s blood, though.
Bond dressed again, but only took time to grab Q’s glasses, picking the slim man up (towel-and-all) to carrying him back to the bedroom.
They still had hours left before threats might rise up again, so 007 was determined to make the most of it. Unbundling Q was easy enough, although Q grew distressed as the cool air hit his skin again – but he quieted when Bond removed his own denim jacket (fleece-lined, smelling like him, and already body-warm) and laid it over Q’s torso, followed by the bed’s blankets. Q was still in no state to maintain his own body-temperature, despite the shower, so after a very brief moment of indecision, Bond slid into bed after him. He doubted that Q had the capacity to warm up his own sheets right now.
“Don’t… want to sleep. Can’t,” Q was muttering, nose buried against the collar of Bond’s jacket, expression so exhausted and open with his glasses now on the nearby dresser, “Fuck, why can’t I sleep?”
Despite the rotten circumstances, hearing the usually prim Quartermaster swear coaxed a chuckle out of Bond’s throat. It was possibly the closest thing he’d heard to a normal sentence thus far, as ridiculous as that was. Easing up behind Q and molding their bodies together carefully, 007 replied in a gentle undertone, “You can sleep, Q. The danger’s past.”
“They wanted to know… t-to know my name. S-Sterling’s real name, too.”
“I am Sterling. I’m James. I’m right here with you, Q.”
A confused head turned, trying to fix on 007 without the aid of spectacles. “Bond?”
The shiver that wracked Q’s body must have hurt, the muscles in his shoulder protesting, because Q flinched and swore again. This time, to help keep the recurring tremors at bay, 007 slipped his arms unashamedly around Q middle and drew the Quartermaster back against him, until Q’s bare spine as pressed against the material of 007’s jumper, and his strong, warm chest beneath. Bond also took the opportunity to grip Q’s left arm, splinting it in place with his own limb to prevent any more undue movement that would aggravate Q’s shoulder. The jacket was still draped over most of Q’s front, added warmth along with sheets and a heavy quilt. More on instinct than anything else, 007 bent his head forward until his breath was puffing across Q’s neck and he had damp hair against his nose and cheek.
Miraculously, Q settled.
Imparting as much warmth as he could to his Quartermaster, the 00-agent started to feel his own fatigue. The adrenalin from fighting had burned off, leaving his muscles strained and burning; his own nights, while not as agonizingly sleep-lacking as Q’s, hadn’t been worth much either, making Bond feel heavy and tired. Soon his arm was a dead-weight around Q’s ribs, but the smaller man didn’t seem to mind, even going so far as to snuggle back a little bit.
“We’re safe, Q,” Bond rumbled, feeling sleep sinking into him, as inexorable as an inky tide. He wasn’t strictly telling the truth, but it was all he could give right now, so hopefully no more danger would come in the time it took him to sleep. And in the time it took him to warm Q up. Smooth, lukewarm skin was soft and supple under his hand, and 007 found his hand stroking upwards, leaving Q’s arm and instead seeking the throb of a heartbeat. As he found it, Q shifted, but 007 was too sleepy himself to take much note, until he felt shaky, dexterous fingers fold around his.
“James?” Q asked again, breathily, voice muffled against blankets and Bond’s coat.
Because the Quartermaster was using his first name now, the 00-agent got his eyes open, and fought for fading focus. “Yes?”
“I can sleep now… can’t I?”
“Yes, you can sleep.”
“My shoulder…” Q swallowed, and cleared his throat thickly. It probably ached from screaming. “…Hurts.”
Bond gave the fingers intertwined with his a squeeze. “It’ll fade. Go to sleep, Q.”
“They… they wanted… information out of me,” the smaller man was determined to whisper, wriggling. Cold feet cuddled up to Bond’s shins. “I didn’t…? I couldn’t tell them anything!” He sounded desperate for that to be true, the heartbeat under Bond’s palm starting to flutter and pound faster.
Despite the fact that he was tired, wrung out, and knew that he needed just a bit of sleep to face any other problems that might come their way, Bond roused himself a bit more. If his eyes were this hard to pry open, how hard was Q working to keep sleep at bay? A growling noise of effort exited Bond’s throat as he shifted up and began moving the Quartermaster – manhandling him, really, but with as much care as if he were glass – rolling him until the jacket fell discarded out from under the blankets. Soon, Bond was lying exhausted on his back, not caring for once that it was a vulnerable position as he dragged Q up onto his front.
They were face-to-face, and for once the shudder that ran from Q’s crown to his toes was one that came from sleepy delight instead of pain, fear, or exhausted chill. He was really feeling Bond’s warmth now, and helplessly relaxed. One eye remained cracked halfway open, wandering towards Bond’s face.
“We’ll talk about it when you wake up,” 007 grunted, settling down, deciding that he was right to do this: Q’s weight was negligible, and he was now warming up rapidly. After moving his hand hesitantly, fingertips hovering, Bond eventually gave into the desire to brush his scarred knuckles across Q’s cheek where he’d been struck at least twice. There was a bruised in full bloom, and 007 wished he could wipe it away. “You did all right, Q. You…” He picked his words, aware that he now had Q’s chin on his right pectoral and two bleary, hazel eyes on him – and his own hand supporting Q’s head with his fingers buried in thick, dark hair. “We won, Q. You won. You beat them.”
Q gave a small smile, a whimsical little thing that lingered as Q’s eyes began to flutter closed. Bond curled his hand around the back of Q’s neck and massaged the skin of his nape with gentle strength. Q was probably already asleep, but 007 finished anyway in a deadly, steady murmur of pride, “You beat them. All I did was clean up the mess.”
~^~
Epilogue
~^~
It turned out that whenever anyone searched ‘Siger Q. Holmes,’ Mycroft Holmes was alerted. About the same time that 007 woke up, rested enough to be dangerous again, helicopters were indeed heading their way – and despite the trees, they did manage to find a place to land. Bond, of course, met them with projectile weapons, although M would have been proud that he held off from firing to kill (although he definitely scared them a little) while he waited for adequate credentials. When a man with an umbrella and a disturbingly flat, cold, alert expression stepped out of the helicopter and identified himself as Mycroft Holmes, things almost went from bad to worse – because not only did Bond have no idea what to make of the name, but Mr. Holmes did not seem impressed with Bond either. And Mycroft had more gunmen, even if 007 had more reckless nerve and finely-honed training in just about every manner of death known to man.
“Mycroft. James.” The soft, slightly breathy voice had them both turning like well-trained hounds at a master’s call, something both of them would be embarrassed by later. At the moment, everyone was staring fixedly at the sight of the skinny figure shuffling towards them from the house, walking on shaky legs and seemingly covered in nothing but a white bed-sheet. As Q stumbled a little and paused to regain his balance, one of his arms slipped out further, pulling his makeshift cloak in tighter, revealing the bandages that Bond had found and wrapped around his wrists when he’d awoken in the pre-dawn hours. Q’s other arm was hopefully still bound in a loose sling to his chest, preventing movement of his bad shoulder. Before James could decide what he wanted more – to make sure that he didn’t turn his back on a threat, or to run to Q’s side and damn everything else – the boffin raised his bloodshot, bespectacled eyes again and finished, “Kindly refrain from shooting one another. I don’t think I could handle it right now.”
The slight sliver of vulnerability cut 007 to the quick, and a glance told him that perhaps it did the same to this Mycroft fellow, who’s mask had cracked a bit to reveal a rather stricken expression. 007 was the first to react, however, lowering his weapon and immediately giving in to the instincts to go to Q. It was probably fortunate that the Quartermaster tiredly took the time to call, “It’s all right, Mycroft. This is James Bond, a fellow MI6 operative.”
“An agent?” Mycroft asked, even as James ignored him, instead holding his gun in one hand and finding Q’s right elbow with the other, gripping it through the sheets to make sure he didn’t fall.
“00-agent.” Q paused, then added even as he leaned into 007 seemingly without thinking. “The best. And the reason I’m alive right now.”
“In that case,” Mycroft responded a bit cagily, but with something defrosting slowly in his tone. A flick of the man’s hand, and the other men about the chopper lowered their weapons. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond.”
Not meaning it, but working a bit on autopilot for the sake of politeness, 007 grunted back, “Likewise,” before lowering his head to murmur in to Q’s ear, “Who the fuck is this and how did he find us here? Not that I’m complaining, so long as I don’t have to shoot him.”
“No shooting,” Q repeated swiftly, even as he huddled deeper into his blankets and closer to Bond. Freeing up both hands without even thinking, 007 followed his instincts and pulled Q closer, bristling at the shivers starting up in Q’s body now that he was outside and in the cold again. Q yawned against his chest, eyes closing, but voice more sane and relaxed than Bond had heard in what felt like forever, “He’ll take us home, James. Home. I’ll explain later, I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that,” answered the agent, even as he warily eyed the other men approaching. No one had guns out anymore, however, and across the way, Mycroft was failing in his efforts to look unaffected – the worry in his stance and tight expression were real, and eased some of the distrust in 007’s mind a little.
Q’s hand slipped out of its cocoon again even people began to usher both agent and Quartermaster towards the waiting chopper without further delay or inquiry. Fingers desperate, Q grasped at Bond’s jacket and held on tight. “You won’t leave?”
“Q, if you can withstand what you just did and not even give out my bloody name, I’ll stay with you as long as you want. I swear it,” 007 said, and then ignored the offers of helping hands to instead pick up Q himself and carry him to the chopper. He’d no doubt be in charge of explaining the dead men in the house behind him to this Holmes man he’d never met, but it all meant nothing compared to the wonderful feeling that blossomed in Bond’s chest – fondness tangled up with relief and pride – as Q sighed and relaxed, and fell unhesitantly back asleep in his arms.