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There is a tall and intimidating man trapped in a rather confined space. He is mostly unmonitored aside from the two people outside of the door. He has one shot at this. He plants three miniature explosives pilfered from his friend’s desk and shields himself as well as he can. The door blows and despite being bruised and bloody he is free.
Q goes to work; he stays there from five in the morning until nine at night. Q goes home to an empty house; he sits on an empty sofa and he has the cats' full attention. He asks questions to empty rooms and makes too much dinner. The birds pecking at the window make him look up in poorly disguised hope. It would be easier if thing were just how they used to be, but they're not because he's used to the presence of another and now hit habits don't match his isolation.
It's been two months since the last post card, four since the last official contact. Six since he's seen James through something other than a camera and heard him through something other than a microphone. It feels like mourning, and it feels like any other mission, and it feels like a bitter and painful freedom that Q never wants to feel again.
This isn't the first time 007 has disappeared, by all accounts an insignificant, solitary, minuscule couple of months is nothing compared to usual, but it's killing Q. It was supposed to be simple, a week, maybe two. Just get in and get out. It hardly even needed to be a double-o save for the importance of the information. But there'd been security and a blown cover followed by gunshots and radio silence.
And radio silence.
And radio silence.
The strange quietness isn't just in Q's flat but it's on weekly pub nights and in Eve's office and even in the hallowed halls of Q branch on late nights and dragging lunch breaks. When had James become a facet of every part of Q's life? Why had he allowed himself to get attached to someone who lived on borrowed time? But James had cared, and he'd understood and he'd never pushed for more because Q was enough for him. He didn't want Quartermaster or Danny or Ben or Harley, he'd wanted Q. And he wasn't afraid to say it, even when everyone misconstrued it. Even when it meant he got dirty looks after honey pot missions. Even when it cost him nights with beautiful women and handsome men. And Q had cared, and understood, and wanted James, not 007 or Bond, James Bond. Life had been going well and we all know what happens after that.
Every night Q goes to bed exhausted and wakes up resigned. He is fine. He isn’t happy, but he’s fine, constantly fighting off reminders that he'd sent off his agent with only a gun and a snarky comment and now he hasn't spoken to him in six months. Eve and Bill are worried, as per usual. They ask, in the beginning, and they try to understand, but they don't get him in the same way James does, and they say all the wrong things. Eve stops when she makes him cry, Bill soon after. They leave him alone and remember to bring him lunch and dinner, and take him outside once a week. He feels like a pot plant. Probably a cactus. Q isn't alone, and he isn't lost, but he's worried and God damn does he miss that annoying bastard.
One night, eating alone on the sofa with a cat around his ankles and the lights low against the pounding in his head, Q thinks back to the other people he's lost. The people he's cut off over the years. When he was a kid, it was like he couldn't keep people around, like he was a place holder for something better. Then he'd found people who cared and he'd thrown them away before they could leave. He'd been such a fool.
He remembers, right before he left Uni, Jonesy finding him and pushing a notecard into his hand and telling him to call if he ever needed help. He'd scoffed, but he'd hugged him one last time, because no one else had even realised he wasn't coming back next year, and he'd kept it. Even now it sat below a stack of post cards, faded blue ink spelling out a number and a wonky smiley face burned into Q's memory.
In an undisclosed location a bruised and bloodied man puts a postcard into a post box. He runs off with a limp and a relieved smile. He doesn't get far.
In London Q goes to work. He has coffee with Eve in her office. He has a meeting with 002. He repairs 0011's tech, again. He thinks about the number. He wonders if it still works.
There's only one way to find out.
In another undisclosed location about 300 miles from the previous one, a different man wakes up. He is neither tall nor short, nor is he intimidating or slight. He is average, brown hair, but sharp blue eyes. He waits and it feels like an age before he hears footsteps and a key in a lock. A tall man and a short woman walk in. She stands in the corner, eyes trained on his hands; no matter, he wasn't aiming to escape with any magic tricks this time. The man steps up and begins to shout. He has an angry voice and angry words, but they are met with a pleasant smile. He gets angrier until he snaps and lifts his captive to eye level. For his troubles, he is head butted. The woman acts but the captive is quicker, she is met by shots from the man's gun before the bullets turn against their owner and the captive is running.
Four more shots and he's free.
A day later he's back in a flat in London.
A phone rings.
Q has mail. It's a postcard. James is alive, James is in trouble, James needs his help, James doesn't want Six involved. This makes Q's decision for him. He calls.