Chapter Text
“You try to leave me again, I’ll make sure no one can have you.”
When Rick cocks the gun Q feels himself move past simple fear into something else, something cold and clear and certain. God, I don’t want to die. It’s a ridiculous sentiment, especially when Q is so absolutely certain of the outcome. He is going to die and it will be his fault. “Please!” he begs. “Please, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. I didn’t mean it!” He claws pathetically at Rick’s leg. “I’m sorry.” He hates himself for it, somewhere deep beneath the terror, but the need to survive is all-consuming.
Rick’s lip curls in disgust. “Look at you. You’re disgusting.”
“I know,” Q gasps. “I know. I’m so lucky to have you. No one else would want me.” Tears and snot are running down his face as he grovels on the floor.
“Bloody right.” Rick looked vaguely mollified. He tapped the gun against Q’s temple. “You just make sure you remember that.”
“Yes. Yes. I will. I promise.” Q has a moment of hope where he thinks he might survive after all. Then Rick raises the gun again and Q is crying and screaming and he’s pretty sure he’s pissed himself from fear. It doesn’t matter, because the gun is getting closer and he knows that this is the end. He closes his eyes. For a second there is pain exploding across his temple and then everything goes black.
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Q wakes up sometimes later. It’s dark and he’s alone in the flat. He lies there for a moment, shaking and breathing hard. He should have left months ago, before this got so far. What’s the policy for dealing with MI6 agents stupid enough to get into an abusive relationship? Will M even let him keep his job? He is supposed to be above all this; too smart and too certain of himself to be caught in this mess. He closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing. Panic won’t help him now. Whether anyone will believe it after this or not, he is a professional. He will deal with this like one. He struggles slowly to his feet, hissing in pain as the bones in his ankle grind together. Broken ankle, broken ribs, concussion…He’s cataloging the list of damages to himself as he drags himself to the toilet. The first thing he does is change his trousers. It’s a bitch to do with his broken ankle, but he’ll be damned if anyone finds him sitting in his own piss. Once that’s done, he needs a break. He sits on the toilet lid, flinching away when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. Snot and dried blood are crusted over his face and his left eye is swollen shut. The thought of even touching his face at the moment makes his stomach roil. Giving in, he pulls out his phone.
-In a spot of trouble. Could use your help. My flat.
Message sent, Q leans his head back against the wall. He’ll try to clean his face up in a moment, so he doesn’t look quite so much like raw meat. Right now, he needs to rest. Just for a minute...
He comes to when his door is kicked in, leaping to his feet before he remembers his broken ankle. The pain makes his eyes water but he gets to the door of the toilet and locks it before he collapses. He doesn’t know what’s happening. The last thing he remember was Rick coming home drunk and then…..
“Q? Are you in there?” A voice calls from the other room. “I’m giving you five seconds to answer me and then I’m breaking down that door.”
“No!” he manages to gasp, memories flooding back. “No,” he says again, louder, “don’t. I’ll…come out.” He’s reaching up to undo the lock as he speaks. “I just…” He finds himself frozen, afraid to move. Going out there means there is no turning back. You can still go back to him. He probably won’t kill you if you don’t try to leave…
“Q,” the voice was gentler now, “there’s a lot of blood out here. If you don’t come out I’m afraid I’m going to have to come in.”
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m sorry.” He uses the doorknob to pull himself to his feet, careful to keep his weight off his left ankle. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor as he opens the door.
“Damn.” Footsteps move quickly towards him and hands are under his arm, supporting him. “I’m going to call in for backup.”
“No,” Q says quickly. “Please don’t. It’s not work. It’s…personal.” Even as he says it, he realizes how ridiculous this whole thing is. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re a double-oh agent. It’s not professional.”
“Q, stop,” Bond says softly. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I…”Q is horrified to realize he is crying. “I don’t..”
“Easy,” Bond soothes. “Let’s start by getting you cleaned up.” He leads Q gently back into the toilet and sits him down on the edge of the bath. He wets a cloth and gently starts to wipe the grime from Q’s face. “Sorry,” he mutters when Q flinches in pain. “Faces are the bloody worst, aren’t they?”
Q can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of them. “I hardly think that’s a true statement given your line of work.”
Bond offers him a quick smile. “True. But they’re certainly not pleasant.” He sets the cloth down and looks at Q with a critical eye. “You’re going to need stitches.”
Q looks away. He knows he needs a hospital; the broken ankle alone ensures that. He just can’t face it, not right now.
Bond sighs and settles back onto his heels. “Was it Rick?”
Q closes his eyes but nods, miserable. He thinks he might die of shame. “I’m was so bloody stupid!”
“None of that,” Bond says briskly. “You’ve been through enough tonight. No need to beat yourself up as well. Just walk me through what happened.” His voice is so calm and even, but he’s taken his gun out and is checking the chamber. Q imagines this must be what he’s like in the field. It’s surprisingly reassuring.
“He…he caught me looking at ads for flats,” Q stutterers. “Thought I was going to leave him. He went wild. He pulled a gun on me.” He swallows heavily. “I didn’t even know he had a gun. He put it to my head, told me if he couldn’t have me, no one else would.” He closes his eyes. “I thought he was going to kill me.” He puts his hand to his temple, remembering the feeling of the muzzle against his skin. “I didn’t fight back. I begged. I told him I’d do anything. Said I was lucky to have him.” Tears of shame are rolling down his face. “I pissed myself.”
“Okay.” Bond is pulling him gently into his arms. “It’s okay. You did the right thing.”
“But I-” Q protests.
“No.” Bond silences him. “You’re alive. That’s rule number one; you do whatever it takes to stay alive. Whatever it takes,” he added when Q tries to protest. “Now, let me call this in.”
Q shakes his head miserably. “If I let a bloody civilian do this to me, then what happens when it’s someone who knows what they’re doing? It’s an inexcusable security breach. I’ll be sacked immediately.”
“Q,” Bond says softly, “Do you think you’re the first one to run into trouble with a lover?” He offers Q a wry smile. “At least you had the sense not share any crown secrets with him. And in any case, you might be the most irreplaceable person in MI6. They’d be fools to let you go.”
Q shrugs miserably, unsure of what to say. He is good at his job, but he’d hardly call himself irreplaceable. Especially now that his flaw in judgement had been made so…public.
As if reading his mind, Bond’s expression softens. “I know this is hard, Q. I know how utterly humiliating it is to trust someone and be publicly kicked in the teeth for it; metaphorically or otherwise. After Vesper…” he sighs, “I’ve never felt so damn stupid in my life. But we’re only human. If we close ourselves off, we’ll end up no better than the ones we hunt.”
“It was my fault.” Q says miserably. “I knew he was drinking. I should have stayed at work.”
“Don’t try to pull that on me.” Bond says sternly. “The people who do these things...they’re calculating and smart in ways you never see until it’s too late.”
“I won’t make a statement.” Q says, knowing it’ll be taken as the surrender it is. “There’s a camera in the bookshelf. No network connectivity and a memory that’s purged every forty-eight hours.”
Bond nods. “Will you be all right on your own for the moment while I make the call?”
Q nods and closes his eyes, letting himself slump against the washbasin.