Chapter Text
3.
Q appears at the train station right on time, a woollen hat pulled over his curls and his entire form practically swallowed under a voluminous jacket, that familiar laptop bag just barely clinging onto his shoulder. He’s spotting the wide-eyed, hyperalert look of a man who is about three degrees away from crashing but is holding onto consciousness through adrenaline and sheer obstinacy, which surprises James not at all.
The hyperawareness, at least, means that Q spots James before James gets to him, and has already relaxed when James snags him by the arm – again – and tows him through the crowds towards their train’s platform. It’s a good thing Double-Os are so efficient; James gets them both and their various luggage into the right compartment without a hassle, and installs Q in his seat before the quartermaster, obviously feeling secure with a Double-O around, can nod right off.
The train isn’t terribly empty, but the seats immediately around them are vacant, and James gives the compartment a quick check before finally turning back to Q.
“I chose the last train of the night so I didn’t have to deal with my eyes, but I also thought you’d be more awake compared to taking a morning train. Aren’t you a night owl?”
Q’s eyes are barely open. “Work. Safeguards against Spectre. They were always part of the plan, but I had to accelerate my schedule to implement the last of the changes today.”
He has enough presence of mind to keep his voice low, and when James checks there’s a slim device between his fingers – a noise scrambler and signal distorter.
James smiles.
“The objective of this mission was to acquire the component to help you not burn yourself out,” he says. “You’re quite missing the point of it.”
“Do you know, I haven’t left the city of London since Spectre came to light? And now I’ll be out of the country for days. My Comms team is talented, but I’m not taking any chances.” Q makes a quiet sighing sound, like he’s trying to swallow a yawn. “Moneypenny took my tea away – she says that I wouldn’t sleep tonight if my veins are full of caffeine. Anyway. I’ll be fine once I get some rest.”
“Field agents are supposed to be more alert than you are right now,” James says, amused.
The train jerks forward, leaving the platform, and James closes his eyes against the flickering of artificial light pouring through the windows as they speed out of the station. When the quality of light steadies behind his eyelids, he opens them once more, reaching up to adjust his glasses.
Q is watching him, his irises emerald shards under the dark sweep of his eyelashes. “Handlers handle things. And when the agent is otherwise occupied, they step in as backup, to manage things like logistics and surveillance. So,” he flaps his free hand in James’s direction. “Survey.”
This time, James actually laughs, and Q frowns at him before shutting his eyes firmly, curling deeper into his jacket.
“I’ll just pour you straight into bed when we reach the hotel in Brussels, then.”
Q gives a low growl of annoyance, and ignores him altogether – a correct move, since James would have continued bantering as long as he gets a response.
James watches him, long enough to witness Q’s breathing deepen into true sleep, before he glances at the train windows, reflective against the inky darkness outside. The sightlines look clear, and finally, he pulls out a tablet – Q Branch-issued, Q-encrypted, and utterly unaffected by the signal distorter still cradled in Q’s hand – and begins checking through their bookings, the event’s schedule and the blueprints of the venue.
The best thing Q can do right now is to rest, and as for James – well, he has work to do.
4.
It’s one thing to sleep on the train – it’s essentially a sealed compartment which in Q’s head translates to a controlled environment – and another thing entirely to be inattentive in a foreign city at night. Q monitors camera feeds, taps lines and views the world through thousands of mechanical eyes; criminals, terrorists and extremists aside, Q knows plenty of threats lurk in the shadows – more mundane ones but still possibly dangerous – and Double-O in tow or not, Q is not risking them getting into an altercation ahead of their mission.
At first, Q attributes the odd sense of dissonance to his own groggy state, forced into stern awareness; two hours of sleep is more than enough to refresh him and return him to baseline alertness, but not to banish that vast exhaustion that pulls at him from under his skin. The cold does wonders to wake him up further, however, and yet that disparity doesn’t go away.
It takes Q the entire journey to the hotel to figure it out.
Q rarely gets to journey alongside his agents and interact with them in front of an oblivious audience. His preferred position is his workstation at Q Branch’s main observation lab or his office, where he has dozens of systems at his disposal and the ability to work on a myriad of issues at once. Even when he heads out into the city to arm the Double-Os it’s often a static exchange: Q and the agent in question meeting in a public space Q has scouted out and secured through technology, for their privacy. And the one time Q intercepted Bond out in the field, in a private clinic in Austria, they’d both been disobeying direct orders and flying loose, all rules and regulations disregarded, and Q had returned back to headquarters soon after.
Now, in the warmth of the hotel foyer, late night guests loitering or heading out for the weekend night life and half a dozen hotel staff around, Q realizes that he never established explicit guidelines for how he and Bond’s covers would interact on this mission.
It shouldn’t be an issue – they’ve worked around each other plenty of times, in situations where direct communication isn’t always possible – but it adds another drop of unease to Q’s already weary senses.
Q’s cover is the one with his name already on a registration list, so he steps forward to check-in; no point leaving too many traces of their presence in the city. Bond stays mostly out of the way, strategically in camera-blind spots.
They make their way up to the hotel suite in silence, Q tapping his fingers restlessly against the keycards. He’d considered whether it would be better if he and Bond arrived separately, just to obscure their movements further, but it isn’t worth the argument Q just knows Bond would be willing to engage in if he tried to insist. There’s a familiar glint in Bond’s eyes when he swipes a card from Q, as he precedes Q out of the lift and down the corridor.
He graciously gives Bond five starting seconds before pushing his way through the front door – he’s not lingering in the corridor for housekeeping to find like some lost child. Bond had turned on just the one floor lamp, leaving the overhead lights off; Q stands within that circlet of light, looking around the small living space until Bond steps out from the shadows.
“Clear,” he murmurs.
“I would hope so,” Q mutters back, and tears his eyes away from Bond’s wry grin before more inane statements can make it through his filters.
Sleep. He obviously needs more of it.
But people like Q don’t have the luxury of sleeping whenever they want – the work comes first, and he’s already halfway through unpacking his laptop bag when his rational mind catches up with his automatic habits.
His sudden pause must be obvious and jarring enough that Bond stops his own movements. Q casts his gaze over, and one of Bond’s suitcases is open, perfectly arrayed, half filled with all the accruements of a tech setup, the other with espionage gear. Bond himself has already switched out his jacket for something even more inconspicuous, black on black.
They stare at each other for a long moment. The touch of metal and plastic in Q’s hands is a familiar one, and he has to forcibly unwrap his fingers from his laptop.
Bond’s eyes are almost luminous in the near dark, half obscured by the tint of his glasses. “Old habits die hard, it seems.”
Q lets out a huff of amusement. “I should be more surprised you hadn’t cleared and secured this place while I was getting our room keys.”
“Just like you haven’t broken into Brussels’s city-wide networks yet?”
Instinctively, Q glances at the shadowy corners of the ceiling, where traditionally wiretaps and cameras are most likely to be found. He hasn’t turned off the noise scrambler and signal distorter device since he stepped on the train, however, so he pushes his paranoia to the back of his mind.
“I shouldn’t risk tipping off the Belgian authorities by hacking into the on-street surveillance. But it wouldn’t be a stretch for professionals in finance, artificial intelligence, tech or law to link their portable technology into the city’s networks to keep themselves as informed as possible.”
Q may be acting the role of a civilian right now, but civilians can certainly be technological geniuses. There has to be some leeway in the liberties he can take.
“All right,” Bond says. “I’ll give you that.”
Silence settles between them like an aloof black cat, tail twitching.
“What are we doing, Bond,” Q finally says, and something about the atmosphere makes him keep his voice low. He pulls his woollen hat off his head, runs one hand restlessly through his hair. “You’re the one sitting behind the screens this time, so you should be fiddling with the laptop and comms devices and networks. We’re members of the Secret Intelligence Service; we’re supposed to be adaptable. Why does this—” he makes a gesture at the air, to encompass the room, the darkness, this odd tension between them “—feel so incongruous?”
“You live connected to the wider world through technology almost all the time, and you’re used to taking that support role on a mission. You’re doing what comes most instinctively to you, in this situation.” Bond stands then, and makes his way across the room, taking a seat beside Q like a stealthy shadow. “And you feel out of synch because this mission requires both of us to take different kinds of initiatives, and it can take time to get used to it.”
Q knows that. Their responsibilities are a tangled mess – Q had gotten himself on the event’s invitation list, reached out to Val Tech as an interested investor, and blazed through a number of “games” to get a number of clues and unlock the code that would give him access to the unofficial, less-than-legal portion of the party. Then he’d dived off into the chaos that was migrating the entirety of Q-net onto a newer and more secure platform without compromising Q Branch’s existing projects or stranding their in-field agents without support, and left Bond to handle everything else.
He hadn’t gotten any updates along the way from Bond, of course, but since Q’s incessant need for control hadn’t reared its head and forced him to check on Bond’s progress, some part of him must trust Bond to do this job properly.
After all, Q knows Bond is only reckless with his own life; when someone else’s life is on the line, particularly a friend or ally’s—
Well.
He glances at Bond now, and the man’s steadfastness is an anchor – a fact that would surprise others, considering how unpredictable Bond normally is, but is almost a given for those who know Bond well.
“And,” Bond adds, “you feel out of sorts because you’re running on adrenaline and caffeine fumes, and the fatigue is catching up with you. We talked about you burning yourself out, Q.”
“And we’ve talked about you constantly ducking out of Medical despite possible life-threatening injuries, but I don’t see you changing your habits,” Q snipes back automatically. But it’s hard to keep arguing when everything Bond points out is visibly true, and Q likes to think he is mature enough to admit when he’s been outmanoeuvred. “What do we do now?”
“We’ll set up the technology centre together, because that’s our first line of defence, and although I’ll be utilizing it when you’re at the party, you’re still the resident expert.”
Q nods slowly. “And then you’ll go out to secure the grounds, and I’ll guide you through the cameras, and that’s both our jobs done for the night.” He gives a small smile at Bond’s stare. “You’d have looked over the blueprint of this place about ten times, but I know you won’t rest easily until you’ve verified it in person.”
“Fine,” Bond concedes. “And you’ll let me handle everything else while you actually sleep, until you need to prepare for the party tomorrow.”
There’s that challenging light in Bond’s eyes again, not at all tempered by barrier of his glasses, but Q doesn’t plan to argue. Despite all the bantering and snarking and barbed sniping, they’ve always slipped easily into a synergistic partnership, reacting instinctively to the other’s actions, and it may take them longer this time around, but they’ll get there.
Q has no idea what they’re doing, but he does know this – they’ll find a way to make it work. They always do.
“All right,” Q says, letting his hand settle calmly on the smooth, familiar surface of his laptop. “I can live with that.”
5.
Contrary to popular belief, media sensation and the rumour mill, not all of an intelligence operative’s missions are filled with explosions, daring car chases or firefights. James’s missions tend to skew towards the violent, but between the action are long stretches of waiting, of traveling and investigating and strategizing, and so it’s very much within James’s scope to hole up in a corner of the suite, where he and Q combined have constructed a rather impressive media setup.
Still, there’s only so much a camera feed can hold James’s attention when the mission hasn’t started, and so he finds himself keeping an ear out for Q instead.
For all that he’d collected the suit on Q’s behalf, James hasn’t had a chance to actually see Kingsman’s work. Merlin had gone with the barest illusion of normalcy; the garment bag itself looks innocuous but try as James might, he can’t get the lined zip to open. Q, on the other hand, had laughed quietly to himself when he’d seen it, and whisked the entire bag off to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Now, half an hour later, and James feels a spark of anticipation thrumming under his veins – not the poignant intensity that is James on the brink of a hunt, all coiled tension, but something far subtler.
The bathroom door clicks open, the quietest of cues, and James lets Q step out at his own pace, waits Q’s voice – “Well? I know you’ve been curious all week” – before he turns around.
The first thing James notices is that Q, without the lines of his glasses framing his eyes and face, looks much—freer. Part of it is how much healthier he appears, with a solid night’s sleep and all the tea and food James had plied on him over the last six hours. Most of it is how he holds himself: loosed from the trappings of his position, with a spark of wildfire in his eyes. Q’s hair is swept back, curls subdued just enough to stay off his face, and he looks like the kind of exquisite, handsome young thing that egoistic and power-mongering men enjoy trying to tame.
Despite James’s reputation, he’s not that kind of man, and even if he were, there’s a time for seductions and conquests, and this isn’t it. Instead of letting his eyes linger, he turns his gaze towards the fabled Kingsman suit.
At first glance, there’s nothing unique about the suit, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Classics are classics for a reason, and the silk-lapelled dinner jacket, in a shade of midnight blue that turns inky black under the hotel room lights, contrasts starkly against the crisp white of the dress shirt. Q has a dancer’s physique, all long limbs and lean muscles, and the fine tailoring of the suit flatters his slim lines tremendously. Oxford shoes – polished to a shine – simple silver cufflinks, watch, the length of a bow tie draped untied around Q’s collar for now and a white pocket square peeking out from the breast pocket complete the look, all in traditional lines.
James tilts his head, searching, and it’s only when Q moves that he sees it – the subtle pattern on the jacket, only visible when light shifts over the fabric, beautiful linework reminiscent of a schematic diagram, a design that is part mechanical, part artwork.
Well. Youthful modernity indeed, and understated enough to appeal to Q’s sensibilities.
“No cummerbund or waistcoat,” James points out, and Q gives a huff of amusement.
“That’s what you choose to fixate on? Well, Peter Banks prefers subtlety over loud statements, but at heart he’s still a bit of a rebel. This isn’t one of those ultra-formal diplomatic functions or highly social award ceremony; we’re supposed to be technology innovators, so a little flaunting of the rules is to be expected.”
James lets his stare speak for itself. Q is the type of person who carries around a battered old laptop and codes longhand instead of utilizing all the fancy holographic computer interfaces some of the more enterprising Q Branch staff adore. For all that he’s a genius that forges ahead untethered by convention, Q has a steadfast love for the some of the old ways – first edition hardcover novels and handwritten notes and soothing cups of tea, steeped loose-leaf – as though they keep him safely anchored even as he streaks through space – ha, cyberspace – like a comet.
Q is a man of dualities, of contradictions that somehow nestle neatly together, their jagged edges aligned, and James enjoys puzzling out mysteries more than unravelling bright young things.
The silence stretches out.
“Merlin did include a waistcoat,” Q finally concedes. “He also included some – extras – in the lining, and I’m not risking it.”
“Did Kingsman try to bug you, Q?” The thought is an amusing one, but Double-Os have their share of odd rituals and morbid inside jokes; tech experts like Q and Merlin likely have their own.
“Hardly. In fact—” Q pauses. “I might wear the waistcoat, if I have to follow up with Val Tech some other time. But I hope to tie up the deal tonight. And speaking of tying things up…” he taps at one end of the bowtie, “I’d appreciate your help with this.”
“I thought you’d have a deft hand with knotty issues.” But even as he says it, James is already standing. It takes mere seconds and three strides to cross the room.
Q doesn’t draw back at James’s sudden approach, although he blinks in startlement. “I know how to tie a bow tie, in principal.” He makes a face. “But in practice…”
“Not so easy when it’s at your own throat. And you’re a perfectionist.” James tugs at the thistle ends of the tie. “Chin up.”
Q tilts his head back, and James steps closer. Whatever aftershave Q is wearing is light and fresh, noticeably pleasant without standing out as a calling card. Normally the inch James has on him goes unnoticed, any height difference inconsequential when their interactions are carried out more often than not over a line. But now, with James’s fingers nimbly looping and pulling the black silk of the tie more from touch than from sight, James is in the perfect position to study Q’s expression. Q meets his gaze head on, and this close, James can see the thinnest line around his irises.
“Contact lenses?”
Q gives a tiny nod. “I can see decently without them, but I’d rather have the clarity.” A pause. “It’s strange to see you with glasses.”
“Is it? Surely you’ve seen me with more outlandish accessories.” The skull mask he’d donned for Dia de Muertos comes to mind; James had been quite fond of it.
“Yes, but not like this.” A smile touches Q’s lips. “You look distinguished like this.”
“I’m shattered at the insinuation that I’m not distinguished all the time.”
His dry tone makes Q laugh, and James feels his own mouth tick up in a lopsided smile as he draws the bowtie snug against Q’s collar, his knuckles brushing against Q’s throat, where he can feel the vibrancy of Q’s laughter.
“You Double-Os are many things. Powerful and efficient and daring, and very devastatingly charismatic. But distinguished? Not so much. You’re a little too feral for it.”
“Just like you’ve been cut loose, like this. Peter Banks doesn’t have the strings of governmental procedure holding him back, after all.”
James checks his handiwork – perfect, of course – and takes a step back. Q lowers his head, one hand coming up to touch his fingertips lightly against the bow, and James takes the opportunity to draw out the earpiece from his pocket and fit it neatly in Q’s ear.
Q’s eyelashes sweep low over his eyes, and this time he doesn’t reach up to touch the earpiece, comfortable with it in place and comfortable with James putting it on for him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. He shifts, and then tucks his hands in his trouser pockets as if checking for his phone and wallet, except this time he leaves them there, his shoulders pulled back and the dinner jacket flaring neatly over his hips, casual and confident, completely unaffected. “Do I pass muster?”
James has witnessed Q in his element several times before – cutting through elaborate security protocols with an ease that belies just how difficult the task is, directing his eclectic band of research and development staff mid-crisis, his instructions crisp and clear, and mid-mission with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder, watching M intently for orders – but nothing this public, on this scale. He’s going to enjoy watching Q work a crowd.
“You’re observant enough to know the answer to that question,” James tells him, and picks up the charcoal-grey overcoat, holding it open by the lapels. Q slips his arms through the arms and James slides the coat over his shoulders, smooth and easy. “Ready?”
Q buttons up the dinner jacket and the overcoat, and he’s nervous underneath the self-assurance, his fingers overly slow and systematic on the clasps. Then he draws in a deep breath.
“This can’t be worse than those terrible budgetary meetings we had to have with MI5, back when the creation of the Joint Intelligence Service was imminent,” he mutters.
James grins, wide and as feral as Q attributes to him, although he keeps it out of his voice. “You’ll have me in your ear the entire time.”
Q smiles then. “I suppose I will.”
6.
It’s both easier and harder than Q expects.
No matter how smart a suit he’s spotting – and Merlin’s team of tailors had done wonders with the outfit, with the fabric and tailoring; Q feels much more at ease in it than he expected – Q feels the slightest degree out of alignment when he steps onto the mansion grounds, converted into a fine-dining restaurant, now turned event venue. The ballroom with its dozens of shimmering crystal lights is a world apart from the spaces Q normally frequents – chaotically cluttered offices and lab spaces, or cosy little cafes – and he stares at the finely-dressed crowd, the crème de la crème of the underground tech world plus dozens of oblivious but knowledgeable experts, and longs for the solid reality of his keyboard under his fingertips, giving him the ability to control his surroundings.
But Q deals with nerves – and their tougher cousins, fear and anxiety and stress – by compartmentalizing, shelving away those distracting feelings and overriding them with work, focusing his entire attention on the minutiae of solving the problem. The world, he has learned, can be broken down into logical steps and systematic processes; if he concentrates on finding the most efficient way of getting from Problem A to Solution Z, his issues become so much simpler.
So Q picks up a glass of champagne, wades into the thick of the crowd, and listens.
It doesn’t take him long to figure out the lay of the room, the divide of the tech giants with their representatives out in force and the more discreet individuals, either hunting for opportunities or there to sell their very niche specializations. Listening soon becomes contributing, which soon leads to questioning and probing and debating, and the diversity of topics – as well as the depth of knowledge required to keep up – is, well—electrifying.
Shoptalk aside, Q has a number of more mundane discussions as well. They talk about the weather – “Dismally cold for autumn” – guess each other’s citizenship through their accents – “Ah, you’re British. Easy.” – and exchange compliments on various dinner jackets, gowns, and embellishments – “private label” is what Q gives away.
And then Q gets caught in a conversation with a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man with a refined but unidentifiable accent, someone Q would think utterly nondescript if it isn’t for the controlled way he moves – smooth, elegant and dangerous like a switchblade sliding open with ease. It is fortunate that Q is operating half on instinct, letting the situation and atmosphere carry him; his hand captures the business card and flips it easily between his fingers even though his mind stutters when he sees the pattern embossed on the front on the card, a clear identifier for those in the know.
The card is a blazing reminder that electricity, for all it’s remarkable ability to power a myriad of appliances, is also capable of causing grievous burns.
Q looks up at Jacobs, at the pleasant expression on his face, and doesn’t bother forcing a smile – he isn’t natural enough to fake it properly. Instead, he runs his thumb lightly across the embossed mark. “A creative design. Smart.”
“I’m glad to hear you like it,” Jacob says. When Q doesn’t offer a card or other means of contact in return, the man’s smile widens. “I like the design of your suit as well. Schematics – very appropriate.”
Q has a split second to make the decision. “Kingsman Tailors. Savile Row, of course.”
“Of course.” Jacobs inclines his head. “Well, I must make the rounds. I might see you around then, Banks.”
“You might,” Q says, and forces himself to turn away, because it would be terribly conspicuous to stare at someone the way one would a rattlesnake.
Bond has been a discreet presence in Q’s ear, letting him get a feel for the party and solidify his cover without much commentary, and he waits until Q is moving to speak.
“You’ve told everyone else that your suit is from a private label.”
It’s not a question – it’s Bond giving Q an out, if he doesn’t want to share – but Q doesn’t take it. He has to forcibly unclench his jaw – it’s odd, isn’t it? Q has faced down and defeated all manner of online attacks and survived several brushes with Spectre’s agents, but there’s a difference between meeting an enemy in the heat of battle and coming up against one in a neutral setting.
“That man has been on Five’s wanted list for nearly two years now,” Q murmurs, keeping his head down as he walks. It’s a minor blessing, really, that he’d found one of MI5’s targets; he might end up doing something on the scale of Double-O recklessness if he came up face-to-face with someone that’s managed to escape MI6’s long reach. “Short-range hacker, extremely cunning, and very lethal. He’s the reason why Five shut down one of their programs; he double-crossed them, stole and sold out others in that program, and killed quite a few more getting out. Five asked for my help, once, to find him, but then—you know.”
Bond doesn’t say a word, but there’s just one organization that’s constantly haunting all of them. Q hates how aptly Spectre has named themselves. “Has he made you?”
“Not the one that matters. He’s identified me as a fellow hacker – possibly because he tried to break onto my line with you but couldn’t.” That, at least, Q is confident of, but he’s going to have to double check his equipment when he gets out of this situation. “I gave him what seems like a tip on how to find me, so rather than a rival in our trade, he believes I might be a future collaborator or a client.”
“You sent him to Kingsman.”
“I can’t point Five to him – it’s too obvious a connection.” Q lets out a breath and feels himself settle back into equilibrium. It’s an encounter, nothing more, and talking it through with Bond cements that in his head. “Kingsman can handle him, and they’ve got their own information exchange procedure with Five. At worst, if Jacobs cracks Kingsman’s secret, he’ll just think I’m a Kingsman agent.”
“Either way, that’s a concern for another time, and for others to deal with,” Bond concludes.
“Yes,” Q agrees. It’s surprisingly pleasant to converse with Bond like this, an entirely different experience than doing the same from the safety and privacy of Q Branch or his office. Q’s starting to understand just why the Double-Os enjoy staying on the line with him so much; it’s strangely intimate, to have a voice murmuring in one’s ear even when surrounded by crowds and cacophony – a little secret, one only Q is aware of.
He soaks in the quiet of the moment for a while, and then says, “For the first direct encounter of the night, that wasn’t a bad one.”
“Any sign of Val Tech?”
“They’re here. They’ve been here since the start of the evening, but I’d prefer to speak to their designer, and I’m almost positive that that person is in the restricted part of this party. And that won’t start—” Q flicks his wrist to check his watch “—for at least another twenty-five minutes.”
“Take a break. Escape the crowd for a while.”
It’s less a suggestion than an order, and for once Q follows it without a word. He downs the rest of his champagne in one go – he’s managed to make his single flute last the night so far, so he’s hardly inebriated – and the bubbly sharpness does wonders to clear the last of his trepidations regarding Jacobs. He leaves the glass behind and takes to the stairs.
The mezzanine is more to Q’s liking – he’s out of the way here, able to observe the milling crowd below without being easily watched in return, although there are pockets of conversation happening along the railings.
“I don’t know how you agents do this,” Q says. Up here, he’s not the only one speaking quietly to the air; at least a quarter of the people Q has talked to have some visible smart device hooked to their ear or wrapped around their wrist, and at least another quarter likely have more covert contraptions in place.
From Q’s limited experience, proper networking parties frown on such practices – the point, after all, was not to be antisocial but to pick up leads and talk up oneself and make connections and raise their credibility amongst the industry. Meet and mingle, someone like Riley or Tanner would call it. Schmoozing, the younger staff of Q’s communications team would probably use instead.
And then there’s Q, barely older than those same comms staff members, who has little clue what networking parties are actually like since he’d only finished university at the government’s behest and had practically been strong-armed into the Queen’s service the moment he graduated. Keeping a low profile after the Iota fiasco was his best option, after all; Q had hardly needed the complication of more connections.
Illegal auctions and information-exchanges masquerading as a networking event, on the other hand – well, Q has rather more experience with those, and in those cases, representatives keeping their higher ups appraised of the situation remotely is rather the norm.
“We do plenty of things. You’ll have to be more specific,” Bond says.
“Keep up the façade for so long,” Q clarifies. “I think I’ve spent too much time behind a screen. Anonymity is a powerful defence, and I’ve always had the buffer of cyberspace in the way.”
“You handle your staff quite well.”
“They work under me,” Q points out. “I literally have authority over them; it’s easy for me to get what I want from them.” He leans against the railing, looks down at the crowd below. “I don’t have such advantages here.”
Bond chuckles, low and resonant in Q’s ear. “Give yourself some credit. Most of the people you’ve talked to have been enamoured by you.”
“I had a few debates, exchanged thoughts and speculations on several topics. That’s rather the point of this event, isn’t it? At least on the surface.”
“I’ve been listening to you, even though I only understand perhaps half of what you’re talking about,” Bond says, and Q can hear the lingering amusement in his voice. Bond has been in good humour the entire night, which surprises Q; he’d thought that Bond would be bored, at least at this stage of the operation. “You’re not just intelligent – practically everyone there is smart in some way, with their specializations in their respective fields – but you have a way of articulating yourself that’s mesmerizing to hear.”
Q has to choke back an incredulous laugh. “I doubt that. I just share what I know.”
“It’s easy for us agents to maintain our fronts by playing to our strengths, focusing on what comes most naturally and building a persona on those fragments of truth,” Bond says, and it takes Q a moment to realize he’s answering Q’s initial question. “My strengths include challenging a target – in a fight, in an exchange, in a game, in a dare – and winning, or seducing them. Your strengths include being brilliant in your many fields of expertise, and being ridiculously, cluelessly charming. Don’t worry about it.”
Q blinks. “What.”
The amusement in Bond’s voice picks up a teasing edge. “As I said, cluelessly charming.”
Q decides to ignore the jab – Bond outside of his own missions is an enigmatic creature that is terribly difficult to pin down, and mid-mission is not the time to figure him out. “The hints I received from Decima’s game-tests suggest that the restricted event is in a smaller ballroom off the main building. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“We’ll have to do it the manual way,” Bond says, no doubt already pulling up the venue’s blueprints. “That mansion is a technological shield box; if it isn’t for your earpiece, I wouldn’t be able to get a read on you. Where are you?”
“East side mezzanine, second floor.”
“Go north, take the middle doorway.”
There seems to be no restrictions to where guests are allowed to wander. Q gets through doorways and corridors without contest, and peeks in on more than a few clusters of private meetings along the way. Brussels is a business city and the networking event open to international participants, and English has been the common language of choice out in the main hall. But now, Q starts picking out other languages – the rolling ups and downs of French and the guttural but fluid Dutch, of course, as well as snatches of German, and other families of languages that Q can’t clearly identify.
Q knows a vast number of programming languages, a fair bit of obscure Latin, and absolutely no useful language other than English, and it just takes him mentioning that fact for Bond to begin translating for him, seamlessly summarizing the conversations in English. But occasionally, Bond murmurs a response to the dialogue he hears, in the corresponding French or Dutch or foreign language of choice, and those he leaves untranslated, with only his tone – amused, utterly dry or once, outright annoyed – to clue Q in.
Q treads carefully along the corridors, keeps an eye out for any hint Decima might have left, and listens, except this time it’s only to the voice in his ear, translated dialogue interspersed with directions. Bond’s voice is crisp and clear, and perhaps it’s a consequence of Q not understanding what he’s saying—
“Het hebben van 5G snelheden en capaciteit zal niet helpen als je mensen incompetent waren om mee te beginnen,” Bond grumbles in response to a group chattering about 5G, the only keyword Q had been able to extract from the conversation.
—but Q finds himself fixating on the timbre of Bond’s voice, captivating and low and rhythmic, in a way that he never does when Bond’s just speaking English.
“You’re quiet,” Bond eventually says, when Q enters increasingly emptier spaces, and the groups of people and their conversations begin thinning out.
“I do that, on occasion,” Q says reflexively. It takes him a moment to focus back on the mission at hand. “I’m in the right area, I think. I’ve seen others of dubious reputations that should also be searching for the auction.” He catches a glimpse of the train of a blue gown fluttering around a corner and doesn’t bother giving chase – out of public eye, the people Q has seen have dropped most resemblances of civility, and no one offers to join forces in finding one of Decima’s secret entrances. “We seem to be heading in different directions, however.”
“You received your clues by solving programming conundrums. But the private event covers a broad spectrum, so it isn’t unlikely that Decima’s set out several types of tests, each with different clues.”
Q makes a face and is glad that he’s alone, so he doesn’t have to feel self-conscious about it. It sounds exactly like the kind of thing he used to do as Iota, except his had been small scale, little games to test which people had been worth his time to engage.
He wonders, then, if he should pull out his phone and just break his way through instead of playing along; Decima’s probably reverse engineered several of Q’s Iota-era encryption protocols by now, and since they’ve never quite given up on finding the person behind the Iota alias, they’re probably brash enough to use those same protocols in hopes one day Iota will find them, and identify themselves with Iota’s corresponding signature keys.
He dismisses the thought just as easily. Q is – well, he’s running on pure instinct now, not quite the Quartermaster, not Iota, and definitely not the civilian he’s masquerading as. The civilian wouldn’t be in this situation, Iota hides and strikes when least expected, and the Quartermaster is far more cautious, aware that his value is in staying alive so he can help his agents.
And Q himself? Well, Q has a decent idea of what Decima Technologies is like, and he’s going to act accordingly.
“You’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you next,” Q says.
“What is it?”
“I’m turning off my earpiece.”
“Why would you do that?” Bond asks, sounding like he’s humouring Q.
“Because I need to concentrate—” and your voice is more distracting than I expected “—and the restricted space I’m trying to puzzle my way into will absolutely be air-gapped and shielded. The earpiece, my phone, anything even tentatively connected to an outside network – they’ll be useless.”
“And you’re all right with that?” Bond says. “Staying connected is instinctive for you.”
“Nothing I can do about it.” Q doesn’t like it, but there’s little point on dwelling on something he can’t change. “Besides, it’s reassuring to know I have a safety net.”
“Your former web alias.”
Q smiles. “No.”
“Having a field agent in your back pocket, who has been tasked with bringing his agency’s most important cybertechnological asset back safely.”
“No.”
A beat goes by. “Q.”
It’s a mark of how much Bond trusts Q’s equipment and his skill in securing the line, that he would name Q so. They’ve avoided voicing unique names or sensitive terms as a matter of course, considering the nature of the mission, but this conversation, it seems, is important enough to Bond to override that concern.
“I’ve been in regular communication with your doctor,” Q says, keeping his side of the conversation generic, because unlike Bond, there is a possibility of someone eavesdropping on him. “Well, more like she contacted me first, and then never stopped. And I know you didn’t save her because of her ties to her father, or because she has valuable connections or expertise.”
The line is pin-drop quiet. It’s a unit Q designed and calibrated himself – there isn’t even a hint of static.
“Your regard for her is purely for who she is, as herself. And I think your consideration for me – and Eve, and even Bill – is the same. You’ll come for me, regardless.” Q eyes the door at the end of the corridor, with its discreetly lit interface, just waiting for an identifying code. “So I’m going to turn off my earpiece, and I’m going to go, and you going to let me.”
“Just like you let me leave with Madeleine and the DB5,” Bond says, not missing a beat, “even though you thought at first I had returned to MI6.”
Q freezes. A moment later, he draws in a deep breath; it shudders in his throat and is probably entirely too audible to Bond.
“Yes, I suppose it’s like that,” Q says slowly, because this line of conversation isn’t anything he ever planned to take up with Bond. Bond had eventually returned to MI6, slipping seamlessly back amongst the other Double-Os and with Moneypenny, Tanner and Q himself like he’d never left, and Q had let it go. They work together, they trust each other, and that’s enough. “Can we—let’s talk about this later.”
“All right,” Bond says evenly, and Q knows – in any other situation, if it isn’t for the mission at hand, Bond wouldn’t drop this topic quite as easily. “If I don’t hear from you in three hours, I’m heading to your location and getting you out.”
“I’m sure I’ll find a way to contact you if things go drastically wrong,” Q says, grateful for the illusion of normalcy.
Bond doesn’t deign to respond to that. “Stay safe,” is all he says, voice quiet and serious, and Q has to swallow around the sudden emotion in his throat.
That’s usually my line, he wants to say, or maybe now you know how I feel when you agents disappear off the line and I’m left wondering if you’ll be alive the next time I get camera eyes on you. But Bond has steered them free of deep, coral-laden waters; it would be churlish of Q to throw them right back in.
The line is clear enough that Q can hear Bond’s quiet breathing. “I will,” Q finally says, and turns off his earpiece.