Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The guards shove him into the showroom, hard enough that the hobbling chains bruise his ankles as he stumbles.

James bites back a snarl and the training-honed instinct to defend himself. Responding in any way only ends in punishment here.

This is the second parade march of the morning, and James hopes to be dismissed as quickly as he’d been by the previous customer. But he catches the way the new visitor’s eyes light up with excitement, and his stomach drops.

He keeps his expression cold and disaffected as he tunes out Walliams’s hyperbolic sales pitch extolling James’s pain tolerance and sexual stamina. Instead, he focuses on capturing as many details as he can about this new customer. British, with round, public school vowels as he makes approving comments. The man looks mid-twenties and old-money sleek in a Brioni linen suit that shows off his shockingly slim build. With his dark hair gelled back, his clean-shaven face reveals prettily symmetrical features, pale skin over high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. Overall, attractive in an effete, aristocratic fashion, looking as innocent as Dorian Gray. An apt parallel for the blackness of the man’s heart, seeking entertainment in a slaver’s house.

James looks forward to hunting him down and killing him, once he escapes.

The customer must enjoy his own inventory of James’s appearance; after a minute, the pair of guards prods him into a private room for the customer’s “sampling.”

“Standing or kneeling?” the salesman asks.

“Oh, standing, please,” the man says, and the guards hook James’s wrist cuffs above his head, with his ankles anchored to the floor. “Yes, that’s lovely.”

James’s bruised ribs groan at the stretch. Short breaths through his nose minimize the ache but make him all too aware of the cloying potpourri scent of the room, only mostly covering the odor of burnt skin, leftover from another sampling.

The guards depart, and Walliams watches with oily approval as the customer lays hands on James for the first time, a cool glide of fingertips like greedy claws over his bare shoulders and down his abdominals.

The man has yet to make eye contact, intent on ogling James’s physique. “Just splendid. Big without being unmanageable….”

“All of your preferences have been accounted for,” Walliams agrees.

“He looks an absolute brute,” the customer sighs happily. “Let’s see how hard he is to tame.”

Walliams helpfully pulls out a switchblade, but the customer ignores him. Instead, his hands splay over the front of James’s blue latex briefs and then lower to cup his balls. James grunts at the abrupt and dehumanizing inspection.

He leans close to James’s collared throat, bringing with him an incongruously familiar combination of black pepper and patchouli as he rubs James’s prick with a firm grip. James suppresses a groan of unwelcome pleasure. He imagines ripping the skinny man’s hands off of his body, breaking every one of his fingers, throttling his scrawny neck with his chains. Even as his prick hardens at the brusque friction, he keeps his eyes open and alert, waiting for the inevitable pain. He’s known plenty of pretty faces with a hidden sadistic streak.

The first real surprise comes when the man drops to his knees.

Swiftly recalculating, James replaces his resignation to impending pain with sneering contempt for the worm kneeling at his feet, greedy lips parted as he tugs James’s briefs down to take hold of his stiff prick and aim it toward his face. Humiliation floods him, stronger than any dread of pain. Out of the corner of his eye, James catches Walliams’s polite exit, affording them a privacy that the little exhibitionist at James’s feet couldn’t give two shits about.

The second the door closes, the hands on him fall away, and the skinny man rocks back on his heels, and ah, there’s the expected cruelty.

James grits his teeth in fury at being toyed with and used.

And then the man’s eyes snap up to meet his for the first time, huge and green and surprisingly clear-headed as he licks his lips.

In a low, commanding voice, the man says, “Listen to me very carefully, 007. I’m here to rescue you.”

James’s already-tense body flinches at his codename coming out of this predatory cocksucker’s mouth...and then he blinks hard as his mind races to grasp the new parameters of the situation.

Livid, elated, and still tense from the unwanted handjob, James croaks, “Who the hell are you?” his voice rusty from disuse.

“I’m an agent of MI6. Are you fit to travel?”

“Yes. Now quick, get these bloody chains off me.” His eyes fly to the door, and he tries to estimate how long they have before Walliams’s return.

“There’s no need to fight our way out. Give me a few minutes to complete the sale, and we’ll walk out the front door together, cover intact.” The agent scrubs the back of his hand roughly over his lips, leaving them red and swollen. A quick loosening of his tie completes the casually debauched appearance.

He’s clever, James will give him that. But, “MI6 doesn’t do business with criminals.”

“Aren’t you always the exception that proves the rule?” he asks knowingly, throwing James even more off-balance. He nods toward James’s slowly flagging erection. “Can you get rid of that any faster?”

James sneers, and with a pointed look meant to embarrass, says, “Get off your bloody knees, and I’ll see to it.” He watches warily as the agent rises to his feet and takes a few steps away, his back turned. James sucks in a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart and frustrated anatomy.

The agent leaves him alone for perhaps half a minute before saying, his tone conciliatory, “I want you to have ample warning about what comes next. From my research of this operation, it seems it’s protocol to drug the slaves after purchase, so they can be docilely transported by their buyers.”

James’s head jerks up with alarm. “Then you’re going to reject the protocol.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly be expected to handle you on my own.” He glances back to check on James’s progress and nods, satisfied. “I’m terribly sorry about this,” he says, eyes fixed respectfully over James’s shoulder as he pulls James’s briefs back up.

James chokes on the rising claustrophobia of helplessness as this “plan” sinks in. “You’re really going to leave me in chains and let them drug me,” he repeats, disbelieving.

Green eyes meet his again, unexpected sincerity in their depths. “Feel free to resist for verisimilitude, but don’t get yourself needlessly hurt on our way out the door. Trust me to get you to safety, please.”

Hah, as if James would trust anyone in this situation, let alone a complete stranger who isn’t who he claims to be. The only MI6 agent who should be strolling through these unholy doors is a double-0, and James doesn’t know this young man from Adam. Sure, his act is good. Entitled but mannered, reeking of inherited wealth and posh schooling, and wearing an immaculately cut suit like a second skin. Too bad the cuff links are faux-antique-copper knockoffs, and he stinks of mass-produced cologne.

No, it’s far more likely that one of James’s old enemies has discovered him and is buying him for their own revenge. He hides his suspicion behind a firm nod; it should be easier to escape during transit than locked in his cell.

“Fine. Let’s not waste anymore time.”

The agent calls for Walliams, who oozes smugness as he proceeds with the sale. As the guards unhook James’s chains, he notes the way the agent startles as the burly men brush against him, jumpy and distracted. James’s skin crawls as he hears the sum being haggled down. In under a minute, electronic beeps signal a successful transfer of funds.

The guards frog-march him back to the showroom and out to a foyer he’s never seen. Tall double doors are just in front of him when the MI6 agent says, “My boot might be large enough, if you think you can get him in.”

With freedom in sight, James seizes his chance. He drops low and elbows the guard on his right, but the sharp jab of the needle to the left side of his neck is near simultaneous, and the guards manage to keep him upright as he lurches in their grasp, vision swimming.

The doors swing open on a courtyard lush with tropical greenery, sunlight glinting off a large water fountain, and a silver Bentley coupe. He’s shuffled toward the car as his knees weaken, and then he’s falling…and escape plans are put on hold as the trunk lid closes over him.

~

The trunk pops open a few inches, and James thrashes back to consciousness, banging elbows, knees, and shoulders against the cramped compartment’s walls. Daylight sears his vision, but he blinks stubbornly at the silhouette that’s raising the lid higher. Before he can focus, he’s jerking away from the stinging fumes of an ammonia capsule held under his nose, hitting the back of the trunk even as the ammonia clears away the worst of the drug’s cobwebs.

“Here, let me help you,” a voice says, and a hand grasps his elbow and tugs him forward while another hand guides his head to keep low.

James coughs and sputters and lets himself be helped slowly from the boot. His back and neck protest the time spent wedged into such a small space. A glance at the sun’s position suggests it’s past noon; he’s lost about 90 minutes.

His bare feet land on a hard-packed dirt track, and the sense of space hits him all at once, so much that it’s overwhelming. The hot, humid air is rich with the scents of tilled soil and saltwater, low agricultural crops sprawl around them toward horizons of thick palm trees, and the sky above is endlessly blue. It’s been months since he’s seen the sky, let alone felt this much space around him. An honest-to-god breeze slides across his naked skin, and for a moment he’s reeling, ungrounded, the world losing focus.

The same MI6 agent from the slave house clears his throat, and James brushes away the wet haze from his eyes to see the key the man holds out with one hand. James snatches it and jams it into his left cuff. The key turns smoothly, and the cuff springs open. James grunts to cover his gasp of relief and attacks his remaining wrist and ankle cuffs as the agent hovers in front of him. When he’s finished, James gathers up the chains and hurls them into a drainage ditch.

Good fucking riddance.

“Do you want me to—”

He shies away from the hand in his periphery.

“Sorry, it’s…your collar. I can reach the lock easier, you see.”

James straightens up, looks at the slightly shorter man’s tight shoulders and averted eyes, and weighs the merits of letting him that close. On the one hand, James is ready and able to defend himself if this turns out to be a trick. On the other, he’s sick to death of this man touching him.

“I’ll manage.”

It takes an eternity, fishing about for the right angle behind his head, and his sore ribs let him know how little they appreciate this posture, how similar it feels to having his arms chained above his head for hours on end.... Pain and frustration build rapidly, as does the awareness that the agent is watching his struggles, but James bites the inside of his cheek to hold in the scream and keeps twisting until, with a dull clank, the collar springs loose.

He rips the heavy, iron collar from his throat and whips it out across the field, where it disappears amidst the rows of low green plants. Finally unshackled, he rubs at his bare wrists and neck, savoring the feeling for a moment before turning his full attention back to the agent. Who keeps shifting his weight awkwardly and seems to find the fields downright fascinating.

“Who are you?” James asks, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

This time, James actually gets a name. “Call me Trevor.”

James looks around pointedly. “Where’s your team?”

“This is a solo op. No team, no support…technically off-the-books.” Trevor hands James a bottle of water and leaves him by the bumper while he opens the passenger door. “How’s your head?” he calls from inside the car.

“What do you mean, ‘off the books’?” James demands. When he turns his head to track Trevor’s movements, inflamed skin pulls across his neck. The angle also reminds him of the wooziness still lurking around the edges of his consciousness. Every instinct urging him to conceal weakness, he holds the watchful pose until Trevor emerges with a duffel bag.

“Officially you’re missing, presumed dead. And I didn’t exactly go through legal channels to find you. No one at MI6 knows I’m out here doing this, and I’d very much like to keep it that way, please.”

The number of red flags on this ‘op’ could furnish a St. Petersburg parade, and James can’t help noticing that they’re in a field in the middle of nowhere—the kind of nowhere that’s ideal for hiding bodies. James unscrews the (supposedly sealed) bottle of water and fakes a sip, fully expecting to be drugged again. He plasters on a smile and thanks not-Trevor for his thoughtfulness.

Trevor thrusts the bag at him. “I brought you a change of clothes.” For all his direct eye-contact when he broke cover in the slave house, Trevor can barely meet James’s eyes now. Granted, James probably looks like death warmed over, what with the innumerable stitched cuts and bruises mottling his body, but Trevor’s ducked head and averted gaze aren’t helping James trust him.

“And a weapon, I hope,” James prompts.

There’s a telling pause before Trevor says to James’s left elbow, “No, sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t bring any spares.”

Wrong answer.

James knows Trevor’s no MI6 agent. From the miserable situational awareness around the guards, to the flaws in his disguise, wearing Tom Ford Noir of all fragrances—wholly unflattering on him—to his lack of a wristwatch, and that’s even before breaking regulations by transferring funds to a criminal enterprise.

The only true thing Trevor has said so far is James’s codename...and that secret was out the moment James’s cover was blown. James is tempted to kill the impostor right here and now. But two points in Trevor’s favor stay his hand: Trevor hasn’t made any moves against James yet—beyond allowing him to be drugged and isolating him—and he poses no physical threat. He’s scrawny, while James has full mobility and a mostly clear head; James can absolutely take Trevor down when he has to. So it might be worth it to play along until James figures out who Trevor really works for.

After a mental toss-up, the coin lands in favor of Trevor’s continuing survival—for now.

James sets the water bottle down inside the trunk and opens the bag to find jeans and a grey t-shirt. Sweltering in the tropical heat, with sweat making the fresh stitches on his shoulder blade sting, James eyes Trevor’s fine linen suit, wishing that could fit him instead. But beggars can’t be choosers.

While he dons the t-shirt, James starts the interrogation. “Where are we?”

Trevor exhales a deep breath, as though he’d been braced for an explosion that hadn’t come. “Malaysia, just outside Tanjung Tualang, about two hours north of Kuala Lumpur.”

The last definite geographic point James remembers was South Africa. “What’s the date?”

“July 18th. Sunday.”

68 bloody days. He accepts this bit of bad news and presses on. “Do you have a comm I can use to contact M? Or a phone?”

Trevor turns away. “I’m sorry, that isn’t possible. M— She died. Two months ago.”

James flinches hard. “I don’t believe you.”

“She was killed. By the same man who exposed you. Raoul Silva.”

James tells himself he’s only feigning belief when he swallows past a lump in his throat. He focuses on the man in front of him, absorbing Trevor’s quiet display of grief. “You knew her.”

Trevor nods shakily. “She said I had to find you. You were always her favorite—she wasn’t going to give up on you, so I couldn’t either.”

It’s a damn good story, James decides, as simmering anger washes away the taste of grief. Claiming M is dead prevents James from demanding contact with the one person he’s likely to trust in his current state. It also humanizes his new “owner” while preying upon his emotions, making him feel isolated and dependent on Trevor.

Well fuck that. Even if it turns out that Trevor is telling the truth, MI6 need never know that Trevor didn’t die bravely in a shootout back at the slave house. James feels a faint vibration of guilt at the prospect of killing a fellow MI6 agent, a long-buried echo of remorse for Fields, but it doesn’t shake his fury at the manipulative story.

James unfolds the jeans and leans forward as if to step into them, then staggers. Ever helpful, Trevor moves in close to catch his weight, sliding an arm across James’s chest to support him, and it’s the easiest lift in the world to reach into Trevor’s unbuttoned jacket and draw the Sig Sauer 9mm from its holster.

At the snick of the safety flicking off, Trevor jumps back and meets James’s eyes…with resignation instead of the anticipated surprise or fear. “007,” he says calmly.

James backs up on the dirt track until he’s out of arm’s reach. The gun feels solid and steadying in his hand, more reassuring than anything Trevor’s said so far. “Toss me the keys,” he commands.

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

“And you’re in no position to deny me. The keys.”

“No.”

James grits his teeth against the urge to shoot. “Look, Trevor, or whatever your name is, I’ve had a really trying few months, and I’m in no mood to argue. The keys, or I’ll leave you to bleed out in this sodding field.”

In a surprisingly cool voice, considering he’s staring down the barrel of his own pistol, the man has the gall to order, “Do not pull that trigger, James.”

James stiffens at the presumption of his given name. He thinks about Trevor transferring over a hundred thousand pounds to the slavers, thinks of his lie about M, and firms up his stance. He gives Trevor a gentlemanly two seconds to see reason, and then he tips the muzzle lower and fires into Trevor’s abdomen.

Pain rips through him, white-hot electric current lancing up his arm, his right palm on fire, and James drops the gun as he falls to the dirt, clutching his hand.

Trevor’s polished loafers step into his line of sight as the man scoops up his pistol and says, “Sorry. Again. But I did warn you.”

“Fuck,” James croaks, eyes watering as he rolls onto his back. “What was that, a bloody taser?”

“A defensive mod; microdermal sensor in the grip. Anyone other than myself tries to fire my weapon, and they’re incapacitated by a 2.0 microcoulomb shock.” Trevor tilts the grip toward James, where little green lights glow faintly. When James just gapes at him, Trevor huffs, “It’s the quartermaster’s latest invention.”

Okay, now that James believes. It sounds exactly like something that that lunatic Boothroyd would come up with. Now the anger’s been literally shocked from his system, James’s reasons to eliminate Trevor feel a little less justified, especially considering the man’s got access to what looks and feels an awful lot like custom TSS field equipment.

Perhaps James has been reading Trevor wrong. He’s still a bit muzzy from the drugs, after all.

Also, his fingers are numb.

“I hate you,” he states for the record.

“I can live with that. Now, my flight leaves in six hours, and I don’t want to miss it. Are you going to roll around under the bumper for much longer, or would you like to put those trousers on?”

An embarrassingly shaky few minutes later, James slumps into the passenger seat.

Trevor starts the car, smirking behind a pair of sunglasses. “Don’t pout, 007. It’s unbecoming of Her Majesty’s best field agent.”

James glares at the side of Trevor’s head and buckles his seat belt while Trevor puts the Bentley in reverse and slowly backs out onto a paved road.

Silence settles around them, uncomfortable and chilled, until Trevor cracks. “I truly am sorry about that shock. And not giving you a weapon—I know you in particular detest going unarmed. But I rather expected you would attack me at some point on this mission, and you’ve just proved that my precautions were necessary.”

Sensing a bit of leverage, James presses. “If you’re so sorry, then give me your phone.”

Trevor shakes his head.

“If you’re really MI6, you’ll have no problem letting me contact them right now.”

“I am MI6, and you are not using my phone for that call. If they trace it back to my phone, they’ll know I was here, and I’ll be sacked—with extreme prejudice.” He glances at James and purses his lips briefly. “Likewise, I’m afraid I can’t answer any of the many questions I’m sure you have about the goings on of the last two months.”

“Bullshit.”

Trevor shakes his head some more. “I am sorry. But I’m not trying to hurt you, I swear.” And his tense grip on the steering wheel puts paid to his determination not to speak again.

James shifts restlessly in the seat, feeling the sticky drag of the slavers’ blue briefs under denim. He regrets not changing into the clean underwear in the duffel. But stripping fully naked in front of Trevor, with the memory of the man’s hands on his prick what felt like mere minutes ago, was more than he could handle.

Admittedly, James hasn’t been handling any of the day’s events particularly well.

If he could just get a moment to himself, he could organize his thoughts. But he’s locked in this tiny car with a man he doesn’t trust, struggling to suppress his emotions after months of torture, and now a rescue that feels nothing like it should. The unrelenting uneasiness makes him feel bruised inside and out.

At least Trevor lives by the Boy Scout motto. James would have been satisfied to be given a burlap sack to wear, anything to let him feel less perpetually on display, but the clothing is exactly James’s size—as of two months ago. The weight he’s lost in captivity leaves some extra room in the jeans and the shirt, but the trainers are dead-on. The generosity of this gift, plus the familiarity it implies, soothes him just enough to risk the bottle of water, and even a ripe banana, to no ill effect.

The quiet lanes soon swell to busier main roads, crowded with afternoon traffic streaming toward the capital. As the slave house falls further and further behind him, James feels increasingly inapposite, reduced to a passenger on his own rescue. He should be making plans, taking action, even driving the bloody car, not sitting here idly, waiting for the unknown.

Also, Trevor drives like somebody’s grandmother, and it’s making James’s knuckles ache to watch all the vehicles passing them.

“Trevor?”

“Hmm?”

“This is a high performance sports coupe, capable of 200 mph. Is there a reason you’re driving five below the speed limit?”

“I hope you aren’t suggesting I drive recklessly, 007. This impressive automobile is technically a rental and has a sticker price only a little lower than your own, based on what I just paid for you; I’d rather not risk it in a collision.”

His tone is so dry, and the backhanded reference to his purchase so cutting, that it takes James half a second to catch the sass in it. Discomfited, James snorts dismissively and goes back to reading street signs, monitoring their route based on his recollections of past missions here.

By the time they’ve driven past the third turn-off for the international airport, James concludes, “It’s a military flight, then.”

“I couldn’t possibly get a military flight for an off-the-books rescue op,” Trevor corrects him pertly. “Not without illegally infiltrating the Royal Malaysian Air Force’s servers to create a dummy log for an international flight in the duty roster, plus back-ending authorization from a major-general or higher into the Royal Marines’ command system in case someone on base decides to verify the order, and of course the change would have to be replicated on the mirror drives as well, for a mission lasting more than 24 hours—” He cuts himself off abruptly before finishing in a strangled voice, “—all of which would be treason, and something I would never do.”

Scenting blood in the water, James turns away from the passing skyscrapers to focus his full attention on Trevor’s anxious grimace and cracking composure. “How did you find me, anyway?” James asks. He has a pretty good idea, considering the computer skills Trevor just hypothetically alluded to.

“Listen, James,” Trevor says, ignoring the question. “I meant what I said about leaving my involvement out of this. More than just my job would be at stake if anyone found out—I’m talking permanent relocation to an oubliette somewhere very dark and deep. Everything I’ve done to get you out is...a very long way from legal. So do me a favor, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, and be sure to describe this adventure as an escape, as opposed to a rescue.”

James snorts at the exaggerated distress in Trevor’s voice, gone high and tight. “MI6 is perfectly capable of overlooking any number of transgressions committed by its operatives for the greater good. If I put in a word for you, you’ll be fine.” Not that he’s making any such promises yet.

“I mean it,” Trevor says more forcefully. “I can’t be involved with this.”

“You’re overreacting—”

Trevor jerks the car to a halt along the curb and snaps, “Please, after years of taking sole credit for team efforts, do not turn over a charitable leaf now.”

James recoils at the anger in Trevor’s voice, as well as the harsh charge against his character...a charge that has the familiar ring of M’s own stinging rebukes. A pang in his chest catches him off guard, but he shoves it down. He clears his throat. “Indeed. A one-man show.”

“Quite.”

“Understood. Now how the hell do you propose to get me out of this country without sharing the credit?”

Trevor nods past him toward the office tower they’re stopped in front of. “That’s the High Commission.”

“The—” James says, whipping his head around and up. “I’ll be damned,” he breathes.

“Which means this is your stop.” And then Trevor adds, “If you want it to be.”

James watches Trevor cautiously, waiting for him to elaborate.

Trevor removes his sunglasses and fusses with the stems. “This is hardly the first time you’ve been presumed dead. M was always rather annoyed by your little ‘vacations’ once she knew you were safe, but this last time...she said it would serve her right if you decided to walk away for good. That you deserved better than an organization that couldn’t protect your identity. She died hoping you were alive out there, living your life on your own terms. And after being betrayed and left for dead in a living hell like that...I think you have a right to your freedom, from your captors and from your duty to MI6, if you want it.”

It feels like whiplash, between the unexpected reassurance of reaching the UK’s diplomatic offices and this new offer of an even-more-complete type of freedom. To be truly in the wind, with no one yanking on his leash to drag him back…it’s a freedom he’s longed for more than once in the last few years. “A bit empty-handed to be going on the run, don’t you think?” James quips, stalling while he feels out the unfamiliar taste of liberty.

“I have travel documents in the glove compartment for you, along with cash and a line of credit. It isn’t a fortune, but it’s more than enough to disappear.”

Trevor leaves it there, not pushing James to decide, and James is honestly tempted. His gut instinct is to run, to curl up in a private den where he can lick his wounds, both physical and psychological. But the need for answers is even stronger. He can’t rest until he confirms what’s happened to M...and whether she’s been avenged.

“I have unfinished business with MI6,” James decides.

Trevor nods like he expected this answer. “Then please forget my mention of forged documents,” he says lightly. His posture is stiff to the point of brittle, and his uncalloused fingers clench the steering wheel nervously, but his eyes seem curious behind the tell-tale ring of contact lenses, studying James right back.

James doesn’t know what to make of Trevor’s many contradictions. “Thank you, Trevor,” he says finally, because the agent has indeed delivered James to safety, as promised.

Trevor allows a tight smile to tug at his wide lips. “Safe journeys, 007. Try not to get lost on the way home.”

With a last check of Trevor’s hand positions to confirm he isn’t about to pull out his pistol and shoot James in the back, James exits the car and heads into the British government’s offices.

Chapter Text

James has made a habit of avoiding embassies—at least the British ones. Official government offices mean roadblocks and bureaucrats telling him how to do his job, always slowing him down when he needs to move fast. But walking into the lobby of the British High Commission in Malaysia, he couldn’t be more reassured by the prospect of paperwork.

The security team stationed inside is polite, and their steadiness with their sidearms soothes James’s itch to watch his back, at least while they’re in view. The first administrator he speaks with approaches him gently, as she might a tourist who’d been mugged. Which is a fair supposition, considering he’s empty handed, with dirt smudges on his shirt and jeans, and bruises covering his exposed forearms and neck.

James shakes her hand and corrects with a charming smile, “I’m actually an MI6 operative, and I need a secure video call with London HQ as soon as possible. Ma’am.”

She doesn’t fluster, bless her professional heart. After a quick scan of his fingerprints and some phone calls in a back office, she leads him to a small, windowless conference room. James paces the plush carpeting to burn off some of his restlessness, counting steps until he realizes his growing unease is because the dimensions of this room don’t match his cell.

He takes a deep breath, confirms that the door has no lock, and calculates the time difference for London instead. Nearly 8 a.m. there; St. Paul’s will be ringing the Eucharist. England will be warming up for their match at The Oval. M will be in her back garden if the weather’s fine, or in her home office if it’s not, reviewing the latest reports from around the world. Because even on a summer Sunday morning, she’s always working.

Unless she's dead.

He ruthlessly shoves that thought aside and glances at the clock. It’s only been five minutes—

The large video screen on the wall flickers to life, a flash of color out the corner of his eyes, and when he turns to look, Bill Tanner’s face is staring into the room.

“My god, Bond,” Tanner says, sagging into his hands, braced on the desk he's standing at. “You’re really alive.” He’s sporting an RAF sweatshirt, sweat dampening the collar, ruddy-faced from being interrupted in the MI6 gym. Boxing, James recalls, and not half bad.

A tightness behind James’s ribs eases, the pleasure of a familiar face as warming as good scotch. He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, and confirms, “Last time I checked.”

“You look like shit; where have you been?” Tanner asks, still staring, although a smile is starting to break through his shock.

“In hell,” he says, glib with a half-smile to hide the truth of the words.

Tanner takes him at his word—always a clever man. “Welcome back from the dead.”

“I need to speak to M,” he says, throwing it out like a challenge. If anyone will be straight with him, it’s MI6’s chief of staff. But Tanner’s stricken expression confirms what he already suspected in the instant before he schools himself back to placidity.

Agent Trevor was telling the truth.

He’s stripped bare all over again, weak and vulnerable as he’d been that morning. He sinks into a padded chair as the core of steel he’d been depending on melts into slag, collapsing inward.

He’s only half-listening as Tanner lays out the basics: a shit show in Turkey resulting in the loss of a list of undercover operatives. Five names had leaked online immediately—James’s among them—and M agreed to a parley to prevent the release of more names. Despite the efforts of multiple MI6 agents, she didn’t survive the encounter.

She died bloody, James reads between Tanner’s obfuscations, and his vision swims with red.

By the time Tanner’s done, James has turned away, unable to watch Tanner’s carefully modulated expressions, stoic even when discussing her death.

After a long moment, Tanner asks kindly, “Is there anything you need, anything I can do for you right now?”

“Just bring me home,” James grinds out, all he can manage through a throat gone tight as a fist.

Tanner ends the call with a promise of new travel documents and a booking on the first available flight. James gives him a weary salute, then sits with the dark screen and blank walls until he feels equally blank.

Some time later, a solicitous manager ushers him from the room, offering him first a ride to the local hospital (he demurs), a hotel room in town (not his first choice), or a room within the High Commission’s secure office tower (please and thank you). They give him a set of pyjamas emblazoned with the royal coat of arms and show him to a room that’s little more than a narrow bed and a chair. But the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city keep it from feeling like a basement cell.

And this door locks from the inside.

There’s a phone he could use to call his loved ones, if he had any. He ignores it and heads for the en suite shower, where he revels in the hot water. When thoughts of M come, he ducks his head under the spray so the water runs down his cheeks in place of the tears that don’t.

As he dries off, he pauses in front of the mirror above the sink. He hasn’t looked at himself in a mirror—really looked—since he was captured. His face is mostly undamaged, with the customers under threat of costly fees if they ruined the goods. The bruising on the right side of his jaw has faded to a sickly yellow, and the neat stitches on his left temple from last week look like they’re healing well, if not as unobtrusively as James would like. But his hair has grown shaggy, his complexion sallow, and his stubble’s coming in after the morning’s electric shave. Around his neck, the skin is red and chafed, with purple bruises where greedy fingers dug under the iron collar, pulling it tighter, cutting off his air, the stink of potpourri and sour breath looming close—

He jerks away from the mirror and the memory, ruthlessly smothering the instinct to gasp for air, to hyperventilate. Breathing through his nose, he counts heart beats until they slow and the feeling of helplessness fades.

The flashback is hardly a surprise—he’s come to expect them after the worst missions. With nearly two decades of training from the Navy and MI6, he knows how to handle them: stay grounded; identify and disregard any stimuli not present in the room; acknowledge the remembered emotions and set them aside. When he opens his eyes, he’s back in the present, still staring at the wreck of his body.

With careful detachment, he surveys his chest and legs and back, turning around and looking over his shoulder at the mirror to assess the worst of the damage. He’s littered with new scars and stitches in various stages of healing, as well as a veritable rainbow of bruises. Not an appealing sight, but most of the scars should become less noticeable with time. The small slavers’ brand on his right hip, however—that one looks permanent.

Well, by the time a sexual partner gets James’s briefs down past his hips, a pair of raised triangles burned into his skin is unlikely to deter the proceedings. And if they prove to be a liability, he’ll burn over them—this time with pain killers to hand.

Exhausted but unable to close his eyes, he sits on the soft bed and watches the city as the last of the sun’s rays slide down the side of the building. In between sky and earth, the slave house and England, he does his best to think of neither.

Light reflects off an airplane’s tail as it banks, and James idly wonders whether Trevor made his flight. Whether he’s already headed back to London, congratulating himself on a job well done. And it was very well done, if not how James would have planned it. A daytime extraction without a single bullet fired, no covers broken, not a single hair mussed on the elegant agent’s head. And all despite a distinctly unhelpful rescuee.

A one-man show, indeed.

Gradually, James’s shoulders unwind a few more degrees, finding comfort in the multiple levels of security on the building and a worthy distraction to puzzle over. Perhaps he’ll even be able to sleep here.

~

His direct flight lands at Heathrow just past 5 p.m., and James has never been more grateful for first class priority deboarding privileges. After 14 hours in transit, he steps out of the terminal into a warm drizzle and a summer heatwave in full force. It was spring when he left.

A large SUV pulls up to the curb, and a slender black woman in a fashionable, coral skirt suit strides around the car to greet him.

“007, welcome home,” she says, with a smile that brightens the evening considerably.

“Thank you, it’s a pleasure to be back,” he answers and shakes the proffered hand. Her grip is firm, with a telltale callous at the base of the thumb, and her eyes make quick sweeps of the sidewalk for threats. God, it’s a relief to see some proper training in a field agent.

“I’m to take you to M now. Are you ready to go? Do you have all your bags?” She sizes up his empty hands, his high-collared shirt and leather jacket, and the dark ring of bruises visible above the collar, and her smile skews sideways. “Silly question?”

“I packed light,” he says, finding his smile a little less forced now he’s back on home soil.

“Then we’ll be on our way. Please, after you.” She motions to the passenger side of the car, and for a moment James is tempted to take the driver’s seat instead. Her eyes narrow. “I’m driving,” she says firmly.

He probably shouldn’t drive with five in-flight drinks in his system and a significantly lowered tolerance. He graciously chooses the front passenger seat.

“I didn’t catch your name,” James says as she knifes her way into traffic to a chorus of angry honks.

“Eve Moneypenny. I’m M’s secretary.” She darts a look his way and clarifies, “The new M.”

Secretary—sure, with training in offensive driving and the outline of a holster strap under her pencil skirt. “I can tell I’m in good hands, Miss Moneypenny. You know, I’m usually quite popular with secretaries,” James says. He shifts in the seat, repositioning his cuts and bruises before sitting back and enjoying the lovely view next to him.

“So I’ve heard. You’ve a bit of a reputation around the water cooler, Mr. Bond.”

“Well-earned, I assure you.”

She flicks her eyes over him again, this time lingering on his thighs. “Every inch of it,” she agrees, heat in her voice.

James folds his arms and turns forward, blaming the sudden chill on the vents blowing on him.

“M’s assigned me the task of restoring you from the dead,” she says to the crowded road in front of her. “I’ve spent the day creating new credit accounts for you and replenishing your pension and savings.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought….

His M had always held off declaring him dead whenever he dropped off the grid. But he’s been threatened often enough with the protocols, and he knows how efficient MI6 can be when tying up its own loose ends. With a new M in charge, why should James be spared the merciless scouring-away of a bloody life?

His flat will have been the first to go. Feeling the loss like a body blow, he asks, “Do I have anything left? Clothes, furniture?” Storage is customary, in case family wants to claim the agent’s personal effects. But James has none.

Moneypenny’s smile widens. “You’re in luck. Seems there was a mix-up with the paperwork. The emptying and sale of your flat never happened, even though they’re marked off in the system. As far as I can tell, your flat hasn’t been touched since you left, at least not by MI6.”

Reeling from this too-rapid reversal of fortune, he manages to agree, “That’s damned lucky.”

“I can’t vouch for the condition of anything in your fridge—after two months, it’s probably best to just bin the whole refrigerator and start from scratch,” she teases. “But be glad you still have a flat at all, no matter what ecological disasters have occurred in the kitchen.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

His luck has never been this good. A system error in his favor? James’s hackles are raised. How easily could MI6’s personnel database be accessed and manipulated by a hacker? It should be impossible. And it would be a conspiracy theory fueled by narcissism to imagine someone breaking into a highly protected server full of personal data on every operative in the agency, solely to mark James’s flat sale complete…. Perhaps he’s being paranoid, and it really is just a data entry error on the day he needs it most. Either way, he still has a home to return to.

“What’s the new M like?”

“Ah, now that’s what you’ll really be after,” Moneypenny says. She collects her thoughts as she changes lanes, cutting off a yellow BMW with barely a hands-breadth between them. “Mallory’s ex-military but rose up through the civilian side of government. He’s a straight-shooter, doesn’t mince words.”

“A pencil pusher who likes to bark orders,” James interprets.

“I’ve yet to hear him raise his voice, actually, and he has enough experience to work well with the agents.” When James isn’t swayed, she rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t take my word for it. You’ll be your own judge soon enough. But you just might like him; most of the staff does.”

“Unlikely,” he says, and lets the patter of the rain and shushing of the wipers finish the conversation for him.

~

The Vauxhall headquarters look exactly the same. He can’t explain why it should look different after her death, but it’s a relief and a disappointment all the same.

Gareth Mallory, former chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee and now head of MI6, waits in the near-empty lobby with a handshake and a clap to James’s shoulder. James stiffens under the touch and the curious looks of the staff members making their way out for the evening. He says another silent thank you to Tanner for arranging the cash the High Commission staff left him with at the airport, so he could purchase new clothing and arrive decently dressed for this meeting.

He smiles politely to the new M and follows him to the elevator. Their destination proves to be her old office, the aviary made of glass, with the full view of the Thames dominating the room. A monument to transparency and her all-seeing eyes.

And here is where he finds the differences.

“You’ve been redecorating,” James says, noting the gold-patterned, floor-to-ceiling curtains covering the exterior windows and the thick-ply carpet in a somber green.

“Yes. All the glass in here was a security concern. Also, it made privacy impossible.” Mallory picks up a remote control from the large maple desk that’s replaced her glass table. With the press of a button, the fluorescence of the admin wing fades from the room, and James turns around to see the interior glass walls behind him have frosted over, blocking his view of the rows of desks outside. Four floor lamps provide a warm light that makes the place feel more like a gentleman’s club than a high-tech, modern office—a deceptively chummy ambiance.

Still, James appreciates the cover of those frosted walls at his back as he takes the seat Mallory motions toward.

“Scotch?” Mallory offers, standing by the drinks cart—another welcome addition to the room.

“Please.” His buzz is wearing off, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation sober. The whisky is single-malt, leaning strongly into the peat. He savors the first sip.

Mallory sits at the desk opposite and drinks from his own glass before setting it aside and saying, “I’m damn glad to finally meet you, Bond. I’m just sorry it’s in these circumstances.”

James nods.

“I can see you’ve been in it, and I don’t want to keep you overlong tonight. Do you feel up to a cursory debrief now? You can give the full version to Tanner later.”

“That would be appreciated.”

Mallory opens a manilla folder but doesn’t bother consulting it before he begins, clearly familiar with its contents. “Good. At your last check-in, you’d successfully infiltrated the Demitrios cartel in Johannesburg and were gathering intelligence. Four days later, your identity was leaked, and you dropped off the proverbial map. I take it you were captured?”

“Yes, sir. One second I was dining at Paul Demitrios’s estate, the next I’m waking up tied to a chair with a fist-sized lump on the back of my head. They knew exactly who I was, and they were debating ways to kill me.”

“How did you talk them out of it?”

James smiles, relying on a humorous lilt to keep the memories at bay. “I didn’t. After a little light brutality, they decided to forgo execution in favor of something more creative. I heard them plan to send me to Demitrios’s second cousin to deal with. The next time I found my bearings, I’d been handed off to another trafficking operation—dealing in people, instead of guns. That’s the hole I crawled out of yesterday.”

Mallory scribbles a note in the file, but his eyes fall on James’s throat, adding the visible injury to his tale and drawing conclusions James won’t deny, but doesn’t want to talk about.

He takes a hasty gulp of scotch and presses on before Mallory can ask. “For the last two months, I’ve been up for sale with no takers, although plenty of window shoppers. Until yesterday.”

Mallory sits forward, shrewdly filling in the blanks. “A break in the routine.”

James nods.

“Who was it that bought you?” Mallory asks.

The truth tickles his throat along with the lingering burn of peat. And James had planned on full disclosure, had reasoned it out on the flight, how it benefited him nothing to lie about his rescuer, and could even complicate his life if he covered for Trevor. But Mallory isn’t his M, and James doesn’t have the measure of him yet. He can’t anticipate what this man’s response would be to an operative going rogue to rescue a missing double-0. Trevor had seemed genuinely frightened of retribution, perhaps with good reason.

And against his own interest, James finds himself reluctant to actively harm the man who saved him. So he shrugs and lies smoothly, “Some rich prick, spoke Italian. I didn’t bother to learn his name. I broke his neck and left his body in a field to rot.”

His attempt to shock Mallory with casual brutality misses the mark, because the man only tips his head to the side. “That’s a shame. MI6 would have relished the chance to prosecute the bastard for trafficking a British citizen. But in your shoes, I admit I’d have done exactly the same.”

James’s eyebrows lift at the confession.

“Does that surprise you?” Mallory asks. “I haven’t always been a politician, you know. During my military service, I spent some time in a situation not entirely dissimilar to your own, at the gentle hands of the IRA.”

“I hadn’t heard,” James murmurs. Moneypenny’s impatience with his hasty assessment of Mallory’s character feels well-earned.

Mallory lifts his glass and considers it for a long moment without drinking. When he next meets Bond’s gaze, his eyes are softened with something that could be compassion or pity. “There may be any number of psychological repercussions from an experience like yours, and they won’t all be evident immediately,” he says with the certainty that comes from personal knowledge.

The last thing James needs is a lecture on trauma responses from his new boss, though. “This wasn’t my first time in captivity,” James points out coolly. “I’ve been around that block a time or two.”

“I’m aware. And based on your file, I know I don’t need to ask whether you divulged any government secrets, or in any way compromised the security of this agency. Nevertheless, if you want to take some time away to process, I’ll approve you for indefinite leave. You deserve time to come down—”

“No, sir,” he says, and it’s sharper and angrier than he meant to reveal, but again, Mallory is unphased. “I would prefer to return to active duty as soon as possible.”

Mallory drinks and sets the glass down. “Tanner told you about my predecessor’s death.” He waits, but James gives him nothing. “I’m aware you and Olivia Mansfield were close.”

The name catches him off-guard, and his hand nearly trembles. Six years, and he’s never heard it spoken aloud, never even thought to use it himself. She knew he’d stolen it when he’d broken into her home that first time—she must have known—but he never earned her permission to use it himself. And now he never will.

Mallory continues, “Raoul Silva is responsible for the deaths of three undercover agents, as well as the director of MI6 in our own backyard. We’re not going to stop until we take the bastard out, you have my word.”

It’s tempting to believe him—Mallory’s forthrightness seems to indicate sincerity. But when James looks for the gleam in his eye, the subtle directive authorizing lethal measures above and beyond the assignment’s official remit, he finds nothing. No, James needs more than a bureaucrat’s verbal assurance that MI6 will find and terminate Silva; he needs to see it done himself. “I want in.”

“You’ll be kept in the loop. Tanner will review all our files with you. But as much as we could use another double-0 in the field right now, I would be remiss if I didn’t caution you against a too-swift return to active duty.”

“Consider me cautioned.” James leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, intent. “When Silva’s kill order comes….”

“The assignment is yours—provided you’re field-ready.”

“Then I’ve no time to waste.”

Mallory sighs and runs his fingers over his thinning hair. “Very well. Call in tomorrow for a re-testing schedule. And it goes without saying that I want full workups with the Psych department and Medical to start.”

James scowls at the necessity, but he expected no less. “I suppose it can’t all be good news,” he quips.

“It never is,” Mallory agrees, “but today’s is better than most. To your safe return, 007.” He holds up his glass.

“To M,” James says and knocks back the remainder of his own.

Mallory rises and walks him to the frosted door, where James is neatly handed off to a waiting Moneypenny.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” she informs him and turns on a designer stiletto, expecting to be followed.

James doesn’t whinge over the managing, the coddling, although it chafes his already tender ego. Only the briefest recitation of his experience to Mallory, and he’s a hermit crab caught without a shell. The sooner he can get home, behind his own locked door, the better.

In the elevator, she passes him a thick envelope. “Your new credit cards, ID, credentials, and mobile.”

“I have a—”

“We may have missed your flat, but we didn’t miss your locker.” Her smile is kind. “Your keys and other personal effects are on their way back from a storage depot outside Liverpool. But anything deemed potentially sensitive was destroyed, mobile included.”

He breathes deep and lets the frustration pass. “This day just gets better and better.”

“Doesn’t it? And don’t even try that hangdog look on me—I’m still driving.”

She’s even more aggressive in post-rush hour traffic, and in less than 20 minutes, she’s pulling up to the curb.

“This is your stop,” she says, and James hears Trevor’s light voice saying the same words. And suddenly, looking up at the dark windows of his flat like he’d looked up at the High Commission’s office tower, he knows, with that same overwhelming knowledge of safety and reassurance, that this was no clerical error. Trevor arranged this, went above and beyond a well-choreographed rescue halfway around the globe to ensure James had a home to return to.

Distracted by a rising tide of gratitude he doesn’t know how to repay, he says, “It could be yours, as well.”

Her laugh is just as lovely as the rest of her…and jolts him with the realization of what he’s just offered.

“Ta, but I’ll wait until you’ve cleared away the cobwebs first.”

He appreciates the gentleness of her let-down almost as much as the let-down itself. “Might take a while—I’m terrible at cleaning.”

“Why am I not surprised? Here,” she says, and pulls a slim case out of her purse. “I thought you might need a little help with the door. That’s my favorite set, so be sure to bring it back.”

He unzips the case and admires the array of lock picks. “Which of these would you suggest for the bedroom door?”

“Good night, Bond,” she says with a toothsome grin.

He winks and heads inside.

Just as she said, his apartment lies undisturbed. The air is stale but not over-warm from the summer heat outside. A sweater waits on the leather couch, leftover from cool spring nights. The barest layer of dust sprinkles the coffee table and hardwood floors. He turns right for a quick glance into the tidy kitchen (odor-free, because James habitually empties the produce from his fridge when he’s given an assignment longer than two weeks), then about-faces to the master bedroom at the opposite end of the flat. The bed clothes are still squared away with military precision, the blue sheets and blanket as smooth as he left them.

When he reaches under his pillow, his personal Walther PPK fits into his hand like a lover’s clasp, and the underlying thrum of anxiety finally, finally eases.

He’s home.

Chapter Text

The money is a problem.

James accelerates through the streets of Central London, the engine of his beloved Aston Martin DB5 purring under his gloved hands. He’s been itching to get behind the wheel of a car for the past two days, and this morning’s drive satisfies some of the restlessness that’s been caged for months.

But his thoughts keep straying back to his revealing discussion with the attendant at the private garage.

Fully expecting the disappointment of the DB5 impounded for lack of payment, James had found the opposite. The attendant looked at him, puzzled, and reminded him that he was prepaid for four more months, and didn’t James recall negotiating a six-month package a couple months back?

James recalls no such thing.

So, another miraculous roll of seven, just like the clerical error that preserved his flat and possessions from liquidation. James would dearly love to assume these were his M’s doing, the results of plans she put in motion before her murder. But more likely, they’re the work of the man who invested over £100,000 in buying James’s freedom without batting an eye. For whatever reason, Trevor wants him to have these things—a home to return to, a prized automobile to drive, a life far less disrupted than James could hope, all things considered.

He down-shifts and swerves between stopped delivery trucks and buses as he mulls over this quandary. For single-handedly pulling James out of hell, James certainly owes Trevor some gratitude; covering for him seems the least James can do. But the kind of money Trevor’s been throwing around always comes with strings attached. Not to mention the small matter of someone hacking into an MI6 personnel file for him, which runs a bit closer to treason than James has previously trod.

What is Trevor’s motivation for all of this?

And what will he ask of James in return?

The questions circle in the back of his mind as he pulls into the garage under Vauxhall headquarters and finds his reserved parking spot...occupied. Despite Trevor’s best efforts to smooth away the bumps from James’s return, it seems some inconveniences remain. He parks in a visitor’s spot, wearing a smile that feels almost fond despite himself.

That fondness is another symptom of the problem. The sooner James gets some answers, the better.

The double-0 office is thankfully empty, although the scent of strong coffee indicates at least one other agent has been by recently. James chooses a desk with a sight-line of the door—which is all of them—and pulls up a company laptop. His credentials get him into the server with no problem, and with one eye on the open door, he accesses MI6’s personnel directory.

A last-name search comes up empty. First-name gets him three matches, all over the age of 40, and none of their employee photos match the man he met in Malaysia. Well, he didn’t actually believe his name was Trevor, did he? James fills a mug from the coffee pot on the counter and settles in to flip through the photos of every male employee of MI6 below the age of 50, serving in London and abroad, from field agents to actuaries to caterers.

It takes over an hour to come up with nothing. James isn’t surprised when none of the photos match his memory, but he is concerned. And gratified. If Trevor turned out to be just a junior MI6 agent or an HR clerk, James would have been genuinely disappointed.

But Trevor hasn’t let him down yet.

He catches himself smiling with the anticipation of the hunt...and if there’s still a fond curl to his lips, he doesn’t bother schooling it away.

~

At five to ten, he makes his way through the familiar halls to Bill Tanner’s office. The staffers he passes give him appreciative glances, the same as always; he knows exactly how good he looks in his bespoke suits—that’s their purpose, after all. Today, he’s particularly thankful for the protective cover of refined tailoring, a suit of armor to deflect gossip and conceal his vulnerabilities.

Tanner’s office, sandwiched between M’s glass office and Command, stands open and waiting for him. The blinds are drawn over the large window, and, when James leans into the dim room to knock on the door frame, he notes that each screen on the wall of monitors is pre-populated with faces from the gang of weapons smugglers James was infiltrating when his cover was blown.

Tanner stands and extends a brusque hand to shake. There’s no trace of the pleasant fellow he can be on his rare nights off, good company for an evening of football and Guinness at the local with zero chance of shop talk. Nor any trace of the sympathy that had been shocked out of him on his video call from Malaysia. He’s composed, all-business.

James always appreciates Tanner’s professionalism, and especially for this debrief; if he had to tell his tale to a compassionate ear, he doesn’t think he could keep his emotional distance. That’s the part of M’s debriefs he’ll miss the most—the cold scowls and stinging insults that always kept his defenses up.

But thoughts of M will only make this harder. So James unbuttons his jacket, takes a seat, and starts right in on Demitrios’s operation in Johannesburg.

Fifteen minutes later, Tanner types the last details into his report. James smiles grimly and closes his monologue with, “Of course, since they know they’ve been infiltrated, they’ll have changed their entire schedule to avoid MI6’s satellites.”

Ten days of infiltration, memorizing schematics and shipment details, sharing hand-rolled cigarettes with the lieutenants, watching them intimidate and abuse the local citizenry, even joining in a few times himself—all wasted. And Paul Demitrios laughing as the slate is wiped clean.

“Perhaps,” Tanner agrees. “Or perhaps they’re cocky enough to assume they buried your knowledge when they buried you.”

James opens his mouth to disagree and then reassesses. “Demitrios is pretty full of himself,” he admits.

“It’s worth checking,” Tanner says, and James isn’t sure whether he’s sincere or trying to comfort James in an opaque fashion. “That’s Johannesburg taken care of. Here’s what we’ve pulled up on your more recent...situation.”

Tanner presses a few keys, and a new set of photos takes over the monitors. A dozen men’s faces, none of them familiar. But in a distance-shot, a woman stands in three-quarter profile alongside a man, her shark-toothed smile visible under a wide-brimmed hat.

James’s entire body tenses with the urge to retreat, his skin prickling with remembered touches, remembered pain, and he inhales slowly through his nose—recirculated office air, white-board markers, and Tanner’s aftershave. In the hallway outside, a woman’s high heels clack, far closer than he wants them to be, and James yanks his gaze away from the photo to catch the opening of the door.

Stella, Tanner’s secretary, steps through the door with two cups in her hands.

“Ah, thank you, Ms. Sarver,” Tanner says. “Bond, coffee?”

Stella places a coffee in front of James and a tea in front of Tanner.

James doesn’t know how Tanner coordinated this felicitous disruption, but it’s very much appreciated. He returns Stella’s polite nod. The faint flush on her cheeks brings to mind a shared chocolate mousse and wine pairing on a winter’s evening, the scent of Au Thé Blanc warm behind her ear. Their dalliance was a couple years ago, but a far more pleasant memory than where his thoughts had just strayed.

As Stella backs gracefully out the door, Tanner resumes. “M has made it a priority to eliminate the group that held you and to free any remaining prisoners. Based on your report last night, I’ve pulled files on Paul Demitrios’s second cousin in Malaysia, Christopher Demitrios, as well as known associates. Recognize any of these gentlemen?”

James sips the scalding brew and makes himself answer calmly, “No. I’ve never seen any of the men before. But her—” he points to the photo at the bottom right “—she’s the one you want.”

“She?” Tanner frowns at the screen before typing with his free hand, pulling up the photo’s metadata. “Nora Alexei. Romanian national. Photographed here with one of Christopher Demitrios’s lieutenants three years ago. I don’t believe we have any…. Oh.”

Tanner sets his tea aside and types faster. The faces on the screens are replaced with more photos of the woman—pink lips, bleached curls, tattooed collarbone, pierced navel, raised fist, branding iron—as well as documents in multiple agencies’ formats. James looks down at his cup when the visuals multiply beyond what’s on-screen, the scent of burning flesh curling in his nostrils.

“Research already has a file on her.” Tanner summarizes aloud as he skims the documents, “Her fortune comes from mining investments. Suspected of money laundering for Russian oligarchs. Interpol considered her a person of interest in the disappearance of a Saudi oil magnate’s daughter last year—girl went missing while vacationing in Langkawi and was never seen again. Social connections with Christopher Demitrios’s man Sordos a few years ago, possibly lovers once, but not high-profile entangled.”

James couldn’t care less what the bitch’s romantic history was. “She ran the whole operation. She’s the owner.”

Tanner blinks at his laptop screen for a moment, absorbing this information. “Then she’s our target. Where’s the operation located?”

“I couldn’t say. My views were limited to a cell below-ground and the ‘show rooms’ on the ground floor. I only know it’s a few hours north of Kuala Lumpur.”

Her sly face is wiped from the screens, replaced with maps. “I have multiple pieces of property around the country in her name. North of Kuala Lumpur….” The maps and photos rearrange themselves across the wall. “Three locations. What else can you tell me?”

“It was a large house. Fine furnishings. Isolated, no sounds of traffic.”

“Two possibilities. Do either of these look right?”

James is prepared to say no, as satellite images take over the screens. He never saw the outside of the building; there’s no way he could identify the surroundings—

“The fountain.” Tanner zooms in on the left-hand satellite image and replaces the other overhead view with a photo of a large, columned mansion. “That’s the last thing I saw,” James says, recognizing the large, geometric water feature in the middle of a tiled courtyard.

“You’re sure?” Tanner says, already typing notes in a separate document.

“Positive.”

“Tell me about their security, what we can expect when we go in.”

James takes a bracing sip, grounds himself in Tanner’s dim office in Vauxhall Cross and the scent of Colombian coffee, and calls up all the details he memorized over two months in the Madama’s clutches. The number of guards and rotation schedules; number of victims and cell conditions; cameras and alarms and dimensions of the lower two floors; day-to-day routines and the optimal time to strike.

Tanner schedules a satellite redirect for up-to-date surveillance and spends 10 minutes typing an action proposal for M. James supplies clarification where necessary, treating it as a hypothetical exercise as he recalls every hall and doorway, the cattle prods, and the heavy chains.

And then Tanner lifts his fingers away from the keyboard and says, “I know what you’re going to ask. And the answer is no.”

James frowns. “Pardon?”

“I’m not including you on the strike team. Even if I could get you to Malaysia before we move, you’re not field-ready. Christ, you haven’t even been seen by Medical yet. So the answer is no. Absolutely not.”

Like a surprise left hook, it smashes through his defenses and leaves him staggering. James honestly hadn’t been thinking of volunteering—hadn’t even thought to participate in the mission to dismantle the human trafficking ring that held him captive for two months.

He should be in revolt, demanding to lead the charge himself. Three months ago, he would have considered it his due to put a bullet in the salesman’s skull, to hunt down the Madama, Ms. Nora Alexei, and pin her to the silk carpets, to press a gun to her temple and pray she might goad him into pulling the trigger. Hell, he would have stayed in Malaysia, coordinated the strike team with Tanner via sat-com, and then led the raid himself.

Instead, he’d fled back to London to hide under the front porch like a frightened dog.

Badly shaken, James mumbles, “As you think best,” layered with enough bitterness to sound half-convincing. He looks at his empty coffee cup and considers asking for something far stronger.

Tanner exhales a relieved breath at James’s capitulation. “Speaking of field readiness, I have your re-testing schedule for you.”

James takes the printout without glancing at it.

“Medical is ready for you as soon as we finish here, and your Psych appointment is scheduled for 2 p.m. Then you’re officially on leave for a minimum of two weeks. Barring any delays from Medical, you’ll re-test in early August.”

The swift one-two combination connects while he’s still reeling from the devastating recognition of his own cowardice, nearly sending him to the mat. “Today? Both of them?”

“Yes.” Tanner gives him a shrewd look. “Is that a problem? You indicated to M that you were in a hurry.”

No man is in a hurry to be tortured, least of all after what she—. James refuses to finish that thought. He slaps a grin on his face and shrugs. “It’s fine. As torturers go, MI6’s doctors and shrinks are mid-tier at best.”

“A necessary evil. The sooner your post-mission assessments are complete, the sooner you can get back in the field.”

Tanner’s words remind him of the reason for his haste: revenge. The bottomless anger that’s taken up residence in his chest stirs, and, finding it an admirable substitute for fear, James coaxes it to the fore. “You’re right; I am in a hurry. Mallory has promised me the Silva op. He says you’re to read me in.”

Tanner hesitates, looking away.

“Problem?”

“That is what M decided, of course,” Tanner says slowly. He sips his cold tea and scowls at it. “I’m happy to show you what we have and grant you access to all the files. But…I think it would be best reviewed after your Psych assessment.”

“Why?”

“Why,” Tanner scoffs. “I hardly think visualizing how she died should be top of mind when you meet with a psychologist.”

The condescension rankles. As though James hadn’t had to become a master of compartmentalization to survive years of Psych interviews. He smirks. “On the contrary, I’ve frequently imagined her death during my Psych evaluations.”

Tanner glares at him, unamused by the black humor. “My goal is to get you back into the field, Bond, not have you benched before you’ve even begun.”

“I can handle the psychologists. I’m not leaving here without those files.”

They stare each other down for a tense moment, until Tanner breaks. “Bloody double-0’s.” His fingers stab at the keys of his laptop, a quiet demonstration of his displeasure.

The screens reset with more reports, and James leans forward to skim them as quickly as possible, as though they’ll be sealed away before he gets a chance to fully absorb their contents.

“Two months ago, an assassin broke into an MI6 satellite office in Istanbul, murdered two agents, and stole the hard drive I told you about. Within 48 hours, your name was leaked, along with the names of four other agents. Three of whom didn’t make it. The video upload was credited to Raoul Silva.”

“And who is he?”

“A ghost. The name Raoul Silva has appeared on our radar only a few times over the years, as a potential monetary backer for terrorist groups. But we have no concrete information as to his location or identity.”

Not off to a promising start, James thinks grimly. But he’s killed ghosts before.

Tanner throws a collection of animated clips across the wall, flashing skulls and short, taunting phrases.

This is your fault.

Think on your sins.

You know what you did.

You will pay.

“Instead of any interpretable ransom demand, these messages were posted to the same video upload account, one per day.”

“Directed at MI6? Or at someone else?” Tanner looks at him, and James understands. “At M.”

“The last message posted to the account was this one—private, the link emailed directly to her.” Tanner nods to a new video.

M alone Huntley West car park Thursday 2330.

“A meeting.”

“Yes.” Tanner’s voice shades differently, bleakness replacing annoyance. “I advised her not to go. We agreed that she was being targeted, and she mustn’t endanger herself—and by extension MI6. But the day of, she changed her mind.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t tell me. Oh, she said some patriotic business, noble tripe about standing up to terrorists, but I knew her better than that. She was keeping something to herself.”

The messages are wiped away, replaced by photos of a multistory car park at night, the top deck lit sporadically.

“I put together a full tactical team, had the entire block locked down, agents on every access point, and snipers on the surrounding roofs. With M refusing to use her body-double, we weren’t taking any chances. He shouldn’t have been able to get in. But he used old tunnels under the car park that merged with the Tube and arrived right on time.”

A grainy still from a surveillance camera takes over the right-hand screen, zoomed in to show a man’s profile; a large nose, light hair, and deep-set eyes.

“Is that him?” James demands.

“Near as we can tell. He spoke with M from a distance of approximately 20 feet for over 90 seconds.”

“Play the audio.”

Tanner’s mouth purses in a thin white line as he stares at the face on the screen.

“Tanner,” James growls.

“I can’t.”

“Don’t try to tell me—”

“He used a signal jammer. I lost contact with our agents on the roof, as well as all electronic surveillance. The only streams were from surrounding rooftops. When Silva’s gunmen entered the roof deck, our agents opened fire on them; Silva’s men returned fire, but no one targeted her. Except Silva. He got close and stabbed her with an 8-inch blade. She bled out in under a minute.”

The images on the screen wipe away, and for a moment James can see what the next photo will be: M’s body on the asphalt, her lips dark with blood, and he resists the urge to look away. But the screens remain blank.

The need to do something, to take action, to spill blood boils in his veins, but there’s nothing he can do—not yet. James takes a couple deep breaths and makes himself lean back in his chair and think, untangling the cluster fuck of it all. M killed in Central London while surrounded by a team of her best people. It makes no fucking sense. And the culprit— “Silva’s in the wind.”

“Yes. We’ve had no further messages on the video account. And no further names have been released. There would have been dozens of names on that list, worth a fortune to any number of countries and organizations, but only five ever saw the light of day.”

“It was never about MI6’s agents at all,” James concludes. “He used a knife in a gun fight—this was personal.”

“It would seem he got everything he wanted,” Tanner agrees, sounding strained.

And did she? James wonders. She would have done anything to protect MI6. Was that her plan to neutralize the stolen list?—to satisfy the blood lust of the thief? No, she wasn’t suicidal.

“There was nothing on her phone, nothing in her messages, to suggest why she took the meeting herself?”

“Nothing. I’ve never second-guessed her—she always knew exactly what she was doing, and always had a plan and the right leverage to make it work—but I honestly don’t know what she was thinking that night. From what little I could see, they were speaking civilly. And then the shooting started, and he was on her too quickly—”

James’s jaw clenches. “Show me. The feeds from the other roofs.”

Tanner’s fingers return to the keys, but he goes still for a long moment before saying, “No. I won’t.”

James takes a deep breath, preparing for a fight.

“I’ve lived it a half-dozen times already, and I don’t need to watch it again. You can watch it on your own time.”

And James belatedly notices the tightness in Tanner’s shoulders, the crease of his brow, and his inability to meet James’s eyes. Tanner’s guilt and grief are spelled out in his body, and witnessing the uncustomary vulnerability in the other man forces James to reconsider how hard he’s willing to push. And whether pushing would actually get him what he wants.

With a little cough, Tanner starts to pull himself together. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind. You won’t have access to any of these files until after your Medical and Psych assessments are complete. At 3 p.m., I’ll update your permissions, and not before.”

In the face of Tanner’s half-mustered resolve, James decides to back off. Four hours is hardly a large enough set-back to be worth jeopardizing his re-evaluation. “Fair enough,” he allows.

Tanner nods tiredly. He looks to have aged a decade in the last few minutes.

The thought of offering comfort is foreign and unnerving, so James allows the moment to come to a close. “I suppose I’ll be on my way to Medical, then.” He rises and turns his back, giving Tanner privacy.

But on his way out the door, James’s ruthless spy instincts kick in. This is a rare opportunity. Now that Tanner’s emotions are so close to the surface, it’s James’s best chance to trick an unguarded reaction from the man who knows everything that goes on at MI6. And there are definitely secrets James wants to learn.

“Tanner?”

“Yes?”

What do you know about Trevor?

The question is on the tip of his tongue…but he holds it back. He can’t afford the counter-questions he might provoke, can’t risk revealing his own secret. James pivots swiftly to a smile. “I’m glad it was you who told me, in Malaysia.”

Tanner’s expression softens, his professional mask stripped fully away. The mate who always buys the first and third rounds says, “Of course, Bond. I’m glad I could help. I assume you haven’t had a chance to visit her grave yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“If you find you want company, you can give me a call.”

James nods at his colleague and says convincingly, “I will.”

~

Back in his flat that evening, finally free from fluorescent lights and prying eyes, James settles on his couch with a grocery bag, an empty glass, and a nearly full bottle of Macallan. He swallows the prescribed vitamins with a store-bought protein shake. Dr. Kwon may have forbidden intensive training until his ribs have healed, but James has six pounds of muscle to rebuild as swiftly as possible, and a treadmill and weights in his second bedroom. He’ll push himself as hard as he needs to, and no less.

Dr. Kwon may also have prescribed paracetamol and ample hydration for the bone-deep bruising, but James chooses to wash the artificial-vanilla taste of the shake from his mouth with a glass of aged single malt. Because he’ll be damned if he’s going to deny himself the small comforts when he needs them most. In Dr. Samuelsson’s parlance, reliable coping strategies and finding pleasure in life are good self-care.

He opens the eucalyptus-scented balm Dr. Kwon gave him and begins to rub it over his throat, wincing at the callouses and bruises from the heavy collar. Behind him, a breeze flutters through the open windows, and the faint air movement brushes across his back like fingers. James grits his teeth and leans into the leather cushions, trying to block out the prickling sense-memory of Dr. Kwon standing behind him with a magnifying glass, poking at his stitches and making pleasantly surprised comments about the excellent medical care the slavers had provided.

But of course they had. When you’re nothing but a body for sale, your owners will do whatever it takes to maintain the salability of the body. In that respect, the slavers’ goals weren’t so different from Medical’s own narrow focus on keeping their agents’ bodies in field-ready condition. The last step of his physical assessment rears up in his memory: the photographs he’d had to strip naked for, so Kwon could update James's personnel file with a new collection of identifiable marks. Exposed and prodded and measured and discussed—it was horrifyingly reminiscent of the recitation of his assets for sale.

Psych would’ve had a field day, if he’d shared any of those thoughts.

James closes the balm, wipes his hand on his joggers, and tops up his whisky glass. As a nod to Medical’s advice to eat heartily, he tears open a bag of salted cashews and grabs a large handful.

His brain feels just as poked and prodded as his skin from Dr. Samuelsson’s relentless prying. Coming at him from all angles like a safe cracker, trying to get him to admit to various symptoms of stress or psychological weakness. Hyper-vigilance, flashbacks, lack of sleep…. Obviously, he has all of those symptoms and more, but he knows better than to admit to any of them.

Sitting in Psych’s mirrored interrogation room, the baleful red eye of the camera fixed on him, he could practically feel his M standing behind the glass, judging, disapproving. He’d learned early on that any weaknesses he disclosed to Psych would inevitably be used against him the next time M wanted to tear him down a peg.

That’s why the only record of traumatic flashbacks in his MI6 Psych file are from the mission that earned him his double-0 status. Assassinations do get easier with each successive kill, but the mental scars from the first two have never fully faded. And he'd been a naive fool to ever reveal those scars to anyone. So no. He gave nothing away in today’s session, just as he’s done for the last six years as a double-0.

According to Dr. Samuelsson’s assessment, James appears to be handling his post-captivity transition remarkably well. An over-reliance on gallows humor and sarcasm, but those are considered baseline for double-0 agents—more a feature than a bug. And Dr. Samuelsson recommends journaling and meditation, should any worrisome symptoms arise. James rolls his eyes at the suggestions. If regret is unprofessional, introspection would be grounds for immediate termination.

Psych doesn’t need to know about his symptoms, or what his favorite coping mechanisms are, or what bloody tortures he has planned for M’s killer.

Speaking of...he pulls out the laptop he liberated from the office. Tanner was as good as his word: all of the Silva files open with a couple clicks, and James reads them from the top, absorbing the details Tanner’s overview skipped. Evidence and bodies collected from the scene. An analysis of the web traffic on Silva’s video channel. There are precious few leads to follow, MI6 having already hit a number of dead ends.

But he’s only putting off what he most wants and dreads to see.

Knowing it’ll hurt, he opens the first camera feed, taken from a sniper’s perch atop an office tower to the South of the car park.

The mission plays out as Tanner had described. Competent agents James recognizes check in over the comms as they take their positions, the figures so distant they’re mere pixels on the screen. He sees M step out into the center of the vacant deck, then watches a lone figure walk out to meet her, hears Tanner’s slightest loss of composure as the jammer cuts off contact with his closest agents. Soon more figures spill onto the roof, and bright flares of gunfire spark across the screen.

Silva closes on M.

Tanner says, “Sniper 1, take him out.”

And a familiar and entirely out-of-place female voice says, “I don’t have a clean shot.”

“Sniper 1, say again. The shot isn’t clean?”

“Confirmed, not a clean shot.”

Tanner says, “Sniper 2, are you clean?”

“Negative, no shot.”

“Sniper 1, fire.”

“Sir, I could hit her. We can’t risk—”

Sniper 2 cuts in. “M is down.”

“Confirm?”

“Confirmed. She’s down. The bastard’s too quick—”

James tops up his glass again and downs it in one go.

It does nothing to quench the feeling of betrayal blooming in his chest.

Chapter Text

A week later, the Silva files are exactly the same. No updates. No progress.

Mallory and Tanner kept their word regarding Nora Alexei, raining down hellfire on the woman and her slavery ring in an op that James was permitted to watch from Command. He plans on buying a few rounds if he ever runs into Agent Ayad, whose steady aim brought a painful and permanent end to the Madama’s sadistic tyranny. Drowning in her own blood from a bullet through the throat—James will savor that visual for a good long while.

But MI6 has made zero progress in finding Silva for him in the time since. He closes the laptop with disgust.

As soon as James is re-qualified, he wants to be able to move on Silva—not let the investigation drag out another year or two. It’s time to take matters into his own hands.

Felix Leiter answers after three rings.

“It’s Bond,” James says preemptively.

Felix takes an audible breath before swearing loud and long. Eventually he says, “Mighty glad to hear from you, brother. Just so you know, I only declined to send flowers to your wake because I was sure you weren’t dead.”

James smiles at Felix’s defensive tone. “If you had money riding on resurrection, I want a cut.”

“Let’s make it posthumous. I’ll write you into my will, if you’ll do the same.”

“Deal.”

“Jesus.” Felix swears for another few seconds. “Look, not that I don’t appreciate this heads-up to let me know you’re still alive, but what the hell took you so long?”

That’s a topic too raw for James to go into tonight...or possibly ever. So he keeps his voice blithe and words vague as he says, “Did you hear about the human trafficking operation we just took down in Malaysia? Nora Alexei?”

“That was you?”

“That was me.”

Felix whistles. “Nice work. I heard about the survivors—that can’t have been a pretty sight inside that complex.”

James suppresses the fresh memory of her victims displayed on the wall-sized screens in Command—and the older memories from his own sojourn in the Madama’s house. His fingers tighten around the phone. Time to change the subject. “I’m working on something new, and I need information. What do you know about Raoul Silva?”

“Silva? As in MI6’s most wanted?”

“So you’ve heard of him.”

“I know he killed M. I’m sorry, by the way. She was a legend.”

“That she was. Do you know anything else?”

“He funded the Chubu pipeline bombing last spring. And the anti-EU group that tried to assassinate President Konstantinos.”

Those two cases comprise the bulk of the Silva intel that Tanner assembled over the summer—both of which have resulted in a mass of dead ends. “Anything else?”

“Nothing official.”

“How about unofficial?”

The sounds on the other end of the line become briefly muffled, like the receiver is pressed against fabric. Distantly, Felix says, “Si, gracias.” There’s a crunching sound, followed by something garbled.

“Am I interrupting your lunch?”

Felix clears his throat and repeats more clearly into the receiver, his tone wary, “I said, that depends who’s asking. And yes. These are the best flautas in town. Gotta eat ‘em while they’re hot.”

That reminds James—it’s nearly eight o’clock, and he hasn’t eaten dinner yet. He can’t afford to skip any meals. He heads to the kitchen to check the fridge. “I’m the one asking.”

“Not MI6?”

“This is personal.”

Felix crunches through another bite before answering. “Okay then, because it’s you asking. This is strictly off-the-record, for your ears only. The Ameri-Space explosion in January—that commercial rocket launch outside Houston that went boom.”

The leftover chicken penne would reheat fastest. James throws it into the microwave as he guesses, “Not an accident?”

Felix hums noncommittally. “Seems Silva sent a ransom demand a week before the launch. Ameri-Space declined to pay. After their rocket blew up, they showed us the threat. We’re still investigating the mechanics of the explosion, but in light of Silva’s high-profile move against MI6, an innocent engineering malfunction seems pretty unlikely.”

Tanner’s file paints the portrait of a man focused on sowing political instability. But simple extortion? That changes James’s profile of Silva. He presses Felix to be sure, “And the threat came directly from Silva? Not through a terrorist group? He didn’t claim some political cause?”

“Maybe to fund terrorism. Payment instructions were for the same account that paid the Greek separatists. That’s how we know he’s connected. But you gotta keep this to yourself. If this gets out, Ameri-Space’s stock price takes another hit, and I’ll have Capitol Hill oversight committees so far up my ass I can skip my annual colonoscopy.”

James snorts. “Understood. I won’t share this with MI6, I promise.”

“If that’s all, can I go back to my lunch?”

James’s next question will surely be a bust, but he can’t help asking before Felix hangs up, “One more thing. I’m looking for someone else. A young agent using the name Trevor, last seen posing as MI6.”

“Posing? Where? Were you infiltrated?”

“No, in the field.”

Disdain laces Felix’s voice as he says, “I assume you started with MI5.”

“Naturally.”

As soon as he hit a dead end at MI6, James called in multiple favors to get access to MI5’s roster of field agents. Someone green would make the most sense—just out of university, chuffed enough from recruitment and basic training to go punching high above their weight class with an international solo op.

“MI5 has nothing. Have you heard of any private start-ups in the UK or internationally who are actively recruiting British talent? Anyone I wouldn’t already know about?”

“No new groups on my radar, but I’ll ask around for you.”

“Quietly, if you don’t mind.”

“How many side projects are you running? Brother, if MI6 isn’t keeping you busy enough, I’ve got a drug smuggler’s soirée to crash in Nassau; you’re welcome to come with.”

As always, Felix knows the way to James’s heart. He chuckles. “Just trying not to go stir crazy on mandatory leave.”

“I hear that,” Felix says sympathetically. “Alright then. But since you’re working off-the-books here, I have to ask—you didn’t hang onto any of those bugs I let you use that time in Punto Fijo, did you?”

James leans around the doorframe to smirk at the small electronic devices laid out next to the laptop on his dining table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never even heard of Punto Fijo.”

Felix grumbles a bit. “Let me jog your memory then; the CIA would be very upset if their tech were used by foreign agents without their express permission.”

“How about this: If there’s any blow back, I’ll make it up to you. Posthumously.”

“At the rate you keep coming back, I’d never cash in. Keep those bugs off the radar or I’ll send an assault team to crash your next international party.”

“Off the radar,” James repeats without confirming. The microwave counter is approaching zero. “Felix, I’ve gotta go.”

Felix’s voice goes sharp, an urgent edge to prevent James from ringing off. “Hey, the next time you have to fake your death for a mission, send me a goddamn text.”

“No promises,” James says out of habit, before he translates Felix’s angry request into sincere concern. Perhaps Felix’s faith in James’s resurrection wasn’t as complete as he claimed. Touched, James amends his cavalier dismissal with, “But I’ll do my best.”

“You’d fucking better, James.”

Felix ends the call, the microwave beeps, and James props his hip against the counter to eat as his thoughts circle between Silva and Trevor and Felix—what he wants from them, and what he owes them.

~

At the end of his mandatory leave, James reports to Medical for his final assessment. Dr. Kwon makes more pleased comments about how well he has healed as she removes the last of the slavers’ stitches from the cut under his left shoulder blade. James determinedly ignores the memory of tobacco on the man’s breath, the heavy fall of a fist, the agony of Walliams’s borrowed switchblade digging into his skin. He doesn’t flinch as she tugs the threads out and strokes a gloved finger over the sensitized skin.

She notes that most of his bruising has faded—at least externally. Between the crunches, the lifting, and the miles pounded into his treadmill, James has pushed his ribs more than they liked, so an ache in his right side remains. But it isn’t enough to slow him down, and therefore not worth mentioning to Dr. Kwon. His throat is still redder than his face and torso, but she assures him diligent use of the supplied balm will reduce the lingering inflammation and pigmentation over the coming months. James accepts a refill with a sincere promise to apply it faithfully. The discoloration tweaks his vanity; he’ll make the treatment a priority.

With Dr. Kwon’s sign-off, James spends the next two days completing his re-testing under the watchful gazes of the course master and Tanner. As each test’s results are called out, James weighs them against his performance at his last re-test a year and a half ago, keeping a neutral expression when the numbers fall just below his baseline. Tanner looks stoically thrilled, and Mallory has made no secret of his eagerness to approve him for field work, so James knows what the verdict will be, even before his final meeting with the new head of MI6.

But the numbers don’t lie.

He’s still four pounds underweight, marksmanship scores down by three percent, twenty seconds off his mile pace, and five seconds slower on the obstacle course. The loss of muscle, of flexibility, of endurance, of accuracy, of speed are irrefutable. James tries not to dwell on the ceaseless hours he spent in that cell, pushing his beaten and exhausted body through every exercise he could fit into three square meters, channeling his rage into motion and a goal of escape.

Despite his best efforts, the diet of rice porridge and the limited range of motion from the chains have taken a toll, one he finds unacceptable.

Mallory pours him another drink as he delivers the good news of his reinstatement.

James notes that the level in the bottle hasn’t changed since their first meeting two weeks prior. He smiles pleasantly, sips the scotch with polite restraint, and thanks him for his confidence.

Mallory lifts his own glass and, unprompted, reiterates his promise to assign James the Silva op once they have something to go on.

Knowing how little progress MI6 has made on that front in the last two weeks, James isn’t holding his breath. Instead, he’s holding his tongue; he values Felix’s trust too much to squander it already. Once James has his own solid lead, he’ll loop Tanner in. But in the meantime, telling Mallory that a double-0 agent with a license to kill is operating independently would only alarm the man.

“Report in on Monday for your next assignment. For now, I propose you enjoy your weekend. You’ve worked hard; you deserve a chance to celebrate.”

“Much obliged, Sir.”

As James passes by Miss Moneypenny’s desk, she leans forward to catch his eye, the fall of her lavender blouse revealing an enticing expanse of collarbone. “I hear congratulations are in order,” she purrs.

“Why thank you.” James perches on the edge of her desk for a better view down her top. She doesn’t lean back. “It’ll be good to get out there again.”

“I never had any doubt. It looks like you’ve bounced back very nicely indeed.”

Yes, he certainly looks far better than he had his first night back in London. Bruises healed, wearing a crisp suit, he’d say he looks good enough to dine with the Queen herself. But he suspects that wasn’t the only reason Moneypenny declined his invitation that night.

“You know,” he says, leaning closer so he can lower his voice as though in confidence. “I owe you an apology. You were right about Mallory. He’s a decent fellow.”

“I did tell you.”

Smugness looks particularly attractive on her. If James weren’t bloody furious, he’d be tempted to lean in and kiss the smirk off her lips. But he hears I don’t have a clean shot, hears the hesitancy that cost him someone very dear, and his knives come out.

“Yes, you did. I’m still not sure how he’ll measure up to M—the last M—but he may do, in time.”

“She was very impressive,” Moneypenny agrees.

“She was incomparable,” James says, velvet smoothness hiding the cutting edge in his words. “Did you know she recruited me to MI6? Back when she was head of recruitment, she somehow convinced me to leave the Royal Navy for this little upstart organization. When she was promoted to M, I was the first agent she selected for the double-0 program. She was like a mother to me.”

It’s a bit heavy-handed, he’ll admit, but the words have the desired effect: Moneypenny’s libidinous smile vanishes, replaced with a strained look of pleasant interest that doesn’t quite mask her shame. Good. That’s leverage James can hold over her.

“Did you know her?” he asks.

“I never had the pleasure.”

“That’s too bad. She was a hell of a woman.” With the dagger adequately twisted for now, James cranks up the charm to say winsomely, “Well, I’m off ‘til Monday. Mallory suggested I have a bit of fun before my next mission, and…I believe you owe me a rain check. So, what time do you get off, and how many times would you like to?”

Moneypenny laughs, even as she settles back in her chair, ending the flirtation with an apologetic moue. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to work late. Reports to do, you know. Never a moment’s rest for a secretary.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe another time. Good night, Moneypenny.”

“Bond,” she says.

He leaves her desk self-satisfied but restless, anger stirring in his blood at Moneypenny, at Silva, at his M—why the hell did the old woman decide to confront Silva in person?! A question he can’t for the life of him come up with an answer for.

As he pulls out of the car park, the idea of companionship becomes more appealing. He could use an outlet for his tension right about now.

He hasn’t had any sexual company save his own right hand since he got back—and what he had before that hardly counted. Mallory’s right—he deserves a night off from his ceaseless training. And with his stitches out and the scars smoothing down, he finally feels presentable enough for some short-term company.

He redirects his car to one of his favorite haunts, a high-end bar in the lobby of the Winford Hotel.

There must be a conference in town—medical, judging by the caliber of the saleswomen networking in the bar. The third woman who cozies up to him in a miniskirt and tailored blouse, asking after his field of specialty, shares the same look of disappointment as the previous two, until James adds that while his specialty isn’t medical, it is highly pleasurable. She looks him over again slower and glances around the room before slipping the Internoptics Medical Supplies badge off her jacket and taking the empty stool next to him.

“If anyone asks,” she says, as the bartender pours her a gin and soda, “you’re a pediatric surgeon from Bristol.”

“With an exquisite bedside manner,” he promises.

She grins, toothy and eager, and keeps a hand on his arm as her colleagues circle the room, hunting for more conference attendees to charm.

Vanessa turns out to be a delightful girl hailing from just-outside Leeds, with an inconsistently trained accent and an infectious smile. Her conversation is flattering by default, and James fails to make her blush despite twenty minutes of earnest effort. She’s perfect for an evening’s amusement.

He looks away to flag down the bartender for another martini, already calculating how soon he can turn the conversation to hotel room keys—when something changes. He tenses, his instincts on high alert as he stands abruptly.

Vanessa’s hand slides off his spine, her smile dimming with uncertainty as he stands above her. James’s instincts have bypassed his brain’s rational input, labeling her as predator and imminent threat, and he doesn’t understand what’s changed, can’t even get a word out to smooth the moment over. Instead, he turns and stalks out of the bar, out of the lobby, and into the first available cab, leaving Vanessa to pay his tab and find an actual doctor to entertain.

It takes a solid five blocks for his heart rate to slow to normal. And still he can’t explain what the hell happened in that bar—not even to himself.

Saturday finds him back on the treadmill, his thoughts running faster than his feet, puzzling out what went wrong the night before. Clearly, Vanessa wasn’t an enemy agent or threat, despite what his instincts were telling him. There were no physical cues, no half-glimpsed weapons, nothing that would explain viewing her as a mortal threat. No, whatever crossed his wires had to have come from inside his own head. A trauma flashback, something so buried in his subconscious he didn’t even recognize the trigger.

Dr. Samuelsson would love to read about that in the journal James isn’t keeping.

Instead of calling the nosy doctor, James designs his own treatment plan to address the matter.

It starts that same night at a more casual bar, dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans, drinking pints instead of martinis. There are men and women in the crowd who appeal the same way Vanessa had, with bold smiles and tight clothing and enough shimmering self-confidence to light up a stage on the West End. And he’s tempted to pick one of them, but leery of a repeat failure. So he circles the room slowly, hugging the walls as he keeps an eye out for someone who couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a threat.

He finds a vivacious couple standing in a corner with a convenient third wheel, a petite blonde with a pixie cut, faded lip gloss, and a plain black t-shirt, almost blending into the shadows. James starts by chatting up the couple and, once they make him welcome, it’s easy to engage their quiet friend, to everyone’s satisfaction. The more Mary smiles, the more the couple relax and turn their attention to one another.

James keeps the flirtation low-key, careful not to come on too strong. When he escorts Mary back to her flat, she invites him up with a shy smile and self-effacing hopefulness that don’t appeal…but also don’t read as aggression. He accepts.

If she has opinions about the lingering marks on James’s body, he doesn’t give her a chance to voice them, overwhelming her with his mouth and hands. He presses her wrists above her head, and she holds them there because he wants her to. He expresses his gratitude by eating her out for long minutes.

He can’t help seeing her as a mark—hell, she is a mark—an unsuspecting innocent he’s using for his own purpose instead of a mutual partner in pleasure. But approaching her like a target helps him maintain focus. So when the memory of heavy red lipstick and the scent of white lilies and potpourri flares up, he concentrates on the smell and taste of Mary’s sweat as he holds her hips down and fucks her until she screams.

When she gets up to use the loo after, James slips out, calling a car from the sidewalk. For this re-test, he gives himself a begrudged passing grade. Not up to his usual comfort-levels, but adequate for the mission.

No need to call the shrinks just yet.

And no need to repeat the experiment anytime soon.

~

On Monday morning, Mallory hands him a mission packet and a ticket to Switzerland. The UK’s chancellor of the exchequer has received several credible death threats, and her security team requests an assist from MI6 for this evening’s appearance in Geneva. James has worked with the chancellor’s head of security before—Fred Denny is top-notch, with a great team. It’s almost insulting how superfluous James will be at this event.

But if Mallory feels the need to send James on a milk run before allowing him his usual leash, it’s his right as the new M. James resolves to be on his best behavior; the last thing he wants to do is give Mallory a reason to bench him.

With three hours until his flight, James heads downstairs to the TSS division to pick up his field equipment.

Major Boothroyd, the ever-shrinking quartermaster of MI6, greets him with an impatient, “It took you long enough, 007.”

“Pleased to see you, too, Quartermaster,” James says, bemused. Part of him actually missed the old man’s waspish bluster, or perhaps it’s just the familiarity he’s missed; no matter what else has changed about MI6 over the years, TSS and its irascible quartermaster have always remained the same.

“The young have no notion of punctuality,” Boothroyd grumbles, turning away to lead him through a room crowded with lab techs and mechanical oddities in various stages of completion. James’s fingers itch to touch and puzzle out what each one does, despite TSS’s track record of nearly killing him with every fifth gadget they deploy. (The quartermaster may be a genius, but he’s also something of a mad scientist, and some of his inventions should never see the light of day.)

They reach a table near the middle of the lab, where Boothroyd picks up a tube and squirts gel onto a black silicone mat. “Place both hands on the pad, please.”

James raises a dubious eyebrow but sets his fingertips lightly on the mat. The quartermaster leans around him and presses down on James’s hands, squishing James’s palms into the cool, slimy gel. James scowls with distaste, but Boothroyd doesn’t look up to notice it.

“Excellent. Hold still a moment.” Boothroyd taps a few keys on an open laptop connected to the mat by a cable. The gel vibrates as a mild electric current races over every millimeter of immersed skin. The unnerving sensation tingles in an old dental filling and the screws in his knee, but it only lasts a moment. Boothroyd passes him a towel and continues typing.

“What was that?” James asks, wiping the gel off his hands.

“Recording your palm prints. Almost as unique as fingerprints, and an integral part of your newest field weapon. Now, that should do it.” Boothroyd pops the lid on a small metal case, also connected to the laptop, revealing a pistol. “Your new firearm, 007—standard issue Walther PPK, but with a clever modification: a palm-print–encoded grip with a microdermal sensor. See these lights here?”

“My, my,” James murmurs, his lips curling with surprised delight as he leans in to examine the small lights at the top of the grip.

Boothroyd talks him through the defensive modification, explaining the electric shock system that will prevent a lost weapon being used against its double-0 agent. “It packs quite a punch,” Boothroyd warns.

More like a kick from a mule, James doesn’t tell him. “You know,” he says with feigned nonchalance, “I’ve seen one of these before.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Boothroyd corrects him. “We only just finalized the programming last week.”

“I think it was someone from MI5….”

Boothroyd sniffs, his chin jutting out with professional disdain. “Certainly not. This is solely an MI6 creation, from inception to prototype to your current customization. I wrote the brief myself, and we’ve been perfecting it for months. MI5, really! Their quartermaster doesn’t have a single creative bone in his osteocranium.”

So that was TSS tech in Malaysia—and an experimental prototype at that. Trevor may be closer to home than MI6’s personnel records indicated. James glances around the lab, sizing up the various lab technicians in the room. No match.

He’s sorely tempted to start a proper interrogation—of Boothroyd and everyone who had access to the prototypes—right here and now. But he’s due at Heathrow in a few hours, and he has a new weapon to learn before he heads out.

Although…since he’ll be on the range anyway….

James accepts the gun when Boothroyd passes it to him and says, “Have you made this modification on any other models?”

“If you’re no longer favoring the Walther, I can—”

“No, the Walther will be perfect. I just thought, since I’ll be trying this out before I leave, I’ll also try any others you’ve got ready.”

“Oh. I don’t see why not. There’s a Browning, and—oh dear, 003’s just left with her Beretta—”

“How about a Sig?”

“Yes, we have that available. I’ll have the lot palm-authorized for you and sent to the range with ammunition immediately.”

“Thank you, Quartermaster,” James says with a heartfelt smile. “You’ve truly made my day.”

The flattery flusters Boothroyd, pinking his cheeks before he scowls to cover his brief loss of composure. “Well, naturally,” he declares before hurrying across the lab, calling out a few underlings for shilly-shallying and retasking them to fetch more firearms for 007.

A few minutes later, James stands in the sub-basement shooting range, loading a cartridge into an all-too-familiar, modded Sig Sauer 9mm, the heft of the pistol in his hand tangible proof of Trevor’s existence…and potential proximity. James’s palm itches with the memory of searing agony from a gun identical to this one, but double-0’s don’t shy away from danger, or from pain, or from a one-in-five chance of TSS tech misbehaving.

With a private smile, he sights along the Sig’s barrel at an imaginary figure in a finely tailored linen suit, all cool eyes and haughty mien.

The lights glow green. He pulls the trigger.

It shoots like a dream.

~

Fred Denny sets James up with a coordinating tie and bulky earpiece to blend with the rest of the chancellor’s security team. Together, they review Denny’s setup for the venue—a massive facility with nearly a dozen separate entrance points, necessitating close cooperation with the venue’s own security force. The chancellor needs to arrive on-site 90 minutes before her presentation, and the anticipated attendance for the evening numbers in the thousands. It’s a logistical nightmare, but James can’t find fault with Denny’s plan, and he tells the man as much.

Denny thanks him, introduces James to the rest of the team with the vague label of “MI6,” and loads them all into a three-vehicle caravan to deliver the chancellor.

James has offered to take a vantage point on the west side of the hall during the opening meet-and-greet before moving side-stage when the speeches start in the great auditorium. 60 minutes before speech-time, the reception hall glitters with chandeliers and sequins and highly polished silver catering trays. James listens to Denny’s team checking in in his right ear as he stands on a low dais, surveying the crowd.

Familiar tension hums in his shoulders and thighs. A gun in his holster, a crowd of potential targets, and a potential threat in their midst—this is living. James feels more settled in this over-warm ballroom than he has the last three weeks in London. Knowing he has a mission, and that mission is England, centers him like a ballast weight heavy between his shoulder blades. He breathes into the weight of her expectations and savors the flow of adrenaline through his veins.

James nods politely to a passing waiter—weak jaw with a cute arse, and a waitress—thick thighs and amazing tits—and watches each of them badge their way past the keycard reader on his right to access the service corridor to the kitchen. Down the north end of the hall, the chancellor is in high demand. James allows his eyes to drift over the circulating crowd, not looking at anyone in particular, but picking up on anomalies.

The modified Walther under his arm pulses at the edge of his awareness, continuously drawing his thoughts back to Trevor.

It’s obvious that Trevor had access to TSS’s prototypes, either directly or through a contact. He could be an MI6 employee after all, or a friend or family of one—or worse, someone applying leverage on an employee. James contemplates bullying his way into the TSS logs to find out exactly who had access to those prototypes…but then he pictures the wall-to-wall tables of inventions crowding the main floor of TSS, and the many lab techs circling from table to table, not to mention the smaller labs reinforced for munitions testing down on the sub-levels. No, proper documentation of prototype handling is a pipe dream.

Someone is smuggling TSS prototypes out of the building. TSS is a security leak waiting to happen—if it hasn’t already—and James has an eye to plug it.

He’ll have to cozy up to the boffins to learn what they know. Some wining and dining, a little light stalking, all the classics of his job. He wishes he knew what liquor the quartermaster favors. He’ll swing by duty free on his return trip through Heathrow and—

What catches his attention is an omission—silence where there should be an electronic beep. He turns his head to watch the catering cart that’d just passed him get pushed through the service door—helpfully held open by a staff member bringing out a fresh tray of drinks.

James taps his oversized earpiece. “Denny, I’m heading toward the kitchens.”

“Problem, Bond?”

“Could be nothing, but I want to check it anyway.”

“Copy.”

In his left ear, via the much-smaller, MI6-issued in-ear comm, Tanner asks, “007, what did you see?”

Unaccustomed to explaining himself, James suppresses the urge to slip out his MI6 earbud and pocket it. He always enjoyed his M’s impotent teeth gnashing over his insolent independence, her demands falling on unrepentant ears…but this is an audition, for a man who may yet decide to pull him from the field.

And just because Mallory hasn’t spoken up doesn’t mean he isn’t listening in.

James clears his throat and reports for Mallory’s benefit, “One of the waiters just bypassed the keycard reader. It’s probably nothing.”

“Keep me posted,” Tanner says

“Copy,” James says. If Tanner notes the atypically obedient tone, he’s nice enough not to point it out to Mallory on the comms.

James swings wide into the crowd, brushing past the helpful waitress to snag a champagne flute from her tray and the RFID badge off her vest, before turning toward the service door. Moving with purpose, he scans the badge and pulls the door open. He spots a man’s leg disappearing through a doorway halfway down the long hallway, the rattling of the cart becoming muted as the door closes after him. James takes a swig of champagne and pockets Denny’s earpiece for the sake of his cover—a belligerent guest looking for a manager to complain to about the quality of the bubbly.

In all fairness, the champagne is a bit flat, even for an enormous event like this one.

James walks swiftly down the empty hallway until he reaches the door the man just went through. Ahead of him, he can hear the chatter of fast-paced French from multiple voices and the clang of metal on metal—the kitchens. So where does this door lead? There’s no card reader, just a doorknob with a standard lock. When he tries the handle, he finds it unlocked—correction, the latch has been blocked with a small piece of metal. James fingers the jammed mechanism and looks around the room, which proves to be a large storage closet, likely for the reception furniture.

There’s no sign of the waiter, but the cart sits abandoned in the middle of the room. The white cloth is flipped up on one side, and James has a strong premonition why.

He scans the room and finds no other way out…except for a vent set at floor-level, just large enough for a person to crawl through.

A grin creeps over his face as his heart rate ratchets up and another surge of adrenaline hits his bloodstream. Fan-bloody-tastic.

The vent screen comes away from the wall with barely a tug, confirming his suspicions, and James says softly, “Tanner, I’m onto something. Following a man dressed as a waiter into the air vents. West side of the building, about twenty meters from the kitchens. Let Denny know, would you?”

“Proceed, 007.”

While James wouldn’t say he’s missed crawling through vents, it’s a satisfying experience to scrabble through the cool metal tunnel, tracking his prey by the disruptions in the dust. A couple turns and an ill-timed exit through an electrical closet unfortunately drop him right in the path of a venue security guard.

“Arrêtez-vous!” the guard snaps, drawing his sidearm with admirable alacrity. “Qu’est-ce qu—”

James doesn’t give him a chance to finish his query, lunging forward to land a forearm strike to the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto the tiled floor.

There’s no sign of his missing waiter, but the guard clearly didn’t spot the impostor either. James starts trying the closest doorknobs.

“007, what was that?”

A flash of regret crosses his mind as he remembers just who’s keeping tabs on this mission. He adopts an apologetic tone and answers, “I’d like to state for the record that I’m very sorry about this.”

“What have you done?” Tanner asks, resigned.

“Cold-cocked a member of the house security team. Likely concussion, potential dentistry issues.”

Unlike James’s M, Tanner keeps his annoyance tucked away. “Your contrition is noted, 007. Now keep moving.”

An unsecured door reveals a closet just big enough to house an ascending ladder and, trusting his gut, James starts climbing silently. Two flights up, the ladder opens onto one of the auditorium’s cramped spotlight booths.

Crouched over a partially assembled sniper rifle, the would-be assassin looks up when James’s head pokes above the floor. Too low to draw his gun, James grabs the first item to hand, a heavy black square of metal that appears to be a color filter, and hurls it at the man. It’s a solid hit to his temple, toppling the man backward and giving James the chance to clamber into the tiny room and tackle him before he can recover.

After a brief struggle and some arm twisting, James wrests the name of the assassin’s accomplice from him—an anarchist sous chef who will soon know the wrath of the venue’s security team. James sits on the man’s back and reports his location to Tanner. He idly wishes he had a cigarette. Luckily, the waiter’s pockets oblige. Denny climbs the ladder a few minutes later and hands the semi-conscious assassin down to some waiting gendarmes. He and James shake hands, and Tanner calls the mission complete, mercifully freeing James from the torture of two hours of speeches on economic trade policy.

He’s in time to catch the last flight back to London. If he’s a little itchy from his spelunking in the vents, and his ribs cranky after the impromptu wrestling match, it’s worth it—yes, even the Economy Plus seat—to shower in his own bathroom and sleep in his own bed that same night.

If all milk runs were this enjoyable, James might develop a taste for them after all.

~

The quartermaster appreciates the XO cognac James gives him when he returns his field weapon the next day, but the bribe doesn’t buy James more than a few seconds of the man’s time. Boothroyd lives in a state of perpetual motion, circulating around his lab to nosily check on his minions' progress. And with James having no official reason to linger in the lab, Boothroyd has less than no time for him—not even to hear the compliments James tries to pay the team that created the modified Walther.

“I thought I might like to thank the men and women who worked on it…” James says.

“No, you thought you’d pressure my best staff for some favors—likely taking the form of something explosive. I know what you double-0’s are like. I’ll see you before your next mission. Good day, 007.”

James hides a pout and ambles slowly out of TSS branch. He tries to catch the eyes of a few of the lab techs, but they don’t look at him directly. Too cowed by Boothroyd’s prowling supervision? Or too unnerved by the presence of a government-sponsored killer? James has never concerned himself with the quartermaster’s staff, never been here before when he wasn’t impatient to get his tech and get started on a mission and therefore liable to snap at anyone wasting his time.

This blind spot is inconvenient for his current purposes.

One thing he has noted over the years is what time the day shift rotates out for the evening shift. 6 p.m. finds him loitering in the main lobby with a set of CIA bugs in his jacket pockets. When an elevator arrives from the lower levels, James rudely barrels his way aboard, pushing through the exiting crowd and brushing sticky little bits of plastic and metal onto purses or zip-ups as he goes. With four bugs planted, James rides the elevator up and then down to the parking garage and heads for home, the Bluetooth headset in one ear feeding him the audio from his multiple targets.

He spends the evening listening in on the frankly tedious lives of MI6’s engineers, none of whom engage in shop talk, or have clandestine meetings, or do anything more interesting than squabble with a partner and watch panel shows.

James marks those four targets down on his roster of TSS employees as tagged but unlikely, the bugs going into stasis mode for potential revisiting later. He readies another set of trackers to deploy the next day.

He rides two elevators on Wednesday evening, planting five more bugs, before he’s sent on his next mission.

Another milk run, this one far less interesting than the chancellor’s eventful Geneva visit. He flies to Stockholm and “bumps into” a stunning young man with a deep tan, Australian accent, and broad, muscled shoulders in a busy sandwich shop. The informant’s envelope slides into James’s inside pocket while they make their loud apologies, and that should be the end of the encounter. But the man looks James over and invites James to join him at a table, or perhaps go for a drink at a little place just up the block.

From the way his eyelids lower, James knows the “little place” is his flat, and James thinks yes.

“No, thank you,” he says, and exits the shop with his wrapped oxfilémacka warm in his hand and his appetite gone.

Still auditioning, he tells himself on the ride back to the airport. That’s clearly why he turned down the invitation for a quick shag with a gorgeous stranger. His refusal had nothing to do with the way the man had eyed James like an item on the menu.

And Tanner is certainly appreciative of the prompt delivery of the intel packet. So it’s all for the best.

It’s drizzling steadily, nearly a proper downpour, when he gets back to London. That evening’s first batch of TSS commuters exit the elevator with umbrellas and rain shells, their polished loafers and heels swapped out for trainers. James recognizes two employees he’s already bugged and manages to brush up against three new employees as they make their way out of the elevator. And three seems quite enough for his evening—he’s rather hungry now, after his skipped lunch.

But James finds himself turning back, stepping out of the elevator instead of riding it to the parking garage. A straggler in a large grey rain shell dawdles as he crosses to the main exit, hood drawn up in preparation for the rain outside. That hood had already been raised when he got off the elevator, preventing James from getting a look at his face. James had tagged him anyway, just to be thorough.

The hooded man reaches the glass doors and lingers, head bent over his phone, and that’s normal behavior on a rainy day, nothing out of the ordinary to explain why James is suddenly very interested. After a brief pause the man pushes through the doors, and James has to follow. He nods to Charles behind the security gate, grabs an umbrella from the lost & found box, and pops it open as he steps out the door—finding a bright blue sky dotted with white daisies on the underside as soon as he unfurls it. Thankfully, the top side is a discreet black.

A dozen steps into his tail, James sizes up the shape of the man’s legs; he’s wearing loose, off-the-rack trousers, but in motion, the legs beneath appear to be on the skinny side. Likewise, the voluminous rain shell that billows around his torso presses tight against his right side in a sudden burst of wind, confirming how narrow James guesses his frame to be. James contemplates running up and pulling back the hood or knocking him down “accidentally” so he can help him back up. He does neither. Instead, James pulls out his phone and silences the other active bugs, dialing up the volume on the figure in front of him.

His target waits at the pedestrian crossing with the rest of the TSS employees until the light changes, and the crowd moves briskly in the direction of the Vauxhall Tube station half a block up, eager to get out of the rain. Except for the man James is tailing; he slows, head ducked against the rain, shoes and pants quickly becoming soaked as he falls further and further behind the group. James slows as well, watchful.

The moment the last of the TSS crowd enters the Tube station, the man in front of James pivots on his heel. Bond tips his umbrella down and turns to study a shop window as his quarry doubles back; James watches the reflection as his target walks behind him and rounds the corner.

Misdirection. Better and better.

The man strides briskly south toward the Vauxhall overground and bus stations. James picks up his own pace; he can’t risk falling behind in the dense commuter crowds. But those aren’t the man’s destination. He stomps his way through the dim pedestrian tunnel under the elevated tracks and continues south on Harleyford, where the cars send up sprays of water onto the sidewalk and the crowds are mostly heading north to the public transport options.

While the man’s hunched shoulders, ducked head, and grey, baggy clothing suggest a person that shies away from attention, his skinny legs move with a confidence of purpose that fairly screams get out of my way, eating up the blocks with alacrity.

Soon they’re rounding The Oval. The sidewalk is far emptier here, the stadium not drawing any foot traffic on a wet Thursday evening. But James has an inkling as to the man’s destination, and hurries to close the gap. Sure enough, a block past the stadium, the man ducks into the Oval Tube station, making for the southbound platform of the Northern Line.

Why walk several long blocks in this weather to get to the Northern Line, when the Victoria Line would have connected after just one stop? Subterfuge. James beams with delight as he follows down the stairs.

On the platform the man pushes back his hood, revealing a heap of wavy brown hair. His head remains ducked, gaze once again glued to his phone screen like many other commuters around them. He shuffles blindly up the platform to stop where the yellow line is most-heavily stained with the treads of past commuters. James stands against the wall just outside the man’s peripheral vision, affording himself a partial profile view. Dark-rimmed glasses, pale skin, sharp jaw line—none of them counter-indicate his memory, but the shaggy hair falls in the way, preventing 100% confirmation.

James watches patiently, umbrella rolled up and dangling from his grip as a convenient baton in case the man picks up on his presence and rabbits. But he has little cause to worry; the man’s situational awareness is familiarly dismal. Long fingers flick over a phone screen, his prey utterly engrossed, sparing no thought for the world around him as his rain shell drips water onto his trainers.

Until a train pulls into the station, and the young man looks up into the gust of wind, his face fully revealed, and James recognizes Trevor not four meters away from him.

Chapter Text

For all of his smart talk in Malaysia, and the flashy suit and car and high-tech pistol, Trevor has worse threat-assessment acumen than any civilian on the train car around them. Every other commuter has checked their surroundings at least twice. Those who met James’s intense gaze quickly jerked their eyes away and took some cautious steps back.

Trevor hasn’t lifted his head once in the past twenty minutes.

For God’s sake, James thinks as he follows Trevor above ground at South Wimbledon, how the hell did this fool even make it past international customs, let alone pull off a solo rescue op?

Trevor hurries down the sidewalk in the drizzle, phone pocketed and shoulders hunched. Two blocks west, he enters a five-story apartment block, the 1960’s brick facade run down, only a key needed to unlock the front door. James positions himself under a bus shelter across the street and listens.

In his ear, Trevor’s breathing intensifies, his footsteps falling louder and slower—climbing a staircase. James counts; unless he’s taking the steps two-at-a-time, his destination is the third floor. A hinge squeals, and James hears the faint sound of a dog’s barking grow louder and then fainter as Trevor walks silently down a carpeted hall. A jingle of keys, the metal clanking of a lock, a second lock, and Trevor speaks for the first time. “Hey lo—”

Static replaces the crystal-clear signal of the CIA’s bug.

James checks the app and scrolls through the other bugs’ feeds—they’re all functioning normally, no static on any other signals. He glares up at the building. Of all the bugs to cut out, it had to be the only one that matters. Logically, this can’t be a coincidence; something in that flat up there is interfering with his signal.

A man with secrets to hide, disappearing behind a curtain of static—how predictably annoying.

And then he catches movement in a third-floor window, a set of curtains being pulled open.

Well, that’s helpful.

There’s nothing else to see or hear over the next few minutes. James considers staying, even looking over the menu of the pub behind him, but he has a solid bead on Trevor now. He knows where to find him tomorrow.

~

Dawn finds James back in South Wimbledon, loitering behind the bus shelter in a light jacket, jeans, and sunglasses. He takes his time flipping through the morning paper while the continuing hum of white noise drones in his ear. On the third floor, the curtains are closed. James eyes the steady stream of commuters leaving the apartment building, interspersed with sips from his coffee thermos.

After two hour’s watching, he spies a skinny figure exiting the lobby. Trevor has left the rain shell—and the bug—behind, wearing a cardigan over unfitted work trousers for his commute. James swipes the app closed, finally silencing the static, and breathes in the welcome quiet of a busy South London street at rush hour. Slipping into Trevor’s wake, James shadows him from a more generous distance for the ride back to Oval Station and the long stroll to Vauxhall Cross—pleasant enough exercise on a sunny August morning.

Trevor enters the front door of headquarters with the confidence of someone who does this daily. When James enters the lobby 45 seconds behind, he’s in time to see Trevor reach the front of the short queue at the security checkpoint. Trevor swipes an employee badge and looks into the camera for the facial recognition scan. The security guard behind the gate nods him through, and Trevor heads for the bank of elevators.

James hangs back until Trevor’s safely out of sight and then hurries to the desk. He pulls out his own phone and exclaims, “Doris, that skinny bloke who just came through dropped his phone outside.”

Doris flicks him a glance, nods the next employee through, and says, “I’ll put it in the lost & found.”

James smiles pleasantly. “No need, I’m heading down to TSS anyway. That’s where he works, right? What was his name again?”

She taps a few keys and says, “Ethan Davis.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

James cuts into the line, swipes his badge, smirks at the camera, winks at Doris’s unimpressed nod, and heads for the stairs.

The double-0 office door is closed. Inside, James finds 008 back from his latest mission, sunk deep in the couch, arms stretched full-length in front of him to reach the laptop on his thighs. “Morning,” James says on his way to the empty coffee pot.

“Morning,” Lawrence grunts.

James sets a pot brewing and sizes up 008’s unusual posture. A low-back injury, he’d guess. Or possibly neck. Either way, it looks painful, but Lawrence is obviously avoiding Medical, and James can’t blame him. That doesn’t mean Lawrence needs coddling, though. “How was Fiji?” James asks.

“Too hot, too crowded, and more bullets than strictly necessary.”

“Really? I’ve always found it very relaxing. Lovely vacation spot, all that sun and sand and mostly naked company. But then, your idea of a vacation is haunting a stool at O’Doyle’s for five days straight,” James says, poking the bear.

“Hmm. It’s a shame you weren’t available, then. You doubtless would’ve enjoyed this assignment more than I. Where were you again?” The words aren’t exactly cruel, but the knowing tone certainly conveys Lawrence’s meaning loud and clear: back off.

James fakes a smile to cover how hard Lawrence’s jab hit. Where was he, indeed? Locked in a cell, strung up and tortured, and then back in London on mandatory leave. And then running junior-agent-level errands for the past week, all while Lawrence was in Fiji on a mission that should have been James’s. One more bad hand dealt to him by fate, by Nora Alexei, by the Demitrios family, by Raoul Silva.

He gives Lawrence a polite nod to end the conversation and snags a desk and a laptop for himself. He logs into the MI6 server and opens the personnel directory, his unsettled mood evaporating when he finds his quarry easily. “Hello Ethan,” James murmurs as he clicks on the link to the man’s work profile.

He was right: “Ethan Davis” is indeed employed as a junior engineer in TSS. But James’s satisfaction quickly gives way to confusion followed by anger.

The staff profile photo is wrong. Skin color and hair color are correct, but that’s where the similarities end. James stares at the unfamiliar face, all plump cheeks, brown eyes, and crooked nose. The features of Trevor’s photo—if it was even Trevor’s face to begin with—have been so warped as to be unrecognizable…and yet the man passed the facial recognition scan with nary a blip.

James knows the firepower MI6 keeps under the front desk. If the system indicated a facial mismatch, Doris wouldn’t have let Trevor out of the lobby alive.

James revises his own threat assessment of Trevor from a diverting mystery to a serious problem. This is well beyond a bored engineer doing favors for a down-on-his-luck double-0. Trevor hasn’t just tampered with a personnel file (or two) and borrowed an experimental prototype; he’s somehow circumvented MI6 headquarters’ security system. And that kind of skill makes him far more than just a “junior engineer.”

James quickly scans the rest of the record for any other significant details. ID number, email address, locker number, supervisor, shift assignment—all irrelevant. Except for his start date, the last day of May, this year. Ten days after M’s death.

Trevor’s brief tenure at MI6 never overlapped with hers, yet he claimed to know M, and know her well. If he was lying about that, James will break both his thumbs to start, and then see where a proper interrogation leads them.

He closes out of the directory and snaps the laptop shut with hands tensed to do violence. Trevor, or Ethan, or whoever he is, sits in comfortable anonymity six floors down, going about his potentially nefarious business under the very nose of MI6 and making a mockery of M’s legacy. James wants more than anything to go find him right now and drag him into the light.

But there are too many witnesses. And whatever Trevor turns out to be, James wants to deal with it privately.

Personally.

Slowly.

So while “Ethan Davis” enjoys his day of work, James sets off for South Wimbledon once again.

~

Up the stairs to the third floor, James glides down the carpeted hallway to the next-to-last unit facing the street. The door is unremarkable, with no extra security visible. If anything, it has one fewer lock than its immediate neighbors. James tries to picture Trevor being blasé about security, but that doesn’t compute—not for the man whose greatest strength on that Malaysian escapade had clearly been planning.

While the hallway remains empty, James quickly picks the two locks and eases the door open. He hears nothing inside. But Trevor had spoken to someone when he arrived here last night; better to be cautious. Slipping inside with gun drawn, he recognizes the grey rain shell on an otherwise-empty coat rack. He eases forward a few steps on the well-trammeled carpet, craning his head to get a full view of the living space.

A black and white cat steps around the corner. Upon seeing James, its ears flatten. “Hello,” James whispers.

The cat turns tail and flees.

James follows more slowly.

The living room is clear, as is the single bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Once assured that he’s alone, James holsters his Walther and begins a methodical search of the flat.

The bathroom’s grooming products appear standard for a bachelor, and the limited range of clothing sizes in the bedroom closet confirms that Trevor lives here alone. As for Trevor’s wardrobe, it consists mainly of graphic tees, jeans, and joggers. A few cardigans and a spare pair of work trousers should not a professional wardrobe make, he tsks.

Tucked in the very back of the closet, he finds a familiar suit, linen, smelling faintly of Tom Ford Noir.

The galley kitchen is depressingly empty, with only three ceramic mugs, four plates, two bowls, a motley assortment of mismatched utensils, and cupboards containing instant ramen noodles and a few types of tea. No wonder the man’s so thin.

The living room contains a long couch, a short coffee table, a flat-screen TV, a small dining table…and an intimidating-as-hell computer setup dominating one corner of the room. James sizes up the six wide-display monitors, server rack, and ergonomic chair and keyboard—a setup more befitting one of the villainous masterminds James regularly handles than a hardcore gamer. It nearly rivals Tanner’s system in Command.

James nudges the keyboard’s roller ball, and one of the screens wakes up, prompting a fingerprint scan. If the world were at stake, James would chance using one of the many fingerprints filling this flat, but there’s no need to take those one-in-ten odds yet. Not when he doesn’t know what kind of alerts a log-in attempt might send.

He continues his scrutiny. The walls of the flat are devoid of photos and art. No travel souvenirs or knickknacks anywhere. The only personal effects on display are the textbooks and comic books crammed into the living room’s sole bookcase. Even there, only one item stands out as unique: a white porcelain teacup on the edge of the shelf adjacent to the computer screens, at eye-level for whomever sat there. The dainty cup doesn’t match anything else in the place, and it’s collected a fair bit of dust.

Taken altogether, the impression is of a university student’s flat, everything save the electronics shabby and cheap. James could almost assume this was a temporary hideout; he’s stayed in safe houses with more personal touches than this.

Satisfied with his inspection if not with the findings, he attempts to check his messages, but has no phone signal. And out of a whole building of neighbors, only one Wi-Fi account shows up on the list of available networks. Trevor’s flat is completely cut off from the outside world, with only one secured network allowing signals in or out.

James steps out into the hall to double-check and immediately receives an email notification; he has signal again. That’s one finely calibrated jammer—precision work arranged so as not to interfere with his neighbors and provoke scrutiny. He glances back into the near-anonymous flat again and wonders what Trevor could be up to that warrants such intense paranoia.

~

James is waiting when the door opens a couple hours before sunset, lounging on the couch with his arms spread along the back, pistol in his right hand.

Trevor enters the flat calling, “Hey loves. Silla?” He closes the door behind him and slings his satchel to the ground, scanning the floor in front of him. “Silla? Carrie?”

“They’re probably hiding from me,” James says.

Trevor takes a quick step around the coat rack and spots James. “What the hell!” he yelps.

“Hello, Ethan,” James says. The apartment isn’t particularly dim—it’s a lovely evening outside, blue sky with plenty of light filtering through the curtains. Still, James enjoys the theatrical menace of switching on the table lamp next to him.

“Who are you?” Trevor demands in a quavering voice, hands raised and looking around as though fearing more home invaders. “Whatever you want, take it and go. Just please don’t hurt me.”

The display of cowardice is off-putting; arrogance was far more becoming on Trevor’s features. “You know who I am.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Please, please, what do you want?”

“Come off it. That’s not going to work on me, and you know it.”

“Know what? Who are you? How did you get in here?” Trevor is backing up, increasingly hysterical as he edges toward the door. The cocking of James’s pistol puts a halt to his retreat.

James tsks a few times and leans forward, gun pointed at the man’s chest. “Not that I don’t admire your dedication to the role, but this performance is really too much. You can’t possibly imagine this will convince me.”

Trevor blinks a few times—his eyes actually have a wet shine to them, bravo—before he lowers his hands and straightens his spine. “No, I suppose not,” he says flatly.

Ah, there he is.

“Pleased to see me again, Trevor?”

“Not particularly. In fact, I’m rather annoyed it’s taken you this long. Given all her stories of you breaking into her home, I assumed you’d be here within the week, James.”

Adrenaline and anger zip through James’s bloodstream as he recalls how much he hated Trevor’s presumptuousness in Malaysia—both the use of James’s name and the claimed familiarity with M. A familiarity James now has good reason to doubt. He doesn’t let anything show past his own mask of mild interest. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Trevor scoffs. “Lazy, that’s what you’ve been.”

James rises slowly from the couch. “Did you think you were my top priority? A bit full of yourself.”

“I’ve hardly thought of you at all.”

That is potentially the truth. The possibility both reassures and galls. “Haven’t you been following up on your investment?”

“You mean you? Now who’s full of himself.” He shoves his fringe out of his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “No, that was just a lark to me.”

“A mighty expensive lark. And a dangerous one.”

“I’ve proved I can handle myself.”

“And who were you proving it to?” James asks, catching the flinch in Trevor’s aloof expression. He’s touched a nerve.

“What do you want, 007?” Trevor demands sharply. “When I secured your freedom, I made one request—a very simple one: forget about me. I didn’t realize the concept was too advanced for your limited intellect, but then, you always struggle with following directions.”

James ignores the attempt to provoke him. “You also gave me a choice. One you said came directly from her.”

“Are you here for a do-over? Sorry, but I’m not available to fake your death this week. If you wanted out, you should have realized that before your very public resurrection.”

“I want to know who you are and how you knew her.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.” He makes a small circle with his pistol, drawing Trevor’s attention to the weapon still aimed center mass.

“You can’t believe your gun will convince me,” he says dismissively, not revealing a hint of nerves. In Malaysia, Trevor stared down the barrel of a weapon he knew couldn’t hurt him. James’s personal Walther comes with no such guarantee, yet Trevor remains just as unimpressed.

James holsters his pistol and smiles as though his bluff hasn’t just been called. “Who said I’m going to use it? I’m just here for a friendly chat.”

Trevor eyes him suspiciously for a moment before his posture eases. “Well then, if this is a friendly visit, you won’t mind if I feed my cats.” He takes one step to the side, and another, wary. When James makes no move to follow, Trevor turns to walk into the kitchen.

James lets him go, listening for the sound of a weapon being drawn or a call for backup. Trevor’s managed not to answer a single one of his questions so far. He’s a slippery character alright, and now he’s bought himself a few moments to get his lies straight. James allows it, curious to see what he’ll come up with.

He returns after a couple minutes, hovering empty-handed in the kitchen doorway, looking around. Probably for the cats, who are still no-shows. James hasn’t seen any signs of life since that little tuxedo cat caught him in the entryway hours ago. After a long moment, Trevor gives up on the cats and sets to glaring at James from the safe distance of the doorway instead.

“Your hospitality is a bit lacking,” James says to get him talking again.

“I don’t like having visitors, friendly or otherwise.”

“That’s alright, I’m not interested in tap water or ramen noodles.”

Trevor’s scowl deepens. “You’ve gone through my flat.”

“And your file. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

“Did you answer to her?”

Trevor goes still, and James can almost see him weighing whether to answer or evade again. James cocks an eyebrow, waiting him out, until Trevor appears to relent. “I worked with her for years. Off the books. I sought out the secrets of the most-dangerous people on the planet, and I shared them with her, so that people like you could do something about them.” His voice is haughty with stung pride.

“You’re a hacker.”

“What an astute observation. Whatever gave me away?”

“I never heard she was using a hacker.”

“Of course not. That’s what ‘off the books’ means.”

James digests this information. M’s borderline omniscience for detecting threats against England was legendary. Everyone knew she had a network of personal contacts providing intelligence from all parts of the globe. That network was part of what earned her the promotion to head of MI6, and she never disclosed the identities of her sources, not even when questioned by the Intelligence and Security Committee.

James ferreted out a fair few of her secrets over the years, but he only dug deep enough to taunt, to keep her attention. He’d wanted her to trust him with her secrets, not steal them for himself. And standing before him could be another of her secrets, revealed too late and without her permission. Something else he’s stolen from her. He beats back the guilt by reminding himself that he isn’t convinced yet. Trevor could be one of her contacts, or he could be an impostor.

Trevor shifts on his feet, impatient with James’s assessing gaze. “I’ve answered your questions. Now get out of my flat.”

“Assuming you did know her—”

“Longer than you did,” Trevor interrupts, words pointed enough to slice at James’s soft underbelly, if he allowed himself to have one.

“Alright. Assuming you knew her longer than I did,” James retakes his seat on the couch and leans back, making himself comfortable— “I have just a few more questions.”

Trevor heaves a long sigh.

“Let’s start with your connection to MI6.”

“So this is an interrogation.”

“If you want me gone, just call the authorities—or whomever it is you report to. You can make this stop anytime you want.”

Trevor paces a few steps closer, ire showing through his icy demeanor. “You’ve read my file—I work for MI6.”

“Under an assumed name, a doctored photo, and who knows how many other falsified details,” James rattles off. “I’m sure Mallory and Tanner would have opinions about your manipulation of our security protocols.”

Trevor flinches again.

“So tell me, what compelled you to take a junior-engineer position at MI6? And don’t say the benefits, because I know what your pay band is, and you bought me out of slavery with a small fortune.”

“I never said that was my own money.”

James pauses, briefly taken aback. “Then whose was it?” he demands.

“The JRTN.”

“The Naqshbandi Army?” James clarifies, incredulous. Trevor shrugs, and James’s brows lower. “Explain.”

Even on the defensive, Trevor’s tone is laced with sarcasm. “I needed funds, so I liberated it from people who were going to use it for chaos and violence. Technically, the JRTN bought your freedom. I simply facilitated the transfer of funds.”

As shocking as it is to learn that his freedom was paid for by a militant insurgency group in Iraq, Trevor’s clearly dangling this information as a distraction. James sets it aside and continues, “If you can facilitate the transfer of other people’s funds like that, then you don’t need MI6’s salary, do you? I’m going to need another reason why you applied to work at MI6, within days of M’s death.”

“It’s personal—”

“You’re damned right it’s personal! Now stop dodging the question. Why MI6? Why now?”

Trevor’s hands ball into fists and his arms tremble with a near-convincing show of emotion before he hisses, “Silva.”

James holds his gaze, measuring the anger simmering in his green eyes.

“He murdered her. So I’m going to kill him.”

Trevor’s simple declaration so closely matches James’s own goal that it must be a contrivance. Most of MI6 knows he’s been pre-assigned to the Silva mission by now—it’s a facile lie. “Bullshit.”

“I am!”

“Are you a killer?”

“No—not yet,” Trevor amends, chin lifting with determination. “You’re thinking I’m just a hacker, what do I know about killing? I know she stood over my shoulder in this room not three months ago, desperate to reach you, to warn you in time…and then a week later she was dead. I deal in digital destruction, but that isn’t enough this time; Silva needs to die by my hands. I am going to find him, and I am going to kill him.”

And that—the deeply felt passion and rage that simultaneously hollow you out and give you the strength to go on—that James believes. It's something James understands intimately. And more important, it’s something he can use.

“Silva’s a ghost. You think you can find him? All on your own?”

“I know I can. I found you, didn’t I?”

…found James when no one at MI6 could. And supposedly worked with M for more than six years. Those are strong credentials. Yes, when it comes to locating Silva, James favors Trevor’s odds over Tanner’s. “And I’m supposed to just forget about you and your revenge scheme? Leave you in peace to abuse MI6’s resources at will?”

“Yes. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh yes it does. She was my mentor, and I’m going to avenge her. And you’re going to help me.”

Trevor scoffs.

James stands and takes a slow step forward, another. He has an inch of height on the man and three stone of muscle and bone, and he lets menace bleed through every inch of him as he advances. “You’re going to find Silva for me. You know what I am; I’m sure that clever brain of yours can guess what I’ll do to you if you refuse.”

Trevor’s eyes flick nervously over James’s body, but he doesn’t cower.

James keeps coming, two more steps nearly closing the distance between them. He remembers what scared Trevor the most, sitting in a car in Kuala Lumpur. “Once I’m through with you, if you still won’t cooperate, I’ll drag you into headquarters and let Mallory pick over what’s left. And after you’ve produced Silva for us, I believe there’s an oubliette waiting—”

Trevor takes a half-step back, real fear in his eyes for the first time since he found James in his flat. But it only lasts an instant. Between one breath and the next, his anger erupts. “No! You don’t threaten me, ever,” Trevor snarls, actually taking a step forward to meet him.

James pauses, surprised at the foolhardy bravery to go toe-to-toe with a double-0 agent.

“With just a few keystrokes, I can destroy you more thoroughly than even Silva and Alexei did, and I will, I swear I’ll bury you if you ever try to threaten me, physically or otherwise.”

Staring into the slender boffin’s flashing eyes, James’s instincts prickle with recognition of an equal adversary. Mutually assured destruction stands before him; Trevor isn’t bluffing.

James swiftly recalculates.

Stance softening, hands held open at his sides, James continues as though Trevor never spoke, “But there’s no need to threaten each other when we should obviously be working together.”

Trevor blinks, nonplussed.

“Our skill sets are complementary. You’re a hacker, I’m a killer.”

“I can pull a trigger on my own. I don’t need you,” Trevor snaps.

“Yes you do. Or do you think you can just hack your way past whatever guards and weaponry Silva has around him?”

Trevor’s lips pinch, his jaw set stubbornly.

“You’re not a field agent; I am. I can handle the physical infiltration, get you to him safely, and you can finish him off yourself. You can have the kill, I won’t try to steal it from you,” he says, bringing to bear years of spy craft to sell the lie.

“I don’t like the idea, and I don’t like you,” Trevor says.

“And I don’t like owing a life debt to someone I don’t know or trust,” James counters. “This is the least I can do to even that score.”

“I only found you as a favor to her; I didn’t do it for you. You owe me nothing.”

“You flew two thousand miles to save my life personally when you could have just tipped off MI6. I owe you. Besides,” he takes a step back, hands sliding into his pockets in a show of relaxation, “I owe her a whole lot more.”

The invocation of their bond is just as effective on Trevor as on Moneypenny. If James must exploit his own grief to guilt people under his thumb, well…any means to the right end, no matter how painful for him.

Seeing Trevor thaw, James presses the point. “I have every right to be there and see it done. You can’t deny me that, for her sake.”

“Fuck,” Trevor mutters. He rubs his fingers over his lips, looks to the side, then back at James, considering him for a long minute. “Fine. You get me close to Silva, and I kill him. That’s as far as I’m allowing you in.”

“Agreed,” James says quickly. He keeps his crow of victory inside, his pulse leaping at the prize he’s just snared.

Trevor begrudgingly shakes James’s outstretched hand. “Agreed. Now get the hell out.” He turns his back on James and heads for the bedroom.

“What’s your name?” James asks.

Trevor stops and sighs again.

“I’m not calling you ‘Trevor’ or ‘Ethan’ or any other bullshit alias you’ve been using. If we’re going to trust one another, I want your real name,” he wheedles. He doesn’t expect to get a response, but it’s worth testing how far he can push Trevor today, so he’ll have something to compare it to.

“I’m not giving it, so I suggest you get used to disappointment.”

“Well what did she call you?”

Trevor’s head turns toward the bookcase, seeking out the porcelain cup for a brief, telling moment. “Q,” he says, low and pained, then immediately drops his head as though he didn’t mean to speak.

“Q? What is that?”

He turns to glare at James again, cold attitude back in force. “My hacker handle,” he says brusquely. “Use it or don’t, I don’t care. But it’s the realest name you’ll ever get from me. Now leave.”

“Alright, Q,” James says, only the subtlest taunt in his inflection. “I’ll be back to check in on your progress,” he calls as he pulls the door shut behind him.

He heads out to his car reviewing the conversation to tease out the few truths from all the obfuscations. Trevor avoided specifics so adroitly that James knows he’s concealing a great deal. He hasn’t figured out what yet, but he will; it’s only a matter of patience and persistence. Considering the rich dividends he’s already earned off the hours he invested in locating Trevor, it will be time well-spent. Who would have thought he’d end the day with a powerful new resource in his quest for vengeance?

For the moment, James and the hacker appear to be allied…at least as far as finding Silva. But that’s where their paths must diverge. Once Trevor locates Silva, James will hand off the intel to MI6 to run a proper op. Officially sanctioned, with all the tactical support he could possibly need, and no wet-behind-the-ears civilian getting in the way.

Until that time, James sees no harm in keeping their alliance off the books, so long as James keeps tabs on him. If James detects Trevor making a single move that threatens MI6, James will deal with him thoroughly.

As he reaches his car, he thinks about the teacup, about Trevor’s nebulous connection with M—all hints, nothing verifiable yet. Assuming the implied relationship was real, James has to wonder whether M would consider their joining forces a positive development…or 007 destroying another one of her plans.

He swears, this one a vow he means to keep, that he’ll do his best not to let her down this time.

Chapter Text

The crowded sidewalks of downtown Saint Tropez teem with life, from the clamor of car horns and catcalls to the scents of cigarettes and sea air. James threads his way between idle tourists and rushing locals just before noon to duck into a small office building. Once on the first floor, he gives the corridor a cautious glance before advancing with a swagger in his step.

After a week of milk runs, he’s Richard Sterling again—sales representative for Universal Exports, world traveler, in town to discuss business with Claude Noyer, personal attorney and fixer for an MI6 priority-one target. James is kitted out properly in TSS-branch gear: a modified Walther in his holster; an expensive-looking wristwatch with a built-in EM-wave sensor; and homing beacons in his cuff links. And finally, a real mission to sink his teeth into.

He finds the door to Noyer’s office unlocked and opens it with a soft knock. Inside, the air is too warm, the air-conditioning no match for the summer breeze sweeping in through the open balcony doors. James notes the empty secretary’s chair, the empty executive recliner, the empty spaces in the bookcase where file binders have clearly been removed in a hurry. On alert, he draws his pistol and locks the door behind him before heading for the balcony.

When he steps around the heavy walnut desk, he spots the two bodies crammed underneath.

Shit.

He prods them with his toe; the flesh is soft, post-rigor mortis, with the smell of decay just setting in. Shots to the forehead and chest, both of them. He shifts the woman aside to reach the man’s wallet and confirms his identity: Claude Noyer.

James moves quickly to close the balcony doors and draw the gauzy curtains. “Tanner,” he says as soon as the chief of staff answers his phone call.

“What is it?”

“The lawyer’s dead. Professional hit, both him and his secretary, likely yesterday morning. The corpses are still here.”

“Shit, he was our only contact,” Tanner says, echoing James’s thoughts.

James glances over both desks for any interesting paperwork left behind by the killer. “The office looks picked over, and it may be under surveillance. Any suggestions before I clear the scene?”

“Nothing ready at hand. I’ll work with Research to find another lead on Gustafson. Damn, we really need this one,” Tanner mumbles.

Agreed. James’s first priority mission back needs to be a success, for both national security and personal reasons. “I’ll be in touch,” James says.

He pockets his phone and the day planner off the secretary’s desk, Noyer’s phone and wallet, and a folder of loose paperwork fallen on the carpet. The building’s back exit lets out on a small car park and alley, which James follows for a block before exiting onto the main drag and blending into the crowds, expecting to hear sirens swooping down on him at any moment.

Another three blocks away, with no sign of gendarmes, James shifts gears from evasion to assessment.

He knows that Noyer’s client, reclusive arms dealer Johann Gustafson, will be auctioning off stolen British military secrets in three days. Noyer promised to get MI6 into Gustafson’s compound in exchange for immunity for various crimes. Without Noyer, James doesn’t know what Gustafson looks like, where his compound is, or how to learn the details of the auction.

That they even had Noyer’s cooperation would seem a miracle, but M’s network of sources is legendary for a reason. And in this case, her network supplied the leverage to convince Mr. Noyer to betray his rolodex of underworld clientele—any of whom could have killed him.

The thought of failing the last mission M worked on is bitter like rancid olives. He needs another lead to get this mission back on track, and he needs it now.

The MI6 switchboard routes his call to the correct extension, and after a couple rings, a voice answers. “Davis.”

A shark’s smile bleeds through his tone as he says, “Hello, Q.”

“What— 007? What are you doing?” the man whispers angrily.

“I need a favor.”

“You can’t call me on this line!”

“Alright, give me your mobile number.”

“You can’t call me at all!”

“Then I’ll be sure to swing round yours for another friendly chat next time. Listen, Q,” he says, leaning into the hacker’s ridiculous name. “I’m on a mission—one of her missions, and possibly one of yours—and it’s gone to hell. Does the name Noyer mean anything to you?”

There’s an aggrieved huff before he responds, “Claude Noyer, a fixer with a knack for falsifying customs documents and skimming from his clients’ accounts.”

The knot of tension between James’s shoulders eases. He was right; Trevor already knows this case. “That’s the one. Noyer was supposed to lead me to an arms dealer named Gustafson. Unfortunately, he’s a dead end.”

“Are you…are you implying Noyer’s dead? With a pun?” Trevor asks, appalled.

Another time, James might have enjoyed teasing the hacker over his outrage, but he’s in a hurry today. “Killed by persons unknown and utterly useless to me as a corpse. Give me everything you have on Gustafson so I can find another way in.”

“I don’t have anything on him. He was Noyer’s client; that’s all I know. I never had anything on Gustafson himself.”

“You’re a hacker; there must be something you can hack.”

“I can’t; I’m at bloody MI6! They’re watching me—”

“You got M this information to begin with, didn’t you? This is her last mission. There are British military secrets up for sale, and a whole lot of death and destruction to follow, unless I stop it. Now are you going to let England and M down, or are you going to do what you claim you do best?”

After a lengthy pause, Trevor bites out, “Fine. You’re a world-class arse, you know that?”

“I’ve had many compliments on it, thank you.”

“I should have left you where I found you—spared the world from your terrible sense of humor,” Trevor says, but he sounds distracted, and James can hear the clacking of computer keys through the line.

While Trevor works, James drops into a chair outside a café and opens the secretary’s day planner to check Noyer’s schedule for the week. Too bad someone else had a similar idea; the pages detailing the last few months have been ripped out. He’s flipping through the folder of loose papers, which appear to be title records for a property on Lisbon’s waterfront, when Trevor says, “…maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“I’m going through Noyer’s bank accounts. He kept a private car service on retainer. Recurring payments, four separate charges at the start of each month, for varying amounts. Do you think he was paying for his clients’ drivers?”

James grunts, impressed with the deduction but unwilling to show it. “Maybe,” he concurs.

“The car service isn’t online beyond their basic banking info. I can’t get a client list to confirm.”

“I’ll handle that. What’s the name and address?”

Trevor shares the details, and James stands, waving off an approaching waiter.

“Don’t call me again,” Trevor says before disconnecting the call.

James smirks, pleased at manipulating Trevor so easily…and at getting his own lead ahead of Tanner. Having someone available to supply superior research support in real-time could come in handy. He can see why M kept Trevor around.

He updates Tanner on his line of attack as he hails a cab.

~

Infiltrating the car service is as easy as walking through the front door and asking for a job.

The company’s main space is a large garage bay currently housing three black sedans polished to a high sheen, with space for three more. A group of men in black suits sit around a television, cheering a football match—they must be drivers waiting for their calls. James notes their faces as the receptionist leads him to the owner’s office.

Five minutes later Louis, despite taking quite the shine to James’s cover story, informs James that he doesn’t need any additional drivers at the moment. Louis is supportive of a fellow ex-soldier-turned-driver though, and promises to keep him in mind when anything opens up. He steps around James to file his list of (MI6-created) references in a short metal cabinet.

James turns in his chair to keep an eye on the man behind him and takes particular notice of the old-school filing system.

Before Louis can walk him out, James requests a copy of the company’s employment policy. And when Louis steps out to ask the receptionist to pull a copy for him, James helps himself to the contents of the cabinet.

He finds nothing as obvious as Johann Gustafson’s name on the tab of a file folder, but a client folder with initials G., J. and banking info that matches Noyer’s looks promising. Two employee photos are clipped to the file, matching two of the men James saw watching footie. He slips the folder back into place and meets Louis at the door, promising to be available on a moment’s notice if needed.

Four hours later, James follows the group of drivers a couple blocks to a bar, where the men claim seats by a large screen airing the Real Madrid vs Inter Milan match.

James settles in with a pint to bide his time.

~

Louis calls him at 7 a.m., desperate.

“What happened to the regular drivers?” James asks as he takes possession of a set of sedan keys.

“Damn fools got in a bar brawl last night. Julien will be out for months with a broken leg, and Maurice has a concussion. And the client’s coming back to town today…quelle catastrophe!”

“I won’t let you down,” James promises, his right hand tucked in his pocket to conceal bruised knuckles.

The client arrives at the Gare de Fréjus at 1 p.m. James leans against the side of the car, sizing up the travelers exiting the train station until a leggy blond makes a beeline for him, strutting across the sidewalk like it’s a runway.

“Who are you?” she demands in French, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

James answers in English, “Louis sent me.”

She stares at him, at the car, and starts scrolling through her phone, face expressionless. A brief call with Louis satisfies her very-sensible doubts, and she hangs up with a toss of hair so long it brushes her waist and tangles around her purse strap. “Get my luggage,” she says in thickly accented English.

“Yes ma’am.”

It takes nearly an hour to drive down the coast to Saint Tropez, and then a grueling twenty minutes in traffic as they approach the shopping district. In the backseat, Miss Emiliana fixes her lipstick twice and rolls down her tinted window every time they stop so that pedestrians can see her. Once arrived at their destination, she visits one boutique after the next, leaving James waiting on the sun-blasted sidewalk to sweat in his black suit and collect her shopping bags as she exits each store.

As the hours tick by, James checks his phone more often, hoping to hear from MI6. Tanner’s last text that morning promised they’re still working on finding another lead in case James’s car service job doesn’t pan out. James takes the next set of instructions from his passenger and hopes to god he isn’t wasting his time playing chauffeur for a beautiful nobody.

A little before 5, Emiliana’s phone rings. James glances in the rear-view mirror, catching the way her stony expression contorts into an unnatural smile that sweetens her voice as she purrs in German, “Hello, my love. Tonight? Yes, of course. Okay, I won’t wait up. If you’re sure. You know I missed you. Breakfast sounds wonderful.”

James inches his way through an intersection, half his attention on her vapid conversation with her lover until it sounds like the call is wrapping up.

“You get your rest tonight. I’ll wake you in the morning, just the way you like. Oh Johann, you remembered to bring the set of yellow diamonds, didn’t you? Perfect,” she says, the forced smile morphing into something genuine.

James hides his own smile and starts making plans for his evening.

Emiliana takes her dinner at a crowded café overlooking the marina—another opportunity to show herself off. But she clearly prefers not to be seen alone, as she insists James park the car and sit at her table on the patio. She orders a Perrier for James and a salad for herself and settles in her chair with her attention locked on her phone screen. James is relegated to a background prop, there to bolster her social status.

That won’t do at all.

It’s a given that Emiliana will reveal the location of Gustafson’s compound sooner or later. But infiltrating the arms dealer’s home office will require stealth, or brute force, or an invitation. And James has a preference as to which.

He starts his seduction with the obvious approach—complimenting her beauty. James squints into the setting sun, letting the crow’s feet around his eyes lend sincerity to his besotted smile as he worships her perfect bone structure and skin. Perhaps to encourage him, she slips off her sunglasses for the first time, revealing wide-set brown eyes and curled lashes that soften the hard edges of her expression. James is telling the truth when he calls them her best feature. Yet while Emiliana clearly enjoys James’s flattery, she doesn’t make it easy for him. She’s clever enough to resist dangerous entanglements; James has to make the risk seem more appealing than the repercussions.

His second approach is far more successful. She seems to appreciate his lips on her knuckles, and the gentle kisses to the inside of her wrist garner him the slightest smile. But it’s the envious stares of the patrons around them that she revels in, and James amps up his performance to attract as much attention to her as possible.

Mid-Perrier, he gets a text from Louis that a second member of the client’s household will land at a private airfield just before midnight, including directions and instructions to return the car to the garage after the late-night drop-off. It sounds like the target himself will be in James’s car in just a few hours. James’s smile turns genuine as he beams at his companion.

By the time they finish their ‘meal,’ he’s flattered and pleased Gustafson’s girlfriend to a frankly excessive extent, but he isn’t confident he’s seduced his way into Gustafson’s office. He drives her into the hills above Saint Tropez, the sun sinking into the ocean in the rear-view mirror just before he loses sight of the coast. Emiliana gives the occasional terse direction when she isn’t busy ignoring him completely, and they wind past orderly vineyards and rough rock outcroppings for approximately half an hour.

Gustafson’s secluded villa is blocked off by a gate and a guard with an automatic rifle. Emiliana’s face gains them entry, and James drives up to the front door. An employee approaches the car with averted eyes, silently heading to the trunk in lieu of a greeting, but Emiliana sends them away, announcing that ‘Richard’ will bring her bags upstairs for her. James meets her eyes in the mirror and matches her sly smile.

Hauling her luggage plus all of her shopping bags isn’t part of his contract with Louis or MI6, but it’s worth it to be led through the large entryway, up the marble steps, and into her bedroom.

“You’re not in a hurry to leave, are you?” she asks as he places the smallest bags atop a dresser.

James has no intention of leaving before searching the compound for intel. But he plays the part of the cautious gigolo. “Isn’t staying a bit risky? Given how many people saw me enter, and your lover arriving later tonight?”

“The staff won’t say anything. They know he’s the type to shoot the teller.”

“Messenger,” James corrects her idiom, already hooking an arm around her waist to pull her close for a kiss. “Well in that case, I’ve got a couple hours to kill.”

She latches onto his lower lip with a hard bite that makes him hiss and step into her, putting her off balance so she’ll ease up. When her hands slap against his chest, he instinctively gives her space, revising his read of her and what she wants. But she doesn’t shove him away; she squeezes his chest through his shirt and jacket, getting a feel for the shape of him.

“You’re going to be so much fun,” she announces gleefully, grabbing his lapels and sliding the jacket off his shoulders. “And it’s been ages since I’ve had any fun.”

“Your lover isn’t the ‘fun’ type?”

She sneers, “All Johann can handle are blow jobs.”

James leans in and whispers in her ear, “What can you handle?”

She grabs his tie and tugs until the knot slips. “Everything I can get.”

They strip one another quickly, James unzipping her dress and starting to unbutton his shirt while she unbuckles his belt and drags his trousers and briefs down his legs. She shimmies the dress off her shoulders, leaving it in a heap on the floor as she steps around him to look at herself in a mirror. Her long hair drapes over her torso, the red lace bra and swell of her gorgeous breasts peeking through as she poses in heels, jewelry, and a matching red thong.

He watches over his shoulder, knowing this display is for his benefit as well as hers, making his admiration plain. Sometimes he can’t believe the perks that come with his job; he’s going to enjoy himself tonight.

She smiles, satisfied with her appearance and his attention, and turns to grope his bare arse. “I want you in me now,” she says.

He obligingly gets the last button undone and starts in on his cuff links, only to be interrupted when she impatiently grabs the shirt and drags it down his back. Her nails catch against his skin, her breath feathers across his neck, the fabric tugs against his wrists, and suddenly it’s all wrong. It’s Vanessa all over again—the urge to flee, to fight back nearly overwhelming the present moment.

He clamps down on those irrational urges and forces a slow breath in, leaves his neck and back undefended as he focuses on methodically freeing his wrists. By the time his arms are unfettered, he’s almost positive he won’t hurt her…so long as she doesn’t hurt him.

Her feral grin when he turns around makes no such promise, and she crowds in close for another kiss, fingernails digging painfully into his shoulders.

Fucking her takes hours, or days, or minutes, he can’t recall after it’s done, only that he tried not to think about it during. When he finally finishes inside her—a feat only achieved by closing his eyes and imagining himself fucking his own fist—she’s drenched in sweat and murmuring exhaustedly, a sated smile on her lips. He draws a blanket over her and eases her into sleep with the soft kisses of an affectionate lover. Once she’s asleep, he turns out the lights to not disturb her while he dresses.

The cover of darkness hides his own reflection. A mercy: he doesn’t want to meet his own eyes, not with the welter of claustrophobia and despair raging inside. Not with a mission to finish and unrestricted access to Johann Gustafson’s home.

He needs to focus on the mission now and nothing else.

A brisk prowl through the villa reveals the actual master bedroom and office on the ground floor. James closes himself in the office and grabs every hard drive and document he can find. It takes longer than he likes to crack the safe with TSS’s electromagnetic-wave sensor, but inside he finds the real score: a log book of Gustafson’s recent sales and customers. James tucks the lot into one of Emiliana’s pilfered shopping bags and heads for the sedan, nodding confidently to a guard walking the grounds.

As Emiliana promised, the guard avoids looking directly at James, pretending he doesn’t see the chauffeur departing an egregious two hours after escorting Gustafson’s girlfriend inside. The man at the gate turns a similar blind eye as James pulls out. All told, seducing Emiliana made for a far-cleaner infiltration and exit than breaking in could have.

He’s grateful for her assistance, really.

~

At 11:57 p.m., a private jet lands at the airfield, and James pulls out onto the tarmac and exits the sedan, showing himself to the client. The jet door opens, and a young man in a turtleneck and gun holster emerges. The man gives James a hard look before nodding. He leans back into the plane and then descends the steps with a much older man leaning on his arm. James watches the septuagenarian’s pained shamble, noting swelling of the hands, as well as a subtle, full-body tremor.

Not up for much fun at all, he thinks, recalling Emiliana’s contemptuous assessment of her boyfriend. And then he almost remembers the ‘fun’ she had with him tonight. He shuts down that line of thought viciously and permanently.

With the luggage packed into the trunk, and client and bodyguard tucked in the backseat, James gets the car headed toward the villa. He listens discreetly as Gustafson makes additional arrangements for the auction on his phone—speaking in a code James already parsed from his log book. They’re the only car on the twisting back roads, cruising slowly through the night; no witnesses. When Gustafson ends his call, James takes advantage of a straightaway to draw his Walther from the center console, turn around, and execute both arms dealer and bodyguard with single shots to the head.

A stroke of inspiration has him firing second shots into their chests. If the gendarmes mistake this for the same MO as Noyer’s killer, all the better for MI6’s clean hands.

As he returns his eyes to the road and his hand to the wheel, grim satisfaction flows in, nearly drowning out the gnawing ache of failure. No regrets, he reminds himself ruthlessly. He’ll perform better next time, won’t let himself get distracted by useless memories. It’s all a matter of focus, and James has always had focus to spare.

In the backseat, the blue glow of Gustafson’s phone winks out, turning the bloody crime scene to a dark void, and James dutifully turns his thoughts toward ditching the vehicle and returning to London.

Mission accomplished.

~

The second lock releases with a clack. On the other side of the door, a cat meows, and James opens it slowly to prevent the animal’s escape. The same black and white cat from his last visit looks up at him, meows again, and walks away.

James steps into the flat, eyes drawn to the six glowing computer monitors in the far corner of the living room, all displaying windows of computer code. Trevor sits in the ergonomic chair, nodding along to whatever’s playing on his oversized headphones, his fingers dancing over the keyboard.

The cat hops onto a windowsill, stares at James, and sets about cleaning itself.

James flicks the overhead lights off and on.

Trevor spins around, mouth dropping open as he nearly knocks over a mug by his wrist. “What the bloody hell?” he demands overloud, and pulls off the headphones. He’s changed from his day job, wearing grey joggers and a blue logo tee James recognizes from his closet.

James drags his roller board suitcase across the carpet, demeanor set determinedly to ‘charming.’ Since they’re going to be working together, antagonizing Trevor would be counterproductive…and he already antagonized him plenty last time he was here. “Honey, I’m home.”

The luggage rates a scowl. “Do you think you’re moving in?”

“You did invite me to drop by once my mission was over.”

Trevor sputters, “That’s not what I meant when I said you couldn’t call my work line!”

“Really? Oh dear, what an unfortunate misunderstanding. You’d best give me your mobile number so it doesn’t happen again.”

“I’m not giving you my number.”

“Yes, you are,” James says persuasively. He pulls out his own phone and gets ready to input a new contact. “‘Q,’ was it?”

Trevor glares for a long moment before his indignation gives way to a thoughtful frown. “I suppose the alternative is you breaking into my flat anytime you like.”

James shrugs. “A lovable character defect. You could always invest in more security, if you’re so concerned about privacy.”

“I should have, after your last visit.”

“Two locks is as good as an open door,” James agrees.

“Something biometric,” Trevor murmurs, his attention drifting toward the door. “The frame would require reinforcing, tied into the building’s infrastructure to be truly secure. There’s only the manager to bribe; not prohibitively expensive, though distasteful—”

“Q,” James says.

“Hmm. Hardly seems worth the hassle for another week or two.”

“Q. Your number?”

“What? Yes, alright.” Trevor rattles off the digits absently. “Do be sure to use it next time. I dislike home invasions even more than M did.”

Her name coming from his mouth isn’t the dagger it was last week—not now that James has learned more about Trevor and adjusted to the idea of M working with him. It’s almost pleasant to hear her acknowledged instead of shoved into the past and forgotten.

The maudlin bent to his thoughts strays too close to the bleak restlessness that’s driven him here tonight, so James focuses his attention on the present…and the continuing lack of signal on his phone. Trevor’s physical security may be subpar, but that signal jammer keeps his digital life locked up tighter than the Tower of London—an interesting glimpse into the young man’s priorities. “And the Wi-Fi password?”

Trevor refocuses on James. “That’s for invited guests only.”

“Don’t be difficult, Q. I’ve brought you a present. An apology for the break-in.”

“Which one?” Trevor asks pointedly, but he rises from his chair as James unzips his luggage. When James sets an unopened bottle of Macallan on the dining table, Trevor snorts. “I think that’s more a crutch for you than a present for me.”

“Ouch.” James heads for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “At least my liver can handle it. Can yours?”

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Trevor mutters, but he doesn’t outright protest James helping himself to the contents of the kitchen; a promising start.

James’s entrance into the kitchen interrupts the dinner of another cat. The all-black creature looks up from its food bowl and freezes at finding itself trapped in the tight space with a stranger. James goes still to minimize the threat, and the cat dashes past his feet with its hips and tail held low.

“Sorry, kitty,” he murmurs with good humor.

“Oh Diss,” Trevor croons in the living room. “Diss Diss Diss, you poor thing. Come out from there, love.”

When James returns with two glasses, Trevor is kneeling down and peering under the couch.

“Are you joining me, or am I indulging in my crutch alone?” James asks.

Trevor heaves a sigh. “Fine, why not?”

James pours at the table while Trevor climbs to his feet. When Trevor comes closer, James spots the redness of his eyes and slight pallor on already-pale skin, signs of fatigue that weren’t there last week. Feeling like he’s looking in a mirror—though heaven only knows what Trevor’s excuse could be—James steps aside so Trevor won’t have to reach around him to get his own glass.

Trevor sips without taking in the aroma and swallows like it’s medicine. Philistine. James has half a mind to take the bottle home with him; he’d be saving it from a life of neglect.

“How many cats do you have?” James asks to keep the conversation going a bit longer before he turns to business.

“Two. That was Carrie. She’s quite shy.”

Silla and Carrie, James remembers. Carrie-Diss? A quick mental reshuffling of letters has him snorting with amusement. “Scylla and Charybdis.”

Dimples appear in Trevor’s cheeks, the small smile smoothing out the tension in his brow. “Well spotted. They were quite the twin terrors when they were little. Navigating safely between their kitten claws was impossible.”

“Sacrificed a lot of socks to Scylla?”

“Exactly.” Trevor’s smile widens into something that’s nearly a grin—the most open expression James has seen on him yet. It makes him look young and appealing, even friendly.

“How old are you?” James asks…and immediately regrets the personal question when it causes Trevor’s smile to vanish.

“How old are you?”

“41, which you already know, because you read my file,” James says, light and teasing, trying to forestall Trevor’s retreat.

“I did,” Trevor admits, and hesitates before adding, “Does it make it less invasive to know that a large portion of it was redacted?”

James shakes his head. “You saved my flat; that more than balances out any snooping you may have done in the process.” Gratitude swells again at the enormity of that favor, but it doesn’t distract from the fact that Trevor dodged his question. Apparently, it’ll take more than a gifted bottle of scotch to gain Trevor’s confidence. Well, James can be patient; lay the groundwork for an alliance now, and reap the rewards later.

“That was nothing; I just flipped a few ones and zeros.”

“And yet,” James reaches out and clinks their glasses together, “it meant the world to me. Thank you.” He holds eye contact, projecting sincerity to forge an emotional connection, until Trevor blushes and nods.

When James lifts his glass to his mouth, Trevor tracks the movement, lips parting and body tilting forward ever so slightly.

James is an expert at reading desire, and Trevor’s interest doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, but the part of him that’s still raw from his near-disastrous evening with Emiliana wants to flinch away. He bears the discomfort and instead files away this scrap of personal information Trevor has inadvertently revealed—despite Trevor’s apparent intention to conceal everything about himself.

James swallows the whisky and clears his throat. “Do you mind if I sit?” he asks, nodding toward the couch.

Trevor doesn’t refuse, so James circles around him and takes a seat—the same position he’d occupied a few days ago—setting the bottle down on the coffee table. Trevor lingers by the dining table, his desire replaced with suspicion, or perhaps concern. “Why are you here, James?”

To check on Trevor’s progress finding Silva, obviously. But that response begs the real question: why now. Why come straight from debrief, luggage still in hand, instead of heading out to find some warm companionship as he normally would?

James says instead, “Your car-service lead—it was invaluable.”

“Good. I heard the mission went well.”

James should ask how a junior engineer “heard” the outcome of a confidential mission, but he isn’t sure he wants confirmation that Trevor’s hacked additional systems at MI6. James’s loyalty would require he respond in unpleasant ways, which would undermine his plans for the hacker.

“Couldn’t have gone better, even if I’d had Noyer’s assistance,” he agrees. The mission was a total success in every way that matters; that’s how James reported it to Mallory. No need to mention the nagging weight of dread that he dragged back to London like a ball-and-chain leg iron. “Your clever deduction made that possible.”

Trevor’s smile returns, flavored with well-deserved smugness. “And you were pushy and rude about it, if memory serves. I’d say you owe me an apology for that.”

James smirks. “I could apologize, but I’m afraid my behavior’s only gotten worse—taking full credit for your contribution in my debrief, despite that tongue lashing you gave me about claiming sole credit. It appears I haven’t learned my lesson just yet.”

Trevor blanches, and James suppresses a frustrated sigh. He can’t seem to keep a smile on the man’s face. Every time he thinks he understands Trevor, he steps on a pressure plate switch.

“I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Trevor says.

“No hard feelings. It reminded me of her, and I’m used to her knocking me down a peg or three. On occasion, I’ve even deserved it.” He smiles into his glass, not bothering to hide the tease when he adds, “But that still leaves the matter of me taking credit for your efforts a second time. Are you sure you don’t want just a little credit—”

“God, no!” Trevor all but yelps. “I don’t want any attention.”

“Really,” James insists, “just a small mention in my after-action report could have the head of MI6 singing your praises—”

“I will sell your flat out from under you,” he says desperately.

“Relax, I’m pulling your leg,” James says. “I’ll keep your secrets safe.”

“Wanker,” Trevor grumbles. But he finally relaxes enough to join James on the couch, taking a seat on the far side, one socked foot folded under him, nearly full glass cradled to his chest. “How did you explain it, then?”

“Claimed I found Louis’s business card in Noyer’s wallet. A flimsy lead to have followed, but its success made me look all the more brilliant in Mallory’s eyes. Ta for that.”

Trevor shrugs. “I’m used to M taking the credit for my work. You’re welcome to it.” He sounds casual, but James doubts anyone could enjoy such an arrangement for long, even if Trevor prefers to remain off MI6’s radar.

He leans forward to catch Trevor’s eyes through his glasses and drooping fringe. “I wouldn’t have found Gustafson in time to stop that auction if it weren’t for you. Her last mission…I couldn’t imagine letting her down. I think you understand what that meant to me. So thank you, again, on behalf of England, and M, and myself.”

Trevor’s cheeks flush scarlet at the compliment. “You’re welcome. Truly. I’m…I’m happy to help.” He takes another sip of his whisky, bashful.

Yes, James thinks with satisfaction, he made the right choice offering Trevor honey instead of vinegar. The hacker’s far more relaxed than James has seen him, still cocky, but wonderfully responsive to praise. Nothing at all like the cold, uptight front he’d presented in Malaysia, when he was play-acting as a career spy. And last week’s conversation had been pure defensive posturing, intended to drive James away.

This is the first time James is actually meeting the man behind the facades. Not Trevor. Not Ethan.

James murmurs, “Careful, or I’ll take you up on that…Q.”

The dimples return.

It’s time to turn the conversation to Silva. Ever since Tanner admitted to zero progress on MI6’s Silva-hunt earlier this evening, James was determined to pump his new ally for a lead, using whatever charms and wiles necessary to make him comply. But James finds himself reluctant to push the subject just yet. Not with the young man so unguarded and giving up such valuable insights into himself.

Their talk of Silva can wait a few more minutes.

Instead, James lets Q steer the conversation to the mission James just completed, seemingly fascinated by the ins-and-outs of spy craft. He asks about the code in Gustafson’s ledger, about the bar fight that made headlines on a Saint Tropez crime blog, about the performance of the TSS tech James used on the mission.

Apparently, the EM-wave modification on the watch was on its first field run. No wonder it took multiple attempts to sync.

Q tsks and offers to take a look at the watch on his lunch break tomorrow. James suspects it isn’t Q’s job to do so, but politely doesn’t make a point of it.

“And the Walther?” Q asks, a gleam in his eyes. “Any problems with it?”

“None whatsoever,” James says. His eyes narrow. “Why? Could it have blown up on me?”

“No, it’s perfect, I promise. I made it,” Q says, proud. “Or, well, I wrote the programming for the new grip. Technically, Denise in the machine shop did the fabrication. But it was my project.”

James refills his glass a second time. “Boothroyd said a laser watch-mod was ‘perfect’ last year, and it nearly took my hand off.”

“I tested that Walther myself. I guarantee it won’t blow up on you.”

“You’ve never fired a gun in your life,” James says to take the piss. “The recoil would shatter those twig arms of yours.”

Q pouts adorably. “I’ll have you know, I’ve fired your Walther dozens of times.” He pauses and cocks his head. “But I did favor the Sig Sauer. I figured out right-off that that’s the one I’ll use to kill Silva.” He says it without batting an eye, like it’s an inviolate law of the universe.

James doesn’t directly contradict him, although he does aim to poke a few holes in Q’s revenge fantasy. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve had marksmanship training.”

“I’m self-taught.” James’s skeptical eyebrow prompts Q to explain, “I held up the prototype approval for a few weeks, so I’d have an excuse to use the firing range.” He looks suddenly chagrined. “Don’t let the quartermaster know about that. He was so pleased with the turnaround time. If he finds out how much time I actually wasted, I’ll get sacked.”

“My lips are sealed,” James says, suppressing a smile.

It’s hard to resist being charmed; Q’s an amusing fellow, the way his mood keeps slipping between well-earned self-confidence and flustered self-consciousness. He seems to be embarrassed by every element of his deception…indicative of a generally good nature, which is reassuring. If Q were shameless like James, James would have to be more on guard than he currently is.

And it’s gradually dawning on James that his guard is fairly relaxed right now; good scotch in hand, no reason to fear an immediate betrayal from the man in front of him, and the unease that’s hunted him all the way from France faded into the background. He should ask now. Q already brought up Silva on his own; the segue is obvious. Or he could let it go for the night and accept this feeling of peace as the welcome, temporary reprieve that it is.

Before James can make up his mind, Q distracts him again.

Seeming mollified by James’s promise to keep his confidence, Q helps himself to another pour. “What about Noyer?” Q asks, with the same intensity as his Walther prompt; James knows this question is important to him in some way.

“What about him?” James parries, curious.

“Do you know who killed him?”

He shakes his head. “I only know it looked professional.”

“How did he die?”

“Double-tap, head and chest. I’m guessing the killer entered the office, got him and his secretary out of their chairs, made them kneel under the desk, and did the job there. Noyer first. She landed on top of him.”

“His secretary, too?” Q asks, surprised.

“No witnesses,” James explains. “It’s cleaner that way.” If he sounds callous, it’s only because he can empathize; in the killer’s shoes, he would have made the same decision.

Luckily, Q doesn’t seem repelled by James’s practicality. “And how likely is it that their killer—a professional assassin—will be found by the police?”

“A thousand to one,” James admits. Ten-thousand to one, since James staged a copycat execution. He can’t predict how Q will take that news, and on the off chance the boffin hasn’t already read his full mission debrief, he keeps it to himself.

Q harrumphs and lurches awkwardly, shifting his glass to the coffee table so he can dig a mobile out of his pocket. “I was going through Noyer’s client list last night, looking for loose ends MI6 might want to tie up. And you’ll never guess what I found.”

He holds the phone out between them as he flicks between apps but doesn’t move any closer to James’s side of the couch.

“The fool actually announced his retirement to all of his clients in a Bcc email. Instead of taking his full immunity and disappearing safely, Noyer told a half-dozen criminals, whose secrets he’d been tending for years, that he was no longer of any use to them.”

“Done in by his own professional courtesy.” The irony is satisfying.

Q nods vigorously. “Exactly, it’s ridiculous. All of them had a motive to kill him. Like this one, Jung; he smuggles drugs. And Toussaint—money laundering via cryptocurrency. And of course, there’s Gustafson’s arms dealing. And Noyer told them all.”

“Well, no great loss. England doesn’t actually need a customs forger hiding out in Cambridge.”

“That’s not my point,” Q insists, near-vibrating with enthusiasm now. “The case isn’t finished.”

“In a few hours it will be; Interpol’s raiding the auction tomorrow.”

“That’s the Gustafson angle, yes, but there are a half-dozen other clients that would be of interest to MI6, or Interpol, or the DGSE. M would never have left so many loose ends dangling; she’d have seen them dealt with by whichever agency had jurisdiction. But now we’ve lost Noyer and his black book of secrets, and the only client brought to justice is Gustafson. That leaves the other rats free to scurry back into their holes and disappear—including the one that killed him.”

With a sinking feeling, James realizes that Q isn’t wrong. That’s precisely how M always operated, strategically trading information for favors from friend and foe alike. That was, after all, the big picture she always harangued him about. But even more disheartening is the conviction ringing in Q’s voice, the eagerness in his eyes…and James’s realization that the Silva investigation hasn’t been enough to hold Q’s attention. The hacker has already moved on to another challenge, this time chasing six villains instead of one.

With the decision made for him, James resigns himself to recalling Q to the task that matters most: avenging M’s death. Too bad—James had almost been enjoying his evening. Hopefully Q won’t be too resistant to the course correction.

“You’re saying you want to keep working the client list?” James begins carefully, wading into another minefield.

“I’m saying I already have.” The monitors behind Q that had gone dark some time ago suddenly illuminate, pages of text and spreadsheets scrolling over each as Q swipes at his phone screen. “Over the last 24 hours, I’ve compiled dossiers on all of them: their businesses, their legal and illegal accounts, their networks, you name it. I have enough evidence to take every one of them down. All I’m missing is which one put the hit out on Noyer.”

Awe wells up in James’s chest, as warming as the aged scotch and twice as dizzying. “You did all this…since yesterday?”

“It’s not like any of them were super tech-geniuses. Getting into their accounts was as easy for me as picking locks is for you,” he says with a sharp smile. “But like I said, I hit a dead end on the trigger man and whoever hired him. I was hoping you could provide some more clues.”

James shakes his head, overwhelmed. “I can’t help you with the assassin. You’ll get more information from the official crime lab report. But…you’re saying you’ve built comprehensive files on all of these clients already.”

Q nods impatiently.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” James admits.

Q takes it the wrong way, his eagerness evaporating, leaving a shuttered blankness that puts his open demeanor of the past hour in stark relief. “Oh, I…I suppose it’s rather foolish, isn’t it? With no M to give it to, no way to see justice done. I’ve wasted my time.”

“I’m sure you have access to a voice scrambler; just call it in anonymously.”

“And raise how many questions about my identity?” Q scoffs. “MI6 would come looking for me for certain. And I can’t keep planting files in the Research database. Someone will figure out there’s been a security breach, and it’ll start a mole hunt.”

Fuck, that’s the kind of confession James didn’t want to hear. Oubliettes no longer seem such a far-fetched punishment for Q’s repeated manipulations of MI6’s systems; no wonder the hacker doesn’t want to attract Mallory’s attention. “Keep planting…. What did you plant?” James asks, already fearing the answer.

“Nora Alexei’s file. She wasn’t on MI6’s radar. I couldn’t risk her escaping while they started investigating from ground zero, so I created a file on her and uploaded it to the Research database. And I edited Tanner’s photo array before your debrief to include her, just to be certain you made the connection.”

Whiplash is something he’ll have to get used to, if he’s going to keep working with Q. As is the constant, discomfiting feeling of gratitude. “I thought you weren’t doing me any favors in Malaysia,” James says gruffly.

Caught-out, Q pushes on with a slight stammer, “What I’m saying is, I can’t keep sneaking my files into MI6’s database.” He scoops up his glass and takes a big gulp before sighing morosely. “M was the perfect conduit; no one questioned where her information came from.”

James doesn’t understand why Q cares about this case so bloody much, but the answer to the problem is staring Q in the face. And he does owe Q, after all—more and more with every conversation they have. “Suppose I inherited her informants. Or at least one of them. And they sent me this intel anonymously.”

Q sets down his glass and squints at James through his fringe, unconvinced.

“If you really want to see these people taken down, I’ll hand-deliver your files to Mallory tomorrow. When he asks me where they came from, I’ll tell him the truth: that one of M’s sources contacted me. And I’ll refuse to identify him or her.”

“You would do that for me?”

“She did it for you,” James says. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Instead of cheering Q up, the suggestion seems to worsen his melancholy. All James is offering is to step into her shoes, why should that upset him…. Ah. Has Q allowed himself to mourn her yet? Or is he doing the same thing James is; sublimating his grief into revenge and resenting everyone’s efforts to replace her? James would lay a substantial wager on the latter.

“Thank you,” Q says quietly. He looks over his shoulder at the monitors, his thumb still flicking through the files, and James notes again the dark circles under his eyes. How many hours did Q put into that client list, in addition to his regular hours at MI6? Even one sleepless night is too much energy for Q to spend on this case, he decides. No point wasting the rest of their evening on it as well.

Quick as a mongoose, James stretches across the couch to pluck the phone out of Q’s hand. “Alright,” he says, kindly but firm, “that’s enough of Noyer’s dirty clients, and more than enough alcohol on an empty stomach. I think we could both do with some dinner.”

Q blinks at his abruptly emptied hands, fingers clenching idly. “I had takeaway hours ago.”

“Of course you did,” James sighs. “Well, I haven’t. Is there anything edible in this flat that isn’t Pot Noodle?”

“I have bread?” Q offers.

“Toast will do. And a round of water while you’re at it.” James holds his own partially full glass out to Q and ramps up the charm, because he saw how Q looks at him, knows it will work on him. “Even super tech-geniuses need to hydrate,” he says with a disarming smile.

Looking slightly dazzled, Q takes the outstretched glass gingerly, avoiding James’s fingers. When he stands up, Scylla jumps down from the windowsill, and Charybdis crawls out from under the couch with a chirrup to rub against Q’s ankle. Q pets the black cat’s head, picks up his mug from the computer desk, and sets off to the kitchen trailed by two feline shadows.

James watches him go until he’s certain Q isn’t going to trip over his own feet or one of his mythological monsters, before his attention falls to the mobile in his hand. The conveniently unlocked mobile. Without a thought for common courtesy, James starts flipping through Q’s phone apps, looking for his communications with M.

The call log is sparse, with no numbers James recognizes and no calls lasting longer than five minutes. The standard messaging apps only show messages from local delivery services. Even his Grindr account, while revealing an extensive usage history, shows all chats ceased a month ago, and he’s been inactive ever since.

After a further minute of poking, James finds a more discreet messaging app with personal conversations. No sign of M there either, and the only conversation from the last two years is with someone named Rahj, their text history going back at least four years. Rahj’s most recent message is a week old, inviting Q to be a groomsman in his wedding next spring in Chicago “assuming you can get over your crippling fear of flying. Seriously dude I will fly over there and knock you out and carry you on the plane myself if it’ll help. Kelly will be there you have to come.” Q hasn’t responded to the invitation.

From the kitchen, James hears an electric kettle boiling, accompanied by the low murmur of Q talking to his cats.

Judging by the evidence in his hands, Q is extremely isolated. Whether by personal preference or because of Q’s present involvement with MI6, James can’t begin to guess. A pang of sympathy affects him deeply enough to restore the phone to its previous display and toss it onto the empty side of the couch before his curiosity for Q’s history with M is satisfied.

Unsettled by a feeling uncomfortably akin to guilt, James takes up Q’s glass and finishes the last swallow himself.

Crutches do no good when no one’s using them.

Chapter Text

James is just turning the chicken thighs when he hears the front door open and Q groan his name loudly.

A moment later, Q frowns in the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing here? I thought you were done breaking into my flat.”

“I knocked,” James demurs.

Q points at the mobile clutched in one fist. “I told you I wouldn’t be home ‘til 7. You knew that, but you picked the locks anyway.”

“I was hungry,” James says. The rich scent of searing meat has only increased his appetite. James doesn’t much feel like justifying himself, regardless. Not after an exhausting two-and-a-half days on a train from Voronezh to Cologne, keeping his kidnapped target sedated and undiscovered.

“I see that,” Q says, and his glare shifts from James to the pan of browning chicken. “Is something wrong with your own kitchen?”

James shrugs. As far as he knows, his kitchen is fine—it’s his lack of free time that’s the problem. He’ll likely be sent out again in a day or two; his only chance to check-in with the boffin’s progress is tonight. And after eating nothing but protein bars for the past few days, he craves a home-cooked meal. James was mid-shop when he decided to combine the two activities, and Q’s text about his late commute wasn’t enough to deter him.

The two cats waiting at their empty food bowls finally deign to greet their owner, looping around Q’s ankles for scritches. Q’s annoyance deflates, and he slings his laptop bag to the carpet and crouches down to pet them. James smiles and doesn’t rise to the bait as Q complains to his cats about obnoxious spies making messes in other people’s homes.

Q stands up again and rests against the door frame as he eyes the dinner preparations dubiously. No doubt he would prefer more of his ‘usual.’ James shudders; he can’t imagine living off steak and kidney pies from Gregg’s and Pot Noodle…and judging by Q’s empty hands, he’d planned on another ramen night.

The horror.

The sizzle in the pan changes slightly, and James presses down on the larger thigh to check the firmness before removing both to a waiting plate. He tents the plate with foil, thinking about Q’s empty cupboards, and draws a troubling conclusion. “Do you not know how to cook? At all?”

“I’ve never seen the point in learning. I have better uses for my time, and there’s this wonderful modern invention called takeaway. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

James tsks. “Shall I give you a quick lesson, then? Since I’m already messing up your kitchen, and you’re just standing there.”

“And subject myself to your criticism? Oh joy, just what I want after a shift spent repairing your broken equipment. That tie pin camera wasn’t designed for full immersion—what did you do, wear it in the bath?”

James scoops up the minced shallots with the flat of a newly purchased chef’s knife and drops them in the hot pan. (Q didn’t even own a real knife before James’s shop, for god’s sake.) Despite his claims of disinterest, the sizzle draws Q’s attention. When James looks over, he catches Q focused on James’s forearms in rolled-up sleeves as he shakes the pan.

Q’s carnal interest doesn’t grate against James’s nerves tonight…not like it did a week ago. Pleased to be free of that terrible night in France, James can’t help teasing Q a bit.

“You’ll see much better from in here.”

Q meets his eyes and pulls back, a tensing in his body conveying…guilt? Apprehension?

A theory percolates at the back of James’s mind, and he lets it take shape as he cuts thick slices off the loaf of fresh baked bread. The last two times he visited the boffin, Q let him in, cracking the door and then hastily clearing the foyer to make space for James to enter. That last night before his mission to Russia, they nearly collided outside the bathroom, where Q orbited around James with his hands up, as though wary. James ascribed these moments of physical awkwardness to an overabundance of politeness.

But his eyes fall to the two cats waiting at their food bowls once more, then to Q making no move to feed them, and James doesn’t know what their feeding schedule is…but he has the sinking feeling that Q isn’t pushing his way into the tiny kitchen because he mistrusts James on a physical level. It’s been two weeks since James stepped to him with menace in his fists and a threat in his words. Surely Q isn’t still afraid of him?

Determined to rectify the situation, James clears his throat and tips his head toward the shallots sautéing merrily in oil. “I could use a hand, actually. Grab the spatula and give those a stir before they burn.”

“Me? No, I—”

“Come on, Q. I promise: no lessons, just stirring. Unless you’d like both of our dinners to go to ruin?”

Q hesitates for a moment before quickly stepping behind James, as though he might lose his nerve if he dawdles. James taps the wooden spatula set out for the purpose, and Q takes it to poke at the shallots a few times.

“Scrape along the bottom. Just keep everything moving so nothing sticks.”

“Well if that’s all,” Q snips, masking his anxiety with prickliness.

James smiles to himself as he drizzles olive oil over the bread slices. The kitchen is narrow enough that Q can’t escape without James’s permission; he’s trapped in James’s space now. Some prolonged exposure will soon demonstrate that Q is perfectly safe in James’s company.

Scylla brushes against their ankles, yowling to be fed. James obliges, tearing off a bit of chicken thigh and crouching down to offer it in his fingers. She sniffs it, accepts it daintily, and begs for more.

“What did you give her?” Q asks, noticing too late.

“She likes chicken,” James says approvingly. He stands to pull off another bit of meat, and Scylla rises to her hind legs, her front paws braced on his knee.

“Are you bribing my cats to like you?”

“Just the one so far.” Scylla snatches the second bite of chicken from James’s hand with greedy fangs, and Charybdis ventures closer, summoned by her sister’s excitement. “Ah, here’s the shy lady.”

“You’ll spoil their dinner,” Q says, but he sounds amused watching James dole out treats to his little monsters. “The way you disrupt routines left, right, and center, I see why Boothroyd calls you an agent of chaos.”

“We all deserve a bit of spoiling from time to time, cats and boffins included.”

Q rolls his eyes.

“Speaking of which, would you like to hear your good news now, or later?”

“What good news?” Q asks.

“That we’ve finished with Noyer’s clients. Five of the cases were handed off to other agencies to prosecute, and I’ve just tied up MI6’s last loose end.”

“Heinrich Jung?”

Technically, the mission is confidential…but since it wouldn’t have existed without Q’s intel, James feels no compunction sharing the details about the drug trafficker he’d just apprehended. “That’s the one. He made a run for it across the border into Russia. I caught up with him in Voronezh and delivered him to the Zollkriminalamt myself.”

Q hums thoughtfully, smiling to himself. “Did you know, Jung was the case that tipped me to Noyer in the first place?”

James didn’t. He waits for Q to continue and slips Charybdis a bit of chicken when she comes close enough.

“M brought me a case the Yard couldn’t crack; they were trying to shut down the flow of heroin entering through the Port of Dover. I found the customs irregularities that the Yard missed, which led me to Noyer, and I handed him over to M to squeeze for the supplier.” His lips twist into something rueful. “The squeezing was always her favorite part.”

Indeed it was. James remembers M’s relish for pressuring politicians and foreign intelligence operatives with precisely the right information and threats to make them bow to her will. The cunning light in her eyes, the hint of a dimple in her pursed frown, and the spring in her step when she got her way…. Occasionally her satisfaction would spill over onto James, rewarding him for delivering potent ammunition with a nod and a warm dismissal. She, more than anyone else, showed James the truth in the adage that knowledge is power.

Mallory shares a similar ethos.

When James delivered Q’s data package on Noyer’s clients, Mallory looked at James like he was St. Nick himself—while Tanner looked like he’d been slapped with a wet mackerel as he confirmed that it fit the parameters of M’s anonymous sources. James saw the moment it dawned on Mallory that he, too, could wield the same power Olivia Mansfield had so closely guarded. The man wasn’t subtle about it, grilling James for the source’s name with a clear eye to recruiting him or her.

James fended Mallory off with claims of ignorance—technically true—but it took Tanner stepping in and arguing that the source had surely violated innumerable laws for Mallory to back down. As Tanner pointed out, even Olivia Mansfield knew better than to bring such a potentially radioactive source in-house. (James smugly declined to mention that this particular source was already in-house.) Tanner’s warning was enough to temper Mallory’s greed, but the director asked James to pass along his thanks and encouragement should the source ever make contact again.

The meeting proved a helpful reminder of how valuable an asset Q could be to MI6…or to anyone. James has no idea what Q intends to do after he’s achieved his vengeance—Q would surely say it’s none of James’s business. But James will keep his word to Mallory and pass on the invitation to contact MI6 if Q is ever in want of some anonymous justice. Eventually. After Silva is dead.

“Thank you for finishing it. It means a lot to me, to know that case is closed,” Q says with sincerity.

Q’s gratitude, freely shared, is a soothing stroke along his flank. James has always been more of a dog-person than a cat-person, but he rubs Charybdis’s cheek to conceal his pleasure. “The world’s a better place with one less heroin distributor in it.”

While Q is in such a good mood, James tests the waters by leaning in close to pour chicken stock and a generous splash of wine into the pan. Q doesn’t shy away from him, but he holds perfectly still, not even breathing until James withdraws. So much for setting him at ease. It seems more than proximity is needed to convince him.

The quickest way to get trust would be to give it. James weighs his personal loyalty to Felix against the possibility of Q exposing the information down the line…or the small but nagging possibility that Q will take James’s intel and chase down Silva on his own, cutting James out completely. It’s a complicated equation, but James can’t deny the overall positive impression of Q he’s formed so far.

“That isn’t the only good news,” James says, decision made. “Keep stirring, by the way.” If the Noyer case was enough to make the hacker smile, James suspects this Silva lead will have Q eating out of his hands much like the cats pressed so adoringly to his shins.

“What else?” Q asks, even more excited.

“I have another Silva lead for you.”

Q fumbles the utensil. No wonder—Q’s been even more frustrated than James with the holding pattern they’ve been stuck in, waiting for Q’s algorithms to dig up matches from the world’s flow of information. A needle in a haystack with too little data to properly define the search. “What is it?” he demands.

“This is confidential—only a select few people in the world know about this, and it has to remain that way.”

Q draws himself up, affronted. “Who am I going to tell, James?”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, whatever dark web of hackers you’re tapped into, this isn’t for them.”

“Don’t be coy. Out with it!”

James smirks and watches from the corner of his eye as he says, “Silva is responsible for the Ameri-Space rocket explosion last winter.”

Q’s lips slacken, and his stirring slows to nothing; James has come to recognize the signs that Q’s genius brain is running ahead of him. “Source of the information?”

“I won’t give you that.”

Q nods. “Fair enough. What’s the proof?” His flat, serious tone reminds James of Tanner’s debriefs. Facts only, and quick as you can.

“Silva tried to extort the corporation; the payment account was the same one used by the Iraklidis separatist group. When Ameri-Space didn’t pay, Silva sabotaged the launch.”

“How was the contact made?”

“I don’t have those details.”

“Most likely an email to the CEO or board. I’ll track it down,” Q says confidently. “What was the method of sabotage?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t think that’s been determined yet, or it would’ve been in the news.”

Q blinks rapidly, awareness returning to the room and the simmering shallots. He gives them a brisk stir. “This is incredible. If it’s true, it opens up a whole new set of data points. Are you certain it’s for real?”

“I trust my source,” James says. “And I’m trusting you to keep it confidential. I haven’t even shared this with MI6.”

“Really?” He meets James’s eyes, clearly surprised. “But you’re giving it to me.”

James shrugs. “I trust you,” he says, putting a bow on it so his intentions can’t be missed.

Q beams at him, dimples radiating his happiness even as his body starts to fidget with the need to start working. “I have to update the search criteria. And once I find the original communication, I can narrow down possible server locations—” He thrusts the spatula at James’s hand, babbling tech-speak and squeezing past him, impatiently nudging James’s lower back for space, and James—

He doesn’t think, he just—

It’s—

He’s—

It takes two rapid breaths to realize he’s got Q pinned against the cupboards by a forearm to the throat, spatula in James’s clenched fist poised to stab if Q moves a single muscle.

Q gapes, eyes wide with terror, but not resisting…because he was never a threat—no training, considerably weaker than James, and James knows him, James trusts him not to launch an attack, Q isn’t some stranger—and still that irrational fear took hold. He nearly took Q’s head off, and James doesn’t understand why, but he can’t spare a moment to puzzle it out, not when the most important thing right now is the desperate need to take it back.

Hot shame replaces fear, so thick it threatens to choke him. “I’m sorry,” James says, dropping the spatula. “Q, are you—”

“No, no,” Q blurts as soon as James’s forearm leaves his throat, inhalations shaky, but not coughing, not damaged. “I’m sorry, I never should’ve touched you, I didn’t—I didn’t think. It’s my fault I—”

James hovers in front of him, not sure whether it’s safe to touch Q or not. He should back away, but Q looks undone in a way James can’t interpret, trembling and like he’s going to be sick. He seems to shrink himself against the cupboards, face tipping down and hands wrapped around himself. If James gives Q space now, Q might run for the door before James can fix the trust he’s just broken.

And James deserves nothing less, for what he’s just done.

“Q,” he tries again, forcing himself to inch backward as far as the narrow kitchen will allow, “did I hurt you?”

“No!” Q quakes all over, fingers digging into his hideous cardigan. “Not like I hurt you, I…I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” James growls, and he hates that he sounds angry, but he is, he’s bloody furious that he lashed out like that. It’s a level of betrayal he never expected from his own body…except for how it’s been happening for weeks now.

“I did this,” Q whispers. “When I assaulted you in Malaysia. And I knew not to touch you again, I knew it, but I did it anyway, and it’s my fault for making you relive what—”

“Shut up!” James snaps, and Q obeys with a gasp. James tries not to acknowledge what Q just said—not to feel the memories he pushed away crowding in around him, the way the skin on his back crawls with the anticipation of pain. More gently, he says, “You didn’t hurt me.”

Q shakes his head. “I did. I touched you just like they did, and you hated it; I saw it. And I told myself I could make it okay by never touching you again, but I was careless, and I’ve seen how you are, you don’t let anyone stand behind you, and that’s where I touched you. I’m so sorry, I don’t have the right to touch you, not ever.”

Of all the stupid notions to fixate on—

“Listen to me,” James says, his hand falling heavily on Q’s shoulder and squeezing to get his attention. Q cringes away from him—god, James feels like a monster, but he presses on. “Listen. You didn’t hurt me in Malaysia. It was a fucking hand job. It was nothing like what everyone else did.”

For starters, Q declined the proffered switchblade. James feels another cold prickle of adrenaline at the array of memories associated with Walliams’s knife. No, focus.

“I have issues, I know that. But they’re…they aren’t because of you. You didn’t do this to me. And no matter how you touched me, or where, or when, that’s no excuse for me attacking you. I’m sorry. Do you hear me? It’s not your fault; it’s mine. You did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong, Q.”

Q keeps shaking his head, patently not hearing him. James brings his other hand up to ruffle Q’s hair, to try to distract the man if he can’t convince him. But Q flinches again, and James can’t fix this right now, it’s impossible, he just needs space—they both need space.

“Look, forget about it. You’ve got a new lead to work on: Ameri-Space. To find Silva. That’s what matters. Why don’t you go get started? You were headed that way anyway, right?”

“R- right,” Q says, risking a glance up. James tries to offer a kind smile, but it doesn’t change the hollowed out look in Q’s reddened eyes, the green of his irises bright with unshed tears. “I’ll go…follow that lead.”

“And I’ll finish getting our dinner ready,” James agrees. “Go on.” He removes his hand from Q’s person and watches as Q slinks out of the kitchen, shoulders hunched and head ducked as he scoops up his laptop bag.

The cats must’ve fled the kitchen when James attacked, likely gone to hide under the furniture again. James leans against the counter in the empty kitchen and rubs his hands over his face, not knowing how to begin dealing with this. He’s done everything wrong: misread Q’s avoidance of James’s personal space; misread his own PTSD trigger; and lost control when Q’s guard was down. And all the while, mistrust was never Q’s issue—at least it wasn’t before James lashed out like a wounded animal.

Vanessa. Emiliana. It’s a miracle he didn’t turn on them like he just did Q—and for what? A simple touch to his back, per Q’s diagnosis. He hates that it's not a bad hypothesis. But if that’s the case, it’s only a matter of time before James inadvertently hurts or kills someone, enemy or civilian. If he can’t get it together, he’ll be benched or incarcerated. Christ, he needs something stronger than pinot grigio in his glass before he can deal with that prospect. And getting drunk would be a phenomenally bad idea when Q’s in the other room, trust shattered and flagellating himself over…nothing.

He’d no idea Q was still carrying that memory around with him, or that it could trouble Q so much. How did an inadvertent touch in a kitchen in London turn into an apology for a rough tickle halfway around the world? Because that’s all it was to James—a touch barely worth noting compared to the months of violations and degradations that preceded it. James hasn’t thought of it once since his escape. (He hasn’t let himself think about any of it.)

His stomach twists at the prospect of opening that particular door now. But how bad could it be? It was just Q, after all, saving his life. Nothing to be afraid of, even as the phantom scent of lilies creeps up on him.

It starts the same as every session, helplessness and resignation roiling in his gut, fury at his body being used so some sick fuck can play at dominance. But James isn’t trapped in that room anymore; he’s in London. He’s free.

And looking back, he can recognize the fear that underlaid Q’s posh affectations, the apology in Q’s impersonal—not dehumanizing—handling of James’s body. At the time it had felt unbearable, but with his new knowledge of Q, it was actually…lovely. Inconceivably brave, and clever, and gentle. One of the rare sessions without pain, aside from the ever-present tension in James’s sore muscles and the bite of the chains on abused skin. Only soft-skinned fingers that held him firmly and coaxed pleasure out of his exhausted and defiant body.

James shivers, feeling an unexpected stirring at the memory of Q’s hands on him, Q’s pink lips parting as he looked up from his knees. In another time, another place, he would trust Q to do it again. But next time, James wouldn’t want it to be impersonal. He’d want Q pressed fully against him, face turned up where James could kiss him, could bury his fingers in Q’s dark curls….

The frenzied bubbling of the reduced sauce draws James’s attention, and he quickly adds the cream and mustard to the pan before the sauce burns. He rescues the spatula from the floor and gives it a wash, and adds the bread to the tray of roasting potatoes in the oven to toast while he’s at it. He did promise Q a proper meal, after all, and getting dinner on the table as though nothing happened can only help convince Q that James doesn’t hold a grudge.

The front door hinges haven’t squeaked, which means Q’s still in the flat—James hasn’t driven him away. Hopefully Q’s sitting down with his computer screens, earphones blocking out the world and any intrusive thoughts. Because Q blaming himself, when Q did everything right in the slave house, is intolerable.

James understands trauma firsthand; he knows how important it is to push through it before it develops into a permanent block. As he stirs the sauce, a plan begins to take shape.

Q still looks at James with hunger, for all that he’s avoided physical contact between them. Q just needs to get over this foolish idea that he somehow abused James. And James has an idea how to accomplish that…in a way they’ll both find enjoyable.

And if James wins Q’s loyalty in the process, well, loyalty is a prize even more valuable than trust.

Chapter Text

The next evening instead of breaking in, James texts in advance and waits for Q to open the door for him. When Q backs out of the hall, avoiding James’s space, James doesn’t comment on Q’s averted gaze.

Of the two of them, James should be the shame-faced one, returning to the scene of his crime as though nothing happened.

Last night’s dinner was a symphony of silences, both of them too tense to enjoy the meal. Q rushed through his dinner, shoveling food in his mouth every time James tried to apologize. Even the mildest observations on the wine and the weather were barely acknowledged, until James gave up on conversation entirely. The instant Q’s plate was empty, he darted off to feed his cats, and James only entered the kitchen to clean up once Q was safely back at his computer. The cats watched James suspiciously before diving back into their bowls and eating as voraciously as their owner. Settling for begrudging tolerance—for the time being—James saw to the dishes and then showed himself out, leaving Q and his cats in peace.

Determined to step more cautiously tonight, James heads for the couch, where a stationary position will make him appear less threatening.

Q offers James something to drink, and James accepts a glass of water—set down on the coffee table instead of handed to him. Scylla’s greeting is more affectionate, winding around James’s ankles before hopping onto her window ledge. Q settles into his computer chair, his back turned to James without so much as a glance over his shoulder, seemingly fearless.

It appears they’re both trying to signal a détente.

Relieved, James skips past the apologies they’re neither of them willing to hear and gets right to business. “You said you’ve made some progress?”

“Some,” Q says to his screens. “Mostly sorting the wheat from the chaff. Finding the extortion email was the easy part, as well as the cache of internal communications the board tried to delete after the explosion. As if any forensic analyst could miss the holes in the data,” he scoffs, the faint sneer in his voice a reassuring echo of his usual sarcasm.

“I didn’t know you were a forensic analyst.”

“I could be, if I fancied death-by-boredom,” Q says, collapsing windows and shuffling the displays across monitors. “And the board’s messages are all irrelevant to our purposes, not to mention deeply boring. The extortion email’s origins proved more interesting. After ping-backs from two-dozen countries and thousands of networks, I hit a dead end this morning. The trace ends in a loop, bouncing back and forth between servers in Melbourne and Reykjavik. It’s been cycling between the two all day.” Q runs a hand through his hair, tugging as he huffs, “And I can’t tell how he pulled that off, which is very annoying.”

“But Silva’s at one of those two locations?” James clarifies. That doesn’t sound like a dead end to him.

Q snorts. “He’s at neither. It’s obviously a false trail to cover his tracks.”

“You’re certain?”

“Believe me, I wish I weren’t; my tracer program should have nailed him down in minutes. Instead, I’ve hit a wall. I could let the trace keep cycling for another few hours, but it’s just a waste of processing power at this point.” He gestures at one of the top monitors before dropping his arm and rotating the shoulder joint a few times. “Whoever’s handling his digital security is damn good at their job.”

James frowns but takes Q’s word for it. “Then I won’t be booking a ticket for Iceland or Australia tonight.”

“Not on my say so, no. But…that wasn’t the only interesting email.” Q turns sideways in his chair, meeting James’s eyes for the first time to give him a sly smile. “Tell me, how is your friend at the CIA doing?”

“He’s fine,” James says, unruffled by Q’s needle-sharp deduction. Q finding evidence of Ameri-Space’s cooperation with the CIA was a foregone conclusion when James shared this lead…and it’s no great stretch to assume James was tipped off by someone at the CIA.

Q smirks and turns back to his keyboard. “He’s also not as far along in his investigation as I’d hoped.”

One of the screens switches to a pale blue portal with an eagle insignia that sends prickles down James’s spine. “Is that what I think it is?”

“That depends. Do you think it’s the system admin view of the servers at Langley?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s what you think it is.”

What was it Tanner had called Q the other day? Radioactive. “I confess, I’m a bit alarmed that you’re hacking our allies.”

“Oh, that’s nothing new. I built this particular back door for M years ago.”

For M. It’s both reassuring and troubling in a way James doesn’t care to examine. “Just how many government agencies have you hacked?”

“Ours or theirs?” Q parries, before flailing a hand to wave away James’s unease. “Don’t worry; I’m not some techno-anarchist out to wreak indiscriminate havoc. I haven’t hacked a British institution in years—not without M’s explicit authorization.”

“That fascinating caveat aside, you’re saying it’s only the rest of the world that you keep on a string?”

Q turns again, gaze flinty. “I’m not the threat here,” he snaps. “Silva is.”

James could point out that M’s authorizations surely expired with her death, and that Q’s recent infiltration of MI6 (both digital and physical) would be interpreted as a threat by any reasonable person. But most of Q’s meddling in MI6’s systems has been for James’s benefit…and killing Silva is the priority. If Q’s hacking is done in service of that common goal, James’s concerns are assuaged.

“I don’t really give a shit what treaties you violate to find the bastard,” James says honestly. “What information does the CIA have?”

“Are you sure about that?” Q asks, almost under his breath, as he studies James for an odd moment. James nods—which seems to satisfy the hacker. Q returns to his keyboard and says, “They have almost nothing. They haven’t even identified the cause of the explosion.”

“I thought we knew who caused it.”

“We know who wanted it to explode, but not how he accomplished it. And the ‘how’ is going to lead us to him.”

“Explain.”

Q shrugs, then flinches, his right hand flying up to push at the side of his neck as he rocks his head like he’s trying to work out a crick. “The CIA’s entire investigation is based on the assumption that Silva caused the explosion, but they haven’t dug into the mechanics of it. Which, granted, the CIA doesn’t have the expertise for that kind of analysis anyway. But they have ruled out the presence of foreign explosive materials, which means no bomb.”

“Those rockets are plenty combustible on their own,” James agrees. “Why bother smuggling in Semtex if you don’t have to?”

“Exactly. Which leaves sabotage. There were only two ways to make that rocket self-destruct—software or hardware—and figuring out the how will tell us whether Silva snuck onto their property, or into their system, or both. And that’s a lead I can trace.”

Two monitors shift to display strings of code racing past too quickly for James to read. Q beckons James closer, sitting forward to peer at his screens.

James obediently stands and takes a few steps forward, easing into Q’s peripheral vision so he won’t startle the young man.

“These are Ameri-Space’s launch system logs from immediately before and at the moment of the explosion. I’ve been looking for anomalies in the code or aberrations in the real-time readings from the previous launch and subsequent simulations.”

“Found anything yet?”

What he meant as a simple yes/no question results in a torrent of technical terms that James doesn’t have a prayer of translating, but he doesn’t interrupt. Q works quickly, narrating the finer points of timing differentials and propellant particle velocity as he scours the data. Gradually Q’s words trail off into murmurs and then vague hums, too absorbed in his work to recall James’s presence, and his hyperfocus affords James the opportunity to observe him more freely.

Behind the blue reflection on his lenses, Q’s eyes flick between screens, framed by long black lashes. His cheeks are faintly darkened by evening stubble, heightening the contrast with his pale cheekbones. His fingers span the breadth of the keys gracefully, his shallow breathing indicating a state of deep flow. Q will likely lose himself in his work for hours, James realizes, and he zeros in on the man’s abysmal posture, the occasional flex of his neck to the side, the slight moue of discomfort.

What good is an ergonomic chair if the man’s going to spend his time hunched over a keyboard, spine rounded, head tipped back to see the higher screens? It would be a crime to let Q keep hurting his back this way, James reasons, even as he sees an opportunity.

James shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch before returning to stand behind Q. When his hand brushes Q’s shoulder, Q jerks away from his screens, blinking up at James as though surprised to find him still in the flat.

“What’re you—” Q says, shifting his weight forward as though to stand.

“Steady, Q,” James murmurs, placing both hands on Q’s shoulders. He presses lightly, a suggestion for Q to remain seated. “Just getting a better view.”

Q bats at James’s hands, but the second his fingers touch James’s bare skin, they jerk away as though scalded. His slouch is long gone, his back rigid even as he twists his neck to try to see James behind him. “Sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Steady. I’m fine,” James assures him, squeezing to cut off the apology. When Q stills, James takes a moment to enjoy the soft give of Q’s flesh under his hands, the slim span of his back, the sleek line of muscles over his shoulders. “But you’ll strain your neck, leaning forward like that.”

Q takes a deep breath, his shoulders pressing up into James grip. “It’s nothing I haven’t done a dozen times; I’m used to it.”

“I’m sure. But humor me and sit properly for a mo’.”

Cautiously, Q leans back into James’s space until his spine meets the lumbar support of the chair. “There, happy?”

“Delirious,” James purrs, and feels the faintest tremble through his fingers. “Now, why don’t you continue telling me about the mixing process for the oxidizer and fuel while I take care of that knot in your shoulder.”

“What knot?”

James lets his right thumb sweep lower and press slightly, and Q flinches.

“Right! Um, no thank you, I don’t need a massage.”

“I’m sure you can manage well enough on your own,” James allows, “but I find myself at loose ends, seeing as you’re the only one of us making any progress right now. I’d like to contribute something to the endeavor. So if you don’t mind….”

Q’s neck flushes red, the man obviously flustered by James’s proposition. James knows he’s pushing well past Q’s comfort zone, but it’s for a good cause; if James is going to get Q over his misplaced guilt, addressing Q’s touch aversion seems the most expedient route.

“Really, Q, the least I can do is keep my terrifically productive partner from hurting himself. You’ve done hours of research already and have hours still to go.” James runs his thumbs in slow, persuasive circles over the points of Q’s shoulder blades. “Let me help you.”

Q clears his throat. “Well. I suppose. If you insist,” he says, overly enunciating to compensate for his discomfort.

“Thank you,” James says winsomely and sets to warming up the tense muscles with broad strokes. “You were saying?”

It takes Q a few false starts to get his monologue back up to speed; James would be flattered if he didn’t know what kind of self-loathing thoughts were likely tripping Q up. James splits his attention between Q’s explanations and the body in front of him.

The man’s neck and shoulders are so locked up James soon discards his plan of a deep-tissue massage; he wants to soothe Q, not torture him. He keeps his touches light, focusing on surface-level stimulation, warming the top layers of muscle in the hope they’ll release on their own. When his fingertips glide above Q’s collar to sweep across bare skin, Q sucks in a loud breath. His skin is hot, still flushed with mortification, but he doesn’t protest the brush of James’s fingers—a promising start.

Gradually James shifts his attention higher, following the trapezius up the back of Q’s neck to rub at the base of Q’s skull, where Q’s hair brushes silkily against his knuckles. Q leans back into the pressure, squirming slightly, but James catches a wince in Q’s next inhalation and eases off, not wanting to spark a headache.

His thumbs glide forward to massage just below Q’s ears while his palms cup the sides of Q’s neck, applying gentle heat to the stiff muscles there. Q’s Adam’s apple bumps against James’s index finger when he swallows, the life under his hands almost painfully vulnerable, so easy to snuff out—

And for a moment it’s no longer Q’s neck in his grip, but a foreign contact named Fisher, his shaggy brown curls matted with blood and sweat. The scents of tobacco and piss clog James’s nostrils as he grabs Fisher by the neck, hauls him to his feet, and drags him to the overflowing sink. James’s left hand clenches brutally tight on the back of Fisher’s neck, fingernails digging into muscle and tendons as he bears his weight down to crush the man’s throat against porcelain and force Fisher’s head under the water—

But there’s no running tap in this room, no elbow jabbing his ribs to break his hold, and James allows the flashback to fade away until only the gut-wrenching desperation of that first kill lingers as he refocuses on his present. Where it’s only Q in front of him, and James’s hands still loose around Q’s neck, thumbs rubbing at the stubbled corners of Q’s jaw. Q’s pulse thrums evenly under his fingers, slightly elevated but not racing with the need to fight, to survive. When James concentrates, he can pick out the herbal scent of Q’s shampoo and stale tea from the mug beside him.

Not blood. Not sweat. Not fear.

“Good, Q,” James breathes, exhaling adrenaline and heartfelt relief that he hasn’t scared Q again.

“And it’ll take…about…” Q’s monologue trails off, thoughts interrupted by James’s comment. He takes a few shuddering breaths and lifts his hands away from the keyboard, one gesturing at the work in front of him. “You’re right. I have hours more code to go through, as you pointed out. And if I can’t figure it out from the code, I have the rocket schematics to analyze tomorrow. And that’s all the update I can give you tonight.”

James ignores the implied dismissal. “Are you a rocket scientist, Q?” he teases.

“Among many other things,” Q sighs.

Q’s posture is still locked with tension, but when James leans to the side to check his expression, he finds Q’s eyes closed and lips parted slightly. There’s no denying that Q wants his touch, even though he’s still conflicted about accepting it. After what James did last night, Q’s willingness to close his eyes while under James’s hands is borderline miraculous—a miracle James doesn’t want to cut short. If anything, it makes him determined to push harder.

He slides his hands lower to rhythmically squeeze Q’s upper arms through his t-shirt, pinky fingers glancing off of skin. “Of course you are,” James says. “I’m not sure there’s anything you couldn’t do.” He leans in close to murmur in Q’s ear, “Besides cook.”

Q’s faded blush reignites, and he ducks his head, squirming again. “With the right motivation to apply myself, I’m sure I’d make an exemplary cook,” Q mumbles.

And with the right application of compliments and touches, James suspects he could unlock all of the secrets Q’s keeping bottled up.

But time isn’t on James’s side tonight.

His mobile buzzes behind him, and James reluctantly pulls his hands away from smooth skin and threadbare cotton. He turns to find an all-black cat crouched on his jacket, nosing at the source of the vibrations. “Miss Carrie, if you don’t mind,” he says, and nudges her head aside to reach his phone.

Q swivels his chair around to observe, wisely not twisting his neck about and undoing what little good James has done him.

“Bond,” James answers.

“It’s Moneypenny,” Mallory’s secretary says, accompanied by the sound of a car door closing. “We have a top priority mission for you; you’re booked on a commercial flight to São Paulo at 10 o’clock, out of Heathrow. I’m on my way to pick you up with your mission packet and kit.”

James’s posture straightens unconsciously as his mind switches into mission-mode. He checks his watch—not enough time to swing by home for any luggage, so the go-bag in his boot will have to suffice—before it occurs to him where he is: a confidential location he can’t risk MI6 learning about prematurely. “I’m not at home,” he says, calculating an alibi.

“Where are you?”

“Slough,” he lies.

Moneypenny makes a noise of disbelief as her engine turns over. “What the hell are you doing in Slough?”

“That’s none of your business,” he says curtly. “Just tell me the airline, and I’ll meet you in the lounge.”

She grumbles but accedes to his plan, and James rings off to make his apologies to Q.

“Off to save the world, then?” Q asks.

“Needs must, I’m afraid. Thank you for such an…informative evening.”

Q shrugs, the motion unhindered by pain. “Carrie dear, get off,” he orders.

Charybdis stretches leisurely, arching her back and extending her claws in a fashion that threatens the integrity of the jacket’s tailoring. James scoops her up and drops her on the couch cushions, where she lands with a surprised meow and a shake of her tail. “Sorry, love, no time for pleasantries,” he says, already striding toward the door, jacket over his arm.

“Stay safe out there,” Q calls, and James looks back to see a small smile on Q’s face as he pulls the door shut behind himself. That friendly look buoys him all the way down the stairs and out the front door.

Text if you find anything promising, James texts Q on his walk to the car. As he tucks the mobile away, his palms tingle with the sense memory of Q’s warm skin and the beat of his pulse safe under James’s hands.

He shakes the feeling away and redirects his attention to beating Moneypenny to the airport.

~

The Concorde Room is nearly empty when James orders a martini at the bar. Soundproof walls block out the chaotic noise of the airport terminal, and soft jazz and plush carpeting muffle the conversation of the few remaining travelers in the lounge as it nears closing time.

Moneypenny’s stiletto heel strikes the marble floor, alerting him that she’s arrived, and only a few minutes behind him.

The bartender slides James his drink as she takes the seat next to him.

“Good evening, Moneypenny. How was security?”

She grabs James’s drink and takes a large swallow before he can pick it up. “I had to use my credentials to get through. There’ll be hell to pay tomorrow,” she hisses.

He takes his glass back with an amused eyebrow twitch. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink of your own?”

“Stow it, Bond. Here’s your packet and kit.” She slides a briefcase into his lap and looks around the bar, ensuring no one is within ten feet before continuing. “One of Station V.H.’s couriers was found dead six hours ago. The package he was conveying is missing. We need it back before it falls into the wrong hands.”

James sips his martini before discreetly opening the briefcase and extracting the manila envelope just below bar-level. “Any idea who took it?”

He slides out the documents, topped by two photos. Moneypenny taps the first one. “Gina Castillo. A known operator, no permanent affiliations. MI6 has had a few run-ins with her over the years. The courier was last seen with her at a restaurant twenty hours ago.”

In the candid photo, Ms. Castillo stands on a sidewalk, a pink sundress strap slipping off her shoulder as she reaches to open a car door. Dark wavy hair that fades to blonde around her shoulders; cosmetically enhanced cleavage; tanned legs sporting rose-vine tattoos—“Easy on the eyes,” he notes.

“And deadly to boot. She’s just your type,” Moneypenny says with a presumptuous smile that aims for teasing but lands like an insult. It’s plain how she expects James to approach this mission.

He masks the hit with a smarmy leer and an overly friendly survey of Moneypenny’s figure. “Oh? Is MI6’s secretarial pool known for its lethality?”

She smirks and leans close, a quip about to cross her lips…before she shakes her head and pulls back with a sigh. “Your flight’s already boarding. Remember: the mission is to retrieve the package and deliver it to Station V.H. as quickly as possible. So keep your dalliance short this time.”

“I’d hate to disappoint a lady,” he says with a provocative smile and shuts the briefcase.

“The mission, Bond.”

James finishes his martini with a gulp, tips his head to her, and turns to leave. From the corner of his eye, he catches her reflection move in the bar mirror.

He whirls in time to intercept her hand, extended toward his back. “What!” he barks, grip punishingly tight around her fingers.

“Sorry,” she says, shocked by his aggression. “You had some animal hair on your jacket.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it.” He releases her hand and stalks out of the lounge, trying to ignore the cortisol spike in his blood and the shortness of breath at that near miss.

~

The overnight flight gets him to Station V.H. in São Paulo an hour before dawn, where Station Chief Phillips escorts James through security. The man’s grey stubble, red-rimmed eyes, and wrinkled shirt betray a sleepless night in the office. After his own ten-hour flight, James suspects they’re equally grateful for the cups of espresso an aide hands them on their way upstairs.

In Phillips’s corner office, they review the intel that Station V.H. gathered while James was crossing the Atlantic, starting with the CCTV footage of the courier’s date with Gina Castillo two nights ago—the last time Victor Olowe was seen alive. Their body language appears intimate, familiar—this wasn’t their first liaison. The luggage the courier stowed under their table means he came straight from the airport—a blatant deviation from protocol. Did Olowe get careless, or was this a prearranged hand-off?

The phone they recovered with Olowe’s body contains no trace of Castillo, but when compared to his last cloud backup three days prior, it’s easy to find the information she deleted before dropping the phone with his corpse. James analyzes the chat logs, contact information, and photos, all confirming his suspicion of a slow seduction, Castillo allowing the courier to pursue her after their initial meeting. She only became aggressive about their dates after the first couple weeks, and outright demanding once she learned he had left for the Middle East a week ago.

The phone number she used has been deactivated, and they don’t have any leads on her current location. James reaches out to a couple personal contacts in São Paulo and receives a text back from one agreeing to a meeting in two hours.

As the last order of business before releasing James to his hunt, Phillips reveals the details of the missing item—an object so top-secret it was redacted in James’s double-0 briefing packet. James examines the photo of the 22-inch titanium cylinder and finds himself agreeing with Mallory’s discretion; if the Jordanians learned that MI6 had sent 003 to steal the detonation mechanism from one of their experimental missiles, it would scuttle the safe-fly-zone negotiations Britain is trying to coordinate between the Jordanians and the Israelis. The fact that the cylinder’s top secret transport from MI6’s Tel Aviv office to the V.H. munitions lab was intercepted by an operative with unknown allegiance increases that risk by an order of magnitude.

James rises from his chair, Olowe’s apartment his first destination, but Phillips asks him to stay for another moment. James sinks back down to hear what other information he has.

Phillips’s fingers twitch at the edges of a photo that the courier and Castillo took together. His lips purse and slide fitfully as he collects himself for a long moment. “Victor was a good lad,” Phillips says finally, voice gone ragged with emotion. “He had such a promising career ahead of him. You have to understand, he’s never done anything like this; he always followed procedures perfectly. He was bright and cautious and eager—” his voice breaks, and when he glances up, his bloodshot eyes look ready to spill over.

James doesn’t know what to say. The sight of a station chief expressing grief so openly is inapposite and off putting. Instead of tugging James’s heart strings, Phillips’s display of weakness revolts him.

Phillips presses on, mistaking James’s silence for compassion. “Obviously, getting the detonation cylinder to our lab is the mission objective, and rightly so, but Victor deserves justice. You’re a double-0. I know you won’t let this woman get away with killing one of our own.”

James says, “I understand,” and takes his leave before Phillips’s blubbering gets worse.

The man’s overemotional display niggles at the back of James’s thoughts as he tosses Olowe’s flat, meets with a Cuban diplomatic attaché, and roughs up a couple drug dealers for a lead on Castillo. There was a time when James would have expected such a demonstrative show of grief from M for his sake, back when he was a newly recruited MI6 agent. She was warmer than any superior officer he’d ever had, and she didn’t hide her personal fondness for James. But that feeling of closeness soon evaporated. At the time, he tried to blame it on her new promotion to M, but really it was his own fault, always letting her down. His entire tenure as a double-0, he worked to earn that fondness back, and when it proved impossible, he settled for provoking her; her annoyance was better than cool indifference.

Just before sunset, James learns from one of her former lovers, a loose-lipped bookie, that Gina Castillo keeps an apartment somewhere in Salvador. James threatens to break the man’s kneecaps if he’s lying and calls Station V.H. to book him on a flight to the coast. Phillips does him one better, chartering a private jet that lands in Salvador in time for James to visit some of the clubs Castillo prefers.

It isn’t jealousy, James decides, as he makes his way down Rio Vermelho, showing Castillo’s picture to bouncers and bartenders. If Phillips wants vengeance for a colleague’s death, that’s his personal business, and no different than James’s own quest. James would be a hypocrite to begrudge the man that. But it’s the blubbering that doesn’t sit right.

He’s just struck out at the fifth club when his phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number.

call me

It isn’t the number Phillips has been using to leave increasingly anxious voice messages demanding updates on James’s progress. Messages which James has no intention of returning until he has something worth saying; he reports to Mallory, not Phillips. Perhaps the text came from one of his contacts back in São Paulo. Or Moneypenny pestering him about sleeping with the target…though he doubts she’s up and working at 4 a.m. London-time.

James does know someone else in London who would be up and working at this hour….

He considers calling Q from his MI6-issued phone, but if this text means what he hopes it does, caution is called for. A quick stop at a late-night market supplies a prepaid phone, and James leans against the brick wall under the shop’s neon sign, samba rhythms pounding from the bar to his right and electronica from the one on his left, as he dials the mysterious number.

~

After a few hours’ sleep in a hotel bed, James hits the streets of Salvador at dawn, this time visiting locations of Castillo’s favorite coffee chain—a local brand that popped up twice in Olowe’s photo roll, despite the courier having a known preference for tea. After a frustrating two hours, he pinpoints her neighborhood when a clerk in the Barra district identifies her as a regular and confirms serving her just an hour prior. James walks in the direction Castillo was seen heading in hopes of further inspiration. Luck is with him, as he passes a fitness center’s glass walls and spies a delicate green and red tattoo on a bare calf, climbing on a step machine.

Target acquired.

He circles the building to ensure there’s no rear exit she could use to slip away, then settles in to wait on a bus bench with a newspaper. His gaze is fixed on the rise and fall of that tattoo across the street, even as his thoughts drift ahead to the lead Q has provided, the suspect that needs interrogating. The sooner James can wrap this mission, the better—for Britain’s sake and for his own.

He’s thumbing idly through the entertainment section when she switches off the machine and starts toweling off. By the time she exits, he’s ducked behind a large SUV and has a prime view of Gina Castillo in the flesh: hair fixed in a messy bun atop her head, crop top sweat through, tanned arms shining in the morning sunlight, bosom heaving with her rapid breaths, chest flushed red from exertion. She’s the kind of lover who would look even more beautiful in the messy aftermath of sex.

James follows half-a-block behind as she makes her way to a low apartment building, the cement a faded coral with painted green window frames. He moves faster as she climbs the interior stairs, and he spots the door to her apartment closing as he exits onto the second-floor hallway.

He waits a few minutes, ears straining past the sounds of her neighbors moving about their own homes until he hears the groan of pipes overhead and the distant hiss of high-pressured water spray. With his target seemingly preoccupied, James folds back the stems of his TSS-issued sunglasses to access the concealed lock picks and sets to work invading her home.

A peek through the open bathroom door reveals Castillo’s curvaceous silhouette behind a shower curtain as she washes after her exercise. Instead of dragging her out and interrogating her immediately, James takes the opportunity to look around the flat. The one-bedroom unit doesn’t afford many hiding places. The fire safe concealed in a kitchen cupboard is too small to house the cylinder, so he doesn’t bother trying to open it. A minute later, he finds his prize stashed under a loose floorboard beneath the bed.

James examines the device closely for tool marks around the seam, but it appears she never got around to tampering with it. Did she even learn what the object was before she killed her mark? He could ask her, give her a sporting chance to distract him with her wiles long enough to put a knife in his back, like she’d done to Olowe. But there’s no need for an interrogation when the sole goal is retrieval, and he’s accomplished that. He can leave now and be halfway back to Station V.H. before she even realizes she’s been burgled…

…or he could stay just a little longer.

He glances toward the bathroom, where Castillo’s humming carries over the sounds of the shower, a pleasant, lilting tune. He pictures her generous hips swaying in the hot water, perspiration beading on her delectable upper lip, and how easy it would be to make it look like an accident: a broken neck from a slip on wet tile, quick and clean. It wouldn’t even delay his side-mission; no one would question it.

Assassination is his purview—even when it requires reading between the lines of official orders, or correctly interpreting the glint in M's eyes. Phillips’s fractured stoicism had been far less subtle, openly referencing his double-0 status with wet eyes, all but begging James to satisfy the station chief’s desire for vengeance. Phillips’s sentimentality was a cheap attempt at manipulation, and James’s compliance a foregone conclusion.

The same anger from his last conversation with Moneypenny settles in his gut, the bitter taste of being reduced to a honeypot and an assassin, as though all James is fit for is fucking and killing. Fuck Phillips and Moneypenny both for trying to tell James how to complete this mission. James only ever danced obediently for one woman’s strings, and neither of them could hold a candle to her.

No matter how many agents she lost, M’s chin never quivered, her eyes never watered. She was made of steel, unbending, unyielding, and Phillips isn’t half the station chief she was if he’s so quick to fall to pieces over a lowly courier. James may have a license to kill, but he isn’t here to do Phillips’s dirty work on her majesty’s time—or to fuck every attractive target in his path.

With a sneer, James slips the cylinder into a padded transport tube and leaves Castillo to her shower, his mission finished save for the flight to the V.H. munitions lab. He calls Phillips on his way to the charter plane to report the retrieval, and if he enjoys Phillips’s outrage at hearing Castillo still lives, James doesn’t rub the man’s nose in it more than strictly necessary.

Three hours later, with the detonation mechanism safely delivered to the engineers at the V.H. lab, James sends Tanner a terse mission-complete email. And then he pops the SIM card out of his MI6-issued mobile and heads to the commercial airport to catch a flight to America.

MI6 will have to do without him for a bit; he has his own vengeance to see to.

~

A couple connections later, he lands in Houston, Texas. With Q’s assurance that his quarry isn’t a flight-risk, James takes his time setting up his base of operations, procuring supplies for the next couple days and catching a solid night of sleep.

On a suffocatingly hot summer evening, James smashes out the side window of a flashy Mazda coupe idling at a traffic light. He opens the door, settles into the passenger seat, and grabs the terrified driver’s collar as the young man tries to flee out the opposite door.

Henry Branford, recent graduate from Rice University and more recently promoted from unpaid engineering intern to junior technician at Ameri-Space, has spots, wears obnoxious body spray, and pisses himself when James points his gun and orders Branford to drive out of town.

It took Q some digging to track down the cause of the rocket explosion—Q swore he didn’t further aggravate his stiff neck muscles when James teasingly asked. Once Q identified a misaligned heat-shielding panel as the explosion’s catalyst, he was able to narrow his pool of suspects to the four technicians who installed and maintained the panels prior to launch…and the intern who worked late one night, accessing the secure area using his boss’s misappropriated work badge hours after said boss’s vehicle had exited the parking garage for the evening. Branford did a passable job covering up his crime at the facility, but his discretion didn’t stretch into his personal spending habits. And where opportunity meets an expensive car lease and single-bedroom apartment otherwise unaffordable on such a meager salary, Q smelled a rat.

By the time they pull up under a copse of trees surrounded by barren scrubland for miles in every direction, Branford must realize that this isn’t a run-of-the-mill carjacking. The bargaining begins in earnest, offering the car and the wallet and the luxury watch and all the money in his checking account. Tellingly, he doesn’t offer the cryptocurrency account Silva set up for him as payment.

James ignores his pleading as he drags Branford into the small caravan he rented for the week. He doesn’t even have to say a word as he secures the young man to a chair; Branford’s already confessing, explaining how it isn’t terrorism, it’s a market correction, and it’s not like anyone was even hurt in the explosion. It was a victimless crime, the kid insists, sweating and shaking as James sits across from him at the dingy table.

While it isn’t the easiest interrogation James has ever conducted, it’s pretty close. It’s quickly apparent that Branford has zero knowledge of who Silva is; he was contacted by an anonymous benefactor who mailed him a prepaid smartphone, and they conducted all of their arrangements via text.

“This phone?” James asks, tossing a cheap Nokia mobile onto the Formica table top.

“How— Where— You were in my place?!” Branford demands, terror transmuting to outrage.

“Obviously. Now be a good lad and tell me the passcode.”

Branford glares at him, and James stares back, Walther held loosely in his right hand. In under a minute, Branford cracks.

James inputs the code and sets to reviewing the brief chat log while Henry Branford looks around futilely for something he can use to escape the zip ties binding him to the chair.

As Q predicted, the man who hired Branford provided meticulous instructions on how to sabotage the rocket, as well as how to cover his tracks. Considering Branford’s unimpressive display of intelligence thus far, it makes sense that the kid wasn’t the mastermind behind the explosion. The plan was all Silva’s…and reveals a comprehension of rocket construction as thorough as Q’s. Could Silva be an engineer? A physicist? Or a dabbling genius like Q?

Unfortunately, this phone is where the trail goes cold, as Silva’s efficient OPSEC means Branford can’t provide James with any further details.

Good thing James excels at shaking the trees whenever he hits a dead end.

He scrolls to the bottom of the text conversation and starts typing a new message. “The money’s run out, I need more,” he narrates as he types. “Pay up or I go to the Feds.”

“What the fuck, dude, don’t text him that!”

“And…sent.”

“Oh my god.” Branford rocks back in his chair, horror dawning on his greasy face. “Oh my god, oh my god, holy fuck. What did you do?”

“Made your life less complicated,” James says, his eyes on the text screen, hoping to see a read receipt. “Now that you’ve threatened your benefactor, it’s in his interest to kill you.”

“Oh my god,” Branford moans some more.

“Your situation couldn’t be simpler: I suggest you enjoy your stay in this lovely little caravan, and when the CIA comes to collect you, it’s in your best interest to cooperate fully. Unless you’d prefer to be gruesomely murdered?”

Branford looks ready to piss himself all over again. James leaves the phone on the table while he hauls Branford into the bedroom and secures him to the bed frame with more zip ties.

“The generator’s got enough gas to keep the aircon going for four days, and those water bottles should keep you hydrated…but I’d try to make them last a while. Just in case.”

“In case what?” Branford asks, voice quavering.

James doesn’t answer, just closes the bedroom door, scoops up the phone, and locks up the caravan behind him. He’s climbing into the Mazda when the message on the phone screen changes from blue to green, accompanied by a small check mark.

James smiles to himself as he heads downtown to stake out Branford’s apartment. He places high odds on Silva sending someone to dispatch the young saboteur tonight, which means the clock is ticking to get in position. On his drive, the burner phone he bought in Brazil chimes with a new text from Q.

update?

It’s their first contact in two days, since Q gave him this side-mission. James had honestly forgotten his promise to update Q after he interrogated Branford. Compared to Phillips’s pestering, Q’s shown the patience of a saint…but that could be because Q has other ways of obtaining information. Q could be tracking this phone, James realizes with a sudden flash of suspicion. He disabled his MI6 phone for this very reason, but hadn’t thought about Q doing the same.

A memory warms him—M wading into a seedy beach-front bar in Cavtat to personally call him to heel after he’d been off the grid for too long, her pearls and silver hair shining in the sun, her blue eyes snapping with anger. She’s why he’s out here in Houston in what must be a record-breaking heatwave, the humid air hot enough to boil even after sundown, while he waits for someone to try to kill him. He isn’t obligated to satisfy Phillips’s vengeance or Q’s curiosity on their schedule.

The last thing he wants is Q tugging on his lead when he’s locked onto Silva’s scent. James mutes the phone. He’ll reply when he bloody well feels like it.

It’s nearly 4 a.m. and as close to pitch black as James can make the loft apartment when he hears it—a metallic clank, followed by a muffled grunt of pain. Someone stumbling on the fire escape, courtesy of the fishing wire James wound between the rails. James rises from the living room couch and takes up a position beside the window he left cracked in invitation. After long, silent minutes, a shadow moves over the ceiling as Branford’s visitor passes between the streetlight and window.

The window slides up stealthily, followed by a leg swinging over the sill. The shape of a silenced pistol enters next, held close to the waist, and James locks onto his target. His goal tonight is to interrogate the hitman, not kill him; that gun needs to be removed from the equation.

When the man’s head ducks through, his vision blocked for a crucial moment, James steps forward and grabs the gun, wrenching it to loosen the man’s grip. A primed trigger finger squeezes off a few shots that hammer into the exposed brick walls, but the assassin holds onto the weapon as James uses his full weight to draw the man forward and throw him over his hip.

The assassin crashes into the glass coffee table James dragged over for this purpose, and while the shattering of glass is regrettably loud, the gun finally tumbles out of his fist, swiftly kicked away along with shards of thick glass.

James doesn’t see where the knife emerges from, but he blocks the swing with a kick and retreats as the man springs to his feet, crunching across the wreckage as he sways the knife in front of him, looking for an angle to attack. Branford was a pencil-pushing coward; sending a hitter of this skill level is frankly overkill, but James would be disappointed if he’d been met with cheap muscle. He smiles grimly and waits for his own opening.

The assassin lunges forward with a broad slash that James deflects with his forearm, but a left hook plows into his jaw and dazes him for a second. James retreats toward the dining table, dodging a kick aimed at his gut. James’s grunts telegraph the effort it costs him, and the assassin’s steps come quicker, closing the distance as he senses an advantage.

Too bad for him, James has had hours to prep the scene to his own advantage and can now reach the baseball bat he looted from Branford’s closet. He snatches the aluminum bat off the table and sweeps it down, slamming into the side of the man’s leading knee with a sharp crack.

The assassin howls in pain and collapses, rolling onto his side to protect his hobbled leg. James knocks the blade out of his right hand with another swing, likely breaking a few fingers in the process, and when he drops onto the man’s back, James hauls his arm behind him and bears down until he feels the joint pop, the dislocation prompting another scream.

“Shhh, don’t struggle,” James says, kneeling on the man’s lower spine, the bat tapping the back of his head in a silent threat. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want to have a little chat about your employer.”

The hitman Zavier’s interrogation takes longer than Branford’s—not out of loyalty on Zavier’s part, but because he has much more to share. When he’s done, James gives Zavier a similar treatment to Branford, binding him with zip ties and barricading him in a closet. He’s aware that Zavier’s skill set gives him solid odds of escaping, even with a dislocated shoulder and busted knee…but Zavier’s cooperation has earned a little professional courtesy. Giving him a sporting chance feels only fair.

With the information he just learned, James is one connection away from finding Silva. Anticipation builds in his gut, and his thoughts turn bloody. Once James has Silva in his sights, he won’t be satisfied with a quick, clean kill shot. An easy death would be too good for the man. No, he needs to pin Silva to the ground and rip his pound of flesh from him, strip by strip, ounce by ounce, until Silva’s paid in full for M’s murder.

James tucks Branford’s Nokia phone in the silverware drawer—where Zavier won’t think to look, but a CIA team surely will—and exits down the fire escape, Zavier’s pistol tucked under his jacket. Backing the Mazda out of Branford’s parking space, James dials Felix’s number, planning to leave a voicemail. He’s surprised when the American agent answers—this number is unregistered, and it’s barely dawn in Colombia.

Of course, just because Felix answers doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

“I have a present for you,” James says and ignores Felix’s displeased grumble at hearing James’s voice. “Trust me, it’s worth getting out of bed.”

“You have ten seconds,” Felix says.

“I’ve just had a lovely stay in Houston, and as a parting gift for my host, I’m leaving you a certain Ameri-Space saboteur, gift-wrapped and ready to cooperate, and available for pick-up at your convenience. I know it’s a bank holiday for you Americans, so I suppose he could wait a couple days if you’re all especially busy with your barbecues….”

“Are you for real? You’re not joking?”

“On the level, my friend.”

“How the hell did you find him so fast? We haven’t dug up a single lead yet.”

I know, James could say, but he doesn’t want Felix asking questions about his methods. “I had some help from a new friend.”

“A new, useful friend, apparently. Sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

James ignores that hint. “Fair warning: your saboteur’s just a bit player.”

“Even a bit player will buy us some good will on the Hill. I’ll arrange a team to pick up the package ASAP.”

“Be sure to give his flat a good once-over, while you’re at it. And there may be a time-sensitive bonus waiting for you in the coat closet.”

“With or without a pulse?” Felix shoots back, then amends, “Never mind, I think the less you tell me the better.”

James grunts in acknowledgment. “Your saboteur’s just given me a lead on my real target, so I’m signing off before the trail gets cold.”

“Now wait a minute, James. Nailing Silva for the explosion is the CIA’s business, not yours. Since it’s our intel that panned out, on our home turf, and with god knows how much covering for your ass I’ll have to do, you can’t just cut us out.”

Typical. Trade favors with a friend, and there are always strings attached. He forces a jovial tone to cover his indignation. “I’ll tell you what. If your people can make it to the saboteur’s flat and interrogate the would-be assassin I just tied up before he escapes, you may have a chance of catching up to me. But ‘til then, I’ve got a head start that I’m not about to waste.”

“I know you’ve got a score to settle with Silva, but we’re talking about an act of terrorism on American soil,” Felix growls. “I can’t just give you permission to—”

“I’m texting you the address now. Better hurry,” James cuts him off and hangs up.

He sends Felix the coordinates to the caravan, but not Henry Branford’s identity, buying Zavier a few hours before the CIA can arrive to toss the flat. At this point, James is actively rooting for the hitman’s escape, both to piss off Felix and slow down the CIA’s pursuit of Silva.

Before he can tuck the phone away, he spots Q’s text still waiting for a response. James thinks about calling the hacker, about telling him his destination, about Q telling James to wait, insisting on joining James in this hunt, taking the kill for himself….

…as if James would ever let that happen. He’s not going to allow anyone to come between him and his target, not the Americans, and not an enigmatic British hacker.

“Nothing personal, Q,” James mutters. He pops the SIM card out of the burner phone, tosses it out the window, and turns the wheel toward the airport.

~

Mr. Ramesh keeps an immaculate penthouse apartment filled with tasteful flower displays that offset the muted colors of the stately, mid-century furnishings. Advancing toward the wide terrace off the dining room, James sees even more evidence of the middleman’s green thumb. The terrace is lined with long flowerbeds and tiers of pottery overflowing with lush flora—a delightful, organic contrast to the glass and steel skyline of downtown Toronto.

James circles cautiously through the flat, checking every room to ensure they’re alone before he draws open the French doors leading onto the spacious terrace.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ramesh,” he says, announcing his presence.

The man looks up from his lunch and newspaper, shock readable in the slightest widening of his eyes as he notices James in his home. “Good afternoon,” he answers. When he takes a sip of his wine, his hand doesn’t tremble. “Who are you?”

“Zavier sends his regards. I know him through the business, and he mentioned you’re a good person to know.”

“Ah, Zavier. He’s a very good sort of fellow, reliable. Not someone I would expect to give out my home address.”

“I asked very nicely, and he owed me a favor.”

Ramesh’s gaze drifts past James to the empty apartment behind him, no doubt wondering how James deactivated his sophisticated home alarm system. (Boothroyd’s EMP watch actually worked properly this time—without blowing up the room James was standing in.) “And you wanted to visit me for…a job? Am I to take your breaking and entering as an audition?”

“I do like to make an entrance,” James admits. “And I’m often accused of being dramatic.”

Ramesh sets his wine down and turns to face James. He gives James a slow once-over, taking in his physique and clothing, and lingering on the bruise Zavier left on his jaw. The openly assessing gaze makes James want to twitch, to start throwing punches, but he pushes the impulse away, letting the man look his fill.

“And what is your specialty? Are you a killer like Zavier?” When James nods, he presses, “How many?”

“I stopped counting at ten,” James says truthfully.

Ramesh smiles. “That’s very promising.”

“And what about you? Zavier calls you a matchmaker. So someone brings you a plan, you find the right people for the job, and take your cut?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a project manager, but Zavier’s understanding of my role is necessarily limited. If you’re looking for a similar arrangement, matchmaker will suffice.”

“It sounds like the sort of job that could get messy,” James drawls, “sending one subcontractor to kill another. Like you sent Zavier to kill Henry Branford. Did you make that decision on your own, or run it by Silva first?”

Ramesh’s eyes betray him again, narrowing as he takes in this new information. After a moment he says, “Ah,” again and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Are you Bond, then?”

James’s breath catches.

“Slavery wasn’t too hard on you, it would appear.” His gaze rakes over James again, as though looking for signs of the chains he wore for months.

Bright fury flares up, but James reins it in, channels it into a frosty question: “How do you know about that?”

“He warned me about you—that you might come sniffing around like a hungry mutt in the gutter. You’ll never find him, you know—the man who sent you to hell.”

“I know exactly where to find Paul Demitrios whenever I damn well please.”

“Oh, you haven’t guessed,” Ramesh says, his eyes sparkling with sudden mirth. “Perhaps he’ll tell you himself when he finds you. That would be something to see.”

James’s skin crawls with an implication he doesn’t like and can’t afford to analyze in the moment. Not when Silva’s middleman is baiting him, trying to provoke him into something rash. James sets aside the man’s cryptic taunts for later and presses, “I want Silva.”

Ramesh snorts and reaches for his wine again. “No. I will never betray that man, on pain of…unimaginable pain.” His lips twist down, and his fingertips tremble against the glass stem.

“He’s not the one you should be afraid of right now.”

“We all have things we care about. Silva knows every man’s weakness. And giving him cause to attack that weakness…that’s a fate worse than death.”

James wonders what M’s weakness was, what leverage Silva had that forced her to risk her life in a face-to-face meeting. He looks forward to tearing that answer out of Silva’s screaming throat very soon.

James draws Zavier’s pistol and aims it at the middleman’s hip. This interrogation is shaping up to be longer and messier than Zavier’s and Branford’s combined, and with the CIA potentially breathing down his neck, he can’t waste time. “I suppose I’ll have to put that conviction to the test. Now step inside before I shatter your pelvis and drag you in by your ankles.”

Ramesh sips his wine, sets it down, and stands slowly. “It seems my back is against the proverbial wall.”

“And I’m the firing squad,” James agrees, cocking the pistol.

“No, Mr. Bond. You’re really not,” Ramesh corrects him with a resigned sigh. And then he turns and throws himself over the balcony railing.

James lunges forward, hoping to find another terrace below them, but instead watches as the middleman smashes into the concrete sidewalk twenty-five stories down.

“Fuck!” He stares in horror for a long moment—too long. A crowd is forming, people pointing up. Someone will be calling the police; James has bare minutes before they arrive at the penthouse to investigate. With a snarl at his own stupidity, James holsters the gun and heads inside to search for something, anything, that could provide another means to find Silva. He can’t afford to let this mission turn into another dead end.

As he tears the flat apart, Ramesh’s words circle like gathering storm clouds on the horizon. From what he implied, James owes Silva payback for M’s murder as well as his own months in captivity. And his mission is made even more complicated by the discovery that Silva has been keeping tabs on James…and he knows that James is coming for him.

Chapter Text

James fell out of the habit of apologizing years ago.

In the field, he’ll say and do whatever greases the wheels—spies are manipulative by necessity, a skill James excels at—but he doesn’t bother groveling for commanding officers anymore, sincerely or insincerely. He tried that a time or two with M, when she pointed out the ways he’d mucked up her big-picture plans yet again, but even James’s most genuine, earnest contrition never made her respect him or think better of him.

It only made him look weak.

So he strolls through the lobby of MI6 like he hasn’t spent the past four days in the wind without approval—chin up, shoulders back, his very posture an unrepentant provocation. He receives the usual appreciative glances from the staff in the lobby and a few twinkling smiles from the admin clerks closest to the elevator, but no one threatens to detain him while they call M, no one grabs their phone and makes a frantic call to report that 007’s returned. Almost as if Mallory hasn’t put it out that James went AWOL.

That’s not what he expected from the new M, but perhaps Mallory is playing it as cool as James is.

He spots Moneypenny outside the aviary and deviates from his path to mine for office gossip. It might be useful to know how much hot water he’s in with the boss before knocking on the man’s door.

Moneypenny’s scowl doesn’t bode well.

“About time you turned up,” she whispers, making no attempt to hide the motion as she presses a button on her desk, presumably paging Mallory.

James smiles, glancing between her frosty glare and the frosted glass walls of M’s office. “Like a bad penny,” he says, and enjoys watching her frown deepen. “I take it I was missed?”

“Not by me. He’s been asking after you all bloody weekend. I could only presume you were still enjoying the company of Ms. Gina Castillo.”

James could correct her assumptions about him, but as much as they gall, being underestimated often plays into his hand. “Mmm, Gina. I dare say I saw her through a terrific workout.”

“I assumed you were a professional, despite all the rumors,” she says, voice dripping with disappointment. “The more fool, I.”

It only makes him smile wider. “Would that all fools were as fetching as you, Moneypenny.”

She sucks her teeth as she withdraws, arms folded over her chest to signal an end to their conversation.

James takes the hint gracefully. He bids her a good day and takes a step toward Mallory’s office just before the door opens for him.

“007,” Mallory says, with a lilt that betrays surprise. “Glad to see you back. Please, step inside.”

The moment feels poignantly familiar, stepping into M’s office for yet another public bollocking—whether deserved or not. As this is James’s first time acting up under Mallory’s tenure, he’s sure the man will come down hard to make an impression.

But Mallory shuts the door.

And the glass remains frosted.

Now James is the one taken by surprise. Even as he sits in front of the mahogany desk, he can’t help glancing back to the closed door, wondering why Mallory would deprive himself of an audience.

Mallory sits across from him, clears his throat, and says mildly, “Very well done on your last mission, Bond. You have mine and the PM’s thanks for a swift and successful completion.”

Doubly thrown, James nods and grunts, “Sir.”

“Your message to Tanner was appreciated, albeit incomplete as far as after-action reports go. In lieu of your full report, we’ve only had Station Chief Phillips’s account of your mission, and he expressed serious doubts about your decision not to eliminate or detain Castillo. I presume you have an explanation for that decision.”

James shifts in his chair—a sloppy display of annoyance, but Mallory’s non combative demeanor makes it hard to find his footing. James expected the new M to demand a performative display of penance, to make James pay lip-service to his authority with promises to toe the line.

Rallying his focus, James says, “The mission you set was to retrieve the cylinder. I’m aware Phillips had his own personal objectives for the mission—lethal objectives, which I felt were inappropriate for a straightforward retrieval. Assigning assassinations is your job, not his…unless there was some message I didn’t receive when your secretary briefed me?”

Mallory ignores the multiple barbs in James’s response and gives him a long look, not surprised or doubting but coolly considering, where his M would have turned hot-tempered or frozen James out. “Your brief was complete as you received it,” Mallory confirms. “And Phillips’s attitude already raised concerns that he might be emotionally compromised, though I was unaware he overstepped to such a degree. Your report, delivered in a timelier manner, would have been beneficial to our conversations this weekend.”

If Mallory wants to direct his ire at Phillips instead of James, James is all too happy to assist. “I’ll provide all the necessary details in my official report,” he volunteers. At Mallory’s unimpressed look, James adds, “When I submit it first-thing tomorrow morning.”

“See that you do, Bond. If I need to have further conversations with Phillips, I want them scheduled before the week’s out.” He shifts the pen on his desk from atop an open notepad to inside the drawer, signaling a change in topic whether consciously or not.

Here it comes, James thinks, and braces for the inevitable dressing-down.

“Unfortunately, I’ve another, more serious matter to discuss with you.”

“Sir?”

“You’ve been on unsanctioned leave for the better part of a week. I’ve read your file, so I’m aware of your propensity for disappearing after missions. I confess, I’ve been pleasantly surprised that I haven’t had to address this with you until now.”

James’s face remains neutral, but inside he smiles grimly. Mallory should be grateful it was only four days this time. After the toughest assignments, it often takes James at least a week to pull his head back together. She had seemed to understand that, allowing James his time before calling him to heel—though never so much time that he’d think MI6 had washed its collective hands of him.

His attention snaps back to Mallory when the man leans forward and says, “I’m concerned I returned you to the field too quickly after your recent experience in captivity. If you need more time to recover, or if you’d like to schedule additional meetings with the staff psychiatrists, I can arrange a temporary—”

“No thank you, Sir,” James says, vehement and furious. Mallory may couch it in compassionate words, but James knows a threat when he hears one. Mallory is considering benching James and giving the Silva mission to someone else.

He should have predicted this form of retaliation.

James can’t regret the four days he spent running down Branford, Zavier, and Ramesh; they were critical to his mission, and may have provided him his best lead yet. He just hadn’t anticipated how disastrous the fallout could be.

While his quickest route to locating Silva remains outside official channels—bureaucratic red tape and international treaties mean nothing to a hacker—James will eventually need MI6’s resources and official sanction for the carnage he plans to unleash when he comes face to face with M’s killer. That groundwork is already laid; Q’s Noyer dossier will lend credibility to the “anonymous” tip James brings to MI6 when he’s ready to strike. He can’t afford to be suspended before getting that mission assignment.

“I appreciate your concern, Sir, but I’m fine. Just wanted to see some sites while I was in-country,” James says, dialing back his aggressiveness and replacing it with charm as he side-steps insincere promises to reform. “I’m field-ready, refreshed, and available for another mission. At your discretion.”

Mallory stares him down for fifteen seconds, his keen eyes making it clear he knows James is playing him but is weighing whether to call him on it. “Very well. I’ll tell Tanner to expect your report in the morning and to schedule a debrief to follow. You’ll remain on the roster of active agents—for now. Dismissed, 007.”

“Sir,” James says and leaves the office, his steps measured despite the urge to flee before Mallory changes his mind. As he crosses the threshold, he plasters on a smile, just in time to meet Moneypenny’s expectant gaze. He winks.

She stares, clearly having anticipated a more chastened man leaving M’s office. Her lips purse with anger, and James lets his eyes crinkle with delight as he makes his way past her desk.

The act lasts until the elevator doors close on him, providing him a moment of privacy to catch his breath from Mallory’s threat. He needs to tread more carefully to not burn bridges with the new M, even as he unrepentantly operates outside MI6’s purview.

And while he’s extinguishing fires, there’s another partially immolated bridge in need of repair. He presses the button for the TSS Branch basement and readies his most charming mien as the elevator descends.

~

TSS Branch is, as always, an orderly form of chaos. Alarms sound at random intervals from stations all around the main lab, somehow not causing a panic. A drone whizzes by just above head-height, yet not a soul looks up or ducks when it zooms past. And lab-coated technicians dart from station to station like bustling bees, maneuvering around James as he stands in the center aisle without meeting his eyes or asking his business or even seeming to note his presence at all.

Finding the quartermaster in this hive of activity typically requires catching a tech’s arm and demanding Boothroyd’s location.

Today, James is looking for someone else, someone for whom the direct approach is likely…undesirable.

He surveys the lab and, not finding Q, ventures further into the quartermaster’s territory, down a cement corridor lined with steel doors. The first he opens reveals a small room walled with cinder block, where a technician in ski goggles aims a ski pole at a mannequin dressed in a thick winter parka and ushanka. The pole basket glows molten red for a moment before fire erupts from the tip. The flames don’t cover the full 5 meters to the mannequin—apparently their intended target—and the engineer lowers her ski pole to make a note on a clipboard.

In the next room, a pair of techs sit reading newspapers, ostensibly enjoying a cigarette break, although they might take off their safety goggles if they’re so at ease. Just as James moves to close the door, sparks emerge from the closer man’s cigarette, and a mini-projectile shoots from the tip, bouncing off the brick wall where a target has been painted. James tries not to think about how close those sparks came to the tech’s face as he closes the door. He won’t be accepting a pack of cigarettes from TSS Branch anytime soon.

The next two bunkers’ experiments appear less combustible—at first glance. A man practicing his badminton lob and a woman brushing her teeth take on ominous potential in the setting of TSS Branch. Especially considering both technicians are wearing protective eyewear.

In the fifth room, James spots a familiar mop of wavy brown hair bent over a table.

James eases through the door and shuts it behind him, approaching cautiously lest anything explode or catch fire. Q’s hemmed in by machinery—a thrumming air filter at his side, a dangling fume extractor overhead, and a digital soldering station at his elbow. James glances over Q’s shoulder at the tweezers and soldering iron he’s wielding under a comically large microscope. Thin lines of smoke wend up from the tiniest circuit board James has ever seen.

Lined up on the table in front of Q are three pairs of diamond earrings—the small, glittering studs that Hannah favors. They go from day-to-night, 005 had snapped at him when James needled her for the lack of variety in her field accessories. Now James wonders what else they do.

“Hello, Q.”

Q jerks upright, fumbling the safety goggles from atop his glasses. He gets eyes on James and immediately checks that the door is closed. “What are you doing in here?” he demands as he racks the soldering iron. “And where the hell’ve you been? You’ve been missing for days!”

“You know where I was,” James says evenly.

Q’s eyes flash with indignation. “But you never messaged me back! You left me in limbo. I’d no idea what happened to you, if you were in trouble or dead. Would it’ve killed you to drop me a bloody text?”

Q’s anger is expected. His concern is less so. But despite reading as more genuine than Mallory’s, that concern is still to a selfish end. Q needs James to conduct his interrogations, and Q is righteously upset at being cut out of the mission. James considers the easiest approaches to smooth Q’s ruffled feathers—an insincere apology, a lie about losing the phone, a false promise it won’t happen again—but going on the offensive is more appealing than humbling himself with dishonesty that could be exposed later.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take matters into your own hands. Since you’re so good at finding me,” he reminds Q. He bends to switch off the air filter, a convenient excuse to whisper in Q’s ear, “And I know you’ve been keeping tabs on me.” As he stands back up, he flicks his eyes to the small camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

It was the only logical conclusion, once Q let slip knowledge that James doesn’t let anyone stand behind him—an impossible deduction when Q has no sample size to assess. Unless Q hacked into MI6’s CCTV cameras and has been using them to spy on James. James is no stranger to avoiding surveillance on the job; it was almost a comforting realization that Q had taken on M’s role in that regard.

Neatly set on the back foot, Q scrambles to defend himself. “I haven’t, not for weeks! And I only did it to avoid running into you.”

“So that’s how you evaded me for so long. I was wondering.”

When James sounds more amused than angered by his confession, Q relaxes and regains some of his usual arrogance. “It wasn’t much of a challenge, since you spent most of your time off campus. Even when you were here, you mainly kept to the gym and your office. If you hadn’t started camping out in the lobby for my evening commute, I wager I could have avoided you indefinitely.”

James grins, enjoying Q’s haughty attitude. Now that Q is adequately distracted from James’s disappearance, James shifts focus. He circles the table to stand opposite Q and lets his gaze wander over the miniature circuit boards and wire scraps littering the work surface. “Hacker, rocket scientist, and now jeweler,” he muses. “Should I be jealous?”

“Of what? Pierced ears? Do you think you’d look pretty in diamonds?”

“They’d make an interesting pair of cuff links.” James reaches for one of the diamond-chip earrings.

Q flails urgently to stop him. “Don’t touch that!”

“Why? Will it explode?”

“No, but that should.” Q nods at a plexiglass booth set up in the corner of the small room, where a marble-sized lump of grey putty sits on a steel pedestal. “If I’ve gotten the signal amplification working properly.”

“It’s a detonation trigger,” James concludes, delighted.

“Micro-remote, like in the Breitling you used last year. Only now the quartermaster wants it made small enough to fit in 005’s earrings, without reducing the effective range. Which is borderline impossible. The woman simply needs to wear larger earrings.”

“If you’re foolish enough to tell Hannah that in person, I’d love to watch.”

“M never diagnosed you with voyeuristic tendencies. Is this a new proclivity of—”

James spots the door opening behind Q and makes a small slashing gesture with his fingers.

Q stops instantly and turns to face the intruder.

“Davis,” a female lab tech says, barreling through the door, “cinnamon, strawberry, or licorice?”

From the safety goggles perched atop her head, James recognizes her as the tech recently seen brushing her teeth. She clearly recognizes James, making a startled noise when she spots him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were….” She trails off, looking between Q and James, before rallying and repeating her question. “But really, which flavor? 008 is supposed to use it in Madrid, but he hates mint and swears he’ll throw it in the bin if he smells it in his kit.”

“If it’s for Lawrence, have you tried London Dry?” James asks her. Under the table, Q kicks his shin.

When James looks down at him, he finds Q gone, replaced by Ethan Davis, the cringing junior engineer he cornered in a South Wimbledon flat five weeks ago.

“Cinnamon?” Q suggests quietly, head ducked to avoid her eyes, and James is fascinated. It isn’t complex character work, but it’s effective for maintaining a low profile in hostile territory.

This reminder that Q isn’t an actual, vetted-and-loyal employee of MI6 is useful to stave off James’s complacency in their partnership.

“Cinnamon,” she echoes and turns for the door, talking herself into it as she leaves. “Right? That’s what I thought. Cinnamon can be a masculine flavor. Or fragrance. Some men’s colognes use cinnamon to lend a spice note that—” her voice tails off down the hall, and James eases the door shut after her.

He was intrigued before, but now he has to ask. “Why the hell is TSS making toothpaste?”

Q straightens in his chair, himself again. “Boothroyd calls it Dentonite. Safe for your teeth, but corrosive to most plastics.”

James thinks about the cigarette projectile…and now corrosive toothpaste…and resolves not to accept so much as a pack of gum from anyone in TSS Branch in the future. “Putting the ‘mad’ in mad scientist.”

“He takes that as a compliment,” Q shrugs. “Anyway, it’s all for the greater mission, isn’t it; making you a more effective killer? Now please get out of here before I must invent an excuse for why a double-0 is haunting my lab.”

“Not just me,” James corrects him. Q looks up, perplexed, and James leans his hip against the table, his hands tucked in his pockets. “I’m not the only person in this room plotting to use TSS resources for an unsanctioned assassination.”

Q stiffens but doesn’t deny it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” James says, bending closer. “You’ve chosen the Sig Sauer 9mm instead of a rifle. So you’re not planning to snipe Silva from across the street. You want to look him in the eyes when you pull the trigger, don’t you?”

Q’s expression goes distant. “Yes.”

James can tell Q’s picturing that kill shot now. And suddenly James needs to see it—proof that the hacker can actually pull a trigger. Between proud-Q, cowardly-Ethan, and aloof-Trevor, James has yet to see the man engage in any sort of violence, let alone cold-blooded murder.

“Come with me,” James says, rising from the table and heading out the door.

Q removes a grounding band from his wrist and switches off the soldering station before falling into step at James’s side. When James opens the stairwell door at the end of the corridor and starts down, Q asks, “Is this about Houston? What did you find out?”

A smile quirks James’s lips, but he doesn’t turn around to share it. “Not exactly. Although I did bring you a souvenir for later.”

“What kind of souvenir?”

“The encrypted kind.” The kind he needs Q to crack for him.

Q’s footsteps halt behind him. James glances back to see Q looking warmly pleased. “You brought me Henry Bran—”

“Later,” James cuts him off. He doesn’t need to look around to know there are cameras in here as well, and neither does Q.

“Tonight,” Q insists, in motion again.

James nods and opens the sub-basement door to the armory level. “I’m giving you a lift home after your shift. Meet me in the car park at 6.”

Q steps past him, heading to the armory’s massive vault door. “What do we need?”

“Your Sig,” James says.

Hand already reaching for the biometric scanner, Q looks back at James, eyes wide. “Are we doing it now?”

“No,” James says, relaxing into a friendly smile and casual shrug. “I’m just looking for some target practice.”

It takes a fair bit of cajoling to convince Q to retrieve his preferred pistol and ammunition from the armory and join James in the shooting range.

James beckons him to the line and says, “You claimed you’re self-taught. Show me what you can do.”

“I’m not keen on being critiqued by a professional,” Q huffs.

“Now now, Trevor,” James says and passes him a pair of earmuffs. “If you’re going to run around posing as an agent, I need to ensure you aren’t making us look bad.”

Q bristles at the name but dons the ear protection, loads his weapon with sharp, precise movements, and positions himself in front of the target. The Sig is slightly larger than James’s preferred weapon, and James notes that their hands are of a similar size, though Q’s fingers are more slender. Q cups the grip confidently and tips the barrel down to show the green lights at the back—showing off his handiwork? Or reminding James that this is the same weapon that laid him out in the dirt two months ago? James hides his smile at both prospects.

James dons his own earmuffs, steps back, and watches the target as Q breathes deep, grip steady and body still until he fires.

The shot hits its mark…albeit in the right upper arm. Nowhere near a fatal wound, but enough to slow a target down, and damn good for 25 meters. With a little refinement, he has the makings of a competent marksman. Perhaps Q’s right that there’s nothing he can’t do.

Q pulls off his muffs, and James does the same, prepared to share his praise and encouragement. But Q beats him to it, snapping, “You claimed you were going to get me close to Silva. Is this as close as you can manage?”

Disappointed in his shot, James diagnoses. “This is close enough to meet his eyes. Any closer, and the danger to you increases,” he points out gently. “This is quite good for 25 meters.”

Q’s jaw sets angrily, and James relents.

“Let’s try you at 15.” He flips the switch to move the hanging target closer.

Q pulls his muffs back on, squares up…and James taps his shoulder to wave him off.

“What stance is that? No, don’t fire yet— Just show me.”

Q leaves the muffs dangling around his neck and raises the pistol to sight along it again. Elbows tucked in tight to brace against his ribs, head ducked to align the sights…he looks more like a cyclist in a time trial than a marksman. James shudders to think what he’s doing with his knees.

Offended on a professional level, James shakes his head. “That’s not even a stance. What are you doing under there?” He cups Q’s hips through his voluminous lab coat to feel how he’s contorted his body.

Q dumps his pistol on the table and turns to face James, hands up to ward him off without touching. “Stop! What are you—”

“Lose the coat; I can’t see your stance under that ridiculous thing. Take it off,” James orders.

Q glares at him in outrage, but James holds his gaze, waiting him out until Q relents. Q unbuttons the lab coat and drapes it alongside the gun. The mulish set of his jaw reminds James of his own defensive attitude walking into MI6 an hour ago, and James represses a smile at his defiance reflected back at him.

With Q stripped down to a thin t-shirt and loose trousers, similar to what he wore the last time James saw him, James recalls the skin of Q’s neck under his hands, warm and tempting. And this impromptu lesson affords a far better excuse to touch him.

He takes hold of Q’s hips again and turns him back toward the target. “Drop your right leg back,” he says, and after a moment, Q does as told. “A little more weight on your left…there you go, knees bent.”

Q looks over his shoulder at James. “I didn’t want a cooking lesson, and I don’t want a shooting lesson.”

James ignores that, sliding his hands up to position Q’s arms where he wants them. “Pistol up. Right arm extended out straight, bend the left elbow.”

“This is counterintuitive. A squared-up approach would afford more accurate sighting down the—”

“Drop your left shoulder a bit.” James’s fingertips stroke over Q’s bare neck before he squeezes his shoulder, and Q gasps at the familiar touch.

“Stop contorting me like an action figure,” Q protests, stepping forward to break free of James’s grip. “This position doesn’t make any sense!”

James stares him down, frustration rising to meet Q’s own…before he reassesses his approach. He recalls how compliant—trusting—Q was under his hands last week, but it doesn’t seem he’ll get Q there simply by pushing today. So James consciously lets his irritation go.

With slow, relaxed movements, James shrugs off his suit jacket and lays it atop Q’s lab coat.

“Look,” he says patiently as he steps alongside Q at the line. He draws his Walther from his shoulder holster and takes a classic Weaver stance. “Angle the body. Strong right side, the left provides the stabilization.”

He glances over to ensure Q is observing James’s posture.

Q’s gaze slides along James’s body, well-displayed in tightly tailored shirt and trousers, and James raises an eyebrow when their eyes meet. Q flushes and looks away, but he willingly adjusts his own stance to mimic James’s.

“And we shoot,” James says. He slides on his earmuffs, waits until Q’s done the same, and then pulls the trigger.

A lethal head shot, as expected of a double-0, even if it’s a full inch lower than James intended. He blames the stiffness in his right shoulder, the dislocation courtesy of Demitrios’s lieutenants. He resists the urge to rub at it now. Longer stretching sessions should sort it out, he decides, mentally penciling them into his morning routine.

Next to him, Q double checks his own stance, sights carefully, and fires. Centered, but far too high, nearly missing the target paper.

James holsters his Walther and removes his earmuffs.

When Q has followed suit, the hacker grouses, “That’s worse.”

“No, you’re on the right track now. Look at that, beautifully centered; your aim is already fantastic. You’re just tensing up, pre-compensating for the recoil. That’s the hardest habit to unlearn. Here, feel this?” James reaches out and nudges under Q’s right forearm, then taps on it from above. “Stable. The left elbow provides the support and helps absorb the recoil to keep you level. So trust that it’s already accounted for.”

He slides close behind Q.

“Just focus on one shot at a time. Trust the position to do the work, breathe in, and exhale into the shot.”

James puts Q’s earmuffs back on for him, followed by his own, and points over Q’s shoulder to cue him. Q takes a deep breath, exhales, and fires again—his body swaying slightly against James’s chest—and his shot impacts just above the target’s head. James squeezes Q’s hip in silent praise. Q dips his head for a moment, looks up, and nods.

James cues each shot, using his hands and body to wordlessly adjust Q’s stance between each one…and this time Q allows it. James’s hand presses on Q’s left shoulder, and Q lowers it. James slides his left knee behind Q’s, and Q bends a little more so the back of his thigh rides atop James’s. James’s hipbone presses against Q’s arse, and Q angles his slim hips to fit in the bowl of James’s pelvis. James’s pulse, already elevated from the intense stimulus of the shooting range, speeds with arousal.

By the time Q’s first clip is empty, he’s hitting solidly between the target’s collarbones and inching steadily closer to the center-mass bullseye. Q lays down the Sig while James takes off Q’s earmuffs and places both sets on the table…without backing off.

James leans into Q’s ear and says, “Very good. Does this feel more comfortable now?”

Q’s blush spreads down his neck as James shifts, making sure Q feels every part of them in contact. Q nods.

James drops his voice to a more seductive octave. “Good. Now do it a hundred times a day, until you can do it in your sleep.”

“Is this something you do often? In your sleep?” Q asks, sounding breathless.

If James looked down, he suspects he’d find Q just as hard as he is. “There’s a reason I keep a gun under my pillow. I’d be happy to demonstrate some night if you like?”

Q’s body heat radiates in the cool of the basement. He smells like spent gunpowder and solder smoke, with subtler undertones of sweat, sage, and citrus at his collar. James’s hand inches around Q’s hip and over his stomach, where only a single layer of cotton separates their skin. Q’s muscles flutter under the touch. James waits for Q to pull away, to tell him to stop, but Q leans back instead, resting his weight against James’s chest.

The unexpected permission is intoxicating, and James is struck by the urgent need to kiss him. He slides his hand up to catch Q’s jaw—

“007! What are you doing in my lab?”

Q lurches forward, and James lowers his arms and drops back a step. While Q scrambles to don his lab coat, James turns a bright smile to the quartermaster in the doorway.

“Major Boothroyd, lovely to see you as always.” James picks up his briefcase and jacket, held low to conceal his stiff cock, and crosses to the door. “I came to return my field kit.”

“Your kit was due back on Friday. Now it’s Monday, and the paperwork’s past due.” Boothroyd’s gaze is unfriendly, moreso than can be accounted for by James’s usual lack of punctuality.

“I’ll have my report to you first thing in the morning,” James says, mollifying. He passes Boothroyd his briefcase.

The quartermaster eyes the modified Walther under James’s arm and clears his throat.

“Ah, of course,” James says. He pops open the case in Boothroyd’s hands, places his sidearm inside, and shuts the lid. “There. Nearly all pieces accounted for this time…except for the watch. And one bullet I just put in that fellow over there.” He nods to the target downrange.

Boothroyd glowers and thrusts his thumb over his shoulder. “Go do your paperwork, 007,” he says. “Mr. Davis! A word please?”

James looks back to see Ethan’s trembling hands gathering up the Sig and spare clips. With his slender frame drowning in the over-sized lab coat, shoulders stooped, and nervously worrying his lip, he looks woefully young and insecure. Despite just watching Q fire no fewer than five lethal shots, the pathetic figure that Ethan presents somehow activates James’s rarely accessed compassion. He has to battle the urge to make excuses that will keep the young man out of trouble.

Bemused at the uncharacteristically protective impulse, James turns his back and deliberately leaves Q to face the quartermaster’s wrath alone.

~

He can’t help patting himself on the back for a successful pair of meetings. He’s smoothed things over with both Mallory and Q—and without having to beg their forgiveness. Unfortunately, he did saddle himself with promises regarding the prompt submission of paperwork. And with much-anticipated plans to spend the evening with Q, it seems James is now obligated to spend the rest of his afternoon writing field reports.

Well, at least the busywork should distract him from the feeling of Q pressed against him, the way his body jolted against James’s with each shot. How Q trusted James to stand behind him and put his hands on him. He wonders how much more Q would have let James get away with, had the quartermaster not interrupted them. James’s cock twitches at the thought, and he groans in frustration.

Jogging up seven flights of stairs is uncomfortable, but it redistributes his blood to more publicly acceptable parts of his anatomy. He helps himself to a stale cup of coffee in the double-0 office, pulls up a laptop, and settles in to tackle his post-mission paperwork.

The quicker task is the TSS Branch equipment performance review. The sunglasses lock picks are a perennial favorite of his and a standard component in his kit. Top marks; no notes. Q’s modified Walther didn’t disappoint, and though he hadn’t fired it on the mission, it worked flawlessly on the shooting range. Top marks; no notes. He never deployed the chloroform-gas cufflinks, but he does have some comments on the style—Greek key isn’t to his taste at all.

As for the EMP watch…that worked a treat. And TSS Branch would benefit from knowing they’ve fixed whatever defect made the previous version explode on him. But James can’t very well describe how and where and why he deployed it, can he? Not to mention the quartermaster wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that James gutted the watch, disposing of its internal components in multiple public bins around Ramesh’s apartment building before tossing the empty shell in the river.

Recalling his actions in Toronto inevitably stirs up thoughts he’s been avoiding for the past 24 hours.

He’s known that Silva was behind the data leak that exposed James, and thus indirectly responsible for James’s stay in Nora Alexei’s operation. But Ramesh implied that Silva’s role in his enslavement was more direct. And that James is significant to Silva—important enough that Silva has been warning his associates about James. That this mission proved Silva no mere dabbling financier of terror, but some kind of mastermind only makes the threat that much more sinister. In his mind’s eye, he sees Ramesh calmly jumping off that balcony, pictures M bleeding out on a rooftop, pipeline and rocket explosions and assassination attempts all over the world, all at one man's behest…and now that same shadowy figure pulling the strings that dropped James in Nora Alexei’s slave house for two months. The possibility of such an enemy, with a global reach and unknown numbers of trigger men, keeping tabs on James sets his skin to crawling and has him looking over his shoulder, even in an empty room in the heart of MI6 headquarters.

The black coffee burns in his stomach, and his teeth grind, as he logs into MI6’s Silva files to look for a way to disprove Ramesh’s claims. The personnel records of the five exposed agents are all embedded in the Istanbul case directory, including James’s own. He opens the other four and skims quickly, for the first time reading the details of their fates. Of the three agents who didn’t survive, two were seized and executed immediately—one on camera. The third was shot but managed to evade capture, only to bleed to death en route to a safe house. The fourth agent was contacted by MI6 and extracted himself before his targets saw the video.

And then there was James.

MI6 couldn’t warn him in time. Yet instead of the swift execution his fellow agents received, Demitrios stayed his hand while he came up with a better idea for James’s punishment: a fate worse than death. Something Ramesh supposedly avoided by jumping off that terrace. But what—or who—made Demitrios hesitate? Was it really Silva? James has no proof, but a growing conviction settles in his gut.

Aware of his elevated pulse, of the shallowness of his breathing, James forcibly turns his focus to what he can use from Ramesh’s warning. Assuming it’s true, then there’s a connection between Silva and Demitrios. James tries to access the Demitrios file, but he no longer has permission—a precaution on Tanner’s part to keep James from pursuing Demitrios on his own and fouling up MI6’s ongoing operation. Fair enough: if James hadn’t been so consumed with his vengeance for M, he certainly would have made time to avenge himself.

Now, in an odd twist of fate, it seems James’s mission to kill Silva will satisfy him on both counts.

Q could get him access to the Demitrios case file with the flip of a few ones and zeros…but James can’t risk Q discovering Silva’s fingerprints on James’s enslavement. The hacker is too clever by far; if he were to find such proof, or even suspect the possibility, Q would see that James’s reasons to kill Silva have doubled—and that there’s no way James will let Q take this kill from him now, no matter how good a shot Q is with his Sig. Q will see James’s betrayal coming a mile away.

No, James decides, he’ll consider the Demitrios file off-limits until he runs out of other options. For now, Ramesh’s hard drives should be enough to get them their next lead. And as far as James’s supposed personal connection to the man they’re both chasing, better to keep Q in the dark than tip his hand and lose Q’s help entirely.

Chapter Text

James heads to the car park at a quarter past and finds Q standing just outside the elevator. “Punctual as always,” James greets him.

“And you’re anything but,” Q says, waspish. His eyes dart around the near-deserted floor.

“Tetchy,” James murmurs. He strides past Q, headed for his Aston Martin. Moneypenny kindly restored his assigned parking space shortly after his return. He recalls the scowl he merited earlier today and doesn’t think she’d do him the favor again.

“You would be too, if you’d just been dressed down by the quartermaster.”

“I’d say you’re already dressed down enough,” James says. With his lab coat left behind, Q is back in his t-shirt and off-the-rack trousers, a moss-green cardigan threaded through the strap of his satchel in deference to the summer heat.

“He said I was letting the double-0 agents bully me.”

“I would never,” James protests in a halfhearted defense of his honor.

“Neither would I,” Q huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “But apparently succumbing to bullying isn’t acceptable staff behavior, so he needs to keep an eye on me. His scrutiny is the last thing I need.”

James unlocks the car with his key fob as they approach it. “If you’re worried about your cover holding up, I could apologize to the major.”

“That would just make it worse. And being seen climbing into a car with you might get me officially disciplined.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” James says amiably. He waits until they’re opening their respective doors to offer, “If you’re worried about being seen in my car, you could put your head in my lap.”

Q bristles, and James swears if Q were a cat, he would hiss.

James chuckles and slides into the driver’s seat. When Q joins him, the boffin slumps low in his seat, but chooses not to lay his head in James’s lap. James smiles to himself and heads out.

As soon as James turns right to cross Vauxhall Bridge, Q realizes they aren’t heading to South Wimbledon. “Where are we going?” he asks, straightening up.

“To get a good meal. I’m not eating your supermarket steak pies after so long on the road,” James says.

It’s a plausible enough excuse, and one Q doesn’t question, choosing instead to tease James. “Buffalo wings and chili fries disagreed with your delicate constitution?”

James recalls the miasma of smoked meats, raw onions, and ground chili peppers that permeated the air around Branford’s flat. Aromas which, while not off-putting, were eye-wateringly pungent. “American food leaves something to be desired. As does their taste in cars.”

Q smirks. “Branford’s Mazda not up to your standards?”

James grunts. “Not only did it reek of fried food, it had one of the ugliest dash displays I’ve ever seen. Lit up like Christmas Day, and the damn thing couldn’t be switched off.”

“The hardships of stealing your target’s mode of transportation. M had plenty to say about your expensive taste in automobiles. Particularly on your failure to keep them intact.”

“Well, what about you and this automobile,” James says. “Paying my parking lease so generously—”

“Technically a Western Chauvinist group paid for that,” Q corrects.

James takes a moment to absorb that before chuckling. “More of your creative ‘facilitating of funds’? Good to know I can look forward to being tried for treason if MI6 discovers how many international terrorist groups are supporting my lifestyle.”

Q smirks instead of apologizing, which James is glad of.

“Who’s supporting your lifestyle, then?” James asks. “The al-Ashtar Brigades?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m impressed you live in such a cheap flat when you can get money with the snap of your fingers. It’s a compliment, really—a testament to your character.”

“Should I get my funds the way you do? At the blackjack table? You aren’t buying all those bespoke suits on a government salary.”

James has to applaud Q’s neat conversational turnabout from defense to offense. “I prefer poker,” he says, allowing Q to change the subject for now. “The challenge of reading an opponent is far more enjoyable than counting cards.”

“As if you could.”

Instead of rising to the bait, James stoops lower. “I’d love to play a few hands with you; see how much skin you’re willing to risk,” he says suggestively.

“Strip poker?” Q rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

“Precisely what I’m doing now,” James says, and nods at the road ahead of them.

Q tries to scowl, but from the corner of his eye, James spies the dimple in Q’s cheek.

~

He takes Q to a little Italian bistro in Chelsea. It’s quiet as ever on a Monday evening, and his usual table against the far wall is available.

As they cross the room, Marco the owner waves from the kitchen door, and James nods back.

“They know you,” Q surmises, lowering himself into the chair James steers him to.

“I’ve been here a few times,” he answers…and then remembers his plan to appear more open around Q, in hopes of coaxing the same from the boffin. “I usually come at least once a month, if I’m in town.” Sometimes he brings a date; but more often he comes in alone. Even spies have favorite restaurants that creep into their routines, and this one is conveniently located between the car park and his flat.

The red beaded curtains in the front windows block out some of the fading daylight. Overhead, an aspirationally gaudy chandelier of fake crystals twinkles dimly, and the tea lights set in red glass bowls on the tables shift the interior lighting toward a more romantic feel. There are a few couples seated close to the windows, but James prefers his more private patch of wall with good sight lines on the doors.

He thinks about Ramesh’s mocking laughter and is doubly glad tonight for the distance from the windows and any potential sniper scopes.

“So you’re vouching for them,” Q says.

James shrugs off the nervous bent to his thoughts and pastes on a warm smile. “Happily. The food’s worth coming back for.”

“It had better be, considering you didn’t even ask whether I like Italian.”

“Everyone likes Italian. And at the rate you put away Pot Noodle, you couldn’t possibly turn your nose up at a proper bolognaise.”

Marco brings menus and a bottle of chilled water to the table. James listens politely to the nightly specials and sets his menu aside once Marco turns to leave.

Q opens his menu, but glances at James more than at the pages inside.

“What are you thinking?” James asks in response to Q’s inscrutable look.

“I’m debating whether it would feed your ego too much to ask what dishes you recommend here. Since it’s your reputation on the line.”

“Anything will be good. And as you pointed out, I don’t know all of your tastes yet. So what do you usually order at Italian restaurants?”

“That depends on who’s paying.”

“I am,” James says firmly. He plans to seduce Q this evening, and step one is treating this ‘spontaneous’ dinner-out as a date.

“In that case, I know what I’ll have,” Q announces. He moves his menu to the edge of the table and cocks an eyebrow at James, baiting James to pester him for his order.

James simply smiles indulgently and settles back in his chair to wait Q out.

In a show of stubbornness, Q keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he breaks free of James’s gaze and pulls out his mobile. He swipes through it for a bit before setting it face-up on the table, as though expecting a message.

Before James can comment on his tech addiction, Marco returns for their orders. James orders one of his usuals, the braised ox-cheek with pappardelle, and tips his head to Q.

“I’ll have the mozzarella sticks…” Q says.

James suppresses a wince. He knew Q’s palate was limited based on his takeout habit, but he didn’t expect him to eat like a 10-year old in public.

“…and the filet, medium rare,” Q finishes with a challenging glance at James.

James snorts and nods, accepting Q’s expensive flex with equanimity. “A bottle of the Cabernet and two glasses,” James tells Marco.

Q watches the owner leave and then looks over the room for a moment before consulting his phone again. Upside down, James doesn’t recognize the app Q has open.

James draws Q’s attention by shifting forward in his chair. “You didn’t answer my question before—about your flat.”

“Hmm?”

“When did you move in? And why South Wimbledon? Do you like it?”

“Why do you keep an exorbitantly expensive flat in the heart of London when you’re only home two days out of seven?” Q challenges.

There he goes, evading again.

Instead of continuing their Rosencrantz and Guildenstern game, James pauses for a moment, letting Q’s question hang in the air. And then he says, with well-practiced earnestness, “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I was just wondering about your tastes.”

It’s a blatant call out, and James waits to see whether Q will be shamed into lowering his defenses. He gives the ploy fifty/fifty odds of working.

Q’s cheeks color, and he studies his hands for a couple breaths, his index finger tracing the edge of his mobile’s case. But then he looks up and nods, resolved. “I moved in just after uni, eight years ago. It seemed a cheap, anonymous sort of place to stay while I built a name for myself online.”

Eight years: allowing the possibility of an early graduation, he’s between 27 and 30 years old—older than James had guessed…and with a longer stay in that lousy flat than he’d imagined. “But you’re still there,” James points out.

Q hesitates, floundering for what to say. Either he’s about to lie, or he’s embarrassed about the answer. James listens closely.

“I…I’ve become a creature of habit,” Q finally confesses. The admission looks like it costs him; his hands grip one another, white-knuckled. “I never found the…fortitude…to move on to somewhere else.”

He’s clearly talking around something important. While James is grateful for the few facts Q has just shared, he’s devilishly curious about the things Q won’t say. He’ll need to move cautiously to pick and pry at this sensitive topic…but he doesn’t get the chance.

Q looks past James’s shoulder and feigns a smile that doesn’t pass muster. James glances over to see Marco approaching with the wine.

While Marco pours, Q changes the subject to which restaurants James frequents around headquarters.

James reminds himself that this is a marathon, not a sprint; he doesn’t need to run Q to ground on every topic, to chase him back into his hole where he won’t divulge anything at all. James takes a sip of his wine and allows the discussion to last for a few minutes, teasing out Q’s inconsequential opinions on the shops in Vauxhall and the delivery options his coworkers prefer for lunch.

It’s a pleasant enough subject to fill the time. James admits to admiration of Q’s iron stomach—if not his self-preservation—to so regularly frequent the dubious-smelling kebab shop on Nine Elms Lane. And Q finally relaxes into the light conversation, the line between his brows smoothing out, and his dimples appearing as he argues the merits of the shop’s homemade garlic sauce. Seeing him so caught up in his vociferous defense of his favorite takeaway joint, James finds himself charmed. Q’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses, his cheeks flush from the tannins in the wine, and his hands dance animatedly above his plate.

It’s tempting to take him at face value and just enjoy the attractive company. But the well-trained part of James notes the oddities in Q’s innocuous statements. It doesn’t take long to catch the pattern of something missing: absent in Q’s mentions of his colleagues are any of their names, as though they’re all interchangeable to him. As Q may well be to them. It makes James wonder how far Q has pushed his meek ‘Ethan Davis’ persona in TSS. Does Ethan look anyone in the eye long enough to be remembered, let alone appreciated for the handsome, endearing, brilliant man he is?

Perhaps Q is more skilled in subterfuge than James thought.

Q’s fried mozzarella sticks arrive, and he crunches eagerly into the first stick, doused in a generous scoop of marinara. Far too soon—he has to gasp and wave a hand at his open mouth to cool the scalding mouthful.

And it’s once again impossible to see him as a threat. James shakes his head, bemused.

In between bites of his appetizer, Q introduces a new topic. Unfortunately, it’s the one James has no good answers for.

“Tell me about the encrypted souvenir you brought me. Are we talking a phone, a computer, what?”

“I don’t think that’s something to be discussed in public,” James says to stall. If he has to confess that particular sin to Q, he’d prefer to do it when Q is post-coital and permissive, half-drunk on lingering pleasure. So…in about four hours, if James has judged the evening’s trajectory correctly. He nods toward the rest of the room. “Be patient, and I’ll explain back at yours.”

Q shakes his head and swallows another bite of fried mozzarella. “I’ve been scanning for surveillance; we’re all clear.”

So that’s what he’s been doing on his phone. “Nevertheless,” James says, “out of an abundance of caution. I have more faith in your flat’s signal jammer than I do in assuming no one in this restaurant can read lips.”

Q stiffens. “I…suppose. You’re the professional here.” He leans across the table to whisper through slack lips, “You really think someone could be watching us?”

“If no one else, Marco surely is,” James says dismissively. He takes another sip of wine and smiles appreciatively at Marco, overseeing the dining room from the kitchen doorway. Marco nods back, acknowledging James’s approval.

Unfortunately, James’s diversion works too well.

Q doesn’t press for more information on James’s disappearance between accosting Branford and showing up in TSS Branch, which is a clear victory. But it appears James has worsened Q’s general paranoia. James knows Q keeps his home fortified against digital surveillance, and Q was undeniably anxious about being seen with him at MI6…but now Q can’t seem to tear his attention away from the other people in the room, in a place where no one would think to look for him.

Even when James tries to draw him back into conversation with questions about his time at university, Q can’t seem to focus on him. One of the couples by the window stands to leave, and Q is so fixated on them that he nearly startles out of his seat when Marco sets his sizzling steak down in front of him.

James covers, thanking Marco and declining the proffered bowl of parmigiana. He gives Q time to center his breathing and take a few bites of steak while James digs into his pasta. Red wine, brandy, star anise, oregano, and good olive oil complement the richness of the stewed meat and silky strips of noodles. And just as enjoyable, James savors Q’s surprised smile at the black pepper crust and tender red flesh of his filet.

When Q looks adequately engrossed in his meal, James says, “You’re awfully jumpy tonight. Is there something you’re afraid of? I promise, I’ll let you know if I see any threats in here.”

Q snorts as he cuts off another piece of meat. “I’d say ‘jumpy’ is a logical state to be in, when I’m—” he drops his voice and leans over his plate “—actively spying on a spy agency. One with a history of eliminating moles and double agents.”

“You’re no mole,” James protests. “You’re not working for an enemy; you’re working for me.”

“I’m working for myself,” Q corrects him. “And I know exactly what MI6 does to employees who go rogue. If I’m caught, the only question will be whether I’m worth keeping alive and locked away for future use. If I’m not….” He holds James’s gaze and finishes grimly, “I gave M proof of a section chief’s double-dealing…and you put a bullet in his brain.”

The unexpected shift from theoretical to personal lands like a jab to the kidney.

James takes a deep breath but doesn’t rush to answer; he makes himself take a bite of his dinner and chew thoroughly, the picture of unperturbed. When his mouth is clear, James says, “You’re right. I executed Dryden under lawful orders. And he was a traitor; he freely admitted it to me. I did my duty, and I’d do it again.”

Across from him, Q’s grip on his steak knife has morphed into a fist. His eyes are unfocused, lips pressed into a thin line. James doesn’t think Q expects him to turn Q over as a traitor in the next fifteen minutes, but Q’s thoughts are clearly trapped in that oubliette he’s imagining for his future.

And what could James convincingly say to reassure him? That Q won’t get caught? There are too many unknowns ahead; James can’t possibly guarantee that Q’s meddling in MI6’s systems will never be noticed by Boothroyd or Tanner. And Q’s right: if that happens, it’ll certainly be chains for the hacker. He’s far too useful for a quick execution.

Q knew the risk he was taking when he infiltrated TSS…a risk James hasn’t paid any mind to before now.

Feeling a pang of guilt for earning Q the quartermaster’s scrutiny today, James looks to their common past for a way to pull Q out of his anxious spiral. “She would be proud of you, you know.”

Q blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been undercover for four months at MI6, and you haven’t cracked. I’d say you have the makings of a field agent after all. Agent Trevor.”

Q blusters a bit, rejecting the suggestion, but James presses on with a teasing smile.

“You’re a decent shot, and you look smashing in a suit. How’s your 5k?”

“Lousy,” Q says, exasperated. But his hold on the knife loosens, and his attention seems to be back in the present.

“We’ll have to work on that.” Instinct says to reach across the table and take Q’s hand, and it irritates James that he can’t do that with Q—not yet. He settles for unwavering eye contact to convey his sincerity when he says, “You’re as brave as any double-0, taking these risks. She would be very proud.”

“I hope she’s proud of me. Of both of us,” Q offers generously.

James chuckles at the preposterous idea. “Oh, I know she isn’t proud of me. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s preparing yet another scathing lecture about my failure to see the big picture. Or perhaps my reckless disregard for civilian and government property.”

Q smiles along, even as he shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, according to her, I’m no more than a blunt instrument; a source of constant disappointment. In fact, killing Dryden was the last mission I got completely right.” James takes a sip of his wine to smother the inner voice warning him that he’s getting too close to the hurt he avoids acknowledging. He keeps his nonchalant smile firmly in place. “If she’s really told you about me, you know how I always let her down, one way or another.”

“No, I don’t…. A blunt instrument? She wouldn’t— She spoke so highly of you. You were her favorite agent.”

James rolls his eyes. Q had said something like that once before. It doesn’t sound any more credible in a bistro in Chelsea than it did on a dirt road in Malaysia.

Q becomes more insistent. “James, when we lost you, she was devastated. Yes, she complained about the property you destroyed, the lovers you let distract you, and you haring off on your own at every opportunity, but she valued your instincts and trusted your judgment. She would’ve done anything to bring you home.”

James can’t read any deception in Q’s protest. Which means, at minimum, Q believes what he’s saying. It’s enough to leave James shaken. The idea of M praising him to anyone (whether sincerely or not) doesn’t reconcile with years of her coldness and very public disapproval.

It just doesn’t compute.

Q winces with sympathy for James’s silent shock. He says softly, like he’s confiding a secret, “I think she visited me more frequently over the last couple years not to gather information, but to talk about you.”

The foolish, sentimental part of James wants desperately to believe Q. His first year as an MI6 senior agent, she’d been so pleased with him, so encouraging. She’d taken an undeniably personal interest in him, from his recruitment to his promotion to double-0. For that one year, he’d believed he was her favorite.

James drains his glass, pours himself another, and tops up Q’s barely touched wine while he has the bottle in hand. Q lifts the full glass and drinks half of it in a go, perhaps to catch up, or perhaps he feels as off-balance and uncomfortable as James does.

He should find them an off-ramp from this too-somber conversation, but he’s ensnared by a rarely indulged nostalgia.

“Does my file say how she recruited me to MI6?”

Q shakes his head. “Your Navy record is part of your file; it rather speaks for itself. The actual details of your recruitment aren’t included. I remember how she described meeting you for the first time, though. A lunch date.” Q smiles. “She said you could charm the skin off a snake.”

James’s team had been stationed in Portsmouth, on mandatory downtime between missions, when Rear Admiral Heckley called James to his office. He relayed an invitation to a meeting with the director of recruitment for MI6. When James rejected the notion on account of his being a soldier not a spy, Heckley made some remarks that were, while not directly encouraging, clearly disapproving of James’s dismissiveness. From the way Heckley came at the matter sideways, James understood there were favors being pulled to obtain the rear admiral’s grudging support for the offer. Curiosity piqued, James accepted.

“She invited me to a restaurant in the West End of all places, across from Her Majesty’s Theatre. She was…diminutive. White hair, sensible shoes, an heirloom brooch on her knit jacket, and an enormous cocktail ring on her finger. She looked like a grandmother out for a posh luncheon.”

He can feel the smile widening his lips unbidden, feels his heart lift with the memory.

“Her name was classified; she told me to call her Ma’am. What did you call her, before she became M?” He tries to hide his envy as he asks, “Did she let you use her real name?”

Q shakes his head. “I called her Gladys the first couple years. I did it to annoy her, but I don’t think she ever caught the reference.”

“What reference?”

“A video game character. Don’t worry about it,” Q says with forced nonchalance. “Tell me, did you call her a ‘diminutive grandmother’ to her face?”

“Of course not; I’m a gentleman,” James says.

But her smile had been warm and familial, and she spoke as though she already knew him intimately. She pointed out some of James’s more notable accomplishments with the Navy, particularly his excellence as commander of a unit, but also the occasional write-up for taking unapproved solo actions in the field. James had explained that as a team leader, he did not put his team in jeopardy on a hunch; he took his responsibility to them too seriously.

But you’ll risk your own life, she’d concluded with clear approval.

She offered him a transition to full-time solo work. When he balked at becoming a spook, she clarified that she didn’t mean a long-term, deep-cover spy, but a senior field agent. And perhaps with time, a double-0: a continent-hopping solution wherever particularly dangerous problems cropped up. It was an intriguing prospect, and combined with her flattery and warmth, he’d been half-sold before the plates were cleared. But she’d thrown an immediate obstacle in his path—an aptitude test he had to pass before she could officially consider him.

“Did she mention the test she set me?”

“No. What kind of test?”

“It turned out, she’d selected that restaurant for a purpose. The building across the street housed overflow offices for the Joint Intelligence Organization. She told me to infiltrate it, find a specific office, and bring her the thumb drive from its safe. No violence, no tools, and no stealth—she wanted it done in broad daylight, during business hours.”

“Testing your social engineering skills,” Q guesses.

I believe you can do it; you’re too-charming by half when you’re only half-trying. Show me what you can accomplish when you really want something.

“I debated it for two days. If I were caught, I could have lost my commission; she never promised to shield me from repercussions. Knowing her now, I doubt she would’ve lifted a finger to help me if I’d disappointed her.”

“But you did it anyway.”

In the end, James couldn’t resist testing himself, to see if he could actually pull it off. “D’you know, she didn’t even have the courtesy to look surprised when I brought her the Private Secretary’s thumb drive the following week.” But oh, how proud and pleased she’d been. James still feels a glow of joy at the memory, a treasure he keeps tucked away like a collector’s card he doesn’t dare crease with too-frequent handling.

“The Private Secretary of the JIO. Keats,” Q says. He shifts in his seat.

“A friend of hers,” James assures him. “He’d boasted she couldn’t get in there, and I helped her prove him wrong.”

“Did you look at it? The contents of the drive?”

James had been sorely tempted…but he’d wanted even more to prove himself worthy of her faith. “No, I don’t know what was on it.”

“I do.” Q looks troubled.

James cocks his head. “She gave it to you?”

“No, she…. She and Secretary Keats weren’t friends. They butted heads regularly over her refusal to share her sources. When the previous M retired, a year after your ‘test,’ she needed the JIO’s and the ISC’s backing to support her candidacy for M. She told me….” Q takes a deep breath. “She’d had me digging up dirt on the ISC members for weeks, but Chairman Rona was untouchable; I couldn’t find anything on him. I thought she’d be angry with me, but she told me she wasn’t worried about his support…because she already had something on the JIO that would change the chairman’s mind.”

“Blackmail,” James murmurs, momentarily taken aback. While the soldier in him recoils at such disloyalty, James is pragmatic enough to see why it was necessary. The established order would have wanted someone more political, someone who went to the right schools and kept the right company…and someone with a penis. She would have been at a major disadvantage running against an experienced politician such as Mallory.

Q shrugs. “Information was always her currency.”

What James admires most is the premeditation. To convince a not-yet-official recruit to steal Keats’s drive a year before the previous M’s retirement…. She always did have her eye on the big picture; that’s what made her the only person capable of leading MI6. Whatever laws and mores she had to violate along the way to achieve her ambition, they were necessary evils, and negligible in comparison to all the good she’d done.

If she were still alive, James would congratulate her on a meticulously planned and patiently executed mission.

“What a woman,” he says ruefully. He wishes she had shared the true extent of her success with him. She’d confided in James her worries about the regressive norms of British politics, complained that if only she’d been born with James’s tackle, she’d have been promoted in a heartbeat. But on more than one occasion, she also mentioned that she hoped to promote James to a double-0 if given the opportunity. She had plans for him, she said. It was a reassurance he’d needed to hear…a promise that he wouldn’t be forgotten and cast aside if she got promoted to M.

“What a spy,” Q sighs. “She used people for all they were worth, then kept squeezing for more.”

“She liked me, I think. At least initially,” James finds himself confessing. “But shortly after her promotion…shortly after my promotion…she went cold. I tried to blame it on the stress of the position, but it was a very personal kind of dislike. The number of times she tore me a new arsehole in front of her staff or whatever politician was present—hell, once in front of the bloody PM himself. Despite my best efforts, I was a perpetual headache for her, and she made my life hell for it.”

He raises his wine in a silent toast.

“Yet I still miss the old bitch. Every single day.”

“I miss her, too. Despite everything she did to me,” Q adds with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Aren’t we a pair? The dutiful sons, still loyal even now.” He salutes with his own glass before placing it down with a troubled set to his brow as his thoughts turn inward.

James’s attention catches on the words, spoken so casually yet so at odds with Q’s story to date. A hint that Q’s relationship with M was neither strictly business nor entirely positive. He wants to know more, but he can’t risk drawing attention to Q’s slip-up.

“She told me that orphans make the best recruits; that’s doubtless part of what singled me out for recruitment in the first place.” James is certain his family history is part of his file, so the news that he’s an orphan won’t come as a surprise to Q. “And you, as well, I imagine.”

“No, my father’s very much still alive.”

That surprises James; as isolated as Q is, James assumed he had no living family. “But not your mother?”

Q’s expression darkens to a glower. “I have no idea. Honestly, after she left, I never had the urge to look for her.”

“Were you very young?”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Q says, sharp enough to close that avenue down.

James knows he’s standing in a minefield, but Q hasn’t shut him out yet. So James pushes for a bit more information, making it sound natural with an admiring lilt. “Your father, is he a genius like you?”

Q sighs bitterly. “My father can’t be bothered with genius, or with anything that isn’t getting through his 9-5 so he can sit in the pub for four hours a night.”

Abandoned by his mother; neglected by his father. Those biographical factors alone make Q statistically predisposed to people pleasing, craving external validation and stable, close relationships. Yes, James can see the appeal for M.

As kindly as he can, James says, “There’s more than one way to be an orphan.”

Q’s scowl says he dislikes James’s diagnosis, but instead of arguing, he pushes his plate away. “I’m not as hungry as I thought,” he announces.

Crap, he’s blown it.

Before James can try to recapture the promising, relaxed mood from earlier, Marco appears next to them and eyes their barely touched meals with concern. They haven’t lifted their forks in quite some time, James realizes. And with his own appetite on the wane, he gives up on his plan to linger flirtatiously over a shared dessert. He orders their meals boxed and pulls out his credit card.

Q shoves his phone into his satchel and starts to rise from the table, saying, “I should go.”

“Let me drive you home,” James says quickly to stop Q fleeing the restaurant.

Q pauses and gives him a dubious look. “Like you originally promised? No more detours?”

“No detours,” James promises. “I’ve still got your souvenir in the boot, and it’s not the kind of intel I want you taking on the Tube.”

After a moment of consideration, Q sits back down to wait while James pays for their meal.

If Q were his usual sort of dinner companion, James would offer his arm for the walk back to the car park. Instead, James walks close enough to bump Q’s shoulder from time to time. Q lets him get away with it, even leans into the occasional caress. It’s almost friendly, but for the way Q’s defenses are raised, his lips pinched.

James doesn’t try to cajole or tease him into a better mood. He lets the silence last on the drive south, lets Q’s melancholy steep like black tea. Grief is an effective aphrodisiac—one James has exploited more than a time or two in the field—and once he walks Q upstairs, he’ll secure an invitation to stay and commiserate over their shared loss….

And then Q says, gaze fixed out the side window, “She really loved you, you know.”

James inhales sharply.

“I don’t know why she treated you like that. But she wouldn’t have tried so hard to find you if she didn’t care about you.”

James doesn’t take his eyes off the road, even as his meager supper twists below his lungs, threatening to revolt. He swallows past an acidic lump in his throat but can’t find anything to say.

The worst part is the note of apology in Q’s voice. As though Q feels it’s his place to upend James’s entire understanding of M in the middle of the bloody suburbs—on a drive James is only making so he can exploit Q’s emotional vulnerability and leverage it for his own vengeance.

Devastated, Q called her earlier. As though James’s presumed-death could have affected her like…like the courier’s murder affected Phillips.

Mercifully, Q doesn’t press the topic any further, but James resents the returning silence, leaving him with his precarious thoughts.

The lights of Q’s apartment building soon rise above the shops ahead…and James can no longer go through with his plan, not with his mind in turmoil and a pain like heartbreak in his chest. He pulls up out front of Q’s apartment instead of parking around the back.

They climb out and lock gazes across the roof of the car. “Thank you for the ride. And for dinner,” Q says, forcing a pleasant tone.

“My pleasure.” James heads for the boot while Q waits on the curb, bag of leftovers dangling from his hand and satchel slung across his chest.

James pops the lid, rolls back the floor mat, depresses the recessed steel panel, and opens the smuggler’s compartment above the left wheel well.

“And here you are,” James says. He holds out a small-but-weighty gift bag and lets Q take it from him carefully. “A special keepsake from my excursion to North America.”

“Thank you,” Q says again, immediately peeking into the bag at the two lumpy black cases. “I’ll get to work on this tonight.” He gives James a tentative smile and turns toward the front door.

James lets him go.

He starts the long drive back to Chelsea in the twilight, cursing his failure. He’d meant to manipulate Q, not make himself vulnerable to attack. He’s of two minds as he merges into traffic. He wants to know why those two hard drives were Ramesh’s best-protected possessions—whether they’ll provide the lead James needs to locate Silva. And he wants to know what M and Q really were to one another; wants to know every single thing M ever said about him to Q; why she professed affection for him to an outsider while turning away from James himself.

And he won’t get any of those answers tonight, since he let himself get distracted by his own grief for M and the friendship they’d once had. James tightens his hands around the steering wheel, focusing on the seams in the leather instead of the lingering ache within his ribs. He’ll have to be more guarded in dealing with Q from now on. He can’t let his emotions get the better of him again.

Chapter Text

James receives a one-word text the following evening.

Toronto?

Shit. Q works fast.

James sets down his martini, settles his bill, and heads for his car without texting back. He can’t tell from the message what mood Q is in, but he can guess, and the sooner he makes amends for breaching Q’s trust, the better.

A couple smokers loiter in front of Q’s building, scrolling through their phones in the fine September weather. James has to hurry out of the way of a teen barreling down the staircase at breakneck speed, and he smirks at a young couple snogging energetically in Q’s hallway. He catches his feet dragging as he makes his way to Q’s door. He doesn’t relish facing this music; unlike with M, James can’t fully predict how Q will respond.

But tarrying can only worsen the situation.

James lifts his chin, knocks on Q’s door, and self-consciously adjusts the fall of his jacket as he waits.

Q answers the door after a minute, wearing a slight frown. “You didn’t say you were coming over.”

“This feels like a conversation we should have in person.”

Q shrugs. “Might as well come in then.” There’s nothing welcoming about his tone.

James follows him across the living room, pausing to pet Scylla when she rubs against his leg.

Q takes up a defensible position by his computer desk, arms crossed. James notes the forgotten bowl of noodles crammed between the keyboard and the lowest monitor, semi-congealed oil floating on the tepid surface. Above the keyboard, reams of text scroll over the six monitors.

“I take it you had success with the drives?” James asks.

Q snorts. “I did. And it was the damnedest thing. Faraday-cage cases—very expensive—and the first drive had a nice bit of coding on the encryption to protect its contents. But all it contained was photo albums and contact information for a large family spread across three continents.”

James’s smile loses some of its luster. He could have sworn he was onto something when he found those drives stashed in Ramesh’s panic room. If all he managed to scrounge from the middleman’s penthouse was a personal address book, he’s back to square one.

“Oh, did you expect something more impressive on the drives? Something related to Silva?” Q snarks. “I expected the same; surely that’s why you brought me such a lovely gift all the way from Houston, Texas. Or…what was it you called it? North America. Very clever, that. Naturally, I tried looking into the family, wondering whether one of them might be Silva. And I learned that their patriarch jumped to his death two days ago in Toronto.”

Q taps a few keys, and the screen views switch to display a news headline announcing the businessman’s fatal fall alongside a collection of colorful photographs depicting multiple generations of people in casual dress and situations, Mr. Ramesh appearing in a number of them.

What was it Ramesh had said to explain his intransigence…every man has a weakness.

“Funnily enough,” Q continues, his tone growing even more caustic, “all the electronics in his home were recently fried, almost as if an EMP had been detonated on his floor. And you were issued an EMP watch in the kit you took to Brazil, weren’t you?”

James can tell Q is on a roll with a step-by-step presentation designed to take James through Q’s series of nasty realizations and his mounting indignation at each. But James doesn’t care to listen to a drawn-out lecture. “Yes,” he says, cutting to the chase. “Branford gave me a lead to his contact in Toronto. I flew there to interrogate Ramesh two days ago.”

Q huffs, purses his lips, and taps another key. New pictures of the neighborhood around Ramesh’s apartment building take over the screens.

James glances at them, noting what appear to be posts on various social media platforms, and recognizes himself in the background of at least two of them—likely the others as well, in the further distance. He’d evaded stationary security cameras, but not idle civilians with phones. His cheek twitches with an aborted smile of appreciation for Q’s thoroughness.

“I deserve an explanation,” Q snaps. “And there’s no one here to read our lips, and no CCTV cameras that could be watching. So go ahead. Enlighten me.”

James shrugs amiably, as though he has no secrets to keep. “Branford was recruited for the job by an anonymous benefactor. I used Branford’s phone to text his contact, and Ramesh sicced an assassin on me for my troubles.”

The reminder that James’s job is a violent one temporarily disarms Q. James hurries to finish his explanation, while Q still looks belatedly concerned.

“Fortunately, the would-be assassin turned out to be a reasonable chap, and very forthcoming after I’d broken a few bones. He gave me the address of their mutual contact in Toronto. I found Ramesh and tried to interrogate him, but he jumped to his death rather than give up Silva.”

James concludes his tale with a low, open-palmed shrug before he dips his hands into his pockets.

Q mulls this story over before asking, “And you didn’t tell me you were doing any of this because…?”

“By that point, I had the CIA breathing down my neck, and I was already trying Mallory’s patience, so time was of the essence.”

“You expect me to believe you flew 2,000 kilometers to interrogate a completely different suspect and couldn’t find time for a phone call or text?”

James sighs.

Q bristles, temper flaring back up. “You were cutting me out…until you ran into a hard drive you couldn’t crack. If you’d gotten into those drives, you'd've kept going until you found Silva and killed him. I know about your one-man obsession with taking down Quantum, how you disobeyed multiple orders to stand down and jeopardized alliances all over Central—”

“No,” James interrupts firmly, “that’s not what I was doing. I didn’t want to get your hopes up prematurely, and I didn’t want you tempted to come after me.”

James looks around at the small flat Q’s spent a quarter of his life in, emblematic of the sheltered life he’s led.

“You’re safe here, but out there in the field, it’s impossible to predict what will happen. I’ve been a soldier and spy for twenty years, and I didn’t predict Ramesh taking his own life. If he had a weapon on him, he might have done something even more disastrous. And if you’d been there with me, I would’ve had to worry about you in the line of fire. I wanted you somewhere safe until I knew what I was getting into—and what I’ll be getting you into when we find Silva.”

James can see Q waver—as well he might; it’s a believable enough fiction, and one that flatters them both. But Q hasn’t accounted for the contents of the second drive, and James suspects Q will withhold his findings until he’s convinced that James is reliable. If James fails to sell his commitment now, Q might reconsider their partnership, and James will be obliged to take back Ramesh’s drives—by force, if necessary.

It’s ahead of schedule to turn the hard drives over to MI6—James planned to do so only when he needed Mallory’s official mission support. But if Q won’t get him into that second drive, James will have to hand it over to MI6’s Research Section and hope they’re talented enough to crack it. Still, his preference is to keep Q onboard, so he doubles down on the reassurances.

“I didn’t mean to scare you or make you feel shut out,” he says persuasively. “That wasn’t my intention, I promise. The truth is you’re far too important for me to endanger like that.”

Q worries at his lower lip with a thumbnail, undecided. “You already knew the drives were encrypted,” he eventually says.

Damn. James had hoped Q wouldn’t put his finger on that telling detail. “Of course,” James says, as though this single fact doesn’t undercut every reason why Q should believe him. “I tried to access them on Sunday night. When I couldn’t, I brought them straight to you. I knew if anyone could unlock them, you could. I’m glad to see I was right.”

The best bluffs are made unflinchingly, with direct eye contact. By sheer force of training, James doesn’t hold his breath while he waits to see whether his dubious track record of dependability, protestations of loyalty, and M’s purported partiality for him will outweigh the flimsiness of his story.

After a long moment, Q folds, figuratively and literally. He slumps into his desk chair, closes the photo array, and returns the screens to their scrolling lines of text. James advances cautiously for a better look.

“Only partly right,” Q says. “I got into one of the drives. The second is encrypted to high heaven and back again. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before, which means it’s custom, unique. Whoever wrote it is a genius.”

“Don’t tell me you’re accepting defeat so soon,” he says to prick Q’s pride.

“Of course not! It’s just going to take time to brute force my way in, if I can’t solve it cleanly. I have two 16-core CPUs gnawing on it; I’ll crack it.”

“I know you will,” James agrees. “Given how many layers of protection Ramesh had on it, it’s definitely our best lead to find Silva.”

Q nods. “All the more reason to stay on it. So we can both go after the bastard.”

And with that mild jab, it appears James has been forgiven. If only M had exercised the same magnanimous temperament with him when James let her down.

“She told you about Quantum?” James asks. He isn’t sure if he’s pleased or annoyed by the idea; that will probably depend on whether her stories were complimentary or condemning.

“I told her about Quantum,” Q corrects.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes yes, you uncovered their existence for us, but I’m the one who found White, found Slate, found Kabira. I spent months hunting down all their nasty little schemes around the globe so MI6 could eliminate them.” He chuckles softly as he raises his hands to the keyboard. “She earned a special commendation for taking them down.”

James had escorted her to that dinner, proud to stand behind her as she received her personal congratulations from the PM. The Quantum case, less than six months after her promotion to M, proved to all doubters that she was England’s best safeguard against an uncertain world of hidden enemies. She and her network of informants….

“How much of it was you?”

Q hums in question.

“She brought in a steady stream of intelligence from confidential sources all over the world, information that should have been impossible to acquire. How much of it were you responsible for?”

“I don’t know,” Q admits. “I never heard about anyone else she was working with, but then, she liked to keep things…compartmentalized.”

“Etzioni? Marshall Black?”

“Yes, and yes,” Q confirms.

“The Nairobi cartel?”

Q nods.

James wonders what it means that the hacker in front of him was the anonymous informant behind the four most significant missions of James’s career. Was M’s network not as wide as she claimed? Or perhaps, a selfish part of him suggests, James was the only agent she trusted with Q’s work…. He sneers at the unsatisfied longing for her approval that he never shook off.

“Interesting,” James decides. He’ll ask Tanner whether more of M’s sources have approached MI6 since her death. That might help answer this question.

Q has no comment, already sinking back into work-mode. His fingers are a blur on the keys as he leans in close to study the bottom-center screen, now displaying a kaleidoscope of fractals transforming into complex geometric patterns.

He’ll be at it all night, James knows. He has to admire Q’s dedication to their mission. If James were still relying on MI6 to find Silva, he’d be waiting impotently for who knows how long. But Q has already allowed James to be useful, to flex his muscles and skills in furtherance of avenging M. All while Q spends untold hours striving toward that same goal. As though Q feels her loss as keenly as James does. As though he loved her—

Despite everything she did to me.

James has been mulling over Q’s words all day. If Q ever disappointed her, did she turn her vicious tongue on him, slice Q’s ego to ribbons, and leave him broken-hearted as she spurned him? God, James hopes not—or if she did, hopefully her anger was short-lived. His own chest aches with sympathy for the imagined injury…or with self-pity for his own wounds.

Embarrassed by this sentimentality he'd meant to leave behind him last night, James busies himself collecting Q’s abandoned dinner. It doesn’t look salvageable, even with a long turn in the microwave; he should just toss it. As he straightens up, James’s eyes fall on the porcelain cup still haunting Q’s bookshelf. He reaches for it impulsively.

“Don’t,” Q’s voice cracks like a whip.

James pulls back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, I’m—” Q looks up and then away, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s just…too soon.”

“It was hers,” James prompts.

“Every time she visited, we’d have a spot of tea.”

James recalls his inventory of Q’s cupboard, none of the serving ware fragile or decorated with ornate rose buds. “Were your mugs not good enough for her?”

“I bought it as a…present, of sorts. A white flag, perhaps.” Q’s voice trembles slightly, indicating more truths made impenetrable by assiduously chosen words.

“I wish you would tell me about her,” James says, aiming for a wistful note to hide his jealousy of intimate afternoon teas.

That gets Q to turn his head. He blinks up at James, startled.

“I knew one part of her, but you seem to have known a side I haven’t seen in years. The way you’ve spoken of her, it’s like I didn’t know her at all.”

Q barks a laugh that cuts off as abruptly as it began. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

James’s heart aches again. “Was she as cold to you as she was with me?”

Q’s shoulders curve, his whole essence seeming to shrink in his chair.

“What were you to one another?”

Q stares at him, breaths shortening as though climbing a steep slope that’s wearing him out. It feels inevitable that he’ll break in one direction or the other, if James just gives him one more push.

“Please,” he adds earnestly.

Q rises, brushing against Bond’s body as he contorts to escape the chair where James had inadvertently hemmed him in.

“Q?”

He paces the room once, twice, before meeting James’s eyes again. “Can I trust you?”

James thought they’d just settled this debate. “Of course,” he says…but the swift reassurance doesn’t appear to mollify Q. James gestures at the computers behind him. “I’ve just handed you proof of extrajudicial tortures and my involvement in the suspicious death of a Canadian citizen. I’m in this up to my neck, Q.”

“I don’t mean with Silva or MI6. With me. Can I trust you with me?”

And that’s a far more personal matter than calculating the dependability of an ally. This question can’t be reasoned out with logic or pros and cons lists. Just by asking it aloud, Q’s showing his hand, practically begging James to give him the green light.

Changing his approach, James says kindly, “I’m probably the only person you can trust.” It’s a double-edged honesty; he hasn’t seen a trace of anyone else in Q’s life in the past month, let alone a confidant who could be privy to Q’s years-long partnership with the director of MI6. And the deeper that loneliness cuts, the more Q will reach out for someone to trust, regardless of whether he should.

What looks like relief flashes across Q’s face. But instead of speaking, Q tugs a pair of trainers from under the couch and slides them on before disappearing into the kitchen. He emerges with the bottle of Macallan James brought him three weeks ago, scoops his keys off a side table, and heads for the door.

Intrigued, James follows him out into the hall.

Q locks the deadbolt behind them and marches up the stairs to the top floor and beyond, to a dead end at a padlocked door labeled ‘Roof Access.’ Q bypasses the padlock to jostle the board the padlock is bolted to…and the whole side of the door frame swings loose from the wall, bringing the door with it. The padlock dangles intact.

James grins at Q’s ingenuity, the escape hatch he likely installed himself. The door opens onto a long, narrow rooftop dotted with steam vents and a lift motor room. While Q props the door shut behind them, James takes in the view of the sunset glowing orange on the horizon. To the north, above the faded-red roofs of cramped housing estates, the lights of the London skyline are picked out beneath grey clouds.

Q ignores the view in favor of perching on a wide concrete ledge, his arms and legs drawn in tight. He takes a sip straight from the bottle and winces with displeasure but doesn’t set the bottle aside or offer to share it. With his gaze fixed straight ahead, his focus turns inward.

Knowing he’ll get the answers he wants if he just gives Q time to organize his thoughts, James sits next to him and makes himself comfortable. The breeze, while brisk, is still warm with the day’s heat, and the muted bustle of traffic below affords a feeling of life that’s sorely missing from Q’s electronically sealed bubble downstairs. He can see the draw of a rooftop retreat.

Q takes another sip and pulls another face, like he’s swigging bitter medicine. And James revises his bemusement at Q’s choice of beverage. Yes, Q is determined to talk, but whatever he plans to say, he can’t do it sober. So he’s rectifying that state with single-minded determination, getting himself drunk enough for a confession—or an interrogation.

And who is James to interfere with such a mutually beneficial plan?

He gives Q’s stomach a few minutes to absorb the alcohol before pulling the bottle out of Q’s grip, mindful to avoid Q’s fingers. The familiar taste of mellow smoke and sweet notes unwinds a bit of James’s own tension.

Q sighs, long and low, and says, “Thank you.”

James nods and says with an eye to the wide stretch of urban sprawl and open sky all around them, “It’s a nice view. D’you come here often?”

Q’s mouth quirks at the pickup line. “When the weather’s clear. I don’t have the excuse of a smoking habit, but sometimes…. It’s the closest thing to refuge I have.” He waves his hand, encompassing the length of the apartment building’s roof. “There are no cameras up here.”

“You value your privacy,” James confirms.

“It’s like safety, or affection…. When it’s something you don’t have, you’ll seize onto any scrap as tight as you can.”

James couldn’t agree more; it’s an operational philosophy he often uses to seduce lonely wives and nervous mistresses. “That sounds like something you learned the hard way,” James says.

Q hugs himself. “I’ve always kept to myself, mostly. Couldn’t really make friends as the scholarship student at those posh schools. Uni was better; I found a few mates on campus, and I made online friends all over, and that was enough. It was good.”

Q reaches for the bottle, and James passes it back.

“When I moved here, I made a mistake. Rather a lot of mistakes, actually. But the biggest was trying to be a good neighbor.”

He flashes a nervous look at James and drinks before continuing.

“She said her name was Phyllis. I met her down by the mailboxes after a few months here; tiny old bat, rumpled sweater set and feathered lipstick, like so many of the old dears from my village. She’d just moved onto my floor and complained about not knowing how to set up her internet. Absolutely terrified of letting an engineer into her flat. She asked if I would sort it for her. And I agreed.”

“That was M?” James asks, incredulous, even as he leaps to the logical conclusion. He can’t imagine that immaculately coiffed woman dressed as Q just described her. Let alone taking a dumpy flat in South Wimbledon, when he’s been inside her elegant townhouse in Islington.

Q goes to lift the bottle again, but James steals it away and sets it on the ground on the far side of his body. By James’s estimate, Q’s had at least four ounces by now—more than enough for courage and a loosened tongue. Much more, and he’ll be verging on unmanageably sloppy in half an hour’s time.

Q eyes James and opens his mouth, but ultimately doesn’t protest the theft of the bottle.

“What the hell was she doing in your building?” James presses.

Q smiles and looks into the distance again. “She was so convincing. Newly widowed—her husband of thirty years had just passed, and she’d had to sell their home. It was her first time living alone in decades, and she was so sweet and overwhelmed by it all. I felt sorry for her. I…I wanted to help. So I hooked up the Wi-Fi and television while Phyllis baked me a tray of jammy biscuits. And every time I saw her in the hall after, she invited me in for tea and cake and neighborhood gossip.”

“She baked.” James’s face breaks out into a grin. The image is ludicrous. He wishes he’d known about her homemaker talents so he could tease her. And to think, she’d only needed a light lunch and a dangerous challenge to recruit James. However she’d come to learn about the hacker, she’d identified Q as a great asset for MI6 and created an entire deep cover to woo him slowly.

James chuckles at the visual of M worming her way into Q’s confidence with fabricated tales of woe and homemade bakes. She was a brilliant spy in her heyday; it must have been a pleasure to sharpen her infiltration skills so long after leaving the field.

Q’s lips quirk with humor. “It is funny, looking back; so absurd it makes it hard to hold a grudge.” He clears his throat, blinking eyes that betray a nascent shine before continuing. “One day I told Phyllis about the kittens I’d adopted, and she wanted to come round to see them. She made me a lemon sponge, my favorite. I let her inside…and that’s when she planted the cameras.” Q’s smile doesn’t drop so much as dissolve like sugar in water. “A week later, she was back at my door, looking like herself. Proper. Powerful. And she had all the evidence she needed to put me in prison for life.”

“What—” James sputters, caught off guard by the turn in Q’s tale. “What were you doing?”

Q’s hands fidget in his lap, and he stares at them as he answers, “What every young hacker tries to do. Prove they’re the best by hacking the unhackable, the most heavily protected systems out there. That week alone, she caught me accessing the NATS and GCHQ.”

James’s shocked inhalation sounds like a hiss.

Q darts another look at James and swallows. “I hadn’t acted against any of them—that was never why I did it. But that didn’t matter; just accessing them was enough to do me in, and my boasting about it online was the bow on the package. Terrorism, espionage, treason…she could’ve pressed any charge she wanted. She set the terms for my sentence: she wouldn’t hand me over to the authorities, so long as I worked for her.”

“Off the books,” James says, amending his initial assessment. M’s intention had never been recruitment; someone like Q was far too radioactive for MI6’s reputation—or her own—to survive public exposure.

Q leaps to his feet and paces in front of James. The soft pinks of the sunset are fading away, leaving the sky cloaked in somber blues. Q’s pale skin is framed by shaggy hair blown about by the breeze as his expression morphs into something wild, hunted.

“She kept me on a leash like her personal bloodhound, sniffing out the world’s secrets for her, and there was nothing I could do to wriggle free. I couldn’t go to the authorities with what I’d done. If I tried to run, she would send Britain’s best assassins to hunt me down. And if I so much as looked at MI6’s systems in retaliation, she promised to kill me herself.”

James can’t help picturing the leash Q describes as something literal. Heavy and iron, like the collar James wore so recently. His neck aches with the remembered weight. He knows what that kind of helplessness feels like. The notion that M had enslaved someone, a British citizen, right here in London…the whisky in his stomach burns with horror.

“And I couldn’t even—” Q cuts himself off with a gasp as though coming up for air before plunging in again, his voice rising with his temper. “Seven fucking years she kept me tied to this building, kept an eye on my finances, kept me from living, from experiencing the world!” He raises his face and shouts into the blustery wind, “Seven fucking years! All because I was showing off. I wanted everyone to know that I was the best!”

He scrubs the back of his wrist over a wet cheek, his incandescent fury burning itself to nothing as quickly as it came on, leaving him hollowed out and subdued in its wake.

“Do you know the worst part?” he asks, voice hoarse. “I don’t even hate her for it. I used to—God, I hated her so much. She would drop in for a chat and a cuppa whenever she wanted something from me, always bringing cakes and biscuits as though they made up for the gun to my temple. She was my jailer; I didn’t dare turn her away. But the less I resisted, the less she threatened. The more I cooperated, the friendlier she became. I knew what she was doing—I’m not an idiot—but I’d pushed all my friends away to hide them…and she was the only one left.”

“I’m sorry, Q,” James says. It’s ineffectual, a worthless expression of sympathy for decisions James didn’t make and can’t understand, but the pain bleeding off of Q is palpable. Q has never seemed so vulnerable, not even wearing his Ethan Davis mask, and more than anything, James wishes he’d known him earlier, known what he was going through, so he could protect him.

“For all her manipulations, I think we actually were friends by the end. I’d settled into it, after the first few years, and life was almost…comfortable. She started coming round just to chat instead of dropping off the latest problem. She’d ask how I was doing, complain about her nemeses on the ISC and the double-0s. She talked a lot about you.”

James’s heart twists. This is what he’d longed to hear since dinner last night, but in light of Q’s revelations, James isn’t sure he still wants to know. “What did she say?” James makes himself ask.

“When she recruited you, she bragged about you incessantly. How skilled you were, how ruthless, how loyal to her and to England. It was her way of keeping me in line. She wanted me to know that, if I ever crossed her, an agent named James Bond would find me and put a bullet in my brain.”

James jolts to his feet, appalled at the thought, and Q stops pacing to face him down. “Q, I wouldn’t— I would never have—”

“Of course you would! She was infallible; everyone revered the knowledge she had—a reputation I helped build. And she had proof that I was a dangerous hacker, an imminent threat to England. I’d have been dead before the ink on the order dried.”

God help him, he’s right.

James knows himself well enough to recognize the truth when it’s shouted at him from five meters away. If M only had years-old proof, it might not have been enough to warrant a sanctioned kill order. But that never stopped her—or him. All it would have taken was a look from her, and James would have understood what she wanted done—what needed to be done. That glint in her eye that meant her hands were tied by politics or legal hoops, but she knew what the greater good demanded, and James would have eagerly taken an unsanctioned kill shot to earn her tacit, fleeting approval.

He had done it. He had done it a dozen times at least.

Because he trusted her to know what was best for England. Because she knew things no one else did, knew about the larger threats in the world—thanks to information she was squeezing out of Q. Q was always there behind the scenes, longer than James knew her, imprisoned and forced to work for her, to bolster her reputation, to get her promoted to M in the first place….

He wonders whether Q could be lying to him…but considering the facts as presented, he can’t deny Q’s tale is plausible. It fits too well with the facts James does know. Shocking as it is, M’s devotion to the big picture made her just as implacable as the self-righteous terrorists and revolutionaries she targeted. Justifying some light slavery would be nothing against the greater good.

Q smiles wryly, his tone softening to something more conspiratorial. “I think that’s why she told me so many stories about you, at least at first. She wanted me afraid of you. But she cared about you too much—she started telling me about your near-misses, your cock-ups, how infuriating you were. She thought you dead half a dozen times, and she always came round mine to fret over your safety. You really were her favorite agent…and through all her stories, you became mine.”

James’s thoughts are a confused welter. “I doubt this is the outcome she expected for us,” he grits out.

“She wasn’t actually all-knowing, despite appearances. I’d wager she got some things wrong.”

James doesn’t know how Q can speak of her so fondly—or him. After all the liberties she stole from Q, the limitations she put on his life—using James as a bogeyman to terrorize and control him—it seems impossible that Q hasn’t fled to the far side of the world already.

“Why stay? Why avenge someone who locked you in a cell for seven years?”

Q frowns. “Like you said last night, I miss her. She was the closest thing to a friend I had. And I think…I think she needed someone to confide in just as badly as I did.”

The thought humanizes her from the cold monolith in his memory, evoking the warmth and empathy she’d shown when James first met her. How much of that initial friendliness was an act, he wonders, and blanches at the thought.

“And though she never instilled a love of MI6 in me, she did prove to be right…even necessary at times,” Q confesses. “She made me see the real stakes out there, what true villainy looks like. The damage that someone like me could do with bad intentions…and the good I could do by taking them down. It felt like I was achieving something that mattered, making a tangible difference, instead of just beating someone else’s fastest run at the Treasury.

“So no, I wasn’t about to let some arsehole steal our list of agents, cost us our favorite agent, and then murder her not 10 kilometers from here. I’ll hack the entire world to find Silva and make him pay for what he did to her. And to you.”

James is touched by Q’s protective sentiment, and even more by the generosity of sharing it so freely. After so long without M’s affection, it warms James like Felix’s flask of bourbon on a long stakeout. Discomfited by sentimentality again, James says glibly, “Of course you hacked the bloody Treasury.”

It’s a grave miscalculation.

Q stiffens and steps back, his expression twisting into regret and perhaps fear.

“Q, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Q shifts his weight uncertainly. “So what happens next?”

“With what?” James asks.

“I told you what I did, what she had on me. What she thought I deserved.”

James frowns and takes a cautious step forward, measuring Q’s skittishness as he shuffles in place, lest he bolt for the door. “I’m not about to lock you up, if that’s—”

“You could, though,” Q interrupts. “The first thing she taught me is that I can’t afford to trust anyone, and I haven’t, not for years. But you…. I’ve just handed you a full confession on a silver platter. You can do anything you’d like with me.”

The thought of taking up Q’s leash with the same tight fist M used is anathema. “No,” he insists, taking another step.

Q raises his chin, finding a defiant well of pride to say, “Why not? You were right, downstairs; you’re the only person I could conceivably trust with any of this…but I have no idea why I should. You’re a spy, the same as her.”

And James couldn’t have asked for a more perfect opening, the right words already on the tip of his tongue, poised to slide like a lock pick under the final pin. When he advances into Q’s space, Q’s breath shudders with longing, transparently desperate for reassurance and connection.

James cups his cheek, the skin warm under his palm, strands of over-long hair fluttering against his fingers. Q’s eyes dip to James’s lips, and James accepts the invitation to lean in and kiss him, as sweetly and gently as he’s ever done. Q presses up into the kiss, a whimper low in his throat as Q’s lips part and his breath spills out between them. Sympathy wells up in James’s chest unbidden; he wants to grab Q and hide him away, to somehow shield him from the lingering pall of M’s threats and the years of painful memories.

Instead, James eases back to run his thumb under Q’s eye, smoothing away the dampness. “It’s not a mistake to trust me,” he lies, and hates himself for the naked gratitude in Q’s answering smile. Q leans against him so trustingly, all his fears banished, and James has to kiss him again, giving into the simple pleasure of soft lips and hot breath. Letting Q find comfort in physical closeness, even as James tries to ignore the heartache he’ll inevitably cause Q.

Another kiss, and James’s fingers slide back to thread through his lush hair. Q makes a frustrated noise, stepping another inch into James’s space, their noses bumping, and James grips his upper arm to soothe him…only to feel it trembling. A glance down reveals Q’s hands clenched in fists at his sides, the boffin still unable to touch James, despite welcoming this new intimacy between them.

Rather than push him on this psychological obstacle, James pulls Q into a hug, guiding him in with a hand on the back of Q’s head until Q sighs and nestles close, his nose tucked below James’s ear.

James strokes Q’s hair and murmurs, “You don’t have to hide from me. Or from her. You can live your life however you want. This building isn’t a cage anymore.”

Q’s breath hitches.

“It’s getting cold,” James says, gallantly providing cover for Q’s too-strong emotions. Q nods, his cheek sliding along James’s jaw. “I’m sure you've skipped dinner. Let me fix us something?”

“Alright,” Q says.

James cups Q’s neck, kisses his temple in wordless apology, and lets him go. It takes Q a minute to look up, but when he does, he gives James a watery smile that shines with devotion.

It’s a job well done, James tells himself as he offers Q a sappy smile to match. Now he’s certain Q won’t cut him out of their Silva hunt.

He picks up the whisky bottle and lets Q lead the way back to his flat, trying not to wonder whether it was that easy for M, seven years ago with Q.

Or six years ago with James.

Chapter Text

"Download complete," James says, tucking the thumb drive into his tactical vest. "Setting the firebomb now."

He places the incendiary device atop the server tower and flips the switch to trigger the chemical reaction. In approximately five minutes, Pradevita's database will be a lump of molten steel.

"On my way to the rendezvous point."

"Well done, 007," Mallory says, the tension in his voice sighing out into warm approval. "I'll let the Minister know that the evidence has been secured."

Taken aback by the public praise, James files the odd feeling of pleasure aside for later contemplation, already turning to the door he came in.

Tanner comes onto the line next. "We'll have a flight waiting for—"

The chief of staff drops out in a hiss of static, replaced by a new voice saying, "007, there are two teams converging on your location from the east and south entrances."

"Q?" James demands, and immediately curses himself for saying that name on an open comms line.

"Head north, quick as you can."

"What the hell are you doing!"

"Saving your arse. Get moving!"

He shakes off his shock and turns away from his planned exit, moving deeper into the server room, the pulsing blue lights and the drone of the massive air conditioning units above his head betraying no sign of an impending threat. "Can Command hear us?"

"Out that door, make a right. And no, I've cut them off."

"You've got eyes in here?"

"If you'd like, you can wave to the camera you're about to step under," Q says.

James glances up as he passes through the door and smiles at the security camera pointed toward him. He checks both sides of the empty service corridor and turns left.

"I said right," Q snaps.

"Are you watching my back, or my backside?" James asks as he hurries down the corridor. "This is the quickest route to the helicopter pad."

"It's also the quickest way to run into Pradevita's mercenaries. Unless you've got heavier firepower than two pistols, I suggest you turn around and run."

For all that Q has better eyes on the situation, James's instincts tell him to continue forward. His steps slow as he debates between the two voices.

"Now, James."

The note of sudden desperation in Q's tone has James doing an about-face and jogging back the way he came. He's just rounded the bend at the far end of the corridor when he hears a metal door slam and voices shouting behind him. He glances back around the corner to see a squad of black-clad guards pouring into the corridor, assault rifles already in firing position.

Point for Q.

"The boiler room is just ahead?" James asks, running for the steel door at the end of the hall.

"Yes," Q says. "There's an exit on the far side that'll put you in the processing wing."

He hauls the door open and steps into a cacophonous cave of thrumming, hissing machinery. "Any chance you can get my new friends off my tail?"

As James skids down the metal-grated steps to the cement floor below, Q says, "I can't override their radio signals without cutting you off as well. They're about twenty meters behind you."

James grunts. If it were only a couple guards to deal with, the hulking, two-story machines around him would offer ideal cover for a shootout. But against six or more opponents, the idea is moot. He spots the exit and takes the stairs up two-at-a-time.

"I can override the boilers' safety valves," Q says eagerly, but then admits, "…but it'll take ten minutes for the pressure to overload."

From the top of the steps, James scans the room. There, overhead—a fire suppression system. And a thermal sensor low on a side wall. "No need," James says. He draws his Walther, aims, and fires.

And misses. Fuck.

On the opposite side of the room, the metal door swings open, and a muzzle precedes the first mercenary across the threshold. James narrows his eyes and fires three more rounds until he hits the thermal sensor, triggering it. The alarms shriek to life and, mere seconds later, the massive nozzles overhead start pumping hundreds of gallons of high-expansion foam down onto the main floor, the cascades of billowy white foam rendering the room impassable to his pursuers.

James ducks out the door and into a manufacturing room even louder than the boiler room he just left. Yellow emergency lights are already flashing, and the workers closest to James are looking around for guidance amidst the deafening alarms.

"Nicely done," Q says in his ear. "Next stop, the management offices on the second floor."

A set of large rolling doors crank open, revealing sunlight and fresh air, and the workers en masse turn toward this new egress. James spots an abandoned denim jacket he could throw on to cover his black jumper and tactical vest. If he can blend in—

"The second floor," Q insists.

With a deliberate inhalation, James decides to trust Q's advice—for now—and makes for the stairs on the opposite wall.

"Thank you," Q huffs. "You're worse than my cats."

James weaves between fleeing factory workers and snorts. "I thought you read my file; I rarely come when I'm called."

"It may have mentioned your obstinance a time or twelve."

The stairs end at a locked door with an RFID keypad. James angles his pistol up against the keypad frame, just as the light turns green and the door pops open.

"Was that you?" James asks.

"All your base are belong to us," Q says, followed by an inelegant cackle.

James slips through the door and into the hallway of a white-walled office space. "Alright, Q, where to next?"

Q rattles off directions to the executive car lot at the north end of the compound, where James will find the Chief Security Officer's car already started and waiting for him.

"And where is the CSO?" James asks. He read enough about the man in his briefing packet to know he's not someone James wants to tangle with. Not without the element of surprise and a full clip in his gun.

"Trapped in a lift between the third and fourth floors," Q says, sounding smug as ever. "But don't dawdle—I did set those boilers to blow. And since you've just depleted the fire-suppression system…."

If it wouldn't go to Q's head, James would tell him how bloody sexy this display of competence is. As he takes the exterior stairs down to the small car lot, James says affectionately, "So I see you're back to stalking me."

Q huffs again and then says with a voice dry as dust, "What can I say, you're just such a good kisser."

James laughs as he's meant to, but he suspects there's more truth than sarcasm in that statement. He slips behind the wheel of the purring Lexus RC 300 and congratulates himself on his seduction working even better than planned.

While Q guides James through a statistically improbable run of green lights toward the rendezvous point, James marvels at Q's manipulations of computer systems in real-time from half-way around the globe. The MI6 Command staff couldn't do half of the things Q's done in the last hour, even with a week to prep. It dawns on James that he might look forward to such invaluable, albeit unofficial, assistance on future missions. If he plays his cards right, he could potentially hold Q's loyalty even after he and MI6 steal the Silva kill. And with Q eager to help him as he did today, as he helped M—

James flinches hard, and the wheel jerks sharply as he recoils from the repugnant cruelty of his own thoughts.

No, he could never. No matter how eagerly Q might crave a declaration of love, it would only be another leash to restrain him, to control him. No, James won't try to keep Q beyond the Silva hunt. The man deserves his freedom. He'll let Q down gently when the time comes.

As soon as the safe house is within walking distance, James pulls into an alley and leaves the door open and the engine running, inviting all comers to take the luxury vehicle for a joyride. His hands in the pockets of the CSO's brown leather jacket, he joins the light foot traffic, looking like a man out for a relaxing stroll.

Q is a little slower to let go of his adrenaline rush. "My pulse is still racing," he confides in James's ear. "Are all your missions like this?"

"Oh no, they're much harder without your assistance. For which I'll be thanking you properly, once I'm home," James purrs, and delights to hear Q's breath hitch at the promise. "But I think it's time I let Mallory & Tanner know I'm still alive."

"I'll let you go," Q says reluctantly. "Stay safe, 007."

There's another staticky hiss before James hears the telltale pulses of the comms line paging Command to respond, Q having initiated a reconnect for him.

The pulses cut off, and Tanner says, "Bond, thank god. What happened? I'm seeing reports of an explosion at the facility."

James smiles and swaggers up the street. He passes a CCTV camera and nearly waves at it, the knowledge of Q's watchful gaze glowing warmly in his chest.

~

He arrives at Q's flat unannounced—although he suspects Q monitored his whereabouts all the way from Heathrow, to his flat in Chelsea, to Q's front door.

Q keeps him waiting a few seconds after his polite knock, long enough to disguise whether he'd been expecting James's arrival. But when he opens the door, he smiles broadly, more pleased than surprised to see James.

Instead, James is the one caught off guard; he'd forgotten how handsome Q is, with his tousled curls and wide-set eyes and a smile like Easter morning. "Hello there," James says.

"Welcome back." Q stands aside so James can enter. He doesn't scuttle out of the entryway as he's done on James's previous visits, seeming distracted by his own survey of James's body in jeans and a tight Henley.

James congratulates himself on his decision to stop by home for a shower, shave, and change of clothes. As useful as his suits are in most settings, it was definitely time to de-emphasize the power differential between them…and Q clearly appreciates the more casual attire.

Q's eyes slide up from James's thighs to the cling of the cotton shirt under his open, brown leather jacket with a look of naked want, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, enticing.

But when James takes a step into Q's space to kiss him, Q dodges into the living room.

James takes a deep breath and allows Q his space. It took weeks to build up to the intimacy they'd shared on the roof last week. If Q needs time to reacclimate to James's presence, he's more than earned James's patience. He follows slowly behind Q but swings wide to pet Charybdis's head where the cat is seated on the coffee table.

He earns a purr before she hops down and saunters off to the bedroom. Encouraged by Q's fond, approving look, James says, "I brought you another present."

"Let me guess. More homework?" Q accepts the small, silver gift bag from James's outstretched hand.

"Perish the thought. This is a purely recreational indulgence."

Q pulls the cellophane-wrapped box from the bag and carries it to the dining table to study it under the pendant light. "Is this in Hindi?"

James drapes his purloined jacket over the back of a dining chair. "Yes. I picked it up on my way out of Haldwani. It's tea, although it packs quite a kick; I advise caution your first time trying it."

Q looks up, pleased. "That sounds promising."

"Fair warning, the kava-kava makes it technically an illegal import. Best not drink it around your government coworkers."

Q snickers. "Everything you do is designed to get me in trouble, isn't it?"

James shrugs, unrepentant.

"The quartermaster caught me talking to you on your mission. For a moment I thought my goose was cooked, but he only scolded me for 'taking personal calls from a double-0 agent.'" His smile bobbles, and James catches the faint tremble of Q's lower lip before his cheerful demeanor snaps back into place. "It was mortifying," Q says with a forced chuckle—as though he hadn't been truly frightened at nearly getting caught interfering in an active mission by an MI6 branch head.

And he has good reason to be afraid. Given Mallory's eagerness to recruit Q over the Noyer packet, James has no illusions what Mallory would do with Q if the hacker were discovered in MI6. The prospect of Q shut away beyond James's reach, his invaluable assistance dried up like a cracked river bed….

That won't do at all.

"I didn't realize you were at headquarters when you hacked my comms line. That was quite a risk, and unnecessary to boot." He sees the indignation forming in Q's eyes and presses on quickly, "Not the call; I mean being in that building was unnecessary. No, I don't like you reporting to a 10-6 at HQ anymore. If the quartermaster starts to suspect you aren't who you claim to be, he'll run it up the ladder, and you don't want to attract Mallory's attention."

Q's mouth falls open, but he doesn't speak.

"Does MI6 have this address?" James asks.

"Of course not. I falsified my address on my employment forms."

James nods. "Then disappear. Don't bother quitting, just stop reporting to work; even if they look for you, there's no way they'll find you."

Q looks down at the box of tea cradled in his hands and rotates it slowly.

Confused by his reticence, James takes a step closer and presses, "You're not working alone anymore; there's no need for two inside men. And our investigation is already light years ahead of Tanner's. MI6 has nothing we need, aside from gear for the mission itself—and if you can't remote override the armory locks for me, I'll eat my hat."

He slides close enough to brush his hand against Q's forearm, and Q takes an immediate step back, turning and retreating to the kitchen.

James frowns and follows as far as the doorway, where guilt stops him short. They haven't been in the kitchen together since James attacked Q here. He doesn't dare cross the threshold in pursuit.

Perhaps recalling the same incident, Q shoots him a nervous glance from under his brows as he sets to filling the kettle. His body language is stiff; to James's eye, it reads more like guilt than fear, but that motive doesn't mesh with the conversation they were just having.

"If you truly enjoy the job, that's fine, I won't make you quit," James tries reasoning, to no response. "Look, whatever it is, you can tell me. I just don't want you risking your freedom when you don't have to."

Q bites his lip and dithers with the plastic packaging, peeling one end open.

"Q. Please don't shut me out."

"I haven't found the file—" Q blurts before cutting himself off with a groan. "Fuck, I should've told you about it when I got you out. And now…."

It's instinct to loom, to use his physicality to pressure Q into speaking. Instead, James makes himself smaller, slouching against the door frame.

Q finally fumbles the box open…and then pushes it away and presses both his palms against the counter edge, his head ducked between his shoulders. "I never told anyone what M told me the day she died." He looks over at James, an apology in his eyes.

The hairs on James's forearms lift like he's standing too close to a live wire. The wild thought occurs that it's something about James, and that whatever M said to Q will devastate James completely. He locks down his facial muscles to avoid betraying his dread. "You can tell me."

"She got another video message, while standing out there in my living room. Only this one was posted from a different account. The same style as the others: laughing sugar skulls and just a few words. Miss me mother? She looked like she'd seen a ghost."

Dread morphs into shock. Another video…one Tanner doesn't know about. One Q's kept hidden from James all along, one that confirms a personal connection between M and Silva—

No longer stationary, Q paces at the far end of the narrow kitchen, his hands gesticulating and words accelerating. "And apparently that was the tip-off she needed; she told me she knew who Silva was, or who he used to be. A former employee of MI6, presumed dead for years. But she wouldn't tell me anything else. She didn't tell MI6, either. She just went off to meet with him in person, and she died rather than tell anyone—"

James's pulse pounds in his ears, the seething wellspring of anger he's nursed since he learned of her death threatening to geyser forth. For as long as James has known Q, he's been keeping this from him. This single fact that's more valuable than any other scrap of intel on Silva that James has uncovered to date. Q's hoarded it for months, infiltrating MI6 on his own reconnaissance mission, still working by himself, for his own end.

It's a stab in the back.

He thought Q trusted him by now. Thought Q had shared his most damning secrets on that rooftop before he let James kiss him. He thought he had Q on the hook, a reliable partner he could trust to have his back and guide him out of a factory crawling with armed mercenaries. He should strike that far-too-innocent smile from Q's lips for stringing James along like a useful tool—

No.

That's wrong.

It takes a sharp exhale and inhale to shake off that knee-jerk, overwrought, and frankly faulty suspicion. Q's very act of confession now proves how much he trusts James; there's no faith broken here. James flexes his fingers and finds them aching from how tightly he'd clenched them.

He's dimly aware of Q ranting about M's stubborn pride, agreeing with James's tacit upset that her recklessness in meeting with Silva was beyond the pale. And that's good, that means Q didn't realize that James's anger had been directed at Q for a dangerous moment.

James lets the man rant while he processes this vital new clue to Silva's identity.

Former MI6, presumed dead. Someone with intimate knowledge of MI6's inner workings. Someone who worked closely enough with M to call her 'mother,' a taunt she would recognize. Someone who held her personally responsible for whatever ended the life they once had and hated her enough to choose a knife over a gun.

Someone MI6 will want brought in alive.

Mallory's calculus spins out as plainly as one plus one. The new head of MI6 could never approve the termination of a former MI6 agent turned international terrorist without first attempting an interrogation. And with Silva's skills and wide criminal network, the man could be useful to the intelligence community for years, possibly as long as a decade. Mallory will have an oubliette picked out for Silva long before he dispatches the retrieval team to bring him in.

Mallory's promise to give James the Silva kill-order crumbles into ash, taking with it the security of political cover for the fallout, as well as James's solid footing in an MI6 without her.

She was his anchor for the better part of a decade. Since her death, he's clung to the institution she devoted her life to. But with MI6 unwilling to take the steps necessary to avenge her…. For the first time in years, he feels unmoored. And it's intolerable.

In front of him, Q is saying, "—obviously the body-double wouldn't fool someone who called her 'mother,' but it was the very height of arrogance not to warn—"

And James sees Q, sees their partnership, in a new light.

Q wants Silva dead almost as badly as James, and he doesn't share MI6's duty to the greater good. Q will help him see it done. To hell with reading in MI6 to sanction his kill; James will avenge her without MI6's support or protection. All he needs to do it is Q.

James forces his thoughts to slow, to counteract the rush of adrenaline and cortisol enough to refocus on Q's tirade as he says, "—she said she'd buried his file so deep no one would find it. And she was right, because I've gone through every drive and sub-folder, and I can't find a file that matches what we know about Silva. I've been working my way through the paper personnel files, pre-digitization, but it's taking forever with Boothroyd peering over my shoulder every few minutes."

"If anyone can find that file, you can," James reassures him, smoothly picking up his end of the conversation as though he never dropped it. "You're right. I understand why you need to stay at MI6; we need that file. If I can assist you in accessing or reviewing the paper records, just say the word."

"You would? And…you aren't angry?" Q's looking at him like he's turned blue and sprouted gills.

Which…is fair. James supposes an emotional outburst in response to this late disclosure would be appropriate. But James doesn't have the time or energy to waste on such a useless scene, too busy redrafting his plans for the boffin. James came here tonight harboring plans to cut Q out of the kill; it's possible Q has similar plans of his own. Before James can work out the ramifications of their new Silva lead, he needs to get Q locked down and one-hundred-percent committed to their partnership.

James softens his frown, aiming for melancholy compassion. "I'm angry at her for making it a secret. But not at you for keeping it. While I wish you'd told me sooner, I understand completely. You've been on your own for so long; it must be nearly impossible to trust anyone—especially after what she did to you. I'm just grateful you trust me enough to share this now."

Q sags with relief.

And this is when James should pull Q into his arms and gild his pretty words with such physical ecstasy that Q abandons any thought of leaving James behind. But Q's been retreating from James all evening and is currently holed up in the most-dangerous room in the flat, where James daren't follow. No, it's imperative that Q come to James willingly.

He backs away from the kitchen and returns to the neutral ground of the living room, calling over his shoulder as bait, "I believe I promised to thank you properly for the mission assist, and I didn't just mean the tea."

He hears the boiling kettle switch off before Q says, "What did you mean?" When he looks over his shoulder, Q is watching him from the doorway.

"I meant an actual thank you, telling you how much I appreciate your help. That was truly phenomenal work you did."

"Well, yes, obviously."

"That's what I love about you: no false modesty."

Q flusters and starts into a half-retraction.

"No, I mean it. Command has never given me that kind of intel in real time, let alone unlocked doors and frozen lifts for me. You not only spotted an imminent threat, you made me an exit. You had my back, and I'm very grateful." James waits as Q drifts closer, lured in.

"I thought you might be upset about the surveillance. You called me out on it before, so I wasn't sure you'd appreciate me poking my nose in again."

James shakes his head. "I don't mind at all. I trust you." He lays it on shamelessly thick, but Q swallows it whole, coming close enough that it only takes a small step for James to bridge the distance and press their foreheads together.

"I trust you, too," Q says, before his gaze slips to James's lips. "Major Boothroyd warned me about this."

"Did he?" James asks, bemused by the non sequitur.

"Mmhm. He told me not to fall for a double-0's charms. That you lot are only after one thing."

Well, the old man isn't far off the mark.

James inhales the scents of Q's shampoo, his sweet breath, and whispers a dare into the scant inches between them, "Are you falling for my charms?"

Q tilts his head and kisses James, capturing his lips eagerly.

It tastes like victory—the first touch Q has willingly initiated, Q finally letting himself reach for what he wants. James smiles and cups Q's cheeks, drawing him infinitesimally closer. He slides his hands down to cup his neck, just as slender and warm as he remembered. He strokes over the jutting points of Q's shoulders, pets down his arms. Q's lips part, his tongue brushing against James's lower lip, and James draws it in even as his thumbs slide into Q's open palms—

Q rips away, panting for air, looking horrified.

"Too fast?" James starts to say, but Q cuts him off with a violent slash of his hand before grabbing at his own hair.

"No, no, it's not, I just can't. I can't touch you, not after…what I did, I can't."

What was a minor inconvenience last week now poses a full-blown obstacle in James's path. Now that James has committed to this partnership with Q, he needs to get Q over his touch aversion, no matter how much pushing it takes.

"You didn't do anything," James insists.

"Yes I did! Just because you can pretend it never happened doesn't mean I can! It plays like a movie in my head every time I touch you or anyone else. Christ, I can't even touch myself. Whenever I try to jerk off, I remember that look on your face, how much you hated me, how much I hurt y—"

"Q!" James interrupts, cutting off the flow of accusations Q is using to punish himself. And James understands—hell, he remembers that urge vividly, recalls a spigot of pain and doubt pouring forth in a Psych interview before he learned to keep his mouth shut. Such confessions can only jeopardize his position at MI6.

But they aren't at MI6 now, and there are no video cameras recording. Maybe…maybe it would be acceptable, just this once, to admit to some of it.

He steps forward to stay in Q's space, no longer allowing him to retreat. To his relief, Q tucks his hands into his armpits and ducks his head, but otherwise makes no move to flee. "Shh, breathe. I hear what you're saying. But I need you to calm down and listen to me for a minute, okay?"

Q shakes his head—always so stubborn.

James ignores the refusal and steels himself for honesty. "What you're feeling right now, I understand. Intrusive memories, flashbacks, they can feel so real, bring up all those emotions and sensations just like it felt the first time."

Q goes still, his head tilted toward James's voice.

"I know; I have them, too. In my line of work, they're inevitable. But I've had training on dealing with them. They don't let you out of basic training without rudimentary psychological coping skills."

"I'm not a spy or a soldier," Q protests and shifts his hands to squeeze at his upper arms.

"No, you're not. But you still invaded hostile territory on a solo rescue op."

James's own words catch him off guard, and he feels a fool for not recognizing the context of Q's trauma from the start. Q was a civilian, wholly unprepared for the moral ambiguities of undercover field work. And the mental scars he earned freeing James from an abbreviated life of torture have left him unable to touch anyone, not even himself, without re-experiencing that trauma. The debt James owes this man grows deeper the more he learns about him. Whatever help James can give, he's earned it.

He risks touching Q's shoulder and is gratified when he doesn't jerk away. "I should've had this conversation with you weeks ago. I'm sorry. Come over here, sit down with me." He tugs gently, and Q allows himself to be coaxed.

When his calves hit the couch, Q slumps onto the cushions, refusing to look at James as he sits alongside him.

"Even the noblest missions involve questionable shit. I've done things for the greater good that I hate having to live with. Like executing Dryden—and you know how corrupt he was—but I still see his smirk sometimes, and the way it vanished when I shot him in cold blood, and I think…I was a different person before I did that. All that shit, it changes you, leaves psychological scars."

"Is this what therapists are for?" Q asks, sounding lost. "Am I supposed to call the mental health crisis line and tell them I need counseling for raping a man in a Malaysian slave house?"

"You don't need a therapist," James says firmly. "You just need to learn how to focus, to stay in the moment instead of letting the memory take over."

"The memory of you," Q argues.

"Present-day me is much more appealing than the day we met, don't you think?" James teases. "No fresh burns or stitches, no chains. A better haircut, too."

Q glances at him, unconvinced.

"When you start to remember that moment, my expression, your hands on me, the smell of the room, the sound of the chains, any of it…you have to choose to focus on the present instead. Open your eyes. See me as I am right now, not how I looked back then." He shifts his hand to brush Q's cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. "Be here, with me. In this moment."

Q turns to look at him, eyes wide and terrified behind his glasses, but yearning.

"It's very simple in theory, and much harder in practice. But I think you can do it." James kisses his cheek and tips his forehead against Q's temple, aware of his knee pressing against Q's thigh, his palm on Q's elbow. "You trust me," he reminds Q.

Q nods.

"I won't ask you to touch me. Just let me touch you. You've been alone for months, hurting for months. I want to help." This time he waits for permission, withdrawing both of his hands and letting Q sit with the idea, even as his proximity tempts Q with the promise of intimacy.

After an aching moment, Q says, "Okay."

James smiles at him and gives a quick peck in reward. And then he lays his hand on Q's collarbone and kisses him again, a proper kiss.

He has to work to coax a response from Q, the younger man's body tense under his hand, his lips taut with nerves. But when James trails his mouth to Q's ear, Q shivers and relaxes slightly. "Lovely," James says and nibbles the lobe for a minute, letting his fingers glide back and forth just above the collar of Q's tee.

He runs his hand down Q's chest and side, letting the backs of his fingers trace the inside of Q's elbow and lower, along his forearm.

Q says, "God!" stiffening up again with a triggered memory as James approaches his hand.

Stilling immediately, James asks, "Where are you, Q?"

Q hisses out a couple unsteady breaths and then blinks his eyes open. He looks at James as though startled to see him. "I'm right here?" he guesses.

"With me," James agrees. "Hold onto that."

Q nods, chest quaking under James's palm. And god, he's so brave; exposure therapy isn't for the faint of heart, but Q's willing to take that leap, to trust that James will catch him.

James tightens his grip around Q's ribs to hold him still and kisses down his neck and under his jaw, determined to reward him for taking this risk. It takes another minute for Q to relax again. When he moans softly, James devours his mouth, urgency starting to build in his own body with the wet slide of lips, the brush of tongues. Q presses up into the kiss, and while he's distracted, James reaches out with his pinky finger to brush Q's wrist.

Q jerks again, but his eyes fly open on their own, seeking out James's face like a falling man seeking a parachute.

"Are you with me?"

"Yeah," Q says and tries to smile.

"Good," James says, both praise and encouragement.

He lets Q come to him this time, hovering millimeters from his lips until Q tilts his head and leans in for more. And then James unleashes both hands on him, finding the lower hem of Q's tee shirt and dragging it up his chest. His thumbs catch on Q's nipples, and Q shifts and arches his back, sucking on James's tongue.

James helps himself to the long expanse of Q's torso, slim and sleek, the graceful curves of his ribs, the flat stomach, and unblemished skin free of scars. "You're gorgeous."

"Can you," Q starts to ask, reaching behind his own head to catch his collar.

James leans back so Q can pull the shirt over his head, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. And then James pounces, kissing over his chest and collarbones.

He sucks lightly on the pulse at his throat, loving the way Q's head falls back against the cushions, how his breath stutters when James applies a hint of teeth. The urge to suck harder and leave a mark rises up, unfamiliar and easily batted away. James never marks up his lovers; he wouldn't dare risk leaving incriminating evidence their jealous partners might find. He contents himself with another taste of Q's mouth instead, hanging open as he gasps for air.

Q's arm twitches, rising as if to touch him, before falling back to the couch. James reaches for Q's hand, runs fingertips over the long curve of his index finger, before Q's hand closes in a fist and he tenses.

"Are you with me, Q?" James asks quickly.

"I…am," Q grits out. He exhales a mighty gust and sags back onto the couch. "God, I'm sorry—"

"Nothing to apologize for. You're doing marvelously. Just relax; you don't have to worry about touching me. I don't want you to do anything but stay in this moment, right here." He moves away from Q's hand, gently threading his fingers through Q's fringe, brushing it away from his forehead and leaning up to place a kiss there. "You're wonderful, just like this."

After another minute of gentle petting and praise, Q finally stops second-guessing his own responses and lets the last of his tension unspool. He goes soft and sweet for James, eyelids sagging, looking contented as James kisses down his temple and cheek and neck, as James's hands roam lower, mapping the terrain of his body. With arousal pushed back to a low thrum, James keeps his touches light, soothing.

A meditative calm comes over James. It's heady, this banquet laid out for him, miles of skin all his to touch. In every sexual encounter, there exists the potential for betrayal; that's been a fact of his life since he joined MI6. And his most recent experiences have only heightened his defenses. But here, the certain knowledge that Q can't touch him back makes it uniquely safe for James to lose himself in sensation, to savor the glide of hot skin under his hands as he traces along Q's flanks, the soft hairs of his upper arms, the sparse line of hair down the center of his chest. A rare, unguarded intimacy he hasn't actually enjoyed since….

Vesper laughs, her ankle jerking in his grip as she tries to squirm away from the drag of his thumbnail along her insole.

He shakes his head to clear the memory, grounding himself in the beautiful male body under his hands and Q's low moans of pleasure. James's fingers hook behind the button of Q's trousers. He'd planned to push for more—and he might even succeed—but he doesn't want to bring this moment to an end. If Q would let him, James would happily spend the whole evening with his hands on Q, no sex necessary, just savoring the openness between them...

…except for the foreign feeling of want burrowing like an itch under his skin, a craving beyond arousal and impossible to satisfy like this. It's been years since James was touched by someone whose touch he truly wanted. And the knowledge that Q won't touch him, initially freeing, starts to chafe like injustice. He wants to feel Q's hands on him, caresses that James would welcome—desire, even.

It's a cruelty to deny James this.

He swallows back his selfish frustration. This isn't about him; it's about what Q needs to heal…and to feel bonded to James. To that end, he decides to chance one more test.

He brushes a kiss to the tip of Q's nose and asks, "Are you with me?"

Q trembles with a brief flurry of nerves, but then settles and nods. And he stays present, watches adoringly with heavy-lidded eyes as James takes hold of Q's right arm and lifts it into Q's eye line. He slides his grip up Q's wrist, higher, to wrap his fingers around the hand that had been wrapped around James's unwilling cock two months ago. And then he bends his head so very slowly, making sure Q follows him the whole way, to press a kiss into Q's palm.

Q's breath hitches, and his eyes glisten with intense emotion, but he isn't slipping into a painful memory. He's staying fully present, looking at peace with James's forgiveness at last.

James kisses his hand again and relaxes into the couch cushions, their shoulders pressed together. "Thank you for giving me this," James says.

Q snuggles close, leaning his head on James's shoulder. He doesn't try to reclaim his hand, lets James cradle it against his stomach. In his loose grip, Q's fingers twitch. James watches as Q's fingers stroke along a fold of James's shirt, cautious and feather light. It's not nearly enough to satisfy James's craving, but a tantalizing appetizer for what could be.

For that small touch, for sharing M's secret, for his protection on James's last mission, and for the revenge he's going to make possible…James doesn't have adequate words. But he tries anyway.

"Thank you for everything."

Chapter Text

James wakes to the distant sound of a phone alarm, a warm weight on his stomach, and a twinge in his mid-back. Q's couch is no substitute for a proper bed; James would wager it's as old as Q's lease on this flat and just as cheap.

The cat that climbed onto him during the night starts purring as soon as he stirs. And while James had hoped for a nighttime visitor, he was disappointed to get only a cat using him as a human-shaped hot-water bottle.

"Glad one of us is comfortable," James grumbles. He gives Scylla a chuck under her white chin before rolling off the cushions, shedding cat and blanket together. Through the cracked bedroom door, he hears Q mumble incoherently and the alarm fall silent…but no further sounds of Q getting up.

Not a morning person, James notes.

Well then, the early bird gets the first shower.

The bathroom decor appears unchanged since the 1960's, with its narrow tub set against a wall of olive-green, hexagonal tiles, the single overhead light dimmed when he closes the opaque curtain behind him. James helps himself to Q's toiletries and washes himself with customary efficiency. But the herbal fragrance of Q's shampoo pairs with the citrus body wash, filling the space with the scent of Q, and he allows his thoughts to drift back to how Q smelled last night, how soft his skin felt, how he'd gone so sweet for James, giving himself over to James's hands.

How much James had wanted.

His cock stirs, and he takes it in a loose hold, enjoying the familiar touch paired with fresh memories. Q's mouth open under his, Q's skin hot under his palms, Q's hips rising toward his hand…. Knowing that Q is just the other side of the wall, curled up in warm sheets, makes James's pulse beat faster, his cock harden in his grip.

He doesn't hear any signs of Q past the pounding of the water and the creaking of the old pipes. Well, if Q isn't up yet, James sees no reason not to enjoy himself. It feels like ages since he indulged in a leisurely wank.

He starts off slow but quickly loses patience with his own teasing. Arousal surges at the thought of the missed opportunity to join Q in his bed last night, what Q might have let James do if he'd pushed just a fraction more. He might still be in that bed right now, rolling Q under him and stroking them off together. He could step out of this shower and crawl into Q's bed and wake him up with more kisses….

His strokes speed up, the tension in his body tightening deliciously. And then the air in the room changes, a slightly cooler draft brushing his lips and thighs.

"Good morning," James says to the curtain, his hand gone still on his cock.

"Morning," Q answers. The sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl joins the thrumming of the shower.

James allows Q his privacy, rubbing his cock idly to keep himself warmed up while he waits for Q to finish.

The toilet flushes, and the taps turn on.

James draws back the curtain just enough to lean his head out, finding Q in front of the sink in a white tee and tartan pyjamas, toothbrush raised to his lips.

Q smiles back. "You stayed."

"You asked me to."

Don't go, Q had said, half-drunk on sensation, and physically and mentally exhausted from battling his psychological demons. After so much shared intimacy, James hadn't wanted to leave any more than Q wanted him to. But James also couldn't misconstrue the vague request as consenting to sex. So instead of following Q into his bed, he'd seen Q to his bedroom door and camped out on the couch, alert for sounds of nightmares.

Unlike the last time James saw him, Q looks alert enough for a proper conversation. He brushes his teeth, lips curved around the handle of the toothbrush, looking at James like he's the river card completing Q's straight. James's eyes trail down Q's body in his threadbare pyjamas. When he looks up again, Q's cheeks are pink.

Q spits and rinses his mouth. "Thank you for staying," he says shyly.

"I didn't want to leave you without a kiss goodbye." James takes a chance and extends his hand.

After only a moment's hesitation, Q takes his hand and lets James tug him forward. Q's breath is minty, and his stubble rasps against James's upper lip when he steps close for a lingering kiss. James strokes his thumb over Q's hand, and his own rib cage feels too small to contain the overflowing pride he feels at Q's bravery, allowing himself to touch James like this.

One look at James's expression—which James can only assume is doting—and Q drops his hand self-consciously. "Are you almost finished? You're throwing off my morning schedule."

"I don't mean to keep you waiting. Perhaps you'd like to join me?"

"A bit cramped, isn't it?"

"That's rather the point. And…I would love for you to join me," James says simply, and resists the urge to cajole, to seduce. As much as he wants him—and God, does he want him—James wants Q to come to him as he'd been last night, relaxed and welcoming. If Q isn't ready for more yet, James will wait.

Q's lips part with a tart rejoinder that never comes, forestalled by the sincerity in James's eyes. His gaze falls to James's exposed shoulder and the curtain hiding the rest of his naked body. His mouth hangs open, silent, wanting. And then he nods.

James watches as Q strips off his tee shirt and, without pausing, his pyjama bottoms. He stands and looks at James, throat bobbing with his swallow, all of him bare and offered up. Of all the adjectives James could give him—lissome, slender, sylphlike—there's one that fits best: perfect.

When James reaches out again, Q takes his hand without hesitation. James shifts aside and pulls the curtain back so Q can join him, and Q was right; it's a tight fit. James has to reach past him to close the curtain, and he catches the way Q's gaze drops to James's chest and lower, to his erect cock.

Q gasps and looks away.

"Alright?" James asks quickly, not wanting to lose Q to another flashback.

"It's, uh—" Q stammers, but after a couple steadying breaths, he manages to make a passable attempt at unaffected. "You do look better than the last time I saw all of this."

"So do you. You're gorgeous."

Q meets his eyes from mere inches away, the green of them dark in the curtain's shadow. James wishes Q's hands were on him instead of dangling awkwardly at his sides, but small steps.

"Come here, get your hair wet," James says. He leans against the wall and nudges Q's hips until Q slips past him, bodies sliding against one another. James suspects some of that contact was deliberate, a suspicion confirmed by Q's small, pleased smile before he steps under the hot spray.

Water streams down his face when he emerges, and he rubs it away from his eyes to spot James holding his shampoo bottle with a palmful of the gel already poured.

"May I?" James asks.

"Wash my hair?"

"Yes."

Q flicks his eyes to James's own short-cropped hair, lips quirking. "I thought envy was a sin."

"Mmm, one of many I'd like to commit with you."

It's impossible in the low light to tell whether Q's blushing again. But Q tips his head back under the water to make sure it's wet-through and then shuffles forward, away from the spray and into James's space, until their feet slot together.

"How do you want me?" Q asks, looking at James through his eyelashes.

James hooks an arm around Q's waist to draw him even closer. Q's belly presses against James's cock in a sudden dam-burst of sensation, skin-on-skin from chest to thighs, and James feels a mutual tremor pass through them. He wants to clutch him, to dig his fingers into Q's skin, to lock their bodies together until they're inseparable. He wants to ravish Q, to take him to pieces, to explore every inch of his body and overwhelm him with pleasure.

Go slowly, he reminds himself.

"Just like this," James says.

He holds Q close as he runs the product through Q's over-long hair with his other hand. Q leans into the pressure of his fingers, his eyes closed, and James is caught off guard by how long he's wanted to do this, to bury his fingers deep in Q's hair.

Standing in a field in Malaysia, James's tactical eye had cataloged Trevor's slicked-back locks as a vulnerability to be exploited in a fight. Much as James's own had been, grown-out over his time in captivity, just enough length for customers to get rough fingers in and yank, haul his head back, expose his throat—

Q's wet hair slips softly between his fingers, and James pulls himself away from the memories of pain. He focuses on the waves and curls looped around his fingers instead, the silk and scent of them. And the more he runs his fingers through the strands, the more he appreciates this gift of vulnerability Q has given so fearlessly.

As James works up a lather of suds, his fingers catch in a tangle. Q makes a sound at the inadvertent tug, a catch in his breath barely audible above the shower, and James freezes, about to apologize for hurting him. But Q's hips shift against James's, and he can feel Q's cock hardening. Surprised by the response, James experiments a bit, giving a short tug behind Q's ear, a longer pull at his nape, always gentle, always careful. Q moans his approval.

They're so close they're breathing one another's humid breaths, and James can't resist nuzzling Q's cheek, the bridge of his nose, his chin.

Q presses closer, blindly seeking James's lips, but James dodges his attempts. Finally Q's eyes open and he pouts at James. "Are you going to kiss me again or n—"

James cuts him off with a long, deep kiss, his hand in Q's hair holding him exactly where he wants him as his tongue delves into Q's mouth, reveling in the heat building between them. Q whimpers and shifts, their knees bumping as he grinds his cock against James's hip. God he's sweet—James could kiss him forever. But he can't bear to go any further without being touched in return, needs Q's hands reaching back more than anything.

James reluctantly breaks off the kiss to say, "Time to rinse."

Q leans in for one more kiss that James is helpless to resist before stepping backward. James lets his arms fall away.

While Q rinses the suds from his hair, James savors the view, Q's spine arched and head tipped back shamelessly, stiff cock between his legs begging for attention. Instead of reaching for it, James directs his hands to the body wash and the cloth he'd used earlier.

Q eyes the cloth with interest, his smile widening with anticipation. "Not done washing me?"

James crooks a finger, and Q comes close again. "I'd rather you wash me," James says, and presses the soapy cloth into Q's right hand.

Q goes still, on the cusp of an instinctive refusal, and James shushes him even as he takes Q's wrist and raises it between them to press the washcloth against James's chest.

The cloth feels cool against his heated skin, and James's eyelids flutter at the sensation. He tugs, dragging the cloth still held in Q's hand across his chest. "Trust me, you can do this. It's that easy."

Q's eyes dart back and forth from James's lips to his hand scant millimeters from James's skin, only the barrier of the cloth separating them. James prays it's enough of an excuse for Q's brain to finally allow what Q's body so clearly wants.

"Come on," James says. He presses a kiss to the side of Q's mouth.

Q bites his lip and slides the cloth further on his own, over James's pectoral and up to his collarbone. His gaze stays fixed on the cloth, as though afraid it might slip from his grasp, but after a long, slow path across James's chest, he looks up and tries on a shaky smile.

"That's lovely," James says. He lets his hand fall away from Q's wrist; it's James's turn to stand passively, hands at his sides, and let Q take the lead.

After a few cautious back-and-forths across James's chest, Q changes direction, running the nubby cloth up to James's shoulder and massaging the muscle there. As his anxiety gives way to excitement, his touch becomes more confident.

"That feels good."

"Good," Q echoes, attention fixed on the cloth and James's skin as he slides it up the side of his neck and wipes away imaginary dirt, stroking James's throat and collarbones with utmost care.

Q runs the cloth higher to wipe along James's jawline, leaning in close enough that James is tempted to kiss him. Q has a similar thought, because his left arm rises, hand reaching behind James's head as though to pull him closer. But it stops before making contact. Q looks at it hovering there, just past James's ear, as though confused over how it got there and what to do with it.

And then James feels a brush of fingers against his ear, feels them slide down the shell and under the lobe, and his eyes fall closed as he leans into the touch.

"Oh," Q whispers, "James, tell me this is alright—"

"Please," he says, and it doesn't even matter that his voice breaks on the syllable. Only that Q's fingertips don't leave him, tracing down his neck to the hollow of his throat. The cloth drags toward his opposite shoulder, and Q's fingers trail behind it, gentle and searing and taking over his whole world. Down his arm, up to his armpit, across his chest and lower. Q's fingertips brush over a nipple, and James's hips buck as though jolted by a taser.

Even though he knows he should let Q set his own pace, this holding back is bordering on torture. "Please," James says again.

Q makes another of those whimpering sounds and nuzzles James's neck as he swipes across James's stomach. The hot breath against his pulse point is nearly as devastating as the glide of fingers below his navel.

And then the washcloth slides over James's cock, blessed friction at last, and James moans as Q closes his grip on him.

He tries to catch Q's mouth in a kiss, but Q tilts his head away. James opens his eyes to see Q looking down the length of James's body, watching the cloth and his hand moving over James's cock. It isn't much of a hand job, the cloth thick and clinging, but James doesn't need much after such a build up anyway.

"Bloody hell, that's good."

Q's left hand pets over James's hip, out of sync with the rhythmic tug and twist of his right, but nearly as intoxicating for the sheer pleasure of skin. And then the cloth falls away and lands on James's foot with an abrupt plop.

Before he can protest Q's sudden stop, Q presses their stubbled cheeks together and says, barely audible above the water echoing in the small room, "I'm with you. Right here, right now."

James's breath catches at the words he used last night to anchor Q, words that Q must need now—and then Q's bare fingers slide around his cock.

The touch is trembling, awkward, as though he's never done this before, or never when it mattered so much.

James moans again and grabs Q's elbows to keep him close. "Sweetheart, you're marvelous, so good," he gasps, desperate to reassure and encourage, to help Q stay present.

Q's grip around him firms, muscle memory taking over, and Q groans and mouths at James's neck as he strokes him.

"Fuck, you're amazing," James pants.

Q presses kisses up his throat to his chin and finally finds James's lips, sucking James's lower lip between his teeth for a light nibble. A small laugh bubbles up from Q's throat, interrupting the kiss. When James looks at him, Q's eyes are bright with joy.

And then Q's thumb presses beneath the head of James's cock, and James is thrown over the edge into ecstasy so suddenly it nearly takes his knees out from under him. He shoots come all over Q's belly, and Q kisses him through it, seeming more desperate the longer James shakes with pleasure in his hands.

James feels a warm hand cup the side of his face, feels the affection translated through his skin, and James doesn't even try to fight the surge of need that sweeps through him. He turns and presses Q's back into the cold wall of tile, his mouth descending onto Q's just as his hand finds Q's erect cock.

Q moans and clutches at James's shoulders for balance as James plunders his mouth and strokes him off with relentless determination. He needs Q to find release, to feel pleasure for himself after so long without. He needs to give Q this. The necessity of oxygen becomes a distant memory, all of James's will focused on fulfilling this one aching need.

When Q wails into the kiss and spills come hotter than the shower spray over James's hand, it feels better than saving the world ever did.

Q rips his mouth away to gasp for air. James wants to trace the whimpers coming from Q's throat back to their source. He turns Q's face back for another kiss, sipping from Q's slack, swollen lips for an eternity.

"Oh my god," Q says vaguely. "That was—"

James purrs his concurrence and kisses along Q's cheekbone.

"Oh my god," Q says again.

Delighted to have taken Q's brain off-line, James kisses his way down Q's body so he can rescue the cloth from the tub floor. He squirts some body wash against the wall, swipes it up with the cloth, and sets to wiping Q down from head to toe.

He has to coax a dazed and clinging Q out of the tub when they're both cleaned off. If James weren't already certain of his skills, he would be chuffed at this testament to his prowess. He drapes the largest towel around Q's body and buffs him dry between long, luxurious kisses pressed up against the sink.

Q keeps petting James's face and hair and giggling, and it makes James unbearably fond and indulgent.

"What time is it?" Q eventually asks, muffled under the towel James is using to dry out his mop of hair.

"Breakfast time, I should think."

"No, no," Q says, batting James's hands away. "I'll miss my train for sure. You'll make me unpardonably late."

"Then I'll give you a lift to the office."

"As though the roads are any faster at rush hour," Q huffs, and his eye roll under damp fringe is so adorable James has to lean in and kiss him again. "Oh, that's quite nice," Q sighs, mollified.

"Isn't it?" James mouths another few kisses along his jawline, Q's stubble prickly against his lips.

"Mmm. But I still need to shave, and I'm not dressed…."

"So have your shave while I see to breakfast," James compromises.

Q gives him a dubious look, which James decides to take as agreement. He wraps one of the drier towels around his hips and gives Q a wink before sauntering off to see whether Q's bread's gone moldy.

He walks in on Scylla crouched in front of her empty food bowl, looking at him hopefully. "Ask your father," he tells the cat, who blinks at him and starts purring again.

James pokes through the cupboards, finding a tin of beans and a lone shallot leftover from his chicken dish a couple weeks ago.

He has the sliced shallot sizzling in a skillet, not-too-stale bread ready for toasting, and the beans ready to be heated up when Q arrives in the doorway to investigate. James eyes Q's flannel dressing gown and smirks.

"Yes, I'm sure it would look better on my floor than on my person," Q says, aiming for dry but landing nearer to flattered. His own gaze roves over James's skin, lingering on his lower back, the weight of it a light touch.

"Come here," James says impulsively.

Q licks his lips but hesitates. "Navy man. You do like your quarters close, don't you?"

"Please, Q," James says. He knows what he's asking, and he understands Q's doubts, but he has to try. If James doesn't push himself now, he might never get the nerve to do it again.

Q takes one cautious step across the kitchen threshold and another. When James reaches his hand out, Q accepts it.

James draws him closer, even as he turns his back, so that Q steps flush against him, his chest pressed to James's naked back.

"It's only me," Q says, instinctively trying to comfort him, but James doesn't need the reminder—not when he's surrounded by Q's sage and citrus scent, by the grounding feeling of Q's narrow frame against his own, by the weight of Q's arm curling around his waist to hold them together.

James releases the breath he was holding, tensed muscles unclenching so quickly they tremble with aftershocks in his core.

"Only me," Q repeats softly in his ear. His chin hooks over James's shoulder, temple pressed to James's cheek. "Beans on toast. What are the onions for?"

"Our breakfast, sweetheart," James says, and dumps the beans into the skillet.

Q whines about polluting a national treasure as his hand slides back and forth over James's stomach, his chest rising against James's back with every inhalation.

James ignores Q's half-hearted complaints and the way his own cheeks ache from smiling, and he tends to the skillet.

~

Q slides into the passenger seat and tucks the voluminous raincoat around his body. James holds back a laugh as the trapped air balloons under Q's neck before he pats it down and fastens his seatbelt.

"At least I'm dry," Q says, unperturbed by James's silent mockery.

James runs his hand through his cropped hair and flicks the collected raindrops in Q's direction. "And now so am I."

"You're lucky you're fucking gorgeous," Q says in a dry tone of voice that James is already becoming addicted to.

"I'm lucky for a lot of reasons," James says. And then he clears his throat and changes the topic before he gets any sappier. "Tell me where you've checked so far. For the file."

Q rattles off storage room locations, staffing categories, and date ranges, from M's oversight of recruitment to her tenure as section head in Hong Kong. He shares a few particularly scathing reviews she left in various agents' files. James makes a mental map to hold all of the information in an imaginary warehouse. There's something niggling, a memory just out of reach. The more Q talks, the more James gets the shape of the thing he's missing.

One of these days, Bond, I'm going to shoot you, bury you under my azalea bushes, and lose your service record amongst the catering receipts. And then I'll finally be rid of you and your stupid, reckless antics.

"She was a spy," James says, interrupting Q's latest categorization of the boxes in the third sub-basement. "Spies don't hide things where you expect to find them."

Q turns to watch James, interested. "Tell me more."

"On more than one occasion, M threatened to erase my file, or as she put it, 'lose it amongst the catering receipts.' And that's what a spy would do. Move it to the last place you'd think to look for it."

"I haven't seen any catering receipts."

"I'm sure that specific detail was just a humiliating flourish for my benefit. But if you're looking for a buried personnel file, you won't find it with the rest of the personnel records. It'll be in the least-logical place something could plausibly get misfiled."

Q sits with this idea for a half-mile. "If you're right, that means I've been wasting weeks digging through those old records."

James gives him a supportive smile. "Sunk cost fallacy?"

"Now you sound like her," Q snorts. "Alright, supposing you're right, I've got to start all over again."

"I'll help however I can, for as long as I'm in-country," James promises.

Q beams at him and starts making a new plan of attack, listing the file categories he skipped over in his earlier archive-spelunking trips.

James lets him plan, making plans of his own. He has free time this afternoon, once his debrief and checkup are completed. Perhaps he can convince Q to join him on the shooting range for some more practice. Although any making out should wait until after they've put a few clips in their targets. Q has to get used to a new stance, and James could do with a little more practice himself. He's still kicking himself for those missed shots in the boiler room in Haldwani. Four bullets, and he'll have to account for all of them in his report.

Q's hand slides onto his on the gear lever. "Unhappy thoughts?"

"No," James assures him. "Just not looking forward to my debrief. I'll have to take credit for all your hard work again."

"You know I don't mind that."

James had wanted to ask, but wasn't sure how to broach the topic of Q's work with M again. "Don't mind that at all, or don't mind that when it's me?"

Q looks out the side window, and James lets him collect his thoughts. "Not when it's you. When it was her…I minded plenty. Those first few years were galling. Humbling. But considering the path I was on, maybe I needed that. And toward the end, we really were more partners than jailer and inmate. I stopped minding so much. As long as the work got done, I cared more about justice than any credit."

James doesn't imagine that was a painless process of personal growth. And he doesn't like driving Q to his pretense of a job in TSS Branch, where MI6 can exploit Q's talents all over again. "You probably didn't hear; when Boothroyd gave me my new Walther, I asked to meet the engineers who designed it."

"Clever. You'd have made me for certain," Q admits.

"Fortunately for you, he blocked me. Said I would only waste their time. And while I'm glad he didn't try to claim credit for himself, he didn't exactly let you have it, either."

Q shrugs. "He's like that whenever any non-TSS staff show up and start asking questions—very territorial. But he celebrates his engineers plenty within the branch, and his staff seem devoted to him."

"Protective?" That would cast the lectures about bullies in a more positive light.

"If he is, it's in the most inconvenient way possible."

"That's what you get for playing the meek little church mouse," James laughs. "You could've been a regular smug arsehole like the rest of us, but instead you have the quartermaster worrying about mean double-0s seducing the shy, virginal engineer."

Q snorts. "I didn't think shy virgins were your type."

"Needs must," James says.

"Oh, turn here," Q says, squeezing James's hand.

He'd forgotten Q's hand was still resting on his. James plays off his surprise by lifting his arm to point. "Here?" He signals and makes the turn, inching through the intersection past the pedestrian commuters. "Where to?"

"Drop me at the next corner, and I'll go in the rear doors," Q says. "I'm nearly an hour late, and speaking of the quartermaster's ever-watchful eye…."

"…you can't be seen arriving in my car."

"Precisely."

"Alright then, here's you," James says, pulling up to the curb a block from HQ.

"Ta," Q says. He unfastens his belt but doesn't open the door, looking at James with such transparent longing that James has to grab his collar and tug him across the center console for another kiss goodbye.

Q leans into him, his hand cupping James's cheek, and kisses him passionately and sweet.

James takes advantage of the clinch to feel for the passive listening bug he'd planted on the back of Q's raincoat weeks ago. Still there, an undiscovered and unbroken connection to Q. He lets his hand slip away, leaving the bug in place.

"I'll come find you this afternoon," James promises.

"I'll see you coming." Q runs his thumb over James's lower lip before pulling away and stepping out into the drizzle.

James catches himself mooning after Q's retreating back like a teenager who's just got his prick wet for the first time. Rolling his eyes at himself, James eases back into traffic and heads for the car park, trying to mentally prepare himself for his debrief. Today's meeting with Mallory will require more acting than usual. His grudging respect for the new M has bottomed out, knowing the man would preserve Silva's life if given the chance; it'll take a bullet-proof smile to hide James's contempt from him.

He can't afford to enter Mallory's office distracted by thoughts of Q waiting for him in the sub-basement, the many storage closets they might disappear into for a snog. He parks his car, straightens his suit, and heads inside, ignoring the way he itches to feel Q pressed against him again, as though glutting himself on skin contact has somehow only increased his hunger.

Chapter Text

Seated at the end of the bar, James has a clear view of the Dvorets Novosibirsk lobby. He keeps one eye peeled for potential threats walking in the hotel's front door, while the rest of his attention splits between the English and Russian conversations around him and the excellent vodka martini he's just been served. At the first icy sip, his eyebrows lift with pleasure. A cocktail so finely made deserves an extra-large tip.

He sets aside his newspaper, leaving it open to a review of the ballet he's here to attend tomorrow night. A flash of his money clip as he peels off a too-generous Euro note reinforces his cover as a careless foreign businessman.

The nearer bartender pockets the banknote and gives him a smile made more friendly by James's generosity.

This has always been James's favorite aspect of field work—the slow-build of tension, not unlike foreplay in the way it arouses his senses. The thrill of impending danger makes food more delectable, drink more intoxicating, fine sheets and sex and cigar smoke positively addictive. And the hotel's bar staff, one male, one female, both tall and handsome with dark eyes and sure hands, offer the kind of scenery he loves to savor in more ways than one.

James smiles back reflexively, feigning intent he doesn't feel. As aesthetically pleasing as the bar staff are, the only skin he wants to feel pressed against his, the only moans he wants to coax from red lips, the only person he wishes were with him tonight, is Q.

Having him once was nowhere close to enough. James has dreamed about him the whole week abroad, their stolen kisses in MI6's subbasement storage closets a particular highlight. Part of him feels guilty for putting those kisses ahead of finding M's killer, but it's hard to regret the memory of Q's thigh hitched over his hip, their tongues tangoing amid the dusty boxes of MI6's forgotten history.

Said dreams have been a pleasant departure from the nightmares he expected. Every time he opens the lid on his worst memories, he loses sleep for days on end, and he'd expected the same after his discussion with Q about their respective traumas. But Fisher and Dryden haven't appeared, and there've been no hot pokers or switchblade knives to leave him sweat-through in the morning.

Sensing himself straying too close to those recollections, he takes another sip of his martini, the bracing cold a shock to his taste buds, far more tangible than the sour taste of old fears.

His phone vibrates on the bar. James turns it over and breaks out into a real smile at another message from Q.

I can't believe it!

"How absence really does make the heart grow fonder?" he teases in reply. That's been the subtext of their messages all week, if he's correctly interpreted Q's frequent commentary on the weather in London and Novosibirsk, his cats' habits, his commutes, and his fruitless progression through the storage closets. Repeatedly reaching out for James, to feel connected to him.

I found it!

James's shoulders snap back as though an admiral just entered the lobby. Adrenaline shoots through his veins, the sweet taste of success more delicious than his martini. He types quickly, "You bloody genius, where? What's in it?"

Q is slow to respond, the blank screen a banal form of torture. James's fingers itch to call him, but he doesn't dare risk breaking both of their covers.

After a minute, Q sends, Redacted to hell. Useless as-is. It'll take ages to track down all the missing pieces.

James can practically hear the disappointment and frustration seeping through Q's text. "But you know where to start looking, right?"

Q doesn't reply for nearly an hour, and James is too restless to continue trading coy smiles with the bar staff and chatting with his fellow hotel guests. He wishes he were by Q's side right now so he could see what Q's seeing, instead of thousands of miles away, with a minimum of 24 hours before he can conclude his mission.

He sets out to walk along the Ob River in the cool autumn evening, and just as he's thinking he should have brought his coat, his mobile vibrates again.

Didn't take you for an optimist. But yes.

Relieved they won't be stymied again as they were by Ramesh's encrypted drive, James is about to text back more encouragement, but he's too distracted by Q's next message to bother with cheap platitudes.

Also yes, I miss you.

James pockets his phone and lets those words settle lightly around him like a warm embrace.

~

From Box #2 of the Novosibirsk Opera and Ballet Theatre's grand hall, James watches as his target enters Box #1 flanked by two bodyguards. Belyaev, the oligarch responsible for funding the latest wave of anti-democratic violence in Cairo, looks like any other bland-faced millionaire capable of disrupting the world with anonymous impunity. Mid 50s, grey-blond receding hairline, slight paunch masked by fine tailoring…he would look equally at home in the House of Lords or a West End charity fundraiser.

The only remarkable aspect of Belyaev's appearance is the bright pink cockatoo perched on his shoulder. James rolls his eyes, taking it for a tasteless, taxidermied fashion accessory. But then the creature flaps its wings.

Belyaev laughs and paws at the bird's head with a meaty hand before looking around to see what kind of attention his pet has attracted. When he meets James's eyes, James softens his gaze with a polite nod and smile. Belyaev takes in the conservative cut of James's tuxedo dismissively before surveying the rest of the theatre's guests.

Throughout the performance of Stravinsky's The Firebird, James's gaze strays frequently from the flashy spectacle on stage to the bird on Belyaev's shoulder. Defying his expectation, it doesn't caw or create a scene. Aside from the occasional ruffle of its feathers and soft cooing, James hardly sees it move. Only during the loudest sections does it duck its head against Belyaev's neck. James sympathizes with the poor creature. Stravinsky was never his favorite composer.

By not-so-innocent coincidence, James leaves his box after the curtain calls at the same time as Belyaev, literally running into him in the spacious hallway. Four calloused hands push him back, but James ignores them in favor of asking after the man's remarkable pet bird.

As he'd hoped, Belyaev is more than happy to walk with James to the VIP bar. James tries to ignore the goons shadowing them and focus on Belyaev's tedious explanation of how he came to acquire his beloved Firebird, named after the principal character from his favorite ballet—the only piece of theatre worth leaving his palatial estate to watch.

James orders them a round of grand cru champagne. "She's so well-trained. I can't believe you don't need to keep her in a cage or tied down somehow."

"The key is snipping the flight feathers, just here." Belyaev prods the bird to walk down his arm so he can more easily gesture along the bird's sides. "When they can no longer fly, they become dependent on you. They always know their place. And they'll come to love you for it."

Belyaev delivers this standard knowledge of exotic-bird ownership as though he invented the practice himself, with added relish for the sadistic thrill of domination he gets out of it. The number of times that James has listened to powerful men and women make similar speeches makes him want to yawn with boredom.

Except…for the first time, James can imagine the same words in M's voice, and it sets his teeth on edge. James sips his wine to hide the swell of anger as he thinks of Q's flat in South Wimbledon. No bars on the 3rd-floor windows, no chain around Q's neck, though there may as well have been. "Ingenious," he murmurs.

The cockatoo seems to disagree with Belyaev's assertions of love. When Belyaev strokes down its breast, the bird ducks its head to gnaw on his large emerald pinky ring.

"Your pet has expensive taste," James smirks.

Belyaev laughs, a full-throated guffaw that sets the bird flapping its useless wings. "More than you imagine. That's my most-prized possession she's nibbling at."

And that's all the confirmation James needed. Tanner's intel is that Belyaev keeps his Cayman account numbers laser-inscribed on an emerald. And James's objective is to obtain those numbers by any means necessary. Target acquired, James starts considering ways to part man from emerald—preferably before Belyaev retreats to his high-security compound.

Just then, James's phone buzzes. And as unprofessional as it is, Q is too close to the top of his mind to resist glancing at the new message.

It's so bad, James, there's so much.

His stomach lurches with worry, but he doesn't have time to get distracted. James forces himself back into the moment to ask Belyaev's opinion whether tonight's staging measured up to previous stagings of Zhar-ptitsa. Around the room, he can see ladies of all ages drifting closer, eyeing the cockatoo with delight. James shifts to Belyaev's right side, allowing other attendees to enter the conversation and provide more distractions for Belyaev's bulky bodyguards.

A strategic nudge of Belyaev's arm makes the man spill his champagne, and James grabs Belyaev's wet right hand to steady it and helpfully remove the glass. The ring twists under his fingers, just loose enough that a good tug—

"Bravo! Brava!" someone calls out, and all heads turn toward the door, where the orchestra maestro has entered, flanked by the principal ballerina. Belyaev pulls free of James's grip to clap enthusiastically. As he steps away from James, eager to speak to the stars, James is left holding Belyaev's empty champagne flute and no ring.

James takes a moment to regroup while Belyaev schmoozes on the other side of the room. Assured the man won't be leaving the venue anytime soon, James messages Q back. "Tell me what you have."

After a minute, Q answers, He worked for the Chinese too. I have to go.

"Did you hack the Chinese govt?" James types, his fingers stiff with sudden, irrational anger—at Q taking such a risk, at Q making rash decisions without consulting James, at Q having all of this information while James has none of it….

Minutes go by without a reply, and James's flash of temper gives way to the concern that underlies it. On the other end of a silent phone, the hacker's actions are a black box…but James trusts Q's skills, and he trusts Q not to go running off on his own. Hell, Q's still messaging James, even with Silva's file in his hands.

James has no reason to doubt him.

Still, the sooner James returns to London, the sooner he can keep an eye on Q and keep him out of trouble. James eyes the crowd around Belyaev, which has only grown deeper, and balks at the idea of elbowing his way into that gathering, where he'll be surrounded on all sides. No, he needs a new plan to get to the ring.

Somewhere in the underground car lot, he's sure Belyaev has a car waiting….

~

When Belyaev's bodyguards find their limousine unattended, they immediately usher Belyaev into the safety of the bulletproof backseat. One guard remains in position outside the car while the other heads inside in search of their missing driver, making a derogatory comment about the driver's small bladder.

They don't think to check the boot; the bound-and-gagged chauffeur is in for a long and uncomfortable night.

As soon as the second guard is out of sight, James ducks around the side of an SUV a few meters away and shoots the first guard in the chest with his silenced pistol. The big man collapses against the back door and slides down to the pavement, looking up at James with a confused expression that fades to blankness before James kicks his corpse out of the way.

James tries the handle, but it's locked. So he knocks on the window politely, giving Belyaev a chance to come out on his own. When there's no response from inside, James presses the button on the chauffeur's key fob to unlock the door himself.

As the door swings open, he sees movement inside and just dodges the bullet Belyaev tries to put through his skull. James's swift retaliation doesn't miss, three shots into Belyaev's chest while the report from Belyaev's shot echoes in the underground lot.

James reaches inside to toss the gun from Belyaev's hand and snag the ring off his pinky. But no sooner is his prize in his grasp then it's knocked loose by the returning guard body-slamming James into the door frame. James barely keeps hold of his pistol as he absorbs a swift combination of punches to his right kidney. He swings an elbow back, clipping the man's jaw and shocking him into giving James enough space to turn.

His gunshot is muffled by the man's gut, and James keeps his eyes on him as he drops.

A flutter of wings has him turning around, and he spies the cockatoo hopping about the carpeted floor of the limousine, the sparkly ring in its beak.

…except it appears to have lost its sparkle. In the soft glow of the compartment lights, there's no sign of the emerald that was there just 30 seconds prior. The bird drops the ring and rubs smugly at its beak with one of its clawed feet.

"You do have expensive taste," James says. A quick look around the car lot shows no sign of security or witnesses incoming, but that doesn't mean he has time to waste confirming his hypothesis. "Lucky girl, you've just bought yourself a first-class ticket to London."

James closes the door, sealing the bird and Belyaev's lifeless body inside. He slides into the front seat, uses the rear-view mirror to dab at the errant blood spattered on his face and white collar, and makes a speedy exit from the scene.

~

Despite his best efforts to find a faster way home, there are no direct flights to be had. Q's texts remain frustratingly devoid of data, mostly just reporting that he's back in the office for another shift, then back at home to continue working on the file. His spelling and punctuation decline as he becomes increasingly sleep-deprived and manic, and his frustrations at minor mechanical delays mirror James's own.

Wish i cld fix plane for u

Just before he boards his second connecting flight in Helsinki—this one thankfully not delayed—James texts Q, "Touchdown in 4 hours. For god's sake, get some sleep."

Q answers as James finds his seat, hurry, need u here

Hurry, why? What time-sensitive information has Q discovered? Does Silva have another terror attack in the works? Is M's murderer going to ground to avoid James's retribution? Is Q losing patience and about to hare off on his own?

No, he wouldn't do that, James assures himself. He couldn't—given the frequency of Q's texts over the last 48 hours, the boffin has to be coming up on his natural limits. Still, James sends one more text, "Promise you won't do anything else until I get back."

He decides to attribute Q's silence for the rest of the flight to the man taking James's advice and finally going to sleep. Upon landing, James resists the urge to text Q again, lest he disturb his rest. The potential to join Q for a lie-in has James speeding down the M4 through the Saturday morning traffic. Just a quick errand to complete, and then James can hurry to South Wimbledon, use his lock picks on Q's door, see that the cats are fed, and join Q in his bed.

The weekend congestion is kind to James, and he swans into HQ just past 9 with his mission package in hand. He finds the executive floor unusually active for a weekend and wonders what mission is currently running in Operations. Moneypenny flags him down on his way to Mallory's office, and James accedes to the detour to satisfy his curiosity.

He sets the bird cage on her desk.

"What on earth…?" she says, staring at the pink cockatoo on its perch.

"A souvenir I picked up in Novosibirsk."

She gives him a knowing look. "For your bird in Slough?"

He blinks at the reference to a lie he barely remembers, but plays along. "Mmm. This would have made her a fine present, wouldn't it? But I'm afraid her cats would tear this lovely creature to shreds. No, I intended this delicate beauty for the only woman I know who matches its grace and elegance."

He gestures gallantly, and Moneypenny leans back, startled, a hint of a blush darkening her cheeks.

"For me?"

"And you alone."

Her features go soft with delight.

"She's quite tame, but I warn you, she has an appetite for high-end jewelry."

"Will she expect me to buy her a platinum perch? Maybe line her cage with rubies?" Moneypenny laughs. She pokes an acrylic nail through the bars of the cage to stroke the bird's head.

"Well, her last owner was careless enough to feed her emeralds."

When he doesn't continue, she looks up at him, and then pieces together the clues he's just dropped. Dismayed, she says, "No. Bond…you're not saying that Belyaev's emerald…."

"Is inside this bird's gizzard. So, consider my package delivered. I suspect Mallory would prefer it if you found a way to extract the gem before handing it off to him, but that's no longer my concern."

"You wanker," she breathes, but goes back to petting the bird's soft feathers. It coos and rubs its cheek against her finger. "Oh, you poor thing. I'll have to call a veterinary surgeon. What on earth was that man thinking—"

He interrupts her musing to wrap up his visit. "As for my debrief with Mallory, I'm afraid I can't stay for—"

"Oh, M's busy in Operations," she says distractedly and then withdraws her hand and gives James her full, annoyed attention once more. "I'm to relay his regrets at postponing your debrief, as well as his invitation to watch the ongoing mission. He thought you'd be interested in this one."

Ah, that explains the buzz of activity on the floor. "What's the mission?"

Her eyes take on a hard glint. "We got a lead on the assassin who killed our people in Istanbul; the one that stole the list of agents. And he's right here, in London."

James's pulse leaps at the unexpected news. Another lead to Silva, and one so close—

"Or technically, South Wimbledon," she amends.

"South Wimbledon? Where?"

She selects a sheet of paper off her desk and hands it to him. "There's the tip. You're just in time to find out if it's any good." She tilts her head meaningfully toward the closed doors of Operations. "Tanner's on-site, coordinating the raid with MO19—should be any minute now."

The black ink swims in front of his eyes as he tries to wish away the information on the page.

Q's building.

Q's flat number.

James can hardly breathe. But he grits out, "Hard entry, how many agents?"

"M has the details. So if you want to watch…."

Watch as all of his plans get ripped apart.

Watch Q, with crucial Silva intel in-hand, get taken into custody and thrown into an oubliette—if Q's lucky. Because MI6 is righteously angry over the deaths of their own. And the anonymous tip—"armed and extremely dangerous"—is all the justification they need to shoot first and ask questions later.

The MI6 agents about to bust down Q's door will be out for revenge, and someone's just thrust Q into their line of fire.

"Excuse me," James says, and stalks to the far wall, mobile already dialing Q's number. It rings and rings and rings—Q always answers within three, fuck—before forwarding to an automated voice-message system.

James has no other way to contact him remotely, and if Q's silenced his phone…. Oh god, James told Q to go to sleep—

Shit!

What should James do? What can he do? There's only one way to stop what's about to happen, and that's to convince Mallory to call off the raid. And the only way to do that is to expose Q—destroy Q's cover at MI6, out him as M's illicit hacker, and explain James's partnership with him to hunt Silva.

James knows exactly what will happen if James exposes him. Mallory will do just as she did: clip Q's wings and lock him in a cage where he can secretly exploit Q's skills for his own advancement.

James pictures Mallory's unreadable eyes and knows there's no mercy to be had there. Q will still be taken into custody, still be interrogated for the Silva intel and detained indefinitely at Mallory's pleasure. But at least Q would be spared the dangers of a hard entry. Meanwhile, Mallory will bench James and possibly fire him. And Silva will go on living. With the precious file and everything that Q's just learned fallen into Mallory's lap, there will be no avenging the woman who meant everything to him.

They all lose. Q, James, his M. Even MI6.

If James doesn't stop the raid, Q gets imprisoned (or worse). If he does stop the raid, Q still loses his freedom forever. One option is better, but neither is acceptable. James looks at the glass walls of her office, opaque now, part of Mallory's world of secrets, and James feels those walls closing in on them, hears a cage snapping shut around Q no matter which way he looks at it.

Moneypenny's phone rings, and she answers it as she watches him pace.

Christ. He can't stand at Mallory's side in Operations and watch this happen. James is a man of action; he has to do something. He has a fast car, and he knows the quickest routes to Q's building. He could be there in 25 minutes—20 if he lies to himself. And on-site, he can find a way to intervene, to botch the entry, to help Q escape, anything besides accepting this defeat.

"Are you going in or not?" Moneypenny calls to him, one hand over the receiver.

"I'm on my way to South Wimbledon. Tell Tanner to bloody wait for me!" He sprints for the stairs, ignoring the protest she shouts after him. This is the longest shot imaginable, but he's survived with no-odds before. He just needs to make it there.

Before it's too late.

~

The moment Q's high-rise comes into view, he knows: he chose wrong.

A smudge of brown smoke rises from the windows of the next-to-last unit on the 3rd floor. As he races that last quarter-mile, dodging pedestrians and vehicles, he can distinguish multiple types of sirens, and the road in front of him devolves into a sea of flashing lights. He feels like he's going to be sick, pulse pounding in his temples and in his knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. His vision tunnels in a way that suggests a lack of oxygen. And all he can think is that it's his fault. Whatever's happened inside, whatever's happened to Q, James could have stopped it.

He chose wrong.

He pulls to a stop behind MO19's mobile ops van and ignores the startled responses from the officers on the sidewalk. The first hand thrown against his chest gets a snarl and a curt, "MI6! Where's Tanner?"

A quick walkie-talkie relay later, and James is entering the building, pushing through a bewildered cluster of residents in the small lobby, taking the stairs two at a time to Q's hallway, guilt and panic wrapped around his lungs like iron bands, leaving him panting for breath. He stops when he reaches the third floor, taking in the SFOs and MI6 senior field agents, their body armor, and the innumerable firearms on display. A veritable firing squad.

He forces his feet back into motion and approaches Q's doorway, avoiding eye contact with everyone he passes. Q's door stands open, the locks smashed and hinges twisted from a battering ram. Only two locks; too flimsy a defense. He should have hidden Q away, kept him safe behind steel walls.

Too late to protect him now.

Inside is chaos. The air is thick with smoke and extinguisher propellant, centered around the smoldering server tower that was formerly Q's pride and joy. The bookcase that stood next to it lies prostrate on the ground, books dotting the surrounding carpet like blood spatter. A few agents in tactical gear roam through the small living room, and he can hear another in the kitchen, rifling through drawers.

Something white catches his eye on the carpet, and he stoops down to pick up a piece of curved porcelain—the broken-off handle of a delicate teacup. His hand shakes before he lets it fall.

Tanner emerges from the bedroom, face grim. "Bond. I heard you were coming. I'm sorry."

James pictures Q's body on the bed, fresh blood soaking the sheets. "Where is he?" If his voice is hoarse and his eyes wet, they'll be attributed to the polluted air.

"Gone," Tanner says. "We just missed him. He must have known we were coming somehow."

Relief slaps him across the face, leaving James too dazed to do more than echo, "You missed…."

Tanner jerks his chin toward the server tower. "The bastard started an electrical fire. The whole lot, fried and then slagged. Unsalvageable." He sighs his displeasure and then continues, "As soon as we saw the flames through the window, we had to breach. I know you wanted to be here for it, but we couldn't wait."

"You missed him," James repeats, hardly able to believe this turn in his fortune. By an absolute miracle, Q managed to escape on his own.

"I know how much you want him after he burned your cover. And we're going to find him."

Belatedly, James slips into the role Tanner expects of him. "Not if I find him first. I want to know everything about him. Tell me what you have."

"Very little so far. The tip was emailed this morning from an encrypted account. Research is tracing it as we speak."

James nods along, pretending to believe Tanner's description of Q as a mercenary who shot up an Istanbul safe house, killed two agents, and set off a chain reaction that culminated in James's imprisonment and M's murder. Tanner doesn't know who he's really after: a computer genius who was loyal to M and never drew a gun on anyone in his life. A man who saved James's life when MI6 couldn't. A man clever enough to evade capture by one of the best-equipped agencies in the country.

Every time James thinks he has a grasp of Q's abilities, he's impressed all over again. …Which wouldn't bode well for James's ability to find Q now, but for the ace up his sleeve.

Tanner's recitation is cut off by news that the corporate landlord's representative has just arrived on site. He excuses himself and heads out into the hall.

Watching him leave, James's eyes fall on a grey mound of fabric under a toppled coat rack…and his stomach drops with recognition.

Q's raincoat. The one with the CIA bug James used to track him that first time—the undiscovered link he was counting on.

Left behind. Useless.

"Damn it, Q," he mutters. So much for an easy tail.

At least he can avoid dragging Felix into this mess. James makes a show of righting the coat rack and inspecting the jacket. His thumbnail catches on the bug, which he scrapes off and tucks into a pocket before hanging the raincoat on its hook.

He gives the room another once-over, hoping for a clue as to where Q would run to. He hasn't seen a trace of the cats, and he's certain Q wouldn't leave the little monsters behind. He also doesn't see the trainers Q usually tucks under the couch, so he likely isn't barefoot. No raincoat, but it's a clear morning. No messenger bag on the dining room table, no papers laying out on the desk, the laptop gone. Whatever intel Q has gathered on Silva, he's taken it with him.

Nagging doubt creeps back in. This is, after all, the worst-case scenario James was positing not six hours ago: Q gone to ground with all of the Silva information, leaving nothing for James. What if Q decides he doesn't need James's help after all?

No…he doesn't want to accept that Q would betray him like that. Surely Q's out there lying low, scared into hiding. So where would he go to hide? James wracks his memory for any location Q's mentioned, any friends or places he likes to visit in the city, somewhere he would feel secure.

The roof!

It's so obvious, he can't believe he didn't think of it straight-off. Quintessential Q, to hide from his pursuers in the one place they won't think to search for him: the roof of the very building they think he's just fled.

James turns on his heel and returns to the dim stairwell, heading up instead of down. His steps quicken as he races up the empty flights, eager to see Q again and reassure himself that Q's really alright. He shakes the door frame until the board pulls free from the wall, and he's grinning as he shoulders open the roof-access door and steps out into the blinding sunlight, Q's name already falling from his lips…

…and finds no one there to greet him.

Q didn't choose the roof.

Hopes dashed as swiftly as they'd formed, James stands on the rooftop overlooking a street clogged with uniforms and flashing lights, and beyond it the small town Q hates, and on the horizon the whole of London—the whole world once denied to Q—glittering and beckoning.

Seven years Q spent staring at those gleaming skyscrapers, dreaming of freedom; why shouldn't Q fly free now? Her leash was severed months ago. And with the flat burned, what's left to tie Q here, to tie him to James?

What chance does James possibly stand of finding Q, if Q truly doesn't want to be found?

He's terrified that he knows the answer to that question: no chance in hell.

Chapter Text

The rooftop holds nothing but memories: Q's windblown hair and wild eyes; Q's soft lips; Q daring to put his fate in James's hands. Q had shared his most damning secret here, offered up the leash M used to hold him, because he craved a genuine connection with James. And after trusting James so deeply, how could Q possibly leave him behind?

He wouldn't. Which means there must be a clue, a message Q's left for him somewhere. James just has to find it.

When he returns to Q's flat, the SFOs have cleared out and left the scene under MI6's control. James moves quickly through the flat, looking for anything out of place, some way Q might have tried to communicate with him. Considering the small space, there aren't many places to check.

He searched the bedroom on his first visit, before they'd been properly introduced, but hasn't entered it in the weeks since. And if Q's left a clue there, it's impossible to tell now, considering how many agents have already been through it. He's far more familiar with the living room, the view from the windows, the view of the monitors over Q's shoulder. But the room was always sparsely furnished, and there's nothing to catch James's eye besides the destruction of tower and bookcase.

He ducks into the bathroom, finding the room untouched by MI6's heavy-booted agents. The same bath towels hang behind the door, the sink and mirror intact. A quick wave of his phone's torch over the mirror reveals no hidden message. Reaching past the opaque curtain, James picks up the bottle of body wash and smells citrus, Q's minty breath, the humid air of their shower. Q's wet hands slide over his naked skin for a moment before James forces himself to put the bottle down.

With one room left to search, he's intercepted in the living room by Tanner, newly returned to the flat.

"Tell me you have something we can use," James says, frustration running close to the surface.

Tanner's eyes brighten. He draws a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and unwraps it to reveal a small, black, oblong shape. "Found this under the bedroom windowsill."

James frowns and takes it gingerly in its cotton wrapping. He's never seen it before, but… "This looks familiar."

"It's a signal jammer. Looks to be nearly identical to the one we found by M's body."

That's right—James can picture the catalog entry in the Silva file Tanner gave him. Custom-made, untraceable tech; another dead end MI6 had been forced to abandon. And all this while, Q had been using its smaller sibling.

James thinks of Q's dab hand at programming, at soldering, and he knows now who made both jammers…and how one ended up on that roof.

Miss me mother?

MI6 had assumed M's killer dropped the jammer near her corpse when he left…but M must have brought it and used it herself.

What the hell is in that Silva file Q dug up? What secrets were so damning that M cut herself off from her own protection detail rather than risk letting anyone overhear her conversation with Silva? His blood chills at the question and its implications.

"Looks like our elusive assassin wasn't just in Istanbul; he was also present when Silva killed M," Tanner concludes grimly.

James is spared responding to that erroneous leap of logic by the arrival of the forensic team. Armed with cameras and clipboards and empty crates, they flag over Tanner to discuss the scene, giving James only a short window to finish his interrupted search.

He heads to the shoe box of a kitchen, stepping around the techs setting up their crates just outside. The dinner plates he put away last week are still stacked in the cabinet. James checks them over and leaves them on the counter. The sauté pan likewise is neatly stowed away; Q hadn't done any cooking in his absence (not that James would have expected him to). The chef's knife he bought for Q sits in the sink, a smear the color of blueberry jelly on the tip of the blade. A last, hasty meal? Or a midnight snack between his texts to James?

James's hands slide over the counter top, and his breath catches at the memory of standing here a week ago, with Q pressed against his back and two arms wrapped around James's waist. His eyes slip shut. He can feel Q's damp hair against his cheek, and the safety he'd felt in that moment wraps around him again.

And then one of the techs pushes behind James with a grunted, "Watch yourself," and James tenses, barely suppressing the urge to go for the chef's knife and the jugular.

Slow inhales through the nose.

The ammonia reek of extinguisher propellant is stronger than the smell of burnt flesh. He latches onto the scent to steady himself while the techs bustle around him.

The clattering of the plates being stacked and piled into a crate draws his attention, and he turns his head to watch Q's belongings stolen away from him. It's not just the flat; MI6 will seize all that remains of the last seven years of Q's life. What few possessions M let Q have will be carried off, analyzed, locked away.

Better these trinkets than Q.

But James's heart still aches at this doubled injustice, this doubled loss for Q.

"Sir," another tech says loudly, just outside the kitchen. He beckons James closer with his clipboard. "I need to record your presence at the scene."

James steps out to provide the required identification.

The tech notes James's name and employee number on his paperwork. His tone is only slightly censorious when he says, "We'll eliminate your prints when we process the scene. Do you know whether they're already on file?"

"They are."

"Very good. I won't keep you any longer, then."

Well that's one concern put to rest; with James's poking about the flat officially witnessed and documented, no one will question the mountain of physical evidence James has left here over the past few weeks. It's the perfect cover. Yet James feels no satisfaction at it, only a growing sense of failure.

If Q had left him a message, it's already destroyed or confiscated by MI6. And with no clues, no messages, no Q, there's no reason to stay here any longer.

The crew in the kitchen shove a full crate into the hall, bumping his leg. James looks down and sees boxes of Pot Noodle, a couple refrigerator condiments, and a half-full bottle of Macallan. His mouth goes dry.

"Shelton," Tanner calls from the server tower, where a couple techs are poking at the smoldering equipment with looks of despair. James sympathizes.

The clipboard tech hurries over to speak with the chief of staff. While their backs are turned, James swipes the whisky bottle and walks out the broken front door for the last time.

~

Pragmatism spurs him to move his car before it gets towed off the sidewalk, and habit turns the wheel toward Chelsea. In the absence of a lead to focus on, the last 30 hours of travel weigh him down, making it hard to fend off his worst doubts.

He settles on a short-term goal: some clean clothes and a couple hours' sleep to clear his head. By the time he returns to headquarters, the techs should just be logging the inventory of Q's possessions, and James will insert himself into the process so he can act first on any clues they find.

It's a grim irony, to have used MI6 for a lead on Silva's whereabouts, and now to use them for a lead on Q's.

He parks and makes for home, suitcase rolling behind him and whisky sloshing in his shoulder duffel. The bottle's siren song is soft but insistent, and he wonders. Would he taste Q on the glass lip? In the warming liquor? At the bottom, perhaps he might feel Q's lips against his again, or—a close consolation—feel nothing at all.

That promised oblivion is a familiar friend, one he's turned to after too many hard missions to count. But this mission isn't over yet. He can't allow himself to drink away his despair and unprofessional regret until he knows what's become of Q.

Despite these best intentions, James feels his resolve eroding incrementally with every step he takes.

The red awnings of an Italian bistro catch his eye, and he tries to muster a bit of hope. The restaurant has been open for half-an-hour, quiet with only a few diners partaking of an early lunch when he pokes his head in. James isn't surprised that Marco reports no messages left by any young man. But the fresh disappointment adds to the pile, and James can feel himself teetering.

He needs help.

He ignores Marco's sympathetic queries and offer of his usual table for lunch. Instead, he digs out his phone and debates whether or not to make the call as he paces home.

It's not that he doesn't trust Felix…but this isn't something he knows how to explain. Not without getting too personal. And while Felix has seen him at some of his lowest moments over the years, that isn't an experience James cares to willingly replicate.

But if he doesn't do something proactive, he's going to end up finding the bottom of that bottle and be no good to Q or himself for 12 hours at least. And even James isn't that selfish.

That shameful thought finally hardens his resolve.

He's reasonably sure Felix will back off if James tells him to—the American agent is used to James clamming up about sore subjects. And if Felix digs too hard, James can always hang up. Mollified, he dials Felix's number with a jab of his thumb. It rings in his ear as he climbs the steps to his flat, and James can't help keeping count of the rings, hoping it doesn't go to six, not to six—

Shit. Voicemail.

James disconnects and calls again—unacceptable for Felix to be screening his calls when James needs to talk to someone—and when the hell did one of his neighbors get a cat? James grits his teeth at this new annoyance and counts the next set of rings as he unlocks his front door.

The cat's yowls grow louder as he enters his flat, and he's snarling a curse and ringing off at the latest voicemail prompt when he steps into the living room and finds himself staring down the barrel of his own personal Walther.

Even with shaking arms, Q's aim is true enough to kill at three meters. Barrel locked on James's chest, Q's gaze darts past him to the closing door, alert for more threats.

James doesn't spare the weapon a second thought, just drops his luggage and phone, already hurrying forward to cup Q's face with both hands. "Thank god, thank god," James says and kisses Q like he's been starving for it.

Q makes a wounded sound and throws his arms around James, the pistol's butt digging into James's spine, forgotten though not discarded.

James tears his lips away so he can wrap his own arms around Q, tug the head of curls against his ear, and clutch him tightly.

Q's voice is muffled by James's collar, melodious and sweet. "I couldn't be sure. I didn't know if you'd called in that tip—"

"No, darling, no."

Q's body sags against James's, and James could follow suit—relief more devastating than despair—but he holds them both upright.

Quick to reassure him, James confesses into Q's hair, "I tried to call, to warn you. I thought I was too late."

"I have an alert for my address on MI6's system. When it went off, I ran. Ditched my phone, too, in case they could track it."

His beautiful, clever Q. James could kiss him again…so he does, savoring the way Q's lips cling to his for a long minute.

The fingers of Q's empty hand dig into James's shoulder blade when he says, "If you didn't send the tip…then that means Silva's onto me. I must've dug too deep and tripped his alerts somewhere, and he traced me back to my flat."

The thought of Silva coming after Q makes James want to take back his gun and stand vigil at the door in Q's stead. Irrational, overprotective, instinctive—and hopefully unnecessary.

"You'll be safe here," James promises, making himself mean it.

It's more a calculated probability than a lie. Silva hasn't moved against James yet, so either he doesn't have James's address, or he's waiting for James to make the first move against him. No matter which, James chooses to soothe Q's immediate fears rather than exacerbate them.

Somewhere in his flat, he hears the same cat yowling again, joined now by a softer mew.

"You brought your cats?" James asks, looking around for them.

Q takes a deep breath and nods. "I put them in the bathroom. In case we couldn't stay here."

In case James really had sold him out. Would Q have been able to pull that trigger just now, if James had led a strike team of MI6 agents through the door? For Q's sake, James hopes so.

He relaxes his grip on Q and takes a slow step back to ease out of Q's embrace. Q lets James go and allows James to take the gun from his hand without complaint. He looks utterly done in, fine tremors running the length of his body, eyes glazed and puffy, shoulders slumped. James resists the urge to hold him again.

"You're staying," James says firmly. "So why don't you let them out and get them settled?"

Q smiles gratefully and leans in for one more kiss before shuffling off toward the master bath. James stares after him, unable to wrap his head around Q running here, of all the places in London he could have hidden.

An unfamiliar backpack on his couch catches his eye. A look inside reveals a single change of clothes and toiletries, a generous stack of bank notes, and what are likely false documents for Q and his pets. A go-bag, kept so well hidden James missed it in his initial search of Q's flat in August. And that alert Q planted on MI6's servers…that wasn't a recent precaution, he's certain. If Q expected M to turn on him in the early days of their so-called partnership, he would have wanted a head start from the agents sent to kill him.

James had been correct in his first impression of Q's flat—Q always treated his home in South Wimbledon like it was temporary, expecting it to be burned and abandoned at any moment. No photos of himself or his friends; no souvenirs or keepsakes; nothing that could be used to identify him but fingerprints. And James would bet his Aston Martin that Q already has a plan for removing his prints from the MI6 servers.

If Q had planned so much of his escape in advance, surely he had a sanctuary picked out as well. Somewhere that wasn't James's flat. Somewhere no one from MI6 could ever find him, least of all the agent most likely to be sent after him.

Another wave of relief threatens to knock him over, and James is glad for the distraction when Scylla looks into the living room with a loud meow, her tail puffed up in agitation. James calls to her, and she comes warily, checking the corners of the room before rubbing against James's shin and sniffing his outstretched fingers.

"Your sister's still a coward, hmm?"

Scylla cranes her head up to meet his eyes and meows in agreement.

"You're sure you don't mind them being here?" Q asks from the hallway, slumped against the corner of the wall and leaning into the room.

"Positive." He's never imagined having cats in his living space, but having Q here is worth any inconvenience. James rises from the couch and comes to lean against the living-room side of the same corner. "You look cudgeled. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"A couple hours," Q says and yawns.

"You should take a nap. You're welcome to my bed."

Q shakes his head. "I don't want to be alone."

"Then you won't be."

Q reaches for James's hand and tugs him around the corner, his other hand rising to James's side.

James catches both hands and squeezes them. "My right kidney took a hit on this last mission. I'm a bit tender back there." It feels unnatural to say it, to reveal a weakness like this. But he doesn't want to cause Q any setbacks by allowing Q to inadvertently hurt James with his touch.

The concern in Q's eyes softens to fondness. "Thank you for telling me," he says solemnly.

James squeezes Q's hands again, pleased that Q understands.

With the front door securely locked, the cats' comfort seen to, and the two of them safe under the covers, James wraps himself around Q and holds him until Q's shaking subsides and he relaxes into sleep. James lies awake a little longer, still marveling at Q's choice of refuge.

Six years ago, the woman James loved tried to handle her troubles on her own. Rather than confide in James or turn to him for help, Vesper shut him out when he could have saved her—and they both paid the price. He's never forgiven Vesper for the selfishness that cost her her life, nor himself for the blindness that cost him his heart.

But Q…Q ran to James when he was in trouble, instead of taking off on his own.

Awed, James listens to Q breathe in his arms and vows to be worthy of such faith and trust.

~

James wakes gradually, no internal alarms raised by the snoring behind him. He blinks until he can focus on his bedside clock—nearly supper time. After so much travel, his body has no idea what time zone it's in, and thanks to this hours-long nap, it's doubtful he'll be adjusting to GMT tonight.

He sits up and turns to take in the view behind him. The late-afternoon daylight through the tall windows is amber and diffuse, illuminating the fan of Q's dark lashes, delicate and full across his cheeks, and red lips parted ever so slightly. He's so beautiful, nestled into the white linens, that it's hard to look away. But nature calls.

James eases out of bed silently. After the toilet, he steps into his shower for a couple minutes to wash the travel from his body. When he returns, Q is still asleep and just as appealing, and James's noble intentions to assemble a simple meal for them go out the window. He's been fantasizing about a lie-in with Q for the past week; how could he possibly resist it now?

He slides a pair of boxers on over damp skin, slips under the covers, and snuggles close.

His jostling wakes Q, who opens his eyes with a yawn and reaches for James to draw him even closer.

They resettle on the same pillow, legs tangled, watching one another from inches apart. Q's gaze traces James's features from forehead to chin to ear, something James is tempted to call wonder in his expression.

After a long time, Q whispers, "I used to try to imagine what you looked like."

"I hope I haven't disappointed."

Q shakes his head. "She said you were blond and handsome, but she never told me how blue your eyes are. Or that your smile starts around your eyes instead of your mouth." Q slips a hand out of the covers to run his thumb over James's crows feet.

James holds still for the caress and resists the urge to blink when a fingertip brushes his eyelashes.

"None of the pictures in your file did you justice. The way your attention is like a physical force, and how it makes me feel when you look at me."

James can't help smirking—he's well aware of the effect he has on people when he turns on the charm. But this time, with Q's fingers still ghosting over his temple, he feels the skin around his eyes crinkle a second before his lips turn up. Just as Q described.

Q's eyes track those small movements, coming to linger on James's mouth. "Instead of the big-bad stuff of nightmares, you're a fantasy come to life."

James rolls onto his back with a laugh. "You'll give me a big head."

Q snickers at the double entendre and follows to press against his side. A kiss lands on his shoulder, and then Q's finger traces a line of raised skin in James's hairline, just behind his ear. "Hmm. This one's new."

James considers where Q's touching, pictures the bloody cut from a thrown pint glass a month ago. "Not very—that bar fight in Saint Tropez."

"Still, new since the last time I looked at your file. I pride myself on being something of an expert on 'James Bond'; I know every inch of your body."

Unable to resist the set-up, James quirks a suggestive brow. "You could always know it a little more…."

"Yes, please." Q pushes the covers down a bit and lifts himself up on an elbow to see him better. And James doesn't mind his own view; the way James's borrowed t-shirt sags off Q's thin shoulder has James humming with satisfaction. Q's fingers trail over James's lips and jaw, then lower to James's throat before Q leans in and kisses his Adam's apple.

A wash of hot breath over his vulnerable throat sends James's thoughts to the collar. The chafed skin. The discoloration—faded, but still noticeable up close. Smothering a flicker of self-consciousness, James says, "I knew you'd been poking around in my file, saving this flat, my car…. But I never imagined you would end up here. This can't have been your original escape plan."

Q kisses across his collarbone as he answers, "There's a pet-friendly hotel in Croydon where I would've spent a night, while I laid down some false leads to send you and M chasing in the opposite direction. Then to Poland, eventually, and a holiday cabin a former professor keeps." He says it so freely, no hedging his bets—offering up his escape route as though James couldn't possibly be a threat in the future.

James is humbled all over again.

But then Q's fingers dip into James's armpit and stroke over a switchblade scar, a strip of flayed skin that had taken a month to heal. Q doesn't try to get a look at it, isn't curious about the odd texture, as though he knew it were there, knew where it came from, and James can't help wondering—

"When's the last time you looked at my file?"

"After I brought you home. I needed to see everything they'd done to you."

Fuck.

Even flat on his back, James feels his balance slip, a sense of danger as the topic strays too close to things he can't discuss. He stares at the ceiling and makes himself say casually, "You didn't see enough in Malaysia?"

"I tried not to look. And it was all too much to take in like that, in person. MI6 Medical's photos were easier to digest." There's no hint of pity or surprise in Q's voice as his hand moves inward, sliding over James's chest to circle a nipple and brush a burn scar.

Feeling painfully exposed, James wants to writhe in his skin as Q's inspection and matter-of-fact commentary continues. At the same time, James's cock is growing interested in the slide of their bare legs and the teasing glide of Q's fingers. He's on an unfamiliar tightrope, unsure whether the urge to fuck or flee will win out.

"But the previous set, from before you disappeared—that's how I found you. I studied the photos, mapped them, built an algorithm based on your skin. I searched every image and video file on every media platform on every network looking for a piece of you, no matter how small." Q looks at him slyly. "I believe I've already demonstrated how many CCTV cameras you show yourself off to."

James huffs out a laugh, hoping it masks his growing tension.

Q pushes up into a kneel and shoves the covers past James's hips. "This one—this is how I found you." His fingers stroke up James's inner thigh, nudging the leg of his boxers higher to bare the concertina-wire scar from a Navy mission, white with age. Q touches the jagged line reverently.

With Q so close to where James wants to be touched, arousal finally edges out anxiety. James adjusts the pillow under his head so he can better see Q's hands on him. "Now, I would remember flashing that at a CCTV camera."

He means it as a joke, but it makes Q's eyes go distant and cold. "You didn't. But a very stupid hotel heiress did. One of Nora Alexei's clients—she snuck in a camera and took photos. DM'ed them to her friends boasting about the 'amazing weekend' she had."

James…doesn't recall anyone with a camera. But then, he's blocked out most of it, hasn't been willing to crack that lid and let the memories out of containment.

"Not your face, but your skin. And the chains." Q's hands squeeze tight on his thigh.

James's heart is suddenly racing, the lid of the box lifting up, the artificial click of a phone's camera shutter echoing in his ears—good dog, lie still—and he scrambles for a distraction. "Tell me how you did it."

Q meets his eyes, anger starting to burn through the cold, making him look familiar again. His hands pet James's belly, home to its own collection of scars, both old and new. "I found the photo on one of those exclusive social media platforms for the revoltingly rich. And I hacked her encrypted messages and found the invitation to visit the slave house and 'sample the merchandise.'"

Q shudders. James resists doing the same.

"So I sent them a polite inquiry, phishing for a back door into the slavers' network. And they not only let me into their servers, they sent me my own invitation to the house. I guess they liked the fake profile I'd created."

"You passed muster," James says, encouraging.

"I meant to tip off MI6 to your location, but when I saw how they described you in their portfolio, saw their file on you…. Just…I couldn't hand you off to MI6. I had to get you back myself."

"That was one hell of a risk to take."

Q shrugs. "You're right, obviously. But I was a bit out of my head, having found you. Emotionally compromised, she would've called it. And besides, I knew I could pull it off; the right clothes, the right accent, and it's easy to blend in. It worked at uni, and it worked in Malaysia."

James doesn't mention the tells he'd spotted in Q's facade—the lack of an expensive watch, the mass-market cologne he'd likely sourced at Duty Free. Because Q had pulled it off. Greed had blinded the slavers to any imperfections in their client, working in Q's favor…and James's.

"I figured my only real challenge would be earning your trust. I didn't expect how badly I would want to start shooting everyone the second I saw you."

James blinks in surprise.

"The photo didn't prepare me for the manacles and collar. And that spandex—that was fucking indecent. Like they wanted to humiliate you. But you were still alight with pride, ready to fight your way out. You were magnificent—and I wanted to kill every single one of them for putting their filthy hands on you." Q's voice drops to a snarl, his fingers splayed over Bond's flanks, kneading. "They had no right to take you, to torture you, to even look at you like that."

Flustered by his ferocity, James deflects. "Sounds a bit possessive. We hadn't even been introduced."

Q leans over him, gaze intent. "That didn't matter. Since long before I met you, you've been mine. The one agent she trusted, the fate she planned for me—my promised executioner."

James opens his mouth to deny that role, but Q barrels on, staring him down.

"You've been a part of my life for years. And she gave me your file—she gave you to me. No one got to take you away from me. And no one ever will again, I promise."

It's madness, irrational and exuberant, and James should argue Q down from this height of vehemence, make him be reasonable…but James's throat is closing with unexpected emotion. When Q kisses him next, it feels like he's staking a claim, declaring James his. And unlike with M or Vesper, James knows Q means it. Didn't he tear the internet apart to find James? Didn't he risk his freedom and his very life to rescue James? Hasn't he been watching James's back, keeping him safe, bringing him home again and again?

To be so seen and protected and wanted is…overwhelming.

Beyond words, James cups Q's cheeks and pulls him in for another kiss, welcoming the claim. He feels on fire, passion rising where words are insufficient.

Q moans against James's lips and wriggles free of his grip to kiss his way down James's chest. James catches hold of the t-shirt and drags it over Q's head as he slides down James's body.

"Even if I didn't get to pull the trigger myself, I'm the one who ended that bitch Alexei," Q says, defiant and proud. "It was my information, my oversight. I made damned sure she paid for what she did to you."

Every word out of Q's mouth is impossibly erotic, each one a testament to how much Q wants James. "You make a habit of vengeance," James says, breathless with joy.

"I obliterated her from the planet. Now I wish I could obliterate her from your memory. And from your body." Q inches down the waistband of James's boxers and places a kiss on his right hip, just above the triangles branded there. "I could've killed her with my bare hands for leaving this mark on you."

Teeth scrape over the brand, and James's brain shorts out for a second, memories of pain colliding with the pleasure of Q's touch. James's hips buck helplessly, and Q looks up the length of James's body with dark eyes and a heated smile.

"I could've had you in my mouth that same day—god, I've pictured it. But I'm glad I waited to do this. I don't want to take anything from you that you don't want to give."

Q pauses, inches from James's stiff cock, still waiting.

James groans and arches up, remembering Q kneeling below him wearing a costly suit and arrogant smirk. And if James had only known Q at the time, he would've given himself over as gratefully as he does now. His hands thread through Q's riotous hair, coaxing Q close enough to finally have him.

Q slips the boxers even lower and sets to knowing James's body in earnest.

Chapter Text

Q follows him out of the bedroom an hour later, still yawning but looking a good deal more relaxed than when James found him here this morning. Q makes a bee-line for the sofa, kneels on the cushion, and leans over the back to pull a laptop bag from its hiding place.

James watches with interest as Q extracts his laptop and a small, black oval of metal. "Signal jammer? Your own design, I presume."

"Custom is always better."

"Did you make one for M as well?"

"For her home, a few years ago."

"The same one she used the night she died?"

Q pauses in setting up his laptop, his smile gone in a blink. "I didn't intend it being used for that purpose, but yes. And now that I've read Silva's file, I can understand why she did it. It was still an insane decision, but—" He trails off with a shrug.

James's heart speeds at the mention of their prize. "You have it with you?"

"Of course. But give me a few minutes to set up some security before discussing it."

The urge to get his hands on the file now is powerful, but Q is right to take precautions. "I'll put supper together, then."

He has to shoo Q's cats off of the counter—it seems the animals' good manners at home haven't automatically translated to this new territory. But there's no harm done, and he can be patient given how the day's upheaval has affected them.

The pantry provides the makings of a decent fry-up, and he soon returns to the living room with plates of bacon, eggs, and toast. Q steals a kiss as James sets down his plate, then digs in with gusto, while James sits next to him on the sofa with what he's certain is a foolish-looking grin.

After a few bites, Q points his fork at James's mobile, face-up alongside his laptop as though Q's just been using it. James decides not to take umbrage, so long as Q has exempted his phone from the jammer's electronic blockade.

"Someone's been texting you."

James takes a sip of coffee and unlocks his phone to check. Two messages from Felix, following up on James's missed calls.

"All clear. Talk later," he texts back.

James answers Q's curious look. "My friend at the CIA."

Q smirks. "You never said—did he enjoy our present in Houston?"

"He did indeed. Branford's being smart—possibly for the first time in his life. He's cooperating." James double-checks that his telecoms signal is as strong as it should be and asks, "You've got the jammer working?"

"No one can listen in, and so long as we avoid any screaming rows, your neighbors won't know I'm here. I swept the place, too. I'm almost surprised there were no bugs planted in your home. I suppose I got used to the idea of Big Brother spying in everyone's homes."

James leans over so his shoulder bumps Q's. "No one's spying on you anymore."

"I know." Q shovels a heaped forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, as though to shut himself up.

"Give yourself time to adjust to normal life."

Q swallows and mumbles, "Normal life, he says. You know I'm technically a wanted man."

"A very wanted man."

Q laughs even as he rolls his eyes. "Yes, alright. And need I say: likewise."

"Oh, you made that abundantly clear."

Cheeks flushing, Q says, "Good."

"Finish your supper," James says and leads by example.

When the plates are cleared away, Q finally reaches into his laptop bag and pulls out a folder far thicker than James expected. He passes it to James, who wastes no time in opening the cover to a collection of photographs. Aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, thick dark hair—the pixelated profile from the grainy surveillance video refined into someone James could confidently identify at 30 meters for a kill shot.

"This is him," James says with satisfaction.

"This is him," Q confirms. He leans closer to flip to the MI6 cover page, rife with black rectangles obscuring all identifying information. "I ransacked half of MI6's digital archives to fill in all of these holes. And then the Chinese Ministry of State Security's more recent records to track his movements since his official 'death.'"

Q turns the page to an updated version of the same cover sheet, this one overlaid with text to fill in the redactions.

"Meet Tiago Rodriguez, aka Raoul Silva."

James's eyes widen as he scans the restored page summarizing four years of service to MI6 and the single line denoting its end. "'Confirmed killed in action.' And yet his ghost appeared on that parking deck in West London four months ago. So he faked his death. To what end—defection?"

Q shakes his head. "Hardly a willing one. As for why that particular phrasing was chosen to close his file, I imagine 'killed in action' sounded better than 'handed over to the CCP for torture and execution as part of a prisoner exchange.'"

James whistles. "What did you do to deserve that?" He begins paging through the file, scanning quickly for the most relevant information on the man's tenure with MI6, from the age of 26 to just before his 30th birthday. The list of weapons and skills certifications are hair-raising, even before James flips to the mission files from his time as a field agent at Station H. One hundred percent completion rate, multiple commendations for bravery and effectiveness. And there, among the footnotes, a tally that adds up quickly. Five unsanctioned kills of targets meant to be surveilled or brought into custody: three civilians, two enemy agents—all classified as unavoidable casualties in the execution of a lawful mission.

That same classification appears repeatedly in James's own file. He knows exactly what it represents.

But what the hell is it doing here?

James's thoughts grind to a halt, latched onto this mystery, and he doesn't realize he's stopped reading until Q nudges his hand aside to turn to the back of the folder.

"The real threat isn't his field work. In his free time, he earned an advanced degree in computer science, specializing in network engineering. He contributed coding to major system overhauls at Station F and Station H. He received commendations for exemplary service and volunteer hours. The quartermaster himself had become aware of him and was actively trying to transfer him into HQ TSS."

James looks up from the file, waiting for Q to explain the significance of this information.

Q takes a deep breath and says, "I believe he's the one who created the encryption I can't crack."

Oh.

"That doesn't sound good."

"It's not. He isn't just some financier with enough money to hire talented tech support; the man's inventive and extraordinarily gifted. It's no wonder he flagged me accessing his old files—he's burrowed deep into the systems of either MI6, the CCP, or both."

James is beginning to grasp the enormity of the challenge they're facing, and it's sobering indeed.

"But as for what got him disavowed…." Q fumbles for James's hand, pulling it into his lap to squeeze. "Do you know the reputation she made for herself at Station H?"

It sounds like a change of topic, but James's instincts tell him to be patient. "I heard she was exceptional."

Q nods. "She was the top-performing station head all three years she was there before the handover. She foiled multiple actions by the CCP and always seemed to be a step ahead of them. 'Uncanny' came up more than once in her performance reviews—"

James clears his throat, and Q huffs.

"Of course I hacked her file! I waited seven years for the chance; I wasn't going to pass it up after her death. But it was that consistent prescience in Hong Kong that earned her the promotion to Director of Recruitment and put her on the short list for M. All stemming from the years that Rodriguez worked for her. And based on that record, I'd wager she either had a secret informant within the CCP feeding her all their intel…"

When Q trails off, James finishes for him, "…Or she had a hacker in her employ." He squeezes Q's hand, and Q squeezes back before releasing him.

"In hindsight, it's obvious. She must have been using Rodriguez to spy on the CCP's networks. An unapproved, unsanctioned infiltration of an enemy's systems, which she kept to herself, for her own ends."

For the big picture, James almost says, but bites his tongue.

Q reaches into his laptop bag and removes a second folder. "The Chinese Ministry's file picks up where MI6's leaves off. They'd traced one of Silva's system intrusions back to Station H's IP address and were threatening to scupper the handover agreement barely a week away. So she brokered a deal to deliver them one disavowed hacker in exchange for six captive British agents and an orderly handover. Rather than the fictitious heroic death she reported to HQ, Rodriguez spent five years imprisoned by the CCP."

James opens the second file with some trepidation, braced for what a file on a captive agent might contain. Sure enough the opening photographs are grim indeed. A bloodied face undeniably Rodriguez's, the eyes flashing with defiance. And a gaunt, sallow version of the same face an indeterminate period of time later, with flat affect and dull eyes. It's impossible to tell from a single photograph, but James would call it the look of a broken man.

The record of his eventual capitulation and cooperation infiltrating the systems of multiple rival governments for his captors confirms it.

"Rodriguez's hacks made her reputation, catapulted her career to the very top of MI6. And how did she repay him? By surrendering him to the Chinese rather than expose her own rogue spying on an enemy state." Q slumps against the sofa cushions, his lips twisted with disgust. "I knew she was ruthless, knew she was harsh—she held me for years! But I couldn't have imagined she would betray one of her own. An actual MI6 agent. Someone loyal, someone who trusted her."

James…doesn't share Q's surprise.

Sometime around his fourth week in Nora Alexei's house, he'd stopped expecting a rescue, certain M had closed the book on him for disappointing her one time too many. That she would trade away an agent who fell so far short of her expectations—and getting detected by the CCP and potentially exposing her was a colossal fuck-up indeed—doesn't sound out of character for the woman who regularly threatened to cut him loose and leave him for dead.

Q carries on, oblivious to James's disagreement. "I still can't believe it…that she'd used a hacker before. That I was just a replacement for him. I mean, bloody hell. If she had done me the way she did him, I'd want to stick a knife in her guts, too."

"Don't sympathize with that murderer," James snaps. He can't bring himself to meet Q's eyes, doesn't want to see the hatred there to match the venom in Q's voice when he mentions M now. How different it is from the mix of resentment and affection Q expressed for her before finding this file. "Silva isn't some harmless victim; he's killed dozens of innocent civilians for profit, and half a dozen MI6 agents in his quest for revenge."

Undaunted by James's correction, a look of cold determination settles over Q's features. "Oh, I'm still going to kill him, don't worry about that. He's made himself so terrifying that even the Chinese no longer dare touch him. And he can walk in and out of anyone's servers anytime he wants…just like me. I'm certain he's spying on MI6's investigation. Right now, I'm the only person in the world he can't trace—so long as I'm more careful about watching for traps."

"Then we're the only ones who can stop him," James agrees. "And we will."

"You're damned right," Q says grimly and sips his tea.

~

Q spends most of Sunday curled up on James's sofa, placing online orders to replace his lost belongings. James peeks over Q's shoulder from time to time to tsk over the graphic tees and cardigans in Q's shopping cart—a wardrobe requires more than joggers and jumpers. After enough pestering, Q demands to know what James would have him wear, and grudgingly allows James to suggest a few more-stylish items for his cart.

"I presume cost isn't an issue for you?" James teases as he selects a properly sized button down for Q in a handful of flattering colors. When Q glares, James grins. "It's not as though you need a savings account, when you can just…." He wiggles his fingers over the keyboard.

"I hope you're not suggesting I go around stealing clothing. I do have some morals, you know."

"Oh, of course. Stealing the products themselves, and stealing the funds to pay for them, are entirely different matters."

Q's mouth quirks. "Well, there is that. M's rules may have steered me toward the straight-and-narrow, but some people really don't deserve to hold onto their money."

"Speaking of which, what's the Al Shabaab been up to since that attempted coup last winter?"

Q's eyes brighten with interest and he takes back his laptop to open another program. "More than enough, I'd say."

James smirks and kisses Q's cheek.

In the afternoon, James makes a quick run to Waitrose for groceries and pet supplies, leaving Q behind with his Walther for protection. Stepping out his front door, his skin prickles with the knowledge that he's leaving the protective cover of Q's signal jammer. Based on Q's newly discovered intelligence, Silva could be tapped into every CCTV and traffic camera on every street in London. He's never felt this exposed—this watched—on his home turf before.

The sooner he can divert any watching eyes and listening ears in another direction, the better.

This time, Felix answers on the second ring and says tightly, "Still clear?"

"Still clear," James confirms and hears Felix's sigh of relief. He quickens his pace to dodge a cab as he crosses the street. "Sorry for the false alarm."

"You wanna tell me what those calls were about?"

"I was making jambalaya and wanted your advice on seasonings."

"Uh huh, sure you did. I bet it turned out bland as hell, knowing you."

James ignores Felix's audible disbelief and changes the subject. "Anyway, I'm a bit banged up after my last mission and may have to take some leave. I thought I'd seek out some proper sunlight for a change. You wouldn't be up for a spot of fishing, would you?"

"Nah, damn it, I'm bogged down in Ocho Rios trying to fix this cluster fuck of an investigation one of my people botched. But if you're heading to the Caribbean, it's just past tourist season in The Keys, and Della's at home. She'd love to see you."

Damn. James flinches at the too-revealing offer, but it's not like he gave Felix any warning that someone could be listening in. He keeps his voice light as he politely declines, "Oh, I couldn't possibly impose on your family."

"If there's one thing that's good for recovery, it's southern hospitality. Let her fix you a plate if you're in town—it'll work wonders. I guarantee her cooking's a whole lot better than yours."

"We'll see where I end up. Thanks, Felix. And good luck with your cluster fuck."

Felix snorts. "That's all you called me for?"

"That's all. Although, I do have a request—the next time I call you, be sure you pick up the damn phone."

"Then you'd better not be calling for cooking advice."

James hangs up with a small smile and pockets his mobile.

~

As the first of Q's shipments begin arriving that evening from shops all around London, Q announces his plan to report to his regular shift at MI6 HQ on Monday morning.

In the aftermath of yesterday's armed raid, the last place James wants Q to go is straight into the arms of the agency that tried to kill him. But he swallows his knee-jerk denial and instead asks, "Why?"

Q leans against James's side at the kitchen sink and says, "There are some prototypes I want to prep for our mission. Silva was plenty familiar with his era of TSS tech—but I've got some new projects that will give him some nasty surprises."

It's a good reason. And with Q's 'Ethan Davis' cover still intact, MI6 has no reason to connect the junior engineer to their most-wanted assassin. Logically, James knows that Q will be fine. So he suppresses his instinct to keep Q hidden away and protected.

"Also…they took something from my flat that I need," Q adds like he's sharing a secret.

"Something you can't buy online?"

"Have you seen a copy of Ramesh's encrypted hard drive for sale on the dark web?"

"Ah. Bad news there—Tanner said the entire tower was slagged, drives and all." And then James plays back Q's word choice. "Did you say 'copy'?"

Q nods and admits in a rush, "You have to understand, I couldn't trust you not to steal the drive away from me. I mean you'd just snuck off to Toronto without telling me! So I made a copy for myself, first thing. And I really should've stashed it in my go-bag instead of hiding it in my closet, but I'd stopped expecting to go on the run since her death. That was clearly short-sighted of me." His voice trails off with a shiver, the trauma of yesterday's abrupt eviction resurfacing.

James sets the sponge down and hugs Q with soapy hands. "You did exactly as I would have," he murmurs into Q's hair.

Q pulls away, his melancholy expression giving way to forced levity. "Oh, so you have a collection of oversized vintage game cartridges you use to disguise your secret hard drives, too?"

"Darling, if you haven't found my oversized cartridge yet, you're not looking in the right place."

Q tuts but doesn't swat him for the innuendo. "I figure a box of old Atari games won't be the first place they'll look for illicit goods. With a little luck, I can sneak into the evidence room to steal it back before they realize what's inside."

Inspiration comes on swift wings, and James's lips curve in a cunning smile. "I have a better plan: leave the retrieval to me."

"I can break in without getting caught by the security cameras," Q argues. "Eyes in the sky, remember?"

"And I can do it without breaking in at all. Trust me; I've got a favor to call in."

~

When James reports to Medical before his debrief Monday morning, he doesn't mention the bruising to his right kidney. The last thing he wants is an accurate assessment of his weaknesses documented in a medical file that his enemy can access as easily as Q can. Instead, he presents with a complaint of stiffness in his right wrist. In light of this unprecedented degree of cooperation from 007, the nurses are only too happy to hurry him behind a lead shield and x-ray his forearm.

Of course Dr. Kwon can't detect any fractures or joint swelling on the slides, but James's sharp winces when she has him flex his hand side to side are convincing enough to confirm his self-diagnosis of a sprain. James grimaces at the prescribed rest, feigning resentment almost as well as he faked the nonexistent wrist injury.

He hides his amusement while she straps a black wrist brace on him and instructs him to avoid the shooting range and heavy weights for the time being. "We'll see," he mutters loud enough for her to hear, and lets her strident lecturing chase him out into the hall. He has a reputation to live up to, after all.

He flashes the wrist brace and an aggrieved air to the denizens of the executive floor to universal comments of sympathy before presenting himself in front of Mallory's office. Where Miss Moneypenny is conspicuously absent.

James frowns at the half-drunk cup of tea on her desk and the empty chair before knocking on Mallory's office door to announce his arrival.

Mallory waves him in and belatedly looks up from his computer as James sits in front of him. He zeros in on James's new accessory. "Good morning, 007. I see you've already been to Medical."

"Yes, Sir." James waits while Mallory logs into James's records to review Medical's report for himself.

"At least it's no more than a sprain," Mallory says, his relief actually sounding genuine.

James mulls over what that means even as he demurs, "It's nothing, Sir."

"It's two weeks' mandatory rest, is what it is," Mallory corrects firmly.

James crosses his arms to hide his satisfaction at the pronouncement. He needed a guarantee he wouldn't be sent away from London—away from Q—on another mission right now, and Mallory's edict has carved it in stone.

Mallory eyes his belligerent posture and levels a finger at him. "We can either keep you on desk duty reviewing Research files, or you can take a holiday; the choice is yours. But either way, you're off active duty while that wrist heals."

"I'd prefer a holiday to paperwork," James allows, and then, knowing what Mallory expects him to be focused on, he asks, "Unless you have the results from Saturday's raid?"

"I suspected you'd want to start with that. Very well." Mallory frowns and adjusts the fall of his unbuttoned jacket with a quick jerk. "You've heard about the anonymous tip we received—Research hasn't managed any progress on it, so I turned it over to TSS Branch this morning. Hopefully the quartermaster's coders will have better luck. We also confiscated the CCTV camera records from the building, as well as from the shops up and down the block, but the data on each and every one of them's been looped somehow during the window when our assassin escaped. And as it's a high-turnover property, his neighbors know nothing about him, and the management records on that particular unit are conveniently missing."

"Neat piece of work," James murmurs, even as his gaze tracks the restless tick of Mallory's tapping finger on the edge of the desk. In his prior meetings with the new M, James has never seen him so agitated.

Mallory smiles tightly, his tone growing crisper and finger tapping more quickly as he continues. "It's quite the Houdini act; our first real link to Silva, and the target slips through our fingers like so much smoke. The current theory is that he was monitoring the police frequencies and heard what we were planning. Next time I'll leave Metro out of it."

Oh, the man is humiliated. Frustrated. Furious. James relaxes slightly, now that he can finally detect an honest emotion behind Mallory's politically pleasant facade. Especially one he can so easily manipulate in his own favor. "Tanner didn't seem to have much hope for the tech that was left behind. Did we get anything useful from that flat?"

"I'm still waiting on the forensic report from Research—"

"I'll have a look at the evidence myself," James interrupts, making to stand.

"You will not," Mallory says with the unyielding steel of a military commander. "No one but executive staff will have access to the evidence room until the techs have completed their work. I understand your personal investment in this case, and I promise you this is our highest priority. But I will not authorize anyone mucking about with the evidence until it's been fully assessed."

When James opens his mouth to ask the logical follow-up question, Mallory beats him to it.

"Yes, you'll be alerted the moment their findings are ready. And yes, you'll still have access to the files, even on your holiday."

James grumbles his dissatisfaction and makes an exaggerated show of sulking his way through the Belyaev debrief to reinforce Mallory's assumptions. All the while, James keeps track of the empty chair on the other side of the unfrosted glass, biding his time.

~

Moneypenny is back at her desk when Mallory finally dismisses him. She catches sight of James's wrist brace and greets him with a blunt, "Oh my, what happened?"

"Merely a sprain. Something to remember Belyaev by. Speaking of which…." He cozies up to her side of the desk, leaning his hip on the edge.

There's no trace of a smile when she looks up at him. "Speaking of what? That Trojan horse of a bird you dumped on me?"

Ah, still holding a grudge for that stunt, then. He gives her his most charming smile to further ruffle her feathers. "More mule than horse, considering its contents."

She makes a show of straightening a few folders and heaves an annoyed sigh. "The parrot is still alive, since you're wondering. She survived the surgery and remains in hospital for the next few days."

"At the end of which I trust she'll find a loving home back at yours."

"We'll see," Moneypenny says. "From what I've just experienced, birds are an expensive hobby."

"Always," James agrees, "but they're oh-so worth it."

She snorts at the line. "It should have been you, you know—getting lectured on how to properly protect a pet from ingesting foreign objects. The top veterinary surgeon in the city gave me the tongue-lashing of my life for being 'negligent with my jewelry.'"

"So much trouble I've caused you," James muses. "Perhaps you'd have preferred I snapped its neck back in Novosibirsk and saved you all this hassle."

"What a ghastly thing to say!"

"No, it was a selfish decision on my part," he argues, "but I couldn't bring myself to do it—couldn't pull the trigger, as it were."

Her eyelid twitches at his word choice.

James lets his long-simmering anger bubble toward the surface as he leans in closer to continue, "You've got a soft heart, Moneypenny. I'm sure you couldn't have pulled that trigger even if someone's life were on the line."

"I…" Her voice dies in her throat. She stares up at him in dawning horror for a moment before rallying. "The bird. I couldn't have hurt the bird, you're right."

"Of course you couldn't. But while you were choosing not to shoot any birds, you caused an awful lot of collateral damage for the rest of us."

She looks away, reshuffling the folders and glancing around the rows of administrative desks for a distraction from their conversation.

He leans all the way down to whisper in her ear, "I know it was you who let M die."

Her respiration increases. "I didn't."

"I heard your voice on the recording."

She doesn't move a muscle, not even to push him away.

"I told you once how important she was to me. And now I know it was your hesitation that cost her her life."

"The shot wasn't clear," she blurts.

"It never fucking is," he hisses, fury and grief finally unmasked. "But if you can't take the hard shot, can't stomach the repercussions, then you don't belong out in the field."

She stands abruptly, but doesn't step away from her desk.

James stands, too, and says in a more casual tone, "I've been wondering, was your demotion to secretary Mallory's idea of punishment…or a self-imposed penance?"

She turns to face him, the two of them close enough to kiss if they weren't wearing matching sneers. "We can't all be bloody robots, Bond. When bad things happen, normal people need to take some time before returning to the field; we don't bounce back from our traumas like they never happened. Not like you double-0s do."

He ignores her barbs and keeps his aim on her vulnerable parts. "So it was Psych who benched you."

"Sod off!" She grabs the stack of folders and circles her desk to put some space and furniture between them. Eyes downcast, she says under her breath, "I know. I know I should have— Every time I call Mallory 'M' is a reminder of what I failed to do that night. But my sessions with Psych have taught me that I'm not her killer, and I won't stand here and let you accuse me of her murder."

"Of course you aren't," James says, mild enough to be patronizing. "But you can't just wish away your guilt and bloody hands. You owe recompense for your sins."

She meets his gaze for a moment before turning to march down the hall, her stride hemmed in by a tight pencil skirt.

James falls into step alongside her, easily keeping pace. "Well?"

"What exactly is it you think I owe you?" she says out the side of her mouth.

"I want a private look at what was found in that flat."

"Hah! No."

"As of five minutes ago, I'm on medical leave with nothing to work on. The items seized in South Wimbledon are the first new lead on Silva since her death."

"And you can wait for Research's official report like the rest of us."

"I can't sit back and wait while that bastard's still breathing. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him. Because that's what I owe her."

She reaches the lift and presses the down button.

"The psychologists may have cleared you, but I'd wager your own conscience hasn't. What do you owe her, Sniper One?"

Several long seconds pass with no response, and James readies his next round of ammunition, but then she says, "Meet me outside the evidence room at 11 o'clock. I'll let you in while the techs are on their tea break. Now get out of my sight, and don't you dare throw that night in my face ever again!"

"It will be like it never happened," he says, flaunting his victory with a smug grin.

The elevator doors open. She steps into the empty cab, then turns to finish icily, "And consider that rain check rescinded."

James nods and magnanimously opts for the stairs instead of the lift.

~

The roast gets another basting and returns to the oven for the last fifteen minutes, and James returns to the kitchen island and his fourth review of the Silva files. For all the secrets revealed, there's still a question he can't answer. Stubbornly, he holds out hope that this time, he'll spot the key to decoding Silva's and M's relationship.

The two of them met when Silva was assigned under her in her final year at Station F in Finland, where she promoted him once. And when she was given leadership of Station H, she arranged transfer orders for him to accompany her. Over their three years together in Hong Kong, she gave him another promotion, as well as several commendations and glowing reviews. But when James compares those performance review dates with the dates of missions that featured an unavoidable casualty in the execution of a lawful mission, he sees a correlation that suggests causation too strongly to ignore.

And too illogically to accept.

He grits his teeth in frustration and switches to the other file. Five years imprisoned by the CCP, four of those collaborating. James should hate the man for his complicity with an enemy state, but he finds himself admiring Silva's resilience. How he built up just enough goodwill over the years to lessen his surveillance, just enough to accomplish a single unsupervised hack and turn his fortunes around.

By James's second month in the Madama's clutches, he understood that he needed to adapt, to make himself more accommodating and salable if he was to have any chance of escape. But he hadn't been able to do it yet, his training too thorough, and his pride and defenses too high to debase himself for the customers. In a year's time, though…no debasement would have been too great for a chance at freedom, even James can admit that.

As for what would have been left of James Bond afterward, he can't say. But judging by the terror that Silva's become, with all of his external loyalties and safety brakes removed, while his dangerous skill sets remain intact…James might have gone completely off-the-rails, too.

Likewise, James can't fault the CCP for accepting Silva's terms for a mutual non-aggression truce—not with one of their Chasnupp reactors in Pakistan as Silva's digital hostage. Under threat of nuclear radiation poisoning all of Tibet, they agreed to close their file on their erstwhile prisoner and have remained determinedly ignorant of his actions and whereabouts for the last ten years. Their file ends at much the same dead end as MI6's, with Silva just as dead to them as he was to England.

And over that last decade, Silva racked up a body count that rivals James's own as a double-0, both the sanctioned hits and the 'unavoidable casualties.'

Which brings James back to those damned footnotes that have turned his understanding of his own role at MI6 on his head.

He can see clearly now why M recruited James, the unique service she needed him to perform, and what made him best suited for it. Orphans make the best recruits, after all, with their need for external approval and stable relationships. Loyalty beyond reason is indeed priceless. But he can't understand why that wasn't enough. Why James wasn't good enough for her. Was he always living in his predecessor's shadow?

He's on the verge of chucking the bloody file across the room when he hears the front door open, Q letting himself in with the spare keys James gave him yesterday.

"In the kitchen," he calls, and his agitation immediately calms at the sight of Q stepping into the doorway. James saw the mousy facsimile of him not four hours ago, drowning in his baggy lab coat, fringe hiding his eyes. Like this, though—chin up, shoulders back, dressed in the slim-cut, forest-green button down that James picked out to match his eyes—he's riveting.

"So I see," Q says. "Have you been cooking again?"

"What gave it away?"

Q sets his satchel on the dining table around the corner and enters the kitchen to pet James's stomach and lean up for a lingering kiss. "This dashing red apron may have been a hint. Also it smells delicious in here."

James gets his hands on Q's hips and tugs him close so he can nuzzle at his cheek. "Mmm. I figured I'd make myself useful, since I'm technically on holiday."

"Congratulations; your injury was quite the topic of conversation today. Your visit to TSS Branch in that wrist brace had the techs gossiping for hours."

"I would confess to some attention-seeking proclivities, but you've already read my file. And what about you—did you have success with the drive?"

"Already plugged in and running. And I was able to partition off a larger portion of the server cluster than I'd anticipated. The majority of the servers were horribly underutilized. Even appropriating ten-times the processing power of my home server, no one in TSS should note a drop in performance until next month's full system audit. And I promise, Silva doesn't have access to my playground, so he'll have no idea what we're working on."

"Sounds brilliant. I take it no one gave you a hard time about your activities this past weekend?" James showing an interest in Ethan Davis hasn't gone unnoticed in the past, but he felt real concern today, drawing eyes in Q's direction with his visit.

"Of course not; I'm nobody. Who would ever pay attention to me when there's a wounded double-0 to titter over?"

Which remains a complete injustice; Q deserves infinitely more recognition from his coworkers than he gets. "I would," James promises and gives him another kiss, one hand hooked in the collar of Q's shirt to draw him in.

"And I'm very grateful for that," Q sighs when James leans back. "And for whatever you're cooking for supper. I'm suddenly famished."

James checks the timer. "I hope you can wait a bit. It's got a few more minutes in the oven, then it has to rest."

Q huffs playfully. "I suppose I can hold out that long. In the meantime, I promised you one fake road-trip holiday." Q takes a step back, and James releases him reluctantly—he's rather partial to the way their bodies fit together. Q ducks out of the kitchen and returns with his laptop, setting up on the opposite side of the island. "How long did they give you?"

"Two weeks' leave."

"Generous. Now, the Florida Keys, you said?"

"Not Florida. In fact, the whole Caribbean's off-limits," he says quickly. Felix mentioned his wife on that phone call, and James would sooner gnaw off his own leg than risk bringing her to Silva's attention. "I'll go to the Pacific."

Q raises a brow but doesn't question the reason for his vehement change of plans. "I could start you in Puerto Vallarta the day after tomorrow, then send you South down the coast?"

James nods and listens to Q's rapid typing, relieved that soon this flat will look as boring and barren to Silva as the surface of the moon. With the "injured" double-0 agent faffing off on a fishing vacation on the other side of the world, there'll be no reason for Silva to turn his wrathful eye toward Q's hiding place.

The thought of Silva actively looking for the hacker who accessed his files has James's fingers twitching toward the folders again, paging to the weapons certifications. A sniper shot from across the square would be as easy as breathing to someone with Silva's qualifications. Maybe James should persuade Q to close the blinds for the next couple days…at least until that flight to Mexico takes off.

"James?"

He looks up, realizing that Q asked him a question. "What did you say?"

"I asked whether you wanted a convertible or a hard-top."

"Oh. Neither. A caravan will keep me further off the grid."

"It'll also save me the trouble of faking your hotel bookings and various camera feeds, so ta for that. Now, any particular model of caravan?"

What difference should the model make, as long as it gets the job done? Why should M have preferred her first killer so much? Unless James wasn't meeting her expectations.

Q types for a moment then looks at him. "James? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"I can show you a selection of models to choose between…."

"Whatever you think looks best will be fine."

"Trusting my taste, are you? Alright. I'll set you up in the Sparkle Princess Land Palace. The glitter paint job is a bit eye-catching, but Silva will expect no less from a drama queen like you."

No, using a sniper rifle for this kill doesn't feel like his style. Silva would want it done personally, even intimately. One of Silva's victims in Hong Kong was savagely beaten to death in what M laughably dubbed "self-defense." Perhaps Silva developed a taste for that kind of hands-on violence. Perhaps that's what she liked about him so much, and where James always came up short—

Q clears his throat, and James belatedly looks up to realize that Q is staring at him, an amused smile fading away, as though James missed a joke.

"It's not like you to be so distracted."

James jerks his hands away from the file. "I'm sorry."

"Is it something in the files? We could discuss it, if you want to talk about it."

How the hell can he explain this—this discrepancy from his own lived experience that he can't make sense of—without sounding like a jealous mutt whining for his owner's attention? He shakes his head.

Q looks at the open file, at the list of weapons certifications James was studying. "I know how dangerous he is now. I'm being more careful this time. We both are."

And Q's earnest concern makes him feel all the worse, the assumption that James is distracted by fear more shaming than fear itself would be. He can't let that stand.

His hand forced, James solemnly flips to the damning page, the only logical place to begin. "It's these footnotes; his kills in Hong Kong."

Q doesn't even glance down to read them. "What about them?"

"The classification, 'unavoidable casualty in the execution of a lawful mission.' That's what I'm still trying to puzzle out."

Q tilts his head. "I should think it's self-evident; his missions got out of control. Sounds like a way to write off mistakes, either made by the agent or by Research. I've seen the same classification on a fair number of your missions."

Of course Q's already seen them; he's studied James's file forward and backward. But he hasn't put it together. "They weren't mistakes."

"Should I have read his mission reports more closely?" Q reaches for the file, and James lets him take it. It doesn't hold any information that can help him anymore.

"She once told me that mine was the only file that needed that particular annotation. That she used it to cover for me, when I intentionally deviated from my assignments."

She'd spoken with scorn and disappointment that day. But not always. The times when James got it right, when he saw the big picture and acted exactly as she'd hoped, her gaze was warm, almost fond again.

"Those unsanctioned kills in my file when I was meant to take someone alive, and the occasional wanton destruction that far-exceeded my brief…they were deliberate. And directed…albeit indirectly. Her hands were often tied by politics, but she found ways to let me know what really needed to be done. And I would do it for her."

Q's eyes are wide, voice appalled. "Are you saying you intentionally…. But Marshall Black was meant to stand trial for his crimes, not—"

That's right, Q once claimed Black as one of his own cases. Of course he kept tabs on the results.

James keeps his voice level as he defends her orders. "Marshall Black was best friends with the premier's son, with god knows how much dirt on the first family. The premier would never have allowed him to be incarcerated by a foreign government, let alone tried. No, she knew the only way to bring a man as powerful and well-connected as Black to justice was with a bullet through his brain."

"That's not justice!" Q protests. "Christ, I called myself the prosecutor and you the executioner before, but I didn't mean like that. Are you honestly saying M put you up to it? To an unsanctioned assassination in defiance of the ISC's oversight?"

He doesn't want to say it, but it's the only way to explain what's in Silva's file. "Not just the one."

Q goes still for a moment, anger flushing his cheeks. "That classification is on nearly half of your missions."

James nods.

"I thought you were reckless, possibly even emotionally compromised and acting out your own moral code for the sake of your targets' victims. But you're saying all of those mission failures were actually you carrying out her orders?"

"Not failures—I did what she judged necessary. She made the difficult calls that a true leader has to make, in the best interest of the world."

"How can you say that to me?" Q looks at James like he's a stranger. "Was keeping me under her thumb for seven years necessary, too? Did that serve her greater good?"

James blanches at Q's hurt expression. "I don't mean that."

"What else can you possibly mean? You trusted her without reservation; why wouldn't you trust her to imprison some random hacker if she wanted to?"

James opens his mouth to offer a defense, although what can excuse his cruel disregard of Q's situation he doesn't know. His loss for words is just as well, because Q is on a tear and won't be stopped.

"You gave that bitch carte blanche to dictate your career, your actions. You worshiped her like everyone else—more than everyone else. You let your twisted excuse for a mother-figure use you to do her dirty work…and you had a choice! Did you ever question her? Ever once push back when she directed you to kill for her instead of for England?"

James's temper flares at those hateful words lobbed against her. Even knowing how Silva's file soured Q's conflicted opinion of her, he can't bear to hear this from him. Each accusation against her burns, and his anger swells until his ribs ache with the pressure of holding it in.

"Of course you didn't, why would you?" Q laughs meanly, his disgust so reminiscent of hers. "You were just another wind-up toy she could twist her key in and then send off to slay in her name. Using Silva to hack the CCP was arrogant, but suborning a double-0 to act as her pet assassin—that's megalomaniacal."

"Enough!" James barks, taking a step away from the island and Q as his anger continues to expand. He raises a single finger in warning. "Don't slander her again!"

Q stares at him, mouth hanging open for a few seconds in shock before he rallies. "Don't you tell me what I can and can't say about that woman! I've more than earned the right to call her a cold-blooded monster if I so choose."

And that's true, James can't deny him that, but Q isn't seeing the whole picture, never saw the side of her that James loves. "You don't know what she meant to me—"

"Of course I do! You've all but screamed it from the rooftops! I just didn't realize how little she thought of you."

James recoils from the sudden, eviscerating blow from such an unexpected quarter.

Q gives him a scathing glare and adds, "And how little you think of yourself." And he slaps his laptop shut and storms out of the kitchen, leaving James with his tongue cut out and his heart bleeding.

He stands in a stupor, Q's vicious words on loop, until the oven beeps. Moving on autopilot, James removes the roast, covers it with foil, and turns off the oven. He turns to the salad prep, slicing cucumbers and shaking the dressing in numb silence, no idea how to patch up this mess he's made of them. How to explain himself, to explain her, to Q of all people—a man she hurt in ways James will never forgive her for.

Regret turns his stomach as he dresses the salad. James shouldn't have been so thoughtless with his words, shouldn't have raised his voice, should've found a way to hold his temper. He knows that Q's relationship with M was abusive, predatory; he can't hold Q's feelings toward her against him.

But instead of giving Q grace, James threw his own loyalty to M in Q's face. Of course Q lashed out.

Seven years….

Silva relented after just one. James wonders how long Q held out, feigning a willing compliance, offering a tea cup as a flag of truce. How long before compliance stopped being an act altogether? And what did that unconscious surrender cost Q? James is certain Q isn't the same man he was before M snared him. There must be countless scars beneath the surface they haven't addressed yet.

And how can they, when the subject of M itself is such a minefield for them?

What was once a unifying factor in their partnership has turned into a wedge between them, and James doesn't know how to fix it. What if it grows wider and drives them apart? What if this sore subject is enough to make Q notice the other ways James has let him down—manipulating Q's affections for weeks; plotting to steal his kill at the very last, risking Q's life to that raid rather than ensuring his safety by calling it off?

And what will happen when Q notices how James lets him down in other ways? Like in the bedroom.

His skin prickles with the sudden rush of blood to his core, dread pooling in his gut. He read Q's Grindr chats that time he got his hands on Q's unlocked phone; he knows what kind of sex Q likes, what Q wants his lovers to do to him. And James…can't.

Penetration of any kind is too tied up with memories of dehumanizing violence. Anal penetration is unthinkable, but James hoped…he tried to at least suck Q off last night, kissed and licked his way down Q's smooth chest, dipped his tongue into Q's navel to make him squirm, and nuzzled Q's cock with his lips…before his instincts screamed No!, and he had to resort to using his hands to avoid losing himself to a full panic.

Mary. Emiliana. His recent bedroom failures prey on his mind, a caution that he could lose control and accidentally hurt Q. Or just be half-present, dissociating to get through it, and end up disappointing Q. God knows, he can't fake it like he did with them. Q isn't some one night stand; he'll notice if James mentally retreats from the act. And either result would be devastating.

He looks down at his hands braced on the edge of the island—they're all he can offer Q. And they've been good enough so far, but he dreads the day Q finally asks for what he wants most. When James proves inadequate, what's to keep Q from leaving him?

Into the black hole of his catastrophizing falls the soft clack of Q's laptop keys close by—just around the corner at the dining table, in fact. Q didn't run out or shut himself in the bedroom to avoid James. He's still here, giving James an opportunity to apologize, to make up for the hurtful things he said.

James pours a couple glasses of merlot and steps out of the kitchen, a whole-hearted apology on his lips.

But Q has his own thoughts to share.

Q closes his laptop again and says with a tight smile, "You were right; yours is the only double-0 file with that classification. So we can at least assume she wasn't employing an entire squadron of assassins to kill at her whim."

Mindful not to react no matter what Q says against M, James sets the glasses down and sinks into the chair across from Q. "Good to know."

"Granted, yours was the only file with multiple instances of missions that devolved so far into chaos they necessitated the fortuitous killing of the very target you were assigned to bring in alive."

James's ears perk up, almost disbelieving the word Q used. "Fortuitous?"

"Yes," Q says with a gusty sigh. "As much as I hate to admit it…she was right about Marshall Black. I hadn't dug into his political alliances. The premier had protected him for years; if he'd made it to trial, he would never have served time. And Dr. Etzioni's laboratory…if you hadn't blown it up, the Tajikistan government would have seized it, and considering the bioweapons program the UN caught them running last year, the world would've been badly off indeed. She…made the right call, a time or two."

This is an olive branch James is beyond grateful for. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"She was still a bitch, though."

"Agreed," James says.

Q's eyes narrow, his energy changing from sullen acceptance to agitation. "And if she was also using Silva to kill whomever needed killing, then surely Silva could spot that same notation in your file. I'd wager that's why he targeted you when he released those agents' identities. Your exposure wasn't random. Because you were just as much his replacement as I was."

Q's right, and James already has the proof of it. He's held it back under the operating principle that asymmetric information gave him more power in his dealings with Q, but James doesn't want that distance between them anymore. "Before he jumped to his death, Ramesh said Silva was keeping an eye out for me. As though he expects I'll be the one to come after him."

"As well he might, given how close you and M obviously were. He must've deliberately targeted her new favorite agent to get her attention. To hurt her as badly as she hurt him."

James flinches away from the hope that those words give him.

"So that's why you want that trail of digital breadcrumbs leading away from here. It's not just to be unavailable for missions; you suspect Silva's keeping an eye on this flat."

"As you said, he's surely read my file; he knows where I live. But I didn't want to frighten you away from staying here. Once that flight takes off for Mexico, we should be completely safe here."

Q glances at his laptop and mutters, "Maybe I'll book an earlier flight."

James shakes his head. "He hasn't made a move against me the whole time I've been back. He's probably enjoying watching me flounder about for leads and failing to locate him."

"That's…disturbing. And probably correct."

And there's more. James should tell him; Q deserves to know. But this is even more personal than being targeted for exposure. He twists the stem of his glass, eyes fixed on the way the rosy light splinters across the table top between them. "Ramesh said something else, too. Or rather hinted at it, as a taunt. He implied that Silva contacted Demitrios directly and had him spare my life. And that giving me to Nora Alexei was Silva's idea."

"What the fuck," Q breathes.

James shrugs, unable to meet his eyes.

"That sick, sick bastard. Oh my god. I'm going to empty an entire clip into him for doing that to you. James— James, I will."

He looks up to find Q leaning toward him, bright eyes crackling with fury behind his glasses.

"I'm going to kill him for what he did to you, I promise."

Q's protective wrath is hardly necessary—James is more than capable of taking his own revenge—but it's a sweet balm after the terrible argument they just had.

Q rubs at his face and then takes a quick swig from his glass. "Jesus Christ. So now we know it's personal for him. He didn't just want to kill her favorite agent to hurt her, he wanted you destroyed for usurping his place."

"That's one possibility. And I'm sure he knows I was killing for her. But I can't imagine anyone would read my file and mistake me for M's favorite. My number of official reprimands must be the highest at HQ!"

"And yet you were never dismissed or demoted," Q says thoughtfully.

"Only because I was useful. No, we know what her favoritism looks like now. I was proud that she trusted me with my assignments, unsanctioned as they may have been. But Silva performed the same services I did, and she showered him with commendations and promotions. While I did my very best for her, and all it earned me was her derision."

He knows he's pushing the limits of the topic, knows he must be upsetting Q by showing this much of his underbelly, how he still yearns for her approval even after her death. But he can't help spitting it out, the venomous question that's been festering in his throat these past three days. "What made Silva her favorite, and me only worthy of her scorn?"

"I don't know," Q admits. "And it's too late to ask her."

That's the saddest fucking truth of all. James will never know the answer; he just has to find a way to live with it. He can't convince her to look past his shortcomings. He'll never earn her respect or love back. But he can still make amends to Q.

Across from him, Q sips his wine again, attention seemingly turned inward, a pensive frown on his face.

"I'm sorry for what I said in the kitchen," James says. "It was thoughtless of me to ignore what she did to you."

Q meets his gaze with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, too. I know you're all…" he makes a circular motion with his glass, "…twisted up by what you were to each other."

"You're more important to me than a dead woman. And I'll remember to treat you that way from now on," James says. He stretches his hand out, and Q reaches back. James squeezes Q's fingers, relieved to have the argument behind them, if not yet completely resolved.

Q musters a warmer smile. "You know what pairs well with apologies like these? Dinner."

James chuckles as he stands, following Q's lead to lighten the mood. "That it does. That it does."

~

If James worries that Q would want to put some distance between them that night, Q's enthusiastic lips and hands quickly prove him wrong. Afterward, Q curls up against his chest, and James closes his eyes, his mind slowly quieting as he runs his fingertips back and forth over Q's shoulder blade.

Long after James thinks Q fell asleep, Q says, "I don't know if this will help or make things worse."

James's fingers still, and he gives Q a light squeeze. "What's on your mind?"

"I've been thinking about partitions."

James smiles. Of course Q lies awake thinking about computer systems. He wonders whether they're like counting sheep for him. "Plotting the annexation of more servers tomorrow?"

"Partitions between her and you."

James's eyes open to darkness, and his pulse kicks up. "I'm listening."

Q stretches an arm across James's chest, his bitten fingernails scraping lightly over James's ribs as he whispers against James's skin. "Silva was her favorite—as you said, it's all over his file. Anyone would take one look at all those performance reviews and promotions and awards, and they'd know how much she trusted him. When the Chinese caught onto what he was doing in their systems, her close ties to him left her vulnerable to discovery. She could have tried to defend herself, could have protested her ignorance of his unsanctioned hacks, but rumors and suspicion would have followed her for years. She had to sacrifice him, to protect her reputation."

"That sounds logical."

"So I was thinking…she must've learned that lesson from losing Silva. So once she had you on the hook—I mean, once you were a double-0, once she knew how much you trusted her vision—she pulled away from you. Distanced herself, put up protective firewalls. So if you were ever burned, you wouldn't catch her on fire, too."

A desperate, yawning wound gapes open inside James's chest, ignored for years but never healed, the edges torn and sticky, infection long-since set in. All those humiliating reprimands, the excoriating insults, calling him careless, undisciplined, a liability…and the door to her glass office always wide open for all to hear and watch. A near-monthly public performance the whole senior staff knew by rote.

He assumed M's purpose was to shame him into being a better agent. But perhaps James was never the intended audience for those speeches. He tells himself it's only conjecture, but the idea sinks into his heart like a needle anyway, stitching the wound shut with the promise that she had a good reason for pulling away from him all those years ago…and that it was never James's fault.

James clutches Q tight against him and blinks away the moisture that tries to gather in his eyes. Maybe she did love him after all, like Q claimed.

Maybe.

Q hugs him back and says, "She was smart enough to keep me off the books, so my hacks couldn't be held against her. But there was never any love lost between her and I. If she strategically kept you at arms' length after encouraging a deep attachment, solely to protect her own reputation…. I'm sorry she hurt you like that."

James closes his eyes and lets the comfort of the thought wash over him. Perhaps his recruitment was pre-planned, her friendship calculated to get James "on the hook," as Q described it. But right now, he feels closer to her than he has in years.

And if Q would rather focus on her manipulations than her unknowable feelings, James can ignore that for now.

~

The following days move at a snail's pace for James. Q heads off for his day shift, and James stays at home with nothing to fill his time save exercising in the second bedroom and petting the cats. He's unaccustomed to so much leisure time, especially when confined to the flat. He thinks wistfully of what his digital alter ego is getting up to on the coast of Mexico, chartering boats to spend each day on the open water, drinking with the locals, and grilling his catches under a wide sea of stars.

Impatient with his reverie, Charybdis stretches on the couch beside him, her sharp claws menacing the leather. James sighs and pulls out the laser pointer again.

Q's return is always a relief, from his welcoming kisses to the updates he shares on how his 'special projects' are coming along. After dinner, Q pulls out his laptop and helps James plan the next day's fictional escapades: the drive south to Manzanillo, a grocery order charged at a local market, a lunch of beer and tacos he drops cash on at a roadside stand. Thanks to Q, James learns that even the cash he withdraws at the airport can be traced via serial numbers, when the small retailers make their daily deposits at a local bank.

And once his Mexican adventures are scheduled, Q remote dials into his partitioned playground on the MI6 servers and settles in to tweak his software's code for hours on end.

James knows Q's habit of all-night coding marathons, and he doesn't want to see Q strung out and adrenaline-crashing after 36 hours awake again. He tries putting his foot down that first night and ordering Q to rest, but Q just mumbles, "Only have two weeks," and ignores him.

So James uses his lifetime of skills and training to distract Q away from his work. Tea is always successful, although only for a brief window of time. Snacks also work, so long as they aren't finger food. But seduction is by far the most effective. Massages, kisses peppered over Q's neck, sucking on Q's fingers—any combination of the three, and Q melts into him, sagging away from his keyboard and into James's arms.

On Thursday night, James draws a bath of steaming, soapy water which, combined with his hand down Q's pants, easily tempts Q into the bathroom. Getting Q into the large soaking tub proves the greater challenge as Q tries to drag James in with him, but James keeps his clothing on and sits on a stool at the side of the tub, kissing Q until he subsides into the water.

When James pulls back to squeeze shampoo into his palm, Q pouts up at him. "I know what you're up to."

"Do you, now?"

"You're a damn tease, luring me in here just to play with my hair."

"Who says that's all I mean to play with?"

Q smiles and shuts his eyes, allowing James to run his fingers through Q's hair until it's sleek and clean.

James slides his right hand down Q's neck to rub at the stiff muscles there. Every hour of Q's day seems to be spent hunched over a laptop, a microscope, or a soldering iron. Q groans and pushes back into his grip, and James revels in the contentment of taking good care of Q.

And then Q opens his eyes, looks up at him, and asks, "What does it feel like to kill someone?"

Caught off guard, James answers honestly. "Satisfying. Because I know my targets deserve it."

Q nods, serious. "I think it'll feel the same when I kill Silva."

And oh shit, James spoke too glibly. There's a vast difference between his hundredth kill and his first kills for MI6. The executions that earned him his double-0 status were….

He'd expected dispassionate trigger pulls, and he'd gotten the opposite. He still feels the sick twist of fear in his guts when he recalls fighting for his life against Fisher, and how it lingered for hours after he'd won. And Dryden's smirk has haunted him for years, there and then gone in an instant, his humanity erased by James's bullet. James has never doubted that those men deserved their deaths…but the act of ending them was far more personally affecting than he'd anticipated. It took several kills to reach truly disaffected.

But even after all this time, he sometimes catches himself watching the eyes as his victim's life fades, wondering why this one doesn't haunt him like his earliest kills.

The last thing he wants is Q having to experience any part of that metamorphosis. Especially not the first one.

Q has always talked of killing Silva himself, and James has played along, planning to steal it from Q when the time comes. But it would be far better to talk Q out of it now, before he gets anywhere near Silva.

"I'd rather it if you didn't kill him yourself. You don't have to, you know. When there's a trigger to be pulled, I assure you I'm the perfect man for the job. Licensed and all."

Q doesn't laugh. He twists away from James's hand, bracing an elbow against the back of the tub to look at him directly. "What?"

James drops his smile and says solemnly, "You don't have to. In fact, I'd prefer to do it myself, while you remain safely in London. You can provide remote assistance, like you did when I was in Haldwani. That was invaluable—"

"No," Q says, voice hard as iron. "I'm doing it. After everything that man did to M, to me, to you—there's no way in Hell I'm backing out now. I want him dead at my own hands, and I want to meet his eyes when I pull the trigger. After this long, I deserve to take my revenge, and I won't have you trying to talk me out of it!"

It's a convincing declaration, but James catches something in Q's voice, in his phrasing, the shadow of another motive behind Q's drive for revenge. Something Q won't admit to James, and possibly hasn't admitted to himself. James pauses, unsure whether to force it out or let Q untangle it for himself.

"So help me, James, if you fight me on this or try to stop me—"

His goal of changing Q's mind wilts in the face of Q's rising anger. "I won't," James says, backing down.

On James's bedside table sits a bottle of lube and a box of condoms that Q optimistically set out the night before. James couldn't bring himself to talk about it, and knew better than to try, so he pretended he didn't notice them. And Q was kind enough not to ask or bring up his growing disappointment.

"I won't fight you on it. I won't stop you. You want him, he's yours," he promises, hating himself for surrendering, but helpless to do anything else. "I'll do everything I can to get you to him, and you'll be the one to pull the trigger."

Q searches his face for a lie, likely remembering James's track record of keeping secrets from him, so James slips his left hand into the water to find Q's half-hard cock. Q succumbs so beautifully to the sensation, arching his back and pulling James into an open-mouthed kiss with wet hands. James kisses him and strokes him off tenderly, frustrated and guilty that this is all he can offer Q.

And above all, terrified that he's going to lead Q into danger because of his cowardly inability to deny Q the one thing he's been adamant about wanting for as long as James has known him. James can only hope that, given enough time, Q's desire for vengeance may fade, and the hacker decide for himself to stay behind.

But two days later Q's computer program finally cracks the drive's encryption. And all at once, it's far too late to back out.

Chapter Text

Q's eyes widen as they step past the check-in desk into the airline's first-class lounge at Heathrow.

James trails behind indulgently as Q explores the spacious room, drifting through the myriad seating configurations and artwork on display. Q's steps slow at each tray of elegantly plated breakfast options he passes, belying the breakfast they ate at James's flat less than two hours ago. When Q spots the bartender pouring champagne into a flute, he turns and gives James a look.

"Is this how you usually travel?"

"A perk of the job. I suspect MI6 feels I'm going to suffer enough when I start their bloody work—they can afford me a few indulgences. And in this case, I'm sure Mr. Ramesh is happy to provide. Now, where would you prefer to sit?"

Q gives the long room an appraising look, studying the intimate nooks, the bar seating, and the large groupings of tables by the sound-proofed windows overlooking the runway. Most of the lounge's occupants have opted for the high-traffic areas, the better to see and be seen. With a decisive nod, Q heads for a private alcove on the interior wall. Good instincts—that would have been James's choice.

Q doesn't waste any time, immediately perching on the sofa and pulling out his laptop. He's been anxious to get a last look at his satellite feeds before their flight.

"Why don't you take your shoes off and get comfortable," James suggests, tucking his roller bag out of the way and flagging down a member of the wait staff.

"I'm not sure I should…."

"Our aliases are platinum-admiral-club members; we could parade around in silk dressing gowns if we wanted, and no one would say a word."

Q rolls his eyes. "I know we could; it's a question of what's shamefully uncouth. I don't want to be hounded by judgmental eyebrows."

"I promise to warn you if you ever do anything 'uncouth.'"

Q flips the bird—and that is more than a little inappropriate for their surroundings—but kicks off his shoes and folds his socked feet under him on the cushion.

James greets the white-gloved server and orders a double-espresso and an Earl Grey with three sugars. From behind him, Q murmurs a request for blueberry pancakes, which James dutifully relays, making a mental note to lay-in fresh blueberries the next time he's in London.

Once their orders are placed, James says, "I've got that call to make. Don't wander off."

Q shoos him away, busy with his laptop, so James heads toward the banquette area in front of the showers, away from any bystanders. He positions himself to keep an eye on the flow of travelers and staff through the room, making sure no one stops at Q's alcove. Their identities may be anonymized, and Q's draining of Ramesh's Cayman account untraceable, but that doesn't mean someone else couldn't take an unwelcome interest in Q.

Felix picks up after the second ring, sounding far-more alert than James expected for the middle of the night. "Yeah?"

"It's me."

"Course it is; nobody else is calling me at this hour. You change your number again?"

"Burner. And your line may not be secure, so no names."

Felix doesn't question the warning. "Sounds like your vacation's taken a turn for the interesting. Whatcha up to?"

"Not much. I'm just about to make a run at that bloke we've been looking for."

"You found the fucker?"

"I did. And I should've been looking closer to home. He used to work for my employer a while back, which means no company support."

"Damn! Then I hope you're calling to invite me along. 'Cause I'm on my third night of this stakeout, and I'm getting bedsores sitting in this van."

"Isn't that beneath your pay grade?"

"Yes. And that's another reason why I'd love a worthy excuse to change targets."

"Sorry, just calling to set up an insurance policy. If you're good for it."

"Always. Let's have it."

James never doubted Felix's support, but the confirmation takes some of the weight off his shoulders. "There's a mailbox shop on the same block as that pub we went to last year—you remember the one with all the orange Rugby tat?"

"I've still got the stiff knuckle to remind me."

"You should learn to throw a better punch."

"Fuck you and your fine taste in single-malts. Okay, mailbox shop, tell me the rest."

James rattles off the box number and electronic code that will put the backup of their research into Felix's hands: the unredacted Silva file, Ramesh's decrypted hard drive, satellite maps of the South China Sea, blueprints of the abandoned mining facility Silva's commandeered, and logs of shipping traffic to-and-from the island. Everything the Americans could possibly need to land a unit of Navy Seals on Silva's doorstep…or considering their current political leadership, baldly bomb the fortress from a submarine in international waters and dare the Chinese to do anything about it.

"If you don't hear from me in a week's time, I want you to open that box personally and take the contents straight to Langley. I trust your people to see it done more than my own at this point. But don't go plugging it into anything with an internet connection. This guy's very online and likes to poke around in other people's systems, yours included."

Felix sucks air through his teeth. "As if I didn't already hate that son of a bitch enough. Alright, next Tuesday I book a flight to London. Don't be a dick and forget to call this time; I'd hate to waste the personal leave."

"I'll do my best." He spies the server heading toward their alcove with drinks and Q's second breakfast, and the tangle of nerves in James's gut twists. He shuffles his feet and admits, "Listen. I need another favor. I'm bringing someone with me, a civilian—that useful new friend who helped me get all this intel."

"A civilian on this op? That's gotta be one of the lousiest ideas you've ever had."

"Believe me, I know it. But he's too stubborn to see reason, and I can't stop him from following me, short of tying him to the radiator or breaking his leg."

And he'd never speak to me again if I tried.

James shakes the thought aside and focuses on building a safety net for this worse-than-lousy idea. "I'm asking you to keep an eye out for him and make sure he's okay, in case I don't make it. He's worth recruiting, if your people need an incentive; he's the absolute best at what he does, and there's no way he'd throw in with that bastard willingly. Just…make sure he's safe for me. And that he's free to make his own decisions about where he ends up."

"Of course. How will I know him?"

"He answers to the 17th letter of the alphabet."

After a second's pause, Felix says, "Cute."

"He's that, too."

"I'll spread the word and keep a lookout for him, if it comes to that. You just make sure I don't have to."

"Roger that. And thanks."

"Any time. Happy hunting, brother."

James hangs up and takes a deep breath before returning to the nook.

Q looks up from his plate of pancakes, syrup slick on his lower lip before he licks it away. "Plan B all set?"

"Standing by. Any change on the feeds?"

"Nope. That schooner's still docked, and there's been no air or sea traffic from Hainan or Zhanjiang. I'll check again once we land—I'm not risking a leaky Wi-Fi connection at 40,000 feet." Q pats his satchel, where his laptop, cables, and various hacking peripherals are already packed away.

James settles onto the sofa beside Q and reaches for his espresso. "Long way down," he teases. "Good thing you've gotten over that 'crippling fear of flying.'"

Q looks at him sideways for an inscrutable moment. "Been reading my messages, James?"

Damn. Belatedly realizing what private information he just quoted, James shifts uncomfortably. "Not since the first night, when I brought you the whisky. And…it won't happen again." This unsolicited promise earns him a raised eyebrow—as well it might; James has a poor track record when it comes to trusting his lovers. But that's all the more reason to consciously break the habit. And knowing how dearly Q values privacy, James feels ashamed for even the quick peek he stole all those weeks ago.

Instead of giving James a proper earful for the trespass, Q sits stiff and quiet for a bit before letting his shoulders droop. "After all the snooping I've done in your file, I can hardly blame you for turning the tables on me. You are a spy, after all."

Appalled at Q's resigned acceptance—and the echoes of Q's time under M's surveillance—James lays down the boundary himself. "No, I shouldn't have done it. You have a right to your privacy, and I was wrong to breach it. I won't do it again."

The look of cautious hope on Q's face is painfully sweet.

James presses a kiss to Q's cheek and whispers, "I promise," before pulling away.

"Alright," Q says with more confidence. He clears his throat. "You know, I'm actually fine with flying; that bit about a phobia was just to put my friends off—M wasn't the type of jailer to grant parole on a whim. I flew to Paris a couple times in uni, and it was fine. Rather like taking a bus. But Kuala Lumpur, and now Macau…well, I can't say I love these long hauls." He looks around the lounge and at his plate. "Although with perks like these, I suspect this'll be a much more pleasant experience."

"Oh, definitely."

"Happy to have the company, too." Q leans back, his shoulder pressing warm against James's.

James smiles into his espresso cup and recalls the rest of that message he'd spied on over a month ago. He could let the matter drop as Q has, or risk tendering a bit of advice. "You should RSVP to your friend's wedding. Reconnect with everyone you've been missing."

There's a grim edge to Q's voice when he says, "Let's make sure I survive this trip first. Then I'll reach out."

The tangle of worry tightens again, souring James's stomach. Impulsively, James sets his cup down, pulls out his phone, and slides an arm around Q's shoulders to draw him close. "Come here. I want to introduce you to my American friend."

Q leans against James's chest and turns to face the camera James holds out for a selfie shot. "Smile and say Central Intelligence," Q whispers cheekily.

James snorts and snaps the photo. His stomach settles a little once he hits Send, and he releases Q back to his enjoyment of his meal.

A minute later, Felix texts back:

Congratulations

And just what the hell is that supposed to mean? James studies the one-word text for a moment before scrolling up to examine the photograph in closer detail. It's a head shot of Q in a grey long-sleeve tee and maroon cashmere cardigan. His dark hair falls in waves to the top of his glasses, and his green eyes are clearly visible through the lenses. His red lips wear a sly grin with a hint of dimple. It's a good quality picture: all of Q's features are in focus and easily recognizable should Felix need to search for him.

But James's hand is also in focus, placed possessively on Q's chest, fingertips dipping beneath Q's cardigan. And part of James's face is visible at the edge of the photograph. Not his mouth—that's hidden behind Q's hair—but just enough of his cheekbone and temple to reveal the crows feet of James's fond amusement and comfort with such proximity.

Oh.

The camera captured a good deal more than James intended to reveal. He could play it off as a misunderstanding, tell Felix he's jumping to conclusions…. But it's been six years since Felix saw James's heart break, and it feels good to share this glimpse of happiness with his friend.

And if James's happiness motivates Felix to fight that much harder to protect Q, all the better.

James glances at Q, blithely blowing over his mug of Earl Grey, and looks back to his phone, tracing his fingers over the photo as he commits the precious image to memory. It's too risky, a liability to keep it on him. The smart move is to erase it.

His thumb hovers over the Delete icon, hesitating.

~

Shortly before sunset, James pilots their boat into its assigned berth at the Macau hotel's private marina, the 70-foot motor yacht a modest neighbor to the dozen mega yachts already lining the docks. James signs the harbor master's check-in paperwork while Q directs the porter to their pile of personal luggage, leaving the crates of materiel for tomorrow's mission safely locked below deck (and rigged with physical and electronic trip wires, just in case).

On their stroll through the exotic, manicured gardens up to the resort's 20-story glass tower, James admires the way Q's slicked-back hair, still wet from their quick shower, has started to fall forward in damp waves that frame his freshly shaved cheeks. Q keeps his nose up and his lips pursed, the picture of unimpressed by the remarkable views around them. He wears the upper-crust facade comfortably, a well-lived-in act he mastered during his school days. But the act falters as they step into the glittering grand foyer, and Q sucks in a surprised breath.

The lobby's three stories are done up in an underwater motif, blue waves of projected light rolling across the high walls and ceiling, giving the impression of being 60 feet below the ocean's surface. Mobiles of chrome-plated seashells and sea life flash and dazzle above their heads, strung between shimmering chandeliers shaped like massive jellyfish. And the lobby floor is dotted with glass statuary cut into false coral reefs, pulsing with soft pink and orange lights.

It's the kind of tasteful, modern opulence James is accustomed to in Asia's wealthiest cities…but Q's awe inspires him to take it in with new eyes. James allows his steps to slow, the better to appreciate the finer details as he steers Q past the check-in desk toward the casino.

Small in size, the hotel's casino eschews the beeping and jangling slot machines that make Las Vegas so tediously distracting, catering instead to the high-stakes games preferred by whales: roulette, craps, and various card tables. They start at the bar, arming themselves with complimentary drinks.

Amidst the well-heeled guests already enjoying their cocktail hour at the tables, James catches more than a few appreciative looks directed at the two of them. James chose a classic black and white suit, appropriate for an evening out anywhere. In contrast, Q's slim-fitting black-on-black suit looks fashion-forward and makes a striking contrast against the pale walls and cool blue carpeting. James doesn't blame anyone for looking their way twice—but he makes a note of everyone who does.

Less than 200 kilometers from his enemy's territory, James is already on high alert, a preparatory tension building between his shoulder blades. And anyone who pays them more than passing attention is a potential threat, whether sent by Silva or not.

Because society's wealthiest echelons are home to the most vicious predators—the ones who hunt and kill for pleasure. James has witnessed many times how wealth breeds a lust for power. And to the people with the power to buy or sell small countries, buying another person's body is as quotidian as buying a car or yacht. A quick glance over the crowd reveals the marks of their ownership everywhere, from the low-cut gowns to the gaudy jewelry around their companions' necks and wrists, all the pretty things they've collected only to treat as disposable property.

How many of those baubles are hiding bruises? A shiver runs down James's spine.

When the bartender returns, Q accepts his vodka tonic and holds out James's martini to him. "Cheers," Q says.

James pastes on a smile and clinks their glasses together. He tips his head toward the casino tables. "Which one's your game?"

"I don't usually gamble—"

James scoffs at the preposterous claim.

"—with money," Q finishes, elbowing him. "You said poker's yours."

True; he usually finds poker ideal for scratching the mental itch of boredom, as invigorating as an intense cardio workout for his brain. But he can't focus properly on reading his opponents and watching the room at the same time. "Hmm. How's your blackjack?"

"Depends how long we're planning to play."

James grins. "Without counting cards, how's your blackjack?"

Q gives him a wink. "You'll have to play me to find out."

"Well then, after you."

Q strides off down the left side of the room. The third blackjack table has a pair of open seats, and James plays the wealthy benefactor, pulling out Q's chair for him, then ordering chips against the credit line Q set up for them. He doles out half of the stack to Q. In return for such generosity, Q gives James's thigh a warm squeeze under the table, and James receives a few considering looks from the other gamblers at the table.

Playing alongside Q without playing against him stokes a pleasant sort of rivalry. James can cheer Q's big hits just as well as his own. And should Q's pile of chips ever look in danger of running out, James will do his duty and gift Q with a few more to keep him in the game. …But it never comes to that. It's evident from the start that Q is strictly playing the odds, making the most statistically likely decision every time and keeping his bets conservative. And as a result, he's losing, but slowly enough that he won't run out anytime soon.

Meanwhile, James's own bets and hits are more instinctive, gauging the flow of the cards in addition to mathematical probability. He has some significant losses, but when the dealer busts on another of James's improbable big gambles—netting him enough chips to nearly double his original stake—Q gives a hearty sigh and downs the last of his cocktail.

"Bloody bullshit," Q grouses, his voice pitched low so only James will hear him. "No way you can be so good at this without counting cards, and we haven't played nearly enough hands for that."

James gathers in his winnings and inclines his head at the polite congratulations from their table mates. "And yet."

"Don't give me that 'tempered by experience' line again. That made sense whilst planning a military engagement, not beating the house with a fresh deck."

Co-planning their offensive against Silva had been more enjoyable than James expected. Q brought an uncanny ability to sift through a near-paralyzing amount of information to build an infiltration plan with a solid chance of success. And just as in Malaysia, it was a fine plan. But where James had worried that Q would relegate him to the passenger seat again, Q listened to James's suggestions and accepted his input, modifying the plan based on James's knowledge of MI6 training, Silva's psychology, and over a decade of field work.

James is as confident in tomorrow's mission as he possibly could be, short of a Spec Ops team at his back and Q safe in London.

He rearranges his stacks to achieve a pleasing symmetry and says, "The trick to gambling is, you have to be willing to risk everything you bring to the table."

"You think I'm not?"

"I think you're playing it too safe, considering you're staking someone else's money. Take some bigger risks."

Q hums, considering. "I usually prefer games of skill over chance."

"Naturally."

"Well then, how about you rub some of your luck off on me?" Q's foot nudges against James's ankle and slides up his calf suggestively.

"I'd say I've been rubbing you off plenty. In fact, that's probably why my luck's so good."

"Ooo, I like that; I've never been anyone's good luck charm before. Though I don't recall you doing any rubbing last night."

James widens his legs until his knee presses against Q's. "If you'd joined me in the first class cabin's lavatory, I—"

A thin arm reaches between their shoulders, and James startles at the unexpected presence behind him, knocking over his chips.

Q's hand seizes James's forearm, pinning it to the table. He says firmly, "Nothing for us, thank you," to the person behind them.

James follows Q's eye line to see a waitress turning away with a tray holding their empty glasses and two replacement cocktails. He takes a couple slow breaths through his nose, willing his body to relax from the adrenaline rush. The scent of his own cologne is strongest, worn by both James and Q, anchoring.

Q leans close and asks under his breath, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," James says, more curt than he'd like. The men and women at their table are staring, and the room is filled with too many people; he needs to move, to relocate. A glance at his watch shows it's near enough to their reservation time to get an early table. "Ready for dinner?"

Q releases James's arm and starts to rise.

"Deposit these in my account," James tells the dealer. He shoves his and Q's chips across the table and tosses the man a courtesy chip before following Q from the room.

When they reach the maître d's stand, James insists—bordering on rudeness—on a corner table. After only a few back and forths between the maître d and staff, they're seated with a wall of fish tanks to James's left, a view of the harbor lights out the windows to his right, and Q opposite him. The secure position affords James a full view of the dining room and allows his pulse to slowly return to equilibrium, until he can appreciate the quiet music, soft lighting, and lovely scenery again.

Q notices Bond's newfound relaxation and offers a relieved flash of dimples. He glances back at his leather-bound menu and laughs self-consciously. "It seems I'm to take some bigger risks after all. I've no idea what any of these dishes are. I may as well be playing roulette."

"You've eaten Chinese before."

"Of course. But South Wimbledon's finest takeaway shop was hardly Cantonese-French fusion. They certainly never had Crispy Lotus Root Salad or Caramelized Pork in Dong Po Style on the menu."

James opens his mouth to talk Q through the dishes, knowledgeable enough with the cuisine to advise him on which flavors James suspects he would enjoy…but he remembers the vast range of unexplored options in Q's life to date, and changes his mind. He sets his own menu down and takes Q's away to lay it atop the other. "You're right; it's too risky to pick one at random and hope you like it. We'll order one of everything."

Q shakes his head.

"I'm serious! What better way to discover new favorites?"

Q worries at his lip and glances around them, clearly loath to appear improper in such an elegant venue.

"I'll order; you'll see, the wait staff won't bat an eye."

"Alright," Q says, his smile slowly returning. "One of each of the starters, but not the main. I don't want that much attention. Just find me something similar to beef chow fun for my entrée, and I'll be happy."

James's chest puffs with pride at Q's willingness to follow his lead, to allow James to spoil him. When the waiter arrives, James orders for them in Cantonese. And as expected, their over-sized order doesn't rate so much as an eyebrow twitch from the waiter. James negotiates for the chef to prepare an off-menu noodle dish for their main, and ends with a request for sparkling water instead of wine.

Once the extra glassware on the table is cleared away and they're alone again, Q leans across the table to whisper with a blistering scowl, "That was hideously attractive."

The incongruous words startle a laugh out of James.

"It's one thing to see a language listed in your file, another entirely to hear you speak it fluently."

"Getting a bit hot under the collar, darling?"

Q's gaze slides down the length of James's chest like a caress before returning to meet his eyes, provocative.

James's cheeks warm pleasantly, and he's suddenly aware of how different this dinner is from his interrogation of Q at the Italian bistro in Chelsea. Actual romance, genuine intent, and so much openness between them it takes his breath away. He feels like he could ask Q anything right now—where he grew up, the schools he attended, his National Security number, his real name—and Q might even answer.

But James has to be careful not to press for too much. Q treasures his privacy, and James has promised to respect it. He sets his professional instincts aside and steers them toward light table conversation instead. He teases out Q's non-digital pastimes of the past several years, including his love of all kinds of museums, his disastrous attempts at charcoal sketching—"You can't imagine the mess when the cats got into it; thank god they're already black!"—and his favorite London nightclubs.

"Shots and dancing are only second to sex," Q confides rapturously.

"And often progress in that order?" James guesses.

"When I like who I'm with, yes. A dance floor's as good a place as any to vet an app hookup before heading to a stranger's home."

Before James can ask the clarifying question, Q laughs.

"Christ no, I never brought anyone back to mine. Would you want to shag someone in a place under constant surveillance?"

Hardly an angel on that particular subject, James sidesteps the question. "I presume you saw there's a small nightclub on the top floor of the hotel?"

Q nods. "If we had more time tonight, I'd drag you up there to check it out."

The countdown to mission launch ticks relentlessly in the back of his mind, his alarm set to wake them in just under seven hours. "Maybe tomorrow night," James says, as noncommittal as Q had been about his wedding RSVP. Thankfully the first of the appetizers arrives before the mood is fully dampened by the reminder.

As Q works his way through the variety of appetizers that fill their table, taking a nibble here and a bite there, James pushes away thoughts of the near future. Tomorrow will play out however it plays out. Right here, right now, James wants Q to have every experience he's been missing. And Q's varied exclamations of delight and disgust enliven James's own taste buds. Perhaps for that reason, it's one of the most delectable meals he's eaten in years.

Once Q identifies his favorite dishes, James slides them closer to Q so he can finish them off. Q eats with gusto, famished after an afternoon in the water. James had been impressed with how quickly Q learned to use the motorized water-sleds, and especially with his stamina, managing to control the device for thirty minutes—longer than they'll need.

When the noodle dish arrives, Q asks James to tell him the story he'd teased earlier in the day, about a Royal Navy joint training exercise with the French that started out a friendly paint-ball skirmish and devolved into a bare-fisted—and bare-arsed—free for all. James spoons the food onto their plates and shares the details that were too outrageous to include in the official reports, as Q laughs his way through his meal.

When the plates are finally cleared, James asks, "What's your most outrageous adventure?"

Q ducks his head, bashful. "Compared to yours, my life has been utterly boring. No no—" he cuts off James's objection "—the places you've been, all the people you've…dealt with. The number of explosions alone is intimidating. Technically all I've done is tap some computer keys."

James shakes his head. "You're the most impressive person I think I've ever met."

Q looks startled. "Really?"

"I've seen you read rocket schematics and run circles around all of MI6. And my missions? You thwarted all those villainous schemes right alongside me—ones no one would've known about without your hacking. And I'd wager you did beat that fastest time at the Treasury…without even trying hard."

"Flatterer," Q says, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, cheeks pink with pleasure.

"That isn't a denial."

"No, it isn't."

That well-earned pride is one of James's favorite things about Q. He never wants to see Q self-effacing again. "Your actions may have been more limited in scope, but they're no less interesting for that. And I'm dying to see what you'll do next."

"I want to take you dancing," Q blurts. His voice deepens as he repeats with intent, "I really, really want to take you dancing."

Pleased by the proposition, James says, "Hmm, my waltz may be a tad rusty, but I'll dance with you any time you want."

"How about now? If the club upstairs is open…."

James doesn't have to check his watch to confirm. It is open, but the countdown takes precedence, and Q needs to be fresh when they start out. "You don't have to vet me. I'm not some stranger inviting you home," he says instead of refusing directly.

"Maybe I'm in the mood for some foreplay. I know how much you like to tease me, get me all worked up…." Q's breathing is elevated, pupils slightly dilated, and James feels a corresponding, complimentary rush in his own veins.

He should tell Q 'no' and stick to their schedule. He should lead Q back to their hotel room right now and seduce away Q's arguments. But Q wants to share one of his favorite activities with him, one that he's clearly fantasizing about already…and James wants to find out exactly what that fantasy looks like.

A half-hour's indulgence won't scupper the plan.

Q sees his unspoken capitulation and grins hotly.

~

Q stands so close on the ride up that James fancies he can feel Q's body heat seeping through James's sleeve.

James wants to tug him even closer, loop an arm around his waist and nuzzle into his neck, slide a hand into the front of Q's tight trousers and see how hard he can get him before they reach the top floor. He eyes the camera in the lift's ceiling instead and keeps his hands to himself. Wealth affords a great deal of 'uncouth' behavior, but discretion invites fewer problems.

The lift doors open onto the twentieth floor, and they turn toward the pounding bass of the nightclub. Inside, the lobby's underwater motif continues. The modest-sized room, dimly lit in deep blue, features the same ripple-effect of gobo projectors sending pale waves of light across the space. There's a full-length bar and a small dance floor dotted with spotlights, where a handful of early visitors are already gyrating to the throbbing house music. Beyond the dancers, two mirrored walls frame the dance floor. The third wall is clear glass, looking out on Macau's nighttime skyline, the surrounding skyscrapers lit up and flashing with their own nightlife scenes.

Q tugs him toward the bar, which beckons them in with glowing shades of turquoise and a counter top of seashells suspended in polymer. "Just one shot?" Q shouts to be heard over the music. He turns a beseeching look James's way.

And James can hardly refuse him. As long as it's only one each.

Q orders them a couple shots of top-shelf vodka. He shoots his back as soon as it's poured. James sips his, preferring to taste his liquor, not just get it over with. Also it's amusing to watch Q bounce on his toes impatiently as James lingers over his liquor.

The instant James's glass is empty, Q grabs his wrist to drag him to the dance floor. But James reels Q back in and pushes the jacket off Q's shoulders. Catching on, Q seizes James's jacket and returns the favor, letting his hands squeeze down the length of James's arms in a slow caress. James is sure his own smile matches Q's heated look by the time they're both stripped down to their shirts.

James passes the jackets to the bartender along with a tip and their room number. And then Q hooks a hand in James's waistband and drags him off to dance.

They claim an unoccupied section of the floor where they can move unimpeded. If the room were quieter, James would ask whether Q likes the music, what style and speed he usually prefers to dance to. The occasional lyrics are in a variety of languages—a little German, some Cantonese, more frequently English—but with the reverb, it's impossible to make them out. The tunes are new to James, but the repetitive rhythms allow him to spend his attention watching Q lose himself to the music.

Seeing Q truly let loose is a sight to behold. James hadn't realized how contained Q generally is in his movements until watching him dance. With his hair falling forward into his face, neck swinging freely, and arms thrown wide, Q seems moved by the percussion more than free will. He slips between the spotlights and flickering waves of light, his ecstatic movements inhabiting more space than ever before. And Q's eyes, slitted against the brighter lights, glitter as he watches James in return.

James doesn't try to rein him in, lets Q come to him as he pleases. Q presses up against him and slides away again and again, flirtatiously brief caresses to James's shoulders or hips or arms before a shift in the drum rhythm lifts Q off the ground. Gradually, the vodka burn in James's stomach translates to a subtle loosening of his knees and hips, a certain ease to his smile, and a need for more contact. The next time Q's hand reaches toward him, James catches it and pulls him in. He wraps an arm around Q's lower back to keep him pressed tight against James's hips and hard cock for a dirty grind.

Q lips part with sultry pleasure. His cock rubs against James's hip with intent, proving he's every bit as turned on as James. Foreplay indeed. James settles his arms around Q, who seems content to be caught, no longer spinning free as a reckless comet, and it's a thrilling feeling, like being chosen all over again.

And then a dancing body brushes against James's back.

He instinctively clamps down on Q's arms. Q nuzzles his throat, hips bucking against James's in approval, while adrenaline and cortisol levels, already elevated from the volume of the music, spike. James's breath comes in short gasps, his skin prickling. The body behind him moves on, leaving a spicy-floral scent in its wake like perfume, like lilies.

James widens his perception and notices how the aquamarine glow of the bar is obscured by a line of customers. And the dance floor has filled in, bodies hemming them in on four sides. They aren't safe, out here in the middle of the floor.

With a hand on the back of Q's head, James backs up, guiding Q toward the mirrored corner.

Q dances on, seemingly unconcerned by the people around them, as though James is the only person in the room. He grows even bolder, hooking a hand around James's neck and grinding against him. James squints into the darkness around them and catches multiple pairs of eyes looking their way, watching them.

James knows that look, avaricious, predatory. Sharks circling, sensing prey. Looking for bodies to own.

And this corner is no escape: they've washed up directly beneath a spotlight, James's white shirt gleaming, a beacon for attention. The fabric clings to his sweaty shoulders, his chest, his waist, all of him on display for the watching crowd. The urge to shrink away, to retreat further intensifies. But he's cornered himself. In front of him, Q's dark hair and black shirt make him a moving shadow. And James longs for that anonymity, wishes he could hide behind it, disappear.

Q nips at James's jaw, a move James's body is programmed to respond to, sending arousal surging alongside the fear. He's a tightrope of tension that Q presses against, beckoning James to fall into him…but those eyes are still crawling all over him, inescapable.

Q turns around and backs into James's hips, his taut arse rubbing against James's erection. He throws his head back against James's shoulder, and James catches the gleam of sweat on Q's cheekbone, how pale his skin glows in the spotlight, how it draws the eye.

James grabs Q's wrists and drags them up, looping them behind James's neck. Q catches on, folding his hands together obediently and arching against James, his arse glued to the front of James's trousers. But James keeps focus, hastily unbuttoning Q's shirt, peeling away the black fabric to bare his pale chest and stomach to the light, the supple way his body gyrates with the beat, the way he bucks and thrusts against James.

And James feels the weight of a dozen gazes slide away, fastening onto Q's lithe shape suspended helpless before them, strung up for their pleasure, all that glowing skin framed so prettily by his open shirt. But not theirs to touch. James is a predator just like them, and he's already staked his claim on this catch.

James feels an unfamiliar surge of jealousy for something that's his, that he will never share with anyone else. The thought's as intoxicating as four shots of vodka. James lowers his mouth to Q's neck and presses a kiss there, presses his teeth. Q goes up on his toes, pushing into it, and James feels the noise Q makes vibrating through his lips. The watching figures around them writhe in sympathy, urging James on, the driving tempo speeding arousal through his veins.

James's hands glide down Q's chest, his own tanned skin contrasted with gleaming white. His fingers play at Q's waistband, Q's stomach quivering under his touch, before he slides a hand down the outside of Q's left thigh and back up the inner thigh, where Q's cock is rock hard under his palm. Q makes another inaudible sound, mouth falling open, eyes squeezed shut, lost in the sensations James is giving him. So James does it again. And again. Slow, firm strokes of his palm down and back up, until Q's knees go weak, and his hands abruptly release their hold on James's neck.

Q spins around to face him, latching onto James's hips and lips, teeth tugging as firmly as his fingers. "Now," Q growls into James's mouth, and James doesn't bother looking at the other people on the dance floor as he leads Q to the exit.

The closing of the lift doors finally shuts out the incessant thud of bass and noise. James jerks Q against him, one hand slid into his open shirt to grip his bare flank, the other squeezing his arse. In the quiet, between deep, desperate kisses, James can hear every one of Q's moans and gasps for air. Addictive.

The unseen luggage just inside the door of their suite nearly sends them sprawling to the floor, too preoccupied to turn on a light. James finds his balance first and slaps at a light switch, then catches the back of Q's shirt and peels it off him, leaving a puddle of black silk on white marble. So much beautiful skin, unblemished and soft. He squeezes Q's arms as he pulls him into another kiss, savors the way his fingers dent the lightly muscled flesh.

His mouth trails down Q's chin and throat to the hollow where Q's Adam's apple jumps eagerly. James fastens on, teeth coming to bear in threat, and the movement stops for a frozen moment, Q's lungs stilling, before James gives him an approving suck and moves on to his collarbones. Architectural, the way they jut out so fearlessly. He mouths his way along one and then the other, nipping and sucking to feel Q shudder and press up into his teeth.

Q's hands scrabble at James's hair for a moment. Unable to find any purchase, they drop to his shoulders, fingertips gliding down his shoulder blades, a prickle of—

James shoves Q's hands against the wall, growling to keep them there. The fingers fold into the palms, surrender, and James goes back to claiming every inch of sweaty, vulnerable skin. James had let the other sharks look, but they couldn't touch; no one will ever touch Q again. Mine, he says with every bite, you're mine. Q's stomach jumps and flinches, James's name sounding like an obscene prayer in his broken voice.

Naked on the bed together, the feeling of that much hot skin makes James's eyes fall closed, overwhelmed. But Q tries to roll them, throws a thigh over James's hip and pushes against him, and—

A fistful of hair as he pins him, face pressed into the pillow, dark curls spread over white sheets. He turns his head, pulling against James's unrelenting grip, and swears reverently when James doesn't give an inch. His back arches, arse riding against James's cock in another sweaty dance. James's pulse beats as loudly as the club's bass, driving him forward to grind along the cleft. Uncomfortable friction, the accumulated sweat insufficient to make the glide smooth.

"Lie still."

He has to let go of the hair to reach over the side of the bed and retrieve the condom and sachet of lube from a wallet. Eyes dark with lust watch him, lips open but silent. He squirms between James's legs, not escaping, but getting a knee under him, two knees, lifting his hips eagerly.

The lube is cold, but the heat inside a silky inferno when he pushes in. He takes two fingers like an expert, a vise-like clench before he relaxes and presses back for more. Head thrown back. Wanton. James gives a few cursory thrusts and twists to spread the slick and ease the way. So when he shoves his cock in, he half sinks in on the first go. He cries out, high and sharp, and his arms give out. James's fingers dig into the thin skin of his hips, holding them ruthlessly still as he withdraws and thrusts deeper and then deeper still.

The pleasure feels like drowning, buffeted by waves of sensation so good he doesn't realize he's holding his breath, holding still, until he clenches around him and whimpers a plea for more.

James pulls all the way out and pinches at inner thighs so they spread wide enough for James to fit between them. He presses in again, one steady slide like a welcome home, and starts thrusting in earnest. The snap of his hips and cock pounds a steady stream of gasps and moans out of the body beneath him, pleasured, gratifying.

Sweat drips in his eye, and James pauses his strokes to wipe his brow. And when he looks down at the gorgeous, pert arse he's sunk deep inside, he has to palm the round cheeks, clamp down bruisingly hard and dip his thumbs between to pull them apart, the better to admire his flushed cock stretching the dusky, glistening rim, owning it completely.

He watches his cock slide in and out a couple inches as his prey groans and rocks up against him, fucking himself in desperation. Merciful, James leans forward, one hand braced on the bed, the other between shoulder blades, and thrusts even faster. The heavy walnut headboard slams against the wall as his cock slams in, chasing the orgasm that's coming on fast, the pressure building inexorably.

A sudden struggle beneath him, one of the shoulders starts to lift, and James nearly dislocates the fragile joint on instinct— But he's only trying to slide a hand down to his cock. James lets him, enjoys the way the arse tightens around him as he jerks himself off, every stuttering clench transmitted to James's cock, echoing, doubling.

The ocean finally overtakes James mid-stroke, waves of pleasure crashing through him, tumbling him off his feet. He gasps for breath, grip tight as though holding on for dear life as he rides out the overwhelming pleasure, before two bodies collapse to the mattress, trembling. James rolls to the side, every muscle exhausted. His head sinks into an impossibly soft pillow, the mattress welcoming him with an embrace he can't escape. He chucks the rubber somewhere and lets his eyes slip shut.

The last thing he feels is a mouth pressed to his shoulder, shaping words drowned out by sleep as he drops into the abyss.

~

His watch alarm vibrates just before 3 o'clock, and James snaps to alertness, one thought immediately on his mind: Today Silva dies. He throws back the covers, stands, and almost steps on the used condom on the cold marble floor.

He stops.

He breathes.

James looks over his shoulder at Q curled under the duvet, sleeping peacefully. Mouth gone dry, James quietly cleans up the mess and steps into the shower.

The hot, high-pressure spray stings his face as he closes his eyes and opens his mouth, lets the water fill it before swallowing. Improbable and confusing, James's thoughts circle back to the condom. He fucked Q last night—and part of him is elated to have his fears from the past few weeks put to rest. But his memories of the act are as clear as the frosted shower glass. And it wasn't the one vodka shot that's clouded his recollection.

But there's no time for such worries. They have to follow a strict timeline to reach Hainan by dawn. He keeps moving, toweling off and returning to the bed.

"Q, it's time to go," he says, a gentle hand shaking the narrow shoulder.

Q rolls toward him, big green eyes blinking away sleep. A smile starts to curve his red lips, and James steals a quick, close-mouthed kiss. Q smiles even wider.

"C'mon. You have five minutes to shower."

Q nods and covers a yawn, and James tosses his damp towel into a corner and walks naked into the living room to open the luggage and get dressed.

He returns to the bathroom after a few minutes to drop off Q's clothing and toiletry kit. Q's body is a blurred outline in the shower. And James catches himself lingering in the humid air, wanting to ask what happened, why he feels wrong in his own skin.

He doesn't say anything.

Back in the living room, James starts coffee brewing and checks his phone; no alerts from their trip wires. A glance out the window shows their yacht still docked in its berth. He unpacks Q's laptop so Q can make a final check before they leave. And then he stands, dressed and ready to go, with nothing to do but sip the surprisingly excellent hotel-room coffee and contemplate the silence coming from the bathroom.

A rising tide of guilt builds in his lungs, like they're filling up with water, making each breath more labored than the last. He mechanically sips his coffee and avoids interrogating his own memories—he knows exactly what M would say about such useless fretting over past actions—and tries to focus on the mission. The man they're going to kill. The woman they're going to avenge.

Q shuffles into the living room still yawning but fully dressed in his MI6-issue cargo pants and Henley, matching James's own. He's wearing contact lenses, and with his hair slicked back, James finds himself reminded of Agent Trevor for the first time in weeks.

But Trevor never smiled at him like this.

Q steps into James's space and kisses him, minty and lingering.

The easy affection steels James's nerve to ask, "Are you alright? Was last night—"

"You were perfect," Q says with a sappy sigh.

And James should feel reassured…but there's a fresh red bruise on Q's neck, just under his ear.

He remembers leaving it, remembers Q backed up against him, remembers his mouth on Q's throat, but he can't remember why. Bruising up his lovers is something he doesn't do, not even when they ask him to in the throes of passion. But he marked Q last night. Guilt morphs into confused dismay.

He sets his thumb over the love bite and strokes it lightly. Q leans into the touch, eyelids lowering, lips falling open.

James swallows hard and passes Q the half-cup of remaining coffee, determined to keep moving, to hurry through their final preparations and start the long walk out to the marina, ignoring the invisible manacles dragging at his ankles and the heavy weight of doubt across his shoulders.

After all, so long as Q's happy, everything must be fine.