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Chapter Text

The third assailant dropped with a bullet in his chest, and Bond kept moving forward, ignoring the sound of M berating him through his earpiece. It was pretty standard chastisement, revolving around not silencing every enemy operative when MI6 still had questions that needed answers, etcetera. It had been awhile since M had been in the field, obviously, so 007 didn’t bother to point out that he could answer questions on his own, thank you very much, but not if he were the one dead. “Yes, Ma'am,” he murmured back obediently at what was most likely the right time – there had been a lull in the one-sided conversation, at least – and kept moving, gun-first.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“I’m actually trying to stay alive,” he replied back without much apparent interest. “I’ll stop shooting people when they stop trying to shoot me.”
That silenced the voices on the other end, although he heard whoever was in the room with M snicker, and then the woman using a bit of verbal laceration to tell the other to can-it.

Before Bond had to ask, another voice was passing along instructions to him, “We’ll have a harder time tracking you if you go down to the lower floors. There should be doors to your right and one to your left. The one on the right is faster, but-”

Bond went through the one on the right, finding it locked but using a well-placed kick to remedy that. Gun still leading, he stalked into the room with determined, smooth strides.

“He took the one on the right, didn’t he?” came the sound of M sighing.

The defeated voice was quiet enough to hint that the technician in charge of directing Bond had leaned back resignedly in his chair, “Yes, Ma'am.”

“It was faster,” Bond defended himself, sensibly repeating the technician’s words.

M leaned closer to the receiver again to try and get a grasp on what her best and most troublesome agent was doing, “Bond, what is your situation?”

Troublesome he was, but he was also a well-trained MI6 agent, and his pale-blue gaze was already scanning the room like ice, muscles tense but posture loose and ready. His reflexes had realized that the room was empty of enemy gunmen almost before his mind logically accepted the fact, and it was evident in his posture as it relaxed by an infinitesimal margin; only someone who had known him for years would have actually noticed the difference. Any foe who had turned up in these moments would have quickly been shown that the shift did nothing to Bond’s reflex time, though, because even a relaxed 007 was still horrifically lethal, not to mention a little trigger-happy, if M were to be believed. “Just another empty room,” his low monotone soothed M, “Table and chairs.” This building felt like a maze, and the fact that it was just one building on an island full of them wasn’t encouraging. Silently, he was deeply resentful of the fact that no rising villains seemed to feel truly complete until they’d fulfilled the stereotype of buying their own top-secret island. ‘Top-secret’ was generally overrated, and playing hide-and-go-seek with armed gunmen in unmitigated heat had probably ruined islands for Bond permanently. If he ever actually went through on his promises to take a vacation, he was going somewhere wooded, cold, and solidly landlocked.

At that moment, his muscles tensed up again and his finger put down another pound of unconscious pressure on the trigger as movement caught his eye like a hook. He’d spoken too soon in labeling the room empty, as he now found that the old, battered metal table in the center of the room was occupied. A kid no older than seven and no bigger than an undersized dog peered over the top, small enough that he’d been able to curl up in his chair and stay hidden until he’d moved.

M must have heard the way his breath subtly stopped, because she asked with tense professionalism, “007, what’s going on?”

For once, Bond was unsure exactly what to do with the situation. Eyes tracking around the room to be sure that it didn’t hold any other surprises, he answered distractedly, “There’s…there’s a kid here. Six or seven years old maybe.” Naturally his eyes took in every nuance, and the boy cowered back silently as the 00-agent inspected him. “Looks like the Westford Ring has had him here for a bit.”

“I’ll alert the necessary people. Clean-up will come in after you with the child as a priority. Continue your mission.”

Bond was already making up his own mind, however, and – as usual – the decisions he reached were decidedly different from the ones that M reached. He was already walking towards the child.

That didn’t go over well, possibly because Bond was a large man and even more possibly because he still held a gun in a half-ready position. Large brown eyes widened behind smudged spectacles, dark beneath a tangled fall of messy brown hair, and then the kid was jumping up and away like a spooked hare. That wasn’t as much of a problem as expected, however, as the hefty table gave a groan of protest and a short chain brought the boy up short by the ankle.

Amending his previous report, eyes narrowed inscrutably, Bond said, “There’s a kid here chained to a table.”

“For goodness’ sakes, Bond, you can’t do anything about it now! You have to find the shipments that Westford has been receiving and shut him down,” M tried to snap him back into being sensible. “Besides, you’re about as much a babysitter as I am…” She had a point there: the two of them were about as practiced at babysitting as born-and-bred attack-dogs were at being lap-dogs.

As per usual, Bond was ignoring her, however, or at least putting her words under advisement as he catalogued what he knew and made his own deductions silently in his head. He’d circled around the table, the muzzle of his gun now aimed at the floor even if it was still primed and ready, and the skinny boy was shuffling warily out of his way. He was a cute-looking kid, with large eyes and a delicate face, his size-too-large cargo pants and T-shirt making him look like he should have been at school, if one could ignore the dust and grime and the scrapes and bruises on him. Right now he was breathing fast and watching Bond as uncertainly as he’d watch a very large snake, clearly liking him not at all.

“Bond!” M barked again.

Bond took out the earpiece and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. There, the anger of MI6 was barely a mosquito’s whine. It wasn’t that he totally disagreed with her, it was that he disagreed with her a tiny bit but wasn’t going to change his mind. A kid this small couldn’t be left tethered to a table when there were shooters wandering around. Totally out of his element, Bond slowly crouched down, not holstering his gun but at least compromising enough to hold it at his side in just one hand as he said, slowly, “I’m not going to hurt you, so don’t do anything.” Not that the 007 agent had any idea what a seven-year-old would necessarily do in a situation like this, but he figured it would be best to cover all of his bases. After all, small things could be dangerous too, right? After all, M was just a little old lady, yet she could just about make him quiver in his boots if she really got wound up (thus the transfer of his earpiece from his ear to his pocket). This kid looked scared out of his skin, but his delicate little hands were in fists, and he looked very much like a wild animal backed into a corner.

Out of all the possible metaphorical wild animals, he probably only qualified as a squirrel, but still. Bond was determined not to ignore the diminutive size, even if the comparison between himself and the kid was like a dog to a mouse respectively.

He reached forward slowly with his free hand, and the boy jumped as the agent’s fingers closed around the near end of the chain. The kid’s calm was fracturing, and now that Bond essentially had a hold on his leash, the kid was shifting from foot to foot and breathing in fast, ragged little gasps.

‘Good grief, how am I supposed to handle this?’ Bond wondered to himself, feeling a pathetic jab of panic very unbecoming one of Britain’s best secret agents. He began to wonder if he should have just listened to M and run for the hills, because at least he knew what to do with targets and enemies. When it came down to it, his job was set up so that shooting was generally a safe answer, whereas now he was looking at a terrified, unpredictable conundrum that presented him with a million problems, none of them even remotely solved by a bullet. “Hey,” he said, getting frustrated and seeing that the kid was pulling back again, already at the very far reaches of his meter-long chain, “I said I wasn’t going to hurt you!”
If Bond had more experience with kids, he’d have known that the sharp tone was not optimal. With more speed than he’d expected, the little body exploded into panicked motion, giving the 00-agent little choice but to reflexively lunge forward and grab him. A minor struggle followed. At least knowing subconsciously that small kids were renowned for noisiness, he managed to grab the boy with one arm around his stomach and the other holding a hand firmly over his mouth. He heard a panicked squeal of outrage immediately muffled by his palm. This had necessitated dropping his gun, and that probably annoyed Bond more than everything else had this morning. Realizing that this was getting rapidly ridiculous and wasting too much time, Bond spun his new charge around while still maintaining a hand over his mouth. Frightened eyes refused to meet his, and the kid kept trying to wriggle loose of the hand over his face and the second one clamped around his upper arm, although he was clearly outmatched in the field of strength.

“Okay, I’m going to say this once more, and this time…listen!” Bond hissed, wishing he could just go back to being the taciturn, possibly-trigger-happy field agent who rarely even talked to M or his Quartermaster if he could help it. But the kid didn’t belong here or deserve to be here obviously, and as trained as Bond was to shoot in cold blood and kill without remorse, he had a heart, and that heart was telling him that keeping a child safe was easily as important as a room full of cargo. “I’m not with the men who put you here. I’m going to get you out.” There, that seemed simple enough. Unfortunately, Bond didn’t know how old a kid had to be to understand things, although he assumed that the age of seven…or maybe six…was a fairly intelligent age.

Maybe.

“Do you understand?”

For a moment, it looked like Bond was about to be disappointed, as large, watery eyes studied him through scuffed glasses, one of those eyes sadly bruised, but then miserable, hesitant acceptance took root in the dark brown gaze. Standing still now, either defeated or just silently awaiting what would happen next, the shaggy head nodded timidly in his hand. “Okay then – be quiet,” Bond commanded. Only about fifty-percent sure that he’d get his request, 007 removed his hand. He felt ridiculously pleased with himself when no screaming or shouting – or, goodness forbid, crying – ensued. Crying seemed like it was close to happening, though, and there were tracks down the generally dirtiness of the child’s face from previous sobs. Right now the kid just looked at him with a mix of fear and uncertainty and a determination not to let tears fall. Narrow shoulders were shaking despite themselves.

Still. No crying. No screaming. A definite victory. “Okay,” Bond repeated, wondering just how relieved he sounded.

Deciding to focus on what he understood, Bond leaned down to take a look at the chain keeping the boy in place again. It was a long line of fairly lightweight links between two handcuffs, one attached in such a way to the table so as to prevent it from being slipped free, even if the kid had a beggar’s chance at levering the table up. As Bond let the boy go, he stayed still, but as the 00-agent reached subconsciously for his gun to scoot it within easy reach, the bare feet standing next to him tried to make a run for it again. Fast reflexes made it easy to grab the chain for the second time in as many minutes. “Hey, if you want this off, you’re going to have to listen to me,” he gruffly informed the kid. ‘Hell, this is worse than trying to explain to Q why I need a laser-pen.’

“007, the longer you waste your time on a child, the more difficult this mission will be to complete.”

“Q,” Bond grunted, as he once again heard the sound from his removed earpiece. The boy looked towards the disembodied sound with surprise and a spark of curiosity. Apparently the old Quartermaster had managed to boost the signal or the output on the gadgetry manually. Bond had never particularly liked the old fellow, and this meddling honestly annoyed him more. But he obediently pulled the earpiece out of his pocket, murmuring, “You can turn it back to normal now.” He grinned faintly and added in a dry tone, “I’m being a good boy again.”

“Oh, stop it, you’re never good, unless perhaps you’ve had a head injury and Medical has you drugged out of your mind,” M’s voice – normal volume, mercifully – came through and made Bond wince at the memory. For any stubborn, proud 00-agent, it was stories just like that that ensured they did their level best to avoid future trips to Medical. “Now, what’s your situation? Besides the child you’ve obviously decided you have to look after.”

“Said child is almost free,” Bond grunted. “No other hostiles. I’m still on schedule.”

While M was scoffing something about his ‘bloody inconsiderate schedules’ Bond turned to the boy again. The trembling hadn’t stopped, but now the kid seemed to realize that he couldn’t get away from the fast, powerful agent, and was standing with his eyes trained on the ground and his body as still and small as he could make it. The sight made Bond many things at once: uncomfortable, sad, angry, and out of his element. It was so wrong to him somehow that he reached out and gripped the boy’s shoulder, giving as gentle a shake as he was capable of until those large, bespectacled eyes met his. “Are you going to trust me? I already said I’m not gonna shoot you.” Maybe he was a little gruff, but Bond thought he was doing remarkably well for his first time working with a child.

The reminder of the gun predictably set off twin sparks of fear in the boy’s eyes, and he moved his mouth and made the beginnings of an argument still, but then he stopped. Battered looking and scared out of his mind beneath a fragile amount of control, the kid didn’t so much agree to trust Bond as he simply gave up on running away from him.

“What’s his name?” M asked resignedly, “We may as well start looking him up on our end. Maybe it will help us track down exactly why and where from Westford is getting all of his illicit cargo.”

Bond focused on the boy and repeated the question. Suddenly, those big eyes grew stubborn and mutinous, and the answer that came out was in the sharp, clear tones of a child who will not be motivated to change his mind. “Q,” he said.

‘Why can’t I just deal with someone trying to shoot me…?’ “Um…M, we might have a problem.”

“Yes?”

Bond blamed it on Q – the old Q, the Quartermaster who was not half as smart as he thought he was but who stuck his nose into things anyway – because the Quartermaster had turned up the volume on the earpiece and forced Bond to answer him. Now the boy had found a nice title to grasp onto in place of actually answering the question. Worse, it didn’t look like ‘little-Q’ was going to change his mind for anything short of torture. “He says his name is Q.”

“Well, what the Devil kind of name is that?” the real Quartermaster responded in the background before remembering that he was also called Q on occasion.

“Unless you want me to get out the thumbscrews,” observed Bond mildly, still looking at the kid and giving him a ‘you-did-it-this-time’ look of amusement, “I think that that’s the only name we’re going to get.”

M could be heard swearing under her breath in a very unladylike manner, but at least she was sensible enough to realize that she couldn’t very well justify telling one of Britain’s top agents to torture the real name out of a seven-year-old kid. “You need to get back on point, 007,” she finally said primly, “Do whatever you deem necessary to do so.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” was his obedient answer. He did not sigh in relief as the expected lecture passed like a storm-cloud overhead without actually raining down on him. After that, he was left with the question of just how to follow those orders. Life was incalculably simply when the only things he had to factor into his equations were himself and the people who wanted to kill him. Now he had a boy who had picked up on the name/letter ‘Q’ to consider. Since the boy was not Bond and was not pointing a gun at Bond, it was becoming frustrating to decide just what to do.

“Your so-called name we’ll talk about later,” the 00-agent grunted, finding a small smile coiling up the corner of his mouth, unable to suppress amusement at the boy’s moxie.

And then the shooting started, and it wasn’t even 007 doing it.

“BOND! What in Heaven’s name are you doing?!” The voice that came squealing through the earpiece was subsequently ignored as Bond locked down on all of his emotions and just did his job. The kid had dropped down onto his haunches as the first bullet whizzed past them, arms thrown over his head and a squeak of fear coming out of him. It made it that much easier, Bond figured philosophically, to shoot through one of the chain-links himself without the kid getting any more or less afraid than he already was. The chain was lightweight so far as chains went, not even enough to tie your dog up with but enough to keep a seven-year-old contained, and one of the links gave way under the bullet’s impact. Wasting no time, Bond braced his feet and set his shoulder beneath the heavy table, overturning it even as a second and third bullet came from down the hallway toward them. There was a sharp report as the bullet hit the table instead of them. With the table in the way for now, Bond just said, “Enemy fire,” and turned to the kid.

The little boy was a pitiful sight. He’d been decently brave when facing down Bond earlier, his attempts to bolt aside. Apparently well-versed in the noises and dangers of guns, he was now huddled up on the floor with his hands over his ears and tears falling freely down his face. Acting on reflex and more than a little bit of unexpected compassion, Bond scooped him up, feeling the messy, wavy hair against his jaw and neck as he bolted for the room’s second door. At least there was one factor working in his favor: youngsters were small and therefore easy to pick up and run with. Neither of them appeared to be shot yet, but 007 cursed anyway because he had to holster his gun in order to hold the kid. He would have rather had the gun: guns he knew, and they were dependable. Kids fell into neither category in the slightest.

At least ‘Q’ didn’t squirm.

Bullets followed them as their foes began to take the table into account, and the boy whimpered against Bond’s throat. It wasn’t until 007 made it through the second door and slammed it shut behind them that he actually felt the kid breathe. For once, he was glad that the large majority of buildings on this bloody island had a derelict décor, because it was but the work of a moment to find a bit of debris to shove like a doorstop under the door, buying them time by wedging it shut. He threw the lock, too, but it looked as old and undependable as the rest of the building, so he didn’t count on it doing much good.

“Door to the right. That will take you to the stairs,” Bond’s earpiece calmly told him, impervious to the threat of bullets that were very real for 007 and his cargo. Still, it was a relief that someone in MI6 was still tracking him and finding a path to follow.

The boy was next to his ear, though, and while he jumped a little as he heard the voice emanating from the shell of the agent’s ear, little-Q was immediately filling Bond’s ear with more noise. “No! To the left is faster.”

“What?” Bond growled, turning his head and wondering if it was normal for a child with an assumed name to order around a man so much bigger than he was. Again, the choice of tone was a poor one, as his charge shrank back against his shoulder and curled his fingers into Bond’s shirt like kitten-claws. Then a thread of steel gave the kid some spine, and he scowled as well as a bespectacled seven-year-old could.

“I-It doesn’t lead to stairs, but it leads to a window. There’s a flat roof just one floor below. You’ll get out faster that way.”

As soon as M heard the word ‘faster’ coming through the earpiece, it was obvious that she grew nervous. “007, just because it is faster-” she started to caution.

But, like with the door, Bond was a man who liked efficiency. After no more than a blink in little-Q’s direction, he was pivoting to the left. He liked following orders, despite what M might think: sure, he often edited and tweaked those orders as he saw fit, but the fact remained that he liked having something solid to direct his actions. It really didn’t matter who gave those orders either, so long as they made sense, as little-Q’s did. Therefore, it was without qualm or embarrassment that 007 took the advice of a kid that was barely tall enough to come up past his belt. His trained hearing was already telling him that pursuit was close behind, and time was something that he rarely ever had the luxury of.

Therefore it was a pleasant but not altogether unexpected surprise when the boy turned out to be well-informed: the indicated room yielded a window, which Bond wasted no time in inspecting. Yep, there was a perfect landing-spot directly beneath them, one floor down and baking in the sun.

People were still yelling in his ear, but Bond hadn’t gotten as good as he was by being easily distracted. He instead frowned as he focused on his new handicap, self-named Q. Usually, the agent wouldn’t have hesitated to force the window open and take the leap, but he wondered how easily he could do it while carrying someone. ‘Think ‘fragile asset’,’ he told himself, and as easily as that, his brain started working around the stumbling block. He’d run from people while transporting precious, breakable cargo before – not very often, granted, with his track-record of getting into rough-situations and brutal fire-fights – and this was probably quite similar. Clenching his jaw in determination, he managed to shift the boy’s frame into the hook of one arm, freeing up the other to unlatch and swiftly jerk the window open. Quite immediately upon seeing the drop, little-Q began to protest – clearly, he was rethinking the wisdom of his advice. “I didn’t mean-!” the voice piped in a rising pitch as small fingers dug into his shirt and skin.

Now with two people yelling in his ear, Bond ignored everyone but himself and the increasing sound of his enemies, and jumped out the window.

There was that long, infinite moment where he was between sky and earth. No matter how many times he did this, no matter how many times he took ridiculous risks and leapt from ridiculous heights, Bond never escaped that feeling of his stomach lifting up into his throat. It was as if half of his body was fearless while the other half – mostly his innards, it felt like – struggled wildly to avoid the inevitable landing. Little-Q screamed the whole way down.

And then that inevitably landing came, and Bond bit out an involuntary curse as the new weight he was carrying nearly overbalanced him enough to send the two of them crashing down another story or two. Realizing that it was futile to fight the momentum (not if he wanted to keep his ankles and knees intact, at least), Bond tucked his body up and rolled, doing a reasonably good job of pretending that the boy screaming in his arms was actually some kind of glass vase or something. He also managed to control the duration and the direction of the roll, so no falling off the roof occurred. After three rotations, the roof biting into his back, knees, and elbows in turn, they came to a stop, Q still alive and mostly well and Bond rather proud of himself.

“There. See? Told you I’d get you out,” he said, denying that he was out of breath from the rush as he pushed himself up. He loosened his frame from the protective cage it had formed around his small comrade, a cocoon of bone and muscle and flesh that had done well at keeping the boy safe. The flash of protectiveness and quiet pride was brief but sweet as the 00-agent’s quick eyes noted no new injuries on the kid. Of course, Q still looked like he’d just had three different kinds of heart-attacks, his glasses skewed on his noise and his hair – impossibly – even more messy. He just panted and stared up at Bond as if the man were a lunatic. He very nearly started screaming again just out of principle as the agent picked him up once more.

Although he was well aware that he was strong enough to subdue any kind of struggles the kid put up, there was the awkwardness and fear of knowing that he could also break the small frame just as easily by accident – thus, Bond grimaced in a rather cowardly fashion as he pressed little-Q to his shoulder again while the boy tried to get down. “Hey, the window was your idea,” he reminded him, and received a fearful but hotly temperamental glare in return. It was a rather daunting look, despite the fact that it came from eyes red from crying behind glasses that were big and nerdy and still crooked.

And – oh yeah – the glare that was making 007 wince internally was coming from a kid under the age of ten.

M’s voice was almost a welcome reprieve, although he could tell she was sighing and shaking her head, “Why must you always take the fastest route? Do you enjoy giving the rest of us heart palpitations while we wait to see whether your luck has run out?”

Affecting an offended tone, Bond listened for sounds of pursuit – nothing yet, meaning the little jaunt out the window had thrown them off for now – and scanned over Q’s tousled head for a way off the roof, “I don’t enjoy giving you heart palpitations, Ma'am. I just like fast things.”

“You like fast things?” was the response, distinctly not amused. It held, instead, a bit of that dread curiosity that the person always secretly knows they’ll regret.

Bond wasn’t one to disappoint. Picking his way with dogged quickness and catlike agility that belied his size and musculature, Bond gave himself a small half grin and replied, “I like fast women and fast cars. Why would anything else be different?”

With the sound of MI6’s best and finest groaning and muttering imprecations a pleasant buzz in his ear, Bond began to descend to the ground, where he hoped to gain his bearings again. All the while, the self-proclaimed ‘Q’ clung to his chest, head tucked just under the side of his jaw and under his ear, and Bond couldn’t help but think that it was wrong for a child to be that good at being that quiet when he’d been screaming a minute before.

Chapter Text

A few more leaps and the minimal amount of screaming later, and James Bond and little-Q were on the ground again. With the sun still high overhead and the buildings looming up around them, it had the feel of a giant’s sandbox. Everything was tan-colored and hot, and the streets either hadn’t been made well or hadn’t been made at all, because sandy rubble seemed to be the extent of the ground underfoot. Bond was glad that he’d foregone his usual spiffy black suit and tie – the better to get fast women with, M would say as she rolled her eyes – to something a little bit more in the ‘earth colored and rugged’ category. There was no need to impress anyone here, only survive.

It was still hot, though, and the boy in his arms was starting to pant as if he were the one running. Little-Q’s protests and constant uneasy fidgeting had faded away into nothingness, leading Bond to believe that he wasn’t taking the increased temperature well. He didn’t know anything about kids, but he did know about heat exhaustion and heat stroke. Even barring that, the 00-agent’s instincts were screaming that it was wrong for a bundle of nerves and energy to suddenly be limp and uncomplaining. The tousled hair against his neck was forming flattened ringlets with sweat, too.

“All right,” 007 said in his best encouraging, calming voice. He didn’t know if he sounded calming, but he did manage to at least sound calm. Being unflappable was prerequisite for being one of Britain’s finest. “You’re about done in.”

“What’s going on, Bond?” M was still there, although Bond had appreciated her lack of chatter for the last ten minutes. If she’d started filling his ear with words while he’d been roof-hopping with a passenger, things just might have ended messily.

“Old-Q’s smaller, cuter impersonator is catching a little more sun than is healthy,” he answered back steadily as he found a patch of shade he liked. He let the sound of ‘Old-Q’s’ protests about age fade into background noise in his head, preferring the look around instead. There had been no concerted effort at pursuit since the window, leading Bond to hope that he’d slipped off the radar for a bit – the heat wasn’t making him eager to go running anywhere either. And then he asked, because he had to, “Are high temperatures bad for kids?”

“I don’t know, Bond, are they?” M deadpanned unhelpfully.

The little boy on Bond’s shoulder roused himself at the long-distance argument going on right next to him, shoving a fist down onto Bond’s collarbone as he pushed himself up into a semblance of an upright posture. Since he was still more or less sitting in the crook of Bond’s arm, it wasn’t much of a change. “I’m fine,” he growled unconvincingly, but with a level of fragile snarkiness that was admirable. Maybe if he’d spoken above a mere mumble it might have been more believable.

Bond squatted down against a crumbling wall, settling on his haunches and easing little-Q easily onto the new platform of his legs to get a better look at him. He would have placed him on the ground standing, but he strongly suspected he would have had to prop the boy up on at least two sides. Bond’s young companion also remained barefoot, troublesomely. Funny how kids didn’t just sprout appropriate footwear, just like guns still hadn’t been made that sprouted new bullets whenever he ran out…

“Bond, your status?”

“Tell the nosy lady that I’m fine and you don’t have to worry about me,” the boy snapped, looking precariously close to frustrated tears. He was, almost comically, glaring at the earpiece. He was tolerating being held by the 00-agent but was quivering either with fear or frustration, like a tiny machine buzzing on the verge of blowing a gasket. The big eyes – now narrowed behind his glasses – turned to glare up at Bond next with foolhardy boldness, the kind of last-ditch bravery seen in men before a firing squad, “You don’t have to worry about me either! Leave me alone!”

Beginning to feel that ‘out of his element’ panic set in again, Bond leaned his head back as if to get out of reach of those little clenched fists. His own eyes narrowing warily, he asked under his breath to M, “Is irrational temper also a symptom of too much heat in children?” What he really wanted to ask was, ‘Is this what a pre-adolescent temper-tantrum looks like?’ but was afraid of the answer he’d get.

But the answer came from the Quartermaster, in the form of a long-suffering sigh and an irritated suggestion, “Bond, this should be convincing you to just dump the kid now! Find some place out of the way and in the shade, and tell him to sit and stay.”

Having opened his mouth to retort something, Bond stopped, his quick eyes arrested by just how quickly these words – overheard by little-Q – had an effect on the child. What had been feistiness and somewhat-strained temper deflated and then shattered, leaving a little face with large, hopeless eyes as the boy sagged. He looked at the earpiece with a look akin to acceptance at first and, after a brief moment of holding out, hopelessness. With Bond crouched on his haunches against a crumbling brown wall and little-Q sitting on his thighs, the boy lowered his head and seemed to shrink.

At that moment, Bond wanted to do nothing more than to punch his Quartermaster. He couldn’t articulate exactly why he wanted to so suddenly, but the need was sudden and ferocious as it burned its way through his chest.

Startled by the reaction and well aware that his Quartermaster was out of his physical reach, the 00-agent instead set his jaw and did something productive – something that was not what the Quartermaster had urged him to do. One hand still on the boy’s shoulder keeping him from going anywhere or doing anything, he pulled a canteen from his well-stocked belt, another addition to his less formal wardrobe. “Come on,” he coaxed…ordered…no, definitely coaxed, in a very firm manner, “Drink some. I’m not leaving you here.”

Canny brown eyes snapped up disbelievingly from under a sweaty mass of hair, dissecting Bond’s expression and apparently not sure what to make of it.

Bond just kept his face blank as he’d been trained to except for one infinitesimally raised brow and pressed, “Don’t tell me you’re not thirsty.” He jiggled the canteen so that it sloshed slightly, right in the bespectacled boy’s face. That seemed to be the last straw, as little-Q narrowed his eyes again but this time reached out to take the offered water with a quick swipe of his slim hands. It was more than a little surprising when, after the first initial guzzle (after Bond had to work the lid off), the boy backed off to drink patiently and slowly. James Bond had been prepared to take the water away before the boy drank himself sick, but instead the scuffed kid stopped on his own, looking as aloof and superior as a slightly bruised, slightly nervous, Corgi-sized little boy could look.

“What?” the boy shot at him when he noticed Bond’s surprised, impressed look.

Wise enough to know the answer, Bond just said blandly, “Nothing,” and then pressed his finger to his earpiece to ensure that M was listening again. “Back on schedule. Moving out with little-Q in tow.”

“Bond,” M interjected, her voice attempting sensitivity and succeeding far better than the Quartermaster had, “maybe there’s something to what Q…er…our Quartermaster is saying. You were sent on a mission to find out exactly what cargo Westford is dealing in, and what effect that will have on his growing criminal ties. This is of utmost importance, or we wouldn't have sent you. Can you honestly say that you can do your job while keeping a child safe?”

Logic. Honestly, Bond hated it. He liked stability – like a car that did what you told it to and a gun that never jammed – and being given clear, concise orders, but he did not truly like logic much. After all, he dealt with a very illogical world. Villains were, by definition, illogical, and all he knew was that the logical people who tried to shoot him were usually the predictable ones – and they usually ended up dead sooner. Ergo, being logical wasn’t high on his list either. A 00-agent was efficient, productive, unflappable, and breathtakingly dangerous.

Unfortunately, since M was not a 00-agent, she was logical instead. Now that logic made Bond’s mouth twist in distaste and his blue eyes narrow. He growled low in his throat in a disgruntled sound as he tried to formulate an answer.

Some of that hopelessness had returned to little-Q’s face – that smallness to his posture. He didn’t want to meet Bond’s eyes as if afraid of what he’d find there. Suddenly the boy squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out, as if against his better judgment, “I know what the cargo is!”

“What?” came multiple voices in Bond’s ear, while 007 just stared. Although little-Q was still close enough to hear most of what was coming through the earpiece, the boy seemed disinclined to answer them – in fact, if his feral little glare was any indication, he didn’t want to answer to anyone but Bond. The evidence was in the frightened but hopeful look that he flicked up at the large man, a timid glance from beneath a messy mop of brown hair.

“If…If I tell you,” he said, voice tiny, eyes beseeching and scared all at once, “Can I stay with you?”

The voices from MI6 answered first in strident tones, and Bond decided that he was getting very fed-up with the constant commentary. There were days when being a 00-agent felt a lot like being a dog yanked around on a leash, a leash held in the hands of at least three people who thought they knew better than the dog how it should walk.

He’d destroyed earpieces before. There were always unexpected circumstances that would explain the small piece of gadgetry getting crushed. And if no one really believed those stories, well, too bad for them – there was no one who could stick to a story like a 00-agent. Trying to get them to admit to lying was like trying to make the sun budge over.

Before Bond could either reply or artfully break the chattering machinery in his ear, there was an alarming, static crackle in the distance followed immediately by the sound of a voice over an old loudspeaker. Bond tensed and little-Q scrambled right off his knees, although only to crouch in the gritty dirt next to him. An arm reflexively snaked out to hook around the boy’s shoulders, feeling their quaking and determining not to let them leave his side. Little-Q didn’t seem able to determine the source of the noise, but Bond had already deduced that it was from far away, but loud enough to be able to reach just about anywhere.

“MI6 agent?” the tinny voice rang out, scratching but understandable, “You know who you are. And we know that you’re here, needless to say. So long as we keep playing hide-and-seek in this heat, however, we’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we?”

A 00-agent does not roll his eyes. They do, however, grit their teeth and silently curse whatever caused villains to be so enamored with the sound of their own voice. If this became a broadcasted monologue, he might just scream.

At least it sounded like his opponents didn’t know for sure who he was yet – they’d only said ‘MI6 agent’ so far. Not that it mattered whether they knew this name or not. In fact, sometimes it was nice to be recognized, if only because very few people ever came away from a fight with him, and those that did spread tales of a very dangerous man.

“We know you’ve got the kid with you. That must be slowing you down.” The voice sounded sympathetic and honeyed despite the bad reception. Bond flicked his eyes down briefly to little-Q, having felt the boy huddle closer to his side: he looked absolutely terrified. Despite his earlier protests that nobody needed to take care of him, the skinny youngster had now unconsciously fisted one hand in Bond’s shirt while also sidling further under his arm. Without a second thought, Bond tightened his grip, feeling a fast heartbeat and a delicate ribcage that barely dared to breathe. “How about we make a deal?” the voice droned on.

“That’s Westford.” At long last, the sound of the older Quartermaster’s voice was succinct and wisely quiet in Bond’s ear, helping out from his end. “The voice matches recordings we have.”

Bond just grunted to show he’d heard. He was trying to triangulate a little bit better to see where the noise was coming from, also straining his ears carefully to listen for any sounds hiding beneath the mechanized voice rolling over their heads.

“In light of that, I – we – are prepared to make a deal with you, agent.” Bond tilted an eyebrow in surprise at that, appearing otherwise untroubled. “You see, we want the boy.”

The boy froze completely; if he hadn’t been breathing before, his heart nearly stopped beating now. His small, thin body went almost painfully tense, so much so that Bond feared that somehow the slight bones would snap under the strain. Little-Q was staring at nothing, eyes huge and wide behind his glasses.

The voice of Mr. Westford kept rolling on: “You see, he’s actually the son of one of my men.”

Little-Q choked to life, breath struggling into him and then struggling back out in a thin, panicked stutter, “N-n-no. No, that’s a lie!” His voice was barely a whisper, strangled on desperation so acute that it threatened to overwhelm him. “He’s-he’s lying. Mr. Bond, he’s lying! I’m not! I’m not!”

“Shhh,” Bond hushed in his low voice. Little-Q had gone from being detached and temperamental to suddenly looking at him with the most pleading expression in the world – need wrapped in fear. The look shocked the stoic agent, making it impossible to look away even as his hand reflexively covered the boy’s mouth to keep him quiet. The boy didn’t try to shake him off or protest, merely squirmed for a moment and then continued to look at him with eyes nearly wild with a desire to be believed. Small hands had come up to grip the edges of Bond’s hand, and although little-Q was in no way strong enough to pull the man’s hand away from his face, the boy’s tiny fingers dug into Bond’s skin – kitten’s claws.

Little-Q shuddered and nearly seemed to break as Bond looked away to listen to Westford’s soothing voice again.

“So, you can understand that we want him back. Do not make this a hostage situation, I implore you! In fact, we want him back without fuss so much that we would be willing to cease our persecution of your person in return.” The was a paused, calculated to let the idea sink in. “You could leave without a shot fired.”

Beneath his hand, little-Q was trying to shake his head negatively, now truly putting an effort into peeling Bond’s figures away. Obviously, though, the kid was a bookworm by nature – even if he had been physically older and therefore more grown, he still would have been outmatched. When Bond (who this whole time had been looking all around them with seemingly-lazy glances) reached with his free hand for his gun, little-Q squeaked against his palm and started struggling in earnest. At long last, Bond turned to him at that point, brows lowering as he tried to figure out what had so suddenly startled his minute charge. Only belatedly did the agent remember that not everyone was as comfortable around a gun as he was.

“Hey,” he said, in a tone that was gentle by his standards. The eyes behind the glasses jumped up to his, the bruise under one of them making his eyes seem extra-stark. Bond was glad that MI6 was keeping quiet in his ear, because he felt like those young eyes were strumming something in his heart, and he found that he guarded that feeling jealously. “I’m not turning you over to them,” he muttered, giving the boy a look that said this should have been obviously. He explained why a sentence later: “You said you’d tell me about Westford’s cargo, so that suddenly makes you more valuable to me than gold.”

Q’s face brightened marginally and guardedly, unsure what he thought of the reasons behind his usefulness.

Suddenly, that felt…cruel. Bond never would have thought of it before, but all of a sudden it felt wrong to tell a child that he was only valued because he had useful information. Usually, that was how things went with people Bond associated with: the people he needed for information, the people he slept with, the people he chose as teammates on the rare occasion that he couldn’t work solo – all were valued purely for their uses.
But could he say that to a child?

Goaded by a new emotion that he couldn’t name, Bond coddled words together in his head and rolled them off his tongue with a smile curling up one side of his mouth, “Plus, you seem to annoy my Quartermaster, and I’ll use any excuse to call him ‘Old-Q’.”

“Hey!” a voice barked in his ear, proving that MI6 was still listening. “007, this is highly irreverent.” M, rather pointedly, made no comment, and her silence made Bond’s smile grow just a touch – after all, if she wasn’t telling him to stop, then he’d take it that she was condoning his behavior.

“So, you can keep your assumed name,” Bond added, also slowly removing his hand. His trust was well-placed, as Q just continued to look at him in a flustered, slightly distrustful manner and didn’t scream or start prattling again, “And you can stay with me.”

Now M stepped in, her voice sounding tired, “Bond, I know that your morals appear had have kicked into overdrive to the point where I am seriously disturbed, but is it truly wise to-?”

“Busy,” Bond murmured, and as quickly as that, MI6 hushed up. Sometimes, Bond lied just to get a little peace and quiet, but sometimes he really needed the added quiet to stay alive – as with now. He and little-Q had noticed the man coming around the corner at almost the same time, but while Q was opening his mouth in an ‘O’ of surprise, 007 was lifting his gun and leveling it with all of the calm of a cobra. Unflustered and calculating and cold to the core, he brought the gun up right over Q’s tousled head and fired. Little-Q shrieked and dropped down into a ball, but it was the target that grew a hole in his head as Bond’s shot went exactly where he wanted it to. Proving just how close to death Bond and his little charge had been, Westford’s man still plugged out a bullet before he fell, the shot going wild and sending chunks from the opposite wall.

“Bond? Did you neutralize the target, or are you dead?”

M, as always, was such an encouraging soul. “The first one,” Bond answered with that faint quirk of his lips that passed for a smile. As he moved to lower his arms, he noticed little-Q standing up slowly, nearly hitting his head on Bond’s elbow; the kid looked flabbergasted, eyes wide and mouth agape. He was also rubbing his ears, which were doubtlessly ringing.

“You’re a good shot.”

That nearly made Bond chuckle, ridiculously. If nothing else, it improved his mood more than teasing the old Quartermaster had, as if the appreciation of a seven-year-old was an elixir for his ego. Quite suddenly, this all felt like an outing rather than a dangerous mission, which couldn’t be healthy. “Come on – up you go,” he murmured, standing and reaching down to scoop hands around the skinny middle. Predictably, the flighty child struggled a bit out of reflex before giving up and realizing that Bond was, indeed, going to pick him up.

“Moving again,” Bond pleasantly informed MI6. “Westford’s stopped talking, meaning that someone heard shots fired.”

“Meaning that someone – probably multiple someones – will be moving in your direction very soon,” the Quartermaster chimed in direly from the background.

“Why do you think I’m moving?”

“We’ll direct you then,” the Quartermaster decided to be helpful, “If only to keep you from running into a dead end. Take…right…should be…only…” As quickly as the static started, it took over, like some sort of creature out of nightmare that gobbled up all things safe.

Not dumb enough by far to just skid to a halt in the middle of a street, Bond dodged around the corner and slipped into what had probably once been a garage, but was now just an open, desolate box. What mattered to Bond was that it was empty. “M?” he asked, pressing his back to the wall and shifting little-Q clumsily into the loop of one arm. Bond’s free hand wanted to hold his gun, but instead he lifted it to press on his earpiece in the hopes of hearing coherent words through it again. “Respond,” he ordered briskly. A 00-agent did not panic, but at times like this, they came close.

There was no response in his ear except for more static, and then there was nothing at all.

Without any more warning that that, his link to MI6 was dead.

He heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside.

Chapter Text

Cursing only inside of his head, Bond gave up on the deathly-silent earpiece and shifted little-Q slightly – enough to make sure he had a good grip on him, and enough to deftly press a finger over his mouth to tell him to be silent. The boy must have heard the telltale crunch of boot-falls as well, because he only narrowed his big eyes for a second before they widened in understanding. Before he could shrink against Bond’s shoulder, however, the agent lowered him to the ground, all with supple, silent movements. The kid weighed next to nothing, and was smart enough not to so much as squeak, so their follower was none the wiser. While the barefoot boy very quietly shuffled until he was just behind Bond’s leg – between the man’s big frame and the warm, tan wall – Bond used his newly freed-up hands to take his gun out. He let out a long, slow, hushed breath through his nose as the familiar grip sent a rush of stability and comfort into his world.

This was what he knew. This was what he was good at. True, the enigma with the messy mop of brown hair was still hesitantly clutching his pant-leg, but he could keep that safely at the back of his mind while turning the deadly brunt of his focus on waiting, listening, aiming, and possibly shooting and killing. Like a hunting dog, there were many things he could do, but then there were also a select number of things that he was trained and primed to do, those skills that came as easily as breathing. Muscles relaxed and senses focused to razor acuity.

Bond and his charge were to the right of the garage opening, deep enough in to be hidden in golden-hued shadows, especially since the footsteps were coming from that same side. For a nervous, green agent, that would have been vexing – after all, they could only hear the person coming, but couldn’t see them until they’d started to pass the doorway. Patience was the answer to that, however, and while he liked doing things the fast way, 007 was a veritable well of patience. It was no trouble at all for him to wait until the man passed by, and it would be like a present in his lap as the other’s path went past and presented Bond with an unguarded back to aim at. By that point, he could either choose to shoot or remain anonymous, depending on how likely it was that his target was going to turn around and see him.

But then he heard footsteps coming from the other direction and realized they might have a problem.

“Great,” he mumbled, quietly enough that only he could hear it.

And little-Q. Bond wasn’t used to having other people of such miniscule stature within hearing range. Large eyes peered up at him pensively from behind smudged glasses, and then the boy opened his mouth. Afraid of what too much noise could lead to – death, for example – Bond reached to cover Q’s mouth, but by then the boy was already talking. Actually, he was only mouthing the words, and the 00-agent sighed in relief even as he deciphered: ‘There are two of them, aren’t there?’

He just gave a small nod in response, glad that he’d been lucky enough to get such a sensible and quiet kid to look after. He suspected that most other children of this age would have been chattering obliviously, or at least freaking out and screaming.

And then things got complicated again. While Bond was musing over his luck (both good and bad, since the two gunmen were definitely a prime example of bad luck), little-Q suddenly moved, his wiry little body surprisingly fast. With both of his hands wrapped round his gun, the 00-agent was incredibly unprepared to snatch at a rapidly departing kid. “Get back-!” he started to bark in a hiss, but realized that his voice was rising in frustration. Swallowing a snarl, 007 fell silent and simply stared after little-Q as the boy squirreled past the open doorway only to stop in the shadows off the other side – a mirror image to Bond’s position. Glasses briefly reflecting the light before the boy pushed them up further on his nose, little-Q crouched down low against the far side of the open garage door and flicked his eyes worriedly between Bond and the world outside. Bond had been holding his breath, heart hammering, but released a silent sigh of exasperation as no one started shooting – at least no one had seen his troublesome charge go suddenly rogue. He wished he could reach M. Even if she admittedly knew about as much about babysitting as he did, at least maybe she’d have been able to give him some insight as to why children disobeyed so willfully. No ideas came to mind as to how to get the kid back without drawing unwanted attention.

Honestly, he was still focused on how to survive, period. With footsteps rapidly closing in from either direction, someone was going to see someone soon, and then things would dissolve into a dangerous firefight in seconds. While Bond was an expert at such things, he was also well aware of how easily he could suddenly find himself with a bullet in his chest – to say nothing for the fact that he had to watch out for a seven-year-old that undoubtedly had been in fewer gunfights than 007. Sweat due to stress and not heat began to trickle down between the agent’s shoulder-blades and down past the hollow of his throat. There was every possibility that the last few moments of his life were ticking away even now.

Then Q, still down on his haunches with his small, slender hands touching the ground, suddenly cast a quick glance outside and then picked up a rock. A sharp, quick flick of his wrist sent the small projectile flying, low to the ground because Q was low to the ground. Since he was a kid, the height made sense, but it was also somewhat below the level that most adult men would be looking.

At that same point, Bond had just about locked eyes with the gunman approaching from the opposite direction. He was a big brute, the gun looking almost toy-like in his hands as he walked down the street and scanned either side. His eyes were scanning back, just about to reach the abandoned building that Bond and little-Q had taken up residence in, when Q’s rock hit a tin can on the opposite side of the narrow street. The man’s head turned, gun tracking reflexively towards the sudden sound.

That was all Bond needed. Trusting that the other man had reacted the same way towards the unexpected noise, Bond stepped forward, aimed, and fired, all within the same heartbeat. Without ever seeing the MI6 agent, the brutish gunman dropped with a shocked grunt and a bullet in his lung. Bond’s gun and arms were in the open now, but he swiveled without hesitation. Standing now with his back to Q – unconsciously protecting him, becoming a shield in front of him – Bond impassively met the eyes of the other gunman as he pulled the trigger again. This man stared in shock at the powerful, blond-haired man that had suddenly appeared, and only pulled his own trigger out of reflex. Bond didn’t flinch; he’d known that the man’s aim was off. It hit the wall of the building dangerously close to little-Q, however, and that was reason enough to make sure that the man never fired a weapon again. Bond took another step forward and squeezed the trigger, sending another bullet off on the heels of the first.

The first had taken the man in the chest, but the second went through his skull. Either one would have brought the man down.

With the clinical, detached effectiveness that he’d been trained to have, Bond swiftly went from one enemy to the other, taking guns, ammunition, and supplies as he saw fit. Both were quite dead, and Bond felt not a flicker of regret. He'd learned the rules early on: if a man is trying to kill you, he forfeits all right to your guilt when you beat him. After assessing their situation and deciding that it was once again safe (for the moment), Bond turned back to little-Q, who appeared unharmed and had been smart enough not to move.

Q watched him from the shadows of the building, eyes hesitant and questioning, as if unsure whether Bond was just going to leave him there or not – or if the agent were going to scold him for darting over to throw the rock. The idea of a scolding seemed to scare the little boy more than it would most kids, but little-Q also sported some bruises that said he’d dealt with some uniquely brutal scolding lately. He was still knelt down in the dirt, and hunched down closer to the ground as if for safety as Bond loomed over.

It wasn’t Bond’s fault that he loomed. He was just of a looming size.

Bond leaned down and easily looped one arm under little-Q’s belly, lifting him like a puppy. A squirming puppy. Honestly, if he could just teach the kid not to struggle every time he picked him up, things would be just peachy. “What, did you think you were going to stay here?” he grunted as he maneuvered his smaller comrade into the sling of his arms again.

Abruptly, little-Q stopped wriggling. He paused with one hand on Bond’s shirt-collar and his eyes looking distrustfully up from beneath his tangled mop of hair. “I…I’m going to stay with you?” he asked very quietly.

Bond had to rear his head back so that he could look at the boy’s expression properly without having to cross his eyes, and he frowned at the sincerely uncertain look on the kid’s face. “Well…yes,” he said, “You don’t have shoes to go very far by yourself, and you seem to just about to pass out in this sun. Plus, every time I turn around, you get more valuable.”

Something flashed in the boy’s eyes, bright and pleasant at being called valuable while also being told that he wasn’t going to be left alone in an abandoned garage. The child didn’t smile, but he lost some of the defensive tautness in his little shoulders, and there was an almost painful glint of ragged happiness inching out onto the planes of his face.

“All right, time we were moving again,” Bond grunted, hating to be in one place for long when the echoes of gunshots still lingered in his ears, “With any luck, we’ll get out of range of whatever is blocking MI6’s transmission.”

“MI6?”

It was the first real sign of curiosity that Bond had seen in the kid, and he angled and eye down at him as he walked. “The people that I was talking to."

Q got small and quiet against Bond’s chest, voice drifting out near his collarbone as the boy lowered his head, “The people who want you to leave me?”

Bond nearly stopped walking, the surge of emotion he felt was so strong. Quite suddenly, he wanted to strangle someone, to fight monsters, to do something brave and valiant and angry and ridiculous all because he hated, hated, hated the defeated sound in Q’s voice right then. Picking up the missed step and walking even more purposefully, Bond sharply spoke down to little-Q’s fuzzy head, “They can want whatever they want, but at the end of the day, they’re sitting safely behind their desks and I’m here – and so are you. So you’re sticking with me. And that’s final.” Then Bond blinked, surprised at himself and wondering when he’d last said so many words in a row. He meant them, but he still couldn’t say where that surge of emotion had come from. Flustered with himself and more than a little embarrassed, he gruffly added in an undertone, “Just do what I say from now on, okay? Then we’ll get along.”

“Yes, yes!” the boy agreed quickly, even wrapping his arms around Bond’s neck as if afraid that he’d take back his words and drop him right there. The agent’s heart twisted in his chest, and he sighed.

Moved by compassion, he shifted the arm not supporting the boy so that it wrapped around his back, the agent’s hard, calloused hand softly smoothing over sharp little shoulder-blades. “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said in a voice that, if asked, few people at MI6 would have said that man possessed.

For his part, little-Q made a little mewling sound in the back of his throat and curled tighter to Bond’s chest, ducking his head in against the man’s neck like a bespectacled armadillo rolling up. Still, it was better than the boy pulling away, and it was with increased focus and almost mad determination that Bond stalked through the streets.

~^~

“All right. Here we are. Safe as we’ll ever be for the day.” Bond grunted as he bent and shuffled through the low opening, taking himself and little-Q into the half-collapsed building and the shady coolness that it promised. Bond didn’t want to admit it, but the oppressive, tropical heat was getting to him, too, and he was afraid of little-Q wilting in the sun again. After the showdown at the garage, Bond had taken pains to lose all pursuit, finally culminating his efforts in hunting down a secluded, defensible, cool place to hide in. The day was still young, and the 00-agent was willing to bet that even Westford’s men would be taking a breather by this point. Friend or foe, the sun was threatening to cook them all.

The building looked as if it had been placed in quicksand and then forgotten, part of it sinking in halfway up its sides. In actuality, it had fallen down in places, walls weakening and supports buckling in some storm, probably. It had taken some work to find a way into it, and now that he was inside, Bond could see that there were precious few places where he could stand upright without hitting his head. Still, it was cool and shaded and out of the way, and anyone coming at them would not only have to cross an open range to get there but also bend double just to get inside. Bond would put holes in them long before they even got close, and that made him feel both happy and smugly proud of his skills at sniping.

The ground was also sandy, so he put Q down without worrying about his bare feet, although he momentarily eyed the detached handcuff still looped like sick jewelry around one ankle. The agent gave up on worrying about that, however, knowing that there were more important things to see to.

Glad that his belt had so many loops and buckles to attach things to, Bond reached for one of the canteens of water he’d taken off the men he’d shot. Little-Q was standing only a meter away, having taken a step or two further into the fallen house to take a look at his new surroundings. It was easy for Bond to reach forward and hook a single finger into his collar and pull him around. The eyes that glared at him – angry mouth already opening to shoot something at him verbally – quickly dropped to the canteen, fortunately. The peace-offering instantly smoothed out the child’s features, and then he was gulping water again.

No. Not gulping. Standing with his head nearly brushing the ceiling again, Bond crossed his arms and tilted his head, brooding as he watched the curious spectacle that was Q drinking. For seven, he was awfully smart. Once again, when most people would have drunk themselves nauseous, the boy stopped, wiped the last drops from his mouth onto the back of his hand with a child’s carelessness, then handed the canteen back. Upon seeing Bond’s intense look, he stopped, arm midway extended, wondering if he’d done something wrong. His voice was a small squeak as he asked tentatively and fearfully, “Mr. Bond…?”

The agent gave himself a mental shake, breaking out of his reveries and realizing what he must look like to such a small child – a small child that had obviously been at the receiving end of an adult’s temper in the recent past. Feeling suddenly contrite, he reached out – slowly – and took back the offered container. “Where did you learn that drinking too fast is bad for you?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Q was too nervous. He didn’t move or even relax until Bond retreated a few paces and sat down, back against one sagging wall. “I…I just…read it, I guess,” he finally spoke up, shuffling his feet nervously. Bond decided not to press, sensing that the shaky truth he’d just heard would devolve into outright lies if he started prodding. After all, the kid had reflexively chosen an alphabetical letter over his own name when last questioned. Eyes ever alert – ears still focused on any sound outside – Bond noticed next the small hand that reached up, touched the side of Q’s thin, straight nose, and flinched. “You’re a little banged up, hmm?” he broached the subject smoothly. When little-Q’s eyes – nervous and suspicious – jumped up immediately to his, Bond just maintained an easy, open expression. He could shape his face like a mask, and when he could do it for good rather than for subterfuge, it made him happier. Now, he was glad to see that it caused the little boy to relax a bit. “Can I see?” he asked, indicating the boy’s nose…or maybe it was his blackened eye, or maybe the scrape on his chin. It was a vague gesture, because Bond knew that now was the best time to see just how much damage in general the kid had received at the hands of his captors.

Hesitantly but surely, the boy came over, sitting down on the sandy ground in front of Bond.

“So, care to tell me your real name now?” Bond asked offhandedly to hide his curiosity. As he did so, he reached towards the boy’s tousled head and was rewarded by a flinch as Q pulled back. A little flustered, Bond tried to think of how best to gentle his actions around a nervous seven-year-old, and at least succeeded in moving his large hand more slowly. This time the kid let him touch his ear, starting there because it looked sunburnt already. He moved his inspection towards Q’s bruised eye, although the kid’s glasses and all of his wild, tangled hair made assessing the damage frustratingly difficult. How the kid put up with having so much hair was beyond James.

He had even less luck with his question. The mutinous look was back, and remarkably cold brown eyes glared at him. “I’m Q. That’s who I want to be, and that’s all that matters. That’s all I’m telling you.”

“All right, all right,” Bond backed off. ‘Strike one for MI6’s best field agent.’ Still, he was curious, and while he kept his eyes unthreateningly focused on the boy’s scuffed chin, he queried, “Can you tell me why you like the letter Q better than whatever name your parents gave you?”

Little-Q sighed. It was a remarkably resigned sound. Dropping his head even as Bond’s fingers carefully touched his nose to be sure it wasn’t broken, Q talked down to his hands in his lap, “Nobody has ever cared about that name. Ever. Until suddenly everyone cares, and I get stuck here!” Q sniffled and sounded precariously close to crying, but blinked angrily and held the tears in. “I’m not going to tell anybody that name ever again, because then they’ll send me back!”

“And Westford will find you again?” Bond hazarded, unsure whether he was following correctly. He’d questioned people before, but never seven-year-olds.

Still looking down, wrists draped over his crossed ankles with their one handcuff, Q answered instead in his small voice, “And then things will be bad again.” He looked up, eyes large and shining with unshed tears and pleading suddenly with this man he’d barely met a few hours ago, “If nobody wants me there, I don’t have to go back, right? That makes sense? That’s not wrong?”

Bond was blinking and wondering just when his world had started turning on a different axis. He was so far out of his depth that he didn’t even know up from down anymore, yet he was sure that wherever he was, neither man nor Heaven could move him, because he couldn’t stand to just leave the helplessness in those brown eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he found the words pouring out of his mouth even as his hand moved almost of its own accord up into the boy’s mop of hair, resting there reassuringly. “I said you were stuck with me, right? Well, then what I say is all that matters, and I say that Q is just fine for a name, and a man’s business is his own.”

Now it was Q’s turn to blink, and he honestly looked as if he couldn’t believe it. Then he looked goofily relieved, as his face split into the first real grin that Bond had seen. The laugh that bubbled forth was rather manic, but Bond decided that he’d let it pass – the two of them had a long day, after all, and little-Q hadn’t taken the heat well. Unwilling to break into the happy moment but knowing that he still had a mission beneath all of this, Bond ask another question as lightly as possible, “So, you said you know about Westford’s cargo?”

Q looked up at him again, coming back to himself. “Yes. I even know where it is,” he said with a small shrug. His face was mostly open now instead of moody and guarded, and that made Bond almost as happy as the fact that Q’s nose was not broken. The kid looked pretty bruised, but Bond had yet to notice signs of anything permanent. Westford’s men had apparently seen fit to rough their little captive up a bit, but had had reasons not to damage him permanently. ‘Interesting…’ Bond stowed that question aside for later. He had more pressing questions.

“How do you know about it?” he asked, still keeping his tone light and undemanding.

The answer was not what he expected, although little-Q continued to look at him through his glasses as if this were the most obvious thing ever, “Because he brought me in to set all of it up.”

Chapter Text

~^~

“What?!”

Bond’s admittedly explosive question had the boy rethinking his trust. Movements economical and quick for such a small child, Bond’s new young partner came to his feet, clearly prepared to flee. Realizing that he was about to enter into a game of tag in a place not made for someone his size (the buckled roof already made him claustrophobic), Bond cast about in his mind for something friendlier to say.

Of course, things got complicated again right about at that point.

Bond heard the distant sound of unfamiliar voices a split-second before Q did, and both of them twitched. After that, little-Q nearly ran, and Bond was forced to lunge forward with a stifled curse to make a grab for him, fist closing luckily around the short, trailing chain at the boy’s ankle. Little-Q squeaked in frightened outrage even as he fell onto his side in the fine dirt. Before the boy could kick him, Bond dragged Q to him and scooped him up by his scruff, stifling verbal complaints with a hand over the kid’s mouth and defeating his struggles by pinning the wriggling frame against him. “Shhhht!” he snapped sharply in the boy’s ear, tense and listening as the voices drew closer. He had to respect the kid: in the seconds that they’d been struggling, little-Q had already sunk his fingernails into Bond’s hand deep enough to draw blood. Bond was going to have to remember to stop scaring the kid.

Belatedly, the danger sunk in, and then even Q froze. His little eyes were wide, and Bond knew that he was listening, too. As the voices came close enough to nearly be legible, the small body in his arms began trembling.

With baited breath and absolute silence, Bond and his charge waited to see if they would be found out. Before they could even understand the man’s speech, however, it was fading again, as well as the distant sound of boots on gravel. Bond relaxed, and a careful minute later he muttered down to his small charge, “See? I’m on your side. I’m really bad with kids, obviously, but I’m not planning on being anything like Westford’s men.”

Figuring by Q’s contrite stillness that he’d gotten the idea, the 00-agent slowly loosened his hold. He was sitting and Q was on his lap again, but since the kid was very small for being a seven-year-old (Bond was beginning to wonder if maybe it was only the kid’s speech that made one think him seven), it was comfortable. Still, the boy scrambled off. Bond sighed, preparing to have to catch him again, but Q didn’t go far: he just went a few feet away, still within arm’s reach and standing with his arms wrapped around his middle and his head and back bent to make him smaller even though he was standing. While Bond watched, slightly perplexed and still riding the adrenalin high of near-capture, little-Q turned around with his eyes still cast down. He was standing fearfully again, but now he also looked ashamed, and that got Bond’s attention.

It was explained a moment later as hesitant eyes looked up through the top third of scuffed glasses, Q’s eyes looked like they were going to overflow with tears as they looked at the back of Bond’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said in a scared, sincerely apologetic little voice, skinny, bruised arms falling to his side, “I thought…thought…” He looked away in acute embarrassment, and one blink had his lashes sticking together with gummy tears. “I thought you were g-going to hurt me, and I scratched you…”

Regardless of what he’d thought a moment ago, now Q obviously thought a vengeful Bond was going to hurt him, and that made Bond more angry than he had words for. Worse still, it was a directionless anger, burning in his gut because it didn’t have any outlet besides, perhaps, the men that had taught little-Q how to fear.

Unsure how to deal with this – a fearfully apologetic boy or this new brand of anger in his system – Bond cleared his throat and turned his hand to studiously study the little scratches. They were weeping blood, but otherwise not serious. Bond said as much in his most careless voice, “Oh, these? Barely a scratch. I can’t imagine how anyone would worry about it.”

Q obviously didn’t spent enough time around world-class agents to know when they were exaggerating an emotion, because his eyes were tense and hopeful as they turned back. Still, he seemed to think that he owed Bond – that he needed a bargaining chip – something to turn aside the wrath he felt he must have coming his way. Still shifting his feet nervously, Q fiddled with his glasses and verbally stumbled, “I…I can tell you about the shipments, about the computer systems Westford’s been getting, about-”

Finally Q got so shaky and panicky and nervous that he actually fumbled his glasses right off his face. It was only quick reflexes on Bond’s part that kept them from falling all the way to the ground, while the boy stood there looking five kinds of miserable and not knowing what to do now. He stood, helpless and skinny and now confused and blind, too.

Following instincts he hadn’t known he had, the big 00-agent slowly, slowly – he hoped it was slowly enough – reached forward a hand. Q didn’t run away, but that might have been because he’d lost his glasses and simply couldn’t. As the man’s hand just touched the middle of his arm, the undersized boy flinched, but Bond reassured him by simply wrapping his hand gently around his elbow. His hand could just about circle the skinny limb twice, and it felt as delicate as the bones of a bird beneath his hand. With the boy’s glasses out of the way, hooked in two of Bond’s fingers, he lifted his other hand carefully and wiped a thumb across Q’s eyes. Sadly, that just seemed to release tears, as Q looked at him in resigned panic and the hesitancy of the nearsighted.

Bond took pity on him after he’d more or less dried both eyes, shifting the glasses back onto the little boy’s face. “Shhh, shhh,” he said, unsure how to proceed but winging it as best he could, “It’s all right, Q. I know you’ve had it rough, but not anymore, all right? I’m here to protect you, not hurt you.”

Clear blue eyes looked up into Q’s young ones, adding honestly, “It would be nice if you could tell me everything you know about all this, but you don’t have to. I’m not going to scare you or threaten you into doing anything.” He could imagine MI6 arguing with him in his ear, but the earpiece was still unsettlingly silent – and for now, Bond was just fine with that. Just the thought of anyone suggesting he frighten a kid into giving out information made a boiling heat surge through his heart. Bond’s large hands were each on Q’s arms now, making the boy looked ridiculously small.

Q didn’t seem to know what to make of this. Hope and distrust took turns flashing over his face, warring with each other as he scanned the agent’s expression and eyes. The little boy took a jerky, impulsive step forward before some other instinct made him stop, distressed and still confused.

“What?” This time Bond made sure his voice didn’t sound like an angry bark.

Apparently, that was all it took to make up Q’s mind, as he scooted forward like a little eel, right out of Bond’s grip and right up to him. Skinny, bruised arms latched as far as they could around his chest, and Bond grunted, feeling the rims of Q’s glasses digging into his chest as the boy burrowed in close. He was still shaking, as if unaccustomed to hugging, or unaccustomed to his hugs being received well.

That thought made Bond say almost without thinking, “You’re a good boy, Q,” and hesitantly pat the shaggy little head. His other hand wrapped around the boy’s bony back, hoping that was the right thing to do.

It seemed to be, because Q relaxed. He also dug his little fingers into Bond’s ribs, but the agent ultimately deduced that this was not any conscious attempt to scratch him this time. Still, little-Q had the pokiest little fingers…!

And then Q started talking against his sternum, as if secrets felt safest when released from there, “Westford took me…from where I was before…so I could come here and work on his computers. He wants me to set them up so that they’ll hack into anything, and be untraceable. He…” The little body huddled closer, now sitting on the ground up against Bond’s right hip. He was pulling his small arms closer to his body, a sure sign of insecurity even as he still gripped Bond’s shirt and pressed his face against it. Q was feeling apologetic again. “He already had me set up the system that jammed that thing in your ear.”

Bond blinked, unable to decide what to believe: that he had an impossible kid-genius on his hands, or one of the best preadolescent liars in the world. He could only blink and stare down at the miniscule conundrum glued fearfully to him, and was at least smart enough to keep his hand on the boy’s back. The support seemed to convince Q that he was still safe.

“I think that Westford had always worked for other bad-guys. He doesn’t talk to me and nobody tells me anything, but I listen – I listen really well! And it makes sense. He wants to be a better bad-guy, I guess, and if he can hack into all sorts of things, then his friends will pay him more,” Q continued to explain in his child’s speech, so at odds with what he seemed to know. “And if he can do all of that without getting caught, every bad-guy will like Westford, and pay him to help them.”

“Are you really saying…?” This was all too incredible. Bond swallowed and looked towards the opposite wall and he tried to compose his thoughts, and when he turned his blue eyes back down, Q was looking up at him.

“I can prove it.” Q detached himself enough to sit back and lift a hand, palm-up, towards the big man. “Give me your earpiece.”

Now it was Bond’s turn to do a reasonably accurate impression of a pugnacious adolescent as he narrowed his eyes down at little-Q. “Why?”

“Because I know that it’s not working.”

Suddenly, Bond liked his charge better when the smallish seven-year-old was uncertain and timid. “How do you know it’s not working?” he retorted mulishly. If only M could see them now…

The look that Q gave him through his glasses was pure poetry: a perfect mix of ludicrous sarcasm and a jaded lack of amusement. It was the ‘I am not impressed, nor am I fooled' look.

“Fine,” Bond grunted. ‘Strike two for MI6’s best field agent.’ “Have it then.” He reached up and dug it out of his ear before dropping in onto Q’s small, proffered hand. By this point, he had to grudgingly admit, he was curious, because the boy’s eyes had suddenly become very calm and relaxed and focused, as if the small piece of technology were a piece of home.

Well, if his home were anything he liked at all. Bond had gotten the idea loud and clear that Q did not like wherever he had come from.

So, the boy began, rather horrifyingly and methodically, to take Bond’s earpiece apart. Part of 007 wondered if little-Q were just doing this because it was fascinating, but the piece of technology didn’t work anyway, so Bond told himself it didn’t matter. Settling himself down for a long, dull wait until the day cooled and/or Q got bored with his new [expensive] toy, the larger man slouched over his crossed legs. Q didn’t even notice, which was nice – up until now, the child had jumped a little or eyed Bond warily every time he moved. Bond’s pale-blue eyes lazily tracked down to the handcuff, still dangling a piece of chain off Q’s small ankle. He took a risk, asking with practiced idleness as he reached forward towards Q’s ankle, “How about I try to make this a little better, hm?”

It was a note on how distracted Q was with his new ‘toy’ that it was two beats before those large brown eyes turned to meet Bond’s uneasily. However, he swallowed his nervousness with more speed that previously, only chewing his lip pensively before slowly stretching out his leg. Bond could have reached it anyway, but he appreciated the gesture. Large, calloused, deadly hands fell on the much smaller limb, unsure what to do for a second, since Bond’s hand could nearly swallow little-Q’s ankle. Handcuffs he was more familiar with, however, and he was a decent hand at lock-picking.

So, Bond took out a small kit of lock-picks and began gently handling the cuff, mindful of how the skin it ringed was already red and raw from pulling and scraping. There was dried blood, something that had never bothered Bond before but bothered him now. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said when Q looked up, distracted from his work by the stinging of his ankle. Large, brown eyes looked up from beneath that mop of hair, back and forth between Bond’s earnest expression and the earpiece as if unsure which to seek comfort from or which to trust.

“Hey…” For once, Bond managed to strike the perfect balance between admonishing and gently teasing, and the hand that reached out to pat Q’s head was not rejected. In truth, Q seemed surprised, but then he seemed secretly delighted, his little fingers curling into the dirt around his pile of mechanics. Bond finished his sentence smoothly, “You just focus on what you’re doing, and I’ll do my job. Fair enough? I’ll be careful – on my word as 007.”

“You’ve got a number?” Q asked, and actually looked unsettlingly amazed and enamored by the idea, a smile stretching tentatively upon his narrow face.

Bond was focused on the cuff again, but arched one brow. “You’ve got a letter of the alphabet. Shove off,” he retorted with a hint of his hidden humor.

That marked the beginning of a hesitant bout of verbal sparring. Q still seemed nervous and insecure, but he was warming up to Bond quickly now, and was surprisingly quick with digs. He caught onto the ‘007’ idea like a terrier on a pant-leg, and seemed most comfortable when their topic revolved around just those numbers – probably numbers as a whole. Bond was seriously wondering how old this kid was. He talked maturely for even a ten-year-old when he got going, but was honestly small enough to pass for a malnourished six. Seven was still what Bond was sticking to – it was in between. Then there were the wonders little-Q was doing to the earpiece: he kept going silent because he was too wrapped up in the bits of metal and wire to talk, and when he’d sit up a bit, Bond would see more of his earpiece back together again.

In the end, Q finished before Bond did, which was galling but not entirely his fault. Not only did small children fidget, but they were amazingly distracting when working miracles with technology that Bond honestly had never even seen the inside of. “There – see!” Q had offered up his results without warning, the most brilliant of smiles on his normally pensive face and the earpiece – good as new – resting on his palms and right under Bond’s nose. He looked down at it and tried to focus without crossing his eyes.

“I’ll test it later,” he said on impulse, and when Q’s face fell tragically, he hastened to add in all sincerity, “I know that it’s fixed.”

Slowly, carefully, hesitantly, watching to see if Bond would suddenly laugh at him, Q brightened up again. He still looked so small and mistreated, with his bruised face and unkempt hair, but it was like watching a flower bloom to see the smiling light come back up into his eyes.

Bond smiled back, that small smile that nestled in one corner of his mouth and gave his own eyes an extra, sapphire brightness. “Now, just sit still – I want to get you out of this.”

Over the next five minutes (Bond was decent at lock-picking, not the best), Q proceeded to not only continue fidgeting but to incrementally move his upper body until he was curled on his side, his front facing Bond and his ankle still within easy reach, but with his head now pillowed on the man’s knee. By the time that happened, Bond wasn’t sure whether he was having a heart-attack or not, and little-Q was blinking sleepily. Before the cuff clicked open, Q’s eyes were entirely closed and he appeared to be asleep.

Slowly, careful not to move and nudge the child, Bond reached for the earpiece and pressed it into his ear. “M?”

“Bond!” came the immediate and rather unprofessional squawk, and the sound of multiple people suddenly hustling closer, “Where in the bloody world did you get to?!”

“Signal jammer,” Bond explained shortly, but he had bigger things to talk about. “M…when kids fall asleep on your knee in the middle of a crisis situation, do you get worried?”

“No, I rather don’t, mainly because I have yet to deal with adolescents in a crisis situation,” M pertly retorted while Bond resisted the urge to growl. M seemed to consider, and then added more unhelpfulness to the pile, “Unless you count you. You act rather like an adolescent all the time, regardless of the situation. Now tell me what’s going on, 007.”

Realizing that he probably deserved the verbal beating – or that M deserved to express her concern in a way that didn’t make her look soft in front of others – Bond took in the situation.

And he told her frankly: “I have a small child who might just be a technological prodigy and key to Westford’s plans. And he looks distressingly like he’s making himself at home around my right knee and shin.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Bond had relayed what Q had told him, and it had all been greeted by silence. While Bond sat and distractedly rested his hand on little-Q’s head, MI6 tried to wrap their brains around what Bond had said. It started as Bond’s hand just seeming magnetized to the kid’s head (he would have rested his hand on his knee, but Q’s head was on his knee – it all made perfect sense), and then some primal instinct had his fingers shifting until he was carding his fingers lightly through the tangled bird’s-nest. Q slept through it all, done-in and curled up on the soft, sandy ground.

Predictably, MI6 took a stance on things that included Q formulating lies. Then Bond told them that Q had fixed the earpiece they were communicating through, and that argument was shot down. Apparently the kid was a prodigy of some sort.

“You have to find out his name, Bond,” M’s calm voice finally won out over the others, coming to Bond’s ear.

The 00-agent grew wary, as if this question were an attack on him somehow. He wanted to explain to M that the boy didn’t want to tell his real name for fear of it tying him down – like a chain, back to his past – but realized how sentimental that would sound. MI6 was not a place where sentimental things flourished, so Bond growled out a sigh of faint frustration.

M was a bit more intuitive that she appeared, reading into Bond’s faint exhale and continuing, “It must be done, Bond. If this boy is really as skilled as he appears and Westford wants him, it is in our best interests to know as much as possible. Westford knows more than we do, and by now I hope you realize what a weapon intel is.”

Yes, Bond did. That didn’t mean he was okay with pressing Q on a topic that obviously upset him. Belatedly, Bond realized that he’d been petting the boy, and removed his hand in embarrassment. Then put it back, because Q hadn’t noticed anyway, and Bond’s determined fingers seemed to be gently getting some of the knots out of the boy’s unruly hair. Maybe he’d look a little bit less like a mop when he woke up. “Hm,” he finally responded, carefully noncommittal.

“We’ll try to figure out what we can on this end,” M sighed, giving in and realizing that Britain’s best and most stubborn agent was unlikely to fold. “Tell us more when you learn more.”

That meant that MI6 would not be actively eavesdropping on him for the next little while, and that made Bond’s mood improve. He’d never liked the feeling of having a talking parrot on his shoulder, backseat driving. “Understood. I have plans to move as soon as the day cools down, and to get directions from my Q here before then.”

Maybe M chuckled a little, or maybe that sound was her clearing her throat. “Our Q will be gathering as much data as he can on your location in the meantime. Good luck, 007. Stay out of trouble.”

“I always stay out of trouble.” He affected an affronted tone even while one side of his mouth curled up.

M’s answer was ominous and poignant, however, “Yes, but then you never have a child with you, do you?”

After that, the silence wasn’t quite as appreciated, because Bond found that the silence inside of his head eerily reflected his total lack of knowledge in regards to children yet again. He sighed, hoping that his luck would continue to hold out.

~^~

The day wore on. There was little else to be said about it, except for the obvious: it was hot. In the shade it was tolerable, but probably only because James wasn’t moving. He’d gotten pretty good at remaining immobile for extended lengths of time in order to survive, and now was no different; there was a child pillowed on his knee, but that was almost too much of an anomaly to even compute. At least said anomaly was asleep. Asleep, he was decently uncomplicated. The feelings of protectiveness Bond was feeling were not.

Given a bit of time for thinking for once – a rarity for a 00-agent on a mission – Bond sat in the shady warmth and contemplated the kid who’d named himself Q. MI6 wanted to know his real name, but Bond mostly didn’t care. Names didn’t matter much when you yourself were known as 007 half the time. What Bond really wanted to know was why he felt like he’d burn the world down for this kid.

Protectiveness aside, Bond likened little-Q to a kitten that had not been particularly well socialized, or raised in an environment with a limited number of people to pet and play with it. Said kittens were no less cute than normal kittens, but tended to be easily spooked and only showed curiosity until the object (or person) of their curiosity moved. This level of hesitant, timid interest was all over Q’s little face most of the time, and Bond was unsure how to get over that. Fortunately, Q was becoming more trusting…but Bond had no idea why. Obviously, Bond was doing something right, so he just had to hope he kept doing it.

Little-Q’s nap lasted until the next arrival of enemy footsteps ground against the earth outside, distant but audible in the still and stifling air. Pinpointing the direction and distance by sound, Bond tensed and reached out a hand to touch the gun he’d laid next to his hip in preparation. The slight motion and tautening of his body communicated itself to Q, who twitched out of sleep with a start and began blinking his large brown eyes.

Still calm, aware of just how far away the newcomer was, Bond placed his free hand calmingly on Q without turning his head. His fingers rested on the side of Q’s head, the shell of the boy’s ear brushing his palm, and he just heard the boy’s soft gasp of surprise before Q wisely went silent, getting the message. The boy didn’t move, except to tighten his small hands marginally on the material of Bond’s pant-leg. Just as Bond was about to quietly extricate himself from his young companion, getting ready to stand and fight if necessary, the footsteps faded away, missing their hiding spot.

Waiting another ten minutes (a ten minutes that little-Q endured with patience beyond his years), Bond finally relaxed and turned back to Q. “False alarm. We’re safe.” He amended ruefully but lightly enough, “Safe as we were before, at any rate.” He removed one hand from the side of Q’s tousled head and the other from the grip of his gun, feeling tension seep out of his body again like a time-honored ritual.

Q sat up, hair a tousled mess from his nap and glasses slightly askew from sleeping with them on. Straightening them, the boy stood up, but only to lean around Bond a tiny bit as if to get a glance outside; he still looked nervous, and Bond reflected that being startled out of sleep like that was never a fun experience. “How about you sit down?” he tried, keeping his voice light and putting a slight, winning smile on his face. Perhaps the smile was a bit much, because the boy looked over at him with one ‘Are you serious?’ eyebrow raised. Bond let his smile turn more wry. “I’m going to eat whether you sit down or not, and after that, we’re going to have a talk about Westford’s business, so the choice is yours.”

The mention of food had the boy’s eyes lightening up, and Bond realized that the kitten analogy was maybe more accurate that he could have hoped – the temptation of food worked on both. Movements light and quick as his frame suggested, Q turned about and plopped down in front of Bond’s legs.

Q’s ankle still looked bad, even though the cuff was at least off it. Realizing that Q was likely to enjoy food more than having James pawing at his ankle again, Bond dug around in the many pouches at his belt to find two energy bars. He then tried not to let his mouth quirk into a smile as he noted the way Q’s large eyes followed the energy bars from the moment they came into view. Bond wondered if Q would jump up and bolt after it if he threw one. Instead of testing this theory, the agent behaved like the adult he was and began unwrapping one, the second settled on his leg just out of Q’s conservative reach. Since Bond was taking apart the wrapping at a rather slow pace, Q began to narrow his eyes, but refused to otherwise show impatience. ‘Old man in a little kid’s body,’ Bond reflected again. “So Westford has a ton of tech he’s been smuggling in?” he asked, eyes on the work of his hands.

The kid’s attention was similarly focused, but he answered concisely, “Yes. There is a wide variety of technological devices, probably more than I was given access to.” He shrugged, further considering, “Probably more than Westford is even using. I don’t know. It’s a big warehouse.”

“So you know where it is?” Bond looked up and raised an eyebrow.

Perhaps realizing that Bond was purposefully using the energy bar as a distraction and that Bond was also starting off with questions he’d already asked to ease little-Q into the interrogation, the kid’s scowl grew more pronounced and he turned from looking at the wrapper to Bond’s face. “I said I did, and I did. Now, are you going to give me that, or were you lying about sharing food with me?”

Q sounded like he was just being a tetchy little kid, but his shoulders were too tense and the edge on his voice said he was striking too close to the truth to be joking around. Bond was too good at reading body-language to miss the fact that the child really was insecure about being fed, and the bravado was just a kitten’s effort to fluff up his fur and bluff his way into being taken seriously. Somebody in the past hadn’t fed Q when he was hungry, and that made Bond both sad and unaccountably angry.

Tearing off the rest of the wrapper halfway off with a twitch of his wrist, Bond leaned forward in one smooth motion so that he was holding the energy bar in front of Q’s thin chest before the boy could even think to flinch. Bond’s eyes looked at him steadily, calmly. “You let me wrap up your ankle, and you can eat this,” he proposed equably.

Small, delicate fingers flexed against Q’s legs, and his eyes blinked down at the food with something hinging on avarice. Still, Q seemed wary on making the deal, which made Bond sigh slightly. Finally, he just reached forward with his other hand and grabbed one thin wrist and ignored the jerk of surprise, pulling little-Q’s hand forward to take the bar. “Eat. You’re too skinny by half anyway, and if you’re going to be helpful, I’d rather you not be unconscious due to malnutrition.”

Rattled, Q’s eyes flew up to Bond’s face, but then down to the food now firmly in his possession. “T-Thank you,” he managed with endearing politeness that few kids (and few adults) had. Then, more uncertainly, he clutched the energy bar closer to leaned forward to query, “So you still want me to help?”

Bond arched one eyebrow. “Unless you see another person here who knows where Westford is hiding everything and what he’s doing. Now-” He thumped a finger against Q’s shin, just above the ring of raw skin around his ankle. “-Can I take a look at this?”

After a pause, Q gave himself a faint shake and answered quite formally, “Of course.” As Bond’s had drew his ankle forward and continued to show no signs of being threatening, little-Q relaxed a bit – enough to snap out rather archly for a seven-year-old, “And stop asking me questions I’ve already answered.”

That set Bond to chuckling almost before he knew it. “Bloody cheek,” he snorted, but softly enough to render the words a joke – or maybe even something kindly and companionable. “Well, then how about you just start talking, smart guy? Tell me what we need to know.”

It actually seemed to be the inclusive ‘we’ that warmed Q the most. Losing the last of his tension (thin shoulders easing so they weren’t bony knots anymore), Q tore into the energy bar like a starveling dog and then realized he couldn’t talk around such a big mouthful. Making little noises of embarrassment and trying not to spit out food or inhale it, the boy covered his mouth and chewed as quickly as possible. Bond tried not to laugh and rather failed.

“Stop laughing!” Q protested, still talking around food so that a bit or two flew out. That only made Bond want to laugh more, and he tried to distract himself by pulling out the small first-aid kit he carried. Finally: Q was acting like a kid. An affronted kid who cared more about manners than most, but still…

Finally Q managed to get his first mouthful down, and Bond scooted the water canteen closer to him, wordlessly offering that, too. “Q, I’m going to want to get into wherever Westford has all of these computers, and I’m going to want to wreck his system a little bit.”

Reaching for the water container, Q looked up, and there was a slightly feral glint in his eyes. “I can do that,” he said evenly. His voice shook a little, and Bond didn’t know if it was from remembered pain or acquired anger. “If we get to the computers, I can wreck them.”

Bond wasn’t so sure of this. He trusted Q’s skill, after seeing the incredible job he’d done with Bond’s earpiece, but the boy’s vulnerable size and age he was less secure about. “If you give me directions, I’m pretty sure that I can cause a bit of destruction, too,” Bond tried to assure Q.

Q just retorted in the same calm voice, small spine straightening, “And if I don’t give you directions, you’re going to run around in this bloody sun all day until someone shoots you.”

“Watch your mouth,” Bond murmured reflexively, even while his mind grew irritated by the obstacle he was suddenly faced with: stubborn child. Why did Q have to choose now to get obstinate?! It seemed that whenever it would be helpful for little-Q to be timid and docile, he wasn’t. “And what about my plan is so distasteful to you? I may not be a technological prodigy, but a few bullets would ruin Westford as easily as you messing with wires.”

“Not with the program I set up,” was the confident answer, “Westford will be mad to lose the computers and hardware he’s been smuggling in, but he’ll still be able to access the program to cause just as much trouble from another computer.”

This was getting more and more annoying by the second.

Then it got more complicated, but in an abruptly emotional way: Q said, voice suddenly softer, “Do you want to leave me behind?”

Bond had nearly forgotten about little-Q’s insecurities. Someone – perhaps everyone – had treated this kid awfully poorly for him to constantly expect to be abandoned and mistreated, and that suddenly made Bond feel angry again. He reached forward, eyes hard but expression calm, and gripped Q by the shoulders so they were face to face, Q’s wide, bespectacled eyes to Bond’s narrowed, glacial ones. “Q,” he said in a voice low like a growl but hard like a stony promise, “if I ever meet the people that taught you to think like that, I’m going to shoot them in the kneecaps.”

“Bond-?! What?!” Q squeaked back in alarm, but by then Bond had released him and was already using the contents of the first-aid kit to treat and bandage the wiz-kid’s ankle. Bond shrugged, and easy roll of his muscular shoulders, but otherwise pretended he hadn’t said anything, much to the boy’s consternation. He was blinking his eyes like a perturbed owl at the MI6 agent. Finally, the boy got his brain to regroup, however, and then he was sputtering his way back to his argument again like the stubborn child he was, “You still need me to take down Westford, though. You understand that?”

“Yes, Q,” Bond stated with exaggerated patience, “I think you’ve made that point clear. Besides, if I left you anywhere, I’d have to constantly worry about you getting heat-stroke or being found by Westford’s men.” Which was nothing short of the truth: Bond would worry. He wasn’t used to worrying about people or even working with partners, but just the thought of leaving such a small boy alone in hostile territory made his skin crawl.

So, as the last hours of boiling heat faded into evening, Q gave Bond meticulous instructions on where to find and how to reach Westford’s center of operations. Throughout that time, Q ate the rest of his energy bar and nearly licked the wrapper, so Bond gave him half of another (which the agent then finished himself). He wished unrealistically that he could just instantly put some meat on the kid’s bones, because Q was practically a little twig-child, but figured he’d work on that after the mission.

What exactly would he do with little-Q after the mission? Bond had a hard time wrapping his mind around it, and ultimately decided to worry about that problem when he came to it.

“All right, if you come with me-”

“I am coming with you,” Q repeated pugnaciously.

Bond had finally just reached the point when he idly ignored the interruptions. “-You’re going to have to follow my rules. Can you do what I tell you to?”

For a moment, Q just turned is head slightly to eye Bond askance before giving in with poor grace, “If you’re not asking me to do idiotic things.”

Grunting a laugh and smirking crookedly, the blond agent gave a bit, “I won’t, but while we’re on the move – and especially if people start shooting at us – you will do whatever I say. Quickly, if you’re smart. Which you are.”

The last had Q preening just a bit, lifting his head like a peacock even though he had hair much more easily likened to some sort of bird’s nest. “Okay then,” he ultimately agreed. “Can I have another candy bar?”

~^~

Dusk had fallen, that purple in-between-time when shade and light intermixed and the shadows were freest. It was still uncomfortably muggy out, but at least the temperature was dropping, and Bond felt comfortable with night closing in like his own personal bodyguard and shield.

Thin arms clung to his neck, Bond’s minute partner decidedly less comforted by the concealing darkness. Q was riding piggy-back now, the two having decided that that left Bond freest to move and act, and clung like a bony limpet. Small as he was and muscular as Bond was, Q couldn’t wrap his legs very far around Bond’s ribcage, but he made up for that by the tenacious grip of his arms as they nestled around the man’s collarbones.

It turned out that Q not only knew where they wanted to go, but that he knew the best route – he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Bond would be wandering around if not for the boy’s help. The ‘warehouse’ Q had referred to was actually underground, which Bond took the time to relay to MI6, along with the knowledge that Westford was planning cyber-mayhem. M and the old Quartermaster had seemed surprised and slightly unsettled by this, but the real worry that they expressed from headquarters was that they had no intel or way to find information about this underground storage area. “I don’t even know if the signal to your earpiece can reach that far,” ‘old-Q’ admitted, and all the while Bond was watching little-Q’s face. The boy’s nose was wrinkled up, and Bond figured that his opinion differed slightly. The kid didn’t seem limited by the normal rules of physics, or at least technology.

“Understood,” was all Bond had said, seeing no reason in belaboring the point.

Now he was following the advice of a child as darkness settled in, his own face cool and calm as he scanned the shadows, his ears alert as they listened to the voice of Q right up next to the right side of his head.

“Most of the passages will be guarded, but this place was built long before Westford took over,” Q was whispering, “I found another way in and out that I don’t think he knows about.”

“How did you find it?” Bond asked, mostly just to keep up the conversation. They were not talking loudly, and it kept Q calm without distracting Bond.

There was a stretch of silence, then little-Q replied somberly, “I tried to escape through it. I made it up here, but then realized that I didn’t know how to get off the island. That was when Westford started handcuffing me to the table and taking away my shoes, so I couldn’t run anywhere.”

Bond felt a wave of heat flood through his blood and his hands tightened where they secured Q’s slender legs against his sides. “I hope Westford doesn’t show up then,” he ground out.

Catching the change in tone, Q leaned further over Bond’s shoulder to try and read his face, asking slowly with worry, “Why…?”

“Because, if he does, I cannot promise that I will restrain myself from killing him in an excessively vicious manner,” Bond replied with flippant ruthlessness. He figured that he may as well scare the boy with the truth now, because that was exactly what was going to happen if that man got within firing range while Bond had a gun on him, or within arm’s reach if he didn’t.

Instead of panicking at the realization that the man with him was a merciless assassin, Q snuggled in closer, and Bond felt him exhale against the side of his neck. “Thanks,” the kid said, amending less certainly, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say thanks to something that… violent… but…” He took in a shaky breath, letting it out in another, “Thanks.”

Bond freed up a hand to reach around and ruffle the boy’s hair. “Don’t mention it.”

~^~

As promised, the pathway that Q knew of was deserted – the kid’s memory was flawless. A few times, Bond and his partner nearly walked into Westford’s men on the way there, but Bond was good at what he did: he heard trouble coming, and reacted with effortless ease and no hesitation. Thankfully, Q followed directions in kind, despite his earlier protests. In fact, as soon as Bond’s muscles tensed, Q would go completely still like nothing so much as an immobile, silent backpack. The kid was already well-trained in how to react to potentially dangerous situations, and as lamentable as the acquisition of that skill was, Bond was grateful for it.

No one got shot. No alarms were set off. By the time they reached the forgotten door that Q had used that one time before (hidden behind rubble so thick that Bond nearly had to crawl, and therefore it wasn’t surprising that only the little kid knew about it), it was almost nightfall, but no one was on their tail yet. “There’s not much debris on the ground here or on the way down,” Q said, when they stood inside a half-collapsed room looking at a broken door that only leaned against its intended position. “So I can walk now.”

Bond wasn’t getting tired yet – he’d carried far heavier loads for far longer in the past – but going this long without trouble was making him edgy, and he wanted to be able to move as quickly and freely as possible, so he nodded and dropped down onto his haunches to ease Q to the ground. The boy found his feet quickly, straightening his glasses again, and then trotted in the failing light up to the dark doorway. With the door leaning as it was, there was a triangle of darkness where it opened up into stairs leading downwards, and, after a pause, Q just slipped in. “Q-!” Bond hissed, but then just growled and followed, having to twist to get his much larger body to fit through the gap without moving anything.

Fortunately, little-Q was waiting just beyond in the landing, the shadows picking out a faintly bemused look on his face at Bond’s worry. “What?”

“How about you try to stay a little closer?” Bond snipped, straightening and getting a good look around while also striding forward so he could put a peremptory hand on Q’s shoulder. Realizing that it was going to get pretty dark pretty soon, he took out a flashlight, only clicking it on while he had his fingers loosely folded over it: in this way, only a faint, red glow exited past his skin. He could see, and Q – ahead of the light – could see even better, all without casting great beams of revealing light ahead of them. Still with his other hand on Q’s shoulder, Bond waved the flashlight awkwardly forward, saying lightly, “Lead on.”

As they started walking – almost immediately heading down stairs – Bond let go of the kid, if only because he habitually kept one hand free and empty to grab for his gun. Still, he was closely enough that he could have stepped on little-Q’s heels if he’d just lengthened his stride.

Two flights of stairs they went down, until Q stopped, facing a door. He turned back to Bond, the red glow of light picking out the delicate, sharp angles of his young face and making dark tangles of his hair in contrast. “Through here is how I got out. It’s kind of a collapsed room, and Westford doesn’t think anyone can get through it. I…” He looked away, embarrassed. “I’ve never tried to get through there without shoes before.”

Bond cocked his head slightly. “Do you want me to carry you?”

“I don’t think that would be feasible.” ‘What kind of kid used the word ‘feasible’?’ “It’s rugged terrain in there. I’ll just follow you.”

“And give direction as the same time?”

Q bristled a little at the disbelieving tone, but mostly that just gave away his mounting nervousness. “I can do that!” he protested, barely managing to keep his voice down.

“Okay, okay,” placated Bond, his mind already thinking. He dropped down onto one knee and began untying his shoe without explanation.

Even the faint shuffle of his bare feet loud in the quiet, little-Q shifted his weight and edged a step closer in cautious curiosity. “What are you doing, Mr. Bond?”

“Just Bond is fine.” The 00-agent continued taking off his shoe. “I’m giving you something to put on your feet, Q.”

“I will never fit in your shoes. Even if I put both feet in one shoe.”

That made the agent snort with amusement. “I know that. I’m giving you my socks. Here.” He tossed the one he’d just removed up to Q, who caught it fumblingly. Putting his shoe back on his bare foot again, Bond switched to repeat the process with the other. “Apologies for the smell. It’s not often I find a need to share my socks.”

When Q didn’t move, Bond tipped his head up, shifting the flashlight awkwardly so he could see the kid’s face. Little-Q was staring at the sock with a look between distrust and consternation, and it was hilarious. Bond would have chortled if he didn’t already know that Q didn’t care much for being laughed at…and because they were in a dangerous situation. That, too. “Go on now, put it on,” he coaxed in a too-cheery voice. Q looked up, brows lowering as dangerously as a seven-year-old could, obviously hearing the teasing amusement in the man’s voice. Bond defended his smile, “You don’t want your feet ripped up, do you? And besides, it’s surprisingly cool down here, out of the sun.” Bond had gotten his other shoe off, and soon the sock followed and was handed to Q. He decided to use the boy’s pride to goad him: “Do you need help?”

That got a response. Q brought himself up to his full height, holding a sock in either hand like a pair of dead ferrets, and glared at Bond defensively. “No!” Still looking put-out by this plan, Q started to hop on one foot to pull on a sock, promptly dropping the second sock. He also proved that he wasn’t exactly a gymnast, in that he nearly fell over. Fortunately, his hip hit the wall first, and he braced himself long enough to pull the sock on. It was ridiculously too big, but Bond urged him to roll it up all the way, if only to make it less likely that it would slide back down again. The second sock was put on with similar klutziness, and Bond – sitting now, watching with amusement – was struggling not to laugh.

“Fine – laugh,” the boy retorted sourly, rolling his dirt-smudged pants back down over the over-large socks, “Wait until you and your tallness hit a low-hanging ceiling beam in the next room. Then I’ll laugh.”

“I don’t think ‘tallness’ is a word,” Bond pointed out.

“It is. Spellcheck doesn’t catch it. Can we go now?” Q pouted, straightening again and obviously thinking he looked ridiculous. In reality, the socks didn’t really look that abnormal, especially when Q’s pants hid them mostly. Hopefully the kid’s poor feet would be protected a bit.

“Yes, we can go now. Any helpful hints before we open this door?” Bond retained lightness in his tone despite the increasing danger that came with every step they took.

The 00-agent was standing at the door already, and Q came up next to him, seemingly unconsciously reaching up to hook a finger in one of the man’s belt-loops. “Um…I went around the circumference of the room. So go left. No one will be in there, so you can use more light, but there might be people in the room beyond…” Q was worrying his lip, and had come to stand so close to Bond’s side that he could feel the boy shaking.

“Hey.” He wrapped his free arm around Q’s skinny shoulders, squeezing because that was what he would have wanted someone to do if he was in Q’s position. “We’re gonna be fine. You’re with me, remember?” When Q looked up, still not convinced, Bond flashed a roguish smile. “I’m 007 – the best there is. After all of this is over, I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?”

“Would shooting anyone who has ever bothered you in the kneecaps do it?”

Q was obviously caught between a scowl and a wobbly smile. “That would be excessively violent. No.”

“It was worth a try.” Bond shrugged and then turned the door-handle to let them into the pitch-black remains of a room long abandoned.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

It turned out that Q could give directions while walking behind Bond, which suited the agent just fine – he preferred being the one to face danger first, both because he was the more prepared for trouble of the two of them, and because then nothing would be between him and a target if it came to that. He did as Q suggested and began to circumnavigate the room, immediately realizing that that was really the only way to do it.

It looked like a bomb had gone off in the room. Supports and rubble were everywhere, and it looked as if a good portion of one side of the room had been filled in with earth, sand and dirt and stone pouring through a hole in the wall. At first glance, Bond didn’t think he’d be able to go two feet into that tight wreck, but then, with little-Q pointing past his hip and whispering helpful directions, Bond began to see the path that the boy had taken.

Bond was bigger than Q, which posed problems. Many of the places Q had slipped through were definitely child-sized. Fortunately, with Bond’s size came strength, and a keen eye for seeing what he could move without causing another collapse or a ton of noise. Still, whenever he had to move things out of his way, he shooed Q back a ways to where things looked most stable. It was hard to tell in the darkness whether this annoyed Q or whether he was secretly warmed by the concern.

It was slow going, but Q didn’t make a noise when he wasn’t giving directions, and Bond couldn’t have hoped for a more patient child to be stuck with. The boy just stayed right on his tail, often with his fingers hooked into Bond’s belt even – if it weren’t for that occasional tug, Bond might have doubted that Q was with him at all.

Except for the shusssh-shusssh of socks moving on the ground. Bond subtly toed aside any sharp objects he saw underfoot, and Q was being careful, too. So far – no problems. He sounded like nothing so much as a soft-footed little animal walking at Bond’s heels. That little animal hissed suddenly in pain, however, as he finally put his foot down on something. Bond stopped immediately, reaching back with the hand that shielded the flashlight. “Q?” he asked in a low, cautious voice that hid most of his worry.

Biting his lip in discomfort, Q was leaning against the wall and holding one foot up, trying to seek the problem with one hand. MI6 must truly have lost contact with him, because there was no one nagging in Bond’s ear as he stopped, turned around, and knelt to address the problem instead of pressing onwards. “Lean on me,” he commanded/coaxed, nudging his shoulder close so that Q moved one hand from the wall to the agent’s muscled shoulder more or less reflexively. Bond’s own hands had already taken one little socked foot by the ankle, lifting it a touch higher so he could look at it as best he could. There was a bit of blood darkening the cloth, and Bond got a little more careful. “Sorry, I’m clumsy,” Q was murmuring sadly, and Bond just distracted him by handing up the flashlight.

“Hold this. You saw how I did it? Good. Give me a bit of light here, and try not to blind us both, all right?” he joked.

With hands smaller than Bond’s, it was a bit tricky, but Q managed to hold the head of the flashlight in a grip that let only the thinnest splinters light out past his fingers. With that light helping him, Bond bent his head to his task, fingers gently running along the arch of Q’s foot until he hit something that wasn’t supposed to be there. At the same time, Q jumped and squeaked. “Shhh, shhh,” Bond instinctively soothed, “Sorry, Q, I didn’t mean to be rough about it. It feels like glass.” He paused, thinking about what he planned to do and how best to do it. “I’m going to pull it out, Q.”

“Of course.” Q’s words were flippant, but his tone gave away how little he wanted that to happen. It quavered. “How else am I supposed to walk?”

Bond played along, “Exactly. It’ll hurt less if it’s out, too.” He felt Q’s fingers tighten into a fist in the material of his shirt, and the flashlight’s glow wavered the barest bit – but Q was being strong, and that made Bond smile with affectionate pride. “Try to be quiet, okay?”

The little fist tightened, so much so that the boy pinched skin.

By that point, Bond pretty much had a grip on the shard of glass and a feel for the angle it had gone in. Q might have been the resident kid-genius, but Bond had field experience. He pulled out the offending shard without further warning.

Q’s yelp was louder than his initial squeak of surprised pain, but not by much. As horrid as it was, truthfully Bond had been counting on Q’s quiet, controlled nature for just such a reaction. The agent lifted his head to watch Q’s face nonetheless, uneasy about how much he’d hurt the kid. Shards of glass that small were all part of a day’s injuries for a 00-agent, but Q was just little…

Releasing a big breath, Q’s eyes – previously shut tight – opened, and he blinked twice behind his glasses before commenting with something like surprise, “That wasn’t so bad as I thought it was. I mean, it was bad, but…”

Bond couldn’t help but chuckle at the babbling. He also couldn’t help but reach up to ruffle Q’s hair, as if it weren’t unruly enough. He got a scowl and a swat to his hand for his troubles, but it was worth it. “Can I have your sleeve, Q?” he asked next.

Now he was getting a perplexed look. “Why?”

“Your shirt is tattier than mine, and if I don’t wrap your foot, you’re going to drip blood everywhere,” he answered honestly, then added to keep up the levity, “I promise I’ll buy you a whole new shirt – a whole new wardrobe-” Q’s clothes really were horrible. “-When we get out of this. Deal?”

Instead of just huffing and giving in, Q actually seemed to be considering this a real, serious deal. Suddenly Bond worried that he wouldn’t be able to follow through with this deal, because Q did seem terribly eager. “Okay. I’ll just stand here, yeah?”

“You got it.”

With Q still on one foot but now leaning on the wall again instead of Bond, the 00-agent expertly took hold of Q’s shirt in two hands at the sleeve, and then pulled. Q’s eyes rounded out at how easily the man did it, a simple flex of impressive muscles rending the sleeve separate from the rest of the shirt. “Something tells me I still won’t be able to do that when I grow up,” he said in all seriousness.

“Oh, who knows?” Bond replied distractedly as he made strips of the sleeve and tied them around the arch of little-Q’s foot, “Maybe you’ll grow some muscle.”

“Or maybe I’ll stay a string-bean.”

Bond considered, then shrugged and replied, “Or maybe you’ll stay a string-bean.” It seemed much more likely, and Bond’s small companion seemed to appreciate truthfulness. In fact, Bond thought he heard a conservative snort of laughter. ‘One point for the MI6 agent,’ he mentally tallied with a smile of his own. “All right then. That’s the best I can do. It’ll hurt, but if you still want to keep going-”

“I want to stay with you,” was the sharp reply, as doggedly stubborn as always.

Bond was already standing and nodding. “Let’s get moving then. I think we’re almost to the other door.” And just as quickly and obediently as that, Q hushed up, nodding and slipping in behind Bond like his own shadow. As they walked, Bond was now extra careful to make sure he kept them clear of anything sharp underfoot.

By the time they reached the door, Q was breathing shallow and fast – not because of pain, Bond thought, but because of trepidation as they returned to a place where the boy had been held captive for who-knew-how-long. “You okay?” he murmured over his shoulder, keeping his voice pitched low so as not to carry.

Q’s hand had been on the back of his shirt, and now clenched in it, as he already had an endearing habit of doing. “Fine,” he declared shortly in his clear, high voice, but was smart enough to keep the volume down, too. More uneasily, he tipped his head up to meet Bond’s eyes in the red glow of the flashlight. “Can you tell if there’s anyone on the other side?” He tipped his tousled head towards the door.

Instead of answering, Bond focused on the task at hand; a quick press of his hand to Q’s shoulder sufficed to inform the kid that he was to stay put. Bond could get used to having partners who listened as well and learned as quickly as Q. The MI6 agent went up to the door to listen closely, eyes moving along the hinges to see if there was any indication that it would make a lot of noise if he opened it. Deciding that chances were good that it would be fairly quiet, he turned the knob slowly and eased it open the barest fraction. The room beyond was pitch-black, so Bond smiled. Very rarely were people in a pitch-black room, and if they were – lying in wait – then they’d learn that 00-agents were especially well trained to kill people in low lighting. “Come on,” he urged Q forward, and with a slightly limping but quick step, the boy came up to him. As Bond pulled the door open a little further (as far as it would actually go with all of the debris in the room), he then ushered Q out, eyes taking in everything.

Nothing happened by the time Bond entered the room, and as he let the flashlight’s beam show a little bit more (keeping the light carefully away from Q, making sure the kid stayed hidden in complete, protective shadows at all times) there was still no response. Soon it became apparent that the blackness was punctuated by little lights of red and green: computers, alive but sleeping, lights flickering to show that they awaited someone to wake them. Machinery and technology clogged the room.

Q was already traipsing over to one computer, slipping right up into the chair that he was actually too short to sit in; his feet dangled. “I’m gonna wreck it,” was all he said to Bond, sort of a declaration, sort of a question whether it was safe to continue. The little green light on the side of the modem reflected in Q’s glasses, making him look like a little wild-thing with glinting eyes. He looked determined for someone so young.

Then again, if Bond had been cooped up here and pushed around, he’d have felt the same need for retaliation. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch. If you hear anything – or if I tell you to – shut it down and find some cover. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Those wild little eyes softened and turned surprised in the eerie light. No one had cared if he got hurt before Bond came. “Okay,” he said quietly in perfect agreement. Then his slender young hands were moving, confidently coaxing the computer into wakefulness.

Flinching away as the area began to glow with computer-screen brightness, Bond decided to take a look around. By now, he’d stopped fighting the protective urges that demanded he stay nearby, so he began padding silently in an arc with Q at its center. The kid hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that Westford had a lot of superfluous technology stockpiled here: there were walls of it. After Q finished and just before they made their exit, Bond planned to blow it nicely up. To that effect, he set a small detonation device in roughly the center of the room, tucking it away with the skill of long-practice. It wouldn’t blow up yet, obviously, but Bond always preferred to work when things were calm.

Just as he was thinking the word ‘calm’ the faintest noise put him on alert. Silently, he straightened, movements as fluid as a panther, and tried to identify the noise. It hadn’t been necessarily unsettling; it had barely been audible at all. But something was making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Surely if there had been a problem Q would have called out? Or he’d have heard him diving under a desk. But no: he could just see that the light of the computer was still on, and Q hadn’t made a noise. He’d left the boy to work for a little under seven minutes now, and when Bond had circled close he’d heard the complacent sounds of keys clicking and the wheels of a chair occasionally rolling in little shuffles.

That was when Bond realized that he couldn’t hear the sounds of typing anymore.

Swiftly but still with utter, deadly silence, Bond began weaving his way back to where he’d left Q. By now, with only the distant light of that one computer and the occasional green or orange-red lights of various modems around the room, Bond could see without his flashlight, so he’d turned it off. That meant he was a dark entity moving through the darkened warehouse, and anything that wanted to catch him had better hope it saw in the dark better than he did.

When Bond just got within sight of where he’d last seen Q, he froze, feeling his heart stop in his chest.

Eyes wild, clearly looking for him, Q was being held in the hands of a man that Bond knew from pictures to be Westford, a large hand wrapped over the boy’s mouth and another around his skinny chest to hold him up off the ground so he couldn’t make any noise. Four other men, armed and looking out into the dark with ready eyes and readier trigger fingers, stood around them to prevent Bond from attacking Westford from the back.

At that point, Westford seemed to grow tired of waiting for Bond to unwittingly show himself. “The time for sneaking around in the dark is over, Agent! Now, I’ve got your little friend, so if you don’t want his tender little neck broken, I’d come out where I can see you.”

Bond cursed silently, although outwardly his face just became hard. Anger ignited in his eyes, and this time when his earpiece was silent, he knew that he’d lost MI6. No help from that front. In the past, Bond had been occasionally known for the kind of cold, brutal efficiency that would let him sacrifice another in just this situation. But that wasn't him now, and the sight of Westford with one hand clamped painfully tight over Q’s mouth and the other suffocatingly tight around his thin chest was a sight that Bond never wanted to see again.

“I’m counting down from ten, Agent, and if I see you coming in gun-first, I can promise you, children this small are shockingly easy to break.” Q made a muffled keening noise, and Bond realized that that was what he’d distantly heard – Q, distressed, trying and failing to get free. The kid struggled, but Westford was a big man. “Ten. Nine. Five…”

“I’m right here, Westford.” Bond walked into the light, not even batting an eye as all four guns immediately swiveled around to point at him. Ahh, but if Bond had had Alec with him, this would have been a perfect ambush. All eyes were on Bond, even Q’s, large and scared. Bond imagined a bullet going through Westford’s head but knew he couldn't do it now. Instead, he smiled easily – disarmingly (which was ironic) – and lifted his gun between two fingers before placing it on a nearby table and stepping away. “Pretty bad for your image,” he made conversation in his low, charming voice, still pretending to be at ease (because the chances of him being shot were less if he acted calm and didn’t make any sharp movements), “Threatening to kill a kid. Especially a kid you claim is the son of one of your men.”

“Well, I lied about that,” admitted Westford easily, and although he let Q down now, he moved his hand from Q’s mouth to his throat – creating a collar of knuckles and tendons tight enough that Q just gasped and didn't make another sound. Possibly he couldn't, with a grip that tight around his slim neck. “Now, if you will kindly stand over there and let one of my men keep you out of trouble, we might all make it out of here alive.” Bond watched with careful motions of his eyes as one of the gunmen lowered his weapon and instead brought out zipties, but 007 pretended that that didn’t bother him in the slightest. And honestly, the only thing that bothered him right now was that Westford still had his big, meaty fist around Q’s neck like the boy was nothing more than a bird in the hand.

And Q was clearly terrified. “Bond-!” he squeaked, as he watched the 00-agent being restrained, but the hand at the boy’s throat cut him off and Westford didn't actually seem to be paying attention.

“Now then. Well, if you can just sit tight a moment, Agent – Bond, is it?” Westford paused, looking down at Q and proving that apparently he had been listening, a little. “May I call you Bond?”

“My friends do,” shrugged Bond equably, giving no sign that he actually noticed that his hands were now securely tied behind his back, “So do the people I kill. Whatever works to get me through the day.”

Westford would be a handsome man if he lost a few pounds of weight, but his smile had an edge to it that was sickly, and instead of making him look more appealing it ruined him. He chuckled a little at what he thought was a joke, although if he’d looked more closely at the killing intent in Bond’s glacial blue eyes, he would have realized it wasn’t. “Okay then, Mr. Bond, if you just sit tight a moment, I’ll get my resident tech-genius here to fix something he broke.” The words were emphasized in a chastising growl and Q cringed and squirmed as Westford’s hand shifted to painfully squeeze his nape. It was all Bond could do not to launch himself forward like some sort of deranged attack-dog. Then Westford was pushing the boy towards the computer he'd left, keeping close to him and ensuring he didn't bolt. “Whatever you just did,” he murmured in a voice that Bond easily overheard, full of venom and violence, “You’re going to undo it, or so help me, I’ll undo you, boy!”

Then, shockingly, Q – who’d already been coaxed back into the chair but not to put his hands on the keyboard – argued. “No, you can’t make me!

‘Q, why do you have to pick now to act your age?’ Bond lamented silently, as Westford gripped Q’s upper arm hard enough to make the boy wince and gave him a shake. Bond now knew where those bruises came from, and he’d never wanted to kill someone more. He almost didn’t realize that he’d growled – low and feral – until hands tightened on his shoulders and someone jammed a knee into his stomach. Bond had taken blows like that before, but it was something that never really got less painful. Groaning, he didn’t bother to straighten up right away from where he’d curled around the pain, because there was no hurry. If he had an ego, he generally let it go until he was winning. Right now, hunched over and letting the agony in his middle fade, he silently recounted the many ways in which he could make sure the man that kneed him never walked again.

“Bond, do be civil,” Westford sighed.

“You first,” Bond couldn't help but pant, lifting his eyes enough to pierce Westford with them, where the man still had a threatening hand on Q.

That answer was obviously not the right one, Bond found out as one gunman joined the first in trying to beat the smartass out of him. Usually, Bond was accused of being reckless and impulsive, but the reason behind his continued survival was because he was also calculating beneath it all. Now, he thought his way through the beating; so far as beatings went, this one was neither inspired nor particularly destructive. It hurt like an avalanche, but Bond had seen the blows coming, and by tensing muscles or shifting his body at just the right moment, he could lessen some of the pain.

But there was still pain.

One blow caught him by surprise, a closed-fisted strike out of nowhere to his jaw, and he lost his footing. Fortunately, upon hitting the ground, the gunmen seemed to be satisfied and stepped back. That meant they were morons, but Bond was also grateful, because he now had a whopping headache and muscle-deep aches that he needed a moment to just process.

“No – NO!” He finally realized that Q was shouting, pitched high in more alarm that Bond had heard so far. Bond edged an eye open in bemusement as he heard Westford swear softly, and then there was the sound of the chair rolling and socked feet swiftly traversing the floor. Bond was on his left side, half-curled up, and suddenly the lee of his body was filled with Q, crouched and tense as a spooked hare and looking as desperately protective as a genius seven-year-old could get. “Leave him alone!” the boy ordered in a quavering voice, clearly afraid but trembling with ridiculous protectiveness. When one man stepped closer, Q stiffened even further, eyes tearing even as he screamed, “He never hurt you! Leave him alone!”

“Q – Q!” Bond said to him, softly but with gentle imperativeness as he tried to bring the kid down from his rising panic. After a second call of his name, the panting child turned his worried eyes down to the 00-agent. He was breathing fast enough to hyperventilate himself, and if possible he looked even more petrified than before. And ready to cry. “Q, it’s all right,” Bond said, ignoring that his jaw was still burning from that last punch he was an idiot not to see coming, “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I’m 007, remember?” He flashed a smile that was roguish and used often to coax trust out of others, for good reasons or bad – this time he was trying to coax a smile from Q in return, as ridiculous as that sounded. “007 means ‘practically indestructible’, if you were wondering.”

Q was obviously in no mood for jokes, and his brows lowered and his lower lip trembled. He was almost glaring at Bond, actually, in the ‘how dare you joke?’ kind of way. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to realize that this was their best hope of stopping a child’s tantrum, and were leaving Bond to do the mothering as Q shifted to settle down close to Bond, going from crouching to sitting. He was looking fixedly at Bond’s face – eyes flashing over it – as if afraid to look away. Maybe he was. “Nothing is indestructible,” the boy argued pugnaciously and in a hushed, shivering voice.

Instead of arguing, Bond’s smile turned crooked and mischievous, a dangerous look for a 00-agent. “Very true. Not even Mr. Westford’s underground warehouse here, I’d wager,” he said with dark glee, and maybe Q was more perceptive than anyone was giving him credit for, because he read something in the glint of Bond’s eyes and frowned as if hearing a new language he could almost decipher.

“Enough!” Westford interrupted, clearly growing bored. When Q twisted around, looking desperately protective again for someone so small, something menacing gleamed in Westford’s eyes. “So, Q,” he started to talk pleasantly, not coming any closer and waving off his men. “You’ve made a friend, have you? MI6 agents are dangerous friends to have, you know.”

“I said just leave him alone,” Q repeated himself with quavering stubbornness, but the way that his voice had dropped to nearly a whisper said that he was growing increasingly aware of how helpless he was to enforce that demand. Once again a small hand found Bond’s shirt, fisting in the material over his shoulder. Bond ached with the need to comfort the kid, who looked ready to fly apart at the seams from all of the stress and tension. His eyes were wet with unshed tears behind his glasses and tangle of hair.

But now Westford was smiling and Bond had worked with enough villainous men to know that that was a bad sign. “You seem to have grown quite attached,” Westford observed, eyes moving from Bond to Q to the very minute distance obviously between them. Bond narrowed his eyes in a dangerous glare but knew that it would have little effect since he was trussed up on the floor. “How about this then?” continued Westford in a voice that hid menace by pretending it was being businesslike, “You do what I say like a good little boy, and I won’t hurt your friend anymore, hmm?”

Q sucked in a tearful breath, surprised and torn all at once, clearly wanting Bond to be okay but also desperately not wanting to fall into Westford’s hands again. The kid had been so eager to take apart the program he’d made for Westford, and now to be told he had to help the man… “It’s okay, Q,” Bond assured in a soft voice that few people knew he had. He gave the kid an encouraging look when Q instantly jerked his head around to stare at the sound of his voice. Bond repeated, more firmly, tilting his head to stare back at Q directly, “It’s going to be okay. Can you trust me?”

“He doesn’t have to trust you, Mr. Bond, only do as I say. Not get over here, brat,” Westford ordered as his patience obviously frayed.

“Go on,” Bond got the final say, still managing to hold in place his most soothing smile.

Finally, Q nodded while taking in a deep breath. While the men around them chuckled at their victory – murmuring things about children and their tantrums, and Bond being about the softest MI6 agent they’d ever met – Q whispered obstinately, “But I’m still not doing it.” Before Bond could think to reply to that, Q was up and walking (limping only the tiniest bit on his cut foot, not that Westford cared) back to the computer again. Immediately after Q sat down, Westford proceeded to loom, and Bond felt the burning urge to break the man in a million places, but he forced himself to stay calm and think. He began to shift on the floor. When people around him immediately got nervous, he blinked as disarmingly as he could, telling everyone, “Just getting up. These old bones don’t care for the floor, you know?” Which was an absolute lie, because Bond wasn’t that old, and he’d spent much more time in far more uncomfortable places and positions. He waited until this lie was swallowed, and then rolled awkwardly into a kneeling position, letting his guards snicker as he swayed awkwardly. That appearance of awkwardness hid the deft seeking of his fingers around his ankle.

Only complete idiots didn’t take the time to frisk an MI6 agent, even if said agent was tied up. Bond’s hands managed to get hold of the small knife and tuck it into hiding against his palm.

“Glad to see you finally came to your senses,” Westford snapped irritably at the back of Q’s head, clearly seeing no reason for even fake politeness when it came to his youthful prisoner. Q was typing diligently, so many numbers and windows flashing across the screen that Bond couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Possibly Westford couldn’t either. Considering what the kid had whispered last-minute to Bond, the 00-agent had to wonder what Q was really doing. The kid could be a mulish as a cat going for a bath, and he’d just proven that he had bravery that bordered on foolishness. Bond also didn’t doubt that the kid hated Westford, so it just remained to be seen whether all of those traits would combine into a fit of willful (and hopefully well-hidden) destruction on Q’s part.

Bond pretended he couldn’t get up past kneeling, both because he wouldn’t be perceived as much of a threat that way and because he honestly had better access to anything hidden on his person from this compact position. He could also hide the subtle sawing of the knife against the zipties around his wrists, which he was careful not to cut all the way through in case they snapped off in an obvious fashion. Bond also had something else hidden in his pocket, and was looking forward to using it.

“Have you finished yet?” Westford had been pacing, but now rounded on Q again. The boy flinched, but kept typing.

“No.”

“You’re usually faster than this, boy. Not stalling, are you?” the big man menaced.

“No,” Q repeated again, as tonelessly as before. He sounded like a kid who’d been beaten often enough to adopt an unreadable tone for safety reasons. But Bond noted that this tone also made it impossible to tell what was on the kid’s mind…or dancing out of his swiftly typing fingers. He sounded submissive and subdued, but Bond refused to believe that the kid had just given in. No…there was a hint of subtle steel behind his detached young voice.

Bond decided to get Westford out of Q’s hair for a moment. “So, Westford – besides terrorizing small children, what do you do for a living?”

For a moment, it seemed that another beating was in order – in which case, Bond would have cut the rest of his way free in a second and slashed at least two throats in the next two seconds. But instead Westford turned and decided to address the blithe insult on his own, verbally. “And what do you do, Mr. Bond, besides nosing into other people’s business with a child in tow? Endangering that child, I must add.”

“Touché,” Bond allowed with an accepting shrug. “I’m an assassin as a day-job.”

Westford’s lips twitched, amused. That was a mistake – whenever people were amused by Bond’s proclamations of deadliness, they very often had a rude awakening. “Charming. I wonder how in the world Q warmed up to you.” He indicated the boy still typing away (seemingly oblivious but for the increased tension in his shoulders) with a jerk of his thumb. “This one barely warms up to anybody.”

“Might be the fact that you’re an amoral snake who hits kids.” That one got Bond a hard kick to his ribs, and Q immediately showed that he’d been listening because he swiveled his chair around with a sound of distress. Westford immediately warned him back by drawing a gun and, instead of leveling it at Q, turned the barrel towards Bond. Breathing shallowly because of his abused ribs, Bond nonetheless felt a sting of triumph, because he was fine with a gun pointed at him – so long as none of the danger was pointed Q’s way.

“Get back to work, boy. The adults are talking,” Westford growled with a condescending edge.

It was telling that Q still didn’t turn around – in fact, he looked ready to leap off his chair and run to Bond again – until the MI6 agent nodded minutely. Still uncertain, Q nonetheless slowly went back to his work, looking back over his shoulder frequently until Westford holstered the pistol again. “I don’t know who I hate more – you or that kid,” Westford complained.

“Well, I doubt you’ll have to deal with me much longer,” Bond assumed a friendly tone again.

Westford’s eyes sharpened and narrowed. “What – planning on dying soon, Mr. Bond?”

“I tried dying once or twice,” Bond yawned, being an excellent actor, “Didn’t care for it.”

“You didn’t – care for it?” Westford failed to say this without laughing ludicrously in the middle.

“The paperwork was monstrous, I’m told. Mostly, I just didn’t like hearing people complaining about the paperwork.” Bond could keep up this ridiculous (but quite truthful) conversation all day.

He knew Q well enough and was surreptitiously watching him astutely enough to notice when the kid’s shoulder relaxed a notch, as if he’d finished something. Since he didn’t immediately turn around and alert Westford of anything, Bond assumed that whatever Q had finished, it wasn’t at the man’s bidding. Bond took that as an indicator that it was his turn to act. “You know what else, Westford?”

“What?” the man smirked, crossing his arms.

So calmly that no one actually quite realize that he’d done it, Bond cut the rest of the way through the zipties and moved his hands to his pockets, taking out a detonator before standing coolly with it in one hand. “I never much cared for pompous villains like yourself much either.” Q had turned around in his seat, and was staring at Bond with the same shocked fascination as if he’d become Houdini, but when Westford took a step towards the boy, Bond’s eyes hardened to ice. “And if you take one more step towards that boy, I’ve got a bomb hidden in this room and I’m told that I’m reckless when it comes to lives.” He held up the detonator so that the gunmen could see it, too, and be wary. “It’s a dead-man’s switch. So shoot me if you like. At least I won’t die alone.”

“You’re insane,” Westford spat after a moment of fumbling for words. His hands flexed over and over again at his sides, as if he wanted to grab his gun, or leap forward and grab Bond, or step back and grab Q. None of those were feasible options anymore.

“I’m pragmatic,” Bond retorted with a crooked, vicious smirk. Then he went on, “Come here, Q.”

Part of Bond was afraid Q wouldn’t listen, that this would be too much for the fragile trust between the two. He needn’t have worried: the trust obviously was about as fragile as iron, because Q nearly tripped in his haste to vacate his seat and scramble to Bond. In fact, he moved so fast that Westford only had time to stare dumbly after him, wondering when exactly he’d lost control of the situation so spectacularly. As soon as Q was close enough, Bond reached out a hand to pull the boy up against him, and was shocked by the strength of his relief at feeling that tousled hair beneath his fingers and those glasses poking him as Q briefly buried his face in Bond’s side. “Now, Westford?” The man’s head jerked, because he knew that his life hinged on Bond’s words. “If you’re smart, you’ll send your men looking for that bomb. I think it’s two isles over. Or three. I can’t remember. And before you argue, think on this.” Bond pulled Q closer with obvious protectiveness and let violence lace his tone. “I’d love to kill you, but I don’t want to get the kid killed, so I’m willing to let you on your merry way. I could have just blown up the bomb without a second glance, but instead I’m giving you a chance to find it.” He bared his teeth in a winter-wolf’s grin that held no humor: only death. “After what you did to this kid, I actually want to tear you to pieces.”

“Bond,” Q hissed chastisingly, as if he was the adult and Bond was the one with a childish disposition. He still had most of his face buried against Bond’s side, however.

Amused despite himself, Bond turned his attention one last time to Westford, “So run along now. Happy hunting. If you can find it before Q and I leave, the off switch should be pretty obvious. If you don’t, chances are I’ll happily bury you here.”

Apparently, no one doubted Bond’s lethal sincerity, as the gunmen ran off as soon as Bond finished. In fact, two of them just headed right for the exit.

Westford tried to do the same, bolting like the coward he was, but Bond still had his knife. A quick jerk of his arm and Bond proved that he hadn’t gotten rusty: Westford screamed as the little knife spiraled through the air and buried in the back of his knee. Q flinched, probably horrified, but all Bond could feel was satisfaction. Westford wasn’t running now.

Since Bond hadn’t actually armed the detonator, he released it back into his pocket without a qualm. When Q nearly had a heart-attack, Bond squeezed his shoulder and winked at him. “Come on,” he coaxed, and then decided not to wait for signs of cooperation. The 00-agent was just fine with picking Q up without warning. As per usual, the kid squirmed pretty much until he was supported on Bond’s arms against his chest, and then he was shaking. All of this made for one rough day for such a young kid. “We’re leaving, all right?” he said firmly. He couldn’t see Q’s face now that the kid had buried it against his shoulder, but he had to hope that he hadn’t just traumatized the genius for life. More softly, he more pleaded than ordered, “Just keep your head to my shoulder and don’t look up, okay?” And maybe Q nodded, so Bond strode on out of there, right past Westford who was trying and failing to stand while also trying and failing to get a knife out of his leg. The man’s pathetic noises followed them and grated on Bond’s nerves until he was at the stairs and able to close the door. He locked it, too, throwing the dead-bolt with a jerk of his wrist before returning the arm to supporting Q’s slight frame. The gunmen were nowhere in sight, so Bond made good use of that and exited the building with all speed.

MI6 came back online before he even got lost in the halls as he ascended. “Bond? Bond, we’re reading you again. Were you successful?” came M’s voice.

Bond was about to open his mouth to answer when Q turned his head, tilting it close to Bond’s occupied ear. “Yes,” the boy said softly but with a bit of acid giving his tone a lethal bite, “We were.” Never had Bond heard such vicious triumph in such a young voice, but all it did was make him smile.

“You heard my Q. Now, what’s the quickest way out of here?”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

The boat that Bond had come in on was still there, hidden away and waiting like a faithful steed. Bond would preferred something faster, but honestly, he would have preferred teleportation, but not everyone got what they wanted.

With no life-jacket small enough to even remotely fit on little-Q, Bond settled for making sure the boy sat down on the floor of the boat with curt orders that he not do anything foolish. Q was looking shell-shocked enough that he just nodded, and Bond regretted being so brief with him – but they had to get out of here. “M?” Bond tapped his earpiece to jostle it back into listening, hopefully. Now that he was no longer underground, he was optimistic.

He heard swearing in his ear and what sounded gratifyingly like people rushing over to the intercom. “007?” M sounded worried but quickly got herself under control, no doubt aware that Bond was smirking. “Status?” she demanded, all business and tart tones again.

007 took the detonator out of his pocket, consider it for about half a second, and then activated it. For the count of two, he wondered if this signal was also blocked by the intervening layers of earth, too, until he heard the gratifying sounds of an explosion. “You hear that, M?” he asked even as he got the boat going.

“You just can’t leave without blowing something up, can you, 007?”

“Nope,” Bond agreed with a crooked smirk. Then he looked back at Q, who had obviously heard the explosion but hadn’t left the spot Bond had put him in tucked against one of the boat-seats, looking like he’d shut down. Bond got serious again. “Heading back now. Request medical assistance upon docking.”

“You or the child?” M said back, and her voice was like an arctic waste, cold and unforgiving.

Instead of answering, Bond said what she really wanted to hear first: “He’s alive and fine, except for minor injuries, none acquired in combat situations.”

“I’d rather hope not, 007. And yourself, need I ask?”

Although he was still distractingly worried about Q, the agent managed to provide a bit of humor, infusing a smile into his voice. “Surprisingly, not bad off, thanks for asking. Can I expect his kind of considering worry over my person in future missions?”

M snorted, “Not bloody likely. And if you decide to drag a child into your missions again, I’ll hang your head on the wall of my office as a warning against idiocy to future agents.”

Bond rather thought she meant it, too. “Understood. Thanks to that child, however, Westford should be shut down. Thanks to that explosion you heard, he is very likely dead.” Bond shot a glance back, first at the island – smoke rising above – then at Q, folded into a bruised and tired-looking ball. Voice suddenly low and vicious, Bond said with utmost sincerity, “And for once, I can say my target deserved it.”

“Understood, 007. Medical will be awaiting your arrival, as well as that of the child.”

~^~

“Q,” Bond said, gently but with a bit of urgency after he docked the boat. Q hadn’t moved during the whole ride, and looked a little green around the gills, to be honest. Right now, Bond was squatting in front of him, sealing him off from the world with his body. “We have to walk for a little bit – can you do that?” Medical couldn’t meet them right at the docks due to the number of people around, but the prepared meeting place was sensibly nearby.

Large brown eyes focused after a moment on Bond’s face, proving just how distanced Q had made himself from the situation. “007?” he said in a small voice.

“Yes-” Bond started to assure him, impatient to be away.

But Q wasn’t done yet, and with a tremble threatening to turn to tears, he gasped out, “We’re safe now, right?” He sounded so desperate, even as he sat curled against the deck. “No one’s going to hurt us, or hit you, or try to take me away-”

“No, Q!” Bond said with fierce gentleness in his voice and hands as he wrapped large fists around Q’s upper arms in a way that neither hurt him nor brought to mind the cruel grip of his captors. It was a hold that said, ‘I’m here. I’m not letting go, and no one came make me.’ “We’re back on safe ground – or we will be, as soon as I get you off this boat.”

Q was blinking back tears now, but he seemed to be trying to smile in delirious relief, and even though he was a little old for it, he reached his hands up to Bond like a toddler demanding to be picked up. Relieved that his underfed companion was at least cooperating, Bond happily obliged, only wincing a little as he felt his earlier beating. It was actually possible that he had some cracked ribs, but 00-agents were used to just ignoring that kind of pain until it was convenient and safe to show it to anyone. Medical would know what to do, and Bond wasn’t going to collapse or anything before then. He hefted little-Q up into his arms and somehow made it off the boat without dunking the two of them in the drink. Q was latched onto him like a piece of gum, which was nice until one considered that his skinny little legs were wrapped around Bond’s middle and close enough to his ribs to be uncomfortable – especially considering how tense Q seemed to be. “Sshhhh, shhh – easy,” Bond murmured, talking into a bundle of hair because Q’s face was wedged between his neck and shoulder. “I’ve always made sure things turned out okay, haven’t I?” he coaxed, putting on a more pleasant, upbeat voice as he began walking. His smile was charming and congenial, and he’d put on the light coat he’d stashed on the boat, effectively hiding most of the dangerous equipment he was wearing. Combined with the fact that Q mostly just looked like a kid who’d gotten sleepy after a day on the boat, Bond attracted nothing more than occasional fond, amused looks, which he answered with his most disarming smile. Just any parent out with his kid. Thankfully, when Q had wrapped his bare, dirty feet around Bond’s waist, they’d been tucked under his light jacket, hiding the worst signs of abuse that would have drawn unwanted attention. Likewise, the angle of the morning sun softened any bruises that Bond had gotten from his beating.

“I just can’t believe that I’m…I’m…” Q tried to say in a breathy, unsure voice, and finally the disbelief became too much and he gave up, instead wrapping his arms a bit more tightly around Bond’s neck. It didn’t escape the 00-agent that the kid locked his hands at his nape, ensuing that he’d be very, very difficult to dislodge.

Bond obligingly made his own grip more secure, deciding that that was what the kid needed right now. “Shhh, shhh,” he continued, eyes constantly scanning the crowd but his mouth kept close to Q’s ear so that the constant stream of soothing sound could reach him without interruption.

“We see you, Bond,” came M’s voice unexpectedly in his ear, and thankfully it was the ear opposite Q, because the kid was still so tense that hearing unexpected voices right next to his head was liable to give him a heart-attack. “The large grey van to your left is ours. Consider it your own personal ambulance, minus the sirens. Unless you’ve changed your mind about how injured you two are?”

Trust M to always think her agents were bleeding to death but refused to admit it. “So long as the medics can treat cuts, scrapes, bruises, and mild dehydration in kids and adult agents, we’ll be fine,” he murmured back equably.

Maybe M’s voice warmed up a rare fraction. “They were half expecting to have to sew back on limbs, so this will probably feel like a party. Now hurry up and get in the van.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bond smiled, more than happy to follow that order. He was about to turn back to Q and explain the parts of the conversation the boy had missed, but M wasn’t done yet.

“We have Mallory here. I don’t believe the two of you have met, but he’s been helping to track down the origins of your Q. He thinks he’s getting somewhere.”

Unexpectedly, that made Bond go cold, and the smile left his face to be replaced by a cautious frown. “Oh?” was all he said, aware that Q was only hearing what he repeated and not wanting to say too much about this right now.

“Nothing concrete,” a voice noted in the background, a male voice that was smooth and low and calm and probably Mallory, whomever that was. He sounded decent, but Bond was slow to judge people and slower to trust them.

“I’m almost at the van, so how about we put this on the back-burner until I get back to MI6?” Bond finally decided to reply, not quite succeeding in using his usual, charming voice. It felt hollow, but suddenly he felt as if this mission and ended and another begun. Instinctively and totally, Bond was against be separated from Q in any way, and as illogical as that sounded, it was what he felt. He just worried that MI6 would require that to happen. After all, where was the sense in an MI6 assassin babysitting a scrawny seven-year-old?

As M replied in a curt affirmative, Bond put his uncertain thoughts on the back-burner as well.

Q seemed to be okay in a very quiet and mellow sort of way right up until the back doors of the MI6 van opened with a bang. Bond immediately recognized the faces that had stitched him up a million times, but all little-Q heard was a very loud noise at his back, and he gasped and twisted in Bond’s arm so that the agent almost dropped him. “Settle down, Q!” he grunted, and to get the boy to relax a bit, he stepped away from the van instead of towards it. With his eyes he asked for patience, and while the medical staff looked bemused, they knew better than to question a 00-agent. They were used to dealing with traumatized agents right after missions, in which said agents could often be unpredictable, hurt, and/or dangerous. Even now they were probably prepared to slam the doors closed if Bond started reaching for a weapon, because the safety of medical staff came first, and the van was undoubtedly bullet-proof for a reason.

“Sorry,” Q murmured, although his eyes were still fixed on the people in the van with unease, “Those are doctors, aren’t they? The ones you talked about.”

Bond made a sound of affirmative, gauging the boy’s temperament. “Can you go into that van without having a panic-attack?” he asked in an utterly serious voice.

Q’s head still whipped around to glare at him with fragile, affronted pride, but before he said something sharp he caught the sincere look on the man’s face that said he wasn’t teasing him. Q deflated. “Um…yeah, I can do that.”

“Good.” Bond looked up, nodded an informal ‘all clear’ to the medical team, and strode up to the van and then into it without hesitation. He had a hand fisted in the back of Q’s tatty shirt just in case he made a leap for it when the door slammed shut behind them, but Q seemed to have resigned himself to the situation. There were benches along either side of the inside of the van and a gurney in the middle (which Bond usually refused to lie on, regardless of how close to dead he was), and Q obliged to sit next to Bond on one of the benches. He looked thin and small but his eyes were sharp again as they took in all of the medical equipment strung up inside the vehicle, and the fierceness that ignited behind his glasses was almost adorable when one of the medical officers came over to ask Bond for an injury report. Bond wondered if the boy intended to bite the doctor if he got too close.

Since this was old-hat to him, Bond listed off everything with idle efficiency, detachedly talking about wounds both on himself and Q. He described the beating lightly, just enough so that the doctors would know what to expect, and then waited patiently for orders. Agents could be the best patients when they weren’t actually bleeding to death.

While one of the doctors formally asked Bond to take off his shirt (Bond responded with a reflexive leer, because the person asking was a woman and Bond’s honeypot training ran a little too deep), another doctor sat down on the gurney and leaned in carefully towards Q. Bond noticed and stiffened, shirt up around his shoulders, as the kid tensed and leaned into him, a shivering shoulder against the bruised flesh of his side.

“Can I see your foot, son?” the man asked politely, and even though his manner was gentle Bond still felt himself stilling and his eyes going hard and dangerous. Everyone else noticed, too, because they paused in what they were doing. Bond was still a fair ways away from being violent, but he’d edged on toe into that state of mind which promised danger in a 00-agent.

“Q,” was all Bond said, voice low and patient. The tousled head turned up to look at him, torn and uneasy. Whatever he saw in Bond’s face or heard in his voice settled him, however, and the skinny boy stretched out his bloody foot.

From there, things were okay for awhile. Q winced and squirmed until they numbed his foot and he couldn’t feel the pain of it anymore. After that, he very nearly relaxed, and Bond chuckled as the boy’s eyes slid half-shut in weariness. Q had spent most of the night and now part of an early morning on that wounded foot, so it had to be bliss to finally escape the pain now. The doctor was efficient and skilled, and soon a real bandage was wrapped around the arch of the kid’s foot.

Then, after an uneasy glance with Bond (who was stoically dealing with someone prodding his ribs), the doctor asked if Q could take off his shirt.

Q visibly withdraw, eyes going almost as feral as they’d been when Bond had first found him handcuffed to the table. The wound around his ankle had been cleaned and re-bandaged as well now, but even Bond hadn’t seen how much damage Q’s clothing was hiding.

Seeing the possibility for a real break-down right now, the doctor wisely withdrew. “Maybe when we get back to MI6, Medical can give you a full look, how about that?”

The soothing tone didn’t work this time, as Q just watched with clear distrust and readiness in his eyes. He was watching everything now as if it were potentially going to hurt him, and clearly the day/night was catching up to him.

Very, very carefully, Bond lifted a muscular arm, positioning it so that as it lowered, Q was carefully in the circle of it. Q jumped like a hare, twisting in his seat, but all he met was Bond’s placid, unflappable expression and by then the man’s arm was around his shoulders. Bond figured he must be getting at least a little better at handling kids, because neither screaming nor crying nor struggling ensued, although the second option was definitely on the docket after the tension fled Q’s body. Q was about to open his mouth, probably to try and explain himself, but Bond cut him off.

“Kneecaps,” was all he said, succinctly.

That was a conversation that Q remembered, and while the doctors looked perplexed, Q recalled Bond’s threat towards anyone who might think to hurt Q. The reminder also had the effect of getting Q to glare at him and shove him, to which Bond smiled and took it with a grunt. He gave the bemused doctor a relaxed look while he requested, “Got any water? The two of us might do a bit better if we weren’t so thirsty.”

~^~

The doctors actually had both water and food – nothing fancy, but enough to perk a seven-year-old up a bit. Q was much more in control of himself by the time the medical van drove into the underground parking of MI6, and Bond had a shirt on again and just enough painkillers in his system to feel appreciative. The only thing they were lacking was shoes for Q.

And maybe some assurances that things would end well for the boy.

Bond still didn’t like the thought of being anywhere but where Q was, if only because he felt responsible for him, and because he’d definitely noticed the way Q had come to trust him. Everyone else in MI6 would be a stranger, and even with Bond's earpiece being the only point of contact, Q hadn’t seemed too keen on those whom he’d overheard or talked to. Leaving Q in someone else’s capable hands felt suspiciously like dumping him in the middle of a room full of scary strangers without so much as a ‘Good luck!’ 007 just couldn’t think of a conceivable reason why he had to stay with the kid that would make logical sense to M or Tanner or the old Quartermaster.

Q, fortunately, didn’t seem to notice Bond’s unease, and had relaxed a lot after getting the chance to finally fill his stomach with a sandwich. The boy was actually dozing against his side when they finally pulled up, and his eyes flickered back open without fear as the door opened. He just looked up, assured himself that Bond was still there, and then looked back around him again.

Bond was his touchstone, his source of safety, and Bond decided right there that it would take a lot more than orders to get him to walk away from Q.

The head of presumably the driver popped into view from the open door. “M wants to-”

“I can bloody well talk for myself, Stevens,” came M’s voice and then the woman herself, making Bond raise his eyebrows. He didn’t usually get a reception so quickly – usually, it wasn’t until he’d turned in his report and M had gotten frustrated with its vagueness that he got called into her office. Apparently Q had become something of a celebrity, though, because Tanner and the old Quartermaster and Eve were there, too, as well as an official-looking man that Bond guessed was Mallory. Tanner looked pleasantly curious, the old Quartermaster resentful (it was because of this kid that he was now labeled as ‘old’ whenever his title came up, just to tell the difference between one Q and the other), and Eve looked a lot like she wanted to hug little-Q until the poor thing couldn’t breathe. Bond gave the woman two points for friendliness, but figured he’d have to take those points away when Q had a panic attack over her affections. Being hugged by a strange woman just didn’t sound like something the boy would immediately accept. Sometimes Eve was just a bit too motherly, and it was going to get her kicked in the shins if she tried too much of that on little-Q before he accepted that she was safe.

Right now, he didn’t look like he’d be accepting anyone as safe anytime soon.

Eyes shrewd, M was watching as the boy’s expression flickered between emotions – she likely came to the same conclusion. She likely came to other conclusions as Bond stood up and, hands in pockets to make himself otherwise unassuming, put himself between MI6 and the boy. “M. Pleasure,” he said in his best charismatic voice.

Not fooled for a second, M stared at him sharply for a moment and then decided to be diplomatic. “The same, 007, since you accomplished your mission objectives without starting an international incident for once. Although, on an island, I would have been surprised if you did.”

“One can only hope.”

“Well, the real reason I’m meeting you here is because I wanted to see for myself who this new Q is,” she went on with her usual straightforwardness, and her tone became a touch commanding. “Bring him out, Bond. I don’t walk down here very often for you.”

“Have you ever?” asked Bond a little cheekily and with feigned disbelief even as he gave in to reach behind him and gently find Q’s shoulder.

“Once. When you were half-dead but carrying valuable information, so I doubt you remember our talk,” was the solemn answer, and then Bond was stepping down out of the van and turning around to help Q, who wasn’t exactly fit to jump around unless he wanted to do it on one leg.

Q’s eyes were big and worried, immediately fixing on Bond’s face like a lifeline. Bond wanted to reassure him, but instead he kept silent and reached up to slide his capable hands under the kid’s arms and lift him out of the van. He placed him down and immediately found himself with a Q-shaped tumor stuck to his hip. Both Tanner and Eve chuckled a bit (Tanner politely behind his hand, bless the man, Eve out loud with her eyes dancing – ‘Babysitter,’ she clearly mouthed), but Bond felt protective instead of embarrassed, to his surprise. That feeling of defensiveness was growing by the minute. “M,” he said, slowly and in a low pitch, “This is Q. Q-” He indicated the savvy old woman. “-The head of MI6.”

While the boy’s eyes flow from face to face, he didn’t respond. He had two fingers in Bond’s belt-loops and was nearly standing on the side of his shoe – but he had that fierce look again, the one that said he’d fight back if anyone else made the first move. Only Bond seemed exempt from that blanket of distrust Q had thrown over everyone else.

And then Q spoke, and his voice was old for his body because it was too canny. “You want to take me away, don’t you?”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

In the end, the conversation was put on hold until everyone reached Medical. Bond was fairly certain that part of this change in venue was decided because of his own glower, which had settled onto his face shortly after Q had spoken, and now the agent radiated a whole new level of threat. Q was oblivious to the 00-agent getting angrier behind him, partially because he wasn’t looking, and partially because the kid had long-since come to associate the man’s hand on his shoulder with comfort. In reality, Bond wondered just how possessive and protective he looked as he’d taken a silent, half-step forward to lower his hand on the juncture between Q’s scrawny shoulder and neck. The boy had simply kept his large, bespectacled eyes locked on the MI6 operatives in front of them until Eve – who could read a situation as dangerous if nothing else – had suggested they get little-Q to Medical before they made any decisions. M had been watching only Bond (smart woman), and agreed without her eyes leaving him. Unrepentant of the insubordinate image he was presenting, Bond returned her look, then coaxed Q to turn and walk with him.

Everyone immediately noticed the boy’s limp as he fell back behind Bond, but before anyone could open their mouth to say anything, 007 interrupted, “Let me carry him, M.”

After heading MI6 for so long, the woman had become very good at hiding what went on behind her eyes, but it was still evident that thoughts were swirling there. “Of course, 007,” she said cordially, before picking up her pace to walk at the fore of their group. Bond immediately turned and held his hands out, and for once, Q didn’t squirm or scoot back or protest, instead letting the agent’s strong, calloused hand catch him up under the arms, lifting him effortlessly up against Bond’s chest. It was clear that the boy was tense and wary, by the way he never looked at Bond, his tousled head instead turning and constantly scanning the other people with them. “They won’t hurt you,” Bond said, just loudly enough for Q to hear. The boy’s head finally turned back to him, his eyes saying how unwilling he was to believe that unconditionally. Bond simply let his lips stretch in a faint and humorless smirk, as crooked as his blue eyes were frank and cold. “Do you really think that any of them can take you out of my hands?”

The inherent viciousness in that comment would have made everyone else in their group flinch, possibly even M, if she’d overheard, but Q’s eyes instead swam with something like hope. His small, slender hands clenched unconsciously on Bond’s collar, and he settled a little bit more comfortably within the enclose of 007’s arms. Bond heard and felt the boy’s sigh against his ear, as Q accepted his promise of continued safety.

Q would not be leaving his arms without his permission.

~^~

The walk to Medical was tense and awkward but at least it was uneventful: Tanner, M, and Mallory walked ahead, allowing Bond to subtly observe the newer man, while old-Q huffed and kept up in the back. Mallory walked with a controlled, careful stride of someone unconsciously aware of themselves and where they were placing their feet, the sign of a dangerous man. Bond kept that in mind. Eve tried to get closer – as Bond had feared, she saw Q as cute and not damaged, which was laudable, but an incorrect assessment. Ignoring Bond as if he were simply a piece of furniture upon which the boy was placed, she’d walked up, smiling and stretching a hand to pet the boy’s head. When little-Q had immediately tensed and pulled back, Bond had felt the way the boy held his breath and tensed from stem to stern. Bond’s hands had tightened in turn. “Miss Moneypenny, if you could kindly give us a bit of space?” he said in a threat that passed quite well as a polite request. His tone was actually fairly light, but it was evident that his pace had shifted along with the way he held himself – having been a field agent for a time, Eve recognized it as Bond’s defensive mechanisms shifting from a relaxed ‘off’ to a ready ‘on’.

Looking at Q – noticing belatedly the way his eyes were wide as he looked at her askance, clearly distrustful, and he’d tucked himself close to 007’s large body – she pulled back her hand, looking surprised and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she said, clearly wanting to say more but not knowing what would help. At least she had the sense to drop her hand back to her side, and she gave Bond more space as they walked.

Having now kept Q safe from his own adorable-ness, Bond was prepared for the reception that the kid would get in Medical, the employees of which were used to mostly just surly agents. Therefore, almost as soon as Bond walked in with Q – picking one of the many beds in the large, primarily unoccupied room – he told the doctor in no uncertain terms, “He doesn’t like being touched.” Q jumped a little in his arms, turning to look at him, but didn’t argue in the slightest.

The doctor – a friendly-looking woman who had the look of a mother about her already – blinked twice, looked between the bruised boy and the stone-faced assassin, and accepted the observation. Actually, she took in the bruises around the boy’s eye and I hand-prints around his arms and her eyes softened with knowing sympathy. “I’ll have to touch a little bit to make sure he’s okay. Is that all right, son?”

“Is it?” Bond grunted, hitching Q up a little higher so he could look in his face. The motion was actually made for younger kids, and Q glared at him for being jostled. Bond just grinned back unrepentantly in response, and was rewarded by little-Q flicking him in the neck. Bond twitched at the unexpected rebuttal, but at least the kid answered.

“That’s okay. I understand.”

Only then did Bond acquiesce to putting Q down on the edge of the exam table, making it clear that he was doing things in his own time and not anyone else’s – except maybe little-Q’s.

“You still have to give a report, you know,” M reminded him, and Bond had to resist the urge to scowl at her because it was usually unwise to do so. He wanted to be sullen and say that he’d do it later, but it was already known around MI6 that if 007 wasn’t caught to give a report almost immediately, he got harder and harder to catch with every minute that passed. Realizing that he’d dug this hole and now he’d have to sit in it, 007 sighed and tried to think up another argument for why he had to stay here, in this hospital room, with this boy who had become inextricably wound up in his heart.

Fortunately, M saw a fight in the making an was smart enough to avoid it. “You can stay nearby, 007,” she assured him, “I don’t want you airing this mission to everyone, but I’m sure you can stand within the line of sight without being within hearing range.”

The logic was so simple that Bond felt a bit embarrassed for a moment, his retorts dying on his lips. He looked down at Q, who appeared understandably uneasy but still not panicking.

“I can sit with Q, if you like,” Eve piped up, and Bond rolled his eyes to her, about to feel that a lesson was in order in learning to quit while you were ahead – Q looked practically ready to flip over the far side of the exam table if Eve took another step forward to hug him. His eyes were huge behind his glasses, and as nice as Eve was, she was still a stranger. It also looked like M was going to agree, so Bond came to a sudden decision.

“Mallory,” he said suddenly, domineeringly, and everyone’s head snapped around, no least of all Mallory’s. Surprise flickered across the older man’s face, although it quickly bled into canny wariness. Smart man. Bond smiled a frigid and entirely false smile as he leaned his hip back against the table next to Q, providing a protective presence. “I think that Mallory can sit with Q just fine.”

Being no fool herself, M’s eyebrows had twitched upwards, and now she asked with clear suspicion. “Why Mallory, 007? Pardon me, but you don’t even know Mallory.”

“He can’t be a monster if you’re so chummy with him,” was Bond’s deduction, revealed with an easy roll of one muscular shoulder, “Or at least not any kind of monster that would hurt a kid without orders. Plus, if he does hurt Q-” Now 007’s voice dropped an octave, and the set of his mouth was like a slash, a knife-edged threat coming forth with practiced ease and smoothness. “-Then I can kill him without feeling guilty about it later.”

“Bond!” M snapped a reprimand while everyone else gasped – and the hilarious thing? Q said the exact same thing at the exact same time, making the old woman and the little boy then turn to stare at one another in mildly offended surprise.

Ignoring both of them, Bond added while studying the reaction on Mallory’s face, “I’d probably feel terribly sad if I had to kill Tanner, and you’d be upset if I killed Eve.” He rolled a considering look at old-Q before dismissing him, thinking of how little the Quartermaster seemed to care for the boy who shared his name. “I imagine I’d feel a little bad, maybe, if I killed the Quartermaster.”

While everyone was spluttering and trying to tell Bond just how rude and insubordinate he was being, 007 just watched Mallory, the new face in the crowd and the wildcard – the man was reacting better than Bond had suspected. What Bond had thrown out was really a challenge, the typical macho threat between two males who don’t yet know each other’s measure. Actually, Mallory was handling this rather well: he’d initially flinched and his eyes had widened at the threat, but he’d quickly schooled his features now so that only something akin to tight annoyance was slipping through. Only the set of his body – shoulders square, weight equally on both feet, knees loose – betrayed that he was actually afraid that 007 might attack him. At the moment, nobody in the room had a gun, but it was a good guess that Bond was the most lethal member of the company. The doctors and nurses were all watching from a safe distance, except the motherly figure who’d come to look after Q, who was unwinding her stethoscope not far away and rolling her eyes. 00-agents and their dramatics.

Before M could tell him off anymore (not that he was really listening), Bond turned his attention back to her to elaborate drolly, “If Mallory is a good man and if he’s not afraid, I don’t see how this is a problem.”

“You’re right,” Mallory unexpectedly chimed into finally defend himself. He was glaring at Bond a little bit, but his eyes showed shrewdness: ‘I see your challenge,’ they said, ‘And I’m going to meet it.’ “I have a boy of my own, so I think I can manage,” he surprised everyone by admitting.

In the end, really, Bond wasn’t going to move a millimete until Q let him, so he gave Mallory a faint, amused sort of smile (which hid a modicum of respect, truth be told – the man had guts) and then looked down to Q. The boy was watching Mallory, not surprisingly. Seeming to expect the question Bond had for him, Q reached out, gently taking hold of one of Bond’s long, scarred fingers, but said with a calm voice, “Okay. That’s…that’s okay, I guess.” Q refused to look up, but he was shaking, and Bond knew that he was simply trying to be strong as he asked in a voice that tried and failed to sound tough, “You’ll be nearby, right?”

Bond disengaged Q’s hold on his index finger only to wrap his whole hand around Q’s, squeezing just enough to show that he had the power to break bones but the control and kindness to be gentle. “Absolutely.” He was good a making himself impossible to forget, and right now, he made his presence impossible to forget.

“Good,” Q nodded again, as if convincing himself, “Good. Okay.” After a moment, the smaller hand purposefully slipped itself free, and by then the doctor was walking up. She glanced between Bond and the boy, smiled just a little, then turned to talk to Q to explain that she was going to look at his foot first. He replied, quite matter-of-factly, that he suspected it needed stitches. Surprised, the doctor wasn’t sure how to react to this brave self-assessment, and Bond left them like that, walking forward as Mallory did. He considered bumping the man intentionally with his shoulder as he passed, but doubted that he could jar the man based on the balanced way Mallory walked and the stern, watchful look on his face.

Mallory appeared to be smarter than most, however, and just as he passed Bond, he murmured with clear sincerity, “I won’t hurt him, Bond.”

The corners of Bond’s eyes tightened, his face serious at hearing the promise, and although he didn’t react, he also felt less interested in killing the man slowly. Maybe he’d be able to tolerate Mallory. It was with slightly less unease than before that Bond followed M to an unoccupied area a few beds down. As they stopped next to one vacant bed, far enough that he could report without extra ears canted their way, he still glanced over his shoulder to judge the distance between himself and little-Q and how long it would take for him to sprint back if needed. Mallory, thus far, was making a good impression by sitting close enough to be on the same exam table but still with a good foot of polite space between himself and the young genius. The doctor was crouched down by Q’s cut foot, but Q seemed to be genuinely distracted by whatever Mallory as telling him.

“Are you satisfied?” came M’s impatient but resigned voice.

“With what?”

“Mallory isn’t going to eat him,” M clarified wryly, then snorted in derision as she added, “If nothing else, Tanner is a complete softy and Eve is smitten with the boy, so they’d make sure nothing would happen.”

“The old Quartermaster looks like he might be less enamored,” was Bond’s observation, although he was smiling a faint and relaxed smile, proving that he was teasing rather than threatening to kill people. “Are you reading for my report?”

“Get on with it, 007, before we both grow old.”

~^~

Things went smoothly for quite awhile. Eve and Tanner stayed put, a short distance away, while Mallory played the job of on-hand babysitter and perched next to the bespectacled kid that Bond had dragged in. The old Quartermaster had the good grace to just leave, saying something about a project, and everyone honestly sighed a sigh of relief as he left – having two ‘Q’s in the same room was distracting, and the only way to tell them apart was by labeling them ‘old’ and ‘young’, and the ‘old’ one was clearly offended. Apparently he’d been a proponent of leaving Q behind on the mission to be picked up later, and little-Q knew it – therefore, the dislike between the two was mutual.

Q took the stitches well, especially since he didn’t need many, and Mallory talked to him through the first shot of numbing that rendered the arch of his foot insensitive to the following bites of needle and thread. Mallory chose topics that young boys usually liked, but soon found out that anything outside of computers and things with wires lost Q’s interest. Being a flexible man, they were now talking about the insides of cars, wires and all.

There obviously wasn’t any trust there, however, as the boy’s tone remained clipped and his words brief, and his eyes watched everyone equally from behind his glasses – and then there were his constant glances to where 007 was standing across the room.

The doctor had just coaxed Q out of his shirt, revealing a host of bruises that made Eve gasp and Tanner look sad and shocked at the same time. That already set the stage for things going poorly, even before Mallory asked, “You really trust James Bond, don’t you?”

It was a sincere question, and Mallory truly did not have any bad intentions. Q held his arm stiffly as the doctor lifted it about, looking at the yellowing bruises around and beneath it with something slipping into horror on her face. “He kept me alive,” the boy said, his tone suddenly soft but fierce, “He trusted me. He listened to me.” His tone grew more vehement even if the volume never rose, as if he were defending the indomitable agent. Clearly growing nervous from the doctor’s prodding, Q jerked his arm away, forcing Mallory to catch the skinny wrist before it banged inadvertently against his chest.

Not realizing what dangerous ground he was heading into as he let curiosity get the better of him, Mallory asked, “Does he even know that your real name is Quinn Finch instead of Q?”

Suddenly Q’s eyes jerked to him as if magnetized, wide and feral and afraid. The boy went from distrustful yet calm to wildly panicked in seconds at nothing more than the soft murmur of his real name. “No,” he whispered as if to ward off a nightmare, “No no nonono...!” Mallory reflexively tightened his previously light grip as Q suddenly tried to yank back. The boy still made it off the exam table, startling the doctor as well as everyone else. “Take it back!” Q was saying, his volume increasing even as he grew less and less reasonable – and more frantic. “I’m Q – stop it!” He pulled harder to try and free his arm, but Mallory was now holding on quite tightly as he stood, trying to keep from loosing the kid in Medical. Growing infinitely more panicked by the second, Q was almost in tears as he furiously struggled, trying to pry Mallory’s fingers loose but unable to make any headway against the older man’s staid strength. “Let me go!” Q snarled, and by now, Bond had noticed. If he’d had a gun, he would have shot Mallory without even blinking, but Eve was moving to intercept him because it still looked like 007 was going to kill someone. “Leave me alone!” was the boy’s final verbal demand before, in a flurry of motion from his small, rail-thin body, he lurched forward and sunk his teeth into Mallory’s hand.

The man bellowed with embarrassing volume and then swore, once and with feeling, shattering the appearance of professional calm he’d maintained valiantly until now. He let go of Q out of reflex, and despite having just had stitches in one foot, the boy was immediately running with surprising speed. He dodged the nurse, dodged Tanner, but couldn’t dodge Moneypenny – at the last second, she’d turned from where she’d been prepared to slow Bond down, instead looping willowy arms around Q’s middle and nearly scooping him off the floor.

Bond skidded to a halt. Some people would have thought that he’d stopped because of the threat M had just snarled out behind him – but only the people who didn’t know him. Anyone else would know from the set of his shoulders and the icy, laser-sight focus of his eyes that unless M pulled a gun out of her sleeve right now, he wasn’t even listening to her. Everyone in the room had frozen, except Q, who was kicking and trying to squirm free of Eve’s hold around his middle. He looked so fragile and breakable, without a shirt hiding his unhealthily pale and bruised skin, and even Eve looked powerful compared to him.

And Bond had a look so thunderous on his face that the woman wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Bond!” M rapped out again.

He ignored her totally. “Eve,” he said in a voice that was low and steady and rough like gravel grinding, and everyone tensed in preparation to save Moneypenny’s life. Instead of attacking, however, Bond showed restraint and instead demanded in a level and uncompromising tone, “Let him go.”

She did. Immediately. Because she valued her life and didn’t think that any threat from M or intervention from Tanner and Mallory could have saved her from 007’s wrath. As soon as Q’s feet touched the ground, he was bolting to Bond, tucking himself immediately against the man’s side. It said something about how well the boy knew 007 that he took the extra steps to go to Bond’s left side, leaving the man’s gun-hand free while his left immediately found the boy’s tousled head.

Q was crying. Tears tracked silent paths down his face, already dripping off his chin as he gripped Bond’s shirt, the fingers of one hand clenching against Bond’s back and the other his front. “Bond…Bond, please, don’t listen to him. I’m Q – just Q,” he began to mumble desperately. His sobs grew audible, and the tension began to leave the room as everyone heard it; in the silence, the boy’s despairing words to 007 were agonizing and clear. “He knows my name…my name…but don’t listen! Please, please, please, just make him stop! I don’t want to go back…!” And the child dissolved into tears entirely. Bond’s grip tightened against the back of Q’s nape, pressing his face unhesitantly into his side, hiding the tears and letting Q muffle his sobs with his shirt. The naked shoulders quaked and, set against the knobby line of his spine and the shuddering outlines of his ribs, the bruises were visible for all to see.

“Are you happy now?” Bond lifted his eyes to say to the room at large.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Bond and Q had been removed to a private room in Medical. Mallory had taken Q’s place on the original exam table, to have his hand checked out now that it had little teeth-marks and was actually leaking blood. Bond’s hand had instinctively twitched for his non-present gun, but he’d had enough sense to listen to orders this time and allow himself and his small charge to be ushered into a quiet room with an empty bed and a reclining couch for lengthy visits. The agent had immediately taken the couch, pulling the boy up with him without a word because Q was still crying. It seemed that all the dams had broken, and the strain of everything had finally come crashing down, so little-Q didn’t squirm or fight as he was pulled up into 007’s lap with careful but insistent arms pulling him snugly against a muscular chest.

Just as he had since his final, hanging question to everyone in Medical, Bond didn’t say a word. No questions. No noise. Still he radiated a soothing essence, the slow, constant stroking of his hand through Q’s hair anchoring the kid. Bond’s other hand was now holding Q’s glasses, which he’d removed before the boy could smudge or break them when he buried his face fiercely into Bond’s shirt. Bond’s simple question combined with Q’s babbling, despairing words had made quite an impression, and no one – not even M – had looked angry at Bond for going so totally out of control in the name of a kid. In fact, to a man, everyone’s face had fallen into looks resembling guilt, and that settled Bond down a bit, because he was good at reading people, and guilty looks like that were rarely precursors to negative action.

Between sobs that were still shaking Q’s body like the jaws of some dog, the kid was still mumbling with a desperation that hadn’t stopped since it had started in the middle of Medical, an edge of hysteria that had worried the doctors. They’d left Bond with a large glass of water, informing him briefly but quietly what was in it, and how exactly it would calm Q’s nerves. Bond hadn’t given it to the boy yet, because even though he trusted the sincerity in the doctor’s eyes and voice, the protectiveness in him was stronger. He’d see if he could calm Q himself first before he gave in and coaxed the prodigy into taking a mild sedative.

“…Please, don’t listen to anything they say, Bond,” Q was still saying – begging, pleading. He was terrified of Bond all over again, but in a whole new way: he was terrified of what he’d believe, and what he’d do in reaction to that truth. The clench of his small fists in Bond’s shirt was desperate. “I’m Q. Q!” This time, the boy’s voice rose to a shriek against Bond’s chest, and the man finally made a shushing noise. Putting down the spectacles on a nearby table next to the water, he wrapped both arms more tightly around the quivery body. Q’s skin was cold to the touch with little beads of panicked sweat prickling it, coaxing Bond to look around, easily judging the bed close enough to reach and steal a blanket from. It was one of those useless blankets always found at the foot of hospital beds, too small for any purpose. Thankfully, since Q was an exceptionally small seven-year-old, it worked quite well to drape the soft material over him. It stopped Q’s ranting for a moment, although he stiffened and shed silent tears of panic until he felt Bond’s arms again, now with a layer of cloth in between but still securely folded around him. “Please, please, please…don’t let that name drag me back,” the boy continued to beg more quietly, as if this were his only wish now in the world for Bond to grant.

“Shhhh, Q,” Bond finally started speaking, now that Q was sounding exhausted, halting the steady stream of manic words. The boy’s pulse was still unhealthily fast: 007 could feel it right through the back of the boy’s ribcage and the blanket. Tone sensible and as calm as it always was on a mission, the man asked, “Did Mallory hurt you?”

Q twitched, going quiet as if he hadn’t even considered this question. “N-no,” he said, sounding confused. For the first time since being banished to their own room, Q lifted his head up from Bond’s chest, giving the 00-agent a clear look at his tear-ravaged little face. Then Q realized that he couldn’t see Bond’s expression without his glasses anyway, and turned back down again uneasily, although now he rested a cheek against the center line of Bond’s chest. Bond could still get a glance of the blotchy, teary face with its bruised eye and tousled frame of hair.

“Good. Then there isn’t a problem,” Bond said, as if that was the end of it, and was rewarded but another twitch of surprise from the body on his lap.

“But-? But he…” Q’s voice dropped suddenly to a whisper, and he sighed before admitting sadly, “But he knows my name, Bond. He knows it.” A loud sniffle, and Q shrugged the blanket up higher until he could burry his head in it, not quite muffling his last sentence: “And I don’t want you to know it, or you’ll not keep me anymore.”

Bond growled. Actually growled. The idea Q was expressing hit a chord in him so strong that it vibrated outwards, hitting every response of anger, protectiveness, and defiance that 007 had in him. Q’s squeak was lost in the rumbling noise as Bond suddenly sat up straight, doing so because that way, he could hold Q more firmly – make it even more impossible for anything to take him away. “Look at me, Q,” 007 demanded.

Slowly, gingerly, the mop of hair turned and lifted until there were eyes visible, and this time Bond had lowered his head close enough that glasses were unnecessary to see the unshakable look on his face. “Do you know what would have happened if Mallory had actually hurt you?”

Blinking as he tried and failed to see where this line of questioning would lead, Q hesitantly shook his head.

“Do you know what would have happened if Eve – that pretty woman – hadn’t let you go when I asked?”

Another shake, this one more firm. Q had an inkling what 007 would have done to Mallory, since his threat to murder the man hadn’t exactly been a secret.

Bond just asked a third question, “Do you know what would have happened if any of them – any of them, even all of them – had so much as tried to take you away from me without your permission?” This time, Bond answered his own question, one hand catching Q’s pointed, fragile chin between his thumb and forefinger so that the boy missed nothing of Bond’s words or expression. “I would have made all of their lives miserable-” ‘Honestly, I would have tried my level best to kill or cripple then, but Q doesn’t need me to spell that out right now.’ “-And then, Q, I would have taken you out of here myself. I’m very good at disappearing, and not even MI6’s reach is endless. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“But they know who I really am-”

“You’re Q, the brilliant, mouthy, annoying, brave kid I stole out from under Westford’s nose. I don’t know whatever kid they think they know.” Bond’s words had stolen the breath right out of Q, it seemed, and the boy’s eyes were shining as they searched for a lie on Bond’s face and found nothing of the sort. “To me, you’re Q, for as long as you want to be. Got it?” When Q didn’t respond, he gave the boy’s chin the tiniest of shakes, leaning now so they were nose to nose as he repeated the gentle command, “Got it?”

Biting his lip as if this was all too much to hope for, Q began nodding, and Bond hid the sigh of relief that built within him and tried to spill over. The crook of his index finger was still under Q’s chin, and he could just feel the boy’s pulse, and that it had finally slowed. Good. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to deal with panic attacks in kids. Fortunately, it looked like Q was calming down now, and without the need to sedate him either. As much as he knew that the doctor meant well, Bond had shied away from the thought of drugging a kid. “How’s your foot? You ran on it,” he grumbled, allowing a grumpy tone of disapproval into his voice even as he bundled the kid against himself again, leaning back.

Turned on his side with his left ear listening to the thud of Bond’s heart – also slowly descending from its peak speed, truth be told – Q let himself dwell on the radiant heat of the arms locked over his middle, and the way 007’s every breath lifted and then dropped him a inch or two. “It’s okay.”

“Good. And-” He wasn’t sure whether he was walking onto thin ice here, but since everyone but himself was on the other side of that door – medical staff included – Bond felt obliged to check on Q’s health in its entirety. “-The bruises?”

Q went still, and Bond could see an embarrassed look take up residence on his face, although he answered with some of his more usual cheek, “I’ve had them for ages, Bond! They’re not going to go septic just because some lady grabbed me.”

“Hm,” Bond made a brief humming noise of consideration, reaching down to idly grab Q’s un-bandaged ankle, pulling little-Q’s foot in. The kid had been digging his toes against Bond’s leg, trying to find a perch that felt stable. Bond just kept his arm looped lightly against Q’s knees, and the boy settled, finally sensing that the nest of muscle and bone around him was secure and impenetrable. “So I don’t have to dangle Miss Moneypenny out of a seven-story window for aggravating any of your wounds?” he asked blithely.

“Bond!” Q squeaked in horror, turning to find that the 00-agent was smirking down at him. Honestly, Q should have gotten used to the man’s penchant for threats by now. Putting on the most adorable scowl and squinting nearsightedly – or menacingly, it could have been an attempt at either – Q berated in exasperation, “How do you get along with your colleagues if you keep threatening them like this?!”

“They love me for it.”

“I think they’d love to push you in front of a bus for it.”

“Ah, there you have it,” Bond smirked in smug triumph, “It’s a love born out of mutual threats of violence. So there.”

Little-Q glared, but it was clear that the adrenalin was wearing off and he was getting sleepy now. “Only little kid’s say ‘so there’ as an adequate end to a quarrel.”

“Only adults say ‘adequate’ and ‘quarrel’,” Bond returned logically, finally getting ahead in this game of wits, “And I’d like to also add that you are a little kid, and I haven’t heard you say ‘so there’ once.”

“’M not a little kid,” Q argued, but drowsily. He’d let his cheek drop down against Bond’s chest again, his small hands balled up in the blanket just under his chin. He doggedly kept up his stream of chatter, though, “And outliers should not be considered in finding an average.”

That just set Bond to laughing, although he contained his hilarity to a low, rumbling chuckle so as not to shake Q too much. The effort to hold back the laughter nearly brought tears to his eyes, and he had to tip his head back to keep himself quiet. “All right then,” he finally got himself under control again enough to acquiesce congenially, “I fold: you’re an outlier, Q.”

“Bloody right I am,” the kid sniped loftily, the effect ruined by a huge yawn that a snake would have been proud of.

“An outlier with foul language. Watch it or I’ll get the soap.”

“You can’t lecture me. You threatened to kill Mallory.”

“A threat that is still up for debate,” Bond returned as easily as ever. Unconsciously, one of his hands had come up to rub up and down Q’s back, although he stopped when he remembered the wealth of bruises that had been revealed to live upon that pale skin. Voice abruptly cautious and serious, Bond asked, “Am I hurting you?”

For a moment, Q’s only answer was to snuggle closer – Q, who had been all wariness and sharp temper and not snuggliness before – eyelids already too heavy to lift. “No,” he then said, and his voice was soft and vulnerable, “I don’t…I don’t think you’d ever hurt me.” There was a pause, and a little bit of the heartbreak was back, and Q held himself perfectly still and asked very timidly, “Would you?”

Emotions that Bond very rarely entertained squeezed at his throat, forcing him to clear it before answering in a gravelly but sincere voice, “Never, Q.” He began rubbing a hand down Q’s back again, three gentle strokes before he moved up to the mop he called hair – because, regardless of what Q said, Bond didn’t want to bump one of those bruises even for a second. He hoped dearly that that explosion had killed Westford and all of his men, wishing even that the perpetrator could die once for every bruise he’d been cruel enough to leave on pale, soft skin. He heard when Q’s breathing evened out, proof that the soothing touch of Bond’s hand and the iron sincerity in his words had been enough to remove the last ounce of fear and uncertainty from him – at least for now.

M came into the room shortly thereafter. She was smart enough to make a bit of noise as she did so, murmuring something to people just outside the door (probably guards – the door was most likely locked, too, as a precaution against 007 leaving). Bond was watchful and quietly wary by the time she came in.

Bond’s eyes flicked briefly to the two men flanking the door, and to the fact that M was alone. “If you’re thinking to take Q from me, you don’t have enough agents to do it,” Bond informed M candidly.

Closing the door behind her, M just snorted in response to that. “I’d have to call in half of MI6 to do that, unless another 00-agent returned early from assignment.” Just as Bond had taken in the situation, so did she, sharp, calculating eyes noting Q unconsciousness, his cuddled pose in Bond’s lap while the agent watched her over his head like a raptor over its brood. “Although I’ve told Eve to put a call in to 006 if you cause any more trouble. Will you?” she asked him with her usual straightforwardness, arching one slice of an eyebrow.

Bond rolled one shoulder slowly in a shrug that wouldn’t wake Q but still showed off the power he contained in his every motion. “Depends. Is anyone interested in trying to traumatize this kid more than he already is? Because I’d really rather not cause a ruckus.” He indicated Q without looking away from M. “I think he’d wake up.”

“Stop joking around, Bond.”

“I’m not.”

The two glared at each other for awhile, Q the bone of contention between them, slumbering away peacefully. M was fairly sure that the only thing keeping Bond from jumping up and doing something rash was actually the presence of a kid on his lap. The woman finally sighed, “You picked an inconvenient time to become attached. We’ve run a background check on him, you know.”

Aware how much that topic had distressed little-Q, Bond looked down to make sure that the boy was well and truly asleep. Only then did he lift his head, asking slowly and sensibly, “What did you find out?” He felt an internal wince, as if he were betraying Q’s trust, but it was an emotion he was used to as a field agent, where morals often had to be put aside in favor of gleaning as much information as possible. Being informed was how an agent survived.

“The usual,” M replied dismissively, abrupt as always, “An uncaring family. Two parents, no siblings. No records of child abuse, but evidence that something must have ben amiss, because the police had to return their son three times when he tried to run away. He’s listed as a missing person, under ‘Quinn Finch’, although it doesn’t seem the parents put much effort into finding him.” M blinked, the only sign of any reaction to the next words she said, “Their bank account also received a rather notable raise, coming from some names we have connected to Westford.”

Q shuddered, and Bond stiffened, hands on the boy’s shoulders. Somewhere in there, Q had woken up, but he hadn’t thrown a tantrum or tried to get M to stop talking. No…looking down, Bond saw that he’d simply started crying silently and motionlessly instead, two new paths of loss running down his face as he gave up on keeping his secrets. M had picked up on the boy’s wakefulness, too, and looked as tense as Bond for once as she listened attentively. Q’s voice was soft and tired, resigned and sad as he admitted without a flicker of fight left in him, “Nobody cared that Quinn Finch was even alive, unless he got in the way. Until it turned out Quinn Finch was smart…” Eyes still closed, as if he could block out everything – the memories, his own words, the reactions on everyone’s face, even Bond’s strong arms around him – Q continued painstakingly to paint out what the reports had barely grasped the skeleton of. “Then Quinn thought his parents would care, but they didn’t. Not like they should have. They saw what Quinn Finch-”

“Quinn Finch is you, Q,” M reminded him gently, disturbed by the way Q kept detaching himself like some poorly written story book.

Q flinched, anger flashing across his delicate, bruised face as he pressed it against Bond’s chest as if in pain. Voice hardening with stubbornness, he simply backed up, repeated, and bulled forward heedlessly, “They saw what Quinn Finch could do, but they still didn’t see Quinn Finch. They saw a boy who could get them things, get them richer. So when they saw a way to benefit even more…” Now he stuttered, choking on tears as his attempts at aloofness failed and the pain slipped through the cracks to touch him with acid-tipped fingers. “…They did.” By now, his fingers were clenched in Bond’s shirt so tightly that they’d gone white, shaking, in Q’s effort to hold himself together. The blanket was slipping off his shoulders, revealing the top of the hand-shaped bruises on his little biceps. “Since they listed me as a missing person, Westford said they could have me back if I ever escaped, because someone would find me.” Q was squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold the tears in, but still they slipped out past his dark lashes, escaping to race down his nose. Everyone knew what he was thinking, as clearly as if it had been spelled out in blood on the wall: ‘I’ve been found now.’ “You won’t send me back…will you?”

Bond glared daggers at M over Q’s head, and the woman actually looked repentant and sad, because she was the one who’d brought this all up while Q was in the room – albeit asleep, initially. His main focus was on his small charge, however, and the man’s hand came up to cup the back of Q’s neck, squeezing, again giving that hint of power so that Q couldn’t ignore him. Q made a little hissing sound, not because he was hurt, but because he’d been blocking everyone out so stubbornly (and effectively) that now he fought the physical contact. At the same time, though, he ironically had to curl in closer to Bond if he wanted to avoid the firm hand at his nape.

Uneasily, M watched, secretly tensing to do something should Bond increase the pressure too much. Instinctively, she was afraid for the boy, because she knew those hands had broken tougher necks than Q’s – it was all too easy to imagine the sickly snap of bone being dislodged as Bond applied just a bit more pressure to the right points…

But one thing that Bond had more of than strength was control, and beyond that, he had an even greater abundance of protectiveness that made him gentle. The grip of his hand was simply an irrefutable way to say, ‘I’m here. You can’t ignore me, and I’m not leaving.’ It was the same steady, firm pressure that a mother would apply to the stiff muscles and aches in a child’s sore shoulders after a long game of baseball practice.

And slowly, just like a tense muscle himself, Q stopped fighting the contact and gave in with a sigh. He went limp, a little tangle of loose twigs against Bond’s chest, and the large eyes opened again. Obligingly, Bond retrieved Q’s glasses, perching them on the boy’s nose as Q looked at him.

“I already told you,” Bond took the opportunity to tell him firmly, and he looked sometimes at Q and sometimes at M – a comforting promise to the first and a warning to the second. “I. Am. Not. Leaving. You. How many bloody ways can I spell it out?”

The short-temperedness was met by a truly brilliant smile on little-Q’s part, as the boy finally let go of Bond’s shirt (those wrinkles would never come out) and sat up. Then he remembered M was there, and spun towards her as much as he could while sitting on Bond’s thighs.

The woman didn’t need to be a genius to know the right answer to the worried look in Q’s eyes, even if Bond’s glare behind them hadn’t also been truly formidable. “I could hardly send you back to your so-called family,” she said primly but with a tough of dark wryness, “considering that I have seen solid proof that they sold you to a known criminal. Seeing as said criminal has yet to be recovered, dead or alive-” Bond’s eyes flashed surprise, and then closed down to simple wariness, hiding his reaction until he could ask more about the specifics of this new information later. “-You are also a witness. Not to mention rather dangerously skilled with a computer, if what Bond says about your exploits are true.” Maybe a smirk just twisted at the side of her mouth. She turned to leave, so that Q wouldn't see that she was about to laugh at his gobsmacked expression. The boy seemed the proud sort when he wasn’t crying, and he likely wouldn’t appreciate people finding humor at his expense…even if that look on his little face was truly precious. “Bond, consider yourself on babysitting duty.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bond grinned.

“And Q?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” piped up the boy, far more official-sounding than Bond, who’d been a top agent for years. Eyes big behind his glasses and mop of hair, Q sit up straight and waited with held breath for what the woman would say to him.

She merely stopped with her hand on the doorknob, informing him in the same tone that she addressed any other employee, even if the words were far less typical, “Do try not to bite anyone else. Mallory got three stitches.”

Q had the decency to flush, Bond had the audacity to laugh, and M just hid a smile and slipped out the door.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Q pulled himself together in under five minutes, although Bond kept them both quietly in the room for closer to ten minutes, knowing from personal experience that saying one was fine and actually being fine were not always the same. Funny how he’d never listened to advice on that topic himself, but was now giving it and growing frustrated when Q argued. If M could see, she would have laughed herself sick at how karma had reversed roles on Bond.

After that, it was back out into Medical, where Q still wasn’t fully checked out. The shirtless little boy walked out with as much aplomb as if he were in a little suit, at which Bond had to smirk. The bruises all over the small body was still disturbing, as was the decided lack of the baby-fat that should have still been a bit in evidence, but now that the atmosphere had calmed down, Bond didn’t feel that trigger-itch in his finger or the fury coiled low in his gut.

While Bond was standing back to let the doctor finally finish her check-up, he noticed Q’s eyes – as alert as a sparrow’s behind his glasses – flick past him. It was reflex by now for Bond’s eyes to follow, ad he turned to see, of all people, Mallory. “A moment, 007?” Mallory asked, polite but also fairly relaxed with his tone, and he’d stopped a good distance away from both Q and his 00-guard-dog.

Shrugging, seeing that Q okay with the doctor for the moment, 007 ambled over with a gate that was rolling and smooth. “Mallory,” he greeted, smiling congenially. Bond could fake a smile with the best of them. In reality, he was judging the man silently, trying to see what his angle was.

Fortunately, Mallory was both smart and to-the-point. “I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding with your Q,” he said, lifting his hand ruefully to show reddened skin and stitches sketching out the semicircle of a child’s bite. Bond caught the intentional ‘your’ in the sentence and appreciated it, because he judged Mallory to be keen enough to mean the word – subtly acknowledging Bond’s connection to the skinny prodigy. There was also understanding in Mallory’s eyes. “I wasn’t lying when I said I had a boy of my own.”

Because Bond had only known Mallory for a day (not long enough to learn to trust him) and because all 00-agents had teeth, Bond said calmly and while still smiling, “If it had been more than a misunderstanding, you wouldn’t have had a boy for much longer.”

Mallory’s eyes sharpened and narrowed, a definite defensive glint showing up in their depths. Ah, so he was telling the truth – his reflexively reaction had been paternal.

Bond continued his calm threat, “You want your boy safe? I want mine safe. Do you understand that?”

“I hope that you understand how little tolerance I have for you threatening my family.”

Fractionally, Bond backed off, able to see that he’d gotten his point across. M was the final say in things, and she’d accepted that Q and Bond were inseparable, but Bond had sensed that Mallory had power, too – another possible danger. By now, the older man had to realize just how deadly serious Bond was about not having little-Q taken away. “No threats,” Bond assured Mallory, consciously easing his posture into something less ready for action. He even lifted his hands slowly from his sides, palm-forward, open and empty. “I don’t want to make threats – I just want to protect what is mine.” He met Mallory’s eyes, waiting until he saw the glint of grudging understanding in them. “Just like you, see?”

For a moment, they just stood like that. The Mallory frowned, sighed, and flatly said, “You’re a real pain, you know that, 007?”

At long last, Bond’s sleek smile blossomed into a broad, mischievous grin. “So I’m told. Nice to meet you Mallory.”

Before either man could either accept the other or fight more, a piping voice called from behind Bond: “Mr. Mallory!” Both turned to see Q. The doctor had apparently found some different clothes while Bond and Q had been secluded in the quiet room, because Q was in a small pair of baggy sweatpants now, an improvement on his scuffed, dirty trousers that he’d been wearing for who-knew-how long. He was standing (weight mostly on his good foot, although the sweatpants pooled over his feet and almost hid them) and the doctor had apparently given up on trying to get a shirt on him as he watched Mallory. “Mr. Mallory, can I talk to you?”

The older man got nervous again but hid it well. Bond smiled to see this his own dangerousness had rubbed off so well on Q, like the scales of a dragon flaking off on its minute paladin. It was clear that Mallory was walking on eggshells as he nodded and approached, keeping Bond in sight the whole time. “Yes…Q?” He stumbled on the title, recalling the last second how poorly ‘Quinn Finch’ had gone over. Diplomatic and friendly, he asked, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Um…” Large eyes flicked to Bond, but James hadn’t the faintest idea what this was all about, so he just lifted an eyebrow and stood by. Q looked back to Mallory, took a deep breath, and said with a little wince, “Sorry for biting you.”

Bond chuffed out a breath, then burst out laughing, rolling chuckles right from his gut. Here Mallory and Bond had been expecting something deep and/or foreboding, and Q was just exercising his right to feel guilty. Both Mallory and Q shot Bond looks, but he just kept laughing while Mallory murmured for Q not to worry about it, and he was glad he’d be staying with them.

~^~

It was a long day, truth be told. Q was essentially evidence, and all his time with Westford had made him a rare pool of knowledge – what was more, Q turned out to have an eidetic memory. Long interrogations followed, the interviewers being gentle both because Q was the cutest and smallest thing they’d ever interviewed, and because Bond slouched against the wall nearby like a clinging shadow. They didn’t go much into Q’s personal interactions with his captors, instead concentrating on the data Q had had access to, but Bond still caught bits he hadn’t known before but had suspected. Q hadn’t been a meek captive, but Westford hadn’t been shy about using his fists to create meekness. By now, the worst of Q’s bruises were hidden under a too-big green T-shirt. Q was also capable of using a detached voice when he talked about himself that was rare for someone his age, and everyone found it rather disturbing, except for Bond, who just understood.

Eventually, Q was too exhausted to do anything but sleep in his chair, and Bond stepped forward at the helpless, beseeching glances of the interviewers. He wordlessly slipped his arms under Q’s middle where the boy had slumped forward over the table, fluffy head pillowed on his arms. More than strong enough to treat Q like a kitten, Bond lifted him right off the chair, and it was clear how tired Q was when he didn’t do anything more than shift and murmur as Bond carried him right out of the room under his arm. From there, Bond parked both of them in the Q-branch break-room. He wasn’t supposed to loiter there (most people probably didn’t think he knew it existed), but he figured that the denizens of this room were decidedly more vanilla than the men and women likely to walk into the agents’ break-room. So while Bond lounged on the sofa with his legs propped out on a plastic folding chair, Q crashed against his side with his glasses still on and slipping down his nose, Q-branch employees skittered in and out. Upon seeing a 00-agent reclining in their break-room, their eyes would get really huge and they’d bolt out again. The reaction was not unlike the reaction when a person lifted an old box and found a pit-viper curled up underneath, convincing said person to lower the box again and quickly quit the area.

Of course, when enough people had come in and retreated again without being shot, the cuteness of little-Q began to overcome the fear of having a 00-agent in their break-room unannounced. So they began to sneak in, grouped in twos and threes, leaning around the corner as if to avoid notice, peering at the kid tucked under Bond’s muscular, relaxed arm. Bond allowed the spying, if only because he knew that he could take on any twenty of the Q-branch boffins if they so much hinted at being threatening to his little-Q. He’d essentially secreted himself and Q away into a nest of mice. Or dust-bunnies. Mice had teeth, while Q-branch was all brains and left the brawn to the 00-division. Never had Bond loved them so much for that.

Q woke up after a forty-five minute nap, blinking and giving a little snuffle as he noticed his slipping glasses with sleepy consternation. Bond didn’t move, just raised his eyebrow and smiled lightly at the three Q-branch boffin heads stacked seemingly one on top of another as they peered around the doorway. Q noticed the curious stares as soon as he got his glasses back in front of his eyes, and he froze a moment in instinctive wariness before feeling Bond’s bicep against his shoulder. He understandably relaxed at that point, even if he didn’t know where he was. “Hi?” he tried, clearing his throat as the questioning greeting scraped out of his throat, thick from his nap.

Startled, as if they hadn’t realized they were visible, the Q-branchers jumped, looked at one another, but finally just spilled into the room.

What followed was actually a fairly interesting conversation. It was awkward at first, until Q woke up completely and Bond – on a whim – mentioned what Q had done to Westford’s computers. Not that Bond actually knew what he’d done, but he figured it must have been inspired. Q and the boffins picked things up from there with gusto. They talked computers and electronics for half an hour straight, and Bond didn’t understand a word of it. Soon, word spread that the 00-agent didn’t bite and the little kid was awake and talking, so more and more Q-branch boffins were soon clogging the room. Bond appreciated that they kept their distance, even though he never so much as twitched a finger in a threatening way. It was soon clear that Q was their new god as he sat against Bond’s hip and quite professionally lectured them on the finer points of coding. Intrigued and amused, Bond smiled and watched all of this as if it were his own personal circus.

The party was broken up when old-Q arrived. “So this is where everyone got to!” his growl preceded him, even as he pushed his way into the full room. Everyone cowered back from the old man except, surprisingly, his little counterpart. Little-Q instead stiffened his spine and sat up straighter, bypassing his usual wariness around people to instead meet the older man’s glare with a stern, defiant look of his own. Somehow, the fact that Q had hair like a dark-brown bird’s nest, glasses, and about as much mass as a really large cat didn’t matter for once – the kid looked like he could turn anywhere he sat into a throne.

It was clear by this point that old-Q didn’t care for little-Q, and the two locked eyes for a bit in a stare-down, the older man glowering while the kid’s face became carefully but quite intimidatingly aloof. Bond’s arms had been thrown over the back of the sofa, but when he worried that the staring contest was going to give the other boffins a heart-attack, he moved his hand just enough to brush a fingertip up and down the kid’s poky little spine. Q broke eye-contact…dismissively. It was priceless. “Yes, 007?” Q asked, as professional as you please.

“M’s got a few more questions for you, then we can go eat,” said Bond in a relaxed tone, purposefully ignoring old-Q just as much as little-Q was. Ohhhh, the old man was fuming…

“Oh, okay. That doesn’t sound fun, but I guess that’s inevitable.” Q was just warming up, though, and Bond artfully hid a smirk as Q tossed out into the air as if it were an afterthought, “I still haven’t told them about the virus I deployed into Westford’s entire system while he wasn’t paying attention.”

The Q-branch employees actually tittered, and in that moment, Bond knew that Q would be safe and loved if ever he ended up in Q-branch. The old Quartermaster would do anything he could to chase him out, but he was just one man, and the boffins were legion.

And the legion liked their new deity with his minute size and fluffy hair.

~^~

Bond and Q actually didn’t meet up with M again, personally. They just went back to the same interviewer and talked a little longer, until it became clear that Q was talking in techno-jargon so advanced that the notes would have to be translated in Q-branch later (they’d get a kick out of that). At long last, a message was delivered saying that M had cleared them to go, so long as Bond didn’t bolt and leave the country with his new sidekick. Bond assured everyone with a smooth smile that he didn’t feel that would be necessary, and that he’d just head back to his flat and would check in tomorrow – and, for once, he meant it.

~^~

Someone had found Q shoes and socks, and with a fully-clothed boy at long last, Bond commandeered a car (Eve’s car – that’s what she got for having her keys where he could see them and a car that looked that pretty) and began driving to the flat he shared with 006. Since the two of them were almost always on missions across the world, it only made sense to share a flat – then at least one of them would drop by the place every few weeks and make sure it hadn’t gone up in flames. All manner of foodstuffs were kept there, all with as long a shelf-life as possible, and the sofa was of a black material designed specifically to be easily cleaned of blood (or to hide the blood they couldn’t clean up). The bed was honestly almost never used because neither 007 nor 6 ever made it that far when they came stumbling in after missions. Once, Bond had actually fallen on Alec, not realizing that they were home at the same time for once and the other agent had already blacked out on the sofa. Fortunately, both of them had been too wrecked from the mission (006 had probably been plastered, too) to wake up adequately enough to kill each other. Alec had simply given in to being evicted and had shambled off to fall on the bed.

Q seemed pensive, an understandable reaction to a new kid being brought home. “We’re really going to your home?” he asked, as if not quite believing it.

“Yes,” Bond chuckled, “Where did you think we were going? I don’t live at MI6.” He frowned, considering the validity of that statement. “Well, most of the time I don’t.”

There was silence for awhile after that as Q swung his legs and tugged at the seatbelt, watching buildings move past the window. Finally, Bond suggested, “Go to sleep, Q. The drive’s a bit long.”

In typical kid fashion, Q shot him a belligerent, pugnacious look, but sure enough – he was asleep in the car five minutes later, squished up between the seat and the door. Bond favored him with a rare, soft look before turning his attention back to the road.

~^~

Bond’s hand carefully shook the small, poky shoulder. “Q. Wake up. We’re here.”

“Fi’ mo’ minuse…” was the slurred plea as Q sagged against the door as if he were becoming a liquid.

Trying not to laugh wryly, Bond got out and circled around the car, deftly opening Q’s door and scooping up the kid without waking him. “Five more minutes it is then,” he muttered, hearing soft snores whuffle against his neck. Bond was beginning to feel tired after the mission and the long day, his bruised muscles getting his attention belatedly but insistently, but he could carry the kid one more time. Typing in the security code while holding Q against him with one arm under him, Bond let the two of them in, ignoring the buzzing of his phone as Eve began to furiously text him in regards to her missing car. Bond would answer her later. Besides, if she knew to text him about it, then she knew he had it.

Carefully settling Q down on the sofa, Bond did a quick circuit of the flat before accepting that it was, indeed, empty and safe. Well. Standing in the middle of room, idly flicking the blanket down from the back of the sofa and over Q, Bond decided what to do now. He ached as if he’d been dragged behind a car (something he was intimately familiar with, from various unfortunate incidents), and Q needed sleep more than anything else, but he also needed more food than the little sandwiches that the boffins had been slipping him in the break-room. Deciding to satisfy all of these needs, Bond went to the kitchen and pulled a loaf of bread out of the freezer, popping the frozen pieces right into the toaster. It wasn’t exactly fine dining, but by the time he’d put peanut-butter on both pieces Q was still asleep anyway. He placed the plate close enough that Q couldn’t miss it if he woke up, even if he could ignore the alluring smell of toasted bread and slightly melted peanut butter. Bond planned to be out of the shower before Q awoke anyway, just in case the boy was allergic to peanuts.

No one was going to break into a house owned by two 00-agents, so Bond withdrew to the shower without a second glance.

~^~

Q woke to a blanket that smelled like 007 and something else, and a sound of water running that sounded so…normal…that it left Q calm as his brain came all the way into wakefulness. From there, he blinked his eyes open, realizing his glasses were still on (really, he was going to damage them eventually if he kept napping with them on) and that he was in an apartment. Being with Bond constantly for so long had finally knocked loose the last holds of fear in him, however, so Q immediately deduced that this must be 007’s home.

And the toast was appreciated. Q had no allergies, especially not to peanut butter. The only times he was wary of food depended not on what the food was, but on who gave it to him. Food handed to him by Westford always came with malice or with an ultimatum, but Q dug into the toast immediately, because there was no one other than 007 who could have made it, so far as Q could think.

At least, he thought that until he was licking the last peanut butter off his fingers and looking for more, and heard the outside door open.

~^~

Alec Trevelyan had many of the same bad habits 007 had – his favorite was not checking into MI6 until he’d had time to sit on his own sofa and drink copious amounts of liquor to let himself relax. MI6 probably wouldn’t want him just fresh out of a mission anyway – he tended to be a little hair-trigger and irritable, not to mention surrounded by the smell of gunpowder.

That meant he didn’t officially know that Bond was back, but noted that a car was there and lights were on. Good. Drinking alone was just fine and served a purpose, but it was more fun to have someone to complain to as well. He dropped the bag with his gun and the remains of his Q-branch tech in it at the door, then walked the rest of the way in.

And was surprised to find a tiny mouse of a boy standing in front of him, hands in wary fists and distrustful brown eyes staring at him past thick glasses and thicker hair. Oh, this could not be good…

The kid bolted as soon as 006 twitched a muscle, forcing Alec to lunge. He caught a scrawny wrist first and used it to pull the rest of the little body into reach, instinctively wrapping one brawny arm around the front of the kid’s shoulders, having to bend down to do it because the brat was so much smaller than him. “James?” 006 called out with a wealth of anxiety slipping into his voice. He could kill anything from druglords to other assassins without a quiver, but finding a kid in his shared flat was just about the scariest thing he’d ever faced. “What’s a little gamin like this doing in our flat?”

Fuck, but the kid squirmed... Grunting as he found a way to fix that, Alec lifted Q off his feet effortlessly, much as Eve would have done if she’d been a bit stronger – or if she'd been so effortlessly used to being a muscular bear like 006 was. He solved things with his strength automatically, and it made Q squeak. “James, I know we had a mouse problem two month ago, but this is different!” he continued to call hopefully, even as he heard the water of the shower turn off suddenly. Good. Someone would be coming to explain things soon. Suddenly afraid that he might smother the kid before that could happen (006 hadn’t the faintest idea how much pressure it took to start strangling a child – he’d never been ordered to kill anyone so young, thankfully), he hooked his other arm in to hold the struggling boy more securely. By now, the tiny body was emitting remarkably ferocious growls as it thrashed as best it could within the cage of muscle.

Bond, in a towel and dripping water still, slipped swiftly into the room, already on the alert. His eyes widened a bit and took the situation in at a glance. A beat later, he focused on something to do with the kid’s face – unbeknownst to 006, Q’s eyes were narrowed murderously, and Bond saw the trouble coming. “Q! Don’t-!” Bond tried, reaching out a hand as if to stop him.

Too late. A split-second later, Alec felt the red-hot pain of what could only be teeth, sinking with determined strength into the meat of his forearm. It was shockingly painful, and what was more shocking what that so much agony could be created by a child so small that 006 could have snapped his bones like matchwood.

As with Mallory, it gained Q his freedom, even if Alec only snarled rather than cried out. Bond was already talking, coming forward swiftly with a hand outstretched towards the confrontation, “He’s not a threat, Alec – he’s an asset that M had me bring home. Bloody h-!” Bond looked at the kid and realized he maybe shouldn’t be swearing. “I didn’t know you were back in the country, or I’d have warned you.”

“That you brought an ankle-biter home?” 006 groused, inspecting his arm. He corrected in light of the bite, “Or arm-biter, in this case. What did you say his name was?” He shot a narrow-eyed look Q’s way that was sharp-edged.

Q flinched and hid behind the sofa. Bond sighed, hoping that the kid would come out after Alec was placated and Bond got more clothes on. “Q, if you’d believe it.”

That distracted the agent well enough, and he rocked his weight back on his heels in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Close enough,” Bond shrugged, deciding that he’d save the whole painful story for a more leisurely talk later. “He’s a lot more fun to talk to than the old Q, and better with a computer besides.”

“So you’re keeping him safe so no one uses his skills?” Alec hazarded, still holding his arm and blinking in continued confusion.

Bond blinked back, realizing that he was. “Sort of. If it helps, he bit Mallory, too.”

“Ha,” Alec chuckled, letting Bond know that Alec had heard of the man already. “That must have been a trick!”

“Yeah, but it’s starting to seem like a habit,” Bond replied while frowning, turning to try and glare a rebuke at his new kid, but Q was still behind the sofa. “Really, Alec, did he hurt you? Mallory had to have stitches, and if I’d known you were off-mission, I would have warned both you and Q.”

But Alec was already brushing the apologetic tone aside, the muscular agent relaxing already now that he’d gotten the all-clear from someone he trusted. “Your kitten just scratched me,” he grinned, waving the hand of his injured arm, which was red but not leaking blood – apparently, the skin of Alec’s arm was made of tougher stuff than the skin of Mallory’s poor hand. “You hear that, kitten? You might need to get some sharper teeth than the ones you have now!” Alec called out, and Bond sighed, realizing right then that the two of them might be doomed to antagonize one another.

A dark head popped out from behind the sofa, giving a pretty jaded glare for a kid of seven. “I’m not a kitten, and my teeth are just fine.” Apparently, he hadn’t pushed is luck enough, because after a moment to think, Q added grouchily, “Your arm is made of leather.”

Bond prepared for the possibility of having to break up a fight between a fully-trained assassin and a seven-year-old computer-nerd, but apparently Alec’s mercurial moods had settled on amused and was happy to stay there. He threw his head back and laughed. “Quite a catch you have here, Jamesy, I’m sure you’ll tell me the whole grim tale later.” Alec’s eyes focused on the plate covered with crumbs on the coffee-table, something avaricious entering his gaze at the hint of food. “Playing cook, are you? Nice of you!” He plopped down on the sofa heavily, ignoring how it made Q yelp and jerk back behind the sofa. The sound didn’t ring of true terror, however, just sincere surprise at having such a large man drop like a stack of cut wood onto the sofa near him, so Bond didn’t address it. Besides, Alec was looking up at him slyly and with a grin on his face that showed too many teeth. “So, what’s for supper?”

Narrowing his eyes, looking down to indicate that he was still in a towel and dripping water on the floor from his half-finished shower, Bond sniped, “Arsenic,” and then stalked back into the shower. “Q, don’t worry – he’s a big softy, so long as you don’t point a gun at him…or try to bite him anymore…so just sit tight till I get back and can introduce you properly.”

Determined not to let anything get between himself and his bloody shower, Bond disappeared into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned the hot water on high.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

006 sat quite happily on the sofa, taking his gun apart with the idle ease of long practice.  He’d had the weapon on him this whole time, so thankfully he hadn’t even considered drawing it on such a small target – it was hard to imagine Q as a threat.  While Alec was outwardly paying attention to his gun, his ears were focusing on small noises from behind the sofa, and he smiled mischievously as he zeroed in on where little-Q was. 

“You planning on camping out behind that sofa, kitten?” he asked in a smooth, low, amused tone. 

The reply was instant and piqued: “No, but I can stay wherever I want to.  You’re taking up the sofa.”  Which was a lie – 006 was big, but he was only taking up a third of the sofa at most as he sat there.  “And I’m not a kitten.”

“Well,” Alec grumbled, starting to slide pieces back together, “whenever I start to call you ‘Q’, I think of an old geezer stalking around with a wrench in one hand and justice in the other.  Pardon a body if you don’t match that description at all-”  Abruptly, Alec sat back, looping his arm over the back of the sofa and – with laughably little effort – caught hold of the boy crouched behind it.  He hauled Q unceremoniously over and onto the sofa next to him, finishing his sentence: “-Kitten.”

Q was certainly making disgruntled noises reminiscent of a kitten, but by the time he’d batted free of Alec’s hand, little-Q didn’t immediately race away.  Keeping his new position on the sofa, Q leaned away from Alec and eyed him warily. 

Quite pointedly not looking at Q (but definitely smirking just a little bit), 006 efficiently put his gun the rest of the way back together and then shoved it to the far side of the coffee-table before sitting back.  It was an unspoken truce of sorts, and the big man lounged back against the sofa and angled himself to regard Q.  “So.  You’ve made friends with James then?” he asked, unable to hide a smile at just how improbable this all was.  He actually burst out laughing before the boy could answer, blurting, “I’ve owned dogs bigger than you!”

“I’m not that little!” Q protested, before he crossed his skinny arms and added with a rueful roll of his eyes, “And neither am I a grumpy old man who can’t even program a computer straight.”

An eyebrow jumped upwards on 006’s face.  A little more carefully, he queried, “You’ve met Q then?  MI6’s Q?”

“A little.  He doesn’t like me.”

Alec’s grin spread.  “Did you bite him?”

The look of wary, disgruntled annoyance on Q’s face finally fell away to an aghast expression – he’d bitten two too many people already.  “No!” he gasped, wanting to nip the suspicion in the bud.

But Alec just threw his head back and laughed before getting off the sofa with an easy rolling motion.  Q was too befuddled to be uneasy as he watched the man walk to the door, picking up a bag he’d left there when he’d first noted something out of place in the flat.  “Too bad,” Alec informed Q flatly, “The old coot could use it.  Maybe you could infect him with youth or something – that man needs to get with this century.”

It turned out the bag that 006 had contained food to restock the apartment, and he pulled out something that looked suspiciously like a doughnut.  A doughnut which he deposited on the plate that had originally held Q’s toast, which the man then pushed towards the boy.  “Come on, eat up.  It’s not poisonous.  James and I are far too dangerous to need poison.”  Alec needed to work on his bedside manner.  Sitting down again next to the kid, Alec winced, wondering how much he should joke if Q were just some oblivious kid.  “You do know, don’t you, about MI6…?”  M would kill him for flapping his jaws if the answer was no…

Quite primly, Q was picking up the doughnut, licking speculatively at the icing first.  He answered without the slightest sign of a waver – in fact, he seemed to say his reply as if it were the safest of admittances on his tongue: “I know that 007 is deadly enough that all of MI6 is afraid of him, and that makes sense to me.”  Another lick at the icing, and this time he made a noise of appreciation in his throat.  “And I’m quite okay with that.”  As cool as a cucumber, the fluffy-headed seven-year-old then went to work in earnest on his doughnut, as if he were not, at present, in a house with two men with a license to kill.

~^~

The shower had felt good.  It had released all of the tension that had collected in Bond’s shoulders, and after he pulled on clean clothes, he truly felt as if he were off-mission. 

Right up until he walked out of the bathroom and a certain seven-year-old nearly ran into him, skidding to a stop just short of hitting his leg.  Big eyes looked up to him, and immediately a frown-line formed between them.  “Bond, Alec insists on calling me a cat, and when he’s not doing that, he called me ‘neko’.  What does that mean?”

One eyebrow itching to lift, Bond looked to find 006, who sounded like he was in the kitchen (impatience was a good motivator – waiting for Bond to cook was too much, apparently).  “You don’t know what that means?” he asked distractedly, trying to consider how much damage Alec could have done in the short time Bond had left him alone.  Alec had a taste for mischief that seemed to have survived childhood where most people mellowed, and he’d taken to Q far too easily. 

“Of course I don’t.”  Q seemed excited, but not in a bad way or like he was nervous.  He just seemed to have a lot of energy, and was bobbing lightly from foot to foot.  “He started calling me terms in Latin, but I knew what he was saying and told him so.  Then he switched to that.  Plus, he wants to put curry on mac-and-cheese.”

Okay, this was all getting to be too much: Q was a chatterbox, Alec was trying to call him ‘cat’ in various languages, and apparently Q knew Latin.  The curry on mac-and-cheese wasn’t actually that new.  “I’ll go talk to him,” Bond reassured, patting the dark-haired head without thinking.  He mumbled as he began taking the two of them towards the kitchen, “And Alec has obviously been reading manga again.  Alec, have you been calling Q ‘neko’?”

“What’s wrong with that?” came the bold call back, “It’s not bad.  And face it – the kid is just a little kitten.”  Alec’s unencumbered laughter met Bond and Q as well as the smell of curry as they turned into the kitchen, but before Bond could even roll his eyes at the other agent, Q had darted off, skidding right up to the table (he had his socks on) and leaning up to look at a telltale box of doughnuts, now empty.

The clues were beginning to fall into place.  Bond shot Alec a gimlet look.  “Did you just sugar-up my computer prodigy?”

Alec looked back while stirring his latest culinary project.  “Only a little bit.”

“Define ‘little bit’ in terms of doughnuts consumed.”

“Three?”

Bond groaned and pulled Q away from the table with one hand, aware that the kid was using deft fingers to scrape stray bits of icing sugar out of the box now.  “Alec, he’s just little!  Three doughnuts are practically-!”

“Enough to make him hilarious?” Alec hazarded with an unabashed grin, proving just how poor a parental unit he was prepared to be. 

Finally Q was paying attention.  “Hey!” he protested, aware that he was being made fun of.  He tugged forward before realizing that Bond’s hand was still wrapped around his arm. 

“Since when are you so responsible, James?” Alec continued, finally deeming his curry and mac-and-cheese monstrosity done and fit for consumption.  “Besides, the kid’s so serious that I was obliged to give him sugar – I sure don’t have it in me to give him alcohol!”

‘Thank goodness for small miracles.’  “Yes, but he has to sleep sometime, and honestly, I’d like to sleep, too,” Bond deadpanned. 

Sugar might have gotten Q a little wired, but it hadn’t dulled his intellect (although his attention span had suffered a bit).  He reached up to tug at the hand Bond still had on him, meeting the man’s frowning gaze.  “Just because I’m awake doesn’t mean I’ll keep you up,” he pointed out solemnly. 

Bond’s frown remained, even if it softened a little.  Blowing out a sigh, he picked up Q and plopped him down on the table (far from the doughnut box) so he could easily say to his face, “I don’t know what your family did, or Westford, but I’m not just going to nod off until I know you’re settled.  Got it?”  He had a vague idea that that was what good parents did, or at least good babysitters, which was what he officially was until Q came to trust someone else.

While Q’s brows beetled a little bit and he nodded, taking in this new level of personal care, Alec shot them both a look that held more understanding.  “This had to do with the Westford case?”

“Yes,” Bond grumbled, shooing Q off the table now to a chair, while leaning against the table himself, “Westford had this kid chained to a table when he wasn’t doing illegal computer work that would make your head spin.”  Which reminded him…  “Q, how’s your foot holding up?”

“Hurts a bit.” 

“You’ll find a bag next to the right side of a sofa.  Don’t go digging through it, just bring me the bag,” 007 instructed, and was glad when Q simply nodded and scampered off, the slightest limp visible now.  007 blew out a breath, wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t picked up a kid as disciplined and sensible as an adult – honestly, he was more mature than Alec.

After a brief pause of silence, Alec put the food on the table while commenting in a low rumble, “I did notice the bruises.  I wondered who’d used the kid as a punching bag, and I knew it wouldn’t have been you.”  

The vote of confidence didn’t wipe away the images in Bond’s mind of finding Q in the room, pulling at the short chain to get away from Bond even as the cuff bit into his ankle.  “He’s had a hard time of it.  Mallory looked into his history, and his parents basically starved him with neglect until they found out he was a genius.  Then they sold him to the highest bidder.”

“Ouch,” 006 winced, although he also growled.  One look at his eyes showed that he’d already become emotionally attached enough to be outraged on Q’s behalf.  “Did you kill Westford slowly?”

“I set off a bomb in his general vicinity, after putting a knife into the back of his knee,” Bond said without a flicker of regret, “There’s a chance he survived, but it’s slight.”

“Well, if he survived, he’ll be easier to hunt with a limp,” Alec reasoned coldly as he pushed away from the table to fetch plates and silverware.  Even now, off-mission, he walked like a predator – a true hunter.  007 was one, too.  “I assume there’ll be a hunt for him?”

“Probably, although it sounds like Q – little-Q, our Q – managed to technologically cripple him.”  Bond snorted and smiled proudly at the memory, feeling vicious pride as he remembered how bravely little-Q had acted.  “While Westford was standing right there and threatening to kill us both, Q took his computer apart.  Westford thought he was fixing it.”  Bond actually chuckled at the thought. 

At that point, the kid came back in with the small bag in hand, and Alec went back to being a well-meaning pain.  “Ahhhh, Neko!  You’re back!  I was going to eat all of your food!  I figured, skinny little thing that you were, you could eat out of the bird-feeder the neighbor has out.”

And, predictably, that made Q glare, but 007 just smirked and let the two tangle.  006 was grinning like a fiend, and Q hadn’t tried to bite anyone, so it couldn’t be that bad.  He was still dreading getting the kid to bed, of course, but at least the stitches in Q’s foot and the healing wound around his ankle had kept him from running at full pelt around the house in the throws of his sugar-high.

As for the curry and mac-and-cheese, it went over well, possibly because the appetites of 00-agents weren’t picky, and neither were the appetites of kids were hadn’t been well fed in ages.  Q was small enough that Bond wondered if he should find him a dictionary or two to sit on (if such things were even present in the flat, which was unlikely) – that thought was soon wiped away by the disturbing signs of Q’s neglect. 

Q guarded food. 

Bond remembered how avidly the boy had eaten, and how sensibly he’d drank when in a dehydrated condition.  Now, however, with a full plate of food in front of him, he noted that the boy put his skinny arms around it subtly, and often looked up between bites, almost worriedly watching the other two men he was sharing the table with.  He was like the smallest member of a pack eyeing the bigger, stronger, possibly hungrier wolves. Q looked mostly at Alec, sometimes pulling his plate closer and looking uneasily at things as if expecting something to come to life and snatch away his meal. 

“Q.”

Without conscious thought on his part, Bond had reached out and gripped Q’ wrist, on the hand not wielding his fork.  The response was instantaneous as the boy jumped, the fork dropping with a clatter onto the table and the kid squeaking – he’d clearly been winding up tighter and tighter until he was a violin string.  The sugar was not helping.  Alec was startled by the sudden motion, too, but he was a quick study.  Soon, his face was set into a softly pitying look, and he let the other agent handle this.

Speaking softly, only to Q, Bond said without any judgment in his tone – only kind encouragement, “How about you go eat on the sofa?  It’s comfier, and Alec and I have to talk about business.”

There was always the risk that Q – already suffering from abandonment issues – would think he was being ejected from the room, but in reality, Bond just wanted the kid to eat somewhere far removed from any perceived mealtime threats.  Fortunately, the boy just let out a breath that sounded a lot like relief.  “Okay.”  As soon as Bond let go, the kid jumped down – careful to put most of his weight on his good foot – and then turned back to snatch his plate. 

006 stopped him.  “Hold on a sec, Neko,” his voice rolled out easily, calm and friendly even if it was still full of his usual smirking teasing.  Before Bond could ask him what he was going on about, 006 showed the kinder side of his nature: “Let met fill your plate up, yeah?  So you don’t come back and eat mine.”

“I’m not like a puppy, you know,” Q informed 006 grumpily, but stood where he was while 006 obligingly topped off his plate, “I don’t just eat wantonly.” 

“ ‘Wantonly’?” Alec repeated with a snort, looking to Bond with derision and smirking surprise.  “Where did he get these words, James?  Did he eat a dictionary?”

“Just give him his plate, Alec,” Bond advised, figuring he’d try to explain the bewildering phenomenon of Q’s genius in a moment.  “And this.”  Bond shook out a pill onto the table, and while Q eyed it with obvious wariness, he explained, “For your foot.”

Q was looking exceedingly wary, however, bordering on fear, and had already stepped away.  “I-I’m fine,” he said, but couldn’t meet Bond’s eyes for long, “Really.”  And then he grabbed his plate from 006 and was skittering out of the room like a small stork – with a slight limp that he couldn’t hide.

Both Bond and 006 stared after him.  “What was that about?” Alec asked in a low voice that rested on the edge of dangerousness.

“Don’t know.”  It seemed that every time Bond turned around, Q was showing another quirk – another sign of misuse at someone’s hands.  “But I have a few guesses.”

“I think you should tell me now exactly how you found this kid,” demanded Alec without turning his head or changing the volume or tone of his voice.  Both men were still cautiously watching Q, who was still within their line of sight: the sofa was far enough away that Q had the illusion of eating in privacy and safety, but he wouldn’t be out of Bond’s sight – an added bonus.  At Alec’s words, Bond nodded slowly before he began to quietly recount the tale. 

~^~

Alec wasn’t exactly valued for his attention span most of the time, but he listened attentively and quietly as he ate and Bond told the story of his mission, starting when he’d startled a small boy out of a chair to the tune of clinking chains.  None of the story disrupting either of their meals, except for the necessary quiet when Bond actually felt like chewing and swallowing anything.  Likewise, 007 regularly glanced into the living room, ensuring that he could still see that his small charge was staying out of trouble – it was a pity Alec wasn’t watching, because it looked like the little genius had wolfed his food and was now messing with the watch Alec had left on the coffee table.  Alec didn’t interrupt except to growl on occasion, a feral sound that shifted between contempt and quiet fury in places as he kept his attention on his plate. 

“Quinn Finch then,” Alec mused when the story was finished, and the food was gone, “Child prodigy and computer genius extraordinaire.”  Absentmindedly, he was crushing the pill that Q had avoided taking, using the blunt end of his table-knife with as much skill and care as he used the sharp end at work. 

James nodded but added more darkly, “Who hates nothing more than his real name, has only ever been punished for being smart, and who has ‘distrust’ practically tattooed on his forehead.”  Bond grimaced at the hard truths.

But Alec was quick, and studied his friend’s face a moment before correcting, “Except for around you.  You can add ‘babysitter’ to your resume now, James, congratulations!”

“And you can add a new watch to your shopping list,” James threw back just as blithely, watching as Q spread more and more pieces of what had once been a solid time-keeping instrument out on the coffee table.  Alec twitched and turned to follow his eyes, stiffening even more in surprise as he tried to grasp just what he was looking at in the boy’s small, deft fingers.  “Although if you ask nicely, he might put it back together again.”

Alec almost jumped up before he recalled that this was a kid and not some malcontent that he could deal with through intimidation, and the green-eyed agent sat back down with a soft groan.  “He’s only had ten minutes-!” the man lamented in quiet shock, and Q finally looked up, realizing people had been watching him.  Suddenly he looked small and afraid as his hands froze, pulling back as if they'd just realized what they’d been doing. 

Fortunately, before the situation could spiral into trouble, Alec flashed a grin – true, his grins were about as intimidation as most people’s best glowers, but his voice was relaxed and playful as he called out reassuringly, “Just because I look like a handsome monster doesn’t mean I’m going to eat you!”

Snorting and shaking his head at his friend’s antics (and the way Q’s face couldn’t decide what emotions it wanted to show, flickering between relief, embarrassment, and miffed annoyance at being called out), Bond stood up, not giving a second thought before he shifted his body, just hiding the movement of 006’s hands as Alec dusted the pulverized medication into the glass of juice that Q had left half-drunk on the table.  Once standing, Bond reached back and picked up the glass, with Alec already acting as if nothing happened and the two weren’t in cahoots at all. 

Q still watched Bond a little uneasily as the agent joined him by the coffee table, the bespectacled boy looking guiltily at the mess of cogs and pieces he’d made.  “I just…I just started fiddling with it, and at some point-”  He gestured helplessly towards the pieces.  “I came apart.  Maybe you’re right, and I shouldn’t have sugar.”

That coaxed Bond to laugh, a low chuckle rolling up from his stomach as he placed the glass next to Q.  “Finish your drink and we’ll pretend the watch took itself apart,” he made a deal, much practice allowing him to say the words nonchalantly, “If Medical finds out I let you get dehydrated, I’ll be demoted from babysitting.”

Apparently, the threat of being taken away from Bond was more than enough to spur Q into obedience, and it was almost sad how quickly he reached forward and snagged the glass, hurriedly downing its contents.  Medical regularly pulled the same trick of hiding medication in food to give 00-agents, so both 006 and 7 were familiar with the drill.  Out of pure curiosity, Bond found himself asking as he eyed the disassembled watch, “Can you put it back together?”  As he sat on the sofa, closer now, he saw that the many pieces were actually in neat, orderly piles, scrupulously sorted and arranged. 

The boy’s skinny arm reached out, and he touched a few piles as if to awaken his recollection of them.  “Yes, quite certainly,” he said, biting his lip but actually seeming sure of himself. 

If the slight snort from the kitchen was any indication, Alec didn’t believe it, even after Bond had told him about the earpiece.  Apparently, 006 thought he was exaggerating. 

Twenty minutes later, when Alec’s watch was back in one piece, however, and being presented to him by a timid and apologetic-looking Q, it was clear that 006 was reevaluating his opinions.  The looked of surprise on his face was absolutely priceless.  “What the fuck did you bring home, James?” he asked in honest shock as he held the ticking watch in his hands and Q – his sugar-high still in effect – got distracted by the radio on the kitchen counter. 

Bond shrugged, not sure he was joking as he said, “My own miniature Quartermaster.  If you have a problem with that, talk to M.  I’ve already threatened her and all of MI6.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

“Come on, Q, it’s time you got washed up,” Bond said, snagging the back of little-Q’s shirt-collar to drag him away from the radio – which he hadn’t taken apart yet, but was looking at with ravenous curiosity.  Q made a disgruntled noise, resisting the pull of the strong man’s arm.

“Hey, kitten, he could pick you up, too,” Alec drawled, grinning like a fiend, “if you don’t want to walk on your own like a respectable little person.”

Q shot him a glare, but to do that, he had to turn away from the radio and walk along with Bond.  Still, despite his tousled hair falling over his glasses, he was pretty intimidating.  Bond rolled is eyes at the two.  “Alec, how about you see if there are any places still open that sell kids clothes,” 007 said just to get the other agent out of the house.  If Bond had to deal with two kids at once for another minute, he was going to possibly get violent. 

For a moment, it seemed like Alec would argue – after all, he’d just come back from a mission, too, and had a whole list of things he’d rather be doing than late-night shopping for a seven-year-old.  But then he just rolled his powerful shoulders in a shrug.  “Sure, James.  If you’ve got the cash.”

Unsurprised with the stipulation (this often happened with groceries, too, or any opportunity for Alec to ‘forget’ to bring his wallet), Bond released Q long enough to dig out some money and hand it over while 006 stood up.  Alec’s big hand was quite deft, and he snagged the money quickly before heading for the door.  “Have a nice night, kitten!”

“I’m not a kitten!” Q called after him, but the door was already closing.  He huffed, looking very much like a miniature adult as he glared where Alec had been. 

Bond smiled fondly because he knew the kid wasn’t looking, and then coaxed, “Come on, Q, time to get clean.  Do you…?”  He let the sentence drop, realizing that he didn’t have the slightest idea how to handle a seven-year-old at bath-time.  A seven-year-old was pretty mature, right?  Surely…?

“No,” Q said quickly, perhaps seeing the looking of growing unease on the 00-agent’s face as he turned swiftly around.  His eyes were large and almost a little scandalized, answering Bond’s half-spoken question that Q didn’t need any help washing.  “No, I can figure it out myself.”  And then he was darting off, no doubt remembering where Bond had appeared from.  Bond watched, blinking, wondering if Q realized that he hadn’t asked about towels or how to turn on the shower or anything.  Deciding that this was just another thing he didn’t understand about children, Bond dropped down onto the couch to wait until Q got done.  Feeling antsy and uneasy in this parenting role, he turned the television on and tried to think of what else could be expected of him.  It was almost a relief when he heard the shower turn on, proving that Q had figured that out, at least. 

Should be simple.  Little-Q was a genius, wasn’t he?

When the shower turned off less than five minutes later, he grew suspicious. 

Q came out another half-second later, wet and shivering and back in his clothes with a damp towel over his shoulders, looking around as if wondering where he was supposed to go now.  Bond immediately decided that something was wrong with this picture, and stood up to walk over to the kid.  “Q?”

“I’m all done,” the boy said hurriedly, looking up at Bond entreatingly.  “I just…  Where do you want me to sleep?”  Water dripped a bit off the ringlets of his wet hair, and Q blinked as it spotted his glasses.  He looked awfully uneasy, a look that had become familiar to Bond, and led him to think that this was another case of Q’s past life coming back to haunt him. 

With a sigh, Bond stuffed his hands in his pockets in a gesture that signified passiveness in a 00-agent – hands in pockets were far less likely to draw a gun or do anything threatening.  “Q, did you even use soap?  You were in there for five minutes.”

“Four minutes, eleven seconds,” Q calculated seemingly without thinking.  Bond was going to have to explore this impeccable innate clock little-Q seemed to have.  The boy tried to walk past him, pulling the towel more snuggly about his shoulders.  “I-I-I’ll just sleep on the couch-”

Bond cut him off by stopping him, catching one small shoulder before it could dodge past him.  “Stop trying to avoid me, Q.  Now, why the quick shower?” he asked, feeling ridiculous and nosy, especially since Q was looking at him like he didn’t understand.  That feeling of ridiculousness faded the second Bond realized Q was chill to the touch.  “Bloody h-!” he cut himself off before cussing.  It seemed that he’d found one of little-Q’s more blatant quirks, and it convinced Bond to drag Q directly in front of him again.  “Explain.  Now,” he said. 

Instead of just being nervous and cold now, Q was flustered.  “Explain what?  I took a quick shower, just like I figured you’d want, and didn’t use…”  The boy cut himself off, looking down and seeming to realize something.  He sighed, hugging his towel closer now like a way to hide himself.  “I messed up, didn’t I?”

That little voice was so wrong to hear from a boy who’d confidently – even arrogantly – stood up to the old Quartermaster, and 007 momentarily wasn’t sure what to do.  He focused on what he knew, though: this was Westford’s fault, or the fault of Q’s horrible family.  Bond was more than able to deal with the anger he felt at that.  “How did you mess up, Q?”

“Don’t make me explain it,” the boy begged, also looking on the verge of getting angry as he continued to turn his damp head away. 

“I’m going to, because I honestly-”  And then, it hit him.  The blonde-haired man blinked in surprise and actually took a step back.  “Q, did you seriously think you’d use up all my hot water?”

Q just looked at the floor, and spoke so quietly that Bond had to ask him to repeat it.  When he spoke again, it was barely louder, and subdued, “My parents got angry when I used up the hot water, and I never felt safe showering for more than a few minutes around Westford’s men.  So I washed… quickly.”  His voice was cracking, and he seemed to lose some of his self-control and began shivering in earnest. 

“Oh, Q,” Bond sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and wishing he didn’t have such violent training – he doubted it was appropriate to want to torture and dismember Q’s parents and a criminal he’d already possibly buried with a bomb.  Now… now he had to deal with a boy conditioned to taking cold showers in under five minutes.  “Turn around.  What you did doesn’t count as bathing, and before we go another step, I don’t think you could empty the hot-water-heater if you tried.  Alec’s the one who does that.”

“Do you get mad?” Q actually asked, unwilling to turn away from 007. 

“Sure,” Bond shrugged.  His hands landed on Q’s shoulders, turning the kid and steering him back to the bathroom.  Obviously, bath-time was not going to be a singular experience, regardless of Q’s age or maturity.  “And the next time he goes out drinking, I take the alarm clock, set it for some ungodly hour, and cover it in honey before hiding it under his bed.  It’s all fair.  He’s a fast learner that way.”

Q was allowing himself to be walked forward, but had his head twisted to look back at Bond incredulously.  “That’s what you do?”

“That or put tuna on the radiator of his car,” Bond replied with a perfectly straight face.  It took an effort not to break down laughing as the kid mumbled something about ‘which one of them was the kid around here’ and then looked forward again.  He balked when he realized they were returning to the bathroom. 

“What-?”

“Just run the tub, Q.  You look like an owl left out in a cold rain, so I’m not going to go to sleep until after you’ve warmed up.  A bath is best for that.”  Bond kicked the door shut behind both of them, quickly settling down to sit on the floor against the wall so that he at least wasn’t looming – he was pretty aware of how intimidating he could look, especially alone in a bathroom with a nervous, small boy.  Trying to make it obvious that he didn’t have any bad intentions, he settled down until his back was against the wall next to the tub, so that once he turned his head forward, all he saw was the sink.  “I’m not going to hurt you, Q,” he soothed, knowing that Q was still standing uncertainly at the corner of his eye, “But I am going to make sure you warm up and get cleaned up, because I know that I don’t feel human again after a mission until I’ve gotten all of it washed off me and out of my muscles.”  He closed his eyes, the words coming from somewhere deep in his heart – a truth that all 00-agents knew but rarely verbalized.  Until that long, often-scalding shower, he had one hand on his gun still and one part of his brain still on the mission, like one foot in the grave. 

Maybe Q saw some of this in Bond’s tired body language as the man sat against the wall, arms loosely draped over his knees, because the boy stopped arguing.  “Yes, Bond,” was all he said, quietly, with a shuffle that might have been a nod.  Then the water turned on, and Bond was pleased to feel the room warm gently with steam. 

Bond kept his eyes closed, prepared to be met with Q’s indignant embarrassment as he made no move to leave, but Q said nothing – the boy was a constant surprise.  Instead, 007 listened to the sounds of him skinning back out of his clothes again, the gentle ‘tink’ of him placing his glasses next to the sink.  He hissed as he touched the water with a ripple.  “It’s hot,” the kid said.

“No kidding,” Bond smirked back.  He was rewarded by water being splashed at him right before Q slipped into the tub.  Only a few moments after that did 007 open his eyes, aware that privacy was one of the luxuries Q had likely been deprived of.  Just the thought of Q being afraid to shower during his time with Westford made Bond growl low in his throat, the sound almost subsonic, more felt than heard. 

“I’m sorry for keeping you up,” the kid’s voice drifted to him, the sound amplified by the small room and relative quiet.  There was also the splashing of water, so maybe Q was at least settling down in the tub. 

“I’m a 00-agent, Q.  We sleep when we’re dead,” Bond said in a typical joke.

Which Q called him on.  “That was horribly clichéd.  You know that, don’t you?”

Bond’s low laughter rumbled around the room, and he glanced to the side, where he could just see the edge of the bath and the floor in front of it – where Q, predictably, had neatly folded both his clothes and the towel.  Even the bandage wrapped around his ankle had been removed and put into a nice pile.   All of it was within easy reach, Bond noted, something that he himself did because he’d had too many occasions when he’d needed to make a run for it right out of the shower.  “You shouldn’t have habits like this, Q,” he murmured without thinking, his words tired and resigned. 

“Like what?” came the sulky reply. 

“Don’t play coy with me, Q, you know what I mean.  Now that you’re in my house, every time you jump out of this room in under ten minutes and ten degrees colder than when you walk in, expect me to march you right back in,” Bond promised.

Little-Q snorted to hide a small laugh, one which sounded secretly pleased.  “And then you’ll sit by the door like a big guard-dog?”

Unsure whether to be embarrassed or proud, Bond sublimated a snort of his own before answering charmingly, “You don’t like my company?”

“I’m seven years old!  I don’t… I don’t need a babysitter in the bath!” 

Maybe it was just Bond, but he didn’t think that Q actually sounded that upset.  Still, he’d probably pushed the limits of what was socially acceptable, so he started to get up. 

And was immediately stopped by an alarmed squeak and Q’s wet head swinging into view over the side of the tub.  “Please – please, don’t leave!”  His eyes looked larger without his glasses, and clearly were having to work to focus on Bond’s face with his nearsightedness.  His fingers looked so small and spindly as he curled them over the edge of the tub.    “I’m sorry for keeping you up and being odd about showers and-”

“Q!” Bond interrupted him, firmly but not loudly.  He settled back down against the wall, Q’s eyes squinting to try and focus and follow him.  Tentatively, not wanting Q to feel uncomfortable because he was naked in a strange bath with a grown man in the room, Bond reached out a hand and angled it enough to just pat the kid’s head.  “Calm down.  I’ll stay if you want me to.”  Unsure that Q would see but trying it just in case, Bond grinned roguishly and added, “Besides, I wasn’t joking about not sleeping.  I’ll be up until Alec gets back at least, and he never comes back early.”

Keeping still until 007 removed his hand, the computer genius relaxed and disappeared around the corner into the tub again.  “Okay.”  He sounded relieved.

“And Q?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t fall asleep in the tub.  I know Alec gave you enough sugar to keep you running until Armageddon, but warn me if the warm water gets to you.”

~^~

The sugar-high apparently could not combat the exhaustion of the long day and late hour, and Q was half-asleep by the time he got out.  He managed to get his trousers on before he nearly fell asleep, crouched down against the side of the tub, towel over his shoulders and eyes drooping like a baby bird's.  Bond snorted, amused despite himself, and finally moved from his position against the wall.  Q neither jumped nor protested as Bond pulled the towel up enough to damp it on Q’s hair – a tangle of wet curls – and then tossed it negligently aside to fetch a new, fluffy, dry towel instead.  Q, obviously, protested at losing his warm towel-cloak, but was easily mollified by Bond wordlessly wrapping him in the new one.  He thought about trying to wrestle Q back into his shirt, but with the kid’s arms so limp, he figured it would be like trying to put a shirt on an octopus.  Instead, he grunted, “Up you go,” and picked Q up, towel and all. 

“’Got legs.  I can walk,” Q mumbled argumentatively, but the words were muffled against 007’s shirt-collar, and barely held any conviction.  They were followed by a yawn as Q draped one arm over Bond’s shoulder, his small, warm breaths puffing against 007’s skin. 

“Ah, the little terror’s asleep?”  Surprisingly, 006 was back after all, a few bags on the floor next to where he was sprawled on the couch.  He made no comment whatsoever on the fact that both Bond and Q were emerging from the bathroom, his eyes unreadable but not suspicious or condescending in any way.  Sometimes, 006 was as tactless as a bulldozer – others, he showed that he actually had a canny mind for social situations, especially ones that were delicate and contained children of fragile temperaments, it seemed.  “Put him in my room.  I’ll take the couch.”

Bond opened his mouth to protest, only to see 006 flop down on the couch, slinging one leg carelessly over the side.  His face said he was perfectly comfortable, and he probably was – after a mission, 006 could sleep on the floor and not complain.  For all that he kept calling Q a kitten, 006 was really just one big cat himself, able to sleep anywhere he pleased.  Smirking, Bond turned to head towards the second bedroom, which was next to his.  The arrangement was good, because Alec, no matter how tired he was, would sleep lightly enough to notice if Q left the room and headed to the door for any reason.  All of the boy’s unusual habits meant that they had to be prepared for anything. 

With Q feeling light and small and bony in his arms, 007 managed to turn back the sheets, but grunted in surprise as Q’s hands reflexively fisted in his shirt when the man tried to put him down.  “Q, you’re going to have to let go if you want either of us to sleep tonight,” he coaxed in a gentle undertone.

The answer was a confused, sleep-garbled, “Wha…?”  And then Q curled in tighter to his body, seemingly afraid to let go, the suggestion of it triggering the opposite reaction. 

007 sighed, then changed tactics smoothly.  “It’s okay, Q.”  He petted his hair with a gentle hand.  “Shhh.  It’s okay.”  When that got some of the little muscles to tentatively loosen, he reached up, seeking Q’s hands and teasing them open.  His fingers felt so fragile in 007’s grip that it sent a thrill of fear through him, knowing that he could rearrange all of those little bones just by squeezing wrong.  But he managed to untangle Q’s hands from his shirt without hurting him (or even rousing him, actually), and then successfully eased the boy to the bed.  The towel was replaced by sheets and blankets, with Bond feeling self-consciously like a mother hen as he found himself tucking the sheets in around the small frame.  As he straightened with a relieved sigh, he saw how Q unconsciously curled his body up – a smaller shape, a smaller target.  More body heat, less unwanted notice.  Don’t take up space, don’t risk people getting annoyed with you.  For once, 007 wished he hadn’t been trained to read body-language so well, because it made that protective, deadly urge rise up in him again.  He wanted to kill something.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed and slowly stroked Q’s back until the small, slender body uncurled – first a bit, then more, until he was sleeping more like a normal child would. 

~^~

Bond left Q’s glasses on the little table next to the bed and left the door open, more or less stumbling out to the living room.  He felt like this was the longest day of his life.   “I think I need a drink.”

“Already poured and on the table.”  Bond had known that Alec wasn’t really asleep.  In fact, the television was on, albeit muted.  Even without subtitles, Alec was good enough at lip-reading to follow most story-plots on a show.  “Unless you want doughnuts instead?” 006 joked from the couch, grinning crookedly.

Snorting, 007 was already halfway to the kitchen and the promised drink.  “While I’m glad that you chose sugar and not alcohol to loosen up my Q, I think it wouldn’t work as well on me.”  He downed the glass in one gulp, having no need for the taste and simply savoring the burn and heat.  He imagined the alcohol sinking into his system and draining away some of the anxiety and tension.  “You’re lucky it didn’t keep him running around until sun-up.  I’d have made you stay up, too.”

Alec laughed, a rich sound that he cut off quickly when he realized they had a guest that didn't need to be awoken.  He tilted his head to look over the back of the couch, towards the dark room now occupied by a mop-headed, bespectacled boy-genius.  “ ‘My Q’, did you say, James?”

“Shut it, Alec.”

“You’ve always had a possessive streak.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Neither is breaking your nose.  Now, did you find clothes?” Bond swiftly changed the subject from his swiftly-growing attachment to little Quinn Finch.

Alec relaxed to recline back on the couch again, draping across it as if he’d been poured there, all relaxed muscle and long bones.  “In the bags.  Took a bit of looking, at this hour, but it’s all nice stuff.”  Abruptly, Alec’s light mood sobered, and he spoke in a lower, more serious voice as he tipped his head towards the bathroom.  “Trouble?” was all he said. 

As anger flicked through him, Bond considered another drink but refrained.  Getting drunk was something he and Alec both had done to unwind on numerous occasions, but he had enough sense to figure that that would be irresponsible now, with a child in the house.  He explained what had happened in terse tones.

When he finished, Alec blinked a few times.  “He thought you’d get bloody angry at him if he did anything but take a short, cold shower?  I’m a trained assassin, and I think that that’s messed up.”

“Don’t remind me,” 007 growled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, “I already want to track down Q’s so-called parents and do something regrettable.”

Alec’s grin was wolfish and too sharp to be warm.  “And what’s wrong with that?” 

Bond snorted, heartened by Alec’s easy acceptance of Q – in fact, despite having known him for only a few hours (and having been bitten by him right off the bat), 006 was already mimicking James’s protectiveness.  “Let’s focus on Westford first.  Has M told you anything about whether his death has been confirmed?”  Truthfully, Bond wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear: yes, the man was dead, or no, he isn’t, but now you can hunt him down and kill him much more slowly.

Sadly, all Alec could offer was a shrug and a blunt, “It was your mission, James, and M’s a tightlipped old dragon to begin with.  Besides, consider our track-record.”

Pretending rather childishly not to understand, 007 looked away.  “What track-record?  Surely our predilection for blowing stuff up doesn’t apply.”

“James,” Alec got his attention flatly.  Lying on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, 006 still managed to look intimidating.  “How many bad men have we destroyed rather than see escape?  If you – or I, to be honest, because your Q is an adorable little bastard – find Westford alive-”

“We’ll kill him,” Bond finished without hesitation or emotion.  It was as simple as that: it was in their nature, and now it was in their hearts as well, as a damaged boy slept peacefully on in the room behind them. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Q woke up while it was still stark, quietly blinking his eyes as he lay loosely under the covers.  Vaguely, he recalled getting out of the tub and getting… some… of his clothes on.  More clearly, he remembered the spark of outrage as Bond had dared take away his towel, but after he’d been wrapped in warm cloth again, everything got soft and fuzzy around the edges.  What he did recall was a soothing hand and a low voice weaving comfort through his system, a hand that had followed the line of his back until Q couldn’t honestly remember anything anymore.  The calmness and gentleness had escorted him into sleep. 

Logic told him that this had to be a bed in Bond’s flat, but the boy-genius still reflexively catalogued all around him, moving just enough to get a sense of the blankets tucked in all around him.  He was usually a restless sleeper, and used to waking up tangled in whatever he was sleeping in, but for once, it didn’t seem as though he’d tossed or turned.  That made him blink and lift his head a bit, unable to quantify why he’d changed his ways from being a washing-machine sleeper.  Pushing himself up slowly on his arms, Q got a feel for where the headboard was, along with a table next to the bed.  He seemed to be alone in the room, but a variation in the fuzzy darkness told him of an open door.  Searching fingers were relieved to find his glasses, and Q quickly slipped them on, blinking as the dimness took on more defined edges. 

Despite it still being obviously nowhere near normal waking hours yet, the kid swung his legs over the side of the bed, judging the distance – down to the centimeter – before slipping carefully off.  He landed with most of his weight on his good foot, and with a level of quiet that would have had a 00-agent nodding in approval.  Being quiet was something Q was better at than most kids his age. 

Once on the floor, he began to explore, face serious and movements slow and wary.  He didn’t make a move towards the light, but instead let his fingers touch and investigate what his eyes couldn’t.  This was a new room, and it only made sense to get a full idea of it, in case of… anything.  Q didn’t follow the thought, instead following what felt like commonsense to him, patiently and silently walking around the bed, the bedside-table, the walls and window and closet and so-forth.  As he became more and more used to the blanketing shadows and unthreatening quiet, his tense, bare shoulders began to relax, and it became more of a game than a mission.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been left to explore without the threat of someone swooping angrily down on him.  By the time he’d mentally mapped out the whole room that he’d found himself in, little-Q was alert and full of more than just academic interest. 

So this was where he was going to be staying now…

Upon reaching the open doorway leading back out into the shared space, some of the levity died a bit, Q’s eyes peering past glasses and tangled hair to see if he really was alone in his explorations.  If Bond or the other man, Alec Trevelyan, were awake, Q doubted his late-night traipsing around would be seen as anything other than nosiness or unacceptably suspicious behavior.  Therefore, the boy stood poised – as noiseless and still as a rabbit – in the protective, cloaking shadows of his doorway for a full five minutes.  It took only a fraction of his mind to silently count off the time, and when nothing moved in his range of vision, he finally crept out.  ‘This is my new home,’ he kept thinking, unsure how to accept that.  The thought was too new and too strange, like a foreign fruit whose flavor was so far from what one was used to that it was impossible to quickly formulate an opinion on it – or even say if it was good or bad upon the palate. 

Before Q had even left his room, Alec was awake.  The back of the couch faced both the bedroom doors, blocking Alec’s view, but his ears were more than keen enough to paint a picture of the situation.  It helped that he knew the layout of the flat like the back of his hand, a backdrop on which to mentally sketch out the small noises that had woken him simply because they were out of place.  ‘Fuck, James, but your boy is quiet,’ Alec had to applaud in his mind as he strained to hear the soft footfalls in the second bedroom.  Alec had grown even more surprised and uneasily impressed when he’d waited through a dead-silence, the kind of watchful, waiting pause that only agents, spies, and assassins used when checking for trouble.  Having had a lot of practice at the trick, Alec waited Q out in a complete silence of his own, growing more shocked by the second as the boy let the stillness stretch on… and on…  Since when were little kids supposed to be patient like this?! 

And then Q moved, apparently accepting the room as empty – or, at least, empty of waking people.  Alec’s place on the couch might have been known, but at least he’d been dismissed as asleep.  Keen, practiced ears followed the boy’s progress around the room, until Alec was able to move without attracting attention.  The couch had been bought specifically for three things: hiding blood, being comfy, and making no noise when its occupant shifted.  Therefore, Alec was able to slowly come to a sitting position without breaking Q’s allusion of being the only one up and about at this hour.  Alec reclined against the back of the couch, head carefully propped on his arms across the back, pressing down into the cushioning fabric so as not to silhouette himself too much.  Eyes calm, he simply watched. 

Initially, his thoughts had been that the boy had to go to the bathroom or was hungry, but even though Q nosed into both bathroom and kitchen, he paused at neither and didn’t seem interested in finding food.  Rather, Q poked at everything with equal, calculating interest, until it was very clear what he was doing.  Alec settled down ungrudgingly for a long watch, unoffended and untroubled.  Normal folks wouldn’t have understood the need for a small child to investigate everything, secretly and without company, but an agent who had spent most of their life in transient, dangerous situations saw no mystery here. 

Alec’s eyes flicked over but his body didn’t move as the first bedroom – the door to which had also been left open, although Q had left that room off his list of places to investigate – became occupied suddenly and soundlessly by a tall, broad-shouldered shape in the doorway.  There was a faint, wet glint that Alec recognized as James’s eyes moving to him. 

At the moment, Q was in the kitchen, out of sight but still able to be tracked by the soft noises of his feet as they touched the floor and his hands as they brushed over wood and stainless steel.  Q might have been a quiet little mouse, but he was rooming with two 00-agents – he’d have to practice a lot more to sneak by them.  The training that the 00-agents had received also meant that they knew perfectly how to use shadows, meaning Q likely wouldn’t have noticed 007 get up and approach the doorway even if he’d been standing right in front of there. 

Alec’s skill at lip-reading was put to good use as Bond soundlessly moved his mouth: ‘What’s going on?’

All agents were taught a sort of bastardized sign-language, so Alec just moved his hands against the back of the couch in an ‘all clear’ sign.  007 relaxed fractionally, even as Alec also mouthed, ‘He’s just checking the place out,’ to which James nodded.  At that point, James could have gone back to sleep, replete in the fact that Alec had the situation handled, but instead the blue-eyed man simply leaned more comfortably against the doorframe, just far enough in that shadows fell thickly over him and made his form indistinguishable.  Alec could have tried to convince him to head back to bed, but knew without even having to think about it that such a suggestion would be ignored. 

So both men relaxed and settled down for a night of watching.  Their patience was as deep as a canyon, never letting slip even a modicum of irritation at being kept up by their odd little companion.  Another thing absent from their faces was judgment.  Besides the faint worry at first when James had inquired if anything was amiss, the two agents now had calm, unruffled expressions that didn’t question little-Q’s actions or show derision at what he was doing.  They didn’t even seem to find it odd – both Alec and James had surely done stranger things when they’d finally returned to safety and civilization after particularly harrowing, mind-battering missions.  If not that, then they knew the strategy of mapping out a place when you were in new, unfamiliar territory. 

Ironically, they’d also heard from Moneypenny that this was typical for a cat in a new house.  She’d told them sometime back that it was often a good idea to let a new pet feline nose around without interruption or company until a level of familiarity was reached, and it was ironic now that little-Q – called ‘kitten’ by 006 until the boy was nearly ready to bite him again – was copying the behavior. 

Q eventually came back into the room, continuing his sweep and now walking between both agents.  Closer, this gave James an opportunity to watch the small face, reading guarded curiosity, light nervousness, and alert concentration on the delicate features.  He truly was a wary animal exploring new surroundings, picking the late hour to do so because the quiet and emptiness appealed to him. 

As he turned towards the door outside, though, 006’s instincts kicked in – the ones that regarded him not letting little-Q escape outside – and he shifted to get up, instantly breaking the quiet with his sharper movement.  Q turned around with a gasp, squeaking as his bad foot hit the ground more sharply than he’d been putting it down previously.  Q’s eyes widened as he saw 006 so obviously awake and in the room, like a shocking magic trick – abracadabra, and there he was!  Naked shoulders tensing and small hands forming unconsciously into the most useless of fists (small enough that both could have fit in Alec’s hand, to be honest), Q backed up. 

Right into James. 

Still calm and silent, Bond brought his hands forward, one wrapping around the front of Q’s collarbone and the other reflexively coming up to cover the boy’s startled mouth – a second too late, as it turned out, because Q screamed.  Swearing quietly, Bond cut off the sound quickly and maybe a little bit roughly – drunken singing and occasional, base yelling the neighbors were used to, but a child’s high-pitched scream would actually draw unwanted attention.  Q had been remarkably quiet so far, mostly just making small, ferocious noises when Alec had first grabbed him, and James had made sure that no one saw him sneaking a child into his apartment – obviously, because it all looked very sketchy.  Now, it sounded sketchy, too, damn it.  Frustrated despite himself, Bond kept a hard hand over Q’s mouth as he dropped down into a crouch at the boy’s back, knees brushing trembling, thin legs.  “Q!” he hissed, shifting until his own narrowed blue eyes were well within view of the wide brown ones, “Calm down, it’s just me and Alec!  Unless you want someone knocking on the door wondering what the h-!”

And, right on cue, there came a knock at the door and a hesitant voice asking through the wood if everything was all right.  Bond’s head immediately snapped around, all business, lecture put on the back-burner for now.  “Get it, Alec,” he commanded in a low tone, and the other man immediately came to his feet with a supple, subtly-dangerous roll of his muscles.  He seemed perfectly calm, and didn’t blink twice or ask for further clarification from James. 

For his part, James turned his stern expression back to Q, noticing for the first time just how huge the boy’s eyes still were.  With an internalized groan, James realized that he’d probably just scarred the kid for life.  Where in the world parents gained the knowledge to deal with kids, Bond would never know.  “Go back into the bedroom and stay out of sight.  Unless you want someone calling the police, be quiet, all right?” he commanded, trying to soften his voice a bit but probably failing now that his hackles were up at the prospect of someone strange at his door.  Like it or not, he and Alec were now both functioning as on-duty agents, which was a dangerous mindset indeed.  The man at the door had better not do anything brash – well-meaning or not, he didn’t realize what a dangerous situation he was in just because he’d dared to knock on the door of two MI6 spies. 

The instant Bond had clamped a hand over Q’s mouth (nearly his nose, too, due to how small that face was in comparison to 007’s palm), Q’s hands had come up to try and pull it away, where they’d remained frozen until now.  They came away slowly, in what Bond guiltily realized was a placating motion – ‘I won’t do anything,’ it said.  Q was shaking, looking miserable and frightened and (worst of all) apologetic.  Ohhhh, the fallout from this was going to be bad...  Reasonably certain Q wasn’t going to start screaming bloody murder, Bond dropped his hands and watched as Q immediately skittered past him and into the nearest bedroom, James's.  Q didn’t know where anything was in there, especially in the dark, but he navigated pretty well.  He was out of sight in seconds.  Just as quickly, Bond moved to take Alec’s spot on the couch, turning the television and kitchen light on as he went.  This wasn’t exactly the first time a tricky situation like this had come up, and even if it was, he and Alec could form lies more easily than a bird could form song. 

“Is everything all right?” the man at the door was asking rather timidly, which made sense, because Alec’s size and general aura made cowards of many people, “I thought I heard something…?”

“Oh!” came Alec’s boisterous tones in return as 007 subtly turned up the television, just enough that the man at the door would take note of it.  The power of suggestion was a wonderful thing, especially with Alec backing it up by glibly admitting, “The television?  My mate and I were watching something and – by god, look at the hour!  I’m sorry – didn’t realize we were watching rather late, did we?” 

Even if that really had been the case, Bond doubted that Alec would have been all that apologetic.  Instead of chuckling at that thought, Bond played his part, leaning back and calling, “Sorry!  We’ll turn it down!”

“It’s just…” the man doggedly kept at the door, making Bond’s shoulders tense, “It sounded a little like a scream.” 

From the door, the man could see a bit of the inside of the house, and now Alec turned just enough to let the man see even more, trusting that 007 had cleared away the ‘evidence’ in the meanwhile.  All their neighbor would see would be the flat, lit by the kitchen light and the television.  Both bedroom doors were open so as to avoid the intimation of hiding something, although James remained secretly nervous that little-Q would come into sight.  As it was, the bedroom remained a shadowy emptiness, its occupant so well hidden that he may as well have not existed. 

James had found a channel with advertisements, not having had time to find a suitable show to lie about.  To be safe, he let their visitor see him change channels a few times – now there was no way to really check if his next words were true.  “Horror shows tend to do that,” he smiled his most relaxed, charming smile, “We’ll turn it down so you won’t hear it again.”

Finally, the man in the foyer seemed appeased, nodding and flashing an embarrassed smile before making a few brief apologies – which Alec accepted with smooth, practiced aplomb – before leaving.  Alec shut the door behind him and let out a breath.  “I thought you were going to say we were watching porn, you sneaky git,” Alec shot his way, “What with the way you were grinning.” 

“You were doing the same smile,” 007 accused back as he immediately got up and made his way towards his room, where the real problem was, “I’m surprised he didn’t think you were going to eat him.”  They stopped joking about each other’s fake smiles as Alec reflexively did a quick check of the house, leaving the television on in case anyone was listening in earnest now – they’d fulfill their promise and ‘turn it down’ later.  It wasn’t that loud anyway. 

Bond entered his bedroom to find Q, turning the light on and immediately wincing as it showed the boy flinching at the sight of him.  Q was huddled up between the bed and the small set of drawers next to it, where shadows would have rendered him invisible.  Now, he looked as though he was tempted to scuttle under the bed.  Mistrustful, worried eyes danced across Bond’s face in a show of nervousness even as the little genius drew his knees up.  “I’m sorry,” Q said in a voice raspy from not talking, and he cleared it uncomfortably as Bond heaved a regretful, tired sigh.  Q just kept talking, squeezing subtly deeper into the little space he’d found for himself, “I didn’t meant to cause trouble.” 

Meaning to apologize himself – for reacting so harshly, even if instincts were to blame – James stepped forward, stopping when the kid instantly cowered.  Brilliant.  This was going to be just as painful and difficult as he’d imagined it would be.  James wondered anxiously if he’d actually managed to hurt Q by covering his mouth so hard.  00-agents lived in a job where their strength was always an asset, but right now it was turning out to be about as big a liability as his hair-trigger reflexes to possible danger.  Bond noticed that Q still had nothing but sleep-trousers on, and his thin, huddled frame looked vulnerable and cold, so he fished one of the folded blankets off the foot of his bed. 

“I wasn’t being nosy!” Q said sharply, as if throwing out a weapon or snapping up a defense as Bond came closer this time.  Wariness had ignited into fear in Q’s bespectacled eyes, but dimmed fractionally as 007 dropped down onto his haunches.  He was learning not to loom, slowly.  Now, with his height gone and dressed in a pair of sleep-trousers and a T-shirt himself, he figured he must look somewhat less threatening.  Q just continued to watch him, a skittish animal, and repeated more softly, “I wasn’t being nosy.” 

“No, you weren’t,” Bond agreed without hesitation, “You were just checking things out.  I do that, sometimes.”  All the time, to be truthful, at least while on a mission and when he had the luxury of time.  “I…shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”  Apologies only came easily when they were lies, but Bond wanted to be truthful for once, so it was harder to get out now.  But he did it. 

The boy relaxed, a little, knees coming down and head coming up.  Bond still held the blanket in his hands, not sure if it was bait for a chilly child-prodigy or a net in case he got it into his head to run somewhere.  Q was eyeing said blanket now, looking tired and tempted.  Not looking up, he asked in a somber voice, “Is he coming back?  The man at the door? I don’t… I don’t want to be taken away, James.”

Q had run the gambit of titles for the blue-eyed man: 'Bond' was used most often, but the numerical sequence of 007 appealed to Q’s analytical mind.  'James' he said least often, but now it was obviously being used intentionally, because first names were more personal, and most likely to be accepted in a plea.  Q was trying to appeal, purposefully, to 007’s better nature to make sure he stayed here.  Once again, Bond wished he couldn’t read inflection and voice, because he didn’t want to know that Q was so scared that he was pulling out every trick he knew to make sure Bond didn’t just give him up. 

“Come here, Q.  Please,” he said, voice stiff because there was a pain behind his chest, the kind that threatened to reach up and clamp his throat.  He didn’t know if he was angry, sad, or horrified – all he knew was that he needed to have Q in his arms now, and that he’d go mad if he had to hear any more of that soft, gentle begging.  He held out his hands with the blanket still held between them, and the somewhat rough inflection of his tone must have been just commanding yet gentle enough to get Q to comply.  Skinny limbs unfolded from the floor, a slight limp hidden well as Q watched his step but nonetheless came forward.  He must have heard something in Bond’s tone – maybe in the way the agent's voice softened around the word 'please' – to be hopeful about, because there was a careful eagerness in his step.  Bond enclosed him in the blanket before that eagerness could fade, then he wrapped his arms around both.  The hug surprised Q, and he stood a little stiffly as he was pulled against the agent’s chest. 

“Tell me, Q,” he said in a low voice in Q’s ear, not loosening his grip, “Does it feel like I would let you go?”  He tightened his arms just a bit, enough to verge on uncomfortable and make Q squeak.  “Someone would have to break my arms, Q, before they could just waltz in here and take you away, I promise you that.  And I would never hurt you.”  Wanting his sincerity to be evident, he ended the hug only to put Q at arm’s length, blanket-wrapped and blinking at the man crouched in front of him.  Their eyes met, dead-serious to surprised.  “I’ve told you this before, Q,” Bond reminded. 

“But-!  But you said to be quiet unless I wanted-!” Q began babbling protests. 

Bond cut him off with a shake of his head, still holding Q’s upper arms and soothing his thumbs across the knobby bones of his shoulders through the blanket.  “I said you had to be quiet unless you wanted someone to call the police,” he reminded, then put on a faint, ruthless smile that was made for someone other than Q, “Because that would have been tricky, wouldn’t it?  M hates it when I get into fights with the local authorities.”

It honestly looked as though Q’s eyes would fall out of his head as he got what Bond was suggesting, so Bond gleefully continued, setting down into a more comfortable kneeling position to explain himself, “Q, I told you to be quiet and hide because I didn’t want to get you into the middle of a complicated situation.  If someone reported a scream and that two grown, unmarried men had a child in their flat, things would get very complicated indeed.” 

“And very dangerous,” Alec growled unexpectedly from the doorway, causing two heads to turn his way.  The other man looked relaxed, leaning on arm on the door-frame, but his eyes were flat and lethal.  “If someone had been fool enough to try and turn it into a physical encounter.”

Q was looking between them comically, lips pursed as he tried to find some response.  Eventually, he settled for an exasperated, disbelieving, “You two wouldn’t have shot the police, would you?!” 

Both 006 and 7 merely looked at him, as if waiting for the punch-line.  Q’s eyes got wider and more exasperated, a little sound of frustration at them exiting his mouth.

“He doesn’t think we would, James,” Alec eventually supplied, as if outlining a foreign concept. 

“To be honest,” Bond placated Q before the boy got so fed-up with them that he flounced off (the fear and tension were obviously gone), “We would have tried to be diplomatic at first – called up M and such-forth to try and settle matters.”

Unhelpfully, Alec muttered under his breath, “No, we wouldn’t have.”

“Why is it I believe him when he says that?” Q sighed in a voice that said: ‘I give up on you two.  I honestly do.’

That lit identical, roguish grins on both assassins’ faces.  “Because he’s a better liar than me,” Bond joked, then scooped up his charge without further questions, blanket and all.  “Let's get you back to bed, Q.  You’ve explored the house and met the neighbors.  I think you can call it a night.”

“Bond!” Q protested, sounding indignant as he squirmed.  The wrappings of the blanket made sure that most of his attempts were completely ineffective.  “I’m perfectly capable of walking!  It’s right around the corner!”

Alec gleefully accepted Q’s little bark of surprise as the green-eyed man reached over 007’s shoulder to ruffle Q’s already-ruffled hair.  “Don’t argue with James when he’s like this, koneko.  It’s late, you’re adorable, and you probably cause less trouble when someone is keeping your feet off the ground,” 006 informed him with grinning candidness  before turning to his place on the couch. 

Q grumped out a huffing breath, grudgingly allowing his body to be folded against Bond’s chest.  He continued to grumble all the way into the second bedroom, by which time 007 was unable to hide his own laughter.  “What is it, Q?  Surely not all of those growls are for me,” he chuckled as he set the boy down. 

Immediately, Q freed up his arms enough to fling them out dramatically, complaining impotently, “He’s calling me words I don’t know!  Again!”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Q had eventually fallen asleep – surprisingly, with the blanket Bond had cocooned him in still wrapped about his body, even though the rest of the blankets on the bed were more than adequate.  Deeply moved despite himself (trying to hide the reaction so it didn’t show so blatantly on his face as the emotion punched him in the heart), 007 had watched as the kid lay down, glasses off again and his nose pressed firmly against the blanket.  Q had pulled the material closer around himself, quieting quickly as the adrenalin finally released its last hold on him.  He wasn’t certain, but chances were high that the blanket smelled a bit like Bond…and even though Bond had essentially attacked Q barely an hour earlier, the boy quickly relaxed into sleep with that blanket pulled tight around him like he wasn’t going to let it go. 

Obviously, Bond didn’t try to make him.

He’d stuck around, sitting in a chair he’d pulled up next to the bed, marking time by Q’s soft breaths.  Each one teased a lock of the boy’s unruly brown hair, making it flutter back from his eyes.  Not long after giving in to tiredness, little-Q began to curl his thin body up into a ball, seemingly on instincts that reached him even in sleep.  Unlike last time, when it had taken the patient, stubborn soothing of Bond’s hand to get that curved back to relax and straighten out, Q tossed in the blanket a little bit and then sighed.  Without further adieu, the kid’s muscles had unclenched, leaving no question in Bond’s mind that something about the new ‘security blanket’ (a literal term) had allowed Q to reach a place of safety in the unconscious recesses of his mind.  Not long after that, Bond had gotten up, stretching the kinks out of his legs and watching how Q now slept soundly and calmly – and no longer in a posture that suggested nighttime fear.

“Your kitten asleep?” came Alec’s voice, still without an ounce of sleepiness in it as he tossed the whisper to James from the couch. 

Bond just nodded before returning to his room.  This night had been too long.

~^~

Shockingly, Bond was the last one up the next morning.  He lay in bed a moment, hearing noises that indicated everyone else’s wakefulness, and marveled at the fact that he hadn’t awoken at the first rustle of movement.  It sounded like Alec and Q were already in the kitchen – in fact, it smelled like it, too.  Maybe Bond had been more tired than he thought, or else the comfort of being in his own home with people he knew had allowed his 00-instincts to finally give it a rest and turn off.  There was nowhere else in the whole world, probably, where Bond could sleep like a normal person, and there was no one else besides Alec who could make noises and yet not rocket 007 into tense and alert wakefulness.  Apparently, Q had also come under that category, because Bond had slept through him moving about this morning, too.

Last night had been different.  No matter how comfortable and trusting Bond was in his own flat, he’d probably wake up to out-of-place noises like that.  Breakfast was different, however.  Totally normal.  And wonderful.  It was the smell of eggs cooking that ultimately had the 00-agent sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, leaving the room without bothering to change his nightclothes. 

The assessment that Alec and Q were making breakfast was not entirely accurate: it looked more like Alex had been making breakfast, but was now playing cards with Q while the last of the eggs cooked.  Considering how quickly eggs cooked, Bond eyed them, hoping that Alec’s attention span wouldn’t lead to burnt eggs.  The sight of them playing cards at the table would have been worth it, however, as Q was so animated that 007 had to smile. 

“This is ridiculous!  Cards aren’t played like this, I know it!” Q protested, glaring at the veritable coating of cards on the table.  It was no game that Bond knew, so that meant that Alec had made it up.  006’s grin confirmed that.  Q was kneeling on a chair so that he could lean his small body over the table a bit, elbows on the tabletop and three cards clothed in frustrated fingers.  Also, Bond noted (almost choking on a sudden, surprised laugh), the kid was wearing a shirt now, one that Alec had undoubtedly bought him.  The shirt was bright green with a huge yellow smiley-face on the back.  It was also so gaudy and ridiculous that Bond had to wonder how Alec had gotten the boy to go within ten feet of it, much less put it on.  As Q turned around suddenly (hearing 007’s aborted snicker, no doubt), the true horror of the matter became clear, because the front of the shirt sported an intense frowning face.

Which perfectly matched Q’s glower right now.

Although the way his ears had turned red said that Q was embarrassed, the kid had enough moxie to instantly defend himself, “He said this was the only shirt he had for me!  I accused him of lying-”  The brief flicker of shock across Q’s face said that his own temerity still surprised him – he’d lipped off to a 00-agent far bigger than himself, after all.  Soon, the shock transmuted into exasperated disbelief, however, as the minute boy went on, “-And he just agreed with me!”

“He is lying,” Bond confirmed, unable to hold back the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.  He was going to crack up any minute, he knew it.  Q was just so obviously irked out of his mind and Alec was so transparently amused…and that shirt truly was hideous. 

“And after that, he said that I had to wear it until you got up,” Q finished in a dry ‘Oh, you think this is funny, do you?’ sort of tone.  Large brown eyes rolled unmistakably beneath Q’s glasses.  “Now I understand why.”  By now, Alec was bent over, doing a poor job of hiding his hilarity, and Bond was faring little better at his efforts. 

Q huffed and turned his attention back to the cards on the table, which were arrayed in a loose grid with some overlapping others.  Bond thought that some of Q’s annoyance seemed put-on, however, and he thought he caught a faint smile on the boy’s face.  Taking one of his cards, little-Q placed it over top of two more on the table.  “Hah,” he deadpanned, sitting back while Alec raised his head mid-chuckle, “Take that.”

“You can’t do that.  There are already two cards on that pile.”

“I can, too.  You just made up this game this morning-!”

“I did not,” Alec lied again, causing Bond to shake his head amusedly from behind Q’s chair (he’d padded up more-or-less soundlessly until he could place his hands upon the back, taking things in from closer range). 

Q was floundering, trying to come up with some kind of response, so Bond helped him out, “I’m with Q on this one.”  When Q (startled to suddenly find Bond so close) turned to look up at him in surprise and query, Bond looked right back down at the upturned face and shrugged, “I’ve played every card-game you can imagine, and this one isn’t remotely familiar.  Plus-”  He looked back at Alec, keeping his expression carefully unconcerned.  “-I think that you’d beat Alec at normal card-games.”

While Alec spluttered and tried to find a reply to that, little-Q beamed quietly with pleasure, setting down in the chair again in 007’s shadow.  Ruffling Alec’s feathers was rewarding enough in its own right, but Bond was surprised how pleased he felt at putting that small, delighted smile on Q’s face.  For all of the boy’s genius, he wondered how often anyone had complimented the kid in the past – or if they’d just paid for his skills and put him to work, too enamored with the boy’s technological genius to notice the living, breathing, feeling being that masterful brain was attached to.  Now Q seemed ridiculously relaxed with two trained killers, perhaps because somehow this was still better than the life he’d left behind. 

Bond was halted in the morose direction of his thoughts as Alec got up with a grumble, apparently well aware of the horrible quality of burnt eggs – he stalked over to the frying pan.  Idly, Bond rested his weight on his arms against the back of Q’s chair, inspecting the new game that Alec had devised.  “So – what are the rules to this?” he asked out of nothing more than simple curiosity. 

This time, Q wasn’t bothered by the nearness of the man, seeming quite comfortable with it.  “Alec says it’s supposed to represent strategy.  Depending on where the cards are and how they’re combined, they represent different things.”  The bespectacled boy shot a glare at Alec’s back, adding, “But Alec keeps adding new rules.”

Alec seemed utterly unrepentant, so Bond asked helpfully, “Does he only do this when he’s losing?”

Q played with the cards in his hand, looking down shyly at them.  “I-I don’t know,” he mumbled as Bond gazed down at the top of his head, seeing the thin shoulders shrug, “I’ve never played this game before.  How am I supposed to know if I’m winning?”

Suddenly, Bond wanted nothing more to swat 006 on the head.  Teasing Q was one thing, but it didn’t pay to forget that Q was, essentially, a child with a battered soul.  Letting him win would probably not have been accepted happily, but changing the rules to make him feel like he couldn’t win was another thing entirely. At the stove, Alec’s shoulders had hunched, his head dropping lower between them like the dog he suddenly realized he was.  Bond kept up a glare that had to be slowly slicing it’s way through 006’s backbone. 

“You were winning, kotě,” Alec said right on time, voice more subdued than usual, but also more sincere than it almost ever sounded – a gentle, low rumble that was rare for the usually-boisterous man, “I only change the rules when I’m losing.”  He finally looked back over his shoulder at Bond, a light mask pasted across his features even if there was still an apologetic wince in his eyes, “Right, James?”

“Exactly,” the other man agreed without hesitation – and quite truthfully.  It was, in fact, a 00-trait to cheat when victory was not possible any other way. 

Alec was bringing a plate of scrambled eggs to the table now, and glanced over the cards before shifting the plate to one hand and indicated a stack of cards with the other.  He was tapping the last card that Q had put down.  “That’s a brilliant move,” he commented freely.

Q seemed a little bit overwhelmed by these compliments, and put his cards down to protest, “But I thought you said I couldn’t put a third card on that stack?” 

“Q,” Bond got his attention, leaning around so that his encouraging (and maybe slightly cheeky) smile was visible easily as the boy turned his head, “So long as you’re playing cards with us-”

“Or any 00-agent,” Alec supplied, although Bond felt a jarring sense of heady protectiveness nearly swamp him at the thought of letting Q get anywhere near the rest of the dangerous 00-division. 

“-Feel free to cheat as you like,” Bond finished equably. 

Sitting back against his chair and letting his legs drop over the edge (this putting him firmly in the lee of Bond’s body as 007 loomed over the back of his chair), Q crossed his arms and regarded Bond suspiciously.  “That seems… amoral,” he finally chose the words he wanted. 

Bond and Alec flashed identical grins, like twin Cheshire cats, although it was 007 who was quick to answer, “And?”

“Kid, think about who you’re playing with here,” Alec coaxed as he finally sat down, clearing the cards off the table as food became the priority.  “We are going to cheat-”

“Maybe I won’t,” interrupted Bond, relaxed and candid this morning.  “I’ve got enough practice to win without cheating.”

The conversation was obviously becoming a careless chat that was driving Q to exasperation, as Alec dropped his previous sentence to reply to Bond, “So have I.”

“You just prefer cheating.”

“That I do, James, that I do.  What I was saying, Neko, was that you may as well cheat, because otherwise you’re going to be very outclassed,” Alec finished up with smug pride in his voice. 

Unexpectedly, Q narrowed his eyes at that.  Shrewd and unreadable (a look that barely seemed natural on his youthful face), Q looked from Alec to the pile of cards.  “What did you name this game?”

Alec probably made up the name on the spot: “Skosh.”  Who knew what language it was in.  Bond’s job was just like Alec’s in that it necessitated the learning of many languages, but Alec’s interest in language was greater than 007’s – it bordered on obsession, really.  Everyone had to have a hobby, and honestly, this hobby was far less destructive than most. 

Strategically it seemed, Q didn’t press about where in the world that title had come from.  He just continued to sit like a little Quartermaster – a tiny, calm frame in James’s relaxed yet deadly shadow – with his arms crossed, finally asking inscrutably, “And if you can make up rules, can I?”

“Sure.”  Alec shrugged his broad shoulders easily as he began setting the table.  Watching this (Q’s new, chill calm and Alec’s lax disregard), Bond began to suspect that Alec was slowly walking into a bit of trouble.  It was hard to suspect a trap from a boy as scrawny as Q, but Bond’s instincts were prickling uneasily in the way they usually did when trouble was being woven in an increasingly tight noose around his neck.  Alec had his back turned as he buttered toast, however, and didn’t seemed to notice the vibes that were quickly making Bond uneasy.

Bond would never admit to it, of course.  Why would a man with a license to kill be made nervous by a pint-sized computer-geek with glasses and hair like a bird’s-nest?  ‘Why indeed…’ Bond asked himself as Q’s face slid easily into a calm mask, continuing the conversation. 

“Okay.  I’ll tell you rules before I make them.”

“Fair enough,” Alec agreed, unaware of what he was getting into.  He turned around to raise an eyebrow at Bond, completely missing the dry little smile touching Q’s mouth.  “Aren’t you going to sit, Bond?  You look ridiculous when you loom.”

Pushing down how unaccountably nervous little-Q was suddenly making him, James finally quit his perch against the back of Q’s chair to find one of his own.  He didn’t say anything, but rather began to dig into the food provided as Q and Alec continued to talk about Alec’s new game ‘Skosh’.  It didn’t sound all that complicated – each card was a different strategic piece, from a soldier to a warship, seemingly designated at will.  Placing cards atop one another combined then, creating whole new combinations that only a 00-agent and a child-prodigy could keep in their head all at once. 

And then the game grew more complicated, as Q began calmly requesting new rules – the addition of dice, the ability to turn cards upside-down.  Alec’s eyes finally began to narrow, but he’d already come too far to back down.  He’d added so many rules of his own without giving Q a chance to deny them that 006 couldn’t very well deny the boy in return.  The game remained perfectly playable, of course, so long as the players had a good memory and a mind for strategy – things that 00-agents were extensively trained in.  Q was an unknown, but already it was clear that his brain would have no problem remembering all of this.  In fact, Bond was willing to bet that Q’s memory could recall every card on the table even if he closed his eyes and had to recite them.  He’d spent enough time with the kid to know that the brain under that mop of hair was truly a terrific machine. 

But Alec had more practice with the application of strategy, so when breakfast ended and the cards (now with the addition of dice) were added, Q continued to lose.  The boy didn’t take it poorly anymore, however, kneeling on his chair again in his gaudy smiley-/frowny-face shirt and calmly casting his eyes over the arrangement of cards. 

Bond, both amused and incredibly curious, turned his chair backwards to drape his weight over the back (a position that he simply liked, whether it was his own chair or something else’s, apparently) and watched.  Q only seemed to grow self-conscious when he noticed 007 watching, and would flick glances his way as if unsure of his approval.  Bond kept quiet, however.  When he did say something, it was usually a neutral question about some recent move.  Once, on a whim, he lifted his head from his crossed arms and ordered, “Q, name all of your face-down cards.”

The boy’s brows lowered, looking between Bond and the cards, aware that this would reveal his strategy.  However, he didn’t argue, instead acquiescing without argument.  Uncharacteristically, 006 fell silent, too, and both agents listened patiently as Q pointed to each card he had placed face-down on the table, never lifting one but nonetheless naming each.  Alec followed up without a word, tipping each card to prove that Q had missed nothing. 

Since Bond had effectively forced Q to give away all of his hidden moves, Bond felt no guilt about then saying, “Name Alec’s face-down cards.”

Immediately, the boy’s face grew contemplative, a line appearing between his eyebrows.  “I…” he started, slowly picking his words as he eyed the cards.  He glanced up hesitantly at 006, but the man’s face gave away no more than Bond’s did – although he didn’t look upset by any means.  Q turned back to the cards.  “I don’t know any of the cards that he turned face-down from his hand.  But this one is a two of spades, which he turned upside-down during the game.”  He indicated the card with a sure finger, then moved to point at another.  “This one was a queen of hearts.  One of diamonds….”

And Alec’s eyes widened as every card that had he’d turned down during the course of the game (out of the ones which had originally been face-up to start out the game) was identified by Q. 

~^~

Q still lost every game.  He simply hadn’t had enough life-or-death experiences that forced his brain to think strategically…or never think again.  Alec just reflexively knew combinations that would ‘keep him alive’ in the game, and while Q would be pondering and thinking his next move, Alec would already know what he wanted to do, as easily as breathing.

Breathing was, after all, the point – or, at least, continuing breathing, despite the best intentions of enemy agents and their bullets. 

As a show of magnanimity (or perhaps in answer to Bond’s increasing, meaningful glares), Alec gave Q another, less eye-burning shirt to wear.  For his part, Q took his losses very well… which did nothing to decrease Bond’s suspicions that Q was playing some longer, more subtle game.  “Did you lose on purpose?” he asked suddenly when Alec disappeared into the bathroom for a belated shower.  A curious smile was flickering on 007’s face as he eyed this surprising boy.

Q looked up sharply from where he was meticulously putting the cards back in order again, small, delicate fingers carefully manipulating the cards.  His brows beetled, as if the question hurt him.  “No,” he said, sounding like he didn’t understand the point of that.

Immediately, Bond felt bad for making it seem like he was accusing Q, so he sighed and sat down in a nearby chair to appear less intimidating.  “I was just wondering, Q,” he placated.

The boy still didn’t seem to understand, but he settled down again, making sure the cards were perfect (in fact, they looked to be organized by suit, even) before sliding them back into the box.  He was now wearing a simple white shirt, which made him look pale but at least didn’t make him look like he’d been dressed by someone with a bad sense of humor.  Which he had, essentially.  If Q was smart, he’d hide that smiley-face shirt before he was cornered into wearing it again.  

Chapter Text

~^~ 

Then Q slipped off his chair to the floor, crying out as his foot hit the tile and reminding everyone that he had stitches across the arch of his foot. 

Bond was lifting Q back up to sit on his lap before consciously thinking about it, simply seeking to get the kid’s weight off his wounded foot.  Since Q was about as lightweight as they came, it was easy, especially since sudden pain did a wonderful job at cutting down on Q’s natural instinct to squirm.  “Shhh,” Bond found himself saying, one of his arms slipping around the boy’s waist while the other reached to catch his foot, “It’s okay.  Let me look at it.”  By now quite used to Bond’s well-meant manhandling, Q sat on Bond’s legs and endured the mother-henning.

“He was limping on it this morning.”  Alec, in a repeat of Bond’s abrogated shower of the night before, was suddenly walking around the corner, wet and towel-wrapped but lacking in any sort of annoyance.  Q’s yelp hadn’t been loud, but Alec’s ears were keen, even with the sound of running water filling them.  Unembarrassed by his decided lack of clothing (he had nothing to be embarrassed about, as athletic as he was), Alec leaned against the doorframe as he took in the situation with deceptively calm eyes.  He wouldn’t really calm down until he was sure that everything was under control, which it looked to be, with Bond rather possessively cuddling the kid to his lap.  Q’s face was tight and his breathing quick, but the pain was obviously ebbing rather than growing. 

Because he’d had a lot of practice at this on himself, Bond made quick work of the bandages that were wrapped around Q’s foot to keep him from snagging the stitches on anything.  Beneath, the wound looked about as expected – still a bit raw and gruesome with its neat black strings, but not infected or unhealthy. 

Still, it obviously hurt. 

“He said it didn’t pain him,” Alec revealed with a roll of one muscular, damp shoulder, overlong hair dripping onto his collarbone and neck, running in a strip down his oft-broken nose, “But your kitten is a pretty poor liar, James.”

“Hey!” Q squeaked indignantly, as if he meant to teach Alec a lesson if Bond weren’t holding him in place so securely. 

“Go get him something, Alec,” Bond ignored the protest with a roll of his eyes.  He was far too used to Alec getting into useless arguments with people, and it was almost always best if Bond ignored the quibbling.  Alec lived for argument – and then he lived because Bond diffused the argument before it could get physically violent and ruin their mission. 

Just as Bond said, “Those pills for him are on the countertop, I think,” Q’s temperament suddenly changed like a switch being thrown.  He’d been uncomfortable with the pain and with being dragged unceremoniously onto Bond’s lap, but mostly pretty calm and tolerant – maybe, by now, he’d accepted that 00-agents had a natural tendency to move things bodily whenever they got the inclination.  In all reality, he’d been picked up more just since meeting Bond and Alec than he’d been picked up in his life. 

But as soon as it became clear that Alec was going to go and get the bottle of medication MI6 had sent home with him, the boy became clearly agitated.  Bond felt the slim body in his grip go tense like a wave through his young muscles, the difference between a sleeping cat and a rabbit spooked by the shadow of a hawk.  Bond’s brows beetled and his arm tightened as he felt Q pull against it, this time angling towards the door rather than Alec.  “Q-?”

“I’m fine!  Really, I’m fine, I don’t need to take anything!” Q was instantly declaring, beginning to squirm slightly but perceptibly against Bond’s arm.  He looked…frightened…as he glanced to where Alec had gone to fetch pain medication for the lingering ache in Q’s foot.  When it became clear that Bond wasn’t going to let him go, that beginnings of fear crumbled suddenly and shockingly into fitful shaking and tears.  Bond and Alec were so startled that they could only sit and stand respectively, frozen and more than a bit horrified by what they were witnessing.  Q had hunched in on himself, small fingers digging into Bond’s forearm even as the boy’s body angled away from the pills now nestled in Alec’s large hand.  “Please…” Q begged, now dropping his face and closing his eyes in humiliation, “I don’t want to take anything.”  He clutched Bond’s arm tighter around his middle in a fashion that made it unclear whether he wanted the comfort or wanted to tear it away and run, bad foot or no.  Tears carved delicate trails down to his chin even as his fingernails began to dig crescent-moon shapes into 007’s muscular arm.  He began to explain while still not lifting his head, his voice quiet and verging on broken, “I-I…  Westford… and my parents…used to medicate me.  When I got t-t-too hard to handle, they said.  It’s-!”  His head jerked up, lashes stuck together by tears around his desperately wide eyes.  He was ranting now:  “I wouldn’t even be tired, and then I’d be asleep!  That was what it was like.  Do you know what that’s like?!  You can’t understand why your body won’t listen, but one pill has… has… has turned you off, like a computer.  You just go to sleep without wanting to, and then wake up a-a-and…don’t even remember what happened in between.”  The last finally trailed away into a whimper as the boy collapsed in on himself again, ashamed.  He finished in a whisper, “I was afraid of Westford before, but now I don’t even know how afraid of him I should be.”

Bond was used to shooting opponents and destroying problems, but he’d never been faced with so many intangible frustrations as he had since meeting little-Q.  Once again an impotent anger had ignited in his chest, a monster rattling at an unbreakable cage – usually, a good key for that cage was a gun in hand or a bomb set off.  But that was useless now, as 007 was faced with the scars of a child and the possibilities of a human monster out of his reach. 

Immediately, Bond shifted Q so that he could turn the boy into his chest, doing so with such swiftness that Q squeaked and flailed a bit in surprise before removing his clawed little fingers from Bond’s forearm and instead latching onto his neck.  The frightened grip was still there, ten little stinging points as fingernails now bit into Bond’s nape, but he didn’t care.  ‘Call M,’ he mouthed succinctly and rapidly over Q’s head to Alec, who was watching like a hunting hawk, ‘Tell her to interrogate anyone who has connections with Westford.  Ask if he had tastes for children.’  There was so much rage in James that he didn’t know what to do with it, and it seemed like Alec was the same, although he was transmuting it into a cold, calculating energy – an inferno in the form of an Arctic storm.  He nodded once before turning and leaving the room, as silently as death itself. 

The side of Bond’s neck was already wet from Q’s crying, even as the boy composed himself – with a ragged breath and an almost audible tear of effort, like someone dragging themselves free of a thistle-patch – and managed to hiccup, “I-I’m sorry.  I’m being ridiculous.  I know that’s-that’s…”  He lifted his head enough to turn tear-reddened eyes forlornly towards the medicine bottle, now on the tabletop, almost within reach.  “I know that’s just pain medication.”  Q sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and his efforts at sounding and acting like an adult made Bond wince because Q was still leaning away from the pills as if they were vipers, prepared to bite him. 

“They’re very mild, Q-” Bond tried to reassure.

Which upset the delicate balance Q had found within himself, setting off the boy again.  “But sometimes pain medication makes people drowsy!  And I don’t know anything about medicine!  Anything!  James, I like to know about things!  What if it-?!”

“It’s not going to knock you out, Q!” Bond barked to be heard over Q’s ranting, and that effectively brought about silence again.  Q sat back on Bond’s knees with a rather startled expression, still teary-eyed but now at a loss for words.  Bond sighed a bit in relief at that before he gathered himself to speak again, more quietly and hopefully more calmingly, “Alec and I have taken more pain medication than anyone in creation, so we know the bloody stuff like the backs of our hands by now.”  He reached out one hand to scoop up the bottle of medication, his other arm securing Q as the boy predictably tried to bolt.  He got a glare as Q realized how trapped he still was, but Bond pretended not to notice, instead scrutinizing the bottle in his hand and reading it.  Not surprisingly, he recognized the label instantly. 

“It’s just Tylenol, Q.”

For all that Q was a child genius, medicines were obviously not his focus: his eyes remained distrustful with a glimmer of fear.  “I don’t want any,” he repeated in what Bond was coming to think of as his ‘Quartermaster voice’.  It was better than when Q was begging, but not by much – those soft, desperate whimpers were disturbing, but the Quartermaster-voice promised a world of trouble in the form of pure stubbornness. 

Bond released his breath in a rush again, fidgeting and looking around in the hopes of finding inspiration before finally settling on a course of action.  Pale blue eyes returned to Q’s face, knowing that the pugnaciousness was just a mask over very real, very vulnerable fear.  “I’ll take one, and you can take one.  Then we’ll sit on the couch and see if anything happens.  Deal?” he said succinctly. 

The sudden use of logic clearly startled Q.  He reached up a hand to push his glasses further up his nose as if unable to believe this was still Bond he was dealing with. 

‘Good.  I’m making headway.’  “If we both fall asleep, then you’re right and MI6 will have to face the music when I wake up.  And Alec will still be around to keep and eye on things.”  He eyed Q patiently.  “Do you trust Alec?”  The key question.

Little-Q nodded with surprisingly little hesitation, absorbing that easily before trying to best 007 with logic of his own, “You’re bigger than me, 007, by quite a bit.  It stands to reason that it would take more than three times the dosage to take you down.”

So apparently Q did know a bit about medicine – or at least the basic principle of size versus dosage.  But James was ready for this, and gave one shoulder a leisurely upward shrug.  “Then I’ll be awake to keep you safe along with Alec.  What’s the problem?”

Clearly, Q was being backed into a corner, and he knew it.  He looked away, eyes torn and filling with painful slivers of panic again, so Bond just did what had worked well before: he pulled the protesting little body in close for another tight hug.  As much as Q initially squirmed and made angry noises, he just as quickly folded into Bond’s warm form, that fluffy nest of hair tickling Bond’s jaw and ear.  “Really?” Q whispered against Bond’s jugular, ignoring as the man swallowed and awaited the rest of the question patiently, “You’ll stay with me?  To make sure nothing happens?”

Q’s fear of medication definitely verged on the ridiculous, especially considering how smart the boy was.  But Bond was familiar with phobias – having seen a few and even overcome a few – and knew the pointlessness of beating at them with logic.  He could repeat all day that Tylenol wasn’t a soporific, citing statistics and what-have-you, but in the end, Q would just remember that every pill he’d ever been forced to take had in turn taken something away from him: his control and his wakefulness.  For a boy with so little means of defense already, having his brain shut down had to be mortifying. 

“Yes, Q, I’ll stay with you.  We’ll just sit on the couch and turn on the telly, eh?”  When he didn’t immediately get a nod but also didn’t immediately get a protest, 007 stood up slowly and a little awkwardly, shifting his cargo to walk with them both.  Q stayed obediently as he was, hooking his heels against Bond’s ribcage but mostly trusting that the blond agent wouldn’t drop him.  Alec was nowhere in sight, but the door to his bedroom was closed.  If he was smart, he’d talk quietly, regardless of what he found out. 

Still feeling grossly protective, Bond plopped down onto the couch, ignoring Q’s admonishing tone at the sudden drop in altitude just like he’d pleasantly ignore M’s chiding tones.  He did look when Q huffed, turning his eyes to find a ‘what am I going to do with you?’ look Q’s fine-featured face.  It was so precious and priceless that 007 couldn’t help but smirk, which turned the look into something more like a glower – ‘what am I going to do with you?’ turned into ‘I know what I’m going to do with you: throw you under a bus.’  There was a glass of water on the table (from when, Bond had no idea, but Alec wouldn’t have left anything unsafe sitting around), and Bond fished out the bottle of pills from where he’d slid it into his pocket.  Q’s eyes snapped to it, large and nervous, but the most he did was slide from Bond’s lap to his side, staying close. 

More because he wanted to make sure it really was water on the table (as opposed to vodka or something), Bond tapped out a Tylenol for himself first, downing it with a single swallow of what truly was water.  He could have dry-swallowed, but figured he’d play this Q’s way – and he doubted Q could do that.  “Your turn,” he said, maneuvering another pill onto his palm and extending his hand Q’s way. 

Looking down at Bond’s large, calloused hand and the simple white pill nestled against his palm, Q nearly lost his control.  He was vacillating between the tiny, damaged kid whose parents hadn’t loved him and who had been bought and sold by a man who didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a kid kindly and between the prodigy who could pass for a genius fifty-year-old.  Right now, the boy just looked so small that Bond felt instantly horrible, as if he truly were forcing Q to take something that would knock him flat on his back and leave him helpless before the world. 

“I mean it, Q.  I won’t let anything happen to you,” he found himself saying in a low, steady rumble, which coaxed brown eyes to look at him over the tops of tilted glasses.  There was tentative hope and trust in those eyes. 

Slowly – fingers as delicate as if he were dealing with the innards of Alec’s watch again – Q reached out and took the pill, then placed it almost gingerly between his lips before accepting the water to wash it down.  Bond also knew all of the tricks for avoiding medication, but Q wasn’t faking it: he really had just taken his medicine.  Q gave a shaky sigh, shoulders sagging as if he’d just agreed to walk the plank.  It was such a dejected look for such a little thing that Bond wasn’t sure whether to laugh or get angry all over again.  Instead, he relaxed back onto the couch and picked up the remote, turning on the television as promised.  Q, he noticed, remained stoically silent, like a fragile little martyr.  He also eased slowly against Bond’s side, seeking warmth and comfort but afraid to take it forcefully.  Brown eyes remained fixed on the television, but Bond didn’t think he was watching it.  Honestly, Q suddenly looked so fragile that the slightest touch could break him, so Bond startled uneasily as he heard the door open to Alec’s room again.  He had the urge to defend Q, even though he didn’t know from what. 

As he’d been trained, Alec’s face was unreadable – it had to be, because Q’s tousled little head had swiveled around to look at him, too, now more questioning than bleak.  Alec could withstand torture without giving anything away, so it was easy to hide what was going on from Q’s young, inexperienced eyes.  “Everything good, James?” he asked, the lightness in his voice not sounding forced unless you really knew what you were listening for.  He was dressed again, and almost dry. 

“We’ve both taken Tylenol,” Bond shrugged, managing a completely false but completely believable smile of his own.  “Now we’re waiting to see if it knocks either of us out.”  Q squirmed, and Bond belatedly realized that he was humiliating him – beneath the panic (the phobia), Q knew that what he was doing was ludicrous, and having an adult point that out to him wasn’t helping.  Feeling like an utter bastard, James gave his throat an uncomfortable clearing before trying to get his foot out of his mouth, “I had a bit of a headache anyway, so I figured I may as well take advantage of the extra medication in the house.”

“Shameless, James, shameless,” Alec quickly flowed with the conversation, “Really?  Stealing a kid’s medication?”  Turning his still-damp head towards Q, the man proclaimed broadly, “Just give me the word, kotě, and I’ll punch James here in the nose for you.”

Wisely, Q wasn’t fully prepared to accept this as a joke – Alec had the disturbing habit of saying completely serious things in a light and teasing tone.  Still rather emotionally delicate, Q shrunk away from Alec’s boisterousness (closer to Bond’s side, under his left arm where it was stretched over the back of the couch) but nonetheless said back, “That will not be necessary.”  Then he blinked.  “What did you call me?”

“Nothing, kitten,” Alec said as he rounded the couch to find a place to sit and watch television as well.  At Bond’s reflexive glare of protective warning, Alec (always good at taking hints when he bothered to watch for them) flopped down next to 007 instead of Q.  Bond lowered his arm gently, slowly letting Q become accustomed to the presence and then the weight of it, until he had the boy snug between his side and his arm.  Finding something acceptable on for them all to watch was nearly more difficult than getting Q to agree to be medicated in the first place, but he managed – it turned out that Q rather liked hockey.  Alec and James liked it, too, but all three of them seemed to appreciate the sport for different reasons: James for the speed, Alec for the accepted violence, and Q claimed that he liked the logicalness of it.  Quietly at first and then with more fervor and interest, he explained the strategy that his eyes were seeing, following the puck as it moved like a wasp amid players.  Alec laughed at the strategy Q was claiming to see, but then Q managed to see no less than five goals before they happened, and Alec was smart enough not to bet against Q when the boy suggested which team would win. 

“How’s your foot, Q?” Bond asked as the game ended, Q’s team winning effortlessly despite the slow start they’d gotten. 

Seeming surprised by the question, Q’s brows beetled beneath his wavy hair for a moment before he realized what in the world Bond was talking about.  He looked down at his foot, wiggling and rotating it.  “It doesn’t even ache, thank you,” he replied with politeness beyond his years.  Then, when no further questions followed, the kid sighed and said ruefully, “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m sleepy?”

“Nope,” Bond said, and propped his feet up on the coffee-table next to Alec’s.  Both agents were perfectly calm and contentedly silent as the second hockey game started up. 

~^~

It was awhile before Bond managed to get a moment alone with 006 away from Q’s hearing range.  Q had finally lost interest in hockey and now had a Rubik’s Cube in his hand that Alec had fished out of somewhere – considering how swiftly Q was defeating the puzzle, 007 and 6 only had a moment to themselves.  They moved into the kitchen and turned on the radio, just loud enough to muffle their voices without it being obvious that they were hiding something. 

“So?” Bond asked, all serious. 

Alec shook his head but answered without delay, “M doesn’t know anything for certain yet, but it seems like Q’s safe – Westford was a lot of things, but a pedophile wasn’t one of them.  She’s going to keep the interrogators on the lookout for any indication that one of Westford’s cronies might have taken an interest, however.”  He stopped, growling low in his throat like a dog.  “I hope that M gives me names if she finds anyone, because I think I could sleep quite happily with a few more deaths like that to my name.”

James nodded that he very much agreed, although he was keeping a lid on his emotions now.  The relief he’d felt at Alec’s discoveries was almost overwhelming, but he realized that Q was still a very fragile child – he’d wait until M was certain, and then he’d relay the findings to Q.  He recalled the shame the boy had expressed when he’d said he didn’t remember what had happened to him, and wanted to banish that feeling by telling Q that he’d missed nothing at all – that nothing had happened to him while his mind was wrapped in darkness. 

“M was pretty upset, if you’d believe it,” Alec added, leaning back against the counter with an easy play of muscles.  “She’s like a glacier, that woman, but I think our suspicions cracked her a little.”

“I’d hope,” Bond griped sarcastically, “If something like that didn’t bother her, I’d consider looking for another job.”

Alec chuffed a laugh and shot Bond a wry look.  “Am I hearing the telltale echo of morals, by chance?” he teased.  “And what other profession would you go into?”

Merely raising a dangerous eyebrow archly at the other man, 007 answered only, “I wouldn’t change professions.  I'd just go spy and kill for someone else.  Heaven knows I’m good at it.”  With that, he padded back into the living room, where Q was holding up the solved Rubik’s Cube with something like disappointment on his face – he’d need a greater challenge than that. 

“Heaven doesn’t know anything,” Alec said softly, eyes distant, “It’s Hell that’s kept tallies on what we can do.”  He pulled out his phone again, typing into it and reaching out to a few connections that even M didn’t have, deciding it was time to hunt down all of those who had once hunted Q. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~ 

Over the next few days, it became increasingly easy to get little-Q to take his pain medication, which he also needed decreasingly often anyway – to the relief of all involved.  The genius’s little foot was healing nicely.  It still necessitated someone else taking the pills alongside him (sometimes James, sometimes Alec), and it always required 007 staying with him afterwards, close enough to touch and to watch warily.  Clearly, the logical part of the kid knew that neither of them was going to drop unconscious, but memory had a stronger hold on him than logic, and if James or Q or Alec suddenly blacked out, Q wanted Bond in the immediate vicinity.  This utter, desperate trust didn’t quite extend to 006, which the man took with acceptance – he was getting along well with Q, like some sort of lethal, dysfunctional brother, but admitted freely that he hadn’t known Q as long as Bond had. 

One night, after Q had spent the whole day actively avoiding taking anything, Q finally gave in an swallowed down the pills around eleven (Bond doing the same).  The trouble came when, not long after, the simple fact of the late hour began weighing down on Q.  He began to fidget and quiver, fighting the sleepiness that was falling over him like a cloak. 

“Q, it’s almost midnight,” Bond finally said, bringing the topic into the open as Q shook himself out of a light dose and nearly into a panic, all in one movement.  Alec was on his phone on the other ide of the couch, watching as Q’s routine of sticking to Bond like a nervous starfish continued.  Sighing, 007 continued sensibly, “You’re tired because it’s late.”

“I know, I know,” the boy repeated quietly, refusing to look up.  His eyes were fixed on the television, which he had not actually been watching in the slightest for the past hour.  And honestly, his voice wasn’t all that convincing either.  Bond lowered a hand, hooking one finger under the kid’s chin to force him to meet his eyes, steely blue and determined. 

“Go.  To.  Sleep.  I may know bollocks about taking care of children, but I know enough to think that you should have been asleep ages ago, regardless of whatever you think the Tylenol is going to do to you,” Bond stated flatly. 

Embarrassment flushed Q’s cheeks, transmuting to temper as he jerked his head away with a small glare.  “I’m not a child,” he grumbled.

“You’re crossing your arms like one,” Alec pointed out unhelpfully.  Q shot him a look that could have lasered through concrete, and looked as though he was considering launching himself right over Bond to attack the cheeky other man.  Fortunately, being the cerebral little thing that he was, Q realized the futility of a physical fight, considering his own miniscule size in comparison to Alec’s trained muscle. 

Nonetheless, Bond pulled Q in closer to his side, distracting him and blocking Alec from view with his body.  Catching little-Q’s eyes again, Bond held them with as solemn a frown as he could manage.  “Look, Q, it’s late – even Alec and I are tired now.  I don’t know how many ways I can tell you that you should and can go to sleep.”  When Q looked away, embarrassed and a little bit stung by the blatant attack of commonsense, Bond sighed and softened, squeezing one of Q’s shoulders gently with a  hand that could arguably break bones that thin, under the right circumstances, “You’ll be safe, Q.  Just like any other night you’ve slept here.  I’ll even stay with you.”  Now Bond felt awkward: this felt like it was going to be the ‘bathroom incident’ all over again.  Privacy and personal space had definitely gone out the window when Q moved in. 

Alec abruptly heaved himself up to his feet.  “Looks like I get the bed tonight.  Night, James!  Night, kissa!”

Q was distracted from talking to Bond by the new title, sitting up straight and craning his neck to watch as Alec padded off into the second bedroom.  “That means ‘cat’, doesn’t it?” the boy asked with a suspicious tone that Bond had to snort at – the narrowed brown eyes behind those glasses was just too funny. 

Bond just stated with amused honesty, “Q, I think that honestly everything Alec calls you means ‘cat’ or ‘kitten’.  Now are you going to sleep here on the couch or not?”

“I…”  Q twisted to face Bond again, deflating.  “I don’t want to make you sleep on the couch…”  At that point, a yawn – not the first of the evening by a long-shot – caught Q mid-thought, stretching his mouth open fit to split his face in half. 

Bond, of course, took the opportunity to drag the blanket off the back of the couch and more or less dump it on the kid. 

“Hey!”  The sounds of complaints were muffled by the piles of material, and Bond relaxed back against the couch unrepentantly.  Little-Q dug his way out of the blanket by finding a hand-hold on Bond’s bicep, using it as a line to climb his way up and out of the blankets.  Oh, but the boy was glaring now… 

“You’re an arse.”

“You shouldn’t use language like that,” replied the 00-agent matter-of-factly and with a faint, unflappable smile.  He looked forward to regard the television (mindlessly muted on some news channel or other), declaring, “I know at least that much about kids your age.”

Q battled the rest of the way free of the blanket to sit cross-legged against Bond’s left thigh, delicate, dexterous hands clasping his own ankles as he narrowed his eyes up at the larger man fearlessly.  “I’m nothing like kids my age,” Q reminded him rather archly.

“True.”  007 conceded the point without a fight.  This baffled the spindly boy next to him.  Bond counted it as a win as he continued to pretend that the television held all of his interest; all of his senses were still subtly locked on Q, though. 

“I’m not tired,” Q flat-out lied, even as he turned and snugged his side against Bond’s again.  007’s arm was in the way, but Q didn’t push it out of the way; when he was being clingy like this, he was singularly undemanding.  He would stick like a burr and invade Bond’s personal space with childish tenacity, but he would not demand that the man reciprocate. 

And it was sad to watch.

Bond slipped his arm out to reposition it, loosening a knot in his shoulder before resettling his arm around Q again, slowly and gently – as if Q were a bird that might fly away, or glass that might shatter.  The boy shivered a little, surprised but guardedly pleased by the friendly contact.  He leaned a little bit more comfortably into Bond, and finally went back to telling the truth, “I don’t want to go to sleep.  I don’t like it when my brain turns off.”

Taking his hand away from Q’s shoulder only long enough to snag the blanket – once again dragging it over Q, but in a less obnoxious fashion – Bond tried to think of how to reply to that.  “Everyone’s got to sleep sometime,” he finally muttered, feeling horribly inadequate.  Curse Alec for abandoning him to have complicated conversations with a traumatized seven-year-old. 

“You don’t!  You were up all the time back on the island!”

Bond groaned.  “That is not a good example.”

“But-!”

“Q, go to sleep!”  The exasperation in Bond’s tone was fond, but it was still exasperation, and he hid it by awkwardly pulling the blanket up a little more snuggly around Q’s twiggy frame.  “Look: I’ll stay here, I promise.  I won’t even move!  And before you start feeling sorry, no, I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.  Honestly, I’m more used to it than the bed, and Alec and I have had fights over it.  The bloody couch is bloody comfortable, and easier to collapse into after a mission,” Bond growled, running a hand over his face tiredly.  A babysitter he was not.  A parent he was even less. 

But he’d taken Q in, and he was going to stick with him, and he could take a few more sleepless nights.

“Deal, Q?”

It looked, for a moment, as though the argument would continue, but Q just quietly looked around him from the shelter he’d made for himself under Bond’s arm: he took in the blanket, heavy but familiar and smelling like people he knew; the arm, corded with muscle but laid around him very gently; the hand, possessive and protective, right now with fingers curled laxly around his arm and absently rubbing the knobby point of his elbow.  Bond could tell when little-Q just focused purely on Bond’s breathing, going very still and letting his world center on the steady expansion and contraction of the larger ribcage next to him.  Then he finally relaxed.  Bond had to resist the urge to let out a breath of relief as he felt Q give in to the weariness tugging at him, small frame slotting itself more limply against 007’s side. 

“Deal…”  Q’s voice shook.  “…If you stay.”  He turned his head away, nose brushing Bond’s shirt as if tempted to hide his face there if it wouldn’t crush his glasses, humiliated by the fear that made him beg.  His young eyes held onto calmness, though, impossibly, as if he’d grasped it one too many times in desperate fingers to forget how to do it now.  He tried and failed to stifle another yawn, the circles heavy under his eyes. 

Bond switched channels on the television, still keeping it muted.  Alec had been nice enough to flick off most of the lights, although the kitchen still glowed merrily; Q was on the far side of Bond from the light, and the more he sunk into exhaustion (and the couch), the more he was hidden from it.  “I already said I’d stay, Q.  Consider it a promise.”

“Hmm,” the boy hummed agreement, eyed blearily fixed on the television.  He might even have been watching it this time. 

They both stayed up awhile longer, in companionable silence, until Q finally gave in to sleep around midnight.  It gripped him gently, sending the boy drifting off between one breath and the next.  This time, Bond didn’t hide the sigh of relief, although he made no other movement except to quietly slip Q’s glasses off.  007 was staying put on the couch tonight, after all, guarding a small boy who was afraid of sleeping.

~^~

Another thing that Bond and Alec were realizing was that Q never slept through the night, regardless of the circumstances.  It wasn’t that he had nightmares so much as he’d simply gotten used to sleeping in brief chunks, allowing him to wake up often and check that he was still safe – something he’d been unconsciously conditioned to do while in Westford’s keeping.  The more often he awoke, less often he was asleep and oblivious. 

Generally, now that he was safe in an apartment with two men with a license to kill – and a passionate will to do so should anything so much as think about troubling little-Q – Q just woke up and shuffled around a bit.  He did this quietly and calmly.  Inevitably, this woke Alec on the couch every time, every sense slamming into alertness as he body silently awoke.  Then he’d realize it was just Q (wandering to the kitchen for a glass of water, usually, before wandering back to the bedroom), and relax again without ever giving any indication that he was conscious.  There was never any trouble, at least from Alec’s perspective, or Bond’s, who slept through most of this.

For Q, though, there was always a touch of violence to the episodes.

He awoke completely, suddenly, and as sharply as glass, but didn’t move – that would give him away to anyone Westford had watching him.  Beneath the boy’s stillness, however, his brain was firing at a rapid pace, trying to learn everything before it could touch him – hurt him.  To anyone watching, they would have known nothing at all of this inner panic, as Q continued to breathe slowly, his face peaceful and his body limp. 

The first sensation his rabid brain identified was the feel of a leg under his cheek, the material of jeans a tough texture to his hyperactive senses, warm muscle beneath supporting Q’s head.  It took a lot of effort not to let his breathing speed up as his heartbeat did, his mind jumping to a million conclusions and already tipping over the edge into panic. 

More quietly, more gently, like the first tendrils of sunlight dripping into a dreary morning, actual memories of Q’s last waking moments drifted in.  Q latched onto them, terrified of what his brain was thinking as it took in his position nestled on someone’s lap.

Bond.  It was Bond.  James’s lap.  James had said he’d stay with him, and Q had agreed to fall sleep…he’d fallen asleep, and…

Reality finally sank in, and the object of Q’s terror evolved into a well of safety.  He opened his eyes just enough to pick out the shape of Bond’s legs stretched out onto the coffee-table, feet propped up on it and silhouetted against the distant light of the kitchen.  The blanket was warm over Q’s body, but warmer was the familiar hand draped over his flank.  Q sighed in contentedness as everything settled out in his world.  That small sigh was all it took to wake Bond: Q felt the subtle tension that sewed itself together in Bond’s muscle, even if the rest of the man didn’t move.

“Q, you all right?” came the low, cautious voice.  Q turned his head enough to look up at Bond, who had relaxed back in sleep of his own, head dropped against the back of the couch.  The man’s eyes were still closed, but anyone who knew him knew that he was ready for anything.  Mostly, without his glasses, Q just picked out the familiar outline of the man, all muscle and grace and understated power.

Not answering for a moment, Q just adjusted himself a bit, getting more comfortable but still unabashedly using 007 as a pillow.  “Yes,” was all he said, politely but sincerely.

Bond grunted, and then went back to sleep. 

~^~

There were a few more days of peace, during which time there were no more issues about Q taking medication or going to sleep.  He still had the sleeping habits of a confused owl, but Alec soon relegated the sounds of little-Q’s footsteps to ‘safe’ noises, in the same category as the house shifting or Bond cleaning his gun in the kitchen.  Alec still woke up, soundlessly and deftly, but it was a gentle waking now – just a flicker of an eyelid opening, with no impending action suffusing his body as if this were a mission and that sound a potential danger.  Alec also started leaving out glasses of water for Q, eventually taking out a mug and writing ‘kis kis kisu kisu’ around it like some secret poem.  The first time Q found it (at 3 AM) and read it, he growled like a disgruntled dog and Alec was hard-pressed not to bust up laughing from his spot on the couch.  As it was, Q had stalked over to him, holding the mug and glaring at Alec from the foot of the couch.  Alec had mildly watched him back (eyes still closed enough to fake sleep), wondering if the boy would chuck the mug at him.

“I’m going to get you for this,” the boy promised, apparently knowing perfectly well that the 00-agent was awake. 

Alec replied, opening his eyes more fully in a picture of innocence, “For what?”

Emitting another growl, Q turned on his good foot and trooped back to the second bedroom, his tangled mop of hair disappearing into it.  He still kept the mug, however. 

Alec went back to sleep, blissfully unaware that Q was completely serious.

~^~

“Bond, can I borrow your phone?”

The question was so out of the blue that Bond didn’t know what to do with it.  He was (against his better instincts) teaching Q a few more card-games, telling himself that he had to, or Alec would eventually coax Q into a game and then shamelessly take advantage of Q’s lack of knowledge.  Presently, Alec was taking a nap, aware that he’d likely be called into MI6 soon, if not to finally give his report then to be assigned another mission – either would cut into his sleep schedule.  Q and Alec had been surprisingly cordial that morning, eerily so, with each wearing grins that were far too broad and far too fake to be remotely safe. 

And now Q wanted Bond’s phone.

“Q, I don’t think your calling anyone is a good idea-” he started, hoping that this didn’t set off a tantrum.

But the boy just shook his head, placing his cards down.  “I’m not going to call anyone.”  When Bond still eyed him warily and made no move to get his phone, Q blinked, rolled his eyes, and added, “I won’t even say anything!  I just need it for a moment.” 

It was a day for bad decisions, a day that had started at 3 AM with Alec teasing a child genius and thinking he’d get away with it.  Bond fished his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them like a bet.  He watched warily as the boy reached forward, kneeling on his seat as he turned on the phone.  “No password?” he asked, sincerely curious when the little machine immediately let him in.

“Cheap phone,” Bond replied briefly, still watchful, “Good for ordering take-out.  My work phone is different.”

Q just made a musing noise, and Bond made a mental note to change the password on his other phone, just in case.  Presently, Q seemed quite happy with the simple phone he was working with right now.  What made 007 freeze was when Q, punching in a few numbers at random – it indeed looked like he was preparing to call someone, despite his assurance to the contrary – asked too idly, “Alec has a cheap phone, too, doesn’t he?”

Q hit ‘send’ right then, and suddenly there was the loud trill of beeps emanating from 006’s room – the sound of the alarm clock going off at full-volume.  It was accompanied by 006’s outraged roar as the sound awoke him, and Bond sat up straighter, reaching unconsciously for his gun. 

Quite innocently, Q slid Bond’s phone back.  Behind his glasses, his eyes were placid and unaffected, as if the cacophony didn’t even reach him as Alec went to war with the alarm clock in the other room.  “Did he lose that phone recently?” the boy asked.

Bond was wondering what kind of little monster was wrapped in the skin across from him.  “He leaves it lying around,” he replied mechanically.  The alarm had yet to be turned off, for some reason, and Alec was swearing at full-volume. 

“I noticed.”  Now a dry, wicked little smile just tilted up one side of Q’s mouth, although he was smart enough to quietly transfer himself to the chair next to Bond’s, placing both of them side-by-side on the far side of the kitchen table.  If Alec came out, it would be smart to keep out of his reach, and close to someone big enough to fend the other agent off.  Finally, the boy admitted, “I found his phone and rigged it up to the alarm-clock last night.  I can turn it on remotely now, but he can’t turn it off.”

“Why-?” 

Q just pointed.  Still feeling as if this was all too surreal to be real (maybe it was a nightmare and Q would transform into a komodo dragon in a minute, to match the predatory glint in his young eyes), Bond followed Q’s directing hand.  Perched on the counter was a mug that he knew Q had been keeping and drinking water out of late at night (Bond didn’t get up for these excursions, but was perfectly aware of them).  It had been blank and white, but now…Bond wasn’t sure whether to groan or chuckle as he read the foreign language written neatly across it in permanent marker.  He didn’t need to know Alec’s handwriting to identify the culprit.  “Do you know what that says, Q?” he asked with as a straight a face as he could manage.

“No,” the boy admitted quite calmly for one eliciting such creative revenge, “But doing this was easier than trying to get Alec to tell me.  You said that Alec just calls me derivations of feline names anyway.”

Now Bond was definitely trying to keep from bursting into laughter.  Alec’s continued attempts to silence the clock weren’t helping.  “Don’t break the clock!” 007 finally yelled in the closest approximation to a ‘helpful’ tone that he could manage.  What Alec called back was indeed in another language, but it definitely didn’t translate to ‘kitten’ or ‘cat’.  ‘Bitch’ maybe, but Alec had always been one for finding odd words in odd languages. 

“I can’t turn it off!” Alec finally yelled back, completely unnecessarily. 

“Have you tried the off-switch?”

“Of course I bloody tried-” Alec started to snarl back before he recognized the dry tone as coming from one Quinn Finch, and abruptly silenced himself.  The door slammed open and there was Alec, looking ragged and frazzled after being so suddenly awoken.  Only then did Q pull back a bit, unconsciously leaning closer to 007 as he became faced with the consequences of pranking a 00-agent.  Bond reassured him with a nudge of his elbow while he pasted on a charming smile for Alec. 

“How do you turn it off?” Alec growled, eyes narrowed.  He twitched a teensy bit at every cry of the alarm, as if it were stabbing him with a pin.

And Q affected the same innocent look that Alec had given him that night before.  “Turn what off?”  He blinked with seeming obliviousness behind his glasses and fall of dark-brown hair, perfectly ignoring the noise filling the apartment. 

For a moment, it looked like Alec would explode.  Although Bond didn’t think that Alec was so mad as to attack a kid, he tensed nonetheless, flexing the muscles in his arms visibly to make his protective intentions clear.  However, 006 instead spun on his heel to stalk across the kitchen.  Bond didn’t move just because he knew that there was no gun in the drawer that Alec was digging through.  A moment later, Alec came up with a black permanent marker and picked up Q’s mug. 

Still frowning like a storm-cloud given human shape, but maybe with a more resigned set to his shoulders, Alec scribbled out his previous letters.  Instead, in a gracious script that few people would have attributed to a bull like 006, the man neatly wrote ‘Q’ on the other side of the mug.  He placed the mug on the counter with an air of finality, dropping the marker back in the drawer, too, before just turning around and crossing his arms with a scowl. 

And Q, looking as delighted as Bond ever remembered seeing him, slid off his chair and darted immediately into Alec’s room.  Not two minutes later, and the alarm stopped as if it had never been turned on.

~^~  

Chapter Text

~^~ 

“Bond!” 

Q really wasn’t a whiner, but Alec brought out the worst in him.  Finishing tugging on his shoes, 007 turned, expecting the worst – and pretty much finding it.  He didn’t know whether to sigh, laugh, or scrub a hand over his face in exasperation as he saw Q standing in front of him, wearing a white shirt that said, quite clearly, ‘Property of Bond’ on the front.  Alec had actually gotten the shirt professionally done this time, instead of inscribing the testament in marker.  Q gave Bond a put-out glower as he added, “He hid all of my other shirts, too.”

“And what’s wrong with that one?” Alec came striding into the room, looking as pleased with himself as could be.  Ever since the alarm-clock incident, Alec had laid off Q a bit, and had also scrupulously kept an eye on his things at all times, to preclude the possibility of more vengeful pranks.  It looked like Alec had gotten bored with playing nice, however, and was back to teasing the young genius.  “I think it’s a wonderful shirt, don’t you, James?”

“Well, it will keep him out of trouble in MI6,” Bond gave in.  He had to admit that it was pretty funny, even as Q grumbled and rolled his eyes at both of them.  Alec’s grin broadened happily as he ruffled Q’s hair. 

It was time for Q to check back into Medical to get his stitches removed.  Alec had finally sent in a report on his mission, but as usual, it was so sketchy and full of holes that he was now required to come in personally to flesh everything out – therefore, he was coming along.  Bond was coming because, despite all the time Q had spent around Alec, the boy still trusted 007 intrinsically more. 

Because Q looked so disgruntled with his new shirt, Bond took pity on him, looking over at Alec imploringly.  “Where are the rest of his shirts, Alec?”

But Alec wasn’t so softhearted.  “All in the wash, I think.”  And then he was sliding past Bond and out the door, calling back, “Come on, or M will have our heads for being late!”

It was good incentive, even if Bond wanted to put Alec in a headlock, or something else that would deflate him a little.  It was times like this that Bond realized why he had been given responsibility for Q, and not Alec Trevelyan.  “Come on, Q, you’ll be all right,” he coaxed, “Just think of it this way: no matter how goofy you think it is, or anyone else thinks it is, no one will dare tease you on it, because they’ll know I’ll beat their bloody heads in.”

“Language, Bond,” Q reminded as if their ages were reversed: Bond the recalcitrant youngster and Q the sensible, polite adult.  The ‘polite adult’ also gave up on complaining and followed 007 out the door.  When he made to get into the backseat of the car (Alec had already occupied the passenger seat, assuming Bond would drive), 007 waylaid the kid with a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him and winking.  Then Bond looked up and opened Alec’s door.

“Get in the back,” he said, in that bland, charming tone that somehow held a lot of steel beneath. 

Alec’s brows immediately dropped low over his eyes even as Q’s jumped up into his fluffy hair-line.  “What?”

“I said,” Bond repeated pleasantly, even smiling, “get in the back.  You’re in Q’s seat.”

“How is this Q’s seat?” asked Alec suspiciously.  Briefly, he met Q’s eyes, but the boy just shrugged, eyes silently conveying that he was as perplexed by all of this as Alec was. 

Bond was having fun with the game, and finished with a hand on Q’s shoulder, tipping his chin towards Q’s labeled shirt.  “Well, if he’s mine, then he’s sitting up front.  I treat my things well – that means riding shot-gun,” he said as if this were plain as day, and Q suddenly started grinning as he caught on.  He still looked rather embarrassed to be wearing a shirt that said he was ‘Property of Bond’, but now he was beginning to appreciate some of the perks 007 was creating. 

If nothing else, Alec knew when he was beaten.  He sighed in an acquiescing sort of way, exchanging a brief look with Q that said ‘You win this time’ before he heaved himself out of the car.  “Enjoy the ride, kitten,” he said, “I even warmed the seat up for you!”

“I’m not a kitten,” came the reflex response, but Q was already jumping up into the front passenger seat. 

Bond wasn’t quite done yet.  As he walked leisurely around to the driver’s side, he pulled out his phone (his work-phone, which he’d been keeping scrupulously out of Q’s hands) and brought up Mallory’s number.  The man probably didn’t know that Bond had his number, but then again, there were a lot of things that Bond knew that other people didn’t expect.  One of those things that others had probably forgotten 007 knew was that Mallory had mentioned having a son, meaning the man knew about young boys.  Bond sent him a quick text and then put away his phone, not waiting to see if he’d get a reply.

“Who were you texting, Jamesie?” Alec asked from the back, leaning forward between the seats like the overeager dog he was. 

“No one,” James lied transparently, but hid it with a smile and a rev of the engine. 

~^~

MI6 wasn’t entirely sure how to take the incoming trio: the two men striding in with the skinny boy in between them, walking like two guard-dogs alongside their pup.  For all that Alec had teased Q and put him into a ridiculous shirt, the man was immediately radiating the same waves of protectiveness that Bond was, as the two flanked Q into MI6. 

Malory and M were standing a distance away, watching.  Mallory was still considering the text he’d gotten, hoping that it signaled an ease in the tensions between himself and the protective 007.  “Do you think those two are more or less dangerous now that they’ve got a child around?” he found himself asking the silver-haired woman.

M just pursed her lips and retorted, “Rather more, I think.  Or did you miss the way they’re walking like dangerous mirror images?  Blast, I’d hoped they wouldn’t get this dangerous until I sent them on missions.”

“I don’t really think this is something that they’ll just get out of their system,” Mallory observed carefully, as the trio turned down a hall to Medical, out of sight but not out of mind.  Things had been quiet in the spying business lately, so there’d been a lot of 00-agents loitering in MI6 – this had given Mallory a chance to see the assassins when they weren’t wired up for some mission or other.  Therefore, he knew the way their gate and posture changed when calm and off-duty, the way they naturally relaxed and lost the finer edge of their dangerousness. 

Both 006 and 7 looked to be walking around with that edge fully intact, but had combined it with a happy sense of contentment that made Mallory wonder whether other agents would even be able to stand up to this group now.  It was something to think on.  At least Bond and Trevelyan didn’t seem to be looking for trouble for a change (another positive improvement that he tentatively wanted to blame on little-Q), but it was impossible to doubt that the two agents would fight fire with fire if someone brought trouble to them.

Or, rather, to Q.

“I’m going to send out a discreet message to everyone in MI6,” M sighed, her thoughts apparently following Mallory’s, “If 007 and 006 have it in their heads that they’re bodyguards, then everyone will be happiest if they’re not meddled with.”

“I completely agree.”  Nodding that this was, indeed, a good idea, Mallory turned to go. 

“Have something on your schedule, Mallory?” asked M. 

He turned to look back over his shoulder, waving his phone with its text-message.  “I have an errand to run.  For 007, if you’d believe it,” he said ruefully, before disappearing out another set of doors, leaving M to scoff at the way her agents continued to surprise her.  Unexpectedly, she was now having to add little-Q to that list, as the boy hadn’t ceased to surprise from the moment he’d turned up on 007’s mission.

M went to her office to warn MI6 to keen an eye out for a kid genius who looked fragile, but may as well have been a tank because of the two men looking out for him. 

~^~

“There,” the nurse wrapped a clean bandage around Q’s foot, although he hardly needed it now.  All that remained of the laceration were the little holes where the threads had been pulled out, which had barely bled enough to warrant the wound being wrapped again.  Taking into consideration that Q was an active seven-year-old, however, the nurse carefully wrapped the arch of Q’s foot before slipping his socks back on.  “All good now.”

It was the same doctor as before, a friendly woman who not only seemed to understand Q’s strangely mature (and sometimes skittish) nature but also 007’s lethally protective one.  She was able to somehow avoid exacerbating both, and Q was so relaxed and at ease around the matronly woman that he completely missed when both Alec and Bond stepped out of the room.  He looked up just as 007 was entering again. 

“Alec finally got caught for debriefing,” he said with a superior smirk, even as he brought out something gold-brown from behind his back.  It was cloth, and folded, and Q scooted forward onto the floor in unbidden curiosity.  Bond kept the article of clothing out of his reach as he instead asked over Q’s head, “How is he?”

“Healthy as a horse,” the woman said without hesitation, smiling warmly at the skinny boy who was trying his best not to reach for the object of his attention, held over his head.  It was clearly taking a lot of effort to appear composed when he really just wanted to act childish and make a jump for it.  When he gave in and did, Bond lifted his hand higher without having to turn and look, and Q sighed hotly in embarrassment and temper.  Warmed and amused by their antics, the doctor said, “I’m giving him a clean bill of health, although I can say medically and maternally that he needs a bit more meat on his bones.”

“I’m not too skinny,” Q turned to try and reason with her, “I-” 

“Come on, Q, let’s go see how Alec’s doing, shall we?” Bond interrupted before Q could get started.  The boy wasn’t a whiner, but he was a debater – he’d been arguing about the benefits of sugar during the whole time the stitches had been removed, verbally outmaneuvering the doctor and any nurse that had been in attendance.  If he got started now on a philosophical talk about proper weight in seven-year-olds, they’d be here all day.  “I was also told that, apparently, Q-branch is eager to see you.  Not old-Q, of course, but the minions miss you.”

Q wasn’t a very emotive child, being mostly very controlled even by adult standards, but Bond’s words made large brown eyes brighten behind the boy’s glasses – almost despite itself, a smile flashed across Q’s fine-featured face.  He was clearly delighted.  What made it even better was that the words were entirely true: Bond had, indeed, been hunted down by no less than four Q-branch employees, all of whom dared to approached an 00-agent in the hopes of finding his minute companion.  Bond had been, in turn, seeking M to see if progress had been made in finding out whether Westford were truly dead or not, and suddenly wondered if Q-branch minions might be forthcoming with information if little-Q were with him…

So, all in all, Bond had ulterior motives for now heading with little-Q down to Q-branch, but that didn’t diminish the warmth he felt behind his breastbone as he noted Q’s happiness.  “Here, Q,” he caught the boy’s attention after they left Medical, Q not limping in the slightest anymore.  In fact, Q spun neatly on his bad foot to face Bond, cocking his head curiously and then settling his intelligent brown eyes on the cloth in Bond’s hand.  It was now lowered within his reach.

Suspicious, Q glanced back up and cocked one eyebrow, which disappeared almost immediately under his plethora of hair.  “Are you going to snatch it away again if I grab for it?”

“Of course not, Q, what kind of bully do you think I am?” Bond huffed before dropping down onto his haunches in front of Q.  With speed and dexterity that few besides secret agents and assassins had, Bond unfolded the cloth – an article of clothing – and began pulling it over Q’s head without warning.  Q squeaked and squirmed as his head disappeared into golden-tan material, arms almost accidentally finding the sleeves as they flailed.  “Watch you glasses,” was Bond’s helpful tip.  He artfully tugged and adjusted the hooded sweatshirt onto Q’s frame, hiding the ‘Property of 007’ shirt that Alec had gotten Q to wear.  A moment later, and Q’s head popped out, glasses askew and eyes blazing with impressive, flustered temper. 

Bond just smiled back, incorrigible.  “There!  You look marvelous, Q.  And now you only have to show people your T-shirt if you want to.”

Q had obviously been winding up to punch Bond’s smarmy face, but the last sentence doused him pretty well.  Face flashing with pleasant surprise, Q lifted his arms and looked down at himself: now he was covered in a sensible (if slightly large) tan hoodie, a black cog being the only image arranged on the front.  A second ecstatic smile leapt onto Q’s face, and Bond realized with a jerk of his heart that he’d do anything to find more of those smiles.  He, 007, was moved by the facial expression of a skinny child more than he could remember being moved by anything.  “You can thank Mallory for that,” Bond went on, clearing his throat a little against the emotions that had unexpectedly gripped it, “His son outgrew it years ago, I imagine, although he didn’t say.”

“Mallory got this for me?” Q lifted his head to ask, fingers feeling the fine material of the hoodie.  It was slightly worn, just enough to make it look comfortable and ‘lived-in’. 

Bond shrugged, jealous of the attention paid to the other man, somehow.  “Well, I might have had something to do with it.  I asked him to fetch something for you, to hide that shirt of Alec’s.”  Bond tugged at a fold of white peaking out beneath the hoodie, and Q smartly tugged the hoodie down, hiding the white T-shirt entirely.  When Q then stuffed his delicate little hands into the conjoined pocket in the hoodie’s front, Bond thought Q might very well be the most adorable thing in the world, regardless of the skeptical look on his young face. 

“Well,” Q finally decided to say, clearly suspecting Bond of more mischief beyond the simple acquisition of a hooded sweatshirt from Mallory, “Say thank you to Mallory for me then, next you see him.  It’s…it’s a nice hoodie.”  Actually, Q seemed quite enamored with it, looking down at the material fondly as if he weren’t used to gifts.  Maybe he wasn’t.  Probably he wasn’t, if his life thus far was as bad as it sounded.  Bond stood and narrowed his eyes in thought, mentally promising to press M for information in that sector.  They still knew precious little about the horrors Q had faced after his parents had found out they had a marketable genius in their hands. 

“Bond?”

Q’s voice was questioning, tentative, and Bond realized that he’d been looking off into the distance with an increasingly stormy face.  He looked down now to find Q standing at his side, a hand raised tentatively to almost touch a fragile finger to the back of his hand, hovering a hair’s-breadth away as if repelled by some invisible voice.  His eyes were turned up to 007, reading the man’s dark expression with obvious worry. 

Purposefully pushing aside his grim thoughts, Bond forced his face to soften in to a rueful smile, and he immediately shifted his hand so that it connected with Q’s hesitant, reaching hand.  Q jumped, startled at the contact, but then the little fingers were quick to find their way around Bond’s thick wrist, unable to encircle it but grabbing nonetheless.  “Sorry, Q.  Ready to go see your Q-branch followers?”

Q was smiling again, and nodded.  He remained a bit clinging for next few steps, as if afraid, if he moved away, Bond would return to whatever dark place in his mind he’d retreated into.  Bond wished he could assure Q that that wouldn’t happen (or, if it did, it didn’t mean he was forgetting about Q at all), but wasn’t sure what to say.  So, instead, he just walked at a slower pace than usual to accommodate Q’s shorter legs – he also reveled in the guileless connection between Q and himself, as Q kept his fingers hooked through Bond’s watch.  Q loved tech, and he loved the tech connected to Bond even more. 

~^~

Predictably, the entrance of a 00-agent into Q-branch caused a bit of a stir, and most of the employees looked like they wanted to bolt for cover initially – but when they saw little-Q at 007’s side, everyone relaxed.  Apparently, a pit-bull was far less scary when it was accompanied by a half-pint kitten.  Bond wasn’t sure whether to be miffed or fondly amused.  Regardless, he made an effort to appear nonthreatening as minions began to slowly flock towards their tiny deity. 

At first, Q was timid – even after being swarmed once before by curious Q-branchers, he was unused to the attention and pressed against Bond’s leg a bit.  Bond’s indelible presence combined with the obvious friendliness of the minions, however, soon had Q loosening up.  He was soon saying hello, surprising everyone by knowing nearly everyone’s name, at least from those he’d met before.  Bond had seen how shocking Q’s gift at memory was when he’d played ‘Skosh’ with Alec, and therefore managed to hide his surprise around his usual, relaxed expression.  He stood by like Q’s idle, slightly bored, very capable bodyguard. 

There was nothing quite like watching Q and the minions: the boy seemed to stand taller, and his detached mask seemed less like a defensive façade and more like a comfortable demeanor sliding naturally into place.  He talked easily and fluidly, and there wasn’t a single Q-brancher who did not treat him with respect.  Bond felt rather bad right then for all of the times he’d disrespected the minions, actually. 

“What is going on?” 

Bond lifted his head, alert ears trained to hear things before others did.  At the moment, Q was surrounded by Q-branchers and distracted by talking about some kind of fractal computer algorithm, and only Bond and a few others heard the grouchy voice emerge across the room.  Even if he hadn’t recognized old-Q, Bond would have been able to deduce the voice’s owner by the way a shudder went through the minions that heard him.  At the edges of Q’s pool of curious minions, uneasy techies began to shift and turn towards the approaching Quartermaster. 

“Just a sec, Q,” 007 murmured in a perfectly bland voice, pressing down one hand on Q’s shoulder to lightly tell him to stay put.  The kid looked up at him questioningly, pausing mid-sentence, but didn’t follow as Bond began pushing through the other men and women.  So far, he judged, the elder Quartermaster wouldn’t be able to even see that his tiny namesake was even present – the ring of minions had inadvertently become a protective shell in Bond’s eyes. 

Bond found the old Quartermaster across the room, cornering a very-uncomfortable-looking minion and asking her questions about why people had abandoned their desks.  Deciding to make up for teasing the minions in the past, 007 strode up silently and then deposited his muscled frame against the desk right next to the minion, in front of the Quartermaster also.  Everyone but Bond jerked in surprise, the minion going white as he found himself sitting in a chair while 007 lounged close enough to him to touch.  The tiny smile playing at the corners of Bond’s mouth as about as pleasant as the slight slant to a copperhead’s jaws.  “Hello, Quartermaster,” James said smoothly, “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, so it’s you causing all the ruckus,” the old Quartermaster grunted, eyes narrowed and hands on hips.  “Don’t you have better things to do with your time than upset other branches?”

“No, not really,” Bond shrugged, improvising with ease even as he nudged the minion next to him in a subtle sign to get while the getting was good.  Bond kept the Quartermaster’s attention while the employee slipped free with as much grace as possible.  “Actually, I heard a rumor of a new handgun you were working on.  You wouldn’t be hiding something like that from me now, would you?” he continued to lie fluently, smile widening challengingly. 

Briefly, the old Quartermaster glared after the employee he’d been questioning, but realized he couldn’t chase the man without leaving 007 unattended – which was a dangerous gamble indeed.  So he glared back at Bond.  Meanwhile, behind him, the escapee made a bee-line to the flock around little-Q, hopefully to warn them of the Quartermaster’s impending wrath and temper.  “As a matter-of-fact, I am, not that it’s any of your business,” old-Q muttered, surprising Bond even if the 00-agent didn’t show anything but jovial interest, “Where did you hear that?”

“006,” was the next easy fib.  If he had to blame someone, Alec was a good target – very few people dared to punish Alec Trevelyan, so the Quartermaster would be unlikely to follow up Bond’s answer.  “Any chance the gun is finished enough to need a skilled hand testing it?”

Old-Q’s eyes had narrowed so much that there were more wrinkles than eyeball, unused to finding such an amicable 00-agent.  “Yeeeees…” he said slowly, “Are you offering your services?”

“I’m a bloody good shot, and have an even better eye for a good gun.  Plus-”   He stood up and clapped old-Q on the shoulder even as he watched little-Q and his human shield slowly flowing out of the room – to safety, as it were.  Good.  Now Bond finished, to ensure that the Quartermaster stayed with him, “-I only break things in the field.”

That was obviously not encouraging, so while old-Q acquiesced to dig up the prototype for Bond to test, he made sure to follow him down to the shooting range, where he planned to watch him like a hawk.  Bond paused just long enough to text – to M and to Alec – that if anything bad happened to Q in the next…however long this took…he would personally slaughter all of Q-branch for their inability to babysit a seven-year-old.  He then put his phone in his pocket and ignored the flustered, confused texts he got back from his boss and his fellow agent, focusing on shooting and keeping the Quartermaster busy. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Q-branch’s back rooms were a veritable tar-pit for random projects – a memorial to forgotten tech and abandoned schematics.  Little-Q was in heaven. 

Everything he saw caught his interest, and the minions didn’t have the heart to stop him in the slightest as he became a hummingbird, buzzing from one point of interest to another.  The minions were like over-indulgent grandparents, able to deny their only grandbaby nothing.  Instead, they followed behind as Q veritably flew from one room to another, burying his curious little fingers in wires and gears in one room and then burying his dexterous mind in a computer program in the next.  He showed an equal aptitude for both, but it was when the minions watched little-Q cutting his teeth on a virus that had stumped Q-branch for weeks that everyone began to sit up and take notice. 

“You just have to play around with it until you know the shape of it,” Q muttered distractedly, kneeling up on the chair because he was too short to sit while hunching over the keyboard. 

For the next half-hour, Q-branch watched wide-eyed as Q played the virus like a fish on a line – or like a dragon lurking in a cave.  Q lured it out and began to play with it, taunting and teasing so that the poor computer was nearly quivering with the code racing around inside of it.  It was a fencing match played out in code and programs, firewalls and cascades of binary.  All but R and a few others were completely lost within minutes, and everyone was cheering while Q smirked tightly and viciously at the screen.  He hadn’t had so much fun…well, he couldn’t remember.  He’d done things like this for Westford and for his parent’s other clients, but it had never been fun: no one had ever applauded him, no one had ever encouraged him or showed happiness at his every little success.  No one had ever understood – here, though, even the techies who were lost at least knew a bit about coding, and therefore could understand that every twitch of Q’s fingers created something novel, powerful, and amazing. 

He didn’t defeat the virus, but be broke past it long enough to know that it was hiding a list of North American hit-men and the virus itself was an adaptive program based on an organic mainframe – Q said that he could probably destroy it if he could find where it was all anchored, but that it was such a beautiful bit of code that he really didn’t want to break it.  Surprisingly, rest minions agreed, and without hesitation they agreed to keep little-Q’s success to themselves until he had time to come back and ‘play mongoose’ with it again.  At that point, they began referring to little-Q as ‘Gear’ after the black gear in the center of his tan hoodie.  This whole time, they’d been avoiding calling him anything, because ‘Q’ was too close to the old Quartermaster to them, and they didn’t have the 00-agents’ guts to called the boy ‘Q’ anyway.  But ‘Gear’ fit just fine, and soon Q was walking around with the title of ‘Gear’ pleasantly mantling him. 

From what R said, Bond was still tangled up with the old Quartermaster.  Q-branch had been babysitting Q for an hour now – a comfortable, fun time for all involved, but the minions had thought it prudent to check in on Q’s more volatile keeper.  A quick peek at the security camera footage and they found Bond still down in the shooting range, looking exasperated and on the edge of lethal as old-Q lectured him about something or other.  The gun was still there, but it must not have been working that well, or Bond probably would have shot the old man with it.   Bond was showing saint-like patience, however, in the name of letting little-Q have some fun. 

“Hey, Gear, you hungry, kid?”

Q nodded to the jovial question, immediately following no less than four minions who wanted to show him to the break-room (whose location he already knew from being there with Bond once before).  The real trouble didn’t start until said minions suddenly backtracked hastily, having only just made it around the corner when they met up with something unsavory.  The Q-branch techies had been quite talkative and relaxed since they’d been left to their own devices with a child-genius on their hands, but now they quailed, looking more like the timid mice everyone saw them as.  R had momentarily left, wanting to grab something to show ‘Gear’, and suddenly everyone seemed to wish that the spunky second-in-command was around.

Because two 00-agents were now rounding the corner ahead of them.

Q didn’t know who they were, but a tech at his elbow immediately hissed, “002 and 003,” without needing to be asked, as if reporting to the boy came naturally.  With this knowledge, Q looked at the approaching men anew, seeing the same glide to their step and sharp light to their eyes that bespoke the predatory side he saw often in James or Alec.  These two men were brown-haired and black-haired, but otherwise built similarly to the agents Q knew. 

The Q-branchers had closed in around Q carefully, becoming a hesitant flock of robins roused by the entrance of two rowdy crows.

“Ah, denizens of Q-branch!” the brown-haired 002 called out, displaying too many even white teeth as he grinned and spread his hands encompassingly.  “What brings you here?”

The unfortunate minion at the fore of their group (a mousy young man with glasses that made his eyes seem huge) was forced to answer as bravely as he could, “Well, this is our side of the building, you know.”

He sounded timid even to Q’s ears, and definitely didn’t do anything to garner the respect of the 00-agents, who exchanged smirks.  “Really?” 002 went on, affecting shock and clearly having fun at this, “And where are you going then?”

The minion spokesperson swallowed, keeping as calm as he could as 003 stepped up beside his partner, crossing his arms.  “The break-room, if you must know.”

“Look at that, Gregory, he thinks they’re going to the break-room,” 002 looked back at 003 and chuckled while they continued to stubbornly block the hall. 

“Look,” another minion stepped up, although she was scarcely a forth of 003 or 002’s weight, “this is Q-branch’s department, and you don’t have any right to be here, acting like you are-”

“I’ve got a license to kill,” 003 spoke up, voice menacing and the smile taking on more the look of a baring of daring teeth.  He stepped past 002, forward into the female tech’s personal space.  “I think I must at least have the right to loiter in a bloody hallway if I want to.” 

“No, you don’t.”  Instead of trying to hold him back, the Q-branchers stepped uneasily aside as little-Q strode boldly forward, quiet outrage making him brave – and more than a little bit rash.  Both 002 and 3 blinked down at him in blatant surprise, unprepared to be faced with a skinny little stripling that barely came up to their elbows but who was glaring at them like a badger.  Quite calmly but still quite stingingly, Q amended, “Unless you can’t read, of course.  I believe illiteracy is the only reason for not being able to read the signs on the doors designated this quarter as Q-branch.”

It was truly a sight to see: 003 and 002, standing like uncertain ravens, a dozen or so Q-branch techs all in various states of scandalized and frozen, and Q standing in the middle with his oversized hoodie and prim expression, seemingly immune to his own miniscule proportions.  Honestly, 003 and 2 looked a little flustered.  They weren’t used to things this tiny biting back. 

“So?” Q pressed, not crossing his arms but rather affecting the ready post that he’d seen Bond take on from time to time: hands at ones side, not tucked away or folded in any way that might impede movement.  The difference was that Q added a sort of proud stiffness to the pose, his spine straight and his fluffy head held erect as if this could add to his height in some way.  He sure didn’t seem to have any trouble looking 003 in the eye as the black-haired man narrowed his gaze warily.  “Are you truly illiterate or do you have some other reason for being down in Q-branch harassing its employees?”

002 blinked (staring from little-Q to the minions behind him to 003 looked somewhere between gobsmacked and vaguely horrified) and then laughed.  The bubble of noise caught him by surprise a moment before it grew into a brief roar.  “This is rich,” he chuckled, eyes flicking over Q curiously but also rather dismissively.  “Is it bring-your-brat-to-work day?”  It was a note on how scared the minions were of 00-agents that they flinched but didn’t respond – however, not a one of them had tried to leave either, staying loyally at Q’s back.  There wasn’t really anything they could do against 003 and 2 combined (whose track-records for deadliness were only slightly less glorious than 006 and 7’s, ‘glorious’ translating to ‘petrifying’), but the flock of minions still held their ground. 

“Is it bring-your-ego-to-work-day,” Q retorted as quick as a blink, tone dry but un-amused, “Because I can’t imagine how you got yours through the door.” 

“Why you little-!” 002 growled, taking a half-step forward.  When the minions responded by all bristling, he looked at them in surprise. 

“Back off, Gear,” the mousy young man touched Q’s shoulder to say, “Let’s just leave it.”

But Q was angry on behalf of the Q-branchers, and he was remembering how much fun he’d had up until now – fun that these two 00-agents had ruined.  It was a fact that Q had had precious little fun in his life, especially in a safe environment, so now that it was threatened he found himself far more furious than expected.  The 00-agents didn’t realize the snake-pit they’d stepped into. 

“No,” Q said, taking a step forward instead of one back, shaking a little now as it began to sink in just who and what he was dealing with: two MI6 assassins.  Q had too few friends in his life (in his history, even) to just sit back while they were harassed, however, so he pushed the fear back as far as he could.  “I’m not leaving.  This is Q-branch, and 00-agents shouldn’t even be here.”

“You sure know an awful lot for a kid so small by dog could eat you,” 003 reentered the conversation.  Of the two, Q began to think that the black-haired man was the most dangerous: 002 was definitely athletic and definitely pretty threatening, but the level of meanness seemed to go a bit deeper in 003.  His dark-blue eyes were still narrowed like the sharp focusing of a scalpel incising a wound, and already he had his weight on both feet in preparation for causing physical trouble.  Q quailed a bit at the thought, breathing faster and trying to hide it with bravado. 

“I do know an awful lot, and I know that it would be smart for you to leave.”

“Would it now?” 003’s voice dropped to a sinister level again.  002 just looked annoyed. 

“Need I repeat myself?  This. Is. Q-branch.  You. Are.  00-idiots.”

Maybe the last word was a bit much, because it ended with 003 moving too swiftly for Q to dodge, large, scarred hands fisting in the material of Q’s hoodie and lifting him right off the floor.  The minions immediately went into an uproar, but the presence of 002 kept them back, the brown-haired man baring his teeth and telling them to mind their own business – a ridiculous command, when this was most definitely their business.  Not only were they afraid for ‘Gear’, but most were also thinking that 007 was going to kill them for letting Q get into trouble like this.  To say nothing of the fact that ganging up on a seven-year-old was just plain ludicrous. 

“Care to say that to my face, brat?” 003 hissed, bringing their bodies close. 

Clearly, 003 was expecting a struggle, but Q didn’t give him the satisfaction – he was more than smart enough to realize that there was nothing physically he could do about this situation.  In fact, he could think of a dozen things that could go horribly wrong if he kicked 003 or scratched his eyes in an attempt to get free.  003 could breaks bones in a second; strangle him in a handful more.  So Q just dangled where he was, breathing fast and shallow, trying to hold onto 003’s wrists so that his whole weight was not supported by the neck of his hoodie. 

“If you think that it’s okay to pick on Q-branch employees just because you’re bigger, then you’ve got another thing coming,” Q said in little voice that shook noticeably, but his eyes never looked away from 003’s dark-blue gaze.  Besides a slight, reflexive wriggle, he didn’t move.  “And if this is your idea of fun, you’re honestly more kinds of messed up than I can fix.”

Just as 003 (and possibly 002) were about to respond to this, another voice came from down the hall, lazy and relaxed but with an edge that made the Q-branchers flinch all over again.  “I’d have to agree.  Picking on kids, Gregory?  That’s an all-new low, even for you.”  The minions didn’t know whether to relax or grow more afraid as Alec Trevelyan stepped into view, hands in his pockets as if untroubled by everything, but a certain icy light in his eyes. 

002 and 3, as was apparent by now, either hadn’t gotten the memo about little-Q and his protectors or hadn’t made the connection yet.  Switching his grip so that he was literally holding Q (now struggling a little in discomfort) up in the air by one arm, pressing the boy’s shoulder-blades hard against the wall, 003 turned back to demand, “Hey, Alec, what’s up with this kid?  Who brought him in here?”

Alec had yet to react unfavorably, but his usual smile was poignantly absent from his face as he regarded the scene in front of him with deathly frigid eyes.  He saw 002 and 003, looking various shades of bemused, annoyed, and amused; he saw Q – Bond’s boy, his boy, too – pressed up against the wall with his feet hanging a good meter or so off the floor and quivering slightly. 

006 shrugged and said levelly to the other 00-agents, “Oh, I’ll tell you in a minute, but I’d check his shirt first – that might give you a clue.”  006 tipped his head forward towards the bespectacled boy, whose hoodie was rucked up high enough by 003’s grip to show off the white shirt previously hidden beneath.  Both 002 and 3 snapped their heads around reflexively, taking a fraction of a second to read ‘Property of Bond’ and another four seconds exactly to register what that meant. 

Then they turned a wonderful shade of green. 

006, of course, made it even better by adding in his graveyard-calm voice, “Actually, I bought him that shirt.”  And then he moved so fast that he almost became a blur of angry muscle, bypassing 002 like chaff and coming to a bruising halt right at 003’s startled back.  One hand locked like claws on 003’s nape while Alec’s other hand came up to find Q’s shirt – Alec’s eyes said that it was all right, that he had him.  Q just blinked back, too shocked to take in the gentler grip on his clothing.  “Ready to get down, Kotě?” he asked with a rare tone of concern in his voice while 003 winced under the grip of his other hand; 006 just clenched his fist harder.  Q squirmed a bit more where he was hanging, his neck and arms hurting from being suspended for this long, but he nodded. 

Turning to look at 003’s grimacing face, Alec said ever-so-softly, “Well, let him go then.”  Being a smart man and fond of living, 003 immediately unlocked his grasp, and Q slipped for just a moment before his weight shifted over to Alec’s grip; Alec then lowered him to the floor before turning him loose to scamper back to the flock of minions.  Said minions closed ranks immediately. 

Ignoring the techs in the same way that a lion would ignore a group of birds when another lion was in the same area, Alec turned to 003, tightening his grip on the back of his neck and latching his other hand onto 003’s upper arm when the man threatened to twist free.  Both men were trained enough to break out of holds like this, but 006’s eyes said that he was far more determined, and that all training counted for now was how much blood 003 wanted to spill before he gave in.  006’s eyes were eager and on the edge of wild, and every time 003 tensed, Alec’s grip tightened painfully.  ‘Try me,’ his every muscle screamed. 

002 uneasily cleared his throat, imagining what M would do if word got out that two 00-agents had gotten into a death-match right outside the Q-branch break-room.  M, of course, hated it when double-o’s teased Q-branch minions in general, but that was all in good fun and relatively easy to get away with, thanks to the timidity of the minions.  006 was in no way timid, however, and had what was generally known as his ‘death-and-destruction’ face on, meaning that once something started, it wasn’t going to end with anything short of copious amounts of blood and likely a trip to Medical.  So 002 tried to verbally bring them all down from this height of violence: “I…er…this is Bond’s boy then?”

“I’m not actually his son or anything that might imply,” Q surprised everyone by popping back into view again.  He still looked a bit nervous, and kept much closer to the techs around him, but he also still refused to abandon the situation.  He paused, brows beetling as he considered, then said ruefully but truthfully, “Despite that, he did threaten to kill Mallory for me.”

“And Eve,” Alec reminded cheerily.  “And pretty much anyone who touched Q.”  He twisted his grip and dug in his fingers until he nearly dislocated something in 003’s neck before turning him loose. 

003 backed away with his hands up and fisted, but wisely moved further from Q and closer to 002, making no move to retaliate.  Alec just shifted to watch him, and now it was 006 who was standing between the two groups, looking lazy, relaxed, and inviting.  ‘Come hither and die,’ his toothy smirk said, and Q snorted at the necessity of keeping exactly that from happening.  Honestly, he was becoming a 00-babysitter.  The boy peeled the rest of the way free of the minions and came up to 006’s side, tentatively touching his forearm. 

Usually, touching a 00-agent already so much on a hair-trigger was a bad idea, and everyone held his or her breath as Q did it.  However, all Alec did was turn his head, frowning down briefly at the scrawny boy.  Then, to everyone’s unending shock, Alec stood down: his grin relaxed and the subtle tension of his body bled away into real ease.  “James would be upset if I got into a nasty fight right in front of his kitten, wouldn’t he?” asked Alec with regret.

Q glowered halfheartedly but retorted, “I imagined he’d actually be elated.  And stop calling me kitten.”  Then more shocks were had all around as Q – despite his earlier scare at the hands of 003 – turned to the unfamiliar 00-agents and said coldly, “I suggest you leave.”

003’s dark eyes narrowed forebodingly, hackling at the challenge, but 002 was looking past Q at 006 instead: the man had gone deadly again, moving just enough so that the boy was firmly in his shadow.  Threats from pint-sized seven-year-olds carried a lot of weight when said in the company of an eager and willing killer like Trevelyan.  Q wasn’t being smug or anything either, but instead stood like a little, scrawny king, and calmly finished, “If you have a valid reason for being in Q-branch, I’m sure someone in the main lobby can assist you.”  

“And what about 006’s reason for being in-”

“006,” Alec spoke for himself, crossing his arms so that the muscles strained against the sleeves of his shirt, “is here because you can’t take a hint and leave.”

That finally got the point across that Q was not someone to be messed with, and 002 and 3 – with warring expressions of distaste, embarrassment, wariness, and temper – turned and ingloriously left.  002 turned back to look over his shoulder a time or two, as if unable to believe that he’d just been sent packing by a child, but 003 resolutely kept his face forward, the line of his back tense and radiating anger. 

“He’s going to be a problem, isn’t he?” Q asked quietly with a shiver.  And then he squeaked as powerful arms were wrapping around him and scooping him up (much less painfully than 003 had lifted him, obviously), right off the ground and up against Alec’s chest.  With a show of monstrous cuddliness that was totally antithetical to double-o nature, Alec trapped the hoodie-wearing prodigy in his arms and hugged him close while said prodigy protested and squirmed. 

And that point, R came around the same corner where Alec had come from, looking worried and relieved in equal parts.  “Gear, are you all right?  I wanted to find 007 when I heard that those to knuckle-heads were causing trouble, but I found 006 first.”

“I’m wounded,” Alec stopped nuzzling Q’s mop of wild hair to look up with an affronted expression that looked a whole lot more like a smirk, “I wasn’t even your first choice?  Really?  I think that I’m way better looking than James.”

“Looks had nothing to do with it,” R pointed out but also flushed, points of red color prettily spotting her cheeks as he hurried forward to check on Q – along with all of the other minions.  Soon Alec was surrounded by a small sea of techies, wondering exactly when they’d stopped being afraid of him – a 00-agent – out of principle.  Q had given up trying to wriggle loose, instead settling in 006’s grip with a long-suffering look.  He put up with the anxious looks and questions from the Q-branch employees in the same patient way, although Alec noticed that the boy was shaking.  

Alec gallantly put up with the closeness of the Q-branchers while Q assured them repeatedly that he was fine – a lie that got thinner and thinner until, ironically, both 006 and R put a halt to things at the same time.  Both of them simultaneously noted that Q was on the verge of getting sincerely upset.  In response, Alec stopped playing ‘tame’ and R began glaring in a manner that honestly would have fit a 00-agent.  With this combination, the other minions stood no chance, and with soft goodbyes and even gentle touches, the minions left.  R was the last, sucking in her lower lip pensively so that the piercings glinted.  “See you later, Gear?” she asked, the hope of all Q-branch in her voice.

Watching the exchange with hooded but intent eyes, Alec noted the way Q brightened noticeably at the subtle invite to return.  “I would like that.”  The kid tried to keep his voice compliant but calm, and failed, instead sounding excited and more pleased than such a simple request warranted. 

R’s face lit with a smile.  “Brilliant.  Bye, then!”  With a wave, she trotted after her fellows, a bright goldfish amidst minnows.  Q settled back against Alec’s shoulder, tired but also smiling goofily. 

He turned to Alec, attempting a serious persona again, “Can you put me down now, please?”

That was an easy answer.  “Nope.”  He began striding down the hallway instead, easily supporting Q’s weight. 

“Good grief, not you, too.  What is it about 00-agents and picking me up?!” Q threw his hands in the air. 

“Well, at least I’m being a bit more considerate about it than Gregory Hind – 003,” Alec noted, connecting name to title smoothly.

Q scowled at him before giving in and conceding the point.  It was a sign of how stressful the earlier situation had been that he then obediently wrapped his arms around 006’s neck, something that Alec had only ever seen him do with Bond, tucking himself in close.  Alec jumped a bit and tensed as he felt a warm sigh against his neck and wild brown hair tickling the edge of his jaw.  “I didn’t expect things to get that out of hand,” was the muffled mumble. 

006 was still a little bit buzzed on adrenalin, and couldn’t help but retort again, “Keeping in mind that those were two 00-agents, maybe a bit of mayhem should have been expected, yes?”

That made Q bury his face against Alec’s collar in remorse, and 006 suddenly knew why Bond got that strained look on his face as if he were the most horrible person in the world every time that little-Q got sad.  “Okay, well, I didn’t mean for it to get that out of hand,” Q amended helplessly, unthinkingly jamming a knee into Alec’s ribs, a movement that the tough agent easily ignored.  “It’s just, they were being such utter berks-!”

“They were bullying your friends.  I get it.”

Q went still, his rising temper there and gone like flash-paper.  Alec felt more than saw the tousled head turn on his shoulder, probably regarding him, which honestly made Alec more nervous than it should have.  Where was bloody James when he needed him…?  James was the one used to dealing with Q. 

“It was still foolish for me to confront two unfamiliar 00-agents,” Q finally said steadily, like closing a book, “I should have simply retreated.”

“With 003 and 002, I’m not sure that would have helped,” Alec mollified the boy, wondering exactly when they’d switched sides in this conversation/argument.  “002 is…”  He tried to find a word that wouldn’t be considered fowl, although he was aware that Q was already picking up some of the worse components of his and James’s vocabulary.  “…Annoying.  And 003 is a nasty piece of work from time to time – now being one of those times.  I’m not saying that you should pick fights with 00-agents-”

“006,” Q tried to interrupt.

Alec kept talking, “Hey, let me finish, all right?  I’m still trying to decide if I’m impressed about you defending your minions or if I’m utterly appalled that you picked a fight with an MI6 agent without inviting me.”

“Alec.”

This time, Alec stopped talking – and walking – immediately, because it wasn’t Q’s soft squeak against his neck but instead 007’s low rumble a few paces behind them.  Q was looking over Alec’s shoulder, clearly having seen the other agent coming and attempted to warn 006.  With swift, smooth strides that were too measured and even to be anything but deadly, 007 circled around to face them.  His face was tense, although he was doing a marvelous job of probably hiding the worst of his temper right now.  “What’s all this about picking fights with 00-agents?”  Yep, a tone that quiet was definitely a bad sign for the world at large.

Alec knew that tone well, and knew not to mess with it.  He was trying to think of a suitable answer (possibly a lie – lies were usually wonderful things, except that James would pick up on them in a heartbeat) when Q wriggled, and he was putting the boy down before he knew it.  It wasn’t 006 who usually had much physical contact with the odd little genius, and he felt almost embarrassed now, and wondered whether some of the protectiveness bristling 007’s shoulders came from irrational protectiveness or jealousy. 

Q landed lightly on his feet and walked up to James, tilting his head back as 007 tilted his carefully down, expression stormy and shuttered and unblinking. 

Unexpectedly, 007 spoke first, and he was entirely serious: “Do I need to kill anyone?”

Taking a breath and bracing himself as if facing a firing squad instead of one James Bond, who had proved time and again that his killing nature was topped only by his protective side.  Q closed his eyes and then opened them again, looking up sternly over his glasses and past his nest of hair.  “It’s not Q-branch’s fault,” was his starting point for the conversation. 

Bond just narrowed his eyes, already in ‘agent-mode’ and clearly not impressed by this statement.  He said nothing. 

“They’d been keeping me company wonderfully, but when we headed towards the break-room, we had the distinct misfortune of finding the way blocked by 002 and 003, and…”  Q stopped, pursing his lips and looking away with a nervous shuffle as he thought back to the event and tried to find the best way to phrase it.  He cleared his throat as he clearly remembered being hefted right off the ground to face those threatening dark eyes and all the cunning and muscle behind them.  “And they weren’t playing nice.”

“What Q means is that Mason and Hind were off-mission and itching for some easy trouble, and decided that mucking up around Q-branch minions was the best way to do it,” Alec stepped in to stop the agony of Q’s slow and delicate explanation.  006 was the king of bluntness, and clearly Q was struggling to find a way to explain all of this without causing trouble – and without breaking down at the memory of nearly sustaining substantial injury.  Thinking of just how close 003 had come to basically hurting a kid, Alec added with something between a sigh and a growl, “Hind must have just gotten off a mission, because he was hitting a little wide of center, you could say.”

If anything, Bond’s eyes sharpened, going from knife-points to laser-sights, and then he was dropping smoothly down onto his haunches.  Now at eye-level, Q looked away, embarrassed by all of this, but Bond’s hand came out and caught his chin.  “Did 003 hurt him?” James asked Alec tensely as he turned Q’s head this way and that, gaze flicking over him in a quick search for anything out of place, anything damaged. 

“Picked him up off the ground by his shirt-front like he was nothing,” Alec shrugged, adding with deadly silkiness, “But R got me right about then, so further misunderstandings were avoided.  I think I like R.”

Bond stopped his inspection of Q when the boy gently pushed his hands away, although the blond agent didn’t move to get up or move further away.  Looking into the intensity of those pale-blue eyes, Q said quietly, “Please don’t say I can’t hang out with the Q-branch people again.  I had a great amount of fun…”

“Which is something you don’t have very often,” Bond took it upon himself to add when Q trailed off, and while Q put on sharp glower, Bond reached out with gentle hands and straightened out Q’s hoodie – smoothing out the last signs of fingerprints wrinkling the material.  “Give it up, Q, you don’t exactly go out and play like a normal kid your age.”

“I’m a lot smarter than normal kids my age,” Q petulantly pointed out, “I’ve never found the company of my peers…enjoyable.”  He’d given up avoiding Bond’s care, and in fact leaned into it a bit, until his leg was leaned against Bond’s bent knee and Q was relaxing from his scare with 003 at long last.

Bond shared a smile with 006, who smirked and shook his head at Bond’s skills: Alec could get the kid out of trouble, but it was Bond that got the tense knots to release and leave Q’s shoulders, just by being around.  “And that’s why the minions are better playmates for you,” Bond gave in as he stood, trying not to melt under Q’s shocked and elated look, “Although maybe with better supervision.  And we need another way to keep you away from the old Quartermaster – I can’t distract that man every time.  Once was enough.” 

Q actually laughed at the face 007 pulled, and then startled both men by jumping forward and hugging 007 tight around the middle.  While Bond stood there, blinking in shock with his arms out in the air in surprise, Q laughed a bit – he was, perhaps, surprised by the weight of his own emotions as well.  “I’ll think of a way.  R gave me her phone-number, and said that if I texted her on one of your phones, she’d text me back.  We can plan something.”  He looked up at Bond, still hanging on, eyes large and vibrant and oh-so-intelligent.  “Or she can at least send me equations and program schematics so that I’m not tempted to reconfigure the microwave the next time I get bored back at the flat.”

“You reconfigured the micro-?” Alec started with a choked noise, thinking of his alarm-clock. 

“No, but I thought about it.  It’s so inefficient-”

Before Q could start in on a lecture, Bond curled a hand around the back of his narrow shoulders and steered him around, so that they were walking side-by-side down the hallway.  Alec fell easily into step behind them, content now that he knew the microwave hadn’t been taken apart and that 002 and 3 weren’t likely to turn up (not if they saw that both 006 and 7 were in attendance). 

While Q began elaborating on all the programs and machines he’d gotten his hands into today, Alec suddenly started laughing and then reached forward, tugging Q’s hood and flipping it over his head.  As the boy squawked, 006 rumbled jovially, “This is what you get for covering up that nice shirt I bought you!  Do you honestly think that anyone with a brain would have thought to mess with a kid wearing ‘Property of Bond’ on their shirt?!”  He shook his head in mock chastisement, pretending offense.  “That’s the last time I ever try to do you a favor.”  When 007 started shaking with silent mirth that he was trying to hold back, Alec cocked his head and mused aloud, “Or maybe it would work better with, ‘Kitten: If Found, Return to 006’-”  He cut off as Q (still rather buried in his hood, but echolocating by sound) rounded on him and barreled into his middle with a growl. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

It was only the next day that little-Q was returned to Q-branch, and by that point, R’s phone-number had been entered into both 006 and 007’s phones – both so Q could easily call her when he was bored and the two 00-agents were busy, and so that R could swiftly reach the two agents next time Q-branch was babysitting ‘Gear’ and trouble started up.  Both James and Alec were determined to arrive more or less instantaneously the next time someone was witless enough to threaten their delicate ward. 

Alec was being groomed for another mission soon.  Easy stuff, by 00-standards: a smuggler in the Middle East who had some contacts on British soil.  “I might not even get to shoot anyone,” he complained glumly on the drive up to MI6 that morning, after he’d gotten the specifics via Tanner an hour before.  Q turned around in the front passenger seat to give him an incredulous glare, the paleness of his face and dark brown of his hair somehow highlighted by the golden-tan hoodie that he was once again wearing.  Bond still felt a hot coal of anger whenever he saw the bruises Q still sported from his ill-treatment as Westford’s hands, but those were fading fast.  There was still a greenish blush under one of his eye-sockets that Bond wanted to wipe away with his thumb sometimes. 

“Are they sending you out on a mission soon, James?” Alec angled his head around to ask, forcing Q to sit back in his seat as the bigger man leaned forward between the two seats. 

“Nothing yet,” Bond admitted, affecting a pleased tone.  This much downtime was rare for him, and he still wasn’t sure what he thought of it – usually, having James Bond on home ground for this long as asking for domestic mayhem as he swiftly grew bored.  Right now, however, he thought about being sent off on a mission and felt an intense dislike swell in his chest and clench his muscles.  Leaving would mean leaving Q, and that was just about the last thing Bond was comfortable with.  “I guess that Q here is high-risk when it comes to babysitting.  Anything short of a 00-agent can’t handle him,” he joked lightly, lifting a hand off the wheel to reach over and ruffle Q’s hair with unerring accuracy.  Q squawked and dodged too slowly, the initial progress of Bond’s hand towards his hair having been blocked by Alec’s head. 

Behind the glare and show of long-suffering annoyance at the agents’ teasing and joking, Q looked quietly relieved that Bond wasn’t leaving: he’d settled back in his seat more calmly, ceasing to fiddle with the strings of his hood and instead going back to idly tracing the black gear at its chest.  Last night, he’d been restless and up a lot, mostly likely with leftover anxiety from his altercation with 002 and 3, and when Alec had started talking about missions, the boy’s unease had increased. 

“He wandered around no less than three times last night,” Alec had informed Bond as the two had switched turns in the shower, Alec walking out and rubbing the last droplets of water across his cheekbones as he rubbed a tired hand over his face.  “I’m gonna kill 003.”

Bond hummed his agreement, keeping his voice low so that Q wouldn’t notice where he was sitting in the kitchen and texting word-games with R.  Thank-goodness the woman was a morning person.  “I know he was up.  He stopped and my door at least two of those times.”  He paused a moment, thinking and finally concluding, “I almost wish he’d just come in and woken me up.”

“Spoken like a true father-figure,” Alec smirked and clapped him on the shoulder, “Or an overprotective dog.  Take your pick.”  He wandered past 007 and to his room, immune to the embarrassed, singeing glower being shot his way – Alec knew he was right, even if Bond would rather gag than admit it. 

For all that he hadn’t had a peaceful sleep, Q was chipper and awake, and by the time they got through security and entered MI6, the kid had completely stopped fidgeting and looked downright cheery. 

“You only look that happy because security never pats down a seven-year-old scarecrow,” Alec griped, still in a bad mood about not likely getting to shoot anyone.  He’d nearly bitten the hand that checked him for unregistered weaponry.  Bond had taken the search with much more aplomb, opening his jacket with the ease of long practice, knowing that good security was the price to pay for the general tranquility inside MI6.

Sometimes questionable tranquility.  There was only so much you could do when a building was more often than not populated by a could of double-o’s with post-mission jitters.  Keeping them as unarmed as possible was key to preventing death and destruction. 

“I’m not a scarecrow,” Q protested, looking down at the phone in his hands – Bond’s, at the moment, although Bond was tempted to teach those quick little hands how to pickpocket.  It would teach Alec a lesson, since Alec was teaching Q how to gamble in the hopes of beating Bond someday.  Q had a sharp mind and deft, dexterous little hands with slender fingers…and two agents with far too many illicit skills they could teach.  Morality told Bond that he shouldn’t be giving Q so many bad habits and skills, but part of him maintained that those same skills would be good for survival. 

Q had wandered while he walked, eyes fused to the phone’s screen, and 006 and 7 had taken up posts slightly ahead and to either side of him to clear the way and make sure he didn’t walk into anything.  Q must have been a bit more aware than they thought, however, because he reached up a hand to tap on the back of Bond’s wrist.  “R says that old-Q went down to the lower levels to test something, so I can go visit them now without running into him,” Q said distractedly while Alec chuckled at the title of ‘old-Q’, “Can I?  You can come, too.”

“Alec can’t,” Bond pointed out before Alec could get too excited – probably about seeing R more than anything else.  006 hadn’t started waxing poetic about the neon-haired young woman or anything, but Bond recognized a certain gleam in Alec’s eyes every time 006 said her letter designation.  “But I’ll walk you down there.”  He waggled his fingers with cheery ruthlessness at Alec as he dismissed, “Goodbye, Alec!  Have fun at the mission briefing!”

“I should strangle you.”

“Can’t.  That would get you sent to Psych, and then you’d really have a fun time before you mission,” pointed out Bond before he turned with Q towards Q-branch, letting Alec go the other way. 

“You’re in a horribly good mood,” Q lamented when they were out of earshot, shaking his head. 

Bond smiled.  “Maybe I know that 003 and 2 are still in the building,” he said with a silk-on-steel voice – a voice very much like him, a silk tie on a steel tiger. 

Q immediately look up at him, eyes sharp and warning behind his glasses.  “No, Bond.  You’re not going to go…punish…or whatever…003.  I don’t want you to do that just because he messed with me.”

“He bloody picked you up by your neck, Q,” Bond growled.

Q surprised him by agreeing quite calmly, “I know that, but I still don’t want you to do anything.  Besides-”  He looked back down at Bond’s phone, the screen of which his thumbs and fingers tips were still dancing over.  His tone was as flippant as the shrug of his scrawny shoulders.  “-You don’t need to.”

Now 007 looked down at the kid and paid attention.  “Why would I not need to?” he asked with slow suspicion. 

Another shrug.  Q seemed supremely unruffled, even though his answer was a far cry from ordinary: “Oh, I haven’t been texting R this morning – or at least not all this morning.  I’ve been writing up a script that should do interesting things to 002 and 3’s email accounts once R gets it all transcribed.  I can’t very well code from a phone, after all.  Bond, you need a smarter phone.” 

Bond had stopped walking and was – not for the first time – staring at Q as if facing off against a Hydra of some sorts: bother him or cut him down once, and twice as much trouble arose once the panic faded.  Q was texting R the pieces to basically a virus via Bond’s phone.  “And how much of this is traceable back to my phone?” he choked out finally past his flabbergasted shock. 

Noticing belatedly that he wasn’t walking with an escort anymore, the boy in the tan hoodie stopped and turned a quarter-turn, still looking at the phone fixedly but facing 007 enough to see the blond man in his periphery.  His tone was still distracted and detached as he idly replied, “Probably all of it.  I’ll need to actually get on a computer to wipe out any back-trail.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you do an awfully good mad-genius impression for a seven-year-old?” Bond asked on impulse, still trying to catch his bearings and resist the urge to snatch his phone back from little-Q.  It wouldn’t do any good by now, after all. 

Q finally raised his eyes from the phone, and further raised one eyebrow.  Tone dry, he unabashedly corrected, “Impression?  I don’t do an impression of it, I’m a paradigm.  Now can we go to Q-branch, please, or are you going to keep up with the theatrics?”

All this, coming off in a child’s clear, high tones, was nearly enough to drive Bond over the edge into insanity.  Instead, he clenched and unclenched his fists, counted to ten, and closed his eyes while he did it.  “I’m a 00-agent,” he grouched irritably as he opened his eyes again, “I don’t do theatrics.” 

“Good, then we can get going again,” Q smiled artlessly and turned on his heel back towards Q-branch again.  He didn’t argue (merely jumped slightly) as Bond slid silently up beside him and confiscated the phone from his hands, looking at it like it might have become poisonous before slipping it into his shirt-pocket. 

~^~

“Hey, I thought you weren’t going to leave Q alone again?” Alec asked as he left the briefing room and found Bond leaned in the hallway, looking a little less composed and a little bit more frazzled than usual. 

Bond pushed off the wall to fall in step with Alec, happy to walk and talk.  Well, perhaps ‘happy’ wasn’t the right word – his tone was closer to strained.  “If I stuck around I worried that I’d be caught up in the middle of an illegal incident, the kind which involves computers and codes and at least a dozen other electronic things I don’t understand.”  While Alec favored him with a rather mortified look, Bond ran a hand down over his face.  “I like to at least understand the illegal things I get mixed up in.”

“Well, what the fuck is the kid doing?!” Alec spluttered and caught Bond’s shoulder to spin him around so they were facing each other. 

“The best I could understand around the cyber-jargon he and Q-branch were spouting is that he’s spammed 002 and 3’s email accounts with ads for women’s undergarments and sappy romance novels.  I’m pretty sure that R is to blame for the content; Q, the little bugger, is responsible for the nasty bit of virus doing the legwork.  He might also have reduced 003’s numerous bank accounts to three-cents each, but he might be bluffing.”

“Or he might not,” Alec countered fairly.  He looked faintly queasy, as if the magnitude of this were just sinking in. 

Bond knew the feeling.  He nodded.  “Or he might not.”

“So you want the two of us to go make sure that 002 and 3 don’t blow a gasket?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

As they began walking more purposefully down the hall, the silence lengthened comfortably like a cloak around them until Alec broke it with a sharp sigh and a complaint, “Have you always known that that kid had as many chaotic tendencies as you?!”

Bond didn’t answer, because he was pretty sure that he’d only really grasped that possibility a few hours previously – but maybe that was what had originally drawn him to the fluffy-hair kid.  Maybe like had sensed like, buried deeply, and he’d been a satellite spiraling inwards to the delicious pull of gravity.  He couldn’t say he minded. 

Although he’d perhaps have to talk to Q about directing his chaotic, evil-genius tendencies on less dangerous targets. 

~^~

By the time Bond and Alec found the other two agents in question, both 002 and 3 had found the damage and were obviously aggravated – what Bond did not expect was that Q had done quite a good job about making himself unassailable in all of this. 

002 had his lips pursed and actually appeared more startled than angry, and when he saw 006 and 7 walk warily into the 00-breakroom, he merely turned the screen of his phone towards Bond’s face.  It read, in a dry, prim tone that came across as Q’s without an ounce of doubt, ‘Thanks you for kindly visiting Q-branch.  If you ever want your bank-accounts comfortably or even vaguely full in the future, kindly don’t do it again.  Love, Q-branch and co.’

“Mine says that he’s got a sensor set up around the perimeter of Q-branch to detect us if we come within sight of the security cameras,” 003 growled without prompting from the other side of the room, where he had his laptop open and was frantically deleting emails.  “I’ve half a mind to shoot the security cameras.”  Despite security, 003 carried a gun – it was registered, so he was allowed to, so long as he didn’t abuse his privileges…as he seemed likely to do now. 

Alec’s eyes were hooded but amused.  He turned as if talking to Bond in a purposefully bland, curious voice, “Q-branch has grown a few more teeth recently, hasn’t it?  Funny how that happened right after 002 and 003 decided to make arses of themselves-”

003’s roared curse cut him off as his computer screen suddenly went black, obviously not at his behest.  While everyone blinked in surprise at the black-haired agent and his unresponsive computer, Bond’s pocket vibrated.  He slipped it out to find a text from R, which was actually from little-Q: ‘Bond.  003 was sending back threatening emails to Q-branch.  I used the opportunity to gain remote control of his computer and shut it down. - Q’

“Q says you should stop making threats if you ever want your laptop to turn on again,” Bond delivered the message, causing everyone to look at him now. 

“Q?  The Quartermaster?  That old goat-!” 003 started to rant.

“No, my Q,” Bond corrected absentmindedly as he opened a texting box to reply to the troublesome boy.  He barely registered the use of the possessive.  ‘Q, stop teasing the hot-tempered 00-agent,’ he texted back rather more slowly and awkwardly than he’d seen the kid do.

‘Which one?’ was the almost-instant text back.

002 made a discontented sound then, and more-or-less collapsed back against the counter in defeat.  His phone had started to trill pleasantly but constantly, and when he turned the volume down, it continued nonstop vibrating. 

“You’ve got a very determined caller,” Alec noted.  By now, 006 was passively gleeful as he watching things unfold for the unfortunate 00-agents. 

“It’s not a caller – it’s texting, and it happens to be one text coming in over and over again so that I can barely use my phone,” 002 admitted as he simply forced his phone to shut down. 

‘002’s text says ‘I don’t like bullies,’ and it’s true. -Q,’ came the immediate text to Bond’s phone, so uncannily accurate that Bond startled and then switched from texting to calling.  Predictably, the phone barely rang before little-Q picked up.  “Q?” Bond growled while 003 continued to uselessly press the ‘on’ button on his laptop and 002 set his phone down on the counter like one putting a deceased family pet in an early grave.

“Yes?” the boy replied quite politely. 

“How are you hearing everything that’s happening here?” Bond demanded in tones that brooked no argument.  Everyone else in the room was quite surprised, however, and even 003’s temper fell away to a look of impressed shock. 

“You’re very quick to assume-”

“No assuming, Q, so just give it up and tell me how you’re doing it,” Bond snapped back.

There was a slight, irked growl like a kitten as it pulled its claws out of upholstery.  “Through your phone, of course.  I haven’t gotten a hold of anyone else’s,” Q replied as if Bond were dense.

Sure, Q had had 007’s phone, but not for very long – just as they’d walked through MI6.  “You reconfigured my phone?  When?” 

Apparently, that walking time had been long enough.  “On the way to Q-branch.  When else?”

“Q,” Bond sighed, rubbing at a growing headache between his eyes, “I’m coming down to Q-branch right now, because trying to talk sense to you over the phone somehow doesn’t seem enough.”

That battered down the boy’s enthusiasm a little, as there was silence at the other end for a moment before a somewhat subdued, “Okay.” 

Bond hung up, avoiding everyone’s eyes and wondering if this was what parenting felt like, or if Q was a special case on account of him being a genius.  Noticing the exasperated tension written in every line of 007’s body, no one spoke or moved for awhile, even Alec.  Without a word, Bond spun on his heel suddenly and began to walk out.

Unexpectedly, 002 stopped him, calling, “Hey, 007?  Tell the kid that I’ll send an apology, if he’ll let up on my phone.  003 will, too.” 

It was obvious that 002 had had time to come down off whatever off-mission high he’d been on yesterday, because his sensible side was showing through.  003 still looked grouchily mutinous, but all he did was look to 002 and then guiltily back to his computer again, giving one more halfhearted stab at the power button.  002 kept looking patiently and hopefully back at Bond, who hadn’t moved.

“I’ll think about it,” was all 007 finally said, making it clear that forgiveness wasn’t something easily bought after they’d messed with his ward.  He turned and left the room, 006 staying behind to watch the continued misery of the technologically-compromised 002 and 003.

~^~

“Q.” 

The low, uncompromising, warning voice broke across Q-branch like a wave, and little-Q flinched guiltily.  While the rest of the minions drew back and/or froze warily, the kid turned around uneasily. 

007 was striding across the room, face locked down in his 00-agent mask and his pace as controlled and powerful as a big cat walking forward.  “We need to have a discussion.” 

The boy stood his ground, although he’d wilted at the hard look on Bond’s face as the man came up to stand in front of him (mostly over him, simply by dint of their size differences).  Q wasn’t necessarily afraid, but he was definitely unhappy with the prospect of being lectured over his behavior.  “Okay,” he murmured, pushing his hair back from his forehead moodily for a moment before heeding Bond’s body language: the man had turned, indicating he follow so they could talk in private somewhere else. 

Bond began striding with purpose for an empty office just off Q-branch central, his face still foreboding, Q trailing behind him like a whipped pup.  Most of Q-branch just winced sympathetically and stood back, but R was made of sterner stuff and stepped in 007’s way. 

“R, I suggest you step aside,” Bond said in a lethally low voice, one he usually only used on missions when his nerves were already dangerously grated on.  He stopped but narrowed his icily blue eyes. 

But R thought she was protecting Q, and fisted her slender hands and narrowed her vibrant eyes in turn.  Before she could get up the guts to say anything, though (because threatening 007 not to hurt Q took a whole lot more bravery than just blocking his path), little-Q surprised both of them by padding past Bond’s hip to stand in front of the man, looking up at R.  Clearly, the kid wasn’t afraid: he easily moved within Bond’s reach, even brushing right up against the man’s hand as he moved to stand between the two adults.  That, more than anything, convinced R that Bond wasn’t the kind to beat the snot out of a kid for acting out.  Q confirmed that verbally a moment later, calmly telling R, “He’s not going to hurt me, R.  I just messed up, and he’s got to talk to me about it.”  Bond remained immovably behind him like a looming statue, or a mountain, making no comment but also making no threatening moves. 

After a moment of looking between the strange pair, R nodded before giving way, although she still watched as the little genius and the big agent walked to the office and closed the door behind them. 

~^~

Q immediately sighed and turned around to face Bond, closing his eyes and confessing painfully, “Okay, I know that I made a mistake-”

“Q.”

“-And that most of that stuff I was doing was illegal, but anything less than that wouldn’t have made an impact on those agents,” Q continued rapidly, spreading his arms out like little wings in his slightly-oversized hoodie, “And they would have caused trouble again, probably for all of Q-branch.”

“Q,” Bond said again, a bit louder, and this time added, “Sit.”

The commanding tone got Q to plop down in a chair – or, more precisely, pull himself up into it, because he was still just a hair short for most of the chairs in MI6. 

Bond sighed as the trick worked, then walked around to sit on the desk, leaning forward over his knees to put him more on a level with Q.  “I’m not mad at you for…whatever it is you did to those email accounts and phones,” he said, watching as Q’s eyes widened in questioning disbelief.  Q squirmed nervously, however, as Bond reached out his hands to cup the back of his neck in one and lightly grab his chin with the other, making it impossible to do anything but pay strict attention as the agent continued seriously, “What I am is bloody terrified that you decided to throw rocks at two agents with a license to kill!”

 “Technically, I was throwing spam emails-”

“That’s not the point, Q, so don’t try and distract me,” Bond warned, still not releasing the boy, and Q went still.  His expression turned attentive, if it also remained slightly tense.  Bond realized how much the kid trusted him then, because of all things, what was lacking in Q’s big brown eyes now was fear, even with hands on him that could break both his jaw and neck in the time it took to consider the action.  Bond’s hands almost shook at the thought, suddenly hyperaware of the fragile skin beneath his touch.  James seemed to sag a bit as all of his temper reverted suddenly to what it had been to begin with: fear.  Fear for Q.  “Bloody fucking hell, Q, those two men could kill each other for less than what you did.  I’m the last person who’s going to tell you to avoid illegal things-”  He grimaced at the truthfulness of that, finally dropping his hand limply to his lap as he looked away.  “-But I might have a heart-attack if you keep squaring off with 00-agents.”

There was silence and stillness as Bond looked off to one side, jaw working, posture stiff and uncomfortable and as tense as piano wires.  Q hadn’t said anything or even shifted his little frame.  Then there was a light touch of one small finger to Bond’s knuckles, gaining his attention tentatively.  “I know they’re bigger than me, Bond,” Q said softly, in a voice more sensible than most seven-year-olds possessed, “and I know they could snap me in half – I’m not an idiot.  But what they were doing was wrong, and I knew I had the skills to make them rethink their actions.”  While Bond stared back at him now with pained, frustrated eyes – hating this situation and the emotions it had riled up so suddenly and strongly – Q continued, “I took precautions to make sure they wouldn’t be able to retaliate: I modified and updated the security around Q-branch, and I made it very clear that violence would not fix the problem.”

Bond growled in his throat, still not happy, still not responding to the dexterous finger tapping on his knuckles in a quiet Morse code of apology.  “Violence happens to be what a 00-agent specializes in,” he reminded. 

“I know that,” Q huffed with a roll of his eyes, “In fact, I kept that in mind while I made them miserable.  I blocked all avenues of retribution towards Q-branch or myself.  I didn’t even plan to leave Q-branch until you came and got me, after all.”  Another disgruntled, grudging noise from Bond, and Q’s fidgety hand switched from tapping on Bond’s knuckles to pulling at his smallest finger.  “I’m sorry, all right?  I won’t do it again.”  When Bond began to soften slightly, Q pulled out his trump card, “I’ll even let you carry me around if that makes you feel better.”

There was a pause, and then Q sublimated a deep, long-suffering sigh as Bond got up and proceeded to lift Q up against his chest.  “I’m going to get too big for this eventually, you know,” Q warned as he shifted until he got comfortable.  The 00-agent’s muscular arms supported him easily, and the tension bled out of them as 007 held the object of his protection close. 

Bond smirked as he toed open the office door (ignoring that all of Q-branch was watching, and that they all sighed in relief as they saw Bond smiling and Q happily unharmed), smoothly replying without remorse, “Alec and I will have to pick you up as much as we can before than happens then, I suppose.  Come on, let’s get some lunch.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Alec was sent off on his mission, while Bond was kept off-duty a bit longer.  Truth be told, no one had informed him of precisely how long he’d be on the sidelines keeping track of little-Q, but he was surprisingly okay with that – usually, he’d have gone stir-crazy long before now.

Maybe his lack of off-mission boredom stemmed from the fact that life was never boring for long with Q around. 

They two of them had gone for lunch after Q’s little cyber-fight with 002 and 3, and then Bond had just taken the two of them home to avoid any possible further trouble with the two 00-agents.  002 and 3 had actually made good on their word to send apologies as soon as Q had ended his technological siege, so Bond was tentatively hopeful that all three of those involved would get along…eventually.  003 had a nasty side that he didn’t want to test, and Q seemed quite happy not to meet up with them again. 

The house felt empty without Alec in it, but Q was content again as soon as Bond handed him his cell-phone (after strict instructions not to misuse his power again) to text R.  Bond planned to check in regularly to make sure that the two weren’t making attempts at world-takeover.  Since it was his simple, throw-away phone that he’d given Q this time, he wasn’t as worried as he could be.

Meanwhile, Bond took his preferred phone to his room to make some calls.  It was high time that he tried to track down some of Westford’s old connections, and some of the other people who had been in Q’s life. 

Bond was perfectly aware that phone lines were an insecure form of communication, but he was pretty good at getting around that.  Had anyone been listening in, they would have heard nothing but calm, innocent talk, James’s smooth, charming voice weaving conversations of seemingly no importance.  Only occasionally did his voice harden to a frostbitten edge, but usually that was only necessary for the briefest of moments before whoever he was talking to got the idea and did what he wanted.  Bond was good at this, even though it didn’t involve guns. 

Words were their own kinds of bullets. 

A few hours later, and 007 had put some blood in the water – hopefully he’d lure in some sharks in the form of information.  Slipping his phone into his pocket with a feeling of accomplishment, he left his room to find Q sitting in the middle of the living room surrounded by an ocean of technological bits that appeared to have come from the microwave. 

“Boredom is a scary thing for you, isn’t it?” 007 found himself asking in a slightly dazed voice, simply leaning against the door and staring.  Q’s unkempt head turned, the distracted look in his eyes indicating that most of his attention was still on whatever he was doing. 

“Pardon?”

Instead of asking his question again, Bond moved forward until he could lean over the back of the couch and take everything in carefully without the risk of stepping on some wire or minute screw.  There was an awful lot of tech spread around, more than Bond had thought could possibly have fit inside the gutted shell of the microwave.  He went ahead and queried disbelieving, “This is all from the micro?”

“Um…”  Q looked around, turning more of his attention to the conversation at hand as his pale fingers skimmed over some of the piles around him.  “Actually, some of it is from Alec’s alarm clock.  Since he hasn’t used it since I rigged it, I figured it would be okay.”

“And the microwave?”

“What?”

“You took our the alarm clock because it was an easy target, but what did the microwave ever do to you to warrant having its guts spread across the floor?” Bond asked glibly.  Let it never be said that Bond couldn’t regain his calm equilibrium in ten seconds flat.  He was now leaning over the back of the couch on his forearms, hands crossed idly at the wrist, one eyebrow slightly raised in something that might have been curiosity or amusement. 

Then something else occurred to him, and his brows lowered.  “How did you get the whole microwave down?”

“Er…”  Q flushed, starting to realize what a scene he had created.  “I actually brought it piece by piece.  It was too heavy for me to move all at once.”

Bond hummed, nodding, staring at everything and still unable to make heads or tails of it.  Finally, he just nodded and got up to walk around the couch, flopping down onto the far side of it where he wouldn’t be in danger of putting a food down on Q’s little mechanical landscape.  He turned on the television.

“So…” Q’s voice came to him a slow moment later, “You’re not going to ask what I’m doing?”

“Nope.”

Q was silent, suspicious.  “Do you want to know?” he pressed. 

Finally, Bond slanted an eye his way, wondering if this was how having a pet cat worked: as soon as you showed a lack of interest, they suddenly decided they wanted the attention.  So Bond acquiesced, because he knew by now that Q had lived a life lacking in attention to a degree that made Bond’s jaw clench.  “Is it illegal?” he asked, playing a little.

“No,” Q blinked. 

“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

“Bond!”

Bond chuckled at the look of adorable irritation on Q’s face, and finally gave in, “Yes, I’d like to know.  I just seriously doubt that I’ll understand it.”

“Oh, well…”  Q considered his piles of wiring and metal bits again, pushing his glasses up on his nose before admitting, “You might be right there.  I’m actually going off some blueprints that Q-branch was working on.  And no, they didn’t send me the blueprints.  This phone won’t receive images like that.”  Q’s preemptive answers left Bond with his mouth halfway open and his lungs half full of air, ready to ask a useless question now.  He let out his breath as the little genius kept talking and kept surprising him, “But I saw the blueprints in Q-branch earlier today, and they told me the problems they were having with them.”

Before Bond asked how in the world Q remembered details about blueprints he’d seen earlier that day, he recalled the games of Skosh Q and 006 had played, and how Q had flawlessly remembered face-down cards.  00-agents were trained to recall minute details, but Q was above and beyond all that.  “You have a photographic memory,” he said without preamble.

Q’s head lifted again, meeting his eyes.  Those brown eye were tranquil and calm – in his element, and the sudden question elicited no defensiveness.  “Yes.”  Or perhaps there was some tension.  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

That, of course, begged the question, as the agent in 007 grew alert.  He sat forward, turning to lean towards his small charge a bit, which earned him a slightly embarrassed look as Q self-consciously went back to (so far as Bond could tell) sorting wires.  It was in Bond’s nature to dig and to press for answers, but he could tell before he even asked that Q didn’t like the interrogation he felt coming.  “Why?”

For a moment, it looked like Q was going to go into a stubborn phase, as he kept his eyes down and his mouth tightly shut.  After a moment, however, of the 00-agent simply leaning over his knees and patiently watching him, Q blurted, “Because that was one of the things that made people…buy me, okay?  Buy my time, buy my skills.  I can remember everything I see, and I can get anywhere.”  He looked up, almost sadly, at Bond’s tense face, reminding him, “I didn’t even get frisked at MI6 headquarters, remember?  Mostly my parents found people who just wanted coding, but I was good for other things, too.”  Words spent, Q dropped his head again, sighing and letting his shoulders lift and drop beneath his shirt.  He’d taken the hoodie off at some point, and had even rolled up the sleeves on his ‘Property of Bond’ shirt so that his skinny arms were visible, with their fading bruises.  Bond resisted the urge to touch the phone in his pocket, willing it to vibrate and tell him that one of his contacts was calling back – saying that they had a location for one of the people that had hurt Q, so that Bond could hurt them back.    

“You know, Q,” Bond tried for lightness, knowing how nice a touch of normalcy could be when a conversation grew uncomfortable, “I’m pretty sure that Q-branch would just be elated to learn that you’ve got a picture-perfect memory.  And since you’re their ‘once and future king’ there, I doubt they’ll use that against you.”

“You’re quoting Arthurian mythology at me,” was what Q got out of that.  At least he was looking up now and had put down the wires in his hands, ceasing to toy with them. 

Bond grinned unrepentantly.  “You don’t understand the quote?” he guessed.

He should have known that that wasn’t it.  Q’s eyes narrowed and he looked down his nose a bit at the 00-agent, having to tip his head back to do so.  “No, I’m surprised you know about Arthurian legend.”

Sometimes, little-Q had the social skills of a squirrel, and the frown Bond put on was only half for show as he lightly glowered his annoyance.  Thankfully, Q didn’t take it to heart, and seemed to still be perplexed over the fact that Bond knew about King Arthur.  “I can be smart, too,” Bond grouched, going back to slouching on the couch and turning the sound up on the television. 

Q was chuckling softly as he continued to play around with whatever he was doing, and he said in a dry, placating tone, “Yes, you can, 007.  I’m sure you can.”

With a huff, Bond noted, “You do realize that you’re being patronizing towards one of Her Majesty’s most lethal agents, right?”

“Yes.  You also should recall that I was bothering two other deadly agents earlier this morning.  And that I bit a third one only a few days ago.  Why are you so surprised?”

Really, Bond wondered why he was.  He found himself a football game on the television and left Q to his work.

~^~

Alec had actually finished his mission – it had been child’s play, to the point where it was almost insulting that M had put him on the job.  He’d just snorted at the efforts his opponents had put up to thwart him, thinking how it wasn’t even worth it to shoot anyone.  So he’d gotten the job done and then gone on to other things. 

‘Other things’ had not included returning to base. 

Right now, Alec was wandering around back alleys and bars, moving amidst them like they were old acquaintances – which they were.  Alec was friend and foe alike to any decrepit, shadowy place in any number of countries, and felt at home in places where respectable people feared to tread.  He was basically doing what Bond had been doing with his phone-calls: gathering information.  Bond wasn’t the only one who wanted to know about – and hunt down – little-Q’s old circle.  Q couldn’t stand up to his old enemies, but 006 surely could. 

“You’re Hemsley?” Alec asked, sitting down at the latest bar next to a man with a rough, graying beard and permanently narrowed eyes.  The smile that spread liberally like butter across Alec’s face was warm and cheerful, and did wonders to hide the fact that he was actually imagining multiple ways to kill this man, who was rumored to have worked with Westford.  “I talked to Brock White – he said I’d find you here.”

The narrowed eyes showed hefty suspicion, but most were belayed when the name of Brock was mentioned.  Good.  It had taken a bit for Alec to find that name.  It had taken less for him to hospitalize Brock White, although the real trick had been doing so without letting White get a good enough look at him to identify him later.  It would have been wiser to leave the man alone, but the closer Alec got to the center of Westford’s web – the web previously tied all around little-Q – the harder it was to control the violence howling at his core.  He’d have to put in some effort to let Hemsley out of here alive. 

“So what do you want?” Hemsley growled, still watching Alec but not with as much caution as before.

An unwise decision.  Alec kept his viciousness to himself for the moment, though, instead ordering a drink and sipping at its edge.  That in itself should have been a warning, for men who drank sparingly were generally the ones who told tales later.  The ones who drank more were either the subjects of those tales…or were dead.  “I’ve been hearing worrisome stuff about Westford,” Alec dropped his tone conspiratorially, leaning in a bit, “The grapevine said his last venture went belly-up, and possibly he did, too.  I was hoping someone might know more than I did.  White didn’t really know.”  And Alec had given him ample encouragement to talk.  The little bits that Brock White had known had only served to prick Alec’s interest and send him in the direction of bigger fish. 

Hemsley’s eyes looked shifty, and he glanced away, rocking his half-empty glass in his fingers.  “Why do you want to know about Westford?” he asked. 

And so the game began.  Alec watched his prey carefully, reading twitches, shifts, breaths – all candles that lit up a dark room.  Few were as good at this game as 006 was, even if he was better known for blowing things up and shooting people.  He knew how to say just enough but not too much, how to draw a person out and then peg them down, and if words could trap a man, he’d crucify this one. 

And if he learned that Westford wasn’t dead, he’d slaughter him, too.

After that, he’d just continue to follow the web that had once been tied to Q, because although Bond had cut the boy free, the spiders still lurked, and whatever morals 006 possessed told him that that just wasn’t right. 

006 smiled companionably and continued to converse with Hemsley as if he hadn’t a care in the world. 

~^~

It had gotten late at the flat; because Q would not be distracted from whatever project he was working on, and because the microwave was out of commission (something Q promised to remedy…eventually), James had resorted to making sandwiches which he could thrust over the bulwarks and armies of metal and wires arrayed around his small companion.  It was a quiet evening for Bond, and he’d switched between watching the television and reading through an old book he never seemed to have time to finish.  Eventually, he’d just put the book on the coffee table and had settled his feet on the far end of the couch, stretching out his muscular frame to sleep.  After all, it was late, Q was still very engrossed in his self-assigned project, and Bond didn’t mind where he slept if it meant he could keep an eye on the kid.  It was…almost comforting, hearing the soft scrapes and tinkling noises of metal bits touching each other and being shifted by adept little fingers.  If Bond were to admit the truth to himself, he was really dozing here because he was comfortable in little-Q’s presence more than he actually felt it was necessary to babysit him. 

Of course, things rarely stayed calm for long with Q around.

“I got it!” the boy screeched, and Bond jumped so hard he nearly fell off the couch; when his hand reached for his gun, he grabbed his book instead, sending the bookmark sliding onto the floor. 

Looking at Bond’s wild gaze, Q’s eyes rounded and he grew contrite.  “I…uh…finally figured out what the problem was, with the schematics.”  He lifted up something that was vaguely pen-shaped but larger and made up of (as far as Bond could tell) a conglomeration of alarm-clock and microwave parts.  “But since you were sleeping, you probably didn’t want to know that.” 

Bond was in a half-sitting position, one hand clutching his book and the other braced on the back of the couch as if in preparation to dragging himself fully to his feet in one lunge.  He blinked a few times as he slowly came down from his adrenalin-infused high and realized that nothing dangerous was going on.  “Maybe you should have lessons on how to deal with 00-agents,” he finally said, his rueful tone saying that this was as much his fault for startling as Q’s for startling him.

Q nodded that he agreed.  “Maybe I should.”  His alert little eyes flicked over to the book in 007’s white-knuckled grip, and he observed with an admirable lack of alarm and one eyebrow lifted into his shaggy mop of hair, “You thought that was a gun, didn’t you?”

“I rather hoped it was,” Bond admitted as he began to feel silly.  Slinging his feet to the floor, he sat up and placed the book down, grimacing at the bookmark that was no longer marking his place.  He reassured Q immediately and sincerely, “Although I wouldn’t have shot you if it was.  Probably aimed it at you, but not shot you.”  He pulled another face as he realized how un-assuring that all sounded once he got it out of his mouth, and he rubbed hand over his fair before burying his fingertips in his short hair. 

“So I should be careful if I wake you up?” Q got out of that. 

“Yes.”  That was honestly something that should have been told to Q the moment he’d come under the protection of 007 and 006, although up until this point, all of the occurrences of Q waking either man had gone down without too much excitement or danger.  “So, what have you made?  Just because I’m startled and not genius enough to make King Arthur references doesn’t mean I’m not curious,” James smiled disarmingly.

Q was still rattled and apologetic from having spooked Bond awake so quickly.  He was hiding the item in his hands and looking down at it.  “I’m sorry for insulting your intelligence.”

Bond just snorted to show how little the insult meant to him, waving it aside, “I’m harder to offend than that, Q.  However, if you don’t explain what you’ve been doing with all of…this…”  He waved a hand to encompass the mess on the floor that apparently made sense to the child prodigy.  “…Then I might get offended.  I like to know what’s going on, generally.”

That perked the boy up a bit – perhaps because Bond was showing interest in what he’d been working on, perhaps because his fears of offending the man had been alleviated.  Either way, the boy was smiling again, and stood up to pick his way towards the couch, 007 reflexively making room so the boy could climb up next to him.  Bond was still a little bit humbled and fascinated every time Q came up to him, because even Bond at his most charming held an edge that was obviously dangerous, and Q had seen enough to know that the truth lurking beneath was tenfold more lethal.  It honestly made no sense that Q would therefore still equate 007’s presence with happiness and safety. 

Q held out his new item, saying without preamble, “Laser pen, prototype model.”

Oh boy…

~^~

Alec hadn’t put Hemsley in a coffin.  He also had managed not to put the man in the hospital.  However, he’d learned enough about the man to definitely put him away for quite a few years, and was willing to let the local authorities sort that out – he’d end up doing less paperwork that way than he’d be doing if MI6 found out that he’d decided to mete out justice with his own hands, as tempting as the idea was. 

He’d found out some disturbing things during his talk, and the look on his face alone was enough to keep any muggers or ne’er-do-wells away from him as he walked and brooded later that night down streets that even most rats steered clear of.  It sounded disturbingly like Bond’s bomb hadn’t quite done the job of finishing Westford off – either that, or someone had stepped up to take the reins of his enterprise, and a lot of names were turning up that also connected with the name of ‘Quinn Finch’. 

The final and most potent piece of information that Alec had found out that night had been the location of Quinn’s parents.  MI6 had been looking for them, but had been having trouble finding them, apparently, on account of the fact that they’d gone underground – Q was a genius, but his parents weren’t idiots, and had disappeared as soon as they got a whiff of danger in the air.  Still, there were some people who knew how to find them, if only because they’d want to get their hands on the kid-genius as soon as he was back in his parents’ clutches again.

Which wasn’t going to happen. 

Ever. 

Alec figured that it was high time some people were brought in on charges of child abuse and the worst parenting in the history of kids.  The thought of bringing them in brought a predatory smile to Alec’s mouth that had nothing to do with humor in the slightest. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

With the microwave out of commission and no actual interest in cooking to be found, Chinese take-out was in order, and the day ended with Bond once again stretched out on the couch, finishing off his food slowly while watching Q.  Since Bond had refused to move his feet and give Q room to sit on the cushions (a sort of passive-aggressive retribution for the kid spooking him awake earlier), the boy had been forced to sit on the 00-agent’s legs.  This audacious move had surprised Q no less than Bond, but stubbornness on little-Q’s part had won out over nerves: he’d stayed put, managing to look comfortable despite the fact that he was sitting on Bond’s shins.  His own food he was eating in a fashion Bond had become used to: Q at efficiently and swiftly, telling a tale of food being lacking or taken away too often before.  Bond and Alec had long-since learned not to even pretend to reach for Q’s food, because the boy quickly got defensive.  That reaction was slowly wearing away, however, when it was becoming clear that neither 006 nor 007 – despite being big enough to conceivably steal and eat all of Q’s food without even putting a dent in their appetites – had any interest in depriving Q of meals. 

Q had since finished his meal and, after critiquing the logical improbability of the show Bond found to watch, had fallen asleep on the man’s lower legs. 

Looking down now at the fluffy head pillowed on his knees (again, a position that shouldn’t have been comfortable, and was making it so Bond couldn’t feel his feet), Bond couldn’t help but think of how far the little genius had come.  Not so long ago, Q had been a terrified, bruised kid handcuffed to a table-leg, mistrustful of everything and everyone and constantly preparing for the world to try and attack him.  Now, Q was asleep on 007’s legs without a care in the world, unafraid of what might happen while he was asleep.  He was still a slender boy, but looked healthier now, and might even have grown an inch (not enough for 007 to stop picking him up, of course).  The bruises were all but gone and Q’s intellect was flourishing along with a remarkably dry wit for a kid his age.  Q’s laser-pen was actually still in his hands, where he’d been tinkering with it absentmindedly until his head got heavy. 

Propping himself up on his elbows and leaning forward awkwardly, Bond slipped the prototype free of Q’s delicate little fingers before nicking the glasses from his face.  Q barely stirred, grumbling in his sleep and curling until his shoulder ceased to dig into Bond’s shin, instead slipping down between the larger man’s lower legs.  Bond snorted, trying not to laugh as he placed Q’s things on the table where they wouldn’t get bent out of shape should Q move.  Q still got up and wandered the house at night, but never in an uneasy or trouble manner – he merely seemed to get up a lot at night, and after stretching his legs a bit, would remember that he was tired and go back to bed. 

Switching off the telly and considering falling sleep right now as well, Bond was just reclining back and closing his eyes when his phone buzzed – not the cheap one either, but the one that he kept for business, and out of Q’s reach whenever possible.  It was on the couch-arm behind his head, and Bond reached back to find it without looking.  “Hello?” he said quietly as he flicked it on, aware that Q was sleeping.  The boy didn’t stir. 

Alec’s voice came through without preamble, “Is Q with you?”

“Yes – should he be?”  Already, Bond was sitting up, instincts kicking in as he heard the rare seriousness in 006’s tone.  The agent in him was waking up, and the agent knew that having his legs trapped under a seven-year-old wasn’t the most defensive position to be in.  Very, very carefully, he was slipping free, letting the boy slowly slip from his shins and feet onto the couch-cushions. 

“I just figure you won’t want him to overhear this,” Alec continued as Bond finally detached himself, a process that Q slept right through.  Truly, the kid was growing more relaxed in the atmosphere of the apartment, sleeping soundly instead of in fitful, shallow naps.  Bond placed on hand on his side as if to check his breathing or to solidify whatever spell held him there and then got up to walk into the kitchen. 

“What is it?”

“Q’s parents.  I found them and MI6 is bringing them in.  I’ve got a few leads on Q’s past buyers, but wanted to give you a heads-up on everything else first, before M called you,” Alec explained with military efficiency, even managing to say the word ‘buyers’ with a minimal tone of disgust. 

By now, Bond’s spine was ramrod-straight, and his every nerve was awake and tense.  He felt the need to kill something, and he could barely even remember getting angry.  His eyes danced up to reassure himself that Q was still asleep on the couch: he was still there, skinny limbs half-folded in towards himself except for one arm, which had slipped over the edge so that those dexterous fingers hovered above the floor.  Protectiveness surged through 007 strongly enough that he had to take a deep breath and count to ten.  “Do they know that MI6 has Q?” he asked, matching Alec’s business like tone.

“Yes, they seemed to, meaning they have contact with some villains higher up in the food-chain,” Alec replied, probably with a shrug, “There’s no way they found that out for themselves.”

“It means they’ll have lots of names to spill,” Bond observed. 

Alec’s predatory grin was audible right through the phone.  “My thoughts exactly.  Dear Mum and Dad don’t know that you have their son, though, and M isn’t going to tell them.”

Reflexively, 007 narrowed his eyes, unwilling to trust Q’s anonymity and safety to even M.  He realized how illogical his thinking was getting in that department, but it didn’t stop the surge of distrustful protectiveness from swelling ever bigger.  “Let’s hope she doesn’t,” Bond quipped with ill-humor, “For everyone else’s sake.”

“Well, after that last little stint of you defending that kitten, I think everyone is quite aware of how bad it would be to mess with him under your watch,” Alec said without a care in the world, sounding perhaps a bit proud of James for this or at least a bit amused.  He probably wished he’d been there for that fiasco, in which Q had bitten Mallory and 007 had just about murdered Moneypenny.  “Plus, she said as much.  M’s a pretty canny old battleax, and before I even asked, she said that Q would be left out of this as much as possible.”

Bond felt himself deflating, the tension that had been strung from shoulder to shoulder letting up a fraction as he let out a breath.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Alec scoffed, “Thank M.  Or at least be thankful that custody battles come second to charges of child abuse – or whatever you charge a person with when they sell their child to passing crime-bosses.  Anyway, I’ve got to run.  Say hello to little-Q for me!”

Without further adieu, Alec hung up, seeing how point in continuing the conversation when he had work to do.  Then again, when an 00-agent said they had to run, they sometimes meant it literally, although 006 had more than likely just got bored with talking and had found something more interesting to occupy his time – maybe a skirt to chase, maybe brawl to take part in.  If Alec was still following leads about Q’s past buyers, then he’d very likely found someone very dangerous to follow home and maim, there was no telling.  Bond chuckled knowingly and put the phone away, looking into the living room once again to see that Q hadn’t moved except to now dangle a foot over the edge of the couch as well. 

“Q, you’re going to fall of the couch at this rate,” Bond reprimanded amusedly as he strolled back to the couch, flicking off lights as he went.  As a 00-agent, he was used to late nights; as a prodigy-sitter, he was getting used to encouraging early bed-times.  He hooked his fingers around Q’s ankle to guide the limb back onto the safe terrain of the couch, smirking when Q merely grumbled blurrily and turned his face into his left arm.  Still chuckling and quite unable to stop (because Q was bloody adorable), Bond scooped the boy up slowly and quite skillfully, even though he had a moment to wonder just how in the world kids became so malleable when they were asleep.  It was like trying to cradle a slinky. 

“Mrrrr…” Q made a disgruntled noise and wriggled against Bond’s shoulder as he was situated there.  Bond had Q sitting on the sling of his arms, knees digging into his ribs and the rest of the boy slouched forward on 007’s broad chest.  The boy’s breath went right through his shirt in a hot puff.  “You’re carrying me again!” Q mumbled almost coherently, sounding both despairing and bewildered. 

“No, I’m not,” Bond lied cheerily as he walked towards the second bedroom with Q still slumped against his chest, “You’re just dreaming, Q.”

The sound Q made was somewhat birdlike, a throaty sort of trill that sounded like a question even as Q finally lifted his head.  He peered shortsightedly over 007’s shoulder as if truly considering that 007 might be telling the truth.  “I am not!” he finally denied.

By that point, they were at the bed, and Bond was able to plop the child down on top of the blankets and stare down at him with a self-satisfied smirk.  “Very true.  And I’m not carrying you either,” he defended himself. 

For a moment, the boy clearly contemplated attacking the 00-agent (or at the very least grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him), but in the end, weariness won out, and Q flopped backwards on the bed with a defeated sigh.  “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m a 00-agent.”

“You even took my glasses before teasing me.”

“Self-preservation is high on my priority-list.”

Q blinked up at him.  “Bond?”

“Yes?” 007 smiled. 

“You really are my friend, aren’t you?  You don’t act this…humorously…around MI6, unless it’s just you and 006.  And you and 006 are friends,” Q deduced. 

The memory of his phone conversation with Alec came back to hit him like a punch in the gut, the force of the secret about Q’s re-found parents pressing like acid at the back of Bond’s teeth.  Q’s words had hit a cord in him he hadn’t known that anyone could strum, and for a moment, 007 just stared, feeling that anything he said would either be unintentionally destructive or incredibly inane after the simple declaration that Q had laid before him.  The boy was sitting up now, looking big-eyed and open without his glasses.  As far as Q had come from when Bond had found him on that hot island with Westford, Q was just a fragile little boy in the end – looking for protection, looking for acceptance. 

“Yes, we’re friends, Q,” Bond said in a low, rumbling murmur. 

Q yawned.  “Okay.”  He seemed to remember how sleepy he was and crawled beneath the blankets, not bothering to undress.  He didn’t sleep curled up in a ball anymore. 

~^~

Three days.  Three days of Q perfecting his laser-pen and eventually reconstructing the microwave.  Three days of peace, if peace included said laser-pen eventually working and burning a jagged line across the table-top.  Then again, the line was quite at home next to the jagged knife-mark that Alec had left when he and James had been drinking too much years ago and had gotten into a fight.  Such squabbles had grown less common over the years, and even back then, they’d rarely ended in [much] blood. 

Three days in which the knowledge about Q’s parents burned patiently at the back of Bond’s mind, and his best mask stayed in place so that no trace of that secret slipped out.  The boy often got lost in his projects (either in the laser-pen project or texting R), and in those moments 007 could relax his façade a bit – unfortunately, little-Q’s oblivious moments were equally balanced by his voracious focus the rest of the time, in which he likely began to suspect that Bond was hiding something from him.  Q’s reaction to that was really not a reaction at all, except 007 was aware of the kid watching him with worried eyes more often towards the third day, always ducking his head when James caught him looking. 

All in all, though, a dull thee days that 007 wished could have lasted longer. 

On the morning of the forth day, 007 got a text calling him in to MI6.  Just because he could, 007 texted back that he knew why he was being called in, so there was no need for secrecy.  The text that came back to him said that no one was surprised that he knew, and that he should go ahead and bring little-Q then.  Any hopes of keeping the volatile agent and the child-prodigy apart for this familial reunion were effectively shot. 

Q had watched this brief and angry text-battle from the kitchen table, his eyes unreadable in a way a child’s shouldn’t be.  “Something is going on, isn’t it?” he asked solemnly. 

Up until now, 007 had been more or less getting the hang of looking after seven-year-old.  True, Q still flabbergasted him on regular occasions, but he’d at least thought he’d found his footing so that he wasn’t panicking about what to do every five seconds.  Now, however, he desperately wished that a real parent (one preferably with lots of experience) was here to talk to Q, because this couldn’t go anyway but badly. 

But then Bond remember that the real parents in Q’s situation had ignored and neglected him, and then used him and sold his skills, all without ever loving him.  That suddenly made Bond feel more sure of himself, because, if nothing else, he knew that he’d never done any of those things. 

And, somewhere deep down, he maybe even loved this boy. 

“We’re supposed to report to MI6.  Your parents were brought in, so I assume they want to talk to you,” Bond said seriously and without pausing, getting it all over with in one calm go, “We’ll get more specifics when we arrive.”

Q had gone white as a sheet and he’d dropped his laser-pen on the table.  Previously, that pen prototype had been just about the most important thing Q owned, and he’d been carrying it around like a baby when he wasn’t taking it apart and remaking it (a constant state of tinkering that forced Bond to defend all of the other appliances, lest Q take them apart for bits and pieces).  Now he appeared to have forgotten it existed.  That was what happened, 007 knew from experience, when danger stalked near.  Beautiful things were cast aside in favor of survival. 

“M-My parents?” Q stuttered in rising panic, voice rising to a weak squeak.  He got down form the table in a clumsy hurry, and without having to think, Bond knew that Q was actually forming some half-cocked plan to run for the door.  Therefore, the 00-agent was ready when the slim little body tried to bolt past him for the doorway. 

“Q-!” he grunted as his arms hooked around Q’s middle.  It took more effort to halt the boy’s momentum than he’d expected, and Q was breathing so fast that he was in danger of hyperventilating.  Bond had underestimated just how mortified the news would make Q, and now had to crouch down on the floor and cage the kid in with his knees and arms because the boy was flailing everywhere.  Q didn’t even seem to know where he wanted to go or do, but just seemed to be in a general state of escape-mode.  “Shh, shh…”  Bond repeated even as he caught Q’s arms.  The boy wouldn’t look at him; his eyes were huge and darting everywhere, and it was like when he’d found him all over again.  Rage suffused James as he saw all of his work at making this brilliant child at home and calm go down the drain, all because of the boy’s parents.  “Shh, Q, stop it!” he cajoled in a tone that most would have considered too rough for a boy in this state – except for Q was used to that voice with its grating edges and warm interior.  Q suddenly folded into Bond’s chest, little arms tucked in close to his narrow frame, hands in a tangle beneath Q’s pointed little chin as he also bent his head down.  Bond found Q’s fluffy head of hair quite suddenly under his jaw, and took a moment to get used to that, pretending he’d planned it all along as he also curved his arms around Q’s back. 

Q was shaking like a leaf and actually flinched when Bond touched him, pressing in closer to the 00-agent’s chest as if he recognized one part of the man but not the other.  He was whispering something rapidly and repeated under his breath, the intense speed matching his shallow, swift breaths.  It wasn’t until the James actually held his own breath that the room grew quiet enough for him to make out the desperate, repeated rant: “Not Quinn Finch…not Quinn Finch not Quinn Finch notQuinnFinchnotQuinnFinch-!”

“Q!”

 The single letter was as much an attempt to stop the litany as it was an answer; it was a lion’s roar to cut over the sounds of the world, the raised volume of James’s voice drowning out Q’s words and startling him into quick and sudden silence.  Q actually yelped and turned his head, his body still in a self-defensive posture but one tear-streaked eye now tilted up to look at Bond’s stormy face looking down at him.  Truthfully, 007 was glaring, but the ferocity in his ice-blue eyes wasn’t meant to damage Q, just as the raising of his voice wasn’t because he was angry at Q. 

Now, eyes serious and unblinking, Bond spoke bluntly as he tightened his arms – this time, Q didn’t cringe away.  “I never called you Quinn Finch, and I’m not going to.  You’re ‘Q’ to me, and I doubt that Alec could be bothered to learn another name for you anyway, now that he’s used to calling you the same.  So stop worry about a name and just trust me to take care of you.”

The words all caused Q’s eyes to widen, but the last ones – trust me to take care of you – struck him to the core.  Q went from hyperventilating to not breathing, which disturbed Bond more than a bit.  He wondered if his yelling had finally gone too far.  ‘Great, I broke Q…’  M was going to kill him.  And then Alec was going to kill him.  And then Q-branch in general.  Evidently, there was going to be a line…

Fortunately, Q cleared his throat then and simultaneously started breathing.  “I don’t want to go back to them,” the boy said in a voice that cracked.  His huge brown eyes had latched onto Bond’s as if losing eye-contact would cause him to drown.  Settling down more comfortably on his haunches, Bond prepared for a long, uncomfortable talk that would hopefully end happily.  “I don’t care that they’re my parents – I don’t want to go back to them.” 

“Okay,” Bond nodded, pretending to be calmer than he was with a panicking child glued to him, “And?”

“And?”  Q blinked, set off-balance by the quick agreement.  “James, they’re…they’re my parents, and I’m saying I don’t like them.”

Since Q was calling him ‘James’ again it meant he was really insecure right now, so Bond sighed and tried to think of a good response.  Bond felt somewhat proud that he’d deciphered at least that much about little-Q, how he switched between titles depending mood and situation.  Usually, the blonde-haired man was ‘Bond,’ and ‘007’ came up more often in the sterile, professional environment of MI6.  ‘James’ was always an indicator that Q was (consciously or unconsciously) trying to buy love.

Which was just about the saddest thing that James could imagine. 

Q had a limited number of tools at his disposal, for all that he was a genius who could hack into emails and rig alarm-clocks at the age of seven.  Those things had never helped him feel safe.  All Q had for ensuring safety and affection were little tricks and a name – at least, that was what Q thought. 

Deciding that words were insufficient, Bond wrapped his arms around tighter until Q’s head was wedged under the agent’s chin again, bony hands and arms pressing into Bond’s sternum and little puffs of breath warm against his collarbone through his shirt.  “You can stop doing that,” Bond murmured as he rubbed the back of Q’s head, figuring that was the right thing to do.

Q twitched.  “Doing what?” he asked, perplexed and wary. 

“Trying to get me to care for you.  I’m already invested, and have no interest in leaving,” Bond informed Q in his most logical tone.  It was hard, because emotions were swirling heavily inside of his chest just at the thought of a boy being so afraid of being abandoned…forgotten…that he’d developed reflexes for attaching people to himself and himself to people.  Q didn’t seem to understand that some people happily attached themselves.  “I told M that I’d be responsible for you back when I first met you and the old Quartermaster wanted me to leave you behind, remember?  And I might be a government spy, but I tend to keep my word after I give it.  Right now-”  He cupped the back of Q’s head, feeling the little purr of contentment.  “-I give you my word that I have no interest in giving you back to those monsters you call parents.”

Against Bond’s chest, Q’s arms began to slowly uncurl, leaving their defensive posture to tentatively hook two fingers in the neck of Bond’s shirt.  All things considered, it was a more relaxed posture.  “But I still have to go see them, don’t I?” Q asked shakily. 

Bond felt the tip of Q’s nose touch the underside of his jaw, a sign that the boy was tipping his head up to actually look at the man a bit.  007 sighed and admitted the simple, irritating truth, “Probably.  But it won’t be a long meeting if I can help it.”

Q’s released breath might have been a bit of a relieved chuckle, and the boy finally stepped back.  Being the possessive type, 007 didn’t allow the flighty child to completely escape the circle of his arms, but he let Q shuffle back enough for the two to eye each other.  With Bond squatting down on his haunches and Q standing, the two were closer to eye-to-eye, with 007’s expression frank and idle, and Q’s still a bit blotchy from panicked tears.  His eyes, however, were alert and keen and looking Bond’s face over with a careful sort of affection, and Q still had two fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt as if he’d forgotten them there. 

“I’m Q,” the boy said again, more calmly. 

“You’re Q,” nodded the assassin.  Then his mouth quirked in a grin and he added with absentminded amusement, “And MI6 security underestimates you worse than anyone else does, and doesn’t frisk you, so if you brought a laser-pen prototype in for your interview with your parents, no one would know.”

Slowly, a grin was spreading across Q’s face.  It looked positively evil.  He pointed out dryly, “Except you, of course.”

Bond shrugged.  “I’ve never been much of a disciplinarian, and even if I was, I wouldn’t take the pen away.”

“Why?” Q had to ask, but he was still smiling his mischievous little smile that made his sharp features look so sly beneath his glasses and mass of hair. 

“Because I’m chronically against going into dangerous situations unarmed, and I think that tomorrow counts.  Being a 00-agent, I would bring a gun-”

“-And I would bring a laser-pen,” Q finished, and finally looked calm about the trial to come, and even smug, “being a child-prodigy.  I like it when you use logic, 007.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~ 

The next morning, both Bond and Q were up early – Q actually awoke first, and 007 was roused by his footsteps.  Bond wasn’t really worried that Q would try and run away, but he still came to check on the noise he heard, and found Q in the kitchen tinkering with his laser pen.  He was also pulling on his ‘Gear shirt’ (as everyone was calling it now) over his ‘Property of Bond’ T-shirt.  Q didn’t look embarrassed by the shirt this time, but instead straightened it carefully under the hoodie, adjusting it as if it were armor against what he was going to face today. Q looked up and caught sight of his caretaker then, and grew uncomfortable. 

Bond merely nodded his head, saying with quiet sincerity, “Looks good on you, Q.”

“Thanks.”  Q straightened out his attire a little bit more before taking his laser pen and tucking it into his hoodie pocket with quick fingers. 

Since Q wasn’t hungry in the slightest for breakfast (he was quiet and pale and honestly looked like he was just going to puke), they were out of the house as soon as Bond got dressed, but not before 007 snuck a few energy bars into his own coat-pocket.  It was the same on-the-go sort of food that Bond had fed Q when he’d first met him, and hopefully would be appreciated once Q’s appetite belatedly woke up.  Not that Q-branch wouldn’t bend over backwards to feed their little Gear if they much as thought he was hungry…

M called 007 on the way to MI6.  “Bond.”

“M,” he replied just as neutrally. 

“Has 006 already told you everything about the capture of Q’s parents, or do I need to go over everything with you?” M cut right to the chase with jaded understanding of how 00-agents worked, especially two who were as close as Alec and James. 

“Q and I are headed to MI6 right now,” Bond replied, a grim edge on his voice making it quite clear how much he disliked the idea, “Officially, I’ve been told nothing except that I need to report in and should bring my charge with me.  Unofficially, I know that you have his misbegotten cur parents-”

“Bond!” Q hissed form where he was listening in the passenger sent. 

The 00-agent growled as being curbed, but went on in a…marginally…more civil tone.  “Have you interrogated them?”

“Yes, to some extent, but they’re demanding to see Q.”

Now Bond’s growl ratcheted up a level.  He sounded positively feral and didn’t care, finding anger coiled in his belly like a bed of coals, each breath he heard about Q’s parents only fanning it.  Q was watching him with clear concern and maybe even a little fear. 

“I know that you protest that idea, 007, seeing as you’ve become inordinately attached to that boy, but I’m inclined to allow the visit,” M said, sounding strained instead of her usual, unflappable self, “I’ll give you more information upon arrival.  Is that understood?”

Bond had been tempted to answer with nothing more than a low snarl, but the prompting pricked at his years of training.  He grudgingly replied, “Understood,” and hung up.  Q was still watching him warily as if he might start breathing fire, so the blond man made an effort to unclench his hands from the steering wheel and take a deep breath.  “It’s all right, Q,” he eventually evened out his voice enough to say without sounding like an angry predator. 

“No, it’s not,” Q answered with an admirably calm sigh, “I’m still going to see my parents, aren’t I?”

Since ‘Yes’ was the only answer Bond could truthfully give, he didn’t say anything at all.  Q merely nodded, as if that was to be expected, and then went back to looking out the window and fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. 

~^~

Entering MI6 felt a whole lot like walking tor one’s place in front of a firing squad.  The only adjustments to that analogy were the ways in which Bond instead acted like a tiger on a leash the whole time, his whole aura radiating lethality like heat from a fire.  As he stalked behind Q with eyes like chips of ice, no one dared to get within three meters of either of them – with the exception of Q-branchers, who had grown a slight immunity to 007’s temper.  Nonetheless, they only came a meter closer, looking worried and uneasy. 

When Bond took the lead, heading to M’s office, Q dropped back only far enough to walk at his side, fingers hooking into the nearest belt-loop with desperate speed.  007 didn’t even twitch, being completely unsurprised and having absolutely no problem with this arrangement.  007 had been relieved of weaponry at the door, but Q had still migrated to his left side (leaving 007’s gun-arm free), and Bond just as naturally slung his left arm around Q’s shoulders a beat later.  006 was still out in the field, but other 00-agents were hovering about – and even they gave one look at 007’s expression and body language and decided to give him and his little genius a wide birth.  In a place designed for espionage and assassination, walking amidst said spies and killers, Q was suddenly safer than anywhere else on earth. 

And yet he walked as if he were under siege, his face afraid and skinny shoulders hunched. 

“007,” M greeted when they met up, keeping her eyes on her agent’s face for a moment before her eyes were drawn almost against their will to the boy at his side.  Her icy mask failed her as she caught the vulnerable look on his face, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, only to find words failing her.  Compassion was an uncommon look on M’s face, but it flitted across there now, a look of sympathetic sadness.  007’s face was still an angry mask carved from stone, and it didn’t waver and inch when his boss looked back up to him.  “Mr. and Mrs. Darrel and Susanna Finch are demanding to speak to their son.  I’ve agreed, with the understanding that the meeting will be short.  They are right through this door-”  As Bond took a step forward, M interposed herself, clearly either afraid of nothing or vaguely suicidal.  “Bond, you will stay out here.”  At his shocked and clearly murderous look, M elaborated, “You’re an agent in the double-o-division, Bond, and while you’re trained as an interrogator, I don’t want you in there.”

Anyone hanging around would have sworn that the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees as 007 just stared at M like she was speaking a different language – or as if waiting for her to do the sensible thing and take her words back.  His jaw worked for a moment, a muscle flicking in his cheek from pure tension. 

M kept speaking before he could gather in his rage to find a response, “You can watch from the observation room, 007, but that room is not a place for a 00-agent, and you know it.  For goodness’ sake, you’re supposed to be a spy!  Why would I stick you into a room with civilians?”

A smile like blood seeping down a knife-blade cracked shallowly across 007’s face, just about one of the most ghastly expressions he owned.  His words matched, although they were painted in sickly humor, “Because I’ll teach them manners?”

“Bond!”  Both Q and M said it at once, and they found themselves looking at each other with flustered, embarrassed faces.  Q looked down and M composed herself and looked back to 007, who still looked like a shark in chum-filled waters.  “Unless you want to be removed by force, you’ll remove yourself to the observation room.  With me.”

For a flicker of a second, it looked like 007 would take the first option, with the admittedly good likelihood that he’d win.  However, M’s last sentence held a significance that snagged at his ears, making his brows twitch in question.  M merely met his eyes, making it clear that she wasn’t going to say anything more until Q was in the interrogation room and Bond was on the other side of the one-way glass next-door.  At that moment, a polite-looking woman with narrow glasses slipped out of the interrogation room.  “Are you Quinn?” she immediately asked, directing her friendly smile at Q. 

Bond sighed regretfully as Q shrunk, going from small to down-right minute at the sound of his real name. Even Bond’s presence couldn’t protect him from a name, it seemed, and the boy looked once between 007 and the woman before stepping forward.  He knew that there was no point in arguing, even if Bond had rebelled against the point as long as possible.  “Yes,” he squeaked in a tremulous voice that made Bond want to rip someone’s throat out, because that voice coming from little-Q was just…wrong. 

“I’ll just be on the other side of the glass, Q,” Bond firmly reminded the kid, just before he and the woman (likely from child-services, or whatever MI6-equivalent M had brought in) disappeared into the other room, “Remember that.”

Q already looked so beaten down that the words barely registered.  He nodded, but behind his glasses, his eyes were far away. 

A moment later, Bond followed M into the observation room.  As soon as he got in there, he exploded: “What the hell gives those bastards the right to see the son they not only abandoned, but sold!!”  As if drawn by hooks, 007’s eyes went to the one-way glass window, watching as little-Q hopped up onto a chair next to the woman with the narrow glasses and across from two older people – his parents.  The woman had dark brown hair, the man black; the woman’s pulled back severely, the man’s cut short and showing much of the waviness that Q had inherited.  Bond could immediately identify bits and pieces of little-Q in these people’s faces, but on a whole, all he saw were monsters with human masks, things that 007 knew a lot about. 

Unruffled by her 00-agent’s explosion, M’s sharp eyes flicked to the scene being set on the other side of the glass before turning back to Bond with words he wasn’t expecting, “Normally?  Nothing.  It wouldn’t take any effort at all to remove those two of their rights to see their son, but unfortunately, things didn’t turn out that simple.  After 006 gave Mr. and Mrs. Finch to MI6, we began questioning them for more information about the people they were tangled up with.  Being civilians, we expected to get a wealth of information form them relatively quickly.  Instead, we simply found out that they weren’t civilians.”

Bond turned back from the glass to pierce M with a look.  “What?”

“Their names are aliases, albeit ones they’ve been living under for sometime now,” M continued to lay out the shocking truth, “I imagine that having a son was awfully inconvenient, forcing them to stay in one place and keep one name as Quinn grew up.  However, before Quinn-”

“His name is Q,” Bond interrupted despite the shock that was racing through his system.  He turned to look at the interrogation room again, taking in the two people on the far side of the table as if for the first time, their masks somehow stripped away.  They still looked astonishingly normal, but so did many criminals that 007 had taken down over the years – and so did he, when he needed to. 

“Does Q know?” Bond asked, swallowing as he now looked at the boy anew, too.  Was this boy a liar?  He’d have to be a prodigy at it to fool James Bond, but Q was a prodigy in other things…

M immediately reassured him, shaking her head, “No.  So far as we can tell, Q has remained oblivious.  His parents have apparently cut back on their criminal activities – which have to do mainly with smuggling and occasional theft, according to the spotty information we’ve dug up – and the only real sign of their past is the immense number of contacts they keep that include people of ill-repute.  Even if Q noticed that-”

“-He wouldn’t want to believe that his parents were criminals,” Bond finished, leaning the side of one fist on the glass, wondering just when Q’s life had gotten so complicated.  It had been bad enough with Q tangled up by a history of bad parentage, but now it turned out that said parents had a background that made them almost as bad as Q’s buyers.  “How much do you know for sure about them?”

“Precious little.  We think that we’ve at least pinned down a few of their old aliases, and fingerprints and DNA are being processed, I’m told,” M said, coming up to Bond at the viewing window, “So we’ll undoubtedly be able to arrest them.  What we want, however, are their contacts.  Q already gave us an extensive list of people whom his parents sold his skills to, but most of the names he heard were aliases.”

“And his parents will know the real names, plus how to get in contact with them,” concluded Bond easily, knowing this song-and-dance intimately well.  He nodded, but his eyes hardened to glacial chips of ice.  “So why is Q in there, if he doesn’t even know anything?”

“Because we’re on a time-limit, 007,” M admitted, “Since Darrel and Susanna Finch were originally thought to be nothing more than horrific examples of bad parents to a child-genius, their arrest was not expressly hidden.  Therefore, many of the criminal underworld will undoubtedly be spreading the news now that they have been captured.  Before much longer, any information the Finch’s give us will be obsolete, or at the very least, everyone they knew will be going into hiding.  If we work quickly, however, they won’t get very far.”  M nodded at the adjoining room, where the interrogator was now starting up a friendly conversation between Q and his parents.  “Q’s parents have been holding onto their stories despite our best efforts-”

“Have you tried torture?” Bond asked, entirely sincere.

M completely ignored him.  “-And despite the evidence we’ve thrown at them.  They know that they are winning with every day they play with us.  I’m hoping that Q might provide a chink in their armor.  They were not actually told that they’d see him today – it wasn’t even confirmed that MI6 had him – and Ms. Morsen is also a new interrogator who has been told to try and capitalize upon this change of pace.”

“You’re using Q as a flash-bomb to stun them,” Bond snarled, rounding on M.  For the first time, he realized that no one else was in the observation room besides the two of them; if he attacked, no one would be there to stop him, and M had neither the muscle nor the training to even slow 007 down. 

M must have known this from the start, but showed no signs of being intimidated, instead facing her agent square-on and sharply firing back, “I’m trying to put his parents behind bars, as well as all of the people who had ever hurt that boy!  If there was another way to do it, believe me, 007, I’d take it up in a heart-beat.”  She backed off a bit, turning once again to the glass viewing-window, adding stiffly, “If there weren’t so much red-tape in the way, I’d perhaps even consider your suggestion of torture.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a suggestion,” Bond said in a cross between a low growl and a purr, “it was an offer.”

“Calm down, 007.  Both you and I answer to people who wouldn’t tolerate that sort of thing.”  M huffed, finishing almost under her breath, “They almost don’t even put up with it on missions, but I don’t see how else they expect things to get bloody done!”

Bond tried to reign in his outrage, and to a small extent, managed.  He understood what M was doing, and what constraints MI6 as a whole was under – people already knew that Mr. and Mrs. Finch was in custody, that meant there would be people who knew if they were illegally tortured for information at this point.  Tossing them into an unexpected altercation with their son was the best hope of rattling their cage.  “So you just need Q to get them unsettled?”

“All I need is for him to get them to show their real faces,” M nodded, “I’ve got interrogators who only need a toehold to rip into these two, but the Finches have thus far proven frustratingly unflappable.  That in and of itself proves that they’ve had a bit of practice at this.”

For a moment longer, Bond remained silent, unnaturally still in the way a poised snake was, his eyes narrowed.  “I don’t like this,” he said.

“Neither do I, 007, but then again, there are a lot of things I do in this job that I do not like.”

~^~

“Quinn!” Susanna Finch immediately said, motherly surprise all over her face as Q pulled himself into his chair across from his parents.  Already, he was hearing more concern that he’d heard from his parents in as long as he could remember. 

His father’s expression showed more paternal censure.  “Where have you been, Quinn?  Your mother has been worried sick!”

Q flinched.  He’d gotten so, so used to being called ‘Q’ or even ‘Gear’ from the people of MI6 that now the pronunciation of his original name hit him like a icepick.  Unconsciously, he hunched his shoulders, thinking back to how it felt to be invisible. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Finch, we’ve gone over this,” the woman – who’d introduced herself as Ms. Morsen by now – reminded, “Your son was found in the custody of-”

“Yes, but he was supposed to be at his uncle’s!!” Susanna Finch interrupted stridently, causing Q’s head to snap up as his brows beetled.  This was such an obvious lie to him that he felt the air should buckle around the words, refusing them entrance into the sane world.  “Like we told you, Darrel and I had to be gone for a little while-”

“We have yet to find any evidence that this uncle actually exists,” interrupted Ms. Morsen in turn, tone sharpening just a tad. 

Q had straightened up enough that he was clearly visible over the table, unable to keep quiet.  His intelligent eyes blinked and he frowned as he said clearly, “That’s because I don’t have an uncle!” 

Immediately, he regretted speaking: both of his parents’ faces turned to him.  “Quinn!” his mother rapped, a harsh tone he was more than familiar with, “How can you say such a thing?  Your Uncle-”

“Doesn’t exist!” Q repeated with growing confusion over the situation, but still a lot of conviction.  His memory was good: it was photographic and therefore impeccable, and his parents knew that.  Why were they lying then?  And why were they appearing so concern about him when they usually either ignored him or snapped at him to be quiet as do as he was told. 

“Ms. Morsen,” his father purposefully looked away from Q to the woman next to him, a strained expression on his face making the lines bracketing his mouth deepen, “I’m grateful that you’ve found our boy, but this is just ridiculous.  I’m sorry, but he lies.”

The word seemed to get stuck in Q’s ears.  He couldn’t believe he was hearing it.  He’d been called many things before, from ‘brat’ to ‘freak,’ but ‘liar’ was never something he’d been called before.  It stunned him and rattled him, especially since his parents both spoke with such certainty – their voices didn’t shake and their eyes didn’t flicker, as if they really believed it.  Q just stared for a moment, shaking as he tried to figure this out and failed.  What was going on? 

“On the contrary, Mr. Finch,” Ms. Morsen tried to get things back on track again, “I’ve been told that Quinn is quite a trustworthy boy.”

Q’s mother shook her head regretfully, fixing Q with a…disappointed…look before saying sadly to Ms. Morsen, “I’m his mother, Ms. Morsen, and you’ve only known my boy for what – a few days, at most?  He hides it well at first, but I’m afraid that Quinn has developed a terrible habit of lying.  We don’t know why he does it-”

Things were making less sense by the second, and Q felt as though he were standing on ice that was breaking up and crumbling beneath his feet.  He looked from one parents face to the other with bewilderment that was slowly becoming panicked.  “I’m not a liar…” he squeaked. 

“This is embarrassing, Quinn,” his father chided, “Stop embarrassing us.  You’ve already lied to these good people enough about what’s been going on with our family.”

“I’m not lying!” Q cried in distress, and tears finally began to fall down his face as he lost his grasp on what was going on.  So suddenly, a talk with his parents had become a destruction of reality, all of the facts that made up Q’s life suddenly falling apart.  He was leaning forward on the table with his fingers gripping the cool stainless-steel, but somehow nothing felt stable.  He was hyperventilating…

Behind the one-way glass, Bond had had all he was going to take.  “Fuck this,” he growled, and gave up on M’s plan, barging out. 

A second later, the 00-agent was slamming open the door to the interrogation room and wading in with swift, angry strides, right past Q and to the nearest target – Darrel Finch.  He had the man’s shirt-collar in his hands and Mr. Finch slammed against the wall before anyone could say a world.  The growl buzzing in 007’s chest would have done any big predator proud, and the glint in his eyes burned like dry ice applied directly to skin.  “You don’t get to call that boy a liar when you don’t deserve to have him,” 007 murmured with surreal, menacing calmness that was totally at odds with the sudden violence of his actions.  He was a forgotten death on a winter night; he was fury wrapped up in immovable, quiet steel.  “You don’t deserve to breathe,” he said as if observing something, and pressed closer.  007’s mass and strength combined with his fisted grip so close to Mr. Finch’s throat made the observation more of a premonition, as Darrel’s eyes widened and his breath came out as a terrified cough.  Mr. and Mrs. Finch might have been big names in the smuggling world, but they’d never faced anything like 007. 

“Bond, stand down!” M came in a heartbeat later, looking put-out but not overly upset about her agent’s actions.  In fact, she eyed Darrel Finch and his predicament for a moment with satisfaction before snapping again at the angry, blonde man in front of her, “Let him go, Bond, and take Q to the other room.  You’ve already bolloxed this up, so we may as well call it a day.”

007 grunted something that might have been affirmation, and released Darrel Finch.  Some part of Bond’s mind heard Susanna Finch setting up a racket about what had just happened, wanting to know how and why someone had just charged in and tried to kill her husband.  ‘If I were trying to kill him, he’d be dead,’ Bond replied in his head, walking around the table to Q and herding him off the chair and then out of the room in front of him.  He noted with cold anger that no words of concern were raised for Q’s sake as the boy was led out of the room by a violent man with glacial eyes. 

Shortly thereafter, M found 007 and Q back in the observation room, Bond having commandeered the room’s two chairs so that he and the minute genius could sit across from each other.  Bond and the boy had been having a whispered talk, but 007’s blue eyes flicked up to M as she came in, noting her reappearance.  “I’m telling him,” Bond said without waiting for M to say anything, “Everything.  About how his parents are scum and that the only people lying are them.”

“Bond!” M exclaimed in exasperation.  All plans of using Q to draw out his parents effectively went up on smoke.  “We’re running out of ways to get answers from those two-”

“You’re about five minutes too late to change my mind,” Bond deadpanned unrepentantly.  His attention was back on Q, expression serious and watchful.  “Do you understand, Q?”

The boy looked stunned, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle-distance as he blinked.  “I…I… I didn’t even know…”  He felt silent, looking down at his lap where he had been fiddling with his laser-pen, an absent motion that he’d started up as soon as he and 007 had sat down and Bond had reminded Q how to breathe.  Q continued to let his fingers play over the prototype while his mild whirred: he was rethinking his entire young life, looking for things that he had missed, things he had dismissed.  Part of his mind, however, continued to listen to 007 and M bicker, and felt the 00-agent’s scarred hand stroke the tousled hair on his head. 

“007, I’ll have you doing a desk-job for this,” M warned.

Bond wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.  “No more of this, M.  Q’s part in this is done.  You saw what was going on in there – it was a farce!  Your plan wasn’t working, and sending Q back in there isn’t going to fix anything,” Bond informed his boss heatedly.  M snorted a frustrated breath through her nose, trying to find a suitable reply when, honestly, she was in full agreement. 

Suddenly Q lifted his head, gaining 007’s again instantly like a switch being thrown.  “You need some way to get them to talk?  To get them to give up proof that they really are criminals?” Q asked in a strangely calm voice.  The panic from earlier had subsided to only a faint tremor in his voice, and M cocked her head at the newly levelheaded response.

Bond sighed tightly, gritting his teeth and looking away, but answering nonetheless.  “As soon as M sent you in there, she told me that your guilelessness might do something to get your parents to slip up, yes.”

“And you need information from them soon?  Or else their contacts…”  Q took a deep breath and swallowed, coming to terms as quickly as he could with the information he’d been given so suddenly about his parents.  Or about the people his parents pretended to be.  “…Will get wise to a possible information leak?”

Since this particular bit of information hadn’t been imparted to Q yet, Bond was becoming both impressed and disturbed by how swiftly Q was coming to these conclusions.  M answered for him: “Yes.” 

Q continued to sit, silent and still, for a long moment after, staring at nothing but with his face closed off and full of thought.  It worried 007 to the point that he scooted closer, bumping Q’s skinny knees with his own as he did so.  “Q, it’s all right.  No one blames you for not knowing all of this.  They’re good at what they do – good at the lying they blamed you for doing.”

There was still no response, and finally M deflated a bit.  Her face softened fractionally, and she said with surprising gentleness, “We’ll find another way to get the information we need.  It was a poor idea to send in Q, I’ll admit that-”

Q’s voice stopped them both cold: “I want to go back in.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

Q re-entered the room, looking even smaller than before; he glanced up once, as if to see if his parents and Ms. Morsen were still there, then flinched and looked down again when he realized that they were.  Liked a whipped puppy, he returned to his seat. 

“Quinn?” his mother asked, face softening.  “Did you have a talk with someone?”

For a moment, Q didn’t answer.  He hunched near the table with his eyes on its unforgiving surface, eventually saying in a small voice, “I-I’ve decided not to lie anymore.”

Darrel made an almost inaudible sigh of relief, and Susanna smiled slightly.  “That’s good, Quinn.  We’re glad you got over that ridiculousness.  Sometimes he just gets silly, you know,” Susanna said the last to Ms. Morsten, who was still frowning, looking worriedly at Q. 

“Can we talk about something else?” Q begged quietly before his parents could talk over his head anymore. 

Susanna greed readily, nodding, “Sure, sweatheart, whatever you want.” 

“I just want to go home,” Q mumbled, looking down at his hands. 

Immediately, Mrs. Finch picked up on that and turned to glare with maternal fire at Ms. Morsen – quite a convincing look, really. “See how this is upsetting him!  Honestly, it’s upsetting our whole family to be dragged through the mud like this.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Finch, this is all necessary,” Ms. Morsten soothed, still off-balance with Q’s sudden return to the interrogation room.  All she’d been told after the intermission followed 007’s entrance had been to follow Q’s lead.  “What do you want to talk about, Q?”

“I don’t know…I…I guess, I’ve been lying for so long…”  Q mumbled, and it was sickening to 007 and M behind he glass that both of Q’s parents merely nodded in encouragement and understanding.  ‘Good boy, Quinn,’ their faces seemed to say. 

From there, the dysfunctional little family began to disjointedly talk about random things.  Mostly events – family outings, nights in, odd anecdotes.  Frustratingly, there was no way for those watching to know what were lies and what were truths, especially since Q just seemed to get smaller and more meek by the moment, agreeing with everything.  Sometimes he lead the conversation, but mostly he just accepted whatever his parents were feeding him.  It was like watching history being rewritten, lies defacing truth that had stood so strong before then. 

But suddenly Q stopped the conversation, putting on a perplexed look and asking for clarification on something.  Bond had been watching all of this and pacing in quiet outrage, but suddenly stopped and turned, paying more attention.  Q had a memory like a steel-trap: memories only escaped by chewing off a leg first, and sometimes not even then.  There was no way Q actually didn’t remember something. 

His parents didn’t pick up on the cue, however, although they exchanged and surprised look.  Susanna recovered most quickly, however, covering up any spark of unease she might have felt.  “Oh, Quinn, you remember,” his mother smiled brightly, clarifying the point of contention, “Your birthday last year, where we bought you that computer part you wanted.”  Again she looked to Ms. Morsten, smiling a proud, motherly smile.  “Our Quinn is very smart for his age.”

“$4,023.63,” Q said suddenly, a murmur directed towards the table that just barely caught everyone’s attention.  As the adults turned to stare, Q lifted his head, explaining in a totally new tone of voice, “That’s how much it cost.  You paid on your credit car, I remember, Mum.”  Q glanced back towards the one-way glass, indicating also the doorway that 007 had come charging through so recently.  “They’ve already tested and know that I have a photographic memory.”

For the first time, Mrs. Finch was looking clearly off-balance, but she’d gone too far to back out now – besides, if Q had indeed been proven to have a photographic memory, she’d have to be careful how she countered him.  “Yes, well, your father and I can’t remember exactly.” 

“How can you remember all of these details, Quinn, dear?” his father asked with a face full of interest and paternal awe, patronizing his boy with a smile.

Q eyes had suddenly lost their meek covering, and he stared back at his father with a gaze more befitting a marble stature: immovable, hard, and cold.  “I file away everything I take in with my senses, but the real question is what I retrieve later.  I don’t forget anything, but I don’t know the importance of everything I know, so I don’t look for it.  Up until now, I hadn’t seen any reason to think on that piece of information.”  Q paused, and his voice hardened further, “I remember you receiving $4, 023.63 for a job that I did.”

Darrel and Susanna had both sat back, stiffening slightly, but the woman recovered quickly to counter in a harsh tone, “Quinn, I thought you’d agreed to stop lying.  If you want to go home, that’s not the way to do it.  If you really want so much attention, there are better ways to-”

The boy’s eyes turned to his mother next, and his voice was as crisp and piercing as his gaze – all familial regard was gone.  It as if the part of Q that had been cowering and uncertain had been tossed aside now that he didn’t need it.  “I’m not seeking attention, and I’m not lying either.  The important piece of information has been in my mind this whole time.”  He blinked calmly.  “Thank you for reminding me.  Whether you believe me or not, your bank records will show a transaction of that size for the date of my last birthday.  I do not believe that it will show any indication that a computer part was ever bought, much less for me.”  His parents were growing increasingly anxious, frustrated fury even beginning to creep into their eyes as Q’s perfect memory brought their world down around them.  In the fact of this all, Q was impassive – a little machine.  Behind the glass, 007 and M were both smiling, feeling the hot rush of victory even if their faces carefully hid anything more than the faintest proud expressions.  “You were very careful not to slip up, but you did this time.  I caught you, and I know the truth.”

Susanna reached out and slapped him, a cat-quick motion born purely of anger.  She unmasked herself more efficiently than Q could ever have, as she now stared at her son with pure loathing, hating him for the crack he’d shown in the Finch armor.  Q’s head snapped to the side on impact, but he didn’t even cry out or yelp in surprise or pain.  Instead, he just let the blow take him, and froze where it left him, turned to one side on his chair. 

At that moment, the farce ended, and people came rushing into the room. 

Bond, of course, went straight towards Q, the boy’s safety the only thing more important on his mind than killing Susanna Finch.  Q was still curled to the side on the chair where the crack to the side of his face had left him, but even as Bond approached and guards came in through the door to apprehend the Finches, Q twisted back around.  He wasn’t frozen in shock, apparently, and Bond caught a look at Q’s hard, stone-cut expression as it twitched with the maelstrom of emotion hidden beneath.  With a quick motion of his own, he pulled the laser-pen prototype out of his pocket, aimed it, and set it off. 

You had to give it to the kid: he was a genius with technology, and his aim was wickedly good with his own weapons.  Both his father and his mother shouted in alarm and nearly fell backward off their chairs as a bright light sliced under the table and neatly smoked across the tips of their shoes.  Clearly, Q could have done something worse, but he couldn’t cross the line to hurting people.

But scaring them – warning them off, showing them just what he could do – that was totally within his capabilities.  He was breathing hard through his nose and just barely holding onto that mask of barren aloofness, but his eyes spat sparks as he held his little prototype pen at the ready and glared.  “I said I wanted to go home,” Q said in a quiet, flinty  voice, “but I didn’t say that home was with you.”

By then, other people had grabbed Q’s parents, ensuring that no further violence ensued, so Bond continued his path to Q.  Darrel was still trying to pretend to be the worried parent, and he looked from his minute son to the towering blond agent that had attacked earlier.  Reflexively, Mr. Finch sputtered, pulling against the hands on his arms, “Hey!  How can you let him close to our son!?  That blue-eyed monster could kill him-!”

‘That blue-eyed monster’ reached down and quietly wrapped his hand around the laser-pen, his larger hand also enfolding Q’s at the same time.  Keeping his lethal gaze on the parents like the sites of a gun trained on possible threats, 007 made no move to disarm Q, but coaxed the little weapon back into Q’s pocket.  So far, everyone was ignoring Darrel Finch’s protests – M even nodded Bond’s way, a flick of her eyes telling him to leave with Q. 

‘Gladly,’ his gaze said back.  Before he could pick Q up, the boy composed himself again, slipping off his chair.  He touched the ground at 007’s right, and naturally circled behind him to his left, face still carefully controlled.  He wasn’t crying or making any noise, but the left side of his cheek was vibrantly red, and his hands were stuffed stubbornly in his pockets to hide their shaking.  Bond, after a moment’s considering, reached slowly behind Q’s head and pulled his hood up, moving carefully so as not to startle him.  Q pulled in a hiccupping little breath – the only sign of distress he’d given since revealing his parents’ lies – as Bond covered his head, giving the appearance that he was cut off from the world.  Then 007’s arm encircled the boy’s shoulders and he turned to leave, rotating so that his own body spent most of its time between Q and the very angry Mr. and Mrs. Finch. 

“Quinn, you little backstabber!  We’re your parents!!  Where do you get the idea that it’s all right to go mucking about in the business of your parents – you don’t even know what’s going on!  You don’t understand, and you obviously don’t know your place.  Ungrateful little brat.  You’ll never make it anywhere in life now-!”  The abuse went on until Bond shut the door behind them, cutting it off.  That was when he lifted his blue eyes from Q to realize that the hallway beyond was filled with people, people watching Q as much as him: there was 002 and 003, looking alert and on the edge of anger, but without any of that anger directed at Q.  There was R, looking as fierce as a neon tiger, standing just down the hall from the two agents.  More Q-branch minions were present, like an honor guard – or the vanguard of a rescue attempt.  003’s lethal eyes danced past Bond and to the doors beyond, seeking his real prey. 

“The kid all right?” 002 asked, being more diplomatic than 003.  However, he looked just as homicidally protective behind a patient veneer. 

“No,” Bond admitted blatantly, “but he will be.”

“Did you get his parents locked away?” R asked as she stepped forward.  The employees of Q-branch normally wouldn’t have been caught within shooting distance of one 00-agent, much less three, but now they moved easily around 002 and 3 and eased closer to 007 and his little-Q.  R even brushed up against 003’s arm, but except for a half-hearted growl on his part, nothing happened. 

Bond couldn’t stop the look of grim pride from spreading across his expression, and while he pulled Q closer to his side, he simply nodded.  “Come on, Q,” he coaxed, then walked down the hallway through the honor-guard of agents and techies.  As they passed, hands reached out, gently touching Q’s shoulders – soft gestures of comfort and approval.  002 and 003 Bond never would have expected to see here showing such support, but both of them reached out, eyes protective and hands gentle.  Q remained quiet, but he glanced about as much as he could without revealing his damaged face – although Bond suspected that everyone noticed anyway.  If nothing else, 00-agents were trained to notice everything, and both 002 and 003’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  And R was sharp as a tack.  No one was happy about what state their little prodigy was in. 

Bond didn’t envy Mr. and Mrs. Finch when they came out the door to walk this way after them. 

~^~

On the way out of MI6, Bond went to drop off Q’s prototype at Q-branch, making an executive decision and deciding that having a traumatized boy and a possibly-lethal weapon of his own making on hand was a bad thing.  At least a gun Q didn’t know how to aim – this laser-pen was another matter. 

“No!” Q protested when told to give up the item, and for a moment there was an argument as Q angrily tried to keep his little weapon in his possession.  He grabbed for it as the techie (who was only following 007’s orders, and honestly wanted to give the object back to little Gear) backed away regretfully.  “No, give it back!  It’s mine-!”

“Q!” Bond loudly redirected Q’s attention, leaning down to the boy’s height and grabbing his shoulders.  This was the tried-and-true way to get Q to pay attention, and it worked: immediately the boy was looking at him, and instead of glaring in fury, there was the fear in his eyes that 007 had expected.  Q wasn’t angry at having something of his taken away – he was frightened because his only means of defense was being removed from his person.  Bond softened his voice, looking at that expressive, bespectacled face beneath the oversized hood as he said, “Q, if you need any protecting, I’ll do it, all right?  Is that clear?  You don’t need any weapon.”  He smiled a crooked, wry smile – slightly jaded but still a good smile, all told.  “I’m the best weapon around.  That’s why I’m 007.”

For a moment, Q just looked back at him, one side of his face still red beneath his hood.  Then a full-body shiver went through him, and in its wake he relaxed a bare fraction but also grew more vulnerable.  It was like watching a warrior take off his armor, becoming more human and weaker at the same time – especially since that warrior was all of seven years old and small enough to fit in a pet carrier-crate if someone got it in their head to shove him in one. 

Bond could imagine Westford doing someone inhumane like that, and the idea had him fisting his hands even as Q-branch finally took possession of the laser-pen.  R and her posy had not returned as yet from the hall outside the interrogation room, so only the most timid of Q-branchers were present, and backed off as waves of fury unrolled around the 00-agent.  Usually, little-Q was quite immune to this, but now he jumped back a bit, too, crossing his arms defensively around his narrow chest.  The bright eyes in the shadow of the hood pushed Bond to calm down, and he clenched his jaw irritably before taking and releasing a deep breath.  “You all right, Q?” he asked, trying to keep himself still and hopefully unthreatening.

The boy wet his lips, but nodded.  “Yes.”

In response to that, 007 merely grunted, “No, you’re not.  Come on, I’m more sick of this place than I ever thought I’d be.”  He stood up, just that motion of adding height to his frame causing people to back away from him in a wave.  Arching a brow down at Q, Bond stated simply, “Are you going to walk or am I going to pick you up again?”

That got some of the old fire back in the kid’s eyes, and uncrossed his arms to wave a hand at Bond in exasperation – which was actually more cute than anything else, because the hoodie Mallory had found was oversized enough that the sleeves fell over Q’s hands.  Therefore, he was waving little mittens rather than spidery fingers.  “I’ll walk, thank you very much!  I’ve got legs…”

Despite his protestations of independence, Q kept close to his 00-agent, and 007 to him as they made their way out and to the car.  Bond watched everything around them like a hawk – as if he were on a mission.  The moment he’d seen Q’s mother reach out and strike him, all on the instincts that he usually reserved for combat or dangerous situations turned on, and had yet to turn back off again.  He knew that there was practically no chance of anyone making trouble for him or his small charge, but part of James hoped heavily that someone would be foolish enough to give Mr. and Mrs. Finch a chance to escape – and that they’d been foolish enough to take that chance, and maybe even come after Q, because that would save Bond the trouble of hunting them down and killing them.  As it was, the two abhorrent parental figures were safely in MI6 custody, meaning 007 would have to put aside his homicidal plans.

Or maybe just wait until 006 came back to London to make up a better plan.  One that included paying the Finches back for hurting Q (emotionally, psychologically, and physically) up until now.

Q was…  It was hard to tell how he was doing.  Bond had gotten pretty good at reading the child prodigy’s moods, but right now he was having a hard time: Q was simply quiet, and had been since going back into that room with his parents.  It had been both impressive and unsettling to see Q back in that interrogation room, his sharp-featured little face going from meek and submissive to distant and cold in a heartbeat.  An agent couldn’t have done better.  Unfortunately, Q wasn’t an agent, so Bond couldn’t help but think that it was just wrong for a child to be able to do that. 

Q got in Bond’s side of the car, and that pretty much set the tone for the drive home and the evening: clingy.  For the drive back to James’s flat, Q sat in the middle instead of in the passenger seat, hand disappearing up into his hood as he gingerly massaged his cheek.  When he winced and hissed in a breath, Bond glanced down at him and commanded with a frown, “Just let it be.  I’ll look at it when we get back to the flat.”

“Home.”

Bond almost missed the word.  “What?”

“Home,” Q repeated in a small voice, dropping his hands to his lap and fiddling with the seat-belt strapped across his waist.  “I meant it when I said I wanted to go home, and…”

When Q fell silent, Bond panicked a bit, but managed to pick up Q’s line of thought.  He tested the waters while keeping one eye on the road, “And the flat is home?”

Q nodded mutely, tugging his hood further down over his head self-consciously, and Bond thought he heard a sniffle.  By this point, 007 was pretty sure that he’d dealt with Q in just about any emotional combination, but somehow he was off his game today.  How did one deal with a seven-year-old super-genius who had just seen his parents who had not only sold him for his skills but had also lied about being villains themselves?  Especially when that super-genius had then been struck out of retaliation when his mother didn’t take it well that her son had out-maneuvered her. 

The rest of the ride went in silence as Bond tried to figure out what to say to Q and how to drive without elbowing him.  Bond was used to driving with one arm broken or with people shooting at him, or while the car was barely working – but not with a bespectacled kid sitting close at his elbow.  It was a relief to finally get ‘home’, so much so that Bond audibly sighed when he was able to open the door and let Q out.  The boy scampered ahead of him to the door and let himself in, meaning he’d figured out where the spare key was.  “We…we have really poor security,” Q noted for the first time as he looked at the key in his hand.  Bond followed in behind and shut the door with a foot, in the same movement swooping the key out of Q’s possession. 

“Well, usually Alec and I are the security,” James pointed out as he strode in and stored the key in his pocket, “so we waste money on guns and ammo instead of alarms.”

That seemed to appease Q, luckily, as his pointy little shoulders relaxed and he finally pushed his hood back.  With a little sigh of his own, Q turned to face Bond, knowing that the man would want to look at his face.  Bond knelt down and nudged Q’s chin gently to turn his head.  He asked in a calm tone as he inspecting the livid handprint marring Q’s fair skin, “Your mother hit you often?”

“Never,” was the unexpected answer, said in a dejectedly quiet tone, “This is the first time.  I must have really made them angry.”

Bond looked up, quickly reassessing and thinking on what this meant for Q’s emotional state.  Being hit and otherwise physically abused by one's parents regularly was bad enough, but being struck for the first time was a shock.  That explained some of Q’s preternatural calmness – he’d really been rather calm since leaving the interrogation room, minus the little panic-attack at the loss of his laser-pen and the clinginess in the car.  Even now, Q was only quiet, not crying or falling apart. He was in shock.

Shock was something that Bond had dealt with before, albeit never in a kid.  “Q…I can’t promise that I’ll be very good at this…” he started.

“I’m okay, James, really,” Q cut in.

Bond looked up and raised an eyebrow slightly, along with a crook at the side of his mouth.  “And you’re calling me James again.  Let’s not make a verdict on how you are yet - at least not until you’ve had something to eat, hmm?”

A flicker of hot emotion danced behind Q’s eyes, either belated fear over the day or anger at Bond’s [correct] assumptions fighting to get out.  It was quickly sublimated, however, meaning he kid wasn’t going to crack quite yet.  Bond could wait, however – he was patient, and knew about the inevitability of blow-outs after traumatizing situations.  “I’m not hungry,” Q argued instead. 

‘Stubborn child’ was something Bond was less used to dealing with, unless he just pretended he was dealing with ‘stubborn Alec’, which was honestly pretty close.  “Fine.  I am,” he said equably, straightening and striding to the kitchen.  “You’ll at least have…” He looked in the fridge to see what they had.  “…Orange juice, then?”

“Fine,” Q grumbled, and finally followed him into the kitchen.

~^~

Q remained tightly controlled throughout the whole rest of the day, until Bond started texting R and Mallory both to ask if this was normal child behavior.  Neither was actually helpful: they just told him to hang-tight and keep watch, and to call if Q began to act wildly or irrationally, but otherwise just keep doing what he was doing.  Q did end up eating lunch, and eventually supper, so Bond didn’t have a legitimate reason to worry about that.  However, Q also hushed up over the evening, speaking seldom and tonelessly, generally to maintain that he was just fine.  When Bond tried to talk about what had happened, Q disappeared and proceeded to take apart the toaster. 

Mallory and R simply said to keep trying, and that it would all sort itself out.  Bond was ready to pull out his hair in the meantime.  He’d been hoping for more concrete advice – or perhaps a manual on post-traumatic child-care.  “And of course Alec has to still be on a mission,” Bond growled as he gave up and finally put his phone away.  By now, he’s spent the whole day with ‘I’m-fine’ robot-Q, and was ready to give Q a shake just to get a response.  He controlled himself, however, and instead watched with resignation as Q primly said goodnight and went to bed as if walking on eggshells, as he’d been all evening. 

Bond had never thought he’d admit it, but he preferred Q cranky and snarky to detached and unaffected. 

Changing into sweats and sleep-shirt, Bond went to bed feeling far more tired than the day warranted. 

He’d just barely drifted off when an unexpected sound had him on high-alert, body feigning sleep but senses stretching out all around him.  The room was dark, the window letting in just slices of grey light, but he could hear footsteps coming towards him rapidly.  Moving carefully and quietly but with practiced quickness, Bond slid one hand from beneath the blankets to where he kept a gun perpetually loaded and ready on the nightstand. 

Before he could do anything more, he recognized Q with a jolt – Q scrambling onto the bed, to be precise.  That startled 007 enough that he actually froze up, something that hadn’t happened to him in years.  Q was just full of surprises, and now he was burrowing under the blankets, breathing with strained quietness and moving carefully as if to keep from waking up Bond (apparently not realizing that he was awake already and holding a gun in his far hand, no less).

Bond continued to feign sleep, not sure what the hell else to do.  Lying on his back still, breathing purposefully deep and even, Bond kept his eyes slitted open and looking down the line of his left side as a Q-shaped lump came to rest against him.  There, the lump froze, quivering faintly.  Briefly, Bond’s tongue tangled over the idea of speaking up and asking what Q wanted, but then he realized that Q’s breathing was catching a bit, and the quivering was more localized – crying, or at least the precursor to crying. 

The whole day was finally catching up to Q, here in the dark, tucked snug, safe, and close against 007’s side.  Sadly, Bond noted that Q was once again curled up into a ball, as he had been when he’d first arrived in Bond’s custody: all limbs tucked in defensively.

So instead of speaking, Bond did what he’d done then: he lowered his left arm carefully (his right arm releasing the gun he obviously didn’t need), and began slowly stroking Q’s back.  Even when Q jolted in surprise, he kept up the repetitive, gentle motion, as if trying to coax Q's spine out of its curl with soothing strokes.  Q let out a sob then, a real one, and buried the uninjured side of his face against his protector’s ribs. 

“Neither of my parents ever hit me before,” Q keened heartbrokenly, no longer composed or cold or detached, “The-The people they had me work for…like Westford…would, but never my mum or dad!  B-B-But now she slapped me!  She’s my mum, James!”

“Shhhhh,” Bond hushed in a low, infinitely calm voice, dragging his hand up and curling it briefly around a bony shoulder.  His next words were equally low, an incontestable rumble deep in his chest, “Q, I’m not your parent and haven’t even known you a month, but I’d turn the world over for you.  Forget about them.  Bruises fade.  And no matter what people think, blood is not thicker than water.  Loyalty is.”

When 007 talked in that voice, no one argued with him. 

Q didn’t either.  He just cried himself out against the side of Bond’s chest, and while he refused to relax and uncurl, he did eventually fall asleep tucked under Bond’s arm.  The 00-agent continued to rub his back long after that, glacial blue eyes staring off into the nothing of the room. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

It was a twitch against his side that brought 007 around, a pressure that he immediately categorized as ‘living’ that snapped him into wakefulness.  He was like a machine that way, a single switch flipped and he was on, eyes slitted open and senses straining. 

But a second later, he recognized what the sensation was and slipped down from the height of alertness he’d been rocketed into.  Q had quivered in his sleep, a drowsy gesture that was not only harmless but not even that uncomfortable.  It was morning now – Bond knew it was also quite early, without having to check, because all 00-agents had an impeccable internal clock – and Bond and Q were more or less in the same position they’d been in all night long, with 007 on his back and little-Q stuck like a barnacle to his side, that fluffy dark head level with the middle of Bond’s ribcage.  He was still folded up into a small, compact shape that had loosened only fractionally over the course of the night, so the kid’s bony knees were prodding Bond’s hip.  At least Q was breathing quietly now, no hitching sobs or stuttered inhales as he dealt with the agony of a parent turning on him.  Both parents, really – just because his mother was the only one who had raised a hand to him didn’t make the father innocent. 

Bond experimentally moved his left hand.  It had spent the night looped over Q’s shoulders.  Now he used it to pull the blanket down a bit, just enough so that he could see Q’s head; how Q had breathed all night long completely buried under the blankets was a mystery.  Cocoon of blankets aside, Q’s hair was a rat’s-nest of dark-brown curls and he seemed fine. 

The blinds over the windows were effectively hiding away the sunlight still, but Bond was sure that if the room were brighter, he could have craned his neck and looked down at a bruise in full bloom across Q’s cheekbone.  With Q’s fair complexion, it would be quite a stark affair, he could be sure, especially since it had been quite a blow.  Mrs. Finch might not have been a violent parent before all of this, but she had shown no hesitation in making her fury known once it was clear that he son had sided against her.  Bond restrained himself from growling, knowing that Q would feel the low vibration where he had his forehead nudged up against Bond’s ribs.  Instead of giving vent to his protective temper, 007 reassured himself that Q was there and safe by stroking him again, running a hand over those errant curls.  Q gave a little sigh in his sleep, relaxing minutely more. 

Bond was awake now, and wanted to get up and do something, but leaving Q to wake up alone somehow seemed…wrong.  The last thing Bond was going to pretend was that he knew everything about dealing with small children, but all of his instincts told him that a boy in Q’s situation would want to wake up with the same company he’d gone to sleep with – after all, Q had gone to a lot of trouble not to go to sleep by himself. 

Finally, Bond just relaxed back against his pillow, making the decision to stay abed until its tinier occupant woke up.  With the decision came a sort of triumphant peace, because rarely did 00-agents just take time to sleep in – rarely could they afford to.  Now, however, 007 took in a deep breath and released it smoothly, taking a moment to arrange his left arm in an arc that roughly paralleled Q’s body like a mote of muscle and bone.  As if sensing everything around him on a subconscious level, Q’s small chest rose and fell as well, and he seemed to sink a bit more comfortably into the bed.  Bond smiled faintly before letting the blankets settled over Q's head again, as they had been - a protective, dark cave of cloth. 

Sleeping was still out of the question, now that 007 was awake, but there was one other thing within easy reach of the bed besides his gun – his phone.  He fished it off the little table near the bed and was soon checking it, finding a text from Alec.  If Alec were texting, he was either finished with his mission or in a lull between dangerous situations.  It was a bland text: ‘How are things?’

Bond wasn’t nearly so vague and circumspect.  He typed back with one hand, ‘Q’s a wreck and has monsters for parents.’

There was a pause that 007 chose to interpret as Alec sitting and staring in growing trepidation and rage at the phone.  Eventually, another text returned, ‘What happened?  Finishing up mission; nothing deadly going on, so spill.’

So Bond began to explain, keeping the texts just round-about enough that should anyone be tapping into the conversation in any way, they wouldn’t learn anything critical to MI6’s security or integrity.  Nonetheless, he got across the fact that Q had found out that his parents were criminals, that Q had then gone as cold as liquid nitrogen when he’d flushed the truth out of them, and had then been rewarded by a stinging slap to the face.  Bond also mentioned that somewhere in there Mr. Finch had had a run-in with a certain ‘blue-eyed monster’ and that the Finch’s walk out of the interrogation room would be the equivalent of chum drifting through shark-infested waters. 

The last bit seemed to appease 006 a bit, at least enough so that he stopped asking why Bond hadn’t killed the two parents in question.  ‘So my little kitten’s okay?’ came the reply with obvious humor in it. 

Normally, Bond would have snorted, thinking of the continual feud between his flatmate and little-Q in regards to acceptable/unacceptable nicknames.  Now, however, he just glanced down at Q breathing lightly under the blankets (not even snoring, as if he’d learned to sleep silently while in Westford’s care), and texted back grimly, ‘He’s worse than when you first met him.’

The reply was almost instantaneous, and all the lightness was missing.  ‘How?’

‘Sleeping curled up in a ball again, for one thing,’ Bond punched in the letters, mouth twisting in a frown, ‘He didn’t relax all night.’  He hit send and then composed the rest of the story, ‘I know that because he ended up spending the night with me.’

Having spent nearly as much time with Q as Bond had (or at least more time than anyone else besides Bond), 006 got the significance of all of this.  Both agents knew the little personality quirks and tics that had signified Q settling into his environment and growing more sure of himself, and therefore Alec knew that these were all signs of very abrupt regression.  ‘He okay now?’

‘Still sleeping.  Cried a lot at first, then dozed off.’

‘Poor little beggar.’ 

Words of honest sympathy, even via text, were rare for Alec.  Clearly, despite all of the occasions in which he and Q had argued and locked horns, there was sincere affection there – Bond had already known that there was protectiveness.  ‘Shock, I’m assuming?’ came Alec’s next text, hinting at a more businesslike tone. 

Bond replied in the affirmative, adding that he hoped the worst of it was over, now that Q had finally broken down and had a good cry.  Both Bond and Alec had agreed that Q’s icy façade when slamming the trap shut on his parents had been wildly atypical behavior for a child, although perhaps they shouldn’t judge.  They’d be calling the kettle black to say that what Q had done was unhealthy.  After all, weren’t 00-agents the kings and queens of unhealthy lifestyles?  Bond finished up, ‘I’m staying with him until he wakes up.  I don’t bloody know what I’m doing, but I figure that couldn’t hurt.’

‘Agreed.  Damage control is easiest when you’re already at the source of the problem,’ Alec replied with an adage usually applied to missions and/or bombs.  Parenting books likely covered the subject in a different way, but if Q had wanted to be taken care of by normal guidelines, he shouldn’t have attached himself to not one but two 00-agents.  ‘I’ll be back at MI6 by Tuesday, most likely.  Wednesday if trouble springs up.’

‘Good.’  Bond wanted to ask how things were going, but knew that information like that was definitely not something he should be discussing over texts.  What little he knew about Alec’s mission was that he was tracking down some of little-Q’s past buyers, making 007’s curiosity burn all the hotter. 

Alec’s final text made Bond grin fiercely as it came in: ‘Tell me if Mr. and Mrs. Finch are still in enough pieces to make heads or tails of when I get back.  I want to take a tear at them, too.’

~^~

M was sitting across from three people in her office, the miscreants all wearing different expressions and demeanors as they sat in those dreaded chairs across from her desk.  Very rarely did that many people warrant a lecture at one time from M, and even more rarely were those three people 002, 003, and R.  Such a combination was unheard of, and yet they looked quite natural together, and had been quite a team ever since making life a living torment for the infamous Mr. and Mrs. Finch. 

It was two days since that little boy of 007’s had effectively shattered the lies of Mr. and Mrs. Finch (now known to have used at least a dozen other names in the past, but originally Finch, ironically) and had taken a slap as a sign of his victory.  007 had called in to make it clear that Q was not seriously injured or in need of medical attention.  Despite his lack of parenting experience, Bond hadn’t demanded to have a counselor take over Q’s care, and M had respected that.  If anyone could be trusted to keep an eye on the boy as he recovered from the trauma, it was 007, not some stranger who didn’t know the boy.   

It was a miracle that Q’s parents had lived through the next hour.  When Mr. and Mrs. Finch had been led out of the interrogation room and back to their holding cells, and eerie procession had awaited them: silent faces, ranging from grim to enraged, had lined the halls.  Q-branch minions who rarely left their computers were present, as well as the very dangerous duo of 002 and 003, interwoven like hawks coexisting with sparrows.  All of them, however, techs and assassins alike, had looked entirely capable of committing murder right then.

Nothing violent had happened, however, although M still didn’t know how.  Perhaps R had organized something; that girl was far brighter and tougher than most gave her credit for.  She had to be, to keep her own crazy personality alive while still being good enough to serve as the old Quartermaster’s second-in-command.  Either way, Mr. and Mrs. Finch had been given nothing but horrifying silence and threatening glares as they walked down the hall. 

“What was that all about?” Ms. Morsten had asked, taking up the rear with M, eyes wide. 

Apparently, it had been a warning. 

Now, 002, 3, and the brightly-colored R were in M’s office awaiting judgment.  The oddest things was that R sat in the chair between the two.  Most of the time, 002 and 3 were like 006 and 7: an inseparable, ulcer-causing pair who naturally gravitated towards one another like…like some breed of missile-seeking-missiles.  If they were both in a room, they were at each other’s shoulders, and everyone else steered very clear of them, especially timid Q-branchers.  However, R was not one’s typical Q-branch employee, and was now sitting in between the two as if they were her own personal set of wings.  Big, muscular wings.  Lethal, gun-loving wings. 

The alliance that had grown up between the 00-division and Q-branch because of little-Q was both awe-inspiring and intensely disturbing, because they were opposites who complimented each other’s weaknesses rather neatly.  Q-branch had a level of genius and tech that made the scenario in ‘Terminator’ seem possible, and the 00-division had the picks- of-the-litter when it came to world-class spies and killers.  Literally, brain had met brawn, and had finally decided to be allies instead of enemies.

All because of a little boy who barely came up to M’s elbow. 

“So, what do you three have to say for yourselves?” M opened up sharply, standing behind her desk and managing to loom despite her own unimpressive size.

003 was slouching back moodily in his chair, and despite the lounging posture, managed to look clearly intimidating.  His cobalt eyes were narrowed to steely slits that were just on the safe side of mutinous as he scowled.  Out of all the 00-agents, 003 had to be handled the most carefully, because all 00-agents were famous for something, and Gregory Hind was famous for having a sinister streak about as wide as 007’s destructive one.  Very real menace always lurked just shallowly under the surface of his mood, but he was a fine agent all the same. 

Right now, he was sitting with his legs stretched out, one unconsciously looped over R’s boot as if to hold her in place. 

002 was a calmer version of 003, but what he lacked in temper he made up for in slyness.  His light-brown eyes were watching M, clearly trying to judge her mood, and likely how much he could get away with.  It was a measure of his sheer cunning that he got away with quite a lot, although M caught him enough (and subsequently punished him fiercely enough) that he had a healthy fear of her wrath.  Right now, he even looked a bit uneasy, and was warily watching his boss enough that he didn’t appear to have noticed that he was resting his arm on R’s chair-arm instead of his own. 

R sat in the middle of it all, untroubled by 003’s leg or 002’s encroaching arm.  Her pierced lips were pursed, her bright blue eyes almost defiant, and she looked as out of place as an orchid in a briar patch with her neon-headed self situated between two veteran killers.  If she noticed that both of them were subtly taking up her space and protecting her like two instinctive dogs, she gave no sign of it.  “I don’t know what-” she started with an attempt at obliviousness. 

“Don’t even start, R,” M cut her off immediately.

002 stepped in then, angling one pale-brown eye sympathetically R’s way as he spoke to M in a more practiced voice, “What she meant to say, M, was-”

“That’s R’s a terrible liar?” 003 snidely cut in. 

M watched the conversation that had evolved quite without her consent, R hissing at 003 and swinging a hand to slap his chest.  M prepared to reach for the alarm under her desk, because a move like that would usually set off a hair-trigger man like 003, but instead he just curled his lips back to bare his teeth briefly. 

“It’s not my fault that I’m not trained in lying!” R defended, her short pink hair seeming almost to bristle. 

“Then you should just let us do the talking,” 002 diplomatically pouted out. 

R wasn’t the kind of girl to let that happen, and crossed her arms before rounding on him as fearlessly as she’d rounded on his partner, “Oh, I should, should I?  And how far would you two get that way?”

That apparently hit a nerve, as 002 sat back a bit, looking anywhere but at her face.  “All right, point taken, but here in a meeting with M-”

This had gone on far enough, and was beginning to be almost too surreal to watch.  M interrupted tartly, “Yes, here in a meeting with M, who is still here and listening, thank you.  I actually called the three of you in here to ask about the constant harassment of Mr. and Mrs. Finch, if you could be bothered to recall.”

R paled as the squabbling was broken up, and even 003 had the commonsense to sit up a bit and look down.  002 had his ‘mission-face’ on, as if M couldn’t see through that in a second.  Honestly, half of the stuff that M was supposedly ‘oblivious’ to was actually perfectly obvious to her, but 00-agents and employees apparently needed some sense of personal power or their morale was crushed.  “Sorry, M,” 002 winced and spoke up for the three of them. 

Silence – very, very uncomfortable silence – followed, with M letting it stretch out for nearly a full minute before she made it worse.  “I’m still waiting for one of you to pull yourselves together enough to explain.”

This time, it was 002 who tried and avoid the jaws of the trap, removing his arm from R’s chair and leaning forward to put both of his elbows on his knees.  “Maybe you could be a bit more specific-”

“On second thought, 002,” M decided in her iciest tone, eyes zeroing in on him, “you keep your silver tongue behind your teeth before I see fit to have it removed.  R, kindly explain why the temperature controls for the holding cells keep being turned to sub-zero temperatures whenever the Finch couple get moved into them.”

It was unexpected, but 003 actually bristled when M directed her attack at R (logically the weakest link of the three, with her lack of torture and interrogation training).  He quieted quickly when M glared at him, but it was rare for 003 to be protective of anyone at all.  The man was incredibly useful in the field because he was borderline reptilian when it came to interpersonal relationships, and was almost never hindered by loyalties or connections to others.  He was quite happy to live with 002 as a friend and no one else, and if people other than that had to die to achieve his mission, he’d do it at M’s word – no hesitation.  It was also that factor that made him rather dangerous to have around, and Psych had definitely pegged him for having some sociopathic tendencies. 

But right now, he took exception as M went after R, if only for a second.  Little-Q was inspiring changes all around him…M wondered if this was what it was like to see a shockwave coming years ahead of its time.  That boy would shake the world someday if this was what he was already doing. 

When R faltered, 003 finally sat up, ignoring the head-shake that 002 warningly shot his way.  M met the cold, cobalt eyes, making it clear that she could just as emotionlessly shoot him as he could shoot her.  Fortunately, a blink later, and the violence omnipresent in 003’s personality faded to somewhere deep behind his eyes.  “We haven’t been hurting them,” he said, not bothering with preamble, “but if you expect those maggots to get off scott-free for what they did to 007’s boy, then you might want to rethink that.”

Great.  M was facing insurrection.  She sighed, having suspected as much when unexpected little things had started happening to make the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Finch difficult.  First their holding cells would suddenly turn unbearably cold – or hot – and then they complained of having visitors straight out of nightmares, voices in the dark that the guards denied letting in.  00-agents could sneak into holding cells like that, and Q-branchers had access to all sorts of environmental controls, and it had only taken a little time for M to narrow down the ringleaders.  Normally, she’d have suspected Alec and James, but Alec was still out of the country and Bond was babysitting. 

M resisted the urge to rub a hand over her face, wishing for the good old days when spies were all heartless and pathologically incapable of forming healthy alliances.  “So you three have taken it upon yourselves to antagonize prisoners?”

003’s teeth showed in a ragged, bladed sort of grin.  “Think of it as guerilla warfare.”

“At least we’re not shooting them,” 002 pointed out, “You’ll note that we haven’t actually laid a hand on them.  And threatening to kill them doesn’t equate to the actual act.”  M just about told him to be quiet again – the trick with 002 was that he always acted diplomatic, but at least 80% of the time he was merely masking a hidden agenda, like a dog-owner wrapping up a pill in bacon so that the dog didn’t know what it was eating until it had swallowed.  Many a person had gone along with 002’s sensible words (made all the more poignant and acceptable when the other option was 003’s violent methods) only to realize too late that they’d basically agreed to roll over and die for him. 

M’s eyes narrowed, going from the face of one man to the other.  Both met her eyes unflinchingly, willing to take the blame.  The trick was, both of them had been trained to do that.  M focused her eyes on R, looking so fragile and innocent when offset by her two troublesome companions.  “This was all your idea, wasn’t it?” M hit the nail on the head without regret.

For a second, R tensed, then she looked down, caught.  When she lifted her eyes again, however, they were nearly as steely as 002 and 3’s were capable of being.  “They deserve a lot more than what we’re doing to them, for hurting Gear,” was all she said, voice low and even and vicious enough to make a 00-agent proud.

R might not have had the training, but when she’d seen the kindred hatred on 003 and 3’s face there in the hallways outside the interrogation room, she’d seen an opportunity.  Q-branch couldn’t physically kill Mr. and Mrs. Finch, and since the 00-agents couldn't legally do it, R began to wield her leadership skills to make the best of a bad situation.  Now, as the whole story came out to M’s expressionless face, R explained how she’d taken the 00-agent’s fury and focused it into something productive.  With that killing power contained and focused, Q-branch felt like an archer shielded by a castle wall, and R coaxed their anger into a steady fire as well.  After that, it wasn’t hard to set her plan into effect.  There were lots of ways to pay back the Finches without killing them…

After the narrative ended, M just sat a moment, looking at the recalcitrant, stubborn faces turned her way.  002 and 3 still seemed completely oblivious to the ways they naturally shifted around R as if the petite young woman were the sun to their galaxy, and M made a mental note to talk to the old Quartermaster about just how charismatic and powerful a leader R was. 

Of course, even though M was impressed by all of this, she was obliged to give the three a formal reprimand. 

The next half hour was dedicated to a level of verbal lacerations that probably only 007 had ever taken and survived before.  002’s silver tongue fell to lead within the first ten minutes, right about the time when R stopped looking defiant, and 003’s acidic looks wilted and crumpled ten minutes after that.  By the last quarter of the tongue-lashing, the three miscreants were sunk low in their chairs and pale, clearly wondering how in the world they could have ever thought this was a good idea.  M missed nothing, and to those who tried her patience, she was an indefatigable monster that even 00-agent feared. 

“You may leave,” she finally dismissed them, when it was undeniably clear that they would not be pulling stunts like this anymore.  The three got up with the wobbly, desperate movements of a person who has just been eviscerated, and M internally counted it as a victory when they all flinched at the sound of her voice calling them back: “One last note to carry with you.”  Reluctantly, 002 turned around, handsome, lean face haggard and drawn; 003 stopped in the doorway but kept his back to her, every muscle taut beneath his polo; R froze except to glance over her shoulder with trepidation mingling with her chastised expression. 

“I will tolerate no more attacks – overt or otherwise – on anyone in MI6 custody.  However…”  M’s eyes glittered even if her expression never changed.  “I applaud your initiative.  Do it again, and I’ll have you all quietly disposed of.”  She looked down at the paperwork on her desk then, primly, a clear dismissal.

With those mixed messages rattling around in their beleaguered brains, 002, 003, and R exchanged flustered looks before beating a helpless retreat.  M only smiled after the door had closed behind them, and made no further efforts to punish them. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

It was somewhat stifling, wherever Q was, but it was also warm and smelled familiar, ultimately causing a feeling of well-being to leech into him even if he still kept his knees up near his chest, arms tucked in the little inlet his body created. 

Then he woke up enough to remember where he was.

Q froze, eyes widening under the darkness of the blankets as he remembered his tremulous mission to Bond’s room the night before, the way he’d burrowed under the blankets with every intention of never coming out again.  His face had ached and his heart had stung, and in the silence and emptiness of his own room, it had suddenly felt as if the emotions he’d locked away all day had multiplied and grown claws. 

The only answer he could think of to the agony was Bond, because Bond always made things better. 

Now, however, as Q recalled all of that and realized that he’d ultimately fallen asleep with the man, a bubble of panic expanded in his chest.  Swearing with increasing fluency (even before meeting Alec, Q had had quite a diverse vocabulary) in his head, Q hoped desperately that Bond was still asleep, and started squirming backwards out from under the blankets.  With a shocked start, he realized that there was a weight on his shoulder that couldn’t be anything else but 007’s hand.  Yep, he was definitely going to escape as soon as possible and hope that Bond miraculously forgot that any of this had happened…

Q’s mortification grew tenfold in the space of a second as said hand shifted and closed around his nape through the blankets, 007’s lazy voice accompanying it without an ounce of drowsiness to it, “Nice try, Q.  Come out the other way so I can see that fluffy head of yours.  May as well check to see how your cheek is doing.”

Pretty sure that his cheeks were both so red with embarrassment that no bruising would stand a chance of even being visible, Q stopped backing up and grudgingly began moving forward.  Truthfully, he couldn’t see a thing under the blankets, but he bumped into Bond constantly on his left, and the hand still on his nape guided him until he was blinking shortsightedly up at the blond 00-agent.  He curled up against the blankets still pooled over his shoulders, plucking half-heartedly at it as Bond’s hand moved and lowered.  “Sorry,” he murmured, further ashamed of how disused his little voice sounded. 

“Hmm?” Bond replied, infuriatingly, as if he weren’t listening.  The man could be like that.  His calloused hand, right now, was under Q’s chin and tipping his face up to the ambient light filtering through the blinds. 

Q sighed, the breath ruffling his bangs up resignedly.  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, more clearly but still quietly. His heart constricted in his chest.

He couldn’t see anything but a blur for 007’s face, but he desperately hoped the irked sound he heard reverberating up from the man’s chest was due to the condition of his bruises and not his impromptu takeover of the man’s bed.  “Why would you think you have to say you’re sorry?” came Bond’s murmur, only faint bemusement escaping into the voice.

This was exasperating.  It would help if Bond weren’t a bloody 00-agent with years of training in making himself utterly unreadable, but even then, a seven-year-old child prodigy with nearsightedness could only do so much.  “Bond, I don’t have my glasses.  I can’t even see your face to see how…!”  He choked up a bit, heart thumping and head pulling away from Bond’s fingers.  He muttered against the material of his sleep-shirt as he caved in on himself, feeling horribly like he was going to break down and cry again, “...How angry you are with me.”

There was a long silence that made Q want to run and hide, and then a deep, weary sigh.  When Bond’s hand lifted, Q squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut even though it made the ache in his cheek reawaken.  He should have known better, though, as Bond’s hand merely came and petted his head.  Q relaxed with a rib-creaking sigh of relief even as his caretaker’s fingers curled enough to scratch lightly at his scalp – usually people did that with pet cats, but for once, the boy didn’t mind.  “If you had your glasses, Q, you’d see me giving you a look – but only because you’re being foolish.”

“Foolish?” Q echoed, having rarely been called that.  Even when his parents had farmed out his skills to particularly irritable criminals, their name-calling never included pot-shots about his brain capacity. 

“Yes,” Bond asserted as if it were natural.  At the same time, he slipped his hands under Q’s arms and hauled him squirming the rest of the way out from under the blankets, settling him in roughly the same place, but on top of them.  “Foolish, because I can’t recall the last time I was mad at you – not even when you took apart the microwave.”

“You were a little mad when I technologically attacked 002 and 3,” Q lifted one finger to remind. 

“That was different!” Bond defended himself.  Perhaps later, he’d realize how ridiculous he looked, arguing with a scrawny seven-year-old.  “You were going toe-to-toe with two assassins and poking them with a stick.  I wasn’t actually angry, so much as…”

Bond cut off, and Q squinted, trying to see his face and why he’d fallen silent.  Feeling a bit safer about Bond’s mood, one way or another, Q verbally prodded out of curiosity, “So much as what?”

The 00-agent’s voice was low and sincere despite the wry edge he tried to put on it, “I was afraid I’d have to dig two very deep holes to put them in if they actually hurt you.”  Bond looked away, considering for a moment before noting, “Actually, 003 is still pretty high up on the list of people I’d love to kill if I weren’t afraid of getting caught doing it.”

“Bond!” Q exclaimed, scandalized.  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re right.  Want some breakfast?”

~^~

It was two days later that Alec returned home to roost, with no indication that he stopped off at MI6 first – clearly, he wanted to check on Q.  Granted, everyone in MI6 wanted to check on Q, but only 006 had any hopes of getting close to the kid without Bond being a threat.  M had been notably quiet in regards to her top agent, and no one had so much as tried to call him in since the ‘parent incident.’  Likewise, Bond had seemed more than happy to just stay in and play guard-dog to a pint-sized genius who was still reeling from emotional whiplash. 

Alec came into the flat silently, as always, having shot James a text ahead of time just to ensure no one shot each other on arrival – similar close calls had occurred before when they’d surprised each other unannounced.  The other technique that worked well was arriving noisily, but that grated against 00-agent instincts.  Alec compromised with the ‘heads-up’ text and a familiar hello before sticking anything vital through the doorway.  When no gunshots were heard, but instead 007’s relaxed, “All clear!” Alec popped his head in to see Bond in the kitchen cleaning his guns. 

“Where’s the pocket-sized member of our clan?” he called with a mix of humor and rather sincere worry, arching an eyebrow and nudging the door closed behind him.  He was still somewhat dusty from the field and smelled like sweat and gunpowder, but didn’t have any fresh wounds, which was not only a relief but something of a rarity. 

Immediately, a tousled head of dark hair popped around the division between kitchen and living room.  Bond was looking over Q’s head from further back, and gave Alec a clear warning look: ‘Tread carefully,’ it said.  Alec responded by an almost imperceptible nod of his head while turning his attention to Q, whose face was more solemn than he was used to.  Actually, he hadn’t seen it that closed-off and guarded since the boy had just moved in, and 006 sadly recalled James’s texts telling him that Q was sleeping in a defensive ball again.  Alec smiled broadly as if he didn’t know any of this.  “Hey, kitten!”

“I’m not a kitten.”  Q’s nose wrinkled up slightly beneath his glasses.

“Tell me that after you’ve grown a bit.  Until then, you’re kitten-sized, kotě,” Alec replied remorselessly, shrugging off his coat and generally letting his stuff fall on the floor by the door.  James was nimble enough to step over it, and anyone coming in at this point would be uninvited, so having them trip would be a bonus.  “Is Bond even feeding you?  I think you shrunk.” 

Q’s glare was becoming more familiar, although it was still edged with a wary nervousness that was new…or, rather, old.  Q had been a nervous little bird when Alec had first met him, and he was reflecting that all over again now.  However, as the kid looked back over his shoulder at Bond, his aloof, questioning tone was normal enough…for Q.  “I thought it was customary to remark upon how much a young person has grown.”

“It is.”  Bond was fighting a grin as he ran a cloth over one of the many pieces arrayed on the table.  “But this is Alec.  What did you expect?”

The almost theatric sigh of resigned acceptance to that should have been insulting, but it only deepened the smug smirk stretching Alec’s face, and he finally made his way further into the flat.  He ruffled Q’s hair thoroughly as he passed him, hearing a muttered, “Your hands are all gross,” before he sank into a chair next to Bond.  Both watched in mirrored amusement as Q tried unsuccessfully to wipe traces of Alec’s grimy hands from his head.  Q shot them a glare over the top of his glasses, the fingers of his little hand still buried in his hair.  “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“Hence the grins,” Alec helpfully replied in confirmation, and Bond snorted before dutifully returning to his work.  The gun was probably immaculate, but it only stayed that way because 007 compulsively took it apart and scrubbed it spotless. 

Alec’s hands hadn’t been quite that dirty, fortunately, so Q eventually gave up.  Instead of coming to the table where the two men were, he turned to wander around the living room.  Alec watched under half-closed lids, pretending to just be relaxing in his chair with Bond moving with efficient patience next to him. 

“Look familiar?” Bond eventually asked in a murmur, barely flicking his eyes up to Q’s light-footed wandering. 

“I’m not used to seeing him do that in the daylight, but yeah,” Alec admitted in a grunt, “Is he up exploring the house again at night, too?  Kid's got energy.”

“No,” 007 sighed, beginning to put the gun back together again, “Nighttime would be for nightmares.”  As Alec winced in sympathy, 007 went on, “It’s been a rough two days.  Want a drink?”

Alec turned and raised an eyebrow.  “I should be asking you that.  You’ve been watching a traumatized prodigy.  I’ve just been hunting and shooting people.” 

~^~

Stories were exchanged, all in tones too low for Q to hear even if he had been interested – which he didn’t seem to be.  Like a brand-new, wary cat all over again, he explored the house, and Alec only straightened when he couldn’t see him anymore.  “In his room?”  It had ceased to be Alec’s room ages ago. 

Bond sighed, getting up.  “Probably mine.”

“You going to root him out?”

“No, I’m going to see if he’s asleep,” Bond corrected ruefully, “I rather hope he is, because he was up until 1 AM and then decided that morning should happen four hours later.”

Even by 00-agent standards, that was rough, and Alec cringed a bit but rocked to his feet to follow 007, both of them as silent as death despite the fact that Alec still wore his shoes.  Barefoot, 007 could have snuck up on a cat.  No doubt he noticed Alec shadowing him, but neither commented nor slowed down, instead approaching his room and peering past the half-open door.  Alec glanced further, angling his head to the next bedroom…nope, empty.  As predicted.  A glance back to Bond’s room at first yielded another confusingly empty space, until he looked closer and saw that the lump towards the headboard was not actually a pillow tangled in blankets, but a Q tangled around a pillow and wrapped in blankets.  006 had to blink a few times before he could make sense of it, and was only sure that that was Q when he noted the small pair of glasses resting on the table nearby. 

Bond sighed, sounding relieved.  He closed the door, not so much to close off the boy inside, but because he’d be more likely to hear the door opening if Q woke up – sometimes, with Q, the extra warning was nice to have.  “Can kids be insomniacs?” he asked Alec with blatant befuddlement.  The frustration of dealing with Q over the past few days was finally pouring out, now that he had company. 

“Can kids take apart a toaster and a stopwatch and make a bomb?” Alec shot back reasonably.

That earned him a grimace from 007.  “No – but, for the record, he hasn’t done that yet.”

“Note the ‘yet’ in that sentence.  Note it carefully.”

“I’d strangle you, but you smell like something that got run over by a car and left by the side of the road,” 007 retorted uncharitably, but there was humor there, too, lurking in the slight, wry curl at one side of his mouth. 

Alec was never one to pass up on playful banter, and smiled his most shark-like grin as he angled towards the bathroom – more importantly, the shower.  “You should see the other guy.  He looks like he’s been dead for a few days.”  The grin deepened, morbid humor being part of the 00-agent trade, at least when Q wasn’t awake to hear it.  “Probably because he has been.  One of the Finch’s comrades must have gotten wind that I was sniffing around, and decided that trying to kill me was a good idea.”

The news brought a fierce fire to 007’s eyes.  “Did he give you information first?”

“Who do you think I am?” Alec all but purred, disappearing into the bathroom with the silent promise to share the rest of his discoveries after he was clean and dry again.

~^~

It turned out that Alec had learned quite a lot – even being shot at by one of the Finch’s old associates had been a calculated attempt to draw people out of hiding.  No 00-agent of Alec’s caliber would have caught ‘sniffing around’ unless he purposefully wanted to attract some attention. 

However, now that Alec had all of this information, he had to confirm it…and Q was the best person to do that with.  Mr. and Mrs. Finch were known liars, even after their own son had blown their cover, and besides that, M had them on lockdown.  Something to do with a ruckus orchestrated by R and 002 and 3.  That was a story that neither 007 nor 006 really knew much about, but they decided that would be the first thing they asked about when they returned to MI6.

 “Q,” Bond called, using one of the softer voices he owned.  He still got the inkling that it was low and rough, and for the millionth time he wondered why Q trusted it.  He shook the shoulder beneath the blanket slightly while Alec – freshly washed and in new clothes that didn’t smell like grit and gunshot residue, hair still damp – looked on over his shoulder.  “Q, wake up.”

“He really hasn’t been sleeping, has he?” Alec observed.

The different voice – a familiar one, but nonetheless one that did not belong to James Bond – roused Q swiftly, and with enough of a jolt that he thrashed and kicked instinctively.  With the easy grace of honed reflexes, Bond’s hand snapped out and caught one skinny ankle as it shot free of the blankets.  “Q, it’s just Alec,” he berated mildly, adding, “and he’s too far away for you to kick anyway.”

Looking like a wide-eyed, darkly-plumaged owl, Q popped his head free of the blankets, unlatching himself from the pillow he’d been wrapped around with strangling strength.  He immediately stretched to get his glasses, then noticed the hand looped benignly about his ankle.  Most would have panicked, but out of everyone he knew, little-Q dealt with 007’s unique brand of humor the best.  Some of the shock of being awoken wore off to be replaced with a gimlet look.  “I’m not going anywhere,” he deadpanned. 

The hint of humor proved to Bond that Q was truly awake, and even a bit himself, so he let go before the joke stopped being funny.  Q still had a slight scar around that ankle from when he’d been handcuffed to the table, a reminder of when the two had first met.  As Q flipped over on his knees, finally getting his glasses, the pale white line from the glass-cut on the arch of his foot was likewise visible. 

‘Kids shouldn’t have scars,’ was all Bond thought, a ridiculous show of altruism that was rare for him, but sincere nonetheless as the thought drifted to the forefront of his mind.  He removed his dour expression before Q turned around again, now bespectacled.  “Alec has some questions, Q.” 

The boy seemed to deflate a bit with one look from 007 to 006, reading their expressions.  It was truth that both were trained to have just about the best poker-faces in the country, but they saw no point hiding it from little-Q – especially since the kid was eerily perceptive and quick anyway.  “Sorry, kitten, they’re nosy questions,” Alec said, sitting at the end of the bed.  Q just sighed and moved until he was sitting next to Bond, between the two of them but closer to the man he was most familiar with.  Having been warned via text about Q’s new-found clinginess, Alec didn’t bat an eye.  In fact, he was more bothered by the fact that Q wasn’t lecturing him or glaring at him about being called ‘kitten’ yet again. 

“Is this about my parents?” Q asked with rigid control in his voice, legs hanging off the bed, kicking slightly, hands clasped between his knees. 

Alec shook his head.  “Employers.  Or bossy kidnappers with liberties, depending on what label you’re looking for,” Alec said with a certain level of deadliness sewn into his low tone. 

Q’s head jerked up with a jolt from where he’d been staring at his feet, and if he’d truly been a cat, his fur would have stood on end down his neck and tail.  The boy’s face no longer showed any signs of the hard slap his mother had dealt him, but now, looking at the wide brown eyes, Alec could easily see the wounds underneath: they were raw and they were hurting, and the only balm they seemed to respond to was a certain 00-agent with a penchant for dating fast women and crashing fast cars (the cars, he maintained, were not his fault).

That agent was shifting with pretend idleness, making it look like he was just leaning his weight back on his arms, although Alec noticed that one of those arms was angled behind Q – a pillar of muscle and bone, close enough not to touch the boy’s back, but to radiate heat, because Bond was a furnace.  Q didn’t seem to consciously notice, but hopefully some part of the back of his mind snuggled back against the offered protection. 

“What…”  Q’s voice was a squeak, and he determinedly stopped and clear his throat, wetting his lips before pressing on more, “What do you want to know?”

So with one more look exchanged with Bond (a silent asking for permission, getting it with the faint tip of James’s chin over Q’s head), Alec began rattling off questions with militant proficiency.  He did because it was the fastest way…but then it turned out that Q responded best to it, and Alec got an unsettling look at Q’s ‘cold face’ that had shown up in the second half of his talk with his parents. 

Q responded to the clean-cut, efficient questions by straightening his spine slightly, eyes narrowing at first in a look that appeared angry but soon resolved itself into an emotionless abyss that had even Alec a little unsettled.  By the way James’s mouth was tight, he wasn’t completely comfortable with the look either, but he seemed resigned to it.  Q’s voice likewise grew flat and unaffected, as if he’d frozen the uncertain quiver in it in a block of ice.  007 looked like he wasn’t looking forward to the thaw later.

Alec said names; asked if Q recognized them.  If he didn’t, Alec gave descriptions, and generally that had Q nodding.  Sometimes Alec asked what Q had done for them, leading to the telling of a detached story that had James’s hands unconsciously clenching on the bed, the muscles of his arms standing out.  Very, very rarely, it seemed, had Q ever been treated well by the people his parents had had him work for. 

Therefore, Alec took a certain amount of pride in finishing off the mini-interrogation by nodding, smiling in a feral way, and beginning to list things off himself: he’d found no fewer than ten people that Q had had contact with in the criminal underworld, and had crippled two more, killed a third.  By the time Alec was finished speaking, Q’s blank façade had vanished in the place of wide-eyed shock. 

“Now that you’ve informally confirmed that I’m hunting the right people, I can bring most of them in,” Alec said with his usual cheeriness, which dampened a little as he remarked, “Although I imagine M will tighten a leash a bit, and want them captured alive.”

“That one who nearly broke Q’s arm,” Bond said with quiet furiousness – the hissing of smoke between a dragon’s teeth.  He’d read between the lines of Q’s story on that one, understanding things that Q was just a bit too naïve to realize, and had seen how close Q had come to being more battered than he had been.  Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Finch had just enough parental instincts to sense a sexual predator, even if they’d been pathetically slow at removing their son from the situation.  Just like the dragon in the metaphor, Bond felt his anger burning hot in the pit of his stomach as he met Alec’s eyes over Q’s head with unrelenting intensity, “That one, you kill.”

By now, it was both familiar and expected to hear Q berate, “Bond!” in a sharp voice, twisting to stare up at the man in an adorably chastising way.  Bond merely looked down at him, brows still lowered, blue eyes still not giving an inch. 

“Let me deal with monsters, Q,” he coaxed in a low, soft voice – pleading wrapped up in protective wrath, “Even your monsters.” 

Stunned by the look he was being given, Q didn’t even budge for a second, but eventually croaked out in a soft mewl, “So long as you let me handle your tech instead of that old man you call a Quartermaster.”

Alec started first: he coughed, and then the startled cough became a full-blown guffaw, one that a surprised James was following in a moment later, after he got the hilarious look of befuddlement off his face.  Q was entirely serious, but as he watched two full-grown 00-agents collapse into laughter on either side of him, the boy put on a wry smile, watching with the kind of warmth that curls up in one's soul like a cat in sunlight.  

Chapter Text

~^~

Bond was an agent first and a babysitter of young geniuses second, and therefore it was inevitable that he had to go out into the field again before long.

He and Alec both had had a week of rest and relaxation after Alec’s mission had ended, although ‘relaxation’ was a relative term when they had a jittery genius on the premises.  Q was a full-on insomniac by this point, but still managed to have enough buzzing energy the keep two 00-agents on their toes.  When word came that Mr. and Mrs. Finch were still being detained at MI6, 007 hid that information from the kid, hoping that Q might actually calm down a little if he could just stop thinking about his parents.

Alec was a great help, although that was a mixed blessing. It was a good idea to keep Q occupied unless they wanted to find out that he’d taken something electronic apart out of boredom, but the alternatives that 006 offered were rarely any better. For example, Q was rapidly becoming quite good a poker, although he was abysmal at the finer subtleties of keeping a straight face or watching for tics and giveaways on his opponent’s face. Then again, Bond noted the last time he watched Q and Alec facing each other over their hands of cards, 00-agents had some of the best poker-faces in the country.  If Q ever got good enough to call a bluff on either 006 or 7, he’d be well on his way to be a dangerous little card-shark at the tender age of seven.

More often (when Q wasn’t interest in having 006 wipe the floor with him at a gambling game) Q would quietly coax 006 into a game of Skosh. Q was still a timid little thing, so long as he wasn’t riled, and never directly asked 006 (or 007) to play with him. Actually, 007 was noticing that the boy never really asked for anything. Instead, Q would imply that he wanted something, and then wait watchfully for a reaction. 006 didn’t pay it any mind, but Bond watched closely. 

“Ask me, Q,” he said bluntly one morning over breakfast, while Alec was still sleeping in, or pretending to, sprawled on the couch.

Q’s head shot up, brows quirked up into his tangle of dark hair. “Ask you what?”

“To pass the milk.  You want it, because you’ve been looking at it for the past five minutes and pretending you have enough in your bowl,” Bond laid out unhesitantly while he leaned forward on the table, leaning his forearms on it but making no move to touch the carton of milk at his elbow. 

Now Q’s brows lowered, slightly flustered and maybe defensive, and he sat up a bit straighter while tightening one delicate hand around his spoon. “I don’t want any milk.”

“Really?” Bond was persistent.

“Really. I would have asked if I wanted any.”

“No,” Alec proved that he was, indeed, perfectly awake and eavesdropping as he called from the living room, “You wouldn’t.”  He also was proving that 007 wasn’t the only one watching their smallest flatmate very, very closely at any given point, picking up on his ever-changing oddities.  “Don’t even try to lie to us, kattunge, we’re trained to notice that kind of thing.”

Twisted around in his chair so he could look at 006 sprawled out on the couch (he basically had Alec behind him on the couch and James in front of him at the table), Q just blinked for a moment, finally unable to resist demanding, “What in the world did you just call me?”

That effectively brought levity to the mood, and James snorted a laugh while acquiescing to the denied request for milk, reaching and pouring some into Q’s bowl while the kid continued to glare at Alec.  Alec had lifted his head enough, pillowed on his hands behind his head, to smirk unrepentantly.  He refused to elaborate what he’d said, but James had already translated it in his head to another derivative of a small and cute feline.  For begin a child genius, Q was awfully slow at catching on to the gist of these nicknames. 

Later, Q paid Alec back for the teasing by giving him the runaround at Skosh. As he usually did, 007 pulled up a chair, sitting on it the wrong way to simply watch without being involved. It fascinated him, this chance to observe of Q’s little mind worked when it was focused on an abstract task and unaware that anyone was judging his actions for it.  Eyes cool and collected behind his glasses, Q deftly but patiently moved cards.  Occasionally, he clarified some rules – he and Alec made new ones all the time, but only under the clause that both agreed to the rule before putting it to use – but Bond shrewdly thought that Q was actually just testing the waters.  Sometimes, when Q asked about a rule, it was because Alec had been breaking said rule moments before, thinking his small opponent oblivious. ‘Not so much,’ Bond smirked to himself, as Q’s keen but unreadable eyes slide over the array of cards again. 

Despite all of this, Q still lost in the end, but didn’t seem put out about it. Alec was inordinately pleased, as usual, at having beat a child at a game of cards, and smiled smugly for the rest of the evening.  The cost of losing was doing dishes, but Bond volunteered to help like it was the most natural thing, leaving Alec to watch television in the living room.

Washing the dishes while Q took up a towel and dried (standing on a stool, because he still hadn’t grown tall enough to comfortably do otherwise), Bond murmured, “You could have beaten him.”

There was a moment of silence, in which Q’s expression didn’t so much as flicker, his concentration seemingly on the plate he was maneuvering in his towel-draped hands.  “What was that you said, 007?” he asked aloofly. 

‘Ah, we’re using the name ‘007’now, are we?’ One side of Bond’s mouth curled up, and answered as idly as if Q were just a friendly coworker he’d chanced to meet up with.  “Sorry, I’ll be sure to speak louder next time.  I was who I should start laying bets on when you and Alec next play Skosh.”

Now, the faintest ghost of a smile took up residence on Q’s lips, barely enough to notice.  Q meticulously got the last of the water from the place, placing it carefully on the stack forming on the counter.  “You should have started betting on me a long time ago, 007,” Q all but purred, then grabbed the next place from the drying rack, “I could have won ages ago.”

“And why exactly haven’t you?” Bond couldn’t help but test Q’s boasting tone, a little surprised despite himself.  He raised a brow, looking down at Q. 

The boy simply shrugged, a practice in economical motion. “I could have beaten him, but it wouldn’t have been clean.  If I win that game, I want it to be a sure thing, and I want to do it well.” He cast an eye up at Bond, one of those looks that seemed too old and jaded for Q’s face, and Bond found a bit of uncomfortable sadness twisting his heart as Q informed him with a solemn face, “Look at me, Bond.  Everyone says they’ve got dogs bigger than me, and it’s true.  If I want to beat someone, I have to make sure that I do it right the first time, because the other option is not getting the chance to do it again.”

“That’s battle-logic, Q.”

“Then I’ve been in a lot of battles,” Q shrugged again, looking back to the damp mug in his grip, “Are we almost done?”

Bond sighed and then murmured some sort of affirmative, looking back to where Alec (out of hearing range for once) was obliviously watching television. He wondered if Alec knew what was coming the next time he played a game against their small, cunning, street-wise ward.

~^~

Bond and Alec both ended up on a mission before that happened. The former, at least, was long overdue to be put back in the field, and the mission called for exactly the skills that he and Alec were the best at.  So, at long last, Bond gave in to the idea of being parted from little-Q. Leaving him behind was easier when R immediately came up and offered to babysit him. 

“All of Q-branch loves him,” she coaxed, her eyes almost as bright as her neon hair, flashing excitedly like the piercings in her lip, “Well, except the Quartermaster, that is, but we’ve hid Gear from him before.” She reached down and ruffled Q’s hair, and for once, Q just smiled happily at the attention instead of grumbling and straightening his hair.  When Alec reached over and repeated the gesture a moment later with more thoroughness, said glare appeared full-force.  Despite how much 006 annoyed him, Q remained standing between the two 00-agents, which was arguably the safest location in all of MI6.  Bond still hadn’t told Q that his parents were still in the building, but he’d told Alec, and protective instincts had run rampant from there – neither man knew why Mr. and Mrs. Finch were still around (MI6 was not a prison facility, after all), but it made both men uneasy.

Especially since they were scheduled to leave the country. 

“I think that M already gave the babysitting job to Mallory,” Bond replied to R politely, automatically covering Q’s mouth with one hand even as Q was drawing breath to say he was not a baby to be babysat.  The muffled sounds of Q’s protests just barely squeaked past his fingers.  Meanwhile, James was smirking jovially at the memory of getting that text, wondering just how much bullying had been involved in convincing Mallory to watch Q.

“And Mallory has talked to R,” came an unexpected male voice from the end of the hall: Gareth Mallory himself.  Both 00-agents had heard footsteps approaching, but hadn’t realized just who it was – they were only human, after all, despite their training, and this near to Q-branch it was common to have a techy walking by and giving a shy wave to ‘Gear’.  Both Bond and Trevelyan pushed down their surprise swiftly even as R whirled around, her own startled expression melting into an easy smile.  Q gave a sharp elbow to Bond’s hip, because the man still had a hand cupped over his mouth. 

“Mallory,” Alec greeted, all smiles himself, if that shark-like look on his face counted as a smile.  People who said that 007 was bad at greeting authority figures never watched 006 at work.

R, much more polite and aware of her station, chirped a polite, “Good morning, sir,” and dipped her pink-haired head.  Bond simply remained silent, the hand that had been muffling Q only moving away to land on the child’s shoulder – his nonverbal way of saying that he didn’t actually know Mallory enough to explicitly trust him yet. Other than that, fortunately, Bond made no indication that he was going to cause trouble, something that Mallory’s keen eyes must have noticed, because he gave a subtle nod. “There’s been a lot of chatting all around since you were originally informed of everyone’s plans,” Mallory began to explain, “Since everyone we would trust with Qui- Q…” Mallory’s stutter was so swift as to be nearly unnoticeable, but 007’s blue eyes had still narrowed icily. Fortunately, Mallory recovered and kept talking in a levelheaded fashion, “-Has a day-job, the best course of action was to perhaps get more than one babysitter.”

“Everyone keeps saying that like I’m a baby,” Q said, this time before Bond could stifle him.  It was fair to say that Q’s mood was a bit tetchy this morning, although the exact reasons for this were numerous and amorphous: he knew that his main caretakers were leaving, and this could have been his way of showing anxiety over it – the constant nervousness that he’d been suffering from since meeting his parents had also worn on him to the point that Bond rather wondered if the kid was getting a cold, although Q hadn’t started sniffing yet.  Or, it could simply have been the fact that it was morning, and Q had been up until 3 AM.  The only reason that Alec and Bond weren’t run ragged by this schedule was because they’d reached the point where they just took turns, one of them keeping an eye on Q at night and then catching a well-deserved rest during the day to make up for it.

What everyone had nearly forgotten was that Mallory – the only one of the whole little group – had a kid. Therefore, instead of growing flustered, he looked Q in the eye with a genuine smile gracing his older face. “Sorry – I meant to say that more than one companion would be the best choice.” He looked back up to the adults in the group.  “M’s clear it.  While I’m at work here, Q can be watched by Q-branch – R, officially.”

“Here that, Gear?” R said, looking nearly like a little girl herself as she bent down to Q’s level with an excited look on her face.  It did the trick of lighting Q’s expression up a bit, although the promise of staying in Q-branch with all of its technological toys made his smile look disturbingly devilish in Bond’s opinion.

“Don’t worry,” R said in a whisper after Mallory left, “we’ll keep Gear here well away from the old Quartermaster.  Suffice it to say, Q-branch has gotten rather good at that.”

~Later~

Staying with Mallory wasn’t bad, but Q definitely preferred Q-branch the best. Even when he was being rushed around a corner to avoid the Quartermaster (an endeavor that had been a continuous success thus far, thanks to all of the kindly minions), Q was enjoying himself and deliriously happy with the company.  In all of his few years of life thus far, he’d never had very many friends.

Now? Now he had a whole slew of them, and every single one of them shared his love for technology and respected his ability to turn a computer inside out. 

Today wasn’t a typical day of mechanical fun, however.

“Agent Bond, I need you to leave the building.”  Q had been walking with a clutch of minions, and all of them froze at the doorway as they recognized the old Quartermaster’s voice grinding out form within. 

The techies closed ranks around their smallest comrade, but Q remained frozen in place the second he heard the snarled reply coming through the speakers, “I’d bloody love to, but I can’t.”

“What’s going on?” Q hissed to the woman standing next to him, a mousey lady whose unassuming looks hid a quick mind.  She met Q’s worried eyes, startled by the emotion behind them: Q-branchers weren’t used to having intense, positive emotions towards a 00-agent, and they weren’t used to their little Gear being anything but aloof or dryly smug with himself.  Now, however, he was giving her a look that tore at her as the voice of 007 continued to snap sharply back at the Quartermaster. 

Apparently, the other Q-branchers who were helping run the mission had noticed Q. The mission must have been going stupendously well or stupendously poorly, because one of the techies got up from his chair without so much as turning over his screen for someone else to watch, sneaking over to the door where Q was just in time to catch his question. “007’s target is getting away from him, but the building they’re in wasn’t one they planned on him entering – it’s a government building, so getting blueprints is tricky,” the minion explained in hushed tones, not caring at all that he was giving mission specs to a seven-year-old.  In all honesty, no one in Q-branch cared a whit about national security when it came to their pint-sized deity, a fact that would have disturbed both M and Mallory greatly if they’d realized just how far the loyalty went.

Right about then, the Quartermaster gave up trying to give direction in a building that he couldn’t even see, slamming a hand on the table in frustration as he got up.  “I’m going to find someone who can get me those blueprints!” he snarled with the determination that had gotten him his rank in the first place.  No one doubted that determination like that would yield results eventually.

But as the old Quartermaster stormed out via another door, little-Q decided that ‘eventually’ wasn’t soon enough.  The minions yelped and made a grab for him as the boy slipped past them and into the room, darting right up to the chair the old man had vacated not seconds before.  He had to kneel on the chair to do it, but he reached forward ad grabbed the little microphone, turning it on, “007?  Can you here me?”

“Q?!” came the supremely shocked reply.  Shock was the special of the day, it seemed: all of the minions in the room were simply staring, although two had had the sense to go and stand guard at the door incase old-Q returned.  “What in the hell-?!

“It was Q-branches turn to watch me,” Q said idly.  His fingers were rapidly typing now, his young, sharp-featured face calm and relaxed – more relaxed than it had been in weeks, actually, as if this were finally the drug to calm him from the fear his mother’s strike had put in him.  He was already filling the screens in front of him with images, pulling up more specifics until – within mere moments – he’d found out all he needed to know about Bond’s mission as it stood right now. 

Then Q began hunting for blueprints. 

The speed with which windows were opening and closing was phenomenal, reflecting like squares of light exploding and fading on Q’s spectacles as he acknowledged and dismissed image after image, search after search. “Your target is inside?”

“Q, what are you doing?” came Bond’s dangerously level voice. For once, it didn’t phase the boy in the slightest, except to make him more stubborn. 

“Helping you, at the moment.  Don’t worry, the Quartermaster is still out looking for…  Ah!  Here. The blueprints.” And suddenly they were displayed across the screen in all of their cerulean-and-white glory, pale lines sketching out floors and hallways and rooms. 

“How did you get-?” Bond started to demand in growing exasperation, before cutting himself off, “You know what?  Never mind.  Call the Quartermaster back in, Q, and tell him what you found.”

Sadly, Q was about as good at following orders sometimes as Bond was – who else had he had to learn from for the past weeks, after all? “Just a minute… This place has security cameras. I’m hacking them.”

One more time, Bond tried, “Q-!” but Q just cut him off.

Now Q’s voice was more serious, the mask of aloof interest coming apart to admit feelings as he blew out a little breath and pleaded, “Bond, just let me do this, okay?  You…you always take care of me, doing things I can’t do for myself.  Well, now I want to do something that only I can do, for you, okay?”

Silence followed, and Q had finally paused in his typing as if frozen while he awaited an answer; he barely seemed to be breathing, although the watchful minions of Q-branch saw how the shoulders of their little favorite were tense and quaking. 

Finally, Bond’s slow, released breath could be heard through the speakers, followed by a blunt, “Fine.  If you can, give me directions out of here.  If things get violent, though, I want you gone.  Do you understand me, Q?”

Relief flooded Q’s system, and his mouth quirked up into a smile. “I can do you one better,” he said avidly, leaning over the keyboard and fixing his eyes again on the rapidly changing screens, “I can find you your target.  Ready for a little game of hide-and-seek, Bond?”

Seeing Q in action…truly in action, commanding a mission instead of just coding or dismantling tech…was breathtaking.  Also, considering how young he was, rather terrifying. Q began delegating jobs like a pro, and the minions were quick to respond to the young, light voice, whose clipped but polite tones were so different from the old Quartermaster’s. Even as everyone worked, however, to get 007 to his target in a building none of them had ever seen the inside of before, the minions shivered a little at the thought of just what this kid would be like when he grew up.  He was already ruthlessly efficient, and wielded computer programs like it was all child’s-play – in fact, his biggest challenge was sitting on the chair set up for a person so much larger than him. 

Also, unsettlingly, James Bond behaved for him. 

“Left, 007, as in the hand you do not write with,” the child said as blandly as if this were just another child he were talking to.  A child dumber than he was. 

“Thank you, Q,” Bond growled in reply, sounding anything but thankful. Nonetheless, the security cameras were showing glimpse of the blonde agent taking the next exit to the left, and then Q was switching views to another camera.  “Hey, Barry, do you think he could see off the fire alarms? Right-”  Q looked away from the techy he’d looked at to lean forward and point at the blueprint still floating on one of the screens. “-Here.”

Most people would have asked why, but apparently R has entered the room, because she leans into view and then surprises everyone by smiling like a cat in cream.  “That’s where 007’s target is, isn’t it?”

Q smirks back, and although he acts very professional for a child, it’s a very sly sort of look and quite smug.  “Exactly.  I figure it should slow him down.  Um…Bond? Do you mind the authorities getting involved?” Setting off fire-alarms with sprinklers would do that. 

“I’d really rather they didn’t,” 007 gritted back between pants as he ran.

“Hm,” grunted Q, but then he was murmuring, “I wonder…” Suddenly he was typing again, and the flicker of a smile was back on his little face.  “Barry, go ahead and set off the sprinklers. I can remotely ensure that no signal gets out to the authorities.”

007 heard that, and it was visible when he skidded to a stop in view of one of the cameras, blurting, “Wait – you can?”

“If not,” Q shrugged, brows beetled as if this were obvious, “I can slow them down my messing with the traffic lights.”

Now Bond was looking at the camera, apparently figuring out that the boy was watching – the agent’s frown was filled with just a little bit of warning. “You’ve done that before?”

“No!” squeaked Q indignantly, “But in theory, it shouldn’t be so hard.”

R could be heard parroting him in the background, with a look of impressed shock that was reflected all around the room.  Still, no one questioned him, and when he said to, Barry set off the alarms and Q was right there ensuring that the alarm got no further than this building. Sure, people would have doubtlessly called someone by now, but Q got the minions working on that, too. It all made sense to him, and thankfully, the tasks he divvied out were well within the capacity of R and the others – just so long as Q was running the show.  Of course, when Q’s instructions were not understandable, R said so, and Q just made a small growling noise and did the work himself, multitasking while barely slowing down. The boy-genius was so busy working that he didn’t notice the audience he was drawing, as people came in to just stare and/or gape at the seven-year-old coordinating a 00-agent on a mission.

If anyone suspected that 007 would he hesitant about following Q’s orders, they were swiftly disillusioned as he followed orders with possibly more recklessness than he usually used to disobey orders.  It was because of that that he caught up with his target just as the two of them were exiting the building, the man in front of Bond still skidding around on his own wet shows thanks to the [multiple] showers he’d been given along the way – the man’s ears were probably ringing, too, with the amount of alarms Q had set off all around him.  There was a grunt and the sounds of gravel crunching through the speakers as 007 tackled his target, all of this viewable on the most recent camera Q had commandeer.

“YES!” Q jumped up in his chair (standing on the seat) to punch his fist in the air.  He still looked ridiculously lanky and undersized in his tan hoodie, but at the moment, he was a victorious warlord. 

Right until the old Quartermaster came in, stopping dead with the most incredulous look of shock in his eyes. 

Shock that turned to fury at about the same time that Q’s elation plummeted very much like a crashing plane... 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

“What…?” The old Quartermaster just blinked for a moment, seeing not only a child in Q-branch, but a child standing on his chair in Q-branch.  “What in world is that doing here?!” he finally barked, and Q – feeling very much like a ‘that’ instead of an actual person – shrunk down in the seat and began to feel as if his world were splintering. His young eyes widened as they saw the Quartermaster hit one of the buttons that would call security, but missed the swift text that R typed out on her phone before hiding what she was doing. Everyone was as tense as a set of guitar-strings, momentarily frozen.  The only saving grace was that the intercom connecting them to 007 had been turned off, so he didn’t have to listen in on this from another country.

Q was frozen, aware that he was shaking beneath his hoodie, and didn’t managed to budge so much as an inch before the old man had stomped up to the computer he was at and had dragged Q out of his chair by the arm. “This isn’t a game!” the man all but roared as he kept the boy – now standing on the floor, trying to find his balance now – pinned by his side and turned his attention to the plethora of windows that Q had arrayed across the screens.  Little-Q bit his lip savagely against the brief, sharp pain of being dragged so forcefully by his arm, feeling the bruising ache of the old man’s grip as well as the burn in his shoulder from the brutal tug.  Most kids his age would have yelped quite spectacularly, but Q had learned how to keep his pain buried down where no one could see it. Westford and men like him always paid more attention to victims that whimpered. 

The first to break free of the shock was, predictably, R. She stepped forward with her jaw set, clearly intimidated by her boss but protective of Q.  “The mission is over, Quartermaster,” she said, firmly and clearly.

The wrinkles on the old man’s face deepened as he narrowed his eyes and turned, fingers hovering over computer keys.  “What?” he said, low and dangerous. 

R was on the other side of the Quartermaster from Q, and Q was doing his best to be completely invisible.  He’d gone from on top of the world to wishing the floor would swallow him up. R tried to meet his eyes and reassure him, but the boy was looking at the floor.  His mind was actually focused intently on the uncomfortable grip of the hand around his upper arm, waiting for the slightest indication that it was loosening – because when it did, he planned on running. Running and running and running and then maybe finding somewhere to hide, because he should never had done this in the first place, and suddenly he was feeling a lot like Quinn Finch again and nothing at all like the Q who’d been so accepted by those around him.

R was not a large or tall woman by any standards, and under the force of her boss’s stare, she paled for a moment.  The old Quartermaster had never been a particularly good-tempered fellow, and by now, most of Q-branch was conditioned to keeping their heads down and doing as they were told, to best avoid his wrath…R, however, had recently started working with 00-agents, and that had done a lot for her self-esteem. 002 and 3 could be a lot scarier than the aging man standing before her now.  R straightened, her bright blue eyes hardening along with her slender fists and her unwavering voice, “Thanks to Q’s help – the boy’s help – sir, 007 had apprehended his suspect.  There were no shots fired and no lives lost.”

“What-?!” the old Quartermaster repeated with more incredulity and shock now, but was cut off as his fingers reflexively loosened a bit and suddenly he was feeling little fingernails biting into the skin of his wrist, and little teeth very literally biting into the back of his hand.  The unexpected pain made him bellow, releasing Q with a spasmodic shove, but Q was too desperate to care.  That was the only way he’d been able to think of getting himself free, and now his focus was entirely on bolting to the nearest door. 

Before he could completely right himself from the Quartermaster’s involuntary shove, Q’s feet were gaining traction on the floor, but he only made it a few steps before something stepped into his path and the boy ran into a wall of muscle.  ‘Security!’  Q remembered the old Quartermaster pushing the button that would alert people to trouble in Q-branch. 

As Q gulped and looked up, however, he definitely didn’t see the unfamiliar face of a mundane security personnel.  What he saw made his blood run cold and he froze up, forgetting to breath.

Cobalt eyes cold and dispassionate beneath a fall of black hair, 003 looked down at him, and all Q could think of was this man holding him off the floor by his shirt-collar.  He hadn’t had any real contact with this agent since their altercation, and therefore had no way of knowing that 003’s opinion of him had, if nothing else, softened slightly. So far as Q knew, Gregory Hind was just here to finish what he started, under the guise of being called in for security reasons to remove a troublesome kid from Q-branch. Q immediately tried to bolt, bracing his feet for a sharp turn, but came to an abrupt halt as a hand latched onto his hood.  Before he could slip out of the article of clothing, 003 had expertly twisted his hand, tightening the neck of Q’s shirt like a collar being cinched tight until there was no chance of his head ever getting through there.  Q mewled helplessly as he stumbled back into the agent’s personal space, urged to do so by the light tugs of 003’s hand.  As he bumped into the man’s leg and hip, Q tried to loosen off the neck of his hoodie with shaking hands, but made about as much headway as a snowball in summer.  Fortunately, 003 wasn’t choking him – he’d merely twisted the hoodie’s material just enough to prevent escape. 

“Ah, good,” the old Quartermaster grunted, taking in the arrival of 003 and the apprehension of Q.  “Security. You’re not who I was expecting, 003, but you have my gratitude for apprehending the boy.”  The old man was massaging his hand, which was reddened now by stubborn teeth-marks.  “Get him out of here.”

Q tried to jerk loose again, but nearly had a heart-attack as 003’s other hand fell on his shoulder.  Those same hands that had yanked him up into the air the last time they’d met were now curled over his collar-bone, and all Q could think was how close they were to his neck.  The kid finally just closed his eyes and focused on breathing without hyperventilating, because this day had gotten bad so fast that he didn’t know if he could take it.

“Actually, someone else called me in,” 003 finally spoke up. He was too smart to give away the person who had called (or rather texted him) him – R – instead keeping his cold, almost reptilian gaze on the old Quartermaster.  “What seems to be the problem?”

“Problem?” the old man barked, “Someone brought a child into Q-branch and he buggered up a mission-” 

“From what I heard as I was coming in the door, he saved it,” 003 interrupted with the beginnings of sharpness in his voice.  Patience was not something Agent Hind was known for – ill-temperedness, however, was. He had enough sense not to tighten either of his hands with Q presently gripped by them, but the rest of 003 was slowly winding up tight as his eyes darkened from cobalt nearly to nearly black. “And if you’re smart, you won’t turn on that intercom and let James know what’s going on here. He won’t like it.” The old Quartermaster had, indeed, been reaching for the button to check in on the agent. Now he looked sharply back at 003, who was doing his approximation of a smile, which looked more like a crooked crack through sharp glass – smiling wasn’t something 003 was particularly good at.  002 could looked friendly, 007 could look charming, and 006 could look like a shark when he smiled, but 003 preferred to practice scowling and shooting things. Everyone had his or her own unique style.

At that moment, the actual security detail arrived, alert and ready for anything until they saw that ‘anything’ included a 00-agent.  003’s attempt at a smile flickered and then turned off, and the new, sharp look of annoyance had just about everyone but R backing off. 

“Everything’s under control,” the old Quartermaster approximated a tone of authority, although beneath it, he had to be wondering whether this was true or not. At least 003 wasn’t attacking anyone and the kid wasn’t pushing buttons anymore.  “003,” the old man commanded, “Get that kid out of here.”

Almost no one noticed, but 003’s eyes slid over to R’s, meeting her gaze and catching her subtle nod of approval.  Only after he’d gotten the go-ahead from her did he grunt in assent, turning towards the door and shuffling Q along with him.  “Just remember, Quartermaster,” he called back unforgivingly without turning his head, “in the time it took you to get back here, this brat completed a mission for you.  You should figure out how he did that.”  He let that sink in, continuing just as grouchily and mercilessly as before, “Maybe you’d learn a thing or two.” 

And with that, the door closed behind him, leaving the minions to breathe and uneasy sigh of relief, the Quartermaster to stifle a snarl and turn to his computers to see just what Q had done…and a very confused and flustered security team, who eventually just filed back out again, deciding not to ask. 

~^~

“Stop squirming,” 003 commanded dispassionately as he and Q ended up in the break-room – the double-o’s break-room this time, although it brought to mind their last encounter just outside the one for Q-branch.  Only after the door had closed and 003 had flopped down on the beaten-looking couch did he release Q’s, turning loose his expert grip on the boy’s hood.  Q stumbled away and turned around, suspicious and wary now that they’d come this far and 003 hadn’t done anything violent yet.  Of all the 00-agents, 003 was known as the one with the nastiest temper and a fickle switch to turn it on, but right now he was behaving: he was sagged back on the couch with his phone out, looking at it’s screen, the only sign of his strained temper being a slight tightness around his eyes and the faint, downward turn of his eyebrows and mouth.  When Q’s eyes darted towards the door, however, the cobalt gaze immediately leapt back up to him.  “Make a break for that door and I’ll just catch you again,” he muttered, and although it wasn’t really a threat, it definitely wasn’t said idly. 

Q believed him.  Although Q was pretty fast, and had slipped 007’s grip a few times, he was wary of trying anything with 003.  If Q were ever to try and escape Bond’s grip, the worst that would happen would be that Bond swore and maybe yelled at him out of reflex, but 003 might actually get violent, because his own reflexes were known to be disturbingly hair-trigger and not accustomed to the antics of a certain pint-sized genius…

Still, Q kept fidgeting where he stood like a nervous statue, unable to keep his attention away from the one escape-route.  Finally, 003 just sighed in annoyance and got up, ignoring how Q cowered away from him.  003 didn’t so much as look at Q, though, and instead of approaching him he merely grabbed a folding chair and settled it in front of the door, and then settled himself on the chair.  Now Q was definitely staying put.  003 was texting now, but spared a glance at his nervous little companion.  “I’m not going to do anything like last time we met,” he grunted, not sounding embarrassed but also clearly making an effort to soften his expression a bit.  Looking back down at his phone, he chuffed in ill-humor but humor nonetheless, “006 and 7 might not be in the country right now, but I still don’t fancy getting on their bad side again.  You’re safe, kid – probably safer than you were in Q-branch with the old man all riled up.”

Although Q still didn’t totally relax, his panic went down a notch or two. It went down another notch as 003 grunted without looking up from his phone, “Nice hoodie.” 003 was an odd man, when he wasn’t being lethal.  “Sorry I bunched it up.”

“I was going to slip out of it if you didn’t,” Q said by way of accepting the apology, timidly settling himself on the spot 003 had vacated on the couch.  He still perched on the every edge, ready to bolt if Agent Hind made any threatening moves.

But the man just nodded, preoccupied but still somehow keeping part of his mind on the conversation, “I noticed.”  He kept typing on his phone. 

Finally, Q couldn’t resist asking, and broke the stretching quiet, “Who are you texting?”

“R,” came the immediate response.  003 was surprisingly un-reluctant to talk with Q, despite how the kid had enraged him the last time they’d met; Q cocked his head, wondering what had changed in between now and then.  “As soon as the Quartermaster turned up, she texted me.”

“To say there was trouble?” Q guessed.  He still felt like he was fumbling around in the dark, both in this conversation and with dealing with 003 in general. 

003 looked up, cocking one black brow.  “To get you. R didn’t know just how mad the old man would get, but she figured he’d be pretty steamed if he ever caught you in Q-branch.”  Suddenly 003 looked startled at something he read, and he looked up from his phone to focus all of his attention on Q for the first time since they’d crashed in the break-room. “You seriously bit the Quartermaster?  I thought you’d just squirmed free or something.”

Q felt a flush rise up his face all the way to his ears, and pushed at his glasses in embarrassment.  “I…er…I might have.”  He looked back up again warily as 003 made an unexpected sound, something between a choke and a huff of air.

Then the sound grew, and suddenly, 003 was laughing out loud with his head tipped back, nearly fall out of his chair.  “That…!” he said between uproarious laughter, having to stop and start over because his grin was nearly stretched too wide to make words, “That is the funniest shit I’ve heard since I brought my dog Glock into MI6 and he nosed the old man in the crotch!” 

The humor was a touch crude by Q’s standards, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be compared to a dog with manners like that…he also was still debating whether it was more disturbing to see 003 scowl or to hear him laughing. At least the stormy scowl felt normal. Now that he thought about it, Q remembered 003 referring to his dog – he’s said that it was big enough to eat Q. Apparently Q and the dog had something in common, however, in that they both annoyed the Quartermaster…

“You were allowed to bring your dog into MI6?” Q finally got up the gumption to ask, continuing the conversation because it seemed safe enough.

003 reined his laughter in and said with a smirk, “No more than you were allowed to get into Q-branch and play with the old man’s tech.”

‘Touché,’ Q noted to himself, and at that point there was a knock on the door.  003’s shoulders didn’t tense, and he was looking at his phone, so whomever it was must have announced themselves via text – otherwise, the agent was taking the surprise very well.  Q had jumped like a rabbit, and was standing up tensely even as 003 removed his chair and opened the door.  A familiar bob of neon pink hair appeared around the door, and Q immediately relaxed, wondering if he could melt into a puddle from relief over seeing a familiar face.

“Gear!” she said, both excited and concerned, “Are you all right?” She walked the rest of the way into the room under 003’s arm as he held the door open.  If the man made her nervous at all, she didn’t show it, which boggled Q to know end.  He was even more boggled when 003 seemed to relax, lids lowering even as he settled his muscular frame on the chair again, as if R were a drug in his veins that put to sleep the restless anger in him.  R was already squatting in front of Q, putting her expressive face near his as she reached out to poke at his left arm – the one the Quartermaster had grabbed. “M’s going to have a talk with the Quartermaster about that.”

“No!” Q blurted, the sound sharp enough that it roused 003 from his unexpected, relaxed torpor.  Those cobalt eyes sharpened even if he didn’t straighten from his slouch. More quietly and in an uncomfortable tone, Q mumbled, “I…I don’t think M has to be involved…”

“Gear, the Quartermaster yanked you around like a toy!” R protested, “I’m sure you’re going to have a bruise.”

“Yes, but, R-!” Q tried to get her to understand before he burst into tears from frustration and the after-effects of too much fear, “-I wasn’t supposed to be doing that in the first place!  M gave you permission to watch me, but not for me to interfere with a mission!” The impact of exactly what he’d done finally hit Q, and it took all of his self-control not to tear up. Crying front of people was not okay, he’d learned early on – his parents hadn’t been moved by tears, and the people he’d been farmed out to for odd tech jobs had often been angered by it. Bond was actually the only person Q had ever met who deviated from those norms, and Bond wasn’t there.

So Q fisted his small hands and straightened his spine, oblivious to the fact that he mostly just looked adorable with the spots of color flushing his cheeks and his over-large, 003-wrinkled hoodie hanging over his hands. He was a fragile glass figurine, artistically made with fine angles and slime lines, all except for his stubbornly hard expression and eyes, which glinted behind his glasses. “I’m fine.  M doesn’t need to be brought into this!”

Before R could say anything, her face worried, 003 spoke up from where he was now sitting with his arms lazily crossed over his stomach, “Actually, this might work rather well as leverage.”

R turned to him.  She was still resting on her haunches in front of Q, but 003’s legs were stretched out far enough that they could touch her heels if he moved them.  The two seemed comfortable despite the nearness, as if it were natural for a willowy young woman to be within range of a trained killer. “What are you getting at?” she asked him slowly. 

He tipped one food as he shrugged, letting the toe of his boot touch her ankle. “The Quartermaster has to know that he was unduly rough – if you remind him a bit, very carefully, he might also recall that this is Bond’s boy here, and Bond doesn’t seem particularly sensible when it comes to people mistreating him,” 003 said almost idly, eyes watching his own show tapping against R as if that were far more interesting than what he was musing.  He continued in that thoughtful tone, “With all that in mind, the old man might actually be afraid to take this up with M. After all, if he brings this matter to M, then someone else will probably bring up the matter of him bruising the kid.”  003 smiled faintly, another one of his not-smiles that looked like it had been crudely chipped out of an ice-sheet.  “Only I figure that that ‘someone’ would probably bring it up to 007 and 006.”

The sheer level of deviousness being calmly suggested by 003 was enough to make Q’s eyes bug, and he took a moment to reconsider the dangerous nature of 00-agents.  Sometimes he took for granted that Bond was as dangerous as the day was long, and Bond wasn’t the only one of his kind.  Right now, 003 was suggesting blackmail as calmly as most people discussed what color to paint their bedroom walls. 

R put a hand on 003’s foot, stopping the tapping motion and also seeming to stop his narrative.  Dark blue eyes lifted to her, calm and content once more, a hooded hawk.  R was smiling at him in a remarkably Cheshire way. “Have I ever told you that I like the way you think?” she asked boldly.  003’s smile this time looked a little bit more natural, and actually reached his eyes so that it lit them up. 

“You two…are as bad as 006 and 7,” Q finally sputtered out.

R and 003 turned to him, nonplussed, and R smiled cheekily before reaching out to ruffle Q’s fluffy head of hair.  “Oh, that’s only the half of it, Gear.  You’ve got a whole smack of people watchin’ out for ya! Did I tell you that I’ve made friends with 002, too?”

Q wondered if the world were ending.  If it wasn’t, it would very soon if Q-branch and the most dangerous members of the 00-division were teaming up under his flag. 

~^~

“Can you take him back to my place, 003?” R pleaded, after having coaxed little-Q out of his hoodie long enough for her to see the forming ring of bruises on his upper left arm.  While Q was trying to get his head back through the shirt without losing his glasses, R spoke to the lounging 00-agent behind her, “I don’t think that anywhere in MI6 is really safe for Gear right now, not with the Quartermaster on the warpath.”

“Shouldn’t have bitten him,” 003 observed to Q, but there was still a dark quirk at one side of the man’s mouth that belied his words.  Q wasn’t sure, ultimately, whether hew as being chastised or complimented.  Ultimately, Q was regretting biting the old Quartermaster, but at the moment, it had seemed like the only viable option for escape. 

“Bond’s going to go ballistic when he sees those bruises,” R grimaced, actually sounding a bit worried.  By this point, no one was worried for Q’s safety when it came to 007’s temper, but everyone else involved may as well have stepped into the cross-hairs.

Q wrinkled his nose, correcting as he finally got his hoodie back on and straightened, “He’s going to go ballistic when he hears I bit someone else.”

“Someone else?” 003 perked up, interested. 

“Don’t make me list them,” Q sighed forlornly, and the fact that there was a list at all made 003 raise his eyebrows. 

The agent looked from Q back to R.  “Are you sure you want me to take him back to your place if he bites?”

From there, the conversation devolved into R giggling and 003 smirking his crooked smirk and Q scowling at both of them.  R explained that Q needed to leave MI6, but both herself and Mallory were busy – 003, technically, was off-duty, though, and Q had gone home with R once or twice so that he’d be familiar with her home and feel safe. Q huffed and pretended that he didn’t need to be coddled like that, but deep down, he was glad that he’d at least be going to familiar surroundings – the thought of traveling anywhere with the unfamiliar agent was scary enough on its own.  003 was skeptical of the idea (Q’s habit of biting people who scared him notwithstanding), but it was shocking how quickly R wore down his reservations until the ill-tempered man rolled his eyes and gave in. He had to get her address, but after that, he stood up and looked expectantly at the smallest member of their trio. “Well, this is how it’s going to be then. You coming, kid?”

“It’ll be fine, Q,” R touched his shoulder, a show of support and respect that all of Q-branch had adopted.  With the exception of R occasionally, none of them petted his head or treated him like a child, instead just getting his attention with little brushes of fingers to his shoulders, like a person touching a butterfly’s wing without damaging or spooking it.  “I’ll be able to get out of Q-branch in another hour, and 003 is safe.” 

The way she said it calmed Q a bit.  R wasn’t an idiot; she was as sharp as a tack – meaning she had a very discerning eye when it came to people.  He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get on 003’s good side and tame him like she had, but it was apparent that the more lethal side of the agent wasn’t a threat to Q anymore. 

“Of course,” Q nodded in as sure a fashion he could manage, “Do me a favor, R? Don’t get fired.”

The young woman chuckled and smirked, her face looking almost fey with its bright colors and piercings to accent its graceful lines. She straightened and placed her hands on her hips, canting her head.  “I think I can manage that, if you can manage to behave until I get home!”

“Can you two stop chatting already?” groaned 003, and then Q was following him out and to the car-park. 

~^~

The walk and the ride were…uncomfortable.  Despite R’s assertions – which Q trusted – that 003 could be trusted, Q still couldn’t forget his last encounter with the man, or the fact that 006 and 7 had basically warned him to steer clear of the unpredictable, black-haired agent.  However, besides being silent the whole time, 003 didn’t do anything to warrant unease. His car smelled like dog and he drove more slowly than 007 did, if only by a bit. 

However, he was just like 007 in the way he tensed at the arrival of trouble.  Q noticed the minute flex of muscles like a trigger, and was immediately looking up to 003’s face even as cobalt eyes flicked to the review-mirror and back.  Because he was living with two 00-agents and therefore getting pretty used to reading the body-language, Q guessed with a little shiver of trepidation, “Is someone tailing us?”

003 shot him a momentarily startled look before returning his eyes to their careful scanning of the road before and behind them.  “Yes,” came the clipped answer.  There was no ‘maybe’ or uncertainty about it, and a moment later, 003 murmured past teeth gritted in irritation, “I’m going to try and lose them. Text R.  She may as well know.”  003 tossed his phone across the seats to his small passenger, and Q took it with a serious little nod of his head before typing succinctly. Like most of the things he did, the text was dispassionate and to the point, but it still let R know that there was trouble going on. 

They took a few unexpected turns that had Q clutching his seat-belt in one hand and 003’s cell-phone in the other, but still 003 didn’t relax. In fact, his frown deepened. “Still there,” he grumbled, then began to pick up speed, pushing the limit as much as he could in London traffic. “Q, text R that we’re going to my place. If we can’t lose this tail, I’d rather face the son of a bitch on my own turf.”  And with that growl, 003 took them on another sharp turn, and Q simply took a deep breath to keep himself calm, and then texted what he was told.

Chapter Text

~^~

003 swore, colorfully but coldly and without the heat that Q was used to hearing from 006 and 007.  Then again, James and Alec probably hoped that Q wasn’t listening when they swore…

“Still on us,” 003 grunted, nose beginning to wrinkle in a snarl.

Hiding his unease behind a fragile mask of detached calm – the same mask he used a lot in Q-branch, either to give orders like a little emperor or to hide how terrified he was of the old Quartermaster – Q stopped texting to look over at the agent from under his lashes.  “So you can’t lose them?” he asked in a tone carefully modulated not to anger the man.  Despite R’s assertions that Q was safe with 003, the boy didn’t really know the man outside of one deliriously bad encounter. 

003 growled, but at least his temper seemed to be directed somewhere behind them as he took a corner sharply.  A few horns honked and Q nearly dropped his phone as he grabbed for his seatbelt reflexively, yelping.  “Huh,” 003 grunted, seeming not to notice his passenger but instead cracking the faintest smirk in the rearview mirror, “That will throw them for a bit. But they have to know where I’m going by now.”

“How?” Q asked as he went back to texting R.  He was startled when a text turned up from Mallory. Apparently, the man was taking his babysitting duties seriously, and word had gotten out that Q was in a bit of trouble with only the dangerous and unpredictable 003 for company. For now, Q opted to ignore that text, because he barely knew Mallory better than the black-haired agent in the car with him. R he knew, though, and she was already seeing what she could do about the situation. 

003 finally glanced over at him, cocking an eyebrow slightly. “I don’t exactly hide where I live.”

This made honestly no sense to Q.  “That sounds like a quick way to get enemies breathing down your neck.”

“Easier to shoot that way,” 003 countered as they began to turn down narrow streets, navigating traffic skillfully now that he was getting close to territory he knew.  “All right, kid, when we get to my place, you’re going to listen to me.  Whoever this tail is, they’re good enough that they’ll be back on us before MI6’s bloody back-up will arrive.”

Another text appeared on the phone.  “Mallory has already sent people.”

003 twitched in surprise, but said nothing about the promptness. “Then we just have to hold our own until the back-up arrives,” he shrugged, unconcerned.  He pulled the car to a stop in front of a series of apartments, and after giving Q a ‘what-do-I-do-with-you-now?’ look, turned off the engine and reached over to unlock Q’s seatbelt.  Q yelped as he was then more or less hauled across the seats and out after 003, who was clearly not in any mood to waste time.  “Stop wriggling!” he snapped in exasperation, ten times more out of his element than even Bond had been when he’d first met Q. “I’m just keeping an eye on you! Keep up.” 

After the initial shock of being dragged around by his shirt-collar, Q pursed his lips and fell in step at 003’s heel.  Q wasn’t an idiot, and was honestly miffed at being treated like one – he knew that it was an agent’s goal to keep people close, and he’d gotten pretty good at sticking to 007 like Velcro.  003 moved and walked differently, but it didn’t take a lot of work for Q to more or less attach himself to the man’s elbow.  003 scanned the sidewalk and street around them unceasingly even as he got them inside and rushed Q to his apartment – second floor. Probably easy to jump out of but decently hard for a person to break into, unless they fancied a climb.

“Stay away from the windows,” 003 ordered as soon as they got in, and Q was about to get the phone out and start texting again – actually had the phone in his hands in front of his bent head – when a low growl caught his attention.

“GLOCK!” 003 roared, and the monster of a dog facing Q twitched, one pointed black ear swiveling to its owner while the long lines of its muzzle remained fixed on the tiny intruder, Q.  003 snapped something in another language that Q couldn’t decipher, and the dog stopped growling. Breathless with terror, Q just stared back at it with the cellphone clutched in front of him like a pathetic shield while 003 stalked around the house gathering weapons. 

003 hadn’t been lying: this dog was big enough to eat Q. 

Unfortunately for the young computer genius hyperventilating in the middle of the spacious apartment, 003 wasn’t accustomed – nor inclined – to worrying about other people, so Q was left in the company of a big wolfish looking dog whose back stood fully as tall as 003’s hip.  Seeing as Q wasn’t a whole lot taller than that, he felt more like he was looking at a horse than a dog.  Calm gold eyes met terrified brown ones, and Q stopped breathing and stumbled backwards as the huge canine stepped forward on surprisingly light paws. Q tripped on his own feet and fell straight to his butt on the floor, and the thump was what finally got 003 to pause and turn. 

Narrowed blue eyes quickly took in the situation, and before Q could panic any more than he already was, the agent yelled at Glock again in that same foreign language, and this time the huge canine sat down without preamble.  The dog was still staring at Q, eyes pale and uncanny against the brown-speckled-black of its coat, but at least it wasn’t prowling up to him.  “He’s not going to bite, kid, he’s going to keep you safe.”

“He’s…” Q stuttered, looking between 003 and his wolfish-looking companion, “But he’s huge!”

“Wolf-hybrid,” 003 replied with perhaps some pride in his tone, strapping on another gun. Then he was spinning on his heel and approaching his dog and his temporary ward, dragging the latter to his feet and grabbing the spiked collar of the former.  “Now the two of you get into the back room and stay there.”

Into the back room…with the dog?! “Wait-!” Q squeaked, but all 003 did was forcibly wrap the boy’s hand around the back of Glock’s collar and then say something that spurred the dog forward.  Q didn’t even have the chance to let go before he was skidding after the animal.  In fact, Q would probably have fallen on his face or ended up being dragged if he hadn’t thrown an arm over Glock’s back and grabbed thick black fur for support.

Glock stopped suddenly enough that Q was nearly clotheslined on his thickly-furred neck, which spurred Q to swear in ways that 007 probably didn’t know he could.  Tall, tapered ears flickered at the top of the dog’s head, twitching as 003 shut the door and then locked it with an additional click.  The door could be opened from the inside without a key, Q could instantly see, but the seriousness of the situation sank in as he realized that the door had been locked for his safety, not to keep him penned in.  That made him grab Glock’s fur a little tighter rather than let go.

Luckily, Glock didn’t seem to mind.  He made an uncertain whining noise at the feel of little fingers in his pelt, but otherwise didn’t take offense.  The dog was tense and alert, echoing its owner’s temperament like a four-legged mirror, but fortunately Glock lacked 003’s flash-fire temper.

“Please don’t eat me,” Q still begged under his breath, unwrapping his fingers from Glock’s collar – a utilitarian device made of black leather with spikes of a dark, non-reflective grey that no opponent would see coming on the run – and fearfully placing his hands on one furry shoulder instead. Glock swiveled his head with another questioning noise, but the worst Q got was a long snout with a cold, coal-black nose shoved into his face and then pushed against his check and neck. “Ewwww…” the kid complained, still too frightened to dare to push the dog back.  One wet lick from Q’s collarbone to chin seemed to satisfy 003’s dog, fortunately, and then it was sitting down with one long foreleg pressed up against Q’s side. 

And then the dog stiffened and its long, German-shepherd-like snout pointed towards the door like the beam of Q’s laser-pen…which Q really wished he had right now.  Instead, he had a dog the size of a small horse.  Said dog had stood up again, legs stiff and tail arching up like a smoky-black plume behind him.  Lips peeled back from pink lips and wet, white teeth a whole minute before Q heard the sound of a door being kicked in. 

‘Intruders inside,’ Q texted to R – and to Mallory, who had to be in the loop by now anyway – before his hand started shaking too much for him to hit the right letters. He stood frozen next to Glock as the black dog started to growl, steady and low. 

~^~

The first person in the door didn’t actually even make it through the door – 003 shot them as soon as they’d kicked the door open and thus cleared the way for a well-placed bullet.  When a second assailant started returning fire over the body of his predecessor, 003 wasn’t even put-out, because he was angry enough by now to be elated at the sight of another outlet.  M was often worried that her 003 agent had more anger that was safe for his profession, and right now that temper was burning bright and biting hotly in his gut as he almost gleefully began to lay out a stream of bullets through the doorway. He ducked behind the half-wall of the kitchen, barely in time to avoid hot lead in his shoulder. By now he was baring his teeth in a vicious expression that would never be mistaken for a grin.

When the third man broke in through the window, things really got serious. One gunman couldn’t make 003 sweat, but two could make him work a bit – especially when they were coming at him from different directions and forcing him to divide his attention. 003 swore, knowing that if he had Glock, he’d be able to split the work and trust his dog to take someone down. A dog the size of a purebred Timber-wolf tended to remove enemy agents almost as quickly as 003 did. But he needed the dog with Q for his peace of mind, so 003 just snarled and reloaded his gun. 

A bullet whizzed past him, close enough to make him jerk back with a flinch – said flinch nearly lined him up for a shot from the other direction, and that was when 003 realized that these two weren’t rookies, and they most certainly were used to working together. Another bullet exploded in the wood next to him, once again designed to drive him out of hiding. All the while, 003’s enemies kept themselves out of sight and out of range. 

Suddenly a wild hale of bullets pinned 003 back, head ducked behind his arms (gun still in his grip but not useful as anything more than a shield at the moment) and eyes narrowed to slit against the ricocheting splinters. The guy who’d broken through his window was sure laying it on thick – and 003 found out why a second later when a bullet, now from a new angle, ripped a fiery trail through his right upper arm. 003 started swearing a blue streak loud enough to rise above even the gunfire, but he knew he couldn’t stay put, because apparently the gunman by the window had kept his buddy covered as the first fellow moved up closer to the 00-agent. 

003’s arm was on fire, but he still got up and backed further away. He would have liked to say that he did this to lead them away from the boy he had hiding with Glock in the back room, but in reality, he was just trying to stay alive as blood ran down his arm and dripped off his elbow.  Shooting left-handed wasn’t something he’d win awards for, but he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to stay alive. 

“Find the boy,” one of the gunmen yelled dismissively, “We need to get in and out of here fast, and I can handle this bastard.” 

“Can you?” 003 muttered to himself and felt his anger peak. Holstering his gun and instead drawing a blade the length of his forearm – simple, efficient, and good for being vicious when a gun just became too impersonal – 003 waited only seconds and then charged recklessly out of cover.  If 002 had been there, he would have rolled his eyes and slapped a hand over his face, because when Gregory Hind got mad enough, he didn’t have any brakes…

A few bullets streaked by his head, but then 003 was bearing down on a sinewy man with a buzz-cut and shocked, wide eyes.  003 hit him like a truck.  He barely even bothered to use his blade, instead focusing on shoving his opponent into the hallway where his buddy wouldn’t be able to help him as fast.

When the two broke apart, however – now just the two of them, panting and mad – 003 brought his blade to bear and let loose.  He didn’t even care that his opponent still had his gun, because he fully intended to remove the weapon along with the man’s hand.

“I’ll put you down like a dog,” the gunman growled.

Thinking of his dog in the bedroom – now starting to growl like a chainsaw, a sign that the second gunman was getting close to entering the bedroom – 003 smiled and almost laughed.  His right arm was bleeding more heavily than he’d realized it was and holding his blade was hard with blood slicking his fingers, but if he was as hard to put down as Glock…  “I wish you luck on that,” 003 rasped before fearlessly attacking again.  His blood spattered the floor as he took another bullet in the leg, but 003 was good and mad now, and when that happened, he hardly knew how to stop himself. 

~^~

The only thing worse than listening to the thunderstorm of bullets was when the sound died down, a sign that 003 was becoming less of a threat – and therefore less of a defense keeping Q out of harm’s way.  The boy had put his hands on his ears almost as soon as the shooting had started, hunching down on the ground while Glock nosed at him worriedly, but now the boy opened wide eyes behind his glasses and shivered. The door was being rattled, the lock tested. 

“You in there, brat?” someone chuckled, and Q somehow heard the voice even through his hands over his ears.  He knew voices like that: voices like that knew who he was, knew what he could do. Flashbacks for previous buyers bubbled up in Q’s brain, making him squeeze his eyes shut again in a vain attempt to block this all out. 

‘This is not happening…this is not happening…not happening not happening please…’ Tears broke free from his eyelashes, tumbling down his cheeks and spattering his knees as Q sat on the floor. He wanted to floor to swallow him up and never spit him out, because nothing good happened to him – ever! He was a child too smart for his own good, only worth as much as someone would pay for his typing fingers and firing synapses in his brain.  No one loved him more than the money forced them to.  Every time he tried to help, he made people mad – or he found himself face-to-face with people from his past. 

Q’s thoughts were shaken from their downward spiral by the sensation of warm fur and a sturdy leg against his side – Glock.  The dog had only known him for five minutes, but he was shifting to stand over him, pale-gold eyes steely and unafraid while his lips continued to twitch back from long teeth.  The dog’s growls were growing louder at a steady rate, but with the patience of a born-and-bred predator who preferred to just wait for his prey to come to him without warning.  003 was doing the same thing out in the main living space of the house, defending Q without any reason, focusing his lethal instincts to the task of killing men that were only here for Q.

In fact, now that Q was focusing on something other than his own fear, he realized that he recognized the voice taunting him through the door. Scrambling, he yanked 003’s phone from his hoodie pocket, opening it and punching in letters as swiftly as he could. ‘Drummerlan and Co,’ he texted, hoping that someone would connect the dots. When 006 had questioned him about his past, the name of the company’s head honcho had come up, but not the name of the company itself.  Q didn’t have time to type anything more, however.  Q was focusing himself, trying to remember that calm, aloof, icy center he’d found when facing his mother as he knelt up on the floor, causing Glock to twitch his ears and back up from him a bit as Q cracked the case on the phone to get at its wiring.  This phone of 003’s wasn’t set up for remote tracking, but that was a matter of software, not hardware – 003 hadn’t allowed MI6 to track him, but that didn’t mean Q couldn’t. Actually, he was pretty sure that 003 had simply disabled the tracking component…

“Come on, boy, I know you’re in there,” the voice growled as taunting faded to frustration – the lock wasn’t giving, and shooting the lock was a poor idea when you had a living target on the other side whom you didn’t want injured.  Quinn Finch wasn’t very useful if he had bullet-holes in him.  “Your agent is nearly dead, so give it up.”

At the mention of ‘my agent,’ Q immediately thought, ‘Bond!’  Senseless panic leached into him, rising above the rest of his fear before logic cracked in and reminded him that 007 wasn’t even in London.  Somehow, the knowledge that Bond was okay calmed Q down, even though he knew that 003 was in trouble.  Q focused on the phone, working a bit with the hardware but mostly just focusing on the programing, until he had the phone sending out a signal that MI6 could track.  Then, on a whim, he began to take apart the phone’s outer casing until it was functional but looked absolutely nothing like a phone.  Holding what now looked like nothing more than a bit of scrap, Q kicked the more incriminating pieces of the phone under the bed and turned to the now-loudly growling dog.  “Glock,” Q said quietly, and was actually rather surprised when the huge, long-muzzled head turned towards him attentively, lips slipping back down to cover the canine’s impressive teeth. Thus assured that 003’s dog wasn’t likely to hurt him, Q came forward and began unlatching the dog’s collar, murmuring as he did so, “He’s going to kick in that door any minute, and then we need a plan.  You’re a lot bigger and more dangerous than me, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a higher IQ…”

Glock made a grunting noise in his throat, as if slightly offended. His ears were still attentively tipped Q’s way, though. 

“So it’ll pretty much be like me working with 007,” Q finished as he got the heavy buckle undone and the equally-hefty collar slipped free, avoiding the spikes.  “Hopefully you follow orders better than him.  Can you sit, Glock?  Sit?”

Mostly, 003 had been talking to the dog in another language – probably a good trick for making sure that strangers couldn’t command the dog. Sadly, it now meant that nothing happened when Q tried to get Glock to do what he wanted.  The enemy gunman was now pounding on the door, and there was less and less noise coming from where 003 was fighting…in fact, it sounded like more people were entering the fight, and Q wasn’t optimistic enough to think that the new arrivals were from MI6.  Closing his eyes and trying to block all that out, Q went back through his memory desperately, trying to remember what 003 had said to make Glock sit last time…most people wouldn’t have been able to remember the foreign word exactly, but Q’s brain was a veritable computer, and after a few nerve-wracking seconds, he remembered. 

This time, when Q spoke, Glock’s fluffy rump lowered to the floor. Q sighed in relief at the knowledge that he hadn’t butchered the word too much in repeating it. He also remembered the phrase that 003 had used to shoo Glock and Q into the bedroom, and planned to use that shortly.  Now, he slowly backed away from the dog until he was standing next to the door with Glock’s spiked collar firmly in his little hands, the weight of it dragging at his narrow shoulders.  Glock whined a bit, but didn’t break from his position.  This close to the door, Q could feel the vibrations of the man on the other side kicking it – the door was sturdy, but it wouldn’t stay up forev-

There was a splintering crash that almost had Q screaming, the startled noise fortunately swallowed up by the sound of the door flying off its hinges. Glock’s snarling suddenly ratcheted up to a deafening level, jaws parted and teeth slick with saliva showing in a horrifying grimace.  Q yelled for the dog to sit again, and then put all of his strength and concentration into swinging Glock’s studded collar.

Right up into the gunman’s arms, as he walked forward with his gun held in front of him. 

Clearly, the spikes on Glock’s collar were not for decoration: they caught skin and tore it, and the pure weight of the collar knocked the gun up into the air so that the bullet it spat forth imbedded itself high in the wall. Said bullet had probably been meant for Glock, because the sound of a guard-dog growling would have been unmistakable. Now, though, with the gunman roaring in pain and his aim off, Q yelled the command to spur Glock into action, and suddenly a massive projectile of dark fur and muscled bone was exploding off the floor. 

“You little brat-!” the man started to yell, but then his eyes and brain caught up with the pain in his arms and he jerked his head to see the wolf-hybrid coming at him.  Barely a second later, and dog and gunman were on the floor, Glock’s teeth making mincemeat of the man’s arm as it tried to keep the dog away from his face and neck.

“Yes!” Q whooped in sudden abandon, barely believing that his little plan had worked.  A second later, however, he saw a flaw in it: the gunman was still armed, and was now using his free hand to grappled for his dropped gun and bring it up against Glock’s chest. Q’s ‘yes’ quickly turned into a furiously brave “No!” as he leapt forward, grapping the gunman’s arm and hanging onto it like a limpet.  With a wolf-hybrid on one arm and a kid on the other, the gunman gasped out curses and thrashed, eventually dislodging the smaller of his two attackers and sending Q skidding across the floor.  The wall fetched Q up with a jolt that had him seeing stars as his head connected. For a moment, he just lay there, dazed.

When Q’s head cleared, he lay for a moment just blinking. His glasses were askew and his whole head still felt fuzzy and achy from impacting with a wall, but he still recognized the general shape of 003 walking towards him.  No…not walking towards him…standing in the doorway. “003?” Q asked thickly, regaining enough coordination to push his glasses back up his nose. He regained focus in time to see the hands holding the agent up give a push, sending the limp body crashing to the floor. 

The was a gunshot behind Q, and Glock’s thunderous growls became a spiking yelp.  Q didn’t know if the dog was killed, but he heard claws scrambling at the hard-wood floor and then a gunman with a thoroughly mangled left arm stumbling out of the bedroom – still shooting wild glares back over his shoulder.  No less than three men were exiting the room where 003 had previously been fighting, far more than the car tailing Q and the agent should have been able to hold. 

Q saw Glock’s collar nearby – he’d had a good grip on it until somewhere in the middle of his daring leap to help the dog.  It was now resting near him, and he made a clumsy lunge for it. The second Q’s fingers fell on it, however, it was being jerked out of his grip by a fifth man and jerked up against his throat, tightening.  When Q thrashed desperately, choked-off exclamations on his lips, he could feel his hunched shoulders brushing the collar’s fearsome spikes. 

“No more games,” came a terrifyingly familiar voice. Q’s eyes snapped open and he forgot about the fear of suffocation, gaze instead snapping upwards to the man looming over him with a vicious grip on the collar. 

Westford.

The man’s face was a lot more scarred than Q remembered it, so much so that it looked painful when the man twisted one side of his mouth up in a humorless smirk.  “You know, I like you better like this, brat.  Richardson, get the body by the door.  Leave the agent – MI6 can clear up that mess, at least.”

“No…!” Q gasped thinly, reaching out with one hand towards 003’s still form while his other hand tried to get between his neck and the leather strap pressed against it.  The agent didn’t twitch, however, and was covered all over in blood and bruises.  The man – Richardson – who nodded and headed to the door didn’t look much better, however, because even with three against one, taking down a 00-agent wasn’t easy.  Another man closed the door on Glock, who was also likely dead or dying, Q realized with a heart-wrenching, choking sob. 

He’d brought this on them.  Him. Q.

“Come on, Quinn,” Westford grunted, finding it hard to fist his hand around the collar when it was so thick and spiked but managing it nonetheless – he hauled Q up by his neck with it.  As the man walked, he limped heavily thanks to the damage Bond had done to his leg before leaving him to the bomb…the bomb that had obviously not done its job. “I’ve already wasted too much time getting you, and we’ve still got a ways to walk.”

‘Walk?’ Q thought dizzily, gasping for oxygen.  ‘But they came in a car…’

But a car would never have carried all of these men – five including Westford and the dead man – and after all of the noise and violence, a car would never be enough to get them out of here before police or MI6 personnel arrived. Q puzzled over this, his brain slow and the edges of his vision darkening, as he was more or less dragged over to one of the broken windows.  Being on the second floor had slowed these men, but hadn’t stopped them.

Q gasped for air as Westford finally let go of the collar, letting it fall to the floor.  Ironically, even as it slipped off one of Q’s skinny shoulders, the spikes didn’t so much as knick his hoodie, but Westford swore as it tried to spear his toe when it fell on his shoe. Coughing and choking air in with a hand rubbing his neck, Q stumbled against the window-frame to the tune of crunching glass beneath his shoes. 

And as he looked out, he saw an open manhole cover and three more men standing below.

That was right about when someone lifted him up and summarily tossed him out the window. Q was still too winded to even scream as he flailed and fell the distance, going still with shock as someone caught him before he could hit the concrete.  “Get everyone cleared out before anyone comes to investigate!” Westford hissed from above, “And keep the Finch brat quiet.”

‘That’s right,’ Q thought even as a rag was tied over his mouth and zip-ties used to secure his hands so he couldn’t cause trouble with them.  Q could feel the fight bleeding out of him thought as surely as 003 had bled out on the floor of his own home – likely in the company of his fearsome, brave dog, too.  ‘That’s right.  I’m not Q anymore.  I’m Quinn Finch now.’ Quinn Finch had survived being dropped out a window into waiting hands, but Q had shattered like a glass mask upon the unforgiving concrete. 

‘I’m sorry, Bond,’ he thought silently before strangers bundled him away and down, down, down beneath the city…

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

By the time Quinn Finch reached his destination – a nondescript, industrial looking building not unlike the other one he’d spent time with Westford in – he was shaky, cold, and feeling very, very sick.  The tunnels under the city were dark and dank and more often than not smelled strongly of sewage, so the combination of stress, fear, and the horrific smell had eventually caused the boy to crumple and vomit.  If this hadn’t made him so miserable, he might have taken some comfort in the fact that most of Westford’s men looked like they were considering emptying their stomach contents as well. Westford himself, likely because of that leg injury from Bond that was still showing, was the sole exception; he hadn’t followed them down here.  Quinn hoped that he’d get caught in traffic and someone from MI6 would shoot him.  The level of viciousness in that thought startled the boy enough that he nearly vomited again, but by then, large and unfamiliar hands were lifting him up and dragging him onwards again. 

Westford’s men were lucky that they only had to deal with a kid. After tangling with 003 and Glock, pretty much everyone was bloody and/or swaying from pain. There were enough able bodies to keep their seven-year-old prisoner in line, but Quinn heard at least one torn-up man mumble, “That is the last time I even think about attacking an MI6 agent in his own house – I don’t care how much I’m paid.”  Quinn had felt another surge of violent triumph upon hearing that, but the feeling had wilted and died when the man had continued, “At least we killed the guy, and that monster he calls a dog, too.”

Quinn walked along and cried, the tears falling silently. With Bond, he’d almost forgotten that it was safer to be quiet in sadness, but if he had to, he could remember again. It hadn’t been that long ago, after all, when no one had cared for him at all…  Did anyone care for him now?  Quinn huddled in on himself, drawing his arms tight about his torso as if holding the pieces of himself together, and thought with agony that he’d just gotten one of 007’s comrades killed.  That was his fault.  Westford hadn’t wanted to kill 003 or Glock…they’d just been in the way.  Would Bond love him now that Q was the reason a fellow 00-agent had been slain?

In all truthfulness, Quinn had never been positive that Bond had loved him before – it was just such an abstract concept.  Quinn had known, fundamentally, that his parents were required to love him, and they had expressed that to the extent that he was more or less fed and clothed when he was in their presence.  But then 007 had come, and expressed a whole different brand of caregiving that was so out of Quinn’s understanding that he didn’t even know how to categorize it. He knew that he liked it, but that was all.

As his chin trembled and the pain in his heart grew, Quinn realized that he’d do anything for that affection Bond showed him, regardless of whether it was love or not.  It didn’t matter now, though, because not only was Bond not here, but the man would likely not forgive him for this.  True, Bond had threatened to kill 003 on occasion, but he’d threatened to kill Eve and Mallory, too, and Quinn was pretty sure Bond actually liked those two. 

Plus, this far beneath the city, Quinn doubted that the signal from his commandeered cell-phone was reaching anyone.  At least by taking it apart he’d made sure no one would take it from him – one of his captors had already found the lump of hardware, but had dismissed it as a bit of junk that Quinn was carrying around like a safety-blanket. They knew that the boy with them had a love for technology, but clearly they didn’t realize just how capable he was with it. 

Quinn considered taking out the device and just dropping it anyway, sure that no one would want to find him now, but hung onto it out of an absurd and desperate hope that he was wrong.  

~^~

Barely minutes after Westford, his men, and their tiny captive had cleared the premises, 002 was barging through 003’s door, frame tense and gun leading. Out of all the 00-agents, he was the most flippant, and could play quite a foppish fellow if the need arose – but right now, he was all business, and his mouth was turned down in a hard line at the edges as he quickly surveyed the scene.  The lesser agents behind him were dealing with the distraught neighbors, who had been afraid to come out of their rooms with all of the gunshots being heard.  002 let the others handle that as his eyes darted from blood-spatter to blood-spatter, finding at least one location where a dead body had been dragged away. Whose, he did not know, but the flat was disturbingly quiet. 

There was one trail of blood that was quite fresh, and led from the guest bedroom around into another room, and had 002 cocking one eyebrow. Motioning for the others to stay back, he edged forward, cursing the setting sun for making the room dim. As he approached, he could make out a form sprawled out on the floor, the cut of his black hair instantly recognizable – and if not, 002 definitely was familiar with the other man’s blades, which were now lying on the floor like silver feathers slicked with red.

Then something lifted from the body, and golden eyes reflected the fading light like hellish coals.  The growl started out almost too low to hear, but grew in volume even as 002 swore and backed off a step.  “Bloody hell,” he cursed, unsure where to aim his gun but knowing that he’d have only one shot at Glock if the huge dog decided to move on him, “Can’t people at least incapacitate both of you?! I’m going to bloody well let you die if I have to choose between checking for a pulse and having that dog of yours rip my throat out, Gregory.” 

002 honestly hadn’t expected an answer, and had been trying to think of a way to either get Glock out of the picture or get the injured canine to recognize him, but then a bloodied hand lifted slightly from the floor – a mere twitch of fingers.  “Saul…” croaked 003’s voice, thready but annoyed, “…Are you threatening my dog?”

The breath of relief from the brown-haired agent was matched by a quieting of Glock’s growls – the dog switched briefly to whining, turning his black snout to nose at his owner’s head.  003 hissed and grumbled something unrepeatable, which the dog easily ignored. 002 lowered his gun and took a cautious, hopeful step forward.  “Pretty sure your dog was threatening me first.  Can you call him off long enough for me to check if you’re dead?”

003 actually growled in a good imitation of his dog, and irritably rasped back, “I’m not dead…I’ve just got a few holes that I wasn’t meant to have.” While he snarked, fortunately, he lifted his hand far enough to fist his blood-darkened fingers into the dog’s coat – which was also spiked with blood in places, 002 noted with worry. The dog had left quite a path of red when it had dragged itself over to its owner, and it was agreed by the whole department that 003 would more than likely go rogue if he ever lost his dog.

002 also noticed that the dog’s collar was absent, but instead lying discarded on the floor a ways off.  “Where’s Bond’s kid?” he asked as he finally approached, holding his breath and watching for any sign of the wolf-hybrid reacting.  Glock must have been feeling his wounds, because the big dog let out a pained, whimpering huff and lowered his head onto the floor next to 003’s hip.  Those golden eyes never blinked, however, as they watched 002 approach. 

In answer to that, 003 merely started swearing with a fluency that had even 002 wincing.  “I’m going to take that to mean that you lost him,” 002 sighed with faked levity, his exhale almost dramatic. There was very little humor in his next sentence, however, as he knelt by 003’s side and began to try and stabilize him, “007 just might kill you over this one, Gregory.”

“Shut it, Saul.”  The anger that burned like a cold flame in 003’s narrowed cobalt eyes said that he wasn’t afraid of 007, however – he was, in fact, looking as though he wanted to kill Q’s kidnappers just as much as the next person.  Glock peeled his lips back briefly from his gleaming teeth as if in approval, then settled down to wait his turn for medical attention.

~^~

“Quinn Finch.  You’re a hard brat to find, you know that, boy?” 

Quinn stood and trembled.  Not only was he cold and damp, but he was downright terrified.  No one had tied him up or drugged him (both being things that had happened before, often enough that he never discounted the possibility of it happening again), but there were men far bigger than himself obviously guarding every exit, making the boy hyper-aware of his own fragility and helplessness. In regards to Westford’s question, he said nothing, but he let his mind get used to answering to his full name again.

With his old employer seated in a chair about two-and-a-half meters in front of him, Quinn could see more clearly than before that the man hadn’t escaped the bomb unfazed.  There were scars visible on nearly every inch of exposed skin, even if it was just a pockmark or a faint, white line.  Whenever he walked, Quinn imagined 007’s knife imbedding itself in the back of the man’s knee. Somehow, that injury still seemed the most blatant of them all, despite it being the least violent. Quinn forced his eyes to lift from the man’s bad leg up to his hand instead, forcing himself to pay attention to the appendages, because that was where violence would come from. All of the time Bond had kept him around, Quinn had slowly been growing used to hands not being the vehicles of punishment, so it was heart-wrenching to bring the memories to the fore again. It had been…nice…not having to think about survival all the time, when he’d been in 007’s shadow. 007 had made it clear that matters of survival and safety were to be left to adults, and Quinn wondered longingly whether that was how it was for normal kids.  It hadn’t been for him – not often, anyway. 

“Are you listening to me, brat?!”

Quinn jumped, realizing he hadn’t been.  He’d been thinking of dangerous, ice-blue eyes and hands that could kill people but softened for him.  Now he was so startled to be back in reality that he forgot how to answer, instead just blinking with owlish fright behind his glasses and failing not to cower.

“Hey, boss,” a worrisomely cheery voice came in through one of the doors, catching Westford’s attention over Quinn’s head, “I got what you asked me for. How is this?”  The boy turned to see one of Westford’s henchmen that had survived capturing Quinn mostly unscathed, now walking forward with something in his hand and a vindictive smile on his face.  That smile grew snide as the man’s eyes slipped briefly over to the skinny, bespectacled boy in the center of the room, making the bottom fall out of Quinn’s stomach with worry.  What was worse was when the boy met the vindictive gaze of another man across the room – this was the man who’d been attacked by Quinn and Glock, and who now had one arm heavily bandaged. The fellow looked nearly gleeful despite the amount of pain he had to be in. 

Westford’s scarred face cracked into a smile as the object deposited into his hand turned out to be a small dog-collar, complete with leash. Quinn felt himself go pale, and he was backing up with shaking footsteps even as the man added, “I think that I can twist the metal buckle enough so that he can’t just get if off either, with those quick fingers of his.”  He said it like those ‘quick fingers’ were a curse, and they probably were – for everyone. They were Quinn’s only weapon against people besides his brain, but they were also what made him valuable to criminals like Westford in the first place.  The young genius yelped as someone came up behind him, catching him by the hood of his jacket to drag him forward, to where Westford was now waiting with clear amusement on his face and a strip of stiff leather in his hand. 

“You…you can't do this!” Quinn protested, finding his tongue despite his fear. He nearly wriggled right out of his hoodie in panic, but then the hand just switched to his hair, making him cry out. He was reduced to whimpering as the fingers fisted in his hair twisted his head back, making him stand on his toes to try and relieve the discomfort – in the time he spent making a grab for the hand in his hair, Westford put the collar on him, snugging it tight.

Immediately Quinn forgot about being scared and imagined that 007 was there – or that he was 007.  It was a knee-jerk reaction he’d never had before, but now it came out of some courageous corner of him, and he fought and scrapped like a tornado in the bottle.  The hand on his hair had loosened only for a second as he’d dug his fingernails viciously into any skin he could reach, and then he’d struggled and kicked with a level of ferocity normally seen in feral cats doused with water.  If he hadn’t been so small and clearly outnumbered, Quinn would actually have been a force to be reckoned with – and regardless of size or outcome, James would have been proud.

But pride didn’t matter, and even the best efforts of a child are still those of a child, and after a minute or two someone was picking him off the floor with an arm around his chest, pinning his arms down.  With a chest like a barrel at his back and an arm like an iron bar nearly crushing the wind out of him, Quinn was reduced to desperate mewling as someone produced a set of pliers, setting them to the metal buckle and twisting.  The tugging made the collar temporarily tighten, digging into the boy’s soft, pale skin – unlike Glock’s leather collar, this wasn’t broken in or soft-edged. There was nothing kind about this.

“You can let him go now,” Westford chuckled after watching Quinn’s ineffective kicks for a moment longer, and Quinn was shortly thereafter deposited in a heap on the floor.  His dexterous hands immediately went for the collar, but found the metal buckle so bent out of shape that he couldn’t even create a picture of it in his head – with bone-freezing shock, he realized that this was not meant to come off.  Ever. 

“W-W-Why are you doing this?”  The words were tumbling out of his mouth, because he didn’t understand. There was a lot of ill-treatment that Quinn had gotten used to as he worked for various criminals, but there were still some things that overwhelmed him with their sheer, shocking cruelty – like the slap from his mother.  This was similar, and no matter how he tried, he simply couldn’t move past the sensation of a dog-collar affixed around his neck. “How can you do this?!”

Westford was less impressed, and far more inured to things like this – he merely snorted, “Easy, boy.  You made a fool out of me, so I’m just playing fair and making a bit of a fool out of you. I also plan to have you make up for all of the destruction you wrought on my finances and reputation.”

That didn’t sound good…  Quinn decided to stay where he was, huddled on his knees on the floor, because he was able to make a smaller target of himself.  He tried to ignore the collar about his thin neck – and the leash hanging from it tauntingly – but only managed to do that until he swallowed spasmodically and felt his throat scrape against the rough edge of leather. It took all of his self-control not to gag at the utter wrongness of the sensation.  Instead, he forced himself to be meek, and to ask, “What…what do you want?”  That was a safe question.  It usually was, at least.  Quinn dropped his eyes and tried not to stare around him at the other men circling like lazy sharks.  James and Alec padded about like that, but somehow, when they’d done it, Quinn hadn’t felt like a piece of meet thrown into a ring of lions. 

Never before had Quinn wished so hard for 007 to be picking him up in that incessant, annoying way he had.  Quinn squeezed is eyes shut to try and banish the unhelpful memory, but tears were already escaping from behind his glasses to join the tracks still drying on his cheeks.

Westford wasn’t moved by the tears in the slightest, and he may as well have been eyeing a piece of merchandise instead of a boy as he tapped a foot impatiently. “I want MI6, of course.”

~^~

“What?”

The word fell like a flower dipped in liquid nitrogen – gentle until it shattered like glass because it was frozen so solid.  Somehow, this reaction was worse than when Bond had been informed that Q was missing. 

That, of course, had been on the top of everyone’s list of ‘conversations that never need to be repeated.’  006 and 7 had been told they had better take the fastest way back to London, and when they’d asked why, Tanner hadn’t been a good enough liar to keep the truth from them. When the two agents had eventually wrangled the truth out, they’d very nearly started an international altercation, and it had taken M’s most threatening tones to keep them from doing something drastic in a foreign country.  Fortunately, 00-agents like 006 and 7 generally had two settings when angry: unreasonable rage and frost-bitten, lethal cold.  As much as M hated to admit it, she knew how to subtly tilt her agents into the latter condition, although it was probably the more dangerous of the two options, truth-be-told.  She knew for a fact that 007 could shoot a man in the face and not even blink as blood spattered across his lashes when he was in this mood, and 006 wasn’t much better. 

“Just get back,” she’d finished up the tense conversation, after telling them what she could about what had happened.  “We’ll figure things out from there.”

“You’ll send me after Q,” was Bond’s counter, said like someone throwing a challenge. 

M sighed, seeing no point in arguing, because it would be as useless as stopping a bullet with her bare hands.  “Apparently I will be.  Don’t make a mess before you get here, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” was the abrupt, sharp reply, and then 007 had hung up, and presumably he and 006 had made their way to the nearest airport.  Hopefully the airplane would survive the trip, although M imagined that anyone sitting next to the two men would get frostbite from the pure, wrathful cold they would be emanating.  007 most of all, with his eyes like glaciers.  She also knew, having overseen James for long enough to see him at his best and worst, that sometimes that glacial cold spread out from his eyes and encased his heart.  It didn’t happen often.

But it had most certainly happened now, and it would be a long time before the thaw.

At this moment, as 007 stood once again in MI6 headquarters in M’s office, there was a temporary crack.  “Not happening,” he finally said in response to his own question.  006 had a look of nearly offended disbelief on his face.

“I’m not asking your opinion on this, 007,” M took a deep breath and informed him stubbornly.  “From the texts we have from Q, we know that he’s been taken by a former…employer…but we don’t have enough information to easily find him.  There are two people, however, who do.”

“I think that if you put James here in the same room with Mr. and Mrs. Finch,” 006 said candidly and with a clear wince, “He’ll kill them. Or if they’re in the same car, he’ll crash it out of spite.  Or-”

“Thank you, Trevelyan, that will be quite enough,” M snapped, eyes never leaving 007.  The man was as dangerous as a thinly frozen lake – there was no way to tell where you could step safely and what spots would send you crashing through to a cold, watery grave. “Mr. and Mrs. Finch are the most familiar with their son’s background, and if you want to find where is he quickly, you need them.  They have agreed to help.”

“In return for what?” 006 sneered.  His cold façade had apparently melted somewhere after the jet-lag had set in, leaving him sharp and temperamental instead.  M gave him a look that said she’d happily skin him alive if that would shut him up. 

“Leniency in their sentencing,” she had to admit, and watched as 006 narrowed his eyes with a growl and 007’s cold eyes reached positively sub-zero temperatures.

“No way in h-” 006 started to retort, when 007 abruptly looked away, his face radiating nothing but cold lethality and determination.

“Fine. But if they aren’t useful, I’m shooting them.”

With that, he left the room, heading down to Q-branch to get resupplied. 006 and M just stared after him, until Alec finally murmured faintly, “You know that feeling you get when there’s a storm coming?  I’ve had it since I got on the plane with him.”  With no more comment than that, 006 ambled out after the other man at a slower but no less determined pace. 

~^~

“James, is it?” asked Darrel Finch, as his wife was released from lock-up. MI6 didn’t trust the couple as far as they could throw them, so only one of the Finches was going after their son with 006 and 7.  Clearly, Mr. Finch still remembered being slammed into a wall by the blue-eyed agent, and was eyeing him as if expecting him to repeat the action.

007 looked clearly tempted.  Instead, he gave Darrel a disgusted dismissive look before turning his glare full-force on Susanna.  “Help us find your son, and your sorry arse can come back here in one piece. Don’t help, and you can come back in pieces,” he informed her without remorse or even blinking.

It said something about the woman that she barely flinched, her face a callous mask as she simply tensed and didn’t move as the powerful man turned and left.  006 clearly wasn’t much happier, but had enough of a sense of humor remaining to point out cheekily, “He’s actually quite friendly to people he likes.”

“I can assume he likes Quinn more than me?” the woman asked shrewdly.

006’s eyes frosted over, and his smile turned a bit more edged and a bit less humorous.  “Don’t even go there,” he growled past the toothy smirk, and turned to follow 007 as well, trusting that the woman would follow.  “You’ve been briefed?”

“Yes,” Susanna fell in step, not appearing to miss her husband in the slightest – she also seemed to be lacking in worry for her only son. “I think I might know where Quinn is. You two seem quite intent on finding him again.”

“And you seem like you couldn't care less,” Alec retorted mercilessly, “Which is frankly more disturbing than 007’s wanting to kill you, because you’re the kid’s mother.”

“Quinn can take care of himself,” she snipped back, offended, and 006’s hands were now twitching against the urge to draw his gun and shoot her. “From what I’ve heard, he’s with a former employer, and they won’t risk damaging him – he’s too useful. You know as well as I do that no one would hurt him at the risk of impeding his abilities.”

“Alec?” Bond said suddenly, looking back over his shoulder. 006 looked forward to notice that every line of muscle was standing out in Bond’s back, and his hands were open and loose – ready to go for a gun, or a throat.  Too ready.  The combination of looseness and tension was a deadly sign, and even 006 grew edgy.

“Yes, James?  Something on your mind?”

James ignored the levity.  “Shut her trap before I shut it for her.  I don’t want to hear that woman talk unless she’s giving me directions, and we’re not even to the car yet.”  He walked a little faster, putting some distance between himself and the woman who had done everything but what a mother should.

Love her child. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

While Q’s real mother was about as unaffected as a rock on a stormy day, Q-branch looked like nothing so much as a nest of disturbed hornets. Anyone who came by instantly retreated, discovering that the 00-devision wasn’t the only section of MI6 to form an attachment to a certain bespectacled seven-year-old. The old Quartermaster had been immune to the tornado of activity and worry, until he’d made the mistake of demanding what all the fuss was about – this was just a missing kid, after all, and 003 had scores of people (friends and foes alike) who would had jumped at the chance to attack him in his own home.  The response to the old Quartermaster’s lack of sympathy was overwhelming. The head of Q-branch was nearly ejected from his own department, and only allowed to stay after he meekly agreed to help. 

Q-branch began doing all they could to support mission ‘Find the Tiny Overlord,’ pulling up security footage using some of the same programs that the child genius had devised previously.  In fact, the same techniques that little-Q had used to help 007 on his mission were now being used to find the kid himself, and old-Q just had to bite his tongue and live with it. 

Unfortunately, there was no headway being made thus far.  003 lived in a part of town lacking in security or traffic cameras, and no one had been able to deduce just how Q and his kidnappers had gotten past the incoming squad with 002.  Still, Q-branch was a determined and fierce entity when roused, and no amount of set-backs slowed them.  R especially was working like a machine, and therefore it was she who noticed the unexpected signal that turned up on her screen.  She narrowed her eyes at it, puzzled…because that shouldn’t have been there. Then her eyes widened and she was bolting out of her chair.  “Connie, watch this signal for me!” she commanded to a fellow techy as she began sprinting out of the room, destination already firmly in her mind, “I have to check something – but do not lose that signal!” And then R was leaving Q-branch, racing down the halls.

~^~

003 hated being sedated, 002 knew, so it would be a fun day indeed when the black-haired man woke up (and by 'fun' 002 actually meant ‘one of the lower levels of Hell’). So with 003 recovering on the hospital bed and an equally bandaged Glock sleeping half under his chair, 002 sat vigil so that there would be as few pulled stitches and medical casualties as possible whenever Gregory’s drugs wore off.  The brown-haired man sighed, wondering how the hunt for Bond’s kid was going.

The only reason 002 didn’t go for a weapon when the hospital room door swung open was because the wolf-dog under his chair didn’t start growling, having identified the scent as familiar and/or non-threatening. Of course, as soon as 002 saw the shock of pink hair, he knew that it was R…but he couldn’t figure out why she was moving around so quickly. 

“Gregory’s phone,” she panted, eyes fluttering around the room but not finding what she wanted.  Her next move was to dart like a hummingbird on a mission over to where 002 was still sprawled in stunned bewilderment on the hospital chair, where he remained admirably still as the woman pulled at his coat and began digging through his pockets. Her eyes met his and she demanded more strongly, “Gregory’s phone – did they find it?  Where is it?”

002 endured the pawing at his person because this was R, and so far as 002 and 3 were concerned, R could do whatever the hell she wanted so long as it made her happy.  It was an odd relationship that had developed quite accidentally while they’d been working together to complicate the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Finch.  Eyes flustered and narrowed and perplexed, 002 lifted his hands in an open gesture as he replied, “No, it was assumed destroyed. We just found pieces of it at his flat.” Glock was bewildered, too, long black snout pointed up towards R and head cocked as he watched her wild movements.

R froze, knuckles brushing 002's ribs as her hand paused in the depths of one of his inside coat-pockets. “What pieces?”

“Um…” Saul said, lacking his usual eloquence for once, “The casing, I think. I didn’t ask.”

At that point R stopped digging around and fluttering about, and instead sagged against the edge of 003’s hospital bed, head going into her hands for a second. Instead of breaking down and crying or something, however, she breathed a soft and elated, “Yes!” Then she was moving again, pulling out her own phone before she’d even reached the door – calling Q-branch. “Yes, this is R – tell Connie to get everyone we’ve got on tracking that signal.  It’s got to be 003’s phone, since he doesn’t have it...Yes, I know his phone isn’t authorized for tracking…No, they only found the casing. I’m willing to bet the important parts of the phone are still in one piece, and if there’s anyone you know who could set up the remote signal on a lobotomized phone, it would be our Gear.”

002’s ears had pricked up right along with Glock's, and the agent called before R could leave, “I’ll inform M.  From what I’ve heard so far, 007 and 6 will be glad to depend on Q-branch instead of Mrs. Finch for information.” As R nodded, mouthing ‘thanks’ around the phone’s receiver, 002 was already getting up out of his chair. He stopped long enough to glance between Glock (still looking confused, white bandages stark against his black coat) and 003.  He wagged a finger at the former.  “Make sure he doesn’t take down Medical when he wakes up.  I’ll be back.” Hopefully before his partner, in a drug-induced haze, began to make a nuisance of himself.

Now all of MI6 was mobilizing, working together for the sake of one small boy who didn’t even think that anyone was coming for him.

~^~

The signal on 003’s hijacked phone for some reason hadn’t shown up for nearly six hours, leading everyone to ultimately believe that Q had been underground – this quickly fit in with all of the other evidence around 003’s apartment. It also meant that if Q had been dragged through underground tunnels for six hours, he’d either been unconscious, or he was one very tired and drained little boy.  The upside was that he was now above ground, and Q-branch was taking great delight in tracking him – they were like unleashed hounds, vicious and hungry in a way that was usually attributed to 00-agents.

It was still a frustrating, difficult process, however, because despite the powers of Q-branch, the signal they were tracking periodically slipped off the radar.  This terrified them every time it happened – even the old Quartermaster began to hold his breath – but every time Q’s signal came up again like a faithful star.  Finally, after frantically tracking for half a day, they got it pegged down for long enough that they decided that it was time to bring 007 and his team into the hunt. 

“Call James Bond,” R ordered as she kept focused on her screen, hoping that they wouldn’t lose the signal again, and their precious Gear with it.

~^~

“Yes?” 006 answered the call, as pleasantly as if he were lounging on a cruise ship instead of in a grungy hotel room. 

The techy on the other end of the line was obviously flustered, asking how they’d gotten 006 when they’d called 007’s mobile.  006 merely flashed a humorless slash of a grin that the man couldn’t see.  “I can put him on the line if you want, but you’d be better off pouring acid down your ear. The experience would be less caustic and possibly more fun,” 006 supplied, entirely serious beneath the sarcastic tone.  His eyes were on the other man in the room, who was perched on the room’s other chair tensely and now fixing Alec with a gimlet look.  “I took his phone in the name of not offending everyone who calls this number.” In a quieter voice, so Bond wouldn’t pick it up from across the room, Alec added, “This had better be important, because I’m busy babysitting the two most vicious kiddies in the universe, trying to make sure that 007 doesn’t say, ‘Fuck it, I’m going to gut the bitch and hang her out the window’-”

R’s voice came across the line with exasperation and impatience, “Here, let me talk to him.”

Alec perked up as he hadn’t since being sent on this mission. Truly, there was nothing he could think of that was less fun than traveling with Bond (who was in just about the most lethally horrible mood that Alec could easily remember) and Susanna Finch (who was somehow managing to worsen 007’s mood to a level just short of ‘psychotically homicidal’).  “R?” he asked, smile setting more easily on his rugged features – a smile which also grew more roguish, “Sweatheart, really, you don’t want to talk to 007 right now-”

“We’ve had a breakthrough.  It turns out that Gear filched 003’s phone and turned on its tracking programs,” R blurted out, no room for either flirting or chatting in her voice.

007 had been watching the door to the bathroom, where Mrs. Finch was presently hiding in the hopes of living until the next day – or, depending on how you looked at it, making some calls to her underworld contacts to get them a bit closer to Q.  She’d been getting them tentatively closer to finding her son, but she’d also been coming tremendously closer to slamming 007’s temper shut on herself like a steel-trap. So the reason she was in the bathroom was up for debate.  Cold fury aside, however, 007 still had a lot of training in espionage and watching people, and therefore noticed instantly when 006 suddenly straightened up minutely in his seat and clutched the phone tighter. 

When he saw the look of surprise on Alec’s usually imperturbable face, 007 was out of his chair and stalking over to the man instantly, leaning down uncomfortably close to put his ear by the phone. 

“…Think he’s possibly in the air now.  All we know is that the signal cut out somewhere near an airstrip, but not any public airport with lots of cameras to hijack,” R was saying.

Alec didn’t even bother to protest as the phone was tugged out of his hand and returned to the ear of its original owner.  He merely sighed and moved to lean against the wall by the bathroom, ready to intercept Susanna should she come out – right now seemed like a particularly bad time for her to interrupt James.

“What was that about a plane?” 007 snapped mercilessly, every muscle in his frame subtly tensing and flexing.

Alec knew the signs: James wanted to shoot someone.  Badly.  His nervous energy was filling the room like a portable electric storm. ‘This is not going to end well,’ 006 sighed, and shifted his pose to block the door with his heel.  Best that Mrs. Finch just stay where she was. 

The tone of 007’s voice was so inadvertently threatening that R was lost for words momentarily, breath cutting off on the phone like a small animal trying not to be noticed.  Even with all of her recent experience with 002 and 3, the young woman was momentarily cowed by the harsh demand.  Just as James was about to really lose his patience, she got her voice back, however, explaining in a rush, “Gear – Q, I mean – seems to have 003’s phone, or at least someone has his phone and has turned on its beacon.  We called you as soon as we were sure of the location, but if it’s Q, he must be on a plane right now.”

“All I care is that you have a lead that does not include Susanna bloody Finch,” James growled, shooting a telling look at the closed bathroom door, which shuddered slightly right then as the woman tried to open the door only to be stymied.  006, untroubled, shifted a bit more of his weight in front of it, also helpfully placing a strong hand over the door-knob.  When the woman beyond began to make furious noises, 006 muttered something carelessly uncomplimentary through the door that got her to quiet down.  Bond turned his attention back to the phone, fingers of his free hand flexing unconsciously in a dangerous way that had 006 tensing, too. “Where will they land?”

~^~

“You can’t leave me here,” Mrs. Finch stubbornly argued, her eyes snapping with temper.  Unfortunately for her, anger like that couldn’t hold a candle to the sub-zero type of fury that 007 carried. He ignored her and continued packing.

Typically, this left 006 to handle the situation, although he was wondering more and more if it wouldn’t just be easier to shoot the woman who had caused so much trouble.  Just because Alec was presently the calmer and the two agents didn’t mean the sight of Q’s mother didn’t make his blood boil.  James had seen the red mark of a violent palm on little-Q’s face, but Alec had gotten back in time to see the psychological damage.  “We can, and we will.  So, thanks for all of your help, it really was lovely, but I’m afraid you’re being replaced.”

“With what?  A tracking beacon that flickers on as often as off?” the woman snapped back, and Alec cursed the fact that Susanna Finch was smart.  She wasn’t a genius like her small son was, but she was keen in other ways that made her troublesome.  “Admit it: you know as well as I do that it’s just a matter of time before Westford or one of his men realize that Quinn’s carrying something traceable, and then you’ll be blind again.” 

Up until now, Susanna truly had been useful: she’d found out who had taken Q, and had even been able to point them in the right direction on where to go. It had taken some convincing to get Bond to believe that Westford wasn’t dead, of course, but Mrs. Finch’s connections were both diverse and widespread.  They were also going to be arrested or subverted to MI6’s cause as soon as this was over.  However, despite all of her criminal skills, Susanna had always been a step behind, and 006 and 7 with her.

By the look on Bond’s face and the quick, harsh movements of his body while he packed, he was sick of being one step behind. 

James moved so fast that even 006 barely reacted fast enough to get in front of him as 007 rounded on Susanna.  Muscles knotted beneath tanned, scarred skin and eyes darkened by a pure desire for violence, 007 spun from his position by the bed and came forward until Alec’s body in front of him stopped him.  There was no stopping the coldly murderous glare he sent at the woman, however, and Susanna blanched as she was reminded who was the ‘blue-eyed monster’ in the room, as her husband had put it.  “Your place here is finished,” the man said unexpectedly, and with far more control than anyone had expected.  In fact, his voice was eerily calm, like frozen lake. 

Susanna either didn’t have very good self-preservation instincts, or over-estimated her own usefulness in the face of Bond’s desire to bury her somewhere dark and deep and permanent.  “I have a right to go after my own son!” she sputtered indignantly. 

Alec worried that he’d have to clean up after a murder as James pressed forward again.  Fortunately, when Alec grabbed one of his biceps and squeezed, 007 merely shot him an annoyed look before halting again.  007’s voice was as quietly cold as frost creeping across a windowpane as he informed their female companion, “That’s where you’re wrong.  So far as I’m concerned, you don’t even have a right to look at Q.”

“You don’t even call him by his real name.”

“No, you don’t.” With that, 007 seemed to unexpectedly douse his temper, voice and expression filling with disgust instead. He turned away with a sudden, insulting lack of interest, “Come on, Alec.  Q’s waiting for us.  I plan on being on Westford’s doorstep before anyone realizes we’re even tracking Q.” He stuffed the last few things into his bag and then was stalking out the door like a heat-seeking missile. Or, rather, a missile set to seek a small, fluffy-headed super-genius.  When Mrs. Finch opened her mouth to yell after him, Alec surged forward unexpectedly and covered her mouth with a rough hand. 

“For you own safety,” he told her, eyes frank and brutal, “just shut it. I don’t care whether you live or die, but if James sprays your blood all over the walls, I’ll probably be the one who has to clean up his mess.”  Susanna was stunned enough that she said not a word as Alec lowered his hand and then produced handcuffs seemingly out of nowhere.  He proceeded to restrain her before telling MI6 that they had a prisoner to pick up, and then hurried to catch up with 007.  James was going to level Q’s former employers, and all Alec could think was that he hoped to be out of fallout range when 007 hit nuclear. 

~^~

James had his earpiece in and his mobile back, but no one wanted to talk to him because he was as liable to talk sensibly as he was to blister one’s eardrums.  A few complaints had been filed to M, intimating that Bond’s sanity was sincerely in question. M had ignored those complaints thus far, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried about the state of her agent…especially if they didn’t get Q back.  002 and 003 were both still in MI6, despite the fact that 002, at least, was fit for duty, but the rumor started going around that they were being held back in case someone was needed to put 007 down (in the event that 006 wouldn’t or couldn’t).

Everyone quietly hoped that Q would be returned safely…for everyone’s sake.   

“Approaching the building,” 006 murmured quietly, more serious than usual. He was a flippant rogue most of the time, but when he and Bond had finally closed in on Q’s location, a mask like iron had slowly descended on his face, locking down his easy smile. 007 was the same as the two of them moved forward, the night shrouding them.  “Going to go comm-silent for a bit.”

“Understood, 006,” the old Quartermaster confirmed.  “Do you want additional updates on the location of Quinn’s- Q’s signal?” the old man corrected quickly, having learned to be careful what he said regarding this mission. 

“Only if it’s pertinent,” 007 grunted back, over the shared link. His voice was a rumble in the dark. The ability of Q-branch to track 003’s phone was phenomenal, but still had its limits: they’d narrowed the location down to this building, more specifically the east side of it, but from there, they couldn’t help much.  ‘Pertinent’ meant ‘if the signal starts making a run for it’ – as in, out of the building. MI6 was already calling in back-up to lock down the perimeter. 

006 added to 007’s request, “And only to my earpiece.” He saw the faint motion of Bond turning back to look at him, brows lowered, but 006 just flashed him a bright grin in the dark until James moved forward again.  He saw James lift a hand to his ear, and then there was a faint blip that signaled one of the earpieces being turned off.  Knowing that James wouldn’t hear him now, 006 sighed and elaborated, “Too much chatter in James’s ear and he just might break the thing.”

“Isn’t that what he always does?” the old Quartermaster deadpanned back. “Nonetheless, I see the logic in your assessment.  Expect no further replies from Q-branch unless absolutely necessary – we’ll be listening, though.”

“Grand,” Alec agreed with distracted cheer.  His mind was already focusing on the mission, and he moved forward until he was in 007’s wake.  The other man didn’t even twitch, already trusting in 006’s presence; the two moved together like a pair of waves lapping between the walls of the alley as they moved. 007 was humming with tension, gun not drawn but fingers clearly itching for it.  It was cool out this evening, but James had opted not to wear anything over his holsters, making access easy; Alec was in the rare position of being the ‘reasonable one’ this evening, and therefore had a loose, dark-grey jacket to fight off the chill.  “Run silent or clear the place?” he asked in a low undertone as they reached a doorway.

007 hesitated – the latter option meant killing everything in sight, and clearly had its appeal.  With Q’s life on the line, however, getting in without attracting attention was wise, and Bond pushed down his killer instincts.  “Silent.  If I end up firing, don’t join in.  The longer it takes for anyone to realize there are two of us, the better.”

“You’re hilarious, James,” Alec snorted, eyeing the door with something close to glee coming slowly alive in his eyes, “What makes you think that they will realize that there is even one of us?”

James slanted a look at him, one eyebrow cocked.  “Just how many missions have we both gotten through without shots fired?”

“Good point.  If it comes to a gunfight, I’ll take point and lead them away – you stay low and find the kid.” With that, 006 slid forward like a black-draped shark to pick the lock on the unlit side-door.

The two men entered the building with efficient speed and utter silence. They’d picked this door as the least likely to be guarded, especially since they’d been careful not to alert Westford to their coming.  In fact, despite 006’s tendency for noisiness and 007’s present tendency towards flying off the handle with cold temper, the two agents had kept their hunt below the radar. Westford didn’t realize that he had jaws poised over his throat, impatient and furious. 

‘Here?’ Alec gestured with a hand towards a closed door, cocking his head.  James shrugged and backed off, positioning himself to cover 006 without being told.  The door was carefully opened, but the moment Alec met no resistance with a lock, he knew that their Q couldn’t be in it.  As expected, the room was empty.  They moved on without pause.   More doors were checked. Sometimes they heard people, but all they avoided.  Gunfights could come later, after Q was safe.  Then 006 and 7 planned to come back and tear the place down around Westford’s ears, if MI6 didn’t lock the place down first…or even if MI6 did, to be entirely frank. Right now, at the late hour, the place was almost deserted, but Bond would have paid to find out where Westford was sleeping.

Alec barely considered checking the door on the second floor, where the building was so thrown into shadow that even two well-trained 00-agents had a hard time navigating.  It was far away from the central heating of the place, too, and 006 wondered how well James was getting by without his coat.  Nonetheless, because they were being thorough, Alec grabbed the doorknob to test it.

There was a crackling pop and the sound of singed flesh, and it took all of Alec’s years of training not to bellow.  As it was, the shock hurt enough that he swore out loud, jumping back with his hand curling in against his chest.  The steady litany of swearing petered off but didn’t die out completely, and pretty soon Q-branch wanted to know what had happened. 

“Bloody fu-!” Alec cut off, knowing logically that they were supposed to be quiet. He was still clutching his hand and now glaring at the door as the pain faded.  “I just got electrocuted by a doorknob.”

Immediately, Bond’s features evened out, a sense of purpose and even relief flashing across his face.  Without a word – either to Alec or Q-branch, whom he couldn’t hear anyway since he’d turned his earpiece off – Bond turned to the door, ignoring the knob to instead kick the whole door in, noise be damned.  Bond pretty much only knew one person who would think to rig a door-knob up to an electrical current. 

The room beyond was pitch-black, darker even than the hallway, no window alleviating the darkness.  Bond’s eyes were accustomed to the dimness by now, however, and he was so tense and alert that he would have noticed the little scuffle of noise regardless. Leaving Alec to deal with anything their ruckus might have alerted, Bond stalked in swiftly, taking a second to appreciate a line of wires that appeared to have been connected from the lobotomized light-switch to the metal door-knob.  Alec was probably lucky that he was still conscious.

“I-I-I didn’t mean it!” came a sobbing, hitching voice, just when Bond’s arrival became inescapable.  It was Q, curled up in a corner and pressed into it to get farther away as the broad-shouldered shadow loomed closer. 

It took a second for Bond to realize that Q couldn’t recognize him in the dark, and he broke stride for a second in his approach. “Q!” he called apologetically.

The boy didn’t hear him.  In all honesty, if Bond hadn’t heard the kid’s familiar voice, he wouldn’t have recognized him either – he looked like nothing besides a lump of shadow in one corner, magically shrinking in on itself more and more by the second. “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!” Q begged desperately, and the pale shape of a small hand materialized, lifted in a weak defense as he curled his head down behind it. Q had actually managed to twist in on himself so that, as far as Bond could tell, the kid’s knees were up around his ears, obscuring everything but the fragile, eggshell curve of his back, the twiggish outline of his legs in baggy pants, and the ghost-pale shadow of his small hand.  He was still wearing the ‘Gear’ hoodie that Mallory had gotten for him. 

“I’m sorry!” he continued to wail softly, out of his mind with terror as Bond dropped down onto his haunches. “The electric shock…the electric shock was because of Whittacker.  I didn’t mean…I promise I didn’t mean…!”  When Bond’s hand reached out and grabbed the thin forearm raised between them, Q’s breath seized in his chest as if he’d been dunked into an icy river, and somehow his terror ratcheted up even further until he was nearly shaking himself apart in his corner.  He was clearly trying to melt into the wall, shoes skidding out as he pushed against the floor in an attempt to gain traction and push himself further away. At some point in the mad struggle, his foot caught on something long and rope-like, jerking it, and Q let out a thin yelp and a whimper as the fight momentarily left him.

All this time, Bond had been trying to bring him out of it by calling Q’s name, but it hadn’t been working.  Now his grip on Q’s quivering arm lessoned, but only so that he could switch his grip and wedge his fingertips between Q’s body and the wall, trying to pry him away from it. 

“James?” came 006’s call from the doorway, surprisingly soft and careful. Apparently no one was coming to investigate the noise yet.  “Is he all right?”

“No!” snarled Bond as he tried to control his own emotional response to the situation.  True, he’d been trained to keep his cool in a myriad of situations, but this was fucked up, and Q should never have been acting like this.  Q should never have been kidnapped at all.  “Q – Q, you have to stop it.  Q!  Bloody hell, it’s me! James!  The fellow who fed you energy-bars on that island I found you on. Bloody horrible energy-bars, but that’s not my fault.”

“Got to get moving, James,” Alec called, voice still calm.

James snapped back more harshly than was necessary, “Just a minute!” then tried to rein in his temper again, like a good 00-agent.  He finally got a hand around Q’s chest, but it still felt like prying a barnacle from a rock as he levered the kid away from the wall, jaw tightening as the boy just cried.  Even after being dragged away from his corner, his frame never unlocked – if anything, it pulled in tighter, and the touch of Bond’s hands nearly sent Q into a panic. Q had his legs drawn up to his chest and his face pressed against them hard enough to probably bend his glasses.

And that was when Bond realized that Q had a collar and leash on, and blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. 

Forgetting about Alec, or approaching enemies, or anything but the little genius in front of him, Bond forcibly uncurled Q.  It wasn’t an easy process, and to say that Q didn’t like it would be an understatement: he struggled and wept and finally bit down on Bond’s hand.

Everything froze.  Alec was watching the business in the room and the hallway beyond in turns, looking relaxed except for the way he held his gun, still firmly in his grip.  The room was pretty dark, but by now he could see the outline of Bond kneeling by the far corner and Q latched onto the outer side of his hand like a ridiculous little snapping turtle.  The crying had stopped by default now that Q had sunk his teeth into something, but Alec could easily hear ragged, distressed breathing as the boy refused to let go, his small hands also wrapped defiantly around Bond’s arm as if he could stop the muscular appendage with his small strength.  The boy’s glasses were crooked and his hair was a silhouette of pure, curly chaos, but Bond just sat and did nothing, utterly still.

Q’s breathing hitched and one of his hands went up again as Bond’s free arm lifted.  The agent made no move to budge his compromised limb, freely giving it over to Q’s desperate little teeth, but instead reached forward with his left hand.  By the way Q squeezed his eyes shut until tears streaked his cheeks, he was expecting to be forcibly pried off, or at the very least hit. He gasped at the first touch of fingers against his hair. 

But all Bond did was pet him gently. 

The touch was neither rough nor invasive.  All Bond did was place his hand gently on the crown of Q’s head and let it slide slowly backwards, pressing down the worse of the wild tangles. When his wrist brushed Q’s upraised hand, the boy jumped and pressed down harder with his teeth, making 007 grunt. But Bond just repeated the motion – another soothing stroke. There was blood coming past Q’s lips as his teeth broke skin, dripping down along Bond’s palm, but the agent paid it no mind. 

“Time, James,” Alec reminded helpfully.

Q unlocked his little jaws with an almost audible pop. He backed off with a sobbing little gasp, and this time when Bond reached for him, he didn’t scramble away. “James?” he squeaked, sounding overwhelmed even as strong, capable hands – one bloodied but still perfectly functional – wrapped around his upper arms and dragged him forward and up.

Bond was standing with Q in his grip before he answered, “I’ve been trying to tell you that for at least a full minute now.”  There was no real irritation in the tone, however. The only irritation was in his low growl at the sight of the leash, dangling from Q’s neck.  He couldn’t see how it was tied on in the dark, so he simply stalked over to Alec and demanded in a voice that brooked no argument, “Alec. Knife.”

The other agent’s eyes actually widened as he picked up Q’s new accessories, but he nodded.  In fact, he holstered his gun to free up his hands for a switchblade that he carried, and grabbed Q’s leash about a foot down from where it connected to his neck. Q whined and pressed against Bond as he’d pressed against the wall, visibly shuddering as the majority of the leash was cut and tossed away.  “We’ve got to move, James.”  Ignoring the way that Q was curling away from him like a burn victim, Alec reached next for the collar, only to find that it was so tight he couldn’t get his fingers under it. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered in blank shock, anger not even setting in yet. 

“What?” 007 demanded.  At the low vibration of anger in his throat and chest, Q cringed, trying to make a ball of himself again without moving his face from the lee of Bond’s neck. Q had managed to stuff his face between the skin of Bond’s throat and his shirt-collar, so his glasses and the cold tip of his nose were poking at the agent, and James sort of shrugged his left shoulder upwards to tuck the little head in closer.  Q’s arms were wedged between their two bodies as Bond held him close carefully.

“I’m gonna slit Westford’s throat from ear to ear – he’s got this collar so I can’t bloody get it off, not now, in the dark, at least,” Alec admitted after eyeing the twisted buckle wrathfully.  Q’s crying had subside to silent sobs, visible in the constant twitching of his body and contraction of his chest.  Bond had one arm slung beneath Q’s thighs to support him, and the other had been resting on the boy’s back – now it immediately shifted upwards, feeling the collar, and Q whimpered and cringed against him.  The collar hurt, and Bond could see why: it was tight enough that it had chafed the skin under it raw. The expletives that came out of Bond’s mouth were exactly the kind he’d been trying not to teach Q for weeks now.

“Move, Alec,” Bond ordered, voice riding a thin line between glacial control and a frenzy of rage.  His eyes glittered like chips of ice in the dimness.  “Anything that stops us-”

“Shoot it, I got it,” Alec easily agreed, turning on his heel and switching out his knife for his gun again.  He called back flippantly as he started to move down the hall, “Sometimes I think that’s all I am to you: a convenient gun.  So, same as always, only with the kitten this time?”

When Q didn’t respond to the teasing, the joke fell flat, causing both agents to grow serious again.  This time, when Alec glanced back at James, his eyes were as flat and hard and cold as 007’s had been this whole time.  “I’ll clear a way for you two to get out, but don’t wait up for me.”

“Why?” Bond asked, as if he didn’t know the answer.  He could see his own killing intent reflected.

“Because I’m going to put a lot of bullets in a lot of heads, and it might take me a bit, because I’m going to enjoy it so much.  Basically, I’m going to do everything you’ve been threatening to do, but can’t because you’ve got your arms full,” Alec said with all the humor of a death-mask, and this time, Q-branch didn’t comment, although they could hear everything that 006 said.  Usually, it was their job to tell the agents to leave people alive, etcetera, etcetera. “Here – take my coat before the kid freezes.”  Alec shucked off his coat before really picking up the pace, looking more and more like a predator with every step. 

No one so much as made the effort this time to try and control either agent, as 007 snuck out with a precious bundle in his arms and 006 waded into the thick of things, waking up Westford’s whole building with gunshots and roaring catcalls. No one started a party like 006, but no one was going to leave to tell tales about this party if 006 had any say in the matter…

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

The back-up was here, local authorities intermixed with some MI6 agents who would hopefully know what to do with 006 raising Cain in the building that 007 was now exiting.  The sound of gunshots had never sounded sweeter, and for once, 007 thought that his nightmares would have less bite – because he knew just what kind of revenge Alec could deal out. Even if 007 never got back in there to unleash any of his own fury, the people who had kidnapped Q from MI6 hands would wish they’d never been born.  007 kept his attention forward, focused on the tense, bony body shaking in his arms, reading the chaos happening behind him in the eyes of shocked officers moving towards the fray.  The lighting had changed subtly, and since it wasn’t morning, that meant that Alec had already started a fire.  All the better. Bond would have smiled if he had it in him, and if Q hadn’t twitched in his arms, reminding him of the reason for his wrath.  “Shhhh,” he murmured close against the tangled head of hair, “It’s all right, Q. Just hold onto me, all right?” Really, there was no need – even if Q had been utterly unconscious and as limp as a rag, it would have taken the work of a small army to get the kid out of Bond’s arm.  Still, the suggestion managed to galvanize some of the frozen gears in Q’s mind, and suddenly the kid was jerking his arms forward so that he could lock them around Bond’s neck in a death-grip.  It was such a shocking grip that Bond actually grunted, judging Q’s fear by the way he held on like a climber high up on a ledge – exhausted by a long climb, winds pulling at fatigued limbs, clutching fingers shaking as the last strength was rapidly sucked away.  Q was running out of power to hold on, and Bond had to show him that he didn’t need to anymore.  “It’s all right, Q. Nothing is going to touch you now,” Bond murmured in a tone that was a mix of fervent and ferocious, because 00-agents didn't know how to talk any other way. 

At the rush of Bond’s warm breath against his head, Q shuddered – but, just as the heat sank into him, the words did, too, and Q let out his next sob as an audible, deeply-wrenching sigh.  It was like watching a puppet unstring itself, letting go of lines that had commanded and restrained it for too long.  It was like watching someone drag themselves off a boat-hook with one final surge of effort, something that Bond had actually watched a fellow agent do before, after hanging and bleeding for hours.  The unwanted memory made Bond grind his teeth and walk faster away from the carnage Alec was unrolling like a red carpet behind them. There was now a line of police cars that he could see, and if their drivers didn’t recognize him, then M wasn’t doing her job well enough.  Bond picked a car at random and strode towards it, anyone who tried to intercept him or so much as ask a question receiving a growl and a glance like hot lead in return.

“James…James,” Q mewled, using Bond’s first name in that worried, insecure way he had when he reflexively wanted to do anything he could to wrap the 00-agent around his little finger.  Honestly, anyone could have told Q that he barely needed to blink to do that, but when Q got scared, he instinctively did all in his power to ensure that his protector wasn’t going to leave him.

It was heartbreaking that Q thought Bond could leave him. 

“James…James, who are all of these people?” Q whimpered, overwhelmed by the strangers he could glimpse over Bond’s back. When Q sucked in a breath and froze, Bond stopped and turned his head, blinking at the impressive tongues of fire that were now reaching like greedy fingers out of the upper-story windows. “Is Alec in there?!” Q was growing more coherent, but also more panicked for whole new reasons.

“No,” Bond reassured, then rethought as he resumed walking, “Well, probably, but not right in the fire.  Alec is good with fire – ask anyone in MI6.”  He didn’t add that most people absolutely hated how skilled 006 was with fire, because the agent never volunteered to clean up his own damages.  Being a pyromaniac was something that the Psych department always tried to screen out, but somehow 99% of agents still had a predilection for burning things – bombs optional. 

Apparently Q didn’t have the energy to comment back, instead subsiding again upon Bond’s shoulder.  His breathing rasped a little as he hyperventilated against the collar.  Q’s body was also cool to the touch, probably ever since he’d been left in that room so far from the heat.  Hoping both to calm Q’s breathing and keep him from freezing, Bond pulled him closer, Q’s struggling heart fluttering against Bond’s warm chest. The agent maneuvered Alec’s coat, still draped over Q, until it covered the boy’s head along with everything else. “Don’t worry about Alec – he’s too annoying to die, and he knows what he’s doing. You and I are going to sit and be boring instead.”  With that, he reached one of the vehicles and freed up a hand to wrench the back door open.

“Hey, who are-?” the man sitting in the driver’s seat yelped, but Bond snarled over him as he got in. 

“MI6. You can ask for my credentials, but they include a loaded weapon that I don’t think I have the patience to use wisely.  Get out of the car if you think you can’t handle me.” Bond finished his statement with a totally false smile that was really more of a bearing of teeth, bordering on psychotic and about as friendly as an incoming nuclear warhead.

The other man in the car took one look at it and exited the vehicle, engine still running and door slamming shut swiftly behind him.

Making a noise that showed he appreciated wise men like that, Bond tried to pry Q away from his neck, which immediately resulted in kicking and distressed noises that sounded a lot like panting mixed with panicked crying. Q fought against Bond’s hands as he would a stranger’s if someone else were to try and remove him, and 007 had to swiftly rethink his planning.  Why did dealing with Q always have to have unforeseen difficulties?! “Q!  Calm down, you have to let go!”

“No!” Q cried out brokenly even as his fingernails cut into Bond’s neck, “No, no, please, don’t make me!  I want to stay right here!”

“Q, I can’t turn the heater up in the car from here with you latched onto me,” Bond tried to reason with him, hissing as he felt a long scratch gouged into the nape of his neck.  It was totally accidental on Q’s part, but it still stung, so Bond stopped for a minute as he tried to think of a better plan. 

Q took that opportunity to curl up disconsolately on Bond’s lap, regaining his precious closeness now that Bond’s hands weren’t attempting to dislodge him.  He folded his legs up so that he could sit on Bond’s thighs with his own scrawny legs between them, bent double against Bond’s stomach and chest.  Q’s arms were still ringed around the agent’s neck, now locking tight so that Bond could feel that he’d have to probably break Q’s fingers to get him to let go – which he obviously wasn’t going to do.  Between his arms, Q’s head was ducked, so the agent could only see his bird’s-nest of hair as the kid sniffled into his shirt-front, “That’s okay. You don’t have to turn up the heat.” It was a pitiful attempt at convincing Bond to stay put and let Q do likewise.

The agent took in a deep breath for patience and then let it out, leaving his hands unthreateningly at his sides as he tried to reason with his traumatized charge, “Of course I do, Q – you’re an ice-cube.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you’re a poor liar, too.”

“I’m not going to let go!” Q finally screeched in a peak of panic, and suddenly every inch of him was shaking and his hands were locking together behind Bond’s nape like knots of flesh.  Bond hastened to calm Q down before he drove himself into catatonia, or suffocated as he tried to breathe past that damned collar.  Not knowing what else to do, and used to following his instincts when in a dangerous situation, Bond wrapped his arms around Q again, holding the boy close until Q believed that no one was going to try and make him let go anytime soon.  Only then did Q start calming down, although he was sobbing again, body shuddering with each broken sound as his glasses again pressed into the soft skin of 007’s throat.

Sighing and feeling like an utter arse, Bond gave in to the idea of having his own personal limpet.  Looking around, he spied the small lever at the back of the driver’s seat, and after toeing at it for a moment, he tripped the switch that sent the seat jerking forward against the steering wheel.  It was still awkward, but he now had room to lean into the front of the car without having to move Q from his person to the seat next to him.  With a twist of his wrist (his other arm hooked tightly around Q’s body as the boy squeaked and tensed all over) Bond cranked the heat up and then flicked on some of the interior lights so he could get a good look at the rescued kid-genius.  James was pretty sure that Q didn’t actually breathe until they were both sitting again, and perhaps even longer – until James had them both sitting for a slow count of three, with no threat to remove Q.  Then the kid’s rapid, shallow breathing started up again like a rabbit in the grass. 

Alec’s jacket, which had slipped to the seat next to Bond during Q’s struggles, was carefully lifted up and put around Q’s shoulders, which made the stubborn kid squirm.  “It doesn’t smell like you,” came the thin whine, barely loud enough to count as speech.

“I hope not,” Bond pretended to snort in derision, “It’s Alec’s coat. Remember Alec? Predilection for fire?”

There was no reply, which made Bond sigh as the bait wasn’t taken, but at least Q settled down and began to warm up within the cocoon of coat, hot air, and Bond’s natural body-temperature.  Deciding that talking to Q was going to be a sketchy endeavor at best until he’d calmed a bit more, Bond focused on more physical problems, sliding Alec’s coat down just far enough to see the collar strapped around Q’s neck.  The length of leather stood out, stark and ugly, against the harsh overhead lights in the car, and it took a monumental effort for Bond not to start growling as he peered at it. Closer to the side of Q’s neck, where the leash was attached, he could see the reason Alec – or Q himself – hadn’t removed the collar was because the buckle had been mangled. Even fingers as clever as Q’s would be useless in removing the thing. 

“Q,” Bond said, his voice having the low, gravely tone that meant he was choking down his rage.  Q went carefully still in response, attentive more than afraid.  “I’m going to remove that collar, and you’re going to sit still while I do it.”

Swallowing audibly a few times (the collar was so tight that the flexing of Q’s throat moved it, having to fight against it) to get his voice to work, the boy let out a tremulous breath.  “O-O-Okay,” Q nodded meekly, and he pressed his face closer into the center of Bond’s chest as the agent moved and he heard the telltale sound of a knife hissing from a hidden sheath.  One of Bond’s hands cupped the back of Q’s head, tipping it to bare as much of that pale, skinny nape as possible.  Q’s body gave a fine tremor from crown to toes, but otherwise he was so obedient it was almost painful to watch, like a hound quivering with tension as it waited upon the word of its master.  It moved Bond to hush Q with wordless murmurs while he then angled his knife carefully – it was a small blade, but sharp, and Bond was good with it.  Unfortunately, Alec hadn’t lied when he’d said that the strap of leather was tight, so when Bond finally got the blade in between Q’s neck and the collar, the cold blade was flush to Q’s skin and Q had started up a steady keening that was only audible in the quiet of the car. No amount of reassurances got him to stop, but the noise never got any louder and Q didn’t move as Bond sawed Q loose with swift efficiency. 

The worst part was that the collar’s cruel tightness had scraped Q’s neck raw, so blood made it stick to Q’s skin in places.  Bond was grimacing and clenching his jaw in preparation for tediously peeling it away, but the second Q sensed that he was free, he jerked into motion.  Finally, his hands released Bond’s neck, and Q reared back so that he could all but rip the collar from his own throat, ignoring how it stuck to him so that he could throw it viciously across the car.  Bond had to actually grab the kid as Q then scrambled backwards, as if the strip of leather had the ability to leap back and get him now.  Bond ended up shouting Q’s name at him and trying to avoid flailing limbs until he finally had Q settled down – more or less wrapped up in Alec’s coat, which helped.  Q was staring with dinner-plate-wide eyes towards the front passenger seat where he’d thrown the collar, horror making the whites show all the way around his irises, breaths coming in little pants.

Q jerked his eyes up to Bond as if he’d forgotten he was there when 007 reached around to straighten Q’s glasses.  It took a heartbeat before recognition flickered into those usually intelligent eyes, and even after that, Q just stared. 

Then he looked around him and saw that he was in the backseat of a police-car. “I…I’m really…I’m really free now?” he asked with heartbreaking uncertainty. 

Taking the opportunity now that Q wasn’t coiled up into a ball or glued to his chest, Bond took Q’s chin, turning his face to see if he could find any injuries. Q had effectively wiped the blood off the side of his mouth onto Bond’s dark shirt, but he had a spilt lip that was evident, and besides his raw neck, he was generally dirty and unkempt. “Yes, Q, you’re free now. Sorry Alec and I took so long.” The apology was sincere – the thought of every second Q had spent with Westford tore like knives at Bond’s heart, soul-deep lacerations that throbbed now.  Still, Bond tried to lock down on that, so as not to upset Q more. “What other injuries do you have?” he demanded gruffly. 

Q squeaked and Bond apologized again as the agent’s fingers touched Q’s split lower lip.  Sitting back on Bond’s lap, Q pressed his tongue gingerly to the injury and said with watering eyes, “Whittacker…W-Whitacker hit me, and he said h-h-he’d finish the job.”

Hopefully Q recognized Bond’s snarls as something protective and comforting, because Bond couldn’t hold them in as he pulled his small charge in close again. Now he knew why Q had electrified the door.  “He’s dead now, Q,” Bond more or less growled, in the kind of comfort that 00-agents were best at giving, “or he soon will be.”  Maybe 007 wasn’t really that good at comfort, on second thought – but he was good at threats and promises.  His rough hugs must have been at least half-decent, too, because Q gave in without protest and allowed himself to be bundled against Bond’s torso again.

For a moment, the two just sat like that, Bond’s eyes hazed with restless, pacing wrath as he thought about Westfall, Whittacker, and anyone else who thought hurting a child was okay.  Bond still felt somewhat awkward at hugging, but his left hand had instinctively reached up to start stroking Q’s head, winning him a small sigh from his charge. Q sat and shivered intermittently as he slowly warmed up. 

After a few moments, Bond pushed Q back again – but only enough so that he could look the boy in the eye.  “Okay, I mean it now, Q – do you have any other injuries?”

“Just bruises,” Q said, shaking his head wearily, and he was almost too tired to flinch as James’s hand reached towards him.  It was purely a knee-jerk reaction, and this time Q allowed himself to be gently manhandled until he was seated at Bond’s side. He watched with big, brown, bespectacled eyes rapidly growing tired as the agent slipped off his holsters, leaving them draped over the seat in front of him for easy access. Then he turned back to Q with an almost hesitant look, unsure suddenly how to touch the fragile boy without breaking him.

Q solved the problem by promptly snuggling over, not completely relaxing until he was tucked flush to Bond’s right side with the agent’s arm securely wrapped around him, Alec’s coat adorning his small shoulders like a grey cape. Bond was deftly figuring out where some of Q’s bruises were as he went, and after only one minute flinch, he kept away from Q’s upper-arms, instead wrapping his hand over the jutting knob of one small shoulder.  It was literally only then that Bond realized he still had a crescent-moon of teeth marks in his hand, but by then the bleeding had stopped.

When someone knocked on the window, Bond had his gun out of its holster and trained at the face through the glass in the time it took to blink. Q had gone from dozing to alert and petrified just as quickly, and Bond could feel his small hands fisting in the side of his shirt while the kid shrunk behind him.  “Good boy,” Bond rumbled absently, approving of Q hiding behind him so as not to make a target of himself. 

It was the driver of the car, backlit by the few fires that were still sprouting from the building.  Smart man that he was, the driver had both hands raised, showing nothing but a first-aid kit and a petrified expression.  Irritated at someone triggering his more lethal reactions like that, Bond put his gun away and rolled down the window.  He pasted on what could possibly be viewed as an apologetic grimace, but he voiced a curt, “Sorry,” just to be sure the point got across.  The first-aid kit was gingerly handed through the window to him.

“I-I-I figured you might want it,” the driver explained, then tipped his head towards the drivers seat.  “My orders are also to get us further from here.”

“Orders from M?”  Only when he got a nod did Bond agree.  “Fine. The kid’s mine to take care of, though, just so we’re clear.”  When had his voice gotten so possessive?

“Oh, we’re clear,” the driver assured him with haste. He had to wait to get into his seat while Bond found a new place to drape his guns, which made the driver turn a bit green.  “Any…any requests where to go?”

“I don’t bloody care where you drive, so long as you stop bothering me,” was Bond’s curt decision, because even if this man planned on driving away and kidnapping Q, he’d have to realize that he was kidnapping a 00-agent, too. Scenarios like that rarely ended well, and 007 hadn’t gotten to shoot anyone yet today.  Leaving the driver to his job, Bond buckled in a slightly-nervous Q, leaving himself unbuckled so that he could open the first-aid kit, finding bandages and antiseptic.  “This is going to sting, Q,” he warned as he used his un-bitten hand to hold the sterile bit of cloth and antiseptic. 

“I know,” Q whined sadly, and obliged to tip his head back a bit. He winced and whimpered again as Bond began cleaning his neck, which hopefully looked worse than it was.

Bond found himself shushing and murmuring, “It’s okay, Q, it’s oaky,” as he swabbed away blood and cleaned raw skin while Q squirmed and did his best not to make anything more than little noises of pain.  Bond was aware of the driver shooting them looks in the rearview mirror, but they were compassionate looks, and Bond crossed out the possibility of this man actually being a disguised enemy.  By the time he’d made sure that Q’s neck at least wouldn’t get infected in the near future, Bond felt almost as bad as he had when he’d killed his first person, because Q was biting his lip and crying silently, such a strong look on his little face crumbling every time Bond swabbed at his wound. “Done.”  It was the best word 007 had ever gotten to say, he felt like suddenly.  It was with great satisfaction that he bandaged Q’s neck and hid the wound from sight. The driver was glancing towards his passenger seat with a growing look of horror, and 007 deduced that the poor man must have seen the cut collar and made the connection to Q’s injuries. Pale and tight-lipped, the driver kept his attention forward from then on. 

Q let out a deep breath of relief when Bond gave his lip two brief dabs to clean it, and then declared his job done.  While Bond was distracted with repacking the first-aid kit (leaving out enough to see to his own hand), Q wriggled around in his seat-belt, and suddenly Bond had a lap-full of him.  With the seat-belt still around his waist, Q had leaned over so that his scrawny shoulders and fluffy head were as close to the agent as he could get. Insecure, worried eyes glanced up at him as Q’s fingers tried to gain purchase on Bond’s pant-leg.  “Don’t make me go away,” Q finally pleaded as Bond just stared down at him, surprised.

Something melted – and simultaneously cracked – in 007’s heart. “Never, Q,” he promised in a voice that was far more emotional than he wanted to admit, snugging Alec’s coat up over the boy’s shoulder and then settling down to stroking Q’s hair until his bitten hand twinged.  007 winced and flexed the hand, irritated at the distraction, and didn’t realize for a moment that Q was staring at it with growing realization. 

“I am so sorry for biting you,” Q eventually blurted, suddenly looked absolutely horrified. Technically, Q was still buckled, but he squirmed against the strap over his waist and did his level best to sink right through the seat-cushions while also looking up to frantically read Bond’s expression more-or-less upside-down.  “And electrocuting Alec.  I didn’t recognize either of you!  I promise I wouldn’t have done anything if I’d recognized-!”

Recognizing another panic-attack in the making (even the driver was recognizing this one, pulling the car over without prompting), Bond put a hand down on Q’s shoulder to stop him from getting up and flying all over the place like a squirrel. He got a sharp, shuddering flinch for his troubles, and then Q just looked broken and miserable as he realized that he was cowering under Bond’s touch, the man who usually kept him more safe than anything in the world. Q stopped trying to defend himself and instead just seemed to crumble, tears breaking free of his eyes while his hands reached up to cover them, heedless of his poor glasses.

Bond swiftly wrapped his hand, deciding that he’d worry about infection later – at the moment, he wanted use of both hands without Q having to look at his own teeth-marks.  Q didn’t protest and the driver minded his own business as Bond released the seatbelt, freeing Q and tugging him up so he could hold him – that had worked well in the past, so 007 hoped it would help now.  Q couldn’t seem to decide whether to cringe or to relax in relief as those killing hands lifted him and maneuvered him until he was cradled against 007’s chest again. Bond forewent the safety of a seatbelt and instead wedged himself in the corner against the door with his arms securely hooked around Q.  He coaxed Q’s head up under his chin, learning Q’s bruises as he petted his back carefully, deducing where was safe to touch while Q cried himself out.  Alec’s coat had been lost on the floor again, but this time Bond gave up on it.  “I’ve been bitten by bigger and meaner things than you,” Bond reassured as best he could, while taking one of Q’s hands – which were freezing – and clasping it in one of his to get some heat into it. Q’s hand was able to disappear within the agent’s loose fist, and he could feel Q turning his head under his jaw, staring at the contrast.  “And Alec honestly deserves to be electrocuted sometimes.”

The last sentence startled a bark of laughter right out of Q’s chest, and although it tripped on a sob on the way out, the surprised humor was genuine. “That’s…that’s a horrible thing to say, Bond,” Q’s wobbly voice berated him.  But Bond could sense the smile in the words, and it made him smirk in return as he switched idly to warming Q’s other hand. 

“Horrible, maybe,” the agent allowed musingly, “but true.  Just consider it payback for all of the irritating things he will eventually do.  By that definition, I probably deserve your biting me.”

“No…!” Q protested, feeling guilty again, but Bond wouldn’t let him squirm out from where he held him.  Rather impishly – and because he secretly hoped it made Q feel secluded and safe – the agent grabbed Q’s hood and pulled it up over the boy’s head before tucking that head under his chin again.  Q sputtered a bit and flailed uselessly, but soon gave up.  Ultimately, everyone learned that arguing with Bond was useless, and Bond was quite okay with that.  “Sorry,” Q murmured again, but with less panic this time. When Bond just grunted and folded his arms around Q’s torso securely, silence settled into the back of the car.

“Can I start driving again?” the man in front asked timidly. His presence had been completely forgotten.  It was still forgotten by Q, in fact, because the little genius had finally tired himself out and had fallen asleep with soft breaths puffing against 007’s throat. Each one leached off some of the worry and tension coiled in 007’s gut. 

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

The police-car had parked again, waiting for further orders regarding what to do next.  Things were apparently quieting down at the scene of Westford’s operation, although there was no word yet on whether or not Alec was done hunting yet. 

Without warning, the back door was yanked open to the police-car still holding Bond and little-Q.  The driver – already high-strung from dealing with 007’s volatile temper – turned around with a yelp, eyes widening as he saw a soot-and-blood covered figure slide into his car without warning or permission.  007, however – who’d aimed a gun at the last person to sneak up on him unawares – just sat back and watched, looking unimpressed.  Taking a cue from the assassin in the back of his car, the driver froze tensely where he was. 

It was Alec.  He looked like a dog that had fought in the pits all day, paying for his life again and again in dust and blood, but the grin he flashed at the driver was a pleasant as an undertaker’s. “Smart man,” he commented, “Draw a gun on me and I’ll make you eat it.” 

“Alec, meet our driver.  Driver, meet agent 006,” Bond said by way of a lazy introduction.  Behind his cool blue eyes, he was carefully looking over his fellow agent for injuries, but wasn’t finding anything obvious or serious enough to catch his attention.  Q had finally fallen asleep and was sprawled on the seat next to him (between himself and Alec now), and 007 pressed a hand down over Q’s ear when the boy squirmed a bit at the sound.  Calmed by the fact that Q continued to sleep, 007 noted helpfully, “He’s totally sincere about that comment on feeding you your gun.”

“My name is Steve,” the driver complained weakly, moving his hands to the steering wheel and showing them to be open and unthreatening, even as he reluctantly moved his eyes away from Trevelyan.  Even humans could sense when it was dangerous to look a predator in the eye. “And I wasn’t going to draw my gun.”

“Exactly why I called you a smart man,” Alec nodded, his smile warming playfully beneath the mask of gritty red and black.  Assured that they weren’t sharing space with an enemy, 006 then turned to take in Q.  At that moment, Q shifted a little, mewling and coming closer to the surface of sleep as all the movement in the car got to him.  “Hey, kis kis kisu kisu,” Alec called gently, with earned him a frown even before Q opened his eyes – apparently 006’s playful name-calling extended even into unconsciousness. When Q did open his eyes, however, and slanted them down to find a gore-painted monster at his feet, the kid-genius awoke with a start and lashed out with his feet.

Fortunately, Bond had pretty much expected no less.  He’d kept a grip on Q this whole time, and now the agent’s grip tightened on Q’s shoulder before the kid could go into fight-or-flight mode. “Q,” he growled in a tone that was more exasperated than annoyed.  The real annoyance was saved for Alec, as Bond’s blue eyes flicked up to fix the other man with a look.  “You look like a mobile corpse, Alec – what did you expect?”

Alec had caught one of Q’s kicking feet without even having to look, saving himself a bruise to his hip.  He still had the gall to grin, a flash of stark white teeth against his dirty face. “I figured my roguish charm would show through,” he innocently defended himself, before turning his attention back to Q.  Fortunately, Q had finally settled down a bit, and was squinting his eyes in growing recognition at the new arrival.  He stopped squirming against Bond’s hand as well as Alec’s sooty hold on his ankle.

“Alec?” he croaked.  

“Who else?” deadpanned Bond back, clearly un-amused. 

006 was far more cheery – but he’d also been killing and maiming ‘bad guys’ for that last half-hour.  “The one and only.”  He released Q’s ankle to give the kid’s shin a companionable pat.  The driver was still keeping his eyes purposefully forward, intent on avoiding any and all attention from the 00-agents in his back seat. This was probably not what he’d signed up for when he’d come on duty this morning. 

“You look…”  Q searched for a word, blinking sleep from his eyes and sitting up slowly – tellingly, he glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that 007 was still there and watching out for him. Alec had to notice, but didn’t take offense. Q finished his sentence carefully, “…Messy.”

“If you say, ‘You should see the other guy,’ I might puke,” moaned the driver from the front seat, resting his forehead against the wheel. He’d made the mistake of looking in the rearview mirror and seeing Alec’s grin, and now he honestly wished he’d spent his afternoon on duty catching traffic offenders.

“Bond, where did you find this guy?” Alec jerked his thumb in the direction of the driver’s seat, clearly impressed instead of offended, “He’s hilarious.”

The driver was saved by his radio going off, informing him that things were under control, and as soon as the MI6 agents were accounted for, everyone was to fall back to headquarters.  The driver rather sheepishly reported in that the ‘missing’ agents were actually in the back of his car, so no more searching was necessary – the missing boy was with him, too.  While Steve continued to try and explain to his superiors how his vehicle had become a refuge for two dangerous British spies and a pint-sized prodigy, Alec wiped absently at some of the blood on his face.  He admonished Q, who was looking troubled, “It’s not mine.  Most of it, anyway.” 006 grimaced and flexed one arm, where a long, shallow cut ranged from his elbow down towards the back of his wrist.  “Some upstart with a knife may have gotten a blow in.”

“Getting sloppy, Alec,” Bond admonished with a frown.  He wasn’t so much worried about Alec (who had had far worse wounds in his career, and had obviously survived them all) as he was about Q, who was looking increasingly distressed at the sight of the agent’s rough condition. 

Belatedly, Alec realized the effect he was having, too, and something like chagrin transformed his dirty features.  “Ah, don’t look at me like that, kid,” he pleaded uncomfortably. He spared a glance for Bond, who was glaring at him over Q’s head in a look that promised a slow and lingering death if Q got any more upset.  Alec knew that Bond was the closest thing to a best friend that he had, but he also didn’t doubt that Bond would string him up on a boat hook if Q started crying.

Q didn’t cry, but he did stop biting his lower lip long enough to finally explode, “You look like you were dragged through a meat-grinder!! You’re a mass of blood and…and…soot with two eyes and a grin!!”

Under other conditions, such a description would have been funny (and Alec looked suspiciously close to preening), but with Q’s eyes so wide and worried behind his smudged glasses, and with the white bandages on his neck a reminder of what he’d been through, the humor died somewhat.  The boy didn’t even squeak or protest when Bond’s arm slipped around his waist and dragged him from the middle seat up onto his lap again – in fact, all Q did was go from worried to tired.  Bone-tired.  It was easy to see why he’d been sleeping before 006 had turned up.

“Alec is fine, Q,” Bond reassured in a surprisingly soothing murmur, hugging the boy close with gentle, powerful arms.  “If he’s joking and making an arse of himself, you can bet he’s fine.”

006 chose that moment to redeem himself, stating without warning, his voice losing its levity, “Westford won’t be bothering you again.”

That got 007’s attention, his blue eyes growing interested and alert. “How about a man named Whittacker?” he demanded in a low and dangerous murmur, hiding his killing intent under a veneer of pleasantness.  Steve had gotten their car moving again – probably to meet up with everyone else – but apparently that ‘pleasantness’ was just as disturbing as one of Alec’s sharkish grins, because he was fidgeting in the driver’s seat.

“That name rings a bell,” Alec admitted obliquely, “but I don’t think it’s going to ring any bells ever again.”

“You…you killed them?” Q entered the conversation again.  He was still snuggled close to 007, talking from the safety of his embrace.

Alec didn’t hide anything.  Instead, he gave Q a frank, sincere look that lacked his usual amusement. “They hurt you, Q. See, I don’t have a lot of people I care about – and James has even fewer – so people who hurt you this badly are going to die.”

Q’s brown eyes widened at the flatly-stated truth, but Alec didn’t retract it, and James didn’t deny it.  For a long, painful moment, however, both agents expected to see horror and disgust in the boy’s eyes, and 007 loosened his arms in preparation for Q jerking away from him in horror.  Part of the reason that 00-agents didn’t have a lot of friends was because their true nature was monstrous in the eyes of normal people.  Alec looked away and so did Bond, watching the world flash past in the darkness beyond the windows. 

Instead of lurching away as if Bond and Trevelyan were lepers, however, Q took a moment to process that before squirming closer to Bond. The surprise on the blue-eyed agent’s face was probably priceless, but 006 was too surprised himself to poke fun. “S-S-So it’s over?” the boy asked tremulously.  Clever little fingers clutched 007’s shirt.

“Yes,” Bond growled in a promise, roughly Q’s hair while he met Alec’s cold, deadly eyes.  “It’s over, Q.”

Alec nodded.  “There’s no one able enough to come after you now, kotě.”

~^~

Unexpectedly, 006 had left a few people alive for questioning. He hadn’t lied, though: none were in any condition to go after anyone, especially not a seven-year-old under the protection of MI6.  Westford and Whittacker were carried out in body-bags, as Alec had promised they would be.  The local authorities tried to berate 006 for that – but while MI6 would probably be embroiled in a political nightmare thanks to Alec’s trigger-finger, the agent himself was utterly unrepentant and immune to rebuke. 

Not surprisingly, Q never left Bond’s side.  This was as much thanks to the agent as to the boy, both of them being wary and rather embarrassingly clingy.  Alec was honestly little better, circling both 007 and Q like a gun-equipped satellite around a planet. 

Getting them checked out by a medically trained doctor was a nightmare. For starters, this wasn’t Medical, meaning they weren’t trained to handle men with a license to kill and a tendency to renege on any medical directions.  Even if that weren’t the case, 006 and 7 had their protectiveness cranked up so high it was dangerous, and Q wasn’t helping by physically (and quite shamelessly) clinging to Bond.  Finally, a system was worked out where 006 and Q got checked out at the same time, freeing up Bond to unsnarl some of the more logistical problems – such as calling M and apologizing for making such a ruckus.  The apology was about as insincere as they came, but it needed to be said anyway if they wanted M to smooth things over with the local authorities. Apparently 006 had made quite an impression…and left a lot of destruction in his wake.

With both Alec Trevelyan and Q sitting in their underpants on the exam table, the doctors got to work.  Alec had more than just the ‘scratch’ on his arm (said scratch was actually deep enough to require stitches), and everyone was worried that Q had more injuries than initially apparent.  Fortunately, while Alec turned out to have more injuries, Q was better than expected – his abused neck was the worst of it, besides a smattering of bruises and general neglect. Bond’s quick bandaging job was removed and replaced by a careful nurse whose hands shook a bit, because 006 had gone silent and was glaring at her like a storm-front bearing down. Q had been shaking, too, and mewled when the abrasions were cleaned again.  The doctor had tried to soothe him, but it was as if the bespectacled boy didn’t even hear her – in fact, he only stopped shaking when he reached out and grabbed Alec’s scarred, still-bloody hand on the table-top.  This startled 006 more than a gun in the face would, and he had to tamp down on his reflexes to keep from jerking his hand away. For the next five minutes, as Q’s neck was carefully treated and re-bandaged, Alec sat staring down at small, pale fingers clutching desperately at his last two fingers.  After that, Q was given a heated blanket to ward off the chill that he doubtlessly had gotten despite Bond’s efforts, and Alec became the center of attention. 

006 had stayed perfectly quiet while Q was being seen to, exuding nothing more than a slightly dangerous air of attentiveness, but now the recalcitrant 00-agent tendencies came back on full-force.  Now it was Q’s turn to sit and stare, blanket wrapped around his skinny shoulders, watching as 006 devolved swiftly into a mass of snark and uncooperativeness.  The agent threatened and snarled, bristling and refusing to sit still as the nurses and unfortunate doctor tried to get him cleaned and patched up.  They looked tempted to drag him out back and just rinse him down with a hose, but that would still leave them with the question of how to treat his various cuts and burns.  Before long, it was clear that they were seriously considering tranquilizing him, and Q watched all of this with detached, marveling fascination. He hadn’t known that a grown man could act this childish. 

Finally, after a lot of yelling, swearing, and a bit of physical force, Alec was bandaged and sewn up.  Some of the medical staff looked like they wanted to curl up in a dark place and cry, but the job was done, and 006 was quiet again.  He and Q made quite a pair, sitting there with nothing but their bruises and undergarments – Q with his blanket.  Alec was glaring warily at everyone else in the room, the gimlet look of his dangerous eyes making it clear how unhappy he was with all of this. Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Q cleared his voice and had to ask, “Do you always do that?”

One eye swiveled his way.  Until he got an honest shower, Alec would still look like he’d been smeared with rust and charcoal, except for the areas where he’d been wounded and the nurses had done a more thorough job.  The muscles on his bare shoulders flexed absently as he clasped his hands between his knees. He’d have looked a lot like a recalcitrant teenager if he weren’t so big and powerful.  “When I’m getting a patch-job done?  Yeah,” he admitted unashamedly, and then added because he didn’t want to go down alone, “James is worse.”

Q blinked, a bit stunned, and not from the day that he’d had. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“This lot's got nothing on Medical,” Alec warmed to his topic. All that the doctor and nurses cared about was that his irritation was turning into something more playful, and it was being directed at the kid.  “But Bond and I can still make MI6 doctors cry.”

“That’s horrible.”

Alec grinned.  “And you don’t think we’re horrible? Really, kitten, you’re not much of a genius if you can’t figure that out.”  He barely noticed as someone timidly sidled up and replaced his manky clothes with something newer and cleaner.  When the same was tried on Q, the boy jumped and twisted, grabbing for his hoodie before anyone could take it. 

“No!” he piped up, letting his heated blanket drop in favor of pulling the hoodie to his chest.  “This is… This is mine.  I want to keep it.”

“Darling, it’s dirty-” the nurse started to say, but 006 shifted subtly at that point.  Undressed as he was, he should have been a laughable sight, but instead it just meant that there was no cloth hiding the muscular planes of his torso.  Without alerting Q, the agent moved so that he was clearly behind the boy – a looming threat to anyone who thought they could override what Q wanted.  The nurse’s eyes flashed up over Q’s head to the calmly watching, coldly narrowed eyes, and she swallowed visibly.  “Never mind. Go ahead and keep it, dear. Pull that blanket back on, too.” She indicated the electrical blanket but didn’t dare touch the boy. 

Alec’s hand did the job, hooking the warm blanket and pulling it back over Q’s shoulders.  Murmuring a thanks, Q just kept hugging his hoodie, fingers absently stroking the gear symbol stitched on its front.  After the nurse backed off and Alec slipped off the examining table to start getting dressed again, Q mumbled, “This jacket reminded me that…people loved me. If I pulled the hood up far enough over my head, I could imagine I was back in MI6.”

The words were said so quietly that Alec – standing on one leg and shoving the other into the second pant-leg – almost didn’t hear them. His head perked up in surprise at the soft susurrus of words, and his heart gave a rare jerk as they registered in his mind.  Q continued to look down at the hoodie, kicking his legs absently off the side of the table. Quite suddenly, Alec wished that James were here, because at least 007 knew how to handle a mournful seven-year-old. Alec at least got the rest of the way into his pants, and then awkwardly straightened and stepped forward. The doctor and nurses still at the outskirts of the room were probably wondering if the monster named Alec Trevelyan had been replaced by a benevolent pod-person before their eyes, as they stared at the sight of 006 very, very awkwardly pulling Q into a hug.

~^~

Stress and unhealthy conditions had lowered Q’s immune system and given him a cold, which was evident by the time 007 returned and relieved 006 of ‘Q duty’. 006 still had a lot of explaining to do in regards to what had gone down with Westford and his gang, so 007 sat down with Q on a row of chairs while they waited for further orders. Q was back in his hoodie again (but new, cleaner pants), and proved just how tired he was by falling asleep as soon as he and Bond had the room to themselves.  Socked feet pulled up on the chair and head sliding down to be pillowed on Bond’s thigh, Q drifted off more swiftly than kids his age were probably supposed to.  So long as 007 kept a hand on the kid’s unkempt head, that sleep was pretty untroubled, too.

“Well, M just tore me a new one,” Alec came back into the room, looking rather untroubled despite the lecture he’d undoubtedly received. Q stirred, hearing the familiar voice. “But we’re cleared to go here. MI6 has already got us a plane.”

It was as if the word ‘plane’ were a shortcut to terror, because suddenly Q was very, very awake and scrambling.  It was only because of Bond’s honed reflexes that he caught hold of the kid before his squirming sent him toppling off the cheap plastic chairs. Both 007 and 006 became alert, eyebrows lifting in surprise and a bit of worried bewilderment.

Kneeling up on his chair and looking embarrassed – but also still panicky – Q got out, “No planes.  I don’t want to go on a plane…again.”

“Q, we’re a bit far from MI6 to get back any other way,” Bond pointed out. Then he focused a bit more on what the kid had said, and his pale brows lowered forebodingly. “Explain what exactly you mean by ‘again’.” 

“Q-branch thought that they lost his signal in the air,” reminded Alec, shifting his weight to lean against the door.  The positioning served a double-purpose: Q couldn't slip away, and no one could come in and interrupt them.  Q already looked nervous and flighty enough, even with his hair tufted up from sleeping and his glasses crooked on his nose.  Humor gone and eyes sharp, Alec prodded, “That got anything to do with this?”

Big brown eyes grew stubborn.  “I don’t like flying,” said Q stated bluntly, his little jaw tightening. That’s all he would say, and for an admirable moment, Q sat there like a picture of stubbornness and self-containment – and then that containment broke, and Q’s slim body shuddered and he looked away with desperation in his expression. 

“Q…” Bond’s voice rumbled, wanting answers and wanting them now. Fortunately, Q’s moment of stubbornness was short-lived, and he was willing to explain.

“Westford…” Q cleared his throat – and also coughed a little, evidence of a cold truly sneaking up on him – and buried his hands in his pockets to hide their fidgeting.  “Westford said I was his little dog.  And I’d been bad, so he…”

“Put a collar on you,” Alec finished, because Bond looked like he was choking on utmost fury.  Acid or fire were as likely to come out of his mouth as regular words. 

Q looked up at Alec with the most desolate eyes, and gave his head a little shake even as he touched the white bandages around his neck. The boy amended, “He stuck me in a dog-crate at the back of the plane for the whole trip.  The plane was…small…and loud, and I’m not going on a plane again.”

Both agents somehow managed to keep their faces unmoved, even though all sorts of emotions were igniting and roiling around behind the carefully manufactured masks.  Both were enraged enough by this new act of cruelty to wish that Alec had left Westford alive, if only to kill the man again – more slowly.  This new twist was also the last thing they needed if they were going to get Q safely back on British soil, so it was ultimately Bond who bit the bullet and sighed, “Q, we don’t have much choice.  Q!” When the kid ignored him and looked down at his hoodie pocket, Bond snagged his attention with a hand on his shoulder. Jaded blue eyes met fearful brown, and Bond grimaced at what he had to say.  “No one’s going to put you in a bloody dog crate, but you will be getting on a plane.”

In the past, Bond had witnessed his fair share of phobias – therefore, when Q gulped and nodded even as he shivered as well, the agent could see a full-fledged phobia spreading its tarry wings. 

~^~

“Q. Q.”

The kid stopped moving around, but he was quivering in his seat hard enough that Bond could feel it from where he sat next to him, in the aisle seat. The plane was almost ready to taxi and Alec hadn’t shown up yet, which would have made Bond more nervous if Alec didn’t have a habit of being late to things.  It was a commercial flight, because it had turned out that Q’s fear of planes tripled when he was stuffed into any sort of private flying contraption – the spaciousness and lack of other people should have made him feel safer, but instead it threw him into claustrophobia as if he’d been stuffed into a shoebox.  Now everyone was hoping that Q would do better in a bigger plane, which they’d at least managed to get the kid into without any hyperventilating or screaming taking place. 

“Hey!” Alec’s cheery smile broke out over them, the larger man appearing with something large and rectangular tucked under his arm. He kept it with him as he wedged himself past Bond and Q to take the window seat, glowering when he was told to buckle up.  Q barely had it in him to notice, and kept loosening off his own belt so that he could draw his feet up onto the seat.  He looked so small, huddled behind his knees like that.  Alec was doing a good job of not noticing.  “Your coughing is better,” he pointed out, flashing Q a grin that he then turned on a passing flight attendant, amping up the charm just enough to be inviting. Bond gave the woman a frosted glare that did a good job of negating Alec’s friendliness, causing her pale and scurry away instead. 

“Yes,” Q sighed, scrounging up enough energy to answer instead of just panicking, “Bond gave me something that the doctors said would keep me from coughing, but I also think it is to make me drowsy and calmer.” Bond’s face twitched at being caught for doing that, but Q didn’t look betrayed – only resigned. As the plane got underway with a slight lurch, Q stifled a scream and buried his head in his knees. “I don’t think it’s working,” he whimpered from there. 

Alec and Bond exchanged a look, knowing this was only going to get worse. The flight attendants had been warned that they were carrying three MI6 operatives (‘operatives’ being a rather loose term with Q – he’d more likely be labeled as an asset), and would therefore leave the trio alone, but that didn’t mean the rest of the people on the plane wouldn’t grow suspicious if Q had a panic attack. As the plane picked up speed and Q grew exponentially tenser, 007 came to a decision and did what had worked best so far: he looped a strong arm around Q’s frail frame, pulling him in close.

When the plane left the ground and gravity pulled everyone back against their seats, Q went as taught as a piano wire and let loose a barely-controlled, high-pitched keen.  All of that boy’s bright intellect was scoured away, replaced by panic, and his hands were clutching at Bond’s white T-shirt even as he burrowed under the edges of his open denim jacket.  The worst of Q’s whimpering was muffled against Bond’s side, and 007 gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to reach for a weapon.  He wished this were an enemy he could sink his teeth into, or lodge a bullet in.  Since it wasn’t, he simply held his small charge close as the plane gained altitude.

Alec sat helplessly next to him, warding off any worried glances from nearby passengers with ease.  Some people probably thought that two grown men traveling with a distressed child was pretty suspicious, but it was hard to be suspicious when Alec had people more or less cowering in fear.  Sometimes, however, Q’s obvious discomfort cracked 006’s resolve as surely as it was crumbling 007’s, and Alec would reach over awkwardly and rub his knuckles up and down the boy’s back.  Bond just sat there, staring forward with a stern face that he usually only wore when facing torture – the grip of his arm never slackened, however, and the soothing rub of his thumb over Q’s shoulder never stopped. 

Once the plane leveled out and the seat-belt sign was revoked, Q managed to regain some of his composure, although not a lot.  He remained huddled under the left side of Bond’s jacket for quite some time, but eventually pushed back and forced himself to sit in his seat like a moderately normal person.  Q, of course, would never be normal, and even if his abnormally smart brain and photographic memory were not imagining the close confines of a dog crate, he still would have been a scared little wreck.  The last time he’d been on a plane, it had been with enemies, being flown further and further away from MI6 and those who cared for him.

Unexpectedly, Alec perked up.  The armrest between Bond and Q had been lifted so that Q could glue himself to the agent’s side, but now Alec reached across and shoved it back down again, earning him a half-hearted squeak of surprise from Q.  The boy had been sitting rigidly with his eyes closed, while Bond and Alec were forced to read his lips as he soundlessly mouthed, ‘I’m safe I’m safe I’m safe It’s fine It’s fine…’ For once, it was an absolute curse to be so well trained at reading lips.  Now Q was distracted, however, as Alec put on a mischievous grin and drew out the box he’d been carrying with him.  “What do you say to a friendly game, kattunge?”

“Stop calling me names in languages I don’t know,” Q groused, but his words were more tired and strained than commanding.  The boy’s eyes were also being drawn inexorably towards the game-board that came out of Alec’s box, and which was now being spread out across the two lowered arm-rests, right over Q’s lap.  “Monopoly?” he asked, perplexed and unimpressed.

Alec flipped it over, so that only the black back was visible. “Just the board. Need something play on, don’t we?” coaxed 006 enigmatically.  He began to lay out cards, face-down, upon the board, and he also produced a set of dice. Alec’s eyes flicked up to catch 007’s, which were as suspicious and wary as Q’s.  Alec’s grin widened.  “Care to finally join us in a came of Skosh, James?”

Instantly, Bond recalled the game – made up by Q and Alec, filled with rules that had been made up by a seven-year-old and a rather amoral agent on the fly. Bond hadn’t joined in so far, having far more fun babysitting his other two housemates as they played.

Now Q looked between Bond and Trevelyan, although his curiosity didn’t overcome his plane-inspired trepidation until Bond’s inclusion in the game was mentioned.  Questioning, interested eyebrows rose up beneath a mop of tangled bangs as Q regarded 007 through his glasses.  Bond considered backing out of the invitation to play for just a moment before he decided that anything was worth it, if Q’s mind was kept busy.  “Fine then.  I’ll play. What rules are we playing by?”

“Ask your kitten, James,” Alec smoothly deflected the question, nudging Q with an elbow, “He made up the last set of rules.” 

“All right, Q,” Bond said, flashing a smile of his own – making it open and friendly, “Fill me in.”  Both he and Alec had shifted in their seats, making it perfectly clear that they were paying attention to the smallest member of their trio.  They both missed (or ignored) the way a passing flight attendant smiled at them warmly, clearly enjoying the obvious doting.

“Um…” Q was momentarily flustered, and still distracted by the plane-ride.  He gave a few panicked looks at the window and the seats around him, but then gathered himself enough to focus on Bond again, “Okay…”  Haltingly at first and then more smoothly as the two agents coaxed him, Q began to lay out the rules.  It was as complicated as Bond remembered – war-pieces represented by cards, some of those cards stacked to create new combinations, the ability to place cards face-up or –down, etcetera – but thankfully, he had a good memory.

“Koneko and I will go easy on you,” Alec assured with a sweet smile that was totally false. He was still delightedly switching between nicknames.

“Just because I’ve never played before doesn’t mean I’m bad at this,” replied Bond glibly, as he snapped his fingers at Alec to hand over the dice. “One rule, though, if you want me to play.”

“What is it?”  Alec’s eyebrows rose at this unforeseen complication.  Q was equally perplexed, as he absentmindedly pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Bond caught Q’s eyes, a tiny smirk curling up the corner of his mouth. “I want Q to play for real this time.”

While Alec laughed that off and reminded everyone that Q had yet to beat him, Q regarded Bond with slightly narrowed eyes – and perhaps more respect than ever before.  The boy didn’t say anything, and Bond didn’t retract his statement or even blink until he caught a very slow, minute nod. 

The three of them began to play, and with slow and steady surety, Q began to wipe the board with Alec Trevelyan. 

006 was honestly dumbfounded, enough so that it took another ten minutes after he’d lost to realize that Bond was still in the game, and smiling at him smugly.  That really stung Alec’s pride, as he realized that Bond – who hadn’t played Skosh once, but had been carefully watching and learning since the game’s inception – was better at this game than he was. At least it looked like Bond had a chance of beating Q, who had turned into a tiny overlord at Skosh when Alec hadn’t been looking. 

While Alec whined and moaned like the five-year-old he was, Bond continued to play calmly and steadily, his face never shifting from its crooked, absentminded smile.  Q was likewise engrossed in the game, because every time he let his mind wander to the fact that he was in a plane, Bond would make him pay for it in cards.  “Not going to beat me like that, Q,” the blue-eyed agent would murmur, rattling the dice around in the cage of his hand before rolling them with a practiced, controlled flick of his wrist. 

That would earn him a feisty little glare.  “Watch me,” Q blustered, sitting up a little straighter and renewing his focus. 

Bond was a whole different opponent from Alec.  For all that 006 was a vicious player and a brutal cheat, Bond brought a level of class to the game that somehow hid his cunning attack strategies. Bond fed deception out smoothly, and at the same time followed the rules to the letter – proving that one could cheat in style and flaunt the rules at the same time.  It was unexpectedly a more dangerous game than the rough and fearless style that Alec employed. 

Back and forth, the two played.  Q, for all that he was just a kid and about as scary as a goldfish, was a cold and calculating player – he wielded strategy where Bond and Alec mostly played upon sleight-of-hand and distraction as well as a knowledge of manipulating people.  Q’s memory was like a scalpel, bright and sharp, and it was clear that the only reason Alec had survived this long in Skosh was because he could out-cheat Q.  Cut out the deceit and depend purely upon remembering cards, and Q had every match in his pocket.  Unfortunately for Q, cheating had been allowed from the get-go.

And, to be frank, Bond was a force to be reckoned with even when he was playing fair. 

It took the rest of the plane-ride before the game finally ended.

The plane landed, Q screamed a bit, but it was Bond who folded before the ‘put on seat-belts’ sign went back on.  “You won, Q,” Bond cheered quietly down into the fluffy head of hair, which was once again pressed against the side of his chest.  Panicked fingers were clenched in his shirt and Q was trying to remember how to breathe, but he’d survived the flight, and had proven to everyone that brains could beat brawn.  More proud than he realized he could be, 007 held the kid close and stroked his hair, continuing to praise him, “You won…you won…”

Maybe the words sank in, because Q didn’t whimper as loudly as the plane descended, and he neither hyperventilated nor had a panic attack. In fact, one might say that he won two games: one against two highly trained spies and one against himself. That was what Bond was thinking, anyway, as he continued to murmur to the scared little prodigy next to him.

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

The little cough that Q tried to hide was proof that he was, indeed, sick. Stress was a fine way to become ill, any agent knew, but that wasn’t actually the main reason 006, 7, and their small charge were in MI6 Medical.  Q coughed again and sniffled, denying that he needed a tissue just yet, and instead turned his attention to hugging the massive black monstrosity that 003 called a dog. 

“That was a good move, using Glock’s collar, and also taking Gregory’s phone,” R applauded, sitting in one of the many chairs in the room. Originally, there had been one chair, but Alec had been nice enough to go with 002 and purloin some more. Now, there were enough chairs for R, Bond, Trevelyan, and Q to have their own.  002 sat at the foot of 003’s bed because he said it was more comfortable than the worn plastic-seated chairs, but everyone was pretty sure it was a precaution. 

When word had gotten around that ‘Gear’ was back and demanding to see 003 and Glock, there was been some worry that the visit would end…unpleasantly. After all, Gregory would be the first to admit that he’d failed in his job of keeping the kid safe, and history proved that 006 and 7 didn’t take that kind of thing lightly. Mr. and Mrs. Finch – the original two people not to protect Q – were both back in holding cells, and had been told to their faces that any attempts to see their son would result in a certain pair of agents making a midnight visit to their cells.  How many people would make it out alive from that visit was not elaborated upon, but Mr. and Mrs. Finch ultimately understood that they were lucky, thus far, that James and Alec were forgetting they existed. Q, too, had other things to worry about, and his new cold was slowing up his brain a bit anyway.

There had been no retribution meted out on 003, though. When Alec and James had entered, Q notably glued to the latter’s leg with the former guarding his other side, the tension in the room had climbed, but that had been it.  002 had been prepared to defend his comrade if necessary, but it looked like no one was willing to cause trouble in front of little-Q. The poor kid had been traumatized enough already. 

Bond’s chair had been pulled up flush to Q’s, so sometimes he had to move his legs to keep Glock from stepping on his feet while the massive wolf-hybrid sniffed all over Q’s face.  R had it just as bad, because her seat across from Q wasn’t far enough away for her to avoid the ceaselessly wagging black tail.  She leaned back so that it dusted her lap instead of her face. “You have no idea how much we missed you, Gear!  Even the old Quartermaster came around, although he’s still grouchy,” the woman admitted with a cheeky smile. No one in Q-branch would dare say that about their boss, but here, surrounded by no less than four 00-agents (albeit one still out of commission) and a dog nearly big enough for Q to ride, she could say whatever the hell she pleased.  She didn’t seem to have noticed, but Alec had pulled his chair over right next to her, and he grinned shamelessly every time she moved and brushed against him. When 002 and 3 would glare at him, Alec’s smile would only grow more smug, and there would no doubt be some trouble between the three in the future.  This would probably be the first time in MI6 history where so many 00-agents had fought over a Q-branch techie. 

A the word ‘collar’, Q had tensed up, but he hadn’t lifted his attention from scratching the top of Glock’s head.  The dog met his eyes, solemn and golden, as if understanding. Even though the bandages on Q’s neck still stood out stark and white above the neck of his hoodie (still the same one with the gear symbol on it, although it was desperately in need of a wash), no one had said a word about them.  They pretended not to notice, but in reality, most everyone had already been briefed on what Q had gone through – and that anyone bringing up those memories and exacerbating Q’s fragile emotions right now would be liable to get a bullet in either kneecap.  Bond reached out a hand silently, palm stretching out to soothe over Q’s back instinctively. He felt the knife-sharp edges of Q’s shoulder-blades relax under his touch, and Q dredged up a smile, looking up to R. 

“I’m glad you were able to track it,” he said softly. It was obvious that he meant the gratitude, even if he was too wrung out and tired to express it like he wanted to. R’s widening smile in return said she understood. 

“Hey, what are friends for, Gear?  Besides, who else is going to help me go over the new specs for that Aston Martin the Quartermaster has tucked away in the garage?” she teased.

That got Bond to sit up straighter.  “Aston Martin?” 

While Bond and R got into a surprisingly lively conversation about cars and what modifications could be made to them without destroying their basic vehicular integrity, Q continued petting 003’s dog while the big animal sat at his feet.  He knew he wasn’t being ignored, because at this point, it was obvious even to Q that Bond kept at least half of his attention on the kid at all times, regardless of the situation around them.  Still, it was nice to feel as if he were in the background for a moment, instead of having everyone staring at him or asking if he was okay.  Answering questions was just too hard when he was this tired, and it was clear that Alec and Bond were feeling the strain, too – out of the three, Q had actually gotten the most sleep, and he’d only dropped off on the drive from the airport back to MI6.  It was amazing that Alec, James, or Q were still conscious.  Glock with his soft fur and imperturbable temperament wasn’t demanding, though, and neither was 002’s voice when he quietly called, “Hey, kid.”

The other conversations in the room when on without a hitch. It would take a trained eye to see that 006 and 7 had both cocked a metaphorical ear in the direction of the hospital bed, listening in even as they smiled and chatted with R and asked her how difficult it would be to mount gun turrets on a car.  Alec was all for the idea, while some part of Bond was offended by what it would do to the classic look of the Aston Martin. It felt private as Q turned to look at 002, and 003 lying alert but quite on the bed next to him.

“We’re glad you’re back,” 002 said, and he gave 003 a hard nudge until the black-haired agent acquiesced to speak, too. 

Being stuck in a hospital bed had done nothing for 003’s mood, but the guilt he felt over letting Q get kidnapped made him reign in his temper and play nice – something he didn’t do for anyone else besides maybe 002 and R now. “Yeah, kid.  What happened…shouldn’t have happened.  It was my fault, although that doesn’t change anything.”

Q’s eyes widened a bit, looking back and forth between 002 and 3 and wondering if they’d been replaced by nicer, gentler clones.  The fact that 003 sounded nearly contrite made Q half believe that he was hallucinating, but the cold prod of Glock’s nose against his cheek felt too real.  He pushed the long snout away from his face, but also gave in and scratched under Glock’s chin, which was all the dog had wanted anyway.  “Doesn’t change anything?” the boy echoed dumbly, as if he didn’t have an IQ higher than most people ever dreamed of. 

“Well, yeah,” 003 grunted gruffly, pushing up on his elbows until 002 pushed him back down perfunctorily.  If 003 were healthier (and better armed), he would have fought back, but instead he lay back down again and looked uncomfortably at the ceiling. “Regardless of me saying it’s my fault, you took the fall.”

By now, everyone was quiet and listening, and they knew that this was actually an apology – something that 003 didn’t do a lot of. Q just cocked his head though. Maybe it was the cold, but he couldn’t make sense of what Agent Hind was saying.  “But…you got shot.  A lot. I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”

The dark head on the pillow turned to stare at Q, perplexed at the lack of anger he was hearing in the kid’s tone.  Q’s eyes didn’t look angry or full of blame either, just a little bit puffy and bloodshot from lack of sleep and a head-cold that was making his skull feel stuffed with cotton. 

Before either Q or 003 could strain something trying to figure the other out, 002 chuckled a little bit and stepped in. “Gregory just wants to say he’s story for not keeping you safe, kid.”

“Oh,” Q caught on, sitting back.  Bond was there for him to lean against.  “I…uh…guess you’re forgiven?” he tried to think of what to say back to that, and his answer was actually far more than 003 was expecting.  In fact, if the others hadn’t known better, they might have said he was moved by the forgiveness being offered to him so easily. But, of course, 003 was a man without conscience, so the look in his eyes must have been from the morphine…obviously. 

“Well, I’ve got to get back to Q-branch,” R stood up, blinking in surprise when she found Alec supporting her elbow like a gentlemen to help her. Alec didn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body, so far as she knew, but suddenly she was remembering all of his flirtations comments whenever they’d been in contact. 002 and 3, out of her line of sight, started glaring.  R turned her attention around to Q, perhaps deciding the ignore the testosterone suddenly thickening in the air.  “I’ll see you there sometime soon, yeah?”

“I’d like that,” Q nodded politely, but his eyes were filled with almost ridiculous longing at the idea.  He smiled again, and it was more genuine than his earlier attempts. 

“Bye, Gear!  I’ll say hello to all your minions for ya!” waved R as she slipped out of the room, a disappearing waif with bright pink hair and a personality to brighten the darkest day. Whichever of the agents got her (if any of them did) would be indeed a very lucky man. 

“Time for us to go, too,” Bond decided.  Without waiting for agreement, he stood up, hands already in his pockets and eyes flicking in a reflexive sweep of the room.  His gaze landed a moment on 003 and 2, and something like an uneasy understanding passed between them.  It was possible – even likely – that 007 would never completely trust 003 after he lost Q, but the two of them hadn’t exactly been fast friends to begin with.  Hopefully they understood one another enough now to at least work together as needed in the future. Not bothering to nod to either of them, Bond stepped over Glock’s tail carefully (aware that the dog was more dangerous than its owner at the moment, injuries aside) and didn’t have to look to know that Q was immediately in his shadow. 

Glock, his tongue lolling contentedly, gave on last light whuff as the small boy with the glasses and friendly little hands left, then settled on the floor next to the hospital bed. He gave a light sniff at the air, picking up the smell of the man who was his owner and the man who was like his owner’s shadow, and wagged his tail once contentedly.  As of now, his canine world was complete.

~^~

It was good to be back – with Q – in London.  Bond could finally relax. 

Or, at least, he could until he tried to take off that damned ‘Gear’ hoodie so Alec could take it with all of their other bloody, dirty, and in Alec’s case smoky clothing to get washed.  It quickly became clear that the little prodigy was not nearly as calm and recovered as he acted around everyone in MI6, and that separation anxiety could be brought on by articles of clothing. 

“No! I want to keep wearing it!” Q screeched, and for such a self-contained kid, he could really act his age when he wanted to, “It’s not that dirty!” 

They were back at the flat now, having given their reports – again – and been checked over my Medical – again.  Bond’s hand was still a little numb from the shot he’d been given for his hand, and that presently made it that much more difficult to wrestle Q out of his hoodie.  This was promising to be traumatizing for everyone involved. 

By dint of being bigger and stronger and also taller than Q, Bond managed to more or less shake the kid out of it by pulling upwards until gravity did the work of pulling Q down and out of his hooded sweatshirt. Q lost his glasses in the process, and 006 and 7’s reflexes might really have been suffering from the lack of sleep, because neither managed to catch the spectacles.  Q’s glasses weren’t harmed, but there was something heartbreaking about the sight of them falling to the floor while Q slipped free of his hoodie to stand shivering and blinking in nearsighted distress up at Bond. If Q’s shirt hadn’t been absolutely filthy from Q living in it since his kidnapping, the agent would have given it back right that second.  Honestly, that look on Q’s face should have been classified as a deadly weapon, what with how quickly 007 wanted to fold before it.  Bond tossed the hoodie to Alec, across the room, before he could second-guess himself, then grabbed Q as the kid tried to fly after it. “Q, it’s rank,” he tried to reason, dropping to a knee to better catch hold of the kid.  “And Alec will be right back with it.”

“He’s right, māo,” Alec backed him up immediately when Q – who looked so much younger without his glasses – seemed like he might start crying with frustration. “But don’t worry – I take better care of clothing than I do equipment.” 

Bond smiled at the joke even if Q didn’t, and nodded to the door, catching Alec’s eye.  “I’ll handle this. You go do laundry.”

“Yes, mum,” Alec huffed dramatically, making a great show of hating the chore but nonetheless leaving the house quickly.  Q took the loss of his hoodie like most people would take the loss of an arm, and huddled into himself. His high anxiety also set off a coughing fit, so Bond stood and tugged the kid after him as he went into the kitchen, letting the kid get his glasses back on along the way.  “Here.  Cough syrup. No promises that you’ll like the taste, but it’ll help you breathe without hacking up a lung,” he said with grim humor, measuring up a fraction of the dose he and Alec usually took, on the occasions when they were sicker than dogs.  Q backed up, looking hand-shy. 

“It will also make me sleepy,” said the kid warily.  Without his hoodie, he looked small and skinny – both of which he was – and he wrapped his arms around his chest tightly as he backed up.  The fridge stopped his retreat, but he still glared at the cap-full of purple medicine. 

Bond cocked an eyebrow.  “Seeing as neither you nor I have had a good sleep in days, I can’t see how that’s a bad thing.  Come on, Q, no one’s going to drug you.”

Looking a bit ashamed as his medicinal paranoia came up again, Q looked between the medicine and Bond’s frank, tired eyes, then hedged hopefully, “If I take it, will you call Alec and tell him to bring back my hoodie?”

With a deep sigh, Bond pulled out a chair and sat down on it heavily. He wondered if this was how normal parents felt, but figured that Q was special – if nothing else, no normal kid has the right to be as distrustful and quirky as Q was.  No one lived the life Q had and came out as a poster-child for good manners and normalcy.  Replete in the fact that he was still between Q and the exit from the kitchen, 007 shook his head in regards to Q’s question, but still held out the medication. “It’s just for an hour or so, Q.” It took a lot of effort to resist the urge to ask why Q cared so much about where his clothing went.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to ask.  Looking embarrassed and apologetic, Q turned his eyes down and grudgingly trudged up to Bond on socked feet.  He kept his shoulders hunched and arms crossed, a small target in baggy, soft clothing. “It…  It was all I had that reminded me of home. Of…here.  It reminded me that someone had wanted me, once, and not just for my brains.”  He looked up at Bond suddenly, eyes huge and pleading as if magnified by the lenses of his glasses – so much so that the flecks of insecurity in them, and the start of tears, reached out and shredded Bond’s heart.  “That is why I got that hoodie, right?  You got Mallory to give me that hoodie because you cared, not just because I’m useful-?”

“Q, slow down,” Bond blurted just to make the fearful questions stop. He took the opportunity to grab the kid’s shoulder and push the cough syrup up to his face, actually getting him to swallow it before they continued their conversation. “You’re sick, and you’re tired, and you’re not thinking straight.  Of course I gave you that hoodie because I like you.”  He flashed a crooked grin, while Q mock-gagged at the taste of cough syrup. “Plus, R says you look adorable in it, and I think that Alec might want to use you as his wingman.”

“What’s a wingman?  And what does that have to do with Alec and R thinking my hoodie is adorable?” It was hard to tell if Q would have figured this out if he’d been up to his usual brainy standards. Instead, he sniffled again, and Bond handed him a tissue from the table without comment. 

“Come one, Q, let’s go watch some telly until Alec gets back with your hoodie. We can beat him up together if he comes back and we found out he put it in with the red load.”

Q still seemed to be mentally out of his depth, but the way he blinked up at 007 with narrowed eyes was undeniably cute.  He also stopped looking so much as though someone had run over his puppy, and followed Bond back into the living room.  “I don’t see how it would be feasible for us to beat up 006 together.”

“Fine. How about I hold him down and you can beat him up?” Bond kept playing as he flopped down on the couch and switched on the television.  God, but he was tired.

Q hesitated a moment, eyeing the couch like a bird searching for the best place to land, and then he gave in and hopped up under Bond’s right arm. He didn’t say anything as that arm reflexively slid down around him, but he did release a breath and relax once had was trapped snugly against the agent’s warm side. Unexpectedly, instead of responding, Q buried his face against 007’s side. 

“You’re going to bend you glasses at this rate,” 007 scolded, unsure how best to deal with Q right now – Q, who was suddenly cuddly and fearful in turns, and prone to bouts of panic and/or coughing.  Sick-Q was an unpredictable little sod, but relinquished his glasses to 007’s hands when Bond reached for them.  Promptly after that, the boy tucked his face against the side of the man’s torso again, now without his glasses in the way.  Sighing, Bond just put the glasses on the nearby table and decided that he’d never understand seven-year-old geniuses. 

“If I got really scared, or if I thought…”  Q started talking, his words muffled by 007’s shirt but tickling his ribs. They were slow and quiet, and trembled sometimes as if Q were trying not to get emotional. “…Or if I thought no one was coming for me, then I’d…I’d pull the hood up, and pretend that the world outside of it didn’t exist.”  Skinny shoulders shrugged as Bond looked down at his charge in horrified shock, this confession somehow shaking him up more than a gun pointing at his face. Q had thought that no one was coming to save him?  “The hoodie…smelled like MI6, like Q-branch…like you.  I know that you just asked Mallory to get it for me, as something to wear…but I like it, and I appreciated that you gave it to me.”  Q took in another deep, shuddering breath, and cleared his throat painfully before giving another half-hearted cough.  He grimaced and 007 grimaced with him, because it sounded like it hurt. “It made me feel like everything was going to be okay, even when things were…bad.”

“So-” Bond had to clear his throat, as well as chew and swallow the familiar fury that was building up in his system again. How many of Westford’s gang had been captured alive?  Five? Seven?  Bond could whittle down that number.  Maybe he’d even let a few of them get a five-minute head-start, so he could hunt them down and take them apart slowly for making Q afraid like this…  “-It was a security blanket?”

“Yes,” Q admitted, curling up closer.  He seemed determined to hide his face so that he couldn’t see the world – or so that 007 couldn’t see him. 

Of course, by now, the agent wasn’t watching the channels flipping by, and he wasn’t listening to it either as he put the remote down and shifted slightly to look down at a familiar, fluffy head.  “Q.”

A pause.  Q seemed to be considering the viability of pretending that he hadn’t heard, or that the cough syrup had kicked in and made him fall asleep already.  “Yes?” he asked carefully without lifting his head.

“I’m your security blanket now.  I might not be quite as cushy as that hoodie, but I imagine that I must smell like MI6.”  He shrugged, pretending to be deep in thought on the subject even as Q’s head finally popped up to stare at him. “I don’t smell much like Q-branch, though.  You’ll just have to live with that.  I can promise that everything will be okay, though.”

For a long moment, Q just stared at him, perhaps trying to figure out if the agent was crazy or actually very, very sweet in an odd sort of way. “No one,” Q said slowly, having to squint to make out 007’s expression without his glasses, “has ever offered to be a blanket for me before.”

“For God’s sake, Q, don’t call me a blanket!  Just accept the offer and be gracious about it,” Bond lamented, wondering if his pride would ever recover from this. Probably not.  But he’d known that ages ago when he’d first realized that he’d do a lot of embarrassing, un-manly things if it meant making this mad little genius smile. 

And smile Q did. 

~^~

Alec came back later to find both his best friend and his smallest companion completely unconscious on the couch.  Knowing subconsciously the little noises Alec made when entering the flat, Bond’s reflexes hadn’t even bothered to alert him to the other man’s arrival, a sure sign of how exhausted the normally-alert man was. 00-agents lived and died by their ability to wake up from the dead sleep any time they head a door open. Right now, though, as 006 closed the door and toed off his shoes, Bond remained sprawled across the couch, one leg up on the coffee table and one on the cushions, breathing deeply. His dark-headed little tag-along was much the same: the poor little thing had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was still plugged up, but he looked relaxed for the first time since they’d lost him, tucked between Bond’s side and the couch. Not surprisingly, one of James’s arms was looped over the kid’s shoulder even in sleep. 

“James, you big softy,” Alec cooed in a whisper as he grinned at the sight. He reached for his back pocket.

“You grab that phone to take a picture, and I put a bullet in it,” came 007’s groggy but fully aware voice, rough from the deep sleep he’d just been pulled out of. 

At the sound of voices, Q sneezed and shifted, making both men freeze. There was a long moment where it seemed neither of them so much as breath, but Q settled down again and remained completely asleep, fingers digging into 007’s shirt as if he found comfort in the texture, or the powerful muscles beneath.  Those muscles could and would take apart the world for him, and had come pretty damn close over the past few days.  M hadn’t even bothered to try and separate Q and his defender, and it was an unspoken truth that missions would be on hold for a bit – at least until 007 wasn’t going to be distracted by the idea of his little genius going missing again. 

When it was clear that Q was too exhausted and doped up on cold medication to be easily roused, Bond cracked on eye open to give his flat-mate a gimlet glare.  He added to his previous threat, “And if you wake him, I’ll put a bullet in you. Fair?”  His voice said it had better be fair. 

Alec never took threats seriously, but when he chuckled at Bond’s fatigued snarkiness, he kept it to a low volume.  “Here,” he changed the subject, pulling out a familiar tan hunk of cloth.  Clearly unworried about being shot anywhere vital (the noise would wake Q more surely than Alec’s whispering, after all), 006 walked over and draped the now-washed hoodie over Q, the sleeves trailing over 007’s stomach and arm like lazy limbs. “Can’t have the little tyrant go without his royal attire,” the man joked, then started casting around for something.

“What are you looking for?” Bond asked in a suspicious undertone. He glanced from Alec to Q as the latter shifted against his side – another sleepy wriggle that ended in stillness and light snoring. 

“Q’s mug.  I want to write ‘Tiny Overlord’ on it, after hearing about him from Q-branch, but your kitten appears to have hidden-  Ahah! Found it,” cheered 006 smuggly and quietly, and then he was trotting happily into the kitchen with Q’s white mug (which still had the marks on it from last time he’d written on it) to find a permanent marker. 

Of course, five minutes after that, 006 was passed out on the couch, too, one of Bond’s legs across his thighs because the man refused to move and one of Alec’s big, scarred hands stretched over to touch Q’s foot – a precaution, so that he’d know as soon as Bond did if the kid woke up. Considering the kind of week they’d all had, and considering that no one was idiot enough to try and enter their apartment, it was a good long while before any of them so much as shifted in their sleep. 

~^~