Chapter Text
M’s eyes cut smoothly to the familiar features of her best and most irritating agent, her expression as keen but unreadable as the reflection seen in a knife. “007,” she greeted, “Good to see you decided to join the land of the living. Perhaps next time you could do it before the paperwork goes through?”
Bond’s lips curved up in a smirk - one third humor, two thirds snark. If this weren’t M he was talking to, it would have been one-hundred percent battery acid wrapped up in a pretty package. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get shot.”
“Psych is waiting for you. As is Medical,” M informed him, apparently deciding to ignore the sarcasm. Perhaps this ability to be utterly levelheaded came from M being a Beta, but Bond was willing to be it was a skill intrinsic simply to the woman herself. “The latter is probably going to be interested in how you’re still alive, while the former will want to know why you came back.” The faint upward tick on one imperious brow indicated that that was a thought on M’s mind, too.
Knowing that his boss expected an answer even if she hadn’t outright demanded one, Bond stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight, muscles flexing beneath fabric in a brief show of discontent. “Some things don’t change whether you’re assumed dead or not. I figured that at least here, I had someone supplying me with guns on a regular basis,” he retorted.
M’s face gave away nothing, but something in her eyes was entirely too knowing. Not a lot of people understood the agents of MI6, what with all the secrets they were wreathed in, but M and 007 had both worked in espionage for long enough that there was a sort of understanding that drifted unacknowledged between them. “Welcome back, 007.”
The words did something to banish the disquiet rifling through Bond’s system - a sense of ‘coming home’ that he hadn’t expected. As much as he often hated his job and what it made him do, he had to admit that here, he fit in more naturally than anywhere else, like a puzzle piece sliding into place. The piece and the puzzle might be ugly things, but sometimes ugly things were necessary for the rest of the world to be happy.
Feeling just a little bit like a sword returning to its sheath, 007 rolled his shoulders one last time before nodding his head, avoiding M’s canny eyes, and leaving when dismissed.
There was the ugly knowledge underneath it all, however, that MI6 was simply glad to have him back because there was nothing quite so unexpectedly deadly and useful as a male Omega, which he was.
~^~
MI6 employed a broad range of people: Alphas, Betas, and arguably more Omegas than most people would expect. Society saw Omegas as docile, quiet, or at least in arguably enticing physically - MI6 saw them as useful, because in the end, that was what mattered when it came to espionage. Alphas could be forceful and demanding; Betas could fade into the background; and Omegas could be useful when it came to getting a target’s defenses to drop, often accompanied by their clothing.
Most Omegas, as a world-wide standard, were female. It was simply a genetic probability. Two of MI6’s most effective and dangerous agents were female Omegas, 002 and 004. The two women were gorgeous, and knew how to use their beauty combined with the natural allure of an Omega to get results where other agents would fail. After all, who could resist the scent of an omega trying to seduce them? They were irresistible to other Omegas, Betas, and Alphas alike. No one turned down a question from them. And after the haze of a rut triggered by them, no one remembered telling either. All heats for Omegas were strictly controlled in MI6 with the best drugs available, but they could also be used to advantage if needed - anything to get results.
The remaining agents in the Double-oh Programme were divided mostly evenly between Alphas and Betas, with no particular bias in gender.
Bond, however, was possibly the first male Omega to make it into the program in recorded memory.
Arriving at Medical (because as horrible as Medical was, it was better than Psych), Bond was met by a few wide-eyed looks. Damn.something shifted in his focus. Inwardly, he didn’t feel much different, and he would never gain the power to command anyone like an Alpha, but suddenly the newcomer’s nostrils flared and his eyes got the size of dinner plates. The med-tech actually jumped as suddenly, where he’d been scenting an Omega, his nose was now telling him he was facing off with a very peeved Alpha.
Seeing one of the regular doctors approaching from down the hall (shaking his grey-haired head lamentably), 007 dropped the act, feeling like either a fraud or a chameleon. He gained some small satisfaction from the fact that he’d probably come very, very close to giving the new employee a heart-attack.
“007,” the doctor greeted, giving the startled med-tech a significant, warning look before turning a more resigned one towards the agent, “We’re expecting you. Something about a bullet to the shoulder? Possible other injuries…?”
“I took care of the bullet-wound,” Bond answered without any particular regret, even as he resisted the urge to lift a hand and rub at the lingering ache. “Just give me a once over and let me go.”
~^~
Medical had long ago given up on really doing much for 007 beyond the basics - any attempts to actually get him to make healthy decisions went up in smoke before anyone could even say ‘fire!’ Still, they patched him up, and regularly refilled his prescription of suppressants, which he was supposed to stop taking on a regular basis - to let his heat run its course - but it turned out that male Omegas had an unusual tolerance that Bond took advantage of. In other words, even though it sometimes made him irritable and left a steady ache in his muscles, 007 kept taking suppressants until he absolutely couldn’t any longer.
Put simply, being an Omega was never something he’d wanted as a child, and that hadn’t changed as he’d grown up.
Psych, somehow, was still determined to make a more responsible, sensible agent out of Bond, a stubbornness they extended to all agents. Of course, all it did was drive all of the agents insane, so Psych was avoided even more than Medical - and now, after having just had a session with both, 007 was about ready to murder someone. He hadn’t stayed dead nearly long enough for this…
‘And now I have to meet the new Quartermaster,’ Bond reflected, mulling over the information he’d been given on the man, and what he’d gleaned in less obvious ways - no agent ever went into a situation blind, or without doing a bit of snooping beforehand. Now, driving to the National Gallery, 007 sighed and grumbled under his breath, “Thirty-four years old, new to the position, and an Alpha. Just brilliant.”
The last Alpha that Bond had had to deal with had been about two weeks ago. He’d broken the man’s arm in two places and snapped his collarbone in half - all the while, the Alpha had tried to command him, but 007 had found that swift actions made the point rather moot. If this Alpha thought that they could push 007 around like any other Omega, they were not going to get on well.
~^~
Q couldn’t remember the last time he had more than 24 hours off in a row. With nine agents, there was always someone needing his help. He tried to set boundaries, but it was too hard to leave one of them in a life threatening situation. Even if he went home, he would still be awake worrying. It was easier to just see it though, and rest once the agent was safely extracted.
He had met all of the agents so far, except for 007. He had been warned that he had a gift for resurrection and not to expect him to stay dead. But this was just a bit much. Q had read the file, and he didn’t see what was so exciting about an Omega, male or not. As an Arch Alpha, he was tired of seeing everyone puff up and tried to take him on as a personal challenge.
M had warned him when he started at MI6 that 007 was out to seduce the pants off of everything breathing in sight. Now that the agent had returned, he would be out for a new challenge. Q sighed. He had a team of agents to bring home, and no time for their ridiculous hormone clouds that followed them around. He took a blocker regularly, in addition to his suppressant. He had no time for the silliness of following around the 00 agents. As the youngest MI6 department head in history, he had enough on his plate without thinking of romance.
His email dinged at him. Oh, speaking of the devil. Time to outfit 007 for his trip to Shanghai. He sighed. There went that brand new Walther prototype, before it even hit the finished stage. Good thing he had several others in the lab, because rumor had it that Bond never brought back his equipment. Q headed to the National Gallery, carrying a minimum of equipment for Bond to destroy.
~^~
Bond was ‘passing’ again. It wasn’t something he did often, and doing it now for the second time in a day had him both uncomfortable and uneasy - uncomfortable because it always gave him a headache, and uneasy because it was a weapon, a tool, and it had been impulsive and foolish of him to show it off in front of a low level employee at Medical. No one would tell, of course, but surviving as a spy had taught 007 the value of keeping secrets. It was in fact possible that the new Quartermaster didn’t know about Bond’s chimeric side - that was a small fact buried rather deeply in his records. Even when people read it, they didn’t always believe it, so he made an effort not to show them and disabuse them of that notion.
But today was already going poorly, and the last thing Bond needed was someone realizing that the scent of Omega at the museum belonged to him.
When Q arrived, he’d turn it off, but for now, Bond happily used his Chimeric skills to ‘pass’ for a Beta. With his build and appearance, it was hard to go unnoticed, but he was already remembering the way of moving with lazy smoothness, keeping his eyes on nothing important, and his posture non-confrontational - all things that would dissuade people from paying a lot of attention to him. Eventually, he found the painting they’d chosen to meet in front of, smirking at the irony of the old battleship detailed in grim paint. “Someone at MI6 has a sense of humor,” Bond muttered to himself, thinking of whomever had picked this meeting place. Feeling a bit like an old battleship himself (although not ready to be hauled off to the scrap-yard yet), 007 settled down on the bench, slowly letting his focus fade. It was a neat trick: if Q were to come up now, he’d have to practically stick his nose against Bond’s skin to detect the fading scent of Beta, but Bond’s natural Omega scent would be slow to come back as well. He was told that it was a very confusing mixture of scent-messages.
~^~
Q knew 007 by sight from his dossier, although he looked a little worse for the wear coming back from the dead this time. He looked older than his file indicated, and he hadn’t shaved. There were still circles under his eyes, and he moved like he was in pain.
“What do you see?” Q asked.
“A bloody big ship,” was the unpleasantly blunt answer. Apparently Bond didn’t recognize Q, because after a flat, “Excuse me,” Bond turned to go.
“007, I’m your new Quartermaster,” Q sniffed the air. He had caught a whiff of Beta as Bond sat down, but now he got a hint of Omega. He would have to re-check Bond’s file, maybe the agent had been shagging someone before the meeting.
Bond froze mid-movement, and seemed almost to wince as he realized whom he’d almost dismissed on principle. Barely bothering to hide a sigh, 007 sat back down again. “You must be joking,” the agent murmured under his breath, almost as if he didn’t even mean for Q to hear.
“Why, because I’m not wearing a lab coat?” Q sighed. “Or were you expecting me to be unable to control myself because I’m an Alpha? I assure you, I’m quite capable of being professional.”
That earned Q a brief glance of surprise from guarded blue eyes; Bond hadn’t been expecting such a cool answer, clearly. But, being a 00-agent, he recovered swiftly and looked back to the painting to avoid eye-contact, “No, because you look like you’re eighteen.” He radiated discontent and edginess like a storm that wanted to get out of a small space - or maybe just get out of this gallery.
“Eighteen?” Q choked. “Far closer to twice that, thank you. But age is no guarantee of efficiency, only wear, 007.”
“And youth is no guarantee of efficiency. You still look green as hell,” was the surprisingly unabashed answer.
“I’ll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in the field in a year,” Q pushed his glasses up his nose and rolled his eyes. “I don’t rely on 00 agents to do my work for me, especially Omegas.”
There was a moment of utter tension: even through his jacket, the rigidity of Bond’s spine and the tautening of his muscles showed. It looked for a moment like he’d stand up again and leave, but somehow managed to stay put instead. In a shockingly low, level voice - cold and flat like a knife-blade - Bond replied, “Oh?” It was a vague, brief reply, and wouldn’t have been almost joking and light if it weren’t for the frosted-iron tone that had arrived without warning.
“I am here to run the mission,”Q handed him an envelope. “You are the tool I use. Ticket to Shanghai, documentation, and passport.”
A pale blue gaze eyed Q’s hand for a moment like it would bit him - perhaps like he’d like to be the one biting - but after a beat, 007 reached over and took it. His tone had returned to something resembling professional, even if it still had a crushed-glass edge that was unpleasant, “Thank you, I suppose.”
“Walther PPK/S 9mm short,” Q handed him a box. “Coded to your palm print so only you can fire it. Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement. And a standard issue radio transmitter, so I can find you when you need to be rescued.”
“When?” the agent repeated as he took the newest item. Now the professionalism was quite obviously dying, and the harsh tone was burning through more incandescently.
“When you need to be rescued,” Q repeated. “You’re an Omega, I assume I will need to send in a team with pheromone blockers and all? So you don’t affect them?”
“Look, Quartermaster,” Bond stressed the title with a bitter edge even as he kept his voice low enough not to carry, “If you don’t believe that I can do this mission, feel free to look at my past files. Or, better yet, keep your opinions to yourself, sod off, and let me do my job.”
“The success of the mission rests on me,” Q retorted. “I need to know what kind of retrieval you need. No need to be an arse because I try to get you home safely.”
“No, the success of the mission rests on me - as I will be the one with my skin on the line,” 007 growled back, collecting what Q had given him and standing up in a steady, smooth movement - a subtle show of the strength hidden in his frame. “If things are unsuccessful, Quartermaster,” the Omega turned to look down at Q and ask, with faked levity, “who will be the one with a bullet hole? You, or me?”
“Me,” Q told him sharply. “I’m far harder on myself than you ever will be, 007. I have nine of you to bring home safely. And I haven’t lost one yet. Things are going to work a lot differently now that I am in charge. This isn’t me arming you to go rogue. This is me sending you to do a specific job and bringing you back unharmed. That’s my job.”
The look Bond shot him was openly incredulous. The smile on his face was made of nothing humorous, but looked to have instead been cut there with a knife. This conversation had definitely started off on the wrong foot, and was going swiftly downhill… “Thanks for the concern, Q, but I won’t need it. I’ve brought myself back from the dead three…” He paused, looking up as if considering, before correcting with a faintly pleased expression that was probably as faked as the last smile, too. “No, four times. But if I do fail, do try and catch that bullet for me, would you?” he sneered, before turning on his heel and leaving.
~^~
Q rolled his eyes and headed back to MI6. Bloody agents and their false bravado. Clearly 007 didn’t understand what it meant for an Arch Alpha to lose someone under their charge. A bullet would be preferable. And to lose an Omega, who didn’t want help. Q rubbed his temples against the impending migraine.
~^~
Bond was fuming and just about ready to test out his new gun and random passersby by the time he left the museum - damn Q’s comment about it being a ‘personal statement’. The new Quartermaster’s words were still rioting around in 007’s thoughts like a tornado of shattered glass, and with each turn he just got madder.
‘Who does that little bastard think he is?’ Bond demanded mutely, stalking off. Usually, people around him never connected the Omega scent in the air to the physically intimidating presence he cut - they expected a woman, or at least something demure and petite, so that’s what they looked for to the exclusion of all else - but right now, a few people were making the connection. However, they were also noticing the pure, lethal temper coating him in an almost physical cloud, and it made them look away and back off.
Bond hadn’t expected to instantly get along with the new Quartermaster - Alphas had a habit of being domineering, even without taking their powers into account, and Bond had a habit of meeting that dominant attitude and turning it back on them tenfold. He’d had many a lecture from Psych about this, but hadn’t bothered to change his attitude, at least outside of missions.
On missions, he molded himself to whatever he needed to be. Clearly, the new Quartermaster thought that that meant weak, stupid, and basically every other Omega stereotype. 007’s blood felt like it was boiling in his veins, and it took an effort to reign his anger in.
To calm the rising anger, Bond reminded himself that this wasn’t exactly the first Alpha who’d thought he was just another piece of Omega ass. And since he wasn’t allowed to bloody his Quartermaster’s nose to drive the point home, he’d have to do it another way.
Even though his plane tickets were for tomorrow, 007 returned to his car and headed to the airport. As he went, he began to focus on that ineffable part of him that was Chimeric, and despite the fact that he’d already done this too much for today, Bond was passing for an Alpha by the time he arrived.
Good thing he always travelled light, and that he hadn’t bothered to unpack his car yet. Grinning a rather childishly nasty little grin, Bond reflected as heads turned at the scent of an Alpha, ‘You want efficiency, Quartermaster? Fine. I’ll bloody BURY you in efficiency.’
~^~
“Why is Bond at the airport?” Q looked up from the tracking program he had on the agents. “His flight is tomorrow. Bring me up airport security on the screens, R.”
“Q, you need to see this,” R pointed at the screen.
There was Bond, stance and posture so clearly confrontational that it could be read right through the screen. He literally stared down the gate attendant, who had initially looked prepared to stop him. There was no audio, but it was possible to see the man shaking his head at the 00-agent. At that point, the attendant should have pulled himself together, found his spine, and commanded the Omega to back off - but he didn’t. Instead, when Bond stepped into his space and flashed a tight, humorless sort of grin, the attendant gave way. Moments later, Bond was sauntering through the gate.
“What the bloody hell is he doing?”
“The flight is for Shanghai, Q,” R informed him. “The flight arrives before his original flight was scheduled.”’
“And? What was that about?” Q asked with frustration.
“Bond being Bond, what a show off,” R sighed. “I hope he doesn’t use up his powers before the mission even starts.”
“His powers?” Q was wary. “What did I miss?”
“You didn’t know? Oh dear, I think M should have briefed you on this already.”
~^~
“Quartermaster,” M greeted, somehow managing to show absolutely no surprise at all at the sight of Q moving so swiftly into her office. “I was under the impression that you had work to keep you busy in your branch.”
“And I was under the impression that I knew the relevant information to do my job!” Q fumed. “Just what do I not know about 007 that seems to be such common knowledge?”
Something flashed across the older woman’s grey eyes, an unreadable, knowing look that was there and gone like a spark. However, her expression became more somber, and she gave a brief nod to the chair in front of her desk. “Take a seat, Quartermaster.”
“Why does R think that 007 has special powers?” Q sat down with a huff. “ Do we work for MI6 or bloody Torchwood? What the hell is going on?”
Just barely arching an eyebrow at the explosive responses she was getting from her usually level headed new Quartermaster, M sighed. She looked momentarily older, before her eyes became sharp again - impregnable. “I take it that 007 has done something personally to bring up this issue? If you must know, more information was to reach you tomorrow, but damn that man for making life difficult,” she said, not bothering to hide the jaded irritation that slipped into her voice.
“Well he just stared down a gate attendant at Heathrow, and got on the first plane to Shanghai,” Q ran his fingers through already messy hair. “He already had a ticket scheduled for tomorrow. What the hell is a bloody Omega doing having that kind of force? He was rude at best during the equipment handoff, but R said something about him using up his powers?”
“Firstly, Quartermaster, may I ask you how many male Omegas you have met in your life?” M asked, eyes slightly narrowed, but tone unreadable as she avoided the main question. Being the head of MI6, perhaps she was allowed to do that.
“A few,” Q said with a frown. “I even roomed with one for a time in college, but you know that from my file. I don’t remember any extraordinary powers, just those damnable hormone clouds. That’s why I take blockers.”
Suddenly, M’s face seemed to say that she’d hoped this would be easier… but it wasn’t. Resigned to that fact, the head of MI6 merely met Q’s eyes squarely and went on, “And how many of them were Chimeric?”
“Chimeric?” Q snorted. “I heard about that in biology class, but never met one. Bloody farce if you ask me. Omegas trying to pretend they don’t spread their legs for every Alpha that looks at them twice.”
M’s eyes grew unexpectedly hard, and it was a lot like suddenly feeling the icy brush of a cold scalpel against one’s skin. For a woman who was in no way physically imposing, M was capable of wielding a lot of danger in just looks. “I assure you, Q, that misconceptions like that will serve you very poorly with any Omega in my staff. If you are determined to carry that mindset, I might be forced to give out the information about your particular station as an Arch Alpha. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Q winced. “My apologies. Its just hard to run a mission for someone when the agent I am supposed to protect is acting like a second enemy and fighting me at every turn. So-what? You are telling me that Bond is Chimeric?”
“Yes,” M put her lecturing tone aside for a more businesslike one, and settled her hands neatly on her desk, “I meant to warn you about that when he left for his mission, because I believed that you’d have a hard enough time meeting with him today based on his personality alone. I’m not going to sugarcoat anything: you’ve read his file, and now you’ve met him. He’s a nightmare to work with some days, but his ability to get the job done is unparalleled.” M’s eyes grew calculating. “You don’t need to like him. You merely need to assist him. I need to know right now if you can do that.”
“I can certainly do that,” Q nodded. “It just would have been helpful if I knew that BEFORE I set up support for the team. I would have sent in far more offense and less defense. I don’t suppose it occurred to the man to tell me. But he was too busy insulting my age and competence.”
Instead of looking sympathetic, M looked as if she was fighting amusement. “Think of it this way, Q,” she said smoothly, a slight upward tick taking up residence at the corner of her stern mouth, “Bond is about as interested in letting everyone knew that he’s Chimeric as you are about telling all and sundry that you’re an Arch. If he could help it - and he often can - he wouldn’t even have people know that he’s an Omega. After all…” M’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes glinted. “...People make assumptions.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Q looked properly chagrined. “I don’t suppose he is going to be pleased that I know. Is there a way to handle him that works?”
Sighing and sitting back, M gave Q an assessing look. Perhaps she liked the more understanding demeanor he was showing, because she replied in a tone that was almost sympathetic, “As it seems you’ve already gotten off on the wrong foot, I’d say to handle him very carefully - and with respect deserving of his position and skills, obviously. He’s the best agent I have, Quartermaster, and I won’t have you breaking him. That being said, he very often breaks himself.”
“I noticed that,” Q agreed. “But watching him hurt himself intentionally, and ignore his own safety… As an Arch Alpha, that’s very painful for me. You chose me for the job because I feel compelled to bring them home. Bond seems to do everything in his power to wreck everything around him, and himself.”
M’s grey eyes grew darker - from silver to a tarnished pewter somehow. Her frown deepened. “You’re unfortunately correct, and Psych would have a lot more to say about it than I do.” She paused and breathed in slowly, clearly put off, but not by Q, it seemed: she appeared to be thinking about the 00-agent everyone made such a fuss about. “I’ve known Bond for longer than most. He doesn’t let people in easily,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “and while I value your drive to protect MI6’s agents, there’s every likelihood that 007 will misinterpret care as coddling. So I recommend you don’t give him too many opportunities to misconstrue that.” She sighed. “Mostly, that will include you putting up with quite a lot from him, but I’ll have a talk with 007 when he returns. I can’t very well have him shooting you,” she added with a frank look that was more miffed than actually worried, “I’ve no patience to find myself another Quartermaster on short-notice, just because one of my 00-agents has a problem with authority.”
“Should I tell him, about me being an Arch Alpha?” Q asked. “Or will he just use it against me? It might make him understand better, that I know what it’s like to be the odd one out. But I don’t want to give him ammunition, either.”
“That I leave up to you,” M replied ambiguously. Her eyes warned against further conversation, as she pressed onwards, “No doubt you have a branch to run, Quartermaster. The problems you have with 007 - work them out. And I suggest you do so quickly, since he’s taken it upon himself to bump up the schedule for this mission. Unless you have any other pressing issues-” The woman’s posture reminded that she wasn’t a psychiatrist, so he’d better not. “-Dismissed.”
“Yes, M.” Q went back to Q branch to figure out how to direct the troublesome agent.
~^~
“R, you have worked with 007 before,” Q said. “What does he respond well to? And we need to move up the schedule and redistribute the support team to offense.”
“007 prefers to run his own missions,” R admitted. “Give him the facts and he will ask for help if he needs it. But mostly he just needs someone as a set of extra eyes and code scrambling.”
“Well, let’s give him the best intel we can so he can run a successful mission.”