Chapter Text
There’s a painfully expensive topcoat hanging in Q’s front closet, and try as he might, Q can’t manage to return it to its rightful owner.
It’s very warm and made of quality wool, and Q actually took a moment to consider the cost before he sighed and swallowed the equally expensive dry-cleaning bill. It’s a trade-off for avoiding the absolute uproar the rumour mill would go up in if Q arrived back at headquarters wearing a coat that’s obviously too large for him and traveling in the company of a Double-O. He chose instead to be dropped off at a Tube station to make his own way home, and when he would have left the coat in the passenger seat when he got out, Bond had simply pinned him with a pointed stare until Q gave up and wrapped himself back in it.
Besides, predawn on a winter’s day in London is just as cold as an evening up in the Scottish Highlands – it’s not, but in his drowsy state Q felt the chill just as keenly – and he had quite a way to walk from his station to his flat.
So Q goes home with Bond’s topcoat and the moment he takes it with him his pride won’t let him return it in anything but the pristine condition he found it in that safe house. He doesn’t see a need to put a rush on the dry-cleaning and a week goes by before he gets it back, during which Q meets with the secondary Comms team to delegate some of his less critical projects. Bond, for once, is inconspicuously absent from headquarters.
He messages Bond once about the coat, but the next time he sees the man 007 is en route to an impromptu mission. Riley has the dubious honour of equipping him, and so the topcoat continues hanging in the closet next to Q’s parka and the pea coat he rarely wears, a subtle reminder of a conversation in a cold, derelict chapel. Q had thought it would bother him more to put Silva’s ghost to rest, but Q Branch keeps him busy, and constantly trying to catch Bond to return the coat makes it less of a symbol and more of an extension of the enigma that is apparently a Double-O’s second calling.
“I know you Double-Os are accustomed to using and discarding gear, but this isn’t a combat situation and I hate needless waste,” Q says when Bond finally shows up to be kitted out for a mission – at Q Branch, instead of a discreet spot somewhere out in the city where Q can safely hand over the topcoat without eagle-eyed and ever curious MI6 personnel around. He’d been tempted to just bundle up the topcoat and shove it in a briefcase as part of 007’s equipment kit, but the dry-cleaning was pricey and something in Q balks at rumpling up the coat after all that effort.
Bond has the gall to look amused. “Is this about the topcoat?”
Q runs a swift eye over the contents of the attaché case, ticking off a mental checklist before closing and securing the locks and sliding it over to the Double-O. “I took the coat as my due for being kidnapped but I don’t actually want to keep it now that the trip is over.”
“I see little difference. I left it at the safe house; it’s not like it saw any use there either.”
“Your coat stored in the safe house is like the weapons in my inventory: easily accessible. Your coat hanging in my closet is like locking up a gun in an unbreakable safe where it’s taking up space and serves no practical application because I don’t use guns.”
Is it Q’s imagination, or does Bond seem prone to smirking today? It’s just the faintest lift to his eyes and lips, which is somehow more aggravating than to seeing it outright. “I could come by your place to pick it up.”
“No,” Q says flatly. The location of his flat isn’t exactly a secret by any stretch of the imagination – he has to file a working address with Security, and sealed though those records might be he’s well aware he works in an agency that deals with and delights in unearthing the undisclosed. But there’s a difference between accepting the inevitable – oh, he’s heard the stories of how Bond broke into the former M’s residence before – and actively encouraging it, and Q values his privacy.
The ones who trade in secrets always do.
“Then it seems we are at an impasse.” Bond picks up the attaché case and slides his gun smoothly into its holster, a sure enough signal that he’s on duty, but continues to linger in Q’s office like an obtrusive shadow.
There are several reasons why Q prefers to meet Double-Os outside of headquarters. For one, it eases their transition into the mission and allows them to depart immediately, saving time. Secondly, Q rarely lets field agents into his office and the Double-Os universally take interest on the odd occasion Q meets with them there.
Of the lot, Bond is probably the worst offender. It’s how he recognized the Silva program, after all, a fact that prompted him to take Q to Skyfall, leading to the situation Q is currently in.
Narrowing his eyes, Q says, “I thought you might want to keep that trip low-profile, but if you don’t mind, then I’ll simply bring the coat to work and return it to you when you return from your mission.”
“Whatever happened to not fuelling the rumour mill?”
“In this case, I would consider the loss in productivity adequate payoff for the information I can mine from my team’s reactions.”
There’s a note of quiet amusement in Bond’s voice. “You could leave the coat with Eve.”
“She’ll skin you alive first,” Q replies without missing a beat, because the last time someone tested Moneypenny’s patience there had been blood on the floor, although that was mainly because the agent in question had scrambled back, tripped and nicked himself rather badly on a sharp corner of her desk. Moneypenny and Bond have a rather unique friendship and she would probably find being part of Bond’s antics amusing, but Q prefers to stay on her good side as much as possible. “I should also mention – that train won’t wait for you forever.”
Bond continues on as if he didn’t hear the last sentence at all. “You should live a little, Q.”
“Good evening, 007,” Q says pointedly.
Bond doesn’t bother replying, but somehow the quiet way he snaps the office door shut makes it sound like the final word in the conversation. Q can’t help shaking his head, but there’s a smile lurking at the corners of his lips when he turns back to his computer systems; here, in the privacy of his office, he doesn’t have to hide it.
That’s been happening quite a lot, recently.
---
The Secret Intelligence Service has had to adapt to many changes over its long history, and the exponential evolution of technology has kept the agency on its toes. Attacks can happen at any time and can be just as devastating when deployed remotely. Often, it’s a race to outsmart the enemy – with better equipment, better information or better strategies.
It’s the definition of Q Branch’s value to MI6, and the reason why Q’s security systems and cybertechnology have become so integral to Q Branch; no one person is capable of constant vigilance without eventually keeling over from exhaustion and overwrought nerves. Even continuous roster rotation and partnerships – as those that exist between Q Branch and the numerous other MI6 departments – allow for dangers to slip through the cracks, but technology never rests and Q’s systems are capable of pulling information from a thousand mechanical eyes, from a million data entry points, always watching, always monitoring.
Right now, Q is staring at a camera feed with an obscured view of his public workstation at Q Branch’s main observation lab, and has to resist kneading at his temple.
The private chat system his underlings utilize is already abuzz with speculation; Q reads on with morbid fascination even as he swipes his access card at MI6’s main entrance, opting to take the long route down to Q Branch just so he can finish skimming the highlights.
As far as Q can tell, no one actually dares to approach his workstation, which is a restraint he commends them for. The package itself appears fairly innocuous: a plain canvas bag containing several small packages, the metal top of a thermos flask peeking out of a side compartment. But set against the computer screens, neatly coiled cables and the elaborate communications setup that comprises Q’s station, it stands out like a beacon to his ever curious team.
On the chat, the Communications team are the most vocal – unsurprising, seeing as his workstation is right in their midst – but Inventories are overly invested in the mystery bag, which to their expert opinion appears to contain fancy takeout boxes in beautifully wrought packaging. BioSci seems to be split between the extremes of apathy and conspiracy, with the latter half fixating on the possibility of poisoning. Weapons and Engineering is mostly quiet, mainly because Q is just making his way back from testing a prototype with one of their teams. Q gets the sense that they’re catching up on the situation at the same pace that Q is, although one engineer remembers to message the chat at large that Q is on his way back.
The chat explodes in a flurry of anticipation, but when Q finally tags into the main observation lab the space seems utterly normal, with the usual buzz of conversation as the Communications team carry on with their day.
The members of Q Branch might not operate out in the field, but they do still work for MI6.
“Package for you, sir!” chirps one of his underlings – Corrine, who had shot through the Communications section ranks like a comet before steadying out at the expert level; given a few more years, Q predicts she’ll take up a senior position. Her career path echoes Q’s own, although Q has been with MI6 for much longer, and their ages are close enough that she’ll take what liberties she can get away with.
Q gets most of his rumour mill updates from reading her posts in the chat system; sometimes, he even suspects that she knows he lurks there.
“Who from?”
“Oh – we’re not entirely sure. The bag was on your workstation when we returned from lunch, and Liam and Ricco were on call but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“And you call yourselves the Communications team,” Q says dryly, flicking a pointed look at the surveillance systems set up all around them.
“Well, only authorized personnel can get into Q Branch, and our actual jobs take priority. Unless you—”
“Thank you, Corrine. If I remember correctly you owe me a program…” He lets his voice trail off, arching an eyebrow in her direction.
“I’m on it, sir,” she says with a grin, “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”
“I’m sure.” Q suspects that her end of day would be closer to midnight than the end of her shift, although in an emergency his team finds surprising ways to pull through. Swallowing back a sigh, he waves her back to her station and pulls out his phone. He has a number of possible suspects in mind, but there’s one name at the top of the list that far outstrips the rest.
What did I say about the rumour mill?
The reply comes back near instantaneously. You said yourself that you could get some data from the way your team reacts.
Q stares down at his phone screen. If his memory serves him correctly Bond should be somewhere in central Europe, unless he’s abandoned the planned route completely. The professional side of Q hopes that he keeps the train tickets because MI6’s resources are not unlimited and refunds are a viable option; that’s why MI6 has a Logistics Branch with a heavy focus on foreign processes. The rest of him is caught up in a mix of exasperation and curiosity.
One, concentrate on the mission. Two, I know for a fact that you are on a mission; why the package?
This time, Q has just enough time to peer into the canvas bag and consider the discreet logo on the top container before his phone lights up with a response.
One, you contacted me first. two, I did promise to wine and dine you when we were back in London.
Surprise joins the exasperation and the curiosity, because those few simple words convey mixed messages. It’s definitely a flirtation, but it also calls back to a more serious conversation they previously had. It’s very likely another one of Bond’s “not-a-test”, whatever they want to call it, except Bond is on assignment and unlike a simple phone call the amount of planning and prearrangement that must have went into the delivery means that it’s far from idle.
If he compares this situation to a strategy game, Q wonders if contacting Bond in the first place would be considered an advancing move. The package is certainly an effective one.
He normally responds within a minute of receiving a message, even if it’s simply an acknowledgment, and the moments that go by is uncharacteristic of him, something that Bond obviously picks up on and can’t resist pointing out.
Cat caught your tongue?
Q smiles, very slightly, and taps the owl charm still hanging from his workstation lamp. He’s not a harmless little bird to be preyed upon by inquisitive, insatiable cats; Bond had cast him as an owl, and owls are hunters, silent and efficient.
Hardly, he writes back, and takes the entire bag, thermos and all, and goes up to the upper levels.
Tanner’s official work zone has evolved to become MI6’s strategy centre, almost a cross between one of Q’s communications lab and M’s office. Top level staff has always had leeway to walk in at any time, and considering how many times Tanner has tried to ply Q with beer, Q figures he can return the favour.
"How expensive is this?" Tanner asks, poking idly at the box lids with the end of a plastic knife, half his attention still on the wide screen before him.
Q seizes the keyboard and sets up a quick alert program on the footage. "You're asking me? I'm not the one who accompanies M on his high level meetings."
"That would be Moneypenny, actually," Tanner says, watching on unconcernedly as Q sets the system to do a live alert feedback every sixty seconds.
Q pushes the keyboard away from him and considers the thought. “Does 004 do this?”
Tanner glances in his direction; his gaze is light and easy, but it makes Q turn almost defensively back to the keyboard, just to have something to hide behind.
“If you’re asking if she approaches me with a familiarity beyond our professional relationship, then yes. But something as elaborate as this, then no, not quite. Scarlet is much more discreet than 007. She wouldn’t bother pulling in another Double-O to make the delivery.”
“0011, I believe,” Q says. “Both 004 and 0010 are on missions and he has a trickster streak, so much worse than 007.”
“Welcome to the club,” Tanner says. “They like you, which is very good because they’re much more cooperative that way, but catching the Double-Os’ attentions comes with its own set of perils.” He taps the boxes again, raising an eyebrow in Q’s direction as if to say, ‘can we?”, and Q sighs but relents.
The boxes yield up their contents like little treasure boxes, the food cooled but still smelling delicious – gnocchi with a light cream sauce, a salad still crisp and fresh with the dressing in a separate container, roasted chicken with potatoes and onions and peppers in tangy gravy. The dishes probably have fancy names with even fancier descriptions, but all in all they taste delicious.
Tanner watches him taking the sampling bites with an air of amusement, and Q ignores him with all dignity he can muster. He opens the thermos next, wisps of steam rising, a fragrant fruity scent permeating the air. Tea, a lovely red from the hue of the liquid when he pours it out, and when Q takes a sip he tastes grapefruit and gooseberries faintly, the tea blend itself a lovely rooibos, complex and flavourful like a wine.
“Tea,” Tanner says, “Because of course, you don’t drink while at headquarters.”
There’s a careful note in his voice, his tone pointed. Q doesn’t respond, his fingers circling the thermos lid idly, catching the rising warmth from the tea. Favourites, Tanner had said so once himself, when talking about themselves in relation with certain Double-Os; well now it’s clear, with the evidence in front of them, that it’s true in the opposite direction as well.
“Is that a problem?” Q finally asks, because Tanner’s patience is nigh infinite, and he’s always been a little impulsive himself, carefully though that is hidden behind his professional persona.
This time, Tanner actually chuckles at him and reaches for the container of gnocchi, spearing a dumpling expertly with the tip of the plastic knife. “I told you before, I won’t crack down on it unless it becomes destructive.” He smothers his smile at Q’s no doubt ruffled expression. “You’re asking the right questions. I’m not worried.”
Q watches Tanner spear his way through another few dumplings and sips at the tea. He has never lacked in confidence, but the awareness of how much the Silva incident had consumed him still creeps up on him at odd times. Being blindsided is an issue in a position such as his, and as much as Bond’s various stunts both amuse and exasperate him, Q won’t risk his own flaws dragging the man down.
Troublemaker though he is.
“He has simply pointed out a few facts to me, recently,” Q says to Tanner. “And knows me better than I’d like to admit.”
“Like your drinking habits,” Tanner says, deadpan enough that it is its own form of teasing, and Q just manages to resist rolling his eyes.
“And I plan to reciprocate,” Q says half to himself, because tests and games aside, theirs is a affiliation made of actions and reactions, moves and counters, and Q is hardly going to disrupt the ebb and flow of it now.
“Right now?” Tanner nods towards Q’s phone.
This time, Q laughs. “No.” He was only comfortable with sending the first few messages because it’s the beginning stages of the mission, and he’s programmed the Double-O’s phone to automatically delete and purge all incoming communications automatically after a call is picked up or the text is opened, or in thirty minutes if the message is left unread. Bond didn’t reply the last message, and Q won’t risk distracting him now. “He’s on a mission and I have my duties, and I’m hardly that unprofessional.”
Tanner just nods at him, and the easy systematic way he goes through the chicken speaks volumes more than his words. Q picks at the gnocchi, the cream sauce rich on his tongue, and turns his mind to his next potential project – weapons, of course, or perhaps automotive mechanics, just this once. Something the Double-Os would love, efficient and deadly.
---
There is something about traditional art that appeals to Q in his default state, the person he is when he is not at Q Branch and does not have to maintain the confident, almost impish image that is his favourite persona to project while at work. It’s partly the physicality of the paintings, the way Q likes the soft keys and hard lines of his keyboard under his fingertips when he codes, and very much because of the abstractness that Q perceives in them; he doesn’t always understand what the paintings are trying to convey, but he can appreciate them for their stark beauty and the rawness of the emotions they occasionally inspire in him.
He also likes the National Gallery for the breath of space and peace he gets when he visits during off-peak hours, a place where he can usually lower his guard without exposing his vulnerabilities.
The woman who sits beside him looks like she could be an exhibit herself. She moves with a natural elegance and wears her age gracefully, dark hair coiled in an understated bun and struck through with exquisitely crafted silver hair sticks, like a leather scabbard sheathing sharp steel underneath.
“Quartermaster,” she says.
“Commissary,” he says in turn, without bothering to modulate his voice – she requested the meet up, which means she’s responsible for the privacy of their conversation.
It’s so much easier for her, after all. Q wouldn’t be surprised if the Home Office had eyes and ears in most of London’s major public buildings, and as his counterpart in MI5 with a significantly longer term of service, C probably organized the surveillance in those places herself.
“It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?” she says.
“The recent attacks in our neighbouring countries must have kept you very busy,” Q says in turn.
“Indeed. We’ve put into place a number of countermeasures in the event that the sentiments that prompted the attacks gain traction here as well. Still, I thought our friends abroad might have pulled you and yours in.”
“They didn’t request assistance, so we’ve kept our distance. But there’s always plenty to keep us busy.”
She inclines her head, and the ornaments in her hair sticks catch in the light.
“I never took you as one for road trips.”
They are alone, a respect they afford each other as part of the camaraderie that naturally comes from sharing similiar unique roles in parallel agencies. It’s one of the reasons why Q is able to lower his guard here, but not completely; C is like a chess master who would exploit all weaknesses to systematically collect pieces from the board, and Q has never been very good at chess.
But he is excellent at cracking cyphers and constructing security protocols, and their differing expertise makes the unspoken push and pull of power play both perilous and intriguing.
“Observant of you.”
She meets his gaze, almond eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. “You’re talented, my friend, but I have a strong team, and sometimes half a dozen pairs of human eyes are better than that single brilliant head of yours.”
Q knew the moment he broke into London’s internal systems to hasten his and Bond’s journey out of the city that there was always a chance the Home Office would notice. There’s a lot of leeway given between the sister agencies and Q hadn’t bothered concealing his tracks beyond what he can normally do with the reduced capacity of his phone, but there are unspoken rules about this; he can use their resources, but MI5 would note it down if they became aware of it, and one day, they would come to collect.
It is weeks after the fact, however, and Q’s transgression doesn’t give C much leverage – it isn’t considered severe in their line of work – which means that her request is through official channels.
“I wasn’t trying to hide.”
“I know, if only because I know what you’re like. If you did, my team would be hard pressed to even notice.” She reaches for her handbag and pulls out a folder, discreetly slipping the memory card into his hand when she passes the papers over. “Hence the nature of my request. The man in question is a hacker.”
“Whatever happened to your communications officer?”
“He’s supervising an operation that requires his full attention. Jacobs also slipped past immigration and is now physically outside the United Kingdom’s borders, which puts him rather nicely in your playing sphere.”
Q looks curiously through the folder; there’s a surprisingly concise profile of the man – known aliases, Jacobs being the most frequently used one, physical movements, even a somewhat blurry photograph, seemingly pulled off a security feed.
“You seem to have a lot more information on him as a person than on his work as a hacker,” Q comments, although there are probably examples of Jacobs’ coding on the memory card.
“He specializes in close-proximity hacking, mostly by monitoring radio signals. He’s been snooping in quite a few areas. I’m surprised he hasn’t gone after Q-net.”
Q’s hands go momentarily still on the papers. “Has he made off with sensitive information?”
“Nothing that we are not already in the process of mitigating.” C’s voice contains just the faintest hint of irritation, and it’s that tone, more than anything else, that settles Q right down, assures him that the situation is under control.
“I see.” He closes the folder and folds his hands neatly atop them. “And?”
“I would like you to handle this one personally.”
Q meets her eyes. It’s an interesting request – there’s some amount of mission shuffling between their agencies, and even some research sharing between Q Branch and C’s corresponding research group in MI5 – and Q normally delegates the jobs on his side to the appropriate Q Branch sections. His communication team would enjoy this challenge, and as C herself said, sometimes a team can work better than one individual on a mission like this.
Still, he is the Secret Service’s resident cybersecurity expert, and it’s hardly a hardship to run this operation. It doesn’t cost him anything to agree, and it will cross his debt off C’s list; Q doesn’t like owing anyone outside of MI6 favours, no matter how inconsequential they may appear. “That’s fine.”
C smiles, and just like that the formality of the situation falls away, the official negotiations done with, the conversation now open to any and all machinations.
“You should go on field trips more often,” she says, “if it makes you this agreeable.”
She’s fishing and not making any effort to hide it; Q shakes his head and gives her an enigmatic smile of his own. “Perhaps. Have you gone on any interesting trips of you own, then?”
“Do you expect me to believe that you don’t already know?”
It’s difficult deciphering the shade of her unwavering smile, the slight lilt in her voice, and so Q opts for the truth.
“Forgive me for saying so, but tracking MI5’s movements is rather low on my list of priorities when compared to the many existing organizations and persons of interest who pose threats to our nation. And I know better than to cross your boundaries without an ironclad reason.”
There is steel in C’s gaze, very well hidden, and although they are counterparts Q never forgets that she has a good two decades over him, in both knowledge and experience. But then her smile fades and she casts a look in his direction, piercing and honest; it’s a glimpse of C in underneath her own facades. “Likewise.”
Q watches her for a long moment, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the folder, but she simply returns his gaze calmly, and after a moment Q turns to study the artwork in front of him.
“What exactly do you want with Jacobs?” he asks instead, because C’s made some pretty outlandish requests before, and it’s always best not to assume that he knows what she wants.
“He didn’t crack through much of our security, but it would be nice to know his whereabouts, and even nicer to have him in custody.” She shakes her head. “Before other nationals get to him, at any rate.”
“Are you trying to recruit him?” Q asks wryly. “Because I can see why you would want me of all people to vet him first, if that’s the case.”
C pauses for a very brief moment, and then she tips her head to the side, almost in amusement. “Find him first. Then we’ll see.”
Q tucks the folder away in his messenger bag and then stands, extending his hand automatically to help C to her feet. She takes his arm with a firm grip, because although she hardly needs the help Q knows she’s still charmed by it.
“I’ll assess Jacobs’ file and give you an appraisal by the end of the week,” Q says. “Depending on how much attention he’s garnered, a slower, more systematic approach might work in our favour.”
C nods. “You are welcome to London’s surveillance systems. Well,” she says with a smile, “perhaps welcome is too strong a word. I can’t stop you from accessing them, but please do refrain from tampering with the city’s network in the future. The traffic system is set up the way it is for a multitude of reasons.”
Q dips his head briefly, acknowledging the request without ceding ground. “Have a good afternoon, Commissary.”
C’s voice is a murmur in his ears as he turns away, quiet and inexorable as a flowing river. “Happy hunting, Quartermaster.”
---
Q sets a number of his programs running on Jacobs’ file, collating any and all information based on the details MI5 had already gleaned and from the identifiers in the sample of the man’s coding. He sets another system running a day later, sifting through the data and eliminating the more inane and irrelevant information. The joy and beauty of a program, Q knows, is that all the hard work goes in the planning and creation of it, in the writing of the physical code; once the software is up and functioning, execution is only a matter of setting parameters and clicking go.
Of course, there’s only so much a program can do – Q will need to slog through what’s been filtered himself before planning his next move and schedules an entire day to do as such. In the meantime, he devotes his attention to putting out all sorts of metaphorical fires at Q Branch in a futile attempt to circumvent any potential problems coming up when he needs most to concentrate.
The nature of their line of work is that Tanner appears at the main observation lab just as Q is preparing to hand over duties to Riley, so he can take himself off the Q Branch roster.
“Nothing official,” Tanner says when both Q and Riley turn immediately to him, fully expecting an emergency that Q Branch needs to call in on; otherwise, the Chief of Staff prefers to visit during off-peak hours when the labs are emptier. “Heading to your office, Q? I’ll wait for you.”
Riley gives Tanner an appraising look before turning away, executing the transfer with quick efficient movements before detaching Q’s core tablet, the one he keeps just for periodic Q Branch updates when he’s at headquarters but not actively on duty and yet can’t help but keep an eye on his division anyway.
“You’re off duty tomorrow, sir,” Riley says as he hands over the tablet. “Do try not to hole yourself up in your office for longer than eight hours at a time.” And then to Tanner, in a tone that is much more a command then request, “He has already worked half a shift. Make sure he eats something.”
“Thank you, Riley. I leave Q Branch in your capable hands,” Q says in his driest voice and joins Tanner, the lab doors sliding shut behind them as they step into the corridor.
“Another side project?” Tanner asks.
“An official one.”
Tanner slants him a look. He’s the one who conveys official in-house assignments, but he’s well aware of the links between the Home Office and the Secret Service, tenuous in some divisions and much more formally laid out in others; Q Branch is one of the latter.
“I see. Sounds hefty if Riley has to warn you not to lock yourself in your office for hours at a time.”
“That’s yet to be determined.” And Q hopes to find out figure that out over the next few days. “You were looking for me?”
Tanner nods. "I need to know what equipment you sent 007 out with that we could track him by."
"Standard issue earpiece, communicator, mobile phone," Q says. "No specialized equipment, although I did upgrade some of the Double-Os’s gear recently. Our handlers shouldn’t have a problem; 0010 has called back a few times on a prior assignment. Is 007 refusing to respond again?"
"You aren't keeping tabs on him yourself?"
"Not beyond Q Branch's usual measures for Double-O agents, no." Q stops, his tablet warm in his hands. They’re in one of the lesser used corridors that will take them out from Q Branch into general headquarter spaces, and a crowd is no place to discuss Double-O matters, open secret though the agents themselves are. "I have a whole department to run, and he can take care of himself. What happened?"
Tanner stops as well, turning to face Q. “A good question. We can’t find him, and we certainly haven’t heard from him. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s supposed to be in Moscow tonight and we don’t think he is.”
Q has learned to set aside his worry over the Double-Os – otherwise his blood pressure wouldn’t be able to handle the constant stress – but he can’t help the flicker of concern that flares to life at Tanner’s words. “Do you want me to find him?”
"I already have agents tracing him from his last known contact point. I wanted to know if you could have sped it up, but no matter. We'll handle this on our own.”
Q taps his fingers idly on the tablet. It’s not that Q doesn’t trust Tanner’s staff, it’s just that he can do it so much quicker—
“Oh no,” Tanner cuts in smoothly. “I won’t have 007 haunting my office complaining about unnecessary interference when he gets back. And if I know anything about the Home Office and the requests they are forced to pass over to us, it’s that you can do without distractions at this point.”
There’s a steadiness in Tanner that makes him such a good Chief of Staff; Q studies him for a long moment, and Tanner just stares calmly back.
“All right,” Q says, and glances around to take in his surroundings. There’s a set of stairs a few paces down, secured to only unlock during emergencies, that would take Q closer to his office. He steps forward to key in his override code, only for Tanner to step neatly in his path.
“Cafeteria,” he says mildly, and smiles at Q’s exasperated huff. “Consider it a favour, to save me from Riley’s censure.”
“I’m sure you’re very busy,” Q says, “trying to track down a wayward Double-O and all.”
Tanner tips him a nod, and turns to take his own route back to his office. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Q watches him walk away. “I would appreciate that,” he says, and doesn’t doubt that Tanner hears him.
---
Q does end up making a detour to the cafeteria because he’s a workaholic but an efficient one, and it only makes sense to be well-fed and hydrated before he throws himself into hours of work. Jacobs is a hacker, with the tricks of the trade up his sleeve, and Q knows he’ll need to pick through the data with a fine comb and an eye for the obscured; his programs can only do so much.
He considers, for a very brief moment, on setting his home systems on a hunt for Bond – he has done it before, and he can do it again – but no. There is no real indication that Bond is in trouble he can’t get himself out of, and Tanner has made it clear he doesn’t require assistance at this time.
Still. Distractions.
The message itself is blank, but the coding behind it takes a few minutes. Q hadn’t planned this in mind when he upgraded the Double-O equipment set, but it’s easy enough to tweak it so the message goes out discreetly, no distracting alerts, packaged so tightly and bounced through so many servers that it will leave only the faintest of traces.
Just a quiet inquiry, the technological equivalent of a questioning glance, enough to let Q put the entire matter aside and focus on the multitude of data in front of him.
His phone sits quiet throughout the entire night.