Chapter Text
Ever since he was a child, Q has had a hard time letting go of things that were dear to him.
His beloved plush bear, for instance, underwent so many mending sessions that Q’s sister dubbed it “Frankie”, after Frankenstein’s monster—as Q would understand much, much later in life. His favourite toy truck missed all its wheels and was moved into the category of boats right until the moment his father bought him another one, nearly identical, but not quite. With his sister's help, Q removed the wheels and axles from the new thing and attached them to the old one, restoring it to its former shabby glory.
He loathed the moment his sister left home for the boarding school and intensely disliked it when Mrs. Jaitley, his nanny, said he didn’t need her anymore and she ought to go and help other children.
Later, it transformed into a passion for mending things, whatever they were – the sorrow of his classmate over bad grades or mocking of the older bullies, the heavy bitterness between his parents after a fight, or an old waffle-maker.
Some things, though, were damaged irrevocably; he accepted the reality of it from a tender age, resigned to it. He found solace in the fact that, in most cases, it was still possible to make a matter better. Over time, he came to the understanding that often, the latter felt more rewarding; that imperfections held great fortitude beneath themselves; that the world was just a permutation of faults, no less beautiful from it.
In many ways, it was the reason why he’d chosen such a peculiar vocation. He’s never been the one to romanticise the idea of espionage, never been a keen reader of spy novels and such – it was his sister who imbibed Conan Doyle, Christie, and le Carré like how a bee drinks nectar or - more aptly - the drunk soaks up his first drink. He’d never been particularly pleased with the country’s government and despised the elitist approach politics took. Therefore, he made a point in being emphatically apolitical.
While offering him a job, just as he’d graduated, Defence Intelligence lured him in with their " Quaesitum est scire" - and he knew, without resorting to unneeded humility, that it was in his power to make it better. That he could make a difference.
Since then, life, being a relentless teacher, has taught him lessons. He learned that humility was very much needed to avoid a grave mistake that was a consequence of one’s hubris. That war was indeed omnipotent and, as such, never-ending. That information held more power in the world than anything else.
That one needed people at his side, and while all in him twisted in a panicked tumult from the comprehension of just how reckless the concept of trust was, he’d get nowhere without it. That losses didn’t get any easier as the quantity increased. That blood was always vivid red in the dreams, even if initially he saw it through a grainy and dark video feed. That he had to eat at least once a day or he’d faint in the middle of something very important. That to conceal an attraction beneath brusqueness and cattiness was to reveal it in the most flagrant way possible.
That he couldn’t allow himself to have favourites – and that he was bound to have them no matter what.
That despite the resurrections, the weight of mourning had always prevailed.
***
The first thing Q does as he steps off the plane and returns home is creating a search across the databases of all Japanese hospitals for entries that include an unidentified Caucasian male with specific injuries and setting up an alert for matches.
Then he downs two measures of whiskey, chasing it with a pair of sleeping pills and a glass of water (he’s a sensible man, after all), and is out cold for the next twelve hours. When he stirs awake, groggy and confused, he’s greeted by two alerts.
They employ an interpreter – almost kidnap the poor guy from the Japanese embassy, that it—and Eve calls in to investigate. The first match isn’t Bond. The second brings nothing but more disappointment.
So Q writes the report. Q ties all the loose ends, a usual gloomy dance around bureaucracy, some things left out, some things described with painstaking exactness.
The threat has been assessed and categorized as completely eliminated. Based on empirical evidence regarding explosions of commensurate magnitude, the probability of survival is deemed inconsequential. 007 KIA. Mission status: complete.
They drink to Bond at Mallory’s office and then down in Q-Branch. They drink later in their pub. Q drinks alone in his flat from that bottle of ridiculously expensive whiskey he kept for Bond. It tastes like soil and smoke. The thought about Bond’s remains, not in the soil but somewhere in the ocean, comes unbidden and makes him finally break down.
It takes the whole week and an official recognition of his death. Another alert pings on his laptop, forcing Q to avert his eyes from the telly. Eve and him are having a Bake-Off marathon, but by now, both are half-asleep, huddled together in a fluffy blanket.
Q peers at the monitor and gasps, disturbing Eve from her slumber.
“Alert. Tokyo,” Q frowns, dithering. It’s the long way from the coast, and he has a precious little desire to disrupt a mellow evening they’ve been having so far.
“D’you want me to call the guy?”
“It’s probably nothing,” he tries to brush it off, but Eve doesn’t allow him the luxury.
“You still have this alert set up, Teddy,” she notes matter-of-factly, aware that Q is usually unrepentant in his conviction. “It’s better if we’ll just get over with it.”
They have known each other for too long, Q muses. She’s like a sister to him, and he tends to believe his sister possesses the secret knowledge about what’s better for him. There was multiple evidence of this fact. So he forces himself to nod and passes her the phone, bracing for disappointment.
He gets suspicious when the account of all the marks and scars the body of John Doe possesses starts to lengthen up all the way to unreasonable.
“They have Bond, but things are not good,” Eve informs him when she’s finally stopped talking on the phone. She sounds miffed.
Q guffaws - lurid irony and the edge of hysteria.
“Were they ever good, with him?”
***
Bond is battered.
It's unclear if he'll make it. The account of injuries doesn't bode well - brain swelling, spinal damage - surgeries performed, but outcomes unclear.
He remains in Tokyo for another two weeks until doctors tentatively clear him for transfer back to the UK via a medical plane. In a stable, comatose state, his body stubbornly claws its way toward healing.
In Medical, with Q popping in to read or contemplate his life in peace, Bond's condition continues to improve. After three weeks, it's decided to attempt to rouse him from the medically induced coma. Slowly, he's weaned off ventilators and medications. Without machines and drugs, his body soldiers on - almost unbelievably, but welcome news.
The first handful of times, Bond is coming from under, but he isn’t present. Might be brain damage. Might be just specific of coming back from the dead.
The first time he's awake and lucid, Q happens to be in his ward. Q softly exhales and edges closer. Bond shakes his head wildly, attempting to speak, but fails. His panic is palpable, painful for Q to witness. Despite the urge to summon a nurse, Q persists.
"Bond. Bond! Listen to me!"
Bond wails, sending a shiver of horror through Q.
"It's deactivated. Heracles. Not a single particle left. It's safe."
Bond freezes. Shock fills his eyes. Q barely registers anything beyond this shock before Bond passes out once again.
Q knows that in the next several days, Bond wakes up several times. Q knows that it’s the same every time - he doesn’t want anybody to touch him. He does not react to assurances that it’s safe. They have to sedate him and tie his hands.
Q asks to fetch him the next time.
They do.
When they’re alone, the blue in Bond’s eyes is pure fury, and Q makes three soft steps toward the bed.
“Bond, do you understand me?”
Bond nods, then twitches his bound arm.
“Don’t do that.” Q admonished softly. “Are you afraid about contamination or don’t want to be touched?”
“First,” Bond says. More grates, really, but it’s an enormous relief for Q that there is speech. Bond hasn’t uttered a word before this very moment.
“Do you remember what I said to you the first time?”
Bond shakes his head negative.
Q repeats. Bond's eyes are full of suspicion.
“Explain,” another screech of a word.
Q does as well as he can. It’s not his specialisation. They have a guy in R&D who came up with the idea of a vaccine against Heracles based on Smart blood after he’d seen the results of Bond’s blood work. They still have to perfect it to provide protection for Miss Swann and Bond's child - but by the estimation, what was left in Bond's bloodstream by the time he came into contact with people is not enough to cause any lasting damage. They've moved deep inside New Zealand to minimize the risks as much as possible with maximum comfort.
“The fact you lost a good half of your blood was helpful, too. Bots don’t reproduce. Stellar job, you,” Q tries to joke, but it comes out flat. A deep frown disturbs his features, coming in juxtaposition with a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, Quartermaster?”
“I said it was incurable. It was stupid because, of course, it is. I just couldn’t think straight. I’m sorry.”
He isn’t sure why he parrots a useless apology – it doesn’t make him feel better. If anything, it shoves him deeper into bitter misery.
“It’s alright. Couldn’t have known. We’re here, aren’t we?”
Bond huffs. Twitches his arm again.
“I can undo it. Do you want me to?”
“Please.”
Q does so with great care. He loops his fingers around one of Bond’s wrists and coaxes the strap out of the loops. He rubs at slightly chafed skin and goes to undo the second one.
“I’d love to say it’s excessive, but you were rowdy. Here you go.”
He leaves his palm resting on James’ wrist. A moment later, James turns his hand and squeezes his fingers around Q’s pinky.
Q grins at him, but the question, or rather statement that follows, wipes an easy expression from his face.
“That’s strange. I’m pretty sure I don’t feel my legs.”
***
Bond gets better, and Bond sulks.
The infuriating part of his sulking is this – it’s not about the damage his lumbar vertebra has sustained. He seems to think it will resolve itself - go away after being ignored for a suitably long amount of time.
Q, for his trouble, knows it won’t go away, for he’s aware of full diagnosis as well as prognosis. Incomplete spinal cord injury, lumbar region, some sensory, but no motor functions below the neurologic level are preserved. The injury does not pose an immediate danger, but rehabilitation is needed to regain autonomy. As for prognosis, it’s hard to tell if Bond will ever walk again despite the injury being incomplete – he wasted too much valuable time lying in a coma, and on top of that, he’s old.
So Q is the one who is terrified for him - a burden of his complicated and uneasy affection for the man. Madeleine is in New Zealand and doesn’t plan to return – couldn't even if she'd wanted to - so Q makes himself into a self-proclaimed next of kin and chooses the facility for rehabilitation, and sees that Bond is taken there promptly after being green-lighted by Medical.
Q can’t help but notice that there is a disturbing amount of passive voice present when he’s thinking about Bond.
Without Bond’s ward to pop in at any time of day or night, Q is suddenly forlorn. He mopes around the headquarters and helps Eve with bringing a substitute M up to date. Mallory awaits the disciplinary hearing. Q is sure they’ll retire him, and so is Eve, and they are both watching their new potential boss closely. She’s alright – a transfer from GCHQ, so Q finds it much easier to communicate with her than with Mallory.
Bond puts a laptop Q had lent to him to good use. He swamps Q’s personal e-mail address with a multitude of silly texts. He basically uses it as some sort of diary. He’s whining about a strict daily schedule forced on him and all the other inhabitants of the facility, describes a view from his window and his most favourite and least favourite nurses. It’s silly but entertaining and makes Q smile without failing.
“They tell us to write it all down,” he writes, “It helps to process. I have nothing to process, though, not really, but there is an hour we must spend doing that, so I do as I told. Sort of. It is a dead boring place, Q. Did you choose it as part of some revenge plot? Still cross about that small coup in Belize? I told you I organized it accidentally.”
Q is a bit cross about it, still, however long ago it was.
In his answer, his tone is somewhat more sober than that of Bond’s, and he counters that it’s a great place. He promptly deletes the passage because it’s not exactly that. You don’t call a hospital a great place, even a very good one. You also don’t grace a rehabilitation center with adjectives like that.
He doesn’t give any judgement on the niceness of the facility. He shares with Bond that there are stables and a library on site. He could start amusing himself with those. Also, he promises to drop by in the next couple of days.
Bond writes back that he’s looking forward to it and shares that he’s got acquainted with a lady who studies colonies of snails for a living.
“She talked about snail penises the whole evening. Love darts, she called them. It’s all rather gross but strangely fascinating.”
***
Q comes to visit, as promised.
The place is beautiful - sprawling field bright from wildflowers, horizon cut in triangles by the distant hills. Q has just seen a woodpecker and a pair of deer .
Bond wheels out of the building just as Q reaches the entrance. He looks well. His hair has grown longer than Q has ever seen it, and it makes him look softer.
“Aren’t you the sight for sore eyes?” Bond all but purrs, and Q feels he goes pink.
“Shush, you. Hi.”
Q falls in pace with Bond easily.
“How’s it going?”
“Dull. Rather painful at times. Don’t you know?”
“Maybe I do. I want to hear what you think.”
“I don’t mind physio, even if it’s painful. I do mind a shrink. Group sessions! Is it really necessary?”
Q smirks. He didn’t expect less than pure indignation.
“If they think it is.”
Bond gives him a sour look. Q smiles at him, he knows, rather indulgently. He knows he’s being patronising.
“It may be for life, Bond. To a degree.”
“Nah. It’s not.” Bond pushes himself forward confidently. “Shall I show you the stables?”
It’s an apparent dismissal of the topic. Q let it drop with relief and touches Bond’s shoulder, light and brief.
“Please. I looked forward to it.”
“You’re here to look at the horses, aren’t you?”
“Not only. I brought you some contraband food.”
The horses are lovely. The stable girl smiles at Q’s cautious enthusiasm and cajoles him to feed the animals with apples and carrots. Then she opens one of the stalls and gestures for Q to step inside. He looks back at Bond without knowing why, and Bond lifts his chin in the way of encouragement. Inside the stall stands a magnificent black and white mare with a braided mane. She nudges her gigantic head into Q's chest, making him feel rather puny in comparison. He takes a cautious step back, but the next press is more insistent.
“She’s after a hug. Don’t be shy,” the stable girl giggles, sending a glance to Bond, who observes from outside the stall.
Q puts his hands on what he presumed should be the horse's cheeks and begins to scratch and rub, not unlike how he does with his cats. The horse seems to like it very much – she pushes her nose into Q’s cheek, puffs a stream of air from her big velvety nostrils, and tilts her head this way and that. Q is a bit entranced, but eventually, the guilt seeps in – he’s here to visit Bond and not to satisfy his mild fascination with horses.
Q steps out of the stall with a tinge of regret, and Bond meets him with warm amusement.
“You can proceed, you know.”
“I see you’re getting jealous.”
Behind Q, there is poorly masked cackling, but he is impressed to see that by the time he turns to offer his goodbyes, the girl has pulled a neutral face.
“Come again soon,” she answers. “I’ll let you cuddle with some of the bad boys.”
She winks at Bond before retreating deeper into the stables. Q has nothing to say, he just rolls his eyes at Bond’s shit-eating grin.
Sharing contraband pastries that Q has brought, they engage in idle chatter. Q divulges some HQ gossip and asks Bond for advice on a matter of new recruits. The double-Oh program is understaffed again. They tweak the recruiting process, but it’s challenging to find an agent with the right balance of skill, common sense, and recklessness.
Bond believes that they are too cautious in their desire to cut losses, so they start training people who will ultimately fail.
“So what, to throw them into the lion’s den before and see who’ll come out alive?”
“That’s how it worked when I started, yes. They'll die either way.”
Then, it’s time for him to head to the train station.
“There is a room you can stay in. Just like a visitor in prison.”
“Shut up,” Q huffs, “it’s appealing, but I can’t. Have to assist with a mission at the crack of dawn. Next time?”
“Okay, Quartermaster. Good luck.”
“Be good,” Q smirks and, following the impulse, bends to place a kiss on Bond’s cheek.
Then he turns on his heels and dares to look back only when at the gates. Bond’s still there, and he holds his palm up. Q waves back.
He smiles to himself the whole hour that he spends on the train back to London.
***
They continue their weird correspondence.
Q visits once, twice, three times.
The tone of Bond’s letters turns more and more sullen with every passing week.
“Can’t really escape the place, can l?” he writes once.
Here, Q understands he’s got to save the man. So the next time he can allow himself a full-day trip to the countryside, he does it with something that must cheer Bond up more than smuggled edibles.
“I brought you something besides sugary treats,” Q announces, and Bond’s intrigue is the most adorable thing. “What do you want first?”
“The thing you’re so secretive about, of course.”
“Okay. Mind if I push?” Q bites the inside of his lip. It’s a sensitive matter.
Bond gives him a small pause to worry about but nods his assent eventually.
“I encourage it. Bloody physio has me sore.”
“You just overdo it,” Q huffs, taking hold of handles and swirling Bond in the needed direction.
“You’re not the one who gets to reprimand me for that.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re dragging your feet. You’re exhausted.”
Q sniffs but takes it. He is.
They arrive at the parking lot, and Q stops beside a blue Toyota van and dandles the keys in front of Bond. Bond looks back at him.
“Hand controls. You need to learn.”
“Can you drive it?”
“Sure. I’ve driven it here, James,” Bond narrows his eyes at him. “It’s easier than the standard setup. Obviously. Doesn’t take long to figure out. Shall we?”
Q helps Bond into the driver’s seat and explains the function of each control.
“Simple enough,” Bond nods.
“Well, take me for a spin then, Mr. Bond,” Q grins.
Bond waits for Q to settle into the passenger seat and starts the car. They cruise through the countryside aimlessly. The expression on Bond's face is a mix of concentration and sheer joy, and Q congratulates himself on the excellent idea. At parting, he is the one who’s awarded a kiss on the cheek this time.
“It’s very thoughtful of you, Q. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Q smiles. “I’ll see you, James.”
***
Q makes the decision himself. He speaks with Bond’s doctors at length about it - and doesn’t at all with Bond. He’s told it’s a good time for a discharge - despite the fact Bond is atrociously stubborn about everything that concerns his mental health, he aces physio and occupational therapy. Physically, his progress is astounding, even though he pushes it too hard.
He can’t live alone just yet, but if Q can live with him for the time being and is the type of man with whom Mister Bond can have heart-to-heart, it will be more beneficial than a rehabilitation center. Q isn’t sure Bond will be eager for a candid talk about his feelings, but.
But he takes a chance.
“I can get you out,” he tells Bond the next time he visits.
Bond narrows his eyes at him.
“Are you proposing some intricate escape plan?”
“You can call it that.”
“Okay.”
“Won’t ask me what the plan is?”
“Does it include a hospital?”
“No.”
“Then I’m in your hands.”
“You have to live with me.”
“We did that already. You’re alright. There are stairs in your house, though.”
“Not that place.”
“Okay. Can I drive?”
“Sure,” Q smiles at the smidge of eagerness in Bond’s voice that he can’t quite conceal with his sure-ass nonchalance. “You need to slow down a bit, though. I didn’t know you’d be so fast to agree, and you need to be discharged properly.”
“Poked and prodded again?”
“And be transferred to physio close to the new place. I'll pick you up in four days.”
“If there is no crisis?”
“Right. Let’s hope terrorists will fuck off for now.”
***
There was ruthless animosity between them in the past. Younger Bond was cold and scathing. Younger Q had too much of an unbridled arrogance he then considered the right provided by his achievements. Bond bared his fangs to that sort of behaviour - and Q wasn’t about to tolerate such handling - so biting arguments over even the most trivial matters were plentiful.
Reflecting on those times, Q is a bit ashamed to remember how he half-hated Bond mooning over him simultaneously.
It happened like this.
Q wasn’t particularly good at understanding authority or the constraints of the chain of command. Three years into his first job, he’d almost got sacked- would have been if not for Olivia Mansfield. Having an earned reputation as an all-seeing eye, able to reach out for any information needed, Q was discreetly lent to MI-6 on several occasions, and he was on such gig when the push finally came to shove. Olivia took him in under the condition he’d try to rein in his rebellious tendencies. She kindly said that he was a very valuable tool to the country, even when he performed his teenage temper tantrums. Q was a bit ashamed and very indignant. He was no teenager but a mature 24-year-old man.
But he really tried when she was alive. He admired her very much, not just because she’d saved his ass.
But then, she wasn’t alive anymore.
So in the lull between two fuck ups - Skyfall and Spectre - jumping over the chain of command suddenly served as common ground between him and Bond.
In one memorable month, they received a series of joint dressing-downs from M – eight or maybe even ten, smirking at each other like naughty children. The connection was forged.
Q almost got sacked from his second job. Would have been, if not for Bond sticking up for him. Yet, he had his penance - it was then he was relieved of his duties as head of R&D - his expertise was crucial in Intelligence and Mission Control, after all, not in gadgetry. Mallory appointed a more compliant specimen to rule R&D – not somebody Q personally would have picked. Q is sure it’s part of the reason Heracles happened at all.
But between the whole R&D and a friend, he’d rather have a friend.
Even after Bond had left, they maintained somewhat regular contact. Q knew Bond separated from Madeleine and holed up in Jamaica. Q even visited once for a proper vacation. Bond was freckled and content and took to retirement far better than Q thought he would. Q was sunburned and rested and happy, truly savouring this little respite. It was like he’d sailed into the eye of the storm.
Q didn’t want him to be back. He had a bad feeling about all that was about to unfold, sitting heavy and morbid in the pit of his stomach. He hoped it was just an excessive anxiety – he was careful not to form overly close rapport with anyone from the active roster for a reason. But when the storm broke, his hopes were swept away by a torrent of chaos. And so was Bond.
He never hated being right about something more than this time.
***
He just loves broken things, he allows, and it’s enough of a reason and motivation.
He brings Bond to his childhood home, which is fully equipped for living with limited mobility. It’s on the ground level, with a garden that looks equal parts abandoned and cozy. Inside the living room, bookshelves are crammed with books, magazines, and DVDs, and cheery hand-knotted rugs adorn the walls.
Q shows Bond to his bedroom, wheels his suitcase in, and heaves it up onto an ottoman at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t ask if Bond needs further help with unpacking—he should be able to tackle the task by himself, provided that all storage in the room is adjusted to be accessible for a person in a wheelchair.
He gestured toward the second door, beyond which is the bathroom.
“I stocked the cupboards for now, but you’ll need to keep an eye on supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“Catheters, Bond,” Q clarifies gently.
“Ah,” Bond looks momentarily uncomfortable. “Sure.”
Q smiles at him easily. He thinks there is no reason to feel awkward over something so prosaic, but he understands it will take some time before Bond can agree.
“I still need to dust off surfaces,” Q informs before leaving Bond to settle.
Later, Bond investigates room after room, not unlike a particularly inquisitive cat. He takes a moment to peer into the kitchen without crossing the doorway, crosses the living room leisurely to the two other bedrooms, stops to peruse bookshelves, and continues after a few minutes. Q’s bedroom is open, and he waves his hand when Bond sends him an inquiring glance, allowing him to enter. He permits him to enter the other one, too, amused by the way Bond looks more and more intrigued with every passing minute. Bond slides the door leading to the garden open and gets outside with a contented sign. Q is behind him by the time, with two steaming cups of tea in his hands. They settle at a wrought-iron garden table beneath a tidy willow tree – the only thing that is tidy in this garden.
“Shoot,” Q prompts after a few bits of pregnant silence.
“What is this place, Q?”
“This is where I grew up. My parent’s flat.”
“Do you have a sister?”
“Hmm, “Q nods and sips his tea. The second bedroom is hers, and he supposes it is feminine enough next to his, though by all means not overly so.
“Why it’s like this?”
“How? “
“Accessible, Q. Like a bloody rehab.”
Q is almost offended.
“I do hope it’s more cozy. My mum had an injury similar to yours. A bit higher up, but she’s paraplegic, too.”
Bond's brows creep up.
“Now, it all makes much more sense. Why haven't I thought about that?" he muses out loud. "So she’s alive?”
“I’m lucky that they both are, mum and dad. They moved to the countryside years ago. The flat is for them to stay in when hospital stuff needs to be done or my sister visits but has no time to go all the way south. It's a five-hour ride.”
“And the car?”
“Back-up.”
“It’s… very kind of you.”
Q smiles. They drink tea. The garden is overgrown with greenery - ivy creeps up the fence, dandelions and daffodils take over the lawn, and junipers, once cute and round, look like sleeping wood goblins. Q smiles to himself. He’ll have to tend to all of it.
“What happened? With your mother?”
“What usually happens,” Q shrugs. “Skiing incident.”
“When?”
“Many years ago. My sister was two. I didn’t exist even as a project.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Father was against it, but she’s a headstrong woman. So I was born three years post-injury.”
“Fascinating.”
Q hopes it cheers Bond up somehow—that all is possible, and the injury and limitations don’t make a drastic difference. You still can’t do what you want, provided you have enough resources, as well as a good portion of stubbornness and determination.
And Bond, Q knows, possesses both in abundance.