Chapter Text
The strap of his laptop bag digs into his shoulder. Q quickens his pace, bypassing slow-walkers with a brisk pace that he hopes doesn’t display the full range of his annoyance. Can’t people see the way the grey clouds covering the sky hang so low over the city’s higher buildings? Rain’s coming, and Q forgot his umbrella at James’ flat. His computer could do without a soak, especially if it is avoidable; he estimates a kilometer of walking before reaching his flat, and at least twenty minutes before the rain starts in earnest. He can make it.
The fact that Tanner has threatened to forcibly remove him from his office if he didn’t leave to get some sleep only serves to increase his urgency to reach his flat. Q doesn’t much care for Tanner, obviously; he could make the man regret his entire existence with a simple click of his finger on a keyboard. However, he does care for 007, who has been on a mission for over two weeks now and is a hair’s breadth away from closing in on his target, and who needs Q’s expert monitoring to finish the assignment properly.
Q knows his colleagues underestimate him. They think he can’t perform past 45 hours awake, or that he can’t go on if he hasn’t eaten lunch earlier in the day. They think he needs breaks, and snacks, and coddling. He’s used to the teasing; teasing about his age, about his ‘abysmal’ ( not his words ) self-preservation habits, about his unremarkable and unassuming appearance, even about his arrogant wit. His work obsession, his single minded drive to ‘prove himself’ ( again, not his words ).
He doesn’t mind it. As he told James once, what feels like a lifetime ago, Q could do more damage with his computer in his pajamas before breakfast than any MI6 agent could hope to do in a year. Everyone else knows it too, despite the ribbing and the annoying insistence to grab some sleep before you fall over.
What Q can’t take is the teasing about being the weak link . It is never worded as such, of course, and the badgering is, overall, well-meaning and thoughtless. But Q knows.
He knows he’s not the strongest. He knows he’s not the fastest. He knows that, apart from his mind, he doesn’t have any skills in the field—which is why he is not a field agent. But sometimes the situation calls for him to wander out of Q-Branch, and then being MI6’s youngest quartermaster isn’t an achievement anymore, but a liability. He’s skinny, and untrained, and dependent on his glasses. He’s not fearless, or bold, or dangerous.
And someone—Tanner, James, Alec, even Eve—always eventually voices some sort of joke: Q needs protection; Q needs to be rolled in bubble-wrap and confined to his computer chair; Q needs a bodyguard; Q needs a reminder of his job description; Q needs someone to tell him a soaking-wet hundred and thirty pounds will not be enough to knock over even a five-foot-five enemy; Q needs to stick to what he knows best; Q needs to invest in fucking contact lenses.
He has heard it all, all his life. He knows he’s not made for the field, knows what happens when one is the smallest, the scrawniest, the dorkiest. Any of those superlatives turn anyone who is unlucky enough to fit them into a target.
Q never says anything, but those jokes land over him like rotten fruits, their bitter aftertaste sticking at the back of his throat. Even though the physical aspect of the field isn’t his strong suit — and will never be — he doesn’t want to be catered to, protected, infantilized, or considered like a burden. The mere thought of it both humiliates and sickens him. He’d never forgive himself if James or Alec got themselves hurt because Q distracted them with his uselessness.
Q, without pretentiousness, is fully aware of his mind’s and his hands’ worth. He can think of anything, and he can then make anything. There are no systems, no firewalls, no defenses that can keep him out. No weapons he can’t craft, no riddle he can’t solve, no code he can’t figure out. No plans he can’t make, no strategies he can’t try. He’s more than capable.
The contrast between his inadequacy and his competence annoys him. Q wishes he knew how to balance his outrageous pride in his proficiency with a computer with his crippling shame in his impotence without it.
The first raindrop hits his cheekbone. Q blinks, glaring at the sky. He still has a way to go before reaching his flat, and the small man walking his dog in front of him doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, unhelped by the insistence with which the dog plows on toward the street to reach a stray plastic cup rolling in the wind. The leash, stretched taut, blocks most of the sidewalk and prevents Q from sidestepping the duo’s aggravating leisureness. What if 007 needs his help right now?
Q bites back a sigh, clutching his laptop bag closer to his body. After a quick peek to the darkening sky, he strides to the sidewalk’s left, hoping to bypass the dog walker by quickly ducking into the small alley separating two sad-looking shop facades. He picks up the pace once he has succeeded, increasing the distance between him and the small fox terrier.
Not even a minute later, another obstacle blocks Q’s route; a large group of teenage girls, walking side by side, elbow hooked to elbow, loudly gossiping and guffawing over something or other. They take up the entirety of the sidewalk’s width, a tall brunette girl even forced to walk on the street to keep up with her friends, sidestepping sewer grates with her heels. Q spares her a second of sympathy, then repeats his previous trick, diving into some forgotten alley to come out in front of them.
A hand snatches his wrist. Q whirls around, flyaway strands of hair falling in front of his glasses. In front of him stands a narrow-faced, broad-shouldered young man with an unkempt beard and dark circles under his blue eyes. Q doesn’t have time to process the situation before he is tugged farther away from the street and the group of chuckling teenage girls. Shaking hair out of his face, he jerks his arm to free himself from the young man’s steel grip, mind running a mile a minute.
Is this one of MI6’s enemies? One of James’? Has this man been waiting for Q all day, trailing him? Does he want Q, the Quartermaster, or is he simply interested in Q for his connection to James and the other Double-Ohs? Will Q be tortured for information?
Q jerks his arm again. The fingers on his wrist tighten and twist, pinching the skin. Towards the end of the alley wait two other men, just as broad-shouldered as the one holding him. A sick swell of fear tickles the back of his throat.
Should Q cry out? Scream? But who will help him, really? The dog walker, the group of girls? He can’t take the risk to endanger them; he will not. He works for MI6, for fuck’s sake, there must be something he can do. The odds are not in his favour (three to one), but when are they ever, really? Q has helped James out of worse situations countless times.
As of right now, the man holding Q’s wrist is the only obstacle blocking his path to the alley’s mouth toward the busy street. His would-be assailants must not be very bright; there’s no one at his back to stop him should he make a break for it.
Which he will, once he has figured out how to free himself. Perhaps if he shrugs out of his coat quickly enough? Or if he creates a distraction of some sort? Maybe the effect of surprise will be enough if he quicks the young man in the groin? Would that be too much of a coward’s move? Q figures James and the other Double-Ohs would think so.
But Q isn’t a Double-Oh, can’t pretend he knows how to use the same techniques and maneuvers as a trained spy. He needs to focus on making the best of what he can do.
Q lets himself grow limp in the man’s hold, keeping an eye on him and his acolytes and angling his body away so his computer bag is mostly out of harm’s way. Carefully, he sneaks his free hand into his coat pocket. Inside it lies bits and pieces of gadgetry, discarded bolts and frayed wires and broken circuit boards. Q throws a handful in the man’s face.
The stranger shouts, splutters and steps back. Q wrenches himself free. Runs.
His wrist is caught again. This time, a fist crashes against his cheekbone, and he ends up in a sprawl on the ground. His heart drums so loudly in his ears that it takes him a second to understand that the young man is talking to him, flanked by his two friends.
“Fuck right off, mate,” a glob of spit lands on the ground right next to Q, “Why you makin’ this so difficult?”
Q pushes his computer bag behind him. Drags himself to his feet slowly, using the rough brick wall as a crutch. His cheek throbs and his glasses stand askew. Drawing himself to his full height despite the untameable panic rising within him, he asks, in a voice so steady and unruffled that even James would be proud, “What do you want?”
“Give us your wallet,” the man says.
“And that computer of yours,” his red-haired friend adds.
“And your cellphone too, mate,” the last idiot continues, “If you’ve got one.”
Q stares. There is no way this is real.
“Are you serious?” The question slips out of Q’s mouth before he can stop it, the anxious storm of contingency plans and MI6 policies in his head grinding to a screeching halt. He can’t believe what’s happening.
“Yeah, we’re fucking serious.” Viciousness contorts the first man’s narrow features. Q’s fingers work behind him, slowly unzipping his computer bag. “Do we look like we’re joking to ya, hmm, do we? You think you can mess with us, innit, but things don’t look too good for ya, do they? And cause we’re as serious as any other fucker, we won’t ask a second time.”
Q got himself tangled in a common, everyday, boring, completely incidental mugging.
The fucking laugh Alec and James will have at him.
“I’m not giving you anything,” Q says, no longer as afraid as he ought to be, because the situation has reached a whole new level of ridiculousness. Here he was a second ago, preparing himself to a kidnapping, bracing his body and mind to withstand torture, considering ways to kill himself before spilling information. Now, those three morons in front of him don’t appear nearly as intimidating as they did when he believed they were not teenage thieves, but hardened agents out to break him three thousand different ways.
And never let it be said that Q’s scandalous arrogance will not cause his eventual downfall.
The three young men converge on him at once. Q ducks, pulls his laptop out of the bag, and slams it over the red-haired fellow with all his might. A shout, a fist, a burst of pain and adrenaline. Q tries to hit the narrow-faced thug with the laptop next, but quickly changes course, smacking it on the brick wall next to him with enough force to momentarily destabilize the three thieves. He whacks the laptop again and again, the four of them helplessly watching it break.
The downpour begins at last. Someone bashes Q’s head into the brick wall just like he did a second ago with his computer. Q collapses, the world pitch-black for a blissful second before colors and sounds rush back in so fiercely he thinks the swirling intensity might kill him. Dirty shoes and boots crash against his ribs, his back.
Hands reach for his wallet. Fumble for his phone, abandon when they don’t find it. Discard the broken laptop after a second of consideration. Leave.
Q doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. They could’ve taken the hard drive, which might or might not be destroyed, but they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they? Groaning, he uncurls his battered body from its scrunched ball of protection, blindly reaching for the laptop’s splinters. Something wet trickles down the side of his face. It’s raining more heavily than he’d thought.
It takes him a minute to find his lighter. Q flicks it on, feels the flame on his fingers, and presses it under the mess of plastic, glass, polycarbonate and wires where he knows, blind or not, beaten or not, where he knows for certain the hard drive is. Despite the rain, the fire ignites and eats the evidence away, and Q slumps back on the dirty concrete.
Mission over, the pain catches up with him, his vision dimming. He wants to sleep so badly that he considers giving up and sinking into the grey haze swallowing more and more of the world around him. But they took his wallet.
They have his IDs.
Fake ones, of course. Quentin Dawson, thirty-four years old, freelance worker. Insured. Proud owner of a driver’s license since two years ago.
They have his IDs.
And it doesn’t matter that the cards are fake. Doesn’t matter that Quentin’s not really him. It’s enough to be considered a security risk. Enough to have M devising ways to pull the plug. Enough to put MI6 in danger. Enough to put James in danger.
From the moment someone has Q’s driver license in hand, someone might want to take a longer look at it. Notice that there’s just this little oddity, this tiny detail that doesn’t fit. Research Mr. Dawson. Find out he doesn’t exist prior to four years ago. Investigate. Discover nothing, admittedly, because MI6 has become good at covering their tracks ever since he has gotten there, but still. Curiosity piqued, something fishy uncovered, left open, only waiting for someone to dig some more. Too late.
Q moans. He needs to fix this, and fast.
Gritting his teeth, he drags himself to his elbows. Gasps and pants through the agony, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. Crawls over the concrete, lugging his uncooperative body further inch by inch like an earthworm on the sun-baked sidewalk. His arms give out. His head slams back down on the ground.
The last thought that makes it to his attention spears through him like a knife.
I can never let James know about this, ever.
The shame follows him even into unconsciousness.