heroichearts | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Q found himself on 004's bad side (worse side, worst side?), it had been like a lightning bolt of fear through him, a sudden knowledge that Q was in danger, like they were in the same room and could hear his frantic cursing. Bond hadn't given it a second thought, hauling himself down to QBranch, pulling the wayward 00 from his victim, and putting up a resoundingly one-sided fight (given the tactical stabbings 4 had already received).

Hadn't given it a second thought, but in the hours since, he's given it plenty of thought. And plenty of thinking that he's not going to bring this up. It's not allowed, if it's what he presumes this is, not for people like him, like the both of them.

He gives voice to none of it, later, when he's out and about with only a few scuffs and bruises to his name. Could call Q, he supposes. Text him. But he finds that he doesn't need to, and if he was still in doubt as to what this is, he isn't any longer. Tracks him down, not by any of his usual means, but simply knowing where he is, down some side street alley, practically a hole in the wall of a cafe he doesn't think he's ever heard of before.

He knows Q's here.

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Oh, and he's amused. Don't need a connection for that given the playful smirk on his face. This might be bad for his ego, in that it might make it grow exponentially.

"You were fine. Quite cuddly. Apparently I make a fine body pillow."

"Good, good, glad I didn't say too much about the secret QBetting pools. Which you may or may not be allowed to enter in on, if you provide suitable food for the ravening horde."

Of all the things he could've spoken too much about, the staff betting pool is probably the least dangerous. They never bet on anything of real, substantive value: no bets on the outcome of missions, only on the return of equipment.

"And, I will have you know, that despite all appearances, I do enjoy the company of other people. Occasionally. On my own terms."

Bond tugs the band of the sweats. "I can see that."

But he furrows his brow for a moment, thinky thinking. Food. Thinking about food. Suitable food? A mountain of takeaway? Pizzas? Artisanally crafted charcuteries? "Not sure that I want to be passing myself off as one of the horde for some betting, but it's tempting."

"If something good comes up, I'll let you know." And, well, he's not going to talk about the sweatpants. Or his personal life. Unless he needs to.

He might want to, just a bit, to see Bond get riled up and possessive, but he doesn't need to. "I know I am not the easiest person to get along with, but some people manage."

"I am fully aware of the irony of that statement, given that I am sitting here just this side of black and blue."

"You should see the other guy." Granted, Bond did the black and blue part. The red was all Q and his tactical pen. "You did a good job managing on your own."

"I didn't think I'd be able to stop him, not really, just hold him off long enough that someone could help." Rationally, he'd expected the QBs to tase him, but in his heart of hearts, he suspects he might've called out.

"I suppose we can't say that you just happened to be walking down the hall and saw the problem."

"Are we talking about it?" Just so they're clear. If this is the thing that's going to happen now. "About you and about me."

"Yes, I suppose we ought to."

Q eats up one last bit of toast, and takes a drink of coffee. He'd much rather avoid or ignore it, but that's not fair to Bond. Now that he knows, it's not fair anymore.

"We're in sync. After it being only one-way, for years at this point, I didn't think you were at risk." He had been, of course. If Bond was tortured, there was the risk Q would be affected. (Had been affected? Hard to say.)

Bond leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "We'll just have to hide it from everyone and use it to our advantage otherwise." Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't say it so easily. But Q's been hiding it all along, certainly from him.

"Building and maintaining mental walls is strange, but once you've the hang of it, it's not too difficult." He looks down into his cup, and then away from Bond, towards one of the windows. "I want you to know that I kept my up, very firmly up, at any point when you weren't running for your life."

"I like to think mine are already fairly strong." He likes to think. But this is new to him. "You don't want me catching any glimpse of you you haven't voluntarily given yourself."

"They are. I don't think I'd've been able to keep this to myself for as long as I have if they weren't." Q looks to Bond and smiles. It's not his usual, sharp-toothed grin, but a softer thing. "And, save the occasional stubbed toe or splatter of solder, you'll most likely be spared any sudden discomfort."

He holds up a hand, "And before you say anything, if I have not complained about whatever you've put your body through before now, I'm not about to start."

Still, he frowns. "I'm trained to take the pain, Q. You're..."

He saw the start of a nasty scar up the leg, though. He can't honestly finish that sentence.

"It's not about complaining."

"No, it's not about complaint; it's about being able to do my job." Which he does just fine, thank you very much. Q isn't as sensitive about that as he once was, but he is a professional.

"Whether or not I can feel it, I don't enjoy listening to agents get injured. And I am aware that in many cases, I will be last kind word many will hear before they die. And die messily without any recognition for their work. None of that is new to me, Bond." He doesn't say that all the DoubleOs need to do is stay alive, and often without being able to affect the outcome, Q has to listen to them live, die, or worse.

There's a pinched look on his face. Some of it still leaks through, and it's the strangest damn thing. "You're not connected to the rest of them, though, are you. You're stuck with me, the man who can't seem to die no matter what he does."

"Thankfully, I am not." Q likes you, Bond. He is glad you're here and that you continued to not die. Not dying is key to his liking you.

Right then. Moving on and not thinking about Bond dying or about being stuck with some other agent. "Should you have any questions about what I'm feeling or if you see any of my dreams or daydreams, you can ask. I will be honest with you. I almost always am to begin with, so it shouldn't be too great a change."

"I'm not going to ask about your dreams," with a light sneer. Rubbish and nonsense, what good's that going to do? "I suppose if you see something of mine, you can ask. I don't promise answers."

Q raises an eyebrow, but doesn't respond. He'd been trying to be open, as best as he's able at any rate. While Bond has his secrets, Q believes they're mostly to do with his work and less about who he is as a person. (He is most likely wrong.)

"And, I am going to assume that you've never been in sync before? I checked your file, but we both now know that doesn't mean much."

"...You've got more experience than I do." He glances away. That's not an answer. Grits his teeth. "This is new to me. You may have to...show me some of the ropes."

"I wasn't lying when I said I thought you'd take to this well." Q stands and moves to put his dishes in the sink. It puts him closer to Bond, but he doesn't push into the other man's space.

"There are many, many metaphors for how this works. I knew a someone who used to visualize it as opening a window. That they could have it closed, open, with the curtains muffling sound or sight." As he speaks, he begins to wash his breakfast dishes. "I've always seen it as a sort of waiting room. I can see and hear them out there, but I control who comes into my office."

"I've heard of others who have walls or forts. An igloo, once."

"Easier if there's a visual to go with it?" He doesn't have...visual walls. He has his walls that he learned to put up young and rebuilt them better with time but he doesn't see them as walls. It's all just fucking figurative language.

"I learned young, so I needed it. I don't think you will." Q gestures that he's going to go sit on the sofa so they can be comfortable while talking. "The benefit of the visual is that it allows for a sort of planned permeability."

Bond follows, wary. There's the idea of this he doesn't mind, of sharing things in secret, of obtaining assistance on the down low, but then there's the idea of permeability, the things slipped and passed between that might be unbidden, no matter how hard one might try.

"I don't want you to think you're unwanted, Q. But you have to understand how the idea of someone in my head makes me," and he hates to use the word, hesitates as though something else might be better, and there isn't, "feel."

"I think I can empathize, to some degree, but I've also had more time to come to terms with it." Q settles on a cushion and tucks one leg up, giving Bond as much space as he'd like.

"I am a private person. I don't even have a legal name, not really, not any more. As part of the terms of my, ah, release? Employment? It was all erased. I believe M had a paper copy of it, but it does not exist digitally anywhere."

Now that's got Bond's eyebrows raised. "Even I've got bits of my past digitized for people with the right credentials to peruse. The hell did you get up to to be effectively erased?"