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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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?"

"The point of being erased means that no one knows what I got up to." Q doesn't look sheepish in the slightest. He knows what he did and he's made amends.

"I used to be more involved in some, ah, creative computer work."

"Skills like yours, I'd rather hope so." Fair enough, but still. Not the point, either way. "Maybe you'll let the details slip to me someday."

"One day, I'll tell you. Not today; I'm already miserable enough as it is." He shrugs, unashamed of his need for secrecy.

"Mostly, the only thing that will come through, that will force its way through, is a life or death situation. The stronger, the more powerful the feeling, the more likely the other person can hear it." Unless he goes looking, he doesn't hear Bond's day to day life. "And even then, it's rarely clear or precise."

"I can tell you I very clearly heard you yelling shit over and over. So at least anything in the future will likely be just as clear in some fashion if it's strong enough. You better not get up to any trouble, though. Bad enough you've got to spend your time worrying about me."

"I'm paid to worry about you." Should anything happen to Q again, he'd know that Bond can hear him and offer more helpful advice. Isn't that a fair compromise?

"Do you want to try to control it this time? I can think loudly and you can block it or not?"

"I suppose we could try that out. Although, it could be that I want to hear you."

"Could be," he says with a small smile. "Try to hear it first? And then block it out."

Q sits up a a little straighter and then there's a rather off-key mental rendition of a Beatles song. Should Bond look harder, there will be a mental image of Q sitting on a rock, looking out at a tall, pine forest in some land that is clearly not Britain.

It's just fascinating, really. Would be a bit rubbish on missions if they just had stream of consciousness at all times, but something focused and deliberate could-- "You can't carry a tune in a bucket, can you?"

"Never could. Doesn't stop me from singing." In either space, in person, in his mind, or wherever that memory was set.

"I'm going to, hmm, be a bit louder now. Try to ignore me?" The image becomes clearer, sharper, there's the scent of dry soil and pine sap in the air. A buzz of flies or biting insects.

He doesn't, not at first. Mostly because for a moment, it seems terribly real. And because it's Q. And he wants...to follow it, like he can insert himself into this memory-fantasy.

But that's not what he's here to do. Bond blinks, tunes it out. Like on a mission. You learn to tune out people, background noise, conversations, to focus on something else, important details, things that--aren't this. It's not slamming it all shut, a vicious pushback, just an ebbing away. He focuses on Q's hands, as an anchor point in reality.

"I knew you'd be good at this." Q reaches out to take Bond's hand in his own. It's not that difficult, but it does require practice.

"It took me ages to get any measure of control, but I've never been very good at partitioning myself into different bits."

He stares at their hands. He shouldn't focus too hard. His fingers curl a little in Q's. Brushes a thumb up and down. "Part of the job, in a way. You'd think there wouldn't be such a stigma against this for agents if they could all just do their jobs."