heroichearts | (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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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."

His mind is quiet, content, and there's a little flutter of attraction, but it's nothing that both of them can't ignore. "I suspect that it's more of an issue if the agent in question is bonded to someone not in this business."

"If you want, I will offer it, I've broken off a sync before and if you need it, I can do it again." It's not easy, and he'd need to take time away from Six, but he'll make the offer.

"No." And that's the end of that. There will be no breaking this off, and the force of how much he means it reverberates between them.

It's very rarely calm in his head, and Q doesn't need to be subjected to that. But they can take care of themselves through this. He looks up at last.

"Alright." Q wants to keep this connection between them. It feels right, but he also knows that's the general nature of such things.

"I didn't want to lose you, either. It just, I like knowing that you're alive."

"I generally like that, too," he snarks. "And I like knowing you're not getting thumped by a prick who should know better. Do you want--" hands and balm and smoothing over skin and gentle care "--any help with all your aches yet this morning?"

Yes, he does want and it's obvious to Bond, but it doesn't show on his face. "Aren't we trying to stay at least vaguely professional? I, ah, I wouldn't ask that of anyone I work with."

Then again, he's not asking; Bond is offering.

"Are we? We aren't exactly on the clock right now. What were you going to do, twist yourself about to rub at all your bruises?" They're already close, aren't they? Bonded in some fashion; that means something.

Unless they deliberately decide it doesn't. Always an option.

"I've overstepped," he surmises, pulling his hand away.

"No, no, you haven't. I've gotten into the habit of trying to keep myself closed off." He doesn't want to drag Bond into something he doesn't want. Q shakes his head, as if he ever could do that.

"I've some arnica-based slime that ought to do the trick."