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Q was, sometimes, no more than a porcelain doll.
Not in the sense of mind or body. It was early within knowing the young genius that Bond truly realised what strength he showed in constantly proving others wrong about him- in proving wrong those who viewed him as no more than a clever little boy. Youth oddly deceiving when his smile carried the weight of a hundred field agents. Pale skin never seeming to break under Bond’s so much stronger fingers, lips never splitting when caught between the spy’s sharp teeth. They were a match who should have caused the boy to crumble.
Instead it was always Q’s surgically steady grip ready to pull Bond’s ever breaking pieces together, weight pushing down on unflinching shoulders. It was always him waking to a man more haunted by his nightmares than any ghost has ever been. When Bond reached the point he seemed ready to snap, to become the hollow shell dreams kept showing, aging hands never seeming to be cleansed of the horrific red he was slowly drowning in the Quartermaster still would not be moved.
Like with any double-oh agent it was rare for Bond to ever want to close his eyes for long, finding Q’s presence to be one of the very few things that made the concept anywhere near bearable. An anchor in the insanity his life seemed to contain- someone he wasn’t required to lie to. Yet never someone he allowed himself to open up fully to because it took no genius to see losing the Quartermaster would destroy what little good had been left inside a man trained to kill others. Torture would equivocate to nothing in comparison to having the person who had sneakily begun to fix him hurt. All first impressions ruined in favour of an extra curve of lips and the odd exploding pen.
“Y-you came.”
Not in the sense of even age is Q made of porcelain though. Bond has met a thousand men far older than the genius who could never hold a candle to him in any of those terms. When Q would smile, it was a resignation that came with age that glittered in his all too clever eyes. Eyes that were everything and nothing Bond had thought he wanted. A world he’d allowed himself to fall in love with simply because he hadn’t been strong enough to resist how delicate fingers gripped the spy’s pieces to hold him together even when the older man wanted to let himself crumble. A world in which even a double-oh agent could not allow himself to blink in fear of something coming to crush such a strong little doll.
No. Q is barely more than a child because despite all he has seen, the light in his eyes is too kind to let itself flutter out. He is too clever to not see the cruelty of those around him yet kind enough to not let it change him. Despite his workplace and despite who he shared his bed with it seemed the only blood that stained his one day broken hands was from trying to stop the bleeding of those he cared about.
Yet, like with anything and everything else, soon or later the porcelain child can only shatter.
“You ha-have some blood on you.”
“All there seems to be of you right now is blood.”
It wasn’t unusual for Bond to drink. If anything it had become his main coping mechanism over the years, mostly supported by MI6 if he kept his work standards where they were expected to be. As long as he didn’t miss vital shots and as long as he didn’t give away anything that could damage his country’s secrets everything was great. Nothing else was meant to matter to him, there were meant to be no other weaknesses or anything he should put above what his work wanted from him. Yet, despite being used to waking feeling like his head was verging on exploding the soy wasn’t used to waking up with no memory of the day before.
There was no not noticing how even trying to remember was something Bond didn’t want to do, sickness not related to the alcohol rising like a virus. And odd event even by himself because Bond had always been too masochistic to not focus on what was hurting him. He simply buried away to rot away beneath the surface, to make him a little colder and to make his eyes a little less alive. There was no need to know waking and not wanting to remember was nowhere near a good sign in regards to his last mission.
Pushing himself up from the hideous sofa he and Q had pushed into their bedroom once they’d replaced it in the living room he had to frown at the new carpet of clothing scattered across the room, the usually perfectly organised wardrobe no more than broken chunks of wood. But even then his mind narrowly avoided the thoughts such a scene may have triggered, instead having to watch the only serenity left continue steadily breathing under the usual mass of blankets. Unlike the past lost day every other memory was perfectly intact- from the warm that always seemed to linger on Q’s pale skin to the constant sound of breathing breaking the hideously heavy silence that refused to leave Bond’s confused surroundings. Any decorations and pictures that had once decorated the walls now decorated the floor next to the opposite wall. The bathroom light leaked through under the bathroom door, something Q always insisted on so that if Bond awoke in the night he could see enough to realise where he was rather than the brief moments of guarded panic his aging mind often seemed to present to him.
The silence didn’t break as barely healed hands rested on the leather, red still marking the cracks in the skin and the pitch black suit adorning him despite the lack of recollection as of putting it on. The breathing continued at the same rhythm, the small form curled under the bedsheets stirring slightly without them ever slipping from where they were tucked above his head. Perhaps the only normal sight left in the room. When rough hands moved to rub any remains of drunken sleep from his heavy eyes the wetness still seeping from them as if any barrier keeping them back had been broken. Bond could only frown as he ran his fingers over the damp areas of his skin, fully aware that the tears were his own and yet nowhere near understanding why he would be crying. His attention only briefly shifted back to suddenly still form burrowed under the covers when long pale fingers stretched on the visible pillow, the rest of the other still mostly hidden.
“You’re crying.” Q’s voice was soft and still muffled by the mountain of covers on him, light fingers tracing patterns on his pillow with barely enough pressure to allow the material to cave under them. From Bond’s angle there was no seeing the true extent of sadness that had flashed across his still painfully young face. There was also no way to see how usually bright and happy eyes were dulled down and as tired as Bond looked.
“I think… I think my last mission went wrong. I can’t remember.”
When had been the last time he had spoken? Bond had to frown at how sore his voice was, like trying to talk with gravel within his throat. The pause thinking left was only filled by unsteady breathing, neither seeming to want to break it because one more word and the illusion still dancing above them would be shattered, shards left to wound anything in their wake.
“I think I lost something important.”
Yes. Something had gone wrong, he could remember that much. He could remember the feeling of ropes upon his unmarked wrists and he could remember nothing but pure panic as red as the memories were painted. Too much red for any being too survive and yet the smell mixed with freshly cut grass to make the smell approaching summer would bring a horror to endure.
“No. You didn’t lose anything that would compromise the mission.”
“Was it important?”
“Nobody but you will shed tears over it.”
So the tears were to do with the mission. The part of him that hid the memory shivered at how close it was getting to letting what it was hiding slip, clinging onto the events with a slipping iron grip. Any chances of Bond remembering at that moment were broken by Q’s uncharacteristically soft tone.
“Come here, James. You haven’t slept in the bed for days.” James. It was rare even after they’d gotten together for Q to call Bond by his given name. It tended instead to be variations of his surname and playful mutterings of ‘007’. “The bed won’t bite you I promise.”
In an equally uncharacteristically silent manner Bond did as he was told, not making a noise as he moved to lie upon his side on the bed, facing the younger man. It was only when he traced a hand over Q’s eternally pale cheek that he did pause. “You’re as cold as ice.” Perhaps not quite ice yet Bond’s head wasn’t working enough to tell him what the feeling of such cold skin reminded him of, his own skin feeling boiling in comparison. Q only offered a small smile, as if the fact made some sort of horrible sense to him.
There was no need to break the silence as Q shifted, allowing Bond to slip an arm under him and resting his head on Bond’s shoulder, tracing words upon Bond’s side. Leaning he pressed a light kiss to the corner of Bond’s lips, too cold breath ghosting on the other’s skin.
When the silence was broken by the sound of Bond’s phone going off the genius only seemed to curl a tiny bit closer, seeing no need to move away from the other’s touch. Years of training fluttered below the surface, Bond all too aware that he should answer, he should see what was so important yet at the save time every part of his mind and body was screaming at him to not answer the phone.
“Five more minutes.”
There seemed no reason to say no, Q never having been one to ask much from him. Any guilt that dared to arise from the thought was shrugged away, no real reason found to be labelled. Why would he feel guilty for something that was naturally part of Q’s character? The two had been in their odd little relationship long enough to know how the other worked, rarely saying what other couples always found so vital. Bond was good enough with people to see when someone was honest in caring about him and Q was good enough at understanding Bond to know what his kisses often implied.
So the phone kept screaming for dear life, vibrating until falling off Q’s desk- the only area that didn’t look smashed within an inch of its life. The only area of immaculateness, even the pencils sharpened and placed in whatever order the Quartermaster had seen best despite any teasing he had gotten from the spy. The only space on it was the one usually filled by his laptop, now nothing resting on the slightly lighter shade of wood. Within the further corner of the desk was the only misplacement, the picture frame knocked over in such a manner the image within it was hidden from sight.
But there seemed to be no harm in thinking about it yet. There was no rush to move, Bond knowing he was dressed for something important and knowing he should be worrying about it. Yet there was no point, gently rubbing his Q’s arm in an attempt to warm the too cold man up.
There was no rush because one he moved there truly would be no ignoring everything he’d done so well to block.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Keep your eyes on me. You need to stay awake, okay?”
“Of… all the t-times you had to c-cancel din-dinner it had to end th-this?”
The surviving shards of the bathroom mirror were decorated with red, explaining the marks upon Bond’s hand. Not that the rest of their flat was any better, Q slipping into the kitchen after Bond with a light smile as if not seeing the mess surrounding them.
As Bond stepped over the remains of what had been the majority of their mugs he moved to simply turn the kettle on, leaving Q to simply pull up a chair from where it rested on the ground and sitting on it. His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the table, trying to get the damaged piece of furniture to balance. Looking at the other through cracked glasses he sighed, lips tainted with the smallest hint of blue mixed in their usual pink.
“Why can’t I remember the past few days?” It was only natural for him to ask, Bond’s hands preparing the mugs as he always he did. Not a habit he’d had until the last couple of months, realising that he liked the genuine little smiles Q gave him in return far more than he thought he would. Far more than he knew he should if he was trying to always keep some form of barrier between them. “I should be panicking about it and yet the only thing I can feel is the need to not remember.” Still, he did not turn to look at Q because he knew that his resolve would shatter within moments if he did so.
Silently Q’s face seemed all the sadder at the question, slipping off his glasses to clean them of the red staining between the cracks on his (James’) large shirt. When he made himself speak he sounded as lost as Bond could not help but feel. “You can’t remember because you don’t want to. Right now your mind doesn’t think it or you can cope with remembering whatever happened on your last mission. You were right- you lost something when you were on the mission. Something you won’t be able to get back.”
A pause, metal spoons letting out loud noises as they were dropped into their corresponding mugs. Knowing the correct question to get a straight answer was all the harder when he couldn’t cope with looking at his (Lover? Boyfriend? Partner?) Q’s face. “You said nobody would cry over what I lost. If that is true why does it feel like I’ve let something important go?”
The kitchen-dining room had always been one of Q’s favourite areas apart from their bedroom, something he never fully explained to Bond. Neither of them really cooked- Bond made Q breakfast once in a while when he knew the other was anything but happy and Q tended to make dinner no matter how late Bond got back if the mission had been too horrible for even the spy to shrug it off. There was never any need to ask questions because if either really wanted to share they’d find a way sooner or later. It was how they worked, bouncing off each other with stubbornness only equalled by, well, each other.
Looking over the mess it had become was almost enough to make Bond cry again, resting Q’s mug on the table before crouching next to the other’s chair, making eye contact with the increasingly hollow looking genius. As if whatever clock he was running on.
“Wrong.” Q muttered, turning enough to be fully facing the other, taking Bond’s always larger hand within his own before taking in a deep breath. “I said only you would cry over it. I never said you would be the only one to miss it. Others will miss it because they will miss what it could and did do. Because their lives will be harder without it.” His lips almost curved as he said the words, fingers tightening around Bond’s. “You will be the only one who will miss the real thing.”
What was there to answer to that?
The smell of tea lingered in the silence, dancing between them as it had a thousand times and yet it was joined by the smell of bitter iron, Bond barely glancing at where nail-less fingers rested on and in his own hand. Not thinking about pained whimpers or how such pretty eyes looked in nightmares where they held nothing but broken life, fading all too quickly.
A knock on the door caught the blonde’s attention, only for it to be caught back by how Q rested a light hand on the side of his face, offering a smile with slightly broken lips.
“Five more minutes.”
Five more minutes. Bond, James, 007, whoever the hell he was could do that. He didn’t know why the other only kissed the corner of the lips, the sharp taste of blood in his mouth as he tried to remember the last time they had kissed. Had it been before his last mission? Perhaps during? Or the horrible chance that it may have been at the very end of it?
Two knocks.
“Maybe we should open it? It might be important.” Breathing filled the gaps between his words, gaps caused by hesitation and gaps caused because five minutes was so very close to being over. Each knock felt like a ring of his alarm clock, each knock a punch to the sweet denial he was so happy to let himself drown within.
It was so much sweeter of a death to die happy with no idea why his world was crumbling around him than living remembering why he longer to no longer have to live. Letting the knocks bring him out of the cold water would do him no good and yet it would be the one to keep him alive.
“Just… Five more seconds.” Q pulled away from the touch, clearly trying to keep himself collected as eyes looked at Bond as if he knew exactly what was going to happen. “Please.”
Q never asked for anything. It was part of his character. Bond had managed to get used to it soon enough but the oh so rare times he did ask it seemed Bond was incapable of saying no even if it ended with him failing his genius. His. It seemed like a funny moment to wonder when such a term had started to be attached to Q yet it came too naturally for him to be able to question it.
“Dammit it. Of all the days for you to ignore me today isn’t a good one. We both know that.” There was no anger to Eve’s tone as she called out from outside the flat, concern lacing her words too much for it to be ignored. “Please open the door. We only have two hours before we need to get moving.”
Fondness for the woman was something that had always been stuck in pointless flirting, Q flirting with for the sake of bugging Bond and Bond flirting with her because it was fun. The tone of her voice was enough to make Bond sit up, instinct making him slip almost completely out of Q’s grasp and stand up, eyes focused on the door as Q’s hand remained inside his own, misplaced bones making the skin stand in the wrong places.
“James.” Again, Q’s words were no more than a whisper as he caught Bond’s eyes again, blue staring into still so bright eyes. “I love you. I hate to say it but I really do.”
“I know.” A reply formed of instinct rather than anything else, Bond never really stopping to think about what Q was saying. He knew the other loved him and he loved Q. Why wold he need to say it anymore? Pressing a quick kiss to Q’s matted hair he finally let the cold hand drop, moving towards the next know to open the door.
The door opened with the squeak Bond had been promising to fix for over a month, Eve –lovely, happy Eve- dressed in plain black and unhappy exhaustion filling her eyes as she looked to the man. “Bond, I know how hard this is but we can’t be late.”
Funny how easy it is to shatter a dream.
A sharp sound can do it.
The feeling of falling.
A nightmare.
Fear.
The stopping of a heartbeat.
Words.
And with a sadistic mix of all of the options and so many more Bond’s world took a final hit, shards falling around his all too damaged remains. Because it only took a single glance to the empty chair and untouched cold tea that the memories came back. The realisation that there was no home left to run and the memory of how he’d taken something so beautiful and yet he’d guarded it so badly it was gone.
There was nothing left to break because Bond had done all of the damage himself.
It seemed that for the first time since she'd met Bond she wasn't looking at any of the well-made layers. He was no longer capable of putting a mask up or a front. He couldn't force a smile when he clearly wanted nothing more than crawl to the coffin and join his cold burst of hope. For the first time since Eve had met him Bond couldn't even pretend there was life left inside of him, still bloody hands curling into fists and broken nails digging into his own skin to keep control.
When he managed to speak it wasn't slick or planned. It was only aimed to get out what he needed.
"I thought... I thought after losing Vesper... After losing my parents, Vesper, M and pretty much anyone else I could... I truly thought I knew what pain was." His lifeless blue eyes, the eyes that once reflected the same joy Q's did, looked at her with nothing left within them. "I was wrong. All that was no more than a papercut. This... I feel like I've been skinned and dipped in salt yet I can't make it end. Every time I close my eyes I manage to forget how he clung to my hand. I forget how he drowned in his own blood. But then I have to remember slowly when I wake up, nothing left of him but fucking files and nobody will ever know. Nobody will ever know how brave he was because he wasn't an agent. He was just some kid MI6 got young so they could train him. He was a little boy forced to grow up without living and who died because he was too loyal." A pause, blood dripping from Bond's clenched hand and his breathing erratic. His tone was hard despite the dampness down his face. "He was nearly twenty-seven Eve. Not even thirty."
Bond didn't mention the sea of other things that thought brought up. He didn't mention how he'd already gotten Q's present. He didn't mention how he'd gotten the ring he wanted to propose with. Bond didn't even mention the fact that he only had a single picture of them together. Because there was no need. No need for details or games or riddles. They all required more energy than he had left.
"He is going to be buried before he even got a chance to live. So please don't you dare tell me you're sorry because that's pointless. Sorry won't give him more time. Sorry won't make his last few hours any less agonising."
There was a danger to seeing Bond cry. Unless the pain was overbearing he had never been a crier, barely able to think of four occasions where he’d had no control over the tears slipping down his features. But it didn’t take Eve long to realise that there was even more danger when Bond was past the point of crying, the point where the need for vengeance wasn’t enough to keep him going. When the need of making the people who had caused the pain scream wasn’t enough to outweigh how his loss of control was making him wish he could crawl away and die like a wounded animal. Perhaps it was only to be expected after all. A person could only have their will to live damaged so many times before something couldn’t be fixed.
“I know it’s hard. Of course it is. But destroying your apartment and getting drunk won’t make you feel better.” Looking past Bond she nodded towards the ceramic mug with the ‘Q’ written upon it, steam still leaving its contents. “It will take a very long time for you to be able to deal with this, I know that. But it’s been two weeks and you’re still making him tea as if that’s enough to bring him back.”
“Please just… stay with me.”
“Jam-James Bond b-begging. I said I… I’d make it happen.”
A bitter laugh, Bond clutching Q all the closer, blood soaking both of them like some form of a poison. Killing any life in its wake and staining Q’s lips with the blue the cold had caused despite how Bond had wrapped him in his coat. Because he’d been too slow getting there. Because someone had seen how Q was his weakness and a weakness he was happy to die for yet one he couldn’t live without.
“I’ll beg if it works.”
“Love you.”
“Shh. Save your breath.”
It was just a shame there was none left to save as blood dripped onto the soil like no more than the rain.
“Just go ahead. I’ll be down to the car in five minutes.” His tone left no room for arguing yet it was only when she had gone that he realised one last thing split into two.
Five more minutes. He would have happily given anything for just five more minutes, the guts to reply to Q’s words without the fear of losing him.
Five more minutes and there was nothing left to break because he’d broken it all.