"If you're through that door, you should be in the Tube."
"I'm in the Tube."
"Bond, this wasn't an escape, this was years in the planning. He wanted us to capture him, he wanted us to access his computer. It was all planned - blowing up HQ, knowing all the emergency protocols, knowing we'd retreat down here."
"I got all that. It's what he's got planned next that worries me."
"District line is the closest. There should be a service door on your left."
"Got it. ..It won't open."
"Of course it will, put your back into it."
"Why don't *you* come down here and put your back into it."

"Sir."

Q didn't have time to identify the tech that spoke before a section of the map onscreen was highlighted to show a train speeding toward Bond's heat signature. "Hum. That's vexing."

"Q?" He faintly heard Bond's voice sharpen in his ear, but focused on his typing rather than waste an ounce of concentration answering, " *Q*! Talk to- ..Oh good, there's a train coming."

"Yes." With a last line of code he was into the TfL's system and it was the work of a handful of long seconds to get to the right control and then he could breathe, aware that his pulse was pounding louder than the sound of Bond hitting that stubborn door in his ear, "It should stop in a moment. That door really should be open, 007-" reaching for his tea, he happened to glance down and saw the fucking laptop that had started all this and his jaw clenched, "Bugger. Silva probably did something to it after he went through."

James had already guessed as much before he heard Q's annoyed words and was pulling out his gun as the lad continued apologetically, "There's nothing digital about it, 007, I can't help you."

Ignoring the train whose brakes had been screeching since Q had started talking again after that spell of frenetic typing had filled his ear, Bond shot at what looked like the weakest section of metal where the lock would be.

This time when he threw his shoulder at the damn thing it swung inward and he gave the driver of the now-stopped train a polite nod as he stared at Bond with wide eyes from where he'd been halted, a foot from the door.

"You can release the train, Q, I'm through."

"Good." James smiled a tick at the relief the man was trying to bury in casualness, "And Q?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He heard the train start back up behind him before Q responded with a quiet sincerity that James found himself, oddly enough, believing, "Any time, 007."

---

"Q? I need help."
"I'm tracking the car. Where are you going?"
"I've got M. We're about to disappear."
"What?"
"I need you to lay a trail of breadcrumbs impossible to follow for anyone except Silva. Think you can do it?"
"I'm guessing this isn't strictly official."
"Not even remotely."
"So much for my promising career in espionage."

"How the *devil* have you managed to already seduce my Quartermaster when I had his interests just as restricted to females as yours?"

Bond smirked into the rear-view mirror, "And you accuse *me* of making everything sexual? I haven't touched him."

"Seduction doesn't require touch, 007, as we both know."

"Please tell M that I am quite hurt that she would think I put out so early in a relationship."

The *almost* bored tone in his ear had just enough of a poshly peevish edge that Bond couldn't help but laugh at the expression that would be on the man's face. The fellow was the oddest mix of arrogant and earnest, all wrapped up in a cardigan that neither Kincade, nor even M's deceased husband, would be caught in, dead or alive.

But he still wouldn't have expected him to have the brass to give M lip.

He didn't bother holding back his continued chuckles as he listened to the muttered insults being distractedly aimed at him in his earpiece. It seemed.. Years since he'd truly laughed. Even.. even his few days with Vesper had always had a ghost of pain and danger. His isolation keeping him on edge.

He should be just as on edge now: Silva loose, M hunted.

His out of shape self her last line of defense; except for a calm young Quartermaster in his ear.

He caught M's sharp eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. She was probably one of the few people still alive who remembered him back when he'd last laughed.

Shrugging away the thought, he focused on the road, a grin still rippling his lips. "Are you sure you want me to repeat that, darling? Because you should know that I will."

"Get stuffed, 007."

Bond choked off another laugh, finally forcing his grin of actual enjoyment back behind a controlled smirk, "Whenever you're ready, darling."

"I don't know which of you to warn off breaking the other's heart."

He sent M a reckless grin in the mirror, "I'm sure the boy'll be gentle with me."

"007, I need you to get off the M4."

Responding to the return of the serious tone that had led him through the Underground, Bond frowned at the busy motorway, "Why?"

"I've reprogrammed the car's tracker so no one else can trace you, but they'll see you up to a minute ago. If you get off now, I can send your breadcrumbs on the M4 while you quietly take the M1. I assume you're going North?"

"I'd rather not get off the motorway, just yet."

"I'd rather not risk you acquiring an actual tail I'd then have to clean up after. Please make your way to the M1, 007."

Bond grumbled under his breath, even as he cut across to the upcoming exit, "I have a stop to make before we can get under way. This will make it painful to get to."

"Are you always this difficult?"

Bond smirked towards M, watching him steadily, "You've no idea, Quartermaster."

Coming home well into the evening three days after M's body had been returned to London, Q barely slowed at seeing the shadow of a man leaning against the wall next to the door to the old terraced house he still called home. He shouldn't already recognize the outline and stance in the dark and drizzle, but here they were.

Q stopped in front of him, wet and silent from his walk from the Tube, and Bond raised his hand, expression in his pale eyes drowned by the water sluicing Q's lenses, showing him the bottle he held, the word Macallan barely visible in the streetlight, "You drink Scotch?"

Q shrugged, lips as permanently down as those of the rough-voiced man in front of him, "Not often," he slipped his key into the lock, "But this seems like a good time."

They ended up sitting on the floor with their backs to Q's couch, staring out the dark windows to the balcony and passing the bottle back and forth like savages.
The two men that tried to guard MI6's M. And failed.

Q wondered, in the strangely un-tense silence of his dark house, why Bond hadn't taken the opportunity to accuse him of failing in his boasts. The way their first meeting had gone, he'd thought he could at least expect *the agent* to blame him properly, but the man was no more than quiet, not even the silent accusation that at least a few at six couldn't hide.

Tired and quiet and sad and the week scrambling to fix the servers had left Q with not the least inclination to try to start the banter their previous interactions had been based on. No matter how peculiar it was to find himself drinking companion of the oldest, most old-fashioned and difficult, of the Double-oh agents.

The smooth burn of alcohol and the warmth of a body relaxed against his was soothing in a way he would have never looked for.

They hadn't said a word since Q had led the way to the couch, and now the bottle was getting light and Q could feel that he was tipping sideways as he stared at the rain that was still falling, sloshed enough not to care that he might well end up sleeping on the floor. He hummed and dragged himself out of the daze when he felt Bond take a deep breath and straighten out of the uncharacteristic slouch he'd settled into.

"I didn't have time to snoop in your file. How long have you been Quartermaster?"

Q clumsily sat back upright as well, making himself think and working to keep from slurring, "A week after you were shot, the previous Q put in for retirement. M… ‘offered' me the post," Q took advantage of the bottle in his hand to raise it to her ghost, tiredly sardonic, "I'd just put in my first budget when we were attacked."

Bond snickered darkly, taking the bottle back, "Did you think it was Accounting's response?"

Q bumped the man's shoulder, barely able to make him twitch sideways, even after he'd had more of the bottle than Q, "Tosser."

Then the bottle was empty, and they were both still conscious and Q glanced at Bond, showing no signs of wanting to leave, before staggering up with a hand on the man's solid shoulder. "I don't have Macallan, but I'm sure I still have something…" he dragged his feet on the carpet so Pirate couldn't run under them, a habit the black cat that might come out of hiding at any time had yet to understand the danger of, and then moved slowly to control his fumbles around the bottles in the cabinet under the television, squinting in the dark to recognize each shape, "There. A little more than half a Chivas Regal." He passed Bond the bottle so he could lower himself back down against him with minimal stumbling.

"M had an old bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label she said she only lowered herself to on good occasions. She actually shared a sling of it after we took down a human trafficking ring nice and clean."

"Umm. Not bad stuff. I used to drink entirely too much Dimples, once upon a time."

Grimacing at his first swallow of the much-harsher drink, Bond looked at his host in surprise as he passed him the bottle, " ‘Once upon a time'??"

Q rolled his eyes at what no doubt sounded like a dig to his age, however un-thought Bond's reaction had been. "Yes. There was a time I didn't think I'd survive too much longer and enjoying my money while I could seemed like the wisest course."

Bond frowned, holding off the reflex to needle for more information. He wasn't ready to open himself up to keep it even, nor was he ready to annoy the man. He glared at the bottle his Quartermaster passed him before taking a swallow, "She'd give us a thorough dressing-down for maudlin' like this."

Q huffed sadly, "She was a hell of an act to try to follow," he turned not quite focused eyes on Bond, "Did the two of you really get along?"

Bond shook his head, silent again as the ghosts whispered cold at his shoulder.

Q had turned back to the window by the time he made himself answer, staring at their faint reflection in the window, Q's geeky lenses catching flickers from passing headlights even as his eyes drooped shut behind them, "We understood each other. We didn't always agree, but we understood each other." He returned Q's solemn look as he passed him the last of the whisky.

--

James remembered feeling sleep draping itself over him while they were tilted against each other, still staring at the rain sliding down the panes, but he somehow woke up laying on the floor with Q wrapped around him like a gangly limpet. And a big orange tabby curled against his belly.

Carefully dragging himself to sitting between his dual warmers with a muffled groan, James snarked tiredly, "I don't think this is quite how she imagined we'd sleep together." The heat had, at least, been kinder to his bruised body than the floor alone would have been.

In deference to his utterly aching head, Q refrained from snorting or rolling his eyes, settling for ignoring Bond as he concentrated on getting upright and then to the bathroom for a piss and whichever painkillers fell in his hand first.

Once they'd both showered and given the paracetamol a chance and Q, at least, was ready to go to work, he gave his guest the key he'd had on his ring, looking him in the eye, albeit a little blearily, "Next time, just come in. You're already programmed in the security system."

In response to Bond's raised brows, he shrugged, "M.." he looked away, jaw twitching, "One of the last things she said over the comm was that you sometimes broke into her house to decompress after missions," he made himself meet the bleak look of the man he'd gotten drunk with, "I assumed the implication was little more than a pointed comment on our banter when you started out. But ignoring her seemed disrespectful."

He wasn't going to state that he'd enjoyed the company, regardless of his current hangover, but he thought Bond's taking the key without comment probably meant he knew.