Chapter Text
Over two years had passed since James Bond had wandered back into Q’s life -- well, into his general vicinity, at any rate -- dragging along with him Dr. Madeleine Swann, a blue-eyed child, and easily the worst enemy they had encountered since Silva. Then, just as Q had started to wrap his mind and his heart around the fact that the man was back in his life, James Bond had, in true James Bond dramatic fashion, managed to get himself vaporised on a tiny island in disputed territory courtesy of Safin and the deadly Project Heracles.
Bond’s delusional dream of living a life with a wife, a white picket fence, and 2.5 children was suddenly as dead as he was, and Q set about re-cauterising all the old wounds Bond had reopened with his reappearance. Hurts that Q had kept safely walled away for over five years when Bond’s decision to walk away from everything that had once mattered triggered the cascade failure that became Q’s life.
But the good thing about no longer having a life -- a concept he had largely walled away alongside those ancient hurts -- is that Q had been able to bury himself in mitigating the potential damage done to Britain's international reputation as a result of the Safin fiasco. MI6 had barely survived the fallout of that massive, international clusterfuck. It had taken endless hours of hard work to make nice with their Japanese allies and to soothe the Russians as much as Putin and his cronies could be soothed about anything that came out of the West. As far as Q was concerned, the Russians could go fuck themselves on a pointy cactus, but that opinion wouldn’t do much for calming international tensions, so he kept it to himself.
Mostly.
Yet another reason why M and Tanner had urged Q to stay as close to his branch as possible. Always sassy with a high percentage of snark, Q had grown increasingly salty, and vocal, in his older age.
Then, about six months post-Heracles, just as things had finally started to get back to a normal level of crazy for the SIS, Alec Trevelyan, 006, disappeared.
Though he hadn’t set foot on home soil since leaving London on assignment a few months after the entire mess with Blofeld, 006 had continued serving MI6 in a series of long-term, deep cover missions. He’d been on such a one in god-forsaken Novosibirsk -- yet another reason why it had been so important to soothe the Russians -- when he just … vanished.
Completely.
Utterly.
It was as if he had never existed.
Though Trevelyan often worked months at a time without checking in, the Novosibirsk op had been different. The unique nature of this particular weapons trafficking ring necessitated more frequent communication with both the home office and his contact in Belgrade. After failing to make four scheduled check-ins with his handler, MI6 had managed to get an operative from Station R to the Siberian locale to discreetly look into the situation. Missing two check ins… three, possibly, made sense. This was 006 after all, but four…
Trevelyan would never miss four.
The operative found nothing.
Nothing .
It was as if Trevelyan had never been in Novosibirsk. The flat he had been staying in showed no signs that he had ever lived there. It was clean.
Too clean.
Expertly sanitised.
Every lead Six uncovered, large or small, had turned into a dead end, leaving them with yet another fiasco for M to explain to the higher ups, and yet another mistake to hide from the Russians. Assuming they didn’t already know and were atypically not gloating over it. Either Trevelyan was being held in a dark, dank cell in the most remote stretches of Siberia, had gone rogue, or was rotting in a shallow grave… somewhere.
Q… no, Six would probably never have a concrete answer about what happened to the man.
Four months later, Alec Trevelyan was officially declared dead.
Though Q hadn’t seen or spoken directly to the man in years it had… hurt? Knowing that despite the messes James Bond and Alec Trevelyan had made of Q’s life when, one by one, they’d walked away from their relationship, the pain and the anger -- so much anger -- knowing that they were both dead had been …
Who had he been kidding? Q hadn’t known what it was. Or how to feel.
Or if he even felt anymore.
Though apparently he did because why else would he feel so… maudlin tonight.
That death declaration had been well over a year past, yet here Q sat curled up in his overstuffed chair with nothing but his foolish sentiments and two cats. One was draped around his shoulders whilst the other was lying on his lap serving as a table for Q’s laptop, enjoying its warmth.
Snow fell gently outside, blanketing the ground in holiday white, glistening on the abundant fairy lights on the converted flats opposite his window.
Q stared at it blankly, caught in his musings.
The snow seemed to be the only gentle thing in his life. Not that there was anything to his life besides work, which was what he dove back into after shaking off his thoughts and taking a sip of long gone cold tea. Something stronger would be more settling.
And if Moneypenny called to check on him one more time…
Q loved Eve. Truly he did, but her mothering had only increased since Alec’s death and he didn’t know why. Trevelyan had been mostly dead to Q since he’d severed all communication with his Quartermaster lover by requesting a new handler several months into his first post-Bond assignment, effectively killing their romantic relationship right alongside their professional one.
It hadn’t made any sense at the time, and like with Bond, Q had been given no opportunity to question it. Trevelyan hadn’t explained himself other than to say to R -- when Q had not been in his Branch -- that given the complexities of the mission and those in the future, it would be better for everyone involved if the Quartermaster no longer served as his primary point of contact.
Still healing from the loss of one lover who had wanted nothing from his partner of four years other than the keys to a bloody car, Q was left reeling from the loss of his second.
A loud kitty yawn in his ear shocked Q out of his thoughts.
“Damn it!” Q chastised himself, loud enough that it sent the cats scurrying. They didn't go far, however. Dahlia and Winslow never did. They sat patiently at his feet, looking up adoringly at him knowing from habit that if they did, there would likely be some treats in it for them.
“Come on, then” Q said, unfolding from the chair. He tucked the laptop under his arm and snagged his mug. “Some goodies for you, then to bed for all of us, I suppose. I’ve spent enough time pining after dead men.”
Within hours Q was back in the depths of Six, and the next thing he knew day four was moving quickly into day five of utterly chaotic espionage hell.
Q sat on the battered sofa in his office. Elbows on his knees. Eyes closed. Head resting on his hands that were clasped together as if he was supplicant in devoted prayer.
Maybe he was.
Silent prayers shouting so loudly in his head to any god of any faith who would dare listen.
“Let this day be over… this week… month.”
Please. I beg you.
His head throbbed.
His hands ached.
His eyes burned.
Q wanted nothing more than to throw his glasses across the room, but then he would be useless. Blind as a bat.
He couldn't remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal, or even one heated in a microwave. The tea sitting in front of him on his desk had long since gone cold.
His life was one endless day of no sleep, cold tea, and crumbly biscuits.
Q sighed the long sigh of the achingly weary.
Deeply weary. Shaken. Exhausted.
A sharp rap sounded at his door, which was immediately opened to reveal R, second in the insane hierarchy of Q Branch. Somewhere in his head the thought crossed Q’s mind that she looked about as ready to tip over the brink as he was.
"004's mission has gone up in flames, Quartermaster. Complete cock up.”
Springing up despite his weariness, Q grabbed his headset from the sofa cushion next to him. "On it. Details!" he demanded, following her out into the organised chaos of the outer team room, slipping into mission mode as if it was a well-worn jumper.
"Here we go again…" Was that his outside voice or inner voice?