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Q (and it is Q. It has always been Q since the day his father went to prison and his mother could no longer stand to say the name that they share) has been working in Paris for two years when Mycroft calls. His country needs him. His brother needs him. He must leave immediately.
But he is working at the European branch of SI and working in the forefront of research and development. Well, a step back from the forefront, but he refuses to fly to New York to be at the true forefront.
He has a flat that he has furnished himself, a cat, a few acquaintances he could call friends if he were so inclined. He is happy. He is grounded. He visits the Louvre during his lunch breaks and eats cheese sandwiches in front of Da Vinci, the original genius weapon-builder. He bicycles to his favourite bookshop on the Seine every Tuesday.
He calls his oldest brother and emails his middle brother and he doesn’t need to worry about them because he is assured they have caretakers who will inform him should they find themselves in too much trouble.
Q likes this existence. He knew it could never last.
His brother explains the fall of MI6. The desperate need for someone trusted to head Q-branch. The desperate need for a Q. The Q.
“You have to come in, Q.”
“For Queen and country?” he says, because he knows he will give in eventually.
“Something like that,” his brother says.
And Q gives his cat to his landlady (because she is a Parisian cat and will not appreciate the damp and fog of London) and he picks up the suitcase he never could bear to unpack and leaves the flat that felt like it could be home if he let it and gets on the train to London.
***
M is not fond of him. He can see it the moment he walks into her office. She is not fond of his age, of his clothes, of his past. She is most certainly not fond of his brother.
“This is Q,” Mycroft says and Q feels a little as though he has been brought to his headmistress’s office for a parent-teacher conference.
“That’s getting ahead of ourselves, don’t you think, Mr Holmes?” She says and Q feels the weight of her gaze like a physical thing. But he has stood up under worse scrutiny and he looks at her with the calm reserve he has cultivated since he was in primary school.
Mycroft looks at her with the scorn he only holds for people he truly expects more of, like Sherlock and Q.
“This isn’t the time for politics, M. He is the best, and you will take him,” Mycroft doesn’t leave room for argument; he just leaves.
Q and M are left looking at each other from opposite side of a desk. M sighs and reaches out her hand.
“Good to meet you, Quartermaster.”
***
A prison break, a chase, and the death of a great woman later, Q is sitting in the flat his brother put him in and drinking Jack Daniels and packing his bag again. He hadn’t really unpacked it, he never seems to, but the days have been hectic, and his meagre possessions have managed to spread themselves out all over the flat.
“Giving up didn’t seem like your style, Q.”
Q does not startle. Not even a quarter bottle of whiskey can prevent Q from knowing when someone is in his immediate vicinity.
“I never intended to stay,” he says as he carefully folds another cardigan.
Bond comes in through the window and sits on the armchair across from him. He pours himself whiskey into Q’s dirty tea mug and sips it straight. Q decides it’s either disgusting or endearing. He cannot decide.
“So much for your promising career in espionage, indeed.”
Q snorts. It’s probably the whiskey.
“Yes, well, I’ll stop inflicting myself upon you. I’m sure there’s some wizened old man waiting in the wings perfect for the quartermaster position.”
“Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”
“And youth is no guarantee of innovation; yes we can parrot each other’s words. Very good. Shall we just assume we both know the end of this conversation?”
“Last time it ended with you giving me a gun.”
“And perhaps this time it will end with me pointing one at your head. What are you doing here, 007?”
Bond shifts in his armchair, crossing his legs at the ankle.
“I wanted to ascertain that you weren’t leaving for the wrong reasons.”
Q raises an eyebrow and sets down the cardigan, giving Bond his full attention.
“What would be the right reasons?”
Bond shrugs. “The ones you don’t have.”
Q snorts again. Definitely the whiskey.
“I am leaving because I cocked it up.”
Bond doesn’t disagree. Q is glad.
“Doesn’t mean you should leave.”
“MI6 doesn’t need a quartermaster whose first order of business is to let the enemy hack his systems and escape from prison.”
“I seem to recall you giving me a gun as your first order of business.”
Q rolls his eyes. And stands up to take his cardigan to the suitcase. He wobbles a bit on his feet and Bond reaches out to steady him. He holds Q’s elbow and says, very quietly, “It wasn’t you that killed her, Q.”
Q breathes deep. He hadn’t said that. He hadn’t the feeling make its way to his face either. His voice feels like gravel when he says, “She’s still dead.”
And she was. He’d liked her. He’d liked her rigidness. Her refusal to bend to the wind, her confidence to do what she felt was best for her country damn the consequences. Her ability to divorce herself from everything but the job. And he’d led a psychopath to her with only a couple of shotguns and an old man to defend her.
“Yes, she’s still dead. And MI6 can’t afford to lose another good man.”
Q looks up at 007 and sees something he had not expected—commiseration. He wonders if sometimes Bond wants to leave. To stay dead and never come back. He wonders if maybe that’s the only way to do it.
Q shakes himself from Bond’s hand and heads to the kitchenette.
“Well,” he says and he knows the resignation is showing, “I suppose a conversation like this at least warrants glasses.