Archive of Our Own

I.

If Q was ever asked how he had made it to such a key position within MI6 at his relatively youthful age, he would have called it twenty-per-cent sheer brain power, fifty-per-cent luck and the rest a thorough understanding of bureaucratic politics and human nature.

Convincing MI6 to cede front and back end control of project development had been easy, working with a reduced budget with austerity measures rolling through Europe was a little harder. MI6 was cutting costs, and R&R was usually the first to go. Still, Q rerouted funds, managed to select his own team, cleared out all the awfully post-war, comical gadget-focused excesses of his predecessors, and concentrated on the weapons of tomorrow: smart tech.

Not that the lupine man circling the lab seemed to be aware of the loops that Q now had to jump through in order to even craft a print-personalised Walther; Q eyed him with mild disapproval as 007 padded over to his desk - or, as the younger and more impressionable members of Q-branch called it despite his threats, the Iron Throne - and pressed the flat of his hand against the edge. Callused, pitted and weathered, fingers thickened from fistfights and abuse, Q noted absently, without looking up.

"007."

"I've lost your gun."

"My predecessor instructed me not to expect very much in the way of respect for our equipment, in your case. You'll be assigned another one in due course."

"I've lost the Aston Martin, too."

"You hadn't been authorized to keep that one, 007. And until you have a mission that calls for specialised equipment of that nature, I'm afraid that you're going to be disappointed. Take the tube like a normal person. Or the bus."

007 watched him steadily, with the knife-edged calculation of a predator, and his sharply cut suit didn't quite fit him well, Q thought idly, bespoke or not; there was far too much of a brutish killer in 007 to wear tailored fabric well, compared to the chameleon charm of 006 or the ghostly distraction of 002. Q had had the dubious pleasure of having to make the acquaintance of all of MI6's deadly little trump cards over the three months of his new career, and he had viewed all of them as extensions of his tools, an end-switch or a logic gate - at least, up until 007. There was something visceral about him that the others lacked, something as dogged as the bulldog kitsch that the late M had reportedly left 007 in her will.

It was curious.

"If you want another Aston Martin fitted with the perks of highly illegal and unsafe weaponry," Q found himself adding, "You'll have to persuade M to raise our budget by at least a million pounds. Two million, to be safe."

007 frowned at him. "The Aston Martins aren't even worth a fraction of half a million pounds on the market."

"Yes, well, with half a million pounds, you'll get a car and maybe your ridiculous ejector seats, suitable for remarkably unlikely scenarios," Q continued typing an email, even as a part of his brain automatically deducted the market price for the luxury car from half a million and collated man powers and materials. "Maybe we could fit an M152 in there, hm, no, too tacky, not to mention stability problems, perhaps one of the rail gun prototypes, fitted in the side hull, improved propulsion... traffic light remote rerouting..." he caught himself when 007's mouth curled slightly. "However, we don't have the budget. And, you don't have a relevant mission."

"And if I could get both?"

Q hesitated. He could recognise 007's blatant ulterior motives - for some men, driving sleek luxury cars were a necessary substitution for an insignificant penis, in Q's opinion - but on the other hand, as much as he enjoyed subtlety and functionality over the flashy, often ridiculous gadgetry that his predecessor had preferred, he had always been interested in working with something a little bigger. God knew that his team would fall over themselves to be able to work on something like refitting an Aston Martin.

"You can try."

Predictably, 007 managed to acquire the latter but not the former, and although he took the new gun and transmitter with no comment, he looked mildly reproachful, even when Q passed him the latest phone prototype. "Camera zoom is clear up to fifty x. Heat sensitive, short distance connectivity. It should be able to get you through most digital security systems. Attach it via USB or Bluetooth to a locked computer and it'll get past most firewalls within a minute. Murdering people for their passcards or retinas is rather last century."

"Does it explode?"

"Of course not," Q said sharply, only to realized belatedly that he had been baited - 007 smirked faintly. "I fail to see the attraction or functionality of carrying volatile explosives on your immediate person."

"Try it sometime," 007 tucked the equipment away. "Surely it'll be within your budget."

Q may have had to squeeze a stress ball whenever 007 left the vicinity. Either way, his minions were always wise enough not to make comment, but Moneypenny smiled lazily and sweetly at him as she slid a folder across his desk, an hour or so later when Q was on his fourth cup of Earl Grey of the day and was coming gently down from his caffeine-and-bergamot high.

"Old dogs bark more than they bite," she offered, as he inspected the folder. Requisitions, a budget revision that was inconsequential, staff diagnostics. He closed it with a sigh. M had to learn about encrypted email and paperless offices just like the rest of them.

"He's been complaining about not getting the car?"

"No. You've been frowning non-stop, darling. It'll set."

Q ignored that. "I've no interest in entertaining 007's fixations."

"It would be nice to take him down, wouldn't it?" Moneypenny asked idly, though she dropped her voice even as she spoke. "Break it all down. Play with the best sort of fire."

Q arched an eyebrow. He didn't bother to ask how Moneypenny knew about his personal... interests - prior to choosing a desk job, it had been popular opinion that she had been slated to be put under review for the next generation of 00s, and making 00 required rather more than a killing instinct, at least nowadays. "That would be inappropriate. Sign here, please."

"We only live once."

"Oh, don't quote prepubescent hashtags at me."

"You're tempted."

God, he was, and not only because Moneypenny had brought it up; there was something wild about 007's grim dedication to his job, something ferocious in the beautiful cold stillness of his eyes, but as much as Q had idly considered the thought now and then, he had dismissed it as too dangerous. "I like my career."

"Please. You know that the 00s fall into a broad set of exceptions."

"Weren't you involved with him in the last mission?"

"That? That was just a little fun." Moneypenny shrugged. "I think that you'll be good for each other."

"Really. He's a thug with no respect for intellect and only contempt for the people whom he can't use."

"He's not so bad."

Q watched Moneypenny carefully, then he added, dryly, "And if M is so concerned about the state of 007's loyalty, now that he's taken over from the late M, he can tell me so himself."

"It's not 007's loyalty that concerns him." Moneypenny smiled, utterly unconcerned at being caught out. "Think about it."

II.

When 007 miraculously returned with the phone intact, though not the transmitter or the gun, Q said, dryly, "One out of three. Not bad, 007."

"I didn't have to use it." 007 replied, with a faint curl to his mouth.

"Please tell me it wasn't because of some sort of inability to use a smart phone."

"I'm not that inept with technology, Q."

"That would depend on your definition of ineptitude, I suppose." Q adjusted his glasses as he frowned. "You could have passed the phone to the mail room instead of coming all the way down here."

"I wanted to see how progress was coming on my car," 007 deadpanned, and Q sighed, crushing down his irritation.

"Maybe if you had a better track record of controlling yourself with expensive toys you might have had better luck requisitioning the funds from M."

"There's nothing wrong with my self-control," 007 said, and as neutral as his words were, his eyes narrowed slightly.

And - hell - despite his most reasonable personal objections, despite everything, the devil inside Q has him say, "I don't believe that it's ever been thoroughly tested."

007 blinked at him, as though surprised, although come-ons can't be anything new to him; Q's read his file, after all, and his reputation's common knowledge in MI6. Under the hard stare that followed, Q went for indifference, pointedly busying himself with his laptop.

And then 007 leaned close, to hiss into his ear, "Try me."

It took all of Q's self-control and self-respect not to jerk away, to continue to type a response to the accounts department's email. "I very much doubt that you are worth my time, 007. Or," he added, keeping his tone distant, "That you know exactly what I'm referring to."

007 jerked back, and Q didn't let out the breath that he had been holding in until the agent had stormed out. Forcing himself to calm down, he took a sip of now-cold tea, and pretended to ignore the way his minions in the Farm glanced among each other, whispering and grinning. At the very least, Q thought, this was possibly going to be good for morale.

The day grew longer, working out their new cyber security protocols and reviewing the progress of prototypes that were about to be field-tested, and by the time Q took a bus home, it was past midnight.

At the threshold to his flat, he hesitated, studying the lock. There was a faint, new scrape that hadn't been there when Q had left in the morning, even if the slip of paper that he had left caught in the door was in its correct position. Stifling a sigh, Q turned on his phone and brought up the security app that he had created, accessing it. Feeds indicated that his flat was empty, and as such, he opened the door and turned on the lights, ready to dial for MI6 if necessary.

His flat seemed empty, and after locking the door and switching off the security system, he dropped his bag at the dining table, only to hesitate.

Placed on the centre of the table was a very familiar, black soft leather collar, supple, designed to fit firmly but comfortably around a man's neck, one that Q had last left hidden behind a fake wall in his wardrobe. He smiled to himself, even as he picked it up and replaced it. Rolling back the feed indicated a black out at eighteen-hundred-fifteen hours, and Q supposed that it would likely be futile to dust for fingerprints.

007 did work quickly.

Opening his laptop, it didn't take very long for Q to triangulate 007's position: predators had fixed habits on their home grounds, and 007 had carried the phone with its GPS chip on him for a day before thinking to return it to Q branch. Hacking in to the security feed at the wine bar a block from 007's flat was easy; feeding code into the small telly to the left of 007's field of vision even easier.

007 tensed in the middle of picking up his drink when the news broadcast blanked out to a black screen with a terse TRY AGAIN, then he glanced around him and back up, directly into the watching camera. Q shut off the feed even as he let the telly feed back into its usual telecast, and went to get cleaned up.

There was nothing simpleminded about 007, certainly - none of the 00s were anything short of highly intelligent - but Q had never quite met quarry that could keep up with him before save recently, with Silva, and now - perhaps - 007 himself. Choosing MI6 over a lucrative Silicon Valley career had been the right decision after all.

III.

Nothing was out of place on the dining table the next night, nor had there been any blackouts, and it was only when he was shrugging out of his jacket that Q realized that a leash was coiled up in his jacket pocket. It was a lightweight one, black leather, possibly from a high end pet shop, with a silver buckle.

Amused, Q sat down on the couch, opening up his laptop, and this time, 007 wasn't in any of his usual spots, or in his apartment, and it took a minor abuse of the prototype facial recognition system hooked into the CCTV grid to triangulate him, walking briskly down Oxford Street. Feeding code into the display screens in the window of an electronics shop had only taken a swift handful of seconds, and 007 paused as TRY AGAIN scrolled up on the screens just as he passed them.

Q wasn't entirely sure from this angle, but 007 seemed satisfied; he nodded to himself before walking on.

Still, this was a rather blatant abuse of personal power, and M was going to comment sooner or later if things didn't come to a head - even with the second-hand implied carte blanche via Moneypenny, and Q steepled his fingers together over his keyboard even as 007 wandered off out of camera view.

As exciting as it was to play cat and mouse with someone who understood the game so quickly, Q was very aware of the 00s' unique psychological problems: murder on a hair-trigger and carefully cultivated sociopathic tendencies, among others. 007 was dangerous even if he didn't intend to be, and Q could see at least twenty-three ways that this could go spectacularly wrong without even trying very hard.

And as such, Q had been rather resolved not to respond to 007's next move, whatever it might be. Therefore, he had been unfortunately surprised when, absorbed in the middle of the intricacies of code construction, he had looked up to see 007, leaning a hip against his desk, arms folded.

Slightly annoyed that he had been caught flatfooted, Q shot a glance behind 007 to his minions in the Farm, the first row of which indicated with silent and eloquent gestures that they had been trying to get his attention, but he had been in the Zone, and therefore it wasn't their fault.

Resolving silently to replace the coffee with decaf for a couple of days, Q looked up at 007 politely. "May I help you?"

"About that car," 007 began, and even as Q frowned, about to marshal a scathing retort, he pushed up his right cuff, hidden from the Farm by the stocky bulk of his body, and bloody hell, just beneath it, looped twice around 007's wrist, was the collar, buckled firmly in place.

Quite a considerable amount of blood must have fled southwards; Q's pants felt tight, even as he suddenly became rather lightheaded. A glance upward indicated that 007 had observed that much; there was a lazy, catlike smirk, a challenge in those cold, predator's eyes, and it was only through a great deal of effort that Q managed a mild, "Yes, well, we haven't quite received any budget reallocations, have we? Do try to keep up, 007."

"I could buy one for you to outfit."

"Rather difficult when your money's mostly still in escrow."

"A procedural problem." 007 lifted his left hand, running his thumb against the edge of the collar and hooking a nail in the buckle, so very casually. Q fought the urge to swallow hard.

Bastard.

"Even if you did produce the car, we'll need the corresponding funds - and go-ahead - from the powers that be." Really, Q wasn't made of iron - or code, as the minions might think. His objections had seemed so logical before, but now, staring temptation's lazy smile in the flesh, he had to concede. Typing a quick subroutine into the security feed, he added, "Why don't I show you the armoury instead? Perhaps you'll fixate on something rather more functional, and leave us all in peace."

"I'll keep an open mind," 007 said, tugging his sleeve back over the collar to hide it, and Q thanked thick woollen sweaters made to seem a size too big as they draped over his crotch when he got up from his desk. They walked to the armoury in silence, taking the lift down, and just as they exited into the specialised basement floor, Q pressed fingers against the crook of 007's elbow and turned him into a corner of the room, just before the airlock, out of the ambit of the currently fixed security cameras.

"Ah, a hole in the security system already," 007 said urbanely.

"A temporary one." Q curled his fingers briefly tight over the folds of the collar that he could feel under 007's sleeve. "Do you understand what you're asking for, 007?"

"I think that you want to teach an old dog some new tricks," 007 drawled, and although he smiled it didn't reach the predator's curiosity in his eyes, "And I also think that you're too young to know that you'll be burned, but it'll be interesting to see you try."

"I'm hardly a child," Q raised a hand to pat 007's cheek mockingly. "And I daresay that at least in this, I'll have the advantage of experience."

"Prove it."

"In time." Q curled his hand down and back, to clench firmly and briefly against the nape of 007's neck, making him suck in a tiny gasp, as he leaned closer and closer still, until 007 let out a rasping sound and parted his lips. Instead of pressing forward, however, Q stopped, an inch away, to whisper, "But right now, I'm working. Find me after."

The predator in 007 growled when Q stepped back and into the security camera's restricted arc, but after a heartbeat, it seemed to shake itself, and 007's smile, this time, was not nearly as condescending.

IV.

There was nothing particularly graceful or beautiful in the way 007 knelt; he merely gave the impression that he was simply coiled to spring at any moment, even after the blindfold, and he turned unerringly to follow Q's movements, even though Q was fairly sure that he wasn't causing much sound at all, if any.

"We're going to use a colour code. Tell me 'red' and I'll stop, 'yellow' and I'll slow down or change direction, and 'green' if you like what I'm doing and want me to keep going."

"All right," 007 said, after a moment's thought. "What are you-"

"It wouldn't be interesting if I told you beforehand. And unless you're using a safeword, try to be quiet until I allow you to speak."

007's mouth quirked into something that was very close to a sneer, but he didn't say anything, his hands pressed flat over his knees.

"Good. Keep still." Q murmured, enjoying the moment for now, the sight of 007 kneeling naked on his bed, a little incongruous among the minimal steel and glass decor of the apartment, scarred and running towards thickset, then he leaned over, to briefly catch the lobe of 007's left ear in his teeth and whisper, "You think that you'll be bored. You've got a high threshold for pain, and you'll think that I'll break my hand before I break your back even if I use the whip that you found with my things."

007 sucked in a breath, but he didn't answer - good boy- even as Q briefly traced an old scar, high up on 007's hip, ghosting down over broad shoulders to the nape of his neck, nipping lightly. "Maybe. It's possible. And you think that I can't possibly break you with pleasure, because sex to you is nothing more than an abstraction, for you, usually, it's just another way to put the beast to sleep for an hour or so, just like your alcohol and your pills."

This time, when Q nipped the right ear, 007 bit off a groan, and Q smiled a little to himself. "Maybe. Also possible. I think you still don't know what I'm referring to, 007. I don't need pain or pleasure to break you down. You see," Q kept his voice neutral, almost bland, as he trailed fingers down 007's flat belly to his slowly swelling cock, "Some people think that people like me choose to sink ourselves in code and computers because we can't deal with people. Personally," he said mildly, as he drew a fingertip up the curve of 007's cock, "I find people simple. People are merely clusters of predictable social synapses, always firing off in typical directions. Hardly a challenge to bend to my will."

007 growled softly when Q gave him a light, teasing squeeze, then he flinched at the bite worked into the nape of his neck, almost startled. "And as for you, you're interesting, certainly, the way an ill-trained dog with no master is interesting." As 007 took in a sharp breath, as though angrily, Q added, "Oh yes. Let's talk about that, shan't we? All about your rather regrettable decisions that led to the death of your previous master. The new one doesn't sit right, does he? Too new, too clean-"

It was easier than Q had originally even estimated, to lull 007 into a state where his guard started to slip, to cut him open with words alone, but he supposed that 007 had been trained, after all, to listen to voices whispered into his ears, to trust his life on them, and Q didn't need to be aware of 007's file to know what to say, now - pared down, like all people, 007 was an open book to him. He scattered his touch lightly as he kept up his monotone, deducing and breaking open the shell of a predator's life to show its hollow core, worming patiently deeper behind 007's guard, until, finally, there was a choked sound, like a sob, and a raw, "Yellow."

Instantly, Q stopped, flattening his palms to stroke up 007's flanks instead, soothingly, bringing his voice back to its usual indifferent register. "What would you like to do next?"

"I..." 007 made a raw, rasping sound, as though the words were being torn from him, and Q realized belatedly that 007's cheeks were wet, under the blindfold. "I want to suck your cock. Please," he added, when Q's hands hesitated, misinterpreting surprise for censure.

"Usually I wouldn't do that, not on a first time," Q murmured, nuzzling the bite mark that stood a ruddy red against the nape of 007's neck, "But you've been very good."

No sneer, this time, or even a reaction. Q pressed a palm down 007's back, even as he reached over for a condom and a small red ball from the side dresser. He pushed the ball into 007's hand and made him grip it. "Drop this if you want me to stop," he instructed, as he drew himself out from his trousers, and God, that felt good, out of the fabric's confines; he stroked himself once, leisurely, before quickly rolling on the condom. 007 made a disappointed sound when he tasted latex, but Q ignored him, grasping the nape of his neck and pushing forward insistently, forcing 007 to suck him down, only slowing when he felt him start to gag.

"Use your hand on the rest," Q instructed, and 007 brought up his free hand to curl his fingers around the rest of him, eager. Enthusiasm counted, Q supposed, even if 007 was rusty, his technique sloppy and geared to efficiency rather than to maximize his partner's pleasure - still, it was enough, watching, pressing his knees against powerful, corded muscle, listening to 007 muffle a whine and suck on him hungrily when he grasped the back of his neck and squeezed-

007 was squirming on the bed when Q disposed of the condom neatly and returned, his cock heavy between his legs, and he made a plaintive whine when Q traced the tense line of his shoulders with a thumb.

"I don't believe that you've earned two rewards, James," Q said idly, testing the waters. "Have you?"

007 stiffened, his lips parting for a moment, and there was a long moment where Q was beginning to expect him to say red, but then, surprisingly, 007 bowed his head with a ragged breath of assent that shook into a groan when Q asked, just as idly, "Ice? Or do you want to let it fade?"

"Ice," 007 whispered, after a moment's thought, and Q had to close his eyes for a moment to keep his breathing steady - God - though he still let out a low moan at the guttural sound that 007 made when the pack of ice was pressed against his heavy arousal.

Q removed the rest of his clothes methodically as 007 curled on the bed, panting, then he climbed in, flattening himself against his back and stroking shaking shoulders gently, tossing the ball aside, removing the blindfold and brushing soothing kisses and murmuring nonsense words against sweaty flesh until 007 calmed down.

"God," 007 muttered finally, and his voice was a hoarse, broken whisper, "You're a bloody devil."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Do you..." 007 hesitated, then he continued, "Do you do this often?"

"Less, since MI6." Q shrugged. "Besides, my usual partners just prefer to be spanked nowadays. I find that tedious."

007 tensed. "Partners?"

"Oh, please. You didn't strike me as a prude."

"I just.." 007 subsided, for a moment, then he added dryly, sounding a fraction more like his normal self, though he didn't turn over to look Q in the eye, "It's not exactly what I expected."

"Not usually," Q said agreeably enough, pleasantly tired, taking off his glasses to set them aside. "Have a shower, show yourself out, whatever you like. I'm going to sleep."

007 didn't move, still breathing slowly, then he asked, quietly, "Moneypenny didn't set this up, did she?" At Q's scoff, he elaborated, "Only asking."

"Contrary to what you might think, darling," Q noted mockingly, "Within the last three months, Q-branch has become at least as valuable to MI6 as the 00s. It's a brave new world."

He must have dozed off, at some point, and wasn't surprised to note that 007 was gone by the morning. An inventory check indicated that the collar was still missing, and Q pursed his lips even as he closed the wardrobe and prepared to dress for work.

V.

007 avoided him for a week, only to reappear one Sunday morning in his kitchen, struggling with the state-of-the-art and only-for-emergencies coffee machine. Q stared at him blearily for a moment - never his best when sleeping in - and stepped over to shoulder him out of the way.

Q watched 007 fidget through the coffee (and Q's first cup of Earl Grey), barely paying attention to his emails as he sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop balanced over his knees, then he said, very mildly, once the cup was drained, "Are you going to be difficult?"

"People are simple to you, aren't they?" 007's lips curved with sharp humour. "What do you think?"

"I think that you found that you enjoyed that rather more than you thought that you would," Q noted, as dispassionately as he could, "You do crave direction and a firm hand, as much as you snap and bark whenever your leash grows taut. The old M understood that. Work's ceased to be an outlet for you since her passing, and you've grown restless, but you didn't realize until last week what you needed. You're wearing the collar on your wrist, and I think you haven't taken it off all week."

The sharp smile faded slightly, and 007 nodded.

"However," Q continued, before he could speak, "My curiosity's been satisfied and you're rather too old for my usual tastes," Q kept his tone neutral as he opened an email from the minions who had stayed back to work at the Farm, and started typing in a critical response on the latest version of the security algorithms. "Not to mention that you come with an atypical host of additional and ingrained psychological problems that I have little interest in dealing with or addressing."

007 was watching him closely, and at that, he straightened, barely hiding disappointment in the twist to his mouth. "Heaven forbid that you mince your words."

"However," Q added, in the same distracted monotone, as he signed off the email and opened another one, "Rather to my own personal astonishment, despite your multiple escapades in the name of 'duty' or otherwise you are clean, and your obsession with luxury cars was not in any way an indicator of an unimpressive cock, and so I suppose that riding it - and you - into the bed would not be an unacceptable way to pass the rest of the morning."

007 made a choking noise, and as Q arched a questioning eyebrow at him over the rim of his laptop, 007 smiled wryly and set his coffee cup on the table, before circling over to kneel at his feet.