Chapter Text
Grims like Bond were inclined towards long, extended periods of time alone, always a step apart from humanity even if they were (for the most part) capable of functioning in the thick of it. Therefore, it was natural for 007 to stay in the field for months, even years at a time, checking in but rarely, and often only making direct contact with M and a few others before heading out again like a charming, handsome shade. Therefore, it was a rare day indeed when he was called back to MI6 for something more than a fleeting check-in, receiving an urgent missive shortly after finishing off a deep-cover mission.
“The explosion took down most of MI6 headquarters, and it’s been a political and logistical nightmare ever since,” M informed James over the phone even as the 00-agent packed, his expression barely twitching as he learned the true breadth of the pandemonium that had erupted while he was ‘playing dead’ and hunting with dangerous efficiency under that guise. Grims were made for deep-covers like that, deep covers that required totally cutting themselves off from their lives and histories, and he had enough practice that it was only marginally jarring to be reminded that he was still attached to other people, to MI6.
“You’ve changed locations then, I gather?” he asked wryly, checking his Walther in its holster and slipping a few more knives away into their sheaths, all so hidden that even a frisking would be hard-put to find them. Bond’s ability to smile with perfect, harmless charm also helped in making sure that people underestimated him, even when he was armed to the teeth.
“We had little choice, with the building nothing but a pile of rubble,” M replied with clear but resigned ire. She went on, “Consequently, we had a major upset in the general chain of command, and when a Pet was promoted to Quartermaster, there were unexpected results that no one was prepared to deal with.”
“Was she unfit to handle the job?” Bond asked, dubious. He had a lot of experience with Pets - had actually had training in that regard before coming to MI6 - and knew that they could be quite capable, just as Grims like himself could actually be quite companionable. Stereotypes weren’t everything.
“He, not she,” M corrected without missing a beat, “And he handled the job just fine, but a disgruntled coworker took it upon himself to protest what he saw as an unfair reassignment. Because of how hectic things have been, the full severity of the situation was not realized until it was too late. Q managed to actually get his branch up and running before the incident, but now I fear that he may be irreparably damaged by the events that came to a head last week.”
All Grims were psychopathic on a certain level, rarely (if ever) connecting with humanity on a compassionate, emotional level, making them uniquely equipped for the kinds of jobs that turned most people’s stomachs (or challenged their morals). Bond was on the slightly more emotive end of that scale, however, and his frown had grown more thunderous with every word M said. 007 had a soft spot for Pets, a fact that M but very, very few others knew. “What happened?” he demanded flatly even as he put his mobile on speakerphone so that he could pack more efficiently and quickly.
M began to lay out the details: “We’re still piecing the story together with reports that should have been collected immediately instead of in hindsight. Malcomb Ree, the previous R who was passed over for the designation of Q because of some discrepancies in his work, started verbally harassing the new Q soon after the branch was relocated. The relative seclusion of Q-branch’s new location made it easy to hide his misbehaving, but we have reason to believe that no physical attacks were made before a week ago.”
“And then?” Bond’s tone had dropped subtly, turning his natural rumble into an avalanche growl. He was only bothering to pack the essentials, leaving the rest behind and knowing that he could recoup any personal losses easily once he was back in London. Speed of travel was more important now.
“Mr. Ree managed to trap Q in one of the sub-basements. Due to extensive renovations, it was one of many places that are not only out of the way, but fairly private.” M’s voice was solemn as she ploughed onwards stoically, “He physically assaulted Q, starting with what looks like slapping and escalating to abusing Q with a choke-collar that nearly suffocated him and left severe damage to his throat. That’s why we don’t have more specific details - Q is unable to talk easily as yet, although I worry more about the psychological damage.”
Bond’s eyes were cold but by now he was standing rigidly, not moving as if he were trying to encase a hurricane within his skin, and one tiny move could send it spiralling free. It was customary for all Pets to wear collars, their bodies reacting naturally with releases of serotonin and dopamine to the sensation of something around their necks. Similar reactions resulted when they were well-cared for, obviously, but in a situation of extreme stress like this, a collar would usually be a source of solace - but now Q would likely never wear one again, regardless of the comfort it could offer. 007 didn’t realize that he was growling low under his breath until M noted it.
“Before you ask, no, I don’t want you to deal with Mr. Ree. He’s already been taken into custody, and is in the process of being dealt with severely. I dare say that everyone feels about as much pity for him as you do.” Meaning no pity at all: Pets were precious, and something had to be deeply wrong with a person for them to consider hurting one with impunity. Even hitting a Pet once could get a man or woman just about mobbed if it was done in public, and Malcomb Ree had gone far beyond that. Actually, the extreme level of these actions spoke of a mental imbalance, but 007 usually kept out of such matters and left that to Psych.
“What are you calling me in for then?” James finally asked after taking a few subtle breaths to get his emotions under wraps. It came easily to him, unnaturally easy - Grim easy. Very few people flaunted the fact that they were Grims, because their ability to sublimate emotions and ‘go cold’ made many people very uneasy, if not outright scared (and what people feared, they persecuted). In James’s view, however, this skill was no more shameful than any other tool, and he used it unabashedly.
M’s reply came swiftly and unhesitantly, as firm as her iron spine, which was probably the only thing keeping MI6 upright these days, “Considering your training prior to the double-oh programme, you were the best candidate for repairing the damage. You’re being recalled to manage Q, because what with the progress he made before being attacked, I want him back.” From hearing just the hint of M’s temper that was showing through, James didn’t want to be in Ree’s shoes: he’d not only attacked a Pet, but he’d attacked what was clearly a very, very valuable MI6 employee and asset. Despite not being a Grim, M could watch men and women die like pawns on a chessboard, but she also made human connections more easily - connections to people like Q.
That, and it was just plain logical to be protective of skilled Quartermasters. Ree was going to suffer for this.
“Q needs to be soothed and retrained,” M summed up, her tone perhaps softening the barest of degrees, degrees that perhaps only James and a few others knew her well enough to hear. It settled something in Bond himself, something beneath the layers of armor and ice. “Mallory - another new installment here - has been keeping him stable, but he doesn’t have the background or familiarity with Pets that you do. Q’s agreed to your intervention and assistance already, but is also severely traumatized and largely non-verbal, so you’ll have to tread carefully.”
“Always do.” James slung his bag up over one shoulder, somehow managing to make it all work with his expensive suit and silk tie.
M’s tone was wry, “You never do.”
“Say that to the man who trained me. This I will take seriously,” James replied with far less blitheness, and headed out the door to catch the next flight home.
~^~
Bond had only met Q once, and it had been back before the unplanned demolition of MI6. The previous Quartermaster, a man with a balding head but young, calm eyes, had been working at a standing terminal with pen and paper in hand. Q - or whatever his name had been, before the title swallowed it whole - had been kneeling by his side, all big hazel eyes and tousled hair. Like any Pet, he looked perfectly at home there, as relaxed as a cat in a windowsill. The pad beneath his knees seemed comfortable, and the computer pad in his hands likewise looked fitting there, and James had indulged in a bit of staring as the lithe young man’s fingers danced dexterous patterns across the touch-screen. His pale skin looked like it didn’t get much sun, but it was well accented by the black leather collar he wore, snug and buckled with silver.
Pets made up a small percent of the population, but everyone was aware of them, so the rest of Q-branch went about its business with only occasional glances in the Pet’s direction.
At the time, Bond had been in to be outfitted for a new earpiece that would fit more snugly and be harder to see, so the old Quartermaster had stroked not-yet-Q’s head once, gently, to dismiss him. The bespectacled young man had smiled and unfolded himself from his kneeling position with enough grace to have 007 nodding in approval. From the start, Bond had admired and respected Q as a Pet, but it was only after M’s report that he likewise respected him as an effective Quartermaster of MI6. Bond had known M long enough to be able to read into her actions and tone, and that one phone call had said a lot about how much M wanted her new Quartermaster back at his post, which in turn said a lot about his abilities, especially with so little time to prove himself.
When Bond met Q for the second time, in a private room in Medical, he felt his Grim heart give a rare pang of sadness, seeing just how far the young man had fallen from the relaxed, graceful thing that he’d seen sitting comfortably at his old Quartermaster’s feet.
Q wore no collar now, his throat a vivid mass of scarlet and violet bruises instead, and opposed to kneeling comfortably he was curled up in a small ball in the room’s one chair. The chair was situated in the corner of the room and as far away from approaching visitors as he could get, with the bed between them. Q’s huge, expressive eyes were already on James, and despite the fact that he’d been warned about Bond’s visit, he looked terribly scared. His long legs were folded up close in front of him and the tape over his nose didn’t allow him to wear his glasses yet, completing the terrible picture.. Q’s eyesight was good enough to note someone entering the room, at least, and the Quartermaster trembled visibly as Bond entered. In the hospital scrubs and sans spectacles, he looked fragile, small, and far younger than his years.
Mallory was walking on Bond’s shadow. As Q’s keeper until now, Mallory knew the most about Q’s psychological condition, and had been dutifully filling James in. As Bond had expected, however, the other man was off-put and less than pleased with who was going to be taking over Q’s care, even though Mallory himself admitted that he didn’t know what more he could do, “Q can’t stand physical contact. All the Pets I’ve ever known thrive on physical touch, and I know that they can sicken and even die if it’s withheld,” Mallory had stressed en-route. Their pace had been easy and slow, so 007 took the offered time to soak in Mallory’s words with their frustrated edge. “I’ve touched him only a little bit more than the doctors have, and he’ll tolerate it for a moment or two - even lean into it - but then he’ll pull away,” Mallory finished in a tightly controlled voice that did nothing to hide the way his pace had increased and his posture had stiffened. James was trained to read people, so it was hardly difficult to see how bothered Mallory was by all of this, and if James weren’t a Grim, he might have sympathized.
Sympathy wasn’t something that James was good at, but patience was, so he just waited until the inevitable topic of his disposition arose. Mallory’s eyes slid his way, and M’s new second-in-command commented quite boldly, “When I heard that M was bringing in someone who’d know how to best rehabilitate a Pet, I wasn’t expecting that person to be a Grim, much less a 00-agent.”
Eyes forward, Bond let his mouth curve into a cool smile. “Which bothers you more?” he asked with equal audacity.
To his credit, Mallory didn’t react, but simply went on steadily, “M made clear that you had extensive training in the matter, and I looked up your records. I still find it hard to believe, because I’ve never heard of a Grim going through that kind of training - or even wanting to.”
“That’s probably because I’m the only one who has, at least to my knowledge,” James shrugged. M had told him to play nice, and since M apparently trusted Mallory… then 007 could, too. So he forewent the power-plays and games that he was so good at, and simply kept answering, “My mother was a Pet. It left me rather inclined to understand them.” ‘And feel for them. Even when I’m not inclined to understand and feel for anyone else,’ Bond thought but didn’t say. There was trusting someone and there was baring one’s soul to someone, and M’s trust of Mallory only encouraged 007 to go so far.
Now Mallory showed surprise. “That’s not in your file.”
To that, Bond had merely smiled a bit more blandly and increased his pace to step ahead. “I suppose you’ll just have to decide whether I’m lying about it or not, won’t you?” he offered jovially.
Now, Mallory was ahead of him again, and walking up to Q to make introductions, as was only proper between a Pet and a stranger. There were rules to be followed, rules of respect, and Bond was glad to see that Mallory knew them, despite his admittances of not really knowing how to handle Q at all. Q relaxed fractionally when Mallory stopped about two meters away, giving James a good idea how far Q’s eyesight went without glasses, and the young man leaned his head into Mallory’s customary touch to his hair, even if he didn’t smile. The cut healing on the left side of his mouth perhaps precluded smiling, and not for the first time, James had to fight a rare surge of emotions that rose hotly in his cold, cold core. Malcomb Ree deserved to die, and he deserved to die slowly for what he’d done to the Quartermaster of MI6.
“Q, this is James Bond, the agent that M and I discussed with you,” Mallory was saying, having removed his hand awkwardly. James wondered if he himself was the only one who saw the brief war of emotions in Q’s hazel eyes - desperate desire and crippling fear - before he stopped looking at the withdrawn hand and instead turned to glance shortsightedly Bond’s way. There was a stiff moment, as if Q were trying to recall a protocol that he barely knew anymore, but then he inclined his head to show he understood.
James remained where he was, just watching and assessing, gathering data in every little glance. He was learning things from Mallory, too, namely that the man was caring but definitely out of his depth. People tended to simplify Pets in their heads, forgetting that they could be terribly complicated. For example: everyone knew that Pets were very empathetic, being nearly opposite of Grims in their easy understanding of emotions. However, few people realized that it was virtually impossible to fake emotions around a Pet because of this - Bond had learned that the hard way, many times, until his teachers had finally gotten it through his head that he had to be genuine around a Pet if he wanted to get anywhere with them. For a man who fabricated ninety-nine-percent of his emotions, it was a tall order, but James was willing to put in the effort.
Right now, Q was probably reading Mallory’s clear worry and, frankly, pity in his movements and tone - or at least that was how Bond chose to interpret as the reason for Q’s growing frown and the tightness around his eyes. Both eye sockets were bruised, the left one being the worst, and it was Bond’s first instinct to approach and soothe it all somehow.
So he did.
The first thing Bond had learned about Q’s particular kind: they rarely, if ever, appreciated it when kind gestures were withheld. It would be like withholding sunlight from a lily, and Bond had actually seen people offend Pets by reaching out and then hesitating. Taking liberties was crass and rude, of course, so while 007 approached with self-assurance in his step (causing Mallory to stand up straight with surprise) he also watched Q’s expression carefully for landmines that he’d have to either avoid... or diffuse. The latter was really what M had brought him in for, because anyone could avoid someone’s scars, but only a few could find ways to heal them.
It looked like Mallory would step forward from the arm of Q’s chair to stop 007’s approach, but uncertainty stayed his hand, and that was all the opportunity Bond ever needed: he came forward unhurriedly but smoothly, not forcing a smile but letting his usual control on his emotions relax, until something small but warm bloomed in his chest. Q still pulled back from him, handshy for obvious reasons, but James got just close enough to reach out and stroke a fingertip down the back of Q’s left index finger.
The Quartermaster froze, a line forming between his brows and his eyes latching onto the small but unexpected gesture. It wasn’t quite intimate, but neither was it professional, and James knew for a fact that Q’s keen mind would be puzzling over how to categorize it - and James knew for a fact that curiosity was a good way to draw people in without force. And since Q had already been dealt with brutally, force was the last thing that he needed.
Q’s fingers twitched just the faintest bit at the end of Bond’s stroke, lifting from the arm of the chair, as if he felt a momentary need to reach up and catch Bond’s fingertip and halt the motion. Seeing that fleeting, involuntary gesture made James smile a small, real smile, and Q must have caught the expression when he looked up. Clearing his throat in a painful-sounding fashion, Q frowned and rasped in a voice barely above a whisper, but with crisp edges that appealed to 007’s ears, “You’re a Grim.” He made it sound like an accusation, as if he’d been lied to, or else as if Bond’s smile shouldn’t have been there.
If anything, the small, upward quirk of Bond’s mouth increased, amusement playing through the cool halls of his mind. He replied back in obvious terms, “I am. And you’re a Pet.”
Q ignored the hint of sass, pressing, “But you’re... I’m told you’re going to take me home.” Q had to clear his throat again in the middle of the sentence, and by the end he was wincing and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain of talking until tears leaked out. It moved something in James chest that rarely moved, and at the same time that Mallory did, 007 reached out in an involuntary urge to comfort. Bond’s hand curled over the back of the Quartermaster’s head while Mallory splayed one big hand across his back, and the two older men found themselves matching gazes over Q’s tousled hair.
Bond gauged the level of protectiveness in Mallory’s eyes, but before he had to decide whether it would be a problem… Mallory’s expression softened and his posture eased. Something in him gave and he nodded to Bond as if he’d finally understood or accepted something, and then backed off. Q was still hunched in on himself in pain, one hand lifted to his throat, and didn’t notice the conversation going on above him in body language and loaded looks.
“I’ll have a car brought around and report to M that you’ve taken possession of the Quartermaster,” Mallory eventually said, voice soft.
James - who, unlike Mallory, pressed his fingers deeper in the dark, wavy tresses of Q’s hair instead of pulling back - gave one more nod of acceptance, then tipped Q’s head gently with the lightest grip to his hair, so that their eyes met. “Yes, Q,” he belatedly answered the injured Quartermaster’s last sentence. He saw the warring trepidation and wounded hope in those intelligent, bruised eyes, and rumbled with soft invitation, “Will you come home with me, Pet, and let me make it all better?”
~^~
Grims were defined by emotions - or the lack of them. Pets were thought to be defined by their subservience, but Bond had learned that their pivotal trait was actually trust: trust that people would care for them, give them what they needed (be that respect or physical contact), and not take advantage of the trust they showed in others. Pets lived in a state of danger, in a sense, because they allowed touch very freely by nature, whereas a Grim like James would always be guarded against even the subtlest of touches.
Now Q was more like him, huddled in the passenger seat of Bond’s car and leaning noticeably away from his companion, body-language closed and shoulders up. As a person, Q knew self-defense - everyone at MI6 went through a certain amount of mandatory training - but as a Pet, he shouldn’t have needed it, and that made 007 both more sad and more furious than he usually felt about anything.
They’d not said a word to one another beyond utilitarian phrases since leaving Medical, but now Q shifted and cleared his throat again, the painful sound of it becoming familiar. “M trusts you. Trusts you with me, a Pet.” Q had to stop, and gather his voice again. Considering that Q had had a week to heal but was still having this much trouble speaking, the damage to his throat must have been extensive - either that, or some of Q’s silence was psychological, a result of being attacked where no one could hear him cry for help. Bond was determined to see both issues resolved. Q managed a longer sentence this time with his quiet rasp, “I never thought that she’d trust a Grim that much.”
“M and I have known each other a lot longer than most in this profession,” Bond allowed with a wry quirk of one side of his mouth. He kept his eyes on the road even though he was aware that Q was staring at him. The younger man was probably watching and listening for signs of a lie - something that even the youngest and most naive of Pets was very, very good at, and while Q was youthful he was not naive. Or, if he had been, the brutal attack by Ree had stripped him of it. That single reminder had Bond’s smile falling away, and he drummed the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel even as he maneuvered through traffic. “Do you think that her trust is enough for you?” Bond asked, voice soft, calm, and even, carefully lacking in any accusation because it was a legitimate question, and if the answer was ‘no,’ 007 would very likely have to turn around and take Q back to MI6.
Q shifted where he sat, plucking at his seatbelt and looking down at his bandaged knuckles - he had put up a fight, even if he’d been outmatched. He was feisty, and Bond knew that, and hoped that he could bring that side out from behind the fear and anxiety and depressed introspection that he was reading all over Q’s demeanor right now. “It’s enough,” Q finally whispered, almost too softly to hear, and 007 felt his shoulders relax from tension he hadn’t known he was carrying.
Still, James had to press, “You’ll trust me to be your keeper this weekend?”
The Quartermaster still didn’t lift his eyes, and his voice was dull and somber beneath the hoarseness of it, “Yes.”
Bond felt a disgruntled growl start in the back of his throat, but suppressed it. He didn’t want an unwilling partner in this, but he doubted that he’d get a one-hundred-percent eager one either - if Q were that enthusiastic, then he wouldn’t need any rehabilitation. So far as Pets went, Q was damaged goods right now, and M had assigned Bond to correct that (something that Bond took personally, because Pets had never been just ‘goods’ to him). Still pulling no punches because this was a serious matter, 007 asked once more, “You’ll trust me to retrain you?”
Q’s head twitched upwards at that, and his eyes flicked up, looking past a thick fall of wavy, dark bangs to fix on Bond’s face. Q’s glasses were in a case, along with a duffel bag of his things in the back seat, but he could see well enough at this distance, 007 wagered - well enough to see that 007’s expression was stern but also open, a winter landscape devoid of summer’s leafy green clutter. By the way Q’s mouth turned down at the edges and his brows drew together, he didn’t know what to make of that, coming from a 00-agent who kept secrets for a living. Finally, the younger man answered, “I need retraining.”
“That wasn’t my question. Do you trust me to do it?”
This time Q made a pained noise of avoidance and dropped his eyes again, and Bond let it go. Whether Q was dodging the question or not was moot, because Bond knew that Q’s throat was hurting him, and the last thing James wanted was to cause the Quartermaster more pain.
So, instead of letting his question fester while he awaited an answer, James just started to talk. “I’m going to set you up in my house as if you were my own Pet.” He purposefully didn’t glance over when his peripheral vision caught movement, as he caught Q’s attention again. “You’ll have your phone within reach - always - and I trust that you of all people will be able to send an alert to MI6 should I do anything you don’t like.” That’s where Ree had been smart: he’d caught Q without his tech, without a mobile to call for help on. The Quartermaster remained curled up like a pill-bug in the passenger seat, but 007 was above all patient, and hoped that he was sowing seeds of trust that would bloom with tending and time. “You’ll be with me at all times, whether I’m eating or cleaning my gun. That includes sleeping with me.” Q actually didn’t react much to that, which assured 007 that Ree’s attack hadn’t had a sexual component. Hearing it from Medical wasn’t the same as seeing evidence for himself that Q’s attack had been restricted to punches and blows, and most Pets were very relaxed regarding sex - until they were hurt. Sex wasn’t what James had in mind, though, but he’d leave Q guessing. This was an exercise in trust, and part of the trust between a Pet and his or her keeper was letting said keeper take over important decisions like that.
“You’ve kept…?” Q was unable to finish the sentence, as his throat constricted painfully, a wince radiating throughout his whole body.
Bond obliged to finish for him with a faint, cool, upward tilt of his lips, “Have I ever kept Pets before, being a heartless old Grim? Yes, I have. Or did M neglect to mention my background?”
“It’s interesting, that’s all,” was all Q croaked out in regards to Bond’s background, and he looked so perturbed that James actually laughed - which garnered him a truly startled expression this time, because a real laugh wasn’t something that Grims did often. And this was a real laugh. Bond was learning more about his Quartermaster by the second, and clearly the boffin didn’t like not understanding things, and at the top of his ‘do not understand’ list sat James Bond right now: spy, assassin, Grimm, and graduate not only from a university that had primed him for the Navy but another, more selective, sensual school that had taught him how Pets were best handled… and how they liked to be handled.
They went silent again for the rest of the drive, with the exception of a few more topics, largely mundane in nature: allergies, triggers, various bits that Bond needed to know about Q if they were to get along in even the remotest fashion. Most of it he’d already gotten from the dossier given to him, but hearing things by mouth had always appealed to James more than paper, because lips had a harder time slipping lies past him than a stoic, printed page did. He kept the questions to the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ variety as much as he could, and therefore Q’s voice was spared as much as possible before Bond returned to the question that Q hadn’t answered, just as they were pulling up to the curb in front of Bond’s building. The agent switched off the engine and turned to Q, who fidgeted but briefly met his eyes. “Q?” That garnered another fleeting rise of hazel irises. Bond ploughed onwards as calmly and steadily as a true ship through icy seas, “I’m going to push you, and I need to know when you’ll push back, and when you’ll trust me to keep pushing.”
There was that uncomfortable throat clearing again, and this time Q grimaced and lifted a hand to his neck with a wincing little whine. James wanted to soothe the sound away, but this time he remained where he was, turning in the seat and waiting for a reply of some kind to show that this would work - because Bond knew that if he pushed on something that wouldn’t give, the only result would be him breaking it. He needed to know that Q would bend.
Since they didn’t actually know each other besides brief looks and detailed files, this depended entirely on second-hand trust and rumors - Bond rather hoped that the former outweighed the latter, because he had a pretty good idea what the rumor-mill said about the notorious 007. M was a more dependable source, and had presumably told Q that there was more to James than the Grim that killed and fucked his way through missions at a terrifying pace. Still, even for a Pet, that was a very small thread to hang one’s health and safety on, especially with Q already at a disadvantage because of his injuries.
Whatever M had said to Q must have been convincing, however, because after absently touching the pink tip of his tongue to his cut lip - the split deep enough that it had one stitch holding it closed still - Q hesitantly raised his eyes again. His hazel gaze searched Bond’s face uncertainly, but finally he nodded and… stretched out his hand. Bandages still wrapped from his knuckles around the distal part of his palm, and hand-shaped bruises encircled his wrist almost badly as his throat, but the Quartermaster silently extended the limb with only minimal shaking.
Instead of taking Q’s hand like he was shaking on a deal, James made a low noise of pleased approval and leaned forward to press his mouth against the base of Q’s thumb, then tilted his head further to scrape his chin and cheek gently against the younger man’s palm. He felt slender fingers spasm against the underside of his jaw, and this time when Q shivered, 007 was willing to bet that it wasn’t entirely with trepidation, even as Bond drew back and said politely, “Shall we go in then?”