If Night Falls, Use Stars for Streetlights | THREE
Title: If Night Falls, Use Stars for Streetlights
By: revenant_scribe
Chapter THREE:
Fandom: Bond Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG-13 | Word Count: 10,323
In the grip of its coldest winter to date, Russians are warming to the angry rhetoric of former Communist boss Ivan Tretiak. Now a billionaire oil magnate and leader of his own political party, Tretiak told reporters that the civil unrest engulfing Russia will only worsen unless Reformist president Victor Karpov can overcome the heating-oil shortage that has already killed scores of Russians. In a speech he delivered at his company, Tretiak called on all elements of the Russian army who are opposed to elected government to seize control and end the heating oil crisis.
-Channel 4 News, London
Soft morning light is filtering in through the sheer curtains. Q lies in bed, drifting slowly out of sleep as he savors the sensation of being bonelessly relaxed and deliciously warm and comfortable. It's the first morning in recent memory that he hasn't snapped into wakefulness worrying about a meeting, or because he had some sort of breakthrough in the night. Thought he had a breakthrough, at least. His work has been slow-going but it's all been worth it, and he's so very close now. Just a few sequencing issues to make certain everything is safe but he's done it. No one can fault him for celebrating a little early.
Q rubs a hand over his eyes, groping for his glasses on the nightstand. "Thomas?" He doesn't expect an answer and isn't really surprised when he receives none. Disappointed, possibly, but not surprised.
Rolling out of bed with some effort, Q wraps his sheets around himself like a toga and begins shuffling in the direction of his kitchen. It's possible, he considers with a smile, that Thomas might be sitting out in the living room, fully dressed and drinking some fresh brewed tea. Perhaps he even brewed a whole pot and there will be a mug set out for Q. That would be delightful.
The flat is empty.
"Good morning," he greets his fish, tapping their food out into the tank before switching his kettle on. When he opens his fridge there is a new carton of milk and a cheese Danish still in it's Styrofoam container. It's from Q's favorite coffee shop. He doesn't remember stopping by there and the realization of where it must have come from trumps his curiosity about how Thomas might possibly know his favorite coffee shop. There are an inordinate number of little coffee klatches in Oxford, but this particular one is quite close to Q's flat, probably Thomas picked it out of convenience.
It's a thoughtful treat, at any rate. The Danish is freshly baked and delicious and Q thinks that it's the next best thing to a fresh brewed pot of tea. Certainly better than a bedmate who disappeared with the morning light leaving no trace to show he had ever existed.
Well, there are traces of Thomas about the flat, most notably in the river of Q's clothes that leads him wandering back into his bedroom, passing time until the kettle boils. The bed is rumpled, more so than it usually is, and the lubricant is sitting uncapped beside an opened box of condoms on the night table. The sight makes him smile, feeling oddly proud of himself.
Finishing off his Danish Q considers the rest of his day. He'll have to shower, and change his sheets. He has no classes or lectures, and he considers taking the day to simply relax, put his feet up, and maybe do some washing up, if anything.
The kettle is hissing and as Q turns back to the kitchen his eyes catch on his notecards folded on his dresser. The sight of them doesn't make him want to rush out to the labs or hunch over them at his desk and start work. They're there waiting for him when he's ready, but a break is well deserved, he thinks, and a long time in coming.
Except something isn't right. The cards look too fresh, too pristine. He re-writes them now and again when the constant handling makes the paper crumbly under his fingers. Those pages are his life's work, he knows them and something is wrong. "Please no," he whispers as he reaches out, picks up one folded piece and unfurls it. "I'm sorry," it reads.
His breath is constricting in his throat, he feels hot and cold at once, and his vision is tunneling as he opens the next card: "I'm sorry", and the next, "I'm sorry" and the next "I'm sorry".
Six notecards with the same apology. "No. Please, no," Q begs, but the flat is empty and no one is listening.
_______________________________________________________
The first and most important rule that Bond has is this: If he does a job, he gets paid for it.
As it is a fairly simple rule filled with words of a single syllables it should be fairly simple to understand, but over the course of his career there have been times when the person Bond is working for at the time has difficulty comprehending it nonetheless.
Tretiak hired him to do the job for three million dollars, and then promised him three million more to see it through, but the total in Bond's account remains unchanged.
This is a good thing, Bond tells himself. Just as he needs it most here is the perfect distraction, wrangling six million pounds out of a Russian Mafioso. Better than sitting around his house adjusting to retired life. Better than dwelling.
He took everything from Q: the research that was all on the man's computer hard drive and the formula that was written out on the cards. Bond sent it all to Tretiak, held nothing back lest the man decide that he still had an interest in the young electrochemist. The accusations that Tretiak is making now, that the formula is incomplete is ridiculous.
Bond was hired to steal cold fusion and that's what he did. If his employer is incapable of understanding it, or completing the research, that's hardly Bond's fault, he did his part and for that he expects payment.
As he attempts to explain this to Tretiak, however, Bond realizes that the man is being intentionally obtuse, trying to keep Bond on the line and in place. Trying, undoubtedly, to tie-up his loose ends. Why payout six million pounds if you can simply kill the thief you hired?
Cutting off the connection, Bond grabs his jacket and leaves the house. He hijacks a car in the garage across the way and blends into afternoon traffic as if he hasn't a care in the world. Turning off the side-road Bond passes a darkly tinted SUV, the front passenger window is rolled down just enough that Bond catches a glimpse of Ilya Tretiak's narrow-eyed glare but the man is looking up at the passing buildings and doesn't notice him.
Ilya isn't Bond's concern. He's on his way to Moscow to ensure that he at least has something to show for this mess, and to do that he must find Ivan.
_______________________________________________________
He's been in a state of shock for most of the morning, Q supposes that would explain why he feels numb, why he can't remember what happened after he realized his formula had been taken, why he has no idea how long he's been sitting at this desk in Scotland Yard, why he doesn't even remember driving into London.
One moment he was shaking Inspector Mallory's hand, being offered a seat by the man's partner, Inspector Moneypenny, and then Q blinks and suddenly it's almost lunch and Mallory is setting out pieces of paper across his desk, sketches of men's faces. Moneypenny is smiling at him, speaking softly like she thinks Q is about to fall apart, which is possibly true. "Just take a look," she says.
Q looks at each one very carefully. Something in the eyes of the one on the right, something in the jawline in this other one, or the hair of that one, but none of them look like Thomas, except perhaps, "This one," he says, picking up one of the sketches and holding it out. "But without the beard. His hair was different, too and his eyes were blue, not brown like it says here. But otherwise…"
Moneypenny and Mallory share a look, and while Moneypenny takes the sketch and heads off someplace, hopefully to start a global manhunt for the sonofabitch, Mallory looks at Q and clears his throat. There's a sympathetic smile on his face as he says, "You see, we believe they're all the same villain."
"I don't understand," Q says, trying to focus. There's a desk full of faces staring up at him. "They're all him?"
"We believe so, yes."
Q loses track of things again. When he tunes back in Moneypenny has returned and is saying, "We've got a handful of false identities from passports and leases, but not much to go on. It's never personal for him, you see. Often it's difficult to even be certain the witnesses we talk to are describing the same man except…"
"Except he has a certain style," Mallory finishes.
Q nods, though he's not really following. He understands that Thomas, or whatever the bastard's name is, has quite the reputation. That he's done this sort of thing before, and that Scotland Yard has been working on capturing him for years and has come up with what basically amounts to nothing. Cold fusion has been taken from Q, who knows who has gotten hold of it now.
The sketches have been cleared to the side of the desk, and Q glances over that the tidy stack they make. "What are they?" he asks. "The names?"
Again the two inspectors share a look. Q very much wishes they would stop doing that, it makes him feel like a child. Moneypenny shifts, pulling a piece of paper from out of a folder and recites, "Nicholas Owen, Louie Guanella, Peter Damian, Charles Borroneo…." She trails off when Q begins to laugh. "Something we should know?"
"Thomas More," he says, shaking his head. Both inspectors are looking at him blankly, so explains, "They're all Catholic saints."
He isn't thanked for this revelation, and both inspectors keep their expressions flat as if this was a conclusion they had long ago drawn. Mallory jots a note in his notebook, and Q tries not to smirk. Increasingly his confidence in the Yard is falling. Moneypenny smiles that sugar-sweet warm smile and says, "He eluded a hit squad earlier today at Holland Park. There was a bit of a car chase, you might have overheard on the radio. It was quite a mess. Anyway, we think he's probably left the UK. We can…"
"Excuse me," Q blurts, cutting her off and then catching himself. "I'm sorry, I just…I'd like to go home, if we're done here."
"Certainly, if you'd like," Moneypenny replies easily. "We'll arrange for an escort."
Q shakes his head. "No, thank you. That won't be necessary."
"He might come back," she explains gently.
"Has he, though? All these faces of yours, has he ever once returned once he got what he wanted?" The look the inspectors share is answer enough, so Q says, "I think I'll be fine."
"You're refusing protection?" Mallory clarifies.
Involuntarily, Q's fists clench. "If he comes back, he'll be the one needing the protection."
Q leaves Scotland Yard but he doesn't go home.
He was arrogant and reckless, he can admit that. It wasn't that he didn't think his research needed to be protected, quite the opposite. He's spent enough time in academia to hear all the stories about stolen thesis ideas and the like. It's a cutthroat line of work; reputations, careers and awards are all at stake. If it worked, cold fusion would be the sort of thing that would be considered for the Nobel Prize, of course there are people who would steal it.
Q protected his work with a bit of misdirection. His reputation with computers was well known on campus. There had been a brief moment in high school when he imagined he might prefer a career in engineering or computer sciences. His computer would be the most obvious place to keep his research, but he wasn't the only computer genius in the world and he didn't want to spend valuable time updated his security protocols, constantly trying to protect his real life's work.
So he kept just enough security on his computer to suggest he had something worth protecting on it. He saved his basic research notes in the most obvious way possible: in a file titled 'cold fusion', and everything worth taking, he kept on folded cards tucked safely in his pants, against his skin so he would know the moment they left his side.
Q genuinely didn't believe anyone would be so persistent. He'd been prepared for another greedy scientist with their eye on prestige and acclaim not … not whatever Thomas was.
In retrospect, that was probably the point. It's plainly obvious how perfectly Thomas had manipulated him. Notecards. In his underwear, against his damned skin, and it hadn't occurred to him that some outrageously attractive bloke who just happened to be passing through Oxford, who just happened to notice Q out of everyone, wasn't potentially after cold fusion.
What an idiot he was.
He pulls his laptop from the backseat, scrunching down behind the wheel of his parked Volvo as it boots up. Now that Q knows what the game is, he's ready to make his own move.
It's quick work to gain backdoor access into Heathrow's passenger lists for the past eight hours. He comes up with two possible names: Isadore Bakanja, and Vincent Ferrer. A bit more typing gets him the passport photographs of both men. He books a ticket for Moscow.
_______________________________________________________
Russia never used to make Bond feel angry. At most he could claim a vague indifference to it. Now it has become synonymous with bad weather, bad luck and bad situations. Presently Bond finds himself weighing the merits of killing Ivan Tretiak and simply calling the whole mess even.
"Mister Tretiak, sir," the bouncer of the club says, dipping his head respectfully and standing aside for Bond to enter. "I didn't see you step out."
"So what?" Bond snarls, deepening his voice and slurring his words in that distinctly Russian accent. "I wanted air. Get out of my way."
The other reason for Bond's bad mood is that he is currently disguised as Ivan Tretiak in order to infiltrate this particular nightclub with as little fuss as possible. It involves wearing one of the most uncomfortable full-beards in combination with a shoulder-length stringy and partially balding wig. Given his present feelings toward Tretiak, every time Bond catches his own reflection in something he feels like ripping his own head off. He is supposed to be enjoying his own retirement, not trudging around this infernal country, braving the red-lit gloom of a seedy nightclub.
There's people dancing at the center of the room, people sipping drinks in the booths scattered about, and people cheering and shouting as they conglomerate around a glass-paneled wall behind which rats are racing. The real Ivan Tretiak is en route to the bathroom and Bond takes his opportunity to infiltrate the man's private room where four leggy women in form-fitting dresses and impossibly tall high-heels are reclining with three of Tretiak's entourage.
"Get out. Get out. I want to be alone," he grumbles, reaching for the bottle of Vodka sitting on the table as he glares. The women pout at him; one runs a hand along his shoulder as she leaves as if hoping he might invite her to stay. The men spring to their feet and hurry out. Bond pulls the curtain closed behind them.
When it swishes aside a moment later it is because Ivan Tretiak has made his way back. Bond waits as the man drops heavily onto the seat, reaching for his glass only to pause when he finally notices Bond. "What is this?" Then Ivan's expression changes, undoubtedly putting the pieces together.
Bond pulls out his knife before Ivan manages to shout for his guards. "Do you know who I am?" Bond asks. "I'm the thief you tried to cheat." With his free hand, Bond reaches for his mobile and hands it over, a number already selected on the screen. "This is your accountant," he says, when Tretiak cautiously accepts the phone. "Talk to him."
When Tretiak finally disconnects the call Bond takes back his phone with a smile. "That wasn't too difficult, was it?" He leaves Tretiak cursing and snarling behind him, pausing by a man he recognizes from among Tretiak's bodyguards and says, "There's an impostor in there. Get him out." Then he exits the club and returns to his hotel.
Bond has what he came for but as long as he's in Moscow he runs the risk of getting caught by Tretiak. Wasting no time he sheds his disguise and checks out of his hotel. He's done. Over fifty million of hard currency in his account and he's officially retired. From this point forward he can do whatever he wants.
"Have a safe flight, Mister Ferrer," the hotel desk clerk says with a warm smile.
"Thank you." Bond takes the receipt she offers him and then makes his way to the hotel bar for a celebratory drink. He has some time to kill before his flight.
Sliding onto a bar stool, he flags down the waiter. "Vodka martini, please." As the bartender moves off Bond takes a cursory glance of the room. It's a small space, intimately lit and there are a handful of people, couples mostly, occupying a few of the tables on the far side.
There's only one other person sitting at the bar a few seats over. Bond notices the shoes first. Close-fitting black leather boots that stop just slightly above the ankle. They only draw his attention because the right boot is fidgeting, tapping up and down in nervous agitation.
From there, however, Bond can't help but scan upward. Soft, dark grey trousers covering lean legs, a deep plum cardigan over a grey-black button-down that has a faint sheen, a loosened tie. He notes the long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bar top and it's the fingers more than anything else that make him hesitate, his Martini stalled halfway to his mouth. "Q?"
Q turns to look at him and Bond feels a momentary, inexplicable rush of relief and pleasure to see the young scientist. This is quickly overcome by common sense. It is very evident that Q is furious. "Nice hair," Q says, his eyebrows raised and his expression frosty. "Is it a wig?"
Bond shifts to the stool on Q's right, hoping that this situation might be contained. "Let me explain."
"That's not necessary. I'm certain I know exactly what's happening here."
He's probably right so Bond lets it lie, jumping instead to the most relevant and perplexing issue: "How did you find me?"
Q's fingertips are still beating out an agitated rhythm on the bar top. "Please," he says, as if Bond has just insulted his intelligence by implying it might have been difficult to track Bond anywhere. With a huff, the younger man continues, "Two men with saints names flew out of Heathrow yesterday. Isadore Bakanja is a short balding African, but Vincent Ferrer …"
"…is named after a saint who betrayed his closest friend."
Instantly, Q's fingers stop tapping, but Bond notices the younger man's nostrils flare, his teeth plainly grinding. "I want my cards back," Q demands.
"You flew all this way for your cards?"
"Yes. Of course."
Bond finishes off his martini and then faces Q squarely. "No. I don't think so."
"Oh really." Q looks unimpressed. "Why did I, then?"
"I think you flew here because you're in love."
Bond holds Q's gaze, noting how the younger man's expression changes. He's flushed and his eyes are bright but Bond doesn't think that's out of anger anymore. They can work this out. Q will understand.
Then the young scientist starts to laugh, harsh and maybe a little hysterical, a giggling eruption of sound. "You arrogant, delusional bastard."
Bond rests his hand carefully atop the other man's forearm. "…Q"
"Don't call me that," Q hisses, his laughter abruptly cutting off and his anger glittering and sharp, returned in full force. "Don't you dare."
"Please, Q…"
Q slaps him clean across the face, a sharp pain like a whip cracking. "Did you hear what I said? Don't ever call me that again." Q shakes his head. Bond thinks the other man looks as if he's caught somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. "Who are you?"
"Nobody has a clue, me least of all." Cheek stinging, Bond waves down the bartender and asks for another drink.
"Well that's very philosophical, and terribly convenient." Q lapses into a short silence, and then asks, "Why did you do it? Why would you steal cold fusion? It's free."
"Six million reasons."
"Is that all?" Q scoffs.
Movement at the front of the hotel diverts Bond's attention. Three men he recognizes from among Tretiak's henchmen are striding through the front entrance. He reaches out again, taking a firmer grip on Q's forearm until he is certain he has the younger man's full attention. "You have to get away from me. Do you understand?"
"I don't 'have' to do anything."
Bond shakes his head, his gaze shifting from the three men who are clearly searching for someone, back to Q. "For your own safety, I need…."
"Fuck that," Q snaps. "Tell me why you lied to me."
"I lied to you? You almost got me killed!"
Q blinks, startled. "What?"
Rolling his eyes, Bond says, "The person who hired me says the formula doesn't work."
"Everything you need to know in order to make cold fusion work is on those cards. It's hardly my fault if your employer isn't an electrochemist."
One of the henchmen is by the front desk, another is blocking off any chance of escape through the main entrance. Bond has momentarily lost track of the third, but finds him again making his way into the bar area. He lowers his voice and turns his back to the door. "Preen later, Q. Right now, you have to go. You don't know what you're dealing with here."
"I'm an Oxford graduate, an electrochemist and a genius, Mister Whoever. I promise you I'll catch on quick enough. I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready."
Q finishes saying this at the precise moment that a wide, heavy hand drops down on Bond's right shoulder and a gruff Russian voice declares, "You're coming with us." There's a brief moment where Bond thinks it might just be possible that Tretiak hasn't noticed that Q has entered the country. Maybe the henchmen are simply interested in Bond.
Then the man wraps a thick hand around the back of Q's neck and says, "Both of you."
_______________________________________________________
When he was a little boy Q's parents were going to take him along on a trip to Japan but Q's doctors, of which there were many, all insisted that it was too risky. His heart made lots of things impossible for him; Q has never been anywhere outside of England, has never played sports or even a game of tag, even public speaking sometimes causes him difficulties.
He has no idea why he ever thought going to Moscow and chasing after a thief might be a reasonable course of action. Q suspects that if, at any point along the way, he had actually stopped to think about what he was doing, he would have been against it. As it was, he never once stopped and so he never had the opportunity to regain his senses.
He managed the flight just fine, with the aid of one of his heart pills and a glass of scotch. Q's doctors also advised against drinking in conjunction with his medication, but as he arrived in Moscow without any difficulties he feels as if he should write them a letter denouncing them as idiots. He even handled his confrontation with Thomas - Vincent -- whatever his name is just fine, thank you.
Of course, that was before the giant burly Russian men with guns had muscled him out of the hotel and into the back of a van. His hands are fastened behind his back in bloody handcuffs, which is also a new experience, and an unwelcome one. He's freezing cold because he'd driven straight from the Yard to Heathrow, not bothering to stop and pack a bag, or at least pick-up a proper coat. So here he is in his bloody tweed coat rather than his parka, with no gloves and no hat and … and his vision is tunneling and he can't think clearly and really, he came all this way, proved cold fusion despite the odds, got on an airplane despite doctors' advice and now he's going to die here, in bloody Russia, in the back of a van with a man who has no name whatsoever and delusions of bloody sainthood….
"I can't." Q realizes suddenly that he's been repeating this for some time. "I can't…"
"Shh," Thomas or Vincent or whoever is saying. "Shh. Just breathe. Q, stay with me. What do you need?"
"My heart," Q tries to explain. "I can't. … I have…." He can't catch his breath, can't think straight, can't take any more of this.
"I know," Thomas says. "Keep breathing. Talk to me."
When he glances up from his own hands, which he has been holding over his eyes, Q notices that Thomas' breaths are coming in great rolling inhales that puff his chest up, and heaving exhales that seem to bow the man forward. He spends a moment trying to mimic the man's inhales and exhales, and ends-up panicking over his own imminent death when he starts coughing and it feels like he will never taste oxygen again. The entire car is spinning and there's a loud bang that Q thinks is probably the men with guns coming round to kill him with their gunfire even though his own bloody heart is killing him just fine, thank you, and the entire world is becoming bitingly cold, so cold so very quickly that he thinks maybe he's already dead, trapped inside his own body as it starts to wither away.
His coughing eases for a moment and Q returns to himself long enough to realize that the 'bang' was the sound of his own body falling off its perch on the bench. He's lying in an awkward contortion on the metal floor of the truck, his wrists pressing uncomfortably against the sharp metal of the handcuffs. "Q," Thomas is saying. "Q! It's all right. You need to calm down and breathe."
It feels like a struggle worthy of one of Hercules' labors, but he manages to pull himself off the ground, bracing his forehead on Thomas' knee as he tries to catch his breath, tries to stop the world from spinning apart around him.
"How many pills do you need?"
"They took my pills."
"No. I palmed them from your pocket. How many?" Q doesn't understand what Thomas is saying. The scratchy-soft fabric of the man's trousers feels good against his cheek, grounding. Someone is asking him about numbers so he begins to count.
Suddenly his perch shifts, not enough to dislodge him, but Q becomes aware of a weight settling on his shoulder, heat like a furnace roaring in the right side of his face and neck. When he squints open his eyes he realizes that Thomas is bent over him, his head resting against Q's shoulder. "Are you with me?" he asks, and Q manages a shaky nod. "I have your pills. Tell me how many you need."
"I need one. No, two. I need … " he starts coughing, and then Thomas is shifting and Q is dislodged from his comfortable perch completely.
He tries to find the breath to complain but in the next moment Thomas says, "I have two. In my right palm." He's shifting awkwardly on the bench, moving to sit sideways so his hands, that are also cuffed behind his back, are facing Q, the man's right hand stretched flat, with two round little pills sitting just there, at the center of his palm.
Q balks. "How do I know it's not poison?"
Oh god, he thinks to himself. He's being irrational. It's a symptom he knows. A part of him still clasping desperately at logic and reason feels silly to hear himself saying these things, but most of him is entirely certain that this is some sort of elaborate plot to murder him. "I don't even know who you are. How do I know those are my pills…?"
"Q." Thomas' voice is steady and warm. "They're your pills. Now take your medicine like a good boy. Right from my hand."
There's a brief moment of rationality that descends on him, and Q uses it to glare. "You insufferable, arrogant, prig."
Thomas meets his accusing stare head on, eyes impossibly bright and blue. "Trust me."
God help him. It's ridiculous, but somehow Q does trust this man. He shuffles forward on his knees and bends forward, eating the pills out of Thomas' hand and swallowing them down dry from years of practice. Then he collapses down onto his arse and tries to catch his breath, waiting for them to start to work.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but it doesn't feel terribly long before Q has stopped coughing and gasping for breath, becoming aware that somewhere during his distraction Thomas has shifted their positions, likely in an effort to provide, albeit limited, support. At any rate, Q's heart no longer feels as if it is about burst out of his chest, and though Q is still certain that he is about to die, he is equally certain that this is because he has been taken hostage by men with automatic weapons and not because he is still feeling paranoid.
When he glances up Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Better?"
Q's heart is still racing, though he is rather embarrassed to realize this is because he's now sitting in the V of Thomas' legs, the back of his neck braced on Thomas' left thigh, and he just ate out of the man's palm. He's mortified, and also rather inappropriately aroused.
Rather than explain any of this to Thomas, however, Q simply nods and tries to get himself under control. Which is why he almost jumps out of his skin when Thomas flashes him a devil's grin and says, "While you're down there…"
"What?" Q squawks. "I'm not…!" He skitters back to the far side of the truck.
Thomas pauses in the middle of finishing his statement, knowing amusement shining in his eyes as he says, "Get the pocket knife out of my boot."
Q glances down to the man's left boot where there is a faint glint spurring out of the back heel. "Oh," he says. "Of course."
_______________________________________________________
Bond isn't a doctor but he's almost certain that Q shouldn't be running around so soon following an attack. He's weak and exhausted, that much is obvious, but he hasn't made a single complaint. It's not as if they have a choice, at any rate. If Tretiak's men catch up to them Bond will be shot and killed, and Q will be captured. He isn't certain which fate is worse; even if Q cooperates fully it's unlikely Tretiak will let the young scientist go. Bond keeps them moving at a brisk pace.
"Why are they after me?" Q asks as he follows Bond around the corner.
"How closely do you follow the news?" Bond asks, glancing over. When Q looks at him somewhat blankly Bond is remembers that he is speaking to a man who has to write post-it notes lest he forget to eat or change out of his pajamas before leaving his flat, what are the odds he remembers to turn on the radio or television in time for the news. Taking a chance, Bond says, "I was hired by Ivan Tretiak."
"Oh," Q interrupts eagerly. "That name sounds familiar." His expression plainly reads: 'See? I know things!'
Bond smirks, preparing to make a retort when a siren whirs, it's getting closer. Hurriedly he shoves Q up against the wall of a corner shop, pressing their bodies close as he kisses the younger man, deep and wet, his knee between Q's thighs. A second later, Q's hands come up, his fingers tangling in Bond's hair as he moans, rolls his hips against Bond's leg and starts kissing back rather enthusiastically.
The moment the sirens recede Bond steps away. "What?" Q asks, breathless and dazed. "What?"
Bond catches his breath and keeps walking, picking up as if there had never been any interruption at all. "Tretiak essentially owns this city, including the police. He wants you because right now you're the only person who knows how to make cold fusion work. We have to convince him that he doesn't want anything from you."
"Okay," Q says, and then grabs a fistful of Bond's jacket, jerking him to a stop. "What do you want from me?"
The answer should be simple. It isn't.
Bond finds himself leaning back into Q's warmth, kissing the man again this time slower. He risks only a brief moment, conscious always that they are exposed standing on the side of a busy street. "Are you certain the formula works?"
Q offers him an exasperated look. "Don't be stupid. Of course." Then his gaze shifts and he yanks Bond close again. "Kiss me." There are two policemen walking in their direction, and so Bond pushes Q back into the wall, their mouths locked until he can be certain the police are gone.
"It's just a question of the order," Q admits after casting a suspicious look down the road. "The sequencing, I'm still working on that. And I should say that if you want me to complete my life's work just to hand it over to a tyrant I won't cooperate."
Catching hold of the man's wrist, Bond leads him off the road, up a set of cement steps leading to a park area. "Tretiak will find you. He found me, and that's a difficult thing to do."
Q tugs gently on his hand until Bond glances back, then he raises his eyebrows and points out, "I found you."
They've made peace out of necessity, Bond reminds himself. It wasn't all that long ago that Q was smacking him across the face. It's not the moment to start working through any of this mess except for the most pressing piece of it: getting Tretiak off their tail. Bond gets them walking again and asks, "What do you need to make this work?"
For a moment Q's eyes shift away, and Bond has countless moments in which to imagine any number of scenarios where Q runs away, or refuses to cooperate. Then the man's green eyes fix back on Bond and he says, "I need some time. And a quiet place to work where I don't have to worry about men with guns running in and shooting me."
Bond nods. "That can be arranged."
_______________________________________________________
People are streaming into the train station, eager to leave the city and reach friends or relatives in the countryside where they can chop trees for firewood. There is no heat in Moscow. There is anonymity in the crowd, and whereas usually he would find trains preferable for quick escapes the weather makes it a very bad idea. Bond needs a plan, which means he needs money and passports, both of which he has stashed in a locker as a safety precaution. Rule four: always have an exit strategy in place.
They navigate through the pressing crowd as Bond says, "Two hours," repeating the scientist's rough estimate on how long it will take to finish the sequencing. "That's enough time to get our passports together and get married." He reaches his locker, entering the code quickly and pulling it open.
"What?" Q sputters. "I didn't think they did that sort of thing here."
Bond is not thinking about Russia, he has no intention of leaving Q's side when they get back to England. He finds the passport he was looking for and holds it out to his companion. "I want you to be Mister Martin de Porres."
Q takes the passport as Bond turns back to the locker. He's got emergency money in here that he keeps along with weapons, clothes. Anything he might need to make a quick getaway. "You're not Martin," Q says softly.
"No, I am not." Bond picks up a bag and debates whether he needs it.
"Who are you?"
The question is softly spoken, but the tone gives Bond pause. He closes the locker door partially so he can see Q properly and says, "I'm no one. I don't have a name. I don't have a home. I don't have family." The look Q fixes him with is so intense it's overwhelming. After a moment, Bond turns back to the locker so he won't have to face it any more.
Clearing his throat he says, "When we get back to England we can work on this together. We'll market cold fusion to the world and make a fortune…" It's meant to force some sort of response from Q, since the young scientist has been so adamant that he isn't interested in the profiting from his research. At first Bond had thought this merely naïve idealism, that Q was saying such things because he had no concept of just how much money he could stand to make. The bitter part of himself posited that the moment Q got an offer, he'd feel markedly different. Increasingly, however, Bond thinks that Q is saying he isn't interested because he genuinely isn't interested in selling his research.
When there is no response to his comment Bond closes the locker door and realizes that Q is no longer standing with him. As he scans the crowd Bond spots his ruffled dark curls and grey wool coat. He's moving slowly, which is a relief. At least he has more sense than to draw attention to himself.
Q spots Ilya at the same moment Bond does, his steps faltering. Since Q has never encountered the man before, Bond can only assume that Ilya exudes his bad intentions through his sneering little grin, the gun that he is barely managing to keep hidden beneath his opened coat, and the presence of two bulky men flanking him. Q breaks into a sprint heading in the opposite direction and Bond stops watching and moves.
Racing up the steps at the far side of the station he arrives just in time to see Q round a corner at full-tilt, directly into Ilya's grasp. He fights, kicking and thrashing until the Russian pulls a knife and then Q goes limp and entirely still, his hands gripping Ilya's forearms but no longer trying to yank them away. Behind them, out the window of the station Bond can see a black SUV and knows that Ilya intends to drag Q out to it, bring him back to his daddy like a good little boy.
Lurching forward, Bond knocks the knife away from Q with his right hand as he strikes out with his foot, sending the Russian staggering backward, his momentum carrying him down into the crowd.
"Christ," Q gasps, as Bond checks him over carefully, making certain he is unhurt. "Who was that?"
Assessment completed, Bond curls his fingers around the lapels of Q's coat and yanks him forward until their noses are separated by mere inches, Q's green eyes wide but focused. "If you want to make it out of this alive, don't ever leave my side again." Then he drags Q out of the train station and into the crowds.
Bond keeps them moving, but there's only so much ground they can cover when they are moving against the flow of people around them. When they've cleared enough distance from the train station and the throngs being to diminish Bond hooks his arm over Q's shoulders after flipping both their coat collars up. They cross the street.
"One shag doesn't automatically give you the right to molest me and drag me about like a doll," Q mutters darkly to himself.
"One night, not one shag," Bond corrects. "If I recall correctly. This way." They climb over a rail and drop down to a narrow cement path sheeted with ice, right alongside the river.
The moment his feet touch the ground again Q slips and nearly goes sliding right into the water. "Oh, this is brilliant. The one day I'm not in the boots with the nice rubber soles is the one day I desperately require traction."
It's slow going, slip sliding along the narrow path. Ahead, there's a thick spill of ice hanging like a stalactite over the lip of the bridge, obscuring a fair portion of the path beneath. "Stop up there," Bond says. Ilya is persistent and will be searching the area. This is as good a place as any to wait.
Q reaches their destination first, ducking quickly beneath the overhang, but as Bond moves to follow he loses his footing. Q lurches forward, his hands pulling Bond up, preventing him from landing on his face, but in the slip-sliding dance that ensues, his heart pills fall out of Bond's pocket and roll across the ice.
"Leave them," Q hisses. The little plastic bottle plops into the river and Bond follows right after them. "You idiot!" Q accuses from beneath the shelter as Bond, entirely soaked and still in the river, holds up the pill bottle, triumphant.
With one arm braced on the slippery edge he starts to haul himself out of the river when the top of Ilya's head becomes visible just over the side of the bridge. Bond puts a finger to his lips and motions Q, who had been coming out of hiding to help, to step back, and then forces himself to take a long inhale and duck beneath the water.
It is freezing. It was freezing even before he threw himself into the water, and now that he's thoroughly drenched it is infinitely worse. He tries every trick he knows to keep himself conscious and alert as he waits, holding his breath, staring up through the ripples of the river to where Ilya is leaning over the bridge, directly above Q and the little ice cave.
When Ilya's head disappears, Bond counts to three before pulling himself up. He's shivering and can barely think straight and when he tries to tell Q that they need to stop some place where he can warm up or change clothes, nothing comes out. His teeth are chattering too much.
"Idiot," Q is hissing as he manhandles Bond out of the water and over to the steps leading away from the riverside path, back to the street. Q chivvies, needles and insults him until they make it, most of Bond's weight braced by the younger man, across the road and into the first available place, which appears to be an apartment building.
"Does nothing work in this country?" Q asks as he jabs his finger at the lift button. Bond tries to explain that this building is old, which means the elevator was probably made of wood and so has probably been dismantled and burned, but his teeth just keep knocking and gritting together and Q doesn't seem to understand the Morse code, just keeps cursing under his breath. "I can't haul you up all these stairs by myself."
Bond raises a finger, pointing at the woman who has just walked in, but Q keeps on ignoring him in favor of rubbing circles on Bond's back with one hand and with the other, jabbing uselessly at the elevator button.
"What are you doing here?" the woman asks.
"Oh, thank God," Q exclaims as he turns them about to face her. She wearing a cheap fur coat, uncomfortably high heels and her hair is dyed blond. A prostitute. Bond doubts she'll be willing to help and tries to tell Q that they should keep moving, go someplace else. Q is already saying, "Please, we're British. We ran afoul of your mafia who are now chasing us, with guns, and my idiot friend fell in the river and …"
He is cut off when the woman smiles and starts to laugh. "Sounds like you're having a bad day."
Q nods. "A bit of one. You could say that."
They haul Bond up the stairs, Q on one side and the prostitute on the other. He'd very much like to make a joke but he's too busy chattering and curling in on himself, his fingers and toes clenched into uncomfortable claws that make it difficult to balance.
"There is a safe place here," the woman explains as they walk. "It was built to escape the secret police." There are no doors on any of the apartments; Bond thinks they must have suffered the same fate as the elevator. The building's tenants are clustered together, sheets and towels strung-up for privacy. They are led to a room at the back, a single bare mattress on the floor, a dresser, and not much else. "Right here," she says, pulling the dresser aside to reveal an inset crawlspace.
She passes them a blanket and some dry clothes as Q manhandles Bond inside, then she tells them to be quiet and pushes the dresser back into place.
Bond lies there quietly as Q strips him down efficiently; his body spasming with shivers, feeling unaccountably modest, which is grossly unlike him. He imagines that it has something to do with the vaguely purple color of his skin, the way he is curled up like a shrimp, his hands like hooks. "I hope you weren't terribly attached to this suit," Q says once he has stripped Bond down into nothing, bundling him in the blanket as he sorts through the clothes.
"Body…" Bond tries to say. "Body…"
Q waves a hand. "Yes, I know. Just a moment please." He pulls dry socks over Bond's clenched feet, gets him mostly dressed in clean pants and trousers and a thick grey sweater that he pulls over Bond's head and hooks his arms through, but doesn't pull down over his chest. "Are you with me?" Q asks, re-bundling the blanket over Bond as he strips off his own wool jacket and cardigan, unbuttoning his grey shirt with fumbling fingers. "Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" Bond manages to get out.
"Tell me your name." Q rips his tie over his head and then slips under the covers, shifting until his bare chest presses, searing hot, against Bond's. "Better?"
"Bond," James says, burrowing deeper into the warmth. "James Bond."
"You're joking." Q's breath is a warm puff of air against Bond's throat.
"No."
"Tell me something else."
Bond's thoughts are whirling around, jumping backwards and forwards, he isn't certain what he's speaking out loud and what he's merely thinking to himself. "I'm an orphan." He hears Q echo the word and knows that, at least, was verbalized. "I used to pretend I was a knight - a Templar knight. I would read about them. The priest didn't like that."
"You were raised in a convent school." Bond can feel the smile pressed against his skin. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Vesper," Bond says. "At the orphanage, I was breaking into the girl's dormitory, we were going to escape. There were dogs. …She fell. I remember her screaming…"
His head is filled with the sound of her, but he knows that the warm breath on his skin, the hands on his body and the chest pressed against his own all belong to Q. The silence stretches, but then Bond feels Q's hands on his face and opens his eyes. He can't hear Vesper anymore. He can't see her falling. Everything is quiet. "How old were you?"
"Eight?" Bond wonders. "Ten…" He lets his hands wander along the smooth curve of Q's naked back, dips his head down until his forehead rests in the crook of the other man's shoulder and then, because the skin is bare there as well, he presses his mouth against Q's neck.
"Don't change the subject," Q whispers. Bond sucks harder. "James," he says. "James. This isn't a good time. We can't get comfortable. If you're feeling better, then put some clothes on."
Bond has managed to unclench his feet enough to shove them back into his shoes, Q insists on keeping the blanket wrapped over them both like two children under a makeshift fort. "Your teeth have stopped chattering. Mostly."
"Mm," Bond agrees. "I recover quickly."
"Not the first frozen river you've hurled yourself into?"
"No." Bond inspects his soaked coat long enough to pull the other man's heart pills from the pocket, then he tosses it aside.
"It's a very nice coat," Q says, taking the pills as Bond offers them but looking at the crumpled mess of fabric.
"It's soaked with water. It won't do me any good."
Q finishes re-buttoning his own clothes and then pulls Bond close. "How long do you think we can stay here?"
That question is answered ten minutes later when Ilya's distinctive voice echoes through the grates of the apartment: "Show me where they are and I will pay you in American money! Five hundred dollars for the British bastards hiding in this building!"
"Will they turn us in, do you think?" Even as he asks the question, Q is shifting toward the entrance.
"These people are desperate." Bond isn't going to hang around and take a chance. They make their way out of the hideaway to the staircase only to walk right into one of Ilya's henchmen. Their only option is the roof, which they reach after racing up five floors. Q's panting and stumbling but Bond spots none of the signs that indicate an attack, and for his part the sprint is waking his body up. Warming him.
Once they're on the roof, though, there's nowhere to go. They're trapped. Racing to the edge, Q looks down and cocks his head. "There's a building not far down. We might be able to jump."
Without bothering to gauge the distance Bond grabs Q's arm and drags him back from the edge. "We're not jumping," he says, his voice hoarse.
Briefly Q looks as if he might argue but only for a moment, then understanding washes over his face and he asks, "What do you suggest?"
There's a grey metal door with a little plastic sign that warns of danger. When Bond pries the door open he finds some sort of drainpipe that run all the way down, directly to the sewers. The building is not tall, which means it's not a far climb to the bottom. Bond jumps into the open air between the roof and the pipe, catching onto it and shimmying down. "Come on."
Q eyes him dubiously. "I'll have you know that I have two PhDs."
"I'll have you know there are men with AK-47s coming after us." With a long-suffering sigh Q hops.
As they work their way down they can hear shouts coming from the roof, but by the time Ilya flings open the tiny door and finds them they are three quarters of the way down. He fires his gun blindly down at them anyway, and Bond reaches up to grip Q's ankle and pulls. They drop the rest of the distance, landing with a splash in sewer water and Bond tugs them out of range of the sporadic weapons fire.
"This really better not be what I think it is," Q bemoans as they walk through the ankle deep water.
Laughing, Bond shakes his head. "It's not."
"Thank Christ. I keep thinking this day can't possibly get any worse, but that would have done it."
"If we head east we'll reach the Embassy," Bond says, stifling a laugh.
He has a plan, and the first and arguably the most important part is getting Q someplace safe. Right now, that means getting him to the British Embassy. After that, they part ways. Q has expressly stated that he does not want cold fusion to end up in Tretiak's hands, which means Bond has a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it.
They walk for ten minutes before something hisses at them from the darkness, "You're late." She steps out of the shadows, dark clothes, tall boots and a gun hanging in a holster at her waist.
Q looks at Bond with an expression that rather eloquently conveys: "Oh look, there's a woman living in a sewer."
Bond hopes that his look is just as eloquent: "Welcome to Russia."
"You said six o'clock," the woman is saying, and seems to be directing her attention to Q. With another questioning glance Q shrugs his shoulders just slightly and then steps forward.
"Yes, well. I got held up," Q says.
"Mm." The woman glances over at Bond and smirks, her assumption plain in the leer she offers him. "Very pretty. I like the blond ones, too. This way." Q offers Bond a sheepish shrug and follows her through a metal door in the tunnel that has a sign hanging on it: "Maintenance". The room inside is large and crammed with stolen and forged art. It's like it might belong in the National Gallery.
"I have other interested parties, you know," the woman explains, talking to them over her shoulder as she navigates the masterpieces. "Apparently the Virgin of the Damned is a very popular piece."
"Apparently," Q hums. He spots a Turner forgery and catches Bond's eye, nodding pointedly at it. "I'd like to see it before we talk price." Bond suspects the Oxford academic is cooperating with the art thief because she's wearing a form-fitting leather jacket with a Heckler and Koch MP5K submachine gun strapped across her shoulder, to say nothing of the Walther at his hip. Bond goes along with it because he wonders what Q will do next.
When the woman pulls aside a drop cloth to reveal the painting in question, Q cants his head to one side. "Yes, well," Q says, a moment's consideration. "I seem to have gone off art. I've an interest in cartography now. What do you think, darling?" He smiles what Bond thinks must be his most innocent smile, and pats a hand on Bond's chest.
Bond narrows his eyes but plays along. "Mm. Something interesting."
The woman looks between them suspiciously. "Cartography."
"Yes, you know." Q waves his hand as he says, "Maps and such."
"You want interesting maps."
Q nods at her. "Yes, something like, oh, I don't know…"
"A map of these tunnels," Bond offers.
"Right!" Q flashes a bright smile and Bond can at once tell that the woman knows they're game but is nevertheless charmed. Q seems to have that effect on people. "How about a map of these tunnels to…what about the British Embassy. I'd pay for that."
She smirks at him and lets the drop cloth fall over the painting. "I might have what you're looking for."
Her name is Alexa Frankeivitch, and she wants ten thousand dollars up front for the map of the tunnels. Bond argues her down to seven. As they walk through the tunnels Alexa asks Q why she lets 'his boy' talk so much. While Bond tries to puzzle how, of the two of them, she managed to mistake Bond for the kept boy, Q waves a dismissive hand and says, "He does my negotiating for me. He's better at it."
"You think so?" Alexa asks. "If it had been you making the deal I would have done it for a kiss."
They walk through the darkness, guided by the singular beam of Alexa's flashlight. They're making good time and Bond thinks they must be quite close. Suddenly, Alexa comes to a halt and looks about with a puzzle moue. Q follows her turning gaze as if he expects something might be about to jump out at them from the shadows.
Bond has other suspicions. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says. "It's a complicated route, that's all."
"In Russia, everything seems to be complicated," Q mutters, obviously trying to be quiet, but the sewer has superb acoustics. Alexa laughs.
"I thought you said you knew these tunnels," Bond asks.
She raises slender eyebrows at him. "I do. I know them like the back of an Omega Seamaster watch."
Q blinks, perplexed. Bond glances down at his wrist. Alexa flashes her teeth. "How about a kiss?" Bond tries.
She opens and closes her hand impatiently. "The watch."
It's too big for her narrow wrist, but looks strangely appropriate. The moment she fastened it in place she turns to the right where a round door is sealed shut with a circular handle. "There we are."
Bond moves over to inspect the door. "Are you certain?"
"Very," she says, spinning the handle and opening the passage. "It's the water main. They shut it down for the afternoon during the winter and turn it back on in," she grins broadly as she checks her new watch. "Five minutes. Plus or minus."
"Five minutes?" Q asks.
Alexa shrugs. "Plus or minus. The third opening is under your embassy."
Q actually thanks her, and Alexa smiles and waves before sealing the door behind them. Bond starts counting the minutes off in his head. They make it to the third door in three minutes, only to find it sealed off and impossible to open. "We have to go back," Bond says.
Q huffs. "Of course. Naturally."
The second door is open. As Q climbs up the ladder Bond hears the telltale rush of water roaring toward them. They close the lock on the water main just as the water spills through. "Four minutes fifty-two seconds," Q remarks dryly.
There's a narrow ladder leading up to a manhole cover and Bond climbs it, nudging the cover aside just slightly in order to see where they have popped up. As it turns out, they are directly opposite the British Embassy, underneath a parked car. There are people shouting and milling about the street, yelling at the Embassy in general because the lights are on and clearly the people inside are not freezing to death. Bond sees the familiar uniforms of the British army and is gauging the distance to the gate when someone steps out of the car parked above them. The boots, if not the cane, is immediately recognizable.
He slides the cover back in place and crouches down. "Slight complication."
"Good. I was just thinking all of this has been too easy."
_______________________________________________________
"We're a hundred yards from the Embassy," Bond explains. "There's a car parked just above us." He pops up to double-check his assessment of distance and also to keep an eye on Ilya. The man is not leaving the vicinity of his vehicle. Bond pulls his knife from his boot and slices the gas main before ducking back down to Q.
"Listen, I'm going to create a diversion. You'll have ten seconds to run from here to the gate. They'll open it when they see you coming."
"Okay," Q says with a decisive nod. Then he hesitates. "Just a moment. When will I see you again?"
"I'll find you."
They both climb out from the sewer, hunkering beneath the SUV. "Get ready," Bond mouths, waiting until Q has shuffled as close to the edge of their shelter as he dares. Bond slices the gas line of the truck, letting the gasoline spill down into the sewer below and over the road. With a nod at Q he rolls outs from underneath the truck, standing up directly in Ilya's line-of-sight on the opposite side of the vehicle.
There's a split second where Ilya doesn't recognize Bond, who is standing in the open and without a disguise. Bond lets his eyes shift to the left, where Q is standing just behind Ilya, barely visible and looking back at Bond as if he's trying to memorize his face.
Then Ilya tackles Bond to the ground, landing three punches in quick succession before he pauses, realizes that Bond wasn't traveling alone and is, in fact, not the priority. Bond can't help grinning as the Russian jerks around just in time to see Q complete his sprint, his legs carrying him quickly across the distance as he shouts and waves and the British soldiers pull open the gate and welcome him to safety.
When Ilya turns back his eyes are wide, and he snarls. Bond's grin only grows. "Too bad. You just missed him."
"I'm going to kill you," Ilya says, pulling his gun from his pocket.
"You mean you don't want to know where the money is hidden?"
Ilya hesitates. "Money?"
"Tretiak's," Bond says as he carefully fishes his lighter from his pocket. "Yours. Your father has been stashing billions of dollars away for a rainy day. I know where it is."
There's flicker of uncertainty in Ilya's eyes, his gun wavers. "Where is it?"
Bond strikes a flame and pitches his lighter at the SUV with one hand as the other fists the front of Ilya's coat, dragging him forward into a vicious head-butt. "As if I would tell you," Bond says as he turns on his heel and takes off at a run.
___________________________________________________
|<< END PART THREE >>|
MASTERPOST
By: revenant_scribe
Chapter THREE:
Fandom: Bond Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: PG-13 | Word Count: 10,323
In the grip of its coldest winter to date, Russians are warming to the angry rhetoric of former Communist boss Ivan Tretiak. Now a billionaire oil magnate and leader of his own political party, Tretiak told reporters that the civil unrest engulfing Russia will only worsen unless Reformist president Victor Karpov can overcome the heating-oil shortage that has already killed scores of Russians. In a speech he delivered at his company, Tretiak called on all elements of the Russian army who are opposed to elected government to seize control and end the heating oil crisis.
-Channel 4 News, London
Soft morning light is filtering in through the sheer curtains. Q lies in bed, drifting slowly out of sleep as he savors the sensation of being bonelessly relaxed and deliciously warm and comfortable. It's the first morning in recent memory that he hasn't snapped into wakefulness worrying about a meeting, or because he had some sort of breakthrough in the night. Thought he had a breakthrough, at least. His work has been slow-going but it's all been worth it, and he's so very close now. Just a few sequencing issues to make certain everything is safe but he's done it. No one can fault him for celebrating a little early.
Q rubs a hand over his eyes, groping for his glasses on the nightstand. "Thomas?" He doesn't expect an answer and isn't really surprised when he receives none. Disappointed, possibly, but not surprised.
Rolling out of bed with some effort, Q wraps his sheets around himself like a toga and begins shuffling in the direction of his kitchen. It's possible, he considers with a smile, that Thomas might be sitting out in the living room, fully dressed and drinking some fresh brewed tea. Perhaps he even brewed a whole pot and there will be a mug set out for Q. That would be delightful.
The flat is empty.
"Good morning," he greets his fish, tapping their food out into the tank before switching his kettle on. When he opens his fridge there is a new carton of milk and a cheese Danish still in it's Styrofoam container. It's from Q's favorite coffee shop. He doesn't remember stopping by there and the realization of where it must have come from trumps his curiosity about how Thomas might possibly know his favorite coffee shop. There are an inordinate number of little coffee klatches in Oxford, but this particular one is quite close to Q's flat, probably Thomas picked it out of convenience.
It's a thoughtful treat, at any rate. The Danish is freshly baked and delicious and Q thinks that it's the next best thing to a fresh brewed pot of tea. Certainly better than a bedmate who disappeared with the morning light leaving no trace to show he had ever existed.
Well, there are traces of Thomas about the flat, most notably in the river of Q's clothes that leads him wandering back into his bedroom, passing time until the kettle boils. The bed is rumpled, more so than it usually is, and the lubricant is sitting uncapped beside an opened box of condoms on the night table. The sight makes him smile, feeling oddly proud of himself.
Finishing off his Danish Q considers the rest of his day. He'll have to shower, and change his sheets. He has no classes or lectures, and he considers taking the day to simply relax, put his feet up, and maybe do some washing up, if anything.
The kettle is hissing and as Q turns back to the kitchen his eyes catch on his notecards folded on his dresser. The sight of them doesn't make him want to rush out to the labs or hunch over them at his desk and start work. They're there waiting for him when he's ready, but a break is well deserved, he thinks, and a long time in coming.
Except something isn't right. The cards look too fresh, too pristine. He re-writes them now and again when the constant handling makes the paper crumbly under his fingers. Those pages are his life's work, he knows them and something is wrong. "Please no," he whispers as he reaches out, picks up one folded piece and unfurls it. "I'm sorry," it reads.
His breath is constricting in his throat, he feels hot and cold at once, and his vision is tunneling as he opens the next card: "I'm sorry", and the next, "I'm sorry" and the next "I'm sorry".
Six notecards with the same apology. "No. Please, no," Q begs, but the flat is empty and no one is listening.
_______________________________________________________
The first and most important rule that Bond has is this: If he does a job, he gets paid for it.
As it is a fairly simple rule filled with words of a single syllables it should be fairly simple to understand, but over the course of his career there have been times when the person Bond is working for at the time has difficulty comprehending it nonetheless.
Tretiak hired him to do the job for three million dollars, and then promised him three million more to see it through, but the total in Bond's account remains unchanged.
This is a good thing, Bond tells himself. Just as he needs it most here is the perfect distraction, wrangling six million pounds out of a Russian Mafioso. Better than sitting around his house adjusting to retired life. Better than dwelling.
He took everything from Q: the research that was all on the man's computer hard drive and the formula that was written out on the cards. Bond sent it all to Tretiak, held nothing back lest the man decide that he still had an interest in the young electrochemist. The accusations that Tretiak is making now, that the formula is incomplete is ridiculous.
Bond was hired to steal cold fusion and that's what he did. If his employer is incapable of understanding it, or completing the research, that's hardly Bond's fault, he did his part and for that he expects payment.
As he attempts to explain this to Tretiak, however, Bond realizes that the man is being intentionally obtuse, trying to keep Bond on the line and in place. Trying, undoubtedly, to tie-up his loose ends. Why payout six million pounds if you can simply kill the thief you hired?
Cutting off the connection, Bond grabs his jacket and leaves the house. He hijacks a car in the garage across the way and blends into afternoon traffic as if he hasn't a care in the world. Turning off the side-road Bond passes a darkly tinted SUV, the front passenger window is rolled down just enough that Bond catches a glimpse of Ilya Tretiak's narrow-eyed glare but the man is looking up at the passing buildings and doesn't notice him.
Ilya isn't Bond's concern. He's on his way to Moscow to ensure that he at least has something to show for this mess, and to do that he must find Ivan.
_______________________________________________________
He's been in a state of shock for most of the morning, Q supposes that would explain why he feels numb, why he can't remember what happened after he realized his formula had been taken, why he has no idea how long he's been sitting at this desk in Scotland Yard, why he doesn't even remember driving into London.
One moment he was shaking Inspector Mallory's hand, being offered a seat by the man's partner, Inspector Moneypenny, and then Q blinks and suddenly it's almost lunch and Mallory is setting out pieces of paper across his desk, sketches of men's faces. Moneypenny is smiling at him, speaking softly like she thinks Q is about to fall apart, which is possibly true. "Just take a look," she says.
Q looks at each one very carefully. Something in the eyes of the one on the right, something in the jawline in this other one, or the hair of that one, but none of them look like Thomas, except perhaps, "This one," he says, picking up one of the sketches and holding it out. "But without the beard. His hair was different, too and his eyes were blue, not brown like it says here. But otherwise…"
Moneypenny and Mallory share a look, and while Moneypenny takes the sketch and heads off someplace, hopefully to start a global manhunt for the sonofabitch, Mallory looks at Q and clears his throat. There's a sympathetic smile on his face as he says, "You see, we believe they're all the same villain."
"I don't understand," Q says, trying to focus. There's a desk full of faces staring up at him. "They're all him?"
"We believe so, yes."
Q loses track of things again. When he tunes back in Moneypenny has returned and is saying, "We've got a handful of false identities from passports and leases, but not much to go on. It's never personal for him, you see. Often it's difficult to even be certain the witnesses we talk to are describing the same man except…"
"Except he has a certain style," Mallory finishes.
Q nods, though he's not really following. He understands that Thomas, or whatever the bastard's name is, has quite the reputation. That he's done this sort of thing before, and that Scotland Yard has been working on capturing him for years and has come up with what basically amounts to nothing. Cold fusion has been taken from Q, who knows who has gotten hold of it now.
The sketches have been cleared to the side of the desk, and Q glances over that the tidy stack they make. "What are they?" he asks. "The names?"
Again the two inspectors share a look. Q very much wishes they would stop doing that, it makes him feel like a child. Moneypenny shifts, pulling a piece of paper from out of a folder and recites, "Nicholas Owen, Louie Guanella, Peter Damian, Charles Borroneo…." She trails off when Q begins to laugh. "Something we should know?"
"Thomas More," he says, shaking his head. Both inspectors are looking at him blankly, so explains, "They're all Catholic saints."
He isn't thanked for this revelation, and both inspectors keep their expressions flat as if this was a conclusion they had long ago drawn. Mallory jots a note in his notebook, and Q tries not to smirk. Increasingly his confidence in the Yard is falling. Moneypenny smiles that sugar-sweet warm smile and says, "He eluded a hit squad earlier today at Holland Park. There was a bit of a car chase, you might have overheard on the radio. It was quite a mess. Anyway, we think he's probably left the UK. We can…"
"Excuse me," Q blurts, cutting her off and then catching himself. "I'm sorry, I just…I'd like to go home, if we're done here."
"Certainly, if you'd like," Moneypenny replies easily. "We'll arrange for an escort."
Q shakes his head. "No, thank you. That won't be necessary."
"He might come back," she explains gently.
"Has he, though? All these faces of yours, has he ever once returned once he got what he wanted?" The look the inspectors share is answer enough, so Q says, "I think I'll be fine."
"You're refusing protection?" Mallory clarifies.
Involuntarily, Q's fists clench. "If he comes back, he'll be the one needing the protection."
Q leaves Scotland Yard but he doesn't go home.
He was arrogant and reckless, he can admit that. It wasn't that he didn't think his research needed to be protected, quite the opposite. He's spent enough time in academia to hear all the stories about stolen thesis ideas and the like. It's a cutthroat line of work; reputations, careers and awards are all at stake. If it worked, cold fusion would be the sort of thing that would be considered for the Nobel Prize, of course there are people who would steal it.
Q protected his work with a bit of misdirection. His reputation with computers was well known on campus. There had been a brief moment in high school when he imagined he might prefer a career in engineering or computer sciences. His computer would be the most obvious place to keep his research, but he wasn't the only computer genius in the world and he didn't want to spend valuable time updated his security protocols, constantly trying to protect his real life's work.
So he kept just enough security on his computer to suggest he had something worth protecting on it. He saved his basic research notes in the most obvious way possible: in a file titled 'cold fusion', and everything worth taking, he kept on folded cards tucked safely in his pants, against his skin so he would know the moment they left his side.
Q genuinely didn't believe anyone would be so persistent. He'd been prepared for another greedy scientist with their eye on prestige and acclaim not … not whatever Thomas was.
In retrospect, that was probably the point. It's plainly obvious how perfectly Thomas had manipulated him. Notecards. In his underwear, against his damned skin, and it hadn't occurred to him that some outrageously attractive bloke who just happened to be passing through Oxford, who just happened to notice Q out of everyone, wasn't potentially after cold fusion.
What an idiot he was.
He pulls his laptop from the backseat, scrunching down behind the wheel of his parked Volvo as it boots up. Now that Q knows what the game is, he's ready to make his own move.
It's quick work to gain backdoor access into Heathrow's passenger lists for the past eight hours. He comes up with two possible names: Isadore Bakanja, and Vincent Ferrer. A bit more typing gets him the passport photographs of both men. He books a ticket for Moscow.
_______________________________________________________
Russia never used to make Bond feel angry. At most he could claim a vague indifference to it. Now it has become synonymous with bad weather, bad luck and bad situations. Presently Bond finds himself weighing the merits of killing Ivan Tretiak and simply calling the whole mess even.
"Mister Tretiak, sir," the bouncer of the club says, dipping his head respectfully and standing aside for Bond to enter. "I didn't see you step out."
"So what?" Bond snarls, deepening his voice and slurring his words in that distinctly Russian accent. "I wanted air. Get out of my way."
The other reason for Bond's bad mood is that he is currently disguised as Ivan Tretiak in order to infiltrate this particular nightclub with as little fuss as possible. It involves wearing one of the most uncomfortable full-beards in combination with a shoulder-length stringy and partially balding wig. Given his present feelings toward Tretiak, every time Bond catches his own reflection in something he feels like ripping his own head off. He is supposed to be enjoying his own retirement, not trudging around this infernal country, braving the red-lit gloom of a seedy nightclub.
There's people dancing at the center of the room, people sipping drinks in the booths scattered about, and people cheering and shouting as they conglomerate around a glass-paneled wall behind which rats are racing. The real Ivan Tretiak is en route to the bathroom and Bond takes his opportunity to infiltrate the man's private room where four leggy women in form-fitting dresses and impossibly tall high-heels are reclining with three of Tretiak's entourage.
"Get out. Get out. I want to be alone," he grumbles, reaching for the bottle of Vodka sitting on the table as he glares. The women pout at him; one runs a hand along his shoulder as she leaves as if hoping he might invite her to stay. The men spring to their feet and hurry out. Bond pulls the curtain closed behind them.
When it swishes aside a moment later it is because Ivan Tretiak has made his way back. Bond waits as the man drops heavily onto the seat, reaching for his glass only to pause when he finally notices Bond. "What is this?" Then Ivan's expression changes, undoubtedly putting the pieces together.
Bond pulls out his knife before Ivan manages to shout for his guards. "Do you know who I am?" Bond asks. "I'm the thief you tried to cheat." With his free hand, Bond reaches for his mobile and hands it over, a number already selected on the screen. "This is your accountant," he says, when Tretiak cautiously accepts the phone. "Talk to him."
When Tretiak finally disconnects the call Bond takes back his phone with a smile. "That wasn't too difficult, was it?" He leaves Tretiak cursing and snarling behind him, pausing by a man he recognizes from among Tretiak's bodyguards and says, "There's an impostor in there. Get him out." Then he exits the club and returns to his hotel.
Bond has what he came for but as long as he's in Moscow he runs the risk of getting caught by Tretiak. Wasting no time he sheds his disguise and checks out of his hotel. He's done. Over fifty million of hard currency in his account and he's officially retired. From this point forward he can do whatever he wants.
"Have a safe flight, Mister Ferrer," the hotel desk clerk says with a warm smile.
"Thank you." Bond takes the receipt she offers him and then makes his way to the hotel bar for a celebratory drink. He has some time to kill before his flight.
Sliding onto a bar stool, he flags down the waiter. "Vodka martini, please." As the bartender moves off Bond takes a cursory glance of the room. It's a small space, intimately lit and there are a handful of people, couples mostly, occupying a few of the tables on the far side.
There's only one other person sitting at the bar a few seats over. Bond notices the shoes first. Close-fitting black leather boots that stop just slightly above the ankle. They only draw his attention because the right boot is fidgeting, tapping up and down in nervous agitation.
From there, however, Bond can't help but scan upward. Soft, dark grey trousers covering lean legs, a deep plum cardigan over a grey-black button-down that has a faint sheen, a loosened tie. He notes the long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bar top and it's the fingers more than anything else that make him hesitate, his Martini stalled halfway to his mouth. "Q?"
Q turns to look at him and Bond feels a momentary, inexplicable rush of relief and pleasure to see the young scientist. This is quickly overcome by common sense. It is very evident that Q is furious. "Nice hair," Q says, his eyebrows raised and his expression frosty. "Is it a wig?"
Bond shifts to the stool on Q's right, hoping that this situation might be contained. "Let me explain."
"That's not necessary. I'm certain I know exactly what's happening here."
He's probably right so Bond lets it lie, jumping instead to the most relevant and perplexing issue: "How did you find me?"
Q's fingertips are still beating out an agitated rhythm on the bar top. "Please," he says, as if Bond has just insulted his intelligence by implying it might have been difficult to track Bond anywhere. With a huff, the younger man continues, "Two men with saints names flew out of Heathrow yesterday. Isadore Bakanja is a short balding African, but Vincent Ferrer …"
"…is named after a saint who betrayed his closest friend."
Instantly, Q's fingers stop tapping, but Bond notices the younger man's nostrils flare, his teeth plainly grinding. "I want my cards back," Q demands.
"You flew all this way for your cards?"
"Yes. Of course."
Bond finishes off his martini and then faces Q squarely. "No. I don't think so."
"Oh really." Q looks unimpressed. "Why did I, then?"
"I think you flew here because you're in love."
Bond holds Q's gaze, noting how the younger man's expression changes. He's flushed and his eyes are bright but Bond doesn't think that's out of anger anymore. They can work this out. Q will understand.
Then the young scientist starts to laugh, harsh and maybe a little hysterical, a giggling eruption of sound. "You arrogant, delusional bastard."
Bond rests his hand carefully atop the other man's forearm. "…Q"
"Don't call me that," Q hisses, his laughter abruptly cutting off and his anger glittering and sharp, returned in full force. "Don't you dare."
"Please, Q…"
Q slaps him clean across the face, a sharp pain like a whip cracking. "Did you hear what I said? Don't ever call me that again." Q shakes his head. Bond thinks the other man looks as if he's caught somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. "Who are you?"
"Nobody has a clue, me least of all." Cheek stinging, Bond waves down the bartender and asks for another drink.
"Well that's very philosophical, and terribly convenient." Q lapses into a short silence, and then asks, "Why did you do it? Why would you steal cold fusion? It's free."
"Six million reasons."
"Is that all?" Q scoffs.
Movement at the front of the hotel diverts Bond's attention. Three men he recognizes from among Tretiak's henchmen are striding through the front entrance. He reaches out again, taking a firmer grip on Q's forearm until he is certain he has the younger man's full attention. "You have to get away from me. Do you understand?"
"I don't 'have' to do anything."
Bond shakes his head, his gaze shifting from the three men who are clearly searching for someone, back to Q. "For your own safety, I need…."
"Fuck that," Q snaps. "Tell me why you lied to me."
"I lied to you? You almost got me killed!"
Q blinks, startled. "What?"
Rolling his eyes, Bond says, "The person who hired me says the formula doesn't work."
"Everything you need to know in order to make cold fusion work is on those cards. It's hardly my fault if your employer isn't an electrochemist."
One of the henchmen is by the front desk, another is blocking off any chance of escape through the main entrance. Bond has momentarily lost track of the third, but finds him again making his way into the bar area. He lowers his voice and turns his back to the door. "Preen later, Q. Right now, you have to go. You don't know what you're dealing with here."
"I'm an Oxford graduate, an electrochemist and a genius, Mister Whoever. I promise you I'll catch on quick enough. I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready."
Q finishes saying this at the precise moment that a wide, heavy hand drops down on Bond's right shoulder and a gruff Russian voice declares, "You're coming with us." There's a brief moment where Bond thinks it might just be possible that Tretiak hasn't noticed that Q has entered the country. Maybe the henchmen are simply interested in Bond.
Then the man wraps a thick hand around the back of Q's neck and says, "Both of you."
_______________________________________________________
When he was a little boy Q's parents were going to take him along on a trip to Japan but Q's doctors, of which there were many, all insisted that it was too risky. His heart made lots of things impossible for him; Q has never been anywhere outside of England, has never played sports or even a game of tag, even public speaking sometimes causes him difficulties.
He has no idea why he ever thought going to Moscow and chasing after a thief might be a reasonable course of action. Q suspects that if, at any point along the way, he had actually stopped to think about what he was doing, he would have been against it. As it was, he never once stopped and so he never had the opportunity to regain his senses.
He managed the flight just fine, with the aid of one of his heart pills and a glass of scotch. Q's doctors also advised against drinking in conjunction with his medication, but as he arrived in Moscow without any difficulties he feels as if he should write them a letter denouncing them as idiots. He even handled his confrontation with Thomas - Vincent -- whatever his name is just fine, thank you.
Of course, that was before the giant burly Russian men with guns had muscled him out of the hotel and into the back of a van. His hands are fastened behind his back in bloody handcuffs, which is also a new experience, and an unwelcome one. He's freezing cold because he'd driven straight from the Yard to Heathrow, not bothering to stop and pack a bag, or at least pick-up a proper coat. So here he is in his bloody tweed coat rather than his parka, with no gloves and no hat and … and his vision is tunneling and he can't think clearly and really, he came all this way, proved cold fusion despite the odds, got on an airplane despite doctors' advice and now he's going to die here, in bloody Russia, in the back of a van with a man who has no name whatsoever and delusions of bloody sainthood….
"I can't." Q realizes suddenly that he's been repeating this for some time. "I can't…"
"Shh," Thomas or Vincent or whoever is saying. "Shh. Just breathe. Q, stay with me. What do you need?"
"My heart," Q tries to explain. "I can't. … I have…." He can't catch his breath, can't think straight, can't take any more of this.
"I know," Thomas says. "Keep breathing. Talk to me."
When he glances up from his own hands, which he has been holding over his eyes, Q notices that Thomas' breaths are coming in great rolling inhales that puff his chest up, and heaving exhales that seem to bow the man forward. He spends a moment trying to mimic the man's inhales and exhales, and ends-up panicking over his own imminent death when he starts coughing and it feels like he will never taste oxygen again. The entire car is spinning and there's a loud bang that Q thinks is probably the men with guns coming round to kill him with their gunfire even though his own bloody heart is killing him just fine, thank you, and the entire world is becoming bitingly cold, so cold so very quickly that he thinks maybe he's already dead, trapped inside his own body as it starts to wither away.
His coughing eases for a moment and Q returns to himself long enough to realize that the 'bang' was the sound of his own body falling off its perch on the bench. He's lying in an awkward contortion on the metal floor of the truck, his wrists pressing uncomfortably against the sharp metal of the handcuffs. "Q," Thomas is saying. "Q! It's all right. You need to calm down and breathe."
It feels like a struggle worthy of one of Hercules' labors, but he manages to pull himself off the ground, bracing his forehead on Thomas' knee as he tries to catch his breath, tries to stop the world from spinning apart around him.
"How many pills do you need?"
"They took my pills."
"No. I palmed them from your pocket. How many?" Q doesn't understand what Thomas is saying. The scratchy-soft fabric of the man's trousers feels good against his cheek, grounding. Someone is asking him about numbers so he begins to count.
Suddenly his perch shifts, not enough to dislodge him, but Q becomes aware of a weight settling on his shoulder, heat like a furnace roaring in the right side of his face and neck. When he squints open his eyes he realizes that Thomas is bent over him, his head resting against Q's shoulder. "Are you with me?" he asks, and Q manages a shaky nod. "I have your pills. Tell me how many you need."
"I need one. No, two. I need … " he starts coughing, and then Thomas is shifting and Q is dislodged from his comfortable perch completely.
He tries to find the breath to complain but in the next moment Thomas says, "I have two. In my right palm." He's shifting awkwardly on the bench, moving to sit sideways so his hands, that are also cuffed behind his back, are facing Q, the man's right hand stretched flat, with two round little pills sitting just there, at the center of his palm.
Q balks. "How do I know it's not poison?"
Oh god, he thinks to himself. He's being irrational. It's a symptom he knows. A part of him still clasping desperately at logic and reason feels silly to hear himself saying these things, but most of him is entirely certain that this is some sort of elaborate plot to murder him. "I don't even know who you are. How do I know those are my pills…?"
"Q." Thomas' voice is steady and warm. "They're your pills. Now take your medicine like a good boy. Right from my hand."
There's a brief moment of rationality that descends on him, and Q uses it to glare. "You insufferable, arrogant, prig."
Thomas meets his accusing stare head on, eyes impossibly bright and blue. "Trust me."
God help him. It's ridiculous, but somehow Q does trust this man. He shuffles forward on his knees and bends forward, eating the pills out of Thomas' hand and swallowing them down dry from years of practice. Then he collapses down onto his arse and tries to catch his breath, waiting for them to start to work.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but it doesn't feel terribly long before Q has stopped coughing and gasping for breath, becoming aware that somewhere during his distraction Thomas has shifted their positions, likely in an effort to provide, albeit limited, support. At any rate, Q's heart no longer feels as if it is about burst out of his chest, and though Q is still certain that he is about to die, he is equally certain that this is because he has been taken hostage by men with automatic weapons and not because he is still feeling paranoid.
When he glances up Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Better?"
Q's heart is still racing, though he is rather embarrassed to realize this is because he's now sitting in the V of Thomas' legs, the back of his neck braced on Thomas' left thigh, and he just ate out of the man's palm. He's mortified, and also rather inappropriately aroused.
Rather than explain any of this to Thomas, however, Q simply nods and tries to get himself under control. Which is why he almost jumps out of his skin when Thomas flashes him a devil's grin and says, "While you're down there…"
"What?" Q squawks. "I'm not…!" He skitters back to the far side of the truck.
Thomas pauses in the middle of finishing his statement, knowing amusement shining in his eyes as he says, "Get the pocket knife out of my boot."
Q glances down to the man's left boot where there is a faint glint spurring out of the back heel. "Oh," he says. "Of course."
_______________________________________________________
Bond isn't a doctor but he's almost certain that Q shouldn't be running around so soon following an attack. He's weak and exhausted, that much is obvious, but he hasn't made a single complaint. It's not as if they have a choice, at any rate. If Tretiak's men catch up to them Bond will be shot and killed, and Q will be captured. He isn't certain which fate is worse; even if Q cooperates fully it's unlikely Tretiak will let the young scientist go. Bond keeps them moving at a brisk pace.
"Why are they after me?" Q asks as he follows Bond around the corner.
"How closely do you follow the news?" Bond asks, glancing over. When Q looks at him somewhat blankly Bond is remembers that he is speaking to a man who has to write post-it notes lest he forget to eat or change out of his pajamas before leaving his flat, what are the odds he remembers to turn on the radio or television in time for the news. Taking a chance, Bond says, "I was hired by Ivan Tretiak."
"Oh," Q interrupts eagerly. "That name sounds familiar." His expression plainly reads: 'See? I know things!'
Bond smirks, preparing to make a retort when a siren whirs, it's getting closer. Hurriedly he shoves Q up against the wall of a corner shop, pressing their bodies close as he kisses the younger man, deep and wet, his knee between Q's thighs. A second later, Q's hands come up, his fingers tangling in Bond's hair as he moans, rolls his hips against Bond's leg and starts kissing back rather enthusiastically.
The moment the sirens recede Bond steps away. "What?" Q asks, breathless and dazed. "What?"
Bond catches his breath and keeps walking, picking up as if there had never been any interruption at all. "Tretiak essentially owns this city, including the police. He wants you because right now you're the only person who knows how to make cold fusion work. We have to convince him that he doesn't want anything from you."
"Okay," Q says, and then grabs a fistful of Bond's jacket, jerking him to a stop. "What do you want from me?"
The answer should be simple. It isn't.
Bond finds himself leaning back into Q's warmth, kissing the man again this time slower. He risks only a brief moment, conscious always that they are exposed standing on the side of a busy street. "Are you certain the formula works?"
Q offers him an exasperated look. "Don't be stupid. Of course." Then his gaze shifts and he yanks Bond close again. "Kiss me." There are two policemen walking in their direction, and so Bond pushes Q back into the wall, their mouths locked until he can be certain the police are gone.
"It's just a question of the order," Q admits after casting a suspicious look down the road. "The sequencing, I'm still working on that. And I should say that if you want me to complete my life's work just to hand it over to a tyrant I won't cooperate."
Catching hold of the man's wrist, Bond leads him off the road, up a set of cement steps leading to a park area. "Tretiak will find you. He found me, and that's a difficult thing to do."
Q tugs gently on his hand until Bond glances back, then he raises his eyebrows and points out, "I found you."
They've made peace out of necessity, Bond reminds himself. It wasn't all that long ago that Q was smacking him across the face. It's not the moment to start working through any of this mess except for the most pressing piece of it: getting Tretiak off their tail. Bond gets them walking again and asks, "What do you need to make this work?"
For a moment Q's eyes shift away, and Bond has countless moments in which to imagine any number of scenarios where Q runs away, or refuses to cooperate. Then the man's green eyes fix back on Bond and he says, "I need some time. And a quiet place to work where I don't have to worry about men with guns running in and shooting me."
Bond nods. "That can be arranged."
_______________________________________________________
People are streaming into the train station, eager to leave the city and reach friends or relatives in the countryside where they can chop trees for firewood. There is no heat in Moscow. There is anonymity in the crowd, and whereas usually he would find trains preferable for quick escapes the weather makes it a very bad idea. Bond needs a plan, which means he needs money and passports, both of which he has stashed in a locker as a safety precaution. Rule four: always have an exit strategy in place.
They navigate through the pressing crowd as Bond says, "Two hours," repeating the scientist's rough estimate on how long it will take to finish the sequencing. "That's enough time to get our passports together and get married." He reaches his locker, entering the code quickly and pulling it open.
"What?" Q sputters. "I didn't think they did that sort of thing here."
Bond is not thinking about Russia, he has no intention of leaving Q's side when they get back to England. He finds the passport he was looking for and holds it out to his companion. "I want you to be Mister Martin de Porres."
Q takes the passport as Bond turns back to the locker. He's got emergency money in here that he keeps along with weapons, clothes. Anything he might need to make a quick getaway. "You're not Martin," Q says softly.
"No, I am not." Bond picks up a bag and debates whether he needs it.
"Who are you?"
The question is softly spoken, but the tone gives Bond pause. He closes the locker door partially so he can see Q properly and says, "I'm no one. I don't have a name. I don't have a home. I don't have family." The look Q fixes him with is so intense it's overwhelming. After a moment, Bond turns back to the locker so he won't have to face it any more.
Clearing his throat he says, "When we get back to England we can work on this together. We'll market cold fusion to the world and make a fortune…" It's meant to force some sort of response from Q, since the young scientist has been so adamant that he isn't interested in the profiting from his research. At first Bond had thought this merely naïve idealism, that Q was saying such things because he had no concept of just how much money he could stand to make. The bitter part of himself posited that the moment Q got an offer, he'd feel markedly different. Increasingly, however, Bond thinks that Q is saying he isn't interested because he genuinely isn't interested in selling his research.
When there is no response to his comment Bond closes the locker door and realizes that Q is no longer standing with him. As he scans the crowd Bond spots his ruffled dark curls and grey wool coat. He's moving slowly, which is a relief. At least he has more sense than to draw attention to himself.
Q spots Ilya at the same moment Bond does, his steps faltering. Since Q has never encountered the man before, Bond can only assume that Ilya exudes his bad intentions through his sneering little grin, the gun that he is barely managing to keep hidden beneath his opened coat, and the presence of two bulky men flanking him. Q breaks into a sprint heading in the opposite direction and Bond stops watching and moves.
Racing up the steps at the far side of the station he arrives just in time to see Q round a corner at full-tilt, directly into Ilya's grasp. He fights, kicking and thrashing until the Russian pulls a knife and then Q goes limp and entirely still, his hands gripping Ilya's forearms but no longer trying to yank them away. Behind them, out the window of the station Bond can see a black SUV and knows that Ilya intends to drag Q out to it, bring him back to his daddy like a good little boy.
Lurching forward, Bond knocks the knife away from Q with his right hand as he strikes out with his foot, sending the Russian staggering backward, his momentum carrying him down into the crowd.
"Christ," Q gasps, as Bond checks him over carefully, making certain he is unhurt. "Who was that?"
Assessment completed, Bond curls his fingers around the lapels of Q's coat and yanks him forward until their noses are separated by mere inches, Q's green eyes wide but focused. "If you want to make it out of this alive, don't ever leave my side again." Then he drags Q out of the train station and into the crowds.
Bond keeps them moving, but there's only so much ground they can cover when they are moving against the flow of people around them. When they've cleared enough distance from the train station and the throngs being to diminish Bond hooks his arm over Q's shoulders after flipping both their coat collars up. They cross the street.
"One shag doesn't automatically give you the right to molest me and drag me about like a doll," Q mutters darkly to himself.
"One night, not one shag," Bond corrects. "If I recall correctly. This way." They climb over a rail and drop down to a narrow cement path sheeted with ice, right alongside the river.
The moment his feet touch the ground again Q slips and nearly goes sliding right into the water. "Oh, this is brilliant. The one day I'm not in the boots with the nice rubber soles is the one day I desperately require traction."
It's slow going, slip sliding along the narrow path. Ahead, there's a thick spill of ice hanging like a stalactite over the lip of the bridge, obscuring a fair portion of the path beneath. "Stop up there," Bond says. Ilya is persistent and will be searching the area. This is as good a place as any to wait.
Q reaches their destination first, ducking quickly beneath the overhang, but as Bond moves to follow he loses his footing. Q lurches forward, his hands pulling Bond up, preventing him from landing on his face, but in the slip-sliding dance that ensues, his heart pills fall out of Bond's pocket and roll across the ice.
"Leave them," Q hisses. The little plastic bottle plops into the river and Bond follows right after them. "You idiot!" Q accuses from beneath the shelter as Bond, entirely soaked and still in the river, holds up the pill bottle, triumphant.
With one arm braced on the slippery edge he starts to haul himself out of the river when the top of Ilya's head becomes visible just over the side of the bridge. Bond puts a finger to his lips and motions Q, who had been coming out of hiding to help, to step back, and then forces himself to take a long inhale and duck beneath the water.
It is freezing. It was freezing even before he threw himself into the water, and now that he's thoroughly drenched it is infinitely worse. He tries every trick he knows to keep himself conscious and alert as he waits, holding his breath, staring up through the ripples of the river to where Ilya is leaning over the bridge, directly above Q and the little ice cave.
When Ilya's head disappears, Bond counts to three before pulling himself up. He's shivering and can barely think straight and when he tries to tell Q that they need to stop some place where he can warm up or change clothes, nothing comes out. His teeth are chattering too much.
"Idiot," Q is hissing as he manhandles Bond out of the water and over to the steps leading away from the riverside path, back to the street. Q chivvies, needles and insults him until they make it, most of Bond's weight braced by the younger man, across the road and into the first available place, which appears to be an apartment building.
"Does nothing work in this country?" Q asks as he jabs his finger at the lift button. Bond tries to explain that this building is old, which means the elevator was probably made of wood and so has probably been dismantled and burned, but his teeth just keep knocking and gritting together and Q doesn't seem to understand the Morse code, just keeps cursing under his breath. "I can't haul you up all these stairs by myself."
Bond raises a finger, pointing at the woman who has just walked in, but Q keeps on ignoring him in favor of rubbing circles on Bond's back with one hand and with the other, jabbing uselessly at the elevator button.
"What are you doing here?" the woman asks.
"Oh, thank God," Q exclaims as he turns them about to face her. She wearing a cheap fur coat, uncomfortably high heels and her hair is dyed blond. A prostitute. Bond doubts she'll be willing to help and tries to tell Q that they should keep moving, go someplace else. Q is already saying, "Please, we're British. We ran afoul of your mafia who are now chasing us, with guns, and my idiot friend fell in the river and …"
He is cut off when the woman smiles and starts to laugh. "Sounds like you're having a bad day."
Q nods. "A bit of one. You could say that."
They haul Bond up the stairs, Q on one side and the prostitute on the other. He'd very much like to make a joke but he's too busy chattering and curling in on himself, his fingers and toes clenched into uncomfortable claws that make it difficult to balance.
"There is a safe place here," the woman explains as they walk. "It was built to escape the secret police." There are no doors on any of the apartments; Bond thinks they must have suffered the same fate as the elevator. The building's tenants are clustered together, sheets and towels strung-up for privacy. They are led to a room at the back, a single bare mattress on the floor, a dresser, and not much else. "Right here," she says, pulling the dresser aside to reveal an inset crawlspace.
She passes them a blanket and some dry clothes as Q manhandles Bond inside, then she tells them to be quiet and pushes the dresser back into place.
Bond lies there quietly as Q strips him down efficiently; his body spasming with shivers, feeling unaccountably modest, which is grossly unlike him. He imagines that it has something to do with the vaguely purple color of his skin, the way he is curled up like a shrimp, his hands like hooks. "I hope you weren't terribly attached to this suit," Q says once he has stripped Bond down into nothing, bundling him in the blanket as he sorts through the clothes.
"Body…" Bond tries to say. "Body…"
Q waves a hand. "Yes, I know. Just a moment please." He pulls dry socks over Bond's clenched feet, gets him mostly dressed in clean pants and trousers and a thick grey sweater that he pulls over Bond's head and hooks his arms through, but doesn't pull down over his chest. "Are you with me?" Q asks, re-bundling the blanket over Bond as he strips off his own wool jacket and cardigan, unbuttoning his grey shirt with fumbling fingers. "Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" Bond manages to get out.
"Tell me your name." Q rips his tie over his head and then slips under the covers, shifting until his bare chest presses, searing hot, against Bond's. "Better?"
"Bond," James says, burrowing deeper into the warmth. "James Bond."
"You're joking." Q's breath is a warm puff of air against Bond's throat.
"No."
"Tell me something else."
Bond's thoughts are whirling around, jumping backwards and forwards, he isn't certain what he's speaking out loud and what he's merely thinking to himself. "I'm an orphan." He hears Q echo the word and knows that, at least, was verbalized. "I used to pretend I was a knight - a Templar knight. I would read about them. The priest didn't like that."
"You were raised in a convent school." Bond can feel the smile pressed against his skin. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Vesper," Bond says. "At the orphanage, I was breaking into the girl's dormitory, we were going to escape. There were dogs. …She fell. I remember her screaming…"
His head is filled with the sound of her, but he knows that the warm breath on his skin, the hands on his body and the chest pressed against his own all belong to Q. The silence stretches, but then Bond feels Q's hands on his face and opens his eyes. He can't hear Vesper anymore. He can't see her falling. Everything is quiet. "How old were you?"
"Eight?" Bond wonders. "Ten…" He lets his hands wander along the smooth curve of Q's naked back, dips his head down until his forehead rests in the crook of the other man's shoulder and then, because the skin is bare there as well, he presses his mouth against Q's neck.
"Don't change the subject," Q whispers. Bond sucks harder. "James," he says. "James. This isn't a good time. We can't get comfortable. If you're feeling better, then put some clothes on."
Bond has managed to unclench his feet enough to shove them back into his shoes, Q insists on keeping the blanket wrapped over them both like two children under a makeshift fort. "Your teeth have stopped chattering. Mostly."
"Mm," Bond agrees. "I recover quickly."
"Not the first frozen river you've hurled yourself into?"
"No." Bond inspects his soaked coat long enough to pull the other man's heart pills from the pocket, then he tosses it aside.
"It's a very nice coat," Q says, taking the pills as Bond offers them but looking at the crumpled mess of fabric.
"It's soaked with water. It won't do me any good."
Q finishes re-buttoning his own clothes and then pulls Bond close. "How long do you think we can stay here?"
That question is answered ten minutes later when Ilya's distinctive voice echoes through the grates of the apartment: "Show me where they are and I will pay you in American money! Five hundred dollars for the British bastards hiding in this building!"
"Will they turn us in, do you think?" Even as he asks the question, Q is shifting toward the entrance.
"These people are desperate." Bond isn't going to hang around and take a chance. They make their way out of the hideaway to the staircase only to walk right into one of Ilya's henchmen. Their only option is the roof, which they reach after racing up five floors. Q's panting and stumbling but Bond spots none of the signs that indicate an attack, and for his part the sprint is waking his body up. Warming him.
Once they're on the roof, though, there's nowhere to go. They're trapped. Racing to the edge, Q looks down and cocks his head. "There's a building not far down. We might be able to jump."
Without bothering to gauge the distance Bond grabs Q's arm and drags him back from the edge. "We're not jumping," he says, his voice hoarse.
Briefly Q looks as if he might argue but only for a moment, then understanding washes over his face and he asks, "What do you suggest?"
There's a grey metal door with a little plastic sign that warns of danger. When Bond pries the door open he finds some sort of drainpipe that run all the way down, directly to the sewers. The building is not tall, which means it's not a far climb to the bottom. Bond jumps into the open air between the roof and the pipe, catching onto it and shimmying down. "Come on."
Q eyes him dubiously. "I'll have you know that I have two PhDs."
"I'll have you know there are men with AK-47s coming after us." With a long-suffering sigh Q hops.
As they work their way down they can hear shouts coming from the roof, but by the time Ilya flings open the tiny door and finds them they are three quarters of the way down. He fires his gun blindly down at them anyway, and Bond reaches up to grip Q's ankle and pulls. They drop the rest of the distance, landing with a splash in sewer water and Bond tugs them out of range of the sporadic weapons fire.
"This really better not be what I think it is," Q bemoans as they walk through the ankle deep water.
Laughing, Bond shakes his head. "It's not."
"Thank Christ. I keep thinking this day can't possibly get any worse, but that would have done it."
"If we head east we'll reach the Embassy," Bond says, stifling a laugh.
He has a plan, and the first and arguably the most important part is getting Q someplace safe. Right now, that means getting him to the British Embassy. After that, they part ways. Q has expressly stated that he does not want cold fusion to end up in Tretiak's hands, which means Bond has a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it.
They walk for ten minutes before something hisses at them from the darkness, "You're late." She steps out of the shadows, dark clothes, tall boots and a gun hanging in a holster at her waist.
Q looks at Bond with an expression that rather eloquently conveys: "Oh look, there's a woman living in a sewer."
Bond hopes that his look is just as eloquent: "Welcome to Russia."
"You said six o'clock," the woman is saying, and seems to be directing her attention to Q. With another questioning glance Q shrugs his shoulders just slightly and then steps forward.
"Yes, well. I got held up," Q says.
"Mm." The woman glances over at Bond and smirks, her assumption plain in the leer she offers him. "Very pretty. I like the blond ones, too. This way." Q offers Bond a sheepish shrug and follows her through a metal door in the tunnel that has a sign hanging on it: "Maintenance". The room inside is large and crammed with stolen and forged art. It's like it might belong in the National Gallery.
"I have other interested parties, you know," the woman explains, talking to them over her shoulder as she navigates the masterpieces. "Apparently the Virgin of the Damned is a very popular piece."
"Apparently," Q hums. He spots a Turner forgery and catches Bond's eye, nodding pointedly at it. "I'd like to see it before we talk price." Bond suspects the Oxford academic is cooperating with the art thief because she's wearing a form-fitting leather jacket with a Heckler and Koch MP5K submachine gun strapped across her shoulder, to say nothing of the Walther at his hip. Bond goes along with it because he wonders what Q will do next.
When the woman pulls aside a drop cloth to reveal the painting in question, Q cants his head to one side. "Yes, well," Q says, a moment's consideration. "I seem to have gone off art. I've an interest in cartography now. What do you think, darling?" He smiles what Bond thinks must be his most innocent smile, and pats a hand on Bond's chest.
Bond narrows his eyes but plays along. "Mm. Something interesting."
The woman looks between them suspiciously. "Cartography."
"Yes, you know." Q waves his hand as he says, "Maps and such."
"You want interesting maps."
Q nods at her. "Yes, something like, oh, I don't know…"
"A map of these tunnels," Bond offers.
"Right!" Q flashes a bright smile and Bond can at once tell that the woman knows they're game but is nevertheless charmed. Q seems to have that effect on people. "How about a map of these tunnels to…what about the British Embassy. I'd pay for that."
She smirks at him and lets the drop cloth fall over the painting. "I might have what you're looking for."
Her name is Alexa Frankeivitch, and she wants ten thousand dollars up front for the map of the tunnels. Bond argues her down to seven. As they walk through the tunnels Alexa asks Q why she lets 'his boy' talk so much. While Bond tries to puzzle how, of the two of them, she managed to mistake Bond for the kept boy, Q waves a dismissive hand and says, "He does my negotiating for me. He's better at it."
"You think so?" Alexa asks. "If it had been you making the deal I would have done it for a kiss."
They walk through the darkness, guided by the singular beam of Alexa's flashlight. They're making good time and Bond thinks they must be quite close. Suddenly, Alexa comes to a halt and looks about with a puzzle moue. Q follows her turning gaze as if he expects something might be about to jump out at them from the shadows.
Bond has other suspicions. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says. "It's a complicated route, that's all."
"In Russia, everything seems to be complicated," Q mutters, obviously trying to be quiet, but the sewer has superb acoustics. Alexa laughs.
"I thought you said you knew these tunnels," Bond asks.
She raises slender eyebrows at him. "I do. I know them like the back of an Omega Seamaster watch."
Q blinks, perplexed. Bond glances down at his wrist. Alexa flashes her teeth. "How about a kiss?" Bond tries.
She opens and closes her hand impatiently. "The watch."
It's too big for her narrow wrist, but looks strangely appropriate. The moment she fastened it in place she turns to the right where a round door is sealed shut with a circular handle. "There we are."
Bond moves over to inspect the door. "Are you certain?"
"Very," she says, spinning the handle and opening the passage. "It's the water main. They shut it down for the afternoon during the winter and turn it back on in," she grins broadly as she checks her new watch. "Five minutes. Plus or minus."
"Five minutes?" Q asks.
Alexa shrugs. "Plus or minus. The third opening is under your embassy."
Q actually thanks her, and Alexa smiles and waves before sealing the door behind them. Bond starts counting the minutes off in his head. They make it to the third door in three minutes, only to find it sealed off and impossible to open. "We have to go back," Bond says.
Q huffs. "Of course. Naturally."
The second door is open. As Q climbs up the ladder Bond hears the telltale rush of water roaring toward them. They close the lock on the water main just as the water spills through. "Four minutes fifty-two seconds," Q remarks dryly.
There's a narrow ladder leading up to a manhole cover and Bond climbs it, nudging the cover aside just slightly in order to see where they have popped up. As it turns out, they are directly opposite the British Embassy, underneath a parked car. There are people shouting and milling about the street, yelling at the Embassy in general because the lights are on and clearly the people inside are not freezing to death. Bond sees the familiar uniforms of the British army and is gauging the distance to the gate when someone steps out of the car parked above them. The boots, if not the cane, is immediately recognizable.
He slides the cover back in place and crouches down. "Slight complication."
"Good. I was just thinking all of this has been too easy."
_______________________________________________________
"We're a hundred yards from the Embassy," Bond explains. "There's a car parked just above us." He pops up to double-check his assessment of distance and also to keep an eye on Ilya. The man is not leaving the vicinity of his vehicle. Bond pulls his knife from his boot and slices the gas main before ducking back down to Q.
"Listen, I'm going to create a diversion. You'll have ten seconds to run from here to the gate. They'll open it when they see you coming."
"Okay," Q says with a decisive nod. Then he hesitates. "Just a moment. When will I see you again?"
"I'll find you."
They both climb out from the sewer, hunkering beneath the SUV. "Get ready," Bond mouths, waiting until Q has shuffled as close to the edge of their shelter as he dares. Bond slices the gas line of the truck, letting the gasoline spill down into the sewer below and over the road. With a nod at Q he rolls outs from underneath the truck, standing up directly in Ilya's line-of-sight on the opposite side of the vehicle.
There's a split second where Ilya doesn't recognize Bond, who is standing in the open and without a disguise. Bond lets his eyes shift to the left, where Q is standing just behind Ilya, barely visible and looking back at Bond as if he's trying to memorize his face.
Then Ilya tackles Bond to the ground, landing three punches in quick succession before he pauses, realizes that Bond wasn't traveling alone and is, in fact, not the priority. Bond can't help grinning as the Russian jerks around just in time to see Q complete his sprint, his legs carrying him quickly across the distance as he shouts and waves and the British soldiers pull open the gate and welcome him to safety.
When Ilya turns back his eyes are wide, and he snarls. Bond's grin only grows. "Too bad. You just missed him."
"I'm going to kill you," Ilya says, pulling his gun from his pocket.
"You mean you don't want to know where the money is hidden?"
Ilya hesitates. "Money?"
"Tretiak's," Bond says as he carefully fishes his lighter from his pocket. "Yours. Your father has been stashing billions of dollars away for a rainy day. I know where it is."
There's flicker of uncertainty in Ilya's eyes, his gun wavers. "Where is it?"
Bond strikes a flame and pitches his lighter at the SUV with one hand as the other fists the front of Ilya's coat, dragging him forward into a vicious head-butt. "As if I would tell you," Bond says as he turns on his heel and takes off at a run.
___________________________________________________
|<< END PART THREE >>|
MASTERPOST