James Bond fic: The Real Thing (1/1)

[faye_dartmouth]

Title: The Real Thing

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Unbeta’ed. Fills my square for gaslighting in hc_bingo. Written as a Christmas gift for sendintheklowns. All these years later, she still makes my life better. I hope your holidays are great!

Summary: Bond is good at games. Q, however, is the real thing.



-o-

Disoriented, Bond stumbled out of the truck. It felt rather foolish, losing his gait as badly as he did, but he was blindfolded, beaten and had just been driven around the city in circles.

Hands bound behind his back, he stumbled again, even as coarse hands dragged him back on his feet. He was prodded unceremoniously forward with what felt suspiciously like the muzzle of a gun.

Needless to say, Bond complied.

That was the way things went when you got yourself abducted.

-o-

When he was ushered from the van, he could feel the hot London sun -- he suspected they were still in town, no matter how much the van had been driven to distraction in an attempt to disguise that fact -- but it was short lived. Within seconds, he was pushed into a dark space. He could feel the artificial lights; he could smell the dank odor of disuse.

The short commands were in French; Bond could practically taste the chemicals, which had to be scattered around the facility. Bomb makers. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in boom.

“Come,” the curt order resounded in his ears as he was forcibly dragged away from the entryway and into another room.

He took several steps, getting a feel for the area. This wasn’t the warehouse anymore; no, there were carpeted floors. The smell was still stale, but the lights were brighter here and someone had turned on the air conditioner.

“Stop,” came the next order. When Bond didn’t comply fast enough, he was grabbed around the collar, choking him while he came to an abrupt halt.

Still recovering from that, he did not have the wherewithal to get his bearings, even as the door in front of him was unlocked and the hood over his face was removed. They turned him again, and Bond saw a flash of his attackers -- jeans and plaid shirts; two caucasians -- before he was manhandled through the open door with enough force to tip his center of gravity.

Bound as he was, Bond had no way of catching himself as he hit the cement floor of the small space. Reeling, he had only a second to look up, catching one last glimpse of his attackers before the door was slammed shut and locked once more.

For a moment, the suddenness of it seemed to reverberate in his chest, and Bond had the slightest hesitation, the thinnest margin of doubt.

There was no time for that, however.

From across the small space, Bond heard a groan. Turning, he saw a figure huddled on the floor. With a rush, he hurried across, cursing his bound hands behind his back. Even so, he could recognize the dark swirls of the hair, the silly knitted jumper, the skinny legs.

“Q,” he said, more anxiously than he’d intended. He leaned closer, hissing louder. “Q.”

There was another moan, slightly louder this time. The body beneath him stirred, a long, slow and painful process for both of them

Bond did not think himself to be a cruel man; merely a pragmatic one. He needed Q to be awake; and he needed Q to be awake now.

“Q!” he all but insisted now, voice still in a whisper, but the tone was one that would not be ignored.

Not that Q had ever particularly tried to ignore him.

Q, if anything, had always been too accommodating for Bond’s antics. Therefore, it was no surprise really when the movement increased. Tipping his head up, Q’s hair fell out of his face, revealing a bruised and mottled mess. One eye was swollen shut, but he obediently opened the other, staring up at Bond like he was the damn sun of the universe.

Bond couldn’t help it; he smiled.

“007?” Q asked, his voice thin as a reed and wavering like one, too. He looked confused and relieved all at once. “Bond?”

Despite the severity of the situation, Bond grinned wider.

As Q’s awareness continued to mount, his one good eye widened in panic. “But what are you doing here?”

“Oh, same as you, I suspect,” he said with a shrug. “Getting kidnapped.”

-o-

Bond was trying to be funny.

As he helped Q sit up in their small makeshift dungeon, the situation hardly seemed funny.

Q was worse off than Bond, though given that his incarceration had been longer this was not altogether surprising. It was clear that Q had been assessed not as a piece of leverage, but as a potential source of information. The bruising around his face was extensive, and while there were a myriad of cuts and punctures across his lanky body, nothing was immediately life threatening.

Through this, Bond was able to make a quick and satisfactory deduction: they were trying to break Q, and they were willing to use the long game to get it.

That said, the long game was relative. Their captors might be willing to milk a source like Q for a week, maybe two, but he would eventually be completely expendable.

Moreover, Bond knew from the slightly hazy look in Q’s eyes, that amount of time would have its desired impact. Even if Q didn’t utter a single state secret -- and Bond trusted that he wouldn’t -- the man would eventually break.

All of which was to say that Q was alive and mostly in one piece, but he was badly beaten and psychologically wore thin. He would be minimal help in escaping.

Clearing his throat, Bond tried not to let any of those deductions show. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Q gave him a withering look. “I’m pretty sure you’ve figured out the important bits.”

“More specific,” Bond said plainly. “Are there any other serious injuries I need to know about? Stabbing? Bullets? Poison?’

Q looked miserable. “Are beatings no longer enough?”

Bond gave a small sigh. “I’m just trying to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

Propped up against the wall, Q winced. “And I’m trying to figure out why you’re here.”

“Told you,” Bond said, taking extra measures to examine a rip in Q’s shirt where a deep but mostly superficial slice radiated down his forearm. “Getting abducted.”

Tired as he was, Q still managed to roll his one open eye. “Obviously,” he said. “But I know your mission specs. What operational innovation did you attempt that led to this?”

At that, Bond felt momentarily sheepish. The missions specs had been rather streamlined. Bond had been told to mostly observe, building relationships with would-be terrorists who were moving into the London criminal scene. The goal had been to gather details, collect names, identify contacts.

Naturally, in the course of things, Bond had had other ideas.

“Nothing much,” he lied. “It’s just that one of my contacts really took a liking to me, and for a terrorist he was surprisingly easy to manipulate. After developing a friendly rapport, I merely started lying to him, presenting various misconceptions that made him start to question his sanity. I was able to play the rest of my contacts against him, turning him into a marginalized individual that I do believe we will be able to turn for our own benefit.”

Q was staring at him. Beaten as he was, Q was still the smartest person in the room. “You were gaslighting him.”

“I suppose that’s the term,” Bond relented.

“Of course it’s the term,” Q replied scathingly. “It’s very well documented.”

“And it was incredibly effective,” Bond said. “Until he actually went crazy.”

Q’s look turned quizzical.

Bond shrugged, half apologetic. “He decided to take matters into his own hands and started killing off his superiors,” he admitted. “Before he could kill them all, I confessed that it was me. He took that rather poorly.”

“But,” Q said, half spluttering. “Why did he kidnap me, then?”

“Oh, that,” Bond said. “He saw us together once and thought there was something between us. Apparently he is insanely jealous.”

Q, if he were able, would have been gaping. As it was, the disbelief was all over his bruised features.

“Gaslighting may not be the best tactic for terrorists with access to lots of guns and with no moral compunction against killing,” Bond explained. “It may also not be great when the mark falls in love with you.”

With a quirk of a smile, Q quipped in reply. “Can you blame him?”

Bond raised his own eyebrow suggestively. “Are you saying he had cause to kidnap you?”

Q chuckled with obvious effort. “You must have really pissed him off,” he said, barely containing a groan. “They seemed particularly aggressive in their interrogations.”

Bond sobered immediately. “That’s why we have to get you out of here,” he said. “Now.”

At that, Q lifted one eyebrow. “Now that’s a brilliant assessment,” he quipped. “If only I had thought of that.”

There was no point in rolling his eyes. Instead, Bond focused on sitting Q up a little higher. “Can you walk?”

Q’s face screwed up at the thought. “Honestly, the thought of it is rather unappealing.”

Unappealing was, of course, an understatement. By visual examination, it was clear that the beating had been substantial. Not designed to kill; designed to inflict pain. While Bond had had worse in his day, he was also an experienced field agent. Q’s greatest risk of injury didn’t even exist on the job, but rather in his daily commute. Maybe from his cats.

With a quick feel, Bond checked for any obvious broken limbs. A few fingers seemed out of alignment, and one of his ankles was swollen but not unreasonably so. There was no clear way to judge the amount of blood loss Q had sustained, but the pale pallor of his face spoke to some degree of shock.

Still, he was still in one piece.

It’d be lovely if Q could rest here until help arrived.

But Bond was the help. And he couldn’t do this on his own.

Decisively, Bond got to his feet, starting to drag Q with him. The plan was quick, rudimentary and utterly to the point. Some secret agents probably liked to do these things with finesse. Bond preferred a more straightforward approach. Smash, grab and go.

There was more to it, yes, but at this point? Not a whole lot.

At the movement, Q protested, struggling to get his feet beneath him. “Wait--”

“No time to wait,” Bond said, half dragging the smaller man toward the door. He pulled Q’s arm over his shoulder, tightening his grip upon his wrist. “We need to move.”

Q took a halting breath, stumbling against Bond. His heart was racing; Bond could feel it. “But I can’t--”

“You don’t have to do much,” Bond coaxed. “When the door comes down--”

“How’s the door going to come down?” Q asked, beginning to sound vexed.

There was no time for that, however. “Our escape probably won’t be stealthy, so it will have to be fast. I can carry you, but I’d rather not leave you exposed like that.”

Q looked somewhat horrified now. “Exposed?”

“Just move your feet,” Bond offered calmly. “And if gunfire starts, duck.”

Q was practically gaping now; it was a strange sight, with his battered face and bruised eye. “That’s your plan?”

Bond shrugged. “I’m sort of making this up as I go along,” he admitted. “We have to make do with what we have.”

Q was shaking his head, however. Adamant. “Now that I don’t believe.”

Bond hesitated, giving the younger man a questioning look.

“You, not having a plan?” Q explained, somewhat incredulous.

“I do believe strongly in improvisation,” Bond relented.

“Which is why none of this makes any sense,” Q insisted.

Bond sighed, his frustrations starting to get the better of him. “I got myself kidnapped, alright? We’ve all had better days.”

“That’s just it, though,” Q said. “I know how they got the drop on me--”

“Which we’re going to talk about,” Bond told him, rustling around in his pockets. “M heartily agrees.”

Q, however, didn’t seem to be totally listening. “But how did they get the drop on you?” he asked, sounding genuinely confounded now. “They’re not good, this bunch. I mean, three days of torture, and this is all they can do?”

“To be fair, you are going to be in the hospital for a bit after this,” Bond reminded him. “You do realize that, right?”

Q was wholly undeterred. “But to capture you,” he continued, undaunted. “They’d have to be geniuses.”

“Or lucky,” Bond suggested.

“They’ve been interrogating me for three days,” Q reminded him banally. “They are neither geniuses or lucky.”

Bond’s fingers secured around the object he’d been seeking in his tattered coat. “Well.”

It wasn’t exactly an admission, but nor was it a denial.

Q, even in his battered state, knew that.

Smart bastard.

With one side of his face so badly swollen, Q’s expression was decidedly more difficult to read than normal. Still, the keenness in his gaze was unmistakable. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Bond took the item out of his pocket, visually assessing that it was entirely in one piece. “About the gaslighting?”

It was purposefully obtuse, but he had to hope that maybe it would work.

Q shook his head. “This isn’t about gaslighting, though,” he deduced. “Is it?”

“No, it was,” Bond assured him. “That really was what happened.”

The pretense of deduction gave way, probably to the inevitability of exhaustion. Q furrowed what he could of his damaged brow. “Then why are you here?”

“Well,” Bond said, finally relenting a little more. “They didn’t exactly get the drop on me.”

For a long moment, Q could only stare.

Then, he blinked his one working eye.

And that was when he understood.

Bond could see it, almost dawning comically over his bloodied visage.

His mouth opened; then closed.

Finally, still mostly flabbergasted, he managed to speak. “You let yourself get captured?”

Bond couldn’t help but smirk. “Considering the gaslighting, it worked perfectly.”

That only seemed to antagonize Q more. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Bond gave him a nonplussed shrug. “Did you want me to leave you in here?”

Appropriately, Q scoffed. “I suppose I should be flattered, really.”

Tipping his head, it was Bond’s turn to be quizzical. “Because you’re easy to capture and beat up?”

“Because the great 007 risked his life for me,” Q told him, a smirk of his own hiding the sincerity neither of them would acknowledge.

“Ah,” Bond said dismissively. “You said it yourself; they’re not that good. The risk was minimal.”

“You’re ruining the moment,” Q told him.

Bond grinned lasciviously. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, turning toward the door to apply the small pockets of goo from the tube in his pocket. He glanced back, smirk widening. “And I was lying before.”

“About the gaslighting?” Q asked.

“About not having a plan,” Bond said, and he pressed the last bit of goo into place, and then hurriedly moved Q back to the other side of the cell. He pressed him against the wall, half curling his body over the top of the smaller, damaged frame. Nearly face to face, Bond nodded. “When you hear the blast, don’t lose your wits.”

“Is that the explosive tonic?” Q asked.

“Got it from your desk, yes,” Bond confirmed.

“That’s still in the development phase!” Q hissed.

“Well, we’ll know soon enough if it works,” Bond said, and he could hear the corrosive matter from across the cell as something almost electric began to hum. “I know I can’t count on gaslighting, but I feel fairly confident I can count on you.”

This close together, Q’s heart was racing, the color draining from his face as adrenaline swept over him with unprecedented force. He blinked rapidly, his pupils growing larger. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

There was a whining now, and the biting smell was acrid in his nose. “Then take confidence in the fact that you can count on me as well.”

There was a frantic sparking as the combustion built, nearly reaching a breaking point. Q’s expression grew momentarily scared. “Bond. I--”

Bond pulled himself closer, anticipating the blast. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, voice taut under the sound of the metal starting to give way.

With a strong tremor, Q obeyed.

Tucking himself against the younger man as a human shield, Bond closed his eyes too. “And after the blast,” he said, voice no more than a whisper as the cacaphony grew in force. He could smell Q, the faint air of the cats, the musty smell of the office. “We’ll get the hell out of here together.”

It was a promise, to be sure.

The buzzing sparked wildly and the detonation commence, enough force to push Bond hard against the wall, and he held steady while rocks and debris pelted him.

Bond didn’t always keep his word.

But this time he would.

-o-

Initially, upon absconding with high tech, top secret, unsanctioned explosive technology, Bond had been concerned that it may not be strong enough. It was, after all, the lynchpin in his plot to escape after his poorly named infiltration.

With his ears ringing and heart pounding as the smoke cleared, he reminded himself never to underestimate Q.

Speaking of Q, Bond blinked his eyes a few times, still bracing the body in his arms while he tried to back up enough to get a good look. Propped up as he was, Q looked distinctly dazed, and Bond was aware that he was shouldering more weight than he had been before. That said, there were no fresh injuries that he could ascertain, and it was entirely possible that the shock of the explosion had been an emotional burden too much.

All that mattered, in the end, was that Q was alive, the door was open, and Bond’s plan was working. The whole point of getting captured was to escape; and Bond wouldn’t fail this mission.

“Come on,” he muttered, hoisting Q up into a bridal carry. The body wasn’t as slight as it might have looked, but Bond didn’t have time to dwell. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mindful of the debris, Bond stepped his way quickly toward the door. At the ruined threshold, he peeked over. Somewhere, an alarm was sounding, but the corridor was still empty for now.

Noting that the reprieve was likely temporary, Bond wasted no time in ducking into the hall. Using his memory of the abduction, he wound his way through the corridors with relative ease. He had made several turns toward the exit he’d picked in advance when Q stirred decidedly in his arms.

“Bond,” he said, the sound of his own name halting on his tongue. “Did you really get abducted on my behalf?”

Bond eased his way around another corner, picking up his pace to a brisk jog. “You think I’m gaslighting you now, too?”

Q frowned. “The thought did cross my mind.”

Bond huffed, but he couldn’t actually begrudge him the doubt. He was about to debunk it, but when he rounded the next corner, he nearly ran into the muzzle of a gun.

The good news was that the other guy was just as surprised as Bond was, and the split second delay was enough for Bond to duck out of the way when the first shot was fired. Grimacing, gave Q a quick, fleeting look before he half dropped him around the corner in relative safety. “Stay here,” he grunted. “We’ll talk later.”

Q’s large eyes blinked at him, only half aware.

There was no time to explain it, though.

Not with a second gunshot ripping through the air.

Turning from Q, Bond rejoined the fray. Though he was able to quickly disarm the first man, the gunshots had attracted attention. When two more guards arrived, Bond had a bit harder time subduing them, but it was the third wave with another two attackers that really wore him out. By the time he had dispatched them all, Bond’s face was throbbing and it was possible he’d broken a few fingers. The pain in his ribs didn’t feel like a break, but the bruising would be nothing short of spectacular.

He took a fresh weapon off of one of the bodies, and headed back to Q. He was relieved to see that Q was still there, semi lucid on the floor. Yes, Bond was relieved that Q was alive, but part of him was relieved as well that he didn’t seem fully aware of what was happening.

This would make it easier to avoid those uncomfortable questions, yes.

But Bond found himself strangely glad that Q probably wouldn’t remember much of this as Bond carry him over the bodies, careful to avoid the larger pools of blood. He stumbled one, bracing against the wall, and his hand came back smeared with blood and brain matter.

He spared a glance at Q, who was staring blankly at the ceiling as they passed.

They both knew what Bond did for a living, but there was a difference -- a real difference -- between reading about it in a file and seeing it in action. For some reason, he prefered Q not to know the details. They were field agent and quartermaster. Blurring those lines would never work well.

But as Bond carried Q outside into the fresh light of freedom, he was forced to face another plain reality.

The lines were already blurred.

A safe distance away from the warehouse, Bond finally came to a stop. Behind him, the coast was clear. He could hear emergency response vehicles in route, and no doubt a crowd was starting to gather. Even if someone did try to escape now, they wouldn’t make it past the emergency forces.

With the knowledge that they were safe, Bond settled Q on a bench. This park was large with large secluded sections. That was why Bond had designated it as his primary extraction point. All according to plan.

Then, Bond hesitated. He looked at Q. The the sunlight, the wounds looked worse than they were, and Bond felt his chest clench despite the fact that he knew nothing had changed. This was just what Bond did, plain and simple.

On the bench, Q’s head rolled toward him. For a moment, the younger man seemed confused by the sunlight, but when he finally tipped his eyes toward Bond, he seemed to understand just enough to be utterly perplexed.

“You okay?” Bond asked him.

Quite seriously, Q wet his lips. “No, I’m not sure I am.”

Bond smiled apologetically. “I’m sure the journey out was a little bumpy for you.”

Q, however, shook his head. “Something else,” he murmured. “The gaslighting’s effect, maybe.”

“I didn’t gaslight you,” Bond reminded him.

“Sometimes I’m not sure,” Q admitted, his eyes roaming dazedly to the sky. “The real thing’s better, though.”

Bond nudged him, enough to seem casual, no matter how much Bond wanted to make sure Q stayed conscious. “You don’t say?”

Q looked at him, dragging his eyes back with some effort. “I do,” he said, almost like a promise. Then he blinked heavily, head tipping back to the other direction. “I really do.”

Woodenly, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his emergency beacon. M had wanted him to activate it when he was ready for an extraction, hoping that a covert operation could help keep the role of British intelligence to a minimum. At the time, this had seemed reasonable.

Here, on this park bench, with a battered Q, it seemed less reasonable.

It was a strange thing, to be sure. Staying here; wading through the aftermath.

But then, this was a strange mission.

Getting himself abducted had been one thing.

Sitting here, letting the aftermath play out -- that was a novelty.

Bond had made a career out of escaping.

But knowing the causes that warranted unabridged surrender?

That was the tricky part.

All the fake lovers had made him appreciate Madelein.

All the enemies had made him grateful that he had friends like Q.

After all, Bond could get anyone to love him.

Earning his love in return, however, was the real challenge.

Madeleine, in her own strength and vulnerabilities, had done it.

Sitting there on a bench, propping him up, Bond wondered if Q had as well.

He wasn’t sure.

But he was going to stick around to find out.

“I believe you,” he said quietly to Q’s unconscious form. “I really think I do.”

It was an awkward thing, being abducted. The surrender of mind, body and soul.

But sometimes, Bond decided as he waited for extraction, you just had to go with it.

-o-

Disoriented, Q came to with a start. Bond had been keeping watch throughout the night, scarcely leaving the younger man’s side while the doctors ran their tests and procedures. He had been sedated by the extraction team’s medic, and now they were both comfortably biding their time away in the world class facilities provided in secret by MI6.

Q, being unconscious, however, had no way of knowing that.

That was why Bond had made it his point to stay calm, steady and ever present by his side.

Bond knew that was what one needed after an abduction.

Especially when they weren’t used to it.

“Bond,” Q gasped, eyes flicking from Bond to the room around him. “What -- I--”

“You’re safe, back at MI6,” Bond told him.

Another few seconds, and Q reached that deduction on his own. He’d probably helped design the room, after all; he was sure to recognize it.

Still, he swallowed. When he looked at Bond, he was marginally more under control, but there was still a slightly wild uncertainty in his eyes. “You escaped?”

“We escaped,” Bond clarified.

“I don’t recall having much to do with it,” Q reflected, this time letting himself look over the length of his own body. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. But then, Bond had half expected to be dragging a corpse home, so perhaps he had no way to judge. Q trembled slightly, but appeared to smile. “I still can’t believe you got yourself capture.”

“I still can’t believe that gaslighting could backfire so spectacularly,” Bond quipped.

“The real thing’s just as deadly,” Q said, lifting one shoulder marginally. He offered a banal, small smile. “So I’ve heard, anyway.”

Bond smiled kindly, and for a second, silence stretched between them.

As his awareness solidified, so did his sense of self. Awkwardly, Q shifted on the bed with a wince. “Thank you for getting abducted for me.”

“I’d say anytime,” Bond started, “but I shouldn’t encourage you.”

“You’re good with abductions and escapes, at least,” Q said. He made an apologetic face. “Just not gaslighting.”

Bond feigned hurt. “In our line of work, the real thing’s too dangerous anyway.”

Q shook his head. “You don’t believe that,” he said. “Madeleine insists otherwise.”

Bond let out a long breath, one that it felt like he’d been holding all night. “Not just Madeleine,” he said, patting Q on the wrist.

Q quirked his head to the side. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” Bond said.

“To rescue me,” Q clarified. Then, he seemed to blush. “Or here, for that matter.”

“I know,” Bond said again.

Q let out a breath, failing to knit his eyebrows together. His swollen eye was even puffier than last night, the discoloration covering half his forehead and all of his temple, blackening all the way through his nose. “Forgive me if this is still hard for me to understand.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Bond said magnanimously. “But also, nothing to doubt.”

“Is this what you’ve told Madeleine to make her believe you?” Q asked with a small snort of indignation.

“Lovers, friends,” Bond said with a dismissive tilt of his head. “It’s all family in the end.”

“And you can’t cheat family?” Q asked, tentative.

“Oh, you can,” Bond told him with a nod. Then, he smiled. “But I’m an orphan, not to mention a secret agent. I won’t.”

On the bed, Q seemed decently mollified. Of course, he was still badly concussed, marginally drugged and overall in pain; his judgment was not up to its usual standards. He studied his hands for a moment, one of which was bandaged with two fingers splinted. Finally, he looked up again, a faint smile of his own. “I still can’t remember how we escaped,” he admitted.

Bond was nonplussed. “It’s not important?”

Q did not look like he believed him. “How is it not important?”

“Escape is instinct, nothing more,” Bond said. “Abduction, though. Having yourself overtaken. That’s the stuff you don’t forget; the stuff you build on.”

“You say it like you’re someone who knows,” Q said, skeptical.

Bond smiled, small, taut and real as it danced in his eyes. “I do have limited experience, I admit,” he said, tipping his head toward Q. “I think I’m starting to figure it out.”