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Chapter Text

The setting sun sliced through the blinds in livid slits, painting the inside of the office a bloody red. Smoke haze softened the lines, blending them together over the glossy polaroids pinned to the cork board on the wall, the sort of lighting that brought out the best in a bad situation. The bare room was something magical for a moment, before the last of the light was swallowed up by the horizon.

Darkness fell, but it didn’t matter. Bond had stared at the cork board long enough that it had burned into the back of his mind, projected onto his eyelids in his stolen snatches of sleep. He took a draw on his cigarette, eyes fixed on the wall.

They said a picture was worth a thousand words, but these were multi volume novels of elegant prose, even though all they showed were various museum artifacts reported missing or stolen over the last five years. An eighteenth century woodcut. A cup. A painting by an obscure seventeenth century artist. A jeweled bracelet. Then there was the one that had lost him his job with Interpol- the needlework.

It wasn’t anything special, just a linen handkerchief embroidered with a floral motif. Henbane, Yarrow, Deadly Nightshade. Pretty flowers stitched down by a woman long dead. A priceless scrap of 17th century needlework that he had let slip into the grip of a notorious art thief. He could still taste the moment, feel his back pressed up against his own wall, the heat between their bodies, the sinking horror of realizing that he had been robbed of more than a kiss.

Q. Hairs rose on Bond’s arms as he thought of the cheeky smile in the half light, the twinkle in his dark eyes. No matter how many hours he worked, how long he spent piecing together the phantom threads of cases across the world, he had never managed to shake the sense of fascination with his elusive foe.

He let out a slow breath as he leaned back in his chair, the smoke mingling with the smell of whiskey and old sweat. This was the end of the line. The chase had cost him his job, his reputation, and nearly his life, but he’d come up empty handed again. The latest polaroid, an image of a small marble statuette, was the marker of his defeat. It had disappeared from the Musee d”Orsay the day before, slipping through the trap he’d set and off into oblivion.

It would make its return, of course, they all did, ransomed back to their collectors at exorbitant prices, but the loss still stung. He had always hated to lose, and it hurt his pride terribly to admit that he had finally found a thief who could do more damage sitting in front of a computer than Bond could repair in a month of fieldwork.

“Well,” he whispered hoarsely, rubbing his eyes, “I guess that’s it.”

“Really? That’s all it took to get you to give up?”

Bond’s head snapped up to see a slim figure silhouetted against the yellow hall light. He hadn’t heard the door open. The voice that matched the figure was light, teasing, as it continued.

“If I’d known it would be that easy to get you off my back, I’d have tried a stunt like that months ago.”

Q stepped into the office, his face cast in shadows from the anemic fluorescent bulb in the hall.

“You’d have lost me my job?” Bond growled. He was surprised to see a hint of shock flit over the thief’s face.

“They fired you? What the hell for?”

“I think Mallorey said something about professional ethics and gross incompetence, leading to the loss of a priceless 17th century artifact.” Bond replied flatly.

“The needlework? Good lord, Bond, that was barely a drop in the bucket. Is that why you’ve been so difficult to find?”

Bond blinked. “You’ve been looking for me? Isn't this supposed to be the other way round?”

“It was,” Q said, crossing the little room to perch on the edge of his desk. “Until I found myself in a delicate situation that would benefit from a…firmer touch than mine.” The thief reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. He slid it across the battered wood.

“I thought you might be interested.”

“What the hell made you think that?” Bond snapped, leaving the card where it lay.

Pink and blue neon flashed to life in the street, sparkling in Q’s dark eyes. “You’re curious.”

Bond snorted. “I’m a lot of things, but curious isn't one of them.”

“‘Good liar’ isn’t either.”

They stared each other down across the desk and Bond did his best to ignore the crackle of energy that raced along his spine as he felt the tension grow between them, so thick it could have been cut with a knife. He wouldn't give up-not this time. He set his jaw and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

With an irritating smirk, Q left the card and rose from his perch, strolling casually toward the cork board full of Polaroids. He appeared to study them, staring at the wall for a long time, though he couldn’t have seen much in the low light. He was making a point, that was all. After an eternity, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Well, Inspector, let me know if you change your mind.”

Bond ground his teeth, thinking of a thousand sharp words he wished he could say as the thief strode toward the door, leaving as silently as he had come.

Another draw on the cigarette. A halo of smoke. A whispered curse.

*

The night was tender. Rain fell in a gentle shroud, turning the reflected streetlights into shimmering stars in every puddle as Bond walked down the street. The card burned in his pocket, hidden knowledge that he couldn’t put aside, no matter how far he walked or how much whiskey he drank. He had asked himself a thousand times just what it was that made him so afraid to throw in his lot with Q. He wanted to believe that it was conscience, some moral sense that kept him on an endless hunt for justice, but he knew all too well that his conscience was a twisted, fragile thing, nothing more than a slight ache under his ribs.

Once upon a time, it had shouted at him, burning bright and hot in his chest, but now it was quiet. No, it wasn’t conscience. When he really thought about it, he didn’t even have much issue with the thief’s mode of operation. The rich had been bleeding the world dry for centuries-why shouldn’t the quick and the clever take what they could? He couldn’t even tell himself that he was concerned about the collections, couldn’t drape himself in a maudlin concern for ‘culture’, whatever that was. The items never disappeared for long- it just cost their owners a fortune to secure their safe return.

So, it wasn’t conscience and it wasn’t artistic outrage. This reticence didn’t live in his heart, or even his mind. He felt it deep in the pit of his stomach, where it rolled and tossed with every step until he felt he would be sick all over the slick pavement. To his shame, it felt a little like fear.

In the end, that was what decided him. He might be a burnout, a deadbeat, and…everything else, but he wasn’t a coward. He turned down a side street, finally letting his feet take him where they had wanted to go all along.

Q was waiting for him under the shelter of a dilapidated marquee. It might once have belonged to a theatre, but now it was hung with tatters of dirty white plastic that had fallen in to reveal the curved metal bones beneath. Passing headlights glinted off Q’s horn rimmed spectacles and for a moment Bond thought he saw a smile on the narrow face. They said nothing, only ducked inside and let the heavy door fall behind them, shutting out the rain.

Without the constant murmur of the weather, Bond felt smothered by the silence. They stood in soft lighting in an unremarkable lobby, the shapes of elderly movie posters visible in gilt frames along the walls. The carpet beneath his feet must once have been lush, its red the colour of spilled blood.

“I’m glad you decided to come.”

Q’s voice was soft, far too close for comfort. Bond shrugged.

“Nowhere better to be.”

“And here I flattered myself you came for the company.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

Even Q’s laughter was muffled, barely breaking the heavy silence around them. A shiver crawled up Bond’s spine as the thief slipped a slim hand around his arm. “If you’re going to be my date for this evening,” he said, leaning just a little too close, “then you’ll have to be nice.”

Bond swallowed hard, fighting the urge to break and run back out into the street. His mouth was dry as he croaked, “Date?”

Q’s smile was sharp as a knife. “I needed a plus one. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Heat blossomed under Bond’s skin. Q laughed.

“Lighten up a little, inspector,” he whispered. Before Bond could reply, the thief leaned close, depositing a kiss on his cheek. “I promise, I don’t bite.”

Bond thought he probably did, but decided not to say anything, allowing himself to be led along the dim corridor and through an emergency exit into an opulent ballroom that looked as though it had walked straight out of a period drama.

“What the hell is this?” Bond whispered as they left their coats in the care of a stately butler. He felt a little naked without the cocoon of his trenchcoat, but was determined not to let his discomfort show.

Q’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Haven’t you ever seen a party before?”

“Of course I have, but calling this a party is like calling the Mona Lisa a sketch.”

The ballroom was dotted with several cocktail tables, each ornamented by a tower of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Black tie was obviously the dress code of choice, and Bond felt a little out of place in his work suit as Q escorted him through crowds of women in elegant gowns and men in sharply cut tuxedos. Gilded arches rose above them, glittering in the light from several splendid chandeliers, and the low murmur of chatter was backed by strains of Vivaldi emanating from the string quartet in the corner. In the centre of the room, dominating the scene, was a raised dais hung with an astonishing array of bones. A throne stood on the platform and, though it was empty, the ropes hanging from the arms gave Bond a good idea of what it might be for.

Q handed him a champagne flute, eyeing him carefully before whispering, “I think it might be best if you saved your questions for later.”

“I think this was a poor excuse for a joke,” Bond shot back. Q was about to reply, then froze as a tall, powerfully built man forced himself into their conversation.

“Ah, Jaques,” rumbled a voice that set Bond’s nerves jangling, “Such a pleasure to see you. I’m so grateful you decided to join us for this evening’s ceremony.”

The smile that lit Q’s face was so bright it was nearly manic, and Bond realized with a start that the thief was afraid.

“I wouldn’t miss it, sir.”

A sickly hue had come over Q’s face and, before he had time to let his good judgment get in the way, Bond had shouldered around the bulk of the intruder, pulling Q close, slipping an arm around his waist as he said, “I’m sorry, treasure, I don’t think I’ve met your friend?”

He chanced a look up at the other man, unreasonably pleased to see a look of jealousy flit across the craggy features. Pale eyes flickered with something like anger as the man held out a massive hand. Bond only raised his eyebrows politely, tightening his grip on Q’s waist.

“This is the Magician,” Q murmured in his ear, “I’m certain I told you about him?”

Bond took the cue, putting on his most winning smile as he took the Magician’s hand. “Oh, of course!” he said, putting every ounce of sincerity he could behind the words, “A pleasure to meet you, sir. The name is Bond. James Bond.”

For a moment, Bond thought the Magician was about to crush his hand into dust, but then a limp smile crept onto his face.

“I wouldn’t have thought this was quite the social event a police inspector would be interested in,” he said.

“Former,” Bond corrected, not letting go of the other man’s hand. “I’m no longer with Interpol.”

Something in the Magician’s face relaxed, and the mask of the gracious host slid up once more.
“Ah,” he said with the low, dangerous purr of a large cat, “then it is my distinct pleasure to welcome you to our little soiree this evening.”

Bond smiled. “I am honoured.”

To his surprise, the Magician laughed, letting his hand go and clapping him heavily on the shoulder.

“Do enjoy the show,” he said before gliding away into the crowd. Q’s eyes flicked toward the dais, but Bond covered for him as best as he could, giving the retreating figure a polite nod before turning to look Q dead in the eye.

“What have you gotten us into?” he murmured.

Q gave a minute shake of the head, his face still ghastly pale. “Later.”

Bond wanted to press the point, wanted to shake the thief until some kind of answer fell out, but the thought had barely crossed his mind before Q had pressed up against him, laying his head on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here, inspector,” the thief said. “I think I chose my date well.”

Q’s voice was light, but the slender form trembled under Bond’s hand and he felt a low, burning anger grow inside him. He examined the feeling awkwardly, as one would an unexpected house guest, but let the thief curl closer into his chest.

A gong sounded from somewhere above them. Every head in the ballroom turned toward the dais, a slow shifting like wheat in the wind. The chatter died out. The strings were silent. Bond felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the heavy silence was broken by the sound of weeping.

The crowd parted as a girl was led in, flanked by a pair of suits. She was dressed in a simple white shift, her hair long and unkempt, hanging around her tear-stained face in tangles. Her hands were bound in front of her with a heavy rope, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps between sobs. The girl stumbled as she reached the dais, and Bond felt Q flinch as the suits hauled her to her feet. They carried her the rest of the way, setting her down in the throne. Bond had been right about the ropes.

Once the prisoner had been tied to her golden seat, a hushed whisper began to flow through the room, passing from one ear to another like a chill. Bond set his champagne flute on the table and looked around the ballroom. He had checked when they entered, of course, but he wanted to be sure of his surroundings. One way in. One way out. A wide corral filled with human animals. He held tight to Q, stepping slowly backward until he felt the cool touch of a marble column at his back. He slid his free hand into his pocket, feeling the comforting weight of the pistol grip inside. Whatever sort of ‘ceremony’ was about to happen, he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.

The whispering rose and rose, swirling around the ballroom, until it formed the shape of a name.

Moloch

It wasn’t a name that he recognized, and he was about to ask Q what it meant when the gong sounded once more. The lights went out.

At the foot of the dais, a fire blazed to life and Bond wondered absently where they had gotten all that wood.

Again, the whispering rose, louder and louder, taking on rhythm and substance as it became a low chant. Bodies swayed in the light of the flames, and a thick, cloying scent began to pervade the air.

Suddenly, the room fell silent once more, and Bond could hear the sniffling of the girl over the crackling of the fire. The quiet stretched on, tense and hot, until a robed figure ascended the dais from behind the throne. In one hand, it held a marble figure that looked eerily familiar. In the other, it held a long, wicked-looking knife.

When the figure spoke, it was with the low, predatory purr of the Magician.

“Behold!”

Arms spread wide, he held the figurine over his head, letting the flames flicker over the milky surface. The crowd let out a collective sigh of rapture and Bond felt Q shift at his side.

“Lay eyes on the daughter of demons,” the Magician boomed, “Lilith, queen of all evil thoughts and deeds.”

A little cliche, but the crowd seemed pleased.

“Tonight,” the Magician continued, “we bring all evil thoughts to life. Hold intention in your mind as we offer up the most sacred gift.”

Bond had a good idea of what the ‘most sacred gift’ might be, and he tightened his jaw. Q was shaking like a leaf at his side, and he leant down, whispering, “You don’t have to watch.”

“He’ll know,” Q replied, “He’s watching, he’ll know if I look away.”

As the thief spoke, Bond could feel a malevolent gaze fall upon them. He might have been imagining it, but in that moment he didn’t really care. The only thing that mattered was the look of terror on Q’s face in the flickering shadows, and the anger that swelled in his heart at the sight.

“You can blame me,” he said, pulling the thief close and kissing him deeply. Q’s fingers dug into his lapels, and his kiss was returned with a fervent energy that set fire to his blood. Over Q’s head, the knife flashed in the firelight. The crowd roared.

*

“It didn’t start this way.”

In the dispassionate light of his flat, Q looked small and miserable, his hands wrapped tight around a wine glass as if he feared it might escape. Bond sat across from him, suit jacket tossed over the back of the sofa, doing his best to keep a steady hand as he sipped his whiskey.

Q looked up, managing an anemic smile. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”

Bond couldn’t keep the look of surprise from his face. “We just played witness to a human sacrifice,” he said, “and you’re worried about what I think about you?”

“I know it’s ridiculous, but I would hate to think that you thought…well, that I was a part of this,” Q said, looking down at the white wine in his glass. Neither of them had been able to stomach the thought of red.

“That marble figure didn’t walk out of the museum all by itself.”

The flickering smile on Q’s face went out, and he suddenly seemed much older. “No,” he whispered, “You’re right.”

“This Magician has been your buyer from the start?”

Q shook his head. “Not buyer, not really. Temporary owner, more like. He would keep the art at his house, then after a fortnight or so he would contact me and let me know he was ready to return the piece.”

“And the ransom?”

This question brought a little of the colour back to Q’s face. “Oh, that was my invention entirely. A little of it pays the bills, of course, but most of it goes to charity. Truly,” he added with an ironic twist of a smile, “I’m not just saying that to impress you, or something stupid like that.”

“Sure.” He was impressed, of course, and more than a little relieved, but he wasn’t about to let on. “So, when did it start to go pear shaped?”

Q took a healthy swig of his wine. “About a year ago,” he began, “I made some mention of wanting to move on to some other business. The Magician…was not pleased. He invited me to the theatre. It wasn’t…it wasn’t like tonight.”
The thief suppressed a shiver before continuing. “It was a lot more of what you’d expect. A lot of rich folks gathered in a circle, pentagrams, white chalk on the floor, all that nonsense. I wasn’t impressed, but the Magician was…persuasive. I decided it was in my best interests to keep supplying him with the artifacts he requested. Besides,” Q added, a little light coming back to his eyes, “I had you to contend with by then.”

Bond said nothing, willing the flare of heat in his belly to disappear. It didn’t.

“It was good sport, watching you connect the dots, and I loved knowing you’d always be on my trail. It added to the thrill, I think.” He shook his head, banishing the thought. “Anyway, I kept on. Until a few months ago. My attendance had become mandatory at these magical gatherings, and things began to escalate. It started with animals, then…” Q’s voice quavered and gave out.

“Then girls,” Bond finished for him. Q nodded.

“Some rubbish about the ritual having greater power,” he croaked.

Bond nodded. Rubbish indeed. He let things settle, taking a sip of his whiskey. At last, he asked, “And what did you expect me to do about it?”

Q’s laugh was hollow. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought you could get me out of this somehow. Arrest him, put a stop to all this, I don’t know.”

“I don’t arrest people anymore.”

“I know.”

“And you invited me anyway?”

“Yes.”

Bond let out a sigh, leaning back into the sofa. “I’m not a knight in shining armour,” he said softly.

“And I’m not a damsel in distress,” Q replied, “not really.”

“But you were still hoping I’d swoop in and save the day.”

It was Q’s turn to sigh, rolling the wine glass round and round in his hand. “I’m a lot of things, inspector,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m a liar, a cheat, a vagabond and a thief. But I’m not a murderer.” He was quiet for a long time, staring down at his hands. “I couldn’t let this lie. I thought you could get this information somewhere it might do some good.”

“And if you had to go to prison?” Bond asked, perhaps a little more pointedly than was necessary, “own up to all the theft, repay all the money?”

Q shrugged. “Of course, that wouldn’t be my first choice, but what kind of coward would I be if I let that stop me? This isn’t bravery, of course, getting you mixed up in all this, but I think doing nothing would be worse.”

Doing nothing would be worse. Bond thought a long time on those words, lying awake in the dark long after Q had left, wondering what to do. Having found out the truth, victory didn’t taste nearly as good as he had expected. He had his criminal, all he had to do was turn him in. It would be easy. Easy to let it lie and bask in the glory of winning at last. Easy, but wrong. With a sigh, he reached for the phone.

*

“How do we know your source is telling the truth?”

Bond sat in Mallorey’s office, his unshaven throat prickling against the collar of his shirt as his former boss sat across from him, fingers steepled like an arch villain.

“Because you know how much it’s costing me to sit here.”

A thin smile cut into Mallorey’s face. “Yes,” he said, “I imagine it’s doing a fair number on your pride.”

Bond refused to rise to the bait. He had already cajoled and flattered Eve to get this meeting-he was done with boot licking. “It’s just a question of whether you want in on the score,” he said evenly.

Mallorey sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. “Well, that question answers itself. The real issue is trying to get a warrant. We’ve nothing to go on but your source’s say-so.”

“Would it help if you caught the whole thing on camera?”

Mallorey blinked. “What exactly are you proposing?”

Bond smiled.

Chapter Text

In the beginning, it was a game. Even as a boy, Q had been good at games, but he’d always hated to lose. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to Bond in the first place-the recognition of another player who would keep pushing, never stopping until the game was up. It had been a great adventure played across the continent’s most glorious houses of art, a lark, the best of fun-until it wasn’t anymore.

Q shivered in the cool evening air, the ghosts of threats past breathing down his neck. That was what you got when you pushed a game too far, stayed out a little too late. Suddenly everything turned a little darker and you were in over your head. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he worried about reaching out to Bond. It certainly made things more comfortable, having a life rope, but it would probably have been more gentlemanly to let himself drown.

He stood outside of the theatre, waiting once again, watching as the sun stained the sky with the last of its life. Bond had been very cagey on the phone, only insisting that they attend the next meeting. The statuette of Lilith had not yet served its time, not yet received its dues. The thought made his stomach roll and he snatched his mind away from the memories of the week before, concentrating on the feel of Bond’s lapels under his hand, the safety of his embrace.

Footsteps echoed in the narrow street and he looked up to see a familiar silhouette under the streetlights. Unbidden, a flush crept over his cheeks as he noticed that Bond had traded his usual trench coat for a wool dress coat, his worn suit for a tux. He had even polished his shoes, the perfect idiot. There was a small flare of light as the inspector cast his cigarette butt aside and stepped beneath the shelter of the marquee.

“You’re staring.”

Q swallowed hard, eyes darting away to the last of the sunset. “Just noticing the costume change, that’s all.”

“It would be rude of me to embarrass you, now that I know the dress code.”

An insane urge to laugh rose up inside him, but he tamped it down, fiddling with his cufflinks as he stared fixedly out at the sky. If he let it go, he knew it would overwhelm him, so instead he gave a tight smile.

“Thoughtful of you. Shall we?”

Bond offered his arm, an elegant gesture that made Q’s heart want to burst from his chest. He took it, steadying himself as a quiet thrill crept up his arm and down his back, settling in the pit of his stomach. He felt as though he were clinging to the tattered edges of his own composure, each sensation crowding in on the last, until the warm wash of light from the ballroom threatened to overwhelm him.

Marble tiles echoed under his feet and the soft strains of the string quartet greeted him like an old enemy. He observed the familiar figures as though from a long way off, cheating his mind into believing that he was not one of them. A familiar bulk cut its way toward them like a shark in dark water, and he clutched tight to Bond’s arm, fighting to resurrect a smile from his box of tricks. It was a sad effort, he knew, but the warm pressure of Bond’s arm under his hand steadied him a little.

The Magician grinned and gave a little bow as their eyes met.

“We are blessed indeed,” he said, each word settling on Q’s shoulders like a death knell, “to have the pleasure of your company for another ceremony.”

A thousand words fought for his attention, clamouring at the back of his tongue, but Bond came to his rescue.

“I insisted.” The words were as smooth as his smile and, just for a moment, Q let himself believe that things were going to be alright.

“I found my last visit to be so…stimulating,” Bond continued, “I must admit I pestered him to bring me again.”

“Ah, you are a student of the occult?” The Magician’s eyes lit up.

“Is it truly possible to study art without some pull in the direction of hidden knowledge?” Bond demurred. With the distant part of his mind that wasn’t cowering in fear, Q marveled at the change in the man. The harassed look was gone, replaced by a sharp confidence that seemed to flow off of him in waves. There was a glint in his eyes, a firmness to his grip that Q had never seen before. It was intoxicating.

The conversation had gone on without him, but he found himself jerked roughly into the present as Bond leaned close to the Magician, speaking in a confiding whisper. “It really would be the perfect addition to your work,” he said, “I flatter myself that my blood is stronger than the average teen girl.”

The Magician’s laugh was like a slap, and the world suddenly came into sharp focus. Q stared at Bond, unable to summon anything more eloquent than, “What?”

“I told you, treasure,” Bond replied, looking back at him with a cool detachment that felt like a knife to the heart. “I had a surprise for you.”

Q fought for equilibrium, struggling to keep up. There must be a plan, some cue or code he had missed. His heart beat like a wild bird in a cage, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“I’ll do my best to return him to you in one piece, Jacques,” the Magician purred, “but, you understand, I can make no promises.”

“I…of course,” Q croaked, blinking rapidly, “Yes, sir, I completely understand.”

“Will you come with me, Mr. Bond?” the Magician continued, sizing the inspector up as though he were a prized piece of meat, “we must prepare if we are to…honour your wish.”

“Of course,” Bond replied. His arm slipped from Q’s grip, and he was adrift once more.

He was not unmoored for long. A tall black woman in a long evening gown wove through the crowd toward him, a brilliant smile on her face.

“You must be Q.”

With an effort, he managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yes.”

“My name is Eve,” she said, holding out a hand. “It looks like you might need a new date for the evening.”

The accompanying wink was a little unsettling, but Q allowed himself to be piloted toward the edge of the ballroom, near the column from the week before. With his faculties slowly returning to normal, he thought he caught the soft outline of a shape on Eve’s thigh. He looked up to see her watching him.

“Glad you’ve caught up,” she said with a grin.

“I’m not sure I have,” he admitted.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she replied, passing him a flute of champagne, “he’s got the hard part, you and I just get to sit and watch the show.”

Questions flooded his mind, but he nodded, taking an unfashionably long pull at his drink. It was cold, and the texture helped bring him back to the moment. Just then, the gong sounded from the gallery above.

James Bond did not walk through the crowd like a cowering sacrifice. He strode like a conqueror and Q could hear the confused whispers radiating through the crowd. He had abandoned his jacket and his white shirt seemed to glow a little as the lights went out and the great fire came to life. It was open at the collar and the cuffs, displaying a quantity of flesh that made uncomfortable things happen in Q’s stomach. He took another long drink as Bond leapt up onto the dais and settled himself into the golden throne with a comfortable sprawl, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.

“He’s always been a showoff,” Eve muttered in his ear, causing him to choke a little on the champagne. “Likes to look clever. I’m sure your being here is only making him worse.”

Q swallowed hard. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Eve murmured, still watching the show on the dais. He waited for more, but before Eve could explain, the chant began, summoning the Magician from behind the throne.

It should have been a straight replay of the week before. The bombastic speech, the cold chill in his blood, the rise of the knife, the red stains on white fabric. Q had steeled himself for it, still not quite believing that Bond knew what he was doing, but as the blade in the Magician’s hand flashed in the firelight, Bond’s hand shot up to catch the Magician by the wrist.

Chandeliers flared to life and the air was split by the scream of sirens.

“See?” Eve snorted, rolling her eyes, “Complete showoff.”

*

In the wake of the chaos, there was nothing. Q had expected the anxiety, waiting every day to see if Interpol came knocking on his door, but he hadn’t expected the boredom. Days stretched on into night in an endless cycle, and he found himself wandering the streets at night just to have something to do. He had already cased every place on his normal routes, and so began lengthening his walks into wider and wider circles around the city, searching for something he could never find.

At last, on a rainy evening when the city lights dissolved in pools of soft yellow, it found him. He had wandered up to a piazza on the hill overlooking the city. It had become the midpoint of his wanderings, a quiet place where the dark was studded with the glow of the city lights below. The rain had slowed to a trickle, but he still carried his umbrella, enjoying the sense of cover it provided.

He stood for a long time, leaning on the balustrade watching the rain surrender its grip on the city, until he heard the click of shoes on the paving stones behind him.

“Do you come up here every night?”

A sliver of ice slid through Q’s belly at the sound of the familiar voice. This was it, the time had come to pay his debt. He took a slow breath, steadying himself for the plunge.

“Only lately,” he said, striving to keep his voice light as he turned. Bond stood behind him, hands in the pocket of his old coat, the familiar five o’clock shadow darkening the line of his jaw. Q blinked. “I’m surprised you’re here on your own,” he said.

“I’m not,” Bond replied, coming forward to lean his elbows on the balustrade, “You’re here.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“I know.”

Bond was quiet for a moment and, though Q did his best to focus on the situation at hand, he found himself distracted by the way the last drops of rain had beaded in the inspector’s hair. In the lamplight, they sparkled like tiny stars.

“I did my best to keep you out of it,” Bond said at last, his gaze still fixed on the city below, “Mallorey gave me a bit of a side eye, but I think I’ve managed to convince him that you’ve changed your ways. Not to mention the tarnish that having a thief for a source might cast on their glory.”

Q swallowed hard, fighting down the rising tide of butterflies in his stomach. “You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered.

“No,” Bond agreed, “I didn’t.”

“I probably owe you.”

“I suppose.”

Q waited for a long time, his skin prickling at the thought of what a debt to an officer of the law might mean. His imagination conjured up several lurid possibilities, but none of them came close to the eventual reality.

Bond turned to rest his back against the balustrade, looking at him for a long time. Goosebumps rose on Q’s skin as he stood under the scrutiny, feeling the same breathless excitement he sometimes got after being particularly clever at someone else’s expense.

“It might pay your debt to start working for Interpol,” Bond said at last, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

The breath left Q’s body in a rush and he blinked. “Work?”

“Yes. For wages. On a consulting basis, if you like, I get the feeling you don’t like being tied down.”

Q laughed, “And here I was so certain you were coming to arrest me!”

Bond’s eyebrows rose a little, but he said nothing, waiting for an answer. Q knew what he would say, of course, but he didn’t want to seem desperate.
“I might need time to think.”

Bond looked down at his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes. Don’t mess me around, Q.”

He managed to hold out for a few moments, but then he shrugged. “Alright. I’ll take a consultancy, if that’s what’s on offer.” And then, because the dewy sparkle of the night made him reckless, he asked, “Is that all that’s on offer?”

“What,” Bond said, impassive as ever, “you looking to negotiate your salary?”

Q cocked his head, giving the inspector a long, leisurely inspection of his own before folding up his umbrella. “No,” he said, stepping closer, until he could smell the tang of Bond’s cologne. “I just want to be sure I’ve considered all my options.”

To his surprise, a little huff of laughter escaped Bond’s lips.

“Looking for advantages, I suppose,” the inspector murmured. When he looked up, his eyes burned with a cold fire that sent shivers down Q’s spine. He wanted to protest, defend himself, but he could say nothing at all.

“I’m here if you want me,” Bond said at last, “but not in payment for your debt.”

“You think so little of your value?”

“Not at all. It’s hardly pennies on the dollar, but if you decide you want me then it has to be for my own sake,” Bond replied. “I won’t coerce anyone, least of all you.”

Q was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for Bond’s hand, taking it in his own. “It wouldn’t be coercion, I don’t think,” he murmured, heart racing, “but I appreciate the point.”

“Then, in that case,” Bond replied, the little smile flickering into something bigger, “May I walk you home?”

“Of course,” Q answered, content in the first score he hadn’t had to steal, “Of course you may.”