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((Cyborg!Q verse. I am not sure what my brain is doing.))
Bond spends quite a lot of time searching the cottage for spare clothes to no avail. The best he can do is a shirt that’s probably supposed to be for a woman, but it buttons down the front and it’ll do. He takes the opportunity, since his charge is asleep, to take a very fast shower, and emerges from the bathroom with the shirt clutched in his fist.
Q is blinking awake now, staring vacantly at a vase of flowers sitting on the far table. They’re brilliant, bathed in the sunlight and standing tall, proudly bearing their colorful petals. Q’s stomach chooses that moment to rumble viciously, and the young man’s green eyes snap down to his abdomen, questioning and a bit shocked.
“Stomach’s growling,” Bond observes. “Means you’re hungry.”
Q doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at his stomach as though it’s growing a head all its own.
“I’ll make us something to eat.”
Bond doesn’t wait for an answer from Q before he heads to the kitchen, tossing the shirt onto the countertop. He throws open the pantry doors and begins his search, finally settling on Ramen noodles. (Considering there’s really not much variety in there.)
Bond returns to the living room ten minutes later and wordlessly scoops Q up into his arms. He carries him into the kitchen, deposits him in a chair, and points to the bowl of soup on the table. “Lunch is served,” he says, and sits down to eat his own soup.
After a minute or two, he feels Q’s gaze resting on him. Bond glances up once or twice to see Q’s eyes tracking his hand, watching the way he holds his spoon. “What is it?” Bond asks brusquely.
The barest hint of a blush rises on Q’s cheeks. “I—I’m afraid I can’t really…” He trails off, gesturing somewhat helplessly at his bowl, still steaming, a spoon resting against the side.
Oh. That’s right. Twenty-five years of living a lab rat’s existence don’t really do much to teach you basic life skills. Bond pushes his own half-empty bowl across the table and goes to sit down beside Q. “Give me your hand,” he orders, and Q obediently holds out his right hand.
Bond takes it in his own, guiding the bony fingers to wrap around the spoon. He slowly, carefully, scoops up a spoonful of noodles and broth and brings it up to Q’s lips.
Q automatically takes the contents of the spoon into his mouth. His eyes close, and he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, relishing the flavor. Bond can’t help but let one corner of his mouth twitch upward in a semi-smile.
A moment later, he’s pounding on Q’s back, listening to the youngster cough raggedly. “You do need to chew the noodles a bit,” he says.
Q coughs some more and nods feebly,straightening. “I…would like to try again.”
((Cyborg!Q verse, because let’s face it. He’s such a precious innocent baby.))
Bond doesn’t stop driving until they reach the little cottage in the countryside. It’s an out-of-the-way sort of place, quaint and cute and definitely not a place you’d look for a secret agent and a cyborg.
The gray stone house sits nestled, squat and sure, in a forest of pretty green trees a few miles off to the side of the highway. The ancient walls are covered in ivy vines, and there’s a flower bed beneath the right front window. A path of round stones marks the way from the drive to the front door.
Bond always guessed that M very rarely ever showed people the little cottage. When she showed him, not long ago, she had looked at him with ice in her eyes and said, “If I ever catch you here, Bond, it had better be for a damn good reason.”
Bond thinks this classifies.
Q wakes up from a light doze when Bond opens the passenger door. Bond leans across him to unfasten the seatbelt and notices, as he’s leaning back, that Q is squinting in the early-morning sunlight, bringing up a slender, trembling hand to block the bright rays. It suddenly occurs to Bond that Q has never seen real sunlight before.
“Brace yourself,” he warns gruffly. Then he hooks one arm around Q’s shoulders, the other under his knees, and pulls him up and out of the car.
Q whimpers, eyes mostly closed against the harsh sunlight. Bond reaches up with the hand cupping Q’s right shoulder and turns the young man’s face into his chest. Q doesn’t resist, welcoming the opportunity to shield his face.
Bond holds him close to his side when he unlocks the door and swings it open. He doesn’t miss the way Q sags against him, weak and limp. The second he’s got the door open, he picks Q up again, kicking the door shut with his foot. He deposits Q on the sofa and moves to start closing the shades. “We’ll stay here until we can figure out a plan of action,” he says.
Q lets out a mewling yawn, nodding.
Bond searches out a blanket and throws it over Q, stuffing a pillow under the youngster’s head. He’ll wait until he wakes up to tell him that he’ll have to learn to walk.
cyborg q in this verse is such a presh bb ovo
BUT HE’S GOTTA BE PRETTY BAMF WHEN IN HIS ELEMENT
((Quartermistress and Bond were actually invited to the party this time. Or so he says.))
Q wakes up slowly. Deliciously slowly. It’s one of those mornings where she gets to savor every little detail before she has to stare reality in the face.
Her hair is down, but it’s been tucked back away from her face. She’s lying on her side, the pillow under her head fluffed to perfection. She’s relaxed, and warm.
And there’s an arm hooked snugly around her waist.
In an instant, she’s not just Q anymore but Quartermistress, and so she notices a few things are wrong. Firstly, the strange arm around her and the warm body at her back. Secondly, the very distinctive sandalwood cologne she could smell. Thirdly, the timbre of the sleepy murmurings in her ear.
Bond is in her bed.
Q may or may not screech like a banshee and fling herself across the room. The next thing she knows, Bond is propped up on one elbow in bed, smirking at her in amusement. She’s giving him a very impressive look of horror that only deepens when she realizes he looks very much naked. “You—you—you—” She can’t even get her words out correctly.
Bond just chuckles, the bastard. “Relax, dear,” he soothes. “I thought you’d like some company, waking up after a night like that.”
Q can’t even process anything through her shock. “I—you—what?” she squeaks.
Bond throws the covers off and stands up. Q flinches a little, but she can’t help herself, and—
He’s wearing boxers.
In that instant, she takes stock of herself enough to realize that she’s wearing a very elegant (if rather uncomfortable) evening gown. Red, smooth and form-fitting. Padded a bit at the breasts and butt to hide the aftermath of fifty hours spent at Q Branch without sleeping or eating more than a salad or two. She works hard at slowing her breathing down. “James,” she gasps. “What the hell happened?”
Bond guides her gently into the kitchen, not bothering to hide his grin. “Nothing too illegal. We were actually invited to the party this time.”
for serious omg
*curls around you and rubs your face*
((Bond is having issues. Quartermistress ain’t got time for that.))
Bond is most definitely not glaring daggers at the back of his lover/girlfriend/superior’s head. No, not when he’s trying to work her latest contraption on his own and the damn thing isn’t loading right and she’s just sitting there, ignoring him—
“Q,” Bond all but snaps.
“Hmmm” is her only reply.
“I need some—” Something zaps his hand with electricity and he lets loose a very choice obscenity. “I need some help.”
Q remains nestled in a cocoon of blankets, curled up on the couch in the break room. She doesn’t even look away from whatever horrifically violent film is playing on the TV. “Well, isn’t that lovely?” she mutters, dry and very nearly devoid of emotion.
Bond growls in frustration and makes another attempt at loading the two-in-one taser-gun he’s been working at all hour. It zaps him again, and he can’t help but yell, “Goddamn it!”
It’s at that moment that some broad on the movie meets an impressively gory demise, and Q turns around to eye Bond curiously. Her eyelids are drooping a little, and her messy curls are pulled back into a ponytail. “You liked her, I’m guessing?”
Bond tries to glare again, but the look on his face is probably more of a cross between amusement and pathetic supplication. “How the hell do you work this damn thing?”
Q gazes at him for a moment before throwing the blankets off her body. “One moment,” she sighs, walking towards the door. “I need to pick some fruit off my tampon plant.”
Q exits the break room, and Bond freezes. Oh. Oh, she’s—it’s—
No wonder she was in here.
Q comes back about five minutes later, and Bond takes the initiative to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “I got it figured out.”
Q rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. Bond decides to leave while he still has his face intact
fruit of her -
((Cyborg!Q verse for ya, dearie.))
There are three men, all of considerable size and build. The first one comes from the closet in the bedroom, and he most certainly doesn’t expect to be met by the barrel of Bond’s 9-mm pistol directly between his eyes. He’s just a heavy, just a distraction. The other two burst through the door at the sound of a shot, and them…they’re a little more difficult to handle. But less than five minutes later, Bond is pulling on a sweater and stalking out the door, deciding that the bodies impaled on the broken table legs in the kitchen can wait until he gets back.
If he gets back.
The drive to MI6 headquarters goes by in a blur. Bond probably only breaks eleven traffic laws to get there, as opposed to his usual thirteen or so because it’s early and hardly anyone is out at this hour.
He’s almost there when his phone chirps at him. “Bond,” he snaps into the mouthpiece.
For a moment, all he hears is quiet, melancholy piano. Then, Q murmurs, “They are attempting to reach Q Branch, 007.”
“I’m almost there, Q,” Bond grinds out.
“I will prepare the building for your arrival.”
When Bond hangs up, he throws the phone somewhere in the backseat. He could care less about that thing when the man upon which the entire English nation rests is in danger. He takes his 9-mm with him through the front door. Nobody—nobody—fucks with MI6 when James Bond is around.
He kills five men before he even reaches the stairs to Q Branch. One of them makes a generous donation of a rifle and ammo. Bond doesn’t bother with cover on his way to Q Branch, and no one comes to intercept him.
Except one person who tries for a backshot. He gets a bullet to the face for his troubles.
M and two or three armed guards meet him at the door to Q Branch. There are four dead men lined up along the wall. Bond takes a glance at them and looks M in the eyes. “I take it Q has been well-guarded,” he says.
M gestures to the door. “He’s been helping,” he replies. “But he can’t stay here much longer.”
That’s all Bond needs to hear. He throws open the door of Q Branch and strides up to Q, balancing the rifle against Q’s chair. He can feel M’s eyes on his back, but he ignores it, going about his work as quickly as he can.
Q wakes up at the sensation of Bond pulling the IV from his arm. He looks at Bond with unfocused green eyes, struggling to register the physical reality alongside his digital world. “What are you doing?” he whispers.
“It’s not safe for you here,” Bond explains curtly. “I’ll have to take you somewhere safe.” He goes around to the back of the chair. “Can I unplug you?”
Bond is in no way gentle when he pulls the wires out of their ports, but he opts to make up for it by keeping the kid safe. Q whimpers a little when the last wire goes, but other than that and the occasional wince, he doesn’t react.
“I opened the emergency exit,” Q tells him softly.
Bond grunts a response before gathering the limp, weak young man up into his arms and racing through the exit.
He pretends not to notice how Q buries his face in Bond’s chest.
Bond drives like a fiend, heading—hell, he doesn’t know where he’s heading. All he knows is that he’s got to get Q out of London and far, far away from anything remotely resembling an MI6 base.
Q hasn’t moved once in the whole twenty minutes they’ve been driving except to draw his knees up to his chest. Now, he sits curled up in the passenger seat of Bond’s car, leaning against the door with his temple resting on the cool glass of the window. Bond had found a discarded suit jacket in the backseat, and Q was using it as a makeshift blanket, hugging it tighter around his thin shoulders. The passing street lights outside briefly swath the knees of his pants in light, turning them orange. Bond occasionally glances over, takes in the young man’s gaunt look and the contours of the shadows in his passive, near-emotionless face. He’s not quite sure what he should do, now that it’s just the two of them.
Bond clears his throat. “Are you alright?” he rumbles.
Q blinks owlishly, turns his head to look at Bond. “I am quite unharmed,” he murmurs. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Thank you, 007.”
Bond tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “‘Bond’ is fine.”
Q turns back to the window to keep watching the scenery fly by. Bond, even through his peripheral vision, doesn’t miss the way that Q’s eyes widen a little, the tiny smile pulling at the young man’s lips. On an impulse, he blurts, “Is this your first time seeing the world?”
There’s a pause before Q lets out a breath. “Yes,” he says at last. “Or, at least, this is the first time I can remember.”
“I’m sorry.” And Bond is sorry for him.
“For what?” Q’s words are innocent, bemused. He doesn’t understand.
Bond purses his lips. “Nobody deserves to experience the world in fear of it.”
“Yet so many do every day.” In the pause, Q shifts slightly in his seat. “Still, it’s a beautiful place all the same. Don’t you think?”
Bond grunts some sort of response.
But he slows the car down a little, so Q can see the outside more clearly.
I think you sent the first part in twice, dear.
BUT THE LAST PART
where he slows down even though they’re being chased
((More cyborg!Q verse for ya.))
Bond takes special care to read every part of the file M gave him.
Project Quartermaster was a long-term effort to successfully govern and defend England with all the efficiency of a machine as well as all the conscience and morality of a human being. The only successful trial was in 1987, when fifteen years of work had paid off with a single laboratory child who survived the grafting process, a process that entailed having highly advanced technology implanted in him the day he left the artificial womb he developed in.
“Christ,” Bond mutters, reaching out to grab his vodka glass off the coffee table. No wonder M had said they hadn’t been thrilled about it.
Q, as the subject became known, was officially prepared to take his position in 1996, at the age of nine. MI6 invented a haven for him in their own bases, a single room in each place known universally as Q Branch. Q would be moved consistently, to hide his true location and discourage any wise-ass who thought he’d incite mass anarchy. In the interim, as Q traveled and could not be connected to Q branch, MI6 would help smooth things over in Parliament.
Bond sits back for a moment and considers that, sipping his vodka thoughtfully. Q is twenty-five years old and stuck in that strange place where he is both insignificant to the government and yet its most prized, valuable asset. Bond’s been there. The kid’s in for a ride.
Q has always had protectors, the most highly-trained, deadliest operatives available. To date, there hasn’t been an attempt to hack Q Branch, or to kill the subject of Project Quartermaster. Not yet, anyway, and in light of recent events, Bond supposes that’s the purpose he’s to play in all this.
His cell phone rings, startling him, and he picks it up without glancing at it to see who it is. “Bond,” he answers curtly.
“Get to headquarters now,” M all but yells. “Get the kid and get him out. High alert’s on as of fif—”
M’s voice breaks off. Bond scowls. Of all the times for a call to get dropped.
Then, music starts to play.
It’s soft and lilting, a beautiful classical piano piece. Through the melody, a quiet voice says, “007.”
Bond swallows. “Q—”
“You should run, 007. They know your address.”
The power cuts out.
THIS IS FANTASTIC
i love this au
((Deaged Tim. DaddyBats Bruce. Deal with it.))
((Batboys being all domestic n’ stuff. Deal with it.))
Jason isn’t entirely sure when his apartment became the official Batboys Hangout Zone, but he’s getting used to it. He doesn’t think anything of it when he squeezes through the front door with a mountain of groceries in his arms and sees Tim sitting at the kitchen table, staring intently at his laptop’s screen.
Jason dumps the groceries where they won’t get kicked and shuts the door. “Don’t move, kid, I’ll get it,” he remarks.
“‘Kay,” Tim mumbles.
Jason chuckles, slinging his jacket onto the coat rack. He braces himself as Dick comes bounding over from the couch, a wide grin splitting his face. “Little wing!” he cries, wrapping Jason in a hug. “You’re back!”
“Yeah, fucking lines were—ow, shit, you’re choking me, Goldie.” Jason pulls back and ignores Dick’s pout, glancing around. “Where’s Demon Brat?”
“Meditating,” Dick answers simply.
Jason hears the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and rolls his eyes. “Better not run up my bill,” he mutters.
Jason and Dick settle in to watch some ridiculous action movie, and Tim eventually pulls himself away from his work to come join them. The water in the bathroom shuts off, and it’s another few minutes after that when Damian strolls out of the bedroom.
Jason frowns. Surely they didn’t—
Soon enough, though, Bruce walks out of the bathroom in jeans and a T-shirt. His face is a little red from the heat of the shower, his hair slick with water (and Jason might just be imagining the beginnings of gray streaks in it), and his eyes are tired, but he looks a little happier to see the boys sitting on the couch together, watching TV.
Jason tries to say something snarky, but it just comes out, “Wanna join us, old man?”
are you all hiding from alfred
did you all do something to upset him
and are now camping out at jason’s
((Because I am now addicted to 00Q hurt/comfort and sickfic. Don’t judge.))
It was late—or early, depending on one’s point of view—and Bond woke up conscious of three things.
First, he had a terrible neck cramp from sleeping on the couch. Second, the couch he was sleeping on the sheets he was covered with were, indeed, not his. Third, there was the faint sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard, interrupted occasionally by sniffles, emanating from the bedroom.
Bond threw the sheets off and stood, stretching to regain some feeling and wakefulness in his limbs. He leaned his head left, then right, and then started into the bedroom. He wasn’t quite sure why he was playing babysitter for Q—MI6 had plenty of people who were more qualified to care for living people, gentler, less abrasive, etc.—but he was sure of one thing.
It was a damn hard job.
Q was sitting up in bed, earphones in and laptop balanced on his crossed legs. His face was awash with the bluish-white glow of the laptop’s screen, and in that amount of light, Bond could see the way Q’s eyelids drooped behind his glasses, the bruised look his eyes had. Yet still the young Quartermaster worked away, sniffling and typing and raising his hands to smother the sound of a particularly vicious cough.
Bond took that moment to step forward and snap the laptop shut. Q jumped back, smacking the back of his head on the headboard of his bed. Bond leaned forward and rumbled, “No.”
Q coughed again, rubbing at the back of his head. “Bond, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded, but it came out as more of an exhausted moan.
Bond gave the earphones’ cord a tug, pulling them out of Q’s ears. He lifted the laptop off of Q’s legs. “Bloody Quartermasters and their bloody work,” he grumbled.
Q made a feeble attempt to snatch his computer away from Bond, who maneuvered away easily. “But I need my work!” he whined in protest.
Bond was back at his bedside in an instant, swiping his glasses off his nose. “You need rest. Pneumonia doesn’t cure itself.”
Bond’s strong hands rested on Q’s shoulders, guiding him back down to his pillows. Q tried to fight back, but he was visibly growing weaker by the second. “But…but I have things to finish…”
“There’s always tomorrow.” Bond’s voice was lower now, softer. He sat on the edge of the bed, petting Q’s dark curls almost absently.
Q scowled at him, but he leaned into the touch all the same. He breathed deep, blinking hard. Trying to stay awake. “Not fair,” he mumbled. “You…won’t let…me…” He trailed off soon, his breathing quieting.
Bond looked down at his sleeping Quartermaster and let a small smile tug at his lips. “You’re right,” he whispered. “I won’t let you work tomorrow.” He stood, adjusted the covers around Q’s still form, and, after a final brush of Q’s hair, returned to the living room. He punched the borrowed pillow a few times before flopping back down. Maybe now that Q was finally resting, Bond could get some bloody sleep, too.
Q you workaholic hurhurhur
((I am lost to my Quartermaster obsession. This one is not very original. I’m so sorry.))
“007. So glad you could make it.”
Bond resists the urge to bristle at the tone in Mallory’s—in M’s voice. He squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, and does his best not to sound like a slightly petulant child when he says, “Sorry, I was rather busy with something at home. Sir.”
M gazes at him for a moment. He seems to be warring internally over whether or not to make a comment. Bond half-expects him to scold him for not wearing a tie. But, after a few long moments, M stands up and gestures to the door. “Come with me, Bond. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
M picks up a file off of his desk and hands it to Bond as they exit the office. “She would have shown you this herself, if not for—you know.”
Bond buries his face in the file to hide the tic in his jaw and nods. “What exactly is it?”
It’s then that his eyes fall on the title of the file.
“Neither the previous M nor myself were in a position to approve this project when it began in 1987,” M stated with a small sigh. “She wasn’t too thrilled about it, but the higher-ups were so gaga for science fiction that they couldn’t resist the thought of it. Project Quartermaster is above top-secret, has been for twenty-five years. You’re privileged, Bond, getting to see the subject.”
“Yes, I feel very lucky,” Bond intones dryly. “What subject are we talking about here?”
“Who else?” M stops at a heavy steel door, nods to the guards stationed there. “We’re talking about Q.”
Bond isn’t quite sure what he expects to see inside the room. Whatever it is, the actual contents are not quite what he expects. Computers are lined up against every wall, blinking through various displays at a rapid-fire pace, their monitors bathing the room in a bluish-white glow. The tiles gleam beneath Bond’s feet. A massive screen sits at the head of the room, blocked partially from view by…him.
He sits in a plastic chair near the center of the room. He looks normal enough, a lanky youngster with pale skin and a mop of curly dark hair, naked but for a pair of loose white pants. All that signifies that he is anything different, anything special, is the mass of wires that connect to the back of his neck, to his spine, to his shoulders. One hand rests palm up, exposing the vein to an IV drip. His eyes are closed, flicking back and forth swiftly beneath his eyelids, and his fingers occasionally twitch. The monitor behind him displays an image of him, or a young man looking remarkably like him, sitting in what looks to be a college classroom, listening attentively to a professor lecture on the history of Europe. Bond leans over to M, and his voice comes out as a murmur unconsciously, as though even it is loathe to disturb the young man. “What’s he doing?” Bond asks softly.
M nods to the monitor. “He’s dreaming,” he replies.
Suddenly, the monitor’s display flickers. It switches abruptly to the security camera’s view of Bond. His official file, the one very few at MI6 have seen, flashes by.
The young man’s eyes snap open.
They’re stunning green, but there’s some sort of inhuman quality to them that Bond can’t quite place. It makes him stand up straighter and square his shoulders.
“Q,” M says, “meet—”
“Bond, James,” Q interrupts. “Age 41. Male. Five feet, ten inches tall. Two hundred five pounds. Blond hair, blue eyes. Extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat, weapons usage, espionage. Official designation 007.” His eyes lock onto Bond’s. “Hello.”
Bond nods at him.
“Mr. Bond will be your new protector,” M explains. “Effective immediately.”
Q gives a small smile that is entirely too unnerving. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Bond lets out a breath. What has he gotten into this time?
omg you don’t understand
my adoration for android/persacom/etc. Q. Just. omg omg omg omg *hops up and down*
*sigh of bliss*
I’m sorry I didn’t reply to this sooner D:
BUT IT’S LOVELY IT REALLY IS LOVELY ;A;
oh my god