DE SEALLADH

   “ ---- you look like crap.”

James reaches out to pinch at Q’s cheek, fully expecting his hand to get slapped away. Q’s skin is pale and wan, the dark smudges under his eyes not hidden at all by his glasses. His hair is a mess, his clothes are rumpled, and there’s the shadow of stubble across his jaw. 

James is well aware it’s all on his account.        

He has heard the rumours, a small thing that runs quick like a flame that chases the path of metal fuel, oxidisers and binders. James Bond, the new double oh. Congratulations were in order — but that? That would come later, if he considered it so. This was a different place after all, different rules and the added extras to a game he thought he understood well enough. 

Wasn’t the case. 

Door open, and the place seems to rouse to life with the gentle touch of a finger against a panel; the kind that doesn’t look too special, doesn’t look too out of place. It’s a secret hidden in plain sight, an added touch that ties with secret language spoken only by two; the man before Bond and those tricks and toys the quartermaster chooses to create.  

Shift, coloured lights triangulate, and what’s seen is beginnings of a growing technology. Tools to measure, safe from harm and those all too happy to pull a trigger and feel that thrill. 

The suitcase is set on a table and with a slide and click it opens to reveal the sleek black of a pistol. 

“I spend as long as I have to,” he answers honestly. A hit back, his own subtle cheek as he assembles a gun. Inspects it quick before the offer as his free hand is stretched toward a switch to ready the targets. “The problems of a spy can get rather demanding.”

Click!

For all the curious soft-hummed technology springing to life around him, quiet and confident, James doesn’t pay all that much attention. The sounds are catalogued, and each glimmer of light or movement at his peripherals, too -- but his gaze and his amused smirk are solely for the man in front of him. The hands that assemble a gun, quick and easy, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Hands on,” he remarks. “I like that in a quartermaster.” 

Gun is raised with the arrogance of a young and deadly man, head half-turned to assess the speed of the oncoming target, and one arm raised. Of course, he’s had plenty of training -- stance and technique and regulation. He ignores them all now, one arm loose by his side as the gun is trained, trigger squeezed.

       One-two-three-four-five-six-plus-one.

The quick succession of whispered shots group tightly, though not with the same precision he might have brought to bear with real effort and focus. Certainly enough to kill a man. Enough, too, to pass a marksmanship exam with flying colours.

He examines the gun in his hand, turning it side to side.

     “A head of time.” Eggsy was not just laughing, he was giggling like an adolescent schoolgirl, and the crashing and banging as he tripped over furniture and James ran him into door frames only made it worse. He was going to wake up with a few bruises, but he was not feeling any pain.

         Eggsy sank into the passenger seat of his vehicle and slouched, his arms about as useless as cooked pasta when it came to helping James maneuver the seat belt over his chest. He would probably not be able to draw the parallels between what he did next and his quartermaster, but it made perfect sense in his drug-addled mind. “COUNTRY ROOAAADDDSSS, TAKE ME HOOOOMMME.” The agent could not sing, at least not well with his speech slurring, but he belted the old country song before he lost the energy and went silent, staring out of the window at all of the blurry city lights with his forehead pressed against the glass.

               Predictably, the young man could not keep his eyes open for long as he relaxed into the comfortable seat of his Jaguar, smelling the familiar leather and hearing the purr of his engine. Outside of Stanhope Mews, his favorite place to be was in his car. It was only unfortunate that he was in no condition to drive.

     None of Eggsy’s further nonsensical remarks earn a response, even the rather obnoxious lines of song that, thankfully, peter out soon enough. James drives with his usual recklessness, weaving through traffic as if it’s barely even there. Even this cannot fully compensate for the tangled knot of London’s gridlocked roads, the stubborn cyclists he won’t knock off their bikes however much he’s tempted, the slow and almost stately glide of buses.

     At least it gives him a chance to make sure they’re not being followed. Eyes are fixed on the mirrors as much as they are the road -- taking note of the cars behind them, the ones that make the same turns, the ones that linger before they pull away. After twenty minutes or so of driving at random, he’s satisfied. A glance over at the younger agent confirms his suspicions -- eyes closed, breathing deep but steady -- and he begins to drive with a little more direction, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at each purring catch of the engine.

     The safehouse is rarely used. James isn’t much of one for caution, on any given day, and ordinarily he’d have simply made sure to kill or incapacitate anyone who had a mind to follow them. But today, he’s not working alone, and it’s thrown him off. M’s warning -- this is an important collaboration, Bond, and we need the support -- had mostly been lost on him. Q’s stern look had perhaps done more to convince him that leaving his unconscious partner for dead was not the correct course of action, under the circumstances.

       While James dispatched the enemy with ease, Eggsy was hopeless but to lay on the floor and listen to the commotion, his vision too blurred to clearly see what was taking place in the dark. He heard gunfire, but every stray bullet managed to miss him; though, he was concerned with who was going to step out victorious from the fray.

          Bond. He should have known it would be Bond, he had more lives than a cat.

          Eggsy groaned as the dart was pulled from his neck and his lifted out of the wreckage of the destroyed coffee table. His legs could not support him, his arms could not hold on; he was going to be unconscious in a very short period of time, and he was relying heavily on James to walk a straight line. “You’re bloody difficult.” The young agent’s tone was slurred and accusatory as his head rolled back onto his shoulders and he looked up at him. “Did you blow up his head?” Galahad was beginning to talk nonsense, and it would be better for his safety and Bond’s sanity if he did  pass out sooner than later, but he was determined to remain awake for as long as possible.

           They stumbled together through the sedative-induced disaster he created toward the exit, on to the next safe place until they could organize their plan of attack and Eggsy could sleep it off.  “Car…my car.” He pointed to a set of keys hanging on the wall. If they had to make a quick getaway, they might as well take the Jaguar that he had kitted out by Merlin himself.

     “I left his head intact,” James remarks, dryly. “Special requests need to be submitted ahead of time, Agent Galahad.” It’s sarcasm meant for James’ own amusement as much as it is to humour the younger man. There’s no point in arguing with someone heavily drugged with sedative; James has learned that lesson in the past. From both sides.

     Their exit is not elegant. Eggsy is heavier than he looks, and James less inclined to guide as carefully as perhaps others might be. A few articles of furniture are hit, a few doorways serve as obstacles that are not fully avoided. He almost doesn’t stop when Eggsy talks again -- too busy surreptitiously taking the man’s pulse with the fingers pressed against his wrist, counting in his head. But then the word registers, as does the sight of the keys, instantly recognisable.

      “ ---- well, if you insist.” 

     It’s not a vehicle designed for anyone to lie down in, especially if that person is not fully in control of their limbs. Still, James does his best to strap the man in, and then sinks into the driver’s seat with a slow breath of admiration for the car. Fingers trail across the curve of steering wheel, the jutting line of gear stick.

“James, then.” Fluid flow, no pause for hesitation for the disregard of rules — by no means is this meant for a approval sought, rather, it’s simple acceptance. Hamish nods once again before he moves to take a clipboard, slides it under his arm and takes a silver suitcase. 

The gun is offered, before a slight tilt towards a door that’s closed. 

[ AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY ]

Does he notice innuendo? Perhaps. Not one to let others know — closed book, poker face perfected, words seem to slide off him without much impact. “Perhaps that will change,” he says, taking a moment to muse at the thought. “I’m in charge of this place now.” 

Beat. 

“Follow me, then.”

“Lucky me.”

Barely a murmur, quiet enough to ignore but loud enough to hear, and accompanied all the while by that smirk, that calculating gaze that’s wondering where the boundaries are, where the line to be overstepped. He’s always been good at reading people. It makes him an excellent poker player and an excellent double-oh agent -- even if he has only been the latter for just over three hours -- and he loves a challenge.

Q is a challenge.

Gun is accepted and he follows on, not ignorant of that deliberate pause. He’s in another man’s domain now. For now, there’s acceptance of the fact. For now.

The range is a little more than standard, that much is obvious. Eyes flick from corner to corner, taking in sleek walls and clever curves designed to prevent the ricochet of bullet, all neater and somehow more compact than anything he’s seen before. He waits for his target, stance casual, no readying of posture or of gun.

YOU ARE VALID TRASH. i love doc wow

Finger curled against his collar - gentle pull, shuffle, tug for comfort. Different uniform, different suit - business over battle in at least one sense. Adjustment, comfort settles just in time for a voice to steal attention. 

Turn at the given name, letter worn that holds with it legacy. But here things are different — here, he’s made it already known: he’s a soldier first above all else, and a man he hopes would be considered good. It’s there in the way he gives the nod before he stretches to take the pistol. 

Skilled hands, the weapon’s taken in his palm - he takes in it’s weight, balance before the disassembly and a look then given with eyes keen. Inventor, maybe - but there at least you see: he knows how to use it. 

“Mr. Bond — 007, I gather.” A glance. “Perhaps.” Pause and reassembly. “I’ll need to take you to the range first.” Smile. “Personal touch.”

Curious eyes follow the swift and practiced movement of hands, and a smile curls itself small against the corner of his mouth. Otherwise, impressive display garners no reaction.

“James Bond,” he clarifies, idly. He’s never been much of one for rules, and he’s always been one for testing authority. Let M do what she will; double-oh agents don’t just get fired. Candidates aren’t exactly in plentiful supply. 

“I do appreciate a personal touch.” Innuendo is laced through his words without compunction, and his smile curls a little higher to match. “Something that secret government programs often lack, I find.”

He half turns away, pausing to look back over his shoulder. 

     “ ---- and you’re ‘Q’, I presume.”

It’s touched with a hint of amused disdain; call-signs and designations all rattled off to him in a list had seemed more than a little ridiculous. M and R and Q, and a stern warning that from today, he’s no longer James. He’s 007.

He holds up his gun, before he slides it across the table. Untraceable and unofficial. If everything had gone terribly wrong, it wouldn’t have had any ties back to the government, and he’d have died an anonymous assassin or terrorist.

       “How dreadfully fatalistic.” He continues walking, but now that the gun is no longer directly pointed at his center mass, he’s…. a little more relieved to say the least. “I would never have thought a man of your aptitude to lack imagination.” There’s a nervous pit settling in his stomach.

        He stops to turn and face the agent, “Are you afraid that, once retired, you’ll have suddenly become useless? While I do realize ‘hospitality’ is out of your depth, there’s still plenty for you to do as a former double-oh in MI6.” 

…isn’t there?

He tries to imagine the promotion of a man who’d spent most of his career in dangerous situations, to desk jockey– or even to Tanner’s level. It wouldn’t be the same amount of action, or even the same liberties, but at least it would be something.

     “And how many ex-double-ohs have you met?”

     James has never met a single one, and for good reason. The kind of men they are, that they are made to be, suit nothing else. The rules and regulations of government bureaucracy stifle their training. The moral aptitude required for public service have been whittled away from them long ago. Double-oh agents are, in many ways, men of straight lines. They cannot unmake what they are.

      “But none of this is the point, Q.”  He is afraid. He’s terribly afraid, in a way he never has been before. He’s suddenly too old to die young, and he’d never bothered to make any alternative retirement plans. None of these are things he’s about to admit out loud. “The point is that while they argue over my pension plan, several Venezuelan men have gained entry to the country, and in ---”

             --- he checks his watch ---